#Ichor really does come pretty naturally to me

[spotaus]

Once upon a time I had an AU where Ichor ended up working with Nightmare, and I wanted to do some doodles for it!

I think that Nightmare only puts up w/ Ichor in this because Ichor still has his Godly powers, and being God of Punishment really helps pull in more negativity. Also, Ichor's more unhinged in this AU because his AU was destroyed. Here he really has it out for the "good guys" because they're trying to keep Balance. (In his AU, the God of Balance gave him so much grief and suffering.)

Also, he'd be unafraid to step between his co-workers disputes. Hense him scruffing Killer and holding back Dust in the second doodle.

If Night is Dadmare, Ichor is like a weird Uncle who's bumming on their couch and teaching them gambling games.

Also, shout-out to shadowed-hood and hat Dust designs, because I'm adopting that as a side-headcanon. It's really fun to draw!

[testingcheats0n]

Massive Dream SMP Fic Rec!!

Hey- Hi, I just feel like there are a ton of fanfiction that's really underrated in this fandom- so I'm going to dump it on your dash!!! Most of it is going to be Tommy-centric or SBI-centric, but they are very good!

Source: Me

Finished Fanfics:

Multi-chaptered Fanfics:

that's, like, a hundred miles by No_one_you_know

Dream would kill him. Dream was going to kill him- he was going to- no, he wouldn’t. Dream was his friend- friends don’t hit each other- Dream was supposed to take care of him- Dream /was/ taking care of him.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. He couldn’t clear his thoughts as he stumbled to the family computer, pulling up a tab on google and frantically typing the name into the search bar.

The words Technoblade Watson stared back at him, the little black bar at the end of the letters blinking slowly, mocking him.

Why, of all people, did it have to be Technoblade?

in short: the one where dream sucks as a parental figure, tommy runs away, and visits his least favorite family member technoblade

Hard-hitting, but has a happy ending, though I recommend reading the prequel (in the same series) first, otherwise, it's lowkey depressing.

MORE RECOMMENDATIONS BELOW THE CUT!!

you’ll rise above (crowned by an overture bold and beyond) by azvremoon

Tommy is not sixteen. He has faced too many open wounds, dripping ichor onto blood-stained warzones, to be just a child. He is Blood and War and needless Death, an all-in-one special of everything that can ruin reality.

(Tommy is the blood god. No one should know, but this server can't stop pushing him over the edge.)

+2 more Works that were Inspired by this one

Tommy is a BAMF and Dream, Technblade, and Phil get fucked it is what it is.

Responsible Forever by SilverWing15

“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” /////

“So,” Techoblade says, slow and deliberate, his face shows clearly just how unbelievable he finds all of this, “you saw a boy last night, in the middle of the night, living with raccoons and eating our garbage?”

“I know how insane it sounds,” Phil says, “but I know what I saw. We need to help him, who knows how long he’s been out here?”

“Okay,” Wilbur interrupts, “let’s say that raccoon-boy is real. What is it you want us to do? We can’t go searching the woods for specific bunch of raccoons, I don’t know if you’ve noticed Phil but there are a lot of them out there.”

“Going out and hunting him isn’t going to get us anywhere,” Techno says, “we have to let the raccoon-boy come to us. He’s already come once, you know how tenacious raccoons are. If they came to the garbage pit once, they’ll come again. We just have to set a trap.”

“Those raccoons aren’t gonna know what fucking hit them,” Wilbur mutters.

Or: RaccoonInnit taken well beyond its logical conclusion

Tommyinnit is a Raccoon boi that lives with other Raccoons

Protecting the Traumatised Youth by spookyserpent

Sam blinks. “What?”

Even behind the mask, Sam has the distinct impression that Dream is grinning at him. “A week and he was begging for my attention, even after I stole and burnt his armour, even after the beatings. He couldn’t stand me leaving him because I was the only one to show up, to pay him attention. It was hilarious.”

Sam is going to be sick.

Or, Sam decides to ask Dream about his intentions and ends up becoming a big brother to Tommy and Tubbo. All the while, Dream and George fight, Niki and Jack plan child murder and Ranboo is slowly getting adopted into the SBI.

Awesamdad written back when it was possible... ahhh

Chaos In a Bottle by Lovetribable

After a realization, Tommy leaves the pillar, but instead of going to Techno. He just disappears, leaving everyone to think he's gone.

It takes a war to bring him back.

+2 Sequels and an Alternative Ending

Dadinnit!! + A Sympathetic Dream

Absolutely Anything For Them by Numanum

“There’s a lot you don’t understand, Tubbo,” Dream sighs, meeting his eyes cooly. Tubbo, back against a tree, shudders at his tone, at the look on his face.

The sword at his neck skims across his skin as Dream shifts his grip on it, and he flinches back into the rough bark behind him. Dream smiles at his reaction, seeming pleased- like the cat that’s been toying with a mouse that always tries to run no matter how many times it’s caught. And, despite this being his first encounter alone with the man, he thinks that the comparison is fairly accurate; Tubbo has never felt smaller than he does now. There’s supposed to be a buddy system to prevent things like this- he shouldn’t be alone here, stuck in this situation.

Or: Tubbo becomes a traitor to save everyone and has to struggle with his choices

Traitor Tubbo, but it has the happiest ending possible since it follows the rest of the story.

Where Did You Come From, Kit? by KadeAK (zacixn)

Hybrids are an ancient species of humans crossed with animals, blessed with the favour of nature. They used to live in peace on the SMP’s land, but ever since the dawn of humanity’s modern culture, they have become ostracised and hunted by their once-brethren. Now, the once-thriving subspecies of hybrids have been reduced to ashes, the majority of their peoples struggling to survive in a city capital that can't stand their presence.

To the members of L’Manburg, General Wilbur Soot is just another mildly prejudiced human being, stuck with a hybrid fox kit for an adopted child. However, that assumption could not be farther from the truth. As it turns out, there's a reason why he is the man he is today.

This fic is entirely pre-L’Manburg.

Part of a series, very good.

Take It Easy by sweet_magnolias

Five times Techno scared Michael, one time Michael scared him, and the resolution of those fears.

AKA - Techno learns how to be an uncle.

Technoblade's POV, so expect some Tubbo bashing on the margins of all that Michael fluff.

I suppose it’s never my time to die, is it? by Birb_Whale

The first time it happens, he barely remembers. The second time is when he realized. The third... Twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern

“It’s not your time to die yet, Tommy”

Messed up, but not unrealistic. Purely for the Hurt/Comfort lovers.

This Wasn't Planned, But It'll Work Out by Anonymous

Dream isn't sure what to think when he finds a kid on his doorstep, but he can't just leave him there, now can he?

(He doesn't know what he's getting into, or what he's gotten the kid into, either)

Long, and angsty, with a bittersweet ending Imo.

let's play a game by Aria_Cinabun

Tommy was once a slave. That's gone now - shoved in his past with the memories of blood and gore and death. He wants to forget who he was; what he has to do to survive. Of course, the Elementalists will always come back to haunt him. They aren't the ones who killed his mother, but they're close enough. And now he and his brother have been dragged into the mess, as Elementalists with their own, separate covens, to find the Pit - the place where he'd lived and killed and hurt for the first twelve years of his life. His coven can't know. Can't know who he really is, what he can really do. Can't know anything about his past. He doesn't want a coven full of Elementalists who don't trust him; one of whom he's pretty sure despises him. He doesn't want that life. He wants the life of a pickpocket, on the streets, because nobody questions street kids, and nobody comes asking about his past and pushes him to tell his secrets that he holds closest inside. Tubbo tries to tell him to trust people. But trust is how you die.

Good fantasy AU, has SBI, and is thus fluffy.

Turn of the Tide by SilverWing15

Tommy’s fins twitch at the mention of Dream’s ancestors. Dream talks about them a lot, how they made their fortune hunting down mer pods, how they were cruel and greedy. Nothing like Dream is. They’ve both overcome their roots he says.

Tommy is nothing like the wild mer out in the ocean, who spend their lives scraping by just to survive, who kicked him out of the pod when he was a baby because he was too small. He’s also better than the pit mer, who can’t overcome their wild instincts and know nothing but fighting.

He’s different from them, he’s better than them. He’s Dream’s. //// OR: Change is like the tide, when it comes, you can only sink or swim. You would think that a mer would be better at keeping afloat.

Mermaid AU Pooog. Part of a series.

One-Shots:

Snapped by AmberRunnel

“You don’t know what I went through in that prison cell.”

Jack burst out laughing, blinded with rage and the overwhelming urge to hurt Tommy, to give him everything he deserved. “Oh, is the poor child traumatized? You want pity now?” He twisted his blade, and Tommy’s axe was sent clattering to the ground.

“If the prison was so awful, why don’t I send you back there?”

-|-

Jack doesn't handle Tommy's revival well. There's a simple solution, though. Kill Tommy, and Dream revives him right back into that cell. Problem solved, kid dealt with.

It takes a few confrontations for Jack to realize he's an asshole.

It's fucked up, but god does it hurt in a good way.

the sky is coming down blue by salinesolution

An imagining of New Milo's perspective throughout the Skyblock Randomizer adventure. What did he think of the world he found himself in, and how did Wilbur's feelings and actions change things for him? Here's my way of answering those questions.

He made the fish think, funniest shit I've seen.

You told me to be a hero (so let me die like one) by spiromachia

"You told me to die like a hero," the blond interrupted, spinning on his heel to face the others, holding his arms wide open, "So why not fulfil the ending that was always meant to be."

Across the battle field, through the chaos and destruction, a tree burned.

Even the sound of explosions and cries and bloodshed felt distant enough for the world to become silent for a few moments, each individual slowly coming to the same conclusion, each of their bodies tensing.

Tommy's face broke out into a grin as he lowered his head, glowering at the people around him, and Philza's face flashed with recognition.

"Kill me."

Or... In the middle of Doomsday, Tommy decides to ask Technoblade to be the Lycomedes to his Theseus.

Heavy and dark, but at least Dream gets it.

tomorrow night by meridies

Tommy is desperately searching for his missing brother. Techno is the reluctant psychic who unfortunately got dragged along.

or, two people, more alike than different, learn what it is to have a family at their side.

It's cute what can I say :]

maple syrup by itisjosh

"We could run," Tubbo stares at the sun. "We've got everything we've ever wanted right here. We could run."

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, feeling his head swim. "We could."

(or, tommy and tubbo run away together)

Children get away from toxic adults :)

Why’d it have to be so sunny? (The sun shouldn’t shine without you.) by AToZRainToBe

‘A realisation hits Phil in the face like a truck. “Wi- Ghostbur,” Phil says, turning to his grey-scale, translucent, actually-dead son. “You definitely told Tubbo that Tommy’s alive, right?”’

To get away from Dream, Tommy agrees to fake his death, going with the cover story that he jumped from the pillar in Logstedshire. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Tubbo.

Misunderstandings are one of my favorite tropes.

sugar and ice by princedemeter for Aenqa

“He is my son,” Philza says. “Mortal or not, I would see him grow strong.”

Technoblade looks down on earth, at the tiny, angry bundle of cloth and pinking, wrinkled skin. This mortal child, he thinks, lungs filled with breath from the king of gods himself, will not grow strong.

It's mostly centered around Technoblade and Wilbur with Phil being a shitty dad. Pog Gods AU.

a matter of time by meridies

Tommy is twelve years old when his wings first appear, and he is twelve years old when Phil tells him, "All it takes is time and patience, Tommy, and soon you'll be flying even better than me."

or, Tommy grows up feeling like a failure, and it takes him a while to figure out where he's happiest.

Tommy is just finding his place in the world. Powers AU.

That Time a Baby Decided to Raise a Baby by Scitrust

Tubbo wasn't good at making excuses, so when Schlatt asked him why he was leaving in the night, he made something up on the spot. That had been months ago.

At least he sort of had an alibi for that, now.

Or, in which Tubbo finds a baby in the woods on his way to see Tommy, and promptly adopts it.

Part of a collection!! Read it all.

spider lily by blue000jay

Wilbur has a body.

The freckle on the base of his left pinky finger (shared with Techno). The scar on his chin from when he was twelve and over ambitious, diving into too-shallow water. The scar on his throat from the final control room, and the puckered skin on his shoulder from the poisoned arrow that killed him next. Various other nicks and things that litter his skin from years of rebellion and living wild, a kid thrown into a vicious world with too little self-preservation.

(Resurrection AU, for when/if Wilbur comes back.)

The author knows how it's like to live with chronic pain, and it shows :(

Hands tied loose by rabiddog

"Let's run away, Tubbo." Tommy breathed; a wide grin split across his face as his hope grew. "Let's get out of here – far away. We can go anywhere, can't we? Let's just go, you and me right here, right now."

-

Tommy needs to leave. He has to get out of L'Manburg, he has to leave the Dream SMP for his own sanity, and he wants Tubbo to come with him.

But Tubbo has a family now, a better life - something that he can't give up... not even for his best friend.

Unhappy ending :(

The serpent underneath by rabiddog

Tommy and Techno sit at the memory-filled bench and talk. Technoblade reminisces, he talks, he admits his pent-up feelings, he cries. And Tommy? Tommy listens. (That's all he can do.)

-

“I’m sorry for everything, you know? For all of it. I’m so sorry about... about the first war, about the withers and the fighting, about...” Technoblade's fingers began to curl around Tommy’s blonde locks. “About Wilbur and everything after. I'm so, so sorry.”

:((((((((

Damning choices by rabiddog

Ranboo would have never expected to find himself in a horrifying situation such as that one - quite literally sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, with three lives dangling over his head and the answer on the tip of his tongue.

Tubbo, Michael, Tommy.

It's his choice. He chooses who lives, and who dies. His new family, or his first friend. But Ranboo... Ranboo already knows.

-

"Ranboo," He hissed out, voice cracking and somewhat staticky, "It's not your fault. It's not. You had no other choice; I know that, okay? I- I know that- I know- I know..."

:(((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Jealousy is a disease by rabiddog

Tommyinnit isn't new to the idea of jealousy. He understands it completely. He understands the way it runs rampage through his body each time he catches even a glimpse of Tubbo and Ranboo's new relationship, he understands that the emotion makes his heart clench uncomfortably from time to time. He sees it, feels it, and yet he doesn't care.

He doesn't care at all.

-

"You took Tubbo away from me. You took him away. You took my best friend, and now he's- now he's not my best friend anymore, and I-!"

:)

Word of Honour by rabiddog

Tommy could only stand and stare as Technoblade agreed to hand him over to Dream - as his brother traded him off like he was nothing. Like Tommy wasn't important.

-

Technoblade was a man of honour. He was a man of pride and sticking to his word. He knew that he owed Dream a favour, and no matter what that favour might be, he'd be compliant with it. Nothing would change his mind. (Not even Tommy.)

Almost canon. F.

Sweet Repentance by rabiddog

Perhaps Tommy should have told Phil about his arguably life-threatening injury the minute his father had opened the door. But of course, Tommy being Tommy, did not.

Dying seemed like a nice enough option as long as he was with his family.

-

Tommy just wanted acceptance, forgiveness, and peace. He wanted to close his eyes for the last time and finally be able to let go.

Tommy dies painfully.

A White Tulip by astervoid

He picked the white tulip from the bottom of the stem, standing up carefully as he held it pinched between his fingers. It would die now, inevitably, but Tommy relented and held the flower to his chest. What a silly, stupid thing to ground him. He almost hated that it made his breaths come easier and his steps feel lighter. Almost.

Tommy & Ranbooo chill on the bench.

lying to the authorities (again) by touchgrass

"Please tell me that my right-hand-man, my soon-to-be vice president, one of the people I trust the most on this godforsaken server, did not lie straight to my face and tell me he was twenty-fucking-years-old.”

Tommy opened his mouth to protest, but then closes it shut at the furious look on Wilbur's face. Oops.

~

It is the day of the elections and Wilbur Soot could not have chosen a worser time to realize that half his staff is underage.

The ONLY fic with this premise I've seen on Ao3.

Dear Theseus by rabiddog

Tommy had thought that they'd won - thought that they'd finally beaten Dream, and that everything would be okay. As it turns out, however, apparently Dream had called in that favour from Technoblade after all.

-

“Please,” Tommy whispered after a beat, quivering hands edged upwards to hesitantly press against the tip of the sword striking through his chest. Why, why, why? Why him? Why now?

Tommy almost wins.

A Shifting World by AplusIsRoman

How was Wilbur supposed to know it would end like this?

The smoke hung in the air and soot clung to his skin. His brother - adopted, but older by two minutes - stood back-to-back with him. The chilling cries of people and the calls of the withers rang through the air above the chasm that was once his home.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

How could he have known this would happen?

-

Sequel to A Child's World

Age-swap AU. Has a prequel.

heart of the sea by RyDyKG

Here is the secret that he barely thinks about, a secret that he shoves deep and far down in himself:

Wilbur Soot is a siren, and he’s not exactly proud of that fact.

Wilbur-centric. Urban Fantasy AU.

He knows, ok? by Ralli

By some means, Techno has given his raccoon younger brother some cotton candy. It doesn’t end as well as either of them would like.

Very, very cute :)

that's it, it's split (it won't recover) by Jk_Kat

Tommy has always been the fighter.

He has never been the fought for, and he knows it, with every whisper Tubbo directs at Ranboo, with every glance thrown his way- Tommy knows, the way he wishes he didn't, that they think he's dead.

If they're so convinced he's still dead, maybe the one good thing left he can do for them is die.

---

Or, Tommy gets addicted to being dead and thinks that nobody cares about him. The people who very much do try to pull him back from the brink before Dream can't resurrect him anymore.

Messed up, but with a happy ending.

Hugs 'n PTSD by rabiddog

Ranboo knew from the start that the recovery process would be hard - that moving on from quite literally being beat to death would be something hugely difficult to step away from, and that's if Tommy could even manage it at all.

He knew that it would be stressful and arduous, demanding and tough... he just hadn't expected to be holding Tommy through a PTSD-induced panic attack only days after his release from Pandora's Vault.

-

Ranboo isn't typically an overbearingly protective person. But for Tommy? He just might be.

I love this author if you can't tell.

Big Men don't cry by Shiny22Snivy

The room is small and warm, almost stifling compared to the cool openness of the ravine. It’s cosy and candlelit, and a chest sits open in the corner, full of what looks to be burnt rags of a former smart suit. And sitting in rumpled blankets on a bed, cradling a mug of something steaming, sits Tubbo.

At first, Tommy forgets all about Niki’s vague warning. He’s just so happy to see his best friend again, alive and well and all in one piece. Tubbo’s okay. Tubbo’s okay, and in front of him, and suddenly everything bad in the world is gone, if only for just a moment.

“Tommy?”

And then Tubbo turns to look at him.

Clingyduo fluff.

sins of the father (i broke all my bones that day i found you) by ryter

The thing that hurt Wilbur most was when he saw Fundy tear down the walls of L'Manburg. After all, those walls had gone up to protect his son. But in this world, Fundy trusts his father just a little bit more, and it ruins him.

Or: there's only one way Wilbur never becomes the villain. It's unclear whether this was the better path.

SOME VIOLENCE WARNINGS/BLOOD MENTION. CHARACTER DEATH. SO MUCH ANGST.

Sad, but cathartic.

REVIVED TOMMY HEADCANNONS AHAHAHAHA by racooninnit

i’m dropping ALL the fucking revived tommy headcannons on you guys today get ready for some ANGST

this is different from what i usually post but it was fun

i don’t think there’s a lot i need to put warnings for, obviously there are mentions of the way tommy died and the aftermath of that (i.e. injuries and trauma), but if there’s anything that needs a warning please tell me!

What it says on the tin- not really a fic.

Unfinished Stories:

Ongoing (Less than a month since the last update):

Over the River Styx by CorpseArt

I feel like we should name him.

There’s a scuffle at the back of his mind as he rolls up, curling tight with a shiver despite the heat of the flames licking up his back.

I mean, he’s like – us, but like a worse version clearly because oh man, this is just weirdness. There’s a flare of a tangle of emotions, complicated and fearful, resentful and livid with anger. I can’t believe this is what I’ve been reduced to, stuck in the mind of this- this child.

He’s like your age, Tommy. Are you calling yourself a child?

I mean, I am one so fucking duh. Child murderer.

-

Or: trauma bonding in the most unconventional of senses.

Just- Read it. Show the writer your support, it's unique, it's amazing and there needs to be more of it.

If history is dead and gone by iregretallmydecisions

“Don’t come any fucking closer,” Tommy shouted, startling Phil into stepping back. Tommy was still looking around wildly, like a trapped animal “Don’t fucking do it.” ---- In which Tommy finds himself faced with his splintered family, while it was still mostly whole. The past is not an easy place to be when the future was not kind. His family is forced to deal with the fall out.

It's better than Rewind, but you didn't hear that from me.

Wilbur Soot's Redemption (OR Ghostbur's Retry) by luckykitty0523

Wilbur had many regrets in his life, being lost in his madness and the urge for revenge drowned leaving a shell of who he once was. It was only in his dying moments that he regained himself but it was already too late for him leaving him drowning in wishes and regrets. However waking up in another different universe where wilbur was never born and family soulmates exist, so when wilbur said he wanted to fix the mistakes he never expected this turn of events.

OR

In one world wilbur dies and he would return as a ghost missing his memory and trying to fix what he did in life but in this one wilbur dies and wakes up in another world where soulmates exist and the wilbur of that world was never born so wilbur/ghostbur takes his place and tries to make up his mistakes to the other version of his friends.

Wilbur adopts SBI + Fundy + Dream.

A Talk Long Overdue by penink

Tommy has his first therapy session with Puffy.

Tommy gets therapy.

Into the Night by Interjection

“Don’t touch me,” Tommy hisses, leaning against the railing. “I will - I will-”

They’re a hundred stories up. Wind lashes against Phil’s face. Next to him, Sam makes choked noise.

“But why?”

Tommy looks up to meet Phil’s eyes, terror struck so deep in those pale blue irises Phil thinks they must hold all the world’s fears within them.

“You’ll die,” he whispers. “And then I’ll die. But I’ll come back.”

“And I don’t want to come back.”

Others have the freedom to live. Tommy doesn’t even have the freedom to die.

But maybe they can teach him that living doesn’t have to be so bad.

---

(Superpowers AU where whenever someone touches Tommy, they both die. But Tommy will always come back to life eventually. He just wants it to end - but instead, he’s on the run, terrified of how his power will be exploited if he’s caught.

A few people reluctantly team up to save him.)

Funky SBI dynamics + a Sam that cares. Also a lot of angst.

[random-mha-thoughts]

Kirishima and Shinsou realizing how much you love them

Anon requested: "Take you time!! I couldn't help squeal at this but could you do a scenario with Kirishima and Shinsou (separately) realize how much their reader loves them!! Gender is up to you!!"

Characters: Kirishima Eijrou/Shinsou Hitoshi

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 1,166

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​​ @liviitehe​​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​​ @bunnythepipsqueak​​

a/n: Mini scenario time! I haven’t done either of these boys in a while, so I’m excited about writing these.  Thanks for requesting this anon dear, and sorry this is a few weeks later!

Shinsou’s scenario is inspired by a line from @ichor-and-symbiosis‘s Shinsou Fluff Alphabet under Love, I had this mini moment in the back of my head for a LONG time but now I can finally use it!

Kirishima Eijirou

Everyone knows Kirishima is secretly a huge natural flirt.  He always has something flattering to say, finding positives in almost every person he meets.  He takes pride in his uncanny ability to flash his shark-toothed smile and encourage someone with his words and suddenly make someone's day all the better.  In all honesty, it's an amazing skill to have to be able to schmooze the pants off anyone.

Never did he expect to get something served back to him, until you came around.

"Thanks.  Your teeth are cool, you'd make a pretty hot vampire I'd say."

Kirishima may be a flirt, but he falls in love fairly quickly.  And at that moment, you'd stolen his rock-hard heart.

He'd play it cool as your classmate relationship grew into a showdown of who can make the other blush first, casually slipping honeyed words and praises to each other at random parts of the day.  To him, even if you two flirted as your primary mode of communication, he was cautious because he didn't know what your true feelings of him are.  If he got his hopes up only to realize he'd read between the lines wrong, it would embarrass and disappoint him.

But one flirty remark crossed the fine line they've been walking between friendly and suggestive.  At the way your head jerked towards his speedily, he knew he'd gone and done it, ruining your friendship and making things awkward between you two.  As the truly manly man he aspires to be, he decides to own up to it.

"(Y/n), I really do mean that.  You're the one person I'd get stranded with on an island, not because you're resourceful or anything like that.  I'd just really want to be with you."

As he scratches the back of his head and waits with a tightened jaw for your answer, you place a kiss on his cheek, you face hot as it brushes his.  "I've been waiting to see if you would crack."

Months after you two started dating, it was Kirishima's birthday and he had no idea what you were getting for him.  After getting to know you, he came to know that you love drawing in your spare time, though you never allowed him to see your work because of how self-conscious you are.

You surprise him by blindfolding him and walking him into the art club room where you'd set up his surprise under a tarp.  He removes the blindfold as you instruct him and you shakily remove it from the canvas.

Kirishima's mouth drops open.  Not only does he now see that you're as great an artist as he'd insisted, but the image is of the two of you.  The largest smile cracks his face in two.  "We're stranded on a desert island here aren't we?  And I'm dressed as a vampire in a cape!  Look how manly and cool I look!"

The moment his eyes land on your again, his heart almost falls at your state.  "Aw, babe, come here."  He gathers you in his arms as you continue crumpling the tarp in your hands.  You don't have to say how anxious you are about him finally seeing your art, he understands immediately how difficult it was to do this for him.  "I love it, babe.  You've done such an amazing job."  Placing a kiss on your forehead as you lean into him, he then realizes just how much trust and love you hold.  You showed him your most secretive talent and most vulnerable side to him at your own expense to do something special for him.

"You wanna help me put it up in my room later today?" he beams, trying to get you to smile.

You stare back at him for a moment before he sees all your confidence rushing back at his genuine appreciation of the painting.  "Of course!"

Kirishima got two gifts that day: The painting and confirmation of your love for him too.

Shinsou Hitoshi

Shinsou was, is, and will always be the sleep-deprived type.  This poor boy has gotten so used to getting such little amount of sleep that even if he goes to bed on time, he wakes up four hours later, wide awake and unable to fall back into his slumber.  It's led the poor boy to work out at odd hours of the night into the wee hours of the morning.  Sometimes he would even just do homework, play video games, or just make himself a snack.

That is, until he met you.  When you two got closer, the first time you offered for him to spend the night, he declined.  He was scared that he'd wake you up with his insomnia episodes.  And the first night, he did, and apologized profusely into the darkness because he knew you had classes early.  You just smiled sleepily at him, wrapped an arm around his torso, snuggled yourself into his chest, and whispered that it was okay before falling right back into a deep sleep.

Shinsou could laugh at how heavy of a sleeper you turned out to be, and surprisingly, your warmth and deep, rhythmic breathing somehow managed to put him to sleep too.  That night was his most restful sleep he's had in ages.  Even every night after that, he would wake up as usual, turn around to see if he'd woken you, admired your slumbered face - that sometimes drooled - and drift back to sleep.  He'd easily fell smitten by you.

One night in his room, you were being playful about it with him.  "Your eyebags were the most alluring part of you, now they're fading because you're sleeping."

"Do you want me to stop sleeping next to you?" Shinsou teases right back at you.

"Absolutely not."  You hug the covers up to your ear and shimmy closer to his warmth.  "I'm already plenty comfortable, I'm not going anywhere even if you try to push me off this bed."

He chuckles and accepts your hug, already knowing this as a sign that you're about to drift off.  "Sweet dreams, kitty."  He plants a kiss on your nearby forehead.

Your eyes droop closed.  "Good night, Toshi.  I love you."

"I love you too."  It takes him a moment, but his eyes shoot open as soon as he registers what he's just said only to meet your own suddenly-awake and shocked face.  "W-What did you say?"

"I know what I said, but you said it back so casually."

Shinsou's happy it's dark so you can't see how furiously he's blushing.  "It was reflex, just go to sleep," he orders quickly and shuts his eyes again.

You follow his orders and can't help the smile on your face.  Shinsou feels you smuggle up closer to him, the warmth of your words repeating in his head and making him giddy.  It took him a while longer to fall asleep because of his racing heartbeat, but that night, he actually slept continuously through without waking up once.

[thegeneralguy]

The Champion of Olympus - Prologue

This is the first series I´ve ever worked on. I remember I saw a post about the gift of the gods from @absqrst in the past, so I worked a bit around that general idea. It´s gonna be long, but I hope the patience makes it worth your while. I want to clarify all the characters in the stories are adults.

The flaming chariot sped over the clouds as thunder roared through the night sky. The vessel of the sun had its usual flames dimmed, but there was no doubt who was commanding it.

“He must be really mad to be throwing such a tantrum.”

Said Apollo to himself as he drove through the dark clouds. He was in the middle of a particularly erotic composing session with Terpsichore, muse of music, when the message from his father blasted through the roof of the mansion and engraved the urgent message on the floor. His presence was being requested for an extraordinary session of the twelve. Apollo couldn´t even remember the last time he saw his family together, but it usually meant bad news for everyone.

The last time his father and Poseidon argued, a massive tidal wave ravaged the land of the rising sun down on earth. The celestial plane wasn´t always indifferent towards mortal matters, and Apollo made sure to keep inspiring those beautiful human minds in order to create both beauty and a form of expression that eased up tension in difficult times. The fact that his family was meeting again could only mean disaster, both for mortals and for gods.

The sky grew increasingly stormy the more the chariot approached the thunder palace. Zeus´s residence was directly on top of Mytikas peak in Mount Olympus. The home of the gods was on an entirely different plane than earth, but vaster and richer. It existed both parallel to the terrestrial plane, but above it in hierarchy, and was ruled by the will of the deities that inhabited it. Each Olympian had its dominion, but Zeus ruled above all.

The chariot slowed down as the imposing marble columns of the palace became visible. It stopped on one of the gardens, and Apollo rushed to the nearest entrance heading to the meeting. The door to the throne room was guarded by celestial Sentinels, the latest invention from his brother Hephaestus. The automatons had the shape of the pinnacle of the masculine physique and were made of gold with a tiny bit of ichor, the blood of the gods. They served mainly as guardians, although he had made use of a couple of them for more personal matters, like an extra boost for the sexual soirees he usually hosted.

Apollo could hear the heated discussion from outside the room. The Sentinels opened the doors and suddenly twelve pairs of eyes were instantly focused on him.

“Apollo. So glad you decided to grace us with your presence. Take a seat.”

Said Zeus with a sour scowl. He was indeed the last one to arrive. Even Hades was there, so it must be serious. He took his seat next to his brother Dionysius, who gave him a knowing look.

“How many were there this time?”

Asked Dionysius with a cheeky smile. Apollo remained with his sight to the center of the room, trying his best to ignore the provocations of his brother.

“Come on I´m dying for a little excitement. Things have been rather grim around here, and I´m dying for a little spark of *hic* entertainment.”

Apollo gave his brother an irritated look. The God of wine was looking as disheveled as ever. His muscular body was partially covered by a glowing white cloak, with some grape vines hanging from his belt and decorating one side of his head. He was holding his everlasting wine cup with one hand, while his face rested on the other.

“I was with Terpsichore. We were looking for some inspiration.”

“Right, right. Maybe next time I can join you both. I could use some inspiration too you know. Remember the parties we used to throw with the muses and the nymphs? I´m pretty sure you got more inspiration than you bargained for back then…”

A lightning bolt stroke right before Dionysus, who sighed and diverted his attention to Zeus.

“I apologize father. Please do continue to illustrate us with your crucial monologue.”

He said disinterested as he took a big swig from his golden wine cup.

“This is no joke Dionysus. It is the first time since the Titanomachy that we´ve faced a situation like this.”

Apollo had heard legends about the epic war against the titans, an event that changed the course of the world. His aunts and uncles fought alongside Zeus for ten years in order to dethrone Cronus and other titans loyal to the Golden Age regime. He tried his best to focus on the near future, but he couldn´t get past the next few days. He felt like a thick fog over him interrupting his vision of the future.  It was unusual for the god the sun to have his gift of prophecy clouded, specially in an event of such magnitude like his father was describing. His curiosity started to turn into genuine worry, and he focused his attention on Zeus once again.

“The Fates contacted me recently with news from the underworld. It seems that the king of the monsters found a way to break through the veil separating his prison in Tartarus from the rest of the infernal plane.”

“That’s impossible. The abyss in Tartarus is inescapable. Not even Typhon is capable of gathering enough power.”

Said Poseidon skeptically whilst stroking his magnificent beard.

“It is a different kind of problem brother. Typhon is trying to seep some of his energy into the terrestrial plane. We´ve grown disconnected from humanity in the last century, and Typhon is trying to take advantage so he can gain some adepts of his own in order to amass divine energy to break free. I already consulted with Hades, and it seems a breach in Tartarus´s security is not impossible.”

“But what would that mean for us father? We still have enough divine power to launch a counterattack if he does manage to escape, we will be ready for battle.”

Said the mighty Ares. The god of war was known for taking aggressive decisions that lead to confrontation. His mighty physique was a testament for his strength and his prowess in combat.

“Not if he gains some divinity himself. The monster already possesses enough strength on his own to blow up half of Olympus. If he acquires some power from human devotion, not even I will be able to stop him.”

It wasn´t fitting of Zeus to admit inadequacy of any kind, and Apollo knew it. He grew only increasingly uncomfortable imagining the possible outcomes of a monster invasion. In any scenario, Earth would face the biggest catastrophe.

“What do you suggest we do now father? Humanity isn´t what it used to be. The facilitated communication of humans has bred doubt and paranoia. It won´t be hard for Typhon to appeal to humanity´s loss of self in order to succeed.”

Said Athena who out of her siblings seemed the most invested in the problem at hand. Hades who had been cautiously quiet listening to the conversation raised from his seat to answer the wisdom goddesses’ question.

“It seems we got time on our side, my honorable niece. Infusing earth with energy direct from Tartarus will take time. And the first thing Typhon will try to gain are champions. Without some avatars directly on earth he is still powerless”

“Don´t be ridiculous Hades. There hasn´t been a champion on earth since ancient times. Let alone a hellish spawn from the original monster himself.”

Exclaimed Poseidon with a booming laugh whilst slamming his gigantic trident on the floor.

“Hades is right brother. A champion serving as a recruiter is the only way of gaining direct adoration. The negative energy coming from Typhon will take care of the rest. It´s only fair we do the same.”

Zeus´ stern face showed a glimpse of amusement, his muscular body almost twitching with excitement.

“It is time we choose a new Champion of Olympus.”

Everyone went completely quiet for a second. The incredulous eyes of the twelve Olympians were staring at the god of thunder. Then the room was immediately filled with chatter and discussion. Apollo looked around as his brothers and sisters talked aggressively between themselves. The idea of gifting divinity to a mortal hasn´t been touched in eons, so it was only natural for the godly unrest to take place. The ritual was long, complex and it required the cooperation of all the Olympians.

“But why father? What makes you think a new champion will do anything to stop the monster from breaking out? Last time we tried to make one divinity rejected him.”

Said Ares slamming his powerful fist on the armrest. The main reason the gods didn´t get celestial conduits on the terrestrial plane was because few humans were eligible for the gift. And even after getting one who was compatible with divinity, all Olympians had to agree on the candidate, and there was always someone who chose differently. If the will of one god was against the chosen one, the ritual backfired and the person would be consumed by the divine power.

“A champion will help us connect with humans again. Times have changed, and we won´t be able to amass enough power to retaliate against Typhon if we don´t gain adoration again. Besides, we are going to do things differently this time. Each of you will have the possibility of choosing one eligible candidate. Afterwards we will put the chosen ones through three heroic tests. The one that manages to complete the tasks will get our blessing, and so divinity will be achieved. If we all agree on these terms, we won´t kill the candidate during the sacred ritual. And we will be sure the best choice was taken.”

“It seems you already had this planned out brother.”

Said Poseidon in a slightly suspicious tone. It wasn´t unusual for his brother to come up with grandiose plans that required thorough cleaning afterwards. The god of the sea laid back his heavily muscled back on the chair and wondered about what Zeus was really planning.

“This is madness father. And even if the plan worked, we are not sure divinity won´t corrupt the champion. It has happened before. And I´m sure some of us won´t have Olympus´ best interest in mind when choosing a candidate.”

Said Athena whilst eying the god of wine, who was in-between drinking and undressing the Sentinels with his eyes.

“Of course, it would be you who started judgement sister. Perhaps if you sought interaction with other one than your precious little owl, you wouldn´t be practically embodying neurosis instead of wisdom.”

Said Aphrodite clearly in odds with her sister´s self-perceived moral high ground.

The room exploded in a cacophony of displeased voices. Apollo sighed as he looked at his family once again imploding on its own. He knew that deep inside everyone was excited with the idea of gifting a mortal with divine powers, it was a fascinating process. It allowed the gods to mold a person according to their needs, and of course desires. The trip down to the terrestrial plane could be a hassle, but nothing none of the twelve Olympians could handle. He was particularly keen on seeing what his normally silent brother Hephaestus and his hermit twin sister Artemis would come up with.

Suddenly Zeus slammed his hand on the giant round table on the center and thunder flashed all across the room and resonated with a deafening sound that completely drowned the gods´ anxious voices.

“The decision is made. According to Hades we got exactly until the next lunar cycle for Typhon´s energy to start leaking out of Tartarus. Until then the champion has to be chosen and ready with his task so we can avoid the most corruption possible. Each Olympian must have their candidate ready by the next full moon and present him before the celestial gateway on the base of Mount Olympus. That is an order.”

Zeus´s eyes flashed excitedly with the glow of golden lightning.

“Meeting adjourned.”

The king of the gods then disappeared with blinding thunder. Each god made their way out of the palace to get ready for the task at hand. Apollo got on his chariot and smiled. Apparently, a new form of inspiration was presenting itself to him, and he was going to enjoy every second of it. It was fitting for his father to turn a crisis situation into a competition, but this time Apollo was excited to participate. The chariot of the sun then departed hastily into the night sky as the thunder clouds dissipated and a dark moon adorned the firmament.

[charmandhex]

Part one.

Previous/part two.

When the Red Robe Lady -Lup- had said they needed to get everyone here before she’d explain what in the actual fuck was going on, Taako hadn’t had the slightest clue who everyone was. Since everyone had apparently included himself, Lup, and the Director, he’d been expecting some mysterious, powerful, highly capable group.

Instead he’s looking at Magnus, Merle, and Davenport.

Why exactly do you want to talk to these two chucklefucks and Davenport again? Lup hums, and it reverberates through Taako’s mind. Mm, soon. Patience is a virtue.

Says who?

Says me, the lich who had to be patient for ten fuckin’ years while waiting for you to break an umbrella, Taako.

Taako snorts. Okay, fine. Wait, actually one question. Not about this mess.

Uh, sure, okay?

If the anti-lich ward is down, why the FUCK are you still possessing me? Taako near yells, and Lup’s laughter fills his head.

I don’t wanna scare Mango, the old man, or Cap. Uh, I mean, Davenport.

Well, uh, I dunno about Davenport, but Maggie and Merle have definitely seen a Red Robe before.

I know; I was there.

Right.

Davenport, for his part, seems more aware than Taako has usually seen him. The gnome is currently eyeing Taako like he knows something isn’t quite right, like Taako isn’t really himself.

You gonna give me my body back soon or what?

As soon as I’m sure I won’t scare them. Lup says, sounding almost hesitant. And… as soon as I know you’re gonna… you’re gonna be okay given what’s happening next.

“Let me explain.” Lup says her next words out loud, and Magnus and Merle’s attention now snap to Taako.

“Taako? You good?” Magnus asks.

“Yeah, you know, you sound like you’ve got a cold or something.” Merle scratches at his beard, looking vaguely concerned.

Taako can’t really answer that, and Lup doesn’t bother. “Lucretia? If you’ll bring out the… well, the thing that I can’t say right now but that thing.” The Director stares at Taako, or at Lup, for a long, long moment before nodding slowly. She turns, opening the secret passage in her office again, before disappearing.

Naturally, that’s not the thing the other two Reclaimers give a shit about.

Merle asks, “Who’s Lucretia? Is that the Director?”

“Is this some kind of elf prank?” Magnus ponders for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Wait, no, the Director is human. Hm, regular prank?”

“Uh. Yes, Merle, and no, Magnus. Not really a prank situation. So, uh, I really don’t know how to say this, because I can’t say it and you can’t hear it right now either, but, uh, you remember how when you -uh, we- got here, we got inoculated from the voidfish and remembered basically a whole bunch of shit we’d forgotten.”

“Yeah?”

“Something like that.”

“Uh, L- T-Taako?” The Director comes back in, looking older and younger than Taako has even seen her look. In her hands is a small tank.

Don’t try to put it together. Lup pleads. You won’t be able to yet.

“I- I want you all to know.” The Director clears her throat. “I’m sorry, for what happened. I tried to do the right thing.”

There’s a vial of murky water in front of him. There’s a tank he can’t quite look at on the table. There’s the curling smoke of what is almost a thought just past the edge of realization.

Taako has been here before.

And again, he drinks the voidfish ichor.

The first memory to hit is one from childhood. Standing on his tiptoes, clinging to the edge of the counter, just barely able to see as his aunt carves a turkey for his birthday. Their birthday. Next to him, Lup wiggles in excitement before losing her balance, knocking into him, sending both twins falling to the floor laughing.

There’s more. Taako had never thought much of his childhood memories, assumed that time and distance had cast their inevitable veil over them, rendering the memories fuzzy at the edges. The veil is lifted, the picture resolves, and there’s a hand always, always in his.

Then it’s faster. The IPRE. The Light of Creation and the bond engine. The Starblaster and the mission. The Hunger and the apocalypse, cycling again and again still. Lup is always there.

And then she isn’t. She’d disappeared. She’d been -fuck, Lup had been in Wave Echo Cave, in the Umbra Staff the whole time, all those years. She’d been lost, but then he’d lost her altogether because of-

Taako makes to pull out the Umbra Staff, but of course that’s gone. His repaired wand is in the apartment at the bottom of the moon base. The Krebstar is… who knows where the Krebstar is.

Melee attack it is.

Taako, no!

Lup, get OUT!

In person, they might have been hissing in Elvish, even yelling, but now Taako is silent, the fighting all in his head. It’s not the first time the twins have fought, nor will it be the last, and nor is it even the first time they’ve fought while Lup has been possessing him. There’s a certain part of Taako that even wants to laugh in relief, because Lup is here to argue with, Lup is here. As it is, he’s locked in place, fighting with his sister to punch Madame Director with all of his +0 strength.

But even with the distraction of his own mind, Taako can see what’s happening around them. Davenport has his head lowered, clenched in his hands. Taako can’t see his eyes. Magnus looks like he’s been sucker-punched by the Power Bear. Merle is a whirlwind of emotion- pain, guilt, joy, fear, hope, hurt- that eventually lands on peace.

And Lucretia. Lucretia has one hand wrapped tightly around her staff, knuckles whiter than the Bulwark Staff itself, hands older than Taako had seen them in a century, cast into stark relief from the soft light of the baby voidfish glowing in the tank next to her.

But the quiet that followed inoculation is not peace, and all at once, the storm erupts.

“Lucretia, what have you done?”

“What happened?”

“Why would you do this?”

“Why did you do this?”

“You had the Bulwark Staff this whole time?”

“What have you done with the other Relics?”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Where’s Barry?”

“We saw Barry! Why did you lie to us about Barry?”

“Yeah, where’s- wait. Wait.”

Magnus, Merle, and Davenport put a momentary halt to their rapid-fire questions to stare at Taako. Before they can say anything, Lup lets go, rising, her red-robed lich form appearing next to Taako. Now that he knows who this is, he can again see his sister even in the lich, in the flare of magic and flicker of fire woven into her form. How could he have forgotten?

“Hey, everyone. Uh… miss me?”

As the three begin to bombard Lup with questions, Taako turns to Lucretia for the first time.

“You took everything from me.” He hisses, hands clenched into fists.

“I had to make it right.”

“Sure had a funny fuckin’ way of going about that. Gee, Taako, Cap’n’port, Barold, Mags, Merle, Lup, let me ruin your lives and call that fixing everything.”

“Taako, I- it’s not that simple, and-”

“Oh I’m pretty sure it is.”

“It was destroying the world; it was destroying us.”

“Enough.” Davenport’s voice, the voice of a captain who’d guided his crew and his ship through a century of storm, cracks through this one with ease. Taako scowls before putting as much distance between himself and Lucretia as he can. And putting himself as close to Lup as he can. He’s not losing her again. “Lup? This is your doing?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is, Cap’n’port. Well. This was kind of part one. Step two is find Barry.”

“Well, we know he’s dead!”

“Yeah, that’ll make him easier to find.”

Lup laughs. “Thanks, Magnus, Merle. But once we find Barry… then we need a real family meeting.”

[dungeons-and-divination]

HORIZON WALKER RANGER  - Wildhunt SHIFTER - Sage (Researcher)

Never built a Shifter before, but I play a weretiger in my main campaign, so I enjoyed this quite a lot. I think it shows. I ended up with a lot more details than I usually cram into these posts. I mainly try to leave enough space for DMs and players alike to build up on the general idea I came up with. This time... Inspiration hit me hard and I couldn’t help myself. Hope you enjoy.

Name: Ichor (likes the nickname Corey better) (18yo)

TAROTS

Mind: Justice (upright) Truth and integrity as the core of an horizon walker’s mind are perfectly okay with me, honestly. It really tells me that Corey is a person that strives to reach a balance into things, that he knows every action has its consequences. I can see them as someone that is perfectly aware of how they can change the world just by existing and making decisions, so they try to weigh their actions because of it. But they also enjoy watching the ripples that every drop in the water causes. So they dislike inaction too. Why stay still when you can do something and be part of the reason for the world to move and change, just to settle and come back to a new balance?

Body: Two of swords (upright) I mean, a tarot about being torn between two people or in general this feeling of disconnection on his body? Of course I could just stop at the obvious issues Ichor could have with being a shifter. But why stop with something as obvious as emotional denial, when there’s an underside of something more? I had to draw a card to try and clear this up. And the Three of swords reversed confirmed there was more. Corey is actually in emotional denial about something deeper, but he’s slowly getting over it. Still, this doesn’t get rid of that “something” that hurt him in the past and Ichor tries to bury it more often than not. So, I would say that this disconnection to his body is more in tune to this denial.

Spirit: the High Priestess (upright) Most of all, I would say this expresses his thirst for knowledge, that’s for sure. But I’m not surprised by that hint of mystery and sensuality that comes from Corey himself. Despite how socially awkward he is, I can picture him being unknowingly charming. Which is probably why he doesn’t trust people that try to be very direct in showing romantic interest. Well, I suppose he can be considered charming at least to people that are into dark, mysterious, dorky nerds with enormous trust issues. I know that the broody types always attract some people's attention.

Past: Strength (reversed) After what that “body” had already given me, this was pretty much a given. Low self-esteem in Corey’s past is a constant. He felt weak and vulnerable, that was the main reason why he stayed stuck in his research for so long (and kinda confirmed my feeling that he wasn’t one of the most thought of predators). He probably had a deep desire to actually get to work in his field, but the biggest obstacle to reach for that dream was his own sense of inadequacy (someone like him in a scholarly role might have been teased just for that after all). Deep down, he knew he could make a difference though, because every decision has a consequence, even a lack of action. And he hated when people couldn’t make a decision SO MUCH!

Present: Page of cups (reversed) And here comes back that heartbreak, that emotional vulnerability… With the horrible twist of sexual abuse earlier in his life still there to haunt him. Definitely, the emotional denial from his body as well as his issues with trust are a lot deeper and serious than what I thought at first. Oh, Ichor for sure had some terrible experiences. But he realized that he was in a bad situation, that he’d been manipulated, used by someone older than him just cause he was young and naive. And he decided to get away from it all. The emotional trauma though? That still lingers and weights him down so much that he’s very closed off. I don’t exclude him actually pretending (very badly) like he’s way more confident than he is, in certain situations. Like a copying mechanism to try and hide his insecurities so people won’t use them against him again.

Future: the Hierophant (reversed) Well, with Corey this can go in both the direction hinted at by the tarot. He could absolutely challenge the traditions of the institution he belongs to and that he’s supposed to still answer to. Or he could cling to their traditions in a hope to change how corrupt and twisted things got from the very inside despite how it could break him to go back and be face to face with his abuser. I can’t necessarily give a suggestion in this case; it really depends on how things develop and which way you feel like he would lean towards (even with the party’s support). Either way, not surprised that a decision is at the core of his future. 

FULL BACKSTORY

Ichor was born in a cave in the Beastlands plane. His mother, Shianead, was on a mission for the institution she worked for to research more information on how were-creatures lived when organized in packs like that. She actually fell in love while she was in the middle of that mission with Ichor’s father, Purrenbor. As soon as Ichor was born, Shianead realized she could no longer stay in the Beastlands plane and decided to leave. Purrenbor tried to leave with her, but his tribe didn’t like them leaving with the child; Purrenbor gave his life so that both Shianead and Ichor could run away. Once they were back, the institution wasn’t necessarily happy that Shianead took more than a year for a mission that was supposed to be just 6 weeks long. They were disappointed in her, but once she promised that her shifter son would stay to be part of the institution as well and convinced them that in some way his nature as a shifter could be helpful in understanding better the potential benefits of the were-curse, they agreed to let her stay. Ichor didn’t necessarily have a happy and loving childhood. His mother was more often than not away for more research missions and he was left in the care of a very strict teacher, Clirji Brawen, a dragonborn that made him study for long hours instead of letting Corey run around with the other students of the institution’s preparatory schools. He still was grateful to be considered so bright to have Clirji’s attention, since he was considered one of the best teachers of the school (the one that usually worked with realy talented people). Corey was even allowed to live in Clirji's very luxurious house when his mother was away, instead of staying alone in the dingy apartment that belonged to her. When Corey was about fifteen, his mother had to go on a longer than usual mission that she was even more tight lipped than usual on the details of. Clirji had recently retired from teaching and was mainly just a consultant for the institution, and Corey could no longer stay at his house since he was no longer Corey’s teacher. It was decided from the institution’s schools’ council that he would stay in Norvhila Erishai’s estate. She was the very charismatic head of the research department of the higher level school, and she was hoping not only to find new branches of research for the main institution to focus on with her students, but to find students with a new, bolder attitude. Norvhila was immediately impressed with Ichor, not only for his knowledge reached under Clirji’s guidance, but also for his willingness to try new things before finding once again the balance at the core of the institution’s beliefs. Still young, very impressionable, awkward and mostly a pariah with students of his age, Ichor never realized that Norvhila fascination with him, and her consequent attentions of sexual nature, were very much inappropriate. Ichor felt flattered, and mostly thought he was bound to allow her to do whatever she wanted with him by duty and gratitude since he was living in her house and she was teaching him so much (or so she manipulated him to believe). It took Ichor having a revealing conversation with Clirji when he was almost 18 to realize that he’d been stuck in an abusive relationship all along. Also, Norvhila had been hiding to him that his mother had been considered missing in action for months, because nobody heard from Shianead since her last report from wherever she was for her mission. Ichor found out, when inquiring about his mother’s mission, that Norvhila wasn’t the only person in the institution that was doing morally twisted things that somehow they still considered “part of the balance of the world”. In a last ditch effort to get free of Norvhila’s manipulations, Corey asked the institution’s schools’ council to go on a mission to find what happened to his mother and to consider that his “graduation mission”, a test that every student had to pass to prove that tey were ready to become a fullfledged member. Unexpectedly (and probably with a big push from Clirji), the council allowed him to leave. Corey somehow still believed the institution could do some good, if he just got rid of the “twisted people”. He just find a way to actually make the right decision that would ripple the waters enough for that change to happen. And he had a feeling that finding his mother was just the first step in a much longer path.

(As a note, extra info. I think this could be more for a DM than a player but still relevant for both, especially the part about Clirji that could be considered a little bit of the conversation that cleared Corey’s mind on how things worked inside the institution. Corey is still convinced that, at the core, the institution was doing good [it’s something he always thought]. But, the what the institution truly does in my mind is gathering knowledge to use it as a merchandise for trade; they don’t really care to whom they give it, if the purpose is to maintain a balance. They think, since they gather the most knowledgeable and smart people in the world, that they have the power to pick and choose who and what will tip the scale so that the universe won’t be destroyed. But mostly, they are the reason why wars start and end by manipulating other people so that they could get richer by selling their information to both sides [too much power corrupts and all that shit, you know...]. Clirji, despite being aware of the problem, stayed in the institution as a teacher to try and help the students, to warn them if he could, help them get out of that life too if possible, or scare them away with his harsh attitude if that was the only way that worked. Because he felt like he had no other way to break that machine that made him too other than trying to take away the best minds from them. In a sense, Clirji also tried as much as possible to keep the schools and the institution proper to be very distinct and separate, but it was very difficult since he was one of the few people that was fighting against the system from the inside [and teachers were mostly members of the institution too, it was rare to have outsiders as such important staff figures that could shape the students minds]. When Clirji tried to become headmaster of the higher level school, for example, everyone looking in as an outsider would have picked Clirji since he was so accomplished as a teacher. But the council knew by that point that he was against what the institution truly had become, so they just made him retire, telling him he was too old even to be a teacher. And they obviously picked someone that would fit them better and would turn a blind eye on behaviors like Norvhila’s.)

SUGGESTION CORNER

Suggested features Ability scores: High Wisdom and Dexterity (try to keep as high as possible Intelligence too), Low Charisma Skill proficiencies: Investigation, Insight, Perception Others: I had to really think which animal would fit for him as his bestial appearance. At the end of the day, I feel any bird of prey would fit him very well: a classic eagle, a nice hawk or even a raven would be wonderful. If you want to go for something more “classic but still different”, a fox could be a nice pick as well considering his backstory.

Suggested Characteristics Trait: I’m willing to listen to every side of an argument before I make my own judgement. Ideal: The world needs to be constantly in balance. But to keep it that way sometimes you need to act, be bold instead of keeping still. Bond: I want to unveil the corruption that’s hiding inside the institution that made me love knowledge so much. Flaw: After a shift, I behave more animalistic than usual for a little time. It unnerves me to no end when people get to see that wild side. (This depends on the animal you pick but it could be mimicking for a crow, pouncing like a fox, little thing like that, easy to roleplay and remember but that can really bring funny moment in a session too. Have fun with it!).

[shiinonomee]

Talking to Strangers

Meet a friend, choose a name (albeit, not well)

Word Count: ~2,000

OC centric, Third POV, Code Vein Fic

Guilt gnaws at her stomach whenever she remembers the barely concealed fear that had been in Oliver’s eyes.

The eyes of a man who knew he was going to die.

He would lose himself to the bloodlust—exacerbated by the thick miasma here—and what was that besides dying?

She could’ve stayed with him—could’ve kept him company. But it wasn’t what he’d wanted. If he’d had the strength she is sure he would’ve shoved her in the other direction with that good-natured laugh of his.

Go on—I’ll be right behind you.

A lie that she could perhaps let slide, just this once.

Both the squad sent in before her, and half of her own had been wiped out. Things aren’t boding well; even if Io had saved her from the brink of frenzy less than an hour before. 

The exhaustion had knocked her straight out afterward. She hadn’t had time to put two and two together until after she had come to, in yet another unfamiliar place. Someone had been nice enough to get her up to speed, then; someone who said he was like her.

A revenant. Apparently, she’d been dead before someone had infected her with a BOR parasite, which had effectively brought her back to life...in a sense. The main difference is that now, rather than food to sustain her, she would need blood. This is all fine and good, of course, except for the fact that the military currently houses and keeps track of every human; and the only other source of what she would now need to survive are blood beads like the ones she had sprouted earlier with Io.

And, just her luck, they are pretty hard to come by these days.

That is why she is where she is, now—exploring underground caverns that had been created in what everyone is calling The Great Collapse. She still doesn’t quite understand what that was, but she knows it had been a disaster-level event that had killed many revenants when they had been human.

As she understands, the military upholds a levy system for blood beads, everyone must pay the tax or...face the consequences, she assumes. Except, now that they are so difficult to find what with all the blood springs drying up, and it is so much more dangerous to go out with the ranks of the Lost growing larger every day, many people keep revenant thralls and force them to go hunting. She can’t help but feel as though she is at fault for Io being in this situation. She shouldn’t have let herself pass out in the open. Now they are both at the mercy of those who would send them easily to their deaths, just as they had poor Oliver.

They’d given her a purifier mask to battle the miasma, at least, and the gear they say they’d found her with. A sword, beautiful golden rapier, that she has no clue how she’d obtained.

Yeah, apparently memory loss is a big thing with revenants—go figure.

She can see the tubes that run along the blade—there to collect the ichor of the Lost she kills and filter it through her mask. Her bloodveil—armor of sorts—is a long blue silken thing that trails behind her arms when she walks. Apparently it draws ichor, too, and much faster. She’s been trying to figure that one out, but before Oliver had really been able to explain it to her, he’d...

She sighs heavily and keeps moving, mind moving to Io as a sort of defense mechanism.

They’d kept her up top with them--her kidnappers. She can only pray that the strange girl who’d helped her is safe; it had made her strangely furious to be forcibly separated from her. She’d had to grit her teeth against the urge to drive her new sword through their chests, given that she’d been wildly outnumbered and had no idea if she actually knew how to use this thing.

Turns out she absolutely did—as a few minor Lost found out the hard way when they had rushed her and instinct had kicked in.

It balances perfectly in her hand, weight nicely distributed. It’s easy to wield and paired with the speed the bloodveil she wears gives, her she makes for a deadly foe. She worries about it doing the job for some of the bigger ones, though—so she sneaks past them when she can.

If she could get her hands on one of their bigger weapons...

It takes a few fights to fire her out, but luckily she stumbles upon a mistle before too long. They had told her that these had the ability to clear the miasma. They also look pretty similar to that tree Io had led her to when they’d first met—the bloodspring.

She thinks it is reasonable to assume that her blood could have some sort of effect on this, as well, so with only a little hesitation she uses the blade of her sword to slice a thin line across the meat of her index finger. Red blooms from the cut in several little beads. She watches it build up, transfixed for a moment, before holding it out over the cocooned mistle.

A faint glow emits from its tendrils as it shudders and opens almost immediately upon contact. She smiles without really realizing it at first—and for the first time since she’d first put it on, she pries off the purifier mask and lets herself breathe the fresh air.

“Well, that’s really something, isn’t it?”

The sudden voice makes her start. The golden blade glints in the low light of the mistle as she whirls on the intruder with it pointed directly at their chest. Had she had the time to be stunned yet again by her quick reflexes, she would be.

Instead, she glares hard at the man across from her, standing in the mouth of one of the tunnels she hadn’t yet explored.

Slowly, he raises the gloved hand that isn’t holding his crimson-bladed sword.

He’s good-looking—with loose brown curls and eyes so rich a brown they appear red. His skin is pale and blemish-less as a doll’s, and he has a small and angular face. He’s dressed well, rolled up sleeves on his checked button-up and a nice looking waistcoat. Dark leather pants tucked into equally fancy leather boots. He looks as likely to host a tea party as cut down a wave of Lost.

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you—but you really surprised me, there. I’ve never seen anyone able to do what you just did before.”

As if to emphasize his harmlessness, he puts his sword away.

“My name is Louis. Do you mind if I rest here a moment with you before moving on?” He motions to the mistle, “This is the first one I’ve come across, and it’s actually functioning now, thanks to you.”

She watches him closely without saying anything for a long while, sword still hovering still in the air in front of his heart.

“The lost and miasma in this area are enough trouble for me, I assure you. I wouldn’t want to make an enemy where I could avoid it, instead.”

A moment longer and she falters. She isn’t built to be such a hard-ass, really. Even though she would do anything to get back to Io, she has to agree that to talk things out is preferable for her, as well.

Her gaze softens and she lets her sword fall.

“Please don’t make me do anything we’ll both regret.” She says softly, and then nods to the mistle. “Take what time you need.”

She sees his eyes crinkle at the corners as if he is smiling behind his mask, and realizes that he is a second later when he removes it.

“You have my thanks.” He says jovially, strolling closer. “It’s good to see someone else down here—I’ve been traveling alone up until now.”

“That’s not dangerous?” She asks, tilting her head.

He does the same back at her, offering a patient smile.

“Oh...” She murmurs, eyes cast downward, “well, I had a partner until...recently.” Louis sobers at this, an understanding look in his eyes.

“I’m truly sorry to hear that.” She nods and shakes herself out of it. “Anyway, it isn’t too terribly difficult to get back home from here, so I decided not to trouble anyone by asking them along. I like to think of myself as somewhat capable.”

Again he offers a small smile. She returns it with her own, hesitantly. “That’s fair enough.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but she can tell he wants to say something else. She can feel him stealing glances every now and again as they relax—free of the danger of the Lost for a while. When she finally looks up again, she can see his brows knit in concentration.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“If I did, I think I’d already be offended, yeah?”

That makes him chuckle a bit. “Where did you learn to do...” he glances again at the open mistle, struck dumb for just a moment before recovering and meeting her eyes once more, “...that?”

Once more, she tries to recall her past; anything that might in some way pertain to activating mistles and bringing bloodsprings to bloom. And once more, she finds nothing but the empty void of her memories gazing back solemnly. “I’m sorry...” she says sincerely, “It seems I can’t remember anything. I’ve been trying, but...”

Louis nods, once again looking upon her with a deep understanding. She wonders to herself just how vast this memory problem is among revenants. “Well, it’s no matter, really. It is rather unique, though.”

“You’ve really never met anyone else who could do that? Io seemed to know I could do it before I did...”

“Is that a friend of yours?”

She nods. “I think so? She’s the first person I met since losing all my memories. I’m trying to make my way back to her, now—but I need to find blood beads, first. I’m worried about what’ll happen if I don’t.”

“Hm.” Louis is thoughtful for a moment. “That’s why I’m here, too, in fact. Perhaps we could continue the search together, once we’re done here.”

“I don’t see why not—as long as you don’t try to run off with all of them.”

He chuckles again, “You have my word.”

“Good to work with you, then.”

“And you.” He agrees, “Might I ask your name, in that case?”

She halts for a moment. Io had told her that they would give her a new one, so she hadn’t thought much about it since waking. Her thrall number is apparently Four, and while it would work well enough she didn’t quite fancy being referred to by something those people had come up with.

Still, when she thinks back—the only origins she remembers are the ones born from waking up on that road with Io. She couldn’t very well steal Io’s name...so maybe...

“Road...-y...” She says haltingly, cheeks flushing embarrassedly at the unnatural sound of it. It tumbles clumsily off her tongue, but Louis doesn’t even flinch.

“Rhodey? That’s a fine name.” She doesn’t know if he says it because he can tell she’d just come up with it on the fly or because he truly thinks so; still, she appreciates the honesty he speaks with.

Really...not even a street name; but the road itself...

She tries not to wince visibly at her own blandness.

“I’m glad you think so...” she mutters, and he laughs. Then, sparing one more curious glance at the mistle, he adopts a look of careful resolve on his face.

“You know,” he starts, pondering something, “I’m actually doing a study on bloodsprings, beads, the like. Your ability could really do wonders, and perhaps along the way, we could find out how you came to be able to affect them, yourself. It wouldn’t be a one-sided deal, I can assure you of that much, at least. If you’d like to be involved we can discuss it once we’ve returned topside.”

Rhodey stares wide-eyed and unblinking. “Really?” It sounds better than being a thrall, at any rate. Perhaps he would be willing to help her free Io and herself from captivity. He nods. “I’ll...I’ll think about it. I need to get back to Io, before anything else.”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

[ifridiot]

Fictober WoW Fic: That Which Kills Us

World of Warcraft fanfic for fictober2019. Rated M for violence and gore. 

Day One Prompt: “It will be fun, trust me.” Word Count: 1,892

--

In the time he’s been out in the world, which admittedly wasn’t all that long, Tal Runetotem has witnessed many deaths he would rather not have. On the field, he shows none of his ethical distress over senseless death and tedious slaughter; on the field he is Glueboy, a warrior in every inch of his being. It is better to be that person, safer; killing is a part of his life, his duty to the Horde, and he does his job efficiently, often, and without a second thought to the lives he ended.

Yet, despite the uncountable times he’s drenched himself in the blood of his enemies, drowned himself in the stench of their death, he finds his heart caught in strong claws at the sight of every wounded friend. Part of the pain perhaps comes from a nature that leads him to so quickly feel attached to people traveling with him.

Tal has seen two of his companions die; watched one of them (another Tauren bull, a druid) hacked to pieces, and the other (a blood elf hunter) drag herself out of a battle only to bleed to death by the side of the road. Tal takes every severe wound and death personally , a testament to his lack of ability. As a warrior, as the friend of these people, it is his job to fight for them. For them to be killed while he still draws air is wrong, and it wounds him that he could let it happen.

Pain translates easily to battle fury, which does something to explain why he himself still survives. The sight of his comrade’s injury or, at the very worst times, their death, sparks a white-hot rage in him that pulls him through a fight, letting him smash and hack his way out of every overwhelming mob. In a rage, Tal is reckless, his hits harder, more vicious; he’ll take a man apart with a few swings of his blade, cleaving through bone and tearing through flesh.

But before the fury is always horror. Usually it’s a smell that alerts him to the situation; fear in most cases, because a serious wound is only shrugged off by the stupid or the reckless. But Daniel, his first companion of the Forsaken ilk, is never afraid, and never seems to show sign of tiring or hurt. What becomes the cue to Tal’s rage is the stench of that thick, green ichor the Forsaken pour instead of blood. When he can smell that through the sweat and gore and cleaved meat of the battlefield, over his own wounds and the blood of his nearest victim, then he knows a problem has arisen for his comrade.

In so many ways, Daniel is different. Daniel is probably one of the few real friends Tal has made, despite his tendency to call all his travel-mates ‘friends’. Despite being of a brooding nature, and being reserved and secretive in the way Forsaken all seem to naturally be, Daniel is pleasant to be around, intelligent and kind. He puts up with Tal’s ignorance and compulsive behavior – to the point that he even helped Tal recover from the completely misguided attempt to follow the Forsaken’s lead and cannibalize their enemies to regain some health.

Never had he run off in the night, never had he told Tal to shut up or ordered him around in a fight. He wasn’t always the best for conversation, but he was a good friend. He deserved to have someone watching his back and keeping him safe in a fight.

But Tal was busy with a devil of a fight when it came to his attention that his companion was in trouble. He’s distracted, but not enough that he doesn’t twist at the all-too-clear sound of flesh meeting something hard. There is a crack of bone snapping – ribs, he thinks by the sound – and the area is suddenly drenched in the putrid smell of the Forsaken’s ‘blood’. Suddenly his enemy doesn’t seem so clever; his axe whips through the air in a sharp backhand, clouting the man across the jaw and snapping his neck. It’s not a clean death, but he’s not really paying attention to the body twitching at his hooves.

Instead, he’s turned to find Daniel, sees him reeling back from a blow that has actually left the weapon stuck in his flesh. The weapon, a self-made maul, has gotten hooked in the rogue’s broken ribs and torn flesh; Daniel stumbles back from his enemy, raising his dagger valiantly as if to retaliate, and utterly fails to block the thrust of the other man’s great sword.

So there is the horror: his friend’s thin body shoved over backwards, the broad blade sinking into the scant flesh of his stomach and straight out his back. His eyes, trained to assess a body in terms of dismantling it, will not lie to him here – the blade could not have missed his friend’s spine. The wound cane be nothing short of fatal.

Like so many careless fighters, so sure of their prowess and certain of victory, the human allows the hilt of his sword to slip from his fingers and leave him weaponless as Daniel falls backward, gaping down at his pierced gut. The vile green not-blood is rushing in earnest from both sides of the wound, coating his legs and pooling around him where he falls.

Tal doesn’t know what he could have done to prevent this, only that he has neglected his duty and it has cost him his friend’s life. Here is the moment between horror and rage, when he is a well of pain without bottom, his sorrow like a tunnel burrowing through his chest, regret whistling through him. His fingers close firmly on the hilt of his axe and, though he isn’t yet thinking of vengeance or violence, he steps over the jerking, dying man and takes a step toward the one who has slain Daniel.

He doesn’t speak any of the tongues a human might deign utter, and so has no idea what bold thing the man says when he sneers at him over his fallen comrades. Tal doesn’t really care; what he cares about is the still form behind the human, sword jutting grotesquely from his chest. The rage is coming now, red at first and growing hotter; his hand tightens its grip on the axe and he hefts it over his shoulder for leverage, and suddenly fear writes itself on the human’s face. He turns and bends to grab his sword, and very suddenly freezes.

To be fair, Tal pauses too, because what he’s seeing can’t have happened. Daniel cannot have survived that wound, much less have reached up to grip the cross guard of the sword. He can’t have actually pulled himself further up the sword, impaling himself worse, with his dagger still gripped in one bony claw. Can’t have used that motion as leverage to sink the dagger into the human’s chest, just off center to the left where it will slip between the ribs and sink neatly into his heart.

For that to happen simply wouldn’t makes sense, because the sword – the sword Daniel appears to be impaled on – would have killed him with that first blow. He can’t have survived that, and the gore spilled on the ground gives credence to Tal’s memory of that fatal blow. Yet, the blood dribbling down over Daniel’s claws and onto his upturned face, the look of shock and horror on the human’s face, all tell him that this is indeed really happening, exactly as it seems.

Shock, as it often does, short circuits his rage, and he watches numbly as the human crumples to the ground, rolling to narrowly miss landing in a heap on top of the Forsaken. There is a soft grunt of effort as the smaller male sinks back down on the sword, returning to a sprawl on the ground with the sword now pinning him down. It’s hard to fathom, but in his ploy to catch the human off guard, the rogue actually buried the point of sword in the ground and used it as leverage to stab with.

The noise does something to snap Tal into action; he drops his axe and runs to his friend’s side. It seems foolish to hope that the Forsaken could survive this, and his heart feels caught and torn by those phantom claws as he skids to his knees beside his friend, expecting to find him truly lifeless or very nearly there.

Instead he is graced with a narrow-eyed look and furrowed brow, Daniel as usual giving no sign of real injury or pain as he lays there. He looks, for all the world, as if he’s simply resting after a difficult battle. Even with a maul and sword jutting awkwardly out of his body.

Tal can only stare for a minute, his hands hovering in the air without him really knowing what to do with them, before he drops them into his lap, baffled. “Smarts sommin terrible, that plan, I expect,” he finally says, trying to keep his voice in its normal range. It sounds a little strangled to his ears, but otherwise calm. “Pin’d ya self a-ground now, can get yourself on ya feet?”

Ever intuitive, Daniel stares at him for a moment before leaning laboriously up and shoving at the blood-slick cross guard. The sword doesn’t lift from the ground at all. “I may be stuck,” is all he says, still hinting not at all as to whether he’s hurting physically or not. “And… perhaps I’d be better laying here for a moment.”

Setting his head to one side, Tal’s face creased in confusion. “A bad idea, stayin’ down longer than must. More a that sort could come, and not all of em going to stop to check on the pretty pin’d butterfly. Should get gone soon as you can get up.”

“My legs won’t work for a while yet.”

A little laugh forced itself out of Tal’s throat. “To hell with your legs, thought you were a-dead. Can carry you from now on.”

The Forsaken made a face, which Tal was hard pressed to define. Confusion was there, perhaps discomfort as well. “I’m not going to die and when I heal, my legs’ll be fine. Just…”

“Aw, lemme carry ya a spell,” Tal says, not quite joking. It wouldn’t do to admit, especially not to one such as Daniel, but having the little rogue held close for a bit, so Tal couldn’t help but feel all the little signs of his being alive and well, was something the warrior desperately needed now, with the rush of bravery and calm pulling away now that the emergency was behind them. “Be fun, trust me. Anyone tries ‘a sneak up, you pull out a knife and I toss you at ‘em.”

Perhaps he might have told the Tauren to leave him there, had they known each other a little less well. Perhaps he might have told him to keep watch. As it was, he paused, looking up into Tal’s open face, the joy and delight that radiated out of him at those simple words, and heaved a small sigh that didn’t match the amusement hinted on his face, saying, “Get the sword, then.”

[flightfoot]

A Convergence of Apollos Chapter 2

I studied Hoodie Apollo’s face as we all ran out of Central Park. He looked guilty and bitter, though I wasn’t sure why. Because he sent us on this quest alone last time? At least, assuming he was right about being a mortal Apollo sent back in time by some method (note to self: ask how that happened). I didn’t think he was lying. The emotions he showed were too raw and genuine for that, plus there was God Apollo’s reaction to consider. But I still had a hard time believing it. A lot of strange things had happened to me since I became a demigod, but this would DEFINITELY go in my top ten.

“So where’s the Celedon?” Meg asked as we exited. Apollo thought for a moment, slowing down as a look of embarrassment swept over his face.

“I... uh... I... don’t know,” he admitted sheepishly. “Percy and Grover found her last time, I didn’t care enough to ask about it.” A bitter tone tinged the last part of that sentence. I was beginning to worry about this guy, whoever he was. He really seemed to hate his past self, or at least who he believed was his past self.  “But they found, stopped her, and brought her back to Central Park by sundown, so it can’t have taken TOO long. So, uh...? Percy, Grover... where do you think we should look?”

I blinked, caught off-guard. I’d been looking forwards to not having to lead the quest. Oh well. At least I had more help than I originally thought I would.

A diva who wanted to make a name for herself singing to the largest crowd she could...

“Times Square,” I said after a minute. “It’s in the theater district and is full of tourists just walking around, able to hear her singing.”

Apollo smiled at me and nodded appreciatively. “That makes a lot of sense. It’s where I’d go, if I was a Celedon. To Times Square it is!” He walked authoritatively for a few yards in one direction, then stopped. “Er... how do we get there again? Normally I’d just fly over there in my Sun Chariot, but right now...”

Meg sniggered. “Come on, Oh Great God of Getting Lost. I’ll show you how to use the subway.”

Apollo shot Meg a slightly annoyed look, which she ignored. He huffed and started after her, Grover and myself close behind.

As we rode the subway, I glanced at the dead-turtle-lyre God Apollo had forced onto Grover. “Hey, Grover? Do you know how to use that thing?”

“Well, uh... kind of? I learned the basics, and us satyrs have a natural affinity for music, so hopefully that’ll be enough?”

“I can play it,” Apollo chimed in.

I nearly smacked myself. OF COURSE Apollo could play his own lyre, mortal or not. Though if he was mortal...

“Hey Apollo?” I asked. “Does the lyre have any powers of its own? Will it still work if the musician is mortal?”

“Oh yes,” he said, looking like Annabeth does when someone brings up architecture around her. “This is the lyre I used the first time I was turned mortal, in fact. I helped build the walls of Troy using this lyre.”

Huh?

Did he use the lyre as some sort of divine brick-laying tool?

I mean, I’d seen stranger improvisations (I will always savor Rachel hitting Kronos in the eye with a blue plastic hairbrush), but it still seemed weird.

My confusion must have been evident on my face because Apollo continued explaining. “This lyre conjures up items based on the music you play. Back then, that meant bricks. Lots and lots of bricks. But it can summon other things too.”

“Like a cage for the Celedon?”

“Yes, like that,” he agreed.

Grover handed the lyre over to Apollo, but he hesitated a bit as he slowly held it out to Apollo, as if struck by a nervous thought.

“Er... Apollo?” he asked nervously, starting to chew his shirt in his anxiety. (He’s a satyr, he does things like that. One time he got so nervous and hungry he had eaten massive holes in his shirt before he’d realized it was even in his mouth. It couldn’t be salvaged, so he took it off and ate the rest of it.)

“Just... be careful not to scratch it, okay? Please? Apollo - er-  the OTHER Apollo said he’d incinerate me if I did, and he’s really freaked out right now so I don’t know WHAT he’d do if it was damaged.”

“Incinerate..?” he said disbelievingly, his voice squeaking at the end. “I... said that?”

“if you damage it, I’ll incinerate you,” I recalled. “That’s what he said.”

“I...” the guy looked close to tears. “I... I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have even considered it. Your lives are worth more than a musical instrument. Plus you were doing a favor for ME. It was WRONG.”

He took in a shaky breath. “Grover, I know you’re not friends with me now, in this timeline. And considering how I acted, I’m surprised your counterpart is friends with ME in my timeline,” he said with a wry smile. “But I still consider you to be one of my friends, and I wouldn’t hurt you no matter HOW annoyed I was at you, even if you DO like Walt Whitman.” (I was confused at this, but Grover seemed to recognize the name at least). “I won’t allow you to be hurt either, not while I have the power to stop it.” his eyes gleamed softly, and for a moment I thought they were glowing. It was gone so quickly, I wasn’t sure whether it was a trick of the light. “If my past self gives you trouble, I’ll handle him.”

“Thanks,” Grover replied. “I thought with this quest that this would be a pretty bad birthday, but meeting you had made it less-bad than I thought.”

“It’s your birthday?” Apollo asked, looking surprised.

“Really, Apollo? You did this on Grover’s birthday?” Meg chimed in, sounding annoyed.

“I didn’t...” he closed his eyes for his moments and furrowed his brow. “I... thought it was Percy’s birthday?” he muttered to himself, eyes still closed. “Wait, but Percy’s next birthday he was turning sixteen, the Great Prophecy hinged on that, I KNEW this wasn’t his birthday...” he trailed off and opened his eyes.

He took in a deep breath and left it out, then took turns looking Grover and I each in the eyes.

“I didn’t care,” he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness and self-hatred. “It didn’t matter to me whose birthday it was, or what you were already doing. Because I was a god, I was more important, my needs were more important than yours. So why should I bother remembering that it was Grover’s birthday? It had no effect on me, and I was the only one who mattered.”

“Then I was turned mortal again, and had to live with you, amongst you, as one of you, AS EQUALS. And I cared.”

“I don’t know what made the difference this time, exactly. I didn’t care the last two times I was turned mortal. But then again, those times, I stayed separate from most mortals and their struggles. I didn’t experience what they did. And I was still partially divine, I still looked like myself, I still had ichor in my veins. Or maybe because this time, I was with people who needed me. Not because I was a god, but for who I was.”

His eyes shimmered with unreleased tears. “My children...” he whispered. “I barely knew them, but they did everything they could to make me comfortable at Camp Half-Blood, even though I just wanted to sulk. They embraced me as family. I’d only appeared in their dreams every now-and-then. They acted more like family towards me in those few days I spent at Camp Half-Blood, than I had towards them in their entire lives. I couldn’t even REMEMBER the last time anyone had cared about me that much, AS A PERSON. I didn’t deserve them. I DON’T deserve them. I’m their father, and yet THEY took care of ME. I can’t... I can’t think of myself as their father. Not really. I haven’t earned the title. But they’re my family, and I will protect... them...”

His eyes grew wide. “MICHAEL!” he shouted, startling the other passengers.

“Huh?” I said, confused. A nauseous feeling broiled in my stomach. Why would Apollo look so frantic about his oldest son? At least the oldest one at Camp.

“He... he died. In the Battle of New York City. I... I don’t know how. I and the other gods were busy fighting Typhon at the time. I don’t know if you can change anything. I don’t know if anything that happens now can change fate. But... still, please. Look after him?”

I looked at his pleading face, remembering the last time someone had asked me to look after their family. She had died a few days later. But...

“I’ll try,” I promised. I hesitated. “You know that I don’t have a great track record with keeping people from dying though, right? I promised Nico that I’d try to keep Bianca safe. I failed.”

“I don’t have the best track record with keeping people safe either,” he admitted. “I promised Thalia I’d check in on Jason, on her little brother. He went on a quest with me to help defeat one of the emperors, Caligula. He’d gotten a prophecy a few months before that said that if he and Piper helped me, one of them would die. He could have refused to help. No one could have stopped him. I certainly couldn’t compel him too, the way I am now. But he helped anyway, because more people would die if we didn’t help take Caligula down.”

He took a shaky breath as the tears ran down his face, unable to hold them in anymore. “The... the prophecy said that it could’ve been either of them. He decided that he would be the one to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of Piper dying. I... I said that we’d succeed without either of them dying. He just smiled and made a joke. But he... he asked me to make a promise. To.. to take the designs for some shrines he’d been working on back to Camp after he died, and... and  to remember... to remember what it’s like to be human.” He let out a choking sob. 

“Even then, even as he was about to march to his death, he was worried about his fellow demigods, OUR FAMILY, who we’ve mistreated so, SO badly. Because they were more important to him than his own life. He was a hero.”

His puffy and bloodshot eyes took on a steely glint. “I’m keeping that promise. I WILL remember this if I survive, if I regain my godhood. And I WILL make things better. I promise.”

This guy... he’d been through so much. He had so much self-loathing and self-hatred for what he’d done, and for what he’d failed to do. He recognized his mistakes and was trying to fix them. Because he CARED. 

I pulled Apollo into another hug. He stopped holding back his tears, letting out huge sobs.

“He would be proud of you,” I told him. “You’re trying. That’s enough. He wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up endlessly.” I didn’t KNOW Jason, but based on what he’d told me, I was fairly confident I was right. “Just try. That’s the best any of us humans can do.”

Apollo smiled as he pulled away, breaking my hug. “Thanks.”

As we pulled into our stop, I took another look at Apollo. He looked nothing like the god I had seen earlier. He didn’t glow when upset. Yet right now, as he stared determinedly at the doors, ready to help capture the Celedon, to make sure she didn’t harm any innocent mortals, I thought that he’d never shone brighter.

[paladin-andric]

Day of the Roses

Happy Valentine’s Day! For this occasion, I decided to write up a little something about a love-struck bird. This takes place right before Eignach and Razorwing took that step and went from friends to something...a little more. He decided to do this on the Day of the Roses, a holiday in Deaco that celebrates love in all its forms...

The smell of fresh flowers filled the air of the shop, as the jingling of a bell signaled the arrival of a patron. The owner, currently rifling around under the counter, shot up at the noise.

“Ah, welcome, welcome!”

The owner was a koutu, a tall and graceful woman who took long strides in her approach. She was mostly a pure white, with black at the ends of her wings and right above her legs. There were also black quills rising out of her head, and the feathers of her face were a colorful orange.

She smiled at the small, crowlike koutu standing nervously at the entrance.

“Ahh, a fine Day of the Roses to you! Come for a bouquet?”

“Umm...yes.”

Eignach’s voice was quiet and timid, lacking certainty.

“Oh, well that’s wonderful! Were there any flowers you had in mind?” the tall birdwoman seemed to tower over Eignach, shaking his confidence even further. He already felt small, but now…

“U-umm...I-I don’t know...I’m not…”

“...a botanist?” she finished, a playful smile on her face.

“Y-yeah.”

“Well, lucky for you, I am! Let’s find you something nice.”

Countless flowers adorned the walls and tables, held in containers with what was most likely water. They were everywhere, and the sights and smells left Eignach a little disoriented.

“See anything you like?” the owner asked, wings folded behind her as she led the young bird through the shop.

“Uh...I don’t know. They’re all so different...”

“Tsk. Of course they are! Surely you can pick something out! Each carries a distinct presence, a meaning and benefit.”

“I dunno...they’re all just pretty flowers to me.”

The woman sighed, his cluelessness grating on her. “Very well...should I recommend a bouquet for you, than?”

“That would be wonderful.”

She stopped and nodded. “Okay. Why don’t we do roses? That’s always a safe bet. The holiday itself venerates them, after all!”

Eignach nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah! Roses! Lots of roses!”

The woman raised a brow and cracked a smile. “Sounding a lot more confident all of a sudden, friend.”

The smaller koutu shrugged. “There’s just so much to pick from…I didn’t know where to begin.”

“Well, allow me to help you.” the shop owner stopped before a collection of roses, all of them a rich red. “A traditional rose, deep red, symbolizes the burning heart of one who feels a deep and unfettered love for another. It symbolizes the red-hot blood of passion and zeal. It is a flower of love. Does that sound right for you?”

Eignach’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s perfect! That’s just what I want!”

The woman smirked. “Slow down, now! There’s lots of different roses, and they all mean different things!”

The crow’s ecstatic bouncing ceased. “O-oh.”

“Well, red is for love,” she explained, “But there’s others too! Pink roses are for gentle kindness and adoration of another.”

“A-adoration? Oh, I think I might want that…”

“Yellow is for warmth and happiness! Green is for life. White is purity and orange is for desire...now which of those sound like a match for what you want…?”

The smaller, nervous koutu looked like he was at his wits end now. It took quite a while for him to muster a response.

“Umm...all of them?”

…

The shop owner wrote the transaction down on a piece of paper as Eignach watched her count the coins he had handed over. To the side, his purchase sat in waiting.

“So...are these for a special someone of yours?” She eyed him as she kept writing, offering a small smile.

“Y-yeah, they are.”

“Really, now...don’t be so nervous, dear! I’m sure they’ll love it. Calm yourself before you get back!”

“O-oh...thank you, ma’am. I’ll try.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The sounds of quill on paper filled the air for a moment before she broached the subject again.

“So...how long have you been together?”

Eignach’s eyes went wide.

“U-umm…”

She gave the crow a confused look.

“W-well...we haven’t.”

Now it was the woman’s turn to become excited. Her face seemed to fill with new life as she grinned like mad at the admission.

“Oooooh! You’re finally declaring your love for someone you’ve had your eye on, aren’t you?!”

“Y-yeah…” the young man looked uncomfortable.

“Oho! Who’s the lucky recipient? Who are you pining after?”

Her teasing seemed to only be making him worse, his head bowed and burning with embarrassment now.

“Hey, don’t be like that! You love them, don’t you?”

He hesitated. This woman was a complete stranger. He’d only come here because he heard how good the quality of her stock was. Yet…

“I do...with, um, uh...with every fiber of my heart.”

“Well, than there’s nothing to be ashamed of! Love isn’t something to hide away! Be proud! Be joyful! Being with another is a miracle of life, there’s no reason to cast your head down!”

“I-I don’t know if he…you know...”

Ah. There was the problem. Fear of rejection, or perhaps fear of ruining a friendship. It was something she was familiar with, as her customers sometimes confided such things.

Eignach let a out girlish yelp as two talons clutched onto his shoulders.

“Hey! Look at me.”

He turned his gaze up, and stared at the woman leaning over the counter and grabbing onto his shoulders.

“If you don’t do this, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been. A bit of fear in your heart is natural, but you can’t let it rule you! You have to take a deep breath, gather your courage, and march up to that man and tell him you love him, you hear me?!”

Eignach gulped. He blinked, and suddenly things didn’t seem so bad anymore.

“Yeah...yeah, you’re right! I can’t give up! I’ve come this far!”

“That’s the spirit!” the woman shoved the bouquet into his chest, the small crow quickly grabbing it and nodding at her.

“Get out there and stake your heart’s claim, mister!”

“I-I will! I’ll do it right now! Razorwing will love these! Thank you ma’am!”

“Don’t mention it! Good luck!” she called out as the small bird rushed out of the shop, bells jingling as the door shut behind him.

“Ah, that’s what this day’s all about…” the shop owner, one Miss Finnibir, had her hands on her hips as she felt pride over inspiring the man to follow his heart. After a moment however, her smile faltered.

“H-hey, wait a minute…” it turned into a frown, her eyes shooting open as his words finally crashed into her.

“R...RAZORWING?!”

She clutched onto the counter as she stared in bewilderment at the door. Some man had just announced his desire to propose his love for Razorwing! THAT Razorwing!

“W-wait! B-but I...I was…”

Her body slumped over. Finnibar’s beak scraped against the counter as she stood there, defeated.

“...I was gonna do that.”

She idly scratched at the wood with a talon as she thought it over.

“Unbelievable. He always struck me as such a ladies’ man...tsk, just my luck.”

She sulked, lazily stepping into the back room. In this private area she moved to the end of the storage room, approaching her greatest creation. A massive bouquet of flowers from all over the world was sitting on a table, something truly remarkable. Their sights, their colors, their auras...it all combined into a rainbow of beauty, her finest and most costly arrangement ever.

She sighed and shook her head, wings folding over herself. “Well...it’ll sell for a lot, at least…”

Finnibar grimaced. “W-well...so what?! There are plenty of fish in the sea! So what if he’s taken?! He’s only famous...and handsome…and charming...and kindly...a-and probably saved the world...”

She stewed over it for a moment longer before narrowing her eyes. Just like she’d told the man, she had to get over herself.

Grabbing the beautiful bouquet, she waltzed back to the front of the store, casually plopping the arrangement of exotic import flowers onto the counter for the world to see.

Sitting in a chair and leaning back, she propped her talons onto the counter, crossed her arms, and grinned.

It couldn’t attract Razorwing anymore, but it sure as hell could attract someone with a fat coinpurse, and to the botanist, that would do.

Sometimes, you just had to play the hand you were dealt...and Finnibar was determined to make the most of hers.

Tag list: @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad, @lady-redshield-writes, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @sheralynnramsey, @tawnywrites, @writer-on-time, @oceanwriter, @zwergis-spilledink, @fluffpiggy, @elliewritesfantasy, @homesteadhorner,  @laurenwastestimewriting, @elaynab-writing, @the-ichor-of-ruination, @reya-writes, @bexminx

[violetosprey]

BTD: Rire/Cain Compare and Contrast

One thing I like about the BTD and TDDUP games is that pretty much every single character in the series is unique.  Hardly any of them line up in the same format as any other the others (due to occupation, objectives, level of sadism, personality, etc.).  Actually out of the entire series, there’s only really two characters that come close to being “carbon copies” : Cain and Rire.

This used to bother me a bit, but it doesn’t anymore because when you put a little more thought into it, the two couldn’t be anymore different.  It’s about time I put my thoughts onto paper though so I stop trying to lump these two together all the time :P

Game spoilers below.

First off, laying out the most important fact here:  It doesn’t matter how “similar” these characters are in the context of the games because they are created/owned by two different people.

Rire is owned by Darqx.  Cain is owned by ElectricPuke.  

Sooo I could technically end this post right here just for that sake.  These were two friends with two separate characters for their own universes.  They have full knowledge of the other’s character.  I don’t know who had their character first, but really this isn’t the case of either of them copying the other.  It’d be worse in my opinion if a creator kept dishing out the same exact type of character each and every game with just a different coat of paint on them so to speak.  Both creators are pretty good though with their character diversity :)

1) Why Rire and Cain feel like the same “model”

Well they both happen to be supernatural beings of the “dark” variety (one’s a demon, and one’s a fallen angel) who are very charming when you first meet them, but reveal themselves to be complete sadists later on.  They’re pretty overpowered, so you’re completely at their mercy.  They both do physical torture, as well as mess with your mind.  They are torturing the MC simply because they’re bored and they found the MC “interesting.”  It is highly likely you will end up dying when you meet them (though same with most any of the other BTD boys).  And they’re also incredibly difficult to please.  They want a victim who will fight back a bit, but they also don’t like a victim who is totally “uncooperative.”  Sometimes they don’t even mind a little submission from their victim or the victim even showing willingness to engage in certain activities.  Really, they just want someone to “play” with who keeps them on their toes.  Also, I’d have to double-check, but I think they’re even the same height XD

So yeah...pretty similar on the surface.  I have to admit though that these two are my 2nd and 3rd favorites out of all the BTD characters, so clearly I didn’t really mind how the setup went :P  

2) Why the two characters function completely differently underneath the hood

First off, appearances.  While snappy dressers I have to say, they’re EXTREMELY different in the looks department.  Rire’s got this luscious hair in a short ponytail while we have Cain sporting this more, almost delinquent look, with his hair dyed red in the middle (it looks fantastic slicked back though!).  Rire’s also got a little more chest hair and same facial hair, and Cain seems slightly...leaner I guess?  Overall, I find Rire’s appearance to look a bit older to me.  Certainly more of a mature gentleman.  Cain doesn’t look so young that he’d pass for a teenager, but he’s definitely got a “younger adult” look in comparison to Rire.  Which is hilarious considering that Rire is actually at least a couple thousand years younger than Cain I believe :P  

Second, the setup/predicament that MC walks into.  Both you meet in a nicer establishment.  With Rire, it ends up becoming a one-night stand the MC gets into that goes horribly wrong, resulting in them becoming a prisoner in their own house at Rire’s mercy.  Cain you meet by chance, have a nice little chat with, then you actually leave but he kidnaps you shortly afterward.  Instead of your home, MC is actually taken to where Cain stays.  So with one, your natural safe zone has now become a prison, while with the other you get taken far away to a place that’s unfamiliar to you that you have no power to leave yourself.  They’re both scary in different ways.  This kind of leads into the next bit.

Third, their restrictions.  Fun fact, Cain is likely the more powerful of the two.  But the funny thing is Cain doesn’t have as much freedom to move about as Rire does.  Rire is a demon royal and the king of his demon sector where he’s from.  Every now and then when he gets bored, he’ll pop into the earth realm to mess with some poor unfortunate soul.  It’s implied he’s done this on more than one occasion.  The only reason he doesn’t linger too long there is because a) he’s probably satisfied once he’s had his fill and b) if he’s the king, he’s probably got to make sure he’s not absent for TOO long from his sector, least some up and coming demon get the idea to usurp him.  Gotta let your people know you’re still the boss :P  Otherwise, no one’s probably looking for Rire to come back (he’s supposedly a bit of a tyrant).  

Cain on the other hang has actually broken out of prison recently (how recently is up for debate).  There are indeed other angels stronger than him looking to get him back in his cage, and of course he doesn’t want to go.  So he’s smart enough to keep out of sight long enough when he’s on earth.  When he goes to find a new toy though, he wants to savor the “playtime” more;  So he kidnaps them and brings them to his hiding place.  I guess you could say Rire has more freedom but less time when he’s enjoying himself, while Cain has more time to enjoy himself but less freedom to move about.

Fourth, powers.  Rire’s a little more physical, using mostly his tentacles (ichor) to torture someone.  Seeing as he can sprout as many as he’d like, keep people at a safe distance, and they can become both liquid or solid, he can get pretty creative.  He seems to have SOME control over a person’s psyche, but I think Darqx confirmed isn’t not really full on mind control.  He’s got more control of demons underneath him.  And it depends on how strong the person’s mind is (that’s why you can break free from it).  He’s likely got highly regenerative abilities.  He...MIGHT have teleportation, I can’t remember either in the game or Darqx’s notes (he might just be super good at sneaking up on you honestly).  And of course, he can take your soul if it’s part of a “deal.”

Cain’s got a larger repertoire of abilities.  He’s got a bit more mind control capability it would appear (according to Puke’s notes, more like getting people to admit truths and a minor telepathy bond).  So Cain’s a bit more capable of messing with your mind than Rire is.  Cain can disguise his physical form, as well as physically transform others into fallen angels or demons.  In one ending, it is implied he can either take control of someone’s soul...that or it’s more like “your soul belongs to me now” while you physically keep it.  Not sure.  He can heat things up (like boiling the bath) and manifests objects like roses and chains.  He seemed to be able to use “invisible forces” such as barriers and a weight on the MC as well.  He’s got quick regeneration, and he DEFINITELY can teleport.  So Cain’s more of a wild card than Rire because with the array of abilities he has, you won’t necessarily know where the danger is coming from before it’s too late.

Fifth, end game play.  Rire’s looking for a “quickie” in more ways than one.  The more entertaining the person, the longer he lets them live.  Ultimately though, you’re going to meet your doom at the end.  If he doesn’t like you enough, he’ll just kill you.  On the slim chance that he does end up liking the MC...then he gives them the choice of whether or not to live.  If they say they choose death, he gives it to them.  If they say otherwise...then he actually takes the victim’s soul for his collection.  I am aware now from reading Darqx’s blog that Rire can do a “mark” thing on someone he likes as a way of ownership...but a) that is probably INCREDIBLY rare for him to do, and b) I have no idea what happens after that (if he either takes his victim back home with him, or if he just lets them “free roam” and he comes back to “play” with them whenever he likes until he gets bored...and probably kills them).  My guess is he doesn’t really ever take any of his victims home.  If he ever feels “affection” for anyone...I have a funny feeling it wouldn’t be a good thing either.  He just plays with his victims wherever they’re at, kills them or takes their soul, and goes on his way.

Cain’s actually hoping for something a little more long-term.  He’s gone through the trouble of wandering around incognito when he’s a wanted criminal, so hopefully when he spots someone he fancies he doesn’t have to go replacing them too fast.  Like Rire though, he’s initially thinking of torturing and inevitably killing his victim.  UNLIKE Rire though, you do have a very slim chance of getting on Cain’s better side for a better ending than being trapped in a bottle for all eternity.  If you prove to remain entertaining to Cain, but he still will see you as a toy that’s beneath him, he’ll turn you into his demon minion.  If Cain feels more affection with you, he may start to view you as an equal.  Then you gives you the choice of either leaving of your own free will (sadly you can’t return to Earth though- gee thanks Cain :P), or staying with him and becoming a fallen angel.  Puke’s implied the MC has become more of Cain’s equal if he does this.  While again, still very difficult to gain Cain’s favor, my guess is the reason you’re more likely to meet a better end with Cain than you are Rire is because Cain was once a human.  Cain’s lived a long time, and while he is no where near good, he’d be more capable at sympathizing with others.  He also seems to have “quiet and thoughtful moments.”  Rire’s pretty much the very text book definition of a “demon.”  Cain’s a tad more complicated (but still very sadistic).

Yeah I just had to do this so I would stop lumping these guys together.  I love them both a whole lot and appreciate even the more minor differences between them.

[cedarmoons]

heal my soul

so i saw @nipuni​ ’s absolutely gorgeous art and got inspired, because i just really love angst, apparently.  (; ︵ ;)

His transformation is unwelcome, but not unexpected.

The first orb he had found had been Dirthamen’s, buried deep underground, in one of his lost temples. When he had taken its power with the Anchor, fueling himself, he had woken the next morning to crystalline, snowy irises that reflected the light. There had been two sets of slits on his forehead, connected by thin, shadowy lines, resembling the closed eyes of his mosaics.

He reaches into himself, and finds what he had feared most. The ancient being within his soul, the first spark that had shaped his nature, is stirring, feeding on the power he gorges like a glutton yet needing more still. There is no Mythal, no Inquisitor to calm that part of him, now, to soothe and humble, and shrink back into himself.

His attention makes it stir, and its stirring awakens it.

There is nothing he can do, save watch, as his skin turns grey, as hard nodules of scales begin to creep along his elbows, the back of his neck, over his scalp. He watches, despairing, and remembers words he’d once spoken to her, so long ago: I would not have you see what I become.

The worst comes after he finds a way to reach Arlathan. The Fade is close against his skin, teeming with power, though the city itself is blackened by its fate, nothing more than a husk of what it had been. Floating palaces had fallen, crushing the slums they had hidden in their shadows; the colors that decorated the streets have faded, gone grey, drained without magic to fuel its art.

He finds his brethren where he had locked them away, each in their own palace, and takes their power for himself. He rends their sleeping souls apart and drinks the golden ichor that spills across his skin, tasting electricity and dragon fire in every greedy gulp. He takes their symbols, what they had loved most; he takes Andruil’s bow and arrows, Ghilan’nain’s horns, Elgar’nan’s staff, Dirthamen’s ravens, Falon’Din’s mask that allowed its wearer to see both Dreaming and Waking worlds at once. He consumes Sylaise’s irrepressible heat, and the ancient spirit of Ingenuity that had once sparked June feeds his own soul.

The Mother is greatly pleased. You have done well, she whispers in one of his lucid moments, and his Pride swells.

He keeps the physical trophies displayed like trinkets in his war room, where his generals and advisers gather. They admire the tokens, of course, and his Pride is appeased.

He sleeps that night, and is awakened by a searing pain in his skull. The eyes are open, glowing a dull red, and his scalp has cracked in four areas. Solas casts a silencing barrier over his room and curls into himself, screaming as the curved, twisted horns break through the skin and grow.

His nails are bloody from clawing at the ruptured skin by the time the pain subsides, and when he looks in the mirror, he sees a monster. Four slitted red eyes, four curved, twisting black horns. A creature of fear, of glory.

No, he thinks. No.

He casts a permanent glamour over himself, so the others will not know; but it is a half-hearted effort (I want them to know me, fear me, his Pride croons, weakening his will), and more and more of his agents become disconcerted as his state worsens.

Solas cannot blame them, but he has already set upon the path, and he must see it to the final, blissful end.

With the false gods dealt with, he can now deal with restoring the world as it should be. He had thought, at first, to simply tear down the Veil and rebuild from the ashes; but that would bring too much death. He will instead do as Dorian and the Inquisitor had, and turn time back, to when the Mother was alive and all was well. From there, he will take steps to ensure this world, this abomination, would never come to pass.

It will be a painless death for the little mortals. They will not even know. It is good of him to do this, take the kindest route, rather than focus on the death and destruction and pain. It is wise. He is wise.

The next orb he seeks, Elgar’nan’s, is somehow destroyed by the Inquisition before he can reach it. He knows its loss instantly, for the hunger in his bones aches at the waste of power, a pain so sharp it steals his breath and makes him ravenous. That night, the Dread Wolf flies into her dreams, screaming at her impudence. He does not harm her, but he bloodies her spirit, her Pride, her faith in her cause. She deserves every pain he inflicts upon her, because in her impudence she has dared to interfere with a god.

A pretty little mortal, who must learn her place.

Solas wakes from that nightmare and promptly vomits. I am losing myself, he thinks afterwards, wildly, and cannot stop his sobs. Vhenan, vhenan, forgive me.

He writes a thousand different notes, begging forgiveness, but none of them are good enough for her eyes, and there is nothing he can say that would excuse his behavior. Every note he writes is burned.

He sends her roses and Andruil’s bow, instead. His Pride roars at him for giving such a treasure to a little mortal child, and Solas hopes that the golden arrows will find his heart before he can complete his task.

The next orb, Ghilan’nain’s, is stolen from his agents before he can consume its power, and his ravens soon locate it in Minrathous. His ravens see the human armies gathering there, the world’s best and strongest mages preparing rituals to prevent him from reaching the orb. Pride hears these reports and laughs.

“I will go to Minrathous,” he says, allowing a small, smug smile. The generals look at each other, disquieted, and it only amuses him further. “Perhaps my presence there will demonstrate my previous kindnesses, and they will finally see my plans for the gifts they are.”

His ravens come to him in his dreams that night, and tell him of the city. There are seven defenses between him and Minrathous. Six armies, and the seventh, he cannot see; perhaps it is simply a long stretch of land, meant to be a buffer zone between him and the city.

Pride laughs, and laughs, and laughs. When he wakes, he takes the nearest eluvian, ending up a hundred miles from Minrathous. Electricity crackles around his ankles and he draws the shadows of the land around himself. It is effortless, drawing this form; a mere few years ago, he had been too weak to even change his Elvhen form.

The thought is both amusing and despicable.

He hunches forward, and a wolf consumes him, rising up to be larger than the grandest castles, taller than the forest canopy behind him. He shakes his head, adjusting to the rarely-used form, and heads for the city.

When they see him, men gasp and cry out to their absent gods, as the black wolf’s six scarlet eyes open. Black oil drips down his coat, shining his fur. Red smoke trails from his eyes. His Pride is laughing in his mind; it is never silent, never peaceful.

The mages do nothing to him. Their power is a breeze attempting to move a mountain. The soldiers are equally helpless, and thousands get crushed under his paws. He walks through the armies like padding through a shallow creek, smoke trailing behind him, his fur dripping black oil and staining the ground. His ravens circle him, cawing.

He crosses a hundred miles with twelve steps. Each of the six armies fall underneath his paws. When he passes the sixth defense and sees the seventh, he cannot stop himself from laughing.

The seventh defense is not a stretch of land after all. It is a mortal woman, unarmed and dressed in gold, watching him. Pride gazes upon her, and is amused; her stand against him is brave, yes, but stupid. She is a little mortal, just like the others, and she, too, can be crushed under his might.

He lifts his paw, and sees her gazing up at him. Her eyes are... eyes he knows.

Eyes he loves.

Stop! Solas screams. He scrambles back, paw just avoiding crushing her, but a thousand tonnes of earth are pulled up by his frantic treading. Canyons are carved by his claws, and new hills are formed from the mounds of dirt he had kicked up.

She does not move, and the sight of her has Solas pulling the shadows back into himself, where they cannot hurt her. The wolf shrinks, and shrinks, and shrinks, until he is kneeling at her feet, shivering in the cold air despite his golden armor. His thoughts are disjointed, Pride roaring in his mind, why is he kneeling? All should kneel to him, for he is a god, the savior of the People—  

She touches him, fingertips brushing his too-sharp cheekbone, and his riotous mind quiets at last. He knows what she sees; a horned man, skin metallic, black scales replacing the skin on the back of his scalp and his neck. He is not what he once was. The tenderness has been scoured from his heart; the artist and scholar she once loved has been killed, supplanted by the general and god.

I am not a god, he thinks, just as his Pride wonders aren’t I?

“Solas?”

Her fingertips are gentle on his face. He does not resist as she lifts his chin, tilting his head up toward her, but he keeps his gaze downcast, too ashamed of what he has become (for the People, all for the People) to look at her. She is draped in gold, a sun too bright and beautiful for a creature such as him to look upon.

“Solas.” The sound of his name, his true name, takes him someplace quieter. Someplace softer. He finally brings himself to meet her gaze, only to see her staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. “Oh, Solas, what’s happened to you?”

His lips part, but he cannot bring himself to answer. Help, he thinks. Please. Vhenan. It is a word he has not spoken, not thought, in some time, but the endearment soothes something broken within him. He lifts his hands, an oblation; too late does he see the sharp, curved nails, that of a demon’s. Unworthy of her.

He shrinks away, but then she is there, her arms around his shoulders, the warmth of her almost burning him. Solas clutches at her, eyes squeezing shut, willing his nails to blunten so they do not hurt her, his precious heart. He bows his head, a supplicant, and his forehead presses against the juncture between her throat and shoulder.

She whispers his name, over and over, and every repetition reminds him of what he was. What he used to be.

What he wants to be, for her.

Her nails scratch at his scales, and they begin to flake off as he remembers what he should be. Who he should be. Solas, not Pride. He can sense the others surrounding him—the soldiers who had avoided his destruction—and he does not move, even when he hears the sound of a sword being unsheathed behind him. She is holding him, whispering her love, still steady even now, even when she beholds what he has become. For the first time since taking Dirthamen’s power, his mind is quiet. At peace.   

His Pride protests. But the People—

Silence.

  (silence.)

[queen-scribbles]

Little Things

Dragon Age Secret Santa fic for @styliferous​, featuring her Tabris, Anila, and camp bonding time. Anila was a delight and super cooperative, so this was extra fun to write. :D Merry Christmas!

It was the little things in life you didn’t miss until they were taken away that made this difficult. Warm baths after a long day, sleeping in your own bed, not having to pick darkspawn guts out of your hair....

Of course, Anila couldn’t be too mad about the last one, because the darkspawn she was picking out of her hair had looked dead-set on decapitating Zevran before Morrigan put a rather spectacular end to it. Didn’t make her current state any more enjoyable, but with the likely alternative fresh in her mind, it was more tolerable. 

Still this was going to take a while. All she had to work with was a single wooden comb, a shallow bowl, and the stream near camp. Sooner you start, the sooner you’re done, she encouraged herself, and reached back to unpin her hair. The twin carrot-orange braids had scarcely unwound down her back when she heard footsteps behind her. Anila half-turned to look as she dipped her fingers into the stream to test the temperature. Brr. “What can I do for you, Leliana?”

Her fellow redhead smiled. “Actually, I came to see if I could help you. Alistair told me what happened, and I figured it might be easier to clean up if you had some help, no?”

Anila smiled gratefully. “Help would be wonderful. It went everywhere. I can clean it off my armor and other gear easily enough, but I’m paranoid I’ll miss some in my hair and smell to high heaven for the next several days.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Leliana sat next to her at the stream’s edge, filling the shallow bowl and setting it on a mostly flat rock nearby. “Mm, that’s brisk.”

“I know,” Anila said as she untied her braids, running her fingers through the strands to loosen them. “This’ll be fun.”

Leliana laughed softly. “I’ll try to keep the rest of you as dry as possible.”

“I appreciate that,” Anila replied, settling herself with her back to the stream. “I’m sorry we were so late getting back to camp. I know we said midday, but-”

“Anila, please, a darkspawn ambush is among the better excuses for not sticking to your timetable,” Leliana said wryly, running her fingers through Anila’s hair. “I’m just glad you all made it back in one piece.”

“Well, mostly one piece,” Anila muttered sourly, picking at the grass and trying not to dwell on how heavily Alistair had been leaning against her the last half-mile back to camp.

“Wynne will have him patched up in no time,” Leliana assured her, as if she’d read Anila’s mind. She poured the bowl of water over her hair, and Anila barely repressed a shiver. “And he seemed in good spirits when I talked to him.” She picked up the comb and ran it through Anila’s hair. “Maker’s breath, Anila, how close were you standing to this darkspawn when it exploded?”

“Pretty damn,” she admitted. “You should see my armor.”

“No, thank you,” Leliana said with half a smile.

“I’m just glad most of it landed on me and Alistair,” Anila sighed. “So we don’t have to worry about Morrigan or Zev catching the Taint. On that note, be careful. I don’t need you catching the Taint either.”

“Oh, I am, trust me,” Leliana promised. The two women lapsed into silence for a few minutes as she worked section by section to comb out Anila’s hair. Despite the water’s chill, and the awkward position she was sitting in, there was something undeniably relaxing about having someone wash your hair, and Anila closed her eyes to better enjoy the simple pleasure. She tried not to worry too much about Alistair, or the risk involved with Leliana combing darkspawn ichor out of her hair, but it was hard with no distractions. Leliana hummed softly to herself until she broke the silence to comment, “I really do love your hair, mon ami.”

Anila smiled, remembering their last conversation on this topic. “Thank you. It took ages to get it as long as I wanted. Nice to have that work appreciated.”

“How come?” Leliana asked idly, pouring more water over to hair to wash out loosened ichor.  “About growing it, I mean.”

Anila shrugged. “Just circumstances in general. Growing up in the alienage meant going without food sometimes, or not getting enough, or getting the same thing every day for a week. And malnourished hair falls out or breaks much more easily, so it wasn’t until I got older and could help provide that it got healthy and I made any kind of progress growing it out.” She sighed, smiling slightly at a memory.  “Shianni was furiously jealous for weeks, until the first time she caught me trying to brush it.” As if on cue, the comb snagged a knot and she winced.

“Sorry,” Leliana murmured. “That’s a tricky spot...”

“S’alright. But you can see why Shianni decided she was okay with short hair,” Anila said wryly. 

“Indeed I can,” Leliana chuckled. “And I’m sure it suits her just as well as yours does you.”

Anila hummed in gratitude, and the two women let silence return until Leliana finished.

“There you go,” she said, sitting back and working a cramp out of her hand. “Completely gore free.”

“Thanks,” Anila smiled. She picked up the comb and parted her hair precisely down the middle, deftly split each half into thirds, and had it back in twin braids before you could say The last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. She left them hanging down her back and bent to collect up the bowl. “If I pin them up, it’ll take forever to dry,” she explained to Leliana.

“I figured as much,” Leliana nodded. “I’ve never had my hair that long, but I have friends who did.”

“Any of these friends bards?” Anila asked idly as they walked back toward camp.

A half-smile quirked Leliana lips. “One tried it. She found the lifestyle was not to her liking, no?”

“It does seem the sort of thing that would only appeal to a very specific type of person.” Anila swatted at a cattail, sending it bobbing back and forth long after they were past.

Leliana nodded. “Very true. Alistair, for example, would fail miserably. Poor dear is a terrible liar.”

Anila giggled. “As faults go, that one’s not too bad.”

“Also very true,” Leliana concurred as they reached the edge of the camp, walking into the middle of a playful yet spirited debate.

“I’m still not clear on why you get to cook tonight,” Alistair was saying, as he shifted position against the tree serving as his backrest. He rubbed briefly at the bandages encircling his left thigh before his hand returned to rest atop Cyrion’s head. The mabari whined softly, and Alistair absently scratched between his ears. “It was s’pposed to be my turn, and there’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

“Ah, yes, but you need rest, amico,” Zevran countered, flashing Anila a grin when he noticed her approach. “Besides, we all know the food I cook has actual flavor. And I know what my cara likes.”

“Your cara likes Fereldan lamb and pea stew just as much as her fellow Warden,” Anila interjected, amused.

“Ah! I am betrayed,” Zevran said, clucking disappointment but grinning even as he pressed one hand over his heart. “I must rescue your taste buds from this dreary Fereldan cuisine, yes?”

“Not if it involves as much spice as last time,” Alistair grumbled. Cyrion let out a low wuff of agreement.

“I have to side with them, Zev,” Anila said with a smile. “You can have a little fun, but please do keep it simple.”

“Fine, fine,” he conceded with a theatrical sigh. “Your wish is my command and all that. Though it is criminal how little you Fereldans appreciate good food, is it not, Leliana?”

“Oh, non, mon ami,” she laughed, raising her hands in protest. “Even if I agree with you, you’re not pulling me into that. I’m sure whatever you make will be good, and let’s leave it there.”

The rest of the dinner preparations, as well as the meal itself, passed in a swirl of laughter, teasing, and good-natured ribbing. Anila was still smiling when she crawled into her bedroll, heart warmed and worries calmed by time spent with her friends. It was the moments like tonight--Alistair laughing ruefully as he cave to Cyrion’s umpteenth plea for belly rubs, Zevran’s smile as he tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear, Leliana skillfully balancing all the dishes on her way to the stream to wash up--that  carried her through the harder ones. The little things, that made this saving the world business a little easier.

[filthysweetie]

Captured - Interlude

This is the backstory to a D&D character I made awhile ago! Since that game unfortunately fell to pieces, this will likely be all there is of Aria. Gosh she was fun for that small slice of time though; a terrible paladin but fun. 

“You slimy bastard!” Aria yells kicking at air as Reiner gives the demented laugh that is going to haunt her for ages after she gets out of this dungeon. If she gets out of this dungeon.

Reiner (human, older with yellowed teeth, a manic look in his eyes, and too many bubbling vials for comfort. She notices these things, eyes better than the bastard’s in this light. She also notices the posters—vile and derogatory and speaking of nothing but subjugation. It doesn’t bode well.) disappears into the shadowy hallway. If the pattern holds true, he won’t come back for a while yet.

A groan emits from her new cellmate.

“Hey,” Aria tries to soften her voice but it feels raw after so much yelling, “hey you’re okay. He's drugged you; you’re going to have a headache for a little.” Aria looks back at the darkened hall, and yells “Because he knows if we were out of these chains, we’d tear him apart!” The footsteps continue to fade.

“Ugh...” the woman—human, druid if the attire is any indication—whips her head around and immediately closes her eyes against what has got to be a terrible headache. She takes a deep breath before opening them again, eyes narrowing as she tries to get her eyes to adjust “where...?”

Aria shrugs and it makes the thick chain holding her against the wall shift and clank, “Underground somewhere.” The woman pulls on her own bonds, once and then again, harder; “I’m Aria.” Aria takes a deep breath before concentrating, letting a soft light gather in her hand, letting her compatriot see, “and I've been stuck in this godforsaken place for ten days.”

----

Whenever Reiner is away, it isn't really that bad now that Lilli is here. It's better than being alone with only the dark and thought for company. And Lilli’s nice; she’s calm and steadfast and knowledgeable and can talk to Aria about so many places other than this.  

“I cannot believe they made you read Olgark’s Conversation with the Trees!” Lilli laughs, “I mean druids read it a lot, but we like trees.”

“You couldn’t have actually liked that book though,” Aria snorts, “‘Ah but the sway of the willow in the breeze did sway my heart towards the simplicity of growing roots.’” Aria quotes mockingly, as Lilli laughs “like what does that even mean? That's why I didn’t minor in Nature studies. Olgark. He's the whole reason. If I saw a willow tree right now, I'd kick it.”

Lilli snorts, “You wouldn’t though.”

Lilli makes her feel seen, feel real.

Aria rolls her eyes, “Alright I wouldn’t but I'd think it real hard.”

Lilli’s face sobers, “Footsteps.”

They quiet and Aria tries to ignore the ice that goes down her spine. It's been a while since she’s seen the sky. Her wings flutter against her back, yearning to stretch out.

The thing is, Reiner hasn’t done much. He's fed them bread and water (just enough that her throat is always dry) but he hasn’t done anything. He's just looked at them and laughed and gone to his workbench; mixing things, brewing things. He tried to get Lilli to drink one of the mixes, on Lilli’s third day, but the druid fought back enough (and Aria yelled enough) that he dropped it; the soil under the liquid decaying before their eyes. He hit Lilli for it, hit her so hard her head snapped to the other side and Aria yelled with something like terror clawing at her throat. Then Lilli spat blood on him and he’d just...left.

(“I don’t think he’s supposed to have us here.” Lilli had said, after the blood had dried, in a contemplative whisper, “He’s a slaver, or partnered with them at least, we should already be in chains on our way to market. Why are we still here...?” her voice drifts inwards, thinking over too many things.

That had unsettled Aria the most. If they weren’t supposed to be here, then the only one who know they were was Reiner. The light of hope was getting a little dimmer.)

Reiner holds his latest concoction up and laughs to himself, humming some version of a broken nursery rhyme before he turns to Aria and starts to stalk forward.

“You stop that right now!” Lilli yells, the clanging of her chains loud in the space without Aria’s standard yelling—she’s too busy keeping her mouth shut, arching away from Reiner and kicking her legs to create more distance.

“It’s all right,” Reiner coos, “It probably won’t kill you.”

“Leave her alone!” Lilli’s voice is loud and commanding and Reiner stops for the slightest moment—Aria gets one good kick in, but it doesn’t dislodge the hold he has on the vial and the viscous purple liquid inside.

Her mouth is pried open and it’s poured in. Bitter and pungent, it makes Aria gag, trying desperately to get it out.  Reiner lets the empty vial fall and holds Aria’s mouth closed and covers her nose and mouth, forcing her to swallow or pass out.

She swallows and—

-----

Aria feels wrong.

“Hey you’re okay,” Lilli says softly, like Aria had, what feels like forever ago.

“Where...” Aria’s voice cracks

“He’s not here—he's been,” Lilli takes a deep breath, “He’s been checking in on you every day, seeing the –progress.”

“Progress...?” Aria feels nauseous, “how long...?” the rough stone scrapes against her back, cold. She feels cold. Everything feels very cold.

“It’s been four days.” Lilli clears her throat, “Aria, we will get out of this, okay? I’m going to make sure we get out.” Lilli pauses until Aria gives a listless nod of acknowledgement, “Aria. Your wings are fading.”

It's panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. Aria whips her head around—her wings; she can see them, the faint outline of them, the slightest brush of them against her skin but it’s like they’re flickering in and out of reality. They're going through the wall, leaving her back pressed against stone and not the curtain of her wings. Aria tries to flap, tries to feel the air move through her feathers but it’s muted and dulled like the nerve endings have been burned.

The wounded keening sound that fills the chamber and wretches at her soul—that's from her.

It's her core. He did something—her core, her very celestial being is dampened, covered and veiled by this ichor inside of her that she can’t wash away. It's never going to go away; she’s going to be—it's going to—she won’t be able to—

-----

“I have a dog,” Lilli says and Aria wonders how Lilli knows she’s awake, “His name is Olaf. He's absolutely giant” she laughs, “Bigger than me when he’s on his hind legs.”

Aria makes a questioning sound when Lilli goes silent, wanting to hear of anything that’s not here. Her wings aren’t fading away further, and if she concentrates, she can feel them still, but they’re not getting better and Aria can’t breathe right if she thinks about it for too long.

“I rescued him from some bandits that were abusing him.” She looks at the middle distance and snorts, “They may have left the encounter with a few less limbs.”

“Good.” Aria rasps, “The least they deserve. The least this guy deserves for keeping us here.”

“Don’t worry Aria—" Lilli says over the space and thoughts between them, “He’ll get much worse.”

----

“A paladin, huh?” Lilli leans her head against the wall

“Not really—not yet.” Aria tries to shift her arm to get the blood flowing again (it doesn’t work), “I need to train more before taking my oath.” It’s nice, talking of familiar things. Acting like there will be time for more training, acting like normal life will come back.

Lilli squints at her through the dark and Aria wonders what she can actually see, “I thought Paladin’s started younger. Or much older.” she rolls her neck in an aborted stretch, “I’ve done a lot of reading, but mostly about—"

“—trees?” Aria cuts in and it gets a laugh if nothing else, “Yeah I didn’t exactly go the typical path. I told you I had a pretty nice upbringing.”

Lilli snorts, “little privileged angel” she says fondly.

“And I'm sure you grew up in a tree.” Aria shoots back before leaning back against the wall, “I fell into it. I have a ‘strong sense of justice’ the master Paladin at home used to say, even if my ‘sense of what right and wrong were didn’t match the traditional’. I wouldn’t have ever really considered if not—well, you see…

——

A flurry of wings and Aria is on her back, getting a tight hug and a bright laugh, “I’m so glad you’re back, Aria!” Céleste gives Aria another squeeze, “you have to tell me all about it!”

“Céleste,” Aria laughs, trying to get the wings out of her face, “I’ve only been gone for—"

“—too long!” Céleste gets up and pulls Aria up after her, “It’s really been so dull without you, it’s just been prayer and training on repeat with the master of the guard.”

“Oh hush with that, we all know you love praying to Etheria,” Aria laughs, “and wow, what a sword, oh and look at that fancy yklwa!”

Céleste strikes a pose, taking her longsword off her back and holding it aloft with pride, “Well maybe it hasn’t been too boring—Master Michaela has taught us some really cool stuff. All to spread justice and light.” Céleste recites the line like she really means it.

Aria snorts, before waving off Céleste’s narrowed eyes, “Sorry, I know, I know it’s very important, it just sounds so idealistic! The world isn’t just light and dark Céleste--I went to the infernal lands, demons aren’t all bad, Aasimar aren’t all good.”

Céleste puts her sword away, “I know that.”

Aria rolls her eyes, “Come on now, don’t be like that—here let's go walk by the river and see if our playhouse is still tucked behind the Shimmering Glen.”

Céleste nods, “Alright.” she turns and leaves the foyer and walks back outside, stopping at the gate for Aria to follow, exuberance left somewhere at the door.

Aria frowns—Céleste has to know that Aria didn’t mean anything by it. It's just all this talk of divine justice and Etheria always makes her roll her eyes. It's all so...devoted. Céleste should be devoted to things she can see and touch; to Aria.

The path is winding and legato, letting them follow it at a sedate pace. The brush has grown since they were little, but they’re bigger now and it only tickles Aria’s knees. Aria’s halfway into a great story about her elective and the worse book ever (“there are so many types of trees, Céleste, and I know this man’s thoughts about all of them.”) when Céleste holds out an arm in front of them and Aria stops, mouth shutting with a click.

There are voices; loud with louder footsteps and Aria doesn’t know how she didn’t hear it (she wasn’t listening, she never listens when it’s important, why was she always like this?). Céleste moves her off the path with a heavy hand, pushing them well into the lush foliage, obscuring their forms.

“We can sell them for at least 10000 gold a piece.” An orc man says, self-satisfied. He and a human man walk with a cage between them with three baby dragons in encased within. They're mewling and crying out, pushing against the cage bars and their restraints. They're silver.

“That or we cut them up into pieces and see how much they sell for when they’re quiet,” the human grosses.

Céleste’s hand goes to the hilt of her sword; Aria’s grab hers, keeping the sword in its sheath. Céleste looks at Aria, eyes narrowed, and Aria shakes her head as hard as she can, tightening her grip on Céleste’s hand.

The orc shrugs as the two unknowingly pass Aria and Céleste’s hiding spot, “We’ll let the money-man decide.”

When they’re out of sight and the sound of their footsteps fade Aria takes her hands off of Céleste’s and let out a shaky breath. Céleste hasn’t looked away from Aria yet.

“Why did you stop me?” Céleste hisses, “They have my goddess’s familiar and they are going to sell them or kill them!”

“They could have hurt you!” Aria yells, hugging herself, “They had real weapons! And-and they were so big, they could have hurt you!”

“What do you think this is!” Céleste takes out her sword, “I have not stayed the same since you left, Aria, I have devoted myself to what is right and I will not let you stop me!”

Aria takes a step back as if physically slapped and Céleste deflates.

“Look. Go back to the city.” Céleste pets Aria’s hair, “I’ll be back soon.” She gives a tight-lipped smile. It’s a strong dismissal.

“No!” Aria grabs Céleste’s forearm, “I-I can help. I can be a lookout or blind them with my light and—I've been learning some basic healing, I can help. Let me help.” Aria keeps Céleste’s gaze.

Céleste lets out a breath and gives a crooked little smile, “Alright, sure.”

“I need to go back to the city to get my chainmail.”

Céleste stiffens, “Aria, we might lose the trail if we go back.”

“I’ll be quick.” Aria pulls on Céleste’s arm, “I’ll be really quick, I'll fly there.” she flaps her wings once as proof, “Come on, you wait at the gate and I'll be so quick. Please.”

Céleste doesn’t want to, Aria can see it in the line of her back and the furrow in her brow, but Céleste has always given into her, in the end. Céleste has always let Aria get away with too much.

“You promise?”

“Of course.”

-------

Stepping into her room, it’s like the whole thing is already a fading bad dream. How would an orc and a human even get that close to their flying city without being caught? How could they ever catch silver dragon hatchlings like that? There's no way they could take down the mother.

But they did. Somehow, they had those three babies in their cage, crying out for their mother; a mother that might be dead. Aria looks out the window. Céleste is waiting impatiently at the gate, her wings twitching like they always do when she wants to take to the sky.

If they could take down a silver dragon what could they do to Céleste? Maybe it would be better if they lose the trail. Maybe they should just let it go—surely someone else would rescue the hatchlings. It doesn’t have to be Céleste. She said she’s changed, and she looks so much stronger, and taller, and fitter than the last time Aria had been caught up in one of Céleste’s crushing hugs. But those men were professionals. There's no way Céleste could take them. Aria certainly would be no help.

Aria looked out the window again, waiting for her eye to catch on agitated dark blue wings, but the green and white expanse of the courtyard is unbroken.

Céleste’s gone.

---

Aria has never flown so recklessly in her life—keeping too low to safely get around branches and treetops to get to where they’d last seen the poachers. A stumbling stop and she’s falling into the underbrush, quickly righting herself and running in the direction that they had gone—that Céleste had certainly followed.

Leaves and branches slap against her face and the loudest sound is her breathing, heavy and ragged in her chest. The roots; roots that she’s danced over as a child with her eyes closed catch her feet and slow her precious seconds. One catches her just right and she sprawls out, flat on the earth, tears of frustration already forming in her eyes.

“A little thief, eh?” A voice says, familiar; Aria scrambles forward, towards it, holding her breath. They're there. The two men that had carried the hatchlings—but there are more here. Five others, of differing races, kept together by gold and broken loyalty. At their center is Céleste, keeping herself up by her sword, blood running from her temple, looking badly wounded. She had been expecting two adversaries, not seven. She grits her teeth and raise her sword to the ready and Aria wants to yell at her to just give up. Maybe they would let her live if she just gave up.

Céleste notices her, they make eye contact. Her eyes flick to the cage and then to Aria before focusing back on her attackers. The direction is clear. Céleste is the distraction now.

Aria takes a breath and holds in, holding back tears. She doesn’t want to do it. She slowly shifts over, closer to the cage that is set where the tree line meets the clearing. They're playing with their food, laughing and feigning movement towards Céleste without attacking and cackling as she flinches, ready to defend.

Aria gets to the cage and the little dragons start to mewl softly, “shut up. shut up. shut up.” Aria hisses at them, tears falling as she pulls at the bolt keeping the door closed.

The human starts to turn, Aria can see it from the corner of her eye—that's when Céleste attacks; running at him with her sword at the ready, capturing the groups attention.

“ARGH!” Céleste yells, whipping around to face the archer who shot her through the wing, but then the orc is running at her back, bringing his axe over his head for a deadly swing.

“NO!” Aria screams and a lot of things happen at once.

Céleste turns to block but not soon enough, her left wing gets hit at the bend and a sickening crack echoes through the clearing. Aria fumbles forward towards her friend—loosening the bolt enough that when the hatchlings ram at the door the fastening falters and they tumble out, immediately running for the safely of the forest. Half the poachers swear and run after the hatchlings. The other half focus on them.

The archer shoots an arrow at Aria but it can’t pierce her chainmail, glancing off the metal. The orc roars and brings his axe up again for another terrifying swing. When he does, Céleste attacks—stabbing him through the chest. The sound of skin and bone being torn apart by her blade reverberates through Aria’s skull.

The orc drops the axe and his hands fall limply by his side. When Céleste removes her sword, the orc falls. Dead. Aria wonders, somewhere, in the back of her mind, if this is the first time Céleste has killed.

"Look out!” Aria yells when a woman all but materializes from nothing behind Céleste, but it’s not soon enough; the woman stabs Céleste, catching her below the ribcage and dragging the serrated edge as deeply as she can while stabbing at the base of Céleste’s right wing with a short dagger.

Céleste swipes at the woman with her yklwa as she falls to her knees. The woman backs away; the strike misses.

“Céleste!” she yells, barely feeling the knife that is thrown at her, catching her in the thigh. She falls into Céleste holding her tight and wrapping them in her wings. Aria feels attacks against the shield of her wings, feels them try, but they don’t hit, somehow. And then they stop trying; the poachers have left them here, have left Aria with a broken angel in her arms.

“It’s shield of faith.” Céleste gets out, answering the unasked question, and then coughs, a bit of blood falling from between her lips, “I learned that, when you were gone.”

She’s shaking. Aria’s shaking and crying and holding Céleste close, “Why didn’t you use it on yourself you idiot?” She slowly sets Céleste against the grass, swallowing against the sick in her throat at the state of her...of Céleste.

“Oh.” Céleste gives a rough laugh, “I didn’t think of it.”

Aria gives a wet laugh, “You idiot. You idiot.” Aria takes a deep breath, trying to remember her studies. They have to be good for something. If anything, they have to be good for this. She places her hands on Céleste’s chest, where the jagged dagger wound is bleeding too much.

“Come on, come on,” Aria mumbles under her breath, feeling her energy coalesce in her palms before it dissipates into nothingness, “fuck, come on.”

“Hey don’t swear.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Aria yells, breathing out in a rush and trying again, hands getting progressively redder as Céleste’s life slips between her fingers. Her hands aren’t glowing at all anymore.

“Hey, hey, Aria.” Céleste pats Aria’s cheek and its wet with a mix of blood and tears, “you did good. You did the right thing.”

“No I didn’t!” Aria chokes on a sob, “You came alone! I broke my word!”

“You saved the hatchlings,” Céleste says like that’s enough.

“Screw the hatchlings! If I can’t save you what’s the point?”

Céleste does a pained aborted shrug, “It’s my duty to protect, Aria. I’m just sorry I couldn’t protect you.” Her eyes are sad and it pulls at Aria’s heart

“What are you talking about? I'm fine.” Aria takes a hitching breath, “I'm fine, it’s you.”

“Hey,” Céleste reaches for her knife

“Stop fucking moving you idiot”

“Take my yklwa.” Céleste gives a shaky exhale, “you didn’t have anything but chainmail when you ran out here, that’s dangerous.”

“Dan--” Aria sets her hands harder against the wound. It won't stop bleeding, “they called me the irresponsible one—it was you this whole time, you’re the irresponsible one. You're doing this to me!”

“I had to, I'm so sorry.”

“No you didn’t! You didn’t have to do any of it, you could have just stayed with me in the Flying City and been safe!”

“You know I couldn’t do that.”

Aria breaks. She can’t even keep enough pressure on the wound, gut-wrenching sobs stealing her strength “I know. I know and it hurts so much.”

“I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean to.”

Aria sobs

Céleste’s hand moves to her cheek, so sweetly brushing away the tears that won’t stop “You’ll be okay, Aria.” Her hand slips back down to the ground.

Aria feels herself breaking apart, “Céleste?” the silence is deep and all encompassing; “Please--please C-Céleste. Please don’t do this to me, please.”

Aria grabs onto Céleste’s hand, holding it tight.

“Céleste?”

Aria doesn’t know how long she stays there, holding Céleste’s hand and staring at her chest, willing it to rise. She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. It isn’t peaceful.

A trilling sound brings Aria’s gaze away. It's one of the hatchlings. Staring at Aria and trilling softly. It nudges at Céleste’s other hand. Aria is overcome with the urge to kick it, to push it away, to get it as far away from Céleste as possible. This is what she died for?

Aria looks back at Céleste. Of course, she died for this. That was Céleste.

Aria kisses Céleste’s bloody hand. her hand.  She slowly sets Céleste’s body as kindly as she can, straightening her bent wings and setting her arms gently by her side. She still doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. Aria looks around, memorizing the clearing that she won't ever be able to forget. They'll need to come back for her. Céleste deserves a proper burial with all the accolades of a true paladin.

The dragon trills again. Aria picks it up, throat dry and eyes wet, and expands her wings. It's time to go back to the Flying City.

——

“So after all that, Master Michela took me into the fold,” Aria gives a laugh “I think she thought I'd be too dangerous if left on my own.”

---

“I’ll kill you for this!” Aria yells at Reiner as the man steps forward, the first time she’s seen him since he took away her wings, “you bastard, don’t you dare!”

There's a half-elf and a gnome in the doorway—eyes wide as they take in what they can in the low lights. They're surprised; Aria can tell, this isn’t what they were expecting.

Maybe she and Lilli can get out of here after all.

[oddferalair]

characterization quotes

Robin Support   See, now you're just not thinking logically. We've killed countless people in this war— what's a few more souls on the ledger? Seems like an arbitrary line to me... But all right. You're the tactician! No more unholy summoning sigils. Heck, I always obey orders! Well, except for stupid ones like "don't fight the enemy." If someone tried to tell me that, I'd cut 'em in half and feed them to the crows! Lissa Support If you don't rest up before a battle, you might find yourself resting up in a grave.   That does seem like a problem. War is killing and death, ya know? Keeping people you care about alive means making the other guy dead. Nya ha ha! Just a little touch of Henry's Super Sleepy-Time Magic! ...The nonlethal version. First you don't want any allies or enemies to die, and now BIRDIES are off the table? ...You're a strange one, Lissa. Nya ha ha! Me? Sweet? That's a new one. Besides, you're the one who's always concerned about people dying and stuff. I don't know how you do it, honestly. I couldn't go a week! I'm not much of a mood guy, I'm afraid, unless we're talking gruesome bloodshed... Well, how about this: I did get you a ring! Will that work? 

Frederick Support

I want my dying thought to be about blood! ...Or maybe ichor. H-hey, Frederick! Easy with the bear hugs! These little bones might snap like...Oh, whoa! Are you CRYING?! You really think people notice what I do around here? 'Cause I doubt it. I mean, what kind of things do they say about me now? Nya ha ha! If you lay it on any thicker, I'll be smothered to death! But I'm not training to make myself look good in front of my comrades, you know?   Well, because the more I practice, the more stuff I'm able to do. I like being good at lots of things. Sully Support Absolutely! I'll need a pound of flesh, seven fingernails, and your left kidney. Nya ha ha! I jest. A single hair will do just fine. Yep yep! That's it, all right. I can curse till I'm blue in the face, but if their will's stronger than mine? Pbbt. Aw, you're going to make me blush. I'm nothing special. Miriel Support You have? That's great! I cast hexes all the time, and I've never come up with ONE theory about them. Nya ha ha! Oh, stop it, Miriel! You'll make me blush. Although it's pretty much true. When it comes to hexing folks, I'm the master. Why, this one time at mage camp, I killed 100 people with one curse! Er, I don't remember when. ...Or where exactly. But it totally could have happened. Henry: Well, you know that town we passed through a few days ago? I saw a pregnant lady on the main street with a load of cheese and fruit in her arms. She looked pretty tired and worn out, so I stopped to help her carry her wares.     Right?! Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more I realized pregnancy is dumb. So I'm planning to help the mothers of the world by inventing a special curse. I'm gonna create a hex that conjures new kids right out of thin air! Sumia Support I'm a mage! I just wave my wand and mutter a little incantation... Humina humina humina... Presto! The busted bowls are busted no more! Yeah, it's just a temporary hex, unfortunately. Tomorrow they'll be in pieces again. But at least folks won't have to eat out of their hats tonight. Oh, that spell can certainly be used for evil. All it does is reverse time. See, so if something bad happens to someone and you cast it on them... They have to experience that same tragedy over and over again! Nya ha! Isn't it obvious? You're me, and I'm you! Clever curse, eh? Well, you're about as magic as an old sock, so this was the only way. And while you cast some hexes, I'm going to ride your pegasus all over camp! Woo-hoo! I'm gonna swoop down on people and drop stuff on their heads! Ricken Support Oh? I thought word had gotten around. Yeah, Gangrel was toppled before I got the chance to fight any real battles. A shame, too. It would've been fun to face off against the Shepherds! Then there was Mustafa. He always gave me a bag of peaches whenever I visited. He said I reminded him of his son and that I should consider myself part of his family. Yep. Dead as driftwood, they are. And it was you Shepherds who killed 'em! Their friends and families are probably still crying their eyes out. No! I'd be very sad and angry. And I'd find out who did it, hunt them down, and exact bloody revenge! ...Oh yes. There would be blood. When I was with Plegia, I didn't think much about this kind of thing. Maybe because in that army, I didn't have real friends like I do here. I guess, sure. Honestly, I'm not much good with touchy-feely stuff. You know what I'd rather talk about? The next battle! Maribelle Support Talking to the flower. She says she's very grateful that you spoke to her. Also, she says she'll stay strong as long as you do, too. I'm not feigning anything. I'm just really in touch with the natural world. I can talk to any living thing you want. Trees. Flowers. Maggots. Ooooooh... Maaaggots... Meh, not to me. Everyone kicks the bucket at some point, so why fret? See, now that I can understand. But get this—I've got a special curse ready, see? Been working on it for a while now. If you're mortally wounded, it kills you off before you suffer any pain! Just...poof. Off ya go! It's 'cause I'm not scared, Maribelle. Fighting is actually pretty simple. I just have to kill the other guy before he has a chance to kill me. Panne Support That's not very neighborly, now is it? What difference does one's religion make? I just want to be friends! Ylisse is weak enough as it is. If the exalt were assassinated, I worried they'd lose the war in a week! That would have been a terrible waste of a perfectly fun war. Er, the beast half, I guess. I love animals! I wish I could be one. Even a half one would be okay with me. My parents abandoned me in the woods when I was little. So it was mostly the nice animals there who raised me. I still love their smell. It relaxes me in a totally nostalgic sort of way. So if I went out and killed them all, could we be friends? I'm not that young, and I don't think I'm stupid. But hey, who knows, right? Cordelia Support Oooh, lucky guy. I wish someone would make ME a nice cozy scarf! Ooooooooooooooooooooooooh. Say, what if the wife was dead? Could you give it to him then? That's kind of like making yourself sad on purpose, isn't it? You want help? 'Cause I've got a curse that'll REALLY make you miserab— I asked Lissa for advice, and she told me to take you on a big shopping trip. She said a few hours trying on dresses and armor would fix that broken heart, pronto! I don't really get all this "feelings" stuff, but if you say so. Er, but if you're REALLY grateful, you could join me for a fruit pie... Nya ha! No, it's a scheme to make you fall in love with me. Nowi Support Yep! They're probably quivering in fear under their beds and crying like babies. But no worries! There'll be more victim—er, that is, village kids—at our next camp. Right. You can't actually touch her. My magic is good, but not THAT good! Hey! I spent a lot of time and effort on this, you know! Tharja Support Hee hee! Smiling? This is how I always look. Sorry! Nothing sinister over here. I'm just a hale and hearty mage. Nope! Not me! Although I do own a cloak and a couple daggers. Aw, I don't get into politics. I just want to toss fireballs at bad guys. Hey! Tharja! You forgot to remove the curse! Oh, well. I suppose it'll fizzle out eventually. La la la... Do you need a death curse? Please say you need a death curse. Yeah, dispelling curses is kind of my specialty. Right now, whoever cast that curse must be in one confused pickle! Too bad we can't be there to see it. That would be swell! Oh yeah. I guess so, huh? Although you didn't really need to put a truth curse on me, you know? I don't have anything to hide, and I've never told a lie in my life. Olivia Support You're a crazy lady. Why would I do that? I love doggies! I want to save his life! Right, boy? Who's a good boy? Aren't you glad the crazy lady wants to help us? Yes you are! Hey, that's a medical condition! Show some respect! Oh, will you look at that? It's blood! ...Wonder where it came from? *Lick* ...Oh, hey! It's MY blood! Nya ha! I must have been wounded in battle! Oh man, good times. Oh, I've got a high pain threshold. It's a genetic thing. Nerve damage. I've had a lot worse than this! When I was a kid, my parents put me in this exclusive wizard school. Well, as you can imagine, some of the experiments got a biiit out of hand. Once, I almost set my face on fire! Nya ha! Those were the days... Meh, my parents didn't care what I did as long as I wasn't expelled. Heck, the whole reason they sent me to wizard school was to get rid of me. But hey, no worries! I turned out fine! That's what all my psychiatrists said. But nope! Not true. I'm just a happy guy. Look, crazy lady. I like you. I really do. But you have GOT to let this go. I smile because I'm happy, all right? There's nothing more to it. Olivia? H-hey, Olivia. ...You being crazy again, Olivia? Olivia?! Aw, come on, Olivia! You can't die now! NOOOOO! OLIVIAAAAAA! Come back to me, Olivia! Stay out of the light! STAY OUT OF THE LIIIIIIGHT! Cherche Support Sure have! She's as cute as a button, that one. ...Well, if buttons were cute. We had wyverns in Plegia, you know, and also the occasional fell beast. But we didn't have a single wyvern that was as pretty as Minerva. Yep! I make four-legged friends wherever I go! And even some two-legged ones. I'm also pals with a three-legged bear, but that's a story for another time. Well, when I was young, my best friend in the entire world was a giant wolf. My parents ignored me most of the time, so that wolf became my whole family. Then one day she came to visit me, and some hunters in the village... They shot her full of arrows. Killed her on the spot. But they paid... Oh, how they paid... They paid in BLOOD. Er, but yes. None of my magic could bring my beautiful wolf friend back. So I guess that's why I hang out with you and Minerva. 'Cause it reminds me. I know I'm here a lot, but I always feel safe and happy when I'm with Minerva. Kellam Support I think I get it now. Seems to me you're barking up the wrong tree, tin man. Visibility isn't the problem—you're just lonely! So all we gotta do is find a way to make you stop feeling lonely! It's true. When I was a kid, my only friends were wolves, so they ended up raising me. Thing is...that made it tough for me to learn about basic human warmth and affection... Like just now. I tried to be nice to you and show you that I care and stuff, right? But I got it all wrong and instead made you freak out. Sorry about that... Gaius Support Not many, no. Back in Plegia, we hardly have any cakes or sweets at all. We don't get the plentiful harvests that Ylisseans and Feroxi enjoy. So the dishes we make are kind of basic, you know? Nothing like those, anyhow. Yup. It's hard to make cakes out of turnips, though that doesn't stop people trying! Anyway, the point is, I've never seen so many tasty-looking treats all in one place! Well, thanks for showing me your treasures, Gaius. It's been lots of fun! ...Oh, I almost forgot! I brought something to show you too! Yeah...something like that! They're baked in special ceremonies as offerings to Grima. Never eaten one myself, but as you're the expert, I figured you'd like to try it! Libra Support Like, I dunno...you're a priest, but you wield a weapon and smash people with it, right? I bet it causes you all kinds of anguish to have to splatter the life out of others! Aren't you overthinking things a little? A weapon's just a tool for killing! Wouldn't it be a whole lot easier to just accept that and move on? Who knows—you might wind up like me and start to really savor the joys of slaying! I mean, when you get down to it, aren't you and I both doing the exact same thing? I mean, I guess it's hard for an altruist like yourself to respect an egoist like me, but... They do, huh? Well, I don't believe in the gods, so it doesn't really matter what they think! (in response to Libra calling him out for saving other people) ...

[monitorsscrawlings]

On Ghosts And Other Undead

Below I've compiled some rough notes for later perusal, since this stuff is important, and I vow this is the absolute last time I let myself spend literally hours on end holed up in the families secret library. Morty has helped fill in some of the blanks, but there is still much more to learn. I can already hear Grunk impatiently stomping around upstairs so best to write this all down quickly, while it's still fresh.

Firstly all undead, regardless of their nature, form or disposition come in two very broad categories: those being either Corporeal or Incorporeal. Now lots of entities that are technically incorporeal can still exert their will on the material plane, still posses a more or less tangible form and can still be perceived by the naked eye. Likewise there are a few corporal who can and will flip physics the bird and explode into a swarm of cockroaches or melt into slime or dissolve into mist or the like at will. Sometimes trying to apply a label to such entities is an utter waste of effort, frankly. The main difference I've found is that incorporeal entities are a soul or conscience expressing itself through a body with an ectoplasmic base and thus not bound by the laws and limitations of meat-space, where as a corporal entity is a being rooted in a physical body that no matter how strange or dangerous still has at least some physical limitations. More than most incorporeal entities I've encountered anyways.

Haze: Incorporeal. A weak spirit, less a proper ghost and more an uppity glob of ectoplasm super-charged by an overabundance of usually negative residual emotions that have become ingrained into the underlying fabric of a place; things like grief, anger, fear and despair. Typically manifests as a misty, ill-defined humanoid figure composed of smoky ectoplasm, usually using smog, dust, sands, bits of trash and the like to give it actual solidity once it grows strong enough. Not a ghost in the true sense, more like fragmented echos of strong emotional imprints. Prolonged exposure to a Haze may cause hallucinations, disrupt recording devices and other electronics, but they're more a petty nuisance than any kind of real threat.

A stiff gust of wind or a handful of salt is usually more than enough to disrupt them, as they're barely strong enough to survive being sneezed at, much less a light breeze. Typically incredibly short-lived as one might imagine, and often preyed upon by stronger more malicious entities as a quick and easy snack to revitalize their own essence.

Shades: Incorporeal. A kind of low-level ghost or spirit. Usually a lost or restless soul clinging to the material plane to deliver a message or seeking help. A struggle that often leaves them weakened and confused, since they lack the stability or focus of true ghosts. Practically no physicality, though touching them for any length of time will seriously sap your body-heat, and letting one latch on to you is just a bad idea in general, since if allowed to they can pass on visions or posses you, which speaking from experience is seriously dangerous and not at all fun, and we should never let that happen again. Potentially dangerous, as emotions and belief can have a nourishing effect, giving them more permanence and clarity of thought as well as more focus and direction. Usually however, they only whisper, guide and hint, and will pass on of their own violation once they've passed on their message to its intended recipient or revealed their killers identity.

If a shade starts to become violent or latches on to an unwilling host, exposing them to sanctified iron, throwing a handful of salt their way or dragging the victim out in to strong sunlight will weaken the shade and force it to release its victim.

Phantasm: Incorporeal. An incredibly strong personality impressed into the fabric of a place, sometimes catalyzed by a traumatic death or catastrophic event. The sort of people that spawn these things usually just aren't nice or pleasant people, quite the opposite really. Many are simply mindless recordings that lash out blindly and invisibly, pushing people out windows or down stairs, creating disturbances and growing both stronger and more violent as the responding emotions and raw belief from the people who bear the brunt of these outbursts or happen to witness them in action floods in.

Some phantasms tend to gain more visibility and cohesion over time, but remain mindless echos of those who have already passed on, albeit more complex and better defined in the scenarios they act out. Great potential for harm and mischief, avoid if and whenever possible. A ritual cleansing or exorcism of the problem area is usually enough to destroy and erase these things, but it's altogether too easy to mistake a phantasm for any number of other things, and the wrong treatment can actually make things like this worse.

Ghosts: Incorporeal. Human or other sentient who have died and who's soul or spirit persists after death, bolstered by all kinds of ambient magical, ectoplasmic and miscellaneous energies. Usually people who have died in a dramatic or spectacular way, violently and unexpectedly, though there are always exceptions. Personality, behavior, as well as where and how they died all can have an affect on a ghosts appearance, and their particular powers, if any. There are two things that define them. The first is that all ghosts--true ghosts--are self-aware, conscience, and retain their free-will. The second thing is that most ghosts tend to start their unlives temporarily anchored to the area they died in, though I'm not quite clear on exactly why. Aside from that they all tend to be pretty varied. Most are sub-categorized by what they do and how they operate, since ghosts are one of the most varied groups of undead.

Firstly you've got Specters. Just regular ghosts. Many go about their unlives in a drifting, dream-like fugue-state, like sleep-walkers. Others have been known to act as guardians or household spirits attached to a particular individual or household. Practically indistinguishable from a living person nine times out of ten, specters tend to be a very placid and down to earth bunch in comparison to both Haunts and Poltergeists. This however does not make them harmless, and an angry specter is likely to make its displeasure felt in a violent and explosive manner if pushed too far or threatened. Often kept sustained and strengthened through prayer, remembrance, and offerings from those they knew in life.

Next you've got Haunts. Spookers and tricksters, most Haunts delight in frightening, pranking and in some cases even outright tormenting the living, causing mischief, grabbing attention and creating a ruckus. Everything from shape-shifting and ectoplasmic manipulation, petty tricks and spoiling milk to borderline poltergeist-like behavior, heavy-duty terror tactics and full-scale hauntings of anywhere from a single person to an entire household of people. Basically the polar-opposite of Specters in both motive and temperament. More attention demanding but less likely to lash out violently if angered. These are probably what most people think of when they think 'ghost'. Usually non-violent, often very spirited and characterized by strong personalities, haunts can be stressful and deeply annoying to deal with, but they're rarely actively malicious or deadly. Incredibly varied in appearance, I don't think I've ever actually seen two that looked much alike.

Finally, there's Poltergeists. Ghosts who are motivated by anger or frustration, either with themselves, their demise and current state of being, or the world around them. Some might not even be entirely aware of their current circumstances or trapped in a state of shock or denial and unwilling or unable to move on or adjust to their new existence. Poltergeists as a general rule tend to be territorial, antagonistic, temperamental and the most likely to lash out violently at their surroundings with very little prompting. Poltergeists in particular should be handled with care, compassion and discretion.

Salt, fresh blood--human, animal, monster, fae or hell even demonic ichor seems to work--sanctified iron or polished silver all work at keeping ghosts either in or out, providing the boundary-lines forged through these methods remain secure. For some reason sleep-catchers work on lassoing or stymieing most haunts. Mirrors of glass or polished silver are likewise excellent at capturing and containing them, provided you know you're doing and how to go about it. If a ghost persists in endangering others or acting in a violent fashion, an exorcism will work as a last resort to forcibly boot them off in to the afterlife. The religion or culture the exorcism is rooted in doesn't matter, so long as it's performed correctly and the proper materials are used.

[ There's a hastily scrawled note under the last entry for this page. Clearly someone was in a rush. The note reads: 'Ending this here for now, Journal. Hands cramping up something fierce and I can hear Grunk banging on the lab-door. Guess my times up. Note to self: fill in and compile rest of notes later ASAP.' ]

Author Note: This is one of those written pieces I originally wrote up on my other blog, and really not a heck of a lot has changed, though I did try to tweak and clean it up a little. Mainly to make it a little more stylistically consistent with the second half, which I think reads better of the two. 

Special thanks to @delistylehardcore who indirectly inspired this and who’s awesome characters and artwork help inspire me and make me want to keep writing more. If you’ve made it this far might I recommend checking them out?