#Servant of Unholy Fire

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Bastard’s Mistress ~ A Don John x Servant!Fem!Reader Fic

So I caught the don John brain rot this weekend…very contagious, 10/10 recommend. This might be @scarlettspectra ’s fault, from all her beautiful gifs she’s been posting!😆 I didn’t go full Shakespearean here but had some fun with the syntax. I apologize in advance. Reader is properly deferential for the time, but she’s got a little spunk.😬 

Warnings: the line between dubcon and noncon here is VERRRY thin. I don’t even know. So if that bothers you do NOT read this! What else. Period correct misogyny and degradation. Corruption. I’m so bad at itemizing these things. Please take care. If u have squiks i probs wouldn’t read this…

You are a chambermaid in His Excellency don Alejandro’s hacienda. It gives you a certain distance from things, as you come and go, doing your best to keep the country house clean and stay out of sight. But don Alejandro’s bastard, the fire-eyed boy with such a burning contempt for the world, has always seen you. 

When you were young children, don John would play with you all, the offspring of the servants who were too young to work. Not because he enjoyed your company, but because he delighted in ordering you all about. Luckily in those days he ignored you as often as he tormented you. 

Then there was a time, when the two of you hovered on the precipice between childhood and adult responsibilities, that you had almost been friends. Or at least, not enemies. He, the bitter outsider with the privileges of a full blooded son, but none of the standing. You, unmoored in your fatherlessness, the fever having taken your sire when you were just a babe. 

Don John goaded you into shirking your chores one day to go play in the hills. He’d only taunted you a little, as you played your silly games, which mostly consisted of him manipulating you, ordering you to do this and that, always testing just how far he could go before being met with rebellion. It was still better than working your hands raw in the laundry. “We should run away,” he’d said in that devil-may-care way brash young boys have, so sure the world is destined to fold for them. You, however, had begged to go home, for all it won you. Upon returning your mother absolutely tanned your backside, and you never associated with Don John in such a familiar way again.

You saw him around the grounds, of course, as you scurried from one backbreaking chore to the next, and as he went through the motions of learning how to become a gentleman. Amidst his riding lessons he would wink at you from astride his fine black horse, but the cruel turn of his mouth never failed to halt you in returning it, even if your heart quickened in your chest.

That did not mean you didn’t think of him later though, on your lumpy cot of straw, as urges began to awaken in your body that was well on its way to becoming a woman’s. You saw his face at night, so achingly handsome you could hardly contain your longing. It felt like madness, and so you shoved it down in the deepest dungeon of your heart, as far as it could go. 

It was not helpful, or good, the times when young don John passed you in the halls, and you felt that he would like to just eat you up. He would tug at your apron strings with a smirk before striding on to whatever lark he plotted for the day. The unholy feelings just a look from that man called up in you had you reaching for your rosary–and late at night, when all others lay asleep, between your legs.

You’d felt a certain relief when he went off to war with don Pedro. Even though your heart ached for the inevitable change, a part of you hoped he would never return.

As it turns out, your hopes were not to be realized. He has returned to his father’s country house, on the tails of some scandal in Messina. His temper is even fouler than you remember. His scowl, crueler. He has met with some disappointment, out in the world. You hope he will not take it out on you blameless servants.

Perhaps that is too much to ask of the upper caste.

You feel his eyes upon you again, as in the old days, but different. There is a weight in his gaze that makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, as though it no longer fits upon your own bones. It makes you ache for something no pious unmarried girl should yearn for, something you cannot name, only feel in the darkest hours of night when you lay awake on your mattress of straw, your sinful fingers exploring the bud of flesh between your legs.

You decide don John carries the flames of Hell in his burning dark eyes.

You dream of him, as though he has possessed your flesh in your sleeping hours.

He corners you one day, as you are changing the linens in one of the many airy rooms of the hacienda. You eye him warily, as he shuts the door, his large and forbidding form blocking your exit. His dark eyes upon you are black as night.

“What a flower you have blossomed into, y/n,” he muses, stepping slowly into the room with the measured calculation of a predator stalking prey. “No longer the knees and elbows girl I remember.”

“You…have also changed, my lord,” you offer cautiously. No longer the awkward, rail thin youth, his shoulders have the breadth of a man who rides a charger and wields a sword. You have tried not to notice.

“How so?” he fishes, canting his head with a smirk.

Your face feels as though you have caught on fire. “You are…taller,” you offer, winning a cruel little chuckle.

“Oh? I do like the sound of that. What else?” Another step closer, his booted heel clicking on the floor, and you are veritably boxed in between the walls and the oversized bed.

“My lord?” you stall, mortified.

“Did you miss me, y/n?”

This question also takes you aback, and perhaps that is why you answer honestly.

“Sometimes.”

“Well. That is more than any of my relations here will bother to claim,” he answers bitterly. In that moment you still see a boy just striving, yearning for his father’s recognition. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but you always felt bad for him, in a way.

“Did you hear the happy news? Don Pedro has taken a wife, and opts to dwell in Messina,” snarls don John with a mocking brightness.

“How…fortunate for him.”

The man before you makes a sound that suggests he barely restrained himself from spitting upon the floor in his half brother’s name.

“Indeed.” He takes one more step, and you know you are done for, your heart in your chest. There will be no escaping now. “What of you, fair y/n? Assumed the yoke of marriage yet?” The disdain in his words hangs bitter in the air.

You are tempted to lie, but know no good should come of it. “No, my lord,” you answer, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“How fortunate for you.” 

Perhaps in your fear, you forget yourself. “John, please–”

He moves to strike, and you are but a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf, quick but not quick enough to evade him. His arm is like a band of iron about your waist, lifting you off the floor in his fury. He slams you down–albeit upon the feather mattress–a luxury you’ve never experienced for yourself, your back accustomed to scratchy tick straw.

“Insouciant wench! How familiar you are, to address me so.” He sounds so cruelly delighted by it, wedging his lean body like a knife between your legs, his narrow hips locked against yours. When you attempt to sit up he easily pins you down, his large hand spanning two of your wrists with ease, his other pressed lightly over your throat. You can hardly hear, hardly think, over the sound of your heartbeat thundering in your ears. He can surely feel it in your pulse, fluttering against his fingers. You are filled with fear–and the sharp ache of desire, God save you.

“Please, my lord…”

He makes a low sound in his throat, his lips tracing your jaw. “Please what, pretty maid? I have a mind to make a meal of you.”

“Please…don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? That is up to you, my dear. I will have you. Sweetly, or by force, tis your choice.” Your heart lodges in your throat. Your mother warned you about this, time and again. Men are dogs and gentlemen the worst of them. Never let them catch you alone.

And in your darkest heart of hearts, you know that a part of you hoped don John might do just that.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, surprisingly gently for such a villain, but you attempt to turn away. It only wins his annoyance, his large hand turning your face back to him. Before he can press his mouth to yours you say, “You merely seek to make sport of me in your boredom here. It is not right.”

He laughs at that. “Sport, I shall make,” he muses, hiking your skirts above your thighs. “Let us test the truth of your righteous outrage?” Boldly his fingers climb the trail of your leg, to the apex where he finds the damning evidence of your treacherous loins. “My lovely girl, so wet for such a reluctant quarry.” His long fingers dip inside your weeping center, and the sound you make does not resemble protest at all. He smirks down at you like the very devil. “And a virgin my little rabbit is not.”

Javi the stableboy took care of that for you, in a quick and disappointing tumble in the hay. His touch…had felt nothing like this, if truth you tell.

Ashamed, and burning, you look away. Tears trail out of your eyes, and a part of you wishes it shall just be over soon. He frowns at the shining tracks of water upon your cheeks, a menacing scowl that makes your eyes screw shut tight.

“Do not seek to engage my sympathy or my better nature, for you know I have none,” he growls above the dip of your throat, his lips searing as a brand upon your chest. 

“That wasn’t always true,” you dare, winning naught but a growl from this ravenous beast of a man above you.

“You are the only one who thinks so.” For the barest moment you see a flash of vulnerability in his eyes–the ghost of the memory of the boy he once was, there and gone like ripples in a pool. It is as though this second of softness spurs him on in his deed, as though he must shove it aside to enjoy his sordid pleasure.

Clever fingers tear at the laces of your stays; you are freed to breathe, but you are bared to his hungry gaze as he tugs down your shift for his delectation. “Such lovely fruits, just ripe for picking,” he muses, cupping your breast in his hand, suckling upon a nipple.

You never knew how such a thing could make your insides clench, your sinning cunt tightening in its aching emptiness. Your hips move against his of their own accord, your legs wrapping about him as you mindlessly seek some relief from this madness. He withdraws with a dramatic pop, laughing at your body’s treachery.

“You are a fiend.”

“Pray, tell me,” he taunts you.

“I hate you.”

“Is that any way to speak to your master?”

He is enjoying this far too much.

“You forget your place, don John, as ever.” 

That is when he slaps you. Not hard, nay, your own mother has hit you harder, but it certainly gets your attention. “I will rule here someday, y/n. Have a care with that tongue. I can think of better uses for it.” His piercing eyes fix upon your lips, a moment before he falls upon you, kissing you as though he means to devour you. You tense, thinking to bite him for being so cruel, so conniving, for just using you for no other reason other than he can.

He plays a very dirty trick on you, though.

That dexterous hand slips under your skirts again, swiping up your slick before circling that small nub of flesh that causes you such great tumult and shame. You moan into his mouth, and you feel him smile wickedly against you.

This man is the very devil, you are sure of it.

“Now who is ready to forget?” he taunts you, rubbing you in slow circles that drive you mad, make you writhe for the unbearable tightness coiling between your legs.

You can only manage a small cry, words escaping you. You’ve never felt anything like this, not at your own hands, and certainly not with Javi the stableboy.

“Please,” is all you can manage, and you’re not even entirely sure you know what you’re begging for.

“I like to hear you beg so sweetly.” He reaches to free himself from his breeches, his swollen tip hovering at your entrance. “So beg, wench, what favour is it you ask of me?”

You should entreat him to leave you be–you should beg for his mercy. But the delicious weight of him atop you, this dastardly man whose touch is such sweet sin–you are not sure you wish for him to leave you be. Your whole life has been such a march of drudgery. Even just the possibility of feeling something that is not pain or exhaustion makes you willfully forget every lesson your mother ever taught you, every fiery sermon the Padre ever flung down from his pulpit. Tis easy to renounce the Devil, until temptation has you in its clutches.

“I know not what to ask for,” you answer cautiously, and that at least is true.

Don John smirks down at you, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. 

“Ask for my cock, you stupid girl, and if your quim pleases me perhaps I may be moved to share in the spoils.”

“Yes.” You strain your hips towards him, craving that satisfying, stretching burn of a man’s first thrust. That, atleast, you know something about.

“Yes, what?” he taunts you, delighting in your torment as he holds himself just out of reach.

“Yes, my lord,” you whimper, hating yourself as much as him in that moment. “May I have your cock?”

His smile widens in his devilish delight, almost showing teeth. “Remember that you asked for it.” But he taunts you no further, his thick head penetrating your weeping hole, the fullness of him stealing the very breath from your lungs. He groans once fully inside you, burying his face in your neck. 

“I’ve always known you would have the sweetest little cunt in the sierra,” he growls against your skin, and he begins to thrust.

If there is one thing you have always known about don John, it is that he loves to hear himself talk.

“You are mine, little maid,” he goes on, filling you so deeply you fear he must be in your belly. You are not sure you like it, and you only whimper in answer, straining for a better angle against him, seeking that certain friction that made you see stars.

“Say it,” he demands, understanding what you seek very well. You whine, turning your eyes to the ceiling. You know you are a mere peasant, and you know you do not own anything, much less yourself. Yet some small defiance rises in you, for his demanding tone.

“Perhaps I shall, if you make it so.” 

You wait for him to strike you again, but to your surprise he smirks with a sort of dark delight, only turning your gaze back to his with a rough hand upon your jaw. “There is the saucy wench I remember of our youth. Do you remember how you used to defy me?”

You don’t very much, recalling that he usually always emerged the master and victor of your games.

“No, my lord.”

“You do not recall striking me with a stick, in defense of a hapless bird?”

You blink, finding it rather unfair of this man to expect you to command the capacity to think in this situation. But then you do recall. You had all been small children. The boys sought amusement in throwing rocks at an injured sparrow. You had taken exception to it. 

Don John had sworn he would tell his father and have you executed.

You’d cried for days, but the sword never fell.

You’d nearly forgotten all about it, perhaps willfully burying the memory out of shame and fear. Mostly fear.

The bastard had deserved it.

He never forgot a slight, it seems.

“I always told myself I would have my revenge for that,” he tells you with a smirk, pressing his thumb into your mouth. You try to shrink away, but he has you like a fish on a hook. “Suck,” he commands you. You do not understand why those jetty black eyes boring into yours, paired with that unyielding tone, makes your needy cunt clench around him, only that it is extremely satisfying to see his eyes flutter closed, even if just for a moment.

You do as you’re told.

He uses your own saliva against you, reaching between your legs with that spit-wet thumb to touch you again. 

You forget everything else, but the carnal heaven that is his clever fingers with his manhood inside you. The sounds the two of you make are barely human, as you strain and writhe against each other, chasing your release from this hell. Those full lips made for sin devour you–his mouth on your breasts makes you see God, a searing pleasure crashing through you in a spine-cracking rush. How can something that feels so wonderful be so forbidden? Only then does don John truly let himself go, the sound of flesh striking flesh filling the room as he takes you with all his pent up fury. It is not long before he roars his release, filling you with ropes of his hot seed, his powerful body trembling in its tangle of limbs with yours.  

For just a moment you wished would last, his fingers lace with yours rather than pin you, his head heavy on your chest as he catches his breath. Yet when he lifts his gaze to you, his eyes gleam with their usual malevolence. 

“You will come to my chambers tonight,” he orders you. “For I am not finished with you yet by half.”

When your mouth opens–indeed to give protest–he silences you with a hard but heart-melting kiss, his long fingers tangled unforgivingly in your now loosened hair. 

“Do as I say, servant girl. Though if you don’t, I may enjoy making you.” That proud mouth ticks as he seems to imagine it, that fire igniting once more in his mesmerizing eyes. The thought simultaneously makes your blood run cold–and a thrill of desire run raucous down your spine.  

This man is the very devil. You are as sure of it now, as you know when the household goes to sleep, you will find your way back to his merciless embrace.

[thecreaturecodex]

The Laughing Hand

Image by Jolyne Garcia, © Hasbro and Critical Role. Accessed at the Critical Role Wiki here

[Sponsored by @tar-baphon. Critical Role is not something I ever got into. And despite two official D&D sourcebooks for Critical Role and a post-OGL fantasy heartbreaker RPG written for the setting, there's no official statblock for Ganix the Laughing Hand. There are, however, plenty of dedicated fans on the CR Wiki and on Reddit who made observations about his abilities and some guesswork onto their own statblocks, which I did reference. Some things that I noticed while working on this stat block are the persistence of D&D 4e design elements into what is nominally a 5e campaign (but of course is really an entertainment podcast first and foremost). In Critical Role, the Laughing Hand is a servitor of Torog, a god from the 4e "Points of Light" setting who does not officially appear in D&D 5e except in the Critical Role sourcebooks. He can also summon minions, and has absolutely no ranged capacity, which are both very 4e design elements. I made him a servitor of Yhidothrus, being PF's giant subterranean worm divinity, gave him unholy blight so he wasn't completely helpless against an army of flying PCs and... had to get creative with the minions.]

The Laughing Hand CR 17 CE Outsider (extraplanar) This hulking giant is twice as tall as a normal man. His skin is gray and splashed with red, and his eyes burn yellow beneath his thick hooded leather cloak. One of his hands is replaced with an oversized, double-edged blade, and the other has a fanged mouth in the palm. Similar fanged mouths open up over his body at odd angles, twisted into wry, mocking smiles.

The Laughing Hand was once a mortal general named Garix. Garix dared to challenge Yhidothrus, rallying an army to slay the Ravager Worm in a mad attempt to fight and kill the concept of entropy itself. Only Garix and his prized hunting hounds were even able to reach Yhidothrus directly, and the demon lord was amused by the hubris of his human adversary. After a century of torture, Garix was transformed into the Laughing Hand, a fiend that will come back from death endlessly to inflict suffering on the world of men.

Garix finds his own torment and transformation hilarious, and unless he is trying to be stealthy, he constantly laughs from his many mouths. This laughter causes creatures to freeze in terror, being unable to flee or fight back as the Laughing Hand tears them apart. If blades are raised against him, a new mouth opens up, adding to the horrible chorus. The Laughing Hand is often mobile in combat, leaping across the battlefield in order to target vulnerable targets. He can summon ghastly shadows of his beloved hounds, which he uses to block pursuit and set up flanking.

In order to slay Garix permanently, his heart must be found—this was cut from his chest and transformed into an oversized reliquary of sorts. This structure, called the Permaheart, is on a demiplane accessible only through a handful of portals. Finding this heart is a goal of both Yhidothrus’ enemies and cultists—his cultists in order to gain leverage over one of their god’s most powerful servants. If the Permaheart is ever destroyed, the Laughing Hand’s defenses weaken, but even then he is still a powerful melee combatant.

The Laughing Hand        CR 17 XP 102,400 CE Large outsider (chaos, evil, extraplanar) Init +8; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +31, see invisibility Aura mocking laughter (15 ft., DC 25)

Defense AC 33, touch 14, flat-footed 29 (-1 size, +4 Dex, +1 dodge, +4 armor, +15 natural) hp 264 (23d10+138) Fort +13, Ref +17, Will +18 DR 15/good; Immune poison; Resist cold 10, electricity 10, fire 10; SR 28 Defensive Abilities fortification (50%),rejuvenation

Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee armblade +30 (2d8+8/17-20), slam +30 (2d6+8 plus grab), bite +30 (1d8+8) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks rake (bites +30, 1d8+8) Spell-like Abilities CL 17th, concentration +21 Constant—see invisibility At will—unholy blight (DC 18) 1/day—summon (8th level, 100%)

Statistics Str 27, Dex 19, Con 22, Int 13, Wis 20, Cha 18 Base Atk +23; CMB +32 (+36 grapple); CMD 47 Feats Cleave, Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Improved Critical (armblade), Improved Initiative, Great Cleave, Mobility, Nimble Moves, Outflank, Power Attack, Precise Strike, Spring Attack Skills Acrobatics +30 (+34 when jumping), Climb +34, Intimidate +30, Perception +31, Sense Motive +31, Survival +31, Swim +34 Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Common SQ mighty leap, spawn maw

Ecology Environment any land or underground (Abyss) Organization unique Treasure standard (+2 moderate fortification leather armor, other treasure)

Special Abilities Armblade (Ex) The Laughing Hand’s armblade is treated as a primary natural weapon that deals slashing damage and threatens a critical hit on a roll of 19-20. Aura of Mocking Laughter (Su) All creatures within 15 feet of the Laughing Hand must succeed a DC 25 Will save or cower in fear for 1 round. The Laughing Hand can suppress or resume this ability as a free action. Demons are immune to this effect. This is a mind-influencing fear effect and the save DC is Charisma based. Mighty Leap (Ex) The Laughing Hand suffers no penalty from making a long jump without a running start. If he does get a running start, he doubles the distance traveled. Rake (Ex) When the Laughing Hand uses his rake attack, he normally has only one bite. He gains more bites by the use of the spawn maw ability. Rejuvenation (Su) If the Laughing Hand is slain, he reforms 24 hours later in the Spiral Paths. This can be disrupted if the Permaheart, hidden on a demiplane, is destroyed. If the Permaheart is destroyed and the Laughing Hand still lives, he loses his energy resistances, his DR is reduced to 5/good and his SR reduced to 18. Spawn Maw (Su) Whenever the Laughing Hand takes 10 or more damage from a piercing or slashing weapon, a new mouth opens up in the wound. This raises the save DC of the aura of mocking laughter by +1 for as long as the maw exists (to a maximum save DC of 35 for 10 maws), and gives the Laughing Hand another bite attack it can use when it uses its rake ability. Maws spawned this way last for 1 minute before they are resorbed into the Laughing Hand’s body. Summon (Sp) Once per day as a standard action, the Laughing Hand can summon four bleak hounds. Treat these as 10th level dog animal companions, only with spider climb as a constant supernatural ability and Precise Strike and Outflank as bonus feats. These hounds last for 1 hour or until slain.

[azulas-daddy-kink]

Ozai to Zuko when he spoke out of turn:

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I am the Fire Lord, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on the White Lotus, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I'm the best firebender in the entire world. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me in my own war room? Think again, fucker. As we speak the servants are preparing the Agni Kai chamber so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You're fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my lightning. Not only am I extensively trained in combat, but I have access to the entire Fire Navy and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're fucking dead, kiddo.

[honourablejester]

An Idealised, Class-Agnostic Spell List for a Gothic D&D 5e World

Or, to put this another way, a list of all the spells I would love to take on a character who lived in a fog-shrouded gothic realm where soft bastions of light and hope exist surrounded by a grey, weary, liminal world of shadows and despair. I’m going for a tone, here. Not dark fantasy, not fire and brimstone, but something greyer and more tired, softer and rounded at the edges by twilight. The images here are graveyards shrouded in mist and pale moonlight, the warm yellow windows of churches and homes as beacon against the night, vast but intangible shadows across the land and inside souls, tiny symbols of hope held in trembling hands. Gothic. This list is going to be low on damage spells, and high on … aesthetic spells.

Basically because I’m in the mood for random D&D thought experiments tonight. I’m going to do this alphabetically by spell level, because I like organisation. And I’m adding just a little bit of flavour text to demonstrate the tone:

Cantrips:

Chill Touch, Dancing Lights, Spare the Dying, Thaumaturgy, Toll the Dead

The ghostly hand clinging to a victim to drain their health. The will ‘o the wisps dancing in the mists. The gentle hand staving off death. The flickering of candles and the film of darkness in the eyes. The phantom bell tolling out lives.

First Level:

Ceremony, Detect Evil & Good, Faerie Fire, Fog Cloud, Protection from Evil & Good, Silent Image

The rituals and rites of life and death. Divinations to sense evil, and protections to ward it off. The dancing lights that limn and reveal what is hidden. The masking shroud of mist. The silent spectres that can be induced to walk.

Second Level:

Augury, Gentle Repose, Healing Spirit, Invisibility, Pass Without Trace, See Invisibility, Silence, Spiritual Weapon

Rolling the bones in search of answers. The weary servant of the divine laying protective hands on the dead, that they will not be corrupted and torn from their rest by evil. A shining, gentle spirit that heals all who stand beneath their light. The ability to vanish into the mists that shroud the world, to pass through it as a ghost in the night. The mote in the eye that allows one to see where others are shrouded in those same mists. A spell of silence to quiet a trembling world. A ghostly weapon born from a whispered prayer.

Third Level:

Beacon of Hope, Gaseous Form, Life Transference, Phantom Steed, Speak with Dead, Spirit Shroud

A light of hope that restores health, integrity and vitality. A form dissolving into mist, a wisp in and of itself. The sacrifice of one’s own life force to save another. The ghostly steed that arrives to ferry you through the night. Communion with the dead, and their shield against all who would harm you.

Fourth Level:

Aura of Life, Aura of Purity, Death Ward, Divination, Greater Invisibility, Mordenkainen’s Faithful Hound, Shadow of Moil

The soft, silent shrouds that surround the champions of hope, brushing those they pass with life and protection. A ward against death itself, a single determined moment of protection. The touch of a divine force that grants knowledge. A deeper communion with the mists that shroud the world. A graveyard grim, a phantom hound that faithfully guards the boundaries. A shroud of shadows that shall protect you as its own.

Fifth Level:

Commune, Contact Other Plane, Dispel Evil & Good, Greater Restoration, Hallow, Legend Lore

The great, determined effort to reach and touch, plead with, that which is greater than all of us. A shield from all that is liminal and supernatural in the world, a means to drive it back and protect others from its works. A touch that cures all ills. The hallowing of sacred (or unholy) ground, the creation of a sanctuary against the night. The whispers of the forgotten, of secret lore, guiding you towards truth.

Sixth Level:

Eyebite, Forbiddance, True Seeing

The touch of the true void, filmed across your eyes, to cleave those around you to the soul. A means to create a true fortress, a sanctuary against all the beyond the world who would seek to breach it. That mote upon your eye that allows you to see truth.

Seventh Level:

Crown of Stars, Etherealness, Resurrection

A crown of light to mark your brow, and allow to strike out at the darkness. The means to step fully into the liminal, to pass partly beyond the borders of the world. And that last, desperate hope, the means to draw someone back from death, whole and hale, though it sows deathly weakness through your own body and soul.

Eighth Level:

Holy Aura, Illusory Dragon, Maddening Darkness, Mind Blank

A cloak of divine light that spurs all around you into battle against the night. The calling of a vast, unreal shadow, an emissary of the mists and the shadows to strike your foes. The terror of true darkness, called down as a demonstration of night’s might. The sanctity of your own self, your own mind, made sacrosanct.

Ninth Level:

Astral Projection, Foresight, True Resurrection

The means to cast yourself and your chosen fully beyond the world, to pass the liminal and enter the other, if only in spiritual form. A true blessing of knowledge, the ability to see not only what truly is but what may also be. The last, perfect victory against death.

[bluecoolr]

Roots

Part 1 of Darron and Baeron's Backstory

Link to Part 2

T’zeklochar cast a brief glance toward the vaulted cavern ceiling of Menzoberranzan. A faint red glow rose from somewhere in the middle of the city, signaling that the great stalagmite clock, Narbondel, had only begun its reckoning.

The Matron Mother had had him woken and dragged from bed, in the middle of the night.

“Is there a room somewhere we can put Ryld?” she inquired after he had been essentially jostled through the whole damned house and dropped in front of her throne.

“Couldn't this wait till morning, Breena?” T’zeklochar asked pointedly. He glared at the guards at his elbows (both of whom were smirking females) and got to his feet.

As if T'zeklochar hadn't spoken out of turn, Matron Dinbreena carried on, “Somewhere out of the patron's way - where he won't notice. I mean, imagine.”

“How very delicate of you.”

Her eyes were dull from thought, her silver hair loose and trailing down her shoulders to her knees like a curtain. She was preoccupied. About Ryld, of course.

“See that he's found a room.”

It was final. Definite, No room left for contention.

“Yes, Matron Mother,” said T’zeklochar, bowing slightly, all thought of sleep banished with the new task at hand.

Presently, the Weapons Master of House Barriurden crossed the back courtyard, passing the stables housing the lizard mounts. He stepped into the kitchen, then further down into the cellar, and headed for the cubby tucked behind the shelves. The door to the hole slammed against the wall as T’zeklochar threw it open.

The single inhabitant of the cramped cubbyhole sprang up from his bed. “What in the hells – ?!”

“Wake up, pantry boy.” T’zeklochar ordered as Ryld blinked dumbly in the dark. “Whatever paltry possessions you have, gather them and follow me.”

Ryld was a commoner, a kitchen servant tasked with keeping track of the House’s food stores. He was also the newest, albeit unwilling, object of Matron Dinbreena's affections. Her appetite for amorous exploits was unabated even as she saw her third century. No drow could refuse her. Whichever male she chose must submit, under pain of death.

A swarm of bats flitted through the stalactites. Ryld stretched as he quietly followed T'zeklochar to the front of the house. Guards stood in attention as the Weapons Master walked past. The kitchen servant, they paid no mind.

It was difficult not to notice him, however, even T’zeklochar would admit. The drow, at the prime age of a hundred or so, was handsome and tall - tall by drow standards. His build was lean and wiry. His eyes appeared blue in the Underdark, with red pin pricks in their centers. An unfortunate defect, caused no doubt by his forebears interbreeding with surface elves or even humans. And yet, it did not take away from his beauty. The overall effect was one that stirred the blood.

“You think this is some sort of blessing?” T’zeklochar asked the younger drow, who was inspecting his new bedchamber.

Ryld peeled his eyes away from the ornate trimming and gossamer curtains overhanging the bed.

“You're in more peril than you ever were.”

Drow hated and yet thrived on competition. As a rival to the Matron’s consort, he would surely be faced with opposition. The patron would not allow Ryld to sire children by the Matron, and put his own children's ranks at risk.

“You think I asked for this?” snapped Ryld, an assertive fire making the red pin pricks of his eyes more pronounced.

T’zeklochar's frown belied his pleasure. “You'll need more tricks than just batting your eyelashes, if you want to survive now.” He shoved a shortsword into Ryld's hands. “Meet me in the training hall in two hours.”

The empty halls rang with the awful, pained screams of Matron Dinbreena as she labored to bring her and Ryld's child into the world. She had been taken into Lolth's unholy chamber, attended by her clerics and priestesses. All unneeded persons were barred entry, including the father.

Ryld sat trembling where he waited in the stairwell. T'zeklochar, who had become an unlikely friend in the last 10 months, stood leaning on the bannister, smoking on a small pipe. He took pity on the expectant father and passed him the pipe, chuckling as he struggled to put it to his lips.

There came Dinbreena's screams again. “RYLD! WHERE IS HE?! I WANT HIM HERE! RYLD!”

Ryld flew to his feet and up the stairs, followed closely by T'zeklochar. Dinbreena held out her arm as she saw them come through the door.

“Damn you and your spawn,” she hissed as tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. Her grip on Ryld's hand was crushing.

“What's happening? The child has been delivered. Why -?”

The pain was not letting up, even as Liriel, one of Dinbreena's daughters and high priestess of Lolth, carried a squealing child to a stone pedestal.

“There's a second child,” snapped Zardra. “You have twins.”

T’zeklochar stood over the kicking baby, wiping it clean with a blood-soaked towel. Ryld's heart sank as he studied the Weapons Master's expression.

His dark heart uttered a desperate prayer and a bargain. “Please, goddess. If you give me this, I will be your uncomplaining servant.”

Ryld gently set the Matron down on the armchair. She had succumbed to the exhaustion just after the second child arrived.

The children's sobbing had subsided and the chamber grew deathly quiet. Ryld held his breath, looking to T’zeklochar for some hope. His red eyes were empty, his face like stone.

The Weapons Master shook his head, and Ryld felt like he had been gutted.

“Two male children. Cursed day,” muttered Zardra.

Liriel turned to Ryld. “You ought to be executed for your uselessness!” She cast a venomous glance at her newborn brothers, her knuckles white over the handle of her dagger. “Along with these wretched whelps.”

“Look at their eyes!” gasped Evandra. The twins had inherited Ryld’s ice blue eyes, with the red pin pricks glowing bright in the worship chamber.

“Beastly little wretches!” chimed Zardra.

T’zeklochar, who had not left the babies’ side, appeared unbothered, but was slowly easing his hand toward the shortsword at his belt. If any of the priestesses attacked, he was going to defend the little ones.

“Liriel is right,” said Zardra. “This is an omen. We all know what happened to House Do’Urden. We must kill them lest these blue-eyed freaks follow in Drizzt's footsteps.”

Ryld grew cold. Beside him, Matron Dinbreena stirred, and, her voice husky from screaming, addressed her daughters with severity. “If you lay a finger on our children,” she said, “On my honor as Matron Mother, on my honor as the Spider Queen’s servant - I will cut your head off myself.”

A smirk pulled the corner of T’zeklochar’s mouth. Our children. Dinbreena was done for. She had fallen in love with Ryld.

“These children are Noble Drow of House Barriurden. You shall show them the respect they are due.”

Matron Dinbreena retired after nursing her twin boys. She left them in the company of their father, sleeping side by side in a cradle that had held five older sons. The daughters’ cradles were naturally more resplendent, but this one did the job and Ryld was satisfied.

He was still lost in thought when T’zeklochar entered, his hands clasped over something. Ryld admired the sight of the Weapons Master looking into the cradle, how gentle he became in the presence of his children. The way the tension from his broad, muscular back eased as he hummed and cooed at the little ones.

In the purple faerie fire, Ryld saw that T’zeklochar had brought a tarantula for the twins. The fuzzy creature crawled over T’zeklochar's knuckles and settled on Baeron's little chest. The little one stirred, smiled in his sleep, and cuddled the spider closer.

T’zeklochar opened his mouth, and a second tarantula crawled out of hiding. This one he gave to Darron. “Sleep sound in the dark, child,” he purred.

He addressed the father without looking at him. “Do not agree to have Dinbreena's daughters raise your children.”

Ryld scoffed. “I have no intention to. She's allowed me to raise them myself. Being her consort has granted me that favor, I guess.” He watched his boys with his arms crossed. He was steeling himself for what he was about to tell T’zeklochar. “I… I want you to train them, when they come of age.”

The Weapons Master still did not look him in the eye. “You're a madman and a fool,” he simply said.

Indignant, Ryld straightened up. He always had too much cheek for a commoner. It was one of the things that T’zeklochar admired about him. “A fool? My sons will live, if they know how to defend themselves. How am I a fool to know that?”

“Yes.” T'zeklochar nodded, his voice growing louder. “They will live, but not long enough to see 30. The Patron already hates you as it is. Put a sword in either boy's hand, and they will be a greater threat than ever. If they aren't murdered by their siblings, they will be murdered in the Academy.” He gestured wildly to the window. Somewhere out in the city stood Melee Magthere, where fighters were forged. It was a cruel and merciless place whose halls were washed with blood and colonnades polished with screams.

“I cannot protect them there,” T’zeklochar declared. I cannot protect all of you, he thought to himself.

“That's not what I'm asking,” Ryld replied coolly. “I only require that you teach them what they need to know.”

T’zeklochar was adamant. He shook his head. “Give them up for consortship and they may yet survive.”

“So they can be treated like… mere courtesans?” Ryld could not - would not see his sons suffer the same fate.

Ryld. What mother he had was so heartless as to name him “slave” in the drow tongue.

“They will marry into security,” T’zeklochar explained, “They'll be valuable in continuing the bloodline. Is that not enough to placate you?”

“And if your boy was alive, would you do the same?” Ryld snapped.

The words were out before Ryld could stop himself. When he saw the look of hurt on the Weapons Master's face, he knew he had gone too far.

T’zeklochar was Matron Dinbreena's consort once. He'd sired a child. A third son.

He didn't even get a chance to hold the boy before Liriel plunged her dagger into his tiny heart. A sacrifice to appease the goddess, Lolth.

Recovering, T'zeklochar replied, “If he had been allowed to live? Yes.”

He held Darron's foot and placed a tender kiss on his heel. He passed Ryld on his way to the door, and without so much as a warning, he grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall.

The impact knocked the wind out of Ryld. His breath did not return now that he and T’zeklochar were a lip's distance from each other.

“If you ever mention my boy again,” T’zeklochar whispered, his voice soft as silk. “I'll kill you.”

He dropped Ryld to his feet and headed out the door.

“I need you.”

T’zeklochar froze.

“I cannot do this alone,” Ryld begged. “These boys need to be strong. You must teach them.”

“Have it your way. It won't be easy. It will break them.”

“I know.”

---

A/N: not me posting this because it got too long 🤡

There will be more.

[sillyvampireboi]

Blood Delivery

Warnings: blood, neck biting, soft dom, master/servant, blood drinking

Summary: Renfield messed up. He had one very important task and he failed. His Master needs blood but he fails to deliver it. What can he do to still be a good little familiar?

tags my beloveds: @giosnape | @unholy-gigi thank you for beta reading !

a/n:I think this is the most erotic(?) thing I’ve ever written, and the first of that sort. I’ve left the Master for interpretation, using they/them pronouns. So it can be a gender neutral reader or your oc of sorts, etc

Comments are really appreciated:) I just want him to be loved and taken care of. He deserves all the kindness TvT

This whole fic was written around the sketch I did ~

The Diamond of the Night Sky took Her place, 

Covering everything with cold, dreamy light, 

And gifting new shadows to the frightened ones. 

As She looked down upon her few hours kingdom, 

She saw one lonely soul, 

Sprinting in the snow,

He felt cold,

Deep in his bones,

His clothes clinging to body,

With the melting snow.

As Renfield was running,

Dark swallowing him,

He felt fire burning within.

Next to their Queen,

The Stars were blinking mercilessly,

As if judging him,

In his failed attempts.

Nonono! Please! 

I’ve already screw one thing up,

I can’t be late too!

I need more bugs, 

I need to be faster,

I have to be there! Please! 

Renfield’s racing thoughts were occupied,

With fear and worry to arrive,

In time. And how to explain,

Why he couldn’t bring,

Blood for his Ruler of everything.

He adored his new Master very much,

Making their every wish,

Spoken or thought, 

His very purpose to accomplish. 

They weren’t violent as Dracula was,

There was care in their movements towards him. 

That was the reason why, 

Panic pinched Renfield’s heart, 

Always doting and mild,

I can’t bear to see, 

The creeping disappointment in those eyes!

He entered into the house, 

As silently as he could,

But his Master was already awake,

Lighting candles in the dark,

“Good evening, Robert”

The smoothing voice called out,

Turning their face towards the servant. 

Robert ! 

This one word filled the familiars heart with so much warmth,

In those freezing lips,

That can ruin and bring death, 

That name held,

A certain tenderness. 

Calling him by his first name,

Filled his chest,

Planted the seed of pride and—

“Where have you been? 

Why are you soaking wet,

And I can sense no new smell.”

With that, 

Every previous fear re-entered Renfield’s head, 

He dropped to his knees,

In front of his Lord,

Trying to be as small as he could, 

“I’m so sorry Master—I c-couldn’t bring your meal,

They’ve been all locked up— you see there is this illness, a-and they’re all inside,

I have to be careful because you like it here—“

Renfield’s shaky voice filled the room,

As he was hushing out excuses,

Why he couldn’t fulfill,

His task approvingly. 

His Ruler of the Night was just standing there,

Listening,

And couldn’t help but feel adoration within,

I’m quite annoyed it’s true,

But it warms my still heart,

To see,

How much my needs matter to him.

The master was musing as he stood,

Looking down at his follower.

Renfield’s face shyly turned,

To seek any kind of reaction,

Big yellow eyes sank into dark ones,

Suffocating by the darkness within them, 

Silently pleading, pleading and pleading,

But without release.

Renfield messed up his task again, 

And his master wasn’t happy with that. 

Oh the terrible ordeal of being seen! 

How he wished the Earth to open up

And swallow him. 

Pathetic little creature,

His master thought,

While looking down at him amused,

How to hold the strength to berate,

And mark my punishments onto his head,

When he’s looking up at me so desperate? 

He is so so sickly sweet to care,

About my musings and beliefs. 

The master looked down at him again,

Bestowing a fang showing smirk upon him.

“That’s fine, 

You’ll bring someone next time,

But until then, 

I can drink from you instead.” 

Their voice was deep and honey sweet,

Unlike with Dracula,

Now he felt safe. 

In an instant, 

Robert’s whole posture changed,

Excitement running through his veins, 

“From me?! 

Am I really good enough for your taste? 

Oh Master, please take everything you need!”

With shaky hands he started to peel,

Off his scarf and shirts,

While blush was climbing up his neck and ears.

“You still haven't answered my question Robert.”

“Q-q-question?”

“Why’re your clothes so wet?”

They asked,

As they stepped to the fireplace,

And used a match,

So hotness roared towards the kneeling man,

“It snowed outside, 

And to not be late,

I ran through shortcuts in the woods.”

The Master sat down the armchair,

In front of the fire and gently said,

“Come here.”

He did as he was told,

Stopping in front of his Lord,

“Take off your clothes,

Then use that blanket there,

When you are done, 

Come back here.”

It didn’t take a minute for Renfield to get undressed, 

And to stand naked next to the fire again,

His beautiful from was then covered with a blanket,

His blue-again-eyes reflecting flames in them. 

The Master couldn't deny,

How pretty he looked waiting there,

White, pale skin getting colour,

Blue eyes sparkling with joy,

Dark, wet hair sticking to cheeks,

Letting watermarks to fall on perfect skin. 

With one strict motion the Ruler pulled him into their lap,

Petting his dark head,

“Now, Who told you that stupidity, 

That you aren’t good enough for me?” 

“I… Dracula always said—“

“Forget that terrible old man! 

Listen to me Robert,

You are the best familiar I could have,

So attentive, 

Always trying your best,

Execute every little wish I have.

Oh Robert~

Forget those words of poison,

You are the best boy in my opinion.” 

The last words were whispered into his ear,

While the Master slowly pulled away,

Dark locks to free his nape.

Shivers ran through his covered form,

While flower petals traveled up his breast,

Leaving his cheeks blossoming red.

Oh so slowly, lips ghosted over his neck, 

Never touching,

Yet leaving heat in their tracks,

Then leisurely the marble lips

Touched the sensitive skin of his,

Tongue marveld over delicate skin, 

Brush of fangs leaving butterflies in chest,

Breath breaking in that pretty neck.

“Have I ever told you dear, 

That the clavicle of yours is beautiful? “

Ocean eyes went wide in surprise,

Before he felt the bite.

Two sharp teeth broke the skin, 

Letting blood flowing,

Warm, red liquid streamed,

Colouring the canvas of porcelain skin,

Renfield sank deeper and deeper into that saccharine death,

Welcoming pain like a watchful friend. 

He was suffocating under the passion, 

That swam through his veins,

Creating weak moans,

Which from his lips escaped. 

“Master …. please..”

“Please what? 

I don’t understand what you want.”

At this point,

Whimpers were a constant thing,

Moaning more and more by the minute,

Which was music in his Master’s ears.

Such beautiful symphonies you create, 

Floating in this tormenting pleasure, 

And how adorable you look, 

With those red cheeks and heavy lids.

“ I n-eed— I ww-ant you to h-hold me please! 

Renfield got pulled more close,

Letting him to bury himself in dark clothes,

Lying his head on their shoulder,

Leaving whimpers and kisses on their neck.

His Ruler of everything kept kissing,

And leaving purple flowers of lust,

On the cervix of his.

The Master drank and sucked and drank,

Torturing his beloved,

However Robert felt safe,

Sinking deeper and deeper into that beautiful abyss.

Chest heaved,

Moans increased,

He was clutching to his Master firm,

“You’ve been so good Robert,

You can let go.”

And submerged in pleasure he did,

Feeling safe and screamed.

As his breathing slowed,

He felt sleep pulling him close,

And there he fall into the land of dreams,

In the arms of his Chief.

The Master hinted kisses on his drying hair,

Clasping him in a tight embrace.

As they remained by the heat of flames,

The Moon shone through huge windows,

And with Her Star they sang,

A lullaby of lovely dreams. 

[brongusthearcanist]

My favorite, and the most important part of any redemption story is what I call "the quiet". Prince Zuko is one of the best redemption arcs we have ever had on screen, and is at this point is what many of us think of first when thinking of a redemption arc. And there is a lot they do right, like one of my favorites, the relapse, but the quiet is the most pivotal in my opinion. This is when our bad-boy™ has actually achieved exactly what they've always wanted, and there is no where else to go, the fight is over, and they must now think on what they've done. For Zuko it's returning to the Fire Nation as its Prince, and having to finally sit with his culture and slowly realize where it all went wrong, and where he went wrong.

An even better example comes from the next best redemption since TLA is She-ra and the princess of power's Catra. Like Zuko she is the main antagonist for several seasons, rather than wanting honor she wants respect and control (among other things), something she never had as a child. Spoilers if you have never watched it, you should, there is very little reason not too. Season 4 ends with Catra succeeding in summoning the big boss that she believes will help her destroy the rebellion. She assumes Hoard Prime will see her as an equal, and reward her with more power. But he doesn't, Hoard Prime sees her as less than a servant, unholy and unworthy of trust or advancement. While she is repeatedly told she is an honored guest on the ship, she is more of a prisoner. She has nowhere to go, no more power to grab to distract her from her insecurities, nothing to distract her from her pain. She is forced to sit in the quiet and feel the pain and sadness she has been putting off. She has to relive everything she's done and not only understand that it was wrong, but also why she felt it was "okay" at the time, and the underlying issues that caused it. It's fucking beautiful.

Also if you've watched and enjoyed the last airbender you will probably like She-ra. I think a lot of you have avoided it because you think it's a show for little girls. Which is weird cause everyone tells you your show is just for little boys, and you understand why they're wrong but you refuse to undo the misogyny that would let you see the same is true for She-ra. It depicts a lot of adult themes, it is a little goofy and often childish, but it's depicting children so that's kinda a given. Please watch it, it's a fantastic finished animation.

[tgrailwar]

CASTERCASTERCASTER ARCHER MIGHT BE ON THE WAY AND HE'S REALLY PISSED CAN WE LIKE PREPARE A TRAP FOR HIM IF HE COMES AFTER US--

"Calm down. We have a perfectly good magical territory. Even if he tried to break down the doors, he'd have to contend with Paris and Tristan and the defenses of Queen Semiramis, before eventually having to challenge Achilles. We're fine--"

A pause, and the slightest shift in the Caster's demeanor.

"...Actually, I say let them come. In fact, let us do this 'Archer' a favor, and meet him head on, shall we? In this farce of a narrative, let's stoke the fires of their stakes!"

A snap of his fingers, as the Shades of Lust vanished, before Dante's magical energy spiked and spiraled upward. Heat filled the entirety of the

"...'Unholy shades bound to the Nine Circles, fraudulent beast that attempted to defy God! Damned spirit chained just above the devil himself! Hellish King of Flame, accept your penance and answer my call! Inferno Canto: Malebolge'!"

"Better. Now, let us prepare for battle, Master."

…Dante's aggression seems to have increased, as well as his mana output. Has something changed? Has this happened to the other Servants as well...?

[fangirl-saya]

Y'all, I'm like pretty proud of this one, so please take a look :D I wrote this song as a tribute to Renfield (2023)

(I have an accent and the sound quality is amateur, so you may want to enable subtitles)

Lyrics:

Who am I kidding, can I call this living? What is all this for? My mind is reeling, I'm tired of killing Can I be forgiven for wanting more?

Maybe it is true I was not resistant When he told me I'd make a good assistant Smitten by his charm and his attention I did things that I'm ashamed to mention

Next the story goes if you're observant From assistant I became a servant Set my heart ablaze with unholy fire The only thing that matters is what he desires

For the sake of brevity Let's skip my insanity Straitjackets, shock-therapy Padded walls Fragmented memories Of things that they did to me Echo like distant screams Through the halls

Years went by and things got worse, not better He no longer takes me to the theater Tell me what's the use in all his power If I have to leave my life in squalor?

Through the dirty halls with pealing plaster With my catch in tow I must move faster It's the only way to avoid disaster If I take too long, I'll displease my Master

Who am I kidding, can I call this living? What is all this for? My mind is reeling, I'm tired of killing Can I be forgiven for wanting more?

[xalatath]

A Page from Anu's Journal

[The text is written in a frenzied scrawl on a torn piece of parchment dotted with bloody fingerprints.]

Tonight, I have finally done it! I have rid the world of the festering fleshpile once known as Amir! My twin sister, who had everything. Who took everything from me and still wanted more. Tonight, when the moon’s foul light fled the temple, I tore her throat with my teeth and devoured her even as she slept. Oh, how sweetly her cursed blood did flow! Veins and arteries like rotten geysers filling me with her sickly taste - the taste of a traitorous wretch made to be consumed! Her blood flows within me... her very essence snuffed out by my ravenous hunger! 

The look of fear in her eyes in her last fleeting moments fills me with fire even now. Did you see it too, Father?

Oh Father, Oh Lord of Murder, is it not your will that only your strongest children shall survive? No matter how beautiful, how cunning, no matter how intelligent one of your spawn may be, they will always yield to strength and brutality in the end! She called me mad, she made me her servant, believed herself to be superior to all (including you, Father, I hasten to add!), yet her quick wit could not save her from the one who lurked in her shadow. She is gone, Father, and I shall rise to take her place in your most depraved plans. 

My mind is a silent knife in the dark, my body a vessel to carry out your unholy commands. I am a creature driven by the  desire urge instinct to kill in your name, so why are you silent on this most murderous night? She was my sacrifice to you, Father, yet I cannot help but think I have angered you with my offering. She did not deserve your favor. She disgraced you, she disgraced our bloodline. Do you truly still favor her despite her failure? Despite my victory?

Amir is gone, and I remain. Amir is nothing more than scraps of carrion and shards of bone to be gnawed upon. Amir is gone, and I must take her place. Amir is gone, and I ended her in your name. Amir is gone. Amir is gone. Amir is gone.

[The rest of the text is entirely unreadable.]

[thecreaturecodex]

General Abdalla Aulorian

“Fay“ © Ivana Abbate, accessed at her gallery here

[Unlike the other characters I’ve been posting for Monster Girl Summer, this one is Mine. Abdalla Aulorian is my character in a long form, freeform Pathfinder game run by @strawberry-crocodile​. Her main NPC, who I have an enemies-to-lovers relationship with, will be posted in a couple of days. This is Abdalla immediately before the campaign started.]

Abdalla Aulorian CR 7 LE Outsider (native) This woman has pale mauve skin, shoulder length black hair with red streaks, and ridged horns growing from her brow. Her left leg is differently shaped from her right, with an elongated ankle and a horse-like hoof.

Life is cruel to Abdalla Aulorian, and she has learned how to be cruel in return. Born as the sixth child in a particularly ambitious branch of the Aulorian family, her mother made a deal with the contract devil Jebelat to have her turned into a tiefling. She was treated as a whipping boy and basically a servant by her parents and most of her siblings, and she lashed out violently. To teach her some discipline and make her useful, she was shipped off to the Sisters of Eiseth. On the plus side, the Sisters did accept her as a trans woman, and helped her transition. On the other hand, they did so with humiliating rituals and beat what little independence she had out of her thoroughly. At the end of her training, Abdalla signed her soul over to Eiseth and bears her unholy symbol as a brand on her breast. If my soul was to be owned by hell, she rationalized, I might as well choose who my master will be.

From the nunnery, Abdalla went into the Chelish military as an officer. Although a few of her fellow cadets thought that as a tiefling she should be kept to non-commissioned status, those that complained too loudly had a nasty habit of turning up dead. Her assistance in crushing a halfling slave revolt near Laekastel won her a title, Demibaroness, and she was successful enough in the war against the Glorious Reclamation to claw her way up to the rank of general. She has some regrets, and plenty of nightmares, but is proud of her ability to survive in as hostile a system as she has. She hasn’t spoken to her parents in years—they fled their manor in Corentyn to a summer estate in Vyre, just in time for Ravounel to declare independence. Whether her family are keeping their heads down, fought back against the Silver Ravens and were captured or killed, or just used this opportunity to cut Abdalla out of her life… she doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly care. Now that she is a general, Abdalla regularly volunteers to lead troops into enemy territory, hoping either to win a plot of land to retire to or to be put out of her misery in combat.

General Abdalla Aulorian has survived as long as she has by being able to control her own emotions. She lies habitually, presenting herself as a loyal workhorse for the military and dutiful supplicant to Eiseth. In truth, she deeply resents Eiseth, Cheliax, her family, and herself for her very existence. Abdalla’s rage and self-loathing has been channeled into infernal power. She uses her few spells to augment her own physical abilities and for a modicum of protection. Abdalla never had much patience for ranged weapons, and relies on her soldiers to provide artillery support. Although she is fleet of foot, Abdalla’s gait is awkward due to her mismatched legs, and she finds both running and riding to be difficult. 

Abdalla Aulorian          CR 7 XP 3,200 LE Medium outsider (native) Tiefling bloodrager 8 Init +4; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +11, scent Defense AC 17, touch 10, flat-footed 17 (+7 armor) hp 64 (8d10+16) Fort +7, Ref +2, Will +3; +4 vs. enchantment, fear, poison DR 1/-; Resist cold 5, electricity 5, fire 10 Defensive Abilities blood sanctuary, diabolical arrogance, improved uncanny dodge, infernal resistance Offense Speed 30 ft. (40 ft. unarmored) Melee +1 halberd +12/+7 (1d10+5/x3) Ranged javelin +7 (1d6+3) Special Attacks bloodrage (19 rounds/day, +4 Str, +4 Con, +2 Will, -2 AC) Spells CL 5th, concentration +7 2nd (2/day)—bear’s strength, bull’s endurance, mirror image 1st (2/day)—expeditious retreat, magic missile, phantom blood, protection from good, shield Statistics Str 16, Dex 10, Con 13, Int 12, Wis 12, Cha 12 Base Atk +8; CMB +11; CMD 21 Feats Blind-fight (B), Eschew Materials (B), Improved Initiative, Power Attack, Skill Focus (Bluff), Skilled Rager (Bluff) Skills Bluff +13, Climb +5, Handle Animal +6, Intimidate +6, Knowledge (arcana) +6, Perception +11, Perform (dance) +2, Spellcraft +6, Stealth +15, Survival +12; Racial Modifiers +2 Bluff, +2 Stealth Languages Common, Halfling, Infernal SQ blood casting, bloodline (infernal), fast movement, fiendish sorcery, variant tiefling Gear +1 halberd, +1 breastplate, cloak of elvenkind, silversheen (x2), feather token bird (x2), potion of cure moderate wounds, scroll of spider climb, 3 javelins, dress uniform worth 30 gp, jasper earrings worth 50 gp, 40 sp Special Abilities Variant Tiefling Abdalla has the scent special ability instead of darkness as a spell-like ability.

[paperanddice]

Salt devils are humanoid figures with sparkling salt crystals embedded in their rough skin. Their faces are often monstrous, with sharp teeth that aren't greatly useful in combat, and they carry salt encrusted blades that leave chunks of painful irritants in wounds they leave. Most salt devils seem to serve Mammon, archdevil of greed, and prefer to settle in more arid regions of the world though they will go anywhere where salt mines may be found. They have a personal delight in corrupting and controlling the mining and sale of salt, extracting increased misery from the industry and damage to the environment. For a servant of greed they seem to lack the drive, instead encouraging it in others and rarely taking any payment for themselves.

Inspired by the Tome of Beasts 1. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I’m working on, consider backing me there!

Pathfinder 2e

Salt Devil Creature 6 Uncommon, Medium, Devil, Fiend, Unholy Perception +14; greater darkvision Languages Celestial, Common, Infernal, telepathy 100 feet Skills Athletics +14, Religion +12, Stealth +11 Str +4, Dex +1, Con +4, Int +1, Wis +2, Cha +2 Items +1 scimitar AC 21; Fort +16, Ref +13, Will +14; +1 status to all saves vs. magic HP 115; Immunities fire; Resistances physical 5 (except silver), poison 5; Weaknesses holy 5 Speed 25 feet Melee scimitar +15 (forceful, magical, sweep, unholy), Damage 1d6+10 slashing plus Salt Blade Divine Innate Spells DC 22 ; 4th translocate (at will); 3rd harm (×3); Divine Rituals DC 22; diabolic pact Salt Blade When a target takes damage from one of the salt devil's scimitar Strikes it must succeed at a DC 21 Fortitude save or be sickened 1 (sickened 3 on a critical failure). The target then becomes temporarily immune for 1 minute.

13th Age

Salt Devil 6th level spoiler [devil] Initiative: +9 Salty Scimitar +11 vs. AC – 15 damage. Natural Even Hit: The target also takes 5 ongoing acid damage. Salt in the Wound +11 vs. PD (one enemy taking ongoing damage) – The ongoing damage increases by 10 and the target takes a -2 penalty to all defenses. Devil’s Dues (Salty): When you choose to add the escalation die to an attack against a salt devil, you take a cumulative -1 penalty to saves against ongoing damage until the end of the battle. Resist Fire 13+. AC 21 PD 19 MD 19 HP 82

[den-dype-skogen]

Þe Sunless Nadir

Down deep beneaþ þe hidden earþ below In cold caves and unexplorèd caverns Where þe sun is forever a stranger Unfeeling, unholy forces ov dark Reign þere supreme in þe sunless nadir Ruled by þe fire-y fist ov þeir leader, King ov þe dim depðs ov oblivion. His infernal, grim visage seen only By his grand army ov soulless servants, And mortals now too dead to tell þe tale, Þeir corpses collected and repurposed To labor evermore for þe shadows, Never to rest, never to feel again.

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

Fire and blood (the fanfic) Chapter 18: Reuinon

CONCEPT: You were once aegons and aemonds fuckbuddy, learned of their rebellion, your father got murdered, you tried to run away and they caged you among many other horrendous things and now after two weeks of surviving aemond you finally see your beloved aegon again.

WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT, SADISM, DARK AEMOND, WAR CRIMES, OTHER UNHOLY THINGS. SHARING, DARK SMUT, KINKS

You manage to cover yourself with the sheet. You crawl away from him as far as possible with the chain. You look around for guards to protect you but Aemond had dismissed them all in a jealous temptrum.

Aegon stares at you in disbelieve. "M-my King." You bow your head.

Aegons response is very brief but the way that he speaks reminds you just how much you longed for his voice. "What did he do to you?" He whispers. You remain on the bed, still wearing your collar with the big shiny diamond sapphire attached to it.

You fiddle with your hands and nervously avoid Aegon. "My king, you should not be here without his permission. He does not like me even breathing near other men." You think of the guard that Aemond had removed because he was breathing too much in your direction.

You think of the other servant that fed you water without his approval. They never found his body after Aemond threw him down the redkeep.

Aegon scoffs before opening the door of your cage easily. Aemond keeps the key inside. He knows you won't dare to set foot outside your cage without his permission. There has not been a day yet that your ankle or feet were not bound. He does not trust you. "It is good that we made an agreement, then." He spats as if he is angry with you. Perhaps he is. He thinks that you ran off on your own. Not that they kidnapped you.

You tear up by the thought of having to touch Aegon again. "Don't, please. It is too painful. I can stand being his little pet. But I will perish if you are to touch me when your heart no longer yearns for me." You whine like a little girl.

He finally understands. You do not, however. "Who the fuck told you that?" And just like that you understand now too.

Aemond lied. Aegon does not hate you. Yet why has Aegon not come looking for you?

A proud voice rings out from behind Aegon. "I did." Your hairs stand up, and you gulp so hard that Aegon hears it. He steps closer to you to protect you if need be. But you push him away from you. Aemond is dangerous.

Aemond walks past the king to you before unchaining your ankle. He snaps his fingers and points to the space for his feet. "Pet, don't you usually bow for your prince?" He asks his voice a mere taunting symphony.

You obey bowing down until you can kiss the ground. You mutter your practised response. "Good evening, my love, my beloved and my only one. How was your time away from me?" You ask.

Aegon's brows become nearly one as he watches with worry and disgust. "What the fuck is happening?"

Aemond shrugs carelessly and rubs your head. "I did what you couldn't. I tamed that bitch." To you he barks something as well. "Get your pretty green gown and put it on for me. I like you to look pretty and proper when you suck me off." You obey putting it on.

The Kinslayer smirks when you slowly kneel for him and wait for him to sit down. "She is so obedient these days. I bet I can make her do all sorts of wicked things." You turn off your emotions for now.

He stares briefly at your breasts before sitting down in the chair. You slither over and climb on top of him, kissing his lips before moving to his throat to his chest. You remove his shirt and his vest for him and undo his pins. Your breath catches in your throat. Your knees are parted. He forces you on his knees and fucks you with it. You cry in pleasure and mutter that you love him. "But, I disgress. You are here to see me, my King?" He does not bother to give you his full attention. He places you with your back to his front and sits you down as if you are his toy. He opens the front of your dress carefully, unlacing it so more and more of your breasts can be seen.

Aegon growls, fighting his desires to keep from glancing at your breasts. "You know I am no longer interested in her. I try to be faithful to my wife. To my queen." He says.

Your heart shatters. You barely understand where this change of heart comes from, but it hurts you. Helaena has his child inside her, and you must accept that you are now and never enough. "Such a pity..." Aemonds voice is full of fake sympathy. You wish he would stop taunting you.

You are worried about where this exchange will lead. He whispers in your ear when rubbing your entrance. "What do you think, my little pet? Do you miss your former master?" You think back of all the times Aegon fucked you and it certainly excited things. You liked being fucked by both. You enjoy both, and you might even love both.

Yet you know and have seen how dangerous Aemond has become these last days. Admitting that you want Aegon as well when Aegon no longer protects you or loves you...

That is a suicide mission. You rub yourself against Aemond and kiss his lips faithfully. You bite on his lips and suck off the blood. He groans in pleasure. "You are my only one, my true love and all that I desire." You say even though it is a lie.

Sadly for you... You are not a good liar. Never have been. Never will be.

Aemond pushes you to stand and walks you to your bed. You are tossed on it, and your gown is pulled up exposing your naked entrance. "Would you like it if we were to share you, like the good old days?" He whispers when rubbing your entrance.

You would. Just one last time to get it out of your heart and mind and to let it all go. One last time before you will plan your escape. You either escape...

Or you'll die. "Share me?" You whisper, as familair tingles arise in your belly and wetness cloaks your legs. You like that idea.

Aegon scoffs at you and at Aemond. Yet he watches as you moan, pleasing both of them. "I am loyal to my queen." You do not say anything. Aemond is also wisely quiet. You both know that he is not loyal to his queen.

Aemond laughs. "I tell you what; You are allowed back as her co-owner." You do not have a say on this by the sound of it.

You slowly sit up. "What of my consent?" You ask.

Aemond kisses your throat and bites down on it as if he wants to hurt you for speaking out of turn. "Your consent can go fuck itself the way we will fuck you..." He leans over you. You cower with excitement. He smacks your wet entrance as you cry out. "You insolent dirty minded whore." He grits out between smacks. "Look, pure wetness. That girl is ready for her king. Do you want to deny her that pleasure, Aegon? I know my pet. She needs more than one cock to serve. Two can only satisfy her needs." He tries to rile Aegon up.

It works partly. Aegon is now doubting if he should do this. Aemond shows off your wetness once more easing in a finger with a powerful thrust. "Nhn..." You moan.

Aemond cleans his finger on your dress before walking to his brother. He grabs Aegon by his shoulders. "You own that whore. She ran away to Dragonstone. Let's show her what happens to girls who disobey." He grins.

You did not run away. You understand that you must try to convince them to believe that. "I was kidnapped."

Aegon's smile has faded. You wait for him to start speaking once more. To tell Aemond off and to sent the message that he will not touch you again. Instead of that, he keeps looking at you. "Aegon?" You weakly mutter.

He grins at you. "Shut up, pet." That nickname hurts you more than any insult he could have given you.

Aemond respectfully lets go of you, making sure that the king can touch you if he wishes so. "She is yours, my King." He says as if he is a faithful servant presenting his king a gift.

That was all he needed to hear. He takes his clothes off and crawls on top of you, choking you lightly when taking you. It feels good to have him back inside of you, and you wish he could stay there forever. You wrap your arms around his neck lovingly and mutter his name against his lips. You are kissed, touched, and loved. Your body yearned for it, your heart cried for it, and your soul died for it. You can't believe it is finally happening again. You missed the touch of his short hair when you ran your fingers through it. You missed the smell of wine on his breath, and you missed the way his enchanting blue eyes look at you as if you are his whole world. You missed feeling his heartbeat and hearing his breath. You missed him in every possible meaning and every possible way.

Aemond keeps glaring at you two, though he seems mostly amused and glad that Aegon broke his vow to remain loyal to their sister. Aegon gently pulls your hair, calling for your attention. His lips leave a desirable trail of little kisses on the side of your neck before he moves down to your breasts, to your belly, to your legs, and finally before he disappears between your wet legs. His tongue softly licks over the wet smooth entrance, and you can hear him taste your spoils.

Your hands take hold of a shoulder and a handful of his hair. You brace yourself. He starts to suck and your core is set alight. You feel it build and grow as a flower expanding itself when water is thrown on its roots. "Oh! Nh...Mhm.." Your moans make Aegon very sly and happy. He grins at you before teasingly sucking once more.

Aemond moves closer to you both, and for a good reason, you first turn to look at his daggers and swords. Yet he does not slash Aegon's back open or cut his head off. He gives you a wink when watching you be pleasured orally by the king of the seven kingdoms.

The king groans when trusting deep inside of you. It almost hurts, but your pleasure dulls the pain. You moan weakly in his neck and let him have you as he wishes. Aegon's breath quickens as he pushes himself inside of you.

His brother comes closer and closer to the two of you and grabs holds of your wrists. He forces them above your head on the matress, holding you down. "You taste delicious, Lady Beesbury."

You can only weakly moan as a protest. "I do think you are due for a punishment. No one runs away from me. Including you, little Bee." You flinch.

You notice the subtle glare that Aemond gives Aegon when he uses his own nickname for you. You fake a smile and try to tell the truth. You were stolen. ''I was stolen. I never wanted to leave. Well, perhaps I did. But never to Dragonstone. I know how dangerous the Blacks are." You hope that they do buy this lie. You do not hate nor love the Blacks. You were perhaps close with the children, but war changes perspectives. You must do what you can to make sure your house survives. You see that now.

Aegons hands caress your face before you are kissed on your lips. "You are adorable when you lie. Aemond, I assume you have something in this room that can cause our little bee quite the displeasure?" Your folds are rubbed, and your mouth is covered with Aegons hand when you speak.

You know that Aemond is a rough man to please. Aemond loves inflicting pain. Perhaps Aegon as well, but Aegon is kind and makes sure there is pleasure and gentleness. Aemond does not care. Aegon makes love to you. Aemond fucks you.

Aegon loves you. Aemond is obsessed with you. "I have a few things." The way the Kinslayer speaks tells you all you need to know.

[duhdumb89]

A Forbidden Happiness | Chapter 32

Jiayi flinched as flames erupted from the fire breather's mouth. The New Year's banquet was well underway, the courses flowing in and out like water, and each performer was more talented than the last. Xiang pin laughed happily, clapping and cheering. The other guests were just as entertained, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. It looked like everyone had forgotten about The Empress Dowager's fall just as quickly as it happened. Jiayi couldn't imagine that a woman like The Empress Dowager made many friends. Jiayi was sure that everyone had stood up, not out of care, but just to see how badly she was hurt with their own eyes. Xiang pin put on a crafted face of concern but had to hide her smile behind a handkerchief all throughout the first course.

After The Empress Dowager had been carted out, the merry energy didn't take long to return. Even her seat at the head of the hall wasn't empty for long.

Dowager Noble Consort Ling looked out of place up there next to The Emperor. The Empress Dowager was fundamentally flashy, forcing every eye to gaze upon her jewels, gold, and silk, while Dowager Noble Consort Ling existed in a state of gentle regality. Of course, she wore rings and gold and jade, but it wasn't an assault on the eyes to look at her. There was one strange thing about her, though.

Her feet.

They were lotus feet.

At first, Jiayi had thought that perhaps Dowager Consort Ling was fragile in her old age when she needed two servants and a staff to help her up to the elevated platform, but when her skirts lifted, a pair of pointed childlike feet poked out. Jiayi hadn't known that the late Emperor had a Han clanswoman as one of his women, let alone one that reached such a high status. Jiayi's eyes danced away from Dowager Noble Consort Ling and settled on Prince Han. He sat stiffly between his brothers, sipping quietly at his wine as they talked over him. He glanced over at her, and Jiayi smiled softly at it. He smiled back, hiding the curve of his lips behind his cup.

The fire breathers left the hall, and a beautiful group of dancers swanned in, decorated in soft, flowing silks. The tempo of the music changed, preceding the crashing symbols and transforming into a sweet, gentle tune. The dancers swirled about, twisting and stretching their lean bodies, their skin glistening under the candlelight. Jiayi couldn't watch the end of the performance as another course began, and she busied herself serving Xiang pin. When she looked across for Prince Han again, his chair was empty.

Jiayi thought nothing of it. She waited for him to return, but his chair remained vacant after two more dances and another course. Unfortunately, Prince Han had already tired of the festivities and excused himself.

With the clash of the gong, the acrobats flew into the air, sending Thunder into a fit of hysterical barking in Xiang pin's lap.

An pin sighed loudly, "Xiang meimei, can't you do something about that dog? It's giving me a headache,"

It was the first thing An pin had said to Xiang pin all night.

Xiang pin fed Thunder a bit of food from her plate, "She's just being a fine patron of the arts and showing her appreciation, jiejie,"

An pin rolled her eyes, "It can't show it's appreciation somewhere else?"

"Well, Thunder should stretch her legs. Here, Jiayi, take her back to Chengqiangong,"

Jiayi tucked Thunder under her arm and left the hall. She took a hearty lungful of the night air before beginning her trek. When they were barely past the courtyard, Thunder began to squirm and huff. Jiayi wrapped a cord around the dog's neck and let her sniff around. She led Thunder to a patch of grass. Thunder sniffed and sniffed but made no moves to go to the bathroom. Thunder pulled at her leash, straining to go back in the direction of the banquet.

"We can't," Jiayi said.

She pulled Thunder back into her arms, and the pug released an unholy screech. The sound must have been alarming because before Jiayi knew it, she was surrounded by a charge of red-coated Imperial guards. She dropped Thunder to the ground, who snuffled and went quiet.

The fierce look on their face morphed from fury to confusion in a flash when they realized the source of the horrific noise was a fat, little dog.

"Keep that thing quiet," A guard ordered before they made their retreat.

"I'll go with her, sir," a voice from the back of the crowd said.

Jiayi stiffened. She didn't want an escort of any kind with her. Her mouth opened to protest but turned into a smile when Lingxiu stood before her.

"Lingxiu," she said, "Molan didn't tell me you were here. I hope you know she'll be very mad you didn't tell her your shift changed,"

A rosy blush appeared on his cheeks, "Just-just don't tell her. Worry more about this beast,"

He leaned down to pet Thunder, but she had none of it and viciously snarled at him. The dog huffed before tugging on the leash again.

Jiayi sighed, "I don't know what's wrong with her. She bothered An pin, so I had to take her away,"

"Let her sniff around. She's so fat she'll tire herself out," replied Lingxiu.

Personally affronted, Thunder nipped at his boots. Jiayi let Thunder lead them around the side halls while Lingxiu waxed poetic, in his own way, about Molan, their mothers, and how much his feet hurt standing around.

"They sound worn out," she said with a sly smile, "You should ask Molan to sew a new pair for you,"

While Lingxiu sputtered, Jiayi realized that Thunder had led them to a storage shed in the furthest corner of the courtyard. Thunder scratched at the door, whining.

"Stop that," said Jiayi, trying to pull Thunder away.

Thunder strained against the leash, grunting and snorting. Jiayi sighed. She would just have to pick up Thunder and suffer through the squealing. Maybe she could sprint out before the guards scolded her again. She braced against the door to grab Thunder, and for a moment, it sunk inwards before snapping taught.

As if someone was pushing it from the inside.

Jiayi stood up and pushed against the door. It creaked open for a second and then snapped closed.

"Someone's in there," Lingxiu said.

He knocked on the door, "Open up,"

There was no response.

"Open up," he said again, "Either deal with one Imperial guard or 20. Your choice,"

There was more silence before the quiet night was interrupted by a harsh sob. It was a woman.

"Guniang," Jiayi called out, "Don't fret. I'm a maid from Chengqiangong. Do you need help?"

The sobbing stopped before the door was wrenched open.

"Hupo?" Was the only thing she could utter before Hupo threw herself into Jiayi's arms.

"You have to help me!" She wept in Jiayi's chest.

"What's wrong?" Jiayi asked.

Hupo tearfully recounted stepping away from the banquet to use the bathroom and being grabbed by a group of eunuchs. They tossed a bag over her head before she could see who they were. They dragged her to the shed, stuffed her inside, and barred the door. She didn't know how long she was stuck inside the dark room before the door was wrenched open, and a man was shoved inside.

"A man is in there?" Asked Jiayi, "With you?"

Hupo peered up at her, her eyes wild, "It's the truth. I'm not lying–I swear, I swear,"

She stopped her babbling to sink to the ground.

"You have to believe me," she begged, "Please,"

Jiayi helped Hupo to her feet. She understood the desperation. If word got out about this, not only would Hupo be put to death for adultery* but it would be a heavy stain on De gui fei's reputation as well.

"Don't worry, I'll help you," said Jiayi. She looked at Lingxiu, "Could you look inside?"

He nodded and walked into the shed, his lamp held high. There was a muffled curse.

"It's Prince Han,"

Jiayi gasped. Prince Han hadn't left the banquet at all. Someone had taken him!

"Is he alright?"

As much as Jiayi wanted to rush in and see for herself, Hupo was barely keeping herself upright.

"He's breathing," Lingxiu replied, "But there's something wrong. It's like he's drunk, but I can't smell any wine on his breath,"

"Was he beaten?" Jiayi asked, lips trembling.

Lingxiu came back outside.

"No, not that I could see," He paused, "Prince Han looks...drugged,"

Drugged?

The dots connected in Jiayi's head so quickly that it made her head spin.

"You have to get him out of here," she said.

"What?" said Lingxiu.

"You have to get him out of here!"

---

Shen huang gui fei fought to keep the smile from her face as she trailed leisurely behind The Empress. When the time came, she would run to The Empress's side, aghast at the shocking sight of De gui fei's maid and Prince Han caught in the act. What a scandal! The only thing that would make it better was if De gui fei were also here to see it in person. Well, she would soon see the haughty look wiped off her little sister's face. She wondered what the most appropriate punishment should be for harboring a whore for a maid.

Flogging?

Should she have Jingse slap De gui fei across the face in front of the entire back palace?

Demotion?

Taking away her honorary name?

The possibilities were endless and The Empress wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop her. Not when her precious "son" was in the center of it. While His Majesty was fond of Prince Han, the moment the already circulating tales of his whoremongering hit the ministry, she was sure he would be demoted and exiled from the palace.

Two birds with one stone. Nice and tidy.

However, things became significantly messier when they arrived at the shed, the doors splayed open to see...

Nothing.

Shilan, the maid who informed Zhang Wei of the suspicious sounds, gaped at the empty shed before turning around and dropping to her knees.

"You–Your Majesty–"

"You dragged us out here for nothing?" The Emperor asked.

Shen huang gui fei glanced at Jingse and A'Fang. Where the hell did they go?

Shilan shook her head, "I wouldn't dare. They–they must have escaped!"

"They certainly couldn't have gone far," Shen huang gui fei said, taking her place at The Emperor's side, "Guards. Look for anyone running about where they should be and bring them back here. Quickly!"

Of course, things were going too well. Shen huang gui fei glared down at Shilan. Now, she would have one more thing to dispose of.

"Your Highness, look," said Jingse, "The guards found someone,"

Shen huang gui fei peered into the night, hope welling in her. Running away from the crime scene was even better, wasn't it?

Said hope was dashed when it became clear that guards had only found two girls. De gui fei's maid and–

Xiang pin's maid?

Shen huang gui fei prickled with rage. How had that bitch managed to foil her plans?

"It was her!" Shilan said, pointing at De gui fei's maid, "She-I saw her go into the shed with a man!"

"Hupo?" Asked The Empress, "Where did you come from?"

"Replying to Your Highness, I felt sick and was in the washroom. I tried to make my way back to De gui fei, but I felt too weak. Jiayi found me and was helping me back to Chengqiangong to rest,"

"Your clothes look so rumpled, Hupo meimei," said A'Fang, "And you're so flushed. As if you're in a hurry,"

"A'Fang jiejie is correct," said Xiang pin's maid, "The cold weather and the excitement of the New Year have made Hupo's...time of the month more difficult. She wanted to hurry and change as quickly as possible,"

The Emperor shut his eyes in disgust at the mention of the maid's period. Shen huang gui fei despaired as she watched his shoulders relax. It was over. Xiang pin had bested her.

"Deceiving the Emperor is a crime," Wang gugu said, looking down at the loose-lipped maid, "Guards, arrest her,"

As the guards grabbed Shilan by the arms, she pleaded her innocence and looked beseechingly at Shen huang gui fei. Before any nonsense could come out of her mouth, Jingse spoke.

"How dare you dirty His Majesty's ears with such disgusting lies. Who knows what other stupid lies her tongue could spit out,"

Wang gugu nodded, "Quite," she turned back to the guards, "Cut out her tongue,"

Shilan went white in shock, continuing to plead and scream as she was dragged away.

Shen huang gui fei swallowed her anger and put on a pleasant face for His Majesty. That bitch may have ruined her plan, but she could at least salvage the night by bringing His Majesty back to Zhongcuigong. As she brushed her hand against his golden cape, The Empress spoke.

"You've been standing out in the cold for some time, Your Majesty. Would you like to return to the banquet?"

The Emperor sighed, "The night's already ended. To Yikungong,"

Shen huang gui fei kneeled in respect as The Empress managed to steal His Majesty away again. She must've stood there for some time because Jingse gently squeezed her hand.

"Your Highness, if you'll hurt yourself if you kneel for so long,"

Taking a deep breath, Shen huang gui fei straightened. She turned around and looked at Xiang pin's maid. She smiled.

"Thank goodness Hupo had the luck to run into you. Who knows what could've happened if that maid tricked The Emperor? You're Xiang meimei's Jiayi, aren't you?"

"Yes, Your Highness,"

"Hmm," Shen huang gui fei said, "Lucky indeed,"

–––––– *A palace maid was technically the lowest unofficial harem class (guan nu zi). So they still belonged to The Emperor (even if he never slept with them and they got to leave the palace after their 10 years of service). If they were caught having a relationship, it was considered cheating on The Emperor and that was a heavy crime.

A/N: ah yes, this chapter is very late. I apologize, adulting is trash. 

[the-fire-eyes]

Chapter One- Abdul

I watched from my balcony as the girl flew over the ravine, the black dragon wings unfolding from her back as she jumped. Those damn rebels were fast, and we had still to catch one of the sneaky devils.

But they were outnumbered, or so my father told me.

I went inside and turned to the mirror, brushing my short, brown hair out of my face. I wondered what I would look like with wings, then shook my head. Such thoughts were treason.

I was fully, one hundred percent human, and I should thank the gods for such luck as to be one of the only 100% pure-blooded people in this miserable city. 

We were the superior race, not tainted by demon blood. No freakish anomalies. 

No unholy powers. 

Not like the rebels.

Most of the citizens of The Split had at least a little bit of demon heritage, but not all of them had the Curse of the Fire Eyes, as I had heard some of the nobles calling it.

I was pulled out of my musings by my father calling me from the other room. 

“Abdulimahed, come here. Your tutor is waiting for you, and you are sulking in your room. It is very important that you learn the ways of this kingdom, so that you will carry the honour of hunting the rebels, and one day defeating them.”

My father always talked like this. Formal and stilted, always calling me by my full name. Even the servants called me Abdul, or at least Master Abdul. Abdulimahed sounded so strange and cold.

My mother used to call me her fierce little abol, a creature like a huge winged lion that made its home in the ravine. People said it meant courage and strength to see one.

Peasants and their superstitions. The only thing an abol would bring you was death. 

I sighed and left my room, walking down the hall to the room where my tutor was waiting. Doro was a tottering old man, who would drone on for hours about the history of the Demon Wars, and how the bloodline must remain pure. 

He was right, of course, but he could be less boring about it.

I braced myself for a torturous lecture about the history of our bloodline, and hoped he would fall asleep, as he sometimes did. 

Then I would simply leave, and go to the gardens, the only place I could be alone. Most of the other nobles didn’t have much regard for beauty, at least beauty that wasn’t their own. 

I would walk among the flowers, stopping at my favorite bench, with a beautiful view of a climbing karo vine. I would lean back against the cushions and enjoy the cool shade of the palms…

“Master Abdul, need I start again? You do not seem to have been paying attention.”

I blinked out of my daydream. “No, Doro. I was only deep in thought, considering the lasting effects of the Demon Wars upon the populace of  Harotume.” 

“Hmmm. Pay better attention.”

Harotume. The ‘official’ name of the city. I didn’t see why Doro insisted on it. My father was the only one I know who called it that. 

The Split would always be The Split, as it had been for centuries. 

Although I supposed there was no reason why we should let the demon-tainted peasants choose the name of the city.

I realised I had been daydreaming again, and had not heard most of Doro’s lecture. I supposed that I should be more concerned, but I was just glad to have gotten through it. 

After all, there could be nothing worse than the old man’s boring lectures, right?

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