#That's when Reynauld understood

[dono-cho]

I do want to draw more HCs but have been playing Kenshi lately (it reminds me so much of old Fallout!!) 🥲

But! Will decide to sort of briefly write it here, it's about Dismas before the events of Darkest Dungeon 1.

15 years ago he rose up to become a bandit chief around the area, the Gutter Rats as the thieves call it. Thing is, that was Vvulf and his Wolves' turf too, and there was a gang war.

Funniest thing is that the D-man never carried about the power or influence but rogues flocked to him because he was just too damn good at robbing and killing.

Also in that 5 years of gang war (before a delicate balance of peace was achieved) Dismas kind of like, showed a bizarre talent for tactical strategy, it's the main reason how the Gutter Rats kept alive so long with the smaller size of influence they control

It did carry over to how he manages the Hamlet and their civilians and heroes, just one of the strange skills Reynauld notices he has

[iluvdutchherring]

Dynamics of these three for my future fics

Junia & Bonnie:

I hc that Junia's 6-8 yrs older than Bonnie. When Junia's expelled from St. Marthas, Bonnie was still too young to guard the holy fire.

Junia felt a subtle sense of connection with Bonnie upon realizing that she wasn’t the only one who had struggled to adapt to the repressive life of the abbey and had once wanted to escape. However, after learning about what Bonnie had gone through, Junia might have felt a twinge of guilt—wondering if her own past mistakes had somehow influenced Bonnie, planting the idea of fleeing that wretched place, and ultimately leading her to such a miserable state.

On a journey through unfamiliar roads, the small link from the past became surprisingly significant—a comforting sense of familiarity in finding someone she knew, even if they hadn't been particularly close back then.

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Paracelsus & Junia:

The physician betrayed her medical ethics, and the nun abandoned her chastity—through others' eyes, they were two sides of the same coin. Neither fully understood the other's field of expertise, but they fought together with seamless cooperation.

Junia wasn’t a preachy zealot; she didn’t grow agitated when her beliefs were challenged. She acknowledged the contradictions and hardships within her faith. At first, Paracelsus couldn’t quite grasp this kind of steadiness—after all, the world of science often thrived on impatience, speed, and competition. But over time, she came to realize that Junia was simply confronting the unknown power in her own way.

Junia’s faith was expressed through caring for others, rather than preaching scripture to non-believers like Reynauld often did. Because of this, Paracelsus couldn’t lump Junia in with the usual stereotype of “blind followers of the Light.”

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Paracelsus & Bonnie

One wants to test new reagents, the other dares to use them.

Understanding the principles behind combustion, Paracelsus used metals to create flames of different colors, fascinating Bonnie. Bonnie was probably the third person—after Bigby and Junia—who would patiently listen to her talk about chemistry. Sometimes, Paracelsus even tried crafting small combustible gadgets for Bonnie to use in combat.

Both of them are in their early 20s, so their relationship feels like a mix of peers and mentor-apprentice.

[coffee-in-veins]

Hey there,

Sorry to hear about the entire shitfest with the DD contest and I think you argued your case well. It adds insult to injury that you showed your picture beforehand but the disqualification came right at the end of the deadline.

It's also double standards that Dismas' manspread bulge in the CC is fine, so is Amani and Audrey's backstory but someone has a seriously troubling view on what counts as erotica and they kick you out for it.

I saw this picture and thought "this looks familiar" but I couldn't really place why until you showed the For Honor reference (shame on me, I played that game like an addict for a while, even made a Reynauld character) and that is a pretty cool kill move. And you did the reference justice.

I hope that in time you will be able to look at the piece and not think of it as a waste of time. Sometimes it's hard to love a product when the people behind it disappoint us so much.

I for one would like to thank you for sharing your wonderful art with us and wish you all the best!

hello hello o/

thank you for reaching out to me. i really appreciate that. those two days were a mess and a half, not gonna lie. and i'm really happy to hear that you like the picture! the support shown for it definitelly dulled some of the "this is such a waste of my effort, love and care" feel, thank you and everyone else for it

the real salt to injury was that disqualification came *after* the showcase was posted. it's been an hour since all participants were shown in a new channel, and i started to get nervous and had to ask around who should i even talk to to get any info on what happened with my work. i thought that maybe i messed up and sent confirmation to rules from one email and the work itself from another... so the "too violent" (as i understood at the time) disqualification was like a kick to the throat.

when i started posting about the fact that i was disqualified for "violence" and people started wondering, then the mods came into picture. and the first one who contacted me even was on my side, seeing this as some mistake as well. so i had my false hopes.

i didn't include those snapshots because they were basically a couple of words with a promise to look into things. it was Lux, if anyone is wondering.

then the gem who wasted a few hours of my life appeared, trying to gaslight me into believing that incel interpretation of an execution pose is somehow my fault... you know the rest. by that point i wasn't meek or baffled. i was pissed.

now i'm mostly numb. double standards are the way to go, i suppose. when the guy argued that depiction of canonical events is bannable in the Hellsing he brought out of nowhere, i knew it was a lost cause.

heh, glad to hear you faintly recognized the pose and think i did it justice! that's always reassuring to hear. a small part of me wonders if it would've helped if i sent those pictures and video alongside the progress pictures we were required to send. most likely no. maybe i'm just trying to see if there was anything i could do to make things work... a faulty way of thinking, i suppose. the burden of evidence for accusation is on the accusing side, after all, and there was no evidence provided. and again, most of me just hopes for feeling closure in a day or six.

thank you again for your kind words and reassurance! it means a lot to me <3

p.s. also i know what my author's notes for each and every RRR chapter will be from now on ;}

[mnmovdoom]

i personally melt from this one

meme: eyelid kisses

Here's some Reymas just for you!

(I am awfully out of practice from these two. That's what happens when you just write about Tardif and Damian.)

Whenever the bloody bucket came out of Reynauld’s face was a time of celebration. Don’t mind Dismas, he understood the importance of headgear and he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a certain appeal to staring at a faceless suit of armour. 

But Dismas was also a simple man who’d rather look Reynauld in the eye and see his expressions range from fondly exasperated to truly exasperated. ‘sides, the sir knight was quite handsome and keeping that lovely mug of his hidden inside the bascinet was a crime. 

(Trust Dismas to know about crime!)

Anyway, for the time being, Reynauld’s bascinet was resting on the dirty tabletop and Reynauld’s face was exposed while he ate the sorry soup that was the pride and joy of the tavern. 

Or tried to eat, because Dismas, not wanting to miss a single moment of free-access to Reynauld’s face, was already acting. He was probably being exceedingly gross, that with planting obnoxiously loud kisses to Reynauld’s cheeks in the middle of the tavern, crowded like it was with a handful of mercenaries. He was most definitely being rude with how blatantly he kept nuzzling at the crook of Reynauld’s neck, judging by how Tardif grabbed his plate and changed tables, heading to a lonely corner where he could enjoy the more civilised company of an empty chair. Dismas was positively clingy, if the way he wrapped his arms around Reynauld and leaned his head on Reynauld’s pauldron was any indication.

Reynauld, a good knight, endured the ordeal with dignity. At some point, he simply put down his spoon and waited for Dismas to get over all the embracing and peppering him with kisses, unwilling to spill any of the foul soup on his surcoat. 

Thing was, Dismas wasn’t stopping. Reynauld knew his game, he was very discreetly sending a message about the many advantages of Reynauld being bascinet-less. The knight wasn’t as stupid as he looked, he knew. But that bascinet was his work face, and there was work to be done even outside the dungeons - whether or not Dismas realised that, Reynauld was uncertain. Still, Reynauld decided to indulge Dismas. Wriggling himself free from Dismas’ embrace, Reynauld cupped his face and kissed Dismas’ eyelids.

That got Dismas to stand very quiet, expectantly.

“You do realise that, if you let me eat, we’ll be out of here and somewhere more private soon, right?” For good measure, Reynauld kissed Dismas’ eyelids again, then his forehead, and then gave him a soft peck on the lips. Somewhere to their right, Aundrey made vomiting noises.

“No bascinet?” Dismas asked, giving Reynauld a mischievous smirk that was met with a cocked brow.

“No bascinet.”

[bulwark-of-hope]

Reynauld, I have a confession: I'm beseeched by the temptations of the flesh, and my will isn't strong enough to fight them for much longer... could you please help me as a fellow believer in the light? Share some secret you use to keep carnal sins at bay, maybe? Surely you have no issues not succumbing to those, being a crusader?

The knight listened to the plea of this stranger and sighed. The pleasure of the flesh was an alluring sin, he understood too well. The mind was willing but the flesh was weak.

"I... understand your plight, my friend." he said with a comforting smile "But I'm afraid that I too, am not immune to the temptation of carnal pleasure. I can offer advice but be aware that there is no cure to that."

"When I am overcome with sin, I usually go to pray until the urge subsides. Some brethren seek salvation in the penance chamber, but that's not for me. I don't feel closer to the light through pain. Then there is taking a cold bath. Just sit in a river for a few minutes and pleasure is the last you will think about. But if even that doesn't help, well.." he sighed again "There is always chastity belts. I got a custom one made years ago." The knight said, clearing his throat awkwardly. He used it fairly often too, but he rather not admit to that.

[reynauld]

4 & 19

Some Random Questions || @openveined​

4. One to three scenarios where my muse would fight or go against yours?

first x

Three scenarios:

If Dismas made a decision that endangered other people, or injured people willingly. (He doesn’t go around randomly killing people so that’s really not an issue). Reynauld has no issue standing his ground on this. The less people get hurt, the better for him. He’s manhandled him when he got Crimson Cursed and he has NO problem knocking him the fuck out if he’s going around and trying to bite without any control.

The second is if either one of them got nabbed by the Siren. If Dismas got grabbed he’d attempt non lethal force, if at all possible (which will end up with him getting SHOT or STABBED). If Reynauld got grabbed he’d trust Dismas to beat sense into him and forgive him for the absolutely nasty welts later. Dismas never misses a strike.

It’s hard for me to think of more because they’re absolutely on the same side at all times. Last one would probably be in the Butcher’s Circus. She tends to pull people in and if they end up on opposing sides and had no choice? He’d honestly yield or again throw the game convincingly (because above all, Reynauld’s a good liar when he has to be). He has no interest in hurting Dismas at all.

19. Is there a specific person your muse doesn’t get along with?

There’s a few people in town. He doesn’t get along with the Abbot, and he definitely instigated that with a bad first impression. He has been stealing from the Abbot since. He doesn’t get along with the caretaker at all, and he doesn’t get along with Luther for religious reasons. Some of the Second Order and First Order instinctively do not like him. It’s no surprise. 

The second and first orders are more discipline based and revolve around pain and Reynauld is a huge reason of why the Third Order doesn’t. Him authoring the Tephos script (and he absolutely did) is VERY cult-y and revolves ENTIRELY around people being innately gifted with the Light. All three of these Orders are simultaneously studies of things that cannot be completely understood, and ALL three of them actually hold different beliefs about what the Light actually is meant to do. Reynauld is in a weird position of possibly being blamed for religious schisms due to the script of Tephos. It’s why he doesn’t address himself as Tephos, and why he tends to be more generalist in his open beliefs of the light around Second and First Order believers. Other religious characters contend with him if he leads on to it. 

Religious character pinboard connecting all the drama caused in the three sects because Reynauld definitely started a third of that drama. It’s also why he tends to tread really cautiously around other followers of the Light. He’ll socialize with unscrupulous types easily but...

[bluraaven]

Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 7

Dismas had seen plenty of blood in his lifetime.  And he had lost his fair share during raids gone wrong, and in the fighting rings behind bars such as Jubie's.  He had spilled some on cobblestone and asphalt, more on concrete and plain earth – but there was something wrong about seeing it here, in contrast to the clinically white walls and washed-out floor tiles.  

Next to Dismas, Guyot stood with his cup raised halfway up to his lips, open-mouthed and still as a statue.  Reynauld's brows had drawn together enough to almost form a single line as he took in the scene before them.  Dismas turned his head, following the other man's gaze until he saw red and then, a leg.  His eyes flittered away again.  He couldn't.  Couldn't look.  He-

He was breathing very fast.

The air felt very thick all of a sudden, and his own body very light.

 Why were they all standing around like calf-eyed dumbs?  

Dismas' tongue darted out to wet lips dry as parchment.  "We need to get outta here," he mumbled, no clue whom he was addressing, or who 'we' was, but the urge to move was becoming overwhelming, that age-old instinct to run and live.

The stale air of the corridor mixed with the aroma of cheap coffee and the warm, thick scent of flesh and Dismas' stomach cramped painfully enough to almost double him over.  He grabbed Reynauld by the forearm, because he needed something to hold on to stay upright, and because he still had not gotten a reaction.  "Reynauld!"  

The contact did what mere words couldn't, and Reynauld's head snapped around.  

"We need to get out," Dismas repeated, his own voice sounding curiously calm despite his rising panic.  He could see the refusal in Reynauld's closed expression, and desperately, he pressed on, "Who else's here?  Think." Dismas was sure Reynauld would be able to read his mind from the intensity with which he held the other man's gaze as he slowly said, "Who else has any dirt on yer big fish?"

Reynauld blinked and a split second later he understood, his eyes widening as realization struck him.  "Fuck."

Dismas watched as Reynauld punched the button that closed the doors to the interrogation room.  They slid shut almost soundlessly, hiding what lay behind, and Dismas felt only relief

 Thank fuck.  

He closed his eyes and swallowed.  He was still dizzy and his heart was beating so fast, he was terrified there was something wrong with it.  Was this what a heart attack felt like?  Wasn't he supposed to smell burned toast and have his left arm go numb, or some shit like that?

The radio cracked, and a distorted voice spoke up.  Reynauld answered, as more and more people joined the call.  

To Dismas it seemed like hours were passing while he shifted from one foot to the other, casting nervous looks around.  In reality though it could only be a minute or two before a pair of officers rounded the corner at a run.  Reynauld waved them off before either one could start reporting in, telling them to, "Stay with Guyot.  He can fill you in!"

Guyot, whom Dismas had almost forgotten about, snapped out of his own shock.  "Rey what are you – ?"

But Reynauld had already grabbed Dismas by the upper arm and was dragging him in the opposite direction.  His other hand was on his service weapon, Dismas noticed.  The police officers stared after them, but then Dismas had to tear his eyes away and pay attention to where they were going when they hurried down a corridor lined with doors, and another identical one, and,

 Was this entire fucking place like this?

Suddenly the deserted hallways seemed dangerous rather than merely empty.  Where had all the people disappeared to?  Dismas' heartbeat jumped before every corner, and he cursed out loud when one of the overhead lights flickered.

It was a relief when Reynauld pulled open the door to a room that looked a lot like the showers had. For a moment Dismas thought that's where Rey had taken them again, but no, this was a locker room.

"Wait here," Reynaud ordered, and let go of Dismas' arm.

Dismas nodded, looking around.  There was a bench, and he tried to sit down, but his legs folded under him halfway, his bottom connecting with the wood rather unpleasantly.  Dismas still felt like he was a leaf caught in a gale of wind; with no control over where he was going or what was happening to him.  He pressed both hands against his upper thighs, just above the knee, and he could feel the tremors become less.  A loud noise made his head snap up.

Reynauld had thrown open his locker, and pulled out two enormous chests.  They hit the floor with a thud, and Dismas did not have to guess as to their contents for long.  He caught sight of a variety of uniforms and other equipment, before Reynauld pulled out a suit that bore a striking resemblance to the military's combat gear, and began to dress.

Dismas could tell he was doing this regularly, as his every move was economical and practiced with no fumbling and no time wasted.  Once he was done, Reynauld pulled a rifle from the back of the locker, slapped in a magazine and loaded the weapon.

Dismas was pretty sure he had fired something similar on one of the raids.  It wasn't like he cared for the letters and numbers that were used to name the firearms.  As long as the trigger was where it belonged, they were all pretty much the same in his books.  

Dismas startled when the locker doors slammed shut again and Reynauld stood before him in full gear.  He was holding up a ballistic vest that was evidently meant for him.  Reynauld took the handcuffs off, but Dismas' hands and fingers still felt clumsy and useless.  Reynauld helped him with the straps, and while the vest was surprisingly light once he was wearing it, it was also tight – too tight.  Dismas was being choked, suffocated.  He slipped two fingers under the collar, tipped his head back, and gasped for air until the dizzy spell had passed.

Dismas blinked when a moment later a familiar, beaten-up bag appeared in his field of vision, dangling from Reynauld's hand.

"Are you a kleptomaniac, or what?" Dismas blurted out, before his brains caught up to his damned mouth.

"I'm thorough!" Reynauld replied, without a hint of amusement.  "Come on."

And he dropped the duffel bag in Dismas' arms.  Dismas clutched his bag to his chest, a million thoughts swirling in his head.   Why did Reynauld have his personal belongings in his locker?  Weren't they supposed to stay in prison?

Reynauld ushered them out of the room before Dismas could gather his thoughts enough to form a single question.  The corridors of the police department flew by, one by one, a crosshatch of hallways like the burrow of some beast.  Reynauld was leading them steadily down, until Dismas caught the familiar odour of damp and gasoline.

A moment later they passed a set of heavy, fireproof doors and stood in the garage, surrounded by rows of cars.  Reynauld picked an unremarkable brown station wagon that looked rather well maintained despite obviously being an older model.

Dismas got into the passenger seat while Reynauld sat down behind the wheel, sliding back the seat so he'd actually fit in with all the body armour on.  Dismas suspected that this was Reynauld's own car rather than an unmarked police vehicle.  It just wasn't neat enough.  There were crumpled gas recipes lying around along with a candy wrapper, and Dismas spotted a collection of Southern rock CDs in a pocket over the rear-view mirror.

Reynauld started the car and reversed out of the parking spot.  They left the garage via an automatic door, and Dismas had another look at the courtyard of the Riverside PD.

He pressed himself into the seat when they stopped by the guardhouse and Reynauld exchanged a few words with the police officer stationed there. Dismas resisted raising a hand to hide his face behind it but he also refused to turn and look, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.  It couldn't be that easy.  He'd been in an interrogation room just a little while ago; surely they wouldn't let him go.  Any time the guard would spot him, and–

–and then the bar lifted, and Reynauld shifted gears and they were through, and speeding past Riverside Park, the police department growing ever smaller in the distance.

Just like that.

He was out and–   He was–

He was shaking, Dismas realized.  His hand hurt from how hard it was clenched on the door's handle.  He tried to relax it, but that just made the tremors in his hands all the more evident.

Dismas' heart jumped when a couple of minutes after they had hit the highway the radio suddenly faded out to a continuous shrill ringing.

"Stop," Dismas pressed out through clenched teeth.  He swallowed convulsively when his stomach cramped and he could taste vomit.

"Stop the car."

Reynauld cast a quick glance to the side, then pushed the red triangle button and swerved over to the emergency lane at a speed that didn't help Dismas' already revolting stomach one bit, even though he appreciated the immediate action.

The car had barely drawn to a stop when Dismas fumbled for the door latch and cussed when the seat belt which he did not remember fastening kept him in place.  He managed to disentangle himself from it, and once out of the car, a hot summer afternoon crashed over him; humidity, hot blacktop, and exhaust fumes.

Dismas jumped the guardrail, staggering into the bushes on stiff, shaky legs. He didn't make it in far before he cashed into a tree and, with both hands braced against its trunk, retched until tears shot into his eyes. His last meal had been before Jubert's, and he couldn't even vomit properly.  Dismas instead suffering one bout after another of dry heaves until he hurt all over, like he'd just had a couple of rounds in the cage.

Bark flaked under his fingers, rough and tacky from tree sap.  He might be sick like a dog, drenched in cold sweat and coughing up stomach acid, but he was alive.

Dismas sucked up some saliva before he spit it out.  He leaned his head against the trunk of the tree, ignoring the scratch against his brow.  A spider fell out of one of the lower branches and he watched it descend on its silken string before losing sight of it entirely as he waited until the bout had passed.

Out here he could smell rotting foliage, rich earth and dry pine needles, and bit by bit his breathing became easier, and when the cramps subsided, Dismas slowly straightened.  His hands were unbound and Reynauld had not followed him out here.  Dismas was sure that the other man too was shaken up by what had happened back at the PD, or he wouldn't have let Dismas out of his sights.

Through the trees Dismas could not even make out their vehicle, although he heard other cars speeding by.  If he wanted to, he could get a solid head start.   His pack was still in the car but he could do without his effects, even if it hurt leaving them behind.  He'd run and grab the money he had stashed away, and then that'd be the last this city had ever seen of him.

Dismas wiped his arm over his face, sweat stinging his eyes.

If he wanted to get going, it was now or never.

But his legs remained rooted to the ground and the thought of being on the run again was a lead weight keeping him in place.  He couldn't run far or fast enough to ever escape El Abuelo's influence.  Hadn't he seen the proof of that today?  No matter where he was; free or behind bars, someday El Abuelo's goons would find him and then he would suffer the same fate Louet had.

And then who was going to take their revenge?

The thought hit him so suddenly that it felt like a physical blow.

Dismas had always known that the past would catch up to him, that one day he'd pay for his sins.  It was part of the reason why he had spent the last years of his life living the way he had.  Always on the move, never staying in one place for too long.  Why he rented cheap motel rooms where he could pay with cash and leave no trace.

He had grown tired of always having to look over his shoulder though, of the years he had spent in hiding, keeping his head down.  What good had it done him?  Somewhere under the fear and the pain, rage began to simmer.  It was the fuel he needed to make up his mind.

Reynauld was after El Abuelo.  Reynauld, who had a whole police department to back him up, and the resources necessary for such an undertaking.  His chances of finding and taking down the mobster on his own were still very slim, but if he wanted to succeed at all, he would need Dismas.

With newfound resolve, Dismas returned to the car.  Reynauld was on the radio again, but he looked up and handed Dismas an open bottle of water without asking.

Dismas nodded his thanks and took a sip, rolling the water around in his mouth, and spitting it out over the guardrail.   It helped to get the sour tang of vomit out of his mouth.  He drank the rest of it, before collapsing in the passenger seat.  His shirt stuck to his back, cold and clammy with sweat.  Dismas shivered, and crossed his arms, and waited.

"Are you good to go?" Reynauld asked in a business-like tone once he had finished his call.

"Yeah," Dismas rasped, his voice gone to hell after the acid had burned his throat.

The car vibrated as the engine ignited, and Dismas watched buildings and other vehicles pass him by without having an inkling where he was, or where they were headed to.  He was too exhausted to care and with the heating kicking in and them being on the move again, he was ready to lean his head against the passenger door and space out.

Reynauld seemed to know what he was doing, and Dismas startled awake as they pulled into a broad alley that was lined on both sides with plane trees.

The buildings here were mostly two-story, and an unappealing grey in colour, but the alley was real nice and he spotted the one or other well-kept garden, as well as some completely wild and overgrown ones.  Those usually belonged to the homes that were up for sale or rent.

On a plaque at the side of one of the houses, Dismas could read that this was a settlement originally built for the veterans of the Secession War, the revolt that had turned into four years of armed conflict, but had ultimately won the city and its lands freedom and independence from the South.

"Here we are," Reynauld announced. He reached over one of the gates and pushed down the handle from the other side in order to open it.

Dismas spotted that the letterbox next to him had the word Maurouard, R. engraved in a neat, cursive script.  They followed the gravel path through the front garden and up to the door which Reynauld unlocked with one of the keys from the inside of his jacket.

This wasn't just some place, chosen at random.

Dismas stepped over the threshold with a cold lump forming in the pit of his stomach.  His suspicions were confirmed as he took in all the details, the small plate that Reynauld used to put away his keys on, and the lived-in assortment of furniture that told him he was in somebody's home.

He found himself standing in a living room, with orange-tinted light streaming through a row of windows on the far end.   The sun was setting already, as a day that Dismas would not regret to put behind him, drew to an end.

He looked around and spotted a door to what he guessed was a kitchen.  Not far from it there was a big table with a bench and six chairs standing around it, on the other side of the room the space was dominated by a TV corner with a large and comfortable looking couch that showed signs of wear.

Dismas felt more lost in here than he had back in the police department.  He wondered if he should toe off his boots, because standing on the clean floor made him feel like he was leaving invisible muddy footprints all over it.  In the end he decided to do as Reynauld did, and left them by the dresser that had the key-bowl on top of it.

"Make yourself comfortable, I need to make some more calls," Reynauld said and then pointed to another door around the corner.  "Bathroom's in here."  

Dismas nodded, and despite Reynauld's words he still snuck rather than walked across the room.  Something felt wrong, there was an uncomfortable weight and tightness around his chest, and his posture was stiff and unnatural.  He was still wearing the bulletproof vest, Dismas realized.

The raw, tearing noise that the velcro straps made had him clenching his jaw, but Dismas was glad to get the thing off.  He left the vest on the table, not sure what else to do with it.

The bathroom Reynauld had pointed out also had a shower to Dismas' delight, and he quickly fetched his duffel bag.  He left it right there on the floor as got rid of his disgusting, sweat-soaked shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it to join the bag.  His pants soon followed, and then his underwear, and then Dismas stepped into the shower, his face turned up into the stream that was icy for a second or two before it turned hot.

For a brief, perfect moment, the world and all its worries ceased to be.

When Dismas turned the water off again, the walls of the shower stall were foggy and he shivered at the cold draft from outside.

There were towels hanging on a rack, but he didn't know how Rey would react to him just taking one, so he just used his old shirt to rub himself dry.

When Dismas returned to the living room, dressed only in sweats and an undershirt, he immediately noticed that there was bedding on the couch already.  He had a thick pillow, and an even thicker down blanket, and as if that wasn't enough, there was also an extra blanket.  

Dismas sat down slowly, for a moment wondering if he had ever gotten out of that holding ward.  Perhaps he was still in there, dumb and drooling, and all of this was just the conjuring of a feverish mind; from Louet's death to him actually sitting in officer Reynauld's living room.  But the couch felt very real, and so did the burning sensation in his chest and throat.

 The fuck was he gonna do now?  

Footsteps alerted Dismas that Reynauld was coming back, but he did not have the energy required to lift his head.  He already knew from one look at the bathroom-mirror that he looked like something that the cat had dragged in, his bruised eyes rimmed in red, his hair in complete disarray.  In other words, he looked exactly like he felt.  He might as well spare Reynauld the sight, and himself the look of pity.  

Dismas saw Reynauld's legs appear next to the coffee table, and a soft thud told him that Reynauld had just sat something down in front of him.  A moment of silence passed, and then Dismas could hear the click of Reynauld's throat as he swallowed, before going for a quiet,

"Here."  Reynauld nudged the object closer to Dismas.

"Thanks," Dismas rasped, blindly reaching out.  He wrapped his hands around something cylindrical, and hot, and held on.  When his he opened his eyes, a red firetruck was laughing at him.

Reynauld had actually made him a cup of cocoa.

"Feckin'... hell," Dismas muttered, his voice breaking halfway.

He'd never... Nobody had ever...

He bit the inside of his cheek, but the sting was nothing compared to the pain inside him.

Reynauld gently took the mug out of his shaking hands before he could spill its contents all over the rug.

Dismas slapped one hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears.  You ran with the gangs, you quickly learned not to cry, or to do so where no one could see, but there was no hiding the sobs that wracked his body.

There was nothing to keep him from falling apart – until Dismas felt Reynauld shift and strong arms wrapped around him.

Reynauld didn't say a word, just held him close, and Dismas thought about how Reynauld had been in the military, wondered if he had done the same for him comrades.  He didn't deserve this kind of comfort, but he took it anyway, and buried his face in Reynauld's shoulder and cried until he was hollow, wrung out of tears and emotions.

When Dismas pulled back, Reynauld let him go without comment.

Dismas rubbed the back of his arm over his face, and then reached for the mug and raised it to his lips.  He didn't have much of a sweet tooth, but the chocolate was dark and bitter, and drinking it gave him something to do other than think on the dark tear stains on the collar of Reynauld's shirt, or the vacant, slack look on Louet's face.

For all these years Louet wanted – had wanted – excitement, while Dismas was looking for a way to grow old.  It had ultimately led to them breaking up, although neither one was above a quick hook-up now and then.

"I loved him, ya know?"  He didn't know why he was telling this to Reynauld, the words just spilling out of him.  "Buncha years ago, when I didn't think the son of a bitch had it in him to sell me out, but still."

Reynauld looked uncomfortable, and with what had happened between them, Dismas didn't even fault him.  The man had a dead prisoner on his hands, and another one was sitting on his couch, in his home, telling him sob stories he neither needed nor wanted to hear.  If he weren't so exhausted, Dismas would be disgusted with himself.

But despite the circumstances, Reynauld didn't brush him off, and he didn't leave either, though he developed a sudden interest in his hands.  "Try to get some rest," he suggested kindly.

Dismas snorted.  As if that was actually an option with the picture of his murdered ex-lover still vivid behind his eyelids.

"If you need something to help with that – ," Reynauld seemed reluctant to finish that thought, but he did retrieve a small plastic bag from somewhere.

"What's that?"  Dismas asked, looking at the two pills inside and not really willing to think too closely about why that would be something Reynauld carried on his person.

"Flunitrazepam," Reynauld replied.  "It'll knock you out for a few hours."

Dismas looked at the bag, then took it from a surprised looking Reynauld and shook out its contents into the palm of his hand.  Then, before he could reconsider, he swallowed both pills with some water from the glass.

"Thanks," Dismas mumbled, not sure if he should be thanking the other man just yet.  Reynauld nodded, and for a moment it looked like he wanted to say something, his jaw working.  But in the end, he settled for,

"I'll be upstairs.  We'll talk tomorrow."

Dismas sighed, not looking forward to that in the least.  Reynauld rose and turned off the lights before he disappeared up the stairs, leaving Dismas in the semi-dark.  There was enough light from the street lamps to see by, but it mattered little.

Dismas' thoughts were darker than the night around him.

He gave up on trying to hold the images at bay.  He let them resurface, take over, allowed for the damned cell door to slide open again and again to reveal the blood, splattered across the walls and pooling around Louet's legs, and his slumped figure.

Death wasn't romantic or anything like what movies made it look like.  It was fear and confusion, and pain.  He knew, because he'd seen plenty of it.  But it was one thing to be shot during a raid, when you were running with the gang, and it was another one to be murdered while chained up, unable to do so much as fight back.

It wasn't even fair that after being betrayed, it was still Dismas who would be hung-up on his ex when he had other problems knocking at his door.

If the Wolf was cleaning up, then Dismas was on that list too.  He had left the outfit years ago, not agreeing with how things were run, not wanting to spend his life lying in wait on the northern highways, robbing travellers and surviving by the skin of his teeth in between heists.

And if El Abuelo had killed the Wolf, and was now covering his tracks, well, that did not put Dismas in a better place.

The drug was kicking in fast, because already Dismas could tell how the world around him was soft and blurry and how every thought and sensation lost its clarity and edge.

He just couldn't bring himself to care about it.

The red light of the turned off TV was a bright spot in the darkness.   There was a clock ticking away in the darkness, and above him, footsteps.  Something hummed, perhaps the fridge, and the house creaked and groaned as if it too settled for the night.

Faintly, he recalled the echo of words he had not paid any heed to when he'd first heard them.

 "Of course, if he snitches on me, I'm going to have to kill him."  

Who'd said that?  Someone... someone... Audrey!  She... they'd talked about Louet.  She had told Dismas about his arrest.  She had known, because... because of her girlfriend.  Did Audrey actually work for somebody?  Were their nightly stints more than a bit of fun and a lucrative side-hustle?

She was of his closest friends, but then she had been married to a mobster.  One who had met his demise in prison, and now his widow was rich and living a life in the lap of luxury.

Dismas swallowed past the painful lump in his throat.   No, he couldn't trust Audrey.  Or Boudica, for the matter, or... or... anybody.  He really could not trust anyone anymore.

The light had gone out of focus and Dismas turned his face into the pillow.  It smelled like Rey, and like the stuff he used to wash his clothes with.   It was a comforting smell.  As was the thought of the other man's arms around him, having some of his strength to cling to, and while Dismas found that he had a hard time holding on to any thought there was one which stood out bright against the darkness of delirium.

 I can trust Rey.  

[accusedofsin]

He said something about you two being more alike than meets the eye, whatever that means, birds of a feather or something

"Did he now, huh?"

Dismas willed a drunken, happy grin off of his countenance.

At first, it was hard, since what the other man said meant that the crusader cared, truly cared about him - like, what was the point of defending the ex-brigand if he, himself, was nowhere near to hear and appreciate it? There could be no gain from that.

But then the high of being cared for dissipated when he understood what, exactly, was said, and it made him frown again.

Because, rewarding as the feeling was... those words were wrong. Reynauld - a knight, a gentle oaf, a bloody hero who ventured into the bowels of hell not because he had no choice or a death wish but simply because slaying the evil was the right thing to do - couldn't be on one level with him. Simply because Reynauld was oh, oh so much better. He wasn't a drunkard, a shady thief, and a continuously bothered rut. His nose wasn't crooked, his muscles were supple, and his laugh was hearty and kind.

If anything, they were complete opposites.

And the thought that this man would defend him made Dismas shudder, jittery and too big for his own skin, and warm all over.

If what the stranger was telling him was true... he needed to find a way to show the knight that he appreciated the gesture.

[beethereal-knight]

I just gotta know how the religious heroes deal with the curse? Like, are they still permitted within the Abbey to pray and stuff? Do they form their own little ramshackle church to pray? Do they finally see the abomination for the sweetie he is?

The dreaded wall of lore-dumping rests below the cut

The religious heroes don’t take being cursed very well. And by that I mean REALLY don’t take it well. Generally, they try to stay away from blood moreso than the other heroes, and their association with light and holiness makes their experiences with the curse painful both physically and emotionally.

Reynauld was cursed first, and when he discovered the symptoms, he isolated himself from the other heroes and tried to hide it. He failed, of course, as his wellbeing declined and everyone else noticed how his behavior drastically changed. As the first person cursed in the hamlet, Reynauld was locked in the Sanitorium under the fear that he would kill or infect others, but after showing he had control over himself given that he had access to blood, he was allowed to continue going on expeditions. His treatment as a vampire got better as the others slowly understood more about the curse and how to deal with it.

The Vestal pretty much boarded herself in the Abbey when she discovered she was infected. She attempted self-exorcisms and tried to purge the curse from herself with holy water, but she did more harm than good since it was already changing her body chemistry. By the time other heroes busted in and intervened, she was too weakened by her own efforts to push them away. She still tries to take matters into her own hands from time to time, but the other heroes quickly learned to keep an eye on her.

The Leper took the curse the relatively well compared to the other religious heroes, but the combination of tissue-destroying leprosy and eldritch vampirism caused one of the most extreme mutations in a short amount of time among the heroes. Thankfully, leprosy also numbed the pain of transformation, but the regenerative ability of the curse makes every change hard to ignore.

The Flagellant took it as another trial to overcome, and his self-mutilating ways got to the point where he’s ripping off chunks of his own body. The curse, keeping up with the constant flagellation and flesh-ripping, pretty much nullified his attempts at purging himself. He might be one of the most bloodthirsty of the heroes due to his bloodletting habits, his constant exposure to blood, and his insistence on resisting indulgence whenever he’s not literally dying from thirst.

All of them are professional killers and hands of the Heir, so the Abbey would still be open to them. The Abbot, after seeing the heroes risk themselves to keep the Hamlet safe and purge evil from the land, is also willing to keep the Abbey’s doors open to help the heroes cope and let them know that salvation is still in reach. He suddenly starts wearing a dozen crosses and carries a jug of holy water with him at all times.

Though they still probably hate the Abomination for no reason, but having to deal with the curse made them a bit more sympathetic and understanding. They might even genuinely respect him if they had the courage or humility to admit it.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 21: Under the Moon

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

now available on ao3 too

Moon NOUN - the natural satellite of the earth, visible (chiefly at night) by reflected light from the sun.

* * *

There were a lot of things Dismas used to be doing under the cover of the night, followed merely by the yellowed eye of the moon. After all, his station all but screamed shadowy deals and dealing with shadows. So much so that being caught in the limelight of anyone’s attention caused him almost palpable anxiety spikes and wild heart palpitations. Sun was blinding and the light often exposed too much of things that preferred to remain hidden.  

But sneaking through the night? Oh, there he was in his element.

The reeking guts of the piss-stinking alleys or the cozy recesses so nicely carved into the fancy architecture of churches bred shade in equal measure, providing plenty of hiding places for those with keen eyes to see them. It mattered little whether he was running away or stalking his target or drinking away both sorrow and merriment of being still alive somehow, the night was his domain, his ally, his lover.

There was probably nothing the highwayman hadn’t tried under the night’s torn veil – from mere sleeping to adventures in brothels, throwing dice or throwing loan sharks off his tail, bleeding out or striking a finishing blow, feasting with easy money or hunting literal rats, laying in ambushes or laying low – everything was fair game. Considering his worst blackout binges, when the rogue came back to his senses in someone else’s clothes or without it altogether, not remembering a couple of past days or the activities they held in the gaps of his failing memory, even the occult shite wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility. Thankfully, it hadn’t given him an extra eye on the ass or something of the sort, so whatever it was, Dis was content to leave it safely forgotten in the fissures between his memories, out of sight and out of mind.

Surely enough, as the days of his rambunctious youth became the tall tales of the past which grew ever so slightly taller with each passing year, he started to prefer his nights cozy and comfortable rather than being the wild stuff of drunken tales. Preferably in warmth. Even better if Dismas was fed and just a tad pleasantly tipsy. Ideally, in some nice trusted company, inviting and willing, just like a cherry on top.

What he got instead was freezing his ass on the stable roof, which resulted in him having a horse on a lead, which was scared of him probably just as much as he was scared of it.

This was the bane of his existence, Dismas supposed, as he tried to discreetly direct the horse out of the stables and onto the side road leading to the outskirts of Hamlet with a doomed determination, to fall for the most inconvenient lover. Any normal woman – or man, for that matter, he could say from experience – would’ve loved some booze, some compliments, maybe something shiny and pretty to really get things going. Tell someone how dapper they look in their usual clothes, how pristine their hairdo is, polish it with more or less palatable booze and add a cherry of personal compliment, and half the deed is done.

But nope, of course not, Dis gritted his teeth, as he pulled the startled animal through the black bile of night. His bloody crusader had to be the special case. A case that didn’t make much sense! Of course, he had to be! Because the highwayman could never have good things. Or have it easy. Compliments were rolling off Reynauld’s head like water off a duck, or were met with embarrassment and chiding it he tried to be blunter. The zealot understood shiny only in a form of polishing his heavy-ass armour or the glint of church ornaments. Truly, all the sharpness Rey had, went not to his wit but straight to his longsword – and Dismas wished he was speaking metaphorically, but with how dense the guy was, he still didn’t know that regard.

Although, he could haphazard a guess given that he had quite a few chances to see the knight in the bathhouse. And frankly, knowing the possibilities considering the inking he had, was even more disheartening and tantalizing. Such an item, wasting away in the coffin of transept, phah!

So Dismas was left with few options but a very personal approach.

Which could only mean the bloody hoovesacks.

For Reynauld was insufferable when it came to horses. He could spend even more time speaking of them, waxing poetically about the arch of their necks, the grace of their legs and the beauty of their chests. Honestly! The zealot wouldn’t dare to look at a woman’s bosom but could spend half a day describing, in great detail, how eye-catching and glorious the front of a destrier is and where exactly one should look to get maximum aesthetic pleasure from the experience. Or how round and supple his rump should be.

And people called Dismas the deviant one, for sard’s sake…

The problem came from the fact that in Hamlet, save for some skinny, barely functioning plough horses of the villagers, who would be squashed by a knight, only one person had horses, and that person was the Heiress. Which added a layer of a tiny itsy-bitsy headache to the ordeal, since if the highwayman was caught, he’d be branded a horse stealer on his chest and hanged in the middle of the town.

If.

That was the only word the rogue clung to keep his stress in check.

Not to mention the amount of time he had spent checking and levelling out every nook and cranny of the glade, or what kind of nuisance was stealing enough torches to lit it all up.

The fucking zealous oaf should better be happy with this, considering all the pains Dismas had gone through to arrange everything.

[bulwark-of-hope]

🎭:  With which of your muses can you identify the most?

💬:  Write a banter between two of your muses. (Bonus: Sender chooses which muses)

Multimuse munday meme.

🎭: With which of your muses can you identify the most?

[This is a hard question because they all have deeply horrible parts about them. Reynauld and his zealousness and blind loyalty to faith. Tardifs bloodlust. Lucy is a compulsive liar and egolomania. Hildegards misandry. And Nines... well .. maybe I can most identify with him. He is gentle, no matter the abuse he suffered, refusing to fit a box that society wants to force him in and being an absolute doormat. Yep. sounds like me. Sans the abomination part of course.]

💬: Write a banter between two of your muses.

Lucy: Have you ever seen a saint when you dreamed?

Reynauld: No.

Lucy: But you sure have spoken with the holy light while you were praying, yes?

Reynauld, irritated: I pray a lot to the light, yes.

Lucy: But has it ever answered you? Like, has it spoken to you? In your mind or through a burning bush or something?

Reynauld: ... No.. could you please shut up now? I don't think I like where this is going...

Lucy: But a holy knight like yourself... I mean, if the light speaks to me, a lowly man of the common people-

Reynauld: Aaand there it is. Listen closely, 'friend' I know your type, I know what you are implying. And if I was you, I would shut my mouth really tight around the church, they don't like it when people like you show up and tell them the light has spoken to them and want to tell them how they have to do their jobs. Do you understand what I'm telling you?

Lucy, to himself: He called me friend! Oh my light! We are making progress!

Lucy: Of course, of course, people will be jealous, understood!

Reynauld, groaning: NO! For lights sake, they will burn you at the stake for being a heretic, you absolute fool!!