#The Red Book Ritual: Gates Of Hell | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkyquince · 2 years ago

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anyway, durge having weird ritual blood sex with gortash. Shout out to @angrelysimpping who sent the prompt from the sex magic book they were reading because we're both insane.

characters. lord enver gortash :3

content warning. dark urge reader. pre-tadpole era. gortash being viciously down bad, because he's very willing to have sex with durge while they're covered in blood and being watched by the cultists. exhibitionism. blood play. gore mention, along with murder. 2.6k words.

"Howerever, he also added a powerful dose of Tantrism by suggesting that magical work should be conducted in the nude, with the ritual use of a flail, and that rites should be led by a High Priest and High Priestess who would literally or symbolically couple at the climax of certain rituals." The Book Of English Magic, Carr-Gomm. P.

Gortash was not one to be summoned. Summoned, sent for, demanded to show up with haste at the whim of someone else. While he might schmooze with the Duke and hastily head over when Ravengard demands him to come talk, he is a man not to be controlled and demanded things of.

But you always were such a delicious thorn in his side. While others, like Thorm, would try to pry it out, getting their fingers bloodied as they struggled to grip onto it, Gortash relished the sting that came with every movement. The ache, the soreness of the skin struggling to reject the barb, the trickle of blood leaking down his side. He adored it. The cushy life he led in Baldur’s Gate had softened his skin, despite the sulfur of the hells soaked into it. You were refreshing. A tinge of pain that was inflicted on him in the House of Hope by the boatload, except this time, the claws that had raked down his back as a punishment had turned into something deeply pleasurable for him.

So when you sent for him, he’d never dream of keeping you waiting. Your letter mentioned something about needing his help with a ritual of Bhaal’s, so while he was looking forward to seeing you, he was quietly hoping that you weren’t about to blood sacrifice him or something. It would put a damper on the plans you two shared.

Gortash knows the path down to Bhaal’s temple well enough by now. He almost basked in it, enjoying the looks the other worshippers would shoot him as he made his way down, some questioning, some openly hostile and a select few viciously jealous. But this journey down was different. No stray cultists, whispering about guts and garroting. No weird little butler scuttling after him.

Nothing.

Except when the chanting reaches his ears.

The low, rhythmic voices, all whispering, all culminating into something strange, something wrong, something that makes the hair on his neck stand up on end. Gods, he really hopes he isn’t a sacrificial lamb here. He refuses to spurn an invitation from you, so he continues down, down, down, the chanting getting louder, louder, louder.

Entering the main sanctum, he finally sees all. Bhaalists crowding all the stairs leading down to the platform with the sacrificial altar, with no sign of you. Just a deep, dark, pool of blood, big enough for someone to swim in. Even more worrying.

His presence didn’t go unnoticed. The cultists were already parting for him to make his way through, and closing in behind him, barring him from exiting. The whispers quietened for just a second before resuming, even louder as he was prodded, like cattle to continue down. Before too long he stood on the platform, his palms itching. Just when he was about to demand answers, the chanting stopped, the disconcerting whispers cutting off into dead silence immediately.

The blood in the pool quivered and a body breached the liquid, coated in a deep, slippery crimson.

Fuck.

Gortash always knew you were sublime in red. But you were completely covered. Dripping blood as you step out of the pool, you don’t even push away the blood painting your face, not when you open your eyes and focus on him.

The entire room seemed to drink you in, your naked form, glazed with the very essence your father urged you to spill. It was only a few seconds of silence before the chanting resumed, but it was different this time. As if the previous whispering had been a chorus of begging, for you to emerge, but now? It was a demand, for the ritual to resume, for it to be completed, to taint the room further.

All the air in Gortash’s lungs had stilled, but when you came closer, it rushed out all at once. Your naked form was always deeply divine to him, no matter how many times he bedded it. While he paid for his whores and some married ladies adorned his bed, he often got tired of them, seeing them as run through, and no longer exciting. But you? Fuck. Hells, even your bloodied, nude form was already getting him hard.

“Sorry for the vague invitation.” You murmur, as if you two were at a soiree that he just got the invitation for. “Needed someone for this and I don’t think Thorm can get it up at his age.”

Gortash’s lips twitch, but your bloodied fingers curling around his wrist silenced his snarky retort. Nothing to say, not when you lead him to the altar.

“What-”

You hushed him, pressing a finger against his lips and leaving a crimson mark in its wake.

“Don’t worry. Just a ritual for each decade that passes. Better me than Sarevok, believe me, even if he has run out of his own spawn to give daughters to.” You roll your eyes but push him back, against the altar, forcing him down as you straddle him, staining his clothes.

He’ll never throw them out.

The altar was no soft bed, and while he wasn’t a squeamish man, the strong smell of blood was clouding his head. It was at this angle, that he noticed the cuts along your side, looking like marks made by a flail, even though the blood you were drenched in weren’t from your own injuries. Even the dozens of eyes trained on the two of you, there was a delicious string of excitement, pulling his spine taut and tight.

Gortash was no Bhaalist, not when he followed Bane, so while he was no stranger to certain rituals, he was unused to ones of this… Variety. He made a note to himself that he should read up on them, just in case he was about to have a Bhaalspawn of his own somehow. Not that there has never been an attempt to baby trap him in the past, but this was… Different.

You, naked and bloodied, on top of him with wild, dark eyes, the chanting of some, excuse his phrasing, cultist weirdos echoing in his ears. The only thought his mind could form as you dragged your hand over his lips, down his throat, was that if this was a ritual purely for Bhaal, he did hope He wasn’t aware that he was the one getting hard underneath his favorite spawn.

But that seemed to be the point. You gave him a dangerous smile, blood slipping in between your lips and staining your teeth, similar to when you’d bite him during sex and come away with crimson painting your tongue. As per usual, you had no patience for his belt, instead opting to barely loosen it and slip his trousers down enough for his cock to spring free. Thank the Gods he had, a self admittedly fat, “pretty” cock. Though, he doubts if he didn’t, you wouldn’t have bothered with him beyond your first tryst. But being humiliated in front of the dagger happy zealots was not high on his list of priorities.

His busy mind screeched to a halt as you slowly began to pump his cock, even as he was hard as hells. Your touch, even just a nudge or your fingers brushing, felt like lightning, like something otherworldly was deigning to caress his very mortal skin. Your eyes, so delicious and darkened drank in his expression, his slow, shallow breaths as you continued to practically fucking play with him, like a mouse under your claw.

“Don’t tease me.” He murmured, low and throaty, just for the two of you and you just smiled your wicked grin.

Instead of heeding his request, you leaned down, as if to press a kiss to his chapped lips, and he raised his head to meet your kiss, but instead of something soft, he felt your teeth bite down. Splitting his bottom lip and letting his own blood trickle into your mouth. Even with just a few seconds of your lips against his even with the pain of being bitten, he missed it the second you pulled away. You firmly pushed him back down, but the ache from slamming his head against the stone altar was muted, when you refused to let up on massaging his cock, the pleasure seeping into his veins like poison.

“Fuck.” He hissed through his teeth, wanting to lean his head back and shut his eyes, but there was something deeply magnetic lingering in your eyes that made it impossible for him to ever look away.

You yourself slowly grinded against his thigh, enjoying the way the Chosen of Bane squirmed like a rodent caught in a trap. Shame he was such a charming rodent, one that nosed against your ear and chittered oh so invitingly. Your older brother hated the scurrying little things so, he used to take you aside as a child, and whisper to you exactly how to catch them, and then make them squeal. But this rodent, with his nice dark coat and fiendish eyes, the one who squirms so nice in your hand? He seems a bit too cute to crush.

Especially with the way he was panting low and hard, his tongue dragging over his teeth. Blood smeared over his mouth and chin, and his clothes were stained similarly. Delicious.

“Just let me fuck you already.” He gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into your bare, bloodied thighs.

“Oh, that’s cute.” You murmured, low and heady in the way he adores so, at least in his room with the servants sent home for the day. You felt his cock twitch in your hand at the tone. “This is about restraint. Submission.”

Gortash hissed through his teeth again, but said nothing, just drank the sight of you in. You finally took pity, with his hungry, desperate eyes that you usually only saw at the meetings, with maps strewn across the table, as he talked about the plans for the future. It’s also a look that he used to give you when you two first met. Raising your hands to his lips and kissing the knuckles, eyes boring into you. It’s a look that grew in intensity each time you met, until the night he got you alone finally, dragging his hand greedily over your side as he leaned in to kiss your throat. You’d thought it would end up diminishing but it never did. It quietened at times, but he had the look of an addict waiting for his next fix.

Finally shifting up, you pressed his leaking cockhead against your hole. Enver could feel it slicked with blood, but his mind raced with thoughts about you getting ready for the ritual, writing out the letter inviting him down as you slowly fingered yourself, lubed up to your knuckles and imagining him. Or Thorm, since apparently he was also an option. Thank the Gods that the sight of you dipped head to toe in blood was far more arousing than that intrusive thought, otherwise he might have gone soft. No doubt if you two were ever having sex and he lost his erection, you’d butcher him right then and there.

No, just his cockhead slipping inside of you had him struggling to concentrate, the chanting beginning to rise in volume again. Gortash couldn’t even figure out the words, it just made his head spin.

You just watched him try to breathe slowly and evenly as you enjoyed the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you before you slammed your hips down, making him bottom out inside of you. His cock was your favorite, no doubt about it. Out of all the ones you’ve seen, flaccid and puckered in death as your followers stripped them of their belongings, hard and ready for the select lovers you picked out, unaware that they were bedding a spawn of Bhaal, his remained the best. Maybe it was because he was one of the few madmen ready to stick their dick in the God of Murder’s child, maybe it was because it was curved in a way that hit just right deep inside of you. Or maybe he was one of the few men that had the talent to back up their bragging mouth.

Gortash couldn’t help but thrust upwards, into you, basking in the whorish sounds of your moans. Your fingers dug into the section of his exposed chest, beginning to ride him in earnest, as if there weren't the cultists watching without heat to their eyes, as if watching you do your daily chores. Wasn’t exactly a turn on, Enver thought grimly, though if you would just let him finally take you to the brothel and allow at least the prostitutes to admire the amazing work you two put into having disgustingly dirty sex.

You rode him roughly, just watching as he struggled to look away from you, his own blunt nails digging into your thighs even more, as if trying to make sure to keep you there. Blood coated his cock as he thrusted up into you the wet slapping of skin against crimson glazed skin echoing throughout the room, the chanting drowning out your shared sighs and moans.

Fuck, it felt too good. He was dying to fondle your chest, pinch your nipples till they were all sore and puffy and so cute. The only downsides that he could only be half sure that you wouldn’t cut off his hand for touching anywhere other than your perfect fucking thighs. The blood was slowly drying on you, the glimmering sheen giving way to a dark matte look, pieces flaking off. You looked fucking perfect.

Gortash was clinging onto the edge, concentrating on not cumming before you did, but you wouldn’t be one of his favorite pieces of ass if you couldn’t see through him as if he was made of glass. With a nasty smirk, you leaned down again, mid bounce and kissed him right on the mouth, swearing the blood from his bitten lip. It was too much at that point. He was not some virgin who came from kissing, but fuck. Fuck.

He arched his back, pressing his cock deep inside of you as he came, filling you up till it began to drip out, along your bloodied thighs. You sighed, low and soft, tensing up around him to the point the poor fuck was seeing stars. The chanting slowly eased off into the casual hum of conversation, as you slowly slipped the Lord out of you, letting his cum spill out freely.

The cultists dispersed among themselves and back into the alternating halls as Gortash slowly regained his breath and sat up.

“A little head’s up would have been greatly appreciated.” He grumbled, hiking his trousers back up and tucking his softening cock away.

“And miss out on the chance of you chickening out?”

“I’d never.” He finally sat up and watched as the cum slipped down your legs to the floor, mixing with the blood to make a soft pink color. “... But if I did fail to show, any particular person you’d have picked?”

“Probably would have grabbed a random guy. Like the one who loves to skin people while they’re dying.”

Gortash quietly made a note to have that certain one jailed for some other thing as you stretched and glanced back at him.

“I need company as I bathe.”

You, of course, would never ask him to give you company as you washed yourself of all the blood and cum, but who was he to say no to such an appealing command?

#quincewrites #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #enver gortash #bg3 gortash #gortash x durge #dark urge

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dark-corner-cunning · 20 days ago

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The Devil in My Bones: On Murkrim, the Witch’s Shadow and the Horned Hush

Author’s Note:

This is the story of Murkrim—what I call the Devil. Not the devil they scared us with in church, but the one I’ve met in dreams, in dirt, in trance, in fire. This is the Devil I know. The one that stirs truth. That tests, teaches, and lives deep inside the witch’s bones. I’m writing it because it’s real, and it’s mine.

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My Devil Ain’t the Church’s Devil

They say every witch meets the Devil sooner or later. So let’s be clear right out the gate—Murkrim ain’t the Church’s devil.

It ain’t some red-skinned boogeyman made to scare you into behaving. It ain’t sittin’ in a pit of flames waitin’ to torture sinners. I don’t walk with a pitchforked parody of evil—and I sure as hell don’t worship fear.

What I do walk with is Murkrim—my name for the Devil as known by witches like me. It’s the one who stands quiet in the center of all crossroads. Who waits, not with damnation, but with a choice. A fucking mirror. A question.

“Are you ready to know what you really are?”

And let me tell you, that answer’s never comfortable. But it’s always necessary.

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Murkrim Is the Witch’s Devil

Murkrim isn’t a god. Isn’t a ghost. Isn’t even a “he,” really. It’s older than language and gender and all those tidy boxes we try to cram power into. Murkrim is the dark before the spark. The breath before the spell. The shadow behind the want. The Void in purest form.

It didn’t show up to me in books.

It showed up in silence.

Like fog settlin’ into the pine. Like everything goin’ too quiet in the woods—the birds hush, the breeze dies, and your skin starts itchin’ like the air itself is watchin’.

That ain’t peace. That’s presence. That’s Murkrim.

It’s what I call the First Want. The hunger the world had to become. It’s the Void—not emptiness, but the everything-and-nothing that births all things. Murkrim is the Still Root. The Horned Hush. It is choice, raw and unflinching.

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The Witch’s Devil Doesn’t Speak in Thunder—It Moves Through Ruin

I didn’t meet Murkrim in a field under moonlight.

I met Murkrim in the void of an eclipse, lying in my tub shivering in water black as ink, whisperin’ into the darkness with a voice I barely recognized as my own.

It was 3 AM at the peak of an eclipse, and the sky had gone still.

The kind of still that don’t feel holy—it feels hollow. And I was askin’ for answers. For truth. For what was mine.

Be careful with that shit, by the way.

Because Murkrim don’t give you answers like a fortune cookie. It doesn’t pat you on the head and hand you what you want wrapped up in silk and good luck. It rips the roof off.

Murkrim don’t speak in thunder—it answers with collapse.

That ritual cracked open my whole life.

The days after were like watchin’ the Tower card play out in real time.

Things I thought were sacred—my practice, my path, my relationships, my identity—gone.

Burned down with a brutal kind of grace.

It wasn’t punishment. It was precision.

Murkrim didn’t say, “Let me destroy you.”

It said, “Let me destroy what you thought was you, so you can meet the one who’s always been underneath.”

What Murkrim gives isn’t comfort. It’s clarity. It hands you the blade, and then watches what you do with it.

I came out of that ritual singed.

But I built again—from ash, from bone, from truth.

And what rose wasn’t perfect.

It was real.

So no, Murkrim ain’t evil.

But it is a motherfucker when it’s ready to cut through what’s false.

And thank the dark for that.

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This Devil Lives in the Center

Murkrim lives at the center of the crossroads—where all roads meet and all spirits stir. It’s where the witch plants her feet when every path is possible, and none of them come with guarantees. It is stillness in a place of motion. The moment before the choice that changes everything.

It don’t walk beside you like a spirit guide.

It walks through you.

Because Murkrim ain’t just a force out there in the dark. It’s in here, too. It’s the part of you that don’t flinch when you’re tired of playin’ nice. The part that knows when to cut ties, raise hell, speak truth, and light a fire under your own damn feet.

Murkrim is your shadow. Your want. Your instinct. Your pain-honed power.

It ain’t your enemy.

It’s your reflection, if you’re brave enough to look.

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Murkrim Comes in Many Faces

Sometimes Murkrim shows up as a horned figure in dream. Sometimes it’s a crow on the fence line watchin’ too long. Sometimes it’s the feeling you get right before you do something bold and terrifying and exactly what your soul’s been beggin’ for.

And yeah—I’ve heard it speak in that same voice as Black Phillip in The VVitch:

“Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?”

Damn right, I would!

But not for decadence.

For freedom.

For truth.

For sovereignty.

And that’s what Murkrim offers—not indulgence, but full-bodied, fire-in-your-gut, fuck-what-they-think living.

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We Are Murkrim’s Altars

I don’t pray to Murkrim.

I reckon with it.

I don’t worship it.

I live in response to it.

Murkrim don’t want offerings of incense and sweet wine (though I’ve left both). What it wants is you—whole, aware, honest. It wants your pleasure. Your sovereignty. Your rage, your lust, your clarity. It wants you unmasked.

We are Murkrim’s living temples and altars. Our truth is the offering.

When I stand at the crossroads—whether in the woods or in my spirit—I don’t always have the answers.

But I’ve learned to stand still, breathe deep, and say:

“Alright, Devil. I’m listening.”

And every damn time, the hush answers back.

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If this stirred something in your bones��

Don’t just keep it to yourself.

Leave a sign.

Share how your Devil speaks to you—or the first time you met your own hush.

And if you walk the crooked road with the Old Mothers, keep watch—I’ve got more to say, and Murkrim’s not done speaking.

#witchcraft #witch #traditional witchcraft #folk witchcraft #witchblr #appalachian witch

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just-some-random-blogger · 2 years ago

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The Dreaming Estate

Dream of the Endless x Gadling!Reader + Corinthian x Gadling!Reader

Summary: You inherit the Dreaming Estate from your recently deceased mother. She instructs you to perform a ritual for the house every month. One month, you fail to do so and receive a call from... The Dreaming Estate.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: alternate universe, fem!reader, mystery/thriller?/horror? themes, protectiveness, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: lmao if you like this thank @sloanexx for kinda pressuring me to finish this. cross-posted on ao3 Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9 @roguelov

12am. A full moon. The final day of the month. The phone begins to ring. Ring! Ring! Ring! No one answers. The ringing stops. It begins again. It rings until someone answers. You finally wake up. You roll over on the bed. Your lover clings onto you tighter. You grab your phone and answer the call from an unsaved contact, "hello?" His voice is deep and rich, "this is The Dreaming." It wakes you up, "w h a t ?" "This is The Dreaming." You pull your phone away. 12:05am. +1230XXXXX. "... who is this?" "The Dreaming." "The dreaming?" you sit up from the bed. "Yes." "What does that mea-" Goosebumps form when he calls your name, "Miss Gadling, you need to come home." "... who is this?" "The Dreaming." "As in the Dreaming Estate?" you sound panicked. "How are you calling me from the Dreaming? Who are you?" "I am The Dreaming." "..." "Come home."

"Baby, can you get me my coffee?" Cori points to the counter. I get his mug and the car keys, then hand him his drink.

"Thanks, sugar," he says, pulling his one earpod out as he turns from his laptop to me. He moves forward to give me a kiss and I knock the glasses off his face when I place my hand on his cheek.

I readjust his glasses as I pull away.

"Call me when you get there," Cori mutters as he turns back to his screen.

"I will," I head for the door and turn over my shoulder as I point, "make sure to take out the trash, okay?"

Cori puts the other earpod on and raises a thumb though he does not respond to me, "ah, yes, Mr. Takashi. We opened the branch in downtown New York about-"

The door closes.

I get to the parking and drive out of my apartment building, heading out of the city.

I grunt as I reach a red light, "fuck." This was going to be a long drive.

I can't fucking believe I was going to sacrifice my day off all because of that stupid prank call. I clench my jaw and turn to my bag in the passenger seat. I reach for the book in my bag, rubbing my finger on the browning pages.

It can't be because of this. And yet... I can't shake the feeling.

I drive when the light turns green.

"Relax," I mutter to myself, "the police didn't find anything," I take a left turn, "it was probably someone..." pulling a prank? But how did they get my number? How did they unlock the door? I swear I remember locking it when I left because my coat got stuck the last time.

"Fucking hell," I come to a halt when I am met with a bottle neck, "it's fucking Wednesday. Why is it so traffic?! Geez."

What if- I turn to the book in my bag again - it is because of this?

I take in a breath. Calm down. Forgetting to do the weird ritual last month has nothing to with this call.

And yet when I pull up to the Dreaming, parking just outside the gates, it's the first thing I want to do. I grip my handbag as I walk up the path to the front door. My phone was ringing Cori.

Though I knew the front door was open, I had the mansion's key in my hand. I turn the knob, finding it was, in fact, unlocked. I stuff my keys in my pocket.

Cori finally picks up, "hello?"

"I'm here at the estate," I retort as I step in. As nervous as I was to drive up here alone, I felt nothing while surveying the house. I didn't feel the creeps, didn't feel like an axe murderer was about to pop up. It just felt like home. After all, I grew up here. And although the land was large, it wasn't like I didn't have neighbors.

"Oh, that's good. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," I walk into the grand foyer, looking at the large curved staircase that connected to the second floor landing. I look up at the high ceilings and the chandelier that cascaded down like shooting stars. I walk into the kitchen, "everything really just looks normal."

"Well, it better," Cori chuckles, "the police in the area better not play because all the residents there are rich fucking Karens."

I snort as I survey the marble counters and head for the fridge I knew was unplugged and empty. I open the door. Yep, still unplugged and empty. It would be funny had someone left a cake though... I think.

"I'm just gonna do the ritual and come back home."

"Okay, sugar. You still want to cook steak tonight? I can go to the supermarket to buy some stuff."

"Yeah," I place my bag on the counter, "can you buy some cake too?"

"The red velvet one from 15th?"

I look at the empty cake stand from across the room. Its glass was collecting dust, "no. Blueberry cheesecake. I'm feeling sentimental." My mom used to make the best blueberry cheesecake.

"Okay then. See you later, bunny."

"Mmm, bye. Love you."

"I love you too."

I huff as I place my phone down and pull out the book.

The voice of my mother rings in my head: We must love and protect the Dreaming because it loves and protects us. When a bunch of evil men tried to burn the house, Granny Lucy survived because the house saved her.

I clench my jaw as I flipped the pages. I huff as I get to the bookmarked page, "don't question it," I tell myself, "just- just- it's better not to be the one who breaks this weird generational chain-" I look around the room and find a chill run down my spine. I shake it off and look back at the page.

My thumb rubs the paper and my face tightens when I feel something wet on it. I smell my finger, "shit." My hand sanitizer got on the page.

"Fuck," I lean forward and try to wipe the paper. The ink smudges. "Fuuuuck."

I go through my bag but find no tissues. It's fine. It's fine. I kind of have the words memorized anyway. Let's just say this awful Latin hex-shit and be done with it. I take the book in my hand and read the words the way I always did.

For the most part, I don't need the book to know what to recite but then I reach the part where I smudged and, just my luck, I can't fucking remember what to say. I know I'm not supposed to stop- fuck- don't ask why, I'm just not- but a pit of dread bubbles in me over the idea of saying something wrong. I decide to omit the words that were smudged in the end.

I look around the kitchen when I finish.

I grab my bag and my book and check the other rooms.

I go to the living room, the washing room, the study, the library, the main bathroom, all five bedrooms, the garden backyard, the pool-- every place... but nothing. Nothing happened. The house was just the house. And, honestly, I felt nothing. Nothing felt out of the ordinary, so I go home.

Ring! Ring! Ring! Your eyes widen at the caller contact. "the dreaming guy". You instantly pick up, "hello?" "The incantation didn't work. I am still here." Your stomach drops, "what?" "Come home." You suck in a breath. He had to call during your lunch break. "I will wait for you in human form." Your heart drops. "What?" "I will wait for you to return to me in my human form." "..." "Unless the thought disturbs you." "..." "..." "..." "..." "... are you... Dream?" "I am." I shudder, "the Dreaming..." "I am also." Fuck.

I drive to the Dreaming Estate after work. I try calling Cori to tell him about it, but he didn't pick up. I don't blame him though. He was swamped at work. I mean I was too, which was why this was insane of me to do right now. I left him messages though. Hopefully, he'll call.

I pull up outside the gates again, but this time, I sit in the car, clenching the wheel. My body is unwilling to get out. Why? Because of him.

A dark figure walks over to me. He is tall, pale, and dark haired. My heart races as he nears. I check to see if my door is locked. It is.

As he gets closer and I can finally make out his face, I rack my brain, trying to think if I've seen him before. The longer I look, more I am convinced this is the first time I've seen him.

He stands in front of the gate; he opens it for me.

"Miss Gadling!" he calls, "would you like to drive inside?!""

That was definitely the caller.

I don't respond to him. I do nothing but stare at him.

"Will you stay in the car the whole time?!"

I stare at him for a moment. He stares right back at me. I undo my seatbelt and grab my bag. I peak my head out of the window. I don't know why, but I find myself asking, "what were the missing words in the ritual?!"

The man tilts his head. He leans on the metal grill. A wind blows his coat back, "in luce et tenebris!"

I pull out my book and look at the page. I examine the blotted area, "it does look like that."

"You cannot perform the incantation outside!" the man calls, "please, come in!"

My eyes dart up to him. I suck in a breath. This was probably the worst idea ever. I look at my phone. No calls or texts from Cori. I huff and step out of the car.

The man is pleased to see this.

I slowly walk over to him.

He smiles. It is warm. As I examine his expression, it feels free of malice. And though his aura did not feel eerie, I am skeptical of him.

He reaches a hand out to me, "would you like for me to carry your things?"

I clutch my bag to my chest as well as the book still in my hand, "I got it."

"Very well," he says, making way for me to enter.

I watch him as he closes the gate, I watch him as he motions to the front door, I watch him as he walks off first and leads me in, I watch as he opens the door to my home, I watch him as he peruses through like it was his.

"I apologize that was unable to prepare anything for you," he says.

I knit my brows, "what do you mean?"

"You have not stocked food in the kitchen. I was only able to gather some strawberries from the garden."

See, any sane person would have called the cops by now, if they had a moment of stupidity not to do it before arriving here. But the thing was, he took strawberries in the garden, which means he knew where the strawberries were. The strawberries were behind a hedge in the backyard; you would have to go over the hedge to see them.

"How do you know where the strawberries are?"

The man straightens, "I know where all things are in the estate."

"Pah. Everything?" I raise a brow.

"Everything," he nods.

I scoff, adjusting the straps of my bag on my shoulder, "then do you know where Grandpa Hob was buried?"

"He was not buried. His ashes were scattered in the garden."

My breath hitches. I take a step back.

The man merely looks at me.

He's- no... He must have... how could he have-

"Where is the garden gnome placed?" I find myself blurting.

"In the attic. Behind boxes."

I give him a look. Nah... he could have looked there. "What about my diary?"

"Which one?"

"What?"

"You have one diary stuck in the gutter by the pool, and you have one hidden in the floorboards in the bedroom that used to be yours."

My skin pricks with goosebumps. My heart is racing. I take more steps back. I gasp and jolt when the floor creeks.

"Please," he raises a hand, "do not be frightened. I know you and you know me," he steps forward, "I am the Dreaming."

"Stop!" I bark, raising a finger, "don't come any closer."

He stops.

I breathe heavily and bring the book to my hands, opening it. I look at the page where the ritual is. I begin to read it.

"It will not work."

I ignore him and continue to read.

"You spoke it once before. It will work only at the end of the month now."

I ignore him still and continue reading, making sure to add the part I was unable to say last time.

"Those were not the words."

"SHUT UP!" I snap and turn to him.

He stiffens and looks down, "apologies."

I huff and lean against the wall. The man looks up at me as I do this. I bring one hand behind me and use my nail to pick at the wall, "when I asked if you were Dream and you agreed, what were you agreeing to?"

The man fidgets then rolls his shoulders back, "this. My human form is Dream."

He even knew that. My uncles used to tell me that the house was sometimes a man called Dream. I take in his features, the curve of his nose, the gleam of his eyes. To be honest, I didn't know what Dream should look like, save for the fact he was apparently very strong. This man looked like a he could barely lift things with how scrawny he was.

"What does the ritual do?" I clutch the book in one arm.

"It binds my spirit to the house."

I give him a look, "so you're a spirit?"

"I am," he nods.

"So you're a ghost?"

"I am not. I am the Dreaming."

"But you said you were a spirit."

"I am the spirit of the Dreaming."

I straighten up and release a breath. I go through my bag and pull out a pen, "so if I do this," I chuck the pen at him, "it'll go through you-"

It his him on the cheek and he grunts. He rubs his cheek and gives me a look, "that was most disrespectful."

"... ... ... sorry."

Dream sighs, "all is well."

I chew on my lip and begin to pace around. My eyes never leave him once. His don't either. He watches me walk around him. He places his hands behind his back. I raise a brow, "why did you call me here then if I can't... bind you back?"

"You are my master," he tilts his head back, "my function is to serve you. I will fade if I have no function."

I stop in my tracks and furrow my brows, "what does that mean?"

"It means if my spirit fades and someone breaks in, nothing will stand in their way."

"So you saying you're the protector of the estate?"

"Indeed."

"I thought you were the estate?"

"Is it not instinctive to protect oneself?"

We stare at each other for a moment.

I am meant to question him some more, but then Dream turns around and looks outside of the window. He mutters lowly, "someone is trying to open the gate."

"What?" I run to the other window.

"He is calling your name."

I look outside and see the man, "it's Cori!"

Dream turns to me, "who?"

I turn to him, "did you lock the gate?"

"I am barring him out."

"What?!" I shake my head and make a face, "let him in!"

Dream furrows his brows at this. I give him a look. He relaxes his expression and sighs. I turn to the window when I hear the telltale creak of the gate. I then run out the door and meet Cori halfway.

The moment I'm close enough, I hug and kiss him.

Cori embraces and kisses me back. When he pulls away, he looks at me with worry, "I saw your texts. What happened? Did you call the police? Is someone-" he stops himself when he looks up.

I turn around and look where he was. There was Dream, staring back at us.

"Who the fuck is that?" Cori mutters as he grabs and pulls me behind him.

And I don't know why, I really don't know, but I retort, "he's the butler."

Cori turns to me, "what?"

I look at him, "turns out... we have a family butler and he-" I turn to Dream back to Cori, "-he's the one who called."

Cori shifts in his spot, "you mean he's the guy posing to be the fucking house?"

I shake my head, "no. It was a misunderstanding. I-"

"Greetings, sir."

The both of us turn to the dark haired man who was now in front of us. Cori raises a brow at him while looking him once over. He bows, eyes not leaving Cori as he does so, "I am Dream," he straightens up, "keeper of the estate, in servitude of Miss Gadling."

Cori chuckles, "Dream, huh? Funny you should say that," he extends a hand, "Corinthian Dream," he tilts a head towards me, "Miss Gadling's beau."

Dream stares at Cori's hand for a moment. He looks up at him when takes it, shaking it once before pulling away.

"Shall I prepare bedrooms for the two of you?" Dream asks, turning to me with a softer expression.

"Nah," Cori answers, "I just need you to explain this mess of a prank call and we'll be on our way," he places his hands in his pockets.

A dread builds in my stomach as I watch the two stare at each other. Dream's expression darkens. Cori's face hardens as he adjusts his shades.

Knowing him, I was getting nervous. "Cori," I tug at his arm.

He ignores me as Dream gives a pinched smile, "of course," he motions to the house, "shall we talk inside?"

Cori tilts his head and smirks, "sure thing, butler."

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gildedguru · 7 months ago

Text

Necrocookicon

Propane hissed and tongs clicked, lips lisped and fire licked; the grill flared to life. Chicken hit the searing hot rods and sizzled against the gentle midday breeze. Lewis closed the case on the next savory delight, letting the meat bask in the building heat.

Ron raised an eyebrow at the assortment of spices laid out before him. “Seems kinda overkill.”

Lewis stood by the grill, waiting to flip the chicken–no timer needed. “Seven spices, just like your pops wrote. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Ron shook his head and mixed the bowl of seasoning. His grandfather seemed to have a unique style of grilling, going as far as seasoning the meat only after it was cooked. The spices were so potent that Ron could already feel the heat crawling along the wooden spoon, up his arms, and down his spine in spicy chills. The five decorative candles arranged around the bowl weren't helping.

Sweating from his brow, he looked down at the crimson concoction.It was a sight to behold. Just like the book described, the smell alone was painful, but captivating. Its deep red dunes began to swirl and a small cloud of the mixture blew away on the rising winds. Bless the poor fellow who breathed in that deadly haze.

Lewis closed the grill and lifted a plate piled high with delectable chicken. “Ron, we better get that stuff on here before this weather takes it all away.”

Determination in their eyes and chicken in their hands, the pair set to work, rolling the legs through seasoning that bit at their skin. As the unholy flavors of the seven deadly spices filled every crevice of the chicken’s scarred flesh, the winds began to lash across the yard. The pair’s aprons billowed in the tempest, but defiant to nature’s upheaval, they pressed on.

Once the last of the seasoning was whisked in the pandemonium, the whole world seemed to stand still. Ten legs sat on a messy plate.Beside them sat a leather book, untouched by the chaos.

Ron picked up the book and read from the recipe’s description, “Razing Caine’s Fiery Chicken! Wicked dark meat seared with fire and brimstone; tainted by seven deadly spices, this dish guarantees a flavor so sinful it’ll damn you straight to hell.”

Lewis grabbed two paper plates and tossed one to his friend, “Your great-grandpa wrote one hell of a cookbook that’s for sure.”

“Definitely, especially if all the recipes are that unique. Though the title Necrocookicon is still a little odd,” Ron said.

“I don’t care what he named it, as long as it helps us beat that hibachi chef, L.J. Dickens. We can’t let the new guy on the block take our champion title. Alright, dig in.”

Ron and Lewis were willing to take any measure to beat their new neighbor in the annual neighborhood grill off, but little did they know where that tome of unspeakable flavor would lead them.

When they bit into that chicken, the sheer malefic energy of the uncooked seven deadly spices would have torn their mortal flesh asunder and scattered what remained throughout the cosmos. Their souls, no longer chained to the earth, would take in the vast grandeur of the heavens and endless woes of the depths of Hell, momentarily recognizing their own insignificance before unspeakable abominations consumed every trace of their previous existence, consigning what may remain of their souls to an unknown purgatory beyond the reaches of any being–mortal, demon, or god. However, thanks to Ron and Lewis’ proper completion of the demonic ritual written by Ron’s grandfather, H.P. Lovecook, the moment they tasted the spice they instead found themselves in an unfamiliar landscape.

Surrounded on every side by gray skies and lifeless forest, only a towering stone gate stood before them. Inscribed on the arch above were the words, “Abandon all delights, ye who cook in here.”

Lewis glanced around, wondering how just a moment earlier he had been eating chicken on his porch. “Ron, we seem to have been transported.”

“Yep,” Ron agreed, “Let's see if we can’t find our way back now.”

A voice called to them from behind, “Many a traveler have I guided, ‘cross Hell’s long paths and winding trails of fire, yet now the strangest I've been entrusted.”

“Hello, stranger!” Ron turned and replied, “We were just looking for a way back home if you could help us?”

Clad in white and blue robes, the man cocked his head quizzically.

“Thine quest must lead thee through the gate of fire, and down the twisted path of wretched sins. For you, the deceiver shall spare his ire.”

Lewis headed for the stone gate, “Thanks for the tip, sir. We’ll be back home before dinner for sure.”

The two dads slipped through the gates before Vergil could offer his guidance. He thought to himself, be blessed strange men, your journey now begins. The Adversary lays this trap for thee, and now the horsemen bear their wicked grins.

The journey through nine circles of Hell was long and arduous, but through every challenge Ron and Lewis persevered. After hiking the fields of people who don’t click tongs twice in the first layer, escaping the ravenous souls of gluttony in the third, crossing the river of grease in the fifth, and even besting the four sous chef’s of the apocalypse in the frozen ninth layer, the two friends now stood before the gate to the tenth layer, Hell’s Kitchen.

Still wearing their aprons from home, but now armed with the tools of the trade, Ron and Lewis stepped towards the final gate. Ron raised his cast iron pan, but before he could knock on the gate, the doors slid open, revealing a spiral staircase made of stainless steel.

Lewis put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This is it, Ron. One last hurdle before we can get back home to our wives and kids.”

Ron smiled as he looked at Lewis. “L.J. and his hibachi don’t stand a chance against us now. We’ve grown a lot as chefs on this journey,”

“And soon we’ll grill a meat even L.J. Dickens can’t beat,” Lewis added.

The two fist bumped, then began the last of a journey of a thousand steps, plunging bravely into Hell’s Kitchen.

The countless spirals eventually spilled out onto a black and white tiled floor surrounded by walls made of ice; souls damned for not giving compliments to the chef stared blankly through their frozen prison. Marble counters and islands littered the floor and kitchen appliances circled around them; cooking ware of gold, silver, and iron hung from the ceiling on steel chains.

At the end of the colossal room stood a simple looking man, wearing a red button up shirt and jet black apron which read “Kiss The Cook”. Atop the man’s messy black hair sat a pillar of a chef’s toque. The white hat was nearly as tall as the man himself.

Ron raised his pan towards the man and shouted, “Lucifer! The arch chef, the Morning Meal, The Father of Pies!”

Satan placed down his mixing bowl and looked at Ron and Lewis. “Welcome! I’ve been waiting for you.”

Lewis quickly interjected, “Your toque; the number of folds represents the number of ways a chef can prepare an egg. Your hat only has one fold; how do you cook eggs?”

Satan unfurled leathery, purple wings from his back and spread his arms with flare, a wide smile on his face. “Deviled, of course.”

He slid out from behind a counter and began to walk towards Ron and Lewis, talking as he strode through the room, “I admired your great-grandfather, Ron. Lovecook was a dear friend of mine. And now I admire you and Lewis’ passion for this craft. Now you’ve embarked on this journey, all because of your conviction to best your neighbor L.J. Dickens.”

Lewis stepped forward, “So why have you brought us here?”

“To offer you an ultimatum, of course! One I offered to Lovecook as well. See, Lovecook was willing to stretch the reaches of mortality to improve his cooking. I happened to have one recipe that he wanted more than any other for his book, but, alas, he could not win the prize,” the devil shook his head.

With Satan only a few strides away, Ron stepped forward, next to Lewis. “What recipe, and what challenge?”

“Well, just like I challenged Lovecook, I now challenge you. Defeat me in a grill-off, and you can have the recipe to my very own… Diablo Sauce!” Satan stopped just before Ron and Lewis. “And, of course, it’s your only way home. As if you lose, your souls are mine to do with as I please.”

Lewis tightened his apron, ready to refute the challenge, but stopped when he looked at his friend. Ron was down on one knee, holding the Necrocookicon. The tome shook violently in his hands.

Satan chuckled. “Old H.P. not happy ‘eh? Well, he was always a sore loser. He should just be glad I didn’t rename his book to the Necro-nom-nom-nomicon.”

The Necrocookicon began to shake with even more vigor, then it lept from Ron’s hands, pages fluttering through the air. As it soared it began to glow; a look of bewilderment crossed Satan’s face and everything disappeared in a flash of light.

When the light faded, Ron and Lewis were back on the patio, standing in front of Lewis’ grill. People lined the fence, chatting excitedly. At the back of the yard a banner waved, proclaiming, “4th Annual Neighborhood Grill Off!!!” Around the yard, seven more grills completed the circle of competitors.

Directly across from Lewis and Ron stood L.J. Dickens, new guy on the block and professional hibachi chef, dressed in a red button up shirt, a black “Kiss The Cook” Apron, and a towering chef’s hat with a single fold.

L.J. Dickens waved across the circle. “The challenge still stands, neighbors!”

Lewis looked around at their prep station. All they had to work with was…

“Ron!” Lewis exclaimed, “All we have is chicken and the seven deadly spices!”

Ron whipped around. “What! We can’t send the judges to hell!”

Crackling over a megaphone one of the judges shouted, “Contestants! Ready…

Set… Grill!”

“Lewis, what are we going to do?” Ron said, shaking his head in panic.

Lewis scrambled to come up with a solution, then he commanded,“Ron, get out the Necrocookicon!”

The book leapt onto the table beside the grill of Lovecook’s own accord. The tome hummed for a minute, then began leafing through his own pages.

At the same time, a wicked spray of fire erupted across the lawn. Lucifer’s hibachi skills were on full display as he cooked. Fire danced from his fingertips and across the grill. He dealt meats onto the flames like cards, then began to juggle his knives. The blades twirled through the air until they dropped to grill, adding cut after cut to the Devil’s smorgasbord of meat, then bounced back into his hands. Satan laughed as he performed his show.

The Necrocookicon shook slightly, and the pages fell onto the recipe for Razing Caine’s Fiery Chicken.

“Grandpa, we can’t make that!” Ron sunk his head into his hands.

Lewis studied the page for a moment. It clicked.

Lewis slapped his friend on the back. “Ron Rockefeller, we’ve got this! Think back to when we made the chicken; what was so strange about the recipe?”

Ron perked up and considered the thought. “Wait… why would you rub the chicken with the seasoning after cooking it?”

“Exactly, it’s backwards. Is that right H.P.?”

The book bounced up into the air and slammed closed. The pair set to work.

Now well accustomed with hellish cuisine, the seven deadly spices didn’t hurt as they tossed the seasoning and rubbed the chicken. Clouds began to gather as the spices mixed and a puff of the unholy dust twirled into the sky. Lewis whipped open the grill and tossed four of the chicken legs into the heat.

The crowd was enthralled by Lucifer’s showmanship. With a snap, one of the kebabs on his grill erupted into flame. He held the torch out in front of him and spewed out a mouthful of alcohol. The fire swirled in mesmerizing patterns with the rising wind.

When the time felt right Lewis opened the grill and plated three golden chicken legs speckled with crimson flakes. The air around the yard began to shimmer with malice from each side of the competition. Ron grabbed the final leg in his tongs, not a speck of crimson on its skin.

The judge then called over the megaphone, “Contestants, the judges will now come to test your dishes. Please plate them and step aside.”

Satan tossed each kebab into the air and caught them on a plate. He handed the plate to the head judge. One bite and the judges’ eyes went wide, they quickly jotted down notes about L.J.’s incredible kebabs.

The judges came before Ron and Lewis last. They each grabbed one of the three speckled legs and chewed slowly. One judge almost immediately went for the fridge inside covering her mouth as she ran. Another judge’s face turned a unique shade of scarlet and his eyes began to tear up as leaned on the table. The final judge outright fell over backwards.

Satan laughed from across the yard. Knowing his victory close at hand. Then to his surprise the judges recovered. Within moments they went from writhing in pain to calmly discussing the dish they had tasted.

“Family and friends,” The head judge shouted, “we have a winner! Our reigning champions–and gracious host–Ron and Lewis!”

The crowd gave their applause. Lucifer began to seethe with anger. He flew across the yard in one leap and landed before the Neighborhood Cookoff Champions.

With fire on his tongue he spat, “Impossible! How did you do it!”

Ron grabbed the plate with the final chicken leg, now with crimson seasoning in every crevice. “Try it for yourself, Dickens. It's a family recipe.”

The Devil grabbed the chicken and bit in, but before he could taste the seven deadly spices, he vanished without a trace.

#writing #fantasy #dante #fiction #lovecraft #lovecraftian

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sl0thonaga · 10 months ago

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CH.2 - SYMPATHY FOR A DEAD MAN

Even in death, you will be encased and confined to this place of nightmares. In bleeding, evil metal. The minerals that feed on my bones will feed unto more bloodshed, not peace.

Will you be able to rest here, Shin? Peacefully, and eternally?

His eyes claw deep into Midori's face as he haunts his every step through the facility.

Never. NEVER.

I'll never forget you, even if I'm dead.

Won't you show sympathy for a dying man's body?

Chapter 2 of my Ghost!Shin YTTD Fic: MOMENTO MORI is out!

Words: 5,263 Characters: Hiyori Sou | Tsukimi Shin, Original Hiyori Sou | Midori, Meister (Kimi ga Shine) Relationships: Hiyori Sou | Tsukimi Shin/Original Hiyori Sou | Midori [for this specific chapter] Additional Tags: Kanna Lives | Sou Dies Route (Kimi ga Shine), Grief/Mourning, Ghosts, Trauma, Acceptance, Haunting, Mild Gore, Kugie and Shin are Ghosts, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, Character Study, Obsessive Behavior, Fluff and Angst, Edgar Allan Poe References, Introspection

Within the ever-humming, luminescent monitor room, it seems a piece of scrap paper has been inserted roughly into the edge of a familiar book. With an ominous breath of wind, the page falls out.

"I wonder when Hiyori will come back..."

ASU-NARO

▇▇CONFIDENTIAL▇▇

Shi▇n DIARY ▇▇ :Compiled and Logged by DR. H▅▅▆▅▅ S▅▅U

Ah, broken is the collar red! The spirit flown forever!

Let the bell toll!--a weakling soul floats on the Stygian river;

And, Man of Green, hast thou no tear?--weep now or lie in sin!

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, thy Shin!

Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--

An anthem for the pitiful dead that ever died so young--

A dirge for him the doubly dead in that he died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved him for his mind and hated him for his lies,

"And when he fell in feeble binds, ye blessed him --that he died!

"How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung

"By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue

"That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?"

Through discourse and disclosure; but rave not your composure! Let his corpse belong

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong!

The sweet Shin hath "gone before kin," along Joy, that flew beside

Leaving thee wild for the dear child whose death thy should have decide-

For him, the fair and innocent, that now so lowly lies,

The life upon his cyan hair but not within his eyes--

The life still there, upon his hair--the death upon his eyes.

"Avaunt! Tonight my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,

"But waft that red scarf on Shin's flight as a Pæan of old days!

"Let no bell toll!--lest his sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,

"Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth.

"To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--

"From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--

"From grief and groan, to purgatory alone, towards the gates of Heaven."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

A slow march of thinning blood and coarse rubble, clacking against smooth-leather dress shoes. Through barren hallways, the steady sludge of bloody teal. The remnants of the sheep, throwing himself into the lion's den to protect the herd.

A green-haired man steps with a macabré elegance, dragging something. Dragging someone. His red scarf sways in the encroaching darkness as a trail of rouge follows behind him.

Up a long flight of stairs, through walls thick with wire, to a cold, silver casket. Glum and static. The perfect place for unfulfilled desires to dissipate.

The green-tailed silhouette, his polished flow broken up by an uncanny rigidity of his joints, halts mechanically in front of the coffin's silver sheen.

The dim room is accompanied by nothing but the dripping din of muddy, stained crimson. The man that holds his pale, fragile wrists doesn't even breathe.

Dull, doll-like jade pupils stare into the empty, bottomless casket. His uncanny gaze shifts towards the bloodied beanie on his beloved's head, beaten with grit and dirt.

Sigh...

The man effortlessly picks up the corpse in his arms, already feeling lighter than when he still had life in him, and carefully drapes the body across the coffin's dark interior.

And slowly, he wakes.

It's true when they say death deprives you of all other things. He once imagined he would wake up, screaming, wanting to scream, perhaps in rage, perhaps in agony, like waking up from a nightmare.

But as he rises once more, all he feels is his numbness. As if all the emotions have left him, buried along with the shell of his mortality, in the gaps of void within the coffin.

The shell of Shin Tsukimi.

I'm dead.

Shin Tsukimi sees himself, the same grassy strands of cyan hair on his head. Thin like silk thread, ruffled by his beanie.

Dead. He's dead. Dead? Dead. Dead.

The notion passes through him. Like mercury slides over his tongue every time he says it. He is but a wisp, and only regret tugs at him now.

The searing pain on his neck has left him, and he finds himself as translucent as a ghost. He stares past his hands, vision gluing onto the marks on his body's neck, the symbol of his final resistance. Finally, the first shreds of humanity come back to him as an injustice, a feeling that follows him to purgatory.

Sadness.

He wishes he could cry. Can he cry now? Is he deprived of that too? Maybe he is, but when tries to, it just feels like his spirit is only wallowing and weighing heavier.

I..I wanted to live too...

This...is worthless...all so worthless...

Why has he been left on earth? And here, of all places? This dingy, hellhole.

Shin, now a ghost, can't help but mourn himself. How could he not? Even though he sacrificed himself for the one girl who in turn, selflessly cared for him, A life lost is still a life lost. He lays beside the silver walls of the coffin, curling his translucent knees towards his face as he laments to the floor.

What now...what now...

He's so helpless. When will his spirit wither away? Will it do so along with his body?

It echoes through his soul. Gloomy, so gloomy..

His gloominess is startled by the abrupt clack of polished leather soles. Sharp and familiar; a sound he feared, yet one he would still run to. A sound that makes him jolt up on instinct. And when he does, an immediately recognisable face greets him, merely inches away from his own.

H...

..Hiyori...!

Another part of his life comes back to him, hits him like a cold breeze against his neck. This man was his life. The hairs on his head rise, pupils dilated as he starts sweating, cold and sticky like wax against his even more transparent skin.

Isn't he dead? Why is it as if his heart is racing, still pounding horridly at the sight of him?

Why, even after death, do you still cling onto your abuser?

Those wide, jade eyes don't seem to feel Shin's presence though, merely kneeling forward behind where Shin sat to promptly place a picture frame against his coffin.

He's...he's not smiling like usual, as he remembers him. He looks...somber.

Shin ponders, rather bitterly. Why?

Hiyori’s eyes, although shadowed by the dim backdrop, glows with an eerie stagnancy, downlooking the face framed behind glass.

The face of what used to be reveals itself in yellow backlight; innocent and pure, Shin Tsukimi.

No. No.

Slowly, Hiyori stands up, his neon head bleaching the dark canopy like poison. His face is plastered with a frown, wordless. Dormant.

It was these moments that used to make Shin sweat down to his neck. His indifference was more terrifying than his madness.

But now it was that same face, implanted, injected? – None of it feels real– with a sense of despondence. Confusing. Awful. Simply awful.

There is a slight downturn in the way his pupils eye the coffin. There is a crease where he presses his bottom lip into his jaw.

Shin’s wispy figure swivels around Hiyori's brown dress shoes, to peer at a peculiar piece of paper fallen beside his picture.

His ghastly eyes bore and sink into the words engraved fresh in ink.

..He can't be..

'Sou Hiyori, 21, of R▅D▅CTED, Japan, expired March XXth XXXX. Shin Tsukimi, Son of XXXX and XXXX Tsukimi, expired on March XXth in ASU-NARO's 3rd Floor Rubble Room Facility, after succumbing to mortal injuries in resisting the security systems, to give one last hope to Sara Chidouin and the remaining participants of the Death Game. Tsukimi worked as a job-hopper prior to the Death Game. He also loved computers, soft things, collecting, warm soups and cozy clothing. He displayed a self-sacrificial naiveté and beaming smile that charmed his dear friend. He is survived by his mother, father and little sister, Kanna Kizuchi, who he willingly exchanged his life and identity for in the Main Game to protect her. It is a shame he died without knowing their blood connection. He will be resented but remembered by friends, and greatly missed by family. And me. Me too.’

"Pity...such a pity.." The first murmurs draw out under the green-haired man's breath, sending chills down Shin's spine as it pierces through the unnervingly long silence.

Shin jerks up from his position and freezes there, soul growing colder by the second.

He could never get used to it. But then once upon a time, he did. Why. Why now? And why here?

Full Chapter on AO3..

[cg edits by me] [note: it is romantic soushin, but it is for the sake of exploring the characters as an unhealthy relationship. IT DOES NOT MEAN I CONDONE ABUSIVE DYNAMICS IN REAL LIFE.]

#yttd #kimi ga shine #shin tsukimi #midori yttd #sou hiyori #your turn to die #fanfic #fanfiction

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deathtown · 1 month ago

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The Red Book Ritual: Gates of Hell (2025)

#The Red Book Ritual: Gates of Hell #Horror #Dark #Scary #Evil #Horror Film #Horror Films #Horror Movie #Horror Movies #Film #Films #Black and White #Edit #Edits #DeathTown

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moviereviews101web · 2 months ago

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"The Red Book Ritual: Gates of Hell" is a horror film about summoning the dead, featuring ancient horrors and a quest for closure.

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mediamixs · 10 months ago

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The Red Book Ritual 2: The Gate of Hell

The upcoming horror movie The Red Book Ritual 2: The Gate of Hell is a highly anticipated sequel to the 2020 indie horror film, The Red Book Ritual. This new installment is set to deepen the supernatural themes established in its predecessor, promising to deliver more chilling experiences for fans of the

Filming and Production

Filming for The Red Book Ritual 2: The Gate of Hell took place in Paraguay, with production wrapping up just recently. The decision to shoot in Paraguay adds an intriguing layer to the film, as the location may enhance the eerie atmosphere that horror films often strive for.

Plot and Themes

While specific plot details have not been extensively revealed, the title suggests a continuation of the supernatural elements that characterized the first film. The original Red Book Ritual revolved around themes of occult practices and the consequences of dabbling in forbidden rituals. The sequel is expected to explore similar motifs, possibly introducing new characters and deeper lore surrounding the titular "Red Book" and its ominous powers.

Audience Expectations

Fans of the first film and horror enthusiasts are eagerly awaiting this sequel, which aims to build on the suspense and horror that made the original a notable entry in the indie horror scene. The combination of a fresh setting and the established mythos from the first film sets the stage for a potentially gripping narrative.

Overall, The Red Book Ritual 2: The Gate of Hell is shaping up to be a significant addition to the horror genre, with its unique setting.

#horror #movies

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theclric · 1 year ago

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if we won’t get that, I’ll do it myself.

"I heard Zombie Boy’s back in town, huh?” One of the jocks mouthed, as Mike stumbled down the way to the gym. He stopped, turning his sight to the two jocks, which have been following the boy since he came back form California. His raven brows hardened.

He examined the jock, his curly dirty blonde hair, the cap, his playful smirk that he held on his face, and the sadistic shimmer in his hooked eyes.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Mike spat out, soon continuing his way to the gym; the gym used as the shelter, since ever the earthquake hit and the gates lined up in the middle of the town; the Hawkins library.

The jocks surrounded Mike, walking next to Mike, who continuously avoided to delve deeper into this situation, "You, and you’re friends are fucked, Wheeler. Not just that fairy of yours, everyone. Whatever satanic ritual shit you have been putting in this town, we are going to erase it."

Mike’s eyes widened. "Fairy?” He bashed, his voice palpable with impulse and irritation.

"Will’s not a fucking fairy." Mike’s eyes created a line, as he pressed his lips together. His voice remained raised.

"As if. What is he? — your boyfriend?" The jock with the darker hair snickered, leaving Mike behind, who froze entirely. His face was full of irritation, confusion, and pure shock.

What was he? Will’s boyfriend? Boy-friend. Partner. Romantic lover. Boyfriend.

Those words; labels, spun around his head like whirlwinds, causing the whole worlds to spin around Mike. He felt nauseous. For some reason, those words hit him so deep. Scratched his one ego, they were terribly intimate.

He felt like a blade hit through his chest. Was there something he had to hide? Something that was just revealed? Mike felt naked, — bare, open, almost read like a book. Out.

The jocks scoffed.

"Welcome to the freak show." A smirk curled up the jock's face. His dark hair covered his forehead, as it gently breezed from left to right.

Mike messed up his nose, as he scoffed.

“See ya in hell, freaks."

The jocks left to visit the shelter. Left Mike behind, as infuriation spread across his face, his fists tensed and imaginary question marks spinner whirlwinds around his head.

So Mike did, what he always craved for.

His legs moved across the fractured asphalt. He rushed to the jocks, pushing the one with the darker hair onto the ground.

"What the fuck, Wheeler?!"

His face expressions seems to darken, as he slowly realised he had broken the guy's nose.

"You fucking broke my nose!"

The other jock pushed Mike, an intimidating expression on his face, and his aura darkening.

"Oh — you’re so done," the jock approached, his voice raspy and full of determination.

Mike pushed back, and for a moment he wished he had never done anything, hoping he'll get out of this situation soon and questioning why it scratched his ego so much. He knew Will’s not gay. He trusted Will that he didn’t like him that way; the other way around, Mike didn’t like Will, did he?

Will was attractive. No doubt. He had girls all over the floor, yet he didn’t seem to be interested in any of them.

Mike was dragged out of his thought by a fist hitting his defined cheekbone.

"Fuck," Mike cursed, as he looked up the guy, and his other homie. His own hand rested on the affected cheek, a faint red mark formed.

Shit, he couldn’t be messing around with these guys.

"I’m sure of it now," the one jock began, and hid his hands in his pockets.

"You are all fairies. Always been. No wonder you cut your hair after that bald weirdo dumped you. ‘Fucking twink."

The words felt like another blade rammed into Mike’s chest. His inner turmoil grew and grew terribly, putting himself down, and pressuring himself to the point where his body felt poky. Like someone was currently pricking needles into the pale and freckled skin of Mike. Into every inch of his limps.

Mike was aware he was going to get into trouble sooner or later, he did not care at this point anymore though.

The bright sunlight lit up his face, as he squinted his eyes. He took a swing, hoping to hit somewhere so that they would leave him alone.

His anger; inner turmoil, built up more and more as he kicked, hit and spat out words. Words that were nothing but scribbles of ink to the guys that you could easily erase, hits that were going to create nothing but fading memories, same goes for kicks. Nothing but temporary. The jocks fought back.

Suddenly a voice reverberated through Mike’s ear drums.

"You all are going to let loose right now, or else I’m going to put you in jail!"

An officer caught the fighting boys. His moustache had a darker color than his hair, which was dirty blonde; close to chestnut brown. Will’s hair color. He wore glasses, a hat, and his grip on a Walkie-Talkie. He stopped his motion; the officer seemed to just have spoken into the Walkie-Talkie a few seconds ago. His face expression hardened.

"Fuck, c’mon let’s go!" One of the jocks mouthed, gesturing to a direction and ran off.

Now Mike was on the ground, small bruises on his face and blue marks across his thin and veiny arms, and probably all over his chest as well.

All because they called him and Will gay. Was it worth it? Absolutely. No regrets.

They left him alone, — with a cop.

@theclric on Instagram !!

mark my words this mike is going to beat the shit out of homophobic bully

#when we get a scene where someone refers to wills queerness with disdain and mike reacts to violence serving as a s1 member berry with troy #but also serves to reveal through action not only if mike has special feelings for will #but also if this reflects mikes own identity as well #st5 spoilers #mike wheeler #byler #real #gay #hhehehe #writers on tumblr #zombie boy #bullying #s5 #stranger things

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anicewitchwhosmokes · 2 years ago

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You can’t unsee what exists behind prison walls below septic tiles beneath pipes where flesh is shed along with blood and coagulates at once together. God bless sewer caps. You can’t unhear djinn where blood and waste have been shed to excess. You can’t forgive those who would send you there.. but sometimes you must. In a mirror with an M4, 2 tarps, a padded bed, the repeated, eternal motions of rape, the blood in shower drains and consumption of urine. I would rather live as a woman, now you know. Red and blue paint. Bloods or crips. Blue lights in vents and red lights in vents. Purple lights in vents indicating your truth. Forever frozen, forever caged and beautiful. I have been where time has stopped and endured what god only knows. Kings and queens. “In our own right.” Here I can’t help but scoff. I have been to hell and indeed there are demons. Violence is never the answer, although sometimes necessary is evasion and blocking. Abuse can become so obscene. When the sun rises tomorrow kneel and thank whatever god you believe in as you feel the air move into your lungs, as you smell the trees, as you hold your own hand and experience gratitude. I would truly rather live as a woman free than a man caged. Trees instead of feces, juice instead of blood, soup instead of a bowl of urine, cake instead of feces, jewels instead of chains, but ever yet still carrots 🥕 love instead of hate, security over fear. Water rather than a noxious poisonous liquor.

I have been to hell and heard the ghoulish cries of waste demonic. I have been to hell and seen blood drain further into the pit. When my time comes to perish bury me near the ocean and may the leviathan never take me. Plant flowers near my grave and may I die beautiful and free. May the red become blue and then white or brown once more. May the flesh of all living be blessed for moons beyond measure. By a blessed mother and over control of the demon Lilith by Isisis name may I die free and beautiful. I have eaten of the cakes of the sun may I never enter hell again. I offer my smoke for my uncle and friend however awful his deeds may have been I offer smoke. May his purgatory shorten, may his heaven eternally be. By gods of pits you swear? If beyond the hellish gates you do so you are absurd of mind and foolish beyond measure. Never do the devils work outside of his dominion.

I have been visited by the Babylon whore in my dreams and cast her out. I have done her work and I detest it, as necessary as it has been. Sammael and the goat of mendes. My life will never be sodomized the way it has been beyond my control. I have deeply drank of the cup of hell and it is rotten. Pray for all demons, pray for all slaves of hells dominion. While in hell, offer them ritual, offer them aid, if bleeding, offer them blood, if dying, die with them and never cease to reach further to the sky, they have gone so far down so as to forget the image of the open sky. If granted release by the evil lord Satan, the eastern Vishnu, Shaitan of Islam, the ”great” beast 666, never cease to climb ever higher seeking purity, beauty and rest.

Should you die among filth and complete sin of violence you will coagulate with all those around and become one with satans dominion, never to escape the torment you have conceded. Hope is always there. I refuse to believe in Hell eternal. I have been past the 7th gate. I have swum with filth and disease, with blood and waste and feces and rot and urine. I have tasted of the flies of Gomorrah. They have swum in my gut, morphed into hell and exited my nether.

I wish to perish beautiful and free. This is why I wish to die beautiful and free. There is truth in the books the foolish curse. There is heaven for those who strive towards pure life of love. 919991 and a line through every 6. 916 = suicide.

Never turn your back on your god.

The baphomet has not complete control of androgyny to a physical form, Lilith is not the only feminine, and indeed Mary is never lost to completion. The poor and down trodden need not be segregated to beyond the entrance to the pit. All deserve love, and by all I sincerely and with complete certainty I mean all. Even the most rotten of demons was once an angel. And even the most rotten may be made pure and love eternal. Isisisisis 99911 with a crossed arrow through every 6.

Though many Greeks may have once thought so and many Christian’s declare, with the banishment of Hecate I swear on my immortal soul that there is an exit to suffering for everyone no matter how deeply they have been damned. Paradise is never lost only obscured.

And now a formulae to appeal to those beneath with genuine pity and sorrow, should you accept:

SCANTHA

I S I S ISISISISIS

WITH A CIRCLE ON CHARACTERS FOLLOWING THIS PATTERN:

1=0

0=2

Sign of cross and reverse

9=Sign of cross

This is all I have learned please be careful

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 2 years ago

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Trinkets, Books, 10: An eclectic library of dusty tomes, fictional textbooks, pocketbooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, booklets, leaflets and magical manuals. Paper leaves and the binding surrounding them can help define a character, kick off a subplot, fuel a fetch quest or simply serve as a generic macguffin. Commonly seen in video games such as Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter Nights, World of Warcraft and Skyrim, book items are a way to subtly world build while still handing out sellable loot. A wizard has a spellbook, a cleric has a holy text and now you have a trinket list.

An ornamental prayer book of Random Domain with illuminated pages and semiprecious stones.

Ars Optica: An ophthalmic guide that’s treasured by magicians, who read its dull and technical pages not for purposes of spectacle manufacturer, but for the construction of resonance spheres; Pressurized, lensed devices used in the contact of alien realms.

A book the size of a large man's hand, composed of ten plates of blue-black jade mounted in thin silver and bound with black silk lacing. Each plate is inscribed in silver with charts of the night sky.

The Book of Math: What seems like a boring book about maths problems is in fact all about Mathom, the God of Delays, and has this title because the author was distracted and unable to finish said title. It contains all sorts of important information on Mathom and His Priests, but is frustratingly not completely finished, as it seems that the author was unable or unwilling to finish it. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that the books is very rare, as only a few copies were ever successfully made before first the printing press broke, then the ink supply ran out, and then the printers were raided by the police by mistake, then the building caught fire...

My Life as a Gnome Bodyguard: A moderately-sized autobiography of Mifierwa Cinibnil, a gnome paladin that served as the protector of Queen Evelyn Crystaldown.

A very old book of coastal charts, which has obviously seen heavy shipboard use in the past; the pages are marked and stained and smell faintly of salt. Next to an unnamed island on a map of a distant coast, an unsteady hand has drawn a deaths-head marker and scrawled: “blaydes dont cutt em but fires wil burn em upp.”

Blood Debt Ledger: A small book bound in wolf hide and decorated with the beast's claws and fangs. It has ninety-nine pages, each with nine names inscribed on it. Knowledgeable PC’s can discern that it originally belonged to a hag who used it to record the names of those who owed her a debt.

Tippy's Gardening Tips and Tricks: A farmer's almanac, focusing on the cultivation of herbs and their various medical and culinary uses.

A large instructional manual entitled “195 Easy Projects with Human Skin”. Knowledgeable PC's are aware of its notoriety for its gruesome, yet imaginatively intricate, woodblock illustrations.

A small personal journal penned by a hunter of the supernatural. Although the majority of the pages are too bloodied, dirty, burned or torn to be legible, a cluster of pages near the middle detail the process of an infernal summoning ritual. The book describes that a specific order of fiend can be called into the world by digging a hole in the dead center of a set of crossroads and burying a box containing a picture of the mortal wishing to make the deal, some graveyard dirt, and a bone from a black cat. This specific type of “crossroads demon” looks like a human except for their blood red eyes and are tasked with ‘buying’ souls for Hell through deals with mortals. The demon can grant the summoner’s wish in exchange for ownership over that person's soul, resulting in the person dying and going to Hell to be transformed into a demon upon death.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Click Here for additional Book Descriptions to give these objects even more personality.

—Keep reading for 90 more books.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

An ornamental prayer book of Random Domain with illuminated pages and semiprecious stones.

My Life as a Gnome Bodyguard: A moderately-sized autobiography of Mifierwa Cinibnil, a gnome paladin that served as the protector of Queen Evelyn Crystaldown.

Tippy's Gardening Tips and Tricks: A farmer's almanac, focusing on the cultivation of herbs and their various medical and culinary uses.

A large instructional manual entitled “195 Easy Projects with Human Skin”. Knowledgeable PC's are aware of its notoriety for its gruesome, yet imaginatively intricate, woodblock illustrations.

A History of Tea: A book bound with tea stained wood that (As its title proclaims) is a comprehensive history of tea, a plant first discovered and cultivated in the Northern land of Awn, where it remains most popular. A History of Tea denotes the conflicts, agricultural developments, and serving preferences surrounding tea over the last two millennia. Helpfully, the book contains a list of all herbs and barks capable of being steeped in addition to black tea. It is a hearty reference document for travelers and adventurers in need of a hot brew, regardless of its origin or quality.

Brobson's Guide to Decoys: A gamesmans' guide, devoted to fishing flies, wooden ducks, and other such beast lures. Written in unceasingly-energetic confidence about their use, history, composition, and construction. A book treasured by hunters of prey both mundane and monstrous, as it contains details for luring both plant-eaters and predators of varied size. Many a fisherman has thanked Brobson for his wooly bugger lure, as have countless cutters for his pattern for false goats, which is much cheaper than buying an actual goat.

A book on the proper ways to do mundane domestic chores written in large simple words similar to a scholarly document. Simple pictures take up many of the pages and it is probably meant to be used as a reference guides to young maids and scullery girls. An extremely perceptive reader will discern the book’s true purpose. When held to the light, hidden writing is exposed revealing a list of assassins, thieves, fences, sellers of illicit goods, safe houses and other black-market connections that can be found in the nearest capital city.

Identification of Irritants; A Gentleman's Guide to Avoiding Discomfort in the Field: A guidebook that proved to be too good for the purposes it was designed for by providing in depth identification guides, descriptions of growing conditions, and technical analyses of the properties of many dangerous plants, including several very rare and incredibly poisonous ones. Someone has scribbled recipes for several dangerous poisons derived from some of these plants in the margins.

A brown, leather-bound tome with the image of a knight emblazoned on the cover. When opened the book contains a riveting story of a knight, a princess, a dragon, and a kingdom in peril.

Practical Exercises for Young Magicians: An instructional book written by Amelia Popper containing intricate finger and voice exercises divided into several dozen etudes for magicians. The book consists of detailed charts and a series of movements that serve as educational practices and introductory techniques to the physical complexity of magic and spell casting. Popper's work has been used throughout many mage academy curriculums as a structured, refined method to spellcasting.

Manual of Flesh Golems: A thick tome imbued with magical properties and stamped with arcane symbols on the cover. The book contains theoretical musings on the construction and control of golems. It goes into some detail on how the reader may construct a servant of assembled, animated flesh which will obey the creator without question.

A small, thick sea captain's journal. Leather bound and filled with dense, near unreadable notes. The cover has a piece of lead shot embedded deep into it from a run-in with pirates.

Magical Bleed and the Effects of Lingering Aura: A tome of arcane theory that introduces and focuses on Sir Bleepin Loopfoodle's Model of Epi-Magical Exchange. The detailed treatise describes how magical leftovers from a spell changes the environment and soul and the impacts can differed based on the nature of the spell. The book contains examples on how intensely supernatural creatures such as venerable dragons, elder aberrations and extraplanar outsiders (Such as celestials, elementals and fiends) passively affect their environment.

The Faerie Queen: A vastly underappreciated collection of Light Cottonstream's poems about the summer court, detailing the queen's affairs, courting at the summer court, and the involvement of love potions.

Wintering with Wizards: A hard-bound, extravagant, lengthy volume chronicling the adventures of the author, Earnest Holcomb, during his stay at a wizard’s school over a long winter. It’s clear to any wizard that the author hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about.

A Comprehensive Encyclopedic Approach to All Things Draconic: A massive and richly illustrated compendium of dragon lore that covers nearly all areas of knowledge pertaining to dragonkind. With various sections devoted to prismatic, metallic, and rare dragon breeds (As well as smaller sections on drakes, half-dragons, dragonborn, and even wyverns) this is likely the most thorough text on the subject. Not many copies of the book exist and it is coveted among collectors and curators alike; finding a copy and the access to read it can be an expensive venture on its own.

Pendlesea's Scroll Compendium of Scrolls: An exceptionally long and somewhat stiff scroll safely kept within the confines of a dark leather scroll container about two feet long and four inches in diameter. The scroll contains the rambling treatise of a slightly crazed wizard named Bidoop Pendlesea. The treatise examines the various uses of scrolls and the not-so-subtle embellishment of their claimed superiority to books by the author.

A brand-new copy of “Volo's Guide to What to Expect When You’re Expecting” with advice and guides on humanoid pregnancy. A big brightly colored “Congratulations!” is written on the inside cover and the chapter summary pages are dog-eared.

A thick wood-bound chapbook of gnomish jokes.

A leather-bound book detailing the complete genealogy of a noble family.

An illustrated travelogue of remote and exotic locations rumored to include sigils for teleportation circles hidden in the text.

A pocket-sized book devoted to the ancestry and heraldry of the vampiric Bloodlines of Erubescence. This copy has been annotated with cutting remarks about the various families, sometimes revealing embarrassing gossip or secrets.

A slightly tattered but complete copy of a rare first printing of the Saga of the Sacred Cauldron, a chivalric romance recounting a quest in the realm of Elfhame involving such colorful characters as Bellstajj the Capacious, Blue-Eyed Molly, Fennrix the Blind, Fun Guy the Barbarian, the Knight of Harts Petalu Morriden, Susurrus Psithurisma, Weevil Stench, Wick the Silent, and the notorious Sparks & Mud.

A stained manuscript containing fan fiction for the popular and long-running Wendolyn the Werewolf sequence of serialized romantic novels.

Noland's Small Book of Portals Vol III: The work contains a collection of fine lithographs of man-made, natural, or magically occurring portals, in good detail as well as their destination. Not all are sized for people to fit through. Many include detailed description and measurements, and might prove useful for a magic user or scholar of the arcane looking to understand the planes and magical travel better; this may be for good or ill.

Seven Jistkan Forms of Ancient Hygh Majiks: A thread-bare tome, with pages that are more dust than parchment. Some of the pages are actually made of papyrus and were literally cut out of scrolls and sewn into this work. The runes described inside are incomplete, and use one ancient, dead language, to transcribe the words of an even older and even deader language that was destroyed by a great volcanic explosion. Most of the time the book is spent on the names of the offspring of the offspring of a myriad of gods, with incomplete glyphs and logograms.

The Case of the Disappearing Daughters: A historical horror novel that is also known as The Mad Queen and her Daughter, this is the true(ish) story of how the once capable ruler Queen Yocasta of Vallermoore went insane after her daughter's death, and how the daughters of her subjects were kidnapped to replace her original daughter and then murdered when they failed to be just like her. In the end the Queen went insane, took her dead, decaying daughter from the royal tomb and had her by her side at all times as if she was still alive.

A small prayer book with a green leather cover and indecipherable notes in the margins.

A large tome bound with unadorned black leather, containing a multitude of jumbled essays, theorems and anecdotes, all of a mystical, slightly odd or perverse nature. The more one reads or uses the book, the more the writing within makes sense but such clarity comes at a horrible price.

Dimensions of Evil; A Guidebook to the Nether Realms: A demonhide bound grimoire written in Infernal that provides information relating to the Lower Planes of the Nine Hells. Dimensions of Evil paints a fairly accurate and unflattering view of the Lower Planes and its inhabitants. Due to its subject matters several faiths of good deities have banned this book and attempt to confiscate any copies that appear. Others encourage their followers to read the book, going so far as to create multiple copies.

The Theory and Application of Force Magic: A tome that provides information relating to spells involving the use of magical force. Many wizards consider Aeroth Blith's book the best reference about force magic ever written. Well organized and clearly written, if a little dry and analytical in places, the tome examines force magic as a mysterious power akin to a fifth element. Copies of this book can often be found in universities and larger libraries that cater to war wizards and battle mages.

Commoriom: A bound manuscript written in symbols barely recognizable as a script. Its pages number in the hundreds, and splitting the book in two is a single engraving upon a thin sheet of metal; a deserted city square surrounded by tall pillars, and in the middle, a hideous, crooked monstrosity squats as it devours his screaming victims. The image is atrocious, but has some weird magnetism, and if one looks upon it for some time, a weak voice in his head says, "Beware the vile offspring of Knygathin Zhaum."

A children’s book filled with stories of long dead heroes and the sacrifices they made to light the path ahead.

De Vermis Mysteriis: A book whose cover is made of black leather with copper insets covered in a green patina. It describes the rituals and tools of priests who seek the worlds that lie beyond. An excerpt of the book reads as follows; "A R'lang is an item that the caster imbues with his soul before travel to the Beyond. To begin, one should find a shell or piece of polished wood on the shore of the ocean. It must be placed in the ground not further than ten paces from the timeline on the 20th day of the lunar month. After exactly nine days, mark the place with two circles and proper signs. Chant thrice the incantation: "Khlu Sya Asa Nmrihg Aym Eghu Akaman" to grant it its powers..."

Chaos Theory; A Calculated Cataclysm: A tattered book that seems to have had numerous pages torn from it and perhaps entire chapters. It is hard to be certain as it seems to have been rebound multiple times.

Druid's Staff Quarterly: An intriguing, regularly published journal that appears to have pages made from thin bark; these pages are jagged and irregular.

Fish are Friends, Not Food: A strange dietitian guide that encourages the reader to choose alternative protein sources to fish.

Grimoire of Devilish Contracting: A worn, leather-bound tome with an oversized silver and gold latch that requires a key to open it. If one can manage to gain access to the text, the reader will find extensive advice on how to broker deals with fiends of the lower planes and get out with one’s soul relatively intact. The volume has no information how to actually summon a devil to bargain with.

It's Hyyyydra-matic!: A peculiar book that contains a bard's tale of encountering a mighty hydra. It contains over 100 uses for various hydra body parts.

Shorthalt's Journal of Awful Limericks: A well-worn, cloth-bound book inscribed with scrawlings of horrific poems, each of which are imbued with enchantment magic. There are also bizarre, childish drawings of humanoids doing various acts of vile behavior.

Tales of a Troglodyte Named Thomas the Truthful: An interesting parable that tells of a Troglodyte named Thomas the Truthful that rose to power in a small Underdark community by virtue of his honesty and good nature.

The Arts Alchemical: A Primer: A strange volume fashioned from the hide of some unidentifiable creature. The vellum pages contained within describe the steps to creating a variety of potions.

These Furry Fellas: A notebook with beautiful calligraphy that describes the types and habits of various small beasts and critters. The accompanying sketches are quite cute.

When Life Gives You Lemons: A simple, single-page pamphlet filled with positive affirmations that emphasize the importance of seizing opportunities.

...And the Bear Says...: A worn, small leather journal that appears to be a naturalist's notes from time spent tracking a family of bears.

A is for Aboleth: A rare copy of the famed children's book. It has simple cartoon pictures and humorous descriptions of monstrous creatures, all the way from A – Aboleth to Z – Zuvembie.

A scuffed and well‐worn text written with manticore blood ink on fine linen paper, bound in aged dried leather. It bears the title “Elementary Principles of the Arcane Instrument”.

Lords of the Pit; a Guidebook to Devils: A beautifully illustrated book, bound in leather with a pentagram on the cover. It describes the various types of devils with dubious accuracy.

Gusty Fintagel’s Most Excellent Miscellany: A cheaply printed chapbook of random facts, lists and bits of trivia. It would be perfect for someone to memorize before a social event and pepper in the information to create an illusion of schooling or worldliness.

An obviously handmade bark‐covered annotated scrapbook filled with rare pressed flowers and herbs, and exotic feathers.

A blue leather folio entitled “The Fey King of Darkwood and Other Tragedies”. It was written by the celebrated bard and playwright Iancu Petronas.

A History of the Lonely Coast: A historical tome written by Brenn Unger, it is a dry account loaded with bias towards the Locher family. The book is of black leather with silver‐bound edges.

The Sampalataya: A leather tube containing a long scroll with carved wooden handles. Told horizontally along the scroll is an illustrated epic poem on the birth of the gods of the distant kingdom of Gopura. Unrolling the scroll slowly tells the story.

A torture manual bound in skin of dubious provenance, featuring disturbing etchings. It was written and illustrated by the notorious Count Vaklav of Treblik.

A heavy tome with a steel scale cover inlaid with carnelians written by Elfric Stonyfist. Entitled “Songs of the Dwarves”, the text contains the traditional versions of classical Dwarven songs as well as detailed stories of their origin.

A spellbook bound in basilisk skin, branded with the arcane mark of the wizard Vaskaren a noted abjurer.

When the Stars are Right: A book roughly bound in mottled purple leather and marked with a large staring eye. Supposedly written by Idris Bahar, it contains insane ramblings about eldritch beings from the alien realms beyond our own.

A book bound in wooden covers, with paintings of flowers and plants decorating the pages. The text contains prayers to the Nature Goddess and details various methods to commune with nature, encourage the growth of plants and speak to animals.

The Poems of Caranthir Greenmantle: A blue leather folio decorated with silver, containing twelve loose sheets, each a handwritten poem.

Decline and Fall of the Hobgoblin Empire: A painfully dry historical text bound in barghest pelt and set with three sapphires.

Common Mycological Meals: A recipe book, all focused around making food out of easily accessible fungi, mosses and mushrooms. Its pages are made out of an unusually textured material with a light-yellow hue.

A gruesome manuscript bound in what is probably dwarfskin, judging by the number of hairs still left on it. The text is written in Infernal and entitled “Sculptors of Men”. Even without being able to read the text, it’s clearly full of anatomical diagrams, runes and sigils, alchemical recipes and handwritten marginalia. Knowledgeable PC’s who can read the text are able to determine that it is a manual on how to create flesh golems and animate them through demonic power rather than through arcane or alchemical means. These changes make the construct much cheaper and easier to animate but with exponentially more risk to the creator’s soul and the ease of which the golem can be controlled.

A cheap-looking book whose cover bears the image of a handsome half-elf with a cheesy grin splitting his face. Titled “Breaking Through” it is an autobiography of the mildly famous bard Shagwyn Starfellow. The story itself is a turgid, self-aggrandizing affair with occasional spelling errors, anecdotes which are exaggerated far beyond belief, unfounded criticism of his siblings and some of the least funny jokes you can remember having been committed to parchment.

A slim volume bound in an orange-red slipcase which feels warm to the touch. Entitled “Elementary Pyromancy” it is written entirely in Infernal. The book contains promisingly detailed arcane symbols, with runes the reader immediately associates with fire and flame.

Entitled “The Atlas of Forever” and the bright blue ink seems to crackle on the page, and the reader immediately senses that the book is old and powerful.

A black board-bound book with bright bands ribbons. It’s partly unreadable with age. You think it says something like “Arcanus”

Hunger More: A book of various legends and fables all of which relate to the origin of the mythical being known as the Frost King. The compilation is entirely written in sylvan and none of the storied are marked as the “correct” version, as if the writer wanted the reader to decide which of them is the true story.

Tome of Solis: A spellbook with leather front and backing. On the front is a gold imprint of a magic circle with an image of a lion in the center of the magic circle. All text inside this book is made with gold and is unburnable.

A manuscript recounting the memories of a dying dwarf folk hero.

A notebook detailing an elvish account of an important treaty being signed over 400 years ago.

A girdle book mounted in cobalt leather backing ermine. The book itself is trimmed with brass tabs but the vellum pages are blank.

A fragmentary diary of a mercenary recruit who was separated from his squad and died in the local area. According to his own scribbled words he took on a mortal wound and has able to hole up, write his last words and will drink his flask of brandy and try to drift off peacefully.

Manual of the Numinous Realms: A book bound in orichalchum, written in silver ink on the finest vellum, and illustrated with strange diagrams that move on their own, the manual describes the interplay of elemental forces and spiritual currents that underlie the illusion we call reality. According to the text, by manipulating these fundamental levers of reality, you may accomplish great feats of magic.

A tome is filled with unintelligible runes from languages long forgotten. If somehow deciphered, it details a theory of magic one practiced by those referred to as the “Mejai” who stole the souls of those who opposed them and bound them within objects giving them great power at the cost of the spirit’s eternal torment.

A large, leather bound, gold trimmed ledger containing the complete financial information of a duke of the nearby kingdom. The archive goes back five years and the information contained within would be extremely valuable to the duke's enemies as blackmail. The duke himself would probably offer a reward of some sort on its discrete return.

A small lexicon of nautical terms.

Travels of a Planeswaler: A cloth-bound book containing lurid tales of seductive genies, underwater cities and fiery snakelike creatures.

A tome with a cover promising one hundred wonderful stories. All but one have been torn out.

A small journal titled “A Guide To Creating A World Without End”. It always smells like the delicious confectionery known as lokum.

The Measure: A massive codex of duties, laws, and crimes, the Measure serves as a guide to a strict, ordered society. The semi-religious text is written and maintained by the militant order known as the Hell Knights. Based upon centuries of legal codes from ancient empires, as well as passages from the strictures of Hell itself, this body of laws extols justness rather than justice.

An evil tome of dark construction with wrinkled patches of rough skin that have been sewn together around plates of some hard material that serves as the cover. Bones from two human hands have been fastened to the binding as if cradling the book. It’s is always bone chillingly cold to the touch as if stealing heat from anyone foolish enough to look inside. When opened, it smells of brimstone and copper. Inside, profane diagrams and hideous illustrations accompany spells penned in some fiendish script. Everything is composed in crimson but not in ink. Those who choose to read from it will discover it the spellbook of a powerful necromancer.

An old book filled with blank pages. Anything written in these books disappears at sunset.

Manifestations Arcanum: A quintessential text written by an archmage from a previous era. This enormous tome outlines the metaphysics of magic, how it works and the divine symbology, sacred geometry and the religious practices involved.

A book with no name, but it holds the true history and ascension of an old but very powerful deity.

The Clouded Mirror: A encyclopedia of portals and other means of interplanar travel, including secret paths between planes that are not normally considered contiguous, ways to reach and navigate the Far Realm, and instructions to find hidden places that are normally inaccessible.

A Deal with the Devil: A tome detailing various historical contracts that have been made with devils. The text goes to great lengths to make it sound as if it were actually very easy to find loopholes in fiendish contracts. Insightful readers suspect that the book may have been written or published by servants of the infernal powers in an effort to lure unwitting souls to believe that they can outwit a demon when the average person is in fact far more likely to lose their soul in an unholy bargain than come out ahead.

Death Eternal: A book written by an ancient dwarven smith famous for making cursed blades. It describes rituals needed to create blades that trap the souls of those killed by them, with the blades growing in strength as the number of souls trapped within grows.

Under The Silver Moon: A hidebound book that contains information on lycanthropy and the effects that it may bestow upon a creature lucky enough to be gifted it. The author makes lycanthropy sound like a REALLY good idea with little to no downsides.

Cooking with Grandma: A seemingly pleasant-sounding cookbook whose first few pages are simple wholesome recipes designed for two people working together. The book was actually written by hags, and the majority of the text goes into great detail explaining how the flesh and bones of older humans can be used to make delicious food.

Fall of Revelation: A heretical tome bound in the skin of the author, Hazeomeel (An angel), it describes the celestial's fall from the heavens because it attempted to use divine prophecy to find which humans could be killed to prevent evil from occurring.

The Endless Litany: A thick tome whose every single page of which is filled with the same phrase repeated over and over again “The end is never the end is never the end is never the end”. Despite this monotony, when a creature starts reading from the first page, they can not stop of their own volition, nor will they ever reach the end no matter how long they spend reading it as the book has an infinite number of pages.

Paradoxomicon: A bound volume of the collected works of a plane-shifter wizard who has dedicated his life to finding loopholes in magic and testing them in parallel planes of existence, collapsing each one of them in doing so.

Jerbe Kendalcanthe's 'Love Elixirs': An alchemical tome detailing the formula and instructions on how to make a highly addictive potion that possesses no benefits other than addiction. The book warns that small villages have been wiped out as every resource is pooled into acquiring the materials needed to produce more.

Into the Labyrinth: A tome bound in red leather emblazoned with the symbol of an open flame stamped in gold leaf on the front cover. In a well-practiced, easily readable handwriting, the author had penned a short warning: “This volume is strictly forbidden from being read, except by those ranked at least Bishop or higher in the Church of The Eternal Heavenly Flame. In it are detailed some of the foulest, most pernicious pieces of magic ever devised. This volume only exists in order to offer ways to defeat these spells, in the off chance these heresies ever resurface and must be confronted again. Be warned, the spells grow progressively more deranged towards the end of the book. The original scribe was driven quite insane by recording them, and ended up having to be committed to an asylum.”

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