#chain of thorns snippets

[cassandraclare]

q&a

Alexa: Will we ever get to hear about Tessa's time in the Spiral Labyrinth? I think that would be so cool. 2) Why does Jem always say that the Carstairs owe the Herondales? I know that Jem feels that Will saved him when he was a child, but Jem saved will just as much as Will saved Jem. I'm curious if you have any more thoughts on that, like if it is just part of Jem's personality that he feels so keenly that he owes Will.

Sure, Jem saved Will just like Will saved Jem, but that isn't going to make Jem feel like he owes Will less, because indeed, that's not his personality (or Will's — Will would say the Herondales owe the Carstairs.) For Jem, this is a very pure feeling, that he will always owe this debt to Will and to the Herondales, and even though he wouldn't deny he also saved Will, he wouldn't qualify the statement — "The Carstairs owe the Herondales, though, you know, the Herondales also owe the Carstairs and so it's basically even but I'd still like to help out" because it would undercut the strength of his conviction. None of that means he doesn't know he did a lot for Will and Will's family too! As to whether there's more to Jem's belief that the Carstairs owe the Herondales than the obvious, we will have to see.

Anonymous:  THE SHADOWHUNTER CHRONICLES. I SEE YOU HAVE WICKED POWERS IN THE WORKS (NOT SOON ENOUGH).... FOLLOWING KIT HERONDALE AFTER 2012 ERA BUT HERES MY QUESTION.... YOU HAVE ALL THIS GAP BETWEEN THE LAST HOURS SET IN 1900S UNTIL THE 2000S WITH THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS. WE, AS FANS DO NOT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE CARSTAIRS ETC, SUCH AS AFTER CHAIN OF THORNS.... ...... YOU HAVE MANY MANY MANY GAPS HERE TO BE TRYING TO END THE SERIES..... SOOOO MANY UNANSWERED QUESTIONS WITH THE CHARACTERS. (AND YES IVE READ EVERY SINGLE BOOK).

Ack, the caps! Hello, friend. It is true that not every moment of every day of every decade has been described in a series, but that is fairly normal! We don't know exactly what transpires between Last Hours and Mortal Instruments (though we have many hints in the various short story collections, especially where it comes to the time of the Circle) — nor do we know what, for instance, was happening in the New York Institute during The Infernal Devices. With a big universe, you're never going to know what's happening in every place at every time. There will always be gaps; it's neither a bug nor a feature, more a natural consequence of the format.

I totally understand being like, "The Shadowhunter world cannot end with Wicked Powers, there are more stories to tell" but — whenever it all ended — there would always be more stories to tell.

princeash asked:

Hi Cassie!! So excited by the announcement! My question is, are we getting a Ash pov in tlkof?and could we maybe get a snippet of him 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 (also, I'm very happy about finally getting a release date and i dont mind waiting because i know you'll make it worth the wait!! 🤎)

Hello! We are not getting Ash's POV in TLKOF, unless something major changes. Ash is a bit of a mysterious figure for quite a while. Figuring out what makes him tick and what he's really up to is part of the fun. Also I'm working on not overwhelming people with so many POVs. :)

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[lilithschosen]

since this fic is dragging ass in my brain and won't be put to paper pls have a snippet and my most sincere apologies :)

happy valentines day 🥰💜💚

"Happy Valentine's day, baby."

Rio's hands gently touch the mesh tank top, eyes glazing over as she traces the thorns on the roses in the design, fingers grazing over Agatha's hardened nipples. Agatha rocks her hips into Rio, the neon heart dildo pressing up into her as she does.

"I don't have any words," Rio stammers, brain fogging at everything. "How long have you been planning this?"

Agatha shrugs, still playing it cool. One hand falls from Rio's hip as she reaches behind the pillow she lies against and pulls something out. She hands it to Rio, biting onto her lower lip as she watches her reaction.

In her hand was a new slip collar. While she likes the one Rio got for herself, she wanted to pick something else out instead. This one was a similar concept, but instead of the deep green leather it was light pink and the o-rings on the chains were hearts.

Rio lowers herself, chest above Agatha's, and tucks her hair out of the way so she could put it on. Agatha drapes it around her neck, buckling it, and runs her fingers against the leather before looping her finger into the heart ring.

"Good surprise?"

[space-woomy]

I can't sleep so have another WIP:

uuuuh this is for a Murder Drones series I have planned and it's EVIL YURI so uh yeah. It's just a little snippet idk.

Oh yeah and "Singularity" is Cyn.

[VERY GOOD JOB LEADING THEM HERE, J.] The Singularity smiled.

It happily sauntered over to J, brushing some blood, dust, or piece of flesh off of its dress without looking. It kept its eyes on the scared drone in front of it.

[YOU HAD ME WORRIED A FEW TIMES. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT END UP BACK ON THEIR SIDE. BUT YOU CAME AROUND IN THE END…] Singularity began.

J took a step back. She messed up. She made a bad decision and now she’d be terminated by her boss. That’s how this job went. Betray your boss and you’re let off. She knew this. And she still chose to betray her nice, safe position for her employees. The boss mattered the most, they were the head of the company. They were always the most valuable, more than anything and everything else. She was nothing. She was worthless…she deserved to be terminated…

…unless…the way it was talking right now…yes, she hadn’t intended for it to reach the parts of…her body, but…but she still got it to them! That’s what mattered…maybe…maybe she could still keep her position! Maybe she’d be safe. She wouldn’t be brought into the screaming mass! She…she was useful! She…she…

[...didn’t ya, trusted employee?] It said, in Tessa’s voice.

The yellow Xs in its eyes blinked away, being replaced with green semi-circles that stared deep into J’s eyes. She immediately stood stiff, hands shaking. A voice she never thought she’d hear again. A voice that ran through her entire body, like a spike, had just pierced right through her core. Singularity’s hand lightly brushed aside a loose strand of hair on J, and cupped the side of her face.

[...you always did as you were told…Never questioned what you were doing…] It continued, gently and slowly caressing the shaking drone’s face.

A warmth shot through J’s cheek. A twisted memory keeping her frozen. A familiar danger wearing the hide of a familiar comfort. Everything in her head was being spun around, tugged back and forth, threatening to split her in two. Run and stay, accept and reject. Half of her told her it wasn’t real, and the other half let her lean into the touch, just a little.

[...and I know you’ll always be faithful to me, no matter what…] It said more gently.

It gradually dragged its finger down J’s cheek, letting the feeble remnants of warmth in it linger on her cold metal plating. It came to rest just under J’s chin. It gently pushed it up, just a little, as Singularity leaned in next to J’s head.

[...my loyal drone~...] It whispered.

J’s entire body shivered. Her core rattled, but went still immediately after the feeling crawled through it and went down her entire body. All she felt was an uncomfortable warmth, like velvet chains tugging down on all of her limbs, a metal winter coat over her body, or a blanket of thorns wrapped around her. It was as if gravity had slammed onto her very soul.

Singularity stared at her drone for a minute, taking in the trustful fear coursing through her. It then closed its eyes and walked past her. J’s body went slack. Her shoulders dropped, and her head looked at the floor once Singularity’s finger stopped supporting it.

[...now go ahead and die for me.] Singularity said.

The solver symbol immediately flashed onto J’s visor.

*CLANK*

J fell to her knees, and then onto her side.

“...y-yes, Tessa…Everything…for you…” J trailed off as she twitched, visor beginning to crack.

“...atta’ girl…” it said, walking off into the crumbling mansion…

[rexxkazu]

A little snippet of the beginning of 'To Dead Futures'

What had happened was meant to happen. It was supposed to be without flaw, the plan he’d crafted in the hundreds of lifetimes he’d spent in his isolation. It was prophesied. A lamb who would bring the end of his imprisonment. They would be his most loyal of followers, his vessel. 

They followed his words, obeyed his commands, and cut down his traitorous siblings one after the other. 

They had introduced themselves to him, insisting he call them by name. 

“Lambert. Call me Lambert.” Their smile made him scowl in response.

“I will not, lamb.” Why indulge the mortal? They had a purpose, and they were to serve it. “Continue in your crusade, do not dwell here.”

They seem to sidestep his words, “You can’t just call me ‘lamb,’ or ‘vessel,’ forever y’know! Well- you can but, it wouldn’t hurt for you to use my name!”

A grumble echoes from his throat as he uses what little mobility he has to push the lamb toward the resurrection circle with a curled claw. “Go now, little lamb. Do not make me repeat myself.”

Lambert huffs as they cross their arms, but otherwise listens to the command. “Fine. Fine, yes, I know. I’ll see you next time a heretic decides to burn me alive with a giant fireball!”

The lamb waves obnoxiously as Narinder watches them leave. The circle flashes red beneath hooved feet, and they return to the mortal plane in a blink.

Conversations between the god and lamb were not uncommon. The god had a need for the lamb, and the lamb, well, the lamb was just annoying. Narinder could admit they are amusing in their own way, but there is a difference between ‘entertaining’ and ‘annoying.’

The lamb definitively walks the line every time they speak.

It is many centuries before the fall of his youngest brother, Leshy, an arrogant child. Narinder will enjoy his suffering as he did when watching the lamb’s sword cut him into pieces.

The fall of his sister came next, her cries of anguish filled him with satisfaction as the chains around his limbs grew looser without her influence. 

His vessel continues on their mission.

His older brother’s pathetic excuses and cowardice get him killed soon after his sister. Kallamar always was a sniveling excuse for a god. Pathetic, even in death.

“Do you ever miss them? Your siblings, I mean.” The Lamb had died to a spider in Shamura’s domain, it had caught them off guard. A slip-up that won’t happen again.

“What an absurd question. There is nothing about them to miss. They are traitors, betrayers.” Skeletal hands ache as they curl into equally bony palms. “Being their brother means nothing to me, just as they mean nothing to me.”

“That sounds… lonely.”

“Your pity insults me, Vessel.” Narinder sneers at them, “You’ve pried enough. Leave, Lamb, I grow tired of your presence.”

“Bah, alright, alright.” They huff and kick at the fog covering the ground before they prepare to be resurrected.

It isn’t long before the lamb is deposited in the cult grounds, continuing their duties as if they hadn’t died a gruesome death prior to their return. 

The Lamb is not so easily deterred.

The Lamb’s blade holds no hesitation, having killed three gods, what is a fourth? The death of his oldest sibling is swift and efficient. Despite this, Shamura’s death felt like a thorn driven into his side. Their twisted, riddled words send waves of irritation down his spine as he listens to them share a conversation with his vessel, a conversation they had no business having.

The eldest of his four siblings fell just as the others had, their spindly legs growing stiff post-mortem. It is with their death, that he feels freedom come ever closer.

There is only one thing left to do.

“Vessel, I relinquish you from your service to the Red Crown. Return it to me, and embrace the end that awaits. With this last sacrifice of my most devoted Follower, I will be freed. Approach, vessel, and lay your life down at my feet." 

That is all that must be said before that lamb returns what is his. The red crown returns easily to his own head.

And with that, The Lamb was granted a gentle caress for their end. Peaceful and without pain, something suiting of their soft and gentle nature despite the thousands they killed in Narinder’s name.

This was where it was supposed to end.

All was fine, great even, but no. Existence was never going to be so easy, no matter the power he may hold. He was a weak fool for allowing a sapling of favor to grow for The Lamb, something that should have remained nothing but appreciation for a sharp tool.

This was a mistake that cost him his peace when he had just gained his freedom. How foolish. How stupid.

Narinder held no ill intentions for The Lamb, for why should he? They have served their time as his vessel faithfully and without dally, despite the conversations he indulged between deaths. 

All tasks given were taken and completed with a bow and a grin that could rid hell of its shadows. So, why is it that The Lamb’s sacrificed soul dissipates into nothing?

[rinadragomir]

Cassie's publishing plans + things you can do while waiting for TWP (under the video)

The Wicked Powers - 2025👸🏼🔫(but read my thoughts below pls)

Sword Catcher - October 10

Secrets Of Blackthorn Hall (kickstarter), which is gonna include "other Shadowhunter material" (new short stories and something "mysterious" else) - 2024

Eldest Curses - unknown, but it will come out at some point during The Wicked Powers, please don't die while waiting🫶

So TWP comes out in 2 years. Listen🖐️I know how it sounds, but heeey it's not actually too long if you think of it. She hasn't even started writing and we were waiting for the Chain of Thorns around the same amount of time✊ focus on the fact that these two years will be full of different kind of new content!

We can read Sword Catcher, it looks and sounds like something exciting

We'll get lots of new arts for TWP and maybe something else for TLH

In a year we'll be able to hold a physical copy of SOBH and get !new! short stories✨

We'll probably get extra ChoT content, maybe explicit scenes or sth

Snippets💅🏻

[witchlingcirce]

A SEA OF CHANGE - My theory’s !!!

Okay SO recently we’ve been getting a lot of stuff for Matthew’s short story (I think cuz the book is coming out September-November) so I wanted to discuss some of my thoughts and feelings about it!! <33 also, a lot of this information comes from here !! <3

What the story is about:

Now I’m sure everyone knows the premise of this book! Basically just about Matthew’s journey on an ocean liner, where he encounters an infestation of vampires. Tbh from that art that she posted earlier today, I have a feeling that MAYBE this book will giving demon esque death on the Nile vibes !! Idk like, kinda giving mystery 👓👓

This art:

Now I’m sure everyone has seen this art 20 times today. But again, it’s just so pretty and vibey that I wanted to share it again and share my thoughts on it.

FIRST OFF- MATTHEW FAIRCHILD WHY ARE YOU BRINGING YOUR DOG ON A BOAT!!?? FREE OSCAR!!! Jokes aside. They look SO. SO. SO CUTE 😭😭 if anyone is Matthew’s ride or die it is 100% Oscar.

To me this picture is kind of giving that Matthew is maybe investigating something. I think Oscar is kind of the one who warns him about the shadow/demon the left side of him (Oscar is looking worried at it and Matthew looks down at Oscar ect ect ect … guys I took art class for like 2 years trust) now maybe in this scene Matthew is being set up for a trap by maybe one of the vampires???? It could be that the vampires are working for some kind of demon.

Now this demon kind of reminds me of the Cherufe demon that Aline, Alec and Helen fought in TRSOM

—>

Now there’s also the big possibility it could be an entirely NEW demon buttt just making possible connections! Could be a cute call back.

Matthew’s love interest:

Now if you didn’t know- Matthew is confirmed to be having a love interest in this novel. (Cassie confirming it!) So I’m actually really curious on who/how it will be set up in this short story!!

Obviously we won’t be getting everything of Matthew and this strange characters romance, but I honestly do think this book will Matthew opening himself up for that kind of relationship. I think it’ll be really sweet and cute, and again another part of Matthew’s journey of letting himself love and love others.

I think it’s cool to think if the character will be a downworlder or a shadowhunter. Obviously whoever it is they will probably meet on this ocean linear or wherever else Matthew travels to. Now this is a theory I’ve seen someone else say- but it could be Matthew who starts the trend of shadowhunter families moving to New York/America, so I’m thinking whoever his love interest is- will be living in America!! And Matthew will be prompted to live/visit them.

I also don’t think we will get the entirety of them in this story!! Obviously this book really isn’t that long (if I said the whole book should have been abt Matthew well… that’s another day). But I do think this is like an introduction for them to have other short stories written about them!! I’ve also always thought that TLH would get a short story book (this the bane chronicles, TFTSA, GOTSM ect ect) <3!!! I just want to see Matthew happy 😞

Anyways whoever it is- I hope Matthew gets the love he deserves 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

The snippets:

Again, if you didn’t know- we’ve gotten three snippets for this short story so far.

I think alot of these snippets indicate kind of how Matthew is holding up/dealing with the events of chain of thorns.

Especially dealing with the loss of kit, and also dealing with his sobriety. I really do think that this story will really just be showing Matthew’s healing journey, dealing with all these things and really just coming to terms with himself.

With the snippet we got today —>

It was definitely the longest one we’ve gotten yet, and probably the one where we’ve seen the more plot relevant stuff. I’m super interested to see how all this vampire stuff plays out!! And I’m very interested in Slyvian!! Is he the love interest?? Who knows.

ANYWAYS SORRY THIS IS LONG I HAVE SO MANY THIUGHTS

[heronchildlove]

after the matthew snippet do you think grief will be a key plot point in his novella?

I do think so, yes. Grief was a major plot point in chain of thorns and it's been a major plot point in his story from the start. Since Cast Long Shadows his life has been dominated by grief that he couldn't process and so he hid it as far down a bottle as he could.

Now he doesn't have any more covers, he really has to deal with all this grief head first: about his mother, about the baby, about his strained relationship with James and his family, his lost love for Cordelia, about Kit, about the loss of himself.

So I do think (and hope) his novella and his travel year will be in part about him learning how to manage the grief, but I also think (hope) it will be about taking that grief and healing and growing and finding himself and coming out stronger on the other side (with a dash of your usual shadowhunter adventuring on the side).

And if it isn't, I'm gonna take matters into my own hands and write it myself 😂

[bonefall]

howdy, super enjoying clanmew day! hope its not bothersome but I wanted to pop in and talk about two of my ocs' name translations-

thunderchase > krrakapaoha "thunder will-travel", better translated as "will seek out thunder", in reference to her bold daring attitude - it's supposed to evoke the image of running directly into a storm! her name could also be translated as stormchaser or thrillseeker. the boldness of her name is in contrast to her sister's name, which is...

pickerelstripe > kishkiseek (kishki is a claymew word shhh) "chain pickerel with thick stripes". could also be translated as.... uh, pickerelstripe. her name's supposed to be rather dull, especially next to her sister, which plays into some major self-worth issues - it doesn't help that their dad's the leader and christened them with these names.

theres some other fun names I have too but a lot of them involve my own words and i'd feel bad flooding your inbox with stuff from my dialect aha

No no feel free to go on, I love everyone who's submitted a dialect and it's good to see you around. Chop up snippets of your lore and send them in as like... "tidbits" and I'll shout out your sideblog every time, if you'd like. I need to fix up the masterpost tonight to bring more attention to the specific blogs that run their own, btw, thinking out loud.

GO LOOK AT THEIR DIALECT, Claymew, on their sideblog @pickerelstripe

But anyway! Onwards!

Pickerel isn't here in the UK, but there is a very similar sort of flower. Pickerel is a US waterplant, with a rising purple flower that pokes above the surface of the water, but in the UK, there is the very special,

THIS IS ITS ACTUAL NAME,

Smartweed.

[ID: A picture of the real, actual, existing plant, smartweed. It is a clustered, corncob-like pink flower that rises on a stalk out of the water.]

It's also called amphibious bistort, which Clan cats agree with. It's from the same cultural "classification" of flowers as bistort, hyacinth, and loosestrife. At some point I would like to make a "clan culture" guide to how they sort flowers, but for now, the words to know are these;

Tower (Flower) = Swahr A generic term for a tall, compound flower or several flowers that grow around a central point, usually without thorns (which excludes teasel by definition). Typically purple or pink.

Smartweed (Polygonum amphibium) = Yarpow A semi-aquatic flower which can count as a "reed" in Clanmew. A welcome, beloved pop of pink at the waterside, though Clerics occasionally grapple with a recurring falsehood that burning it will make a cat smarter. It doesn't. It just causes smoke inhalation. Where does the falsehood come from? RiverClan perpetuates the rumor as a mean joke against other Clans. Word comes from Brain + Light Pink (the color 'blush', in Clanmew).

[foxgloves-garden]

Intro Post

Hi all. We're the Foxglove Garden, or just Foxgloves. We're a plural system made up mostly of introjects from our own creative works and roleplays.

We have ADHD and Bipolar 1 with psychotic features, so be aware - truly nonsensical posts and word salad may well be the result of a psychotic episode. If you see such posts, first of all we apologize. And second of all, please message and tell us to go get help. Anyways, onto lighter things! We write, roleplay, play vidya games and TTRPGs, art, code, make music, and various other things. Not all of our creations are good, but we do our best. Our frequent fronters as of 4/30/25 are Kori, Alecto, the Continuum, and Aspen. Kori, (It/They), writes fantasy and sci-fi, draws, and pixel arts. Alecto (He/They) is practicing his chain stitch. the Continuum usually just vibe and sometimes help do chores. Aspen (any pronouns) codes. Look for the tags #Kori writes, #Kori arts, #Kori pixels, #Alecto crochets, #Melodi makes music, and #Aspen codes or #Aspen plays.

Tags for our works:

#Oak Ashe and Thorn : Kori's WIP novel trilogy, a comedic urban fantasy about found family and allyship. There were too many ideas to shove into one book, so it's planning for three. #Coffee and Curses is the first book in said trilogy, wherein the trio of main characters discover a sinister, caffeine fueled plot.

#Chaos at Keystone U: Silly sci fantasy dramedy comic about universe hopping lesbians. It's part of Kori's source, and they're very excited to share it.

#Tales of the Sía Akara (formerly #Sekaran Tales): The loose collection of myths and worldbuilding snippets about our original species the Sía Akara ("Of Seven", as they are supposedly direct creations of the seven elemental deities,) a group of shifters whose country borders the Deep Wilds. Also part of Kori's source, Akaramalé ("Seven-place") is its homeland.

#Overright: A 4th-wall breaking RPG. How far are you willing to go to save the world?

#Conlang is for when we're doing stuff related to the language of the Sía Akara. Linguistics is mostly Kori's domain, but others may occasionally add their two cents.

Anytime we have something to say that's unrelated to our creative stuff will probably be tagged with [insert name here] speaks. Unless we forget to tag it like a bunch of potatoes. #Stories for others' stories of course, and #queer will probably show up on anything related to gender and sexuality.

Kori does not do writing commissions (It has difficulties writing on command) but may do pixelart commissions. A price sheet will be added as soon as spoons exist to make it

[theleafwarden]

A little Fic Writing

I'm sure I posted it before, but I'll post it again.

This is a snippet of my unfinished work for Welcome to Tyria, which I've been working on for ages. Please be nice to me, I'm a baby writer ;_;

The snippet is from the beginning of the story. Ladrenae is my Soundless Firstborn, Sylvari Mesmer.

OUT OF HIDING

Ladrenae in Thought

Before we even continue this charade of mines, it is best that I let you know who I am, or rather, who I was. 

I am Lady Teagan Beaumont, a wealthy noble artificer and not a human.

Before then, I was a very stern Primus named Teigra Fearshot. Also, I was not an Axe Legion Charr.

OK, so more information. I was also, at one point, a Botanist named Temani who traveled with a krewe up and down the Maguuma swamps studying plants. Of course, I was never an Asura, and I can’t stand them.

To make this easier on you, I was never a Norn, a haughty and stout woman named Tahyra Snowborn, a champion of miners and women against the Dredge and Svanir. 

But they are not me, or maybe they are. It never occurred to me how broken I was in this moment. Four aspects of me floating about a space, circling the one persona I rather forget.

Her.

But she is me. I am her, and he is right. I can’t keep running from myself anymore. I need to face this version of me that I have drowned out for more than a decade. 

If only he knew how much I knew. Maybe he would forget, would want to forget too. Now is not the time to think of those things. The tides in the Eternal Alchemy are turning and I, too, must turn with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My dreams have been very disturbing as of late. This usually happens before something tragic happens. My feelings have kept me one step ahead of everything and ready for flight as soon as it becomes too much. So yes, my dream, the dream I have always dreamed of when my eyes managed to come together after a day of stress and exhaustion, always goes like this.

A tall woman with a mushroom-shaped head and slender, delicate, bare feet runs through a demented forest surrounded by grotesque creatures and familiar persons once known to her chasing after her. The fresh jungle air struggles to roam free as the aura of a rotting landscape is strangling it. My eyes are filled with tears and fear as I run to the event horizon, only thinking about him. Is he OK? Is he even there? By now, undead hands and thorns start to wind themselves around me as I force myself closer to the end of the jungle. 

I’m bleeding now, and I can’t tell where my blood starts and where others end; a large monstrosity charges at me. I temporarily break free of my chains to dodge its attack while another large creature belches jungle grubs from its mouth. Anguish cries roared through my immediate area, ushering me toward its drawl. I could only hope that whoever or whatever it was going to be alright, or at least hope that it or they would just end it already. I managed to fight my way through a clearing where a misty, moldy sight stood before me, strapped down by tendrils moving in and out of its body, unresponsive. Weird. Just moments ago, it yelled and screamed as a man would when faced with torture. I saw broken feet and legs held together, wrapped by rotting leaves. Its chest bleeding green with thorns hanging out, its head still down as if it was purposely hiding from me.

“La…Ladrenae...please….”

It spoke. The trembling of its voice, a soft and soothing voice I knew of. My eyes grew wide as I started incoherently babbling to myself over how, why, and who was in that rotten contraption.

I cried.

He told me to end it. Save everyone.

No.

No, I won’t.

“Teagan? Are…are you OK? You seem troubled, dear.” 

Suddenly, I looked up at the human hands covering my watery eyes, wondering how I got to this point. A vine started growing alongside the wall in the grand garden. It had thorns on it. That’s what did it.

We were in the Promenade, walking about the Central Plaza as merchants, refugees, nobles, soldiers, and commoners walked around the large garden to conduct their activities. I noticed that the Ambassador saw me weary as he expressed his concerns. I wanted to hug him, bury my face in the familiar scent of his neck. It has been so long since I could be around him as myself.

“Teagan,” he said to me, “I want you to know that in a few days, I will travel to the Grove and stay for a couple of weeks. It’s time for me to check in with the others on my findings of human nature and to lead a few sapling classes.”

I voiced my disappointment in him leaving without our scheduled meet and drink at my home, to which he promised that we would have it another time.

“Better yet, if you want, Lady Beaumont, we could sit on your veranda and drink tea and eat some muffins before I go if you need it that much.”

I admit it made me feel better; however, I hated his sarcasm. I obliged, and we began walking toward my home. 

The foyer of my home is decorated with various vines and ivy and blooming red and pink roses, stretching to the ceiling from the floor. For visitors, they tell me it feels as if they are walking through a tunnel in the Grove, as the scents are fresh and subtle. I guess that’s how he was able to figure me out. Dagonet triggered a conversation about walking through a verdant tunnel several times in his sapling days with the Firstborn. The now-known luminaries helped decorate and illuminate the tunnel into the Grove, which, to this day, is heralded as a necessary landmark for Tyria. He goes on and on about this, which I ignore, and I have him sit in my parlor as I readied the tea and warm the muffins. I returned with my mint-infused iced black tea and strawberry muffins for us to consume as he stopped to read a book on my coffee table to eat. 

“I must say, Teagan, your muffins are always delectable, and the tea is refreshing as usual,” he said as he gulped down some of the tea with the muffin. Clearing his throat and wiping his mouth with a cloth, he told me what was on his mind. 

“So, remember when I said I needed to go to the Grove for a bit of a vacation?”

“Yes, I do. Is it more of a diplomatic meeting disguised as a mission or…?”

“Well, something terrible has happened in Astorea.”

“Like what?”

“Nightmare Court. They attacked the pods, where our saplings sleep and dream until they are ready to enter the world. Attacked them. Many did not survive the attack some did, and I was told that two were in the direct line of fire. One was poisoned with Nightmare in the Dream!”

I must have had a look of horror on my face, one that a normal noble, or even a human for that matter, shouldn’t have, especially when it comes to Sylvari matters. I knew I messed up then because he suddenly stopped and stared me down, trying to read my next lie, and I was not going to have that. 

“Do I need to pull a few favors? Maybe you have spoken to the Queen about this since you are ambassador, and she could at least send a few Ministry reps or Seraph or something on her behalf as condolences?” 

“It wouldn’t matter. Jennah has centaurs, bandits, and the Charr to deal with. I’m certain she wouldn’t have time to spare for us, so I will check in with Pale Tree to see if she’s OK. I would have never thought that vile woman would be heinous enough actually to get into the Dream and poison someone. How is that even possible?! Thorns, I hate the Court.”

I felt horrible that I couldn’t help him. I wanted to console and let him know I was there for him if he needed anything. He looked broken. Uneasy. 

��Dagonet, please let me know if there is anything I can do to help. I understand that this is a very trying time for you, and I want to do everything I can to ensure you are assisted. I-”

He got up from the couch with his tea in hand and walked over to the window. From there he stared off in the courtyard overlooking the populace moving about, everyone on their day to day business indifferent by anything that is happening outside of the city walls. I don’t know what I said to piss him off but clearly this whole situation is reaching his last nerve. 

“--Wynne said that the winds were moving in a different direction. At the time, we argued about which direction to take and why. We asked Mother for guidance, and she told us to follow the big gusts of wind. What the fuck do I make of that? Is this the gust of wind and change in temperature that creates the storm over the horizon? When will the storm get here? If this is just the beginning, then what is coming? And how do we prepare?”

[guardianofthedawn]

Meet My OC

Figured I should just actually introduce Tora rather than write snippets or have her and Shang Tsung snarking at each other.

I don’t have a picture of her, sorry. I’m not really a visual artist, more a verbal artist.

General Info

Name: Tora Altona

Place of birth: Outworld

Height: 178cm (approx. 5’ 10”)

Hair colour: Orange and black striped like a tiger’s fur (a failed animorph triggered this, her original hair colour was orange)

Eye colour: Gold

Distinguishing features: A series of flogging scars crisscrossing her upper back, a thin scar following the path of her shoulder from collarbone to upper arm, an ourobouros tattoo around her left bicep, three piercings in each ear (two lobe, one helix).

Current residence: Earthrealm

Fighting style: No distinct style, however she does prefer to keep her opponents at a distance where she can employ her weapon and magic to defeat them.

Magic: Elemental, offensive. Would’ve been a battlemage in the Umgadi if her parents had anything to say about it. Also has employ of soul magic (which she almost never uses) thanks to experiments by Shang Tsung involving the Well of Souls (MK11 only, at this stage).

Weapon: A series of enchanted metal spikes called “thorns” that she can engage individually or as a string.

General attire: Three-quarter sleeve shirt, fingerless gloves, cropped hooded jacket, seven-eighth leggings under denim shorts, high-top sneakers, snake-shaped jewellery around her biceps and wrists, three silver chains attached to the belt loops on her left and right hips, thorn pouch fastened to left thigh.

Family history: Once the only daughter of the mercantile Altona family in Outworld who prospered by trading in goods across the realm, Tora is now the only recognised member of the family by Outworld decree. Her mother and father were executed by order of Empress Sindel for financing a failed rebellion against the throne; Tora escaped persecution by proving she was neither involved nor in Outworld at the time. This didn’t stop supporters of the rebellion from threatening her life should she return to Outworld, so she simply stayed in Earthrealm and focused on improving her magic and studying to be a medic.

[cassynite]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @knight-commander, thank you so much for thinking of me!! I'm a little between projects but I've been meaning to try and nail down the voice of Sparrow's not-dead brother, Isore, so here's a snippet of his POV.

--

Isore remembers his sister dying, can see it as clearly as he can see the moaning man in front of him in the present. The caravan attack had been short and swift, the Hyenas efficient at what they did, and Isore had been ill-prepared and arrogant in his assumptions about the safety of the road. He hadn't had time to draw breath for spell when he was stabbed below his ribs, the human slowly succumbing to deathly fear front of him in the present an echo of the smiling face holding the sword in the past--blue eyes, sand-colored hair chopped close to his skull, and a scar on his sun-leathered cheek.

Isore had fallen, bleeding out, his intestines perforated. It would be slow, and it would be painful, but he was still alive and conscious, if in pain. He saw everything.

Passerene hadn't realized that. She was eleven, the eternal thorn in his side, a chain on his ankle. She hadn't meant to come with him to Alkenstar. He'd hoped to leave her behind, to finally make that final step he'd been putting off for years--leaving his little sparrow happy and taken care of in a country that would love her solely for the feathers on her face, so he can finally move on and still live his life, fulfill his purpose.

But she'd insisted, and he found himself reacting the same way he always did when she asked for anything, when presented with another opportunity to lengthen their companionship. He agreed. Just like he'd agreed to himself to travel to Dehrukani in the first place with her, then to establish himself amongst the flighty artists and the purposeless azata wearing poor mortal forms, then to stay, year after year, as she grew. She was sharp, and drank in the world around her with unfettered joy; she loved it, and saw its worth, and that could be useful to Isore with proper attention and guidance, and that was reason enough to linger. So he was a good brother to her, patient and gentle when needed, and she was biddable because she loved him.

And when he was attacked, she did not think about how she was an untrained eleven year old child who had been caught by murderers and should focus on her survival. She only saw that her brother was dying, and so she fought--fought until the human with the scar on his cheek struck her, and again when she kept screaming, until she was silent, and blood sank into the soil beneath her head.

"Now why the fuck did you go and do that?" another one of the slavers--blond, pug nose, who screamed loud enough to be heard through stone when he would bury her alive a year later--had said. "You just cost us a shit ton of money. That aasimar's our pay day!"

"Fuckin' brat," scarred cheek had said. "Just take the body, why don't you. We can still salvage it."

Aasimar were worth their weight in gold as slaves, but they still sold at a tidy profit as meat. They took Passerene's body, and left Isore in the sun to be carrion for the crows.

[notthestarwar]

Snippet from: the sun will rise on us again

Against his better nature, Fox had run.

He'd run and it hadn't been enough. No matter how fast, no matter how clever, always one step ahead. His brothers are gone.

In the first days, he hadn't considered what that actually meant. He hadn't considered what losing control, what being forced to act against everything that you were, everything you always had been, would do to a person.

The war had taken Ponds from them before anything else could. That was a kindness, Fox knows that now.

He's been running and running and he's starting to think, that he's been carrying a torch in the hope of passing it on to people already dead and buried. She'd told him there would be nothing left if he didn't run. Well Fox had run, and anything that they ever had is long gone all the same.

In the first weeks of the empire, his brothers had fallen like dominoes. One by one, the empire burnt through them in a way that made the war, made Kamino, look like nothing. A week in and 3 of the guards men had survived. Thorn later fell at vaders hand. Friendly fire, nothing but a karking temper tantrum.

As the years passed and his brothers wretched back more control, a new foe plagued their ranks. Bly was the first he heard of, first chance he got; he put his blaster to his head just like he'd once done to his general.

From what he'd heard, Wolffe went the way of his jedi too, a ship exploding during a mission. It was a kindness Fox supposed, a quick death. Better than this leaden burden, this throne of nothing.

Fox had run because running might have saved them, it hadn't though, it wasn't enough. He hasn't stopped running but still, his brothers are lost to him, they lost to each other.

There is nothing left to go towards, he's just running on the spot, without them. Now there is just him. Now there is just the chase.

He finds himself sometimes, thinking of the prime. In his old age, Fox has begun to develop a strange affinity with the the shabuir, an understanding of what it means to be the heir to a dead legacy. How that feels, knowing that you can't quite put it down but you can't quite look at it all the same, how that pulls at you.

He still has no particular hunger to clone himself. To sell himself again and again, giving away any freedom he might have found to a master that would undoubtedly fuck him over. Selling himself in to a kind of slavery that would persevere long after his death.

Fox has never known freedom well enough to want to give it up for anything. Always just out of his reach. You can't give what you don't have.

Any claim the republic once had on him had died the day it burnt. But Fox now finds himself chained by his duty. By debts owed to members of a family long dead.

Fox can not rest while the empire lives. He'll burn it all down long before he lays his head to rest in whatever shallow grave his shitty attitude had more than earnt him by now.

That's the root of the problem. It's not the task itself weighing him down, it's that Fox has never been the person who should be carrying it.

Born to a galaxy that had already had enough of him, Fox has never been able to bring anything new to the table.

He's clever, but never as fast, as Cody. He's fierce, but without Wolffe's loyalty to balance it out, it serves as a disturbance rather than a asset. Bly saw the good in people, he made the most of what he had, lived each day to the fullest, but Fox has only ever been able to see the bad. It's why they stuck him on Coruscant in the first place. He's never struggled to recognise someone who's given in to their worst urges because Fox has more in common with those people than he does his brothers.

He's always known that there's something within him that's bad. Whatever was in Jango, that allowed him to be manipulated in to allowing something so terrible, that lives within Fox and he's always known it. It's deep inside him, festering as it bides its time, waiting for him to give in to it. To let it take over.

Fox isn't a good person, he came to terms with that long ago. Isn't good, but his brothers are. His brothers were good people who were made to do things they never could have done. That's why he can't stop. That's why he can't rest. He owes them this.

Even if nothing had shown him what kind of person he was before now, Fox would know it today. This is the kind of situation that can only be a punishment.

Bad things happen to good people every day, but this? This isn't just a bad thing. This is the kind of thing that only happens if you deserve it. He's sure of it.

Were Fox better, this wouldn't have happened. But Fox is bad, he's always known it, and so, rather than an every-day kind of tragic event, he's earnt himself this.

The empire are hunting him. The empire are always hunting him. But today, they have sent someone new.

Right now, Fox is being tracked by his brother, by Cody. They've primed him and pointed him in Fox's direction. He's close. He can smell Fox's blood, he can smell his fear.

Fox isn't scared of dying. He never has been. He regrets that he can't complete his mission, can't do this one thing for his brothers after everything that he's taken, but well, is it that surprising that he wasn't up to the job?

With every day that passes, when he looks in the mirror, he sees less of the vode in his face. What is left in front of him, staring back at him, calls to memory only one person. Fox looks like Jango more and more every day and he hates it.

He looks in the mirror and he sees someone cold. The kind of person that would sell children. That would let his genetic material be made in to people, people with hopes and dreams, people given no choice but to betray those hopes and dreams. People whose bodies would one day, be puppeted around like droids. Forced to watch as their hands betray them and all that they've ever loved again and again.

Fox wouldn't do that. But now, he knows how he might.

Maybe it's good that he dies here and now, at his brothers hand, before he can become the kind of person who would.

And that's the ultimate betrayal of his brothers really isn't it. The one person spared the chips control, the one person who gets to dance just outside of the empires reach, who gets to still be the person he always has been; never actually needed to be controlled to do awful things.

Here Fox is, outside of the empires reach and yet, he'll still do terrible things if he's allowed to carry on. Fox already understands why Jango did what he did. He doesn't want to know what he himself will do if he carries on living.

He'll never be at peace but maybe it's time to close his eyes all the same. To say goodnight.

He's scared but not of dying, not of pain, but of what this will do to Cody. Anything that's left of Cody anyway.

[amchara]

Trick or treat~ (for TSC)🎃

Hello!

Most of my recent TSC thoughts have been half-formed post Chain of Thorns ideas - so may I offer this snippet of a potentially dead-in-the-water Gracetopher fic, which is erm- not the happiest but in theme with the spooky, beyond the grave side of Halloween.

----

Grace opened her eyes. The sky was a soft blue, shot through with wispy gold clouds. She took a deep breath and for the first time in months, the stomach-churning scent of burnt tyres, leaking gas mains and damp that had permeated London for months had cleared from her nostrils.

No wailing air sirens. 

Instead, there was a faint whistling song that was growing closer. 

Grass blades tickled the backs of her calves as she sat up. The evening raid had happened so swiftly she hadn’t time to pull on her nylons before droning sounds had her scrambling to the shelter. 

Grace searched her last memories before she woke up. A little boy’s sobs as he clung to his mother, terrified. The almost melodic distant, shattering glass, and the percussive feel of bombs falling ever closer. Until the final scream and percussive shockwave that had pulled the air from her lungs, a crushing vice.  

She had survived close calls before but…Grace let out a slow exhale as she pulled the pieces together. 

Funny, she thought, lifting her eyes towards the horizon, she hadn’t expected the afterlife to look like Hyde Park on a spring day. And then she stilled, her fingers grasping in her dress as she recognised the figure in front of her.

He set the enormous picnic basket to the side and crouched down.  

It had been so many long years ago but Christopher’s gentle smile was ever the same. 

“Hullo Grace,” he said. 

“Hello, Christopher,” she replied faintly. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he told her, and there was an endearing tilt to his head, as he took gauge of her expression. “Rotten luck that but uh. Well, I brought us a picnic.”

Grace nodded. She helped him unpack it, pulling out bottles of cold lemonade and ginger beer, pickled eggs, ham and chicken sandwiches, a Victorian sponge and a small case of lemon tarts. Grace’s mouth watered. They had been on rationing since early winter, and it had been months since she’d had proper cake. 

“I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed here,” she said, her eyes watering as she recovered from a particularly fiery mouthful of ginger beer. She gestured around the idyllic landscape. “That I’d done enough.”

He was quiet beside her, before setting down his lemon tart. The kind, inquisitive look behind his glasses loosened something behind her heart, as violet eyes gazed into hers. “Grace. You know it was never about atonement, don’t you?” 

She looked down, tracing patterns on the brightly striped picnic blanket, the faded scar from the missing Voyance rune still visible, before his hand closed over hers. Unlike others, he didn’t try to squeeze it or stroke, and she remembered with a heartwrench the delicate way they had worked together, all those years ago. 

She let out a shuddering sigh. “I did know that. But I doubted it at times,” she confessed. “It… was hard.”

“But you made your way,” he reminded her.  

--

(Ask me for a Halloween writing treat)

[nightcrawlerblood]

hiii where is the grace and kit snippets from? I think is a fanfic as chot didnt have that, bt now Im dying to read it

I think it's the autumn lightwood one? I don't have a link sorry because I tried to pirate chain of thorns and I got sent a scam copy with this fic inside instead and it was so good I just started thinking of it as real chain of thorns