#dd promptober 2022

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 31: Graveyard

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30

now available on ao3 too

Graveyard NOUN – a burial ground, especially one beside a church.

* * *

I see you when you chase All the dreams inside your head I see you when you laugh And when you love 'til the bitter end (I see you) In the dark, at the dawn of something new I see you Yes, I see you

-- I see You by Missio

There was an odd serenity in the rows of unkept poisoned dirt mounts spotted with warped wooden crosses with washed-out names. In the gentle swaying of the encroaching branches of leafless, always gnarled trees that surrounded the place as if they wanted to suffocate it. In the gentle, sandy-rustling creaking of the rusted gate that always needed far more strength to open than it looked. In the broken lines of crooked black iron fences that somehow managed to throw harsh shadows over the shallow graves regardless of the time of the day.

All those, combined, were a solemn reminder that tomorrow was always a hope and never a promise in the land of eternal looming doom.

Even more so, Dismas supposed, for someone who had just lost a trusty companion.

He had a splitting headache exhausted from tears, momentarily too tired for mourning. Where pain was supposed to pool, was merely a dull, numb void – as if there was a hole in his chest, and everything fell out through it. His lower lip was bitten through, and where he usually tasted whiskey, now only blood and bile remained.

“Hey there, ol’ friend,” the ex-brigand tried to start, but his throat got thick and he had to clear it a couple of times. Still, it sounded off and weak when he managed to speak again. “They didn’t e’en bother with a proper headstone for ya, huh?”

The graveyard was silent. The rows remained just as sloppy and barely kept, as usual.

“So much for years o’ faithful service, huh?” Dismas forced a crooked smirk, showing one of his sharp canines, but even that bile-filled expression couldn’t stay on his face for long. “I suppose this will wait for us all, huh? No stone, no frills, no fuss, n’ definitely no glory. No one e’en bothered t’ give ya proper place near the central road. Or the Abbey…”

Oh, those memories were a definite gut punch when they rushed in. The highwayman swallowed thickly and finally confessed:

“Ya made staying in the Abbey bearable, y’know? That bloody coffin of a transept was just… insufferable unless ye were there,” he paused again, rubbing his face tiredly, and continued, quieter. “But ye always were. Keeping me company. Keeping me sane amidst all the oppressive droning. Hell, keeping me warm in that stone sack during winters.”

It was incredibly hard to force out a choked:

“I’ll miss it.”

Because he definitely wasn’t supposed to miss anything related to the transept. Not being the honest cutthroat that he was, that is. Abbey was a different world, to him, a world unfitted for his ilk, a world too depressing and uninviting on its own.

Feeling his knees getting weak, Dis lowered himself to the poisoned ground, bundling into the ripped overcoat. Everything happened so suddenly, he still couldn’t force himself to mend all the new holes in Uncatchable’s matted fur and worn-out padded cloth. Somehow, only those holes made anything feel even relatively real. Else he would’ve kept thinking that it was all an elaborate fright somehow.

“You gave me courage,” he continued when the silence became even more unbearable than his own wavering voice. “In those blackest pits, when everything seemed lost, ya shone. Ye were my best ally. Helped me push past the struggles I thought I couldn’t…”

He felt small, lost and miserable as he habitually reached for booze, remembering in half-motion that it wasn’t there. And this last drop – or rather, the absence of it – finally broke him into ugly, drunken sobbing as he hugged his knees.

“I dunno how I’m gonna go on withoutcha…”

Behind his shoulder, high above, Dismas heard an exasperated sigh:

“For the last time, Dis,” Reynauld’s voice was filled with unending vexation. “I swore on the Light’s Grace that I’ll buy you a new flask. With guelder rose engravings. Can you calm down finally?”

“You killed her!” the ex-brigand wailed, inconsolable, fat drunken tears staining his pants. “Murdered her in the cold blood as if she was some bone rabble! My baby, my beloved, she who nourished me for o’er a decade, n’ they wouldn’t even get her a tombstone! As if she was just a stray, some lowly seeker…!”

The world was a cold, unfair place, and that was yet another proof of that.

“Oh, for the Light’s mercy! You made me give Commendation of the Dying to a flask, Dismas,” the crusader hissed, both aggravated and embarrassed. “His Holiness is still giving me weird looks every time I go to a sermon.”

“As he should, at a murderer!” the highwayman wept. “Oh, my sweet one… run through yer very throat… my the hand most uncaring, woe is me for calling such a man my closest, dearest friend n’ seeking consolation in his bosom!”

“Keep it quiet, will you?” the knight gave a quick glance around, but thankfully, no one wanted to be around the rowdy drunken rogue, so no one heard this heretical farce.

“How can ya demand m’silence afta’ taking away the last comfort that I had? Cruel, heartless man that I let into my--”

“Alright, I’ve had enough,” Reynauld grabbed him like a naughty kitten and stomped in a direction of the bathhouse with a stoic expression of a serial killer. “Firstly, we’re not getting burned at a stake for a flask. Secondly, you’re getting quiet. Now. And once you’re coherent, I’ll get you a new flask. I’ll even allow you to sleep on my lap while you sober up.”

Habitually, Dismas stopped struggling and just dangled in the arms that dragged him out of the blackest pits before. The deal was too good to pass even if his mind was barely operational.

“Promise?” he asked, trying to wipe the tears with already dirty gloves and most likely only making it worse.

“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy…”

Dismas was way too drunk and emotionally devastated, and that was probably the reason he blurted out:

“Not of me?”

Reynauld paused, then turned him around and took one long, hard look at his puffy, reddened, snot-covered face and let out a sigh so exhausted, that all of the holy martyrs would’ve most likely felt sorry for him as their most unfortunate kin.

And yet his voice was soft as he placed a small kiss on his highwayman’s brow.

“You are my little saint, silly.”

[lorepossum]

DD Promptober ‘22, Day 5: Ritual.

Finally getting a little drabble in, I’m gonna at least try to do a few more before the month is out.

Whiskey in the afternoon. Whiskey in the evening and Whiskey in his flask for the afternoon to follow. The mornings were saved for another particular ritual of our favorite Highwayman’s.

Take the hair, it is well written,

Of the dog by which you’re bitten,

Work off one wine by his brother,

One labor with another.

Dismas was never sure where he’d heard it. Whether from the depths of a tavernhall, or from the lips of his own father at the lintel of some long distant, forgotten hearth fire.

Wherever he had heard it first, it did not stop there. Dismas frequented so many places sick with drink and suffering that is was nearly a mantra. The holy scripture of the drunken reprobates. Sometimes they added humorous, dirtier couplets or lines. Sometimes added slurrs and cursed (though that was often not intentional). Either way it was impossible for a reprobate such as Dismas to not know of the proverbial ‘Hair of the Dog’.

Every drunk had their own rituals of the day, every man and woman reliant of drink had ways of keeping sane. Dismas was no different; whiskey in the afternoon. Whiskey in the evening and Whiskey in his flask for the afternoon to follow.

He liked Whiskey. Liked the way it bit at the back of his throat and the warmth is settled in his stomach. Liquid courage on an estate full of monsters. Sure, sometimes he would partake of ale or beer (usually at a meal or while working— for the calories, you see) but Whiskey was his ever constant companion. Whiskey… or the shoe polish that Jubert passed off as it anyhow.

The mornings however were different. Dismas prided himself on not requiring a nip of whiskey in the morning. He saved another of his rituals for the morning.

Gin, Malt Vinegar, dashes of pepper and the ground power of the exotic peppers they’d only recently begun importing from the East. (It was certainly a better mix than the gunpowder some of his old brigand companions had used.) Top off with lemon, and a raw egg yolk.

It didn’t taste good. But it wasn’t meant to.

Nights were for feeling good. For drowning sorrows in the burn of booze and the laughter of others ignoring the shadows at the door. For savoring the hit of a familiar high, playing cards or dice (at the unofficial tables of course) and forgetting to worry for the evening about what horror you might see when you awoke.

The mornings were for sobering up. And there was nothing that could sober a man like the sour spicy punch of a Hair of the Dog.

Reynauld always told him a shower might have the same effect. But what did the old man know…

“I know it looks absolutely revolting.” The crusader said where he found Dismas, sitting on a stool at the bar at Jubert’s at far-too-early as far as he was concerned.

“Probably.” Dismas said with a grin and a wink, which hinted at the ghost of the night passed. “But ah well.”

He downed it in one. Savoring the slide of the yolk, the sour curdling effect on his tongue. The waft of vinegar in the nose, just enough gin to moisten his wrung dry brain, and the pepper burn that lingered after.

Reynauld made a face, but Dismas just laughed. He rapt the bar three times and swung off his stool.

His hip flask was full for the afternoon and evening. His morning’s libation complete. He loped after the crusader with a half smile on his face, out to whatever horror that were to come.

[leenukeath]

Darkest Prompts Day 9: Costume

Ninth day of the Promptober challenge, Darkest Prompts. Theme: Costume.

Who needs costumes? People of high status, entertainers, performers, assassins hiding their identity, ...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42058116/chapters/106124232

[seraserasergiani]

Daily Loving PJAL 247

Day 1: Trick

prompt by @darkestprompts

[ilwolf]

Day Two- Treat

Character: Paracelsus, Bigby and Audrey 

Word count: 1579

I just wanted to write something soft.

Paracelsus returns home after a particularly tough excursion.

  Paracelsus trudged up the stairs. Heavy boots on carpet so worn you can see the rotten wood underneath, threatening to take her down. Even the clothes on her back felt like a lead weight trying to pull her down. Every step towards the door just made her want to collapse and give up. She’d be happy to die in the most inconvenient place possible.

    The only reason she kept going was because what was at home. 

    She finally reached the door to their tiny one room home and walked in. Promptly falling over the heavy shackles on the floor.

    “Sorry.”

    She picked her face off the floor to see Audrey putting tiny plaits into Bigby’s mane. 

    She felt sorry for the poor guy, he probably got overly stressed out if he transformed at home. 

    “Why didn’t you move them from the door?” She asked as she sat up and started undressing herself. She needed to remove the outside world off her. 

    “Why?”

    She rolled her eyes and scooted across the floor to join them. 

    Bigby lifted his head and put his muzzle in her lap. 

    She instinctually stroked his face. 

“You two are happy I’m going to make food.” Audrey got up and straighten out her top before making her way to the fireplace. 

His skin was warm and his breathing was so rhythmic that she started to doze off. “Take it you had a rough day as well?” She asked in an attempt to stay awake. 

He huffed but he just melted into her lap as she pet his ears. His leg started to kick as she found the spot. It was funny to do this to him when he’s human, but adorable as a monster. 

She looked up when she can smell something cooking. Audrey had the frying placed precariously on some apparatus she had found. They really needed an actual oven and not using what was affectively a camp fire in their living room.

The peace was ruined by the distinct cracking of bones. She moved her hand and let him back up. 

She tried not to look as his body returned to his smaller form. There was an opportunity to work out how it worked but she was so tired. Tomorrow was going to be another day.

“Welcome back.”

He gasped and heaved. 

There wasn’t anything either of them could do for him. Unfortunately, it was a waiting game. At least they were under attack so he could recover from the transformation. “Do you want me to plait your hair?” 

He nodded and tried to move towards her, but his limbs weren’t having it. 

She scooted over towards him and helped him move, so she can reach his hair. 

“I should be comforting you.” He mumbled. “You are the one exhausted.”

She methodically parted and played with his hair. It was easy, left over middle, right over middle. “It’s fine, I have to do work tonight. So I can’t really sleep.”

“No.” He flopped backwards and pinned her. 

“BIGBY.” She tried pushing him off. There was much she could dp as he was deceptively heavy.

“You need to sleep.” He rolled over so he could bury his head into her neck. “I need you two next to me.”

How could she say no to that? She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and just held him. 

“How does it feel being the disgusting one?” Audrey laughed at them two. 

“Get your butt over here and do your job then.” She bit back.

“Chill.” Audrey held out her hands in a placating manner. She gave a small, soft smile. “I will soon. I’m not ignoring the eggs cause eggs.”

“Smells good.” She could feel Bigby smile against her neck. 

“I don’t think Para would smell that good.”

Paracelsus found the nearest thing to hand and threw it at Audrey. The graverobber laughed and danced out the way of whatever it was.

He lifted his head. “She’s smelled worse.”

“Rude.” She gasped and jabbed him into his side. Unless move as it didn’t affect him.

“Food.” There was a laugh as three plates got placed on the floor.

It was way too much effort to move to get food.

Bigby let out a quiet sad noise.

“Can’t complain you didn’t cook.”

“I know. I feel bad being unable to have done so.”

Paracelsus shrugged. “Why? She’s been freeloading off the both of us.”

“Damn right.” Audrey leaned forwards to kiss Bigby and steal some food off his plate.

Para rolled her eyes and scrapped some of her food onto his plate. Ignoring his whines. Bigby retaliated against Audrey to steal food for Para. Light, it was a mess at meal time. She still thought they should share off one plate. Would also save on washing up but they told her no. Reason rarely worked with those two.

She leaned against him as it was getting harder to focus on getting food from the plate to her mouth. 

“Hey wanna bird food?” Audrey waggled her eyebrows at her.

She glared at her. “If you spit in my mouth, it will be the last thing you do.”

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her tightly for a hug. “Do you need help? Or would you rather sleep?”

“I want to know what happened to you.” She can eat slowly. Didn’t matter if food went cold as long as it was cooked. Terribly, but it was cooked. 

He went very quiet. “It’s nothing different from every other day.”

“Who am I stabbing?” She stated matter of fact. She could get away with it. There weren’t many competent healers around. 

“N-n-n- no one.” 

Audrey snorted. “Yeah, I gave Tardif a bottle of wine and a name.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You said I couldn’t do anything. All I did was give Tardif a name. I didn’t say murder them.” She grinned.

Bigby placed his face in his hands. 

“Murder will happen regardless of who stabs them.” Paracelsus stabbed the meat a little too forcefully. No one was allowed to hurt Bigby.

-

“Come on.” 

She stared at Bigby in confusion. She didn’t realise when she had fallen asleep or when he picked her up. 

Her hand wandered to the scarring on his face. He flinched when her fingers touched it. She moved her hand down to cup his cheek before wrapping her arm around him. 

“You have to let go.”

“No.”

And like the absolute monster he was, he dropped her on the bed. 

He could have at least looked sorry for it. Instead he just tried to get her clothes off her. Not that she was being helpful because holding her arms up was too much effort. 

“Para.” He whined at her.

There was no intent to be awkward and difficult. It was just happened that when she put her hands in the air she went backwards on the bed. 

He just sighed at her. “You aren’t sleeping in your day dress.”

“Why not? It is just clothes.”

The bed shifted as Audrey appeared. “He wants to see your boobs.” Bigby made a small distressed noise. A noise he normally made when he got called out for something true. 

“You want to see my boobs.” She stated plainly. It was so hard keeping her eyes open. Next time she was going to argue about extra camping. Even if she really wanted to go home.

“Yeah and?”

It took both of them to help her get changed. Annoyingly, she did feel better in her clean night dress. She wasn't going to give either of them the satisfaction of being right. A part of her didn’t want to let go of the stupid argument.

Bigby just threw her like a doll to the top of the bed. “Hurry up, it's cold in here.” 

She just stared at Audrey getting undressed and into her night gown. 

    It didn’t take long for them to make sure everything was locked up, and their abomination joined her in bed. He was so warm to the touch that honestly they didn’t need a fire during the night. Audrey just had to made one last check to make sure the fire was contained. It will burn out in the night, or kill them but at that point who would care. 

    She blinked. Bigby would kill her himself if he had heard that thought. Or maybe he could hear her thoughts as he pulled her closer to him. 

Audrey straddled his hips. “Hey.”

“No.” He pushed her too hard and she fell off the bed. If Paracelsus could focus properly, as she could barely keep her eyes open, she would have laughed at the dumb confused look on her face. .

“You ok?”

“I’m good.” The grave robber stood up. “You won’t be.” Then proceeded to try and tackle him. 

She wanted to join in on the play fighting, but she was going to have to be content with the laughter.

-

Paracelsus opened her eyes. It was still dark out. She could feel Audrey’s legs wrapped around hers. She flexed her hand and Bigby instinctually grabbed it. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. She saw Bigby trying to curl up on himself in his sleep. Audrey was stopping that by being flopped over him like some dumb cat. She rolled over, ignoring Audrey’s grumbling, and rested her head against Bigby’s.

She smiled and closed her eyes. These were her idiots. She wouldn’t trade them for the world.

[leenukeath]

Nice to see him come out relatively unscathed (after what I did to him in that grave)

@darkestprompts Promptober

Day 8 Back from the dead

Imagine you pray to the Light for a miracle, and you are granted one!

The biggest miracle of all! The Miracle of life.

A second chance.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 29: Festival

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

now available on ao3 too

Festival NOUN - a day or period of celebration, typically for religious reasons; an organized series of concerts, plays, or films, typically one held annually in the same place.

* * *

My lover's got humour She's the giggle at a funeral Knows everybody's disapproval I should've worshipped her sooner

-- Take me to church by Hozier

There was no surprise, Dismas supposed, that the Glorious And Blessed And Most Certainly Not Corrupt Church Of Holy And Divine Light was an organization fucked up to its very core. And he was saying that not only because a structure so widespread was inevitably corrupt and fucked up. Hell, he’d say for the most part at least they’ve played pretend well enough and used a lot of gilding to hide their real affairs. Most people genuinely saw them as benign – even those who worked there. Church devotees somehow managed to either turn a blind eye or even justify all of the completely messed up atrocities their beloved Church committed.

And commit cruelty the Church did! Like human trafficking disguised as finding gifted kids. Or self-torture which was proclaimed as the true path to righteousness. Or ban on food in those few merry months when getting it wasn’t as infuriatingly hard as it was at other times. Or forcing its most devoted lunatics to wake up in the middle of the night to praise the Light which wasn’t even fucking there for at least five more hours. Or any other things which made even bloodthirsty ex-brigand cock a disbelieving brow because what the actual fuck, how is any of this can be alright, Reynauld.

He was thinking this not only because he had the unfortunate experience of working in big voracious groups, and could tell countless tales of how any group which got any real power became fucked up quickly enough. One could argue that happened because he was only working with scum and mercenaries. Dismas could shrug in turn that it wasn’t rogues who invented indulgence. However, mostly he deduced that by being forced to work together with zealots and seeing how the glitter inevitably fell away each time their resolve was tested and failed, revealing tormented, broken people in places of former living saints.

But if there was one thing where even godless highwayman had to admit that the Church knew how to use to sell itself to the masses, it was the festivals it held for the devotees and “silly lost heavens” alike. No expense was too great, to extravagance too opulent, and if it was created by the free labour of its followers, so be it. Even in the forgotten backwaters of Hamlet, church celebrations were a captivating thing of beauty and carefully planted hope.

All Saints Day was no different.

Maybe it was the candles, white and pristine, and not offending his senses for once. Maybe it was the procession, sweet-smelling with frankincense which Dismas inevitably started associating with safety. Maybe it was the rare glimpse of optimism on people’s faces.

However, most likely it was the fact that Reynauld found his white holiday garments and was proudly wearing the new crest. There was an odd satisfaction in the highwayman’s chest when he had seen it – or the subtle yet obvious change in the other man’s posture, in the way the knight held himself. That made the cut spent on ordering the crest so much worth it and made the holiday actually bearable.

“Ready?” Reynauld turned to him, radiating against the sunset seeping into the room. Dismas just huffed with a half-shrug and scratched his unusually shaved chin which felt unpleasantly naked. On top of that, he had bothered to find a clean shirt – mostly because Rey tricked him beforehand and his favourite one was still wet. Still, that should’ve accounted for something.

Apparently, it was enough, since the crusader grabbed their candles and hurried outside to join his flock, babbling happily about The Forerunners of the Light, but made sure to include some of the spicier tales of the saints to keep Dismas entertained. A most welcome precaution, albeit an unneeded one – the rogue was surprising himself by simply enjoying the time they were spending together. The candles drew intricate glowing patterns on Rey’s chiselled face and hearing his voice being so uncharacteristically happy was a treat on its own. Despite hot droplets of wax falling on his fingers and the overall church nonsense around, the ex-brigand was content to be there.

That was, before they met the Abbot.

Because Reynauld immediately rushed to His Holiness, leaving him behind, and Dismas’ good mood burst like a soap bubble.

Sure, “I’ll be right back,” the other man said.

“Just stay here,” the knight threw over his shoulder as he was sprinting away.

“Don’t let the candlelight die,” he reminded the rogue, already from afar.

It was almost poetic that the next gust of wind left rogue’s candle with but a whiff of smoke coming from the glowing wick – but then again, maybe he was merely self-sabotaging as always, and let his hand fall to his side instead of shielding the gentle light. Despite the laughter and flickering candlelight all around him, he remained in the shadows. As one with his background should be, arguably.

He was oh so tired of chasing glisten.

With an exhausted sigh, the seasoned sinner turned and sulked away from the glimmering procession towards the dingy-lit windows of the Tavern – the only light which remained in his life, apparently. So much for trying--

“Dismas? Dis! Where are you?” a familiar voice called behind him, followed by heavy footsteps and a knight stopped in front of him, barely keeping his candle from going out. “There you are! I asked you to wait for me, why wouldn’t you?”

“You… came back,” Dismas muttered, unable to quench the surprise in his voice.

“Of course I did, I told you I would, didn’t I?” the knight cocked a heavy brow. It looked so odd on his usually vexed face, and so familiar. He must’ve picked some of the highwayman’s mannerisms. “I had to remind His Holiness that I cannot do my duties as Relic Bearer this year.”

“You cannot?”

“It’s the head of the procession and I know you hate the limelight. Besides, you’d have to abstain from booze and hearty foods for a week to be allowed there, and I didn’t want to—Dismas, your candle!”

Too stunned by the new information, the highwayman blinked at the half-melted piece of wax in his hand:

“What ‘bout it?”

“It went out,” Reynauld complained as if it was a tragedy.

“Ah,” Dismas paused and technically didn’t even lie when he said. “Wind.”

“Oh, those are holy flames, Dis, you’re supposed to take care of them,” Rey glanced around like a boy who was about to yank someone’s braid and stood towards the ex-brigand. “It’s frowned upon, but I want you to keep the flame…”

Wicks touched, charred against burning, and in a few moments, there were two tiny flickering lights to chase the darkness away, like two unsteady heartbeats suspended in the night. Dismas supposed it was fitting, that Rey’s broad smile was outlined with a golden glow. He was breaking the rules, maybe, but he was breaking the rules for them… whatever they were.

“Let’s go back to the festival, I haven’t told you the story of Saint Elmo, I think you two would have had a lot to talk about if you ever met…”

[leenukeath]

Darkest Prompts Day 5: Ritual

Fifth day of the Promptober challenge, Darkest Prompts.Theme: Ritual

Alhazred was merely an erudite before he went into the desert. One does not brave the elements and walk into death’s land without a purpose.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42058116/chapters/105888528

[seraserasergiani]

Daily Loving PJAL 258

DD Promptober 2022: Candles

Technically DD2 spoilers but that is also announced so idk

forgot to post this yesterday here but prompt by @darkestprompts

[ilwolf]

Day One- Trick

word count 499

Characters Reynauld, Dismas and Paracelsus

TW depression, Death

Reynauld couldn't stop the sigh as he watched the new recruits line up for slaughter.

The ancestor, or whatever the fuck his name was, was giving a speech to excite the newbies. To entice them for the onward march. If he hadn't heard it so many times before, he might have called it a touching speech. A heartfelt one. No, it was a signature on a death certificate. Many death certificates.

He looked down as his companion spoke. He was holding his shoulder to keep him seated. "More work for the Keeper." Dismas winced as Paracelsus stitched him up with the care and dedication of someone who's been doing this for far too long. 

How long had it been? A year? Two? Five? Time had long blurred to the point of being useless. The creaking of the tavern reminded him of how this place will become his coffin. "Shame them things can't destroy themselves."

The maskless plague doctor hummed. Her eyes so dark you could no longer tell them from the bags they support. "Dismas is trying to do that himself."

"Listen here Missy, someone had to protect Junia's honour and it most certainly wasn't her." Dismas actually had the decency to sound offended. 

Paracelsus snorted.

"Was that before or after they spotted you with their wallet." Didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. He couldn’t remember how many times they had this exact conversation.

"Waiting for the baby underling." Dismas asked elbowing his in the side. He had sharp elbows and knew Reynauld's weak spots.

He just slapped the arm away. He wasn't going to give into Dismas' taunting.

She finally looked away from her stitching. "The who?" She drained her own mug of beer. It was never too early to numb the pain. 

Dismas' continued his elbowing. "That baby plague doctor. Right."

"Oh! I think I know who. The one behind the tavern."

"That's the one." Dismas' grinned up at him. "Ain't she."

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. Dismas' could run off now he'd been patched up. Not that he will now there was no danger in it. "She hasn't returned yet and I don't know who she went out with." He drank from his mug to not say anymore. So few survive, it was hard not to get attached to those who do.

The closing of the case dragged both their attention to the doctor. She sounded so unconcerned. "Who bothers with returning anymore?"

"YOU FUCKING WHAT!"

The 'reformed' highwayman snorted into his scarf. "There she is."

"I supposed I should go tell her manners." He pushed off the wall and started heading over to the group yelling insults at each other.

"Rey." He turned back to face the doctor. "Tell her about stitches not having to look good to be useful."

"What?"

"She not the religious type, right? Stitches hold stuff together. The skin underneath isn't great but it works like it's supposed to."

"You make no sense."

She just flipped him off.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 5: Ritual

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022

previous days: 1, 2, 3, 4

now available on ao3 too

Contains modified barks for Hopeless crusader and crusader’s skills from Darkest Dungeon 1 and the author’s dedication to a particular fan theory.

Ritual NOUN - a religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order; a series of actions or type of behaviour regularly and invariably followed by someone.

* * *

If there was something Dismas both adored and loathed in his husband in approximately equal measure, it was predictability. 

Reynauld had always moved in any given battle only after accessing all tactics of both allies and enemies. He had always forgotten to buy his personal pipe, and they had to share during smokes. He had always read verses during his pastime, despite knowing the book by heart for decades. He had always possessed a mysterious aura that made anything shiny and the rogue's trusty old flask disappear when he was nearby. He had always dragged Dismas out of death's hungry clutches. He had always nurtured the battered highwayman back to health. He had always believed they would prevail against the antediluvian horror.

And that was the word which suited the knight the most.

'Always'. 

It was an easy word, near Rey. For better or for worse, it constantly appeared in his vicinity, and soon enough, Dismas wasn't the only one noticing how it spread from the crusader, like roots from a tree. It became so prominent that people started referring to him as one of the few constants in their shitty lives, so much so that it became a proverb of sorts. The sun rose on the east, the Warrens smelled of shite, and you could find Reynauld in the transept. Three cornerstones of Hamlet's society - permanent and perpetual, therefore, familiar and soothing. 

When the sun disappeared altogether, consumed by the blackened disk in the blood-red skies and the seawater boiled and overflown what little remained of the ancient aqueducts that hid Swine barbaric society, was it really that surprising that it was only a matter of time before the god-fearing zealot forfeit his place in his usual sanctuary?

As close to an ill omen as it was, the highwayman knew there was nothing poetic in the matter, frankly. The former nobleman simply remained the only literate man amidst the barebone crew of remaining adventurers. And while Dis could read, too, it took him considerably more time and effort than the knight, and there was always too much shite to do to waste time like that. 

Not that there was much use left of the highwayman anyway. 

The rogue found his husband in the library, buried in books per his late custom. He sat near him and leaned on him openly, showing affection, receiving one just as blazingly and fearing no judgement. The world was ending after they ventured into the cursed Estate proper, so who the fuck cared?

"How are them preparations?" the rogue inquired, squinting at the chained tome. Whoever was chaning books, he thought not for the first time, was an even bigger madman than they were.

"It is futile," Rey sighed back and hugged him, pulling the smaller man close. His hand still jerked away when it found a mere empty sleeve in the place of Dismas' gun hand. "I'm no Alhazred, Light shine on his soul. I don't understand this-this heresy."

Piles of crossed and scribbled-over paper begged to differ. The rogue knew better than point that out. 

"We just need a bit of help," Dismas argued back just as habitually. "Some supplies t' bounce back. We crawled from worse befo'."

"I am but a man..."

"Rey," sky above, he didn't want to bring that up but there seemed to be painfully few options left. "Barristan lost his legs."

This startled the knight, almost making him jump up to his feet:

"What? When?!"

" 'bout an hour ago."

"Why didn't you-- I was-- I could...!"

For once, Dismas' voice was harsh:

"In yer condition, all ye could was t' die!" yet when the crusader flinched, he sighed and pulled him back to nuzzle his love's robe-covered shoulder. "We need ya here. We need you t' make it work."

"But the price. We risk so much and I'm not even sure those blaggards will let me pass even after all this witchcraft!"

It was easy to decide, near Reynauld. Always had been.

"Then make us yer guards."

"How can you say this," the zealot's voice was brittle. "I can't do this to you. Not to you of all people. No."

With a pained grumble, Dismas let torn leather of Uncatchable slip from the puss-covered bandages on his shoulder. Reynauld had always been sturdy. They'll manage, together. They have no other choice. 

"I'm on borrowed time anyway. Sepsis, they called it."

"But I called the Light..."

"n' ye got me out," the rogue insisted, turning Rey's face from the wound to himself. "But love, a defender without legs, a vestal without tongue n' a feverish thug with only one arm make one shitty likeness of a proper party. n' those other tenderfeet, they don't have 'em guts t' do what needs t' be done t' save this town."

Reynauld's eyes had always been those of steel blue yet now they became whitish, bleached. But his nod was certain for once and his lips were hot and dry when he kissed the highwayman's bruised forehead.

"You grant me the strength to overcome whatever appears on our path."

And Dismas smiled, triumphant against all odds.

He had spent the last seven years of his life risking - and losing! - life and limb to protect this hellhole he tentatively started calling home. He had spilt more blood than remained flowing in his veins. He had suffered, and lost, and endured, and bounced back. Surely, he thought, mouth filled with a familiar metallic salt, surely, the townspeople would give them the benefit of a doubt. Surely, they'd understand that their desperate bidding on this insane plan was to get them out of the noose.

It was only when the doors fell under the unending onslaught of a makeshift ram, when the boots stomped the runes, when the candlelight went out, when Reynauld was grabbed, when Dismas suddenly could only see the dirty insides of an old sack, he understood a simple thing. 

He thought wrong.

And as he returned to his teal being, weightless, and numb, and angry, it was easy to slash through the cloth and flesh alike. Just as easy as it was to return to his rightful place by his beloved's side, mourning the head cage he was put into, or the unjust heretic brand on his brow, or the scold's bridle they couldn't remove. Because through damnation, and the teal, and the blood, there was one seemingly minuscule thing that remained blessedly the same. 

They still had their 'always'.

[leenukeath]

Darkest Prompts Day 1: Trick

First day of the Promptober challenge, Darkest Prompts.

Theme: Trick Sarmenti should know better than trying his usual tricks in a land made to turn its inhabitants mad.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42058116/chapters/105597555

[seraserasergiani]

Daily Loving PJAL 250

DD Promptober 2022: Haunted

this is actually a remake of a previous entry because I actually loved it

prompt by @darkestprompts

[engels-art-gallery]

@darkestprompts Promptober

Day 11 Lost in the dark

With the light of his life gone, the crusader was lost in the dark, drowning in sorrows without a saving grace, no angel extending his hand, to relieve him from his misery.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 3: Dark Woods

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022

previous days: 1, 2

now available on ao3 too

Dark ADJECTIVE - (of a period or situation) characterized by great unhappiness or unpleasantness; deeply pessimistic; (of an expression) angry; with little or no light; hidden from knowledge; mysterious.

* * *

To say that the catch was a meagre one would be a generous understatement. Frankly, the fact that their exhausted group managed to find water that their self-proclaimed expert deemed clear enough to cook with had been a small miracle in itself. Arranging the camp and getting some more or less clean firewood took the remainder of the evening and their strength, but at least the pot was bubbling merrily and the meat sizzled on the sharpened sticks. However, only one person out of the four seemed to be able to find cheer in it and hummed some quiet tune while hustling over the food.

"Remind me why are we in this Lightless endeavour, would you kindly?" Reynauld sighed, closing the versebook. The sunlight dimmed, and while the coals were more than hot enough to cook, reading in such poor conditions only strained his eyes, ill-suited for nighttime, and added to his mounting irritation.

" 'cause someone lost our map n' a quick week-long stroll ended up lasting," Dismas looked away from the campfire and checked a string of twine with knots. "Twelve days by now? Wow. Count us lucky, bastards."

"Thirteen," Alhazred crowed from the safety of his notes. How the hell he managed to read those in near darkness remained a mystery no one was eager enough to prod. Definitely not the crusader, that was for sure. "You were out of the sorrows of this expedition for a day, remember?"

"Ah, yeah, how could I forget 'bout meeting the business side o' the treebranch club," the highwayman grinned, patting still bruised concave of his thin stomach, but a gauntlet-covered hand stopped his movement.

"Let it heal," Rey insisted, pale lips pressed into a tight line. Now that he indeed had the displeasure of seeing the insides of his... dearest companion, he could swear before the Light All-Merciful that he could live the remainder of his life without witnessing those - or the black magics which pushed them back into the twitching almost-cadaver which was his closest... friend - ever again.

Much like the cause of this situation, based on the gloomy, sullen glances he gave Josephine from time to time. The antiquarian squinted right back at him and made a statement of keeping her bent knife close at any given moment. Not that the devoted follower of the Forgiving Light would stab a woman who clearly was no match for him, but Reynauld would be lying if he said that the temptation wasn't there. Or that he wasn't enjoying entertaining this possibility.

...he'd say an additional Hail the Flame once they were back in Hamlet for his impure thoughts.

The failed cadaver in question seemed to be the only cheery man in this madness.

"Aw, c'mon, it ain't too bad!" Dismas poked the campfire with a charred stick and rotated the meat. "Roadkill cuisine has a cult following."

"Of whom, exactly?" Josephine asked, her bracelets jingling melodically although her jerking away from the fire was filled with open disgust. "Vagabonds, dregs and--"

"n' now ye, my dear," Dismas assured her, scarred lips stretched in a sarcastic grin. "They might not smell o' saffron, but lemme tell ya, rabid gnashers are delicacy o' their own league. The trick is separatin' the head n' making sure ye roast them nice n' e'en on all sides till a nice crunchy crust forms--"

"I swear, I'm not letting you cook anything for us anymore," Josephine hissed because yelling in the Weald was a moronic idea for anyone valuing their lifespan. "Next time you bring in a bloated mushroom scratcher corpse and call it a feast!"

The jab's only response was snickering:

"Spoken by someone who clearly has no idea how t' cook those. Look, 'tis no learning Latin, ye start with gutting the parts which look too much like a human face for yer delicate stomach..."

The antiquarian dry heaved, pressing her hands to her ears. This finally made Alhazred lower his notes and shake his head in equal disgust and fascination:

"My friend, as much as it pains my scholar mind to see these samples of arcane craft destroyed in such a barbaric manner, I find your total lack of self-preservation regarding acquiring food during expeditions most fascinating. Is there anything in this cursed land you haven't tried turning into escalope and ingesting?"

Dismas huffed, leaning in to stir the pottage in an attempt to buy himself some time. Rey shifted, deciding that this exact moment was good enough to hide the versebook in his backpack, and, once he was sure he caught the highwayman's slightly panicked gaze, he quickly and discreetly mouthed "cooked and eaten". This translation allowed the rogue to relax again, and face the scholar without the nagging anxiety of making an ass of himself. It was a good thing, after all, to have a friend with high education who could translate high society gibberish into normal words for him.

"Why, gargoyles, of course, my good academic fella! Most of the adventurers are past their primes, see, with gentler teeth, n' I just can't seem t' find a mallet big enough t' tenderise those dusty loins into a nice juicy steak," the absurdity of the statement made both occultist and the knight chuckle, and even Josephine huffed a disagreeing giggle, thus proving once again that his dark humour was still capable of keeping knives sheathed and spirits high. The highwayman grinned triumphantly, returning to preparing their questionable food.

When he was absolutely sure that no one paid him any more attention, Dismas gave a cautious glance to the scattering of unblinking red eyes just outside the campfire's flickering light. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice those just yet, so the rogue hurried with adding a bit more firewood to the campfire and yet another ridiculous recipe straight out of any sane cook's nightmare.

They just had to outlast the dark...

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 18: Flesh and Blood

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

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

now available on ao3 too

for @mnmovdoom

Blood NOUN - the red liquid that circulates in the arteries and veins of humans and other vertebrate animals, carrying oxygen to and carbon dioxide from the tissues of the body; an internal bodily fluid in invertebrates which performs a similar function to blood in humans and other vertebrates.

* * *

The room was quiet, safe for the heavy, laboured breathing. The rags-wrapped figure was sitting in the corner, shaking, yet away from the prescribed (and prepared) bed and any medications.

"As the burden grows, so too, does my purity."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and asking himself, for the umpteenth time, why did he even care. And while he knew the answer perfectly, he would rather take his helmet off in the broad daylight than think about it more than was strictly necessary.

"Gladly do I accept this new trial! Blessed are the worthy!"

It took him a few trials to catch and actually hold the holy lunatic's attention since it was writhing worse than one of his contracts once they realized there was honest to their God nowhere to run.

"What I once feared, I have become!" the flagellant continued droning, clawing at the rags. "Through pain, through agony - I drag myself to the Light!"

"Glad for you," he all but spat, showing the wanted poster. "Are you sure this is the one who can help?"

It took the raving zealot a few attempts to concentrate, but finally, the other man nodded.

"Not Paracelsus?"

A shake of the head. He chose to see it as a negative rather than a side effect of fever, snorted and stood up.

It was time to hunt some rats.

* * *

In the meantime, Dismas chose to preemptively haul his tipsy ass from the tavern way before he was thrown out of it, opting to steal a bottle as moral compensation. He wasn't even drunk, for fuck's sake! Well. Not his usual blackout drunk, at the very least.

So it was even more embarrassing when he paused, sensing a heartbeat in the alley he usually took to get back to barracks and his warm room faster, and that was the sole reason why he didn't get the lights knocked out of him. Debating over sprouting claws or not, Dis turned sharply and wobbled to the side, not going into an easy trap.

Once it repeated three more times, he stopped in front of the alley and crossed his arms silently, mutated eyes watching the flat greys attentively.

"Rat with good ears," Tardif huffed, stepping into another side of the alley.  Dismas frowned. He was way too tipsy for a brawl with such an opponent.

"Cut to the chase. The fuck ye wanna?"

"To strike a deal," the bounty hunter sounded as uncomfortable as the ex-brigand felt. "Come."

"Oh, aye, and bend over while I'm at it?" Dismas hissed, staying put.

They watched each other for a while.

"Come without a fuss, please," Tardif finally gritted out with the sound of nails scraping on a rock. It felt like his throat spasmed from just saying that. "I need help."

Dismas blinked and stopped himself from glancing at the bottle. Either his liver fell out, the booze was spiked, or he was more afflicted than he thought after a venture into the Court.

Either way, sod it. A "please" from Tardif was a valuable commodity.

And if not, he was still an infected bastard, capable of dragging the hunter into an early grave with himself at the very least.

"Alright," the highwayman stepped closer, listening to the other's heartbeat to check for lies. "Whatcha need?"

Instead of answering, the headhunter simply turned and stomped through the mud to the barracks. Dismas had to sigh goodbye to the inviting ladder up to his own shared room and follow the man.

" 'tis a piss-poor first date, just sayin'. At least buy me a drink first."

A snort was his only answer. Tardif unlocked his room and went inside, leaving Dis with few options left but to follow.

The room smelled of blood, both old and new. Of pain. Yet more than anything, it smelled of the burning coals of Crimson Curse, festering in a body.

The source of that was immediately clear for another infected, and Dismas rushed to the corner.

"Oh, fuck, ye dumbass fledgling."

"I'd choose your words if I were you, rat."

It was bad. No one tended to Damian's changing body, and now...

"Look at this shite!" the co-founder of the Hive hissed, pointing at the patch of especially swollen, red flesh. "Who is he, if not a dumbass fledgling?"

Tardif's heartbeat changed for the first time.

"Did I fucking stutter?"

"Alright, al-fuck-ya-right, he's your dumbass fledgling, that's more appealing t' ya?" Dismas huffed, paying only a sliver of attention he should've paid to a pissed-off Tardif. But the Bounty Hunter needed him alive to fix his pet religious lunatic, so the rogue was safe. Temporarily, at least. "Now hold this moron, I need t' clean his back n' t'will be ugly."

When Crimson Curse took substantial hold in the body, it made itself known by twisting and re-knitting the flesh, bone and sinew in the most bizarre ways, each more horrific than the last. However, most of them could be concealed or controlled.

But there was an abyss of difference between most and all.

The backs were always the worst. Not only because the skin flaked off and the muscles tore and knit themselves anew to accommodate new cursed appendages in mind-shattering pain, but also because the place was so hard to maintain on one's own. Dried blood and pieces of peeling skin stuck in the torn flesh, causing fever and rot. Dismas knew it, for he had to forego this process himself, and being unable to get his usual treatment from his dearest friend, nearly keeled over from festering gangrene. Thankfully, dead flesh flaked off when he sprouted wings, and only hell knew if he got more scars from that or not. Then again, he supposed a flagellant wouldn't mind a few new scars.

It was a daunting, gruesome task which required a steady hand, a well of patience and an utter lack of disgust. Thankfully, the ex-brigand had all three in spades. Even more conveniently, the flagellant's attention was solely on Tardif, allowing Dismas to concentrate on his work.

It was odd, to work with a guy who wanted him dead. Odd, but not unusual. What was unusual, though, was the amount of patience the bounty hunter showed towards the newly infected zealot. Yeah, he answered in his usual grunts and snorts, and smacked his claws and hands away from already torn flesh all the same, but there was deliberate care in the way those hits landed instead of his usual desire for maximum hurt. The way he allowed the flagellant to grasp and claw at his usually pristine armour. The fact he dragged the highwayman here in the first place, for fuck's sake!

Hell, if he behaved like this all the time, Dis might've offered him to drink once in a while, sharing headaches of being friends with religious lunatics over the pint.

Thankfully, he wasn't insane enough to voice such thoughts. But the rogue watched, and he noticed, and there was an odd recognition of many things which he glimpsed.

Maybe that was why he paused before leaving and dictated the brew of a concoction which dulled the pain for the infected - the one only surrendered to "registered" and collared infected. And it was clear Tardif didn't want Damian to become one.

And maybe his doomed adoration wasn't as concealed as Dismas hoped, because as he was pushed out, the bounty hunter huffed into his back:

"Stout."

That caused the highwayman to glance at him.

"I'm more of a brandy guy..."

"For Reynauld," based on the tone, Tardif thought him an imbecile. "He loves it."

With that, the door was politely slammed in his face, leaving him out of the world those two inhabited. The rogue couldn't complain, though. His crusader and he probably looked the same to the outsiders, Dismas thought, as he climbed up the stairs after venturing back to the tavern and getting some stout.