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the-witches-you-couldnt-burn · 3 years

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When it all falls down

Hi guys! The next chapter is here! I just wanted to say I don’t really have a update schedule so it will most likely be updated every few days. I’ve pre-written most of this fic (or at least planned it) so as long as I don’t lose motivation it will be completed!

Ao3

Story Masterlist

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CHAPTER TWO: The call from the catacombs

Warnings: threats, mentions of kidnapping & death

“I don’t need guards surrounding me constantly, father. I may be of royal bloodline, but I am no weakling.”

He was the crown prince and a trained assassin, yet he was babied similar to when he first arrived at the manor. His family smothered him.

After the coup he was taken into his father’s protection, and although he was born of his mother’s sexual misdeeds, his father treated him the same as his brothers. The first of his father’s charges that he met was Timothy Drake. Drake took part in Wayne Trading and became a successful merchant (but the majority of Gotham’s coffee supply mysteriously disappeared overnight). Then Damian met the Wayne clan’s eldest ward Sir Grayson, he was a famous knight in not only Gotham but Blüdhaven too.

He bonded with them along with his new sisters; Lady Barbara from the Gordon House, Stephanie Brown, Helena Wayne (his toddler sister by blood, conceived from his father’s Union with Countess Kyle) and Cassandra Cain. He had met Cain prior due to her mother being Lady Shiva, a close associate to his mother and grandfather. The reunion between Bruce’s third male charge and the young prince was awkward to say the least. During Jason’s MIA period of his life, he was ‘taken-in’ (aka kidnapped) by the royals and took on a guardian role for Damian (who was only a toddler at the time). The two silently conversed and as the tension faded it lead to constant rough housing and insults being thrown.

He lived and learned from his family until he was nineteen. At nineteen he had an argument with his father about his family’s smothering nature. Lord Wayne agreed they were being a bit much and lessened the security presence that followed his only blood son. After which he was promptly kidnapped by his mother and forced into an arranged marriage, to which the Wayne clan wasn’t even invited to witness.

And now here he was, months later, married and without the ability to contact his found family. Here he was drinking fucking tea with his ‘chosen’ bride. Not much had changed between the him and the bluenette, they were just two strangers joined by a forced union. There were no loving touches, longing glances, consummation of marriage or any connection other than a bond between respected acquaintances.

They communed under the watchful eye of the palace servants. “Spies.” Damian hissed, seething under his breath. “They are nothing more than rats feasting on gossip.”

Marinette sat across from him, posture straight as a board. The couple were separated by the cotton tablecloth that was decorated with a vase of lilies and porcelain plates. A small feast fit for at least twelve sat before the two of them, all were delicacies from across the country and beyond the borders. Her pinky pointed outwards as she sipped the piping hot moli longzhu, a playful smirk danced across her features.

“Your mother has made sure that they have nothing else to eat other than hearsay.”

Although he had been tempered by his father’s teachings, a fire flared within him. If anyone heard her it surely would be reported back to his family; the aftermath wouldn’t be pretty. No this wasn’t him protecting her, he was protecting himself, if someone heard her and it spread another ‘incident’ could occur. No matter the outcome, it wouldn’t end well.

Marinette tilted her head, raising an eyebrow at him, delivering a silent plea for him to challenge. He huffed looking away, her words were treasonous but true.

“You shouldn’t talk like that if you’d like to keep your tongue.”

“Aw, I’m glad to see you are looking out for me.” She quipped back, hand against her chest, mocking him. Her smile was wide and her eyes crinkled as she laughed. ‘Either she was insane or stupidly brave’ he thought as he watched her, ‘what had mother gotten him in to?’

“I’m looking out for myself.” He stood up and brushed off dirt from his garb. “If you make a fool out of yourself, it reflects badly on the Kingdom and I. You said yourself, you wouldn’t burden me through the bonds of matrimony, so don’t make this harder then it already is.”

She sat there in shock silence. Her jest was nothing more then that, she never meant it to cause him harm. She didn’t mean to burden him. She eyed him as he walked down the path. She sat in the pagoda, alone. ‘He was right’ she thought, ‘I need to be careful with my words. Not only for my safety but for my people also. I don’t want my actions to cause them harm.’

Later, when she finally saw fit to reenter the castle, she wandered the desolate hallways. League Castle held few materialistic decorations that didn’t serve a functional purpose. So paintings were no where insight. The only form of artwork she knew of was a sculpture of the late King, his majesty Ra al Ghul.

She looked down at the sculpture from a second story window. It lived in the confines of the royal gardens, atop a grand fountain display. She remembered hearing of the coup when she was just a child. ‘The King was killed and the prince was exiled’ but Lady Talia still ruled and the prince is back from his supposed banishment. It didn’t make sense. And for that matter why was a ten year old exiled in the first place?

Her arm was yanked, spinning her around to face the she-demon herself. The Mistress’ nails threatened to break her skin, they were sharpened and resembled animal claws. The woman’s dark eyes made Marinette uncomfortable, ‘she seems to be on the verge of being unhinged.’

“Come.” It wasn’t like Marinette had a choice, Talia dragged her down the hallways. She stumbled every so often as she tried to keep up with the woman’s strides.

The two came upon a dead end. The bluenette looked forward confused, and before she could even question it, the bricks separated revealing a dingy staircase that descended into darkness. Turning towards her captor, she saw her grab a nearby torch that lit the hall, a brick slowly slid back into place. They followed the spiraling decline until they reach the bottom, the air down here was moist and musty.

The fire only lit a few feet in front of them. They had gone from walls made of polished marble brick to decaying wood and cracked stone. The flooring creaked underneath their steps, the torn carpet was worn by those only travelling one path. She held her breath trying to avoid breathing in the damp air, mould growing at the corners of the walls. Realising she hadn’t said anything until now, the shock of Damian’s words and her abduction by his mother had kept her silent. “Lady Talia? Wher—“

“Hush child.” The venom dripping from her tone was the opposite of one used to shush a toddler, Talia’s hand covered Marinette’s mouth, silencing any objections; the heat of the nearing flame caused her to flinch. “You must learn your place.”

‘Did she know!? Did she hear me?’ Her silent scream reverberated through her mind. The seed of dread in the pit of her stomach grew vines that restricted her limbs causing her to stumble. Her heart clenched, it now felt made of lead and weight heavily within her chest. It’s beating was similar to a drum. But still the dragging continued.

They happened upon a room. Said room looked to be an older, more dilapidated version of the castle’s throne room. There were torn tapestries and fractured tables, it was like the souls of the ancient couldn’t escape this place fast enough. It’s whole atmosphere was eerie. “This castle was built from the ashes of the former empire.”

Marinette suppressed a gasp, she was right. Everything and everyone had told her she was wrong, she saw the shaking of their heads and heard them debunking her theories. The king was alive and the prince was never exiled.

The king was alive.

Taglist:

@thesunniestdays @jayjayspixiepop @toodaloo-kangaroo

#maribat #mlb x dc #dc x mlb #marinette x damian #damian x marinette #damian wayne x marinette dupain cheng #daminette #When it all falls down #arranged marriage au #royal au

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sareyen · 4 years

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A Machine Without Feelings: A Jane Eyre AU (Part 1/11)

Read on ao3

Chapter 1

Charles hid behind the heavy crimson curtains in the alcove by the eastern window. It was his favourite little nook; the sun rising in the east always made it the warmest part of the grand Westchester estate in the morning, and Charles always liked the way it overlooked the gardens that were always bright against the stony backdrop of the grey stone mansion. What he liked most about the nook, though, was that it was safe. His stepbrother, Cain Marko, had not found this little corner of peace yet, allowing Charles to tuck his knees up onto the plush cushion seat of the alcove and prop a heavy book across his lap.

"Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens," Charles murmured quietly to himself, wanting to say the foreign words out loud, but struggling to wrap his young tongue around the tough words he was trying to learn. He had almost seen ten winters now, and in the confines of the Westchester mansion - a prison, he had sometimes thought – Charles wanted to drink in any form of knowledge he could. He had always been a genius, as his favourite nurse, Kitty, always told him. Charles soaked up knowledge like the Westchester grass did after a heavy rain, or how Cain’s stomach soaked up all of the sweet cakes he ate gluttonously.

This was one of Charles’s favourite books; even though he couldn’t understand all of the large words, he grasped enough from the words he did know and the pictures to decipher meaning. The sciences had always interested him, more so than Cain’s novels about pirates and sea monsters, and found a small kernel of happiness whenever he read about how plants grow and spread. He often looked at the twisting ivy climbing up the walls of Westchester, unruly and vibrant, alive amongst the dead stones. His mother, Sharon, called them weeds and asked their servants to cut it down when they could, but she often forgot about it all by the time the bottle had emptied.

Charles smiled to himself as he ran his fingers over the long German words, casting his eyes over the pictures of plants and pollen, of seeds and leaves. He didn’t know how much time passed, until he heard the bang of an ornate door, his eyes going wide as his entire body froze.

“Where is he?! Where in the dickens is that gibface little meater?!” Charles heard his stepbrother’s voice call out, the clack of his shoes deafening on the hard floor. Charles tried to breathe evenly and shallowly as to not make any noise, blue eyes trained on the miniscule slit between the curtains.

He saw Cain prowl past, eyes narrowed into slits in his puffy face. His thick lips were pulled back with a snarl, and his nose sniffed like he could smell Charles’s fear. Charles bit down a gasp when Cain’s eyes suddenly snapped to his alcove, his feet clunk, clunk, clunking on the wood.

Charles leapt out of the alcove before Cain could find him himself, as if offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice would make Cain go easier on him today.

“Ah, there’s our Charlie-boy,” Cain sneered, the taller, older boy sauntering over with a smirk. His eyes looked Charles up and down, before focusing on the book cradled against Charles’s chest. “What is that book?” Cain demanded, jerking a fat finger against Charles’s chest and the book, the smaller boy stumbling back with the force. “Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens,” Charles responded meekly, cowering as Cain snorted.

“You have no business taking our books,” Cain said, as if this mansion belonged to him already. It did not. It had originally belonged to Charles’s father, Brian Xavier, but when he died it was left in the hands of his mother. If his mother had been any other woman, the estate would have been passed on to Charles. But Charles’s mother was a drunk, her mind lost in the drink more often than not; her new husband, Kurt Marko, easily coerced her into giving him everything she owned. Sometimes, Charles thought that included him.

Charles did not often incite violence nor conflict, but it had always irked him whenever Cain would claim everything that Charles’s father had carefully cultivated as his. Cain was just like his father, and even though still a child, Charles knew that they were wasting away the vast Xavier fortune on nothing but folly.

“These are not your books,” Charles replied, steeling himself as he clutched de Pollens closer to his chest. “They were my father’s books. They are Xavier books, not Marko books!”

“You little-” Cain spluttered, growing bright red with fury. “Your father is dead and buried in the ground, and everything in this house belongs to my father! And as his real son, it thus belongs to me! Everything here is mine; these curtains are mine, those windows are mine, and that book in your hands is also mine!”

As Cain yelled, he lunged forward to wrench the book from Charles’s hands. Charles knew that the moment he grabbed it, the larger boy would smash it over Charles’s head, like he always did. ‘No!’ Charles screamed in his mind, terrified at being hurt again. Charles’s body shook as it remembered in vivid detail how it felt to be pushed to the ground by his stepbrother, how the older boy’s hands tore at his brown hair and bruised his stomach and ribs.

“Give the book here, you rat!” Cain growled, and Charles yelped when Cain snatched the book from Charles’s weak hands and smashed it over his head. Charles felt dizzy as he staggered, something wet and sticky dribbling down over his forehead, making his hair stick to his skin.

Charles blinked, hand shakily moving to his hair. When he pulled it back, his fingertips were red with blood, matching the crimson curtains behind him. Charles felt anger, white and hot, course through him unlike anything he has felt before. Charles had always been a measured and calm child, but the blow to the head sparked something in him, driving him momentarily mad. There was a screaming inside his head, one of injustice mixed in with fear, which caused Charles to move.

Charles yelled out, closing his eyes and swinging the heavy book haphazardly in an arc through the air. There was a thump and a cry of pain, but for once, it did not come from Charles. “What is going on here?” a voice thundered, the male timbre carrying throughout the high ceilings and ornate walls of the room. Charles felt his heart fly into his mouth as he peeled open his shut eyes, Kurt Marko stalking over to the two boys with murder set on his face.

“Father!” Cain snivelled, jumping up as he held his throbbing head, pointing towards Charles rudely. “This little cretin assaulted me!”

“Assaulted you?” Charles repeated, feeling the blood on his crown ooze a little. Kurt Marko looked heeded his son’s words, eyes whirling to Charles as his devil spawn grinned in victory, like a cat that just caught the canary.

“After all I have done for you, but marrying your mother to save your family, this is how you repay me?” Kurt Marko drawled, grabbing onto the back of Charles’s coat, hauling his tiny frame into the air.

“I did not… I didn’t…” Charles stuttered, fear seizing him, the book in his hands cluttering to the ground.

“To the Red Room with you,” Kurt Marko said, and Charles’s eyes widened and blurred, tears streaming down his face.

No, no, no, not the Red Room. Not that room. Please, please, please, anything but the red room!

If the Westchester mansion was a prison, the Red Room was its torture chamber. Charles had been locked in there many times since he was a boy even younger than ten, even after he did his best to not anger the Markos. It seemed like, no matter how hard he tried, they still painted him as the problem. Kurt Marko turned a blind eye to Cain’s cruelty, to the way he would capture birds in the gardens and snap their necks on the edge of the fountain. He ignored the way Cain bullied tutors and the maids, and how he was, in every way, an unnatural, demon-like child.

Maybe it was because Kurt Marko, too, was a demon.

“Step-father, Mr. Marko, sir, please, please not the Red Room,” Charles pleaded, skinny legs shaking in his light-coloured trousers. His tunic felt soaked through with cold sweat, and Charles felt like he couldn’t breathe as Kurt pushed him roughly through the heavy doors. Charles’s legs gave in to the force, and the boy was flung forwards onto the carpet. His knees thudded heavily, and his palms hurt as they braced him on the floor.

“Unnatural children need to be punished, you know this, Charles,” Kurt said, voice eerily calm, though his mouth was curled up into an amused smile. “Children like you, that were born bad, need to be taught how to behave. This was the task God gave me, and you will be grateful that someone pitied you enough to try and save your soul.”

“No! Please! I won’t- I’ll do anything- Please! Don’t leave me in here!” Charles begged on his knees, tears sliding down his reddened cheeks and coating his tongue. Kurt just responded with a cold smile, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Charles screamed and battered his little fists against the door, but it did not yield.

The Red Room was one such room in the far, almost forgotten wing of the estate that had not been refurbished by the Markos. It had all of the old furnishings, the old, gloomy wallpaper, and smelled of grief and despair. It had been the room Charles’s dear father had spent his last breath, and the draft in the fireplace and flow of air through the slits in the mouldy windows made it seem like his spirit was still here.

Though the spirit of Brian Xavier had been gentle and just in life, Charles believed that his soul was now restless as he saw what has become of his precious Westchester, and now he haunted this room. In his fury, Brian Xavier did not recognise those still walking on the mortal plane, and as night descended, he would come into the room screaming with the voices of all of the past Xaviers, a chorus of anger and hate.

Charles was a child, and though he was level-headed and rational, he was still just a child. He was terrified, and each squeal of the wind at the window, each rattle and rasp of air pushing down the ashen and dusty chimney was like a scream of a haunted spirit in Charles’s mind.

It was as if he could hear the voices of all the dead Xaviers in his head, their phantom minds overwhelming him, until he could finally take no more and collapsed onto the floor, darkness claiming him.

*** Charles woke to the feeling of a cool cloth brushing against his forehead and the tune of a maid’s song. Charles whimpered, feeling feverish, and the cloth was replaced by a gentle hand. Charles’s eyes opened blearily, and he turned his head stiffly to match the soft touch to a face. He felt relieved when he saw Kitty’s face smiling down at him, brown hair tied back in a tight knot.

“Master Charles, you have awakened,” Kitty’s voice spoke gently in his ear, relieved and comforting. “Here, sit up, child. You have been sleeping for a day and an hour since we found you on the ground in the Red Room. You are weak and hungry, I’d bet. Have some water, and I have some soup and bread for you.”

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles said, ever polite, even when in the grips of sickness. The kind words of her little master made Kitty smile, patting his head affectionately as before gently holding a glass of water against his chapped lips, which were a shade paler than their usual bright berry red.

Kitty, along with the other servants of the household, adored the young Xavier, though after his mother’s remarriage, was forced to take on the surname Marko. The servants never called him that, though, and in their hearts they addressed the cherubic-faced boy as ‘Master Xavier’. They knew their master did not like sharing the Marko name, and they shared that sentiment. They believed the Markos to be nasty and evil, and never wanted to lump their gentle Charles with the likes of them. They never openly showed this, though – they were fearful of their masters as much as they hated them.

Still, they did what they could for the young master that treated them with kindness, the only one in the family to do so. Even though he was still but a boy, he reminded the older servants of their now dearly departed Mr Brian Xavier.

Kitty nodded in encouragement as Charles nearly drained the entire glass, wiping the corner of his mouth with a towel before putting the glass onto a tray on his bedside table.

“Do you think you can eat, Master Charles?” Kitty asked, gesturing to a small bowl of vegetable soup and stiff bread. Charles did not really want to eat anything, his stomach feeling like it was knotting itself shut. Charles never had a hearty appetite on a normal day, and Kitty often chastised him in good nature, saying that his small appetite is why he is small for a boy of his age.

Charles did not want to waste Kitty’s efforts to bring him food to his rooms, though. It was always hard enough for the servants to scrounge up some extra things for Charles to eat, since the Markos forbade him to dine with them.

Charles just nodded in answer to Kitty’s question, the woman smiling happily and helping feed Charles, his body still weak with fever caused by immense fear. He ate as much as he could, finishing most of the soup but only eating a few morsels of the bread, too tough for him to stomach. Kitty was satisfied with his efforts, and after he ate she helped tuck him back into the bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulders.

“Rest now, Master Charles,” Kitty spoke softly, stroking the younger boy’s hair like she used to when he was younger. The touch helped send the boy off to sleep, though these days sleep was fitful and restless.

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles murmured again, sleepy. “Good night.”

“Good night, Master Charles.”

***

Kurt Marko nodded to the man – Mr Shaw – as he grabbed his cloak and walking stick. The man had a menacing smile as he had peered down at Charles, inspecting him from head to toe. He had introduced himself as Mr Shaw, the master of Graymalkin School for Children. It was a school primarily aimed to help educate orphans or wayward children; neither of which Charles believed he was, but the prospect of going to school made his heart beat with excitement.

Charles tried to hide how elated he was when Kurt declared that he was going to be sent to school. Charles always wanted to learn, and now to be given the opportunity to be taught properly outside the confines of Westchester? Charles could only think that his nightly prayers had finally been answered; to be able to escape from the clutches of the Markos, his alcoholic mother, and the house that he hardly loved.

His step-father told him that he would leave by couch in two days, and Charles had to swallow back the plea to leave tomorrow. To just leave now. He would not miss many things in Westchester, and the things he would miss could be counted with the fingers of one hand; Kitty, his alcove, his father’s libraries, the gardens in the springtime and his bedroom. But those five things were not enough to tether him to Westchester, and he could not wait to go to school.

Two days had gone by relatively quickly; Kitty helped him pack his belongings, of which there was not much. Kurt never spent money on Charles, so he only had what he had been left before the Markos came, and only the bare minimum after that. It had not taken long for Kitty to neatly fold and press a single change of clothes into a worn and aging case, rolling up some spare socks and tucking in a small box of biscuits for the long carriage ride. She also gave him his father’s old pocket watch, securing it to Charles’s small hip.

The dawn of his leave had come, and no one but the servants came to bid him farewell. They all hugged him, some of them teary, but others happy for him, knowing that their intelligent little master was happy to be given an opportunity to learn. Kitty cried the most, though she tried to hide it; she was the last to hug Charles, holding him tightly outside the door of the carriage. “I will be praying for you always, Master Charles,” Kitty said through a sniffle, and Charles felt his eyes grow a little wet at the sound. “Please keep your health in mind, and if the chance is given, please write. I am sure we would all like to hear about how you have been enjoying school.”

“I will, Kitty. Farewell,” Charles promised, pressing a kiss to Kitty’s cheek, making the woman laugh, wiping at her eyes with a cloth. She helped Charles clamber into the coach, closing the door behind him. Charles waved his small hand out of the carriage all the way down the long gravel path, head poking out of the small window to watch Kitty and the staff get smaller and smaller, until the coach turned a corner and Westchester mansion disappeared from sight.

It was a long ride to Graymalkin School, one that Mr Shaw had been a little surprised at when he found out that Charles was going to make it alone. If Charles could read Kurt’s mind, he was sure he had been hoping for Charles to die on the road, whether by overturned coach or bandit attack.

Unfortunately for Kurt, but fortunately for Charles, he made it to the school in one piece, though weary from the journey. His bones were creaky with disuse, and his spine felt out of place, but he brightened when he saw the plaque outside of the school.

Graymalkin School for Children.

‘A fresh start’, Charles thought to himself giddily as he stepped out of the carriage, a man wearing a dark suit standing in wait. He had tanned skin and long, dark hair, and had a stoic expression on his face as he regarded Charles.

“Who are you?” he asked simply, and Charles opened his mouth with practised manners.

“Charles Marko,” the boy said, hoping that one day he could rid himself of the blighted Marko name. Even though he was out of the sight and touch of Kurt Marko, it was still too early for him to feel like he was free from his reach. Charles sincerely hoped that one day he could shed the name and fear of the Markos, but ‘I’m still only ten,’ Charles reminded himself. He could still grow.

“Ah, Mr Shaw informed us that you would be arriving around this time. Come, let us get you settled. I am Mr Quested, the arithmetic teacher here,” the man said, voice even but not harsh, though his face did not betray any flicker of emotion.

Charles followed the man obediently into the building; like Westchester, the school building was made of stone, but it was nowhere near as grand. The entire single-level building would have been the size of the Westchester stables, and looked decrepit. Charles had heard that Kurt had payed a small sum for his admittance into the school, and wondered where that money was going since the school looked like it had not been maintained at all.

The inside of the school was ice cold, the chill from the cold stones not mitigated by fires nor rugs. Charles shivered, the small boy prone to chilly temperatures, and pulled his coat around himself tighter.

Charles was led to an inner room where, finally, there was one fire going. Another man with a harsh face, who Mr Quested called Mr Azazel, prodded the fire roughly and ordered Charles to strip the moment he entered the room. Mr Quested told Charles, whose eyes were wide like a startled deer, that Mr Azazel was the languages teacher and that he was going to give Charles the school’s uniform.

Charles quickly changed into the scratchy, slightly too-small grey uniform, the high collar chafing under his chin. Mr Quested took Charles’s old clothes, which were simple and old, but far nicer in quality than that of the uniform, and discarded them to the side.

“Now, we will show you the class rooms. You have arrived in time for first classes,” Mr Quested said, and Charles felt the cold seep out from his body at the prospect of learning, brightening visibly. Mr Quested did not comment on the sudden spring to the boy’s step, just leading him into a large hall where many pairs of tired yet curious eyes peered back at him, all wearing a similar grey uniform. There were rows of girls sitting to Charles’s left, and boys in a similar configuration to his right.

Mr Quested introduced Charles to the other children – his classmates – and he was instructed to take a seat on the boy’s side. Charles did as he asked, plopping himself down for his first assembly.

This was where things would change, Charles believed.

He was right, but what he didn’t realise was that they didn’t necessarily change for the better.

***

School was not what Charles had pictured it to be. It was not that Charles did not learn things; he did gain knowledge in English, arithmetic, botany, languages (French and German, and Russian from Mr Azazel), geography and history, amongst other things. Charles just did not expect it to be so cold and harsh and strict. Mornings began in the dark, where Charles would wash his face with ice-cold water shared by others. Breakfast was unpalatable slop, cold and pasty in his mouth and borderline inedible. Lunch was a no better affair, the stew a sludge of fat and undercooked roots, but Charles tried his best to stomach it, because otherwise he would writhe around in his cold straw bed starving until morning broke, and he would live it all over again. Living at Graymalkin School was as hard as living in Westchester, but in a different way.

Charles had never felt so cold before, his pale skin always icy to the touch, his feet always numb. He wished that he was allowed to wear the woollen cloak Kitty packed him, but he had to wear the school’s grey uniform that was thin and short, not covering Charles’s cold wrists and ankles well at all.

The teachers were also horrible. Mr Quested was the most tolerable of them all, and taught his classes methodically but dryly. Mr Essex was very knowledgeable about the sciences, which Charles was interested in, but often took time out of his lessons to berate his students; he usually picked on students that were slow to grasp things, and though Charles was never slandered, he felt great pain for his fellow pupils that had to quietly hold in their tears as Mr Essex cursed at them. Mr Azazel was intimidating, and would snap the necks of students with hard reed when they mispronounced a word as they read foreign texts, or force them to stand with their arms up until they conjugated complex verbs incorrectly.

However, the worst of them all was Mr Shaw. Mr Shaw stepped in for classes on various occasions, and out of all of the teachers, he was the most fond of physical punishments and public ridicule. Charles had been a victim of his attentions once in the few weeks he had been at Graymalkin School. Charles had spoken up in one of his classes, offering an eloquent rebuttal to one of the points Mr Shaw had raised about a text they were studying; Mr Shaw had grown livid that someone like Charles had argued with him, but Charles had been adamant that he had not said anything that should cause offense. Mr Shaw called him a liar and unleashed the wrath of God upon him.

Charles had endured ten lashings on his wrists, his light skin easily marked with red. Mr Shaw had not finished there, and made him stand on a stool in the middle of the large hall with a chalk board with ‘Liar’ scribbled across it. Mr Shaw had denied Charles dinner that night, and Charles whimpered as he stood there with a near-empty stomach.

Students marched past him after they had their own meal, and a few cast pitying looks at him as they trudged past to the segregated bed chambers. The girls parted to the left, and the boys to the right, Charles merely watching them leave while swallowing his saliva down sadly, hands held behind his back.

Suddenly, something coarse and rough was pressed into Charles’s hands discretely, and he stroked his fingers over it. It was bread.

Charles’s eyes widened as he searched the sea of grey pupils that all brushed past him, and his heart thumped when one head turned back. It was a girl, head full of blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She had a mischievous curve to her mouth that was so unlike any one else at this school, teacher or student alike.

When Charles was finally allowed to retire to his scratchy bed that night after having sneakily eaten the contraband bread, Charles found that he slept a little better at the thought of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that he didn’t know the name of.

***

The girl, he would later find out, was called Raven. She was an orphan, and had been at the school for a year already. Raven was bright, daring, and so alive that Charles always felt lighter in her presence. He had not realised how lonely he had been until he began to spend time with Raven, though their interactions were limited since Raven was in the girl’s classes, and they only interacted during the afternoon yard time.

When they were allowed to play in the yard, Raven and Charles would always gravitate towards each other; Raven had said that the way he had argued – debated, Charles emphasised – with Shaw had been the best thing she had seen the entire time she had been here. No one ever told Shaw that he was wrong, not even Mr Quested or Mr Azazel, but Charles had.

“I got whipped for that, you know,” Charles said, though his mouth held the quirk of a smile at that, the lingering pain on his wrists not as harsh when Raven laughed at him, face so bright. Raven had asked Charles early on in their newfound friendship if he was an orphan or a wayward child. Charles said that he was neither, and Raven had smirked, and said ‘definitely wayward, then’. Raven then told Charles that she was both an orphan and a wayward child, though she was proud of the latter. Wayward and proud, she had declared, standing on top of a bench and waving a long stick from her hands.

“Then you can just be wayward,” Charles had said after that, smiling at the slightly younger girl. The girl looked at him in confusion, and Charles beamed wider. “I will be your family, so you do not have to be an orphan. You can just be wayward and proud.”

Raven had embraced him tightly and called him brother, and for the first time, Charles felt like he had a real family. Sharon, Kurt and Cain were distant memories; Raven would be his family from now on, and he would be Charles Xavier.

School had gotten a lot better after befriending Raven; Charles clearly excelled in his classes, which earned him the favour of the teachers there. Even Mr Shaw could not deny that Charles was the most advanced pupil, and found it hard to punish him as much when he did not do anything that warranted punishment.

Instead, Mr Shaw turned his sights onto Raven, whom he knew was close to Charles. Shaw punished Raven whenever Charles frustrated him, and despite Charles’s best efforts to protect his sister, he was still only a boy. Even after being at Graymalkin School for a few years had not changed the fact that he was powerless against people like Shaw. The only way he could protect Raven was to let himself be punished by Shaw – so Charles often dropped chalkboards, or wore one part of his uniform incorrectly, giving Shaw reason to vent his frustrations upon him.

Charles’s wrists became worn with marks and scars from lashings, and he was sure that the backs of his legs painted a similar picture. But, Raven was safe from Shaw, so Charles could brave it.

But while Charles could protect Raven from Shaw, he could not protect her from other things. It had been two years since Charles went to Graymalkin School when typhoid fever blitzed through the meagre campus. Teachers covered their faces with linen clothes while coughing and feverish children were sequestered in a cold room full of hard cots and left to die.

By chance, or by Kitty’s prayers, the fever had left Charles untouched. Raven had not been granted the same fortune, and in the deep winter of that year, she had fallen ill and passed soon after.

Charles had wailed for days – weeks – after that, and had refused to leave Raven’s lifeless and ashen body even as the teachers covered her with a sheet to be buried. Charles had begged and screamed at Raven’s still body to come back or to take him with her, and he only stopped crying when his despair had robbed him of all energy and he fell into a cold, dreamless slumber.

The yard that Charles and Raven used to play in, where they had become brother and sister, was soon dug up to bury the many dead children of Graymalkin school. The teachers organised a mass funeral for all of the lost students, and their grey uniforms were switched to black for one week. Charles cried as they sang a dark funeral song, rain pelting down. As the rain fell, he remembered Raven’s sunlight blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, how she smiled and laughed and was the very meaning of life.

Charles buried a little bit of himself with Raven that day; Charles did not laugh as much as before, even though Raven said that his smile was nice and made him seem like a different person. He did not act out against Shaw, nor did he complain about the slop they called porridge or the rancid fat in the stew. Charles simply did what he came to school to do; learn, learn and learn.

It was eight years after he came to Graymalkin School for Children that Charles left it behind. Mr Shaw had long since left the school; it had been discovered that he had been hoarding the money meant for the school for his own means and was subsequently cast out, a new committee at the school stepping in to oversee things. Life was not so bleak once Shaw was ousted, and that was what allowed Charles to stay and teach at Graymalkin for two years after graduating from pupil to tutor.

Charles was a popular teacher; he was kind, understanding, patient and gentle. He was also the best teacher in terms of actual instruction, knowledgeable in every aspect, but particularly in the sciences. He would make classes interesting by allowing students to go out into the yard rather than sit on rickety wooden chairs inside a stone classroom, and his lessons were the only times the pupils felt free to express their opinions. The students loved him, and when he told them that he was leaving, there were many wet eyes and sobs amongst the children.

They loved their Mr Xavier – because that was the name he had taken, once again – and Graymalkin wouldn’t be the same without him there.

Charles’s heart was warmed, and he believed that he had truly found his calling in teaching. But there was some niggling feeling inside of his soul that told him that there was more out there, outside of Westchester, and outside of Graymalkin. Graymalkin had shaped him to become the man of eighteen that he was today, but he knew there was something missing.

Charles said goodbye to Raven before he left Graymalkin, cleaning off the rock used as a headstone with a pail of water, and placing some freshly plucked flowers bundled in a string of lace beside it. Charles smiled as he nestled a little wooden board with etched letters in front of it, thumb brushing over its corners.

Raven Xavier Beloved friend and sister Forever wayward and proud

Next chapter (2/11) →

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #jane eyre #charlotte bronte #charles x erik #xmen #xmen fic #magneto #professor x #raven darkholme #mystique #mr rochester #i just love cherik and jane eyre ok

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u-jin · 4 years

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IT’S ALL DARK

status: headcanon ft. @lockekatirci situation: first meetings location: somewhere near market zero time: hour unknown, the streets are swept black, even the late crowds have quieted TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, blood, mutilation, gore

DEMON CAT OPENS, POURING TERROR ONTO THE STREETS:

It’s like an animal bent over prey, a darkened image of a not-quite man bent over a not-quite corpse, a carving knife in one hand, fingers stained red and face sprayed, blood dripping from the ends of his hair as he works in the back alley of an abandoned pub. This, he thinks, is art. He reels back and slices down again, a horrible tearing sound, a dull thud. He leaves his knife protruding for a moment, bare hands reaching into a gaping crevice, past bone, past the squishy, slippery texture of human insides, seemingly searching for something, a growl of frustration. He pulls back again, the cold air freezing the wet texture of his skin, and is stopped by a feeling like ice, a slow prickle running up his back, a sensation familiar to one thing -- someone is watching him.

Then he looks up, red up to his elbows as he draws the knife out of the body's ribcage, the air moving and transforming, a face somewhere in the darkness. He stands slowly, making the shadows writhe and shift around him, the light cascading into the dark, his own person being revealed like a feral dog, eyes wide and face beautiful in it’s stoicism, it’s in freedom from hunger in the one moment after hunting, covered in blood and chunks of flesh. He finds him, a being more wraith than man, appearing as if conjured. The knife hangs loosely in Ujin’s hand, curious and open, he takes several steps towards the shadowed figure, face cast like the undead in the way the darkness hangs over his eyes. He pushes light closer, plays with his own mind in the form of illusions, the slow, clandestine drip, drip, drip of scarlet falling past his arms to the concrete, a mutilated corpse lying motionless in the background.

He’s curious, treacherous, he creates the illusions and yet he isn’t sure if he conjured it himself, sanity sometimes slipping in his ache for blood, his draw to the macabre, then the light reveals a face and he realizes that it cannot be a creation of his own because he doesn’t make beautiful things. He draws closer, eyes narrowed, knife heavy in his fingertips, something in the back of his mind saying that he must take this one too, that he has to reap every last creature he sees, he has to devour, consume. He can’t stand the sight of something that appears so clean despite the way the blackness clings to him, something untouched despite the intensity in his stare, but there is no fear, not exactly, instead something that looks as starving as he is, and Ujin wants nothing more than to slice him open and chew on his bones.

The shadows are domain to the beasts and the butchers, and the man appears well at home, he steps closer, eyes molten gold and tinged velvet, narrowed and curious. Who are you? What can you do for me? How he loathes pretty things, hates those that mirror himself, delicate features and dark dispositions, is it possible to be this empty? This angry? He sears molten lava, mouth spitting ash, the ground rumbling with the tightening suture of an oncoming storm, a building intensity in the locked stare of two monsters, two unholy creatures, one caught feasting in his right and the other a watcher, an onlooker, an uninvited guest.

His head turns carefully to the side, his mouth opens his mouth as if to speak, reaches out as if to touch when behind him there’s a clatter, and he turns, paranoid and sharp. He sees a rat scurry from beneath a heap of trash and just as quickly he turns back, greeted with only the image of a brick wall and, for a moment, he appears thoughtful. Eventually his tongue clicks behind his teeth, as if this occurrence was nothing strange, as if performing for an audience of one. He still feels the presence nearby, but worse things have burdened him, far worse has happened, and he turns back around, head cocked and smile returning, wild and wrathful. Another monster in his midst, one he does not recognize, one he’s surely meant to hunt. The features linger, transparent, almost crystalline, not solid or definable but just as vivid.

He’ll be back, he decides, before drawing his knife up and returning to his art project.

AND SO RETURNS HELL HOUND ( @lockekatrici ) , WATCHING FROM THE SHADOWS:

Through static darkness; suspended in the shadows like an invisible fly on the wall; obscured by all living creatures, Locke almost becomes the dead in the way existence no longer stands tangible. Only the nearly inaudible breaths whisper his presence in amongst the night and he’s simply watching. It’s not clear how much time has passed, but in the veil, there’s a weightlessness that keeps time as an illusion; a figment of reality that no longer cares for such trivial cogs in a clock. Not even the metal hands under the steel of Katirci’s watch can attract his attention when such a display of vehemence captures his admiration. A sickening snap echoes; evidence of tendons tearing from tissue, an explosion of liquid bursts from the hacking of meat where silver carves deep, splits open the disfigured animation like a fountain and allows arteries to spurt red and paint the streets in colour. Like a mosquito that pierces with the same necessity to thrive; saps life; energy from a being, a strange obsession with needing to inch closer starts crawling under Locke’s skin. It’s as though that craving for a knife to cut open his own flesh overpowers reasoning; he wants to be in the place of the canvas currently being maimed to forge a new entity. It evokes a memory, the harsh sound of bones cracking a small boy’s shoulder blade in youth; a wail that’s fast silenced when another comes down and drives deep the venom that in elder years swarms the man’s veins like a parasite; a poison that builds him to something beyond becoming ruination.

He’s the god of the night and deities like to be seen; worshipped and offered sacrifices as favoured by most sentients; Lokman as a divinity is an image formed entirely of delusion, though, diluted by his own deep rooted belief he is greater than his own beasts.

Because he stares in awe at the one before him; sees everything in the hues of the man – if he could be called such a thing, the frenzied ghoul that appears to be the reaper of offerings; such a beautiful thing that Katirci’s own false illusion of playing silent spectator falters and he steps out to meet the other; as if only to see his face close up, marvel in the features that are blessed with the sangria that peppers warm skin, melts down perfected features; a jaw that even belonging to something with ferocity; untamed in the actions of the blade he holds can only belong to something of primal nature. Would you take my hand if I wiped red from your face, if only to see deeper? A madman’s misconception, because he already sees it all.

And above that, the stranger sees him. A kind of outlandish stare that’s a myriad of perplexion and the hunger behind the man’s eyes; matches Locke’s own if only by a single shade, so he believes. There’s no shift of eyes to the knife in the other’s hand, knowing that Locke’s own is sheathed in the rear of trousers; a personal measure, opposed to that of protection. For a moment, both men are still, admiring each other and any third eye could assume a standoff, but it’s nothing of the kind; there’s only a drawn need to the grisly and Lokman’s lip ticks in one corner, not as a taunt, but as an unorthodox manner of greeting. It might have been as prominent as firing a bullet, the only shift that begins the shift of the two that’s evident past the two heaving chests that indicate they’re alive.

An abrupt clatter of tin resonates, tears the other’s gaze away, offers Lokman opportunity to disappear; create a new diversion in the beams of black that shape inconsistent waves between the pub’s alleyway. He’s become a ghost again; once more opportunist, stealthy in becoming absent to the other who’s own speed is admirable. But it’s never quite fast enough, he can see the momentary flicker where lowlights project amber street lights over the features of the stranger. It could easily be a dream manifested from hauntings; memories that plague Locke’s head from years prior. But it’s far too real, he can sense it like a false sixth sense that is all in his mind, the need to still capture a streak of red on his own fingertips if only to become closer to the man; so Lokman can be seen by him as Katirci plays witness to his misdeeds.

Then, like it never happened, the brief encounter of two monsters in the dark, the other begins hacking at the mutilated mass, unhinged and ignorant perhaps to any ghosts gracing him. It seems so pitiful to be disheartened, that Locke’s not accustomed anymore to feeling forgotten so swiftly in situations with such merciless intentions. The stranger’s got something better in the dead in front of him. A demon in the rear of Locke’s head, coaxing lies; truths? Into him like sweet pumps of that delicious poisonous venom he’s drowned in.

The briefest emotion, unrecognised – entirely unfamiliar; so fast to fleet from his body like a powerful force uses him as a conduit to another world for just a split second. More so that it’s such an old feeling, he’s forgotten what it’s like; rejection; being unknown once more to the person he’s spent perhaps hours staring at in the mists for the other man to only see him for seconds.

Unlike the stranger who’s hijacked his thoughts; all rationality – if there ever was any, Lokman does not forget such a moment and there’s no denying the bloodied face that he’s memorised isn’t the last painted picture he’ll leave with; a promise. He’ll be the ghost that haunts the man.

#ii. headcanon #ft. hell hound #blood //#death //#gore //#mutilation //#lockekatrici

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surveys-at-your-service · 4 years

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Survey #264

I did tell y’all WoW would devour my life again when I got my laptop back lmao. But I’m still alive!!

When you wake up to pee at night, do you turn on the light? You mean like, in the bathroom? Uh, yeah? When was the last time you got a fresh box of crayons? Damn dude, I don't have a clue. What color is your favorite towel? I don't have a favorite. They're all just random colors. Do you know anyone’s phone number by heart? Actually no, not since Mom got a new phone. I really need to learn it. Do you wear hoodies? Yeah, one Pikachu one. Something your mother said or did that shocked you: We were arguing and she tried to kick me out of the car once. Obviously I didn't listen. It was one of our worst arguments. How many different homes have you live in?We're in our fourth house now. WELL there's another if you count the apartment, but I didn't officially live there, I was just... always there even though it was against policy lmao. Then when we were technically homeless I "lived" with my former best friend, but again, that was not an official thing. Did your mom go to college? She is, though cancer has thrown a wrench in the plan... She's on her final semester of a bachelor's degree in social work. With cancer now plus this wild quarantine, we don't really know what's going on. Where is the best place you know to take a dog for a walk? We have a park maybe like 15 minutes from here that's pretty decent. Nice fountain, fishing docks, plenty of ducks. Are there any crazy sandwich combinations you like to eat? It's not "crazy," as I know it's actually tasty to some people: having lunch meat, cheese, mustard, and potato chips. I haven't had that in yeeeaaars. Which food do you think you have the most cans of in your cupboard? Uh. I'm not sure. We usually have fruit, beans, and soup in there, but I'm not sure which there's more of. Do you save fortunes from fortune cookies? No. Are you offended when Christmas is spelled Xmas? No. Do you prefer rugs or bare floors? Rugs. Describe your favorite mug or glass to drink from? I don't really drink from any. Your bad habit that you love the most: Heh, drinking soda... Do you name your pets after tv/movie/book characters: I have before, yes. Had a guinea pig named Harry Potter lol, rats named Tezzeret and Rhoka, and... that may be it. I am not positive, had a lotta pets... Have you ever died in one of your dreams? Yes. Which is tastier: fruity gum or minty gum? Fruity. Be honest, have you ever bullied anybody? Who was it? Oh my god, I was about to say no, but wait. When I first started RP at around 9, I had the impression you were supposed to always be in-character. Me, at the time my account being just "mozart2" (I don't count her as my first RP character though, she turned into Ruby and was drastically changed) on the Animal Planet forum, wanted to be the "dominant female," and one of the girls whose name was like Angelkiss or something was "mean" to me and so I reciprocated until I GOT FUCKING BANNED ON THIS ACCOUNT I'M WRITING THIS AND IT'S SO EMBARRASSING WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH ME I HATE YOUNG ME SO MUCH. What is the cutest Halloween costume for a baby to wear? Idk. Is it a turn-off if somebody’s teeth are stained yellow? Not necessarily. Yellow doesn't mean dirty + everyone is supposed to have some coloration, and I can't say shit anyway 'cuz mine are kinda yellow from poor self-care in the past anyway. I just care that they're clean. Which of your friends is the tallest? Which of them is the shortest? Girt is a damn giant lmao. I only reach his chest. Shortest, I'm unsure. Do you know any quotes from Forrest Gump? Well besides the famous ones, no. HA, fun fact that cracked me the fuck up though, someone in the government in NC that is running for... something, there are sometimes like three signs in a row along the road that say "RUN FORREST, RUN" and I fuckin died the first time I saw it. Do you believe in demonic possession? How about ghosts? Angels? I don't believe in angels or demons, so. Ghosts, yes. Would you rather judge a singing or dancing competition? Why? Dancing, for sure. I'm more educated on the form and techniques, plus it's way more entertaining. What was the mascot at your elementary school? A bulldog. It was super cute, and in art class, the art students all worked together to make colorful, clay models that were in the principal's office. Everyone loved them. Have you ever fallen down in public? Did anybody see you? Yes and yes. Do you scream when you go on rollercoasters? Do you close your eyes? I'll probably never know 'cuz my ass is afraid of them lmao. I get dizzy too easily and I'm terrified of the potential of getting sick. Do you think home-made cards are better than store-bought ones? They're more thoughtful imo. What is one romantic movie that you enjoy enough to watch more than once? The Notebook. Who was the last person to walk out of your life, and why? By their volition, probably a Facebook friend. How did you decide upon your favorite colors? I didn't know you could pick your favorite color. Are you less likely to approach people that look/dress a certain way? Wow no. I mean unless they look obviously dangerous, like if they had blood on them or something like that. What is your favorite Starburst candy flavor? If you say anything but pink, you're wrong. Do you prefer schedules and plans, or spontaneity? Schedules. Sponteneity, usually, stresses me out. How do you let someone know that you like him/her? I mean idk. Act like it or say it. Do you think that you act like yourself while online? I'm more myself online. Have you ever lied about something to get someone to like you? Hell no. I'd want them to like me for who I actually am. Would you rather buy presents for others, or receive them? BUY, so long as I'm happy with what I bought and know it'll make them happy. How did you meet your current best friend? YouTube. The last song/poem/story you wrote - what was it about? I haven't finished it, but I'm writing a poem about the strength of cancer patients following Mom getting her hair shaved off. Are you a mostly blunt person? No, because I'm too afraid of starting an argument. Do you have any talents that come naturally? I guess writing since I've been applauded for it since I was very little. Do you go out often? Even before quarantine, not at all. I go out so little that my eyes seriously hurt when I step outside; I always have to squint or entirely close my eyes for a few seconds. What's the best Valentine's Day gift you've gotten? There was one year Jason got me a really pretty heart box of chocolates plus the game Heavy Rain and a pink rose. May still have a picture of it on my old phone... Is there anyone who is overly nice to you? No. It's hard to be "overly nice" in my opinion. Would you prefer internet or television? Internet. What is something you lose often? I'm not sure. Not a lot. Do you enter a lot of sweepstakes? I never do. How old is your oldest sibling? 30-something. Have you ever considered writing a novel? Yes. Who's the last person you said I love you to? Mom or Sara. What's your stance on spooning? What a question. It's comforting, but I usually can't actually fall asleep like that because I get too hot. Have you ever been "popular?" Nah, not really. Well, I was pretty well-known in the meerkat YouTube community as an editor, but not like, Yelozo level. Has someone ever tried to convert you? Well, I was a Christian when my sister's friend's grandpa made me like, SUPER uncomfortable by talking to me all the way home from school (he had to drive us this day) about the Bible and stuff because it was his "job" as a religious man and I kinda had to take this little Bible from him just to be nice. Even when I was a Christian I wasn't VERY religious and really really felt like he was hardcore shoving his beliefs down my throat. Are you thin? Ha ha no. Do you like big earrings? Heavy/big earrings ruined my ears, so no. The holes are too stretched now and is why I'm putting very small gauges in so it doesn't look as stupid when I put an earring in and it just barely hangs on because my ear lobe literally looks like it could tear. Animated character that was your gay awakening? HA, there's been a few that looking back, I definitely thought were more than pretty, even as a kid, like Sheego from Kim Possible. But #1? Holy mother of fuck, Bayonetta. That is one fuckin HOT MAMA. What show/YouTube video(s) do you put on in the background when you don’t have anything to watch but you want something on? Hmm. It really does depend on what I feel like semi-watching. Maybe like, a let's play where I'm not THAT interested in the game, but I still do listen and glance over. Your go-to bar order, if you drink? I've never been to a bar, but when I go out to eat and I feel like getting a drink, it's usually a margarita. What’s your favorite pair of shoes that you own? UGGGGHHHHH my tall leather boots with all these buckles and stuff. They're hot. What was your first word as a child (that wasn’t a variation of “Mom” or “Dad”)? I don’t know. What’s a job that you’ve had that people might be surprised to find out you’ve had? Nothing that's really "surprising." Just three ordinary minimum wage jobs. What’s directly across from you? My snake's terrarium. Do you own any signed books/memorabilia in general? No. ;-; I wish. What do you get on your bagels? What WOULD you get if you had access to anything you wanted? I've only ever had cream cheese. NO WAIT, I tried jam once and it was fucking repulsive. One bite and I was like "fuck no." I think it was strawberry jam though, which I hate. I'm not sure what else I'd try as idk what would taste good. Fruity or herbal teas? Neither. What’s that one TV show that you’re a little bit embarrassed to watch but you still like nonetheless? None. It's funny, as a kid when I thought I was "too old," I tried to hide the fact I still adored Pokemon, but for years now I've just been like "lol fuck yeah man Pokemon." What was your “phase” when you were younger? (i.e., Mythology Nerd, Horse Girl, Space Geek, etc) Being an emo/goth/metalhead thing was NEVER a phase, Mom. Goddamn do I wish I could afford a gothic wardrobe laksjdfawde. What’s that one outfit in your closet you never get the chance to wear but want to? There's no telling. I rarely check my closet for "special" clothes, but rather my dresser. Where do you sit in the living room (we all have a preferred spot, and you know it)? The couch. Are you a “Quote that relates to the photos” caption-er, an “explanation of where I took the photos” caption-er, or a no caption kinda person when you post pictures online? I'm all of them, plus sometimes song lyrics I find relevant lmao leave me alone. Name a classic Vine: YO that one of the dude looking for his berries with a WILD outfit, expression, and voice and then scares adventurers away from his tree made me fuckin cry for about 1,000 repeats. I miss Vine, man, good shit. What’s the freezer food that you stock up on when you go to the grocery store? We don't really "stock up" on any particular food. We do, however, tend to get a large box of frozen rats for Venus, if you can count that, but obviously that's not from the grocery store lol. How do you top your ice cream? Chocolate syrup mmmMMMMMMMMMMM Do you like Jello? Yeah. Do you have a fear, even only a slight fear of insects? I do. Do you have a favorite poem you like and can recall? If so, what is it? I don't have a favorite, no. Have you ever resided in a home that was haunted: *shrugs* I do think paranormal things happened in my last house, but idk about calling it haunted. Do you ever play any MMORPGS: Just WoW. What’s the closest river to you? Tar River. Have you ever been in a building with over 100 floors? I don't think so. What bird is the cutest? Oh, I don't know. Something small and pudgy lol. Are you scared to look at your own organs on x-ray or ultrasound? No, that shit is so cool. Have you ever held a real sword? No. What do you think about most? PTSD is v fun. My brain naturally drifts to relating topics when I don't know what to think about, which is most of the time. Certainly don't try to, but it just. Happens. Most attractive singer of your opposite gender? Hell man, idk. I do have a weakness for Kellin Quin though; he's the first to come to mind. What was the last film you saw in the cinema? The Lion King. What are you currently listening to? "Saturnalia" by Marilyn Manson. How many people have you kissed, that you can HONESTLY say you loved? Two. The last person to be under covers with you? Sara. What's the compliment you get the most? Uhhh I think it's "I like your tattoo" (referring to my Mark one). BITCH just wait til it gets tidied up for four hours. Have you ever disliked someone just because a friend disliked them? If they have good reason to, yes. I can't deeply dislike someone I don't know/have personally seen be a piece of shit, but I can sure not be fond of them until they prove unworthy of that judgment. Have you ever won a lot of money in a slot machine? How much? Never gambled and don't plan to. Do you eat/drink at your computer? Yes, oops. How much do you overeat at special occasions? (Birthdays, Christmas, etc) Actually, I tend to under-eat at most special occasions because odds are I'm not going to like the food. This isn't always the case, but yeah. Do you think it's important to enjoy your job or do you just work for money? I think it's very important to enjoy it. If you had to, which record would you go into Guinness World Records for? Probably the longest consecutive hours of not leaving the computer laksdfjawe I hate myself. Do/Did you enjoy school? Why (not)? From the very beginning, I hated school. It's why I was a goddamn monster to get up in the morning, even in high school. I only enjoyed (to a degree, anyway) my most recent college because it was a way to get out of the house and work towards my future. Do you find it difficult to sleep at night? Any reason(s) why? Boy, do I. Most recently, after being put on a medication for my nightmares/terrors (which works!), I have intense muscle spasms in my legs, oddly only when I'm falling asleep. Apparently it's a very rare side effect of it, but I'm willing to tolerate it in place of having nightly terrors. Then there's my PTSD and just general poor self-image that can both send me down a total spiral. Have you ever wished you were born the opposite gender? Why? Not legitimately. Like I've wondered what it would be like, but I've never truly wanted to be a guy. I'm just content with being what comes with being genetically female. Do you think you'd make a good model? Would you ever want to be one? Hell to the fuck no. Have you had an argument with anyone recently? If so, do you still have issues with that person? Not recently, no. Who was the last person that asked to hang out with you? Tell me the story of how you met that person, everything you remember. Hell man, I don't have a clue. Have you ever worn colored mascara? If not, would you ever think about trying it? And if you have, what is/was your favorite color to wear? No, but I guess, if I had a reason to? What do you remember about your first day of secondary school? Were you more nervous or excited about it? I very faintly remember I had no desire to be there. Before Facebook became popular, did you use any other social networking site, like Bebo or Myspace? Yeah, I had Myspace. Has anyone ever asked you out, and you turned them down? If so, did you feel guilty about it? Why do you think you said no? Yes, and not *really*, as I'm very strict with myself about whom I date. It's just awkward. And I just didn't like one guy romantically in elementary, my best male childhood friend was black (mind you I haven't been racist in the least since I was a tiny kid, I was just raised like that), and I knew Juan had a bad rep. Have you ever asked anyone “Do you love me?” If so, did you get the response you wanted? Do you think when someone says “I love you”, you feel obliged to say it back? Ugh. Let's not. I feel obligated only with family. Has someone of the opposite sex ever sang to you? If so, how did you respond to it? LET'S. FUCKIN. NOT. If you’ve had a bad experience in a past relationship, did you find that you were scared to get into another relationship, in case the same thing happened again? Terrified.

#survey #quiz #questions

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arlandvery · 5 years

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Alabastor Stones (Come and Lay Your Bones) Chapter 3

Long chapter because goddammit I worked hard on it. Anyhow, as always special thanks to @veninos-posion for listening to my ideas and giving me feedback. There’s NSFW and child abuse in this chapter though, so heads up on that.

Ao3 Link

Tomura had trouble sleeping. It had been a recurring problem since he’d matured and been moved away from Mother. When sleep eluded him, he either worked until dawn in his lab or woke one of his teachers and demanded lessons well into the morning.

He was the heir apparent; only Sensei’s word was higher, and so whenever Tomura said “jump” everyone whimpered “how high”. It was nearly unimaginable, he admitted. He was a necromancer from a burned out village that had meant nothing- the chances of him here…well, he didn’t know if he could have done the math on that probability.

Sensei insisted that his heir be able to fight with everything. Though Tomura preferred his magic, he’d had an education with all weaponry and at least a decent proficiency with them. Archery was his least favorite, but knives? Give Tomura a knife and it was like he’d been born with one instead of hands.

But the point was, Tomura couldn’t sleep. He felt achy and frustrated and he felt heavy. So he ignored the voice in his head suggesting this was a bad idea and went to wake his tutor. He was fine, he didn’t need sleep.

When they entered the training hall though Tomura frowned at the sight of Sensei and Kurogiri.

Kurogiri was looking through some papers and bowed his head to Tomura in greeting. From anyone else it was a blatant show of disrespect, but Kurogiri was different. Kurogiri had been one of his first teachers- and his most trusted. He was capable and clever and loyal to Sensei. Dressed in clothes so black they seemed to suck in the light from the training hall around him, the man was terrifying.

Sensei himself stopped his warm ups and smiled at Tomura’s bow.

“Tomura, trouble sleeping again?”

“Yes. I thought I should do something with my time and came here, though.”

“Good, that’s good. I had some trouble sleeping this evening as well. Would you care to spar with me, Tomura?” His smile might have been friendly, but Tomura knew the truth.

This wasn’t a spar, this was a lesson.

“I would be honored, Sesei.” He admitted with some truth.

“Wonderful- just fists then, my boy.”

He needed to see how he measured up against his mentor, needed to prove that he was getting stronger.

(He was worthy of this, of all of it: his position, his education, his training-

“Breathe Tenko.”)

Tomura stepped into the figurative ring barehanded, getting into the proper stance.

“Do your best, Tomura.” Sensei urged.

Because your best isn’t enough.

Tomura became slowly more aware of the way that Azami treated Mother. Tomura was untouchable, but Mother wasn’t.

On top of her own chores and trying to care for him, Mother also had her own lessons to deal with. Tomura tried to watch her whenever he could, because he’d never have imagined how much work went into being a concubine.

Daily she was taught how to walk, to carry herself, how to pour tea, how to prepare it. She was taught music and instruments- small, delicate harps and flutes and things with strings that sounded so lovely, how to do her own makeup, how to arrange flowers.

She brought those lessons back to their little room. Mother taught him her music, repeating her lessons so that he could play too, or else playing softly to help him sleep. While Tomura read to her she practiced her dancing, keeping time with the rhythm of his words- it was through this that Tomura discovered the power of rhythm in poetry. They spent hours matching poems to dances that she was learning. Mother was older but she was still a child, and children snatched joy where they could find it.

There were other lessons, but those were secret, and Tomura had to swear not to watch those or he’d have to swallow needles. She came bake pale or red in the face, and often, if she had no more work to do would just curl up on her cot in silence.

Tomura grew and so did Mother, but with her growth she began to lose some of the inner warmth she carried like a warm fireplace.

When Tomura was 7 he decided he wanted to help her in any way that he could.

Flowers were everywhere in the harem. Because most of them weren’t allowed out one the grounds (indeed, it was only Azami and his attendants who were given that privilege), Sensei made up for it with the fountain and the fish, and potted and cut flowers and bushes everywhere. Naturally some of these died, despite their care. And often Mother was the one to care the most.

It was nothing for Tomura to take some of the dead flowers and secret them away.

Tomura hadn’t used his powers since he’d been rescued. The tension beneath his skin, the ever present inner spring, had been silent since he’d come home, since Mother and Sensei. The few times that he’d reached for that power nothing had happened. He’d given up on it before.

But now he had to help Mother, and he could do this.

It took nearly a month of practice. It might have taken less time if he’d had the freedom to work on it constantly, rather than an hour or two here and there. He tried to keep in mind what his weapons instructor said.

“You have to train the muscle to get better.”

And if his magic was a muscle he just needed to practice.

It was still slow going though. He was still trying to reverse death.

He nearly gave up several times but remembering Mother’s tired face or empty smile when she held him made him keep going. Made him work harder. This attitude extended to what he was learning outside of his magic. His stubborn determination bled into his efforts to read, his fighting, his math- his teachers were fascinated.

Sensei was especially pleased too.

“I knew you were a bright boy,” he proclaimed, looking over his numbers himself. Tomura had glowed with pride. “You’re making me so proud.”

But nothing topped the feeling of success when the barest hint of color began to bloom in the petals again. And so he kept pushing. One by one the flowers returned, looking as fresh as if they’d just been picked.

He left them on her bed, and Mother had hugged him.

“Oh Tomura, they’re gorgeous!” She gushed, smiling, really smiling. He blushed when she petted his hair. “You didn’t steal them, did you?” Her touches paused, and she looked afraid. That wasn’t right.

“No, I fixed them, look!” He took one of the leftover roses and held it in his hands, squinting down at them and, for lack of a better word pushing.

Color began to come back, the flower began to unwilt.

Mother stared at the rose in awe and gently took it from him, then she took the flower from him.

“Tomura, I need you to listen to me. You cannot tell anyone about this, okay? It’s dangerous.”

“I know, Mother.” She didn’t know what he’d done, she wasn’t scared. Of course she wasn’t, why would she be? “I’ve never showed anyone else.” She kissed his forehead and sat him down on the bed.

“Good. How about I show you how to make a flower crown?”

Tenko was a good boy and held still as she braided the crown and wove it in his hair, telling him about her home, about the animals and the farm.

She never mentioned her name.

Sparring with Sensei was always hell, but it was necessary.

Tomura couldn’t be better, couldn’t beat him, but he didn’t take quite as many blows to the face, didn’t stay down as long as he used to. He could take it, he could keep getting up.

Before Sensei, Tenko remembered very little. It was for the best, there wasn’t much that he wanted to remember, but some things couldn’t be helped- or forgotten.

The screaming, searing agony, smoke- they hovered at the edges, interwoven with the shattered fragments of a little boy crying for his father while everyone argued what to do with him.

Killing him would be bad luck.

So was letting him live.

But killing him would be worse.

The argument went back and forth between the village elders while Tenko sobbed in his bindings, blood in his mouth and the last remnants of his father on his clothes. Eventually the village came to an agreement to let him live.

So into the dark he went, chained to a wall.

(It might have been kinder just to butcher him)

He didn’t know how long he was down there, broken down and alone. The ones who brought him dinner, if they brought it at all, didn’t dare talk to him, no matter how he begged and cried. He talked to the rats for awhile, but stopped when he woke up once to them eating him.

When the crops failed that year they beat him. When sickness swpt through they beat him more. They called him things; “cursed”, “demon”, “witch-boy”. They begged him and threatened him by turn, trying to stopper up whatever was wrong inside of him. But at night, or in the day, because it was always dark, Tenko was alone and hurting and scared, and something dark was inside him.

The day that they dragged little Tenko from his cellar prison into the heat of the noon soon he’d been blinded by the light. He followed the hands dragging him by his chain. He was so weak with hunger and lack of motion his legs hurt and trembled with effort just from walking.

The Village headman was the one to haul him out to the gate and shove him forward at the army that had surround them. Tenko whimpered in fear, blinking away the remnant of the blindness.

The man in the lead was the one to descend from his horse and approach them.

“You’d send a child to defend you?” He asked. His voice was deep, and he had wild dark hair and dark armor. He was a big man, with a big sword, but he wasn’t afraid. He seemed like he was trying not to laugh.

Something about the man put Tenko at ease.

“The child has magic- no doubt he could defend us from he likes of you!” Growled the Headman. Tenko frowned, and the man just made a disgusted noise. The Headman gripped Tenko’s shoulder painfully and leaned down to snarl in his ear to “do it, boy. Protect your people.” Tenko flinched at the tone and the foul smell of his breath.

“You don’t have to kill me, you know.” Interrupted the man, striding forward.

What did he have to fear from a bunch of farmers and old men and a child. The child looked up at him, unsure. “They did all this to you, didn’t they?” He asked Tenko kindly. Timidly, the boy nodded. The man tsked. “That’s not right. You should never hurt children like that.”

“Tenko!” Snarled the Headman.

“Tenko. Is that your name? It’s very nice.” His stomach growled and the man smiled a little more sadly this time. “If you come with me, Tenko, I’ll make sure you’re cared for.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm. No more chains. Food and a bed. You’ll be taken somewhere much better than this…”He sneered at the village, “pit.”

The man opened his arms.

Tenko ran to them.

The village burned and the man held him and let him hide his face.

“You did good Tomura,” Sensei praised mildly, watching as Tomura vomited the contents of his stomach. That kick to the stomach had been rough. The 4th one had been the one to break the camel’s back, so to speak.

So there he was, as worn out and run down as he had been when Sensei had first gotten in the ring with him. The world still spun, his bile was stomach churning and he could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

“Thank you…Sensei,” he huffed, trying to make everything level out, including his breathing. Shame burned in his bones and he hated it, so so much.

Sensei helped him up again, rubbing salt in the wound as he helped Tomura to the wall.

His arms were still strong, and they still made him relax instinctively.

Nausea roiled again and then he was on his knees, throwing up again and darkness shuttered over his consciousness again. Distantly he heard people shouting his name.

One day, Mother started acting strange.

She was always irritated, restless. She became a perfectionist. Tomura witness her visibly restraining herself from slapping Azami when the omega made a comment about Tomura putting on weight.

“He was half starved when he arrived.” She reminded with gritted teeth. Azami hit her and didn’t feed her dinner for her insolence. Tomura put some of his away to give her at bedtime, but the sight of the smuggled food made Mother start crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Tomura,” she whined, pulling him close.

“Mother?”

“I can’t do anything right- you shouldn’t have to take care of me!”

Her strange behavior continued- she stole Tomura’s clothes, stripped the bed and shifted it into the corned and reorganized everything, rolling around in it, keeping Tomura in it with her.

Azami was displeased with it, but didn’t make a comment other than telling her “don’t leave food in the nest, Fetch or we’ll have rats.”

One morning, when Tomura woke up to get ready, Mother pulled him back into the nest and held him there, growling in gentle reprimand when he tried to leave.

“Mother, we have to work,” he protested quietly.

But she said nothing, clinging to him and purring. She smelled so nice, it made it hard for Tomura to think of anything but the softness of the nest, the warmth of his Mother around him, the sweetness of her scent.

When a maid finally poked her head in to demand to know what they were doing, she froze at the sight of them and then shut the door. By then Mother was nuzzling into his neck, scenting him. It was such a foreign thing to him- he hadn’t been scented since he was a baby. It instantly made him stop thinking beyond the here and now, going lax and letting out baby purrs of his own.

At some point, Sensei was there, still smiling.

“This is interesting.” He remarked, taking a seat outside the nest. “I never would have expected you bringing him into your nest, Pet.”

“My pup.” Mother’s voice was rough and thick, squeezing him tighter.

“It’s not often that an omega will adopt a child not related. How did that come about- are you in enough of a mind to tell me that?”

“’s alone. Not ‘nymore.” Tomura whined and Mother crooned softly, moving to block him from sight. Sensei laughed and reached in to ruffle Mother’s hair.

“Considering the special circumstances, Pet, I’ll let you handle this on your own. Congratulations, little omega.” He pressed a kiss to her head and left the room.

Tomura woke up sore and sick, feeling spaced out and gross. There was a cloth on his head, damp- from sweat or water? He didn’t know. His throat hurt.

There was a soft hand on his.

Weakly he turned to look at Mother, swallowing thickly.

She was sleeping at his bedside. Her hair was mussed and she looked pale and exhausted, dressed down out of her fancy costumes and makeup.

She looked like Fetch again.

He didn’t know if he hated it or preferred it.

Carefully Tomura wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand in his. It was dwarfed by his large hands, still stained with the tools of his trade. His panic, his fear, was already dying again, just being near her and her scent.

It was silent in the sickroom. Of course it was the sickroom; leaving Mother alone with him in his den would have been the height of impropriety, people would talk.

Daringly though, his thumb brushed over her wrist, right over her scent gland. The warm vanilla smell got stronger and Tomura stifled a groan, not wanting to wake her. He resisted the urge to bring her wrist up so that he could kiss it or scent her. Sensei tolerated so much from him, but even that had a limit.

Mother’s smell changed after that. She’d always smelled good, but now she could have brought Tomura to his knees with it if she wanted. But Mother wasn’t like that.

There was a shift in the harem, Azami was called less and less to Sensei’s bed, and that made him nervous. He was getting older, he still hadn’t been bred, his position was slipping. He lashed out at everyone. Despite the new space in his bed, Sensei didn’t seem eager to fill it. The power vacuum made everything unstable.

It didn’t help that because Mother was an omega now, a real omega, not just Fetch, she wasn’t their lapdog anymore. It was one more thing that muddied the pond. Mother was still low on the totem pole, but she had a right to ask for things now, the right to meet Azami’s eyes and say “no” when Azami snapped at her to do something. This didn’t help, and often sent the omega into a tantrum.

One day during one of Azami’s fits he threw down his songbird’s cage. The poor thing died of shock and Mother cried for it.

Their little nest was filled with flowers already, what difference would a bird make?

It was harder to take the little corpse than it was to steal the flowers, but Tomura did it, shivering at the little feathered corpse tucked in his shirt.

His practice with the flowers paid off, but that didn’t make it any easier to breathe life back into it. It wasn’t like a plant, there was a soul, organs, stuff that had to be worked on that Tomura had never dared to work on before. Taking life was easy, returning it was nearly impossible. But he’d do it for Mother.

Tomura worked endlessly on it, ignoring his failures. He pushed power and magic into the little corpse, forcing it’s heart to beat, it’s lungs to breathe.

When it’s chest began to rise and fall again, Tomura smiled triumphantly, exhausted and worn.

That was how Mother found him, the songbird shining like a jewel, singing in their room, Tomura unconscious in their nest. She cleaned him up and named the bird Jewel, and thanked him when he woke up.

It was Jewel that gave them away.

Azami reported the bird’s song to the eunuchs, claiming that they had brought a wild one inside. When the Eunuchs found Jewel they brought them both before Sensei.

“Now what I don’t understand,” Sensei said calmly, sprawled on his throne, “is where the bird could have come from. Because I specifically remember giving this to Azami.” Jewel was perched on his finger, trilling happily. Azami himself was at Sensei’s feet, looking smug. “But it died- I remember receiving that report. And yet,” he mused, stroking Jewel’s head, “here it is, singing in the palm of my hand. How did this happen? Tomura?” He asked calmly.

Tomura shook with fear. He’d got them in trouble, Sensei would hate him, he’d not be allowed to live here anymore.

Mother’s hand squeezed his shoulder.

“It’s okay, tell the truth.” She whispered.

“A-Azami killed it and it made Mother sad. So I…I made it better for Mother.” Mother turned bright red, but Sensei looked interested. He took the bird carefully.

“You made it better?” He repeated.

“Master, please, the brat lies- that’s impossible-“

“Silence, Azami.” The slap that he gave the omega made Tomura flinch. Azami whimpered and became silent. Jewel made uncomfortable squeaking noises. “Now, you’re telling me that you brought a bird back to life. Is that right, Tomura?” Hesitantly he nodded.

With one smooth hand Sensei twisted Jewel’s neck and the bird fell silent. Tomura cried out, but Mother’s shaking hand kept him rooted.

“Come here, Tomura,” why was Sensei so calm? How could he do that?

On shaking legs Tomura stepped up to the throne. Sensei held out the broken little body, and Tomura took it, cradling it close. Jewel was still warm in his hands, and he struggled not to cry. Instead he looked at Sensei.

“Fix it.” Sensei said calmly, but his eyes were flat and piercing.

Tomura cupped Jewel carefully and closed his eyes. Inside he felt shaky and scared, but there wasn’t anything he could do but obey him.

It’s difficult to describe trying to pull and infuse life back into the dead. It took place in the part of his consciousness that Tomura felt more than expressed. With invisible fingers he shoved something intangible back into Jewel, forced it’s neck to correct itself, made it’s heart beat again purely by his own will.

Sensei began to laugh, even as Azami gaped.

“This was what your village meant by your magic, wasn’t it!” He declared happily, “you actually have magic! More than that, you, my boy, are a necromancer!” Sensei was absolutely delighted, and stood up, knocking into Azami without a care as he strode forward. “Brilliant, brilliant boy! And to think that I didn’t even know! I just assumed that it was superstition!”

Hesitantly Tomura began to relax. Things were okay. He wasn’t in trouble.

“I…I was too scared to do anything, that day.” He admitted quietly. Looking down at Jewel. Sensei cupped his chin and tilted his head up.

“Well, you need never fear again, child, things will be different. A necromancer doesn’t belong in the harem, no, he belongs at my side. My heir.” He declared.

Mother’s hands flew to her mouth, even the eunuchs were shocked. Azami looked like he’d been informed of his own execution.

“But…but what about Mother?” He asked, before the man could continue. Sensei cocked his head and looked at her.

“Oh. You want to remain with your mother?”

“Yes. She makes me happy.”

“Well. I certainly couldn’t have my heir distressed. You are still a pup. Pups need their dams.”

Mother and he were moved to the suite meant for the Emperor’s favored omega- Azami’s rooms. The man had lost a war that only he’d fought.

And while Tomura got to remain with Mother, Mother was put directly in Sensei’s sights.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?” Mother asked with a long suffering sigh later that day; Tomura had dozed off again and woke feeling a little better, to Mother awake working on some embroidery. There were fresh flowers at his bedside, and the smell made his nose twitch.

“Because I wasn’t sick yet.” His explanation came out as a weak croak. Mother just raised an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t lie to me, Tomura.” She scolded gently, tsking at him. Tomura frowned and watched her needle flick as she sewed, flashing silver like fish in the water. It was soothing.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted quietly. Her expression softened just a bit.

“Oh Tomura.”

The door opened and a woman entered, silencing the both of them. She was young, maybe younger than him, with dark hair in two buns on her head and a shy little smile. Something about her made Tomura watch her hands. He’d been in the sickroom plenty, but he’d never seen her before.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just changing out the linens,” she sing songed. Tomura frowned and looked back at Mother, but her expression was closed off again, her usual mask.

“I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry.” He repeated quietly, taking her hand again. He watched how the woman’s eyes flicked to him and Mother, even as she didn’t pause or incline her head.

“I know. I just wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard, dear.” She said, frowning at their joined hands.

She was so pretty, so kind.

“Sensei wanted to spar. I can’t deny him.” She nodded in understanding, but she still smelled distressed.

“He shouldn’t…push you so hard. You look like death warmed over…it’s not right, Tomura.” But it was right, it was Sensei’s right to do what he wanted until he was no longer on the throne.

“I need to be better.”

She shook her head,scowling.

“I’ll talk to him.” She promised. “I’ll try to make this better.”

“Mother don’t-”

“I’ll handle this dear. Now, I have a little time before I have to leave, don’t deny me time with you please.”

And he couldn’t do that either.

There wasn’t much point in staying in the sickroom once Mother was gone. He felt better, he had his medicine. So once she left him he left too, promising to take it easy until he was feeling better. It didn’t stop him from heading to his lab and immediately using the skull to watch her.

Visions of her swam across his eyes.

Mother in Sensei’s lap, red with arousal and pupils blown wide.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Pet,” he grunted, watching her raise herself up and drop back down. “Telling me how to raise my own heir, where do you get the right?” One hand buried in her hair, yanking, exposing her neck.

“Please- he-you hurt him-“

“He is my son. And you are my omega. You don’t have the right to tell me how to train him!” His teeth were dangerously close to her throat and she stilled in fear, chest rising and falling. No no no no no Sensei wouldn’t do that would he?

“You hurt him- he’s my son-“

“Because I allow it. Because it pleases him. Had he not wanted to keep you you would have been left in the harem’s gutters where you were- but you’re lucky Pet, lucky that he took a shine to you, and lucky that you’re halfway decent at being a mother.” She screamed as he twisted one nipple painfully.

“Please, please I-“

“Don’t presume your place. Do you understand?”

Helplessly she nodded.

Rage boiled deep inside him.

“Now, be a good Pet and finish me.”

Tomura felt like he had at 8 years old on the other side of the partition in their nest. When Sensei came to see Mother it was usually late at night, and because they slept together, Mother would have to wake him and send him to the little cot in the corner, a painted screen blocking them from view.

He’d lie awake and listen first to her soft crying and then soft moaning and the occasional gasp, to Sensei’s whispered words of affection.

He felt like an intruder and the keeper of a secret.

Now, taking himself in hand and touching himself to the vision of Mother riding Sensei and begging for release, for relief, as bruises bloomed on her pale skin like flowers.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

#yandere boku no hero academia #yandere shigaraki #bnha #fanfiction #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

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beerecordings · 6 years

Text

That Which Remains

Part 12 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 l Previous l Next)

My taglist is a separate post, so please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed. I’m considering this kind of the end of like section 1 of My Brother’s Keeper. There is a lot more to come, but again, if you want to be taken off that taglist or anything, you lemme know, love.

Hey, thanks for being here :)

Four of his brothers, caged in one single room, so helpless, so distraught. Anti’s out for blood. Anti does not forgive betrayal so easily.

Chase promised.

He promised to get Schneep and go. He promised to protect Jameson.

Chase promised.

Then again, he's made many promises in his life that didn't come to be, and Anti is there already, there in front of him before he even has a chance to lift Henrik into his arms or drag Jameson towards the stairs. The demon's presence on the third floor makes the air split and glitch with color, and Chase hollers and falls back, grabbing Jamie's wrist and trying to pull him away.

“He's coming, let's go! Jamie, please!”

But Dapper is stiff with terror and held tight by a desperate, painful kind of love, the only kind he has ever known. He yanks free of Chase's grip and staggers towards Anti's appearing form in the middle of the room.

“Well, little one, what's this?” croons Anti, apparating with black eyes and a face like a corpse. Parts of his body are spasming uselessly from Jackie's light, but for the most part he is whole and unharmed. “Chase Brody, alive? That isn't what I told you I wanted to return to, is it, my Dapper love?”

“I'm sorry.” Dapper's hands are shaking so much he can hardly sign. “I'm sorry, I couldn't.”

In fact he'd turned back the fate of the cosmos to prevent it, but he hasn't quite come to terms with that yet. He decides to weep instead of explaining. Anti's always liked to see him cry.

“Oh, Dapper, you couldn't?” Anti shakes his head, but he's hardly pretending to be hurt, his eyes burning with abhorrence and his mouth twisted up in a blood-stained smile. “You're a cold, faithless little creature. How could you betray me, mhuirnín? You'll have to be punished.”

Dapper's eyelashes drip hot tears and he's gasping like his chest is caving in. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die. “Anti, I'm sorry.”

“No, puppy,” laughs Anti, tossing his knife in his hands. “Not sorry yet.”

“Leave him the fuck alone!” Chase screams. “Jamie, come here, come away from him!”

“Ah, Chase Brody,” Anti's attention is turned and he stares at him with glittering eyes. “Beautiful little brother. Dammit. I really didn't plan to meet you tonight. Here's the thing, you useless excuse for a living creature – now that I meet you I don't really want to kill you.”

Chase shivers, crawling away with Henrik in his arms. Fuck, he wishes Jackie would hurry up.

“It happens all the time with people I hate,” Anti grumbles, shaking his head. “It's a fucking pain, really. I hate to kill someone like you when I could be having real fun, you know? Why devour your dura mater when I could hold you in my basement and make you beg for blood loss? Why suck your spine dry when I could watch you scream for months on end?” He moves forward and takes Dapper by the back of the throat, making his little brother whimper.

“No, looking at you now, I think I'd rather see my two baby brothers destroying each other in the pursuit of my attention. Wouldn't that be fun? Fighting for kisses and kindness? What's your favorite flavor of blood, Chase? Dapper's is anything positive, by the way.”

“Let him go, dude! Fuck, you are so messed up!”

“'Let him go, dude!'” Anti mimicks. There's so much hatred in his eyes it makes Chase shake just to look at him. He bends low over Henrik and holds him close. He'll protect his brother's body with his own if he has to. “You know, you're really pretty annoying, little brother,” Anti adds. “Maybe I could kill you after all.”

His grip tightens on Dapper's neck. “Maybe I could kill you both.”

“Leave them alone!” cries Jackie, his voice raw with agony, finally making it down the stairs. He's limping like a shot dog, but he's here, and Chase could cry for relief when he comes to stand in front of him.

“For fuck's sake,” Anti laughs, digging his claws into Jameson's neck until his little brother is crying from pain and fear alike. “I thought we were done dancing for tonight.”

Jackie needs to summon a light. Jackie needs to summon enough light to send Anti away. But the little one – the littlest one, the littlest brother –

He's been alive all this time, hasn't he? He's been alive and I let Anti have him. I've failed him like I failed Marvin. Why can't I do fucking anything right?

“Jackie, do something!” Chase screams. “That's Jameson, that's our brother! Don't let him hurt him!”

His heart is broken and he knows he can't summon enough. He can't save anyone anymore. He is small and broken and lost, and though his hands glow and his eyes illuminate, there is too much despair and too little strength left within him to send the demon away.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispers, and then his knees give out beneath him and his despair makes him gag and choke.

Chase lets out a desperate groan and grips at his hair, trembling. There has to be a way to stop this.

I promised. I promised I wouldn't let Anti hurt him. Not Jackie, me. I promised I wouldn't let this happen.

Anti heaves Jamie into the air, and Dapper's neck sobs blood from crescent moon cuts, bruising purple and black. Jameson's shaking so hard he can barely think, but he doesn't bother trying to move time again. Anti has always been his god, and there's no escaping his wrath, not really, not forever. Besides, he deserves it.

I broke the rules, he thinks, and closes his eyes. I broke the rules and this is the punishment. Maybe if I die quietly he'll forgive me.

He stops his struggle and waits, waits for a sanguine deliverance from all that he has suffered. Anti rewards him by freeing his right hand and carding it, gentle, through his hair, while he kills him with the left.

“Aww,” the demon purrs, stepping closer with Jameson dangling from his hand. “Can't get it up, can you, Jackieboy? Well, you always were a worthless little rat. You always were a light that burned only for itself. I think it's time you learn another lesson about trying to play hero.”

“Anti,” gasps Jackie, trying to get back to his feet, without success. “Anti, let him go. Take me. Take me in his place.”

“Your hand is empty, mo deartháir, be silent. I'm so very tired of the endless beating of your hearts. I think I'll eviscerate all four of you. I think I'll sink my teeth into your throats and finally get a taste of good warm blood. And when you are all stretched out unmoving on the floors of this building, blood still pouring from your fountain hearts, blue with death, so stiff, so heavy, I will track down your little Jack myself and make sure – ”

The gun is a .44 double action Magnum with a silver four-inch barrel stuffed full of fat lead bullets. It's one of the most powerful little handguns ever distributed. Chase bought it after Henrik and Marvin disappeared because he never felt safe anymore. Anti's sustaining a mostly physical form and the bullet strikes him squarely in the forehead. If he were human, he'd be dead in an instant, his skull punctured and his brain splattered across the walls of the skeleton building. As it is, he glitches, drops Jameson, and leans slowly over, his fingers reaching up to find the wound in his head.

Chase grips the gun in his right hand. His mouth is tight and his eyes do not move. His hands are very steady.

“C̵h͞ase̵ ͘͢B̕ro̕͟ḑ̀́y̴҉̸ ” Anti chokes, his voice static and faraway like a radio station that can't stop cutting in and out. His body sways and spasms and flickers dizzily in the darkness. “ Wh͟͜͞a̡t̸̢̀ ͡a̶̷̕ ̛͝ś̀il̶͜ly̡ ̵p͟u͝p͏̧͝ṕe̕t͟͝ ̷ý̨͠ơ̴͠ų҉ ̕͡a͏͢r̨̕͢e͢͝҉ .”

Something that looks like blood runs fast from his mouth and head.

Dapper screams without sound and shoves himself back onto his feet, reaching out for Anti. His hands pass right through his brother's body and he gasps again and again, trying to catch Anti or touch him or tell him somehow, anyhow, that everything would be okay, that he was here, that he would protect him now, that he loved him and he was sorry.

“P҉o͏̕o̡r̸͢ ̴͝D̵̛͠á̕p̧ṕȩr͏ ̸͠bo҉̵͏y̶̶ ,” Anti hisses through a throat that bleeds like a waterfall, and Dapper struggles to understand, his desperate hands outstretched. “ Y̛͏͏ó̷̧u̡҉̶ ̨s̵͘͢a͝v̶e͏͢d̡ ̴̕͏h̷im̴.̶́ ̸͞N̴o̵̷͞w̡ ̶͘b́͟e͢͠ ̨h̷͢͡i͘s̕, ̴̕t͢r̵ą͝it̶͠͡ǫ̸̶rơu͢s̨̀ ̸͘c̢re̡àt̛ure͞.̡”

“No,” say Dapper's hands, and then Jackie grabs his arm and yanks him away.

“Anti!” Dapper makes an A to slash his own throat open and thrashes in Jackie's grip. “Anti, don't leave me! I'm sorry!”

Anti looks up with eyes that burn red, and stares directly at Chase.

“ Yo͡҉ứ ͢͡w͟͏͡i͘̕͢l̢l règ҉ret͜ t͡͠ha̧t̷͘ my ͏l̡̛̕i͡t͞t̸́ļ̴è̀ ̸ps̕͢y͏̕c͜͟h̨o̡pá͜th̛ ̷́did ̸̨͡ǹ͟o̡t̵ k͘í̴ll̨͘ ͢yơ͝u͢,” he promises. “ You ͞wil͢l regre͏t̷ th́at͞ you͠ e̡ve͟ŗ ͜su͞r͞v͝i͞v̕èd ͡p̷as̡t ͘the͠ ̴da̵y҉ of͟ yo̢u̷r͠ c͢r̶ea͏tiǫn,͝ ͞Chase͜ B̴r̢o͡d͡ý. I will͘ ͞hu͢nt̡ you̶ d҉ow̵n. ͏A͏nd I̡ will͟ ͜m͠ake ̧y̸òu p̴ay.̡”

“Leave him alone!” Jackie screams, and then Anti is gone.

Anti is gone.

He leaves behind the smell of ash, and a static crackle in the air, and Jameson, his hands frozen in the middle of Anti's name, two fingers set on his bruised throat.

“Anti,” he says. “Anti, Anti. Anti, don't go.”

Too late. Too late. Too late.

His brother can’t be gone. Anti can’t be gone. Didn’t he tell him he’d always take care of him? Didn’t he tell him they’d always stand side-by-side? No, this is too much, too much, too awful and overwhelming, and Jameson - Jameson -

Jameson collapses. Jackie catches him and tumbles to the ground with his little brother in his arms. For a long moment, he just stares at the gun in Chase’s hands, because he’s never seen a bullet work on Anti before and he can tell that something’s wrong. He just doesn’t know what.

He takes a breath, tries to calm down, and then starts to cry, starts to cry for so many different reasons. For Chase, now at the epicenter of Anti's anger, for Henrik, tortured and ill, for his aching back and his missing brother and his sleeping friend and for this long-lost brother, lying still and sorrowful in his lap.

“Alive,” he sobs, burying his face in Jameson's shoulder. “Alive, alive, alive!”

Chase carries Henrik over to them and sits down beside them. He wraps an arm around Jackie's stomach and he holds all three of his brothers as close as he can.

“It's okay,” he whispers, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. “It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay.”

And Jackie, bent with fear and loss and pain and, somewhere deep in his chest, one little blue sliver of hope, can only pray that his brother speaks truth.

#chase brody #antisepticeye #jameson jackson #jackieboyman #bee writes #my brother's keeper #my brother's keeper 12 #whew okay i have been plotting so much in the last couple days #everything here should be ready to go #tell me if the zalgo is too difficult to read #gore tw

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broken-hearted-but-brave · 5 years

Text

Knight Au: Virgil’s Recruitment

It’s the first official recruitment of one of the sides and it’s a bit sad, but I promise there won’t be to much. I can’t handle angst very well anyways. Let me know if anyone's interested in more. Even for one person I would continue, but if there isn’t anyone then I guess I will just stop here. (Maybe)

Warnings: Non-descriptive violence, drug mentions, ill, and mild language. (If I missed anything let me know)

Virgil found himself living in the worst location of the Sanders kingdom. He lived as close to the middle of Veil as one would be able to without relying on a large scale gang to back you up. Only the rich and powerful underworlders could call the center of Plague home. Those beings, more likely then not, being a form of demon.

He’d lived there since he was born and has long ago given up on getting out. The city was essentially a maze, and while that might help in hiding, it also covers the monsters in the city. For those outside of Veil they called it Plague. Both names made a sick sort of sense to everyone. Entering the city was like hiding behind a veil. No news traveled to or from the city and you were luck to be seen again with out any permanent physical damage. The mental damage was certain. The walls were the veil to keep those outside safe from the horrors that plagued anyone or thing that lived within the city. If you can call what happens there living, and those who came out with the mental scars were considered plagued as the things they did would drive them back to that city.

Virgil truly did hate his home. Every bone in his body told him that this was where he would die and he believed it. Unfortunately for him, his sharpened senses kept him alive and for the most part safe. It’s not that he wished to die, no, death here was not a good thing. You can’t rest here when your dead. The only reason he hated his senses was for the fact that he had to cover his body as much as possible, so that he wouldn’t have a meltdown do to over stimulation. None of those helping with the anxiety he developed due to the masters of his youth. Honestly his hatred ran so deep that........

“S... Si... SIR!”

“Quiet. We can’t have anyone hearing us right now.”

“But...”

“No, be silent. If you really want to see your mother again and do so alive, you will remain silent. Understood?”

The child nodded, holding back her sobs with the rags she wore. Honestly, he should have know better then to help this girl. He will get nothing from it, but at least he wouldn’t be at fault for the small child’s death.

They continued to take turns and twist that appeared to back track through almost claustrophobic passage ways. The passages made even smaller by the filth that covered the entire city's inner levels. Between not getting lost and the filth that could very well be hiding bodies, Virgil’s attention was completely taken due to the addition of the girl as well. So, when a rat ran over his foot and climbed the walls in an unholy manner to reach a window that had long since lost its glass. It took everything in him not to bolt.

An enemy right in front of him was easy but place him here close to hyperventilating and stressed over the area they were heading to did not help to keep his fear of rats hidden. If it weren’t for the child he would have been long gone and resting in his hideaway for when he needed to hunt down his next meal.

They soon came to the edge of an open space, with a broken fountain in the center. If it weren’t for the obvious man made parts of the area it could have been easily mistaken for a cavern.

Searching the perimeter, Virgil noticed many things that others would miss. Doors hidden almost to the point where they looked like part of the wall, dotted the area. Pathways like their own, appeared closed off, except for two or there far across the area. Most importantly the area was clean.

No filth that looked like it could be alive. No rubble or shattered glass scatter about other then the parts from the fountain. Something was wrong and Virgil was so close to leaving, but the child.

“Hide in one of the piles. Somethings not right here.”

The girl nodded and crawled through one of the piles. As she did so she chocked on the stench that came from deep in the pile. The cloth masked did nothing for her against the stench and so she pocketed it as she turned to look out at what Virgil would do.

Knowing that this was a trap for him, he scoured the area looking for the best point and exits for him to go and defend from. The fountain was most likely his best bet and so he crept over, keeping low as to not trigger the ambush just yet.

Upon reaching the fountain he stood slowly, keeping an eye out for any arrows, darts, and other projectiles. Having none come his way he steeled his nerves and called out.

“Jade, come out I have your daughter. I don’t need any trouble.”

Nothing responded back, not even his echo that should have been there, nor the enemies that should have come out as well. It was far to silent. Even at the quietest times a scream and rats could be heard. So, where were they. Then he heard it, or more like them.

The muffled breathing and a laugh.

They were waiting for a signal, but from who? It should only be him, the girl, and whoever refused to come out and attack.

“What are you guys waiting for? An open invitations? If so, know that I have none.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

“He said after this I owe him nothing! If I gave you to him then he would let me and mother go! I’m sick of waiting for him to sell me! I’m sorry”

The child broke down and fled the scene. That’s fine, honestly, Virgil would have done the same if he was in her position. Owning a debt to someone, even your own parent is the same as a death sentence here.

“How pathetic. That daughter of mine truly is studied. As soon as I finish up with you, I will be selling her and that cow to the demons. Honestly, does she really think that bring you here would be enough to payback me giving her life?”

A short stature, large build man exited from one of the doors hidden from the wall. He effectively earned a glare from Virgil.

“You bastard. I should have know it was one of your children, Darrian, when I smelt the Artmum on her.”

“Oh enough. Honestly killing you will bring me quite a lot a reputation. My group will be able to take down gangs thanks to that alone. Though I must say you appear much slower the normal.”

“Have you seen yourself? You give my name far to much credit. It would take you killing thousands to gain any reputation other then the horrifically, ugly, disgust...”

“How DArE YoU! Boys get out here and kill him already.”

“Can’t even take a little teasing fatty?”

With that about fifteen boy entered from the doors and passages. There ages a wide range but none over eighteen. That be part of the sad truth of Veil. I were luck to make it to twelve here. More likely then not you were dead due to either a debt you owed or paying of someone else’s by ten.

The boys charge at Virgil, and he began his defense. Using rocks around him he kicked them towards the boys slowing some down and tripping a few more. While they got up, he headed towards Darrian. Swipes came in left and right. Most boys used heave pipes and boards, but the few older held swords. Still none of them land a single blow to Virgil. On the other hand Virgil had landed several and knocked out as many as he could on his way to Darrian.

It was obvious that the boys owed Darrian. Most likely all of them being his son. So with his death the would all most likely run away. Free from there debts. So Virgil did what he could not to harm them severally. They were children after all and not loyal to anyone. Even blood meant nothing here other then a debt to be paid.

Five feet from Darrian, the boys managed to circle Virgil. The continued to swipe and miss him as he tried to find an opening. After several moments and angry yelling by Darrian to hurry and finish him, an opening showed its self. The Boy directly in front of Darrian moved his hip ever so slightly as to reach Virgil at a better angle, and Virgil leapt for that moment.

He threw his dagger at Darrian, hitting him in his jugular. Quickly Virgil yanked back. A steel thread pulling his dagger to him and ripping the man’s throat with it’s barbed edges. He quickly hit the ground and died quickly.

As expected, the boys had been waiting to hear Darrian fall, instantly taking off when he did. Virgil, however, did not go unscathed. In his left shoulder the boy had managed to embed his short sword during Virgil's throwing.

Knowing that staying here would mean his death drove Virgil to stay up. The wound coupled with the illness that he had caused his legs to tremble. Why on earth did he agree to help the girl Artmum in her veins? This would be his end. He knew the likelihood of him getting to a one of the building here would be near impossible, let alone all the way back to his base.

His knees gave out and as he attempted to crawl to one of the doorways rushed footsteps could be heard. No not now! Why come back and finish? He was so close but the loss of blood and the lack of his dominate arm caused him to give in. This was his end and he knew it. Whoever’s footsteps those were, showed that they were close and closing in quickly, undoubtedly having spotted him. All he hoped for now was that it wasn’t one of the demons from the inner city.

“Your... But your Highness... No, never!.. But... Understood.”

“Hey... Kid...!”

Virgil’s strength had left him and his Vision was beginning to as well. However, he saw one last thing that confused him as he slipped under. The royal colors flashed in his sight, and he was out.

Virgil woke to his entire body throbbing in pain. Most of which was originating from his shoulder, but it did not drown out the pain that came from his head and stomach as well. He lurched forward at the pains in his stomach and hands quickly reached for him.

Normally he would have fought off any contact but the pain was to much. The arms around him guided him to a bucket where he dry heaved into. Having had no food and little water made for having nothing to give to the vomiting and instead ruined his throat.

After collecting himself, he turned to the owner of the hands and arms that had guided him. To his left sat a small, middle aged healer. Round glasses taking up most of his face and had it not been for the heavy concern that showed on his face, it would have obviously been a large, bright smile if his laugh lines where anything to go by.

“I’d ask if you were alright, but it’s quite obvious your not. My name is Emile. I managed to patch you up, though I am sure you still feel pain from your wound. as for the stomach and head pain, that is an unfortunate side effect of rushed healing. I...” “Where am I? Why did you help me? There shouldn’t be any healers in Veil. Not any free ones.”

“Well your right in the fact that your not in Veil anymore. Your actually in the royal palace Valor. As for why I helped you... Well, why did you help that child? I’m sure you knew she was lying.”

“Wait the girl! Is she alright?”

Panic began to set in. The girl had to have gotten away. What did the person mean by Valor. He couldn’t leave Veil. He was supposed to be dead there and now he’s in Valor? Does that mean he owes the King a debt? Someone else? As his thoughts spiraled his hands reached for he’s hair and began to pull. Hard.

“Shh calm. It’s ok. Your safe, she’s safe. You don’t owe anyone anything, we merely wanted to help you. Now breath with me. In for four. Good. Hold for seven. That’s it. And out for eight. Great, lets do it again.”

After going through the breathing for several minutes, Virgil was finally calm enough to listen to Emile’s explanation.

“His Highness, me and a few guards went to check out what was going on in Veil. It had been some time since a kings visit there and we had wanted to see where it had gotten to. Really it was the Thomas’s idea. We knew it would be bad to just go in there so we kept the party to a minimum...

“Thomas are you really sure about this, I mean...”

The spy originally sent to check out Veil had come back claiming that one of the mobs in Veil had gained a forbidden spell book that once belonged to the royal family and needed help getting it back.

“For the hundredth time Valarie, yes I am sure. I need to make sure we get this book back and I have more reasons then that to go to Veil.”

“But Thomas, it’s not safe. People come back like they have the plague and quickly return there.”

“Look we are basically there already. Besides why do you think I brought you, Emile, Joan, and Tayln along? We’ll be fine. Now quiet we can’t have anyone noticing us.”

Huffing, Valarie stopped her complaining and fell back in line with the other guards. It really wasn’t normal for the King to go on a book retrieval mission. Especially somewhere so dangerous with so few personal guards.

“You know she’s right, Thomas. We should do this quickly so that we don’t attract to much attention.”

“Yes, Emile, now Alex said that the book was located deeper in the city then we are now. With the map they gave us it should only take about three hours to reach the location. So lets get going.”

Thomas cheered and lead his rude...

“Hey!”

Upset, guard, through the winding streets. Not much occurred between entering Veil and getting to the location marked, but Emile did get a fright from some giant rat fighting for some sort of shiny item.

“It wasn’t even food! Why do rats care for a shiny piece of metal?! Do they plan to use it like a life or something?!”

“Calm down and continue please.”

“Right, right! Anyway...

“Thomas stay out here with Emile please. Joan too.”

Thomas huffed wanting to help with the retrieval, but understood that it was better for the royal to remain at a safer location. Though the safety of this area was really questionable. They where fairly close to the center of the City after all. the rest of the guard followed Valarie and Tayln in to the building to recover the stole items kept there and face down any enemies.

Then they heard a child crying out from an alley way. They all rushed over to the sound and found a small child sobbing her eyes out in a large pile of trash.

“What’s wrong?” “I... I b-betrayed the only per-person to ever offer me help!”

The child broke down even more the events that she had been through obviously to painful for her to explain more. Thomas wanted to help her immediately but Joan pulled the two a side.

“We can’t help that child Thomas. We don’t know if this is a trap or not!”

“What do you mean that ones just a child! No older the eight at the most!”

“Emile even the children here will gut you the first chance they get. We. Can’t. Help. Them.”

“We have to at least check it out!”

“N...”

“Where going to help her.” Thomas said interrupting the dispute his friends were beginning to have. Marching past the to Thomas knelt next to the child.

“Now...”

“Rose, She/her.”

The girl sniffed. Having heard them discussing what to do, she was hopeful for some one to save the person she had mentioned.

“Now, Rose. What do you mean you betrayed someone who tried to help you?”

She grabbed Thomas holding tight, almost like she was afraid that if she let go that person was as good as dead.

“He... he said he’d help me get back to my mother when I had lied to him saying I was lost. I then lied and said that she always waited by a fountain in the middle ring of the city. Really that man was there with an ambush in order to kill him. H.. he said if I brought Anxiety to him weakened then he would let me and mother go.”

Then she broke down again repeating over and over that they had to help Anxiety. That she had poisoned him, and he would need help quickly in order to live.

“Alright, if you lead the way we can help.”

“Thomas!”

“Not now Joan. Someone is dying and needs our help. Alright Rose, lets go.”

As soon as he gave the go ahead the child ran. She ran so quickly back to where she had left the man she called Anxiety. All the while she repeated

“Thank you! Thank you! He has to live! He’s going to live!”

When they reached the end of an extremely long and thin passage way the child held them up. From the passage they saw a kid crawling toward one of the doors with a sword embedded in his left shoulder. A ways across lay a few unconscious boys and a dead older man.

“That’s him! That’s Anxiety! He’s still alive!”

Thomas went to run to the kid crawling, but was stopped by Joan.

“Your Highness you can’t just go in there!”

Thomas whirled around somewhat angry with his friend.

“I know your worried, but that kid needs help. If this was a trap I doubt he would be the one still alive!”

“But your Highness...”

“You would have me leave a kid to die? You would stop me from helping someone who obviously needs it?!”

“No never! But he could be...”

“ Joan I know your only trying to protect me, but right now your in the way, now get out of the way!”

“Understood.”

With that he rushed over to the kid on the ground. Noticing that he was no longer trying to crawl and looked to be right at death’s door.

“Hey, wait! You need to hold on kid! We’ll help you so stay awake!”

Thomas threw himself down to pick the kid up. Just as he got both himself and the kid up, Anxiety was out.

“Emile, grab Rose and her mother with Joan and met me by the others! As soon as you get back to me, we run and set him up at the camp I’ll need you and the other healers to perform rushed healing spells on him. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir!”

Both Emile and Joan sprung into action in order to do as the King had commanded.

“I don’t know what happen between that time, but his Highness was desperate. We had Rose take us to her mother and then we went and meet up with his Highness and the rest. From there it was a blur of rapid healing spells, blood stabilizing and getting back to Valor.”

Emile wrung his hands. The experience was very shock. To have so much happen on a trip that should have been a quick go in, grab a book, and leave turn into a rush against time to save Virgil’s life. He wasn’t prepared for that mentally.

Virgil reached over cautiously, not used to anyone caring for him or needing to comfort another, and placed his hand on top of Emile’s.

“Thank you. I know if it weren’t for you or the King I would be dead. No one else would have left with that girl to help someone. Not when she out right said she betrayed them. Now I have to ask, how long have I been out and what do I do now?”

Emile looked up a smile place precariously on his face. A poor testament to the smiles he usually showed. While he did not mention it he had seen the scars and other mark that littered Virgil’s body. The clear signs of being half demon and something else. The abuse he no doubt went through. Emile couldn’t begin to understand what living in that place for so long had to be like, and for a child of this boys age.

“Yes well, its been three days since we found you and you recovered fairly quickly. Even with the rapid healing magic, it was still quite fast. As for what you do now? It’s up to you, but I am sure his Highness will want to talk to you a bit, and that may affect what you want to do.”

Nodding, Virgil thought his options through. He could run away, but then that would be rude to the King and he had no clue about anything outside of the Veil. Emile’s story made the King appear kind, but that could just be his point of view. After all some people saw the Kings as God-like beings. However, he seemed to treat the King as more of a friend and equal, rather then a God.

“Alright, if it’s alright I would like to see what the King has to say to me.”

Emile’s smile grew to a near blinding point and went to say something when he was interrupted.

“I’m glad you are willing to hear me out Anxiety.”

Both Emile and Virgil jumped at the sudden new voice. Virgil had to repeat the breathing exercise to keep call, but when he looked up he saw that it was the King. Right there, waiting for him, no time for preparation at all. Virgil wasn’t even properly dressed to meet with a royal. Not that he had any other clothes any way. All of a sudden needing to do his breathing exercise again. Though this time much more rapid and less successful.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry here lean against me!”

Thomas rushed over and pressed Virgil’s head to where his heart was trying to keep a steady rhythm in order to give Virgil some thing to follow. Normally this would have set Virgil’s panic off even worse, but something about Thomas was very calming and helped him rather then causing him more panic.

“I’m... I’m ok now, you can let me go.”

“Mmm, well now I’m fairly comfy so I think I’ll stay like this. Plus your hair after the wash feel really nice. Un-unless this is really uncomfortable for you!”

“No um, its really nice actually.”

So Thomas sat there for a bit just holding Virgil’s head to his chest with one hand and the other brushing threw Virgil’s hair. Virgil himself was really surprised by how much he enjoyed this, that he forgot that Emile was still in the room.

“Sorry to interrupt your Father-son bonding moment, but didn’t you have somethings to talk about?”

Both pulled back quickly, red with embarrassment that they had so quickly gotten comfortable with the positions, that they had forgot who they were and where they were. Though Emile was right, it really did feel like they were a family reunited.

“Right business. It was quite obvious that you have some amazing skill. From the looks of it you took on multiple enemies in a weakened state, with a home field disadvantage, and managed to not hurt a single child while they were attacking you, but also managed to kill the leader. While I don’t know the details, it is obvious that you are quick and skilled. You’re exactly who I have been looking for to join my permanent personal guard. While I would like to offer you that right now, I am still setting it up and can not randomly appoint someone no matter how much I want to. Regulations and all that. So... would you be willing to join my Spies and learn things outside of the Veil? The choice is yours, Anxiety.”

Virgil’s head was spinning. The King just asked Virgil to join his spies and later be one of his permanent personal guardsmen. This guy hardly knew him, and what he did know for sure was that he came from the Veil. A place of horrible people and horrifying stories. He had already healed him and now was offering him a place in the world. How kind of a man was this King? How trusting was he? There was no way he could live this kind man alone. What if he stupidly let an enemy in his ranks o-or worse yet an assassin with the sole intent to kill the King?!

“Yes! Yes! Please, if you mean it I want to help you. You saved me and the child from that awful place and even healed me. All while not know a single thing about me other then my nickname. I would hate myself for leaving such a person behind.”

“Them I am glad to have you on board Anxiety.”

“You guys can call me Virgil.”

Thanks for reading and let me know if you wanted to be @’d.

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#sanders sides #virgil sanders #thomas sanders #story #knight au #drama #art #artists on tumblr #emile sanders

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gyromitra-esculenta · 7 years

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The Edgiest Fairytale 3

This is still a thing.

It was, on the whole, a pleasant late morning in the gardens – even if the wyverns had already started on their daily routine of unearthly screeches of affection. It did take some time getting used to but at least they kept the rat population down, and courtiers even named all three chicks that were now the size of a well-fed pig each, probably thanks to the pouches used to keep scraps of meat that were all the fashion rage at the court nowadays. Red Menace was actually lounging in the fountain, Little Mean Fucker was digging in the roses, and Leg Humper was playing with Ripper.

A usual morning, all things considered, the King surmised, at least until something fleshy-pink waddled slowly to the table. The Kind set down his cup and stared down the abomination. After closer inspection, it had a head of a black bird, an imposing beak, lacked a scaly tail, and one most certainly would be hardpressed to refer to it as cuddly or cute. The abomination tilted its head to the side and observed the King back with a peculiar kind of intellectual curiosity.

Then it cawed.

And, with a strange flowing melodic cadence, added, “fuck my finger.”

“My love,” the King addressed the Queen, “it seems we have some sort of a new infestation.”

“Is it trying to kill you?” The Queen did not look up from her embroidery. She was at the most stirring point right now and pitied be any fool that made her put away her needles.

“No, love, it told me to fuck its finger.”

“Maybe Gabi is finally taking his necromancy studies with the proper seriousness that befits his age.”

“Fuck my finger,” the abomination repeated waddling closer, much to the King’s chagrin. “Thread!”

“And now it wants thread.”

“There are some silk scraps in the basket I won’t be using, dear, help yourself,” the Queen nodded. After all, she should not be expected to do everything around here.

“Very well, my love,” the King acquiesced and, after choosing the right thread, lowered it towards the abomination. The creature happily clamped its beak on the prize and turned around, right in time for Gabriel to swoop running into its sight. It hopped gleefully in place. Gabriel grabbed it with bandaged fingers while swearing creatively under his breath. “Care to explain, Gabi?”

The young prince looked down at the abomination in his arms and shuffled on his feet.

“I needed feathers for my new cloak so I plucked Muninn and the scoundrel run away?” Gabriel explained fast, ready to bolt. The Queen sighed. There went all hope their offspring finally conformed with the generations-long family tradition of necromancy. Well, it couldn’t be worse than the impromptu interpretative dance recitals.

“Fuck my finger,” the raven agreed and then affectionately pecked one of the young prince’s bandaged fingers.

“Ow, you foul wretched beast, see if I rescue you from the felines again! I’ll put you on display in a cage for all your friends to see and ridicule!”

Suffice to say, the first real forays into the realm of the dedicated art of sewing did not entirely agree with Gabriel.

Gabriel also would first be caught dead than admit that he was looking forward to the promised next meeting with the blonde lout just to see his face now, after all the soul-crushing suffering he poured into his new coat adorned with raven feathers. To be frank, Muninn and Huginn were the first of many sacrifices after he decided one too many a time to change his design, and now he had a flock of quite naked ravens to look after back at home.

Alas, after several months of missing the blonde yokel and finding instead scraps of parchment nailed to his door written in illegible chicken scratch (all burned later) and maybe a time or two his bed looked slept in and there was some free chopped firewood (sometimes it did get cold in the woods), Gabriel lost all hope, at least until he heard the happy yipping of the traitorous Ripper mingled together with screeches of one of the wyvern chicks. And then…

“Good doggie, I got something for you!”

“Ha,” Gabriel opened the door to his hut with a bang, “this is you again, and this time I’m going to suck out your life!”

The blonde looked up from Ripper and Little Mean Fucker gorging themselves on some big slab of meat and whistled with appreciation – and no, Gabriel didn’t feel all warm inside, and even if he did, it was the anger, yes, definitely the anger, and maybe a tad extreme dislike.

“Now, this is so much better,” the boy nodded. “It’s almost stylish. And you got gloves. The mask still sucks, though,” he added, petting Ripper absentmindedly. “Besides, the sucking thing, you mean like a vampire? Vampires are not demons, and last time you said soul.”

“You won’t sway me with words this time, trespasser!” Gabriel, remembering their previous exchange, positively bristled. “Your end is coming and no force under the sky will stop me!”

“Right. Name’s Jack,” the blonde boy grinned, extending his hand. Gabriel regarded it with contempt. It was kind of dirty, but when he did look closer, it seemed more like blood, not just grime. There was also a horse standing at the edge of the clearing with a deer strapped to its back.

“Reaper,” Gabriel offered after a long pause, ignoring the hand.

“Right.” Jack squinted at him. “Not Death?”

“What?”

It was at that moment that Little Mean Fucker finally decided to live up to its moniker and chomped on the blonde’s hand.

Gabriel was just finishing wrapping up Jack’s hand (with his own linens that he had brought here himself, to boot!) when the simpleton, ignoring all subtle clues, decided it was time for another dim-witted attempt at conversation.

“She’s a feisty girl, ain’t she?”

“Girl?” Gabriel scrunched his face in distaste. “It is naught but a beast!”

“Well, no, she has girl ridges. It’s a girl,” the blonde patted Little Mean Fucker’s head with his left hand. The wyvern was sitting by the table, hunkered down, and visibly considering chomping on the other offending appendage. Silently, Gabriel was kind of, a little, cheering it on.

“Girls are a plague upon this world.”

“Yeah,” Jack squinted again at him which gave his face decidedly dumb expression, not that any other looked better on the blonde, Gabriel was sure. “But they have breasts?”

“The harpy I will not wed has no bosoms!”

“Arranged marriage, huh? I feel you.”

“And what could a lout such as you fathom about the curse that overshadows my desperate life as a prince!?” Gabriel tied off the bandage hard delighting in the wince it earned him.

“I’m a prince too,” Jack snickered, raising one of his eyebrows. “The gentry is everywhere.”

“Prince of yokels, I assume.”

“Meh. So how’s yours like?”

“She is a sniveling wretch that tried to murder me with poison,” Gabe muttered remembering ‘The Shrew, Her-Of-The-Toad-To-Face-Incident’. The prospective presence of possible bosoms was no redeeming quality in his mind.

“Mine is a screaming melodramatic harpy,” Jack sighed, remembering ‘The Bitch, The-One-That-Definitely-Deserved-A-Toad-To-Her-Face’. Nothing excused the hissy fit she threw. Nothing. Jack would never admit he was simply scared of her.

“And it interests me not so you can go now and never come back,” Gabriel narrowed his eyes at the blonde accusingly. “You slept in my bed and I had to air all my sheets to get rid of the smell and fleas!”

“Well, you weren’t there, and it’s your dog that has fleas. They are big bloodthirsty buggers, right.”

“And you ate from my dishes!”

“I washed them up. Your seasonings suck, by the way,” Jack pointed to the shelf. Gabriel looked to his reagents and then at the blonde, with a certain amount of aghast acknowledgment. “One made me burp bubbles for a week.”

“How are you even still alive, you daft imbecile?”

“I’m immortal?”

Any line of questioning Gabriel wanted to pursue was cut short by Mean Little Fucker when she finally decided to go for the prize dangled before her lizard eyes.

The current tally was two points in favor of the wyverns.

#sometimes i write #r76 #reaper76 #edgiestfairytale!au #proper part #crack it's crack #noper

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versatilepoetry · 5 years

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Please Don't Show Me Death

Show me clusters of obnoxious cockroaches; crawling miserably towards the dingy and thoroughly fetid bathroom seat, Show me an ocean of vicious scorpions; ready to pounce upon and pugnaciously strangulate their prey, Show me a mountain of garbage emanating a stupendously ghastly odor; repugnantly wading off the tiniest of soul trying to trespass its stinking persona, Show me a gruesomely deadly spider; oozing overwhelming amounts of poison from its morbidly corrugated tentacles, Show me a garden of rebellious thorns; fervently awaiting to rip apart the last ounce of breath from my daintily tender body, Show me an insurmountably distorted mask; with its ghoulish skull like demeanor driving away all zeal and enthusiasm from the conglomerate of my veins, Show me an open mouthed fleet of hostile sharks; probing menacingly forward with their knife like jaws ready to pulverize the most strongest of entity into diminutive mincemeat, Show me a pool of satanic blood; acrid strands of glass extruding from innocuous sheets of flawless skin, Show me a well inundated with diabolical toothed rats; wild chimpanzees snaring their teeth to snap apart blissful traces of life, Show me the dilapidated box of empty coffin; waiting ardently for a dead body to occupy its solitarily obsolete space, Show me the wretched visage of the completely squelched building; with plush chunks of colored glass and silken upholstery poking out like pathetically small worms, Show me a badly injured person; oozing blood from his body like an uncontrollably rampant fountain, Show me a wholesomely blind man; staggering and floundering abominably on every step that he took on brilliantly illuminated ground, Show me a wounded battalion of tigers; snarling perilously through the foliated outgrowths of the unimaginably treacherous jungle, Show me a sac replete with colorless stones; clanging deafeningly against each other with tumultuous ill will and ominous hatred, Show me an orphaned infant shivering hysterically in the freezing winds; with the crimson blood in his veins virtually frozen to small cubicles of white ice, Show me fathomless sheets of torn fabric; with infinite dots of blood and sordid mucus adhering to it vehemently from all sides, Show me the unprecedentedly gory scene of the vivacious battlefield; deluged from all sides with hoarsely crying warriors; ruthlessly cut hands and feet loitering dismally in a stream of thick blood, Show me terribly crumpled bits of incoherent paper; flooded with script that was incomprehensibly abusive, Show me a woman weeping sadly; as she passionately missed her husband while he was away for just a brief interval of time, Show me a castle profusely occupied by brutal demon horns; wickedly vicious snake skins suspended listlessly from the hollow ceiling, Show me a deplorably broken mirror; reflecting a flurry of lifeless images; further exacerbating the condition of the already dull atmosphere, Show me an insane lunatic; crazily thrashing his head countless number of times against the obdurate wall; trying to crunch every bone of his body with every bang to the brick, Show me an ambience entrenched with deathly blackness; permeating my impeccable countenance like infinite arrows coated with malice, Show me the devil; towering tall and colossal towards the sky; ready to assassinate my scalp into unsurpassable no of tiny bits; at the slightest provocation he received, And O! Lord please show me anything which might be horrendously obnoxious; anything which might be most despondently displeasing to the eye; anything which might be horrifically corrupt and detrimental to celestial society; but please don't show me death; don't show me perpetual demise.

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thomasroach · 5 years

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How To Craft Dark Matter In Bloodstained

Dark Matter is a craftable resource that is required to make Gold. This How To Craft Dark Matter In Bloodstained guide will tell you the different materials required in order to craft Dark Matter, and the best places to farm each of the materials.

Gold is a very valuable and rare resource required to make some of the best items in Bloodstained, it is also required to complete some of the quests. Dark Matter is very difficult to farm, due to the number of resources required, but it is possible. To craft Dark Matter, speak with Johannes at your base of operations and select the “Preparation” menu. You craft it like you do food.

How To Craft Dark Matter In Bloodstained

Where To Farm Rat Tail

Farm the Giant Rats in Arvantville for the Rat Tails.

Where To Farm Toad Eye

Head to this area in Garden of Silence. There’s 4-5 Toads here in a small space. You can leave and enter, take down the nearest 2-3 and return. You can also Dismantle Mithridates for Toad Eyes.

Where To Farm Witch Tears

Witch Tears only drop off of Cyhyraeth. Head to this area in Dian Cecht Cathedral. There’s a Cyhyraeth that spawns at this location.

Where To Farm Fell Leaf

Fell Leaf can only be found by killing Giant Mocos. These are the small plant-like demons that sit on the floor – but they must be the giant ones. Travel to the Den of Behemoths and go to this location. There’s one that sits outside the room with the dragon. Farm that one for the quickest results

jQuery(document).ready(function() { jQuery('div.sc_accordion').accordion({ header: "h5", collapsible: true, heightStyle: "content", active: 0 }); });

Once you have all those ingredients, you can craft Dark Matter.

Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night Guides

Posted June 19, 2019 by Johnny Hurricane in Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night Guides, Game Guides

Where To Find Silver Bromide In Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night

The Silver Bromide is a key item you can find in Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night. This item is tricky to spot and can easily be missed if you don’t know where to look. Check out this guide to find

Posted June 20, 2019 by Johnny Hurricane in Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night Guides, Game Guides

Where To Find The Millionaire Key & Door In Bloodstained

One of they keys you can get in Bloodstained is the Millionaire Key. This key will unlock the Millionaire Door for a bonus boss fight and a side quest. Check out this guide to find out where to find

Posted June 19, 2019 by Johnny Hurricane in Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night Guides, Game Guides

How To Drain The Blood Fountain In Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night

One of the early things you come across in Bloodstained is the blood fountain. It is clear that you can go under it, but it is not clear how to drain the blood fountain. Check out this guide to find

Posted June 18, 2019 by Blaine Smith in Bloodstained Ritual Of The Night Guides, Game Guides

How To Fast Travel In Bloodstained

Using Fast Travel in Bloodstained is vital for survival between long trips and boss battles. This guide will tell you How To Fast Travel In Bloodstained as although it’s available very early in the

The post How To Craft Dark Matter In Bloodstained appeared first on GamersHeroes.

How To Craft Dark Matter In Bloodstained published first on https://juanaframi.tumblr.com/

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angelavengedinspo-blog · 6 years

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“It’s been only three days, and he was unconscious for two of them,” said Isabelle. There were voices behind her, and Clary strained her ears to hear who was talking. She thought she could pick out Maryse’s voice, but was she talking to Jace? Alec? “The Silent Brothers are still examining him. They still say no visitors.” “Screw the Silent Brothers.” “No thanks. There’s strong and silent, and then there’s just freaky.” “Isabelle!” Clary sat back against the squashy pillows. It was a bright fall day, and sunlight streamed in through the living room windows, though it did nothing to lighten her mood. “I just want to know that he’s all right. That he isn’t injured permanently, and he hasn’t swollen up like a melon—” “Of course he hasn’t swollen up like a melon, don’t be ridiculous.” “I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t know because no one will tell me anything.” “He’s all right,” Isabelle said, though there was something in her voice that told Clary she was holding something back. “Alec’s been sleeping in the bed next to his, and Mom and I have been taking turns staying with him all day. The Silent Brothers haven’t been torturing him. They just need to know what he knows. About Sebastian, the apartment, everything.” “But I can’t believe Jace wouldn’t call me if he could. Not unless this is because he doesn’t want to see me.” “Maybe he doesn’t,” Isabelle said. “It could have been that whole thing where you stabbed him.” “Isabelle—” “I was just kidding, believe it or not. Name of the Angel, Clary, can’t you show some patience?” Isabelle sighed. “Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to. Look, Jace said—not that I’m supposed to repeat this, mind you—that he needed to talk to you in person. If you could just wait—” “That’s all I have been doing,” Clary said. “Waiting.” It was true. She’d spent the past two nights lying in her room at Luke’s house, waiting for news about Jace and reliving the last week of her life over and over in excruciating detail. The Wild Hunt; the antiques store in Prague; fountains full of blood; the tunnels of Sebastian’s eyes; Jace’s body against hers; Sebastian jamming the Infernal Cup against her lips, trying to pry them apart; the bitter stench of demon ichor. Glorious blazing up her arm, spearing through Jace ///////// “And that’s where we’re in agreement. You know what, Clary?” “What?” There was a pause. “You don’t need my permission to come here and see Jace,” Isabelle said. “You don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything. You’re Clary Fray. You go charging into every situation without knowing how the hell it’s going to turn out, and then you get through it on sheer guts and craziness.” “Not where my personal life is concerned, Iz.” “Huh,” said Isabelle. “Well, maybe you should.” And she put the phone down.

-----

“Shut up,” she said. “Do you want to come with me? See Isabelle?” “I’m meeting Becky,” he said. “At the apartment.” “Good. Give her my love.”

--------

She turned. Isabelle was sitting in one of the old pews, her long legs slung over the back of the seats in front of her. She wore boots that hit her midthigh, slim jeans, and a red sweater that left one shoulder bare. Her skin was traced with black designs; Clary remembered what Sebastian had said about not liking it when women disfigured their skin with Marks, and shivered inside. “Didn’t you hear me saying your name?” Izzy demanded. “You really can be astonishingly single-minded.” Clary stopped and leaned against a pew. “I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose.” Isabelle swung her legs down and stood up. The heels on her boots were high, making her tower over Clary. “Oh, I know. That’s why I said ‘single-minded,’ not ‘rude.’” “Are you here to tell me to go away?” Clary was pleased by the fact that her voice didn’t shake. She wanted to see Jace. She wanted to see him more than anything else. But after what she’d been through this past month, she knew that what mattered was that he was alive, and that he was himself. Everything else was secondary. “No,” Izzy said, and started moving toward the elevator. Clary fell into step beside her. “I think the whole thing is ridiculous. You saved his life.” Clary swallowed against the cold feeling in her throat. “You said there were things I didn’t understand.” “There are.” Isabelle punched the elevator button. “Jace can explain them to you. I came down because I thought there were a few other things you should know.” Clary listened for the familiar creak, rattle, and groan of the old cage elevator. “Like?”

“My dad’s back,” Isabelle said, not meeting Clary’s eyes.

“Back for a visit, or back for good?”

“For good.” Isabelle sounded calm, but Clary remembered how hurt she had been when they’d found out Robert had been trying for the Inquisitor position. “Basically, Aline and Helen saved us from getting in real trouble for what happened in Ireland. When we came to help you, we did it without telling the Clave. My mom was sure that if we told them they’d send fighters to kill Jace. She couldn’t do it. I mean, this is our family.”

The elevator arrived with a rattle and a crash before Clary could say anything. She followed the other girl inside, fighting the strange urge to give Isabelle a hug. She doubted Izzy would like it. “So Aline told the Consul—who is, after all, her mother—that there hadn’t been any time to notify the Clave, that she’d been left behind with strict orders to call Jia, but there’d been some malfunction with the telephones and it hadn’t worked. Basically, she lied her butt off. Anyway, that’s our story, and we’re sticking to it. I don’t think Jia believed her, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not like Jia wants to punish Mom. She just had to have some kind of story she could grab on to so she didn’t have to sanction us. After all, it’s not like the operation was a disaster. We went in, got Jace out, killed most of the dark Nephilim, and got Sebastian on the run.” The elevator stopped rising and came to a crashing halt. “Got Sebastian on the run,” Clary repeated. “So we have no idea where he is? I thought maybe since I destroyed his apartment—the dimensional pocket—he could be tracked.” “We’ve tried,” said Isabelle. “Wherever he is, he’s still beyond or outside tracking capabilities. And according to the Silent Brothers, the magic that Lilith worked—Well, he’s strong, Clary. Really strong. We have to assume he’s out there, with the Infernal Cup, planning his next move.” She pulled the cage door of the elevator open and stepped out. “Do you think he’ll come back for you—or Jace?” Clary hesitated. “Not right away,” she said finally. “For him we’re the last parts of the puzzle. He’ll want everything set up first. He’ll want an army. He’ll want to be ready. We’re like . . . the prizes he gets for winning. And so he doesn’t have to be alone.” “He must be really lonely,” Isabelle said. There was no sympathy in her voice; it was only an observation. Clary thought of him, of the face that she’d been trying to forget, that haunted her nightmares and waking dreams. You asked me who I belonged to. “You have no idea.” They reached the stairs that led to the infirmary. Isabelle paused, her hand at her throat. Clary could see the square outline of her ruby necklace beneath the material of her sweater. “Clary . . .” Clary suddenly felt awkward. She straightened the hem of her sweater, not wanting to look at Isabelle. “What’s it like?” Isabelle said abruptly. “What’s what like?”

“Being in love,” Isabelle said. “How do you know you are? And how do you know someone else is in love with you?”

“Um . . .”

“Like Simon,” Isabelle said. “How could you tell he was in love with you?”

“Well,” said Clary. “He said so.” “He said so.” Clary shrugged. “And before that, you had no idea?” “No, I really didn’t,” said Clary, recalling the moment. “Izzy . . . if you have feelings for Simon, or if you want to know if he has feelings for you . . . maybe you should just tell him.”

Isabelle fiddled with some nonexistent lint on her cuff. “Tell him what?”

“How you feel about him.”

Isabelle looked mutinous. “I shouldn’t have to.”

Clary shook her head. “God. You and Alec, you’re so alike—”

Isabelle’s eyes widened. “We are not! We are totally not alike. I date around; he’s never dated before Magnus. He gets jealous; I don’t—”

“Everyone gets jealous.” Clary spoke with finality. “And you’re both so stoic. It’s love, not the Battle of Thermopylae. You don’t have to treat everything like it’s a last stand. You don’t have to keep everything inside.” Isabelle threw her hands up. “Suddenly you’re an expert?” “I’m not an expert,” Clary said. “But I do know Simon. If you don’t say something to him, he’s going to assume it’s because you’re not interested, and he’ll give up. He needs you, Iz, and you need him. He just also needs you to be the one to say it.”

Isabelle sighed and whirled to begin mounting the steps. Clary could hear her muttering as she went. “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t broken his heart—”

“Isabelle!” “Well, you did.” “Yeah, and I seem to remember that when he got turned into a rat, you were the one who suggested we leave him in rat form. Permanently.” “I did not.” “You did—” Clary broke off. They had reached the next floor, where a long corridor stretched in both directions. Before the double doors of the infirmary stood the parchment-robed figure of a Silent Brother, hands folded, face cast down in a meditative stance. Isabelle indicated him with an exaggerated wave. “There you go,” she said. “Good luck getting past him to see Jace.” And she walked off down the corridor, her boots clicking on the wooden floor.Clary sighed inwardly and reached for the stele in her belt. She doubted there was a glamour rune that could fool a Silent Brother, but perhaps, if she could get close enough to use a sleep rune on his skin . . .//////

#re: clary.#re: simon.#re: jace.#re: alec.#quotes by isabelle.#book five.#IMPORTANT*.

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gilstrad-sanbox · 6 years

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In the ranks of the vampires, blood is always thicker than water. While it is the fountain that which flows through them and keeps their new life akindle, it is also beyond the symbol of the pact that they share as it is the pact itself. All vampires are connected through their progenitors, their makers, and the sires that they have surrendered their loyalty to in exchange of their vampiric nature. But while siring is just as simple as an exchange of blood, every vampire is beholden by rules that they adhere to not because they are submissive, it’s just that the rules ensure their survival – after all what is the use of the eternal life of pleasure and indulgence when one shall fall too quick and too easy? And so as vampires have come and go in the lands of Gilstrad, it is known that four vampire clans reign supreme and all of them have had their own territories within the mountains of Storvoss. But lately, there have been a rumors spreading around about a new clan is slowly growing in number, something that might threaten the balance that these three ancient progenitors have been striving to keep.

THE BLOODLINE OF THE MARQUIS GRIMALDI

The Grimaldus as everyone know them collectively, is the biggest and oldest vampire clan in Gilstrad and thus the most prestigious. Some say that it was because of their aggressive siring of humans from noble blood lines that have garnered this reputable esteem, though some say that it was more because of the fact that they weren’t picky; which in the end have proven beneficial to them since among all the clans, it is known that they have kinsmen throughout the lands that it is rumored that there are Grimaldusmen among the nobles of Highhost. But the most interesting rumor about the vampire clan is that their population has blurred the visibility of leadership. It is very much a natural course of socialization that there are little groups and factions within the clan and killing each other wasn’t unheard of. But still, the line remains unbroken because in truth, no one knows who the main progenitor is. Little was known of the real Grimaldi line and the marches that they own under their name. Some say that maybe it was a cover so no one would know his real identity since even the vampires say that the Marquis probably lives in the Foglands instead of their main stronghold of Zargossa. Either way, he seems to take pleasure in the politics between his ranks just as much as how the mere mention of the Grimaldus name brings a chill down the spine within every men and women in Gilstrad. Their bloodline is known for having greater mastery in glamer that the old vampires of the Grimaldi line can put a whole group under their mind’s power, even have a hypnotic hold on their victims forever.

THE BLOODLINE OF IVANOV MARKOSHA

If anyone has bolstered the reputation of the Storvoss Mountains, it would probably be the marauding vampires of the Markoshan line. With their grip very much firm in the lands of the Chasm and Ceresza, they are known for attacking caravans and even small villages with such boldness due to their greater talent in mastering the discipline of vampiric levitation. It is known that they have tapped onto their form of swarming bats to make them grow actual wings on their backs. It is with this talent that there are desolate mountain-castles that people take caution of riding along by in fear that they are Markoshan strongholds.

THE BLOODLINE OF KATARINA FEROVNAREN

Indulgence and luxury are the things that the Ferovnarens are known for as no one throws a party like the Great Lady Katarina – which was ironic as legend has it that Katarina was a woman with great devotion to the Cathedral that was enough to spur her into becoming a nun. But she went missing one night in the very confines of the convent, never to be seen again – until that red full moon some years after her disappearance, already turned into the monster that she is today. The Shadow Lady’s influence is quite bold as she was the one who conquered Balwar and the Fallen Lands around it. But her grip is stronger within Gleamring and Ortensia, doing business to fund her lavish parties that sometimes turn into darker and more carnal fairs of blood revelry. Though for the unchosen nobles, they attest to such mysterious balls as so grand and indulgent – that while some go out of their way to take part in it in hopes that they get turned, most just come to it to experience such a sophisticatedly excessive affair. Some say that in Draav, her throne room is nothing but a giant pool of blood that which everyone can take part in as if it was some sacred yet celebratory communion with her. And while her masques and balls that the unknowing nobles close off to the public and even to the eyes of the Cathedral serve as their effective cover, they are also known for their elusiveness even in the streets as the bat isn’t just the only animal that they can turn into. The Ferovnaren elders can also turn into a cat, a wolf, a snake, and rat.

THE BLOODLINE OF ALEXANDRAS DEGUILLE

They are the reason why some people think that there are only three vampire clans that are keeping the balance of their politics within their ranks as the Alkerion vampires take no interest in such endeavors. What they do like to take part in, is business and endeavors of the coin. In a way, among the clans, they are the most ingrained within human society – so much that it is rumored that Alexandras himself is rooted in the very core of Gahvol and that he is actually the one who owns the whole enterprise of the blood trade. Some say that it was because Alexandras’ human life was spent at seas as he was a pirate captain with a stout reputation and now he couldn’t just part with it even in his transcendence into who he is now. It’s also rumored that he and his clan are the ones in the Cliff and they take pleasure into hunting down settlements and caravans that think that they are already safe from harm. They even creep up to Ordhovh and Reislach to indulge in these whims. It is probably with this skill in blending in or in Alexandras’ seafaring nature that had made the bloodline master a fine skill in transfiguration: the mist form.

THE BLOODLINE OF THE EXALTED

The new bloods. The Bloodline of the Exalted is a new clan of vampires of unknown origin, much more an unknown stronghold. But they have made their presence known with their own brand of aggressive attacks on the human population; a kind of massacre that leaves the dead piled up or skewered in spears or posts. Some say that these vampires have a connection to an infernal to which they have offered their devotion in exchange of such a nature, and the dead that they feed from are ceremonial offerings to empower the demonic deity. The Cathedral seemed convinced as no new vampire clan would be so bold unless they have a backing of such kind. And the already established vampire clans are not too keen on such reckless and arrogant group of vampires either. The story that is closest to the truth is that their paramount elder offered his whole bloodline for the power that the vampires have as he is too proud to be turned and end up to be subservient to his progenitor. And while his whole clan was either perished or turned into vampires themselves, there are rumors that the very last of his blood is living in Gilstrad with an oath to hunt them all down.

THE UNCLANNED

The Unclanned are a kind of vampires that have succumbed to the transition’s monstrous side that they have turned into it themselves: they have no agelessness as their skin turns white and wrinkled like leather. Their hair turns white as well until they fall, their ears turn pointy while their claws grow longer and their teeth turn into a row of jagged fangs. They completely abhor the light and their free will ebbs away along with the talents that come with being a vampire until they become merely cowered husks of who or what they once were. They only know hunger. They only know the need to feed over and over that they cannot share their blood for someone else to change. No one really knows how the Unclanned has come about – some say that it was because they lost their progenitor either by the hands of the Cathedral or by another vampire and such a thing have severed their lineage to the clan and made them lose their grip on their nature while some say that they were traitor vampires who pledged allegiance to a demon, only to turn into such macabre vision.

THE SANGUARSBANE

The Sanguarsbane are not vampires nor are they affiliated to the Cathedral or any other provincial ruling power. They are just a group of humans who took it upon themselves to do one thing: to rid the lands of Gilstrad of the vampires. They are proficient fighters and survivalists who have all been trained by the ones who came before them and they all usually converge in their lodges that are in each archpriory of the city – though it is known that their main grounds are somewhere in Bardelven as it is near the northern regions but at the same time, still teeming with the living wood. No one knows how they work, or their chain of command, but with their mission to kill those who prey on blood, no one really cares either. As long as they kill a threat to the lands, no matter how specific, it’s better than nothing.

Jonathan Wickham is one of the Sanguarsbane and while he’s not the leader, he is one of their most elite.

Radomir ‘Reid’ Abramas is a vampire hunter with a rather twisted past as he is the last blood of the paramount progenitor of the Exalted. The both of them might be apart by many generations and Reid has already been a descendant of such a diluted bloodline, but as the vampire offered his whole line to his quest of power, Reid is still part of the curse and it was something that he could not deny as the darkness of it has left a fragment that manifests a monstrous transformation that sometimes occurs in his hand. He has now made it a mission to find this ancestor of his in hopes of ending the curse once and for all.

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