#dome runner

[therandomtapes]

we are only thankful for the tunes around here

I've been a little lax posting new shit, even on IG, so here are some recommendations

in 2020 i fell down some rabbit holes, and one of the rabbit holes was goth/post punk.

One of my current favorites is this band from Australia, Locust Revival. They began as a one-man project, but added two members last year. This is a brand new song, and one of their more shoegazey numbers.

I don't know how such a weird dissonant band can get catchier every album, but they do.

2023 has been grindcore year with so many bangers dropping, your fave may not even have the best record this year. (I'll show you the best grindcore record in just a minute). Atomck from the UK bring chaotic powerviolence with some unique vocal styles.

grindcore album of the year, right here.

there's been a sort of industrial metal revival in the underground, and if you ask me, Dome Runner are the stars. Combining Godflesh, Fear Factory (Concrete era) and taking it in a sludgy direction, they may have dropped the best EP of 2023.

My guy Marc dropped a new album this year. Instrumental bass and drums sludge doom, with tons of atmosphere.

Afterbirth's new album, which goes in some wild directions, more progressive than ever, while still keeping that brutality.

(I kind of have a guest vocal spot on this)

Garry Brents envisions an alternate universe where nu metal wasn't a mass produced major label creation in his new project Memorrhage.

hypnotic darkwave that gets stuck in your head for very long periods of time.

G.G. from Cosmic Putrefaction is back to take you on another journey. This time around, they venture in and out of some symphonic black metal.

. . .and I've hit my limit for audios in this post apparently. bleh.

follow me on Instagram for more tunes, and also live vids I take so I don't forget what shows i went to in 6 years (since nobody has physical tickets anymore.

[sea-of-concrete]

📸 Dawson’s Heights with North Greenwich in the background

[ethosuximide]

I am personally going to find whoever decided all kids' movies need the main character narrating everything and throw them into The Juicer

[sintechcctv]

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[elysiumcircusif]

18+, content warnings for horror, fear and death.

Come One! Come All!

When the lady of summer graces the town of Dusklight, she brings a plethora of fun with her in the form of a circus known as "Elysium".

The residents of Dusklight can be seen spending their leisurely summer days in this dome of fun.

There are all the rides one can dream of! Rollercoasters, carousels, ferris wheel, hall of mirrors, fun house, house of horrors, teacups, you name it, Elysium's got it!

But of course, our circus won't be complete without its marvelous cast!

Let me introduce you to them:

First up, we have, drumroll please!

THE RINGMASTER! The runner of the show and the captain of our vessel. The ringmaster will ensure your safety but also guarantee your fun at Elysium. Keeping you entertained is their first and foremost duty. For I exist only for your pleasure, I will make sure you walk out thoroughly entertained.

Next, please give it up for, drumroll again please!

THE CONTORTIONIST! Watch in awe as his body defies the laws of gravity. He moves like he doesn't have a single bone in his body. Though some find him a bit strange and unnerving it's all hearsay. He will have your mind swirling with his moves. Watch me, watch me, are you getting confused? Are you getting sleepy?

Moving on, we have, keep the drums coming!

THE DANCERS! Please have a look at our enchanting triplets. Their dances are mesmerising stories of tragedies. As they dance in unison, the stories become more captivating to watch. They will immerse you in their performance. You won't regret buying a ticket to a show of our trio. Hold on dear brother, we might just make it out of here. Hold on dear sister we will see the sunlight soon.

And of course what circus is complete without- come on guys, I need the drum roll:

THE CLOWNS! There's two of them in Elysium. One of our clowns has his face painted to resemble a smile and the other has a permanent painted frown. Watch their skits to feel your belly twist with laughter! or perhaps it is nervousness that you feel in the pit of your stomach?

Let's keep the introductions going! More drumroll! Let's go and meet:

THE MIME A.K.A THE DOLL! Her face is made of porcelain. She'll entertain you silently with her gestures. Wrapped in a blue silk frock, her eyes the color of the sky at dawn, she is a beauty to gaze at. When she is not performing, she can be seen trying to get out of an invisible cage. Just another one of her gimmicks, I am sure.

And how can we forget the- drumroll!

THE FORTUNE TELLER! Hey there beautiful maiden, want to get your fortune told? Look no further! Elysium has a fortune teller at hand. Our old man is covered in a veil but his eyes are clearly visible. His eyes seem, sad and hollow somehow. He does not beat around the bush. Tell me oh wise man, what makes you so sad?

We are almost done with our cast, another drumroll, for-

THE TRAPEZE ARTISTS! Watch the young couple express their love to one another as they fly in the air. Stories of their love, romance and hardships all bottled into a trapeze performance are sure to catch your attention! Will we ever meet again my darling? Will I ever hear your sweet voice again?

And last but certainly not the least, ending drumroll please! Elysium couldn't function without:

THE RIDE OPERATORS AND THE FOOD STALL MANAGERS! They are the heart and soul of Elysium. Without them, we might as well close the circus! Though they don't speak much, they ensure that every craving you have is satisfied. Surely they don't believe that we don't know anything?

And that folks, completes the Elysium cast introduction! Thank you for your time and we hope to see you in Elysium this summer.

DEMO: SOON || PORTRAITS: TBA || KOFI || THE OTHER CAST♡♡♡(ROs) || ELYSIUM CIRCUS PLAYLIST

[pantmonger]

Dome Runner - Necromunda

You get a cookie If you get the film reference.

+Albino rat!

[azureashes]

Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

MDNI 18 +

TW: Religious Trauma, Religious Themes, Heavy Fingering, Throat fingering, Priest!Sukuna, gullible Reader, religious manipulation, internalized misogyny, CULTS, oh and cheating! (I forgot about the cheating cuz dude doesn't even get an honorable mention)

This is probably going to be a multichap, as a lot of things have yet to be addressed in this first chapter. Also Sukuna is potentially TOO soft in this first chapter, but he's luring her in first so you know... something, something, honey, vinegar.

Inspired by THIS artwork and THIS playlist.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” 

Rain pelted the glass window panes of the gray buildings with their colored awnings that blurred at the edges of your vision as you swept down the cobblestone street. Lights were blinking out on both sides of the road as the quaint little shops closed up for the night, leaving you increasingly shrouded in darkness. 

Gasping for breath, you turned where you stood, taking in your surroundings with a mounting sense of despair. At the end of the road, your eyes caught on a proud building that towered above all others in the square. 

A towering edifice of gothic elegance, the church stood with its grand arch soaring into a pointed dome, its dark stone facade gleaming in the rain. Round windows adorned with intricate lattice designs glowed with an ethereal light. Nearby, ivy and dark, lush foliage clung to the walls, and twisted trees framed the entrance, their leaves glistening with raindrops. An ancient oak door stood ajar, warm candlelight flickering from within, casting a golden glow that beckoned you inside, both inviting and ominous, as if whispering secrets of the human soul to those who dared to approach.

You swallowed thickly, craving the warmth you hoped to find within. Your feet moved as if compelled by some unnatural force, and before you could consciously make the decision, you found yourself stepping over the threshold of the ancient building. You stepped into the narthex, where maroon carpeting and gleaming mahogany furniture greeted her. 

Catching your breath, you took in the long crimson aisle runner that ran along the length of the nave, leading up to the altar. The altar itself was dominated by a crucifix in such a deep shade of mahogany it seems to waver between red and black. In fact, most of the ornamentation of the sacred area reflected scenes of biblical tales so gruesome and violent that the excessive scenes of bloodshed left an almost pulsing, ethereal red dominating your vision. 

There was the reredos, adorned with haunting imagery of saintly martyrdom. You recognized each of them with practiced ease. The central panel depicted Saint Agatha with her severed breasts on a platter, her serene face juxtaposed against the brutality of her martyrdom. To either side, scenes of Saint Lucy with her eyes on a plate and Saint Philomen, with arrows piercing her body and chains constricting her limbs. 

There was no romanticization of their scenes of martyrdom in the manner you were accustomed to. Their sacrifices were made apparent in graphic detail and their blood seemed to glow almost hauntingly. Saint Lucy’s eyeless face was turned towards the viewer, as were the other two saints, almost in judgment. Almost as if they were saying something. Reminding you of something. 

With a shiver, you turned from the gruesome imagery towards the font of holy water. Swallowing thickly and struggling to regulate your breathing, you dipped your fingers into the water - shuddering inexplicably as you did so - and made the sign of the cross on yourself with a practiced hand. 

Then you made your way down the aisle, your black, court heels muffled against the plush runner as you approached, your eyes taking in the black candelabras, the gory visions of Ezekiel depicted on the stained glass windows, the many candles glowing ethereally in impossibly tall candlesticks, many adorned with reliefs of further scenes of martyrdom, depicted once more in such graphic detail that you could not help but stare. You were taken aback that the many relics and artworks depicted mainly women. Female saints and martyrs. Women in worship. You were hard-pressed to find even one man depicted within the church, but could oddly find none. 

In addition to the strange adornment, the ominous silence of the church set the hairs at the nape of your neck on end. It was not the usual, hallowed calm you were accustomed to, but the tense silence that followed a gunshot, or the suffocating stillness after the last gasp of death. 

You considered turning around and walking right back out, but hesitated. You wanted something different. A new light shed on old beliefs. Some way out of the impossible cage you had been born into. You could not always run from things that varied from the norm that oppressed you. 

With a grim expression, you made your way further into the church. Dim candlelight flickered at the edge of your vision and you made towards it, relieved to have found the confessional. It, too, was constructed of the deepest shade of ebony, and stood invitingly in a corner of the area, just before the sacristy beyond which priests prepared for services or otherwise spent their time. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the small chamber door that led to the penitent’s side of the confessional and stepped inside. The overpowering smell of incense surrounded you as soon as you let the door fall shut behind you. It smelled strongly of roses, with a sweetness that could make one sick, but beneath that floral scent, something acrid, almost sulfuric, burned your nostrils. 

 A kneeler awaited you in the center of the small space, covered with cushioned velvet just at the foot of the confessional grate. At two corners of the room you noted an odd gap between the wall and floor. Almost as if they weren’t quite connected. In fact, with every step you took, it seemed the floor moved ever so slightly with your weight. Was the confessional not set directly on the ground?

You frowned and admonished yourself for the way you had been judging the church ever since you had entered it. Who were you to judge over a house of God? What gave you the audacity, or the right?

Ashamed, you moved towards the confessional grate and interlocked your fingers, kneeling with humility and lowering your head as you struggled to sort out your thoughts. You were suddenly acutely aware of the rain dripping down your hair onto the confessional floor and down the back of your neck. The wafting incense made it hard to think straight, bringing deeply buried feelings dangerously close to the surface. 

“Bless me father” you said, your voice demure - if not downright miserable - “for I have sinned.” You got the words out with difficulty, the pain in your heart overpowering you anew, as the warmth of the confessional started to become stifling, the rain on your skin feeling almost sticky. 

“ Welcome , my child,” the answer was a smooth purr, deep and dark and sinfully enticing. You started in surprise. You had never known a priest to sound like that. “What brings you to me today?” The words that followed did nothing to relieve the unholy effect his dark baritone had had on you and you flushed, deeply ashamed. 

Recentering yourself, you focused inward. On your pain, your torment, your sense of estrangement. “I’m struggling with…” what sin was it? What could describe your inability to fall into line? “...pride,” you finished finally. 

“I feel guilty about wanting to be seen,” tears pooled unbidden in your eyes, you tried to blink them away but new ones replaced them faster than you could rid yourself of them. Taking a deep, shuddering breath you lowered your forehead against your clasped hands. The tears dripped slowly down the length of your nose, you were helpless to stop them. You took a deep, tormented breath and continued.  

“I feel guilty about wanting to be loved and cherished.” You choked the words out on a low, hushed sob, “I feel guilty about…” but no more words would come as emotion overwhelmed you. Your family. Their expectations. Drowning beneath them. Always less than, less than, less than… Less than your brothers, less than your father, less than your fiancé. Why could you not be happy with less? Why could you not be like your mother, blank-faced and passive and content? Why did you want to be adulated and adored like your brother? Why were you only loved when you lowered your head, when you made yourself small, when you reduced yourself to nothing? Why could you not be happy that way? 

You thought of your fiancé, of the bruises that ached, still, on your shoulder blade, on your arms, on your thighs… 

Why could you not submit?

The incense was choking you, you couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe. You sucked in one breath after another, but they did not seem to fill your lungs as image after image replayed in your mind. Your fiancé’s leer, your father’s frown of disapproval, your brother’s smirk… Your professor’s effusive disappointment as you dropped out of college, your boss’s concern as you quit your job… the blank face that looked back at you in the mirror every morning when you awoke. 

Why had your obedience not brought your contentment?

You lost sense of your surroundings as you fought for breath, fought to get a handle on your tears. You fell from the kneeler with a clatter as you scrambled backwards, towards the wall as you clutched at your chest, wheezing, trying to get your lungs to take in air - or to expel it. You weren’t sure which they were supposed to be doing. 

The small, cramped confessional seemed to be spinning around you as the incense only further dulled your senses. You were going to faint here. And it was going to end up in the news. And your family would be humiliated. And it would all be your fault.

Everything, everything, everything. You were to blame for all of it. Because you were cursed. You could only be good by fighting every natural instinct you had. By destroying yourself. It was the only way to prevent your existence from tainting your loved ones, from harming them, because you were…

The door to the confessional swung outward and your eyes caught on the man - no, the priest - beyond. He towered over you, his hulking figure filling out the small door frame until he flooded your vision. His body was powerful, well-muscled even through his robes, his eyes were piercing and perceptive, as if they saw right through you - to the very center of your core. He wore a shock of pink hair, black at the roots and there were deep shadows on his face, or were those black markings? You couldn’t tell. He was devastatingly handsome all the same, and seemed far too young to be a priest.

“ Well ,” again, that smooth baritone that made you feel so very small - but in a way that you found yourself liking. A way that made you feel almost safe. “You’re quite a sight.” There was amusement in his eyes as he beheld you, even in your predicament. 

“Now, now…” his voice was distant, but oddly comforting. It had a hypnotic quality to it, a reassuring one. “Breathe.”

“Slowly now,” he admonished gently. And you did as he asked, sucking in one shuddering breath before releasing it shakily. Again. Again. Again. Slowly, sensation returned and your vision cleared along with your awareness that the handsome priest - whose handsome face matched his body in every way - had crossed over to your side of the confessional. It was little wonder, given the way you had nearly collapsed but it was embarrassing nonetheless. 

You chanced another glance at him, but he continued to observe you silently. It took you a moment to realize that he was waiting for you to continue. To hear what you wished to say. And wanting to be heard was strange and foreign. Your tongue tied itself up in knots as he stood there, looking down on you. There was something different about him, something… if not divine, then certainly supernatural. 

It was not at all the same, making your confession to his face, there was no longer the sense of anonymity that you liked to hide behind. But instead, a sense of connection and vulnerability that grounded you unexpectedly. 

Reflecting on the pain that had driven you to this place, it all seemed to center on one singular axis. Your own inability to comply with the wishes of those who held the reins of your life in their hands. Although you knew that was what your faith asked of you, you found yourself rebelling and resenting your lot in life again and again. And every time, it invited conflict and pain into your world. Every time you ended up hurting those you cared for. 

“Why can I not obey?” the tears streamed down your face. You had only ever wanted to be good. Only ever wanted to do good by those you cared for. Only ever wanted to be loved. “Why can I not submit? Why can’t I be good ?”

The strange priest lowered himself towards you, his wrists resting loosely on his knees as he sat back on his haunches. “Submitting is not so very hard,” he murmured, his voice casting its now-familiar spell on you. “I could teach you.” 

There was a look in his eye that seemed to swallow you up, seemed to burn you alive. This priest knew something. Something that would help you make sense of everything. Maybe he could save you. Maybe he could help you learn to be at peace with yourself. 

He reached out towards you and as his hand drew closer, you realized with a sudden jolt how inappropriate this encounter was. How wrong it was for him to join you on the penitent’s side in this intimate space that barely had room for one. How untoward it was for him to be reaching out to touch you. 

But you had spent your whole life wishing someone would cross beyond your walls, spent all your years wanting to be touched and seen. And with the way he was looking at you, with the utmost confidence, with an overpowering self-assurance, you could not help but want the distance between you to shrink into nothingness. 

“Submitting to someone,” he purred, his outstretched fingers grazing your cheek, sending a thrill through you. “Should come naturally. It shouldn’t have to be forced. Do you understand?” 

You were beginning to. The way his voice washed over you, the way his gaze set you alight with the intoxication of being truly seen, you thought you could vaguely understand what he meant. You nodded, even as the sheen of tears in your eyes reflected the surrounding candlelight, even as your cheeks glistened with their wetness. 

“There now,” his lips curved into a half-smile even as his eyes narrowed, but he did not remove his hand, continuing his gentle caress. “Isn’t that better?”

“I’m cursed,” you choked out in a hushed whisper. “I’m the evil one.”

A spark of something went through his scarlet eyes. As if he had been playing with you up until this point, the way you might play with a stray kitten on the street but now something had shifted. But he recovered, and the fingers that had been trekking lazily up along the side of your face moved to cup your cheek. 

“Is that so?” there was something dark in his voice. Something curious. Something angry. 

“I only bring them grief,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the disinhibiting effects of the overpowering incense. Trying to stop yourself from leaning into his palm. Nuzzling it. Kissing it. 

“I can not contain myself. I can not be humble and obey. I can not be as they want me to be. As our faith requires me to be .” You shuddered at the admission, your internal torment causing your shoulders to hunch over as if you wished to cave in on yourself. “I have prayed every day, wept every night…” 

You lift your tortured gaze, awash anew with fresh tears, to his contemplative crimson irises. Red? His eyes were red? Why had you not noticed before? Or was that merely the glow of the many candles reflecting all the red furnishings in the church?

You suck in a deep breath and despite yourself, you reach out to hold onto his wrist, as if begging him not to remove his hand. “Please…” you plead, your voice wavering, “Can you save me?” 

It was wrong, you knew. For no one person could bring salvation. You would need to find it yourself, through prayer, through the scripture, through acts of penance… But he didn’t seem like a normal priest. You dared to hope.

His hand moved further back, his fingers digging into your wet hair, his hold curving around the back of your neck, lifting your gaze up higher as he kneeled between your legs, crushing the pleats on your long, gray skirt. His eyes skirted over you then and a fire flamed to life on your skin wherever those eyes lingered. On your white blouse buttoned up to the very top, the leather belt with a golden buckle that hugged your waist. The pearls at your ears, the thin chain around your neck. Your gleaming watch, your designer purse, the band on the fourth finger of your left hand. 

“But of course I can,” his breath whispered over your lips as he spoke and a sense of almost crushing relief swept through you, making you shiver. He could save you? You could be saved? There was a way to find peace with your situation without abandoning your faith?

His thumb caressed your cheek, prompting you to open your eyes again and he continued, that dark voice sending low vibrations through you. You knew something was wrong about this scenario, knew that you should not be so close to him, knew that there was nothing priestly about this arrangement. But you could not bring yourself to care, for in mere minutes, he had given you more hope than you had had in decades. 

He was different, but you needed different. You craved different. 

“I can save you,” he repeated, drawing your thoughts back to the present moment. To his face lingering a breath above yours. “But I will need a token of your loyalty.” 

“A token?”

Perhaps you should have known then, that priests did not operate with tokens. That they did not strike deals. That there was, in fact, a very different manner of creature that promised impossible things and demanded exorbitant payment. 

But there was nothing you would not give in that moment. “What? What can I…” the incense in the chamber with you was heady, perhaps even intoxicating. The pink mist wafting between your faces made it impossible to consider what the right course of action was. 

The priest glanced at your hand, resting on the floor beside you and you turned to look at it as well. “My ring…?” you stammered, and lifted your hand without a second thought to remove the ring. You could claim to have lost it, your family could easily afford another. Your fiancé would be angry, but it would not be worth breaking up with you over. 

“Not the ring,” Sukuna dismissed with a click of his tongue. “Your request is quite unique, I’m sure you know. The manner of service you require is not something an ordinary priest could offer you, yes?”

Eyes wide, you nodded in understanding. Of course a ring could not pay for your salvation. “Then what…?”

The thumb that had been grazing over your cheek now moved towards your lips, brushing along the length of your lower lip once, twice, in slow, languorous motions as if feeling every groove and every inch of skin. 

“Give me your time.” There was a sense of finality within the demand, a sense of foreboding. But it only served to heighten your delirious sense of hope. After all, a payment made brought you that much closer to the end you hoped to achieve, didn’t it?

“H- how much?” you wondered, not sure at all how you would be able to give him your time. Would he ask for years? The rest of your life? Would you wake up from a coma when he had taken the time he asked of you? 

“Ten minutes,” was the cool answer, his eyes still wandering over you, taking in the sight of you like a project in the making. 

“Ten minutes?” you repeated dumbly. Well, that was nothing. That was neither years, nor a lifetime, nor anything of consequence. 

“Consider it a down payment,” he smiled at you again, that strange, self-assured smile that felt like a sticky trap you did not mind wandering into.

“Yes!” you replied breathlessly, not even waiting to think about it. Ten minutes of your life to be at peace, to be loved, to stop being the evil that brought anger and resentment wherever you went? You would have given him ten years if he had asked for them.

Somewhere in the distance, a thud sounded as the church doors slammed shut and locked themselves from within. A grin split the priest’s lips, revealing sharp canines. “Very well then,” he said smoothly, a self-satisfied expression on his features. “These next ten minutes,” the thumb that had been tracing your lips stiled suddenly, before moving between them and entering your mouth without warning. “Belong to me. ”

You choked on a gasp as his thumb idled past your teeth briefly and then pressed down on your tongue. Wide eyes flew towards his own, but his eyes were hooded, his face impassive as he observed you. 

“Ten minutes,” he reminded you. 

So that was what he had meant. Why had you thought he meant some sort of fairytale exchange of life forces and power? Why had you assumed your interaction had had some touch of the supernatural? 

Perhaps you had better run. Maybe you had gotten yourself wrapped up in something way out of your depth. 

“You will need to learn ,” he intoned, as his other hand moved towards your collar. “To obey.” The first button of your blouse popped open beneath his fingers, as ready and willing as you had been when swearing your time to him. 

“To submit.” 

Your own words came back to you, and with them, the sense of hysteria that had accompanied them. You despised the words. Obedience and submission. They filled you with a blinding rage, a murderous fury. And to hear them repeated back to you now reminded you of how impossible they were. How hateful.

As his left hand continued its journey down the front of your blouse, each button falling open at his touch with practiced ease, you blinked away tears and tried to swallow the saliva that was pooling in your mouth but found that you could not. 

“Mm-mm-mm,” he shook his head, “that will not do.” He moved in closer, his thumb shifting in your mouth as he did so, almost massaging your tongue. 

When his lips were right at your ear, he spoke again, “submission is the easiest thing, little one.” 

You wanted to believe him, but conflicting emotions rioted in your stomach. Your fiancé, your angry family, your misery - and the hope that he could change everything. In exchange for these ten minutes. 

His left hand cupped your breast and your eyes fell shut at the touch as a gasp escaped your throat. The sensation was intoxicating. Nerve endings sang with pleasure. His hands were so big and warm, his touch addictive. You found yourself arching your back despite yourself as you allowed the sea of sensation to sweep you away. 

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” Then his teeth were on the curve of your ear nipping at them with surprising tenderness, his tongue following all the way down to your earlobe before his mouth ventured further, his teeth finding the vein that pulsed at the side of your neck. His tongue marked the length of it before his mouth closed in on it, teeth biting into your skin as he sucked at the soft and supple flesh. 

What was he…? You couldn’t think. You didn’t want to. 

His other hand had shifted to your right breast now, repeating its ministrations, sending shivers through your body. An index finger journeyed lazily between the two mounds, hooking into the front of your bra and tugging it down until your breasts sprang free. The sudden rush of cold air made your nipples perk up, as if begging his attention and he complied, first kneading your breasts with increased force, always pushing just an inch past what you were willing to accept at that moment. Enough to keep you on edge, not enough to make you push him away. He pinched your nipples and toyed with them until helpless mewls escaped your mouth, muffled by his thumb. You could feel him smile against your neck.

How much time was left? You didn’t know. You weren’t sure what you were hoping for… a swift end to this encounter or that time would somehow stretch out for you, extending this moment eternally. 

He drew back slightly and you opened your eyes as if summoned by him. 

“Open your mouth,” there was none of the coaxing tenderness he had shown you earlier. This was a command, unyielding and expectant. 

You obeyed unthinkingly and watched as he cocked his head to the side, his gaze fixed on the inside of your mouth. It was so odd, and you felt terribly self-conscious, but you could not bring yourself to think too clearly while his other hand was still working its magic on you. 

Instead of his thumb, he now inserted two fingers into your mouth. His left hand paused briefly, to smooth your blouse from your shoulders, and the touch of his hand running along your upper arm, though chaste, sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Suck.” A simple, unmistakable order.

Your cheeks burned in humiliation, your mind clearing a bit now that his left hand had busied itself with your clothing. You wanted to say something, to push him off and pull on your clothing and storm out of the so-called church. But on the other hand… you wanted to know what would happen if you did as he asked. You wanted to know what was waiting for you at the end of this encounter. 

You wanted his eyes to light up with approval when you pushed past your own inhibitions. 

So you closed your lips around his thick fingers, and you sucked. They tasted of salt, of the incense that surrounded you, and they tasted of sin. You closed your eyes, relishing the taste of him, even as his fingers inched towards the back of your throat. 

His left hand, meanwhile, meandered down the length of your leg reaching for the hem of your skirt, but you hardly took notice until it had slipped underneath it and smoothed its way up your inner thigh. 

Then your eyes shot open in shock and dread. You gave him a pleading look but he only shook his head with a small smirk. “Ten minutes, we agreed.” Clicking his tongue as if disappointed, he added, “Or are you calling off our deal?”

Before you could answer his fingers inched further towards the back of your throat, and tears burned at the edges of your vision as you tried not to gag. He grinned down at you, positively relishing your conflicted expression and the satisfaction on his face made you forget all about your own discomfort. You licked at his fingers, sucking them in deeper, trying to prove to him how compliant you could be – and then his left hand found the juncture of your thighs. 

A thick, lazy finger idled up your slit through your damp underwear and you shivered. Saliva spilled from the sides of your mouth as your jaw went slack at the sensation. Fuck ten minutes. You wanted everything. 

As if hearing your thoughts, he pulled your panties to the side and buried his fingers into your hot, wet folds. Slicking up and down along your slit.

“My,” he chuckled, “isn’t this easy?”

You could only whimper in response, as the fingers of his right hand teased down your throat, backing off ever so slightly, only to plunge back down again. You gagged, despite yourself, and your body shivered in response. He allowed you to recover momentarily, only to then continue his ministrations undisturbed. 

His fingers found your clitoris, tracing lazy circles around it, stoking a fire of sensation until you wanted to weep with need. Your hands reached out unthinkingly, to hold him, to feel him and they came to rest on his shoulders. Ten minutes, he had said. Surely, that time was almost up. He wasn’t going to leave you hanging, was he? You focused on his fingers again, on sucking on them the way he had told you to. If you did what he said, he would reward you, wouldn’t he?

Sure enough, as soon as you redoubled your efforts, he plunged the fingers of his left hand into your warm cavern. It was a tight fit. Your fiancé had only ever entered you the one time you wanted desperately to forget. But this was nothing like that. There was no painful friction, no panic. You were positively boneless. Pudding in his hands. He slipped in and out of you easily, as if your core welcomed him. As if he were quite at home. Even as his thick fingers stretched you out, you cherished the discomfort. The feeling of your walls stretching for him, accommodating him. His practiced fingers slid against your inner walls, exploring you thoroughly until they found a spongy patch of flesh that had you moaning against the fingers that were now knuckle deep in your throat. 

He turned his head to the side, again, as if looking at a clock somewhere you couldn’t see. And in that brief moment, completely at the mercy of his hands, all pride and dignity forgotten - time stood still for one brief moment as you took in his side profile, illuminated by distant candlelight. His sharp nose, his bold jawline, his expressive, powerful eyes. And then the moment passed and his gaze returned to you, and again, you felt like a morsel in the jaws of a powerful predator. The sensation was positively thrilling. 

All idleness and teasing forgotten, he doubled his pace. His fingers slamming in and out of you with something bordering on cruelty – or it would have bordered on cruelty, if it wasn’t making you see stars. You wanted to say something, to moan, to scream, but his right hand fucked your throat at an identical pace and you felt entirely like an animal spitroasted over a fire. 

“There now,” he hummed, breathless, eyes gleaming at the sight of you so undone, “you’re almost there.” 

Your body felt rattled with the force of his thrusts and you pulled up your knees without quite knowing why, wanting to feel him more deeply. Your eyes shut as the feeling he had been weaving over you intensified to the point of being painful. Something powerful was building up, ready to engulf you, ready to destroy you. 

And you would so love to be destroyed by his hands. 

“ Good girl ,” he murmured into your ear as you clung to his chest, positively delirious with pleasure. His voice, that voice , that you would likely never get used to, settled over you like the most wicked of magic. The two words swept over you like an unbreakable spell. You sucked in three quick breaths in succession, and then you came undone. Moaning against his hand, you trembled from head to toe as waves of pleasure crashed through you mercilessly. And even then he did not stop, still burying his fingers into you, only to pull them out and slam them back in, fucking you through your orgasm until it bordered on torture, until your walls clung to him as desperately as your fingers clung to his robes. Liquid gushed from you, dirtying your skirt and pooling on the confessional floor. Only then did he remove both of his hands and settled back to observe you, panting through your orgasm, spittle dribbling from your lips.

You fell back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed as you fought for breath. Your hands hung limply at your sides, and one knee was still drawn to your chest as your other leg stretched out at an odd angle. 

Your throat ached, but you missed the taste of him already. Your body sang with happiness, endorphins rushing through you. You had never felt so alive. 

“Heh,” he eased back slightly, and ran a hand through his hair. The sight of him was intoxicating. The small smirk, the mischief in his eyes, the proud cheekbones. You couldn’t tell if he had used the hand that had been halfway down your throat or the other one, but by the looks of it, he didn’t care either way. 

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, willing yourself to regain some composure. On trembling hands, you pulled away from the wall and struggled to straighten out your appearance, avoiding his gaze. You tugged the hem of your skirt back down over your knees and winced as you felt the wetness between your thighs. Your fingers fluttered towards your blouse, fumbling in your haste to button yourself up again as shame washed over you. What had you done? 

You glanced at the ring gleaming on your finger as your fingers flew over the buttons of your blouse. You needed to put this to rights. You needed to do something to dispel the awkwardness that lingered in the air.

You cleared your throat, chancing another glance at him as you smoothed your hair back behind your ears. Open amusement danced across his features at your discomfort and a blush burned across your cheeks. 

“Right, well…” you glanced at the fluids that had gathered on the confessional floor and winced, reaching for your bag. “I’ll clean that up.”

“Leave it,” he dismissed lazily, and you abandoned your fruitless search for a tissue or a disinfectant wipe. 

He squatted before you, still, an elbow resting on his knee, his chin resting on his knuckles as he watched you flounder in embarrassment. 

“ What have we learned ?” was the question he posed. The tone of his voice, like a teacher speaking with a prized student, had you tripping over yourself, wanting to deliver the right answer even though you weren’t quite certain you had understood the question.

You paused, suddenly brought back to the heat of the moment that had passed between you. The ten minutes that had turned your world on its head. 

“Learned…?” 

I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart… you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before…

You bit your lip, flushing even more deeply as you recalled his earlier words. What had you learned? There was no denying that you had submitted to him, been driven to obey him. Even going so far as to want to prove your obedience… You cringed. It was embarrassing. 

But he did not seem to look down on you for it, even as he went on observing you amiably. Enjoying the expressions that flashed across your features as your mind rioted, dashing from one train of thought to another until they inevitably crashed. 

Submitting to him hadn’t required conscious thought. It hadn’t required effort. It was the simplest thing, like a base instinct written into your DNA.

You glanced up at him again, his smirk widening as he saw the realization dawn on your face. 

“It’s… not hard,” you admitted in a nervous whisper.

“Come again?” You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or not. Teasing you seemed to be his default state. 

You cleared your throat. “It wasn’t hard,” you repeated, louder this time. 

“Not hard?” he tutted, “I think you can do better than that.”

You swallowed, glancing over his shoulder where still no one had appeared. Was there anyone else in this church at all? You thought about what the two of you had done, how loud you had been and embarrassment threatened to overwhelm you. 

“It was easy,” you confessed finally. “It felt…” you closed your eyes, recalling the sensation, the moment you had chosen to put all thoughts aside and put your trust in him. “Natural,” you concluded finally, confused even as you said it. 

“And why was that?” he prompted, not yet letting up. 

You bit your lower lip, missing the way the priest’s eyes darted towards your mouth as you did so, and contemplated what could possibly have been different about this particular moment, that made it so easy to yield to this strange priest whereas giving even an inch to the men in your life felt like dragging a knife through your veins. 

Now it was your turn to consider him, cocking your head to the side as you took him in. He was strong. Physically, mentally. Confident. Whatever happened, he looked like he could handle the fallout. From the moment you had met, he had given you his complete and utter attention. Listened to you. Taken your concerns seriously… 

It was him. He was different. 

You averted your gaze, then. Not knowing what to make of that information.

“I suppose it depends on the man.” By the time you realized you had spoken aloud, it was too late. Your face burned all the way up to your ears, utterly mortified. 

“Hmm,” the priest hummed, finally rising to his full height and holding out a hand to help you to your feet as well. “Surely, our Lord and Savior would not require you to submit to and obey an unworthy man, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Again, that seductive voice, saying things you had always longed to hear. 

“But aren’t we meant to obey… the men in our lives?” Confusion furrowed your brow as you dusted off your skirt, neatly sidestepping the wet floor as he led you out of the confessional, the loose floorboards creaking under your weight as he did so. 

“I think…” the crimson-eyed priest purred, sinful temptation in his voice, “if you were meant to obey them, then you would want to, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you have a natural inclination to obey the ones you were meant to obey?” 

You froze, your gaze entranced by his proud lips as he spoke. You had never felt a natural inclination to follow anyone. Not until today. 

“But I…” you lowered your gaze. You were going back to your family, to your fiancé. If anything, this realization only made things more difficult. You left your protest unspoken as he led you back the way you had come, down the nave and towards the church doors. 

“Fret not,” he smiled, bringing the knuckles of your hand up to his lips and pressing a brief kiss to them. “I did agree to save you, didn’t I?” 

You blinked, and then nodded slowly, daring to hope. He had said he would save you. This was only the beginning. Surely, by the time he was through with you, you would have no more doubts. 

“Come to the service on Sunday,” he lifted the latch and opened the church door, revealing that the rain had stopped and gentle moonlight glistened on the wet pavestones.

“I go to church with my parents on Sundays,” your brow furrowed as you turned towards him, reluctant to leave his presence for reasons you could not explain, even to yourself. There was no possible way to explain to your parents why you were suddenly visiting a different church. 

“So you do,” he agreed smoothly, as his hand found the small of your back. “But this Sunday, you’re coming here.” 

There it was again. That inexplicable pull. The desire to do as he asked, the certainty that it would be worth it.

Your eyes sought his, wondering what lingered in their depths, even as a raised brow dared you to deny him. You should probably feel guilty about what had happened, but you could not summon the emotion. Nothing about it felt impure. He was helping you understand the tenets of your faith, wasn’t he? And you did feel like you understood things a little better now. Far from feeling guilty, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, an intoxicating feeling of not being alone. 

“I’ll be here,” you promised, although you did not quite know how you would manage it. 

You turned towards the steps, not wanting to outstay your welcome, and floated down the three short steps to the main road, acutely aware of his eyes on you. You hesitated on the last step, and turned back towards him suddenly, where he stood shrouded in the shadows, limned in the light of the candles behind him. 

“What’s your name… Father?” You added the proper address as an afterthought, almost having forgotten that he was a priest.

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips, likely because of your late addition, and when he spoke, the name washed over you, settling in your heart like a key turning in a lock. 

“Ryomen Sukuna.” 

[worldsewage]

Thought i sent this..may I hear about emergency exit...

Info under the cut… 🫶

Shima Vulgaris was an elite Octarian from the domes, she was always quiet and direct, which made her a good soldier, and she out of disinterest in her purpose escaped— more so a yearning to have a different existence. She escaped when she was 18, (so before Marina— to note: deserting wasn’t unheard of, but it was not as prevalent as it was AFTER Marina and Callie and Agent 8, which then it sparked a movement.) she was one of the few that battled against the early NSS, during a period where after years of radio silence (offensive-wise) on the Octarian front… they began to actively pursue attacking Inkfish territories for energy sources. Shima’s smart, quiet, and has a deep commanding tone. She doesn’t think too hard about what she’s doing, because she’s good at it, and doesn’t really have a purpose outside of impressing her superiors and doing her job. But words spread of music files from Inkling performances start going around in, which isn’t necessarily explicitly illegal, but Octarian superiors tend to put an end to the spread of Inkling content.

It’s all about music, really, all of it, Shima sees a different life, and feels a frustration in the life she has now, a stark unhappiness, so she leaves. It’s not easy, since deserting isn’t as common at this point… less security and suspicion about her actions, but there’s less resources, but she manages.

Screeching Obscenities, SINK, is a servant of Toshima, Toshima is a clan leader in a small metal village that is a single portion of a very very strong (and large) city, Screech was told that her family was once a King-Line, her family is now living in ruinous conditions after an attack by a neighboring clan— Screech believes this wholly, despite it all, she has no idea if this is true. Her family tells her that the death of Toshima will redeem their family line, and Screeching Obscenities of the Toshima Borne Runner attempts to kill the clan leader, fails, and is exiled. Tails gets lopped off so she can’t transform, and mouth bolted shut, and gets kicked out from the city. I like to think the sound of metal scraping as the gates open to lock her out of the city sounded like music.

Sink was around 16 when she was kicked from her clan, she washed up on shore and Shima found her, probably taught her most of her reading knowledge and how to speak Octarian. Shima probably already spoke a little bit of Salsegal, because of all the dome-salmonids hatched there.

[hermit-frog]

to be honest i was weirded out a bit that the biggest plot twist was lestat = the saviour. i still liked the episode and i do enjoy lestat as a character. but it felt like an unnecessary change to have lestat save louis at the trial. i thought the whole point of the trial was armand killing claudia and madeleine and painting lestat as the bad guy so he could have louis for himself. now it seems armand had no plan or reason to even let the trial take place? if he didn't want to "save" louis anymore... he just did it to please the coven or because he already sold the tickets or he was too passive to cancel his earlier plans? am i missing something?

not feeling that twist either, actually hate it. and their later meeting and Louis apologizing 😬

have already made a post about it, also recommend checking #vampterview, i'm 100% sure there's more cohesive meta that actually makes sense lol also the interviews are out, haven't read all of them (idk where to get links, also no time) but do check them out. i rarely trust actors' insight, but it seems that there's communication between the iwtv show-runners, writers and actors for better understanding of the plot and characters' motivation.

i thought the whole point of the trial was armand killing claudia and madeleine and painting lestat as the bad guy so he could have louis for himself.

that was his plan in the book, yes

it seems armand had no plan or reason to even let the trial take place? if he didn't want to “save” louis anymore... he just did it to please the coven or because he already sold the tickets or he was too passive to cancel his earlier plans? am i missing something?

Armand had a reason to go along.

I agree with Assad, and the thing about Madeleine is not only the turn itself, but also the disobedience.

Armand had to choose between an unloved but stable coven he knew for 200 years, or unstable disobedient hard to control Louis who couldn't express his feelings clearly enough to dissipate Armand's growing doubts/fear about their (his) future. Armand's fear of rejecting the coven in Louis' favor comes from him being terrified of loneliness and abandonment. What if he leaves me? I've got nothing/no one left. (which is worse for vampires, as it had been accentuated at least two times in this show)

Let's not forget that Armand went in those tunnels with the intent of killing Louis, so it's not even his 1st attempt to make a tough choice and soothe the coven back into its place, and tickle Santiago's ego. Louis' inability to integrate, submit and accept the rules was the problem. After the direct threat (especially at Claudia) Louis changes his behavior. He submits by doming Armand, makes an effort with the theatre, which ironically results with Louis putting his mask back on, role-playing Lestat in bed, and distancing/cooling himself even more.

Louis gives him what Armand was trying to obtain this whole time, — control over himself (with consequences for both of them). For a second there, Louis thinks he has some kind of real domination over Armand, but it's clear to the viewers that unfortunately it's not the case. As Assad had said, Louis turns Madeleine despite Armand's “disapproval”. Disobedience (loss of control, no stability, possible loneliness), again. A big shift in their relationship that solidifies the choice.

Sacrifice had to be done regardless of Armand's feelings towards Louis, that's how he survives. Armand has his priorities. Control via rituals and rules gives him a sense of security, he prefers familiarity even if it's abusive and indifferent, anything but solitude. Armand would rather not move at all than risk and lose something he's used to/what he already has, even if he hates it. His fear leads to stupor, pain to disassociation. So he just stands there, in his cage, pretending everything's fine. The choice is whom to pull in.

Louis' attachment/dependence to/on Claudia (who was doomed from the start no matter what) would be a problem after her death, resulting in a complete broken/unstable/detached/chaotic/very hard to control Louis. If Armand wasn't sure about his future with Louis before the coven's ultimatum/play, now he is 100% sure, not even worth risking his comfortable confinement to try. (we saw a glimpse of the conflict and how Armand had dealt with it in the 70s)

After Louis refuses to leave and destroys the coven, Armand has nothing left but Louis. Better this than nothing, i'll make it work. He was panicking in the Magnus' tower, luckily for him Lestat is the worst, so Armand creates a new cage. You could see the fear in his eyes during the Dubai big reveal, hear it in his voice. Stupidly, he decided to diminish/deescalate the seriousness of the situation in the worst possible way (not that it would change something), which resulted in Louis bonking Armand's head against the wall. (same situation with Lestat in the tower: “And I have to be willing… and I'm not in the mood.”, but in this case Armand had allowed Louis his rightful outburst). Guess it's now Daniel's turn, lol

not going to lie, i lost it at your line: “because he already sold the tickets”, the idea of Armand going further with his act because the tickets were already sold sends me

[justbelievinginmagic]

ariadne's thread ⎯ pt. 5: forwards is backwards.

pairing(s): hyunjin x fem!reader, jisung & fem!reader series summary: when tempted by an intoxicating offer by hyunjin the goblin king of the underground, you fight against him to find your own sense of self once more while in his labyrinth. glimpse: With your new fae guide, Han, leading you upwards from the dungeons, you find yourself tangled up in the Gardens of the Labyrinth - will you be able to face the challenges of the twisting courtyards or the ever-present mysteries of your untrustworthy Labyrinth guide? warnings/tags: inspired by the 1986' movie Labyrinth, follows majority of the movie's plot points with lore divergence, 3rd person POV, use of Y/N, mentions of drowning, man-eating plants, bickering, violence, strong language, faerie lore!!, fear, hyunjin isnt present in this chapter but han and yn bonding!! let me know if there needs to be more tags! word count: 6.0k previous chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist

“So, you know the dungeons pretty well, Han?” the Runner prompted.

The sigh that bubbled out of him was loud. His head lolled back all the way and he shut his jeweled eyes. Drama queen. They’d been walking for only a few minutes and yet the Runner seemed to have a million questions (despite this being her first, to her credit.) Again, Han was dramatic.

But perhaps it was the comfort of having someone by her side officially (with some crossing of fingers that Han was leading her towards the Castle and not to the beginning of the maze) or perhaps the false sunlight above them (that seemed to only grow more and more golden by the minute) that had lifted her mood. The Runner was feeling strangely optimistic. (Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of nearly being skewered by a cleaning machine too. What else could the Labyrinth and the Goblin King throw at her? A beautiful, magical garden apparently.)

Things felt brighter here beneath the Gardens’ rotunda. Both figuratively and literally. No longer were there flickering candles floating high above her or the ever-shifting fire pits in the high watch towers. No more hazy orange-red glows like her entire vision was consumed by a distant field of fire. Here in the Gardens, the light felt natural-ish. If she pretended, it could be a bright summer day in some rich mansion’s estate.

Magic glimmered and kaleidoscoped everywhere. Instead of the rock walls gleaming with magical remnant that shined in the candle light like a child had a field day with iridescent glitter, now the flowers that twisted throughout the well-maintained shrubbery sparkled, making the entire maze look like it was covered in dewdrop (and smell of rose, lavender, and mint.)

Sitting atop the hedges were mythical-looking beast topiaries, towering down over them with berried eyes of cherries, gingko nuts, and mulberries. Sometimes, it felt like they were watching them as they passed under their shadows. She swore she heard one growl as they passed, but all Han did was tut like he was scolding an unhappy lap-dog. 

While the previous never-ending paths of the Labyrinth were dry, old, and dusty, there was a heavy humidity in the air here, only encouraged by the false light radiating from the dome above them. The sunlight felt far too strong to be real burned her cheeks and made sweat bead at her forehead. Han had even rolled up his sleeves to his shoulders, giving her a view of his biceps that glimmered with magic remnant and a sheen of sweat.

They had passed by many large courtyards, and each time Han had taken her wrist and led her along muttering ‘no, not that way’ as if she were a child. It had begun to make her roll her eyes and drag her feet. Each of these courtyards held possibilities of new paths, and they were just passing them up.

There were some that held large pond of dancing waters glimmering in the false light. Those blue-shimmering pixies bathed in the waters, chittering and chattering amongst the bubbling spring. They reminded her of mosquitos fluttering around a swamp. Her bite at the junction of her thumb and forefinger itched.

Another courtyard had towering statues of what looked to be chess pieces with big carves faces that made her pause in her step, wondering if they were like the trolls in the oubliette or simply statues of granite? Han didn’t let her linger to find out, simply marching by.

One of the courtyards had gigantic-humanoid dancing flowers, their vines twisting in a nonexistent wind as they moved with magical spores in the air. Their root-like legs bent this way and that as they prowled in a wild thrashing waltz. Han tugged her along quickly then.

Everything was so bright and lively here. Occasionally, she swore she could hear footsteps following them though. Her head was constantly looking back, double checking their path. Was it the King? Was it a creature?

She glanced backwards once more.

Nothing.

Instead of answering her, Han’s head lolled forward and he pouted suddenly: “Why do you keep calling me Han? You’re smart enough to know that was a lie – you heard the King! You know my true name.”

He muttered out dejectedly, crossing his arms as he glowered petulantly. Han hated that the King had used his true name… perhaps that was why he had let out Hyunjin’s name as well. His hand rose to wipe at his forehead with his handkerchief.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he added after a miniscule moment.

“It’s not the name you gave me though,” the Runner argued lightly. “If you don’t want me to know, then I won’t.” She shrugged.

He grumbled in return, pocketing the handkerchief in his pants. Sighing out, she reached out to grab his arm, turning him around to face her. His eyes widened in surprise as they came to a stop – the first stop since they began their trek through the Gardens.

“You didn’t introduce yourself as Jisung,” she told him. “I assumed you didn’t want to be called it – do you wish to be called Jisung by me?”

It was straight-forward and honest – he was surprised. Humans were rarely that way. And she was getting better with how she phrased things. He couldn’t help the pride and surprise tingling up his tail bone.

“I—” his mouth tumbled open, gaping like a fish for a moment. Petite bunny-like teeth shined in the magic-light. “I mean, I said Han before.” He admitted quietly.

She laughed, and he realized two things. One) That he was being foolish, too anxious from being away from the Desert Sea. Two) That he liked her laugh; it was nice to hear rather than her sighs of annoyance and pained yelps. Or her sadness. His lips twitched with a smile.

“You did, so I’ll call you whatever you tell me to call you,” she replied.

It was strange. Most fae folk would jump at the opportunity to know someone’s true name. It held power over that person. Hells, he even used her name with that in mind (even if it seemed to be a mute effort with the ancient magic of the Runner protecting her.) Yet here was this human who was just… shrugging it off. Purposely ignoring his true name for his own comfort.

It wasn’t the fae way.

“Okay. . . “, he mumbled, unconvinced and confused before pouting.

This must be a trick he decided.

“I don’t care what you call me.” He huffed turning away and walking ahead.

“Understood.” She saluted teasingly. “Han.”

The addition of his chosen name made his lightly-pointed ears turn a lavender-blush.

“C’mon, keep up!” he called as finally chose an entry way to turn into. They rounded the corner.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” she complained.

He laughed out loud, the sound chiming in the air like coins being tossed for a bet, and she couldn’t help but smile at it.  

They entered a big courtyard after the next couple of turns and twist. The courtyard, if you could even call it that, was overflowing with plant. Huge terracotta vessels of kiln-browned pottery housed large blooms curling out of them. Blooms that had far too many twisting vines that linked and unlinked, twisted and chained into one another, building what was only comparable to a jungle. Creating a web of vinery and stems, wriggling and writhing, they shifted that way and this way like thousands of overlapping snakes. Some of the flowers lunged at one another with a screeching sound so high pitched it made her shoulders raise to her ears reflexively. A sharp pain shot through her head.

There was no way around them – no pathway on the circumference of the room. The only way to get through the patio was to go through the jungle of blooms.

Easy.

“Don’t touch any of the plants here,” Han warned her immediately, jeweled eyes serious as they met hers.

Okay, not so easy.

But at least she knew. If she were alone, she feared she would’ve pushed and shoved her way through. She didn’t know why she couldn’t touch them but she wouldn’t. She had to try to trust Han, after all, he was her only hope in this place.

Squatting, the faerie and the human began to navigate through the jungle of vines. Her hands were tucked close to her sides, observing the purple and red plants as they snarled silently at one another.

They were large blossoms, the size of her head in some cases. Their colors were striking with deep lavenders and blood burgundies. Y/N could tell they were sentient-ish. They waved and twisted and hissed and screeched. If anything, they were like animals she assumed.

But as they passed by, with Han leading the way as he pushed some stray leaves aside for her to wiggle by, the flora grew curious. They loomed closer and closer. She felt some even breathing at her, sniffing at her with interest.

One got close enough that she saw how the redden petals curled and pried itself open to reveal what had to be a mouth of some sorts with rows and rows of sharpened emerald thorn-like teeth ready to devour its prey. Her.

Han’s hand swooped in closer grasping the stem of the red bloom as it lunged at her and tugging it away firmly. She heard a high-pitched wail that made her ears crackle, snap, and pop  

“Some of these are man-eating plants.” Han had to say then as he bared his teeth at the flower.

“What about you?” she exclaimed, eyes widening as she watched the encounter. She was waiting for the plant to snap at him at any moment. But all it did was sniff at his wrist, his long fingers still wrapped around the base of the ruby red flower’s stem like he was holding a pup by the scruff of its neck. The blossom nuzzled his arm, almost pleadingly.

“Not a human,” he replied simply before releasing it with a huff. He scratched the bloom’s ‘underbelly’ before passing it.

“What are you?” she retorted, following after him. Dodging a lunging flower, her voice was an octave higher. “You said you weren’t of fae blood,” another flower bared its thorny fangs, “you aren’t of human blood. You look pretty humanistic to me.”

He scoffed as he ducked his head under a collection of vines before rising to stand on the other side of the man-eating jungle of flora.

“Rude.” Han commented. “I look way better than you humans.”

With a hand pushing aside the last remaining vines, he crouched back down on his heels and watched as the Runner crawled away from a rose that had trailed after her with a blooming mouth aching for her rubied blood. Running, she escaped the last flower and stood beside a calm Han, huffing and puffing from her struggles.

She offered a bashful smile. He deadpanned, tugging her up to stand.

“Mind your business. It’s rude to ask a stranger their bloodline.” He added, picking a stray leaf from her hair.

He turned and faced the newest archway of greenery. Hands on his waist, he paused before picking a direction – leftwards.  

“We aren’t strangers,” she muttered out.

“We are acquaintances with similar goals,” he complied. “You want to get to the Castle. You have my things. I must follow you to get them back – simple as that.”

She rolled her eyes again as they turned down another path.

“How is it following when you are leading me?”

“How’d you get sucked into being a Runner anyways?” he queried, pushing an unkempt hedge’s greenery out of the path.

“Made a wish while reading a book. I’ve read tales of fae and the Underground since I was a little girl. . . I didn’t know that this would happen.”

“Yeah,” he sighed out through his nose. “Better than wishing away someone on purpose though. That’s what usually happens.” He countered looking at her over his shoulder. “Humankind’s children are bad Runners. We’ve had our fair share of mothers and fathers who have taken up the Challenge too. Not many succeed.”

“That’s sad.” She muttered. Han made a sound of indifference.

Was he wished away? Maybe that was why he was touchy about his bloodline?

“Han, how do you know the Labyrinth so well?” she asked again. “You knew the ins and outs of the dungeons –“

“The oubliette,” he interrupted.

“The oubliette,” she corrected before continuing on,” but you were outside the Labyrinth when we met… seemingly for a while.”

His footsteps slowed as she asked her questions. His eyes turned up to look at the false sunny sky high above them intensely. He stopped completely.

“Han?” she asked after a moment.

His eyes were flickering this way and that. Looking from one painted cloud to the next. Before, he let out a curse in a language she didn’t understand. The word was sharp and cutting – so at the very least she knew it was a swear.

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer if its—”

“No,” he interrupted, shutting his eyes as his head fell back to look forward once more. “Not that. Its—I don’t know where we are.” He admitted through gritted teeth.

“Oh?” Y/N replied simply.

“Yeah,” he hissed out, glancing backwards down the path. He licked his lips before looking back the way they were headed. “Damn.”

“I mean, that’s not too bad,” Y/N admitted with a soft shrug. “I didn’t know which was to go so let’s just keep going.” She walked ahead of him for once since entering the gardens, taking the reins once more.

“There are tricks everywhere,” he countered. He hadn’t walked a single step.

“We can handle it,” she reached a hand out to him, smiling easily. “We have so far. We’re a pretty good team!”

He looked at her outstretched hand before walking past her with a grumble of ‘this is why I never attempted the Labyrinth by myself.’

Interesting. So not a Runner she noted as she followed after Jisung.

Walking together side-by-side, they paused at each corridor of hedges, peering down them together before deciding together. This way, then that way, let’s go right… wait, we’ve been this way – we need to find a different path. Their murmurs were hushed as they worked together.

“To answer your question, I know a lot of the Underground because I live here,” he commented minutes later.

“Does everyone know the King by name?” she queried in reply.

Han’s gaze hardened as he looked over at Y/N.

“No,” he hummed. “Not many do.”

“So, you sound important.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. Important? When was the last time he felt important, let alone was called important. He wished he could do a spit take it was so humorous.

“You’re kidding me,” he spluttered out.

Her eyes were confused, brows crinkling down over them.

“What?” she asked. “It sounds like you’re important – I don’t know if it’s a good important or bad important. You did know the dungeons inside and out. That troll greeted you like he knew you positively! But the King was not kind to you . . . Were you stuck down there once?” she asked.

Han’s nose turned up. “Remember when I said it was rude to ask about bloodlines, its rude to ask if people were imprisoned, Y/N.” There’s a beat. “And the King is not kind to everyone.”

“You aren’t answering my questions, Han.” She countered.

He huffed. “Yes, I did,” he whined. “I’ve lived here my entire life – which is much longer than your little human life. So, I know places and people and ways and rights and lefts and wrongs and things.”

She rolled her eyes as they followed the path to the right to entered into another courtyard suddenly.

It was empty at first. The sounds of a fountain’s loud spluttering and splashing filled the empty air but like many things in the Labyrinth things were always more than they appeared. One blink and there was a wiry, too-long limbed figure at the lone fountain of the courtyard. Their appearance made the Runner jolt into Jisung, surprisedly. He too jumped back.

The creature in the courtyard was besides a large fountain, embedded into the hedges. It had elaborate tile work making up the fountain’s backing, but also a sculpture acting as the spout. It was a statue of a man, bearded and old, ‘spitting’ into the fountain with puffed-up cheeks. The water spluttered and splattered loudly, churning up large bubbles of soap and suds. Water-soaked stones were green with algae. Black mold crept up the base of the water fountain’s tiles, crawling like thick lichen ‘til it reached the water’s surface. A wicker-basket of darken fabrics bobbed up and down in the roiling waters.

The figure at the water’s edge was boney-thin with long white hair that had a sheen of oil to it as if it hadn’t been washed in days. Her face was gaunt, but she didn’t seem to be an elderly woman somehow despite the sight of her hands. Her hands were wrinkled beyond belief. Leathered and pleated skin around prominent knuckles. They were water-wrinkled and water-logged, purplish and fat, as they plunged into the frothing water of the fountain to scrub at what looked like dark linen pants against a smoothened rock. She shifted and sloshed the water about before grabbing another smooth rock to clank, clank, clank against the pants in the water.

Her own attire – long-flowing skirt of stony grays and marshy greens – were water-soaked and growing fungus along the patterned smock. As she washed, Y/N swore she saw the milky-white water full of soapsuds turn muddy with blood, but in the next blink, it was normal once more.

Jisung leaned in to whisper in the Runner’s ear,” Y/N, do not look away from her.”

She nodded slowly, but her hand reached down to grasp Jisung’s tightly. His rings were cold and pinched at her skin unpleasantly. But they kept her in the present as she heard the woman begin to crow a tune. It was sorrowful and heavy. The bubbling water fountain’s splutter and splatter was an instrument to her tune.

She couldn’t understand the lyrics; they were sung out in a language forgotten by her kind. But she felt it. She could feel the song. Heaviness hung over her slowly but surely. Suffocating her, gravity felt like it clung to her skin, as heavy as the never-ending humidity under the rotunda of the Gardens. She took a deep breath in but it felt like she breathed in soil or water. It felt like she breathed in the song as she was filled with overwhelming sadness. Her lungs ached and burned against her ribs. It felt like someone was leaning against her back with their entire weight, like someone was going to drown her or bury her alive. It was woeful and fearful and sad.

Swallowing, she squeezed Jisung’s hand as they crept forward into the courtyard. His voice was low, lower than the song that the woman cried.

“We can sneak across as long as we-“

“Hello,” Y/N’s voice broke through the mournful melody tumbling out of the fae’s lips.

And like that, the water’s bubbling stopped. The song ceased despite the fae’s mouth remaining open, mid-lyric.

Jisung held her hand tighter, eyes burning and aching to roll – but he kept them on the wench with purpose.

The fae didn’t turn to look. She continued to wash, wash, wash. But the sound of the rock splashing into the water, scrubbing at a stain in the dark fabric, no longer was audible. There was a ringing sound in her ear, distant but ever-present and growing louder and louder until-

“A young woman,” the fae’s voice was dissonate, high and yet low. The tones clashing as they echoed in the oddly quiet air.

Her neck swiveled eerily as she finally looked away from her task, despite her hands continuing to clank the rock against the fabric in a steady beat. Her eyes were a milky white, red rimmed as if she’d been crying. Her face, that Y/N swore was young a moment ago, was strange looking. Wrinkled-cracks of aged skin only was present in the tear tracks down the fae’s cheeks, resulting in her face looking almost like a rippled reflection in a pond. Her opaque eyes looked upon Y/N with little interest; a dead stare. Yet her plumped blue lips pressing into a firm line as she shifted her eerie eyes to Jisung.

“And you.” It was hissed.

Jisung’s smile was bashful, free hand raising to rub at his neck. He wished he could look away.

“Hello,” he breathed, nervously.

“What is a fair maiden doing with the likes of him?” the woman’s voice sounded shrill and sharp, and Y/N noticed that her drowned-lips didn’t match the shape of the words that were spoken. It was as if the words left the fae’s mouth too soon.

“He’s my friend,” Y/N replied. “He’s helping me.”

“Friend,” the creature breathed out, the word sounding like a death rattle.

“Yes, I’ve only just met him, but– please, can you tell–” Jisung squeezed her hand painfully so. “That is-- I have to get to the Castle at the end of this Labyrinth; do you know the way, please?” she rephrased her query.

There was a haunting laugh, dissonant and unfeeling.

“He does not know,” the fae stated. “That is true karma there.”

Jisung winced.

“I—I’m not looking for trouble, please. I am – I’m the Runner,” Y/N said, the title feeling odd against her teeth. But the fae’s milky eyes widened with recognition.

“I’m just trying to return home. That’s all I want.”

The air somehow grew cold as if they were in a marsh rather than a false-lit garden. The hairs on the back of Y/N’s neck stood up and a shudder wracked through her violently.

“Poor maiden,” the fae cooed out. It was strange how that heavy feeling against her back lifted gradually as the fae eyes filled with tears. The bubbling brook’s sputtering gradually rang back into life.

“Y-Yes,” the Runner continued, tongue heavy in her mouth.

The fae gestured for her to come closer with one water-swollen hand. Jisung held her hand tighter, white knuckled with his nails prying into her skin. He bit down on his tongue before he could whimper out her name. Her hand escaped his as Y/N was drawn forward, like she was pulled on a string.

Her eyes hadn’t left the banshee’s – as Jisung warned. As she approached, she could smell the utter stench of stale water, rotten oil, and rotting pine-wood. The creature’s head tilted down as if to instruct her to sit. And she did. There was no fear now – no discord of tones or echoes of the banshee’s voice in her ear as she knelt beside the creature.

The fae continued to wash and wash with one hand; the wicker-basket leaked blood into the cloudy water. The tendons of the fae’s arm looked gaunt. It must hurt and yet her attention was locked on Y/N. Perhaps she needed help.

“Do you need help with that?” Y/N offered, her chin gesturing to the laundry.

The fae’s hand reached out and cupped the human’s cheek. Her hand was spongey as she caressed her cheek but the way the fae brushed her skin was the way a mother would to its child. Soothing, gentle, and kind.

“Sweet maiden, poor maiden,” the fae coddled as she shook her head slowly.

“I’ve seen many young ones snatched away by the Challenge,” the faerie’s words felt less dissonant, growing fuller with each word. In fact, she could almost feel a warmth rounding out the woman’s words. Her eyes were ever-distant as she spoke, staring through Y/N. “None have crossed my path before you – I shall give you the advice I yearned to give their small souls.”

Y/N breathed out in relief: “Thank you, miss.”

The fae hummed out a mournful tune.

“I shall give thee aid with this. The way forwards is sometimes the way back.” She advised. “Quite often, it seems like we aren’t getting anywhere when, in fact,” the hand clashing the rock against the pants ceased with a splash. She lifted the fabric out of the suds, the weave loose and rotting from soaking in the water. She plopped it down onto the stone besides her; water splashing onto Y/N in the process. “We are.”

Swallowing, the Runner nodded, unsure how to use this advice but it felt like this was the better case scenario that could’ve happened.

“I’m not getting anywhere at the moment,” she admitted.

The fae brushed her hair behind her ear, and somehow despite the slimy hand, it felt like her mother brushing her hair when she was a little girl.

“That’s when one must look within,” the fae hummed. “Look within, child.”

She nodded solemnly.

“My favor upon you,” the fae woman croaked as her hand left the Runner’s face and returned to the laundry. “For you. . . and your friend.”

Y/N smiled. Her hands pushing herself up from the cold puddle, her pants now saturated in dark water.

“Alms, if you have any, dear child,” the voice was garbled, and it didn’t come from the banshee, so far as Y/N could tell.

And she’d listen, if Jisung had clawed at her hand like he had. It felt like she had to. Respect was important. She’s seen Hyunjin’s eyes flash into storms at her attitude This woman felt ancient, old and fragile and yet powerful – if Jisung was afraid.

Swallowing, her hands grazed her body, brushing over Jisung’s jewels. She could hear Jisung’s breath hitch behind her before she left the smooth gems. Instead, she fiddled with the ring on her finger. Something she’s had for years, used to pretend to be a princess with as a child. Her mother had many times slid the ring onto her tiny finger and proclaimed her a bride during make-believe. It was costume jewelry – a false emerald framed by a copper metal – that she had started wearing when she found the box of jewelry under her bed. Collecting dust.

Tugging it off, her finger had a ring of green around it from the metal. She offered it to the woman.

“Thank you for your advice,” she thanked. “I can spare this.”

The woman grasped it with both of her water-swollen hands, thumbs brushing over the false gem before dropping it into the waters below. The world whirled to life loudly. Water bubbled; the birds chirped; Jisung huffed far behind them.

“On your way, fair maiden,” the banshee encouraged. “Remember.”

Y/N nodded, backing away and finally peeling her eyes away from the fae and turning away to see Jisung’s stare. A mixture of horror and awe.

“Let’s go, Han,” she whispered, walking towards him, and grabbing his hand solidly. “Let’s go.”

And walked back the way they came.

Her breath was shaky as they finally escaped the fountain’s noises and walked down the path they had walked moments ago. Her face felt damp, water droplets clinging to her skin and sliding down like tears. She wiped at it with the back of her sleeve.

“I don’t know how you did that,” Han breathed out, hand going to push his curls back in shock. His other hand in hers was clammy and wiggly, but nothing compared to the wrinkled, wet hand of the fae. “Do you know what that was?”

Y/N shook her head. “No… I think she didn’t like you.”

“That was a banshee; you’re lucky she didn’t drown you in the water,” he insisted.

“She just seemed sad,” Y/N commented instead.

“I couldn’t hear what she was saying to you after you let go of my hand; what happened?” Han questioned as he sped up to be side-by-side with the Runner, hand dropping hers.

“She gave me advice and her favor.”

Han wowed at her silently, trailing behind her in awe.

“You’re crazy, Y/N,” he muttered. “A human approaching a banshee like that – interrupting her melody,” he tsked deep in his throat. His hands went to his waist as they walked along. “Was her advice to turn back?” he queried sassily.

She looked over her shoulder at the fae, who’s eyes seemed to take her in with a different light. He looked surprised despite his snide comment of turning back.

“Sort of,” she admitted. “It just felt right. Besides, if I’m wrong, I feel like we could pass her if we had to retrace our steps. Now, I’ve got a question for you - how did she know you?” Y/N retorted.

His face fell into that familiar wide-eyed look as if he was caught with his claws in a cookie jar. He looked guilty as he looked aside at the hedge to his right.

“Oh – again, I know people,” he replied casually.

“Mhm,” she hummed unconvinced.

Han purred in his throat, in return.

There was silence for only a fleeting moment before his footsteps hurried forwards until they matched her gait. He was walking backwards now, facing her as he asked, poutful and whiny: “Hey, question from me now: why did you call me that back there?”

Sounds of footsteps behind them made them pause; Jisung’s hand going to her arm as they froze. They paused in their walk. A shift in the winds roared to life, whirling dust into small tornados around their feet. Their hair danced into their eyes, each one reaching up to push the stands aside. The winds died as soon as it came, but the noises didn’t

There was a whispering in the air like the chittering of bugs rubbing their hard-shelled limbs together like violins or the crackling of wood being devoured in a fire pit. Han and Y/N were paused in the middle of a hedge’s path now. A rustling echoed around them like a creature was crawling and hopping between the branches of the shrubbery.

“Y/N,” Han tugged her arm as he tried to track the movement of the brush. The leaves fluttered and rattled as some force pushed its way through the shrubbery. The Runner hushed him, hand sliding to grasp his once more. The duo was quiet for a moment as they looked around their surroundings.

The leaves rustled and shifted around them, whistling, and whispering as they shuddered and shook. It sounded like a windy day; the way trees shift and rub against one another in melodic tunes. Old, crinkled leaves tumbled off dark branches as an opening crackled open in front of them with a groan of birchwood and oak. The vines and leaves writhed as they withered out of the way to form a new archway high above them. Groaning, rattling, trembling leaves. And then silence.  A new path was there – ready to be explored.

It was silent once more, and the pair’s eyes rose from the new archway to each other.

“I haven’t seen that happen before,” Han admitted, quietly to her. He understood why Hyunjin was fascinating by her now – why he wanted her. Why he had taken the wish of hers on the stroke of midnight on the highest peak of the moon.

The pair jumped as the hedges trembled again, fluttering almost, but nothing major happened except for their shiver in and out. Like they sighed, inhale and exhale. Exhausted from their efforts.

Leaning forward, Y/N observed the new pathway. It curved and snaked one way unlike the previous pathways they’ve taken where it had gone straight, onwards for forever before they hit a dead end with either a left or a right to be made.

Maybe – the banshee’s advice was right. Maybe going backwards was going forwards sometimes.

Letting go of Han’s hand, the Runner entered the new pathway and, after an anxious pause, Han followed. His fingers played with her bracelet on his wrist as he took a few quick steps to catch up with her. Once inside, the hedges shuddered and grew to fill in the entrance behind them.

The Runner paused, head swiveling only to see the hedges finish closing in their new entranceway.

“Okay, so we’re stuck going this way,” she mumbled before they began to walk once more.

The silence between them could only last so long before she wondered aloud. “I called you what?” she asked as they walked onwards.

The path curved and she swore she could hear footsteps following them for sure. But like before nothing was behind them when she glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, oh – you called me your friend,” Han replied. The words ‘your friend’ sounded forced as if he had never heard of the term before. It was foreign and strained coming out of his pretty mouth.

“Because you are,” the Runner said simply. Looking over her shoulder at him, she took in his distrustful, anxious form with a snort. He spun the plastic beads around his dainty wrist over and over. She offered him a genuine smile. “You’re my only friend down here, Han.”

Han stuttered in his step, tripping over his feet at her honest words. He’s had enemies, lovers, and allies. He couldn’t remember the last time he had someone to call a friend – except maybe… for him.

He liked it. He missed it. He felt his cheeks burn, and his chest tighten as he looked away from the Runner, who had already focused her gaze back on their new trail.

“Oh. I – I like that,” he whispered out. And he sounded honest. No wittiness to his words, no snark. Just an open sigh of a reply.  “I didn’t think we—”

His voice was interrupted by a feral roar that sounded like a mix between a tiger and a bear. Animalistic and angry. Han’s eyes widened to size of saucers as he immediately turned around from their path, running.

“Wait! Han!” Y/N cried out, reaching for the back of his vest like many times before. It escaped her grasp as he squirmed away.

Continuing to walk backwards, hands up in defense, he shook his head back and forth insistently.

“Keep the stuff, I don’t care – I’m not getting torn up by whatever that is!” he argued over the loud rolling growls.

“This path has to be the way – the hedges literally opened up for us,” The Runner argued, trying to grab his arm.

“I don’t care, I’m not walking towards certain death. No banshee’s favor. No human’s sneaky tricks. I’m going back!” Han screeched, evading her hands and slapping at them with wild gestures. When she managed to grasp his arm, he tugged himself away from her with a hiss.

“I’ll find a way out! I’ll claw through the hedges; I’m not going that way!” he cried out. His words were almost overpowered by the growls and screeches.

“You said you’d help!” she yelped out. “I thought we were friends!”   

Han was too anxious to even think as he yelped, “No, no, I don’t have any friends – I mean, I --- I can’t I just.. I’m sorry.” He spluttered out as he ran away.

“You coward!” she cried out as he escaped from view. Huffing, she turned back to face the cacophony of growl, grunts, roars, and the occasional yell of ‘Stop it!’ bombarding her from the nearby archway. It was the only way forward.  

It sounded monstrous and scary but the Runner couldn’t help but feel in her bones that this was the way. Maybe it was the banshee’s favor or optimism. Glancing up, she could see the Castle, ever in the distance, straight ahead of her. She had only so many hours left and, with the weight of Han’s treasures on her hip, she realized she had to face it alone. Holding her breath, she crept forward.

All she had to do was step into the newest courtyard of danger.

[new-dinosaurs]

Minimocursor phunoiensis Manitkoon et al., 2023 (new genus and species)

(Type specimen of Minimocursor phunoiensis, from Manitkoon et al., 2023)

Meaning of name: Minimocursor = smallest runner [in Latin]; phunoiensis = from Phu Noi

Age: Late Jurassic (more precise age uncertain)

Where found: Phu Kradung Formation, Kalasin, Thailand

How much is known: Partial skeleton including much of the vertebral column and parts of the skull and limbs. An isolated lower jaw and a partial hindlimb are also known. Other isolated bones from the same locality may belong to this species as well.

Notes: Minimocursor was a neornithischian, a large group of plant-eating dinosaurs including the duck-billed hadrosaurids, dome-headed pachycephalosaurs, and horned ceratopsids. It is the oldest and most completely known neornithischian from Southeast Asia. Neornithischians included some of the biggest and most spectacular ornithischian ("bird-hipped") dinosaurs, but the earliest members of the group were small, bipedal forms, and it was this ancestral body plan that was retained by Minimocursor.

The type specimen of Minimocursor belongs to an individual that is estimated to have been around 60 cm long in total body length, though it was likely not fully grown when it died. Based on isolated bones of larger neornithischians from the same locality, adult Minimocursor may have been closer to 2 m in total length, which would still make them pretty small by ornithischian standards.

(Schematic skeletal of Minimocursor phunoiensis by Wongwech Chowchuvech, with preserved bones of the type specimen in white and those of additional specimens in purple [some bones of the left hindlimb are also known in the type specimen], from Manitkoon et al., 2023)

Reference: Manitkoon, S., U. Deesri, B. Khalloufi, T. Nonsrirach, V. Suteethorn, P. Chanthasit, W. Boonla, and E. Buffetaut. 2023. A new basal neornithischian dinosaur from the Phu Kradung Formation (Upper Jurassic) of northeastern Thailand. Diversity 15: 851. doi: 10.3390/d15070851

[yellosnacc]

Raindeer (deer but for Uniima)

Decided the Uniima continent will be Foru. (It has no meaning I know of right now.)

Not completelly satisfied with these but they are one of the few animals Uniima C hunt because these creatures still fail to adapt to being easilly spoted.

Raindeer are very good at not being seen by most predators even in herds but are also good runners (not as good as deer the mammal), making them surprisingly successful group for how specilised they are.

Unlike most animals on Foru, they only have two unusual eyes/eye domes. These eyes face in two opposite directions at once and can rorate a little thanks to raindeer's strange skull. However, raindeer will mostly move their head to see other directions unless they are in stealth mode.

[atticcreationz]

💙🍀🥳

💙 favorite character from tgwdlm and why?

God I love Bill. He's so sweet and kind and dear god my man is trying so hard to be there for his daughter. Or maybe I just relate to him because I too would find it hard to threaten someone convincingly and would be drinking Shirley Temples in a bunker scenario lol. Bummer that due to the nature of the story (singing = danger/bad guys) we don't get to hear Corey sing as Bill coz I looooove his voice but man his performance is so warm. And his story breaks my heart, whenever I see fanart of him and Alice I just 😭 Runner up character, Charlotte, because Jaime Lyn's character voice and performance cracks me up 😂

🍀 favorite song?

Mmmmmm ok so High School Is Killing Me has some recency bias but god I still feel the same amount of hype when I hear that modulation into the final chorus as I did the very first time I heard it, the whole song is just impeccable (yes including twenty wern). But it ties for first with Show Stopping Number. We all remember where we were the first time Hidgens sat down at the keyboard. When I show friends this musical (why do I say friends plural when you dearie and my partner are the only ones I've watched TGWDLM with 😂) I absolutely REVEL in waiting for the moment this song starts because I know the journey they're about to go on ahahahaha. Sometimes when I'm absentmindedly singing to myself when I'm doing chores or in the shower, I will realise that I've been humming show stopping number (Pokotho would get my ass so fast)

🥳 least favorite song?

Off the top of the dome, gut instinct, I'll say Tied Up My Heart. Funny character moment, but I don't vibe with the music itself at all for whatever reason, it feels almost like it goes on a little too long for me, and I always skip it. Besides, it's followed up by the absolute banger Join Us And Die, so unfortunately it never stood a chance.

the ask game for anyone who wants to play it too!

[thattube]

The Jokoro Runners

As promised here are some folks from the Sojinya region. These the Jokoro runners, a small racing team formed by Nion and Riyon. Initially formed after Riyon started to get involved with Nions racing blogs and podcasts the group was named after the duos favourite road to race on, a road that Sojinya's underground racing scene dubbed Jokoro. This road links the outsider village of Nokoll to the much larger city of Dome 13, where the Jokoro runners have their headquarters and meetups. The members, in order from left to right, are:

Ruvion- A delivery driver for his uncles takeaway place in Nokoll, he's driven the "jokoro route" unknowingly since he was 15 delivering meals to the inhabitants of dome 13. Seemingly spaced out and unfocused Ruvion seems to be in his own world most the time acting quite laid back. As far as Ruvion knew before joining the Jokoro runners his delivery route was simply a quiet road with very little traffic that made deliveries much easier and the perfect place to entertain himself after deliveries by trying to drift as close to guard rails as possible or timing his drive back to Nokoll challenging himself to get down as quick as possible, unaware that what he was doing for fun was infact preparing him for a career in Sojinya's underground racing scene and making him the perfect candidate for Nions team.

Nion- The teams founder and a former racer in a local rally series Nion left professional racing and started a blog where he posted racing strategy, car modification and maintenance and interviews with former and current professional racers between seasons. Nion is usually professional but he does have a more smug and cocky side to him and he's never been one to turn down an opponent, many challengers have faced him at Jokoro and none have bested him which be believes more than justifys his confidence. An expert at all things racing Nion seeks to create the perfect "racing theory" that fully explains everything that goes into a race and its results, he'll take any opportunity to talk about almost any aspect of racing and loves learning more about it and the people involved at all levels whether that be streetracers who spit in the face of the law, trackday enthusiasts who simply want to test their cars performance, rallyists who fight the enviromnent itself as they drive or the very top racers in Dunems most prestigious racing series.

Traya- Acting as a lookout for the bottom of the Jokoro route Traya is a newer addition to the team, having met Riyon and Nion during their practice sessions. Needing a place to stay and knowing the two have a reputation for helping where they can she asked if she could stay, offering her services as a mechanic in exchange for somewhere to call home. Initially Nion wanted to decline her being suspicious of her but Riyon convinced him to let her stay saying she had a good heart and that she'd be a valuable addition to the team. Trusting Riyons judgement Nion decided to let Traya stay at the jokoro runners headquarters and Riyon was quickly proven right, Traya was brilliant at her job easily diagnosing and fixing almost any problem their cars had and being more than capable of assisting them with the installation of any modifications. While she's more outgoing around friends she tends to get nervous around people she hasn't quite gotten used to yet, acting more reserved and hidden speaking only when needed and with very few words, starkly contrasting the more peppy and excitable Traya that Riyon and Nion have come to know.

Riyon- Finally theres Riyon, son of Mr Zepelya and the teams original mechanic before Traya showed up. He acts as the lookout at the top of the Jokoro route, informing racers of any cars coming into the route from the top. Riyons a chill and relaxed person never taking things too seriously and always trying to have fun and look on the brightside as he trys to entertain the people around him. He's cool and charismatic with a hint of eccentricity in the way he acts and speaks, believing in the supernatural and the power of crystals claiming they have the ability to influence the world around someone in numerous ways such as bringing them good luck, improving their health, making them more perceptive or repelling negative influences and bad luck.

[sintechcctv]

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