#even in a space with no 'magic' the rot is so powerful they did it to themselves anyway

[biowho]

Shadow Dragons Blurb anon - YES that's exactly the one I mean! The little backstory bit when selecting the faction?

Fantastic! (I put the og question in this for anyone else who's confused)

I'm going to break down every part of it because I'm not sure how long you've been playing Dragon Age or how much preexisting lore you know, and I'm wording this like you've never played a DA game before (sorry for any redundancy) Also this is just my take on it so keep that in mind xx

Rook risked everything to liberate the incident people of Tevinter, even though it would anger the ruin elite -> Tevinter was built on and functions upon the back of their slaves' labor. Without it, the empire is nothing. This makes the Shadow Dragons as a concept and an organization a threat to the empire's power

The foundling Rook was adopted into a military family and joined the Shadow Dragons to fight from the shadows for change in Minrathous. -> A foundling is someone who was abandoned as an infant or a very young child and then cared for by the people who found them (which gives the 4 race options an explanation as to why they're in the city...or at least the player the ability to infer one themselves) Minrathous is the capital and largest city in Tevinter and where all the big decisions get made. The military aspect of the Mercar family to me implies Rook's adopted family are Soporati, which is one of the lower classes in Tevinter - members of this class often serve in the military. (The family's rank would be higher if any of them are mages, how many generations of mages the Mercars' have would raise the rank even higher. Personally, I'm interested in what happens if you play as a mage Rook and if no other Mercar has magic and if any of them will be seen outside my AO3)

While guarding a visiting dignitary who was investigating a slavery ring in the nearby city of Nessus, Rook concluded that the mission would fail without throwing caution to the wind. -> Rook was on a job for the Shadow Dragons where they were ment to act as a bodyguard for an unknown man of high rank (my fingers are crossed that it was Dorian) I believe Nessus is a typo and it's supposed to be Nessum, the city featured in Absolution. Whoever the dignitary was, he wasn't able to get the information he needed to uncover/stop the slave ring one way or another so Rook overstepped themselves, disobeying orders to just guard the dignitary to get him to the information he needed by putting him in danger

Alone, they snuck the dignitary deep into Venatori-controlled zones and brought him back, along with the rescued slaves. -> Venatori are blood magic and red lyrium (both not good) using mages which are rotting Tevinter from the top down, They're the main antagonistic force against everything the Shadow Dragons stand for. So, not only did Rook disobey their orders, they led this important official through very dangerous spaces that, if they had gotten caught, would have gotten both of them killed and compromise a part of if not all of their faction. However, the risk of getting the dignitary closer to the ring paid off and every slave was freed, and the dignitary was returned unharmed

These actions brought Rook to the Venatori's attention, and the Shadow Dragons decided to keep Rook out of sight. -> Rook's on a shit list now. The opposition knows what they look like/who they are and has been effectively taken from the shadows and put under a spotlight. I'm assuming the Viper, the leader of the Shadow Dragons, made the call to shelve Rook so no other job would be compromised by them being recognized

[pochapal]

the trap keeps springing. the tension and fear so high that rationality fades away in favor of stepping right into the witch narrative

[cryptid-ghoulette]

Trouble Maker

More Phantom brain rot? (its more likely that you'd think, especially when @sister-nyx is involved)

Heres some fluffy phantom being a nuisance. WC 680 Implied spice at the end, but no real warnings, its fluffy as heck.

It wasn't uncommon for quint ghouls to have health issues; something about the way they're created can lead to omplications with their new vessels. In the pit, they don't have a physical form, and it's hard for their new bodies to contain the powerful magic they possess. Most of the time, it's little things like eyesight or hearing issues, but sometimes it can be more serious, like missing or malformed limbs.

When Phantom was summoned alongside multi-ghoul Aurora, all seemed to be going as planned. Sure, there were a few teething issues, but nothing they wouldn't adjust to with time. After all, it must be strange suddenly having a physical form (so many moving parts!). He settled well into the pack, the others all loving him and his childlike wonder, even if they had to answer what felt like a million questions a day.

Not long into the first tour though, the pack noticed he seemed to be having trouble with his hearing. It was just small things at first, like when they were all gathered backstage. Copia often had to repeat himself several times before getting a reply, with Mountain having to gently nudge his shoulder to get his attention.

It all came to a boiling point one night when they were all gathered in the kitchen after a particularly stressful rehearsal, each slumped on various chairs and benches. Dew was trying to get Phantom's attention, who was staring off into space, completely oblivious to Dew (and seemingly everyone else). Finally, he turned when Dew shouted his name, the anger in his words catching him off guard. Dew pulled him into the hall, Phantom confused about what he'd done to anger the fire ghoul so much.

"Did I do something wrong, Dew?" Dew sighed, considering his words, trying to make them come out without too much venom. "Listen, bug, I think we all just need to have a chat about what's going on with you lately. You seem even more of a space cadet than usual." He gave a half-hearted chuckle at the end, trying to lighten the mood seeing the rising concern on Phantom's face. He wrapped one arm around the little quint. "It's okay, let's go and talk to the others; we're all just. worried about you," guiding them back into the kitchen.

The pack all agreed that these incidents were becoming more frequent, and they were getting increasingly concerned (and their patience was admittedly wearing thin), so they figured they'd best take him to get checked, worried he might have some kind of hearing issue, or something else they weren't even aware of. Phantom didn't really understand what the issue was, but he agreed to go see Aether if it made the others feel better.

After waiting in the hall for what felt like forever, Aether emerged from the infirmary, the small ghoul beside him, and a smug grin on his face. "I've got good news and bad news," he said rather matter-of-factly. "The good news is he doesn't appear to have any hearing loss; in fact, he has above-average hearing for a ghoul of his element."

"So, then what's the bad news?" Mountain softly inquired, concern growing in his voice. The others began whispering between themselves, hushed tones, clearly also visibly confused.

“Well, the bad news is, it would appear that without any medical cause for his hearing troubles, our newest quintessence ghoul is just being mischievous," Aether chuckled, tousling the small ghoul's hair and gently nudging him back to his pack. "That part, you'll have to figure out on your own. There's no medicine for that as far as I'm aware."

The ghouls all turned to look at Phantom, a deep blush spreading across his face, staring at the ground and silently wishing it would swallow him whole. However, his shame spiral was interrupted when Mountain stepped forward and swiftly picked him up, tossing him effortlessly over one shoulder, simply saying, "I can think of a few ways to fix that." The others erupted into laughter, the smaller ghoul happily kicking his legs behind him as they disappeared down the hallway toward the bedroom.

[dgrailwar]

Round 8, Day 1 - ALL TEAMS (but mostly Team Pretender) - [ TRUE NAME DISSOLUTION ]

Team Pretender chooses to trigger the Pretender's True Name Dissolution! Oberon's gameplay style, personality, skills, and perhaps even the current state of the Grail War will cha--

"Ahh… you're sure? This would be a pretty nasty spoiler… I mean, might spoil things in a pretty nasty way."

"Well, if you say so. Let's put up a curtain, just in case anyone wants to remain in this illusion of bliss."

Ah. So you decided to keep reading? Good. I hope you're ready. Because in exchange for visuals, you'll have to live with words.

You watched as the form of 'Oberon' began to decay, his form withering and rotting away into dark, pulpy matter. The process was vile and agonizing, the smell of sloughing sinew and blackening bones filling the forest. The bugs crawled to the disgusting carcass, worming their way in, making nests and feasting greedily as the fairy king dropped to the earth, his body no more than a dark puddle that slowly grew in size, before rising.

Rising, and rising.

A swarm of darkness, rising and rising.

A vile king, an abyssal worm, rising above the digital space.

An empty entity that loathed existence itself. An eternal pit that swallowed worlds.

And as naught but innocent bystanders, the Masters could only watch in horror, for how could they have known this would happen?!

Hah!

Yeah, right. That's horseshit.

Of course they knew what would happen. They just didn't care. Not about the others, or how things would change. That's human nature, you know? Ruin things because it seems interesting at the moment. That's the simple fact of the matter.

They probably looked on proudly. 'We did it!', they would declare, 'We summoned such a mighty and powerful Servant, and none will stand in our way', they probably proclaimed. Or, perhaps even more naively (and perhaps even worse), 'Our friend now has the power to win'! Blegh. Anyways.

Then, as the audience is given a beat to grapple in the horror of the scenario, in a manner of surprising comedic timing they would check their Command Spells… and they would be gone.

'Gone? How could they be gone?', would be the question buzzing in their minds, panic beginning to settle in. Of course, the answer was simple.

That giant abyssal creature did not exist, and yet did exist. A 'hole', only truly meant for a Lost World.

Anyways, do you want a big explanation on how each Servant suffers and dies under the curse, and how the Grail crumbles and withers into itself, reverting to nothing, and how the magical energy suffused by this dark entity breaks free from this digital prison, dooming this world? I mean, I could. Sure.

But why bother? It's basically settled. Here.

What was that thing that Shakespeare had Puck say at the end of that bullshit play?

"If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream."

It's over. You can leave now.

The dream is done.

The Abyssal Wyrm comes and everyone dies. Meaning you've reached a...

I said you can go.

Leave, shoo. Go away.

There's not much past this, so bye.

…Hah! Fine. I lied. I mean, obviously. What a shit ending that would be otherwise. Let's keep it 'sporting', then. This whole farce makes me want to puke, so I need to let out my anger on someone before this ends. Ah- wait, this is narration. No more 'I'. Let's stay detached, lest this become a monologue.

Now, let's settle the matter of where this story stands.

There was the melting, the decay, the ruination of the idea of 'Oberon'. Check.

The insects feasting, nesting, and crowding on his decaying body, a ritual to send his body to the earth, and arise anew. Duh.

The vanishing Command Spells, as you realized that your connection was nothing more than a scam. Of course.

The giant abyssal creature looming over the horizon. Obviously.

That stuff happened. Remember it.

But the Servants didn't die (yet).

The digital space wasn't swallowed by darkness (yet).

All isn't lost (yet).

Those were lies. Though, if I'm the one saying it…

Ah, whatever. Now... how did these sort of things go for the others? Right, right.

Behold, the vile king of the abyss. He who resides wherever 'emptiness' lies. The wrath of the Planet, given form and cursed with eternal loathing and hollow truth. He who only should have existed within the confines of the Lost World, as he has no role within human history. He, made of lies, sheds his farcical shell. He who makes you go 'Oh, we, uh, should have summoned the Archetype of the Planet for this one' with dumb mouths agape!

Behold, the end of worlds and dreams. The one who fells the morning lark. The one who consumes the evening shroud. The one who devours the twilight.

Behold--

The Extra Class of Endless Deceit, Pretender!

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Saint of the Smallest Sun

The first time Ambriel came to earth, it was new, and fresh, and innocent. The lesser angels were taken on a tour in proto-humanoid-vessels, before the real humans were awoken. Ambriel had stepped into a pile of rotting fruit with her vessel's bare foot, and decided not to come again if she could help it.

The second time she came to earth, it had had an extra 4.5 billion years in which to rot, and she was forced there. One moment, she was processing information through the incorporeal fibers of her wings, and the next she was bound to a 5 foot circle of space in a human form wearing a pantsuit. She looked from the ring of holy fire surrounding her to the room it was set in; a crumpled bed with a stretched out photograph as  the duvet pattern, a series of posters depicting scenes from the Winchester Gospels, a chunky computer monitor showing a forum comment page, and a young woman kneeling amongst a flurry of papers with a mortar and pestle beside her, the crackle of after-magic still hovering over it. The woman was staring at her, eyes and mouth agape, like one of the fish that the archangel Gabriel kept brandishing at anyone close to him on that first day on earth. Ambriel had only seen it from a distance, but the image had remained in her mind, as everything she learned remained.

Ambriel touched her own cheek gently, and then pinched it hard between her fingers. She winced. This wasn't a vessel. This temporary form must have been crafted by the spell, which suggested that the person who brought her here was either a powerful spellcaster or had an abnormally strong sense of will. She glanced skeptically back at the kneeling woman, who had brought up both hands to cover her mouth and was still just staring at her. Maybe there was a third option.

"Can you let me go?" She tried, careful to speak with her new vocal chords instead of her true voice. It scratched a little, but seemed serviceable. "I have like, a lot to do."

"Mmnnhn," the human said, muffled by her own hands, and then she started and dropped them: "I mean. Michael. Wow! I was expecting - I mean, just based on all the other characters, I thought you'd be, you know, a guy. Not that there's anything wrong with girls - I - I was such a big fan of Jo! You know, after it was clear she wasn't going to be a threat to the brother's relationship. I just think it gets in the way, sometimes, like, the story is about men, why do girls even need to be involved, you know? But I am a feminist! So, yeah, I- I love that you're a woman that's - that's great."

Ambriel squinted at her, deeply confused. What is she talking about? This seemed to fluster the woman, who finally blinked, and rapidly.

"Oh, god. Don't ramble Becky. Be normal. Be normal, Becky. Okay! So..."

The woman - Becky, presumably - lowers her forehead to the floor and links her fingers in front of her in a prayer pose. Her voice trembles when she speaks again:

"Dear...you. I know I'm not important to the story. And I know it's not fated or plotted or anything. But I thought...I have to try, right? That's what Sam would do. Trying against impossible odds is what Supernatural is all about. So, I'm here on behalf of humanity to beg for our lives. Please. Don't do the Apocalypse. It'd be really bad if you did the Apocalypse. Chuck's not the most descriptive writer, but from what I've seen of his notes...yikes. And it's already pretty bad now, just with Lucifer walking the Earth. Just, grab him and duke it out on Mars, or something, if you really have to fight. Please, please, just leave the Earth alone."

"You want me to...cancel the Apocalypse?" Ambriel asked, and Becky desperately nodded. "Oh, I can't do that. So, can you let me out now, or...?"

Read my Becky/Ambriel fic, Saint of the Smallest Sun, on ao3 for more!

[madforhoran]

"You could start a cult"

Let me preface this by saying - I am really not a good writer and english is not my first language. I just wanted to get this little piece off my chest to spread some positivity with the spawn!Star ending amongst all the angst, etc.

It's dumb, cheesy, and maybe lame...😅

Word count: 5400

Mentions of: blood, cannibalism (not graphically described in detail)

Also posted on AO3

“You’re brooding, my love,” Astarion remarked, poking his finger into Leliana’s cheek. The creases in her face were only getting deeper than they already were at age thirty-five but she couldn’t help herself. She felt unworthy of the man laying next to her, not really knowing what he saw in her. He could’ve had everything and instead this was what he ended up with. A bland sub-par sorcerer and a life in the shadows as they hadn’t been successful thus far in finding a solution for day-walking. It’s been a month since they parted ways from everyone at the docks, studying dusty ancient tomes, asking powerful magic artisans for help. Some were willing to assist but for a hefty price which they couldn’t afford.

She hated herself for losing hope so quickly, becoming paranoid Astarion was going to resent her. 

She didn’t understand how their relationship came to be in the first place. He was funny, quick-witted, beautiful. She let herself be seduced by all the corny lines because she never experienced anything like that before. Such a man talking to her? Only in her wildest dreams. She took the opportunity despite her deep insecurities and unsurprisingly, being in his arms didn’t erase them. She kept thinking about her gangly limbs, folds, and other things she hated about herself. It was definitely a one-off, she thought as she woke up the next morning. However, it wasn’t. To her surprise, he asked her to join him in his tent later. If this was the way in which to keep him, she didn’t mind, at the same time she was still expecting that surely these escapades would soon end. 

On the way to Shadowlands they managed to save enslaved gnomes, which ultimately Astarion didn’t like because of his own prejudices, saying they had their free will to rebel. Unlike him under Cazador. So why should they receive help when they didn’t even ask? Leliana helped them anyway. 

Then they came across a very strange fish tribe who were most thankful for Leliana purifying the lake and adjacent area from parasitic mushrooms. The tribe was close to extinction otherwise as their young were dying from the effects of the mushroom poison. The fish kept bowing, mumbling something incongruent. Halsin was doing all the translating and assisting with the work but ultimately the fish tribe thanked her and gave her a piece of kelp. Halsin said it was a token of utmost gratitude. Astarion complained it reeked of fish rot and wanted her to burn it in the campfire once they were out of earshot. He was ridiculous, whiny, selfish, but she couldn’t help being absolutely enamoured by him. He made her laugh and curled around her like a cat at night.

When he told her how for him the sex was just to get her on his side for protection but he fell for her, opening up about his own issues with intimacy, it was a whirlwind of emotions, sadness for what he went through but mostly an immense relief, happiness like no other. She agreed to give him space, accepted they needn’t have to be intimate unless he wanted to. She wasn’t going to push him as for her sex was never important. With these revelations her wild magic was going crazy since then. Lae’zel gave her a proper tongue lashing after she almost turned her into a frog during the fight with the absolute cultists at Moonrise. 

“This elven dick is costing you braincells, Leliana! Tsk’va!” 

Shadowheart and Karlach were taking the piss out of her for it. Little did they know all Star and her were doing in his tent was kissing or reading books. It was fun times, despite all the elder brain craziness and impending doom happening around them. 

She wasn’t thinking how their lives were going to be afterwards, especially after confronting Cazador and stopping the diabolical ritual Astarion was tied to. Reliving those moments in her mind became an ongoing nightmare. The safety the power offered, ability to stay in the sun, to enjoy food. True freedom. More often then not she felt regret for pleading with him not to do it despite knowing there were seven thousand lives at stake who would’ve been sacrificed to the devil. 

“How do you not hate me?” she asked. “I’m useless. You wanted the best for us both and I ruined it.”

His brows furrowed. “Is this about the ritual?”

“Yeah.”   

“I really miss the stupid tadpole in moments like these,” he sighed and gripped her hand. His fingers trailed her knuckles eliciting tiny sparkles of static energy. It always amazed her how gentle he could be. “You stopped me from killing seven thousand innocent people. I did choose you over the power because you believed I don’t need it and you were right even though I occasionally give you shit for it,” he added with a smirk. “We’re getting by just fine, darling.”

“But…”

“Shush.”

“Astar-,” she gasped as his mouth covered hers in a deep kiss, his fangs slightly cutting the insides of her lip. “I love you, you absolutely impossible infuriating woman. Don’t you dare question me or yourself.” 

“It’s not only the day-walking but your feeding as well, I know my blood is too weak to sustain you. I hate that you have to go hunt.”

“Then I have to start feeding you better. No more of those scrawny chickens from the market. I spotted quite a juicy boar last night in the woods.” He bared his fangs, giving her the cheeky devilish grin she adored so much. There was something more he wanted to say as his eyes trailed down towards her lap. “You’ve given me plenty when you…well, can I say it out loud?”

She turned beet red, a wave of intense arousal coursing through her remembering the first time they made love when she was bleeding couple weeks ago, her blood all over his deft fingers, his tongue languidly licking and tasting the inside of her thighs. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was, she should be disgusted with herself. She didn’t want him to ever feel like his vampirism is what attracted her to him. 

“Do not say it,” she hissed through gritted teeth and he chuckled, pushing her onto the bed, his erection firm against her groin. Every single cell in her body screamed as he kissed her. Another perfect distraction manoeuvre, another thing he was so annoyingly good at. 

“Looking forward to it next month,” he mumbled, pressing more kisses down her neck and collarbone. “Now allow me, I’m going to get that boar. Someone is hungry.” 

She watched him walk out, swallowing a huge lump in her throat. In spite of his assurances Leliana couldn’t get rid of the intrusive thoughts of regret and self-hatred.

* * *

When days started to become shorter, they packed their necessities and locked their little cottage on the outskirts of Rivington. Research bore no fruit and they didn’t want to waste more precious time sitting about or begging old crusty arcane arts specialists for a discount. They needed money, and Astarion’s hands were getting stir crazy as it’s been a while since he sank his teeth or dagger into a monster or a bad guy.

Monsters needed killing, bad guys needed punishing, might as well earn something from it. 

Unsurprisingly they found trouble in the very first village they walked into after leaving Rivington. Shabby crooked houses nested around a small tavern, the most luxurious building was most likely the mayor’s house on the top of a small hill.

The tavern was full but the mood oddly not as cheery as one would expect. Patrons were staring into their drinks, nobody laughed or spoke out loud. “I smell blood in the air, stale,” Astarion remarked quietly as they sat down in the corner on the tiny rickety chairs. “It’s foul.”

“Like Araj’s?” Leliana asked alarmingly. Astarion visibly shook. “Gods below, no, but gross nonetheless. I can smell it coming from that creepy man.” 

“The one at the bar talking to the young woman?” Astarion nodded. The young girl was barely an adult, visibly intoxicated. As the evening progressed she seemed less able to keep her head up. After a while the man dragged her out of the tavern like a puppet. Leliana thought that at least someone from the patrons would react but nobody did as if it was a normal occurrence. Astarion walked up the bar and quickly picked up the half-emptied glass the girl left behind. The liquid was spiked with some herb, Leliana wasn’t sure what kind. “I don’t like it. Let’s go after them,” she said.

Astarion’s dagger glinted in the palm of his hand. “Yes, let’s.”

They followed the pair under the invisibility spell. The man was heading towards the house on the hill and locked the door after he pulled the young woman inside. They waited a few moments to make sure the man didn’t know they were there. Locked doors of course were no trouble for Astarion. The only issue was he couldn’t get into the house uninvited. “Be careful, darling,” he told Leliana.

She refocused her invisibility spell and walked in. She searched through the bottom and upper floor, the rooms were empty. Where did that bastard go? She began looking for any hidden doors or contraptions and found a latch leading to the basement from the kitchen. Upon opening it, she was hit with the stench Astarion mentioned. She couldn’t smell it back in the tavern but now it attacked her like a punch in the face, the smell of blood and rotten meat. Instincts were telling her that the any wasted second could cost the young woman her life. 

When she stepped down to the basement, she spotted him leaning over the unconscious body. He was biting into the woman’s thigh as she laid in midst of bloodied body parts and what were most likely human bones. Leliana barely suppressed the reflex to vomit. She quickly immobilised the man with a spell and teleported both him and the woman outside where Astarion was eagerly waiting.

“The asshole was too preoccupied to even notice me. He tried to eat her. There’s a mount of rotting half eaten corpses in his basement,” Leliana said. “I have to patch her up, can you watch over him? And you know what, let’s make him squirm a little,” she added and ended the holding spell. 

“What the hells are you doing?!” The man exclaimed as Astarion grabbed him by the collar. “I’m the mayor, how dare you!” 

“I see we interrupted your little midnight snack, didn’t we?” Astarion asked, aiming his dagger at the mayor’s jugular. “How about I give you the taste of your own medicine?”

The man’s eyes darted towards Astarion’s exposed fangs, ready to strike.

“Lay your dog off me, woman, or else!” He screamed. Leliana shot a witch bolt right into his chest, a weaker one but painful nonetheless. She fucking hated anyone insulting Astarion like that. “He’s. Not. A dog!” She hissed.

Astarion smiled at her appreciatively with a hint of promise in his eyes. He liked when she was righteously aggressive. “I wouldn’t try to piss off a lady who can fry your balls off and feed them to the wolves. Or a man who can rip out your throat in an instant.”

The mayor’s yelling and snivelling woke the sleeping villagers and all came out of their houses, tavern patrons too. “Step aside, that’s my daughter!” A distraught female voice echoed in the middle of the village square. A woman in her fifties ran towards them and dropped to her knees, cradling the still unconscious daughter in her lap. 

“What in the hells is going on?” Someone from the gathered crowd inquired. “Your mayor here has an acquired taste for human meat, it seems. A mount of corpses, you said, love?”

Leliana nodded, tightening the witchbolt still connected to the man’s chest. “He must’ve drugged the girl and then took her to his house to eat her. Quite a few young women must’ve disappeared like this, I assume.” 

The woman whose daughter they saved spoke up. “Five in last couple of years, but he always blamed the disappearances on wild animals or bandits.”

Leliana shivered with disgust. “The house needs to be burned down, else you’re risking a plague.”

“But what are we going to do with him?” Asked the tavern’s barkeeper, pointing towards the mayor. Everyone was looking expectantly at her and Astarion who was sprung like a whip. “My partner will gladly get rid of him for you or we leave him at your mercy.”

“NO!!!” The man yelled once again, pissing his pants. Astarion scrunched up his nose but didn’t loosen his grip. “Oh, I’m rather enjoying this. Can I kill him now? Though watching the angry mob tear this piece of dirt to pieces would be equally as satisfying.”    

The man writhed in Astarion’s grip like a worm. “My fellow villagers, I implore you, don’t be foolish, can’t you see there’s a vampire standing among us? He’s the one who did it! I finally caught himandhiswitch! You’re going to believe two strangers and murderers instead of your mayor?!” 

Astarion let out a sarcastic high pitched laugh. “Ha! Nice try!” 

A wave of unease spread throughout the crowd. Leliana sensed the situation could turn dire unless the drugged girl was woken up as the only reliable witness. 

“He-he killed them and she with her witchcraft moved the bodies to my h-home!” He shrieked. 

“Oh, spare me your bullshit, mayor Randolf, it’s you who was at the bar with the girl,” said the burly barkeeper. The mayor gulped. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side, Horace?”  

“I thought you were just bedding them, not murdering them! I was so fucking stupid.” 

“This is amazing,” Astarion chuckled, pressing his dagger to the tender flesh of the man’s neck. “May I?” 

“Kill him,” said the hoarse quiet voice of the mother. Others agreed with the judgment. Astarion efficiently slit the man’s throat and it was over. The villagers inspected the basement, indeed finding their missing daughters, those whose faces were still recognisable. They set fire to the house afterwards and burned mayor’s body along with it.  

It was a grim spectacle, yet Leliana smiled, hugging Astarion around the waist. “So, how does it feel being a hero again?”

“Believe it or not, I kiiiind of missed it,” he admitted sheepishly. “How very pathetic of me, I know.”

“It suits you,” she replied, kissing the tip of his nose. They watched as the villagers slowly walked back into their homes, only the woman with her daughter and barkeeper were still hanging around. The young woman was coming back to her senses. “I’d like to thank both of you,” said the mother, “if there’s anything we can do for you, get you something to eat or money for the road, just ask.”

“I can give you a room for free, and food on the house,” offered the barkeeper gesturing towards the tavern. “I trust your partner won’t hurt us? I mean no offence, of course.”

Leliana nodded but remained quiet allowing Astarion to speak for himself. Stigma around vampire spawn was still prevalent, however at least the man didn’t imply Astarion belonged to her or was less than her. “No harm to innocents.” 

They stayed in the tavern till the next evening. The barkeep prepared a bloodied steak for Astarion and had the villagers spare some coin. Despite everything, Leliana allowed herself to feel a bit more optimistic about their future if only for a short moment. 

* * *  

Their lives became a series of attending various festivals and performing odd jobs. Setting rat nests on fire, hunting down thieves, saving lost kids from a hungry wolf pack or rescuing a rich banker from the Upper City from becoming dinner for a couple of ogres.

“We should’ve let them bake him and ransack his property,” Astarion remarked, rolling his eyes. Leliana shot him a look. “What? We need the money, darling!” 

“He did pay us, love,” she said. 

Astarion scoffed. “Way too little considering I have to still dig crusty ogre mucus from underneath my nails. It’s not coming off!”

“Aw, you poor thing, I’ll clean them for you,” Leliana said mockingly, suppressing a giggle. “No, you don’t have to,” he pouted. 

“I clearly do because you’ll be whining about it till my head explodes.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I can’t afford to look unpresentable next to you.”

“Here I thought you were the eye-candy in this relationship,” she smiled. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Well, of course I am, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t the most beautiful person in all Faerun…and you look cute when you’re blushing.”  

* * *

It started following year, the dizzy spells, fatigue, losing balance. Easy to shake off, ignore, and hide from Astarion at first. At least Leliana thought.

They were passing a mining town when massive explosion shook the ground. Couple of people managed to not get crushed by the rubble and ran screaming for help. She knew Astarion wouldn’t be happy if they got involved but she had to. Her spellwork had gotten better over months of regular use, ironically a complete opposite situation to her physical state.

“I must do it,” she said, clasping his hand. “I know,” he replied begrudgingly. “For once I wish you were a little more selfish.”

“Then I wouldn’t be the infuriatingly nice naive fool you fell in love with.”

“Point taken. Let’s go before I tie you down and drag you away,” he groaned. “But if I break a nail, it’s your fault.”

The entrance to the mine was completely blocked, with some citizens trying to dig the rocks away. Someone suggested to use dynamite but it would cause more damage and quite possibly kill any miners underneath on the other side. 

“Love, I will have to cast telekinesis, then I need you to—“

“Just don’t drop it on my head, darling.”

Telekinesis wasn’t her strong suit but she managed to move the outer layer of rocks. Couple miners were stuck under the rubble which Astarion lifted for them to get away to safety. However the rocks were never ending, the mine completely caved in. She was getting tired. 

Astarion glanced at her, worried. “We cannot save everyone, I don’t want to you to hurt yourself.”

“Lady, please, there’s still three of our friends missing! They can’t be further in, only couple more meters, please!” Begged one of the miners. Astarion’s glare was murderous. 

The dizziness hit her unexpectedly and she lost control over the spell. A large boulder wavered in the air as she crumbled to her knees. She couldn’t see nor hear. Only felt a touch of Astarion’s arms around her. 

She regained consciousness but felt this time the dizzy spell was longer and more intense than before. Astarion was nervously pacing around a room. The window shutters were closed, something to eat and drink was left on the table. There was a knock on the door and a woman in an apron handed Astarion a bar of soap and clean sheets.      

“Star-,” she croaked, her throat dry like a sandpaper. She could barely lift her arms or feel her legs. He was at her side immediately. “I knew I should’ve not let you do it, gods!” 

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

He scoffed. “You’re not fine. You think I haven’t noticed?! We’re going to back home and I’ll start making the perfumes.” 

She kept her mouth shut. A fucking failure, that’s what she was. Wouldn’t he be happier with a less self-sacrificing idiot? Most likely. 

* * *

The dizziness episodes were happening more and more frequently, and lasted longer. Leliana could barely stand straight. No amounts of healing Shadowheart casted on her made it go away. Gale was useless too. Astarion unwillingly contacted Halsin. The buff druid’s knowledge was the last resort. He split his lip biting into it so hard trying to suppress the urge to tear out his throat, he had to leave the bedroom for a while to calm down. He couldn’t stand Halsin touching her. Even though she shut down his advances Astarion knew Halsin was still in love with her.

“Physically there’s nothing wrong. No poison, fever, no illness,” Halsin said, his usual calm tone was laced with frustration. “So we aren’t going to do anything? Just sit around like idiots?!” Astarion snarled. Nobody answered. He hated feeling so helpless, it was almost as if he was again in that tomb Cazador locked him in. Out of solidarity, Halsin, Gale, and Shadowheart stayed and took turns in attending to her while Astarion was working or hunting. He was only feeding himself to stay upright, not really having any appetite. 

Leliana was slowly becoming bedridden, not responding to his voice, not even seeing him. Hundred lashes from Cazador hurt less than watching her wither in front of him. “Do not do this to me,” he whispered, kissing her temple. Her skin was cold to the touch. “Don’t you dare.”

He slept glued to her side to make sure he could feel her barely perceptible breath. It was getting shallower each coming day until it stopped and he couldn’t hear her heartbeat either. He jumped out of bed, frantic, hurrying Halsin and Shadowheart out of their temporary bedrolls.    

“She’s dead, druid, fucking do something! Shadowheart?!”

Gale was oddly calm, as if waiting for something to happen but unsure what it was. “She isn’t dead, Astarion, and you saw Shadowheart’s healing spells didn’t have any effect before.”

“Then why isn’t she breathing, why isn’t she responding?”

“I think she’s transforming. It’s almost complete,” said Gale. Fuckin cryptic wizard. Astarion was close to smacking the hell out of him.

“What? Speak to the point! What’s going on?”

“I can sense the energy. Very similar to what Mystra radiates. It’s not exactly weave, it’s something different.”

“Gods above, you mean she’s—“

Leliana could hear them but couldn’t react just yet. Astarion was gripping her hand so strongly she was worried he was going to snap her bones. The energy flowed all around her, flowing into the touch as well. She slowly opened her eyes, met his intense beautiful gaze. He looked wrecked like she’d never seen him before. “What’s h-happening,” she croaked weakly. 

Gale appeared above her, looking more interested or fascinated rather than worried. “Seems like you’re becoming a goddess. Or at least, a demi-goddess.” He stated matter-of-factly as if she just changed her clothes. Astarion stared in utter disbelief.

“I thought I lost you…I really thought I fucking lost you.”

“The fish people aren’t a myth after all,” snickered Shadowheart. 

Gale snorted, dumbfounded. “Fish people? Those who we met in the Underdark?”

“Haven’t you heard of the power of worship of fish people? They can grant people godly powers if they believe in the purity of their heart.”

“Of course I’ve heard about it, thought it’s lunacy, and it’s been ages since we were down there.”

“You can’t expect to become a god in five minutes, Gale.” Shadowheart patted Leliana’s shoulder and turned to leave. “Let’s go, I’m sure the two love birds want their privacy now.” The door closed behind their friends but neither Leliana or Astarion paid attention to their surroundings. The smell of his perfume engulfed her as his lips gently touched hers. Tentatively at first. She embraced him, pulling him closer, hungry all of a sudden. She felt so alive, full of energy, on top of the world…and so sickeningly in love with this man. Didn’t take him long to make her climax and dominate her senses. She was gasping his name out loud, digging her nails into his scarred back. It was more intense somehow, a deeper connection, like her brainwaves were on overdrive joining with his. 

Astarion let out a guttural moan as he spread her legs wider, entering her again and again. “I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice raspy, “my…goddess.” 

She fell asleep at dawn but it was more like a trance. She didn’t need to sleep anymore. Was it really the fish people’s doing? She remembered the kelp, remembered them bowing. If they had knees it would probably look like kneeling. She had no idea though what it meant other than simple gratitude. Her skin was smoother to the touch, hair silkier, eyesight sharper. Astarion stirred next to her, a soft lazy smile spreading across his lips. “Morning. How are you feeling?”

“I can’t describe it. Strange, great, different but still the same,” she said, studying her hands and body. The energy field was all around her, like a silver shimmer. She sensed the same energy around Astarion, on the places where she touched him. His mouth, arms, torso, and groin especially…mainly the groin, looked like they’d been painted with pearlescent sheen. She might’ve been a goddess now but it was him who looked divine. “I covered you with…something,” she said, feeling her cheeks going red. He chuckled. “A godly gunk? Hmm, I rather like that.”

“Open the window,” she suggested, suddenly thinking that maybe the magical residue, or whatever is was, could do what she hoped it could do? What if her biggest wish became a reality? No more doubts and regrets? 

“Hold out your arm to the sun.” 

He looked at her quizzically but did as she said. The windows shutters almost didn’t budge from rare use. He quickly stepped away from the window, leaving only his forearm out to face the sun rays. She stood up from the bed, observing and waiting for any reaction. Nothing was happening. Astarion’s eyes widened and it was one of the extremely rare moments he was speechless. He stepped into the light fully, the sun bouncing off of the silvery particles. The only patch of skin that began to burn after a long while was his elbow.

“Missed the spot, my sweet,” he pointed out and she leaned in and kissed it. They made love all day, with every window shutter wide open from that moment on. 

* * * 

There was a knock on their door a week later. Astarion grumbled in protest, pinning Leliana to the bed as she attempted to get up. “Mhmm.“ He nuzzled her neck, playfully biting her shoulder. “Ignore that.”

“It may be important.”

“More important than this?” He asked opening her mouth with his and hooking his leg under hers. Gods, he was perfect.

However, the knocking was incessant so unwillingly he got up and opened the door. There was a mass of people standing and looking rather admiringly. She recognised so many faces of those they helped.

“H-hello,” she waved, not really knowing what to say. “How did you find us?”

“None of us have any idea. We just knew where to go,” spoke the older woman at the front of the group, the one whose daughter they saved.  

“All of you at once?” She asked in disbelief. They nodded in unison. “What are you here for?”

“To celebrate you.”

“But why?” 

Astarion looked positively delighted. “Don’t ask why, darling. It’s a party! We accept!”

It felt more like a religious gathering than a party but there was food and children running around playing tag. Whatever the hells it was, Astarion was having a blast going around lecturing everyone how to properly pray. They were indeed praying. To her. 

One of the women remarked with a smile, “My dear, your partner is very nice albeit a bit intense!”

Leliana chuckled. “Please ignore him.”

She stepped away from the little group gathered around her and walked towards Astarion. “Star, my love, please go gather the kids and show them some tricks. Just don’t do any knife throwing on live targets!”

“Darling, I would never,” he smirked.

The religious non-party party lasted till nightfall, the people recited the last prayer and promised to come back regularly on that day every year. 

“This was…strange,” Leliana said. “I don’t understand it.” 

Astarion seemed to understand it perfectly. “We have a cult, love.”

“Sounds oddly familiar.”

“It does indeed, you’re a way prettier cult leader though.”

* * *

The wedding ceremony was happening under the basking sun in the middle of summer. Astarion picked the spot - near the hill where they first met, right next to the crashed nautiloid ship. Shadowheart and Gale were there already, taking care of the sitting arrangements for the guests. It was quite the spectacle. Gnolls, humans, tiefling children and Halsin, Rolan and his siblings, Omeluum, Dame Aylin and Isobel. Around a hundred of spawn from the Underdark came as well, those who were able to control themselves. They were shadowed by the nautiloid wreckage and Gale’s darkness spell.

Fish people were floating in the water, maybe not entirely understanding what’s this all about. Nobody even knew how they got there but Leliana suspected the kelp had everything to do with it. Suddenly the sky parted and a massive red dragon flew in with Leliana’s favourite alien friend on top of it. 

“Lae!” 

“I see you’ve been busy,” Lae’zel remarked with a smile and hugged her. “Can’t believe you’re really marrying that fool.”     

Leliana glanced upon Astarion talking to Gale, not believing it either. The freedom looked good on him. All these people were here for him as well, not just because of her.

“Now you’re not the only one who bedded a goddess, wizard. And I am marrying her,” she heard him say. Gale rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “This is not a contest, Astarion.”

“I’m almost sad that it isn’t. I’d have won.” 

“Gods…do you have your vows ready?” 

He turned back, his eyes meeting hers. “Of course I do.” He’d been practicing for days, stopped each time Leliana came near. 

Shadowheart walked up to them holding an attendance sheet. “We’re still waiting for Karlach and Wyll, then we can begin.”

“There they are!” Exclaimed Mol, one of the tiefling kids they helped at the Grove. The barbarian and warlock jumped out of the Avernus portal, hellish flames encircling them. Karlach was beaming.

“Well, fuck me, soldier. We almost didn’t make it, this hellion was causing trouble.” She nuzzled a little horned baby in her arms. Wyll looked over the moon content. Both of them had more scars than they had before but radiated happiness. “More trouble than a bunch of cambions,” added Wyll, caressing the baby’s head. The hells were in for a treat.

“Alright, let’s do this everyone!” Gale cleared his throat. “We’ve gathered here to connect this unlikely pair in marriage. Two people I’ve come to know under perilous circumstances whom I’m lucky to call friends. Difficult times either shatter the bonds between people or make them closer to one another. We’ve been through a lot together and I’m glad to say the latter is true for our little merry band, especially these two standing in front of me. Go ahead, Astarion.”

Leliana looked up at him and he once again had that tender disbelieving expression he had when he told her he loved her as they sat next to his grave. He pulled out the paper with his vow and threw it into the water. “I had this entire elaborate speech prepared but it would be much better to just say it how I feel it without rehearsals. Everything I’ve told you back at the cemetery still holds true only thousand times stronger. Most people here know I’m a bit of a walking…uh, problem. You could’ve blasted my head off right upon that hill behind the nautiloid where I almost knifed you, you could’ve staked me, betrayed me to Gur. I would’ve been dead million times if not for you. Actually, if you followed my every stupid suggestion, we’d all be dead or mindflayer thralls. You showed me kindness in equal measure to everyone else around and I know I was a bit of a bitter prick about it. I don’t understand how I’ve earned your love despite all that and probably never will. Now thanks to you I can stand here not burning to cinders. You’ve given me everything and more than I could ever have imagined. I don’t want this to end. I want you, as my forever and always.”

[thecreaturecodex]

Herexen

Image © Paizo Publishing, accessed at Archives of Nethys here

[As part of PF2e's divesting from the OGL, a number of classic monsters inherited from the 3e Monster Manual and the Tome of Horrors have undergone some branding changes. Ankhegs are ankhravs, treants are arboreals, kytons are velstracs. And huecuvas are now herexens. The name "huecuva" was taken from Mapuche mythology, but the actual entity has nothing to do with undead clerics. And the mechanics of the D&D/PF1e huecuva are a remnant of a Gygaxian-era gotcha encounter--what looked like a kindly cleric infected you with disease by touch--and is weirdly low-intelligence. So I welcome this change to both name and mechanics wholeheartedly.]

Herexen CR 2 NE Undead This person is clearly dead, with rotting skin and half-missing facial features. It wears a holy symbol around its neck, but its talisman has been clearly defaced.

When a cleric forsakes their god before dying, their body may rise again as an undead heretic known as a herexen. Herexens hate the god they once worshipped, and go out of their way to desecrate holy spaces, interrupt festivals and slay adherents of the faith. They may attract necromancers or death cultists with their activities, and some even continue to advance as clerics, albeit turning to the worship of some demon lord, god of undeath or similar fell power. Herexens may be found as lone predators, or gathered together into parodies of worshipful congregations. In numbers, herexens often engage in cruel parodies of liturgical ceremonies.

A herexen focuses its attacks on divine spellcasters, especially those that worship the god that they once did. A formerly sacred weapon in their hands becomes a tool against all servants of the divine. Herexens are capable of using some clerical magic, thematically similar to that of the god they once followed. They can also inflict negative energy with a touch, which they use to both harm others and to heal themselves or any undead they may have allied with. When slain, a herexen explodes in a burst of negative energy.

Herexen                                CR 2 XP 600 NE Medium undead Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +9 Defense AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12 (+2 Dex, +2 natural) hp 18 (2d8+9) Fort +3, Ref +2, Will +7 Immune undead traits Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee slam +3 (1d4+3) or masterwork dagger +4 (1d4+2 plus blasphemous strike) Special Abilities death throes Spell-like Abilities CL 2nd, concentration +5 7/day—bleeding touch (1 round) 3/day—inflict light wounds (DC 14) 1/day—cause fear (DC 14) Statistics Str 14, Dex 15, Con -, Int 11, Wis18, Cha 17 Base Atk +1; CMB +3; CMD 15 Feats Toughness Skills Disguise +8, Knowledge (religion) +9, Perception +9, Stealth +7; Racial Modifiers +4 Knowledge (religion) Languages Common, Necril SQ blasphemous focus (Death domain, dagger) Ecology Environment any Organization solitary, pair or congregation (3-12) Treasure standard (defiled holy symbol, masterwork dagger, other treasure) Special Abilities Blasphemous Focus (Ex) All herexens are tied to the god that they worshiped and abandoned in life. This grants them access to a single domain or subdomain of their god (aside from the Good or Healing domains), from which they can use the 1st level granted powers as a 2nd level cleric, and can use the 1st level domain spell as a spell-like ability 1/day. A herexen loses these abilities if it is not carrying or wearing a defiled holy symbol of that god. A herexen also gains proficiency with that god’s favored weapon. Blasphemous Strike (Su) When wielding the favored weapon of its former god, a herexen deals an additional 1d6 points of damage against extraplanar outsiders or creatures capable of casting divine spells. Its blasphemous strike counts as evil for the purposes of overcoming damage reduction. Death Throes (Su) When a herexen dies, it explodes in a burst of negative energy, dealing 1d6 points of negative energy damage to all creatures in a 30 foot radius (Will DC 14 halves). The save DC is Charisma based.

[ceescedasticity]

Unforsaken, 12a

(All sections on tumblr)

(AO3, lagging behind but more polished)

Alphsîr and Alphlîn say farewell for the moment in the morning; they mean to go fly with the Geese for the day.

(Celeborn is not hung over, or at least not hung over enough to show it.)

As they set off, Glorfindel waves for Elladan and Elrohir to join him. "I want to come up with a list of all the Ainur-power-related things I did or Elrond did that might be teachable."

They also need to figure out how they're going to adjust group combat strategy to account for big magic swans in the middle of everything — and make sure they don't reflexively attack the orcs.

They also also need to demonstrate the Wizard's Clay again.

Gimli was hoping to demonstrate placing it in rock anyway.

And they still need to come up with those hand signals.

******

Maglor falls in beside Sharlinnu's wagon.

"Oh, good," she says.

"Let's talk about noise."

Sharlinnu has a lot to say about the noise — how pervasive it is, how wrong, how noxious, how exhausting. The ebb and flow of it according to the Dark Lord's moods and fortunes. She tries to mimic it so Maglor can get a better idea of it — he gets how she feels about it, but that's about it.

She talks about seeing the effects of the noise in others, how it manifests in their hearts rather than their heads and twists them up.

She talks about the loneliness of being cut off from the Song, of not being able to hear the trees and the earth and the sky and the Sea, what should be familiar and comfortable made alien and strange.

Then she screws up her face and says, "I have spent more orc childhoods aware than any of the others. But you'll have to bear with me while I… extract the memories from where I put them."

(An incomplete list of aspects of orc childhood Sharlinnu usually works very hard not to remember:

The hunger, overwhelming all reason and feeling and impulse control until you will eat. Anything.

(Dead Men, dead elves, dead dwarves, dead orcs, live prisoners, smaller orclings if the minders get careless, wounded orcs, wounded wargs, orcs who got careless around a large group of orclings, half-rotted carrion, leather clothing, dirt that had blood soaked into it.)

(After relating all those, she struggles for a few minutes before haltingly relating a time when the orc den was overrun and the few escaped orclings scattered each alone in a desolate land, and… she died. Of blood loss. After one of the bites she took out of her own arms hit an artery.)

The horror of maturation inevitably accompanied by pain and deformation.

The complete lack of, of…

Usazila of the Hirnedhrim spent her childhood alone in a pit and came out biting everyone and not knowing how to be a person. Orclings were not left in pits — together in pits they would have killed each other and there really was not the space for a pit each — but that's the comparison that feels right, as far as being raised. Orclings aren't raised. They're fed and guarded and kept from dying until they can figure out how to be a person from whatever shreds of their past lives they can find.

There are a few exceptions, probably. But not many.

"Treating Mist like that would have killed him, probably. But I'm pretty sure it never crossed anyone's mind. Mist was— Even before we realized Mist was an elf — which I thought was obvious from fairly early on, but not everyone did — even before we knew he was an elf, we all thought of him as a child. Children are to be cared for and treasured." She shrugs. "Orclings aren't— No one sees orclings as children. Not orcs, not orclings, not anyone."

"…Are they, though?" Maglor asks.

"No, because they have entire lives of experience available to them and they grow up immediately," Sharlinnu says. "…And yes, because not all of them know that, and…" She holds a hand a foot or so from the wagon seat. "When you're about so tall and can't stand or focus your eyes properly, I think — I think you should probably get to call yourself a child even if you can remember a dozen lifetimes perfectly."

It's probably still easier than talking to Celegorm will be.)

******

Dyn and Gimli, with intermittent assistance from Turgon, Whiterot, Risyind, Zena, and Legolas (they can't all gather at once because there are eight wagons to drive here), come up with hand signals for the following concepts:

"We're ready"

"We need more time"

"Can we get some technical assistance over here"

"Please hurry up"

"Watch out, we're being attacked"

"We need backup for being attacked"

"DRAGON"

"STOP ABORT ABORT WHAT ARE YOU DOING"

"IT'S GOING TO BLOW GO RUN NOW NOW NOW"

"Curse the Dark Lord(s)"

That last one is not expected to be very relevant to the Wizard's Clay-laying; Risyind invents it just to see if it gets around whatever stops the orcs from cursing the Dark Lord(s) generally. It does! At least for the moment.

(Cover your eyes with your hands briefly, then point down with both thumbs, then both pointer fingers, then both middle fingers, etc. — when you've gone through all the fingers, mime retching. Curse the Dark Lord(s)!)

[dawniestar]

Hi, I love your magical girl oc and her lore/story so far! Do you take inspiration from Sailor Moon? cuz y'know moon theme, reincarnations, pink haired magical girl from the future relating to the protagonist appears in the present, and the Glorious Nocturne form also reminds me a lot of Princess Serenity. I was just curious if you did that on purpose or if I'm just seeing things cuz Sailor Moon is rotting my brain ^^;

anyway whichever it is I love seeing seeing people's magical girl ocs and i love it even more when they're designed really well and have interesting stories to go with them, and yours is just like that :]<3

Yes actually, a lot of my creative project around Lettie is Sailor Moon inspired! Ofc I have a whole collage of inspirations for this story but Sailor Moon has always been a big special interest of mine and a large part of my personal identity as a queer fem autistic person.

My story is more cosmic horror and dark fantasy centric, putting emphasis on the fear of the unknown especially how it relates to space and demons. There’s something about SM’s whimsical form of storytelling even when dealing with darker territory that’s always inspired me. So my goal was to push it further and flip the themes and aesthetics on its head, even giving it a more mature theme in relation to being a young adult navigating the world for the first time!

Instead of the holy light of the moon that guides the path of love and justice, it’s the sheltering darkness of the new moon that brings a new beginning of love and joy. That in which is unknown *becomes* known through the power of love and understanding.

anyway thank u anon for the question, I always love and appreciate when ppl ask about my project. it motivates me to continue working on it and put it out as a graphic novel series someday 🩷

[camillathe6th]

Short. Moonrise, Dubhàn — "Distract her with your yearning for Gale."

Disclaimer: Obviously, everything belongs to Larian Studios; Baldur's Gate riffing! What to expect: snippet just to unwind the writing fingers, nothing fancy, a little tweak on Z'rell's scene at the start of Moonrise Towers explorating; I am trying to do justice to my little wizard, and Dubhàn is NOT amused to be here. About Dubhàn: they're a Tav, an open-hand monk (a good one, physically; a less good one, mindly, because balance is harder to achieve than you'd think when you're a natural hot-head), and they look like this:

(DUBHÀN - ACT II)

What are you doing here? You should never have come here. You’re not an actor. You’re not a charmer. You’re barely anyone, though you continue painfully to be something. In the cold dark devoted air of Moonrise, you are—choked, choking.

Maybe the shadows were better after all.

The shadows you can see, and fight. This labyrinth, it is made of walls you run into, of lines you can’t navigate.

What was Jaheira thinking?

“Z’rell is waiting for you,” someone says—who—a guard, a helmet, eyes ruby’d with Lolth, though Lolth doesn’t reach this landed tower, this towered land. And you are already gone—up the stairs, a buzzing in your ears, a silence in your gut. No space; between the too-closed walls, there is no room to move-shift-hit-and                                                               breathe.

“Dubhàn,” he says very close to your ear, Gale, he says—so close it is barely a sigh. When you meet his dark eyes there is a smile there, a smile for you.

A smile for you.

Him, he—he does navigate. More comfortable here in the snakepit than where the world is free, where the world is wild. To your constant shift, to your constant becoming, becoming-other, becoming-further, he is atemporal and fixed; he weaves symmetry. In Moonrise, symmetry wins. You smile back.

“Ready to shine, magic man?”

“Words, huh? Harder than they look,” he cracks a smirk, a smirk that tries very hard not to be smug.

No matter; you like him a little smug.

“Don’t call me dumb too fast,” you snort. “What are you gonna do when words don’t manage to carry your pack?”

He laughs; incongruous, the sound, and immediately swallowed by the rot-sponges that these walls are; how heartbreaking, that this god-filled, god-forsaken place would silence what should be crystallized.

“T-t-t,” he’s still chatting away, still chatting you up, “you forget telekinesis. Did you think I kept you around for the shoulder power?”

“No,” you push open the door to the upper hall. “For the shoulder gawking, more like,” and above the shoulder gawked at you also throw him a wink, which gets you the win. He has more words, he does, but more flustering too, as chatterboxes are wont to, and ah—on the tripping of his lovely tongue you make the mistake of advancing first.

“Excellent timing, True Soul.”

Shit. You stop. You look ahead, you look up.

She’s there, Z’rell, eyes full on you, eyes tunnelled pummelled on you; True Soul, that’s you—that’s not you, and really that’s the crux of the problem here, the crux the crack the flaw.

“No,” he says, very close to your ear, Gale, he says—so close, this time his voice clear and high, advancing before disaster can unfold, a shield of waterlight. “No, Commander Z’rell, I’m the one you—”

“Shut it, human. I’m talking to the drow.”

Eyes full on you, eyes tunnelled pummelled on you; not even a flicker towards him, and scorn so cold you bristle under its breeze. Gale doesn’t bristle, no; he huffs, good-humored, though his tadpole twitches; he bows his head; you bristle twice as strong. One last attempt:

“Well,” he says, all pirouette, “if you’d rather have a discussion with my bodyguard, of course…”

That you can be. That you are.

“Is he always so troublesome, True Soul? You should discipline him.”

You don’t rise to the bait, because it’s not a bait: she’s serious. She’s serious, so you clench your teeth, and dodge the scorching of your own anger; instead, you say, low enough to scrape:

“You wanted me. What is it?”

“I did,” Z’rell purrs. “The goblins, tell me how they suffered. No, better yet: show me.”

You want to say: don’t—but it’s too late, and she’s already parting the curtains of your mind, sliding inside like a robber’s hand, feeling, groping for something she won’t find; leaving behind the shame-slime of insertion, invasion, subjection. You are not—not a subject of this. You are not. You are the master of your face: pulled taut over your features, you feel its tight rigidity, its disciplined unmoving. Mouth, eyes, skin: still and stone.

“They didn’t,” she comes to, spat back, spat out. “Suffer?” A hiss, a threat.

“No,” you hold her gaze, though your mind is still burning with disgust. “I am no one’s dog, Commander. I don’t kill for others.”

“Except for the Absolute herself,” Gale adds, smarter than you, as you smart still.

His hand, not in your mind—here, on your naked shoulder, dry and cool, a weight on your body, a lightness in your soul. You like his hands—always open and dancing, like yours, but not like yours at all—their learnèd choreography, following a pattern you can’t know, graceful, rigid and algebraic—a neat-waltzing to your free-flowing.

Gently, you flow under his palm, and let it slide away; Z’rell is still watching you.

“Right,” she tongue-tips, an inch away from a threat. “And you came here to answer the Absolute’s call. Let’s see what you’re made of, then.”

This time you are ready, standing open so that she won’t leave a trace on the walls of yourself; but not ready enough—not ready to show her proof of your faith; as your minds collide, you grapple, you scramble for purchase—you know what to do, you knew what to do—you can drown anything, you can, that you can, in the power of Ki, in its gravel humming, you can, erase it all, deafen it all—this is what you should have done, this is what you should have invoked: smog and smoke to Z’rell’s mirrors, a force, a fog, but—but, oh, but Gale’s hand was on your shoulder a second ago, Gale’s hand, dry and cool, its dance its grace, skin-to-skin and close enough, not quite, cloth-enough, enough enough, closer you wish, you do—you wish for—Gale’s hand, and its—patterns, patience, power—Gale’s hand, meet-sweet-heat.

What Ki cannot drown, Gale did flood.

“Huh.” Z’rell laughs low. “You have used the wizard well. But the desperate one who would love such a pathetic man must hunger for—”

That’s it.

When your hand grips her throat (FAST)— When her head hits the wall (HARD)—           FINALLY She shuts her damn mouth                                                   and gasps.

Under your grasp the strength of her wide-strong body heaves; under your gaze the wrath of her eyes ignites. That, you don’t fear, though. Strength you can tackle. Wrath you can extinguish. When she strains, you give her another shove, and delight in the ugly sound of her skull against stone.

“Have some fucking respect,” you hiss, very close. “Don’t make me strike you down before your Goddess inevitably does. Yes?”

Her hand has found your wrist, scrabbling for release. She sees you now: not the secret parts she shouldn’t touch, not the restraint of Ki, either—but the you of this ugly world, the you you’re willing to give to her, this, this you. You look at her, in that second, and you think: you could kill her there. You could, you think, you think, you think on it. You could, and it would feel good.

Instead you push her back, and step away.

“Well!” In the beat of silence, Gale chuckles, beautifully unfazed as Z’rell pulls herself together, mouth twisted with hatred. “Now that we’ve all been wildly inappropriate with one another…” When you snort, he smiles wider, sparkling. “You had a mission for us?”

[voraciousvore]

Bucky's (15/44)

***Contains soft vore and explicit fatal digestion/ gore***

Chapter 15: Revenge is a Dish

Patty was puzzled. Her foot was healing far faster than she could have ever dreamed of. She suspected the pills had something to do with this miracle. She didn’t know how the pills worked, since their qualities seemed almost magical by nature, but she noticed every time she took one her toe wounds healed more, and the pain reduced. Her theory was that the pills were some type of ultra-powerful steroid that regenerated tissue faster than it could be destroyed. She worried about the side effects of such a powerful drug, but she had no choice but to take them unless she wanted to be digested alive, a gruesome prospect. After the effects wore off, she always did feel tired, hungry, and oftentimes nauseous, though the last reaction may be the result of marinating in churning gastric juices for hours. Either way, she couldn’t deny that her foot was improving at a fantastical rate. She stopped wearing her bandages, since she didn’t seem to require them any longer, and she was forced to take them off every time she was added to a dish regardless. 

The days were beginning to blend together, with how repetitive the routine was. The humans never got a day off, since the restaurant was always open morning to night, breakfast to dinner. Humans disappeared to the horrific catastrophe that was fatal ingestion all too often, but new humans swelled the ranks just as quickly in the absence of their lost comrades. As usual, Patty had difficulty keeping straight all the names and faces, especially when they seemed to randomly disappear. Some were innocents who had been kidnapped and trafficked, while others were death row inmates or murderers. Most were only guilty of petty crimes, and had been tricked into a shorter lifespan rather than a shorter sentence, just like Patty. 

Patty found her life at Bucky’s, besides being terrifying and depressing, extremely boring. Bucky did not provide his human stock with any entertainment whatsoever. They had no books, games, paper or pens, or electronics. Patty wished she could write or call home to let her folks know what happened to her, but she had no means to do so. When the humans were in the tank on display, they had nothing to do except talk to each other, stare into space, or watch their comrades get eaten. Getting to know people too well was a hazard, since nobody knew who was going to get picked to die next, or when. 

Most days, Patty was chosen to be eaten at least once. She could never truly acclimate to the experience or get comfortable with it. No matter how many times she was eaten, how many mouths and gullets and viscera she toured, she was always afraid, particularly when she envisioned all the ways she could be hurt, or what could go wrong. A customer could accidentally bite into her or injure her. A customer could spontaneously change their mind and decide they wanted to try fatal ingestion. Additionally, it would be easy for a customer to dine and dash, and leave the restaurant with her still inside his stomach. The customers could be quickly found and hauled back, since the trackers telescoped their location, but the risk was real, and there was no guarantee that the human inside would be saved in time. 

The experience of being eaten was highly varied, with some Giants being worse, or even far worse, than others. Some were cruel and delighted in tormenting their prey. Others had rotting teeth or bad breath. Unruly Giants at the bar drank too much, and their insides reeked of alcohol enough to make the human inside feel drunk. Patty had one notably bad experience with a rowdy group of college-age Giants at the bar who were taking shots. She was ordered up in a drink, of all things, and imbibed in a single gulp. Regrettably for poor Patty, she was vomited up in a trash can not long after. The Giant who expelled her didn’t want to own up to his mistake, so Patty was trapped in the trash can, with walls too tall to climb, stewing in vomit for at least an hour. She got buried in trash, crying for help, until Bucky had to locate her with the tracker. 

Another time a couple madly in love had ordered a human on an ice cream sundae to share. Patty was the unlucky choice to be plopped onto a mountain of ice cream, covered in sprinkles, caramel, and whipped cream. She had to listen to the two gigantic lovebirds coo at each other sweet nothings, gagging to herself, until the Giantess picked her up with her spoon and sucked Patty into her mouth. Then, the Giantess was so overcome with lust she just had to make out with her lover, then and there, and Patty was disgusted to find herself in the middle of a passionate kissing session. She was swapped back and forth between the two cavernous mouths a few times, saturated with spit and disoriented by intertwining slimy tongues and lips. When she was finally swallowed, she wasn’t even sure whose belly she ended up in, until she identified distinctively masculine breathing and the bass rumble of a Giant man’s voice. 

One particularly memorable session involved a wealthy, corpulent Giant who came into the restaurant late one night for dinner, at a time when the human population in the tank was beginning to dwindle out. He claimed to be on a diet, and instead of ordering a plate of chicken wings he desired an entire plate full of human entrees covered in wing sauce. The waitress called Bucky over, flustered by the order, and at first Bucky thought the man was joking. Once he realized the fat Giant with an even fatter wallet was serious, and was willing to shell out the extra fees for additional human entrees, Bucky was dazzled by dollar signs and happily fulfilled his request.  

The Giant ended up cleaning out the entire crowd of humans in the tank onto his plate. He gobbled them all up, one by one, until his sizable stomach was stuffed. Patty had been among the group, and she recalled the distinctly unpleasant experience of being crammed into his big belly with too many other people. The Giant, of course, was delighted by all the shuffling and squirming in his belly, and slapped and bounced his jiggling gut with his chubby hands to rile up the humans more. Getting out had been tricky as well, since there were so many humans fighting over the rope. Patty was scared that somebody would be left behind by accident, but fortunately Bucky was meticulous about protecting his investments. 

Her worst incident, however, was scarred into her memory forever. The day had been fairly typical, with the usual lunch rush and a small lull before dinnertime. Patty hadn’t been chosen yet that day, and was awaiting her fate in the tank as usual, on edge. Cracker Jack was fated to be the next entrée, and Patty watched as he became nothing more than a squirming lump in a crunch wrap. A Giantess demolished the wrap with substantial bites, and Patty could only hope that her fellow prisoner wasn’t harmed as his body was enclosed into her mouth and swallowed. 

Bucky sauntered over to the tank, a sadistic sparkle in his gemstone eyes. A new human was yowling and wriggling in his fist. Fresh meat. He opened the lid and carelessly dropped the new arrival in with the rest of the humans, then slammed the lid shut and walked off. The new human was a short, thin, twiggy woman with a pretty face and long blonde hair, still damp from being rinsed off. She collected herself off the floor of the tank, dusting off her clothes and muttering obscenities under her breath. 

Patty’s eyes widened in shock. The woman’s nametag read “Pink Lady,” but that’s not how Patty knew her. Patty would recognize that odious woman anywhere. “Jenny!” she yelled, balling her hands into fists. 

The woman stiffened as she recognized Patty’s voice. “Why, Tanya!” she uttered, dripping with sarcasm. “Fancy seeing you here!” 

Patty was shaking with rage. “What the fuck, Jenny? How could you do this to me? And then—” She was so furious she could barely verbalize her thoughts. “And then show up here yourself?” 

Jenny rolled her eyes. “It was good riddance, as far as I was concerned,” she scoffed. “Too bad I happened to get caught with more drugs later.” 

“Goddammit Jenny!” Patty’s wrath boiled over. Before her rational mind could intervene, her temper got the better of her and she sprinted over and tackled Jenny, knocking her to the ground. She raised her fist and slugged her old roommate in the face, then cocked her arm back for another blow. All her despair and frustration and resentment over her terrible situation was loaded into that punch, and she wasn’t going to run out of ammo anytime soon. 

Their brawl was interrupted by the booming voice of a Giant right outside the glass, making both girls flinch. “I want those two!” Patty froze up, her fist still in a dynamic pose above her head, ready to slug Jenny in the face again. The women stared with wide eyes at the Giant face ogling them with glee. 

“Shit,” Jenny murmured. She trembled. 

“I was only going to eat one, but they’re so lively together! I bet they’ll feel so good squirming around in my gut!” The Giant straightened into a standing position, smacked his lips, and rubbed his belly eagerly. Patty glanced down at Jenny, whose face blanched with horror as the foreboding shadow of an enormous hand hovered over the unfortunate pair. She realized, in that instant, Jenny thought they were both about to die. 

The waitress’s hand snatched up both humans together, and Patty found herself pressed up against her former roommate, who was terrified. For an ugly moment, Patty was tempted to give in to her anger and omit the truth from Jenny. She was the one responsible for the hell Patty was in, after all. Patty thirsted for vengeance. She knew Jenny deserved her fate. She hated her with a violent passion. 

Yet, she shirked away from this bloodthirsty urge. Patty wasn’t a vindictive person by nature, and the idea curdled her insides. As much as she wanted Jenny to suffer, she knew it would not materially change her situation. She’d still be stuck here, at Bucky’s. With Jenny smashed up against her in the Giantess’s hand, she could feel the tension in her body, the uncontrollable shaking. Despite lashing out in an initial fit of rage, Patty had empathy, even for her enemy. She remembered how frightening her first day had been. 

“It’ll be okay, Jenny,” she said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. She looked into her face, which was darkening with a purple bruise from her punch earlier. Jenny glared back with hatred. “We’ll be eaten, yes, but we’re not going to-” 

“Just shut up, Tanya!” Jenny shrieked. She started to cry. She was too distraught to listen. Patty supposed punching her in the face probably didn’t make her more receptive either. 

Patty opened her mouth to reason with her, but she was jostled about by the waitress and found herself trapped inside the hollow fist of Chef Cruor, cut off from Jenny. Next thing she knew, she was shoved into a gigantic sandwich, with a bed of deli meat and a blanket of cheese. Jenny was pushed into the same sandwich nearby, shouting and cursing at the chef. With just their teeny heads sticking out between the thick slices of bread, and their limbs pinned, Patty tried to talk to Jenny again. 

“Make sure you take the pill he gives you,” she urged. As if on cue, Chef Cruor offered Patty her pill and she obediently took it. He forced the pill into Jenny’s face next, who resisted, turning her face away. 

“Take it,” the chef commanded in a booming voice, tucking the pill into her mouth. Jenny spat it out. Chef Cruor’s eyebrows shifted down with irritation, but he seemed more gloomy and fatigued than anything else. “Damn humans,” he muttered, stuffing the pill into her mouth again with the pad of his massive finger. 

“Jenny, take it! You’ll die if you don’t!” Patty cried. 

“Yeah right! As if I’d believe or do anything that you or that monstrous ogre says!” Jenny retorted, expelling her pill a second time. 

“Fine. Do whatever you wish. See if I care,” Chef Cruor grumbled as he placed a piping hot batch of fresh fries alongside the colossal sandwich. He picked up the huge dinner plate and brought it over to the section for completed meals. “Order up!” 

“Jenny!” Patty pleaded. “The pill prevents you from getting digested! You can survive, but you have to take it!” A waitress came up and grabbed the plate, balancing it on her hand as she whisked it away to the table. 

“Fuck you, Tanya!” Jenny cursed. “I wouldn’t trust you any farther than I could throw you!” Patty felt a growing horror as she realized the implications of Jenny’s distrust and rash decision-making. They were going into the same stomach together. Jenny was going to die a grisly death, and Patty would be there to witness the whole ghastly process. She was powerless to do anything. Jenny wouldn’t listen to reason. She was grasping at straws to come up with a way to save Jenny. As much as she hated her former roommate, now current sandwich-mate and future stomach-mate, the thought of watching a person get digested alive was too horrific to bear. 

Patty was out of time, however, because the plate was already on the table, where the enormous Giant was waiting eagerly to devour them. He snatched up the sandwich in his hands and licked his lips. Jenny squealed with fright. As he raised the sandwich up to his mouth, opening it wide to expose the dripping red cavern within, Patty had one more desperate idea: a direct appeal to the Giant himself. 

“Wait, sir! Stop!” she shouted. She didn’t expect him to listen to her screams, but to her surprise the Giant blinked and paused, his mouth still open. His gigantic tongue curled inward slightly. Patty leapt at the chance. “Don’t eat that other girl! She didn’t take her pill, and she’ll die! Just eat me.”  

Internally, Patty grimaced. She couldn’t believe she was really choosing to be the sacrificial lamb for her sworn nemesis, yet here she was. She supposed she was going to be eaten either way. She glanced over at Jenny, who was gaping back at her in shock. The fact that Patty was actually telling the truth was beginning to dawn on her. There was no way Patty would keep up such a ruse by yelling at the Giant that was about to eat them both. 

The Giant hesitated for a moment, before deciding to eat his whole sandwich anyway. He didn’t care about the fate of the insignificant creatures inside. Jenny screamed as she disappeared into his jaws, the teeth closing all around her with terrible crushing force. Her cries were muffled inside his mouth as he chewed his meal, savoring the tremendous mouthful before swallowing it all down, including Jenny. 

He inserted Patty into his mouth next and bit down to cut her off from the rest of the sandwich. He shuffled her out of the bread with his tongue and processed the rest with his teeth while he tasted her. Patty felt a looming sense of dread as she was sloshed around in chewed-up food and saliva. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Jenny’s fate was somehow her fault. If she hadn’t lost her temper and attacked Jenny upon her arrival, Jenny may have been spared. Jenny may have been more receptive to her warning to take the pill, or maybe the Giant whose mouth she was in wouldn’t have noticed the pair and picked another victim instead. She didn’t have any more time to dwell on it before she slid headfirst into the hungry gullet and down the throat. 

When Patty dropped inside the cavernous stomach, she was greeted immediately by frantic screams and wails. Jenny didn’t know her tracker had a light, so the internal world was black as pitch. Patty floated dumbly in the acid, petrified to the spot and numb with despair. Just hearing Jenny’s agonizing screams stabbed her in the heart. She didn’t want the gory visuals to go with it. The universe had other plans, however, because Jenny’s thrashing triggered her tracker’s light to click on. Jenny let out a startled gasp and looked around at the hellscape of flesh trapping her inside. She shined the light in Patty’s face and held it there. 

“Patty! Help me!” she wailed. Her face was contorted with desperation and tears. 

“There’s nothing we can do,” Patty replied, shaking her head. “Trust me, I’ve tried many times before.” The stake in her heart embedded itself deeper, and she struggled to hold back tears. 

“No!” Jenny protested. “No, I refuse to give up!” She grimaced with pain as the acid began to dig into her skin. She coughed on the acrid fumes, turned around, and continued to beat on the stomach lining with her fists. Patty watched her sadly. This wasn’t how she wanted things to go at all. She had wanted Jenny to get her comeuppance, sure, but such a fate was too cruel. Jenny’s movements became more spastic and sluggish as the thin air began to starve her of oxygen. She stopped beating up the walls and slumped into the curve of the lining, facing Patty. 

“So, this is it then…” she admitted shakily, tears streaming down her face. The stomach grumbled around them like an earthquake and Jenny shivered. Her face twisted in discomfort as she looked down at her raw, red, stinging hands. Her skin was slowly being eaten up by the harsh chemicals. She surveyed the soggy chunks of bread and sandwich bits partially submerged in the digestive fluids, as they started to break down, with the knowledge that she would soon dissolve into nothing herself, to become absorbed by the gigantic living body around her. Her “Pink Lady” nametag disintegrated off her chest into a pulp. 

Patty didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have any words of comfort. There was no hope, nothing left to say. The two went silent, with only the rhythmic heartbeat, breathing, and obnoxious gurgling to fill the void. Jenny’s visage was red under the light and contorted with emotional and physical distress. She was hoping to fade out of awareness before experiencing severe pain. Her skin was bleeding and peeling off in chunks now, particularly on her legs and feet. She knew she didn’t have any time left. 

“Patty... I’m sorry. For everything,” she apologized through her tears. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay, Jenny,” Patty responded softly. “I forgive you.” Jenny, having made peace with her final words, smiled weakly before her vision blacked out and she lost consciousness. She collapsed into the acid facedown with a splash. Patty didn’t move. Before long, Jenny was gone, and Patty was alone with a lifeless corpse, churning in the boiling fluid. She stared numbly as the skin came apart, exposing the layers of fat, muscle, and bone underneath. The organs broke loose and floated in the muck like shiny, bulbous balloons of various shades of pink. Patty had nowhere to go, nothing to do except wait, watching the dead body get digested, until she could be hauled upward to salvation.  

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

[original-jade]

8, 14, 15, 23 for Aster 👀

getting this ask actually made me hop out of bed and run to my computer so fast thank you so much!!!

8 - First time they took a risk, or the biggest risk they've ever taken Aster is not inherently impulsive. The risks they take, they weigh the options. That said, the biggest risk they've ever taken was a now or never kind of decision. Leaving Outworld wasn't something people just did. Traveling in and out of the realm was so locked down that only those around the emperor knew how to do it. When they came face to face with a patrol of the old warlocks, they attacked, provoking one into channeling a portal. Aster abandoned the fight to hijack the portal and change its destination, landing themself in the void between realms. It was there that Raiden found them.

14 - First time facing their fears Aster's first true fear was their own magic. They didn't know where it came from, or what it meant for them to have it. They had no teacher, had never seen magic be used, and knew nothing about control. At first, they wanted to find a way to get rid of it, but that meant seeking help and exposing their abilities. Instead, they isolated themself so no one would be hurt if something happened. It terrified them, but they slowly experimented just enough so that they could stop their magic from responding to their emotions. They saw doing so as a necessity. Through the process, using their magic more and more, the fear that once drove them began to fade.

15 - First thing they remember feeling proud of Even if they can't remember them all, Aster knows that they would have had small points of pride growing up. Little things last for a time before fading. The first that stuck with them, however, comes after they fled to Earthrealm. They aligned themself with the Order of Light and began training warriors, mostly working with those who bore Arcana. One with an Arcana was a young boy who trusted no one and chaffed against the Order's teachings. Aster took him in as a personal student, forming a bond with him as he grew. The pride they felt upon seeing him become a master in his own right is something they'll never forget. Millennia later, however, that same pride turned to guilt and remorse for not having been able to stop Shang Tsung from going down his dark path.

23 - First display of their powers or abilities When Aster was a teenager (or the Outworld equivalent of one), they started noticing little oddities. Things out of reach would suddenly be just close enough to grab. Weakened or rotting steps or ladders would be stable under their feet. They kept it all secret. The first true display of their powers came when a stack of crates began to fall towards their mother, and without thinking, they stopped the crates midair. At the time, they didn't know how to control it, and they certainly didn't know they were manipulating space. They only knew it was magic, and a lot of people feared magic because of the horrors the regime had performed with it.

OC/Ship Ask Game: Firsts

[separatist-apologist]

Dressing For Revenge

I don't start shit but I can tell you how it ends. Don't get sad-get even.

Summary: When the end of the war with Hybern finds Lucien unexpectedly crowned High Lord, he realizes everyone he's ever cared about has been lying to him.

The new High Lord of Day Court vows revenge.

Elain Archeron is determined to see him get it

Evil Elucien AU

Read More: AO3

Prologue:

Lucien only had one thought, as he made his way across that killing field. 

Elain. 

The lines had blurred between Hybern and Prythian, the former warriors interspersed in every space someone without any fighting ability might hide. Would the Night Court remember what she’d been? What she was? Would they protect her or would her life be an afterthought when the dust settled? 

Lucien raised his bloodied sword, catching sight of the High Lord of Day. Clawed, scaled, and dripping with viscous red, the creature–the High Lord–raised his golden eyes to look at the Hybern Commander. It would be a killing blow, then. Lucien couldn’t get there quick enough, though he drove his blade through his opponent with very little thought. Something in his blood called out, revolted at the sight of someone as powerful as Helion about to be struck down.

He wasn’t fast enough. Lucien managed to decapitate that general in the same moment Helion’s golden scaled head thudded viciously to the wet, blood soaked earth. 

For Lucien, the whole world stilled. Around him, he could hear the ravages of battles. Snarling cries and singing metal against a doom gray sky. He didn’t move, and no one came near him. Not as warmth collided heavily against his chest, drenching him in magic ancient and old and lovely. Not Autumn—he’d never hoped for that, besides. It was glittering and gold.

It was sunlight now sloshing through his body as it gilded his bones. He flexed his fingers, miserable and awed all at once. He had no business inheriting Helion’s throne, his crown, his territory. Lucien turned his head to the hill, where crimson banners flew tattered in the rotting wind. Beron would know. 

He spun on his tattered boot, intending to confront the Lord of Autumn, war or not, when a horrific, blood-curdling screaming stopped him—and everything else—around him. Overhead, winged beasts were fleeing while the same warriors that had once been surging forward with such vitriolic purpose were now pulling back in a retreat only they could hear.

Lucien began following a trail of soldiers in golden armor. His disorientation and heaving, sick stomach distracted him from his original purpose. He’d forgotten about Elain until he saw her with blood freckled hands standing behind her screaming, sobbing sister. The head of the King of Hybern lay at her feet alongside the body of her father. Lucien had gotten to know that male well over the last few months. He could guess how he’d died, judging from the horrible twist in his neck. Brown, glassy eyes stared blankly at the sky, unaware of his eldest daughter, smeared with the same blood as Elain, clawing at his chest as if that might wake him.

And Feyre, who held Rhysand’s lifeless body in her arms. 

Begging the rest of them to bring him back. 

Lucien held his sword in hand, clutched so tightly it made his arm tingle as he watched a trickle of familiar High Lords make their way towards Rhys’s body. It was a subversion of her own making. What might they all give him when they brought him back?

Lucien waited for Beron Vanserra to begrudgingly step forward and offer up a piece of his magic before he did, too. All eyes fell on the pair of them. Even Feyre, wrung out and sobbing, silenced herself long enough to recognize what had happened.

“Helion is dead,” Lucien said. The first words he’d spoken since they’d landed on Prythian’s shores. Everything had been all about Elain. 

Beron’s head whipped around just in time for a familiar woman’s voice to scream out.

“NO!”

His mother’s knees hit the ground before Viviane, Lady of Winter, could catch her. Lucien didn’t know what made him decide, in that moment, to forego any explanation. 

Why did you hide this from me? 

Why did you force me to grow up in Autumn?

He merely raised his blade, and for the third time that day, executed a High Lord of Prythian. Beron, with his back turned to Lucien, didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. His other sons didn’t warn up, though Eris took a step forward, his hand outstretched. 

Lucien watched Beron’s head bounce at his feet, twisted with hatred as he stared down his unfaithful wife. 

And in the same rushing magic he’d felt not ten minutes before, Eris slammed to the ground, crowned High Lord of Autumn like he’d always wanted. Lucien couldn’t make himself care, not as he stepped forward to Feyre—his friend—and offered Rhys his hand.

“Please,” she whispered, a tear streaking down her cheek. 

“Anything,” Lucien agreed, summoning that now endless ocean of power to offer Rhys a drop of it. He had so little left. Two fathers lay headless in the mud. Every home he’d ever had was in ruins, closed to him no matter how badly he might have wanted to go back. All he wanted was some small measure of comfort. Of family. 

“Thank you,” she said, turning her attention to the only High Lord left to offer. 

Tamlin. 

It was compassion that made his once former friend step forward. To offer that last piece so Feyre’s mate didn’t die. Lucien wondered absently if he’d have made the same choice. Lucien let himself look Elain over, surprised to see the shadows in her eyes as she looked down at her sister now clutching at her revived mate. It wasn’t relief that shone on Elain’s still beautiful face—but resentment. Disappointment. 

Anger. 

She didn’t notice him surveying her at all. Lucien had other things he needed to deal with before he could see her, though the image of her face lingered after he’d turned away. His mother was still openly sobbing, held now by one of his brothers.

Eris intercepted him, his auburn hair more flame than anything. Like Lucien, it seemed Eris was struggling to contain the new magic flowing through him. Lucien knew he must be lit up like a summer afternoon.

He didn’t care.

“Did you know?” Lucien asked, staring down his brother with dispassionate eyes.

“You executed a High Lord in front of all of Prythain.” Eris didn’t answer his question.

“Your welcome,” Lucien retorted, his hatred burning through him. “You were never going to do it.”

“You’ll make Autumn your enemy,” Eris hissed.

“I have always been Autumn’s enemy,” Lucien replied, baring his teeth at his eldest brother. “You all knew…when he executed Jesminda? When he ordered my death?”

Eris didn’t answer. 

Lucien swallowed. “Tell me one thing, Eris. Did Helion know, too?”

Did everyone know the truth about him? Lucien didn’t think he could stand knowing that all of Day had known, too. That Autumn and Day Court had conspired to keep the unwanted heir out of their palaces.

That they’d given Beron Vanserra covert permission to kill him.

“No,” Eris whispered. “He died not knowing.”

“I don’t want to ever see you again,” Lucien whispered, pointing his finger in Eris’s face. A vicious wound had split across Eris’s cheek, healing slowly despite the power now radiating from Eris.

Lucien almost wished his brother had died. 

“That’s going to be awfully hard given you’re High Lord, now.”

“If you step foot over my borders, I’ll have you killed just like your father,” Lucien spat. Eris flinched, as though Lucien had struck him. “Choose an emissary who doesn’t look like you if you feel you need to speak with me.”

Lucien turned his back, intending to go see Feyre and Rhys. To rebuild the alliance that had always existed between their courts…and maybe get some help, while he was at it. What did Lucien know about ruling, after all?

“They knew!” Eris called from behind him, stopping Lucien in his tracks. “I know what you’re thinking…but they knew, too.”

Lucien turned slowly, looking back at his brother. Half Beron, though Eris had always tried to hide it. Those shrewd, amber eyes stared him down. “When I made my alliance with them, it was one of the questions Rhysand asked me. They knew, and if you intend to make Autumn your enemy, I wonder if you mean to make  Night, too?”

Lucien took a gulping breath of air. He’d spent his whole life miserable and alone, wondering why he didn’t fit. Why his father hated him, his brothers sneered at him. Trying to make a name for himself in Spring, so desperate to be loved that he’d broken himself for Tamlin. Making friends of everyone, everywhere he went. And for what? No one had ever repaid him for his loyalty. 

His gut churned and Lucien willed himself to stone. Feel nothing. 

“All of Prythian is my enemy,” he whispered to no one in particular. 

And when Feyre called the High Lords to listen to her story, Lucien looked her in the eyes. Saw her plea to stay.

I gave up everything for you, he thought, catching the way her eyes fluttered shut. He could feel her presence in his mind and wondered how many times she’d been there before. How often she’d manipulated him? How stupid he’d been under the mountain, in Spring—running after her every time she was in danger, just for her to turn around and betray him every chance she got. 

I hope you both rot in that wretched city. I will give you no peace.

Her face set with steely, vicious determination.

Then you will never see Elain again. 

Rhys watched them both, listening just as surely as if they’d been screaming for the whole world to hear. His mouth set in a thin line. 

I wonder who Prythian would side with. Amarantha’s whore, who sold us all out for fifty years over one city and five people…or me. 

Feyre’s shoulders stiffened. Rhys has proven himself.

Lucien turned his back to them both. Rhys has too many secrets to be considered trustworthy, and no friends in any remaining court. Helion is dead. How long before you are, too, Feyre? 

She withdrew all at once, her silence just as damning as her words.

Lucien didn’t stay to hear her rousing speech. Ferye for High Queen, Rhys at her side.

Lucien would see to it that Night Court burned. 

* 3 years later * 

Elain Archeron made her way upwards to her bedroom.

Another Solstice had come and gone. This year was different from years past—Nesta was there as a friend. As family. Rhysand had given Nesta a gift he himself had chosen—a lovely onyx and ruby diadem and a stack of books from his private collection. Nesta had smiled while the High Lord placed it atop her head, thumbing the books with wide-eyed awe. Beside her, Cassian had an arm flung casually over her shoulder. 

Nesta was allowed, and Elain wondered if her sister even realized it. Having sacrificed the magic that had once threatened the High Lord’s ambition, he regarded her as a full member of his court. He allowed Nesta to hold his fragile son, had smiled she he’d grabbed a piece of Nesta’s hair and tugged. 

Elain wondered if Nesta even realized. Even noticed. Sometimes she thought she truly was crazy. Rhysand, who has sworn to protect her and Nesta only to pull out his guards so Hybern could sweep in and remake them. Feyre might have gone along with the war, but who would have raised the alarm about the cauldron given no one trusted him? Newly made Nesta had done that. 

And Rhysand, who had impregnated Feyre without considering what a once human body was capable of, only to bury the knowledge of her death until Nesta had learned—had told. Feyre forgave him and Nesta sacrificed, and all was forgiven. What had Nesta gotten? Peace? A womb that could one day carry Cassian’s cursed progeny? 

All Elain saw when she looked at the Night Court were the rotting, bloated corpses of everyone who had died. In her dreams, in her waking hours, she saw her and Nesta drowning in the cauldron. Heard her sister’s screams in her head on a loop, inescapable thanks to the gift the Cauldron bestowed upon her. 

Her fathers cracked spine. 

That legion of winged warriors falling from the sky. 

Even Rhysand featured, though he was allowed to come back. She was starting to think he was unkillable.

In Elain’s nightmares she saw Rhys crowned king. Not of Night, but of Prythian itself. Holding Nesta’s sword in one hand, Feyre at his side ready to exact his will in the name of justice. She could do nothing except weather his stares. He knew she had visions, still—she’d said as much trying to spare Nesta another horrible scrying session.

She often wondered who had put a stop to that. Had it been Rhys? 

How long before he truly looked at her. Before he decided that she, too, needed to be dealt with? Before he realized how much she hated him, how she’d been so grateful when he’d died on that battlefield. Justice, for what he’d done to her and Nesta. He’d robbed them of their lives with no regard for their feelings. Nesta had been outwardly angry and Rhys had ordered her to the House of Wind with Cassian. Whatever Cassian had done…and Elain could imagine…had turned once fiery Nesta into a purring kitten. 

She knew she’d be next. She’d escaped his notice by playing along. No one ever noticed her, had ever truly seen her. If Elain said she was helping the people of Velaris with their gardens, no one thought twice about it.

They didn’t know what she’d truly been doing.

The night would devolve into fucking. Elain looked around her sterile bedroom, digging through her things until she found a green fur lined cape. She thought she ought to take something else with her, just in case. 

She’d been teaching herself to winnow. She thought she could make the jump across Dawn into Day if she had nothing but her body to bring with her. It was too risky trying to pack any of her things. And to be truthful, Elain wanted none of them. She hated those ugly black dresses, she hated the trinkets, the jewels, the baubles meant to placate her. 

It was a risk. Lucien had said nothing since that day he’d killed Beron Vanserra. Had made no overtures, hadn’t called on her. She felt his rage on occasion and wondered if he felt hers, too. If he realized they were both burning with the same anger. That she knew he wanted to see Rhysand crumble into stardust, to see his territory burn in daylight.

She wanted that, too. 

They didn’t have to be lovers. They didn’t have to be friends, even. She didn’t care one way or the other so long as she never had to look Rhys in his starry, violet gaze with one of her sleepy smiles and offer him a good morning. 

The walls of the house shuddered. Elain took a breath and with practiced stealth, stepped back into the hall. There was no one waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. No winged spymaster trying to offer her an ill-advised kiss. No gifts left unoffered—her pile remained untouched in the living room. Let them burn along with everything else. 

No one stopped her. Servants saw her, eyes averted towards the marble floors beneath Elain’s booted feet. She was allowed, as sister to the High Lady, to go where she wished. As if any of them imagined she was walking straight towards the enemy.

It was strange to think that was what Lucien was. 

Her sister had spoken of him once as her friend. 

As for what happened, well…Elain could piece it together well enough. Rhysand had enough secrets to last him a million lifetimes. How many people would be hurt in service of them? How many would die with no one to sacrifice for them? 

Cold air invaded her lungs, drawing Elain’s attention back to the present. Bathed in inky night, Elain made her way down the snow covered drive. Using the smallest amount of magic, she swept her prints away behind her, erasing all trace of her. Feyre would know, of course. They’d piece it together. That didn’t mean Elain had to make it easy for them. 

She waited until she was away from the palace on the river, unsure what sort of protections Rhys might have in place. She didn’t want to alert him prematurely. Didn’t want to be trapped up in the mountains with another Illyrian, determined to break her just as Nesta had been. What would Elain give up to keep her sisters safe?

Too much. 

With a deep, almost aching breath of air, Elain screwed her eyes shut tight and took a step forward. It was like folding a piece of bread around a slice of cheese. She visualized that place on the map. 

Rhodes. Day Court. Rhodes. Day Court. Rhodes—

Elain gasped, her knees buckling. She’d never tried to step so far before. Warm air blew lovingly over her face as her palms pressed against rough, almost rocky white sand. Rushing water made its way towards her, greeting her with a friendly, wet kiss. 

Elain looked up at the moonless sky, wondering if she’d landed right. There was only one way to find out. Reaching into her chest, she gripped that faded, golden chain that tethered her to Lucien. She wondered if he could sense her even as she ripped as hard as she could.

She stumbled back to her feet, wiping sand off her too warm gown. Shadows of a city built atop a hill loomed in the distance. She knew she’d gotten it right when her eyes landed on the sprawling palace reaching for the sky itself. It seemed to glow even in the dark. At the very top of a spiraling tower, a light winked on. A figure walked towards the window, and though Elain couldn’t prove it, she knew it was him. 

Knew it like she’d known he was something more the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she began to walk up the sandy beach, greeted by two sentries in white armor where the city first sloped. They said nothing, hands resting on their swords. She supposed it was too much to hope that Lucien would meet her himself. 

It gave Elain time to think of what she’d say to him. She didn’t think she could just blurt out that she wanted to be part of his scheming. He’d be stupid to trust her, besides. Elain relied solely on their shared connection and his desire to possess something that Rhysand would want to keep him from killing her outright.

He didn’t know how hard she’d worked to keep their bond intact. Feyre had taught Elain how to break it years ago. Elain knew her sister had long wondered why she hadn’t, though she’d never dared ask. How amusing to the Night Court to watch the High Lord of Day go insane over a rejected bond? 

No one blindfolded her, at least. Elain took that as a positive sign when she was ushered into the sweeping, arched marble of Lucien’s lovely sandstone palace. Light seemed to shine from the very darkness itself, chasing away the shadows that had been trailing Elain ever since she’d been made. For the first time in years, she took a breath with a clear head. She could have collapsed with relief had she not been so afraid. 

It was Lucien on that golden throne. Shirtless, in a pair of breezy white pants with sleep mussed hair. His mechanical eye slid over her body, looking for something she couldn’t see even as his russet one watched her with bored disinterest. 

“I told them not to send you.”

Elain swallowed. His voice was cold despite the soft, golden light radiating over his warm brown skin. His rich, deep voice bounced off the high ceilings, all but enveloping her. She knew he could see her fear. Had Feyre and Rhys tried to use her against him once? She was unaware of it.

“No one knows I’m here,” Elain managed, hating how her voice shook. She forced her spine upright, willed herself not to betray any more fear but that.

Lucien straightened, his abs flexing as he stood. “You came on your own?”

He swept a piece of that long, red hair over his bare shoulder. Bare feet padded down the four steps from the dais to the cool white marble Elain currently stood on. His guards had retreated to the far end of the room, closing the pair of them in tightly.

Alone. 

“Yes.” She was whispering as he came closer, scenting of salt and sun washed apples. He couldn’t erase the Autumn from his person, though the golden crown atop his auburn hair and the golden snake wound around his powerful bicep told her he was trying. 

He cocked his head as he approached, reaching a large hand for a lock of her hair. She watched as he brought it to his nose, inhaling sharply.

“Why’s that?”

She forced herself to look up at him. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to smell him the way he was currently doing her. To taste him. She wondered about the scars cut down his cheek and if that golden eye bothered him. 

“Feyre almost died,” she told him. Lucien didn’t react at all. He merely shrugged his shoulders.

“So?”

“Nesta gave up all her magic to save Feyre’s life. Her life that Rhysand put in danger. Again.”

Lucien dropped her lock of golden brown hair to circle around her slowly, a predator accessing his prey.

“Again. Why do I care?”

“He took everything from me,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on the now empty throne in front of her, staring out at the ocean in the distance from the wall of windows just behind Lucien’s ornate, ruling chair. “I’m a prisoner in his house, and now that Nesta’s not a threat…how long before he starts to wonder what the cauldron gave me?”

“What did  the cauldron give you, Elain?” Lucien asked, his voice adopting a sultry quality. She couldn’t suppress her shiver. 

“A mate,” she managed.

He was back in front of her again. He reached for her chin, tilting her face so he could better study her. 

“It’s been three years, Elain. You haven’t moved on?”

She tried to pretend that didn’t hurt her. “Feyre told me how to break the bond after the war, you know.”

He dropped his hand as if she’d burned him. He could pretend he’d moved on, but she saw he hadn’t. She could smell the way his scent was sharpening, becoming saltier with each moment she stood before him. 

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you’d come for me,” Elain accused. “You left me.”

He snarled softly. “You weren’t mine to take. Trembling, terrified Elain. I’d rather spend centuries alone than watch you look at me with those scared eyes.”

“Well, I apologize for not falling at your feet the very first moment I met you, lord,” she snapped in return. “How awful for the centuries old male to be given a traumatized human woman as a mate.”

Lucien’s mouth curled into a smile. “Is that so?”

“I lost everything,” Elain repeated. “And no one cared.”

“I care,” Lucien said, stepping ever closer. “I lost everything, too.”

“They get to do whatever they want and no one can stop them.”

“What are you proposing, Elain?” Lucien asked, threading his fingers through her hair, palm holding her jaw in his hand. Her heart pounded at his nearness, at the realization that they were nearly pressed chest to chest. Instinct was overriding all her good sense. Did she want him? Or did the animal that had invaded her body when she’d been made want its mate? 

“Rhysand’s ambitions are bigger than Night. I can see them,” she murmured as he lowered his face ever closer.

“Yeah?” he breathed, thumb caressing her cheek.

“What if it was you, instead?”

Lucien went still.

“What?”

“If there must be a High King,” she breathed, eyes searching his own. “Why shouldn’t it be you?”

“It would mean war with Night Court,” he told her. 

Elain shook her head, half rubbing into his calloused hand. “He can’t count on anyone. Not truly. Summer, Spring, Autumn, Winter…they don’t trust him.”

“Summer and Spring are in shambles,” Lucien replied, dropping his hand even as he licked his lips. “Winter can’t afford a messy war and Autumn…” Autumn was his enemy. 

Elain reached for him, holding his wrist. “We could help them rebuild. Imagine a Prythian united against Rhysand, Lucien.”

“We?” he questioned, his gaze drifting to her wrist. 

Elain swallowed. Clenching her fists nervously, she nodded her head. 

“You hate Rhysand so much you’d stand against your own sisters?”

“What’s the alternative?” she demanded angrily. “Wait until he decides which of his friends gets to have imprison and have sex with me—”

Lucien’s echoing snarl was answer enough. 

“There is nothing I can do for my sisters,” she explained, forcing herself to calm down. “And there is nothing they would do for me if it meant standing against their mates. Why should I have to stand against mine? Just because Rhys hates you, I must, too?”

“You’ll accept the bond?” Lucien asked, calculating what he stood to gain before he agreed to anything. 

“Yes.”

 It didn’t have to be passionate love between them. Elain had decided that before she’d ever come. It could be understanding—friendship, even. A shared goal, a common enemy was enough to convince her it was better to align herself with Lucien in an unbreakable, irrefutable way. Rhys couldn’t force her back if she tied herself irrevocably to her mate. 

She didn’t expect him to love her, either. She saw none of it on his face, even as relief shone through that russet eye. 

“I don’t want to be High King.”

“What do you want?” Elain dared to ask. 

“Besides you on your knees, choking down my cock?” he asked, his face icy stone again. “I want to see them all suffer for what they did. I want the world to know that it’s not a mask they wear, but their true faces. And I want to see them crumble to dust, forgotten even by the scholars in my very own libraries.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Elain ordered, staring him down. Lucien took a step back, accessing her cooly and almost too late, she realized that despite being a High Lord, he’d get on his knees and bow if she told him to.

The power she felt threatened to drown her. She drank it down, never breaking his gaze. “We’re equals or we’re nothing at all.”

“Shall I make you my High Lady, then?” he taunted, his lip curling. “Would you like me to put you in my lap for all of Rhodes to admire?”

“I’m not your toy, Lucien.”

“What are you?”

She looked him dead in the eye. “I can tell you how the upcoming war ends. I am your salvation.”

His smile softened. “You’re my mate,” he murmured, waiting for her to come to him. Elain did, head held high. Each step was a shedding of the woman from before. Soft, sweet, doe-like Elain had died that day in the Cauldron. She’d known when she emerged, even as she clung to that shedded skin like a lifeline. She’d been too afraid to admit it, to acknowledge that whatever the cauldron had awoken might devour the entire world if she let it. 

Elain pressed her palm against his bare chest.

“Can you still hear my heart?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she admitted. “Like a ticking clock in my head.”

He held her face in his hand again. “We do this right. I want no question on if I forced you to accept. We’ll invite all the ruling families–”

“No Night.”

“No Night,” Lucien agreed softly. “But everyone else. You’ll accept the bond and then, and only then will I bring you to my bed.” He ran his thumb over her lips. 

“And after?”

Lucien smiled.

“Then we’ll plan our revenge.”

[kemendin]

Atmospheres

One of my favourite things in writing is setting the scene - the environment, the atmosphere, the vibes. And this becomes a fun little challenge I give myself when I’m trying to bring to life a canon setting in a game.

I look at screenshots and game footage, and I study the environment there - the colours and sounds and textures, the physicality of it, but also the mood. How it makes me feel when I look at it, and also how it makes the POV character feel, because those two reactions may be quite different. And then I figure out just the right words and cadence to really bring what I perceive to life in my writing.

For instance, I love the unsettling feeling of the Rakata vaults in SWTOR, and the whole vibe of Belsavis in particular, so I really tried to convey that in this fic:

Even in the depths of the cell blocks, Belsavis was never quiet. A low hum of energy was nearly constant as it carved its way through the ancient structures, and power gleamed in cold colours from the sockets set high in the walls. In the vast dimness of the corridors, the lights flickered like dying stars, and like eyes they seemed to follow the path of the intruders. Watchful. Waiting.

It was cold in the hollow passages beneath the snow. Some of the vaults were oddly temperate, warmed by the thermal energies of the planet where magma welled up through the crust. But here, Caspian’s breath shivered from him as he trotted along the sloping floor towards the surface. Scourge padded along behind him, an ever-present crimson shadow. Even though the angle of the floor put him below Cas, it did little to diminish the sense of his looming stature.

BG3 also has such rich, immersive environments, so even my so-far limited experience in describing them has been a blast. I’m very proud of my description of the Shadow-Cursed Lands from my first fic:

Here, though, it is different. The shadows that stifle this once-fertile landscape are thick, and coiling, and hungry. They do not merely lurk, waiting to consume the follies of the ill-fated; they are predators seeking prey, and they gnaw on the bones of the dead even as they stalk the steps of the living.

Dhamari can hear their hunger scraping around the edges of the campsite, where torches - plucked from rotting corpses on the roadside - now flutter and fight to keep the menacing fog at bay. The party has hunkered down for the night in as secure a space as they could find - a wide lip of stone sheltered by jutting crags on two sides and facing out into empty air on a third, exposed save for a few scraggly trees that still cling, quivering, to the precipice. More ash-grey branches hang overhead, twisting out from cracks in the uneven stone, their red leaves rattling in an erratic wind.

There is a foul tang on the air, the metal scent of dark magic wrapped around decades of decay. Even the fruits of Gale’s excellent cooking had borne the taste of it at dinner, but on the whole, the group had been too subdued by the atmosphere around them to offer much complaint. The meal was taken in taut silence, and then the weary adventurers had dispersed to their bedrolls, most drawing their tent flaps tight against the unsettling sounds emanating from beyond the boundaries of the campsite. Now, only Halsin keeps watch - minding the central fire, or else softly pacing the perimeter to check that the smaller wards of flame still burn.

I’m working on my next one now, which takes place in the Underdark/Grymforge. This is likely not the final version, but I’m already very pleased with the atmosphere I’m evoking:

The shoreline that greets them after their shrouded sail across the Ebonlake is not a welcoming one. There is torchlight to part the shadows, but it is harsh and brazen, and it glares in bronze reflections off broken stonework that climbs up and up into the cavernous darkness.

Long ago, this was perhaps a proud and impenetrable fortress. But now the structure is cracked and desecrated, seared by time and fire and caged by makeshift scaffolds that allow the duergar interlopers a means of clambering across the ruins. Yet shadows remain, uneven and treacherous, caught in the crevices formed by history’s slow forgetting of this place.

There is no beach to slide beneath their spiny craft, only a narrow wharf of straight-hewed stone jutting out into the unfathomable waters. Several other boats similar to their own are already moored there, looking unnaturally still until the silent ripples of the two new arrivals set the lake to lapping at their hulls.

So yeah! I find it’s important to establish the scenic backdrop of the story, because my brain is playing it like a movie in my head and I gotta know what it looks like and what the vibes are. (Can you tell I like describing eerie, abandoned places? xD)

[reallifetangent]

Hey, it's me, with another Ominis and Sebastian mini fic/headcanon.

This time i got a bit more violent and decided to plasm my perception of the MC (here named Mikka Callyps) and the Sebastian Storyline through Ominis.

Warnings? Mentions of death of characters and spoilers of Sebastian's Storyline.

---

Ominis had a rough relationship with Mikka. Alright, they still were close even after the years at Hogwarts came to an end, but Sebastian's absence was making Ominis' heart getting smaller. His head losing track of spaces, his body feeling unwelcomed without his friend around. And even if Mikka was there to help him with the pain or whatever, he would never forgive them.

Ominis didn't need functional eyes to see how unfair was everything. And how normal it was for others. Mikka asked Sebastian to learn the Cruciatus Curse and casted it on him. Sebastian taught them how to cast Imperio, and nonetheless they casted it over Ominis in order to protect Sebastian. He also heard the hordes and groups of ashwinders or bandits slowly disappearing, not because they willingly left the towns around Hogwarts, but someone with great powers make them, even using recourses as violent attacks ending heavily injured or even dead, some using the Killing Curse. Sebastian knew how to cast Avada Kedavra. No one in their senses could teach it at Hogwarts, unless you were that insane.

Mikka, in Ominis'perception, were in love at first sight with Sebastian. And their actions proved that they would even kill for him. They supported the twisted ideas of Sebastian to get a cure for his sister just for the sake of Sebastian liking them back. Mikka got in so much troubles just to side with Sebastian, push him further in the madness and Dark Arts 'till the No Return point. And Sebastian liked having that kind of ally after Ominis didn't agree with it.

And he wouldn't have a problem with it if it wasn't of his best friend rotting in a reformatory or Azkaban, expelled of his life, while Mikka was walking like nothing mattered. Hypocrisy at its finest.

War Hero? History won't remember their name.

He was aware of someone he knew they did worse things and in bigger amount than his friend, who might secretly hid his will to kill his own uncle. He was having around a killer, someone who didn't need the Killing Curse to get rid of people dangerous for commoners. Mikka was walking free, with way more blood on their hands than all the students together. And his best friend was paying for a small mistake in comparison. Maybe he was biased to Sebastian? Probably.

The butterfly effect of Mikka getting into their lives made him lose his best friend, maybe forever. The domino effect of Mikka being so people pleaser that even himself fell for their charms and opened the chamber and way to Sebastian's insanity. He would never forgive the person he knew they were pushing so far their luck. It didn't matter they saved Hogwarts from Ranrok and something about a magic source so powerful... He would never perceive them as a saint, as someone who saved us all, someone who didn't do anything bad. Dare to lie to his face. Mikka was no saint. No matter what the world tried to show him.

[strywoven]

@phytonomy has requested a story : 🔙   //   push  my  muse  against  a  wall . (for Verona from Knives)

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅.

A TWO-WAY sort of exchange , this connection , one innate to their kind and specific to t h e m ( bonds between plants are often individual , theirs is equally unique ; no-one else can infringe on the intimate space where their souls commingle ) .  Every part of her feels EXPOSED TO HIM ( seen , heard , at times even touched & made raw— ) .  In turn , there is a new vulnerability to Knives , one she understands he is not privy to , one that remains j u s t beyond the reach of his measures for ( desperate ) control.  And , for the most part , Verona’s re-exploration of him is always CHASTE , done with the r e s p e c t he is owed.  Never – or rather , not typically – does the Matriarch take more than she is given , than she is offered.  Such that is , sharing such a bond makes keeping secrets … RATHER DIFFICULT ( if not altogether impossible ) ; he ought to know , anyways , there is no hiding anything from her.  Not ever.

Slow , at first , as usual , the idle l e a k i n g feeling of her presence all but unraveling through his head like a GROWING ROT ; unfurling bigger , bigger still , reaching out to all corners of his head with her too-greedy claws to t o u c h and p r y at whatever she finds , dislodging both thought and memory , replacing it with a dull ache and a lulling melody.  If this were a human , one might accuse her of POSSESSION ; a demon’s magic , a CONSUMPTION .  But there is never any harm in merely looking , is there ?  For the moment , it feels as if that is all she does , traipsing about the halls and hollows of her companion’s mind just as he does her.

There is no real venture to find anything … And yet she does.  This is not her memory to reclaim , but Verona cannot help the way she seizes onto it ; he had a human , too !  Almost like a happy little family , the twins and this Rem.  Lo’ our messiah is not so p e r f e c t l y absolved , is he ?  Finally ⸺ !

⸺ The force of him rounding on her , shoving her into the wall , knocks her head back , sending everything momentarily OUT OF FOCUS alongside a dizzying pain.  But the damage has been done ; what she’s seen , cannot be unseen ( she remembers everything & this especially , is not a detail she shall be keen to overlook ) .  And even in the wake of Knives’ ire , Verona feels a swell of EGO & TRIUMPH for her little discovery , for this little s e c r e t he did not want her to know ( & why is that ? she wonders ) .  She shall SAVOR this feeling for a time to come , yes.

❝ Oh , dear , ❞ A pitying look is given , ❝ Strike a nerve did I ? ❞  More than a nerve , as it would seem !  How delightfully interesting !  His entire disposition has shifted ; the energy between them has become strained and volatile.  Yet what is also incredibly strange about this is – they both know – he could do her harm … But he refrains ( whyever for ? who is staying his blades if not the lingering memory of the strange girl he knew who would hold his hand ? ) .  Despite herself , Verona g r i n s at him , the bleeding remnants of her tearing into his memories still dripping all-too-proudly there off her hungered maw.  ❝ You ought to learn to keep your temper , my beloved brother , ❞ Noted how the taunting sentiment only stokes his irritation further.  Leaning forward , she presses into his space , nose-to-nose ; the air seems HEAVY & TENSE , choked on the struggle for power between the two ( where all too often knives falls just a few steps behind her devilry , each moment of bout bringing another occasion of being outmatched ) .  ❝ Else I may not think to keep m i n e . ❞  Less a threat , more of a promise , punctuated by the way she snaps her teeth at him.