#fields of mistrial

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[tinysweetnight]

Friday Night!!!

[mistria-aa]

“Why is everyone in this town so welcoming…… and cute..?? 😮‍💨”

Quick 30 min warm up sketch of the first time the farmer meets Balor based on an inspiration pic I saw on Pinterest hehe x

[fantasy-drawings-ra]

I’m debating on what to draw next in digital so…

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

hi

[delphiniumjoy]

there aren’t enough hours in the day how do real gamers do this

[thirstbxtch]

Steno

Pairing: John Munch x Reader

Rating: E

John's curious as to why you would break things off with a seemingly great guy.

Started watching SVU from the beginning for the first time as an adult.

Became unexpectedly feral for Detective Munch.

Lack of content has brought me out of retirement.

You're in one of the courthouse break rooms grabbing a coffee when Detective John Munch comes in.

"Hey, haven't seen you in awhile," he says, also pouring a coffee. You lean back against the counter sipping yours.

You run into each other sometimes, being a stenographer. You like it when you're assigned to a trial he's called to testify on, like today. The sound of his voice. His sometimes dryly sarcastic responses given during cross examination. You both have the same sense of humor. He likes you because you never ask him to spell anything, including psychological terminology.

John gives an "ah" of understanding.

You sigh.

"Got tied up on a double homicide. Mistrial. It's on hold while they find a new jury."

"How you've been? How's Eric?" He teases pleasantly.

Eric was an up-and-coming attorney you'd started dating about two months ago.

"Over that fast? Did it even have time to get started?" John jokes.

You make a face.

"Mmm, just went ahead and ended it. Wasn't going anywhere."

You shrug nonchalant.

"Well, when you know, you know."

He nods, deciding not to push.

"You?"

"This case has been a bitch, I'm expecting the trial will be as well."

"Seems to be headed that way."

You check your watch.

"Better get back to it, recess is almost up. You know how Judge Schneider is when it comes to punctuality."

"Oh believe me, I know."

The jury reaches a verdict after three days of deliberation. Now the end of the third day, Munch is there to hear it, sitting in the gallery.

Your fingers hover over the stenotype in anticipation as they stand to deliver.

"The jury has found the defendant Not Guilty, your honor."

There's a stunned kind of silence throughout the court room. It takes you a second to process before you can transcribe it.

You glance over at Munch. Stony expression says it all.

He approaches you once it's all over, the courtroom clearing, you're gathering your things.

John's standing there tall and slender, black suit, dark grey shirt, dark salt and pepper hair brushed back. Blue tie with his signature silver tie clip.

"I could use a drink after that, care to join?"

He's not really expecting you to agree, but what the hell right.

Handsome in an academic sort of way.

"You drive?"

"Yeah, actually, same."

Can't be any harm in commiserating with someone in essentially the same field. Your friends only put up with so much of your work talk.

"No, not today, took the subway."

He looks at you, skeptical.

"What?"

He shakes his head, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

"Alright, come on."

He takes you to a quiet, little bar, where you'll actually be able to hear each other talk. Soft piano music playing in the background.

John orders a Scotch, neat, and you order a Manhattan.

After about an hour and two drinks of lamenting the outcome of the trial, debating the downfalls of the legal system, and generally catching up --John decides he's curious.

"So--wanna tell me what actually happened with Erick?" Tone only half serious.

"Is this why you brought me out? To get the details of my romantic life?" You reply, teasing.

"Well I'd tell you the details of mine, but it's non-existent," he replies in that signature deadpan way.

"I have a hard time believing that."

"Believe it."

You finish your drink and signal for another. He waits, expectantly. Sometimes half of getting people to talk is just being quiet.

"I did tell you, just wasn't going anywhere, no point in wasting time when you know it's not going to work," you explain.

John finishes his drink and leans forward, elbows resting on the bar, also signaling for another.

"Ok, but why wasn't it going anywhere? Come on, the guy is practically prince charming-- attractive, good job, promising career, nice car, apartment on the nice side of town from what I hear-- If that's not considered 'going anywhere' for women, what possible hope can there be for me?"

You smile and roll your eyes, playful, as the bartender places new drinks in front of you.

"Yeah, he sounds great on paper, but we just weren't compatible."

John studies you now, trying to read beneath the smiles and guarded responses.

"Did he hurt you?" He asks frankly.

You give him a pointed look.

"No, nothing like that Detective," you place a hand on his upper arm, attempting to placate him, "trust me, it's not that serious."

John glances down at your hand on his arm. The light touch somehow burning through his suit jacket and shirt. Brings his eyes back to yours. A moment. Another smile before you withdraw.

You each sip your drinks.

"If I tell you, it stays between us ok?"

"Hey, loose lips sink ships," John says casually, not wanting to appear over-eager.

You drink again.

"Like I said, Erik sounds great on paper, he's nice, but the sex was-- less so," You finish wryly.

"Less so?" John prompts, pleased to be making progress, but this is only piquing his interest, not satisfying it.

John processes the information, annoyed now on your behalf, but checks his composure.

You hum, thinking.

"Let's just say I never saw any sparks." You give him another pointed look, before drinking again.

"You mean, never? Not once?" He asks, casual.

"Not once," you reply simply.

The brief silence however, encourages you to continue, unable to suppress the impulse overshare while under the influence.

"Ah --well, that'll do it."

He drinks.

"He always wanted me to blow him but wouldn't eat me out--" you roll your eyes, decidedly less playful now and drink "hate that, so annoying."

John clears his throat, caught off guard by your sudden bluntness, and certain illicit images they conjure.

"Did you tell him that?" He asks, matter of fact, once he's able to form words.

"I mean, I think he tried once or twice, but it was just--disappointing."

You make a face.

"No, no need to be cruel, it's not like he did me wrong or anything, just easier to tell him it wasn't going to work."

"Sounds like he was doing you wrong." The comment is out of John's mouth before he can think. He panics momentarily, hoping he hasn't been too crude.

John cracks a smile.

But instead you're actually laughing.

"Got me there."

"Maybe he's insecure, maybe he knows he's not good at giving head so that's why he doesn't like to do it." He's playing devil's advocate now. "I mean the poor bastard can't do any better if someone doesn't teach him."

John raises a brow.

You make another face.

"He's 30-something. Not 19. If he doesn't know by now," you shrug, finishing your drink, "I'm sure he'll be fine, he'll meet someone nice."

"Someone nicer than me." You add, not sure when you and the detective had gotten so close. You're practically elbow to elbow. You can smell his aftershave -- clean and inviting. You press your thighs together. Just so.

"I don't mind driving you home," he offers, "would rather make sure you get home alive."

You check your watch, sighing.

"It's getting late. I should call a cab."

You guess you can't really argue, both knowing the hundreds of horrible possibilities that can happen at any given time in this city.

He calls the bartender over for the tab, and you both straighten up.

"I can--" you start, only for John to wave you off.

"Wouldn't dream of it, one tab please," he tells the bartender mildly.

The drive home is quiet, but comfortable. You don't want to give him the wrong directions.

"Just up here on the right, that's my building."

He pulls up to the sidewalk, eyeing the building.

"I know, it's not much, but it's decent, for New York at least."

John turns off the car.

"You know I'm walking you to your door."

You could live in the Upper East Side and he would walk you to your door. Doesn't trust anyone or anywhere at this point in his career.

"Came all this way," you tease putting in the key, "might as well come in for a night cap."

There's no doorman, which he scolds you for.

You hit the keypad for entrance, take the elevator up to the 5th floor, and walk all the way down to the end of the hall.

Thinking all the while about how you're not ready for your time with the detective to be over.

This old song and dance, John thinks, regarding you. You're looking at him with something, dare he say, dangerously akin to want.

"Twist my arm why don't you," he replies easily.

You turn on a light and slip out of your blazer, tossing it lazily over the back of the couch.

John takes the opportunity to shamelessly admire the line your body while you're not paying attention.

Formal t-shirt tucked into your modest knee length pencil skirt, lingering on the curve of your ass, then down your legs to your simple, black pumps.

You make your way over to the bar cart in your so-called dining room.

Whiskey and two glasses, setting them on the table, pouring generously.

A silent toast.

"This was nice," you hum, leaning back against the table.

"Yeah, it was," he murmurs, allowing his gaze to drop to your mouth.

John smoothly downs his in one go.

He steps forward, setting his now empty glass on the table but doesn't move away.

You're not moving away or re-directing the conversation. Just standing there looking back at him through long lashes.

He closes the small distance between you, slotting his mouth over yours. You return the kiss, lips pressed for long moments to his, before separating.

You set your unfinished drink on the table, pushing it off to the side, and returning your mouth to his. An exchange of kisses that quickly grows hungry. Your hands slipping beneath his suit jacket, palming his chest, he shrugs out of the offending item, lips still half connected to yours.

Then he's lifting you effortlessly onto the table, tongue running along your lower lip when you gasp. Dizzy from the way he licks into your mouth.

"John," you breathe. He's kissing your neck now, pushing up your skirt.

"Yeah, yes," you say pulling gently at his tie, and he's kissing you senseless again, running a hand up your thigh to the edge of your panties, lingering momentarily before long fingers are stroking your folds.

He pauses.

"You good?" He asks, looking to you for reassurance. He's not sure really if his pride can handle hearing that this was just a drunken mistaken the morning after.

He groans.

You whimper in agreement.

"Sweetheart, you're so fucking wet."

Breath hot against your skin, savoring the easy way his fingers slide over you.

He withdraws, eager now to act on what he's been thinking about half the night since you brought it up. Rolling up his sleeves and taking off his glasses. Dropping to his knees. He'll probably feel this later.

He pushes apart your thighs as you look down at him in half-lidded anticipation, lifting your hips as he slides off your underwear.

Then he's licking into you like a half-starved man, because well he is, dragging the flat of his tongue against you and moaning, pleased with the high-pitched little sigh you make, needy.

"Taste good too, baby," he says looking up at you, "so fucking good, sweet little pussy."

Returns his mouth to you, easy, taking his time, you card a hand through his hair. It isn't long before you're pushing your hips against his tongue, trying to press your thighs together. Only then does he slip two long fingers into you, stroking you deep and curling them, sure you were vocal before but now you're loud.

He hums low in his throat, pleased, tonguing your clit in a gentle, steady rhythm with his fingers.

"Fuckkk, John --"

Hand tightening in his hair, one leg thrown over his shoulder.

It's been a long time since it's been this good and suddenly it's too much, you're coming apart, John's name the only thing you're capable of saying between pants and high moans, and John just keeps going, dragging the wave all the way out, feeling you spasm on his fingers, leaking on his tongue, just when he thinks you can't get any wetter. He doesn't stop until your inner thighs start to tremble and you're oversensitive, weakly stroking his hair.

He rests his head on your thigh for a moment, gazing up at you, a few strands of dark hair falling in his face, appreciating your thoroughly fucked-out appearance.

Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before standing.

You kiss him softly before palming his pants where he's painfully hard.

He stills your hand, reluctantly, after a few moments.

"I'm not exactly in the habit of keeping protection on me sweetheart."

"Mmm, I don't care, I'm on the pill." You reply, hand going for his belt buckle.

"You can't expect me to last very long," he says looking at you with raised brows.

"I don't care, John--just wanna feel you."

He groans, giving in, not stopping you now as you make quick work of his belt and his fly, pulling out his shirt, slipping your hand into his boxers, running your hand experimentally over his long cock.

"Hey, none of that right now angel," he pants, grabbing your wrist, he finishes pulling himself out.

Then he's easing into you, biting off a moan, your arms wrapped around his neck.

"Shit, you're tight, you're so fucking tight."

"Feels so good," you sigh, taking him with minimal effort, body thoroughly relaxed after the orgasm he just gave you.

He rolls his hips slowly into yours, setting an easy rhythm, enough to keep him just on edge, but he's still lightheaded after only a few minutes, muttering apologies and half curses under his breath that you silence by placing your lips on his.

You stay together for long moments when it's over, both still buzzed but no longer from the drinks. John thinks back to the conversation at the bar though.

"So would you say that was 'more so' than 'less so' ? See any sparks?"

[lesbehonestsstuff]

A disastrous game

Casey watches the Yankees loose the World Series and Alex still doesn’t like baseball but she’ll do anything for Casey

@wellvak I hope this satisfies some of the need for calex baseball fics, thank you for the prompt 🩵

The penthouse was quiet except for the sound of the commentators on TV and the occasional curse coming from Casey. Their two cats, Taco and Daisy, were stretched out lazily on the window nook, oblivious to the tension that was building with every inning.

Casey sat forward, elbows on her knees, gripping a throw pillow like it had personally wronged her. Her eyes were glued to the screen, watching what had once been a comfortable lead disintegrate more and more as each player went up to bat. What had started as an easy 5-0 lead was now, unbelievably, getting close to a tied game. The fifth inning had been nothing short of a disaster, a comedy of errors if it wasn’t so painful for someone who had been rooting for the Yankees for decades.

Alex was curled up beside her, glasses on the edge of her nose, blonde hair falling around her shoulders in soft waves. She was trying, she really was. She had spent years watching baseball with Casey, watching Casey play softball all the way from when they were in college together to when she finally had to stop playing for the sex crimes team after too many injuries, and she still couldn’t understand half of it. But she loved Casey, so she watched.

Well, she was mostly watching Casey get more and more upset.

“Darling,” Alex interrupted the noise from the commentators, lazily swirling her wine inside the glass. “You look like you’re about to start litigating against the television.”

Casey let out a breath, barely sparing her a glance. “Because they’re playing like idiots.” She gestured toward the screen, where the Yankees’ third baseman had just, apparently, messed up spectacularly. Alex had no idea what had happened, only that a player hadn't caught a ball.

She blinked at the screen, trying to figure it out. The players were throwing the ball around, running back and forth, nothing seemed particularly disastrous. They had just… missed? Fumbled? She didn’t know. But Casey let out an audible groan and dropped her head back against the couch, clearly suffering, gripping the pillow so tightly that Alex half-expected it to burst at the seams.

Casey wasn’t just annoyed, she was distressed. Alex had seen her fired up about sports before, but this was more than usual.

She waited for the inning to end and the commercials to start playing and hesitated before asking, softer now, “Alright. What exactly is happening?”

Casey ran a hand through her hair, the strands tangling between her fingers. “They were up 5-0. Five to nothing. And then, in one inning, they let the Dodgers tie the game. Just… mistake after mistake. Bad plays, stupid errors, it’s disastrous. They’re falling apart, the pitching is garbage, and don’t even get me started on the fielding. So many errors, Alex.”

Alex hummed like that meant something to her. It did not. “But… they still have a chance, yes?”

Casey groaned, rubbing her face. “That’s not the point! The point is, they shouldn’t be in this situation at all. It’s like watching a courtroom slam-dunk case turn into a mistrial because someone forgot to file the right paperwork.”

Alex’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Now that analogy she understood. “Ah,” she said, nodding, “so it’s an egregious failure of competence.”

“Yes!” Casey gestured at the screen as the plays were replayed for the audience. “Finally, you get it!”

Alex stared at her for a long moment before setting her wine down and shifting closer. “Darling, I say this with the utmost love and respect, but… I think you need to breathe before you have a stroke.”

Casey glared at her, but it lacked any real heat, a smile breaking through despite it. “I cannot breathe right now.”

Alex nodded, shifting even closer until she was pressed against her wife. She took Casey’s hand and pried it away from the abused throw pillow, lacing their fingers together, rubbing small circles into Casey’s palm like she did every time she needed to ground her. “Alright, I shall suffer through it with you.”

Casey huffed, but her grip on Alex’s hand relaxed slightly. “You don’t even like baseball.”

“No,” Alex responded quickly, “but I like you and I root for New York.”

Casey turned, watching her wife for a moment. Alex, with her impeccable posture, her expensive silk robe draped over her, looking completely out of place in the world of baseball-induced stress. And yet, here she was, sitting through an entire school because she knew it mattered to Casey. Casey had spent decades dragging Alex to department games, taking her to stadiums to watch them play live, taking over the TV when a particularly important game was on. She knew Alex didn’t particularly enjoy it, and yet she always watched, she was always there just because she loved her.

Some of the tension in her eased, and she could nearly feel tears come to her eyes as she thought about how considerate her wife was. The Yankees were still ruining her night, but Alex wasn’t. She was making it better.

The game dragged on, and Casey’s stress only grew and grew. The Yankees never recovered from the disastrous fifth inning, and by the time the final out was called, the Dodgers had won. Casey stared at the screen, stunned. “No. No. That didn’t just happen.”

Alex, who had long stopped paying attention to what was happening on the screen focusing instead on petting a purring Taco turned to watch her wife. Casey looked wrecked, like she had just watched a career-defining case slip through her fingers at the very last second. She knew Casey would never admit it but Alex could swear she saw tears forming in her eyes, out of frustration or anger Alex didn't know, but it was a devastating sight to see.

Alex had seen Casey upset before but this was a level of sports-induced suffering Alex had never quite witnessed firsthand and that she quite frankly didn’t understand.

Alex cleared her throat carefully. “Casey?”

Casey let out a breath, shaking her head. “They lost.” Her voice was raw, as if she had personally lost the game herself.

“So I gathered,” Alex replied dryly. She watched as Casey continued staring at the screen watching the Dodgers celebrate, like she was willing the score to change through sheer force of will.

After a long moment, Alex sighed. “Come on.”

Casey blinked, turning to her. “Come on where?”

Alex stood, tugging gently on Casey’s hand. “Upstairs.”

Casey hesitated. “Alex they lost.”

“I know,” Alex said watching the disbelief still present on her wife's face, “You need that game out of your head, and I have a very good way to help you relax before you start throwing things at the television.”

Casey blinked, momentarily distracted from her heartbreak. It took her half a second to catch the look on Alex’s face, and despite herself, she smirked. “I bet you do”

Alex smiled, pulling her up from the couch. “Darling, have I ever let you down?”

Casey sighed, but the tightness in her body had already started to ease. Alex had always had that effect on her, and right now, Casey needed that more than she wanted to admit.

Alex leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Casey’s lips before tugging her toward the stairs. “Come on,” she murmured. “I promise you’ll feel much better in no time.”

Casey rolled her eyes, but any frustration left in her expression had softened into affection. She allowed herself to be led, muttering, “I really did fail at making you like baseball”

“I'm sorry darling 20 years later and I still don't see what the fuzz is about,” Alex admitted shamelessly, giving Casey’s hand a squeeze.

Alex paused at the top of the stairs, pulling Casey in for one last kiss, this one slower, more deliberate. She let her lips linger against Casey’s for just a moment before pulling back and whispering, “They will get them next year.”

Casey exhaled, tension replaced with desire as she fought the urge to chase Alex’s lips. The loss still sucked, and she would still be mad about it for the rest of the week but right now she had far more important things to attend to.

“They better, otherwise no amount of things you can do to distract me in there will work” she said pushing them into the bedroom

Alex chuckled raising an eyebrow “we will see about that”

[eldritchgh0st]

I started playing Fields of Mistrial and the vibe is clear. I am very normal about this game.

Very charming and pretty romancable characters: which one of us will be the object of your attraction??

Me: oooh what great options... This is going to be so hard /sarc

March, the mean-ass bully tsundere: oh sisters I'm back from war

Me: HELLO SAILOR 😍😍😍😍😍🤤🤤🤤 /srs

[theunstablejester]

Don't wanna be mean to Fields of Mistrial since it's just doing what all the Story of Seasons/Harvest Moon copycats do of following the Stardew Valley blueprint of only allowing you to date young skinny characters but damn is it even more notorious when you add one single male character that's not that while all the female characters that are romanceable are pretty girls.

[gamemakerm]

Phoenix Wright/farming sim crossover. Fields of Mistrial

[demonlys]

blasting  sinners  by barns courtney  down  main  street  we've  spotted ZEHRA ARDALI  sporting  their  necklace  made  of  a  steel  chain  forged  in  hell  and  a  pentecostal  coin  fashioned  into  a  pendant.  the five hundred + seventy-one  year  old DEMON  who's  been  in  town  for ten months  often  can  be  seen  lingering  at  the  crossroads  when  nostalgia  hits  hard,  expanding  her  bruce  springsteen  album  collection  at  the  local  vinyl  store,  strutting into "hallowed grounds"  like  a  ceo  in  a  power  suit,  or  working  as  the SUPERNATURAL ARBITRATOR & TOWN SOLICITOR  at TOWN HALL.  people  say  they  display articulate  and insouciant  traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  a  smile  that  promises  everything  and  delivers  nothing  ( she  gives  you  what  you  ask  for,  but  not  what  you  want ) ;  a  sleek,  polished  exterior  hiding  the  scars  of  a  long  life  lived  in  the  shadows ;  brown  eyes  that  have  seen  too  much  and  still  refuse  to  look  away ;  a  collector  of  contradictions  ⸺  she's  both  calm  and  chaotic,  full  of  smoldering  rage  and  detached  serenity.  also,  we've  heard  they  love CHERRY FLAVORED LOLLIPOPS !  aren't  they  fascinating ?

(  !  )  CW  : mentions of death/murder, organized crime, violence, manipulation, demonic possession.

⛧ ¹ basics.

goes by : zehra demon name : belpharion vessel's name : neslihan ardali age : appears thirty-five years old / five-hundred and seventy-one gender : cis woman ( she/her ) orientation : pansexual species : demon. she's one of the mephistophelim, a child of the ancient demon mephistopheles. current occupation : supernatural arbitrator & town solicitor

⛧ ² vessel.

neslihan ardali was born on may 29th, 1975 in mersin, türkiye. at a young age, her family relocated to the united states after her father secured a job in the medical field. the ardali family settled in allenhurst, new jersey and neslihan would grow up to become a criminal defense attorney, having earned her juris doctor degree from rutgers university. following graduation, she took the new york state bar exam and started calling the city that never sleeps her home. as a defense attorney, she represented a number of controversial clients, including mob figures. she was part of the defense team in some high-profile cases, representing individuals connected to organized crime families in new york. these cases occasionally attracted media attention, particularly her work in the legal defense of a member of the gambino crime family which earned her the moniker of "jersey girl lawyer" in the press. in 2010, months after the final mistrial that marked a win for the defense team, neslihan's life came to a tragic end at the hands of enforcers from a rival crime family.

⛧ ³ physical appearance.

early reports of belpharion describe her as an imposing figure with long dark hair and a half-covered face. the silver mask that covered one side of her face was used to hide the scarred features beneath, caused by a hellfire accident during her terrible two-hundreds. unlike some other demons, zehra's original form was human-like and she typically used a glamour to hide her scars while moving through the mortal realm whenever she was earth-bound for pleasure, not business. for over a decade now, she's taken over the likeness and identity of her chosen vessel. she has the ability to temporarily change her appearance through her disguise powers; she's often used this skill with humans to make one side of her face look scarred and disfigured, displaying what's been referred to as her demonic face.

⛧ ⁴ powers & abilities.

she possesses the usual demon strengths and weaknesses. the following are abilities and powers that she may not share with other demons, unless they are of her kin : accelerated healing factor : despite her enhanced durability, it's still possible to injure zehra. however, her demon physiology enables her to heal faster than humans. teleportation : much like her siblings, she could teleport between earth and hell with no difficulty. unfortunately, she's been stripped of this power as punishment for an indiscretion. reality warping ( limited to deals ) : through mystical deals, she's able to fulfill almost any wish in exchange for something that they have ⸺ usually their souls. once the agreement is sealed, it's virtually impossible for the victim to escape compliance. the mephistophelim are known to mislead and use loopholes to turn a situation to their benefit, often playing with the wording of an agreement to their own advantage and the pain of the bargainer. while it's possible for a mephistophelim to undo a contract of their own making, it's not done without consequences. telekinesis ( limited ) : for example, she can summon her necklace and her demon daggers ( blades forged from powerful mystical steel in hell ). this ability is limited as she can only move specific items with her mind. demonkinesis : she can summon lesser demons or hellish creatures to do her bidding or simply, to serve her. summoning does not include the ability to bind or control the summoned being. supernatural insight : she as the ability to sense the inner nature of a person's soul and assess its purity or corruption. during the soul-reading process, her eyes briefly flicker into a glowing red color. it's not a steady, constant glow, but a fleeting flash, like an ember that burns hot and fast, then fades almost as quickly as it appeared. the red glow might pulse once or twice before dimming, returning to the demon's normal gaze.

⛧ ⁵ personality traits.

charming but aloof ; has a penchant for sarcasm ; eye-rolling master ; selectively enthusiastic ; sees challenges as opportunities for a little fun ; loyal to those she cares about, though she may not always show it ; excels in the fine art of pulling strings ; tendency to keep her emotions guarded ; dismissive in the face of discomfort ; struggles with vulnerability ; can be condescending, particularly towards people she deems beneath her ; sometimes self-deprecating, but prefers to keep her insecurities hidden ; craves parental validation and approval more than she lets on ; possesses a dry, almost caustic humor, often laced with irony and cynicism ; has a rebellious streak that's often expressed in her defiance of expectations ; can be awkward in emotionally charged situations, despite her confident exterior ; skeptical of grand gestures ; driven by both, self-interest and a sense of obligation.

⛧ ⁶ style.

corporate chic, i guess?? power suits, tailored blazers, pencil skirts and bold colors that make her look like she's about to close a deal and steal the spotlight. "i could damn your soul with a glance but i'd rather do it in style" vibes. her casual look is laid-back but still on-point, a mix of comfort and cool, with a touch of urban edge.

⛧ ⁷ speech.

her voice is smooth, controlled and deliberately measured, often laced with sarcastic or mocking undertones. tends to speak with an easy charm, her tone can be playful even when she's being cruel or manipulative. depending on the topic, she may come across as bored or exasperated, particularly when dealing with the absurdities of human existence, her delivery drifts into deadpan monotone. when genuinely angry or frustrated, her speech becomes more coldly biting and frantic, losing some of its polish and detached air. in moments of vulnerability, her voice softens, though even then, she strives to maintain control, masking any signs of weakness.

⛧ ⁸ dossier.

zehra spawns into existence shortly after the fall of constantinople and the rise of the ottoman empire ⸺ an event her father claims credit for. though not in history books, mephistopheles struck a deal with mehmed the conqueror on april 6th, 1453. in exchange for the city's capture within fifty-five days, mehmed would gain eternal glory, but his soul would be damned forever.

she is made from a sliver of primal soul ( a soul in its raw, underdeveloped state ), and mephistopheles' own blood and bones, at a dark altar in the pits of hell. the youngest of the mephistophelim, she spends her formative years trying not to step over the colossal egos of high-powered dealmakers who had already made a name for themselves.

as a rookie, zehra is normally assigned to hell loops like a common torture demon or called around to help her older siblings with tasks they prefer to avoid, as they remain reluctant to dispose of big duties. though she isn't called upon for anything important in her early centuries, she is full of ambition and looking forward to her ascent in the infernal hierarchy. 

her terrible two-hundreds are, indeed, terrible. a promising, enthusiastic demon filled with youthful curiosity and an unhealthy obsession with "why". her questions become more frequent and much more annoying, she prods and pushes limits with disruptive ideas like a "vip suffering experience" or trying to unionize hell. her rebellious streak peaks with an accident involving uncontrolled hellfire that disfigures the left side of her face. her siblings are not impressed, but zehra's determination earns her a grudging respect and even her father, once skeptical of her potential, takes notice.

after decades scrubbing hell's floors ⸺ literally and figuratively, she steps into the role she'd been eyeing. zehra becomes known for her ability to strike deals with ease, finding people on the edge of a moral collapse and subtly guiding them into hell's grasp. she knows how to twist words and she always gets a little more than what is expected, relying not on fear or fire but on psychological manipulation. she'll make someone feel guilty, entitled or deserving of more, exploiting their emotional weaknesses to make the deal feel inevitable.

as centuries pass, she begins to notice a sameness in her work. humans become predictable, their desires don't change and the deals grow hollow. the thrill of manipulating mortals starts to feel more like routine than fun. each new soul collected is no different from the last one, and while she doesn't experience remorse, she starts to grow weary of the endless cycle.

in 1929, zehra strikes a deal with mexican painter frida kahlo, offering fame and recognition for her personal art in exchange for her soul. despite her growing apathy towards the process, she admires kahlo's resilience in the face of physical pain. over the following years, zehra visits often, fascinated by how the artist channels suffering into her work. for the first time, she sees a bargainer not as a mere pawn in a game of souls, but as someone of true merit. in a bold move, zehra breaks the agreement, allowing kahlo's legacy to influence the world without the corruption of their pact. this decision isn't driven by pity or a desire to "save" the painter, but a genuine recognition of frida's greatness. this act of defiance infuriates mephistopheles.

as punishment for her indiscretion and to prevent her from growing too attached to humankind, mephistopheles revokes zehra's ability to travel freely between earth and hell. he is a worried parent who fears that she has spent too much time observing her "clients," growing increasingly empathetic as she watches them struggle after selling their futures. zehra would beg to differ ⸺ she has simply been bored. though it’s true that she's grown to enjoy spending time on earth, she finds humans and their endless concerns rather dull and unremarkable.

ever since kahlogate, zehra can only pop up on earth if someone summons her at the crossroads ⸺ or she hitches a ride with another demon which is just embarrassing, really. in a desperate bid to appease her father and also reclaim her autonomy, she buries her growing disillusionment and keeps herself occupied, using her skills to entertain herself. alas her heart isn't in it and her charm feels more like a half-baked act ⸺ she knows the routine, but the magic is gone. once a spirited agent of temptation, now a jaded trickster, phoning it in. it takes over fifty years for mephistopheles to loosen the tight leash on zehra's independence. 

once a mephistophelim reaches half a millennium in age, they're permitted to shed their original form and take on a vessel of their choosing. the mephistophelim are known for their commitment to the skin they choose to inhabit, rarely changing it throughout their lifespan. this transformation is considered a rite of passage, and the decision is not made lightly. in 2010, at 557 years old, zehra finally takes on her chosen vessel; a recently departed defense attorney, born on may 29th ⸺ the date constantinople fell.

she seals her most important deal shortly after, with mephistopheles agreeing to the terms as a belated 500th birthday gift. allowed to roam earth until she's ready to return to hell, as long as she continues to fulfill her duties, zehra feels like she has outwitted the oldest dealmaking demon in existence, the master of "faustian bargains" himself. perhaps mephistopheles wasn't acting as a cunning trickster, but more like a parent than the king of the crossroads.

at this point, she sees the souls she collects as "paperwork", a necessary evil rather than something she genuinely enjoys. zehra goes through the motions with a sense of detached amusement, fulfilling her obligations to hell not out of passion, but because it keeps her father off her back. her role in the grand scheme of things is to be a tempter but she has little interest in putting in any more effort than she has to. as a side gig, she's been trying get her teleportation rights back.

she stumbles upon portum at a time when she is beginning to flirt with the idea of freedom, and unsettling questions start to surface in her mind. what if she could walk away from her obligations? what if she could stop playing the game? what if there's something more fulfilling than just collecting souls for hell? the idea of rebellion is appealing, but the known comforts of hell keep her tethered.   

⛧ ⁹ fun facts.

tba.

⛧ ¹⁰ wanted connections.

[sylphwing]

so i decided to set my character's birthday as the 4th of spring in fields of mistrial and then learned that the demo only covers the first 3 days... oopsie 🥴🥴

[mistria-aa]

Balor sketch

[aesadraws]

It took awhile and a lot of cooking to save up the monry, but I finally expanded my farm in Fields of Mistrials! Whoo!

... Now what do I want to put over there? 🤔

My first instinct is to move the farm animals over, give them a great big pasture and lots of room to play. But then the question becomes, "what do I put in the spot they were in before?" And I don't have an answer for that yet. I have way more crop space than I probably need already so it can't be that. Gotta give it a good think...

[lex1nat0r]

Grimdark Magazine #41

I’ve been subscribed to Grimdark Magazine for years but my actual reading has been spotty at best. As someone with Opinions on “grimdark” I want to fix that, and so I’ll try keeping up with the new issues by putting down my thoughts here. This is my fifth time doing this on tumblr.

To be clear: this is mainly quibbling about genre(/aesthetics?). And also: not weighing in on whether any given story should be included in a “grimdark” magazine. I’m hammering out what counts as ‘grimdark’ for me, feel free to come along for the ride.

Just looking at the short stories themselves unless I come across a review for a book I’ve actually read or an interview with an author I already know.

"Bastards and Baguettes" by Justin Lee Anderson

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: Underproved.

This issue's introduction called Bastards and Baguettes "a grimdark twist on cozy fantasy," which had me bracing for something unbearably mean-spirited. Fortunately that's not what we got. Instead this is a comfortably grubby tale about a bakery that sells more than just bread. Certainly dark, but not what I'd call grim. Good though, it got me interested in Anderson's other works.

"The First of many Shudders" by Kaaron Warren

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: Looming.

A security guard and his collection of friends hanging around a demolished apartment building. It's good, I like it. The security guard is a terrible person and there's hints (and more than hints) of something supernatural happening so it hits both my criteria. The doom isn't spelled out, but the whole atmosphere is oppressive enough it works.

Break for an interview with Marjorie Liu, which means I get to mention that Monstress is one of my favorite comics of all time, hands down. Seriously, Monstress kicks ass. Is it grimdark? Yeah, sure, I'm not going to go over it here right now, please check it out.

"The Imbibing of Inggid Sel" by Moses Ose Utomi

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: Mistrial.

A husband and wife consume the memories of her uncle's suspected killers. An excellent short story, and arguably dark fantasy, but there isn't really anything grim about this one. Yes a society that pulls the memories from crime suspects is fucked up, but there's no sense that this society is undergoing a collapse of any kind. Plenty of bastards, no doom.

"Red Hell" by Renee Stern

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: False identity.

Another one about a criminal in a city that sucks and also has magic. It's a fine story on its own, it just feels like this basic setup happens a lot in "grimdark". There's mention of a war but it doesn't feel very pressing (compare with Under Furious Skies in the previous issue, which makes the war sound horrific and hopeless even though we don't see it). I need more pzazz to call something properly grimdark, you know?

"The Reeds of Torin's Field" by Andrea Stewart

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: Dead or Alive.

A mercenary hunts a sorceress. This one, I think, gets it. It's close! The grimness isn't as grandiose as I'd like but the story definitely wallows in how gritty it is, which I think makes up for it. Very morally-ambiguous-protagonist type. Pretty good!

"Black Goat Parade" by Josh Rountree

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: Run over by a reindeer

A father witnesses a Christmas ritual. Not grimdark, to me. We've been over this: if the darkness is localized that's horror, not grimdark. The fact that the story makes explicit that this event only affects the one town means the doom isn't pervasive enough for me. The story itself is pretty good though, decent body horror. Reads a bit like a Clive Barker short story and I mean that as a compliment. A bit absurd, but straight to the point.

"Locke Lamora and the Bottled Serpent Part 2" by Scott Lynch

GRIMDARKNESS RATING: Night on the town.

Part 1 did not look promising. I did not go into part 2 expecting it to deliver the grimness I crave. There's a good description of a religious ritual to try and calm a storm god, which made me aware that religion is so often not a factor in these grubby-bastards-in-grimy-cities stories. And then it goes into some detail on how miserable having the sea invade the city made it. The story got close to being grim, I suppose, if there had been more of that. And then, right at the end, Locke Lamora does the right thing. It's well done, that. That, to me, is what really elevates grimdark. When everything sucks and everyone's a bastard, but sometimes, rarely, someone does the right thing, and it becomes beautiful. There was some of that in The Reeds of Torin's Field, but it felt more pronounced here. Not grimdark, but close enough.

GRIMDARK MAGAZINE #41 OVERALL GRIMDARKNESS RATING:

GRIM: NAH

DARK: YEAH