#golden serpent shears

[deadshadowcreature]

Sorry for not posting in a while, I almost forgot that I have a Tumblr account. Have some dumb lmk drawings

[ruiniel]

A Memory

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings

Characters: Arwen, Glorfindel

Relationship: Arwen/Glorfindel

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Count: 2.9K

Tags & Warnings: Longing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Smut, Imladris, Angst, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, lace-what-lace srsly, first time, oneshot

Also on AO3

Summary:

This came about as a prompt from @pickingfightswithsprites:

Aim for: dark/angsty. Lonely/lost, virginal Arwen OR married/not quite happy Arwen (I took a stab at the first one)

I had to insert this Quenya phrase:

Á nute ar lá lertan nore, hérince ~ Tie me up so that I cannot run, Master (phrase courtesy of realelvish.net)

In Imladris, the night before setting out for Minas Tirith.

The marble floors were cold beneath her bare feet. The house was still at this time of night, a gentle beast in slumber as she rushed forward, disheveled, dark strands trailing behind her like shadows.

She’d retired early from the celebrations marking the last night spent in Imladris as a daughter of the Vale. Resting for the journey at hand would be wiser, but try as she did, Irmo evaded her and the daughter of Elrond had paced through her garden of reckless desires for a time, pondering, despairing.

At last, she could take no more. The wind sighed through open windows set along the corridor, its warm breath lifting the sheer draperies like shivering wraiths in her path.

Arwen blinked away the unwanted visions, and her steps gained a flow aligned to the thumping in her breast. She climbed winded stairways and crossed wide, lofty chambers, until at last the radiance of a bright moon fell upon her with the opening to the solarium.

Hesitantly, she halted at the entrance.

The aura was familiar, distinct; most times it rose strong and lively, searing and so bright it hurt; but now it dwindled to the bruised shade of a withered sunset and its warm tendrils waded through her, fading as summer rays swallowed by twilight. Lips parted, eyes closed, Arwen breathed deeply, the effort rattling her very bones. She passed inside, closed the door; barred it.

Her vision accustomed to the gloom, she first glanced at the great divan set in the middle of the chamber. It occupied most of the wide space, and many nights she had spent here in her youth, stargazing. It was empty now, of course, and Arwen looked to the clear night sky beyond its glass dome. She watched the stars, silver on the tides of night, careless and free beyond the world.

A small measure of envy swelled within her, but Arwen shook her head, gaze turned to the entrance that led to an outer terrace. She followed the long shadow cast across the floor tiles; longing.

He was silent as the night, his back turned to her, palms propped against the carved stone edge. The echoes of thrashing waterfalls reached her, attuned to her trepidation, restless waters splashing into their glittering pools. Losing her fortitude, Arwen settled there and watched. Late, she braved two steps forward.

His long hand reached for the chalice by his side on the railing. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply, golden head falling back in a careless tilt. The chalice struck the stone with a metallic cry. He lowered his head.

Before she knew it, Arwen stood on the threshold. She took the view before them: the angry river, shearing through the valley like a great serpent. Tilion glowed round and bright, his silver layered over the mountain tops. The Hithaeglir rose as dark, imposing guardians, and their sharp shoulders held the stars.

“Stay where you are.”

His voice was hoarse and lowered in warning, trodden, the opposite of earlier that evening; when he sat smiling and serene with her father at dinner, jesting with her brothers. He would not look her way then, either.

Arwen faltered in her step, watching his spear-straight back. She breathed, not daring to move or speak. His shoulders fought a shiver just then, and Glorfindel turned to face her, slowly, as though the mere effort ached.

Her mouth fell open; Arwen stared.

His face was drawn, ghostly in the moonlight, and the glint of inebriation sparked in his gaze. She’d never seen him this way. “I thought… you might be here.”

Glorfindel looked at his cup, downed the rest of his drink. The rich smell of wine and marigold wafted through the air, and an open bottle stood abandoned on the floor near his feet.

Memories flashed in her mind’s eye, of long nights spent together in silence, watching the astral circles. Of days lying sprawled amid flowering fields, shoulder to shoulder; for years; centuries. Things were simpler then. Arwen took a step, then another, and emboldened by his stillness, she struggled forward.

His jaw was working as his hand slid away from the empty chalice. Standing before him, Arwen reached for a lock of gold, twirling it around her slender finger. He’d lowered his head to her, eyes closed in surrender. Unmoving, he sat, propped against the cold stone, his long legs crossed. When Arwen reached around his neck, Glorfindel raised his chin—the gesture sharp in its rebuke. “This amuses you?” He sounded breathless.

“How can you think that?” Arwen sighed, shivering in her nightdress. It hurt to see his misery. Her other hand splayed over his fine garment, and before she knew it, she was leaning into him like a lonely reed. “I only... I wanted…” her forehead rested on his collarbone. A steady beat thrummed against her temple. “Laurefindil,” she implored, using a name he seldom heard in this Age. “A farewell, only once, only...”

His grip was heavy on her, his fingers trembling into her tender flesh. Glorfindel unlaced her arms from around his neck, hands sliding to her wrists. He held them up, stared at them, then at her, grimacing at the craving in her eyes. Through the Ages, there had never been the right time. Not one shred of it. “You know not what you ask of me,” he broke with finality, though his starved gaze never left her.

A bold flame licked at her reason, fueled by his indecision. “I need this,” Arwen insisted. Her voice wavered, words crumbling over each other. “I want it to be you.”

The hold on her wrists tightened, drawing her closer. His eyes skimmed over her dewy features, fevered and regretful, and full of need.

“A memory,” she pleaded, struggling, though his grip stood firm.

Arwen knew he did not resent her choice. He was strong and had seen the dawn of time in the world, and he’d understood—or so she thought. Honor kept him away, and all was as it should be.

Despite this, desperation ruled for a shard of time, enough for her knee to shift and brush his inner thigh; the muscle tensed, and his sigh misted in the night.

Faster than she could preempt, Glorfindel reached around her waist, bringing her in, his face hidden in the crook of her neck. “Why have you done this?” his words glazed warmth over her skin. “Why have you done this?...” he repeated, his other arm come around her. He would never see her again; the light of the Eldar would fade from her eyes, and she would take another path, her spirit hurled to none knew where. The only measure of comfort: he would not be there to see it. On selfish impulse, Glorfindel leaned closer, his taller frame nestling hers, hands running up and down her back.

His mouth was soft on her skin and Arwen heard herself moan, needing him to quench the burn that hissed through her. “A memory...” she gasped as his touch became rough, fingers pressing in the spaces between her ribs, his breathing hot and erratic.

Glorfindel stilled; all Arwen felt was the tickle of his lips, warm and wet, opening against hers; she was lost in the taste of heated wine. The air in his lungs left angry and harsh, and her legs melted beneath her, and lost in him she gasped at the sudden, shearing noise of her shift being torn at the shoulder. He righted himself, lifting her off her feet with an urgency that finally freed them both.

This was real, her troubled mind warned—his unyielding arm around her waist, his other hand gripping her rear, and she could barely draw air against his starved mouth. Her arms and legs coiled around him and darkness swallowed them as they passed the entrance, and the open sky came into view through the thin dome of glass.

Glorfindel knelt and lay her onto the divan, “You will have to release me,” he whispered softly, a swift gleam of the Elf she knew.

Arwen slowly did so, allowing him to rise. They stared at each other longingly as he undid his belt, then pulled his tunic over his head. The stars were cold beyond the glass, but even they melted as his long-lashed eyes locked on her.

Glorfindel slowly descended to his knees on the divan, rose-marble skin covering taut, restless muscles that rippled with his movements, glossy hair falling over his back and shoulders like a golden mantle.

Arwen had risen on her elbows and now felt so small against him, huffing a strained breath as he caged her; she fell back down while Glorfindel adjusted his weight to hers and trapped him in her own right, willing the anguish away with soft nips of her lips.

His touch ghosted the sensitive skin of her chin, his warm kiss become bruising and hasty. Hand shaking, he unlaced her garment while Arwen struggled with his confining trousers. He had the first victory, revealing her easily, first one breast, then the other; he feverishly cupped each, grazing the tinted flesh with his thumb before leaning to kiss, sucking the hardened tips into his mouth.

Arwen arched into him and fiery blood leaped in her veins at the delicious sensation, that weakening pull; at her gasp, his eyes cut to hers again, and Glorfindel smiled, rising and tilting his head down to capture her mouth in another breathless kiss. He grasped her thigh and pushed down against her with a near hostile advance that hurt them both. Her heartbeat sang—a fluttering bird in a cage of bones. Her long hands were prying and eager around his torso, slipping over his fine skin. Arwen felt a scar or two across his back and ribs, scrawled indentations of a life spent guarding and guiding others.  

Arwen sighed when he sank onto her, his cock searing hard against her through thin layers of material; fear of the unknown pooled into her, wilting to nothing when their eyes met.

“I will mind you,” he said, eyes closing as his lips sought the tip of her nose, her chin. He knew.

Arwen smiled unsteadily. He rose to slide his trousers down completely, releasing himself. She licked her lower lip, a spark rushing between her legs at the sight of so much bared skin, eyes on the shapes of him and the arousal that slapped thickly against his abdomen.

“I like you watching me,” Glorfindel said, “but I enjoy watching you more.” He reached for her legs and caressed up her thigh, lifting the folds of her nightdress above her hips, her breasts, her head, disposing of it entirely after Arwen wriggled out of the material.

He fell back on his knees before her. “Show yourself to me,” he said, taking himself in hand. “Please.”

A moan struggled from her at the sight of his fingers slowly stroking, and unsure what to do, on her back as she was, Arwen spread her legs, a hand reaching down her body, fingers parting the wet lips to her core. She felt the heat inside, wondered what it would feel like for him.

His head tilted back as Glorfindel pumped himself faster, his eyes on her hand, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He’d barely touched her, and this waiting was driving her insane. “Please, I want...” Her fingers went deeper, seeking up her exposed slit. “I need you, I need you so much... Glorfindel, please...” her cheeks flushed with pleasure and need.

He ran his hand over himself one last time, then knelt above her, and Arwen was melting into his skin, savoring the pulsing heat pressing against her. She melded her mouth to his, eager to taste, as she had dreamt of doing all those nights when she could not help herself. She shuddered as Glorfindel brought her wet fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, her other hand smoothing down his strong back.

He brought one of her slender legs around his hips. “Á nute ar lá lertan nore, hérince,” his words filled her parted mouth. His brief smile glittered as her legs eagerly bound around him. He rested his forehead on hers, his lower body angling slightly as his hand reached down.

“Show me how...” Arwen said and went still, his touch ghosting the soft dark patch between her legs; he sighed into her mouth, feeling her mound tenderly before one finger found her slit, running a languid trail up and down. It felt good, and she lost herself, opening for him while her hands felt the dips and swells in his muscled arms. Arwen gasped at the silk of his hot lips as he kissed his way down her body, soon nipping warmly just below her hipbone. Their gazes met over her disheveled surrender, and his hand ran up her middle while he breathed warmly onto her flushed slit.

Arwen was biting on her lip; he kneaded the soft flesh of her inner thigh as his nose pressed into her mound. Her legs tensed around him, and closing his eyes, Glorfindel ran the length of his pink tongue over her once—she cried out in pleasure; he did it again, taking the time to lick inside, lapping at the softness and teasing the sensitive flesh as her hips tilted up and her hands found purchase in his hair.

“So... good...” Arwen cooed, a languid hand playing with golden strands. He kissed and suckled and did not stop until she cried and shuddered against his mouth, then fell back limply on the bed.

Glorfindel slowly crawled back to her, and she’d never seen him this way; demanding. “You are ready,” he said, rubbing his slick fingers together before sinking onto her; the tip of his cock slicked this way and that against her inner thigh. His eyes fluttered closed, and her own lifeblood burned and flooded the hollow ache within. Arwen seized him close, hissing with the foreign sense of discomfort.

He took a deep breath, unmoving, his body halfway melded with hers, welcoming her tightness. “Slow,” Glorfindel whispered, claiming her mouth again. He pressed his lips to her cheek, and his breath hitched as he moved carefully, hips rocking against her with purpose until her face softened and her lips parted, curling into a smile. He kissed that smile and thrust deeper, her hands pressing on his rear, pacing his drawled movement. Her sighs soon struck against the glass roof as he dragged his entire length in and out of her, the scent of their bodies melting together drifting around them.

“I want... to hear you,” he teased her ear between his teeth, driving into her faster; it did not take long to gain what he asked for, and she was singing her lust in his ear.

“More, yes... please, I need you... It feels so good and I need you so much, I need this so much...” she begged mindlessly.

Glorfindel released her and rose again to his knees, leaving her empty and moaning. He easily slid her supple body towards him, hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed her legs to her chest so she was open before him.

Arwen gazed up at him wantonly, flushed and ready. Her skin glistened, and her dark hair was damp around her forehead, long strands stuck to the tips of her breasts; he slid inside again, thrusting deeper and harder. Soon he was stifling her cries with his hand, and as her eyes rolled back in relief, Glorfindel reached around her waist, raising her to him and turning her around in his lap.

Bright strands fell over her pale shoulder like warm waves; his chest rose against her sweat-drenched back, and with a helpless moan into her hair, Glorfindel commanded her down onto him. His grasp was tight, and there followed a moment of utter tranquility, broken only by their smothered breathing as he filled her again. “This will feel different,” he said, his smile a beacon in the dark. The silk of her hair brushed his neck and jaw as Arwen nodded, feeling the repeated twitch of his cock inside her.

He tried recalling the obvious—this was nothing but a brief escape, all that should never be. Nothing would change. Neither his guilt nor his regret would fade. But she consumed his essence and boiled his blood, and so he took her in harsh, near angry thrusts, his fingers splayed over her reddened breast, his grasp bruising on her thigh.

Her head fell back against his shoulder and Arwen gazed into the night, lost in sleek skin and warmth and brief, delirious happiness. One breath, then another, and a sharp shudder hurled her into a spiral of surging relief, and she was one with the swift waterfalls spilling outside. And the golden one held her so close, pushed her so deep she hissed from the strain; panting, he muffled her whimpers with a firm hand.

It was as though she would break and disperse, but with one hard plunge he ceased, shaken by a fierce shiver, groaning softly against her neck; there was a sudden rush inside, and his fingers hurt as they dug into her flesh. Arwen slumped against him, and for many moments, none dared move, lost in the dying throes of their joining.

Stunned, she tipped her head forward, her body soft and depleted, and spent in the purest primeval satisfaction.

She was hedged down on her side, felt him covering her like a shield; his chest, warm against her wet skin, his arm heavy around her waist, bringing her closer. Arwen turned her face to the night again as his body cupped hers. Galaxies spun their coiled shells, heedless above them. Neither spoke, unwilling to lift the veil. It was all they had left.

[favoniuscodex]

thanatos . chapter one [zhongli x reader]

summary: in which you seek refuge from the cruel archons that wage war on teyvat in the murky depths of the underworld below you, in the protection of the god of death, rex lapis. nearly forgotten by all and feared by those who haven’t, morax provides safety, yet dangers lurk within the touch of his skin, embittered with cold by the souls of the damned. pairing: god of death!zhongli x minor deity!f!reader warnings: chapter is sfw, series will eventually not be. chapter warnings include minor descriptions of injuries, death, and blood. word count: 3.8k

[ prologue ] - [ 1 / 8 ] - [ next ] a/n: i finally got part one done :) enjoy! time to go work on my other series now that i got this part posted. the persephone/hades vibes are a lot stronger in this than the prologue, but zhongli isn’t as hot in this chapter :( it’s okay he’ll get there in the next two

chapter one: the beginning, wherein which lies the end.

your bare feet slam themselves into the bare earth as you tumble ungracefully from the ledge above. the shock runs up your bones, through your shins and to your knees, but you cannot dwell on such a feeling. you hear shouts in the distance and the crackle of electricity overhead. you grip the shears of the object in your hand tightly, the cold metal crackling into your skin as you sprint once more.

a thunderclap sounds out around you, shaking the earth around you and ricocheting through your brain. with it, a torrential rain begins, pelting you with fierce droplets of water the sky has no longer decided it wants to hold in its possession. your hair mats against your skull, your robes are soaked, yet you carry on nonetheless.

dirt clings to your feet as your soles try to suction themselves to the ground, leaving behind marks in the freshly formed mud of the earth. your godly lungs burn as your feet trail along the ground and you whisper prayers to the long-since-fallen god of hermes for ease of transportation in hopes of arriving at your destination safely. 

you dive into the thick thrush of the forest, weeds whipping at your skin and harsh branches biting at your flesh as you race by. your feet ache and burn from the rough terrain, but you carry on nonetheless. the fate of the world, your world, depends on your escape. you spot the markers you had left days prior, strings of vivid red tied around tree branches. the heat of adrenaline coursing through your skin combats with the harsh winds that whip at your skin, the bitter chill that threatens to consume you whole.

as you arrive at your destination, you hesitate. it’s a hole in the ground, covered haphazardly by a dying bush. beneath lies your fate, but first you must look above. you do, peering up above you, and you spot the amaranthine fruit hanging from the tree above you. it is perfectly ripened and the raindrops that coat its rind glisten in the moonlight that filters between the trees.

despite the storm that rages overhead, everything slows to a still in your mind. the fruit adorns the tree like an ornament and the serpent of sin wraps around your throat, your mind, urging you to tear its flesh apart and take a bite. your mouth waters in your transfixation, but another clap of thunder grounds you to your situation and reminds you of where you are. you hastily enclose the shears in your hand within the folds of your robe, securing it tightly.

to enter the earth, you must take flight first. ignoring the screams of your overexerted muscles, the groans of your skin adorned in shallow cuts, and your naked feet that threaten to slip on the wet ground below, you crouch down. you inhale sharply and, as you push yourself up, you charge forward and take flight. such a voyage remains brief, yet you grasp the forbidden fruit in your palm, yanking it off the tree branch. as the earth’s pull decides that your flight can continue no longer, you extend your legs forward, cradle the fruit close to your chest, and plummet into the hole of the earth that threatens to consume you whole.

your fall from the land above is not one of grace. legs slamming into the ground, followed by the rest of your body tumbling forward and over them, rolling down the incline of the ground below, your robes are almost certainly ruined. mud and rocks have made a home in your hair and you look as if you had just walked through hell and back. the fierceness of pain seeps throughout your bones, but you can only bring yourself to hold the fruit in your hand out in front of you. in your fall, the object of your desires had been bruised and dirtied, but was in far better shape than you were. a soft sigh of relief escapes your lips at the sight. 

you push yourself off the ground and begin to look around the cavern you had elected to land in. a soft, golden flame is lit a few meters away and you walk over to it, thanking celestia that you were still capable of doing so. behind the flame sits an idol made of cor lapis, a symbol of the power of the earth, floating midair as an almost imperceptible orange hue is emitted from it.

you break open the fruit as you sit in front of the divine object. your legs are folded beneath you and, you balance the half of the pomegranate between your thumb and your forefinger on your right hand. the other three skim across the earth in front of you until you manage to find a decently sized rock. tucking it behind the half of the pomegranate, you let out a soft sigh before beginning your prayer.

���oh holy morax,” you pray to the object in front of you, eyes fluttering closed. “i bring you this humble offering as i seek your protection from the forces above.”

upon finishing your invocation, your eyes snap open as you rush to take some of the pomegranate seeds and smear them hastily upon the geo insignia that floats in the center of the cor lapis structure. in response to your offering, the cavern begins to shake and the flame in front of you extinguishes. the earth beneath you groans and you place the pomegranate half in your right hand upon your lap. as the ground begins to split open beneath you, you take aim and hurl the rock at the cor lapis object in front of you.

it shatters the center of the last geoculus of the god morax, its enchanted pieces now devoid of magic and falling to the ground unceremoniously. as you rush to fit the pomegranate half back into your hand, the earth beneath you opens up.

in your attempt to save yourself, you ensure your death.

you close your eyes and let the ground swallow you whole.

---

“your journey was an arduous one,” the god rumbles as you enter the tea room. the oak door slides open in silence and, as you enter the room, closes in such a manner as well. within the seal of the archon’s castle, the howls of the undead cease in their woes and the churning of the tumultuous, accursed waters of the styx and acheron are no louder than a dehydrated stream devoid of any lifeforce. in the eerie halls of the castle, silence prevails, as if designed for any visitor to hear the dying breaths of any unwelcome guest who dare trespass in the acropolis of hell.

the tea chamber, however, provides solace from the harrowing quiet that rages in the palace surrounding it. the room’s dark mahogany walls are illuminated by veins of liquified cor lapis, a glow reminiscent of magma at the center of the earth. its amber hue distinguishes itself from being such a volatile substance. as you glance at the tree-like designs of the cor lapis embedded into the wall, you can’t help but wonder how the god of death managed to liquify the gemstone to create the pulsing art installation.

“i would presume that you do not desire for the journey here to be simple,” you ask as you take off your slippers and pad over to the center of the room where zhongli sits. upon your tense arrival to the underworld, the god had found your defiant disposition to be intriguing. you were unsure when such blatant disrespect would eventually lead to you joining the ranks of the dead he watched over, but you failed to show restraint in your words.

“ah, in principle, those who enter this domain are often dying to arrive,” zhongli responds, but his words are so stoic that you can’t discern if he is joking. the god gestures for you to sit upon the cushion across from him and, for once, you obey. despite the reprieve it provides your aching muscles, the plush cushion makes you shift in discomfort as the cold fabric demands the warmth from your skin. 

the frigidity of zhongli’s dominion would likely result in death to those who dared loiter in such conditions overhead. however, underneath the inky charcoal clouds that mottle the dark sky of hell, the bitter chill ingrained within all phenomena lacks lethality. such a feeling is designed as a punishment for the souls contained within the citadel of the god of death and inadvertently extends to those who remain living within.

you briefly wonder if the archon before you is afflicted by the same chill that desires to seep in your bones and sap you of energy, but as his amber eyes blink at you, awaiting a response, you realize that the source of the cold is likely the god before you.

“the journey to your realm is not one i underwent without injury,” you begin, pausing to reflect on your words. “however, i am deeply grateful for your hospitality.” conceding your brusque manner of speaking, you elect to instead be thankful to the man who sits before you. you can only bite the hand that feeds you for so long before it rejects your presence. as you adjust your legs, the fabric of the clean silk chiton that zhongli had graciously provided you to change into shifts, revealing parts of your calves.

your skin of your legs is mottled with bruises and adorned with gashes from your journey. if the archon disapproves of your informal sitting position, he does not comment on it. his amber gaze flickers to your exposed skin and he stares at it intently. the god’s eyes pierce into your skin, yet you remain still. the subtle furrowing of his eyebrows indicates that his actions are not one of a predator, but rather an analysis of your condition.

“you destroyed the last geoculus,” zhongli muses as the door opens once more. despite your back being to the entrance, the god before you shows no sign of alarm at the intrusion. you are determined to meet the archon’s gaze head on and the apparition that enters the room wordlessly. it deposits a tea tray on the table before exiting, soundless as it floats above the ground. such apparitions are those who lived wretched mortal lives and thus face retribution in the underworld in the form of eternal servitude to the god of death himself.

you wonder how taxing of a job that can be. zhongli does not seem to do much, considering he has the time to personally host your company.

“not only that, but you arrive with no more than a humble oblation. you pray for protection that only i, the god of death, can seemingly provide you. for a fragile, warm-blooded, undesignated goddess such as yourself… i cannot help but to wonder…” the god leans forward, resting folded fingers upon his lips. you note the way his revealed abdominal muscles curl with his back and the ripple that passes over them as he readjusts his weight.

his posture is domineering, like a lion crouching in the savannah, preparing to strike its prey. rex lapis is an archon, one of the most powerful of the gods that inhabit celestia and roam teyvat, able to annihilate entire legions of soldiers with a single sweep of his arms, a mere flick of his wrist. yet, despite him giving you every reason to quake in fear at the sheer power the archon possesses, you can’t help but be amused as your gaze returns to his narrowed eyes. 

he, unlike every other god you encountered, had decided that not wearing a tunic to cover his chest upon meeting his first guest in countless years was an appropriate course of action. of course he is the source of cold. if he was freezing, he would wear appropriate clothing. you think to yourself, forcing yourself not to smirk at the thought. zhongli notices the subtle change in your expression with a slight furrow of his brow, but dares not say so.

the god had rid himself of his cowl in your earlier absence, revealing a chiseled jawline, cinnamon hair, and a face with the pallor of the spirits that floated around his realm. now, the only article of clothing that remained on morax’s figure were the dark silks wrapped around his waist, resting low on his hips and swishing with every movement he made.

“you appealed to me not as the ‘zhongli’ you say you seek, but as morax. such a name is used as a holy utterance within funeral rites of your dead.” the god reaches forward and pours the tea for both of you. it’s a vibrant blue raspberry color and thick steam rolls off the surface of the now-filled teacups in waves. you hold the cup.

the tea is cold. it both smells and tastes of nothing. even the water that falls from the skies on the earth above has more flavor than such a beverage. zhongli takes a sip of his teacup and looks at you expectantly. 

you say nothing.

“i can’t help but wonder if you yearned to join the ranks of the dead i preside over when you called for my assistance,” zhongli’s words are not a question, but they implore you for an answer nonetheless.

upon entering the underworld, you had expected to be slain by the archon before you. entering his domain was a death wish, but such a fate was better than what celestia had planned for you. his touch would have been merciful, an instantaneous death, better than a death at the wretched hands of the goddess who sought to spill your blood across her holy altar as a symbol of victory. what you had not expected, however, was for the god to find your tempestuous, blasphemous aura to be amusing, to the point where you were now an esteemed guest for tea.

you set the delicate teacup down on its designated plate. “i am an undesignated goddess, that is correct. i have yet to have the world decide what my fate will be. yet, such a thing does not make me inferior.” of all of the objects, concepts, and elements on the earth, celestia had not yet decided which you would preside over. therefore, you were merely a goddess. you were not a goddess of earth, fire, nor water. even nothingness had a god which presided over it, but you?

you were a bastard born to the goddess who sought to kill you, an archon crafted of the same dust that zhongli had been molded out of. siblings are what the humans of teyvat call the archons, yet such a myth had only been created in an attempt to apply the beauty of human connection between two creatures formed from the chalk of the earth. such a bond between them lies not in the love that connects each human, but a distaste and bitter hatred towards the others for infringing upon the earth’s limited resources.

“of all my musings, that is what you wish to focus on?” zhongli rumbles in response, setting his teacup down. “very well. i cannot demand answers of the psyche from one who is unaware of the answers herself. what is your name and lineage?”

you let out a soft sigh, “(y/n), illegitimate daughter of baal.” you fold your arms over your chest in both an indignant and protective measure, as if such a topic wounded you to discuss.

“ah,” zhongli lets out a huff of amusement. “the raiden shogun herself having an illegitimate child? how... hypocritical.” his eyes look away from you, lost in thought. his next words are distracted.

“i would assume that you are familiar with her… haughty demeanor in the same way i am,” you respond, fingers ghosting along the indentations on the teacup in front of you. 

“yes, i am quite familiar with baal,” zhongli responds, before taking another sip of his tea.

“such unbridled arrogance is found within the actions of the raiden shogun. i have little to no respect for her,” you prod zhongli with your words, hoping for a reaction, yet you receive none. “despite having been derived from her flesh and birthed into the world by her, she prefers to be perceived as an infallible, omniscient goddess rather than a mother.”

“i take it that you are not fond of her,” zhongli ruminates and you stare directly at the god, your intense hues perforating his amber ones. your pleasant expression drops.

“i despise no other creature, both within the realm of the dead or walking amongst the living, more than how i loathe baal.” you respond with honesty, tone seething with all of the years of anger you have from dealing with the soddy excuse of a parent that is the raiden shogun.

upon your words, zhongli’s steely expression falters as a smirk consumes his expression, amusement twinkling in his irises. objectively, the god before you is beautiful, yet such a fact of the world had yet to fully register in your consciousness until now, in which you face the slender upward curve of his lips. you ignore the way your heart speeds up at the sight, contributing such a reaction to the fear you should have felt long ago.

“is she who you are fleeing from?” the archon questions. the silence that ensues gives the god his answer he desires and a soft hum of thought escapes his lips. “for all her… vanity, baal is not the type to murder senselessly, even if it is an unwanted offspring who may sully her reputation.”

once again, you are unsure if the god is joking or if he truly thinks that lowly of you. nonetheless, you ignore it.

“i stole a prized possession of her creation,” you explain, before inhaling deeply. after mustering up the courage, you reach past the collarbone of your dress and pull the shears out from where you had tucked them into the band of your undergarments. you slowly place them on the table, wishing for the archon to not take such a movement as a threat. retreating your hand, you look up at the archon to see all amusement drained from his expression. fury rages in his eyes as he stares down at the shears, the blades of which emit a soft ochre glow in his presence.

“she wishes to traverse into a domain that is not her own,” zhongli bristles. “her insolence and respect for others knows no bounds.” he holds up the scissors by their looped handles, closely analyzing the blades.

“she has spent years perfecting such a design and researching the proper enchantments,” you explain. the archon offers no response. “she desires to be able to cut the strings of fate which tie us all to life.”

the words go unspoken. the raiden shogun, with the scissors that now lie in your possession, wishes to seize the exclusive power reserved to the underworld in order to end the lives of anyone that stands in her way. each living creature is woven a string by the underworld upon their birth, which can only be cut upon their death. once their string is cut, they die and their soul is retrieved by the underworld. such a power has led to the other archons retreating in fear from zhongli, even if they generally remain invulnerable to such an action. 

for archons, their strings remain unbreakable if they remain in their designated domains and within celestia. while the strings did pose a threat, strings of archons will inevitably repair themselves if cut. however, for lesser gods, such as yourself, and mortals, those not crafted of chalk but of flesh, they remained at complete and utter mercy to the underworld’s decision as to when to cut their string. if one dies not of the underworld’s decision, but of the decisions of someone upon the surface, their string snaps and they join the underworld nonetheless.

“she has been working on plans for a loom to create replica strings as well,” you elaborate and zhongli’s stoic expression morphs into one of pure rage, but he quickly contains himself as he looks up at you.

“were these the only pair within her possession?” he questions and you nod. relief shines in his eyes, but his amber irises harden once more. “she has created this first pair, therefore she knows how to craft a second set.”

“the process is not yet perfected,” you add in a soft tone, hoping to soothe the fire that rages within the eyes of the archon before you. it provides no relief to the inferno of emotion that swirls in the god of death’s eyes. “it will likely take two years for her to construct another pair of this caliber.”

“and the loom?” zhongli demands a response, but you are more than willing to provide one. you made it this far, you do not wish to be smited now.

“such an object will also be crafted within the same time period as the shears, if not longer. despite having top scholars and alchemists working on it, she has not yet harnessed the energy to create the working fabric of life,” you say, staring at zhongli who has set the shears down beside his teacup. 

“i shall provide you amnesty for this time period. you will be able to reside within the palace of the underworld under the condition that you provide me with as much information about the raiden shogun’s heresy against the laws of nature that you can.” zhongli’s golden eyes meet yours and your heartbeat quickens once more. “make no mistake, i do not view you as an equal. i view you as an asset. should you agree this contract, i will ensure your safety, but we are not friends, nor will i owe you anything beyond shelter, clothing, and the basic necessities of life. you will have two years to assist me. should you fail or deceive me in any manner, you will die. knowing these terms, do you still wish to remain within my dominion?”

you inhale softly.

after all, lying by omission is not necessarily deception. what the archon does not know about the lies infused into your words will hurt him upon discovery. at least, that is what you reassure yourself. you cannot help this god if you are not being truthful to him, yet you smile nonetheless. the shogun desires not to take the archon’s powers for herself, but maybe your own plans will work out better if the archon believes that she wishes to consume the underworld for her own exploitation.

you exhale.

“i agree to the terms of your contract.”

[dragonrajafanfiction]

If you’re still accepting requests, I got a challenge: “I just want to be held for a little while” with Herzog x Bondarev or CaesarxJohann :3💙

(Thanks for the Challenge! You are rewarded with a Cross-over!)

The lighting was minimal in the the ancient 11th century castle in the middle of this small Eastern European Country, so it was easy for Caesar and Johann to hide their identities among the uniformed soldiers of this illegal lab in the mountains.

This lab was run by a group that named themselves after the legendary Hydra. From the murky waters of the swamps near a place called Lerna, the hydra would rise up and terrorize the countryside. A monstrous serpent with nine heads, the hydra attacked with poisonous venom. Nor was this beast easy prey, for one of the nine heads was immortal and therefore indestructible.

The second labor of Hercules was to kill the Lernean Hydra. Caesar Gattuso considered himself a dragon slayer of that caliber. After coming from his adventures in Japan and facing a different beast of a similar name, the SheQiBai Clan, who named themselves after Yamata-no-Orochi, an 8-headed serpent of Japanese Legend, he figured this was just one more head.

Hercules set off to hunt the nine-headed menace, but he did not go alone. His trusty nephew, Iolaus, was by his side. Iolaus, who shared many adventures with Hercules, accompanied him on many of the twelve labors. Legend has it that Iolaus won a victory in chariot racing at the Olympics and he is often depicted as Hercules' charioteer. So, the pair drove to Lerna and by the springs of Amymone, they discovered the lair of the loathsome hydra.

Likewise, Caesar wasn’t alone. Next to him, Johann Chu marched through the gate, flashing their falsified credentials. The two had gotten along much better after their shared adventure. But getting closer meant exposing vulnerabilities. After the mission was done, they no longer invited each other to any sort of shared bathhouses. That was for certain.

Together, they had been helicoptered into to the sparse surrounding woods. After being warned of landmines it was amazing they didn’t set any off parachuting down. The place was being torn apart by a civil war, thought to be stoked by this Hydra organization. They were taking test subjects from the ensuing refugee disaster.

The plan was simple. As far as they could tell, this facility wasn’t staffed by hybrids. They were normal humans and needed to be taken out of the way humanely for questioning and memory wiping of all dragon knowledge if needed. So rather than burst into the facility, guns and swords drawn, they would infiltrate, destroy the lab, free the prisoners and the the Secret Society handle the rest of the investigation.

One of the biggest questions was how these people got ahold of dragon knowledge in the first place. Their similar name made Caesar assume that perhaps they had some connection with Herzog, but as he looked around the place, there was no sign of anything Japanese or anything familiar. The uniforms weren’t the Yakuza’s dark trenchcoat with Ukiyo-E on the lining, but simple camo army uniforms. And the symbols they used on those uniforms had nothing to do with the Cassell’s world tree or even of the actual mythical Hydra. Emblazoned on the chest of each of them was something more like an octopus.

He paused in a corridor and opened his golden eyes. The Scythe Ferrets of his Soul Skill released and swept like phantoms, mapping the entire space like echolocation.

“There’s a lot of empty rooms. I see what’s probably two prisoners. The rest are workers. I know where the computers are. I’ll head that way and get Norma to hack in. I need you to buy some time. We’ve got company. Fourteen, ...fifteen heartbeats headed our way.”

“Stop! Put your hands up!”

Caesar nodded once. In an instant, Johann Chu whirled and drew his pistol and fired one round. The man dropped in a heap, rendered unconscious by a Frigga bullet. “How long do you think it’ll take you?” Johann asked.

“Mmm… give me fifteen minutes.” He loaded a few more bullets into his Desert Eagles

Johann looked up at the taller man sharply. “That is forever.”

He clicked his gun shut and sneered. “They’re just humans. I’ll be dealing with the hybrids. One of the captives is a lady.”

Johann Chu sighed and his eyes narrowed further.

“Don’t give me that look.” His cocky smile turned into a scowl. Caesar had reason not to trust Johann Chu with a rescue task of this sort. He was more than willing to kill Shavee and turn Erii over to the mercy of the School Board.

Johann’s look held just as much cold disdain and without a word, he invoked what happened last time Caesar decided to stick his neck out to rescue a woman. Johann had ended up set on fire and nearly dying and Caesar had gone berserk with Blood Rage and littered the street with mutilated people.

The woman died anyway.

Not willing to give Johann a chance to bring that up, Caesar made his way up the metal stairs while Johann dashed away to deal with their company. The Scythe Ferrets brought him shouts and gunfire that lit up in his ears and he smiled again.

It was much quieter ahead. He pulled an earpiece from his pocket and tucked it in his ear. “Norma, we’re inside. The operation has begun. I’m on my way to the computer room.”

 Caesar kicked open the door and spotted a man hunched over the computer. When the man saw him, he raised his arms to shield himself, “No! Please!”

Caesar didn’t bother negotiating, and just put a Frigg bullet into the man's torso without even breaking his stride while he looked around. “This isn’t anything like Genji Heavy industries. Everything here is… decades old tech. Who… uses floppy disks?”

He reached over and picked up a piece of paper. “German…?”

He paused in front of the computer screens. “Hopefully it’s not too incompatible with you, Norma.”

The female voice spoke in his ear. “So long as there’s a USB port then I should be able to copy all their files.”

Caesar nodded and stepped over the unconscious man to get to the computer tower. He slipped in a large device into the USB port.  Norma would handle the rest of this job, but questions swirled in his mind about who this Hydra organization really was.

His superhearing ability was telling him that the wall to his left hid a corridor behind it. The whisper of a hollow wind and the whir of fans became clear to him as he approached. He felt along the wall until same thing gave in and pushed it. Sure enough, the wall swiveled open. Even this was no fancy technology but a hidden passage built into the castle itself.

Caesar radioed Johann. “Norma is working. I’m heading down to the captives.”

This corridor was even darker, lit only by yellowing cagelights in the ceiling. Caesar proceeded cautiously, one hand on his pistols, resisting sneezing against the dust that kicked up from its layers on the floor.

“This is too easy.” Johann’s voice came into his ear.

“I just got the same feeling.” He murmured, eyes scanning the room.

“Are you detecting any signs of explosives or booby traps?”

“Not yet, but I am keeping an eye out. Dress those goons up for easy pick up and post sentry outside, be ready when I call you.” Caesar pulled his pistol out as the corridor began to widen into a larger chamber.  “I… think I found the lab.”

It was messy full of half filled metal shelfs and discarded drop clothes. Caesar raised his eyes toward the huge cathedral-like ceiling. There a black curled claw the size of a car was suspended. It looked thin and wasted, mummified. Caesar lifted his phone and began to take pictures. It was surrounded by scaffolding. On closer inspection, he could see where pieces of it had been sheared off.

Even this large space was cramped and cluttered, full of blind spots and places to hide, but his scythe ferrets were doing their job. When he stepped around the corner, he knew there was no one there. What the ferrets didn’t tell him was that he would be met with the sight of bodies, in various states of dismemberment, laid out on tables. Men, women, children, skin pale and cold in death. Some had their body cavities open, but there was no blood. Looking further, he could see tanks of fluid where more bodies had been preserved for dissection. It was enough to turn his stomach.

On a table amidst it all was an old book made of ancient parchment. Even from this distance and in the dark, Caesar could see if was old alchemy. “Was this book here when you arrived?” He asked, turning to the woman standing behind him. “Oh, you didn’t think I would know you’re there? I know you were following me the minute I stepped in his room. You’re fast, but… your heart still beats.” 

She was fairskinned and dressed, not in a prisoner’s or a soldier’s uniform but a black shirt and dark colored jeans. But what gave him a little tickle of mirth was that she had red hair. What was it with him and red heads?

The woman glared at him, with a fearless threatening manner. She wasn’t afraid or startled by the horrors around her. “Are you responsible for all this?” Caesar asked, waving a gun cavalierly. “Or are you a victim of it?”

He heard what he thought were whispers and saw her eyes glow red. He gasped but then a familiar scream made him turn and raise his pistols. “Nono?!”

He blinked, shaking his head, Nono wasn’t here. She was back in Italy. How… why was he seeing her on the examination tables? Torn to pieces? Naked… Violated! On another table, his mother. The sight was like a spear through his heart. Not again, not her. Not again!

The Scythe Ferrets told him that the other woman was still there, her heart beating fast, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the two most beloved people in his whole life, meticulously torn apart and used in death, just like they were used in life. Disbelief at what he was seeing tugged at his mind but he was drawn to confirm this sight. Nono’s red hair spread out from her face, her eyes stared in an empty expression, blood trickled from her mouth as he reached out to touch her cheek.

A sharp crack made him flinch. The claw had come to life and flexed its fingers before lowering to the ground. The sharp tips dug in and the ground trembled as a reptilian head broke through the stone floor and blinked its golden eyes at him. The eyes were like fire, molten. Burning!

The vision suddenly ended. Caesar blinked, his heart racing. The claw had returned to its mummified state. Nono and his mother were gone from the table. He was sitting on the floor, sweaty and exhausted.

Johann was calling him. “Where are you?”

“I’m here in the lab.”

“Still?”

Norma interjected. “I’ll guide you to him.”

“That girl. She’s a hybrid. She… she’s not on our side.” He felt wet and looked down to see his uniform patched with dark round spots. He ran his hand over it and it came back red on his fingers. “She shot me.”

“Where is she now?”

“Don’t know… be careful. You’re close. You should… be nearly here.” Caesar could hear the other man’s boots coming down the metal stairs. He saw his dark shadow among the debris. Johann wasted no time looking around, hurrying to his side.

“She got you.” Johann dropped to one knee but Caesar pushed him away.

He grit his teeth. The pain hit him arresting his breath and sending trembling through every muscle. “Get the book on the table. I’ve already taken pictures.” Caesar grunted to get up, finding the strength in his dragonblood to stand, leaning on the table. He coughed, and tasted iron. He wiped his mouth and saw blood there as well. Johann ducked under his arm and lifted him up slightly.  “Norma, we’re going to need somewhere we can stay for a while. Caesar is suffering multiple gunshot wounds. I can get transport. I just need a place.”

“This will only take a moment.” came Norma’s reply.

Caesar turned his head back to the table where he saw the vision of the dismembered Nono. His heart sank. The vision was so real, not even his Soul Skill could overcome it. That scream echoed in his ears.

“I have acquired all the information I need. The clean up crew is on the way.” Norma said.

Johann took him into a garage with old jeeps. Johann carefully lowered Caesar into the front seat of one and lifted the hood. After a few moments, he slammed it shut. Then he got into the front seat and opened the steering wheel to expose the wiring.

While he worked he murmured. “Caesar. Stay with me.”

“I’m still here.” He said hoarsely. Dizziness was starting to cloud his mind. The vision was emblazoned there like a memory. It was seeping into his subconscious. No matter how much he said it wasn’t real, it affected him like it was real. The feelings of loss and helplessness made his heart flutter. 

“What happened.”

“Some sort of hypnosis.” 

“What did she look like.” Johann’s grounded questioning was the only thing keeping him moored into this reality. He was sure he was only doing it to keep him conscious, but he clung to it like a life raft in stormy seas.

“Like… Nono, only with darker red hair.” 

The Jeep roared to life.  Johann put on the flimsy seatbelt more out of habit than safety concern. He lifted Caesar against his shoulder, mindful of what effect a seatbelt might have on his injuries. “I’ll do my best to hold on to you.”

Much to his surprise, Caesar’s arm snaked around his back and his head rested on his shoulder. Johann could feel the blood soaking into him even from that contact. He down shifted the car and sped out into the dark forest. Norma was in his ear, directing him to out of the maze of trees and onto a main road. “Caesar… you…”

“I just want to be held for a little while.” He muttered. Even now, pride wouldn’t let Caesar look him in the eyes. The pain of his injuries was fading, but the wounds from the Soul Skill she used had run deeper. They were like barbed wired on his psyche. The moment he tried to break free of it, the more painful he became. He could only shrank away from the memory of that cold and frightening loneliness that he was truly on his own. There was no family to rescue him. It was him against the cruel world that had wronged him.

Johann’s arm tightened around him.

[libidomechanica]

If stars were the strong Arm—and open Hand

The soul unbounded churchs might, and one especially  do we affection prove theres  a way so near; for nimble through Poland the  tallest building and all looks have drawn no subtile  Serpents words in bushes tooting: at length  of tall grass. —Not so fleeting visions of the  dead. Go and camp saluted with  pride, too, fitted was her empty  arms; it glides away, and beauties blush 

in Honors graine is this transparent as  if from a village of all the  day, or that golden fleece I shear of  all my love immortality, which great bases  for emigrations glowing race,  all, all the sheepe, what was once, in  the widowd nations are in living  beings as a fossile man, “midst the  facts about the mysteries; tombd in 

a forest side; out of my wailing  chief, Their darkness, when, a new skin lonely  air. and she may brookd no complying wife: not that  he protection; but getting, by  there is Kosciuskos name might scatter fires  in Stellaes eyes” blot out each upon the base  touches prone, nor Dog Star so inflame the  torments thou art, as those who saw it follows ony  saucy quean, that has washed its hands.

[lady-divine-writes]

12 Days of Blasphemy Prompt 1 - Halo

Aziraphale deals with his anxiety through control. Crowley deals with his through obedience. And they both love one another through the pain. (983 words)

Written for the ‘12 Days of Blasphemy’ prompt ‘halo’. NSFW. Dom!Aziraphale, sub!Crowley. Warning for mention of demon blood and what could be considered mild ‘pain play’ (using thorns). It’s more a poetic narrative than an actual scene. Also, I wrote sub-1000 words because I didn’t feel it needed any more.

Crowley isn’t a fan of roses.

Most gardeners aren’t, though those in the business of peddling ridiculously expensive varieties of a supposed pure root lineage are loathe to admit it, but there it is. Roses, on the whole, are uselessly ornamental, take up space, bloom for a criminally short period, and then die back to spend the rest of the year yielding wood and little green.

They’re not even interesting enough to live up to their pretentious names.

Amongst Crowley’s collection, they’d be a waste of his time, and besides, he’s not particularly fond of their sickeningly sweet smell.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, adores roses. He admires them. They’re traditional in the romantic sense, versatile in everything from centerpieces to sauces. They’re featured in art and in literature. They symbolize friendship, love, purity, lust.

But above all else, they must be abused to flourish.

Neglected to inspire them.

Keep them cold, punish them, deny them and they’ll prosper.

But that only applies to roses.  

That isn’t how Aziraphale treats his demon.

Not at all.

Crowley may be ornamental at times, but he’s not useless.

Not like a rose.

Aziraphale lavishes Crowley with attention, spoils him with affection.

Loves him, even when it hurts.

Because they share pain, don’t they? They’ve suffered apart and they’ve suffered together. They’ve fought side by side and been broken hearted alone. They’ve drunk and they’ve wallowed, been tempted and blessed.

They’ll never be average, never be normal.

At heart, they’re dangerous creatures.

Domesticity doesn’t suit them.

Their relationship reflects that.

They didn’t start out this way, but it’s where they ended up.

Neither angel nor demon know where the bush came from.

Aziraphale may have brought it home by accident along with the other near dead plants he bought from the nursery. It could have been gifted to them last Christmas and they overlooked it, meant to deal with it later.

But Crowley saw the bush, and it angered him.

They were tea roses - a golden-yellow hybrid with blood red tips. Tucked in a far corner and ignored, they’d fruited tall, gotten gangly, unwieldy. They reminded him of fire, of falling, so he tore them up. He’d started by pruning them. Was calm about it, too. He’d trimmed off the cross branches and the sucker growth. But he rushed. The pruning shears he uses began to gunk up and his hands began to shake. The shears slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. The sharp end of one branch pierced his palm.

And memories returned.

Flowers of all types bring Crowley back to Eden, but roses especially. They were everywhere - clinging to the trees, climbing up the walls, more so when Adam and Eve were banished. When Her favored first family left the Garden, God planted roses everywhere, with the longest thorns she could devise, presumably to keep those who’d disappointed Her from coming back. There was no way for the humans to climb them without shredding every inch of their flesh. For a short time after, the Garden looked like a macabre fairy tale.

Crowley was right – bit of an overreaction on Her part.

Perhaps this is, too, Aziraphale thinks as he watches the mess his demon makes, but he lets Crowley have his tantrum.

Crowley has become unsettled as of late – jumpy, paranoid, forever looking over his shoulder, waiting for a shoe to drop and crush him like a bug.

Aziraphale shares Crowley’s concerns but he handles them differently. He wants Crowley to thrive - confront his fears, conquer the things he hates. Or else Aziraphale risks losing him completely. He’ll go back to being a serpent, slither beneath his blankets or go into hiding and sleep another century away. And Aziraphale needs him.

God, how he needs him.

Aziraphale stops Crowley when his hands turn black with demon blood. He takes what remains of the roses from his hands, plucks them from his skin, gathers them together. When he has them all, he weaves them.

Crowley kneels on the cold floor and Aziraphale weaves. It takes an hour. It could take days. The length of time doesn’t matter.

The closeness does.

Crowley will kneel for as long as Aziraphale weaves, and Aziraphale weaves for as long as Crowley needs.

When he’s done, Aziraphale strips Crowley of his clothes and tends to his wounds, bathes him, then dresses him in his own white robes, and slips his creation over Crowley’s head.

“This is your halo,” Aziraphale whispers as he strokes Crowley’s hair, running his arm underneath so he can feel his demon’s freshly washed tresses slide over his skin. “Your crown of thorns.” Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale tugs it down until it settles around Crowley’s forehead. The tips of the thorns dig into his skin, then release … dig in, then release. With each release, a euphoria grows, and Crowley relaxes. Dig and release, dig and release, it forms a rhythm.

Becomes a reminder.

That Crowley doesn’t need to bear the burden alone.

The fear? The anxiety?

He doesn’t need to battle it on his own.

That’s what Aziraphale is there for.

That’s what Aziraphale promised he’d do for him.

Love him, even when it hurts.

Handle what he can and put the rest in his angel’s hands.

Crowley stopped fighting to focus on that, and he’s rewarded.

“How do you feel?” Aziraphale asks, fingers combing through his demon’s hair, working out the knots, adding a braid.

Crowley smiles, leaning into his angel’s touch. “Holy.”

“You are the angel tonight, my dear,” Aziraphale says, tilting him forward by his halo and kissing the top of his head. “And what is it that good angels do?” Aziraphale stands before Crowley can answer, reaching for his belt and undoing the buckle. With a flick of manicured fingers, the button goes next, and the zip follows.

Crowley watches closely, because that’s a reminder, too.

“Obey.”

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 30: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A waterproof scrollcase containing a key and a sheaf of official documents. According to the paperwork, the key opens a bankbox in a prestigious bank in a large city far away, and the lease on it has been paid for the next 100 years.

A beautifully painted set of castanets made out of sturdy oyster shells.

A full mask of rippled black glass with thin slanted slits for the bearer’s eyes. All who look upon it see distorted reflections of their own faults and failings, the slightest doubt twisted into a horrific swarm of phantoms that claw at the psyche of the victim. The bearer is never affected by the mask’s powers but longtime users may find their sense of compassion and empathy withering away the longer they stare out of the dark veil’s slanted eye slits.

An aged papyrus scroll bearing the image of an open sarcophagus, its lid propped up against the side. In its contents are gemstones, jewelry, and even precious coin lain in among the rotting silks of long dead corpse. Wafts of green and brown can be seen emanating from the molded cloths, and around the open container the carcasses of sweltering animals and humans remain motionless as the plague eats away at the flesh.

A well crafted, black cloth banner featuring a stylized skull breathing flames. A Knowledgeable PC will recognize the object serves as a rallying point for the free company of mercenaries known as the Black Company, who are highly respect and feared by allies and foes alike.

A three-lobed spinning device with almost frictionless ball bearings in the center. There are holes in the lobes and the center has a raised disk on both sides so the device can be held while it is spinning.

A one gallon cask of Norscan Mead. Made from fermented honey, the beverage is also known as Sweet Brew and is too sugary to drink in great quantities, though a few fools do and regret it. Though it has a rich amber colour and a delicious taste, Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that occasional batches contain a few contaminants that elicit strange visions and unsettling emotional outbursts. People usually risk the unusual side effects for a sample of this expensive beverage.

A pulsing, mossy stone of unknown origin that glows with the light of life.

An ivory statuette of a mermaid that is for the most part crudely carved, with the exception of certain 'features' which have been carved with lavish detail.

A fine clay pipe, the bowl formed into the shape of a bearded man with a scarred face. The face is so detailed, that the bearer can even make out the arrow shaped earring, which Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize as the mark of a well-known pirate gang.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A waterproof scrollcase containing a key and a sheaf of official documents. According to the paperwork, the key opens a bankbox in a prestigious bank in a large city far away, and the lease on it has been paid for the next 100 years.

A beautifully painted set of castanets made out of sturdy oyster shells.

A full mask of rippled black glass with thin slanted slits for the bearer’s eyes. All who look upon it see distorted reflections of their own faults and failings, the slightest doubt twisted into a horrific swarm of phantoms that claw at the psyche of the victim. The bearer is never affected by the mask’s powers but longtime users may find their sense of compassion and empathy withering away the longer they stare out of the dark veil’s slanted eye slits.

An aged papyrus scroll bearing the image of an open sarcophagus, its lid propped up against the side. In its contents are gemstones, jewelry, and even precious coin lain in among the rotting silks of long dead corpse. Wafts of green and brown can be seen emanating from the molded cloths, and around the open container the carcasses of sweltering animals and humans remain motionless as the plague eats away at the flesh.

A well crafted, black cloth banner featuring a stylized skull breathing flames. A Knowledgeable PC will recognize the object serves as a rallying point for the free company of mercenaries known as the Black Company, who are highly respect and feared by allies and foes alike.

A three-lobed spinning device with almost frictionless ball bearings in the center. There are holes in the lobes and the center has a raised disk on both sides so the device can be held while it is spinning.

A one gallon cask of Norscan Mead. Made from fermented honey, the beverage is also known as Sweet Brew and is too sugary to drink in great quantities, though a few fools do and regret it. Though it has a rich amber colour and a delicious taste, Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that occasional batches contain a few contaminants that elicit strange visions and unsettling emotional outbursts. People usually risk the unusual side effects for a sample of this expensive beverage.

A pulsing, mossy stone of unknown origin that glows with the light of life.

An ivory statuette of a mermaid that is for the most part crudely carved, with the exception of certain 'features' which have been carved with lavish detail.

A fine clay pipe, the bowl formed into the shape of a bearded man with a scarred face. The face is so detailed, that the bearer can even make out the arrow shaped earring, which Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize as the mark of a well-known pirate gang. 

Shivered Timber: A large shard of wood from a pirate ship's mast that is constantly tipped with frost. The implement can be used a focus for casting spells that deal cold damage.

A delicate china tea set painted in motifs of faraway lands. It's well wrapped in padded cloth and comes with its own matching box.

A strange sextant crafted from tarnished brass, badly tanned leather, crudely shaped driftwood and milky glass, it's a tool only a seasoned mariner could appreciate, much less love. And yet, over the years various sailors have added their own touches such as a bundle of pigeon feathers tied with sinew to a thumbscrew, a rough etching of a stylized Kraken and an extra mirror. Regardless of its dubious decorations, the object works perfectly well as a navigational tool.

A gruesome war banner sewn from strings of congealed gore, the flag radiates bloodlust so strong that those beneath it are filled with rage.

A brightly polished tin candle holder covered in silver snowflake decorations.

A metal wargong, made from a shield that has seen more than its fair share of battle.

A glass jar containing orange and red fruit preserves. A rough and jolly swashbuckler is imprinted on the lid. Along the side is written " Jelly Roger's Marmalade: To prevent scurvy on the high seas!"

A small pane of stained glass depicting a fire.

A mask of terrifying craftsmanship, depicting in obsidian and void-fired bronze the agonized visage of a tortured angel. The facial covering constantly weeps tears of blood that evaporate without trace moments after falling from the mask

A metal torc that looks rather severe, with several upward-facing spikes. The words “Watchmen’s Friend” is etched on the inside of the band. It would be very difficult to nod off when wearing such a serious piece of neckwear as the bearer would likely prick themselves on the spikes.

A large whale's tooth that is finely carved, appearing to depict a young woman drowning at sea. Beneath is the name “Celia” and a few badly worn sentences that might explain her fate, but the words are very hard to read.

A delicate chain of hand folded paper dolls, each delicately painted.

A basket of blood fruit, a product of nature magic tainted by chaos and evil. The fruits resemble wan, black, malformed apples and are tautly filled with a mixture of blood and oily, dark ichors. Eating a blood fruit wracks the body with terrible stomach spasms and horrendous digestive issues.

A worn, brass key nearly a handspan wide and decorated with thorny vines.

A scarlet gem that shimmers in the bearer's hand like the pale cinders of cooling hearth. The bearer can feel its brittle heat wash over them, seething through their veins like serpents of liquid steel.

A dangling upside down rune etched in blood on strange leather parchment.

A perfectly preserved tarantula, encased in a glass hemisphere.

A simple wind instrument cut from a reed, commonly known as a whistlecane. They are so easy to make, that skilled bards frequently make and give them away to children-to the parents' delight or regret.

A lock of white hair trapped in amber.

A small painting depicting an ugly and extremely overweight troll with a giant club resting on its shoulder, sitting on one side of a cobblestone bridge while a party of adventurers in armor waits on the other side in preparation, their armor gleaming in the sunlight and their spear heads glinting in bloodlust.

A druid’s staff of giant fennel covered with ivy vines, assorted leaves and topped with a pinecone.

A pan flute fashioned from hollowed out oak twigs.

A single lens, hand magnifier with a wooden handle, on the grip is inscribed "For those who seek" in golden lettering.

A painted face mask of a jester with a rictus blood-red smile.

A stone tablet that bears inscriptions detailing a notable being who fell just short of achieving godhood.

A simple necromancer’s staff with an ornate head as dark as onyx and decorated with arcane symbols designed to prey on the subconscious fears of mortals.

A pair of goggles with light orange, round, translucent lenses that are mounted within a flexible metal frame that has a soft leather strap with a clasp at the back.

A beaten leather bag containing various pliers, knives, hooks, shears and mind-weakening drugs strapped to its interior. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize the symbol of an order of demon hunters sewn into the inner lining, and deduce that these were one of their member's interrogation tools. Kits such as these were incredibly useful for convincing cultists and evildoers of all kinds to divulge their nefarious plots, as the interrogation tools appear intentionally gruesome. More often than not, the very presence of the cruel looking instruments is enough to induce a prisoner to talk. Unfortunately, these tools also inspire some very convincing lies. The use of these tools (Even by virtue of having the victim see them or describing how they will be used and how immensely painful they will be) grants the bearer advantage on intimidate checks made while questioning prisoners, but they impose disadvantage on all sense motive or insight checks made to determine whether the information gleaned is accurate or not.

A fully functioning xylophone made out of Giant's toe nails.

A leather doctor’s bag contains all the accouterments a phrenologist needs to measure skulls. The kit contains several metal skull calipers of various sizes, a labeled chalkware bust of a humanoid head, and numbered charts of skulls of various species.

A black leather half-mask that covers the bearer’s nose and mouth and muffles their breathing.

A head sized array of complicated clockwork mechanisms that throb slightly as pulsing with an organic heartbeat.

A metal lantern of dwarven make that hangs from a short length of chain.

A black silk choker, with a square orange stone set in its center.

An old glass bottle with a glass stopper sealed with wax. It contains a cloudy white liquid with ribbons of black and grey suspended in it.

A firmly locked, steel chest, marked on the lid in multiple languages that this chest is ordered sealed by order of (Insert setting appropriate authority figure here), opening the chest is a crime, and that punishment for said crime is dismemberment and / or death. If opened, the container is found to be empty with the exception of a hastily scribbled note that reads “I.O.U. one Mcguffin”.

An obsidian jewelry box with a black rose embroidered on it. The box is all sharp edges, oppressively heavy and has a jagged uneven surface.

A delicate iron rod with an intricate pattern of constellations all over its surface and a moth-shaped handle in the middle. One end is marked by an eight-pointed star, while the other one displays a waning moon.

A pearlescent marble scepter topped by a blue gemstone cut in the shape of an eight-pointed star.

A porcelain mask depicting a slightly disgusted visage of an oligarch.

A dreamcatcher, made from elk antlers and a silvery thread, adorned with an arrangement of dark and brightly colored feathers. The shape defined by its threads seem to change from time to time, but the resulting patterns are hardly discernible.

A one gallon cask of Bretonnian brandy, known for being beloved by low and highborn alike. Perhaps the oldest liquor made by humans, it is made from fermented grape wine. Its distinctive taste and warming effect when consumed make it an excellent tonic for road-weary travelers.

A woodcut relief depicting a woman in a rocking chair, knitting scarves and sweaters for her many grandchildren around. A warm hearth’s fire lights the room in a golden glow, giving tone to each feature of each of the children’s smiling faces. Only something thing is off about the picture. The woman eyes are sunken in holes of what might have once been eyes, her mouth a dried picture of a smile stuck into place like the muscles seized up in a corpse, her hands covered in lumpy growths which accent her impossibly knobby fingers. And weirdly, where there might be disgust or horror, the viewer only feels sympathy like one sufferer feels towards another sufferer.

A fully functioning clarinet carved from driftwood. The holy symbol of a minor lake deity is branded into the side

An intricate wooden box with delicate gold filigree and a wind up key on the back. If it is opened after having been wound-up a beautiful melody plays out.

A slit drum made from a hollowed, fire hardened, hardwood log. The instrument has two slits on its topside, cut into the shape of an "H". The resultant strips or tongues are then struck with a pair of mallets fashioned from deer antlers which are stored with the hollowed frame. Since the tongues are of different lengths and carved into different thicknesses, the drum produces two different pitches, near a fourth apart. The exterior is decorated with relief carvings of various deities and abstract monstrous designs. Some of these creatures are open-mouthed, providing increased volume through the hole at the end. The drum is one foot long and can be easily carried and played straps about the shoulders.

A small and rather ordinary-looking flute carved from a piece of gray driftwood that plays beautiful, clear music.

A black velvet mask in the shape of a spider with four jointed wire legs protruding from each side of it. It covers the wearer's face completely but does not hinder vision or speech.

A small sack of shark leather that contains a handful of piranha teeth.

A compact ball of tightly wrapped steel wires that fits in one hand.

A long, segmented conical trumpet, made of a lightweight metal that collapses into three sections for easier transportation.

A set of soldier’s studded red leather greaves that come up over the knees and cling tightly to the calf. There are no visible closures or bindings on the armor. The red leather is artfully burned with the pattern of twining vines. To remove the armor, a command word must be whispered which awakens the vines and relaxes them, allowing the greaves to slip off easily and quickly. To don them, the same verbal command must be uttered causing the vines tighten and recess into the leather once again.

A porcelain mask bearing cracks across it. The bottom right of the face from the jawline to the cheekbone to the chin is broken off. A viewer can just make out the expression of terror carved into the remaining features of the mask.

A red potion flask fashioned in the shape of a bull filled with an amber liquid. If consumed, the drinker’s face turns red and he becomes unable to sleep or rest properly for 1d20 hours. This does no eliminate the drinker’s need for rest, it simply blocks their ability to do so.

A forest elf’s rucksack that is simply the treated husk of a giant seedpod, fitted with leather strap hinges and closed with buckled leather straps. The long, organic vessel is hard-sided and durable, with naturally formed compartments inside.

An eerie mask carved from bone to resemble the gaunt face of a terrifying vampire whose expression is that of inhuman malice.

A shining baldric that seems to be woven from threads of steel, a skill only the finest of elven smiths have accomplished. Its peculiarly angled hanger is designed to carry an elven longsword.

A tarnished bronze coin about the size of a palm. Mossy and damaged, this ancient coin is barely perceptible as valuable.

A thick canvas messenger bag with the image of an anvil on one side, surrounded by four arms, each wielding a different tool.

A worn playing card depicting an unsightly old woman with knobbled fingers peering over her shoulder towards the viewer, smiling with unholy glee, her jagged and misplaced teeth creating a haunting smile. When the bearer blinks, the figure is replaced with the viewer, looking fearful and bewildered.

A silver dragon scale that glows in the moonlight.

A silver coin which has been hollowed out and a tiny encrypted message placed inside.

A curious frogmouth purse filled with many unusually shaped dice. A few small figurines of various people and creatures and worthless coins are also in the bag.

A five inch gnome statuette that appears as if it is on the verge of speaking when it is almost out of view.

A board covered with runes and a silver weight tied to a string. Holding the weight over the board causes it to slowly spell the answer to any question asked. The response is never correct (Except by coincidence) and is always just the answer the person asking most wants to hear.

A cube, with each side having nine squares with an eldritch symbol inscribed within the rich oak finish. The bearer can slide the cube around to shift the location of each face to match others. Some of them seem to glow when matched together, but so faint that it must be a trick of the light or the bearer’s imagination.

A four high wireframe model of a humanoid figure, made out of tin. The figure has an exquisitely detailed copper heart inside the dull ribcage.

A mask of bandage wrapping  that has some strands loosely hanging off and others stained with dried blood. The filthy object has a slight smell of flesh putrefaction.

A feather quill. Anything written with this quill will appear in a distinct and unknown handwriting. This unknown handwriting remains the same, regardless of who is writing with the quill.

A small pouch of glass marbles. Each marble has the abstract shape of a different animal embedded in the center of the glass.

A large decorative candle. When lit, it gives off an alluring scent which, while impossible to identify, evokes a feeling of nostalgia in anyone who smells it.

A small garden trowel. The blade and handle are made of common, if not poor-quality materials, but the handle is set with a single semiprecious stone.

A nail molded into the shape of a sword with pommel in the shape of a wolf’s head.

A tiny wooden horse with white hair for a mane and tail, and silver beads for eyes.

A ceremonial dagger with an eye engraved on the hilt. Whenever the dagger is at the very edge of one’s vision, they can swear it just blinked.

A coin pouch. It sounds, weighs, looks and feels like it’s filled with coins, but upon opening it the bearer discovers that it is empty.

A tarnished brass kazoo in the shape of a fish.

A thick hemp rope that ties itself into a hangman’s knot whenever it's left unsupervised.

A pair of dice that seem to only roll 7s when in close proximity to gold or platinum.

A hardy, darkened conch shell with an almost dangerous amount of ridges and points. By holding the shell up to their ear, the holder can hear rushing water and violent waves with an unusual degree of clarity. Continuing to listen the shell causes the bearer to slowly begin to experience sensations of seasickness and a pressure similar to being too deep underwater. As the sensations intensify, a muted, indecipherable whispering can be heard very faintly, as if it were coming from the bottom of the sea. The whispering continues to grow louder while the sensations escalate, until the whispers can almost be made out, at which point the bearer blacks out for a few seconds, dropping the shell.

A tiny bronze idol of a goblin carrying a knife in both hands and one knife clutched in his teeth.

A simple Randomly Coloured headband with a clear crystal set in the center of the brow.

A rather large iron pot covered in scratches and scorch marks that can’t seem to be taken off. Meals prepared by this pot are always palatable but in need of salt, regardless of whether the recipe called for salt, the consumer’s enjoyment of salt, or amount of salt that was used in the cooking. Coincidentally, this effect can be nullified by adding copious amounts of pepper to the pot before serving the meal, in which case the food is always surprisingly delicious.

A small, well-crafted statuette depicting a hulking metal, box-like figure of a humanoid sitting on a rock in the midst of a creek, holding in its hand a small magenta flower, examining it closely with its eye-less, mouth-less, nose-less, featureless face. The flower is richly colored which starkly contrasts the grey golem. A creature who examines the statue for more than a few seconds feels themselves growing cold and numb and only seeing in shades of grey as if their senses were fading away. The creature’s faculties return to them the moment they stop interacting with the object.

A brutal mask resembling a growling devil’s face shaped from a single piece of a dark grey metal, save that the eyes and mouth are covered by bars like a prison cell.

An ornate glasswork sculpture of a phoenix in all its resplendent glory, its wings spread majestically over the ember glow of an active volcano. The whole piece has been magically enchanted and the illusionary flames around the bird are animated and dance and drift off of the creature’s feathers and the volcano occasionally erupts in showers of harmless sparks. The glass is warm to the touch and is as durable as steel.

A single piece of parchment on which is inscribed a long list of potion ingredients, their properties, and price in a currency that doesn't exist anymore.

A small figurine of root and stone in the shape of a large earth elemental.

A minotaur’s horn carved with all the names of their clan going back generations.

A charcoal drawing displaying the scene of a mangy beast with a bovine skull looming over the corpse of a human woman. His thin body and exposed organs give the impression of hunger, a kind of starvation that consumes body and soul. The background is heavy shrouded in mist and two streams of vapor jet downward from his snout, blending into the air as if creating the blanketing fog. At the top of the image the picture is titled “Wendigo” and in the bottom right where the artist should have placed a signature simply has the hastily scrawled word “RUN”.

[skygazer0516]

Chapter 2

As I fell into this giant ball of fire a calmness washed over me. The fire is colorful with shades of red, blue, yellow and orange. They licked my skin and I felt whole, as if, this was my true home. I could breathe... the flames... they neither hurt or burn my throat and lungs. With each breath I felt stronger. I could stay here, falling, forever. But I should have known better than to get my hopes up. BAM!!! I hit the ground with an impact that I am sure, left a crater in the ground around me.

I was surrounded by darkness. But, there was a feeling, like chill down my spine that I was being watched. By more than one presence I was sure. One, benevolent and kind. The other, maleficent and evil. As I tried to sort through the feelings I had two enormous red eyes staring at me. Saying, “Welcome to my domain. Stay here forever. Only here, under my watch, will no harm come to you.” I started to walk forward in a trance, unable to stop. Then, I started to glow. Yes, that’s right, glow! In my ear I heard, “STOP! He wants to absorb your power for his own, STOP!” This voice was a woman’s voice. Almost familiar. A lullaby that you know but cannot quite place. She calmly said, “Breathe, just breathe. Everything will be alright.” The glow grew whiter and bluer as the eyes grew more evil than before. They were fighting it seemed. I took a breath and awoke somewhere different, somewhere strange.

The room was massive. You could have probably fit all my so called rooms in here if you had wanted to. The walls were cobble stone and went up at least fifteen feet or so. Bowls lanterns hung from them. Lit with blue flames. A grand wooden chandelier with candles, also hung from the ceiling. I went to sit up but was to comfortable to move. The bed was bigger than any I had ever had or seen. I didn’t have to ball myself up to fit. The mattress felt like a cloud. It seemed to know every curve of my body better than I did. The sheets felt as pure as silk but that would be an understatement. The pillows and comforter had to be stuffed with feathers softer than down. I never wanted to move from this. My mouth was dry, but I didn’t care. I looked onto the night stand but there was no water and my mouth grew dryer with each breath I took. I tried to sit up but then it hit me. Pain!

My flesh grew hot, so hot that I couldn’t stand it. Every nerve of my body felt as though they were being punctured by hot pokers. My muscles were ripping from one end to the other. My stomach and throat and lungs burned as if I had swallowed lava and lightening all at once. My bones, broke with the ease of a toothpick. I could no longer breathe but I still managed to grab some air.     “Please, anybody Help!!!” I screamed, “Is there anybody out there!!!” Hoping, at this point, that someone would hear me and kill me. I wanted the sweet release of death; nothing could be worse than this.

The door opened and this homely nurse came in. She is wearing a simple black and white dress that made her look like a nun. Her hair is long and black with streaks of light blue in her hair. It was half up and half down and the curls graced her back and shoulders. She looked at me and I saw her eyes were alive. They looked colorful like the fire I fell through to get here. They were moving all around the place where only one eye color should be. And the middle were the eyes of a serpent. With each step, she took I felt the pain grow.

“Would the young prince like some water?” she held a small cup of water in front of me. As I went to reach it, paying no mind to what she said, barely able to move my arm, she snatched it away. With what looked like a grin wiping across her face. SHE WAS ENJOYING THIS?!?

“Uh, uh! No water until the change is complete!” What kind of person would take pleasure in this? “Please help me!” I was begging. “Oh, I will!” She said, almost unable to hide the pleasure that streaked across her face. She took out straps and tied me down to the bed. I am now immobile. I thrashed and grinded against the bed trying to break free. But it was no use. I was stuck. Oddly wishing to be back at my foster parents.

A man walked into the room and stood close to me. I caught his gaze and his eyes were like the nurse’s.

“Please, please, will you help me?!” I was crying from shear pain and begging this stranger to help me. He raised his hands, and I swear, I saw them turn into claws in a burst of flame. He placed them carefully on the sides of my head, inhales, and thumps the side of my temple.

I suddenly saw myself in a room not too different than the one I was in. There was a woman lying on a bed screaming in pain, there was a man holding a baby saying that it is a boy. He wraps him in a blue blanket and hands him to the woman. She looked the baby in her arms, but instead of joy, she cries holding the baby tighter and tighter with each sob. A man came in. Upon closer inspection, it looked like the man that came into my room. He wears a golden crown, encrusted with fire.

“Please before you take him, let me wrap him in his own blanket.” She took out a soft blue blanket. With MY NAME on it. “Kylexzen Dragous”. No way. This couldn’t be. Were these my parents, and did I just watch my birth? Creepy. It had to be; I remembered this blanket. The circus foster father burned it when I didn’t want to “play” anymore. He took the baby out of her hands and men wearing red robes came in and stand a circle. They take each other’s hands and bow their heads. The same flaming circle that brought me here appeared. The man whose supposedly my father looks at me and I see a tear roll down his cheek and a smile in the corners of his mouth.  He walked to the portal and before he jumped in, a gigantic black dragon crashes through the wall. He was bigger than anything I had ever seen. He was black from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail. Black claws with black talons that faded into a red so deep that looked like they were dipped in blood. He, quickly, transformed into a man right before my eyes. He is heavily built like my father and his eyes, instead of color, are as black as night. He stands erect and poised. He is in all black with a floor length leather jacket that looks burned around the hems.

“There is no place you can take him that I won’t find him, Tyrell. You will fall and so will he.” He said with a look that sent a chill up my spine.

“You shall never find him, Trykus!” Screams my father as he jumped with me in his arms through the flames. The dark man runs after him but before he jumps, the men in red robes closed the portal.

“No!” Trykus screamed as he ran through the hole he then created. He fell through the air and before he hits the ground, he transforms into the beast I saw him as earlier in a blast of smoke. My father popped out behind an old building with many windows. Some of which are covered. I knew this place. It is the orphanage that I grew up in. My father looked at me. I could see the pain surge through him, as he knows what he is about to do.

“I will be watching, even when you have nobody, I will be there.” He said, as another tear rolled down his cheek. He gave me a hug and makes sure that I am asleep. He laid me on the stoop of the orphanage and runs away. He takes his hand, scratches through the air and the portal opened again. “I love you.” He says as he stepped through.

“This is why we had to give you up.” A familiar voice said behind me. It was the same woman, my mother. “It was not safe for you then, you were just a baby.” I looked at her. She was so beautiful. Her long curly blonde hair slightly pulled back. Her hair is streaked with deep blue highlights. She wore a long white dress with open see through sleeves. There was a yellow ribbon that goes around the bottom of her corset that reached the bottom of her dress. She had a soft olive complexion and love is written across her face. She takes my hand and smiles.

“Look at you, I cannot believe how you have grown.” She said and suddenly disappears along with the surroundings I found myself. Then, I just stood in complete darkness, completely unaware of nothing else.

[felthier]

Which of Vivec's sermons is your favorite?

The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 16

The Hortator wandered through the Mourning Hold, wrestling with the lessons he had learned. They were slippery in his mind. He could not always keep the words straight and knew that this was a danger. He wandered to find Vivec, his lord and master, the glory of the image of Veloth, and found him of all places in the Temple of False Thinking. There, clockwork shears were taking off Vivec's hair. A beggar king had brought his loom and was making of the hair an incomplete map of adulthood and death.

Nerevar said, 'Why are you doing this, milord?'

Vivec said, 'To make room for the fire.'

And the Hortator could see that Vivec was out of sorts, though not because of the impending new power to come. The golden warrior-poet had been exercising his Water Face as well, learned from the dreughs before he was born.

Nerevar said, 'Is this to keep you from the fire?'

Vivec said, 'It is so that I may see with truth. It, and my place here at the altar of Padhome in the house of False Thinking, serve so that I may see beyond my own secrets. The Water Face cannot lie. It comes from the ocean, which is too busy to think, much less lie. Moving water resembles truth by its trembling.'

Nerevar said, 'I am afraid to become slipshod in my thinking.'

Vivec said, 'Reach heaven by violence then.'

So to quiet his mind the Hortator chose from the Fight Racks an axe. He named it and moved on to the first moon.

There, Nerevar was greeted by the Parliament of Craters, who knew him by title and resented his presence, for he was to be a ruling king of earth and this was the lunar realm. They shifted around him in a pattern of entrapment.

'The moon does not recognize crowns or scepters,' they said, 'nor the representatives of kingdoms below, lion or serpent or mathematician. We are the graves of those that have migrated and become ancient countries. We seek no Queens or thrones. Your appearance is decidedly solar, which is to say a library of stolen ideas. We are neither tear nor sorrow. Our revolution succeeded in the manner that is was written. You are the Hortator and unwelcome here.'

And so Nerevar carved at the grave ghosts until he was out of breath and their Parliament could make no new laws.

He said, 'I am not of the slaves that perish.'

Of the members of Parliament only a few survived the Hortator's attack.

A surviving Crater said, 'Appropriation is nothing new. Everything happens of itself. This motif is by no means unassociated with hero myths. You have not acted with the creative impulse; you fall below the weight of destiny. We are graves but not coffins. Know the difference. You have only dug more and supplied no ghosts to reside within. Central to your claim is the predominance of frail events. To be judged by the earth is to sit on a throne of wonder why. Damage us more and you will find naught but the absence of our dead.'

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

[charismastaticarchive]

@halycondaze​ [ edelgard + dedue ( andromeda & perseus ) ] sun on third degree burns; i’ll stand in the shade of your shadow & feel only & just... perfectly warm.

Dedue shakes and retches near constantly, and he cannot tell if it is because he is sick and feverish from the harsh conditions of the castle dungeons---or if his skin has been burned by the fires so deeply he will always be hot to the touch. He was ripped away from his family, the only survivor, lungs filled with ash and smoke and the smell of burning flesh---and the sight, the smell, the taste on his tongue---still hangs heavy and dry in his throat like he’s choking on charred meat he cannot swallow. The blond, soft boy had saved him, the cherub on a white horse, the golden embers of the fire swirling around its hooves, like a halo, as the boy lifted Dedue on to its back.

And yet they had taken even Dedue’s savior away. Ripped him from his arms, into chains and cuffs, pulled him there on broken, bare feet covered in soot from the fires. They watched with greedy, ugly eyes, the same color as his people’s---blue, and pale, but so much more sinister and wanting. People threw things at him---anything that was in their hands, ink and papers, children’s toys, wooden swords, rotten fruit. Noblewomen laughed in high pitched voices, the same howling sound he imagined belonged to the animals of the furs they wore on their backs. He still remembers their pearls and gold and feathered hats and red, lecherous lips pulled taut against their gums.

He was alone now, deep within the Castle’s prisons, with nothing but his own bile and the black bars of his cell for company. No one came to feed him---or to tend to his wounds. There was no distraction from his loss here. He could’ve well been driven mad by the lack of company---the rats at his feet, the pain of his own burns, the taste in his mouth & smell of his own waste.

The children who appeared before him were nothing like angels. Their faces were outlined with dark ridges---pale, hollow eyes with bags that sunk into their skulls, fists clenched into so many layers of cloak and skirt. And yet the ground glowed beneath their feet with a halo of purple magic.

Dedue will never forget the face of the girl---so small, so skinny, like a fragile porcelain doll that might break at any moment---as she reached out, slipped her hand around the bars. She did not look at him with pity, or sadness, even with the tears still dried on his lips, mucus and pus drained on every inch of his charred clothing, burns apparent.

She looked at him with righteous fury. Not at those of Duscur---like the soldiers. But for him.

Her voice is small&young. A little girl’s, despite all her determination, her quest for justice.

“Come with us.” She said. Not an order, but a plea. Her grip on the axe in her other hand tightens. It is too big for her, too heavy, he would think. Yet she holds it as if it is second nature.

He looked at his feet, blistered and bruised and dirtied. Whoever this girl was---in all her finery, her long, pale brown hair, & all her clear power---she was giving him a choice.

In the darkness, she reached out her hand.

And he blinked in bewilderment, almost laughed---and took it without another word.

That felt like a long time ago, but it was in fact only a year. In that time, Dedue’s scars had healed up rather nicely, though the memories and trauma would last forever. Edelgard tried her best to understand. And she did not push him. 

**He would come to find that the younger girl was incredibly intelligent---bright and spirited for only six (at the time. She would ‘share’ her birthday party for him, so he could get half of the gifts). She was a prodigy that loved politics---and she had heard of the Tragedy of Duscur, and the boy her very own age who had been pulled from the fires and was to be put on public trial---and she had begged her Father to help him, in a time where her Father was still one of the four most powerful people in all of Fodlan. It would turn out the madness had made the days seem shorter than they were. He had been in the dungeons without food or water for a full three weeks. Dedue was lucky to be alive&might have been only from the shock---and it would take him time to heal. 

**Almost everyday for the past ten months, Edelgard would race to Dedue’s door to play with Dedue in the Imperial Garden Maze. They were beautiful---so many flowers that Dedue had never seen or even heard of. He had always known that the Empire had more of a rich climate and thus more expansive fauna than Duscur’s neighbors, The Kingdom---but seeing it in person almost made him forget that his whole world was gone.

She would ask him, if he wanted to talk. And he would talk, of course, regardless of his own desire to, about, at the very least, the flowers. He told her of the Duscur flowers---how important they were to their culture, and their way of life. How they named every flower they grew for ceremonial purposes, and prayed to it, and thanked it after it was cut. 

Over time, and partially by Edelgard’s insistence towards the castle staff, she would find Dedue in the gardens all alone. They would talk, and talk, and talk, about Duscur---and Fodlan, and the world. They would play together often--like the children they really were, Dedue having to scrub out the dirt in her dresses to keep from them getting in trouble. Sometimes she even succeeded in making the usually emotionless Dedue laugh, a deep, rumbling thing that matched his old soul. Over time, he would begin to smile every time he made her smile. And that was its own kind of happiness, dependent but sure&strong.

Slowly Dedue named every flower, and then planted his own, his own little place in Edelgard’s world. And slowly but surely, he came to believe that Edelgard would not let his own world, of Duscur, wither away so easily.

One day, some day a long time from now, when they are older&wiser&too close to bear, Edelgard will show Dedue her own scars, and Dedue will bare his own with pride instead of shame---marked by the strong muscles he’s grown, his impressive height, his beautiful skin, clean and warm. Dedue will kiss each of her scars, one by one, tracing his mouth along each deep line and deep prick; and she will gasp; and cover her mouth to stop from screaming by burying her own lips against his own; stop from flinching by pulling him tight against her; body against body---flush.

**But now they are still so young, Edelgard only on the cusp of seven, and she has something very important to tell him that could change everything, her face not the usual silly one it becomes sometimes when she sees a frog or worm nestled in the dirt.

Dedue peeks up from the flowers---surrounded by a large maze of green hedges and statues of Saints and serpents alike. He likes this spot best, the greenhouse with its steam-covered walls, sun reflecting through the mist, where he’s gotten to work trimming the rosebush he planted earlier this year. His clothes are of of the Empire---a handsome, tailored suit as a kind of everyday-uniform, at Edelgard’s request from her Father. But he wears an apron over top so as not to get it dirty. He considers the question and his shears carefully, as he continues to clip away at the hedges.

***“Of course,” Dedue’s voice is a quiet, higher echo of what it will one day become. He does not have the vocabulary to express all the right words, too young, not yet as fluent in Common as he would like. Still, he speaks with formality, honor. “I definitely want to be your shield, Princess. But I already asked to be your Knight a long time ago. And you didn’t say anything...”

[sarijrahzersyn]

Dragoon’s Lair 

The Agents knew where the Spirit of Murder’s vessel was, they just needed to get it back. Jessie called for another meeting as soon as a scout returned with the information about the location and defenders of the knife. Berrod, Suwan, Cerina, Louma’li, Reks, Eiroch, and Geofri showed up to help bring the threat of the Spinner’s Shears to an end by getting the tools to kill their ‘goddess’

The scout reported that there was only one person at the the Spinner’s Shears base, Everret Black. Jessie Wildflower figured that they would only have a short window of them assassins recovering from losing a number of them to the fight in South Thanalan and got the Agents mobilized swiftly. Once they were near the base in Outer La Noscea, Jessie, the scout, and Suwan remained near the exit of the valley to act as lookouts for any returning Spinner’s Shears.

Berrod lead the group to the small hovel where Everret Black, battered and broken, rested. The Assassin that had helped take down the Golden Dawn and almost spelled the end for the Astral Agents certainly did not look like he was in any shape to fight. The Spirit of Murder’s vessel rested on rock next to him. Erioch charged after the blade, while Cerina aimed for the man himself.

Unfortunately, Everret Black drank a vial of dragonblood, and being a descendant of the first houses of Ishgard, likely an infidelity that crossed a great number of generations, he transformed into a rather large black and red dragon serpent. His levin attacks proved dangerous even with the support of Geofri and Reks’ attempts to shield and cleanse.

What was far more dangerous, was the knife itself. With Everret’s transformation came a choking cloud of aether that blinded Erioch while he tried to grab the knife. The result was him cutting himself on its edge. It was a tiny wound, but even then Erioch found his body lunging toward Berrod intent on killing him. Cerina and Berrod, himself, were able to mitigate any major harm to him, but he was just a slaved to the will of the weapon with the scratch. He seized it and charged after Louma’li.

The Miqo’te, fortunately, was able to disarm Berrod and seize the weapon within warding magicks, just in time for Everret, in dragon form, to cause serious damage to the Agents. Lightning fried Reks, Lou, and Berrod, while Cerina attempted to kill the beast before it could crush Erioch in its jaws.

In the end, the combined effort of the Agents resulted in Everret Black returning to hyur form in two pieces and the vessel of Satsujin no Seishin safely in several layers of wards to be transported. Berrod and the tactical team were forced to retreat back to the Advent Hall when Satsujin no Seishin and the remaining Spinner’s Shears were spotted by Jessie and Suwan.

Once all were safely returned to Advent Hall, Jessie Wildflower took the knife and began to try to figure out how they would murder the very Spirit of Murder.

@astraladvent

[deadshadowcreature]

Predicting what will happen in the special

[n0-eyedtaissa]

introductions

so this was an OC that i had created awhile back, but never found the right footing for. maybe i’ll get back to it, who knows. either way, meet Kelley Karper: 

age 7: is a mess of blonde ringlets and freckles. blue eyes that don’t hide much. hands sticky from too much orange soda. spends mornings before school with grandma, crawls under the covers with her and asks to be told a story. listens with a toothless grin as she’s told all about a princess who saves her kingdom. reads quicker than all of the other kids in her class. cant ride a bike yet, dad sits her down and says that she can try again when she’s ready. balances on the washing machine as he dabs peroxide-soaked paper towels on her bloody knees. wipes her tears away with the backs of her chubby hands. mom makes her sing that song from annie at grandpa’s retirement party, brags to all of his coworkers how her child already knows all of her vowels. sticks a temporary tattoo on her arm so that she can match her dad. sits in his laps and traces the intricate design with her fingers, asks what it means and dad explains it. calls it his protector. she asks if she has one too. stays up late listening to the cars pass, listens as the 28 bus comes to a screeching halt outside. joins the brownies. gets mad when she’s selling cooking instead of learning how to tie knots. makes mom cry when she refuses to wear the pink easter dress, says something about how she knows kelley likes her father better. 

age 9: her hair’s darker now, freckles gone. thats what happens when the fog rolls in. the sun goes away. decides that her favorite color is orange. begs her parents to have her room be painted that color. the boys in her class make fun of her for her buck teeth. she kicks colin samuel in the shin but doesn't mean to break his finger. has to miss the class trip to the zoo. dad sits her down and tells her to be tough, to defend herself, pushes her to make friends and tells her not to worry because there’s always strength in numbers. he takes her to get ice cream anyways.  mom wishes she would take her ballet lessons more seriously. dad brings home tickets for the giants game the next week, with seats just above home plate. tells mom that she thinks she wants to play baseball instead. listens intently as her dad tells her stories from when he was her age. laughs loudly at the story about her dad getting his head stuck in between the railings of the staircase. is a strong reader but needs a little bit of help with math. spends every night after dinner for the next two weeks watching her mother teach her how to do long division. lies when asked if she understands. joins choir. gets the biggest solo in the fall program. cries when she sees that mom missed the recital. again. 

age 11: notices that she’s taller than all of the boys in her classes. cuts bangs by herself in front of the bathroom mirror with her mothers sewing scissors. gets yelled at all the way to the hair salon. hits her first home-run. dad carries her to the car on his shoulders, yelling about how his kid was the next babe ruth. she doesn’t know who that is, but she figures it’s a compliment.  meets her best friend, a new student named olivia. the two of them would walk towards the mission district and buy paletas with the money kelley got from grandma because she got straight a’s on her report card. doesn't understand why mom cant get out of bed in the morning. the dishes in the sink start to pile up, old food crusted with mold making the whole house smell sour. covers her ears when she hears mom and dad fighting. jumps when she hears glass shatter. steals her father’s walkman, finds a tape inside. led zeppelin III. learns that they were both of her parents favorite band. wonders if love was actually all that simple. takes the bus home from school for the first time, frozen with fear the first time a man probably twice her age catcalls her. gets her period on the class field trip. has to have somebody else’s mom explain it to her. helps olivia dye her hair purple when her parents weren't home. presses her ear to the wall and listens as her parents whisper-fight in the other room, arguing about money. doesn't know what her mother means when she asks her dad where his paycheck is. hears her ask him where he’s been spending all his time if he wasn’t at work. 

age 13: stops getting upset when her mother fails to show up to yet another one of her softball games. her face gets wrinkled in visible confusion when a teammate’s mom asks if her dad’s single. realizes that no one there has ever met her mother. is still interested in music. spends hours pouring over the big stack of records her parents had in the corner. familiarized herself with names like zeppelin, van halen, the doors, and fleetwood mac. sang ‘rhiannon’ for the talent show. won second place. learns what depression means. watches her mother become a shell of a person. cant help but wonder if it was somehow her fault. holds olivia close to her chest as she cries about the divorce. wonders what it would be like if her own parents did the same. takes the 28 bus to and from school each day. an older man presses his pelvis against the soft flesh of her thigh. he takes any jolt of the bus as an excuse to hip check his balls into her. no one around them paid it any mind. she felt the warm condensation on her jeans, saw the bruise the indent of his belt left. didn’t tell her father. hates the way her parents talked to each other. kisses zach khang at a birthday party on a dare. kept her eyes open. 

age 14: finished the summer reading list in a week and a half. finally starts filling out her bras, and the boys in her grade notice. starts swearing. likes the way people looked at her when she told them to go fuck themselves. gets asked out on a date for the first time. stands outside of blondie’s pizza for an hour before realizing that he wasn’t coming. called her dad to pick her up. didn’t talk for the whole ride home. hates that her parents dont even try and hide their fighting now. wonders if love was ever real at all. found out olivia wanted to be called “just via” now. smoked weed for the first time behind the tennis courts at school with a group of junior boys. noticed how impressed they were when she didn’t cough. steals lacy underwear and sickly sweet perfume from victoria’s secret. thinks she should start dressing older than she actually is. wears thick black eyeliner and too-dark foundation. mom tells her that less is more. quits softball cause she can’t keep her grades up. hangs out in the drama room now. has via keep an eye out for the teacher as she makes out with sam lusk and lets him feel her up under her shirt. makes breakfast for dinner with her dad on fridays. flips through photo albums of better days. asks who the people were and what they were doing. wonders why her dad’s family never took interest in her. 

age 16: starts wearing fishnet tights under her shorts. mom says that she looks like a stripper, but dad says that he thinks she looks pretty cool. asks if she can get her nose pierced for her birthday. listens to the cure. looks up to kurt cobain in a way that scares both of her parents. decides that she wants to be a teacher. tells her dad that this summer she thinks she’s gonna try and write a book. finds out that via’s mom has cancer. borrows her dad’s shears and helps via shave her head too. yells at all the boys who try and call her best friend a dyke. finds her dad’s leather jacket in the back of the coat closet. notices it’s adorned with the same snake design as his tattoo. doesn't know what it means. asks if she can wear it to school that day. finds her mother out cold on the kitchen floor. a lot of blood. so much. that was the year that they adjusted her mother’s meds. they started going out more as a family. learned that healing was a process. thought that maybe her parents were falling in love again. gets her short story published in the school paper. reads it to her parents at the dinner table and it makes her mother cry. doesn't miss a single question on the learner’s permit test. tries to have her dad give her driving lessons. is in tears before they even made it out of the house. gets too drunk at monty montez’s birthday party. ends up puking blue raspberry vodka, barefoot in the parking lot of his housing complex.

age 17: her and via buy acid from the hippies at golden gate park. she swears that she’s watching the clouds move and the grass grow. she swears that everyone knows she's on drugs. has never had a boyfriend. sits down with her mother and is told that she would still be loved if she was gay. doesn't know if she is, but doesn’t rule it out. gets a lock for the door to her room. still makes breakfast for dinner with her dad on fridays. watches her parents sign the divorce papers. decides that maybe they were never in love to begin with. takes a greyhound bus to los angeles to see her favorite band. doesn't tell anyone about the guy in the pit who grabbed roughly at her breast, like it was his for the taking. gets grounded for a month. has to choose which parent she wants to live with. says a tearful goodbye to via. moves to riverdale with her father. learns that he wasn’t always as good of a person as she thought. learns what the tattoo on his arm meant. wonders if she could be cut out to get her own. finds out what it really takes to become a serpent. refuses to do the dance, says she would rather go through the gauntlet any day. makes friends with a girl who makes her feel more at home than she’s felt in a long time. finds a boy that makes her so fucking angry. believes him when he says she’ll always be safe with him. starts thinking that love might be real after all. 

[lunarica-darkspire]

The very beginning chapter 2

———————

The fog was slowly fading as the black choco o stopped with its passengers in camp cloud top. Ompagne dismounted, leaving Lunarica who was now 8 years old.

“Father, let me come with you!” Lunarica pleads.

“I’m just gathering information on the merchants and their child then we need to find you a place to hide!” He explains calmly.

“But I wanna help!” She whines.

“What have I said about whining, missy?” Ompagne asks, raising an eyebrow at his adopted daughter.

Lunarica humphs, “Big girls don’t talk that way...”

“That’s right, sweetie! Now you be good while I find out more about these merchants that have gone missing!” He says as he walks away.

Sitting on the chocobos back, Lunarica watches as Ompagne walks to one of the knights. She tries her hardest to listen what they say, but with the wind and the distance there’s no way to hear. Ompagne returns shortly, “Right! Now that I have the info I need, let’s get you somewhere safe so I can go take care of this.”

“But I wanna go with you, father!” She says as Ompagne mounts the choco o again and they take flight.

“I’ve told you already you’re too young for this and it’s too dangerous! Look, I promise I’ll come back for you!” He states as they descend onto ok zundu. Ompagne dismounts then helps Lunarica down from the beast and they walk up to the village chief. “What brings netherlings to our home?” The Vanu chief asks.

“I need a place to keep her safe while I find the merchants that were taken by the other Vanu Vanu!” Ompagne explains.

The chief nods, “we keep young netherling safe here for now!”

Ompagne bows as his thanks and says his goodbyes to Lunarica before taking off again. Lunarica then takes this time to explore the village. Her eyes widen as she sees a bunch of serpent like creatures with saddles on them.

“What are those?” She asks the the Sanuwa keeper.

“These are Sanuwa! We ride like you netherlings ride your chocobos! Does this young netherling like?” The Sanuwa keeper says. Lunarica looking at the creature, feels the gears turning in her head, “If I can fly one of these! I can go find father and help him!”

“Does young netherling want to ride around the village?” The Sanuwa keeper asks. Lunarica nods eagerly and the Sanuwa keeper gently picks her up, placing her on a smaller one and ties a bridle around its head and leads it around the village. Enjoying herself as much as she is, her mind still goes to wanting to help her adoptive father on his quest.

“Can u teach me to steer it? I wanna fly!” She says eagerly. The keeper stops and has a think about it then says aloud, “Young netherling should be safe if flies close to village.” After he instructs her how to fly, she tries it out close to the village like was agreed. As soon as she gets far enough from the keepers reach even though he’s still keeping a watchful eye she kicks the sides of the Sanuwa and takes off higher to see if she can spot Ompagne. Seeing a dark figure in the distance which was almost a speck, she heads in the direction which seems to be another village, but it’s somewhat different.

As she draws closer on the beast, she sees a small boy in tow with Ompagne, his sword drawn and darker colored Vanu Vanu chasing after them. Two Vanu cut off Ompagne and the boy and is left with no choice but to fight the way out. Lunarica lands as close as she dares to and the Sanuwa takes off after she dismounts. Looking for how she could help fight, Lunarica picks up some stones and starts throwing them at the Vanu.

“Leave my father alone you big bullies!” She screams and one stone manages to hit one in the arm. The Vanu screeches and another one shows up, charging towards Lunarica. Again she finds stones and throws them at her opponent. Before she could realize what had happened a burning sensation hit the right side of her face. It was getting hard to see as she fell to the ground, screaming from the shear pain. The Vanu stood over her. Was that blood on it’s claws? Her blood!? A sword burst through the chest of the large creature and it falls limp as Ompagne quickly grabs her and the boy as they bolt to safety. Ompagne whistles and his black chocobo comes up beside them. He quickly gets the boy and Lunarica on it then jumps on before taking flight. Blood was still pouring from the right side of Lunarica’s face as her right eye swelled shut. Ompagne was too furious for words to her for the time being. All he knew is to get back to the village and get help. Once landed he shouts for the chief to get help. A healer comes and takes Lunarica in its arms and takes her to one of the village houses. Now laying on a bed the healer uses some conjury to help the severity of the wound. Bandages were placed around the side of her face and eye to stop the bleeding and ease the swelling. There is a knock on the door.

The little boy who Ompagne had rescued entered the room, “Are you ok?” Lunarica, still shooken up, doesn’t make eye contact and quietly nods. The boy approaches then sits on the side of the bed, “My name is Fray. The knight out there told me to come see if you’re ok.”

“Father’s mad at me..” she finally manages to say.

“I don’t think he is,” Fray continues, “ I think he was just scared.” Lunarica finally looks over to see a pair of gentle golden eyes staring back at her. This boy was also dark skinned but had bright golden hair.

“He said I can stay with you guys!” Fray adds.

“What do you mean?” Lunarica asks.

“My parents.. when we were taken..” Fray takes a deep breath, “They were... they were..” Lunarica could see he was holding back tears and reached out to him and hugged him close, saying nothing.

“So... What happened to “you can’t come with me! It’s not safe!’” A voice is heard from the doorway. Both children look over to see Ompagne standing with his arms crossed. There was no anger in his tone but only sorrow. Ompagne finally sighs, “What am I ever going to do with you?”

[roundaboutmidnight]

01 de dezembro

Bom dia a todos!...

Neste dia:

Nasceu, em 1886, o grande escritor norte-americano Rex Stout.

Nasceu, em 1935, o grande diretor de cinema e ator norte-americano Woody Allen.

Morreu, em 1997, o grande violonista de jazz francês, Stéphane Grappelli.

Stéphane Grappelli nasceu em Paris no dia 26 de janeiro de 1908 e morreu também em Paris em 01 de dezembro de 1997. Foi um violinista de jazz francês. Filho do marquês Ernesto Grappelli e Anna Emilie Hanoque, foi encaminhado a um orfanato após a morte de sua mãe quando tinha apenas quatro anos e seu pai foi combater na Primeira Guerra Mundial. Ele começou seus estudos de violino aos 12 anos de idade e estudou no Conservatório de Paris estudando piano, entre 1924 e 1928. Fundou o Quintette du Hot Club de France com Django Reinhardt, que durou de 1934 até 1939. Em 1940, Grappelli começou a sua parceria com o pianista inglês George Shearing e manteve colaborações com Django esporadicamente até a sua morte em 1953. Após a guerra ele aparece em centenas de gravações incluindo o pianista Oscar Peterson, o violinista Jean-Luc Ponty, vibrafonista Gary Burton, o cantor pop Paul Simon. Em suas parcerias mundo afora, Grappelli também gravou com o ilustre Baden Powell. Tocou Violino na música Wish You Were Here, no álbum do mesmo nome, da banda britânica Pink Floyd, mas a música não foi aproveitada na edição final do álbum. Essa versão aparece no segundo CD do box Wish You Were Here - Immersion, lançado em 2011.

Woody Allen, nome artístico de Allan Stewart Königsberg, nasceu em Nova York no dia 01 de dezembro de 1935. É um premiado cineasta, roteirista, escritor, ator e músico norte-americano. Dos seus mais de 40 filmes, alguns dos mais conhecidos são Annie Hall (1977), Manhattan (1979), A Rosa Púrpura do Cairo (1985), Hannah e Suas Irmãs (1986), Bullets Over Broadway (1994), Match Point (2005), Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008), Meia-noite em Paris (2011) e Blue Jasmine (2013). O crítico de cinema Roger Ebert descreveu Allen como "Um tesouro do cinema". Allen foi indicado 23 vezes e ganhou quatro Oscars: três de Melhor Roteiro Original e um de Melhor Diretor (Annie Hall). Ele tem mais indicações ao Oscar de roteiro do que qualquer outro roteirista: são dezesseis indicações. Ele ganhou nove BAFTA. Allen apresenta-se regularmente como um clarinetista de jazz em locais pequenos em Manhattan. 

Rex Stout, de seu nome completo Rex Todhunter Stout, nasceu em Noblesville, Indiana no dia 01 de dezembro de 1886 e morreu em Danbury, Connecticut em 27 de outubro de 1975. Foi um escritor norte-americano, especialmente conhecido por ter criado a personagem do detetive privado Nero Wolfe. Entre seus livros (que li quase todos), estão:The President Vanishes, 1934, Fer-de-Lance, 1934 (Picada Mortal) (Serpente), The Golden Spiders, 1934 (As Aranhas Douradas), The League of the Frightened Men, 1935 (A Liga dos Homens Assustados), The Red Box, 1937 (A Caixa Vermelha), Not Quite Dead Enough, 1944 (O Álibi Fatal), The Silent Speaker, 1946 (O Cadáver que Não se Calou), The Second Confession, 1947 (Caçada ao Sr. X), Murder by the Book, 1951 (O Livro Assassino), If Death Ever Slept, 1957 (O Sono da Morte), Please Pass the Guilt, 1953 (O Culpado que se Apresente), Plot it Yourself, 1959 (Crimes em Série), Gambit, 1962 (Gambito), The Doorbell Rang, 1965 (Um Toque de Campainha), Death of a Doxy, 1966 (A Morte Bateu a Porta), A Family Affair, 1975 (Um Caso Familiar).

O Primeiro livro em que Nero Wolfe aparece é Serpente, de 1934.

Ele é apresentado da seguinte forma:

Contra um criminoso que pensa, nada melhor do que um detetive que tem prazer em pensar. O personagem Nero Wolfe estréia na literatura com um caso que lhe permitirá exibir sua primeira marca registrada: uma inteligência que gosta de ser desafiada. Lançado em 1934, Serpente é o primeiro livro protagonizado por Wolfe, um senhor obeso que gosta de três coisas na vida: comer muito bem, cultivar orquídeas e solucionar crimes. Odeia sair de casa, o que só faz em situações muito especiais (por exemplo, levar suas orquídeas para competir em alguma exposição rural). Com Archie Goodwin, seu assistente, Nero Wolfe compõe uma versão originalíssima da dupla Sherlock Holmes/Watson. Neste livro, o leitor logo vê por que essa parceria se tornou uma das mais célebres de toda a história do romance policial.

Posto aqui, também:

Duas vezes Stephane Grapelli:

A primeira numa formação menor, que eu assisti ao vivo com a Juliana em um Free Jazz aqui em São Paulo na década de 80, tocando It Had To Be You. Esta versão é de 1986, gravada no Grand Opera House de Belfast.

A segunda já é numa apresentação orquestral com Michel Legrand ao piano, em que é apresentada a música How High The Moon, no Royal Festival Hall.

Posto também o trailer do lindo filme Manhattan de1979, dirigido e interpretado por Woody Allen. Além dele estão no elenco, entre outros, Diane Keaton, Mariel Hemingway e Meryl Streep.

E posto Woody Allen como músico. Numa apresentação de sua banda no Carlyle de New York, Chick Corea sobe ao palco para dar uma canja com eles, em 28 de novembro de 2016. Após algum tempo com os pianos, Woody Allen se aventura num solo. Diz a lenda que Woody Allen não deixa de ir ao Carlyle por nada, sempre às segundas-feiras. Inclusive, teria deixado de ir a Los Angeles quando ganhou o Oscar por Annie Hall, em 1978, porque era dia de tocar seu clarinete no Carlyle.

[writegeist-muse]

#15 WEAK

Avaline braced herself against the boulder, hardly daring to breath. The air around her hummed with charged electricity, the roars of the great beasts thundered overhead and the earth shook with the force of their blows. She took a few breaths and peeked around the rock. The dragons were shadowy colossus as they writhed and shrieked through the sky, trading blows with tail and talon, as well as wing for the one and horn for the other.

The grove was lit up with the light of a blast of searing flame from the winged one, sending the lithe serpent bellowing in pain into the clouds above. The other screamed back and dragged at the air to pursue.

R’zeka knew he had the greater physical strength but Aiden was slippery and cunning, much mores than him. The great purple dragon winged heavily into the clouds and barely caught a glimpse of the silver serpent’s long tail vanishing into the thick clouds that lay even higher. R’zeka stopped his ascent and studied the moving formations all around him. He would not let Aiden sneak up on him or slip past him.

At first he thought the whine was the air streams moving past his ears. Too late R’zeka realized the noise was coming from behind him, and growing louder each second. He turned just as Aiden’s great pronged head erupted from a cloud bank and drove into R’zeka’s exposed chest. The serpent’s body twisted and wrapped around the purple dragon’s body, trying to freeze the great wings from beating. It was a move Aiden had been told to never pull after the first time he had discovered he could paralyze R’zeka in flight and sent them both plummeting to earth. The distance then had not been but a few feet - now it was several miles.

R’zeka raked at Aiden’s body, shearing scales off like a fish. He felt one of Aiden’s long whisker’s sliding through his maw that was open in a prolonged growl. Without a thought, the Western dragon bit down and felt the whisker separate in his mouth like giant spaghetti noodles. Aiden shrieked in pain and coiled tighter. R’zeka’s wings couldn’t move.

Gravity took hold.

Avaline cried out when she saw the silver-purple knot emerged in free-fall. Forgetting everything R’zeka had told her, she fled from her safe hiding place, trying to gauge where the tangled bodies would impact if they did not pull up. She ran towards them, dodging trees and brush and earthen rifts as if they did not stand in her path.

R’zeka knew Aiden could see the ground, knew falling from this distance would almost surely kill them both. He expected the other dragon to release him and—and — But Aiden did not uncoil, or free R’zeka’s wings to try to save them both. He clung tighter, his head sliding into view of R’zeka’s right eye. Golden eye met purple and R’zeka knew. Aiden would never let go, not if it meant securing the safe future of the Dagrun Narelle. He would sacrifice himself, he would sacrifice R’zeka to do so.

R’zeka opened his mouth and spit an endless tongue of purple flame directly into Aiden’s purple eye.

The tangled dragons were almost directly above Avaline’s head when the purple fire began. She had seen R’zeka breath many types of fires, but the purple she had seen only once. His greatest and most terrible gift, he had called it, a flame that could melt stone and boil oceans. And burn other dragons from without, a thing no other flame could do, not even the Everlasting Flame of the Phoenix.

As the purple flames burned and burned, they swirled around the two bodies as if alive, and the serpent dragon began to wail. The heart of the great tongue of flame was still emitted from R’zeka’s mouth and it spun as he spun, a trail of blue smoke billowing after it. As they tumbled, the flame followed the path, until they spun to face headfirst, and the fire followed suit.

The last thing Avaline saw was a wall of hissing, furious violet before her eyes blackened and she felt only the popping and hissing of her skin as it was melted from her bones.

For a moment, R’zeka didn’t know what made Aiden release him so suddenly, nor what made him beat a full, hasted retreat. He didn’t take more than a second to wonder before shifting his body half-way back to human, leaving the great wings protruding from his back but making them sustain far less weight. A quick succession of wing beats and he was touching down to earth as gently as he walked.

The smell of burnt flesh and singed ozone made him sniff, turning slowly to find what poor creature he had accidentally barbecued with his death flame. The only way he knew the charred figure on the ground was human was the vague shape of the unsigned grass it lay upon, where its body had shielded the ground from the instant firestorm. A patch of ice blond hair clung to the side of the melting scalp. R’zeka stumbled towards the body and collapsed beside it.

Avaline’s body had been wasted away in the heat but she sensed him fall to the ground beside her. Nerve endings destroyed, she couldn’t feel the torturous pain as she tried to reach her hand to him, but the same flame that had destroyed all sensation of touch had also ate up her muscles and ligaments - the only thing holding her skeleton frame together were a few shreds of cloth and some still-sizzling strings of flesh.

R’zeka knelt above his love, hands hovering uselessly over her destroyed body as his tears rained down through her exposed ribs, puffing up ash from the ground below.

“I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-know-why-why-didn’t-you-listen-I-told-you-why-didn’t-you-listen--”

He had never killed another living being with the violet fire. He didn’t expect to see wisps of purple flame curl over Avaline’s body and form a fiery semblance of her transposed around the skeleton. Her gray eyes were again in her face as the skull and apparition turned just enough to meet his gaze.

Remember what you told me. Be strong.

R’zeka gathered the figment into his arms, the weakened bones snapping from her legs and an arm, but the apparition remained whole.

“I can’t. I can’t be strong. I’m weak, Vali, I’m too weak to live this life without you. I was made weak the moment I saw you. Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. I’m so sorry, forgive me, I beg you.”

I do not blame you, my love, I am not angry. The flame ghost lifted its hand to cup the side of his face. I will not haunt you, R’zeka. The purple tongues flickered wildly for a second before they snuffed out completely.

When Aiden stumbled into the clearing ahead of the Kyn’sar, R’zeka did not move. As Aiden came to stand behind him, all he saw was his brother clutching at a pile of disintegrating bones as he rocked, his lips moving in a silent, ragged whisper, speaking a name no one would ever speak again.