#infernal cliffsides

[daily-ynfg-worlds]

Inferno

[elkenbulwark]

Eve's not used to using her panther wild shape these days, unless she's taking the edge off by herself in the forest, but for once, it was necessary. In fact, she's quite aware that it would come as a shock to just about all of them that she can even do that--she's the resident sorceress after all. Wild shape?!? Still, she sees Birvor collapse the moment that it happens, and it isn't until the last undead is down that she shifts into the panther and moves toward him, all the while quite aware of the fact that it's her turn now to help HIM up. Nipping at him as gently as she can with the jaws of a great cat, she tries to keep up awake enough to nudge her snout under him and then the rest of her body eventually, to get him onto her back. Later she'll tease him about how damn heavy he is but for now? For now, to camp...

It was less the doing of the random assortment of undead enemies that came from the shadow-cursed dirt with their easily smashed bones that caused his collapse, and more so the doings of the infernal meazel that had lassoed and lugged him about the neck from one cliffside to another. Employing the use of teleports that cut off his attempts at bashing the shin-high creature over the head with the side-slung flat of a great ax , the meazel made a game of slowly strangling the half-orc by tightening the garrote around his neck with each change in position it would enact once anyone else in the party got too close to its fun. And although a better angle afforded Birvor the shot he needed to send the beastling plummeting over the bayside cliffs eventually, the garroting he'd sustained thus far had left him light headed enough for the ground to request a meeting with his knees still with the sounds of battle going on below as the rest of the party cleaned up the easier dispersed bone-dust.

He wasn't completely out of it by the time he felt the rooting around his side via a wet snout that left him wondering if Scratch had somehow followed them out of camp again, but as blurry vision that had yet to black out of him completely settled on a dark shape loomed overhead, he gave a weary groan in knowing that whatever beast lurked in the shadow-cursed lands was more than likely a bone eater, and his had plenty of meat to still pick off them. So it was with a surprised stir that he found himself scooped up under a sleek stretch of muscle and pelt, not exactly balanced in place aside from the instinctive curl of his shoulders around what bit of back he'd been ushered onto. Too long were his arms, and aside from the one caught under his stomach, the opposite hung over the side of his escort back to camp, his nails and fingertips plowing the grave dirt along the way.

"Erk..." His oxygen levels still recovering left him to the tadpole's mercy in relaying his message to the savior or scavenger...he wasn't sure which. [I'll have you know...we half-orcs have such a notoriously funless flavor overall that not even a half-starved hag would bother-]

[vimeddiart]

Strangers

Patron-voted fic of my D&D beeflings! Read the previous comic and the first comic for this series for context!

On AO3

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

The zinging cadence of his hammer hitting a new blade usually tempers his fraught emotions and lessens their intensity. The rhythm and beat usually calms him, the heat of the furnace and the steady drip of sweat as well. Except his heart thunders on and his breathing remains irregular and his eyes sting—not from stray embers or errant drops of perspiration—and his agitation grows.

It grows so powerfully that he miscalculates and swings his hammer much too harshly, breaking the blade he was trying to fashion which frustrates him further and he throws down his tools with a clatter, pressing the gloved heels of his hands to his brow.

Lazlo.

Tuhka releases a trembling breath.

Barely a day had passed since he had regurgitated all of the regret and agony of his childhood friend’s death right into said friend’s face before gracelessly fleeing, the bitter taste of tears still on his tongue and Lazlo’s look of resounding disbelief haunting him even here in the safety of his forge.

It wasn’t fair.

Why must he have been forced to carry the burden of grief and guilt for so many years? All those moments of remembrance, thinking of a friend—the only one he ever had— ripped away from the world much too soon, endless nights of pain and suffering, wishing he’d been taken instead...and for what? Lazlo was alive. Had been for perhaps as long as Tuhka had grieved his loss.

How much hatred—or worse, indifference—must Lazlo have harboured to fail in seeking Tuhka out...to reassure him, to reunite with him, to talk with him. They had been family.

Tuhka wrenches off his gloves and tosses them to the side, stalking towards the entrance of his smithy for some air, unable to concentrate anymore on his craft. His hands shake when he grasps the wrought iron gate.

A sound distracts him for a moment, one that carries over on the salty evening breeze that cools the sweat of his brow. Gravel crushed underfoot. It’s gone in an instant and even with his sharp hearing, Tuhka strains to listen for something further, ears swivelling in the hopes to catch it.

It doesn’t take too much investigation to track down the source of the sound once he decides to; a dark figure perched somewhat dejectedly on a boulder that offsets a scenic cliffside path Tuhka often takes to clear his head.

“You didn’t waste your grief, if that’s what you’re bothered about,” the figure says.

Tuhka’s breath leaves him in a rush as he’s met with a familiar blue gaze. He feels pulled forward by some invisible thread and settles himself on the far edge of the same boulder, leaving a bit of distance between them.

Lazlo sighs, drops his head into his hands. “When you left that day and never came back, I...believed you’d abandoned me, that you’d made good on your promise—”

“That was a child’s threat, I never meant to—” Tuhka began, needing to explain despite the betrayal he felt, still very fresh, that had upended years of mourning.

The other tiefling shook his head, dropping his hands away from his face and letting them fall to his lap. “I made a terrible decision, I paid for it,” the spectral left hand twitches and Tuhka notices it properly for the first time, heart squeezing despite everything and mind filling with more questions, “and I...went away for a long time. I didn’t think to look for you...I thought you despised me.”

He releases a mirthless laugh. “I don’t think I would’ve found you anyway. I’d have been looking for someone...quite different.”

Tuhka swallows hard. “I’ve...probably grown a bit since you last saw me.”

This startles a small, but real, laugh out of Lazlo, even if it does sound a little wet.

After a pause, Tuhka gathers strength from the stars and attempts to keep his voice steady. “That day...I went back for you. I did. I wasn’t going to, I was about to start a new life away from those bloody mines and I was so angry with you that I hoped you would stew in them forever...but then I remembered you wanted to get out just as desperately as I did and we swore to do it together so I went back to fetch you.”

Tuhka didn’t dare raise his eyes to Lazlo’s face, staring intently at his own hands grasping his knees even though the image was beginning to waver and blur.

“It was snowing and freezing and I walked through it without stopping, thinking that I would see you soon and whisk us away to a better place, until I saw the smoke from over the hill and I knew you’d gone ahead with our plan without me,” Tuhka let out a shuddering breath, “they said you got crushed in the tunnel along with that bastard foreman. Don’t remember much of what happened after that...just that I’d gone to fetch you and came back empty-handed.”

Tears flowed freely, despite previously believing he had run out of tears to shed. From the corner of his eye he noticed Lazlo wipe his face with a pure, white square of cloth.

“Told you the truth though…” Tuhka continued, after a none-too-discreet sniff, “mourned you like a piece of me had died. Couldn’t think of much else for a good few years,” He runs a forearm over his face roughly and finally turns to Lazlo, raw and exposed, “I would’ve looked for you in a heartbeat if I’d known you were alive. I would’ve.”

Lazlo lets out a sound like an animal in pain, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks that he no longer tries to wipe away. “I didn’t know...I didn’t know— I mucked up my plan and ending up losing everything, I— I was trapped for years without knowing how much time passed, I was...I was isolated from the outside in a way you won’t be able to understand but you must believe me, I never wanted to lose you—”

That final crack in Lazlo’s voice is what forces Tuhka to move closer and wrap an arm around his shoulders, mumbling soothing words until the sobs that wrack Lazlo’s frame subside. It reminds him of when he was younger—and much smaller—when Lazlo would do the same for him after a tumble, a run in with the awful foreman, or when overcome with a sadness he couldn’t understand, much less explain. Lazlo would have been there to comfort him, always.

As if hearing his thoughts, Lazlo lets out a tremulous sigh. “...Tables have turned, hm?”

Tuhka makes a tentatively amused sound in response. There is a whirlwind of emotion to wade through, but he can take this moment just to experience how real and solid Lazlo is. That he’s back.

“A right pair of bellends we turned out to be,” he ends up saying.

“Quite.” Lazlo sniffs, but there’s a small, albeit watery, smile on his lips as he straightens out of Tuhka’s one-armed embrace, and Tuhka tries not to let the empty feeling that remains affect him too much.

Something that has been niggling in the back of Tuhka’s mind takes on more force and the reason finally dawns on him.

“You sound different.”

Lazlo finishes wiping his face with a fresh, white handkerchief and makes a noise, muffled by the fabric.

“Yes, ah...I trained out the accent I used to have and replaced it with a new one.”

Tuhka blinks. “What’s wrong with your old accent? That’s the accent I have! I got it from you!”

“I needed to, ah...move in higher circles of society and I couldn’t very well sound like a common miner, could I?”

Tuhka opens his mouth to argue, a nostalgia for their juvenile arguments filling him in a split second, but Lazlo interrupts, “You know, we don’t have to speak Common if you’d prefer.”

They fall back on Infernal so naturally that Tuhka has to swallow a lump in his throat and keep the waver out of his voice. He never thought he would have this again. He’s a little rusty and out of practice but that doesn’t seem to matter in the moment—it’s like they’re back in the mines, speaking their language out of earshot of the foreman, making plans for the future in a world that was all dreams.

Tuhka tells Lazlo how he adopted Ooria (and not the other way round as she claimed to recall) and how she had helped him find his true self. He tells him about his work, his smithy and how he made a home on this cliff by the ocean. He doesn’t talk about the painful things, like crying himself to sleep every night for years from missing him, or the search for his adoptive mother who was now lost.

Lazlo talks about— what Tuhka suspects is— superficial milestones, his expertise in identifying gemstones, the places he’s visited and the night skies he has lain under and commemorated on his skin. Tuhka notices the glittering constellations peeking out of Lazlo’s clothes and his heart thumps, wanting to ask what made them special enough to wear permanently but he stops himself...still feeling like a stranger. There’s an undercurrent of darkness in Lazlo’s vague statements, of secrets untold, and Tuhka is slightly surprised by a keen disappointment that bubbles within him at not being trusted with them.

There’s a lull in conversation, an impending finality that Tuhka does not appreciate. He refuses to remain a stranger as well, which prompts him to realise that he hasn’t even properly introduced himself yet.

Feeling bold, he holds a hand out in the human way. “Tuhka Turunen.”

Lazlo’s gaze lands on the proffered hand and then flickers up to Tuhka’s face, seeming to weigh his options. He breathes out a laugh and leans forward, ignoring the hand to press his forehead slowly but firmly against Tuhka’s in customary tiefling fashion. An echo of the greeting they shared when they first met as children.

“Lazarus Astrophel,” whispers the tiefling formerly known as Lazlo.

Tuhka smiles. “Nice to meet you, Lazarus.”

They part and Lazlo—Lazarus—clears his throat, “My close acquaintances sometimes call me Laz. You may do so, after all we’re—” a beat of hesitation, “—old friends.”

His vibrant blue eyes are on Tuhka, almost as if expecting him to disagree. Tuhka doesn’t.

“Laz,” he says, smiling, “lot less likely to get mixed up with that.”

The sea breeze sighs around them, ruffling hair and clothing. Tuhka watches as Lazarus gets to his feet.

“It’s late. I should be going.”

Panic flickers through Tuhka. “You’re leaving?”

“I have business in town for a day or two, I’m staying at an inn there...The King’s Cushion?”

Tuhka nods, recognising the name. He gets to his feet as well, unintentionally towering over Lazarus.

“Stars...I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.” Lazarus grimaces.

“You’re welcome to visit,” Tuhka blurts out, trying to keep any semblance of desperation out of his voice and getting the impression that he failed, “you wanted to commission something, we can talk about that whenever you like.”

After a moment of confusion, Lazarus’ expression clears. “Ah, right, yes, that was what got us into this mess in the first place, wasn’t it? Yes,” he smiles, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

This time when he leaves, it’s with a lot less anger than moments after their first confrontation only days ago, and with a promise to come back. They had once shared everything, even their deepest desires. Now, after fifteen years apart, they’ve become completely different people—the fact that Lazarus came here, willing to talk, making promises to return even if there’s a chance he may not keep them...it’s a start. And that will have to be enough for now.

Tuhka sits back down once Lazarus has vanished from sight down the path and gazes up at the same stars he had begged night after night to return his best friend to him.

He thanks them for listening.

[azulirawrites]

Favors of A. Blight ch. 2

Rating: T Word Count: 2689 Contains: Mentions of Child Neglect

The leather of Alador’s boots sizzled as they sunk into the muddied ground, rivers of boiling rain pooling alongside them with every step. The rain had persisted for the last several hours, pittering uselessly against the thin purple bubble that protected him as he journeyed away from Bonesborough, and it would likely last another several. His boot prints would be gone by the time anybody knew to look for him. He could afford a moment, as he came to a clearing along the cliffside. 

He let himself slump against the tree, exhausted from the trek he had made so far. His shoulders sank as a heavy breath escaped him, and he couldn’t help but notice his hands were still shaking. Despite the situation, he let out a little laugh. Here was Alador Blight, a true master of abominations, and his hands were shaking. He sank down the tree further, resting on the large exposed root. The richest man on the Isles, next to the Emperor himself, and he was using some old, gnarled tree’s root as a chair.

He looked up, and was almost surprised to see the blue barrier that protected the Owl House.Almost. He supposed a part of him must have known where he was going. A part of him feared that it was Odalia’s magic, guiding him to their children, trying to get him to reclaim them. Alador shook his head, clearing the thought. Odalia wouldn’t have had the power for such a spell, even if she were alive, and it would have flirted with the line of legality… not that that really mattered, to a Blight. If he’d wanted to, he could probably have shifted off any legal ramifications from Odalia’s death. Accidents with abominations weren’t uncommon, and you can’t expect even the most powerful of oracles to be watching their own future constantly. But that’s not why he’s running, is it?

He looked to the barrier again. No, he had a number of different reasons to run. He wasn’t a parent. He only barely qualified as a father. They’d never know why, and they’d never trust him again. Not that they had in the first place. And that was ok, he told himself, it’s alright. 

Alador’s heart ached, staring at the barrier. It wouldn’t prevent his entry, and neither would that “infernal house demon” that Lily had told him about, in some of their shared moments. He could march in there, and say he’d changed his mind, that his children would stay with him in their home, and Lily could as well. He could be a better father; he could be one in the first place. His children could have parents that actually cared about them as people, not as pawns. 

For a treacherous moment, Alador’s mind showed him such a future. Waking up next to Lily just before the sunrise. Waking the children up with breakfast as the dawn filtered through the window, and sending them to school, everyone happy. Spending the whole day with Lily, and welcoming the children home with tight hugs, listening as they told him about their days. They’d laugh together, they’d cry together. They’d be a family. And then, at the end of the day, he’d go to bed beside the woman he loved… In the same bed he’d shared with Odalia. In the same house he’d shared with Odalia; the same house he’d known since he was a boy. The same house that was undoubtedly breaking down in the boiling rain. Of course that’s something he could never have.

“Hello!” a voice called from below him, and Alador turned to see a… bird-tube thing burrowing out of one of the dry spots near the base of the trees, “My name’s Hooty! It’s awfully late to have a visitor, but I’m super glad to have a new friend come by to hang out!” Oh Titan no…

“No,” Alador responded quickly, perhaps harshly, “I mean, I was just leaving.”

“Boy that sounds awfully suspicious,” Hooty commented, “If I didn’t know you were actually here to be my friend, I’d think you were here because of Luz’s mean friend and her siblings arriving here under an abomination! But you don’t look like them, so I doubt you’re related, which means you’re here as my friend!”

“They didn’t know the forcefield spell?” Alador commented out loud, shocked. He’d sent his children out in this with no reliable protection.

“Nope,” the house demon popped the p, “unless that’s what they’re calling really big and goopy abominations these days, but I wouldn’t know that. I don’t get out much!” After a moment of staring each other down, Hooty added, “Oh I know, I can ask Lulu! She’s smart so she’ll know!”

“Lulu?” Alador hadn’t been aware of anyone by that name at the Owl House, unless that was the human’s name? Amity had mentioned it, it was something close to that, wasn’t it?

“Yep, she’s Eda’s sister,” oh no…, “And MY best friend!”

“You’re friends with Lily?”

The owl gasped, “You call her that? She HATES when Eda calls her Lily. I’m gonna go tell her!”

“No! There’s no need for that!” Alador shouted after the bird tube as it disappeared into its hole. He cursed to himself before standing up and rushing towards the staircase along the path that headed further into the woods.

(Line Break)

Lilith’s letter sat on the coffee table in front of the sisters, Lilith blushing furiously, while Eda looked mostly amused. “So…” Eda said, after a long moment of awkward silence.

“We don’t need to talk about it,” Lilith said curtly.

“Oh yes we do,” Eda responded, “You were shacking up with Alador!”

“We weren’t ‘shacking up,’” Lilith defended, “And do we have to talk about this now?”

“Well when would you like to talk about? When we’re telling the kids you’ve got custody of them?”

“No!” Lilith exclaimed, “Ideally, they’ll never have to know. It’s not like it matters anymore.” She crossed her arms and looked away from Eda.

“Right, this is probably… a lot,” Eda placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “Are you ok?”

"I'm fine, Edalyn," Lilith shut down the question, "Let's get back to the actual topic at hand."

"Fine," Eda grumbled, "but next time you get drunk I'm gonna find out everything."

"Then I'm never drinking again," Lilith asserted.

"You go ahead and believe that."

"I will," she agreed. It was silent for a few moments before Lilith asked, "Do we have any thornberries?"

"No," Eda answered,"Why?"

"It's the only breakfast food I know the children agree on," with a questioning look from Eda, she answered, "Amity mentioned it while I was training her."

"Ah look at you,"Eda teased, "Remembering details about your children. It took me two weeks to remember Luz's name, and you're already worrying about them having food they like. You're a regular mother hen."

"Eda!" Lilith groaned, mostly in embarrassment, "I just thought it might help the situation."

"Right," Eda shot the idea down, "A nice, tense breakfast, until someone finally breaks it and says something about what's going on. My money's on King."

"My money's on the weird guy that's been sitting outside the house!" Hooty interrupted, "He was crying! Or it might have been the rain."

"Who'd come out here in weather like this?" Eda questioned.

"A scruffy nerd who knows Lulu! But he called her Lily!"

"Alador..." Lilith jumped up off the couch, running to the door. She slammed it open, and caught the shine of the purple bubble. The rain began to pick up, a loud rumble of thunder rolling across the sky as she called out for him, "Alador!"

He froze, and Lilith took a few steps towards him, to the edge of the barrier, before stepping outside of it, a small bubble forming over her. The rivulets of rain sizzled and threatened to burn her feet as she approached him. She had too many questions to ask, as she stopped a few feet from him. But she knew the most pressing one, "Why?"

He turned around, looking towards Lilith, and she could see the tears streaming down his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but if he did, the roll of thunder drowned it out. She could see the weight of his regrets on his shoulders as he took a step backwards. As Lilith brought her foot up to take a step forward, lightning came down between the two, and she stumbled back. When she managed to regain her sight, she saw Alador running away, his purple bubble fading away behind the tree line. 

(Line break)

"You want to get it nice and tight," Luz instructed as Emira and Edric handled the blanket wrapped around Amity. They pulled it as tight as possible, with Amity giving a small groan of disapproval, before Emira tucked the corner of the blanket into the inside of the roll by Amity's feet. "Yeah, that will do!"

"It's like swaddling a warg pup!” Edric said. Emira glanced at him curiously, so he responded, “Remember? I wanted to go to the Beast Keeping track stables because I heard from Viney about the new pups!”

“I wasn’t paying attention to the lesson,” Emira replied.

“Right, you were too busy paying attention to-” Edric began.

“Wait, you guys know Viney?” Luz asked, cutting Edric off.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Emira said, looking away.

“Oh?” Edric looked at Emira, grinning, “Maybe you don’t because you’re scared to talk to her, but I’ll have you know I’m like, in her top ten friends.” Emira’s face flushed, and stared intently at Edric

“She doesn’t talk about you,” Luz said.

Edric, dramatically, grasped his side, letting out a gasp of, “My pride!” before falling over. Emira rolled her eyes, before grabbing a nearby pillow and smacking Edric with it. “Hey!: he cried, “What ever happened to respecting the dead?”

Luz laughed at the twins’ antics before managing to ask, “Why would Emira be afraid of Viney anyway? She’s super cool and really easy to get along with!”

“Oh, Emira’s aware, she just refuses to finally go up and say Hi Viney, I-” Edric began, once more being cut off.

“Anyway!” Emira forcefully redirected the conversation, “You still haven't explained what a burrito is.” She gestured to the blanket-encased Amity.

“Oh, right!” Luz said, quickly moving on, “A burrito! So, in the Human Realm, there’s this place called Mexico.”

“Mexico,” Edric said slowly, like he was testing the word out.

“Right, Mexico,” Luz said, “and they have a type of bread called tortillas.”

“Tortilla,” Edric repeated, nodding.

“Yeah! So you take the tortilla, and put a whole bunch of food on top of it, and then you roll it up like we did with Amity, and that’s a burrito!”

“You’re going to eat Mittens?”Emira gasped, “I thought humans eating witches was a myth!” Amity grumbled something in response to Emira’s raised voice, before starting to roll back and forth slightly.

Luz, to Emira’s evident surprise, laughed at the charges, “No, I’m not gonna eat Amity!” She placed her hand on Amity through the blankets, causing her to stop rolling, “Amity’s awesome. She’s great! I love that I get to hang out with her and,” Luz suddenly blushed, removing her hand from Amity, “be her friend. I’ve never had a friend quite like her before.”

“Luz, do you have a crush on Mittens?” Edric asked gleefully, both twins now staring at her with an almost predatory look.

“What, no! Of course not! We’re just really good friends! Totally platonic! Nothing romantic whatsoever. Definitely didn’t spend all night awake thinking after your mom nearly killed me haha. And I mean, if I did it would totally just be about how great friends we are and how it totally didn’t give me butterflies when Amity called me ‘her Luz.’ Because that’s totally a normal reaction to your friend acknowledging your close friendship-”

“Hey,” Emira gently interrupted, “It’s alright. We’re not gonna make fun of you for having a crush on Mittens.” Edric looked at Emira and raised an eyebrow. “Alright, we’ll probably make fun of you for having a crush on Mittens. At least a little. But we won’t judge you for it.”

“I absolutely judge you for having poor taste,” Edric teased, grinning, “Besides, if we go too far, you can always tease Em for her crush on Viney.”

“EDRIC!” Emira grabbed the pillow, bringing it into a hard swing against Edric’s head, with Edric blocking in time with his arms.

“I mean, I kind of already put it together,” Luz tried to defend Edric, “That’s the only reason I can think of for you to be nervous to talk to her if you know she’s cool.” 

Emira’s face flushed, and after a moment she spoke, “Well, since mine and yours are out in the open…” She smirked at Edric

“No,” he responded, watching her

“I guess it’s only fair that I tell you about…”

“Em, please don’t” Edric bowed to her, begging

“That Ed here has his own little crush.”

“Em!” Edric whined, mortified.

“It’s kind of weird to believe that you guys all have crushes that you’re scared to talk to. Like, you guys are super great. I don’t think it’s possible for you guys to be turned down.”

Edric sighed, “You’d think that…”

“But we both got stood up at Grom,” Emira finished, sulking.

“Viney turned you down? She didn’t even mention that she got asked to Grom!” Luz exclaimed.

“I didn’t ask Viney,” Emira said, “I asked a Construction track girl out. I think her little sister was one of Amity’s friends? Someone I thought Mom would approve of if she did any digging. We were at a Hex Girls concert, and she was so happy when I asked. I nearly thought she was going to crush me with that hug.” Emira smiled at the memory, before her face fell to a frown, “But she stopped answering my messages about two days befor Grom, and she showed up with some stupid guy.”

“I’m sorry,” Luz said, giving Emira a side hug, “But if it makes you feel better, I don’t think Viney would ever do that. She hates people being fake like that.”

“I’m not gonna ask out Viney,” Emira said, “If I did, Mom would find out. It would probably end with Viney in the Conformatorium.” Emira sulked further.

“I’m sorry,” Luz murmured as she squeezed the hug just a bit tighter. “What about you?” She asked Edric.

“Roughly the same story. I asked out some girl from a good family so Mom wouldn’t get on my case, but she messaged me saying she wouldn’t be going with me,” he sighed, “But I didn’t even like her so it’s alright.”

“It still sounds like you’re hurt by it,” Luz noted, before opening her arm to invite Edric into the hug.

“Maybe a little,” he said, joining the hug, “Rejection always hurts, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Luz agreed, “That’s what Grometheus showed Amity. Her crush rejecting her.” Luz was silent for a moment, before asking, “If you didn’t like her, then why did you ask her?”

“I didn’t want Mom and Dad to hurt the guy I like,” he answered, “He’s got great prospects with Abominations, so if it ended up Mom and Dad didn’t like him, well…. Dad pulls a lot of weight in the Abominations coven. Add in the fact he does Plants too and…”

“Jerbo?” Luz asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” Edric admitted quietly, and Luz began to giggle. “What?”

“Nothing,” Luz answered, “It’s just kind of funny that both of you are into your own gender and crushing on dual-track witches. It’s a pretty big coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Emira agreed, “Or it’s genetic.” She chuckled, and was joined by Edric, and then Luz. After a moment, she said, “Thanks, Luz. It feels good to be able to talk about this stuff with someone other than Ed.”\

“Hey,” Ed muttered, mildly indignant, “but yeah. It helps.”

“No problem,” Luz said, before standing up, “You guys stay here while I go get some more blankets and pillows.”

[letmetemptyou]

mistletoe

prompt from @drawlight‘s holiday advent calendar! i’m not going to be able to hit them all, but i’m excited to write as many as i can <3 will add to ao3 (username: leaveanote) soon! expect perhaps some pining, but definitely a lot of established relationship holiday softness <3 

--

There hasn’t been a much of a snowfall, not yet. There’s only the silver bite of frost in the cliffside air, the sharp of it creeping into the doorjambs and windowsills before Crowley remembers to seal it out. The South Downs seems to teeter on the precipice of winter, and its inhabitants are in the throes of holiday decorating.

Aziraphale comes home from the village one afternoon to find that Crowley’s got the cottage strewn with fairylights. The front of it is all smothered in the worst sort, the garish multi-colored kind blinking in the most irritating patterns--but on the inside, he’s made a wonderland. Twinkling gold dots line a tree, wreaths of holly, the mantelpiece on which perches a magnificent silver menorah, the bookshelves too. There’s candlelight and he’s built a fire in the hearth too, and there’s Crowley in the middle of the kitchen, white up to his knobbly elbows in flour, sliding the cookie tray into the oven.

“This is quite something, darling,” Aziraphale says faintly, quite overcome. Crowley gets the oven going, pulls off his lumpy oven mitts and comes to him, an enormous smile on his face. The cottage smells like pine and chocolate chip, and Aziraphale is desperately, awfully in love.

“Hope you like it, angel, ‘cause none of it’s going anywhere.” 

“I do, you sentimental thing,” Aziraphale replies. His arms go to wrap around Crowley’s waist, but to his surprise, Crowley seizes him by the shoulders none too romantically and looks up instead, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth and shutting one eye as if to line something up. He walks Aziraphale backwards a few steps. “What in the--”

“There we go,” Crowley says, a hint of pride and mischief there in his voice, the ridiculous, gorgeous creature. It’s been quite overwhelming in the best way to see Crowley...happy. They’ll never be unguarded, free of divine or infernal danger, but they’re closer than they’ve ever been, and they’re taking advantage of it. Crowley is happier than Aziraphale’s ever seen him, and he knows why, and that feels quite holy, indeed. 

“What,” he says again, “in the world are you on about?”

“Didn’t think you noticed one of my favorite decorations,” Crowley says. His grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders has softened, turned to a gentle, familiar clasping, tugging at his curls. “Wanted to show it to you properly.” He turns his glance skyward again, and this time, Aziraphale’s eyes follow him. They land on a small sprig of mistletoe, tied there to a hook in the ceiling Crowley appears to have fastened just for this purpose.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his cheeks warming. Crowley is beaming, his own cheeks quite pink as well. He moves to set his hands around Crowley’s waist again, and this time he does. “I love it. I love all of this, it’s beautiful. Very cozy. But,” he continues, nuzzling Crowley’s jaw, “you don’t need an excuse to kiss me.” He looks up, into Crowley’s bright eyes, gleaming there like fairylights, like the North Star, like a flame burning a lifegiving light, even when it wasn’t expected to. “Not anymore.”

Crowley pauses. Aziraphale watches him swallow, watch the muscles in his throat work. It’s taking some getting used to, this fresh new world they get to explore, together. Aziraphale is very much enjoying the process.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to take every chance I can get, angel,” he says at last. His smile has gentled, warmed.

“Good,” Aziraphale whispers. He threads his hands through his love’s holly-red hair. “Well,” he says, grinning. “Go on, then.”

[harpershigh]

Jaheira couldn't fucking believe in what she just said. Godsdamn me for caring about you. The words clattered in her skull like stones down a cliffside. Gods damn her indeed. And gods damn her twice for saying it aloud. Stupid old crone. Stupid. Stupid.

She’d said it. To a devil. To Mizora. The words had slipped out without a second thought. Caring. As if that word hadn’t rusted on her tongue decades ago. As if it weren’t a weakness sharper than any dagger, now at the hands of a cambion, pointed right to her heart.

Stop thinking about it.

If Jaheira had any luck — which she never did, because when had she ever been lucky? — Mizora wouldn’t notice the slip. Or, at the very least, wouldn’t take it too seriously.

Yeah. Right.

The cambion probably wouldn’t give a damn. And that was good. That was exactly what Jaheira needed. The best possible outcome, actually. Nice. Perfect.

She took a deep breath, exhaled sharply, and focused on wiping away the most obvious streaks of blood from where she could reach, then she peeled off the ruined shirt and changed into something less… well, ruined.

Her mind drifted back to Avernus, unbidden — to the cambion children, wielding weapons too large for their small hands.

Was Mizora’s childhood like that too?

Something in Jaheira’s gut told her it was worse. Far worse.

And if that was the case, was it really any wonder that she suddenly found herself caring? (Alright, not suddenly — she had been teetering on that edge for a while now.)

How could she not? How could anyone look at someone who had known nothing but the hostility of her own kind and the brutality of war from the moment she could stand, and not feel something? Well, truth be told, most people don't care. And didn't it make everything even more tragic?

Jaheira’s thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as Mizora strode into her tent, unannounced. Instinct had her reaching for something — anything — to make herself look occupied, but it was pointless. Too late. Once again, the devil had caught her staring. This time at some random point on the fabric of the tent instead of her face, at least.

Mizora lingered, tail flicking idly, like she was weighing something. Or searching for the right words. And the anticipation crawled under Jaheira's skin, made her fingers twitch with the urge to just say something to break the silence.

But before she could open her mouth, Mizora spoke.

And her voice was calmer than Jaheira expected. Didactic, even. The druid's gaze followed Mizora's movements, taking in, for the first time, what might just be the full extent of the cambion's scars.

Jaheira listened intently, in silence, as Mizora offered another glimpse into what her life in Avernus had been. As she half expected, it was even worse than what most cambions endured. And, of course, the Harper had to resist the urge to roll her eyes when Mizora once again tried to justify her mother’s — if one could even call her that — actions.

When Mizora fell silent, Jaheira let the quiet linger. Now it was her turn to think, to sift through it all, to figure out what was worth addressing and what was best left untouched. There was... a lot to take in. And even more to unravel.

"I won’t pretend to be an expert in infernal politics," Jaheira began, her voice steady, measured. Perhaps even too measured for its contents. "But I do know one thing — every war, no matter the battlefield, isn’t just about land, or resources, or beliefs. Wars don’t happen unless someone stands to profit from them. That holds true even for Gods."

Despite the calmness, there was no warmth in her tone, no humour to soften the edges of her words. The High Harper was speaking. "You said it yourself — you’re on a leaking boat. But the real question isn’t just how to keep it afloat. It’s who put the hole there in the first place. And why. Questions Zariel blatantly ignores, be it because she never thought about it, or because she doesn't care..."

…Or because she’s one of the beings profiting from it. Jaheira didn’t say it. She didn’t need to. The thought hung there, unspoken. After all, she had no proof to make such a claim (for now, at least), and throwing baseless speculation around would do nothing but breed unnecessary tension. Besides, if there was any truth to it, Mizora would see it for herself. She knew the Archduchess better than most — presumably. If the pieces fit, she’d put them together without Jaheira needing to spell it out.

"In my experience — if that counts for anything — ‘things are as they are’ is not an explanation." Jaheira could have framed it as a jest, made it sound less severe. But this wasn’t a joke. "That’s the excuse the powerful use to keep the rest in chains, and no one should settle for that."

Jaheira paused briefly, reaching for the blankets tucked in the corner. She unfolded it, slowly preparing her bedding for the night.

“And while it's true that no immortal being willingly gives up power,” she said, matter-of-fact. “They all know it’s a possibility. The ones who don’t, or choose to ignore it… well, they never last as long as they think they will.” She shrugs. "Then, they regret not thinking some things through before..."

…And that's precisely the fate I hope Zariel meets soon. Yet another thought Jaheira kept to herself. No need to sour (even more) the conversation with open death wishes toward a demigod (again). She already had a list of those, with Bhaal sitting comfortably at the top — and that was no secret. But that list always had room for more.

Her gaze settled on Mizora’s broken wrist, her jaw tightening. A punishment, they said. For concealing a mortal in Avernus.

Or, in Jaheira’s opinion? Bullshit. A punishment for failing to predict, with perfect precision, whatever half-baked, whimsical solution for the problem Zariel had wanted — wanted, but hadn't bothered to articulate to anyone. Because why should she? Gods forbid the all-powerful Archduchess deign to explain her own damn expectations before deciding someone had failed her, even though the job was done. No, far easier to break bones and call it justice.

Jaheira exhaled sharply through her nose, willing herself not to spit on the ground out of sheer frustration. No point in getting angry over it, right? Except she was angry. She had been for a while.

The Harper looked away, unfolding another blanket, as if the act could somehow help her to be less angry, and to find the next words. Because the subject was about to take a rather delicate turn. Gods, she was never good at this. Comforting. Well, not that Mizora needed any comfort — she was the self-sufficient type, wasn't she? Always so sure of herself, so quick to dismiss anything that even hinted at softness.

And yet…

There was so much Jaheira wanted to say, but would Mizora even listen? Obviously she wouldn’t undo a lifetime of indoctrination with a few heartfelt words. Still, some things were worth saying anyway.

“You are a survivor, Mizora.”

The cold, calculated edge from before was gone. This wasn’t the High Harper speaking anymore — it was the druid. The woman who had spent decades fighting not just for causes, but for people.

“You are not just a weapon. You never were." Jaheira's voice was quiet, as she finally settled down on her bedroll. "You have a mind of your own, a will of your own. And that means you have the right to choose your own way. And I really hope you won't let the weight of Zariel's expectations crush you. So, my point remains: You owe her nothing."

One might think that age brings wisdom. Sometimes, all it does is give you new, spectacular ways to prove just how thick your skull really is. Like far too many times before, Jaheira didn't even register the danger until it was already upon her. Mizora's hand closed around her throat like a vice, her grip unrelenting, squeezing until the pressure in Jaheira's ears drowned out everything else. Her head throbbed, her pulse a frantic drumbeat against the devil’s fingers. And yet — she couldn't bring herself to avert her gaze from Mizora's, just like she had always faced death in the eye. She always knew that her stubbornness would be the thing that killed her. And it seemed that this day had finally come. Then, just as suddenly, the pressure was gone. Jaheira staggered, her senses rushing back all at once, her hand flying to her throat as she gasped and coughed, lungs burning for air. Mizora was speaking, and Jaheira knew damn well what a retort could lead to — she had just experienced it first hand. But again, when had that ever stopped her? "It’s not about cuddles or motherly love, damn it! It’s about ensuring her only heir succeeds where she’s failed!" Jaheira snarled, torn between yelling at Mizora and muttering a Healing Word through gritted teeth, the sting of her own wounds became an afterthought as she fails at properly doing both. She was certain she'd walk away from this with a fresh scar.

"More wars are won by ink than by steel, and if she’s losing this one, it’s because she refuses to put faith in the one person actually suited to win it!" Her hand shot out, finger jabbing sharply at Mizora — as if it wasn't already pretty obvious of who she was talking about. "And for that, she deserves whatever fate comes to claim her, because I'll tell you—" Jaheira’s heated cautionary tale died on her tongue the moment Mizora turned her back. For a second, she just stood there, staring, barely able to believe what she was hearing. Not because she doubted Mizora — no, if anything, there was an unsettling sincerity in her voice, something deep enough to make Jaheira’s skin prickle. It was the content of those words that left her speechless. There was contempt, yes, but aside from it Mizora talked as if she deserved all that for the mere fact of existing. She’d heard tales of fiends like Mizora being outcasts in the Hells, but there were just as many who clawed their way up to power. Raphael, for instance — whatever horrors he’d endured, he’d long since buried them beneath gold and indulgence. Jaheira had no doubt that an infernal upbringing was cruel, but looking at Mizora now, it was damn near impossible to picture her as anything but what she had always seemed to be: a predator. Not prey. “ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF?!” The outburst ripped from her before she could think better of it, and before she knew it, she was moving — closing the distance, circling around to face Mizora directly. Again. Dangerously within reach. Because, apparently, she never fucking learns. “The fact that you not only survived but thrived is proof enough of your strength. And I'll tell you this — having to endure any of it was a sabotage on itself, plain and simple! She saw your cunning, your resourcefulness, your potential as a threat, and she did everything in her grasp to break you. You owe her nothing — not loyalty, not gratitude, nothing!" She lets out a sharp breath, throwing her hands up in a unique mix of frustration and indignation. And before she could stop herself, the words came tumbling out. “But godsdamn me for caring about you!”

Up until that moment, Jaheira had absolutely no idea why a devil suffering injustice should set her nerves ablaze, why it made her want to fight on her behalf. If anything, this was the universe’s karmic wheel turning as it should — hells, if anyone deserved to be chewed up by their own system, it was the devils. Yet somehow, in a way she hadn’t been expecting, a ferocious spark ignited deep in her gut, and she really didn’t know how to deal with. She was angry. For Mizora. Her mind reeled, trying to piece together how in the Nine Hells did it happen. Surely, it wasn’t every day you saw a devil like her standing with mortals — not just against a common enemy, but actually making an effort to not torment everyone or augur them like a vulture. Of course, she occasionally slathered favours in honeyed demands, but for all her smug superiority, hadn’t once gone back on her word, and never overextended herself when it came to pulling people into her schemes or picking fights on their behalf at every turn. No, she was careful in her choices and, except in certain circumstances, helpful. Then again, Mizora’s mind was razor-sharp, always calculating, always steps ahead, twisting every situation to suit her whims. This could be just another one of those times — a carefully laid Venus trap, and Jaheira cursed herself for walking right into it. But what if it wasn’t? There was an actual, palpable chance that Mizora wasn’t playing her. What if this wasn't revealed in order to take some leverage on her, after all? By Silvanus' horns, what if Mizora actually trusts her? It was maddening, infuriating, the not knowing. But even through her frustration, she couldn’t deny it — this was a game well played. And for that, she could at least respect the devil.

Oh, damn. Somehow, despite everything, Jaheira was growing fond of Mizora. And wasn’t that a horrifying revelation? And now she was staring. Fantastic. Just what she needed. To play the fool. Jaheira cleared her throat sharply, tearing her gaze away and turning her attention to her ruined shirt. She tugged at the torn fabric, placing it together in a makeshift knot — not exactly for modesty, but because it gave her something to do. Something to focus on that wasn’t her own damned awkwardness. Or the heat she could feel creeping up her neck, flushing her ears and cheeks like some idiot. “Ugh. Whatever.” She huffed, making a show of rolling her shoulders back, as if to shake off whatever this was. “You do you, Mizora. Far be it from me to tell a cambion how to live her life.” She tried to inject the previous bite into the words, but even to her own ears, it fell flat. Oh, to be an ostrich, just so she could bury her face in the dirt and be done with this nonsense. But lacking such a Wild Shape, her tent would have to suffice. She strode toward it — only to halt mid-step, realizing, with no small amount of frustration, that she had stalked off in the entirely wrong direction. Cursing under her breath, she spun on her heel, correcting her course.

The tent flap opened and closed quietly as Mizora snuck into Jaheira's tent a couple of hours later. The druid sat on her bedroll and stared into the void as if she were trying to wreck her mind over something. Mizora's claw marks stood out strongly against the weathered skin of her neck. Several small puncture wounds, surrounded by dark purple and greenish bruises. Rill of dried blood ran over Jaheira's skin.

Mizora sighed and walked over, stopping beside the high harper. Her tail tip flicked back and forth. Her wings twitched. Nobody liked admitting it when they were wrong or when the words of someone else actually held a kernel of truth. Devils especially hated the idea of making a mistake. They were masters of plotting ahead, often spinning schemes that could have been in the making for centuries. As much as all the fiends had salivated over Elthurel being dragged into Avernus, Mizora could tell that this had been Zariel's masterpiece. A coup, which had been born from a grudge older than even Mizora herself.

She wondered if the Archdevil would ever let her hatred towards Elthurel and its inhabitants, but especially the Hellriders, go. It was unlikely. The Hellriders had been Zariel's first and sharpest lesson in disloyalty. Bel must have gotten lucky when Zariel had condemned him to work in her furnaces and mines. The Hellriders though... Whatever awaited them would make what had happened to Elthurel pale in comparison. Zariel might just wipe the legendary riders from the map if she got the chance. The worst part was that Mizora understood it. If there was one thing, which connected fiends, it could be their obsessive hatred towards one target. It was the same obsession which drove them to chase after one specific individual for a deal, even if it might take most of the target's life before they ever said Yes.

"Under other circumstances, you might have been right", Mizora broke the silence, "Most wars are indeed won through ink and paper, alongside certain deciding battles. But you have to remember that you look at this from a mortal angle, Jaheira. You mortals do not wage wars for the sake of being at war. You always have a reason, even if it is just I want those rare minerals, you own, or I am jealous of your cattle or you insulted me in my honour. Thus as quickly as you are to start a war, you also have an incentive to end it.

"The Blood War is not like that, I am afraid. Demons have no concept of war or peace. Only chaos exists in their minds. You cannot negotiate with them. You cannot reason with them. All you can do is wipe them out over and over. It is like rowing a boat with a hole in it. No matter how much water you empty to keep it afloat, you will always sit there with wet ankles." She raised her broken wrist and turned it over and over, looking at her claws. Mizora smiled a dispassionate smirk. "I might be a skilled negotiator and suitable to win a human war, but I am afraid, the Blood War is a whole other beast. It is a losing battle, which just being kept in a stalemate requires every last ounce of our resources."

"Sometimes, I wonder if her ladyship knows", Mizora remarked, "After all, from all the Archdevils, she is the only one who has never made or attended any ball or banquet. You gotta admire her tenacity though. Just how much strength does it take to plan the same types of battles over and over and over, for seemingly the end of time? Most would go mad from it all. And who knows? Maybe the Lord of the First is a bit mad for how else does she keep snatching victory from the jaws of defeat?"

Mizora walked around Jaheira. Her dress swayed from side to side, exposing her thighs. They were marked by scratches and healed bite wounds. One of her wings opened a touch to expose a long, thick scar going across its base, almost as if someone had tried to chop it off. The broken wrist in its splint looked almost harmless by comparison. Just another wound in a sea of thousands.

"As for my upbringing", Mizora said, "While it is flattering to hear you say that my cunning, resourcefulness and potential as a threat may have been a reason for Zariel to attempt to break me, I did nothing special. I did what was expected of me to stay alive and to become stronger. Cambions do not really have childhoods. Sure, I had a nursery, but you remember the Cambion children you saw. You are barely six years old and you are already expected to wield a great axe, which is twice your size. I was born as a six-year-old, almost as if my subconscious knew the hardships I would be going through. I do not know if this predicament happens with Cambions born in Faerun or if it is only an element of Cambions born in the Hells. I am not the first one forged by the crushing molars of this conflict, nor will I be the last."

Her smile was cold as she continued to explain: "Zariel did not give birth to me because she was after an heir, Jaheira. She is not interested in giving up her position to anybody. The last devil who tried to take her position as Archdevil now lives in the mines and has to dig out infernal iron with a rock between his teeth. According to some Eryinnes, Bel's teeth are as flat as a horse's now and he suffered a concussion from the hard labour at least twice." She leaned closer and the coldness of her smile dropped into something more sad. Mizora held her broken wrist still. "Zariel was not after an heir. She birthed me because she wanted a weapon for the Blood War and outside of it. So a weapon is what I made myself into."

@harpershigh cont. from here.

[excusemem1ss]

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[js-holmes]

A familiar smile by JS Holmes

It was a quiet night, the wind was gently brushing against his collar as he stared through the pipesmoke, his eyes begging for relief as they were cast towards the naked sky. His hopes slowly fading like the embers from his last inhalation. The gentle cloud journeyed through the breeze, carrying the troubled exhale of a loud mind. 

For it was not the first time that Samuel had found himself standing on the prairie, seeking solace from the dark night, he reflected upon how things were. The things he had been told about the world, and how it made him question his own circumstance. Samuel was haunted by the tales from across the sea, and how life seemed empty. 

The journey began in the town of Newport, two hundred miles from where he stood right now. One night, he arrived quietly on a merchant ship from another province. As he arrived into town, he was greeted by new people, and new faces. Including a woman called Yvette. She was old, with a wise face, and yet, it betrayed her. Often she would be tangental, and nervous. She was highly suspect of the locals, and yet treated travelers with kindness. For she had once been one, and knew the heart of a traveler is worth thrice that of an ordinary person.

Most kept away from her, but Samuel had grown fond of his newfound acquaintance. After he was done working, he would visit her. She even let him sleep in her old toolshed when Samuel could not afford patronage. 

And yet, it wasn’t hers. It had belonged to her sister, a woman by the name of Grace. Grace was colourful, boisterous, and full of life. Much like how Yvette trusted too little, so did Grace trust too much. And yet, things had not always been this way. 

With her sister’s passing, Yvette was all on her own until Samuel began to speak with her. While she might be strange, she certainly had experienced life. She told many stories. Stories about hope, about despair, about fear, about love, and about heartbreak. 

She told him about the war, how it cast the skies dark. How as a little girl, she had to flee an enemy like none other. The kind of enemy that are merely shadows on the horizon, who are strangers to the land. Who traveled far and wide to take what wasn’t theirs. How their cannons had roared at night, and how they never advanced. 

Always the cannons would thunder, and the sky would shine with fire, and everyone would hide. 

As each night passed, her village grew smaller and smaller. Ruins and death haunted each crevice. The war went on like this for a long time, the villagers could do very little, as their rifles shot faster and further, and their cannons longer distances. They were an impossible enemy, and complete strangers. 

One night, Yvette had snuck towards their battlements to look at them, see who they were and what they were doing. As she got closer, she spotted a lone watchman. He had a strange uniform, with ornaments and craftsmanship she had never seen, nor thought possible. ‘’What must their world be like?’’, she thought to herself.

Eventually the watchman saw her, and she froze with fear. He smiled at her. For a moment she felt hesitant, but eventually she realised she was not in danger after all. He touched the brim of his hat, and bowed his head. 

She did not know what this meant. But she copied the gesture. He smiled once more. She eventually ran away, and the watchman, amused by the novelty of it all, went back to duty once more.

That night, as the cannons thundered, Yvette was confused. How could the man smile at her, as though they were friends, and then proceed to fire more volleys at her village? Did he not understand people lived there?

A large flash of light lit up her bedroom for a second, an infernal red, and the large booming sound followed, as the windows rattled from  the shockwave. Her bed was shaking, and the small wrought iron chandelier in her bedroom fell off its hook and made a terrible racket. 

Then came the smell... that terrible smell. She had never smelled so much of it at once. It smelled like burning hair. She prayed at her bedside for all her neighbors, as she knew she would not meet many of them again. She prayed for the cannons to end, for peace to return, for the souls of the departed. She prayed the smiling man would realise that people lived in her village.

Samuel listened intently. Yvette was only seven when this happened. Grace was nine. Eventually the cannons stopped, several weeks later. But by then, she was gone. Her sole surviving relations consisted of an uncle, who had lost his arm. His name was Rupert. They didn’t share any blood, but he had worked for a long time with Yvette’s mother, and the two had become friends. Eventually he was invited to gatherings and festivities. She tried to remember the songs they sang, but the only sound in her memory was the rattling of the windows. 

One night, her mother and father did not return from work. Only Rupert did. He told her about terrible things. About fire, and screaming, and blood. People in the village had always been honest, never hid anything. The truth was the lifeblood of understanding, and so, many of them had grown wise. Even little children. There was a time when Yvette had a wise mind, but the wisdom was clouded by memory. 

Now she was alone, and isolated. The people in her newfound home said she was uncivilised, sired by usurpers and rebels. In many ways she had no home, for she was regarded as an intruder. The children would throw stones at her house, and call her a heathen and a witch. Grace was her only joy, and now she did not even have that.

She was promised peace, but peace is a land without enmity. 

Rupert took her to a town not far away, where none had seen the enemy, but barely heard stories about them. Yvette became something of a novelty, as people would listen to her tales, and her woe. Many took sympathy upon her plight, and thus she was offered a new home, and a new family. 

Rupert was pleased with this, and left her to join her new household. Yvette became a scholar, she would read books and write chronicles about the town. For many months she had a peaceful life, and she became close friends with her sister Grace. Her new parents welcomed her, and yet had few expectations. They gave without wanting anything in return, for such was the custom of her people. 

Yvette thrived, and so did Grace. They were very different, and yet hopeful. The war seemed like a distant memory. But one day, she received a visitor. A man. His face looked hard and weatherbeaten. He was unkempt and dirty, like a rambler. He had a rifle on his shoulder, and tattered clothes. He told her about Rupert. How Rupert had gone back to the village, and seen the enemy there. 

They had taken the ruins as their own, and built a mine down the road. Strange carriages would carry off minerals past the hills, to an unknown place. Terrifying noises came from within. Impossible rumblings and drones that offended the ear, and deafened nature. 

These were no ordinary people, and no ordinary enemy. Rather, they were unnatural, with magic from beyond our world. It had corrupted their souls, and driven them to take what was not theirs. They had slayed so many, that they had lost themselves. 

Rupert had found a band of highwaymen, who had seen this strangeness, and its accompanying death. For they had known hardship, and their hearts wept for the senseless destruction. 

He joined them, as they were going to defend their lands, and the people within their lands. For robbery is the justice of the poor, and so is resistance. 

They had begun to waylay the carriages, and fought the enemy. Up close they were like any men, without their cannons they had little advantage. Especially once they had taken their rifles, which were strange in mechanism. Capable of holding several charges, made of brass rather than paper. It took some time, and a few injuries from the springs, but eventually they learned.

Rupert had been shot during a skirmish with an enemy patrol. He was dead. Yvette was stunned for a moment, she could not feel anything. It was as if someone had told her it was going to rain tomorrow. Her heart met the statement with indifference. For she loved Rupert, and even though she heard what the man said, she still anticipated him to return. It was not until the comforting embrace of Grace, that she finally realised, and grief struck her like the tide strikes the cliffside. 

Grace was her only comfort, the two became close, and as they grew old enough for apprenticeship, the two of them wanted to move to the city. 

Their parents gave them their blessing, and so they went to a relative in the city. 

But their love for one another bloomed into something beyond that of foster siblings. It wasn’t long before Yvette was beguiled by Grace, and so, as they crossed the border, they were no longer siblings.

Years passed, and the two learned a trade by one another’s side. Until, one day, Yvette asked her foster parents for their blessing. 

The two were eventually married.

But once more,  the dark clouds came, as the strange people from the other side of the world, had moved closer to the border. The city was armed, and ready to defend itself. But this time there was no cannons, nor soldiers. Rather, the skies would begin to rumble unnaturally, and bombs would fall from the clouds.

Grace and Yvette found shelter in eachother’s arms, and the city around them collapsed. They cried, and prayed.

Eventually a convoy arrived, and took them far away. They crossed many borders, and passed many checkpoints. Life seemed stranger and stranger, as they moved further and further. For three years they had no home. They slept in trucks, in ships, in shelters, and sometimes in nothing but eachother’s arms. They had to fight for scraps, and hide from cruel men in the night. But they had eachother.

As time went on, they eventually boarded a ship to the empire. A strange place for away, that they had only heard of in languages they could barely speak. The newspapers and telegrams were impossible to understand, as the new land they were in had a very different alphabet from their own. 

They held one another as they traversed on the ship, until a bosun spotted them, and separated the two.

‘‘I mean no harm.’‘ he said, as he spoke their language.

‘‘But where we’re going, the others do. They are not like us, and they do not approve of our ways.’‘

He gestured to some of the imperial sailors. All the sailors were men, and no women worked on the ship. The only women among them, were the few who had been taken as wives on the journey.

The two of them sighed. As they had once more become sisters. 

As they arrived, they could hear the same strange and impossible noises. And, as the ship moored, they saw strange clothes, and strange things. Carriages without horses, lights without fire, music without bands. 

The new world lain before them felt hollow, as if everyone was missing. The people they saw seemed to go nowhere, and do nothing. They simply entered a building, and sat there until afternoon. There was no crafts, no intrigue, men in uniforms ushered people off the streets if they were found to be loitering. The only sound was the sound of their dreaded machines. 

Samuel thought about it. How unfamiliar it all must have been. The things he took for granted. He wondered about Yvette’s home, and their ways. Perhaps they had things that the empire had lost.

As Yvette and Grace grew older, they went out for an evening stroll. In a moment of weakness, they embraced, little did they know that they had been seen by the townsfolk in their strange tenements. Packed into boxes like rats. The windows seemed so innocuous, and yet several of them hid eyes full of malice.

This is how Yvette lost Grace. As one morning, she went out to buy groceries, and on her way there, she was met by a knife in the dark. She had been struck down in the cold air at the hands of a stranger, who proclaimed her a savage.

A few weeks later, she went to a courthouse to watch the proceedings. She wanted to understand. Why someone would take away her only love, the only person she could talk to, and why.

As the accused was brought forward, she saw a ragged man who seemed to be without a home. On his tattered jacket he wore medals and insignia. He confessed to the crime, saying it was a matter of honour and patriotism, how he had kept the savages away as he did before to earn his medals.

The judge, with sympathy, sentenced him with lenience. Due to the circumstance of his service, and how he had acted with honour. He did not see Yvette, as she sat among the townsfolk. She let out a deep sigh, too exhausted for tears.

As she left the court room, she stood outside. She wanted to look at him, to understand him. To understand why. The man walked outside, she appraised him, as they stood there, face to face.

He was old, and scarred. His hair grew in patches, and his beard was covered in filth. But then, she froze with fear.

As he touched the brim of his hat, and gave her an all too familiar smile... 

[wheetdeceit]

I am looking for someone of unspecified gender to become my close friend through a series of events that takes roughly two and a half hours to recount properly (we'll time it, of course) and go on a long trip with me one summer.

We'll joke about the opportunity to mingle with new, single strangers. But the conversation stops soon after. We arrive somewhere foreign and beautiful, and soon into our adventures we also begin to feel something beautiful and foreign.

You, of course, try to tell me in your own way but I remain oblivious. I, of course, try to reach out to you but you are always turning away. Believing that you're reading my advances as simple platonic gestures, you push me away so you can at least keep your wits about you until the end of summer. And I have my answer.

We get into a fight on one especially hot evening, the local flowers carrying sickly sweet through the window on a breeze that brings no reprieve from the infernal heat. We shout until we're red in the face (which isn't long at all) and you storm out onto the cliffside veranda.

You take the time to try cooling off, huffing and shaking your head. I groan in frustration at the heat, that damnable summer heat, and undo the top buttons of my shirt. I start out after you with the intent of winning this argument once and for all, but by the time I reach the doors, I stop.

You strike me down for all that I am, in that moment. It's the very moment that I stop pretending that I'm not tired, that it doesn't hurt when you look away from me, that I've yearned for the company of anyone else the whole time we've been here. A total trance of helpless reflection. You wipe my cheek. From a tear or sweat, I'm not sure. You often drive me to both.

From that point on, I start noticing you in every form and fashion, and you stop pushing me away. It's the summer that doesn't end.

[avernusfuries-a]

This fucking engine would be the death of her, if the blade of fucking frontiers hadn't caught up with her first. For a long moment, Karlach flip flopped between her options: she could take to her beaters, make decent headway and maybe lead them right through the gnolls as she had with Zariel's hunters, or she could take arm and fight. As appealing as the former seemed, with nothing but straight cliffside at her back, it would take considerable effort to make the desperate crawl up it. Truth be told, she'd rather hoped that she'd given the fucker the slip as she'd made her desperate bid for freedom on the nautiloid.

Cornered once, shame on them. Cornered twice, shame on her.

Karlach knew that, from a first glance, she looked every bit the devil she'd been touted as. There were few who would truly pause and look at the finer details when she was all but burning up in infernal hellfire. As if on cue, the vents at her shoulders opened with a screech and a shrill hiss of air. Fuck, that wasn't a good sound. Nor was the struggling grind she could feel as it struggled in her ribcage. "Look-!" It was gasped, strained around its edges and fragmented with a grunt. Of course, this other stranger recognised her too.

Karlach paused with the raise of his hand, and her brow furrowed. She waited about as patiently as she could when she felt the overwhelming need to move. So she straightened, and focused on trying to still the engine. No easy feat, really. "Not willingly," Karlach replied, finally. "Took one look at that Nautiloid and saw it as my ticket outta there. I'm not what you think I am."

Not at heart, not really.

@infernaliscor liked for a starter

          GOING SO FAR out of their way for the sake of one companion, and one alleged devil, wasn't exactly high on the list of things Amis could claim to be pleased with; had everyone ever so conveniently forgotten about the part where they all had ghaik spawn squirming about their skulls? Regardless of what they did, the prognosis wasn't liable to be great, but there had to be better ways of fighting to get them out than stopping for every singular bleeding task someone asked them to do. Wyll seemed at least marginally useful, but..... Useful enough to warrant this? He'd refuse to believe it until the man had proven as much.

          But when they'd drawn near enough to see the woman in question and for Wyll to begin whatever exhausting speech he felt the need to profuse, the Gith rounded with a hissed 'desist' and bared fangs. He'd known plenty of devils over the decades of his time in Avernus; none would ever deign to lower themselves into the visage of a quarter-breed, at best, for as much as they looked down upon half-breeds.

          "You bear a tadpole like the rest of us, yet I know a denizen of Avernus when I see one." One claw raised up in an unspoken 'don't protest yet.' "If I remember correctly from my own decades of service, you were one of Zariel's favourites, no...?"

[roxywashere]

Knee Deep in the Dead

Roxy takes a Vacation

Contrary to what you might think, Hell is a veritable Paradise for an Angel. Especially those Angels who take pride in and derive enjoyment from their ability to slay Demons.

Roxanne is one such Angel. And she had one Hell all to herself, after the associated Earth and Heaven attached to it had disappeared from the face of the Multiverse, leaving only the Demons and their prison behind. However, she’d been an Angel for so long that she had started growing bored with her personal, as it were, Hell.

Lucky for her, she wasn't limited to one Hell. She had infinite Hells to pacify.

Roxanne stood on a cliffside in her private Earth, barren of humanity, which she had christened Altar. She unsheathed her magic sword, Dawnherald, and pointed it out over the cliff, which faced a pristine blue ocean.

She spoke to the sword. “I think it’s time we took a vacation, eh? You pick this time. Try to surprise me.” She released the hilt, leaving the blade floating in the air. Dawnherald then minutely vibrated, in an increasing frequency and tightening amplitude, until it’s subatomically sharpened point snagged on a subatomic wormhole and then ripped an orange-red swath through the blue sky.

Roxy peered through the portal and examined the universe Dawnherald had chosen. “I’m intrigued... tell me more.”

Dawnherald continued ripping open the wormhole until it completely enveloped Roxy, bringing her into the world Dawnherald was proposing. She saw an endless plain of sulfur, interrupted only by towers of sulfur spitting clouds of sulfur like smokestacks.

The air smelled of sulfur, and napalm, and melting flesh, and burning plastic.

She saw movement, in small patches, on the edges of the horizon: Imps, scrambling towards the holy presence of Roxy and her semi-animate gear, enraged at her consecrating effects on their infernal home.

Roxy pointed at Dawnherald and traced a curve from where it was now to it's sheath on her back, which Dawnherald followed until it clicked snuggly into its home. Roxy took a calm, deep breath, and then rocketed towards the squadrons of imps so fast she left a vacuum which sonic-boomed in her wake.  

She stopped among a group of imps as fast as she had gotten going, knocking to the ground all but the one she had stopped in front of and held still by wrapping her ethereal wings around it. Her hand was outstretched towards it, her pointer and index pressed gently against its forehead, and her middle finger was pinned towards her palm by her thumb. When she released the coiled-up flick, the minor Demon's head exploded backwards in a jet of steam, literally vaporized by the energy Roxy's smallest possible attack had imparted.

“Come on, put up a fight. Make me earn my vacation.”

The Demons snarled and indulged her, all attempting to pounce on her at once. She grabbed one, palming its face, and used it as a club to bludgeon the rest. Its neck failed after only three Demons, the body detaching from the head and flying off into the near distance. She then pitched the head at a tight cluster of imps, splattering the head through all 6 of them.

These imps were no challenge for Roxy at all. As soon as she realized she had already exhausted her enjoyment from this particular encounter, she reached back to Dawnherald, pressing the button to release it from its sheath and help dispatch the imps.

As soon as the last imps splattered across the ground, Roxy heard a steady, rhythmic pounding. She smiled. “There we go...” She zipped in the direction of the sound, and as she grew closer she tracked it as coming from beneath the ground.

She set down on the sulfuric stone, and punched down at it, shattering the relatively thin floor she had been standing upon, revealing the chamber below.

It was massive.

It was several hundred feet across, and the bottom of the chamber was so far down that it was obscured by the glowing smog of sulfur dioxide that filled the low-lying regions of this world. She could see flickering sources of light, and shifting shadows, but no details.

The walls of the chamber were smoothed and shaped sulfides, with a whole wall of pure carved native Sulfur. The Sulfur wall had a door 50 feet tall, and behind that door was the source of the pounding.

Roxy wedged her fingers between the crack of the doors, and ripped a hole through it, the soft stone crumbling in her grip. As soon as she did the great fist of some Greater Demon punched through the door, grabbed her, and pulled her into the pitch darkness. It drew her close to its face, and opened its eyes, revealing six charcoal flames, and then opened its mouth and snarled, revealing a bright furnace burning white-hot.

It exhaled rocket exhaust at her, and her semi-mortal flesh melted away, stripping her down to little more than a golden skeleton wearing golden armor, which the demon released to watch clatter to the ground.

The skeleton dropped down to the floor, and then instead of collapsing jumped back up and head-butted the Demon. Roxy pulled her disk shield, Aegis, off her back and held it up, where it surrounded her with an impenetrable sphere of light.

As Roxy’s flesh reconstituted behind the barrier, she slowly paced around the Demon, examining it in the new light. It was 30 feet tall, with skin like bubbling tar, the face of a gorilla and the horns of a ram, cloven hooves, and fingers like foot-thick obsidian blades.

“You couldn’t have picked a more typical form,” she enunciated as soon as her lungs, throat, and mouth had grown in. “Got a name?”

“Ba’al-Beirut,” it growled in response.

“I’m Roxanne. Tell your friends.” With that said, Roxy took Dawnherald and smashed it against Aegis. The two rang out with a thundering clang, and the sphere of light exploded, sending Ba’al-Beirut flying through the ruins of the door and down into the chamber below.

Roxy’s human form had completed repairing. She walked up to the edge of the chamber, just in time to see Ba’al-Beirut scamper off whimpering before the sulfur dioxide smoke filled the Ba’al-Beirut-shaped hole that had been punched through it. She dropped down into the darkness. She landed in a gentle kneel among the smog, surrounded by hundreds of pairs of embers.

“Hello, boys. It’s time to fucking party.” She reach back towards Dawnherald in its sheath, and without even touching the catch pressed it and then flicked her wrist upwards, an action Dawnherald mimicked, launching into the air. “Shine.”

Dawnherald ignited with the light of a sun, blinding every single one of the five or so hundred Demons in the chamber with Roxy. Roxy could still see perfectly, however. While they were all still stunned, Roxy zipped around obliterating the Demons in approximate order of ascending power. By the time she had eviscerated the imps, the other Demons had recovered.

They all competed to be the one to kill her, accidentally attacking each other in their frenzy. Roxy took advantage of the confusion by hovering in places that would lead to more collateral damage when they missed her. She managed to kill almost a quarter without laying a finger on them.

It wasn't much of a challenge, but it wasn't effortless either. Once Roxy had almost completely cleared the room, the surviving greater Demons turned tail and ran.

“You fucking cowards,” Roxy yelled at their backs. “You call yourselves Demons? Get back here!”

She took her time tracking them through the endless system of sprawling tunnels under the surface of this Hell. She slowly, patiently, paced every foot of the 100,000 miles that quest required, killing a million other Demons along the way. But after 10 years, more or less, she found them all, and killed all but one.

She had left Ba’al-Beirut alive, out of some fleeting whimsy to see what his driving fear of her would lead him to do.

She saw him journey across Hell for 20 years after she had finished killing the other Demons she had first come across. He consulted with hundreds of Demon fortune teller and magisters, seeking what it would take to get this implacable Heaven-Spawn off his trail.

Every place Ba’al-Beirut passed through would be shortly thereafter wiped from the infernal map, so the longer his quest drew on the more resistance he found from other Demons not wishing to be marked for certain annihilation at the hands of a bored rogue Archangel.

But eventually his quest led him to the answer he thought would work best.

After utterly destroying the demonic temple that had given him his final solution, Roxy caught up with him as he was adding the final touches on an enormous magic circle.

It was a massive pentagram made of crushed up cinnabar, with lettering in greek, arabic, and norse runic along the edges, and surrounded by more geometric shapes extending out almost a hundred feet from the center. Ba’al-Beirut had spent a day tracing it, making sure that each line and curve were perfectly drawn, to minimize the chance of failure. Thousands of other Demons had gathered to watch.

Roxy recognized this ritual: she'd seen it attempted six dozen times across the Omniverse before; it was the ultimate ritual of local Multicosmic Demonism. Never once had she failed to stop it.

But this Hell was a sandbox. She wanted someone else to play with.

Roxy sat in the air above the circle, legs crossed patiently. When Ba’al-Beirut stopped to run and cower, she zipped into his path, still sitting lotus.

“Finish the ritual,” she commanded of him. Not only did Roxy not interfere with the process, she actively aided it: when Ba’al-Beirut reached the final step, and went to kill a random imp for blood sacrifice, Roxy stopped him.

“He’s more likely to answer if it’s somebody he knows,” she advised. She stood in the center of the pentagram and used Dawnherald to slit her own throat so deeply her head technically wasn't connected to the rest of her body. Her blood pooled within the pentagram, not spreading past its 5 sides. It poured out of her until her heart ran dry. “Call to him,” Roxy ordered.

In an ageless and multiversally spread infernal tongue, Ba’al-Beirut cried: “<Therion, I summon thee.>”

There was a flash of light from the center of the pentagram, and a crack of thunder, and the cinnabar dust started glowing.

The blood started roiling and churning, as if it wasn’t only mere centimeters deep. A shape slowly rose out of the liquid, looking like it was composed of the blood itself. It was vaguely human-shaped, though many things often were, but as it rose higher it’s features became sharper. The face of a man became distinct, already smiling wickedly, and before it had risen completely its eyes snapped open.

Therion leapt forward at Roxy, not yet fully formed. His arm shot forward like a tentacle, which materialized into a hand around Roxy’s neck. She still had Dawnherald in her hand, so she swung it to cleave the gripping fist.

She zipped backwards, out of his reach. “I thought She forbade you from entering any Hell?” she interrogated.

“She let me back in as a reward for my good behaviour,” still half-blood Demon answered disingenuously. “I thought She forbade you from using your wings under foreign suns?” he then asked in return.

“She gave me new wings.”

“Well, I guess that all our questions have been answered.” He examined his surroundings, and himself, still partially solidifying out of Roxy’s blood. He saw the figure of Ba’al-Beirut towering over the much more minute Angel. “Though it was her blood that drew me here, the voice that summoned me was not hers. I presume that was you?”

Ba’al-Beirut was in a state of obvious confusion. “I summoned the Demon King, God of Evil, the Immortal Dragon. What is this buffoonery?”

Roxy and Therion shared a rare smile over their mutual amusement at the situation.

Ba’al-Beirut gestured at the random assortment of Demons that had surrounded to watch the ritual. “Kill this imposter!”

Roxy gave him some space, flying straight up to not be in the way, and Therion spread his arms and cackled as hundreds of imps and middling Demons converged upon him and ripped his finally completely solid body to shreds.

Roxy landed upon a hill a fair distance away. Ba’al-Beirut turned his back on the frenzy and walked for a long minute to confront her. “Why did the spell fail? You said he would answer.”

“And answer he did, you stupid impish emberling. Look again, and see for yourself.”

In the minute that Ba’al-Beirut had spent stomping over to Roxy, the scene behind him had changed dramatically. No longer was there a legion of imps tearing at the flesh of some random human, but there was instead an enormous form standing above the imps, stretching up into the sulfurous smog until it could only be seen as a shadow against the ambient glow of this Hell’s atmosphere.

Everything had gone silent. The enormous shadowy figure had never made a sound as it had come into being, and the imps had ceased their squawking out of awe.

A shadow leaned down out of the smog, revealing a colossal draconic head beset upon a long thick snake-like neck. The head was itself beset by a crown of four curved horns. Six other nearly identical heads then leaned down around the first head, their only difference being having a single pointed horn instead of four.

The central head spoke, with a deep, but genial voice. “Therion, The Beast from the Pit, The Seven-Headed Dragon, the King of Demons, at your infernal service. I see you have already met my opposite.”

Ba’al-Beirut fell to his knee and genuflected. “Forgive me for my disbelief-”

“Up! Stand up! We don’t have time to be formal, we’ve got a Legion to organize! No time to waste! Go, rally as many as you can!”

As Ba’al-Beirut scampered off to obey his command, Therion leaned even further down to Roxy. “You think yourself so clever, driving a Demon to insanity to draw me into a far-flung realm and imprison me...”

“You’re the one calling me clever, here,” she responded. “I only wanted to see what would happen if you were summoned to where you were forbidden. I thought maybe the process would finally destroy you.”

“If only.”

Roxy sighed in commiseration. “If only indeed.” Roxy cracked her neck and fingers, her joints popping as loud as firecrackers. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”

Therion reared his six single-horned heads back up and inhaled deeply through all of them. At the very end of the inhale, his four-horned head quietly said “Let’s,” and then roared with all the Wrath and Pride he exemplified, the sound spreading out over this Hell for thousands of miles.

[deathinfeathers-a]

The ocean mist dampens the flimsy fabric of her sundress whenever the waves crash against the cliffside she has perched herself atop.

She seems unbothered by this.

The sun sits high in the sky, it's rays warm and soothing against her honey brown skin, comforting, In a way nothing else could compare to.

The toils and troubles of yesterday seem so far away out here.

She feels untouchable, imperceptible, and entirely at peace.

@infernal-dominion

[loftydreams101]

A Lake Cradled in the Mountains

Floating through a quiet space

Beyond the rumbling salvos

Perched high in the mountains

Far away and at ease

~

Forgotten skylines glow

And roar infernal,

The enclosing ring

Of grieving embers

~

Wailing up the steep walls

Of this parcel of Eden

Are the hollow hearts of mothers

Who roam from their beloveds

~

Nothing cries back down  

From this perch in the wild  

The horror rings through their bodies

As they claw the cliffsides

[perituus-blog]

for the entire party but @fiainfelin in particular 

It was never meant to go this way.

When the deal was made, it was never meant to go this way. When he had summoned it, this was never supposed to happen. When blood was drawn, a bond forged, he never could have foreseen this. This outcome out of all the many possibilities.

Yet, above all, he knew. Knew this would happen. Knew that the moment it was done, the deal would come to a close. With it, all that he was, all that he had ever been.

They had been tracking a horde, the beasts from years ago. Kyros had found them after searching for so long. After finding dead end after dead end, after nearly getting himself killed tens of times. After letting himself find a family, allowing himself to form bonds with them and becoming so close. All the jokes, all the memories, all the pain and anguish and all of the days and weeks lead to this. To these moments now, leading his friends to what he had been searching for. There is a part of him that feels strange to it, and a wonder fills his mind. When this is done, what next? When blade digs deep, when the Goliath falls, what then? Would they still have him, would they still care?

Deep in the mountains and valleys, through the trees, they are found. They are there, making camp and settling for the night. He wouldn’t give them time to start their meal before his rage is wrought. Leaping from the cliffside he had perched himself on, whistling before his descent to signal the party, dagger springs from his hand and lodges itself in the neck of one of the bandits. Those that had brought so much pain, faces familiar and foreign alike standing in the ranks of the Goliath. Their leader, with weapon in hand, leaving his tent the moment Kyros lands. The others swarm, the family he had brought himself into following his lead.

He does not busy himself with the actions of them, he does not look to them in these moments. It would draw his focus, and all was required to meet the Goliath. He towered over him, much like before, and he’s certain he could be lifted from the ground should he have the desire to do so. He had done it before, he wouldn’t be surprised by it now. With haste, he moves for the Goliath the moment his eyes lock onto him. A hand reaches and rips the dagger from the flesh it sunk into, unleashing it once more toward the Goliath. In a moment, the blade gleams in the light of the campfire and torches. It shines, before sinking into the dirt beside the foe before the rogue. He feels a surge beneath his skin, feels the heat of it as it snakes through his veins. It is liquid fire pushing through his person, it is raw power.

Kyros rushes the Goliath, shouting a name again and again as an additional dagger is wrapped in white knuckles. He leaps up, twisting around it as blade sinks into the shoulder of the Goliath before he reaches up and rips the human from him. It casts him aside, throwing him hard into the dirt before Kyros stands once more. Vision blurs for a moment, focusing just before the Goliath runs to him with war hammer in hand. It slams into him, he can feel the strain on his ribs, can feel them crack and splinter, but now was not the time to focus on that. All of it was needed for the Goliath.

“Gymir!” The boy shouts, skin alight with that green glow. Blade is held tightly in a fist, before he releases it once more. It is thrown, piercing the Goliath in the abdomen before he runs forward. The human darts behind him, hand grabbing for the blade as it is pulled with a nauseating squelch. He rises to the top of the Goliath, Gymir, using his momentum to force Gymir to the ground. When he falls, he falls with a heaviness that forces the ground to tremble. Blade still in hand, Kyros shoves it to the hilt within the chest of the Goliath before ripping through his torso. “That is for my mother, my father, for all of the lives you have taken! For making me what I am, for robbing me of everything!” Dagger is drawn from flesh, before being brought down again and again and again.

In his rage, he is blind. Mind swirls with hatred, forcing his body to act in place of himself. When it is done, palm presses over the forehead of the Goliath, now dead. A quick pulse of green spreads through him, spreading from farther from where it was prior. In that moment, Gymir’s form withers where it rests. It is decayed, as though it has been there for months. But when Kyros withdraws, when he sits back from the body, that glow remains on his skin.

Oh, how it burns. The rogue trembles, trying to still himself so he may inspect the green in his skin.

“No, no no. Not now, please. Please, I know what I promised. I know what I promised. Please!” He pleads in Infernal, though begging the deity would do nothing for him. The deal had come to an end, both sides upholding their bargain to the other. Power for a life, though many were given, it was his that was promised. His offered in blood, his that is sworn to them.

“Kyros?” The name is spoken, the Tabaxi coming to him with haste. She had finished her side of the battle, the party having ended the remainder of the bandits once Kyros had descended upon the Goliath. “Kyros, what have you tone?” Airri is not unfamiliar with the glow of it, many nights were spent with him while it took its toll. Many nights she stayed awake to speak with the deity, questions asked with few answered.

To him she rushes, and to her he holds. Body set alight as that sickly pigment begins to consume him. It is liquid fire, it is raw power, and it consumes him. Just as it said, as it swore, it consumes him. He pulls on her, trying to escape the grip of it, tears beginning to streak down his cheeks.

“Airri, Airri, I don’t want to go. Please, I don’t want to go...” Close to her person, he is close. There is an attempt to protect him from what ails him, from that creature she conversed with. To shield him from what comes, but there was nothing in her power to stop it. This was the inevitable, the period at the end of a phrase. This was his ending, the final chapter in a series of tales. This final moment, all of it boiled down to this. These pleas from one child to another, as though she had the ability to chase it all away. To keep him safe, to guard him with her life. For a moment, she wonders if it were possible to take it unto herself. Spare him, break the deal and to keep him where he was. Here, in his body and in his mind. Here, with the rest of the party. Here, with her.

The thoughts seem insane to her, they must be. This was a human she was holding, contemplating giving her life to so he may keep his. A human, a race despicable and disgusting. How could she?

“I have you, ton’t worry, I have you,” Airri brings the boy closer to her, trying to comfort him in all that was to come. A final time, to make up for all she had done before. For all the teasing and the fighting and the hatred she harbored for him. For all of it, every last second of rage and distaste for the youngling. All of it came to this moment, and there was a part of her that held grief before he was gone. “We tit it. I have you, ant we tit it. Everything is going to be okay.”

Words are spoken, but he does not hear. She withdraws, though still clutching his form, to see the glow fade from him. The shake of his voice, the trembling of his body, it all stopped. Breath in her chest, she waits for him to exhale. To look to her and smile that stupid grin, only to find herself staring into eyes blown wide.

[dangreth]

Blood Brothers (1/2)

A misunderstanding turns deadly.

Part 2

Argus was much more savage than the Illidari had anticipated. The Veiled Den was under constant threat of being besieged by the Legion, infernal constructs and fel stalkers throwing themselves into battle with wild abandon. The clash of glaive and flesh became the backdrop of the fight, each man and woman fighting to defend this point. A few soldiers from the Army of the Light would trickle from a nearby transporter, but ranks were already stretched so thin. The majority of the army was further ahead, leaving the Illidari to fend for themselves. Tensions between the two factions had grown since the Betrayer had rejected the naa’ru’s gift, but most tried to ignore the difference in opinion for the sake of the battle ahead. The Army condemned the Betrayer's action, having killed their driving force against the Legion. The Illidari condemned the naa’ru for trying to force their leader into a position he never wanted, leaving the two parties at an odds.

Vyndoriell, Ana, Karthuro and Dangreth were nearby, each one cutting through the Legion's ranks. They had been at this for some time, but there has been no signs of stopping anytime soon. Each demon hunter looked to be at their limit, but none of them retreated. Not until they felt it was necessary. “Karthuro! Scout ahead, but don't overextended yourself, understood? We need to know what we're dealing with.” Vyndoriell waved the sin'dorei off, Karthuro hopping further through enemy lines. Dangreth hissed under his breath, a bit upset he couldn't keep track of Karthuro’s kills from here on out. They were neck and neck with one another, motivation for Dangreth to do more. Meanwhile, Ana bounded through a pile of imps, splattering their blood and bones across the rocky walls. “Dango! Can you jump up the cliffs? We can't see from down here!” Dangreth glanced to Vyndoriell for confirmation, and the sin'dorei nodded once. “Keep the speechstone on. Don't go too far ahead, got it?” Dangreth rolled the flames in his eye sockets around sarcastically behind his visor, but complied. Being separated would be dangerous, especially here.

Karthuro bounded through a sea of green, glaives slicing through demon flesh as he pressed forward. All the training he endured would finally be put to the test, and a part of him was quite excited. They all laughed at him all those months ago when he overdid it, the demonic flesh he consumed too much for him. But their laughter would be moot as he would stand above the rest, the best of the best. The demon hunter let out a roar, bringing his glaive down into the skull of an eredar to hear the crunch of bone and steel. Music to Karthuro’s ears, and he brought his other glaive into the belly of a mo’arg, the demon sending blood across the field. The smell was disgusting, yet intoxicating, and Karthuro reached down to take a bite out of the demon to recover his strength. But the small respite proved to be a mistake on his part, a fel hunter bounding to his location to snap at his legs. The hunter’s master was nearby, and he was not alone. Hordes of eredar and fel hunters began to advance onto Karthuro, and he was without reinforcements. The demon he had consumed sent him into a blood lust, however, and he only had one option. In a last ditch effort, Karthuro bounded onto all fours, and let out a howl, allowing the fel to consume him. Shadows engulfed the demon hunter, and within a moment, he emerged nearly identical to the fel hunter after him, save for the flash of messy red hair. Claws and teeth ripped into the demon, consuming what he could before he ran at the others, ready for seconds.

Dangreth flew up the cliff side, trying to get a better look of his surroundings. The air on Argus was ripe with magic, allowing him to see much better than he would back on Azeroth. The blood drained from his face, however, as hordes of demons continued to pour from portals nearby. Glaives were quickly drawn, the smell of blood enticing him to meet those demons halfway. Fel guards were sliced in two, Dangreth soon forgetting about the other Illidari he had been fighting with. Jealousy soon filled his soul, angry that Karth was sent ahead instead of him. What was so special about the Hairball? Dangreth thought he was better, the kaldorei spitting on corpses as he ran through countless Legion soldiers. A part of him wanted to run even further ahead, keeping count of each demon he slew, but the rational part of his mind kept him grounded. Being lost in his thoughts left him open for attack, however, and a fel fireball came crashing at his feet, startling him. Dangreth soon found himself surrounded by fel guards and hounds alike, the overwhelming need for bloodshed apparent. To hell with careful. Harnessing the demon within, Dangreth reached for power he rarely used, body twisting and morphing into something grotesquely beautiful. The shadows engulfing him soon dissipated, leaving the half incubus demon hunter in full view of the Legion. Tail snapped with a whip-like crack, the demon hunter speeding into demons with reckless abandon. Claws severed bodies in half, some of them trying to retreat from his advances. Dangreth's voice came in low and guttural demonic, taunting and laughing as they made their way back through Legion portals. Only one demon remained now, a rather large fel hunter chewing at an eredar’s severed arm.

Karthuro looked up from his snack, gaze struggling to focus on the sayaad before him. The incubus beat his wings once. Twice. A signal to retreat. A growl formed in Karthuro’s throat, defiantly ignoring the sayaad’s warning. Hissing loudly, the demon kicked up dry dirt with his hooves, claws beginning to elongate to rip out Karthuro’s throat. Karthuro would have to finish the arm later. Letting out a howl, Karthuro charged at the incubus, and the demon did the same, both clashing at the middle. Hooves kicked at the demon hunter, Karthuro letting out a grunt as he slammed the full force of his weight into the incubus. The two toppled over, each struggling to remain on top to cleave each other in twain. Another hiss bubbled its way out of the incubus's throat, demonic taunting at Karthuro’s fel hunter form. “AN EXCELLENT PET FOR YOUR DEMON MASTERS! DO YOU PLAY FETCH TOO?” Karthuro snarled, jaws unhinging to sink teeth into the sayaad's abdomen angrily. Suddenly, Karthuro smelled something familiar, and strikingly sweet. Cigarettes. Sayaad blood. Oh no.

Karthuro had just ripped a chunk of flesh from Dangreth's side.

A bloodcurdling screech ripped through the air, Dangreth twisting against the ground as pain seared through every fiber of his being. Karthuro tried to let go, but his jaw remained locked in place. It didn't stop the kaldorei from slicing his claws into Karthuro’s back in retaliation, nails embedding themselves deep into muscle and bone. The action caused the metamorphosed Karthuro to let out a pained howl, Dangreth pulling the sin’dorei off of him to pick him up, and throw him into a nearby rock.

“Dango? Karth?” Ana and Vyndoriell remained in the valley below, but the screams from above made them flinch. “Karthuro! Dangreth! Where the hell are you two?” Vyndoriell shouted into the speechstone, but neither men responded. “Vynny! We know those noises! Karth and Dango are hurt!” Ana began to bound up the cliffside in the direction of the noise, Vyndoriell having no choice but to go after her.

Karthuro struggled to speak, trying to get Dangreth to see it was him, and not another of the Legion’s hounds. His voice came out in growls and warbled speech, however, unable to voice for him to stop. Both men were bleeding out, Dangreth struggling to remain upright on his hooves. Anger surged through the kaldorei’s very being, wanting nothing more than to snap the neck of this miserable creature. His vision quickly blurred, dark green blood trickling onto the ground below. Dangreth began to stumble towards Karthuro, ready to end him, but a familiar red aura flashed across his messy vision, now understanding who it was. “Kar...thu...ro…” he hissed between panted breaths before collapsing nearby, having lost too much blood. Both men had expended what power they could harness, and soon reverted back into their elven selves. Karthuro let out a pained groan, deep claw marks destroying the majority of his back. Dangreth curled in on himself, trying to lessen the amount of blood he was losing.

“Vynny! I found them--AAAAAAAAH!” Ana let out a horrified scream, not knowing who she had to rush to. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she buried her head in her hands, unable to look at the bloodshed between the two. “Th-they're dying! W-we have to save them.” Vyndoriell soon followed, letting out an angry groan as he pointed towards Karthuro. “They’re unconscious, not dead. Grab Karthuro and move to the Den. NOW.” Doing as she was told, Ana grasped Karthuro as gingerly as she could, and rushed back to the Den in tears. Vyndoriell was less ginger, flinging Dangreth’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him away, all while cursing night elves and their height. “I'll be having a word with both of you when you aren't dying on me..” he mumbled quietly.

[alteraeon]

Last month we celebrated Alter Aeon's 24th anniversary! It is our sincere hope that everyone who was able to participate in the anniversary event had a good time. Our next worldwide event will be in March. In January we saw the following additions to the code: - a level 26 druid skill 'wickercraft', so you can finally do something with those bundles of sticks you keep gathering - a level 38 druid skill 'wicker effigy', for a bit of voodoo flavor - a level 38 warrior skill 'indomitable will', which allows warriors to break free from immobilizing effects such as entangling roots and prison spells - the reorganizing of warrior weapon improvement skills, which places 'hone weapon' at level 16 - a level 38 necromancer spell 'coffin', for weaponizing prison spells - a level 38 necromancer skill 'infernal visage' that turns you into a romping, stomping demon creature * and * - additional options to 'consult demon' to help find objects for jobs or change alignment You can now specify a direction when scanning. Carried containers can now be emptied into other carried containers, or onto tables. A 'rune' command was added for looking up runewords, and the 'preservation' spell now works on harvested bones and skins. Upcoming February additions to the code will include: - the option to split spellcomps, herbs, and most other splittable items into specific amounts - small tweaks to metallurgy for more variety in jewelry stats - changes to the 'soulsteal' spell to make it easier to use and more fair in groups - additional level 38 abilities, probably for the mage class next And much, much more! In the building department, we had two new areas released last month: - Cliffside Island, a level 43 group 4 zone for Gianasi - Ishi Province, a level 41 zone for Suboria Our building teams are working toward a number of new areas for all different level ranges. For more information, please see our Youtube presentation at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=109C1D1O5CI We're also making a renewed effort at keeping the Alter Aeon wiki relevant. You can visit the wiki at http://bit.ly/2S2fQcn