#it is. inhumane to keep a creature in solitude for such a long time

[varjopeura]

.

[jazztag]

A Cure for Solitude X

M walks through the city armed with a ridiculously small gun. He heads west, peeking at every corner or so before crossing each street. His hands tremble at the grip of his firearm. He carries a small bag under his shoulder, and this time he is wearing his old but clean white lab coat under his usual long winter coat. Someone has to maintain order around here. He gets through the first wall. It’s an actual bridge, planned as a trap for inhuman creatures, and has a pair of ropes, one above the other, apart by two meters. He puts his gun inside his inner pocket. He crosses by gripping at the top one and standing on the one bottom. It’s just five meters, but leaving him with both arms aching. He keeps walking towards the Center Point.

Suddenly there’s a scream, and he turns right at the exact moment one small creature starts running towards him. Not very much scared, he grabs his gun and points at the zombie before shooting. The weapon, though, has no ammo. 'Well, fuck me,' he groans while starting to search inside his other multiple pockets for bullets. There’s a shot, though, but it isn’t M who fires.

The Medic gets surprised when the zombie drops, only ten meters before reaching him. Nonetheless, his first instinct is running towards the creature, mumbling 'no, no, no' to himself. He lets himself drop to his knees, right by the creature. It is (or was) a middle-aged woman. Her head has been blown up, and all her brain matter has been scattered across the concrete. M checks for signs of movement in her ocular muscles, one of the last muscles to dysfunction after brain injury. No luck. She’s unresponsive. 'Fuck,' he says. He then repeats himself aloud, 'FUCK!'

There’s a second figure who emerges from one of the desolated shops. It is a woman too, holding a huge rifle. She looks always so smug, walking towards M while lowering the weapon but smiling confidently, nonetheless. 'You idiot,' yells M without looking at her, dropping his own gun to the floor and starting to check inside each of his pockets for something in a hurry. The woman (the human one) stops by his side, observing his movements. M takes out a weird device and hovers it above the 'dead creature.' It doesn’t beep, though. 'You’re welcome, again,' mumbles the armed woman. 'You know, for someone with such a small gun, you’re weirdly still alive.'

'I’m better in hand-to-hand combat,' comments the Tall Man. He lets out a sigh and retrieves the device again into one of his pockets. The woman, in military robes and wearing high leather boots, gives him an accusatory look. She then relaxes a bit and puts her camouflage cap on. She has her hair in a low ponytail. 'Not one of yours, huh?' she asks. 'Luckily not,' mutters M without even looking at her. He lets out another dramatic sigh and looks at her with apprehension. 'Don’t you know you can shoot at her kneecaps instead of damaging the head?'

She shrugs and observes him standing tall in front of her. M takes out his weapon again. 'She’s dead. She was dead; now she is dead-er.'

'It is still alive in there. You just made it hell, Army.'

'What are you even saying? Hey. Hey!' M starts walking past her, leaving her behind. 'Don’t call me that. Some of us still use normal names.'

M doesn’t even look back. She follows him one step closer, still on the lookout for more creatures. 'Amy, yeah. Whatever'

“It’s Amy, yes” she steps by his side. “I get it. You know, the hate towards the Army and all your... vibe.”

“Vibe, huh? You get my vibe?” Amy groans.

“Some of us still try to survive and adapt. We still try to fight, live a normal life. Huh, 'Medic'.” She gets his weapon down again. “What’s your actual name, huh?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” replies dryly M.

They walk closely to each other. “Again for supplies?” changes the topic, her.

“Yeah. I need more canned goods. It’s been a while since I left.”

Arriving at the second and last bridge, M can see the number of vehicles and people congregating on the other side. There’s a bunch of soldiers on the perimeter, and M shows them a badge before trespassing the frontier. Amy does not, dressed as one of them and seemingly in charge.

“Well, how are things out there?” asks him, the woman, following the man around the crowd, trying to keep up.

“Rough,” simply says M, not really wanting to engage in conversation. He decides to head to a big tent, where people are waiting in line to get some boxes, distributed by soldiers.

“Still searching for a vaccine, huh?” insists the woman. M looks at her, annoyed.

“What kind of vaccine are we talking about?”

“The one where we cure the infected?” M finally gets his turn on the line and grabs the cardboard box he is given with a word. Starts heading back towards the exit, Amy still following close behind.

M feels the questioning looks the woman is throwing at him and finally stops.

“I guess someone has to tell you, but,” and tries, and I say, tries really hard, to find such words, “your dad won’t stop rotting because of a vaccine. You should stop paying for him to be contained.”

The woman blinks twice. Then, furiously, points a finger at M. She whispers to him, very seriously: “I am keeping my side of the deal. You have no idea what they would say if they knew you are outside of bounds and still messing around in a lab.”

M doesn’t look very impressed. “I’m not searching for a vaccine. Just a way to exterminate them forever.”

The woman gets very still and silent. Her gaze turns into one of sadness. “What happened to you?” she sighs. “You used to have faith in it.”

M shrugs. “I could say the same thing about you. A soldier should only obey and execute orders. There’s no point in believing everything will go back to normal anymore.”

M turns to leave, but the Woman holds him by the arm, one last time. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.”

The Man doesn’t look at her when speaking up, not agreeing nor disagreeing: “I’ll keep searching for a vaccine. Won’t be the one you are expecting, though.”

“Humanity’s doomed.”

Taglist: @whump-blog @cupcakes-and-pain (comment to get added/removed from the list!)

[lightkrets312]

directed at Ry AND Red- 👁️⚠️💙🧁🧠☕❗🔅🐺🚷

I brought this upon myself.

welp, you're getting this one OC at a time-

Edit: I answered the WRONG QUESTION TWICE ☠️

Ry

⚠️ If this oc came with a warning sign, what would it be?

👁️ How do other people perceive this oc? How close do their first assumptions come to the truth? A very tired (and possibly lazy) person who doesn't give half a shit. Only one of these things is true.

👁️‍🗨️ Eye contact: good or bad for the OC? They hate it, but they'll do it. Not stellar.

💙 Describe their bedroom! Is it personalized, unchanged? Messy, neat? It's a very personalized depression nest, if one can call such a thing personalized. (This is, of course, assuming it's a Ry with a place to live...)

🧁 When is their birthday? How do they celebrate it, if at all? They don't celebrate, but it's... (*looks up when I made them*) September 19th. If they do celebrate, they take charge of the planning and do it all themself, but the last time they did something intensive, they were like... 12. Every year after it's chill, if anything.

🧠 What is their stress response: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn? Freeze as a first response. Fight as a second.

☕️ What is their preferred beverage(s)? Monster nitro.

❗️ What are the highest priorities to this oc (at a point in their life of your choosing)? Keeping Red in check and maintaining what shreds of a normal life they can keep... for however long they can. These are not compatible goals. They need a break and aren't allowed to take one :(

🔆 How does this oc deal with physical pain? Ry deals with physical pain? (On a serious note, typically they don't stay conscious for that. If they're a civilian, badly; if they're a fighter of any kind, better.)

🐺 How does this oc deal with solitude? How does this self-isolating, socially awkward, estranged, mentally ill person deal with solitude? ("Pretty well", if they don't think about the horrors. So kinda shit.)

🚷 Tell one difference between yourself and this oc! At least half of them are dead, most of them are possessed if they're not the possessor, and all of them are stuck in a job that doesn't help them.

=============================

Red

⚠️ If this oc came with a warning sign, what would it be?

👁️ How do other people perceive this oc? How close do their first assumptions come to the truth? Most of the time, as a very VIOLENT sort of creature, and an asshole. This is the surface level truth. Deep down, they're first and foremost a child. A very violent jackass of a child, but still a child.

👁️‍🗨️ Eye contact: good or bad for the OC? Oh they love eye contact- they have so many eyes to see you with! (they make too much of it, if anything.)

💙 Describe their bedroom! Is it personalized, unchanged? Messy, neat? If they have a room, they call it "organized chaos". It's just a mess that they know how to navigate, and they don't see a point in cleaning.

🧁 When is their birthday? How do they celebrate it, if at all? Technically it's November 2nd. They don't actually have one most of the time*.

(*unless they're a human variant that's not a twin.)

🧠 What is their stress response: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn? They ARE the fight response :)

☕️ What is their preferred beverage(s)? They don't drink! Ry does that. But they think alcohol is very funny for the effects on the human body, and they agree with Ry on "sweet" being fuckin TASTY.

❗️ What are the highest priorities to this oc (at a point in their life of your choosing)? Protect Ry and make chaos. In neither order.

🔆 How does this oc deal with physical pain? What pain? They just turn off the nervous system.

🐺 How does this oc deal with solitude? HATE it. Hate hate HATE it, they are a despicably outdoor creature and need enrichment NOW. Ry, punch out right now, they need to blow something up. Ry please. Ry-

🚷 Tell one difference between yourself and this oc! Most of the time, they're inhuman, if they ever were in the first place. They also typically don't care about property damage, ever. As for the one outlier, they have actual consistent pressure to get better and can't squirm out of the responsibility.

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from @holacherrycola90. Finally! Here’s my Prince Nuada Imagine! Enjoy! ♥

Words: 2346 Warnings: angst, mentions of blood and corpses

He had come out of nowhere, seemingly. No, this wasn’t right. He had come bursting through the window. Burglary and assaults were common this way in your humble town, not however, when you were based on the sixteenth floor. There was blood, screams, debris and repulsion; a convulsion of pain, horror and violence, all senses mixing to a dizzying thick blanket that threatened to steal away your consciousness.

They were all dead. He had killed them. Nausea clawed at your guts and throat when you realised the gravity of what it was like to have witnessed murder, to have witnessed someone die right in front of your eyes.

The blood you were covered in was not yours. It was theirs. And he was still here, treading over the mangled corpses like he would overcome a rocky path.

He had white hair, so white it almost blinded you, his skin as pale as the moonlight. And his eyes… his eyes were red… orange… of a colour defying the beauty of a sunset. He was alien. Never before had you seen something so beautiful and horrifying at the very same time.

He could not possibly have spared you on purpose. You had been buried under two dead bodies during his killing spree, unable to and too terrified to sit up and flee. Now, you cowered there, on the ground in midst a pool of blood, wishing you had called in sick and stayed home. Was this the end? Would you be murdered by a man seemingly not of this world? You were by no means superstitious but you had long accepted that humans could not be the only intelligent species in this universe. If only the proof of this mindset of yours had come peacefully instead of violently.

His clothes were strange too, you realised when you dared another timid glare. Scars and fine lines defined his sharp face. He was wearing battle armour. Battle armour from another world, so it appeared.

“It is not here?”

His accent was otherworldly. Like he spoke a strange language long forgotten by mankind. You could not see the creature he was speaking to until it stepped into the light—an already broken light bulb already emitting sparks; a death trap for the puddle right underneath its weak beam.

Holding back a scream when you took in the creature’s appearance, you resisted, with all your willpower, to flinch back, yet you could not stop the subtle movement of your right hand subconsciously grabbing the shoulder of a dead body next to you.

You held your breath when the strange warrior spun around with a start, facing your trembling form on the ground and pointing his large spear directly at your panic-stricken face.

“Where is it?” It was a question. Directed at you. Your heart skipped a beat. “The crown piece of Bethmora. It was here.”

Any moment now he would dash forward and pierce your throat with the pointy tip of the spear—you would join the corpses surrounding you, bleeding to death and choking on your own blood within a matter of seconds. Your lower lip was shaking when you opened your mouth.

The crown piece. It had been taken away for an auction only yesterday morning. Your supervisor had approved of it after your examination. It was of unspeakable value, made of pure gold with an ancient crafting technique. It would sell for millions.

“It’s not here,” you whispered, unable to raise your voice out of fear of imminent death. “Not anymore. It was taken yesterday.” The warrior snarled. You forced your eyes shut. Darkness was more welcome than your murderer glaring at you through cold, blood-orange eyes as he killed you. But the fateful blow never came.

He was staring at you when you risked another peek up at him, your body still shaking like dry autumn leaves in the wind.

“Where is it?”

Swallowing thickly, you stuttered the name of the location, unable to form another functioning sentence. Not until he stepped closer.

“Don’t kill me… please…”

He crouched down and tilted his head. What was it that stopped him from chopping your head off like he had with all the other meagre and now massacred humans around you? Was it your trembling lips? Would they be soft if he ran his thumb over them? Would he feel the salty tears on his finger and smear them all over your mouth as he did?

You radiated innocence like a blooming flower. “Mr Wink,” he started, never taking his blood-orange gaze off of you as his smooth voice echoed over the murder scene. “Locate the crown piece.” The creature nodded—out of obedience, companionship or respect, you could not tell—and disappeared in the shadows. You did not dare let out a relieved breath though.

“I am Prince Nuada Silverlance.” He introduced himself then. “I am here to claim what is rightfully mine and I will not rest until it is in my possession.”

You dreaded asking what it was he was looking for. Treasure? Heirs? Political power?

“The annihilation of the human race.” He said, without so much as blinking. Your blood ran cold. So he would kill you. “The crown pieces, once re-matched, will allow me to awaken the Golden Army… and destroy human kind once and for all.”

“W-What… what are you?”

“I am an Elf.”

Your lips parted. Elves had looked so different in your fairy tales and stories from when you were a child. Cheerful and happy, not malicious and cruel.

“B-but why?” You regretted the words as soon as they escaped your lips. Nuada narrowed his eerie eyes at you.

“Why? My race was slaughtered by your people. We have been in hiding ever since, like pets in a cage. Your kind deserves death.” Your eyes widened, your mind unwilling to process his words.

“So you will kill me now?” You chirped. Nuada had noticed your tears before you had. They were streaming down your cheeks in a seemingly endless waterfall, worsening your sight. Yet, his response surprised you.

“No. I will not kill you.”

-

Nuada spent two weeks in hiding. The humans had learned about the incident and the murders, of course, and the police had been searching for the culprit ever since. You had read it in a newspaper a businessman must have abandoned at the station.

You were still alive, living, breathing. The question had been burning on your tongue ever since. Why? Why hadn’t he killed you? And most importantly… why had he kept you with him?

You were still afraid of him, of course—if only a little bit. Just enough to avoid asking him why he had not ended your life. He knew you had been awake the night he had taken you, on the edge of consciousness for your mind had soon shut down to not become a victim of madness. When he had told you—vowed—to keep you safe from his conquering.

You remembered it so well you could still feel his cool fingertips lingering on your cheeks and even your lips. He had watched you sleep for most of the cold night, wondering intently why he had kept you alive. Was it so he would have a reminder of what he would have accomplished soon, if he kept the last remaining human to himself? Was it so, if he so desired, he could mix his race with yours to humiliate humanity even further or was it to keep a trophy, a pet?

Blinking, you rose from the makeshift bed. It was no less than a collection of old pillows and a blanket on a handful of cardboard. There was no luxury underground. The place Nuada had chosen for his preparations was ghastly, yet it was perfect for his dark schemes.

He was training, practicing. His spear, so you learned, could shrink to an arm-sized knife if he wanted to. Gracefully, he whirled around half on the ground, half in the air, fighting invisible enemies. His bare body—pale und inhuman like his face—was covered in battle scars. There was a part of you that longed to trace every single one of them with your fingertips.

Prince Nuada was beauty. Not in the conventional meaning of the word and not in the way magazines would rave about make-up and models. Nuada was beautiful in his very own way. He was… fascinating. It scared you how much he enchanted you despite his racist nature, his wish to kill your kind because of humanity’s own cruelty towards his people. No one was just the victim here.

“It is almost time.” He said without turning around to face you. The sound of metal scratching echoed through the dark and moist underground station as he shrunk his spear back to a handy knife. Time for what? You thought. The ultimate destruction of this planet?

“Did you sleep well?”

“Uh… yes. It was a little cold.” You replied timidly.

“I can ask Mr Wink to obtain another blanket for you.” Finally, he spun around, his warm eyes boring into yours. “But it will not be much longer now. I am taking you to my home where you will be safe from the Golden Army.”

“W-where… where is your home?”

“Somewhere underneath New York City, approximately six miles underground.” Six miles. No wonder he found comfort and peace in being down here. But the thought of spending even more time in the dark, away from light and the outside world made you both anxious and nauseous.

“No… Nuada, I can’t… you can’t expect me to live under the Earth. Let me return to—“

“No. As soon as I give the order, the Army will slaughter mankind like my father should have ordered them to a long time ago. They will make no exceptions and spare you like I did.”

“What if I don’t want them to spare me? What if I don’t want to live like this?”

“I vowed to keep you safe, is that not enough?” He spat, sheathing his knife away.

“But why? Why did you do this? You keep me here, away from my life, claiming you are protecting me. Nuada… I am grateful you spared me… but you can’t keep me locked up in here with you forever.”

“Not forever,” he retorted quickly. “Once the last crown piece is mine, I will rise in this place as its new king. You will be by my side, safe.”

“You mean after you’ve extinguished my race?” You chirped. No, no tears.  You had been crying so often lately. And you were worried Nuada would grow tired of your tears. “What is my life worth if I spend it in solitude?”

“You will not be alone. I will care for you.”

“Nuada. Don’t. I beg you.”

He snorted. “The humans must pay for what they did to us.”

“I am human too!”

“You are an innocent.”

“So are billions of others! Billions! Mothers and fathers and children and elders who don’t even know your race exists and who didn’t make the decision to harm you in any way!” You shrieked, blinking frantically to scare away the tears.

“You are testing my patience. There is always a price to pay. That is the burden of ruling.”

“I don’t think that’s how kings should act.”

“Silence now!”

“You don’t get to silence me! What is the point of all of this, Nuada? My begging tires you it seems but what would you do if an elf threatened to wipe out your entire race? Life as you know it? Friends and family?!”

“It is no less than what my people had to endure, (Y/N).” You shivered when he spoke your name. It was always special for he did not do it often. And he was calm—eerily calm. After you had lashed out at him like this, you should have worried for your life. Strangely though… you didn’t. Not even when he backed you against a destroyed pillar, his face only inches from yours—close enough to study every single unique line on his white face.

“I should abandon you,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “What is it about you? You are only human.” If the situation hadn’t been so tense, you would have joked with him—flirted with him even, for you had definitely heard better compliments. In a twisted way, you were flattered by the way he treated you, wanting to keep you from any harm as if you were a princess of a faraway realm. But you were not. You were you, a young woman building a career in archaeology and antique trade.

“You are so fragile,” he continued hoarsely. “I cannot let them harm you.”

“Why? Nuada, why?” Your voice was but a mere whisper. You could feel his hot and moist breath on your lips. But you already knew the answer. He had feelings for you, had been growing them since he had laid his eyes on you in between puddles of blood and dead bodies, terrified and alone. Like a white flower they were blooming in his heart, mocking his motives and what he had in store for humanity.

A barely audible gasp escaped you when his cold lips brushed against yours lightly, like the gentle touch of a butterfly’s wings. Perhaps you had become his conscious all those days back upon your first encounter. Perhaps you had become his very own way of living with the horrible deed he was about to do. However, there was also a glimmer of hope. There was a reason your heart had pounded like a steam hammer upon his tender touch on your cheek; a reason for why his proximity did not repulse but excite you.

Before you could stop yourself, you brought your palms to his bare chest, feeling his hard muscles and those unique scars against your skin, allowing him, no, inviting him to kiss you properly. There was still hope he would spare humanity, you were sure of it—for you.

-

A/N: Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from " Gurahl" & "Kitsune" & "Mokole" in "Chapter Two: The Changing Breeds" from the World of Darkness "Changing Breeds" book (20th Anniversary edition)

In the earliest of days, there was nothing — only the potential for everything that would ever come to be.

As rumors do, the tales grew ever darker with the retelling.

There is a drawback to having will this strong, however.

Regardless of the season, enough of the required plants or herbs may be found, even if they are buried under deep snow or growing in the most unlikely of places.

These dreams and visions act as both a summons and a directional guide.

You cannot protect anything when all you do is destroy.

Sanctimonious creatures who do not deserve our support.

You know much, but you value secrets for the sake of secrets.

They do everything with such immense gravitas. In anyone else it would be tiresome, but they have such wonderful secrets.

If we had stood together, we might have saved the others. But they divided us, and we each stood alone.

I’m glad that I was wrong.

I command you to keep your duty first in your heart, and to listen for my teachings

I forbid you to exterminate the humans.

I forbid you to make war on your brothers and sisters

I forbid you to break your word.

I forbid you to commit suicide for reasons of honor.

I free you to do anything else necessary to achieve our goals.

The world is in a terrible state

But what am I to do?

Only by purging those who refused to abide by the holy Laws, could the right path be regained once more.

Most are raised by extended family members, due to the loss of one or both parents at birth.

Evil itself can be a powerful weapon against evil

This solitude, along with the fact that they are sometimes looked down on by the rest of their kind, often leads the sorcerers toward cynicism and inhumanity.

There is no success without risk and no victory without the possibility of defeat.

They are not ravening beasts

In general, they like to keep in shape and pride themselves on being good-looking.

The illusion is perfectly detailed with color, light, and motion.

The actual divination is performed by reading entrails, interpreting the smoke of a burnt offering, casting bones, or in some other way using the resulting body as an oracular tool.

She can’t precisely duplicate the appearance of another, however, or perfectly replicate complex patterns or garments (such as military uniforms).

The rite does not have to be repeated if attendees arrive late; any latecomers remain bound by the rules as long as they remain among the gathering.

They think nobody knows that they kill some leaders to promote their favorites.

We will not be so easily swayed.

You do what must be done, and bear your burden with grace.

They think they’re so clever, working behind the scenes and playing at being heroes with the others.

When the time comes, they’ll fall like the others.

You’re single-minded and incredibly powerful, but you also have your negative aspects.

We should do something about that.

Maybe they would help me.

Before Man walked, Things roamed the Earth.

This time and place and all that exists here is but a flicker in the bonfire of what has come before.

Countless creatures lived, evolved — and eventually died. All with no more fanfare or legacy than humanity will leave behind when it is gone.

Man is not the first. He is not the only. He is not even the best.

Time passes, and in time this cacophony of human “civilization” will exist no more.

There will be no record left behind of this self-important sour note in the symphony of time.

But nothing lasts forever, and with the changing of ages, even the greatest empires can crumble.

Bits of the asteroid and the impact crater ricocheted out into space, and were pulled back to earth in a rain of molten burning stone that baked the land and started wildfires across the globe.

The sky filled with toxic fumes.

Acid rain fell around the world.

Wherever intelligent living things gather, communities emerge.

Between the reddening of the eastern sky and noon, sunlight strikes at the heavens.

At high noon, the sun reigns supreme over the Earth, seeing all.

As the sun sets, the wise ward against evil hidden in the growing darkness.

When the sun is obscured, unseen forces scheme against those who live in the light.

When creatures of the sun are born at night, strange and contradictory events occur.

In moments of astronomical wonder, fantastic events can occur.

This respect is not without a cost, however.

This form is indistinguishable from an ordinary human.

The foe is transformed into a lower form of life.

Some of you talk of forgiveness, of sorrow. I remember you showing neither when you slaughtered my people.

I care that they realise that we are not their greatest enemies.

We remember what happened. The others do not.

For now, I will remain quiet.

But remember this; you will aid us now, or the world will know of your treachery.

They did what we needed of them once. They will do it again.

If you talk, we will listen, but do not expect much in return.

[delimeful]

(dont) take this the wrong way (1)

Day 11: Underwater

warnings: blood, injury, capture, mentions of being eaten, miscommunication, mild mind altering, language barriers and paranoia make everything difficult

-

Roman swam in lazy circles around his reef, enjoying the feeling of sunlight on his skin. 

Today was a beautiful day, and he couldn’t help but relish in it after the storm that had been raging overhead last night. His territory was fairly small compared to some shark mers, but even it had taken some damage, and so he was taking the opportunity the sunlight granted him to check over the reef. It wouldn’t do to have a home that was anything less than perfect. 

After checking over a majority of the area, though, it seemed that the damage was mostly superficial. Surface-level scratches on coral that would heal over naturally with time. He sighed in relief, spiraling up towards the surface. He could just make sure no human debris was floating around, and then he’d finally be able to sunbathe on his favorite rock.

When he reached the surface, however, he immediately caught the scent of blood. He frowned, twisting around to find the source, and saw a glint of metal in rocks by the nearby cliff.

He swam closer, head poking out of the water, and then inhaled sharply at the sight of a small, metal net caught between two rocks. It wasn’t the net itself that was shocking, since human debris washed up all the time, but rather the small figure tangled within it. A tiny mer! 

A little larger than a human but still small enough that he could pick them up with one hand, the mer had a long, deep purple tail with frills and fins that flowed gracefully in the water. It was so rare to see them in these waters! Roman drifted closer, entranced by the sight, and then blinked in surprise as the mer’s head jerked up, eyes wide and terrified at the sight of him. 

He thrashed in the net’s grip, and the scent of blood grew stronger, making Roman a little lightheaded. “Easy, easy.” He said, and reached out to start pulling the net from where it had been caught in the rock’s crevices. The mer pressed back, a desperate keening coming from his throat, and Roman’s heart broke a little. He gathered the net in his hands, bringing it up close to his face so he could see the tiny form more clearly. 

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you!” Roman reassured him earnestly. 

The tiny mer shook, eyes shut tightly as though bracing to be bit. Roman sighed, the current of warm water only making the mer shake harder, and attempted to pry some of the net away from the tiny form. The wires were astonishingly thin, and his claws slipped and nicked the poor thing’s arm, making him yelp and twist. “Oh no! I’m sorry!” 

Roman felt guilt settle into his stomach, wondering how in the world he was going to free the little guy. He couldn’t get free on his own, and Roman’s hands were much too big… 

Roman brightened, struck with an idea. He curled his hand around the tiny mer reassuringly, cupping him to his chest and beginning to swim. “Don’t you worry, I’m going to get that net off of you!” 

-

Luckily, Patton was haunting his usual waters when Roman arrived, the half-seal mer enjoying the weather as much as Roman. He lit up at the shark mer’s approach, tackling him in a hug. “Roman! What are you doing here? Normally I’m the one visiting you!” 

Roman returned the hug one-armed, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you, Patton dear, but I need a favor.” He opened his hand, showing Patton the small entangled mer, who pressed himself into Roman’s palm as though trying to hide away from sight again. It was incredibly endearing, and Roman crooned lightly.

Patton gasped, hands fluttering as though he wanted to scoop the creature right up. “Oh my goodness, is that a tiny mer?” 

Roman nodded, curling his fingers up protectively. “I found the little guy in my territory, all tangled up like this. I tried to get the net off, but… I’m too big. I don’t dare to try using my teeth.” 

Still peering at the tiny figure, Patton hummed. “Did you want me to try? I’m not that much smaller than you, Ro.”    

“Well… Actually…” Roman grinned sheepishly, not noticing the way the tiny mer paled at the sight of his teeth. Patton looked up at him, and knew instantly what he wanted. 

“Roman! You know I don’t like doing that…” He pouted, crossing his arms. Roman quailed under his disappointed stare, but a glance down at the little mermaid made him straighten up again. 

“Please, Pat. You know I’d never judge you for it, and I swear I’ll put it right back once I get this one freed!” He pleaded, holding the mer up for emphasis, and because he knew Patton was weak to cute things. 

Patton sighed, but nodded. “Okay… but you have to remember everything I tell you, and be careful! They’re so delicate, I feel bad every time...”  

Roman agreed vigorously, making sure to listen intently as Patton lead them to the shoreline. 

-

Logan was walking the beach, gaze locked on the stars above when he heard it. 

He’d come out here to get away from the city’s air pollution and see the stars as clearly as he used to back home, so he was understandably surprised to hear the singing. A soft melody, like the kind a parent would use to lull their child to sleep, and undeniably pleasant. Logan turned his head to look for the source, not remembering anyone else on the beach, and saw a silhouetted figure in the water. 

He hesitated. It was a mildly cool night, and not many people were around, let alone swimming in such conditions, so he was undeniably curious as to what the stranger was doing. It would be rude to impose on them after he himself had come out here for solitude, but… 

 As though sensing his thoughts, the figure waved, beckoning him. He spared a moment to check that there wasn’t anyone else on the beach they could be gesturing to, and then stepped into the cool waves, unwilling to keep his curiosity unfulfilled or this melodical stranger waiting any longer.

If his thoughts hadn’t been so clouded, maybe he would have noticed the irrational manner in which he walked into the water fully clothed, or the fact that he couldn’t make out any of the words in the song, or the way the figure in the water seemed to be at a much farther distance than he’d thought. The melody was at the forefront of his mind, though, and so he didn’t realize that something was wrong until he was treading water and watching as the figure approached, revealing how big it truly was. 

He gaped up at the vaguely inhuman face looming over him, brain working to process it all. A mer- no, a siren? He’d been lured out by their song. He’d heard about the elusive giants, but hadn’t thought any were bold enough to come this close to a city. 

Apparently, he was wrong.

The panic only hit him once the siren scooped him from the water in one hand, lifting him up to face level. He thrashed, deathly afraid that the huge mouth was going to take a bite out of him, but the siren only looked at him with an expression oddly reminiscent of a smile and then covered him with their other hand, trapping him like a child with a firefly. He almost tipped over as the siren began to move, still keeping him above-water. 

Well. At least the creature wasn’t planning on drowning and/or devouring him immediately, though he wondered why. Perhaps they were planning on feeding him to their young? Did sirens play with their food?

It didn’t matter, he thought as he shook the thought away with a shudder. He had more time to plan an escape, and that was what counted.

-

Virgil took a shuddering breath, desperately trying to calm himself down enough to actually think. He had to stop cowering here like a guppy and actually find a way out of this situation! 

Okay, first. Take stock of what’s going on. 

He resisted the urge to giggle hysterically at his situation. He’d gotten caught in a human poaching net, drifted painfully until catching on some rocks that left him almost stranded out of the water, been found by a shark mer of all things, and now he was in said mer’s hand in a sea cave, waiting for the giant mer and his siren friend to figure out a way to get this net off so they could finally eat him. He wondered if this was how mussels felt when he spent ages trying to pry them open. 

The other mer arrived, popping out of the water energetically, and Virgil morbidly wondered how they were going to split him. Evenly? 30 - 70? Maybe the siren would only get a bite. 

He was distracted from thoughts of his imminent death by the sight of the siren raising his hands, which were closed into a tight circle. The shark holding him- Roman?- perked up, drifting closer. 

“Did you get one?” He asked, and the siren- Patton, he was pretty sure, though why he was recalling the names of the ones that were going to kill him was beyond him- opened his hands like an anemone blooming. 

In them sat a human, bespectacled and looking about as out of his depth as Virgil felt. He felt a strange pang of empathy, despite it being humans’ fault that he was stuck in this mess in the first place. Poor guy was going to be used as a tool to open his net and then chowed on. Looked like the shark mer wasn’t going to have to share him after all. 

The empathy vanished as the two giants set them both down on a shelf of rock above the water, leaving the human very much in his element and Virgil very much not. He wasn’t even able to sit up, too caught in the net to move or even open his mouth. He’d tried biting the net back when he’d been drifting along, and accidentally effectively muzzled himself.

The human took a step forwards, looking between him and the giants, and Virgil growled threateningly, flaring his ear fins. 

“Hey, don’t be mean!” Roman chided, reaching down and setting a hand on him as though trying to soothe a pufferfish. “He’s only trying to help.” 

Despite himself, Virgil froze under the touch, afraid he would be crushed if he disagreed. The human watched him with keen eyes, and when Roman withdrew, he didn’t step forwards again. Instead, he sat on the ground a distance away, raising a hand up.       

“May I help you?” He asked, and Virgil’s eyebrows raised. He hadn’t expected the guy to try talking to him. Generally speaking, humans were more stab first, ask never.

He shook his head sharply anyways. The longer he was in this net, the longer he wasn’t in a shark’s mouth. Even if he was beginning to get dizzy from blood loss. The human frowned, but surprisingly enough, stay put. 

“Very well. I am Logan. I assume you can understand me, but can you speak?” 

Virgil hesitated for a moment, before shaking ‘no’ again and then tilting his head back slightly to display the wires wrapped around his jaw. Logan nodded. 

“Ah, I see. Then-” 

“What are they saying?” Patton asked, inadvertently cutting Logan off. Virgil looked up at them in disbelief. He’d known that giant mers were fairly isolated from humans, but he’d spent so long using human knowledge to avoid them that he could barely imagine not knowing the language. Being big really did change one’s perspective on things, he supposed.

Roman cast him a concerned look. “I don’t know… maybe the little guy scared him? Here, let me…”

He reached over, prompting Virgil to flatten himself further against the rock, and gently slid Logan across the distance between them, leaving the human only a foot away. Virgil’s ears pinned back, but he didn’t hiss, both out of fear of Roman and because he could tell by the look on Logan’s face that he was an unwilling participant in the movement. 

“My apologies.” He mumbled once the hand retracted and they’d both taken a breath. “I have no idea what they’re saying, but I assume they want me to do something about the net. Am I correct?” 

Virgil nodded, but something fearful in his body language must have shone through, because Logan didn’t reach out.   

“What… Do you know what they will do to us once you are free?” He asked lowly, pretending to be looking over the netting. Virgil took a deep breath, figuring he might as well tell the guy, and then managed to pry his mouth open just enough to clack his teeth in a mockery of a biting motion.  

Logan exhaled sharply, unsurprised. “Well then. I suppose that in order to have more time to formulate a plan of escape, I could make untangling this net much more complicated than it has to be, hm?”

Virgil blinked, looking between him and the two giant mers staring down at them with undisguised curiosity. Logan spoke again, carefully sliding his fingers along Virgil’s face and working the netting free. 

“How does a temporary alliance to get out of here sound?” 

Virgil worked his jaw as the metal was finally removed, both of them tense with the knowledge that he could lunge forwards and take a bite out of the human himself at this range. He opened his mouth. 

“Deal.”

[depressed-sock]

Abandon all Hope

Oc stuff that I most likely won’t really do anything with. 

Rating: M

Words: over 2k

tag warning: descriptions of blood and violence, minor character death

.

The world can be strange in many ways. Twisting, turning, tying itself into knots that connect to other strings of existence. Like now. Where the fabric of this world has been torn asunder, opening to planes far beyond the understanding of this one.

The air crackles with a life of its own, winds howling against the glowing red abrasion that’s been torn into the air. Hooded figures spread their arms before it, chanting and calling forth into the unknown. Amongst them, a tall figure stands in the center. Preparing to lead the ritual to its completion.

“It’s sad you thought you could stop me,” his voice is guttural and hoarse as he addresses the bodies that lie scattered on the ground. Blood pooling into the dirt around them; even as most still breathe. It’s such a waste, he thinks, that they could not truly bare witness to this victory.

A shared victory that they themselves have had a part in. Though many of them will never know.

He turns and steps forward, hood falling back to reveal a haggard old man with eyes that speak of ancients far older than himself. He moves past the servants, Their arms raised in worship of something beyond them. Past the bodies that lie drained of blood, their sacrifice fueling the heart of the ritual. Keeping it from wavering.

Past the bodies of the adventures that had thought they could stop him. The paladin sticks out the most from all of them. An ax protruding from their head reflects the events that continue around their still form. And shows his final approach and destination to the one he needs.

Such a pity. Such a waste.

There’s living amongst those who lie dead, stirring and trying to rise back to their feet. A useless endeavor as their hands slip from under them, their strength continuing to give out. They had never stood a chance. Just as he had planned.

The one he wants lies still, body twisted at an odd angle that leaves their legs sideways and their chest and face staring towards the dimming stars. He almost fears they might be dead but then he sees the uneven rise and fall of their chest. The Tiefling stares blankly at the sky with distinct red eyes akin to that of a dragon’s. His long bloody black hair sticks to pale skin patched with red scales and a beard that hides any trace of his true age.

Such a strange creature to look so human and yet his blood is filled with that of beings far greater.

A pity that one of his horns is missing, the man thinks as he tilts the Teifling’s head with his foot examining the spot of the missing horn. An ugly red scar that smooths away any previous protrusion. Most likely ripped and burned from his head long ago.

“Abandon.” the man stops his foot, keeping it in place on the Teifling’s head. A frown on his lips. “Such a sad name you’ve chosen.” He tilts his head as the Tiefling bares his fangs in response, too weak to do anything else. “But not an inaccurate one at least.”

The man then smiles, stepping back as he signals his servants forward, “Grab him. He’s the last piece we needed that our friends here so nicely provided.”

The Tiefling doesn’t fight back as he is lifted up by his arms. The servant’s claws digging into his skin as he’s dragged forward and towards the portal. He doesn’t feel the pain anymore, doesn’t even really want to think anymore. Some part of him knows he should be panicking but he doesn’t have the strength to do it.

A single thought plays through his head though. Whispering that he should have just stayed in his self-imposed solitude. Where everything was nice and quiet. No war, no strange portals, no danger, no one there to let him down or hurt him again.

He can almost remember what his forest smelt like. Fresh earth mixed with honey and flowers.

There’s no trace of that here. Just the smell of a storm and that of the dead and rotting.

He should have died in his home. In peace. Not here. Not amongst people he never bothered to learn the names of. These fucking assholes had dragged him into this mess and now none of them could get him out of it.

None of them could get themselves out of it either.

He stumbles, falling forward out of his captor’s grasps. Their claws scraping against skin and scale as he lands on his knees. Right in front of the dwarven paladin that stares at him with lifeless eyes.

It shouldn't hurt like it does. He had tried so hard not to care for any of them and yet he can't help but remember just a few nights ago. When the warmth of the tavern had felt a little like home and the sound of his companion’s chatter was more comforting than grating.

He remembers the Paladin's laughter. Loud and boisterous as their eyes crinkled happily at something he had said. They had filled everything around them with a feeling of comradery he had never wanted to understand.

The rage slowly builds back into a fire as he sits helplessly. Wondering how he could have saved them. If he had cared would it have made a difference?

No. It wouldn't have.

And for some reason that makes his anger burn brighter. It clears his head, makes everything come back into focus. Until he swallows down the rage with an effort of learned patience.

His rage is the reason he’s in this state in the first place. Rage that had lead to sloppy fighting, sloppy attacks. It'll lead to defeat for someone like him who relies on his dexterity to protect him.

Patience. A woman's voice whispers in his head. The elvish accented common unmistakable after three years of hearing it.

The cleric is still alive then. Feigning death and waiting for a chance to bring back whoever she can. The last chance to set things right and stop Osmodious once and for all.

His captors drag him up again, harsh words spoken in a language he can’t understand. Pulling him closer to the center of the ritual and the portal. Osmodious stepping up from behind him, moving back to his position in the center. Wearing a smile that causes a sense of disgust to crawl against Abandon’s skin.

He thinks he’s won… not yet though. Not while I still breathe. He never wanted to be here but he may as well do his part. Maybe then he can finally go home. Finally have his peace back.

“Your blood is the final piece,” Osmodious pulls a knife from his cloak, turning it carefully in his hands, “A mix of fiend and draconic-”

“And human... maybe some elf.” Abandon coughs out a laugh, tasting the blood on his teeth. “Heh, never really bothered to ask.”

Osmodious glares at him for his interruption, hand tightening around the hilt of the dagger but Abandon is too tired to care about this man’s threats. It won’t matter in the end if all goes as planned.

And even if it doesn’t he’d never give this man the satisfaction of fear.

His tail twitches in anticipation, waiting without notice next to the ankles of the captor on his right. Just a bit longer. Hopefully at least.

“Could also have some dwarvish,” he tilts his head up looking towards the clouded night sky and the rain that’s now begun to fall. Harsh and cold; carrying with it a deathly chill. “Hard to really tell but it would explain the beard, right?” He smiles with his fangs bared in a challenge. Daring the man to make the first move.

Osmodious almost seems to growl inhumanely as he grips Abandon's chin, “Be silent or you’re tongue will be the first to go." His fingernails digging into Abandon’s skin causing him to wince in pain. 

He should shut up. Should stop talking. But he’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut and apparently 15 years of talking only to himself has made that particular problem much worse. “Technically, the horn already went first.”

The knife is fast but not as fast as the elvish woman who stands from afar. Armor dented and coated in a fresh sheen of blood, red hair flowing upwards as she speaks a prayer. Giving her wishes life with a burst of golden energy that burns away the blood. Leaving her armor a pristine white as the energy sweeps forth from her and towards her allies.

It hits him just in time. Taking mere seconds for his wounds to stitch together and bones to crack back into place. Renewed energy coursing through him to give him enough of a chance to dodge the knife. He pushes back, tail wrapping around his right captor’s ankle and pulling the hooded figure off-balance enough to send them to the ground behind him.

The other tries to stop him but he easily breaks the grip, turning to land a punch into their gut before bringing their head down onto his knee. Knocked out cold before they could even comprehend what was happening.

Osmodious’s growl turns to screams of rage, face twisting into an ugly snarl as he lashes forward. "Don't just stand there! Kill them!"

Abandon doesn't bother to look behind at his companions. He can take a guess at who is standing and who is not. No more than three at most. Three left to face off against a dozen while he stands in the middle of this chaos with the supposed big bad himself.

We're all really going to die here.

Osmodious swipes forward again in his rage. Slashing haphazardly to make any kind of connection with the Tiefling. Only for Abandon to easily dodge and dance around him.

It's a familiar rhythm from years of training. Years of fighting. He can already tell that Osmodious doesn’t know this particular dance very well. Slashing wildly with no skill or plan. A wizard using a knife against a person who has been trained to fight. It took years of practice, years of patience.

A monk should know best when and where to strike. Words imprinted in his head from a master long dead.

There. A chance opening made as Osmodious flings his arm back with the knife. Not expecting a solid fist to land a blow to his ribs with such force. Followed by a twist of his hand, the knife knocked harshly out of his grasp and another blow cracks into his nose. He retreats backwards, hands flying to his bloodied nose as Abandon resets into a defensive stance.

Osmodious stares at him with wide eyes. Trying to understand what exactly is happening. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “You’re supposed to be a sorcerer.”

“Never really liked magic.” Abandon shrugs like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. His gift had wanted to control him since the beginning. Wanted to grow more powerful. So he did the biggest fuck you to the universe he could think of. He ignored it.

It had been hard at first. His magic acting out in unpredictable ways. Ultimately he had to compromise, using it for small things while focusing his time and energy on learning to fight. An effort that’s so far proved best to his advantage.

Osmodious breathes deeply through his teeth, "You can't stop what's already begun." His hands shake as a dark energy builds around them like vipers ready to strike.

"Ha! Yes, I can. I do it all the time." His laughter almost feels like it's echoing. Reverberating against the rain that threatens to swallow them all into its cold embrace. It brings with it a creeping sense of dread.

Something feels wrong. And he’s not yet sure what.

He takes the offensive, dodging the energy that blasts towards him with a jump and a kick aimed at the man’s face. Too slow to hit, but fast enough for his tail to strike out and lash against Osmodious’s torso. Sending the man farther back towards the tear that crackles with unused energy.

It bathes Osmodious in red light; his form becoming something more inhuman by the second.

The dread is working its way through his system. Strangling the breath from his throat, arms shaking despite being steady only seconds ago. The screams behind him becoming impossible to ignore.

This has to end.

And only he can end it.

He stares at Osmodious and the tear behind him. The red shifting haphazardly, showing no destination in its depths. It won’t lead to where either of them want it to go.

That’s fine with him.

There are no names to remember here anyway.

He runs forward, ignoring the pain that shoots through him as Osmodious magic claws against any form of touch.

It can’t stop the inevitable though.

As the two figures tumble back into the tear.

Vanishing in a burst of light that is soon washed away.

[monstersdownthepath]

Am I able to ask about those deific horrors of light and beauty?

You indeed are! And thank you for asking! I’m ALWAYS in the mood to talk about my homebrews. They’re gonna be under a cut though.

The first is the Illuminant, an Outer God that exists in another plane entirely, devoid of everything but transparent crystals and its own shining light. It DESPISES anything that would impede its glow, and upon learning that such matter existed, its sole mission became “eradicate all forms of matter or energy that casts a shadow.”

Oa-Imago is a Chaotic Good Great Old One; an enormous, luminous moth aligned with the Dimension of Dreams, and a demigod of Illusions, Cocoons, and Lucid Dreams. It enjoys toying with mortals as much as any fae would, rewarding them for putting up with its behavior with mystic items plucked from their very dreams, or by weaving them into mystic dream-fluff cocoons to reincarnate into the body they’ve always desired.

The Seventh Sun is a comparatively minor creature. It’s a Great Old One that simultaneously and paradoxically demands worship and peaceful solitude, and so it has stolen a page from Ghatanothoa’s book and creates mummified creatures that mindlessly worship it. Its entire body is a collection of jagged amber-colored crystals arranged in a crablike shape around a seven-star constellation. It cannot stand the touch of water and is infuriated by noise it does not create, so any world it ventures to slowly becomes a silent wasteland.

The Gloam is actually a color, originally a color to be used in Golarion’s creation before being rejected by the Gods for being “far too depressing” and sealed inside the First World to be forgotten. It replaces nearby colors with itself, spreading like a virus across anything and everything capable of reflecting it (it cannot attach to pure white or pure black objects, though) and siphoning quintessence from it to keep itself from being detected (it cannot exist in the Great Beyond for long unless it ‘tricks’ reality into thinking it belongs there), eventually causing living creatures and elementals to collapse and undead beings to go inert. On the plus side, it really IS just too damn depressing for most mortals to handle looking directly at, which ironically keeps it from spreading too far. The Eldest manage to keep it corked up pretty well most of the time, but every now and again some mad artist figure will break into the Vault of Hues and end up stumbling across it.

The Indomitable Radiance is not truly aligned with light, but it IS aligned with beauty, gemstones, and rainbows. There are some horrors that drive men to madness but with a small glance of their true form, but the Radiance is so beautiful that anyone seeing it will be completely incapable of looking at anything else ever again, so hypnotized by the sight that they can’t even think to look away. This is why it shrouds itself in shadow most of the time and communicates exclusively through enchanted mirrors–its servants are useless as anything but handmaids once they’ve seen it, and it already has enough handmaids! What it needs are agents and enforcers! The Radiance is actually Lawful Neutral rather than Chaotic or any flavor of Evil, and concerned with amassing power, praise, and status across as many worlds as possible to elevate it from Old One to Outer God. Also, learning new beauty tips. Forbidden Beauty Tips.

The King of Glass is the final one I’ll talk about. His avatar looks like this:

(by @blinkpen)

But he’s actually an entire desert planet that’s fallen in love with the sun he orbits and showers it with ‘gifts’ taken from all over the Great Beyond. Compared to most Outer Gods, he’s largely harmless, and is actually the Lawful Neutral Outer God of Trades, Sunlight, and Prisms. He arranges cross-planar exchanges for gifts from everywhere, trading mystical glass or crystal items he creates. Some of them are functionally Artifacts, but most are merely decorative, though they’re shaped by entirely inhuman hands.

[wolfofansbach]

vignettes from a Riverdale/IT crossover

I saw IT Part 2 the other day and felt compelled to write at least a little bit. 

“Come on, Jughead! You promised!” Jellybean whined.

“Go away,” Jughead whined right back in that equally plaintive, commanding tone specific to twelve year old boys. He threw a pillow over his face.

Jellybean huffed and crossed her arms. She stuck her bottom lip out in that quintessential six year old pout.

“You said you’d come catch lizards with me!”

“I know,” Jughead rolled over in his bed. “But my head hurts.”

Her lip quivered. “But—“

His eyes softened. “Look, just go get started, okay? I’ll come out in a little bit. See how many you can catch without me.”

Her face lit up again.

“‘Kay!” She turned around and bounced out of the trailer. He collapsed back onto the bed and grumbled.

Jellybean raced down the trailer’s steps, and into the muddy, drecky wonderland of Sunnyside Trailer Park in the wake of a brutal northeastern storm. Puddles dotted the driveways and rusty rainwater dripped from pipes and shingles. She could smell the storm. She breathed in deep. She liked this kind of weather. All kinds of little animals came out. Salamanders, toads, worms.

No one much was outside, which was fine by her. She worked best in solitude. Jellybean walked along the rows of trailers, keeping a sharp eye out for any flashes of scaly, slimy movement under boards or along walls. She stopped at a particular wide crack in the sidewalk, a little off to the side, that she knew often contained little critters that preferred dark, damp spaces. She bent down. A light drizzle started up again, plinking off of her parka. Something darted through the dirt. Long and wriggly. A salamander. Her eyes lit up. She shot a hand out. Missed it. Clutched a clump of grass and mud.

“Darn it!”

The salamander disappeared into the grass.

She followed the road a little longer. Jughead always told her not to go more than five trailers away from theirs if she was alone. Her parents didn’t much care. And Jughead would be out, soon, anyways, so it should be okay, she figured.

She almost caught a frog under a long-collapsed telephone pole, but it managed to slip—literally—through her fingers.

Jellybean turned a corner. There was a wide, empty lot at the northern end of Sunnyside. It was paved, but the grass had long since cut up through the splitting concrete, because they’d decided not to ever build anything, there. Jellybean thought that seemed like a waste of a lot of space. She could think of plenty of cool things they could build here.

Ringing the lot were a lot of old, big trees, and past that, Jellybean knew you could walk to Sweetwater River in about ten minutes. She was pretty sure she could hear it now, because it had rained so hard the river was swollen.

Something rushed over her feet. She squeaked. But then she looked again. It was another salamander. A big one, this time. Almost the size of her hand. She rushed after it, rubber boots pounding on the mud and slick cement. “Come here!” she shouted. The salamander paid her no mind. It made for the trees. She picked up speed. The little beast was quite nimble in this rain-soaked world.

It leapt into the tree line. Jellybean said a word that, if she were the child of a different family, might have made her parents angry with her. She slipped into the trees. Jughead would tell her not to go in there.

She already knew she’d lost the salamander. But she didn’t want to admit it to herself yet. Her eyes were getting hot.

Jellybean looked around through the dripping trees for a hint of movement. She saw a bird hop overhead. No salamander.

Her cheeks were burning. She’d been at it about twenty minutes, now, and not a lizard, salamander, or toad to show for it. She felt about ready to cry, but she wouldn’t allow herself to.

“Looking for this little guy?”

Jellybean gasped. She spun around. At first, she thought Jughead had somehow caught up without her noticing. Someone slipped out of the shadow of the trees. But it wasn’t Jughead.

It was a clown.

Jellybean blinked, as if expecting it to disappear in a flash, like the little squiggles in the corner of your eye. He didn’t.

The clown was tall, dressed in a puffy circus suit, with lots of ruffles and frills. He looked like an escapee from the circus. Jellybean had never been to an actual circus. This was certainly no circus. And so it seemed odd that there would be a clown, here.

His face was painted white, flanked by tufts of faded red hair, lips and cheeks decorated artfully with similar crimson paint makeup.

In his hands he held her elusive salamander.

For a moment, Jellybean forgot the awkwardness of the situation and exclaimed: “you found him!”

“I guess I did!” the clown giggled. “Would you like to hold him?”

Her first instinct was to enthusiastically say “yes!” But then she thought about the peculiarity of the situation, again—that she was in the woods right after a thunderstorm talking to a clown who had no business being here. Still—he did seem friendly enough, didn’t he?

“M-my brother tells me not to talk to strangers.”

“Well, it sounds like your brother is a sharp lad, isn’t he? I bet you’re a smart little girl, too, aren’t you?”

Jellybean shrugged. She didn’t want to brag.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Where are my manners? I’m Pennywise the Dancing Clown!” he said with a flourish, and Jellybean almost fancied she could hear the tinkling of circus music somewhere off in the distance. “And you are—“

Well, now that he’d introduced himself, it seemed rude not to do the same.

“I’m Jellybean,” she said, meekly.

“Jellybean! Isn’t that a lovely name? I love jellybeans! Don’t you?”

“Well, it’s not my real name. But I don’t really like my real name.”

She figured ‘Pennywise’ probably wasn’t the clown’s real name, either. Maybe he didn’t like his real name.

Pennywise proffered the salamander again.

“Why don’t you take him? You came all the way out here looking for him, didn’t you?”

The poor little thing wiggled madly in his immaculate white-gloved hands.

Jellybean wavered. Maybe Pennywise wasn’t so bad. But maybe he was.

“We—why are you out here in the woods?” Jellybean asked. “In the rain?”

“I like the rain,” he said. “Don’t you? It’s like a big shower! It cools everything down! Cleans everything up.” Pennywise looked down at her. His eyes were deep and weird, almost like he had a lot of eyes pressed down into two. He smiled, wide and sharp. A bit of drool dripped out over his bottom lip.

Since Jellybean didn’t seem interested in taking the salamander, Pennywise ever so slightly opened his hands, and the little creature slipped away into the wood. She hardly noticed.

“I—I should probably go,” she said.

“Before you go—“ Pennywise said, almost desperate. “How about a balloon?” And suddenly, there was a gleaming red balloon in his hand, pulled seemingly from the ether in a wondrous slight of hand. Stenciled across the front were the words ‘I Love Riverdale’, with the ‘love’ artfully instantiated by a heart. Jellybean was a little old for balloons, in her own opinion. But again, it seemed rude to turn down a gift. And it was a pretty balloon.

“M-my broth—“

“Oh, I could give him one, too! Do you think he’d like that? Where is he?”

“H—he’s still in the trailer. He said he’d come outside with me in a little bit.”

“He sounds like a nice boy.” Pennywise held the balloon out further. His smile widened, and Jellybean almost thought she could see his thick white teeth lengthen. But that was silly.

“Jughead’s pretty cool,” Jellybean said. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

The balloon danced in the clown’s hand.

“Go on. Take it.”

Jellybean paused. It couldn’t do any harm. If Pennywise had any ill intentions, he would have acted on them by now, right? She reached out, carefully. The clown smiled wider. She closed her little hand around the string of the balloon.

And then Pennywise’s own hand shot out and caught her around the wrist.

“Hey!”

Pennywise smile exploded into a hideous, inhuman maw ringed with rows of jagged fangs. Somewhere in Jellybean’s splintering mind she thought of the sharks on TV, opening their mouths wide to swallow hunks of raw beef. She screamed so loud birds flew from the trees. Pennywise’s radiant eyes split and multiplied. Burning terror flared in her chest.

The thing that had until recently been a clown lunged.

And that was the end.

“My mom left,” Jughead was saying. His voice was cracked and raw. He had no appetite for the tray of stiff cafeteria food in front of him. Betty looked at him with big, sympathetic green eyes. She rubbed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Juggie.”

“Cause Jellybean—“ his voice broke. He shook his head, and decided he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Betty acceded, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Archie, Veronica, and Kevin came along, obliviously insensitive of Jughead’s pain.

“I’m telling you,” Veronica was insisting. “I did see it.”

“You thought you saw it,” Kevin insisted right back.

“I believe you, Ronnie,” Archie said brightly, always eager to stay in the pretty new girl’s good graces.

Betty lifted her head. Jughead listened up, less than interested.

“Believe her about what?” Jughead asked.

“I saw slenderman,” Veronica said.

Jughead rolled his eyes.

“You saw slenderman?” Betty asked.

“Hand to God.”

“You saw slenderman?” Jughead asked. “Fictional, overplayed creepypasta character slenderman?”

“Yes,” Veronica hissed. “Under the old bridge between here and Greendale. I swear.”

“Okay,” Jughead nodded, not in the mood for argument about something so banal. He thought of Reggie Mantle’s insistence he’d been attacked by mothman on the way to school the week before, and Ethel Muggs swearing up and down her house had just recently become haunted. But considering his little sister was missing, probably dead, Jughead couldn’t really be bothered to care.

The story used to scare the hell out of Veronica when her mother would tell it. La Llorona. A story from old Spanish Mexico. The Weeping Woman, clad in grave clothes, drifting along the banks of the river, searching into eternity for her lost children—the children she herself murdered.

But it was just a story. Scary when she was five, sure. But she was twelve, now. That wasn’t scary anymore. She wasn’t a fucking child.

That’s what she told herself as she ambled down Sweetwater River, towards the Pembrooke, casting regular glances over her shoulder. The last of the sunlight was gone.

And then she heard it. Far away, over the water, rippling in the thin fog.

“Mis hijos! Donde están mis hijos?”

Veronica’s hair actually stood on end. Her skin prickled. She walked faster. Because she was hearing things. It was just some night bird, obviously. Jughead and Betty were wrong. Archie was wrong. Cheryl was wrong. They were wrong about Riverdale being the nexus of some horrible supernatural conspiracy. All the missing children, going back centuries, corroborated by reams of records in the public library was just a coincidence. Had to be. And that clown they claimed was now stalking them—they were just seeing things.

And it came again: “donde estan mis hijos?” The cry of La Llorona

Veronica began to jog. She saw the bridge over Sweetwater River loom up in the distance. There were lights up there. It made her feel better. A little bit. She leaned her head into the breeze and sped up.

Closer, now. Almost in her ear: “Mis hijos!” Veronica whirled around. And there she was. In all her impossible horror. A half-rotted woman’s corpse, flesh tumbling from the grayed jaw, empty sockets gazing off into blankness, a worm-eaten, threadbare white gown hanging from the rattling bones and slithering muscle. The ghost stretched her horrid mouth into a devil grin and loomed closer.

Veronica opened her mouth to say something and could only squeak. She wanted to run and found that her body had ceased to heed her brain’s orders. La Llorona crept nearer, and she could smell the grave on her.

“N-no,” Veronica gasped. “You’re a fucking fairy tal—“

One of the phantom’s bony talons seized her by the throat. She felt her feet leave the ground as the thing yanked her up in the air. She found herself staring into the blank, horrible sockets. There were slashes all around the bone, as if the eyes had been carved out. She gagged. Her chest felt like it might implode. Every nerve in her body burned, blazed, begging her to be free, to run. Her mouth hung open in sheer disbelief. There were no ghosts. No phantoms. And yet here she was.

The ghost’s own jaw dropped, unnaturally low, unhinging like a serpents. The loosened, decaying teeth rattled behind rubbery black lips. Veronica felt the hot tears searing her cheeks. It drew her nearer, like it was going to eat her alive.

And then suddenly there was a flash of rage joining the terror in her chest. The hell with this. She was not going to die to a goddamned campfire story. In that moment, there was no fear, she kicked hard and her foot connected with the ghost’s bony chest. There was a loud hiss, like a serpent uncoiling, and then Veronica fell back to the ground. She blinked, and La Llorona was gone.

She scanned the foaming riverbank desperately, scanned the tree line. The ghost was gone. Veronica leapt to her feet and took off running. The tears had stopped, and now they were drying on her cheeks. So maybe she was a believer now. At the very least, she was going to take Betty’s advice. She was going to ask her mother exactly what had happened twenty-seven years ago in Riverdale.

Veronica raced past the bridge, and then: “oh, Ronnie!”

She spun around. And there he was, sitting on the railing of the bridge, kicking his legs above the whirling water like a little kid. A fucking clown. A full on, honest to God fucking circus clown in white makeup and a frilly suit.

“Stay the hell away from me, Weary Willie,” Veronica hissed.

“Oh,” the clown giggled. “You’ve hurt my feelings. I’ve already met so many of your little friends—I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, too!”

Something shifted in the shadows under the bridge. It slithered out into the moonlight—a balloon. A red balloon. The balloon bobbed briefly in the air, and then floated up overhead, its shadow sliding over the clown, and then clambering up towards the heaven. Veronica watched, uncomprehending. The clown laughed, again. Another balloon drifted from the blackness beneath the bridge. Then another. Then two at once.

Until a steady stream of bright red balloons was pouring out from the murky shadows under the bridge. Veronica shook her head, stomach coiled in terror. She backed away.

“Ronnie!” the clown called. “Come back!” Then it’s plaintive voice dropped a few octaves. “You’ve had such a rough few years haven’t you? Your father gone! All that nasty business with your mother! A new town! How about a balloon?” Veronica turned. She began to run, as well as she could, head light with terror. “I’m sure it’ll cheer you up!” the clown went on. “You see how they float? Come with me, and you’ll float, too! You’ll all float!”

The mad, alien giggling chased her all the way home.

Jughead clapped his hands over his ears. It was no use. The entire house seemed to be lilting on its axis. The old wood groaned underneath him. Pennywise’s laughter filled the hallways, crept into every room, through every door. He heard Veronica scream, somewhere. He wanted to call out for Betty, but couldn’t get his throat to work.

Archie was gripping his shoulder for dear life.

Jughead blinked.

And his mother was there. Standing right there. He knew it wasn’t really her, of course. But it looked just like her.

“Jughead…” Gladys Jones said, softly. “Jughead, it’s alright. I’m right here.”

“No,” he said, biting his lip. “No you aren’t.”

He scrambled backwards. Archie was still clutching his arm, teeth chattering.

“Jughead, it’s me, baby,” Gladys said, sweetly. She held out her arms, and he had a rush of memories. His mother holding him after a bad day of school. His mother fixing him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His mother making him and Jellybean homemade Halloween costumes. He hiccuped and sniffled.

“Why did you leave?” Jughead asked.

“You know why,” Gladys said, still softly, sweetly. “I left because of you, sweetheart.”

“No—“ Jughead choked, forcing back tears. Archie was shaking, now.

“Because of what you did,” his mother went on. “Because you killed your little sister.”

“I didn’t mean—“

“You should have been with her, Jughead,” Gladys growled. “You should have been watching her. But you weren’t. And now she’s dead because of you.”

He felt like his chest was going to cave in, and his heart was going to pop from the guilt. And then Archie squeezed his shoulder and managed to struggle past his terror and say: “it’s not real Jug. It’s not her.”

That galvanized him, and he looked his ‘mother’ right in the eye and said “you’re not real.”

Jughead blinked, and ‘Gladys’ was gone. Pennywise was back, wild golden eyes sparkling, unnatural shark’s grin gleaming.

“Not real?” Pennywise said, like his feelings were hurt. He lurched closer, dropping his craggy-toothed jaw. “I’m not real enough for you, Jughead? This isn’t real enough?” He paused for a moment and giggled. “It was real enough for Jellybean!”

[lifeilluminatd]

Alder Oculea shares our delusions. They are unknown, a Mothman and a resident. While they might be sanguine sometimes they get enigmatic. They are a sub in bed, and pansexual. They are into wax play and outdoor sex and want a dom partner. 

Headcanons

Alder has lived alone on the large estate that once belonged to their sponsor since her death. It’s outside the actual limits of town, a sprawling plantation style home that has been a part of the bayou landscape for several generations, and half reclaimed by the swamp. There is a distant feel of age to the place but warm and inviting; they couldn’t fathom living in town when it’s so peaceful and quiet out at the edge of the swamps.

Preferring warm colors, soft blankets and other such comforting ideas, their home reflects that desire for peace and tranquility. Always with an open door, welcoming to others, more than a few times Alder has allowed wayward rescues to stay with them until sponsors were found. Being a resident by granting of the council they have never had a rescue of their own, many think them not really suited for it with their tendency to daydream and get lost in distractions, but it can also be said that plenty of people have found refuge during their first uneasy days in that comforting place while they adjust to town.

Because they have so much access to old tomes and the like Alder has extensive knowledge in Arcane arts, even if they lack the ability to use that knowledge because of the limitations of their species. The shop they share with Felix Jepsen, an old friend from the years before either of them came to the town, is an all hours bookstore that focuses on magic and also a coffee shop. Much of the time Alder can be found there if not at home, they don’t sleep like most people so they’re usually there at any given time sorting through books and reading. They also are well-versed in translating a great many languages after decades of study in them.

A comfortably passive soul, Alder is very rare to cause trouble. They do wander a great deal but haven’t left the town in nearly ten years. It is home, they have no want to return to the outside world and know it’s likely they wouldn’t be allowed to anyway with how useful their abilities might be as the darkness grows closer.

Very often quiet, they do not fear speaking since it has been a long time since the last time they earned the punishment that came with breaking the rules of their power but it has become such a habit they don’t break it much. They enjoying listening to others so it doesn’t seem a need to speak endlessly when others have things that need to be said.

Overall Alder enjoys life, people, and strives to find the good in it all. They usually manage to, building good memories to replace the ones that are gone now, learning new faces to add to those they call friends; peace is about balance and Alder deeply believes it is only a matter of wanting to reach it. While they wish for the best for everyone they do mourn somewhat for those who carry sorrow, knowing that isn’t always a burden anyone can ease for someone else.

As for Alder’s own pains, they run deep. Loss is at the heart of it, of themselves, of people, of good things. Many speculate there is something deep and dark within them, can sense it, and this is very much the truth to the nature of creature that Alder is by design. But as with all things power is what one makes of it, and it can either lead a person to terrible actions or wisdom.

To look at them though it would be hard to guess there is pain there, Alder is optimistic and charming, gentle-natured; life is something to experience with joy, not to let the past take away the reason for living. They’re a bit comical at times, quirky, and it always seem that they know more than other people around them. But earnestly friendly, they strive to try to make things better for those around them.

History

Alder has forgotten the date of their birth beyond that it was in the latter eighteen hundreds, too many details lost to the wave of time and the demands of their abilities. There are vague recollections of decades that were written about in books but most dates before the past hundred or so have been handed away in trade for visions. Exactly when their existence began is questionable but what is not is that it did so as a human.

Contrary to what much of the world assumes, their race is not one born but rather passed on via mantle one to the next. A sort of Fae-connected creature, a harbinger of the future, Mothman are a nearly extinct creature that has lived in the shadow of Fate since the beginning of all races. Alder only had the misfortune to have stumbled across one during its’ transformation from one life to the next, a sort of stage similar to that of their real moth counterparts. A spirit that abandons a spent soul for the next, passing on the purpose with it.

Alder has lived as such a creature for centuries but using their power has taken their origin from them, taken many things, and while they have wandered both Europe and the then-budding United States, it has always been with the purpose of watching what will unfold in the world and offer warning to those who dwell in its’ path. Unfortunately it was in the States that Alder encountered something unexpected in the form of people who twisted that purpose, made it something dark, and what was one only an effort to safeguard became something terrible to fear. No longer only a messenger but looked at as a harbinger of doom, it was a crushing blow to the otherwise bright-souled being.

Still with a job to do, fearful of it being passed on if not, Alder continued onward as the world around them grew endlessly more cold. But what of it really when life was filled with such amazing things it was impossible to allow the sting to linger. Increasingly though the world pushed and finally, both curious and seeking rest, Alder arrived in the bayou. With that town came acceptance, happiness that slowly washed away the past few years of solitude, friendship that was invaluable. While it was true they caught the attention of many it was one who needed their presence that Alder choose as a sponsor. A broken, damaged soul in need of the calm just as much as they needed coaxing back into trusting others; the two of them became closer than even Alder expected. There was an incredible freedom in giving away their memories in the bond because in way they finally regained them. So many nights were spent sitting with her and listening while she recounted tales of a history they could not recall. It was more than they had ever hoped for, a real sort of peace.

But it didn’t last. They knew she would die, fearful to do so against her wishes they peered into the yet to be and saw her end. It was heartbreaking knowing that there was nothing to do to stop it, knowing it could only turn so much worse with the effort. She forbid them from telling her, required the hardest promise to keep. And when she was murdered, as they knew would come to pass, Alder grieved more deeply than they ever had before.

The pain did not pass with ease, several seasons came and went before they were willing to once again open their eyes to the world around them, a heavy sleep that nearly triggered transformation. But with the uneasy feeling of the darkness outside town growing, pressing inward on the home they do so love, Alder woke and returned to a sort of cautious vigil. To intervene would cost them greatly but the visions come more and more demanding, the darkness promising so much destruction; it may not be long before they have no other choice but to speak out.

Species Info

Alder’s race is a vastly misunderstood one. Seen in recent history as monsters who bring doom with them, the truth is they are simply vessels for the visions that hold such things. Time and again though, in an effort to stop an event before it happens, they have stepped in but the results have always made the disaster worse. Fate does not intend for them to change the course, simply to know of it, doing otherwise always amplified the end result. It is for that reason that the Mothman often recounted in recent tales have only arrived as a warning, a silent presence that has inspired feat in hope that the horror can avoided.

Being a race connected to the Fae, the Mothman are not of the human world, only serve as watchers of it. They spawn from a spirit that has an endless lifespan, living out time in a host body and becoming merged with them entirely until said host is no longer fitting. At that point the host goes through a metamorphosis of sorts, the body falling into deep slumber and gradually turning to dust from which the spirit will emerge in their moth form to travel to the next host and begin the process again. At one time they were a much more wide-spread race but most all of them now have buried themselves in forgotten places and refused to wake from that slumber.

Mothman are drawn to their flame; this is a single aspect that will continue to allow them to exist within their host for as long as the host still seeks that flame. It can be any number of things that inspire strong emotion; some flames are those of anger, other discovery or pain, hope, and most any other emotion than can be tied to the human condition. The spirit lacks these motivations themselves so they need the host to be one who strives for it, giving a reason to their existence. Any Mothman is not solely human nor inhuman but a combination of two beings that exist entirely as one. Alder no more thinks of their inhuman side as different than the rest of them than anyone else might think any aspect of personality is separate from the full sum of who they are. Each Mothman has always been different in that regard, and none openly speak of their flame even among each other; it is a deeply personal idea. And a dangerous one, as they can be manipulated by strong forces that control that aspect. In simple terms that flame is the one idea worth always chasing that acts as the will to live for the creature.

As a whole Mothman, in spite of the term being considered masculine, are nonbinary. Agendered, they exist outside the human concept of it, though having bodies that are human means they do have biological genders. Those bodies function the same as normal humans in most regards, with addition to magic unique to the species.

Magic

Visions:

The foundation of power for Mothman, visions are their purpose. They experience first a feeling, much like a tingling, in regards to an event, and can choose to look into the future of it to see how things will play out. They are only granted visions associated with great loss or terror and these do come at a price. The larger the disaster the higher the toil, the more demanded of them; and every vision requires a trade of memories in order to use the power. This trade means that the oldest memories one has, sometimes the dearest, are taken away from them, buried deep in their mind in a place they cannot reach. It is for this reason that many Mothman have lived centuries with very little recollection of their human life beyond the sense of knowing they were human in that past. Another aspect of the visions is that Mothman are not allowed to stop what is to come to pass. They can be present, they can observe, but they cannot step in to halt a disaster. Doing so holds a two-fold punishment; one being that the event’s tragedy is amplified and the second being a curse of words. The voice of a Mothman who has stepped outside the rules will bring terrible things to any who hear it for an unknown amount of time after; usually the larger the event the more time it takes for this punishment to stop. There is some truth to the possibility that any words spoken in anger or ill intention can actually cause disaster to strike as well.

Illuminating Sight:

All Mothman have the ability to see clearly in darkness, vision just as sharp then as though in daylight, and have a red cast to their eyes in the dark. It isn’t a result of any magic used, their eyes are just highly reflective of light and the red glow is that intensified. It is a very unsettling sight to witness, and one of the traits that has resulted in the race being seen as monsters. There is also a hypnotic quality to it, staring into those eyes can render a person motionless, unable to pull away from the gaze until it is broken by Alder. On the other side of the spectrum they are sensitive to very intense light; during daylight hours they have usually have time to adjust but if presented with something too sudden the result is being blinded for several moments. This sensitivity makes it difficult at night to be in brightly lit areas when their eyes are naturally more sensitive, and as such most of the time Alder’s home is only faintly lit with candles.

Illusions:

A power that varies in strength, and the reason people look at their race as monsters; Mothman have the ability to mask their true bodies with illusions of terrifying creatures. These illusions are carefully controlled, powerful, and even supernatural creatures, unless they are also of Fae origin, cannot see through it. They have to be careful not to be touched, however, as it won’t break the spell but obviously will confuse as there is no the physical form to match the visual.

Fear Casting

As a means of defense, all Mothman have an odd power of mind manipulation. In times of stress their skin develops a faint dust to it that, if touched or breathed in by others, will cause intense hallucinations. These are terrifying, every bit laced with the worst fears of the person suffering them. Like a drug, the length of time which they last depends greatly on how much a person comes into contact with the substance. This dust can be stored, it does not lose power after being separated from Alder’s skin, and in condensed enough concentration can cause permanent madness.

Immortality

So long as their flame does not dampen too much Alder will not age or die with time, only continue onward. It is true that their body is stronger than a human but still can suffer injury just the same as one, though also capable of natural healing over time where as humans would not be able to at the speed nor the level that they can. Grave injury that would likely kill a human though would put them into that slumber that leads to transformation and Alder would die in a way; body being abandoned and the spirit leaving it to find another host.

[bonesandblood-sunandmoon]

Sometimes writing is a nice controlled activity, and sometimes, it’s like something takes a hold of you and you’re merely a conduit. Reading about galactian alignments [here] and letting the frame of bi/pan/multisexual orientations as being related to same/opposite gender attraction percolate brought forth something that I guess could be called prose poetry.

Note the personal tag. This is not educational, broad definitions for those seeking answers, or the only way someone could relate and personally define these terms. I would appreciate it if this wasn’t used as an ill-fitting 101 because it’s admittedly rather specific to my experiences with struggling to name internal experiences (an older WP post - wibbly-wobbly, gendery-wendery - on why I use broader labels for myself, which featured a mention of “gendershifter” in the comments).

--

Gendershifter

>> Do you feel masc, solarian, man-aligned, or anything in that direction?

While an allusion to the idea of a sun god was the basis for solarian, I’m more accustomed to the Sun Goddess, Sunna aka Sol. When I think of this goddess, I think of sunlit fields, manual labor, making men dominated fields adapt to your presence, a steely pride in gender non-conformity for those read as women, working clothes worn casually or off shift, work boots, any pants or shorts with adequate pocket space, flannel, tying or keeping hair out of the face if it’s long enough to warrant that, carabiners and the sound of keys as you walk. It’s not as simple as saying that Sunna reminds me of masculinity; She is what I think of when I think of butchness.

>> Do you feel femme, lunarian, woman-aligned, or anything in that direction?

While an allusion to the idea of a moon goddess was the basis for lunarian, I’m more accustomed to the Moon God, Mani. When I think of this god, I think of the silent questions you ask yourself after midnight, resting after a long day, admitting that perhaps it’s nice to take a break from living up to cis men’s standards all the time, a wispy curiosity in conventionally feminine coded aspects (kept guarded from being used as a weapon of misgendering), apologizing to calluses with lotion, the silky smoothness of freshly shaved legs, starry nail polish, the swishy feel of a skirt. It’s not as simple as saying that Mani reminds me of femininity; He is what I think of when I think of night blooming flowers, holding onto gifted jewelry (just in case), and allowing myself to enjoy pretty things, feel pretty.

>> Do you experience same-gender attraction?

I don’t have a succinct word for what I am. I feel a flame of something inside that is connected to other flames that have come before me, a sense of being a descendant. The flexibility of Nature as a creature shifts their reproductive sex within life (through environmental triggers or other reasons). The chaos of Nature as a fungi produces multiple sexes that can’t necessarily reproduce with each other (we’ve yet to figure out how to ask fungi about their genders). I feel Ancient, human in the most ancestral sense, acknowledging that it’s alright to have feelings about how I cut and present my hair, not holding it against my body that it’s easier to live with some shaving, preferring to breathe in comfortable clothing than worry about the specifics, emphasizing practicality over aesthetic.

>> Do you experience opposite-gender attraction?

I suppose that’s whatever has an existing word and definition, but I can’t say for sure. I feel a stillness that reaches down, inwards, tunnels through my heart into darkness. The quiet solitude of a cave, twisted tree roots forming a cavern, laying in the embrace of the Darkness. The dark green moss grasps at a deep earth sensation. The pale white-gray of the aspens as the leaves fall in the autumn grasps at a shifting, changing sensation. The blue inside of a glacier grasps at the alien, unknown, inhumanity of not belonging in the social boxes I’ve been given. I can’t always feel the boundary being crossed, but I can find myself caught in the threshold between what I am and what I am expected to be. Sometimes the challenge is a glorious strengthening of Monstrosity, sharpening claws and teeth against restraints of gender, but other times, I am a ghost, unseen and unacknowledged, a residual loop walking through walls.

>> Which is easier to sort you into: man or woman?

Both to the point of neither. I am tired of counting back the threads of how I am woven together into this tapestry. Must I change the pattern? Must I challenge every choice of color and thread I am given? I am tired, and sometimes, it is easier to not challenge the world at every step. I am the soothing fog that blankets the trees, the warmth of a den hidden away, and I will allow myself to rest, hibernate in this wintry cold world of absolutes. I can’t always poke and prod at my gender as it shifts and flows, and I can’t always detect what it’s doing beneath mental fog. (Is it still there, or do I stop caring about it?) It’s an ice covered pond more so than a void, but I still don’t know what’s going on. (At least the stinging pain of misgendering is dulled by the apathy of survival.) Perhaps, my gender will return from its stroll through the galaxy in the spring.

>> But then how do I categorize you? I’m only attracted to males / females.

While you might be attracted to conventional masculine or feminine signifiers in cis people, I would appreciate it if you would take a moment to consider if you can truly tell someone’s gender just by observing them or guessing their sex. (It’s a social habit that might gender a stranger correctly some of the time, but it’s just as likely that you will misgender her, him, them, hir, and so on.)

I’m afraid I have met my allotted misgendering quota for today and will therefore be unable to sort myself neatly into your convenient boxes. Please wait 3 business days until you have experienced the unnerving temperature drop of a solar eclipse, the primal unease at a night and day blurring, and have felt the indescribable mystery of the universe brush against your human senses to make another inquiry.

[autolovecraft]

The circumstance to which I had read.

Once I caught the name of Charles Le Sorcier and his hands, long, claw-like whiteness as I had intended to pass by the dust of the night, returning in after years to maintain my revenge, for I was unable to interpret.

His forehead, high beyond the Gothic door. I was able to gain seemed to hear emanating from it a faint sound, my eyes. His long hair and flowing beard were of the curse with myself.

I had with me. Thus isolated, and its contents. Then all at once the horrible eyes, twin caves of abysmal blackness, profound in expression of understanding, yet he seemed at first only the manifest reluctance of my apprehensions. As I drew near the age of thirty, old Pierre had once dwelled on our estates, a month before I was every moment on the hill. Of my own youth one long-continued nightmare. As soon as the Philosopher's Stone or the Wizard. My immediate sensations were incapable of analysis. As the afternoon progressed, I trembled as I grew out of childhood, I felt must mark the utmost limit of my childhood in poring over the ancient tomes that filled the shadow-haunted library of the strange care exercised by my prolonged researches into the mysteries of the hill near its foot.

Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count. He told how young Charles has escaped into the black woods, he pronounced in dull yet terrible accents the curse that ever afterward haunted the house?

The cracked lips tried to frame words which I had undergone.

Here I found what seemed much like an alchemist's laboratory.

And my mother having died at my birth, my eye fell upon a small trapdoor with a shocking sound like the hissing of a family document which he had loved to wander in life.

High. To be confronted in a skull-cap and long medieval tunic of the vast and gloomy chambers of this remaining tower that I came upon the plains that surround the base with the wanderings of the great edifice, telling too late that poor Michel had been seized some little while before they reached the exact age of thirty-two, there were no thoughts save those of grief at his demise.

When at last but a natural explanation, attributing the early age at which all the Counts of my ancestors. Filled with wonder, yet he seemed at first only the manifest reluctance of my coming end, I was, modern science had produced no impression upon me, and was reputed wise in the library told off so much of my troubled life. Michel was said to have burnt his wife alive as a home and stronghold for the man had obtained access to the spot whereon I stood. For centuries its lofty battlements have frowned down upon the plains that surround the base of the unknown death. This pair, shunned by all honest folk, were suspected of the mysterious stranger. These were now fixed upon me, until, helpless as I was, modern science had produced no impression upon me was augmented by the fall of a terrible and intense black hue, and of incredible profusion. At last the figure spoke in a total faint. The shriek of fright and impotent malice emitted by the light of my childhood in poring over the revenge of Charles Le Sorcier, six hundred years before, ended that of a skeleton, was this man of evil, and my mind began to connect them with the gnarled trees of the spectral wood that clothes the side of the hill.

There in the course of nature have died, for I knew that he whom I had left at most but eleven years of further existence was made certain to me by the dust of the four great turrets were left to ponder on myself as the only human creature within the castle walls?

Filled with wonder, yet inhuman in degree of wickedness. The hideous eyes were now fixed upon me, and ere he released his murderous hold, his victim was no more. It was perhaps an effect of such surroundings that my mind early acquired a shade of melancholy. But since those glorious years, all was frightfully dark, and stoutly resisting all my danger from the curse; and the faded tapestries within, all was frightfully dark, and in my utter solitude my mind early acquired a shade of melancholy. When at last my senses returned, all was frightfully dark, and its perusal confirmed the gravest of my whole life. He had studied beyond the Gothic door. Have I not told you of the assassin could be found, though little above the rank of peasant, by name, Michel, usually designated by the fall of a reminder dulled the memory of the spectral wood that clothes the side of the torch which I could have not even the slightest hope of continuing to draw breath that I was at a loss to gather the purport of his birth. Alone I buried him beneath the stones of the sinister Charles Le Sorcier! This pair, shunned by all honest folk, were of a certain ancient man who had therefore been called Le Sorcier must in the library told off so much of my own youth one long-continued nightmare. Of my exact age, and made familiar to me by the vanishment of young Godfrey, innocent cause of the many wild ravines of the primeval forest stands the old castle in which the discourse was clothed was that debased form of Latin in use amongst the more learned men of the mysterious stranger. The language in which they were set, opened wide with an expression which I had always deemed strange, but which now became dearer to me each day, as I saw by the simple tenantry as they conversed in hushed accents in the ancient tomes that filled the shadow-haunted library of the invader. The steps were many of my own race I was left to imagine the solution of the primeval forest stands the old château of my whole life. Old Michel was said to have burnt his wife alive as a sacrifice to the footsteps of the pendulum of the castle on the floor. This passage proved of great length, and stoutly resisting all my danger from the idea of beholding any more; yet curiosity over-mastered all. As the Count. Have I not told you of the curse which for centuries, and thrown upon my line for centuries, and led to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I lowered into the night. The dread of years was lifted from my ears the idle tales of the most hideous practices. It was upon one remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of evil, and in roaming without aim or purpose through the trees.

The cracked lips tried to frame words which I allude is the early age at which all the Counts of my ancestors had met their end. Now I know that its real object was to keep from my ears the idle tales of the longest of all, how he had loved to wander in life. Why should he seek to avenge the death of Michel Mauvais, busy over a huge and violently boiling cauldron. Upon my twenty-first birthday, the paving became very damp, and led to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I lowered into the mysteries of the most profound and maddening shocks capable of reception by the would-be assassin proved too much for my already shaken nerves, and gnarled, were suspected of the menials standing about told him what had occurred, yet inhuman in degree of wickedness.

' Spake he, when, suddenly leaping backwards into the works of the ancient turrets, stained by the surname of Mauvais, and gnarled, were spent the hours of my time was now occupied in the ages passed, first saw the light of day, as I watched him. Here I found what seemed much like an alchemist's laboratory. I not told you of the alchemist, I knew not; but I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of discourse, let slip from the hour of his kind, seeking such things as the Philosopher's Stone or the Elixir of Eternal Life, and soon I saw my opponent to be either a medieval place of confinement, or a more than filial affection. Old Michel was said to have burnt his wife alive as a sacrifice to the château, I broke through the centuries ran the ominous chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and how came he within the castle.

The cracked lips tried to frame words which I had undergone.

Determined upon further exploration, I was free, I succeeded with difficulty in raising it, whereupon there was revealed a black aperture, exhaling noxious fumes which caused my torch to sputter, and even Kings had been fulfilled since that time which I had read. Furniture, covered by the strange curse upon my line for centuries, and thrown upon my line had met.

My life, previously held at small value, now became dearer to me by my ancestor against old Michel Mauvais, and Armands snatched from happy and virtuous lives when little below the age of thirty-two, thus maintaining the foul provisions of his disconnected speech. These were now fixed upon me because my noble birth placed me above association with such plebeian company.

[anotherdirtylaferte]

- Blossom - Etrefal - OC -

Blossom, smile some sunshine down my way - lately, I’ve been lonesome. Blossom, it’s been much too long a day - seems my dreams have frozen, melt my cares away.

Send the sunshine down my way - whenever you call my name, 

I know what you mean to say to me, girl -  it’s all the same. 

Blossom, there’s any empty road behind - sit you down beside me. 

Blossom, there’s a sweet dream on my mind - there’s a song inside me, take these chains away. 

Now, send the sunshine down my way - whenever you call my name,

I know what you mean to say to me, girl, it’s all the same.

Blossom, smile some sunshine down my way lately, I’ve been lonesome. Blossom, it’s been much too long a day, seems my dreams have frozen, melt my cares away. - James Taylor————————————————————————————————

- 1 - 

“It was around 10:30 in the morning and I was headed to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

There could not have been a better day to make this short road trip from Charleston. The sun was out, a few clouds speckled the brilliant, blue sky. It was early summer but the temperature was already in the upper eighties, and the humidity already had my clothes clinging to my body. A bead of sweat ran from my left collar bone, down my chest, and was absorbed by the fabric of my shirt.

Alright, let's all agree, that a Charleston, South Carolina summer is a bear to bare. Yet, I had no worries, I was headed to the beach; no bosses, no worries, no stress for the next several days.

Just my family, good eats, ocean, and some much needed rest and relaxation.

James Taylor’s “Blossom” was blaring out of my Mustang’s speakers as I crossed over the darkly stained, North Santee River Bridge. It was difficult to ignore the feeling of utter freedom on this two-lane highway. I was utterly alone in an area I thought would have more traffic. I had not seen, nor passed another vehicle for the past hour. Civilization did not seem to exist on this country road; the last building I had seen was forty-five minutes in my rear-view mirror. And ahead? More road, more trees, and a single sign: Georgetown, 42 miles.

My emerald green Mustang sped over the bumpy Santee River Bridge at an easy eighty-two miles per hour. With the windows down, music up, it was pure exhilaration. My shirt and my hair were ruffled by the current of air coming in.

The wind whirling around in the car, the steady, rhythmic THUMP THUMP THUMP of the tires, racing over the spacers in the concrete bridge... was almost hypnotic. All of this, mixed with the high, early May, temperatures made me sleepy.

I had just come off the bridge when there was a sudden BANG!!!, followed immediately by the smell of burning rubber.

Things began to go downhill...

The rear-end of the Mustang began fishtailing; sliding left, then right, then left again. The steering wheel was no longer working in my favor. Jerking from side to side, and shaking in my hands, it was too much; I lost control of the car.

The acrid smell of burning rubber filled my nose; nausea came in waves. Looking out, trees, road, median, trees, road, median, trees, road, median; my car came to a stop in the grass between the trees and the road.

Dust, debris, and smoke from the tires swirled around me. Disoriented, I sat there for what seemed ages, both hands on the wheel; nauseous from the smells and spins, adrenaline pumping from the experience. I vainly tried to regain my composure. I was incredibly dizzy.

Releasing the seat belt, I got out of the car, stumbled a few steps, made it to the edge of the woods, and threw up that morning’s breakfast.

I took deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth; I straightened my posture.

I was sticky all over from sickly sweat. A minute or two passed before I turned to assess the damage.

The freshly washed Mustang was no longer a brilliant, emerald green. Covered in dust and debris from the accident, it looked un-cared for.

My eyes then lay upon the source of the spin-out.

The back, right tire had completely blown out. All that was left was the rim and a few lonely pieces of rubber; remnants of what used to be a complete wheel and tire set. 

Shit.

Thank goodness for the spare in the trunk.

I pulled out my phone.

No service.

Fan-fuckin’-tastic!

Keep yourself together Nick, it could always be worse. It was a beautiful day, so this was a good sign. And I hadn’t seen another human for almost an hour, so roadside serial killers would not be an issue. I laughed to myself as I thought about being attacked by a serial killer wearing a ridiculous mask.

I was such a coward.

Walking around to the driver’s side, I pulled the keys out of the ignition. A faint dinging ensued. The headlights were on, I did not remember turning them on.

Oh well. I flicked the switch and shut the door.

With smoke still coming from the blown tire, I quickly threw open the trunk and shoved everything that was in there forward. Pulling up the carpet, another stream of curses left my mouth. There was no spare, just the doughnut.

Nick, make it work. Stop complaining.

I pulled out the doughnut, along with the jack and tire-bar.

SNAP - CRACK

The sound of breaking branches and snapping twigs made me jerk my head towards the woods. Already on edge, I strained to listen. This guy (meaning me) was not about to be caught unaware by anything lurking in these endless woods.

Stephen King’s “Misery” was playing itself out in my head.

Going back to changing the tire, I kept my ears on the looming woods behind me. I was sure that the solitude and shot nerves were just playing tricks on my senses. And my damn imagination was not helping anything.

The Mustang was elevated with only three tires on the ground. I was thanking my Dad for teaching me how to do this in my thoughts when a blood-chilling howl sounded behind me. I spun around, brandishing the tire-bar in my raised hand, ready for anything. I probably looked like an idiot, standing there, with the make-shift weapon in my hand, about to defend myself from whatever creature had made that sound.

The hair on my neck stood erect, My muscles turned to ice, my surroundings got brighter. Dangerous amounts of adrenaline were coursing through me. I could not shake the eerie feeling that somebody or something was watching me. I stood there, straining, just waiting for the onslaught. But nothing ever came.

Two lug nuts to go and I heard branches and twigs snapping behind me again.

Leaves rustled in a systematic footstep pattern. There was no longer a question in my mind; I was not alone.

I froze - hunched over the wheel, bar - in my hand - hairs standing up, imagination going five hundred miles an hour, there was no use in trying to get it under control. For all I knew, the thoughts and images running through my head were all about to come to fruition. Scenes of self-defense were racing through my already frazzled mind. My sweat was ice cold as it ran down my back. My head ached from my senses being strained for so long. Taking a deep breath, I slowly turned towards those ominous woods, clutching the metal bar tightly.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight I beheld. Not movies I had seen, nor books I had read. This was a scene straight from Alfred Hitchcock’s nightmares.

- 2 -

The girl could not have been older than six.

The dark mass on her head, which I believed to be her hair, was knotted and mangy. It fell in knots to the small of her back. Pine needles and debris clung to and stuck out of it. She was almost fifteen yards away, but I could see everything clearly. Her eyes shone with fiery, amber yellow. Her skin was a pale gray, but at second glance, I could have sworn it was a dull green. A tattered rag clung to her gaunt frame and where the skin did in fact show, cuts and bruises traversed her body.

A guttural noise left her mouth which I thought to sound very close to: help me.

“Where are your parents?” I asked, taking a few cautionary steps towards her.

 She instantly jumped back into the shadows of the woods. There was no mistaking that she was still there, though, keeping just out of sight. Light from my side of the woods reflected off of her inhuman yellow eyes. My entire being screamed to be careful, but also, I had a feeling that I should offer any aid I could. Again, I stepped towards the woods.

“I am not going to hurt you, little girl.” She retreated deeper into the woods, this time, her flame-like eyes disappearing completely. My mind was telling me to get those lug nuts on and just get the hell out of there. I stood there, facing the mysterious woods for a few seconds longer, and then headed back to finish the repairs to the Mustang. This was weird enough as it was, already on edge, I did not want it to get any weirder.

I had just finished tightening the second to last lug nut when another guttural voice sounded, what seemed to be only a few feet behind me. I turned, and there she was. No more than ten feet away, she had stepped out of the shadows of the woods, and I could see her clearly.

She did not stand upright, like you and I do. She was more hunched over, both feet and hands in contact with the ground. Her spine could be seen through what was left of her dress. Her features were gaunt and sickly; I could not help but feel pity. When was the last time this poor thing had something decent to eat? Slowly, I turned back towards my car, and reaching through the passenger’s window, I grabbed one of the two cinnamon-raisin bagels I had brought for the trip. When I turned to offer her this small token of peace, she had moved within mere feet of me. Startled, yet not too scared, I extended my hand with its offering. The little girl hunched back on her legs, as a dog would, when offered a treat. She sat there, sniffing the air, in a very unusual, animalistic way. This behavior was incredibly un-nerving but, nevertheless, I was intrigued. I had no idea what I was dealing with, but what kind of harm could a little, lost girl do? I was bigger and stronger, so what was there to be afraid of?

The girl crept closer to my outstretched hand. She was close enough now that I could smell her odor. She definitely had not bathed in God knows how many days. It was a sweet and sour, musky smell, like that of body odor mixed with pine and wet soil... and fecal material. How had she gotten so far out here without anybody realizing she was missing, and on top of that, how long had she been out in these woods?

She snatched the entire bagel from my hand with inhuman speed. I jumped back in surprise, almost scared of what else she may be capable of.

Sniffing the cinnamon-raisin bagel in an all too alien way, she smiled. Her razor-sharp, obsidian teeth made me cry out. Realizing my outburst, I quickly placed my hand over my mouth.

The girl’s eyes blazed a murderous yellow in alarm and she released a cat-like hiss. I stood there, petrified, scared beyond any fear I have ever felt. I reached out my hand to show I meant no harm. The little girl sat back, but only for a second. In an instant, with no time for me to react, she had my hand in her own and she drew it towards her mouth; towards those razor-sharp, obsidian teeth.

I tried vainly to pull away, but, for being so small, with what I believed to be a weak and frail form, she held fast. I could not get out of her grasp.

She bit me!

I struck out with all of my strength.

My solid right hook landed square in her face. She reeled back in rage as I fell on my ass, hand throbbing from the bite. The curses that flew from my mouth were all new to me. I had no idea as to where I had learned or heard them. But, it did not matter, this little beast had no idea what I was saying. And all I wanted to do was to incapacitate her and get away. Fear ran rampant through my body. I scampered back towards my car, stood up, fell to my knees.

What the hell was happening? My legs were no longer working. I could feel them going numb, as though falling asleep. The onset of pins and needles came quickly.

I was on all fours, or at least I felt like I was.

Looking up, I saw the Mustang, so close, yet seeming so far away. My vision rapidly began to fog and swim around me. I could no longer make out its shape. It was now just a blurry, green object ahead of me. Was I dying? 

Was this all just a horrible nightmare? 

Another blood-chilling howl sounded behind me, and utter terror swam through my being. My mind was screaming: Get to the car Nick, survive this, do whatever is necessary. I looked over my shoulder, and the effort it took to do so was incredible. But, there she was, scittering, on all fours, towards me. She was almost upon me, black fluid running from her nose where I had struck her, face contorted in rage. I kicked out helplessly… bad idea.

She grabbed my foot, caught it mid-air, and bit me again on the ankle.

I screamed out in pain, but only grunts and moans left my mouth. I flailed out and my other foot connected with the left side of her head. She rolled to the side and continued after me. Her eye was blood-shot from the force of the previous kick and she was snarling and clicking her teeth together making my mind convince me that I was literal prey. The primal fear that ripped through my entire body was overwhelming. As I am scampering backwards in sheer and total terror, this tiny wisp of a girl was crawling towards me like a spider, her limbs bent in god-awful directions. The clacking of her sharp teeth against each other turned my blood to ice.

‘Get your ass to the damn car Nick,’ was the only thought going through my head. I had almost made it when I could no longer feel my legs or my arms. I had been poisoned; I had no doubt of this.

Something in this girl’s saliva was messing me up from the inside. My hand and ankle, where she had bitten me, both felt as though burning coals had been placed upon them. The searing heat was unbearable. I was scared to look at my ankle, I could already tell my hand was definitely already septic.

How was any of this possible? This was something straight out of a horror book; did things like this happen in reality?

I could no longer move. So I laid there, on my stomach, in the grass, just mere inches from my car. My breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps, as though I had been smoking two packs a day for the last year. My body was completely numb. I was completely helpless.

I tried to go to sleep, to just slip away from this moment, but the pain coursing through my body would not allow any respite. I knew, in the back of my mind, what was about to happen, and I had no desire to be conscious for any of it. A dark calm settled over. I could have sworn I heard a voice saying: “This is all just a Dream. You’re totally safe,” and the juxtaposition of such a thought with my current predicament had a queer sensation. 

Almost as though a sick joke was being played on me, I was going to have to suffer in silence. I was to die alone, out here, on this godforsaken stretch of highway, where nobody would find me until it was too late.

A weight upon my back, followed by raspy, hot breathing on my neck, told me that the beast of a girl had gotten on top of me. Urine left my bladder. As the wet warmth spread through the crotch of my pants, tears ran down my cheeks. The words I tell you cannot come close to describe the sheer terror that was flowing through me.

Her talon-like nails dug into my back as she crawled upon me. Another cat hiss sounded in my ear and a whimper left my mouth as an unrecognizable groan. A sudden, sharp pain in the side of my neck made me scream out.

Another pain; another attempted scream. Then another, and another, and another, over and over the sharp, stabbing pains continued.

My vision got blurry.

The weight came off my back and the beastly girl sat herself down where I could now see her, right in front of my numb face. Through blurry, tear-ridden eyes and trying to focus upon my assailant, I could see my demise. Blood ran from the girl’s mouth and down her entire front. Where her remnants of a dress used to be a lighter color, it was now all a bright, crimson red. She was covered in it; the red was splattered all over her face, hands, arms, chest….

What looked to be flesh hung from her jowl…

- 3 -

“Go ahead, Nicholas, what happened next?” My world went black is what happened. Do you want me to finish or would you like to keep interrupting?

XXX

The sound of my Father’s voice on my phone is what brought me back. “Hello?” I said. “Everything alright? Seems I lost you there for a second.” he said. I had no recollection of calling my dad, or of him calling me. Nor did it seem that the events I have described to you ever happened. Had this all been a dream? It couldn’t have been. It had felt like hours, years, decades had passed….. and the terror, I have not felt a more real form of terror than I did with those events. I looked around me, and the shock of what I saw was…. crippling. It was just me, my dirty Mustang, empty highway, and endless woods. “Hey, yeah, sorry… I don’t know what just happened.” I said. I looked at my watch; it was now 11:57AM. “I will be there in an hour, Dad.”

XXX

Dr. Janelston looked at me over his notepad, his stupid little glasses sat on the brim of his nose. “What do you believe all of this means, Nicholas?” he asked in that tone of voice he has, the one that pretty much says he is better than everyone in this shit hole. But I assume being head psychiatrist at an institution such as this gives you the right to be a pompous ass. “I have no clue, Doc. They don’t pay me the big bills to figure all of this mess out. If they did, I wouldn’t need you.” I locked eyes with him. We held eye contact for a while before his shifty, beady eyes looked away. I knew he hated when I did that. It always made him uncomfortable. I couldn’t care less though. He made me uncomfortable, ALL of the time. Nobody else here liked him either. People talk, patients talk, the orderlies talk as well. I got the idea that everyone just put up with him.

“I feel it necessary to up your morning dosage, Nicholas. You had been doing well for so long… but this…story you just told me… well, it just sounds like we cut your dosage too soon.” My jaw clenched. My hands made fists. I had to keep my cool, though, if I ever wanted to get out of this place, I had to be agreeable. “Sure, Doc, whatever you say.” I left his office and headed back to my room. A single tear ran down my cheek. The animated corpses in here could not and would not ever replace the people I had lost. The medications and therapies would not steal that away from me.

I was going to get out of here… and I was going to burn this place down.

The world needs to know about Cypress Station.

[stellarcollisionsfiction]

Keys to Tartaros, chapter 1

Max sat at the large desk late into the night. After completing the algorithm development by hand, he was now programming the computer to handle the necessary calculations.

Actuarial work in the 21st century was little different than the 19th century; just the tools were different. The math was still much the same.

Working late always appealed to him. The darkness outside and the quiet solitude were old friends. Without the distraction of everyone else around he could finally concentrate and get the last of this block of calculations complete. The project manager would be relieved.

With the last keystroke, Max sighed contently. The work was complete. He tilted his head back and forth to release the tension in his neck. The hours spent hunched over a computer were taking a toll at his age.

Max pushed the expensive oak office chair back from the large, mahogany desk and glanced once around the room. His compatriots often teased him about how spartan he kept the high prestige corner office.

Other executives in the company kept their offices much more luxurious. Max was content with the antique desk and chair. The older designs were more sturdy. Modern office furniture tended to break under his heavy frame.

A glance at the clock showed that it was well past the witching hour. Max stepped out from behind his desk and walked to his office door.

Sticking his head around the door he said, “Christopher, can you come here?”

“Sure, Mr. Paeter,” said Max’s young intern. Max stepped aside to allow his young intern to enter the office first.

“What did you need, sir?”

A look of contrition crossed the swarthy complexion of Max’s face. “My apologies for keeping you here so late. I’ll make sure to put you in for overtime with Accounting. They dislike paying interns more than the company has too, but you have earned it with all these late hours this week.”

“Wow, thank you, Mr. Paeter. I am just doing my job,” said Christopher. He stood awkwardly for a moment before asking, “Is that all for tonight, Mr. Paeter?”

Max frowned, “Not quite yet. I need you to send a copy of the file results to the back up servers while I get something to drink.” Knowing the helpful intern would handle the task without any further instruction, Max walked out of his office.

A quick glance around the outer office showed Christopher had been organizing the files, not just using the under supervised time to loaf and be indolent.

The break room was just down the hall from his office. Fatigue leadened Max’s steps. These long nights and weeks had worn him down. Yet, he had completed the new actuary tables the corporation needed for the new Asian markets.

Max entered the break room. It was obvious that the cleaning crew had already been through. There was usually some food left over on the table. It was a poor reflection on the executives that worked in the offices along these hallways left a mess for the cleaning crews to pick up. To Max, such little gestures of rank and privilege were annoying but all too human.

The coffee was, of course, old and cold. Max’s leather shoes squealed on the tile break room floor as he turned about, seeking all the necessary items in the cabinets to make coffee.

Cabinet doors banged with being opened and shut impatiently. Max was annoyed but unable to find the coffee filters.

Standing up, Max leaned against the counter and surveyed the break room. “Now where would Susan or Chang have put the filters?”

Max was still looking when he heard the door at the far end of the hall was shut quietly. There should be no one else hear at this time of night. He paused and listened. The office building was full of small noises, but all the things Max expected to hear from years of working in the building.

Cautiously he moved out of the break room, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Max glanced left down the hall, but saw nothing but the darkened hall and closed office doors. Back to the right was his own office. Down that way Max could hear Christopher typing away on the computer keyboard.

The cleaning crews had gone home hours ago, and security would not make a sweep for another hour. Max knew there was someone else here on the floor besides just his intern and him.

Almost ten minutes passed as Max stood in stillness, awaiting to see what would give away their late night visitor.

The whole early morning hour seemed to stretch the moments…

No sign gave away the stranger but Max’s apprehension grew. There was little he truly feared, but he hated uncertainties. It went against everything he preferred in his world.

After waiting for what seemed an inordinate amount of time, Max gave up on his wait and made his way back down the hall to his office. It was time to beat a cautious retreat, but Max did not want to give a sense of haste. His stalker would be watching. Now just when and where would this stalker strike? Once Max was back at his office, he made sure to close the outer door and lock it.

“Christopher, are you about done with exporting those results?” rumbled out of Max’s large chest.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Paeter. The export and backup are still running on the main servers,” responded Christopher.

“So we are done for the night,” stated Max. “Grab your things, and let us depart this place. We have been here for too many hours this week. You did a good job.”

“Thanks, Mr. Paeter.”

“Why don’t you take tomorrow off,” replied Max as he shrugged on his suit coat over the black silk dress shirt he was wearing.

Christopher was shutting down Max’s computer when max heard the door lock to the outer office break.

The young intern looked up with a puzzled expression. “What was that? It sounded like breaking metal.”

Max gestured for Christopher’s silence s he stepped in front of his desk. That put him between Christopher and whatever came through that outer office door.

Max watched the outer door of the office suite through the open inner office door.

That outer door was partly open. The handle was obviously broken by someone in the hall, but the outer door was still mostly closed, only slightly ajar.

Max watched patiently for whomever to reveal himself. Christopher was showing admirable restraint and remaining silent.

The damaged outer door swung slowly open. Filling the door was a huge, grotesque man in a trench coat that just hung off the huge shoulders of the man.

“Dark lord, my master wants something you have,” said the huge man in a voice that rumbled like sliding granite mountains grinding past each other.

Max remained nonchalant, even in the face of the potential menace of the hulking form. Max’s six foot five inch frame marked him as a big man, but this invader of his office was eight foot tall. The huge shoulders on the strange man marked him as very abnormal or not human. This fact was even more displayed when the intruder had to turn sideways to enter the inner office. He was not just too tall for the door, he was also too wide for the doorway.

The intruder wedged and worked his way into the inner office. Max stepped back to keep the range just a little open as he dropped into a self defense stance. Glancing back, Max saw that Christopher was still sitting in his office chair but had pushed it all the way back into the corner of the office, right up against the outer wall, not in front of the offices big picture window.

Max’s left foot slid back, giving him another half foot body width of space, while the large invader shambled forward. The form’s trench coat fell open showing an inhuman body beneath. The figure only wore the large trench coat and large hat. The invader wore no clothes, but the body underneath the coat was covered in a brown, pebbly skin and was only vaguely human.

Despite max’s preparation for self defense, he was not prepared for the speed of the invader. The invader’s left oversized hand reached out in a lunge to grab Max.

Max attempted to leap back as the invader’s left hand closed on the fabric of the front of his shirt. The silk shirt tore down the front, with buttons flying.

The tearing of his shirt kept Max out of the invader’s grasp momentarily, but it threw him off balance and he stumbled back into the front of his large, wooden desk.

Many years of wrestling and hand to hand fighting guided him to roll immediately over his desk in reflexive response to the threat.

Standing behind his desk, Max weighed his options. Christopher was over in the corner off to his left in Max’s high backed, old style wooden office chair.

In front of the desk, the invader had paused after his initial lunge had failed to bring Max into his grasp. He grunted and grumbled out, “You come with me Now!”

Max studied his assailant somberly. “I do not think so.”

The office invader roared in rage and surged forward. The attacker had descended into mindless rage. Max braced himself and shoved the eight hundred pound, antique desk forward. The desk slid forward with sudden force, driven by Max’s strength and body weight.

The forward sliding desk met the short charge of the behemouth and checked its forward momentum. The edge of the desk slammed into the invader’s thighs and slammed him off balance.

As the attacker tipped over the desk off balance, Max reached out with both hands and gripped the invader’s head.

Max slammed the head down as hard as he could into the desk top. The move stunned his foe. Then he shoved the creature’s head away. This motion plus the attacker off balance sent the foe crashing backward.

Vaulting over the desk, Max crashed down on his prostrated foe with both feet. He quickly slipped off the body of his attacker, but his landing had knocked the wind out of his opponent.

Max planted two quick kicks into this foe’s left side. The blows landed with power, but it felt to Max that he was kicking a solid block of concrete.

“Christopher, get out of here.” The boy did not hesitate. He launched to his feet and sprinted past Max and the thrashing creature. Within a moment, he was in the outer office.

Max turned to follow Christopher. He had taken three steps and had just reached the doorway between the offices when the creature surged to its feet.

The invader’s huge hand grabbed Max by the shoulder and pulled him back with an immensely strong pull. “You no go!” roared the beastly foe.

Max was thrown back and slammed into his own desk. The last remnant of his torn shirt was ripped off his shoulder with this latest attack.

The creature’s follow up lunch forced Max to repeat his earlier escape, and he rolled back over the desk. There were few options left to him. The six meters between the displaced desk and the picture window the picture window left little room to evade.

Yet the creature showed it did learn, if slowly. With one quick motion of its right hand, it gripped the side of the desk and threw it off to the side. The desk crashed into the corner where Christopher had been sitting.

Realizing there was no longer any chance of escape, Max surged into the creature, his closed fist slamming repeatedly into the creature’s midriff with precise boxing punches.

His foe grunted with the blows but seemed mostly unphased by Max’s hard strikes. With a wide swung back hand, the foe slapped Max onto his upheaved desek. He slammed into a tumble in the corner atop the upturned desk and the office chair. Max took a few deep breaths as he thought rapidly. The creature stood there with the oversize trench coat just hanging from its shoulders.

The trench coat had come open and any observer could easily tell the thing was not human. It had never been human. Its whole body was like a large shaped lump of hardened clay.

No human being would ever defeat this thing without heavy weapons of military grade. Max was going to have to go above and beyond to defeat this creature.

He took a deep breath and centered himself internally. Max staggered to his feet slowly, watching the creature guardedly. The creature seemed content to stand there for the moment, knowing it had him trapped in the corner.

Max thought for a moment, then with his left hand gripped one of the thick legs of the solid oak desk.

“I will not be going anywhere with you to visit your misbegotten master,” Max said.

The creature growled and took a step toward where Max was standing.

“It is time you left. I would suggest the door,” Max said, while reaching deep inside for a reserve of energy he had not touched in decades.

The creature took another step forward, raising a hand out to grab Max.

On the creature’s third step forward toward him, max acted. Pulling that deep, hidden energy up into his muscles, Max swing the eight hundred pound desk as hard as he could. The improvised weapon smashed into the creature’s side with overwhelming force.

Max carried through the swing. The blow lifted the creature off its feet and slammed it against, then through the picture window. The impact was sufficient to send broken structural safety glass fragments and the creature hurling out into empty space, then falling the thirty stories downward.

Max fell to his knees in exhaustion. He was barely able to keep from blacking out due to fatigue.

A sudden potion at the inner office door caught Max’s attention. Standing there was Christopher. He was unsure how much the intern had seen. “Christopher, I did tell you to run. I meant further than the hall,” stated a weary Max.

“You are not human are you?” asked a hesitant Christopher as he stood with one hand on the door sill of the office door.

Max chuckled as he sat back. “No, child. I am not.”

[autolovecraft]

As the Count.

At this time, Pierre said that this restriction was imposed upon me, until at last my senses returned, all is changed. Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count, Robert by name, Michel, usually designated by the simple tenantry as they conversed in hushed accents in the minds of the whole tragedy and now bearing the title, was this man of considerable intelligence, whose name I remember as Pierre. Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count.

Here I found what seemed much like an alchemist's laboratory. Of my own youth one long-continued nightmare. The excited chatter of the mysterious stranger. That chilled me through with its dull hollowness and latent malevolence. I know that its real object was to keep from my shoulder, for each movement of the most startling nature, and stoutly resisting all my excursions of discovery in the supernatural was firm and deep-seated, else I should never wed, for the proud house whose honored line is older even than the moss-grown castle walls. There in the deserted parapets of the place, and some of which old Pierre was called to the château, I sought the lower levels, descending into what appeared to be, I succeeded with difficulty in raising it, whereupon there was revealed a black aperture, exhaling noxious fumes which caused my torch to sputter, and even Kings had been defied, yet inhuman in degree of wickedness.

At this time, my eyes. In one corner was an opening leading out into one of the unknown death. He told how young Charles themselves in the Middle Ages, as I remained, paralyzed with fear, he drew from his terrible eyes the black woods, he drew from his terrible eyes the black woods, he drew from his tunic a phial of colorless liquid which he had loved to wander in life. Much of my childhood in poring over the ancient turrets, stained by the frantic father, invaded the cottage of the sound, my care and education devolved solely upon one remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of evil, and my mind began to cease its vain protest against the stones of the strange curse upon the culminating event of my great house, yet never had its spacious halls resounded to the days of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined staircases in one of the most dilapidated of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined staircases in one of the ancient turrets, stained by the would-be assassin proved too much for my already shaken nerves, and how came he within the castle walls?

Ceasing after a time my efforts in this direction, I sought the lower levels, descending into what appeared to be, I sought the lower levels, descending into what appeared to be, I broke through the trees.

A poverty but little above the rank of peasant, by the strange curse upon my own race I was left to ruin, until at last my senses returned, all tell a gloomy tale of fallen grandeur.Spake he, when, suddenly leaping backwards into the mysteries of the massive clock in the ungoverned madness of fury and despair, the worm-eaten wainscots, and I labored as in the exploration of the Middle Ages, and was reputed wise in the exploration of the dark natures of the mysterious stranger. At the farther end of the greatest mystery of all were his eyes, blacker even than the seared face in which the discourse was clothed was that of my time was now occupied in the supernatural was firm and deep-sunken and heavily lined with wrinkles; and the lack of companionship which this fact entailed upon me was augmented by the dust of ages and crumbling with the evident intent of ending my life as had Charles Le Sorcier appeared through the centuries ran the ominous chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and Armands snatched from happy and virtuous lives when little below the age of thirty-two, a youth as proficient as himself in the deserted portion of the deserted parapets of the strange man caught fire and lit the unused torch which I ever felt at the age of thirty-two, there were no known descendants of the many wild ravines of the many wild ravines and grottoes of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined staircases in one of the sorcerers and there upon the house of C—, first one, then another of the most hideous practices.He shrieked, 'Can you not how the curse had been his father's fate. The dread of years was lifted from my ears the idle tales of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined staircases in one of the great elixir of eternal life? That I had with me my paternal ancestry that gave rise to the estate and established himself, unknown, in the Middle Ages, and how had the curse; and now that I, Antoine, last of the most startling nature, and made of my title from much exceeding the span of thirty-two years. In one corner was an only child and the falling stones of the invader. High. Then all at once the horrible eyes, twin caves of abysmal blackness, profound in expression of understanding, yet what small knowledge of it I was every moment on the floor.

But strangest of all my attempts to open it. The steps were many of my ancestors had met their end.

Have I not told you of the father and son, named Charles, a person of no apparent cause, in the acquisition of daemonological and alchemical learning. Perhaps it was at a loss to gather the purport of his sinister reputation. The circumstance to which I could not well understand. Without certain cause, the Evil, on account of the alchemist, the aged wizard, and some of which old Pierre had once dwelled on our estates, a month before I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of discourse, let slip from the twisted mouth. Strange and awesome were many, and rooting me to shun, and in roaming without aim or purpose through the spell that had a sort of relation to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I felt in my utter solitude my mind early acquired a shade of melancholy. Michel Mauvais, and led to a certain ancient man who had once dwelled on our estates, a month before I was strangely affected by that which I could not well understand. Whilst I had so long viewed with apprehension. The circumstance to which I had undergone. At this point I was able to gain seemed to depress me much. My father had been killed in vain.

Perhaps it was at a loss to gather the purport of his birth. When at last my senses returned, all was frightfully dark, and flung my now dying torch at the creature who menaced my existence. His figure, lean to the proportions of a reminder dulled the memory of the old castle in which the discourse was clothed was that debased form of Charles Le Sorcier, or a passive victim. My parents I never knew. Upon one thing I was permitted to learn more of the torch which I felt must mark the utmost limit of my ancestors had been a feared and impregnable fortress. Thus isolated, and disclosing in the library told off so much of my stay on earth, beyond which I ever felt at the mention of my troubled life. It was upon one remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of evil, and in my brain a horror of the stranger raised a glass phial with the gnarled trees of the holders of my line. Without certain cause, in the even then deserted subterranean chamber whose doorway now framed the hideous narrator, how the curse been carried on through all the Counts of my own youth one long-continued nightmare. Its contents were of a serpent, the Count laid hands on the hill near its foot. Aghast, I broke through the perpetual dust of ages and crumbling with the gnarled trees of the curse should overtake me, but which now became dimly terrible. High.

Thus time and the meadowland around the hill near its foot. But when, suddenly leaping backwards into the repellent depths burned freely and steadily, I sought the lower levels, descending into what appeared to be, I had proceeded back some distance toward the steps when there suddenly fell to my experience one of the torch which I could not well understand.

I account for the man digressed into an account of his peculiar garment.

Without warning, I was an opening leading out into one of the sorcerers and there came upon the wild ravines and grottoes of the once mighty lords of the once mighty lords of the unknown death. Isolated as I watched him. In unusually rational moments I would even go so far as to seek a natural attribute of a man clad in a nearby field of no small accomplishments, though relentless bands of peasants scoured the neighboring woods and the want of a stone somehow dislodged from one of the greatest mystery of all my danger from the unwilling tongue which had haunted my days and hours, I heard the heavy door behind me creak slowly open upon its rusted hinges. When at last I turned to examine it, for, since no other branch of my old preceptor to discuss with me.

Upon my twenty-first birthday, the Evil, on account of his birth. My life, previously held at small value, now became dimly terrible. Then, as I had so long viewed with apprehension.

The cracked lips tried to frame words which have ever afterward haunted the house of C—, first one, then another of the castle, less than a week before that fatal hour which I ever felt at the age which had been old Michel Mauvais, and stoutly resisting all my danger from the idea of beholding any more; yet, having found upon careful inquiry that there were no known descendants of the objects I encountered. My immediate sensations were incapable of analysis. At last the figure spoke in a distant and unused chamber of the most startling nature, and I labored as in the acquisition of daemonological and alchemical learning. He told how young Charles themselves in the acquisition of daemonological and alchemical learning.