#minor mage

[firstofficerrose]

Y'all ever read four books in three days and come up gasping?

[freckles-and-books]

Currently reading another Kingfisher.

[baristabomb]

dungeon meshi characters taking care of each other

:’)

bonus:

[biocrafthero]

Prompt: You are a literal god who pretends to be a d-list superhero. You’ve grown extremely attached to the people of the village you protect. You get news that an epic battle is taking place near your village and would most likely destroy it…

———

You've never really been the flashy type, admittedly. Even if your domain contains immense powers—rot and decay, notably—you prefer to exist under the guise of the "Bone Mage." It sounds silly, but you embrace it wholeheartedly, even if your fellow gods laugh about it.

You don't do anything special with your powers, simply carrying around a sack of bones you found laying around in the forest in order to construct things. Sometimes you make the strangest weapons your enemies have ever seen, and other times you animate small constructs that resemble the various critters you adore. It doesn't require a lot of effort on your part, but it keeps your chosen village at peace and scares off any villains-of-the-week that happen to stumble across it.

You have history with this place, a history you would never admit to. A small shrine that sunk to the bottom of the old well, a relic that has been standing for over 200 years. You would rather not be held on the pedestal of a deity, but you can never turn down a gift.

Right now, in this moment, you simply exist as a strange man who lives in a shack on the outskirts of town. A wooden mask hangs on the wall for when you're called to action, and your shelves are filled with various things that the local population has given to you as thanks. You wear gloves to hide how your skin slips from the bone—just one of your various physical oddities that accompanies your nature.

You're happy here; it's a thought you commonly have as you sip on your coffee during these cold autumn mornings. You turn on your radio to the news, adjusting the antenna slightly while you listen.

"-- Here we can see the Soaring Spade taking another blow from the Dark King's newly-forged blade. The battle looks nasty, but we can trust our dashing hero to pull through--"

Ah, more of this again. Soaring Spade is the fresh-blooded hero from the city, and Dark King is an old colleague of yours who went rogue. The two of them are probably having a rough time picking each other apart right now.

"You best get away from me, young one!" The Dark King shouts—he's always been like that, loud enough for the newscasters to hear him, his presence commanding. "The Helm-splitter will cleave you!"

"Not if I pry it from your hands, villain!" Soaring Spade shouts back. Their voice sounds young.

"They go in for a swing," the newscaster commentates, "and--"

A bright flash of light comes from the window. The earth shakes, and you nearly fall out of your chair.

After gathering yourself for a moment, you rush to the window and look outside, only to see a pillar of smoke bellowing from one of the city's skyscrapers, a wake of rubble leading away from it and through several blocks. You can't help but stare with widened eyes at it all.

"They were blown east, and with such force!! So this is the secret that the Dark King's weapon holds!"

You hard heard in passing that he was up to something, but you had no idea it was something as devastating as this.

"The Dark King is now chasing after Soaring Spade!" The newscaster turns away from the mic; "We need a better angle, try following--"

Something shoots out from some of the far-off trees, closer than you expected. Is that...?

Quickly, you take your mask off the wall and grab your sack of bones, rushing outside. You see a speck off in the distance, Soaring Spade rushing back to the city with their power of flight. A glint of light comes from the sky nearby them—

Another bright flash. You feel the wind rushing past you this time, but you hold your ground. Soaring Spade slams back into the earth.

The direction they're headed in, at this speed and power... You feel your stomach sink.

Quickly, you rummage through your collection, grabbing enough bones for a small construct. You animate it in your hand, and instruct it to run to the village and warn them. It leaps off of you and scurries off, heeding your commands.

You run in the direction of the battle.

You cannot recall the last time something like this happened here, if there had been anything at all like this before in the first place.

Weaving your way between fallen trees and scattered rocks, you arrive at Soaring Spade's impact site. They look up at you in confusion, groaning as they attempt to sit up.

"Who... who are you supposed to be...?" They ask.

That's right, most A-list heroes haven't heard of anyone below a C before. "They call me the Bone Mage," you answer.

They let out a pained laugh, trying to muster a smile. "You picked that name yourself?"

You simply shrug in response. "It just kind of stuck," you say. Approaching them, you help them up off the ground. You take notice of how they're bleeding and how they clutch at their ribs. Their flashy costume is torn up.

A loud slam resounds nearby, the Dark King making his entrance as dramatically as you remember. His black armor glints in the sunlight, and the great sword—the Helm-splitter—radiates with energy.

"I won't let you get away from me," he says, "not when I'm this close to victory." He twirls the blade in his hands like it weighs nothing.

"You'll never win...!" Soaring Spade spits back. They try taking a step forward, but stumbles; you catch them before you hit the ground.

The Dark King turns his gaze towards you. "You... you must be one of those nobodies I knew, back when I used to be for the light!"

You would feel offended at him not even remembering your name, but that's the least of your concerns right now. "Look, I just need you two to stop for a minute and take this somewhere else at the very least—"

"No!" He shouts. You can hear a helicopter approaching, likely the reporters you were listening to earlier. "This is my fight, and I decide where it takes place!"

Soaring Spade needs medical attention immediately, and you really need them both away from your little village as soon as possible. Your eyes travel to the Helm-splitter.

"Where did you even get that sword, anyways?" You ask.

"Oh, this?" He says, lifting up the blade to display it to you. "I forged it myself, the process a thousand years old, the weapon itself imbued with magic! Isn't it such a work of art?"

You can't help but glare at him. He likely found methods scouring around the ruins of an old cult that worshipped one of your fellow gods. The weapon itself isn't godly, thankfully—weapons can only attain that status and power if they're made by a god themself—but the method to create it was probably derived from it. The hero in your arms would not survive another direct blow from it, and the village you protect would be obliterated.

You gently set down Soaring Spade. "What... what are you doing?!" They ask you with concern in their eyes.

"Don't worry about me," you tell them. You place your sack of bones on the ground, as well—you're probably going to need both hands for this.

The Dark King laughs at you. "Ha! You're going to challenge me? Someone as simple as yourself should be thinking of your own skin instead."

"I'm not," you say, straightening out your back. "I told you to leave, and you refused. I will defend this place."

"Then die for it!" He yells. Raising Helm-splitter above his head, he rushes at you, and brings it down.

You catch it in your hands.

The force and weight of it makes your knees buckle and it cuts holes in the palms of your gloves, but you hold it in place. Your eyes glow through the holes of your mask.

"Wh... what?!" The Dark King gasps, bewilderment in his tone.

You push the blade away from you, forcing him back. He looks down at the blade, and back up at you. "That's impossible..." he mumbles. "You shouldn't... you couldn't...!"

"You really need to learn about the people you decide to fight," you say, taking off your gloves. "You could never pick your battles."

"No mere mortal could stop the blade, not even the person who forged it themselves!"

"That's too bad." You stomp your feet on the ground as you leap into a casting stance, your collection of bones flying out of the sack and swirling around you.

A large construct forms, and rushes towards the Dark King. He raises his sword, spending out an arc of energy towards it in an effort to defend himself. The bones scatter, but quickly reform the beast's body.

This isn't anything special, just something to buy you time. You remove your gloves—you might as well, since your hands are already showing through the holes—and assemble a two-pronged spear in your hands.

You reach out to puppet the construct; it shifts into a serpentine form and begins to coil around the Dark King, who holds his sword so that he may attempt to strike its head.

He holds still for a moment too long, and you throw your weapon.

Your aim is straight and true, and it catches him by his waist. The strength you throw it with carries him through the trees, cutting through the wood effortlessly. A shockwave of air blows against you like a storm, and you look to Soaring Spade to check on them as it rushes past you. Their eyes are simply transfixed on where the Dark King once stood, frozen in absolute shock.

When the wind settles, you command your construct again, this time so that you may stand upon it. It brings you the whole distance to the struck-down villain, slithering and snaking it's away across the ruined trees and boulders.

Upon arriving, it deforms back into its miscellaneous parts, hovering around you. The spear you threw keeps the Dark King pinned to the ground; he looks up at you with fear in his eyes. You pick up the sword that sits just out of his reach.

"What... are you...?" He struggles to get out.

"I'm nobody special, honestly," you say, adjusting Helm-splitter in your grip. "I'm just a D-list hero who wants to protect their village, nothing more."

Focusing your energy, you channel your power through your hands and into the blade. You hasten it's decay, rust eating away at it and growing across its body like ivy—the power that courses through it crackles and sparks. After a moment, you snap it in two without much effort. The energy that once radiated from it dissipates instantly, and you drop it to the ground.

The Dark King stares at the now useless piece of metal with widened eyes, before shooting up to look at your rotten hands. "You... you can't..."

"I can't what?" You say, walking towards them. "Cant do that? Can't beat you?"

"You can't be..."

You crouch down next to them, holding your face close to theirs. "I can't be human?"

He cowers.

You can't help but laugh. "What would give you that idea?" Looking up, you still see the news helicopter from earlier flying overhead; you give them a small wave. "I told you to leave, so I'm making you leave. I'd rather not be bothered again on a nice morning like this."

You stand up, leaving the Dark King pinned to the ground. The police will come in and arrest him shortly, even if you're a bit far from the city right now.

It's... tempting to go all-out on him right now. You could decay more, you could decay him, but you'd rather not with all these eyes on you. Your domain is powerful, but you are also merciful.

Something begins to rush towards you, and you hear the wind it causes before it shows up. Turning, you see Soaring Spade making their way over. They begin to tumble a little, and you prepare to catch them; thankfully, they stick the landing by your side.

"You're really in no state to fly right now," you say.

"I'll be fine, I've had worse injuries before," they try and reassure you, but you have a feeling they're lying. They look at the Dark King, their expression unreadable. "I'm impressed you beat him so fast! You sure you're just some nobody?"

You shrug. "I'd prefer to keep it that way, honestly..."

"Well, suit yourself! If you want to, I can send in a good word for the agency that sponsors me."

"No, really, I'm good." You can't help but appreciate their generosity, though.

They look towards your hands, eyes widening. "Are you okay...?" They ask, gesturing at your rotting body.

You hide your hands behind your back. "It's just... a side effect of how I got my powers."

"Ah, I see. Happens to the best of us, I suppose." The look off into the distance, before turning back to you. "You said you're the Bone Mage, right?"

You simply nod.

"Cool! I'll keep you in mind if I'm ever in the area, since you seem like a nice guy. I bet whoever you're protecting must adore you."

You smile. "I guess you could say that."

———

Original publish date: April 26th, 2024

Ko-Fi (tips appreciated but never expected!)

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 18 - Broken Glass

Manager Mariano time c:

TWs: blood, hand wounds, ableism, glass in wounds, a teenager gets hurt and also scared

"Don't move."

Violet froze as her new manager's voice boomed through the empty coffee shop from the back office, right on the heels of a whole box-full of special, holiday-themed glass stirrers hitting the tile floor and exploding. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes as she tensed, hearing the quick footsteps of the man immediately starting towards her. She was so dead.

This was her first day and her first job and she'd been stupid to believe Abby when she said that this job was easy. Abby would kill her if Mister Cross didn't, she'd vouched for Violet and talked her up about being a good worker. Good workers didn't make a huge mess three hours into their first shift.

Hastily she crouched and started trying to scoop the broken pieces back into the cardboard box. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--" She whimpered, gasping when the glass tore at her fingertips.

"Hey, hey, don't move." Mister Cross repeated, scooping the broom and a roll of paper towels into his hands as he arrived. "Just leave it there."

Violet pulled her hands tight against herself, nodding in acknowledgement. She watched as he swept around her, quick strokes of the broom collecting the biggest pieces of glass into a pile. Then he tore off some paper towels, got them wet in the sink they washed their hands in, and wiped a careful ring around her.

"There," He said, finally, standing to toss the now-glittering paper towels into the trash. "There, now you won't get glass on your shoes."

Violet watched, vision wobbling from the tears still gathering in her eyes, as he offered his hands out. She didn't want to take them. They were scarred, and weird looking and rippled like a brownie's surface, and the thought of them made her skin crawl.

"Let me get you to the office so I can get your hands cleaned up. I won't let you slip."

This close, when he'd taken off his hoodie and was just in his jeans and tee, she realized that his biceps were about the size of her head and that his arms were just as messed up as his hands were. He'd definitely killed people before. The thought made her stomach drop.

When she rested her wrists against his palms, she shuddered. His hands were warm, though, and he was steady when he helped her stand again. The office was quiet, and when he helped her into the computer chair she shivered. The chair was comfortable at least, even with his hoodie draped over the back of it.

He walked to the storage room and grabbed one of the plastic chairs, setting it over the weird stain on the carpet before taking a seat next to her.

Reaching into the desk drawer, Mister Cross pulled out a plastic case with a blue taped plus sign on it and a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol. "I try to keep a first aid kit stocked in here, it has most anything you'd need and plenty you might not." He said, retrieving some tweezers from the kit and disinfecting them with the rubbing alcohol.

As he waved them in the air to dry them quicker, he held out one of his awful hands again. "May I see your cut? I want to make sure we get all the glass out before you go to an urgent care."

"I'm going to a doctor after this?" Violet asked, disbelieving. She hesitantly lowered one of her hands into his palm. He didn't squeeze or hold her tight, he just leaned a little closer and squinted like her mom always did when she had a splinter.

"Of course. You can call your parents after we get you bandaged up." He said, tilting Violet's hand slowly. She saw little glimmering shards in her fingertips, and groaned. "It's alright, just lean back. I'll do the hard part. It'll be over in just a minute."

"I can't do it, Mister Cross." Tears started to roll down her face as she felt the delicate scrape of the tweezers, and her eyes slammed shut as she leaned back. "I can't--it's gonna hurt too much." She didn't want him to dig into her fingers. She didn't want to feel him pulling at anything, she just wanted to go home. The biggest one looked so deep, there was no way he could get it out without making it worse.

"First one is out, you're doing great Violet."

"What?" That startled her, and when she opened his eyes she saw him delicately placing the biggest glass splinter onto a tissue. "How...?"

"None of them are deep at all, they just need a little help. I wouldn't do this if I thought I'd have to dig for them." He spoke with the same tone he'd used to explain how to make a frappe earlier that day, calm and flat. His eyebrows were furrowed just a little bit in concentration, and he tilted her hand back and forth before moving in with the tweezers again.

She didn't expect this process to be so gentle. She found herself watching as he removed the other two, and she wasn't as hesitant to let him take care of her other hand after he'd bandaged the first one. "I...I don't need to go to the doctor, I'm probably okay." She said, voice small as she watched Mister Cross work.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, no. You don't want to play around with the health of your hands. It's better to take an hour out of your day to make sure you get some decent antibiotics and a professional's opinion, at least." He set the tweezers aside once he got the last of the glass out, starting to bandage those fingers too. "Your family won't have to pay for it, either. There's a doctor not far from here who'll sort out the bill with us and give you a note if you need it."

Mister Cross treated her like she was made of glass. He didn't even sound angry, really. He wasn't slamming anything, or yelling, or huffing, or sounding frustrated with her. "Why aren't you firing me? Those stir stick things were special."

Mister Cross shook his head and laughed, quiet and just as calm as before. "Accidents happen. I've spilled a whole bag of coffee beans before and had to toss all five pounds. It wouldn't be fair to fire you over something we've all done.

"Plus," He started, a conspiratorial edge winding its way into his voice. "I probably would've tossed them myself anyway. They just seemed like they could snap in someone's drink if they hit ceramic too hard."

Violet let out a sob that she didn't know she was holding in. Mister Cross froze, looking startled as she dragged her wrist over her eyes. "I--Violet, are...do you want a...a tissue?" He hesitantly offered her the box of tissues, and she sobbed harder.

The wide-eyed expression on his face made her laugh, caught between the ache of her fingers, the emotional release of knowing she hadn't lost her job and the realization that Abby hadn't lied about Mister Cross not being that scary. She took one of them and nodded, pressing her face into it as the sudden rush subsided.

"Yeah! I'm...I think I'm okay." Violet took a deeper breath, letting it out and feeling steadier than she had all day. "Thank you for helping me, Mister Cross."

He seemed to need a moment longer to process what she'd said, hesitantly setting the tissues back on the desk. "Of course." He finally said, standing again and turning to leave. "Call home and hang out in here until your ride shows up, no need to worry about the rest of the day."

Somehow, Violet thought when Mister Cross returned for just a moment to set a freshly warmed muffin down on the desk next to her, she sort of understood why Abby didn't quit after that shooting happened.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

[the-mountain-flower]

Spoiler Warning for the webcomic Aurora

WOW today's page gave us a lot 🤩

What it showed abt Tarren:

They're a water mage

Disability comes from water corruption (also confirmed on Tumblr a few days ago)

Implied: they seem to have a tendency toward working themself too hard, & it's in some way related to their chronic water corruption

They originally weren't inclined toward getting Sealed, but recently found out they channel elemental corruption in their sleep. They decided to get the procedure done, and seem content with their decision.

What it showed abt magic, & Tarren & Erin's tattoos

The tattoo process they (plural) did seems to be a magimedical process that affects a mage's magic soul channels, and is used (whether primarily or as one reason out of multiple) to prevent elemental corruption by preventing accidental channelling

The process is an option for other mages, & it's called being "Sealed"

Water corruption specifically affects, or can affect, someone's mobility (according to Red, Tarren's elemental corruption resulted in joint problems)

Something I noticed/personal theories:

Tarren also touched their (singular) tattoos before casting, similar to how Erin does. This implies that touching the tattoo in order to cast is either common or necessary (I posed a theory abt that a while back, likely it's either a common need/technique, or physically necessary to cast) (EDIT: Red talked about it here)

The process is called being "Sealed". When Tess was being chased by Shrike, the latter used what Tess called a "sealing cuff". Related? Possibly using the same kind of sealing, but with the tattoos still giving the ability to cast while the cuffs restrict it entirely? (EDIT: again, Red talked abt it here)

Aurora theorists (like me) have been fed well today :)

[kickasscentral]

Just wanted to put this out there, calling mages a minority is like looking at straight white men and calling them a minority group just sayin

[wolfeyedwitch]

Hidden scars for No Prisoners?

Hello! I am so sorry for how long the wait has been on this. I hope you enjoy the story and art, and thank you for sticking around!

Velissa’s hands hovered over the painful-looking scars, not daring to touch them. Her heart was in her throat, choking off any words she might have said. She’d known the young mage she’d rescued from the town would need medical attention. If nothing else, the girl’s hands would need therapy after having been immobilized in their restraints for so long. But this?

There were so many. Some were mostly healed, if healed poorly. Others were fresh, little more than scabbed-over blisters. 

The thin, scarred shoulders hunched in further as Velissa watched, making the girl’s discomfort obvious. Pale skin littered with red weals pulled tight over spine and shoulder blades. 

“They thought it was funny,” the girl said, breaking the silence. Her voice was raspy, like she hadn’t used it in a while. “The guards.” 

Velissa finally managed to find her own voice and ask, “What was funny?” 

“Burning me,” the girl answered quietly. “A fire mage, getting hurt by her own element. Hilarious.”

Velissa thought she could feel her heart break at that. Elemental deprivation was a form of torture for mages, and something the town cells relied on to keep mages imprisoned. For the girl’s only contact with her element to be when someone used it against her was an extra level of cruelty.

“I’m so sorry,” she said finally, unsure of what else she could possibly offer. 

The only response she received was the girl quietly beginning to cry.

Taglist:

@kim-poce @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @livingforthewhump @ghostfacepepper @fleur-alise @extemporary-whump @myhusbandsasemni @heart4brains @kixngiggles @towerlesskey @darlingwhump

[cain-e-brookman]

For the WIP Q&A, I'd love to hear about the gods of your world and/or the religious system overall!

thanks for the ask! so this is a big one. the best answer i can give is most worship of a god is really based on where you live.

The Mage Kingdoms are obvious, as the main worship would be of the Mages' patron god (there are eight: Laeses, Raschic, Nybiegh, Oiena, Japhine, Uensine, Ynorr, and Ysydia; Force, Light, Shadow, Water, Fire, Healing/Plant, Stone, and Sky, respectively.) Depending on the country and how overreaching their religion is, someone who's not a Mage would be more likely to worship a more local god (lesser god, or a house god,) as opposed to one of the major or even minor gods. I've spoken about the Marshes, and how it's not really an option to worship Nybiegh, but the humans in, say Pelyra, don't have to pay any real tribute to the Sky God outside of a "hey, your force helped save us from the Fae Empires, so thanks for that, homie. Also appreciate all you do in holding the sun and moons and stars up. Pretty cool. And thanks for sometimes reigning in your more stormy kids. My crops appreciate that."

Minor gods may get a festival here and there, but most of them are more things of folktales and superstitions, (watch your hubris, the Trickster takes advantage of arrogance and a lack of caution, don't leave any kill to rot on the ground because their anger will call the Goddess of Revenge, and she'll create wasps from their carcass, etc etc.)

Lesser and house gods absolutely have more day to day worship of the common folk. A forest god who lives in the hollowed tree may receive prayers for light snow that year, or safe passage into town. A house god who's followed a bloodline for generations may get the first cut of meat at dinner. I have a story in my current wip about two gods who protect the one town the Goddess of the Wild allowed in her mountains, and how their opposite energies defend and nurture the town. The entrance to the town has a statue of each, and the stone on them is worn from people placing their hands on them as the enter.

The only thing that really spans across the nations of Tangera is that the collection of the major gods freed them from the shackles of the Fae Empires, and they're very glad for the whole pantheon, (even Aeriessa has gotten a better name for herself after she got knocked down many many pegs. Not a much better name, proven by her cult in Bhréchin, but a bit better.) Certain tributes to certain gods are compulsory unless you're very foolish, like leaving an offering for Ynorr, Goddess of Stone, before going underground, or praying to Oiena before traveling by sea, but any actual worship is only a big deal if the individual wants it to be, or lives somewhere where religious practices aren't an option.

[paarthursass]

love playing dragon age inquisition and hearing an NPC in redcliffe ask his mother (after admitting he’s had dreams that make him think he might be a mage) if she would still love him if he were a mage.  in the game that tries to “both sides” the issue of mages vs templars. 

[will-o-the-wips]

"It's just a monster."

Hi, yeah, this is. Sure something. And the only snippet I've finished. I'm so sorry. Read the content tags and be warned. (seriously guys, don’t read this shit if you don’t vibe- is my first real post pls dont be mean kthxbyeee)

CW: minor whump, dehumanization, impalement (nothing vital but yaknow. rail spikes. lovely.), reluctant whumper-accomplice

“Hold it down.” Two other knights grasped at flailing limbs while Leander pinned the legs with a hand on its hip and a shin pressed over its ankles. The creature thrashed and snapped like a wild animal, but its size meant it lacked strength, and it was too unfamiliar with its own body to make it do what it wanted. The men didn’t even have the weight of armor to aid them; it was that frail.

The creature was a small thing. In some ways it made things easier - it wasn't strong enough to squirm out of their hold. On the other hand, more than a few soldiers had been dismissed, too unsettled by its child-like appearance. 'Just a boy' hardly meant anything when they knew exactly what sort of monster it was. It was a destructive thing that needed tamed and contained. That was what the mage had claimed, at least.

It still hadn't made a sound since the transmutation. Leander wondered if the mage had intentionally made it mute or if it just didn't understand that it now had a voice with which to speak. The knight was sure it would have nothing pleasant to say once it grasped onto the concept of words. Would it be able to? The thought made him uneasy – that a creature like this would have the capability to truly understand language and use it. But it would have to for the king and his mage to make any desired use of it. He hadn’t heard why exactly they made the creature into the shape of a human. Just that it had been, and that the knights would be needed to subdue it.

“Your men aren't very competent, captain.” The mage's words stung, but Leander tried to take little of it to heart. A mage could snap its fingers and perform things beyond mortal comprehension. (So why were they needed here?) Shifting, he pinned it at the knees with his other hand, setting his center of gravity more solidly. His mouth thinned at how his hand easily covered one knee and most of the other. He let the pins and needles sensation in his foot distract him.

“I'll handle it.”

It really was unsettling. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Leander wouldn't have believed this thing wasn't human to begin with. It was uncanny how it looked so much like a young boy - one that didn't have the youthful plumpness of a healthy child but hadn't quite begun the transition to manhood either. Like Leander’s nephew – eleven? Thirteen at most. Its face was twisted in anger. Its wild curls resembled the fire it had been born from, shimmering in the meager light despite the filth that surrounded it. It was unnatural how it hadn’t yet tangled like human hair was meant to. Another sign of magic.

“For Bren's sake,” he heard the captain grumble. Metal slid from wood. Something clacked. The knight didn't look away to see what he was doing, too focused on keeping his hold as the thing that looked like a boy continued its futile struggle. The man appeared soon enough in the corner of Leander's peripheral, some tool in hand. “Hold it here.” Another knight reached to pin its shoulder and the joint of the elbow while the captain knelt, holding something over its wrist. Leander glanced over just as the hammer came down on the spike with a clang.

The creature found its voice then. A shriek tore from its throat, knives in the ears of the room. All of the knights flinched, unable to keep their hands on it when it sounded so *much* like a suffering child. Even Leander backed off, watching with a perturbed glance as his ears rang. Free of the knights that had held its limbs, the creature rolled onto its side, curling while its free hand pawed at the bleeding wound and the nail driven through to the ground. Its blood was oily, spreading like tar across the stone. If it had been red, Leander would have had to ask for his own dismissal. Even without, he was considering it anyway.

The wretched thing whimpered now that its voice was free, choking on breath and noise and saliva. One of the other knights fled the chamber, face pale. The fingers of the creature’s pinned wrist twitched. It didn’t cry, Leander noted. Its chest heaved with breath, and it whined, but he saw no tears. Another aspect of its monstrous nature, perhaps?

“The other one, too,” the mage ordered from his tomes, his tone aloof. It was easy for him to say. He didn’t have to handle the creature. That’s what the knights were for. But was it really necessary? There was a glance shared among them, but not one that lasted long enough to clue the mage in on their hesitation.

The creature fought to stay in its curled position when hands set upon it, but its attempts were more feeble than before, and it was easier to pin it on its back as the mage wanted. Leander ended up the unlucky man to hold its other arm down for the captain, who aligned the spike without a word or hesitant glance. The creature jerked against his hold, but the knight was prepared for it and held firm. Leander turned his head away from the process, but in doing so, he found the creature’s face. Its heels shuffled on the ground for leverage, its chest fluttering, its snarl just a pained show of teeth. He saw the moment its eyes caught and realized what was happening, the blaze of its irises seeming to crack like the facets of a gemstone. It jerked, making a sound that he would have called frightened if it was from an actual human. Leander shut his eyes. The hammer struck.

The creature arched, wailing in agony, and Leander’s only form of mercy was holding it firmly in place to keep it from causing further damage, swallowing heavy on his unease. Its new voice cracked, and under the reedy rasp it faded to, Leander murmured the quietest apology he could. There were things no creature should go through. Not even monsters.

Eventually, its voice was wrung out, and the scream faded to whimpering, and then to ragged breaths. When Leander opened his eyes, he did so to the stone floor. He fixed his gaze on the carved line in the stone rather than the body that trembled and twitched beneath him. He inhaled, then exhaled. Then slowly rose to his feet, averting his eyes from the creature’s glassy stare. The captain discarded the hammer on the mage’s table as pages turned and glass chimed.

“You may go,” the mage said with a slow wave of one ring-heavy hand. The last few knights that had remained hurried for the few steps to the stairs. Leander longed to follow, but something held him fixed to the spot. He wished he could say he didn’t know why. The captain caught his eye, even as the mage spoke with him in hushed tones, and tipped his head towards the door, reiterating the order. Leander made himself breathe and tried not to glance down as he turned to leave. He didn’t quite succeed, and tried to remind himself that it was just a beast. Just another of the mage’s experiments – not human. Not a boy. Not a child. It was a monster. Nothing more.

The trek upstairs to the barracks passed in a haze, and at some point, Leander found himself sat down on a stool to one side with a flask in hand. He didn’t care much for the taste of alcohol. Today was a day he desired the effects more than he hated the taste. He hoped its sour burn would give him back some of his sanity. He tried to convince himself that the faint echo of screaming was just the freshness of the memory and sat in the silence among his fellow knights.

A little while later, the door at the foot of the stairs opened and clattered shut. All eyes turned, the few murmurs that had tentatively started falling silent. The captain emerged moments after with heavy steps, his face grim. He came to a halt at the top of the steps, scanning the faces of the men that followed him. Leander knew what he saw in most of them, what Leander himself was feeling just as much. He also knew the extent of the captain’s loyalty to the king and his mage.

“Captain.” Someone broke the silence on the other side of the room, imploring. Many, if not all of them, were thinking -silently praying for- the same thing. The captain’s mouth thinned. They already knew what his answer was, even if he didn’t say it in so many words.

“It’s not a boy,” the captain said firmly. “It’s just a monster.”

No one believed him.

[freckles-and-books]

Most read author of 2022!

[twink-with-an-agenda]

Not the biggest fan of how blood magic is demonised to hell and back in absolution tbh, not saying it can't be and isn't used for fucked up shit because it is, especially in Tevinter. But pushing the narrative of "it's Vile and Dark and Evil always" irks me (obviously it's one thing for the characters within the story to push an idea, and another for the narrative itself to do so, but these two things line up here in a disappointingly uncritical and unnuanced way). A simple way to fix it would be to imply or show an instance of it being used for good purposes, contrasted with Rezarens use of it for all the messed up shit he was getting up to. Framing it as something comparatively risky, yes, but without the ascription of an inherent moral alignment.

[kidrat]

Watford school is in Wales. To me.

[bean-face]

sketches of a couple of my oc's

knight maid elf and goblin mage

@firefilledhikey figured you'd wanna see these girls

sorry the trans homunculus isn't around i don't have a drawing of that one yet

[lady-zephyrine]

I definitely think there's potential for Dark Matter Swordsman and the Jambastion Mages to have some kind of friendship.