#my penchant for chaos and destruction knows no bounds

[thejollyroger-writer]

THE WASTELAND - Prologue

IT’S HEEEEEERE! For real, you guys, I canNOT express just how excited I am to share this story with you! What started as a prompt from @wellhellotragic in APRIL 2019 has grown into this, my story for @cssns 2020! Specialist of thanks to @shireness-says​, who helps me talk out my ideas even though they make no sense to her, the ladies in the discord for sprinting with me in the hour I get to myself at the end of the day, and especially to @spartanguard ​ for her INCREDIBLE artwork! I’m so excited to see what else she comes up with as more of the story gets posted!! 

Now, onto the exciting part... 

Some triggers: this story is rated TEEN, mostly for violence. It takes place during wartime, and some of the characters go through some violence and torture. If you need more information about this, please just message me! 

SUMMARY:  In a world that has been saturated in war for as long as anyone can remember, Emma Swan has rebuilt her life as far away from the chaos as possible, opening her own maternity hospital after spending too many years in makeshift battlefield aid stations. But one night, a bloodied and battered soldier finds her hospital trying to get away from an enemy with a penchant for torture and a personal vendetta against him. With the help of Emma’s childhood friend Prince David and a motley collection of humans and magic-wielders, the quest to save Killian Jones’ life from the poison used by the enemy takes them to places even beyond the known world.

Posted on AO3

“There has always been a war,” Prince David’s father always told him. In a way, he’s right. For as long as anyone can remember, as long as written history goes back, there has been the war, though what began as a magic versus non-magic fight has shifted into a power-hungry battle between two leaders — no matter who the leaders are. 

Centuries passed, generation gave way to generation, but the war has remained. New technologies have come and gone: horses gave way to trains, only to be replaced by cars and tanks; weapons have come and gone. 

But the War has remained. A few leaders have come along to try and stop the two sides from fighting, but none were strong enough to really stop the war, turning to the temptation of corruption before too long. Even the current King of the Gale, King George, started his rule as a kind and understanding ruler, but all it took to change that was the death of his wife, the King turning to dark magic in hopes of getting her back and only finding anger and corruption. 

The only thing that has spanned the ages is the War. 

The War, and the Wasteland. The two cities have grown, smaller hubs popping up where people have congregated, but the Wasteland remains, a large expanse of land that runs across the middle of the world where nothing will grow, where no people have congregated, barren of even animal life. And this has become the center for the War, home to makeshift barracks and trenches and destruction. 

Prince David dreams of a day when the world is a better place, somewhere that he’s not terrified to raise an heir, somewhere where there is more to live for than corruption and violence. But that day hasn’t come, not yet. 

-- -- -- -- 

According to some legends, there has never been a time when the Nephilim and the humans were not at war, but he’s too much of a cynic to believe that. Some part of him has to believe that there was a time, no matter how long ago, when the world was not drowning in war and hatred and destruction — because, if that’s true, then he can still believe that it’s possible for there to be a time after the war. That’s why he decided to fight for the Prince instead of the King; King George lives for war, for fighting, but his son, Prince David, helps men like Killian be sure that there is still good in the world, even when it seems impossible to find. 

Though, recently, this good has become harder and harder for him to find, and though he chose to fight for the Prince, he certainly didn’t choose to be captured by the enemy, tortured in hopes of revealing the Prince’s location. 

The rain pours down around him, pounding against his aching skin. It's cold, just shy of too cold, and Killian thinks that, maybe, if he could think straight, see straight, focus on anything beyond the sharp thrum of pain rolling through his body, it might even feel good. 

But nothing can feel good here, when everything around him is so terrible. His world is broken, his home is broken, his soul is broken, his skin is broken. In multiple places. Scars run up and down his arms, his shoulders, his torso. Gunshots, knife wounds, weirdly-healing scars from magic-users and weres and fae blades — and maybe even a few self-inflicted from his lowest moments. 

Not to mention his hand. The wound on his arm from the enemy Nephilim soldiers, the almost-unbelievably large were-shifter and the silent but sadistic fire-wielding sprite that helped torture him, was part of the worst pain he had ever felt. There was nothing he could do about the wound on his chest, the gash so close to his heart he feared they would pierce it, but the wound to his arm was another story. He’s seen a wound like that before, knows exactly the damage it would have across his body if the poison was left to spread, so he did the only thing he could think of to save himself, both from the poison and the chains that bound him and removed the rest of the limb with his own dagger. 

He raises his eyes from the ground, needing to focus on something other than the throbbing pain blurring the edges of his vision, some sort of goal that he can dedicate what is left of his quickly depleting energy to. And that's when he sees it, so bright and clear in the darkness of the stormy night that he's sure he's imagining it. But he heads towards it anyway, the bright red cross of salvation like a beacon of hope in front of him. 

By the grace of one of the higher powers — he honestly could care less about which one — no atheists in foxholes, one of his superiors used to tell them — the door to the building  is open, though the lights are low, only enough to light up the single aisle that runs between the beds that line the walls. There are only a few bodies in the beds — humans and fae of all kinds — and they all seem to be asleep, a fact that his entry to the hospital does not seem to have any effect on. But none of this changes the fact that he has no idea where he is, and — more importantly — whether he has made it out of enemy territory, which changes around these parts quicker than the tides. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in a voice that sounds startlingly like his brother's, he wonders if there is still any such thing as safe territory anymore. He has enough common sense left to drag himself through the aisle between the rows of bed and through a set of double doors, and into what looks like an office off to his left, before finally crumbling on the floor, thankful for the warmth of his new shelter before he finally — finally, every bone in his body screams — succumbs to the pain and passes out. 

 TAGS: @kmomof4​ @thisonesatellite​  @teamhook​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @cocohook38​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @facesiousbutton82​ @hollyethecurious​ @stahlop​ @tiguanasummertree  @angellifedeath​ @pepperpottss​ @mariakov81​ @scientificapricot​ @teamhook​ @kday426​ @xarandomdreamx​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @xhookswenchx​ @nikkiemms​ @carpedzem​ @superchocovian​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ -- want to be added or removed? let me know! 

[voidcrow]

From Chaos Comes Order - Part 2

Hours passed.

In one of the more spacious rooms of the ruined Kaze-Jin palace, six very large and differing circular rune arrays, varying even in their size to some degree, were aligned in an otherwise-precise hexagonal fashion on the floor. A line led from each of these to the center of the arrangement, where there was etched a seventh, smaller circle. Above this, Archimonde’s Finger floated, silently giving off a faint green glow.

<> <> <>

On the small, flat piece of stone she held in her hand, the activation rune slightly lit up. The warlock pocketed the object before peeking around the corner of the ash-gray pillar.

She was looking across an outdoor pathway, ending about fifty yards away from her at the base of a circular portal structure. Along the road walked scores of what had been Vaadeus’ former underlings—battalions of felguard, swarms of imps, lesser eredar warlocks, and monsters of seemingly every shape and color. All were making their way toward and into the portal. Above it all, a jagged dark-green edifice floated in the starry sky. This dimensional ship was presently in its upright position, but given that the trail of demons could be seen nearly at its end in the other direction, it would not remain in this fortress-like configuration for long.

Laciel withdrew back into hiding behind the pillar and turned to regard Shaaghun (who was now missing his normally ever-present bell necklace) and Rupmat (who was carrying something in a burlap sack that seemed as big as he is). “We’ve got a few minutes at most to get on board,” she half-whispered to them before proceeding to build up a spell in her hands. Violet energy wrapped around her form, shrouding it and swirling into a smoky veil before dispersing to reveal the form of a demonic inquisitor, complete with two floating and disembodied eyes.

“You can hear me in that bag, right?” asked Laciel, her voice now low, raspy, and eerily distorted, “I’ll be seeing out one of these eyes, but the other…” she cupped her hand around one of the ocular orbs that floated near her, whispering an incantation. It briefly flashed. “Your vision’s bound to it now, Vaddy. When we hop aboard, you’ll have to guide me to wherever it is that I can control the Lance’s barrier. Use telepathy.”

Do not tarry, echoed the eredar’s voice in Laciel’s head. Through the boarding portal. Quickly.

With that, Laciel, Shaaghun and Rupmat emerged from hiding and blended in to the demonic crowd.

<> <> <>

“Laci, will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“The Legion comes closer than ever to their goal of wrecking your homeworld, and you just tell us to scout this little rock in the Nether and f*** off to Sargeras-knows-where for months. Tell me where the hell you’ve been.”

“…Doing a job for Mrs. Vee.”

“That sure tells me a lot.”

“And that job isn’t done yet, Shaggy; I’ll be headed back pretty soon.”

“Why even make this detour, then?”

“Because, frankly, Azeroth is a death trap. For the last thirteen or so years, it’s been like the whole planet could be destroyed any day now. Merciless gods beyond counting loom over it, minding the future of a nascent titan over that of us tiny mortals. An existential crisis without end; that’s what my daughter’s been born into. I won’t have her spend her whole life in constant terror like that.”

“All for your lil’ squirt, huh?”

“This’ll be Kagra’s first birthday gift from me: An army. One that’ll watch her from the shadows, and keep her safe from a cruel, changing, uncaring world. It’s the least I can do while I can’t be there for her.”

“Lady, you are batshit. You know that?”

<> <> <>

We are here.

Laciel had guessed as much before Vaadeus pointed it out. The group had made their way to the lowest part of the ship, which opened up at its sides to the outside world. Many a Legion commander used this place as an observation platform. In the center of this platform hovered a console made of green light. Some might have mistaken it for the mere astral projection of a console.

There was no one else present besides the warlock and her company, so she waved one hand, causing her inquisitor guise to evaporate off of her form. She motioned for Rupmat to allow Vaadeus out of his sack as well.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Shaaghun half-mumbled, keeping his axe in hand. “The place wasn’t guarded.”

Vaadeus also seemed to suspect something. “I handpicked my fel lord honor guard for their battle prowess over their leadership skill… but even so, Magmugen is no fool. He may have planted a trap here, Voidcrow. I advise against touching the shield controls just yet.”

“That’s alright; we’re not going to throw up the barrier yet.” Laciel turned away from the console and smiled at her servants. “That part comes later~.”

Rupmat started to look concerned. “Due respect, Mistress, but I tend ta get blown up in plans you don’t let me in on right away. Wot comes next?”

“Nothing.” Laciel put her hands behind her back, still smiling. “We wait right here.”

“What the fuck for?” asked an irritated Shaaghun.

As if in response to Shaaghun, another mo’arg warrior appeared on the platform in a flash of green energy. This one was just about an order of magnitude larger than Laciel’s bodyguard, and wore thick armor of stained, jagged metal over his deep-blue hide, decorated with hanging skulls, coiled chains and a fur-laden leather cape. He carried with him a bulky war hammer.

“For him,” Laciel finally answered, presuming this newcomer to be Magmugen.

“Laciel Voidcrow.” The fel lord’s voice was thunderous even in its calm, but oddly smooth for a demon’s. “The weasel who overreached my predecessor.” Magmugen then noticed the disembodied eredar head close by, and put on a bemused smile. “And my predecessor himself, as well!” He bowed sarcastically. “A pleasure, 'Lord' Vaadeus. I see you have developed a new penchant for hiding behind the skirt of your vanquisher.”

“What choice have I?” Vaadeus scowled at the fel lord. “The Burning Legion rewarded my twenty-five thousand years of faithful service by throwing me to the felstalkers.”

Magmugen huffed. “You deceive yourself.”

“The Burning Legion was built on deceit!” Vaadeus barked back. “The destiny that Sargeras promised us is but a lie. All demons will be laid low, and if Zilnakhan does not break away now, its host will share that fate.”

Laciel spoke up: “Either way, Magmugen, you’re going to die.”

“Am I?” The fel lord raised an eyebrow. “This hammer has crushed mortals by the millions. I have scars older than your civilization.”

“You’ll die, and then I'm going to take your minions and throw them at Argus—whatever it takes to buy my world another sunrise!”

At this, the fel lord wryly chuckled. “Ah... heroism. It is my favorite delusion. Your tone and posture both betray it, blood elf. You paint yourself a savior, but your halo is stained, and the truth bare; you are as much in the business of domination as is the Burning Legion. The only difference between my kind and yours is your irresistible tendency towards self-destruction. Race wars, political backstabbing, sacrifices to false gods. I have personally witnessed your kin's boundless desire to destroy each other since very near the beginning—never mind the tiny footnote that is your lifetime. Azeroth is the forsaken child of imperfect creators, a disease unto the cosmos…”

Magmugen took his hammer in both hands, readying himself for battle. “…and we will cure it!”