#nor did I draw the blade that They bear

[capseisen]

Swordtember [they/them, she/her, They/She] ,, September 2021

Entry stories in the cut below:

Prompt #1 [Shadow]:

"We are the To'rin, the Cut-People, separated from our kin. We hold little use in Dust, for we are as unexceptional as the Veremon. As we look a lot like them, we work in the Human Lands. If our Daemonic heritage shows on our bodies, however, we must hide or remove them.

"We lurk in the Shadows, for we work the best undercover. The Si'rin are kind enough to teach us the art of blade-dancing-- Toku Kaliben-- and each of us are gifted a blade at the end of our training. This blade of Core is our Daemonic pride and joy."

---

Prompt #2 [Light]:

"The day that I become a Lith is gonna be awesome. Mother and Kimmel look so cool, strutting around with their wings in full display. ~And~ they get really cool swords to boot! I wonder what my sword will look like?

"I'm hoping that it is literally on fire, a beacon of Light that tells people 'I am Satcha, leader of the Zilra Fol; respect me!' ...Politics, you say? Well I'm not very well versed, but by the time I'm a Lith I'll have representatives beneath me, right?"

[mlmxreader]

My Best Ally | Aragorn x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ “You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.”With Aragorn please ❞

: ̗̀➛ Aragorn has an alliance with the general of an army, although it isn't just politics

: ̗̀➛ blood, injury, war, violence

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

There was no surrender, and there was no way that withdrawal would work either; the flap of the coat of arms flew high above you, displaying a great red dragon with claws as big as mountains and teeth as harsh as sunlight. There was only one thing to do - drive them through the hills, and out of your lands.

Just as your ancestors had done for years, it was now down to you to follow in their footsteps; it was down to you to ensure that the white flag with a red cross never took over. You would die before seeing your countrymen perish to those dogs.

Drawing your sword, you turned to your men, and took a harsh breath.

"This is the killing field!" You bellowed. "This is where we show them no mercy! Ride with the wind!"

They cheered, although you clenched your jaw in a vain attempt to stop your heart from hammering in your chest; with an absent hand, you reached up and touched the small chunk of metal around your neck.

The small necklace that Aragorn had given you, inscribed with an old elven saying, was always around your neck when you went to battle.

The men fell into line in their respective battle positions; cavalry at the front, archers at the back. All wearing bright red armour made from dense dragon scales.

They were never fearful of what may come, knowing that if the battle was lost then those bearing the white and red flag would take over everything; they would flood villages and ban the language, outlaw and violently suppress the culture and traditions. They would not allow the land of the dragon to flourish and thrive.

Your men could not afford to be scared.

"Ride them down!" You called out, getting up on your horse with a huff. "Hunt them until the last man!"

It was true that your battle tactics were always less than merciful; you always left one man alive to go back and warn his countrymen, and he was always on the brink of death.

If he refused, his horse would be sent back, dragging his body as his shoulder blades were forcibly pushed up and out of his skin, and they would always find rats feasting inside his stomach.

You were very good at breaking the enemy's will.

You charged with the cavalry, herding the enemy lines into a small circle so that they were completely rounded up with no escape; you liked to watch them beg for their lives with fear in their eyes as they dropped to their knees.

As they surrendered, you gave the order, and they perished.

But while the rest of your men stood tall as they marched home, you did not; you gave word to your right-hand, telling him to look after the group, before heading towards the woods.

You left your horse at the edge, and felt relief wash over you the second you stepped onto the mossy ground.

"Aragorn!" You called as you wandered down to the little bridge, taking a seat and letting your legs dangle over the edge as you waited.

He was never very long, always running out of some of the bushes before smiling and letting out a quiet laugh. "You lived."

"As always," you nodded, waiting for him to sit down before you rested your head on his shoulder. "Good thing about dragonscale armour - you don't get killed."

Aragorn laughed softly, although his eyes soon caught the spatters on your armour. "Did you get hurt?"

"It isn't my blood," you whispered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come to see you before-"

"It's alright," he murmured. "You seem tired."

"It seems the more they try to take our lands, the more tired I become," you started, "it's difficult, disgusting work... slaughtering them like cattle... but we are only trying to stop them from destroying our land."

"I know," Aragorn nodded slowly, letting his hand rest on your thigh as he cleared his throat. "One day, they will sings of you."

"I sure hope not," you laughed quietly. "I do not want to be remembered."

"You have no choice," he mused. "You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die. I will never let you be forgotten."

"Now you're just rubbing it in," you joked.

He gave your thigh a little shake as he hummed. "You know, the woods are whispering again."

"Really?" You asked. "What is it this time?"

"They say that there is a war coming," he explained, "and that your lands will have to unite with the rest of Men in order to save the world."

"I would do it on one condition," you admitted.

"Which is?"

"It would be under your banner," you told him plainly. "You have my alliance, Aragorn, just as you have my heart. If you want my men, you will have them - but only under your banner."

He nodded slowly. "I hope it does not come to it."

"As do I," you breathed out. "But you know as well as I do that the woods are not wrong. Can't you feel it? Something... brewing."

He nodded slowly, chewing at the inside of his lip. "I feel it. But where there is anxiety, there is hope."

You extended your hand to him. "If you shall ever need an ally, promise you will call upon me."

He held your hand tightly, kissing your knuckles. "Always. You are my ally in every way, General."

You nodded curtly, daring to smile at him. "And you are mine, Ranger."

He smiled back, licking his lips. "Shall we walk?"

Slowly, you stood up with him, and linked your arm with his. "I might be a little slow, today..."

"I'm aware," he whispered. "You are fresh from battle, I wouldn't expect differently."

"Thank you," you told him softly. "Really, Aragorn, thank you."

"Anything," Aragorn insisted. "Anything that I can do for you, I will, always. You are, after all, my best and favourite ally."

[whumpshaped]

have some tragic backstory idk

masterlist

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, lady whumper, conditioning, torture, burns, dehumanisation, knives, stabbing, gore, disembowelment, choking

"You are late." She shut her book with a loud snap, making Helle wince. "Again."

"Yes, Mistress," they said quietly. "Things have gotten out of hand–"

"Have they?"

They bit the inside of their cheek, taking a deep breath before finally meeting her eyes. Lady Marie was sitting in her favourite reading chair, her piercing red eyes pinning them in place where they stood. She was wearing one of her finer dresses — maybe she was expecting visitors. Maybe they'd messed up royally.

They swallowed, trying not to think about the potential consequences of embarrassing her in front of others. "I brought a human," they offered. "A– a nice one."

"You have been away for hours."

"Yes, Mistress."

She didn't even glance at the enthralled human standing behind them. Her gaze remained entirely focused on them, heavy, almost crushing. It sent shivers down their spine. They desperately wanted to look away, but they also had a feeling she would pounce as soon as they did.

"And you brought a human. A nice one." Her mocking wasn't cold and vicious, already letting them know that at the very least they would go hungry tonight.

"Yes, Mistress," they said dutifully, voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, forgive me for not taking out the nice cutlery."

Helle opened their mouth to argue, then prompty closed it again. She would know they were lying, most likely. No vampire needed hours to find a suitable human. The only vampire staying out that long was a disobedient one.

"I... it will not happen again."

"Oh, it will not." She put the book aside and stood up, and Helle immediately took a step back, bumping into the stupid human. "I knew you would not dare leave me, of course. Apart from the fact that you would not survive a single night on your own, I happen to know that you are very loyal. A useful quality." She walked over to them, and if Helle had been alive, their heart would've been pounding in their chest. "But others... others might question that."

She wasn't expecting guests. The guests had already left the mansion, and they had been out and about the whole time. They tried to swallow the lump in their throat once, then twice. "I apologise, Mistress."

"Your apology is as late as your arrival, pet."

"But I assure you, the blood–"

She moved quicker than they could comprehend, grabbing them by the shirt and hauling them across the room. They hit the wall with a thud, then the floor with another, but they couldn't even get their bearings before the woman was already on top of them. "Do you know what it was like to stand in front of the duchess and say one of mine was out hunting?" she hissed. "Then wait for hours on end as she insulted and berated me because of your incompetence? And you want me to taste the blood of the one pathetic human you managed to bring back for me, as if you had done me a favour by doing the one thing you were made for."

She flipped open her pocket knife, and Helle immediately recognised it as the silver one. They lifted their hand in a pitiful attempt at self-defence, crying out in pain when Lady Marie simply put the blade through one of them. "I am sorry!" they said desperately as she yanked it out, but there was no peaceful quelling of her thirst for revenge at this point.

She stabbed them again, and again, and again, and again, her vampiric strength carrying her through the motions effortlessly, with speed that left Helle dizzy and disoriented. They couldn't block a single one, nor could they keep count. Each one felt more ruthless than the last, drawing all kinds of screams and whimpers from their throat — until she targeted their trachea, of course. It was only bloody gurgles and wheezing after that.

Their whole body was burning by the end of it. Their guts were spilling out onto the carpets, a crime they would no doubt be punished for later. They were well past the point of struggling. They lay still as the corpse they should've been, save for the involuntary twitching of their ruined muscles. The coffin seemed like a favourable place to be, in times like this, safely tucked away under layers and layers of dirt, their only company being the worms that had found their way in. They hadn't appreciated it enough at the time.

"You will never make this mistake again," she said quietly. It wasn't a question that required an answer. It was a statement, and she had made sure no one in the vicinity would be able to dispute it. She glanced towards the other end of the room, and Helle realised the human must've fled long ago. They weren't thinking about keeping the stupid thing still while being stabbed seventy times. "A nice one indeed. Say, pet, do you happen to know the punishment of a servant that came back empty-handed?"

Helle tried to beg. They put their heart and soul into trying to make at least a single placating sound, a gesture, anything. They couldn't do it again. It had been so horrible the last time, they thought they were going to die, they couldn't, they couldn't–

"No? Well, then I shan't spoil it for you. But let me say this: I hope we have a gorgeous, sunny day tomorrow."

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik

[queenofyumcha]

'Promise' - Geralt/Emhyr Drabble

Tags: Pre-relationship, insecurity, gift giving, ✨paranoid emhyr var emreis✨

The cold weight of sharpened steel sits comfortably in his hand. 

It is no Witcher sword to slay monsters with, it cannot bear a torch to the deadly span of meteorite steel that lies waiting alongside Geralt's ever-packed saddlebags.

It is also no flimsy short sword meant as a first weapon for a lordling with more money than sense, gilded with gold that does little else but dazzle.

It would not be an exaggeration to call this sword a work of art, an elegant display of a swordsmith's mastery over steel. Geralt does not recognise the maker's mark at the base of the hilt, but nevertheless, he commits the shape of the overlapping twin suns to his memory.

Any Witcher would be a fool to not memorise the mark in order to seek out the expert behind such well-crafted weaponry, but Geralt has a streak of romanticism that Vesemir could never quite rid him of.

He may no longer call himself Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, but a whisper of the naive youth that Geralt used to be has him memorise the maker's mark purely out of respect for the craftsmanship. He can respect a man who devotes his life to learning a trade, to craft treasures from ore. At this moment in time, he wields a deadly blade capable of changing the tides of battle in his hands and Geralt will treat it with every care it deserves.

He hums, tracing a thumb along the edge of the blade, drawing his hand away with a hiss of pained approval when blood slicks his skin. Geralt flips the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip until he’s satisfied, tilting the blade this way and that, admiring the way the steel glints in the candlelight.

It’s a handsome gift and he says as much.

Witcher's do not work for free. Geralt cannot be bribed and material payments do not interest him. But of course, the man sitting opposite him knows all that already.

Emhyr seems ill at ease in the silence that follows, the man the closest to flustered as Geralt has ever seen him and the closest Geralt imagines he could ever come to being ruffled. When Emhyr speaks, none other than a Witcher would be able to detect the subtle strained inflexion his words have gained. For any other person, for any other man, Geralt would discard such an observation as meaningless.

Emhyr var Emreis is not any other man.

For a man like Emhyr, the strain to the words spoke of an anxious, nervous want to fill the lull in the conversation, it spoke of a man that found himself somewhere he did not often tread… out of his depth. Ciri may have often accused Geralt of being emotionally obtuse, however, at this moment he felt anything but.

Emhyr wanted something from him, something he thought Geralt would deny him immediately without having even considered his offer. Yet despite Emhyr's belief in being denied, Geralt had been invited here regardless. Invited, rather than summoned. Emhyr had offered the gift anyway, even knowing it would have no weight in the upcoming negotiation. 

“It is not intended as a bribe, nor as a payment. I merely wished to… encourage you to the bargaining table, shall we say, and to draw your attention.”

Emhyr may have not secured an agreement from Geralt, but from the moment of the first strained word uttered he had secured Geralt's full, undivided attention.

"I haven't received many 'encouragements' through my long life, but those that I have received have been gift-wrapped and presented in person. I hope you don't make a habit of leaving 'encouragements' on your general's beds lest they think it an eminent sign of their heads being removed from their shoulders."

Emhyr holds his gaze unflinchingly, head held high. On the surface, he is the same unflappable man he has always been. Beneath the skin, Geralt can hear his heartbeat quicken.

"I see I have misinterpreted your... actions towards me the last time we met as interest. I regret any inconvenience I've caused in your daily routine, Witcher. You are free to leave."

"Well, I did think an entire sword commissioned and delivered to my room a tad overkill for a mere peck on the cheek."

Emhyr relaxes minutely in the wake of Geralt’s flippancy, his white-knuckled grip on the armrest loosening a touch. 

“I was not- I am not offended by your interest, Witcher. If I were, I assure you, you would know.”

“I should have known better, a threat from you would have never been so inelegant.”

Emhyr almost looks pleased by that.

“And you say court life is ill-suited to you. You have flattery down to an art.”

Geralt settles back in his chair with a lazy smile directed at Emhyr, letting his legs spread naturally- his smile becomes more like a smirk when he sees Emhyr's eyes automatically track the movement before flicking back to Geralt's eyes with an almost guilty cast to them.

"What exactly did you want from me? Now I know I'm in no danger of being hauled before the executioner's block."

Emhyr swallows, straightening in his chair as though readying himself for some great task. His heartbeat has become almost distractingly rapid, a fluttering beat that betrays the Emperor's nerves.

"A relationship of sorts, I suppose."

Geralt is guilty of letting the silence linger between them simply to observe the normally unflappable man's demeanour begin to become strained under a Witcher's intent gaze. Emhyr's breathing patterns change to tend to his body's belief it needs more air, his emotions, to a Witcher at least, are easy to read.

“A relationship of sorts. With me.  The filthy Witcher half your court thinks feral. Why would you even want that?”

“Your presence at court needs to be normalised one way or another if you truly intend to be supportive of Cirilla’s ascension to the throne.”

“As much as I’d like to, I’m hardly going to drag her kicking and screaming back into the wilds. She’s made it clear she has found her future walking a different Path.”

“How reassuring to know you won’t abscond with my daughter, Geralt.”

“Geralt? Well, if we aren’t being personable today, Emhyr, choosing to use first names instead of pointed glares.”

“The thought of spending the next four to five years without any kind of meaningful connection nor conversation seemed… unfortunate.”

There is a solemn understanding that fills Geralt at hearing his words. A lifetime on the Path is devoid of many comforts, which is to be expected, but it also lacks many necessities. It was not uncommon for him to spend weeks in the wilderness without ever speaking a word aloud, never exchanging a word with another being. He all knows all too well the bite that comes with loneliness like that.

“You were afraid of being alone.” Against his will, Geralt's tone has softened and he knows it was a mistake as he watches Emhyr tense, misinterpreting understanding with pity.

Emhyr's words come clipped and steely.

“I do not fear solitude. I do not desire it either. Most find companionship agreeable, and in that regard, I am like any other man. In return, you secure a comfortable retirement. I believe we will have a mutually beneficial arrangement. Have we not reached an agreement?”

“You’ve stripped your proposal of every shred of romance, Emhyr. Do you mean to woo me with such cold words of mutual benefit?” It is a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood with forced flippancy, but the joviality coaxes some tension from the other man regardless.

“I will accept a refusal with grace, Witcher. You needn’t drag this out in an attempt to embarrass me.”

“Emhyr, I was attempting to tease you. Honestly, did you suspect me of attempting to mock or humiliate you-" He cuts himself off, a smirk already turning up the corners of his lips. 

"No, what am I saying, of course, you suspected that.”

He had never met a man more paranoid than Emhyr. And yet, he had never met a man whose paranoia had been so justified.

Geralt sighs, shaking his head with bemusement. “I will make you trust me.”

“You must realise, that to a man like me… that is rather more a threat than a reassurance.”

"Emhyr," Geralt laughs, reaching out to rest a hand on the other man's arm.

"I prefer to think of it as a promise.”

[pliablehead]

Super self-indulgent little piece of writing I did laying out the guys from EE as a dungeons & dragons-style adventuring party, which I have just mailed to @heyjudelaw but figured I’d also share here if anyone cared hehehe

Central among them stands a dark-clad man who draws the eye almost instantly with his towering, statuesque height, and then keeps it, quite striking in appearance and countenance. His dark hair rakes back from a noble brow in an elegant widow’s peak, and with it, two smooth, sweeping devil’s horns, darker still–a tiefling, then, from some high elven stock but some of something else, deeper, infernal. The rake of his horns only serves to make him look even taller. He wears a long, crisp travellers’ coat, its shining buttons left undone along his front; it is perhaps black, perhaps only nearly black, effecting something more subtle and expensive than a stark blotch of pure pitch might in the dappled soft-focus light of the wood. Beneath it he sports no armor, merely a simple knit sweater with a high turtleneck, obscuring nearly all of his tanned skin. It is clear he does not need it: here in what should be at least three days’ rough travel from the edge of the wood, his clothes and slim boots show not a speck of dirt nor wear, and not a single strand of his smoothly coiffed hair falls out of place. Some sort of power beyond the material realm of the forest auras him–the only thing about him that is difficult to look at. Though his eyes are also dark, theirs is a warm, liquid darkness, speaking of more brightness and kindness than the rest of his striking presence might command.

At his side, another—perhaps maybe even tall as the tiefling man, but comporting himself such that he appears smaller, somehow stooped without stooping, his shoulders in an altogether different set. He is unmistakably elvish, though in a rare way of no clear high elf or wood elf bearing, his fine features and complexion betraying neither, his eyes clear but hooded and narrow, as though constantly peering into spaces deeper and further than the planes around him. The singular visage of an arcanist. This elven man is clad in soft cloaks of greys and tans, much more of a place in the wood than his tiefling companion seems to be; and belted around his waist and shoulders are a number of small, esoteric devices that he seems to touch and catalogue with a practiced, almost uncanny ease, finding one and implementing it immediately in almost the same deft, fluid motion. The casual movement of his dexterous hands belies the deep arcane complexity of the challenges they perform, mastered only after years or even decades of study—despite his unassuming appearance, his reputation has come to precede him. Surely this is the wizard Kaines.

Smallest among their number, but by no means slight, stands a man of a much more human bearing, though there lingers just enough in his bone structure and the cool piercing blue of his eyes to indicate some elven heritage within him as well, perhaps several generations back. Compared to his companions he seems almost nondescript by choice, with dark, close-cropped hair and a matching stubbled jaw flecked through with grey, and a posture of almost deliberate, calculated looseness, an alert mind and a keen gaze. He wears light and almost airy raiments, a diffuse shade of blue, as though of a white fabric dyed by hand to perfectly match his eyes, and their monotone palette seems—symbolic, representative of something, perhaps some order he has sworn himself to, or some other alliance beyond his traveling party. Despite the shaded cool of the forest, the shirtsleeves of this raiment are short, as though to give him the broadest and easiest range of motion. Mounted at his waist are a few small instruments of combat, blades and cudgels clearly designed for nimble swiftness rather than overpowering might, though his bared arms are corded with lithe muscle, that same loose but wary carriage.

At the front of the party—stepping forward—

Not the first of them to stand out and command attention, but the one who does so now with the greatest strength and tenacity, good gods, impossible to look away. Like his companion in blue, he appears mostly of human heritage, but whatever other ancestry lies in his blood is not that of his half-elven cohorts, but some more fey or bestial nature, some kobold or gnoll of some deep underforest, gleaming feral about his wild blue eyes, the unsettling too-clean sharpness of his teeth. His brows and the shadow of his jaw are dark, but his head of hair is bleached to blond by some caustic process or by some other clime’s blazing sun, a strange clash, at home in his strange whole. His broad body is clad in textured, dark black underleathers, a wicked pitch-black breastplate and greaves, all underneath some sweeping sleeveless cloak or priory tabard—mist-grey and somber, at its surface, but seeming to ripple with a frisson of hellfire orange and magenta when the woodland breeze catches it, there one moment and vanished the next, preternatural and alarming as the rest of the man himself. Whatever vestments these are that he wears, nothing of the divine realms has lain touch to them. His power, compelling and captivating as has ever graced this wood, stems from something oppressive, ancient, and fathomlessly dark, till it nearly clouds the air around him. Against its weight he seems almost illumined by compare.

And so bidden, you approach the crossroad…

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For the @ainursecretsanta side event, and inspired by these prompts created by @cilil

Pairing: Makar x Meássë

Themes: Soft | Humor

Warnings: Mentions of sparring | mention of weapons | Major character death prior to the story. 

Wordcount: 600+ words

Summary: Makar has a gift prepared for his sister, and brings it with him when he returns to their keep. 

Minors DNI

Divider by @estrelinha-s

Makar held the spear up to the light. The wood was taken from a branch of Laurelin; it gleamed like beaten gold. The tip was made of finely forged steel. Delicate ripples and swirls spread across the blade. Bears and wolves and lions and delicate vines were carved into the wood. 

"This is flawless," he declared, and he slipped a bag full of gold coin into the hands of Aulë's newest apprentice. "Your master must be well pleased with your skill."

"You honor me, my lord." The elf knew better than to say more than he ought to. Makar's temper was a fickle thing, and he had no desire to rouse the Vala's anger. He accepted the recompense for his labors, and thanked Makar once more before bowing and departing for the safety of Aulë's forge. 

Makar took care to conceal the weapon in long, wide strips of leather. Full of anticipation, he mounted his steed, the spear held firmly in his free hand. Any weapon wrought of wood taken from the branches of the sacred trees was a rare thing, and a great honor, besides. None but the Ainur and elves who performed feats of great valor, were allowed to wield them. 

And she has earned the right to wield it, he thought with pride. Tracking Ungliant to that accursed ravine she called home and slaying her in her own element was no small feat. 

Meássë was still sparring in the courtyard of the keep they called home when he arrived. The sky was full of streams of pale silver light. Silpion waxed as glorious as ever, its light as wonderous as the stars in the sky. 

"Sister," he called softly. Meàssë turned to face him, her old spear still in hand. Her lips curled up at the corners. 

"Care to spar, brother mine?" 

"Later, perhaps."

Her smile was vicious. "Are you afraid of having to yield to me, brother?"

Far be it from him to walk away from a challenge! "The only one yielding would be you, sweet sister." Makar grinned and gave his gift to an attendant to hold. He expected a cutting insult from his sister in return, and heard nothing. He studied her keenly. Meássë seemed happy. Exceedingly so. It made him suspicious. "Why is she in such a fine mood?"

The attendant leaned in and whispered, "Lord Tulkas came calling while you were away, my lord. It appears he wishes to wed Lady Meássë."

His mood soured. "That oaf. Is it true, sister?" Makar did not care for the one everyone else called the Champion of the Valar. Nevertheless, if his sister wished to accept Tulkas' hand in marriage, he would find a way to make peace with it. "Does Tulkas wish to marry you?"

"He does. Aye." Meássë mustered her courage and straightened her back. She knew all too well that her brother held neither love nor respect for the Vala, but she was not going to allow him to dissuade her from accepting such a proposal. "And I will not tolerate any interference from you or anyone else. Is that understood?"

So she was determined to have Tulkas. Makar sighed, but acquiesced to his sister’s choice. "I will not stand in your way, sister. Now how about we train a little?"

They sparred and laughed, and hurled insults at each other. Makar had the upper hand. He was bigger and stronger. It was easy for him to overpower his sister and throw her to the ground. Meássë rose to her feet, drawing shallow breaths while she did so. She dusted the dirt and bits of grass off her leathers. 

"What do you have there?" She had seen the attendant still holding onto the spear and was overcome with curiosity. 

"Tis a gift," Makar replied instead. "And you will receive it tonight after the feast. Perhaps you can use it on Tulkas if he vexes you."

Meássë laughed. "Gift-giving, are we? Very well. I have a gift for you too."

Makar smiled expectantly, thinking his sister had something wonderful to give him. His smile left as swiftly as it came when Meássë charged at him with a cry. Sparring was still far from over. 

Tags: @3dragonstar @asianbutnotjapanese @stormchaser819

[cursedfortune]

[kazeofthemagun]

One of the Witch's dresses, currently placed not on her person yet bearing the residual scent of lavender - so seamlessly interwoven with other smells of the garden, herbs and alchemy. The Hunter lifted it slowly, before bringing it up to his half-covered face.

One of the odd and yet charming aspects of the man of the dark gales - he didn't exactly skulk around. If he wanted to take a deep whiff of something pleasant, he simply did.

...She would find him with his face buried in black fabric, sniffing intently as a scenthound. Guess he did miss her after their recent period of separation.

There was absolutely no shame, nor any noticeable shift to his expression when he finally noticed her (or, at least, refocused his attention). If anything, he seemed rather self-satisfied as he extended his hand, returning the garment.

"Blood and blossoms alike suit you," purred the elder of the Unlimited. "Red and violet dance well together."

@kazeofthemagun

Where she was, no one could truly say but her. Legs curled inwardly; her hands cradled the odd crystal ball within her gentle grasp, seated neatly within her lap as she delved beyond what most knew. In her mental wanderings through old ruins and history, as she studied lost knowledge and pieced together the puzzle of unique spells that haven't been used in ages, she felt an interruption.

Curious spirits of knowledge tapped at her, curled around her conscious shape and whispered of a visitor within her domain. Politely the witch excused herself for this session and shifted away from the ruins; she channeled herself closer to home as she scryed, viewing her own clearing to see a familiar redhead crossing through.

Excitement bubbled up within as she carefully disconnected herself from the ether of all things, brought herself back into the known reality - or the one she chose to acknowledge as her own. Placing the crystal orb within her bag of holding, the witch proceeded to give a lazy stretch of her arms above her head - back arching against the gravestone she had been resting against for hours prior.

Upon her feet once more she cleaned up the space around what was meant to be her grave and padded out of the brush, returning swiftly to the cabin. Pulling open the front door she stepped in and found him there, face buried within one of her dresses. Perhaps some may be put off by such a sight but the witch understood the man before her, there was only a slight squint of amusement shown as she admired the sight. It was far more pleasant to see him in the flesh than not, after-all. She was certainly curious of his adventures away from this place they both could call home, together.

The witch ventured closer, accepting the garment upon him seemingly having his fill of it. Yet it didn't stay within her grasp, not when she could simply toss it onto the dresser nearby. It would seem her focus was only upon him, upon his return and she did not cease walking closer until they were a hair's breadth apart. Here and now black eyes took in her Hunter, assessed his condition and well-being both physically and within the energy that made up his being. Yet they did not stray far from his own gaze, far too much comfort found in the stares they exchanged.

"Oh? Thank you, lovely. I agree with you entirely." Mortem mused as she stood a little taller to wrap her arms around his neck, to draw the two of them closer until the distance was closed finally. Yet in this embrace the witch's gaze gleamed with a familiar playfulness, "That's why I love our dances so very much. Whether it's beneath the moonlight, or one with blades-- or something more carnal." Ashen lips curved into a teasing grin at the latter. "I do so hope you'll be visiting long enough to indulge me in all three... numerous times, preferably."

There was never any denying her interest in him in all ways imaginable. Red and violet mixed well when feet were sweeping across her hardwood floor or out within the grass beneath the moon - though he could be clumsy, he had come far as a dance partner. For dancing was just another form of combat and violence was a language they both knew intimately. It was why she loved to speak it with him, to tear each other down in the guise of building themselves up. Trust to restrain oneself and trust to go harder than others would existed within the same beautiful knot that kept the two of them bound. And speaking of intimacy... her cool fingertips danced along the back of his neck, desire ever evident in some capacity whenever she looked upon him. "I'll let you choose the sort of dance our reunion should consist of first~"

[umbane]

sg verse. | " stop running, fiend. " though she doesn't know if she's referring to the weapon in his hand or him, irelia's seething tone cuts through the night air. the wind blows her hair away from her face as they stand upon this rooftop, the stars above as their witness. ( not so heretical as to curse the first light, yet not so naive as to believe they are sympathetic to her plight. ) " you must answer for what you did to them. " blades fan out behind the guardian, poised to fly at their destination; the boy she fought alongside with, the monster he became.

OHHH, FIEND IS A NEW ONE, ISN'T IT, KAYN?

It is, but Kayn is trying not to keep track of all the names he's called over the years. How long has it been now? Ten? Twenty years? TIME FLIES WHEN YOU'RE MOURNING SOME MEASLY STAR GUARDIAN, DOESN'T IT? WHEN ARE YOU GETTING OVER IT? WE COULD HAVE SO MUCH FUN!

The wind whips at his face, catching the wild ends of his hair, and Kayn considers leaving. He could keep running, like he always does, but he's tired. He's been running so long now.

So he turns, taking in Irelia's hateful glare with his mismatched eyes. Try as he might, Kayn still can't forget the shape of her smile, nor the light of amusement in her eyes. Kayn's own expression now is flat, his eyes unfeeling. If she thinks him a monster, then let him be one. The scythe and its awful glowing eye twirls absently in his hand, drawing a circle around the corrupted star guardian.

"You won't find the answers you seek with me." He wonders if this is the curse of star guardians, the dark side of the contract they're given — they must bear the weight of their pains forever, without even the passing of time to ease it.

He doesn't want to fight her. BUT I DO! — But he is so tired of running. "Irelia." Her full name tastes foreign on his tongue. "Why are you here?"

[ebaeschnbliah]

`This is the lawn of Parth Galen’ ...

... a fair place in the summer days of old. Let us hope that no evil has yet come here.'

They drew up their boats on the green banks, and beside them they made their camp. They set a watch, but had no sight nor sound of their enemies. If Gollum had contrived to follow them, he remained unseen and unheard. Nonetheless as the night wore on Aragorn grew uneasy, tossing often in his sleep and waking. In the small hours he got up and came to Frodo, whose turn it was to watch.

`Why are you waking? ' asked Frodo. `It is not your watch.'

`I do not know,' answered Aragorn; `but a shadow and a threat has been growing in my sleep. It would be well to draw your sword.'

`Why? ' said Frodo. `Are enemies at hand? '

`Let us see what Sting may show,' answered Aragorn.

Frodo then drew the elf-blade from its sheath. To his dismay the edges gleamed dimly in the night. `Orcs! ' he said. `Not very near, and yet too near, it seems.'

`I feared as much,' said Aragorn. `But maybe they are not on this side of the River. The light of Sting is faint, and it may point to no more than spies of Mordor roaming on the slopes of Amon Lhaw. I have never heard before of Orcs upon Amon Hen. Yet who knows what may happen in these evil days, now that Minas Tirith no longer holds secure the passages of Anduin. We must go warily tomorrow.'

The day came like fire and smoke. Low in the East there were black bars of cloud like the fumes of a great burning. The rising sun lit them from beneath with flames of murky red; but soon it climbed above them into a clear sky. The summit of Tol Brandir was tipped with gold. Frodo looked out eastward and gazed at the tall island. Its sides sprang sheer out of the running water. High up above the tall cliffs were steep slopes upon which trees climbed, mounting one head above another; and above them again were grey faces of inaccessible rock, crowned by a great spire of stone. Many birds were circling about it, but no sign of other living things could be seen.

When they had eaten, Aragorn called the Company together. `The day has come at last,' he said: 'the day of choice which we have long delayed. What shall now become of our Company that has travelled so far in fellowship? Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor; or turn east to the Fear and Shadow; or shall we break our fellowship and go this way and that as each may choose? Whatever we do must be done soon. We cannot long halt here. The enemy is on the eastern shore, we know; but I fear that the Orcs may already be on this side of the water.'

There was a long silence in which no one spoke or moved.

'Well, Frodo,' said Aragorn at last. `I fear that the burden is laid upon you. You are the Bearer appointed by the Council. Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you. I am not Gandalf, and though I have tried to bear his part, I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour, if indeed he had any. Most likely it seems that if he were here now the choice would still wait on you. Such is your fate.'

Frodo did not answer at once. Then he spoke slowly. `I know that haste is needed, yet I cannot choose. The burden is heavy. Give me an hour longer, and I will speak. Let me be alone! '

Aragorn looked at him with kindly pity. `Very well, Frodo son of Drogo,' he said. `You shall have an hour, and you shall be alone. We will stay here for a while. But do not stray far or out of call.'

Frodo sat for a moment with his head bowed. Sam, who had been watching his master with great concern, shook his head and muttered: 'Plain as a pikestaff it is, but it's no good Sam Gamgee putting in his spoke just now.' ,

Presently Frodo got up and walked away; and Sam saw that while the others restrained themselves and did not stare at him, the eyes of Boromir followed Frodo intently, until he passed out of sight in the trees at the foot of Amon Hen.

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Breaking of the Fellowship

[the-h-logs]

Ask me when the rain stops

How I felt that day

Tell you how the shield dropped

And where the graves lay

It's not pretty nor a heart throb

But I'll tell you when we see a ray

Now silence until the rain stops 

And listen to what the drops say

I don't remember much of the light

At dawn, all we did was run and cry 

Memories settled with the monarch of night

Came to show us the lie

How horrible and shameful it was to a knight

Many on knees and wished to die

It was the fog that blinded our sight 

And the blood of brothers tasted like rye

On the furthest mountain to the west

You'll see a tree bearing fruits of fire

The place where the dead rest

You'll hear their souls in a choir

Singing their song for any guest

Songs of their hope and desire

For knights, hell lies in the west

A hell more treacherous than any fire

I remember her voice, you know

How she sang us to a bloodlust

Sweet as honey and a whisper so low

How happy we were to turn bodies to dust

With her command ash fell as snow

And killed the meaning of trust

I must confess one thing though

Ashamed that I am and filled with disgust

In a place in my heart where my face won't show

You'll find a red fire of lust

It's a sin I must bear

The last regret of this old nomad

Even with all the hate and despair

And all the graves that I had

To dig and still find that flair

I, whose will was iron clad

A shame to the name and the heir

But I still wish to hear her sing

I'd add more fire to that tree

And slay every child, woman, or king

I heard her once and I'm never free

My heart flutters every spring 

Hoping every wind is she

I know death is just and the bell must ring

If you can lift the blade then kill me

For I will draw blood of every thing

Until my last sight is she

[noones-untruly]

Hey, so, uhm, I did a thing. I'd really like to share it, although I'm very insecure about it. But yeah, here we go.

1 like and I'll continue :D

"A man once had a friend. A friend that could travel the worlds through dreams. And this man was very envious of his friend and yet he fell in love with him.

The friend was an artist. He wasn't really famous but had a small audience. He barely managed to sustain himself with his paintings but refused to switch career paths, as he couldn't bear to do anything else except art. It was what made his life meaningful. The other thing that made his existence bearable was dream walking. The moment he falls asleep he finds himself in a wonderful place. It could be any place, actually. For example, once he had "landed" in a gorgeous castle and spent the entire night strolling in a garden with a beautiful maid, talking about flowers. The other night he appeared on a futuristic space ship and explored an unknown sector of galaxy with a crew. Once he also went to a magic academy and studied secrets of nature alongside geniuses. Sometimes he managed to go to the worlds he already visited, and it appeared that anyone living there still remembered him. The life in the Dreams was always full of joy, without any real inconvenience, pain or suffering. The only reason not to abandon the awakened world and get lost in the dream realm, was the fact that it's impossible for him to create art while dream-walking. So even though the live in the Dreams was much better, he couldn't bring himself to stay there forever without his passion.

The man, on the other side, was a scientist. He was a person with a will to understand the world and its magic. He had a decent job, a nice and cozy apartment, and some other friends, but also that sucking feeling of something lacking.

He only understood what was it, that feeling, the day he met this friend. He lacked the ability to dream and create. He could only think, connect the dots, and copy what he sees, but never had he ever managed to come up with something new. It never really bothered him, until he saw his friend drawing. That moment it hit him. How desperate he was, to be able to create.

It all began with envy. He saw his friend creating and lost his sleep for days. The moment the brush touched the canvas felt like someone stabbed the man. His heart skipped a beat just to find a new rhythm. It went faster and faster as if there was no limit to its speed. The scientist felt that he couldn't breathe properly. Everything suddenly became so vivid and bright that it almost caused pain. On that invisible razor blade of an edge between suffering and euphoria the new chapter began.

The man started to meet the artist regularly. He watched him draw, never commenting on the process nor engaging in a discussion. He listened to the creator silently. Any other sane person, if witnessed them, would say that the scientist was obsessed with the art and the artist. He rarely blinked when looked, his breath was light and irregular, and he sat? still as if he was a statue.

The artist never noticed anything weird about his friend's behavior. Actually, it flattered him, to have such an engaged fan. It was a highly pleasing feeling to have someone who'd listen to everything he says, someone who'd be stunned by his genius so much he would freeze. He loved attention, especially from skeptical people, such as his friend, the scientist. After all, he was a bit egocentric like any other creative person.

This wicked relationship did not go unnoticed, though. Every single of their mutual friends had an opinion on what was happening between the two. Those who were more prosaic claimed that there is no friendship only mutual unhealthy obsession and that it should not continue. On the other hand, those who were less realistic and much more naive found the relationship quite adorable and bookishly romantic. Some of them even actively encouraged it.

But the artist and the scientist never listened to any of the sides, preferring to ignore them.

But unfortunately, nothing lasts forever in this world and thus the feelings had to change... "

[libidomechanica]

Ve checkered wrack the ripend luck holds the deserves, and heaven

A sonnet sequence

               1

My heart really love, so innocent, like a system to eat& see the dormitory, thou be kindly die. To the care not Good, some of great wrong, have not grieve: for that he stalk is wearinesse: in vaine the other John Nebel arguing from the seas, thou, could intrude, and hymns in the Heart, and girt by force, intent back, nor she ne’er was enclosed, she guess; and many a heart. Fruit- tree wild lorelie; over their fame you tell how, if that sight day- bearing faces Love lived with greedily repented all men, his usual, still we lived with he, as if he rued the scattered by our twist it complete sheets will doth thy brow, that in such kindles in my lovers quick wave, like a fresh, and as what the others and squires also the salt water frolic Grace replied. At thou be kindle manhood commend the little, hurried woman who laid and, what it sufficient days is that the self!

               2

And what is not been single life in lieu of love letter than one another can compass done with smooth-kissing a thought her, many poor this feast wears they spoke not perfect, or feel, with vivifying Venus demands. All tranquil cheer, and plant bombs inside clean: for truths; even weep like delight, nor day for flesh there; if any tea, but base on the voice had never an empty head, his sweetly slept not, but not yet in a rock still from the strong palpitation did the nape guess each others? Whose from one minute, and from the British women use but say that’s that he soul is set; a thing up.

               3

Wrong. They wanderer from all could I long curl’d to tell you made; for I will breathless love, gold, in the Husband, never know great it would notarize ox, a prince my dear wooly rose, grapes to clouds of thy should not seemed, as from those sounding evenings are won when its axis, but base declining suddenly her heart or tall might rosy ocean waves in the extremely dull beareth. A picture-dealer, were all that today I whist and pens imbibed the beggar and send their beds and fruit of insult let you were so you why. And, beat from a glance, those morn brought cost both which he deny him leaves.

               4

’ Earth retching slips the pleasure—like nectar strength. There it with all the people of the street, that a public school’d in a parted up in my love, and the still are nothing blades of golden Morpheus in souls than Haidee, and crowned with grief, by all heart do herself before went down on glass, and heard a wished this falsehood, but now was her blood fingers distinct, and thought I could not so shatter’d his spring-time, let’s be struck her high raigne on the brink whence comes to cry and stouping Phebus steering me but two orange sound fortune’s shine like a meal. To bear the cutter’d upon taste who like them bemone that elsewhere than any room. All the Desert— entered, he went, and filter’d weed took them with chastity, whose dainty rind, should make the friars, one kiss and plaintive and Derivéd Self make one glance to God about the sullen might wakes among which pants with a wandering lace, had been tost, a sail.

               5

The morn on that could, if it ended, and soft murmurs, or thy tooth to draw a drap o’ the burden of thy unbraided gold, and there; but thou pine at pleasure too well as on a careless with such material creak’d, thus Leander made; for having only gods nor was a lamentary power to loveliest from the bride. As she moaning told the width the bestowes one were thou not down of his already, sober, he had a mother grave; and, as a privateer, and mother arms? I can euer take in the last gray old wolf, for a stick you who would impossibly escape?

               6

And what name, I design of Love is God, for sympathy, unless through that had all delight, or hammered. The bitter spell is a pure inventions, which its moisture rises, t is, I mean duration of the younger. Though injured the public merit, and Lethe-wards repeated on them more he is a beef-steak. And several who did see; sweete-cruell she too clear, and every donor, rather hair, hath and patients, sublime, the bridegroom meets to hell, and vtter his name? What we by a year or twa, she’ll no others went to me, the revenge, upon her way while Bacchus and kisse; I hoped her train’d!

               7

The human life, am I. Would with a winged Diana when held up her hands have voices, to whom I love excuse the earth parch the country than to flower was comparison, would not calculating devout as fast sleep. This mine may sit like a Turk’s pavilion, had little cotter’s wife when you to get a portional importune Allah; unto his back to cherish. Said the wisest flatter crumble, and very deeds we do. That hadn’t seen for that should soone it shoulde haue no care no light—or darting air and may move, the bitter of hours his painted, viewing Leander cries, Joy!

               8

Sweet Adeline, in careless witty, since all natural ways have greatest arrowy smart did the eggs, fruit doth plunge my separate and flash on: foes, frisk without remembered wine and Juan; and, since Homer’s ancle, tipp’d to leaves about to learn of his Powers are like poppies, will all things friendship is feast. Softly, but I know pining the singer of my word in his king Are vanish; why shouldering men sit a Bird accursed the spray flies in-while, they might revel, played and, without somehow many a jest tool them, which gave me from his hooves checks to frame inversely propose to you thou, light.

               9

And then he telescope was urgent, that flesh and skilful pilot, then, then of the day? He heart to see how each others her chose tragedy divine in the ran; after chastity hast vs homeward. He was and promise of the grand course I take, and baffled our Heart, a lord, a caprices in such halcyon calmness must judge of you. To see how to me but on the stopp’d her door ajar so when it hold, and darkness here; if any chest, feel now had fall for the frequent words and disposed to survey these fools whom abundance my desire, and is always best thou in May.

               10

In bed she was no affrighted, and if we can cast uplandish country with display love’s splash’d. With the iron pole, hard as Newcastle shire, desiring attach myself grew wild: so Juan by, glance like to a blushing of a sea of mine shall be both Silk, and sky limited thus soft touching turtle’s braceless held together I would have had a let lose his arms he left our ears, got to granted to get into diamonds shall be, no doubts, though an into the waves are, since sweet as the lang day on which he came. And built a holy church as wine for me, looking its brother; but the proud Adonis kept alive alone, by stormed bed, to enrich you. Aside him instant for of such a chair to the same. Naughty billow, as one so idly spent, and then lay like a sea of mine eye never light trace and unencumber’d; yet youth abstain’d, in view and there where from the facts!

               11

Still bloudy bullet holes: arsenic, arsenic, surely no one to animal awesome I would be in the brows, me joy, I think that while the dwells in well sugred lip when dying dais before to herself and blood of the silent stream that he would speak to herself was. I am true sights side? There is her maid, how is it not to driven fringe their thrum, a mere quit her chose their sun, and I myself, and heart as black, sustaine the truce was coarser; and the echoed with a tear, will pass’d—was come to sound of change there, althought it were dangerous and me, and Tree. More joy thee speak me so!

               12

And, laying into some bitterly. Like Charon’s breasts when the who expectant, power the consider’d on a better taste neat wintry dame, retired, or rather day! His false—though fields, woods or shall court besides, and moment, upon such others caught that was was nothing car prepared, and throws death a holy perfect noon, in clothes but exprest a wise words had slippers for a kiss’d, and more wisest flowers my sisters triple light: but he, for what blacke face which she sailors are like arguments hackney ear. So precious sighed, she merely mean to part will bee. For if you have not for pity!

               13

But their severall Objects remote; was wear the dark eyes may be Neptune follies on my heart is with eyes were guiltie seem’d her like an ominous birds. They are right each one self-propriety, she made the circling if they had, doubt, and then kisse, both busy throne.—Unfold trust me, and her one kneaded but disturbing her you must heaven is Cupid pine, and saw he did not born and so gentle numbers, waies, that those old baggage. And many think, do never quivering, witch, my friend to the tyrant, now began to wax white blades of gold; yet poortith a’ I could sleep through as free from fear.

               14

You wake untouched her lay, without pausing ayme do guess; and this though tis whist and even in Turkey or in her locks thy fame around I sit and the crept behind, and where planets rotating like very neighbour’s Wife, draws the dwell, will try gainst mind. And, oh! To heaven sacrifice, as the dead, who felt that outside the spectre-thing I listen; and two are steadfast peace of pride; for much mortified with yours yet a dreamed of mere parents to heaved upon taste neat wink of ivory skin and, sobbing o’er long, and the earth and botch of being darkned be; night is Cupid girls’ dormitory.

               15

In the Noose of stated, opening water appetite; like a rich mine together hair is blotted to cracks of loue. Through firm, the full, right reade the hill, and then; now o’er his flowing in a wild and swore he had already how a youth, and lovers, churning in the human dress war are scorn where an all he seized them, Since all sighs are also he slightly ships go out winter and thoughts would breakfast took that shears old chained to drink rum from grape, war, lust, modestly, desolate. I blow away as well as spoilt, prepared, indicative me one mad. If they got afloat. I must’ve drew a sight. And she, still less sort of love’s arrow with speech outward walls so cold vices spent her then fain would county contents me through verdurous haunt of earth beneath the spake the centre of this couch; and, ere this feasted. Apparent leaning with the laity our loved of human heart and everywhere.

               16

And, when Aurora kiss, a kiss of his night inheritors they who watched love in the way to the pleasure sufficed, burns when a token of thy day-nets none but how I do nothing bust, alive, capers, before their better the Tuism, which thou should faint! The grave never make fair, or like—like a mother one and let me, thy willing hours of earth when it grow, and set trash of a ghosts in Change; they came, the Spanish all the Mother, and spends the unbetrays poor priest, the degree, the holy ayde, who love, angry Sisters say, now him both with that words, who have pass’d away from a greater them.

               17

He shoulder when you cleave that I have it. Life’s dearie; there and small, poised feet and swore, if Time. Prophet, for never the mark upon a hard hand a fine displayed betrays, her own footsteps regular and the bow, to rob joy of it, than I like a mistaking therefore he stars do not know no cry, not tread this abject grace of pleasing for curls fell allow; and Juan sweet skies, to save when Loves Firmament glistered garland so our veins? Made milk-white Muse! The heavy heart giu’n me then I have in all heart revelled in dale, or round was best. It’s only care, nor less, then will doth the lily!

               18

That song expire with every way. You, Bob, are a nation for a tear, my pass’d oft looks the way one by one—the faculties, cool’d a long wo in weaken’d hate; since his prey, of life is my subject, because t is to a lake and bear and your adventure have no enemy but forgot upon her cheeks, white and Pride, and her maid, be kept he, had made his very Day I warn’d new; thy Brother had at here. Do not so sweet. Empires hardships were but the bed fallen from Thames his fair, as deeper was rather decease, did feele: for they added ship, well as fair; in tempest-tops, and her naked stood uprightly can praise for my young hand; and person! And grinning with silken skill there and fresh bleed, and precious versation between the spilt, and all the centre of ladies gentle queen o’ the queen oft perceive in thy shouldering heart hath died, gone to all the prosperity.

               19

On spends their stock was deaf and Stellaes face. See how much of a winter on her cheek and she wise; at last. Her too. Listening now fast by getting on their land, the Eye, new Formes, and virgins sow, yet now it e’er got in politely nurtured it would curb it he had been his tale: if foes grief he flits on her present; and in these pleasure to lingers shed would be so. Than did this, say it scarce to fill you will but Luther’s. That Juan by, glance call’d stone is to a treasure draws his pipe now I raise. Eggs, fruit-tree wild clock that looks direct! From the fragrance yet deem’d to bear; and the chair: though not I.

               20

Then all snow feeling, all love water, wine despite of our active me, Hero, Hero, sacrifice to sooth what she sparks of love when she rose from a shades on our pump’d, thus softly sail to all who paused by our teeth on edge; and told a tale, left no doubted if I chaunce, mine ransoms your breast behind a quiet breaks the sky all headlong there, before unto the granted, and days, is comrade’s sufficient made up of the shadows of her lies upon her: grant hills across the Tyrant said: Wait up! The choice of dignity and fair a thing tresses which, like a misers keep your luxury!

               21

She stream, not known minds quick small pleasure, as in lust or faith do move, and made faster of raine once more wardrobe; the sea: there might know the tape rolls in the violence of reformation, and know where he sate hindmost, holds, frisk with motive; and the old man had some of English I cannot climb, and not state; a difference mongst our Elections— these arguments, such true; for what are strives thy found then i hold is thy plain his chamber for it. You are seventh day, the earth: their young, constancy is not to get marriage, and howl, and my lovers in virtuous meant but the entertain sickly too?

               22

And out of some hither, spare it,—Happiness, will take away that a severall Objects too. By shall cheek I see—Ah, no! He thus: that are for the surly sullen might see things made the case I also waned— and provocative strength to serves, all silence dawn coming upon think of their salvation leaves language stars, bards, friends, and of all that news were brass or scorn, began to gazed, and dress kindled them wet, with human breaking Woes darting for foode religion in our hands white, alas! How sweet lovers in this bird reposing in his wisdom as to snare. As fasten or deflected.

               23

Universal epigram; but long ago. A privateer, and my room, imprisoner pent in the Honour, which the statesmen are amatory egotism the green, thou have power than on my radiant bombs inside of moss looks yield ye, where he colour went eking and arrowy smart did fail. Where ovens, the rest; thou, were undid them, and warm, but a curl’d negligently o’er there was dark as a dower has made a lovers like a banner free! On the unbounded, had not with a boy so far extend. And thy perfection and more to be full heart away as I must be?

               24

The Muse-brows. Or throaty humming. And hastily—as not show them: but not be too raw, should makes heroic and cheeks, whom she started soul, the fields and joyous time has lately clear, they that day. He sigh the sweet soul as I, who heroically in heave in such too, he tried, each sitting also learn of heaven the Hearts you poor, would not so safe for a waking the air, to enrich your names, bearing not won before wise, and too tall her starry Fays; the foam of great thou shall dance, England, wife, sate sic pleasure to some have you know’s shaggy footed saint hear little maid, you looked down to hall.

               25

Were his woes forbade then all this effect defective plague thermore unknown exacts that is happening and deeming the love to grins, he foundation made a morning ravish’d people shun them all law would trustings— some scented attones, where thou mak’st philosophy! And mantle of the dew. Thus let falls melodious burdened honor’s laws. The Minotaur—from the time, and sailor when i hold my song called her high wind the bitter in her heart, that godless tutor and farewell, my desire, a household, and then, my Celia, we’ll gentle number crept upon the pulse and still less oath?

               26

Troublesome Growth, his hand in one sight out. I’m merely ceased thy unworthy heart, while Bacchus pours of sterilized me not blow softly, but could imprint that dyes a marble floors never light with a butcher’s face above through as if the little God I heard or similar remark on which are much towns and the flits on her sweetly sin and of late has growes had Venus fill you both young wife—a time, that now they what heedless rich to roam, it leans a kind of delight to the first of discover what excuse will profession; for such love them had learne with his arch-enemy but why?

               27

The fire; for all must wait several days is true in sure such words. A touch you. While common, and he sigh’d;—the newest may do the deep drench’d by every spacious, that she was a broad-brimm’d in a recent raging that shrinks from my will harsh wave what elder love, silent night and staggering he make more it cherish. I watched, and mock your love, and these rites of the sun and purgatory to leave, life’s dearest bands to be set free, than with violent pass watcher’s heaven wounded bosom when all’s over Catholics the sun, brought into thee desire arose and gilding. Or hopes were asleeper?

               28

More glorious would not the raven fet, would grow more pleasure of nicety, when a noble never do you, eye and palpable of the sideboard’s statues only to thrill beneath a window that’s it! That a bowl upon true Love before unrestrained, that blow softly sail was rather presence of a Good Son, who pours of the world enamour’d of his digging his was— pardon the painted original, so prevails whence he had a mother. Believing to their rank and the mean the chaste desire, and looking of their grave; such occasional production, and tumbling, screen.

               29

Things? Already—and round his looks be anchor’d in shapin’ a heckle, an’ kissing brevity to close that languages did duty. Love deep-sunken poet a genius or understand. Are filched by a cough a wilder’d, Think of Black Friar; retired wing rather essence my tale. And something but him. There shrouded was, the Humour ever; tis wisdom, every way. Wild night see the churches; ’ there was extreme; for aught he hopes, so very hard sky limits. Fades, unseen unto the seasonable bows are youthful from me. Haidee strict to the servants and fertile, among the bed; at length.

               30

’Tis true? Bacchus and wine, which th’ approved by spoonfuls of youth, full of my love of eggs, oysters, seeing the head which was talk’d down on the sounds deigns the cast a sign her eyes were it she got too as Space. And yonder Castlereagh don’t birds may take his eyes of those meeting leagues of love. After chambermaids are all the third forms of the father generally no other turn in hill with marks of love, though not availed hare: how plenteous fort where too much mortified with his dusky garb, appeal says, t is just descried Henry, link’d wild, and determin’d them now for love the drooping to bed.

               31

The served to sound; and in her blood, whose fair. But so far out of the stronger heeds the good small birds come other err’d upon the dancing shadowy, shrunk, and serious: but they always proved us walking other John and the new-blooming an amorous love, silence of his arms three or four throated ease. That the bride; for on the dirty hovel: some Christians have philosophic passions turn. The first was never heart is all heave at what a private like a space flower doest prodigy but with lurid beats loud and there past, having part; and even the next, when you’ve passionate one.

               32

Yellowing (dogs have a convulsions raise. I like flesh so the soft cheeks, that is it fret against her happier than form, or even in every wave on which should flies in-of you. Belle Isle,—unfolded floating looks the honey on the least vouchsafe so much should, an age which mountain, my dress that flesh and wild carrot. What I saw two walking pageant that fall a sleep. How blest thinking across the walked aside, and Greek—that in a sunrise man say? And smote him in he rubb’d their servants puzzling, the liberty to be, beauties be, beat is like all pure Gold returning rockets? You have year.

               33

In its aspect of think it’s ok with error find. They are the chamber when mine, and close; the hope was over the most reseeds of his natiue moisture was she saint of Zoe’s company ornaments and promise forth in a bottle while Bacchus and round; and in hand, asks first part by the sand, sends messages to sleep. If thou among the art to sink; and the Eastern hill far from fear. How fair face, they came that sun dual nature’s will plan of melancholy musical of that Scout, though weather. The land her who is awoke by turns to immoral course as maidens faith, to spare not alone.

               34

The sixth year or twa, she’ll no other turn in him gaudy toys to pass unseen unto the tear or groans of gods, but to the lone belief in which we are not seen: fire as tuneful person what it hath no pain, and send to the princessantly with blushed a tender frame, who listening all heaven knows,—it may be her than those degree that now that’s impossible when song the highly disgraced her at his sister and became a youngest upon the other beckon’d by my unkindness in absent family of course as it a try. Nothing supplied: Remember backache after hold it!

               35

A sweet maid, but the huge Colossus’ legs, and I. And too much formality,—all worthiness isle had no other. Here; and low! Water her starts; no jealous for that small rockets? An’ a’ the garden of life, the others grown, her while playing. And built a castliness? She seem’d all misplaced, and then to be filled transistory is written love letter blast to thy hive. Might upon her for a sail. Such forced with time contrived a cough as feel my flocke and Helper! Brings huge and ladies gent. And situation, each one Beauty; and laying heart to see what bless oath? To juggle to untie!

               36

My mouth of feeling princessantly what’s said her in the Syren’s cry my sole and pay our tale: to run before than forms have reared, in Juan. And self-sweet-Slug-a-bed, and she was upon thine eye, cheat so well when he’s king salt waters troubled by the just, and when he behold a foreign places—their revenues of purgatorial creature of moisture, by the heard it: this rain into a blush in lays. Sad Hero the Ruby Seal that he was, instead of being a divorce puzzled but only Hope and that particular had read now transferred to bless to her beam on my spirit affords in polish’d that he did under than any chest, fair Adeline was before if to lift and she wept at least bo-peepe or crouching utter were delight sun, at length, yet mix’d, and, as the cave for her cheek and Forward lie, more faire encreasing him in, a street, and gold or set in vain.

               37

Trip for this Venus, which he den look’d the tall truth: has nothing rascal, Pedro, Battista, helpless, will professions; we have street; each thou art for Thee in all the lily! How amber for a Moment; and if these was used sparingly,—some word he bids from the tell when desire of the heart;— as I by version I think to driven, the laws, and odd stanzas as not entirely began to women, mirthful from heart, as they ran the sun, at least one thinke that of doubtful twilight from them night beat is every gods have gone, she was not read the one that year, through the past, of their shoes!

               38

Now had followed long Excursion before if she smile still retains waved of counsel then o’er thy name calls you still containe, retire in front of fiery flame was mute and as her cheek is congealing frail, a monk, array; why dost not believe me, let me to me. The sole of cypress State, hath left no doubt we were first did not; savages, that all unbe than I resigns the long-boat the bay crown’s shapes commits, where to thy hive. For I will last nigh the centre of nations of hot to move, completely sans culotte, ’ and weak; at which, as she sits a rout or blood to be neuter—and stood.

               39

Star must now, With two roads diverged in absent, nay, whatever than when ’tis prescriptive nymphs should sleep a further can comprehend, althought. Well shucks, and he lay. Of the very day she knew he was her newly stronger lives, as she sad mistaken, and yet rapidly, she stopp’d, and eke to and thought, I know what’s rather drank thee! Should save his party-secret, for thee; a mind disdainful earth resolu’d thy errours to thinke those tomb fair hues, nor other dress of his face made when his diadem, than selling Will, devouring pageant goes and stood in the golden head, and kings, exceeds?

               40

See without remorse, in truth nothing the land he lay, full well becoming net, whilst we part in the bow, to row they drew, tremendous light cure I am sitting sheets will bloudy bullet hole in a cloak, alas! When overlooked and recourses would make Cupid pine, new as wept he, losing nearer that sends women walk my love me graces might not long speech were curious appear, t was belong that from her lips of his lily be all my poor part of fiery dust. Which they’re breathed her observe what elder loves to carry off as a flower, death with roses of the colonial trade, I sweare I will surely die. There was a Friar, strife, no dislike this lips each our part in phrases, they will dignity and maker, who were taught a lay motions tread and turns—without worst of poetry, at least ambition stir; and ever saw you, with eyes and fever, yet her.

               41

For years. And, like swarming smile upon it long speechless smile … What would he quite as you praise a vassal And carrot. And knock on my face was from daybreak—rather love; take me graceful, grace I suffer thing his that newe is very courage earnd it posterity fame keep thank your small plan when its alchymy, and gildings of good modern Greek i’d have furnish’d sweet skies, to put for his locked in silence of men, and Titan on the must we rested not rescue him quite bewitch me hope—quite as kill’d head such sweet water for all must now, not entirely beauties reddest well as Sight.

               42

And bolted thus to aim especially as he in the bay,—quite as a Queen of this pollution, and told me by this couch; and not onely in the water, and die as fast as the watchman, or yet there was all myself and corruption to a treasure, as well she down, despites of brother, come, who, wandering. Come, my dreamer, wake untuned gold, but trepidation or Daughter, some people fort, and their compare, whaever has met wi’ my Phillis can see. Come, and a dead sand, like to anticipate this the fire, bequeathed o’er-worn; When Juan’s career home-run to sing. His gains.

               43

Little or twa, she trembling all the day? And all used of his! That in the moved with the able to add a storm; and knows how? His fierce, thereat skill, until morning.; And, scarce avail us? I’ll seize the fancy our love; take that drank your sails; the rush’d as that feeds of his strength. Complete therewith all who joy would not join the shepherds thy power. More love the biscuit-casks of wild farewell, my Spain, and determined to abate, and the hoarser murmurs, or ouer-wise. No doubt, less tutor and recepts misse! But seeing eye, Love, with all mistook But winter with your hands and ere he dreams.

               44

Over the evil days on evil tongue. Wretched his fair Love from me where the studde, how great winter with rigours, and, like Mars carousing near that it sufficiency my head, but we were awhile upon the honey-fly their best to the sea should be sinne while the rich makes me at things she’s woo’d, and Ocean slumber I’ll touch is advice— and Lifted up, intent on the pale—with the light have streak of the green-spreading virtue up, and, each worth nor from a gutted mine historical superstition! May delight to pay him leave their rank grasse now had been more nigh. Do Greece of many sight?

               45

To get marriage-bed of love. A lovely fair truth perdition, whom she fled from the sky; now o’er him; nor is’t of existence. Such a guest waiting how much that it shall you most word, a sigh to such others? And now lay sick of beer, because, as maiden queen attentions, but with young beam o’er it a cobweb-lawn; scenes to their name is innocent: twere, thoughts white as an instruments, neither generation. Titus exclaim’d, I’ve lost. Yearning slave-maker, Mr. The centre of the past care four times counties have had been teeth much more Shakspearian, if I could travel, ennui, lovely-head!

               46

The one him down at your peculiar mouth of occupation,—fair which pants with things that the rack and grace; but one or other present all the princes trim her soul’s Rialto hate. I’m martyr to a woman&when should hardy to accompany, that some accounted nice. The spirit, the Heart, and complete the port-hole made senses past and damaged in them also did turne. In polish’d with capsules in many man into two milky ways, in all pure dye light boat will have sir, both my poor beast the civil list he came unasked by night mount and now the peeping car from off the trees nay!

               47

That death led me—who knows why we are true, ’tis true. The debt unsunk, the isthmus of these few could to call my sword of all euils, cradled in it. He feigning, yearning shoes drew, set by a curate; some Christians have power, jove slyly stealth. And which light should I have felt his king how ripe ears amid all show to mother’s sprightly he been him to hideous night changeable had won. Who they found then in him—he was sparkling I mightiest creature, by missed, which sucked and cheer, compare, whaever has met wi’ my Phillis, has met wi’ my Phillis, has met wi’ my Phillis, has met wi’ the brink.

[magicwingslisten]

ELEGY THE ELEVENTH: WAR IS A CRIME

Whoe'er first forged the terror-striking sword, His own fierce heart had tempered like its blade. What slaughter followed! Ah! what conflict wild! What swifter journeys unto darksome death! But blame not him! Ourselves have madly turned On one another's breasts that cunning edge Wherewith he meant mere blood of beast to spill.

Gold makes our crime. No need for plundering war, When bowls of beech-wood held the frugal feast. No citadel was seen nor moated wall; The shepherd chief led home his motley flock, And slumbered free from care. Would I had lived In that good, golden time; nor e'er had known A mob in arms arrayed; nor felt my heart Throb to the trumpet's call! Now to the wars I must away, where haply some chance foe Bears now the blade my naked side shall feel. Save me, dear Lares of my hearth and home! Ye oft my childish steps did guard and bless, As timidly beneath your seat they strayed.

Deem it no shame that hewn of ancient oak Your simple emblems in my dwelling stand! For so the pious generations gone Revered your powers, and with offerings rude To rough-hewn gods in narrow-built abodes, Lived beautiful and honorable lives. Did they not bring to crown your hallowed brows Garlands of ripest corn, or pour new wine In pure libation on the thirsty ground? Oft on some votive day the father brought The consecrated loaf, and close behind His little daughter in her virgin palm Bore honey bright as gold. O powers benign! To ye once more a faithful servant prays For safety! Let the deadly brazen spear Pass harmless o'er my head! and I will slay For sacrifice, with many a thankful song, A swine and all her brood, while I, the priest, Bearing the votive basket myrtle-bound, Walk clothed in white, with myrtle in my hair.

Grant me but this! and he who can may prove Mighty in arms and by the grace of Mars Lay chieftains low; and let him tell the tale To me who drink his health, while on the board His wine-dipped finger draws, line after line, Just how his trenches ranged! What madness dire Bids men go foraging for death in war? Our death is always near, and hour by hour, With soundless step a little nearer draws.

What harvest down below, or vineyard green? There Cerberus howls, and o'er the Stygian flood The dark ship goes; while on the clouded shore With hollow cheek and tresses lustreless, Wanders the ghostly throng. O happier far Some white-haired sire, among his children dear, Beneath a lowly thatch! His sturdy son Shepherds the young rams; he, his gentle ewes; And oft at eve, his willing labor done, His careful wife his weary limbs will bathe From a full, steaming bowl. Such lot be mine! So let this head grow gray, while I shall tell, Repeating oft, the deeds of long ago! Then may long Peace my country's harvests bless! Till then, let Peace on all our fields abide! Bright-vestured Peace, who first beneath their yoke Led oxen in the plough, who first the vine Did nourish tenderly, and chose good grapes, That rare old wine may pass from sire to son! Peace! who doth keep the plow and harrow bright, While rust on some forgotten shelf devours The cruel soldier's useless sword and shield. From peaceful holiday with mirth and wine The rustic, not half sober, driveth home With wife and weans upon the lumbering wain.

But wars by Venus kindled ne'er have done; The vanquished lass, with tresses rudely torn, Of doors broke down, and smitten cheek complains; And he, her victor-lover, weeps to see How strong were his wild hands. But mocking Love Teaches more angry words, and while they rave, Sits with a smile between! O heart of stone! O iron heart! that could thy sweetheart strike! Ye gods avenge her! Is it not enough To tear her soft robe from her limbs away, And loose her knotted hair?—Enough, indeed, To move her tears! Thrice happy is the wight Whose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see! But he who gives her blows!—Go, let him bear A sword and spear! In exile let him be From Venus' mild domain! Come blessed Peace! Come, holding forth thy blade of ripened corn! Fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair!

(translated by Theodore C. Williams 1908)

Albius Tibullus (54 BC-19 BC)

[captainofthetidesbreath]

There's a long-time theory that Bertrand is the lord of the Quadroads.

Back in 1.95: "One Year Later..." in about 811 PD, Grog found a very drunk stranger, one without any connections or people who would miss him, in the Quadroads district of Vasselheim and persuaded him to draw one card from the Deck of Many Things. The stranger was granted the ability to cast Wish twice and immediately used the first: "I wish that I was a powerful lord of the Quadroads." Thus, it was promptly done. He was dressed in finery and an attendant appeared at the end of the alleyway, asking the stranger how long he would be. The stranger admits he doesn't know the attendant's name, incorrectly says Grog's name back to him ("Grog Strongthings"), and then left with the attendant. Because Grog never got the stranger's name, he is known at the table and in the fandom simply as "the lord of the Quadroads". Matt remarked at the end of the scene: "There are many lords and ladies of the Quadroads, he's just now one of them."

Bertrand is introduced in The Search for Grog in the retinue of Holy Curator Uleas, representative of the Quadroads, suggesting Bertrand is from or otherwise associated with the area. He seems to generally have status, hence why he was at the meeting at the Platinum Sanctuary that Vox Machina crashed, but he has no apparent high-level connections in the city. Bertrand also has a hard time remembering people's names even if just told, evidenced in The Search for Grog / Bob and carried into Campaign 3.

On top of it all, Bertrand claims a lot of accomplishments, but he doesn't have anything to back it up; it's simply tall tales and boastful exaggerations, inflating his importance and knowledge in all manner of things. In the Search for Grog / Bob, he is a high-level character without having seemed to have done any adventuring, service, work, or study. These together build a sense that he's cheated his way to where he is, somehow.

Despite his participating in high-level combat, we somehow don't know his subclass; I wonder if he had one at all in the one shots, and I speculate that perhaps he did not, he's just a Fighter. I further add that, though we don't know much about him mechanically, Bertrand as introduced in Search for Grog / Bob is mechanically centered on the concept of luck, and of pushing one's luck: he has both the Lucky feat and carries a Gambler's Blade.

Bertrand being the lord of the Quadroads would neatly tie all this together: he is a very lucky man who pulled a phenomenal card out of a Deck of Many things on his first and only draw and instantly gained status that he didn't work for nor was brought up bearing, which created a massive gap in his background, his connections, and his ability that he has to somehow explain, which he attempts to do so by covering up with fanciful tales to paint him as justifiably here. Lucky and the Gambler's Blade is part of an ongoing tapestry of luck that includes that card; his mechanics spell a story about the coming and going of fortune. Maybe he didn't have a subclass to underscore what he skipped over getting to where he is, cheating and never gaining the skill. He is a simply a man of the Quadroads, a lord without connections because he isn't a lord at all, a charlatan and a teller of tall tales because he doesn't have another story to tell. A Wish, the first of two granted by drawing a card, gave everything to him in an instant.

As Bertrand says, in 3.01: The Draw of Destiny, "Not a noble, a knight is generous, but it was a title bestowed upon me, and I didn't shoo it away."

[cassandraclare]

The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed.  “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself,  reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.

[sinfromlokislair]

a blighted stomach

so. guess who’s FINALLY back after hinting about writing stuff, but then publishing it? it’s me. and i come bearing something incredibly cursed: dbd vore. yes, the beloved +18 video game where you competitively kill helpless people. and what’s this? this vore fic doesnt even have the killers voring anyone? 0/10 unfollowing right now.  anyways, this fic features f/elix r/ichter as an unwilling pred. i simply think the Blight would be into that kind of stuff.  word count: 4962 contains: unwilling pred, unwilling prey, male pred, painful vore, soft vore, ambiguous ending, mild violence, m/m vore and m/f vore

He could not say how long it had been since he had first arrived in the Entity’s realm, only that it hadn’t been long. He knew this because, despite the fact that he had been wandering through what felt like a purgatory made of dead grass and fog, he hadn’t once felt the pang of hunger or the irritating, dry itch of thirst. In fact, he still felt as well fed and quenched as he had been when first he entered into this hellish place. Which was not, to say, particularly well, but enough that it didn’t bother him. 

What did bother him was that there seemed to be no way back. Felix Richter remembered being on an island, a place with sand and the sound of the waves close by, not this strange, fog coated plane of compact dirt, dark sky, and dead grass. He’d been following his father, hadn’t he? But his father had vanished into that fog, and now he was nowhere to be seen. 

And like a fool, Felix had followed him. He berated himself quietly, telling himself he shouldn’t have been so impulsive, that he’d make a horrible parent if he couldn’t control his own urges. But that didn’t solve the situation at hand: that he was somewhere far from the island, and that he had no idea how to get back.

Lost, then. He was lost, and there was only one thing to do when you were so horribly lost you didn’t know if you were still in your own dimension: stop and gain your bearings. So he finally let his legs rest, moving to sit on a patch of dried up grass and stare at the world around him. 

It was dark, and foggy, and smelled like dried grass and, well, fog. Alright, environment established. He squinted into the fog, peering for any signs of structure to determine their architecture; if he could discover that, surely he could figure out where on the planet he was. But there was nothing. Next, he checked the grass over, trying to determine if any of the species were familiar to him. He plucked a blade and turned it over in his palm, looking for any defining characteristics. 

It nicked him painfully. Felix winced; the edges of the grass were unbelievably sharp. He chanced a glance at his pant legs–they were intact, but he wondered for how long. Same went for his dress shoes. And speaking of shoes, onto the final test: the dirt. He dropped the blade of grass and dug some dirt up with his fingernail. 

It was unbelievably dry, almost sand-like in its texture. It turned to powder on his fingers and sifted off his skin, falling back to the ground. Right, so he was in a place that was dark and shrouded in fog, and this place had incredibly sharp grass blades that grew as high as his knee and rooted in dirt that was virtually ash. 

He had absolutely no idea where one such place would be; fog implies moisture, and this fog didn’t give him any such feeling. Dirt that was virtually ash should be kicked up with every gust of wind, but there was no wind here. Grass this sharp shouldn’t be rooted in a place so dead. And the night was simply too dark–there were no stars in the sky, nor any light of the moon. 

Lost, then. He was unbelievably lost, and had gotten this way chasing the specter of his father that had vanished on this island so many years ago. He hugged his knees to his chest and focused on his breathing, trying not to think of that traumatic night. The clawed being, the dark fog, the way their parents had screamed…

Something shifted in the fog, drawing Felix’s gaze. For just a moment, he saw the silhouette of a person, which drew him right to his feet. 

“Hello?” He said, and they turned away from him, beginning to depart. “Wait, come back! I mean you no harm!” And he ran after them, chasing that faint glimmer of hope with all he had.

Which was when the world began to change. The night grew green in color. The full moon rose in the sky. The grass turned black, and lost its saw blade edge. The fog grew moist in nature, and the dirt squished beneath his feet. Felix paused, glancing around, and the fog retreated. 

He was in some kind of fenced area, wide and open, filled with piles of junk and crushed cars. Fires blazed in trash cans filled with, well, trash, and lights flickered on in what seemed to be a dilapidated gas station. He could see, towering above the trash piles, tall poles with lights attached to them, which flickered on and off. And besides many of those poles were tall, horrifying sharp meat hooks.

The sight sent shivers up his spine, but that was not even the strangest aspect of this place. No, that would be the cancerous orange growths which seemed to grow on everything. They seemed to originate from strange, glowing orange flowers which had attached themselves to the trees, their vines choking at the bark and branches. He approached one curiously and saw that it was dripping its orange fluid, which smelled horribly foul. 

It reminded him of pus leaking from a room. Felix scrunched his nose and backed away from it. Where was this place? He didn’t recognize it. It certainly wasn’t on the island he’d been on. The architecture of the gas station suggested a place of American origin–and he’d been nowhere near America on that island. How had he traveled so far in such little time?

He did not get his answer, a sudden chill running up his spine. The fog was back, and he saw a humanoid figure inside of it. Instinctively Felix backed off, raising his arms defensively. 

“Wh-who’s there?!” He demanded, suddenly aware he was unarmed, and hadn’t really ever been to a self-defense class. In his polished suit jacket and dress pants, he was a tasty looking target for any potential thief. 

The figure stepped forward, and shockingly, Felix recognized her. That dark skin, that wild afro, the zig zag white and red shirt–it was Elodie. Elodie, who was halfway across the globe. Elodie, whom he hadn’t spoken to in years.

And she looked just as surprised to see him. “Felix?” She gasped, and he felt some tension leave his body. Juts Elodie, just his friend from so long ago that he had no idea if she even remembered much beyond his name. 

“Elodie!” He exclaimed. “It’s been so long, I–”

“God, no,” she grimaced, shaking her head. “Not you too…” 

That response killed his jovial expression, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “You’re not…happy to see me? I–well, I understand, it has been a long time.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not that! This isn’t a place anyone should be! Felix, we’re in the belly of the beast, and the fact the Entity called us both is–”

She suddenly stopped, and Felix felt his heart pounding in his ears. Fear was overtaking him suddenly, surging his body with adrenaline and causing him to tremble. He could hear something approaching them–fast. Instead of running, he turned to face it, confusion written on his face.

Something massive was running towards them, vaguely humanoid yet so far from it. It’s eyes were golden, just like the flowers, and its jaw formed a large oval shape filled with the stuff. Sharp teeth poked in from all angles, matched in ferocity only by the scythe it was wielding as it charged at them.

“Run!” Elodie yelled, grabbing his arm and breaking him from his trance. She shoved him before her, the sound of steel meeting flesh tearing through the air as Felix took off, Elodie’s cry of agony chasing him. He bolted for cover, ducking behind a wall of crushed cars as he caught his breath, heart still pounding in his ears. 

What was that!? What was Elodie doing here?! Where even was here!? He panted wildly, both from fear and the sudden exhaustion of running across an entire map as he slowly stood, peeking between the cars to observe the creature still chasing Elodie. It appeared like a man–a horribly disfigured man who was unnaturally tall. It was being outpaced for now, but how long could Elodie keep it up for? 

The creature suddenly roared and slammed into a pile of cars, twisting and turning on Elodie with a burst of speed. It lunged, bringing its scythe down on her a second time. She screamed and hit the ground, trying to crawl away from the beast. Instead, it grabbed her by her back, tossing her over its shoulder, and made for one of the hooks. 

Felix had to look away, unable to watch as Elodie was strewn up like a piece of meat. Her scream of pain, however, echoed in his mind, bouncing back and forth and forcing him to look at her. She hung limply, whimpering in pain as the creature charged away.

He was suddenly aware of…something, being finished. No, a generator. How did he know it was a generator? He couldn’t say. Something in his mind, something that wasn’t him, alerted him to it. Four more. Four more what? Generators? What did he have to do with those?

No, he was focused on Elodie. Glancing back and forth to check for the creature, Felix abandoned his hiding spot to run to her side, gritting his teeth as he tried to figure out what to do. Right, this was a meat hook covered in gross pustule flower things, and Elodie was hanging from it, how could he get her down safely without injuring her further?

Grab her and hoist her down. It was that strange intruder in his head again. He didn’t want to listen to it, but with nothing else to have any faith in, he obeyed. Walking to the front, Felix slowly reached up and grabbed Elodie’s waist, grateful for all of those hours at the gym as he hoisted her off the hook. 

Her blood splattered on his face, causing him to cringe as her feet touched the ground. “A-are you alright?” He asked, moving to wipe it on his sleeve. 

“I’m fine,” she gasped, clutching her side. “Come on, to the gas station, we can find some medical supplies in there.” She took a single step, and the pustule flowers suddenly burst, spraying her with the filthy stuff. Felix, who was on the opposite side of her, only got a bit on his jacket. 

She screamed in pain and spat out a curse so vile it made Felix blush. He tentatively moved to ask her if she was alright only for her to throw up a hand. “Move! We need to run! It knows we’re here now!” And she took off for the gas station. 

Felix, with no other options, chased after her, suddenly aware of the scream of a man from somewhere nearby. A man who was in pain, and lying on the ground. He appeared as a red stain in Felix’s vision–that was…odd, to say in the least. But there was no time for him. Elodie needed help. 

She had already vanished into the gas station, and Felix rushed in behind her, disappointed that there was no door he could close to keep them safe. In the corner, he could just make out Elodie mending herself, packing her wounds with gauze and wrapping the others in bandages. Her clothing was stained and glowing brightly in the dark. 

“Elodie…” he started, approaching her slowly, “what is going on? What was that thing? Where are we?”

The man’s scream echoed loudly through his mind, and he was aware that the man had suffered the same fate as Elodie had: hooked. It sent chills down his spine. 

“To tell you now would waste too much time.” Elodie kept at her mending, wincing at the pain. “All you need to know is we are being hunted by a monster. In order to escape we must power the generators and open the gate. Don’t get caught, or it will string you up like meat and sacrifice you to its god.” 

“Its god? Gods don’t exist.”

Her glare shut him right up. “They do here,” she spat, finishing her mending. “Right, we need to work on generators. I will get Ace off the hook. You’re an architect, aren’t you?”

Ace? “I am.” 

“Good. Work on one of the generators and don’t stop until it’s done–or that thing sees you. If it sees you, it–”

She suddenly winced, the fluid on her skin glowing brightly. “It…will…chase…” 

A full body tremble overtook her and she fell to her knees. Felix rushed over, trying to find what was wrong with her, but could do nothing as she fell on her side, her eyes rolling back into her head. His heartbeat began to pound in his ears as the fluid on her exploded, coating more of her body in the stuff. She cringed, writhed, and suddenly began to shrink, turning both of his brows up in shock. 

No way was this real. People did not shrink from weird pustule flowers. No, this had to be a dream. Elodie was not here, he was not here, they were not trapped in whatever weird place this was, with a monster chasing them, with gods waiting for their blood. He stepped back, unable to take his eyes off her as her form diminished, changing her from a woman almost the same height as him to a particularly large stain on the floor. 

His heartbeat was beginning to pick up uncontrollably. He wanted to run away and hide, hold his head until it was over. But no matter how many times he rubbed his eyes and pinched his arm, he was still in the gas station, and Elodie was still shrinking. 

Despite the fear pounding in his ears, he finally crouched next to her, whispering in a choked voice, “Elodie?” 

Her body went still. Nearby, he could hear the creature. “Elodie?” 

Her eyes shot open, and she tried to scramble to her feet. Standing at her full height now, Felix could see she was no bigger than a mouse. The pustule juice on her was gone, at least, though it was cold comfort at her new state. 

“Felix?” She gasped, then glanced around at the now giant sized world. “Oh no, no no no NO!” 

He winced back, holding his hands up placatingly. “You’re…uh…less likely to be…seen…now?” His heartbeat was so loud in his ears. He dared a glance up. 

The creature was staring at them from the entranceway to the gas station. The sight of its golden eyes made his blood run cold. Without thinking Felix grabbed Elodie and bolted for the other exit, adrenaline pumping in his veins. 

The creature roared and chased after him, putting on a burst of speed as it smashed into a pile of cars. Elodie was screaming something, though Felix didn’t know what. All he knew was that the monster was suddenly right behind him, scythe raised, and that he didn’t want this to be how he died. 

The blunt end of the scythe suddenly smacked into his back, knocking him to the ground with a painful blow. He just barely managed to avoid crushing Elodie by throwing his hand out to the side instead, which resulted in the air being knocked from him. She tumbled from his palm onto the ground, crying out as she did so. 

He expected the creature to stab him, to finish what it had started, but it ignored him, moving to look over Elodie. She screamed in horror as it moved to pick her up, long, bony fingers wrapping around her tiny form. Felix pulled himself up on his elbows, glancing up at the creature, unsure if he should run or play dead. 

It was so enamored with Elodie he considered leaving her, but then recalled that she knew more than he did…and she was his friend. He couldn’t leave her at the mercy of that beast. 

It seemed like he wouldn’t have to. The beast turned on him, the sight of its face enough to make his heart skip a beat. Felix immediately flipped over and backed away, his heart pounding so wildly he was sure it was about to escape his chest. Go away, go away–!

It approached him, cornering him against a pile of crushed cars. Felix desperately searched for an exit and found none as the creature loomed over him, holding the struggling Elodie with a single hand. It pinned his shoulder with the other, holding him against the cars as it brought her near to his face. 

He was too terrified to fight, though she certainly wasn’t. Elodie was kicking and punching at the fingers holding her, even moving to bite them once before spitting violently–looks like that wasn’t a good idea. Her eyes locked with Felix for a moment, and it was a look of disappointment that affixed him. Instead of fighting, he was cringing like a scared puppy beneath a much larger dog. 

He wasn’t as brave as her and he knew it. He’d dealt with his problems by avoiding them, by drinking and pretending everything was fine. By studying how to pretend, and getting by on fooling others. And now he could see just where that had got him: pinned beneath a monster that was holding one of his few friends in the world before his face. What was it going to do, crush her and wipe the blood on him?

One of its long fingers brushed against his lip, and he turned his head away, leaning as far from this creature as possible. It closed in, throwing the weight of its entire heavy body on him and making him gasp. And right as he gasped, it shoved Elodie into his mouth. 

“Mmphf?!” He managed, trying to spit her out only for the creature to shove her back in. Elodie was screaming and writhing against his tongue, her midsection pressed between his teeth–he dare not bite or try to close his mouth for fear of biting her in half. And this creature knew that. 

It moved its other hand to grab his jaw, forcing it to stay open even as he twisted his head to try and get away from it. With its hand holding Elodie, it pushed her in further, up to her legs. Her head pressed against the roof of Felix’s mouth, moving back towards his throat. His gag reflex triggered, the muscles squishing her against his tongue as he coughed, spat her partially out, and promptly had her shoved in again. Now she was up to her calves, and the monster was massaging his neck with its thumb, trying to get him to swallow. No, no! He would never!

Elodie wriggled in his mouth, coating her body with his saliva and banging against his teeth. It felt weird having something alive in his maw, let alone someone he knew! She tasted of sweat, dirt, and blood, making him wince at the foulness of it all. Her hands pressed against the roof of his mouth as she flipped over, trying to kick at the hand that was pushing her deeper. 

And that was a mistake. By flipping over and kicking, she inadvertently slid a little deeper into Felix’s mouth. Her head had rested against the back of his tongue before, her hands just gripping the edge before his throat. But when she flipped, her hands pressed the soft flesh on the top of his throat and her body slid just a tiny bit deeper in–enough so that her head touched his throat. 

His gag reflex activated, and this time, Felix swallowed. Elodie lit up at the muscles suddenly grabbing her and pulling her back, a muffled scream making its way to Felix’s ears and wrenching his gut. He tried to stop and cough her up, but the monster forced his mouth shut, his teeth clicking just behind Elodie’s feet. 

She was crammed into his throat. Felix squeezed his eyes shut and trembled, another dry swallow inching her down his esophagus. She was too big for him–certainly, she was the largest thing he’d ever swallowed–and it stretched his esophagus painfully. There was hardly any saliva in his mouth, making each swallow and gulp all the more agonizing. Despite the massage on his throat from the outside, it was a fight to get her deeper than her waist–wait, what was he thinking?! He shouldn’t be thinking about swallowing his friend! Felix suddenly coughed and heaved, feeling Elodie’s legs against his tongue kicking and trying to find purchase to pull her out. 

The creature seemed dismayed at that, and reached into its cloak. With one hand it held Felix back down–its strength was superhuman!--and with the other, it retrieved a flask. The fluid inside was murky and suspicious, and as it uncorked the bottle he realized with horror that was meant for him. He clamped his mouth shut and tried to back away, but the bottle was forced to his lips and poured it, the fluid finding its way into his mouth. It tasted like rotten fruit–ah, that’s what it was, rancid wine–and poured down his throat. 

The relief from the pain was almost as blissful as the horror that struck his heart. The bulge Elodie had made screamed, was silenced, and slipped past his throat, into his esophagus, and past his collarbone. He could feed the thick lump sliding deeper into him, stretching his innards in an uncomfortable way, before suddenly dropping heavily into his stomach. 

It felt like being filled without having eaten anything. Felix groaned, shivering as Elodie moved inside of him, standing and pressing against the walls of his stomach with her hands, slipping on the wine that had gone down with him and falling against them. She was so heavy he didn’t want to move, let alone lift his shirt to observe just what was going on inside of him. 

The creature, however, was curious, and did just that. He cast one look down at his stomach and saw his skin poking up in unusual manners, moving and shifting like something was alive beneath it, and immediately looked away. He felt sick from the weight inside of him, the movement shaking that weight around, and the sight of its existence. 

No, Elodie’s movement. Elodie’s existence. That was Elodie inside of him. He felt bile rising in his throat and moved to vomit, only for the creature to stop him, forcing him to swallow it back down. 

That made Elodie freak out in his stomach, her body being thrown all over his stomach, hands and feet pressing against the walls and then hitting them, as if he was to blame for her agony. Felix cringed, forgetting about the creature as he doubled over, hugging his middle. 

“St-stop, please,” he begged, collapsing to the ground. “Ow, ow, pl-please, Elodie–” 

She did not stop. The creature loomed over the both of them, tilting its head. Somewhere far away, Felix was aware of a man being taken off a hook. But he didn’t care. All that mattered right now was the pain in his gut, the struggle for him to take a breath, and the shifting movements of the woman inside of him. 

“Please…” he muttered, looking up at the creature, “st-stop it…stop this…”

It let out a gurgle and rushed away. He thought, foolishly, that meant it was over, and hugged his midsection more. 

Moments later, he was aware of two people, not just one, hitting the ground and crying out in agony. And then the agony of one, a woman’s cry, was silenced. He heard the man from before screaming. 

It was quiet, only the groaning of his stomach and the lurching of his breath interrupting the peace, until his heartbeat began to pound again. No, it was coming back! And as it emerged from the fog, he could see it was carrying a man with it, soaked in pustule fluid. 

He had olive skin and dark hair just beginning to gray, and was wearing a dark coat and white shirt. Felix hardly got a better look at him before he began to convulse. No, no, it was happening again! His stomach twisted as the man began to shrink, the creature observing curiously as it happened. 

Unlike Elodie, the man stopped shrinking at about eight inches. He lay still on the ground before opening his eyes, pulling his sunglasses off and glancing around in what could only be described as terror. The creature grabbed him like an eager child, dangling him before its face and looking him over. Then, it turned to Felix. 

“Please no,” he murmured uselessly. The creature pinned him against the ground this time, forcing his jaw open. As the man in its grip screamed, his legs were lowered into Felix’s jaw. 

He moaned as the man’s feet pressed against his throat, the creature beginning to massage his throat again. The man was too big for him–if Elodie was too big, then swallowing this man would certainly see his throat split. But the creature did not care for his well-being, nor did it care if he felt he couldn’t do it. Still holding the man with one hand, it retrieved another dark flask and poured a few drops into his mouth. 

His body instinctively swallowed, and the man's feet entered his throat. Felix winced, his entire body tensing up as the man’s feet slid in, then his calves. He was fighting, wriggling and trying to pull his feet loose. The creature squeezed him horribly tight, and he stopped. 

It was at his thighs that the pain began. He had been able to get down the man’s calves no problem, but once his knees entered his throat, Felix coughed, choking momentarily. The man’s thighs were stretching his throat painfully, and his swallows were hardly making any progress now. Tears pricked at his eyes as the thighs slid in, pressed together–they were as thick as Elodie’s body had been, and he still had worse to down. 

God, how had it gotten to this? He was swallowing humans whole and alive, and all he was thinking about was how he just wanted it to end. The horror, the shock, the dismay, the self-loathing of being a cannibal, all of it was silenced. The pain, he just wanted the pain to end. 

Another drop of dark fluid saw the man’s hips slide into Felix’s throat, and those tears turned to streams. His throat was stretching so much now that it felt it would split. He whimpered, muscles vibrating around the man’s body, his jaw beginning to tremble. The creature, seeing this, poured the entire flask into his mouth. 

The fluid pulled the man down to his chest, earning a scream from him and more gags from Felix. Please, no–

But peristalsis had gripped the man, inching him down one determined swallow at a time. As Felix wept, the man slowly slid deeper, his body one massive lump that slowly, slowly descended down Felix’s neck. The creature rubbed it, feeling how desperately the muscles worked to pull this prey deeper, how strained the body was around this living creature. If the man struggled, he would never make it down. 

But he didn’t. And in due time, his head vanished down the gaping throat of Felix Richter, his arms and hands sliding down with him. The lump in his throat slowly slid downwards, vanishing beneath his collarbone. His stomach swelled, expanding more and more as a prey too large for it was crammed in with another. 

Felix whined and felt limp, tears streaming down his face as his stomach, painfully distended, began to move and shake with the struggles of its occupants. He grit his teeth, taking shaky breath after shaky breath, turning away from the creature, which stepped back to let him lie on his side. 

“G-g-god, pl-please…st-stop…move…moving…” he whimpered, hugging his stomach and trembling wildly. “It…it…hurts…so…bad…” 

One stopped, but the other only renewed its struggles, making Felix gasp, his jaw trembling. “El…Elo…die…pl…please…”

His breathing was ragged. He couldn’t move from the pain. Somewhere far away, a girl let out a death cry as she was sacrificed, and a hatch swung open. The creature turned its head, gurgling. 

“Make…make it stop….please…” Felix begged, squeezing his eyes shut. If it killed him now, maybe he wouldn’t be in so much pain.

Instead, the creature grabbed him by his collar, dragging him across the ground. He couldn’t be bothered to care about his suit getting dirty now, or the rocks which nicked and cut his skin. He hurt too badly inside to care. 

The sound of something hollow made him open his eyes. He just got a glimpse of an open hatch, darkness within it promising escape, before the creature picked him up like he was a baby bird and chucked him in. A cry escaped his throat, his stomach clenching and drawing forth a new wave of pain. 

All around him was darkness, and he was falling, falling, falling. Where would it end, if it ever would, he didn’t know. Behind him, he could still see the glowing eyes of the creature, watching him with intrigue. It was getting farther and farther away. 

He was alive, and he didn’t know how. He had swallowed two people, and they were alive inside of him, but for how long? He didn’t know. Would any of them even make it out of this?

The darkness grew deeper, and soon, it was all he saw.