#or even the erinyes at times | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

monstersdownthepath · 7 months

Text

Monster Spotlight: Lorthact the Unraveler

CR 25

Lawful Evil Medium Outsider

Inner Sea Bestiary, pg. 26

Ah, Lorthact. Those who've joined in 2nd Edition and who go through a very particular high-level module have a very high chance of encountering this infernal noble, but by then the years of living among mortals and the collapse of his safety nets and plans haven't been kind to him, and he's fallen from an intimidating CR 25 all the way to CR 16. Don't feel too bad for him, though, the reason for his immense paranoid stress is entirely self-inflicted. See, in ages past, Lorthact was a beloved Duke of Hell, serving both Geryon and Mephistopheles loyally and even having the favor of Asmodeus himself for his skill in twisting mages into the service of Hell... But he made an awful mistake, one that cost him everything and continues to cost him to this day, hundreds of years later.

He tried to betray Eiseth, Queen of the Erinyes, and reduce her from demigod into a powerless consort at his side. Eiseth's temper is so legendary that even Asmodeus holds up his hands and backs away whenever she becomes enraged, her one-woman warpaths wreaking the same level of destruction that entire armies would struggle to replicate, so when she learned of the Unraveler's plot to usurp her, there was no chance in Hell for him to get out unscathed. No amount of lying and ass-kissing allowed Lorthact to appease her, and to his horror he found that his two Archdevil sponsors had turned their backs on him, neither of them wishing to risk Eiseth's apocalyptic ire. You would think a Duke of Hell would know that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but Lorthact had to learn the hard way.

He fled Hell entirely because there was no longer any safety from her wrath, and though Eiseth's minions search the globe over constantly for any sign of his presence, his cleverness has allowed him to remained undetected. Not unharmed, mind, because the constant stress does get to him, but he's thus far evaded the sight of his foes, mortal and immortal alike, and has time to regroup and begin to plot. Now living unseen on Golarion, he manipulates the population of the land of Korvosa, hoping to one day amass enough power, wealth, and minions to either slay Eiseth or convince Asmodeus to force her to stay her hand. Time will tell if he'll succeed, but for now let's see what happens when it's the players who try unraveling the Unraveler...

Now, Lorthact's ability to hide from Eiseth is no overblown background detail for the purpose of a story, this man is very hard to find, to the point that any campaign starring him will likely revolve around figuring out he's even there. He's got a constant Mind Blank to shield himself from any attempt to detect or track him, and Alter Self at will to physically transform into whoever he needs to be. In addition, he has a unique ability called Temporal Anomaly, rendering him immune to all forms of Divination regardless of their reach or power, whether it be from a spell or something more mundane. NO form of future sight or prescience works against Lorthact, and no divination effect or ability can be used to predict his movements, his actions, or what effects his actions may have. The man is a walking breach in the weave of Fate, his actions and their ripple effects all but impossible to determine without divine insight, making him a foe that goes beyond unpredictable. Not even Foresight or Moment of Prescience provide any benefit against him, and all his attacks and abilities ignore such powers outright.

So he can mundanely disguise himself and thwart all magical attempts to find him. Already good! If Lorthact were content with living a commoner's life, he'd likely be set for the rest of eternity... but no Duke of Hell would settle for anything less than total conquest. It's literally in their blood, and as such he's been able to masquerade as various masters of the arcane arts for decades, and will likely continue to do so, slowly warping the land of Korvosa to his twisted will through total control of all magic and magic users within the land. There's a reason one of his titles is "the Ur-Magus," though like every fascist Lorthact relies on others doing all the heavy lifting and actual creative effort so he can reap the rewards for himself.

Lorthact can use Dominate Person at-will and Dominate Monster 1/day, and has Mass Suggestion at-will to gently persuade everyone in a given room to ignore how suddenly dull and unresponsive his primary target has become. Once he's got someone Dominated, he exists as a parasite in their minds, able to draw upon their powers for his own benefit; he's got a Spell Reservoir of 25 levels in his body that he can fill with stolen spell energy. If he's touching a Dominated victim he can siphon a spell from their mind as a full-round action, and if they're not within reach but remain on the same plane, he can instead siphon it over the course of 1 minute via the magical connection from the Dominate spell. In either case the magic is expended as though the victim had cast the spell, and Lorthact keeps the energy within him until he sees fit to use it. As mentioned, he can only hold up to 25 levels worth of spells, and he may only drain one spell at a time from a given caster... But with unrestricted access to every student, scholar, and archmage within Korvosa's largest magical college, there's almost no spell outside his reach if the DM wills it, and though HE can't be detected via any means, he can use his 1/day Limited Wish or at-will Greater Scrying without restriction to learn the capabilities of any party mounting an attack against him and prepare himself accordingly.

There is some mercy with his Spell Reservoir: He can only drain Arcane spells. Divine and Psychic magic is beyond his reach, though he may still Dominate/Suggest to casters and command them to use the magic for him. Being able to cast seemingly any spell with a moment of meditation is already an impressive feat, but Lorthact can take faking being an omnidisciplinary mage even further with Scholastic Masquerade, an ability I originally overlooked because I had forgotten how powerful a lot of Wizard School Powers are. Just take a look for yourself! Scholastic Masquerade allows the Unraveler to drain School Powers from a Dominated victim in the same manner as his Spell Reservoir, including using up the available levels in his reservoir to power it; he can lower his reservoir by 3 to copy one of the School's 1st level powers, by 6 to copy both of them, and by 9 to copy all of them. While he's copying these powers the original host cannot use them at all, and Lorthact uses the powers with the same strength his host would; he may be a powerful archmage, but if he's parisitizing a 10th level Illusion Wizard, he can only use the School Powers as if he were 10th level.

How, exactly, this works with School Powers which grant feats is up to the DM; I believe he gains them temporarily... which means he almost always wants someone with the Counterspell school in his repertoire to make sure he's got Improved Counterspell AND a 1/day immediate action to utilize his at-will Greater Dispel Magic to thwart an enemy caster's magic. It may not sound very impressive, but never discount just how powerful an immediate action to say No to a player's entire turn can be, even at 1/day!

Other potential School Powers he may want to have in his pocket include Transmutation's passive additions to his physical ability scores (just in case), Enchantment's Enchanting Smile, and literally everything under the Divination school. Seriously, for the low cost of 3 points out of his Reservoir pool, he can remove the surprise round entirely and get anywhere from +1 to +20 to his Initiative rolls depending on the strength of the mage he parisitizes, and the Foresight Subschool's Prescience gives him a second chance at any one d20 roll he makes every round for at least 3 rounds! The initiative is pretty big, though; if Lorthact goes first, or even close to first, he's got a menagerie of annoying tricks beyond whatever he may be stealing from his victims that make fighting him a pain in the ass.

He has Greater Invisibility and Freedom of Movement both at-will and no reason to ever let either expire if he thinks he's going to enter combat, with one typically giving him the chance to use the other. I've already mentioned his Greater Dispel Magic at-will, but do you know what's better? He's got the Quickened version 3/day! He's also got two feats that play well with it: Dispel Synergy and Destructive Dispel, the former inflicting a -2 penalty on all saves for anyone he successfully shucks with any dispelling effect, the latter stunning the target for a round if they fail a second save and sickening them even if they succeed. The two effects stack, which means that even if you succeed your saving throw versus being stunned, you still effectively have a -4 penalty to all saves for a round... and since Lorthact can do a Quickened version, that means you're open to a standard action Dominate, his 3/day Polymorph Any Object or, if he's feeling nice, Empowered Horrid Wilting to blast you AND the party for 30d6 typeless damage. Fun fact: Empowered Horrid Wilting is technically a 10th level spell, and he's able to use it 3/day!

At these levels, a party is likely relying on buff spells to keep up with their higher-level foes, so suddenly having them... well, unraveled can be a bit of a downer. But do you want to know what's worse? Losing all your magic items as well. Yes, Lorthact has access to Mage's Disjunction, among the most terrifying spells that can be leveled at a player party for multiple reasons, chief among them being that Disjunction doesn't make a dispel roll, it simply ends any and all spell effects within its 40ft radius burst. This does mean Destructive Dispel doesn't trigger (no party-wide stun/sicken!), but Dispel Synergy does, and thus anyone with even a meager +1 buff to one stat gets slapped with the penalty. Secondly, and even worse, any and all magic items within the radius must make a save or be shut off for 25 minutes.

... I highly recommend making it a mass dispel only, not out of mercy to your players, but out of pragmatism. Unless you're using some automated digital sheets, having to make saving throws for every item on every player and then recalculating their stats based on which of their items shuts down is a god damn nightmare. If you want to make it less annoying, having it shut off 'active' powers like Flaming or abilities which need to be willingly activated by the user while leaving 'passive' ones like flat stat or skill bonuses in place is acceptable. But, hey, if you don't mind the 45 minute turn, then by all means go crazy with it!

And speaking of 45 minute research periods, did you know Lorthact has Greater Shadow Conjuration AND Greater Shadow Evocation at-will? That's every Conjuration spell that summons a creature or creates an object of 6th level or lower and EVERY Evocation spell of 7th level or lower entirely at his fingertips all the time, making deciding just what he's going to do on his turn require even MORE time than the average caster. Sure, summoning shadow minions to his side might not be especially powerful since players can likely kill them in a single hit, but summoning giant walls of various substances is always useful even if the illusion can be seen through. Evocation also gives him a hell of a toolbox with stars like Prismatic Spray, Sirocco, Forcecage, and Hungry Darkness which have powerful effects even IF the enemy sees through them (and relying on magical True Seeing is often difficult given how dispel-happy he is)!

Lorthact's typical battle plan is thus to stock up on whatever spells and abilities he thinks will make his time against the party easier, slap Spell Turning, Greater Invisibility, and Freedom of Movement on himself, use Limited Wish to whatever capacity he needs, throw out Disjunction or GDM a few times, and then--and only then--engage by slinging out whatever spells he's stolen or can conjure with his shadow magic from a position of relative safety. Given that he has Time Stop, all of this and more can happen in the blink of an eye even if the party does catch him off-guard, and don't you dare think that you can do the same to HIM. Remember Temporal Anomaly from a few paragraphs ago? There's an additional line of text in it: if anyone uses Time Stop while within 60ft of him, HE can also move in the stopped time. This essentially traps the poor caster in a 1v1, and if he's spiteful, he may just dash over (his movespeed says 30ft, but he comes equipped with Boots of Speed for Haste on-demand) and seal both himself and his dance partner inside his 1/day Prismatic Sphere so he can beat them to death in peace even when time resumes.

While he typically avoids melee, he's no slouch in it. He's got a pair of claw attacks for 1d6+6 damage, which is pathetic, but he's also got a god damn Staff of Power because his kit isn't loaded enough. That staff can act as a +2 quarterstaff that he can use four five (forgot his boots of speed) times a round for 1d6+11 damage each, which he's more than willing to enhance with either Power Attack (-9 accuracy for +18 damage Whoops! someone pointed out that it's actually +27!), the Staff of Power's ability to double its own damage for 1 round (to 2d6+22), or both (2d6+76), allowing him some absolutely monstrous burst damage if he manages a Full-Attack to dissuade victims from staying in his melee range. Every single attack, be it his claws or his staff, also inflicts 1 point of Intelligence drain just as a little cherry on top, and taking even 1 point of Int from his victim grants him Foresight against them. No stranger to dealing damage, he's also adept at avoiding it with 45 AC (+2 vs people he's Int drained), DR 20/Good and Silver, and 36 Spell Resistance, plus whatever insane preparations he's made with what's essentially a custom spell list.

Also, fun fact I recalled about halfway through this but forgot to find a place for, so I'm putting it here at the end: the Magus and Bloodrager are both Arcane casters, allowing Lorthact to steal spells from their list at a lower level than they would be on the Sorc/Wiz list to save him room in his Reservoir. Just one of many, many, many, many factors to take into account when engaging one of the greatest mages there ever was!

It may literally be easier to get in contact with Eiseth and let her know where he is, and deal with the fallout after.

You can read more about him here.

#Monster Spotlight #CR 21-25 #Pathfinder #dungeons and dragons

50 notes · View notes

cowboylament · 1 month

Text

Bonus content

While trying to work out the logistics of the penultimate chapter of what conversations were happening behind the scenes and how they affected the characters, I wrote them out. I figured they'd be fun to post once I finished in homage to SJM. these are more or less unedited. It includes:

Mor finding Lucien after the fight with Y/n

Erinyes visits Y/N and they discuss their bargain.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Ao3

It had always been empty.

That thread in my chest, it was no different than what it had always been, but barren of what it had become. The keen wit, those enormous feelings building with steady current. I’d watched it happen. Her eyes, her ears, would snag on a scene or word and the curiosity that found itself in my chest would be nothing more than a hum. She wasn’t as rash as she liked to joke she was. Her emotions built. The single note would find a touch of complexity, another string, another note, until a web had formed. Her feelings informed by her thoughts even the hard emotions, even the anger, always came to harmony. It was not quite music, but I could feel when she’d worked something out, my ribs nearly vibrating.

The first time I’d seen it with my eyes in the house of wind I’d wanted desperately to slip into her mind as she could slip into mine. With that sharp gaze, her acute presence with the world, I wanted to listen to her logic as it conducted feelings in my chest. I’m sure, even when she was wrong in her deductions, there was more sense being made than not. She was too smart, too perceptive, for it to be otherwise.

A hand, gently, used my shoulder as leverage to climb onto the barstool next to me. I wanted to be naive enough to think, even if only for a moment, it was Y/N. But I could not delude myself. I knew her too well, knew the feel of the air and the pull of all rooms when she was in them. If she’d arrived any idle part of me would drift her way, she had that sort of power. Even half-drunk, even half-slurred, the margins of my body smudging, I knew when she was there and when she was not. Tonight she was not.

The hand belonged to Mor, I could smell her perfume. She said nothing.

“Another?” Asked a waitress.

I nodded.

The waitress looked toward the female, “for you?”

“Same as him.”

“I thought you were meeting with Amren.”

“After two hours of watching you sulk, she decided to take her leave.”

The waitress slid over our drinks and I stared at the contents before taking a sip. I could open the bond now, could reach for her, but the nothing between us and her shielding would make it all the worse. I’d no intention of ever going back to what we’d been and somehow we’d landed that direction just the same. A wall between us where a deeper understanding might be. I remember when I understood everything, maybe I thought I’d understood everything, but only enough to win when I wanted to win.

“What is this Gawayn like?”

Mor pursed her lips, thinking. I imagined him tough, tall, the usual blend of every other Illyrian with their often inflexible way about life. It was hard to imagine Y/N wanting anything to do with one.

“He's funny, different.”

“Different how?”

She stared at me a moment, “He’s protective of her but in a way that doesn’t involve Rhysand.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He doesn’t do anything because she’s Rhysand’s sister, he does it because she’s his friend.”

I huffed a laugh, “So that's the standard?”

Mor looked with devastating awareness, “You forget yourself. You only took her on those walks and up to the garden because Rhysand told you to do so.”

He’s going to be my high lord. The immediacy of my embarrassment was alarming. The night we’d stopped shielding and the days after I knew I couldn’t let her be subject to my emotions. Their sudden and unwavering displays, how they crashed into me when she was near. I had to dampen it, somehow, I spent the days she was in bed trying to figure out how to put a buffer between us, to put a kink in the bond.

“What happened tonight?”

“It's not worth rehashing,” I said. If I told her what she did I’d have to admit what I’d done. I’d have to reveal my hand, my cruelty, my part in it all.

She tutted her tongue, “You both.”

“What’s your court’s deal?” I asked, half curious, half avoiding the lecture. “Why the betting, why the pretending her work is nothing?”

“From what I hear you’ve done the same thing.”

I could tell I had to be careful with my words. This was a delicate matter to Mor, one that might lose me an ally.

“Our taunts are a game to us because we know when we’re lying. But I’ve never suggested it was nothing what she manages. I’ve seen her and I know the skill it takes.”

“You think we don’t?” Mor asked sharply. She didn’t like being confronted with the truth as much as I didn’t.

“I think I’ve seen you tease and taunt her and I’ve felt her worry down our bond.”

Mor sighed, watching me and I could see that she knew I was right. In my time here Y/N was the one who got questioned the most, her word was trusted the least. Rhysand seemed to fluctuate in and out of being her leader and her brother, at times incapable of being both at the same time. I could feel her annoyance, her pain, that she was the exception to him.

“The way she is with you, this version of her is equally new to us. She has been this way for no one else. She keeps her cards very close to her and what she does reveal has always been carefully chosen to cost her the least. Since you got back it's been the opposite. She’s risked a lot for you.”

“So why make the bets then? If she wasn’t inclined to tell you before then teasing her seems even less a way to get anything from her.”

“She’s the one who came up with the idea.”

I sat up straighter, and blinked a few times.

“Years ago, after she came back from the winter in the cabin. An excuse to keep us in the loop of her life and all the more reason to leave the males she chose. She had truly terrible taste most of the time, and making Rhys lose a bet always got them out of the way.”

“Why does it bother her then?”

Mor watched me, her head falling to the side like she was asking the same thing. I didn’t think she’d reveal her answer, but after another moment she said simply, “You’re the first male that mattered.”

The words struck my gut. Suddenly all that wine seemed to seep into my consciousness and the world began to blur and spin in a way I had not considered as I’d continued glass after glass. Everything, of course, reveals itself after a bad decision has been made.

“And the Emissary business?” I asked, needing to leave everything I’d started, the road we’d taken, to break the surface and breathe some air.

Mor shrugged, “She didn’t want to be an Emissary. I think Rhysand holds that against her. Not maliciously, but…”

“How did she become one?”

“After their parents died he asked her to do it. He’s pretty good at finding a place for people, building on their strengths.”

“I’ll say.”

Mor laughed, “I guess he saw her with Egrette.”

After the words left her mouth Mor’s eyes widened, just barely, and she turned toward me to see if I’d heard, waiting for me to ask who this Egrette was.

“I know about Egrette.”

“She told you?”

“Not willingly. I found her outside, she told me she worked there. I started taking the night classes but Egrette already seemed to guess who I was.”

“Why take the classes?”

I shrugged, “I wanted to know about her life, much like the rest of you.”

Mor’s whole body softened, and she looked past me for a while. Long enough that I thought she was about to leave or that the conversation was truly over, she’d finished her glass and I was nearly done with mine. It seemed there was nothing left to say, but then she spoke again.

“How good is she?”

“Better than me.”

Mor hummed, “She’s said the same of you.”

The female stood and I knew she was going, the female turning and stopping at my side.

“Are you staying in Velaris?”

That all my actions had even made that a question was shameful. I’d left her in that foyer alone. Even after what we’d said there was a history between us that didn’t warrant such dismissal. We’d never left anything unresolved, even if before that meant finding a winner and a loser, if it meant risking losing. Tonight we’d both lost.

“I wouldn’t leave, not even after what was said.”

“What was said,” Mor asked one more time.

I stared ahead, the place fuller than before, like the deepening of the night only crowding the place more. “Burden was used.”

Mor didn’t flinch, standing before me.

“C’mon,” she said

“Why?”

“You need to sleep. In the morning, you and I are gonna make a plan.”

“Why?”

“Because you need my help.”

“No, why do you want to help.”

Mor smiled a little, mischievous even and the normalcy of it made my insides recoil. After all this, after all that was said, did we deserve to have such a thing? Someone in our corner, someone like Mor to help me get what I wanted.

“I like how she’s changed since you got here.”

A small part of me, very deep, too deep to really hold onto but felt nonetheless, smiled. I paid our tabs as a thank you, and we walked home. I tried to tell her a few things, tried to fall into something of a rapport with her, despite it feeling unnatural. Back home to share such details with someone was a risk too great to bear. There was nothing between anyone, fragile alliances, momentarily aligning causes were to serve your purpose in the end, not each other. Eris only helped me with Y/N I didn’t doubt to have one less brother vying for High Lord.

By the time we’d gotten to her apartment, I’d awkwardly revealed some of our disagreements, desperate really, for someone to confirm to me what was meant. As if I myself was not already secretly aware of her in part. Those minor grievances, I knew what she wanted from me, but I couldn’t give it, and therefore couldn’t accept her reasoning.

Mor laughed eventually, as she unlocked the door and it was a sound I’d become grateful for hearing. I didn’t want pity, pity seemed to suggest something I couldn’t consider, like we were too far gone from ourselves that we couldn’t go back. It seemed to me they felt sorry because we’d ruined something and I didn’t want it to be ruined.

“Are you always following in her footsteps? I thought you Autumn males were a bit more brave. She’s terrified and yet she’s still taking the lead.”

I scowled, the words so close to her suggestion, “I tried tonight.”

“Did you?”

It felt like it. To me it had felt like I’d tried, tried to touch her, to know her, to reveal to her something of my thoughts and she seemed to misunderstand. I know you, I wanted to say, and I can love you for it.

The door opened to her apartment and it was warm, inviting. The place was smaller than I anticipated. Being part of the court I expected something extravagant, lived in but grand. This was all rather small and homely.

“She asked after if I were to be her burden.”

Mor let out a low whistle and shut the door. I fell into the one chair as she walked toward a closet. She pulled sheets and pillows like I was nothing more than a long-time friend who’d drank too much. I closed my eyes and listened to it, that sound of care. An ache began to eat away at me one foot in memory and another in the present. Where, lying on the table, she’d been hurt beyond need. The wound sewn shut, the color just barely returning to her lips. She’d stepped between us somehow, saved me from Rhys. My mate, I could hear her care and I wanted to return it to her if only with noise. To lift her off the table and carry her quietly upstairs to her room, to clean her hair of the blood, listen to the water fill the tub, and drip from the cloth. Those idle sounds, the kind you get only at home. The kind where someone is waiting for you at night. Then she said Cassian and I knew that I was not that thing for her, the place where such sounds could be found or even wanted.

And again, in the foyer. She’d looked so sad, so hurt. I’d said the one thing I knew I shouldn’t have said. I watched the devastation for only a second before I managed to turn away. Had I been brave I might have crossed the small space and asked exactly what she meant, taken her in my hands, and had her look at me so we could say precisely what we’d been trying to say. Her heart had been beating furiously.

A draft off the window beside me blew the scent of Velaris and all its promises, people chatting, people laughing, signs of love. My mind returned here to this room.

“Her words are her only weapon,” said Mor.

“I know that.”

She glared at me, continuing her sentence I had not even realized I'd interrupted. “They are also a shield. Do not kid yourself into believing that you understand her private definitions. Whatever she said to you, whatever you think she meant, she is concealing something she is terrified to reveal.”

“I don’t scare her.”

Mor pitied me again. I could feel it. She threw a sheet over the couch and I stared wordlessly out the window. It had begun to rain. The secret kind, the one that comes in the night and dries before anyone has any chance to know it has arrived. I’d not yet slept and already I felt sick. When Mor finally offered the couch I collapsed into it.

“You should understand something Lucien,” Mor said as I curled up on the cramped uncomfortable slab. I hid my face in the fabric and blankets. Her words holding a very careful sympathy, “You scare her most of all.”

***

There was a woman by my bed.

I don’t know how I knew this.

Looking at the space it revealed this fact to me but I couldn’t say how, not outwardly, not obviously, but there she was and wasn’t. She was very beautiful, like something of a dream. Her hair spilled more than it fell, in long swerving sheaths. She bent forward in a nurturing manner toward me, sleeping, but I could tell this was not totally natural for her. So I knew who she was.

“I thought there were three of you.”

She didn’t look my way, she knew I was there, watching, “My sisters are away.”

“They made you out to be much more unpleasant.”

She smiled then, “We appear that way to the guilty. You are not guilty.” She said standing. “Not yet anyway.”

I tensed and finally, she met my gaze. Anxiety was a better-known battle, something she could look in the eye. The fae were renowned for their beauty but she was beyond that of the immortal creatures, those not quite fae, even Amren. Striking wasn’t the word, there was something soft about her, like a perfectly round stone eroded by a river. So in touch with the world and beyond it just the same.

“You are Tisiphone.”

She bowed her head much the way Lucien did—such grace.

That night in the woods and after in the house…I felt power return to me that had been taken. That caress of the hand. Lucien too had seemed to sense it. She’d touched us both. I stood up straighter. She was in my room watching me sleep and I was watching myself sleep. It might only mean one thing.

“Have you come to claim me at last?”

“That is not my way.”

“What is your way?”

“My sisters and I claim oath breakers. You are not one.”

I folded my arms in front of me clasping at my fingers though all signs of respect for forgotten Gods were foreign to me. Our worlds are different, the scales of meaning and feeling different.

“It is you who I made the bargain with.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She stared down at her own hands and for the first time, I saw a fern stem pinched between her fingers. She spun it idly but it didn’t seem she was trying to find her words. What is it like, the mind of a God? That duty that she must fulfill, the rules of its power, it was lost to me. I couldn’t even find an imagination to conjure what it might be like to serve the world in such a way, under such confining terms.

“Once blood was shed, once it fell into the earth my sisters and I arrived.”

“And why are you here now?”

She looked up from the green stem and smiled that same smile. I wouldn’t say it was friendly but it also wasn’t insincere, “You’ve been looking for me, have you not?”

I wrung my hands, grasping at the fingers. Before me the answers, so many answers, and were they ever fair? Could life deliver its small miracles and then return to its cruelty just the same? I had to know before I made the food, but suddenly asking seemed the hardest thing in the world. I missed Lucien. If he were here, if he were asleep beside me one glance and there would be words, something steady, something sure. But he was in a townhouse not so far away and he didn’t know this place at all.

The female cocked her head. “You are afraid,” she said.

“I don’t know what it means, to make a bargain with a God. I don’t know if I’m able to keep it and I prefer you this way I admit.”

She watched with a tenderness about her, “I did not have to take your bargain you know. I confess it made little difference to me if you lived or died.” Her eyes swept over me. Whatever she had once thought she no longer did, her consideration of my standing there seemed weighed with a consideration that she herself had admitted to having. I had trouble, however, believing such indifference remained. Not at least, in such overwhelming amounts.

“My duty is to avenge and your blood was innocent. I was there to do so, but the lines were not so clear. We followed in the hopes of clarity but we found you, your mate approaching, searching for you. We are not precisely death, but we can act as its bringers. We were going to take you gently, but then you began to think about the next world.”

And Eris. I’d been thinking about a better life in what came next, I’d wanted it to be good and kind the way we’d been kind in the end. A knife pressed into the palm, the belief that even injured I could make it. How he’d fought for me to get out.

“Plenty of people like to think they’ll be better in their next life.”

She shook her head, “It is the life they had they often wish better of and it is rare that one might wish to reconcile with the men who harmed them.”

“They didn’t harm me,” I said quickly.

She raised a brow, “I have no claim over them. You do not need to worry.”

I swallowed, “So that saved me?”

Her face took some faraway look, like what Lucien had when something dear seemed so out of reach, even in memory, even surrounded by it. Her mouth parting, eyes unseeing, “You entered into a bargain to which you named no party, any God could take you up on it.”

“You and your sisters did.”

“Just me.”

“Why?”

This seemed to be the question she couldn’t answer. Whatever forces were at work, internal or from that world seemed to be anchoring those words in her stomach. They would not come out, not when I asked.

“I returned your power to you. Enough to fulfill my end of the bargain.” She said returning to this moment, her eyes meeting mind. “I’m sure it is not lost on you that you are alive when all you’d asked for was to get your mate to safety. I was prepared to take you even still, as you lay there bleeding. But we have more leeway in such deals. I watched you closely, watched you with him. I wanted to…see something.”

“See what?”

She angled her head at me, “If you meant it. I hesitated, curious and skeptical as you are, to see if it was not some near-death regret. When you stepped between your brother, I began to see, but it was not until you were alone that I understood. So I didn’t take you, I left thereafter.”

“So the feeling…in my hand.”

She smiled, raising a hand toward me, “I believe your people shake hands.”

“And Luciens too?”

“He was involved no?”

“But the bargain was between us.”

She hummed as if understanding some difference between us now. Something illuminated by my confusion. She turned away in thought, finding words for some discrepancy of godliness. My sleeping figure on the bed unmoving, if I hadn’t asked I’d have thought she had come to take me, that she already had come for me. A haunting stillness, she broke it by placing the fern in her hands across my chest. My hands on instinct, moved to reach for it.

“Bargains are a precarious thing. But it is not so simple, and fate has many strings. We Gods are not concerned with the markings of the body, our deals happen in the threads, on the soul. If you betray the oath on your shared thread I will come, and I won’t be so hesitant.”

“My oath?”

“The oath you made to get him to safety. You are bound to protect him, to lay no hands on him, cause no fatal wounds.”

“I had no plans to.”

She turned, more serious, “Your life has changed dramatically in so short a span, even for a mortal. You cannot know what you will want in the centuries ahead. Good people make bad bargains.”

I took a breath as she had, the words a smattering in my head, coming to a careful calm, and organized hum, “You waited to be sure I was good on my word. I suspect I’m alive because for whatever reason you believe I can manage it. If death is always the inevitable end, if you do not appear here in your other form, I must conclude you think I can manage.”

Her eyes narrowed in a kind of happiness, mischievous too, whatever she’d suspected I’d proven right in my answer.

“We put our faith in you as often as you put our faith in us.”

“So not often.”

The female smiled softly, “No. I will say only that night held mutual rarity between us. And…” whatever it was she wanted to say she stopped herself. Her eyes again did a sweep over the room, turning her neck, seeing it as if for the first time in its entirety. She settled on the scarf on my bed, in the spot Lucien would have if we mated.

“He made that for me,” I said. “I was looking for you because I wanted to mate him but I needed to be sure my deal would cause him no pain.”

“I cannot promise that,” she said regretfully and my shoulders slumped, an ache carving its place in my chest. Her words suddenly freed, she said what I knew she’d been unsure of saying, “You’ve learned a great deal in so short a time. I do believe I will never have to make good on my word. It's the only reason I ever make bargains.”

The words added a heaviness to the room.

“Have you been watching us?”

“A little,” she confessed. “But this is the last we will see of each other.”

“Why?”

“For plenty of reasons, most of which I cannot say, but at least because there is something important you should know, something the fae seem not to realize.”

I was silent, waiting and she turned her whole body toward mine. Whatever she was to say would be the most important thing of all.

“To mate in this life, it binds you to each other for the rest of them. Whoever it is you become, a thread of fate will forever link you to one another. Our deal is on a thread between you both, the thread that he has yet to formally accept.”

“And if he accepts it?”

“Your souls will become a union, he will inherit the same oath. You will serve, in part, as each other’s protector for every life to come. You will forever be his keeper as he is yours.”

Our breathing was a singular sound and movement. Her spilling hair moved across her chest rising with each breath as I lingered on the words she’d shared. Yes, I wished Lucien was here. I wanted to tell him everything, had to tell him everything, but it was still not the time. But I was no longer afraid. He would choose. I liked it, that it was his choice. I wanted to be sure, as she was sure, that he was up for what I’d begun. So I met her eye and I nodded.

She nodded back. I knew then, our time was up. She moved like water through the room and as she passed me a cold fell off of her familiar and understood to me but I could not point out where or how. She walked toward the door and when she reached the threshold I felt her going.

“Thank you,” I said suddenly knowing I’d have no chance to say it again. She would not be listening. She turned back and I clarified, “For hesitating, I do not take this time with my mate lightly.”

“It is your doing, do not think too highly of me. I am still a bringer of death.”

“And life.”

The female seemed to withdraw. I didn’t back down. I suspected this was not what she was known for, perhaps she didn’t like it or perhaps she did and it hurt regardless. She took one step out of the room and in a blink she was gone. It was only an instant between my waking and the moment she’d left, but there was light in the room of morning. I sat up, turned as if I’d find her again, find my other self at the end of my bed, but there was no one there. I felt it though, in my hands. Dropping my chin, pinching the stem between my fingers, I twirled the fern and its life in my hand.

#lucien x reader #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #rhysand's sister #Rysand's!sister reader #lucien fanfic #acotar #Night Court

21 notes · View notes

daydreaming-in-letters · 19 days

Text

Earth & Fire

Chapter IX - Fate

05/10/2024

Pairing: Hades (Hozier) x Anthea (OFC)

Word Count: 6,224

Warnings: language, blood (ichor), violence, cruelty, wounds, graphic descriptions, and angst, so much angst

Summary: In the battle of the gods, Anthea's fate will finally unfold.

A/N: I know I said this would be the last chapter of this story...but hear me out. It just made sense to split this part up. It is quite long already and it also seemed appropriate plot-wise to separate this part from the very last instalment.

Earth & Fire - Masterpost

Picture created with AI

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

Rage was not strong enough a word to describe the feeling that rushed through him as the ether opened again and his eyes landed on his brother. It burned with unparalleled might, hotter than the fires of Tartarus and wilder than the vengeance embodied by the Erinyes. So all-consuming not even the relief that washed over him as he found he might not be too late to prevent the worst could mitigate it.

“I’m going to make you mine now, Anthea,” Zeus grunted, face buried in the crook of Anthea’s neck, “consent or not. You will be mine.”

His insides turning, Hades was forced to watch as she struggled in vain against the weight of his body that pinned her in place against the column behind her back, her hands held in his tight grip above her head, leaving her practically immobilised while his free hand groped her soft flesh. Still, her voice had not lost any of its venom as she spat her reply.

“I will never be yours.”

Now. The time was now. And before Hades had even made a conscious decision, he had raised the bident, the dark metal splitting the air with a whooshing sound as it flew towards his unsuspecting brother.

Zeus roared in pain as it pried his skin open, drilling deep, slicing flesh, splitting bone, all the way through his wrist until the prongs came to a halt in the marble of the column. Fresh drops of glimmering gold ran down his forearm, staining Anthea’s peplos in the most precious of colours: ichor, the blood of the gods. The All-father’s blood.

Hades watched as she looked up in shock, fearing for a second his precision of aim might have failed him this once, but it had not. The bident had avoided her, as he had planned it to, buying her a few seconds of distraction.

Zeus was still grunting in pain, his free hand now wrapped around the handle of his brother’s bident, pulling with all his might, and still, it did not budge. With her attacker distracted and free of the divine shackle that had bound her to the King of the Gods, Anthea seized her chance and ran. Probably following the direction the bident must have come from, she was headed straight towards Hades. She was close now, too close to stop her hurried steps in the short distance that remained and finally it dawned on him that, just like Zeus, Anthea could not see him. Taking a step to the side, his arm wrapped around her middle, the momentum turning them both around.

With panic still guiding her every movement, she did not recognise the familiarity of her lover’s touch. Instead she kicked and lashed out at him, adamant on escaping what she thought to be yet another assailant. She was strong, much stronger than he had anticipated her to be, or maybe his strength was already beginning to dwindle so far from his own realm.

“Anthea! Anthea, it’s me.” And when she still did not stop, he lifted the helmet of his head and revealed himself to her. Staying hidden did not matter anymore, Zeus knew he was here now. The gadget had served its purpose and so he tossed it aside carelessly, his hand at last free to find Anthea’s cheek.

“It’s me, love.”

And finally she stilled in his arms upon his touch.

“Aidon?” Panicked eyes stared into his, softening slowly under his gentle caress before her arms wrapped around his neck tightly and pulled him against her trembling form.

Oh, how he wished he could stop time just to hold her like this for a while, to wait patiently and give her all the time she needed to calm down, but only a fool would have truly believed that she would be granted this mercy.

Instead he could feel her stiffen in his arms as spiteful laughter filled the air and echoed from the high temple walls that surrounded them.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t that a lovely sight! The woman I—the All-father, Ruler of the Cosmos—chose for myself and my very own backstabbing coward of a brother.” Zeus paused dramatically, probably waiting for them to turn and face him. But since the only threat he posed at the moment was the venom in his words, they stayed exactly as they were. “Did you forget you once swore your undying allegiance to me after I selflessly rescued you from our father’s belly, risking my own life in the process?”

First spiting him and then questioning his loyalty—a foreseeable move, if a little low for the Ruler of the Cosmos, as his brother had so humbly titled himself a moment ago, and still Hades felt something inside of him rise to the unfounded allegations. For now, he was able to keep his anger at bay, but he, better than anyone, knew that Zeus would not rest until his last thread of self-restraint would finally snap.

“Not quite so selflessly, if I may jog your memory, brother,” the God of the Underworld managed to press out seemingly unfazed. “For, if I recall correctly, our mother had told you that only in union with your siblings you would be able to defeat the Titans and become the king of the gods.”

The All-father huffed. “We might remember this minor detail a little differently, as it seems. Still, it does not change the fact that there is not much left of the loyalty you proclaimed that day.”

Truthfully, Hades had never had even the slightest hope that this situation could have been solved by words, but still he chose to keep the argument going. It would buy them time, and should it come to the worst, these would be the last moments they were granted together, the last embrace they would ever share.

“There is also not much left of the leader you promised to be.” And as much as he hated to loosen his hold on Anthea, he needed to look his brother in the eye for his next words. “As Metis once taught you, a true leader forges alliances, a true leader is admired and holds the trust of his subjects. A true leader, Zeus, is not feared but loved.”

“And what do you know of true leadership, Hades? Your subjects are all dead, mere shadows, left with no choice but to stay in your gloomy kingdom until it pleases you to release them. Do you truly believe it is admiration, trust or love that binds them to you?”

Hades could not suppress a scornful smile. “It’s painfully obvious you have no idea how things work in the Underworld, brother. But I don’t blame you. You’ve never been there, never dared to. And understandably so. Being the tyrant you are, it’s only natural to avoid anything that might weaken your power, because we both know the world is full of people ready to cut your throat, waiting patiently for an opportunity to present itself.”

Zeus eyes narrowed for a moment. “You being one of them, I suppose.” But then he seemed to remember something and a wide grin spread on his lips. “Just look at the pair of you. A god, weakened outside his own realm, and a mortal, fragile as a dried twig. Do you really think you stand a chance against me, almighty Zeus?”

“I’m afraid you leave me no choice.”

“Well, then tell me, brother, are you prepared to lose?”

“Believe me, I am prepared. I am prepared to see towers fall, empires crumble, temples obliterated. I am prepared to watch the cosmos burn if that is the only way to free it from your reign of terror. The question is, brother, are you?”

Zeus seemed unfazed by the little speech, looking around the temple as if he had not heard it at all. But then his eyes landed back on Hades and their icy stare made him shudder.

“Prepared, you mean? For you and which army? That little whore by your side side won’t be of much use, I reckon.”

Hades had known the moment was about to come, he had sensed it long before his brother had finally triggered the nerve that made him lose his composure. He was only wondering what had taken him so long. But Zeus would not leave it at that. Mere insults, however hurtful, would not win him this battle. And the fact that he knew his brother’s methods of war better than anyone was what made Hades push Anthea behind his back to shield her with his body.

“Leave Anthea out of this. This is between you and me.”

Hades had been prepared for some spiteful laughter, or even more insults to provoke him, but instead he felt the warm touch of Anthea’s hand on his arm.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, confusion clouding her voice, and he could not help but turn his head to look at her.

“Last night I told you that I loved you, didn’t I? And that means that my place is right here, between you and everyone who wants to harm you.”

There was a glint of understanding in her eyes and he hoped that it meant she would accept his protection. It was the least he could do for her. But then she smiled and stepped even further away from him until she stood right next to him.

“And I told you that I loved you as well. And that means that my place is by your side, no matter what lies ahead of us.”

He had never seen her this serious, this determined, the fear in her eyes suddenly gone. She was ready, he knew. He had seen it many times before, in mortals and gods alike. Her soul was ready to fight, no matter how small their chances were.

He wanted to kiss her in that moment, for her bravery and her loyalty alike, but most of all for the love she held for him. He had never been loved like this. Then again, he had also never even considered giving his life for someone else. For an idea, yes, he would have gladly lost his life in the Titanomachy if it had been the sacrifice needed to end the era of the titans. But for a person, he had never been willing to put his life on the line.

But as much as he wanted to tell her that, he could not risk taking his eyes off his brother for too long. So all he could do was take her hand and squeeze it, hoping it was enough to make her understand, before he turned to face his brother again.

“Well, if this isn’t just lovely. I think the mortal chose her fate. Just like you, brother. Now, if you don’t mind.”

With a nod of his head, the All-father hinted at the bident still pinning his wrist to the column. Hades was reluctant to free him, but he did not possess the same cunning as his brother. He wanted this to be a fair fight, if a fight against Zeus could ever be considered fair.

“Ready?” he whispered.

“Ready,” she answered, squeezing his hand once more.

And so he raised his arm in the air, willing the bident back into his open hand. His fingers had not even closed around the cold metal when a deep rumble shook the temple, the air charged up and sizzling around them. Thick lines of light blue were twisting around Zeus limbs and torso like snakes of lightning, his eyes gleaming in the same unearthly colour as he, too, raised his arm to summon his weapon.

An ear-shattering roll of thunder preceded it, shaking the columns of the temple once more, so much so that Hades feared they might collapse and bury them alive. With a hiss something passed them by too fast for the eye to see and with another growling thunder it landed in Zeus’ hand—a golden lightning bolt, shimmering spectacularly in the light that surrounded his rippling body.

“So long, brother!” the King of the Gods roared, the lightning bolt ready to strike.

“Run!” Hades pushed Anthea as far away as he could without hurting her, deflecting the divine weapon with his bident. He heard marble crack, its fine splinters raining down on them and yet he did not look back. Instead he ran in the direction he had pushed Anthea, finding her already heading for a column on the far side of the temple.

“Yes! Run! Run like the cowards you are,” Zeus’ booming voice followed them, reaching their ears just as Hades had caught up with Anthea and pulled her behind the column.

“Listen carefully now, love. He will come for me first. This is your chance. When I tell you to run, you will head for the temple entrance. I will distract him long enough for you to escape.”

“Escape? Where to? We both know there is nowhere for me to run to. And besides, I won’t leave you here.”

He sighed, his eyes holding a strange mixture of admiration, affection, disbelief and resignation. And then he pulled her close, his lips meeting hers in a fervent kiss. She could taste the despair on his tongue, making her shiver as the warmth of his body disappeared and left her with the bitter aftertaste of a goodbye, maybe forever.

From the shadows her eyes followed him as he dodged another attack, then another, sidestepping the rubble and craters left by the lightning bolt. If only he still had his helmet, without it it seemed impossible to even hope for the tiniest chance for a counterstrike. But it was nowhere to be seen among the dust and debris that filled the temple now.

Aidon would not be able to keep up his pace forever, Zeus knew that too. He would tire eventually and slow and that would be the end of him. There was only one thing left to do now. It was their only hope.

Anthea closed her eyes, breathing in deeply and as her feet started to move, she released the air from her lungs in a shrill battle cry that would surely draw the All-father’s attention. She could feel his gaze on her, boring into her skin like daggers of fire. She needed to be careful now, she could not let her steps falter or this would all be in vain. Eyes glued to the ground in front of her she jumped and skipped the obstacles in her way, managing to almost reach the safety of another column when his voice made her stop in her tracks.

“Are you taking me for a fool, kasalbas?” She stared at him, and he stared back, the smug grin on his lips defying her. “Watch me then.”

“No!” she screamed as she realised what he was about to do, lightning bolt rising in the air, sparks flying as it darted through the air. It seemed to be aimed straight at her, but it was not, she realised, as her love came into view. He must have started to run, coming to protect her, even before Zeus had sent the lightning bolt on its way. It had been meant for Aidon all along and now that it found its aim, Anthea felt as if the ground opened up underneath her.

Piercing straight through him, the tip of the weapon broke through his stomach, glistening in its cover of golden ichor as if to mock her. Aidon groaned, eyes opened wide as the momentum made him stumble and fall. He collapsed right at her feet, his bident clattering to the ground beside him.

For a moment there was silence, apart from Aidon’s laboured breathing that carried a haunting wheeze, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Anthea fell to her knees beside him, wiping the hair from his face, not sure if rolling him onto his side would lessen or worsen his pain.

“Aidon!” she sobbed, fighting back the tears that were threatening to fall. “Aidon, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

But she did not even get to finish her sentence before she was harshly interrupted.

“Oh Aidon,” Zeus mocked in a shrill voice, “I’m so sorry. Well, you should have thought about that before you tried to trick me, shouldn’t you?”

In her distress, Anthea had not even realised that he had left his spot at the feet of his statue and had almost reached them. From the corner of her eye she noticed Aidon move beside her. But Zeus was quicker.

“Don’t even try,” he hissed as one large foot landed on his brother’s back. Aidon groaned, the sound turning into a pain filled scream as Zeus slowly began to pull the lightning bolt out of him.

“You’re a monster!” Anthea screamed, trying to push his foot off of Aidon’s back, but Zeus just laughed and with a flick of his wrist, he sent her sliding a few metres away on the polished marble floor.

“A monster? Ha! You don’t get to blame me, mortal. All of this is entirely your fault. If it hadn’t been for your powers of temptation, none of this would have happened. It is your fault that my beautiful temple is lying in shambles now, it is your fault that I had to fight my own brother today and it will also be your fault that he will not live to see another day.”

Shoving the tip of his foot underneath Aidon’s motionless body, Zeus rolled him over onto his back. His eyes were closed, but Anthea could see his chest lift in uneven, shallow breaths. He must have fallen unconscious from the pain as Zeus had ripped the lightning bolt from his body.

“Farewell, brother!” Zeus muttered, raising his lightning bolt one last time, when a heart-wrenching scream filled the wrecked temple.

In a heartbeat, Anthea stood, reaching for the bident that lay between her and the King of the Gods. It would not end here, not like this. She moved, one foot stepping across Aidon’s body, bident clutched in both hands. With a howl her arms rose in the air to block the jagged lightning bolt of the All-father. A deafening cracking sound erupted as the two weapons met, sparks flying, and Anthea felt a sharp pain rippling through her form like she had never felt before. She screamed as it took hold of her and she was sure she could feel something die inside her. But it did not simply die, it made room, room for something more, something mighty. She could feel it rise from the ground, filling her from her feet first. It felt amazing, an awakening of some sort, as if she was born anew. And with it came the voices. She could hear them, loud and clear, calling her, no, encouraging her and cursing Zeus.

It must all have happened in the blink of an eye, but when she returned to the moment, it felt as if she had been gone for an eternity. She had not even noticed that her eyes had fallen closed, but as they snapped open now, she found that the temple lay in utter darkness. The few rays of the rising sun had blackened, the only light now coming from the lightning bolt that still sizzled above her head. No one of them had moved, still frozen in the strain of divine weapons.

“This is impossible,” Zeus pressed out between gritted teeth. And it was only now that Anthea realised how much he was struggling. “You’re nothing but a mortal.”

You are so much more than that, Anthea. You are our daughter, a daughter of gods. Feel the ichor flowing through your veins, feel it pulse as it fills you with divine power, your birthright, your fate.

Fire—there was fire inside of her, she could feel it, it was reaching out to her, bending to her will. And with a grin, she looked up at Zeus. “Or am I?”

Marble exploded, stone shrapnel flying through the room as hot air sprang from the ground behind him, flames following in its wake. Like fountains of fire, the flames illuminated the dark temple and Zeus could not help himself but stare in utter astonishment. It was easy now to push him off. He stumbled a few steps back, but he was able to steady himself just before the flames could harm him.

Sooner than she had anticipated, he seemed to have overcome his first shock, already opting for attack again. He was lunging at her, but Anthea did not budge. She would not run and as a consequence leave Aidon unprotected. To save his life was her sole priority now.

And just in time, she could feel the fire stir to life inside of her again. This time it collected in her upper body, filling her arms and hands with a heat that should have burned her alive and make her writhe in pain, but it did not. Instead she could feel it urging her to lift her hand, and as soon as she did, it shot straight at her attacker in neatly formed balls of fire.

Zeus had no other chance but to abort his attack, throwing himself sideways to avert the fireballs. Once again, he seemed unharmed, apart from a few still smoking holes where the fire had singed his chiton.

Still Anthea grinned upon her success, however small it may have been, in turn letting her guard down for nothing but a split second, still enough for Zeus to carry out his revenge. His lightning bolt whooshing through the air once more, she felt the weight of the bident being lifted out of her hand. She watched incredulously as it was carried away from her, far enough to make it impossible to reach without leaving Aidon unprotected.

With a smug smile, Zeus called his weapon back to him, something she would not be able to do with the bident as it was not her weapon.

“Now let’s see how far your little fire tricks will get you, shall we?”

How dare he mock you. But he will bite his tongue soon enough. Fire tricks…it’s not just fire that bends to your will, my sweet child. Can you feel the ground tremble underneath your feet? It is dying to follow your command. Use your powers well, and the King of the Gods will not stand a chance against you.

Her weapons…it was her weapons against his. But what did she know about them? His lightning bolt, or Master bolt, as it was often called by his admirers had been forged in Tartarus by the cyclopses, just like Poseidon’s Trident and Aidon’s Helm of Darkness. It was a powerful weapon, some even said it was the most powerful in the whole Cosmos. But a weapon, her father had told her once, was only as strong as the being that wielded it. And Zeus surely must have his weaknesses. Using the fire’s might had worked once, so why not use it again.

But first she needed to make sure Aidon was safe. She could not win this fight by staying put, she would have to move at some point. Calling the fire from the ground once again, she willed it to spring free in a perfect circle around Aidon and herself, the flames rising higher and higher with ease until they closed in a neatly formed dome above them. She had no idea if this was enough to protect him, but something inside of her told her that she should trust in her powers, and so she did.

With a sigh, she knelt beside him once again. “My love,” softly she caressed his cheek. He was still breathing, if only barely so. “I need you to hold on for me just a little longer.”

She had not expected an answer, and yet the silence felt as if her heart was being ripped apart. Instead, she heard another voice, booming as always, but a little dimmed as it broke through the flames.

“Hiding again? You’re starting to bore me, kasalbas.”

Despite the fire that flowed through her veins, Anthea could feel her heart turn cold. If it was entertainment he wanted, if this was all their lives and their pain meant to him, she would give him entertainment. Slowly she rose to her feet and made her way over to the wall of flames that stood between her and the King of the Gods. Carefully she tested the fire with her fingertips, but as she had assumed, it did not burn her. And with a last look back, a last deep breath, she stepped through the flames to meet her fate.

She needed to act quickly, her plan relying heavily on the element of surprise. She only hoped that this would work. Earth and fire. Earth and fire. Earth and fire.

She tried to summon them both, there must be a way to contact them somehow. She was not entirely sure how this worked yet, the power had somehow just done what she had wanted it to do, but to call to two powers at once was not as easy. First, the fire responded. She could hear its hissing whisper inside her head, telling her it was ready to succumb to her will. The earth was a bit trickier. Yet again, it did not take long before she could feel the ground respond, trembling, shaking underneath her feet, ripping tiny cracks into the marble here and there.

Everything was set now, it would be his doom—or hers. Either way, she was prepared to find out.

“My apologies, oh mighty Zeus,” Anthea purred, her voice sweet as honey, earning her a cautious frown from the All-father, “for boring you. Let me make it up to you.”

Once again the ground trembled, the movement growing stronger by the second until the tiny cracks that had formed before broke wide open. Fire rose from the ruptures once more, angry, hissing fountains of flames that leaned towards Zeus, eager to taste him. But he seemed unimpressed, clucking his tongue.

“With the fire again? Seriously? Is this supposed to frighten me or bore me to death? Whatever it is, it’s not working.”

Anthea did not rise to his mockery, but her will to wound him only grew with every spiteful word that left his mouth. And even if she did not utter a single word in response, he would feel her anger. She revelled in the look of utter shock on his face as the ground underneath his beloved statue simply opened up without a warning and swallowed his likeness whole before neatly closing above it again as if nothing had happened.

“No!” he yelled as the very heart of his centre of worship vanished before his eyes and on instinct, he took a step towards the place where the statue had once stood, as right before his feet the ground opened up, forcing him to stop. With gleaming eyes that held nothing but hatred he turned to face her.

“You little…”

“Tell me, almighty Zeus, how was that for entertainment?”

“You will pay for that,” he spat.

“And I think I paid enough already. It’s your turn now to pay for your cruelty.”

He was just about to say something, when they could both feel the heat rise from the ground. This was not the heat of mere flames that they had felt before, it was much hotter than that, forcing the sweat to break on his forehead instantly. She could feel how he was struggling to breathe properly, the scorching air burning in his lungs with every breath he took. And then his eyes went wide as the glowing red and orange light rose from the crack. On instinct he took a step back, only to find even more ruptures around himself, all lit up by the same portentous gleam as the one right in front of him.

“Stop this at once or—”

But Anthea only smiled as she watched the lava finally spilling over the edges of the cracks. Relentlessly it rolled forwards, setting everything in its way aflame—fruit, fine meat, flowers, incense; every single offering his worshippers had made to the All-father. He howled dramatically as if the flames had rolled over him instead. This was pathetic and as much as she had started to enjoy tormenting him, there was someone else who needed her attention much more than this manchild.

And so she sped up the flow of the lava drastically, letting it crawl up the columns and along the ceiling while it closed in on him on the ground as well. It had come dangerously close already, almost licking at his sandals when he finally did what she had hoped for. There was nothing more he could do from where he was held captive by the molten rock but ready his bolt once more. She watched him patiently, waiting for the moment when his hand would finally set it free and when it did, two thick threads of lava dropped down from the ceiling to capture it, holding it like mighty fists before they hardened around the golden metal and pinned it in place.

Incredulously, Zeus had watched the whole procedure. Of course he would try to call it back, sure that it would break the now hardened rock and come flying back into his hands with ease. But however much he tried and strained, it did not budge.

And then Anthea moved, the lava hardening underneath her feet with every step she took until she had reached the Master bolt, the two rocky fists holding it perfectly in place for her.

“Don’t you dare!” its owner growled, but spoken from his flaming prison, his threat held little power.

“You know what? I think I will.”

And with that a single blue flame sprang from her fingertips, making the metal glow almost white as it cut through it without meeting any resistance. Zeus roared as he watched her rip the two pieces that had once been the mightiest weapon in the Cosmos from the rocky fingers and hold them up for him to see what she had done.

“Now to you, King of the Gods.”

Zeus’ eyes went wide once more as Anthea stepped closer. She could see it in his eyes, his next step written so clearly that it was almost too easy. He used the same gesture she had seen her father and Aidon use several times before, opening the ether with a flick of his wrist. He was about to flee the scene. And she would have let him, had this been only about him and her. But this was about so much more now.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I promise I will burn you to cinders faster than you can step through.”

The lava around him was glowing and gurgling dangerously, not even the width of a finger between him and the deathly heat anymore. Zeus allowed himself a moment to think, probably calculating if she could make do on her threat, but then he opted for not being in the mood for finding out and closed the portal, albeit reluctantly.

Slowly she drew in on him, finding a strange satisfaction in the way he feverishly tried to find a different way out of his misery and avoid the unavoidable. He even took an involuntary step back, burning his foot in the process and howling in pain. She was almost there, when at last he broke.

“Please,” he begged, “please, Anthea, don’t kill me. It does not have to end like this.”

Anthea stopped, looking him straight in the eyes. And when she spoke, she chose her words very carefully.

“How this is going to end, Zeus, is entirely up to you. You choose which kind of god you want to be from now on. But rest assured, whatever your choice may be, you will be held accountable for your actions from now on.”

It probably did not happen all too often that the King of the Gods found himself speechless, and judging by the look on his face, this might even be the first time his tongue had forsaken him. But to Anthea it was all the same, answer or not, he had understood her without a doubt, and that was all that mattered.

“Now leave. But rest assured that there is nowhere for you to hide should you give me any reason to come for you.”

His eyes shone with nothing but pure hatred as he spat his farewell. “You will regret this one day, kasalbas.”

“Don’t make me.” Her answer was a mere whisper, but the All-father was gone anyway, fled through the ether, hopefully not to return to her sight any time soon.

It was only now that Anthea realised how tired she was. Using all that power must have worn her out, making her sway dangerously amidst the melted rock. But with her tension slowly leaving her body, she could feel the flames die away, the lava beginning to cool and darken all around. And even though her inner voices told her to rest, she could not. Not yet.

“Aidon,” she mumbled to herself, her feet already spinning her around, hurrying to carry her over to the spot where mere moments ago a blazing dome of fire had shielded her love from his brother’s unbridled brutality. He was still unconscious, breathing shallowly while the ichor kept flowing freely from the gaping wound in his stomach.

She wanted to help him, take him away from here, get him to the safety of the Underworld where someone surely knew what to do, but she had no idea how. The entrance to the Underworld Hermes had taken her through must be days away, and she did not even know if Aidon had mere minutes to spare.

There was only one way to get him home in time, and it had seemed easy enough watching others open that dark portal and stepping through. But it was something entirely different to use that power herself.

The ether, sweet child, you hold the power to open it.

Encouraged by the words, she tried, reaching for the power she had felt in her battle against Zeus, but there was no answer. Still, she flicked her wrist like she had seen before. Once, twice, but nothing happened. She tried again, and again, tears of frustration slowly beginning to blur her vision, but the ether still did not open to her will.

“I can’t,” she mumbled, then louder, “I can’t!” until she screamed her frustration into the temple ruins, her voice sounding distorted and hollow, “I CAN’T!”

And with her frustration something else flickered to light deep inside of her once more, warmth building, rising, until a familiar blazing heat pulsed through her veins again.

You can, sweet child. Try once more. Envision your success. Trust in your powers.

Trust in her powers. How could she? They had only just decided to appear out of nowhere. Then again, they had helped her defeat the Ruler of the Cosmos. So how hard could it be to use them to open a simple portal?

Closing her eyes, she did as the voice had told her and visualised a portal opening right in front of her. She imagined its jagged edges, the unmatched darkness that awaited, almost pulling her in, felt the twist and turn of her stomach she always felt in the blink of an eye it took to travel from once place to the other. And then she flicked her wrist again.

She almost squealed in joy as her eyes opened and fell onto the black hole in the air right in front of her. She had done it. She really had. There was no time to lose now.

Gathering her last strength, she managed to hoist the limp body up into her arms. Aidon groaned and she hated herself for causing him more pain than he already had to endure, even if there was no other way.

Not long now, my love, she thought, and sent a prayer to the Fates that they would make it to the Underworld in time. Just one more step, one more deep breath, one more moment with their destination clear as day in her mind, and she could feel the cool stone of the palace balcony beneath herself. She must have fallen to her knees, Aidon’s body still clutched to hers, warm ichor oozing down her arms and legs, shining eerily against the black rocky floor.

“HELP!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Then again, the despair in her voice spiralling out of control. “Someone, please, help us!” Her grip on Aidon had tightened, their bodies rocking back and forth in unison, her cheek firmly pressed to his, as if she could cling to the measly rest of life still inside of him in case he could not hold onto it himself anymore. “Please,” she whimpered with the last bit of strength that remained, “someone help us. Anyone.”

***

taglist:

@ashesofblackroses

@lowkeysimpinloki

@appreciating-fanfics

@notmanagingmymischief

@rosecentury

@fightmespideyboy

#hades!hozier x ofc #hades!hozier #hozier #hozier fanfiction #greek mythology au #earth and fire

17 notes · View notes

choicesmc · 6 days

Text

Let This Be My Punishment

MC: Fiona Lightwood Book: Laws of Attraction Word Count: 730 Summary: Fiona is forever haunted by what he is and cannot be. Banner: The Dying Swan by Tretchikoff Vladimir Prompt: Deity Inspiration List - [Erinyes] Taglist: @choicesmaychallenge24

trigger warnings: queerphobia and homophobia nothing is explicit but as the center of the fic, i wanna cover my bases.

Fiona knew how to ignore ghosts. He knew how to ignore the whispers of rebuke that gripped him as he patted down his skirt. He knew to move past the occasional queasiness when pressed chaste kisses against Gabe’s soft skin. He knew to stifle the nightmares that wrestled him awake in the middle of the night.

Or, at least, he’d thought he’d known.

He thought he was past the nightmare stage. It’d been so long since he startled himself awake, replaying that damned day over and over in his mind.

He never made the same choices. Sometimes he kept his head down, eyes trained on the burning hands of his fiancee on his thigh. Sometimes, he played it off as a joke, becoming ever so slightly hysterical when no one –not his fiance, not his father, and especially not his mother– believed him.

Sometimes, he left the table yelling and cursing the awful, awful truth. At times, he brought his fiance close, turning to his father and lying through gritted smiles that he’d never, not once, had ever even considered the improbable, unacceptable, impossible idea that he might like the feel of silk dress over the finest pants. Or confessed that men, men!, could be so beautiful as to compel Fiona to his knees in desperate worship. No. He’d bite his tongue like a coward than spit out disgrace.

Not that the outcome ever really changed.

This time, he’d gently taken his mother’s hands and placed them around his neck.

It wasn’t hard. Fiona had always known the virtues of suffering. Always known that the life he now lived required his eternal repentance. It was the only option he’d be given. It was the life he chose. And Fiona was old enough to suffer its consequences.

Uwakwe sat at the table. The first seat to the left of his father. His bride-to-be, his fiancée, Chiamaka sat beside him. Her hand lingered on his thigh, sly and coy, burning against his every instinct.

His mother, Kachu, pressed against Fiona’s pulse. It throbbed under her touch, vein hammering away with each lingering moment. It begged for her forgiveness. Begged to accept everything he was, even if only through his death.

“Uwakwe,” his mother spat, placing her son as yet another obstacle to overcome, “This is not enough.”

No, Fiona prayed, It is not.

“Uwakwe,” his mother spoke. Her hand gave his pulse another squeeze. It was almost taunting. “This is a dream.”

It is real, Fiona whispered, Had I given you my neck, you would have squeezed. Had I said nothing you would have done something. This is as real as it is a dream.

Her hands grew cold on his neck. When she spoke again, her voice warbled, swirling with the voice of his father, mingling with Chiamaka’s. She didn’t speak things Fiona knew to understand.

There was a time I did understand, Fiona wondered, there had been a time when I knew those sounds better than anyone else, hadn’t there?

Instead, he kept perfectly still, allowing his mother to abuse him. Relishing the familiar way she cut at him, the crash of phonemes against his ear, grating and mocking him with each roll of their tongues.

Fiona let that haunting lullaby move him from his bed. He pushed it behind his brain as he picked up his phone, eyes softly closing at the sound of Gabe’s instructing voice to leave a message at the tone.

Fiona left a sweet message. A simple ‘Good morning, darling.’, the type that whispered honey and kisses and soft sheets and lingering mornings. The type that hid worried curses and silent tears. The type that Gabe, somehow, always heard anyway.

Donning his most risqué shirt he could probably get away with, Fiona pretended not to notice as the fabric prickled his fingers, drawing his disgrace to light. Squirming into a tight, bedazzled pencil skirt, he let the criticisms stain him –even pausing to admire his open disobedience in the glimmer of eyeshadow and the gloss of his painted lips.

Fiona didn’t know to ignore ghosts. He knew how to live with them. He knew how to integrate them so deeply into everything he was that to separate him from his ghosts was to give him a purity he didn’t deserve. Fiona would never be pure.

The closest he’d ever get to purity was this endless suffering.

Author's Note: for a little more context you might wanna read [this] post. I associate a lot of Christian imagery with Fiona cuz it's how he was raised so, idk, I foolishly thought it would be kinda easy to find something analogous in greek mythos but, spoiler, it was not.

but the erinyes jumped at me because yeah! that's how fiona lives his life! Hoping y'all had fun/enjoyed reading my suffering (<- loving and affectionate) ♥

#fanfic #choicesmaychallenge24 #tw queerphobia #tw homophobia #myfic #fiona lightwood

15 notes · View notes

eshtaresht · 18 days

Text

Esht's Trigun oneshot recs

Clunker by CommanderGoo is very '98 polygun flavored, so much so it could as well be a lost episode. the gang's borrowed car gets broken and sigle-braincell-fuelled shenanigans ensue

bring it on home to me by catachresis to me is like a bowl of comfort soup. two guys slow dancing to the radio, what are they gonna do next? this is perfect in every way from setting the scene to vashwood characterization

First Rodeo by Lenipez puts whimsy in smut like higher powers intended. mashwood bickering is on point, and meryl being evil with her boys sets such a delightful dynamic!

Erinyes by WateredMyCrops is all about girly things! namely, maiming and killing. for a good cause!! being insurance agents doesn't mean milly and meryl aren't willing to take on a gang Mad Max style

lover come over, look what I've done by procrastinatingbookworm encapsulates the feeling of hands in the air crying & disintegrating emoji and shrimps me thoroughly. tristamp wolfwood has a no good bad time but for better or worse, he's not alone this time

If this is communication, I disconnect (I need you, you want me, but I don't know how to connect) by ImberReader is post-canon vashmeryl at its finest: full of trauma and miscommunication. but goddammit they're trying!

blackbird by sigh_of_the_primordial_mouth is a vol10 fic. do I even need to elaborate? verbose and poetic, it reads like a classic tragedy and tastes like grief. made me cry

Gaps of Sunlight by ghosttopiary is also a vol10 fic, now with a sci-fi spin. the title is very on point: the writing is purposfully disjointed and bright-sharp. but the thing is, every version of this story ends the same

#trigun #trigun fanfiction #trigunfanficappreciation #fic rec

13 notes · View notes

kawaiijohn · 1 year

Text

Through Traps and Overgrown Paths

(Our Fates Await)

Rating: Teen [Graphic Depictions of Violence]

Characters: Danny Fenton, Flynn Walker, Sam Manson, Tucker Foley, Clockwork, Frostbite, Misery Vex, Erinyes (OC)

Relationships: Lost Time, Danny Fenton & Flynn Walker

Tags: Danny meets Flynn Story, Creepy Mirrors, Fantasy Flowers, Horror elements, Identity Reveal, Body Horror, World Building, Blue/Orange Morality, Unhealthy Familial Relationships, Misery Vex's Attempt at Parenting, She's Trying y'all, But she's also like. A spider.

Summary: It starts with a bed of Poppy Flowers and a stranger holding out a helping hand.

How was Danny to know this stranger was anything but and that Family dynamics in the Infinite Realms were even more complicated than back home?

Fic: Ao3 | Tumblr

OST: Coming soon to Spotify & Bandcamp

Heyo it's time to post my @invisobang piece for the amazing @bubblegumbeech's fic! Myself and @bibliophilea did the art and music for it and it's one hell of a ride. Bib's music is waiting on being accepted by both sites, but should show up on their pages as soon as they are!

We hope you enjoy reading as much as we did creating!!

#danny phantom #phanfic #dp fanfic #invisobang #invisobang 2022 #big bang #dp fanart #phanart #danny fenton #flynn walker #flynn (dp)#my art #dantes vibe corner #YEET #this is why i havent written anything in months #BUT ENJOY PLS

150 notes · View notes

bubblegumbeech · 1 year

Text

We Interrupt Your Scheduled Programming.

Nocturn and Clockworks friendship stands on a sturdy foundation built on gray morals and dark secrets, trust formed through mischief and misdirections—as well as frequently helping each other out of situations of various kinds. Unfortunately for both of them, Clockworks latest problem has become a rescue mission scenario

For @ravenatural (Enjoy my beloved.)

AO3

“You’re joking.”

“If I am, it’s in poor taste.”

Nocturne was leaning back in his chair—a comfortable amalgamation of pillowy soft aspirations for the cushions with a sturdy frame of hope holding it together underneath. His chin was balanced on the palm of his hand, one sharp nail tapping impatiently on the wood of his mask.

“How long do I have?” he asked, giving up on any attempt at gauging the urgency in his brother's demeanor.

Clockwork was aloof as ever, despite the circumstance he had just described. “Not long. But I cannot stay—”

“Naturally.”

“As the result is fundamentally up to your decisions.” Clockwork tipped his head slightly, the mischief in his eyes no more hidden than the bitter twist of his lips.

Yes, the result would be up to Nocturne, but he had no doubt at all that it would also be to Clockwork’s taste. And while the thought of playing into the bastard's hands went against every fiber of his being, dating back to when they were more concept in their mother’s shadow than full entities themselves… the thought of missing out on such an interesting opportunity left a sour taste in his mouth.

Oh well.

He’d have to be one step ahead next time. Pride was such a killjoy in situations such as these. Perhaps if great and powerful ghosts, such as the likes of Pariah Dark or Erinyes, had a looser grip on their pride, they too might have found themselves less acquainted with repeated defeat.

“So you’ll do it?” Clockwork asked, knowing full well what Nocturne’s answer would be.

What a bother this whole thing was bound to be. “Of course, as annoying as you are, I hardly want to lose my favorite brother.” Nocturne leaned to the side, balancing his chin in the back of a loosely curled fist. “Well, at least of the ones left.”

There wasn’t even an exasperated eyeroll. Things must truly be dire.

“It’s… dangerous,” Clockwork warned, quite uncharacteristically.

Nocturne barked out a laugh. “Oh you know me, I won’t be getting involved directly.”

“Of course.” If Nocturne hadn’t known better he’d say Clockwork sounded relieved.

What a worrying thought. Perhaps his new young charge had made him overly cautious, in a way Clockwork never had been in his youth.

“You do know you will owe me quite the favor?”

“...Of course.”

Nocturne sighed and stood from his chair as Clockwork disappeared into nothingness. It truly was going to be a tedious task. Well, it didn’t necessarily have to be as tedious as Nocturne was going to make it, but he was not nearly as fond of consequences as his brother and would at least try and prevent them wherever possible.

Especially given his strange reticence.

It would have been easier, of course, if Clockwork had given him any kind of deadline. Nocturne was half tempted to take his time, leave his brother waiting and suffering both before swooping in just to prove a point.

But if anyone was well versed in petty retribution for petty transgressions it was the Master of Time.

He readied himself to leave his Lair, sealing his mask properly over his features and styling his hair so that it blended seamlessly with the rest of the endless night sky he garbed himself in.

Once he was presentable, he started to think about what exactly it was he was going to do. If he wanted to keep true to his word, that he would be careful (and hopefully unseen) there would need to be a not insignificant amount of planning.

The Clockwork that had visited him just now was from four rotations past—and had seen the possibility of the future Nocturne currently occupied.

It was the current Clockwork that needed his help.

Well, at the very least he needed something resembling help. Though it was more in the line of holding up a painting as Clockwork nailed it into the wall. Nocturne would hardly be necessary, but he’d help keep everything straight.

First… was a trip to Clockwork’s Lair. If his visitor was to be believed, Long Now would be abandoned, but Nocturne should still be able to gather at least a few clues.

His brother may be a cryptic bastard, but even he would let down his guard in his own home.

Nocturne stepped over the threshold—the lair accepted his presence easily with the bond between them as strong and often reaffirmed as it was.

There was something though, leading him away from one of the wings of the tower. Nocturne mostly ignored it. He wasn’t here for his brother’s secrets, or to break his trust. And if his Lair had something it did not want Nocturne to see, he would simply not see it.

Besides, he was here for a reason.

He mostly needed to know how long Clockwork had been gone. The time, frozen on the main screen in Clockwork’s viewing room, hinted that it had been only a moment since he’d been taken. Almost a breath between his captors dragging him away and Nocturne stepping foot inside.

It was a wonder he missed them.

Nocturne kicked away some of the mess that had been left in the struggle. Leave it to his brother to time things so perfectly.

Did it not occur to the bastard that Nocturne’s presence might have prevented this outcome entirely!?

He tapped at the edge of his mask, taking another look around before leaving to explore some of the other rooms.

Clockwork’s Lair was… strangely organized, outside of the viewing room where the recent struggle had destroyed almost everything short of the screens themselves.

He had never known Clockwork to be organized. It was…

Well, Nocturne was hardly going to start digging. His goal this time was his brother’s favor—not his displeasure. It would be just his luck if Clockwork decided whatever secrets he might uncover would count to even their score.

Next stop was setting the scene.

As powerful as Nocturne was, he didn’t particularly like his chances against the mass of Eyes That Minded Everyone’s Business But Their Own. But he did have a few tricks he could use to thin their ranks.

Perhaps he could use this as an opportunity. After all, Clockwork wasn’t the only one who enjoyed a good scheme. And he had learned many of his tricks from Nocturne himself.

He stopped by Clockwork’s kitchen, grabbing some of the supplies he had left behind on one of his previous visits. There was a surprising amount of Coraleander Tea left, but Nocturne did not dare attempt to partake.

It was Clockwork’s favorite and he had been lamenting for the past few centuries that there were too few gardeners left patient enough to cultivate it.

Instead, he made a simple glass of Sweet Dreams and allowed it to try and evoke some modicum of creativity.

There were very few ways to create a distraction catastrophic enough that it would actually get Those Who Watch But Rarely Act to… well, act.

He could start a rebellion in some of their territories, but it would take time. And upon reaching out his tendrils to read the underlying thoughts and desires of the District of Jurisdiction or the Dictator’s Ship, he found them amidst rebellion already—and planning revolt.

Observants and Sympathizers were already stalking the streets (and the passageways) to keep their disobedient subjects in line and under Control.

It certainly made Nocturne’s job easier. He sent a silent ‘thank you’ to whomever paved the way and nearly severed the Collective in half.

Even if it was… conveniently timed.

With such a large-scale operation already clearly underway and under someone’s control, Nocturne could make some more pointed attacks to start spreading what was left even thinner.

Yes, rather than trying for the tedious task of collecting the masses, he’d grab a few powerful ghosts that could get the Watching Eyes moving. It was more his style besides, and significantly less effort.

Convincing one or two… or three ghosts to do something was as simple as reading their nature and granting them a genie’s wish. Convincing an entire Realm… well, that took something far more dangerous than simple power.

Nocturne slipped away, his first target already in mind.

Of course, thoughts of powerful, dangerous ghosts and slow rising revolutions and revolts—only one ghost truly came to mind.

Pariah’s right hand. He certainly had no love lost for the bastards that had attacked Nocturne’s brother. Not since Pariah had turned against them during his first reign, and especially not in the eons after as they chased after him only to seal him away over and over again.

It was a simple matter to seek out Fright Knight’s specific flavor of fear and where it left its trails in the greater subconscious. Even simpler still, to use it to find where exactly the spirit was last seen.

It didn’t take long.

Fright Knight was spending his time, as he often did since his unfortunate curse, in a pumpkin. If Nocturne read it correctly, the pumpkin he was currently sealed inside had been left floating—lost in the thinner regions of the drowned quarter, just outside one of the smaller civilizations.

Nocturne was not personally a fan of visiting that particular region. Call it a character flaw, but he preferred the soft sweetness of happy dreams over the heavy cloying taste of fear and nightmares.

And if the deep inspired anything at all, it was fear of the unknown.

Either way, it was easier to travel in a different form through the thick ectoplasmic mimicry of ocean water. It was only mildly annoying to keep his mask fixed in place, but his hair ran completely wild and out of his control.

He wrapped his coat around him, twisting it into the vague shape of a selkie’s tail before relaxing and letting himself merge back into it. The entire visage was rather romantic, an ink colored night sky in the shape of an ocean dweller.

This particular trip would have to be quick—there was no way of knowing which of his siblings might catch him like this, and it was not something he wanted to risk for long.

They had disgustingly long memories, after all.

The search would be tedious, and Nocturne found himself fighting with an unfamiliar bitterness—oh how convenient it would be to have an ability like Sojourn’s in moments like this? Even Clockwork would know where the exact thing he was looking for awaited him.

This was exactly why Nocturne was very rarely one to get out and ‘join the fun.’

Oh well. They say to play to your strengths.

Nocturne let himself sink, just slightly, into the subconscious thread of thought all around him. Plucking at the different strings, until he found one so saturated in fear it was positively dripping with it.

Ah… he opened his eyes and swam towards the feeling—pulling at the string to guide him as if it were Ariadne’s and the open ocean around him a twisted labyrinth. It led him, successfully, to a young mermaid-like ghost that had found the floating pumpkin accidentally.

They did not dare get close to it, their subconscious thick with stories of the Spirit of Halloween and his Dimension of Fear. They had made at least three or four laps around some internalized perimeter, curious but wary. Unwilling to take their eyes off of it but even more unwilling to swim closer.

Nocturne paid the spirit no mind and simply collected the pumpkin, sword and all.

He began to swim away, thoughts clouded by future plans and possibilities.

The mermaid reached out, claws just barely missing the edges of Nocturne’s cloak. He did not know if they were trying to stop him—it did not matter. He had what he came for.

He kept Fright Knight sealed as they traveled towards Verification City, the Observants’ controlled little pet metropolis where their rules were law and weak orderly-obsessed ghosts collected like hive insects.

It was important as a display of their authority, and Nocturne had no doubt they would deploy a number of their slimy little congregants to try and ‘protect’ it. Especially when, as far as Nocturne had managed to observe, it was one of the few Realms left to them not showing open Revolt.

So Nocturne set the pumpkin down, the delicately carved swan facing the lights of the city, and drew the sword. Then, as the storm raged, summoning its captive in a blaze of terrifying glory, Nocturne took the sword and threw it into the middle of the Market Square. It pierced into the ground and buried itself—even the power of Pariah’s Knight would struggle a moment to dig it from the ground.

A moment enough to sow the chaos Nocturne desired.

He felt the gaze of the Watchers turn towards them the next moment and hid quickly in the shadows of the curious and confused residents. It was easy to hide amongst the sudden commotion, but Nocturne was careful nonetheless. Fright Knight was truly, as his name implied, a ghost to be feared.

Nocturne, like any other spirit, had dreams he did not wish to visit, even if it would be but a brief struggle. (Nocturne’s own Realm was so very similar to the power of Fright Knight’s sword after all. And Nocturne was much, much older.) So he kept his distance and slipped away, the buzzing hive-like thoughts of the Observants growing closer as they deployed yet another battalion to keep their precious Order.

Tedious.

He’d only gotten one done so far, and it had been a terrible amount of work.

Nocturne let himself take a proper breath once he was away from it all. His hair was still wet, dripping onto his neck and shoulders. The feeling was uncomfortable at best, and even as he combed his claws through his hair to untangle it—wetness clung stubbornly.

Well. He shook his head. There was someone he could visit that might help.

The trick was finding out where Vortex had last rampaged.

That should be easier than finding Fright Knight, as Vortex’s rampages were often calamities of their own—leaving destruction and victims in equal measure.

But theory was often simple until reality introduced itself.

He followed the muted screams to the nearest disaster but found it a wasted trip. This one, despite Nocturne’s hopes, had been entirely natural. (As natural as something in the Infinite Realms could possibly be.)

The Voidcano had erupted recently, leaving many ghosts damaged, disfigured, or trapped. But there was no sign of meddling from Vortex.

If his wayward little brother had ever been here at all, it was long enough ago to be useless. And certainly had nothing to do with the thick frosting of tragedy that coated the entire Realm.

Nocturne tapped his nail rhythmically against the wooden edge of his mask, trying to think. It had been mostly quiet in the Realms recently…other than some passing rumors Nocturne didn’t really bother to pay attention to.

Ghosts would always be fond of ghost stories after all.

It would be easy, he lamented once again, if Sojourn had not disappeared. He was by far the most friendly and easygoing of their siblings. Nocturne wouldn’t need to bend over backwards or sell his soul to get help doing things like finding where Vortex decided to hide or hunting down a single pumpkin.

He cast another glance out, only to find the repercussions of the Voidcano’s recent eruption acting as a blanket to smother all similar thoughts. Nocturne would have to leave the vicinity if he wanted to seek out another disaster of this magnitude.

Quiet was what he needed now. So naturally, his next stop was outside of Ghost Writer’s library. If only to get a moment of peace before trying to dive once more into the collective unconscious.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking for a book?” Another young ghost broke his concentration. This one was slightly more familiar to Nocturne, if only because she had the clear mark of his Sister stitched delicately around her core. A niece of his then.

“No, just a moment of respite, Spiderling.”

Her expression twisted slightly at the nickname, and Nocturne could taste a small, mostly suppressed, wave of bitterness before she smiled and said, “Then if you don’t mind…?”

Nocturne raised an eyebrow.

“You’re blocking the door.”

Ah. He turned behind him—the door had shifted from just beside him to immediately behind him. Either acting to try and invite him in, or simply attracted to Nocturne’s own connection to creativity and thought.

He turned back to the girl and stepped aside. “So I am.”

Waiting until she stepped through the doorway, Nocturne turned to ask, “What is someone like you doing at a library?”

Misery’s children were hardly known for being studious, and this girl’s obsession was hardly scholarly either. Books, in the Infinite Realms, often came at quite the price, and few were willing to risk paying for little to no reason.

There was a moment Nocturne thought he might be ignored. Misery’s children often had spines of steel, even among ghosts stronger than them. But it was still irritating—

“I need the history…” the girl said. “I need to know why—”

Nocturne felt a wave of grief hit then. Something had happened to this child—no, to someone this child cared for. He almost reached out, if only to offer sweet dreams. But that wouldn’t help, not when she had already given herself a task in her grief and when Nocturne was busy with a task of his own.

Instead he read her obsession, cultivating flowers (How sweet. How soft.) and created a Blinking Bloom to gift her. It would do nothing for her loss, but when—if— she decided to sleep, it would bring her dreams of the softest and kindest caliber.

She took it, suspicious but obedient, and turned away to continue walking into the library.

Nocturne did not watch her form disappear behind the haphazard stacks and poorly managed shelves of books. He had his own task, so that he might avoid feeling grief of his own. It was truly so terribly sour, one of the worst flavors he’d ever had to suffer.

And one he’d not like to suffer again.

The respite had been helpful though, as he was able to quickly find exactly what it was he was looking for. The grief he felt from the young Spiderling was a clue: many of the tragedies he felt in the collective unconscious held tenuous connections to it (were either grieving the same loss, or losses indistinguishable from hers), and once he filtered it out, there was only really one massive trail of disaster left.

Vortex was outside of the Acropolis of Athens and Nocturne was just in time to stop him before he decided to get into a fight with Pandora.

All this travel was really starting to catch up to him. He took a moment, upon finding his little brother, before trying to say anything. But the ticking clock in the back of his mind reminded him there was a time limit. Even if he was not personally savvy to it.

He floated closer and reached out a hand.

“Not that I would begrudge you picking fights normally—” Nocturne sidestepped a flash of lightning as Vortex turned around, instincts striking when his senses failed to pick up a possible threat.

The attack was vicious, instinctual, and cruel. Something that had become a recent hallmark of Vortex’s travels. It left Nocturne discontent, still, to see their youngest so taken apart.

“Nocturne?” His little brother looked surprised, even through his half-madness. He stopped his attack, but the ambient ectoplasm around them was still charged with static. “Why are you—?”

It was a calculated risk, what was he willing to give Vortex versus what he might be able to collect from Clockwork. Though, even without the reward of having his most troublesome sibling owe him a favor, he would not like to see this particular fate played out.

Not again.

“There’s some trouble with the Observants.”

Vortex stiffened, his form fizzling into a chaotic mess, already fuzzy edges growing fuzzier and undefined. When was the last time Nocturne had seen Vortex as he was meant to be seen? Instead of the indistinct and haywired lines of plasma and lightning that he had managed to shape himself into?

“I…” Frustration bled into the ambient ectoplasm around them, curdled and spoiled by fear.

Nocturne picked through it, searching for a reason, a balance he could strike… Ah. There it was.

“I will protect you,” he said, using his power to sooth his little brother’s fears, “and you can take out some of your anger, your frustration.” Perhaps it would be cathartic.

Red eyes turned to him, interested but not convinced.

“I am laying other traps, of course. I wouldn’t ask you to fight against the mass of the Collective on your own.” He took off his mask, shaving a sliver of the wood from it and folding it into a ring. He placed it on what was left of Vortex’s left ear and watched as it burrowed deeper, growing small roots to take hold. “It’s risk free brother. Go crazy.”

Vortex reached up to the gift he had been given, unwilling to dislodge it. “Did you lose a bet?”

Nocturne laughed. “Yes. You could say that.”

His smile was vicious as he explained the circumstances that had led them here, and before long Vortex had one to match.

There wasn’t even a moment to blink before Vortex had sped off towards the Observants’ Center for Detention and Confinement. It was in the opposite direction from their precious Metropolis at Verification City and would do well to split their forces.

Once more, Nocturne had spent far too much time and energy on what would only amount to a simple distraction. He was beginning to think this endeavor would not be worth the favor owed.

At least his hair had dried.

Now… to split the Observants’ attention once more.

There were only so many things they could keep watch over (despite their name), and Nocturne knew one little thing in particular that would make an excellent distraction.

Along with a small, harmless, bit of payback towards Clockwork for dragging him into this.

Well, if he didn’t want the child involved, he should have said so directly, right?

Nocturne replaced his mask and began his journey back. One more stop before the finale, and then he could leave all of this traveling to Sojourn. Wherever he was.

He made his way to the outskirts, where the Barrens had settled.

The permanent portal the child’s mortal parents had created was still there—a garish and painful looking wound torn into the fabric of the Infinite Realms.

Nocturne wasn’t here for the portal itself though; he needed what lay sleeping on the other side.

The boy was indeed asleep in his bed, thankfully. (Nocturne hadn’t been sure that he would be—he was often kept awake beyond what was reasonable. Whether it be due to his obsession or teenage whims was a matter for Clockwork and not of any particular interest to Nocturne.)

He used a touch of sand to weave—not a dream, per se—but a suggestion. He needed the boy to do this unsuspiciously if he was going to do this. Daniel had already met and been in conflict with him. He knew at least the bare breadth of Nocturne’s power and if he showed his hand in any way in this dream, the boy would seek out him rather than those Nocturne needed him to distract.

Besides, the last thing Nocturne wanted was the Observants’ interest reaching toward him just because he was a little lazy . Clockwork pushed his luck with his mischief and hands-on interventions. Nocturne preferred a position behind the curtain so to say. Pushing things along in the shadows to enjoy the performance and the audience while being party to neither.

Idea implanted, Nocturne slipped away—only to be stopped at the portal by a mortal girl.

It was the Halfa’s sister, long red hair unmanaged as if she had crawled straight from bed to place herself annoyingly in his path. She was holding a weapon. One of the ones that actually worked, and that Nocturne was certain the two adults had not managed to complete before it had been hidden away and out of their reach.

“What did you do to Danny?”

Quite the protective older sister she was. It reminded him of his own sister—though he doubted Misery Vex would resort to threats over implementation. She was always a ghost of action like that.

Nocturne was in a hurry though, and as fun as it might have been to play a little longer with the foolishly brave little mortal… he had his own brother to save. So he sent her into a dream with a wave of his hand. In less than the time it took to blink, he watched as she fell into a pile of tangled limbs on the ground. It was easy enough after that to step over her and through the portal to get back into the Infinite Realms.

Now, he could have washed his hands of it here, gone back to his own Lair to relax and watch what happened next…

But he had promised to help, and so that was what he was going to do.

The journey to the Observants’ Main Observatory was just as tedious as the rest of the errands he’d had to run since his brother’s unwelcome visit. Keeping out of sight, and in the shadows (and occasionally hiding entirely in the subconscious of another ghost) so that he himself did not attract attention and become another distraction for the Ever Watching, was a miserable way to travel.

And one he would not have chosen had he been given much of a choice in the matter at all. As it was, the Observatory was quite well situated in one of the more popular Realms, and Nocturne was not as unknown as he would have desired since Pariah’s fall.

There was only so much of himself he could scrape from another ghost’s thoughts and memories after all. He existed half in and half outside of a collective subconscious—everyone knew some piece of him in some way. It was only when they could match that piece to a face that it became troublesome.

He fiddled with the fit of his mask, making sure it settled properly and hid his features.

His arrival at the Observatory was quiet, thank Chaos, and there were none who noticed. Though, as he looked around, it also seemed there were quite close to none left to notice anyways.

Normally, Nocturne would have started his search in the bowels of the Observants’ shared Lair—Digging through a twisting labyrinth of under tunnels and cellars and working his way up to the highest tower—but it turned out there was no need.

Someone had already made short work of large swaths of the Observatory: the under tunnels and the dungeons were ripped apart and filled with shattered cores and spatters of ectoplasm along with the occasional unconscious (and badly damaged) spirit.

Nocturne was reminded, rather bitterly, of a certain familiar someone’s handiwork and forced himself to continue to ignore it. He was here for exactly one reason and one reason alone.

That reason was trouble enough without adding an investigation.

His brother would be where he felt the buzzing collective of the Observants’ minds, as disgusting as they were.

In their hubris, the pathetic things—at least the ones left behind—had crowded into the central hall where they had Clockwork paralyzed and on display on top of an altar in the middle of the room. He was surrounded on all sides, Observants packed like sardines in a tin can with the bloodlust of piranhas.

How absolutely disgusting. Nocturne didn’t step fully into the room, not yet.

The shadows hid him easily, though there was little point to it. Those Who Watched and Rarely Acted were quite focused on their macabre task. Voyeurs, the lot of them.

Clockwork’s chest had been carved open. Some form of magic keeping it parted as the edges bubbled, the gaping wound fighting back against reaching hands and sharp scalpels as if it were attempting to close—to heal—and failing. His core, a vibrant shining light that even Nocturne had difficulty looking directly at, thrummed at a slower beat than what was generally considered healthy (though Nocturne wasn’t sure if things like thrum-rates were nearly as important to the time-keeper’s functions.)

One of the Observants held something in its hand, a small scalpel-like device, and was using it to slowly chip away at the exposed core; but every severed sliver fell like drops of rain through its hands. Nocturne felt something akin to nausea at the sight—how long would it take to heal a wound like that? Was it… was that how they had damaged Vortex that time long ago?

Would the Clockwork he saved be the same one that asked for his help? Was this enough to damage him permanently, or was Nocturne in time to prevent the worst of it?

Newly anxious, Nocturne studied the room. He hadn’t run into anyone in the halls or corridors when he first snuck in—though he did watch entire battalions worth leave the Observatory before he had made his move to enter. It was like watching bees flee a Queenless hive once word had reached them of the different little gifts Nocturne had gone out of his way to prepare.

Apparently the Fright Knight had destroyed the the entire Market Square and started rampaging around some of the Communal Plots once he manage to dig his sword back out from where Nocturne had planted it. Vortex was wreaking havoc the likes of which he was generally known to wreak, and the young Halfa was ‘asking questions’ those who Watched would never answer… and was getting increasingly, dangerously, irritated as well.

All in all it was all going very well to plan, and Nocturne had nothing to worry about so long as he wasn’t too late. And knowing Clockwork, that was unlikely to be the case.

Clockwork, when he was awake, would probably be angry Nocturne had involved his young charge. He had been very overprotective since the adoption, and Nocturne remembered just what had happened to Undergrowth when he admitted to trying to jumpstart the boy’s juvenile core-formation.

It wasn’t pleasant for anyone.

Nocturne stepped back, deeper into the shadows when he noticed one of the younger Observants cast its gaze about the room. It then raised a hand and volunteered itself for some macabre task or another, one of the others handing it pliers and a clamp.

Disgusting.

Tedious.

Annoying.

It felt stuffy, in his chest, some ugly foul-tasting emotion building in the void he called his core. He did not like seeing his brother like this, trapped-frozen-taken apart by those weaker than him for the sake of their curiosity–no.

This wasn’t about curiosity at all. Nocturne could taste it, saturated in the ambient ectoplasm around them. There was a thin thread of curiosity, sure, from the younger, more newly formed Observants mostly. But what the atmosphere was heavy and suffocating with, was the Watchers’ desire for complete, uncontested control .

It was a pipe-dream. One they had long since attempted to wage war over.

They did not like that power reigned supreme in the Infinite Realms. They did not like that their collective was so pathetically weak, that any attempt to control those Ancient Enough To Have Come Before was merely laughed off as the paltry inconvenience it was.

Nocturne felt his scar itch.

They had long been a tedious thorn—painful and irritating but unable to truly hinder.

Maybe that was why the sight before him, of his kin—Ancient and Powerful—torn apart as if on an operating table, left his chest smoldering.

It didn’t really matter…

No, it shouldn’t really matter.

Nocturne had already long decided on his next course of action. He stepped forward, and let loose the writhing dark hidden in his Core to surround him. A growing, thriving mass of night-dark tendrils slithered into the auditorium, slinking between green transparent tails and trailing capes.

The exclamations started quickly after.

Like a song, building to crescendo.

It began with startled confusion. Questions like, “What?” and “Where did these come from?”

Then it was indignation. “Who dares?!”

That was when Nocturne smiled behind his mask. He was in the middle of it all now, having walked towards the center stage where his brother laid while his tendrils covered the rest of the chamber.

The Observants who had just been elbow deep in Clockwork’s chest were stumbling back, tripping over tendrils. Some even tried to fly away. He did not let them.

“You—?!”

Nocturne ripped the last Observant away from his brother’s body and turned to address the class.

“There’s a lesson to be learned here,” he said smoothly, stealing his sister’s favorite words. “Allow me to teach you.”

It took less than a thought for every single entity inside the chamber to be absorbed entirely. They would not stay long—it was a struggle even for Nocturne to keep such a large collective contained in this way, and he was grateful he had thinned it as thoroughly as he had.

Once the room was quiet, he turned to the frozen fool laid out like a sacrifice before him.

There was nothing obvious holding him there, and Nocturne pinched the wooden bridge between the carved eyes of his mask. Tedious. This entire thing was dreadfully tedious.

Would it truly have been such a disservice to have given Nocturne some infinitesimal clue beyond: “The Watchers have grown beyond themselves and I fear I shall be the first they seek to reap.”

He reached down, careful not to brush against his brother’s exposed core. He was uncharacteristically cold to the touch—and Nocturne drew his hand back quickly.

Had the Observants truly been capable… It seemed so unrealistic. A possibility that even Clockwork would have written off as a fraying thread in the tapestry of timelines he weaved.

But the proof was before him.

What could have had their sister so distracted? That these pathetic wastes of ectoplasm could get their hands on one of her heartstrings?

He sighed.

There was little that could be done in this exact moment other than freeing Clockwork from the constraints and allowing his time to tick once more. The utter freeze of his features was likely more due to his own abilities backfiring against him than the restraint itself.

Nocturne just needed to find where these pathetic wastes of ectoplasm had sewn the thread. He followed the chill of it with the edge of his nail, unwilling to touch it properly until he found where it stitched into the back of his brother’s left retina.

He held back a flinch. His brother had sown this for himself, and was reaping the rewards of his rebellious nature.

Still. Nocturne’s hands remained gentle and steady as he began to unweave some of the knots tied into the Heartstring.

His mind wandered as his hands went about their work, thinking back to what actions his brother had taken to end up here, vulnerable in a way he had very rarely allowed.

There had been secrets, beyond the hints and clues scattered around Long Now and the Infinite Realms that led to a correspondence Nocturne had no desire to know anything about.

But there had always been secrets. Clockwork did not think it necessary to tell anyone the in depth details of the possible futures and long forgotten pasts that stretched out around him.

Not anymore than Nocturne found it necessary to share the thoughts of those around him when they themselves did not dare.

Thoughts meant nothing against actions—and possible futures meant nothing against the choices of the present.

That said…

There was little Nocturne could think of that would have set the Observants into such a desperate fervor. Such that they would storm the Realm of an Ancient and steal him away to dissect in an attempt to collect his power for their own.

The simple fact they had even achieved this much was frankly ridiculous.

And those rebellions—did this have something to do with that?

It was hardly Clockwork’s Modus operandi—he preferred cryptic one on one intervention. Dominoes lined up perfectly to fall into the picture he desired.

But he knew one ghost that was very very good at building a following. Especially a violent one.

And if he was the one pulling the strings, it made sense that Clockwork would be the one to take the fall.

Nocturne shook his head, shaking the thought clear before it blinded him. It would do no good to assume, and more rumination on the thought would only blind him with fury.

He focused once more on the task at hand.

The work was long and tedious—even before he was interrupted.

The whine of an ecto-gun alerted him to her presence, well before he tuned in to the familiar waft of her dreams, muted by her conscious mind. He stopped, but did not turn around. Not yet.

“And what are you going to do with that little thing?” He asked, feigning a disinterested and absolutely not at all irritated countenance.

“I just wanted to get your attention.” The girl’s voice was casual, but with a sharp, thin edge to it that had Nocturne looking up from his work.

She was standing a few feet away—far enough that a human would have to lunge to attack and she would have time to pull the trigger.

A sign she had been well trained, but that her training was limited to fighting humans. Or at least, the training she focused on was against humans.

He turned back to his brother, sure that she would not shoot him until he was finished.

The gun was a bluff. There was no internal struggle between the options nor a pre-made decision to fire at a given moment. Only a loud, static-like anxiety that he might not take kindly to her threat and retaliate against her instead.

Luckily for her, he had more important things to do.

“You chose a bad time,” Nocturne said with a forced casualness that did not betray the strain he felt with his brother’s sight in his very hands. “My attention is rather split at the moment.”

“I can tell.” Her voice wavered for a moment before hardening again. “You missed a few of those creepy little green guys watching the main entryway. I got them, though. You're welcome.”

“...Thank you.” He returned to his task. The gun she was holding was unlikely to damage him permanently, even if she fired at him now distracted as he was. But even if it were to do so… Well, it was certainly going to be something to hold over his brother’s head once they got out of this mess.

Ignoring her didn’t get him shot at, thankfully. But it did invite her to continue her line of questioning. “What did you do to Danny last night?”

There was a knot, tangled just beneath what would have been a major artery had Clockwork been human. It made Nocturne wonder just what methods the spineless green blobs were using to restrain him.

Ghosts usually went with non-traditional bondage—almost all of them could manipulate their form at will after all—but as with all magics, there was strength in grounding tools and tasks to reality. Though Nocturne would have expected them to use pressure points or even acupuncture or Qi points to restrain a ghost.

Instead they threaded it through major arteries… that did not exist. Were they trying to give him a weakness to exploit later on? It was worrisome, but they had not gotten far enough to bury the thread properly.

Luckily Clockwork had asked for Nocturne’s help. He would have awoken on his own—a thread this thin would not be able to keep his power contained, especially not when it was cannibalizing him like this—but the Observants would have also long accomplished their task and…

It gave Nocturne an idea. He thread an additional suggestion into the nightmare he had weaved for the Collective he currently had contained.

The mortal girl growled in frustration.

She was in front of him, close enough to touch—no—she was touching. Clockwork. Her hand had phased partially underneath his skin and she slowly and carefully began removing the Heartstring that had been threaded and tied so thoroughly through his body.

Nocturne watched closely, an analytical eye on her movements just in case she decided she wasn’t actually going to help. He was frustrated enough that the Observants had taken his brother as some kind of experiment. He would not stand for some mortal taking him as a hostage.

His vigilance was wasted though. She simply and perfunctorily slipped the entire thread out and set it aside in a matter of seconds before turning back to Nocturne.

“Is your attention still split?” she asked with a sharp smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Nocturne gathered his sister’s Heartstring from where the girl had set it. With his luck, he’d get distracted and forget it, or something else could happen and leave it once again in the hands of those who would seek to abuse power that was not their own.

#Danny Phantom #Nocturne DP #Nocturn DP #Clockwork DP #Jazz Fenton #Vortex DP #Gore #Ghost Gore #mild body Horror #phic phight 2023 #phic phight #Bee’s writing

81 notes · View notes

leftoverdinosaurbones · 5 months

Text

Chapter 6: The Heist

Series: F!Reader (Dark Urge), Spawn Astarion, Haarlep, Raphael - NSFW (minors DNI)

[Major Spoilers - Set post BG3]

***

Here is the next chapter of the fanfic I've been working on!

You can start with Chapter 1 here on tumblr or read through everything here on Ao3.

Content Warning: Gore

Summary: You find yourself in the midst of Zariel's foreboding Fortress. Now, all you need to do is find the dungeon, rescue Wyll and Karlach, and get out of there. Sounds easy enough?

Chapter 6: The Heist

You are surrounded.

Sets of burning eyes bore holes into you…

No, you realize as an Imp soars right over your head. They are looking through you, past you.

You let out your breath in a sigh of relief. You can blend in - for now. You adjust the helm of your helmet as you roll your shoulders up and back, willing yourself to appear as just another member of Zariel’s ranks.

You begin to march down the hallway with an air of false confidence, attempting to match the gait of the Erinye ahead of you. They flank one of the few mortals you can see in this hallway. Imps continued to flap their wings overhead, rushing to carry out their orders (lest they face the wrath of their superior).

The hallway walls were a deep red (how original), adorned with several large paintings, similar to the House of Hope. However, that is where the similarities stopped. While the art in the House of Hope had its very valid criticisms (self-centered, perhaps on the edge of being a bit gaudy) but this… these paintings were something else entirely.

Each frame depicted a new, obscene horror. Tortured faces twisted in agony over and over again. And in each one, Zariel’s face was there. Sometimes causing the pain. Sometimes just watching. But always there, always smiling.

You clenched your back muscles to stifle a shiver that threatened to wrack your body.

In the near distance, you can see an opening at the end of the hallway. You start to quicken your steps - you recognize this space from Dammon’s map.

You step through the yawning mouth of the hallway into the large room. Hundreds more pour into the room through several converging hallways, filling the room with a buzz of impatient energy. Something is brewing here, but you don’t have time to figure out what it is.

A massive statue of Zariel commands from the center of the room, as if it erupted from the very ground. She strikes a powerful pose, with her chin pointed up and her eyes fixed towards the sky. Under her boot, she is crushing bodies made of stone…no…wait…

You stumble over your feet, drawing some side-eyed looks from a few people around you. The bodies being crushed under Zariel’s stone boot are real. Some of them are even still alive - you can see the slight movement of a fiend’s chest, taking shallow, pained breaths through their crushed ribs.

The boot groans and shifts just an inch closer to the ground, coaxing watery screams from the unfortunate few that were still alive.

You shut your eyes briefly to push away the gruesome sight as your feet continue to propel you forward.

At least now you know where the dungeon is.

***

You approach a large, wooden door with a well-worn handle. Not wanting to raise suspicion by hesitating, you push open the door and lock it behind you. You run with Astarion down the hall, feet falling lightly on the ground.

Excitement and anticipation feed into your muscles as you check each cell for signs of your companions. You see many unfortunate, trapped souls, but none of them are your friends.

Finally, you see a brighter light at the end of the hallway, shining into a clearing. As you race closer, some contraptions come into view. You see a table with straps on each corner, a small tray with various sharp implements, an upright post with hanging straps…

You glance down at your hands. They are intimately familiar with these tools, and what they can deliver. You run your fingers along the stitching of your shirt, in an attempt to ground yourself, and drag your mind away from the past.

As you cross the threshold into the torture chamber, you begin to draw the hammer in anticipation. Your eyes run along the massive expanse of a room until they land on some shackles affixed to the wall. Following the chain, you see Wyll, standing with each of his arms restrained and extended tightly.

“Wyll?” You whisper.

His eyes raise to meet yours and flick rapidly through a series of emotions: shocked, thrilled, and then…scared?

“Soldier! Watch out!”

A weak voice tries to gasp out a warning to you from overhead. You glance up at the familiar sound and see Karlach, hanging from the ceiling in a cramped metal cage. Her wrists are clasped together and chained to a tight metal collar around her neck, squeezing her vocal cords.

How hard she must have fought to be in such a prison.

As your eyes shift back to Wyll, someone else steps in front of you to block your path.

“Hmm now someone is being quite naughty.”

Mizora stands just inches away from you, wings outstretched and burning hot. You can feel the intensity of her anger in her simmering presence, though her voice doesn’t yet give it away.

“And just how did you get in here?” she asked, her words dripping with malice.

Mizora grips your chin, her pupils blow. Her claws pierce your skin as she forces you to look at her.

“If you don’t want to tell me now, we have some delightful ways of loosening your tongue.”

You follow her gaze around the room, which is now filled with a small gang of her fiends. A few Imps hover around, giggling at your predicament while several Erinyes and Cambions flash their weapons at you with vicious smiles.

With Mizora’s touch, your presence is made fully aware to Zariel. Your mind is flooded with grotesque scenes. You see Astarion, his skin carefully, deliberately flayed from his body before he is roasted on a pyre. The screams ripping from his throat sound as real as the vision feels in your head.

Mizora pulls away her hand. She mutes the visions in your mind but only slightly - she intends to make you fully regret your decision to come here.

You steel in response to her threats, blinking away the tears brimming in your eyes. You summon up your strength as your oath bolsters your resolve to your very core - even in the face of a devil.

“Enough, Mizora. You have taken enough from us, from Wyll, from Karlach.”

You step fully into her space, your skin feeling the blazing heat from hers. But you are unwilling to relent to her pressure as your own unmitigated rage urges you forward.

“You will not threaten me again.”

“Oh,” Mizora purrs. “I can see now. I can smell him on you.” She sneers at you, disgusted.

“You entered in another contract with him?” She let out a dark laugh, too long. “If I had known how easy you were, then perhaps I should have brought you here instead. It wouldn’t have taken me very long to break you at all.” Mizora runs her finger down the front of your armor.

“Meanwhile, these two souls have been here, enjoying my thoughtful care for months before you sauntered over here to try to save them. How long did it take for you to give in, hmm? What did it take for you to make a deal?” Mizora brought one hand to her cheek to feign being deep in thought.

“Would you give me your soul for just one quick fuck?” She spit the last few words out through her teeth. “I’m sure you would,” she whispered, her voice thick with seduction. “I can smell the desperation, the need on you. How you could debase yourself for such a lowly fiend, I will never understand.”

Behind you, Astarion growled deep in his chest. He was angry, but you could also sense his hurt, raw and unhealed from your recent betrayal.

“What is this, I sense? Some trouble among the lovers?” Mizora let out a sharp giggle. “That will make this even more enjoyable.” She flicked out her tongue to lick her lips as her fiends began to chatter with excitement.

You take a step back from Mizora to give yourself space to wind up the hammer. Astarion shifts slightly to press his back against yours, looking outward to the circle of fiends that were chomping at the bit.

Astarion subtly reaches his fingers back behind him to drag briefly along your hip - one quick passing graze before we fight. We are desperately outnumbered, even with the advantages offered by Raphael. You curse him under your breath.

Suddenly, you hear an agonizing scream echo throughout the very foundation of the Fortress. Mizora freezes, the color draining from her face.

“You foul, wretched little worms! I should have known you were up to something the moment I smelled him on your skin,” she bellows in a rage. But you hear something new this time - her outburst is tinged with fear.

Mizora knew that Zariel’s forces were dwindling, and it was likely that Wyll and Karlach were captured to bolster their forces. With their skills, they could feasibly change the course of battle.

Mizora opens to mouth to speak, then quickly closes it again. She shifts her eyes upward, fear twisting her face for just a moment before she looks back at you.

“This is beneath me. I don’t care about you, or the filth that fills these cages.”

In a puff of black smoke, she vanishes with the rest of her fiends. You can’t believe your luck - Raphael really did come through. You smile to yourself before lifting the Orphic Hammer to smash Wyll’s chains.

Wyll smiles wider than his face as he pulls you into a tight hug.

“Fuck yeah! That’s my girl.” You pull away to make sure this is really Wyll.

“Oh yeah, sorry - I’ve been traveling with Karlach for so that I’ve started to pick up on her bad habits.” He let out a light laugh as he gathered Astarion into an embrace.

You searched the room to find the chain holding Karlach's cage, and smashed it with the hammer. Wyll and Astarion gently guided the cage to the ground, finally releasing Karlach. Her bracers clatter to the ground. She steps towards you, and envelopes you in a tender hug. You can hear the tears gently roll out of her eyes as they hiss and evaporate off her hot skin.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for rescuing us.” You hold her for a while, your hands rubbing soothing circles on her back.

Once she releases you, you finally turn to Astarion and press your forehead into his. Relief.

Read the next chapter here.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion x reader #astarion x dark urge #bg3 astarion #bg3 mizora #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 Wyll #bg3 Karlach #bg3 post game

13 notes · View notes

homemadegirlbossbattle · 1 year

Text

Homemade Girlboss Battle: Round 1, Side B

these are the matchups for side B of round 1! these polls will be released every 45 minutes starting at 2:00 PM GMT on April 15th (use this timezone converter to see when that is for you!). each poll will last for 7 days once again, so youve got plenty of time to propagandize!

Lady Ignis Solon (@containmentbreach) vs. Alice Luoja (@cantdanceflynn & @pyxehastoomanyinterests)

Cadmus (@lesbx) vs. Delilah Envie (@scrubbythebubble)

Julia Vancer (@aubadeempress / @aubadeatelier) vs. Heather Lucille Valentine (@derelictheretic)

Xoco (@selinas-ships) vs. Edgar Rennington (@pvssinboots / @pandrena)

Chris Laserbrain (@soupluvr03 / @orangebot) vs. Ms. Evenleigh AKA Evens (@kursed-curtain / @goddessoftechnology)

Purity (@poicyss) vs. Irene Witherspoon (@drebber)

Selene Cromswell (@clovenhooved) vs. Valerie Nerine Toine (@feeniehutjrs)

Odette (@catboirights) vs. Erinyes (@squideotape)

Ada (@thesaintelectric) vs. Ticketaker (@cherrycookies / @vermillionverse)

Quezal (@saturno-sol) vs. Olivia Reed (@cabooseisneat)

Patience (@cherry-spot / @cheery-spot-art) vs. Valerie Wester (@toa-arania)

Cecily (@twizzta / @cnid) vs. Heart Agnusdei (@trapdoornumberthree)

Poppy (@stobotnik) vs. Estelle Reyes (@bashirs)

Queen Medusa (@wiiabee) vs. Bianka Andromeda (@axolotlfied)

Ludovica Rossi (@raybotonline) vs. 002 (@texeoghea)

The Nameless Inquisitor/Inquisitor Whatshername (@kirjanikv6ilill) vs. Roberta Abarca (@siripedra)

#update post #sorry i couldnt get this one out sooner my muscles were really sore and i was tired as hell

47 notes · View notes

ceo-of-sloppy-men · 9 months

Text

Precision

Ship: Zevlor/Tav (or Zevlor/Misphi) Rating: Mature for violence & gore Tags: angst with no happy ending, falling in love at the end of the world, tiefling purring, hair cutting, gore, major injuries, this is what you get when a dnd player writes for a dnd inspired game Summary:

Zevlor has always prided himself on his ability to protect others. Elturel is making him slowly question himself.

Zevlor has always prided himself on his ability to protect others. When Devils find them in the church, he’s the first person to grab a sword and clear a path for everyone to get out. Misphi is at his side, casting a shatter spell into the wall so that they don’t have to slog through a never-ending mass of demon blood. Then they’re shoving him out into the street to clear a path for the children. He takes up his shield and swings his sword as much as he can, covered in devil blood as he pants heavily, the last people fleeing from the church down the street. He does his best to keep up, turning his head to keep devil blood from splattering into his eyes when he slices through the chest of the Erinyes, trying to lunge for one of the children.

“Go! Get out of here!” he shouts at them, adrenaline pumping so loudly in his veins it muffles the world around him.

An Imp sores right at them, trying to pick a child off, and he lunges for it, spearing it with his sword as the child (Mol maybe?) flees with a scream. Even the bravest of them have their limits. Right now, he’s only moving so quickly because they have to get out. They have to. They have to run, and if he doesn’t protect him, they won’t. He has to save them. This is his job. This is the one thing left in the world that he can do that they cannot take away from him.

Please.

Adrenaline continues to pound in his head as the last of the adults comes rushing out of the church and after the children. He turns to run after them, knowing they’ll need him when utter silence cuts through his mind. Like a silent scream, it sends fear shivering down the back of his neck. He whips his head around just in time to see Misphi caught by the hair by a Fire Hellion. Black inky tendrils wrap around their neck as their mouth works in silence, trying to reach out for help without a sound to be heard.

No.

The last two weeks flash before his eyes: quiet nights by the fire, patrols, fighting Devils together, putting the orphans to bed, their head on his shoulder, their weight against his body, their tail wrapped around his. He can’t hear the scream that echoes from his throat through the deafening silence in his head. This can’t be their finale. This cannot be how this ends. He will not allow this.

Panic rising in his throat, he rushes forward, gripping his sword in terror, and in one swift motion, he puts himself between the Fire Hellion and Misphi. The sword drops to the ground, held firmly in his hand, and they’re free before he can even realize what he’s done. Misphi stumbles forward, and Zevlor holds his shield between them and the Hellion. They grab his upper arm and pull him away, trying to silently beg him to run with them. He can hear it: the feeble attempt of words that cut through his mind with bone-chilling silence. Knowing this is a fight he cannot win, he turns tail and runs with them, keeping his shield between them and the Hellion. But it’s not enough – it never is. A burst of fire licks through his armour, so hot that it melts the chainmail against his skin. He cries out but refuses to stop; he can’t stop, he won’t stop. He lets Misphi pull him after the others as he shoots crossbow bolts into the Hellion. In a stroke of luck, he manages to nick its Achilles heel, and it crumples to the ground, letting them get out of sight before it can follow.

<hr>

Misphi isn’t sure how many more devils trail behind them as they rush through the city to the Cathedral. They have nowhere else to go, and with the children leading the group, they find themselves at the High Cathedral, towering over the ruined streets of Elturel. The children don’t know any better. They were hidden from the fighting that led them to being cast aside. Misphi can’t blame them for coming here; they can only thank them as, somehow, someone manages to get them to open the doors and let them inside.

“You leave in the morning,” someone sneers at Zevlor as he hobbles in next to them.

“We will, I promise. Thank you,” he says, trying to keep the peace. Misphi glares at him, yelling at him through a message spell, but he just looks at them with a sorrowful expression.

Their heart sinks when they try again, and his tail brushes against theirs. He takes them by the forearm, and neither of them can bring themselves to care about the blood he smudges on their robes.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” he whispers quietly, guiding them over to the corner of the Cathedral the rest of the tieflings have been given. He finds them a relatively private corner, both of them taking a silent headcount of the tieflings. Only two dead. The two bodies lie in the old church from when the Devils first attacked. Somehow, a sigh of relief escapes them both.

‘What?’ they try to say, their mouth moving, yet no sound comes out. They claw at their throat, tears bubbling in the corners of their eyes. If they can’t cry, they can’t cast spells! They can’t keep anyone safe – they don’t know how to wield a sword or a crossbow or a rapier or a mace or –

Zevlor grabs their hands, cradling their wrists in their own. They feel his tail brush against theirs again. Desperately, they grab it with theirs, wrapping them together. He intertwines their tails willingly, squeezing it reassuringly. Panic settles in their chest, mellowing out as he rubs their wrists with his thumbs.

“It’s alright, I promise. I can help; just breathe for me, alright? Steady breath now,” he whispers, keeping his voice low to prevent them from drawing attention.

Misphi tries to take a shaking breath, focusing on the warmth of his hands and the reassurance of his voice. He can help. He’s going to help. Their head falls gently forward, resting against his. A feeble attempt at headbutting, but the meaning is all the same. He rests his forehead against theirs, letting himself breathe for a moment, helping them calm down.

“This will sting; I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly, letting go of their wrists to wrap his hands around their neck.

They close their eyes, focusing on the warmth of his hands. Subconsciously, they squeeze his tail, pulling him closer. It’s a mistake to focus on his hands as the warmth bubbles into infernal flames, burning away the curse as a scream bubbles up in their throat. They bite down on their hand, tasting the familiar metallic twinge of blood as they try to breathe through the pain. It is only when they finally hear the sound of their own sobbing that they can breathe again.

“It’s going to leave a mark, but at least you can speak again,” Zevlor says, easing his hands away from their throat.

They swallow thickly, pulling their hand away from their mouth.

“What does it… look like?” they ask hesitantly, unable to turn their head far enough to look.

He pulls his head back just enough to examine the scars, his brow furrowing together lightly.

“Like black flames or tendrils, maybe. They start at your chest and cluster together to a solid black column around your neck, and then they separate around your jaw. It’s… not the worst scar I’ve seen.”

“It’s hideous, isn’t it?” Misphi spits, curling their legs to their chest. They try to pull their tail away from his, yet he only tightens his grip.

“No, no, it’s not. I promise you, you’re beautiful –“ his eyes widen at his own words, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly – “Er, it’s beautiful. Not that you’re not beautiful! Shit. I –“

They cut his ramblings off swiftly by pulling him into a hug, their arms tightening around his sides. Yet, rather than relax against them, he yelps the moment their hand touches the molten metal now formed against his side, his tail stiffening in theirs. They pull back instantly, and tears quiver in the corners of his eyes. Misphi can’t help the way their heart sinks at his expression as they eye him carefully, retracing the path their hands took. It takes them only a moment to see the metal formed against his skin. With a small gasp, their brow creases together, and they move forward, their tail rubbing against his, attempting to soothe him.

Their hands are at the ties of his armour before he can think to stop them. They have no privacy here, so they toss up a tiny hut with mutters under their breath. It’s not nearly enough – a stinging sensation in their chest makes them wish they were a cleric instead of a wizard. If only to have the power to help him, too. Untying his armour, they pull it back, whispering apologies as it comes away from his skin, taking patches with it. He folds in on himself, the wound raw and bleeding with warped skin. This will never heal properly, not even with magic. It creeps up his ribs, warping the demonic wings on his back and under his chest. A hollow sob escapes him, and they brush closer, letting him bury his hands in their robes, gripping fabric he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally injuring. They’re glad they remembered to put up a Tiny Hut as he crumples before them; at least he doesn’t have to worry about everyone seeing him like this.

Much to their relief, one of his shaking hands leaves their robes after they finish pulling his now-ruined armour away from him. It presses against his chest as he stifles a sob. Warm magic washes over him, knitting together haphazardly the skin on his torso. It’s warped and scarred, but it’s no longer bleeding.

“This is my fault,” Misphi sighs, brushing their fingertips against it and recoiling the instant he flinches. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I’ll be fine. It’ll heal. Besides, your life is worth the price. I’d much rather have you over a scar,” Zevlor admits, making their heartache. If only they could get out of Avernus. If only they could do this properly without worrying who’ll die tomorrow. “When I noticed that you were captured, I – I admit I acted rashly, but I’m glad I did. Even still, I would understand if you hated me for how I freed you. We need you – I need you.”

Their hand goes to their hair, examining the damage for the first time since they fled. The buns are still coiled on the top, matted and disgusting. But the bottom has been cropped short and jagged, laying unevenly against the back of their head. They had always been so proud of their hair before the fall. It was a staple of who they were, flowing behind them when they’d cast spells, decorated in bits and bobbles they’d collect. Yet, they can’t bring themself to hate him for cutting it. It wouldn’t have been salvageable if they managed to return to the Material Plane.

“One way or another it would have had to be cut. I’m glad you did it, even more so that you did it to save me,” they assure him, giving his tail a light squeeze. It <i>finally</i> relaxes in their grip. “Can you fix the rest of it?”

“I’m not a hairdresser, I’m afraid. I don’t think I’ll do a very good job,” Zevlor admits sheepishly.

“I don’t care. I don’t trust anyone left with a knife that close to my neck. Please?” Misphi insists, pulling out a dagger they keep in their pocket just in case.

He cradles the dagger in his hands, staring at it for a moment before nodding sullenly. They turn around, pulling the ties from their buns and letting them drape down their neck, bunched together and matted. The brush of nails against their neck makes them shiver as he carefully gathers their hair in his hands and works the knife through it. Silence falls over the Tiny Hut as they quietly say goodbye to their old life. It feels like a prayer falling on the ears of a dead God, hollow and unheard, whispering into darkness in desperation. After all, they’ve seen – all they’ve done – to survive the Hells, none of it felt real. Even as starvation grips their stomach and Hell roars around them. When the final cut is made, and a pile of hair sits in the corner of the hut, Misphi can’t help but stare at the ground. Staring at the finality of it all.

“Are we ever going home?” they ask quietly.

Zevlor swallows audibly behind them, his tail going lax in theirs.

“No.”

They can feel their chin quiver and quickly turn around. The dagger clatters to the ground as they pull him into their arms, mindful of his healing scar. He wraps around them, curling up on the ground, the bedroll they managed to grab from the church haphazardly unrolled underneath them. The finality of their existence hangs over them as they curl up in the centre of the hut, wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs and tails. Most people expect tiefling purring to be done solely when content. Since their arrival in Avernus, contentment has been rare and fleeting. They purr the loudest now, trying to calm the other down as hot tears streak across their faces. It's not enough.

It will never be enough.

#almost forgot to post this #tav/zevlor #tav x zevlor #tav misphi #bg3 zevlor #bg3 fanfiction #ao3 link #angst

16 notes · View notes