#return to dark tower covenant

[eleonorpiteira]

Reverent Astromancer, Devious Swindler

Untamed Warden, and Undaunted Aegis 

Character illustrations that I did for Restoration Games' Return to Dark Tower: Covenant expansion!

[aziraphale-is-a-cat]

DPxDC Warlock Batfamily

They're not warlocks in the traditional sense, no fancy spell work or obvious theming. In fact, most anyone less magically attune than John would just assume they were metas like anyone else on the team, but they weren't.

It took a while to notice, just passing off the magical fluctuations around them as the ebb and flow of the natural world, or maybe some residual curse vibes from Gotham (ew). But it was too consistent. When Batman slipped into the shadows it pulsed, and when Oracle seized control of nearby computers it surged. When Nightwing took his inhuman leaps into the air simply trusting that he would reach his lading point it soared and when that nightmare of a Robin brought a room to darkness it rested like a heavy weight on his shoulders.

They weren't individual users, their eclectically cohesive group structure was too uniform for that; but they weren't some family of sorcerers either, being quite obviously unrelated by blood save for a few. The most likely answer was that they were all warlocks in service to some common diety, taking on aspects of its power to enforce it's will upon the mortal world- and John really hoped it was a helpful entity, because they were in deep shit.

Peeling the partially liquefied tentacle off from across his chest, Constantine sat up and brought his hand up to cup his bruised face. He prayed to whatever was least likely to hold a grudge that their little hail Mary there had bought them enough time to perform a summoning.

"Hey Bat, get your patron on the phone, this is getting fucking Eldritch."

"What the hell are you talking about," Hal Jordan pushed himself out of the rubble with a massive green fist construct. "Bats isn't a magic user."

"Hm." Batman grunted as he picked bone shards out of his gauntlets. "I'll need to get something for the ritual."

Everyone present sat up to look at him like he'd grown another head, except Superman and Wonder Woman who seemed a little excited.

"I'm sorry, you're a magician?" The Flash pipes up from behind the ruins of an old altar, only to receive a level glare from his black clad coworker.

"Warlock."

"Oh."

Constantine grabbed onto some chains hanging from the precariously damaged ceiling, rising to his feet. "We don't have much time; that thing's off licking its wounds in space or something, but it'll be back. You go off and collect whatever artefact you have from wherever you hid it and I'll start drawing the circle, where are we pulling your Patron from?"

Batman nodded in agreement. "The Infinite Realms."

"Fucking Hell."

-

The Watch Tower was crowded when Batman returned flanked by two other members for his little hero coven, carrying a small case decorated with constellations and nebulae.

Wonder Woman stepped up to look at the container, obviously curious, but not touching it.

"It will be wonderful to see him again, Batman. After this is dealt with I hope to hear the tales of my sisters from beyond."

"He'll definitely be happy to chat after we're done," Nightwing commented. "I hear he's been training with Pandora."

Red Robin nodded to that, an exasperated look on his face as he likely anticipated a long and drawn out conversation about different kinds of swords. Amazons liked their blades.

John gave that idea some concideration, Amazonian ghosts probably get up to some killer fights without having to worry about, ya know, death. He called out to the Dark Knight, "I've got the circle done, now we just need your call."

The three of them walk over to the summoning circle unceremoniously carved into the watch tower floor, Batman narrowing his eyes at the damaged paneling but saying nothing otherwise. The Dark Knight opens the case in his hands and pulls out what appears to be a small model space station.

The Coven spread themselves evenly around the circumference of the circle and Batman begins the ritual. "Salve patrōnem, egō stellam vocō." He throws the model space station into the circle where it appeared to float as the symbols in the ground lit up.

Slowly, a figure formed in the center, first as hands holding the model and spreading out over its arms and to its body in the shape of a young boy. He seemed to be wearing a black rubber hazmat suit with white accents and green lichtenberg figures crawling up his left arm. White hair appeared and with it piercing green eyes that seemed to be fixed on the toy in his hands. A cape flowed out behind him less like fabric and more like the endless void of space littered with stars and a cold weight settled on the room.

"Damn B, y'all really fucked up the floor this time."

Red Robin snorted, "Nice to see you too, Danny."

[helix-studios117]

Halo Reloaded: Battle On Madrigal

The battlefield on Madrigal was a maelstrom of violence, a cacophony of destruction where Spartans John-117 and Linda-058 stood as beacons of resistance amidst the chaos. The ground shook with the fury of the ongoing conflict, the air was thick with the stench of ozone and burned flesh, a testament to the ferocity of the battle.

Linda, her figure shrouded in an armor that pulsed with an almost ethereal light, moved with a grace that belied her lethal intent. Her newfound telekinetic powers, a gift borne from exposure to the arcane machinations of Forerunner technology, allowed her to dispatch foes with a mere thought. Her telekinesis, a wild, newfound ability, became an extension of her will, hurling debris and enemies alike with reckless abandon. A Covenant Elite, armed with a deadly energy sword, lunged at her with a ferocious roar, only to be met mid-air by a thrown Warthog, courtesy of Linda's mind, turning the attacker into a fiery comet of metal and alien flesh.

Meanwhile, John, the Master Chief, was a force of nature, embodying the fury of the storm. Weaponless but far from defenseless, he turned the battlefield into his armory. With a roar, he launched himself at a group of Hammer-Chieftains, ripping a Gravity Hammer from the hands of the nearest brute and swinging it with devastating effect. The ground erupted, sending Brutes flying like ragdolls. Hunters, those towering behemoths, launched volleys of Fuel Rod Cannon blasts, John, relying on his Spartan agility, dodged the incandescent blasts, closing the distance. He leveraged the hammer, not just as a weapon, but as a shield, deflecting incoming fire, closing in to exploit the brief window of vulnerability as the Hunters reloaded. Once the gap was closed, he used the Hammer to vault into the air, landing atop a Hunter, prying its armor plates apart before delivering a final, crushing blow.

In a moment of chaos, an unnoticed plasma grenade, its azure glow sinister and unassuming, flew across the field unnoticed like a comet and found its mark near Linda. The explosion, a maelangetic fireball, hurled her across the battlefield. Her armor, though designed to synergize with her powers, absorbed the brunt of the blast but at a cost. The impact left her dazed, her body refusing to obey, her powers flickering out like dying stars. Hunger gnawed at her insides, a reminder of her increased metabolism's demands.

John, upon seeing Linda's plight, cut through his adversaries with renewed vigor. His path to her side was a blur of motion, every step a defiance of the odds. Reaching her, he lifted her with a gentleness that belied his armored exterior.

"Linda, stay with me," he urged, voice laced with concern as he dodged incoming fire, making a beeline for the extraction point.

Her voice was faint, a testament to her exhaustion. "Can still fight... just need..." Her words trailed off, lost in the din.

"No arguments," he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for debate. "You've done enough. Now, let me do the rest."

The interior of the Condor was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Here, in the dim light, the world seemed to slow down, the roar of battle a distant echo. John carefully placed Linda among the survivors, John pulls her helmet off, their eyes locking in a moment of silent understanding. "Don’t do this alone," Linda's voice was a whisper, tinged with desperation. "Please."

John's response was a soft, determined murmur. "I’ll make it back. For us." He brushed a lock of hair from her face, a momentary gesture of intimacy in a world devoid of gentleness.

He stepped back, his figure framed by the Condor's doorway, the light casting his shadow long and solemn across the cabin. As the Condor lifted off, Linda's gaze lingered on John, a silent plea in her eyes that he return safe.

John turned away, stepping into the maelstrom once more, his promise to Linda a beacon in the darkness. The Condor ascended, carrying away the wounded and weary, leaving behind the solitary figure of John-117 as he faced the horde anew, a lone guardian against the night.

[synnthamonsugar]

*slides in for saturnalia* Dul Incaru and Guardian, platonic or romantic but just give her some loving, ty

I like the way you think, anon. >.:3c

"Where are you going?" calls Toland to Selene, who approaches in long strides, rendered in the flat blacks and blues of the ascendant plane. Before them lay the arched portico to Dûl Incaru's chambers. The site of ever-repeating confrontation between the guardians and the hive princess, the existential stalemate that locks the Dreaming City in its curse cycle. "The wretched machinery of the Witch will not allow you to defeat the Eternal Return. Riven has not yet died this cycle. The time is not right."

Beneath her helmet, Selene smiles. "I'm not here to fight."

Like the flame of a candle against the wind, Toland wavers. "Then what?"

"To do what you could not," as she passes him, she runs her fingers across the halo of his non-form like he's one of the Tower strays. He bristles beneath her touch like one, and leaps away.

The doors open before her, and she disappears behind.

"Dûl Incaru!" Her voice is clear and sharp as glass when she addresses her target. The wizard's three eyes lock onto the hunter with predatory sharpness as her Fatesmiths rouse to attention. "Dismiss your darkblades at once — I come with a proposal."

Incaru regards her for a brief moment, then calls down the guards with a flourish of her skeletal hands. They kneel, heads bowed deeply, poleaxes relinquished before them. Between their monumental bodies, Selene approaches the podium. 

"What is your proffer, daughter-of-light-and-darkness?" Incaru asks, voice sweet as leaded wine. 

Before Selene can answer, she is lassoed around her body and lifted off her feet by tethers of hive magic. Her bound hands tingle with void chill as she gathers her Light, a failsafe measure. "An end to our impasse."

They are close at eye-level now. Selene has always found something cute in her features, the cordate shape of her face, the foxish point of her horns, the upturn of her mouth that lends her a look of catlike smugness. The impression is only heightened by proximity. She may be the creature lurking in the shadows of the Dreaming City, biding her time in the closet until darkness falls, but Selene sleeps with her arm over the edge of the bed. The monster had finally reached out, taking Selene not just by the hand but entirely. 

"How do you propose that?"

"We stop. Discard the game entirely."

Hive do not possess lids with which to close their eyes, but her expression gives the impression of a slow blink. 

"I have tried everything to break the curse, Incaru. Killing your mother's pet. Killing you. Killing Quria. Begging the Witch Queen. I lived in the swamps of the High Coven and befriended one of her Lucent Brood. We worked together to solve her riddles but the secret we uncovered was not this. It seems the only thing I haven't tried is asking you."

A devilish glint in her eyes. "Ah, but you have asked, dear girl. Monthly Every bolt and bullet and cut has been a petition|dedication offered to me."

"Not with my words|will. Aren't you tired of your talents going to waste? Replaying the same month over and over is a poor use of your genius . . . and for what? To mortify a people who've long been desensitized to your lash? The amusement of a selfish dragon who delights in keeping awoken and hive both on tenterhooks? The glorification of a Queen so involved in her own schemes that she barely remembers you? I am. Let us use our powers to rewrite the recording. Let us relieve ourselves."

In one motion, Incaru releases the binding on Selene and scoops the smaller woman into her sinewy arms. Selene braces against her collar. "I would like to see your face, first. I have always been curious."

She transmats her helm away, revealing wide orange eyes, skin alight with starlight and a sheen of perspiration. Her flush is hidden by the strange optics of this realm, but nonetheless felt through her body heat as Incaru holds her hand to her chin, and Selene does the same, closing the distance between their faces in a singular, mutual movement of jaws and teeth.

.

Sometime later, Cobalt reconstitutes Selene, flitting away into the aether as she gasps her first revived breath. Dûl Incaru hovers a distance away, arms crossed behind her back, gazing contemplatively across Eleusinia.

"I cannot stop it," she admits without turning to look as Selene steadies herself on her forearms, half-reclined behind her. "I am a part of this infernal mechanism but I have no more power over it than Quria or Riven, or my mother now that she abdicated her throne. We are an engine with no driver. Aiat."

"Why did you—?"

" — did I promise you change?" Incaru's speech overlaps hers as she turns to look at Selene. "Well, we did use our paracausality to change the loop . . . just not in a way that impacts the outcome."

Selene swears she sees a smirk on Dûl Incaru's face, while suppressing her own.

"All the better to stay here, locked in these steps forever." She turns back to her study of the shattered throne while Selene picks herself up, straightening out her armor. "How could I bear to never again dance with my favorite devotee?"

[tishinada]

Admittedly, I’m only about halfway through the post-Endwalker patches, but I’ve been thinking about some of the relevant lore we have already.

(SPOILERS FOR POST-ENDWALKER)

I’m collecting a lot of this about the major Voidsent and the 13th here so I can find it in one place, and it’s a bit long because we know more than I realized until I began putting it all down:

Obviously, the lore from the reaper’s quests (I really wish we knew more about Drusilla’s grandfather and his encounter with Emet-Selch and who the voidsent was that possessed her grandfather.) The higher level red mage quests also involved a major voidsent. (Are those two actually dead or just banished back to the 13th? Zero’s not a great one to judge by because she seems to be unique in some way, but she survived Zenos’s death and returned to the void, so it seems as if the main villain in the reaper quests probably did too? Are either of them one of Golbez’s lieutenants? I’m guessing not since the names don’t match...) (apologies if any of that is answered in or past the first trial in post-Endwalker, I’ve only read quick summaries, lol.)

The white mage 60 - 70 quests involve voidsent wanting to possess a young padjal who had not been trained from birth and lacked control.

I haven’t gotten all that far with the thaumaturge quests, but they do seem to be leading that way.

We’ve also had encounters here and there with voidsent and people have talked a bit about them, but most of the others are fairly minor (though the magical dps quests in Shadowbringers seem related.) We also know there are two “survivors” of the 13th, though you only find out the details and who the second one is if you’ve done the allied job quests for Shadowbringers.

While there are some hints about voidsent connected to Sil’dah (or that era at least) and other past civilizations, Allagan seems to be the significant one for voidsent lore. We know that the conflict on Mericidia in which Vrtra’s sister was lost involved Allagan using voidsent against the dragons, resulting in Vrtra’s sister being lost to the void. And I realized there was a major voidsent from post-ARR, the Cloud of Darkness, connected to Allagan. So I went to talk to Rammbroes.

NOAH Report: Within the void, chaos reigns supreme. Strength is the sole measure of order amongst the voidsent; he who rules is he who claws his way upwards, and tramples all beneath. NOAH Report: Scholars who study the voidsent have long striven to categorize the fiends by brawn rather than species. The result is popularly known as the twelve-tiered voidsent hierarchy. NOAH Report: The voidsent known as the Cloud of Darkness is doubtless in the highest tier of this hierarchy─hence why Emperor Xande entered into a dark covenant with it. NOAH Report: In both strength and size, the Cloud is unmatched. A voidgate of monumental proportions would be necessary for it to enter our realm. Opening such a rift would, in turn, require a power as massive. Enter, then, the Crystal Tower, and the energy it could produce. NOAH Report: Were the Cloud of Darkness to break loose, it would devour all aether and extinguish all light. The world would become as the void. NOAH Report: Indeed, all would have been lost were it not for the actions of valiant adventurers, and the sacrifice of two Allagan clones, who annulled Xande's dark covenant.”

“NOAH Report: The World of Darkness is an otherworld thought to lie adjacent to our physical realm─in other words, what we often call “the void.” NOAH Report: The fellowship of NOAH came upon the World of Darkness several times, but only once did it venture inside. The future of the very realm was in jeopardy, and thus was a band of adventurers dispatched to rescue three comrades imprisoned amongst the shadows. NOAH Report: How are such things possible, when wise men hold that the world is the world, the void is the void, and never the twain shall meet? It would seem abnormal events can weaken the veil between worlds, and tear them asunder. When such rifts appear, men can walk between realms. NOAH Report: The mages of Allag could create rifts at will. Dubbing them “voidgates,” they used them not only to enter the void, but also to harness the dark powers therein─the voidsent. NOAH Report: The voidsent, however, make ill allies. The fiends have a depraved appetite, and seek this world merely to sup upon the aether it contains. Were they ever to enter our realm in force, destruction beyond imagining would follow. NOAH Report: Therefore, any and all dealings with the voidsent are now seen as forbidden. Even the Thaumaturges' Guild, devoted to studying the void, conduct research on a limited scale under strictly enforced regulations.”

And of course this passage, including Amon/Fandaniel (I’m wondering if his resurrected “Xande” was either an Ascian or a voidsent now. Either could possess a dead body and would want to trigger a calamity, etc.)

“NOAH Report: No account of Allagan history may be considered complete without mention of its founding father and first emperor, Xande. NOAH Report: Ancient records that have survived paint the man as a great ruler. By his hand the Allagan Empire was born, and for more than a thousand years it flourished. NOAH Report: However, the empire's star eventually began to wane. The selfsame prosperity that made the Allagans great gave rise to decadence. The citizens grew content in their complacency, and technological advance ground to a halt. In a matter of generations, the civilization became a pale shadow of its former self. NOAH Report: Lamenting the pitiful state of affairs, the technologist Amon sought to restore Allag to greatness via an unprecedented method: the resurrection of Emperor Xande. NOAH Report: Amon exhumed Xande's body from his tomb, situated in what is now known as Mor Dhona, and proceeded to conduct numerous experiments. With equal parts perseverance and ingenuity, he succeeded in bringing the emperor back to life. NOAH Report: So began Emperor Xande's second reign, a thousand years removed from his first. Through masterful leadership, he swiftly brought his ailing empire back to the path of greatness. Even the southern land of Meracydia, which had long defied Allag, was finally brought to heel. NOAH Report: Xande was a great emperor, it cannot be denied, and ancient records rightly speak of him in reverent tones. However, those selfsame records are silent on the subject of the man's inner workings. NOAH Report: It has recently been revealed that, ever since returning from the grave, Emperor Xande was constantly tormented by the memories of his death. NOAH Report: Driven by reasoning that no mind but his own may comprehend, he sought to return all to nothingness. Whatever may have compelled it, Xande made his choice, and its consequences have been passed down through the annals of history. NOAH Report: A lust for power which grew into a desire for nihility─such was the dark seed that brought about the Fourth Umbral Calamity. By Xande's hand the Allagan Empire was built, and by his own hand it was destroyed.”

And this one, which had some info I don’t remember at all, again invoking Amon/Fandaniel:

“NOAH Report: The Crystal Tower is comprised of a multitude of spires. Rising high above them all is Syrcus Tower, the heart of the majestic structure. NOAH Report: It must be noted that the name Crystal Tower originated as a sobriquet. Ordinary Allagans coined the term, which over time came to refer to the collective structure. NOAH Report: Although the tower is referenced in various ancient scriptures, up until the end of the Sixth Astral Era, the scholarly community largely doubted its existence. Aside from Professor Erik, it had scant few proponents. NOAH Report: How is it possible that such a colossal structure could be kept hidden from mankind, and for so long? The answer was to be found amidst the ruins of the Fourth Umbral Calamity, which took the form of a great earthquake. NOAH Report: During the final years of the Allagan Empire, the lesser moon Dalamud harvested the sun's energy, which it then transferred to Syrcus Tower below. However, that energy proved too much for the tower to contain. It escaped into the land, causing the earth to collapse into itself. NOAH Report: In mere moments, the Allagan Empire was laid to waste. Yet even as the Crystal Tower was sinking, Emperor Xande's most trusted aide, the technologist Amon, invoked powerful magicks and halted the flow of time within the structure. The tower and its denizens fell into a deep slumber. NOAH Report: Three eras later, when Dalamud began its descent, the Crystal Tower stirred to wakefulness. Shortly thereafter, the cataclysmic arrival of the Seventh Umbral Era saw the tower returned to the surface. NOAH Report: The fellowship of NOAH ventured into the Crystal Tower, its first visitors in millennia. Awaiting them at the apex was Emperor Xande, the legendary founder of the Allagan Empire, who had awakened alongside his minions.”

This one names another Voidsent:

“NOAH Report: A stalwart band of adventurers led by the indomitable <WoL’s name> was tasked with conquering the perils of the Labyrinth of the Ancients. NOAH Report: The base of the Crystal Tower is nestled within this deadly maze, the entire structure designed to confound entrance to the spire proper. NOAH Report: As we had feared, the halls of the labyrinth were further protected by fantastical foes. Our adventurers faced nightmarish opponents, the king behemoth and the voidsent Thanatos among them. NOAH Report: Through our research we have learned that the ancients were most skilled at the binding of void-born entities─occult servants that were compelled to serve alongside augmented beasts and chimerical monstrosities. NOAH Report: After battling such fiends, none could argue that the approach to the tower was a simple one. And though the labyrinth's hazards have been overcome, one cannot help but imagine what devilish enemies await within those unbreached crystalline walls...”

All of this is mostly for reference, so I won’t have to try to remember where I read any of this and then have to click through each bit one by one lol. I’ll edit or reblog to add other bits as I remember or find them.

[toodleoorblx]

Natural Order

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

Word count: 3,016

۫   ּ  ֗  ִ  ִֶָ ׄ . ִ  ۫   ּ  ֗ ִֶָ   ִ  ⠀ ִ  ۫   ִֶָ ּ  ֗  ִ  ִֶָ ׄ . ִ ۫   ּ  ֗  ִ  ִֶָ ׄ . ִ  ۫   ּ  ֗

Summary: An argument, a dance, and Evanora screwing things up.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - /?

Warnings: cursing, violence, smut, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse.

A/N: Chapter 3 for Fractured Persona is probably gonna be ready in a few days. This wasn't supposed to be this long of a chapter but oh well.

Enjoy toodles <3

Chapter 5

Salem, Massachusetts 1693

Agatha spent hours with Rio, just talking about everything and anything. She feels like she can't talk to Rio about anything and she’ll listen. Even if she doesn’t understand, she will listen anyway. That means a lot to Agatha. She went home happily that night, practically glowing and vibrating with contentment and happiness. The last thing Agatha did before she left was invite Rio to her mother’s council event.

—

“Rio… can I ask you something?” Agatha's voice wavers with nervousness. They sit together in front of a towering tree, Rio leaning against its trunk while Agatha sits, her back facing Rio. Absentmindedly, Agatha pets the small rabbit nestled in her lap.

Rio gently braids Agatha's hair, weaving flora and fern into each plait with skillful fingers. Agatha keeps her eyes closed, relishing the sensation of her hair being tended to. It's a comforting moment, one she hasn't experienced in a long time. Alice doesn’t know how to braid, and Margaret's attempts always end in knots. Her thoughts drift to her mother, and she swallows the pang of longing in her chest.

“You can ask me anything, little Iris,” Rio says softly, her voice carrying a warmth that soothes Agatha's nerves.

Agatha fidgets with the hem of her dress, her nerves palpable in the air. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “My coven is hosting this year's Witch’s Council ball, and its theme is masquerade. I was just wondering…” Her voice trails off into a hesitant whisper.

Rio's fingers pause in their task of adorning Agatha's hair with flowers. She tilts her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Are you asking me to accompany you to the ball?”

Agatha nods, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Rio's smile widens, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I’d love to, Agatha.” Relief floods through Agatha, and she can't help but grin in return, her heart fluttering.

—

She was at peace at that moment. She loved it. She craves for more moments like that. In that moment there was no Darkhold, no drama with her friends, her mother wasn't there, it was perfect. 

Rio is perfect.

But like everything else, the moment came to an end. But she's ecstatic to see Rio again. She's tired of constantly being separated from her. She sees her in 2 days time. She chickened out of giving Rio her gift but she wants to give it to her the night of the ball.

The ballroom exudes an air of enchantment, with its shimmering chandeliers casting a warm glow over the polished oak floors. Elegant tapestries line the walls, while towering pillars adorned with ivy and flowers frame the space.

But of course, that peace didn’t last very long. Agatha finds herself in the ballroom, hanging up the last few decorations for the upcoming event, when Margaret enters carrying a few lanterns. She’s dressed in a dark red gown, her red ribbon.

Agatha grimaces, the memories from 3 days ago still fresh in her mind. Margaret has been avoiding her, and Agatha can’t help but feel hurt by it. She needed someone, and Margaret seemed to have abandoned her. She still needs someone now.

The darkhold's silence is a welcome respite, but Agatha can still feel its lurking presence, especially when her emotions run high.

She finds herself excusing herself from public spaces more frequently, seeking solace in solitude when the urge becomes overwhelming. Every bone in her body seems to ache with the need to absorb the magic of those around her, a sensation that gnaws at her from within.

Under the guise of feeling unwell, Agatha retreats from the scrutiny of others, but she knows that Evanora is suspicious of her behavior. The thought of what might happen if she were to accidentally unleash her magic fills her with dread, driving her further into isolation. She wants to talk to Margaret but she honestly doesn’t know how.

Margaret stands beside the latter and makes eye contact with Agatha for about 2 seconds before looking off and raising a lantern up for Agatha to take.

Agatha feels a pang in her chest, but she forces a weak smile as she takes the lantern and hangs it up on a nail. The only noise in the hall is the occasional footsteps and quiet chatter. The ballroom is a marvel of grandeur, filled with intricate stained glass patterns and standing candelabras. Agatha is filled with awe, her excitement tempered only by the tension between her and Margaret.

“Agatha… how- how have you been feeling?” Margaret's voice carries a hesitant note, tinged with worry. Agatha doesn't meet her gaze immediately, but she can sense the genuine concern behind Margaret's words. Agatha sighs softly before finally glancing down at her. Margaret looks tired, her features etched with lines of concern and agitation.

Agatha feels a surge of anger bubbling up within her, fueled by the memories of Margaret's absence during her darkest moments. The darkness in her gut threatens to consume her, but she fights to suppress it, unwilling to succumb to its temptation. For a moment, she remains silent, grappling with the conflicting emotions swirling inside her. Why would Margaret suddenly care about her well-being now, after all this time? The bitterness in Agatha's heart threatens to spill over as she scoffs and shakes her head in disbelief. Margaret's frown deepens at the reaction.

“Better question is why do you care so suddenly?” Agatha says with an edge to her tone, glaring down at Margaret with a mixture of anger and hurt.

Margaret takes a deep breath and rubs her forehead, her expression pained. “I um, had time to think it over. I’m not… mad at you, just disappointed.”

“Well, I don't think you really get to be ‘disappointed’ now do you? I should be the one disappointed. You left me in that alleyway alone and covered in blood! The blood I spilled to keep you and Alice safe. Don't tell me you're disappointed.” Agatha's voice trembles with suppressed emotion, her eyes flashing with frustration.

Margaret swallows, her gaze shifting away momentarily before meeting Agatha's again. “I know, I know. And I’m grateful that you saved us, but it's all that happens after that, Agatha. You're…”

“What?” Agatha's tone is sharp, her patience wearing thin.

“…Dangerous. You're dangerous,” Margaret admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “That magic that saved us so easily can also very easily kill an innocent, or worse, one of us or you. It lashed out on its own, what else will it do on its own?”

Agatha feels her throat tighten, a cold shiver running down her spine. She looks away from Margaret, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. “I can control it,” she insists, though her voice lacks conviction.

“No. No you can't,” Margaret counters firmly, her own fear evident in her trembling voice.

Agatha sneers, her frustration boiling over. “I can. And I will. What do you know? Whatever Evanora tells you?” Her words are laced with bitterness and accusation, but she watches as Margaret takes slow steps back, dropping the lantern in her nervousness.

“What?” Agatha demands, her heart pounding in her chest as she waits for Margaret's response.

“Y-your… hands,” Margaret stammers, her eyes wide with fear, almost tripping over her dress in her haste to distance herself from Agatha.

Agatha’s heart freezes. She glances down at her arms and there's pure dark magic flowing out her veins, illuminating her palms purple. Her blackened fingertips and claws are out on display, Agatha runs her tongue over her teeth only to feel sharp fangs.

Agatha clenches her jaw, her nails digging into her palms as she fights back the tears threatening to overwhelm her. She whispers the glamor spell, masking her true appearance once more, and teleports down to where Margaret stands frozen in fear. With a swift movement, she covers Margaret's mouth before she can utter a sound.

“Shut up. Don't say a word,” Agatha commands, her voice strained with a mixture of desperation and anger.

Margaret wrestles Agatha's hands away from her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief and horror. “You’re really ok with what that thing did to you…?” Margaret's voice trembles with fear and concern.

Agatha's jaw tightens, her heart heavy with the weight of Margaret's words. She feels the sting of judgment and condemnation piercing through her, tearing at the fragile facade she's been trying to maintain. Without a word, she teleports back to her chambers, seeking solace in the confines of her room.

__

As Agatha materializes on her bed, the floodgates of emotion burst open, and she collapses onto the soft mattress, her body wracked with sobs. Tears stream down her face, leaving salty trails in their wake as she releases all the pent-up anguish and despair.

With each punch into the pillow, a wave of frustration washes over her, the physical pain a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within. But just as she's about to strike the pillow once more, a voice interrupts her thoughts.

Why is it you feel so down, little siphon?

The sound of the Darkhold's voice sends a shiver down Agatha's spine, her heart racing with apprehension. It's both unsettling and strangely comforting, like the embrace of a familiar darkness.

Agatha sniffles, wiping away her tears as she listens to the voice echoing in her mind. “She’s afraid of me,” she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper.

Oh sweet girl, there's nothing to be afraid of, it's just you, who you were always destined to be.

“I don't want this life, I just want to be with Rio,” Agatha admits, her voice filled with longing and desperation.

And that dream will become a reality… but things must happen before that. You must survive a nightmare to live a dream.

Agatha falls silent, her mind swirling with a tumult of emotions and uncertainties. She curls up on her bed and falls asleep.

__

The day of the ball is a whirlwind of activity and tension. Agatha finds herself swept up in a sea of guests, each one vying for her attention and eager to engage in small talk. She forces a polite smile onto her lips, nodding along to conversations she has no interest in. Everyone is wearing their masquerade masks, all sorts of beautiful colors and designs on them. Agatha’s is back with intricate patterns and ties with black lace. The magic swirling around her sets her nerves on edge, and she has to excuse herself multiple times to collect her thoughts.

In her purple ball gown, it's off the shoulder with a gray-ish blue fringe. Agatha moves through the crowd with practiced grace. Her hair is styled in an elegant half-up, half-down do, with the iris flower Rio gave her tucked behind her ear, preserved with a spell. A touch of pink tint on her lips completes her ensemble.

As she navigates the throng of guests, Agatha can feel the weight of her mother's expectations pressing down on her. Covens of importance are in attendance, and her mother's warning to behave or face consequences hangs heavy in the air. Despite her fear, Agatha finds herself strangely numb to the threat, she assumes it's the effects of the Dakhold.

Agatha is gripping Rio’s necklace like her life depends on it, so then she doesn't do it. Agatha plans on giving it to her tonight.

It's been a day since her fight with Margaret, she hasn't even seen her since. Not that she wants to. If all was well with their friendship, Agatha would be ranting to Margaret about how anxious she is to see Rio. But right now, she's on her own.

She sees her mother pacing up to her from the corner of her eye, Agatha sighs as she turns to face her.

“Yes mother?”

Evanora slaps Agatha’s wrist hard. “Do not call me ‘mother’ while we’re in the presence of such people, I’m known as Evanora, you foolish girl.”

Agatha fights the urge to roll her eyes but she obeys. The dark witch clears her throat and stands tall. “Yes Evanora?” she asks.

“Try not to speak unless you're spoken to, I don't want you accidentally telling our business with that mouth of yours.” And with that, Evanora glares at Agatha like she's a stain then retreats back to the group of coven leaders.

Agatha's heart clenches with resentment as she fights back tears, desperate to escape her mother's suffocating presence. But as she turns to retreat to a quiet corner, she's met with a vision of beauty that steals her breath away.

Rio.

In a dark green gown that hugs her curves in all the right places, adorned with elegant black fringe, Rio exudes an effortless allure. Her hair cascades down in loose waves, with a playful swoop of bangs framing her captivating brown eyes. Agatha can't help but blush at the sight of her.

"Hi," Agatha manages to stammer out, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi, my love," Rio replies with a dazzling smile, her eyes sparkling with warmth and affection.

Agatha’s heart flutters at the word 'love', a feeling she's never quite experienced in a romantic sense, but if she had to define it, it would utterly, undoubtedly be Rio.

"I, uh, got something for you," Agatha stammers, her cheeks flushed with nervousness.

Rio tilts her head curiously, her expression softening with intrigue. "What is it?"

With a shaky hand, Agatha opens her palm to reveal the necklace she purchased for Rio. A smile spreads across Rio's face, her eyes twinkling with deep affection. She whispers a heartfelt thank you as Agatha motions for her to turn around so she can fasten it.

As Rio lifts her hair, Agatha carefully secures the necklace, feeling a rush of warmth at the intimate gesture. When Rio turns to face her again, her grin is infectious.

"You are perfect, Rio," Agatha says, her voice filled with sincerity.

Rio blushes, her cheeks tinted with a rosy hue. "Not nearly as perfect as you, little Iris."

Now it’s Agatha's turn to blush a deep shade of crimson.

Regaining her composure, Agatha takes a deep breath as the music begins to play. Despite the lump in her throat, she summons her courage.

With a confident smirk, Agatha extends her left hand to Rio. Her heart pounding in her chest.

“Would you like to dance, Rio?” Agatha asks, her voice steady despite her nerves.

Rio's face lights up with a radiant grin as she eagerly accepts Agatha’s hand. They begin to sway to the music, their movements graceful and fluid. Agatha places her hands delicately on Rio's waist, feeling the warmth of her touch seep through her fingers. In response, Rio's arms encircle Agatha's neck, drawing her closer.

As they dance, Agatha feels a sense of unity and connection that she's never experienced before. Their bodies move together in perfect harmony, each step bringing them closer. In that moment, it's as though she's found her place in the world. With Rio by her side, Agatha feels whole.

Agatha feels as though she belongs, 

Like she belongs to Rio.

Rio gently lifts Agatha's mask up to her forehead, and Agatha reciprocates the gesture. As their faces draw closer, the room seems to hold its breath in anticipation.

Their lips barely brush against each other, sending a shiver down Agatha's spine. Then, with a surge of courage, Rio presses her lips fully against Agatha's, sending a wave of electric sensation through both of them. Agatha's heart races as she reciprocates the kiss with equal fervor, their mouths moving in sync.

As the kiss deepens, Agatha feels Rio's tongue gently probing against her lips, seeking entrance. With a soft moan, Agatha grants permission, allowing Rio's tongue to explore the depths of her mouth. Their tongues dance together in a passionate embrace, igniting a fire within Agatha that she never knew existed.

Suddenly, Agatha breaks the kiss, gasping for air. Agatha didn't even know she was so distracted that some of her glamor spell wore off. She looks into Rio's eyes, expecting to see fear or hesitation, but instead finds only desire and longing. Without hesitation, Rio pulls Agatha back in, their lips crashing together once more in a fervent display of passion. Agatha surrenders herself to the kiss, losing herself in the intoxicating embrace of the woman she loves.

Rio leans in close, her breath warm against Agatha's lips as she whispers with intensity, "All the things you can think of… everything you want, Agatha Harkness. I want to do everything to you. I wanna make you mine."

Agatha's heart races at Rio's words, her mind swimming with desire and longing. "I'm already yours," she manages to breathe out, her voice filled with conviction.

Rio's eyes darken with desire, a smirk playing on her lips as she leans in to kiss Agatha again. But before their lips can meet, a sudden blast of blue magic strikes Agatha's side, causing her to collapse in agony onto the cold floor.

The room erupts into chaos, with gasps, screams, and whispers filling the air as people scramble to make sense of what just happened. Amidst the confusion, Evanora stands tall, flanked by Agatha's two aunts. Her voice cuts through the chaos like a lightning bolt.

"Agatha Harkness. Who is this whore?" Evanora's voice booms with fury, her gaze locked on Rio. But Rio pays her no heed, her only concern rushing to Agatha's side, her expression filled with worry and fear.

Agatha's body is wracked with pain, each movement sending waves of agony through her. She gazes up at Rio with nothing but affection in her eyes, grateful for her presence. Rio tenderly cups Agatha’s face, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead before rising to confront Evanora. Agatha watches her go, her vision blurring with exhaustion and pain. She struggles to stay conscious, her body feeling heavy as if weighed down by an invisible force. With a final glance at Rio, Agatha's vision fades to black, succumbing to the overwhelming fatigue that overtakes her.

[swanoopdev]

DEDICATION OF THE LATERAN BASILICA (Feast) John 2:13-22

Feast of the Dedication of the St. John Lateran Basilica in Rome is a universal feast for the Roman Catholic Church, because it is the Pope’s cathedral, and his church is the spiritual home of the people who are the Church. The first basilica on the site was built in the fourth century when Constantine donated land, he had received from the wealthy Lateran family. That structure and its successors suffered fire, earthquake, and the ravages of war, but the Lateran remained the church where popes were consecrated. In the 14th century when the papacy returned to Rome from Avignon, the church and the adjoining palace were found to be in ruins. Pope Innocent X commissioned the present structure in 1646. One of Rome’s most imposing churches, the Lateran’s towering facade is crowned with 15 colossal statues of Christ, John the Baptist, John the Evangelist, and 12 doctors of the Church. Beneath its high altar rest the remains of the small wooden table on which tradition holds Saint Peter himself celebrated.

We find in the Old Testament as well as in the New Testament, that Temple is always considered a House of God. For the first time God encountered Human beings in the Garden of Eden, but when they profaned that Holy Ground, God chased them out. Since then, human beings always longed to have a House of God. The Ark of the Covenant was considered a mobile temple of God till Solomon completed the Temple of Jerusalem, where the Ark of the Covenant was kept, considering the Holy presence of Yahweh. This was destroyed during Babylonian invasion in 597 BC. And finally, it was completely wrecked by Romans in 70 AD, as Jesus predicted in Mark 13:1,2.

The Gospel reading of today is an incident, where, we find Jesus’ expression of anger, when he finds the temple as market place and a place of exploitation of the poor. However, Jesus becomes the New Temple and we all are called to be the body of the church (Romans 12:5, 1 Corinthians 12:12-27, Ephesians 3:6, 5:23, Colossians 1:18 and 1: 24) “Jesus Christ is seen as the head of the body, which is the church, while the members of the body are seen as members of the Church.” Every baptized person is inducted as member of this CHURCH. “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). Do you know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit…. (1Cor. 6:19). It is my responsibility to keep this temple holy and pure. The husk of impurity must be removed before the seed of holiness is generated.

What sort of business do I do and profane my body?

How many years did I take to build this temple without God?

Can I destroy this temple and allow Jesus to rebuild a new temple in me?

PRAYER:

Jesus my Lord, the corner stone of God’s temple, forgive me for turning this temple into market place, where I engage myself trading with anger, revenge, ego, lust, gluttony, greed, laziness, wrath, envy and pride etc. and profane my body. Chase away the darkness of my being and help me to rebuild it with love, compassion, forgiveness, generosity, purity of mind and body. Create in me the zeal for your house till I devour myself in you and enter into new Jerusalem.

[senatushq]

"Only the fire of life can melt the chains of death."

Sickness swept across the city. Hospitals were flooded with supernaturals and mortals alike as it seeped into the countryside as well. Even those with magic were not immune, falling ill one at a time, those that were already compromised found the disease too much to fight off and fell over as a result. Numbers climbed higher and higher, a brutal mortality rate that the city was ill prepared to deal with. Infrastructure gradually collapsed as the city closed its borders to any seeking to travel within, those outside of the metropolitan did not fare as well as those within, cabins of corpses and disease that quickly spread to livestock as well. All the while, Pestilence looked on in great delight. 

Caught between life and death, Meryasek’s body was sealed away under his lover’s care. Heartless and cold, the rise of a new drow felt imminent as the Queen of the dark court laughed from her throne. Vengeance was hers as she waited for the curly haired boy to be born, word from the Underdark did not come, and as she sat idle she began to grow impatient. Meryasek would not have the same fate as Aegnor, she would not see him elevated, and she would not give him the chance to be restored. Ayi’ig intended to bury the boy so deep that Titania and her wretched subjects would never find him again. That would be her great revenge. 

Death was not so impressed. They were on vacation and everyone was being very rude. Across Rome those that had fallen over the past month rose again, the plague had been strong enough to kill but Thanatos thought that those who had died deserved more time. Climbing from graves and sitting suddenly up in the middle of cold storage, the many lost within Rome seemed completely fine. The plague subsided and Death’s vacation continued. 

Across Rome the senate gathered their forces. The Ivy called to the ancient city their many long-standing members and sent out the missive that others should join. Hidden witches of Scotland's Gaelic highlands, dormant Celts, practitioners of seidr and many others. To the halls of the Ivy Coven's rising tower they gathered , overflowing into the other magical homes: Narcissus, Amaranthus, and Dahlia respectively. The senate, in a means of striking back, expelled the seraphim from the Alstroemeria home and banished the Blessed from the city entirely. Once more the darkened home was filled with ripe, magical blood as the five majorly intersecting Roman ley lines were worked to form a protective barrier around the city.

A monarchy of vampires came to Rome, from Europe, Asia, Africa, and both North and South America. The death of a magister was a slight that would be answered, and it seemed the future of their kind hinged on the balance within Rome. Hosted within the vampire estates, the palaces swelled in number as blood was continuously manufactured to appease their growing hunger.

Long believed gone, the archdruids had returned to Rome with vigour. Those scattered across the globe made their pilgrimage to the Pyramid, one that was once desolate, now was bursting with more life than it had ever before. Keepers and acolytes alike, their numbers bolstered in great force once more.

Within New Rome Lycaon made good on his promise, under the light of the full moon of September 28th, Lycaon called to the state the many wolves and packs that littered the country. Over the coming weeks lycans would flock to the forest, not one pack, but many as they swarmed to the city of their progenitor, and the alpha that had vowed to take Rome in their name.

Under the rule of the chancellorship and with the added protection of the White Flame and the lorendrow, the Fairy King's forest was further fortified. Blood fruits reached maturity, a primitive form of ambrosia, nearly perfect, but still incredibly potent. With the rise of the Daemonfey King, Meryasek, he took his place upon the throne once more. The aasimar Dareth at his side.

Denied subjects for sacrifice, the necronomicon continued to seize power. Souls trapped within did not truly die, the meat for the book a means of super seceding Thanatos’ decree. Over the past year Necromanteion had grown, where once it had been a dilapidated temple in the Otherworld: the only notable fixtures had been of three dragons. One for Ayi’ig, one for Leviathan, and one for Tiamat. As the book grew in strength, the temple’s physical appearance was a direct reflection of this. From a ruin to founding stone, to a great cathedral, to a sprawling estate. Now the book far exceeded any strength it had held before and a dark tower rose at the centre of a sprawling city of burning iron. New Dis. The tower of Necromanteion at its heart rose high into the Otherworldly sky, surging with dark strength as the lords of this infernal city ruled from above. Pythia with her faithful generals, and a city to harbour the growing forces of the damned. Monsters pulled from the Abyss, new creatures stitched together, and entities loyal to decay swarmed the streets as the Asphodel prepared for war. 

ooc info

Surprise, Mery is alive!

Also surprise, literally no one died y’all have no chill. 

New Dis, who Dis. 

Lots of lycans in New Rome now.

Lots of witches in Rome now.

Lots of vampires in Rome now.

Lots of druids in Rome now.

Acceptances are open again from September 25th-October 12th, after which there will be another addendum until December 7th. I know that’s a long time but the next event will be big and I need to make sure everyone is included. Plus, bringing in new characters during the event won’t make a lot of sense. Don’t worry, you’ll all have lots of spots open once the event is over :)

[flowers-of-io]

Dark Architecture

Jenna (@aceofdumbass​) asked for 12 and 13, what we said where everyone could hear & where no one could hear, with Sav and Immaru. Thank you dear for all your thoughts on the Hive & the Light & protectiveness, and for making me write another ficlet with these two freaks whom I’m exceptionally far from normal about.

Also on Ao3

Things you said prompts

The Scheme-Mother walked through her throne world and touched it with her radiant fingers, until it whole was resplendent in Life gifted to her from the Sky. No longer was it known as the High Coven, but she named it the Radiant Court, to signify her separation from the Deep as irreversible and final. When the severance was done and the Court stood effervescent and pure as a Thrall before it is poisoned with worm, she settled high on a tower that would be called the Sanctum, and addressed her brood.

She said:

This court is a harbour for all Hive who seek separation from the wretched power of the Deep.

This brood, the brood of dissidents and refugees, of Sky-bound and Deep-refuted, will be the Lucent Brood, for it serves not the machinations of the Worm but the reckless blessing of the Light.

Those whose bodies have been chosen and restored by the Light will be called Light-bearers, and they will guard and protect the brood as a Mother protects spawn.

This Ghost of mine, whom I have named Light, for through him the blessing of the Sky has befallen us, will be the Head Tactician and First among all Ghosts. To him the brood shall turn for guidance and counsel, and he will be my closest advisor in all endeavours.

I am Savathûn, Insidious, the Radiant Queen, First of the Chosen Krill; and in the power bestowed to me by the Sky I declare war on all forces of the Deep.

—An excerpt from “The Books of Rememoration, A Story Sewn into Flesh with Sinew and Malice, A Record of the Scheme-Mother’s Resurrection and Return”

_______________________________________________________

“Why are we at war with the Deep?”

Immaru looked up to where Savathûn sat on a toppled column, watching flowers sprout from its cracks where she touched them with her Light. The air around them buzzed with energy, but it was still fairly quiet here, in a corner of the garden somewhat removed from the brilliant chaos of resurrections by the dozen, Scorn gunfire, and rumble of the throne world transforming.

“Well, it wants to kill the Traveler.” It was an easy answer, one he already knew would not satiate her. Humming, she reached for one of the flowers and slid its wide, blood-red petals between her fingers.

“Peculiar.” She tilted her head and looked at the Ghost, as new vines began to sprout from the plant and wrap around her hand. “A force antithetical to warmth and growth and life. Ephemeral, yet of such destruction... How does it act? Where does it dwell?”

“Umm… the Pyramids, I guess?”

“And the I-who-was kept one such in her throne world.”

Immaru spun in the air, thinking. She had surprised him with the way she understood things, from the very beginning — far more interested in cause rather than reason, she never asked about morality or motives or subjective argumentation. For her the world was a great equation, waiting eagerly to be solved. The Light gave life, as gravity made things fall; the Darkness had cursed the Hive, so it was sensible to consider it disastrous even now, as they were finally free from its influence. He knew she wasn’t asking about the rationality of warring with the Deep—there was yet a question under the question, several levels removed from what she gave voice to, some other concern or a new angle she tested approaching things from.

“It’s sealed,” he said.

“A wicked entity lives there, sworn to the Deep.”

With how quickly Savathûn learned, he often caught himself forgetting she was only three days old. The cartography of this place was still unknown to them; the brood that flocked around her for guidance alien and just as disoriented; and yet she had embraced queenship as she had embraced the gift of the Light, and rose to protect them from a force she did not understand. Looking down at her blossom-covered hands, she added, “He will threaten everything we’re building here.”

“It’s sealed,” Immaru repeated.

“This world is shifting, and so are its old defences.”

“Even so, we’ll find out how you’ve contained him before. Or we’ll kick his ass. Don’t fret,” he allowed her to pull him to herself with one hand wriggled free from the greenery. The crook of her neck was warm and soft, eddying in the rhythm of her steady breathing.

Something rumbled in the distance, dark architecture splintering and flaking off like shed skin. Rays of Light pierced the sky wherever a Ghost found their other half. Savathûn’s gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, her expression unreadable from the odd angle, but when she spoke, there was smile in her voice.

“Why would I ever fret when I have you to lead the charge?”

[hazalseren]

who: @senatusstarters​ where: faerie court, based on this prompt. 

Hazal had walked the antiquity of Rome, beautiful gowns and masks tied tight -- her aquatic hues never gave up searching. Past the nectar and ambrosia that was poisoning them in the berry champagne and delicate pastries was a trick that was lacing them all into a cruel net but Hazal had a certain mind for historical witchcraft and a protective nature when her coven was threatened and it was gears shifting in her head she recognized the muses for who they were. She could place them even past the haze that the fey had cast to keep them prisoners in the fey realm forever.

They were the true power behind the masquerade and as the pieces fell into place, she recognized Polymnia for who they were, would watch as the muses made minds fall to their spells. Dazed party goers who for a brief moment would break from the influence and try to leave before Polymnia would subdue them through magic and they would return to the dancefloor like cattle to the slaughter. She needed Eleanor, she wasn’t bold enough to take on a god alone and so she went to search for her Sovereign.

Hazal’s steps echoed as her heart thundered but the moss covered Rome turned dark, it seemed reality was fracturing as she had returned to the place in the Otherworld where she had slaughtered a hellhound, a chill settled in the air as a towering monolith long fell to ruin appeared before her. She had been just a child when she was here last, determined to become apart of the Amaranthus coven and equipped only with her spellwork. The sulphur smell of the monster wafted through the air,  a warning growl broke in the distance. The rational part of her brain urged her to remember that this was a trick -- there was a reason why the rule existed to never eat fey food. Yet, it had been pulled from her past and she had been here many times before.

The fog thickened as two emerged from behind the stone, one had been deadly enough, two were a massacre and in a snap they bared their teeth and lunged. A spell of the school of destruction leaves her lips. Striking down lighting where they stood as she conjured a spell of salt to surround her. “Don’t step past the salt lines or I swear to god, I’ll kill you too.”

[xasha777]

In a realm suffused with an everlasting twilight, the Old-growth forest stood, ancient and silent, a witness to centuries untold. Its heart, a clearing untouched by the sun's scarce rays, was said to be the domain of Him—The Gentleman of Whispers.

They say he was once a man of science and progress, who sought to conquer death itself. To this end, he made a covenant with the spirits of the forest, but such knowledge came at a cost. He was transformed into a specter of what he once was, cursed with immortality, his humanity twisted into something grotesque.

His skin, pallid and cracked like the bark of the oldest trees, was an armor against the passage of time. His eyes, a ghastly green, mirrored the eerie glow that wafted between the dense canopy of the towering trees. Clad in a suit befitting a funeral, The Gentleman of Whispers stalked the woods, a top hat casting a shadow over his sinister smile.

Those who wandered into the Old-growth forest at night reported seeing orbs of light floating in the darkness, and an elegant figure that loomed between the trunks, watching, waiting. The Gentleman was not alone, for he had created servants from the very essence of the woods, entities that glowed with an unnatural luminescence, bound to his will.

The locals whispered of the Gentleman’s ability to grant wishes for those brave—or foolish—enough to seek him. But every wish was a pact, and every pact a chain that bound the wisher to the forest's eldritch spirit.

One night, a young couple, hearts filled with desperation, entered the forest. They wished for a child, and they had heard the tales of the Gentleman who could turn the barren fruitful. They found him in the clearing, where the air hummed with power, and the ground was soft with millennia of fallen leaves.

“Your wish can be granted,” he hissed, his voice like leaves rustling in a dead wind. “But in return, you must give me what springs from the Old-growth heart. Something only you can provide.”

The couple agreed, and a child was born to them in the heart of autumn. But the Gentleman's price was steep; he claimed the shadows of their souls, leaving them as hollow as the trunks of the trees surrounding his domain.

With each pact, the Gentleman grew stronger, and the forest darker. It was said that his true aim was to break free from his arboreal prison, to spread his dominion beyond the gnarled roots of the Old-growth trees.

And so the Gentleman of Whispers waits in the heart of the forest, a tale to scare children and a warning to the greedy. The Old-growth forest whispers his name with the wind through the leaves, a cautionary tale of the cost of tampering with the natural order, and of the twisted immortality that lies in wait for those who dare to make a pact with the specter of the woods.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 4: Between the River and the Road

Jane-Anne Deveraux is feather-light in his arms as he transcends the invisible barrier that protects Lafayette Cemetery from unfriendly creatures. 

Elijah is more well-versed than most in the ways of witches. He has faced the Strega of the old world, witnessed the potent magic of the Bennet lineage firsthand, and learned about ancestral magic from an Elder of a proud lineage. A millennium ago, he matured alongside the primal incantations and runic rituals of his druidic kin. The magic of witches had crafted him into an eternal predator and trailed him like a specter across the centuries of his immortal existence. Thus, Elijah understands the significance of his invitation into the sacred sanctum of the New Orleans covens—it reeks of desperation, a last resort in dire times.

He traverses between towering rows of family crypts with as much reverence as he can muster. In the shadows of cracked stones and weathered marble, he senses the spirits of three centuries of dead witches laid to rest here. They watch him with a thousand unseen eyes, suspicious and angry. 

He can feel their accusation even as he passes by the carved names of generations of those come and gone, knowing he has befriended some and killed others. Knowing that as they turned to dust, he would live on. Knowing only a few miles away, in a secret place, the bones of Celeste DuBois rest unconsecrated, depriving them of her magic, her soul. 

He adjusts the bundle in his arms and hopes that this gesture of goodwill, a drop in the bucket against the ocean of wrongs he and his family have brought upon them, would be enough at least to bring about the beginning of an alliance that might spare Hayley and her unborn child from the consequences.

Even this gesture, however minute, is the result of an evening of precarious negotiation with Marcel. Elijah had expected a certain level of vexation at his presence and that was before Niklaus had given into his more dubious urges and, in a fit of temper, bit one of Marcel’s men. That had complicated matters considerably. However, Elijah is a firm believer in finding moments of opportunity within a crisis. He knows that every disaster, every outburst of emotion, offers an advantage. And Marcel Gerard, in his fury and concern, had revealed a glaring vulnerability. One that Elijah exploited to his favor. 

And so, they exchange the body of Jane-Anne Deveraux for the antidote to the venom ravaging Marcel’s man. Bringing him one step ahead in the chess game of New Orleans’ supernatural politics.

Which brings Elijah to the present moment. 

The church clock tolls, brash and baleful, announcing the deadline for their deal. As he rounds the corner, his ears catch the frantic murmur of conversation. 

“His time is up,” says a woman’s muffled voice from somewhere within a grand mausoleum. “What’re you going to do now, Sophie?”

A pause, then another voice he recognizes as belonging to Sophie Deveraux replies, “I’m going to do what I said I was going to do.”

He’s close enough to catch the uptick in Sophie’s heartbeat. If they were paying any attention, they would catch the dark lines of his shadow. But as it is, they are too engrossed in the matter at hand to notice. And so he listens, gathering as much information as possible, and waits for the opportune moment. 

There’s a scoff from a third party. By now, Elijah can make out the silhouette of the woman from his first night in town, Sabine. 

“What, kill the girl? Kill yourself?” she says, and Elijah goes still. The information isn’t surprising. The witches had been implicitly clear from the start about their intentions toward Hayley and the baby, should he or his brother fail to keep up their end of the bargain. The knowledge does nothing, however, to temper the murderous flare that bubbles at the surface.

“Klaus does not care about the child.” Agnes reminds the others. 

The matter of Klaus’ emotional involvement in the survival of his child is a matter of some conjecture, one that’s been plaguing his thoughts since he found out about the werewolf girl and her predicament in this very cemetery only days ago, his position is crystal clear. 

“I do,” he says, stepping into view. All heads turn towards where he stands at the entrance. “And I bring proof of my intent to help you: the body of your fallen friend, which I procured from Marcel himself.”

It was the right thing to do, an inclination only confirmed by the misty look in Sophie’s eyes when they flit from his face and then onto her sister’s body, with a shuddering exhale of her name.

But this was far more than a matter of morality, and Elijah’s intentions were far from selfless. 

“May she be granted peace,” he murmurs, crouching down to shift the dead woman into her sister’s arms. “Klaus will agree to your terms. I just need a little more time.”

“You had your time,” The Elder, Agnes, juts her chin in defiance he would find admirable if they weren’t on the same side. 

He’s not the only one bemused by the outburst, for Sabine snaps, “Shut up, Agnes.”

The older woman’s posture remains ramrod straight, eyes fixed on him, but she steps back. He meets her steady gaze, head tilting in assessment. Perhaps, he thinks, they may be on their way to understanding one another. 

“For now, accept the deal,” he commands in a voice that brooks no argument. “The girl and the child remain unharmed, or Klaus will kill you all.” He turns to leave, then stops. “And I will help him.”

Better to remind them that Marcel Gerard is not the only danger in the city.

____

He feels no sense of relief as he leaves Lafayette Cemetery and makes his way back toward the French Quarter, and any satisfaction he might have gleaned from his success is short-lived. Yes, he has taken a significant stride in stabilizing tensions in the quarter, another small move towards ensuring the safety of his family. But there is nothing so foolish as a premature celebration, not when there is still work to be done. 

The spell linking Hayley to Sophie Deveraux- the one that Jane-Anne sacrificed herself to complete- still stands. With witches dropping like flies, it’s a connection he would prefer to sever as soon as possible.  

There is also still the matter of what had driven the witches to such lengths in the first place; Marcel’s secret weapon. In his long life, he’s encountered a few things that would enable someone to track the use of magic, but none with the magnitude or immediacy to fit with what he had witnessed the other night.

Despite a year in subjugation, the witches seem just as perplexed about the source of Marcel’s power as Elijah. Still, he cannot shake the feeling that they are holding back something critical, some vital piece of information that will solve the puzzle. And while he lacks any leverage that might encourage them to be forthcoming, it does not matter. He’s already found his way in and that is Lucretia LeMarche.

The night he had seen her fleeing the Quarter, he had tasked his contacts with delving into her background. The passage of a few days had yielded little, but what they had unearthed was more than enough to confirm that his suspicions were not unfounded.

The family name alone speaks volumes. He recognizes it as belonging to a magic bloodline that traces back to at least the eighteenth century. He was familiar with a few of their ancestors. 

They were a proud lot, as he remembers them, fiercely loyal to their kind, wary of outsiders, with a zealous devotion to tradition. Yet even upon his departure, as more witches flocked to the cemetery to consecrate Jane-Anne Deveraux, her face had not been among them. For a family and a coven bound at the rootst, he knew there could only be two explanations for her absence; she was either uninterested or unwelcome. Given the report of a heated encounter with a cousin earlier, he would put money on the latter. 

It’s an interesting consideration, especially with the routine isolation he had witnessed in his ventures past her hotel. But for now, Elijah knows there is nothing to do but wait for an opportunity to present itself. 

All that leaves is the problem of Niklaus. 

He does not doubt that getting his willful brother on side will be challenging. Mistrustful and paranoid, he sees everything as a threat, a nudge towards some larger plot to destroy him. Often he is right; never mind that many are traps of his own making. 

He finds Niklaus amidst shuttered stalls and stacked crates in the French Market. The bottle dangles from his hand. He takes a long swig, so drenched with the smell of alcohol that Elijah briefly considers leaving him to his brooding. 

“Have I not made clear my desire to be left alone?” Klaus asks, his back to him.

Elijah steps into the light. “Oh, you demand to be left alone at least once a decade. Your words have ceased to have impact.”

His brother smashes the bottle against the ground, projectiles of glass scattering to every corner. 

“Why must you keep harping on about the baby?” He shouts, cutting to the root of the impending confrontation. “That child will never be born. In fact, Hayley is probably dead already.”

The obstinate self-pity is too much for Elijah, another spark in a long burning fuse. Years spent chasing his brother, cleaning up his mistakes and offering forgiveness, hoping to catch a glimmer of the boy he once knew. But to turn his back on something Elijah knows he wants and endanger his greatest chance at redemption is a step too far. 

He careens into Nikalus at full speed, hand at his throat as a millennium of anger and frustration bubbles to the surface. “You will not walk away from this.”

“Let. Me. Go.” Niklaus warns. The flash of teeth may be enough to frighten lesser vampires, but it does nothing to intimidate Elijah. 

“I WILL NOT!” He roars, throwing his brother to the floor. Before he can launch a counterattack, he heaves him up again with an iron grip.

Niklaus glowers at him. “Don’t make me say it again."

“I will not let go. I will never let go.” his voice cracks even as he shuts over the simple words so loaded with meaning. 

He knows his brother hears it. It’s why he retaliates with heightened fury, grasping Elijah by the lapels of his jacket and hurling him across the floor. The iron rod fence is unforgiving as it cuts through his clothes and his skin. A warm sensation at his back tells him he’s bleeding, but by the time he gets to his feet, any wound sustained has already healed. 

He steels himself, chest heaving. “Even if I have to spend eternity saving you from your own stubborn, petulant, vile self…”

The errant rod he had picked up bites into his fingers as he rushes forward. It reverberates as it crashes against Niklaus’ front.

“If I have to beat you as father used to beat you, to remind you of your own humanity–,” Another blow, “–to care about anything…”

He punctuates with another swing, but Klaus is faster. The iron bar stops in midair, snatched in the center by its intended target. It’s out of his hand in an instant, slamming into his back with a force that knocks him to the ground. Chest heaving, he stays there, peering up at his brother with a furrowed brow. The bar hits the concrete with a thud. 

“You’re beyond pathetic, Elijah,” Klaus says, closing some of the distance.

“Well, who is more pathetic? The one who sees hope to make his family whole, or the coward who only sees the world through his own fear?”

“I haven’t cared about anything for centuries.” His gaze is sharp, but Elijah can see the embers of vulnerability. “Why on earth do you?”

“Because I failed you. Because the first time our father laid a hand on you, I should have struck him dead. I made a promise to you: always, forever, family above all.”

Niklaus laughs then and Elijah doesn’t miss the fondness behind it. He knows that all is right between them, at least for now. He confirms the inkling by extending his hand to help him up. 

“You are a sentimental fool,” Niklaus says, hauling him to his feet. 

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But I’ve lasted this long in spite of it, haven’t I?”

A moment passes between the brothers, for in this moment that’s what they are. Not adversaries, not rivals, just two men bonded by blood and time. He walks away from the market, leaving Niklaus alone to reflect.

Elijah has only gone a block when he hears a commotion upriver.

____

The breezy idyll of the picturesque afternoon yields to an early autumn storm front. As night falls over the Mississippi Delta, the air is thick with the mingled scents of atmosphere and rich earth. The trees shudder, shaking off shriveling leaves that hiss as they settle, discarded, to the ground. And the moon fights a losing battle with the encroaching cloud coverage, its light is wan and thin. 

A cargo ship bellows in the distance. The prow cuts through the silver glass water on its way to the Gulf. Mist closes in on river and city alike like a burial shroud, distorting the steel prow and sharp angles of shipping containers until it’s only a boxy silhouette with yellow fog light eyes on the horizon. The wind picks up, running its fingers through murky waters and churning the placid surface until choppy waves lap at the shoreline in short, staccato bursts before settling into lazy ripples. 

Lucie pitches forward across the railing on the mostly abandoned Riverwalk, her stomach churning like the river as she empties its meager contents into the depths below. She wretches until there’s nothing left and then she wretches some more, until all that’s left in her aching gut is bile and acid. 

Sweat prickles, cold on her brow. She pulls away, wiping her chapped lips with the back of a clammy hand. Blinking, she catches the eyes of a jogger who shoots her a look that’s half sympathy, and half disgust before they disappear into the mist. She should feel mortified. But as it stands, she’s too wound up to care.

The flare of her lighter keeps the fog at bay, a temporary force field against the dark until the cigarette lights. She presses it to her lips and inhales deeply, eager to rid herself of the bitter taste in her mouth. 

Fog mutes and muffles every sign of life. Even the majesty of the cathedral vanishes until all but its highest steeple is swallowed up. And the silence hums. The city rests in a liminal space between evening and the late hours, the street lights straining against the mist. She flicks the ash and watches their orange halos shimmer and distort.

Her stomach settles, the edges of nausea losing their edge until only a vague queasiness remains. That and the anger. 

That part is simple. She leans into it like a crutch, fanning the flames to keep the embers smoldering. Because deep down, she knows that what lies underneath the rage is a mess of emotions she can’t even begin to untangle.

So she sits and seethes and remembers. 

She recalls coming into her magic. It was the same summer she’d gotten her first period, and at fourteen, gawky and awkward, it had been just as mortifying. Fluctuating hormones were hard enough, but paired with burgeoning powers, it made for a rough summer break. But Violette had been over the moon, practically radiating with pride. And so, while Lucie had never particularly dedicated herself to the craft, she threw herself into learning all she could, eager to please. 

It's the reason she now understands why the girls agreed to be part of the Harvest. She knows all too well the blind trust and desire for approval that the Elders could evoke in a teenager. But what’s harder to wrap her head around is the way the coven leaders had taken that trust and twisted it into something so vile. Or why Violette had allowed things to go so far. 

Her temper flares then wavers with doubt and the nagging feeling that she’s missing something important. So much about what Arabella had told her was strange. She couldn’t wrap her head around Violette’s complicity in something so cruel, and then there was Jane-Anne. Every thread she pulled seemed to lead back to her. 

Monique’s death and Jane-Anne’s suicidal gambit were too close for coincidence. And for the first time, Lucie wonders what became of the final Harvest Girl.

She’s thinking about Davina Clare when the man appears, ambling out of the mist as if made from it. 

Dull and hollow, the church bells chime.

She listens to the even gait shuffle in tandem with her thumping heart, so in sync that she can scarcely distinguish one from the other. And then footfalls taper of altogether and she stares at a pair of worn leather workman’s boots. The man clears his throat, hands stuffed into the pockets of his corduroy pants. Her eyes drift to a youthful face that seems out of place alongside the frayed hems of his corduroy pants or the loud pattern of a silk button-down shirt. He tosses the hair out of his eyes, blond, and parted down the middle with long sideburns. Lucie can’t shake the impression that looks more suited to a speed club in a trashy 70s flick than standing like a specter on the Riverwalk. 

He doesn’t move, only lifts the corner of his lips in a crooked smirk. She wonders if he’s going to ask her for a light, or maybe some change. But the possibility withers to dust when she catches his eyes. They’re gray and indecipherable as the river behind her, but it’s the glint in them that makes her hair stand on end. They sparkle with amusement and something she can’t quite name… anticipation ? 

“‘Evenin’,” he drawls with her the honied twang of the bayou counties. “Didn’t think anyone, but myself was crazy enough to venture out in this.”

He casts a sidelong glance over the edge of the walk, where the river is now all but undetectable save for the soft churning of the waves. 

She traces the hard lines of his profile with wary eyes, waiting for his next move. He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, eyes alight with recognition. 

“There you are! Thought you must’ve gotten yourself lost on Bourbon.” Her head cocks in confusion, toying with the idea that he’s off his rocker when she realizes he’s not looking at her, his gaze fixed just beyond her shoulder. And that is so much worse. 

She smells the second man before she sees him. Mildew and mothballs and something coppery announces his presence. It’s followed by a sharp exhale, so close she feels the balmy heat of his breath. 

With a cry of alarm, she wheels around, scrambling to put as much distance between them as she can before the cold damp metal of the railing halts her retreat.  

Tall and thin, the second man wavers like a cattail in the breeze. The tattered ends of his duster flutter about his long legs, only adding to the inclination that a stronger gale might bowl him over. Older than the other by a decade if she had to guess. His face is gaunt and deep-lined near his eyes. Eyes so fathomlessly dark that they don’t shine, just seem to absorb all the shadows into the void. They leer down at her in a way that can only be described as hungry.

She swallows hard.

She doesn’t need to wait for blackening veins or a flash of fangs. She knows a vampire when she sees one.

But there’s a feverish, feral glint to their eyes, and an agitated jerkiness to their movements so unlike the controlled poise of Marcel Gerard or the polished violence of his crew, so off that it distracts her momentarily from her fear.

Her palms drop to her sides, searching for anything she might use as a weapon, but finds nothing but the chipped guardrail.  She could jump. They likely wouldn’t see it coming and she could vault the rail before either could stop her. But the water is treacherous in its own right and won’t deter them for long enough for it to matter. No, running won’t be an option. 

When the taller one, tired of waiting, lunges at her, he strips the choice from her. 

Lucie only has enough time to squeeze her eyes shut and brace herself for the steel of sharp teeth tearing her flesh. But when a second passes and then another and it still doesn’t come, she opens them again. 

He’s close enough that if he were to reach a willowy arm out, she’s sure the tips of his bony fingers would brush against her jacket. A hand clutches at his shoulder, tethering him to the spot. The other man must have crossed the sidewalk because the hand belongs to him and he’s hovering just behind the towering frame. 

 “Teagan, that’s no way to behave. Look,” he chides, with a nod towards her. For the first time, she notices a strange lilt to his cadence. “You’re frightening the poor lamb.”

‘Teagan’s’ gaze drifts from Lucie to his friend and then back, head tilting to the side. 

The younger man laughs, clapping him on the back like he isn’t a rabid dog on a fraying tether. “Don’t mind my friend here. We’ve been out of the city for a while now and his manners are a little rusty.”

His tone is reassuring, his posture relaxed. Yet she doesn’t miss the way he maneuvers around the larger man, angling himself just slightly ahead. 

“I’m Adam and this is Teagan.” He flashes his teeth, laugh lines creasing at the edges, in what could be called a charming smile, under different circumstances. When he extends a hand, she dodges the touch, steadying herself on heavy limbs. 

“No need to be so shy. We’re all friends here,” Adam says with a sidelong smirk, tucking the hand back into his pocket. “Isn’t the right, Teag?”

The other vampire’s lips contort into a grim facsimile of a smile. 

“It’s a little late to be out here all on your own.” Rocking back on his heels, nonchalant when he asks, “Why don’t you let us take you somewhere warm?”

She doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter because it wasn’t a request. 

Apprehension is a viper coiled in her belly, urging her body into high alert. Adrenaline floods her veins. They shimmer, warm and bright, as if full of champagne as magic stirs up her blood. She reaches out, pulling it forward like a rope in a deep well. It surges in veins and then, and suddenly, the rope jerks taut. Like there’s a weight at the end, caught on an edge and preventing her from drawing anymore up, barred from the font of ancestral power. It won’t be enough, but maybe if she can take one of these assholes with her, the next victim might have a fighting chance.

Her right hand curls in on itself and the vampire, Adam, tutts. “I don’t think you want to do that, little witch.”

“You drain me dry now or Marcel kills me later. I’m dead either way.” She dips her head to the side, stretching the straining muscles in her neck. 

“I ain’t talking about Marcel or his rules,” he scoffs, visibly bristling. 

She puzzles at his meaning. There isn’t time to ask. The horn from a passing ship pierces the tension. His head flicks to the side for just a moment and Lucie finds her opening. Her right-hand raises in front of her as the familiar words of the spell follow, spilling from her lips like water. 

Adam turns to her, eyes cold and angry. “I thought I warned you-”

He staggers, the train of thought lost as he clutches at his head. 

She jerks her raised arm to the side, and he crumples to the ground like a rag doll. He howls in pain, the sound garbled in the mist like a soundproof room. It sends a shiver of satisfaction through her, but it’s short-lived. 

She bounds over him and across the sidewalk, desperate to cross the railway tracks and into the more populated refuge of Jackson Square. A few yards away, the green traffic lights glow like a beacon. Her joints ache as her feet jolt against the pavement at a brutal pace. It’s a small price to pay to survive the night. 

She’s close enough now to see the deep parallel grooves of the steel rails. All she needs is to descend the steps down to them, pass over, and -

A gust of wind flutters behind her. She has less than. a second to react before the hair at the base of her neck is pulled taut and then wrenched backward. The force knocks her off balance, boots scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. Her scalp screams as she’s jerked back, fast enough to give her whiplash. 

Then, the hand wrapped around her hair eases, but the change in momentum tells her she’s not free yet. Instead, it urges around and she’s forced to follow until the train tracks are back behind her and the edge of the river some distance ahead. 

The skeletal fingers wind in her hair and she knows it’s the tall vampire, Teagan, that has her. Behind her, he pulls her back until she’s flush against his chest. Her heart pounds in short, stuttering bursts as she feels his nose press against her hair, hand releasing her hair to wind around her throat. 

She feels more than hears the steady inhale as he breathes in her scent. Fingers press gingerly into the soft flesh of her neck like icicles as he whispers, “I bet you’ll scream so pretty when I drain you dry.” 

It’s the first time she’s heard him speak, and she wishes she hadn’t. The voice is thin and reedy as the rest of him, soft from disuse. If a corpse could talk, she knew it would sound like the vampire in her ear. 

“The others don’t like witch blood. Call it bitter.” The pressure around her throat increases ever so slightly. “I call it an acquired taste.”

His breath is hot on her neck, sickly sweet like dust and death. Her stomach turns. She calls on another burst of magic, but there’s no response besides a faint flickering.

Panic yields to white-hot pain when his fangs pierce the delicate flesh at the base of her neck. It burns like fire, then like ice, the sensation too overwhelming for her to cry out. Her veins are freezing over and then sharp pain relents to a thrumming sort of numbness. She feels the vibration as the vampire moans into her neck, greedy fingers holding her in place by her neck, her hip.

Her fingertips tingle. She thrashes against his grip, but all she can muster is a sluggish lurch from her leaden limbs. The edges of her vision are swimming, blackness creeping in at the corners.

“Teagan!” The voice comes to her from underwater, slow and distorted. “You’re…killing…”

She can’t make out the rest, her eyelids are too heavy and her body is too tired to care. She wants more than anything to let herself slip under, to sleep. 

Blissful oblivion is within reach when she’s cruelly jostled back into reality. It’s a struggle to open her eyes, but when she does, the world is blurry and off-kilter. Emptiness rushes around her and she realizes she’s falling. Pain blossoms in her shoulder, her ribs, her side as collides with the pavement. Hard. 

The worn boots in her direct field of view tell her that Adam has found his feet, now locked in a scuffle with the other vampire. The protective stance strikes her as strange, but her sluggish brain can’t seem to decide why. 

Before she can figure it out, a lean form skids to the ground in a heap nearby and she’s tugged roughly to her feet. 

Her captor spins around to face him, her stomach protesting. Adam’s gray eyes are hard, all pretense of friendliness gone. 

“I ought to make you suffer for that stunt you pulled, witch bitch,” he grits out. He’s close enough that she sees his jaw tick. “But just ‘cause I can’t kill you doesn’t mean I can make you wish you were dead. You understand me?”

His fingers dig into her upper arms hard enough to bruise through her leather jacket, giving her a shake that makes her teeth clatter. She’s sure it’s all that’s keeping her on her feet, but she manages a nod. 

The crumpled heap rustles. Teagan, rising back to his feet, levels his companion with a murderous glare. He wipes at his mouth, the back of his hand coming red. It smears streaks of red around the corners of his lips, on his chin -blood, her blood?

“You just stay out over there,” Adam commands, shuffling her behind him. She wavers, leaning against his back for support. “You hear me, Teag?”

Teagan sneers, lips curling into a snarl, but stays put. “I wasn’t going to kill her. Just wanted a taste.”

“That’s not part of the arrangement.” Adam shifts, boots scraping the concrete. “Unharmed or we get nothing. That was the deal.” 

The words land like a series of blows. Even in her stupor, the renewed threat sets her heart racing once more. 

Teagan looks ready to pounce, and Lucie runs through ways to keep out of a scuffle between the two vampires. But just as violence is about to break out, the atmosphere changes. 

Adam goes rigid, tensing as both he and Teagan angle toward the sound of approaching footsteps. 

It’s hard to make out through the fog and around the solid form in front of her, but she glimpses dress shoes, shiny and black. They click like a metronome, drawing closer to a steady beat. 

“Get lost,” Adam barks at the stranger. He shifts and Lucie spies a dark suit jacket and white cuffs. Her dread rises, leaving a bitter taste in her throat. “Don’t want to get blood on that pretty white shirt.”

The immaculate tips of the shoes stop, pointed towards Adam. 

“I thought Marcel’s nightwalkers were better behaved,” she hears a man’s voice say, even and calm. There’s an edge though, an air of vague disapproval. “It seems someone was let off-leash prematurely.”

She imagines him wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

Adam stiffens. “I don’t answer to Marcel,” he spits, “or any damn Original.”

Original? 

“Spare me the arrogance of young vampires,” he mutters, exasperated. It only confirms her fears, her face hot and her ears ringing with panic. 

He tips his head to the side, a flash of dark hair in her eyeline. “I’ll make this simple for you. Hand over the girl and I’ll give you a head start.”

If squaring off against two nightwalkers was bad, being in the clutches of an Original would be catastrophic for her chances of survival. She doesn’t have any idea how. All she knows is that she needs to get out of here. Now.

The second she jerks to the side, though, arms ensnare her waist in an impossible grip. It tightens like iron bars around her, caging her in. No longer obscured, she finds herself face-to-face with the Original vampire. 

It only takes a cursory glance, a brief survey of his dark eyes, the angles of his jaw for recognition to dawn. The man from the bar, the shadowy figure on the street beneath her window. Not a figment of her imagination, but flesh and blood only a few feet before her. 

A hand curls around her neck, with none of the gentleness of the other vampire. His nails are sharp, grip vice-like. It leaves her vulnerable; his shield before the firing squad. “How about you crawl back to wherever you came from and I don’t snap her neck like a twig?”

Lucie can’t help the little yelp that escapes her throat as his grip tightens. Her arms sweep up, tugging against his forearms in an exercise of futility. 

Something flashes, dark and dangerous in the Original’s eyes, gone as fast as it came. His face is a cool mask, expression indecipherable. 

“Now, why would you go through all the effort of keeping her alive, only to kill her now?” He muses, thumbs hooking in the belt loops of his pressed slacks. 

“You calling my bluff?” 

The Original shrugs. And if Lucie wasn't so frightened, she would be offended by his willingness to gamble with her life. 

She takes a shaky breath, gathering as much focus as she can muster. Her fingernails dig into the flesh of her captor’s forearms, not strong enough to register on his supernatural pain scale. At least, not until the skin beneath her palms starts to smoke and sizzle. 

He drops her, curses pouring from her mouth. She darts forward like a rabbit in a den of foxes, leaving the acrid smell of burning flesh in her wake. 

She’s quick, but not quick enough. Long fingers ensnare her ankle and she topples, chest colliding with the ground. Her jaw clamps shut from the impact, teeth sinking into her tongue. She tastes blood. It doesn’t matter. 

Teagan leverages his grip, flipping her onto her back. She scurries up onto her elbows, kicking wildly as he advances on her. In a flash, he’s bearing down on her. His weight is an anvil on her chest, pressing her into the pavement, pinning her in place. Over his shoulder, she can vaguely make out rapid movements, the sounds of a struggle. 

Lips pulls back, revealing razor-sharp fangs as he forces her flat. His legs hold her in place. He catches both her wrists in one massive palm, holding them in place against her chest. And he speaks, in that horrible ashen voice, “No one to save you now, little lamb.”

He dives forward to meet her neck and her eyes slam shut. Adamant that the void of his black eyes, his greedy face, isn’t the last thing she sees, she conjured up images in her head. Imaginary hands reach for memories, pulling them to the surface. Arabella’s laugh, Vivienne’s freckles, the perfume of wisteria, and the taste of Violette’s sweet tea. She burrows herself in them, waiting for an end that doesn’t come. 

Something hot and wet splatters her skin, bursting into her refuge. There’s a garbled noise in her ears, a heavy choking sound -also wet. Then the weight on her chest increases tenfold. If he’d been an anvil before, he’s a streamliner of dead weight- |

Dead weight. She freezes, gathering the willpower to open her eyes. Black irises reflect her face back at her, empty and glassy as marbles made of pitch. His mouth hangs open at an odd angle as if stuck in a silent scream. 

Dead. He’s dead. The thoughts bounce around her skull, directionless and chaotic even as the weight leaves her chest, even when she stares up into a dark, starless sky instead of lifeless eyes. 

She pushes herself back onto her forearms, propping herself up just in time to see Teagan’s body land off in the grass, to catch the disembodied heart hit the ground with a wet squelch. 

“Now I do hate an unfair fight,” the man in the suit says, turning towards the remaining vampire. “Don’t you?”

Adam doesn’t speak, gaze drifting from the corpse and back to its killer in abject horror. 

“I suggest you run.” 

And he does. In a flash color so fast that her eyes can’t keep up. And for one moment, she thinks he’ll get away. That the Original will let him leave. 

Until the Riverwalk echoes with a sound she doesn’t have a comparison for, like splintering firewood, but…wrong. A blond head hits the ground with a thud, rolling to a stop at the juncture between the grass and the sidewalk. The body wavers, a few feet behind, wobbling in a macabre sort of shuffle before collapsing like a marionette with the strings cut. 

He never stood a chance.  

He makes quick work of the bodies, the Original, handling them with an efficiency only born of practice. Only once their remains have vanished into the black water does he turn his attention towards Lucie. 

The commanding force of his dark eyes roots her to her spot on the ground, all the while the most primal part of her brain screams at her to run. She can’t seem to make her shocked system move, can’t do much of anything but watch as he advances on her with exaggerated slowness, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. There’s no anger in his eyes, but the damning specks of blood on the collar of his pristine dress shirt scream at her. And she notices how his cuffs are now stained a deep, violent red. 

It lights a spark in her, just enough to find her feet, supporting herself on the back of a park bench. 

“It’s alright,” he says in an even tone, stopping an arm’s reach away, clearly for her comfort. She has no illusions about his ability to dispatch her in seconds at any distance. “You’re safe now. I swear I won’t harm you.”

Something akin to concern seems to dance behind his eyes as he gives her a once-over. 

“I..you…you killed them.” It’s all she can muster.

“I did.” His tone is matter-of-fact, eyes drifting down. She follows the trail of his gaze from the ripped shoulder of her jacket, the rust-colored blood drying on her shirt, and back up again until she feels them settle somewhere around her neck. She remembers intruding fangs and imagines the remnants of carnage he must find there because his mouth pulls in a hard line.

He steps forward and a slow steady hand rises to ghost over the junction of her neck. She notices that beneath his spoiled cuffs, his hands are pristine. When had he found time to clean them?

When she winces, the hand drops back down, hovering somewhere near her upper arms. Confusion stirs, then understanding. He’s afraid I’m going to fall. 

She watches his lips move with a fuzzy detachment that probably has a lot to do with all the blood loss. Sees him mouth, “Are you alright?” more than hears it. 

She knows she should respond, but can’t seem to find the right response. “Hmmm?”

There’s a sigh, not quite impatient but certainly long-suffering. Twin pressures register at the tops of her shoulders, holding her in place, keeping her from drifting off into outer space as the adrenaline leaves her exhausted body.

“Look at me,” he prompts. 

And she complies because, despite the gentle delivery, there’s an innate authority to it that her subconscious responds to even in her present state. 

The scene beyond is blurry, but she blinks his serious features into focus. His finger catches her beneath the chin, urging her to look up into his eyes. 

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks, with a dreamy disinterest. 

“No.” 

“Oh,” is all she can manage, and wonders if she imagines the way he winces. The veil is fading fast beneath the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his gaze. Something warning her she’s still in danger. 

“Who are you?” Suspicion prods at the corners of her tired mind even as the hand at her chin glides down to examine her bleeding neck. His fingers ghost over the wound and she shivers. 

She knows the truth, even as he speaks the words to confirm it. 

“I’m an Original, but I think you already know that. My name is Elijah. I take it you’ve heard of me.”

Klaus. Rebekah. Elijah.

Lucie swallows down her fear and nods. 

“Good, that’ll save us time,” he says. “We have a lot to discuss, Miss LeMarche.”

[nekoannie-chan]

Halloween Specials Masterlist

English version/ Versión en inglés

I publish my works in Spanish and English.

Aquí puedes leer la versión en español.

I don’t give any kind of permission that my fics be posted in other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don’t steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other’s people. The only exception is the ones I gifted ‘cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and is not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Marvel’s characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

Main masterlist.

Add yourself to my taglist here.

My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.

Noctis et tenebrae

Pairing: Steve Rogers (eventually Dark! Steve) X Vampire! OC (Agatha Rouwens).

Word count: 4626 words.

Summary: Steve met a mysterious woman from his past, with whom he became obsessed, so he won't rest until he finds her.

Warnings: Mention of death and torture, murder, stalker, betrayal, dub-con not explicit, violence, loss of virginity, abuse, mention of blood, and obsession. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, DON’T READ IT.

Halloween special 2020.

Revenge

Pairing: None

Word count: 2090 words.

Summary: Your internship was done at Baxter Tower, but it's part of your plan to get even.

Warnings: Blood mentions, cursed objects, curses, zombies and deaths although none are explicit, perhaps you can consider +18.

Halloween special 2020.

Trick

Pairing: Surprise! Is tricky.

Word count: 1064 words.

Summary: You, Brock, Wanda and Pietro joined the Avengers after what happened to HYDRA, are you really part of the good guys?

Warnings: Death of character, betrayal, nightmare.

Halloween special 2021.

The witches plan

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Witch!Reader.

Word count: 1673 words.

Summary: Your coven was going to conquer the world, but you had other plans for Steve.

Warnings: Smut, not very explicit. The reader is kind of evil.

Halloween special 2022.

Dream Z

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Mutant!Reader.

Word count: 707 words.

Summary: How to survive a zombie apocalypse? Is it real?

Warnings: Angst, Zombies.

Halloween special 2022.

The caller

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader.

Word count: 1102 words.

Summary: A series of odd events began to happen to you, but does Steve keep any secrets?

Warnings: Horror, weird calls, doppelgänger.

Halloween special 2022.

Night stop

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers X Reader X Dark!Brock Rumlow.

Word count: 1613 words.

Summary: You stop at an old hotel for the night but the accommodation is not as nice as it seems.

Warnings: Horror, dub-con, smut not so explicit, stalk, mention of crimes.

Halloween special 2022.

Halloween Flash Bingo Card Masterlist

Halloween special 2023.

Do not read

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.!Reader.

Word count: 393 words.

Summary: Steve read something he shouldn’t.

Warnings: Forbidden book, magic.

Halloween special 2023. 

Something else

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.!Reader.

Word count: 1042 words.

Summary: On Halloween night, weird things can happen.

Warnings: Smut, demons, hallucinations, horror.

Halloween special 2023. 

Halloween nightmares

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Ex-HYDRA agent!Reader.

Word count: 691 words.

Summary: Nightmares can’t become real, right?

Warnings: Nightmares, magic mirrors, darkness, return to dead, horror.

Halloween special 2023.

[updatecrazy]

Bloons TD Battles 2 update 2.0 is available to download on PC, iOS, Android & Steam. According to the official Bloons TD Battles 2 patch notes, the latest update adds new features, club membership, and much more. Apart from this, the BTD Battles 2 update 2.0 includes various fixes. Previously, a major Bloons TD Battles 2 update 1.5 added a new event (Speed Battles and Play with Fire), and Bling Season 6. Recently, BTDB2 update 1.10 also added a new hero: Agent Jericho. Unfortunately, players are still facing some issues with the game. Today's BTD Battles 2 patch 2.0 will address a few of these issues. Read more details below. BTD Battles 2 Patch Notes 2.0 - June 22, 2023 New Features Club Membership Mix and match custom rules in your private games. Ban specific towers and heroes for more control of your private games. Unlimited access to special club events featuring mixed rules. A one-time purchase for lifetime membership, including a welcome pack of exclusive cosmetics and 2000 Monkey Money. https://youtu.be/Zm9TVPMl3Kw Club Events New limited-time events featuring multiple custom rules at once. Play for free by using tickets. Each game costs 1 ticket which replenishes every 6 hours. Club members can play as much as they like, no tickets needed! Banana Boost Earn double Golden Bananas for completing Bling Quests. No limit on the number of Bling Quests you can complete each day. If you don’t have the boost, the additional Golden Bananas you would earn are stored so you won’t miss out if you buy the boost later in the season. Buying the Banana Boost unlocks these benefits for the entire season. New Map: Off-Tide A beach soccer-themed map available in all ranked arenas, casual, private and event matches. Battles 1 veterans might get a sense of déjà vu when playing on this map… New Bling Season 12 new season cosmetics including Plushie BADs and the Ghost Ship placement animation for the Monkey Buccaneer. Summon the Dark Coven hero showcase for Ezili. Make off with the Stealing Hearts hero showcase for Highwayman Jericho. General Changes Universal XP, Battle Chests and Battle Points are now retired. Universal XP, Battle Chests and Battle Points are being removed from the game this season. All unspent Universal XP will be evenly distributed amongst your unlocked towers as Tower XP. All Battle Chests in your queue will be opened for free. Towers and Heroes in Private Matches. All towers and heroes are now unlocked when playing private matches. This affects Standard Rules games as well as games using custom rules. Season 1-8 Bling Cosmetic packs The Season 1-4 Bling Cosmetic pack and the Season 5-8 Bling Cosmetic Pack are no longer available for purchase. These items will return in a future update. Balance Changes Bloon Sends Grouped Reds: Income 0.9 -> 1 We think the current aggressive meta is healthy for the game, but most aggressive strategies require Agent or Highwayman Jericho to work since other strategies are often short of cash. We are undoing an earlier nerf to early game income to give all strategies a little bit more money to work with. Rounds Rounds now last a minimum of 5.5 seconds. Maximum round length changed from 10+2*round number seconds -> 8.5 + round number seconds. These changes are to balance out stalling and anti-stalling strategies so that neither vastly outperforms the other. Dart Monkey xx5 Crossbow Master damage 11 -> 9 xx5 Crossbow Master attack cooldown 0.16s -> 0.13s The previous damage increase meant the Crossbow Master now performs poorly against ceramic bloons. This wasn’t our intention so we are reverting this change and buffing its attack speed instead. Boomerang Monkey xx3 Kylie Boomerang pierce 18 -> 24 The Boomerang Monkey is still an underutilized tower and, as we have previously buffed its other tier 3s, we are buffing this one as well.

Bomb Shooter x5x MOAB Eliminator: MOAB class damage from regular attack increased 130 -> 200. Bomb Shooter has fallen in popularity recently, and MOAB Eliminator is not considered to be a particularly effective option for dealing with MOAB threats. We are buffing the main attack of this upgrade so that it can be a more reliable tower against late game rushes. Ice Monkey 4xx Embrittlement: $3200 -> $3000 The Ice Monkey has lost some of its popularity in recent months. Since it doesn’t have such a dominant place in the meta anymore, we can afford to buff this upgrade which has always been slightly overpriced. Monkey Sub 5xx Energizer: The cost to instantly level up heroes in range is reduced in addition to the increased leveling speed. There is no reason why paying to level up a hero should be less efficient while in range of an Energizer. This change alters how the buff is applied to the hero so that the cost of instantly upgrading is reduced in line with the reduced leveling time. Monkey Buccaneer 3xx Destroyer: Reduces the x1x Grapeshot attack cooldown by 60% -> 66.7% The Destroyer path of the Monkey Buccaneer is all about high speed attacks so we are increasing the attack speed of the cross path grapeshot to keep it in line with this philosphy. Monkey Ace xx4 Spectre: Bomb Damage 3 -> 4 xx5 Flying Fortress: Bomb Damage 5->6 xx5 Flying Fortress: $80k -> $75k As some of the most expensive Monkey Ace upgrades, we felt the Spectre and Flying Fortress could do with a damage and efficiency buff to justify their cost. Heli Pilot 4xx Machine Gun pierce 7 -> 9 5xx Machine Gun pierce 13 -> 15 Similar to the Monkey Ace changes, the Apache Dartship and Apache Prime upgrades are the most expensive upgrades the Heli Pilot has to offer so we felt a slight buff was merited to justify their cost. Mortar Monkey x5x Pop and Awe: Ability duration 8s -> 10s x5x Pop and Awe: Ability cooldown 60s -> 45s The Mortar Monkey is routinely one of the least used towers so we are buffing its ability in the hopes that it results in a boost in popularity. Dartling Gunner 3xx Laser Cannon: $3750 -> $3000 3xx Laser Cannon: Damage type changed from energy to plasma, allowing it to pop lead bloons. Note: the fix to DoTs described in the Bug Fixes will buff the Dartling Gunner’s Laser Shock ability. The Laser Cannon path is the least used among the Dartling Gunner upgrades. The decrease in price and the ability to pop lead bloons should allow it to compete with the more popular Hydra Rocket Pods upgrade. Wizard Monkey xx4 Necromancer: Upgrading to 104 now allows manual targeting of the zombie bloon spawn point. x1x Fireball: damage 3->2 (x3x fireball damage unchanged) Wizard remains a dominant force in all arenas with its fireball being one of its early-game strengths, so we are moving some of its damage from the tier 1 to the tier 3. Additionally, allowing manual targeting for zombie bloons was a popular change in BTD6 so we are implementing it here too, except with 1xx required for this targeting option. Both of these changes should make choosing between Necromancer’s crosspaths a more meaningful decision. Super Monkey Base Cost: $2300 -> $2100 3xx Sun Avatar: $15k -> $13k The Super Monkey, and particularly the Sun God path, does not see a lot of use outside of Bananza games. Reducing its base cost and the cost of Sun Avatar should hopefully make it more accessible in other game modes. Alchemist x2x Perishing Potions: damage to fortified MOAB class 20 -> 12. 20 damage to fortified MOABs felt like too much of a leap from the 5 damage this upgrade deals to regular MOABs, especially for such a cheap upgrade. Druid x5x Spirit of the Forest: The life gain effect of the Jungle’s Bounty ability has been split into a separate ability so that they can be activated independantly. x5x Spirit of the Forest: ability cash generated $750 -> $1000

The Druid’s life generating ability clashes with its Heart of Vengeance effect, so we have separated the life and cash giving abilities, allowing players to still earn cash while retaining the buff from having low lives. The ability’s cash gain was mistakenly giving less than the tier 4 ability so this has been rectified. Banana Farm 5xx Banana Central: Crate values $3000 -> $2800 5xx Banana Central: $73k -> $66k Our previous change of increasing the price of this upgrade made it much harder to save up for in addition to making it less efficient. It is now far outclassed by the xx5 upgrade so we have made it slightly more efficient to put it on par with the xx5 and make it easier to afford. Monkey Engineer xx4 Bloon Trap: Cash per natural bloon RBE $2.4 -> $2 4xx Sentry Expert: Red sentry spiked ball pierce 22 -> 16 5xx Sentry Champion: Sentry attack cooldown 0.05 -> 0.044 5xx Sentry Champion: Explosion damage from selling sentry 150 -> 200 The bloon trap gave too much cash in comparison to other income sources so we are reducing it to be more in line with other towers. To compensate for this, we are buffing its late-game damage output to make it a stronger offensive tower. Gwendolin Base cost: $800 -> $700 Gwen is always among the lower-performing heroes so we are giving her another cost reduction to help her compete with other more popular heroes. Science Gwen Base cost: $800 -> $700 As with Gwen, we are making Science Gwen a more efficient option to help her compete with the other, more popular heroes. Sentai Churchill Level 1: Laser Shock effect now only applies to bloons hit by the shell, not the explosions. Leaving Sentai Churchill unchanged after the fix to Laser Shock would have resulted in a big increase to his strength which we felt was unnecessary. Therefore, we have adjusted his effect to match how the laser shock effect works on the 230 Dartling Gunner so that the bug fix will have less of an impact on him. DJ Ben Jammin’ Level 10: Beatdown can now downgrade 3 rather than 2 BFBs Level 20: Beatdown can now downgrade up to 10 BFBS rather than up to 2 and up to 2 ZOMGs rather than none. Benjamin is much more popular than DJ Ben so we are buffing his offensive abilities in the hopes that he will be able to carve out his own niche as a viable alternative to Benjamin. Agent Jericho Level 3: Ability Cooldown 60s -> 70s We made this change to Highwayman Jericho last update and it resulted in Agent Jericho becoming the clear favorite of the two. We are making the change to Agent Jericho as well to keep their power levels similar. Bug Fixes Fixed buttons that require a Reward Boost on Steam from displaying “Get Boosts” rather than their original text when the player does not have enough boosts. Fixed damage over time effects, including Burny Stuff and Laser Shock, not working correctly. When a bloon weaker than a ceramic had a DoT applied to it, dealing any damage to this bloon would result in the DoT timer being ‘reset’. This meant that in a lot of circumstances, the DoT would never deal any damage, as it would be reset before it could do so. For Laser Shock (2xx Dartling and Sentai Churchill) specifically, this has been changed so that the DoT timer still gets ‘reset’, however just as it does, the previous DoT will immediately deal its damage. For all other DoTs such as Burny Stuff, the DoT timer will no longer get ‘reset’. Fixed Striker Jones and Biker Bones’ concussive shells being able to stun Agent Jericho’s decoys. Fixed 4/5xx Bomb Shooter being able to stun Agent Jericho’s decoys when paired with Striker Jones or Biker Bones. Fixed Fusty the Snowman’s level 10 ability being able to affect Agent Jericho’s decoys. Fixed Benjamin’s level 20 ability not affecting DDTs. Fixed Gwen’s Flambe Bouquet weapon skin disappearing in her matchup, victory and defeat animations. Fixed the banner previews not displaying large enough to fit 3 accolades on them.

Fixed Captain Churchill’s level 3 ability lowering the collision radius of his shells. Fixed DJ Ben Jammin’s level 7 portrait displaying at level 5. Fixed some animation previews displaying incorrectly on some devices. Fixed Ezili’s mask not displaying when she gets upgraded to level 20. Fixed Hotkeys “Default” button text not localising. Fixed display issues with Science Gwen’s Zapped animation. Fixed display issues with the preview of Wizard Monkey’s Polymorph animation. Download free BTDB2 update 2.0 on PC (Steam).

[ashley-blair-arcanum]

Marigold

The Marigold exploded before them, as fiction made flesh, and someone leaped over the fire while another yelled, Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! and Ashley-Blair lost sight of Love Dawson and the dark took her, peaceful, the Father Dark, and she awoke and kissed a stranger she couldn't see. Eyes white like Covenant Fire, Father Dark's moon eyes watched them from every tree and some were wrapped in revelation and others vomited up laurels and Miller Lite. In a flash of thunder Ashley-Blair saw the face of her suitor but the dark returned and rain poured and she knew she'd never see that face again. The Marigold crept between them, twelve feet tall, and touched their heads as they danced and from its hands fell sacred and dirty elixir. A song, deep and desperate rose up, perhaps from someone's car radio, perhaps from themselves. Ashley-Blair reached past the towering Marigold, to the passenger side door, to the salvation of the road but the car and herself fell upon the core of some void and she said, Oh God! The Marigold bent and kissed her, elixir dripped from its mouth, mixing with the LSD and birthing dreams in her stomach. Father Dark burst from her womb and called her by another name but in the morning, as thin light passed over her from through the blinds she couldn't remember it.

Love Dawson called and said they'd forgotten their jackets.

[savelit]

SILK AND SHADOW.

Tony Pi.

The Austere War has cost our tsardom much, in blood and in hope, I wrote in the letter to my mother the Tsarina. But at last Father’s killer lies dead, and we are victorious against the raiders from the sea. Soon, I will return to the capital and lead the citizens in remembrance of all we have lost, but for three months still must I tarry in the East. For though Palace Austere is returned to us, the same cannot be said for the spirit of our people. May my presence here speed their healing.

My quill paused. I had not written the truth of all I had risked to achieve the hard-won victory. Had I told of my covenant with the witch or of the Stormlord’s dying curse, my mother the Tsarina would command Lord Fabek to ship me home to Nobylisk at once. By the abyss of the dead, let my soul escape to plague you, had said the man I slew to avenge my father. By the blood of storms, may the Five Dooms drown you in grief. Mother would fear for my life if she heard those words.

But having seen the suffering in these provinces first-hand, I would sooner commit this sin of omission than leave before the East regained its strength. I signed the letter and sealed it.

Lord Fabek strode into the library with a smile on his ruddy face and knelt before me. “Joyous day, milord! The puppet-witch Anansya has returned to the palace for her reward! She begs an audience, if it pleases you.”

I frowned, unable to share his enthusiasm at the news of the witch’s return. It had been seven days since the puppeteers disappeared. While my heart ached to see Anansya’s apprentice Selenja again, I had mistrusted the witch’s offer of aid against the Stormlords from the beginning. Anansya asked for no gold, land, or titles, desiring only the privilege of crafting my life into a shadowplay. But to avenge my father’s death at the hands of the Stormlord Hraken, I had accepted Anansya’s offer, sealing the pact with a drop of my blood. I was certain she had an ulterior motive for aiding me, though I had not yet fathomed it.

Still, the puppeteers proved instrumental in turning the tide of war, even if their methods called upon dark magics. If they had not infiltrated the enemy camp, how many more of my countrymen would have died on the battlefield or been enslaved? Despite my suspicions, as Tsarevitch I was obliged to thank them on behalf of my people.

“Very well, I will receive them in Stonestark Hall. And Fabek?”

“Milord?”

“None of that. Call me Dominin.” I helped him to his feet. “There’s no place for formalities here at Palace Austere.”

“Yes, mi–” He caught himself in time. “Yes, Dominin.”

Stonestark Hall was cavernous and barren, as it should be. The only riches of Palace Austere were the fire in its hearth, the water in its well, and the whistling winds in its corridors of stone. By tradition, every Imperial must live nine winters here as simply as his people, so that he might learn wisdom and humility. I paused at the centre of the hall, remembering how the Stormlord Hraken had defiled it with his golden bounty when he took the palace as his seat of power. Upon our reclamation of the ancient citadel, I had ordered my men to strip the hall of its blood-gold.

Out of the eastern corridor came Fabek and the graying puppet-witch, her pair of apprentices behind her carrying a cedar box between them. They set the puppet-box down, kneeling on either side.

Anansya was thrice my age, her teeth blackened with ash and her skin powdered white in the manner of her kind. Her hair, pale as spider-silk wrapped tight around a hapless fly. Pol, Anansya’s bright-hand, was clothed in silver, his head a polished dome. Selenja was her dark-hand and wore the black silk of her rank. Though they kept their heads low, I caught a glimpse of Selenja’s pleading eyes, and became lost in their beauty once more.

It had been Selenja who first came to me in the grim days after the death of my father. She never told me how she found her way into the Scrimshaw Tower to lend an ear to my anger and regret, or how she knew the right words to ease my pain. At the end of the month of vigil, I could deny my desire for Selenja no more. On a moonbright evening, I threw caution aside so she might teach me the passions of a man. My confidence won, Selenja told me of Anansya’s scheme to steal Hraken of the Storm’s sealskin hide, the source of his power, and I had listened.

Now, Selenja’s brief glance convinced me her mistress hid a deeper scheme, and I rued my folly for letting her seduce me so easily.

Yet I still loved her.

“Welcome, Anansya,” I said. “We owe the outcome of this war to you. Yet you vanished without a word. Why?”

“We felt it best to flee with Hraken’s hide, lest we be captured,” said Anansya. “Tell us, Dominin, how did you slay the tyrant? I must know the details to finish your play.”

I drew the saber named Fortune’s Law, my father’s legacy, and the memories flooded back. “We listened for your signal-chord and watched for the flash of light. I slew nine with my bow before we scaled the walls. The soldiers, blinded by your magic, fell easily to our swords. Hraken stood defiant in the heart of the chaos, blindly swinging his spear while he made mad libations from a half-empty cup of wine. But his gods forsook him.”

Anansya nodded. “Without his sealskin, his charms are for naught.”

“And I thank you for it,” I answered. “I fired an arrow at Hraken’s heart, bidding it to fly true. It found its mark square in the villain’s chest, bringing him to his knees. I stowed my bow, slid down a rope and cut down those between us, sending the cup spinning from his hand.”

In my mind’s eye, I held the edge of my saber against Hraken’s throat again. Who dares? the Stormlord had cried. I answered him. I, Dominin, son of Kronin, am your death. Then bear my dying curse, Tsarevitch, Hraken said. Again, his curse echoed in my ears. Let my soul escape to plague you. May the Five Dooms drown you in grief.

“He cursed me, but I would suffer my father’s killer no more,” I continued, Hraken’s voice still echoing in my mind. “With a single stroke, I beheaded him.”

Anansya drew air between her teeth. “Your deeds will make an epic song. I propose a play this evening—”

I sheathed Fortune’s Law. “No, Anansya. My men clamor for a celebration. Tomorrow, I will attend your play. Tonight, we feast!” Perhaps with some wine and charm, I could loosen the puppeteers’ tongues and learn of their scheme.

“As you wish,” said Anansya, her face unreadable.

“The halls of Austere are yours to roam. Come, Fabek, there are things we must discuss.”

In my chambers, I told Fabek my suspicions, and spoke for the first time about my tryst with Selenja. “I should never have allowed her to steal my heart, nor bargained with her mistress for victory. Though the witch pledged her allegiance to the tsardom, her first loyalty is to her dark magic.”

“What signs of malice have you seen?” asked Fabek.

“The shadows hold their magic,” I said. One particular memory haunted me. “Once, when Selenja and I were tangled together in the sheets, I thought moonlight gleamed off a strand of hair tied to her little finger. I suspected it was an illusion, until I spied another such hair attached to her other hand. From the corner of my eye, I traced the strands to the shadows on the wall, where it seemed a phantom held their ends, but when I turned my head, it had vanished. I grow more certain each day that this specter bore the face of Anansya.”

Fabek stroked his beard. “There are whispered tales of strange shadows amongst our soldiers who fought in that battle. Some had come across stormfolk raiders on hands and knees, unable to rise and fight. It seemed that the enemies’ own shadows bound their wrists and ankles, not letting go until they were dead. I thought they waxed poetic, but now....”

“Now the spider advances on the fly,” I said.

“What will you do?” asked Fabek.

“Play her game, but one better. Let her think she’s in control, for now,” I replied. “Perhaps I can steal a moment alone with Selenja, and discover what web Anansya weaves.”

A feast at Austere was bereft of glittering goblets and silver knives. The meat, wine, and delicacies fresh from the Sunlit Sea were more than enough. As guests of honor, Anansya, Selenja, and Pol sat at the same table as Fabek and I, though this table was no different from any other in the hall.

Pol sipped his wine as he spoke of his part in Hraken’s downfall. “Selenja teased Hraken with her charms, but refused him. It would break her vow of chastity, she squealed!” Pol laughed, but Selenja pinched him hard in retaliation and he adopted a more serious tone. “As I was saying, it only drove Hraken to desire her more, and she tricked from him the whereabouts of his trappings. Once we knew where he hid it, it was easy to disarm his traps and steal his hide. The rest you know.”

Selenja looked away, unwilling to meet my eyes. She had used Hraken the same way she used me. Was she ashamed of what she did? What hold did Anansya have over her? I had to speak to her alone.

“There’s a song my father loved,” I said to Anansya. “Moonlight’s Vow. If you could play it in the company of our musicians, it would honor his memory.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Anansya. She picked up her nine-stringed gusli and joined the musicians.

I signaled Fabek. He poured more wine for Pol. Out from under his mistress’s watchful eye, Pol eagerly drained his cup. Fabek filled it to the brim again.

Anansya began to play.

“May I have this dance, Selenja?” I offered her my hand.

She accepted. I led Selenja to the heart of the hall, encouraging others to join us in the moondance. When I drew Selenja close, Anansya misplayed a note.

Selenja’s touch was soft and warm, and she hit every step of the intricate dance flawlessly. Another time, another place, I would savour this moment. But given all that I knew, I had to remain cautious. “Sweet one, let there be truth between us, if you truly cared for me,” I whispered. “Was I but a pawn in your mistress’s game?”

She nearly missed a step. “I may be Anansya’s dark hand, but my heart is my own,” said Selenja, her voice a-tremble.

“Then tell me what your mistress intends.”

“I would if I could, but—” Selenja shifted so that my hand would drift over the small of her back. I felt scars under the silk that my fingers did not remember. Burns? “I underestimated her, once. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“I will protect you, Selenja.” I gently touched her cheek and turned her head. “My eyes speak the truth, my love.”

Selenja’s breath caught in her throat. At last, she spoke. “Age has caught up to Anansya, and she desires a young body. She knows a dark ritual and has all she needs. Black honey from a demon-hive. Wine as ancient as the sea. Skin of a selkie and emperor silk. From you, a drop of royal blood, all so that she may steal your flesh.”

“What does the ritual involve?” I asked.

“A shadowplay,” Selenja said. “When the story is told, she will claim your life.”

“If I simply refuse to attend, will that thwart the ritual?”

“No. When you gave your blood freely to Anansya during your pact, you opened the way into your mind and your flesh,” Selenja explained. “Given her skill, Anansya can invade your dreams and perform the shadowplay while you sleep. However, if we err, the magic may kill you. That is why she wishes you to attend the shadowplay in person.”

Anansya quickened the song’s tempo. She was eager to cut short our dance. “What if I imprison or slay her?” I asked Selenja.

“She’d vanish into the shadows before you could draw your sword, and risk the dream ritual from afar. If you are slain, she intends to seek out your sister instead. However, you, as the direct heir, remain her first prey. It saves her from shedding more blood to wear the crown.”

Either way, Anansya intended death for me, and perhaps death for my sister as well. “We must stop her, Selenja. Would you be able to sabotage the ritual?”

The song hurtled towards its end. “I do not dare. The wrong move and the magic could kill you.”

“Still, better to fight than accept certain death,” I said. “Anansya must be most vulnerable during the ritual.”

“It may be your best chance, but she is strong.” Selenja shivered. “Pol’s her creature too. We cannot prevail against them both.”

“Then we must even the odds.” A dangerous plan began taking shape in my mind.

The song ended abruptly. Selenja and I broke apart, short of breath. Anansya gestured to her, and she returned obediently to the witch.

I pulled Fabek aside. “Bring me everything on selkie magic and mythology. I need to understand a Stormlord’s curse.”

In my chambers, I refreshed my knowledge of the selkie Stormlords. Their sealskin trappings granted them not only the ability to change shapes, but also the power to tap into five sources of magic. In their mythology, souls of the dead were swept into five great falls, the Dooms, which plunged into an endless abyss. Shadow, Madness, Silence, Frost, and Oblivion. Whichever doom a selkie earned in life, his soul would suffer in death. Only when a soul was washed clean of his misdeeds would the rising mists lift it aloft to be reborn.

Libations freed the power of each Doom. “Slay a selkie before he can pour from a cup,” I recall my father’s lesson. “Wine spilt is blood spilt.” During the War, the selkies used all five magics against us, pouring the dooms from their goblets. Silence, to strike unheard. Madness, to destroy our minds or grant their warriors with rabid strength. Shadows to escape the touch of our blades. Frost, for the chill of death. Oblivion to erase all that we once held dear, making it easier to enslave our people.

I summoned Fabek. “Prepare the Obsidian Room for Anansya’s shadowplay.”

“Why there?” Fabek asked.

“Only one way in and out. If Anansya succeeds in stealing my body, she may lose her power to escape through shadows,” I said. “I leave it to you to make certain that such a pretender never ascends my father’s throne.”

Fabek’s eyes widened. “But sire, you cannot ask me to spill your blood!”

“If it comes to that, my friend, it will be a just execution for a regicide,” I said. “For that reason as well, only you and I must attend the shadowplay. If you must slay my body, the presence of another might make you hesitate. That must never happen.”

“I don’t like it, but I understand. Any other instructions?”

“Have pillows, a plate of fruit, and a flask of wine in place, along with these.” I opened a locked chest, taking out the five goblets that once belonged to Hraken and his lieutenants: the Mooncalf and the Mute, Sleet’s Kiss, Blithe Laughter. “Line them before the pillows.”

Fabek sighed. “It will be done,” he said, taking the goblets from me.

I drew Fortune’s Law and held it my hands, remembering what my father told me of the sword. “This blade has been in our family for generations, Dominin. It reminds us of a universal truth: men will gamble on their luck, no matter how slim their odds.”

I hoped my father was right.

The next morning, Fabek and I led the puppeteers deeper into the keep. Again, Pol and Selenja hefted the puppet-box between them. We took a spiraling stair down to an iron-bound door that Fabek unlocked, and entered the Obsidian Room.

The walls and floors were black stone, polished to a luster. The sides tapered to a point high above, wind whistling through tiny windows at the pinnacle. Torches in iron sconces illuminated the room. The fruit, wine, and cushions that I had requested awaited us.

“Some call the Obsidian Room an extravagance that does not befit Austere, but I disagree,” I said. “In a place without mirrors, only here might we contemplate our reflections.”

“Let us begin.” Anansya chanted over the puppet-box before lifting its lid. A gossamer saga-silk lay folded atop the puppets, almost invisible but for its glimmer.

Pol and Selenja raised the silk screen, stringing it between two wall sconces. Behind the silk, Anansya hung and lit her witch-lamp. At her request, I extinguished all other lights. I sat myself down on a pillow and filled the five cups lined before me with red wine. Fabek sat cross-legged to the left of me, his hand drumming the leather of the boot where he had hidden his dagger.

The emperor silk could not conceal the puppeteers’ actions. I watched Pol say a prayer before taking the first puppet from its box. It was made of roan hide, cut in the shape of a dragon curled inside the sun, its limbs hinged with studs of bone and fitted with ivory handles for the puppeteer. My skin crawled. So that’s what they’d done with Hraken’s hide!

“Lohe, Mistress-Sun, a bright hand sets you high!” Pol stood the puppet by its handle on the rack beside him.

Selenja took the next: a second drake curled in the crescent of the moon. “Zmascu, Master-Moon, a dark hand guides your path!”

Seven more emerged from the box: puppets of the gods Rapture, Fortune, and Death, a Swan King, a Fox Queen, a Selkie Crone, and a Jester Man, all fashioned from Hraken’s hide.

Anansya raised a golden thimble. “Three offerings must burn for the gods that slumber, for Fortune, Rapture, and Death,” she intoned. “Dark honey for Hag-Rid-Rapture, amber wine for Fortune-Dreaming, and royal blood for Death-in-Sleep.” She cast the concoction into the flame.

I held my breathing steady, ready to fight the ritual however I could.

Anansya strummed the gusli in her lap, and sang.

Under the deft manipulation of her hands-dark-and-bright, the Sun and Moon each claimed the silk for their own, illuminating the strands of silk or inking them. The shadows resolved into familiar silhouettes, that of my father and myself.

Anansya began the saga with the coming of the selkie slavelords, their shadows falling upon the golden towns along the tsardom’s coast. Folk of light died upon blades of shadow, and darkness spread across the screen. Then, under Sun’s Gate, a flame-red general rode forth with a great army. My father.

Despite my caution, I was mesmerized by my own tale unfolding on the saga-silk. High atop the Gate, images of my mother, sister, brother and I waved farewell to Father, but when night fell, my silhouette-self escaped the capital to join the crusade in secret. Anansya captured my defiance well, tracing my journey from my time incognito among the soldiers on the march. The ordeal taught me how men lived and helped one another, and in their company I honed my swordsmanship and learned their hopes and dreams. We played games of skill and chance, like aiming the dregs of our smuggled wine at upturned bright helmets, or betting on the toss of dark knucklebones.

But on a twilight march, Fabek recognized me through my disguise and commanded his guards to arrest me. Licks of golden light on the silk framed my journey to the Scrimshaw Tower, to be unmasked before my father. Atop the bone-bright spire, the silhouette of my father greeted and chastised me through song, and thus began our campaign together as father and son.

The war of light and shadow raged on the silk. When laced light thawed like ice, the Tsar and I engaged Hraken’s mercenaries in epic battle. Starlight and dark sky struggled ceaselessly for the land as the Sun and Moon once did. I lifted the golden banner of the tsardom high, eager to lay siege to Palace Austere.

So well did Anansya tell the tale, little did I realize until too late that her ritual had already snared me, thrusting me into the tapestry of shadows. I became the hero laced with light, while my body sat mindless before the screen. The past had become present through Anansya’s magic, the players and props conjured from my memories and fringed by luminescence. I could feel an odd thinness to my flesh. From the corner of my eye, I could see through the silken illusion to my real body in the Obsidian Room.

The world of the shadowplay forced me to retell my history scene by scene. On a sun-drenched day in late summer, my father the Tsar descended on the stolen palace with his full army in a bid to win back Austere. He stood with his archers on the western edge of the screen, challenging Hraken.

I tried to tear myself away from where I had stood during that battle, but I could not leap upon my father and push him to the ground, away from the fate I knew awaited him. Selenja was right. Anansya was strong, and the tide of her telling had me snared. It was all I can do to hang on to my identity.

The smell of battlefield blood assailed my nostrils, and a storm of dark arrows filled the silken sky. The shadow-Hraken stood upon the battlements and raised his spear of white bone in one hand, and with the other he poured light from a black-jeweled cup. The arrows fell through him like hail through shadow.

Nothing I could do stopped my father from stepping into the open light. I was helpless as Anansya sang us swift towards his death.

Dark Hraken hurled his weapon. Fast as a bolt of lightning and unerring, the spear skewered my sire through the heart. I raced to his side and held his body again, even as light seeped like blood out of his wounds.

Shadow-time marched relentlessly towards the end that Anansya intended. She sang of the morning after the Tsar’s death, when the denizens of the east awakened to leaves of gold and flame, as though autumn had fallen too soon. She sang of the black candles that burned in Orsazan, when I led the city in mourning for my father. Soon she would sing of stealing my body, and when shadow-time caught up to real time, it would destroy me.

But there were episodes in my life that Anansya would never know, tales I had never told. Because she couldn’t script my life exactly, she skipped the parts she didn’t know. When she ended the scene where I sequestered myself in Scrimshaw Tower for a month-long vigil, there was an instant when I gained solitude. I used that moment to re-assert control of my body and struggled to speak. “Selenja! Help me, my love!”

My words came out in a whisper. Did she hear me?

Anansya’s incantation grew louder. My blood felt like it was on fire.

“Selenja! Find your soul in your reflection!” I urged.

Startled, Selenja turned her head towards the wall and met her own eyes in the reflection. Her hands faltered. “Dominin! Take my strength!” she cried.

I felt my beloved’s will adding to my own. Selenja’s image appeared beside me on the silken canvas and took my free hand. Together we resisted the combined power of Anansya and Pol, trying to bend the shadow-world away from the witch’s script. Anansya, however, conjured a gleaming bolt that sped towards Selenja, forcing her to release my hand and vanish. But her touch had given me the strength I needed.

Anansya could not banish Selenja entirely from the canvas, however. She was integral to my story, and soon the shadow-Selenja came to seduce me. We could have abandoned our cares to the wind to relive those tender moments, but that would let Anansya regain control. Instead, we made small alterations to the remembered past, like during my first audience with the witch, Selenja dropped a handkerchief that had not been there before. When we assaulted the castle walls, I fired more arrows at mercenaries upon the parapets, seeking to kill more than nine. But Anansya and Pol blotted out my new missiles before they hit, forcing the events to adhere to the true past.

Beyond the silk, Fabek—already concerned by Selenja’s sudden cry—had noticed the changes in the play. I caught a glimpse of him slipping the dagger from his boot and hiding it in his sleeve.

I slung my bow over my shoulder and raced for the walls, but chose a different ladder to scale. Once again, I sunk an arrow into the Stormlord’s chest, but instead of climbing down a rope, I leapt and landed in a bale of hay. I drew my saber and fought to reach shadow-Hraken, but made focused on parries instead of cuts to push past his defenders. By the time my sword took Hraken’s head in the shadowplay, Selenja and I had altered the script enough to wrest away a measure of power from the puppet-witch.

I had to play my trump now. “Hraken of the Storm!” I shouted to the darkness. “These shadow-witches stole your trappings to make these puppets, so you have grievances against us all. Your hide ties you to this ritual. If you seek your revenge, come!”

Hraken’s shadow stumbled to its feet and grabbed its severed head. “You would use my curse to save your own skin, Tsarevitch?”

“Certain death or a slim chance of survival? I choose the latter,” I said.

The balance of power on the saga-silk shifted with Hraken’s arrival. Now that Anansya and Pol must also contend with the Stormlord’s spirit, they were no longer dominating the struggle against Selenja and me. To maintain their hold on the spell, they manifested on the silk as well. Our three factions now vied for the ritual’s magic, each trying to bend the outcome to our will. When one faction began seizing power, the other two beat it back. If one tried to hurt another, it left itself vulnerable to the third.

Deadlock.

The lamp-flame flickered.

“End this now,” Selenja begged of me and Anansya both. “If none of us yields when that flame goes out, the ritual will consume us all! Can’t you feel it?”

She was right. I felt the magic that brought us onto the screen crushing us cloth-thin.

Despite Selenja’s warning, no one deigned to answer.

“If that does not sway you, then consider Fabek beyond the silk,” I said to Anansya. “I have instructed him to slay me if I am robbed of my body, and for the sake of the tsardom, Fabek will carry out his orders. The question is, will he interpret this sudden silence as proof of the ritual’s triumph? The longer we delay, the more likely he is to slit someone’s throat. It might be mine. It might be yours. Think on that.”

“How do we come to an accommodation?” Anansya said at last.

“No!” said Hraken. “You invoked my curse, and I will have vengeance against you all, even if it means my own destruction!”

“There’s unparalleled power in this ritual, to which we all have a claim.” I directed their attention to my real body and the five full goblets before it. “These are the cups wrested from you and your lieutenants, Hraken. Five Dooms of the underworld, five water-curses. Shadow, Oblivion, Frost, Silence, and Madness. We can divert the ritual’s power to imbue each cup with one of those dooms. We will take turns naming one of us to a curse until all five of us are bound. Then, with all five of us seizing control of my sword, we will topple the cups and let the curses spill forth.”

“I came to claim a new body, not play with curses,” Anansya said.

“If the curse is phrased right, it may free a body for the taking,” Hraken said, clearly tempted by the chance at a second life.

“We will decide the first to match a name to a curse,” I suggested. “That person names a victim and words the curse as he pleases. The one named will choose the next to be cursed, and so forth.”

Anansya laughed. “You’re clever, Tsarevitch, but I see wrinkles in your plan. Obviously, you can’t name the first person who chooses, since that would leave someone out of the chain of curses. And the last two people in the chain have no real choice in which foe they name, do they? But I will agree to this.”

“And I,” said Hraken.

Off-silk, the flame began to sputter. Fabek knelt next to Pol’s body, and poised his dagger so that the tip was merely a hair away from his blank, staring eye.

Pol gulped. “Hurry. Decide who starts the chain!”

I leaned closer to Selenja, overlapping her shadow. “You must name Hraken, or else we risk another deadlock.” The Stormlord was certain to curse me first, which would give me the opportunity to foil Anansya with a carefully-worded curse.

Selenja nodded. “Whatever happens, Dominin, I want you to know I love you,” she said.

“And I you,” I replied, and kissed her.

The five of us pooled our wills and reshaped the ritual to fit our covenant. Tendrils of light swirled around our silhouettes and even spun off the silken screen to twist above the goblets. Fabek recoiled at the sight.

Together, we spoke the name of the one we chose to shape the first curse.

“Anansya,” said Anansya.

“Anansya,” said Pol.

“Hraken,” said Selenja.

“Hraken,” I said.

“Anansya,” said Hraken, surprising me.

With our pronouncements, specks of golden light shimmered around Anansya’s silhouette.

The Stormlord laughed. “You thought I’d name myself, Tsarevitch? No, I wish to see you and the witch destroy one another, for that is what you deserve.”

“Then I will oblige,” said Anansya. “Dominin, I give you the Doom of Oblivion. Let your body forget the tenor of your soul, and let your soul not remember your life or love. When you become a mindless shell, my soul will come to dwell in your abandoned flesh.”

A tendril of light dipped into the wine in an edgemost cup in the line before my body, giving it a ghostly glow.

The shape of her curse was much as I predicted. She intended to follow through on her plan to become me.

It was my turn, but which curse on whom? Pol, Selenja, or Hraken? Shadow, Frost, Silence, or Madness?

In the Obsidian Room, Fabek moved behind my body and raised the knife in a quaking hand. I had to choose quickly.

I could name Selenja and spare her the worst of the curses, but I would lose the chance to remove Hraken as a threat. But if I named Hraken next, I knew the likely fate to befall Selenja. Yet, my beloved was only one woman. I loved her, to be sure, but my first duty was to the people of the tsardom. That was the legacy my father left me. I squeezed Selenja’s hand. “Hraken, I give you the Doom of Frost. The cold of the grave will follow you always, no matter what refuge your soul finds. Let the chill cripple the flesh of any body you steal and thwart your sorceries and schemes....” That was how I had planned to end the curse, but I could not leave it so. “...until a true love’s kiss ousts your soul and frees the accursed one to live again.”

A tentacle of light illuminated the middle cup.

“So you would rob me of the joy of living again, Tsarevitch?” said Hraken. “Then I shall take pleasure in taking revenge upon you. Do I take the body of the man who stole my pelt, or the harlot who tricked the secret of my pelt from me? The latter, I think, should twist the dagger in your heart. Selenja, I give you the Doom of Shadow. I banish your soul to the shadow you cast, bound to your body until the Falls of the underworld run dry. Your empty body will become mine instead, and I will live again in your flesh.”

“No!” I cried, but Hraken had spoken his curse, and the ritual touched the cup between the two already ensorceled. Even if my kiss forced Hraken out of Selenja’s body, she would not be returned to me because of the Stormlord’s dictum.

In the Obsidian Room, Fabek whispered words I could not hear as he touched the edge of his knife to my throat. Perhaps he prayed to the gods, or begged my forgiveness.

“It’s all right, my love.” Selenja touched my cheek. She turned to Pol. “You and I have suffered Anansya’s cruelty too long, my friend, and we cannot suffer her playing tyrant in Dominin’s body. With Madness and Silence left, there is only one way to ensure that she never hurts another again.”

“Don’t listen to her, Pol,” warned Anansya. “You were always the stronger. Side with me, and I will make you the greatest sorcerer of shadows the world has ever—”

“Shut up, you old crone,” Pol said. “I have been your puppet these long years because you promised me power, but all you have given us are breadcrumbs while you devoured the lion’s share of our ventures. What do you propose, Selenja?”

“I would grant you Silence, the least of the Dooms, if you curse Anansya with a specific Madness,” Selenja said. “Let her madness be the unshaking belief that she is none other than my beloved Dominin, upholding his virtuous ways no matter which body she steals. If Dominin is lost to Oblivion, then she will have no choice but to become the man she destroys. Such is the only way to save the tsardom.”

I kissed her forehead. “Well played.”

“Very well,” Pol said. “Say it.”

“Pol, I give you the Doom of Silence,” Selenja said. “Though you must live your life mute, I bless you with true silence when you ply your thieving skills towards the good of the tsardom. Use it well.”

The other edgemost cup filled with brightness.

“That leave you, Anansya,” said Pol. “I—”

Anansya turned on her apprentice and leapt upon him, her black bony fingers throttling his throat.

I unslung my shadow bow, nocked an arrow of light and fired. The arrow struck Anansya in the back, and she released Pol.

Pol caught his breath and blurted out his curse. “I give you the Doom of Madness, Anansya! Mad to believe you’re none other than Dominin Tsarevitch, in whichever body you reside!”

With that, the last magical tendril flowed into the remaining cup.

All five of us spirits hurtled into my body for the final part of our ritual of curses. The cups still must spill before the curses are fulfilled. I wore my scabbard on my left side, and the cups of Shadow and Oblivion were the rightmost before me. If I could knock over the rest but prevent those two from tipping, that might yet save us from doom!

But all five of us had the same idea, and fought to control different parts of my body. Even worse, Fabek might panic and cut my throat. Hraken seized my right hand first, trying to knock over all the cups. Selenja and I fought him, forcing my hand to reach for the hilt of my saber instead.

Meanwhile, Anansya took control of my left hand, reached up and grabbed Fabek’s wrist to stay the blade. Pol took the opportunity to use my voice, calling out: “Not yet!”

Fabek fought to keep his knife a threat. “Prove you are Dominin.”

Hraken abandoned his attempt to control my right arm, and forced my left foot to kick forward. He hit the leftmost goblet, the Cup of Silence, and spilled its curse upon Pol.

Silence!

Pol lost control of my voice. His surprise at his curse broke his concentration and forced him back into his real body.

Without Hraken’s interference, Selenja and I gained control of the right hand and drew the sword, sweeping it from left to right. The steel smashed into the Cup of Madness and tipped it.

Madness!

Anansya was ripped out of my body and thrust back into hers. Her hold over my left hand was broken, and Fabek’s blade drew blood from my neck. I relinquished control over my right hand to Selenja and rushed to seize control of the left, preventing the sharp edge from slicing deeper.

Anansya held her hands trembling before her eyes. “How...? Selenja, Fabek! The witch has taken my body!”

The witch believed she was me. However, she would not take my body until the Cup of Oblivion fell.

Hraken seized my right foot and kicked towards the cups bearing my and Selenja’s curses.

I sped my thoughts towards helping Selenja with my right hand, driving the saber towards Hraken’s cup. Just as our blade knocked the Cup of Frost over, the foot controlled by Hraken hit the Cup of Shadow.

Frost and Shadow!

I regained control of my body, slowing the saber’s edge so it merely tapped the Cup of Oblivion. Only a single droplet trickled down the side of the goblet.

“Oblivion,” I whispered. Almost.

On the other side of the silk, Selenja curled up and hugged her knees, shivering. Hraken had taken her body, but suffered my curse. The Selenja I knew was gone, banished to her own shadow.

Anansya lay in a pool of blood, dead. Pol stood over her body still holding the weapon that had killed her, a broken ivory handle taken from a shadow puppet. I had not heard him at all.

Fabek’s knife at my throat trembled. “Last chance to prove you are Dominin,” he said.

“Only you and I know how you saw through my disguise during the war,” I answered. “You had recognized something in my gait that reminded you of my father. It is I, my friend.”

Fabek removed the blade and let it clatter to the stone floor. “Never ask me to slay you again, Dominin.”

I touched my bloodied neck. “Agreed.”

The lamp-fire died, leaving only the dwindling glow from the Cup of Oblivion as illumination.

The witch Anansya is dead, slain by her apprentice Pol, I wrote in my latest letter to Mother. Pol has become a thief again, now that he has no voice to sing with. I have taken him into my service, and he seems pleased to spy on behalf of the tsardom. Time will tell whether he is to be trusted. As for Hraken and Selenja....

I put down my quill when Fabek brought Hraken-in-Selenja before me. Under the ravages of his chill-curse, Hraken was no more than a cripple, helplessly shivering, barely able to speak. “W-will you execute m-me, D-dominin?”

“No.” It was still Selenja’s body, even if she was imprisoned in its shadow. I still longed for her caress, but not even my kiss could reunite her soul with her body. Hraken’s curse was too strong. And yet, I could not imagine doing her body harm, even when I knew full well Hraken wore her face. “I banish you from my tsardom, Hraken. Go warm your bones in the southern isles, live out your stolen life, and never return.”

“Y-you’re a f-fool,” said Hraken. “I’d k-kill—”

I cut him off. “Speed him to his exile, Fabek.” I gazed at Selenja’s shadow. “Farewell, my love.”

“Consider it done,” said Fabek, and led Hraken away.

As for my curse? I ordered the Obsidian Room sealed, all things within untouched. Perhaps the Cup of Oblivion still lingered there, waiting for its curse to spill.

Perhaps the wine would dry, leaving nothing but dregs.

Or perhaps that lone drop of wine that escaped the brim had already fulfilled the curse, and I was in truth Anansya’s mad soul, playing the part of Dominin Tsarevitch. Who would know?

Not I.