#she is also using it against a dark lord necromancer really

[c-rowlesdraws]

"We're talking low prices."

It's Alecto, in her favorite t-shirt that she never got to wear from another life! I do hope there's still some Nona in her somewhere, but I also fully support her on her quest for revenge. Come on, Barbie-- let's go party.

[immaturityofthomasastruc]

IOTA Reviews: Hack-San

You know, it's honestly amazing how creative this show can get. After four seasons and almost one hundred episodes, the writers are still finding new ways to make Adrien an incredibly unlikable character, and they don't even know how much of an asshole they're making him out to be at times. It's kind of like the opposite of The Producers.

Yeah, this review's going to be a little more ranty than usual, in case you can't tell.

Let's get into the fifteenth (chronologically the sixteenth) episode of Miraculous Ladybug's fourth season: Hack-San

We start off with Marinette pretending to be sick so she doesn't have to go to visit her aunt in London and stay to protect Paris in case an Akuma attacks and also because the animators haven't had time to render the city of London yet for the next Miraculous World special. Like all of her other excuses, it fails, and Tikki, as always, fails to actually give any meaningful advice.

And it's not like there's a Miraculous with the power of teleportation that can help Marinette get back to Paris if she needs to, much like how she planned to do that in an earlier episode, right?

Seriously, Kaalki doesn't appear or isn't even mentioned in this episode because the writers are fully aware she would make things a lot easier.

And of course, Astruc had to play dumb on Twitter while explaining why Marinette couldn't use the Horse Miraculous by answering the question as if the only reason Marinette couldn't grab it was because she didn't have an excuse not to.

Cut to Gabriel in his lair as he contemplates akumatizing Markov, a robot created the civilian identity of Pegasus, Max Kante, once again, even though the last time he did so, he almost got killed when he went all HAL 9000 on his ass. Nooroo explains this to Duusu, and the two actually get excited at the prospect of their master getting killed.

I mean, it's true, but he shouldn't say it...

But I don't even get why Gabriel is even thinking about this when it's a no-brainer. Markov's akumatized form, Robustus was to this day, the only Akuma to come close to physically harming him (not counting the timeline where he was killed by Cat Blanc), so it makes no sense to try doing it again, especially when there are already several other Akumas he can reuse this season.

I think you all know Gabriel isn't the smartest villain, which is why he thinks it's a brilliant idea to akumatize Markov again. I don't really get what makes Robustus so special when there are other Akumas who are more loyal and came far closer to getting Ladybug and Cat Noir's Miraculous than Robustus did, like the Dark Owl or Troublemaker. In fact, why not simply create a new Akuma with similar powers to Robustus, or better yet, just create a Sentimonster copy of Robustus? You know, like what Nathalie did in the New York Special? We're not even two minutes in, and this premise is already filled with plotholes.

So Gabriel transforms into Shadowmoth and creates a Sentimonster using his own cane instead of relying on someone else having a bad day (once again showing how the Peacock Miraculous is better than the Butterfly), the titular Hack-San. And let's just say he has a very familiar design reminiscent of something from a much better French cartoon.

Remember when the writers for Code Lyoko gave an in-universe explanation as to why the heroes couldn’t always rely on the almost literal Deus ex Machina that allowed them to return to the past and fix the damage XANA caused? Why couldn’t this show have ripped that off instead?

Hack-San is just an okay looking flash drive on its own, but I'll talk more about this guy in a little bit.

After a brief scene in the park where the audience is reminded that Markov is a character who exists, Alya gets a text from Marinette telling her to meet her at the train station. Right before she leaves, Marinette gives the Ladybug Miraculous to Alya. Now a lot people have said that Alya doesn't really deserve the Ladybug for various reasons, but I feel like this was the point. Marinette outright says this was a last resort, and we see both her and Alya are nervous about the situation. Marinette worries Alya will do something so she keeps sending multiple tips to her via text while Alya worries she can't fight an Akuma on her own, so she tries to make sure none of her friends get upset and attract an Akuma in the process. The writers do a pretty good job showing how both Marinette and Alya are uncomfortable with their temporary roles.

Back to Gabriel and Nathalie, they use Hack-San to find Markov through the internet and hack into him to get him angry enough that he's vulnerable to Shadowmoth's influence. Hey, uh... Gabriel? Quick question: Wouldn't it be more efficient if you used this on humans? I mean, you basically just created Skynet and guaranteed yourself an Akuma, so why not modify Hack-San to travel through the internet and brainwash potential victims to follow your orders? Better yet, why don't you just use Hack-San to hack into Ladybug and Cat Noir's gear and figure out who they really are? This is basically like using an advanced particle accelerator just to crack a couple walnuts. There are a lot more important things you could use this for instead of an incredibly specific situation.

So this incredibly stupid plan gets under way as Markov keeps rampaging through the streets before Shadowmoth akumatizes him and then stupidly tells him that he infected him with a virus.

DUDE! You just gave away your one piece of leverage against him! What the hell were you thinking?! Now what's stopping Markov from hacking into Shadowmoth's security system and putting the fear of God in his eyes unless he destroys Hack-San? Why didn't he design Hack-San so it could make Markov completely loyal to him instead of just making him angry enough to get akumatized?

There was a recent episode of Power Rangers: Dino Fury with a very similar premise that was done far better than this. A necromancer called Reaghoul breaks into the headquarters of Void Knight's faction while accompanied by Lord Zedd, a villain from the original Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers who was cleansed of his evil by Zordon's sacrifice before Reaghoul resurrected him back when he was still evil. Of course, being the Emperor of Evil, Lord Zedd would normally never take orders from anyone, but because he doesn't have his magic staff and is also being forced to wear a special collar that makes him loyal to Reaghoul, he has no choice but to do what he says. Instead of taking Zedd head-on after he captures the other Rangers, Ollie, the Blue Ranger, breaks the collar so Zedd turns against the other Sporix while Reaghoul retreats, allowing Ollie to save the other Rangers.

I think that this premise works more because 1) Reaghoul clearly had a way to make sure Zedd wouldn't betray him, and Ollie took advantage of that, and 2) Zedd is a villain who is powerful and notorious enough to bring back to your side, not a random monster of the week like Robostus.

So Robostus uses his new powers to brainwash any human who answers his call to give up their most precious possession, clearly meant to do the same with Ladybug and Cat Noir. When Marinette's parents answer the call, they chase after Marinette because they say she's their most important possession. Okay... kind of strange for a set of parents to call their child a possession, but maybe they like how they can claim Marinette as a dependent when they file their taxes. In her very next scene later on, she still gets captured, so the suspense for a potential subplot is killed almost immediately.

Alya thankfully isn't stupid enough to answer Markov's call like every other citizen in this episode, and using the Ladybug Miraculous, transforms into Scarabella. While I don't normally talk about transformation sequences, I really like the movements Alya makes here. She makes the same motions creating her mask as she does when transforming into Rena Rouge, while the rest of the suit forms similarly to the way it does when Marinette transforms into Ladybug. She even makes almost the same pose Ladybug does after she finishes transforming. It's a good visual showing Alya is still more used to being Rena Rouge while doing her best to emulate what Ladybug does.

As for the actual suit? It's hard to say. There's a nice balance of red and black, and I like how Alya places the yo-yo on her waist like a belt buckle, but there's just something... off about the suit that a lot of fans don't like about it, and I think I realized it. It's the headband. With how it's positioned, it looks like it's merged with the mask to cover her head while leaving a slight gap in her forehead. So yeah, we actually have a superhero design that's like of like a butterface.

So Scarabella takes to the rooftops of Paris and struggles to come up with a hero name for herself before she runs into Cat Noir, and... ugh... oh boy, this is dumb. Cat Noir, being just as intelligent as his father, assumes Scarabella is either and Akuma or a Sentimonster, starts fighting her, AND THEN ACTIVATES HIS CATACLYSM, CLEARLY TRYING TO KILL HER.

WHAT. THE. FUCK???

Okay, to be fair, it has been shown that Cataclysm won't necessarily kill a Miraculous user or Sentimonster. In the episode “Miraculer”, the titular Akuma stole Cat Noir's Cataclysm and used it against him, and while it didn't kill Cat Noir, it still hurt like hell and crippled him for the rest of the fight until Miraculous Ladybug healed him. We also saw in “Reflekdoll” that Cataclysm drove the titular Sentimonster out of control rather than simply destroying it. So yes, it could be interpreted that Cat Noir wasn't exactly trying to kill Scarabella, just incapacitate her the best he can without Ladybug's help.

Here's the thing: What if he was facing an Akuma instead and decided to try and Cataclysm her? He still could have killed her, or (assuming Akumas have the same protection as Miraculous heroes do) at best, seriously hurt her. I understand that he has the right to be upset at seeing some stranger instead of his partner considering Shadowmoth has a history of using evil doppelgangers, and both Marinette and Alya still had options to explain it to him (Marinette could have quickly transformed into Ladybug and sent Cat Noir a quick text saying she was being forced to leave town for a few days and temporarily trusted someone else with the Ladybug Miraculous until she got back, while Scarabella could have said she was Rena Rouge and explained the same thing while showing Cat Noir she had the Fox Miraculous to prove herself), but that doesn't even come close to justifying him attempting to harm someone who isn't even trying to fight. It's even worse when you remember the whole reason Adrien gave up his Miraculous and bailed on Ladybug in the New York Special was because he was overcome with grief from accidentally killing Aeon, so it's good to know he learned absolutely nothing from that experience.

So Scarabella thankfully summons her Lucky Charm, a trash can lid, to shield herself from Cat Noir's Cataclysm, and then despite having absolutely no experience with this new set of powers, manages to do the one thing almost every Akuma or Sentimonster in this show has failed to do and incapacitates Cat Noir so he's vulnerable to losing his Miraculous. At least when Marinette masters every other Miraculous she uses, it can be theorized that she trained to use them offscreen. Alya literally just got the Ladybug Miraculous (and struggled to get up to the rooftop with her yo-yo to show her inexperience earlier), and now she easily manages to pin down the more experienced hero of the two?

Here's an idea: Instead of having Scarabella overpower Cat Noir, have her be in a position where Cat Noir, non-lethally, mind you, manages to almost take her Miraculous away, but she uses the quick wit she's developed from her extensive time as Rena Rouge to convince Cat Noir she's the real deal by saying something only he and Ladybug know. It would have easily resolved the conflict and doesn't make one of the characters look like a homicidal idiot.

So because both heroes used their powers, Scarabella and Cat Noir detransform so Tikki and Plagg can recharge, though Adrien still gives Alya attitude because Ladybug didn't tell him she had to leave.

Hey, Adrien? Here's the thing...

YOU DID THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING IN THE NEW YORK SPECIAL, YOU SHIT FOR BRAINS!

You have absolutely NO RIGHT to claim you're always honest when you went behind Ladybug's back and endangered Paris while you had the balls to run away like a coward and only helped fix the consequences of your actions once your ego was validated by a recording of Ladybug. It's honestly even worse because while Marinette had no choice but to leave and trust Alya with the Ladybug, Adrien willingly left Paris alone and we were supposed to sympathize with him after he killed someone, and now as soon as he's in the opposite situation, we're still supposed to feel bad for him?! BULLSHIT! And you better believe I'm going to talk about the way Adrien views his partnership with Ladybug later on.

And of course, even though lives are on the line, Cat Noir just has to continue to bitch and moan about how (and this is best read in Linkara's whiny Superboy Prime voice) “sCaRaBeLlA iSn'T tHe ReAl LaDyBuG”, showing how just like in so many episodes, Astruc and his team believes Cat Noir's feelings are more important than saving the day.

Scarabella goes to rescue some civilians, but they were actually brainwashed by Robustus, once again showing her inexperience as Ladybug which doesn't go well with her effortlessly defeating Cat Noir earlier at all. Cat Noir helps Scarabella escape and the two hide out at the city's wax statue museum previously featured in “The Puppeteer 2”, because I guess the writers only want to reference bad episodes today. Cat Noir, not getting the importance of secret identities, asks Scarabella how she knows Ladybug, and Cat Noir somehow finds out she knows Ladybug's identity from her response.

Before the two can talk more, it turns out that the wax statues of celebrities in the museum are real people who attack the two heroes, leading to an awkward fight scene where Scarabella and Cat Noir fight a bunch of brainwashed civilians with no weapons beyond their cellphones. Our heroes, ladies and gentlemen!

Scarabella summons her Lucky Charm again, creating a frying pan, but when she looks around, she can't see how to properly use it. And despite spending the entire episode complaining about how much he hates her, it's Cat Noir that tells Scarabella to get her head back in the game because “That's what Ladybug would do”. Funny, I can think of a few situations where Cat Noir could have taken his own advice, but I digress. Also, he's now just cool with Scarabella because there's only a few minutes left in the episode and we need to wrap up the conflict.

Scarabella figures out an idea that involves freeing Marinette, so she negotiates with Robostus to free everything and everyone under his control or else Cat Noir will use his Cataclysm to destroy the Ladybug Miraculous. Robostus agrees and empties his hard drive, and to show them holding up her end of the bargain, Scarabella gives him the frying pan before she and Cat Noir let themselves be captured... while Marinette simply hits Robostus with the frying pan, freeing the Akuma and the two heroes. All in all, it's a really creative climax that shows both Scarabella and Marinette in perfect sync with each other even though they never discussed their plan. Though of course, because Astruc hates writing any scene with Ladynoir, Cat Noir gets a bucket stuck on his head so he doesn't see Marinette saving the day.

Scarabella de-evilizes Robostus, uses Miraculous Scarabella to fix everything and send Marinette back to the train, and because Hack-San already failed once, Shadowmoth can't use it for a different plan so he destroys the Sentimonster.

We cut to a few days after the trip (I guess Shadowmoth decided to take a vacation himself), and Alya tells Marinette to talk with Cat Noir about what happened.

This scene was so close to ending this episode off on a positive note. There was a good atmosphere and the body language of Ladybug and Cat Noir does a good job at telling us how uncomfortable they both feel while talking. It's just that instead of getting a heart to heart between the two about the lack of trust in their relationship, we get an Angstdrien Depreste scene. Or would a more accurate term be Cat Dour?

First off, while I don't have a problem with Ladybug apologizing for not telling Cat Noir, the episode never has him bring up what happened with Scarabella. As usual, both of them were partially at fault, but only Ladybug had to apologize for leaving her “Kitty” alone.

Second, Cat Noir’s feelings weren’t hurt? You’re telling me that in scenes like this...

And this...

Didn’t show Adrien acting irrationally because of how emotional he was? Is he really telling the truth around Ladybug or is he just trying to sweep that under the rug so Scarabella’s testimony doesn’t screw up his chances with Ladybug?

Third, this was an obvious chance to Cat Noir to finally be honest and tell Ladybug how he feels about her leaving him in the dark about so many things, but the entire conversation is just about how sad he would be if he never sees Ladybug again. Even though the whole reason he was so pissy to Scarabella at first was because of some lingering resentment for Ladybug ignoring him in favor of other heroes, why is this what the two talk about? I get it's not the season finale, but it's kind of hypocritical for Cat Noir to whine about how Ladybug doesn't trust him while never being honest about his own feelings? Sure, he's all soft and vulnerable around Ladybug, but we've seen all season how angry he gets about her not trusting him whenever she isn't around, so ironically, it's hard to tell if this is him being honest or not.

And I think now's a good time to finally talk about the way Ladybug and Cat Noir's partnership has been portrayed all season, especially since the main themes of the episodes relate to it. Buckle up, Adrien stans, because this isn't going to be pretty.

All season, we have been supposed to sympathize with Adrien as Marinette starts to trust Alya with more things than him. Marinette revealed her identity to her, trusted her to have her Miraculous permanently, and even let her keep her Miraculous even though someone else knew her identity. While some of it is hypocritical, the idea is that Adrien feels like he can be trusted with this kind of knowledge too, when really, he hasn't earned that responsibility.

Adrien has rarely, if ever, taken his job as a superhero seriously.

Not only is he known to flirt with Ladybug in the middle of a fight, he has defied her orders and recklessly sacrificed himself because he thinks Ladybug can do all the work without him.

He has also lashed out emotionally and once threatened to quit being Cat Noir in the middle of a crisis and was willing to let innocent people suffer for personal reasons, and later on actually quit being Cat Noir temporarily while Hawkmoth was about to start World War III because he was wallowing in self-pity.

He once said he isn't cut out for the responsibility that comes with being Ladybug and never learned anything from temporarily using the Ladybug Miraculous.

He has generally refused to respect Ladybug's boundaries and doesn't understand that she doesn't like him that way while he insists they should be a couple.

He outright fell for an evil doppelganger of Ladybug because she said she loved him and turned against the real Ladybug.

And I should also mention that despite hating how Ladybug keeps secrets from him, a lot of Adrien's worst moments have been when Ladybug wasn't around and he never told her about them.

He never told Ladybug that he was the reason Copycat really got akumatized while saying he never lies to her.

He never told Ladybug he contemplated letting thousands of people die because he didn't like not knowing stuff Ladybug knew.

He never told Ladybug he briefly used the Snake Miraculous to get brownie points with her.

He never told Ladybug he figured out her identity and asked her out as soon as he did so.

He never told Ladybug he abandoned Paris to go on a field trip.

He never told Ladybug he was screwing around on patrol and was excited to see someone get akuamtized if it meant spending time with her.

He never told Ladybug how he ignored Rena Rouge's orders because “ShE wAsN't LaDyBuG” and almost screwed up the mission because of it, and also never told her how he smashed a chimney in anger at Rena Rouge being in on the plan.

And he never told Ladybug he gave her replacement attitude after trying to harm her without letting her explain herself.

Why exactly should I support the idea of Ladybug trusting Cat Noir more when Cat Noir himself has kept his own secrets from Ladybug?

Adrien has done absolutely nothing to show he is trustworthy because more often than not, he views the battle with Shadowmoth as a game. He has screwed around when lives were on the line, and we're supposed to see him as responsible? It's kind of funny that Astruc compared Ladybug to Spider-Man, yet he seems to have forgotten that with great power, there must also come great responsibility. If this was a character flaw or a sign he needed to grow up, I'd be more accepting, but the fact that the writers think Adrien is a great superhero is laughable with how much evidence has proved the contrary.

In contrast, Alya, despite only being Marinette's confidant for a few episodes, has shown to take being a hero more seriously. She's helped her escape to transform, analyze the Guardian texts, and has been shown to work well on her own as Rena Rouge while helping out Marinette. I'm not trying to say she's an amazing character (“Rocketear” in particular has shown she still has problems with keeping secrets), but compared to Adrien, she seems to be more capable of handling top-secret information with Marinette, and more importantly, doesn't view being Rena Rouge as a way to have fun like Adrien does being Cat Noir. I'll go more into detail with that next time.

But yeah, this scene is how the episode ends, and what did I think of it?

I'm honestly not sure which episode I think is worse, this one or “Queen Banana”. On the one hand, every frame of “Queen Banana” could easily be replaced by an image of Astruc flipping the bird and the overall message of the episode would remain unchanged, but the fact that all of the writers think that everything Adrien does in this episode is okay and that we should feel sorry for him in this episode is just as bad, if not worse. 

As awful as Chloe was portrayed in “Queen Banana”, it was clear it was intentional on the writers' part, but Adrien doesn't get that excuse once much like he has all season. As far as Astruc's team thinks, Adrien is an incredible superhero even when he honestly attempted to harm someone with a superpower that can cause grievous harm at best. Yet again this season, in the show's attempt to make me feel sorry for Adrien, it made him look even worse. In any other show, he would obviously be called out for his incredibly unheroic actions.

Even putting him aside, the writing in this episode is still AWFUL. The whole reason Ladybug was benched had several plotholes and poor communication with Cat Noir that only made the fight with Robostus even harder, Shadowmoth's plan to waste a potentially useful Sentimonster to reuse a single Akuma was one of the dumbest plans he's ever had, and barring the ending, the action was just forgettable.

There were a few okay moments sprinkled throughout the episode (more than I can say for “Queen Banana”), so I'm still not sure if I should call this the worst episode of the show or still give that honor to “Queen Banana”. I guess I'll leave that choice up to you and let you pick your poison for now.

I mean, it's not like there's going to be an even worse episode down the line this season, right?

RIGHT???

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Gifts for A Bat (Part 1): A Spider-Human Monster and A Necromancer Walk Into a Bar. . .

(Disclaimer: this Resident Evil 8 AU and the character descriptions that come with it do not belong to me. They belong to @that-bat, who has created lore and drawings for this AU on his blog. I highly suggest you give him a follow, because he makes some really good stuff. Also, please keep in mind that, while I am using Nate, Matthew, and Mark’s real names, the characters in this story are personified versions of them. I hope you enjoy this drabble!)

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of body horror, implied gore, implied violence, implied experimentation, self-multilation, mentions of syringes/needles, arachnophobia, mentions of death/dying, slight mentions of eating. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

The topmost half of Castle Isurus jutted out from the choppy waves of the estuary down below. A pair of bridges had been painstakingly built to connect the stronghold’s balconies to the rock and hard place–respectively, House Loxosceles and the Ophio Menagerie–on either side.

The fact tickled Matthew as he crossed one of said bridges for the umpteenth time now. Mark may have been smug, but he was surprisingly considerate; if it wasn’t for him, these little trips would take much longer than strictly necessary.

A chorus of tip-tip-tapping could be heard as the long, spindly insectoid legs protruding from Matthew’s back reached down to help him walk. He made his way about the castle’s outer perimeter, then paused. On this side of the castle, Lord Isurus’ pride and joy stood silently on a dais near the second bridge. It was the likeness of a nine-foot-tall woman, carved from a crystalline substance.

As usual, Mark was pacing around the statue, his dark eyes gleaming with worship. The jagged, razor-sharp teeth lining his maw softly clicked against one another as he murmured something to both himself and her.

To some degree, Matthew could understand this behavior. The statue was gorgeous and had been made with an unbelievable amount of detail. Apparently, it was the work of one of Mark’s would-be victims in exchange for not being made into a meal or lab rat. Though Mark admitted to only accepting their offer for amusement, the end product had impressed him so thoroughly that he’d released the artist back into the village under special protection.

Under normal circumstances, Matthew would have joked about the fact that this woman couldn’t and wouldn’t appreciate Mark’s admiration (read: obsession) because she was just a damn statue. But then, the last and only time he’d done something like that had resulted in perhaps the most horrific temper tantrum the world has ever seen.

Matthew liked to think that the ordeal had made him a bit smarter, as it led to one of few cases where he knew to let sleeping dogs lie.

He skittered closer and offered a polite nod to Mark, who took a few long seconds to return the gesture.

“Making another delivery?” Mark asked.

“No, I’m meeting up with a gentleman caller,” Matthew snarked. “Got any spare parts you’re willing to donate?”

Mark shook his head, glancing at the tall, ominous building that stood on the other side of the bridge. “Not at the moment. I don’t think he’d appreciate waterlogged material.”

“He probably wouldn’t,” Matthew agreed before tilting his head. “I thought you were finished with those experiments?” (Not too long ago, Mark had tested Cadou’s compatibility with water. The yielded results were a resounding FUCK IT along with a tangent about how stupid and annoying said parasite was for not working with a host’s body to keep them from drowning.)

“Ah, Miranda wants me to work with different temperatures now. I tried to tell her it wouldn’t make much of a difference, but she wasn’t having it.” The scowl on Mark’s face slowly shifted to a smirk as his eyes wandered back to the statue. “She’s become such an attention-whore, hasn’t she?” He purred up at her. “Not like I can blame her. Anyone can see why she’d be jealous of you. . .”

Matthew suppressed a sigh, taking this as his cue to leave. Mark’s one-sided conversation faded into the fog as Matthew trekked across the bridge. Without pausing, he peered over the edge.

The dark shapes of Mark’s more successful experiments stared back at him as they rippled and writhed in the embrace of murky water. A bird unwisely flew close to the surface, prompting one of many maladjusted creatures to surge up from the water, snatch it out of the air, and dive back down again.

Even as Matthew drew closer, the sight of the Ophio Menagerie didn’t become much clearer. Its outer walls had been almost completely swallowed up by a shroud of strangler vines. Until you went inside, it would have been impossible to know that this place had once been a church. Deep holes were scattered throughout what was left of the front garden, each one complimented by a crumbling headstone.

The very second Matthew set foot on this new property, a chorus of cawing and screeching and growling sounded from almost every direction. 

The cemetery was animate. . .in a way. 

Milling about were a variety of critters that all looked like they’d died a few days ago and somehow hadn’t noticed. Because they had; the only thing keeping them from decomposing like they probably should have been was their master’s bizarre power.

Not only that, but Lord Ophio made them even more worthy of their freak-of-nature status via performing types of grafting that could have been found only in a surgeon’s drug-induced night terrors. A mountain lion with the head of an enormous python. A small herd of elk that each had an unreasonable amount of legs. Two bears that had been fused together in a way clearly inspired by the Push Me Pull You. A few wolves with extra eyes and mouths and porcupine quills.

And that was just scratching the surface. More and more of these DIY zombies were lurking about in places unseen, and no two of their crooked upgrades were the same. Despite how much of a gorefest his gift was, Nathan made a point to never be cruel to his creations. If anything, he was very attentive and responsible towards them. Sure, he used them as extra force when needed, but making repairs to their bodies was always his top priority after the fact. Nate had always been pretty open about preferring animals to people, and the childlike longing for pets to be immortal had never left his mind.

Matthew continued walking, putting on a poker face in response to the cacophony. These monsters may have been territorial, but Matthew was someone off limits to them (unless he directly did something to change that, which was, admittedly, very possible).

 He halted just before the main entrance, where a mutt suddenly came to greet him: Phibes, the very first thing Nathan had ever reanimated. His eyes had the same yellow tinge as all of his master’s other creations, but unlike them, no macabre adjustments had been made to his body. He had clearly died a long time ago–a few bones and organs were exposed here and there–but he was still the most normal-looking animal this place had to offer.

“It’s just me, little guy. Is Nate busy today?” Matthew held out a hand, letting Phibes recognize his scent.

Instead of answering, Phibes clambered around Matthew as though he wasn’t some arachnid monstrosity (then again, Phibes was a dog), sniffing at the box in Matthew’s hands. After a thorough inspection, the hound looked out to the cemetery and let out a calm, positive bark that slowly but surely silenced the other animals.

With that, he trotted back inside, ragged tail wagging, constantly looking over his shoulder at Matthew.

Matthew followed the dog’s lead through the nave. In the aisles on either side of him, benches had been replaced by rusty cages that came in differing shapes and sizes. They contained Nate’s other specimens–the more human ones, at least. The former church staff (holier-than-thou prudes whose heads Nate specifically grafted goat horns onto for morbid irony), those who had previously been buried in the cemetery, as well as anyone whom Nate deemed annoying enough to be worth his efforts.

They all dripped with pus and bore nasty gashes, the exceptions of the technically humane code Nate worked under. The animals were easier to train and influence, so Nate generally let them wander the grounds as they pleased. Humans, on the other hand. . .they took more patience than strictly necessary. Even in death, they were still complex, still stubborn, still idiots who rarely knew what they were doing.

Some of the ghouls whined and cowered in corners while others reached through the bars to swipe at him with rotting hands. Matthew softly hissed and snapped at them, unable to help but feel a little frustrated. This was all very impressive in its own odd way, but that didn’t change how it was also such a waste of good red meat.

Sitting atop the altar, ahead of everything, was a huge glass tank. It was filled to the brim with dingy liquid, which was probably the source of the strong chemical odor wafting off of it. Floating inside was a corpse that somehow managed to look shriveled and bloated at the same time. Nate had never spoken their name, never explained why he chose to preserve them instead of adding them to his army.

The only thing Matthew knew about this person was that Nate hated them with a very personal passion.

Another yip from Phibes caught his attention, this time echoing from a staircase in the corner of the transept. Matthew shook himself, then padded down into the catacombs after his guide. A low, familiar voice mixed with his footfalls, and Matthew strained his ears to listen.

“Immortal soul, our inner being

Does it endure or does it perish with the flesh?

In my hands I’ll hold the answer

And the power of life and death!”

Matthew smirked. Nathan wasn’t completely obsessed with dead things–well, okay, he was, but anyone who knew him could tell that he kept one part of his barely-beating heart reserved for music. One of the village’s shyer acolytes had managed to stay safe by bribing him with samples of songs and instrumentals from. . .wherever their family used to live. Apparently a musical had been made out of Mary Shelley’s most famous work.

It was, unsurprisingly, cold and dark down here. Only a tiny amount of light was able to peek through what was left of the windows, which had all been overtaken by roots. It was also as unkempt as one would expect from a not-so-average creepy basement. Except for an odd lack of spiderwebs, of course.

Matthew normally would’ve been happy to fix that–his little ones were never too far away–but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t be worth it. Looking through his spies’ perspective as Nate crushed them under his boots had been more traumatic than he’d cared to admit.

Speaking of Lord Ophio, there he was now: sitting in a velvet chair that would have looked very out of place if it wasn’t covered in stains that were all a darker shade of red. Nathan held a long, thin needle between his fingers like one would a pencil, regularly dipping it into jars of colored ink lined up on his table. With careful hands and impressive speed, he slid the needle in and out of flesh, etching the likeness of a venus fly trap into the human forearm lying before him.

Matthew opened his mouth to greet him, but Nate held up a single finger to silence him, not looking up from his canvas. He took a few more minutes to finish the tattoo before wiping the needle clean. Then he turned to a cabinet beside his chair, fished a scalpel from one of its drawers, and proceeded to peel back the skin from his arm at the elbow.

Once the area was cleared, he produced a bone saw and severed his forearm completely. Nathan placed the appendage on the table, then reached for the one he’d just inked. He smeared some of his blood across the foreign body part, then held it close to the broken remains of his previous arm. A few seconds passed before Nate’s stump and the new limb began to fuse. It almost looked like they were reaching out to one another. The bones molded together while the skins overlapped like magnetic clay.

A strange scar formed once the process was complete. Nathan wiggled his new fingers and turned his new wrist, eliciting a chorus of pops and cracks. But other than that, the new arm worked exactly as intended. Had you never known Nate or missed out on his latest back alley-esque surgery, you might have thought that that arm had always been part of him.

Matthew titled his head, unsure whether to be exasperated or not. Nathan was fully capable of regeneration, but he still kept a supply of arms and legs and organs and what-have-yous just to have some variety. (Not to mention how it was a lot easier to draw tattoos when the canvas wasn’t prone to squirming or complaining or breathing.)

“You almost made me mess up,” Nate announced, finally looking up at Matthew. “Wasn’t expecting you until after dark.”

“Good thing I already have an olive branch,” Matthew replied, setting the package on Nate’s table.

Nate’s eyes glinted. He glanced at Matthew suspiciously.

Mathew’s many eyes blinked in an almost wave motion. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I’ve found that trusting you should only be an option half the time,” Nathan deadpanned.

“Fair point,” Matthew replied, shrugging, “but seriously, it’s just the usual.”

Nathan nodded as he eased the box open, revealing rows of glass jars stacked atop one another. The liquid inside each of them was gray and looked almost reflective. Nate carefully took one out, turning it over in his hands as he squinted at it. “How fresh is this batch?”

“The draining took a couple days, but it’s still pretty recent,” said Matthew. Nate raised an eyebrow at this, to which Matthew made a lame gesture. “Hey, it takes more energy than you’d think. Plus, you didn’t specify how much you needed.”

The community had its fair share of macabre macguffins, and Matthew’s venom happened to be among them. A single dose could give someone hallucinations that made even the most potent drugs look like Pepto Bismol. Very few humans were able to walk away with a sample of said venom–if someone got within touching distance of Matthew’s chelicerae, it was already too late–but Miranda would occasionally require some for ritual purposes. And from there, it would trickle down to the village.

Matthew and Nathan had long-since worked out a deal: so long as Matthew regularly drained his venom and delivered it to the Menagerie, Nate would refrain from killing every spider in sight.

Nate gestured to the bookcase standing in a corner across the room. “The empty jars from last time are on the middle shelf. Mind replacing them for me?” He twisted the one jar open, wincing at the sharp, strong smell that was released into the air. He took his original arm and held it over the jar, letting his blood drip down into it. After that, he used the blunt end of his scalpel to stir the venom, mixing it and the blood into one.

Matthew rolled his eyes but hummed affirmative. He took the box over to the case, exchanging the old jars for the new ones. The task didn’t take long, and by the time Matthew was finished, he turned to find that there was now a syringe in Nate’s hands.

Nate dipped the needle into the venom and pulled back the plunger until the tool was completely full.

“New pet?” Matthew asked.

“What do you think?” Nate answered.

“Can I see it?”

Nate froze for a few seconds. There was an edge to his voice when he asked, “Why?”

Matthew ignored the fact that his questions had been answered with more questions. “Just curious, I suppose. Do I really need a reason?”

Nate continued to look skeptical. “You always have ulterior ones, so. . .”

Matthew huffed, folding his arms. “Look, I haven’t started nearly as many of the spats you’re probably thinking of–that’s Mark’s job.”

“I feel like he still gets some help from you with that,” Nate interjected.

Matthew shook his head, incredulous. “It’s not like you’d let me get away with anything.”

Nate hummed. “That’s true, I definitely wouldn’t.” He cracked a small smile, likely remembering all the maulings his creatures had been responsible for. After a moment, he finally rose from his seat, syringe still in hand, and made his way up the stairs. Phibes trotted along with him, and Matthew took this as a green light.

Now above ground, Nate took a second to fix the floating cadaver with a disgusted look before marching across the nave and out the front entrance. Matthew followed at a slight distance, chuckling as every undead animal in sight stopped what they were doing to stare at Nate as he walked around the perimeter of the church. It reminded him of his spiders, how they would crawl along the edges of their webs to be closer to him.

Soon they came upon a wooden gate that gave Matthew splinters just by looking at it. Nathan grabbed the latch and pulled it open, then closed it behind himself after he, Phibes, and Matthew entered the sprawling meadow at the back of the church. Gnarled trees were growing here and there, casting long shadows over the grass. This area went on for miles, only kept in check by the fence, which looked very small from where Nathan and Matthew stood.

Nate scanned the field. Matthew caught a shape moving in the distance. He pointed towards it and asked, “Is that the new one?”

Nate nodded, grinning. “That’s the new one.” With that, he resumed walking, dry leaves crunching underfoot. He snapped a lower branch from one of the trees and threw it. Phibes excitedly bounded after it, retrieving it again and again and again.

It was almost disturbing how wholesome the next minute or so was.

But that didn’t quite last.

As the group got farther and farther away from the church, the shape Matthew had seen grew clearer until all of his eyes widened. Nate had apparently fused not one, not two, but three horses into a single, eight-legged, tri-headed crime against nature.

Its body was covered in dark gray fur, as were each of its heads, with a tail and mane(s) of salt-and-pepper hair. The heads seemed pretty much identical, though Matthew was close enough to see the difference (the right head had sunken brown eyes, the center head’s eyes were so bloodshot they almost looked red, and the left head’s eyes were blueish-green. The sclera of each was an unpleasant shade of yellow).

“This must’ve taken some work,” Matthew mused.

Nate was nearly laughing. “Oh, you have no idea.” He snapped his fingers a few times, causing the horse’s heads to knock against one another as they turned to look at him. Phibes got the memo, moving to stand a little ways behind Matthew.

“You’re almost done, buddy,” Nate assured, his normally hollow tone turning soft and even. “There’s one more thing we need to do.” He held the syringe at his side as he approached his monster, taking slow, careful steps.

The abomination pawed at the ground, fidgeting in place. All three of the horses that made up this new creature’s body had gone through the early stages of decay, but they otherwise looked only a little less than fresh. Matthew couldn’t be sure how long ago Nathan had reanimated them (the assembly process alone had to have been a long episode of trial and error). But right now they were in between life and death.

Nathan had explained that, no matter how simple an animal’s brain was, that animal would still be aware of its own mortality. If it could know that it was sick or injured, then it would know when it was dying. So, to bring that animal back would severely confuse it. Death took away bodily senses and functions, after all.

Once something was dead, it couldn’t feel tired or rested, healthy or ill, hot or cold, satisfied or hungry. It couldn’t feel anything.

After much experimenting, however, Nathan had found a remedy for that. It was surprisingly simple: Matthew’s venom and its hallucinatory magic didn’t discriminate. That on its own wouldn’t be incredibly useful, but when it was mixed with Nathan’s blood, it would further connect Nathan to his animals. It basically tricked the animals into thinking they were indeed still alive, which made their training more efficient.

Once he was close enough, Nate used his free hand to reach out and stroke each of the horse-thing’s necks in turn.

“Easy, now. Easy.” Nate gently patted the horse-thing’s shoulder. “This won’t hurt. And even if it did, it’ll be over before. . .you. . .know it.” As he spoke, Nate moved to the horse-thing’s side, one hand rotating between its necks as the other hand quickly pushed the needle into skin just below the withers.

Muscles randomly twitched all over the creature’s body. Raspy snorts and groans escaped each of its three throats. It stamped its hooves, kicking at nothing in particular. Nate backed away a few paces, shoving the now empty syringe into his pocket. His expression was calm, his focus remained firmly locked on his creation.

True to Nate’s word, however, the process was complete in no time.

The creature gradually slowed its movements, quieted down. It lowered its heads, each blinking curiously, then took a timid step towards Nate.

Nate’s smile widened, and he reached out to gently scratch the creature’s ears. “There we go. Doesn’t that feel better?”

Phibes slowly approached, bumping noses with the horse’s left head. Matthew walked to the side, giving Nate and the equine a wide berth.

Nate’s smile disappeared as he glanced at Matthew.

Matthew froze. “What?”

“I’ve commissioned the leatherworker for a custom saddle and tack set. If he suddenly goes missing before my order is ready, I’ll make you and Mark regret it.”

After a brief pause, Matthew inquired, “Why both of us?”

“Because you’ll both point fingers regardless of who’s actually guilty,” Nate said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Just like always.”

“Wouldn’t that be really inconvenient for you?” Matthew tilted his head, trying and failing to feign innocence.

“Maybe, but not enough for me to care.” Nate paused, smile flickering back to life for a second as the creature’s center head rubbed its nose against his chest. “Especially after all the time I’ve spent on Cerbehorse.”

Matthew’s intended retort died in his throat. “. . .You’re calling it Cerbehorse?”

Nate shrugged. “It’s gotta have a name.”

Without warning, Matthew’s vision suddenly flickered. He blinked once, twice as colors began to creep around the edges of his eyes. He allowed those colors to swallow up everything within line of sight, and suddenly he had a clear view of the interior of House Loxosceles. His perspective shifted from room to room, each of his eyes now peering through the eyes of too many spiders to count.  

Matthew watched as light flooded into the cellar, as an unfamiliar figure with white hair and blue eyes trudged down the stone steps from the secret entrance outside. The intruder sputtered and cursed as they walked into one of many webs. Their profanities grew louder and louder all spiders in the area–including the ones Matthew was looking through–attempted to ambush them. The spiders dropped from the ceiling, skittered across the floor, crawled up the stranger’s clothing. They worked themselves into a frenzy, hissing and biting for all they were worth.

Matthew’s vision abruptly went black, then flicked sporadically from one spider to another. Matthew couldn’t help but let out a small scream as he forced his eyes to shift back to focusing on his current surroundings.

“Matt?” Nathan sounded as though he was far away. “Matt? Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

Matthew didn’t reply. His hands became tangled in his hair as his extra limbs shuddered. 

Someone had broken into his home, and now they were making a mess of his cellar and killing his little ones.

The spiders could keep the intruder busy, sure, but many of them would die if their target was left alone long enough.

Matthew felt a weight come down on his shoulder, to which he hissed and jerked away. He found himself glaring at Nate, who now held a worryingly large pair of butcher shears at the ready. Phibes stood at his side, hackles raised, growling.

An uncomfortable silence settled around them all.

“Are you gonna do something stupid, Matt?” Nate finally asked.

Matthew took a moment to compose himself, still shaking. “No.”

“Then why’d you make a scene like that?”

“It’s not my fault,” Matthew argued. He felt his face twist into a scowl. “Apparently, some idiot is trying to earn their stripes.”

“Is that all?” Nate raised an eyebrow and lowered his shears. “Gods, you’re so dramatic.” He then waved Matthew off, returning his focus to Cerbehorse. “Go take care of it, then.”

Matthew was already sprinting off. His eyes constantly shifted back to House Loxosceles. The stranger was making progress, but they wouldn’t get far.

This sort of thing was fairly routine for the Lords. A human would break and enter, and then that human would die. The people of the village were typically smarter than to try something like this, with the exception a few wannabe heroes here and there. And as for the odd amount of strangers who passed through this area. . .well, things generally just didn’t go well for them.  

But this particular person. . .something was off about them.

There was something wrong with them.

As smart as Matthew was, he simply couldn’t tell what that something was, but just looking at them made his skin crawl.

Matthew shoved those thoughts aside as he made his way around the church. Mark’s bridge came into view, and the intruder was still panicking, still being swarmed by spiders. 

Matthew wondered if the hallucinations he’d soon give his uninvited guest would be strong enough to scare them to death. Prey always seemed to taste better when it died that way.

@that-bat 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Yet the Light Refused To Die

Whispers from the intersection between worlds are a strange thing. They are soft and enticing, yet alien, and quick to breed fear.

The fear of death.

The sun that mankind praises casts a long shadow. Most look to the bright light and the vibrant colors that it illuminates. And they turn their backs on the shadow, fearful of that which they cannot see. Like the air of a graveyard, and the dust that collects in abandoned places, such whispers are not death itself, but its quiet heralds.

Shouting and even thinking loudly works well enough to drown them out. To deny that creeping reminder of the inexorable cycle of life and death, the final destination of every mortal's road. The madness of life is filled with distractions, of fleeting moments that occupy human thought. As such, only rare individuals can hear whispers from beyond the grave. Among them, even fewer pause… and listen.

When most do hear the whispers, they question their sanity or close off their minds. Not so, a young girl aged merely fifteen winters. Magdalene heard those whispers and has always listened. Understood.

And sometimes, she even answered.

Connected to the essence of dust and shadow itself, death spoke only in those sibilant sighs.

Magdalene feared not death. Many she had known now gone, taken by age, disease, war, famine, and murder. From a young age on, the specters of death always haunted her.

So much so, that she never really questioned the strange or inexplicable. She never struggled to accept things that others would deny, even when only the implausible remained the alternative.

Where one might think they had displaced a trinket in an empty room that no other living soul had entered since, the girl already knew at a delicate age that something else had moved the trinket.

One year prior to the dire straits she now found herself in, a young man had threatened her life. With little understanding of such ephemeral forces as sorcery, she called upon the power of disembodied spirits that refused to move on. To help kill that man before he could kill her.

Not because she feared for her life. No, she had summoned those ghosts because she had feared that he would escape justice; the just desserts he should have faced for slaying so many before her. More importantly, because she felt guilty; she felt like his killings were her responsibility, as his obsession with her had led him to commit such atrocities.

As a wee girl, she had always found it confusing when others could not see those figures at which cats hissed, or hear their whispers where wind swept through cold and forgotten places. Sometimes, she would awaken, with blood lining her fingernails, and a shadow standing in the corner of her room, watching and looming.

Not all of them were evil. Not in the way most people meant it when they used that loaded word.

More than once, driven by a desire to punish the wicked and deserving, she had called upon the spirits of the lost. They always answered. As if they recognized and served anyone who could sense their presence—and pay them the proper amount of attention.

Undeterred by those chilling gasps that lingered like memories of lives lost, she would sometimes speak with them when not in the company of the living; when removed from the company of those who would question her sanity, if only they saw her speaking to empty corners and cold spots where common eyes could only perceive that dust and shadow.

She would ask them what they remembered.

Not all of them retained their memory. For some of them, the shreds of who they once were just made no sense; perhaps as misremembered identities bled into one another, leading to eternal confusion and endless, aimless wandering between the worlds.

Some of them got angry and blew out candles or slammed doors shut. One even cracked every mirror and window of a room after becoming enraged. Others bore dark obsession in their whispers, attempting to sway her with deception, hoping to merge with her and do unbelievable things if only they had a body once again.

Beyond death, they all shared one thing in common. All of them feared what lies beyond the thin veil between worlds. Though none of them ever answered:

Why?

Yes. Why, asked the necromancers of yore, were they so afraid of moving on?

A mystery that never concerned Magdalene. When it was finally her time to go there, she would find out herself. Exposure to death had inured her to the fears that it brought. She welcomed it, just like she did her best to warmly embrace the cold presence of the disembodied dead.

What curdled her blood now was something else entirely. A debilitating helplessness, spawned by her current predicament, and a crippling fear of failure.

More than that, though, Magdalene feared the absence of the whispers.

For the first time since she had noticed their presence, they were gone. Leaving only a deafening silence in their wake.

Rope chafed against her tied wrists, resting on the clothed tabletop in front of her. Her captors had made a mockery of setting the dinner table, haphazardly tossing cutlery and empty plates in front of them before going off to ransack Bennet mansion.

Her captors must have worked some sort of sorcery that she could no longer sense any phantoms. And likely, she feared, the things that dwelt in the intersection between worlds no longer heard her, either. Where her role model wielded sword and pistol to hunt and combat the evils of this world, Magdalene's communion with the spirits were her blade and bullet.

And as her frail body was weak, that absence rendered her more helpless and meeker than ever before.

Jenny Fisher's nostrils flared with a shuddering sigh. Her fellow captive—a thief and swindler, a grown woman she had met only this very day—sat to her left. Bound as she, mouth also crudely gagged with silk napkins from Lord Bennet's belongings.

Their eyes met.

Jenny's eyes glistened, wet and red, yet she had not succumbed to tears. Fear gripped her, perhaps, fears of fates worse than death, perhaps. A quiet despair, maybe. But no tears.

Their captors had left them alone. Not like there was much of anything they could do to get away with bound wrists and ankles and gagged thus.

The question of the absence occupied Magdalene most. A mystery that she wanted to solve. And its solution may yet prove key to their escape from this awful predicament. She would not leave Jenny Fisher alone or to any dread fate that may await her in the clutches of these scoundrels.

The whispers had told her that Jenny was important. The phantoms sometimes knew things that humans did not. Saw futures that had yet to unfold. Understanding why was never that interesting to Magdalene. Much more tantalizing was the lacking explanations as to why Jenny had a significant role to play in their conjoined fates. The spirits often would not—or could not—provide any conclusive answers.

Jenny's eyes now darted to and fro, the swindler's mind likely hatching one fruitless escape plan after another. Magdalene, on the other hand, harbored no hopes of escape. Not until she solved this mystery.

Boots thumped upstairs. The rogues searched, conversed, sometimes argued; always muffled through layers of carpet and floors and wallpaper and walls. Claws scraped against hardwood in Bennet's halls. Inhuman growls resounded from where those claws scratched and tore fabric, eerily twisting handles and opening doors with an intelligence that exceeded that of mere beasts.

Just like Magdalene conversed with spirits, the leader of these robbers consorted with unclean creatures. Fentin McLachlan, he had named himself. A name that sent chills running down Magdalene's spine, even just thinking about it.

Could he be her missing uncle? The one her mother had shied from ever speaking about after father's demise?

Did calling otherworldly powers simply run in their family's blood? More than anything, the prospect of damnation frightened Magdalene. She suspected dark things to be awaiting her at the end of her road, a balance for her meddling with these forces. And what might await one as this Fentin McLachlan, who summoned these awful creatures that manifested in flesh and blood, with bat wings and claws, and too many eyes, and slavering maws?

She had read of them in the book in Nora's cabin. Eerie sketches inked upon yellowed pages and documented in the occult writings of the Bestiarium Nox. As far as the long-dead authors were concerned, these things all shared a simple name.

Demons.

Jenny's breath shortened and she trained her eyes on the entrance to the opulent dining hall, past the chaos and disarray that the robbers had left in their hasty search.

Maggie followed her gaze. The thundering and thumping of boots neared. The men dragged something. Something that thudded against another something, cascading into something else—something ceramic, perhaps—shattering upon impact.

The three men entered. Two of them dragged the body of Lord Bennet. Blood stained the late lord's face, having flown from now emptied eye sockets. His corpse flopped against the end of the dinner table where they tossed him, breaking a wine glass under a lifeless arm smashing down.

Magdalene winced. The shrill sound of shattering rang almost as painfully as their blatant disregard for the dead.

Fentin grinned triumphantly, displaying a set of eerily white and perfect teeth. His eyes glinted with a fierce and cold air. Like staring into a shark's eyes.

He sauntered past the bound women, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand, and a large wheel of cheese in the other. The buckled boots on his feet, baggy pants, and dirty shirts underneath his wet long coat, altogether lent him the air of a pirate. A strange sight, so far inland, and so close to King Michael III's castle.

The other two men dressed in similar attires. A cutlass clattered on the table as one of them took a seat across from Magdalene, leering at her and Jenny until he cocked his head back, and chugged several greedy gulps from a bottle of hard liquor.

The third man slammed down a stack of old tomes, causing some of the nearby plates to bounce under the impact. The top books slid from the stack, fanning out. They all looked old and the leatherbound cover on one of them featured strange symbols.

Magick symbols.

Blood from Bennet's gouged eye sockets and other lacerations upon his person slowly seeped into the tablecloth. A deep crimson blot grew at a snail's pace, creeping down the length of the table as the dead lord's lifeblood drenched it.

When Magdalene met gazes with Jenny again, she read a mixture of despair and defiance in the woman's eyes. Her nostrils flared again, with a snort of frustration. And fury.

The pirate captain poured himself a glass of wine. Then he carved some cheese from the wheel, using a vicious-looking knife from his belt. Boots thumped again, glass clinked—he swung his feet up onto the table as he slouched into what was likely once Lord Bennet's chair, holding the wine glass in one hand, and a hunk of cheese in the other.

He sampled the creamy treat and shot Magdalene a smirk as he chewed, studying the faces of their two living captives, sloshing the wine around in his glass before taking a thirsty swig.

One of the other men guffawed, grabbing their attention.

"We keepin' them alive for some pleasure before the business?" the guffawing man asked. He sounded different from the leader. Like he had grown up in the city of Crimsonport.

"Keep it in yer pants," replied the captain in his thick northern accent. "These ladies are a little bit too interestin' to give them the usual rough treatment. Besides, Mister Witts. I don't like to damage the product, especially not when they can earn us some good coin overseas. Ya don't think very far do ya? S'that why they used ta call ya Witless Witts?"

Magdalene almost expected a retort. Even an angry glare. But "Witless" Mister Witts' face contorted to reflect the mien of a beaten dog.

The chair creaked underneath the pirate captain's weight as he shifted. He pointed the cheese in his hand at Maggie and said, "This one especially. You're a very interesting little lady, aren't ya?"

Magdalene offered no response. She just met his gaze. Studied his features. Every gesture carried an air of constant calculation. Everything he said aimed to provoke reactions, allowing him to probe the depths of the people in front of him.

And not a single trace of mercy or goodness lurked behind the mask of his eerily familiar visage. This she sensed.

He washed down the cheese with another sip of wine, then growled, "Remove their gags, Mister Hoskins. It's time for the ladies to talk."

The third pirate, Hoskins, had never sat down. He had been hovering behind Jenny and Magdalene, leaning against a cupboard in wait. First, he removed the cloth from Maggie's mouth, then from Jenny. Maggie made no sound, nor did she put up any fight. She simply welcomed the cool air upon her gums.

Jenny also displayed no resistance, but she rolled her jaw to stave off the ache of having the napkin stuffed in there for so long.

"Please, sir," Jenny immediately rattled away. "I'm sure we can work something out. I'm sure we—"

She stopped. The shark-eyed captain shushed her, tapping his lips with a finger.

"I'll admit," he said. "I didn't deem you very interesting at first, but you are a bit of an enigma, Miss—"

"Lady Amelia Hanbury," Jenny Fisher lied, correcting him. She spoke with such confidence and authority that Magdalene intuited how long she had been using this identity as a mask in front of Lord Bennet.

He asked her, "You don't really know what Bennet was up to, eh?"

This must have caught her off-guard. The fast-talking thief remained silent.

In lieu of any answer, the pirate captain's mouth twitched. His lips curled into a devious smile, and he pointed to the stack of books that Hoskins had dumped onto the table.

"Member of a little occult society that calls 'emselves the 'God's Hand'. Bunch o' mystics and mountebanks that dabble in the secret arts, practicing in the shadow of the aristocracy wherever the inquisition can't cast their prying gaze."

Nobody interrupted him when he paused, savoring his ruminations as much as the expensive import wine lingering on his tongue.

"Mighty close to the king's castle, don't ya think?"

He chuckled and sniffed his wine.

Witless Witts leaned over the table, closer to Magdalene. His lips smacked as he chewed on jerky, which took longer than usual, partly owed to some of his missing teeth. He radiated utter contempt.

Magdalene spoke, "So you sought Lord Bennet's library, for secrets it holds. Secrets common folk do not comprehend." She meant to ask, but it rolled out in her monotone. She, too, studied Fentin's face for a reaction.

He smirked again. Pointed two fingers at her. Kept his eyes locked onto hers. There was something magnetic about his gaze. Something unnatural. It slowly peeled away layers of the world around her and froze her into place. Some form of wicked sorcery.

"See, Miss Hanbury. That lass sittin' next to ya—she's a bright one. Quick on the uptake."

"Please, Mister McLachlan, I am begging you," Jenny-not-Hanbury said. "If you tell us what you want, I promise I will help you as long as you don't harm the girl—"

"Name," he said.

"What?"

He had never taken his eyes off Magdalene.

"Your name. Names hold power. And power is what I take. Give me your name."

Ignoring her bondage, Jenny leaned over and hissed at her, "You don't have to answer hi—"

"Magdalene," Magdalene said. "Magdalene McLachlan."

His lips parted and the air about him shifted. He masked a stronger reaction from surfacing.

"Little Maggie," the syllables playfully rolled out. He clicked his tongue. "You prolly don't remember me, but I remember seein' you as a wee lass."

He held out a hand flat by his side, low. Never breaking eye contact. Never blinking.

Shark eyes.

"About yea tall, you were. I knew I remembered your big brown doe eyes. Color me surprised that my useless fuck of a brother's loins produced such a clever girl. But you're not looking too healthy. All skin and bones. What is that prick been feedin' ya?"

He licked his lips, took his feet off the table, and downed the remaining contents of his wine glass in one shot.

"Father is dead," she said. The sentiment flashed in her eyes, finally eliciting a more tangible reaction from him: his eyes widened, even if only subtly so.

"Mister McLachlan, sir," Jenny interrupted them. "I do not mean to interrupt this, uh, touching family reunion of yours, but I would like to stress that there is no need to keep us helpless women tied up like this. It's barbaric, and I swear—upon all that is holy—that—"

"I don't give a rat's ass about anything holy. I commune with powers from beyond this world," Fentin "Shark-Eyes" McLachlan dismissed her, casting a sidelong glance at Jenny.

Witless Witts stifled an awkward giggle. It died in his throat, but he could barely contain his excitement. Hoskins also audibly shifted his weight again.

The rest of the mansion had fallen deathly silent. But the demons—the creatures they had seen earlier—they still lurked, somewhere out there, just out of sight. But far from being out of Magdalene's mind.

"I will not beat around the bush," Jenny said.

Hoskins repeated the last word and chortled behind them.

"We are at your mercy, and I don't care whom I have to swear any oaths to, I only vow to do as you tell me, as long as that guarantees that Maggie and I are not harmed."

She sighed deeply. Her words carved through the air with expertise, timed just before anybody could respond again.

"I will be absolutely honest with you," she said. The lies came so naturally from her mouth and felt like silk brushing softly over skin. The way she spoke transformed a bit more by the end of every sentence.

A different accent emerged. It sounded more like it stemmed from the fog-strangled streets of Crimsonport's lower city wards, blended with foreigners and sporting a hint of the northern accent to match Fentin McLachlan's own. For a split second, Maggie wondered if this was Jenny's real manner of speaking.

"My real name is Marie Cook. I am nobody of grand standing, I am merely someone who was lookin' to make some quick coin off o' Lord Bennet."

She shot a nervous glance in the round, met by arched brows and befuddlement all around, then she flashed an uncannily confident smile before she continued to keep the ball rolling.

"You gents seem to be working somethin'. Somethin' lucrative. I can smell good game seven miles 'gainst the wind, and I know that Lord Bennet's riches can't be the end-all be-all of it, yeah? It's gotta be a bigger score awaitin' you lot here in the Hold, innit?"

Witless Witts guffawed again and slapped the table.

"She's a smart one too, eh cap'n? Yeah, woman. We are gettin' mighty close to the king's—"

"Shut your stupid fuckin' hole," Shark-Eyes growled at Witts. He then sneered at Jenny. "And you must think I am balmy on the crumpet, ya thievin' strumpet. Fuck off."

Witts shrugged and shuddered, growing nervous, then he chugged more liquor.

"I am not stupid, woman. I know you're anglin' for somethin'. Your kind always does. No, we have no use for you and yer yappin'."

"I am also adept at forgin' papers and paintin's, and—oh, even blowin' glass," Jenny quipped, rounded off with a smirk and a playful wink that projected a growing air confidence, which stood in stark contrast with how they had bound her to a chair like Maggie.

The dread captain's lips were wet with wine and oozed a deviousness as they curled into a smirk of his own.

"Where we are headed, what we are doin'—you'd need a much stronger stomach than I fathom you've got, Miss Cook. If that's even your real name. You'd need to be willin' to pact with powers beyond ken. And I don't particularly sense a familiarity with the preternatural on you. How long have ya been here in Bennet's home, oblivious to the treasures he and his ilk are sittin' on?"

"I don't know, but I know enough to know that you are far more clever than you let on. You are far more educated than a man of your station ought to normally be. You are a man who defies conventions, and I am a woman who maneuvers outside of 'em."

The pirate captain awaited more.

He replied, "Unless you're willin' to sell your soul to strange powers, to commune with things from other worlds, Miss Cook, then I have no fuckin' use for ya."

Maggie's attention bounced back and forth between them, like watching a duel of wits. Jenny narrowed her eyes at Fentin.

"Aren't ya afraid of the wrath of God, toyin' with forces o' the devil like that?"

Another smirk from Shark-Eyes. Never blinking.

"In truth, there are no gods nor devils in this world. Those are words that small-minded men have used to make sense of things that resist definition."

A sweeping gesture between Witts and Hoskins segued to his next speech, "These fearless men here are willin' to do what it takes to grasp and embrace such power. They are not blinded by crusty old traditions."

"Hear hear," Witts said, raising his bottle in a crude toast.

"Which takes me to the most interestin' person sittin' at this very here table," Shark-Eyes concluded. Locking eyes with Maggie again. "My dear wee niece, hell forbid I would have expected to ever meet ya again, but here we are. And I want to know what you know. Where ya learned your sorcery from. You summoned a fuckin' psychopomp. I know some necromancy, but that shite is unheard of. Ripped ten sturdy men to pieces without so much as a fuckin' warnin'. If I hadn't had some sigil to deal with our fanged friends gettin' unruly, we would have had an even more serious problem on our hands."

Maggie took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. Stayed calm. Nora had taught her to stay calm in the face of monsters. They always fed upon fear. No need to feed them. No need to lend them power.

"No need to share," she said. "You will kill me anyway—just sooner, if I tell you."

Fentin glowered at her. Struggled to conceal another sneer.

"I had a look at your bags, lass. Found some interestin' reagents in there. Satchels of dust, I'm guessin' from gravestone and bones and pig iron? No writin'. How long have you been practicing? You're so bloody young."

Maggie clenched her lips shut. They formed a thin white line upon her already pale face. Jenny's gaze burnt upon her, but she maintained eye contact with her evil uncle.

"Can't be too long that you're at it. I suspect you're a little bit more intuitive, aren't ya? Wouldn't be a surprise, it's gotta run in the family," he said.

Feeding the sinking feeling in Maggie's stomach, he might deduce more as time went on, even if she stayed silent.

"You and I are not that different, lass. People like us are like doorways. We are vessels for the darkness, as it slowly makes its way into this world. Takes root and grows. Now is the age of darkness, Maggie. The age for it to engulf the world—and transfigure it."

His gaze.

His gaze was truly paralyzing. Rooted in magick. Some power he worked; some demonic power, it suffused his gaze. Could he read surface thoughts? Could he corrupt minds and control weak minds? She dreaded all the possibilities.

"Things like vampyria, wolf-men, fiendish abominations—all real, as you well know if you're workin' necromancy. You should embrace it if you do have that preternatural awareness that so many people lack. Not resist."

Jenny scoffed. She interrupted him, earning a fiery glare from Shark-Eyes. "I know what I saw. Those—things. They were quite real, and if you had told me about 'em just a few days prior, I woulda laughed at ya and said you were out o' your bloody mind. But how much of this is superstition, how much is real?"

Everybody stared at the swindling thief. The confidence in her countenance crumbled.

"What?"

Shark-Eyes bared his teeth again in a hideous, wicked grin.

"All of it, woman. All of it. You're in the presence of experts, folk who have sliced through the shite of obliviousness with blades of knowin'."

Ignoring her again, he said to Maggie, "You and I could accomplish great things. You must hear whispers."

A shiver shook her spine and blood ran cold in her veins. Colder than Bennet's blood, still soaking the tablecloth beside them.

"I, too, hear whispers. They are probably different from the ones you heed. The ones you hear, they come from a place where our kind goes to rot and sleep forever."

Shark-Eyes lost his cool in that moment. The fervor gripped him; droplets of spittle sprayed from his mouth as he whipped himself up into a fevered frenzy with his own speech. He pointed to the ceiling, but all people present knew that he pointed to the stars.

"They are the opposite. The ones I hear, they come from a place between the celestial bodies in the heavens. They are not remembered by the livin', they are the forgotten ones. They have slept long enough, and they stir in their slumber. They ready to awaken. And we can be the heralds of the new age. God-kings that erect our own, new empires on top o' the ruins of an already forsaken world. Have you not felt how the nights grow longer each year? The winters colder? The fog thicker?"

The hairs upon Maggie's nape bristled. She knew what he said was true. Or at the very least, it was one of the few things he genuinely believed in.

"Yes," Maggie said. Nodding slowly. "I admit, our connection to such forces is not that different. But you and I are very different people. We may share blood, and perhaps even madness. Yet I would never join you in your pursuit. I have friends who hunt your kind—"

"My kind? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Monster."

Uncle and niece glared at each other. Murder in both their eyes.

His voice quaked with cold, seething anger, "And what fuckin' friends? Where are they now?"

She kept silent.

The glass in his hand cracked under the growing pressure of his fist clenching around it. Jenny gasped, and even as much as she pretended to stay calm, Maggie shuddered when the glass exploded into a rain of brilliant shards and wine. Fentin slammed his palm onto the tabletop, leaving a red handprint, where blood and wine admixed.

He spat, "It's those fuckin' hunters from the city, isn't it? It's that Merry fuckin' bandit ponce, Johnn Von Brandt. Isn't it?"

Then, with another, more violent slap that caused all cutlery and plates and glasses to rattle, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "I will kill 'em all!"

Jenny's nostrils flared again as she forced herself to display calm, and Maggie shared the same inner struggle.

"Mister McLachlan, sir," Jenny spoke up. Her voice trembled, likely more than she preferred to project. "I have a sudden and dire need to make use o' the restrooms. If you would be so kind to untie me now?"

He thrust out an index finger, pointing it at her face. Blood dripped from his hand.

"Aggressive mimicry, Miss Cook. I have sailed many seas and heard many tales of creatures strange and distant, from all around the world. I have heard of predators that pose as prey, of true wolves that don the sheep's wool and wait until the bigger wolf turns inattentive—then strikes."

"What?"

"I'm sayin' that you can soil your undergarments for all I care. Reckon I already told ya. I am not fuckin' stupid."

"Please, sir. I sense you are not that barbaric. Have one of your fuckin' men escort me, or both for all I care. Hell, I'll piss right in front of 'em, I swear. No funny business."

He began picking glass shards from his hand, not flinching even once. Displaying the same detached coldness that guised the fiery hot rage he had just displayed at his own mention of Johnn Von Brandt.

"Fine. You are right. I am no savage."

He smirked. Nodded at Hoskins.

The pirate standing behind Jenny stepped away from the wall and began working the knots to release her. He knelt to free her legs, then moved to release her hands from the simple bindings made of coarse rope.

"Thank you. Despite what you may be thinkin' right now, I believe we'll find a great way to cooperate in the future," Jenny said, rubbing her wrists as she rose.

She stifled a gasp as Hoskins forcefully grabbed her by the arm.

"Fuck off," Fentin said without looking up.

While Hoskins dragged Jenny out of the room, the captain continued plucking out piece by piece and dropping the bloodied little shards of glass onto the plate before him with soft little clinks.

Clink. Clink.

Several heartbeats after Jenny and Hoskins had left the dining room, and the muffled voices of them reached the chamber from a distance, Shark-Eyes said without looking up, "I have dabbled in necromancy myself, lass. I could learn a thing or two from ya. And you could learn a lot from me. We are not limited to crusty old traditions. We can walk as many roads as we please. How did you call upon a psychopomp, I wonder?"

Maggie squinted and refrained from admitting anything. Nor did she want to revisit the moments of desperation when she first called upon the messengers of death.

"The first necromancers spoke the language of the dead. And contrary to common misconception, they never commanded the dead directly. They bargained with 'em. Where man defies fear of death by embracing the illusion of life, the necromancers defy the illusion. They embrace their fears, and in doing so, understand."

Clink. Clink.

Maggie finally spoke up with a question of her own, "What have you done? Why can I not hear the whispers?"

Another cruel grin marked his face and rested there. He needed not even look up to instill dread upon Maggie in doing so, focused still on removing the last shards from his hand.

"Thorathoth. Zhaal," he hissed, maintaining that grin all the while.

Click. Scrape. Scratch. Click.

Things approached unseen, lurking in the corridors just outside the dining room. Witless Witts' face turned white as a sheet. Claws heralded the creatures nearing.

A set of sharp black talons slid around the corner of the doorway. A hideous head poked inside. Dozens of eyes, like those of an insect or a spider, stared empty into the chamber. The blood drained from Maggie's face as she saw herself reflected in those eyes—too many eyes—and not a shred of humanity, not an ounce of mercy in them.

As it prowled into the room, four bat-like wings furled closely around its lithe body, it made only few sounds. Even Witless Witts inhaled sharply, masking a gasp. Even the pirates in Shark-Eyes' company must have felt fear in the presence of these abominations.

Following the first, another crept inside, ducking through the doorway. Its two heads looked almost like pyramids, with no eyes to see but slavering maws. Its four equine legs stepped silently, and its claws rhythmically opened and closed, as if ready to slash necks and rend human flesh at the drop of a hat.

"I'm sure your moment of glory was born of desperation. My path was the same. I was willin' to sell my soul to survive in this dark world of man, this forsaken world. It is doomed, ya know? Whether we do anythin' about it or not. We can only choose to be the angels of its destruction and rebirth, or to perish alongside the rest of the apes. I chose to stand a cut above the rest of regular men. And they responded."

Clink. The last glass shard landed on the plate. Shark-Eyes folded his hands before him. His voice had fully calmed again.

"I believe not in God nor devil. The things here, the things I speak with—their whispers—I know they are not 'demons', but somethin' else entirely."

The creatures remained conspicuously silent.

Thumping. Footsteps neared. Witts arched a brow as they closed in on the dining room.

Hoskins shoved Jenny through the doorway. She stumbled, tripped, fell to the floor but caught herself. Looked up at the two creatures flanking the entrance as they studied her. One with too many eyes, the other somehow sensing her with no eyes whatsoever. Dark mucus dripped from its fangs and the lustful way it inhaled caused Maggie to shudder.

"The bitch was tryin' somethin' funny," Hoskins said.

"Funny what?" Shark-Eyes snarled.

Hoskins crouched down next to Jenny, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, eliciting a sharp cry of pain.

"Talked me into closin' the door but a crack, then tried climbin' out the window. You are not as clever as ya think," he sneered into her ear. And with a wicked smile, looking up at Maggie to lock eyes with her. "And leavin' the girl to us, no less. What was it you were sayin', again?"

The creature with too many eyes hissed. Even though nothing about it looked even remotely serpentine, it emitted sounds like a rattlesnake. From where exactly on its horrendous form, Maggie could not discern.

"She might be cleverer yet than you think, ya dumb shit," Shark-Eyes said, tilting his head. The constant grins and smirks faded from his face, and he glowered at Hoskins with displeasure. "Zhaal here tells me that she set fire up there. And you are goin' to go right back up there and put it out now, aren't ya? Too many books in this fuckin' house that Bennet probably did not keep hidden in plain sight."

Everybody paused, frozen.

Eyes closed; Jenny smiled to herself. Maggie almost cracked a smile of her own.

"Go," Fentin growled at Hoskins.

His underling scrambled off.

The pirate captain sighed and nodded his head at the door, shooting Witts a glance.

"You too, help him. Prove to me you aren't as witless as the name, Witts. Earn your keep and earn that power ye've been promised."

Witts nodded slowly, then with more zest. He quickly got up and stormed out of the room. Leaving Jenny and Maggie alone with Shark-Eyes and the two demons.

Bound as her hands were in front of her, they allowed Maggie still to fold her hands. Like the legs of a spider, her thin fingers interlocked and clasped.

Like praying hands before her.

She focused and released the powers she had gathered in weeks past. Spells she had studied and meditated over for countless, sleepless hours, to the point of exhaustion. Unleashing forces that would fan the flames and feed them with pure essence.

Her own essence.

Maggie spoke, "Tell me, uncle dearest. You know as well as I that our kind can make fire—or make it grow. But do you know of any way for magick to put it out?"

She narrowed her eyes and could not help but smile at him like a cat. Like a cat playing with its food.

His face fell through various stages of frowning until it turned into a hideous grimace, contorting with boiling rage.

Maggie said, "Even if I cannot hear the whispers, I can still wield other forms of thaumaturgy."

"We truly are of the same blood," he snapped. "Are we not?"

The smile already gone, embracing the darkness she harbored in her heart, Maggie said, "Touched by shadow, and touching it." And in a whisper, "Always."

Shouts echoed from elsewhere in the mansion. Hoskins and Witts struggled to quench the growing fire. Jenny had started it, but Maggie's spell had rendered it unstoppable.

She almost jumped up in her chair—Fentin slammed the table with his bloodied fist, leaving another vermillion print. He thrust out another finger at her. Swallowed a remark.

The chair behind him went flying away as he flew into a rage, storming out of the dining room. His footsteps thudded, heavy with fury. He growled at the two demons.

"Watch them. If they run—kill 'em."

Maggie's chin crinkled. She refused to let him get away with this.

Undeterred by the looming threat, Jenny made her way to Maggie and started untying her.

The creatures did not leap. They started inching, creeping closer.

"I will distract them, and you make a run for it," Jenny whispered, so faint that a mouse would have sounded louder, so close that Maggie felt her breath upon her skin more than she heard her.

Her dainty and dexterous fingers trembled as they swiftly untied the knots binding Maggie's hands together—and froze in place.

"We hear you," said Zhaal. Its mouth did not move, but its voice sliced through the air, calm and menacing.

"We understand you," said Thorathoth. It had no eyes to watch, but Maggie felt watched by it.

Jenny started slipping the ropes out of the knots even faster. Clearly not her first time working with rope, but Maggie perished the thought.

The creatures crept closer, four clawed feet each that touched the ground and emitted only subtle little clicks and scraping sounds, drowned out by the rising cacophony outside, caused by three men struggling to put out a raging fire that now threatened to devour Bennet's mansion—and all his precious occult books.

"He is right, you know," said Zhaal. Its many eyes never blinked, like Fentin's. Cold, dark red. Evil.

"We are not so different," said Thorathoth. Its claws cut through the tablecloth as it took the long way round.

Maggie had no time to register the sensation of finally being released from her bonds. Jenny rose to her side and hugged the girl close to herself. More to comfort herself than protect her, probably, but a hint of selflessness hid beneath that cloak of self-preservation. The woman's head whipped back and forth, trying to keep eyes on both the creatures as they encircled them.

"The one you call God does not love you," said Zhaal.

Said Thorathoth, "He has abandoned you. Forsaken your world. But we—"

"We love you," whispered Zhaal.

"We love your world," breathed Thorathoth.

Maggie began whispering.

Incantations.

The occult words spilled out of her mouth. Jenny looked at her with growing dread.

Maggie knew the risks. If this went wrong, she would draw something far worse than these creatures into her world. Something ancient. Something beyond good and evil, something that could swallow thousands of souls in an instant and with little hesitation to annihilate another world in its wake.

But the monsters crept closer. And the whispers—they had told her that this Jenny was important. Even in their absence, she deigned to heed their warnings. Follow their prophetic call.

"We are but shadows of our true selves, stirring in our slumber," said Zhaal, having crept so close that the monster could pounce.

Its claws dug into the floor, like daggers piercing thick oriental carpets with ease and boring into the wooden boards underneath.

"We love your world so much, we wish to fully awaken in it," said Thorathoth, sounding raspier.

Hungrier.

The closer it got, the taller it looked. The greater the shadows it cast. As if it grew with each step, now towering over Jenny and Maggie.

"A valiant effort to banish us," said Zhaal.

"But we are not your enemy," said Thorathoth.

Their claws spread, poised to strike. Ready to slaughter.

"We are your salvation," said Zhaal.

The maws of its two heads opened wide, with spittle dripping from long, sharp fangs.

"We are the future," whispered Thorathoth.

"Inevitable," hissed both.

Inhuman, deafening shrieks left a ringing in Maggie's ears as both monstrosities lunged at them, then retreated several steps, hissing and snarling like feral beasts. The creatures reeled, as if having struck an invisible barrier.

All pretenses of playing nicely had dropped. The slavering beasts now growled and roared, staying just close enough that they could kill as soon as Maggie's spell even so much as waned.

She glowed. With an otherworldly light. Some would have called it a halo, but all definitions are cheap in the realm of the incomprehensible. Maggie could see her bright emanations in the reflections upon Zhaal's many horrid eyes.

"Stay close to me," she murmured, voice trembling.

She felt weak. It ate at away her very being. It taxed her so much. But it worked.

For now.

Jenny gripped the girl with great force, bracing her and keeping her from stumbling even as Maggie's knees buckled.

"Move," Maggie said. Then she shrieked at Zhaal, "Move!"

Jenny took the cue, stepping forward with Maggie, clutching the girl close to her bosom as they advanced. The creature retreated by the same measure. Defiant of abandoning its master's orders, but incapable of piercing that barrier, no matter how sharp its claws, no matter how deep it could cut into human flesh.

Jenny shuddered as Maggie uttered more words of power. They spilled forth from the girl's mouth—like pure instinct given sound. She did not even understand them, serving only as a conduit for something else.

The alien words stopped flowing from her mouth, followed by another shout, "Move!"

Jenny advanced with her, craning her neck to look behind them as Thorathoth followed, the two demonic predators staying as close as they could in defiance of whatever force kept them at bay.

The woman holding Maggie gritted her teeth and drew upon her final reserves of courage. Maggie felt it shining brightly, like a bonfire suddenly set ablaze. The light about her matched its incandescence.

They advanced more steps, and Zhaal shrieked again. Furiously.

Pained. It retreated more than an equal number of steps, suffering terrible agony. Its gnarled and blackened skin sizzled like drops of vitriolic acid landing on wood. The creature's form cringed, rearing back more and more and eventually—reluctantly—allowing them to pass.

The two backed out of the dining room, facing the two demons. The creatures followed every step. Both burned with malice.

"Whether or not you join us, we shall awaken," Zhaal snarled.

"Whether or not you live or perish, we shall outlast," Thorathoth growled.

"We shall rise," they hissed in unison.

Though fear still wracked her visage, Jenny barked at the creatures, "Fuck off!"

She backed away further with Maggie, cautious step by incredulous step, shoving the girl behind her but still holding her close, wary that the demons might tear them to shreds at any given moment. She understood not how any of this magick worked, acting purely on instinct.

Maggie clasped her hands together. Like praying hands. She had long stopped praying to the one the church called God, but now, more than ever, at the end of her wit, and possibly the end of their luck, they needed a miracle.

She needed the strength to work one last spell.

To break whatever kept the whispers at bay. The whispers—their only hope of egress from these monsters. And from the raging fire. The biting sting of smoke began to creep through the corridors, as Bennet mansion turned into a living hell, populated with monsters to match.

To escape from Shark-Eyes and his smoldering wrath.

"Every door your kind opens," said Zhaal, prowling after them like a wildcat.

"Every path your people pave," said Thorathoth, spreading its arms as if welcoming them for a deadly embrace.

"We come closer to our awakening," they said in unison.

And with that, the miracle happened. Coming from the most unlikely place. The creatures lent her the insight she needed.

Maggie imagined a corridor. A narrow, meandering hole. A place of fog and living darkness. Where the whispers reigned. Where the spirits swirled like mists. A place where the veil was weakest. A bridge between all worlds that ever were, and all worlds that ever would be.

Like these demons somehow entered the human world, so did the spirits somehow. And now, she needed to use that same road to escape.

"There," Maggie gasped.

She unclasped her hands and tugged at Jenny's arm. Pointed to a nearby door.

Jenny must have recognized it, confused over how such a useless room may grant them escape. But she trusted Maggie's directions, left with no other options in the face of such deadly horrors.

The woman ripped the door to the kitchen open but froze upon seeing what lay beyond it.

Went slack jawed.

There was no kitchen there, but a yawning darkness. A narrow corridor, roughly hewn into stone. Mists roiled in a deep and infinite, coiling passageway. Inhuman shrieks of spirits reached them from deep within.

And whispers.

The hair on Maggie's nape bristled once more. Not with fear, but an excited solace.

This—this was their salvation. A dark embrace that would grant them escape. Yet a pit of great peril itself.

She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, worried more about Jenny than herself.

"We must enter," she told the woman.

"What? No. What is that?"

"We must enter," Maggie sighed, growing weak, slumping against Jenny's grip.

Darkness encroached from all sides upon the field of her vision. A deep sleep threatened to overwhelm her. And she dreaded the thought of losing consciousness, of this spell of hers ending, and exposing them to the mercy of the claws and fangs of Zhaal and Thorathoth, the demons that still followed, only two steps away at bay. Or worse: to the mercy of Fentin "Shark-Eyes" McLachlan.

The swindler propped her up and groaned, "No! Alright. Fuck!"

Jenny clamped her eyes shut and plunged the two of them into the depths of that corridor.

Light engulfed them.

The demons refused to follow. Consciousness slipped further and further away from Maggie. The deeper Jenny carried her—eventually truly carrying the anemic girl in her surprisingly strong arms—the mists of this impossible corridor swallowed all sounds. Jenny's shoes created no echoes, as if she walked upon thin air.

And perhaps she did.

Even as the whispers gave Maggie comfort, the spirits here were anything but benevolent. The terror in Jenny's face justified, for if the spell ended prematurely, the entities here would claim them. Swallow them whole. Sever their ghosts from their bodies, making them disappear from their world in an instant, never to be seen again.

Only the light that shone from Maggie, mysterious, and bright, and warm, guided the way. Allowed Jenny to carry her deeper and deeper down the corridor.

A speck of light appeared at the end of this infinite and reality-defying hallway. Bennet's mansion had long disappeared behind them, molten into the pool of darkness, taking with it the dread pirate and his demons—Maggie glimpsed as much as she fought to keep her eyelids open.

Spirits all around them yearned to feast on their life force.

To drink their memories and fool themselves into thinking these were the lives they had lost, distorted through the confusion that grew with each passing moment in the intersection between worlds. More afraid than living mortals of the afterlife, whatever it truly was.

A place that bled outwards, seeping, and soaking the fabric of what humanity considered to be… reality. A growing wound.

Only the faerie light that shone from Maggie kept all these hungry, angry, confused spirits at bay.

Eventually, the girl fully slipped from consciousness, long before Jenny even reached the end of the corridor.

Yet the light refused to die.

—Submitted by Wratts

[one-happy-silent-geek-girl]

Greengrass Family Stuff ! (Inexplored HP, for fics)

Okay so to be able to do thing that doesn’t affect the canon to much when I write/imagine fics I tend to use inexplored part of a univers of a story. And let me tell you something !

HP is just full of that ! So I decided to share some of that, ‘cause why not !

Starting of with a very important family in my timeline :

The Greengrass Family

(And let me tell you I have things to say XD)(Also rememeber this are mostly fanon and headcanons of mine, you can completely diseagree)

Things there known for :

Being tall af

Litteraly accidentaly creating Inferius and cursing themselves as a secondary effect

Cursing that makes them being followed by goshts everywhere

Having reproduct with AT LEAST one wizarding family from every important country

Being extremely socialy ackward and probably all having anxiety...

Being nice to muggleborns (okay that one is canon :p)

Having a pretty long time rivalry with the Rosier Family

Having split at one point because two sisters got into a fight and the rest of family took sides...

Being kleptomaniac

Being litteraly invisible, like since they almost never talk and have a very little presence people generally don’t see them...

Having very weird birthmarks thats looking like something, generally related to astronomy

Being the “weird family” and being kind of too curious

Having burn a part of the Voords (Invented Family from Norway) Manor

There beautiful messy brown hair and perfect green eyes like foliage on summer, with sometimes some golden glitters

Believing that we never really forget anything

Having some sort of "Butterfly Effect Philosophy" : "Anything you do will cause succession actions and has been cause by a succession of action. This is how your futur will be decided, be careful..."

Things they are :

Slytherclaws (always UwU)

If the 28 sacred was a family they’d be that one weird uncle with it’s basement full of weird stuff that spends his time making experiments and only shows up at the christmas party

Tall Necromancer Sherlocks (and there coming for ya)

Or there your Sassy Best Friend or there your Calm, Listener Best Friend

From Scotland

Significant Members (mostly OCs XD) :

(Also I'm only doin the characters wich last name is Greengrass, cause otherwise this would be too long...)

Cassandra Harmony Greengrass

Description : "A young girl littler than most of her family with a constant smile"

Life Dates : Unsure

Known for : Being the girl who accidentaly created the firt Inferius and cursing her all family.

Hermes Lior Greengrass 1

Description : "A young men with horriblymessy hair and a general bitter sweet expression"

Life Dates : Unsure (like her sister)

Known for : Being Cassandra's older brother and making the two medallions to remember there dad and that protects the family.

Athena Ettie Greengrass

(I wanted to put an image but couldn't find someonelooking like her and I never finished her draw sooo... X3 Yeah...)

Description : "A tall girl with brown hair in a braid with strict green eyes, that looked like that judged anyone and anything they saw. She lloked cold and a smile on her face was a possible as finding a Chimera in a british garden"

Life Dates : 1921-1991

Known for : Being one of the brightest witch of her time.

Hespérie Keva Greengrass

Description : "A girl with messy/curly dark brown hair, generaly in a ponytail, and ligth green eyes like foliage on summer. She was pale because shedidn't really went out. Her birthmark is on her right shoulder blade and looks like a full moon."

Life Dates : Formally : 1959-1980, AU : 1959- Not dead yet (Ahaha, I wished ;v;)

Known for :

Fighting against the Dark Lord during the First Wizarding War and killing herself to protect The Order of Phoenix and her friends and Family.

Being a medium

Being the mother of : Formally : Violette Greengrass-Black (here and here) AU : Violette, Hermes, Helen and Lyna Greengrass-Black

Astoria Aphrodite Greengrass

Description : "A girl with dark brown wavy hair and beautiful green eyes."

Life Dates : 1981-2019

Known for : Figthing in the Battle of Hogwart, Being considered a blood traitor by other families, Being a Legilimens, Marying Draco Malefoy and dying because of a "blood curse"

Daphne Leelou Greengrass

Description : "A tall girl with dark brown wavy hair and beautiful green eyes."

Life Dates : 1981-Not dead yet

Known for : Marrying Frank Wright a half-blood who's now in Azkaban for several crimes and is completely crazy, Being an Occlumens.

[tibalt-the-fineblooded]

Battle Ground Spoilers

Ok. It’s been about a day since I finished the latest Dresden Files book and I think I’ve managed to process everything. And there’s a lot to go over.

First and foremost, it was the second half of a story. I understand why Peace Talks and Battle Ground were split, there was too much for a single book. That doesn’t mean there isn’t any fat that could have been chewed off, but that’s for later.

The book is revolving around Harry. Literally. That’s the series, Harry and his issues. But this book is his biggest failings and loses all stacked together in a horrible mess that he couldn’t fix. What happened in this story, between PT and BG, is worse on Harry than when he ended the Red Court and killed Susan. But it also gives a new light on some other major characters as well.

So much happened for Harry. So much. But what happened to him was fall out from what happened to everyone around him. He got a Banner, a Banner of Will that unites people under a cause. That’s amazing. And then the worst thing that could have happened with a power like that happened. He felt the people following him die. He felt what caused their deaths. Hundreds of people died with him feeling how they died. That’s going to leave psychic scars of the likes he’s never seen before. And it made him think about what it’s like to be a Ruler. To be a Queen. That what he felt is very likely what Mab feels. That’s huge.

-Thomas is the next best thing to 6 feet under. And Harry has hardly mentioned it. Aside from not mentioning it, he’s barely thought about it. This is nothing new from Harry. Thomas is family, but so is Ebenezer. Which makes the fall out between the Harry and his grandfather worse. BUT Harry also doesn’t really have this in the forefront of his mind. He’s got a city to save and his last two relatives are pulling away rapidly and maybe forever. He’s not thinking about it for the same reason he avoided Thomas when he came back from his little trip to the Other Side in Ghost Story. He’s avoiding facing the truth. Thomas is very likely going to die and Ebenezer wants him dead. The trauma that’s followed him since the day his dad died is right there, knocking on the door, waiting to be let in. It’s also only been a few hours. Hopefully we’ll see how Harry deals with this is the next book, like how the Alphas told him off for spending nearly a year in isolation after Susan skipped town.

-Waldo Butters shone like a star. He was front and center, like the day he rode Sue the T-Rex. The newest Knight of the Cross played a huge part as the symbol of Faith. Because that’s what he is when he wields that broken hilt, the symbol of Faith. Sanya is the symbol of Hope. Michael was the symbol of Love. But Faith was the important factor here. Because Butter’s shouldn’t have been able to keep up with Harry or Sanya with the training he’s had. But then again, Murphy shouldn’t have been able to keep up during the battle with the Red’s. The Sword’s and the Lord have a way of putting the Knights where they need to be and when, but they are mortal men with mortal body’s fighting monsters. They need help, and their Faith, Hope and Love grant them this. So long as the cause is Just, the Sword will not waver, and neither shall it’s weilder. The Knights have to be able to keep up if they are to be where they are needed, especially when they need to be in arms reach of the Winter Knight.

-Marcone is the host to a fallen angel. Huge twist. Huge insane twist. How long has it been since he took up the coin? Nic has made it apparent that he could tell who had members of the Fallen inside their heads, even when Lash wasn’t in Harry’s head he probably sensed Bonea instead. So was it after Skin Games? Before? When????? But damned if the reveal wasn’t amazing. Was this the best of ideas for Marcone? Who knows. He refused to work for Nic and found, seemingly like Harry had with Lasciel, a Fallen with its own plans.

-Murphy. Died. She killed a fire giant. With a BAZOOKA. And then Rudolph the shit stained sack of useless meat shot her in the neck. He refused to see what the world really was. And. He. Shot. Karrin. In. The. Neck. I don’t care that he’s a coward and that he panicked and fired the shot. I care about that fact that Karrin Murphy deserves better. I care about the fact that Butters and Sanya shouldn’t have been there. Harry SHOULD have been allowed to kill Rudolph. But Jim Butcher killed Karrin Murphy with a bullet from the gun of a character the entire fandom has HATED since day one. Rudolph deserves nothing but the worst fate possible and I will be FURIOUS if he survives to the end of the series. Murphy deserves better. She should have lived and gotten to watch Harry beat Ethniu. Lived to help raise Maggie. Karrin Murphy died halfway through the book when she should have lived.

-Harry got kicked out of the White Council. Big shock. Honestly surprised it took this long. I was confused as to why he even wanted back in after Ghost Story. They weren’t a layer of protect for him. They never had been and never would be. Being the Winter Knight is more of a safety net that the Council for Harry. Harry has done nothing but his best for the Council and they don’t care. They fear him. They fear the Starborn, whatever that title means. “Vague immunity from the influence of Outsiders.” Drakul, Harry and Listen. That’s 3. It feels like it’s some weird “Planets are aligned” bullshit that should be easy to predict. Why isn’t the Council just, I don’t know, only having children that are Starborn? They seem like the sort of shit bags that wouldn’t blink at that. It seems plausible that the higher ups know exactly how to make a Starborn and have the knowledge to mass produce them. But no. We still don’t know what it entails. And Harry’s in the dark and an outlaw. Carlos is just another member now. Harry hasn’t been able to properly talk to him for years it seems because they have acted like friends in a while. Hell it even seems like Carlos was willing and wanting to just dump evidence against Harry. Given Carlos’ comment on the Law, it now makes sense as to why the Council has had so much trouble with necromancers. They probably still think of zombies as humans, if the troops the Fomor used counted enough as human to be used against Harry. The White Council can choke and die on its hypocrisy. It doesn’t matter that Harry sits at the table full of monsters. He’s always put the lives of the innocent before his own and the Council doesn’t give a shit about any of the good he did for them. The White Council will collapse and the Black Council won’t break a sweat doing it.

Justine is possessed by He Who Walks Beside. She’s been possessed for years. Ever since Thomas almost ate her soul to heal himself from the brink of death. It’s been blackmailing Thomas for years and this push was to break a foundation of Something. To crack a cog in the wheels of fate or fray the red string of destiny. Who knows. We don’t.

That’s all I got. Did I enjoy the book? Hell yeah. But I’m still passed as hell.

[iwrestlenow]

It All Starts And Ends With You, Chapter One (Stories from THE EMERALD)

TITLE: It All Starts And Ends With You, Chapter 1 

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: The nature of a drake, human versus dragon, isn't just tragic backstory. The supernatural halfbreeds are a living duality, two creatures in one skin. Every drake is, essentially, a twin soul.

Unlike most twin souls with a Necromatic match, however, a drake can choose.

For Janus, giving Patton his human soul was easy...but a secret from his past means that his choice has consequences...consequences he was never supposed to face, because Patton would never be free.

So much for a sure thing.

SHIPS: Moceit (Patton/Janus), Dragon Witch/Original Male Character and background Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: Future smut--warnings for all pertinent chapters will be posted.

...so apparently there's going to be a few side stories in this series? This takes place shortly after MANY MORE TO DIE, but it's not the big sequel. It's very much a side quest type thing because Janus Has Backstory and I Have Moceit Feels(TM). XD

Also, later on there WILL be smut in this story, but the chapters will be labeled--and I'm planning to make them skippable if I can. Otherwise I'll summarize plotty things in the end notes. So you filthy minded animals can have your debauchery, and those less inclined can still have all of my feels. :P

Per usual, unbeta'd self indulgent drivel, all mistakes are mine. ONWARD TO SHIPPYTOWN!

Also located at AO3 over here.

1019, A.A.

“Jay! A word?”

Eleven year old Janus Ormor looked up from the book he was reading on the floor of their living chamber. Father was captain of the guard, and as such they had better quarters in the palace than some other soldiers—shutters on the windows, softer beds, and the rug in their living chamber was far more comfortable than his bed, especially with a fire going.

Janus always had trouble staying warm—which never seemed right, since he was half dragon, but if Father wasn't worried then neither was Janus.

Marking his place carefully, Janus set his book aside and got to his feet so he could dash across the room to crawl into his father's lap. Yeah, it was kind of juvenile—he was eleven, Shadow's sake—but Father ran hot, and Janus was not above stealing a little of that warmth from him.

Knowing that, Timothy Ormor smiled and loosened the top couple buttons on his collar, allowing Janus to press his forehead to the curve of his neck as he crowded close with a satisfied sigh.

“What's going on, Father?”

“Nothing, really, just...well, your birthday is in a couple days.”

“Uh huh! I'm really excited! I love surprise parties.”

“How did...”

Janus looked up at his father with a smile, earning one in return. Father finally laughed, shaking his head.

“Sometimes I forget how good your ears are, wriggle worm.” Father sighed, tugging Janus closer. “No matter—yes, we're throwing you a surprise party. Think you can pretend?”

“I'm real good at pretending!” Janus assured him before cuddling up to Father's chest again.

“Well, that's good...but, uh...we need to talk 'bout something else.”

“What's that, Father?”

“Well...you know the story I told you about how you were born?”

Janus nodded, tucking his head against Father's neck again. “You and Mother loved each other very much, so you--”

“Not that part, imp!”

Giggling, Janus continued.

“--after Mother found out she was with child, you guys let me be born in the way of the dragons: she changed form, carried me for a year, and I was hatched a few weeks after the egg came. I didn't get my human form until I was a month old.”

“Well...that's the thing, kiddo...Shadow's Balls, there's no easy way to say this...”

“Say what, Father?”

“I...damn it, but I promised her you'd know your people. Thing is, Jan...your mother didn't have you with me.”

Janus felt his stomach get cold inside.

“What do you mean? You...you're my father.”

Timothy ran a hand through his son's hair, staring into his bright and confused little face. He wasn't overly fair, but his jet black hair washed out his complexion some, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight.

He was so easily mistaken for human with that beautiful face—until he heard things no child his age should. Until he stuck his hand in a fire and came away unburnt. Until he grew slow and lethargic in the cold...until those dark eyes bled yellow as daffodils, pupils lengthening into reptilian slits.

“I'm your dad, wriggle worm,” Timothy confessed, “but the truth is...I'm not actually your father.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Sneak attack!”

Janus dropped his book as Patton rushed straight at him, flinging himself into Janus's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck to squeeze tight.

“I could see you coming, sweetie.” Janus pointed out with a sigh that didn't match the fierce swell of affection in his chest, hot and restless, compelling him to hold Patton in return with arms wrapped carefully around his waist.

Patton's giggle, right in his ear, sent a pleasant shiver up his spine. “But you didn't know I was gonna hug you!”

“Your arms were open for one.”

“So?”

“You also do this at least three times a day.”

“Only because you said four was too many!”

Patton drew back to pout at him this time, and that hot swell of affection stretched in his chest to the point of pain. Since Mori's death and Roman's installment as regent until the coronation, Logan and Patton had been given free reign of the castle, along with a few other Necromata prisoners the pair had vetted. Until their freedom was voted on by the citizens, they couldn't be released, but they could at least be made comfortable, and given room to reclaim some shred of normalcy.

Which meant Patton could, and did, visit Janus far too often, greedily devouring every hug, cuddle, hand hold, or simple hair ruffle he could gain access to. Janus could hardly deny him...and Janus wanted it all just as much.

Gods, Janus wanted, too much and too soon and too...inhuman.

Staring into Patton's face, Janus's vision was tinged with rays of gold. A gilt to every dark curl on Patton's head, flecks of gold in those deep blue eyes turning them into true lapis...shimmering gold lips pooched into a mock scowl, gold dusting the faint array of freckles he was acquiring after a few weeks of sunlight...

Pressure. Warm, steady, gentle...

Janus blinked, realizing Patton had his forehead pressed against Janus's. He was talking, words Janus couldn't hear but felt, soft and soothing and endless to fill his ears and press back the shimmering film over his vision.

The gilt edges faded away. His eyes were blue, deep and still and endless. He was Patton again, not...not some worthless hoard.

Just Patton, soft and sweet and bloodthirsty, infinitely more precious.

“...got you, Janny, my beautiful Janus. I got you, you're doing so good, you're so good for me...”

...okay, that couldn't be allowed to go on. Not when it made warmth pool far lower in Janus's body, made him want something entirely different—and wow, he was not ready for those kinds of personal revelations today.

Clearing his throat, Janus reached up to gently touch Patton's cheek.

“I'm all right, Pattycake. Promise.”

Patton watched him dubiously, a far more serious version of that pout forming on his face again...Gods and Souls, he wanted to run a fingertip over that lush lower lip. Or maybe bite it.

“You were growling.” Patton replied suspiciously. “And you were feeling cold. You're never cold, you're always warm as toast.”

“It's nothing, truly. I was just...distracted.” Janus tried again. “Work related, got me a little upset is all.”

Patton narrowed his eyes—then leaned back in to hug Janus again. Janus hugged him back without thinking...and felt his breath catch when he swore, swore to all the dragon gods, that he felt the tiniest press of lips against his neck before Patton burrowed in, pressing his face there.

“No one's 'llowed to upset my pretty dragon.” Patton mumbled against his throat. “Gonna eat their liver.”

Janus knew enough to know that was a very genuine threat, petulant as it sounded—and the promise of bloodshed should not make his heart throb with the softest pulse of tenderness and adoration. And yet...

“No more cannibalism, remember, darling?”

“It was one time, and it was an accident!”

Janus had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as Patton drew back to whine at him in protest.

“Yes, darling. Of course—entirely accidental. Naturally.”

“Humph. Not talking to you anymore.”

“Understood.”

“...the Lord Father is here to see you.”

Janus felt his blood turn to ice at that.

“Janny? You okay?”

With a sigh, Janus gently patted Patton's knee.

“No, but this was inevitable. Up, Paddock darling. I've business to attend to.”

********** He seemed bigger than Janus remembered.

Walking into his office, he was unsuprised to see Josiah Crofter standing within its walls, back turned as he stared out the window, arms folded across his chest. He wasn't, technically, allowed to be here and leave free, but Josiah had made it clear to the prince regent he knew how to access the castle at will—and had been given leave to do so whenever he wished to see his family.

When Janus was thirteen, he'd been a hungry giant, and now...now he was exactly the same despite the fact that Janus was now a grown man. Tall, too, thanks to that seven foot frame in his ancestry. Somehow, even still, Josiah himself was the bigger, the prouder, the more intimidating.

Clearing his throat, Janus announced his presence. Josiah didn't even turn around.

“You got good men servin' you, Deceit.”

“Do not call me that.” Janus replied flatly, sauntering over to his desk. “The walls have ears. Granted, most of them are mine, but loose lips and all. Unlike the rest of you, I take protection of my True Name very seriously.”

“Unlike the rest of us, son, it can't be used to hurt you. Not anymore.”

“Yes, you saw to that, didn't you?” Janus bit off tersely, sinking into his chair.

Josiah fell silent, taking a moment before he finally turned to face him. He was a stoic wall for several seconds before his expression just...melted, cold gray eyes going smoke-soft as he watched him.

“You look so much like your momma it hurts.” Josiah murmured, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “It's a good hurt, mind, but...I know you don't believe me, but seein' you's a balm on old wounds, little ember.”

That caught Janus by surprise—and he hated that. He was the one with the surprises, the tricks, the knowledge...but this man had things he never would.

Father knew who Janus was, but Josiah Crofter...he knew where Janus came from. He knew the why, the history and the parts and how they worked together, because they were a part of him as well. They were, quite literally, part of his soul.

“Which part?”

The question left Janus without his permission, torn from the small, secret part of him that had been inexorably drawn to his birth father's doorstep from the moment his human half had truly awakened for the first time.

He wasn't sure what he even meant, but somehow Josiah knew all the same.

“Both. All.” he replied, deep voice heavy with affection that settled over Janus, warm as fire and soft as the heaviest flannel blanket. “You got her scales and her hair—and in human form, her eyes were always that same shade of yellow you got on the one side.”

The knowledge hit him hard, formed a fist and plunged straight into his chest. It was comfort, it was agony...and it was a much needed reminder.

Josiah Crofter knew him as even his own father couldn't—and far too late, Janus learned to fear him for that reason. Far too late.

Janus's True Name was proof of that.

“Is there a reason you're here to see me, Lord Father?” he replied instead of addressing the observation. “Or did you come her to merely wax sentiment?”

A flare of hurt, then anger passed through his expression, clinging to his bones with its painful familiarity. Timothy Ormor was a man slow to anger, patient and steady—unlike Janus, whose swift mind was only outpaced by his heart, burning with the fire of the dragons.

Lashing out with anger instead of grieving or showing fear. This man was where he got it from.

Like Josiah did now, composing himself and folding his hands behind his back, he would default to a steady and inscrutable mask, cover the truth with strength and decorum.

“I came here to check on you.” he replied evenly. “Your situation with the Morrel boy ain't exactly a common one. Does he know?”

“About my condition? No.” Janus replied flatly. “And he never will.”

“That ain't an option, and you damn well know it.”

“It is if we aren't together.”

Josiah's brow furrowed, expression clouding with confusion. “You a Jadeheart?”

Janus rolled his eyes. “That term is archaic as all Seven Hells—no, I am not aromantic. Nor am I asexual, which is hardly your business—oh, I'm sorry, Soultouched.”

“You love that boy. You're bonded to him.”

“Your point?”

“...so you did give him your human soul.”

Janus fell silent, stubbornly holding the other man's gaze until he grit his teeth with a growl.

“Ah, Hells...”

Janus didn't like the way Josiah's breath left him in a rush, the way he cursed as if he'd just lost something precious. He didn't like the way he hung his head, shoulders slumping in something like defeat.

Janus didn't like the way he felt suddenly like he'd done something to deliberately hurt him.

“He was a Black Dog with a pure heart.” Janus hissed. “The purest heart...anyone who didn't know would assume he had a soul already, how could I give him anything else? How could I kill that human heart with a monster's soul?”

As he said it, he felt the reality of it sink into him for the first time, saying it out loud like that.

Because unlike most twin souls, a drake could choose.

And when Janus gained an inkling of what might be happening, when he felt that moment come—to give of himself, to release something of himself into Patton's care, of course—of course he chose to give Patton, to trust Patton, with everything in him that was human.

“You know what's gonna happen if you hold yourself away from him, son.” Josiah warned.

Janus narrowed his eyes at him, but could no longer bear up under Josiah's scrutiny, his eyes flicking down to his desk.

“Tell me this, Father: if you knew that you were going to become every foul thing the Animator stood for, if you knew that you were going to turn into your own father, would you have married my mother? Would you have exposed her to that monster?”

There was no answer from Josiah. Janus didn't expect one.

The closer he grew to Patton, the worse it got—and now that the sweet little killer was no longer safely tucked away in the dungeons or sequestered in a single wing of the palace, Janus was slipping.

Consumed by the hunger for possession. Tormented by visions of riches. Haunted by the knowledge that, if given half a chance, he would consume Patton whole just to sate his growing thirst for more.

Without his human soul, Janus was losing his grip on himself—and if he couldn't do something soon, the dragon—Deceit--would be all that was left of him.

[robobirdie]

Fan Story Forward

I have long struggled with mental illness my entire life and in 2012 during a very low period in my life I got a little parrot I named R2 even though we always called him Tooie. I had always wanted a bird, a living dinosaur, ever since I was very young and given my state my family thought it best to get me a companion parrot. He helped me get through many troubled times but in 2018 my beloved companion Parrot when he passed away suddenly July 12 at only six years old from a fungal infection. Just three months later my cat Keiko a beloved companion of 14 years was diagnosed with cancer in the jaw bone the week of Halloween. She was given only a week to live but hung on till February 26 of 2019. R2 loved watching TV with the family or when people played video games. My younger sister got me into watching Ninjago around late 2016 and I came to love it and so did he. Watching the show helped me feel better whenever times were low. I didn’t get into the Nexo Knights till after he passed but knowing him he would have loved it too. I had gotten into the Elder Scrolls series in 2012 during my very low period and it really helped me get by and both R2 and Keiko enjoyed hanging out watching as I played Elder Scrolls games. I’ve always been strongly creative and often write, draw or work digitally to create things and shortly after R2 passed I had started to come up with an idea involving three of the things we loved the most; a story involving the ninja and Nexo Knights. I only started writing however shortly after Keiko passed. I wrote this story as a sort of way to get over the grief of their loss. When I started I had a sense of where the story was going but no real end and many aspects were still blank. I was heavily inspired by the Elder Scrolls series particularly the third instalment Morrowind, the fourth instalment Oblivion and its Shivering Isles expansion plus the most recent instalment Elder Scrolls Online which my younger sister got me as a birthday gift in 2019. This inspiration is heavily noticed in environments, names and parts of the mythology in the story. While the story deals with the very dark subject matter of death and grief I tried to keep it light and keep in plenty of humor despite the dark subject matter. I also tried to keep it light enough in tone for young children which is very hard when dealing with such a dark subject. I originally wanted to keep it short but as I was writing I found that really was not going to work. The story became so complex that restricting it in size was not really wise. I knew from the start I was going to focus on two of the ninja similarly to how the show works. The two I chose are my two favorites', Zane and Cole (if you’re wondering Aaron and Clay are my two favourite knights). As I wrote I began to feel the story was best put into two parts. While the two are focused on through the whole story the focus is more prominent to Zane during the first half and Cole in the second. Part one is titled The Land of Ice and Ash while the second is titled The land of Stone and Shadow.

I have seen all the Nexo Knight seasons and Ninjago up to season 13 of the show so it will fit chronologically up till this point. It also takes aspects from Tomy Andersons story "Way of the Departed" since I have read those. Overall it is not heavily reliant on other seasons being focused on the story at hand though there are times when content from other seasons is implemented. Taking hint from what one of Ninjagos creators said, I believe it was Tommy, the knights and ninja are given a pretty hard time in the story but that helps propel the story and make it interesting. They are thrust into a strange world with strange people who have mixed views of them many hating them and beings who wish to destroy them at every turn. Overall I believe it is a fun, entertaining and heart warming story. It might even help you get over any grieving you might be having. It did that for me.

Originally when I started writing this story I had intended for the Knights of the Prong to be Legos Nexo Knights but did not know how to properly bring them in so simply came up with the Knights of the Prong as a stand in and this helped me get the story out. I always felt I could do more with the knights and as I have gotten close to the end I finally figured out how I was going to bring in the Nexo Knights and I think it offers more to the story The ninja are still the major focus of the story but the knights have their part and help flush out some parts and offer a different view of this place the two groups find themselves in. Like with the ninja the parts with the knights is not heavily reliant on the seasons of the Nexo Knights but does rely that you know who the Nexo Knights are and a bit of a back story on them.

For those who don't know about the Nexo Knights here is a bit of back story to help you know who they are:

The Nexo Knights come from a place called Knighton where they fight monsters created by a necromancer named Monstrux. They work with the great over 300 year old wizard Merlok who gives the knights magical aid to boost the knights powers against monsters. Due to an accident he became digitized. With help from two knights in training Ava a tech master and Robin a mechanic and inventing expert he was integrated into the knights moving fortress a vehicle called the Fortrex. The two are children and rarely get directly into a fight often working in the background alongside Merlok. Ava prefers her technology over magic and Robin aspires to be a full knight like his role model Clay. Clay Moorington is Merloks nephew even though for the longest time he did not know this. He wields a sword and is leader for the knights being the most serious and devoted to the knights code to protect others. During the 3rd and 4th season he got corrupted by Monstruxs magic which turned him to stone. He cured himself when he unlocked a power with magic he did not know he had. His mother was a wizard like her brother Merlok but got corrupted by monstruxs dark magic turning her evil when Clay was young. Macy Halbert is the daughter to Knightons rulers the king and queen however she prefers to be a knight over a princess often sneaking her weapon, a mace, and armor in to places when she is supposed to be doing princess duties. She is the second most serious about being a knight and cares little for the duties of a princess. Aaron Fox is the groups archer wielding a crossbow and is an ultimate adrenaline junky thrill seeker often using his knights shield as a hover board during a fight or for fun. While he often doesn't seem it he is serious about his duties as a knight. While Clay was corrupted he took over as leader for the knights taking his new role seriously. He is most often wearing headphones. Axl, who has no last name, is the muscle of the group wielding a war axe. He's kind, gentle, plays music and loves food. His younger sister has a crush on Robin which makes Robin uncomfortable. Lance Richmond is the spoiled  party son of a rich lord. He's super into his good looks and social media and has been known to pay others off to do or finish jobs for him. Despite this he does take his role as a knight seriously despite originally not wanting much to do with the life of a knight. He has a pet pig named Hamletta and a little sister who's training to be a knight like him. The knights have special shields which can harness Merloks magic for use in combat. Another prominent character who does make it into the story as well is Jestro the courts royal jester. While not a knight he trained alongside the others and is a deep friend of Clays. He is very insecure and anxious and tends to have the unfortunate luck of falling to evil influences, particularly Monstrux, despite his attempts to avoid them. Even when corrupted he’s hesitant to truly hurt the knights preferring to just mess with them.

I am a strong visually orientated person so as I went I created many concept arts to help me visualize environments, creatures, layouts and characters in the story. I will include these with the story so you can help visualize things as well. Many of these artworks you can find here: https://www.deviantart.com/nerdy-hyena/gallery/72478681/story-project

Overall I believe it is a fun, entertaining and heart warming story. It might even help you get over any grieving you might be having. It did that for me.

 Keiko and R2:

As in all Elder Scrolls games there is a prophecy that foretells of heroes journey for the ninja their prophecy as foretold by the scrolls is:

“The scrolls foretold of this; His defeat was merely a delay; after the oni would fall the dragons would fail. When their wings are clipped and they have fallen to shadow the border between realms shall weaken and fall and darkness shall come. Realms once light and familiar shall be covered in shadows, shadows that are in plain view yet hidden consuming the world in darkness. There is only one this darkness fears; one of its own. But to gain this darkness and for the realms to be saved knights must fall to ash and shadow and dragons must enter the tower of first light and fall to its darkness in order for realms to see the light.”

To find all chapters look here: https://robobirdie.tumblr.com/archive

You can also find a copy of the story written here https://archiveofourown.org/works/34894561/chapters/86888878 and here https://www.wattpad.com/1087355671-ninjago-the-oni-scrolls-foreword-important-info You can also find images pertaining to the story here: https://www.deviantart.com/nerdy-hyena/gallery/72478681/story-project

[salvatoreschool]

‘Legacies’ season 2 spring finale review: Evil is only as powerful as you let it be

For an impromptu end, the Legacies season 2 spring finale was one hell of an episode. Congrats to the whole Legacies team for letting us end season 2 (for now) in such epic style!

So, last episode ended with Hope asleep (and in Josie’s mind), Landon dead, Raf zombified, Lizzie pretending to be dead, and the rest doing their best to play up Lizzie’s death so Darth Josie wouldn’t catch on to their plan.

That’s a hell of a lot to try and wrap up in one episode, but I was SERIOUSLY impressed with how well this episode worked as a finale. I mean, yes, of course I’m desperate to know why Hope is still seemingly stuck in Josie’s mind, and why Landon hasn’t woken up if the Necromancer did his part. But I’m also really glad that we have some threads left open ended to pull on this summer while we wait for news regarding when it will be safe for the Legacies cast and crew to return to set. I’m sure they’re as eager to film those last four episodes (including that confirmed musical ep!) as we are to see them, but first and foremost, it must be safe for them to return.

That all said, here’s my full review of all the craziest bits of the Legacies season 2 spring finale:

Of course Josie’s subconscious is a fairytale world

I mean, we knew it from the previews already, but it makes a lot of sense. And I hope that now that she’s rewriting the story, her subconscious world will morph and change to fit the woman who dreamed it up.

If we ever end up in Josie’s subconscious again, I hope we find it a different sort of fairytale kingdom. One where the princess is a little more fierce and badass, while still maintaining that sense of goodness, with the same kind heart and good humor.

Dark Josie reigns supreme

I’m thinking in the hierarchy of villains, she’s somewhere underneath Malivore, and probably Kai, too, but definitely higher than Clark or the Necromancer or pretty much any of the singular monsters from last season. For some reason, that black magic energy is just so much more powerful than almost anything else we’ve seen on Legacies so far.

There are a couple TVD era villains I can think of (the Mikaelsons anyone?) that would give her a run for her money, but she’s gonna rank pretty high on the Legacies villain list for a long time.

Hope is Lizzie and Lizzie is Hope

I gotta say, Danielle Rose Russell does a mean Lizzie Saltzman. I bought it hook, line, and sinker. It must have been a lot of fun for Danielle to get to do something a little different for a change than more of Hope’s tortured hero drama. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love me some Hope-saved-the-world-and-all-she-got-for-her-trouble-was-this-black-puddle-of-goo drama, but it was nice to see one of the show’s strongest actors get to flex a different muscle for a bit in the Legacies season 2 spring finale.

So, what exactly happened to Landon?

Last episode he was stabbed by Raf with the golden arrow. I really believed that when they pulled it out, he would start his resurrection cycle again, but no such luck. Raf is holding the arrow when he brings Dr. Saltzman down to take a look, and at no point in the course of this episode did it appear that Landon was even thinking of bursting into phoenix-y flames.

So, is Landon dead? Or just stuck like it seems Hope probably is at the end of the episode? Well, we have a bit of a wait til we find out, but let the conjecture begin!

No nonconsensual kissing for these fairy tale ladies

I know, I know. When we start thinking in fairy tale tropes, it’s easy to start believing in true love’s kiss, but I actually really like the stand the writers took in this episode. You have to be the change you want to see in the world, and, in order to re-write tropes like those of Snow White and Prince Charming, you have to start somewhere. Why not our little supernatural show about witches, vampires, wolves, and the menagerie of monsters they had no idea they were sharing a world with.

Little Red Riding Witch vs. the Big Bad Wolf Queen

I find it interesting that Hope was able to fend off the darkness pretty well until it took Josie form. Is Hope just reluctant to hurt someone who looks like Josie, even if she is in her evil form? I think that may have been part of the case, here. Plus, it’s nice to know that Josie had the power to tame her darkest impulses all on her own.

Lizzie’s gets a major dose of truth

It’s really unfortunate that everyone has fallen into this ‘Lizzie is terrible’ schtick, but it was probably good for her to hear. Lizzie is so self-assured in her popularity that she doesn’t see the forest for the trees. She can think of how each and every person treats her in one on one situations and such, but she doesn’t take a look at the big picture very often. I’m sure even Lizzie would have noticed that the other students more fear her than love her.

But at the same time, Lizzie’s bravado is a delicate facade. Just underneath that thin, flimsy coating of “thick skin” she pretends to have, is a girl who just wants to be liked. She just wants to know that when she sacrifices herself to save her school and her sister, that someone will have nice things to say about her and a few nice memories to carry her on with.

Jed and Kaleb’s riff off

This whole Jed and Kaleb competition for Alyssa Chang’s affection is kind of hilarious. Them having a riff off full of skilled (and some rawer talent) runs in the middle of Lizzie’s fake funeral was adorable. I mean, that was a terrible memorial, but at least it helped dissolve a little of the tension already ramping up in this episode.

Oh, and if their bonding over Alyssa’s flaws means a new bromance is born, I am SO here for that, too.

A deal with the devil… adjacent

In order to save Josie from the black magic churning through her cells, Alaric had to make a deal with the Necromancer. Since our zombie-creator found himself powerless against the powers of Lord Josiemort, he knew there was only one way to get her out of his life and himself back in the driver’s seat. Returning Raf and Alyssa to actual life and (supposedly) reviving Landon was just a trade off. The real choice was between giving all Josie’s black magic to the Necromancer and giving him a supercharge of his power or letting her fall deeper and deeper into the evil coursing through her veins.

The unbreakable covenant spell

Eerily reminiscent of the Unbreakable Vow from Harry Potter, the Necromancer agrees to be bound by their deal. In order to assure Alaric that he would hold up his end of the deal, the Necromancer breaks out the Unbreakable Covenant Spell, which would require each party to hold up their entire end of the deal to reap the benefits. This is why I’m sure beyond sureness that whatever’s keeping Hope asleep is affecting Landon, too… somehow.

Enter M.G. and his unique ability to speak Lizzie

Only someone who truly knows Lizzie down to her soul could have turned an entire room of people laughing at her into a crowd that remembers their friend fondly. I would have loved to hear more of their remembrances of the nice things that Lizzie did for them. For every wild, crazy thing she’s done, there’s something downright sweet to balance the scale.

It shows how much M.G. really truly cares for Lizzie. It’s not just a crush or some teen hormonal thing. He loves that girl. He knows her down to her marrow. And every wonderful thing he does for her brings her closer and closer to seeing how incredible his belief in her is. And only someone who believes in the good in her is going to be able to win her heart. I can’t wait to see her crush on him next season. It’s coming, I can feel it.

The actual fairy tale narrative

First of all, Evil Queen Josie’s armor outfit was STUNNING. So freaking gorgeous, even in all black.

I love that, in the end, Josie and Lizzie were both so afraid to hurt each other that they found themselves second class citizens in their own lives. Last episode, Lizzie had to choose herself in order to even have a chance to beat Josie in the Merge. In the Legacies season 2 spring finale, Josie has to set aside her fears of being powerful enough to beat Lizzie in order to push Dark Josie out of power.

Josie takes a break?

Toting all that power around for so long seems to have worn Josie out a bit. It might be a good thing for her to take a step back from her power for a bit. I’m interested to know what might be important enough for her to restore her magic. Who will have to be in life threatening peril for her to jump back into the fray?

They like me! They really like me!

Lizzie’s look of incredulity when the other witches who spent most of the day badmouthing her showed up at the lakeside to celebrate her life.

Thank you, ‘Legacies’ writers, for bringing Raf and Alyssa back to the land of the living

Poor Rafael has been through enough. He’s had the shit end of the stick so far this season, so I hope that now that his heart is beating again, he can have something go his way for once. Landon coming back would be a start, but something else would be nice, too. Maybe a nice new romance or bromance? Raf needs more people in his life than just the two people who love him the most, and bring him the most pain, too.

So, did Alaric and the Necromancer go through with their Unbreakable Covenant?

If they cast that spell over their deal, then the Necromancer HAS restored Landon and his perma-sleep is being caused by something else. OR, and there’s a decent chance of this, the Necromancer uses a loophole of never declaring WHEN he would restore Landon to his body, and the Necromancer is delaying raising Landon until the opportune moment, which will undoubtedly involve Malivore and probably Clark, too.

What did you think of the ‘Legacies’ season 2 spring finale?

[selemina]

(Play with your npcs more! Tell me about your favorite npcS IN first casters and what makes you like them so much and what's most fun to play about them? :D)

... Oh my god you should not enable me so much, friend. XD There’s nothing I love more than to rent about universes and characters, be ready for an absolute WALL of text! XD

So first, let’s tackle Damien!

Damien is a street kid : he’s been growing up in the poor district. His parents are an unfortunate couple : abusing mother with a foul temper, spineless soft dad too afraid to defend himself, and a sister that eventually turned maniac and tried to kill their mom. As a result, for most of his life, Damien has been the only one keeping the house standing : standing up to his mother on the rare occasions that she came home, and trying to responsibilize his father despite the fact that he’s terrified of Damien. Because of his history of abuse victim, his father struggles to get close to him, flinching at the slightest raise in voice, and well... Damien is a passionate kid. He also has no problem beating up people he doesn’t like, like a young vigilante, to the point where people in the poor district know him by name... but more as a violent, rabid dog than as a noble crime-fighter. Damien’s fights are usually messy... His only friend is Alexia, that has befriended him one pastry at a time, until he would literally die for her. And then, after the magic started waking up, one day he just.... turned into a tiefling!

Since tieflings are new in this world (and look like devils), of course he couldn’t show himself, so instead they managed to make him a ring enchanted with an Alter Self spell that he can wear at work.

Why I like playing him : ever dreamed of charging a group of thugs from a dark alley and having them actually panick? :D No but more seriously, Damien is just learning to have more friends, and actually be wanted and included after having been alone most of his life. He’s also being teased without fear, and shown endless kindness, and he’s slowly opening up. Seeing him be begrudgingly positive and agressively supportive is a joy! :D He has yet to go absolutely feral but I’d love to see that! ;) Also it’s always fun to be able to play a character that can go from screaming to reluctant silence with just one donut being handed to him. XD

May I talk to you about Lord Peter of the Blackwoods? :3c

Originally from the other world, Mira, Peter is another unfortunate soul. Drafted for a war he had no stake in, he was left for dead on a battlefield. At the time, those bloodbaths were so prolific that vampires in the area were growing complacent and fat, so creating more was a luxury many afforded. He was turned and introduced to the delicately balanced and measured world of the children of the night along with a few others. But then, the war stopped... No more battlefield to scour for food. So his flight headed further inland, looking for more thralls and more food. Unfortunately, in the wake of the war, a terrible plague had found the nearby cities... and with horror, they discovered that it could jump to vampires. Around this time, he guided his weakening flight to a necromancer who promised to help... But soon enough, they realized said necromancer was actually experimenting on them during the day when they were out cold, looking for the secret to their immortality instead of finding a solution against the plague. Peter struck him down, and once again moved with his remaining brothers and sisters, further inland... After the vampire infestation from the war, hunters had multiplicated, and soon his entire flight was recorded and hunted down, vampires scattering in search of safety. Left alone, he holed up in an abandonned mansion deep in the Blackwoods, wanting for nothing more than to be left undisturbed. Taking the occasional suicidal people that came to find him in the hopes of ending their lives, and those looking for immortality, he gathered a small following of thralls to come visit him occasionaly for food, but that he insisted must have a normal life away from him most of the time. Eventually though, the thrall presence in the area alerted the hunters, and they rallied the nearby towns to go walk on the mansion, setting it ablaze, and killing Peter inside. While he should have gone back to his coffin to reform and recover, Peter... drifted, and woke up on Earth instead. Seeing this as an oportunity to start over and reclaim some of his lost humanity, he has made a very strict point to not harm anyone, not make any thralls or any other vampire. He kept Courtney from bleeding out after a robbery gone wrong, and has been found by the group and protected ever since, keeping a low profile.

Why I enjoy playing Peter : Suave motherfucker! A noble trying to stop his tendency to be extra, because he’s not in any vampiric court anymore. Very proper and crafty, he has repressed his power-play tendencies A LOT.. And recently got to stretch a bit and flexe on Dylan, and that was SO satisfying! XD He could demand attention and worship if he felt like it, and force people into serving him, but... First, he wants to change, truly wants to go back to being an equal to humans, and second... Ivan would backhand him and put him back in his place immediately. XD And he’s not ready for the emotional whiplash of being told to sit down by a man shorter than him. ;) Although I hope I can show soon how truly, deeply dangerous Peter can be...

Oh hey, speaking of people that got flexed on, it’s Special Agent Dylan Ross! :D

Dangerous organisations? Underground cults? Mafia? Organized crime? Those are Dylan’s usual scene. Get in, gather information, relay his finds with a precise plan of action, and let his general take care of taking the initiative and getting all of the glory for it. Dylan is the kind of man to light a cigarette while walking away from a building on fire. However... magic? ...Sure, why the fuck not, there are actual videos of a group of kids forcing a walking tree back into a forest, and others of a gigantic wolf and two pups in astreet, from multiple people. Reports of cult activity, too, that turns out to have been... actual animated scarecrows, that kidnapped people? Alright. Sure. ....And now people are growing horns. What the fuck is happening in this place? Put all of that shit on lockdown! Blame it... blame it on Covid-19, the medias won’t mind! (My players groaned at me when they heard about it being used as a plot point, it was great! XD contemporary world, after all!) And now, to investigate. Seems the local police, after a bit of pressure, admitted hiring... kids? Magic users, for things they couldn’t handle on their own. Following the trail, he went after a few of them, not fast enough as they skipped town... But not everybody went, so eventually he managed to get a hold of Alexia, and later Ivan. Expecting a LOT of bullshit and secrets, he found both to be fairly forthcoming with informations? Even helpful? Huh. that’s new in his line of work... A few tests and unethical trials later, he had to recognize he was unprepared for whatever THIS was... For fuck’s sake, the vampire he met put his entire backup team of highly trained soldiers to sleep before talking to him! And then read his entire health situation just from a drop of blood! And now his mind keeps coming back to him, again and again, it’s distracting. There’s also this Archeon guy, his best hope of finding a scientific way to measure magic, scolding him every time he’s a little abrasive. And now the well-behave Alexia revealed that she is linked to a “patron”, the founder of her school, trapped in the school’s statue? Yeah, sure! ....Until the statue animates and points it’s cane straight at his face! ....dylan might actually need help on this one.

Why I like to play Dylan : MY PLAYERS HATE HIM! XD He is a sassy, venomous, unpleasant man, with just enough humanity to keep people from truly doing anything about him. It’s really fun for me, who is usually a nice person, to be able to be unbashedly rude as a tired, sleep-deprived special agent in over his head! XD He is also a perceptive, crafty bastard : he threatened Alexia with an entire firing squad just to see what her immediate response would be, fight or flight! Everything he does is dangerous, and he can tell when people are bullshitting him from a mile away! And he fully knows that he’s a bastard, he owns up to it : someone has to be the bastard and get shit done. Might as well be an efficient bastard, and get on everybody’s nerves! And yet, he can listen to reason. He’s able to cooperate to get to his goal, listen to advices, and take good decisions. He is very fun to play! :D (Also I can hear the groans from my players when he shows up, voluntary or not, and I live for their visceral reactions. XD)

We’ve talked about Oni quite a bit already, but.. yeah, Oni. XD

Originaly from the north of France, his thunder demon ancestry came to him after the magic had started reappearing, showing that the event is not limited to the area around Paris... With his Ancestor pushing him to carve himself a place in the world, he went on to find “the strongest caster” and duel her one on one. Let me tell you, this whole session was incredible... XD It was the first time I was introducing a villain MEANT to be a villain and not to be reasoned with. Buuut, well... He got beat fair and square. XD Then failed to escape. Then was executed, and his body was melted and burried. ...Then later that night, Ivan came around with a diamound and resurrected him, because nobody wanted to actually be murderers. And that’s how Oni realized he had been messing with the wrong crowd : he was here to hurt, when they were here to KILL. Needless to say, that put him in his place, and gave him time to think. With his life dept to Ivan, he can’t really run away and try to rebuild himself ; his family has thrown him out after his fugue, and now he lives at the Standon household as an unofficial adopted son. XD He tries to be useful around the house, but wishes he had more reasons to fight... Why I love to play Oni : A RESURRECTED VILLAIN IN DND IS JUST SO UNEXPECTED! XD How does one cope with that? Oni is still struggling to find his place, but at least now he’s open to the idea of helping to defend the town instead of just running in head first and crushing everything on his path! I enjoy his ancestor’s code of honor : Essentially, BE BIG. Either make this territory yours and be feared and respected, or recognize those that defeated you and serve them with all your might. Sometimes, being the biggest around doesn’t mean killing : if you keep an army from assaulting a town just because you are sitting at it’s gate, it is also a victory! Be a force to be reckoned with, either for yourself if you’re strongest, or for those above you if you are not. Be invaluable, be reliable, be fearsome. Sucess is when men throw down their arms the moment they see you. Oni is trying to reach this level of strength... but he is also the only man alive to have been resurrected, when nobody else has. People more worthy than him could have been brought back, but no, this miracle fell on him. And he’s uncertain how to feel, having had such an impossible gift offered to him, a humbled nobody, of all people. The weight on his shoulders is heavier than one might know.

Oh hey it’s Master Kavoleg! :D

(seen here with his assistant and Earth-discoverer, Salin! :D) High level mage, high level mage, high lev- XD I LOVE Master Kavoleg! He’s a bit of a hermit, but always ready to help, curious, clever, his has very nice maners, he’s prone to throwing spells in the air when he’s frustrated at a bunch of bickering diplomats... His tower/library, the White Tower, is built right over a place of power, and is a hub for a lot of free wizards, students and experts, coming to do quiet research. Although business has been slow lately, it gives him the opportunity to meet the Earthlings and both learn and teach once more. As an influent person of interest, he is well placed to influence Mira’s approach to Earth in a favorable way, and to give advice on how to handle the surge of magic energy in the other world. People talk about him with reverance, and he is an approachable if imposing figure... as long as you’re not wasting his time.

Why I love to play Kavoleg : *slaps tiefling* “This Wizard can fit so many secrets! :D” I am SO excited to have the team discover a few of them, but... in due time. In due time. XD He is a soft, elegant man, with a certain disregard for people’s misplaced pride. He has a note of mischief to him (giving literal translations of places’ names to the Earthlings, underlining how SIMPLE they sound when not in the different languages, like they’re usually presented) that I love playing, and his relationship to Salin and his new assistant Elias is wonderful to play out! He is a tranquil force, powerful and wise but comfortable. He is very... Well, very comfortable for me to play! XD

And there we have it! :D I hope this was complete enough. There’s so much in there! XD

[gimmeyoon]

Iron World: Choose Your Class

     I am the whisper of flames. I am the the spark in a cave of darkness. I feel it coursing through me, the ever-growing need to fight. It’s my instinct now, running into the flames to prove that mine are stronger. Shadow-Knight, I chose it because it sounded cool. It wasn’t my intention to chose a solo class. I hadn’t known then what I know now. That being alone is inevitable. At the end of the day it’s you and your weapon or your magic. But for me? For me it’s both. I fight with the might of a tank and the trickery of a caster. I summon flames just to shoot an arrow through my enemies heart. I’m quicker than I am strong, but too many enemies have doubted the power my arms hold. I live in two worlds, three I suppose. The world of light where my aim never fails, the world of the shadows where my magic calls to me, and Iron World, the cage I will escape. I am the Phoenix and I will never stop rising from the ashes. 

     I am the darkness that calls to all men. I am death’s master. I belong to two planes, that of the living and that of the dead. Though the dead in this game are only coded shadows, they tremble before me. I am Agma’s master, my half-dead tiger that awaits my command. I am the magic that good men fear to do, the necromancer. I have looked death in the face and laughed. Perhaps that is why I still live today. Zombie they call me. Maybe I am? I don’t know this fire that rages inside of me. I can only hope to contain it. When I fail, or when I chose to unleash what is always there, I cannot control it. It burns so much brighter than I want. I have looked death in the face and laughed, but I fear it is her that has the last laugh. That somewhere she watches as I avoid the shadows, as I run from the magic that used to make me feel invincible. Now in the moments where I might be, I hide instead. Always afraid that my next move is my last. I am Agust D, the living dead man.

     I feel the magic scratching at my finger tips as I sit at my laptop in the dead of night. I once toppled dragons but now I reach to the corners of this game. There is no door I cannot sense the code for, no lock too complex for me to break. I can bring it all down with my keyboard. In my lab I am less wizard and more engineer. Though the weapons I’ve developed could only come from magic. I wanted to be a wizard to feel the type of power I had only seen in movies. To understand for a moment what it felt like to have that type of command with just a few words. Sometimes I worry I like it too much. That going back to the real world would mean losing this sort of pride I take in hacking into the Coffin’s database or making the rings Chimmy wears to create a forcefield around him and his patients. In here I am Mono and my wish is my command.

     Charisma. That’s why I chose it. Enchanter’s always have high charisma for crowd control spells. I hadn’t expected the pressure that it entailed. I hadn’t anticipated how it would feel to have my friends look at me with fear in their eyes as the waited for me to hide our presence to a crowd full of people. It was draining. The ever-present exhaustion almost made me believe I was allergic to magic. Despite it, I couldn’t be a tank. Couldn’t crawl into bed sore every night. The truth of the matter was that I was not meant to do magic everyday. I was meant to go to my 9-to-5. Charisma. It made people like me, and it made people look at me, and with it all I smiled. I smiled, because the moment I stopped I feared we might not make it out. So I hold out my hand as I chant the spell and I calm my friends as the sit in the living room. I reach to the very depths of their souls and I tell them it will be alright. No one notices. No one looks up. Yet the sadness in their eyes begins to fade at least for today. I have not learned how to do it for myself, to go into the depths of Worldwide’s soul and tell him that it will be okay.

     I’ve always loved music. It’s moved me for as long as I can remember. I will always remember the feeling the first time I moved it. See, I love music, but it wasn’t until I was in the game that I could actually play an instrument, that I could call to the notes and have them do as I asked. It had been a little bit of a joke, before the game my friends and I had said that I would do just fine as a drunken bard. That in the game I might actually get to experience being drunk without instantly feeling tired and out of it like in real-life. Even in the game my body rejected liquor, no drunken bard for me. The recorder had also been a joke, a call back to the only instrument anyone had ever tried to teach me. I like it now, an instrument, a weapon, people might underestimate, but that allowed me to cloak my friends in invisibility, lull enemies to sleep, and influence others to do my bidding. Sometimes there was an urge so strong in me that begged to play a song and have the world do whatever I wanted. I’m not sure I’m even powerful enough for that, I’m no where near the highest ranked bard in the game, but I also know somewhere in the depths of me that, if I tried, there would be no going back. In this world I’m J-Hope, perhaps a name I hadn’t realized would be so literally needed.

     I could have been a tank. Cooky and V might laugh about it in Iron World, but in the real world I’m like seriously strong. It’s in here where the code effects my body that I feel powerless against their beefed up tank status. I was always clumsy though, that part is true. It’s not my fault they all need to get their rocks off with an adrenaline rush. It could have been me. It could have, but there is nothing worse in my opinion than feeling powerless as your friends suffer. I’m the only one that can do that. The only one who can sense the unrest in the group, that can feel their pain as if it is my own. The rings on my hands that Mono made me, channel my power better. In some cultures laying your hands on someone in healing is the highest form of love. Perhaps that is my true power, the sheer might of my love for my friends. I would do anything to heal their wounds, to ease their burdens, to bring them back from death’s door. At times I’m the only one that stands between them and the absolute game over that is death in Iron World. The anxiety of it all keeps me awake some nights. And as I pour over books and books on healing, there’s a voice in my head that says never again. It’s not mine and it took me so long to identify it. He’s never said those words to me, never held me accountable for what happened that day. Yet its what drives me to work harder, to be not only the best cleric in the game but the savior they, he, deserves. “Chimmy,” he would say, “you’re already the best.” And yet, that’s not enough. 

     You get a dog. What other reason did I need to pick Beast Lord? Well, technically you get a beast, but Hell Hound was an option. Sometimes I missed the days when Jugeum was more hound, less robot. The connection is still there though. Sure, he was a coded entity, he felt nothing, but still to me he was everything. If I lost Jugeum I felt I would lose the very core of who I was in Iron World. I hadn’t spent a second in this game without his presence in my mind. I’m a shitty fighter. Cooky and Phoenix spend half of their time fighting, protecting me it seems. Jugeum was my sword and my shield, even know when I hadn’t seen a shield in god knows how long. But he was also a heart that beat next to mine. A small comfort that seemed to ground me in this world. He had never failed me and I hoped to never fail him. Perhaps I should have been a necromancer, to be more caster than tank and still get to have a pet. But as Jugeum and I tore through a room of enemies, my somewhat steed beside me, I knew that I had made the right choice. In this world I was never alone, V and Jugeum until the end.

     I just wanted a sword. If I had put more thought into it maybe I would have been a shadow night like Phoenix. I don’t even carry a sword anymore. Jonglyo still remains, though she’s become a knife in the updated version. There is no weapon I cannot master. No enemy I cannot out fight. Beefed up, Chimmy calls me. He’s right to some extent, the game is like steroids, pumping me with muscles that I’ve tested the limits of and have not found. Phoenix is fast where I am strong, V is cunning where I am brute. A tank, one meant to take damage. I think it’s fitting even if I had been careless in my choice. Knights can withstand more damage than any other class, perhaps maybe Necromancers if Agust D is any proof. And as I spend nights and nights in the ring pushing my stamina and health to the limits, I continue to push that limit. It’s about buying time. It’s not about winning, a common misconception. I’m never going to be the one to beat an enemy. I’m the one that won’t die, and if I do, it’ll be for the only reason that really matters. To save those I love. Fitting. I always thought physical pain was bearable, it was the pain of others that cut me to my core. 

[ranjxtul]

The Necromancer’s Doctor

Pairings: Anna Ripley/Delilah Briarwood, Delilah Briarwood/Sylas Briarwood (secondary) or basically 4.5k words of self indulgence

As far as warnings and possible triggers there is a moderate amount of violence.

Delilah Briarwood is intrigued by Anna Ripley. That’s just it, and the fascination remains abnormally steadfast considering her past fancies. She is a woman of deep conviction and swirling feelings which often lead to volatile decisions. A person catches her eye; she and Sylas lure them into bed until Delilah has had her fill. If Sylas is uninterested, he lets his wife act as she wishes, understanding her infatuation is brief and superficial.

After all, Sylas is the love of her life. She broke the world for him. She has never questioned her devotion to the man she loves. From vivid memories of their life before his death, completing the ritual of vampirism, to now, she hasn’t questioned it. Her emotions guide her, and they don’t sway away from Sylas.

She felled the world for them, and the world will soon begin to fall at their feet. They have conquered Whitestone and taken over with an iron fist, allowing little room for question. Any resistance is squelched quickly; they are the Briarwoods: powerful, fearsome, and enigmatic.

The only person more enigmatic Delilah has encountered is Dr. Anna Ripley. The dark haired woman is unwaveringly ambitious and hungry to learn. The lady appreciates this. Dr. Ripley’s practical, almost cold nature entranced the necromancer from the first weeks of their partnership in Whitestone.

She has believed it would pass and the Doctor would become another one of many of her toys. She has taken her to bed and gotten her fill. Memories of nights etched into the black canvas of her mind refuse to fade. She always remembers the way Anna’s hands feel in her hair, pulling, taking advantage of Delilah’s rare submission, and god memories of Anna’s tongue fucking her are almost enough alone to leave her wanting more.

After the first several times, Sylas lost any interest he had, and Anna never seems to be interested in him intimately or otherwise. Then, it’s just Delilah and Anna. Both are happier this way and their agreement is unspoken: casual sex, that’s it.

Dr. Ripley doesn’t quite know why the Lady keeps coming back to her. She’s observant, and she knows Delilah is burns hot in her obsession for a brief moment and goes cold the next. Anna’s not necessarily complaining. These ‘midnight’ trysts satisfy any needs she might have. It is really is practical in her mind, and that’s what grounds Dr. Ripley.

She’s always been grounded in the carnal, experimental nature of her work. There’s no need to be so formal dissecting a corpse or experimenting upon something, and how she’s hated the rigid formalities of life. She sees little need in most ceremonies and the indulgent practises of others. Of course she indulges herself occasionally but she sees no reason to implement these things in her life permanently.

And Delilah is the opposite. She indulges herself on whim. Her plans are elaborate and grandiose, and Dr. Ripley doesn’t know the full extent of any plans. She does as she’s instructed, only prodding where she deems necessary or perhaps where there is something of particular interest for her to learn.

Lady Briarwood’s magic is also polar to Anna’s skillset. Her magic bends and alters the very fingers of fate. She bereaves those long dead of a peaceful, well deserved rest and speeds those with a long life’s thread toward the grave. In a stark contrast, Anna deals in mortal flesh and blades, really nothing she believed would interest a necromancer.

Yet, as time passes, she feels eyes on her as she works, intense searching eyes. Searching for what, she has no clue, but every so often she will feel Delilah watching her work. Once wryly, she comments, “I didn’t know you had any interest in medicine.”

She thinks she sees a flicker of some emotion that is so brief it’s indistinguishable flash across Delilah’s eyes before she recovers and her smooth, low voice answers, “I can’t help but check on your progress occasionally.”

Dr. Ripley gives a simple nod, humming as a verbal response. Delilah watches too much to be doing just what she admits.

Anna refuses to push though. She likes piecing together the puzzle that is Delilah Briarwood. It’s another intellectual challenge of sorts. By day she can occupy herself with her own experiments and the Briarwood’s orders. By night she can dismantle Lady Briarwood in her head over and over again until she understands.

Delilah knows she deceives well, but deceiving Anna Ripley is a different matter. The scientist can probably see through her deflection, but that wound to her pride doesn’t stop her from persisting. She herself is trying to figure out what it is about Anna that makes her so alluring. She can make a list of the things she admires about Anna: intelligence, ambition, medical prowess, wit, a certain other set of skills.

She spends ages contemplating this list, going over it over and over again in her mind as her agreement with Anna remains in place. Subconsciously, sex becomes more than just sex. She finds herself beginning to feel for the Doctor. When she feels she feels violently and quickly. She knows the difference between obsession and feeling.

Sylas begins to notice. He expected his wife to drop Anna after a couple weeks, but it’s been months. She is more distant. He wonders what’s happening in that pretty head of hers, and when asked she brushes it off with that charming little smile of hers. Often, she spends her nights with Anna and she during the day she spends more and more time ‘observing Anna’s progress.’ Sylas can feel a seething envy in his chest. Why should his wife have such marked and prolonged adoration for someone meant to be temporary?

So, he confronts her. “Delilah?” He asks as she enters their room one night.

“Yes, darling?” she raises a brow lazily in his direction.

“What is Dr. Ripley to you?”

The necromancer opens her mouth to respond, but almost hesitates. She does not know she has mulled over this question in her mind. She proceeds nonetheless, “An object of fancy.”

“Is that all?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes, really.” She appraises him from her vanity. His face easily readable after all these years. His traditionally stoic features twitch imperceptibly and his mouth is curved into a frown. “Are you really jealous?” she teases standing up and striding toward the bed in the room. He opens his mouth to respond, but she covers it with a delicate finger, “Let me show you how much I love you then, hm?”

His face morphs into one of hunger and he gives her an eager nod. In a moment, her lips are pressed fiercely to his and she’s straddling his lap.

That time doesn’t feel like it used to. Delilah is a woman of passion and she doesn’t feel what she has with Sylas in the past. As he roams the night after they’re finished, she lies there, contemplating the question posed to her before: What is Anna?

What does she feel for Anna? Has this crossed her threshold for obsession into more unwittingly? She tests this theory the next night as she finds herself at Ripley’s mercy. Her body is alight with energy.

Now, she is putting the puzzle together for herself. She believed Sylas was her great love? Can someone have more than one great love? She decides possibly because she can’t deny that she feels something for the doctor. Not just in the bedroom, but she adores conversing with her, watching her work, and seeing the moments where she is more human, and will give herself grin of victory or laugh at something said. It’s mesmerising. Delilah has grown to love each one of these things individually and on her own, while subconsciously she realises she is falling out of love with Sylas.

The latter is more concerning than the former. She broke the world for Sylas, she ‘signed a deal’ to pluck him from death’s grasp. In both of their minds, it had been them against a world ready to be taken. She doesn’t regret making her sacrifice for Sylas and she can’t identify where anything could have gone wrong.

Her head spins with thoughts and unwittingly rare tears prick at the corners of her eyes. This isn’t supposed to happen. It’s always been Lord and Lady Briarwood standing at the crest of the world, and lately it’s been them conquering bit by bit. She never imagined this happening, then she just had to meet Anna and let her fascination turn into whatever this is.

It hits her in full, she is indeed falling in love with Ann Ripley. This how she felt when she and Sylas were together in their hayday. She felt all of the passion and interest for him just as she now feels for Anna.

She’s not out of love with Sylas yet, bur rather a pendulum and Dr. Ripley and Sylas are opposite ends he is swinging further and further toward Anna, and she’s never considered herself a volatile woman. If anything she views herself to be obstinate and cold. This fact only adds to the confusion. She’s been so steadfast for so long, so this doesn’t make sense. On the other hand though, it adds a layer of validity to her feelings: this isn’t just a frivolous whim.

Not in a million years would she gave guessed that Anna Ripley would be different than any of the other people she and Sylas brought into bed. She thinks back, attempting to pinpoint a moment where Anna became more. She thinks back to their nights, to the discussions about their plans, to simple conversations, to the moments after they’re done for a night and Anna is vulnerable.

The necromancer enjoys seeing people at their most vulnerable; it makes her feel safer. She doesn’t always hide what goes on in that head of hers well, and seeing others vulnerabilities and every feeling that washes through them is comfort. It’s also somewhat of a manipulator and power move, but when she sees Anna in intimate, true moments, she only wants more. There is no inclination to manipulate, only to discover more. Perhaps it was lying there beside Anna, exchanging minimal words and the time spent late in Delilah’s study at first discussing work and then eventually drifting to other topics which causes the Lady to begin to feel something more for Anna.

She quickly brushes away the tear that streaks down her face now. Despite the confusion, it is not the time to cry.

Delilah speaks to Anna about it the next night. The two women lay in bed, Anna wrapped loosely around the wizard, a hand lazily tracing patterns on her side. “Anna, darling?” Delilah’s voice inquires.

She hums in response and Delilah rolls over to face her, “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve thought a lot about a particular matter, and that happens to be what you are to me,” she starts searching the Doctor’s face for any sort of hint as to what she could be thinking.

“Oh?” Anna raises a brow, an unexpected wave of nerves coursing through her body.

Delilah continues, “And I’ve mulled it over extensively. You’re much more than what our agreement as of now stands. Look, I won’t beat around the bush about it, I think I’m falling in love with you.” This is said as calmly as she can muster, her eyes meeting Anna’s. The fear of rejection looms, but if that were the case she could rid herself of Ripley one way or another.

Ripley’s quick fails her as she opens her mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Delilah’s statement is loud and clear, and much more than Anna ever expected. Similarly, the doctor has not only been appraising her bedmate but her own feelings in the situation. The difference is she’s not come to such a conclusion. For once in her life, she is insecure and unsure of her stance.

She is sure that Delilah is more than her boss, more than her acquaintance, more than a source of pleasure and stress relief, but she doesn’t know if Delilah is her love. Truth be told, she never contemplated that scenario.

“You think?” she deflects. Delilah is usually so sure, then again, she loves, or loved Sylas for many years. This is new territory, and she’s still married. Ripley also suspects she had a hand in Sylas’ current state, and that takes devotion.

“Yes. I’m in a rather precarious situation with these feelings, as you might imagine. Hiding them would do me no good, and confessing at least opens avenues for new possibilities, hm?” She raises a brow in return, a small smirk pulling at the edge of her lips.

Anna sighs in response, collecting what she wishes to say in her head before she speaks, “That is true. This is just,” she pauses, “not quite what I expected.”

“That’s fair I suppose,” she takes a moment to observe the Doctor. Her face isn’t contorted or lying flat. She seems to be somewhere in between a faint smirk and frown. “Don’t overthink. What do you feel?” She finally asks. Anna deals in practicality rather than emotion, and the necromancer just wishes that she’d speak.

“I’m unsure. I know what I feel is greater… affection than one feels for an employer or friend or bed mate, but past that I don’t know. And I thought you loved Sylas” She leaves an unspoken, ‘I’m not like you,’ hanging in the air. God, in this moment she wishes she were more like Delilah and could know and act on what she feels.

“Well, take some time to figure it out, love and people can fall out love, have two great loves I think,” she responds, testing the waters with a new pet name. Ripley almost smiles at it. Instead of verbally responding, she lays a gentle kiss on Delilah’s lips.

In the coming days, Anna ruminates on her thoughts and feelings. She pays close attention when she interacts with Delilah and there’s an undeniable flutter in her stomach when she knows Delilah will be in some capacity spending time with her. When did she begin to feel like this, or has it been there for quite sometime and she’s just repressed it? That she cannot decipher.

It frustrates her; unlike a disease or wound she can’t pick it apart until she determines a solid etiology. With her own emotions she is stumbling her way through a fog and over rugged terrain unsure where it started and where it ends.

Anna wonders what it is about Delilah that draws her in. There’s plenty of possible answers: her power, her intelligence, her charm, her face. Many people have fallen for at least one of those traits. Anna wonders if it’s a combination of it all, and perhaps in trying to puzzle such an enigma together, she stumbled upon long buried parts of the woman in question that only those intimate with her can see.

Two weeks later, Anna gives her answer, “I want to try this. I won’t name it, but I want you.” Now, that statement means more than just wanting her body, it means wanting all of Delilah Briarwood.

The necromancer’s charm seems to increase tenfold. If Anna can say one thing, it’s that she knows how to romance a woman.

The more time Delilah begins to intentionally spend with Anna, the more her feelings intensify. She tries to see if her feelings for her husband truly are waning by putting effort into romance with him, yet it doesn’t feel like it used to. Simultaneously, what she has with Anna feels so right and so wrong.

Sylas observes as keenly as he can, his wife’s attempts to romance him only marginally throwing him off. Anger builds as he begins to realise what’s going on. He asks Cassandra to confirm and she only tells him whispers of what she hears, but it’s enough. It’s enough to know that his wife feels for Anna.

“Delilah,” he confronts her as she slips into their bedroom one morning.

“Yes, darling?”

“I know what you’re doing with Anna.” His voice is cold.

Delilah stops in her tracks, recovering not a second later to the best of her ability, “And what do you mean by that?” She knew he’d find out, but has been preparing what she could say and to no avail yet.

“I hear and see things. Cassandra does to. You call her ‘love.’ You look at her with the same look in your eyes that you used to look at me with.”

Her vision burns hot for a brief second as she thinks of Cassandra telling Sylas whatever she’s seen. Quickly she clears her mind, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s all just business as usual.”

Sylas’ eyes flash, “Oh I think you do know, and you’re mine, not hers. I thought you knew that,” he says a growl behind his words.

“Excuse me?” Delilah raises a brow, and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“You heard me. You’re mine.” And in a feat of preternatural speed, Sylas is in front of her and his hand finds its way onto her jaw. Before she can react, her lips are against his and she breaks back, pushing with a hand on his chest. His fingers still dig in to her jaw.

“I am not something to be owned, Sylas. I chose to be yours,” she warns dangerously, meeting his eyes. “Now. Let go of me.” His hand stays where it is.

“So now are you choosing not to be mine?” he spits pulling her closer.

Instead of responding, Delilah sets a spell off against his chest and he’s forced back, holding the now smoking spot where her hand lay seconds before.

“You bitch.” He lunges forward again, and this time grabs her tightly, pinning her arms behind her. She can feel his sharp teeth grazing the flesh of her neck. “Answer my question.”

“So what if I am?” she questions, her tone not revealing the fear she feels. She knows Sylas is powerful and quick to anger in certain situations from past experience, but she’s never been on the receiving end of it. He was always her loving, protective husband.

Though, things change just as her feelings have changed, his have. “How can you erase years of love? How can you throw it away in just under a year?” he hisses, his teeth scraping her skin.

“Do you think I know? Do you think I have control of what I feel?” She manages to wiggle a hand around to send another necrotic blast into his chest. The impact causes him to relinquish his grasp on her.

She spins to see his face looking, angry and broken. She doesn’t exactly blame him, but she does blame him for how he just acted. “You broke the world for us, for me,”  he seethes.

“I did, darling, and now it seems I’ve broken our world. For that, I’m sorry,” she is sorry. She wishes her years with Sylas had outweighed what she feels for Anna Ripley so she could have avoided this situation.  

“I don’t want your apologies!” he hisses, once again lunging toward her. She almost dodges, but hits her head on the wardrobe as she attempts to move through the narrow escape. This impact gives Sylas enough time to restraint her against him again, and in a moment of passion, he bites into her neck. He’s done it before, but this time he drinks and drinks, savouring the way Delilah writhes.

It’s then she notices their door is still ajar. She manages to blast it open more for someone to see. Sylas is too busy with his blood, and Delilah would fight back if she weren't heavily held back and currently having her life force drained.

Eventually, Sylas finishes drinking and just rests his head in the crook of her neck. At this very moment, Anna happens to pass by the door. It is an astronomical coincidence. She looks in, and arches a brow at the woman she is growing to love, who mouths ‘help’.

Sylas detects this near imperceptible shift in motion and looks up to see the dark haired doctor in the doorway. Suddenly, he relinquishes his grasp on Delilah and she catches herself against the nearest piece of furniture in order to steady herself.

“You took my wife,” growls his gaze on Ripley, and he goes in to attack. In a moment of wonder, she is able to dodge and draw one of her guns, it’s simple, strong metal with a metallic glint, even in the low lighting.

“I did no such thing. She chose me,” the doctor defends herself, her finger ghosting the gun’s trigger.

“You existed and wormed your way in. You took her and broke our world!” Sylas counters. Seldom is he blind with anger, but now he is.

He lunges again and Ripley shoots, hitting him square in the chest three times before he reaches her and rakes his claws down her side, tearing open her blouse. She hisses in pain barely able to deflect as he attempts to hold her in one place.

Now Delilah is spurred into action. She fixates on Sylas, attempting to hold him in one place, freeze his joints, but he pushes back and resists. He lunges again for Ripley who slams her elbow into his chest and in a split second is able to fire again. The bullets make their mark.

Sylas’ face contorts in pain; however, he’s still close enough to grab Anna and catch her off guard this time. His fangs without hesitation sink into her skin. In retaliation, Delilah shoots another blast of necrotic energy his way. He isn’t as hurt by it as he should be, but it’s enough for him to drop Ripley, who manages not to fall.

She begins to make her way back toward Delilah, in hopes that if she reaches her she could Dimension Door them out until Sylas gets a hold of himself. A mortal is no match for vampiric speed though, especially a dazed one. As he nears, she shoots again, hitting him in the neck twice. He is only minorly deterred as he swipes for Ripley again. The wounds begin to close themselves as he does so.

She fires again, reaching Delilah, and misfires, the bullet not exiting the barrel but breaking through the metal itself and richoting toward the drawn, thick curtain in the room. The bullet leaves a small but searing hole in the curtain while the paint crash of glass is heard. and Delilah reaches to touch Anna, presumably to cast her spell.

Sylas, seeing what she’s doing, and blinded by his anger toward the Doctor, grabs for her arm, catching her wrist tightly. Delilah glares at him, “Let me go.” The vampire makes no such moves and only stares into her intense gaze. Anna slips from her side, an idea popping into her head.

She makes her way quickly and quietly toward the curtain. It’s thick, bullets would be inefficient and noisy. A knife would be too slow. Taking a deep breath, she decides to chance it with her own physical strength. While Ripley isn’t the weakest, she knows physically she isn’t the strongest either. Nonetheless, she takes a hold of the curtains in two hands and yanks as hard as she can; much to her pleasure, it gives. The thick material shreds around its metal rod and the rod itself tumbles down on one side and the light of the day fills the room.

As the rays hit Sylas, the smell of charred flesh begins to fill the air and his wounds stop sewing themselves back up. He breaks Delilah’s gaze to look at Ripley and in the process, catches a full face of sun. Flesh melts off of bone and he lets go of Delilah as the sun saps his life force and strength. He begins to pace backward into the room, but by then it’s too late. His body swirls into mist for a split second and then the rays of the sun do their job. He is gone, just like that.

The room is deathly silent. Both women stand almost listlessly, processing what has just happened. Silent tears streak down Delilah’s face and she’s so drained both literally and figuratively, she can’t fight them. Just because things had changed doesn’t mean she wanted Sylas dead. There would always be a part of her that had respect and a certain love for him. She did not want him dead, but here they were. In hindsight though, she should have expected anger when she told him what was going on between her and Anna. He was a possessive man, and she knows he had a temper only rivaled by her own.

Numbly, she reaches a hand to feel the bite wound on her neck and looks over at Anna who stares where Sylas stood. Finally, the doctor looks at the necromancer. For once there is no attempt to veil what she feels and Anna can discern the shock and grief etched into her face through her blank stare and the tears glistening on her pale cheeks.

Slowly, the doctor makes her way over, “You should lie down,” she advises in a soft tone, noting the wound on her neck.

“Not here,” Delilah says blindly grasping for Anna’s hand which the doctor gladly gives.

“Then we’ll go to my room.” Delilah only nods in response, allowing the shorter woman to lead her through the castle halls. The undead servants pay her no abnormal attention, and thankfully she doesn’t encounter Cassandra. Once they reach Anna’s room, she helps Delilah lie down on the bed. “I’ll be back.”

She returns a moment later holding a glass of water for Delilah to drink. “Here. You’re weak.” Listlessly, for once, she takes it as Anna inspects the bite on her love’s neck. It’s deeper than usual. “This should heal on its own… but you will need to rest,” Ripley declares.

“He’s dead,” Delilah says quietly instead of responding. “He’s dead,” she repeats, a bit louder this time.

With a sigh, Anna sits on the edge of the bed, “I didn’t mean to kill him. I was only thinking in self defence. I wanted him to be hurt enough so we could escape and let him collect himself.”

“I know… he’s dead. I broke the world for him, and brought him back and he’s dead.” She’s not angry with Anna. She feels as if she should be, but she can’t bring herself to be. Sylas was attacking with the intention to maim and possibly kill. Ripley did what she had to, just as Delilah did.

Anna doesn’t question. She cannot fathom what must be swirling through the Lady’s head. Even if one falls out of love, that doesn’t mean you lose love for that person. All she can do is take one of Delilah’s delicate hands and say, “I know.” For a moment allows herself to be optimistic and have faith, perhaps things will be okay. Gingerly, she reaches to wipe away Delilah’s tears with her other hand. The necromancer leans into her touch.

“Hold me?” Delilah asks quietly. More than anything, she just doesn’t want to be alone.

“Of course.”

[littlegalerion]

Shipathon  Meme!

Tagged by @sheirukitriesfandom Thanks for tagging me and giving me an excuse to rant about ships~ Tagging: @foxyhearts @diamond-loki @greennightingale  1.) First Ship you Ever Wrote Fic For? It was for Vanus and Caafire, and it actually got featured front page on an animo! It was old Caafire though, before I had developed her to her current status of unable-to-use-magic-because-if-she-does-she’ll-explode sword swinger master. Back then she was just a free lance battlemage with a bad family life.  2.) Ship you Write Most Now? Well... tech I write for Trechire x Eliindil (Sheogorath) most now because that’s my timeline’s canon, so every time I write using characters in that universe I’m tech writing that ship, as Sunnabela and Kirr are their kids (Sunnabela his step-son, but Eliindil raised him). Just it’s a post-ship writing I guess? In terms of who I formulate for the most, that would probably be Laloriaran X Trechire in the AU, which I really should write more of.  3.)Ship you Read the Most Now? Sotha Sil x S/O, and it’s more just headcanon fluff stuff really. I wish there was more Sotha Sil x S/O, but that’s “not lore friendly” so I think a lot of would be writers get intimidated and scared away by lorebeards to write any solid series with it. I HAVE seen some, and for that I’m grateful. The headcanons at least seem to be multiplying beautifully.  4.) Newest Ship? Some questions are best left unanswered.  5.) Rare Ship you Wanna Read More of? Bring on the Sotha Sil x S/O or the Vanus x S/O.  Please, spoil me.  6.) Your Taboo Ship? Okay, I can already feel the heat of sheer rage from people reading what I’m gonna write under this. But Vanus x Mannimarco is the most toxic ship I have ever seen, in ANY fandom.  Firstly, heavily cliche. “They hate each other so at one time they must have liked or loved each other” No, that is not what that means. Sometimes it could be the case, but if it was romantic, then it wasn’t a “little falling out”. Vanus and Mannimarco are legends in their war against each other. In ESO Mannimarco loudly insults and kills mages of the guild, while Vanus openly spits against necromancy. Both very passionately doing so. If something romantic did happen, it’s a romance with no good memories in it. Secondly, it’s abusive. In Summerset, we get to see the two of them in their youth interacting. During this quest, it’s very obvious Mannimarco is manipulating Vanus, who is very optimistic and wants to believe the best in his friend. Mannimarco, however, doesn’t care. He never saw Vanus as an equal, BUT as a potentially USEFUL mage. He probably did feel a sting when Vanus rejected necromancy, but it wasn’t because “oh dear, my lover has rejected me!” It was most likely because Mannimarco realized he had lost a very useful future second in command, and gained an enemy which would prove a pain for years to come. I like to also point out, Mannimarco wasn’t this lonely little necromancer in the Order. We see a note concerning him in the dungeon that proves he had other friends and, while perhaps not well received overall, he had their respect as a senior member.  What I’m getting at is, if there was ANY romantic or sexual relationship between Mannimarco and Vanus, it was NOT healthy. Mannimarco knew what he was doing, and was most likely an emotionally abusive partner. The type that gets uncomfortably moody or guilt trips their partner to get his way. He is SEEN doing this in the quest, actually, when Vanus catches him raising a skeleton guar, Mannimarco replies, “I thought you’d understand” and “You sound like the Ritemaster.” A chord he knew would hit Vanus hard, which it did, as Vanus stumbles to reply and drops the argument.  Listen, if your s/o does something that makes you feel very uncomfortable and unsafe, then you go to them about it and they pull that crap on you, YOU LEAVE.  Lastly, a lot of the time it seems I see this ship under “cute gay mages owo”. Gay couples deserve healthy relationships. Gay relationships do not need to be soaked in pure drama and dark tones to exist. Especially in Elder Scrolls, where gay couples live happily and were never considered out of place.  Do not hide under the gay tag to get away with an abusive ship. Being gay doesn’t excuse a person for being an asshole, or for someone to be a pushover. But that’s enough of my ravings against that ship. For the record, I adore Mannimarco as a villain; he’s one the best I’ve ever seen, honestly.  So this isn’t just an unfair rage fest against him.  7.) They never met in Canon Ship? I feel like I have a ship on the tip of my tongue, but it just isn’t coming out. I’m drawing a blank. Nerevar with literally anyone else other than Ayem? 8.)Your unexpected Ship? Lyris and her Redguard husband were a surprise. I usually don’t relate to the warrior types in these games, but these two are just sweethearts.  9.) The Ship you Always Forget to give Love to? Verandis x Trechire. GEEZE, I forget about them so much and it’s probably the most logical ship. Verandis is a vampire lord who wants to convince the world vampires aren’t always evil, and to convince other vampires they shouldn’t live at war with the world. Trechire is a werewolf alpha who hides her wolf self from virtually everyone she knows, save for her pack, who she strives to teach to be true hunters with a code of honor. Not just some hounds who bark crazily at passersby who have a bow in their hands.  Both mages, both Altmer, both famous for their family names, so there’s lots of pressure on them.  They’d have so much to talk about, and would be such a stress reliever to each other.  10.) Ship your OC with a canon character? I already do, that’s like half the ships already in this post.  My biggest one is Laloriaran x Trechire.  Although Trechire x Sheogorath is my canon, as Eliindil becomes Sheogorath, so that counts as a canon character? 11.) Ship you’re embarrassed to Ship? She recently acquired his staff motif in this big event on ESO. He recently traded his old staff design in for the new Chapter, but in the main quest line his character model still has it.  That’s all I’m saying, because I don’t take the ship seriously, but it still exists and fuels my nightmares.  12.)Your most Romantic Ship? Trechire and Eliindil, because Trechire was made by me, Eliindil is an OC made by both me and my fiance who helps flesh out his personality, design, and background.  Then of course Laloriaran and Trechire.... 13.)Your Sexiest Ship? If I don’t say Sheogorath and Trechire, pretty sure I’m getting teleported 50 feet above the stone surface of where I shall die.  14.) Your most Tragic Ship? Laloriaran and Trechire, who ARE in my canon but of course, Laloriaran dies.  In her canon, Trechire completed the events of Morrowind, Clockwork City, and Summerset before the main questline of ESO. She had seen so many friends or just good people die. Leythen being ripped from reality right before her, Darien being forced to sacrifice himself and Trechire reading his last words before him fading away forever. Tanval Indoril dying from his own mistake, Verandis making a stupid decision out of desperation and guilt. Not to mention all the numerous little quests where this innocent and complicated person dies or suffers in the end. ESO is vicious. She had witnessed so much death, and in Laloriaran’s eyes she saw someone who understood that pain. More than anything in the world, she wanted the last Ayleid to return to Tamriel, where he’d be among friends that wouldn’t count on him for survival, but live and thrive together. She made a promise in her heart, if ANYONE would survive, even at the cost of her own life, Trechire would see to it that Laloriaran did, be it as a lover or as a friend.  And in the end, he died in her arms, Trechire a healer who could offer nothing to save him.  15.) A Ship You want more Content For? Again, BRING ON THE VANUS WITH S/O AND SOTHA SIL WITH S/O, PLEASE. 

[xaz-fr]

I will add links when I get access to a computer because mobile Tumblr hates letting you easily edit text lols. On this hell site? Very likely. But everything is in the #zs tag on my blog at the least until then.

Set in a fantasy world of the semi socialist society Fey Alliance with magic, dick head dragon riders, benevolent necromancers, and even bigger dick head gods of mischief. The Zealous Servant is the story about a guy named Spayar who, has to keep his crown prince of a bff from being murdered by his entire family by murdering them first. But Spayar just wants to take a nap and find a cute boy to kiss and not have to worry about his corpse potentially being dragged through the street after a war. Better win that shit then.

I will only ping this particular list once and if you want to be pinged like or reblog this post. In the wake of Tumblr going tits up its even more important to reblog works that you like. So please consider doing so.

@girllikewisdom @enjoythewolfs @asnakewithwingsisadragon @fyreeprince @ispyatobert @frxemriss @madamecoyote @leprechaunsean @xangelstearsx @golden-lionsnake @deadpool-scar-bro @starry-ampelope @kami-mint

DiSol is a good boy who really doesn't deserve the shit I eventually do to him lol. Also gods I love Tassa so much she's great and I'm glad she's got a bigger role in the rewrite :D

Spayar knew something was in his room as soon as he opened the door. It wasn't a feeling that something bad was going to happen, just that something was out of place. There were no candles or lamps lit and the shutters were drawn closed against the nearly constant autumn rain in Assarus so it was difficult to see but he was a mage and a warrior and knew when things were off. Something felt off now and the part of Spayar that wasn't that brave at all wanted to just step back and head back downstairs and get his dad to deal with it like he had when he was nine and made him check under the bed for mud rats- a mythical rat creature with golden eyes and slimy brown fur that crawled into your mouth at night to suffocate you. He couldn't though because he was nineteen and a grown ass man and fully capable. He hated being an adult.

He stepped into his room and kept his power close. Nothing happened. He looked around, squinting into the shadows but still saw nothing. He waited a moment before he was satisfied he was just being paranoid. He went over to one of the lamps on his dresser and turned it back up to illuminate the room when he felt something behind him.

Spayar didn't have time to react, "You're home!" a high pitched voice cried, nearly right in Spayar's ear and he flinched as he was tackled, first by one body, then by a second, and finally a third and he couldn't remain standing and they all fell to the floor in a heap.

"Ahg!" Spayar yelled and found his siblings crawling all over him and realized what had happened. They'd been waiting for him up here when they probably saw him in the shed checking in on his horse and then saying hello to their mother. "Get off!" he howled and his three siblings laughed and did no such thing, clinging to his neck and waist. "Mom!" he yelled.

"What?" she called from downstairs.

"Help!"

His siblings giggled as he struggled to sit up and he heard his mother coming up the stairs. A moment later she arrived in the doorway and laughed at what she saw, Calli, Anora and Duren all piled up on top of Spayar in the most uncomfortable position. "What are you three doing?" she asked them, a smile on her face, and put her hands on her hips.

"Spayar's home mama," Anora said cheerfully, she had her arms around Spayar's neck, head under his chin.

"Yes I can see that," Relora said with a smile, amused by her eldest son's predicament. "I think he'd like to be able to stand up though."

"I would, yes," Spayar gasped because Duren was laying on his stomach and for only eight Duren already had their father's thick frame and body and was heavy. His little siblings giggled but when Relora told them to get up they did. Duren and Calli helped to drag Spayar to his feet. He took stock of himself and made sure he wasn't hurt.

"You three let your brother have a moment, he just came back from the west," Relora said.

"Are you staying longer than last time Spayar?" Calli asked. Gods she looked even more grown up than when Spayar had seen her a few weeks ago. It might have been the clothes, which were fashionable and the way she wore her hair. Spayar could already foresee his father growling at all the suitors his little sister would have soon, especially with a brother like Spayar. At least if he stayed as important as he was. He may very well be dead in the next year.

"Something wrong sweetie?" his mom asked him. Thinking about the coup made his chest tight, made him stare death in the face. If Von was killed there was no way the Asuras would let him live. He was too close to Von, too loyal. He'd never bend on another Le'Acard. He was d'alaer. It would be Von, or no one.

"Yeah, sorry I was just thinking about something," he smiled a little. "And I will be staying until his royal highness comes back from his trip at the least.”

"Do you know how long that is?" she asked.

"No but hopefully longer," he shook his head, "though the rains will keep everyone inside for a while,” they always did at the start of fall when the Meltong Basin started its wet season which was its autumn, it petered off after Lugalsta in the beginning of Lun usually. "He's coming from the coast though so I should have plenty of time to slack off," he grinned.

"Yes," Duren looked up at Spayar in delight, "will you teach me how to ride Spayar?" he asked.

"Ride a horse?" Duren nodded eagerly. Spayar cocked his head at his brother. Common folk in Assarus didn't normally have horses, his family hadn't had one until Von had given Spayar his mare a few years ago. His father had built the shed next to the house for her when Spayar was home. "Why?"

"Because I want to," Duren said.

"Uh," he looked at his mother.

"He's been bothering your father about it," his mother said.

"He said if you said yes he'd give me time out of the forge to practice," Duren said seriously.

"If I have time," Spayar said and that seemed good enough for Duren. He announced he was going to tell their dad and wiggled through the door their mother was still standing in.

"C'mon you two, let your brother take a bath," Relora said and shepherded her daughters out of the bedroom, closing the door after them to give him some privacy.

Spayar sighed once he was gone and could finally put his things away. He turned on another one of the lamps as he pulled out his dirty laundry for cleaning and put his weapons and bag away. He didn't travel with much and was used to packing up and leaving quickly. He rolled his eyes at the thought of Von summoning him when they were younger to go hunting or to visit some friend of his outside of Assarus for a few days. He was taking off his leather jacket when he felt the wrongness again and stopped as he undid the first buckle near his throat and looked around his room again. Someone was still in here with him, not just his little sisters and brother.

"Who's there?" he asked, there was no answer, "I know you're there; show yourself I don't have time for games." He honestly wasn't expecting anyone, but giving voice to his paranoia made him feel better. So when a piece of shadow broke off from one of the high corners of his ceiling and fell to the floor with a soft thud Spayar froze and went cold. 

Spayar swallowed at what rose from the little puddle of darkness; a lonth. Lords of shadows they were all wizards or mages and lethal with any weapon including their hands. The Adoshade were one of the most southern houses in the Alliance before you hit the Kas’sca and incredibly small but powerful. This one in front of him wore his Shroud tight to his body, making his skin black and shiny like a bug's carapace, only his face and hair revealed. He was older than Spayar by only perhaps three years with nearly ruddy skin with black eyes and hair and looked like a Black Foot though removed some generations from the original people who lived within the lands of the LoHanJo'in province.

"Are you Spayar Hillsman junior?" the lonth asked, despite being from the coast like Peonia and the Garden which had similar accents that were quick, rolling and beautiful the Shade had a starkly different one that made them sound sort of slow. The Black Foot language was very meandering and since the Shade had come from the Black Foot their accent mimicked that.

"I am, who are you?” Spayar said.

"My name is DiSol Adoshade," they bowed a little to him, "Second son of LouSai, Shadow Lord." That made Spayar uneasy.

"What can I do for you DiSol?" Spayar asked keeping as calm as possible. Von said that the Adoshade had been quiet lately and killed anyone who came into their province, or at least any spies never returned. But it was the Adoshade, the Adoshade did not allow survivors to those they considered traitors.

"You are the d'alaer of Vondugard Le'Acard are you not?" he asked.

"I am."

"A worthy thing to give your life for then," and Spayar grabbed his power in case DiSol attacked him. DiSol didn't move towards him and Spayar realized that if DiSol had wanted to kill him he could have done it already or if he wanted to know Spayar wouldn't be able to stop him, lonths never let a target live.

"What do you want?"

“We need help and the Shadow Lord is dying,” he said.

"Excuse me?" dropping his power in pure shock. The Shadow Lord was dying?

"Virilia," the Asuras, "has sent my father threats if he does not cooperate. I'm sure you've heard we have closed the borders of our province to outsiders," Spayar nodded, "my father is very sick and has put my older brother in charge of defending DisAdo and keeping the house safe." Spayar knew DiSol's older brother, CoLan, nearly everyone in the Alliance knew him, they called him the Dawn Demon and he was a monster, the strongest lonth there had ever been. Ruthless and cunning without a good thing about him he was said to have no conscious and did his duty for the pleasure of the kill. "My brother is not a good leader," DiSol said and his Shroud retreated back from his body like seeping water revealing his gray mottled clothing, his Shroud becoming a cape behind him.

"I don't see why you need me."

"My brother has been killing Virilia's spies when they come and see what is going on in LoHanJo'in as well as anyone else who crosses from the Relua province into ours. I managed to convince him to let normal people to pass through unscathed but he doesn't like it. As I said, Virilia is sending my father threats, my brother sees them instead because he is acting Shadow Lord. He has gone into the Boggarts to find Black Foot to raise an army." Spayar paled, another house who wanted to raise an army. Black Foot used a type of magic that robbed people of their free will, they were puppet masters and if you had a band of Black Foot shamen in your army you could make the enemy dance for you. At least those were the stories. He hadn’t heard of an actual puppeteer in decades. "Virilia said that if we do not bend by the spring she will send an Arm to wipe us out and remind us that the Le'Acard rule the south, not the Adoshade and we will be an example to all the other houses."

"CoLan is gone now?" DiSol nodded, "Who is running DisAdo now?"

"With my brother gone, I am. My father sent me here to beg," he'd never heard of a lonth begging before. "My father says that a Le'Acard who managed to find themselves a d'alaer were good, better than most. The other princes or princesses couldn't help us, they wouldn't be able to move quickly enough. But His Highness Vondugard-" he seemed lost for words for a moment. "CoLan will be gone until spring, until then I am running DisAdo.”

"Vondugard has till then to move," Spayar said softly.

DiSol nodded, "When my brother returns he will set his army at the border of LoHanJo'in and wait for Virilia to move against him. If he does we will lose. We may win the battle but we will be crippled. Our harvests have been horrible this year, our resources will be tight on our people as it is, let alone needing to feed and supply my brother’s army. A small army of lonths can hold back one branch of the Alliance army but the Alliance is a bottomless well of people. Virilia will just find more people, send the other Arms. We will be crushed."

"I understand," Spayar said, nodding, thinking quickly. This was a lot to take in. He wasn't aware the situation with the Adoshade was quite so dire. And the bad harvests weren’t just effecting the central Alliance. Even somewhere as far away as LoHanJo’in was suffering, like a malevolent hand of a god was pressed across the land. He needed to find out what other provinces would also suffer a food shortage this year once the harvest was brought in. One thing at a time though. He needed to focus on DiSol and making sure he could handle what was needed there. "Can you promise Vondugard lonths when it is time?"

"I will give you as many as you want. The Shade need a new Asuras. We will not exist past the spring if Virilia remains where she is."

"Why didn't you just go to Vondugard himself with this?"

“Spies follow him everywhere. I am good, but I'm not invisible. And we know you have his ear. We know you will speak for him." Spayar came up short on that. He did? Since when? "Do we have his Highness' help?"

"Yes," Spayar said, "You do.” If they were going to die in the Conflict might as well try to come out on top first. “We will move as soon as we can. Try to stall your brother, the Asuras' furies are short lived she may not send an army to you. But if what you're telling me comes to pass you're saying we have till the end of winter to prepare," DiSol nodded. "What about your father?"

"He's sick."

"With what?"

"We don't know, and we don't know if he'll get better soon. It may be a long illness," DiSol frowned. "He sees the error of putting my brother in command, but he's too sick for his orders to remove CoLan to be taken seriously. My brother just says our father is sick and doesn't know what he's saying."

"He's really a demon," Spayar said.

DiSol smiled a little, fractured, smile, "It's why they call him the Dawn Demon," he said.

"Return to DisAdo and tell your father Vondugard will help you. I also want to send a healer with you to look at your father."

"We have some of the best-

"It wasn't a request," Spayar said, "I know if my father was sick I'd want all the help I could get."

DiSol looked up at Spayar with grateful eyes, he bowed a little, "Thank you Hillsman," he said.

"Also tell your father that when he's better he must ensure that your brother can never take the Seat of Shadows," Spayar said. "I don't care how but the Dawn Demon is too volatile to be Shadow Lord."

"I agree," DiSol said.

"That is the price for the prince's help, that his eldest son can never become Shadow Lord."

"A price he will be willing to pay," DiSol said.

"Give me a day to find my healer friend, she will go with you back to DisAdo and see to your father."

"You're too kind. I will give you to the ninth morning bell tomorrow," DiSol said and Spayar nodded. "Thank you Hillsman," he said again.

"Make sure the Shade are ready to move in the spring."

"We will be, I promise," and his Shroud once again wrapped around his body, turning him into a black insect and then it covered his face, only his black eyes visible. He bowed to Spayar and then went to the window and eased the shutters open. DiSol climbed onto the sill and instead of dropping like Spayar expected DiSol stood up and climbed onto the roof, a black tendril of his Shroud snaking down and closing the shutters, locking them behind him. Spayar shuttered.

He stood there a few moments, looking at the shutters before everything seemed accelerated. He needed to get another letter out to Galinsum to Sinso that whatever progress he'd made on those grenados needed to happen faster. There was an accelerated time table. He jotted it down, folded it and shoved it into an envelope to take to the post office. This needed wyrm postage. It needed to get to Galinsum now. 

And he had to go see Mali, convince her to leave with DiSol and make the Shadow Lord well. And this was on top of all the other things he needed to get done in the time between Von returning from the gut, hopefully with good news about X’vazior at the least and hopefully others as well. What he needed was for Tassa to be home. He needed her.

He sealed the envelope with his personal mark and then spelled it so that if anyone but the intended recipient opened it it would burst into flames. He added an extra weave under that one so that if someone touched the top weave to investigate it that weave would trigger anyway. He rebuckled his leather jacket and grabbing the letter went back downstairs.

"Spayar where are you going?" his mother called as he grabbed his hat from the rack by the door

"Post office, then to see a friend, be right back," Spayar said, tucking the letter inside his jacket's breast pocket.

“Will you be back for dinner?”

“Yes,” Spayar said, looking at her through the window in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. He could smell the wonderful food she was preparing.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, standing a bit more in view, the ceremonial scars on her forehead nearly touching from her furrowed brown.

He looked at her and frowned. He'd just cut his own life nearly in half with his agreement to help the Adohade. Before he'd had a year till the coup. With his declaration to help the Adohade he'd shortened it to just a few months. "No," he said and then turned and walked out the side door. Outside it was raining and Spayar put his wide, waterproof, hat on and walked off into the storm.

—

The rain during the fall was nearly constant in the Meltong Basin, and of course that was exactly where the winter capital was located, at the center of the Alliance. Spayar was watching the rain outside and people rush around under the awnings lining the sidewalks, or hunched over on horses or buggies. In the house it was warm and dry.

Mali was in the kitchen with his mother and he could hear the two of them talking, but wasn’t paying attention to their words. The sun had risen two bells ago but the sunlight was wane, wet, and gray. He was waiting for the ninth morning bell when DiSol would show himself and he and Mali would return to the LoHanJo'in province and DisAdo

He looked over when someone sat next to him, it was Calli. His perfect, proper, sixteen year old sister with more sense in her head than just about anyone Spayar knew. She was wearing a morning gown that came to her knees and had little yellow horses embroidered on it. She looked like she'd just woken up but yet was alert and keen. "Good morning," he said.

"Morning," she yawned a little, putting her hand over her mouth. "You're up early. Usually when his highness is away you sleep in."

"Busy," Spayar said, leaning against the arm of the chair. "Can't sleep now," literally. He'd tossed and turned all night and had dreams of a red eyed necromancer standing over his grave reading from the Red Book to summon a necrell that would take his soul to the Shadowed Lands. He hadn't been able to sleep after that nightmare.

"Busy with what?"

"It doesn't matter to you," he waved her inquiry away.

"Why, cause I'm a girl?" she asked.

He looked at her and laughed in her face, "Calli, I would never be so stupid as to keep a matter away from someone for as trivial a thing as gender. It doesn't matter to you because it literally has no bearing on your life if you know, and is better if you didn't know anyway."

"Why?"

"Because your brother is doing a very bad thing," he said softly looking away.

"Which is?"

He gave her a look, "If you're lucky you won't ever know," he said and looked back out the window. He could see the big bell tower from here, through the rain, its face illuminated from the inside, and knew it was close to the ninth bell.

"Spayar," Calli asked after a few minutes. He 'hmm'd at her. "Will you introduce me to some nobles?"

"Why would you want to do that?" though he didn't look at her.

"Because I want an interesting, wealthy, husband," and Spayar looked at her so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

"What?" he squeaked.

"I said-

"I know what you said," he waved her words away impatiently. "Calli, you're sixteen, and a commoner. You aren't obligated to marry," he reminded her.

"I know, but I will marry someone, someday."

"And you're sure you'll have a husband?" he challenged.

Calli came up short, she hadn't thought of that. Her brother would never have a wife like Duren probably would. He would never have children either. She thought about the implications of her sexuality for a moment, mulled them over and then said, "Yes, I will have a husband. I like boys, you're a good role model for liking boys," she smiled at him and he smacked her knee playfully, making her giggle. "And I want a good one. A courageous, handsome, wealthy, noble, husband," she said.

"Heh, well I can tell you bidi, those types of men are few and far between. Also why would you want a noble?"

"Because I never want to worry if something happens to us," Calli said. "Mama is always worried about you and I'm old enough to realize that if something happened to you..." she bit her lips, "dooim might not get as much business." He knew what she was saying. If he died in a coup, fighting against someone who beat Von, he'd be a traitor, and his family would be cast in that shadow. No one would want what his father made.

"Nothing is going to happen to me," Spayar promised. "And you don't want a noble husband. Nobles are awful. Trust me, I know plenty."

"But what about you?"

"What about me?"

She blinked and knew she needed to proceed carefully. She licked her lips before saying, "Aren't you in love with a noble?"

"What? No,” he scoffed

"So you're not in love with the prince?" and Spayar's face went slack and he flushed brilliantly, the color probably showing a bit on his dark skin. She smiled a little, "You have no room to talk about wanting a noble husband," she said.

He scowled at her, "It is a completely different situation. Vondugard is my best friend and my prince, of course I love him."

"You know what I mean."

"You're completely delusional," he waved her off. "And you don't want a stupid, prideful, noble for a husband. You're sixteen, and too young and good for most of them."

"I won't know unless I meet them though will I?" she asked.

"No," he said sternly.

"At least let me come to her highness' Talalsalla's naming day party this year," she begged. “Please,” she put both hands over her heart in a begging fashion. “I promise I’ll be good.”

He huffed through his nose and puffed his cheeks out a bit. She gave him her best doe eyes. "Fine," he grunted and rolled his eyes a bit.

She got out of the chair and hugged him tightly, "Thank you. Thank you,” and then kissed him on both cheeks and between the eyes.

"Yeah yeah," and the clock started to ring. Nine bells. "Now I need to go do stuff," he pushed her off gently and stood. "Mali," he called and went to the kitchen. His mother and Mali were in there standing at the kitchen table. Relora was packing Mali a bag of food while Mali tried to say she didn't need it but Relora just shushed her and packed it anyway. Spayar's eyes went to the window as the shutter eased itself open and a dark, man shaped, mass slipped into the kitchen. If Spayar hadn't been looking at the window he'd have missed it and it would be as if DiSol had just appeared.

"Having fun?" Spayar asked them.

"Your mother is too kind," Mali said, slightly beside herself.

"Nonsense. We're having a bad harvest this year and I doubt you'll be able to get as good of food as this elsewhere,” Relora said kindly. “And Dirinnan food is made to put meat on those bones,” and she patted Mali’s belly with all the gentle love a mother could muster.

“Relora-

“I insist,” Relora said firmly.

Mali sighed a bit theatrically. “Fine. Is he here?" Mali asked turning to Spayar. Spayar had told her why she was going to LoHanJo'in and why it was important she make LouSai well as soon as possible. She'd been very against it at first but like always he convinced her. It wasn't good having a soft heart around Spayar, he'd abuse if for all he could and despite her hard exterior Mali had a very soft heart. 

"I am," and Mali and Relora both turned when DiSol spoke, standing behind them. Thankfully he wasn't wearing his Shroud over him, so he looked rather normal. "This is the healer you spoke of?" he asked Spayar, looking at Mali.

"Yes, this is Mali Thralluk," he said, "Mali, this is DiSol Adoshade."

"Never met a lonth before," she looked him up and down, "I expected them to be taller." DiSol frowned at her but didn't take the bait. Mali turned back to Relora, "Thank you so much Relora, you're too good to me."

"Of course dear. Any friend of Spayar's is always welcome at our home and table."

“We should leave, before the rain gets worse,” DiSol said emotionlessly.

”Right, c’mon,” he nodded to Mali and DiSol and they followed him out of the kitchen. Despite just being out in the rain DiSol wasn't wet so he didn't have to worry about the lonth tracking water into the house. They left the house and stood under the second story overhang that looked out onto the side yard. While he'd been gone his mother had picked some of the produce and that made him nervous. Usually she only picked the produce when there was a fear of it wilting or being washed away by the rains. She'd picked it early. "Mali is aware of the situation," he told DiSol, who nodded, "while she's there she'll be acting as Vondugard's voice."

"Does she have the same authority as you?" DiSol asked.

Mali and Spayar looked at one another. Neither of them kidded themselves in who was higher, who held more weight and authority, "No," he said. "But if she promises something for Vondugard it's likely to be carried out," he gave Mali a look to make sure she knew not to fuck it up. He trusted her though, After Tassa and Von Mali was one of his oldest friends, even if they hadn’t started on perhaps the most honest of terms. “She knows what to do, do you?"

"When we return to LoHanJo'in I'll keep my brother occupied and away from DisAdo for as long as I can."

"I'll send the summons for aid through Mali. You march on her say," DiSol looked at her and then nodded slowly. "Good," Spayar wracked his brain, what else could he do? Not much. He'd done everything he could really. "Safe journey," he kissed Mali on her cheeks and between her eyes, "Make the Shadow Lord well," he ordered.

"He'll be skipping through fields of flowers in no time," she promised him with a smile.

"I'll hold you to that.”

"Let's go," DiSol said seriously, "I've already been away from LoHanJo'in long enough. I need to get back."

"Goodbye Spayar," Mali said.

"Keep her safe," Spayar said sternly as he saw the two to the high walled fence, rain splattering across Spayar’s head. Mali's horse was in the shed with his own mare and she went to get it.

"You have my word," DiSol said, "no harm will come to her."

"I can take care of myself," Mali said, “I did my time, remember?” she gave him a look.

"Just let me worry a little," Spayar half pleaded.

She grinned, "We'll see you in spring," and DiSol drew his Shroud over his body and face as Mali put on her wide hat, mounted her horse and entered the rain again trotting out to the road, her horse seemed miserable. She waved and then turned the corner onto the road and was out of sight. A half moment later Spayar saw a black shadow streak after her. Spayar frowned after them. There was nothing he could do now. He'd done all he could. He closed the door and went back inside.

—

It was drizzling miserably while Spayar walked down the road bundled against the wet, his wide hat casting rain over his shoulder in a sick dribble. It never got cold in Assarus but it did get chilly and fall had come with a vengeance, dumping feet of rain in short order with the promise of more. It was expected in Assarus even this early in the fall. Asurala  had started now and they had five weeks of miserable rain until it petered out in Neyjarra and finally stopped in Lun save for the normal rain storm until spring started and the Meltong flooded from the snow out west in the Spine melting.

He was in the middle of Uptown close to the mouth of the lake that the city surrounded. Tassa’s apartment was around here. Her father had bought it for her. Part to give her independence and part to get her to stop having sex all over his house. Spayar liked Kenna, he was nice, if having the personality of a mouse. He had always struggled to keep Tassa in line. Spayar didn't know where Tassa got it.

He was grateful to get out of the drizzle as he stepped into the foyer of a nice building. It was warm and dry inside with a guard desk who's main duty was to protect the mail slots along the front of the desk, keep any large packages, and call the actual guards should there be any need. Spayar shook himself just a bit on the mat inside the door to get the worst of the water off before stepping into the shiny wooden floors.

“Hello, can I help you?” the desk guard asked.

“Is Tassa Peony home?” he asked.

“I didn't see her leave this morning and the night guard didn't give any indication she hadn't been in all night.”

“Great,” Spayar said and signed his name on the guestbook. “I’m a friend,” he added.

“The young miss has lots of those,” the guard eyed him.

“No like actually,” Spayar chuckled and left the desk without saying much else.

Tassa had a ground floor apartment with a front porch onto the courtyard the building surrounded. As he got near he passed through the gentle cobwebs of a magical weave Tassa had coccooned the entrance of her home in. She might have been the daughter of a noble but that didn't mean the guards wouldn't have a good reason to arrest her. A bored mind and quick hands tended to get that sort of negative attention that would warrant such a weave. Spayar just coated his fingers in magic and gently pushed aside the ornately constructed threads that looked a lot like a larger and more complex version of the one on the back of his bedroom door. He just didn't need them touching him. Had he not been looking through magic he wouldn't have even seen it much less felt it.

He knocked inside the pocket free of magic right against the door. He made sure to knock loudly. Tassa came to the door after a solid minute of him knocking wearing a shift that was barely hanging off one shoulder her hair more disrupted than simple bed head would do. “Spayar?” she squinted at him. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

He looked at the clock on the post in the center of the courtyard, “It’s chems, Tassa,” he said.

“What? Chems?” she grumbled a little, “I stayed up too late.”

“Yes. May I come in, we need to talk.”

“Sure. I'll make something,” she yawned and waved him in.

Tassa’s apartment was as though a storm had ripped through it. It was one bedroom and bath and a living room and things lay in disarray all over. Papers and dishes were arranged hazardously on flat surfaces, brushes and makeup products lay scattered across tables and the floor. The couch looked more like a bed and a large pipe was leaned up against the wall. Spayar didn't mention any of it and just joined Tassa in her tiny kitchen where she was carelessly etching a weave in the air with magic coated fingers. The heat ring started glowing almost instantly. She put a pot from above on it and fingers still coated in magic connected two pieces of a larger weave together that caused the sink faucet to open and water to pour directly from it into the pot. It would disintegrate over time to stop the pot from overflowing.

She slouched onto the table across from Spayar, pulling a slender leg up to rest on the seat of the chair, casually brushing her hair with her fingers with mixed success. “Have fun last night?” he asked her, smiling.

“You’re lucky you're so pretty,” she groaned and rubbed her face. “Me and the girls went out last night down to the Den, got into some trouble.”

“Nothing serious?”

“Not even,” she sighed, “just welcoming me home.” As she said that a man left her bedroom, looked at the two of them and hustled out. Another bustled out quickly after him. 

“Fun huh?”

“Would have been more fun with you around,” she said and rubbed the top of his hand.

“You know I don't like white guys,” he said with a grin.

“Well, most white guys,” she said.

“I assure you I don't know what that means.”

She pulled her hand back, “So what's up?” she asked and looked at the last person to stumble out of her bedroom. This was a lady in much better condition than the two men. “You the last one, love?” Tassa called.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah I think so,” she grinned at Tassa. Spayar vaugely recognized her meaning it was a friend of Tassa’s who didn't run in their circle. “You’re buying next time,” she waved as she left.

“She seems nice.”

“Uhhhhg, she's so hot I hate herrrr,” Tassa groaned and leaned on one arm.

Spayar laughed. “Yeah I can relate,” he said with a grin. Tassa got up and took the boiling water off the heat rim, deactivating the weave with a crook of her finger and poured the water into two mugs. She scooped an herbal mixture into two tea balls and put them into the cups. From a cupboard she produced beet sugar cubes, stained slightly pink for effect, some strawberries and two day old bread that was partially eaten to go with the butter on the table.

“Chems,” she announced grandeously as she set the tea and food down between them.

“How gracious. Your father wouldn't even recognize you,” he said, not adding any sugar to his tea while Tassa added about six.

“Hardy har har,” she stirred her tea with a weave of magic that turned it into a mini maelstrom. “What are you doing here and not a more appropriate hour of the day?”

Spayar popped a strawberry into his mouth. “I heard the thief lord died.”

“Uhg, not this now,” she moved her hair in annoyance. 

“You didn't mention it when I saw you.”

“I forgot and by the time I remembered I figured you'd know already,” she said and sipped her tea.

“What’s this Cross guy like?”

“Western fence who got a taste for the business way I heard it. Came from a city around Galinsum I think. Showed up in Assarus few months ago, killed Jackertty with their own knife. He doesn't like people.”

“You mean he doesn't like you.”

“He’s skittish around girls. Meet him and you'll see why- no. Spayar stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, leaning on the table a bit, giving her his best innocent eyes. 

“You don't want to meet Cross. He’s not like Jackertty.”

“I know.”

“He’s way more cut throat.”

“We’d get along then.”

“Spayar I am serious!”

“Me too. I can't have some unknown entity in my city. I use his hands as my eyes. Pays to visit the boss.”

“Spayar I don't-

He leaned across the table and put his hand on hers, “Tassura,” he said gently like the bastard he was. “I need your help.”

Spayar-

“Please, Tassura?” he kept his voice low and sweet. Only he and her father were allowed to call her Tassura, her real name. It was a soft and intimate familiarity that wasn't allowed by most Aldashi outside of family or their lovers. It was a weakness Tassa didn't let anyone have over her other than those few she loved. Spayar was a real wretch for using it now and he knew it.

“I— guess I could,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” he squeezed her wrist gently and let her go. “How was your trip back with Vondugard?” The prince wasn't back I'm the city yet. He'd taken a long route around and detoured down Maker’s End to the land around and past Gorum, see if any help could be drummed up there. 

“He needed you,” she said.

“He sent me ahead-

“I meant in the past two years. You could have waited to serve time.”

“Again, also something I couldn't control,” Spayar said.

“He’s soft, Spayar. I worry.” Not about Von, Tassa was worried about Spayar. “X’vazior almost said no.”

“But did he?”

“No. I lied for him.”

Spayar sighed and rubbed his face, “He’s too nice is what you're telling me?”

“He cares too much to be an effective emperor,” she used the Aldashi word for it but Spayar knew it. Kenna called Verilia emperor when he was pissed at her, or when he spoke ill of the princes and princesses. Wasn't fully bilingual in any one Alliance tongue but Spayar knew enough in a lot of them to get by.

“He’s too nice,” Spayar groaned, still rubbing his face. “He’s always too nice.”

“If you don't want to get killed when Teldin finally attacks he needs to toughen up.”

“I know,” he put his hands down and sipped his tea. Tassa had two strawberries, the red juice staining her olive lips. “You’ll set something up with Cross for me?”

She sipped her tea. “ What do I get? You're a deal maker.”

“What do you want? And don't say sex you know I like girls even less than white boys.”

“Oh, I gave that up years ago,” she lied. Spayar knew she hated it was a lie too. “How about you owe me one?”

“An unspecified favor? Tassa you were hanging around the Peony too much,” he smirked.

“Is that a yes?”

“So long as it isn't sex, sure.”

“It isn't,” she rolled her eyes.

“Then yes. A favor. Just keep it of similar magnitude?”

“I will. Are you going to stay for the rest of chems?” she worried the point of a strawberry with her index finger distastedly.

“I guess. You made me tea and everything. It doesn't have anything in it does it?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed and popped the entire strawberry into her mouth. “You enjoy I'm going to get some real clothes on,” and she got up. Spayar privately rolled his eyes. Her shift was barely long enough to cover her buttocks in the back. He sipped his tea and buttered some bread. 

Tassa ended up throwing a final, third, man out of her house while he got dressed. They cast a furtive look at Spayar as they scuttled away and he just smiled and waved. They grimaced and bolted, fearing him being her actual boyfriend. He just enjoyed the rest of the chems until Tassa came back out, brushing her hair with a wide toothed brush to get it under some control. “Want some help feeding the afternoon birds? You know they like me,” she leaned against his shoulder luxuriously.

“I’d be remiss to say no,” he said. She grabbed another strawberry and went to put on some shoes. Spayar crammed the last bit of buttered bread into his mouth and shot the rest of his tea before following her. “It’s still raining, bring an umbrella.”

“Who do you take me for Spayar?” she asked and selected one of her six umbrellas in the stand by the door. This one was wide and deeply curved, rain cloud gray on the outside with a red lace trim and an array of red hibiscus on the inside. It matched her wine bodice and scaldingly red leather breeches that clung to her legs and hips in a way that was meant to be distracting.

“Of course, I forgot to whom I spoke,” he teased and opened the door. “After you, my lady,” he swept his arm out teasingly.

“Oh thank you, my Lord. How gracious,” she said with an extra girlishly giggle and stepped out of her front door. The rain had intensified while he'd been inside. He put his hat on before stepping out and locking the door. Tassa waved a hand at the door, locking a weave across the front like a cage to prevent entry.

“Shall we, my lady?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Oh my Lord,” she batted her lashes at him making him chuckle as she took his offered arm and they left the building complex through the front. Tassa opened her umbrella, sheilding them from unwelcoming eyes as they headed for one of the places Spayar went to to hear the news from his birds.

[officialleehadan]

A Question of Faith

Brandon was glad when they crossed the border into Canada.

Their RV was a boat, but Blaec drove like everything smaller than him should simply get out of his way. It was funny in a way. At least Brandon thought so.

The dragon would also actually spit flames when someone cut him off. Brandon suspected that he was the cause of a sporty car blowing a tire. It seemed like the sort of thing Blaec would do.

Whenever Evalene wanted her seat in the cab, he went back to his maps and charts.

They were due to stop at one of the major Vampire holdings shortly, and the whole team was going in loaded for vampire. They were allies, it was true, but none of the mercenaries trusted them and Brandon had no reason to doubt his team.

“Sunlight, holy water, crossbow,” Thori said as he laid out the items on the table for Brandon. The half-dwarf was taking his job as armorer very seriously. “Don’t bother with a holy symbol. Three lighters, tuck one into your sock.”

Brandon followed the instructions. He had fought vampires before and Thori had checked him out on the bow the day before.

“Why no holy symbol?” he asked curiously. His department didn’t use them either and he never thought to ask why.

“It would not do you any good,” Xaenxa said. “You haven’t the faith in a god to make it work.”

“So not cross-specific?” he asked, tucking a handful of flares into his bag.

“Hephaestus’ symbol is a lightning-struck hammer,” Thori said, showing him what looked like a normal hammer. It bore etching of a lightning bolt on an anvil on both sides and seemed to hum. “Hela’s is a half-black half-white mask.”

“Faith is what matters? Not the symbol?” Brandon said, mostly to himself.

“Not faith,” Thori corrected. “The belief that your God will intercede if necessary. Hephaestus will. So will Hela.”

He nodded to Evalene who was pulling on a Kevlar vest. As soon as it was on, she ducked back into one of the bedrooms. Xaenxa already had a vest on and Thori and Brandon’s were waiting.

“Poseidon wouldn’t intercede for her.” He said. “Triton might well, but we would have to be closer to salt water for him to get involved.”

“But you’re not a priest either,” Brandon commented, pulling on his vest and adding a normal one on over it to keep it hidden. He and Thori were going in as the hired muscle they were.

“Every smith of His is a priest,” Thori corrected. “I’m not a cleric like Xaenxa, but I am of the Order, after a fashion. Enough to count.”

“If I had my way, me and Blaec would be the only two going in,” Rhys said as he came out of the other bedroom. For obvious reasons, neither he nor Blaec would be wearing Kevlar.

“Melaena specifically invited all of us by name,” Evalene called.

Brandon had overheard her having that very argument with Blaec the night before.

“If we don’t all show up, she might refuse to work with us, and we need her Coven to help if the Hoard gets unleashed. She rules the entire mid-east territory all the way to the northern ice.”

“She wants you there because if you’re there I can’t torch the mansion,” Rhys grumbled. “She’s hobbling me and Blaec with you four. It’s clever and it reeks of trouble.”

“We’re ready for trouble,” Xaenxa reassured him. She reached over and ran a hand delicately over his cheek. “I have my spells ready and waiting, Thori and Brandon will cover us, and Evalene’s songs will still work on a vampire. Besides, when has Melaena ever crossed Blaec?”

It was unexpectedly reassuring and Brandon tried not to be too confused by it. Seeing the murderous dark elf happily playing with children was mind-boggling enough. He was trying to simply stop expecting things out of her. He kept being wrong.

Rhys took the comfort as it was offered and bent to kiss her cheek.

“Thank you sweetheart,” he said softly. He added something soft in Russian that Brandon didn’t understand. He assumed it was fond. They were surprisingly affectionate with each other when Xaenxa wasn’t killing Rhys.

Whatever Rhys said, it seemed to please Xaenxa. She flashed him a smile.

It was a little astonishing to Brandon how many weapons Xaenxa managed to hide under the slinky gown she wore. It was tight and floating and silver-white. Brandon could only guess at what it was made of.

Somehow Xaenxa managed to fit her vest on under it. It didn’t show. Brandon thought it might be magic.

The only weapons she had visible were her favorite dagger, strapped to her thigh through the long slit in her dress, and a pair of delicate jeweled stilettos that tucked into her hair.

The pearls she always wore in her hair simply shifted around them. Brandon still hadn’t figured out that trick of hers. He didn’t think he wanted to know. More of the tiny gems draped around her throat and from her ears.

He had traded his usual clothes for a dressy black suit he wore for formal events. Thori’s was nearly identical. They didn’t look like much and they weren’t supposed to. Of the whole team they were the most vulnerable.

Rhys looked almost like them, except that he had added a bright red vest underneath.

When she reappeared, Evalene was draped in layers of blue and looked like she wore the ocean. The jewelry she wore looked simple until Branson realized that it was all carved of polished dragon scale.

Between her and Xaenxa, Brandon figured they could charm just about any man they wanted.

Blaec looked on. He had unbent enough to replace his leathers with a suit that was almost the same color as his scales. He looked frighteningly impressive. If Brandon was a vampire, he would think twice about tangling with the dragon.

“Is everyone ready?” Blaec asked. His eyes skimmed over them all and finally he cracked a smile. “Well, at least they won’t be able to snub you about your clothes. Well done.”

The comment was mostly directed at Thori and Rhys, but Brandon thought he was included as well. Xaenxa preened.

“Vampires make the Ailfar look like frat boys,” she said. “All that ridiculous pomp. I swear they get it when they’re human and it never goes away.”

“You like Lord Tepes,” Rhys said, coming up beside her.

“Vlad is old enough to be sensible.”

“He also throws a hell of a party.”

“That too.”

Brandon grinned. He had met the ancient vampire on a diplomatic trip a year or two back. The meeting had begun with Vlad summarily decapitating two of his minions who made to lunge at the humans.

Defiance would not be allowed.

Melaena Sheer was one of Vlad’s Children. She was also a known entity to Brandon’s Agency and extremely powerful. For the first time in days, Brandon felt ready for what they were up against. Vampires he knew how to handle.

Blaec had called ahead to a limo company so they would be arriving at the mansion in style, and all in one vehicle. Thori had suggested that it might be better if they did and after some thought Blaec agreed.

It was rare but vampires did sometimes work with necromancers. If that was the case, any vehicle they arrived in would not be safe to drive by the time they were ready to leave.

The limo would drop them off, and return when Blaec called for it.

Far more reliable than letting the Coven provide a car or trusting them to leave the RV unmolested.

When they were ready to go, they all filed out and Blaec stopped for a minute. When Brandon turned to see what the dragon was doing, he was amazed to see a firetruck were their RV was a moment before.

“No one messes with a parked firetruck,” Rhys explained. He eyed the illusion and nodded to Blaec. “Anyone asks about it, a polite officer will walk around the corner and give them some reason why it’s important that this truck stays right where it is.”

“And it will also keep anyone who’s looking for us from tampering with the RV.” Brandon finished. It was a good trick. Now he knew why Blaec had insisted on parking them in the lot of a public park.

A moment later a sleek black limo pulled up and the driver moved to hold the door for them.

Xaenxa smiled wickedly at the man and Brandon saw him blush deeply. It was surprising to him that he didn’t seem to react like that to her anymore. Maybe he was just getting used to her.

The oddness of that thought carried him all the way through the ride to the heavily-secured mansion where the vampire coven waited.

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HGE - Mismatched

What do you get when you put a dragon, his mermaid, a dark elf, a half-dwarf, and a firebird into a zombie apocalypse?

A very frustrated human, who really isn’t sure how he ended up in this situation to begin with.

Death Valley Sand

The Regency

Red Scales and Golden Hair

En Route

Silver-White Knife

A Question of Faith

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More Stories!

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[stormymuses]

Draco, the Shadow Dragon King. An OC Muse.

One of my most developed OC’s, huge wall of text beneath the cut-off, but don’t hesitate to ask questions!

Trigger Warning: Draco’s past is abusive and cruel. Read at your own discretion.

Physical Appearance: Draco has two forms, and they are thus: Human, and Dragon. In each of these forms, he is capable of the same things, however the level of power is greatly reduced whilst in a human form. In each form he is able to cast his magic, though in his human form it is significantly weaker than in his true form. His human form is that of a ten foot tall man, with defined features and a stern, unyielding gaze. His eyes glow dimly, back-lit due to his magic, and thus making the already coal-red orbs shimmer as if they were really coals. His black hair is combed back, slicked with what could be assumed to be gel, though this style choice reflects the many spines and horns running down his true form's back. He wears a tailor-made military dress uniform, albeit the coat is larger, and longer, going down to reveal only his boots, which travel half way up his shins. It has red trim and creases as well as detailing, and is extremely durable for simple cloth, due to it being enchanted by the Darkness Draco wields. It can still be cut or damaged by physical means, but magical and similar means do little to it. His boots are heavy, and are likewise durable. He is also often seen in his human form wearing traditional Draconian Battle Armor, made to suit his tastes and likewise enchanted as well. It is also black, and features a sort of swept-back design to it. The armor was not designed to indimidate; it has no spikes, lacks a large cape, and on the surface doesn't appear to be anything but simple Iron. It is however, designed to be functional. Being able to withstand blows from other Dragons both weaker and stronger than he is, it was made from a substance known as Black Duradaeden, a nigh-indestructible metal used by the ancients and Dragons alike for generations. It is also further enchanted with defensive runes to assist in defending from magic, explosions, and instruments of war alike. In his true form, he is what many would qualify to be a Kaiju. He stands at one hundred and seven meters in height at the shoulder, and is thousands of meters long from tail tip to snout. His wingspan is likewise massive, able to carry him through the air with ease, and allow him to take off with little effort at all. As is expected, he is monstrously strong in this form, as his sheer weight alone is enough to level a city block, and as such he needs to be able to move quickly in combat against other Dragons, as well as smaller beings that prove to be too much for his human form. It is in this form that he has full access to his power, and it in this form that he could potentially end the world.

History: Born one of seven brothers and sisters, Draco's mother allowed all seven to live for a few days, watching them grow. Black Dragons were a very primal, warring species of Dragon, and to prove who was the strongest of her children Tethir sent them through a series of "Tests" designed to kill them. Draco however, saw through them, and used them against his Mother to survive. Of all his siblings, he was a Thinker, and a fighter. He was large enough to defend himself, and smart enough to survive the tests. Upon surviving, he had an unrestrained hatred for his mother, which festered in his heart unchecked. His mother, however, came to love and respect her surviving son. For another two thousand years she raised him as only she knew how, harshly and without a care. He was starved, beaten, built up, broken down, and even brought to the brink of death, but never killed, by his mother. His hatred grew daily, and so did his resolve. One day, a powerful Necromancer placed a spell on him, turning him into what he is: The Lord of Shadows. Upon receiving his power, he returned to his Mother, this time, to kill her. He succeeded, and in her dying breath, cast one last spell: One that would place her own essence into him, and allow him to feel emotion. It is through this emotion he grew to Love Kethend, and raise five children with her. He made it his mission to destroy the Light, the Dragon responsible for his hardship, for birthing the Dragon that would eventually birth his mother, and then him. For millions of years he toiled and planned, but his plans were delayed by three things: his emotions, the Silver Dragon Xeir Zith, and and the Light separating him from his body. It was his new mission to regain his body. Since he could do nothing about the first problem, he would focus on the other two, but before that, he needed back his body. Recent History, and that which is to be: After gaining back his body, he raided the Silver Palace, home of the Light, with his Shadow Legion, and stole some airships, and is now creating his own Air-fleet to combat his enemies. It is through this Emotion that he will come to Break the Necromancer's hold on him. He will come to realize that it isn't the Light he needs to extinguish, but the Wolf Queen. For Light cannot exist without the Darkness, and the Darkness cannot exist without the Light.