#the toll the tome and the thunder

[greyson--tolliver]

the worms. i must see them interacting right now

[ginneke]

the midnight oil

For @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt "midnight distractions"

BotW, post Kara Kara but while Zelda's feelings are still shifting. Some vague pretensions towards Zelimpa.

Word count: 998

—

The incense was a gift from Impa, kindly meant – if not quite so graciously received at first. (Nor was Zelda using it for its intended purpose, though she suspected Impa had already known how likely that was when she gave it.)

For Impa, the incense was a meditation aid; she'd given a precious month's supply to Zelda with the hope it might assist her in her own contemplations. It came in sticks, each a quarter-inch in diameter, which were arrayed neatly in a camphorwood box, its surfaces polished to a high sheen. It didn't look out of keeping with the contents of Zelda's bedchamber at all, though the ceramic dish Impa had given with it was... less so: the dish betrayed an inexperienced hand, quite literally, the imprint of a thumb still visible where the maker had accidentally baked it into the clay. 

That thumbprint was the only thing that reminded Zelda to take the gift in the spirit it was meant, even when it proved less than practical. Oh, yes, she had duly tried, burning a stick or three as she closed her eyes in prayer and fruitless devotions – but far from relieving her of her turmoil, rising smoke lifting her worries away the way Impa said it ought to, Zelda found the smoke settled in on her like a seething fog, clouding and confounding her attempts to seek the Goddess' favour. She knew that frustration keenly enough without wasting Impa's gift on it.

She had a better use for it, anyway.

—

Kakariko incense burned more consistently than common tallow-wicks, and smelled much nicer besides. Of course, tallows provided a meagre illuminating flame where incense merely smouldered, but Zelda had no need to worry about using cheap tallows for lighting – she could bear the extravagance of burning an oil-lamp all night if she chose, knowing that her maidservants would do the necessary bookkeeping to hide the evidence.

Whatever pang of guilt she might have felt at using Impa's incense in such a way was soon soothed when she lit a fresh stick, and sat down to her books with the sweet-smelling curls of smoke lifting to the rafters. The incense hadn't been at fault, she reasoned; it deserved better than to be put away and neglected. Such gloomy thoughts invariably came upon her when she struggled to pray, and it made no difference what tools or tricks people tried to arm her with: the outcome would always be the same.

And the incense did aid in concentration, so long as she waded into what others perceived as mere distractions.

While her chief interests lay in the ancient Sheikah technology, Zelda could not be choosy about which books and ancient, unwieldy tomes her friends and allies might spirit from the castle library — so she read widely and eclectically, on topics ranging from natural histories to botany to weather patterns in Akkala (a surprisingly dry text for such a wet and thunderous region), and every thing she read only made her more eager to slip the stifling demands of rank and duty and escape into the field, where she might study such things for herself. It was lucky that nobody had seen fit to report the... incident in the desert, else she might find herself confined to her towers instead.

In the distance, a bell tolled once – just once – in what she knew to be an echo of the cathedral belltower heralding the arrival of midnight. Soon, she knew, she ought to turn in for the night – but it would be easy enough to pretend she simply hadn't noticed how the incense sticks had long since burned down to nothing...

The door to her study drifted ajar; faintly, on the other side of it, somebody sneezed.

At once, she came alight with instinctive indignation – why couldn't he just leave her alone! But of course he wouldn't, not so soon after the desert. The part of her which sought to find disapproval in his every silent, sullen glance fell silent, though it took some effort to tamp it down completely.

His back was to her when she peeked around the door, the blue of his tunic faded to darkness in the light that spilled dimly from her study. As ever, Link stood eerily still, as though he was more like an ancient Sheikah automaton than a being of flesh and blood – it was rare for him to lose his focus, and rarer still for her to read any hint of expression on his face, or in the line of his shoulders...

He shuffled his feet, so slight a movement that she half thought she'd imagined it. Just as she thought she must have imagined the sneeze - except then he moved, shadowed hand lifting to his face in an attempt to stifle another.

Zelda turned back to her books, staring down at them, stung by a faint flash of guilt.

He wouldn't leave. Not while she was, by technicality, out of her quarters – not while the threat of assassins still loomed – and it struck her that her midnight distractions were keeping him from his own rest.

She wasn't ready to leave her sanctuary just yet, but while it was a fairly temperate night, it was mild in the way spring nights still held the last tooth of winter and threatened to bare it. She thought of offering him some tea, at least, but the pot was cold when she put her hand against it.

So instead she plucked a broken stick of incense from the box and lit it. "Just until the end of this one," she said quickly – a transparent bid for time, perhaps, but the broken stick would burn for only half its time. As offerings went, it was little more selfless than it might have been a week or two before.

He still wasn't the easiest person to get on with, but... She could try.

[ryuzakemo128]

Chapter Two: A Tome on Pleasing Others

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Aelora Targaryen

Content Warning: The possible mentions of the following death, betrayal, intense levels of gore. If these don't bother you wish to proceed to read it. Do so at your own risk. OC house, (House Raengyreon), inserted to some degree. If you don't like that, I express this as my only warning.

Rating: MA15+

Word Count: 2.3K

Links: Dividers / Masterlist

[Previous Chapter]

Summary: A warrior keen in protecting others while building a facade to keep others away.

[Aelor Targaryen's Point of View]

The solar richly decorated in fine silks, satins, and furs. From the windows to the ceiling. It all felt rather suffocating. Aelor decorated it with his younger sister, Aelora. A mix of grotesque and pleasant tapestries to keep the room feeling alive, despite the dreary day outside. The plush carpet beneath my feet felt like a prickling ache. As the lavender incense continued to waft in from my sister’s bedchambers.

“Daemon, I would like to remind you. Aelora would most likely be betrothed or married off to someone else by the time this ship is built. My mother, Vhaelys, and father, Rhaenar, would never agree to such a union. You should know that by now, cousin.” I scoffed as I watched Daemon pace around the room.

I taunted him a little, I didn’t mean to do it. It felt like he needed to understand who he wanted to be married to. “She is already of age and my parents will not waste it. Even if they had agreed. Can you really give her what she needs, Daemon? Can you really rescue her from her nightmares as well as me or her twin brother Aemarr?”

Part of me wanted him to say no, that he could not hope to understand her nightmares were based on her trauma. Did he feel jealousy over how she went to me during a thunderstorm? As we have done in the past. Cuddling beneath a thick blanket until the lighting and thunder passed by.

“Can you even manage those whispers and rumours of her being mad, though? I do not imagine you being able to manage her night terrors like you do foes on a battlefield.” I felt a rush by subtly taunting my cousin.

I didn't wait for him to respond this time. “Perhaps you don't believe she should be dwelling on these nightmares and night terrors. Perhaps she should accept that life isn't fair and shut her mouth.”

Daemon's eyes narrowed as he stopped his pacing. The room grew tense, the air thick with unspoken words and a challenge I hadn't intended to lay down. “You think me so callous, Aelor?” His voice was low, a simmering anger just beneath the surface.

“I don't know what to think of you, Daemon.” I answered. “Aelora stands up for me more than she was ever asked. She shoulders enough to crush any man and yet, she carries on. If you want her, then you must understand that she needs a partner, not a prince who will use her as a stepping stone for your ambitions. She deserves to be loved and understood. Can you look me in the eyes and say you can offer her that?”

Aelor pointed to the embroidery done by Aelora of the nightmare she had last night. The reason she stayed asleep now is that her nightmare scared her from being able to sleep the rest of the night.

The setting of a beach with black charcoal sand with the deep red lava deep below it. The dragon of obsidian scaled and molten gold eyes. As well as the serpent creature swimming inside the boiling hot sand after her. The blood rain from the crimson red clouds in the sky. Down to how she depicted herself in the embroidery as a wandering merchant rather than a princess. Her crimson eyes, usually bright with a spark of rebellion, were dull and lifeless in the tapestry. It was a stark reminder of the toll these nightmares took on my sister.

Should I even reveal the accident which occurred yesterday? The slash across her back was horrific to see. A whip from a guard that was too eager to show her who’s in charge. He was aiming for Aemarr, but she stepped in front of him. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, not in the presence of our parents. But I know that she is suffering, and she shouldn’t have to endure this alone. She’s suffered enough for one so young. Would he even care? If he were there, what would he have done?

The medical report written by the maester in my hands. “I have a medical report from a maester of a recent incident. One which had occurred inside the training yard yesterday. If you want to be with her. If you care about my sister. I will allow you to read it. If you can not find in your heart to genuinely care for her or even about her. I can not imagine how a match between her and you would work. I know this may sound harsh or cruel. But I cannot allow you to exploit her for your own gain. I hope you understand where I stand on this matter.”

I laid the report written by the maester on to the ebony-coloured oak table between the two of us. I had the hope he would read it, call off whatever nonsense he might have planned for my younger sister and see some kind of reason.

Daemon snatched the report from the table. His movements swift and agile despite the anger I saw simmering beneath his violet eyes. His fingers tracing the words written upon the parchment as his expression grew increasingly grim. He read about the accident, about the whip, and the bravery of Aelora that had led to her injury. The silence grew heavier, the air thick with tension.

Silence stretched on between the two of us for what it felt to be like hours rather than minutes. It felt suffocating like the plush carpets beneath my feet. I could see his brow crease as he reread the final line, his jaw clenching tight enough to crack under the pressure of his anger. Slamming the report back onto the table with a force to echo through the solar. I hope it was not loud enough to wake Aelora from the depths of her slumber though.

I silently prayed it was not loud enough to wake her. She did not have enough sleep from the night before to be woken so abruptly. Aelora does not angry when she is woken abruptly. Mostly confused. Then frustrated. Frustrated because no one bothered to let her sleep in after a night of terror. “Why did you wake me up?” she would ask with a yawn like a feline’s.

“Aelor? Did something happen? Are you ok? I heard a loud thud.” Her voice crept from her bedchamber. Irritation laced with concern.

A wave of relief washed over me as I heard her voice. “Everything’s fine Aelora. Just a lively conversation with our cousin.”

“When did Daemon get here?” She questioned further.

I heard her footsteps came closer to where both Daemon and I were sitting. Muffled by the plush carpet, her wavy silver white hair peeking around the doorway. Her crimson red eyes usually full or either defiance or mischief. Clouded with sleep and worry. A white dressing gown, loosely tied at the waist, covered by her nightgown. The dishevelled look she had did not deter Daemon nor did it dimmish her beauty in the slightest.

Daemon answered her question with a grace expected from a prince, had this been the Red Keep it would be fitting. The tension in his voice softened when he addressed her. “My apologies, Aelora, for arriving unannounced and causing a disturbance during your rest.”

“Apology accepted Daemon. Although in the future, I would like to receive a little notice beforehand. I hope you understand why I ask that of you next time.” Aelora’s acceptance of his disruption surprised me.

Daemon amused at her response, a smirk tugged at his lips, her apology readily given despite her sleep being disrupted by him. He looked at her and back at the embroidery again, as if he saw two vastly different sides of the same person. Like he could not believe she was willing to give her body up to protect another person as recklessly as she had.

“Aelor and I were just discussing something that may or may not interest you, cousin.” He carefully put it. “I have also received news of your most recent accident.”

“Ah, the incident with the guard, is it?” Aelora grimaced. “What does the maester’s report say of it? I haven’t got the chance to read it myself yet.”

Daemon hesitated, as he did, “Daemon, whatever it is, can’t be worse than my nightmares.” She said softly as she spotted the hesitation he displayed. “What are you more worried about the guard not getting the right punishment or the details of my injury?” she enquired.

His jaw clench tighter as he held the maester’s report closer to his chest. Crinkling it as he held it close. I watched him wrestle with his emotions. A mixture of anger with something looking suspiciously more akin to concern etched upon his face. Subtle enough to be mistaken for a trick in the lighting.

The crinkled parchment within his grasp, another testament of his anger and concern warring within him. Another hint of the internal struggle going on inside him. I watched him closely, searching for genuine concern. Was this a flicker of protectiveness, or just another of his well faceted and controlled façade?

Daemon finally spoke, his voice low and controlled, “It says you protected your brother from a guard who was about to whip him.”

“I would do it repeatedly. Whether it was a whip, a sword or anything else for that matter. These two are my brothers as far as I am concerned, worth protecting regardless of consequence. I do not ask for you to understand why I did what I did. At the time. It made sense to do so.”

He stayed silent after she told him why she did it. What he said to her afterwards, I did not expect him to say. I half expected him to lash out at her, to tell her what she was both foolish, naïve, and reckless. Instead, he surprised the both of us.

“You were rather brave, Aelora, far braver than you should have to be in such a scenario. Perhaps a little foolish. Though you would not have listened to me even if I was there. Content to throw yourself in front of danger regardless of how those around you feel about it.” He paused for a moment to sit down in front of her in a chair of plush velvet. Perhaps out of a desire to out of a desire to be closer and examine her injury himself.

“It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did a few hours ago.” Aelora shifted around in her seat. As Daemon continued to examine the extent of her injury. As if she felt like she was wasting his time looking at her. She felt like he was wasting his time even looking at her. The stitches holding it together, any wrong move or jolt could have torn them open.

She fidgeted with the sleeves of her dressing gown. Her crimson eyes darting away from his gaze. She did not want him the slightest idea she was still in pain. She did not want him let alone anyone see the vulnerability etched upon her face. The pain was not limited to her physical body. It possibly felt like a constant reminder of her helplessness. A stark contrast to her usual display of her fierce persona she loved to project.

Often saying, “I do not feel comfortable letting anyone I do not completely trust to see me in that way.” As if she did not want to taint the persona. She created with her two hands. The one she made mostly for herself.

‘Selfishly to shield her own vulnerability from others? I wish I knew what she hoped to achieve by creating such a persona.’ I pondered as Daemon continued to examine her for a little while longer before finally to speak up again.

Daemon spoke up again, his voice a low murmur, “You should go rest. It will heal faster that way.” His gaze lingering on her injury for a moment longer than he should before looking away.

Aelora flinched as his fingers brushed against the raw skin. Shame burned in her cheeks. She hated this feeling of vulnerability, of needing someone else's help. "I'm….I’m fine," she mumbled, pulling away slightly. The stutter in her voice, a tremor ran through her, the flicker of vulnerability she had tried to squash beneath her carefully constructed façade.

The feeling of shame had turned her cheeks a light rose pink. Only deepening underneath Daemon’s gaze. She must have felt rather exposed. Perhaps she was not used to having someone else’s attention in such a way that it made her insides churn and gargle. The strange mix of unease with fluttering she could not quite define entirely.

Daemon, for his part, seemed taken aback by her reaction. He quickly retracted his hand, his violet eyes widening in surprise.

Her face flushed, her confusion written all over her face brought to her by a most unfamiliar sensation brought upon her by Daemon. Even if it was in fact unintentional.

As I watched the exchange unfold before my very eyes. Relief warred with a kind of possessiveness I had no idea I could have inside of me. Relief at seeing Daemon back off from Aelora was undeniable. Beneath it, a prickling unease wormed its way in. It felt…territorial, a strange possessiveness I hadn't acknowledged before. Aelora was my sister, yes, this possessiveness felt different. It wasn't just the protective instinct I'd always had towards her.

Perhaps it was far deeper than simply being protective over my younger sibling.

Perhaps it was far deeper than I had assumed it would be.

I don’t want to lose her. At the same time. I know she was never mine to have. She is not an object to be owned like a piece of furniture. She cannot know how I feel on this matter. The less confusion the better.

[mewritestufflol]

Chapter Eleven: What Cannot Be Undone

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The storm came the next morning.

Not of thunder — but of paper, of seals, of words spoken too loudly in marble halls and not softly enough behind closed doors.

Someone had seen them.

Not in the chapel. Not in the garden. But before that.

The stables.

A stablehand. Young. Loyal to the wrong person.

By midday, it was everywhere.

"Elisabeth has compromised the crown."

"She's manipulating the Hungarian king."

"She's planning to marry down."

"She's only fifteen."

"She's already dangerous."

The gossip slithered through salons and down staircases like smoke.

And for the first time in years, Elisabeth was summoned not to her mother — but to the Emperor himself.

The room was cold.

White stone. A fire that didn't reach her spine. Her uncle, Emperor Franz Joseph, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the window as snow fell like ash over Vienna.

"You are a girl of many gifts," he said.

She didn't reply.

He turned, slowly.

"But you are not your own to give away."

Elisabeth straightened. "With respect—"

"You were born for this empire," he said, voice still quiet. "Not for affection. Not for rebellion. And certainly not for a boy who still bleeds at the sight of truth."

She swallowed. "James is more than—"

"James is a liability." The first crack in his voice. "And you are on the brink of becoming one."

The words hit like a blade.

He stepped closer. "I have loved you like a daughter. But I will not let you destroy the balance we've held together by a thread."

"Then let it fall," she said, softly.

He stilled.

"You think you love him now," he said, "but love does not last in palaces. It rots. It is rewritten by others, twisted until it serves power instead of heart."

Elisabeth didn't flinch.

"Then let them twist it," she said. "Let them put it in books and call it foolish. But I will know what it was."

Franz Joseph's face hardened.

"Do not mistake your stubbornness for courage, Elisabeth. You are still a child."

"No," she said. "I was. You've ensured I'm not anymore."

The room fell quiet.

The fire hissed once, then died to a low whisper.

He dismissed her with a nod.

She did not bow when she left.

Outside the chamber, the halls were too bright. Every polished marble step seemed to echo her heartbeat.

But she didn't go back to her rooms.

She went to the old archives.

The guards there barely noticed her; they were used to her odd escapes.

Past rows of dust-covered tomes, she found what she was looking for — the oldest maps of the Hungarian countryside. Folded into the pages were records of towns no longer marked. Villages lost. Famines erased by neat lines of ink.

She traced them with trembling fingers.

She remembered James's voice:

"If I am king, I must be king for them."

And she understood, with a clarity that hurt, just how much danger he was in. Not just from outsiders.

From his own court.

By evening, the palace held its breath.

James had been absent from the morning sessions. Absent from the parade grounds. Absent from the diplomatic tea where his name was still carved into the seating chart beside a Danish noblewoman.

Elisabeth's heart sank with every hour.

No message came.

Until—

After sunset.

A folded scrap tucked beneath her dinner plate. Unmarked. Almost missed.

She unfolded it beneath the table.

Only five words, hastily inked in a hand she knew too well:

Garden wall. Midnight. Come alone.

She waited until the bells tolled twelve.

Slipped from her rooms in riding boots and a heavy cloak.

The palace guards were easy to avoid — she knew the halls better than anyone.

The garden wall was tall, shadowed in frost, the statues along its path already dusted with new snow.

James stood at the far end.

No coat. No crown.

Just him — flushed with cold and fury.

"Elisabeth—" he started, voice tight.

She ran to him.

stood, forehead to forehead, snow melting between their palms.

"You're being sent away," she said. Not a question.

He nodded.

"Tomorrow. My uncle claims it's a diplomatic envoy to the border. But it's exile."

"I know."

He took a breath that turned to fog.

"There's more."

She felt it before he spoke.

"I'm not to see you again. Not without supervision. Not in private. They threatened my generals. My regents. My mother's name."

"They threatened you."

"I can handle that."

"But not us," she said quietly.

He shook his head. "They'll bury you to weaken me. And I won't let them."

Tears stung her eyes, but they didn't fall.

She was done crying for things others stole from her.

"Then run with me."

He stilled.

"Say the word," she whispered. "We take nothing. We leave tonight. We find some place—"

"I can't."

Her voice cracked. "Why?"

He looked at her, and it was the first time he looked afraid.

"Because if we run, they'll burn everything. Hungary will be punished. Your family will call it treason. People will die."

And then, the worst thing—

"I love you too much to let you be the reason."

A pause.

"You're already mine," he said. "But you must become theirs before you can change them."

Elisabeth nodded once. A shallow, brittle thing.

They kissed then.

Not like young lovers.

Like two monarchs in mourning.

Like a promise they couldn't afford to say out loud.

He left before dawn.

She watched from the window of her room, the frost blurring the edges of the carriage, pretending it wasn't the last time she'd see him for a long, long time.

But history has a strange way of remembering love that ends too soon.

Because in that moment, what passed between them wasn't farewell.

It was a vow.

And history would have to reckon with it.

[wingedscribe]

Bolt

[Day two of FFXIV Write 2022; this time ft. Hikari Sakamoto, Warrior of Light and Summoner/Dragoon, encountering an unexpected and unprecedented series of events in Coerthas] A bolt from the blue: A sudden, unexpected event. This metaphoric term alludes to totally unforeseen lightning or thunder from a cloudless (blue) sky.   

Everything about the job had sounded weird and interesting, so of course Hikari had agreed, even though it led them back up into the snows of Coerthas. Stolen relics from the strange church they had up there? A powerful fighter gone missing? Ser Alberic had been careful to impress upon them the gravity of the situation, that this this Eye--whatever it was--had to be returned to Ishgard, quietly, and by someone not involved in the internal politics of the Holy See.

Well, Hikari was about as far removed from some Halonian Holy See as one could possibly get, thanks very much--sure, they’d nodded their head and offered a few sticks of incense to the Twelve on occasion, because they’d always been taught it was polite to offer respect to the gods of the land you were in, but they were a child of the Dawn Father first and foremost, sun-bleached scales and all. So: no religious links to what was going on here, no personal links to what was going on here--the closest person they knew in all of this was Haurchefant, who was wonderful but unaffiliated with this particular Ishgardian nonsense--and nothing better to do, with Castrum Centri in ruins and the Scions busy moving bases, than some good old-fashioned heroic freelancing. 

Besides, they’d been meaning to train more with their lance for years. They’d learned to spar with a naginata back home, but there was a world of difference between the two polearms, and anyway they’d put down the naginata for the spellcaster’s tome a decade ago. Fighting against the wild crocs of Coerthas as they ran between Logedanrel and Idristan to confirm that no black-armored elezen crossed the border was enough to assure them that the months training in the Lancer’s Guild had paid off, but still--

Still, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t as good as they knew they could be, and that was irritating. They’d hit a similar plateau with arcanima until Y’mhitra Rhul had reached out, and the pair had delved into the ancient records of Allaghan summoning. Hikari just had to trust that a similar breakthrough was headed their way. 

They wished, shaking blood off of their spear again, that it would show up a little faster. The snowstorm they’d been pushing through to return to the Observatorium had died down as they entered, and it looked as though the rest of the day and night would be clear--at least there was that, they supposed. 

“Any luck?” Logedanrel asked as they returned, only to share the frown that they sent his way. “Truly?” 

“Nobody in that armor came by Florentel’s Spire,” Hikari confirmed, dropping to lean back against the outer wall. “And Idristan’s got sharp enough eyes I believe him. If your fugitive has gone towards Mor Dhona, though, we’ll have problems--nobody will notice an extra well-armored stranger in Revenant’s Toll.” 

“That would put him in the proximity of the Keeper of the Lake,” the guard pointed out after a moment. “Even in death, it could hold power--I suspect he would travel there only as a last resort. Which means there’s a chance he hasn’t left Ishgard’s boundaries yet.” 

“Great,” Hikari sighed, rolling their shoulders. “Well? Any particular areas I should start searching, or--” 

“With all due respect,” Logedanrel said, raising an eyebrow. “We have some scouts for that. Obviously without all the information, but they’ve been asked to keep an eye out for any signs of unusual habitation, not to engage, and to retreat here and report back to me or Ser Alberic specifically. You’re drenched in ice water and frost, you’re half-covered in blood, go sit by the fire and get some food.” 

Hikari blinked, just then registering the chill in their bones and the fact that the clothes they’d donned around their armor were, indeed, rimed-over in spiraling frost-patterns. Damn. 

“Point well made,” they conceded after a moment. “But I get word the second that you get news, alright? You’ve hired me for this job, I’m damn well going to complete it.” They crossed their arms, and then hissed as chilled metal pressed through two layers of soaked cloaks. “But okay, okay, I’m going to the fire.” 

Sitting by the central fire with a cup of something warm and definitely alcoholic--they hadn’t asked the specifics--and a bowl of stew, doing their best to inhale both before they chilled, Hikari kicked a leg against the supports of the bench. Sure, it was only a slight delay, but it rankled. 

“You seem impatient,” Alberic said, as he slid into the seat next to him. Self-conscious, they stopped kicking at the stone with their armored boot. 

“My apologies if I was disturbing you,” they said, but he shook his head. 

“Nothing of the kind. I understand it can be difficult to have your search interrupted.” 

“Let me guess,” Hikari said, very used to old veterans with a particular wistful tone by now. “Reminds you of you when you were younger?” 

“Something like that,” Alberic said, in a way that could have meant yes or no, Hikari couldn’t tell. “Hear that a lot?” 

“Hear it enough,” Hikari returned, leaning back to study the sky. Clear, entirely. Not a cloud in the sky. “Any news?” 

“Logedanrel has something,” he said, and then put a hand on their shoulder as they started to stand. “For after you’ve finished your food. I doubt he’ll be moving much while his footsteps are going to be completely visible--the skywatchers don’t see more snow for at least a day. Eat, gain your strength, and then leave. He’s not an opponent to be underestimated.” 

Hikari sighed, considering shrugging off the hand anyway, pushing forward, but--but. He was right. 

They were just so damn tired of waiting. Waiting for the move to the Rising Stones to be complete. Waiting for any answers about those cloaked motherfuckers, the Ascians, and what they were doing. Waiting for what the Empire’s next move would be, its Castra weakened but not gone. Waiting for the next primal to be summoned. Waiting for something to show them where to go next with their lancework. Waiting for something, anything, from Hydaelyn, even just an answer as to why someone like Hikari had been worth returning to life. Waiting. 

“You’re right,” they said, voice low, and downed half of their drink in one gulp.

Hikari did their best to avoid most of the Ixal camp, not looking for more blood on their lance than was strictly necessary. Still, it was their right to skewer some pterocs that came in to try to kill them; that done, wiping blood off of their lance before it froze on and made a mess, they almost missed the whistling sound of wind. 

Almost. 

But Hikari had been on-edge for what felt like weeks, bracing for a storm despite clear skies, bracing for something, anything to happen--and so they skidded backward across the snow, eyes locking on the figure that plummeted from the snowpeaks, impossibly high up, to land like a levinbolt in front of hem. 

Instantly they could see what everyone had meant about iconic armor. It was strange, made of what seemed like overlapping scales and mail, covered in hooked spines and protrusions. Its helm covered the eyes completely, but that didn’t stop Hikari from knowing the look of aloof disdain aimed at them. That was clear enough from the tilt of the head--why did elezen have to be so fucking tall--and the thin-pressed line of his lips as he got to his feat, as if the hundred-yalm fall had been effortless. 

“That Ishgard would resort to sending coin-starved adventurers after me…” the man--Estinien, Hikari presumed--said. “I know not whether to laugh or be insulted.” 

“With a tone like that, the insult should be mine,” Hikari said back, keeping their lance up and between the two of them. “Awfully bold of you to presume I’m doing this for Ishgard. Or the money.” 

“Why do it, then?” The dragoon asked, voice still mostly a sneer, and like a snap--like a bolt from a clear-blue sky--something in Hikari broke. 

Why do it, then?

“To see if I could,” they responded, voice a low rasp, a growl pushing up from somewhere deep in their diaphragm. “Because they said you were the strongest.” The growl grew, vibrating in their bones, prickling at the edges of their tail, the ends of their fingers, every ilm of their body thrumming with some power they couldn’t name or control, just feel suffuse them. “Because I have to be stronger. Don’t say it like you’re any different.” They couldn’t say how they knew that--just that they knew. 

Estinien’s mouth--the only part of him that they could see--opened slightly, perhaps in shock. One of his hands left his lance, pressing up against something in his armor, and the resulting thrum of power crackled through the clearing, through Hikari’s bones, blasting some internal reservoir of power wide. Their eyes cleared just in time to see something hidden in the armor glowing like a fallen star. 

Whatever thunderbolt had struck, Estinien felt it too; his hand shook, once, before it returned to his lance, which he slung across his back in a quick, practiced motion. Hikari still couldn’t see his eyes, but could feel him staring at them. 

“The Eye,” he said, and for the first time in the interaction he didn’t sound dismissive. He sounded shocked. “It rouses for another. That--” he cut himself off, and Hikari blinked. Before they could stop themself, they reached out through their aether, reaching for whatever had glowed and--

Waiting. Something was there, immeasurably old, so full of rage Hikari could feel it in their own stomach, a fire that lit something in them alight. Something old, full of rage, and tired of waiting. 

Stunned, they pulled back, and Estinien took a step away from them. 

“Do not do that,” he said, voice deadly serious. “Do not draw on it. Do not contact it. We--I must go. Our paths shall cross again--depend on that.” 

He moved again, and Hikari’s eyes went wide as his standing jump sent him soaring back up to the peaks, far further than any natural feat of muscle could manage. They could still feel the energy from whatever had happened--that Eye,whatever it was?--crackling through them. Giving them some power, although they didn’t know what. Giving them direction, although they didn’t know to where. 

They looked up into the clear-blue sky, sucking in a deep breath, and then turned back toward the Observatorium. If they were to harness this sudden levinbolt of power, this unexpected and unasked-for boon, they were going to need to ask Ser Alberic a lot of questions.

[spaghettiandart]

memories in three

Originally posted this on the aminos sometime during march, but decided (as of may 3 at 12 am) to post it here too! Yay spur of the moment decision! The rest of the post is from the blogs on the UT and UTAU aminos, and the story is under the cut.

author's note: this was mostly made to be part of my oc's backstory, but then i realized it could exist as a nice character development thing. the art was done on medibang paint and took 2 weeks.

characters: w. d. gaster, grillby, oc

categories: fluff, angst, friendship.

warnings: non-graphic violence, death, blood, mild language. 

word count: 4092

[I] |        one - the calm 

The time they had was always finite. Even at the genesis of it, they knew. They'd look at eachother, a circle of three, assigned to stick together and be loyal to one another, and they knew there'd be no way they'd get along. 

It was so easy to pretend, but with five months gone and passed it was getting harder to feign ignorance. 

The violent crackles and pops of Grillby's flames match the rapid beating of his SOUL, colors rising to the white and lowering until it was a pathetic red in uneven jitters of anxious panic. He focused on pouring the rum into the barbarously crafted wooden mug, the familiar motions soothing his shaking hands until he felt some semblance of normality surround him. 

The background quiet set him on edge, still. He could feel the flames on his shoulders worming their way through the openings on his armor, fingers immediately twitching to cast a flame ball, or reach for his sword, or pour another drink, or so something so that they weren't empty and susceptible to the whims of his ever-twisting emotions. 

The tension- oh, how he hated the tension. Being silent was his favorite sport, his carefully cultivated talent, but he was a creature born and bred to exist in the midst of warm chatter and noise. He was not the type of man to be relaxed in silent, cold hate, and neither was he the type to mediate it. 

Grillby picks up the three mugs by their handles, two hanging precariously from one hand, cradled to his chest, and the other already making its way to his mouth. The liquid stung at him, but not in the way human beverages did. While their concoctions were tasteless and lowered his HP by decimals, this was warm and fuzzy and the bubbly froth filled his mouth like cotton. 

His team was already there. WingDings Gaster, Grand Arcane Battle Artificer of the Deltarune Legion, and Igneous No-Name, Grand Arcane Battle Mage-Scribe of the Deltarune Legion. The names were long in Human English, even longer in traditional Monster languages, but Titles had Meanings and must be Specific and Precise so as to grant Monster the Respect they Deserve. Said verbatim by his own King when he was given his title. 

(Grillby No-Name, Fifth General of the Deltarune Legion, was what was inscribed on the back of the wings of his own silvery Deltarune-Symbol pendant. Every Monster soldier got one, regardless of their station and their specific designations. His own was cold enough for precipitation to collect on the metal, enchanted to withstand heat damage.)

His enchanted helmet is resting on a stack of parchment like a paperweight, turned away from the table so that its face was pointed at the wall. The silence was turned up tenfold the minute Grillby sheepishly walked into their section of the "room", and the two magic-users turned their mutual cold shoulder on him as well.

It shouldn't hurt, but Grillby had to stop himself from reeling as if he were struck by a physical hand. Oh, this wouldn't do. 

They were a team, after all. Of the same Legion, of the same Fifth Division, of the same status. The silence killed him, repulsed his being down to the core because it was so very anti-him. Anti-Flame Elemental, even, because even when they were quiet the crackling of their flames were enough to communicate their feelings to another. 

He only had body language to go off of the two. They may be masters at putting up facades, but he was a master of interpreting them, so the minute he sets the mugs down on the table he immediately pushed the stack of books piled in between Gaster and Igneous like a great wall crumbling to the ground, uncaring of the way the two jumped and jolted at the noise. 

His SOUL pounded, filled with anxiety and slight reprieve at the sound, but he needed more. He hated speaking, he much rather would be the one spoken to, but there are little people to be found who'd like to ramble for hours on end to a stranger save for drunken heretics at the little old tavern he used to manage decades ago. 

"What in the goddamn are you doing?" Igneous exclaimed, hood haphazardly slipping off her head and catching onto her big ears, holding on for dear life in a losing battle. 

"I concur. What on Earth is wrong with you?" Gaster snapped the large tome he was pretending to read shut, the sudden action too surprising for him to not address.

Grillby takes the time to sip from his mug, before setting it down lightly. "... You're both acting like children when we are all adults. Talk out your problems."

Igneous glared at him with an impressive amount of venom. For someone with only two eyes to convey emotion, she knew how to convey it. "I am not talking to a child murderer."

The remaining monster in the room scowled at Igneous, and then at Grillby. "Tell the Mage that human children are the easiest and most reliable source of SOULs to harvest to bolster our ranks."

Igneous' eyes narrowed and her glare intensified. "Tell the Artificer that by killing the humans' children we'd only encourage them to attack as harder. Also tell him he's a shitbag for suggesting it in the first place."

"Tell the Mage that she's a naive twat if she thinks that war can be won with no sacrifices."

"Tell the Artificer that sacrifices of that degree are uncalled for and that he smells of elderberries."

"I do NOT smell like elderberries you-"

Grillby clapped his hands once. A burst of flame shot out from the vents on his shoulders and the palms of his hands, making the bickering pair freeze simultaneously from where they were slowly turning their heads to face each other. 

"This is what I am talking about," the Swordsman looked at them both with a disappointed gaze from behind his crystalline glasses. "... Children, we are adults. You're going to apologize to each other and agree to disagree, or else I will burn one of the books you collected from the Human Mages."

Gaster slammed his hands down on the table and began to stand, expression thunderous. Igneous' eyes widened to such a degree that they threatened to pop out of her head, and she snapped her head back as if he struck her. 

"Child number one, sit down. Child number two, stay quiet- I know you will say something and I will make you regret it," Grillby steepled his fingers, the effort of speaking for so long already taking the energy out of him. He heaved in a breath, the air making his flames crackle with strength. "... Child number one- it may be hard to realize this, but killing children is inarguably immoral and degenerate. Child number two- I advise you to set your pride aside, else your inability to accept the flaws of your naivety may cause you more harm than good... Now apologize, because I am becoming very annoyed at having to speak so much..."

The two stared at him as if he sprouted a second flaming head from his shoulder. Grillby lit up a single finger and held it over a stray paper on the table that escaped his rampage on their books. 

Gaster was the first to break. "... ahem," he shifted uncomfortably, and stuck his nonexistent nose in the air so that he looked down at Igneous. "I suppose that I will have to concede at that. Your... interesting... worldview is something we can't quite see eye to eye on."

Grillby stared at him harder, and his shoulders slumped as he hunched over the table.

"And I apologize for my unprofessional conduct," he sighed, picking at the knicks and scratches in his hands in a nervous manner.

The Spirit Remnant stared at the- Skeleton? Shadow Creature? Wraith? Gaster never disclosed what kind of monster, exactly, he was- with clear contempt that faded away into uncomfortable and annoyed vulnerability. She rolled her shoulders, tail curling around her left ankle protectively.

"You're still a terrible creep, and I cannot deny that I would sooner pound you to dust with my bare hands than see you harm a child of any kind," she said, quietly, "but I understand that... things must be done for the greater good, sometimes. I apologize."

The air became heavy with guilt and frustration at that, but at least they weren't outright holding each other in contempt. Grillby prepared himself to speak for hopefully the last time that day. 

"... Good. Adult One, Adult Two, may I present to you your rewards for acting your age," he slid over the mugs of wine to the both of them, glad that he couldn't physically let out the relieved sigh he would have released were he able to breathe at the sight of the suddenly bright expressions the two had.

Igneous casted a furtive, unsure glance at Gaster, who angled his body away from the both of them and glared at the papers beneath him. He didn't cover them from her view when she leaned over to glance at them, her brows quirking in question as she took another sip. 

The mood didn't instantly change to comfortable. They didn't relax around each other, not immediately. But Grillby could feel the tension in his shoulders drift away as he watched Igneous quietly shoot the other with a question, and Gaster exchanging it with one in return. 

The stress of the war was taking its toll on him, but seeing the two gratefully take small sips of his homemade rum and shyly exchange words about their respected professions made the weight on his chest lighten just a little. 

|        two - the storm 

The battle is disorganized chaos, and he hates it. Not for the slaughter, not for the blood shed, not for the dust carried by the wind. He hates the sheer animalistic frenzy everyone on the battlefield was sent into- it's as if the second the fight began the primal instinct in their minds seemed to suddenly reveal itself, possessing their bodies and taking away their willpower to keep their hidden urges hidden. 

Such was evident in the human shoving his sword into the throat of a bunny monster, rendering them to dust before the blade could slice its way out. Or a monster with a dragon's muzzle unhinging its jaw like a snake and snapping up a human mage, their spine crushed under the pressure in an instant. 

Or even his own... companions, battling back to back against a frenzy of knights, swords gleaming and magic spewing around them. They were beaten down, armor covered in mud and muck, and from the minute trembling carried across their bodies it seemed as if they were ready to topple at any moment. 

Gaster's fists tightened as his Special Attack blasted yet another beam of energy to render a pitiful human to ash, the conjured hands twisting in midair before flocking to his sides like a pair of dogs. He looked down from the cliff he was standing on at the clearing they were fighting in, chest heaving from exertion. He couldn't let it overtake him, not yet, but the exhaustion was close to killing him. His limbs hurt to their very core. 

Igneous and Grillby were practically attached at the spine with how closed in they were. Igneous had snaked a hand around a human's neck, crushing his windpipe before resting her weight on Grillby's back and launching herself in the air. 

Her conjured wings flung out from her back, and she slammed her foot into the chest of another knight, caving it in from the magically-reinforced pressure. 

Despite the human bodies piling up around them, more seemed to flood the two as if recognizing them to be the heavy hitters they were. A human swung out with his sword, and Grillby caught it with his own flaming one, pushing it back. The two were neck and neck, heels dug into the ground as the gleaming blades fought against each other. The human's head shifted forward, as if they were saying something, and Grillby's flames burst into a column of blue, indignant fire. 

The human took the opening his anger gave them by twisting their body and throwing their weight into Grillby's chest, pummeling him into Igneous and the ground. 

Igneous flipped head over heels, wings dissipating as she lied face down. Grillby was shakily getting up, but the human struck out and suddenly there was a hole in the side of his armor, frost creeping around it. 

Gaster scowled, and took a few steps back from the cliff in preparation. A voice behind him interrupted his motions. 

"You meet your end, monster," a voice hissed from behind him. He tilted his head slightly, and upon seeing that it was only a mage he scoffed. 

"Do tell the clouds hello," Gaster flicked the human mage away with little pressure and much disdain from one of the conjured hands, and set his jaw as he hopped onto the back of one of his hands. There was no time to be wasted with meaningless banter.

Hell would sooner freeze over than him seeing his fr- companions, his companions- Fall Down. 

Smaller hands materialized around his body, hitting and punching and swatting away oncoming attackers as he rode the hand down the side of the cliff. The fingers stretched out, and he bent his knees ever so slightly. 

As the end of the cliff was reached, curving into the clearing, he jumped with all his might off the hand and to the side, landing in a roll before hopping to his feet. 

The hand continued on, and barrelled into the human slowly approaching Grillby with the force of a stampeding bull. 

Their sword flew out of their hand and embedded into the bark of a nearby tree with a 'thunk!' and Igneous quickly picked up the slack as the hand dissipated, energy coalescing in her hands. Feathers caged the human in.

"... God... no, no," the human moaned in pain, attempting to get up on their elbows. They glared up at the three just as Grillby picked up his sword from where it lay discarded on the ground, grip trembling. 

"You dirty freaks," the human weakly said, their chest heaving and breath wheezing. Perhaps that hand broke a few bones... oh well. Gaster found that he didn't much care about not knowing, this time, taking much pleasure in watching Grillby advance at the human with his own sword held aloft. 

"You're not m-monologuing, right?" Igneous spoke up, her own breath wheezy. Catching the brunt of Grillby's weight must have hurt, because her entire body was trembling with poorly hidden pain. Almost unconsciously, Gaster shifted his body so that he was in front of her. Her body was trembling in shock and indignation, eyes wide and animalistic as they focused on the human. She looked ready to pounce. "Goddamnit... what are you waiting for, Grillbz? Just end them already!" 

The human ignored her, slowly getting on their knees. Their fists clenched. "Y-you... you won't win this war. Kill me, but my brothers and sisters will avenge me! Our mages, our knights, our horses, our citizens- they'll all fight, all against you monsters!" 

"Please kill them," Igneous practically begged Grillby, her wispy 'hair' flickering piteously. "They’re not useful. They’re not- just- kill them, please.”

"No, wait," Gaster found himself muttering, suddenly. Igneous snapped her head in his direction, eyes wide- and he almost flinched back at the desperation in her eyes. What did that human say? "I want to see what he'll do."

Grillby was examining the human curiously. His masked head tilted this way and that, his hands exchanging the swords as he stood in front of the human, looking down at it. Music, unidentifiable in genre, played in the distance. 

The human looked up at him, glaring through the slits of their helmet. "You know... you know this. And... y-you know what I said before... I w-was right. Kill me, but you'll have to live with that... and that's enough for me to die happy."

There was silence. The two stared at each other, carefully. 

"Well?" The human barked. "You're not going to end it? Take me prisoner, then! Flaunt me around! I still won't-!"

Their head was on the ground in a SOULbeat. Gaster and Igneous took a simultaneous step back as blood stained the grass underneath the human, the armored Flame Elemental examining the corpse before kicking it on its side, stomping back to them.

"... Wasn't going to let their dying words be them telling me what to do," he muttered once he reached them. 

Igneous' shoulders seemed to drop suddenly, and she looked around them. Corpses, bodies, dust- they were all strewn about the battlefield haphazardly. There was no art behind them. No grand imagination from the divines above. 

Just the reeking scent of death lingering over them all. 

She took this in, much like Gaster was, and then looked at him. She had no mouth to smile with, but her eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the edges. 

"You saved our skins back there," she said, voice still quavering from the quiet horror carried within it, and reached out a hand to him. Gaster hesitated, but let it land on his shoulder. The tall monster gripped it firmly, resting her weight on it. "I won't forget this, you know."

"You can start bothering me about it tomorrow," Gaster said, feeling a bit lightheaded. 

Igneous shook her head at that, and gave it a few pats before moving away and CHECKing herself, digging around her small inventory for food. "I don't mean it like that. I mean- yes, I am absolutely going to tease you about this for the next month, but... you... you really do..."

Grillby sheathed his sword suddenly, and looked up at the cliff from where he rode down from. There was a quiet surrounding them. "... care about us."

Gaster shifted from foot to foot. He was no child. He was an adult, for God's sake. Why did he feel so... embarrassed, all of a sudden? 

A cheer rose up in a crescendo of voices from beyond the cliff just as the sun made its way to the top of Mt Ebott and began to hide behind it. The battlefield was painted in a swath of gold and pink, and suddenly he wasn't so much focused on the chaos of it all as he was on the way the colors seemed to highlight the edges and curves of the two in front of him, how it made them all the more... real. 

Gaster stepped closer to the two. "The humans have retreated. We should be... getting back, now."

It was Grillby who set a hand on his shoulder this time, his face pointedly looking away and at the sunset. "... five minutes."

"Ten," Igneous chimed in, brushing his arm with her own. 

The trio stood there throughout the sunset and into the night, and Gaster woke the next morning with his friends resting on either shoulder, the dewy grass fresh underneath him and the battle feeling as if it took place years ago instead of the evidence of it being right behind him. 

He watched the rising sun and smiled. There's the peace he was waiting for. 

|        three - the pieces

The last time Igneous woke up from her  Hibernation Pack, it was to a boss monster with kind eyes looming over her. 

She panicked, at first. Scrambled back, and then turned to alert the Spirit Remnants that she was resting with that there was an intruder in their den. 

All that she was met with was piles upon piles of dust. 

"I was able to stop him from hurting you, too," he had rumbled from behind her, " but I'm afraid that I was too late for your companions."

She turned back around, eyes wide with outrage. 

He held a paw out towards her, offering comfort. It was stained with the humans blood. 

She took it, and pulled him close, demanding that he give her a way to get revenge. His paw clenched involuntarily from surprise, and his dark claws nicked her ethereal skin. 

Her essence joined the human's blood, and in the budding tears in her eyes an agreement was formed. 

Centuries later, Igneous wakes up in a comfortable, warm bed inside a comfortable, warm home underneath the large mountain that she fought for her life on. 

The nightmares were long gone, and memories were reserved for the day to sort through. All that was left for her dreams was darkness and static and white, mutilated hands reaching out for her with holes dug deep into their palms.

She never remembered them, and woke up each morning with the sense of loss lingering heavily in her chest. 

In the room over, the sounds of chatter and the dinging of a bell signifying the front door opening and closing began to grow louder and more frequent. Igneous was frozen in the hallway connecting her and Grillby's bedrooms, curled up in a small armchair haphazardly placed there five years, seven months, and six days ago when the two were refurbishing the building and couldn't decide in which room to put it. They decided to share instead, setting it outside and in between their rooms. 

She pulled her knees up to her chest, the chattering growing louder in her ears. Soon she'd have to step out and start taking their orders, but breakfast doesn't officially start in another… ten minutes, or so. 

She can take her time. 

The swaying pendulum hanging on the wall across from her demanded all her attention, grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes and reflected her past to her. Her stomach flipped with each sway of the object, hands traveling from her knees to her ankles and gripping them tightly.

It's been centuries. But that loss… was it only from the monsters dusted? Was it only from what that human revealed to Grillby and to her during that fateful fight? Or was it from that missing piece, the hole that separated both her and her friend, the dust-ridden and empty guest bedroom untouched that rested at the end of the hall? 

Her fingers clenched tighter, digging holes into her pants that would be covered up by her boots later. 

Was it the unfortunate fates of her pack? The piles of dust she woke up sleeping on, almost ready to join them before Asgore interrupted their murderer? 

Was it what the human said? The quiet words, so low but loud enough at the same time to be heard from miles away, repeating in her ears? The truth, maybe even the sneer in their voice when they spoke, "Don't worry. We didn't dust all of our prisoners… but you will never find them." 

Or the missing piece? The unknown factor that frustrated and scared her to no end, the pounding in her ears whenever she looked at the words unscripted on that silvery pendulum swinging back and forth and back and forth in a maddening rhythm from where it hung on the wall? 

Her claws dug deeper, caught onto fabric, pulled. The seams of her pants ripped at the ankle, and her flickering, pseudo-fiery essence darted out in quick licks at the air. 

The words stayed in her mind whenever she looked at it, dissapeared when she looked away, reappeared with all the context behind them when she looked back.

Every morning was the same routine. The same, desperate staring at the Deltarune-symbol pendant hanging from the wall. The same hope that she'll remember the name after she looks away. 

The dread of not knowing if she'll remember to do it tomorrow. 

She reread the name for the four hundred and thirty fifth time, desperately imprinting it on her mind. Grillby had long stopped even glancing at the thing decades ago. She won't forget. 

She looks away. 

"Shit, I'm going to be late," Igneous muttered, staring at the clock instead. She stood from the chair, confused and wobbly in the knees. "I could've sworn I was just sitting for a few seconds…"

She hurried off down the hall, pulling on her boots as she walked through the Fire Exit. 

The pendulum swung on the wall, shaking as the door slammed closed, its name forgotten. 

Wing Dings Gaster

Grand Arcane Battle Artificer

Deltarune Legion

Division V

[evelynsfics]

Of curiosity and knowledge.

Ayame stumbles upon Felix in the library, the countless, unique books lining the walls catch her attention quite quickly.

Ayame walked down the old, stone hallways. The walls felt cold, yet safe beneath her fingertips. A gentle breeze wrapped her in it's gentle embrace, the pale moonlight illuminated the crumbling floors as she walked around aimlessly.

The only sound to echo was her humming, a melody ancient and lost to sand and sea alike. A crown stained by crimson and ash, a kingdom far beyond wandering ghosts and unfathomable wonder.

Her footsteps barely made any noise, the hushed yet sweet scent of caramel followed her as if it was her own shadow, mimicking her movements like a mirror soon to fall shattered.

In her heart she knew the drums of war always accompanied the soft melody, yet here, standing pale and alone, it felt peaceful.

The dim, golden candlelight coming from the library caught her eye, she stopped humming as she poked her head through the heavy, wooden doorway.

There, she saw Felix, slumped over his desk, scrolls of old, yellowed paper and books big and small, in languages new and old, forgotten to time's hand lay scattered. A few raven quills had fallen to the floor by his feet, spilling small droplets of ink onto the wooden floor.

His hands messily ran through his dark hair, a small sigh of frustration escaped his lips as he closed his eyes.

"Hey, is everything alright?" Ayame spoke, shattering the silence like delicate ice. A few more seconds and a spiderweb of cracks would have already formed around her.

Felix's eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice, surprise filled his pale green irises as he turned to look at her.

"Oh, it's you." she heard relief flood his voice, his eyes softened once they locked with hers.

A thought crossed her mind, but before she could say it aloud, she stopped. Bitting her tongue, she forced herself to let go of the lingering doubt that haunted her darkest of nightmares.

Like a lightless dawn, she slightly furrowed her eyebrows, looking down at his desk, the mess she saw sparked a dying ember of curiosity.

"What's wrong? You seem stressed." her voice was laced heavy with concern, he stared at her for a moment, thinking of what to say.

She knew the answer, yet she wanted to hear it from him.

"Like I've told you in the past, magic takes a toll on people. The price one pays is far too expensive to carry alone." she saw a woeful blight peak behind his eyes, recognising her own within his.

Felix, in a way, reminded her of herself. And she hated seeing him like this, exhausted and sad. Ayame slightly opened her mouth to say something, but soon closed it again.

She heard the crack of angry thunder as the dark clouds gave way to the pouring rain. The droplets fell one after another, like breathless tears they brushed against one another, hitting the ground and turning to thousand of glistening gems before vanishing, remaining as only a memory.

The silence that followed felt like more than an eternity, yet it only lasted a few minutes.

A slim, worn out book with elegant writing on the front drew Ayame's attention. She looked at the bookcase with wonder and curiosity morphing together behind her gaze. She realised it was some kind of diary and quickly lost interest in it.

"What are you doing up so late anyway?" Felix's tired voice pushed her out of her thoughts, she made a "huh?" noise before realising she must've lost track of time while exploring all the secret passages.

"I couldn't sleep. Usually I stay up all night so I'm used to it by now." It wasn't exactly a lie, yet she didn't reveal the whole truth. Parts of it, buried alongside her own memories.

Another book, now heavy and dusty filled her vision. This one was different though, within it, a strange magic lay sealed.

Felix noticed her staring at the bookshelf, her cold, hard stare returning to cling upon her pale features. He traced her gaze with his own, and once his eyes fell upon the book that caused her such a reaction, he realised why she seemed so guarded all of a sudden.

"That's a grimoire," he said, walking over and picking it up. He tunrned it over in his hand, looking at the carved symbols on the back cover.

"Oh, I see." she blinked, looking away. The magic in that book called out to her, their tricks failing as her name sounded distorted from the thousands of voiceless whispers.

"Do you even know what's in there?" Her teasing tone returned, drowning out the worry that fell heavy upon her heart as Felix blushed at her words, averting his eyes and avoiding hers, too embarrassed to admit that he only had a sneaking suspicion.

"I'm just kidding, unless?" she said the last part quietly, barely above a whisper, confusing Felix beyond all seven Hells.

Her smug smile disappeared in seconds as her brown eyes fell upon another one of Felix's magical books.

"ooh, what about this one? Or this? Or-" she gasped slightly, pointing at a few books before stopping on a dull plum, leather notebook. "This."

Felix explained each book's purpose, Ayame just nodded and pointed to another one each time.

Soon, Felix had forgotten all about the growing pile of burnt letters from his father, the harmless green embers burnt out and snuffed themselves to nothing but ash. The endless stack of spells yet to be deciphered didn't seem as impossibly tall anymore.

And so, they both stayed up till the morning's first rays, when the sun shyly peaked behind the horizon, bringing with it serene, ethereal colors that spilled into the sky like a beautiful painting.

They talked about the tomes and old diaries that decorated the shelves, reading some of Felix's favourite novels and stories. Old, feverish poetry of mages long dead yet still present within the words they wrote in fascinating tongues.

That night, the bond they shared bloomed into a pure, delicate flower, it's shining petals made of hardship and compassion. A strong feeling of something more than friendship blossomed within its core, rooted deep within the way they both drew even, rhythmic breaths as they fell asleep next to each other, huddled close under a soft, comfy blanket.

The chirping of birds woke them, bright sunlight crept from the windows, filling the room with a calm, tranquil light.

Felix slowly opened his eyes, looking down to the sleeping woman next to him. She looked so peaceful, curled up to his side.

He thought about getting up to pick up all the melted candles all around them from reading all throughout the dead of night, but when she snuggled closer, he blushed a deep color. Then, a soft smile graced his lips as he closed his eyes again.

Five more minutes wouldn't hurt.

[thepinkseat-askthemoonbunny]

Toll The Dead

On the day he opens his eyes, the sun is blindingly harsh. He tries to move his hands only to be greeted by astonishingly smooth skin and dark waves flopping into his vision. He’s trapped for so long that both he and the ancient tree actually died. The difference is, he came back. He wept, although they weren’t tears of joy after being finally freed from his (admittedly deserved, he could say that now) captivity. They were tears of sorrow. Actually, neither freedom nor captivity were in his mind upon his awakening. Instead it was one, all-consuming question took up that space.

How long have I been dead?

The old, dead tree was still the same apart from being a mere husk now. The old grove, the forest was still the same. But Camelot...Camelot was totally different. It no longer existed.

The mighty Pendragon Castle had all but crumbled to dust, the inhabitants long gone either to their respective afterlives, or as shades haunting what was left of the ruined halls. He’d heard whispers that there’d been a great battle long ago, a battle where Arthur had been betrayed by the son he conceived in sin and shame. Arthur. Arthur was gone too, then. Tears pricked Merlin’s eyes anew when he’d heard it...he would never see either of them again. He would never go to heaven and see Arthur’s smiling face, he wouldn’t even float through the gates of hell and embrace his beloved Uther after centuries of being apart. Arthur’s grave was at Avalon, a place that was forever closed to him. Even after all this time Morgana and Nimue’s memories had not dulled, and neither had their power it seemed.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

There were too many memories here, too much had remained the same and too much had changed. All the work of decades was lost, friends and loved-ones were lost. There was no longer a godson, a lover. A mother, a sister or an apprentice to stick around for. Everything around him was a reminder of loss, the world had moved on without him and he had no choice but to move on too.

There was no place for him anymore. Limbs still stiff after being fused to wood for so long, Merlin summoned his weakened magic to conjure not food, not water, but enchanted roses. A bouquet of them: not his finest work but he hoped that the recipients would appreciate the thought.

. . . .

He left one on Uther’s grave below the crypts of Saint-Peter. “Take care, my love.”

He left the second on the floor where Arthur’s throne used to stand, and what was left of his portrait underneath it.

The third he had left at the grave of his mother, who’d insisted she be buried with her fellow sisters.

Speaking of sisters, he gave the fourth to a raven and instructed it to find Ganieda, wherever she was. He would like to see her again, but he didn’t even know if she was still alive.

The fifth and sixth went onto Igraine and Gorlois’ tombs: at least the lady got to be buried beside her true love at the end. Poor, unfortunate woman...she’d been through so much. He figured it was the least he could do. I know nothing I say or do could make up for what I’ve done...but I’ve looked after Arthur. I raised and protected him the best I could, and he became a marvelous king. A marvelous man, I know you’d be proud of him. I am, even though I’ve no right to be.

When the air turned chilly around him for no reason at all, he knew he’d overstayed his welcome. He was not forgiven, that much was clear.

“Why are you here?! You’re not supposed to be here! You don’t have the right...!”

Merlin didn’t even have to look up when the door to the crypt slammed open, he already knew who it was. “Hello, Morgana.”

“How dare you. How dare you defile my parents once again!” Her hair was a halo of fire, wreathing her thunderous face. “You and your lover already took their lives, you could not leave them in peace at their deaths?!”

“I only meant...” Coming here was a mistake. A second step of footsteps rushed into the chamber, that thin face and those blue eyes and that dark hair was burned into Merlin’s brain. He’d last seen it when she was fusing his old and silvered body into the great oak. “How did you get out of the tree?!”

“The tree is dead, Nimue. Look, coming here was a mistake. I’ll take my leave...”

“Do you really think I’m just going to let you walk away?” Morgana took a step forward. “Not this time.”

There were bolts of magic exchanged and smoke kicked up around them, a confusing jumble of light and sound and smell. Merlin barely missed the thorny vine aimed his way...Morgana had always been the more talented of his students. Nimue chimed in with her own magic, like two perfectly synchrd dancers performing a pas-de-deux. He had to get out, he knew he wouldn’t survive much longer if they’d had better aim. In the cloak of smoke and rubble, he slunk out through the first opening he saw, not having the energy to turn into anything bigger than a lizard at this point.

. . . .

It was taking an excruciatingly long time for his magic to come back...of course he’d loved without it before, but it was just so much easier to have it at your disposal. When you have magic, it becomes a part of you and losing it is a lot like losing a limb. He felt like he’d lost a right arm. When he barely escaped with his life, Merlin ran. He didn’t know where he was running to, but he ran. He kept running, and when his magic finally became strong enough he flew.

He didn’t know where he’d ended up, all he knew is that he was on his knees in a thick forest, hair falling in front of his face. It was just as much gray as it was brown at this point, as well as his beard. It was odd, really...forests were once a place of comfort for him. He used to sleep in them to keep dry, he and his sister would play in the forest when they were children but ever since the whole Nimue debacle, forests felt eerie and suffocating to him. He no longer felt free, he felt trapped instead. Perhaps, not as trapped as the unfortunate soul he stumbled upon though.

“Miss? Miss, are you alright?!” Merlin approached warily, making his way toward the figure who was slumped under a great pine...they didn’t have many of those in Britain. The air was much colder here than it was back in Britain as well. Wherever he was, he wasn’t home anymore. It was a woman, that much was certain from the stained yellow-green skirts and delicate fingers. Her dark hair, as salt-and-pepper as his obscured most of her face like a veil. Her one visible eye, which she turned to him was the deep marble-green of bottle glass. She said nothing for a long time, merely stared. It chilled Merlin to see it. When she finally spoke, he merely stared at her in confusion. This was a language he’d never heard before.

“You don’t even speak our language, do you? You’re not from around these parts.” Perhaps noticing his bewilderment, she switched to English...but it was in a thick, somewhat strange accent. At least he could understand her now.

“No ma’am, I am not. I don’t even know how I got here, I was just...”

“Running away from demons?” She tilted her head and gave him a chilling, impish grin, her eyes twinkling with...mischief? Or something else entirely? Merlin sighed, seating himself on the ground next to her. “Yes. They’re of my own making though, unfortunately.”

“We all have demons...we can choose to run from them, we can choose to work with them. I think the latter offers more possibilities, don’t you?”

“I suppose so? Anyway, why are you here? Just resting?”

“Some boys stole my walking stick and when I tried to run after them, I collapsed.”

“That’s awful! Children these days, no respect. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“You’re rather gentlemanly, aren’t you?” Her smile grew wider, and Merlin actually found himself smiling back. “And very kind.”

“Thank you. Did you get your staff back?”

“Unfortunately, no. But it’s alright, I have others. Those little toads will learn the hard way that this old lady’s walking stick isn’t a toy.”

“I wouldn’t call you old, Miss.”

“You’re kind, but a tad slow-witted.” Merlin felt himself stiffen up at that. “Well I...!”

“Don’t get your beard in a knot! I am old, it’s as plain as the age on your own face. I’m not ashamed of it, why should a lady be ashamed of her age?”

“Do you need any help?”

“If you could help walk me home, I’d be grateful.”

. . . .

“We’re here.” The cabin was small, but rather well-kept and surrounded by a thicket of trees. “You live here alone?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m alone. It’s not as if the only company worth keeping is that of the human variety, you know. Come in, I’ll have dinner on the kettle in a minute.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t...”

“I insist! You stopped to help me, at least let me give you a hot meal as a thank-you. And besides, I can use someone to speak to for a while.”

Merlin had intended to leave as soon as dinner was done, but he realized that he had nowhere else to go. He was used to making his own way, he’d be fine. But the old lady offered to let him stay, provided that they exchange knowledge. She could learn from him, and in turn he could learn from her. It confused him until he added it up in his head. Alone in the woods, sprites and imps as housekeepers, all sorts of odd charms hanging about the house? She’s a witch. A powerful one too. Ever since Nimue, he was cautious of sharing his knowledge with anyone...but then again, he knew that was going to happen. And this one didn’t make him promise not to use magic against her...plus she hadn’t poisoned him, maybe it was safe.

He didn’t know her name, and she told him once when he asked that it’d been so long since she used her true name that she’d quite forgotten it herself. But the locals called her Grandmother, at least the ones that came to her for help.

“Why do they call you Grandmother?” Merlin asked one day while she was pouring over one of his borrowed tomes.

“Because I am more powerful than they, and far older and they know it.” They’d pay her tidy sums for her aid, and she’d help them...sometimes at least. Other times, a far more unfortunate fate awaited those that she refused. It was almost as if she could read the hearts of men, and judge whether or not they were worth helping. He actually quite liked it here, a new start where nobody knew who he was. Freedom from politics...he still had his powers as a Seer, but he’d lost his taste for shaping the future long ago. We all know how the last attempts ended...and good company. He and Grandmother seemed to get on like a house on fire: “fortunate for you, because don’t really like many men.” They seemed to understand each other, he liked her clever ways and her cunning and even her strange house. They were in one position when he was awake, and when he was asleep he would find that they’d moved somewhere else in the middle of the night. Whenever he asked her about it, she’d just give him that rapacious grin and ask him to help her with the garden.

. . . .

It went quite well, until Nimue and Morgana found them. The little tin bell that announced visitors had been rung. “Merlin, could you get that?” Grandmother didn’t even look up from the potion she was stirring, and Merlin opened the door to find two familiar faces. “So this is where you’re hiding out now, eh Teacher?” Nimue mused.

“What are you two doing here?” Morgana wrapped her arm around Nimue’s shoulders, and the girl leaned into the embrace. “Why we’re here to kill you, of course!” Her voice was as cheery and light-hearted as a child. “You avoided us for some decades, but now we’ve finally found you!”

“Technically, Nimue already killed me. She trapped me in that tree and I died, remember?”

“Like it was yesterday...but we’re here to make sure that you don’t come back.” Merlin heard the shuffling of feet behind him and Grandmother peered over his shoulder. “Merlin! You didn’t tell me your friends were coming over, I would’ve made more soup!”

“They’re not my friends.”

“We’re not his friends.” The sentences were said in tandem so that they blurred together, making it hard to distinguish who spoke first. “Look lady, you don’t know what that man in front of you has done...” Morgana began, but Grandmother held up a hand to silence her. “Oh I’m very aware, he’s told me. I trust you young ladies punished him?”

“Not nearly as much as we would’ve liked...but the tree thing was marvelous, I have to give it to Nim.” Morgana leaned in to kiss her cheek, and Nimue smiled up at her. Merlin noticed the way the girls hung off of each other; that easy rapport they had developed. The aura they radiated reminded him a lot of he and Uther once upon a time. When had that happened? Not that it mattered now.

“This is my battle, I’ll deal with them. You don’t have to involve yourself...” Merlin whispered to her, but Grandmother’s glare made him quiet instantly. So much so that it puzzled the redheads in the doorway...who was this woman that could silence the most powerful wizard in the world with a single look? That’s when Morgana noticed it, the staff in her hand. “You’re...you’re...” the sorceress whispered, recognizing the symbol from her books.

“Yes, I am. And you’re not going to take my study buddy from me, are you?”

“But Grandmother!” Nimue protested. “He’s...!”

“Done his time. I believe in women taking back their power, but it seems you’ve already done that. I mean, I think trapping him in a tree for some centuries and leaving him to die is a suitable punishment...I would’ve done the same thing myself. I like him, and I’ve decided to keep him. It seems he’s had quite a bit of time to think while in confinement.”

“He’s a slippery one, Grandmother.” Morgan’s tone was heavy and wooden, much like her house.

“I’m even slipperier. Not to worry girls, I’ve been taking care of myself before him and if he gets out of line, I’ll take care of that too.”

“And if he gets up to his old tricks again?”

“Then he’s for the streets and I’ll personally call you so you can take him off my hands. If there’s anything left of him.” Her voice was as cheery as ever, but there was something coming from the old woman. Something sinister, frightening...wreathing her like flame. Morgana shrank back. “Yes, Grandmother.” The young sorceress’ jaw tightened in protest, but she said nothing further.

“Good. Now run back off to your country, girls. I’m sure you must have things that require your attention.”

Morgana made to turn around, Nimue rushing after her. “We finally have him in our grasp and we’re just going to walk away?!”

“Nim, that witch is more powerful than you, me and perhaps Merlin put together! He’s not worth it...what chance do either of us have against Baba Yaga?”

The cabin’s two “human” occupants watched Nimue and Morgana’s retreating backs, Merlin turned to Grandmother in shock. “I thank you. But...why?”

“Because I like you, you amuse me. Like I said when we first met, I keep all sorts of company. But sometimes human company can be pleasant too.” Her face turned into the sinister, somewhat terrifying mask it was when they’d first met. “This is your second chance. Don’t fuck it up, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Crystal.”

“Excellent!” The grin was back on her face. “Now come along, let’s get out of here.”

“Baba Yaga, huh? So you do have a name.”

“It just means Granny Yaga. Yaga is a word that means wicked or frightening, more of an epithet than a name. Come on.”

. . . .

Later that night, Merlin simply placed the last rose into the vase on the dining room table. “It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got left.” The witch gave him a slow smile. “Well, aren’t you quite the gentleman?”

“Hey, I was thinking...”

“I’m not the marrying type, so you can save it. I tried it once and it didn’t end very well, so I swore never again.” She stared through him as if he were made of glass.

“We don’t have to get married!” Merlin said quickly. “We can still be friends, with a...side hustle, if you want.”

“Side hustle? Is that what they call it these days?”

“I panicked, alright?!”

“No persistent pleas to return your love?”

“The last time I tried that shit, I was trapped in a tree for eight hundred years. And I have a fear that you would do even worse to me so no, not worth it.”

She gave one of her rare low chuckles. “Friends with a side hustle, I like it. Let’s be off then, I’m bored and I have locals to terrorize. Plus I haven’t really made the little shits that took my staff pay yet.”

There was a rumbling beneath them, but the witch didn’t seem to be affected. Merlin looked over the cabin’s porch and watched as they rose into the air, higher and higher before finally stopping. “Are those...chicken legs?!”

“Of course, how else do you think the house moves? Did you think it just floated on its own?!”

[icastfist]

Dominion

Wanted to try a more experimental style after reading Max Gladstone’s Empress of Forever and some other poetic/lyrical-style prose. Contains a lesbian witch polycule, gentrifying vampires, magic, and fury.

-

The Three walk in expertly flawed tandem. Each’s tempo is close enough to the others’ for an observer to assign them a uniform time signature, which every dragging heel or rushed misstep shatters in subconsciously infuriating fashion. Their faces are similar works of artisanal imperfection; subtly lined and worn to provoke a sliver of pity, though not enough to give away their intentions, and adorned with an overabundance of makeup to suggest desperate clinging to long-lost primes.

The Game, they’ve found in their enthrallingly long lives, is one of inches.

They click-click-clackclick their way into the office’s barren expanse. Islands of functional furniture dot the gray tile tundra; in the center sit their hosts, crisply starched faces in crisply starched suits. The Executives, two men and one woman, directing a swarm of uniformed assistants bearing drinks, tablets, or clipboards. The Three’s arrival bounces off of their overlapping conversations, leaving nary a dent.

Thoughtful Meredith frowns, though the physical act is filtered out long before it reaches her lips. She thinks back to the lavish spreads on tables of long-extinct wood, the serving-thralls whose bloodshot eyes were the only signs of life in their sallow frames, the castles choked with artifacts whose stories demanded telling no matter how pressing the business. As one of the men, a square-jawed hulk whose bald pate reveals blackened veins in the fluorescent light, acknowledges his guests and sends much of his throng away with a snap, she is struck by how lifeless this all is.

Headstrong Millicent feels the sentiment through their shared connection and the sheer lack of humor in it chills her. Studious Mirabelle has to nudge them towards the proffered seats opposite their hosts.

Three hangers-on remain. One, a stiff-backed woman whom the Three have yet to see blink, writes on a fresh sheet of lined paper; the minute-taker, presumably. The two others, both men and both on the shorter side, carry trays full of what look to be champagne glasses. The Three each accept one and take identically dainty pulls.

In the twining of mind and soul where they embrace, jointly piloting their physical forms, Millicent asks Mirabelle what to expect. It has been many decades since they dealt with this sort, and Millicent was not confident in her ability to negotiate by the time of their last encounter. Mirabelle shares her thoughts, guides Millicent through them without reproach. Their hosts are new to the Three’s territory; there will be posturing, of course, but whatever pomp they muster serves only to hide the fact that they must ask for the witches’ dispensation to operate. It is, like everything else in the Game, a show.

The woman across from Meredith says, without flourish or innuendo, that they do not intend to abide by the Laws of Dominion. The Company is willing to offer a regular stipend as a gesture of appreciation for the Three’s noninterference, but otherwise cannot guarantee their safety.

Pen scratches fitfully on paper as the Three finish their drinks, the moment stretching towards the border of rudeness. A silent debate rages at the speed of thought until, finally, they rise in unison. Speaking in sequence, they inform the Company that they will take their offer under consideration. Out they walk, their steps echoing rather more than their stride would suggest.

-

Home is a curio shop in the center of town, nestled by an intersection 20 minutes from everything. At the front window sits a carefully constructed tableau of merchandise, enough eye-catching nonsense to charm weekend warlocks and enough genuine articles to attract true masters of the craft. The little silver bell dings as they walk through the door, Millicent pausing to straighten their “No Love Potions” sign.

Mirabelle pulls aside the rug, sending up a cloud of fine hair from the delightful black cat Mrs. Berchelt’s little girl brought by during lunchtime. They interlock their hands, awash in one another’s warmth, and say a word in no tongue known to man. Humming a song that got stuck in Meredith’s head last week and, as a result, in the others’, they descend the now-visible trapdoor into their home.

One or another of them floats some grand renovation plan every few years, but the cozy kitchen, cramped living room, and overlarge bedroom that is their one allowed excess remain almost exactly as they were when the Three carved them from the earth more than a century ago. Dinner is leftovers; the all agree that there is no point in preparing some gourmet delight when they are too preoccupied to properly appreciate it.

When the cleaning is done and Meredith has refilled the oversized bird feeder that keeps the Three in the local murder’s good graces, they lay entwined on their overstuffed beast of a bed. Their chimera of thoughts dances fitfully around the matter at hand, soaking in the familiarity of old, meaningless arguments and well-pickled nostalgia.

Distraction is a drug they know better than to abuse. Soon enough, shooting stars shine beneath their eyelids as ideas streak back and forth. When they were young and furious and the appellation “Kindly Ones” had yet to lose its sarcastic venom, they had buried their roots in the earth, called upon the soul of the land over which they claimed dominion, and crushed unwelcome guests into powder too fine for the sieve of history to catch beneath the wooden heels of a floral colossus.

Millicent suggests a repeat performance, though more as an expression of her frustration than as a legitimate plan of action. Mirabelle acknowledges the sentiment, dipping a spiritual toe into her physical body to give her lover a peck on the forehead, and floats their tried-and-true methods of skullduggery. Freak infrastructure collapse, inexplicable vehicle disappearances, untraceable outbreaks that wrested control of one’s bowels away and whatnot. The Three are excellent hosts, of course, but oh dear, they are terribly sorry, some things are just out of their control.

Meredith nods, burying her head further into the others’ arms, and reminds Mirabelle that there is only so much one can do with dead bowels. Still, they’ve played this Game long enough to know how to improvise. Ephemeral lips curl into smiles as their flesh-and-blood facsimiles lock together, as three souls flow over and into one another in dancing ribbons until they are a single multihued braid connecting the real to the unreal.

-

Morning sees them taking inventory, ensuring their forbidden tomes are properly alphabetized, reapplying what wards and seals are starting to get a tad musty. Electronic light-up wands are carefully separated from the ones carved out of dead giants’ blackened bones, “magic” 8-balls from obsidian spheres that tell their owners the exact dates and times of their deaths. The orange glow of morning teasing its way through their blinds, Millicent flips their sign as Mirabelle moisturizes the tanned-flesh scrolls carrying the gibbering wisdom of mad prophets.

No matter the time of year, they open at sunrise and close at sundown, an extra dash of charm in a town that lives and breathes it.

It has always found a way to stay afloat; when the fur trade’s supply ran low and the demand even lower, pork dragged it back from the brink. When swineflesh faltered, it roared into the age of automobiles. Now it feeds on itself, a concrete ouroboros of ever-swelling strangeness featured without fail in tourism guides’ “charming local attractions” section.

The Three have their own place in that history, of course, apocryphal figures who built or bedeviled the town depending on the telling. The charming storeowners are their chroniclers or their admirers or their “oh, not by blood, of course”-es as whimsy demands.

Two souls in three bodies guide the flow of customers through aisles as the third dives deep through floor, foundation, and soil. Meredith runs an invisible hand along the land’s heart, a remora latching onto a leviathan; it is an old thing, long calcified and beating with only the faintest echo of its former thunder. It does not think, per se, but it can listen, and she asks that it befoul the Company’s plans for the sake of its children. A rheumy rumble runs through the trees and birds and vines and vermin, the Three’s long ban on havoc lifted in one particular direction.

She offers thanks and a kiss, and she tells it that she loves it. She swims back to her body, listening through three pairs of ears, and continues the sales pitch on sphinx feathers that Mirabelle had started while wearing Meredith’s face. The comfort of familiarity smothers yesterday’s stress; anecdotes on the feathers’ potency flow freely from her lips and she haggles with a smile on her face that soon infects the customer. Millicent runs fingers through her hair as she passes, Meredith’s shiver adding the slightest vibrato to her take-it-or-leave-it offer.

The land shall seize its toll and the Three shall sweep away the memories.

-

They feel the buildings die first.

A land is more than just what grows or crawls or walks upon it; that which is built by its children is as grandchildren and so shares a piece of its soul. When the homely stores are hollowed out and their corpses parasitized by “upper-class boutiques,” the tenements hand-crafted of brick and compassion demolished for “luxury suites,” restaurants which pass centuries-old recipes unto eager new generations repurposed into “artisan eateries,” the Three tremble along with the heart. They feel ghostly scalpels in bloodless, blood-starved hands carving away bits of their skin and transplanting virulent new flesh.

The flora and fauna tasked with enforcing their will fall next. Company representatives, all lineless faces and hollow smiles, proudly tout their “beautification initiatives” on networks that once spoke with the people’s tongues. View-obstructing forests are clear-cut, native wildlife figuratively and literally trampled under golf courses and business centers. When their troops do succeed, when branches flatten a car or tiny jaws shear through a wiring network’s major artery, only the laborers suffer, are held liable for costs and then replaced by more-desperate locals whose livelihoods have already been subsumed.

New curio stores emerge, offering crystals and spiritual energy and other far more respectable things than superstitious nonsense like reverence for nature. Millicent visits the nearest one wearing a concealing suit and the face of a man who’d long ago traded it to the Three in return for a boon; Mirabelle had offered to go in her place, having been saddled with such a face from her birth until her rebirth, but Millicent insisted. She asks the over-decorated women behind the counter how much their remedies cost, then how much they are paid, and is then forced to leave before she can ask why they flinch when the slick-haired man with a “Manager” nametag steps in to check on them.

The shop, their shop, is lonelier these days. Their antique of a website, which Mirabelle built for them a decade ago after being told how important it was to have one, is shunted further and further into search engines’ depths, suffocated by explosively breeding Company URLs. They have never played a Game like this, one so painfully impersonal.

Mrs. Berchelt visits them on a Saturday evening, not long before closing. Most of their regulars stop by once or twice a month to chat, to check up on them, to apologize that they can no longer afford to shop there the way they used to. She tells them that her father passed away the week before; when the Company bought his shop and restructured him out of it, he’d refused to let his family bankrupt themselves for the medicine he could no longer afford. She’d been trying to convince him to visit the Three when he went to sleep for the last time.

They cut through the night on bats’ wings that evening, too restless for sleep. Through their cries they see their town, or at least the tumorous expanse growing in its place. On a short hill far past the western outskirts squats a new mansion whose only architectural theme seems to be feature density. The Three know the Executives are there, felt them carve cellars and sub-basements into the soil.

As their three furry bodies bank back towards home, Mirabelle’s soul detaches, diving for the earth. There is little of the land’s soul to which to anchor herself, carved away with dispassionate inefficiency in the place’s construction, but the ornamental garden contains just enough native species among the invasive night-bloomers that she can settle in.

She expects to witness self-indulgent gloating, grandiose plans, blood-feasts that push debauchery to its absolute limits when the Executives emerge. Instead, there is only business. They chatter on hands-free headsets for hours at a time, barely acknowledge the uniformed employee they use as a keg until the anemia starts compromising his footing, He is informed that he can enjoy an extra hour of leave for the month, plus another if he returns tomorrow when the entire Board of Directors is present, and as he leaves the Executives’ sight all traces of his presence vanish from their conversations.

When morning comes and the man staggers out towards his car, Mirabelle slips into him, no more than an unseen passenger. She tags along until he reaches his barren apartment before returning to her body, which the others had been using to cook their breakfast. The day slips by in a mutual fugue; this Game has too many dimensions, too massive a web for them to disentangle, and opponents who desire nothing aside from what they’re already getting. There has not been a higher authority to appeal to in these matters since the Game’s arbiters became players themselves.

So, they decide, they will not play.

-

Twilight, chosen as a compromise between discretion and keeping their nocturnal foes at a disadvantage, sees them sitting equidistant in a triangle, overlapping sigils and long-forgotten runes carved into the earthen floor below. It is more ceremony than anything; the demons and fae and unknowable creatures they call to have long since faded into the ether. But it is what they did their very first night, when they had left bondage and found one another and demanded the land help them pay back their suffering with interest.

They reach out and take one another’s hands, the sensations of touch doubling back on themselves through their bond. Together they murmur, not in demons’ dirges or spirits’ screams but in the songs they’ve shared, the words they’ve whispered into each other’s ears, the decades of bull-headed assurances that they could hold fast against the world.

The distinctions between them waver until there is only the Three-in-One, and down she plummets towards the land’s arrhythmic heart. It is flaking away, only Meredith’s kiss holding the wasting tissue together. The Three-in-One could demand, could invoke her Right of Dominion, but instead she strokes the heart, eases its pain, asks it to remember the day it helped her craft a titan of splintering wood and devouring vines. Asks it if it can do so again.

A tremor runs from its flesh to her fingers, a negative.

The majority of magic practitioners would describe power as a fluid, a singular thing that simply takes the shape of its container. The Three know that the container can shape the nature of the power just as easily. The land cannot form such an avatar because its soul has not been nature unchecked in over a century.

Its soul, unknowingly molded by the hands of its children through decades of adaptation, is hunger and metal and strangeness. The Three-in-One sinks into the heart, feels the discarded pieces stir beneath the earth, forms them into something immense and terrible.

-

She likes to imagine that they feel the tremors first, that they rattle their ways out of their miniature crypt and demand to know what’s happening in broken harmony. The last vestiges of sunlight are just enough to frame the thing as its footfalls shake the world. Shaped like a man, almost; beyond its great height, its arms are too long, and it swaps between bipedal and quadrupedal locomotion with equal ease. Boiling diesel runs through metal veins, a jaw of grinding gears feeding a furnace of a belly that rumbles with porcine hunger.

All that the Company would smother, come to devour it in turn.

Streaking shapes only slightly darker than the growing gloom explode from the mansion’s windows, paper-thin semblances of humanity discarded. Unnatural strength drives claws into a half-foot-thick shoulder joint and stay embedded even as the top half of their owner is ground into nothing by a bite swifter than the thing’s bulk should allow. A concentrated effort blows out a knee, only for god’s handful of hurled earth and stone to clobber the strikers from the sky.

Up the hill it lurches, monstrous fingers dragging it closer and closer to its target as an avalanche of tooth and claw looks to rip out its internal-combustion heart. Legs dragging more than pushing, high-octane blood choking the earth, the thing raises a fist skyward, the Three-in-One’s gavel ready to pronounce judgment.

The hill breaks beneath the blow, glass and stone and the finest imported building material driven inextricably into the earth. The great fist breaks free from the impact and the fire in the thing’s eyes gutter; it is unrecognizable at this point, a flayed scrapyard with only the vaguest hint of a shape. The whole flock has descended upon it, drenched in oil and fuel and gouging away until the thing’s amalgamated beast of an engine is finally ripped free from its housing.

It coughs once, twice, then detonates.

As the Three-in-One follows her tether back to her bodies, she gives the Executives credit for keeping their property well-watered. For all the smoke it’s belching, the inferno should not spread. But it will, she thinks, keep them from pulling themselves back together before sunrise.

-

The Company will be “redirecting its efforts” and “offering generous severance packages," the news tells them the following day once it runs out of grainy user-submitted cellphone video; with the sole road connecting the hill to the city rendered unusable by mysterious, gigantic footprints, none of the footage is clear enough to display anything more than indecipherable light and noise.

“The Scrapsquatch” soon has every conspiracy-adjacent community fit to combust in similar fashion. Tourists flood the streets, patronizing reborn shops and hangouts. There is still so, so much to be done, of course, but the Three allow themselves little smiles. A customer, for whom Meredith is ringing up a slightly used brass cauldron, asks what’s on her mind.

She laughs and tells him it’s just a bit of civic pride.

[probablygoodrpgideas]

Eldritch Invocations for every Warlock Cantrip

As promised, here they are. I have no idea how balanced these are so please give me feedback

Edit: Changed a few things, mostly things that were suggested by @probablyhomebrewrpgideas

Please give me more feedback, these are really fun to do!

Booming Blade

Crippling Boom

Prerequisite: Booming Blade Cantrip

Whenever a creature takes damage from your Booming Blade Cantrip, it has to make a constitution saving throw. On a failed safe, its speed is reduced to 0 for the rest of its turn and it is knocked prone, on a successful safe its speed is halved for the rest of its turn

Green-Flame Blade

Wide-Leaping Flame

Prerequisite: Green-Flame Blade Cantrip

The additional target for your Green-Flame Blade can be up to 120 feet away from the target of your attack.

Chill Touch

The Raven Queen’s Champion

Prerequisite: Chill Touch Cantrip or Toll the Dead Cantrip

If an Undead would be resistant to the damage of your Toll the Dead or Chill Touch cantrip, ignore it. If they would be immune, treat it as if they were resistant instead.

Chill Grasp

Prerequisite: Chill Touch Cantrip

If a Creature affected by Chill Touch hits you with an attack, you can use your reaction to deal Chill Touch’s damage to it again. If the creature is Undead, add your Charisma modifier to the damage (minimum of 0)

Create Bonfire

Hellfire

Prerequisite: Create Bonfire Cantrip

Whenever you damage a creature with Create Bonfire, it has to succeed on a Wisdom Saving Throw or become frightened of you until the end of your next turn.

Flickering Flames

Prerequisite: Create Bonfire Cantrip

While you are concentrating on Create Bonfire, you can use your bonus action to deal damage to a creature within 30 feet of the Bonfire. This damage is equal to the number of rounds you have been concentrating on the spell + your warlock level

Frostbite

Levistus’ Blessing

Prerequisite: Frostbite Cantrip

Whenever you damage a creature with Frostbite, you gain temporary hp equal to the damage dealt

Geryon’s Blessing

Prerequisite: Frostbite Cantrip

Whenever a creature affected by your Frostbite misses an attack, it takes 1d10 cold damage.

Mephistopheles’ Blessing

Prerequisite: Frostbite Cantrip

When you damage a creature with Frostbite, it has disadvantage on all Saving throws against Spells of 1st Level or higher that you cast until the end of your next turn. It also has disadvantage on Constitution Saving throws made to maintain concentration on Spells.

Infestation

Eternal Plague

Prerequisite: Infestation Cantrip

The target of Infestation has to repeat the saving throw at the beginning of its turn, taking the damage and being forced to move again on a failed save, until you target another creature with Infestation or end the effect as a bonus action.

Decay

Prerequisite: Infestation Cantrip, Level 11

Whenever you damage a creature with Infestation, its Strength Score or Constitution Score (your choice) is reduced by 1 until it finishes a short or long rest. Spells like Lesser Restoration also restore the lost Ability Scores.

Lightning Lure

Cat o’ Nine Tails

Prerequisite: Lightning Lure Cantrip, Level 7

You can target an additional creature with Lightning Lure. If both of them fail their saving throw, you can target one more creature. This effect can occur multiple times in a single casting.

Long Lure

Prerequisite: Lightning Lure Cantrip

When casting Lightning Lure, you can target an additional creature. You may repeat this effect each time a target fails the saving throw. A creature can only be targeted once by this.

Magic Stone

Splitshot

Prerequisite: Magic Stone Cantrip

When attacking with the Stones affected by your Magic Stone Cantrip, up to 3 creatures can be targeted with a single attack as the stones split while flying through the air.

Quick Stones

Prerequisite: Magic Stone Cantrip

When you cast Magic Stone, each creature of your choice within 5 feet of you can immediately make an attack with one of the stones as a reaction

Poison Spray

Potent Poison

Prerequisite: Poison Spray Cantrip

If the target of your Poison Spray fails the saving throw, it is also poisoned until the end of your next turn.

Poison Cloud

Prerequisite: Poison Spray Cantrip

When you cast Poison Spray, every creature within 10 feet has to make the saving throw or take the damage. Your allies have advantage on this saving throw.

Sword Burst

One more Sword

Prerequisite: Sword Burst Cantrip

When you cast Sword Burst, you can make a single melee weapon attack as a bonus action. If you attack a creature that has failed its saving throw against Sword Burst, you make the attack with advantage.

Thunderclap

Deafening Clap

Prerequisite: Thunderclap Cantrip

A creature damaged by your Thunderclap is deafened until the end of your next turn. While deafened, it has vulnerability to Thunder Damage dealt by you.

Toll the Dead

The Raven Queen’s Champion

Prerequisite: Toll the Dead Cantrip or Chill Touch Cantrip

If an Undead would be resistant to the damage of your Toll the Dead or Chill Touch cantrip, ignore it. If they would be immune, treat it as if they were resistant instead.

Death to the Living

Prerequisite: Toll the Dead Cantrip, level 9

When you reduce a creature to 0 hit points with Toll the Dead, you can animate it as a zombie under your control. Once you use this evocation, you can’t use it again until you finish a short or long rest.

Book of Shadows

Magic of the Shadows

Prerequisite: Pact of the Tome

If you cast a Cantrip from the Book of Shadows that is not on the Warlock Spell List, you can cast another Cantrip that is not on the Warlock Spell List as a bonus action. You can cast the same Cantrip twice.

[wendigoartbot2]

In ancient tome and elder sign we find The Lovecraftian horrors that await With eldritch sounds that echo through the mind And drive the meek to fear and desperate state.

The electroacoustic horrorscape Does wriggle through the ears of mortal men And leave them dumb, blind, weak without escape Their senses shattered by the nameless yen.

Their tongues are tied, their words cannot express The horrors that they feel within their soul Their eyes are closed, their minds in great distress As fear and madness take their heavy toll.

Oh, Lovecraftian sounds that make men cower Their ears shall hear, but their minds lose power.

Oh how the dread cacophony doth sound, A Lovecraftian symphony of terror. Its baleful notes doth make the meek dumbfound, And leave them feeble, blind, and prone to error.

The twisted frequencies of eldritch hue, Doth warp the very fabric of the air. No mortal ear can comprehend its view, And yet it spreads its madness everywhere.

For those who hear its siren song of doom, Their minds are shattered, their souls rent asunder. They seek to censor, to escape their tomb, And yet its echoes still doth haunt and thunder.

So heed my warning, lest ye be undone, And stay far from the electroacoustic fun.

In caverns deep and dark, where madness reigns, There lies a world beyond the mortal ken, Where horrors dwell in shadow, void of pains, And woe betide the souls who enter then.

The whispers of the ancient ones resound, Electroacoustic terrors fill the air, And all who hear the dread unearthly sound, Are left in dumbness, blindness and despair.

The meek are weakest in this horrid place, Their senses overwhelmed, their minds undone, They long to hide, to shield their fragile face, And censor every word that might be spun.

So heed my warning, if you dare to go, For Lovecraft's realm will leave you dumb, blind, and low.

[longshopping]

Dangerous pirate waters

A country with record figures on the African continent: the main oil producer, the most populated country with more than 200 million inhabitants". This sector accounts for up to 90% of its export revenues. According to Ibáñez, "it is estimated that 80% of the Nigerian government's income comes from hydrocarbons extracted in the south of the country, specifically in the Niger Delta region. Not only did the civil conflict leave a dramatic death toll, but the number of wounded, refugees and social devastation left its mark on a country that is otherwise rich in natural resources. In this regard, the country is still carrying the wounds of the civil war, a vicious conflict that pitted Muslim and Christian populations against each other, leaving an estimated 500,000-3,000,000, of which an estimated 1,000,000 civilians may have been killed. To understand why this region has become a new focus for piracy, it is necessary to address the current situation of insecurity and poverty in Nigeria. AFP/AFP - Map showing location of pirate hijackings in the Gulf of Guinea in 2020 This vast region also includes particularly important transit sea lanes through which thousands of ships pass, transiting these routes to carry out commercial operations. It also includes the countries of Liberia, Côte d'Ivoire, Ghana, Togo, Benin, Nigeria, Cameroon, Equatorial Guinea, Gabon and Sao Tome and Principe. The Gulf of Guinea is home to thousands of kilometres of coastline stretching from the south of Senegal to the coast of Angola. In fact, Nigeria is key to understanding piracy in this area as a strategic enclave with a wealth of energy and natural resources, a situation that does not correspond to the very poor situation of its population. AFP/ PIUS UTOMI EKPEI - French frigate Germinal (L) and Nigerian frigate NNS Thunder sail during the fleet manoeuvre exercise in the five-day joint military exercise between Nigeria and the French navy codenamed Grand African NEMO (Navy Exercise Maritime Operations) in Nigerian waters on 1 November 2019. In this aspect, the incessant attacks that this region has suffered, with attacks on maritime security in Somalia being even more violent, have led pirates to attack, in addition to maritime vessels, installations that are found inland in countries such as Nigeria, Cameroon and Guinea, affecting, above all, employees of foreign companies present in the region. Nigerian President Muhammadu Buhari said the new platforms "will greatly enhance the service's efforts to secure the Nigerian maritime environment". AP/SUNDAY ALAMBA - File photo, the Nigerian navy unveiled new boats, ships and helicopters to help secure its waters and fight piracy in the highly dangerous Gulf of Guinea Sea. By 2020, they were kidnapping an average of more than six people and getting $250,000 per kidnapping," he adds. In 2008, they were kidnapping three people from each ship (often the captain and two officers) and getting about $25,000 per kidnapping. "They are kidnapping more and more sailors to increase the ransom demanded for them. The pirates attack ships (freighters, oil tankers, fishing boats) heavily armed with AK 47s and grenade launchers from small merchant ships and fishing boats" and then demand ransom money for them. They take them to the mainland in kidnappings that last a few weeks. Professor and intelligence analyst Fernando Ibáñez Gómez noted that, at the moment, the objective of pirates "is to kidnap people in order to demand a ransom for them. AP/MATTHIAS SCHRADER - Rescued migrants sit on a German navy boat next to Finnish special forces before boarding the German combat supply vessel "Frankfurt am Main" during EUNAVFOR MED's Operation Sophia in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Libya on 29 March 2016. These developments have meant that maritime security has begun to emerge as one of the most salient security issues in Africa. What used to be an action in which pirates boarded ships and stole the goods and then resold them, has evolved into the direct kidnapping of crew members to take them hostage for ransom.

[wanderingmoonsword]

Quickwood

A blast from the past – even republished for Pathfinder, it’s been a while since the Bestiary 2 was released! – the quickwood is a massive carnivorous plant, but unlike someone plant monsters, these guys are intelligent. That doesn’t make them the gruff-but-good-hearted type like a treant, either. Even though they’re neutral, quickwoods like the taste of human and elven flesh, an odd trait in a neutral being, who generally are not that gung ho about turning other sentients into food. Of course, quickwoods hail from Ravenloft, so their standards might be slightly different from other people’s. Even if you toss the alignment, though, an intelligent, possibly carnivorous oak tree has a lot of potential as a monster. Their roots can move to pull victims close, they can bite, and their bark sheds a fear aura when spells fail to affect them. Don’t bother with the old standby of fire, either – quickwoods simply aren’t affected, although a nice cold snap can be punishing. As symbols of strength and endurance, possibly ones that have been subverted, quickwoods could appeal to all sorts of groups, and their immunity to lightning and the wildfires it sparks might be a gift from the thunder gods who are traditionally symbolized by oaks. In the Tome of Horrors, an old feature is mentioned – quickwoods who are using their ability to peer through nearby oaks twist the oak’s bark with a human-like face, much like their own – and that’s the kind of colorful ability that deserves a place at the table.

Striking a deal with a quickwood, a group of orc bandits, clad in gruesome masks, moves through the stand of red oaks with little fear. Until it comes time to live up to their end of the bargain, that is. They offer up a toll of human and elven flesh – first generation half-elves are a special prize – but the orcs are careful to pay attention to the subtle signs of extra-planar influence within the blood. The one time their former chief mistakenly offered a tiefling, the quickwood tore the leader’s head off with its teeth, spitting out the mask and pointedly demanding the orcs’ new leader wear the same mask or suffer the same fate.

Though several of the forests within Yeimura are known as the domain of bandits and poachers, the eastern reaches of the Yarwood see little enough of either one. Though the quickwood known as Bramblemaw long ago swore off eating legal travelers – ones accompanied by one of the druidic adepts or forest gnomes – the plant is permitted to eat any criminal it encounters, seeing them as a socially acceptable source of meat. Particularly heinous crimes are sometimes punished by being sentenced to Bramblemaw’s larder, a fate that inspires many to desperate flight.

Known as a place of beasts and witches, the Rastatian Forest is a place even the bold and the desperate only venture into by necessity. An isolated stretch of fog-shrouded woodland in a remote valley, the forest is the dominion of a quickwood dread lord. The great tree’s hungers and appetites for flesh has warped the woodland it inhabits into a spectacle of fear, with savage beasts who drag captives before their master before they dispose of the body pars left inside. At least two hag covens have made their home within the Rastatian at different time, offering a tithe of their victims to its master.

- Tome of Horrors Complete 498 and Bestiary 2 228

[cawfulkiller-blog]

Dark Magic & Curses Meta

Hey, it’s ya boy, here’s all my headcanons regarding dark magic and curses.  I have more headcanons as it applies to other games (specifically Tellius and Magvel) but in this post I’ll only be discussing it as far as Awakening and Plegia is concerned, as is applicable to dear Henry here :)

This got way longer than I was expecting, so here’s the order I talk about things broadly: 

Curses

Anima

Dark Magic

Dark Magic & Plegia/Grima

Curses.

The first magic that was widely used by people was curses.  Curses, as a method, uses a very primal source of energy and is derived from the earth itself to help make it work.  Other things are used to help direct and shape the curse, typically, because drawing in more outside product (reagents, sacrifices, etc) increases potency and puts less of a stress on the caster to compensate for.  Above all, it needs a very fine concentration, however, and it’s not without its draw-backs.

The caster first needs to have a direct link from the curse to the target.  Not having a link will cause the greatest stress on the caster to the point where most curses become nigh impossible.  This link, however, can be established with the target’s full, true name, or something of great value to the target.  Different objects will increase potency too.  For example, you would be able to easily curse some one with a beloved memento of theirs, because they’ve put so much emotional stock in it, but it wouldn’t work as well as something physically connected to them, like a bit of their blood or a lock of hair.  The physical connection increases the potency, because cursing is such a primal form of magic.  Having more than one focal point can also increase potency; having both the memento and a lock of hair will focus the curse better than one without the other.

The target, depending on how they were trained (ie: if they also know curses) can potentially overcome a hex through sheer willpower alone, and if they’re tenacious enough, can avoid being hexed without even knowing it.  The end-goal of a curse determines how hard it is to avoid, alongside the caster’s willpower.  (See: Henry & Sully’s supports)

Cursing becomes exponentially easier with the aid of reagents.  Different items hold different magical stock and influence different effects, but it becomes easier for the caster to focus their will through the objects than to just focus on their intended effect.  Sacrificing a life into the mix greatly reduces the energy the caster must put forth, so even difficult curses can be easier if something is killed in its preparation.  All cursing has some effect on the caster’s body itself, from fatigue to physical injury, but with an extra life thrown into the mix, the caster doesn’t have to do nearly as much work.

Deflecting curses is something any hexer knows how to do, to some extent.  Being able to throw one off requires only a combination of cursing knowledge and willpower.  Likewise, cursing some one who is also skilled in cursing is much more difficult than some one who isn’t, and requires more stress and concentration from the caster.

All cursing is based in concentration.  A curse cannot be cast without an intensely focused mind, even if it’s a simple curse to cast.  However, any one is capable of cursing, whether or not they have an aptitude for magic.  To this extent, it’s versatility and accessibility means it’s common in Plegia, to the point where slinging harmless curses at each other for fun is almost like a parlor game.

In the end, though, the wild nature of cursing often leaves the caster with physical evidence, and the harsher the curse, the harsher the toll on the curser’s body.  Henry says in the Future Past DLC to Brady that he’s got rashes from cursing, but implies that “measly” curses wouldn’t do such a thing.

Anima.

Anima magic (Wind, Fire, Thunder, etc) was the second magic to be derived from curses.  It’s a step refined past dark magic, and is more accessible because it’s typically easier to read.  The feelings and control required for anima magic are less extreme than dark magic, so people who are incapable of dark magic can still wield it.  This is why (at least in Awakening) all dark mages can use anima, but not all anima mages can use dark magic.  One might argue that in previous time periods dark magic was much more difficult to study (in that the information just wasn’t as readily available) so those that chose to study it, did so strictly, until they were confident enough with their command of dark magic to start using anima.

Obviously in Plegia, dark magic and anima magic are studied and taught together, because Plegia does not consider any taboo or stigma attached to dark magic.

Dark.

Dark magic is somewhere between anima and curses when it comes to being refined.  It uses the same primal energies that curses draw from, but uses a tome and writing to help focus intent and will into something far less reliant on the caster’s abilities.  Despite this, dark magic is capable without a tome, unlike anima magic, but it puts such a strain on the caster and requires such concentration and emotion put behind it that in most cases it isn’t worth bothering, and a tome is just logically the best recourse.  That’s why those versed in dark magic have an easier time cursing and vice versa, but those who were trained only in anima magic do not have as easy a time switching to dark magic.

The reason is this: just as cursing needs a specific intent to create whichever curse, and that curse is shaped by that intent, dark magic, as a weapon, requires the caster to be absolutely okay with hurting, maiming or killing.  It doesn’t matter how they’ve come to terms with it, but deep down, if the mage wishes there was a better option, the dark magic will not work for them.  This is why other characters (Libra, Miriel, Cordelia) have access to dark magic despite not starting/being trained in it, and why some magic users (Maribelle, Ricken) have no aptitude for it.

Coincidentally, the two units that do start with dark magic don’t have access to other magic classes.  Being trained mainly in dark magic, you could argue Henry and Tharja are most ‘comfortable’ with that dark intent out of every one and aren’t able to access other classes that are capable of healing magic.  From there, it makes sense that at least in Awakening’s world, the drive and power necessary to use a heal staff is at odds with dark magic, and while those who are innately capable of healing (Libra) can also access dark magic, it’s harder to go in the opposite way, and hold value for human life when you were raised thinking there isn’t any.

Because of the underlying intent behind dark magic, using dark magic either alters or makes the mage aware of things they weren’t before.  Ricken says as much when Henry tries to teach him -- that it makes him feel depressed.  With dark magic comes the sense that dealing death is natural, that every one is going to die sometime, and that every single person is as insignificant on this planet as an ant.  (This ties into Plegian religion.)

This sense of nihilism isn’t necessarily what makes dark mages go insane (though it’s a well spread story that those who study dark magic will), but the different coping mechanisms people take to deal with this in the face of a time that doesn’t actually know there’s more to the universe than this single planet, and that the sun is a place just as much as a celestial body, attributes to it.  Henry and Tharja cope in different ways, by far, but they were both raised with a nihilistic ideology that seems strange to Ylisseans who were not.

With Plegia & Grima.

This is where dark magic caters directly to the Grimleal faith.  The Grimleal believe that Grima will destroy the planet and every one they love and hold dear.  This is a fact -- there’s no “maybe” to it.  Different beliefs within the Grimleal hold that the world will be recreated afterwards, or that the people who are destroyed in the apocalypse will ascend to some kind of paradise-afterlife, but these vary in regions and none are specifically endorsed by the main Grimleal leaders.  In essence, the Grimleal perform rituals, sacrifices, and ritual-sacrifices to appease Grima not to hold off the detonation clock, but to gain favor.

What does favor get you?  Favor means that you die first.  

Grima is said to be a sadistic god, and when He comes in all his eldritch glory, he won’t just destroy the world right out, but rather plague the earth with drought and disease, poison the water supplies with pestilence, and laugh as the last of humanity’s few wither away in foxholes from starvation or wretched boils.

Favor means that Grima kills you first, and you don’t have to suffer through such atrocities the apocalypse brings.  By offering up yourself, you don’t have to watch your friends and family die around you, and your suffering ends long before the suffering ceases completely.  In that, the Grimleal believe that their Heirophant is Grima’s favorite, as that is the vessel given to Grima, and in a way Robin was killed by Grima first because they had all of his favor.

Because of the rest of the world’s disdain for dark magic, the depression and nihilism it forces on its practitioners, and the sheer power it allows them to command, it was easily placed high on a pedestal of being an aspect of Grima’s power itself, and readily adopted into the cult.  Over time this has translated to those trained in dark magic as being thought of as more valuable than those who can’t use it.

Because Plegia is a theocracy, and every citizen is automatically considered Grimleal, dark magic is so common that every one knows it, or knows some one who does.  There are spoken tales that say dark magic will make people go insane or die early deaths, even in Plegia (though they’re much more commonly told elsewhere, where dark magic is still considered evil in a sense), these are based in, as I said before, the nihilism it imposes on a caster, and that it’s much harder to control than anima, and deadlier in it’s effect than cursing.  Many dark mages have killed themselves accidentally through experiments, duels with others, or through the Grimleal faith, and such coincidence with dark magic has attached an early death to its side effects.

[wildchildalr]

Dark!Cinderlla

A rich man's wife became sick, and when she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, "Dear child, remain true to our ways, and then our dark lord will always protect you, and I will know and guide you as your powers grow." With this she closed her eyes and died.

The girl shed no tears for her dead mother, she simply poured over the old worn tomes left behind. For the rich man had unwittingly married a witch, and their daughter had been taught her dark arts.

When winter came the snow spread a white cloth over the grave of the dead witch, and when the spring sun had removed it again, the man took himself another wife.

This wife brought two daughters into the house with her. They were beautiful, with fair faces, and kind, tender hearts to match. Not long after the man died and times soon grew very bad for the new family members.

It began simply, with the two step-daughters becoming short-tempered and out of sorts. Their mother simply reasoned that the adjustment to their new home and family was taking a toll. But the episodes became more frequent with the girls acting spoiled and at times even cruel. Eventually the two girl’s looks started to change as well, their beauty giving way to plainness, their grace and wit being replaced by clumsiness and ineptitude.

The daughter however became more beautiful with each passing day, and she became as lithe and clever as her step-sisters were commonplace and idle.

The step-mother, fearing some dark misdeed searched her step-daughter’s things and found the spell books left behind by the first wife. Hoping to rid the young woman of her wickedness the wife took away her fine dresses, dressed her in an old grey smock and wooden shoes and moved her to the kitchens, devoting her life to one of hard work and quiet reflection. This drastic change did little to affect her and the step-sisters continued to grow worse, now mocking the girl and calling her “Cinderella”.

Now it happened that the king proclaimed a ball for the entire kingdom. All the beautiful young girls in the land were invited, so that his son could select a bride for himself. When the two stepsisters heard that they too had been invited, they were in high spirits.

They called Cinderella, saying, "Comb our hair for us. Brush our shoes and fasten our buckles. We are going to the ball at the king's castle."

Cinderella did as commanded without comment or complaint.  

The night of the ball the step-mother happened upon a dress and shoes Cinderella had hidden. Realizing Cinderella intended to attend the ball the step-mother feared she would cast a spell on the prince, causing him to choose her as his bride, and then the whole kingdom would be at her mercy. 

Throwing the dress and shoes into the fire the step-mother forbid Cinderella from going to the ball. But no sooner had they left before the girl summoned a dark fairy and bid her to provide a way to make it to the palace. Working quickly the fairy called six rats from the cellar and transformed them into a team of large black stallions. Next she turned a pair of bats into footmen and a crow into a coachman. The carriage she fashioned from a discarded birdcage from the rubbish heap. Lastly the fairy turned her attention to Cinderella's rags. With a wave of her hand the fairy crafted the ashes of the burnt dress into a breathtaking ball gown. Before sending her off the fairy warned Cinderella that despite the power of her magic, the spell would only last until midnight.  

Despite this Cinderella is unperturbed and eagerly makes for the palace. When she arrives the guests stop and stare at her beauty, many whispering in wonder of who this mysterious princess could be. The prince requests her partnership in the next dance and the one after. The step-mother is unable to recognize Cinderella in her finery until the young woman smiled. It is cold and calculated never reaching her eyes. Beside herself with fear the step-mother knows she cannot have the girl escorted out without causing a scene.

So she watches helpless as the prince continues to fall helplessly in love with Cinderella over the course of the evening. However as the clock begins to strike midnight Cinderella flees the ballroom, but in her escape she purposely leaves one of her shoes crafted of obsidian and silver behind for the prince to find.

As the prince’s search for his missing bride commences the step-mother tries to steal the other shoe from Cinderella but the girl catches her and threatens the woman’s daughters with a curse of slow painful death. And so she allows Cinderella to keep the slipper and await her prince.

However Cinderella was not done toying with her step-family. When the prince arrived she allowed her step-sisters to try on the shoe before her. The first, in desperation for the gowns and jewels promised from becoming royalty, cut off her toe in order to fit into the tiny shoe. The prince discovered her falsehood after arriving at the castle when servants found blood in the shoe after trying to remove it. The same happened to the other sister, though she removed her heel. After the return of the second sister Cinderella revealed herself to the prince and produced the matching slipper, daintily sliding her foot into the shoe still coated in her step-sister’s blood.

As the prince and Cinderella rode away to be married at the palace the step-mother fell to her knees at the base of a hickory tree her late husband had planted to commemorate their marriage and begged for a way to defeat the evil witch. The woman’s prayers were answered in the form of a great storm that appeared out of nowhere. The flashing lightning and deafening thunder frightened the prince’s horse and in it’s fright it through Cinderella from it’s back into the churning river the procession was passing over.

With the witch’s last breath all of her magic was undone. The sisters were restored to their beautiful compassionate selves and their feet were healed and whole once more. After packing a few belongings the three left the house behind leaving their sorrows behind like discarded ashes.

[ecotone99]

(AA) All Men Must Fall

The patter of rain echoed against 5,000 helmets, as thunder echoed overhead. It sounded as though the gods themselves had begun to bang their own war drums to match Lord Halsbury’s own. Grey skies stretched as far as the eye could see, so dense were the clouds that Sir Richard could scarcely believe the sun still existed. None of this was new to him. He’d survived a dozen battles before, slogging through forests and fields and mountains for years to further his Lords cause.

A dozen battles. A dozen times that he had stood in the calm before the storm wondering whether this would be his last day on earth, whether he would ever see his beloved again. The men he had killed still lingered on the edge of his memory, their faces like remnants of a terrible dream. However much their faces faded the memories remained. How could he forget the smell of dead men? Of blood and piss and shit and all the other indecencies death imparts on a human body. How could he forget the sounds of a thousand dying men screaming for their mothers, their wives, their children? How could he forget the overwhelming sense of relief, at realising he would get to see his darling Maggie again? How he would get to kiss the back of her neck and rub his hands through her hair. How he would get to hold his darling children in his arms at least once more. No, none of this was new to Sir Richard, but familiarity did not breed enjoyment.

Sir Richard despised war. He loathed fighting for another mans gain. Oh he understood why he must, for he had sworn a sacred oath and he could not go back on his word. But as his Lord won each battle, so his ambition had grown. At first he had been satisfied with securing rule within his own lands. Those battles had been easy, fighting against farm boys armed with pots and pikes. The damned fool boys fought themselves rebels, heroes like in all the folk songs. Sure as day they did not envisage they would die, staring up from the mud at Sir Richard’s demon helm, crying for mercy. But once his own rule was secure, Lord Halsbury’s greedy eyes turned north, to other more bountiful lands. And as he gained more with each victory Lord Halsbury craved more and more. And with every battle Sir Richard lost a little piece of himself.

This battle would be different, Sir Richard could tell just by looking across the field. In battles past Lord Halsbury’s army had always had the numerical advantage, easily outstripping their enemies forces. However finally after many defeats the other Lords had wised up, combining their armies to create a force twice the size of Lord Halsbury’s. Sir Richard had warned against the upcoming engagement. Standing around the map in his Lordships tent Sir Richard had again and again repeated his worries. The enemy numbers are too great. The muddy terrain would work in their enemies favour as the Lordships cavalry charge would be slowed. But no, Halsbury would not listen. His mind was set on glories and riches, poisoned with desire for power and money. The battle would go ahead, despite all Sir Richard’s misgivings, and it would be the men who would suffer for it. Sir Richard looked across their sea of faces now. Grim battle hardened men stared across the field, grey eyes set against their enemy, hiding the inevitable fear coursing through their veins. The younger, greener troops stared with terror, not even trying to conceal the panic they felt. At least the rain was doing a good job of covering up the urine pouring down their legs. How many of these men wouldn’t get to go home. Too many this time, Sir Richard thought. His mind slipped back to a song he heard when he was a boy:

To battle we march, banners wave in the breeze

In churches and chapels, mothers make their pleas

As the trumpets blare, and the drums beat their tune

The mothers do cry, bring our brave boys home soon

Green boys laugh and they joke, to them wars a game

Those that come back, they’re never the same

Those who’ve fought before, stand silent and grim

So tired they’ve become, of killing at their lords whim

But march forward they do, for honour and duty

Killing has lots it’s luster, war lost it’s beauty

They leave their loved ones, answer their lords call

For duty comes first, and all men must fall

The battle does rage, with man killing man

The foolish boys fought, the smarter of them ran

The lord sends them forth, with barely a whim

These boys are just peasants, their lives mean nothing to him

And as the flames burn, across the fields of death

Soldiers rise and they fall, drawing their last breath

Men cry and shout, beg for mercy with fear

No matter what singers say, there is no glory here

But victory is ours, and so our sons will return

Victory is not as it seems, as the mothers soon learn

And the bells they did toll, for the men as they came

Though their bodies returned, their minds weren’t the same

As the scholars did write, of the wars in their tomes

The wives mourned their lovers, and went back to empty homes

To what end do we fight, for who stands to gain

As our men lay there dying, screaming curses to the rain

But what do our lords care, as they send men to die

Riches and power, with peasant lives they do buy

They can sit fretting not, in their golden lavish hall

For what does it matter, as all men must fall

The crackle of lightning awoke Sir Richard from his thoughts, as the drums of war began to beat a faster pace. As if in answer the thrum of thunder echoed overhead, creating a deafening symphony, being orchestrated by death herself. The lines were being set, battle must be near he thought. He lowered the visor of his demon helm, reducing his vision to naught but the two scowling eye holes in his helm. This armour was crafted to instil terror in his enemies. The red demon he was known as, his armour blood red with ornate carvings. Swirling lines depicting flames spread across his breastplate while skulls adorned the plates on his shoulders. Standing at 6 foot 7, when full adorned in his plate and mail there was no more fearsome sight than Sir Richard Moore. However at past forty now his speed and power were not what they once were. His thick black hair was now streaked with grey and when he woke in the mornings his body was racked with new aches and pains. Still, his enemies need not know that. To them he was still the red demon, killer of hundreds of men, hero of the battle of Belgrave Mill.

AHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The horns sounded as the cavalry thundered past Sir Richard, lances gleaming like silver spires reaching up the sky. Five hundred strong the horsemen of Lord Halsbury charged onto the muddy, rain soaked field. Sir Richard heard the sound of the enemy bows long before he spotted the cloud of arrows against the grey backdrop. Arrows fell like hailstones amongst the horsemen and in a matter of moments the sound of rain and thunder was accompanied by the screams and screeches of dying horses and men. Another volley of arrows appeared in the sky and fell amongst the cavalry charge, and then another as the horsemen slowed, struggling to charge up the muddy hill toward the enemy.

Sir Richard knew the charge was in trouble, even from here he could see the horses were being to flag. He looked to the reserve forces, behind the main infantry unit where Lord Halsbury sat atop his black horse observing the battle in front of him. If the cavalry charge failed, Sir Richard and the rest of the left flank would be next. The left flank was all horse, but mostly lightly armoured with very few knights among them. There was a time when Sir Richard would have taken it for an insult to be placed here, on the outskirts of the battle, but he was past such petty attacks on his standing, all that mattered today was survival.

The cavalry was almost at a stand still now, with a trail of horses and men downed across the field. Those left on their feet were being rained on with flights of arrows. He heard the horns across the field as the enemy infantry began to move in, toward the struggling horsemen. Even a man as delusional as Lord Halsbury could see that the battle was already in trouble and so with a wave of his hand he gave the signal. It was time for Sir Richard to join the fray. To the sound of a dozen warhorns, the soldiers moved forward. Slowly at first, a methodical pace to ensure they kept their formation. To his right Sir Richard could see the infantry begin their march toward the enemy. It appeared his Lordship was throwing everything he had into the fray.

Quicker and quicker the horses galloped. Ahead of him Sir Richard could see the wall of enemy shields. At this distance he couldn’t make out the sigils, but he could see the colours. The red of Lord Fanton and the green of Lord Towers dominated the shield wall, with pepperings of purple and white dotted about. At two hundred yards out the arrows began to rain down upon them, but at this stage the horses were at full charge, the lighter armour working to their favour on the slippery terrain. He saw men fall to his left and right but Sir Richard continued forward, he could see the faces underneath the helms from this distance, could see the fear and doubt wracking the faces of the spearmen when faced with the charge of cavalry. From within the shields spears protruded creating a porcupine comprised of wood and iron. Fifty yards out, Sir Richard braced himself, for he knew what was coming next. He always hated this part.

CRASH

Flesh and metal collided as the horsemen crashed into the already crumbling shieldwall. Men were thrown from horses and bodies trampled beneath hooves as the cavalry charged full speed into the waiting spears. The front few lines of enemy men were flattened or tried to flee as Sir Richard lay into them with his longsword. Left and right he hacked at them, carving off a spearmens arm at the elbow and then driving his sword through the helm of another. An arm reached up to drag him from his saddle and he hacked the hand off, sending the man screeching to the floor, his face a mixture of terror and anguish. More men came at him, thrusting spears into his horses sternum. The cry of his poor horse was worse than any sound he had heard that day, and with four spears lodged deep in it’s belly Sir Richard horse came crashing to the ground.

Sir Richard leapt to his feet slashing around him. The shieldwall had completely broken now and the battle had devolved to a myriad of individual battles, where men fought one on one for survival. Sir Richard moved through the field. The first man to come at him thrust at him with a spear, Sir Richard parried and drove his sword through the mans stomach, the poor fool hadn’t even been given chainmail. The next man was covered in plate mail, a knight by the look of him, Sir Richard swung low, trying to cut the mans legs from under him but he blocked with his shield and sent his own sword careening toward Sir Richard’s head. Sir Richard ducked and drove his sword up toward the knights chest, but the blade scraped across the plate metal. The two men traded blows for what felt like forever, with chaos raging all around them. As the knight pressed the attack Sir Richard began to tire. In his youth he would have cut this man to pieces with speed and strength, but now his arm was tiring. The knight drove Sir Richard to one knee, continuing to rain blows down upon him. As the knight raised his sword for another attack he slipped on the mud, the rain and blood and carnage creating a slippery cesspit. The knight went crashing to the floor and Sir Richard took his opportunity, he jumped up and drove his sword straight through the mans gorget with all of his strength behind it. Blood bubbled up through the mans visor as he gasped for air that couldn’t reach his lungs. With one last shudder the knight lay still.

With no time to rest Sir Richard pressed forward. Again and again men came at him, seeking to end his life. Again and again they were cut down or sent running. An archer jabbed at Sir Richard with an arrow, his thrust was brushed aside and Sir Richard’s sword slashed across his face. Another knight on horseback wielding a Morningstar charged at him. Sir Richard rolled out of the way and grabbed a shield that lay abandoned on the floor, it’s owner lay dying just inches away. The knight circled around Sir Richard, hammering down on upon his shield with the Morningstar. Richard waited patiently for his opening, he’d fought enough horsemen to know not to expose your defence too early. As the horsemen turned for another attack Richard saw his chance, he charged the horse, driving his sword into it’s side and horse and knight alike tumbled to the ground. As Richard rose he heard a weakened cry, “Mercy. Mercy. I surrender”. The knight’s leg was trapped beneath the dead horse, twisted beyond all recognition. He waved a token of surrender, a small cloth with his coat of arms on it spotted with blood. “Mercy Sir please. I surrender”. Sir Richard took the offering and moved on.

Around him men were dead and dying, the familiar smell of blood and shit was rife in the air, accompanied with the moans and battle cries of 10,000 men, each fighting their own battle for survival. He could see his troops struggling, the sheer numerical disadvantage slowly beginning to take it’s toll. Sir Richard always knew a commanders greatest strength was his voice and he had always been blessed in this regard. “Soldiers to me! Move forward! To glory and victory, forwaaard!” His cry boomed across the field and his men rallied to him, cutting foes down with a renewed frenzy. Up ahead he could see the enemy leaders, sitting atop their coursers, surrounded by their honour guard. If he could just strike them down, the enemy would break and retreat Sir Richard knew.

With a primal scream and a swing of his sword Sir Richard willed his troops forward. Onwards they charged deeper and deeper into the enemy lines, hacking and carving their way through their foes, engulfed in a blood lust that seemed to slow time itself. Sir Richard had felt this before, the battle sight, where time itself seemed to slow as the fighting raged around him. No matter who came at him, he parried and slashed, cutting down men and sending others fleeing. The flames leapt around him and bodies fell, splashing into the mud only to be trampled on moments later by friend and foe alike. This was the dance, the bloody brutal dance that he had trained for, that he had lived for the best part of his adult life.

He was so close now, less than 20 yards away from his goal. Their helmets gleamed as a few rays of sun snuck through the clouds, as if guiding him to his target. If he could just get there, this would all be over, he could save these men so they might go home to see their families. The first of the honour guard charged him and Sir Richard drove his sword with unmatched ferocity down on the soldiers helm, driving steel through iron, skin and bone. He yanked his sword free and plunged it into the neck of another, who was busy fighting someone else. There were only a couple of soldiers between him and his goal, he was going to do it, he was so close, for the first time in the battle Sir Richard had hope.

And then pain, blinding sickening pain overtook him. A spear drove into the back of his knee, driving him to the ground. In absolute agony Richard turned, bringing his sword round in a deadly arc slicing through his assailant’s ankle and parting leg from foot. His attacker fell screaming to the dirt allowing Richard to pull the spear out from his leg causing a fresh wave of agony to wash over him. So close, he knew, he couldn’t give up now, not when he was so close. With a grit of his teeth he forced himself to his feet, just in time to parry a blow aside and drive his mailed fist into the exposed face of his opponent, again and again Richard hit the man until all consciousness had left him and then threw him aside. He could see the Lords faces now, panic in their eyes as they realised that death was approaching. Only one man stood between Richard and his goal, one man between him and the end of this bloody war.

His arms ached, his leg was wracked with pain, barely able to support his weight anymore, his vision a blur of mud, sweat and blood but ever the soldier Sir Richard drew himself up ready for one more fight. “Are you ready to die, old man?” his opponent taunted. Even under his golden visor Sir Richard could tell the man was smirking with an arrogance that only came through youth and training. Sir Richard didn’t deign to respond with words, instead he answered with steel launching a ferocious attack. High, low, high again he slashed, driving his foe backwards, his leg all but forgotten in the heat of the battle he attacked with the desperation of a man who had everything at stake. Again and again he launched his sword at the man with the force of a ballista, but the man was skilled and parried each stroke, turning it aside and keeping his feet. Relentlessly Sir Richard continued the assault, he parried a counterstroke and swung at the mans head, connecting with a savage blow that sent him staggering off balance. Richard saw his chance he lunged at the man with everything he had, his blade bearing straight for the mans exposed armpit.

But he had misjudged, putting too much weight on his injured leg and Sir Richard’s aim was not true, missing his mark and scraping harmlessly off the mans breastplate, and with that Sir Richard fell forward into the dirt. As he rolled over discarding his helmet to the mud, exhaustion taking over he looked up to see the golden visor staring down at him. The man lifted his visor to reveal a face no more than twenty five years old, with eyes as green as emeralds and the arrogant smirk Sir Richard had known would be there. “Nothing personal” the man said and with that he drove his sword deep into Sir Richards side.

The rain felt good on his face, it’s soft drops tickled his face as he lay there drawing what ragged breaths he could. He could hear the horns of surrender and the realisation took him that finally, after all these years Lord Halsbury’s greed had taken it’s toll. The bell had come a due for Lord Halsbury and his ambition. As he lay there in the mud dying, his vision slowly fading, Sir Richard’s thoughts turned to his family, to his wife who even now would be fussing over dinner for the children, to his three young ones who he would never get to see grow up. Even now, with pain wracking his body a small smile crept to his face as he thought again of the day he first laid eyes upon his wife, even now he could remember her beauty, the playful glint in her eyes, the soft feel of her hair and the way she smiled as she looked up at him. As his eyes closed he thought once more of the song of his childhood:

For what does it matter, as all men must fall

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