#thread necromancy

[theautumnpicker]

@mystraguideme

It's his, by any rights. They'd taken an awfully long detour to find the book in the first place, and then it had been Astarion himself who had been sent to collect it, to carefully sever the connection between the pressure plate and the statues around it. Yet for all his effort— not to mention his very polite request— it was Gale who was rewarded with the treasure. And for what? It's undoubtedly just another bauble to him, the ravenous, power-mad fool.

Not that Astarion can really fault his ambition.

Of course, he showed no outward sign of his irritation. That wouldn't win him any points with their leader. Besides, he still had options. He meant to wait until they were at camp and swipe the thing while the others were eating. He even pitched his tent next to Gale's that night, watching the wizard closely as he set up all his worldly goods. Yet Gale seemed to keep the book with him, as if it were a bit of light reading he wanted to settle down with on a full belly.

So, giving up on his first plan, Asterion joined the group at supper after all, smiling and joking to disguise his poor appetite for the sort of food they have to offer. He went to bed directly afterwards, but he can't sleep, whether or not he wants to. Thoughts of the book invade his mind, almost calling out to him with the power it has to offer him. There has to be something in the pages of that tome that he can use against Cazador, or even just use for himself. Something to make his condition permanent, beyond the grace of these damned tadpoles that everyone else seems in such a rush to remove. He imagines returning home to his old master, telling him what he'd discovered and promising to share the secret— for surely even Cazador would envy his power now— only to watch him burn and writhe in the sun.

That does it. He is getting that damned book.

Astarion sits up and raises the flap of his tent, peering out and seeing to his satisfaction that all the others are asleep, or at the very least in their little beds, oblivious to all the world. He half crawls outside, keeping low to the ground in a prowl, as he steals over to Gale's tent and listens outside, ceasing to breathe as he listens for the sounds of the wizard's own breathing inside. He feels hungry suddenly, but whether he hungers for the knowledge close at hand or for the blood he can smell under Gale's skin as he stalks his quarry is hard to say.

The hunger makes him impatient. Astarion doesn't wait until he can hear that breathing slow, until he's sure Gale is fast asleep. Instead, he enters quickly and quietly, not even looking at the wizard at first as he scans the entirety of his surroundings in rapid search for his heart's desire. Even if the book remains on Gale's person now, Astarion fully intends to take it for his own.

[urlocalwhumper]

necromancer whumper puppeting a now undead whumpee's body and forcing them to fight their friends.

whumpee is still fully conscious, fully aware of everything their body is doing, but powerless to stop it.

and there's so much pain, their body is still torn apart from the injuries that killed them, only kept moving by whumper's magic.

every movement is agony, blood dribbles from their lips and stains the ground where they step. they just want it all to stop. dying was painful and scary, but this is so much worse.

and then there's whumpee's friends, forced to face off against their friend's mangled corpse, with whumpee clearly still in there. it would've been different if they were only fighting a shell, something that looked like whumpee but wasn't really them, but whumper elected to resurrect whumpee's mind along with their body, if only to torment everyone involved just a little more.

and when whumper finally releases their control, either to flee or because they've been defeated, whumpee's eyes roll back and they slump lifelessly to the ground. a puppet with its strings cut.

[idolsummons]

reminder that hana has an interest and happily dabbles in necromancy

[mostmagicals]

@curamorte requested Eirian

"Well, I'm gonna force you to believe but what I'm saying is true." Eirian shrugged, casually taking one of the candies on the bowl before popping into his mouth, seemed like he was getting used to people showing disbelief on the wishing star's existence, giving Lou a small, polite smile, "So, how do you do this... necromancy thing? I don't think I've heard it before."

[fshoulders]

Thought I didn't have anything to add here, but then I pondered. I do have something to add about "what I assume my teachers were trying to teach me with the classics".

I'm not a secondary school English teacher, but I've played one in the past: I used to substitute-teach English at the private high school where I myself matriculated around the time of Jurassic Park. I've taught classes on Great Expectations, Jane Eyre, Henry IV Part...mumble, the Iliad, the Ramayana, Their Eyes Were Watching God (if you didn't get taught that as a classic, go enjoy it now, oh my word).... Lots of stuff. And one time, I taught a class on why we take English class.

It was at the end of my first and longest stint as a substitute, when the head of the English department had broken her arm in twelventy places so I ended up teaching 3 or 4 sections of Junior English for several weeks. We'd started and finished Their Eyes Were Watching God, and moved on to something else, and by then I knew I loved these kids. Which was a shock: when I was their age, I was a misanthropic little paladin and did not like most of my peers. But high school juniors (16-17 years old) are whip-smart, but not yet cocky with it like seniors. They like to have fun, but they're easier to get to quiet down and think seriously than sophomores. However, after those weeks, I felt like even the kids who were best at English class -- who did the reading and raised their hands and weren't afraid to make wild, beautiful connections -- didn't really know why they were there.

So I asked their Regular Teacher if I could take one class period in each class and just do a group discusssion about what English class is for. Because the vibe I was getting off them was 'so I have English grades to use to get into college with'. I had 'em write down their answers anonymously to "What is English Class For?"

They handed their answers in, and I read 'em out. And we talked about their answers, and then we talked about my answers. They had some answers I hadn't thought of. And some of my own answers I didn't have to bring up, because that class already had! A lot of them knew they needed to learn to write well, for instance. We talked about the different kind of things they might want to write besides college essays and eventual job 'deliverables'. (I seem to recall telling them that even if they never wanted to try to write original fiction, that didn't mean cribbing techniques off the 'masters' couldn't make their fanfic better. I know I am a dork, but they laughed!) Some of them talked about a sort of cultural acquisition: getting to know exactly the sort of 'great books' and liberal arts touchstones that were getting beaten up in those screenshots at the top of the thread.

But I think maybe one kid in one of the classes, if that, wrote down the thing I really wanted them to take with 'em out of English class -- English class teaches you how to read more skillfully.

And some of the texts they practice reading on are texts they wouldn't have chosen, which makes them surly. (It sure made me surly in middle and high school.) Some of them are difficult to read. But reading is a skill, like any other. Even if they hadn't wanted to read Jane Eyre, or A River Runs Through It, or Elizabeth Bishop's poetry, or Toni Cade Bambara's short fiction, they could use those texts to improve their facility to read deeply, closely, and well. Then they could apply that facility to any text they wanted to read. For academic ambition, for pleasure or self-improvement or curiosity, or to keep up with a crush. And much of that skill is even transferable, out of the English language, out of the written word! They could read into and under horror movies, political ads, rap lyrics, art films, video games! They could notice and name the biases in the things they read, or read the context around a story the way this whole beautiful thread above did with Huckleberry Finn.

Reading deeply and critically is an underrated skill. We don't talk about it enough, we don't practice it enough, and maybe we don't even know when we're supposed to be learning it. Maybe the screenshotted people had terrible teachers who never made it clear that art isn't endorsement, that we can read against the past but still understand it, or indeed why they were sitting in that classroom at all. If you don't hand the student a scalpel, maybe this is what you get: a reader who stared at each book like the outside of a frog and took nothing away but the fact it reeked of formaldehyde. Maybe it's just a series of bad jokes!

But come, for Muses' sake let us sit upon the ground, and tell mad stories of why we hate Gatsby's guts. (With supporting evidence from the text.) Tell me whether you think the narrator of Wuthering Heights wants you to approve of Kathy and Heathcliff's relationship, and why you think that! Is he manipulating you to feel a certain way? What language feels manipulative, or engages you more with one character's emotions than another's? What do you think Jim thinks of Huck in this chapter, and why do you think that? Which racism do you think is the character's, and which is the author's? How do you tease that out?

English Class: You can bear that book a grudge for the rest of your life, but learning a lot from it today is the best revenge.

[cupcakesmuses]

@wcnderiing asked from Corinne....

“Mmm. The chicken is good. It’s a nice broth… What do you know about necromancy?”

"Oh thank you it was a recipe--" Timon turned to look at the woman over the campfire, not having expected that sentence to follow up the compliment on his cooking.

"And here you seemed like such the innocent type. What do you know about necromancy?"

It wasn't a judgemental question, but curious if not a little amused. What was she curious about? He knew healing, he knew it was bad news to get into raising, not reviving, the dead. Speaking to the dead was different, if needed he could, but... he didn't exactly like it. It was... creepy.

[littjara-mirrorlake]

The Color of Hope: Ambition, Necromancy, and Black Mana

Black is one of the most misunderstood colors in Magic: the Gathering, not least because it appears on the surface to be so straightforward. Look at the most iconic black cards of Magic and you'll see deals with demons, necromancy, mass destruction and cruelty and suffering–the trappings of classic fantasy evil. Even the color's symbol itself is a skull, a universal signifier of death and danger.

And in early Magic that seemed to be all it was. White was the color of Fantasy Good, black was the color of Fantasy Evil, and the rest of the colors were... fire magic? Elves? Whatever odd but intriguing skeleton affairs are implied by Time Walk?

Gradually, though, Magic deepened as both a game and a storytelling medium. The color pie grew into itself as a system of complementary philosophies, archetypes whose associated aesthetics were only part of the full picture. Their arrangement around the wheel, below, is highly deliberate; neighboring colors are said to be allies with a high degree of philosophical and mechanical overlap, while colors on opposite sides of the pie are known as enemies, more likely to disagree on fundamental levels.

Black stopped merely representing capital E Evil and became the color of striving for power; unlike its peers, black felt that nothing, least of all morality, could prevent it from seizing what it wanted. Mark Rosewater's 2015 article about black emphasized the color's focus on the self:

"Black's philosophy is very simple: There's no one better suited to look after your own interests than you... Many costs require the sacrifice of others for your own advancement. Because it puts itself first, black is always willing to make this trade. The weak must fall for the strong to thrive." -Mark Rosewater

At its worst, black is an exploitative, amoral color that prioritizes itself at the expense of all others, allowing the "weak" to fall and scorning the very idea of compassion. Rosewater writes that black is "always willing" to trade others for itself. And these can certainly be parts of black's philosophy, when taken to its worst possible extremes, but they're far from the entire story.

Over time, Magic's outlook on black gained nuance. Magic story introduced protagonists like the necromancer Liliana Vess, whose craving for immortality, seemingly exploitative nature, and demonic deals called back to the oldest portrayals of black–and yet she was not one-dimensionally evil. She underwent character development over the years, learning the value of reclaiming herself and standing beside others, and at no point did she become any less mono-black for it. Remember her; we will come back to Liliana and her story later.

In addition to the usual death and decay, black cards began to feature a theme of relentless devotion. On the plane of Eldraine where each color represents a virtue, black's is persistence, explicitly as important as any other color. On the plane of Ikoria, the love between bonder and beast pulls Winota back from the brink of death. Wherever this Oathsworn Vampire printing is set, its flavor text is quintessentially black. It's the same self-driven attitude as before, but cast in a different light: black is nothing if not persistent when it's got its heart set on something (or someone) it cares about. Nothing, least of all the grave, will keep it down. After all, black will always come back for its own.

These newer cards uncovered the true face of black as a color capable of both great love and harm (sometimes even the latter for the sake of the former), and suggested a tantalizing new thread: perhaps putting yourself and yours first isn't all that bad, necessarily. Black is a deeply protective color; it says you don't just have to accept what you're handed, it's okay even to be furious about it (hello, ally color red), but let that galvanize you to do something about it. 

Vraska, a gorgon who faces extreme discrimination on her home plane of Ravnica, triumphs by reclaiming herself, gorgon powers and all–and even more radically, loving herself. She displays traits often considered the purview of white and green, such as a love of home and a drive to elevate the oppressed, but they are all filtered through the lens of her black alignment. Vraska staunchly refuses to deny herself or her people, the Golgari Swarm, of their value. Nor does she allow law or propriety to prevent her from championing them by any means necessary–even if that means cold-blooded murder, or aligning herself with a villain like the Planeswalker Nicol Bolas.

"[Vraska] thought of Mazirek, of the kraul, of the rest of the Ochran assassins and the malignant Jarad who reigned with casual ruin over the most downtrodden of the downtrodden. She remembered her years of isolation, and the heinous cruelty of the Azorius, and how no group deserved to suffer as much as those who would subjugate her own. Eliminating that hell was all she ever wanted." -The Talented Captain Vraska, Alison Luhrs

Like Vraska, black loves fierce and hard, willing to break any taboo for the sake of those it cares about. And it whispers, the entire way through, you are enough. You deserve better. No matter what others may say or do, you are enough.

"If I am to be met with disrespect, then I must first love myself with a fierceness no fool can take away." -Vraska in Pride of the Kraul, Alison Luhrs

Even black's "ruthlessness" isn't as fundamentally cruel as it appears, centering a passion for problem-solving (shared by its other ally blue) instead of a blunt disregard for others.

"People don’t understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.' It’s not about being mean. It’s about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. It’s about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it." -K. A. Applegate

All of this comes together to make a black a color not of evil but of strength, integrity, and persistence. And that's all well and good, but I'm going to take it even further and put forward a new proposition: that black is the color of hope.

Of the nine mono-black Magic cards with "hope" in their names, all but Liliana portray black as an instrument of hope's destruction. This is, once again, black's flaw taken to its extreme–crushing others to achieve its own ends–but neglects black's own relationship with hope.

Black, more than any other color, requires hope to stay alive.

For black to persist, it must believe in a light at the end of the tunnel, a future in which its goals are realized. As long as it does, it will endure any hardship, walk through fire, and turn reality itself upside down on its way there. Primal, desperate ambition is the engine of hope that burns at the heart of black, keeping it always one step ahead of stagnation. Bitter and stubborn, black believes tomorrow will come because there is no other choice. After all, for black to relinquish hope is to let itself wither, regress, and die–an unacceptable outcome. 

Thus, it is monumentally difficult to strip black of hope. That only makes it all the more crushing when it happens, when black contends with the idea that there is nothing it can do.

Black's deepest, darkest fear is helplessness.

Like any mono-black character, Liliana Vess is driven at her core by a seething, desperate hope. When Liliana first unlocks her necromantic power, it is out of a sheer refusal to allow her ill brother Josu to die, even when the esis root that would cure him is destroyed by enemy witches in an undead-raising ritual. She defies her previous training as a healer, which taught her only to take the safe path, in favor of a higher-risk and higher-reward approach: stealing life from the witches themselves to restore power to the esis root she needs. It is her knowledge that her brother needs her, and her sheer stubborn will to succeed, which allows her to defeat the witches against steep odds.

"Six foes, and Liliana stood alone. But Josu's life depended on her, and the power blossoming within her was more than enough." -Liliana's Origin: The Fourth Pact, James Wyatt

Tragically, however, Liliana's attempted cure goes horrifically wrong, transforming Josu into an undead being plagued by eternal suffering. In his pain, Josu attacks Liliana. For a while Liliana holds out hope, finding the power to fight back while she determinedly searches for a spell to reverse the harm she's done. It is when she realizes this isn't possible that her strength falters.

"All this time, she had believed… that she could turn the power of death to the service of life and health. That a healer should use every tool at her disposal. But Josu was the result, a horrible fusion of life and death, and all her spells meant to manipulate the life force of the living could do nothing to harm the dead." -The Fourth Pact

Liliana learns that even her own dark magic, fueled by determination, cannot solve the problem she's created. She discovers the hard limit of her willpower, and the despair of this discovery is what causes her Planeswalker spark to ignite.

At this time Planeswalkers are as gods, immortal and near-omnipotent. Liliana spends decades enjoying this affirmation of her capability before the Mending strips her and all her peers of their power, reducing them once again to mortal mages.

"Then the Multiverse reshaped itself, robbing her—and every other Planeswalker—of the godlike power they once had wielded. Some called it the Mending, as if something broken had been repaired, but to Liliana, it seemed the opposite. It broke her beyond any hope of repair." -The Fourth Pact

Once again, it is Liliana's fear of helplessness and her refusal to accept it that drives her to push beyond the bounds of propriety–this time, to make a pact with Nicol Bolas and four demons to maintain her immortality. It is not enough for her merely to delay death; she requires the security of knowing she is fully beyond its reach, that she will never be helpless before it again as she was with Josu.

"Holding death at arm's length for whatever years are left to me? No, that's not enough. I want to be free of its shadow." -Liliana in The Fourth Pact

Black isn't like its enemy colors white and green, which are superficially associated far more often with hope. Unlike white, it doesn't believe that conviction, justice, and community will bring about rightness. Unlike green, it doesn't trust in the wisdom of the world or the natural order. Black believes that nothing will change unless you make it change; ultimately, black's self is the only one it can trust to bring about the world it needs. In addition, black lacks its enemies' idealism. Instead, it strives to be a pragmatic realist, making a final assessment of defeat all the more definite and crushing.

While white and green are more amenable to finding hope and holding it aloft as a banner, black claws hope desperately to its chest with shredded, bloody fingernails. Every ounce of hope black has, it tore by itself from the clutches of an uncaring world.

Ironically for such a self-driven color, black's fierce hope is the greatest asset it can provide to others–on its own terms, of course. It was Liliana who turned the tide of battle against the Eldrazi titan Emrakul, defiant in the face of cosmic despair. And when Nicol Bolas made his bid to return to godhood, using Liliana's necromancy to command his undead hordes, Liliana finally turned against him. In reclaiming her power, so too did she use it to free her fellow Planeswalkers from Bolas' assault. Her fear of helplessness no longer shackled her to him; agency and autonomy were hers at last.

The triumph of black, its moment of ultimate victory, is the hard-won fulfillment of its hope.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -Dylan Thomas

An aetherborn, railing against the shortness of their natural lifespan, constructs a new body for themself with their own bare hands. An artificer's grief over her lost companion causes her to push invention to its limits. A young girl who loves her brother calls on the darkest of powers to save him. As it turns out, necromancy–that original thematic keystone of black–is only one of black's many, many refusals to let go of love and hope once it has them, even in the face of the ultimate end.

Time and time again, black–in love with life, ablaze with hope–looks the Grim Reaper in the eye and tells it: "Not today."

[astra-ravana]

Spirit Vessels

A spirit vessel is a physical object that acts as a home, anchor, or conduit for a spirit, entity, or familiar. It can be used for communication, protection, spellwork, or companionship. Spirit vessels are common in witchcraft, necromancy, and spirit work, often used for housing spirit guides, familiars, servitors, or bound entities.

Types of Spirit Vessels

• Natural Vessels – Stones, crystals, wood, bones, or shells that already contain strong energy.

• Man-Made Vessels – Statues, dolls, jewelry, rings, mirrors, or bottles that are ritually prepared.

• Personal Vessels – Items that belong to the practitioner, such as a pendant, charm, or wand.

Choosing a Spirit Vessel

Consider the following:

• Material: Some materials hold spirit energy better (e.g., quartz for clarity, obsidian for shadow work).

• Symbolism: Choose something connected to the spirit’s nature (e.g., a silver locket for a fae spirit, an animal skull for ancestral work).

• Size: Small items (rings, pendants) for personal carrying; larger items (statues, jars) for home-based spirits.

Creating a Spirit Vessel

Creating spirit vessels can serve as a meaningful way to honor ancestors, connect with spiritual energies, and provide a physical representation of intangible forces. These vessels, often crafted with intention and reverence, can act as conduits for guidance, protection, and healing. They help individuals establish a deeper relationship with the unseen world, fostering personal growth and spiritual awareness. Additionally, the artistic process of making a spirit vessel can be meditative and therapeutic, allowing for self-expression and a greater sense of purpose.

The Process

Cleansing the Vessel-Before inviting a spirit, purify the vessel to remove residual energies. Methods include:

• Smoke Cleansing (Sage, Palo Santo, Mugwort)

• Salt Bath (For non-metal items)

• Moonlight or Sunlight Charging

• Sound Cleansing (Chimes, Bells, Singing Bowls)

Incantation for Cleansing:

"By fire, water, earth, and air,

This vessel now is pure and fair.

No harm within, no ill remain,

Only light shall now sustain."

Charging the Vessel-Hold the vessel and infuse it with your intention using energy work, visualization, or chanting.

Example Intentions:

• "This vessel shall house a guardian spirit for protection."

• "This ring shall serve as a link between me and my familiar."

Optional Enhancements:

• Sigils: Inscribe a protection or binding sigil.

• Anointing: Use oils (e.g., myrrh for spirits, lavender for peace, dragon’s blood for power).

• Blood or Hair (if comfortable): For a personal connection.

Calling the Spirit-There are different methods to invite a spirit:

• Invoking a Known Spirit-If you have a spirit guide, familiar, or deity-aligned entity, invite them into the vessel.

Example Invocation:

"By will and word, I call thee near,

Dwell within this vessel clear.

By pact and bond, remain with me,

Bound in trust, so mote it be!"

• Creating a Custom Spirit (Servitor or Thoughtform)-If you want to create a spirit rather than invite one, visualize the spirit’s form, name, and purpose. Charge the vessel with that energy and command it to awaken.

Example Statement:

"From thought to form, I give thee breath,

Bound to this vessel, life and depth.

In my service, thou shall stay,

By my will, by night and day!"

• Calling an Unknown Spirit-For ancestral work or unknown guides, use a pendulum or divination to confirm a willing presence. Never bind a spirit against its will.

Caution: Always establish rules and boundaries before allowing a spirit to reside in a vessel.

Sealing the Vessel-Once the spirit is inside, seal the connection to prevent interference.

• Wax Dripping: Seal with candle wax (black for protection, red for power, blue for wisdom).

• Thread Wrapping: Bind with string to secure the energy.

• Protective Sigil: Draw a sigil to prevent unwanted energy from entering.

Sealing Spell:

"Bound by word and light so bright,

This vessel holds, sealed tight.

By my will, this pact is spun,

This work is whole, it is done!"

Aftercare & Communication

Once the spirit has entered the vessel there is still much to be done to maintain the connection and keep the spirit comfortable in its new home.

Signs the Spirit Has Settled:

• Dreams or visions of the entity.

• Sudden cold or warmth from the vessel.

• Unexplained feelings of comfort or guidance.

• Divination confirming presence (tarot, pendulum, scrying).

How to Care for the Vessel:

• Offerings: Incense, candles, or small gifts to maintain the bond.

• Cleansing: Occasional gentle cleansing (avoid disrupting the spirit).

• Respect: Do not mistreat or neglect the vessel.

Releasing a Spirit (If Needed)

If you need to release the spirit, do so respectfully:

• Thank the spirit for its time.

• Offer a final gift (incense, a prayer).

• Open the vessel and say:

"With love and light, I set thee free,

Return now where thou choose to be."

• Bury, cleanse, or decommission the vessel afterward.

Spirit vessels are powerful tools when used correctly. They require responsibility, mutual respect, and ongoing care. Always trust your intuition when working with spirits, and never force an entity into a vessel against its will.

[thx-lost-yxars]

Every man was screaming. Witnessing the horror, they broke rank and started to flee. Tripping and scurrying around as they blind fired at Buzz with no life-ending effect. The merc in the vice grip screams and flails his arms around, as the other merc who was just shot collapses. The laser burned a hole through his throat, as he bleeds profusely. Smoke rising out as he gurgles on his own blood.

Still, there were plenty of bounty hunters to deal with. Although broken on courage, what remained was the desperation to survive. They tried their best to shoot at Buzz. The stuttering of their guns echoed off the walls.

Scratch arrived just in time to witness the beginning carnage. Scarred too, he watched with wide fearful eyes. A part of him felt bad for the mercs. Then again, they were most likely here to kill him. After all, he’s a wanted man.

Out of pragmatism, Scratch decided to “help” Buzz fight off the struggling mercs. That would hopefully earn his survival at the end of this nightmare. Then again, the mutant might just tear out his lungs afterwards. But hey, if he’s choosing a side, it might as well be the winning team.

Woth his revolver, Scratch started picking off the mercs. They were too demoralized and confused with fear to realize Scratch’s attacks.

@nebula-gaster

Scratch was fifteen miles outside Vegas, when his bike broke down. Bad fuel cells, just his luck.

He pushed the bike for another two miles, but night was almost here. He knew better to stay on the road at night. He needed shelter.

He spotted the old smokestacks in the distance. It must’ve been a factory, or power plant from before the war. It was good enough. He just needed somewhere with walls and a roof.

Hiding the bike, Scratch made his way inside. The place was decrypted, falling apart. Prospectors came through and gutted this place. Now, all that remained was the bones of the building. Soon enough, that will go.

Scratch walked carefully, making sure not to cause much noise. He held his revolver, his eyes watching the dark before him. The wind howls outside, it seemed a storm was picking up.

He saw one room, seeing the faded letters of “M NA ER OF ICE” above. Grasping the doorknob, he twisted it and pushed in. The office was a mess, with overturned desks and emptied filing cabinets. Scratch figured this would do for the moment.

Placing his gear down, The Fiend tried his best to relax. He felt tense, that something was wrong with this place. It was just an old building; he tried telling himself. It’s just that old fear, the stuff passed down, that tells him he should be fearful of the dark.

But he can’t shake the feeling.

Sitting down, he slouches in an old office chair. His gun on the desk, he looks around the room.

That’s when he hears it.

It sounded odd, like something was moving around in the hallway. Scratch hopped up, grabbing his gun and moving towards the door. Back against the wall, he waited. His mind screams that something is outside. That there’s someone, or something, just beyond the door. Reaching over, Scratch locks the door and steps back.

They’re closer now, whoever they are.

Too close.

[avelera]

Do you think viktor would have done the same for jayce if their roles were reversed?

Yup. 100%, no question in my mind. Not because I have in-story evidence for it, it's mostly a hunch, but the hunch is based on the fact that these two have gone to whackadoodle lengths to save each other, including Wizard Viktor showing us that Viktor will reset the timeline countless times to create one where he and Jayce meet and both of them live AND they thread the need on averting the robot ego death apocalypse, so I think Viktor is absolutely deluding himself if he thinks he wouldn't have pulled Hexcore necromancy out on Jayce too given the same circumstances, even IF Jayce had extracted the same promise from him, and I will die on this hill

[girlberrie]

i wanna run against the world that’s turning

i’d move  so fast that i’d  outpace the dawn

                             de selby (part 2) , hozier

                          𓆙           hogwarts reality introduction………..:::

ada peverell knows death intimately. she sees it in her visions, and it is in her blood—the call to necromancy, to demand life and more time. although she has never acted on it, focusing on other ways of pushing magic to its limit—namely time travel, to selfishly satisfy her obsession with history. she knows the truth of the deathly hallows, yet she has never expressed want to have them in her possession, which is probably the reason why death favors her most.

this young master of death was born to agatha peverell in the eerily silent fool’s march, the ancestral seat of the peverell’s near somerset, up on a hill and guarded by thestrals and the undead pure white trees that ward the property. she was the loudest damn thing in the whole place on that very day—her cries like a roar of life in the valley of dead things. she opposes everything her family stood for: burning life instead of cold death, hope and wit instead of bitter acceptance, cure instead of curse. she wears all black or all white but loves the purple of grapes, the yellow of sunshine, the green of forests, and the earthy brown of hogwarts. her dull green eyes spark to life when she loves, her pale skin bronzes in the sun. she is everything the peverell’s before her were not.

enter: hogwarts. ada peverell was sorted into slytherin on the first of september 1961. in her first month in hogwarts, she managed to catch the attention of tom riddle when he caught her casually strolling out of the restricted section with the book ‘advanced transfiguration volume iii: reality threads’. it is after that that a bond unlike anything else was formed—the kindred spirits, thirsting for knowledge and brimming with an ambition enough to push the boundaries of magic. ada may have found friendship in alice fortescue and the girls she shares a dorm with, but tom riddle is special for her. she has dreamt futures with him since she was a small child and unaware of the implications. but you could say that she has always known that her soul would find his—the person that smooths her edges even when he irritates her so, that eases her impulsiveness even though the sight of his face makes her want to do very, very impulsive things, that counters her easy acceptance of death with the desperation to evade it eternally. she loves him very much, so much that it sings out of her very eyes and out of every atom that makes her up whenever she faces him.

there are very few people who understand ada. most like to ignore her presence: her surname means deadly things and she sometimes looks more ‘undead’ than ‘alive’. her crypticness could drive people mad, her tendency of speaking in riddles too confusing for ravenclaws, her ambition too fiery for most slytherins, her courage too surprising for gryffidors, her loyalty too obsessive for hufflepuffs—she is not for the faint of heart. therefore, it is not surprising that she is the closest friend of the most determined of the gryffindors (alice fortescue and frank longbottom) and lover of the most ambitious of the slytherins (tom riddle) that can keep up with her.

she is quietly mischievous and unpredictable. she may be the opposite of her ancestors but outsiders do not know that. to them, she represents the house of the dead, she is intimidating, an unstoppable force and immovable object all at once—like death. she has the brand of the hallows etched in white onto her shoulder. she is cruel to the cruel and kind to others. she is silent yet her presence is felt, her playfulness only amusing to the ones who know her and odd to everyone else. and with her being the girlfriend of tom riddle, you can imagine the rumors that follow her around. some believe that she and tom sneak out to the forbidden forest to experiment on the creatures near midnight (which is completely untrue. tom once challenged her to befriend a unicorn and was severely disappointed when she succeeded).

it is because of this reputation she has gained that nobody would believe she loves orange juice. or that she rambles on and on about greek mythology to her friends until they tell her to shut up. or that she used to make little trinkets in muggle school and bring them home to decorate her and her mothers small home in london. or that she reads the newspaper every morning like some old lady. or that she gets grumpy like a cat when she is hungry and that she is loyal like a territorial dog. or that she is very moody and prone to dramatics. or that she is a slytherin with the impulsiveness and boldness of a gryffindor hidden behind all the cunning. you get it. she has layers. like an onion. ha

there are those that like to ignore her, and there are those that would simply like her to not exist. ada peverell has enemies in hogwarts, and she is very much chalant about it. lucius malfoy? she hates his guts. there is place for only one platinum blonde icon in hogwarts, and it will not be him, no matter how much ‘his father will hear about it!!!!’. making fun of lucius is one of ada’s past times. he is usually left flabbergasted after she is done cursing him out (verbally or literally). the only reason why hogwarts knows that she is a seer is because of an incident those two had in second year (he pissed her off, she told him about a horrid future of his she saw, he almost pissed his pants, she laughed at him, he stomped away screaming about how his father will hear about it. hogwarts knew about ada's seer abilities come next morning. the end).

another enemy? bellatrix black. ada doesn’t appreciate miss black’s constant flirting with her boyfriend. she once jinxed the girl in her sleep so that she would speak only in love poems to every professor for a month in retribution, but bellatrix remains determined to ‘steal away’ tom riddle from the, quite frankly, possessive clutches of ada. where tom is happy to be, mind you.

you would think albus dumbledore, the transfiguration professor, would also dislike ada given her closeness to tom riddle, but he in fact has the softest soft spot imaginable for the girl. her immense talent and love for transfiguration has charmed him, fortunately. it means she and tom get away with the more illegal stuff they do within the hogwarts grounds (nothing murderous!!!! thankfully!!!!).

rika skeeter likes to say that ada slapped her once after she innocently asked for help with a potions essay all the way back in third year, but nobody seems to believe her despite her claiming that it happened in the slytherin common room. in front of everyone. in broad daylight (which does not mean much, given the common room is in the dungeons). this is more of a one-sided hatred, as ada usually forgets that rita even exists. oh well, guess skeeter needed to learn how to start rumors somewhere. (ada did not slap her. she cast a stinging charm on her after rita attempted to steal her potions notebook to make copies of it and sell it behind ada’s back. ada’s friends agree that she deserved worse).

ada peverell’s future holds a lot of illegal time travel experimentation, illegal time traveling, illegal master-of-death-ing, and illegal horcrux making (ethically. somehow. she’ll figure it out). her greatest goal is to figure out time travel with no limitations, and no reliance on other material, like time turners, solely because she wishes to experience the history she has spent so long being obsessed about. wish her luck!

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guys is this a good enough introduction?????????? i tried to capture the vibes but idk. i love this reality. i am unhinged in my golden trio reality but here i am something else entirely. i am a full on mad-scientist really, being the time traveling historian witch. and i help tom in his immortality stuff. and i am the master of death. anyway i won’t ramble more hope you enjoyed reading!!!!!

[mcalhenwrites]

Another "ways to help me out" thread. I have a book for sale! It is pictured above, and if you like necromancy and automatons and overcoming generational abuse, it might just be worth a read. ;) I also have KoFi and Patreon! I have several tiers, please consider checking them out. I take sketch commissions (please ask about pricing), crochet commissions ($20/hr not including material and S&H costs, that's just for labor), and I'll have more books out soon. Thank you for checking out and supporting my work. Thank you for reblogging and helping me spread this, I very much need a car soon to keep my current job, and I'm also in need of a new writing laptop in the next few months. Anything that can help is appreciated. <3

[sanctifisohla]

there's something comforting about all of this. as he prattles on , serana stands , eyeing the tevinter mage with a kin-like fondness. here they stand , of the old order and the new. hm. new-er. she hadn't quite stepped foot in the old country yet ( having just woken up some months ago and all ) so any progress they might have made is all assumed. dorian glitters in front of her , resplendent , and serana's almost heartened by the nostalgia of times gone by. she'd like to keep this feeling , she thinks , locked away to warm the cobwebbed organs and haunted capillaries tucked behind the gossamer of her milky skin. " i'm sure it is a nice back indeed. "

walking from her seat , she moves towards the bannister that circled 'round the rotunda , leaning against it with a contrived sigh. " i wouldn't say that. i've control in spades , love. " it's a must with her proclivity for living meals. " but i am a provoker. an encourager , perhaps. "

"In what way? Like a particularly stubborn itch? The itch you can't reach at the middle of your back? If I had made it a habit, our Inquisitor hasn't exactly revolted just yet. Hooray for me, I suppose. It's a nice back."

My days, she's such a beautiful thing. To Dorian, she's but the zenith of womanhood gloriously suspended. He imagines roses kept in stasis and burgundy-dizzy petals kept in baubles of glass. He's fond of her, obviously, and would happily start gardening were she truly a rose, but that smile on her mouth and the daring in her eyes? Dorian stirs. Nope. No flower, not a rose, can be quite this fun! "Oh, the usual. Blasphemy. Heresy. Some possible midnight desecration. I wonder if the hats they wear here would count toward that at all," his voice sways. "With how determined the Mothers are to suffer it, you'd think they'd already be redeemed." But anyway...! "I'm noticing a distinct lack of impulse control between us." / @sanctifisol continued from here.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsterhunt: Neiglus, Slagwrought Inscriptor

Artist

The grotesque result of an attempt to use ritual necromancy to resurrect a long dead titan of fire, this corrupted elemental is more than simply a horror, it is a threat to the primordial foundations of the world.

Challenges & Complications:

Though they began as pilgrims and outcasts, the fire genasi band known as the Ashmourn raiders have become galvanized into a fanatical cult, striking across the landscape first for resources, then for the components required for their leader's ill-conceived "miracle" leaving raided druidic vaults and wildfires in their wake. The party could be tasked with finding or foiling any one of these thefts or disasters, but it will hit the most hard if the target is someone they already care about.

Despite being created to give the Ashmourn the power they long felt denied, the abomination has little interest in helping the raiders restore the glory of their ancestors, or carve out territory beyond the volcanic wasteland they were exiled to. Instead it is as much a danger to its followers as it was to the enemies they made it to fight, malformed as it was by its summoner's grandiose self importance. That same summoner, the cult's leader, now desperately searches for a means of controlling the creature before its rampages destroy their following's faith in them.

The titan that Neiglus exits in mockery of had a mastery over the oracular arts, and her future-defining prophecies were etched into the walls of her tomb. Through the distortion and desecration of these texts, the cultists were able to create a world where their titan WOULD return, though the process left her warped beyond recognition. Worse yet, the abomination they created retains the titan's ability to perceive and influence the future, and it madly scribes these rambled proclamations into any surface (or being) within reach, sowing chaos into the world with every grating scratch. Storms of molten lead, the invasion of armies from realms that never existed, If the inscriptor is not stopped and its ramblings destroyed, the threads of fate themselves may catch ablaze.

[zorangezest]

Your OCs took over my life because of your Butcher Vanity video and I think I understand your lore enough to ask a question. Please correct me if I get anything wrong.

So, Roro, a necromancer, runs a boutique/creates clothing and is in some kind of symbiotic relationship with Yin. As a result of their partnership, Yin kind of physically unravels? And, in a comic you posted, Yin kind of looks stitched together?

Necromancy seems like it would require being good with a needle and thread. Creating clothing definitely seems like it would necessitate it. Is Roro so involved with her work that she's like 'To repair Yin, I need this very specific needle and this very specific thread made of this very specific material because my work deserves this much and I have standards'?

GOT SO EXCITED WHEN I SAW THIS LEGIT CACKLING AND RUBBING MY HANDS TOGETHER. TIME TO LORE DUMP ABOUT MY OCS BEWARE THE YAP

First of all—I eat theories about ocs for breakfast lunch and dinner so thank you for the ask! Let’s begin!!

Necromancers in this universe are a little different than how they’re traditionally in media—yes, they can bring back the dead, but they’re VERY BAD AT IT. In fact, that’s not what they’re supposed to be doing with their powers in the first place! Despite all this, their work is widely recognized and legalized!

Roro is a necromancer, but she doesn’t run the boutique—that’s a separate character entirely who’s getting a post to herself soon! The boutique, and its owner, are extremely vital to necromancers, because it’s where they get the bodies made. You are correct that bringing back the dead requires being good with a needle and thread! The process of necromancy itself in this universe is catching a ghost, and sewing a body for it. Who better for the job than the fashionable owner of a boutique?

Ok! Let’s look at the characters!

Roro and Yin are the central characters of the story and they are siblings! Yin has been dead for a long time, and he actually came back from it…really well?? Probably threw a party down at necromancer HQ when he was brought back or something. That being said, he’s very far from perfect, and very far from human, and everywhere he goes people get the intrinsic primal feeling that hey, this guy should be dead! This guy needs to die! Unfortunately for Yin, that means he just can’t seem to stop getting killed by people…well, the closest he can get to being killed, anyway.

As for Roro, she’s been alive for…much longer than she should be! All necromancers are, for spooky lore reasons. She’s had more time to think than anyone who’s ever been alive, and now she’s driven by a lunatic single-minded purpose to do her job, and do it well, and catch as many ghosts as she can! One day she’ll bring her little brother back better, and maybe her parents too, and all her neighbours, and all her friends…if she can even remember their faces.

There’s so many characters in this story and many key locations that i hope to keep fleshing out! I haven’t even gotten to the whole thing with ghosts yet!! This is going to sound extremely corny but to have people interested in this stupid world I’m building is the reason I’m an artist I think. THANK YOU IF YOIVE READ THIS FAR HAHA the yap returns…..

[aboutcustardcreams]

For love, we gladly pay the price

Summary: As Lady Death struggles with an impossible choice (flashback), you and Agatha find yourselves entangled in a very awkward/ uncomfortable situation. The question here is: what does the Road really want from you?

previous chapter

You made your decision– one each mother, in your place, would make. Your son is going to regain consciousness any moment now. And you made it possible. With your incredible power and stubbornness, you gave the boy another chance in life, a proper one. But at what cost?

“Please–” Rio never begged, yet there she was. You’d barely recognize her voice if you listened to it. “I could not persuade her to let him go, if anything– I encouraged her to save him from the start,” she confessed in a pained murmur. 

In the dimly lit hall stood the three sisters, their expressions stoic, yet contemplative giving the illusion that they could still be convinced into changing their mind. They had summoned Lady Death and that alone couldn’t mean anything good. 

Atropos, the eldest, stepped forward. “We can’t ignore what she has done,” her voice echoed like a thunder, taking up the entire space. Rio flinched, but didn’t back away. “Her defiance comes with a price. I’m sure your job has taught you that much, hasn’t it?” 

The Green witch’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding at the words. Of course, she knew. She had known the moment the Fates discovered her secret; how she had hidden Nicky away, shielding him from the River of Souls he was meant to cross at birth. The punishment had been swift and merciless. She had endured it all in silence. Not a word of it ever passed her lips, neither to you nor to Agatha. Because nothing could have been done to change that anyway so why bother you and Agatha too?

Despite everything, her lips curled into a bitter, defiant smile. “she fulfilled the purpose she was born for. Necromancy is her gift. You can’t condemn her for who she is.”

Atropos’s eyebrows shot up as her head lightly lolled to the side. She let out a sound between a scoff and a chuckle at Rio’s tenancy. For being a Celestial being she surely looked quite small now. The other two shared a glance, their eyes lingered as to decide which of them would speak second, in support of their eldest. 

Lachesis, the middleborn, took a soft sigh as she approached. Her long golden skirt swept over the floor, leaving a trail of sparkle in its wake. “I understand your concerns for her– my sisters do, too. In spite of what you might think, we’re not heartless.”

Rio didn’t let her guard down, nor did she allow those ‘apparent’ hopeful words to get to her head, before learning more. “If that’s true, then spare her life.” 

The eldest let out a quiet chuckle. Three heads snapped towards her. “Oh, you’ve definitely gotten sentimental, Lady Death.” 

The witch’s heart started pounding in her chest at great speed, her throat clenched almost painfully as she tumbled out, “it’s my wife’s life we are talking about. I’m allowed to be worried about her.” 

Her mind spiraled, imagining the ruin your death would bring and not just to her, but to Agatha and Nicky. Eternity was a long, unrelenting road to walk with a heart that was very likely to shatter into pieces and bleed forever. Agatha, she knew, would never forgive her. And Nicky, her sweet, pure-hearted Nicky would grow up with that same resentment festering inside him. He’d nurture it, shape it into something raw, something dangerous, especially now that he shared the same magic as yours. 

“This is my domain,” she said, hands turning into fists. “It’s mine alone to determine when a life ends. You cannot interfere with that–” 

“I believe there’s a little bit of confusion here,” Atropos argued. Her eyes flicked to Clotho, who had swiftly moved to sit in front of the chassis, her delicate fingers spinning the shimmering thread within with practiced grace. The motion was almost hypnotic. Rio’s face fell, her frown deepened. Could that be your life Clotho was holding? 

“We do not mean to take your wife’s life before its time,” the youngest admitted. Her voice didn’t match the depths of her power, the way her fingers could create as much as destroy. 

“Contrary to your lover, my sisters and I know where we stand. We would never interfere with something that doesn’t concern us, so I must confess you, it’s not death we wish for the necromancer, but life–” 

Rio blinked in disbelief. “I don’t understand–”

“A tormented life,” Atropos corrected, with a grin. “Something you experienced in a way, but not quite.” 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with our distant cousins, Lady Death,” Lachesis added solemnly. 

Rio’s mouth parted in slight shock, a bitter sound slipped for her lips, “and you said you are not heartless?”

“I take that as a yes,” Atropos replied. Clotho kept her eyes focused on the thread, Rio couldn’t be sure, but she spotted a glimpse of hesitation in her posture. She was touching that thread ever so gently as if she was lulling a baby to sleep. Maybe she didn’t agree with her sisters’ decision, but being the youngest of the three, forced her to submit to their will and play along with it. 

“Clotho, please—” Rio’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not right. You must know that– you–”

“Do not try to manipulate our sister!” The eldest’s voice came out so loud and sharp, Rio flinched and had to cover her ears. 

The youngest swallowed lightly, as she averted her gaze, “I’m truly sorry, Lady Death. If it’s any consolation, the torment will not last forever,” she glanced at her sisters. 

Atropos nodded with a wave of her hand, “sure thing, sister. What were you thinking? Fifty years?” 

Rio’s heart picked up, “that’s insane!” She cried out. Her magic crackled dangerously around her. “She would never survive that and you know it!” 

“A fair compromise for her not to lose her mind and die would be between two and five years,” she admitted carefully. “As we already mentioned, we don’t want to kill her, right Atropos?” 

She grimaced, clearly displeased with the proposition. 

“I suggest two years,” Clotho tried. 

“You’re too soft, sister,” Atropos scolded her. 

“Please–” Rio’s knees dropped at this point. A part of her knew you could make it, however that was not enough reason for them to put you through that. Their cousins were no joke– she had known mortals who had wished to die in less than a month. And out of mercy, she had taken them to the other side. 

“I will accept the three years, and considering you were so adamant into being punished in her place, I want you, Lady Death, to curse her.” 

She looked terrified at the idea. Horrified even. “I-I can’t… I don’t want to…”  

“Oh but you will–” Atropos’ lips curved in a sinister grin. “Or shall we ensure she suffers far worse than what we’ve promised?”

Rio swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

She had known it would come to this. She had tried to warn you— both you and Agatha, but deep down, Lady Death couldn’t entirely blame you for ignoring her. Bringing Nicky back wasn’t a crime in your eyes, nor it broke the natural balance of all things. It was an act of love. The love of a mother. 

But the Fates didn’t see it that way.

This wasn’t about your actions, not really. 

No, their wrath wasn’t fueled by what you had done but by who you were and who you challenged without a second thought. You had challenged their authority and proved yourself more powerful than they dared admit, and they hated you for it. Well, Atropos sure did. 

Clotho gave Lady Death an apologetic glance, “behave wisely.” She didn’t speak, yet Rio heard her in her mind. 

“So, do we have a deal?” Lachesis asked, picking at her fingernails. 

Lady Death’s chest tightened as she stood. Those words would have haunted her for the rest of her existence, of that she was sure. “We do.”

-

Present time

“Feels like we just came out of Mount Olympus!” Teen muttered in awe, staring down at his robe-like ensemble: a rich blue tunic adorned with intricate golden embroidery around the neckline hem and sleeves. Underneath the tunic, he wore white, loose-fitting pants, cinched at the waist with a sturdy leather belt that held a small pouch and decorative golden chains. 

“Check me out–” Agatha purred, as she admired her reflection in one of the tall mirrors placed against the ivory walls. 

She wore an elegant chiton, a deep shade of purple that hugged her figure with effortless grace. Its fabric draped like liquid silk, hugging her waist and hips before cascading softly around her thighs. The asymmetrical shape of the chiton left one shoulder bare, which caused your mouth to go dry as soon as your gaze drifted there.

“Oh, I am.” You drew closer, a subtle grin on your face, as your arms draped around her waist, and your head peeped out her bare shoulder. 

You’re hidden behind her body– almost purposefully. You didn’t want to distract her with what you were wearing, not just yet. “If you’re not a celestial being, then I don’t know who is,” you purred, your lips a few millimeters from her ear elicited goosebumps to her skin. 

She watched your face, through the mirror and her cheeks darkened a bit. You’d recognize that look anywhere. She wanted to see you, needed to, so she spun around and as soon as she did, her mouth parted in awe. 

Your dress, though beautiful, had barely crossed your mind until now. But the way she was looking at you made you suddenly aware of every part of it. 

“Woah, I’m– you are…” 

You did a little twirl for her.  

“Not bad, huh?” you teased, a soft chuckle slipping from your lips. 

The top of your outfit fitted as if it had been sewn just for you: it was a white bodice with a V neckline, adorned with a thick belt of black and silver filigree. The balloon skirt, layered with a silvery overlay evoked the jew/elry in your hair and swirled like shadows over the black underskirt that peeked through with each movement you made. 

When her hand found the side of your cheek, you leaned in, eager for more contact, more of her warmth and she obliged, thumb tracing sweet patterns over your skin. 

“How can you be so beautiful?” She breathed out like in a daze. 

You pursed your lips at her compliment, then tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I could ask you the same thing-”

She pulled you even closer, taking a firm grip onto your waist. “You know, I think more and more that the Road appeared to test me, and only me.” 

A flicker of amusement flashed through your eyes. “We both know this trail is for me.” 

Her face dimmed at your words. The grip around your waist loosened a bit and you frowned. “Don’t do that,” you lifted her chin ever so gently, when she dropped her gaze onto the floor. “I’m fine. We’re both fine.” 

She tried to smile at your optimism, but her worries for you were eating her from the inside. “And let’s be real,” With your arms around her neck, you tried another tactic and pulled her in for a gentle kiss. “We make quite the hell of a team, don’t we?”

Her smile stretched into something far more genuine, making your heart swell with love at the sight. “The very best–” 

“Oh– There is wine after all,” Jen observed out loud, causing you all to turn towards her. There was a lovely cruet, sat invitingly on a low dining table. “And fresh fruits.” 

“Don’t touch it,” Lilia warned. “Could be poisoned.”

“Wasn’t going to–” she retorted, with an eye roll. “I’m not as desperate as someone else here…”

Your eyes narrowed at that jibe. 

Agatha shot an eyebrow at her and clicked her lips. “Careful there, Kale. Your obsession with me might be misunderstood as a crush.”

The witch made a ick sound, “Sorry to disappoint, but you’re hardly my type.”

“Course, I’m not,” she chuckled, with a wave of her hand. “That’s all the ladies say.” 

The others shared a quiet laugh, whereas Jen spun around and growled, trotting away from Agatha. 

You sighed and tiredly pinched at the bridge of your nose, before your eyes landed on Agatha’s again and you mouthed, “what was that?” 

She shrugged innocently, a playful grin tugged at her lips. 

“There’s something else here!” Alice called out after a minute. On an armchair lingered a piece of scroll, folded gracefully with a thin, red tape. 

You all circled the protection witch in a rush, eager to  figure out whatever was written on the paper she held. As she carefully unfolded it, the tension was palpable. Without realizing it, you leaned closer to Alice, your shoulder brushing against hers. You two shared a nervous glance before she started to read. 

She dared to grasp what none could hold. Each path and twist respond to our will. We wove the threads, but she cut the rope and stitched it back with cursed skill. The lies they spun must now unwind. The debt is due; your fate aligned. 

“What does it mean?” Teen asked, looking at each and everyone of you for clarity.  

“Well, I don’t know the details but you kind of challenged the Maiori, didn’t you?” Alice trailed, her voice soft, not accusing at all. 

It brought a tight smile on your face. At least she was trying to have some tact and tolerance. “I did, yeah. Or they challenged me. Depends how you look at it.”

Agatha’s brows met in a frown, as she surged forward to grab that piece of paper from Alice to take a second look at it. Was it a warning? A threat? What did it mean for you? Were you in danger?

Lilia and Jen shared a look, before the elder one spoke, “the cursed skill would be your power, commonly known as your silver,” she continued, giving a wave of her hand to help her reasoning. 

Your lips flattened. Correct, again. 

“It’s not cursed,” Agatha grumbled, flashing her a smarted glance. “It’s her. As simple as that. Her essence is necromancy and it’s about time witches– you all stopped harrowing her for it.”

“Lilia is just trying to help, Agatha–” Teen commented. 

“Exactly. I was merely paraphrasing,” the divination witch pointed out. 

“Of course,” Agatha mumbled, still looking irritated. 

You sighed, your fingers started to play with the tips of her hair. “It’s okay, really,” you added, calm as ever. “Plus it’s not that she wrote it. It’s just part of a puzzle…”

“I hate puzzles,” to Agatha’s remark, you couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.  

“If I may interject–” Teen stepped in, snatching the scroll from Agatha’s hands, not without earning a glare from her. “I don’t think this is only your trial. I mean the message addresses a ‘she’ at first, that could be you, but then, it mentions a ‘they’ and a ‘you’ so it probably refers to more than one person,” he looks up at Agatha, eyebrows furrowing in thought. “Could it be you?”

She hesitated, “I’m not sure.”

“The lies they spun must now unwind–” Alice repeated the line, trying to make sense of it. 

You averted your gaze, eyes dropping on the floor for a moment. 

Jen’s head lolled to the side, suspicious. “Does it mean that… you lied to someone?”  

You gaped, then stuttered out, “N-no, what? It doesn’t make any sense,” a forced, nervous smile tugged at your lips. But it didn’t last. “It’s not clear… it’s–” you sighed, a tad exasperated. “We need more hints. This isn’t going anywhere.”

Agatha watched you closely, catching and worrying about your sudden discomfort. It was her turn to reach out to you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Jen stepped in before you could formulate a response. “Maybe it wants you to tell the truth about what happened during the Salem days?”

“Yeah,” Lilia agreed, with a nod. “Since we were told the wrong version of your story,” she added, although both you and Agatha could grasp the hesitation as she stressed on the word ‘wrong’. 

“Sweet.” The succubi witch let out a short, dark chuckle as she shook her head. “And if we didn’t want to share our story? Then, what?” She dared to ask, in a mocking tone. 

Alice sighed and folded her arms over her chest. “There could be consequences.” The sudden seriousness in her tone made Agatha recoil. 

“What kind of consequences?” Your voice came out barely above a whisper. 

“I don’t know. Maybe your girlfriend should fill us in,” Jen shot back, rather boldly. All eyes turned to Jen, your collective frown deepening. “I mean, she’s been here before, hasn’t she? Or was that just another lie?”

“As I’ve already explained,” Agatha replied, her voice clipped with irritation, her eyes refusing to look at her for obvious reasons, “the road is never the same. It shifts and changes depending on the witches who walk it.”

“Oh, great. So basically, you’re useless,” Jen deadpanned, her tone dripping with exasperation.

“I don’t see how you’re making yourself useful here, Kale,” she hissed back. Hadn’t Agatha been powerless, she would have blasted that witch against the nearest wall, or mirror. Depending on how badly she wanted her hurt. 

“Guys, stop–” you stepped in, the faint beginnings of a headache pulsed at your temples. You pressed your fingertips to them, rubbing in slow circles as you fought to stay calm. “Can we not tear into each other right now? I thought I made it clear– we are supposed to be working together.”

“It’s a hard task with a witch killer giving you eyes,” she mumbled, though everyone could catch the bitterness behind her tone. 

“It’s a pity your vocabulary is as rusty as your magic,” Agatha quipped mockingly. 

Jen growled. 

“Not helping–” you gave her a pointed look. 

She lifted both her hands in surrender, “alright, fine. I’ll be good.” 

You blew a raspberry. She could fool them, but not you. 

“Umm, as you were when you killed your coven?” Jen inquired. 

Agatha stilled, her jaw tightened and this time she said nothing for herself.  The witch in pink had been dancing on thin ice for far too long, pushing and prodding without care. But this—this was the last straw. Resenting Agatha’s behavior in the present was one thing, but dragging up her past and passing judgment without knowing a damn thing about her reasons? It pissed you off. 

So you snapped. “Oh for fuck’s sake!” 

The room froze, Jen flinched, Agatha… well, she appeared pleased for a second, considering you successfully gave poor Jen a fright and were able to shut her mouthy mouth.

"You are, without a doubt, the most infuriating, insufferable witch I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. And yet, somehow, I’m not spending every single second we’re stuck here reminding you just how deeply you irritate me. Nor, might I add, am I blasting you through these walls like you so thoroughly deserve—” Your hands trembled, and before you could stop it, magic surged through your palms, a darkish hue of gray loomed over your outstretched fingertips, desperate to be lashed out, but you managed to contain it… sort of. 

Teen flashed Agatha a worried look, silently prompting her to do something. She groaned and muttered something like ‘spoilsport’ before walking up to you. That’s when she noticed your eyes turn silver. 

“Love, come on now, look at me–” her voice sounded so soft to your ears, your eyes darted towards her, but only for a mere second before turning back to Jen. 

With a sigh, Agatha stepped in front of you taking up all your front vision, and when she did, her hands opted to cup your cheeks instead of holding your hands. It was not because she believed you’d hurt her. Quite the opposite. Why? Because she was a succubus. It was in her nature to steal magic. And yours was very available and very tempting at the moment. 

“Hush, please-” she bored into those beautiful silver orbs of yours and you into her blue ones. You caught her lips curling upwards, then. “You’re sexy when you’re mad, I’ll give you that,” as she predicted, your anger dissipated, and turned into slight amusement at her evident joke. She always knew how to make you laugh, even in a situation like that. 

“Atta girl–” When magic vanished from your palms, she took a sigh of relief she didn’t know she was holding, and then pulled you in a hug. 

Once you pulled away, you looked at the others, at Teen in particular who had his lips pursed in a grimace. Had you gone too far? Had you scared him? “I’m sorry, I…” you stuttered, embarrassed. 

Teen gave you a shy smile as to tell you that no harm was done. Same did Alice and Lilia. 

Jen remained quiet. 

“You should apologize to both,” Teen told her. 

The potion witch gave him a quizzical look, “w-what?”

“I second that,” Alice quipped, with a nod of her head. 

“I hate to admit it, but you poked the bear,” Lilia continued. “Well, bears.” 

Both you and Agatha shared a look. You chuckled at Lilia’s choice of words, also pleased with the fact that finally someone was taking your side. At last. 

“Fine, ugh– whatever,” the potion witch rolled her eyes and waved her hands in mid air. “I’m sorry, alright? I went too far.”

Agatha hummed, torn. “Say that like you mean it, toots–” 

“Don’t push it-” that’s all she said, before walking away from her, and from you. 

“We will take that,” you conceded calmly. 

You knew you’d have a hard time gaining Jen’s trust, so for now you accepted her not-so-felt apology and moved on. 

Lilia��s eyes landed on something she was sure wasn’t there before, or if it was, had sat still till now, unmoving. It was an hourglass, whose wedged white sand had just started to trickle slowly. She nervously cleared her throat, then. “You know, I’d really hate it if demons, snakes or whatever ambushed us, so… whenever you’re ready…” 

“Shit… alright. Okay!”

You slumped back against one of the couches arranged in a circle around the table laden with wine and fresh fruit. “I will take a glass after all,” you muttered, with a quiet, humourless chuckle. “Maybe two.”

Agatha sat down next to you, at your right, Teen at your left, followed by Alice and Jen. Lilia took a seat across from you instead. 

Your lover gave the wine a skeptical look, as she tumbled out, “I hope this isn’t the cheap stuff,” the glass in her hand filled to the brim on its own. So did yours. 

“As long as it’s not poisonous…” you retorted, taking a long, large sip.