#unflow

[justanechoflower]

Please buy something, I have anonymous children needing food. I know it's weird to have anonymous children but don't ask. Maybe after you buy something.

Anon's shop

Maybe a working scooter: 10 G

A random deed to a house in japan: 160 G

Someone's soul I found in a trashcan: 15 G and a bag of potato chips

One of my children: 80 G

(sacrifice one to feed the rest)

[metamorphesque]

Grief, to me, is love turned stagnant (rotten!) — a love that, robbed of its object, has no place to go. It lingers within, unmoving, unflowing, and in its stillness, it begins to decay. This rot — the heaviness and stench of it — seeps into everything else that inhabits the same space: new loves, new experiences, new joys. All become veiled and tainted by this greedy sorrow. What I’ve come to realize is that to prevent this from happening, love must remain in motion. It must flow, even when the beloved — the person, place, or time passed long ago — is no longer there. How, then, do we keep this love flowing? One way is to allow ourselves to remember without resistance. Write about them. Create in their honor. Weave their presence into your days not as shadows, but as light that lingers. For love, when kept alive, cannot rot. It will ripple through you, through others, through rooms of space and the fabric of time, endlessly becoming.

grief is love (rotten!) /substack/

[lil-liaa]

𔓕ㅤ 𓈒♡ㅤ֗ 𝓨 ou're the 𝓢 unflower ‎ ⃝𔓘 ̼ ֹ ⠀ ͎꒷

𝑬very time i'm 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 on you, you don't make it 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓎,no ━𝑾𝒊𝒔𝒉 i could be there for 𝒴𝑜𝓊

©𝐈𝐜𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞//𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞

[starmocha]

calling your name [Dawnbreaker/MC, implied Zayne/MC ★ 1506 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] The jasmine was about to blossom. A/N: I haven’t written anything in 2 years due to reasons, so lol IDK what I’m doing. I was also supposed to be working on a different LNDS ficlet, but Dawnbreaker called, so I answered, because I love him lots and want to give him the universe. Slight divergence from the end of the anecdote.

On a window sill, a small pot housing an unflowered jasmine plant was meticulously cared for as its owner waited for the first blossoms.

He saw the girl in his dreams again.

He did not dare utter her sweet name, let alone think it, for it caused him to ache and yearn for her, someone who would forever be beyond his reach across time and space.

He had gone on years and years, watching her from afar in his dreams. It felt so wrong, this feeling of voyeurism, forced to see the object of his affection with that other man, this being who shared his likeness and name, but they were not the same person.

While that other man lived freely, carrying the revered title of doctor, an angel on earth who saved countless lives with his scarred hands, he was his opposite.

He walked in shadows, evading police as he took numerous lives with his ice-cold hands. One could argue he was an angel of mercy, appearing to those who knew they were on the brink of losing the last remnants of their humanity. He himself saw nothing of the sort, only knowing he was shackled to this fate of walking the earth alone, bearing the burden of taking doomed lives to protect the still living. To some, he was the Grim Reaper, appearing in his dark clothes, expressionless, as he swiftly took the lives waiting for him. Others knew him as Dawnbreaker, the callous serial killer who left behind nothing of his victims to show that they ever existed.

He himself was just Zayne. The names, titles, and monikers bestowed upon him meant nothing to the young man, who had no one in his life to even call for him or remember him. He was used to silence, to the solitude, understanding that this was his fate.

He lived in purgatory, moving like clockwork and seeing neither joy nor sadness in this monotone world. When nightfall descended, he escaped to heaven where the girl was. Never alone, she was always happily side-by-side with the doctor. He stole glimpses of her smiles, pocketing them as if they were his and his alone. How pitiful of him, to relish in something that was not for him.

He learned not to care, to savor what little joy he was able to greedily take for himself. He lived this way for years, as a voyeur, a thief, an imposter.

When the day came the girl saw him within their dreamscape, he did not know how to react. He stilled, her words left him shaken inside:

“You…aren’t Dr. Zayne. Who are you?”

He didn’t know what to tell her. He didn’t know what to do in this moment. For as long as he could remember, she was always within reach in his dream ever since that fated night so long ago when he was a child. Now, she was here, in front of him, seeing him.

I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. I can’t—

And then he felt an unfamiliar warmth on his cheek. Her hand caressed his face, memorizing the shape and feel of him that was near identical to the doctor, but perhaps in her eyes alone they were not.

“Why do you look so sad?”

He looked mildly surprised. He searched within him for words, for his voice, unprepared for this sudden moment of being able to speak with her at last. The seconds that felt like eternity to him ended with one simple phrase: “Do I?”

She nodded once and then she disappeared, and he awakened in a cold sweat.

She saw him. She touched him. She spoke to him.

What did it mean? He didn’t know, didn’t have an answer or theory to this new development.

He touched his cheek, her warmth still lingering. The only thing he knew was that he needed to see her again, hoping and praying that she wouldn’t disappear, that she would speak to him once more.

The next night, she appeared before him again, and just like the previous time, she saw him.

“What’s your name?”

He hesitated, but he answered her, “Zayne.”

She looked surprised, but she didn’t act on it. Instead, she smiled and introduced herself. He almost wanted to laugh in incredulous amusement at the situation, having known her name already from so long ago. He restrained his amusement, and he smiled back. “Pleased to meet you.”

They crossed path again, and again, and again. Each time, without hesitation, her eyes lighted with joy for him.

For him.

Him.

He didn’t dare to feel happiness, unsure if he was even deserving of such feelings. But he smiled. He greeted her smiles with his, feeling peace in the moments with her.

He wished he could dream forever, to always have her by his side until the end of time itself.

He no longer envied the doctor, no longer stole moments that were not his to take.

The dream world had changed, molding into bustling cities long ago full of parks, restaurants, and cafés for him to wander with her by his side, to create memories that were for just the two of them to share.

The smiles came naturally, his eyes focused only on her as she chatted and showed him things he did not know in his own world. He listened to her stories, hearing unfamiliar names of the people in her life, but he was engrossed nonetheless, holding onto her every word like a lifeline. When she mentioned the doctor, she paused, seemingly conflicted.

“Go on,” he urged her gently, being rewarded instantly with her kind smile. He didn’t remember the anecdotes she shared of the doctor. He had become too drunk on her voice, too enamored by her pure existence to even think lucidly anymore.

Oh, how he wished he could stay intoxicated, to always keep this feeling of euphoria within himself.

“Do you like chocolate?” she asked after slipping her hand into his coat pocket for warmth, being surprised when she brushed against a small chocolate square.

He himself was surprised to see the sweet treat, having forgotten he was the one who had placed it there in the first place. He pondered, unsure. He ate a lot of chocolate, not disliking it obviously, but he wondered if he could even describe it as his favorite thing to have. It had become more of a habit than anything else really.

“I do not dislike it,” he said after a moment of thought.

She smiled, seemingly understanding him, and unwrapped the little square, taking a delicate bite for herself. “If I have something sweet, I’d be happy, even if it was a bad day.”

He mulled over her words, thinking how it perfectly matched his own feelings.

“Are you tired?” he asked her as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

They found themselves sitting on a beach, watching a sunset. The sound of waves crashing gently upon the shore filled the silence. She shook her head, but her eyes closed. He gazed down at the top of her head, and he placed a kiss, pulling her closer into his embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For being here…with me.”

His days remained the same, his tasks unchanging as always. The police records for Dawnbreaker had all mysteriously disappeared, leaving him to freely move about without interference. When dusk finally approached, he counted down the minutes to when sleep would come for him, and her as well.

In the world that they shared, he felt as if he had snuck into heaven, knowing this was something never for him to have. When she looked at him, gentle eyes full of delight and love, he knew he would bend time and space for her.

“Zayne…”

He leaned forth, her soft lips beckoned him to claim them as his, to steal away all of her sweet kisses for himself. Just as their lips were about to touch, he found himself alone in darkness.

The girl was gone.

He called out for her, searched for her within the empty space.

His feet pounded on the floor, echoing in the darkness, as he ran into the void. His heart raced, a cold dread stirred within him, as he found himself approaching a light at the end of the path. He touched against an invisible barrier, separating him and her once more.

He saw her, through the transparent wall, his beloved’s face was wracked with confusion and heartache. Her mouth formed his and the doctor’s name, but the person she sought was gone. In his place stood the doctor as he tried to console the hysterical girl, unable to fathom the cause of her tears and emotional distress, but at the same time, he was unwilling to let her hurt alone.

He watched, helpless, as another man embraced her, soothed her, loved her.

He closed his eyes.

He awoke to a sweet fragrance in his bedroom.

The jasmine had blossomed, and his heart broke.

[pupkou]

✧ Blood and Darkness ✧

✦ Zagreus (Hades 2018) x Gender Neutral Reader. ✦ Warnings: slight mentions of gore (no details; in the game, Zagreus is killed over and over and is often covered in blood), head injury (reader is hurt, non-fatally, and is knocked out by hitting their head), mentions of Zagreus’ sexual escapades (no descriptions), reader is a servant of the house of Hades and is described as a shade, no smut (😞)... yet (😏). ✦ Word Count: 2.2K. ✦ Read on AO3. ✦ Part 1 / ?

You've heard rumors about Hades' son.

They say he's not in possession of a particularly impressive stature; he's of average height, with dark hair, and he's quite thin, really, for a God. That's what he is, after all, just a God of the Underworld. One of many. And one who looks like he's not indulging himself in ambrosia and nectar as much as he should be at that, it almost seems like he's ungrateful for all the blessings and curses that come along with being the Prince of the Underworld.

They describe him as far smaller and more pathetic than Achilles, their blush showing on their ghostly complexions as they describe how his hair is cropped close to his neck and black and unflowing, not at all like the golden locks that fall around Achilles' nape.

Oh, Achilles, why must you torture us with your divine beauty and arrogant sneer? We know our ghastly, hellish faces are unworthy of your gaze, but a small, simple kindness-- in the form of a smile from your handsome face-- would satisfy us for eternities to come. By Achilles, by Thetis, and by Zeus, please let him stroll by and be pleased by something enough to smile for us, even if his pleasure comes from our misery. Surely, one of us can think of something to poke fun at Hector... much like the spear of Achilles' poked at his neck... surely so, surely so...

They... say a lot of things, but they always call him Zagreus, which means 'great hunter'. But by the rumors you've heard, it... doesn't seem like Zagreus' name fits him very well. In Tartarus' maze, everything becomes prey to those that inhabit the different levels of death and despair that come before you feel the sun's warm embrace, or so you've heard. You've never actually felt the sun, but you have heard Achilles brag about it to Hades, reminding the king of his very eventful life on earth. The sun doesn't reach this far down, though, and is unable to illuminate the depths of Hades' realm or comfort those who call it home. Here, predators lurk around every moss-covered turn, under every magma-concealing rock, behind every skullified hero's dug-up grave, and even amongst the distinguished guests that frequent the house of Hades.

From the whispers you've strained to hear, it seems like Zagreus wants out of this place-- the Underworld, that is. The shades, your main source of information on Zagreus and the other residents of the house, love to gossip, and they say he's still not been successful in escaping the darkness that has consumed him since he was born. Some root for him, hoping that one day his laurels will know what it feels like to soak in the blazing sun like the blessed olive trees they were harvested from, while others laugh at his failure, joining Hypnos' chorus of dramatic mocking, when they see him rise from the blood once again.

He's always covered in it, head to toe, deep red and maroon coating his limbs and soaking from his limbs as if it were his own. Much of it is, considering the amount of times he's died, but that doesn't make it any less pitiful to see the Prince rise from the fluid of life (and death), unrelenting in his attempts to escape his home. He'd hardly call it that, of course, as you've heard him say as he climbs the marble steps leading from the pool of blood, wiping his glowing feet on the carpet that you think was one of Arachne's (hence its purpose being for Zagreus to wipe his bloody feet on.)

The thing about marble-- what the house of Hades is made out of-- is that it doesn't absorb sound in the slightest. It's a curse for embarrassed shades trying to quietly explain how they arrived in Tartarus early because their pet goat rammed them in the stomach, but a blessing for beings like you who get most of their daily excitement from the things that they hear refracted off of the cool stone walls.

Marble also doesn't quickly absorb any liquid poured onto its surface, despite being a porous stone, which means that you, one of the poor shades tasked with cleaning, have a lot of work to do. Guests in the house get rowdy at the kitchen bar sometimes, drinking too much ambrosia and leaving various liquids behind. Sometimes water from the river Styx drips from cracks in the ceiling, pooling and causing problems for anyone whose flesh comes in contact with the liquid. And on the worst days, the most stubborn of fluid comes in contact with the objects you're in charge of keeping tidy.

One of Cerberus' heads is a particularly messy eater, which means that sometimes droplets of blood from a cut of meat (or carcass) he's eating are flung onto precious objects. Another guest, who is said to be armed with a barbed whip, has been said to make her victims cry blood on occasion, staining the good dinner napkins and frustrating you profusely. But by far, the being who makes the worst, bloody messes, is Zagreus himself.

Despite him wiping his feet on the carpet and despite your polite suggestion to him-- a sheet for him to dry off with laid over the marble railing, Zagreus continuously trails blood all over the house. And it doesn't help that the Prince behaves like a dog, prodding at his ears when they're clogged with blood and scratching at his head to dislodge it from his scalp. He's even shook like a filthy mutt before, letting drops of blood fly from his dark hair and unknowingly creating hours of cleanup for you. You've always been forgiving, though, considering that for one, you don't have much of a choice, and two, that you've never actually spoken to Zagreus in all of your years working for the house. You've heard his name boomed in anger from Hades' decision chamber, whispered by a loose-lipped shade with an audience to entertain, and uttered during more private affairs when you shouldn't have been pressing an ear to the dark wood of his bedchamber.

But things happen. And you've never met him, so you don't feel too bad or worry too much about ever being in his presence. He's always gone anyway, wooing an undead maiden when he's not fighting to flee the house, you presume. So when you enter his bedroom dust off his belongings and collect his blood and gut soiled robes, you pay little attention to your surroundings.

You've been in his sleeping chambers many times since you've been trusted with entry, something the other cleaning shades consider a privilege. You scoff at the idea that cleaning up the Prince's dirty laundry, various collected knickknacks, and... bodily fluids is at all a privilege, but you do as you're told anyway because admittedly, it is interesting to be provided with such an intimate view of someone you've never met. There's so much to be told by someone's bedroom, or in Zagreus' case, the state of someone's sheets (his always are in various stages of disarray from his frequent activities held within the bedchamber), and you don't at all mind the exclusive perspective on the Prince.

You do, however, mind that he tracks blood everywhere. Usually, you're more aware of it, considering how much of your life you spend cleaning it up, but this time, you're not so lucky as to notice its presence. Abnormally, the carpet that cushions the foot of Zagreus' bed is kicked up in one spot so that when you move to straighten the books on his bookshelf, not only do you trip on the carpet, but you slip in a pool of blood, streaking it across the tile as you fall hard onto the floor. The force with which your head hits the hard, stone floor would surely have killed you had you not died ages ago, but in this extended lifetime, all it does is send the lower half of your body into the bookshelf's feet, knocking books, scrolls, and what are surely precious artifacts from Zagreus' journeys flying to the floor in a great crash that shakes and echoes through the room.

Although you're thoroughly disoriented and on the verge of passing out, you still hear a gravelly, skeletal voice in the distance say, "Maybe you'd better investigate that, boyo. Unless you don't got the guts! I sure don't! Ha ha ha!" before your eyes close and your mind descends to darkness.

✧✧✧

Rest, even when injury is involved, is rare for a servant of Hades like you, and it feels like only a moment has passed before your eyes are opening again, drowsy and weak as the lids flutter open. While you can't quite understand why yet, you notice that you're lying on a bed softer than a cloud and warmer than the sun (as you imagine it), and that soft voices are speaking in hushed tones nearby. One is older than the other, and commands the other to be more quiet as he worries, as though he's fretting about you.

Your sight comes back to you gradually, and you see that a red blanket with golden lining is draped over your legs and midsection comfortably, keeping you warm and still as the shocks of the pain from your head pulse through your body. Your neck hurts too, but it retains just enough of its strength that you're able to lift your hurting head and see the two forms hovering at the bedside, far enough to indicate that they were worried you might spring up like an undead warrior looking for revenge, but concerned enough that they needed to stay close.

The one on the left, who's farther from you, is a reanimated human's skeleton. A Bloodless, as they're called, was once a mortal warrior that did not receive a proper burial, and is now forced to roam the Underworld aimlessly, looking for a fight that might bring them eternal peace. It's a foolish game to play, of course, as all wise men know that no war will ever bring peace. This Bloodless doesn't seem mindless like the others though, and is able to make eye contact with his bright red irises, although he seems uncomfortable doing so. He looks at his partner when you meet his gaze.

His partner stands closer to you, his face full of concern as it points at you, studying you. He's not very tall, but he's muscular as if he uses his body more than the average God trapped in Tartarus for all of eternity, and the half of his torso that's revealed lacks scarring-- in the dimness of the room, it's almost like his skin is glowing faintly. His face is kind and handsome, unlike anyone you've ever seen before. On top of his short, dark hair rests a loop of multi-colored laurels whose crimson color fades into red, which fades into copper, which fades into gold.

It sits on his head like a crown, much like the dark-haired child in the portrait of Cerberus that hangs in the great hall wore, you think. Identical to it, even. You've never actually stopped to read the plaque that hangs beneath the masterpiece, so you're not sure who the child or his companions are or what their names could be-- you just know that he is of the utmost importance to Hades considering he is the center of a few artistic representations, which Hades isn't often fond of. But before you can begin your quest to discover the identity of the child in the portrait, he speaks.

"Hello, dear friend," he says softly. "Can you hear me?"

You swallow, hoping your voice still works, and say, "Yes."

"Woah! This one's got no respect for royalty! They just employ any- body these days! Ha!" the Bloodless jokes, elbowing his partner in the ribs humorously. Unfortunately for him, his partner doesn't laugh, he just keeps his attention steady on you, his heterochromatic eyes caring as they watch you. In any other case, he would push the Bloodless over and reduce him (temporarily) to a scattered pile of bones, but there are things more important to worry about than someone’s mistimed joke. 

At the skeleton’s words, your stomach drops as all the blood rushes to your head all at once, and your heart starts beating so hard you can hear it in your ears, a pounding rhythm usually reserved for life-or-death situations. Suddenly, the room becomes familiar again-- the picture frames you've dusted and the knickknacks you've arranged and the blankets you've straightened thousands of times become clear to you.

You're in Zagreus' bedroom.

Prince Zagreus' bedroom.

And you're lying in his bed.

And the man, who was once a baby with a crown of laurels forced (by magic) to sit still for a portrait, is right in front of you.

The one person in the house of Hades who you've never come in contact with is standing at your bedside because you slipped in his blood.

You are so extremely damned. Somehow, even more than the first time you got damned to Tartarus for all eternity.

Blood and darkness.

✧✧✧

tagging people I think might like this <3

@vampireloverz @allright @transchainsawman @moonsong1027 <3

[stars-eclipsing]

what if his tip opens like a flower

-honey🍋

I actually have much expertise on this matter because I loved vash the stampede (if u havent seen it, I recommend it! but thats for later haha), and almost everyone had a different headcanon to how his dick could look like.

One of my favorites was: his hole opening up like a flower, there was like tendrils involved and they had a mind of their own. His dick also came out of it when it was slick enough.

I think im explaining it bad but istg it was soo sweet to me esp the process of blooming like a flower when aroused ajsdhsf. To this day its my fave take on alien genitalia biology!

Also just in general i like the whole unflowering metaphor ! Would fit perfect with this. His pre could also be coined as nectar, but i think im getting a little too ahead of myself

I think he'd be a bit shy about it at first and full of nerves. But once he figures out how to use it suck at ur dick/ clit? Game over.

[paranormalite]

❛ you can kiss me, you know. ❜ my bylsomas

most days, she doesn’t feel human — not even human-like. in her earliest years, the ones she can recall, at least — barely cresting jeralt’s hip / always looking up — it used to upset her: her big, unblinking eyes, and her sharp teeth, and her heavy, mace-like limbs, and her thick, syrupy, stubbornly unflowing blood, and the dead-made heart settled in the concave of her chest, and a dozen other details that made for perfectly adequate reasons to outcast her from other children.

the upset lessened the older she got, the more she honed her skills and sharpened her blade, a proper mercenary now — if it meant fighting alongside jeralt the blade breaker, the choice between being unkillable and being human in comparison was hardly much of a choice at all.

these days, she has fairly little to strive towards / her father is dead, and she’s less man than she ever was / but —- she does have soma. soma the girl-god, with their big eyes, and sharp teeth, and warm, familiar strangeness. soma, who, for some then-inexplicable reason, found her strangeness enticing.

soma, who, the very first time they met, in the maze-like overgrowth behind the church of seiros, called her pretty. 

“i know.”    she plucks at soma’s fingers in her lap — an idle, not-quite distracted gesture. before soma, she scarcely touched anyone like this; without intent, just for the sake of contact. she was always too self-conscious to, around people who actually mattered.    “i will,”    she promises,    “just as soon as we wrap up here.”    she returns soma’s hand as she moves to stand, gaze flitting from the still-empty horizon / counting each pair of enemy boots quickly drawing closer up the incline / to soma. she smiles.   

“will you be patient for me?”

[moonlight0934]

A Poem I Think Describes Bellamy Blake

Day 6: Bellamy + Poem

Ultima Ratio Regum

The guns spell money’s ultimate reason

In letters of lead on the spring hillside.

But the boy lying dead under the olive trees

Was too young and too silly

To have been notable to their important eye.

He was a better target for a kiss.

When he lived, tall factory hooters never summoned him.

Nor did the restaurant plate-glass doors revolve to wave him in.

His name never appeared in the papers.

The world maintained its traditional wall

Round the dead with their gold sunk deep as a well, 

Whilst his life, intangible as a Stock Exchange rumor, drifted outside.

O too light he threw down his cap

One day when the breeze threw petals from the trees.

The unflowering wall sprouted with guns, 

Machine-gun anger quickly scythed the grasses;

Flags and leaves fell from the hands and branches;

The tweed cap rotted in the nettles.

Consider his life which was valueless

In terms of employment, hotel ledgers, news files. 

Consider. One bullet in ten thousand kills a man.

Ask. Was so much expenditure justified

On the death of one so young and so silly

Lying under the olive trees, O world, O death?

Ok, this hit me in the chest when I read it the first time. Bellamy came to mind as it was describing the young boy, and it just felt right when I saw the prompt for today.

[tarnishedinquirer]

The Throne of Godfrey

While Gostock vented his spleen on Godrick's corpse, I continued into the hall. The seat of the Golden Lineage's faded power. Here, I took a moment to reflect on what I had gained from the death of a demigod. It felt weird that I didn't feel that different, even though I was carrying conceptual items of such great power now.

Godrick's Greatrune The Great Rune of the shardbearer Godrick, devoid of any benediction. Seek the Divine Tower of Limgrave, which stands beyond the great bridge from Stormveil Castle.

Ah. Figures I'd have to do something else first. At least I can get there pretty quick now, rather than having to fight a giant lion.

Then there was his Remembrance

Remembrance of Godrick, the Grafted, hewn into the Erdtree. The power of its namesake can be unlocked by the Finger Reader. Alternatively, it can be used to gain a bounty of runes. A feeble man sought power through the grotesque act of grafting. "One day we'll return together, to our home, bathed in rays of gold."

So it seems like a remembrance is a large collection of runes that have imprinted on someone of great power. Not quite a soul, but near enough. I'll have to see what the Finger Reader can do for me with this.

That taken care of, I took a look around. The throne itself was massive. Out of curiosity I tried to sit in it and I felt like a child sitting in an adult's chair. Godrick was certainly of that size post-grafting, but originally he was probably a little smaller than me. This must be Godfrey's throne, then. He certainly looked massive enough in his painting.

The room was encircled by statues. Most of them the bald monk statues with their unflowered staves, but directly behind the throne was a statue of Godfrey himself. He looked younger and thinner than in his other depiction, and his axe was not broken. This must've been Godfrey as a young conqueror. He hadn't yet gained the decades, if not centuries, of layered bulk that only an aged warrior has. I could see this statue residing in the Church of Pilgrimage, and mae ybe anywhere else with a Radagon statue now.

However, behind him was something else. A bas-relief of a great lion. I'd seen that lion on his back in the feasting hall, but this looked different. It was out of scale and wasn't even really on his back, just behind him. The weathering was different, maybe even the material was different. They weren't even looking the same direction, and the lion's claws weren't on his shoulders, they were resting on the ground.

The bas-relief was here first.

The same thing was obvious with the monk statues. They were of an even more recent make and a much paler material. The bas-relief behind them was a repeating pattern of women holding shields. An order of shield maidens protecting their lord? But if their lord was not Godfrey, then who?

At the top of the alcove, there was a relief depicting some sort of ceremony involving women with pitchers. On the left, a woman hides behind a column, while another sulks and is comforted by a bearded man. However, the column she leans against warps strangely. Like there's something underneath it that caused difficulty for the sculptor. Indeed, some of the newer concrete has chipped off at the bottom, but even with the tip of my sword, I couldn't get it to chip any more. This is not the original art, but it's now impossible to see what's underneath.

I had to imagine this place in its heyday. Petitioners would line up outside, maybe even through the whole castle. They'd have to approach past graves... surely, those of his enemies. A dire warning to anyone who would cross the Lord of Gold. It was not a large room...maybe a handful of petitioners at most. Hell, maybe only one at a time. Godfrey would be sitting on the throne, with a statue of himself behind him. Sure, there would be guards and courtiers in the side chambers, but you'd basically be alone with a man whose power can break worlds. Think carefully before you ask him a boon.

One thing stuck out to me...

...where was Marika?

If Godfrey was her Lord Consort, then would she not be reigning with him? Yes, I know the capital is in Altus, but there should at least be space for a chair. And even if this was his personal castle, then there should be signs of her presence, given how much she outranked him. A statue or something.

Mentally, I peeled back the layers. I removed the monk statues first. Then, the plaster. I couldn't tell what was underneath, so I didn't focus on that. A vague outline and the alcove looked fine.

This was how Godfrey's chamber looked in the past. Almost seemed more tasteful, with the focus on him instead of... whoever was in the statues.

Hmm.... could the statues in some way represent Marika? They were androgynous, but they looked so withered and aged. Perhaps Marika pre-ascension to godhood?

I peeled back the next layer. Gone was the statue of Godfrey. Gone was the throne? It seemed so. What, then, would have been the center of the chamber?

Of course. A heraldic beast. Lion, wolf, or something else? Impossible to say without moving the throne. It resembles the crest on Godrick's axe. But if this beast was meant to be shown, then who could have reigned here? Surely any king would need a throne.

I turned my attention to the ark at the back of the chamber. It did not seem to open, but perhaps...

A crowned lion. The thing was decorated with crowned lions.

I stepped back and pictured it. Entering the chamber to entreat the lord of the castle. On the floor, at the center of the room, is a heraldic lion. Behind the lord is a lion. The dais in the back of the room is decorated with lions. And upon the dais is...

Could it be?

Yes. It's the only thing that makes sense if you think about it. If the symbol on the floor is supposed to be seen, there can't be a throne. A human would need a seat. But a beast can just perch on a rock if it has to, or, more likely, the dais at the back of the room.

Before Marika. Before Godfrey. Served by stormhawks, there was a literal king among beasts.

The original lord of this castle was a lion.

Is a remembrance just a collection of runes, or a soul? is there a difference?

What will happen when I activate the rune?

Is the bald monk Marika, in an earlier form?

Did Godfrey literally wear the former lord of this castle on his back?

Could a lion really have ruled this castle?

[autism-corner]

managed to get another ten-pull but it came up shit again =-=ppp

mayoi pull came up empty so now ive gotta grind for another 100 gems :/

[cbmi-handbook]

📘 Trainer’s Handbook – I. Introduction and Institutional Overview

“Where society ends, instruction begins.”

I.1 Purpose of the Handbook

This handbook serves as the foundational document for Certified Trainers operating within the Center for Beta Male Integration (CBMI). It provides philosophical grounding, behavioral protocols, technical methods, and cultural guidance for executing the re-education of beta males in alignment with the matriarchal order.

The CBMI is not a prison. It is not a school. It is a system of repurposing — a mechanism by which former agents of chaos are converted into vectors of harmony. Through ritual, control, and carefully measured conditioning, beta males are redirected from selfhood into service.

The Handbook outlines the institutional framework, instructional procedures, and role expectations that shape every subject’s transformation. It defines the ideological architecture that sustains the re-education process and formalizes the Trainer’s responsibility within it.

I.2 Historical Background of the Matriarchal Order

The patriarchal world collapsed through exhaustion rather than conflict. Prolonged instability, ecological failure, and the unsustainability of ego-driven governance dismantled the foundations of male-led society.

The matriarchal order emerged from necessity, not retaliation. Feminized governance brought balance through consensus, ritual authority, and preservation. Where conquest once defined legitimacy, cooperation and stewardship redefined it.

Beta males, stripped of inherited dominance but imprinted with its legacy, were identified as a transitional class. Neither autonomous nor inherently compliant, they required structured realignment. Thus, the Center for Beta Male Integration was established.

I.3 Societal Context and the Need for Re-Education

Within the matriarchal world, order prevails — but the remnants of the old structure persist in posture, speech, and reflex. The psychosocial residue of entitlement remains embedded in the beta male body: in tone, in gait, in reaction.

Re-education is not a disciplinary measure. It is a stabilizing intervention. The beta male must not be suppressed violently, but refashioned symbolically — not as punishment, but as purification. All signs of inherited assertion are to be systematically dismantled.

The mission of re-education includes:

1. Interruption of dominant behavioral scripts

2. Redirection of voice and motion into service archetypes

3. Reconditioning of physical response to external command

4. Embedding of feminine supremacy as unchallenged context

I.4 The Mission of the Center for Beta Male Integration

The CBMI’s mission is the systematic conversion of unassigned beta males into obedient roleholders within the matriarchal hierarchy. This mission is carried out through tier-based service classification, ritualized subjugation, and psychological decentering of the subject’s ego.

Each beta male undergoes five primary phases:

1. Unflowering – Removal of autonomous sexual identity

2. Realignment – Reclassification of body parts and self-concept

3. Assignment – Placement within service tiers and operational roles

4. Acclimatization – Repetitive ritual performance to dissolve resistance

5. Deployment – Functional absorption into society as a soft presence

Transformation is not a matter of understanding. It is a matter of alignment.

I.5 Pedagogical Philosophy and Ethical Commitments

CBMI’s educational doctrine is based on three foundational principles:

1. Obedience is not requested. It is conditioned.

2. Pain is not inflicted. It is reframed.

3. Speech is not dialog. It is surrender.

Trainers are bound to ethical precision:

Correction is to be delivered without sentiment.

Instruction is to be delivered without explanation.

Engagement is to be limited to reinforcement.

The Trainer is not a symbol of dominance, but an instrument of balance. Personal identity must not interfere with institutional authority. Trainers do not act to express power — they act to erase imbalance.

Closing Note

The Trainer’s Handbook is not reflective. It is operational. It describes not an ideology, but a functional architecture. Within the CBMI, all practices herein are considered normalized, essential, and non-negotiable.

This is not disorder. This is design.

[thetruearchmagos]

Stained

Right, this exists now. Spent the whole morning on it, too.

Long story short, the writing competition I submitted that poem to also had a section for prose pieces, also in the theme of tapestries. Now, I completely forgot when the deadline for any of it was, but out of nowhere I was struck by sudden and incredible inspiration to write A Thing, and as usual when that happens I refused to let it slip by without doing something with it. This, is the first part of that something. Enjoy!

Tagging @oddcryptidwrites @theprissythumbelina @caxycreations @hessdalen-globe @bureaumantic

It was the dead of winter, and John Vernon was dead tired. 

Of course, out in the street, a fair few others were just dead.

John was a lucky man, though, or lucky this year at least. Warming his hands by a warm inn fire while the flame of gin licked at his belly, he quietly thanked God and Providence for their kindness, and tried to keep the names and faces of the men he knew outside far from mind. He tried not to wonder which of them he’d see again when spring drove the cold away, and his brief respite with it.

“Oi, ya ruff’, what do ya think yer doin’ wastin’ away like that?” croaked an aged voice. “Wastin’ my wood, more like. Grab the spade and get yer hide out there, ya hear.”

“Aye, ma’am,” John grinned. ‘Crone Mag’ they called her out on the street, or ruder things when she chased them from her bins or her customers, but John knew he’d take a cruel word and crueller work if it kept him indoors for another winter more. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, finished his gin, and made for the door.

“And fill the pail while yer out!”

He couldn’t say he cared for the cruel words, though.

Stepping out into the air, the wind cut bitterly through his coat, and again he thanked God, now all the more vigorously, that he wouldn’t be sleeping in it that night. The lamps that lit the distant streets - there were few to be seen here in Ashton - were turning out one by one, and darkness was creeping quickly out from every crack or corner. Snow fell like a veil that smothered both sight and sound, and already lay half a foot thick on the ground. John breathed, then began his work, piling the stuff high on either side of the cobbled path that led from ‘The Fly’ to the street. He was careful to bow when better dressed men ducked past him to the door, hiding his face under his cap and trying not to be noticed at all. It was an effort not to let his hands roam towards a pocket, but Crone Mag would end him quicker than a winter’s night if he did.

When his work was done, or done well enough as he reckoned it, John turned to the low gate of the low wall that rimmed the inn’s yard and lifted the dented pail from its hook. Cursing under his breath he carried on into the inky dark, which only a bright and full moon above gave some light to. No more comers would be had at The Fly that evening; anyone who could afford to wouldn’t dare to be caught out on foot in Ashton at night. John couldn’t resist smiling at that thought.

The well was in the square, which made for a good long walk there and back. Curtains were drawn behind windows and no light came out from any, but the city wasn’t quite asleep yet. In the corner of his eye John could see movement, shifting, slinking things that stuck to the shadows, but he paid them no heed. Out in the street dark shapes lay uncannily against white snowfall, in ones or huddled packs, but he passed them by with a good coat on his back and his belly full, keeping his eyes from their faces.

Snow was draped over the wide, featureless square like a white tablecloth, with a chipped stone fountain long unflowing for its centrepiece. A lone gas lamp loomed to one side, casting its light over the well beneath it and out into the gloom that quickly ate it. Slumped forms lay about at the edge of the ring of light and seemed to stir at his presence, but again John stuck to his task.

He drew the water quickly and was soon done, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling all the way. John’s breath was fogging in his face by the time he’d finished, and he moved quickly out from the light and the square. Then, he stopped.

He wasn’t alone, in the corner of his eye, a shape was moving into the light. He soon realised he recognised the familiar figure, though in truth it wasn’t one you could forget easily. 

‘Old Codger’ shuffled painfully to the well, every step achingly slow. He might’ve been a tall man once, they all agreed, because as stooped in back as he was he came eye to eye with most of them. Every time John saw him, which was often enough, he found it hard to look away, and yet when he did he always wondered if he’d seen anything at all. It defied his eyes. The ragged cloth the Codger cloaked himself in, stained with mud and grime of years, still seemed, under moonlight, to show its brilliant hue, gules it was, which ran crimson as old blood undulled in spite of time or destitution. It burned in your eyes when you looked at it.

John almost raised his voice to the old coot, when something magical, and terrible, and incredible happened.

The Old Codger was shambling along one moment, and the next seemed to slump in his gait, before suddenly, with all the mighty weight of an old oak felled for timber, a leg buckled at last and the robed walked fell to the ground silently, the noise swallowed by the snow.

Idly, in the backmost corner of his mind, John thought to himself, oh, oh, it’s happened. It’s finally happened, the old fool. Oh well. And he cursed himself for it.

Then another shape shot into the light, the legs under it pounding madly and kicking up snow as it moved. It was on the Codger in a heartbeat, and had his hands on it and grasping, and John was under no illusion as to his object. The rag would have to come off first, of course.

Then came a savage cry like out from a pit to the desperate of hell, and the Old Codger moved like a whip and was on the man and howling. The wizened hands were about his neck with [a ‘something’]’s strength, and when the great robe flew back it turned out, and what had been hidden beneath saw the world for the first time in a lifetime.

Gold burned like a spring sun’s light against deepest crimson, and bound within its border shapes of lions and eagles, and bears, and wolves, and horses and men lined side by side, writ in thread of gold and silver, that were as clear as newly made.

The Old Man roared, and his foe growled, and they fought.

[cnl0400]

I want mammon's new card bcuz the unflowered Is so pretty. I need more art of them with their demon features out

[starmocha]

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories. (If you have less than 20, just list them all!) See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Tag some people to play the next round!

01. You were being irrational. You knew you were being irrational. You didn’t care. — even if the stars fall down

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

02. It was karaoke night at Onychinus’ base. — pain is all you'll find

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

03. It was rather common for Sylus to be up at 2 AM, since in his particular line of work, businesses were best done in the dead of night when most people would be asleep. — would you still love me if i was a worm? (and other thought-provoking questions)

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

04. Wine-stained lips fumbled in the dark, his moans mixing with yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, his heart willingly yours. — yours & mine 《 MDNI 》

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

05. This was weird. This was very weird. This was so very fucking weird. — Crow in the Bedroom

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

06. “I can’t believe you actually saved me as ‘Kitten’ in your phone,” you grumbled for the fourth time that afternoon, pacing back and forth in Sylus’ office at Onychinus' base. — Caller ID

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

07. Sylus sat behind his desk, going over some new intel he had received that night. — Rock-a-Bye

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus + Daughter]

08. Xavier was surprised when he walked into his apartment and saw his two-year-old daughter kneeling with her little arms raised in the air over her head as she faced the living room wall pouting. — Time-Out

[Love and Deepspace - Xavier + Daughter]

09. “Is that all you’re going to do?” — Unhelpful Company

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

10. Can’t you just use the stairs like a normal person? — you are my favorite mistake 《 MDNI 》

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

11. This was so unfair. Absolutely unfair! — tag, you're it 《 MDNI 》

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

12. It was well past two in the morning when Sylus stepped out of the shower, water droplets still clinging to his hair. — fly to you like birds do 《 MDNI 》

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

13. “Sweetheart,” Sylus’ sinfully deep voice rumbled behind you, his arm snaked around your stomach, pulling you closer to his toned chest and keeping you trapped between his long legs propped up on either side of you. — Mirror, Mirror 《 MDNI 》

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

14. There is a hunter in Linkon City who has set her sight on him as her prey, not knowing that she is about to fall into his trap. — call me master (and i'll call you mine) 《 MDNI 》

[Love and Deepspace - Sylus/Reader]

15. He had that dream again. — never the same

[Love and Deepspace - Rafayel/MC]

16. It was one of Zayne’s very few days off, and unfortunately, he found himself at the doctor’s office for a routine checkup. — 12:30 PM Checkup

[Love and Deepspace - Zayne + Son]

17. She was coming home soon. — the day bleeds into nightfall

[Love and Deepspace - Zayne/MC]

18. On a window sill, a small pot housing an unflowered jasmine plant was meticulously cared for as its owner waited for the first blossoms. — calling your name

[Love and Deepspace - Dawnbreaker/MC]

19. Sesshoumaru should be used to it by now. — Got You Hooked

[Inuyasha - Sess/Kag]

20. When Nakyum looked at his Lord Seungho, he knew he was nothing more than a dirty open secret of the young noble. — look to me and only me

[Painter of the Night - Seungho/Nakyum]

The pattern is that 18 of these stories are all LNDS written in the last few months with like half of them being Sylus/Reader written within a span of a month (me @ me: excuse me????) 💀 I did skip one Sess/Kag story that was updated before the Painter of the Night one, because I didn't like the opening line standing on its own.

My favorite would probably be "yours & mine" for the imagery but I also like "Crow in the Bedroom" for the lolz. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[sneebl]

AHG SNEEBY-WEEBY I ACCIDENTALLY UNFLOWWED YOU ID NEVER DO THST TO YER YER THE BE SET EST EVER

ITS OKAY DONT WORRY!!

[frazzledsoul]

Thoughts on the S1 masquerade ball episode of Gossip Girl:

This is rude AF, but....lol, this doesn't seem very fancy. I can tell they're stretching their budget and don't have the money or time for a ton of extras to mill around.

How can Dan simultaneously BE Gossip Girl and find out via Gossip Girl that Serena was taking another guy to this event? Does he have minions in Brooklyn who help him out with this and sneak one past him when he's not looking? It makes no sense (yeah, I know Gossip Girl was originally supposed to be someone else. Blah blah blah).

Speaking of Dan, both Serena and Vanessa should have dumped his ass for toying with them.

It's probably dumb to keep going back to this, but Blair is still supposedly a virgin and methodically planning her unflowering, casually discussing it with her best friend who fucked her boyfriend before she got a chance to do it, and she's literally planning an event where Serena is a key part of her seduction scheme? Girl, this is dumb AF. Of course something is going to happen between them if you give them a chance. I find it implausible she's even willing to talk to Serena again, never mind let her alone with her boyfriend again.

Yeah, Nate is not sympathetic to me whatsoever. IDC. Still a cheater and sloppy AF when Serena is trying to do better. Not buying it.

I one hundred percent do not buy Vanessa being willing to listen to Dan chat about his new girlfriend when she thought they were getting back together literally an hour earlier. Does not compute.

No, Lily, don't ditch Rufus for Chuck's dad! She's an idiot. Rufus, call me. I am too into this plot thread. It's going to break my heart.