#warden of rend

[lethalcontracts]

--The Warden of Rend--

A collab between @zika-the-certified-idiot and myself of Clay as a dark souls inspired boss!

Zika did the body rendering, while i did the initial base sketch, base face and hood rendering and the weather/background!

[headspace-hotel]

Minecraft Bedrock seeds with the most Ancient Cities

do you like it when the Warden rends your ass asunder? cool cuz here's a list of bedrock edition seeds with a ton of Ancient Cities within 1k blocks of spawn

-121788326447864432: 12 cities within 1k

6643316278455641594: 11 cities within 1k (if it doesn't work, try adding the negative sign; the way i wrote this one down is unclear)

905376246049808076: 9 cities within 1k

5693900023852322170: 12 cities within 1k

-5802976357777259507: 8 cities within 1k

8574634970623513575: 12 cities within 1k

5821969180069230989: 12 cities within 1k

-3821203016328454178: 8 cities within 1k

-1681827121757461507: 10 cities within 1k

-3304561520596123822: 10 cities within 1k

-1929733732253387303: ✨15✨ cities within 1k

[muzzleroars]

out of curiosity, how do you think an encounter between Micheal and Gabriel would go after Micheal's botched fall? not only did Gabriel fall, but he's with a machine? surely that's gonna do a number on Micheal's mental state. (btw, i'm utterly enamoured with your archangels and gabv1el content! seeing you post about them is always a highlight of my day)

i talked about how i think gabriel would react here, so i want to go in a little more on michael's perspective as well as the WHOLE v1 issue. because the thing is....his rallying against gabriel lacks context at first, knowing only that he fell and that, as hell's warden, he is determined to restore full order beginning with gabriel. he is grieved at his loss, he feels wholly responsible for it as he has long feared that gabriel's questioning would lead to his fall, and the only way he can manage that terrible guilt is to see him bond to his proper punishment. just the same way he always handled lucifer. however, the situation becomes much more complicated upon actually meeting with gabriel and fully understanding his fall. as well as meeting v1.

michael, importantly, takes no joy in the work he forces himself to carry out - this is about his repentance, this is about maintaining god's order no matter the consequences, this is about proving that something of saint michael is left in him. he condemns gabriel, he proclaims his own righteousness, yet his voice reflects none of it in spite of how he tries to feel the rapture at carrying out god's will - no, all of his words are flat with a barely concealed grief and anger behind them. he wants detachment from this awful task, to bind gabriel and let him haunt him the way he always has been. yet this is all that can save him, it's the only action he can take in his desperation to not leave such a hideous stain on his own memory. and when gabriel begs to know what's become of him, he offers the simple, automatic response: my light was severed. nothing more needs to be said of his heinous actions.

yet a dam breaks in gabriel at the words, the frozen shock melting away into a furious indignation that demands to know who did this. who stole michael's light, who dared touch the prince of heaven and tear him away from god's people - he vows to find them and rend their heads from their shoulders just as he did the council. that admission resounds in michael's skull - is this why he fell? damned to treachery for the assassination of the council? michael laughs, the first welling of emotion he can't contain. gabriel had done what he would have - in michael's mind, the council was nothing more than a self-selected group of heretics who laid claim to god's throne and his authority. they deserved their deaths, yet he knows no exception can be made because any exception means to stray. gabriel has taken life eternal and michael's adherence to god's law is biblical - a sin is a sin, even if the sinner was right. his whole body cries out against the action as he draws his chains, telling gabriel there is no need. he tore out his own light. and seeing gabriel stricken still again, he rushes in to complete his work and be done with it. he hopes gabriel will make it easy on them both.

but while ice roots gabriel to the floor, v1 enters to fend off michael with a few solid hits that seem to do less than it hoped in deterring him (though it quickly determines the underwhelming response seems to be due to an inability in michael to feel pain) and THIS is when the encounter goes entirely off the rails because michael hadn't really registered v1's presence, let alone that it might be related to gabriel. and before he can reach any conclusion, gabriel snaps back to attention as he calls out to it and the small machine signs back to him, gestures quick, a bit irritated, and unreadable to an outsider. michael would voice his disdain for it, a low alliance that proves gabriel's deterioration, yet i think gabriel would counter it with the truth of what v1 means to him. he is far beyond caring, especially with how disoriented this encounter has already left him - and hearing v1 disparaged incenses him besides (v1 has never understood it, but gabriel is adamant about maintaining its honor).

michael is flooded with relief, the ache in his open chest releasing him as his thoughts narrow into a single objective. this is gabriel's true treachery, to love what wasn't made by god. this is so much easier, this rids him of his guilt at punishing the sin he would have committed himself, extinguishes the pride he felt in gabriel's rebellion against unlawful kings. he is a demon, like any other, and gabriel is dead. he smothers any other emotion before it can drown him, refusing to show anything to the unnatural pair before him - the assault is immediate, singular in focus as the vessel of god's holy wrath and shut down to anything else. gabriel has seen it before, michael's uncanny ability to throw a killswitch in his head and drain himself of any semblance of a personality. even with god dead, it seems he's retained that talent - gabriel had never been on the receiving end of it but thankfully v1's reflexes are as fast as ever and gabriel had always been the only one that was able to talk michael down when he couldn't seem to come back to himself. this feels just off though - gabriel thinks little of the difference given michael's state, but it's obvious he's targeting v1 specifically for dismemberment. if this is what gabriel fell for, it better prove itself worthy.

[nightingaletrash]

I love the Last Flight so much tho, the way it truly encapsulates the horror of the Blight. How a single day of dawdling was enough for Antiva's royals to doom their people. The soul-rending endlessness of it, and how even the biggest victories are only temporary unless they can get you to the Archdemon.

It also shows how, by this point, the Grey Wardens have come to be so respected that its detrimental. When they say that a Blight is here, they're listened to and people react accordingly, but Antiva's royals really believed that the Wardens could save their city - its why they sent for them, they believed they could turn the tide of the entire horde and were shocked when the Wardens said 'we can't save your city, the best we can do is help to evacuate you and your people before it's too late.' And then that belief keeps them from listening to the Wardens when they say that they can't perform a miracle. And it costs them everything.

Then there's Isseya's blood magic, and how the novel shows us that while she never used it for malignant purposes, there was a huge cost for her... but it wasn't entirely her fault. The first time her blood magic had a horrible cost - when her altered Joining practically destroyed a griffon's mind and filled him with hatred - she swore off of using the spell ever again. It's not until the First Warden orders her to do it over and over again does the magic take its toll by accelerating the Taint in her blood. And when her spell proves to have created a blight disease unique to griffons, the fault lies largely with the First Warden as he failed to enact quarantines and he kept using the griffons as messengers. If Isseya had had her way, Shrike would have been the only griffon to have been changed, but the pressure from Garahel and the First Warden and Lisme and everyone else that insisted that the joined griffons were a solution made it so that she couldn't say no.

There's just a lot going on in the Last Flight that really communicates things better than the games do without diving into codexes. Origins doesn't really show just how soul-grinding and all-consuming a Blight is supposed to be because this is the weird one that only lasted a year. DA2 only shows the consequences of blood magic via the reactions to it as opposed to the real consequences of the magic itself. And Inquisition's attempt to portray the Wardens as flawed and sometimes misguided comes off as dismissive of the order itself.

The Last Flight describes how the Blight changes the landscape as it spreads and shows our characters changing and ageing as it goes on, with the protagonists going from a couple of fresh-faced recruits to aged veterans over the span of a decade. We see a real, tangible consequence of blood magic beside the societal reactions to it. And we see the Wardens at their best and at their most flawed; from evacuating and saving as many people as they can from the Darkspawn, to recklessly forcing blood magic on their griffons and failing to enact proper quarantines when the first signs of the problem began to appear. Its such a damn good book and I love it so much 💜

[briarwickart]

Abbess Prisca, Warden of the ancient horror which seeks to rend our atoms asunder.

[mushlandsandbeyond]

Sculk Lore Day 2!

Hello fellas, it’s Mod Huskies here again to talk a bit more about sculk in the Mushlands universe! If you missed Day 1, check it out here- it covers the basics. This day will have the highly anticipated breakdown of sculk avatars, and go over the two main sculk characters in this world!

Hive Intelligence and Avatars

Sculk at all sizes operates with a distributed network of consciousness: for example, there is no nervous system or brain. Rather, it uses a strong psychic field to facilitate that sort of self-communication. Of course, sculk will always continue to grow as long as food is supplied, which means that this psychic field can get stretched thin.

The solution to this is the sculk avatar: a main body of sorts, which acts as both a repeater for the psychic signal and a more sophisticated tool for interacting with the world. Only the largest and strongest sculk strains can create a sculk avatar.

Avatars act as the manifestation of the sculk’s will, and carry out its plans on a larger scale. For example, a crafty avatar may pose as a curious traveler to collect stories, or trick unsuspecting people into following it into a secluded place where it can then strike.

Despite being relatively free roaming, avatars cannot venture too far from the region where the sculk strain is located. Going past this limit can result in becoming disconnected from their home strain, leading to the formation of two different sculk strains.

Avatars can look like anything due to sculk’s natural shapeshifting ability combined with its intelligence. However, they will always have an antennae somewhere on their body- this being the most important sensory organ for sculk, going without is like forgoing your eyes and ears. Of course, if they must blend in, an avatar will forgo it to survive. Speaking of shapeshifting...

Sculk Abilities

All sculk at any stage in life have the ability to view knowledge. This displays as an aura around the object or organism containing it- the more filling the meal, the more intricate the aura. This allows sculk to choose its targets wisely, and save its strength for only the high value targets.

Sculk can also shapeshift. At smaller sizes this only manifests as the creation of specialized structures and autonomous Wardens, but for larger strains, this can be used to great effect. Carapaces can be shifted to ward off blows, claws and teeth for rending flesh, wings for flight. An avatar with experience in this front can look like anything, or anyone.

If a sculk avatar is in play, these hyper-specialized creatures can have unique powers of their own. These vary from strain to strain, and could be anything from enhancements of a power they already express to something new entirely.

Finally, sculk possess perfect recall: down to the smallest morsels of knowledge, they remember everything they have ever consumed. Long lived sculk can be walking libraries, full of experiences and secrets lost to time. Even if destroyed to the point where only a handful of cells remain, that knowledge is not lost- just temporarily inaccessible until it grows large enough to regain its intelligence.

Notable Avatars

In the Mushlands, there is a small mining town known as Deepmine. The mayor of this town is Emerl: a gaunt old woman with the eerie ability to pacify even the most irate travelers. No one knows where she came from, or how the town came to be in the first place. But one thing is clear- she will not tolerate open discussion of these topics.

Of course, Emerl is a sculk avatar, originating from an ancient city deep below the sleepy town. Relatively young at only a few hundred years old, she is calculating, vengeful, and yet naive in some key areas. She has a tendency to underestimate the people she meets, and believes she always has the upper hand.

Her unique power is her mind altering spores: when breathed in, they induce feelings of compliance and suggestibility. She uses this power to smooth over the minds of people who are getting too close to the truth, forcing them to forget that this town was anything other than a nice place full of hardworking people.

---

In Echino Mesa, the legend of the Cataclysm is well known: an ever-shifting beast which toppled the tyrannical dynasty of the Aphros clan, taking days to subdue and finally destroy. Said Cataclysm was in fact the avatar of a very angry sculk strain, disturbed from its long hibernation by increased mining activity ordered by said dynasty.

After the Cataclysm fell, the strain recuperated slowly, taking on humanlike forms to better interact with and understand the world around it. The most well known of these incarnations, going by the name Samson, is perhaps the most enigmatic of them all. In the present day, he tutors the great grandson of the Aphros clan in the usage of their magic, with his student unaware of his true identity. In the distant past, he was a quiet man, husband to the grandfather of Monstrology.

His unique power is his particular mastery over shapeshifting: not only can he change his appearance, but he can mimic non-organic items as well, such as the clothing he wears. Besides that, shapeshifting comes naturally to him, useful for both exploration and combat.

---

Woooow this was a lot! Once again, if you have any questions, please feel free to ask! Thank you for sticking with me. On Day 3 I’ll talk about how these characters have shaped the world they live in, Samson in particular having inspired many myths and superstitions. Hope to see you there!

[snow-system-wol]

S'ria wakes up after killing what should've been the final Lightwarden, only for reality to sink in. It seems there is still one Lightwarden left after all.

(heavy cw for suicidal thoughts)

Ao3

There are no Scions by your side when you awake.

For a moment, this feels completely normal. This is your private room, why should anyone else be here? You'd be quite alarmed if any one was there, really, in your space.

And then you realize why you're surprised, as soon as you're conscious enough to vaguely remember what happened. You remember the agony of it clearer than anything else, the burning in your chest, the splitting pain in your skull, the air trapped in spasming lungs – everything else comes back more slowly.

The Exarch. Your heart drops, recalling the way he'd tried to give his life for yours and the look on his face when the gunshot rang out.

Then the rest of it starts to return to you, and you are no longer confused about why you are alone. Of course you're alone, why would any of the Scions be here? As out of it as you'd felt at the time, Emet-Selch’s words still remained clear.

Not only did you fail miserably in your task, completely losing control (and you could not care less about Emet-Selch deeming you a disappointment, but that did not extend to your allies), but you are a danger to them now. Not only could you be overcome with the urge to rend them to pieces and feed, but your mere presence will start to corrupt them.

Why would they be here, knowing that?

Though, you aren't actually alone, not really. Once you've fully sat up and waited to feel less dizzy, your eyes focus on Ardbert's back from where he stands across the room.

He turns towards you and he looks so relieved.

Your first guess was that you'd been out for a couple of bells maybe, until the next morning with the brightness of the room. Ardbert said no, it'd been multiple suns you'd been unresponsive, far too long.

You do not even finish processing that when you glance at the nearby clock on the wall – and for a moment think what you are seeing must be wrong. It was a helpful clock for a Light-drowned place like the Crystarium, a normal 12 bells with an additional dial that rotates between a sun and a moon to show time of day. The hands of the clock are both nearly vertical, so it must be midday, but the other wheel shows only the moon... Which would suggest midnight. You already know what you're going to see when you stumble over to the shuttered window, but it still stuns you to see the harsh sky looming over all of Lakeland.

Ardbert's boots make no sound on the tile, but you can sense his approach behind you regardless.

“It's like that everywhere. The whole of Novrandt is shrouded in Light again.”

You can picture it. Ardbert retracing your steps through each place you've gone, despair only mounting as each place was the same.

“And it's because of you and the power you absorbed from the Wardens.”

You make a choked sound in your throat and turn away from the sky to face him. You want to respond, perhaps that you know that without him saying it so bluntly, but there is an equal and opposite reaction that says you deserve to hear what you've done.

Ardbert looks at your face and softens his tone slightly. “No one knows but your friends. When they carried you down from the mountain, they told everyone waiting below that they didn't understand why the Light had returned.”

You understand that the secrecy is meant to calm you, but you can feel your heart clench at trying to imagine what that must have been like. Everyone's hopes and dreams and hard work – only leading them to the full return of the Light. And your failure forcing your allies to fumble and blatantly lie… it must have been agonizing.

You try to respond to Ardbert, but no words make it out of your body. He tells you, more a command than a suggestion, that you should leave your room.

In truth, you'd rather hole yourself up in here for a bit longer, but fresh air sounded like it could help.

You thought it would have been less painful, with everyone being none the wiser of what you've become. Oh, you had been dreadfully wrong, it is so much worse like this. Like this, the guilt eats you alive.

The Manager of Suites asks you to go let people know that you are well, so that your strong and oh-so-dependable reputation can reassure them.

(Oh-so-dependable until you're the one ending the world yourself. Is it even safe to be near them at all?)

All of it hurts.

The amount you've scared all of them with your seeming near-death state. The description of your allies running themselves ragged trying to find a way to help you. The frustration and confused horror with which Moren tries to figure out why the Light is back in the sky. All of it. Your vision unfocuses, hazy and distant, and you barely catch Katliss gently asking if you're alright, and you need to be out of the busy commons now.

It's easier and quieter up high. Your perch by the Rookery gives you little to look at except the damning sky, but there is at least no one there to judge you.

There is, actually, someone else there, but judging is the last thing he'd do.

No, Ardbert knows exactly what it feels like, to look at the sky and know entirely that you are to blame. To know the heart-wrenching guilt of it.

You wonder if he felt this part too, wandering amidst people that idolized him without them realizing yet whose fault it all was.

You imagine it was a relief when the other shoe finally dropped, really, and the condemnation started in earnest.

And then he did his best to make amends, even if it meant giving his life to travel to your world. He tells you how odd it felt, looking at the tainted sky for the last time before –

Well, he doesn't tell you whether he needed to do the deed himself, or if Elidibus simply snapped his fingers and separated soul from sudden corpse.

That would be so easy, wouldn't it, quick and painless?

…In truth, it did not take you long to start considering it, even before your walk through the Crystarium. But each conversation only made it feel more inevitable, and now… even if you had not thought of it yet, Ardbert would have planted that seed himself.

It can't be the worst option, given how awful the other choices are.

Stay here, and try to take comfort among your friends, and then kill them (and likely the whole of the Exarch's people as well) the moment you lose control.

Slip away into the wilds and wait to turn, and force them to uselessly hunt you down – either dying by your hand or being turned when they succeed.

Let your friends accompany you somewhere farther from the city while they try to find a cure, until they start to feel the corruption grow in them too from merely sleeping beside you.

None of those are outcomes you want, all horrific in their own way.

But… there is another option, even if you can not possibly ask your more knowledgeable friends whether it'd work.

Down in the Tempest, where Emet-Selch had offered a refuge to turn into a Warden quietly and without prying eyes. Deep below the surface, isolated from any innocent bystanders, and peacefully shielded from the blinding sky... that is the only thing truly left for you.

You have… it's a hope as much as it is a theory. Should you die in such an abyss, with no victims for the Light to latch on to, could it possibly just… disperse into the darkness enough to be harmless? Or else, if Emet-Selch was there – you doubt he could be turned into a Warden himself, so that would be safe enough, and perhaps it would even harm him somehow, the way he'd complained about the discomfort of trying to accompany them on the surface.

If the Light is freed before you fully turn, there is at least the barest chance at a better outcome. And even if not, you fail to see how it could make matters any worse than they already are. If nothing else, it means you'll never feast on anyone, no one else's blood further staining your hands.

Of course, there is only one way to stop someone corrupted from turning, as you'd seen within days of arriving in this world. You expect to feel afraid or horrified at the necessity of your death. You don't. It's a relief more than anything, to have such a clear way to both atone and try one last attempt to help.

You expect one of the others, Menphina likely, to be speaking up and trying to talk you out of it. It's very quiet in your head, though – not like true silence, but like the way the air itself is muffled after a fresh snowfall. Completely still.

You doubt you'd be able to hear her right now even if she tried to intervene.

You do devote some thought to the actual how of it, and that part makes something tremble inside of you. You don't really have to figure that part out right now, do you? You can deal with all that when it's actually time – you carry daggers, any other details can wait. You'll have to be quick about it, though, no hesitation. If your plan has any merit, Emet-Selch will surely try to stop you. The thought of cold metal touching your throat makes the trembling grow worse, but you'd barely feel that for a second, you wouldn't –

No, you'll sort it out after you've determined how to get there. You'll walk along the seabed, if you must, having long since lost the ability to drown.

You go about some last bits of business, stumbling into the Exarch's private chambers as bidden.

The vision you see does not shake your resolve so much as it merely has a bitter bite to it. A message from the future, brought back by G'raha – “Burn bright again…and live.”

You fear you are burning far too brightly at the moment.

(Oh, G'raha. You would only be a danger to him now, or maybe just tempt him back into the same sacrifice again – you fervently hope the others will try to save him though, in your stead.)

Your chest burns as you drop out of the vision and you think it merely emotion for a moment before you're fully doubled over. You don't have much time left, do you?

“Careful, now. If you lose control again, the Light could claim you for good.”

You're still gasping for air and trying to regain your balance, and you know it does not look promising. 

“Although it's probably only a matter of time before you succumb to the change, in either case.”

You shoot Ardbert a glare, because you know, you know. You are at least, now, upright and steady.

Ardbert's voice becomes gentle, more neutral. “What do you mean to do?”

You've turned your back to him and are glad for the fact that he cannot see your face. You mean to go to The Tempest, you tell him.

You hear a relieved laugh and immediately know that he has come to a different conclusion about your intentions. It is for the best, you think, to have the company of someone you cannot hurt before the end without him making the whole journey miserable for you. It's more comforting than truly going alone.

You feel oddly and horribly calm as you go to ask for an Amaro to take you to Kholusia. Within minutes, you would be leaving the Crystarium behind with no attempts to stop you – and once you did, likely no one would have the chance to.

“Ah, we have found thee.”

The first emotion you feel is anger. You were so close. Urianger interprets the cold look in your eyes as something else, but you could not care less about his actions on The First. Hells, the explanation felt better than the prior paranoia you'd felt. You're just angry that they're there and that Urianger is asking to come with you.

You grit the words out, “I'm a danger to those around me”, and Urianger is so quick to declare that he'd like to join you anyway that it's nearly a relief for Ryne to say that it's a bad idea.

It's less a relief for Ryne to instead beg you to stay, since you could turn at any time – as if that isn't the exact reason that you have to leave.

You know you've lost the chance though.

They'll never let you leave alone, even if you try to sneak out again, and killing yourself with any of them by your side would completely doom them – and defeat the point of trying to kill the last Lightwarden, if they'd become new ones immediately.

No, your only choice now is to… well, try to get the Exarch to safety and inconvenience Emet-Selch as much as possible, before you run out of time. It's not the worst thing.

You can't tell whether you feel appalled or slightly relieved, something still cold inside of you from imagining going through with it. When the conversation breaks off, everyone starting to speak among themselves, you can't tell if you are about to start crying.

It's only a matter of moments before there's a twin on either side of you.

“Just so you know, I will not look kindly on any further attempts to leave us behind. We do this together.”

Alisaie's voice shakes and you can't tell if her words are loaded or not. She'd understand the concept, given what she'd been helping her patients do to avoid turning, but whether she connected the dots here was another question entirely. The way she nudges your side with her shoulder is casual, a show of concerned frustration, but the spot where her hand settles on your arm – it is gripping you uncomfortably tight, as if you'll try to bolt the second she lets go.

Alphinaud clears his throat on your other side.

“I once said that I wanted to fight for Estinien – that I wanted to save him, not let him be sacrificed for a cause. And now I say the same to you.”

“That's…”

The words die in your throat as you process what Alphinaud said. In the last several minutes, no one had so much as brought up the idea of sacrificing or killing you, so… had you been so transparent that Alphinaud could guess at what you meant to do? (He's seen you at your worst though, it shouldn't be a surprise.) Alisaie's hand clenches painfully for a moment as Alphinaud finishes speaking and you jolt with a nearly inaudible yelp. Gods… is it both of them? Of all the people to know such a thing?

Alisaie apologetically relaxes her hand, but still doesn't quite release you.

You speak to her in a quiet murmur. “Alisaie, I know you won't let me leave alone. You can let go of me. Please.”

Her hand drops, but she and Alphinaud remain nearly glued to you. It's all very sweet, but you think you need to go sit down. You've been spending most of the last bell futilely trying not to think about what it was going to feel like to slit your own throat, and even without the plan to do so anymore you can't quite stop imagining it yet.

You set yourself down, heavy and tired, against one of the railings – flanked by two small Elezen. You find yourself wishing they could purr of all things – you feel like that'd help so much. (You could self-soothe a bit, try to start purring yourself, but some people don't understand Miqo'te enough to know purring does not always mean you're calm or happy. You'd hate to be misunderstood right now.)

If nothing else, you have enough to calm yourself. The breeze is gentle, there is a comfortable pressure against each shoulder, and the others seem content to discuss logistics without need of your input. Despite the length of time you'd just slept, a little more rest seems more than fair.

[flashhwing]

i don't even know how to phrase this

Warden Hawke who is using Cousland's name. assuming Cousland's identity. meeting Rendon Howe for the first time

Warden Hawke who is not Cousland, but who knows that Howe is significant to him. who remembers that Cousland wished for nothing more than to rend Howe's flesh from his bones

Warden Hawke, who didn't even like Cousland when he was alive, facing down Howe, swearing vengeance for a family he never knew

"who are you?" says Howe, one of the few left alive who knew Cousland enough to recognize that Hawke is not him

"I'm Aedan Cousland," says Hawke, with enough conviction that Howe begins to doubt. to fear. "you know what you did."

[psalacanthea]

Blog Nutritional Info

General Content Warning: 21+, marijuana, alcohol, sex (I never post sexually explicit writing without a cut to hide it), blood but not real gore, bones and monsters and bats. Spiders maybe rarely but my friend hates them so I avoid it.

My writing is adult writing, for adults. Content warnings are provided in the fics.

I do:

Accept writing prompts, fic requests, random OC or writing questions in my ask box.

Allow DMs from people who I do not follow, as long as u aren't a dick.

I do not:

Write x Reader or in second person. Please do not send me those prompts, I understand that it's very popular but it's not for me.

Currently Writing:

Baldur's Gate 3- Tav x Astarion, Dark Urge x Gortash (and Dark Urge x Abdirak)

Dragon Age- DA:A- Cousland Warden x Nathaniel Howe

In-Progress Fics:

Dissonance and Debauchery: The Drama of an Ill-Fated Bard

Follows the plot of the game Baldur's Gate 3. Tav (Zynatheri Rivati) x Astarion. Zyn is a surface-raised genderfluid Drow bard who habitually hides her own identity with magic. Her past is just as murky as her face, and she clings to her lies with a desperate grip. Much like her friendships, her lovers are all in passing and without an ounce of sentiment. Surely a self-centered, amoral vampire is using her just as much as she's using him, which means Astarion is safe. Right?

Status: On Hiatus- burned out on the game story. Once I'm ready to do a full playthrough again, no doubt I'll be back to it again. On a back-burner, getting more flavor as it reduces!

Vampires, Romance, and Other Dead Things

Modern AU of Baldur's Gate 3, vaguely follows Astarion's personal quest. Tav (Zyn) x Astarion. Astarion ends up attacked in the alley outside of Zyn's apartment and she drunkenly rescues him, battered, bloody, and bitten. Neither of them realize that staying the night in her apartment means he's condemning himself to an unlife sleeping on her couch. Zyn isn't thrilled about that, and neither is the vampire that turned Astarion.

Cazador wants his spawn back.

Status: Updating!

Belladonna- The Dark Urge

A series of one-shots detailing the past and game story of my Dark Urge. An impulse-riddled, violent murderer hell-bent on appearing untouchable and calm, she dwells within silent halls and is served by a cult of voiceless, cannibalistic maidens tended like flowers in a garden. Belladonna fights the power of her Father not to rebel, but to be capable of fulfilling his Will. For being the flesh of Bhaal is not only a privilege, but a struggle, the constant urge to kill, rend, destroy, and breed nearly antithetical to any real progress.

Orin, her sister, seems not to understand the price, and gleefully indulges all her urges. Enver Gortash, her would-be partner in more than one sense, is no better with his constant tests and suggestions towards rebellion. And then there is the Elder Brain, who whispers in her ear that glory in the end may be hers, so that all the world may see her as a pure, inviolate goddess in her own right.

But she knows that in the end, all things must end in death. Orin, Enver, even the Elder Brain will all die. For she is the Flesh of Bhaal, and although she fights against her Father's gifts, in the end it is all for Him.

Then she gets amnesia. Oops.

Status: Updates Randomly when she forcibly takes over my brain. Chronological status not guaranteed. I might write more Abdirak next.

Dragon Age

Reforged in Dragon's Fire

Follows the story line of Dragon Age Awakening. After the death of the Archdemon, Phoebe Cousland has been transmuted from the bright, brilliant girl that Nathaniel Howe remembers into something bitter, cold, and hard. Although she's saved his life and made him a Warden, she cannot seem to stop herself from trying to place the crimes of his family upon his shoulders.

Since a young age, everyone knew she was meant to marry Nathaniel's brother Thomas. But the betrayal of war took him from her, and all of her rage, confusion, and anger has finally found a target in his brother. Nathaniel, for his part, struggles with the revelation of his father's deeds, and the lies his family made him complicit in.

The ghosts of the past must be laid to rest before there is any hope of a future.

Status: It's hard to focus on right now! I have a chapter almost finished. I'd like to finish soon.

[stickyvoidpaper]

New au just dropped

- bending in the pokemon world! and yes I copied the chinese (?) on the waterbending scroll. I barely know the language.

-I hc the entire volo/cogita line as being professional shit stirrers, yes I imagine cogita back in the day seeking knowledge with malicious intent. like how did she know all that without a goal in mind, suspicious.

-anyone can learn bending but pokemon have to be the one to teach you so only really the wardens and a few others are competent benders like Zisu

- Azeru tends to use her bending more for recreation ie dancing as that's how Lady Lilligant taught her. Melli just focuses on redirecting Lord Electrodes lightning, this means he's far better at lighning bending than fire bending.

- While any pokemon can teach bending the average one has difficulty communicating the ideas in a human friendly way. also some just don't want to teach that sort of thing ie Legendaires

- In this au there's more types of bending to fit the amount of pokemon types however most only really specialise in one and its super rare for anyone to be proficient just because it takes so long to learn how each pokemon communicates using only its body language and then applying it to yourself would be insanely difficult.

- Also a single pokemon only knows so many moves so to be proficient in one type of bending would be so hard.

- Legendaries become more sought out because of their unique moves they can teach, uh oh. (spacial rend, etc.)

- Those who are comfortable around pokemon would have a huge advantage in how good they are at bending (Akari/ Ingo)

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Whumptober Day 2: Caged

---

The way the Pearl Clan told it, there was no aspect of a Zoroark that wasn’t brimming with malice. From its gnashing teeth and razor sharp claws to the illusions that peered directly into a person’s soul, every inch of the creature was primed to rend and hurt.

There was, however, an additional factor making them even more dangerous than Ingo had been led to believe: if they weren’t content with trapping a human in their hallucinatory web and killing them, they would claim that unfortunate individual’s body for themselves.

He was made aware of this two months into living among the Pearls when, without fanfare, one of the villagers returned from foraging and turned on a friend. Without quite knowing where the instinct came from, he’d charged in and attempted to separate the pair, assisting Gaeric in holding Marii back while Irida fussed over Kiran.

Marii, uncharacteristically furious, refused to calm, thrashing against Gaeric’s chest; reluctantly, Ingo let himself be led away by a touch on the shoulder, and once Irida had gotten him to back off, Gaeric gave a piercing whistle. The warden’s Froslass was there in a matter of seconds, eyes alight with ghostly energy, and without a second’s hesitation, she barreled first through her trainer and the woman in his grasp-- emerging with a Zoroark snapping and writhing against her.

Driving it away from the settlement had been difficult at first as, unaffected by Hex, Froslass’s only recourse was to repeatedly use Powder Snow-- but this part, it seemed, Ingo was not only allowed to assist in, but encouraged. Gligar’s move pool didn’t boast any super effective attacks, but the variation helped keep the Zoroark off-balance and unable to predict what would come for it next, and, eventually, it was forced turn tail and flee.

His hand automatically drifted to Gligar’s head in thanks, and it anchored itself against his shoulder as he turned to regard those behind him. Gaeric gave him a triumphant thump on the arm-- Irida a small smile. Marii was limp in Kiran’s arms, the latter trembling minutely, and Gaeric hurried his stride to tend to them while Irida took Ingo to the side to explain.

He couldn’t claim to have known Marii prior to the event, but she was quiet in the following weeks, jumpy. The clan as a whole seemed wary of her in turn, as if half of them hadn’t witnessed the Zoroark expelled from her body; on top of her learned paranoia, that seemed like salt in the wound.

It was with an acute understanding of how the Pearl Clan’s distrust could weigh on a person that Ingo approached her; the poor girl had clearly been through something terrible. She needed support, not to be ostracized by her friends and peers-- and no one else would offer it, he would at least try.

Ultimately, Marii rebuffed Ingo’s attempt to help her but, with a troubled look in her eye, she’d taken the time to caution him, as someone at risk of Zoroark attacks. Be wary, act wisely-- and if the worst were to pass, be aware that the act of possession was painless, but the same couldn’t be said of being possessed.

So it was a dubious honor to be able to confirm that it was so much worse than she’d described.

Ingo could admit that he had become complacent. With a blank mind, there was only so much a Zoroark could use against him-- not nearly enough to craft a compelling illusion-- but, in time, new memories formed, and with them, psychic ammunition.

Which was to say nothing of the flame in the dark and his smiling reflection.

The exact same way awareness had returned to him, fleeting and ephemeral in the dimness of Wayward Cave, they’d dangled ahead in a building blizzard. In hindsight, he should have suspected; Zoroark didn’t stray far from the Icelands, but were known to chance the boundary between the wastes and Coronet. He’d been distracted, briefly, by the thought that the Pokemon he’d remembered would have been a wonderful ally in such harsh weather, and then… there had been a flicker. A purple mote in the sea of white. It would have been his duty to investigate regardless, but he should have been on his guard, not fantasizing about a Pokemon that may or may not have existed.

But he hadn’t. He’d been lured in and set upon.

Maybe Marii’s Zoroark had been kinder than his, or maybe she’d simply blocked the moment of possession from her memory, because it hit Ingo like the impact of a Steelix’s Iron Tail, sending him reeling back into a building pile of snow. He wanted to just lay there, to process what had happened, but without his say so, his body sat up and hurried off into the storm, leaving him as little more than an unwilling passenger.

There was something deeply wrong with the sensation, and it didn’t lessen as the days crawled by. Ingo wasn’t sure whether he was grateful not to cross paths with another human or if he wished someone might stumble across him, might somehow be able to assist.

Unfortunately, the latter came true. As the Zoroark boldly ventured into the Fieldlands, a greeting met its hijacked ears, quickly followed by Akari herself. Like Kiran before her, the girl was blithely unaware of the danger she was in, speaking a mile a minute about her ongoing research into Scyther.

Ingo wanted to be sick, but even the involuntary clenching of the stomach was beyond him.

The Zoroark didn’t attack. It allowed her to carve a path toward the village, content to maintain the ruse with a hum here and there. Akari seemed confused by the shift in demeanor-- he saw that odd looks she sent his way, but, locked away in a corner of his own being, could do nothing to warn her of the looming peril.

Helpless to interfere, he watched on as his body walked with her to the hill where Jubilife Village came into view.

Why, he wanted to ask, what was it hoping to accomplish? The language barrier was firm as it always had been, but forced together, he could feel the answering pulse of anguish, of absolute hatred for humanity and the desire to inflict it upon those who’d wronged its kind. He’d been told as much, back when Irida had explained the dangers a Zoroark posed, but it was eye opening to feel it firsthand. It was also… incredibly sad.

He might have spent more time with that idea had the Zoroark not chosen that moment to pounce.

While she didn’t have a ghost capable of exorcising the beast from his body, her Pokemon were perfectly capable of fighting back against a human; in spite of the Zoroark’s power in its own form, it could channel none of it through its stolen frame and was quickly overwhelmed. One huge Ursaluna paw pinned Ingo’s chest to the ground, and Akari’s face emerged from behind it, demanding to know what it was, what it had done to him.

The Zoroark, of course, had no words for her. It growled low in its stolen throat and Akari snarled back at it.

With Ursaluna keeping him under control and one hand holding his closest wrist safely away, she reached for one of his pokeballs-- not the first, which she would have known held Gliscor, but the third from the front. She seemed slightly surprised to get Tangrowth, and, deep in the jungle of vines that composed her body, the grass type’s eyes went wide at the scene set before her. She gave a distressed warble, cutting off only as she leaned in in an attempt to pry Ursaluna away from her trainer. Her vines went stiff, telegraphing her uncertainty, and when Akari asked her to carry him to town, she listened without complaint.

He would have wondered how wise that actually was, keenly aware of how eager certain Galaxy Team members were to see any abnormality as the whisper of a knife about to be plunged into their back, but it seemed to be more than just a whim.

If Ingo hadn’t thought he’d ever be back here, in the cell he’d spent the greater portion of two weeks occupying, then he certainly wouldn’t have considered an eventuality in which he’d be happy to be back, but there he was. Absent another ghost, this was the best he could have hoped for-- to be secured somewhere he couldn’t watch himself turn on another friend, helpless to intervene.

The Zoroark was… somewhat less enthusiastic with this turn of events. It responded to questioning the only way it could, in howls and barks, and grudgingly accepted the basic provisions supplied, but its patience dwindled within days.

With a sensation not dissimilar to being horrifically ill, it slipped out of his body, lunging toward the bars and slashing at today’s inquisitor, Zisu. Her arms flew to protect her face on instinct, and, likewise-- head swimming, struggling to parse what was going on around himself-- Ingo also leapt into action, tackling the beast to the ground and fighting to keep it there. Overhead, Zisu called to someone, but the words might as well have been another language entirely for all that Ingo understood what she’d said, preoccupied with keeping the threat beneath him neutralized.

That didn’t last long. Out of practice in controlling his own limbs, the Zoroark managed to flip the both of them, and Ingo’s back hit the ground-- hard-- as two hundred pounds of ghost pounced on him. Before it could savage him, however, it jolted as if struck from behind, a theory quickly proven by the pokeball that dropped onto him in its place. Hastily, he sat up, putting distance between himself and the bucking pokeball, just in case it broke free, but with a celebratory pop, the capsule locked shut, leaving the cell to lapse into a bewildered silence.

“Well, that explains a lot,” Zisu finally said, an uncertain chuckle cutting into the tension, “You, uh, you okay over there, warden?”

Aware of how badly he was shaking, Ingo inclined his head. His answering “Thank you, Miss Zisu,” came out far, far quieter than he’d known he was capable of.

“Of course,” She said, and, with a hard look at the cell, stepped closer, a hand dropping to her satchel. “Come on, now. After that show, I think we can get you out on good behavior.”

[lethalcontracts]

ALRIGHT. time for a work in progress!! Dark Souls au Clay! The Warden of Rend. i dont have like. an actual fitting title yet? so yall can pitch in if you think up any that'd fit a dark souls boss.

[fergus-cousland]

Do you know what I'm still not over? The entire fucking fight against Corypheus was to prevent him going physically into the Fade and claiming the black city or whatever, no? SO WHY DOES DAI END WITH THE INQUISITOR SENDING CORYPHEUS PHYSICALLY TO THE FADE !!! He's gonna be back in DA4 isn't he. This is so fucking bleak.

the thing with Corypheus is that he's essentially unkillable, even by the Grey Wardens, which is why the Wardens put him in the Vimmark prison in the first place. Short of building another prison with a series of magical locks that need to be renewed, the Inquisitor doesn't really have many options to deal with him.

The Inquisitor does also take away the source of his Veil/Fade manipulation when they snatch the orb and also appears to rend him apart so I don't think he'll be in much shape to get up to much. I don't really see him coming back but then I also didn't see Meredith getting a second chance at evil so who knows

[tippytopdays]

Awakening

Category: uh, T I guess for mild violence

Characters: Dawn, Ingo, Mai, Palina, Iscan

Summary: In case of a derailing, please report to the nearest station master for further instruction.

Notes: hello again -chucks this into the void-

He wasn’t sure exactly how it started.

The morning had been normal. A trip through the same route across the Highlands, assuring all stations were up to code on safety checks. With all things in order he set out away from the mountain. For what, he wasn’t sure anymore.

Palina had been there, he remembered. Calm as ever she’d barely responded to his arrival; something else had been keeping her mind occupied as she watched the waters below. They’d fallen into casual conversation. Mention of his claw came up, the Warden hiding the piece behind his hip though she’d made it clear it was alright. The nervous titter in his chest remained, still. Why exactly was lost to him now. His attention had shifted so quickly he wasn’t sure how anymore.

The sun had been a nice change to the rain earlier that night. While the morning dew squished under his claws it wasn’t enough to derail their shared train of thought. 

A noise had come from below. Something high pitched–a young girl’s voice he remembered. It was loud enough that both parties had looked over the edge. 

Fluttering hair, thrashing in the grip that held under her arms. Dark blue soaked through and red dripping around pale skin as sandals thrashed against the water.

Pain shot through his head like a strike from an errant Pikachu. His eyes burned and skin tingled. What he was seeing was lost to the haze that fell over his mind. 

One moment he was atop the cliffside, where the resident Warden’s cabin resided.

The next he was in the sea below with his claw about a wriggling mass. 

Red poured in his gaze like blood to water. One arm was free but held out, grasping something that wriggled free. Bony tail thrashed wildly in rigorous splashes. Furious hisses spilled from his gaping mouth, teeth clenched and drooling.

The mass beneath his foot came to his attention first. Firm yet not quite solid; something not stone but dense enough to hold up his weight, if only a part of it. The crimson in his eyes made it difficult to discern what exactly it was beyond a large, flowing something that just kept moving and struggling and would not stay down. 

Irritated, he shoved harder, pushing the pokemon further into the water. Red burned bright across the water as he clenched down. The throat was so weak, so tender under his claws. It would take merely a simple twist of his wrist to pry the flesh off and rend the jugular. Delicious fresh blood would pour from the wound in rivers, staining his claws and flavoring the water in precious iron. Merely a few moments would be all it would take before it would fall silent and at this size it would take him days to finish eating it all; that is, if he were alone. 

Chitters rumbled in his neck, teeth chattering in a cruel grin.

But he wasn’t alone today, never was. Yes, he’d come for a reason. A right of passage for such a young nestling. He’d come to the sea to show her–to teach his precious little Gligar how to hunt properly. How to rend flesh and crush bone until it broke open to expose the scrumptious meat inside. And after she’d been shown, she’d take her turn. He wouldn’t allow her to be harmed, no; he’d take her to the weakest prey, play with it for her. Break a few bones himself to make it easier. Then she’d get the killing blow. And once she had her first kill, she’d have another and another. Until she could tear them to pieces just as easily and drink them dry. 

She was so young but already she was showing signs of his tutelage. Skills he’d shared she was repeating, dominating the mountainside. Already had many other Alpha’s been defeated and forced under her rule; such a promising hatchling he had.

Purring rasped in his chest at the thought; yes, she would become such a good predator. Such a good Gliscor. So much more than he would, being so young, she’d grow higher and stronger and be unstoppable.

She would even put the Sneasler on the mountain to shame.

The pokemon thrashed in his grip. He scowled and tightened his grip. Any minute now it would be quiet. It would become silent and they would feast. There would be so much meat and blood they’d be gorging for hours. His stomach rumbled; he was hungry.

He didn’t get the chance to taste his prey as a very hard mass struck across his cheek. He launched sideways, losing his grip and splashing back. Anger burst in his ribs and he whipped on the intruder with a snarl.

Bright red eyes stared back, titled with barely concealed wrath. Another hiss scratched over his tongue.

How dare this mere Bronzong get in their way? She’d tossed him off his prey, the Basculegion was getting away! The water pokemon was splashing away across the beach as if his life depended on it; he was oh so right in believing so.

He’d take back his prey after he was done. This was merely a setback. The Basculegion wasn’t fast enough on land; it would be easy to catch again. For this insolence he’d make it pay for even thinking it could escape, rend its fins off and tear out flimsy gills to deter further. His claws clicked, wings spread wide.

Mercy was limited in a predator, but now it was absent.

Before he could even step forward pain lanced through his skull. He pitched forwards, claws slamming into his temples with a growl. A thousand Combees screeched between his ears and pounded against his skull. His ears screamed, tender and sensitive from the onslaught.

Slowly, the agony passed. Pulses coursed from one end of his brain to the other in waves. Thoughts bounced across his mind at speeds far too much to take in. The red faded from his eyes. Cold shock raced up his legs as he came back to himself, confused.

Water lapped at his shins, drenching his shoes and ruining them further. Grit somehow wormed into his socks even; it was as bewildering as it was surprising. 

How had he gotten into the water? Hadn’t he just been at the top of the cliff?

As if to add insult to injury, his ears popped clear. He jolted, hands rising to preserve whatever remained of his sanity in the sudden chaos. Even with the barrier muffled words burst across his ear drums, crackling with barely suppressed ire.

“-GO! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY DID YOU DO THAT!?!”

He cringed, ears flicking back. He knew that voice. 

Mai didn’t stop as she splashed through the water, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THIS COULD HAVE CAUSED A WAR?!? WHAT IF I HADN’T BEEN HERE?! WHAT IF ADAMAN HAD SEEN THAT-OR WORSE, IRIDA!?” A hand, solid steel against his skin, grabbed his shoulder and shook him as violently as one woman could. Which was quite strong since he wasn’t much in comparison,”INGO, WHY DID YOU JUST DO THAT?!”

His thoughts raced behind bleary eyes. What was she talking about? Had it something to do with his sudden arrival at the base of the cliff? “M-Miss Mai!” He spluttered, staggering in her grip, “W-What do you-”

“YOU JUST JUMPED OFF THE CLIFF YOU IDIOT!! YOU DIVED OFF LIKE A GARCHOMP WAS AFTER YOU!! NOT ONLY THAT,” She finally stopped shaking him at least, though it was simply traded for grabbing his tunic in the same hand and hoisting him up by the collar, “YOU JUST ATTACKED A WARDEN-!”

“W-Wait! Miss Mai please!” His hands–well, hand and claw–found her wrists and quickly removed them,“What do you mean? I wouldn’t just-”

Faint sniffling, towards the beach. Whatever he was going to say was lost as his head snapped towards it.

Wetter than a dunked Sneaslet, the young Dewott scrubbed at her eyes. Fat trickles of salt poured down her cheeks and pooled into the soggy scarf at her neck. Water lapped at her toes just shy of the wave’s end. Her breaths rattled in a cold, miserable shiver.

Red dribbled down her nose and over her mouth as she whimpered, hand trying to stop it vainly.

Thrashing the Bronzong’s mitts off he trudged to the beach, hesitation far from his mind. Sand crunched under his soles as he practically bolted to her side and dropped to his knees. Salt stung the inside of his nose and dribbled in rivers from the fabric about his legs but he stoutly ignored it.

He was far more preoccupied with the nestling looking up at him. Red eyes widened and suddenly she launched herself into his arms, hiding her face against his chest in a bawling fit.

Immediately his arms wrapped around the Gligar. Panic set in quick and bubbled up under his ribs, the fire within snuffed briefly. There was something deeply wrong. Very little would harm a Gliscor’s hatchling unless it wanted a swift death.

Still she cried, wings snared tight about his waist. Salty tears slickened his chassis more thoroughly than the sea as she bawled all she had. 

Whatever the cause was beyond his knowledge and none his concern at the moment. He needed to bind the nestling, to hide her away from the world until the danger passed. Only then would she be safe; her tears would dry and she’d stand tall once more. But his wings weren’t responding, simply laying limp against his ribs uselessly. He growled, irritated as he snatched the edges in claw to wrap them over the Gligar’s shoulder and back.

The rampant jittering of his heart slowed to a palatable thumping. Cries that stirred his instincts slowed and quieted, calmed by the comforting scent of her sire. He sighed softly, teeth clicking. She was hidden. She was safe. Nothing could come close now. 

What kind of pokemon would dare approach a Gliscor, let alone one in nesting?

A shout of something, words and sounds that didn;t connect, had his attention whipping back to the sea. The same soggy Bronzong had chosen to abandon the water at last, it seemed. She brandished a branch in one arm, shivering in the waves as she bolted ashore. Yet her eyes were still flickering to him even as she ran with her tail between her legs. Watching. Waiting. 

For what he did not care for. Irritation was quickly boiling over, red hot rage filling his chassis and licking the inside of his ribs. He gathered the whimpering Gligar close to his chest with a loud snarl, teeth bared.

If a fight was what she wanted, then a fight was what she’d get. He hadn’t been planning to sharpen his fangs on steel, but the combat would be satisfying.

Coughing pulled his attention away from the pokemon staring at him wide eyed. Another voice speaking, talking towards him or the steel type. He did not care what for as he snapped over with a snarl.

Large, terrified brown eyes stared back. The Basculegion was a mess. Red marred his throat and salt water drenched the cloth he still wore. Scales had been shorn off in his attempts at fleeing the Gliscor the first time, stripes of bare flesh exposed and red.

He was barely a few feet away. If he wanted to he could swipe his tail out and sting him plenty. The water type would fall ill in moments under his poison. The Bronzong would have to wait.

He still had a hunt to complete.

He revelled in the terror reflecting in the Basculegions eyes as hot drool trickled down his lips, grin wide. His tail raised ready to strike–

His attention was ripped away but not by either rogue pokemon. Instead it was by small, tender pincers yanking on his fur and dragging his face down. The yowl stuttered in his throat as his eyes instantly redirected to face the equally terrified ones of his Gligar.

White whiskers fluttered in his face. Tufts of blue fur had begun to form along her jaw in a mock beard, streaks coloring swaths of her hair. The kerchief was still over her head but nudged over a pace to allow the stubby black ears room.

Ears fluttered, confusion tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She was staring at him. Bloodshot eyes glistened with tears as she shouted, muffled in the haze of red, “INGO WAKE UP!!”

His ears screamed. Searing pain scorched through his skull in a rush. Blood thundered in his veins and he lurched forward, bracing his forehead against hers as his eyes clenched shut.

Distantly, a wet heat streamed down his lips.

It was moments before the blistering agony between his ears stopped. Pain twisted into a smoldering pulse over the peak of his mind, niggling into the back of his eyes. Abruptly his hearing popped with the screech of distant Staraptors in the midst of a mid afternoon hunt.

His eyes opened slowly. Bright, shy ones stared back. A crick was trying to form in his neck. Muscle pulled in his back from the hunch he was in.

She swallowed thickly, his ears twitching at the sound, “U-U-Uncle Ingo…?”

He wanted to flinch, “Y-Yes, Miss Dawn..?” He blustered, “Wh-What is-” In his bewilderment, mingled with a touch of hesitance, he licked at the heat on his lips.

Iron blistered across his tongue. His throat burned and gut wrenched. An embarrisingly loud gurgling roared in his stomach.

He lurched back. The one hand he had swiped his nose clean of it. Some small part of his mind screamed as his hand came back streaked in red.

He was just glad it wasn’t the claw. He’d lost enough skin like that. But why was he–

“ISCAN!!” His eyes snapped up as Palina raced over, passing him by entirely. She dropped to her knees, beside a confusingly wet Warden to clasp his face in her hands, “Iscan are you alright!? Did he hurt you?!” She was so terrified, eyes wide and streaming tears down her cheeks. It was odd to see her so out of sorts; the Warden normally held an air of serenity in the face of most catastrophe. What could have caused such peril?

In fact, why was she even down at the beach at all? Wasn’t she at the cabin? Wasn’t he?

Why of all places was he down by the beach? And how did he get there?

The half man half fish the Diamond Warden dissolved into a blubbering mess in her hold. Bright streaks of ghostly power fluttered as the man practically jumped into her arms and hid his face into her chest. His tunic was utterly soaked. Just touching her with his bare hands left prints all over her leggings; he couldn’t imagine what she felt having his face on her when he was that wet.

Barely a scant few moments had passed after his sudden return to the present and he was in the middle of puzzling out why his fellow warden was soaked to the bone when he was struck across the face again. He tumbled ungracefully to the ground, the Dewott squealing as she was tossed out of his lap, “I-What-!?” He spluttered, hand grasping his abused cheek as he looked up into blazing red, “What are you-!?”

Mai only grabbed him again, “YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHY!!” Collar fisted in her grip she hauled him to his feet, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?”

“Hrk-Warden Mai!” Had he enough cognitive thought beyond bewilderment he would have been offended at how easily he was being tossed around, “I-I don’t understand what you’re implying-!”

She gave him no quarter. No time to prepare or even a leg to stand on. All of her fury barrelled down in another toss of his person as she threw him back into the sand. As he wheezed, spine cracking in the most horrible of ways, she thrust a hand towards the floundering Warden, “LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO ISCAN!! DO YOU NOT HAVE ANY SENSE IN YOU ANYMORE?!”

He struggled to even get up on his arms, “Wh-What do you mean..?” Sand ground between his teeth as he hacked and coughed, “ I-I would never-! I have no reason to resort to-to such violence! Th-That would be-”

“An infraction of war.” Palina’s stern voice caught him off guard, “Warden Mai, this….this is not what we should be focused on.” Tears glistened on her red cheeks as she turned to him, eyes red and swollen, “Warden Ingo, please tell me. What happened.”

“Wh-What do you mean I-”

“Why did you attack a Diamond Clan Warden with no warning.”

He balked, holding onto his abused flesh with the only hand he had,“I….I-I..I wouldn’t..” And yet the way she was staring at him with stalwart remorse gave him pause. The woman still standing over his legs, hands fisted at her sides with intent to return to punishing him, pressured further.

Something had happened. Whatever it had been, he was somehow the cause.

So he turned inward, focusing his thoughts on himself. He remembered the trip down the mountain into the highlands, he remembered journeying out towards the sea, he even remembered speaking to Palina herself. All of these memories were in accordance with one another and held no evidence towards the present. He had some pride in retaining a schedule after all.

But then he focused further, after the sequence of his arrival and conversation. To where he first met the hands of the irate Warden of Lilligant, and everything fell apart in an instant.

Nothing. A complete absence of not only time, but events within said time. It was as if all of his  systems went into shutdown at that moment, rebooting only after he’d first been struck. Blank emptiness so reminiscent of the day he’d found himself within this region crawled over his mind.

He didn’t have anything to say. He could only stare off towards some vague point in the sand. 

Bells were ringing in his ears and the stench of salt stung in his nose, a twitch rampant in his claw that clicked and snapped and opened and closed that just wouldn’t stop. His skull pulsed with each heartbeat, struggling to regain even a glimmer of a thought at that period of time, yet nothing came up. A completely blank slate as permeating as it was terrifying. 

All that remained was a blistering red so vibrant that it scalded the back of his eyelids.

His eyes found the sobbing Warden again, still buried in his beloved’s lap. Heat baked the sand in the early Summer sun, quickly drying the wetness in his clothes. Yet he remained ignorant, perhaps willfully so, to the steady change in his attire. The ghostly flames licked up his jaw unhindered to all outside stimuli.

It was only when his attention slid downwards to follow the flowing curve of the purple ribbons that his blood ran cold.

Red. Deep and bubbling along a collar of wounds. Streaks of raw flesh strapped around his neck like a bandolier that dribbled in steady streams down into the steadily darkening collar.

Chittering hackles raised.

The Basculegion was still alive. Despite it’s gills being wounded, it still dared to breathe, to live. His claws clacked, teeth salivating. 

The blood on the Warden’s neck faded until it blended into the crimson painting his eyes.

Distinctly small hands grasping his rattling claw ripped his eyes downwards, away from the floundering water type. Away from the burning dusk of the beach. Away from the freshness of blood and torn skin. 

He stared down towards slate eyes, dewy with renewed tears as they poured down her pink cheeks, “U-Uncle Ingo?”

He came to himself in a rush. Cognitive thought jump started back into place. He was aware, he was present. 

And all at once, horror dawned in a rush of thought so alike to his own, yet twisted in some laughable mockery.

Red. Crimson and red and blood and meat. The need to feed and provide for someone much younger. The image of said young being in the hands of one perceived as an enemy a driving force to a furious rage. It boiled in his skull like a tumor. Rampant thoughts bubbled between rational and some form of deranged fury. He no longer felt himself anymore, his own body a stranger to him. The claw on his wrist was an alien strapped to his arm, the ears heavy on his head a muzzle.

He had attacked a fellow Warden. One who had been with the young Dewott-no, young trainer, at the time. It no longer mattered as to why.

He had nearly hunted down another man. He had nearly succeeded.

He had enjoyed every minute of it. 

The memory alone had bile churning in his gut.

“So you do remember.”

He started at the bluntness. He didn’t know what kind of expression he was making at the moment, but it was enough, “I-I do not know the cause of it!” Little hands clutched at his claw and he held as tight as he dared, “I-I..I was just….”

Something close to pity was in her eyes, though he was unsure with how hard her gaze remained, “Then you have no answer.”

“I…” He was floundering, beached upon a shore with only his own memory to offer, “.....I cannot say why….”

“So you’re just going to say nothing!? What if Adaman finds out-”

“N-No wait please let me explain!” His eyes whipped towards Mai, still wary of the bruising hand she swiped in his direction, “I-I cannot understand why myself! It was-it was just..” Words failed to convey proper thought, leaving him to trail off into silence.

A tiny gasp of air had his ears twitching. Small hands tightened around his claw. Digits of soft bone and tender meat that could snap off clean if he so much as twitched. She would scream, tears would pour from her eyes.

She’d be so terrified.

He blinked, staring off towards the horizon blankly, “....I don’t know…..I can only speculate that..for a moment…” His eyes burned,“.....That I was…no longer at the station….”

Both Wardens fell silent. Mai remained over his legs, her shadow offering respite to the afternoon sun. Still she moved to look away from him, the shade shuffling as she lifted an arm to her face. What her expression was, he couldn’t tell, but judging from the stuttering in her breath he could assume she was just as horrified as he was.

At his opposite side, where muffled sobs muted into tender sniffling, Palina sucked in a sharp breath. She was quiet for a moment longer, waiting, “....Do you believe…..” She did not finish. She didn’t have to.

Silently, he nodded. The sun was lowering over the other half of the sky to herald in the evening. It’s light was starting to burn his eyes. A steady throbbing had traversed across his skull, down over the bridge of his nose. It pulsed there, gushing through his sinuses gracelessly.

He touched his warm upper lip, careful not to irritate his sore nose. When his fingers came back he could only stare.

The color burned against his eyes, so stark against his pale skin.

Soft, well worn cloth pressed up against his arm, wisps of black hair fluttering across his chest. Little shoulders shook in restraint. He could not face her. He didn’t dare to.

At the back of his mind, lingering between conscious thought and distant dreams, the haze of red remained stagnant. A bitter reminder of what had happened, and a cruel laugh of what could be coming.

[mirage-of-the-virtuoso]

Chrysallus hasn't told anyone about his wyld hunt since his early awakening. He hasn't spoken about it again until the week before the Pact sets out to kill Zhaitan.

But Chrys's wyld hunt has always been connected to the dragons. In a way he doesn't fully know how to explain without sounding insanely delusional.

When he fought the creature in the Dream (later known as the Shadow of the Dragon), he didn't immediately seek to fend it off or harm it. He stood there, entranced by this draconic creature, and instead asked "who are you? what are you?" in a breathless whisper, reaching out to it.

The moment didn't last long, however. One of the wardens shot the creature, the trance was broken, and Chrys almost got rend in two by those massive claws.

He made his escape, awakening from the Dream. But not without glancing back at the creature, ever curious about what he felt.

Fast forward to the Pact era. He's a Priory magister, they have set up camp in Fort Trinity, and he is Trahearne's Commander. Between then and the fight against Zhaitan, he asks his marshal for an evening, voicing his thoughts not as a battle-hardened veteran, but as a sylvari who is feeling like killing Zhaitan is somehow betraying who he is as a person, a direct conflict both to him and his calling. Yes, Zhaitan is involved, but killing it isn't?

Trahearne does sympathize, as hunts can often be confusing when it involves a lot of unknown factors. This dragon isn't the same one he fought in the Dream, killing it feels wrong in every way for an unknown reason, and Trahearne did hear from Caithe about the witness reports of Chrys trying to connect with this dragon in the Dream.

Chrysallus doesn't think himself as a fighter, doesn't believe himself to be strong. Capable, yes, but not strong.

Fast forward to Mordremoth, where he has collapsed at least once during the campaign, and late at night, in a field shrouded by trees overhead, surrounded by tens of Mordrem corpses, he tries to connect with Mordremoth. He has to fight through the grating migraine at the dragon's presence in his mind, but instead of hurling insults and trying to find weaknesses, he asks him questions.

Is destruction truly all you wish? Why kill and corrupt when you have the power already to destroy Tyria? Were you once something that wasn't blinded by hunger and power? Chrys can sense something deep within this dragon, the creator of all sylvari, something untouched by the corruption, and he feels it calling to him-

But he has to push it away, lest it tempt him too close and corrupt him too. Turn him into a pawn and destroy all of Tyria by his own hands.

He wonders briefly, if his hunt was calling him to be Mordremoth's champion.

Then, Aurene happens. She hatches, and something within her resonates with his own soul. It was like staring into a mirror when they finally had a chance after her hatching to be alone together.

She, too, had to fight in order to have a right to live. And she is destined to fulfill a legacy that she was far from ready to accomplish.

It's not fair... she is just a child. His child. He wishes to protect her from the world. They want her dead because she is a dragon. He won't allow that to happen.

He was never called to be her champion. But he wanted so desperately to protect her, for reasons he will never voice out loud, that he willingly chose to be her sword and her shield. Her guardian. Her parent.

He made a plushie of her exact body, giving her a reference of her own appearance, lovingly made by someone who shows her kindness and compassion. It wasn't until much later that he receives this same plushie back from Aurene, who gives it back to him for likely the same reason he made it in the first place.

This spurred the creation of other plushies of the other dragons (Zhaitan, Mordremoth, Kralkatorrik, etc) and even spurring the creation of the lieutenants as well (Tequatl, Shatterer, Shadow of the Dragon, Drakkar, etc)

Many question his sanity, wonder if he secretly wants to destroy Tyria, masking it as a desire to protect it. They wonder if Aurene turns, who will he side with? Them or her?

It's not fair. All he wanted was to coexist with the dragons. To somehow free them from the broken cycle without having to take their lives to accomplish that.

That's what his wyld hunt is, isn't it? To purify the dragon energy and free the dragons from corruption? So they can coexist and learn the history of the world from them?

It's the closest interpretation of his Dream he has gotten thus far. But would anyone else accept this?

No one can ever know. Even if that is his purpose, he can never tell them, lest he be branded a traitor and hunted like the dragons he had slain.

No one must ever know.

[sadcatjae]

Nothing Boy (Part 4) - Fight

Masterlist

Part 3

I finally wrote the next part ;u; I don't think it's any good and kinda light on the whump, but I'm setting up for the next part hehehehehe. Nix isn't getting much of a break, which i feel bad for but uhm he's just gonna be used as a punching bag for a little while ok? I've been dealing with a lot of stress ;u; . CW: Explicit language, torture, blood, stabbing, mysognistic slur, physical abuse, ptsd flashback, trauma induced panic attack, mental/emotional breakdown, forced insomnia, starvation, burning, blinding, humiliation, chains/imprisonment, forced labour, ableist language.

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“Keep staring if you wish to lose your eyes.”

The greasy looking prisoner flinches at Nix’s threat and slinks off, giving the irate man a wide berth. Even though the warden is as shackled and beaten as he, this prisoner knows well the former’s terrifying reputation. Who doesn’t know of Lord Deimos’ loyal mutt who had indiscriminately destroyed countless souls at his master’s behest? The prisoner shudders and quickly falls into line with the others, oddly grateful for the warriors of lights’ presence. 

Nix stumbles over his chained feet, teeth gritted to the point of cracking. Being herded through the camp like cattle is bad enough, but the endless taunts and assaults from his fellow prisoners - his subordinates - wears down his paper-thin patience. 

“Curse and spit all you want, warden. You have no teeth here.” Another prisoner, one with a missing ear, jeers and kicks Nix’s leg as she passes, and he falls face-first into the ground. 

Pain blooms through his freshly-healed body, but the fall does no more damage than bruises and a hurt pride. 

“On your feet, prisoner,” a dour-faced priest snaps, grabbing Nix by his scruff and hoisting him to his feet. A hard shove has him stumbling back into line. The fresh scars in his back throb in protest. Nix keeps his head lowered, matted locks obscuring the jagged lines of fury. One step after the other, weighed down by heavy chains around his ankles and wrists. And for him especially, a unique gift from Oman (who else could it be but that hateful little bitch?). A collar fixed around his throat, constrictive and uncomfortable, and serving no other purpose than to humiliate. 

It’s been a week now of the same, mind-numbing routine. Wake up. Eat the gruel they call food. Do whatever mindless labour they assign. Eat the gruel they call food. Try to sleep. Wake up. And repeat. 

And no sign of Artemis, which Nix had expected. Whatever promises and sentiments the foolish priest may have made, he evidently had no intention of following through. Indeed, Nix may have simply been a vanity project - an exercise in charity to inflate the priest’s ego. The warden knows the type. He’s tortured many such men. 

And so it’s with a hollow bitterness that he regards his ‘good intentioned’ captor. Those rending words and deep brown eyes are nothing more than tools of entertainment. And Nix…Nix had almost fallen for it. 

Another stumble. A hard breath and moment to steady himself. 

He hasn’t slept properly this entire week. For whatever reason (again, probably that bitch Oman) the magical walls around his cell have lost their sound-proofing effect. Which of course means that while the other prisoners cannot hear him, he very well can hear them. Their foul, incessant vitriol keeps him awake every night, his torturers delighting in their new favourite activity (surely this retaliation is the sweetest kind). 

In a way, he understands. He himself had ruthlessly tortured every subordinate in that stockade, so there is no shortage of hatred festering against him. But in that cold hard rock in place of his heart, he silently cultivates his own seed of hate. In time, when it finally blooms, he will have his own revenge. 

Until then he’s relegated to the role of warden-turned-prisoner, and like with everything else in his miserable life, he endures. 

The warden straggles at the end of the line as the prisoners are given their morning gruel. 

Nix isn’t much to look at. A thin, pale creature with dark shadows under a pair of impassive blue eyes, glassy from exhaustion. His clothes hang off his malnourished frame in tattered rags, and if not for their prior knowledge of his countless sins, his captors might have felt a glimmer of pity. 

As it were, every single warrior of light knows of this warden's sins, each gruesome detail collected and recorded from Oman and the other survivors. None of the warriors have met evil like Deimos and his ilk - and Nix is the worst of them. 

“Next.” 

Nix holds out his hands for his bowl and instead, he’s given two handfuls of boiling-hot gruel. Molten agony shoots up his arms, but he keeps his hands still, trying to show no hint of weakness as he raises his head. 

The young warrior drops the ladle into the giant pot and gives him an innocent smile. “Anything wrong?” she asks, brows knitted in false concern. 

“Not at all,” Nix smiles back, coldly. “I was just surprised that you knew I preferred to eat with my hands.” He slurps the gruel from his filthy hands with relish, making sure to splatter some onto the young warrior’s boots. 

Disgust ripples through her features. She quickly grabs the empty pot and stalks off in a huff. 

The warden watches her go, licking the tasteless sludge from his fingers. It isn’t enough to soothe the gnawing pangs in his shrunken stomach, but he couldn’t complain or ask for more. How could he? When he’s guaranteed a vat of poison instead. 

It’s cold today. The kind of cold that burrows into his bones and makes every motion stiff and painful. After breaking his fast, he throws himself into his assigned work, hoping to chase away that terrible chill with exercise. 

The warden is tasked with unloading goods from a wagon and carrying them to the supply tent. Each crate weighs twice more than he does (at least it feels like it), and every trip leaves him trembling and gasping for breath. He’s not given a partner to assist him. All other jobs assigned that day are given to a pair of prisoners, but as usual, Nix is alone in his burden. 

He’s only halfway through unloading the wagon, when he finally hits his limit. 

Nix reels at the sudden vertigo and crashes into the side of the wagon. The crate slips from his numb hands. Smashes upon impact. Apples scatter in every direction. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” a familiar voice barks from a distance. 

Shit. Here comes the bitch. 

Nix slumps against the wagon, panting. He leans his spinning head against the wooden side, cold sweat springing from every pore and soaking into his clothes. 

Heavy footsteps draw close. A large hand grabs him by his collar and heaves him to his feet. 

“Trying to sabotage our supplies now, are you?” Oman growls, black eyes hard like flint. He brings his spiteful visage a mere inch away from the other’s. “I should have known better than to leave a rat like you unsupervised.”

Nix blinks blearily at the irascible warrior. Nausea wells and churns his guts as the world gives a sickening lurch. “...accident,” he pants, trying to shove Oman away. The man’s built like a mountain and just as unmoving. “Let me go…asshole…” He raises his shaking hands to yank uselessly at his captor’s instead.

A sharp pain cracks against his cheek and his head snaps to the side. Fire corrodes his flesh. There’s a high pitched ringing in his ear.

He goes limp in Oman’s grasp for but a second, before he whips his head to glare at the smirking man. “You dare strike me?” he hisses, bloodshot eyes gaining a wild edge. “Think I won’t strike back? You may have me in shackles, priest, but I am still your warden and you my prisoner!”

Oman’s pupil shrinks. His face blanches a shade or two. Sure enough, scenes of his own horrendous torture under this man’s hands inundate him like buffeting winds, scouring away every inch of hardened skin until he’s left raw and bleeding, trembling in his shock. 

Nix laughs caustically, stifling a wince when he agitates his swollen cheek. “You see? No matter where you are, you will always be in those dungeons.” A jagged grin, dripping with venom. “Even if you kill me, I will never stop being your warden. I have placed my hands upon you and marked you as my own. That means that you will never be rid of me. Neither I nor Lord Deimos. You have become us.”

Nix barely registers the pain when he lands on the hard-packed soil. Pure, bone-deep exhaustion has long addled his mind, and he’s bordering on hysterical. He drags himself to his feet, laughing and cursing out the warrior, his voice wild and careening as though he’s gone insane. 

Oman draws his sword and white light erupts from the blade, humming and pulsing with lethal intent. 

The warden staggers back, grinning, grabbing the closest thing to a weapon he can find – a pitchfork. He meets the arcing steel with the prongs, and the impact judders up his arms. Sparks of ember spit from the metal as Oman pulls his sword through the prongs and slices the air. 

Nix finds himself with only half the pitchfork, wood cut clean through. Now it resembles an oversized stake, and he uses it to his advantage. 

Even a warrior like Oman, who had been admired by his peers for his combat prowess, would admit that he’s been blindsided in battle. Though these occurrences are few, they have been during combat with notable warriors, including his teacher. 

So to say that this mangy warden, who can barely keep himself upright, could ever blindside him – Oman would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of such a statement.

Unfortunately, this is one of those times when the warrior’s humour fails him, as Nix throws himself at Oman and his drawn blade, as though he were intent on skewering himself. 

He’s not sure why - perhaps because of his training under her light (or Art’s terrible influence) - but Oman instinctively lowers his sword to avoid impaling his ex-warden. 

In return, Nix barrels into him and stabs the stake into his chest, frothing and screaming like a madman. No, not like. He is a madman. The warden has gone utterly insane. 

Nix is lost in his tempest of madness. Nothing exists outside of this noise, this chaos, that assaults his every sense. He screams to make himself known, but his voice is lost to the howling winds, so he just screams and screams and screams until he’s coughing blood. 

He’s dyed red inside and out. There’s nothing, nothing, (he’s nothing), but the countless souls he’s ripped apart with his hands (bloodied), and suddenly (oh gods, what has he done, what has he done??) he knows terror. 

Countless hands grab him from all directions. Drag him off Oman’s blood drenched chest. He screams at them to leave him alone and what comes out is a ragged, torn sound. His throat’s ruined. He’s ruined. He curls into a tight ball, hands clutching at his face, trying to stifle the sobs that wrack his body. 

Those hands are unsympathetic. They force him upright, cutting his misery short, and drag him through the camp. Through the haze of blood and tears, he can see their faces. The same expressions that he’s so familiar with. Hate. Anger. Fear. He can replicate every line from memory, with the same confidence he knows that the sky is blue. 

…But Artemis doesn’t look at him this way. 

(Neither does Lord Deimos)

He’s thrown into another tent. Forced to stand upon his shaking legs. Tied to the post in the centre, so tight he can barely expand his lungs. 

The tempest lulls to a merciless blizzard, freezing all that it touches. There’s a featureless tundra that goes on eternally in all directions and blazing white light that sears his eyes. They leave him there, ordering him to endure her cleansing light and reflect upon his sins. 

Her light, he cries and groans, straining against his bonds in mindless desperation. Her light hurts. It hurts so bad, I want to die.

For this warden, there is no mercy. Not from death nor from oblivion. 

Minutes tick by. Hours. Days.

His eyes swell and go blind, retinas scorched by her holy light. Skin blisters and peels, and he loses all feeling in his body. He floats there, in the terrible, sickening whiteness, suffering a kind of torture that is far beyond his understanding.

His sins, presented before him one by one in a gruesome exhibition, until the entire stage is painted red. . Part 5

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