#with extras

[dyrewrites]

Pale Blood -- Intro || One

~ * ~

I want to tell you a story.

It is a complex tale that involves forces more powerful than can be accurately described, stretches further than a single lifetime, and speaks on the fates of many, perhaps even all, and I…well, let’s say I may not be the right one to tell it. But I am the only one who can, and so I am who you’ve got if you wish to hear it. And you will—as those responsible for our lost stars once did—wish.

I’m jumping ahead, forgetting which is the now and which was the then; a side effect of aging, that. You live long enough and you start to lose your grip on the world, and your place in it.

So let’s retract that slip, shall we?

Our tale begins—wait, no, we’ll get to that another time.

Where we begin now is where things turned.

We begin with the first glimmer of change, when hope shined through lifetimes of shadow…glowing from those that could not have known, and who should not have been.

~ * ~

One

The city of Dolor reached, with all its metal fingers, for the bright hot eyes that warmed it. Eyes too weary, too ancient, to worry of the lives that scurried under their gaze. But those lives worried of them and of the grand and terrifying wyrm that bore them.

Or they should have.

On the whole, those desperate to avoid the wyrm’s glare were the ones to take note of its sinewy, slithering sky long enough to be concerned.

And it is one such desperate soul that our tale begins with.

Well...half of such a soul—though fully desperate—as through no fault of his own he was born an abomination. Half bloodsucking fang, half man, and entirely too tired to care which one had decided to make him their doormat on any given evening.

But we jump ahead. Let us roll back a step or two, explain a bit.

Delmas Olren was famous once, beloved even—if the rampant infatuation born of complete separation from reality that his fans possessed could be deemed love. Larger than life he towered over all others, projected in brilliant, flickering holographic clarity for those in the lofty heights of Upper Dolor to witness. And what granted such fame, such fortune, such privileged status in the glittering haven of those towers? A simple sport, if a brutal one.

Holoboxing was what the city named it, projected and streamed for the masses as all fights were, and ‘The Mountain’ was what they named him, for much like a mountain he could not be toppled. But, as it turned out, he could break. Shatter, in fact. And, when he did, all the bloodsucking fangs—that sang his praises right along with their prey while he fought under their banner—pounced to devour the rubble.

Now, how he broke, and when and why, are details best left to drip, to seep and saturate the tale I am here to tell. For the sake of introductions it only matters that he did, and that all those pieces were bitten and clawed and snatched back...misshapen and wrong. Leaving our dear star decidedly dimmer than he desired to be—but as perfectly bright as he needed to.

000

Delmas was outside a bloodbank—Dolor’s only bloodbank—seething in the dim of a smog-black sky with his still-blinking netlink firmly hidden in the pocket of his duster.

 “Halfnight ain’t my shift, Bosch,”He’d sneered into the device a mere hour prior, but his boss didn’t relent. Instead he reminded him of the cab waiting outside and the creds that paid for it—and the clothes on his back, and the apartment he seemed to value so highly just then. So Delmas traded warm blankets and worn sheets for filthy streets and choking smog.

The assignment he had been so ungraciously woken for was to pick up a shipment of high-quality blood, something he didn’t ascribe to, blood was blood—unless it came out of faefolk in which case it was drugs—and run it to a fancy old-world hotel downtown.

A hotel he couldn’t recall the name of—and would regret so later.

All he cared about, standing outside the bloodbank with the cab idling behind him, was the work. Specifically, how it had been more pointless grunt work for the relics that owned him, and would continue to own him long after most of the city ran through another generation of blood to feed them. As, much to the half-fang’s dismay, all fangs whole and not were immortal—more or less. The eldest of them, however, kept their noses above the smog while their bodies languished in the slums, beside Delmas’ opinions of them. Opinions held for good reason—as far as he was considered—as he’d been kissing their asses and doing whatever was asked of him since he fucked up and fell from the grace of Upper Dolor’s majestic towers.

A fall those crusty old relics wouldn’t let him forget.

Jealous fucks the lot of ‘em, he’d remind himself whenever their teeth sunk too deep, or their words cut too wide, can’t stand that I can do what their ancient asses can’t.

And he was right, in a way.

Half-fangs weren’t rare, exactly, but they were weak, feeble, lesser; all weaknesses, no benefits. But not Delmas, for reasons unknown to him—that he wouldn’t believe were he told—he had most of the benefits and few of the weaknesses.

But it was the absence of their greatest weakness that made him as valuable as he was despised.

The smog blocked the light of Som’s twin suns enough to snuff any hopes of true warmth and growth beneath its blanket but its rays still filtered, still speared through to smoke and sear fang flesh as quick and deep as any fire. But it didn’t sear Delmas. A fact that frightened and repulsed those that pulled his strings. It was that fear, that revulsion of his immunity, his otherness to their perceived perfection which fueled their hatred and kept him at their feet.

From dawn, till well into halfnight, their sharp grins and sharper teeth forced him to fetch whatever they asked him to. Blood, primarily; precious and coveted blood offered freely—well, at cost, but such cost was monetary rather than the panicked breaths of quickly draining veins it had once been—from the bloodbank in the slums.

Despite his hatred—bare and gleaming for any fang he dealt with to see—the ‘bloodrunner’ title programmed into Delmas’ ID came with perks. Near-total access to the city, for one; wherever he had business. And with fangs running the show, and their desperate need of him, he had business everywhere. Every grimy set of hungry teeth that drained life from the slum’s shadows knew Delmas’ face, if not his name, as the bringer of their blood—and their salvation when their supplies ran low and the pulsing flesh writhing in the streets began to sing.

Bags of the warm and gooey were bought by the fangs shacking up with synthmeat under the abandoned skyscrapers of Dolor’s many metal bones. They were bartered by the fangs that got small with the faefolk buried in caves and hovels on the chaotic border of the Wylds. Even the dogs scurrying in the sewers for a sip of rage-red wolf blood howled for the easier meal. Fangs old enough to have participated in the city’s construction—and one lording her power over them all as the not-so-secret guiding hand of the city—demanded offerings as well. Which meant, shining and untouchable as they seemed, even the towers weren’t beyond the reach of his ID.

From the center of Dolor’s dreary slums to the shimmering lofts of the privileged elite, Delmas soaked the city red, assuring the safety of those his masters would rather devour than live amongst. And while the glittering golds at the top teased and taunted of a life lost, of freedom from the muck he swam in, he delighted in their sight, their taste—however brief.

He put up with every one of those relics, and their simpering thralls, as they lobbed ‘halfie’ jabs—and literal jabs—whenever he darkened their doors. All for that taste, that sip, that daydream of better.

With the biggest grin his lips could manage he took everything they threw, reminding himself through it all, play the game, climb the ladder and one day all those leeches will be kissin’ my ass.

But no one would be kissing his anything that halfnight, though thanks to the early wakeup and surprise delivery he did have a deep desire to kick his boss’s everything. Mood notwithstanding, when he stopped stewing and stepped through the sliding glass doors, his irritable scowl slipped away.

Stale medical air notwithstanding, the man at the counter was a welcome sight. A man whose deep set of baby blues looked Delmas over as he entered, and cocked a well-sculpted eyebrow.

“Late night for you ain’t it, Del, how’s it hangin’?”

The voice belonged to the hottest pair of lips he’d ever seen—on a dead guy—and Delmas set his bag, and an elbow, on the counter to lock his hazels with those blues.

That face made the trips worth it, its rich browns so well preserved he often forgot he was looking at a ghoul, and the smile he offered was genuine as he answered, “Low and slightly to the left, Ron, how ‘bout you?”

“Always humorin’ me,” Ron said, tossing him a wink, “S’why I like you, well, that and that fine ass. Stuff’s in the back, I’ll box it up for ya.”

As Ron sauntered off to a room behind the counter, Delmas followed the sway he offered, his genuine smile yet shining as his thoughts drifted places best left private. Theirs was an old game but, fun as it had been, it was also an innocent one as neither could make good on the promises their words and eyes made the other—no matter how one of them ached to.

Thick, clear box in hands, Ron returned and set it on the counter with all the care his profession demanded—which was little, and it tapped quite loudly in response. But the box was not near as intriguing as what waited inside, stuffed near to bursting and sloshing about in equally clear bags.

Blood; viscous, white and swirled with glittering gold—which was decidedly the wrong color. It had been markedly pinker the last few months, slipping ever nearer to white over the last few runs, but Ron wasn’t alarmed. He hadn’t noticed. To him it was as rich and red as it had always been.

Delmas noticed.

Problem was he didn’t care.

So those relics’ll get their fix and an extra high, he soothed the prickling of his skin. Prob’ly won’t even notice, fae magic bein’ the horny mess it is—a single fairy flies through town and you’re cleaning magic out of the cracks for eons. 

After a wink of his own, and an exaggerated wriggle of his hips—that would keep Ron in good spirits for the remainder of that halfnight—Delmas ducked back out in the cooling air of pre-dusk. 

To the waiting cab, which hovered about a foot higher than the flickering screens of the street it rode and smelled too strongly of urine, avoiding small-talk with the somber figure behind the wheel. Small-talk he found he’d have preferred to what the cabby broadcast from his netlink.

A moaning ballad over a droning bass, the song’s familiar lyrics bit with memories too raw for time to scar. And again Delmas sneered, again he seethed, and sunk deeper into the musty synth-leathers of the seat as his thoughts spat at the netstar who owned that voice—who once owned him—of course the cabby listens your caterwaulin', who fuckin' doesn’t.

~ * ~

Why was the guy they got to run blood during the day running around so close to night? It’s a good question! Or...it would be, if there was night.

But there wasn’t. Not anymore.

There hadn’t been one for going on thirty years by then.

Not since Vi, the wyrm that held the moons in her skull and the night sky in her belly, crashed down outside the city and the Wylds flourished in her rot.

The light outside those Wyld woods no longer dropped below twilight, where it stayed for a handful of hours—more or less—before her dear brother Som, the sun wyrm, opened his massive eyes and brought morning again.

Welcome to Morne, it’s weird and crazy and we hate it too.

We’re trying to fix it though.

Doesn’t answer the question, does it? I’ll try again.

Night on Morne was known as “halfnight”, since it never reached full dark—and wouldn’t until it could do nothing else. Fangs could go out in halfnight, the suns’ lids were closed after all, they just didn’t block everything and they weren’t terribly consistent about how long they remained that way. So it was unwise to leave the safety of their lairs outside the slim window of what should have been midnight—urging everyone with blood to taste into their homes.

Oh, but I’m rambling again, aren’t I…

It’s time to check in on our other oblivious star.

~ * ~

As with our half-fang, we should take a moment to introduce our half-witch—full witch by blood, as one could be nothing else, but not practicing and thus half.

Odearna Mal Forna, Sister of Daughter Dusk, one of the three Goddesses native to the world of Morne—blessedly confined to the Wylds—was a self-made renegade witch of the slums.

But she had never known fame or fortune.

Or comfort, for that matter.

Sure, she knew the embrace of family and the love one always hopes that entails, but it had been fleeting—as all bliss—and it died, slow and agonizing in a hospital bed. Odea, very alive and very distraught, was taken into the broken family her loss left her and taught the rough embrace of fealty by hot hands, sharp teeth and sharper magic.

An embrace she did not wither in but hardened.

Fierce and patient, she took the possessive hands and hungry tongues of her coven—her Sisters in magic, bound by their Goddess’ blood—for months on end, adhering to the rites of their Goddess and the rituals they entailed. More than blood she tore, screaming with grief and regret, from the victims of her coven’s clients. But through every curse, every hex, every lost soul she bound or broke in the name of a capricious mistress, Odea plotted and prepared.

Then she fled, bruised and bloodied—and eternally scarred—to bury what she scavenged of herself among the slums. Unfortunately...she could not escape her Goddess. Not so long as her blood pulsed with Daughter Dusk’s could she be free of her collar, her leash.

So Odea abandoned her magic, her power, herself—as much as any witch could—and tried her best to hide in a life outside her expertise. The how’s and details of the why’s we will—as her fang counterpart before her—explore in time, slow and dripping as the blood she worked with.

For introductions, one must only be aware that our dear Odea was magical by nature—resilient by design.

000

Witch turned phlebotomist, Odea often found herself outside, during or after her Goddess’ time—after dusk—on streets that blinked and blinded with all the neon its businesses could muster. Those bright lights tempted all with desires to twist toward gyrating holos. Holos that promised the comfort of young, eager synth bodies ripe and ready to bend and break.

Odea huffed at every one, or puffed rather, directly through their collected lights as she had no desires to tempt—flesh, though integral to the magic she so rarely tasted then, held no sway over her...as she cared little for touch.

With the sultry tones of Savor, her favorite netstar, singing from her netlink—glittering among the many other rings and charms decorating her ear—work was what mattered. All else be damned.

But, damned or not, else intruded.

That else turned out to be two thugs looking for a quick buck, or a bite—to be honest, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things what they were looking for; they were looking in the wrong place.

They slithered out of an alleyway like a couple of awkward ferrets, bared their oversized teeth and pulled her into deeper shadows, knocking the netlink enough to halt the melodies singing through it—and souring her more than the rough claws on her sweater and moist breath in her face. 

It wasn’t every halfnight she was jumped by a couple of bloodsuckers, but the last time it happened they were after more than her blood, so it was a marked improvement.

These ones wanted her keys and had assumed—foolishly—that it would be an easy matter to get them off her. She was alone, after all, and they figured she was a tiny, defenseless woman they could drag into a dark alley and intimidate. Unfortunately—for them—being one did not require the other. 

Must not be important enough to get delivery, she guessed, suppressing the smile that tickled, the giggle that bubbled. Sharp teeth, no matter how big or hairy the bodies attached to them were, did not worry Odea. The latticework of scars her massive sweater—and layers of shirts beneath—covered marked her all but immune to such worries.

And the sad little knives they waved around weren’t helping any.

“You got a death wish, meat? I said give us the keys,” the bigger fang said through teeth struggling to fit behind lips too thin for his face. 

The smaller one gave what he thought a threatening nod and Odea had a genuine fright…that she wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face for her bit. A bit she began by digging around in her purse.

“I’m certain there’s a seedy little hole in the wall somewhere that’s really missing you two,” she said through an exaggerated giggle before she brandished a small flask and shook it. “You guys drink? Booze, I mean.”

Standing slack-jawed for two heaving breaths, the big one shook his surprise off and caught her by the neck. Mourning the loss of her giggle as she hit the wall, Odea found it again in the sight of the flask held firm in her fingers.

“Fine,” The hairy wall of muscle spat. “You don’t wanna play nice, we can play rough.”

The smaller one licked his teeth and chuckled, “Yeah, we like rough.”

Stretching her neck beneath the oversized hand that held it, Odea feigned fear at the fang it belonged to as he grinned and bared his fangs again.

He didn’t get to use them, however, as he was far too busy screaming. 

Night-blessed water may not have been the most economical choice of weapon, but it was easier to carry around than a bonewood stake—and Odea knew a good deal more of Mother Night’s witches than she did undead whittlers. 

The fang dropped her to scratch at his melting face and the other hissed before he pounced, allowing Odea time for a well-placed foot to his groin—much to the delight of all the underpaid women he planned to spend the remainder of the evening with—and an opening to rush out of the alley. 

And right into another fang. 

“Just my luck,”she told the smooth surface of the sidewalk’s screen as she replaced her dropped flask in her purse and slapped around for her lost glasses, “flat on my ass in the middle of a fang sandwich.”

But the new one didn’t pounce. He didn’t snarl or spit or even threaten, no he knelt beside her and offered the oversized glasses she couldn’t spot. And he didn’t want her neck, or her keys, just her wrist, which he took through the thick corded cloth of her sweater, careful not to touch her skin. 

After helping Odea to her feet, and offering a comforting smile, the new fang settled warm hazel eyes on her nametag and said, “I take it you work the halfnight shift at the leechpit?”

Get in the cab if you want to stay in one piece, he added in a voice that didn’t try to brute force its way into her thoughts; it asked politely, took her mind to dinner and gave it a tasteful kiss on the cheek.

She’d met some of the classier fangs before—as she would refer to him beyond politeness—but he was something else when she looked closer. A bulky mountain of a man with short, mouse-colored hair and a patchy mess of curls where a beard should be, he towered over her in a tattered black duster and clothes so dreary and casual they made her sweater and leggings ensemble look fashionable. Even his fangs weren’t really fangs, protruding only enough from the friendly smile he offered to reveal what he was.

It wasn’t right.

Classy fangs were all pomp and flourish. They put on a show as if they were the show. This one was nice. Nice and friendly and normal and somehow that was worse.

With his voice lingering in her thoughts, caressing her nerves, Odea couldn’t find her own. Instead she found a sense of longing, unknown and unwelcome but she held it all the same; close and tight as the classy fang ushered her into a smoky cab—a cab that’s netlink sang over-sweet with the song she’d lost in her own.

Her composure did not return until he helped her inside, then it burned clear through her cheeks.

“Back to the leechpit, if you don’t mind,” The fang asked the cabby.

While Odea straightened her hair and glasses, distracting herself until the classy fang eyed the window, where she couldn’t see his eyes. It was difficult not to stare when she could, more so than it should have been, as if her eyes were refusing requests to look away. Sure, he was cute—beautiful even, in a familiar and eerie sort of way—but swooning wasn’t like her. She didn’t swoon and certainly not for a man, no matter how cute. 

So what’s got me gawking? She asked herself—the better question would have been ‘why doesn’t he make me anxious?’ but she wasn’t ready to ask it.

And he answered, “Not to sound like a cliché but it’s not you, it’s me. Where anythin’ human is concerned, preferences be damned,” He turned to face her with a single eyebrow cocked, his smile crooked and more than a little sad as he added, “I’m irresistible.”

She knew words, she should be saying words. Say words, Odea. “But I’m no—I mean, that’s fine then? I guess.” But it wasn’t, that doesn’t make sense, no fangs can twist a witch that way, am I…less, because I stopped practicing? His smile twitched but didn’t fall and she swallowed before speaking again, “I—uh, thank you? I’m supposed to say thank you. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know your,” he put a hand up before she could finish. Gross, even his hands are pretty, she said it to herself but he chuckled as if she hadn’t.

“Call me Del, and you’re welcome.” He leaned over her to unlock the door and Odea didn’t breathe till he returned to his own seat, but his whisper stayed with her, “When you get in tell Ron, Del says he’s sorry for keepin’ me.”

The world stopped without her and before she could turn to thank the fang again, he was gone. The cab remained, dinging with the payment of too many creds as its driver gaped at the empty seat.

Their eyes met.

The cabby nodded.

Odea nodded.

After she slipped under the creaky metal door, the cab flew off, leaving her alone in the smog-choked and bruising gloom of halfnight.

Turning her eyes to the sky, Odea asked it, “What did I do to earn the attention of every fang in this Gods-forsaken pit of a city?”

And if Som had been capable, he would have reminded her of what her chosen profession was, but he was not and so he shook and crackled. The cloud cover of his sinewy body crackled with him, bright and blue, before it burst and rain poured through the glittering pink barrier protecting Dolor from its Wyld woods. Beyond the glimmer of the towers above, the rain’s shimmering blues were tainted and spoiled by the smog beneath...where it found Odea.

Gray-hued and smelling faintly of sewage, what soaked through her sweater did not improve the twitch taking over her lips. But it did usher her faster to the screen, slapping her keycard against it, cursing the older tech of the building that it could not read her embedded ID—and know her without the stall of a card and the extra rain it drenched her in.

When the doors slid open she continued through them in a rabid charge, until the counter stopped her, or rather Ron’s welcoming smile did.

She had a message for that smile and, even as the memory of who gave it began to fade, she spoke it in precisely the tone he’d given it, “Del says he’s sorry for keepin’ me.”

“Again,” Ron clicked his tongue and shook his head, “I need to get you some earplugs.” He waved her confused expression off and started walking into the backrooms. “Or a helmet, maybe an attack dog...or a gun,” He added before he disappeared into the maze of storage rooms that extended deep beneath the squat building. 

All Odea caught as his voice faded was ‘fang ass’ and decided it better she missed the rest as she poured back into her body.

Fang? The cab she remembered, and the hairy fangs before it, but there’d been another there that wouldn’t latch. Someone new, Cordial, comfortable, an absolute…asshole! Push me into a cab like that, pull me out of myself, turn me into compliant putty and, the last of Odea’s consciousness snapped into focus and rage slammed against its edges. 

“Again?” She all but screeched, stomping toward the backrooms. “Ron, you better not have been keeping secrets or I will feed your ears to my cats!”

000

The halfnight air, while crisp and delightful on Delmas’ skin, wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was to not be running blood for a bunch of half-dead pricks—they were alive, as any other thing that is born and one day will die, they had simply forgotten how to act like it—but he would settle for the solace of the cab.

A solace he lamented as he outran others flying lazily down the street, Might have stank of piss and sex—and sang with memories best left rotting in a pit—but a cab’s better than wasted boots.

Buildings, cars, pedestrians, the violence and misery of the slums—and salacious holos of the slender bronze face and bright cyan eyes that would have broadcast the very song he escaped were he wearing his netlink—passed by in a rainbow blur. Few noticed him, their own halfnights saturated in stresses he could only imagine—with his not having to fear for predators as they did—and those that had the misfortune of catching sight of a billowing coat or a shine of fangs wouldn’t remember.

His was a fleeting presence.

Unlike the errand he’d been sent on. Though the package required of it was. Despite its odd color—a color that nagged, glittering in that pale way it shouldn’t—he carried a meager treat.

No doubt Bosch is suckin’ toes again, lookin’ to get another wing on that manor of his, he considered as he tucked the glorified shoebox tighter under his coat—narrowly avoiding a drunken pedestrian as he sped quicker than the poor woman could feasibly avoid herself. But, fucked color or not, it’s a bite of a thing, should get there and back with enough time for sleep, he regretted the optimism as soon as it faded and a sense of dread rumbled in its place. 

Not too many things could notice him at the speed he ran, let alone keep pace well enough for the growl that clawed at his ears, but the smell that chased it gave his pursuer away. There weren’t too many things that stunk of musty fur and cheap liquor either. Delmas ducked into an alley and waited for the shadow to stretch over his on the cracks and stains along the scrap-metal wall. 

And man, can that shadow ever stretch, he marveled.

When the thing stopped growing it was double his size in every direction, and Delmas slipped his free hand into his coat. He wasn’t much in a fight against what waited, but a storied career of punching faces meant he wasn’t defenseless either, and he felt decidedly less terrified to have one of his knuckle dusters on than off.

“Got somethin’ for me, boy?” the shadow asked, words dripping through teeth too big.

Box held close, and weapon held firm, Delmas turned and bit his lip. The blues of the nearby streetlamps didn’t reach the alley and dawn was still hours off—halfnight’s confused length not-withstanding—but he saw all he needed through the dim. The wolf in men’s clothing cut a certain figure out of the bruised twilight, and what a figure it was. Mountain as they once called him, Delmas had nothing on the shifted mess of black fur and gleaming white teeth that snarled in that blue-licked dark.

Nothin’ that hairy, with a mouth that big, should be allowed a coat that nice, Delmas thought. It was nicer than his and that bothered him more than the wolf’s size or the sour smell that wafted from his stretched snout. Delmas smiled as wide as he could—to keep from grimacing, “Hiya, Nash, didn’t think big bad let you wander off-leash. How’s this halfnight treatin’ ya?”

“Hand em over and I don’t crush your skull,” Nash didn’t need to step forward for the threat to stick, but he did anyway and Delmas had to bite his lip again as the massive wolf shuffled in the too-small space. 

“All business tonight, huh, alright then,” It was his turn to step forward, slipping into the empty space as if he were made for it, doing nothing to hide the grin as Nash backed away. “We all know your bark is worse than your bite. You’re neutered, furball, I’m off limits. This blood’s for the big guy, but not your big guy, so stow the teeth or I make the call and ruin both our tomorrows.”

“Not this time,” Nash growled under the words and Delmas shuddered with the vibration of it. The wolf stood taller, “Boss wants the blood and the boss gets what—”

“‘The boss wants’?” He shook off the growl and tucked the box of blood bags closer, tighter under his arm. “Nuh-uh. Not happenin’. My boss is bigger than your boss, figuratively speakin’ of course, so you’re not gettin’ these bags.” Nash had a nasty smile, more of an extra wide snarl that twisted around and curled up his cheeks. The flash of orange and dilated pupils added a bit to the effect, but Delmas knew better—or at least he was pretty sure he did. The wolves were neutered, there was an agreement. Gotta be a reason for the back alley tooth-off here, he worried, but he said, “Alright, smiley, put em away and we can talk.” Delmas let the knuckle duster loose in his pocket and put his hand up, backed up a bit and waited till Nash tucked those teeth away before continuing, “Fangs get the syrup and wolves pop the dead things at the morgue for their nougat-y center. That’s how it is, how it’s always been. So why’s mama suddenly jonesin’ for the red and gooey?”

“I don’t have to tell you shit, halfie.” Nash was too worked up for conversation—not something one wants from ten feet of muscle and teeth.

Delmas began to run the scenarios but his mouth wasn’t patient enough to wait for wisdom, “You lick your mama with that tongue, mutt?”

Nash growled, deeper and longer than his last and Delmas dropped. Rumbling through his skin, fierce and hungry, he could all but feel the teeth in it before the wolf stopped. And, grasping for the support of a nearby dumpster, Delmas stood—slower than he needed to.

Waiting, lips wide and eyes bright, Nash offered no mirth, “I get the bags or you get dead.”

“Please back away, I am unsafe to touch,” the dumpster chimed, flashing warning symbols along its surface before it clicked its lid locked.

Delmas ignored it, pushing from the greasy metal can as it heated—wiping its black grime on his matching jeans. The chime of the electronic voice rang again, after a sizzle and pop, but he ignored that too and dusted off his coat, taking special care to slap at his coattails—slipping the hand into his pocket after.

Then he looked up into Nash’s monstrous snout with a smile half as hungry, “If I give you the bags, I won’t be the only one gettin’ dead.”

“I ain’t afraid a you,” Nash spit, grinning as the viscous mess hit the spot of Delmas’ coat he’d just cleaned.

Eyes firm, Delmas secured his knuckle duster and nodded, stepping closer. “Maybe you should be,” he warned, dropping and diving between legs too big—yet conveniently wide-set—before twisting around to pop ol’ Nash in the jewels on his way through.

The wolf did not howl, nor did he wail, he squeaked—in a pitch that set dogs three blocks down howling in shared agony—and Delmas’ laugh coughed loud and sharp as he rolled out of the alley and into a sprint.

But his giddiness—as all great joys—was fleeting.

Balls of steel that one, he fretted at the distant rumble, and the growl that chased it. Memories of blood-starved weeks healing broken bones and black eyes kept him at a gasping pace, one that allowed him to dive into a broken dumpster free of garbage but soaked in a stench vile enough to mask his scent.

“—your fucking bones!” Nash’s threat was cut off, but Delmas could work out what had come before it and remained in his hideaway.

Nash lashed out at can after can, scratching at metal walls and even toppling a streetlamp—from the crunch and crackle Delmas could make out—but he didn’t find him. He remained safe and sound until the growls faded, and their residual shivers died away.

Stinking of burnt garbage, Delmas then headed for the drop—making a mental note to strangle his boss. However, Nash wasn’t what urged him quicker as he did. No, what he was after managed that. While wolves coming for blood was a bad sign on its own—a terrible omen one might say—the color of it piled on extra reasons to fret.

000

“Your ears in fucking my cats, Ron!” Odea repeated for the fifth time.

But Ron wasn’t listening. He wasn’t budging. He was hiding in a freezer, because Ron? Ron wasn’t stupid. He knew more about her then she did. 

For instance; when she got angry, things got broke. 

They lost most of the glass in the front of the bank last month because some fang-banger was loitering out front. Scrawny creep walked in like he owned the place, sold a bag of what could only be mer blood—red as any other, it shimmered and rippled like the surface of the sea—then asked after Del, but Odea didn’t know any Del.

Because someone keeps erasing himself, Ron thought—but he was mistaken.

Expletives sung from the creep—in a manner Ron should have found familiar—and his eyes flashed in a cyan brighter than any Ron knew despite the low hood and thick lenses covering them. Then the fang-banger and Odea had it out, full on shouting match right there on the sidewalk for all the slums to hear.

But that’s not what worried.

It was when the sweet little thing, who had been slinging blood by Ron’s side for the better part of a year, screamed—wailed more like—in a way he’d never heard a human scream and all the glass shattered. Got rid of the fang-banger alright—ran him clear across the street to a car too nice to be in the slums—but Odea? He found her standing on the cracks of the glitched-out sidewalk, covered in blood and glass, eyes burning with white fire and mouth hanging three times lower than it had any right to. She fainted when he touched her and woke up hours later…and asked what happened to the windows.

So no, Ron would not come when she called. He was staying put behind the steel door, where it was safe.

“Seriously, Ron, where are you? I’ve had a shitty start this halfnight and I need some answers before I lose my mind.” She was right outside the freezer. If he wanted to—which he decidedly did not—he could peek out the window in the door and see her standing there. “I was kidding about your ears. I won’t feed any part of you to my cats, I would never. I don’t know where you’ve been.” Ron laughed, it was short and more of a squawk but it was enough and Odea’s round face filled the window, fogging up her glasses as she spoke in a warbling singsong, “I see you.”

Her voice slipped too easily through the thick glass. It tickled chill fingers up his arms and burrowed into his ears and Ron wanted to run. But he was in a freezer. There was nowhere to go save under a shelf of blood bags or into one of the empty boxes meant for them. No matter how limber his dead limbs had proven to be, he knew damn well there was no way he’d be able to squeeze into a box that small.

So Ron sighed…and opened the door.

Odea stepped back, rocking onto her heels, and clasped her hands behind her back, gazing up at him with comically widened eyes.

Ron sighed again, “Oh please, honey, don’t strain yourself. Just, go make us some coffee and I’ll meet you in the breakroom.” She squeaked and hopped and, as she fluttered off down the hallway humming to herself, Ron wondered if she knew how many people were in that head of hers, do they have to schedule their time, or is it like a rotating roster?

It took him longer than he expected to navigate the maze of halls that was the bloodbank, and when he finally reached his destination the breakroom greeted him with an unenthusiastic, ‘meh’.

Walls of unwelcoming off-white weren’t its only travesty, as the linoleum’s attempt at fun patterning was anything but. Never mind the chairs, which creaked no matter who sat in them, add in a delightful layer of grime and dust on nearly every surface and you got a pit no one in their right mind would spend time in. It was a bleak room, made ever more by the flickering fluorescent bulbs that lit it.

But there was coffee.

Decent coffee too, something that only happened when Odea made it. Ron could never work out why that was but it gave him an excuse to have her make the coffee every shift they shared together, which was every halfnight shift.

It was just the two of them that worked halfnights and they rarely had anyone but Delmas drop in, which was rare on its own and never happened when Odea was in the building—convenient, that. 

The dayshift was another beast—and when Ron saw his favorite fang most often. That crew managed the buying and collecting of the bulk of their one and only product, and anyone looking to make a quick buck off the life flowing in their veins preferred brighter, living faces taking it. From all over the slums and the shimmering towers above it, and even out into the border of the Wylds the people came. They weren’t always people, in the strictest sense, and the blood not always what one might picture…but the bloodbank bought it. 

Then it sold it to the fangs, always the fangs.

No one else bought blood.

It was provided, of course, to the hospitals when needed but it was rarely needed. No, their deceptively large bloodbank was essentially a giant juicebox for bloodsucking monsters—some might say ‘vampires’, and I’m sure by this point in our tale you’d like them to, but that was an old word in Morne, one that would confuse most and enrage others.

Ron was comfortable with the arrangement—as if he had a choice. Fangs didn’t judge, much, and Delmas never. He was welcome in their spaces, even if his hunger required more to slake. Odea though, her he didn’t understand. No normal, warm and breathing, human would choose to spend every halfnight alone with a flesh-hungry corpse—no matter how charming and adorable he was.

But...after working side-by-side, dealing with her cycling moods, noticing the way some of the machines responded to her presence and catching the disturbing glint in her eyes when she spoke of blood-borne diseases, Ron started to understand.

Odea wasn’t normal, maybe not even human.

It was around then that he caught her taking her own blood, and his suspicions were confirmed. Human blood could drip out of their veins in a red so dark it appeared black, and it could even ooze if the person giving it were dehydrated. What it could not do was shimmer as if spiked with the very light of dusk itself. She was spooked when he walked in on her, but played it off as being startled and embarrassed. Selling her blood suggested money had been tight—and it had—but she ignored the oddity of her blood.

Ron said nothing, out of politeness, but he didn’t ignore it; Odea had witchblood. Even if his eyes weren’t seeing what he thought they were, his nose couldn’t lie.

She stayed with him in the solitude of halfnight—six out of the nine days each week—content beside his appetite, because she knew her flesh wasn’t on the menu. Either that or she didn’t know what he was, but he while he was well preserved he was still clearly not of the living, and they’d been together in that pit for too long for her not to have figured it out.

As for why they were the only halfnight shift, well, Odea asked him once, and once only, why there weren’t any humans working the shift with them. To the discomfort of both of them, all of Ron’s answers ended in ravenous fangs and exorbitant cleanup costs. No, it was humans—and thralls, if they could get enough of them away from their master’s beds—for the day-walkers and ‘others’ for everyone else.

That’s what worked, so that’s what they stuck with.

Who ‘they’ were, Ron had no idea. He had his ‘boss’—the same Delmas answered to—and he’d met a few other fangs before his favorite became the only deliveryman, but they didn’t seem to be in charge. Whoever actually ran the bloodbank was someone too important to sully themselves in the slums. 

And they have lousy taste in furniture, Ron grumped. The chair had begun to dig into his thighs during his introspection and Odea had yet to join him in his misery, but there’s a fresh pot of coffee. He glanced under the table, having found her under there before during one of her fits…nope.

The room was bare beyond the single table, a couple of chairs and the kitchenette—if three feet of counter space and a sink on top of a single cupboard and broken minifridge constituted a kitchenette.

“Where is she?” He asked it anyway.

From somewhere in the labyrinthine bowels of the bloodbank, a shriek answered.

~ * ~

Now that we have met our stars we must speak of our skies—of caution—of warnings. I have spoken of the wyrm, the suns, of Som; he whose steady claws held the misshapen ball of Morne and warmed it with the impossible fires of his belly, shining so brightly through his eyes.

But I spoke briefly of his sister. Her colossal eyes, soft blue-white they glowed so sweet, so gentle, while her sinewy sky glowered in dark and glittering blues and purples with the flash and twinkle of her own light peeking through like stars. They wrestled, fought, bit and tore to be the one that cradled Morne, gazed upon it—adored it. Calling forth night and day they ripped it from the other to sail the black seas of space, through vibrant nebulas in bursts of howling laughter—spilling fresh life in their wake. But, as the bigger of them, Som would have it last, always he would win. Until Vi, bleeding and broken—desperate—as her brother tore Morne again from her claws beseeched the emptiness beyond them both;

I wish to be more than my brother.

It grew in answer, that emptiness, and she along with It. Growing and growing until Som’s light sputtered in her own. Pride forced her claws after, stealing scales and flesh and blood and bright, reveling in her power, her success. Unaware of the ways of wishes, that took as much as they gave—more—so much more. Soon Vi shriveled in Its hunger and her sky, her night, rained down upon Morne until only Som remained; dimmer—desperate—and alone.

~ * ~

[ms-demeanor]

hey, don't cry. one cup heavy whipping cream, two tablespoons granulated sugar, three tablespoons cocoa powder and whisk until stiff peaks form for three ingredient chocolate mousse, okay?

[wheatormeat]

I made a little zine!

You can download and print it yourself for free here

[infectiouspiss]

"i won't do polyamory because i don't think it's for me and i'm personally uncomfortable with the idea" <- wonderful i love you live your life however you want youre amazing youre incredible

"i won't do polyamory because it's wrong/it's just cheating" incorrect i'm killing you then my boyfriend is killing you then his boyfriend is killing you then his boyfriend is killing you then his boyfriend is killing you then h

[dunmeshistash]

Dungeon Meshi - Izutsumi Futon Ratings

[ski-ip]

elf ears

[thunderon]

so my roommate is completely straight edge like no drugs no alcohol etc and so im sure y’all can imagine my surprise when i saw she brought home this sign

so i immediately inquired

and now you may ask. what the fuck did my roommate think that sign meant? well

anyways i moved the sign so it’s now front and center in our living room and ive been laughing every time i pass it

[suiheisen]

gritty both capturing the zeitgeist as usual AND educating me on the availability of free flow butter at american cinemas

[asteroidtroglodyte]

Move aside swagless boutta get a new Wizard’s Staff that comes loaded with spells like “open locked doors” and “dismantle car”

[smolest-tomato]

thinking about chilchuck's halloween costume and the fact that his favorite monsters are coin bugs. his daughters are dressed as coin bugs. and treasure bugs eat mimics. should i kms. that's so cute

[monstermonger]

Spring omen.

[wormturned]

It is scientifically proven that Dungeon Meshi will cause one of the characters to manifest in your head and tell you how to improve your life. You either get:

Senshi: eat well, rest, nourish yourself

Chilchuck: labor rights, advocate for yourself, scrutinize everything

Marcille: take care of yourself, study necromancy, be a lesbian

Laios: respect everything, learn about the world around you, be autistic.

[violetsandshrikes]

if i was an animal and i knew i was being observed and researched i would do something super fucked up. but only once. never again. ruin their lives. keep them guessing.

[the-faultofdaedalus]

magic system where “dark magic” and “light magic” are literal terms - dark magic consumes photons, making an area around the spell visibly darker, sometimes to an Extreme extent, and light magic releases photons.

because of this most dark mages tend to work in very brightly-lit areas (either artificial light or outside in the daytime) to fuel their spells and wear and use lightly coloured clothes and tools so that they’re easier to see in the dimness their spells create, whereas light mages wear heavy, sometimes leaden robes (depending on the work being done) and the magical equivalent of welding masks to protect themselves from what can be an extreme amount of light, and sometimes other kinds of electromagnet radiation!

needless to say this is incredibly confusing for anyone unfamiliar with the culture

[dunmeshistash]

Dungeon Meshi - Diamond of Sadena