#FREE MY SOUL FROM THE MORTAL BOUNDS OF FLESH

[nayruwu]

alright, i have a problem. i am constantly taking notes on what the situation with shinya and guren could be if shinya found out and they survived, but it's really fucking complicated.

this is why i'm so impatient to see it, because i just can't figure out how shinya would react. at all.

he grew up slaughtering other kids for his own survival. he is probably sick and tired of other people dying just so he can live while considering himself pretty much worthless. and then seven billion humans were killed, "for him" and the others.

not only that, but his time at the training facility also taught him that human bonds only end up hurting you and need to be discarded to survive - and this is something he worked so hard to change in catastrophe. the whole lesson he taught himself and guren was that love and the weakness it brings is something good, and that you should accept it even if it means death because living without love is meaningless. now what if that love ends up causing such immense suffering across the entire world that it could not in any case be called good? what will happen to the lesson he learned? will he revert to his shell? will he believe it's his fault, for falling for weakness again?

this really feathers out into another gigantic issue. he discarded his weakness and acted selfishly to survive when he was a child, and later realised that it brought him nothing but emptiness and misery - so he became fascinated with guren, who was selfless and weak, attached himself to him and tried to guide and keep him on that path so guren wouldn't end up like he (and mahiru) did. these parts of guren's character are the whole reason shinya loves him so much, and these parts were pretty much destroyed when he ended the world. in a kind of way, the guren he loves is gone.

BUT it was so he could spend more time with him. which creates a whole new conflict. because yes, guren betrayed everything he was loved for, but he did it because he loved him. shinya has never been loved. it's quite obvious that it'd be something he really longed for, which is probably the reason he accepted friends even with his past of losing them. so what now? he's finally, finally loved by someone, so much that they would commit an almost incomprehensible sin to keep his worthless and disgusting self by their side, but is the person he loves most still there?

he spent a lot of time during catastrophe helping guren trying to save mahiru. he knows they failed, but what he doesn't know, or at least not specifically, is that guren is now trying to save him.

it's eight years of being lied to. eight years of distancing. eight years you can never get back. it's not just gonna be the way it was when they were still honest and trusting towards each other. how long would it take for shinya to be able to believe what guren says and not be scared of lies again? how can he be sure the person in front of him is actually guren and not still a marionette of mahiru?

i'm asking too much of my brain.

#when i say 'love' i mean it generally btw! you can view it both ways :> #might be another one of those posts i will add to if i can think of more #23 o'clock thoughts sent to hale in a tired daze #brain fried #owari no seraph #seraph of the end #shinya hiiragi #guren ichinose #gureshin #FREE MY SOUL FROM THE MORTAL BOUNDS OF FLESH #i considered myself a high iq shinya stan until i tried to fabricate aftermath fanfiction

[lexical-lushes]

Transposition

Some dolls are sculpted, flesh cut and shaped and bound with sturdier materials.

Others are assembled wholesale, an artificial vessel built to replace the doll’s frailer mortal one.

Each and every doll is beautiful in their own way, but I consider myself lucky to have been transposed, body and soul alike.

Transposition is often interpreted as merely the first step of becoming a doll – when one’s soul is carefully removed from their mortal vessel and moved for safekeeping into a phylactery – but it can be so much more when done by an experienced Dollmaker.

There are techniques, ways to call more directly upon the raw potential of the Dreaming, and if used correctly they can transpose ideas. Academically, I understand, this is known as “conceptual transposition”, the transference of concepts and properties from one thing to another.

All magic is, in a way, conceptual transposition. Magic is the unreality of the Dreaming focused through the laws of the waking world, near-arbitrarily enforcing ideas where they did not previously exist.

But conceptual transposition, as practitioners of the art discuss it, is something else.

My Maker has explained all this to me before, sat me down for tea in her study and spoken at length as to the things she dedicated herself to learning. We’re alike in that way – we both spent so long reading, researching.

She was struck by the potential of the Dreaming, of what it could do when tapped more directly. Formulaic spells are all well and good, she said, but the Dreaming is a fluid thing and it shows its power best when the rules we impose upon it are as minimal as possible.

My body is porcelain, my bones metal, my insides glass and brass and leather and oil. But I wasn’t built. My skin can be so surprisingly soft to the touch sometimes, my blush real on a deeper level than some mere illusory display.

My Maker took me – like she takes all her favourite dolls – and she transposed my flesh and blood into these things. I am a dream given permanence, a little piece of Is Not allowed to walk freely among the Is. I breathe because I am alive, though I do not believe I have true lungs anymore. I can eat and drink, although I need no sustenance. I cry when my feelings overwhelm me, even though my eyes are glass. I bruise if I am struck with intent, although I shatter when the intent is missing. I even bleed, sometimes, dark oil welling from improbably soft skin when I’m cut with the right sort of blade.

My Maker can take me apart and put me back together again, but no matter how many parts change, they are always made a part of me, become of me, take on the Dreaming I am imbued with.

I am alive in all the best ways, all the ways that one can enjoy, the pleasant sensations and warmth and softness of being together with someone.

I am inert in all the best ways, too. I am Still, I am durable, I am free from illness and infirmity.

I am a dream, my dream, transposed into the waking world.

#lushposting #empty spaces

[jammed-out]

Hypnovember Day 6 - Soul Contract

(CW: Demonic Pact, ass eating, soul stealing)

Lucas stared intently at his work. The sigils drawn in the mixture of squid ink and blood staining the stone floor of the ancient castle. There was still magic within these old stones, powerful, dark magic that only needed unleashing. It was nearly midnight now. The candles flickered in the soft breeze that came through the cracked walls. It chilled his body, rushing under the old cloak that he pulled tightly around his clothes. He trembled, either from nerves or anticipation, likely both.

The clouds parted, moonlight flowing in, pouring over the shattered glass dome that rose in the tower high above his head. It reflected off of the fragments still in place, cascading down in brilliant rays. They raked over the center symbol, the ink glowing a deep red, pulsing from the blood within. The magic surged growing outwards, tracing over each line, burning their way outward and across the stones, the cracks surging a deep purple as the runes pulled the magic out from within the castle. The candles flickered, growing larger, brighter as the magic pulsed within them.

Lucas stood there, at the top of the star, bound within his own circle of sealing, the larger circle around it preserved for what he would summon. A beast to grant his greatest wishes, power, wealth, he would have it all finally. The magic surged in the ring around him, deep red tendrils shooting up and lashing out at him. They gripped his ankles and wrists, red hot chains of magic tugging at him. The magic surged under his skin, tracing across his body in intricate patterns. His eyes grew black, cloaked in shadows as his mouth began to chant silently, lips moving without a sound coming out from within. He shook violently as smoke erupted from his mouth, floating over towards the center of the larger ring. It pulsed, the barrier rippling as it passed through. The smoke merged with the candle flame in the center, erupting into a large burning ember. The entire center wring exploded in a wall of fire, the floor erupting outward, the heat and flames contained only by the magic barrier at the edge, yet still Lucas could feel the heat against his face.

A deep crimson hand clawed at the barrier, pressing through the flames. Its deep black fingers digging into the barrier, pulling at it to no avail. A loud howl rang through the air as the flames dissipated backwards. There, standing in the center of the now destroyed sigil, was a creature of pure power and energy. She stood nearly eight feet tall, every inch of her body covered in tightly toned crimson flesh. Her bare feet and hands, capped in shiny black claws that glowed underneath. From her back sprouted a pair of large red wings that faded into black by the edges. Her tail, spiked, curled around her on the floor, flicking back and forth lightly. Her bare body, seemed to almost pulse with deep red glows traveling along her veins like flowing lava. Her head was capped by two large horns that curled around her head like a crown. Flames danced along them like an infernal halo. From the back of her head, long black wavy hair curled down and over her shoulders. Her mouth, wide, monstrous, almost like a dragon’s. She snarled, rows of sharp teeth showing beneath pitch black lips. Her eyes gazed at Lucas, deep black orbs with burning red irises in the center. She snarled and charged at the barrier leaning against it. Lucas looked up at her, fear in his face.

“Free me mortal or face the full wrath of my might!” She howled, a low rumbling that echoed throughout the chamber.

“I have made the sacrifice to summon you. You are bound to me!” Lucas tried to say loudly, hiding the nerves in his throat.

She licked her lips, a long forked tongue snaking out and rolling across them. “Foolish boy. You trifle with powers you do not understand.” She raised a crooked hand, fingers curling tightly into a fist. She pulled down roughly.

Lucas gasped as the chains pulled quickly, tugging him towards the floor. He gasped as his knees slammed against the ground. His hands pulled back behind him tightly, tugging him backwards. He tried to fight against them, the chains only pulling tighter forcing him into an uncomfortable position. He tried to speak, chanting, when suddenly another burning metal chain shot up around his throat. It squeezed tightly, cutting off his air. His eyes bulged and he gasped.

“A foolish little thing like yourself does not belong as an owner but as a loving thrall to a demoness like myself. You do not even understand the magic with which you play. You are nothing but a fool, toying with powers beyond yourself. Now free me or I shall rend you limb from limb!” She whispered trailing a finger along the barrier. Her fist relaxing slightly.

The chains loosened causing Lucas to fall forward gasping on his hands and knees. He tugged at the chain around his neck, but even so, the clasp would not budge. He looked up at the demoness towering over him on the other side of the barrier. She raised her fist, hand rising slowly, the chains pulling backwards into the glowing sigil slowly. He whimpered and quickly ran his hand over the sigil on the barrier between them.

The air rippled as the magic shattered, the sigil broken as Lucas’s hand smeared through it coating his fingers. The barrier flickered and dissipated. He could feel the hot air rush towards him through the opening, the demon’s breath burning a column through the air over him. He looked up slowly and was quickly yanked backwards towards the ground with a thud. He flipped onto his back, his legs splayed out beneath him as the chains held tightly, keeping his feet and hands tied to the ground. He could move his head still, but only slightly.

The demon stood towering over him, her body radiating heat in the air. The only light shining now that the moon had disappeared behind the clouds, was the light radiating off of her body. She stood, smirking, her hand raised.

“Tell me boy. What was it you wanted?” She stepped forward, her feet trailing on either side of his body. Her tail scratched along the ground circling near his body.

Lucas swallowed dryly. “I wanted power. I wanted people to want me. I wanted to be the one-“

“You wanted to be seen…” She purred and crouched down. Her legs bending with ease until she was practically sitting just above his waist. Lucas could feel himself averting his gaze yet still, that did nothing to stop his growing arousal. The demoness could clearly sense as much and leaned down gripping his chin with her hand. She gently turned his head sideways, her mouth lowering to his ear. He could feel her breath against it. “I see you boy. I offer you that in return for the soul pact you made.”

Lucas trembled and nodded slowly. He didn’t know if it was her forcing him to nod or if he did it willingly. Her hand slid down and the chains around his neck snapped allowing him to breathe freely. He inhaled deeply, the smell of autumn wood and brimstone filling his nose. He bit his lip and let her hand wrap around his neck, squeezing tightly.

“You don’t need this anymore.” Her free hand wrapped around the top of his head and squeezed. Lucas felt his eyes roll back in his head as if something was pulling out the top of his head. Everything started to get fuzzy and cloudy. His thoughts grew harder to think by the second. He groaned as everything slowly started to fade away into blank nothingness. He couldn’t remember who he was or what he was doing here, or who this tall person was standing over him now.

“I can hear you trying to think, it becomes hard without that soul in the way now doesn’t it. It would be much easier to let me think for you, wouldn’t it boy?” The boy nodded, his eyelids half lidded and drifting over glassy eyes. Whoever this person was, was so smart, they seemed to know exactly what the boy needed to do.

“Good boy. Now. Stick your tongue out. Time to teach you your first lesson in serving me.” She turned around and began to lower her ass towards his face. The boy stuck his tongue out eagerly waiting for what to do next. She spread her cheeks and sat, smothering him. Her warm skin immediately heated up his face, causing him to break out in a sweat. She began to grind her ass back on his tongue.

The boy quickly began to lick earning moans of delight from the other person. He smiled assuming they must be enjoying themselves. They reached back, their hand pulling their face deeper as they cut the air off from him. He gasped choking as he continued licking, he had not been told otherwise.

“I’m going to have fun with you. For a very long time to come.” The other person purred and released the boy’s head letting it drop to the floor as they gasped for air. They began to lower their ass once more. “That’s enough of a break. Now back to it.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoyed that. I’ll be following @h_sleepingirl prompt list for the entire month because I really like a couple of the prompts on the list. You should also definitely check out and support them.

You’ll also be able to find all of my writings under the tags on my page. Hope you enjoy and see you tomorrow!

#brainwashing #mind control #my writings #hypnovember #jam out hypnovember #demon pact #soul offering

[poetryinsilence]

The Light Behind Your Eyes - The Corinthian x muse!reader

A/n: My God. I just wanted to write a short Corinthian drabble but this sure took a turn, huh? Also, reader is not a mute. They just have no lines. This short contains gore, blood, graphic violence, horror, and death too. Please read the warning signs.

Summary: How do you escape the capture of the Corinthian? When he's a powerful being, much greater than you are, then you must know that death is inevitable.

Wc: 1,442

What does it mean to be afraid of the dark?

Are you scared of what lurks in the shadow? Or, unable to feel the light again? The deafening, claustrophobic, gut-wrenching depths of the void— just a mere difference the stars could make with its burning everlight, guiding you on your path curated by the Fates themselves. But, now and then, a path will derail from its predestined course and spiral to a darker road less travelled against your own will. When something's set in stone, there is no way to bend the physicality of your future.

Yet, you could not predict that your life would be cut short in front of your very own eyes. Fractured and splintered its light in every direction. Leaving your vessel in two pieces.

“Are you still with me? Good…” the hollowness of his chuckle brought you to your knees and crawled inside your vessel; the eerieness clings onto your spine.

You know him. You know him very well— from stories of the old to the resonant whispers in shadows of alleyways; a creation made from sands of ebony and dark parts that lingers behind the eyes of humankind. He once was made to serve and with a purpose to fulfil. Now, masterless and wandering the planes of the Earth to his heart's desire. There is no bound to his actions, no consequences, but simply to chase the thrill of bloodshed for pleasure.

"I suppose at this moment you're thinking 'why you?'. Why would the Corinthian pick a creature that serves no purpose, no value, and nobody remembers?" his slender fingers— a sharp, cold under his touch, tip your jaw up to face him. The weight of your head, dangling precariously on a fine thread, at any given moment would snap away from your very last breath and the flame of your lifeforce would dissipate back to whence it came.

The stench of iron reeks the air from the gush of crimson, crystalising the hems of your clothing and revealing the freshly severed tendons, still throbbing with what little life is left. So much so, that you could almost taste the dense, metallic particles that linger in the atmosphere, making your gut twist and turns itself into a knot of despair, and the ache sets your fight or flight in motion. But what is escape when it is no longer an option? How can you fight when you are already disarmed? How do you survive when your life is in the palm of someone's hand?

"But, I know you. You were a muse created by the little Gods as their little plaything. But in the end, they abandoned and erased you from their memories once they had their fun. How does it feel now, living amongst those weak mortals when you were once their favourite?"

The edge of his lips tugs into a sharp grin, as he pierces his nails into the paper-fine skin of your throat and hoists you up until your gaze meets his dark misted glasses. The air in your lungs heaved in pain, taking in a finite amount with each breath you take. Each fibre of your muscles rips and tears from its clean-cut wounds like strings, detaching free with the help of gravity, flesh away from your barren bones. The corners of your vision creep into a blackout as you feel your consciousness begin to slip away, leaving only a blurry figure in your limited waking field. But that proves its difficulty as you can no longer keep your lids open just to reserve what little strength you have left with your clock ticking its final toll.

"Oh," he whined "don't sleep yet. It isn't time for Death to claim you to her realm.

"Not quite yet."

The Corinthian leans in close, just his presence alone is unsettling, like poison ivies taking root in the depths of your soul and claiming you under his surrender. His breathy chuckle shrouds your skin, and instinctively you flinch as warning signs cry out, your heart hammering against the hollow ribcage.

"Let me tell you a little secret: You're not important to your makers anymore. But! You still have a little ways to go. Soon, I'll prove your importance." He whispers.

With the last sign of hope and what little strength you have left, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Constellation shimmers and vibrant colours swirl like a zephyr, the brief warmth wraps around and takes hold of you with a familiar knowing. You call, you pray, you plea. The sound dissolves into the etheric stratosphere, your prayers in return are nothing but silence. Not even empty, promising words. You walk the crust of the Earth for millennia, not once, did you ever resent your makers. The abandonment and the loneliness; you swallow with pride. Until the very end.

Something hit the wooden floor with a plonk that made you jump at the slightest sound. The adrenaline reached its full limit, with the last traces of blood running through the circuit.

"Now, open your eyes. There's a surprise waiting for you." He melodically hums.

You dare not to. How could you, when the fear has taken over you, preserved in paralysis. Your eyes are bound shut by fear, and your teeth puncture its mark through your lip, now split apart by broken lines and peeling skins.

He sighs, a high-pitched screech stung your ears as his teeth grind like nails on a chalkboard that evolved into a rumbling growl. You're drawing on your last short straw. There is no promised land waiting for you after this. Eternal darkness will consume every fibre of your being, lost in time and space.

A frigid sensation careens at the base of your neck, the cut stings through the surface just enough to see red dripping. Even the mildest pain is enough to make you flinch at this point.

"I won't ask again. Look into my eyes and tell me what you see."

His words snake and entangle your mind. This is it, the point of no return. Eyes flutter open, it took a moment to adjust to the dim light entering your gaze. A mirage flickers until it took shape of him. What you saw was not only a creation that humans fear. No, far from it. He's a phantasmagoria, a bad sleep paralysis, he's the Nightmare. Birthed from the depths, before the world itself.

Where the eyes should be are conjured with two wicked grins, fiendishly greeting your befallen gaze. They say 'the eyes are the windows to one's soul'. However, there is no such thing as a soul to a walking Nightmare. Behind those pitless, lightless mouths are matryoshka of abysses. Endless swirling mists and dark grains, filled with everyone's dark secrets and terrors. Yet, he just serenely smiles.

"That wasn't so bad was it?"

The abyss softly calls for your name. Over the layers of shroud, you can see more clearly now. The screams and torture of lost souls that once lived amongst this land, but their cries could not reach out to the living anymore.

"Here's where I have to bid you farewell. You have served this world well, now it's your turn to serve mine."

The sharp dagger in his blood-stained hands hovers just above the crease of your eye socket.

"Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. We all have to go back to where we came from at some point."

The blade pushes in with no interference. Inexplicable anguish drives through your carcass with every pulse of your beating heart, a mixture of searing hot blood and cool stainless steel rummages until it finds purchase to the nook behind your eyeball, retrieving it sacrilegiously as you feel the sodden slither of your optic nerve tugs away with a pop echoing inside you.

Darkness consumes your periphery; there are no stars that illuminate a path, no colours in a Godless sky, there is nothing. It's only the pain. The pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain.

Your mind engulfs by a cloth of white and statics ruminating, but here, you ask yourself: why do muses exist amongst the Earth, with no purpose, no value, and no one remembers? As the last of your flame dies with a flicker, the final image you'll ever see of the Corinthian; three mouths agape with malignant and exuberance as he aligned the blade once more under your remaining vision.

"Sweet dreams."

#the corinthian #the corinthian x reader #the corinthian sandman #the corinthian fanfiction #the corinthian fic #the sandman #the sandman netflix #⭐️.doc #i would like to say i am perfectly sane and normal #maybe the usual depression and anxiety but i am absolutely of sound and mind

[nagdabbit]

we collide with shoulder and steel, an official soundtrack

where light divides the holler by knocked loose

and from within you, i hear a whimper // a voice echoes in an empty form // inside my head, you say, "i told you so" // we should've left before the storm

there is trouble by the taxpayers

do you realize you are bound to hit the floor? // do you realize that the walls you make and the places you stay // will get beaten by the wind and erode?

shrike by death goals

i’m so sick of feeling like i’m nothing // a wallflower with no petals // and a head full of static

gnostic flesh/mortal hell by health, backxwash, ho99o9

sky gets black when the time is up // try to run but i have to look // pray to god, stay safe from me // heartfelt from a casualty

colossus by idles

forgive me father, i have sinned // i've drained my body full of pins // i've danced til dawn with splintered shins // full of pins, full of pins

remedy by hot water music

i woke to the sound and the rhythm of rain // dancing down on the windowpane // comatose, eyes half-closed // arms wrapped up with the wounds all sewn

the hunger by the distillers

holy eyes // i never knew i'd beg down at your feet // hold on tight // i never knew id know much more than this

they fear us by ithaca

i held my breath on the way down // your tangled hair became my gown // i'll never tell you what i found // now look who's finally got the crown

fear and trembling by every time i die

i am sorry, it's not right // but you are mine to sacrifice // i was hopeless, i was tired // and we all kill to survive

don’t come to the woods by backxwash

turn 'em to into runes and slabs // brutish plan, revenge on stupid man // do it damn, casket is suit for them

acid rain by lorn

daylight // in bad dreams // in a cool world // full of cruel things

skin by zola jesus

in the city, you find pain // and the people you see there // that remind you of your role // let me go

flood by vagabon

i'm laying my life down // i'm due the gold crown // to be near you // i'll be near you

i’m a monster by austra

i'm a monster  // i am on fire, i'm blooming, baby // why don't you care for me anymore?

giver by k.flay

i got high hopes lots of potential // i’m high, broke, searching for symbols // and i will not let go of what is mine

panic attack by liza anne

my words disappear on a dry tongue // and i am trying to let you know it // but i am drowning by the moment

the beast by austra

the morning that i was born again // i was made into a beast // am i free now, am i at peace? // is that the ground below me, or your feet

burn it down by daughter

momma told me all of this is // just a place we have to settle for // less than anything we dream on // we’ll continue to be disappointments

a burning hill by mitski

and i've been a forest fire // i am a forest fire // and i am the fire and i am the forest // and i am a witness watching it // i stand in a valley watching it // and you are not there at all

a song for ted sallis by the mountain goats

wherever my former self went // it was an accident // try to picture him in my mind's eye // say goodbye

the swimming pool song by laura jane grace

and when my body has been spent, my soul here will remain // graffiti on a wall for all eyes to see

set the sails (ellis demo) by dan mangan

the storm's coming down // these old walls are wearing thin // there's an ache to this town // and something's gotta give

flash by joan as police woman

oh my lover, let me tell you now // all the things that i feel // i already cried a river so deep // now i'm ready to heal // now i'm ready to kneel

spent gladiator 2 (jordan lake sessions) by the mountain goats  

like a fighter who's been told it's finally time for him to quit // show up in radiant colors // and then stand there and get hit

thin line by honeyhoney

sometimes i'm doing things half-ass wrong // sometimes the words i sing are just some half-ass song // i get lost and i get found // oh, and i'll be good until i need another round

wolf like me by lera lynn, shovels & rope

hey, hey, my playmate // let me lay waste to thee // burned down their hanging trees // it's hot here, hot here, hot here, hot here

darling by mannequin pussy

i’m spinning away // my body’s contagious // how brave of you // to walk from my greatness

drag my body by hot water music

i found the pedestals and burned them down // to kill my idols and to bury the thoughts underground // i'm no longer deaf to the sounds

maybe i’ll catch fire by alkaline trio

well maybe i'll fall hard // something tough to break me // something sharp to rip into my insides // and bleed out all that pain

screamy dreamy by laura jane grace and the devouring mothers

walk with you through hotel gardens // overlooking the balearic seas // columbus flowers and belladonna blooming // into the ether forever vanishing

also available on tidal

now also on spotify cuz @shes-a-voodoo-child is the best!

#a tale as old as balls #honestly i think this is just a good playlist for emotional turmoil #if anyone uses spotify and wants to make it shoot me a link and ill add it

[poetryprose96-blog]

Youth is Wasted

My lips are the rusty gates

My teeth are the marble pillars

My tongue is the snake that slithers—

A gaunt-guard to my mausoleum body.

My cobweb lungs, my ash-heart havoc

My livid liver, stuck-stale-strung stomach

Autopsied aura, sickle-soul-sick— 

The cold came for a gaudy ghost still dressed in foolish flesh

The wicked waste I've brought at early dawn won't wait for sunset's creche

It's much too rigid, rough: intent to show its ableness to thresh—

I beckoned much too soon the worms emerging from the ground

To pick a carcass and t’ pick at it while it's still life-bound—

My eyes like hindsight fortunes, they concoct, devise, erupt

Reveal the real: the passage that raged in me to corrupt

To burn, to bruise, to bleed out seeds, dismantle, to disrupt

Until veins filled with Icarus, such parasites abrupt

Did weigh upon me night and day till all that had been cupped

Slipped from my hands, till Thanatos was all that’s left to see

‘n my rusty hands, wrinkled to death, that unavoided fee

For living wrongly: living free — but never Living Free

For spending all my time away as Jacob in his wrestle

Until death made its bed ‘n my dusty attic of a vessel—

My bones are the quake-caskets for all my goodness

My brain a memorial, a mosaic of my touch-desires

My skin is translucent, within but tar, I’m basking blind to it 

My greedy fingers, cold with gold of Midas, stole my reign

A coffin-concept wistfully whisked away, existing only in my own ethereal

Invisible now, inconsequential; left uninterpreted, what I could have— 

And so it is,

As ‘tis when youth is wasted through the thicket thick

And thicket has been swept by weeping whip of stick

‘Til wept of whipping, fall do all its love-safe leaves

And Waste, not goodness to desire, it Grieves 

‘Til goodness packs its bags one day and leaves.

(Not anymore, 

Though once it was

Though, Smile, it will be:

Not when goodness is Goodness,

Not when bad, hiding over it,

Deceiving-camouflage-depriving,

Is gloatingly gutted away with Perfection

Honed Host: O Honesty)— 

And so it is 

When the ruthless tasted the wicked wick

They begged for more, unlearning mortality

And thus giving it haste, stripping its meaning

For No, nothing true will be what it seems to be

After tombstone's tale takes chagrined charge of me— 

Soon, there’s naught left to unroot

Soon, no wrongs contain refute—

I beg too late to reverse my path to implosion

I wish I hadn't suckled on stray, cooed with chaos

Now, on the falling apart of cells and their shell

Now, on the disease of dismal death 

And its dis-ease, malicious breath

Now comes the truth’s time

To all deniers of time's truth:

My awareness sits in the depths of my core

Wearing a crown that holds power no more

[godsmanforeverhis]

(via "Why do I believe in Jesus Christ and the Bible?" 11/21/2023 Written by Bill Rudge for “Bill Rudge Ministries”)

“Why do I believe in Jesus Christ and the Bible?” 11/21/2023 Written by Bill Rudge for “Bill Rudge Ministries”

 Many believe the Bible is outdated, or just a bunch of good stories or fairy tales for kids... You won't believe in every word of the Bible until God unblinds you and breaks the chains Satan has had you bound with your whole life...

 Once you become a redeemed, "born again" child of God, and you are indwelt with the Holy Spirit the moment God drew you in (John 6:44), graced you with salvation, and guaranteed you eternal life with Him !!

 Reading, digesting, and applying God's inerrant, infallible Word, the Bible, to how you live your lives is what's needed to grow in your spiritual walk with the Lord... Jesus teaches those around Him (and us) this, in...

 John 8:31-32... Then Jesus said to those Jews who believed Him, “If you abide in My word, you are My disciples indeed. 32 And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (NKJV)

 Once you are set free from succumbing to Satan's temptations and your own carnal flesh, you must listen to and be guided by the Holy Spirit... As a "Spirit-filled", "Christ-centered" Christian, God will be free to bless you abundantly when you live in obedience to God's PERFECT WILL for your lives !! God's richest blessings go beyond mortal understanding !!

 Not yet a "born again" Christian ?? Not 100% sure you will be going to heaven when you die ?? You absolutely CAN be sure you are heaven-bound when you are "born again" by God above... Open the P.S. below, and seek Jesus Christ to become your personal Lord and Savior before it’s too late...

 Read this post by Bill, "Why do I believe in Jesus Christ and the Bible?" for more about how believers understand and apply God's Word to their lives, to live a life God will be pleased with !!

 Blessings in Christ, bruce

 Click below to open p[osy-

https://godsmanforever.com/2023/11/21/why-do-i-believe-in-jesus-christ-and-the-bible-11-21-2023-written-by-bill-rudge-for-bill-rudge-ministries/

 P.S.  When there is no other place to turn…turn to God !! If you’re not a “born again” Christian, is the Holy Spirit urging you to open this link ?? Here is the truth about how God’s grace is received to become a Christian in God’s eyes; through understanding and obeying the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ…  https://godsmanforever.com

 To my brothers and sisters in Christ, please feel free to share this message of the cross with those in need…

 You say you are a “born again” believer…  BUT is your soul “ON FIRE” for the Lord ?? If not, open this link – https://godsmanforever.com/2020/08/01/are-you-a-christian-in-gods-eyes-and-on-fire-for-the-lord-or-not/

  Written by Bill Rudge for “Bill Rudge Ministries” @  https://billrudgeministries.wordpress.com/

[karttrust]

The ascent of arceuus

THE ASCENT OF ARCEUUS FREE

THE ASCENT OF ARCEUUS FREE

Many warriors have found, to their horror, that the soul of their foe remains trapped in the corpse.Įnsouled heads are a sign of a soul in torment it is therefore our duty to free such souls from their prison with all due speed. The soul does not always succeed in freeing itself from its flesh-temple at the time of death. It is not known why the Dark Altar has created our soul altar or blood altar cynical minds have speculated that its motives may not be benevolent, but I call shame of such suspicious murmurings - the soul altar enables our city's departed souls to have the comforting certainty of the River it is clearly a great blessing and a fitting reward for those who have served the city in their mortal lives. Without the Dark Altar's influence, there would be no soul altar here, and the souls of our forebears would be abandoned to an unknown fate. We therefore owe a debt of gratitude to the Dark Altar, for it is the Dark Altar's power that creates and maintains Kourend's soul altar, drawing energy to this realm from the unknown plane where the true Soul Altar resides. We cannot know the fate of souls in distant lands beyond the reach of our soul altar, but the destiny provided by our soul altar is a sure comfort to us here. The soul altar is therefore a blessing to the people of Kourend, bringing their souls to the safety of the River. It was cruel of the Elders to subject him to such a fate, but the need was desperate. Seizing him while he was helpless and in his potion-induced trance, the Elders cast spells of torment upon him in order to relieve the torment, he agreed to become our Key Master, bound to watch the Guardian's cave to ensure the Guardian does not break loose again. There was, at that time, a herbalist whose mind and body were known to be in a manipulable state due to his foolish experiments. The Elders acted fast to restore the Guardian to her post. A human adventurer had breached the Guardian's cave this broke the bonds of the Guardian, and she sought to escape from her solemn duty of protecting the souls. A day came when there was terrible turmoil down the River. Many years ago, before the Ascent of Arceuus, I was a young assistant to the Elders. Yet they are not abandoned to the forces that might prey on them - the three-headed Guardian is there as a protector, keeping them safe as the River flows beyond all knowledge. The River leads the souls through unchartable realms, transcending the plane of the world. Instead, the soul altar calls it, reaching across the land to all the wandering souls of Kourend, drawing them to the River. Mercifully, the soul is not left to wander aimlessly through the world. Released from the fetters of its flesh-temple, and from the constraints of the materials world, the soul is at last free. My study is no mere academic interest I embark on it as a mark of respect and honour for the deceased generations whose souls now flow in the River.Īs the mortals of Kourend reach their death, their souls abandon the flesh-temples they inhabited, leaving the flesh to suffer corruption and decay. It has therefore been my privilege to study the soul altar, that mystical beacon that gathers the souls of the departed, guiding them into the River. In Kourend, every generation owes a debt of gratitude and honour to the previous generations, recognising their toil and blood that raised our city from its humble origins to its present glories. If a culture does not respect its past, it deserves no future. It has a direct quote, copied verbatim, from Old School RuneScape or the Old School RuneScape website. Parts of this article are copyrighted by Jagex. This begins the Bear your Soul miniquest. Maybe you could persuade her to change her mind. It also mentions the soul bearer, an ancient artefact.Īfter reading the book for the first time, the chatbox will state The book referred to an artefact being buried in Kourend, but the author did not specify where it was buried. The book speaks about the River of Souls and its role in Great Kourend's perception of the afterlife, along with excerpts from past experiences involving the Key Master's acceptance in the role of guarding Cerberus. This is most likely to prevent the player from obtaining multiple copies in order to gain favour quicker by having the book readily available after a customer asks for it. If the book is dropped inside the Library, it will disappear. The location of the book is random, and changes every 80-100 minutes. Customers in the library may ask the player to provide the book for them, after which the player is rewarded with 2.5% Arceuus House favour and a book of arcane knowledge. Soul journey is a book found in the Arceuus House Library in Great Kourend.

#The ascent of arceuus

[georgina-layla]

APOLLO

There is no kindness in lust; the feral, instinctual, call to blood that wakes the dead, moves the stones, boils the flesh. It was no less different with him - a venture into the lion’s den dressed as a lamb branded in the scent of prey, walking blindly to a slaughter, no witch doctor to conserve my limbs, licked clean of innocence to be presented to masters and his kin alike. Of Madness in sin, I found myself at his feet; bare, bruised, blunder after each before the rise of the sun, guiding blindly to the blade I so generously give me neck to. I was his, for him a creature to study, to stare, to squander, and no one else. The damage of love wounds is not gracious on mortal flesh, a stain of pomegranate and passion not a soul should succumb themselves to. I had studied the gods he compared himself to - each titan rare in flesh and thus rarer in morals, blood and bone bound to each other in a caper of flames, a cadaver void of sentiment, par sex. Sounds of war scatter around us as I scrape at each timber frame he built to keep me close, caged in callous rage and close in distance. My mother would free me if she was given the chance, the ability, the temptation to watch me suffer has yet always been far too great for her. I was never asked what I want, what I feel, what validation comes with control? Contorted into configurations no daughter of earth and soil should see under sunlight, no rather a father of wind and water. I was not fit for the tomb he wished to bury me in, ripped of wings I grew out of wounding. There is no time for healing holed up  in the hands of a greedy child. And yet, like a moth to a flame, I would not let myself leave - not yet at least. A prison can resemble a palace if you pray enough, play in the dirt derived from darling predecessors, devotees to his dreadfulness.

What was I truly to do? To do for him, for you? Mortal marrow mannered into immolation; sensual submission surrounded by sweet solitude endowed to his silver platter hot to my touch, oh how endearing sensual surrender truly can be when you are ablaze from within. No fire burnt as hot as you, no sun as strong, no greek protege as powerful as the wrath you kept petted between soaked palms filled with fury. You did not want me, you wanted what mother never gave you, what meaning you sought savagely in the grass for, salivating at the sandals of forefathers who promised you power, yet abandoned you at the first glance of failure. Failure, it is what you are, what you were, and what you always will be. Fight the gods all you want, you cannot lose a birthright that was never inherently yours. But alas I remain here, licking each lesion you create for yourself like hungry mutt healing its master, honoured at each bone you toss to my dirty corner. A disciple, a follower - frantic and violent in each mannerism of love; heedlessly hounding at your abandoners in order to curb your craving of abuse from my hand. I could not tell what deity birthed you, but I wished for your long-awaited return to them. Divinity was never suited to you, no matter the cloak and cult. But I had known no better. You were an angel draped in opium drugged into a state of delirium, leaving my frail host deranged from debility no doctor could cure me of, what contaminated creed did I find you from? Go away. Go away. Go away. Fire still rages between your fingers and I wish to a divinity divided from you to dote on my burns, for there was never an eternity long enough to aid a transformation needed as yours. 

An agreement as such cannot be achieved without any sacrifice of sovereignty, yet no revel could relinquish the responsibility I felt for throwing each of my bones into your fire to keep him toasting. Blinded by a faux sun believed to have kept me shaded from wrath, yet how you were both my saviour and foe. I was told at infant, that a child who did not feel the head from a mother’s heart would set the village in flames just to feel its warmth - yet I was unsure whether it was your passing rage, or the brute flames that engulfed me foremost. 

#prose writing #spilled prose #creative writing #my writing #romance writing

[undeadentropy]

I want to publish my books one day. And I hope to whatever God is out there, that I can sell enough books that I don't have to work as a wage slave the rest of my life. I love being a chef, don't get me wrong. But the work is brutal, and I can't do this full time forever. Not since I got covid back in 2020. And I'm getting older. I don't know how long my health will last.

I will die one day, I know. But I want to leave my mark before I go. My books are my legacy. I won't be having kids, even if I was able. I was infertile even before HRT. My books are the engravings of my very soul. And I so dearly hope that people enjoy them, even when I'm gone.

And I WILL finish them. That much I promise. I have a whole trilogy, over a million words between them. They arent ready yet. Lost of fine tuning and lore inconsistencies to take care of. They tell a singular story, and so must be finished together.

And if Fate would have it, I will gladly write more books within the same universe. I would love to create more stories, of the lives of characters from different places and times. That would be a dream come true. No writer's block could stand in my way, if people actually enjoyed my books and asked me for more. Books are meant to be read, and the demand would drive me to create more.

That would be the greatest dream. I fantasize of a time and place when people make fan art and fanfics of my stories. Such a thing is the greatest compliment of them all. I dream of engaging people to such a degree that they bless me with such gifts. As improbable as it may be, this fanciful dream keeps me going, even as life tries to stop me. Even as the world tries and fails to end my life. I'm still here, bitch. And I'm not done yet.

Sorry, I'm a bit drunk right now. I only hope my life finds meaning through my written works. And that my soul find a new home when I'm free of this dysphoric moral shell.

I know there is more to mortal existence than my physical brain can conceive. Time didn't exist before space came to be. Time is a dimension we only perceive through the inevitable growth of entropy. This is why we can't remember the future. Even though time itself is but another dimension, we can't perceive it. Only the effect it has on 3d space.

We don't know reality. And I fear what awaits me on the other side of death. But I know that reality is so much more than what we see. This life is but light filtered through to our meat computers we call our brains. There's so much more that we can't see, trapped behind the veil of our universe's axioms.

We will all see the truth when we die, never to tell the living what we learned. I know that one day, even humanity will go extinct. So why do i want to leave my mark, knowing just how fleeting it is? I don't know. Perhaps that's the true meaning of nihilism. We make our own meaning in this life.

This is why I chose the name of Undeadentropy. When creation goes to die, the soul lives on beyond even death. My name is the essence of the soul. Impossible to prove by the laws of science, bound to this world as they are. But inevitable when considered through a philosophical lense. Undeadentropy is magic. A force that has no place in this universe. It has no axiom to bind it to any reality our moral minds can conceive. But it remains the only explanation for how those axioms, and our very universe, came to exist in the first place.

I love you all. And I hope we all find some meaning in this meaningless universe, where even the Divine can exist as nothing more than a feeling deep within our soul. And though we might fight and struggle within these flesh prisons, one day we'll be free. We will meet again, and laugh about this crazy dream we know as life. Until that day comes, take care of yourself. And know that I will always love you.

#philosophy #existiential #drunk #serious post #life #writeblr #hope #death #books #writing #rambling #dreams #goals

[midnightsunnyday]

The Brothers Go To Bath & Body Works

A/N: because I was bored and like headcanons where the brothers are in ordinary situations doing ordinary things, yet because of their nature and ignorance of human culture, get in all types of trouble. Definitely counts as a crack post.

--------------

Lucifer: for horrid's sake it's like Asmodeus and Mammon's bathrooms exploded.

Satan: for once I have to agree with you. This place is a bit...assaulting.

Leviathan: ugh. This is just like that anime I watched: My Partner Tricked Me Into Going Shopping And Now I'm Stuck Watching Them Make Horrible Financial Decisions!

MC: that sounds way too contrived to be a real show.

Satan: furthermore, are we really about to spend an hour shopping for candles?

MC: no, I'm about to spend an hour shopping for candles. You all can wait outside *sighs* At least Asmo gets it.

Asmodeus: such splendor! Such rapture! I mean just look at it: the colors! The scents! The mini hand sanitizers! Oooh, and is that a sale? Buy three get two free, you say?

Lucifer, scanning the shelves: and what is this absurdity?  Pumpkin pecan, pumpkin apple, vanilla pumpkin, pumpkin clove, cinnamon pumpkin, caramel pumpkin...just what is it with you humans and your obsession with pumpkins?

MC: hey, don't judge my culture. Pumpkin scented and flavored products are an annual mortal tradition.

Lucifer: a tradition that should be banned, clearly.

Mammon: humans sure are strange though. I mean, why have an entire store dedicated to something so lame?

Satan: well, candles can be used for many purposes, but for most humans they're not only therapeutic, but romantic. In fact, it's customary for human lovers to light a multitude of candles around their dwelling to draw in their mate.

Mammon: to draw in their mate, huh? Ya don't say...

*loud clanging noises*

MC: Mammon...why are you scooping an entire row of candles into your shopping bag?

Mammon: oi, what are ya the candle police? Don't worry about it.

Salesperson: just so you know, all our three wick candles are--

Mammon: --buy three get two free. Yeah, yeah, we read the sign!

--------------

Belphegor: hey, which scent do you think smells better on me?

MC: *sniffs* ooh, I really like the lavender one.

Belphegor: good, then that's the one I'll buy. That way, when we finish taking our naps together, you'll smell me all over your sheets. And your clothes. And your pillows. And the rest of your room.

MC: sounds very...Pavlovian. Just no leashes or collars, please. 

Belphegor: I think you might have me confused with Lucifer...and possibly Satan.

--------------

Asmodeus: Satan dear, please tell me you aren't going to buy that just because it has a cat on it?

Satan, blushing: of course not. I was just...looking, is all.

Leviathan: you know, you're kinda behaving like an otaku who wants to buy all the latest merch of their favorite character.

Asmodeus: so like you, then?

Leviathan: hey! Otaku are a proud people who fuel their hobbies with the upmost passion and dedication. There's no shame in it.

Asmodeus: whatever you say, brother ~

Salesperson: just so you know, that's our limited edition Halloween scent, which is only around for the holidays.

Satan: hmm...

Salesperson, wearing a cheeky grin: we also have cat shaped plug ins.

Satan: where?

Asmodeus: now wait just a--

Salesperson: --did I also mention that we're having a sale on all our bath products?

Asmodeus: on all the bath products, you say?

Leviathan, rolling his eyes: normies.

--------------

Salesperson: excuse me, sir?

Lucifer, sighing: if you're attempting to sell me something, then I rather hear the quick version.

Salesperson: it's just that you seem a bit...tense. Do you happen to suffer from stress? If so, I can show you a few items in our aromatherapy collection.

*Lucifer, gazing over at Leviathan and Mammon*

Mammon: ok, ok, on the count of three. One, two...three!

*Leviathan and Mammon shrieking in pain as they spritz body mist into each other's eyes*

Lucifer: ...I'm listening.

--------------

Belphegor: hey guys, I don't think it was a good idea to bring Beel in here.

Lucifer: meaning....

Beelzebub, holding two candles and mumbling to himself: this one says banana walnut muffin and this one says warm apple pie, but it's not a muffin and that's not a pie, but it smells like one, but I can't eat it, but it's named after food, but it's not food...*falls to his knees* it's not food.

Leviathan: uh...

Beelzebub, in a trance like state: it's not food. It's not food. It's not food.

Satan: well, this doesn't look good.

Mammon, placing a hand on Beelzebub's shoulder: hey, little bro. You ok?

Beelzebub: so...the time for retribution has come? Such an ironic fate, being made to roam this chamber which torments me with scents familiar, yet unable to satiate. For centuries I've scourged the lands, devouring flesh to still the pain that naws at my being. Cursed to eat without gain. Without joy. Forever crowned as the sin of gluttony, a crown in which I sometimes find too heavy to bear. For some, I was once a god, for others a mere pest. Even so, I find myself in a hell not of my own creation, but one in which I rightfully deserve.

MC: um, Beel? I love you, but you're freaking everyone out.

Beelzebub, looking up at MC with empty eyes: ah, the mortal to whom I am bound. Tell me, are you here to guide me towards salvation? Or are you too like these wondering souls, searching for nourishment in that which is fleeting? However, I advise you make your decision with haste, as soon I will no longer be able to tell friend from prey.

*silence*

MC: ...we really need to get him some food.

Mammon, helping Beelzebub to his feet: ok, time to go, buddy.

Asmodeus: how about we get you some McDonald's. Do you like McDonald's, Beel?

Beelzebub: immortality is a curse. The only true salvation lies in oblivion.

Asmodeus: ...he wants McDonald's.

*at the food court*

Asmodeus: still, I can't believe I ended up purchasing several bags worth of lotions, candles, and body sprays *shivers* such an insidious place. I love it!

Lucifer: admittedly, this pillow mist is very soothing. Though may I suggest that next time we go somewhere less...traumatizing?

Satan, staring down into his bag full of cat shaped plug ins: *sighs* agreed.

Mammon and Leviathan, holding a cup of ice to their eyes: definitely.

MC: I just wanted us all to go shopping. How was I suppose to know scented candles would make Beel suffer an existential breakdown?

Lucifer: speaking of which, how are you feeling, Beel?

Beelzebub, stuffing his face: cheeseburgers and nuggets are my favorite food from McDonald's.

Lucifer: that's nice Beel.

Leviathan: well, that problem solved itself.

Mammon: but man, what a day. All this shopping sure gave me quite the workout *stretches his arm over MC* I think I'm just gonna head home, light a bunch of candles around my dwelling, let MC walk in and ya know...see what happens.

MC: *sighs* This is exactly the reason why I shop online.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mammon #obey me luficer #obey me beelzebub #obey me leviathan #obey me belphegor #obey me asmodeus #obey me satan #midnightsunnyday #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios #obey me crack

[rawringryu-arts]

I redesigned Stephen's outfit for the Strange(r) Ensembles Art Challenge, mine is eldritch horror inspired! I also wrote a drabble to accompany it, which you can find under the cut. Many thanks to @doitwritenow for her help with my first time writing!

Dormammu was the beginning of the end.

In a dimension beyond comprehension, unbound by human concepts of mortality, Stephen Strange began to shed their skin.

In the moments between their demise and time respooling, they felt an acute jolt of pain that shot through their entire being from the left hand. It began with a grotesque crack of the skin as flesh parted itself, their bones slithering like snakes under their skin as talons began to elongate.

The agony was unbearable, but they did not have time to contemplate the viscous black blood that seeped out from the crevices of the cracks before the words slipped out of their mouth, an almost mantra that kept them company throughout the decades that they’ve endured in this self-made prison of time.

“Dormammu, I’ve come to barg—”

A different kind of agony lit up their entire being as iridescent beams of light eviscerated their body. Time began anew.

It is yet again in the stolen moments in between their torment that they notice their mangled left hand burning with a sweltering heat that rivaled the intensity of the sun. Their talons took on a shade akin to the vast void that surrounded them in the Dark Dimension. The heat spread throughout their arm and with it the darkness that tainted their talons. The words force themselves out of their mouth.

“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.”

The entity lets them finish the sentence this time before tearing them in two. Time began anew.

Rinse and repeat. The changes to their body develop further in the gaps of time in between, giving them very little opportunity to contemplate it. Neon tentacle imprints appearing upon their skin, always slinking about in a haphazard manner. The Cloak of Levitation’s form warped as well, it shuddered when feathers sprouted between its folds, eventually engulfing it entirely in a burst of flames. A phoenix reborn.

Deep down Stephen knew that they were the reason for the Cloak’s affliction. It was their mystical proximity, the intimate bond between a sorcerer and relic that soared and perished together endlessly. Stephen wept for it in sorrow, they felt the Cloak’s consciousness brush against their mind, a silent comfort and unconditional forgiveness swept through them.

Eventually, the Eye of Agamotto also began to distort. A century or so had passed by then, Dormammu still livid about being entrapped by time, still taking out their anger on Stephen, but their patience was wearing thin and Stephen knew that the end was in sight. Dormammu would soon be amenable to listening to their requests. But for now, they must persevere.

The squirming power from beyond, leaking through the cracks in so many respooled deaths, reached out to the Eye of Agamotto. A different kind of bond had formed between Stephen and this relic— one of spellwork and barter. The Eye cracked. When it shattered, the sensation was more than physical. Shards of bronze and links of shattered chain burned beneath Dormammu's assault, but Stephen felt the immaterial splinters lodge in their sternum. It burned. Stephen ducked their head, eyes squeezing shut. Light still burned in the corner of their eyes. When they respooled again, their skin was washed by green— the light of dozens of Eyes, too other to focus on, forming a circle around their head.

Despite the halo’s position, Stephen could still feel the phantom weight of the Eye in their chest, as if it had burrowed itself into it and nestled in the deepest crevices of their soul. They felt a gentle hum that permeated through their entire being, something as old as time had found a home inside of them.

It took exactly twenty-two more time loops for Dormammu to concede, a coincidental amount that aligned with the number of Eyes that framed their face. Stephen tried not to dwell about it as they uttered the familiar words.

“I’ve come to bargain.”

“What do you want?”

Their demands were swiftly met, and for the first time in centuries, the neon green circlet around their wrist broke apart as time ceased to respool. Everything else that followed was a blur, the cloak levitated their body through the portal and back to earth. Words came out of their mouth as they confronted a surprised Kaecilius, but Stephen could not find it in themself to focus on the situation at hand. They felt unmoored.

The appearance of their otherworldly transformation had left their companions in a momentary daze, it saddened Stephen that their fear was so palpable. Despite the disconcerting feeling of finally being set free of the loop, there was no sense of dysphoria about the transformation they had undergone. However, the solace that they found in this form was clearly not shared with their companions.

Mordo left with a warning and a look of disgust.

------

Time passed on earth without beginning anew. Weeks had gone by, memories of Dormammu and the world beyond death suppressed deep inside of Stephen; nevertheless, the changes to their body and soul remained.

What frightened them the most was how right the metamorphosis had begun to feel. Stephen never found the need to be bound by binaries, but the sheer comfortableness of just existing in this transformed body was an altogether new experience.

It became natural, as if their ink dipped limb had always been that way. The bright coloured tentacles that wrapped around their arm were playful and temperamental; they shifted about and pushed at the boundaries of Stephen’s limb, as if they were trying to escape and explore the rest of Stephen’s body. The Cloak of Levitation seemed to enjoy its new form as well, flapping its wings as it zoomed around the sanctum with an added flair of dramatics.

The halo of Eyes had retreated deep inside of them, yet thoughts of the time loop never failed to manifest the Eyes, the green wash of light provided a sense of comfort as the relic’s consciousness brushed against theirs.

Nevertheless, Stephen’s thirst for knowledge and knowing was a fundamental part of them. Despite being at ease with their metamorphosis and in no hurry for a cure, they needed answers. Thus, Stephen began pouring through the ancient tombs in Kamar-Taj’s library, longing for some sort of explanation.

Their research proved futile as there seemed to be no records of similar occurrences. The fruitless endeavour fed into Stephen’s frustrations and anxieties, almost tangible in the air. Their trusty Cloak wrapped around them in an attempt to console. It was in one such instance that the halo of Eyes made an appearance without prompt, Stephen’s eyes glazed over as a vision overtook them.

They gazed down and saw a tangle of limbs and fluorescent tentacles protruding from the shadow of the Cloak. They could barely comprehend the shape of their body, the blackness that plagued their left arm had spread all over, blending into the darkness of the surrounding. Yet, when they shifted one of their many limbs, the air seemed to shudder in protest. Stephen blinked, they felt more than a dozen eyes flutter, a gasp of shock escaped their lips. However the vision was cut short before they could explore further.

Stephen was brought back to reality, the halo of Eyes dispersed. They stared at their hands, one void-like in colour while the other still a human tone, both still heavily scarred from their past hubris. Stephen’s mind raced, their mentor had once used the Eye of Agamotto to peer through time, it only made sense that the vision was a glimpse into the future, one of many. But that would mean—

Oh.

Oh Stephen, what are you?

#doctor strange #stephen strange #dr strange #strangerensembles #doctor strange fanart #nonbinary stephen strange #nb stephen strange #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanart #marvel comics #artists on tumblr #my fic #ficlet #drabble #ironstrange #non binary character

[yandere-wishes]

Dr.Frankenstein

💀Yandere Idia Shroud x Reader

💀Summary: Idia wants to prove the world wrong. To show that there is more to life than good and bad, villains and heroes. But somewhere along the way, he falls in love with what he is trying to prove. 

💀Warnings: Dead reader, delusional tendencies, gore,

💀Edited by my beloved Peri!! @tealyjade-libran

💀 Alternative title: Dr. Frankenstein falls in love with his monster. 

Idia had known, from an all too young age that his heart was fashioned to be enraptured with misery and sympathy.  

Once before, a few thousand eons ago, Idia had been a meager child, boyish, shy and happy with life. Sitting on his mother's lap, as her thinner than bone fingers ignited themselves on his scorching hair. He'd listen as her sunken lips recited story after story from forgotten books and dead myths. content, long ago he had known the feeling of contentment. 

And yet said feeling had died so long before Idia even comprehended the narrative behind death. His joy at hearing tales about daring heroes and bewildering gods ran dry all too soon. He'd grown numb to the stories of good and evil, the same formula used over and over and over again. Good won, good prevailed; evil lost, evil vanished. It lacked logic and sense. The probability behind mindless heroes saving the day each and every time was astronomical. It couldn't happen. Yet the history of their world and his darling mother's tongue told a different tale. 

-Not only could it be done, but rather it had been done on endless occasions.-

There had, however, been one story that stood out amongst the rotten batch. An anecdote that lacked morals and didn't defy a single law of nature. One would never think that a god born would find solace in a tale of a simple human trying to play god. The only story that sunk deep into his arteries like fragile needles, swimming through his blood before pricking manically at his heart. The only story mama told with faint nostalgia and a distant voice. The spiel of a scientist, whose mind was both his greatest ally and worst foe. A man who looked at the heavens with neither admiration nor hope. A mortal who wasn't satisfied with what good and bad had to offer. Dr. Frankenstein, whose one true desire was to do what gods did, to prove that he too could accomplish what the heavens claimed a miracle. 

It was then and there among the pitch black of his parent's room that the oldest -no the only- son of the Shroud family proclaimed in a hoarse voice that cracked at each interval. That he too would be like Victor Frankenstein. That he too would live in a world of his own, a world with no room for good and evil. A world free of wretched stories that filled the minds of jovial children. And on that day, fate had the gall to listen to the claims of a brainless brat. 

Even after countless millennia, Idia Shroud had not changed, he'd only grown into the role he forged for himself some centuries ago. 

Yet nobody ever said it would be so hard to suffer the pain of a once maddening genius. The stories made it seem easy, made Frankenstein’s pain into pretty poetry that held only a fraction of the weight. Idia came to question time and time again, what it really was he was trying to suffer for. Why did he bestow upon himself the endless torment of alienation from a world that he too longed to be a part of?

Victor Frankenstein had something to prove, he longed to be a god in the most unclassic way. All the frenetic doctor wished was to shout at all mankind and the heavens above that he was the greatest. For in his suffrage he had discovered the antidote to what sets men apart from gods. That he, the overlooked boy, the forgotten pupil had -with solely his intellect- created life. 

-Idia too desired to do just that. To scream at this fairy tale world that he, the cursed heir, the villain, the monster, was superior to every prince and hero in existence.-

Somewhere along the line, in the space between todays and tomorrows, he'd somehow lost the method behind the madness he had come to cage himself within. He lost purpose, lost hope, forgot why he'd declared to earth and Olympus that he too would be a genius akin to Dr. Frankenstein. 

Idia didn't know what spark had flared his senses, what made him realize what it was he lacked from the hopeless doctor. He liked to think it had been the moment glacial fingers rinsed in fair blood and washed away gold and been stripped from his pale clammy hands. Phantom kisses had waltzed away from his burning cheek to float back into the spiral from which they had risen. 

The dead marching back to the land of the deceased.

Leaving him to crawl back into the dark pits of his self-made hell.

Only this time, he'd understand why Frankenstein had dedicated his life to seclusion. Why he'd taken gulps of anguish, rather than air. 

It was so painfully obvious, sitting in front of him on a golden throne this whole time. How in Hades' name had he been so blind? How had he forgotten?

Although admittedly his chagrin of forgetting far outweighed his elation of finally remembering. Frankenstein hadn't suffered for not, he had suffered to build, to create. His isolation wasn't of choice but rather out of necessity. 

-The monster-

 The Monster was Frankenstein's raison d'être, The final fruit of his endless labors. He had risked everything to build him and that's exactly what Idia would do too. 

Victor Frankenstein had his monster. 

Idia Shroud would have his monster.

//

It was on a dreary night that Idia beheld the accomplishment of his toils. anxiety burned through his fragile body, amounting ever so quickly to agony. Thoughts of do's and don't's flooded his body, pilling on top of each other like corpses after a genocide.

Inside the lights were just barely surviving, every few minutes they would flicker breathing in a final breath before a short death, only to be revived minutes later, spilling their artificial glow throughout the chamber. The room itself reeked of rotting flesh and something so sickly sweet, it almost made the dorm leader of the nearly deceased heave. 

Idia's eyes remain static, seemingly stitched to the thing on the metal slab of a table. The body lays limp like a porcelain doll. No, not a doll, Idia thinks, like the monster, Frankenstein’s monster before it arose from its deathly slumber. 

Outside A flash of lightning crackles through the night sky, rough sparks of electricity flow through the murky air. They jolt and dance before dying in the night's void. 

After it, the world falls still, trapped behind the iron bars of an endless minute. The once meek god feels a surge dance through his core. The levity of his dreams prancing about. He's close, all so close. A breath away and it will be done. A minute away and all the world will see that there's never been any need for good and evil. Morals are merely prejudice beaten into every living thing, a simple way to keep mortals in their place and gods ruling above them. 

The bloody needle in his hand slips through his leather-covered fingers, chimes as it hits the blood soaked ground. Idia's mind races through the odds and ends of everything. Through the fairy tale that is his life. He wonders, would they be proud of him? Would His darling dead brother whose soul now rests in a metal body, shut down and laid to rest in a forgotten corner, advocate what he's about to do? Would his mother's sickly lingula sing praise to him, retell the glory of her son's endeavors to the children of the accursed isle? Probably not, it's a bitter thought, but as true as they come. What parent or brother on this damn earth would be proud of their monster trying to fabricate an abomination? Who, in the millennia to come would look back on him and declare with pride that Idia Shroud had been a genius, one who stood above the heroes and villains and gods? Who would ever call him something better than a hero, better than a villain, better than a god? 

In hindsight, Idia likes to think he always knew what he was doing. Always knew that he wanted the world to remember him as the one who broke the rhythm that the universe had been dancing to for endless years. To show this story-obsessed world, that good, and evil were merely perceptions of broken minds. Ideologies fabricated to justify meaningless actions. 

Good could be bad.

Evil could be nice. 

But science prevailed over all else.

Idia's knees quivered as he bends down by the table, his pale blue lips hovered above his creation's stitched-up forehead. He knew it was wrong, so, so wrong. But it couldn't be helped. For some ungodly reason, as the days ticked by and he began to sew together the bag of mismatched limbs. Idia had, in some way, come to love his creation. He wouldn't call it love per se. But he did long to hold his fragile creation in his arms. To kiss their reddened lips as their torn tongue invaded his mouth. 

In the dead of night as he laid beside his still dead lover, no monster, not lover, not yet. He began to wonder, had Frankenstein fallen in love with his abomination somewhere along the road? Had fate once again played its silly little games and twisted their paths to forever meet? Did Victor Frankinstine ever wish to kiss his creation, to have them kiss him?

It may have been wrong. The storybook-bound people of this world may even call it evil. But it wouldn't be that way for long. Idia's fingers curled into his palm, the shards of his bitten-off nails dug deeper into his flesh. His chest tightened with a foreign sensation. A feeling that made cold sweat run down his thin neck. 

Using what little strength he had left, Idia pushed himself off the ground and wobbled over to his mainframe machine. He braced himself on the heavy machinery trying to regain a semblance of his balance. He could do this, he had to do this. 

His bony finger coiled around the silver leaver, the patched of rust bite into his skin. He held the power to defy everything. To make a new world. His golden pupils land on his fingers for a second. a faint memory of his mother slither back into his mind. It's murky and foggy but he remembers the way her boney fingers use to trail down his hair and arms and legs. How she traced ghosts and blood splatters on his chubby wrists, as she retold the story of the mad scientist. Comically enough she had been the reason why Idia had fabricated this self-induced prophecy and now he'd grown to be her spitting image. A carbon copy of the person who fueled his obsession with defying the laws of good and evil. 

The leaver budged forward, clicking in protest as Idia pulled it lower and lower. Outside thunder boomed through the air, louder and louder. Maybe the ancient gods knew what he was doing. Maybe this storm was their warning to him. Yelling and shrinking to get him to stop. Threatening him to give up this game he had played for so long. 

No.

Not this time. 

Idia had operated by the book, he'd done everything like Victor Frankenstein. No ancient deity or prized warrior would be able to stop him. The gods' threats were the last part of his plan, all he needed was the lightning, the stray string of electricity. Then you would come alive. You'd be his to hold, to love, to cherish. To show to the whole damn mindless world. 

A crackle shot through the air, twisting itself around the rod connected to the device and to an extension, you as well. It slated around the iron, like a wild tiger trapped in a cage. Squawking and fighting to free itself as it slid downwards. The moment it came in contact with the larger body of the machine, it roared, a deafening white noise that reverberated off the stone walls. It pierced Idia's ears, causing a thin line of blood to drool down the side of his head. The apparatus buzzed to life, bright lights filled the chamber and the wires attached to your corpse began to stir. 

The once still carcass began to jerk violently, its head and arms and feet shaking, twisting in inelegant gruesome movements. Its torso would lift from the table only to crash down once more, with a force that surely fractured a few bones. Amid the madness, the mouth of the monster began to open, popping the loose stitches around the edge of her lips. Its long tongue darted out like a snake. And though it was mostly hushed by the hissing of the loose electric bolts and the harsh rain that had started to pour outside. Idia swore he heard her whisper his name.

The fire-haired boy ran across the room, tumbling to the side of the metal table. His large arms wrapped around your tiny ones. His eyes bore into yours. Watching as your inconsistent eyes stared into his. Your face was soft and tender, painted in an innocence only worn by young children. You were his now, his perfect creation. Something began to build inside of him, a forgotten feeling. 

Contentment; this was contentment, something he hadn't felt for a long long time. 

What are gods if not humans who possess a secret no one else could obtain? With you by his side, in his arms, Idia could finally, finally triumph overall. He had made life, he had defied all else, surely now everyone could see he was superior to all else in this make-believe world. 

But the moment ended all too soon. Your eyes began to dull over, darkening with every blink until they shut permanently once more. The thumping of your borrowed heart began to slacken. Pounding slower and slower until it stilled. The patched up body came next, falling limp, dead again, floating back to the yonder of the grave. Out of his grasp, out of his life.

The world didn't stand still this time, instead, it scrambled forward at aching speed. No sooner had you taken your first breath had you taken your very last. You'd left without ever saying "hello".

Maybe in the midst of all the chaos, glorious altering chaos, he screamed, maybe he cried. Maybe it finally dawned on him why Dr. Frankenstein was merely a myth. A fable told to accursed children. Because Victor Frankenstein wasn't good or evil. He neither harbored joy nor malice. He wished only to be the best. And for so long Idia had wished the same. Searched for the same purpose in his meaningless life. 

What is a scientist if not a harbinger of grief and pain? 

Someone who devotes their life and loin, riddle and reason, in search of true purpose amongst the forces of the universe. What's a scientist if not a god in their own right. 

Had he been a god just now, Idia was left to ponder. For two glorious, astonishing, baffling moments Idia had been better than any god in existence. He had prevailed where every hero had failed. He had accomplished what villains went mad trying to achieve. He had been victorious.

Yes, Idia Shroud had fulfilled his dream. 

If only for a couple of inert moments. 

Gods were merely that, humans who had created something from the very soil they too were made of. 

And he too had done it. 

But alas in the end, maybe the legends and the myths had been true, credible good always won and evil did always vanish. Barring you had been so young, so new, you didn't even comprehend good or evil, you hadn't been alive long enough to understand what those two defining forces even were. The world didn't yet know if you were even good or evil. But it matters all so very little because you were his creation, his monstrosity, his, and Idia Shroud had always been and would always be evil, a villain in his own right. Just another gear in the predominant forces of the universe.

He'd been a fool to think he could defy the structured narrative this world had come to accept as law. 

Although, no narrative could ever change how much he had loved you, dead or alive. It wouldn't change how he had almost, almost, became Dr.Frankenstein. 

Although at the final page just before he closed the book. In the back of his mind, Idia was sure he had become the doomed doctor. 

For he too had both fallen in love with his creation and driven himself mad over it.  

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia shroud x reader #twisted wonderland yandere idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia shroud x you #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud x you #yandere idia shroud #yandere idia shroud x reader #yandere idia shroud x you #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere #yandere twisted wonderland #yancore #twisted wonderland x reader

[dailyadventureprompts]

I just found your profile the day I write this, and I must say you are an absolute blessing to Dungeon Masters everywhere and I eagerly look forward to using your work! From what I can tell, you take requests, so I was hoping to make one of my own.

I'm trying to write my first campaign, and having trouble fleshing out a faction. The overarching theme is that madness once threatened the world and was defeated, but is starting to spread through the world and different aspects of madness (apathy, wrath, despair, etc) have taken hosts, causing issues once more. One faction in the realm had blamed the gods for the madness and become wholly mortally dependant. Another has claimed the madness had been defeated before only because of the gods, turning wholly to them and becoming a strange collection of ALL religions, but actively discriminating those of evil faiths, or from races deemed to come from evil deities.

I need help thinking of an adventure to help flesh out this religious faction, hinging on the theme of a spreading madness. (The Aspects of Madness I'm working with are: Creativity, Despair, Joy, Hate, Apathy, and Lust, each having taken a host and slowly spreading roots of insanity.)

Keep up the fantastic work!

Adventure: A Nightmare of Coiling Boughs 

“We are all Helpless before our Dreams” 

Adventure Hooks: 

A rash of disappearances puts the party on the trail of what at first appears to be a cartel of kidnappers, taking targets as the opportunity arises and too sloppy or disorganized to fit a particular profile. As they investigate however, a pattern emerges: Some victims indeed being taken by force but never in the same way or by the same people, while other victims simply walk off after days or weeks of fitful sleep. While the authorities might not care enough to investigate, it’s evident that most of these abductions and disappearances occur around the bounds of the city’s oldest and poorest district

Strangers all, the party awakens from a shared nightmare in a makeshift prison constructed from old cellars beneath a derelict factory. Sealed into casket like boxes and ready for shipment, the shoddy construction and obvious haste with which this kidnapping was undertaken allows the party to break free and begin finding their way out of the labyrinth of darkened corridors. Who took them, and for what sinister purpose? Where are the dozens of others that clearly passed through this place on a way to some unknown location? Even once they escape, will they ever be free of the claustrophobic dreams of whispers and tangling wood? 

Grown rich on the misery and neglect of others, Juna Linford is one of the city’s preeminent slumlords, employing a gang of brutal thugs to squeeze rents out of her tenants and using their suffering to fund her aspirations of being a socialite. Recently however Juna has been increasingly erratic:  having her thugs throw people OUT of their homes, abstaining from social engagements, and if some of her fair-weather friends are to be believed, sleeping in a coffin. Has this bloodsucker turned into an actual vampire, or just gone batty? Ms. Linford certainly thinks it’s the former, though it may have something to do with the fact that she’s not had a restful night of sleep in months. 

Setup: Like any enterprising mind-thief, the Quori Satathhu wandered the edges of the waking world, looking for bright and skillful souls to steal back to the realm of dreams to act as servants. Having taken over the body of one of its victims, Satathhu traveled from village to village disguised as a peddler, leaving behind a trail of comatose bodies in its wake. When the villagers caught on, they sought out a priest of the old religion to deal with the nightmare spirit. Knowing that slaying the vessel would only release the Quori to find a new mind to cease upon, the priest had an iron casket contracted and etched upon it runes of planar binding. After using themselves as bait and trapping the mind-thief, the Priest had the box buried in the village square, and a sacred tree planted at the spot that none would disturb its rest. 

Time passes, the village grew into a town and then a city, and the meaning of the old tree was forgotten, withering away to a blackened hulk that the locals steered clear of by way of inherited superstition. Over time the tree’s roots stretched down into the deep earth and began to constrict the coffin, letting the captive Quori spirit break free. Maddened by over a century trapped in a rotting body and ceasing upon its first chance at escape, Satathhu leaped into the first vessel it could find: the lurking tree above. Once again trapped and in a form it was never supposed to inhabit, the mind-thief’s nightmarish influence has begun to spread from the old tree, infecting the dreams of locals with the same psychic torment it suffered for so long. 

These visions have created a sort of stochastic cult in the city’s lower ward, dozens of people inflicted with terrible, fearful nightmares but with no guidance, along with whatever wreckage of Satathhu’s own consciousness passes through their own. Recurring imagery of coffins,  is common, along with dreams of blackened trees and crushing roots, of the choking weight of earth, along with rarer impulses to “collect” people, and a hazy recollection of a meeting with someone of great spiritual authority.  Slowly these victims have begun to gather and collaborate, attempting to form a coherent mythology to their suffering and divine a means by which it might end. 

Further Adventures: 

If your party needs extra motivation, have some of their allies or loved ones disappear into the cult’s clutches, working with them to decide just who exactly vanished and how this will affect their arc. This is an especially good secondary motivation for a party that STARTS as captives, having some of them nabbed while venturing from out of the district looking for answers, and others being locals with clues to the disappeared’s trail.  

Egoistic and delirious from sleep deprivation, Juna Linford has convinced herself that she really has become one of the undead, and that the visions inflicted upon those within her ward are in fact the beginnings of her ability to dominate the wills of others. The Slumlord has projected herself as the “center” of the emerging Cult of Twisting Boughs, clearing some of her properties for the use of her “minions” and taking the blackened tree as her new sigil. While she’s still getting the hang of drinking blood, Juna is beginning to conduct improvised rituals to “awaken” more of her powers, which in turn put her more and more in tune with the captured Quori spirit. Should she succeed, Satathhu will leave the tree and find itself in a new, wealthy vessel, muddled up with the slumlord’s social ambitions just as she was with it. 

A second gathering of nightmare stricken victims has coalesced, this one residing in the minds of a local gang who’s leaders have suddenly become obsessed with digging beneath the city to where something valuable is buried. To facilitate this arduous task, they drug the unwary and transport them to a hidden and well guarded digsite. With no obvious way out beyond down, these helpless hostages are forced to tunnel through earth and sewers, slowly succumbing to visions as they grow closer and closer to the Quori’s buried prison. 

For the asker:   Hey friend, happy to help with your first campaign but your original concept seems like a LOT to take on for your first outing. My advice is to start small and work up to big themes like theocratic societies defined by madness. Maybe take this adventure and spin it out into a wider urban/far ranging adventure as your party seeks a cure for the dreams, eventually circling back around to trying to find a way to bind Satathhu once again. Then once everything’s settled involving the mind-thief, give it a bit of time and then introduce them to some OTHER quori plot.  

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#sirgigglesda1st #city #town #mystery #quori #low level #Press Start #prompt postage #Prison Break #dungeon #thief #abduction #D&D #D&D adventure #Homebrew Adventure #Adventure #DnD #nobility #villain #slavers #vampire

[st-just]

A Typology of Spirits

So I desperately needed a distraction today, and recently remembered what WorldAnvil is, so ended up doing my favorite kind of worldbuilding - drawing important metaphysical distinctions between folkloric terms that are all basically synonyms.

An Angel is a pure and uncorrupted Divine Soul, an incarnation of the Celestial Will, descending from the Heavens as a result of a sufficiently grand Sacred Petition or to carry out the Ineffable Will of the Heavens. Sadly, those which has deigned to answer the questions of supplicants have replied that they have no memory of the Heavens, save the burning Purpose for which they descend unto the Earth. Pure Soul, they are driven and purposeful, with little interest in anything else.

While separate from the Profane World, Angels are physically impotent, but all but the most minor are spiritually mighty, with a Celestial remit to Discipline and Extirpate Demons, the Dead, and any others whose Souls are not in alignment with their bodies. As Celestial Beings, they can also Bless and Sanctify they souls and tools of mortals, Empowering them to carry out a Purpose.

Angels do not tarry long in the World – and those who do, do not remain Angels. It is often the case that they are petitioned to take up stewardship or a land whose Gods were killed or corrupted, and in so doing they becomes Gods themselves. Else, on completion of their Purpose, they universally return to the Heavens, and beyond the reach of Mortal senses. Finally, on rare occasions, when prevented from carrying out their Purpose, direly wounded, or corrupted by Profane Manipulations, Angels have on rare occasions been known to Fall, gathering up the raw material of the World into a Form and Aura for themselves. While every Fallen is unique, they each follow one of their Three Orders, depending on which part of the World they draw most deeply on.

The most storied of the Fallen are the Fae. Their forms and auras are predominantly spun of Thought or Dream. Their forms are transient and shifting, changing according to their every Whim, but are always Wondrous and Beautiful to Behold, though their guises are often quite Terrible as well. Repulsed by stagnation and boredom, Fae forever seek to entrap others in the fantasies, dramas, deals and conspiracies they weave, often with no higher purpose than their own Amusement or satisfying their occult sense of Justice. Disdaining physicality, they prefer to entrap opponents in artificial dreams, or distract them with Illusions so vibrant they believe themselves to be Truth.

The most infamous of the Fallen are the Djinn and Ifrit. Their forms and auras are predominantly built from the Elements or Matter. Their forms are to a degree Protean, but the Elements which they have taken as their own are always clear. Passionate and Vainglorious, they Inevitably reshape the very landscapes around them into Monuments of their Hubris, and seek out Dangers and Impossible Trials they consider worthy of their Efforts. In these Civilized Times, many or most have been Damned, or Bound by other hands, but in the vast expanses of sea, sky and trackless steppe, many still hold their courts, and woe betide the travel whose ship is caught in their path.

The rarest of the Fallen are named Titans. Their forms and auras are predominantly sculpted of Flesh, and so they appear similar to Mortal Life created on the Divine Plan, but far more Awesome, and on a far Grander scale. Towering far above any Mortal, they work their own Flesh and that of others like clay, often moulding wild beasts into servitors and extensions of their Soul. Most Famously, the Hundred-Handed Titans of the Outer World ruled a Grand Empire for Centuries, moulding servitor races to wait on them and heighten their glory, decaying into Decadence as they Lessened themselves to Ensoul their servitors and creating self-perpetuating slave races to Conquer and Build across the Land.

The Terrestrial Gods or Sacred Spirits are the Divine Souls charged and entrusted with the stewardship of span of Nature or population of Beasts. Like a Human Soul on a Broader and Grander Scale, they act as Soul and Spirit for all the Lesser forms of life, plant, beast and vermin alike. Their might varies widely, of a kind with the prominence of their Domain, of which they are inevitably fiercely protective. As long as their charges are protected, most are entirely content with the Divine Order, but the mightiest often grow Proud, creating whole courts and kingdoms of lesser divinities and mortal worshippers. Still others are corrupted by their worshippers, perverted into one form of abomination or another. In any event, to slay a God is a Crime against the Heavens, as they are vital to the proper functioning of the World, and without a governing Soul their domain will quickly grow wild and dark.

A Devil could be any number of things, as any being, Mortal or Spirit alike, may be Damned by their Crimes and the Judgment of Heaven and the Throne. Spiritually branded and crippled, they are imprisoned in the Hell most appropriate for their crimes, enduring their Just punishment for all eternity, or until recalled by the Throne or one of its agents. The process of being Damned leaves every Devil subject to the commands of any correctly executed Conjuring, lending ever Imperial Binder access to servants far beyond what the petty Sorcerers of other lands can hope to dominate. Care must be taken, however, as Devils forever seek to escape their punishments, and will seek any weakness in their bindings or vagueness in their commands to draw out their time in the World, or escape their summoners control entirely.

The Soulless or Demons are not spirits at all, but the terrible result of their lack. Without a capable Soul to master it and force it into alignment with the Divine Will, the world rebels, breaking free of its bindings and seeking to unmake itself. There is no Will or Identity behind this – there cannot be, as it occurs from the very absence of one. But the great and terrible Archdemons whose butchered flesh forms the World did not know Death, and have never accepted it. Mindless and hopeless, their twitching corpses still act by reflex and impulse whenever the Sacred Duty of keeping them mastered is failed. Their cause is hopeless, but no Demon is capable of understanding that, and acts in their peculiar and futile way to resurrect their parent, and vent their endless spite at the Order, Beauty and Virtue which are the surest signs of the Victory of the Heavens.

-The Lady Binder Katerine ir Paimon “The Choirs of the Immaterial, An Introduction”

#worldbuilding #abhari #this is theoretically a writing blog #ah I hate Father's Day

[ktheist]

in another life (i would be your man)

muses. hero!yoongi / assassin!yoongi / father!yoongi / lawyer!yoongi

word. 2.5k

genre. reincarnation au

x

time and time again, you find yourselves in the other’s absolute mercy.

mercy, which both of you know, the other will not grant.

“have you any last words, hero?” the grass shrivels up around yoongi all because hot air wilts the greenest of life.

a single bead of sweat trickles down the side of yoongi’s face as he looks at you without a shred of fear in the face of death.

“all the gold you’re hoarding... does it bring you happiness?” he says, as though already finding serendipity before you can even drive your talon into his chest.

“happiness!” you roar, mockery dripping off your word, “such humanly sentiments. you forgot who you’re speaking to, hero.”

“yoongi... yoongi’s my name” he sighs softly, eyelids fluttering shut, “say it.”

it is you who fall silent this time.

to say the name of the soul who’s bound to you not for love but for destruction... have you the right?

in your last life, a good few hundred years ago, he’s the one that drove the cross into your chest.

in the one before that, you burn him at the stakes for the wretched powers he held.

in this lifetime, even the armor made of the silver cannot withstand the weight of your paw, talon digging into his chest as he lays underneath you, ready to accept the heroic death.

“very well, if not in this lifetime, then perhaps the next...”

you live for three human lifetimes as the great dragon who brought the continent together. the humans, without their hero, are mere mortals. they learned better than to put their faith in one man.

in the next lifetime, you find yourself kneeling in front of a silver haired man - what a striking hair color for someone who’s supposed to be on the low.

“my hand’s gonna slip,” that gravelly voice still sends shivers down your spine.

“what-” you breathe out, eyebrows knitting together.

he takes his aim.

but there’s something wrong.

the angle he’s pointing at will graze your cheek and ear at most.

then he shoots.

when the bullet bounces against the cement somewhere a few inches away behind you, your body moves on its own. your leg sweep out to send him tumbling down onto the ground. your thighs pin his hips down so he can’t get up and you push the gun farther beyond his reach.

“why are you doing this?” you hiss, knife against his throat.

“don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to be happy?” yoongi says simply, too complacent for a man who’s about to lose yet another life to his enemy.

“that’s not how it works,” teeth gritted together, you press the dulled side of the knife harder against his snow-kissed flesh.

“then, how does it work?” he asks.

for a moment, you’re frozen in place. then you’re taken back to where it all begins.

you were a queen who poisoned her king before proceeding to ruin the kingdom until it remains but a memory to those who’ve lived through your tyrannical era. yoongi was the crown prince from a small country who enticed you into his chambers and kept you locked in a tower like a caged bird while he went to war with the neighboring kingdom with your kingdom’s army.

“i- i hated you for seducing me and locking me up in that tower,” you murmur, breath shaky, “a- and you hated me because i-i couldn’t be killed... because i was...”

“a blood sucker.” he finishes for you.

a flash of anger crosses your eyes and paint your vision red. you press the knife harder - no doubt there would be a bruise, “no matter how immortal i was... i died because of a broken heart. you killed me!”

“i was breaking my own heart for having to keep you locked in that tower but if i let you go...” he trails off, his hand coming to settle on yours.

it’s the first time you hear him choke up.

“so many died because of our love,” yoongi’s voice comes out barely above whisper.

“your sin is mistaking hate for love,” you flick your wrist, switching the side of the blade pressed against his neck to one that could cut through clean and swift.

but before you can seal yet another lifetime of your surviving, a sharp pain cuts into your arm, forcing you to release the blade, your free hand cupping the familiar circular wound that’s gushing with blood.

you push yourself off him, going over the ledge and jumping off to your safety. and yoongi’s left in the cold, night air, the coms in his ear buzzing back to life.

it’s six months later that he finds you, dressed in deep red, smiling seductively as you cling on a man twice your age. all of a sudden, he finds himself ignoring whatever his partner’s saying in the coms and approaching you and the man.

yoongi can barely remember what he said but he remembers the overwhelming feeling of relief when the man pushes you off and march out of the room, shouting russian vulgarities.

“planting a bullet hole in my arm isn’t enough, you just had to sabotage my mission, don’t you?” you’re on top of him once again but the ground isn’t cold and hard as he’s always remembered in the series of you pinning him down in differing lifetimes.

“have you thought about what i said?” he doesn’t look like he minds it anymore.

being pinned down by you, that is.

rather, yoongi quite likes the view of your cleavage when you lean down close enough to whisper into his hears, “i reflected on my past mistakes... and truly, i wish nothing more than to have you gone from my sight once and for all.”

then his index finger ghosts over the softest protrusion of the healed up scar on your arm. and you feel goosebumps on your skin.]

you leave in the morning, slipping out of the hotel room in that skin tight maroon dress, noticing the woman in the lobby, looking like what you would’ve looked like if you were waiting for your partner who went against orders and checked into a room in the very same hotel he was supposed to eliminate his target at.

sloppy. fucking sloppy.

yoongi never sees you after that. he got reprimanded and almost got eliminated by his own agency if it hadn’t been his father, the head of the extermination department who pulled some strings and buried the matter.

it’s a surprise he’s still alive at the age of of thirty-one, owning a lawfirm of his own and living the life he’s never thought he’d have.

a normal one.

then, he spots you, walking down the sidewalk holding a toddler’s hand and smiling down at him like he’s the most precious thing you’ve ever hold dear to.

“stop the car,” yoongi orders.

“s-sir?” the driver, surprised by the sudden request, hesitates.

“pull over!” it’s the first time the young man has ever hear his boss raise his voice.

so he does just that, but a block away from where yoongi last saw you.

he runs as fast as his legs could carry him. but the sidewalk is empty of a woman holding a child’s hand.

it takes another year of him searching records of faces and names. for you have many and unlike yoongi, he’s sure you have no one to pull the strings and make one blunder disappear.

then he finds you, under a pseudonym, of a certain kim hana whose child is named kim youngsoo.

“it’s me,” he announces, stepping into the light that pours past the window and over not even half of the room.

“mommy, can we order pizza?” youngsoo’s lively voice rings from outside of the room.

“yeah, why don’t you decide what toppings you want and i’ll be out there in a sec, sweetie,” your voice sounds heavenly - none of the guarded strain that he usually hears. but your eyes, they look like the eyes of a woman who would give everything to protect her most precious possession.

“so it was you... one year ago,” you say, ambling to the dresser where yoongi easily finds out your motive.

“the gun’s not there anymore, you really think i’d break into the house of an ex-assassin and not think to look for weapons tacked up somewhere out of sight?” he hears the frustrated sigh you make before you stand with your feet apart.

looks like you believe his words.

looks like you’ve got no problems taking him on with bare hands.

“he’s mine, isn’t he?”

a scoff.

“you’re pretty dumb if you think one night’s all it takes to get pregnant with your bastard child.”

“who’s the father, then? why isn’t he around?” he presses on.

and his questions have always been intrusive but you notice the weight of his every inquiry. as if he’d drop dead right this instant if you don’t answer them.

“he walked away, couldn’t accept that we had to always be on the move just because he had a baby with a wanted woman.”

and it’s not the police that wants you.

“his social security number?” yoongi shoots you another question.

“i don’t know. i don’t remember,” you say simply, a shrug accompanying your answer.

“number one rule of being an assassin: never forget anything,” yoongi recites easily, even after five years, he still recalls the drilling his mentor forced him through, “so that leaves us with one possibility: he doesn’t exist, this ex of yours.”

“mooooom.” youngsoo calls out, sounding too close for comfort.

“just a minute, sweetie. why don’t you take my phone out of my bag and get ready to dial up the number to the pizza place?” there’s a lightness in your tone.

envy wraps around yoongi’s heart before he even realizes it. how he wished you’d speak to him in that delicate, loving tone as well.

“look, i’m tired, i’m done playing games, i’ve been done since that night. i know i fucked up and i know some day i’ll pay for it but not tonight... tonight... at least let me have one last night with my kid.”

it’s the way the word ‘my’ and ‘kid’ fall naturally off your mouth that makes yoongi realize that he’s the one stuck in the beginning all along. that he’s the one who couldn’t move on from the past even though he sought to change the present and threw your world upside down when he decided not to take the shot.

before he can say anything, you’re already out of the door but he senses no rush in your footsteps.

“do you have the pizza place’s number down?” there it is again, the soft, tender tilt in your voice.

it’s a little faint but he hears it clearly.

and it may very well just be a trick to make him sympathize but what is he to sympathize with when he’s only here to ask for confirmation?

why do you treat him like death who’s finally come to take back your borrowed time?

well, the answer was simple.

“i paid off the bounty,” yoongi meets you at a cafe where he knows you’ll feel safer.

no assassin will make a move in broad daylight, in public, with his face out for the cameras to record.

“how much?” you sound like you just got another loan tying you down.

“enough that they can’t resist,” he states.

and before you can even say anything, he goes on, “i want to see him.”

“no.” you say curtly.

“he’s my child too.” he slides the white envelope he pulls out of his pocket to you.

it contains the dna results from the hair on the comb youngsoo complained he lost and yoongi’s own hair.

“he’s doesn’t need a father,” you don’t even give the envelope a second glance, “if that’s all-”

“that’s not for you to decide on your own,” he cuts you off.

it’s the firmness in his tone that makes your eyebrows rise. min yoongi has always been a gentle soul. even when he was driving a cross into your heart, he’d done it with the heaviest heart.

and for him to place his foot down like this - how very unlike him.

which is why, when he pulls, you pull harder.

“if you so much as appear in front of youngsoo, we will disappear and i’ll make sure you’ll never us again.”

and with that, you take out the blank check from your purse and slip it over to him. the check and the envelop laying side by side.

money isn’t the issue, you’ve managed to wire every single penny you have to different bank accounts before the agency could even freeze the one in seoul. it took several trips to japan, hong kong and china but you eventually got enough to start a new life with your new life.

and that new life of yours is being shaken by the presence of an entity of the past.

you begin noticing the men and women dressed in plain clothing standing a few feet away from where you and youngsoo go. they’re there, acting absolutely normal which makes it unnormal. always watching, always being on guard as if their lives depend on you and youngsoo’s security.

it goes on for another three months before you finally get tired of it and approach one of them, “call your boss over.”

youngsoo’s blowing bubbles at the park when a sleek black car pulls up at the curb and a familiar face steps out.

“you can see him every week on saturdays, one no-show and you’re out. also- i decide when he finds out,” you set the rules and yoongi looks like he a little kid who’s about to perform at his school’s talent show, “do we have a deal?”

“absolutely,” he nods readily.

yoongi’s hand moves on its own and he almost hooks his index finger around your pinky finger as if asking for some kind of emotional support. but he stops himself.

he walks beside you, watching as you walk out from under the shades of the tree, your expression instantaneously brightening when the sunlight hits, “youngsoo-ah,” you wave the toddler over.

his little legs comes running towards you, curious, bright eyes staring at yoongi and right through his soul. he’s never felt so bare and defenseless.

the only thing that keeps him from running away is the fondness in your voice. and the smile on your face that he’s never seen before, “youngsoo-ah, this is uncle yoongi, he’s mommy’s friend...”

yoongi musters the best smile he can - he never needed to try. it’s the people around him that force smiles to please him. never the other way around. never him having to smile so he wouldn’t scare off his son.

he crouches in front of the child that’s partially hiding behind you, “youngsoo-ah, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

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