#Handing you this post like a cat bringing you a bird’s corpse

[cansortofdraw]

Watchmen Headcannon

(Long post warning) 

 The true reason Rorschach and Nite Owl worked so well together and made such a good team was because both of them were Batshit crazy. 

Nite Owl might have been more subtle about it, but (when they first met) he was just as chaotic and insane as Rorschach.

On top of that, they were team undiagnosed neurodivergents.

Most fans agree that (intentionally written to be or not) Rorschach is an autistic coded character. What I have seen less commented on is Dan’s coding*. As said by @goawaypleasecryingemoji, there is “no way in HELL this boy [Dan] is neurotypical,” (https://www.tumblr.com/goawaypleasecryingemoji/706785898072866816/no-way-in-hell-this-boy-is-neurotypical?source=share). This got me thinking and eventually my mind decided that Dan has ADHD.

I headcannon this, partially, because I also have ADHD.

Dan Dreiberg may have been nicer than Rorschach but but, in the long run, he was not that much easier to get along with. Young Dan was someone to be taken in small doses.

He would initially be relatively quiet and focused for most team-ups, then someone would casually ask about the owl theme and Dan would spend the next 6 hours info-dumping. (He did his best to not overwhelm people and managed it during missions, but once he got started he had a really hard time stopping.) There was no getting a word in edgewise, no stopping him, and no escape. Other heroes learned to be very careful around the O-word... and B-word (bird), W-word (wings), F-word (feathers), etc. An official handbook on working with Nite Owl was developed.

Rule #1: no bird terminology around him unless absolutely necessary.

He would get distracted by cats in trees and kids who dropped their ice-creams. To most, it was very endearing but not when they were the middle of a mission (especially stealth missions). This was easier to pull him back from... if the person caught it in time.

Rule #8: Be aware of children and helpless animals. If any are found in close proximity of Nite Owl (≈20ft) keep an eye on him. He may get distracted and bolt. Amendment #8a: Rule amended to include elderly ladies. #8b: and elderly men... #8m: Just keep an eye on him period. Please.

Although a great hero and an amazing human being, he was also an adrenaline junkie. He had fun punching badies and dramatically swooping down from roof tops. This lead to some less than pleasant experiences, especially in his early years. Sometimes he got in over his head, other times he miscalculated the height/slipperiness of buildings, and then he often just tripped over his cape (no matter what he refused to give up the design choice).

Rule #15: When going over plans before hand, remind Nite Owl to be cautious before jumping into situations. If he complains, bring up incident #3. Amendment #15a: We must continue our efforts to convince Nite Owl to remove the cape from his costume at least until after he finalizes the design. #15a: I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but the cape looks cool and you can pry it from my cold, dead corpse. Besides, Adrian wears also wears a cape and you don’t complain about his fashion sense. -NO🦉 #15b: That is because his has never cause him to trip and *redacted* (see incident #3). -SS🚬 #15c: Please do not amend the guide book unless is to add agreed upon additions. Do not use it to complain or argue. Dan, you should not be allowed to amend at all.

Rule #16: Dan is forbidden from amending this guide book. Amendment #16a: Rorschach is also forbidden from adding amendments.

Then there are his gadgets. Don’t forget that he was the one who decided to make a giant, wingless owl ship that breaths fire. This was certainly not the end of his creations. Daniel and Rorschach would be working late on a case and Dan would suddenly shoot up and be like, “Hey! What if I weaponized silly string” and Rorschach would basically say “do it” hyping him up (Rory discovered the usefulness of Dan’s crazier sounding inventions long ago). They were both very... enthusiastic about testing Dan’s creations. If it wasn’t for their morals and strict “no kill rule,” they probably would have blown up New York several times over.

Rule #2: Remember, “Archie” does not have a cigarette lighter, but it does have a flame thrower. Do not forget incident #5.

Rule #33: Do not try to stop Nite Owl from creating testing new inventions. Amendment #33a: If one truly becomes a problem, tell Rorschach. He might be difficult, but he is currently the only one Nite Owl will listen to. #33b: Ignore amendment #16a. Nite Owl has somehow indoctrinated Rorschach and the latter will no longer see reason. All we can do now is pray. #33c: An intervention has been hosted and Nite Owl has agreed to the agreed upon terms. #33d: Cowards -R📔

Daniel was generally more level headed but, depending on the case, he could be just as obsessive a Rorschach. One minute Dan would be holding his partner back and the next the two would be like this:

Rule #62: If Rorschach comes to you obsessing over a case, feel free to take his words with a grain of salt and make sure to consult with Nite Owl. If Nite Owl is also obsessing over it, listen. Forget that Rorschach is an asshole. Obey every word he says. This is not a drill. (Remember they that shall not be named.)

Young Nite Owl had many other odd traits and caused experienced many wacky hijinks. He did bird mating dances to annoy people (link). He would make funny faces behind Rorschach’s back during interrogations. He once went out on patrol dressed as a turkey for Thanksgiving to “mix things up”. The list goes on.

Nite Owl may have been the only one willing to put up with Rorschach, but Rorschach was the only one willing to put up with him, who let him ramble in between missions, kept him focused on stakeouts, hyped up his (more useful) gadgets, and shared Dan’s crime hyper-fixation.

They were still very different people who balanced each other out. Rorschach’s paranoia with Nite Owl’s naivety. Nite Owl’s “softness” with Rorschach’s ruthlessness. Etc. But they also were just the right amount of crazy in all the right places. It allowed them to get along and work together for at least a decade.

Over the years, Nite Owl mellowed out quite bit. Perhaps he finally got diagnosed, found better methods to help himself focus, gained more experience, and move on to new hyper-fixations. Sadly, trauma attributed to this more so. Years of hero work took a toll on him and the excitable attitude he once had became harder to maintain. Meanwhile, Rorschach grew more unstable. He went from eccentrically crazy to genuinely insane. He became more and more unreasonable, stopped seeing the good in people, and leaned further into his more toxic beliefs.

With the decay of what was once Dan’s best friend, the two changed in drastically different directions with Dan (metaphorically) running from the crazy and Rorschach completely giving into it.

Traits that brought them together were also the ones to tear them apart.

#I am literally writing this at 2:22 am #what is wrong with me #dan dreiberg #daniel dreiberg #nite owl #watchmen #rorschach #walter kovacs #the crimebusters #dc comics #archie #laurie juspeczyk #adrian veidt #adhd #The Official Crimebusters' Handbook to Working with Nite Owl

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Quite at Home in Hell

For @whumptober2021 day six & day 21:  blood-matted hair & hunger

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, noncon touch, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper, biting, captivity, dehumanizing language

Vampire Chris AU Masterlist | Follows directly from this piece

Thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German & @alittlewhump for helping with the French!

-

1918, the Western Front of WWI

The prisoners are held in a small, hastily constructed sort of barracks far too close to the front lines.

Gefrieter Erich Eeten knows why, of course. The hope is that his own people will hesitate before they blast this bit of dirt apart, that they will be concerned enough about killing their fellow soldiers that they’ll give up a few key moments of pause to the French, the Americans, and the British. Give them the advantage in a firefight.

They want to shield themselves with the bodies of the men in this tent, unwashed and dirty, who are exhausted from a day spent digging trenches for their enemies to hide in. 

He can’t exactly blame the Allied powers for it. 

It’s a brilliant bit of strategy, if less and less effective as men on both sides become so battle-hardened that they cease to care about their own lives, let alone each other. Still. He’d almost rather be at one of the true POW camps further away from the front lines, where the Red Cross at least comes to check on their treatment.

Here, so close to the front, there is no one keeping watch on what happens to them at all… and the longer the war draws on, the more viciously they kill each other, the more the prisoners kept here too far for oversight feel like they are teetering at the edge of some terrible invisible cliff. 

There’s a stiff breeze outside the tent, whipping the heavy, waterproofed canvas edges. They’re flapping a little, making a sound that Erich will one day hear in his nightmares. The cold sneaks in through the slight space between tent and ground, and the men in here are huddled together for warmth, sharing the meager blankets they are given. 

At least, though, their captors are officially the French. 

Say what you will about the blasted frogs, they never deny their prisoners a nip of strong cognac to help hold off the cold. The Americans, on the other hand, seem to be laboring under an enforced lack of good liquor, not just for prisoners but for their own soldiers, too. That seems a worse crime than nearly any other, in circumstances like this. To force a man to be a cruel killer without even a nip or three to soothe his conscience… to Erich, it sounds like brutality.

There’s a bit of a scuffle outside the tent, and the prisoners look up. Erich is at the back, leaning back against the rough frame of a cot he sleeps on at night, cards in his hands wrapped in strips of bandage cloth just for warmth. What happened to his gloves, he’s no idea. Probably one of the Allies took them for a souvenir.

The canvas wraps work well enough.

“Au garde-à-vous, prisonniers! Sur vos pieds!” Erich knows the voice - it’s the main guard of the tent they sleep in, a man named Alain who looks entirely too old for war. Here he is, anyway, all moustache and silvering hair, pulling open the entrance of the tent, moving the flap aside. 

Erich glances left and then right, meeting the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the half-dozen of them that share this single small tent push heavily to their feet, shifting apart as much as the tent will allow, hands behind their back. 

His stomach dips, a low drumbeat of dread alongside his heart. Something tells him this isn’t a social call he wants to be part of. 

He’s even more certain when a tall, thin American steps into the entrance, nearly silhouetted by the dim, barely-there light behind them. Their hair is long, in a loose plait with parts undone, and their eyes gleam, briefly seeming to glow in the dark. Erich is reminded of his mother’s cat, who would stalk mice at night and whose eyes did just the same when light hit them.

He feels very… mouselike.

They wear a medic’s uniform, but it’s a little tattered. There are unrepaired bullet holes through the heavy woolen tunic, and they move with grace and disdain for how heavy wet wool must be, how itchy and uncomfortable. As if it simply doesn’t matter to them.

Because, of course, it doesn’t. The damn thing is a walking corpse, baring fangs in a grisly smile.

“Hello, soldiers,” They say, in a voice that isn’t quite a purr. “You all look a fright.”

“Verdammte Blutsauger,” Lukas Müller mutters to his right. 

Erich hates the bloodsuckers. Everyone does. They come with the Americans, monsters brought from the shadows as a kind of secret weapon. Erich has never seen vampires out in the open before - back home, they are creatures of hiding. They live in cellars and basements and houses with the windows painted in thick matte black. They sweep along the streets at night, a risk for anyone who stays out too late.

But they’re not part of anything. 

Here, they’re death itself, demons quite at home in hell.

 Oh, sure, the Americans claim they use them only for bringing the injured back to safety - and some of them, he’s sure, are kept to that purpose. Some kind of ability to deny the truth of them, if there are enough seen doing only what the official story claims.

Erich, though, has seen one dispatching wounded German soldiers one by one left behind in a field, killing them before they can be recovered by their own people. He’s seen one with fangs buried in the throat of a man who would otherwise have lived. They’re listed as medics, but those things are what keeps the Germans on their own side of the battle lines after dark, and everyone knows it. 

His own side brings canisters of poison gas. The Americans respond with an army laced around its edges in abominations the gas can’t touch.

The vampire sighs, faintly disappointed. “No good morning for me from my audience?”

Erich speaks the best English out of them all - his grandmother was English, taught it to his father in the cradle, who taught it to him. It’s made him more or less the spokesman for his small group of prisoners, and for the larger group when they are moved and briefly allowed to interact with the others. He clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. Lukas and Vilhelm, on his other side, nudge him just a little with their shoulders. It’s meant to be support, he supposes. 

He feels like he’s being pushed onto a target painted on the floor, one invisible only to him. 

“Good morning,” Erich says, voice flat, letting his accent roll far more heavily off his tongue than it needs to, turning good into gut. It’s always good to let the enemy believe you know less than you really do, so he pretends that English comes with difficulty and not ease. “Should you not turn to ash?”

Their eyebrows raise just slightly, not quite in amusement, and they give a brittle little laugh. “First off, Fritz, that’s a myth. Secondly, it’s not even morning. Probably close to evening now, honestly.” 

Erich rolls his eyes. Lukas mutters something under his breath next to him, but the slight creaking of their boots seems to cover it too much to be understandable. Erich sighs, heavily. “Then why did you have us say to you good morning, Blutsauger?” 

“Because it’s funny that you don’t know what time it is, of course. All right, who here is Fritz, who is Hans, and who am I just going to call Kraut?” 

“No one here is named Hans and no one is Fritz, fangs.” Erich tips his chin down slightly, a lock of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes. “May you drown in holy water.”

He spits at the vampire’s feet.

He feels a pang of regret when the vampire turns to look at Alain, the French guard and points back at Erich, cheerful. “I want that one. He’s rude.”

“Das ist pech,” Lukas whispers.

When Alain simply stares at them blankly - and Erich knows Alain speaks English, they’ve spoken before in a tongue they had in common when neither spoke the other’s mother-tongue -  the vampire groans. They don’t seem to know Alain is pretending not to understand them. “Fine. Let’s try this again. Je veux cet homme, s'il vous plaît.”

Alain’s expression tightens a little. He nods, and he won’t look Erich in the eyes as he draws the entrance open a little wider. “Emmenez-le alors.”

“Merci beaucoup,” The vampire says, giving a little bow. Erich backs up, but there isn’t anywhere to go, and none of them is armed. Besides, any resistance is met with removal of meals, with being denied the smallest comforts that make this bearable. With the possibility of all of them being handed over to a vampire, not just one.

This war had been civilized, in some ways, before the Americans brought their monsters.

It’s not actually true, but in this moment it comforts him to pretend it, to have a place to put his furious disgust as the vampire’s thin, long fingers close around his arm and yank him forwards with inhuman strength. They’re clicking their tongue against the top of their mouth in a strange animal way. Erich thinks again of his mother’s cat, making just that sound watching birds outside the windows.

“May your hands be pressed into the holy cross,” Erich snaps as he’s forced out into the freezing humid air outside the tent. There are others walking around - a war camp is never less than controlled chaos, no matter the time of day - but none of them will look at him. No one acknowledges him, although they’ve all seen this before. They know what’s going to happen here. 

“Je déteste ça,” Alain mutters.

A bell is rung, clanging in a discordant note, and soldiers move into the POW tents. Erich is led towards a pole in the center of the ring of prisoner tents, something that a half-century ago might still have been a flogging post, a punishment for mutinous men. 

“Crosses don’t really harm us,” The vampire says, careless and casual. “Very little does, actually. I’m a big fan of garlic, for instance. Silver, though…” They hum, dragging a fingernail over Erich’s wrist. “That hurts.”

He jerks his hand back and free, only to have the vampire laugh, bright and brilliant, and grab him again, spinning him around until they’re behind him, chest pressed to his back, using that demon strength to twist his arms up his back until his bones creak and ache, forcing him forwards towards the pole. 

“I hope you have silver shoved down your throat,” Erich manages, but his heart is pounding in fear as the vampire grabs his hair and jerks his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the rough-hewn wood. Splinters bite into his skin and he grunts as his arms are moved, forced to encircle the pole. His wrists are tied with rope, leaving him looking a little ridiculous, as if he decided today to go for a hug. 

Another rope goes around his shoulders, keeping him in this awkwardly pressed position. He tries to kick back, pulling viciously, but then his ankles come next. The rope goes from them to small metal hooks driven hard into the ground, keeping his legs more than shoulder-width apart. He can’t kick, or even balance himself. He must rely entirely on the pole he’s tied to in order to stay upright. 

“I’m going to enjoy you,” The vampire murmurs. 

Behind Erich, the sounds of a crowd gathering begin. Soft mumbles, exhalations of surprise and disgust. He closes his eyes against the rush of heat he feels - more rage than tears - knowing the prisoners are being brought out to witness this, to be shown what could happen to them next.

It does an excellent job of making them grateful for every day it’s not.

The French commander of the POW camp is barking a running list of commands to his men, but Erich doesn’t speak enough French to clearly understand them. Someone comes close by behind him, and he jolts as there’s a clap to his back. There’s a laugh behind him, not the vampire but someone else.

He manages to see from the corner of his eyes. A different American, of course. Comfortable enough with the vampire to get this close to them. 

“Isn’t this a sorry sight,” The American says, and laughs. “What’s the prize for, fangs?”

The vampire lifts their hand, gently brushing Erich’s hair from his eyes. He spits in their face, this time, and is gratified by a flash of very real anger that briefly overtakes their constant amusement. They slowly wipe the spit away, then clean their hand - sort of - on Erich’s uniform. 

It’s so dirty they’re probably even less clean after that than they were before.

“Reported a desertion. Now I get fresh food.” They lean down, meeting Erich’s furious hazel eyes. “I’m so hungry, Fritz. All the time. Imagine being surrounded by schnitzel and cabbage as far as the eye can see, and you’re not supposed to eat your fill. Imagine how empty you would feel.”

“Fick dich.” 

“What, you won’t even curse at me in English anymore?” The vampire pouts, lower lip sticking out. He hates them more than he’s hated anyone during this godforsaken war. “Come on, you have to understand how hard this is for me, right?”

Erich ignores them, jerks his wrists again, trying to yank himself free of the ropes through sheer force. His back already is aching from being slightly bent forward, his thigh muscles stretched. He does the only thing he can think of - he slowly, with effort, drags his face along the wood and manages to turn away, and look the other direction. 

“Well, fine. I suppose you’ll be mad at me for acting like you all eat schnitzel and cabbage, too,” The vampire says behind him. He doesn’t dignify them with an answer. He fixes his eyes, instead, on a point in the dark roiling clouds in the sky, above the remaining trees. 

“The prisoners are well-positioned to witness,” A French officer states, speaking with a light, dancing accent but without the difficulty and hesitancy some of the regular infantry have. “You may feed when ready, Private Saathoff.”

That gets Erich’s attention. “Saathoff?”

“That’s right.” The vampire laughs, stepping up behind him. Their fingers move through the hair that curls, grown a little too long, over the back of his neck. He shudders with disgust at the intimacy of it. Their mouth moves close to his ear, but there is no heat of breath. Only the brush of lips. “Ich bin Deustcher, genau wie du.” 

“Nothing like me,” Erich grinds out with his teeth gritted together so hard his jaw is already aching. He presses his forehead into the rough wooden pole and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. 

If he’s going to die…

“Vater unser im Himmel,” he begins, halting. He hasn’t seen the inside of a church since he was fourteen, and that was twelve years ago now. Still, the words to the Lord’s Prayer come easily, more muscle memory than thought. “Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme, Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel so auf Erden-”

“Zu jeder anderen Zeit hätte ich dich als Haustier behalten.” They use his hair to jerk his head back, and their fangs jam into his neck with a flash of sudden agony.

It’s a white-hot pain that races down his spine to the very tips of his toes, and Erich screams, the sound strangled and thin but still echoing, bouncing off of trees and tents and back into his mind, crashing like the shells that slam into the earth. 

Lukas jerks forwards as if to run to help him and is pushed back by one of the French soldiers, their expression set in a grim line. They have to twist Lukas’s arms behind his back to hold him as he shouts, angrily, that this isn’t fair, it’s against the laws of conduct. 

There’s laughter, at that, from their captors. 

The other prisoners grumble and shift uncomfortably, look at anything but Erich whenever they can, but they can’t escape the sound of his horror, of his pain. 

There’s no pulse of the much-spoken-of venom. There’s no numbness to drift in, there’s no fog to cloud out his awareness of what is happening to him. Every muscle of Erich’s body is tensed tight enough to snap the bones they wrap around, the veins standing out in his throat as if giving them a roadmap of where the food can be found.

He didn’t know vampires could choose not to use the venom.

He didn’t know they could make it feel like this.

When his scream dies, he can’t get enough breath to make another. All he can do is let out high-pitched, thin whimpers and cries. Spots dance before his eyes. Beneath the sound of his heart pounding in a sudden panic to push more blood faster to replace what is being lost, he can feel - can hear - a low rumbling sound against his back.

Erich has heard the rumors that vampires purr, and now he knows they aren’t rumors at all.

He can feel it right through his back, just barely. It’s a vibration that would be pleasant if it didn’t seem to be somehow making everything hurt even worse, waking up his nerves the way the venom is supposed to deaden them. Their hands are closed around his ribs, pressing the tips of their fingers rhythmically against them, as if playing a piano, as if he is dough to be kneaded, as if he isn’t human at all.

As if he’s nothing but a field mouse that found his way into the wrong house, and the vampire is the housecat who has waited too long for a living toy to torment.

There is no prayer, in pain like this. There is no thought beyond the body’s fight for survival and the mind wanting to flee from it, if surviving means this feeling will not end. There is nothing but the feeling of his blood being pulled forcefully out of his body, nothing but his nerves screaming to escape it, nothing but the bite of the ropes that ensure he can do no more than jerk in his bonds and choke on his agony.

It feels like forever - and like a moment - when their fangs pull free, their cool rough tongue lapping at the wounds to close them, purring against his ear with contentment. Their fingers knead into his skin a little bit longer, drawing the moment out as he slumps against the wooden pole he’s tied to. He’s only standing because of the ropes.

Pain rolls through him, breaking against the edges of his body from the inside, like the smaller waves after a storm falling onto a beach already strewn with debris. He slumps. His own breath is a rasping wheeze, taking far more effort than it should.

Nein, Erich, Erich stirb nicht…” Lukas’s voice comes from somewhere so far away, filtering through the noise in Erich’s mind slowly. He can’t even begin to form a response. His mouth won’t answer his commands. It only hangs open, panting, pulling in the chilly air over his tongue. He starts to shiver as the breeze hits the cold sweat in his hair and on his neck, cuts through his uniform somehow.

He doesn’t have enough blood left to warm himself.

Their tongue licks up his neck behind his ear, matting his own blood into his hair there, sticky and hot. It starts to cool and dry immediately in the cold air. Erich’s stomach twists.

“Oh, he won’t die,” The vampire coos, petting through his hair slowly. Their nails scratch at his scalp. “Not today.” Their mouth presses back against his ear. “Thanks for the meal, Erich. And for being so entertaining. Maybe I’ll find you after the war. I’ll buy you a beer… and some schnitzel.”

They push themself away from him, turning away to wipe a bit of blood from the corners of their mouth, and walk with a jaunty step through an opening that appears in the ring of watching prisoners, whose eyes follow them with apprehension and no small amount of fear. 

When Alain comes up to untie him, Erich simply collapses into the Frenchman’s arms as soon as he’s free of the ropes. Lukas is allowed to move up to stand at his other side, putting Erich’s limp left arm around his shoulders, while Alain supports his right. Erich lets his head fall into Lukas’s shoulder, hitching his breath as he forces down a sob. 

“Wh… why do you let them do this?” He asks, his English slurred with the exhaustion that means he is dragged with his boots carving paths through the mud back towards the tent. 

Alain is silent until Erich is dropped onto his cot, the hard frame digging into Erich’s back right through the thin mattress. He glances over his shoulder, the three of them alone in here for the moment, and then looks back. 

“It is believed that this is how we will win,” He says, and pats Erich’s hand. “My apologies. I do not believe in the monsters, but I am not the one to run this war.”

“None of us are,” Erich says, weakly. He closes his eyes. “We are only the ones who must fight in it.”

There’s a pause, and Alain’s exhale is audible in the quiet tent. “I will ensure you are given extra meat rations tonight, and I will find you some schnapps. Essaye de dormir, maintenant, si tu peux,” he says with soft regret lacing his voice. Then there is a shuffle of footsteps, and he’s gone.

Lukas shifts and sits with his back to the cot, in the same position Erich was in before. He swallows, picking up the abandoned cards from the game they’d been playing, looking over Erich’s hand. “You’d have won, you know, on the next hand,” He says in German, before he reaches out to grab the others’ cards and reshuffle the deck.

“Do I still get my… my winnings?” Erich can barely move his lips to speak. He’s so tired. So, so tired. He can feel his hands starting to shake, now that it’s over, the trembling moving slowly up his limbs, stuttering his breathing. 

“My share of the liquor? Not on your life.” Lukas pauses, and then his tone gentles as he looks Erich over again. “You know what... of course you can. You’ll need warmth. What did the bloodsucker say to you, anyway? I couldn’t hear.”

Erich thinks about the promise to find him after the war, about the way they spoke into his ear as if he were little more than a toy top to be spun at their command. In another time, I’d keep you for a pet, they had whispered, before they bit down. 

He shakes his head, slowly. “Lies,” He answers, and feels the softer-edged darkness of sleep begin to take him.

“Lies?” 

“I hope… I hope they were lies.”

For the moment, at least, he is too exhausted by the present to feel terror for the future.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump @thefancydoughnut

#whump #whumptober 2021 #whumptober2021 #no. 6 #no. 21 #blood-matted hair #hunger #captivity #war whump #noncon touch #creepy whumper #sadistic whumper #cheerful whumper #vampire whumper #vampire whump #vampirism #blood drinking #horror fiction #horror #blood tw #defiant whumpee #angry whumpee #biting #brief xenophobia #just a couple paragraphs and mentions #period-appropriate #WWI #WW1 #world war one #world war 1

[melhekhelmurkun]

Compiled list of random headcanons I have for various LOTR characters (mostly Faramir because I love him)

Faramir, kind and polite Faramir, swears worse than a sailor. Regularly (unless he’s in Polite Society where that would be Frowned Upon). The Rangers attempted to implement a similar concept to a swear jar, but they abandoned that idea pretty quickly when it filled up within 2 days (just from Faramir, no one else added to it more than once)

Aragorn has eaten pretty much everything edible - and some things that were questionably so. This includes; tree bark, leather, various nuts, food that may or may not have been past its due date, etc. And yet miraculously he has never once gotten food poisoning (until Eowyn’s stew, that is)

Legolas likes to leave little presents for the rest of the Fellowship (sort of like a cat does). Flowers for Frodo, herbs and game for Sam, cool rocks for Gimli, acorn tops for Pippin (relevant in the next thing), bird feathers for Gandalf (which he likes to sneak into the Wizard’s hat), bracelets woven out of grass or plant stems for Aragorn, interesting weapons lifted off the corpses of orcs for Boromir, four-leaf clovers for Merry whenever he can find them. Stuff he knows they’d like, and that he knows would bring their moods up on their perilous and tense journey

Pippin collects acorn tops. No reason, he just thinks they’re cool

Gandalf sometimes pretends to be asleep (the whole eyes open thing lmao) just so he can listen in on conversations happening around him. He is a giant gossip (we all knew this). He also sometimes actually goes to sleep at night purposely staring right at Pippin, because he thinks it’s hilarious when Pippin avoids him the next day

Merry likes telling Gimli, Legolas, and Boromir ridiculously outlandish stories about the Shire (which are, more often than not, true, surprisingly). Reactions range from ‘you don’t ACTUALLY do that, right?’, ‘I’d like to see that’, and ‘oh yeah something like that happened in *blank* before’

Eowyn’s cooking is genuinely poison but she bakes like a goddess. Her strawberry cobbler is to die for

Faramir actually doesn’t like horses very much, despite how good he is with them. This stems from an incident that happened when he and Boromir were 17 and 12 respectively; they’d gone out riding for a bit and on that ride both horses spooked - Boromir’s badly enough to buck him off, while Faramir’s horse reared up and nearly fell backwards. This made him develop a phobia that he only really got over once the War started. Still doesn’t like them, though.

Boromir has the worst alcohol tolerance in Gondor. The WORST tolerance. He cannot hold 2 mugs of ale, let alone more. Immediately drunk after just a mug and a half. What’s surprising is he isn’t the loud impulsive drunk one might expect him to be; he’s actually a depressing drunk who can get very morbid - Faramir on the other hand is likely to start a tavern brawl when drunk, if only because he loses all semblance of brain-to-mouth filter. This is why he doesn’t drink often, and generally only in the company of people he knows (such as the Rangers)

Remember Irolas, the guy I posted pictures of on here a while back when I rewatched Return of the King? Since he was originally meant to be Beregond, I’m now saying he’s Beregond’s identical twin brother. Yes, they did sometimes switch posts just to see if anyone would notice. The only person to notice was Denethor. He didn’t find it particularly funny.

Gimli actually knows a lot about cooking and likes to help Sam with dinner when the Fellowship sets up camp

#lotr headcanons #lotr #faramir #boromir #aragorn #gimli son of gloin #legolas #merry brandybuck #pippin took #gandalf #eowyn of rohan #irolas of gondor

[ayamari-no-goshi]

I was going to make a post about Revenants, but, you know what, this is just going to be a post about the number of BS ways one can become a Revenant and/or vampire (as the folklore isn’t always clear) in Slavic and Balkan folklore. I’ve only included ones where I’m aware of how they’re created. There are a lot of revenant/vampiric creatures in this part of the world than are listed here.

Please note, in some areas of a country, the various terms are interchangeable, but are very different entities in other areas of the same country. You will also see a lot of similar words - this is due to language similarities. Also, the idea of 2 souls appears a lot - folk who have this are also said to have 2 hearts

Also, Hungary is not considered a Slavic country and will not be included.

Long post, so line break:

Albania: Note: while not excusable, this was an area where a lot of damage was done during the Ottoman conquests and was part of the Ottoman empire until 1912. Please keep that in mind

Liogat/Liougat/Ljugat : created upon the death of all Albanians of Turkish descent. Does not matter how they lived their lives

Sampiro: created upon the death of all Albanians of Turkish descent. Can also be created by Albanians who committed an “unnatural act” in life. Examples are, bestiality, homosexuality, prostitution, transvestism, heterosexuality with a Turkish person, consuming meat handled by a Turk, being a habitual liar, or being a professional thief

Shtriga: a vampiric witch and not actually dead. Created from a woman who has become evil through envy or never marrying.

Vryolakas: created when an animal like a cat or dog jumps over the body before burial, person dies by murder or suicide, a person eats meat from an animal killed by a werewolf, or was an evil magic user

Belarus:

Mjertovjec: created when a witch or werewolf died. Uniquely similar to the Filipino Manananggal

Bosnia:

Blut Aussauger (originally from Bosnia, but brought into German lore.. and the German term is what’s used): created from either tricking/force feeding people to eat its burial dirt, eating meat from an animal a wolf killed, committing suicide, dies unbaptized, dies a witch, leads an immoral life, or if a nun walks over the grave (wtf?)

Bulgaria: Note: It’s very common for these creatures to take 40 days to form after death in Bulgarian lore.

Krvoijac -  created from a person who drinks wine or smokes during Lent.

Obour/Obur: traditions varied. Sometimes this ran in families. Sometimes it was created from someone who died suddenly, specifically of murder. Depending on region, this term can refer to 8 distinctly different creatures.

Opyrb/Opirb: created from folk who had improper burial rites, had a cat or dog jump over the dead body, a shadow fell on it before burial (I have no idea how this is prevented), a violent death, or sometimes evil people.

Ustrel/Istral: created from a child born on Saturday but died before being baptized.

Croatia:

Kosci: created from the death of a drowning victim, adulterer, or murderer

Kozlak: created from a child who was weaned before its time and died

Pijavica: created from a man who committed incest with his mother, or a particularly evil person

Vrukolak: (from Dalmatian region) - created when the victim of a Vrukolak dies, by being murdered without anyone witnessing the crime, or when a cat or dog jumps over an unburied corpse

Former Yugoslavia (Czech Republic and Slovakia)

Muroi - created from an evil person. Also similar to a Banshee - rings bells and calls the names of folk, who end up dying.

Nelapsi - specific to the Zemplin district. Created from someone with 2 souls

Upir - created from someone with 2 souls. Some areas state they were a witch in life.

Greece - included simply due to how old the legend is. Reported in ancient Greece.

Vrykolakas: traditionally revenants. Created by improper burial rites, something was left unfulfilled, they were cursed, or were seeking revenge against things something done to them or their families.

Macedonia:

Note: while not excusable, this was an area where a lot of damage was done during the Ottoman conquests and was part of the Ottoman empire until 1912. Please keep that in mind.

Ariogourouno: created from wicked Turkish people who never ate pork

Vryolakas: created when an animal like a cat or dog jumps over a corpse before burial, when a person dies by murder or suicide, if a person eats meat that came from an animal that was killed by a werewolf, or when an evil person who used magic dies

Poland: As a note: areas Poland have a history of looking for signs upon birth to mark folk as something similar to a wise man or shaman. Over years, these signs influenced some of these legends.

Mwere: specifically of Kashubian lore of north central Poland – created from the death of an unbaptized children. Girls are more likely to become one

Ohyn: made from children born with a caul and teeth and died shortly after birth

Strzyga/Striga/Strzygoń - person born with 2 lines of teeth and/or 2 souls becomes one upon death

Upiór - a person born with 2 lines of teeth and/or 2 souls or someone who had a defining feature marking them as ‘off’ becomes one upon death. Or, folk cursed before death, dying suddenly, dying in childbirth, or having a grave desecrated could also create one. Also, in some areas, it’s specifically stated they’re made when a male child who was born with teeth dies. Examples of what was ‘off”: being born with a caul, being a red head, being left handed, having a strange mark on the body, etc.

Vjesci: created from a person born with a caul or teeth renounces God on his or her last breath.

Wieszczy – made when a child born with a cleft palate and either a caul or teeth dies. As a side note: this creature is similar to a Banshee

Wili – created when a bride dies on her wedding day

Romania: Note: there are a lot of regional variations of the word Strigoi. Also, the term Moroi sometimes appears, but the descriptions of it are so varied its hard to place exactly what this term references.

Moloi - created when an illegitimate child is killed by one of its parents

Muroni - created when a person dies a violent death, was a magic user in life, was a child born out of wedlock to parents born out of wedlock in life, or died from a Muroni attack

Pricolic: can be created from a child dies before being baptized, or person burns a porridge spoon, or sweeps dust from the home out of a doorway and into the setting sun (that is insanely specific). BTW, this is the undead variety. The wolf variety… is born of an incestuous relationship and has a tail

Strigoi - there are both living and dead variations of this entity. Living Strigoi are sometimes considered witches or sorcerers, but the 2 soul tradition also comes up. If there is a 2nd soul, it slips out at night and causes havoc. Dead Strigoi (strigoi mort) bring misfortune, illness, and death to their families. Examples of how one can be created: suicide, cursed by a witch, born with extra nipple or tail, have a life full of sin, never married, be born as the seventh son of the seventh son or seventh daughter of the seventh daughter ((this can also make werewolves)), child born out of marriage, born too early, died before baptized, having red hair and blue eyes, being born with a caul...

Strigol: created when a magic user dies

Strigoiul Muronul: created when child born out of wedlock to parents born out of wedlock dies. Always a redheaded boy

Varacolaci: can run in families. Can also be created from an unbaptized child who dies, or a person who commits suicide.

Russia:

Eretik: created from the death of a human sorcerer

Inovercy: created upon the death of a person not practicing Russian Orthodox

Kudlac/Kudlak: created upon the death of person born with a red or dark colored caul.

Upierci: created from someone who committed suicide, died violently, or practiced witchcraft

Upierczi: created when a witch or heretic dies

Upyr: created upon the death of a heretic, sorcerer, witch, or a child born of the union of a werewolf and a witch

Viesczy: created when a person born with a caul or teeth or is the child of a witch and werewolf dies

Serbia:

Jedogonja: created from a person killed by a Jedogonja or the disease it can spread

Mullo/Muli: (Specifically from Roma who live in Serbia): created when a person dies suddenly of an unnatural cause or did not have proper funeral rites.

Nekrstenici : created from the death of an unbaptized child

Vlkodlak: created by when a man under 20 who was a murder, perjurer, or had improper relations with his mother dies, or if he was killed by a werewolf, or if he ate meat from an animal slain by a werewolf before death

Vukodlak : created when a heretic, magic user, or werewolf dies. Can also be created from someone who commits suicide or was murdered.

Slovenia - did not find any distinctly unique to Slovenia that are stated to be created from people

Ukraine - did not find any distinctly unique to the Ukraine that are stated to be created from people

Creatures found in lore of multiple countries:

Lampir/Lampiger/Lampijer/Lepir (Bosnia/Montenegro/Serbia): created from the first person who dies from an epidemic or plague

Navi (Bulgaria/Poland/Russia/Slovenia): created from the death of an unbaptized child or a drowning victim

Veshtitza (Montenegro/Serbia): created from a woman who practiced magic in life

Vompir/Vompiras (Macedonia/Bulgaria): created when a person is improperly mourned or buried, dies in disgrace, or passes on in ‘an unnatural way’ such as childbirth or suicide.

Vudkolak (southern Slavic countries): created when a werewolf dies, or if a bird flies over an unburied corpse

Creature of unclear Slavic lore

Kruvnik: created when a person was not properly mourned or does not have proper burial rites, committed suicide or was evil. Sometimes this is a person with 2 souls. Very neat side note with this one. They sometimes return to their wives. If the wife accepts him for 3 years, he will become human again.

Sources:

The Vampire Book: the encyclopedia of the Undead (3rd edition): by J. Gordon Melton

Night Creatures. The Enchanted World. Time-Life Books

Encyclopedia of Vampire Mythology by Theresa Bane (the full book can be found for free online)

#I spent way too much time working on this #folklore #revenants #vampiric revenants #Slavic folklore #I have many questions regarding some of these #Danny Phantom #dp

[taeescript]

VI. Script of the Angel

𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 >> This is the story of three very different people. A successful novelist, a blossoming artist and a dedicated cop. They seem to have nothing in common. Yet, they are continually drawn to each other. It is as if their fates have been intertwined. Written. That they must meet.

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 >> ft. jungkook and jimin primarily.

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 >> policeman!jimin, author!jungkook, painter!reader, serialkiller!XXX; a classic game of cat and mouse

𝔴/𝔠 >> 2.3k

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 >> mature themes depicted. due to the explicit nature of the topic (serial killers, murders, violence, sexual content, infidelity etc.) this is rated 18+. to spare storytelling: please consider yourself warned.

𝔞/𝔫 >> there is a lot going on tumblr these days, and a lot of things just going on in life right now. i still hope to continue to share chapters with you although they may all be a little shorter than usual now. nontheless, i hope you enjoy (: 

previous part || masterlist || next part

Wax – a diverse class of organic compounds which are hydrophobic, malleable solids at ambient temperatures. Typically containing melting points above at 40 C, they are obtained from multiple resources such as animals or plants. Wax can also be extracted chemically in petroleum. There are many uses for wax such as the manufacture of candles, final coatings on wood products and thickening agents amongst others. One of the most popular artistic use of waxes is the creation of statues from Madame Tussauds.

“Another what?” Jimin asks when he is dragged out of the interrogation room again by Namjoon.

“Dispatch just gave me a call. They want the homicide team on site because…well, you know the reason each and every time we’re called into site,” Namjoon runs his hand through his hair. The news had come as a shock to him as well. “You’ll have to release him, Jimin.”

Jimin shakes his head. “No, Namjoon. I was in the middle of something with him.”

“Jimin, be reasonable here! There’s another murder that’s been committed while you were here questioning him. It’s quite obvious that he couldn’t have killed this person.”

“I’m so close to cracking him!” Jimin yells in frustration. “Beside, how do you know he hadn’t gone and done this before he came in?”

Namjoon has to bite back his words.

“Fuck!” Jimin kicks the door. He doesn’t care that Jungkook could hear how angry he is on the other side. There really isn’t anything to hide between the two of them anyways.

After a minute, Jimin has calmed down. “I’ll meet you on site,” he says to Namjoon.

Namjoon doesn’t leave.

“Look, I promise, alright? I’m just going to send Jungkook off properly and then I’ll drive straight to the site. Text me the address,” Jimin says.

He only has one choice so Namjoon nods and leaves.

Once Jimin is left alone in the room, he punches the air blindly.

Jungkook sits calmly inside the room. It seems that luck is on his side. Perhaps whatever this case was would have Jimin off his back. It would be a little hard to continue any of his extracurricular activities if Jimin continuously monitors all his actions.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Jeon,” Jimin opens the door and speaks without looking at Jungkook.

Jungkook raises his hand and the handcuffs that link him to the table clang as metal hits metal.

Jimin walks up to him and opens the lock. Jungkook rubs his wrists and picks up his jacket on the way out.

“I really do hope you catch the killer, Detective Park,” Jungkook gives a light pat on Jimin’s shoulder.

...

Jimin recognizes her when he brushes under the caution tape onto where the rest of his team stands in a circle. It is not so much that he recognizes her facial features, but it is the outfit she is wearing. The same black and blue leggings.

“Fuck me,” Namjoon says the instance Jimin slides up besides him, “Fucking bat shitting balls.”

Yoongi has one hand placed over his mouth and his index finger pressing against his nostrils. There is a strange smell emitting off the corpse.

“A missing body part, again?” Jimin says. He swallows the bile that threatens to rise. The forensics team does not need to tell him what part is missing this time. It is glaringly obvious to the observer.

Replacing where it usually sits on the body is the head of another species – a buck’s crown with antlers and all. The girl is still standing although it is clear that she is deceased. Her body had been manipulated such that it looked like she was mid-sprint before being shocked by her attacker. She was a live manifestation of a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s see if we can move her; bring her back to the lab for analysis,” Namjoon barks an order at the forensics team. They nod and move towards the body. Right as they put their hands on her, a loud voice yells,

“Don’t!”

It is too late, however. The team has already lifted her an inch off the floor. At his shout, they drop her immediately and that is when she crumbles, literally, at their feet. Jimin stands as her foot rolls in front of him. He stares at the shoe and foot that has been broken off at the ankle.

“Fuck!” Namjoon exclaims in alarm, jumping back.

Taehyung stands with his arms at his side, defeated. “You shouldn’t have tried to move her,” he mutters.

Namjoon’s face conveys both astonishment and confusion as stalks away to find somebody who could clean the body parts and move them back to the lab.

Jimin carefully tiptoes around the fragments of her body and walks up to Taehyung. “What the hell just happened?” he demands.

Besides being the team’s blood spatter analyst, he was an expert on a multitude of other subjects. “You saw how her body was positioned, didn’t you? Usually, victims are sprawled on the ground because gravity pushes on them, and their muscles have collapsed. She was standing. Something is keeping her muscles rigid post mortem,” Taehyung explains.

“Kim!” someone calls amidst the rubble. The victim’s body had been broken at most of the joints and a gathered team was currently packing each section in a bag.

Both Taehyung and Jimin walk up to the jacketed individual who had called out. She is bent over what looks like the forearm. A brown, semi-clear substance is pooling around the limb.

“This started seeping out all of a sudden. It’s happening to a couple of the broken parts, although most of the liquid is contained in the bags that we have stored them in,” she tells the two of them.

Taehyung bends down to examine the liquid. He is wearing gloves and when he extracts his fingers from the surface of the substance, it is slightly sticky between his index finger and thumb. He wipes his hand on a piece of tissue before slipping that into the bag as well. “Take that and all the parts back to the lab. If you can get a vial of the liquid to analyze, that would be helpful as well,” Taehyung told the assistant. She nods.

As the scene is being cleared, Taehyung walks back to the patrol car with Jimin. “What are you thinking about?” Jimin inquires, seeing that the gears inside Taehyung’s head are turning.

“Tell me, what’s the temperature right now?” Taehyung asks.

Jimin checks his phone and reports, “20 C, but with sunshine it should feel like 24 C.”

Taehyung takes note. “Slightly above room temperature,” he mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Slightly above room temperature,” Taehyung repeats louder. He stops walking and faces Jimin. “I’ve got a theory on what that is, but I can’t be sure yet. I’m going back to the lab and once results are out, I will call you immediately.”

Jimin nods. “I wanted to take a look around the site anyways. I’ll see you back at the station.”

Taehyung waves before leaving.

By the time Jimin returns to the crime scene, the majority of broken body parts have been cleaned. There is only a lone photographer who is packing up his camera into his bag. He greets Jimin with a slight bow on his way to leave the site.

“Any witnesses?”

Namjoon returns by his side. He shakes his head, answering Jimin’s question himself. “This is not a common runner’s route. It’s a short cut from the left side of the park to the right so not a lot of pedestrians know about it.” He sees how Jimin is still standing there with an unreadable expression on his face. “Are you okay?” he asks Jimin directly.

Jimin taps the bridge of his nose. “I know that girl,” he says softly, “Not personally. But I bumped into her before. It was at the park near our station. I also saw – ” His sentence is suddenly cut off.

“Saw what?” Namjoon asks further.

Jimin cannot continue his sentence. He knows what Namjoon will say already. Besides, if he really wanted concrete evidence against Jungkook, he must absolutely make sure that Jungkook was there at the park when the running girl was there. “Saw a red bird. I think it’s called a cardinal,” Jimin lousily finishes his sentence.

Namjoon gives him a strange look. “I’ve never pegged you as a bird watcher,” he comments.

Jimin shrugs. “I’m heading back to the station. Taehyung also says he has something on the possible C.O.D.,” he reports to Namjoon.

“You’re leaving me again to handle the crowd? That happened last time with Sara Michel’s case,” he groans.

Jimin shrugs again as if to say, “Sorry, what can I do?” He gives a reassuring squeeze on Namjoon’s shoulder before leaving.

This time, he is going to find unshakable evidence.

...

“Welcome back,” you smile at him when he enters the door. You are sitting at the table, pencil and sketchpad in front of you.

Jungkook smiles ever so slightly back before bending down to untie his shoes. They needed to be placed in their usual spot; if they weren’t, he would feel the irritation spread throughout his body until he went back to fix it. It is better that everything is perfect the way it is the first time.

After he has made sure that his laces were also tucked into the shoe as was his preference, he walks over to you. He can’t help but muse at how exquisite you look whenever the afternoon’s sunshine would brush through your hair. You are like a marble stature carved by the Greeks and placed on display in the middle of a garden. He moves his eyes over you like a curator would when assessing a piece.

You have your back turned towards him and do not hear when he walks behind.

“What are you drawing?”

Immediately, you stand and hold your sketchpad to your chest. It shields your work from his curious eyes.

“Something!” you blurt, your face flushing.

He cannot read why you are acting so strangely so he does what he always does around you: smile.

You clear your throat and tuck your disheveled hair behind your ear. “A package came for you. I left it in your room!” you say the tumbling words. It is your lame attempt in shifting his attention away from you to something else.

Thankfully, it works as he nods. He sends you a last playful smirk before making his way towards his makeshift bedroom. It is tiny, as you had originally used it as your storage room for your art utensils, but they had recently moved a mattress into the room for him and it helped that he did not have a lot of personal items with him anyways. The said package sits just beside the doorframe to his closed room, and he wonders again of whether or not you are scared of him. You never seemed to want to enter his room and insisted on speaking to him from outside in the hallway.

The package is not heavy and rather small in his hands. He is able to pick it up with one and balances it on his left palm as he opens the door. The blue walls welcome him into his small, personal haven. Carefully, he tiptoes his way between the old canvases and dried paint palettes. He passes by the yellow smudge on the wall and then collapses on the mattress in the back of the room. His suitcase squeaks as the wheels press against the body of the case while being wedged in the small space.

Once he is comfortably sitting cross-legged on the bed, he carefully finds a cutter and slices through the masking tape that conceals the contents of the cardboard box. The movement is as smooth and practiced as slicing through butter to him – a flick of the wrist. Once the tape no longer holds, he pries the flaps open. There is another small box tied with a red ribbon. A single white card is attached to the side. This is what he first takes out.

The envelope is embossed with a strange swirling design. He breaks the seal with another slice of the cutter, sliding out the cardstock letter. It had been written in elegant matching swirling cursive with a golden fountain pen.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Welcome to my town. A small home-warming gift.”

It has not been signed and Jungkook wonders if the writer was the one who wrote the words; each letter had been carved so delicately onto the material. He tilts his head as he thinks of who may have sent this to him. He has not told anybody that he is planning to stay in LA for the time being. He had never been one to open his circle of acquaintances and thereby it had remained small. Digging through his mind, he comes up empty-handed on any of the known possibilities.

Well, there is one person who definitely would not be the sender.

The bow becomes undone by a light tug from his fingers. It falls delicately onto his lap like a ribbon of red liquid. At that, the walls of the box fall easily to reveal its treasure, akin to the opening of an oyster.

His usual stoic expression becomes all the more frozen on his face when he sees what the gift is. Somebody has been watching him. Somebody knows about him. Somebody is out there.

For a single eyeball, pupil and iris augmented in aquamarine and azure hues, stares right back at him. The crystalline gift plucked so delicately from the girl who he had been planned as his next angel.

...

next part

#bts #jimin #jungkook #bts fanfic #jimin fanfic #jungkook fanfic #btx s reader #jimin x reader #jungkook x reader #bts fluff #bts smut #bts angst #jimin fluff #jimin smut #jimin angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #jimin scenario #namjoon #seokjin #yoongi #taehyung #hoseok

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 30- Shadow Fox

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Doc, Zed, and Scar have made their way to the city of Foresta, deep in the forests where animals are going missing and the nightmares grow worse daily. Meeting with a local shepherd, they find allies in the most unusual ways.

____________________________________

“Oh, yeah, watch it with the Zhenniao, their spit burns like mad.” Zedaph crows as he 

pets the soft white feathers of a Caladrius, the two having a conversation about their favorite seeds. 

“Uh… is this thing supposed to have three legs?” Scar leaps back, narrowly avoiding the corvid. He laughs though, and preens the beast’s wing. 

“Yep! Yatagarasu are born with two legs, but the third one grows when they learn to fly!” Zed sets the Caladrius back. As much as he loved the insightful debate he held with the bird, it’s not the kind of help they need. Besides, it would bring as much attention as an alicanto. “What about it, you three legged birdy? Want to join our team? Phoebe can teach you all the best ways to get letters to us- and the best places to peck at the hermits to get them to wake up.” 

“I swear to god I don’t want to have to build another eye.” Doc sets the acid spitting bird down, and waits for Zedaph to respond. But the blond hermit was always having a thousand different conversations at once. On their way here, he had a whole horde of forest creatures following him. 

The city of Foresta was open, patches of grass and trees older than the kingdom sprouting between houses and wide streets. Between the throngs of people, creatures of all shapes and sizes wandered down the dirt paths. Satori swing from the horns of a chimaera, leaping over the massive bodies that create the baku. Birds of all shapes, sizes, and different heads fly through the high canopy, fluttering to stop on the stone tower of the postal office. It’s here where the hermits are searching for another carrier bird. Poor Phoebe can’t do all the work herself, especially with so many hermits off hunting down reports.

And that was the other reason they were in the city of Flora and Fauna. Sent here to discover the whereabouts of missing familiars and family beasts. Carrier birds, farm beasts, even a family’s own cerberus have gone missing in the past few months. While Doc had his suspicions of their fate, Scar and Zedaph wanted to confirm his beliefs. 

“Alright, so that’s two more feathery friends added to the family.” The Zhenniao jumps from Zed’s shoulder, pulling on a tassel of Scar’s outfit. 

“I’m sure Grian will make fast friends with them, he already has Phoebe wrapped around his finger.” Scar chuckles, holding the bird close. “But what about the missing familiars? Did you get any information on who we could speak to?” 

“Actually, yes. A very talkative pegasus told me that a few streets down is where a whole herd of shleep went berserk a few days back.” 

Doc doesn’t waste another second. Marching down the street, eyes set on the direction Zedaph pointed. His gaze so intimidating, even a brigade of baccas part to stay out of his way. With one bird holding onto Zed’s hair, and another clasping Scar’s elongated ear, the other two give chase, Zed yelling turns to the marching beast that is Doc. He only halts in his tracks when he hears Zed yell “Stop! We’re here!” 

Screeching to a halt, Doc is left standing in an open field, sunlight blazing on the bright grass. Dotted with white patches of flowers, the pasture is empty. Unlike the busy city, even the parks in Foresta, this moorland was empty. 

Mostly empty. A young boy, laying beside a three headed sheepdog, is weaving dandelions into a flower crown. One for each head of his friend, and one for his own. Doc trains his mismatched eyes on the boy, and makes his presence known. 

Unfortunately for Doc, his presence is impending at best, downright terrifying at worst. The boy opens his eyes, and squeaks like a mouse at the sight of the hermit. He curls up, hands raised. “Please, just take my money I don’t got anything else!” 

“I’m not here to rob you.” Doc growls, rolling his eyes. Years of being a hardened criminal never really fades off his face. “Are you the shepherd?” 

“I’m sorry the shleep have been acting up lately! I don’t know how to make the nightmares stop, they’re still alarmed from the attack the other night.” The cerberus nuzzles one head beneath the boy’s arms, while the other two growl at the intruders. 

Until Zed steps up, a smile and a soft cooing voice turning one head from foe to friend. All it takes is one scratch of the ear, and he’s got the sheepdog wrapped around his finger. “That’s actually why we’re here. We came to help.” 

The boy lifts his head, looking at the unusual troupe. Two innocent, smiling faces surround the hardlined scowl of the hybrid hermit. Scar nudges Doc in the stomach, and the puppeteer sits to his knees. Looking much less impending when he’s not towering over the shepherd. “We heard that some unusual things have been happening in Foresta. Familiars going missing, pets getting lost left and right. Do you know anything of what’s causing that?” 

“What’s your name, kiddo?” Scar chuckles, plopping down next to the shepherd and beginning to weave his own flower crown. 

“I-Isaac.” He twists a blade of grass in between his fingers. “I...yeah, yeah I’ve seen a lot of it happen. When you’re a shleep herder, you see all manner of things happen in the night. But no one believes the boy who cries chupacabra. Or bakunawa, or ‘oh gods the neighbor’s cactus cat is suddenly an ash monster’!” 

“We’ll believe you. We came here just to hear those stories.” Scar chuckles. He looks over, and sees Doc’s expression start to soften, and the puppeteer reaches out to help Isaac finish the knot of his flower crown. Doc hates to admit it, but they all know he’s very good with kids. When he’s not being a hardass. “What have you seen?” 

“I...I’ve seen these critters, sneaking through the streets at night. All kinds of critters, actually, but...different from the normal. They look like they’re falling apart, like a cherry tree’s bark.” He runs his hands over his arms, attempting to find flakes of his own skin as proof. “They scare the shleep every night, and disappear into the city. And then I see more, and more. They drag other critters out of their homes and barns, and turn them into more flake monsters.” 

“Husks.” Doc whispers, his suspicions confirmed. Dark magic has even made it into the depths of the Evernight forest. But Isaac is hardly listening. Like any child, he has more story to tell. 

“The other night, those flake critters went after my herd. A chupacabra. But...I thought they never went after shleep! Shleep aren’t tasty- I don’t think so, at least. They’re all cosmic wool and gristle.” 

“Husks aren’t exactly looking for a tasty meal.” Zed whispers, “They’re looking for magic, and shleep are full of them.” He would know, he was once a shleep farmer when he was young. It’s how he honed his magic. 

“They come every night, stealing more critters. Soon, all that will be left is shleep causing nightmares and those husky things.” Isaac shakes his head. “Foresta won’t be much fun without all the critters here.” 

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Us hermits are here to stop it.” Scar announces, grinning and tossing his short brown locks of hair over his shoulder. Trying to look as heroic as he sounds. 

The shepherd giggles. “Hermits? But you aren’t alone, you can’t be a hermit!” 

“Ask Hypno why we’re named that.” Doc laughs as well, even though he knows the story full well, it’s still funny every time someone points it out. “Don’t worry, kid. By the time we’re done here, you’ll all be having sweet dreams again.” 

“You’re the coolest bad guy ever.” Isaac whispers, and places the flower crown on Doc’s tangled mess of hair. 

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

He refuses to take it off. Even as the sun falls and the city goes quiet, only nocturnal creatures lurking among the streets, he keeps his flower crown secure on his head. All three hermits watch the ruminants bleat and make their way around the town, cosmic wool spinning with stars and galaxies, entire worlds for their fur promising night rest. Wisps of the shleep’s fleece dance into the damp, warm air of Foresta. But it’s dancing in the air that the soft mist turns to harsh dust, slipping through open windows and under closed doors. Delivering nightmares to the people. 

In the distance, Scar frowns at the sound of someone crying. Waking up from the bad dream. It’s not the poor shleep’s fault, they can’t control their own magic. They’re just sleep sheep, it’s the husks that have them all bothered. If the hermits can stop the husks, the shleep can be happy again and the entire city can finally get a good night’s rest. 

Doc waves to Isaac, walking out with the last shleep from the pasture. Zedaph opens his eyes, blinking away the embers of magic. Oddly enough he feels the desire to chew grass now. The shleep are scared. Scared of the creatures that lurk in the dark, bodies lacking souls or even life. Just corpses- husks- forced to move by dark magic. One ram told Zed they were never afraid of the creatures of the night, their fellow nocturnal beasts, until that chupacabra turned on them. 

Doc and Zed share a quiet conversation about the information they’ve gathered, and Scar lays back in the grass. Watching leaves shadow the sky above him, stars twinkling in the same way they glimmered on the shleep’s coat. The distant titter of dyads among the trees, the soft hoots from various birds in the post office sound like music to Scar’s ears, and he closes his eyes to bask in the quiet night. Hunting dark magic isn’t that bad, if it leads to quiet, serene moments as well as exciting action. He feels himself dozing off, figuring that Doc or Zed will keep an eye out for some creepy dark beast. 

He’s alone. Sitting up in a dark alleyway, the sound of yelling echoing from his parents’ silk shop. Something warm pools on his cheek, burning along his very namesake, mixing with saltwater. Scar raises a hand to try  and staunch the blood, and discovers his hand is covered in mud, adorned with gemstone rings of gold. 

“You’re not a farm boy, Forest.” The words spit out in his father’s voice, but the lips that speak them are none other than the Magistrate’s. “Stop playing in dirt, this magic of yours is a disgrace as it is. You’re going to ruin the family image. And you’re clothes.” 

“But I like my magic.” Scar whispers, turning his hand over. The mud changes color, dripping through his fingers into pools of blood. 

“You should have let your magic wither away, or better yet- give it to me.” Dolios grabs Scar’s wrist, dragging him into darkness.

Dragging him from his nightmare. But while Dolios was a dream, something tugging on his wrist was very real. Scar leaps to his feet, retreating from the creature that is pulling his bag from his clutches. “Hey, no that’s my stuff! My snacks!” 

Scar stumbles to his feet, kicking Doc on the way up. “What the hell Scar?” 

He doesn’t look back, chasing after the black furred monster. As dark as a husk, with white glowing eyes and all. He can’t see the creature’s form, just the illumination of white light from it’s eyes, Scar’s purple bag swinging from it’s mouth. He needs to catch up, get his stuff back. Rather than scooting around a fallen tree, he makes the ground rise from beneath him, flinging him over with a much less graceful landing. “Get back here you little cretin!” 

Behind Scar, Doc and Zedaph stumble through the forest. Tripping over roots and twisting their ankles in holes, they lose sight of the terraformer as moonlight is engulfed by the trees of the Evernight forest. The only light is the soft glow of bioluminescent mushrooms, moss, and leaves. At the interface between Foresta and the Evernight, the glow was indistinguishable. But Zed knows the deeper they go, the brighter the bioluminescence should get. 

But it never brightens. He continues to get caught in roots, eyes never finding enough light to see where he’s going. A stone halts Zed’s forward momentum, and he tumbles to the ground. “How can Scar keep up such a pace?” 

“Because he’s Scar, how does he do half the things he does?” Doc sighs, collapsing to his ass and looking around. The darkness of the forest is endless, leaves stitched together to be a roof that blocks out all light from the sky. He toes a mushroom, watching the fungi glow weakly. Shouldn’t it be brighter this far in? 

“Oh, Doc, look!” Zed slaps Doc on the shoulder, harder than he realizes, pointing in the direction opposite of where Scar went running.

“What, I can’t see shit.” Doc growls. 

“Perytons!” Zed crawls forward, light appearing under one arm. “They can help us, we just have to make friends with them! They’re very skittish cre-” 

In one swift motion, Doc casts his magic. In one blink, he’s watching Zedaph crawl through the mossy floor, the next he’s grazing on a nearby tree branch. The Peryton gave almost no resistance, and now Doc can control the beast. See through it’s night-adjusted eyes. Lo and behold, Zedaph looks stupid no matter what eyes are watching him. Zedaph sits up, pouting. “Well that’s no fun.” 

Doc can’t answer him, not while he’s in control of the Peryton. Stepping his hooved feet over Zedaph and fluttering iridescent green wings, he takes care of his own body standing still as a stone. One eye remains glassy, as if looking through a lens, but the red oculus of his other eye has disappeared completely. He can see the glow in the metal of his arm emanating from the deer creature, as he picks up his body with his rack of antlers and places it on his feathery back. 

By the time Doc has cared for his vulnerable physical form, Zedaph has cast his own spell. Such similar results, but completely different magic. Zedaph shepherded the mind of the creature into helping him- Doc just took full control. Either way, the two are able to follow the direction that Scar disappeared. Deeper into the forest, away from the city. 

Zedaph notices that the bioluminescent of the Evernight Forest is missing, no matter how deep they go. The darkness remains, clinging to the branches and bark like a tapestry slung across the forest. He’s not even sure where Scar could be at this point- this wilderness expands on for thousands of hectares. 

Until he hears the spluttering mix of a laugh and a whimper, the noise so uniquely Scar that both Doc and Zed turn in the direction it arose from. Even through the eyes of the Peryton, it becomes almost impossible to see around them, darkness consuming everything around them. 

Because that’s what it is. Returning to his own body, Doc stumbles to his feet and rushes to light up a torch. A few paces ahead of him, Sca has trapped himself in a bramble bush, a tiny shadow fox dangling his bag just barely out of his reach. “Come on little guy, I’m sorry I mistook you for a husk. You’re cute, I promise! It’s just with your eyes and coat, you looked like a darkness monster.” 

“Need some help, or have you learned from Zed?” Doc snickers, pulling Scar from his thorny trap by the collar. The shadow fox chirps, ears turning to the side in joyful mischief. It approaches the hermits, dropping Scar’s bag at his feet. Glowing eyes, bright as sunshine, cast the shadow that creates the fox’s body. Zedaph can’t help but reach down to pet the shadow creature either way. 

“She guided us here. To...this.” Scar whispers, feeling the tension on his body already. The weight in his lungs, watching the light from the fox’s eyes and Doc’s torch be consumed by the black cluster of crystal. 

“This is what’s making the husks in Foresta. Just like in Gildara, it’s draining the forest.” All of the light, Limal’s creation with the goddess of death, vanishing as Dolios’s thirst for power drains the forest of life. Doc shakes his head. “We can’t let it continue. Scar, why don’t you…” 

Scar is gone again. Disappeared from between Zed and Doc, though not as far gone as before. Just a short distance away. Being attacked by another creature. This one, however, isn’t aiming for Scar’s bag like the thieving fox. 

It’s aiming for his throat, naked tail and matted fur thrashing and foam snarling from scraggly teeth. But unlike the shadow fox, the monster’s body is flaking and breaking apart with each movement, tufts of fur turning to smoke and ash. Zedaph sighs, more tired than before. “Great, now we got a ROUS to deal with as well as a creepy crystal.” 

“Massive rat first, please!” Scar cries, snapping his boots up and digging the spurs into the massive beast’s stomach. He rolls away, gnarled roots and dirt barricading him and the ROUS. 

Doc and Zed look at each other, then the ROUS before them, the darkness-crazed animal clawing through the barrier. It has a taste of Scar’s flesh, and he tastes sweet. Alive. Neither of their magic can work. There’s no soul to shepherd. Dark magic is already controlling the ROUS. They have to resort to another method. 

A much more combative, cutthroat method. One that Doc knows well. Grabbing the bone handle of his knife, dark metal and nicked, toothed edges of kaber blade pulling free of old leather. “Scar, can you try to pin it down?” 

“I'll add it to the list.” A startled squeak harmonizes with the viscous growl. The muzzle of the ROUS reels back, spittle glistening and falling from ivory white blades, and snaps. Scar rolls out of the way and slams his hands down on the ground once he’s been freed. The dirt erodes into sand and water, a pit of quicksand opening it’s maw beneath their feet. Scar scrabbles backwards, the mud water attempting to pull him in as well, gasping for air. With another wave of his hand, the ground resolidifies. The naked hands and feet of the enormous rodent are trapped in solid ground. 

Doc wastes no time. Freeing the body of the ROUS from the claws of darkness, his blade cuts through the empty body like he’s cutting fabric. The darkened for withers away into dust, and Zedaph kicks it away from the pile for good measure. 

The three boys sit on the silent, blighted forest floor. Ignoring the angry crystal, or the darkness consuming around them. Scar is panting like he ran a mile, Zedaph petting the soft shade ears of the fox that led them there, and Doc twirling his own knife. They just need a moment, a second to recollect themselves. Doc looks at his blade, forged in False’s fires. No matter what, no matter how strong a mage can be, sometimes they have to resort to the same tools as every other person. “Alright, enough sitting down. Let's put this crystal to ruin and let Isaac and his shleep finally get some peace.”

#hermitcraft #light of lairyon #lol #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft au #wizard au #wizard hermits #wizard zedaph #wizard zed #wizard scar #wizard doc #docm77 #gtwscar #zedaph

[twstankin]

Revisions ( My Twst Persona Au )

(Edited Version for spelling mistakes)

Prologue - Part One

Wake Up Call

It’s finally here! Part one of the story! Still super nervous but y’all seemed to like the Scarabia sneak peek. It’s gonna be a bit before we get there. I also have to note, it’s going to be awhile before we get to the juicy persona stuff because this story follows the game’s plot. I apologize for any errors, but no beta we die like men here. If anyone wants to beta read for me I’d be really greatful~

I hope you enjoy!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first thing Yuu’s mind registered when they drifted into consciousness was the rattling of a door. The second thing was how uncomfortable their body felt, like they were crammed into a small space. They were laying on their back on top of a wooden surface. They tried to shift their body to provide comfort, but they were stopped by the walls of the box. What the hell was going on? Are they dead? Kidnapped? Buried alive? Their cynical thoughts were interrupted by a scuffing sound from the world outside their dark boxy prison.

“Gotta hurry. People are coming. Gotta get a uniform…!” The lid rattled again, but with more force this time. Yuu found themselves frozen as they tried to comprehend what exactly was going on.

“Grr! Why is it so heavy? Open! Open!” The voice outside panted. Yuu was tempted to call out for help or try to push against the lid themself. “Time for my secret move! Fu~naaaa~!”

The box became an oven in an instant. Were they being cremated?! “GYAAAAAAAAAAH! HOT HOT HOT!” They screamed as they pressed their back onto the wooden one of the box. They squeezed their eyes shut and tried to move away from the heat. It was useless, but what else could they do? The heat left as quickly as it came. They heard the sound of the lid popping off and slowly opened up one eye.

They were met with the blue eyes and smug grin of… a raccoon? A cat? Whatever it was, it had grey fur and a white fluffy belly. A tattered black and white striped bow had been tied around its neck. Yuu could have confused it with a normal animal, except for the blue fire that lined its ears and the forked devil tail.

“Hehe~ your uniform is mine~.” The creature spoke. The voice fit the little monster. It hopped into the box and on top of Yuu and began to fiddle with the purple and black robes they wore. They didn’t have a chance to question their sudden wardrobe change, because their reflexes kicked in at the moment. They hoisted their body up which caused the monster to be knocked off of them.

“Don’t touch me!” 

“Geh-?! WHY ARE YOU UP?!”

Yuu blinked. “A talking raccoon in a room full of floating coffins… is this hell?”

The offended look on the monster's face made their heart drop. “I am not a raccoon! I am the great grim!” He huffed. “Whatever. Oí human! Give me those robes!”

Did… Did that fucking raccoon just order them to strip?!

“Otherwise…”  flames erupted around the two and Yuu found themselves moving away from the sudden heat again. “I’ll roast ya!”

While Yuu didn’t doubt that he would, but they had dignity! Anger flooded their body. This pint-sized little-. “Over my rotting corpse!” They yelled and yanked themselves out of the coffin. They booked it to the first entrance they saw.

“Oí! Get back here!” The raccoon’s voice faded away as they ran as fast as their legs would take them.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

After a mad dash through various rooms and hallways before Yuu found themselves in a library. ‘A perfect place to hide!’ A bit cliché but they were in no situation to judge. With their back pressed to a bookshelf, the reality of what was going on set in. “If I am dreaming, somebody please wake me up.” Unfortunately for them, blue fire ripped them from their thoughts a second time that night.

“Hehe, stupid human! You can’t escape from the great Grim’s awesome nose!” 

‘Ah. He found me.’

“I’ll say it again, hand over the robes or get burned to a- GYAA!” A whip wrapped around the monster and restrained him. “Ow! Where did this cord come from?” A figure behind him glared down at the him. 

“This is no mere cord! It is a whip of love!” The mysterious man who had just saved their life was oddly dressed. He looked like a train driver. A coat with a blue collar and feathered shoulders rested on his back and a matching top hat with the same blue ribbon and feathers sat on his head. Under the coat his clothing was relatively normal. A black vest, tie, and pants with a white dress shirt. The truly odd thing about his appearance was the bird mask that rested on his face. His eyes didn’t show very much aside from the glowing yellow pupils. 

“Ah, I finally found you. Are you perhaps the missing student?” He turned to Yuu. “You really shouldn’t go off like that! Leaving the gate on your own!” He glared at the raccoon again. “And your familiar isn’t even tamed! Another violation of the school rules!” 

Both the monster and Yuu objected to that statement. No way was this hairball their familiar! After all the hell he’s put them through…

“Oí let me go! I’m not their familiar!”

“Right… he’s not-“

Birdman shook his head before cutting Yuu off. “Sure sure. The most rebellious ones always say that. Just zip it.” Then he gagged the monster. “How troublesome are you? A new student like yourself leaving the gate all on your own…”

“Never mind that, we’re late to the opening ceremony. Please follow me to the hall of mirrors.” Birdman began walking towards the exit dragging Yuu and the monster with him.

“Wait a moment… new student? And what’s a gate?” Yuu still had no idea about what was happening before them. They were already enrolled in a school from the few hazy memories that remained, and where the hell were they?!

Birdman acknowledged them this time, “ The room you awoke in, the one with all the doors. Those who wish to be students here must pass through one of the doors to arrive here. Normally, students wake up only after the door is unlocked with a special key but…” he trailed off. 

“Oh… so those coffins. They were actually doors.”

“The culprit here seems to be this familiar!” He tugged at Grim. “The rules state that if you are going to bring one, then you must take care and responsibility for it.” He paused for a moment. “Now isn’t the time to be scolding you. The ceremony will be done soon, so let’s hurry.” He nudged Yuu towards the door but they still had questions that needed to be answered. “Hold on! Where am I? And who are you?” 

“Hm? It appears the transportation magic has left you disoriented. It happens often! I’ll explain as we make our way, for I am so gracious.”

‘Gracious? Does everyone around here have an ego?’

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Once they entered what Yuu could call a courtyard, Bird man began to fill them in.

“You are currently In Night Raven College's Main building. This is a school for magicians blessed with a unique aptitude for magic from all over the world. It’s one of the most prestigious magical academies in Twisted wonderland. And I am the Headmaster, appointed to watch over this academy, Dire Crowley.” It was nice to finally stop calling him birdman all the time. But one thing was off.

“Magician? I think you have the wrong guy…”

Crowley ignored the last part of Yuu’s sentence in favor of continuing his explanation. “Only those magicians dubbed worthy by the dark mirror can attend this school. Potential students use the gates and are summoned from all over the world.”

 This dark mirror had clearly screwed up… unless Yuu was like a book protagonist and had a secret magic power?! Excitement and ideas of what might be raced through them. 

‘I take back my wish! I don’t want to wake up yet!’

“An Ebony carriage that carries the gate should have gone to meet you.” Alas poor Yuu could not remember such A thing. Hopefully their memories would come back to them soon. “The Carriage goes to welcome new students chosen by the dark mirror. A long time ago the market decided that carriages are used for special occasions to welcome people.”

“And where is this market?”

Crowley ignored him once again. ‘For someone so gracious he’s quite rude…’ “Come. We’re almost at the entrance ceremony.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The room that Crowley brought them to was packed full of students dressed in similar robes as Yuu, Black robes with purple and gold accents. It seemed as if the ceremony was already over. Students stood in large groups talking with each other, as other students began preparations to leave. It was nerve wracking to say the least. All of them could use magic? It was a bit of a scary thought. They all had a huge advantage over poor little Yuu! Most even towered over them.

“I am here~” Crowley called out into the room. All eyes turned to the trio. Yuu sunk into the hood of their robe. “Ah there he is.” A student said. “We were missing a student! I went out to go find them, for I am so kind~” he stopped addressing the mass of students and turned to Yuu. “As the only person left who has yet to be assigned a dorm, I shall keep the raccoon company. Go, step in front of the dark mirror.” Yuu did as they were told.

The walk to the mirror felt like a lifetime. Every pair of eyes in the room was trained on them. ‘No pressure.’ The so-called dark mirror floated in the middle of the room. It was larger than Yuu, and it had a beautiful golden trim. Green fire and a white mask with gold accents was reflected back at them. It was so cool, and Yuu had a feeling that they had seen this same mirror before.

“State thy name.”

“Yuu.”

“Yuu… The shape of Thy soul is…”

‘Here it comes…!’

“I do not know.”

‘...What?’

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Well here we are! God am I tired. Once I post this I’ll head to bed ;w;

... probably.

Tags: @lionheartanotheraccount @kimmy-banana

(If anyone wants to be tagged just ask me and I’ll happily do so)

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #oop #oof #my wriitng #twst persona au #twst au #Twst grim #twst yuu #twst MC #dire crowley #the dark mirror #Revisions - Story #lets gooo #im very tired #im very nervous #lets gooooo #^^ #Mod ankin

[cavariously]

[Trying my hand at a fan fiction.

I love to write but I have never done anything like this before, so all feedback would be extremely appreciated (Grammer, Plot, Characters etc.).

I love Tokyo Ghoul so I really hope I don't fuck this up 😅. A big thank you to anyone who reads this ❤️]

Caution: Agressive Swearing, Offensive Language, Graphic Violence.

Notes: Takes place post end of TG:re, Reapers = Marshall version of Doves.

1. Crow - 24

City lights and the rushing motions of the landscape turn the 24th ward into a blinding and blaring circus. Humans. They crawl through this city with the assurance that they will be here tomorrow. They will be here a year from now. They will be here forever. They are the only lifeform with this assurance. All other creatures in this world live with the knowledge that their making it to the next moment is a fifty fifty

It is certainly a miracle that they last, noticing absolutely nothing at all. They don't see the effects that the fumes of their veichles have on the planet that they grip so tightly to. They can't begin to recognise that they are being continually watched and targeted by devices that could wipe them from the face of said Earth in less than zero. They don't even notice the apex predictor observing them from less than a mile above.

Humans simply move from one spot to another, only stopping to cause irrevocable disaster and reduce their surroundings to less than ash, and then move on to the next target. Someone said that humans are Parasites, and although it may be naive to believe this was wholly correct, it would be complete ignorance to dismiss it entirely. Ghouls do not indulge in such ignorance. Parasite is an apt description for a human, from the perspective of a ghoul, that and food.

The figure stands tall, wind rushing rapidly through their tied up hair. They can smell the putrescence of man-kind as they go about their sweaty and arrogant business. They would laugh if it wasn't so tragic. What do humans amount to? They are greedy and bloody bags of meat that fight and hate more than any other being, yet they are allowed to multiply and just be. It could be argued that ghouls are the same as humans in this aspect, but most abide by the one meal a month agreement, even though this arrangement can be hell for some. Unlike humans, who see violence as their God given right, when ghouls fight, it is rarely for anything other than survival. Perhaps this view doesn't take all ghouls into account, but all humans gorge themselves on everything, and fight for any fucking reason they want.

Twenty years ago, a disaster was meant to end this disparity. For the first time ever, ghouls and humans fought together to save the world they shared from the monster that had been designated 'DRAGON'. The defeating of this enemy was meant to end in equality, where ghouls and humans shared the world equally. Scientific leaps had been made. Synthetic meats that ghouls could eat, so they wouldn't have to harm humans. The corpse of Dragon even lead to dramatic advancements in the medical field. Humans were now benefiting from ghoul DNA, as it allowed them to combat most illnesses and increase their lifespan somewhat. After all that ghouls had done for them, weren't humans grateful? No. Ten years, then ghouls were back to being vile creatures to be hunted, and were forced back to living in the sewers. The deaths of so many perfectly good and innocent ghouls, just so that humanity could screw them all over again. What a funny tragedy.

Another figure appeared from the shadows, stepping in line with their comrade. Neither looking at the other, they both silently watched the ferris-wheel turn round and round. A world that they saw as rightfully theirs. They were hungry for it and they would have it. No matter the cost. In fact, the more human casualties... the better.

"Are you ready to go?" the newcomer asked, never taking their attention away from everything below.

"Yeah. Any longer and I might have to eat you."

"Like you could" came the cold, arrogant response.

"Just because you got five inches on me now, doesn't mean I can't still beat your ass Da..."

"Don't fucking call me that. While we're out here you call me Kuma and I call you... Blindfold, or Eyeless. Something like that." Even though his response had been quick and sharp, neither his tone nor his concentration had wavered.

"Eyeless" they conceded.

"Fine, Eyeless it is. Just don't go shouting our real names out in public. You're enough of a liability as it is without giving our fucking identities away."

Eyeless finally turned to look at their brother. They couldn't help feeling a pang of nostalgia. He had been so small once, constantly hanging onto their shoulders and making paper birds that he place all over their home. Those memories hurt, especially when they remembered what came after. He used to smile so much and now he's a moody little shit. They'd never been like that at fourteen, they thought smugly.

"Fine. Let's go KUMA before I rip your snarky head off." With that final retort, Eyeless turned and stepped off of the roof.

Kuma watched them drop six stories, landing with grace and poise. Why were they always so aggravating? Maybe he was jealous of their natural ability, or perhaps they were just a pain in the ass to be related to. With a sigh and a wandering look to the night sky, he followed suit.

* * *

The Marshalls finished up disposing of the ghoul. Bikakus are a pain in the ass Haruto thought, but it's better than a Ukaku. Haruto loved the fact that he was an intimidating figure. The ghoul had basically shat itself as soon as it had seen his large muscular frame, and cruel bearded face. The black trench coat they wore, that often announced the end for ghouls, probably didn't hurt either. He nudged the face of the corpse with his foot. He reckoned it wouldn't even be worth removing his Kakahou to get a new quinque. Taking into account the short amount of time it had taken him and Kenji to bypass his defences and cut him through the middle, he was a B rated ghoul maximum.

"Right, time we get back" Haruto sighed.

"Mhm" Kenji agreed. He never said much.

"Did you bring the body bag? You never know, you might be able to upgrade that piece of shit you call a quinque." Haruto laughed loudly. He loved taking the piss out of Kenji, especially when he knew his only retort woukd be 'mhm'.

As expected, Kenji responded with a grumbling "Mhm", and moved towards the body.

Haruto, turned to walk away, lighting a cigarette and beginning to inhale deeply. That Kenji was going to marry his sister. What's he gonna say when the priest asks him if he takes her to be his lawfully wedded wife? Mhm. Haruto chuckled to himself. All in all Kenji was a good guy, and one hell of a Marshall. He could use that crappy Ukaku quinque pretty damn well, even if it did come from a C rated ghoul. Kenji also took Haruto's kids to the beach when he and Mrs Haruto wanted a quiet weekend. He might be an ugly fucker with next to no hair, and a face that made you want to split him down the middle, but he was clean and sometimes smelt nice. Yeah, Kenji could marry his sister if he wanted. She could do a hell of a lot worse.

A loud splatter sounded out behind Haruto. He spun on his heels, instincts flaring immediately into action. Where the fuck was Kenji? Where his partner had been attempting to fit the ghoul into the black bag, there was now the cut in half corpse of his future brother in law, fallen to the sides with a blindfolded figure standing in the middle. His entire being twitched in anticipation of this thing making a move to kill him, but all it did was leasurly bend down and scoop something up from the gore beneath. As the creature straightened up, he saw that it was simply sucking on one of Kenji's bloody fingers. To others, this might signify a psychotic animal, but to a seasoned Marshall, this was a confident and calculating killer plain and simple. A powerful one at that. Their clothes were indistinctive; clad in thin black leather and fabric, however, their mask was a completely different story. Almost the entirety of its face was covered. Its mouth had a tight black fabric wrapped over it, with a skeletal smile that would open, revealing the snaking pink tongue underneath. The huge back leather collar surrounding it could be zipped up to hide all but the eyes from the world. Not that the eyes could be seen either. A bone white blindfold shut them off from view. Foreign symbols were drawn in deep black on either side, with the a closed eye taking centre stage. Although it was just a drawing, that closed eye was unearving, as if the lack of sight heightened its ability to see, instead of impeding it.

Now this was a ghoul. Just by its sheer presence Haruto could tell this one was rated A, or more likely >S. Haruto couldn't deny to himself that he was intimidated, but he was a senior Marshall, and always backed himself in a one on one. He looked down at his fallen partner and gulped. First things first, get into this guys head. Haruto scanned the ghoul, looking for weaknesses that he could exploit verbally. If he was lucky, the reaction could lead to him obtaining an edge. He noticed that this ghoul was slight in stature, maybe five foot five all told.

"You wanna end up like this other piece of shit, you fucking dwarf."

This garnered absolutely nothing.

Haruto couldn't take it much longer. This creature continued to lapp at the guts of his dead partner, that were splattered over its fingers. It obviously didn't give a shit what it looked like to others. It reminded him of a cat, publically cleaning its fur and genitals with no concern for the world. It was fucking reveling in its feast, and it made Haruto's blood boil.

"You killed an innocent man. He was gonna have a family and you ripped him apart. You monsters have no fucking souls and you all belong in hell. That's where I'm gonna send you. I'm a fucking senior Marshall you stupid shit. You have no clue how badly you've fucked up."

Again, the ghoul made no sign of changing emotion, continuing to dip its fingers in Kenji and take its time eating. Haruto knew he needed something else to get into its head so he scanned again. 'Shit' he thought, as the ghost of a smile passed over his lips. The majority of its body was covered in black that mostly obscured its shape, however, his keen eyes saw that although its grey hair was tied up, it was probably quite long when undone. At its chest area, although it was probably bound, there was the hint of a slightly tented structure. The hardest one to spot was the hips. Despite them being covered by black leather shorts, those hips were a tad too wide to be a man's.

"Alright you sick fuck. I'M A COMMIN FOR YA!"

With one last drive to uncover more courage, Haruto raised his Kokaku quinque and lept towards the ghoul.

"I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP FOR KENJI... YOU BITCH!"

As Haruto closed the distance with extreme speed, to less than two meters, the shadow of another figure dropped from the sky, landing directly next to the first. Haruto skidded to a halt, taken aback by the new masked creature. This one was certainly taller, and its face was covered by a red, horned mask. It was only as his attention slipped completely that he realised his final mistake. For the first time, the blindfolded ghoul smiled widely, the skeletal mouth parting to reveal massive bloody teeth.

The next thing Haruto knew was that he was laying down on the ground, face to the sky. His neck was warm and dripping wet. He raised his hands to his throat as the oxygen escaped his body, feeling the deep gash that was releasing his blood. The ghouls started conversing.

"Which one you want?" the first asked the newcomer.

"I don't care. You killed 'em both so you choose" the other responded dispondantly.

"Well, you're the growing boy so you take the ghoul and the first Reaper."

"Damn, well fuck me if you ain't the best big sister" uttered the male ghoul sarcastically, as he casually walked over to Kenji and the dead ghoul. "Why you taking you're mask off you sicko? The guys not even dead yet."

"I like it when they watch me" the female ghoul giggled.

Haruto saw the shadow of something passing over his head. "Ken...Ke..ji" Haruto gasped.

Suddenly, from below him came a the same giggle. "Awww dude, I think these guys were close."

"Eyeless, eat the fucker and let's go" came the voice of the male.

"Hey buddy boy, look at me will you" said the female from his feet.

Haruto craned his neck, scared of what he might see, but thinking 'fuck it' to himself. What's did he have to be afraid of, he's already dead. When he finally focused on the face he was confused. She was chewing on a leg. His leg. When the fuck did she get her dirty hands on that? When she'd finished on his leg, licking the tips of her fingers with delight, she bent down and hovered over him. Eyeless? That's what the other one had called her, but that wasn't true at all. Now that her blindfold was off he could see the entirety of her murderous giddy face.

"You're very funny" she said. "Innocent man. Gonna have a family. Its really fucking funny."

The last thing Haruto would ever see would be a testimony to her names innacuracy. Staring at him excitedly was one grey eye, so remarkably human looking it was weird. The other eye was a pool of darkness... with a violent, blood red pupil that seemed to be trying to force its way out of its black prison. She snapped up the rest of him.

"Sicko..."

End

#tokyo ghoul #manga edit #ken keneki #touka kirishima

[sapphicunicorn]

[MonHun] Raging Flames and Dancing Swords - 1,731 words

It's been three days of chasing a single Glavenus. Tavia's tired, hungry, and wants a bath. She wants to go back to her own solo hunts but she also really wants her cut of the reward. All she has to do is cut off the tail. Simple, right?

More exploration of Tavia and Ryiel, my girls I've been building since Tri/4. Have some action! (The villages of Aquarin and Sleat don't exist, I made them up, but the Hinmerun Mountains exist in the Schrade Region!)

Part 1 of 3 (parts 2 & 3 will be posted on AO3 & FFnet and linked here!)

Tavia threw fresh twigs into the coals of last night’s fire and stoked the embers. Smoke mixed with the early morning mist, tickling her eyes and nose. Her stomach rolled with hunger after yesterday’s hike. They’d thrown up their tents and fell over with exhaustion before they could decide an order for the nightly watch.

Thankfully today was the last day of the hunt.

[Read on ao3 || ffnet || under the cut]

The party had followed the Glavenus for two days, trading blows and cautiously letting it escape across the mountain forests, chasing it further from the nearby village. It was exhausted, the spines along its back broken, a substantial gash in its side where their gunlancer broke through thick plates. All the party had to do was follow the line of broken trees and blood, pushing it from its desperate meals until it settled into a well hidden nest.

The party leader sent a letter for a guild rep yesterday. If everything went according to plan, they could load up the corpse and collect their handsome reward before the sun set.

Tavia just had to slice off the tail. Simple.

She stirred up the fire until it swallowed the twigs, lively and warm, before settling down to her rations. She missed Guild-sanctioned camps and the fully stocked canteen. Starting her morning without eggs and a hot drink was no morning she wanted to face, but here she was, the first of the party to rise.

Clouds speckled the lilac sky, distant birds making themselves known with noisy clarity. Tavia swatted at the bugs that whined around her ears and took another bite of her rations.

Tavia hated nature. She hated dry salted meat. But today was the last day.

Behind her, a tent flap ruffled and the gunlancer stepped out, fully armored except his helmet, and stretched his arms wide. Taking a deep breath of the crisp air, he groaned as his bones popped and ran his hands through his short gray hair.

“Ah, just when I think I’m getting too old for this, we get a view like that.” He nodded towards the horizon, the hilltops and trees covered with mist and haloed by the rising sun.

“I’d trade it for a sturdy roof over my head,” Tavia said. Two days of traveling and fighting and she still didn’t know her team by name; no one seemed offended that when she did address them, it was by their weapon. “Give me a rundown tavern with watery ale and lice in the beds over this outdoor living any day.”

“You city-dwellers are all the same. You’d trade your freedom for those walls, eh?”

Tavia spit a chunk of gristle into the fire; it spit and hissed like an angry cat. “Maybe not that far, but walls are better than wide open spaces. Anything can show up in a spot like this.”

“That’s why we sit watch.” He frowned, his eyes searching around their paltry campsite. “Speaking of, where’s Royse?”

Tavia shrugged, not entirely sure which member had last watch. Did she even take a shift? A hazy part of her remembered leaning against a tree, her knife across her lap and her long sword on the ground beside her. Did someone switch with her? She barely remembered crawling out of her tent. She only remembered hunger.

“Beats me,” Tavia said. “We seem to have made it through the night, though. Unless this is all some ugly nightmare.”

The gunlancer looked up suddenly and Tavia held her breath, strained her ears. Did a predator sneak up? No. Somewhere in the distance was the clatter of cart wheels and hooves, and the raspy singing of felynes.

The gunlancer smiled, his lined face suddenly youthful. “Nah, it’s a dream come true. I’ll get the rest of ‘em up.”

He disappeared into the other two tents and it wasn’t long before the other members of the party stumbled out. The party leader—a gunner as old, but not as gray, as the gunlancer—rubbed his bald head as he sucked on a strip of jerky. The hammer user—a woman with biceps bigger than Tavia’s—sat across the fire and began to rebraid her hair.

The Guild cart was pulled by a small team of anteka; three energetic felynes bounced in the back, their paws waving wildly as their song came to an end. Beside the cart, dressed in blinding white and red, the Guild representative walked with her nose in a book. If it was anyone else, Tavia would claim it was impossible to hike and read at the same—but this was Ryiel. For her, it was expected.

Ryiel glanced up and waved with a smile. Tavia’s heart fluttered, her ration nearly stuck in her throat. Coming up the hillside, Ryiel looked like a dream. Her uniform was spotless, cap still straight on her head, not a single golden thread on her capelet snagged after hiking. Her dark skin was dewey, her black eyes sparkling as she tucked one of her microbraids behind her ear.

Meanwhile Tavia was in her underclothes, sweat baked into the fibers from two days of fighting, her milky skin crusted with mud, greasy red hair stuck to her head. She smelled like a Congalala’s backside.

Not exactly the way she wanted to meet Ryiel again, but if Tavia was being honest, she didn’t expect to ever see Ryiel out in the wilderness. Tavia had found her plenty of times inside Dundorma or small towns, and Tavia often spent too much time searching for her only to find her bent over reports and books. More than twice, Tavia enticed Ryiel out of her bookish den for dinner and drinks.

But Tavia was intentionally dressed up for those occasions. She did her best to seduce the Guild girl who was known for her meticulous reporting, her always tidy appearance. What would Ryiel think of her now?

The leader stepped forward to greet the Guild representative. She traded her small book with a large leather-bound journal from her rucksack and opened to a marked page.

“This is the party of Emil, Royse, and Tavia, led by Marco, correct?” Ryiel asked. Her soft voice sent chills down Tavia’s spine.

“That’s us, ma’am,” the bald leader, Marco, said. “We’ve got the Glavenus a few miles west from here.”

“Already dead?”

“We’re putting it down today and hope to deliver the tail to the village chief.”

Ryiel consulted her journal again. “‘The village of Aquarin requests the removal of one Glavenus endangering the vicinity. Reward requirements include hunting the aforementioned monster and presenting the tail at the village; the hunter, hunting party, or Guild may choose what to do with the corpse,’” she read. “Is someone claiming the body?”

“I am,” said the hammer user. “Got a blacksmith willing to make me some new armor if I bring it in.”

No one discussed the specifics with Tavia. Thankfully she wasn’t shopping for new weapons or armor. She just wanted the money.

Ryiel pulled a pencil from under her cap and made a few marks in the journal. She smiled with satisfaction at Marco. “Excellent. Should I wait here until you’re finished?”

“It should be safe enough,” Marco said. “We’ve been trying to push it away from the village so I can’t see it doubling back this way.”

“I can stay behind if things go wrong,” the gunlancer said.

“Emil, come on, you know—”

“I can take care of myself just fine,” Ryiel said with a wicked smile. She motioned to the felynes still bouncing in the cart. “Don’t worry about us. Focus on your hunt and we’ll approach when you���re ready to load up.”

Marco looked over the party, his apprehension plain on his face.

Tavia knew from experience that Guild representatives weren’t pushovers; while some hunters traded the field for paper, other Guild reps were washouts from training, people who couldn’t make the leap from greenhorn to officially licensed. Everyone who worked within the Guild had some sort of weapons training.

And Tavia happened to know a bit more about Ryiel’s experience than she wanted to share.

“Let’s just get it done,” the hammer user said. “My feet hurt and I’m ready to soak in a hot bath.”

“Seconded,” said Tavia. She stood and stretched out her back. “It’s probably slept less than we have and it’s definitely lost more blood than us. Should be an easy target.”

“Alright, alright,” Marco sighed. He went towards his tent. “Let’s suit up and get moving.”

The gunlancer—what was his name, Emil?—was the only one in armor and was already tearing down his tent. The hammer user—her name must have been Royse—jumped up, her green hair now in a single braid, and entered her tent to dress. After Emil rolled up his tent, he offered to collect some firewood for Ryiel, in case the hunt went longer than expected, and disappeared into the forest.

It was just Tavia and Ryiel near the fire.

Tavia’s palms itched to reach out and stroke Ryiel’s face, but her hands were filthy, blood and dirt caked under her nails. And maybe Ryiel wouldn’t appreciate the touch, anyway. They were still new to each other. In Ryiel’s own words they weren’t official . . . yet.

Ryiel offered a dazzling grin that sent Tavia’s heart racing. “I hoped it was you,” she said quietly. She kept her distance from Tavia but it wasn’t cold, just professional. For a quick moment it looked like she wanted to lean into Tavia—and then she was gone, turning away towards the cart and unhooking the anteka. The felynes crawled off the cart and circled the fire.

“It’s good to see you, Ryiel,” Tavia said. That was safe enough. “I didn’t know you came out on the field.”

“I go wherever the Guild needs me. You wouldn’t know it by looking, but I actually know my way around the Hinmerun Mountains very well.”

“Am I going to hear the story behind that one?” Tavia asked. She loved to listen to Ryiel talk about herself, but Tavia still didn’t know where she came from or how she came to the Guild. Tavia had already spilled her simple story; hers was boring, easy. Ryiel made her beginnings seem mysterious.

Ryiel winked, a finger held up in front of her lips. “Maybe one day. You better get dressed for battle first. Happy hunting today.”

#monster hunter #fanfiction #fanfic #monhun #writeblr #amwriting #monster hunter oc #wlw #short fiction

[weaselle]

pay no attention to this collection I just need to post it so I can find it

hit walls and floor... tall inside of my skull; if I never fall at all, clever's awfully dull - so if "push" says the door you'll be watchin' me pull - 'cause I only shop for china when I'm walkin' with bulls

Order me sit? dope, I'm askin' how high; I out right hope my notes are causin' outcry - where do I fit? miles as the cow flies - statistically shit, climbin' slopes to outlie

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I can juggle knives, and proselytize, and wink my eyes in flirth (or mix words like mirth and flirt, like, ask what planet Dirt is wearth) I can lift a person by their soul, or... even let them down; I can fit myself to any role: demon, prophet, clown. I can write like frightened squid, or read a book from any shelf- but a lifeguard out at sea can drown, and I can't save myself

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I want an adventurous crew, less than 100 and much more than 2; I've got an idea or four to do and believe that "to lead" isn't "ordering you" - I want be thicker than thieves: if one of us cries, everyone grieves; stacked deck for success, form small companies so that every ace dealt goes up all of our sleeves - I wish I had Boromir's horn; I stand full of arrows, small and forlorn I'd summon an army as sure as you're born and we'd rend every obstacle / mend what is torn

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yo when it's late I don't know if debate is a pro that I'm prone to or con I conflate; yawn ok great it's the dawn of new date too soon gone like a pawn in a perilous state - do I wander or wait, keep closed yonder gate or transpose these ten toes 'til exposing my fate? if not off to bed nodding off head berates and refuses to do more than snooze/obfuscate

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I don't have time enough to tell the clock to stop its ticking talk, while I'm sublimely sleepy, still ensconced in twos of shoes and socks; I'm staring off in awful need of themes that breed these searing thoughts- I breathe more air when all unfair reality congeals and clots; when sleep is claustrophobic, fear near stoic in its static stay, I ride my nightmares into mounts more suited to the dreams of day

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time for me to be known from home to home, on the campaign trail like when Romans roam, I'mma do the damn thang, prevail and own every twist in this life-line vine I've grown

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sick like a little bit with a bad tum and sniffle it's not a badda-boom bat beating but a wiffle hit; sleep like the bleeping sheep gotta wring it outta me, sore like a freaking score that you sing without a "c".

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i got nothing to say, i'm all bluff in this play, i mean i'm here to swerve some verse it's clear i'm thumpin' away at the buttons with the letters on whenever it’s day like a cat attacks a sweater, just pretending it’s prey - I need to catch the thing I’m chasing, like, it’s gotta get caught, and so I jot it down a lot to try to capture the thought; but though the plot is often written out in dashes and sketches, i rarely cash in those checks, i need more carry than fetches, so I’m dreamin’ and dumpin’ out all the schemin’ or somethin’ and like, even if it’s meaningless these keys I’ll keep thumpin

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with the internet i’m magic and i’m casting a spell call a song out of the air to here as clear as a bell private playlist from the A-list like i’m famous as hell making music moving quickly so I’m faster as well

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“oh no” I shout “Where’s Trusty my phone?” I don’t know the whereabouts, must be shown- adjusted the tone of the ring to silence now trying to find it brings me to violence; really need to locate as I motivate to go today I throw the flippin’ sofa pillows hopin’ for a stowaway... but oh no way it’s gone I pray this song will make a tiny spell; a lesson less on lost forlorn and more intent on finding cell

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pocket full of humbug, some'll argue/ some shrug but damnit my whole planet's stupid like it's on the Dumb drug will there be a U.S. war? (I mean ANOTHER on our list) maybe something civil: neo-drivel vs. power fist... maybe accidental, mental trump insulting china's boss I fear these pale tears will steer us straight into a giant loss

so many people on the earth are searching for a safe life the rich'll keep their swords but lord they'll take away our steak knife Nothing free for you and me our banking fees are never waved; an act by black or poor is "crime" for white or rich it's "misbehaved" They're pouring us an ethanol and calling it an eggnog - time to run away and trade these reindeer for a sled-dog; the season of the commie christ whose message hasn't landed yet: money only isn't evil if the people's needs are met

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no thanks on the news, yo crank up the tunes, don't bank on the crankiness taking a snooze unless I get dressed from neckless to shoes and charge the horizon more wise than confused __________________________________________________________

hear the too late beep, missing two days sleep, and the road to a dream is a two way street; so the mood stays bleak though I do make sweet this coffee with cream and the brew ain't weak

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been a While since I styled out the verbs and tenses, went around the Gates and straight hopped the fences; penUltimately gotta be a sultan of self: master mind, rule body, find my worth-and-my-wealth; if i'm quiet too long I'll have sloth not stealth so I try to move along and get my words off the shelf.

my projects: objects I invent/books writ - that shit won't pay the rent; throw fits, I have, it don't prevent: what's real from feeling devil-sent.

so I must be clever, do each: sum total; whatever needs eating this dead-beat goat'll; ask what is the art in a pace grown sickly? cut to the part where the chase goes quickly

Now hook or crook I must prepare, to tell each truth/take every dare stand hand on hips, and one in air, you can kiss my lips, or my derrière

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got me a hit list, swear i'ma get this done til the sun goes under the business; witness, this is crazy and witless, lazy lately: maybe the wiz kid just hid restless - put to the test his quiz is bested get to the rest it's now or not again, get that got and then kill it til the whole damn lot is a slaughter pen, sweat til the wet drip drops gettin' hotter than the metal that your kettle corn kernel keeps poppin' in; hoppin' and hippin' and readin' what's written i gotta be gettin' to the List no skippin'! slippin like fall, new leaves i'm flippin - givin' my all just to keep on grippin'; breakin' what doesn't bend wrong way through, as i make it to the end of the long To Do

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i post at the prompt, chew big what i've chomped; grew kid to a ghost haunting most of this pomp; listless within this to do list i'm swamped - spirit in fits, corpse slow to go romp

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incautious swatches of saying; watch as he washes the playing: switching the swerving and swaying into some terms of conveying wishes conditions occurred in which this envisioned un-blurred digit could get itself heard and flip politicians the bird

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in the trace of the face off you tasted last, is the scent of the sense made fading fast, so your dreams leak sieve-like hiking past a scared nightmare crew of an all-you cast

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got me a pallet of shall get around to, climb out of shallow kie, it's not about you; just look at the play and see where the props ain't, take out a brush but don't rush it you'll drop paint; stop sayin' you're praying for planet like damn saint but get out and do, do it, do, 'til you feel faint; yes do it, true get into some writing, what you must chew is how much off you're biting, i dust off the lightning and plug it right in, if i play hard enough then my bluff just might win, all this tin in my pocket while walking about til the hat-caving camptown will clean me all out- my ten other projects, pretend money fudge it, i'll sell all my objects and end up with budget; i'd love it if some of my ideas ran, but i'll finish the one and be one happy man

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each piece is news, new peace in reach; tho a few of you choose nude tweets of Preach- but the rest got best bits fittin' here, what tests my pets must sit and hear: forget that past rush last two years going mash-gas fast 'til we're clashing gears, it's clear no room for fear to be, but the info flash is a blast to me- from the crashing sea to the land locked loam, we're lashed to the new word womb to tomb; and it's all fantastic like plastic foam that'll patch like magic a tragic home, or a tech part heart in 3-d print that'll let docs talk too intelligent; it's so elegant, that an elephant could do operations like he hella went: to harvard med my head is full but the school yard's sharp like a shaving tool; i'm a raving fool, but i drink it in, article particles 'til i sink and spin, win wonder i'm under delusions grand- will i sunder illusions and understand? or is it too much fuss will i cuss and worry, will i do what's just 'mid the dust and fury all i know is i go with the flow i find, tryna rein in my brain while i fill my mind

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so often was the A.M. spent prayin' for mayhem, like seeing riots firing inspired me to 'amen'; i'd hate when the job sucked, my robbed luck, i'd get stuck- attempts at free society my hopes and dreams were all fucked; but lately (don't hate me) the game is less crazy- i bust twice as lustrous if bosses don't make me; So new to the bragging, i catch up from lagging and write down solutions more lucid less nagging

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no sleep awake i sit and wait until the mill will dim/abate some whim shall take my fancy fate is to be sleeping dreaming state my eyes won't close i'll type i 'spose i'll write a night time rhyming prose those words i've heard but rearranged their meaning seeming weird and strange i've changed but how i could not say i only know no other way yet days gone by then who was i my mind was mine but what i tried to bind untied it flies! it runs! i rue what once i 'knew'; so dumb- untruth undo what time has done i can't so chant of what's to come oh spin oh sing oh show such things oh paint me what the future brings if won't be still then say your fill i pray my brain abstain from frills and spill the beans and give me scenes of things that help divine the means which plan to make which paths to take? i sit and wait no sleep awake

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rework this

i want things to be different, starting with me; like to find me a new mind, with new eyes to see; like to start a new life, with new ways to be; can't be hard to do right, or this dude might flee- but i like the older version, no aversion to he: the kid who up and did lots, and got up from knees; who figured bigger sub-plots, and thought it was neat; who questioned syncopation, by stepping off beat; so i'd like to start a nation, a tribe or a team; one with no reservations just, a vibe and some steam; a group think to shout out 'thou shalt know peace' and to try it they're provided with some elbow grease; what i mean is, i think it's, so nice to be me; and the thing is the scene seems a singularity; but my brain goes, down more roads, than the branches of trees; and with more crew, i might do, more glancing with ease; so for multiples of loyal, one/two/three: i might try it royal, and become true We

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#poem #poetry #poem collection #master post

[mbcorvo-author]

Weird gifts

I jotted down this scene months ago following this prompt by @write-it-motherfuckers​ and I’m planning to edit it (and maybe change something, but before that I need to reach that point with the novel) and adding it to my wip “Beyond the Veil”... and since It’s been a while since last time I posted an excerpt and such, I thought that it could be good enough to be shared and also I can introduce you to another character of my wip! So, I translated it and here it is!

It’s not perfect or good because it’s unedited and I translated it at the best I could do, so I hope the English isn’t that bad.

_

The cat when returns home is always bringing back dead things and leaving them on the counter or the kitchen table. Mice, lizards, birds and frogs are the usual "gifts". Today there are no mice, no lizards, no birds, and no frogs. In their place, on the kitchen table, there was a mutilated human-looking arm... if you exclude the clawed fingertips and the skin that had a strange ash-grey colouration.

The man stood there motionless looking at that gruesome "hunting trophy" on his kitchen table as if he needed some more time for his brain to process what was seeing. He took a deep breath, exhaling the air in an unnerved snort as he started walking towards the french window that leads to the garden. Chestnut eyes that immediately turned looking towards the little wooden cat-house on the window-sill near the door, to be precise his gaze was on the grey-fur cat that was napping inside.

"Zane, what do I owe your unpleasant gift?" he rudely asked to the feline that, in response, opened his little surreal-blue eyes and lifted his head towards him. "I thought that you might be interested in it" the male-sounding voice of the cat echoed in the man's mind that was still showing the cat a grim expression. "And don't worry Javier, your familiar is safe and sound" continued the voice while the grey cat left the tiny house, stretching his legs and letting out a big yawn that showed that even the insides of his mouth were in shades of grey. Like it was popped out from a black and white television, except for his eyes. "He's napping inside your closet if you didn't notice" concluded. "Why a severed arm would ever interest me?" snapped Javier "Make sure you take it back before going away, if you don't want to get bound and closed forever in a coffeepot" from the expression on his face and the tone of his voice, it was clear that Javier wasn't kidding, even if he just turned to the french door to return inside his home after throwing that threat at Zane.

"Hey, hey!" exclaimed the alarmed cat, the tip of his tail and paws becoming like smoke when he moved to the edge of the window-sill. Smoke that engulfed him when he jumped from that elevated place and that increased its size before vanishing and leaving in its place a thin and tall guy with short black hair and bright blue eyes, dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans, battered combat boots and plain grey t-shirt. "Let's discuss this," said Zane showing a faint smile to Javier "I need you to tell me something about that arm" The man let out an annoyed grunt as he walked past the threshold of the door "Ask it to some Necromancer, I don't know anything about corpses." The Ghul moved quickly, slipping through the door before it was closed. "I know that you are an Oracle" added, following the man towards the kitchen "This is why I need you".

Javier stopped his walking, right hand running through his ruffled brown hair while he let out a tired sigh "There are other witches able to do oracular and divination magic in the world, why do you have to bother me?" grumbled, turning to face the Djinn again. "Yes, it's true... but you are the best" answered with another light smile on their lips, pointing both index fingers at the man "Or maybe I'm remembering badly and you aren't the Supreme Oracle anymore?"

Italian & tag list under the cut!

Ho abbozzato questa scena mesi fa seguendo questo spunto di @write-it-motherfuckers​ e sto progettando di modificarla (e forse proprio cambiarci qualcosa, ma per quello devo raggiungere quel punto col romanzo) e aggiungerla al mio wip “Oltre il Velo”... e siccome è passato parecchio tempo dall’ultima volta che ho postato un estratto o affine, ho pensato che potesse essere abbastanza buono da essere condiviso, inoltre ho l’occasione di introdurre un nuovo personaggio del mio wip! Così ho deciso di tradurlo ed eccoci qua.

So che il testo non è perfetto, non l’ho mai modificato da quando lo scrissi di getto seguendo l’ispirazione, mentre la versione in inglese l’ho tradotta meglio che potessi. Spero non sia poi così male.

_

Strani regali

Il gatto quando torna a casa si porta sempre dietro qualche cosa morta e la lascia sul tavolo o sul bancone della cucina. Topi, lucertole, uccellini e rane sono i suoi soliti “regali”. Oggi niente topi, niente lucertole, uccelli o rane. Al loro posto, sul tavolo della cucina, si trovava un braccio mutilato dalle sembianze del tutto umane se si escludevano gli artigli sulla punta delle dita e la pelle dalla strana colorazione grigiastra simile al colore della cenere.

L’uomo rimase lì fermo immobile a osservare quel raccapricciante “trofeo di caccia” sul proprio tavolo della cucina, come avesse bisogno di qualche momento in più a osservarlo perché la sua mente riuscisse a carburare quello che stava vedendo. Inspirò profondamente, esalando poi l’aria in uno snervato sbuffare dalle narici mentre si avviò verso la portafinestra che dava sul giardino. Occhi dalle iridi color castagna che subito si puntarono in direzione della casetta di legno presente sul vicino davanzale, per la precisione lo sguardo era rivolto verso il gatto dalla pelliccia grigia che stava sonnecchiando al suo interno. 

“Zane, a cosa devo il tuo spiacevole regalo?” domandò brusco al felino che, di tutta risposta, aprì gli occhietti di un azzurro irreale e sollevò il muso in sua direzione. “Ho pensato che potesse interessarti” la voce maschile del felino riecheggiò nella mente dell’uomo che continuava a mantenere un’espressione truce in sua direzione. “E tranquillo, Javier, il tuo famiglio sta bene” proseguì la voce, mentre il gatto grigio uscì dalla cuccia stiracchiandosi ed emettendo un grande sbadiglio che rivelò l’interno delle sue fauci anch’esso sui toni del grigio. Come se fosse uscito da un televisore in bianco e nero a eccezione degli occhi. “Sta sonnecchiando nel tuo armadio, se non te ne sei accorto” concluse. “Perché un braccio mozzato dovrebbe mai interessarmi?” sbottò Javier “Vedi di riprendertelo e sparire se non vuoi essere vincolato e chiuso per sempre dentro una caffettiera” dall’espressione e dal tono di voce dell’uomo si capiva che non stesse scherzando, anche se subito dopo aver lanciato quella minaccia a Zane si voltò intenzionato a rientrare in casa.

“Ehi, ehi!” esclamò allarmato il felino, punta della coda e delle zampe che si fecero simili a fumo quando si mosse raggiungendo il bordo del davanzale. Fumo che lo avvolse completamente quando balzò da quella posizione rialzata e che aumentò di dimensioni prima di svanire lasciando al suo posto un ragazzo alto e magro, occhi azzurrissimi e corti capelli neri, vestito con un paio di jeans neri aderenti, anfibi malconci e una maglietta anonima grigia. “Parliamone” fece Zane rivolgendo un leggero sorriso a Javier “ho bisogno che tu mi dica qualcosa su quel braccio” L’uomo emise un vago grugnito scocciato oltrepassando la soglia della porta “Chiedilo a qualche Necromante, io non mi intendo di cadaveri” Il Ghul si mosse rapidamente, riuscendo a sgusciare all’interno della casa dell’uomo prima che la porta venisse chiusa “Lo so che sei un Oracolo” rispose, seguendo l’uomo verso la cucina “Per questo mi servi tu”.

Javier si fermò, mano destra che venne sollevata e fatta scorrere tra gli scompigliati capelli bruni mentre lui emise un nuovo stanco sospiro. “Ci sono altri stregoni che possono usare magie oracolari e divinatorie al mondo, perché devi scocciare me?” borbottò voltandosi per guardare nuovamente il Djinn. “Sì, è vero...ma tu sei il migliore.” rispose, sempre con un leggero sorriso in viso, puntando entrambi gli indici verso l’uomo “Oppure ricordo male e non sei più Sommo Oracolo?”

Tag List: (If you want to be removed from the list, or added, just send me a message!) @lunarmoment​, @hazeywrites, @simpletonscribbler, @jess---writes​, @starlitesymphony, @ill-write-when-im-dead​, @justanotherwriteress, @stardust-and-smoke​, @withered-rose-unbreakable-lotus, @emireviews

#mgcorvo-author #mgcorvo-author writing #write-it-motherfuckers #corvo writes content #beyondtheveil wip excerpt #beyondtheveil wip #mgcorvo-author beyond the veil #mgcorvo-author original content #urban fantasy #fantasy #witch #oracle #djinn #genie #am writing #aspiring writer #bilingual post #corvobeyondtheveil #oltreilvelo wip estratto #corvooltreilvelo #my original characters

[highkingfen]

wiski – marina finding out julia still has magic? (in the world in my head where most things from canon are the same but marina lives)

Ok I got way overboard with this and wrote a near 4 page drabble so I will put it under the cut. I never wrote Wiski before so it was nice to try! Thank you for challenging me :D

I also posted it on Ao3 for an easier read

“Jules, I don’t thinkyou should go”

“Well I am going, youdon’t have to come with me if you don’t want to. ”

“ She’s crazy! Who knowswhat she can do to you. ”

“Honestly Q, after lastyear, Marina is not as scary as you think.”

This shut Quentin’sconstant arguing for a moment. Julia felt bad for bringing up againthat she was raped and didn’t called him because he was in anotherland doing gods knows what. No she called Marina. And despite theirfight and bickering, she knew Marina would come, and she did. She puther back to her feet and when she needed help to kill Reynard, sheshowed up again. This had cost her a finger and her cat’s life, butMartin had open the portal quick enough to save her form moreatrocities. And when they got double crossed by Quentin’s friendPenny and got sucked out of Marina’s apartment, Julia had managed alast desperate attempt to stab the fucker and she’d hit him in theeye. Marina had finished the job, Martin was dead, Penny brought herback on earth against her will. Yeah fun stuff that both frienddidn’t want to remember right now.

“I’ll be fine. Go orderpizza and watch Stranger Thing with Josh. ”

“Can’t belive you watchit without me. ”

Julia smirk and stole thecigarette Quentin had just lit, still wondering when he’d picked upthe habit. She knew it was all Eliot fault but he use to chastise herfor smoking, now he was doing more than her. She kissed his cheekedand walk away, knowing when she’d come back both boys would nerd outin front Quentin’s laptop at the Physical Kid cottage and she wouldtease them not to have seen the finale coming.

As she walked the fewblocks she was from Marina’s apartment, Julia finished her cigaretteand wondered what had brought Marina back to New York. After Reynardcorpse was burn to ashes, Marina had given up all pretense of nothaving been scared by the bastard. She had went on a trip around theworld in hope to find a solution for her missing fingers and to learnnew powerful spell. She’d stop answering Julia’s email at the sametime magic died.

Then Quentin had met Petein one of those desperate hedgewitches house that still believe thatcould do magic but didn’t practice enough. Apparently he’d takenMarina’s spot as the leader of New York which said a lot about thesorry state the Hedgewiches were overall. Pete had mentionned Marinahad came back a few days ago and since then, Julia couldn’t stopitching to go see her.

When Marina open the doorof her flat, she looked at Julia less with surprise than eagerness.She’d lost weight and her hair had grown even longer. She looked sickand yet, had her eternal red lipstick and killer eyeliner trait. Evenworn out, she was herself more then ever. A sence of calm took overJulia that surprised her; she haven’t realize that she’d been worriedabout her since they were appart. Seeing her alive, in those times ofdays, was more than a welcome sight.

“If you are about tostart crying, please don’t. ” Marina said in her eternal sarcasticvoice.

“ Was more thinkingpunching you in the face for disapearing. ” Julia said back in thesame tone.

Both girl looked at eachother for half a second before breaking into a smile. When Juliahugged her, Marina didn’t pushed away and even hugged back. Which wasa victory in itself.

“Who ratted me out?”Marina said, letting Julia enter her underwhelmingly boring andfurniture less appartment.

“Pete.”

“Figures, I am sure hewant you to kick me out and send me back to France. He must shit hispants, fearing that I am gonna come from him. ”

They went into thekitchen were only a table with three chairs, a fridge and a microwavewere present. The lack of decoration meant that she didn’t entend tostay. But yet, she seemed doing something big. There were poulticesand herbs everwhere, notes and books in different language and even abook she saw in Quentin’s room of all the plopper’s exercise forfirst year at Brakebills.

“Something like that. ”Julia said sitting at the table while Marina went for two glass ofwine and a half empty bottle. “When he saw me, he almost hid beingQ, it was embaracing. ”

“Let him swim in hisshitty pants, being a leader there don’t mean anything when magic isdead. ”

The bitterness inMarina’s voice was a melody she’d heard in so many magicians andmagic user in the past months that Julia’s heart felt tired. How shewish she could just give whatever she had to everyone and let themhave magic. They’d fought and jinx each other. But at least, theworld would be what it suppose to be, not this pale replica that theywere living in.

“Your finger are stillholding? ” She simply asked, pointing to the magically reconstrucedfinger Marina had in her hand. She’d explain the whole castingprocedure with an healer from the underwold and a magicians inCalifornia and it looked strangely like darker magic that Julia wascomfortable to deal with. But she get it. A magicians without fingersis like a bird without wings.

“They are not gluedtogether by magic Jules, they regrew. So yes, they are fine thankyou. ”

The conversation diedlike it was started: quickly and dryly. There was so many things shewish she could ask her and tell her. But there was also a lot ofunsaid that needed to be adressed first.

“What brought you backhere? ” She finally ask, knowing it was better to ask now than tomake the conversation linger.

“You. ” Marina saidcrossing her legs and putting her trademark smile on her red lips.

“Me?”

Alright, this one, Juliahaven’t seen coming.

“I know people, thatknow people. You see. And… I know someone that was at a certainparty with a lower god of fuckery. I tought you’d keep away fromthose assholes. ”

Bacchus. Gods, the simpletought of his permanent alchoolic smell and his terrible sweet breathmade her remember the whole night and how wasted she’d been. Thatpink drink was probably not meant for mortal and totally fucked herup.

“I was there for Q. ”Julia said after a large gulp of her wine. Anything to make her stopthinking of the aftertaste of that pink drink.

Marina leaned her smallframe against the table and went close to Julia, visibly excited.Last time she saw her that way, they were burning a god corpse in herbackyard.

“So is it true? Youstill have magic?”

Julia had played eversenario she could in her mind to explain to Marina that she still hadthat spark and that she was trying to find the root of it. She haddozen of iner monologue trying to find the best angle to put it sothe girl in front of her wouldn’t brand her as crazy or delusional.And there she was, being ask that question. Once again, julia feltMarina had reminded her that she had powerful connexion wherever shewas. Always being able to surprise you when you think you’d seeneverything of her. And this is why, deep down, Julia admire her.

So instead of tellingher, and let’s admit it to show off a bit, she did her spark. It wasbecoming easier and easier to bring it to the surface, like it camefrom her and not from a source outside of her. She was that spark.

Marina’s eyes wereglowing with eagerness but, also, jealousy and awe. The samebefoddled look everyone gave her when she show her power. The oldergirl put her hand over the spark, feeling it’s heat, confirming it’struth.

“How. ” She said aftera moment. Making Marina speechless was a first for Julia, and shecouldn’t help but swell with pride.

“I don’t know. I’mtrying to find out. ”

“Let me help you. ”

Marina had taken her handthe moment she stopped casting her small spell. She couldn’t tellthat two of those finger had been missing a few months ago. The wayshe was clutching her was real and hard as ever.

“There are people tryingwith me too. ”

“I don’t care. ”

“They are fromBrakebills. ”

There was an hesitation.Because Marina knew Eliot and Margo from being one year their senior.Because she knew that Julia and Quentin were still friend. Becauseshe knew that they fucked with the three of them. And now they willhave to put that aside for a common good. She knew Q would be able todo this. Marina’s pride tough, was another monster to tackle.

“ Alright. ”

“No fighting, bitching,straching with them. I don’t want to babysit. ”

Marina rolled her eyesand stuck her little finger.

“Pinky swear. Whateverit cost to bring magic, I’ll be there. ”

Julia grinned at Marina’sreadyness. She linked her little finger to hers in a juvenile promisethat had nothing to do with a word as bonds. But probably meant more.

Magic had brought themtogether, they will bring it back together.

#julia wicker #marina andrieski #wiski #drabble #there no dead marina #and some epicness ensue #:D #hope you #like it

[hipengblog]

Applying Archetypal Literary Theory to Three Day Road

After having finished reading ‘Three Day Road’ by Joseph Boyden I can confidently say that the characters are presented with archetypal personality elements. The two main characters are: Xavier (The main protagonist/narrator), and Elijah (Xavier’s best friend). There are some other characters within the story but this blog post we’ll only be talking about Xavier and Elijah. 

Xavier Bird:

Speaking of Xavier, while reading the book I noticed the traits of the Hero archetype within Xavier, along with the Rebel archetype as well. After being drafted into the first World War he grows into the Hero archetype, this quote is evident of this “’It’s Elijah that’s the killer,’ Grey Eyes says suddenly. ‘X just spots for him. Elijah told me how X threw up the first time he saw Elijah get a kill.’ …I leave without a sound so that they do not know I have been there, my ears hot” (Boyden 97). Xavier leaves without telling them the whole truth; he left without telling them that Elijah could not get those kills without him. Xavier is the Hero archetype who is not bound by honour.

Elijah “Whiskeyjack” Weesageechak:

Elijah was an innocent kid from the reserve. He attended Residential schools where he became fluent in English and constantly sweet-talked his way out of trouble. He grew up with Xavier and was his best friend. This was before the war, before he was fascinated with violence and killing German soldiers.  

Elijah is the Trickster archetype, since he was fluent in English he managed to convince the British soldiers that he was like them. Elijah also had a very convincing English accent, and it confused the British soldiers in their battalion. An excerpt from the book demonstrates this: “’Dear Henry,’ Elijah says, using their code, ‘would you be a kind chap and make me a cup of tea?’” (Boyden 144). In the text Elijah is also called a trickster outright, “Weesageechak is the trickster, the one who takes different forms at will. Hudson Bay Company traders could never pronounce it with their thick tongues. But they saw the trickster in the whiskeyjack, the grey jay that loves to here his own voice, is bold enough to steal food from their hands when they are not watching” (Boyden 154).

Elijah also gradually builds up to the Villain archetype. His bloodlust is what made him a good soldier, but it was also his downfall. An example of his villainous traits is evident by this excerpt: “Before he leaves a corpse, Elijah tells me that he has taken to opening each man’s eyes and staring into them, then closing them with his calloused right hand, letting a strange spark of warmth accumulate deep in his gut each time that he does it, noting the colour of the iris, knowing that he, Elijah, is the last thing that each will see before being placed into the cold mud and water here” (Boyden 200). There was something messed up with Elijah and the war only helped in bringing it out more. 

Characters similar to Elijah, who also have the trickster or villain archetype:

- The Joker (Villain)

- Loki (Trickster/Villain)

- Cheshire Cat (Trickster)

What these comparisons reveal about Elijah’s character is that he can’t help but feel fascinated by violence, he also can’t help tricking the soldiers on their battalion. Elijah’s Lunacy is what causes his downfall, it’s why he can’t help but be the last thing a person sees before they die. It’s why Xavier killed him.

#archetypes #archetypal literary theory #three day road #caregiver #villain/trickster #rebel hero #magician archetype

[liesandarbor]

Mercy in Sandor, Sansa and Arya’s Arcs

Thinking a lot on Mercy and what it means for Sandor, Sansa, Arya, and especially with regards to Sandor and his Brother.  Jump under the cut: 

What Dogs do to Wolves

Both Stark girls embark upon their true character journeys once we reach the end of AGOT.  Fatherless, and void of the teachings they both so desperately need; a reality check on either end of the spectrum, if you will.  Where Ned Stark left his daughters in parenting - Sansa, politically soft and unable to see through lies, Arya, unable to distinguish that things aren’t always black, white, good and bad.  Sandor Clegane arrives in both of their plots as a pseudo-fraternal figure, teaching them hard lessons, and protecting them in his own gruff way.  

"What … what does he want? Please, tell me." "He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love," the Hound rasped. "He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you. He wants you to love him … and fear him."

-Sansa VI, AGOT

The jerk-with-a-heart-of-gold trope rears its Stranger-resembling head, often smashing Sansa’s “true knight” fantasies throughout AGOT and ACOK, preparing her for the real world she lives in where white knights hit twelve-year old girls with fully mailed gloves on.  Offering her a handkerchief and a sad pat on the back, Sandor sees in Sansa what he once used to know, before his face was offered to the fire - and to Gregor’s errant and growing ego and power trip.

 "True knights protect the weak."

He snorted. "There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different." -Sansa IV, ACOK

 Exploring Arya’s naivety as the series progresses is just as interesting to watch.  While Sandor tells Arya that he thought her sister was the one with the romanticized songs in her head, Arya tends to lean to the other side of the naivety scale.  

 He is a man of the Night's Watch, she thought, as he sang about some stupid lady throwing herself off some stupid tower because her stupid prince was dead. The lady should go kill the ones who killed her prince. And the singer should be on the Wall.

-Cat of the Canals, AFFC

 Where Sansa is a dreamer in AGOT in the romantic sense, Arya tends to refuse to believe that anything could be more complicated than black and white, rejecting the idea that maybe things in life are more complicated than constantly “doing the right thing”.  Sandor brings Arya’s ASOS plot depth and introduces the idea to her that being a good person isn’t always easy, and sometimes, the best you can do is to survive.

 There was a stink to him too. He smells like a corpse. The man begged them for a drink of wine. "If I'd had any wine, I'd have drunk it myself," the Hound told him. "I can give you water, and the gift of mercy." The archer looked at him a long while before he said, "You're Joffrey's dog." "My own dog now. Do you want the water?" "Aye." The man swallowed. "And the mercy. Please."

and

When she came back, the archer turned his face up and she poured the water into his mouth. He gulped it down as fast as she could pour, and what he couldn't gulp ran down his cheeks into the brown blood that crusted his whiskers, until pale pink tears dangled from his beard. When the water was gone he clutched the helm and licked the steel. "Good," he said. "I wish it was wine, though. I wanted wine."

"Me too." The Hound eased his dagger into the man's chest almost tenderly, the weight of his body driving the point through his surcoat, ringmail, and the quilting beneath. As he slid the blade back out and wiped it on the dead man, he looked at Arya. "That's where the heart is, girl. That's how you kill a man." -Arya XII, ASOS

Sandor teaches Arya how to kill, and he teaches her that there are different types of killing - that life, much like the stories we are currently reading, is writ in shades of grey, not always black and white.

“Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy”

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. "He was no true knight," she whispered to him. The Hound threw back his head and roared. Sansa stumbled back, away from him, but he caught her arm. "No," he growled at her, "no, little bird, he was no true knight." -Sansa II, AGOT

Keeping Sansa and Sandor’s relationship mildly platonic for the sake of this post, we break down the idea that Sansa Stark, a thin, young wolf-girl, brought a grown, emotionally torn, hulking man to his knees by singing him a song.  And not just any song.  A song of mercy.  

"I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."

Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, Save our sons from war, we pray, Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Teach us all a better way.

-Sansa VII, ACOK

 While Sandor steps in to parent Sansa and Arya in some of life’s harsher lessons, the two Stark girls surprisingly teach Sandor a few lessons of their own.  Sansa, showing him empathy, that while there is anger and war and killing, there are still beautiful things, and still ways to be kind.  She sings to him of mercy, of finding a better way.  You can always come back.

 "You remember where the heart is?" the Hound asked. She nodded. The squire rolled his eyes. "Mercy." Needle slipped between his ribs and gave it to him.

-Arya XIII, ASOS

 Where the mercy that Sandor taught Arya was a physical mercy, a kill, showing her that sometimes death is better than life for those that are in anguish (and not the last time we will see that represented in either of the character’s arcs), it is the first mercy to open Arya’s eyes to seeing the world around her.  War strewn, the ground littered with porridge-textured dead people, maggots every inch of the way; Jon introduced “Stick em with the pointy end”, but Sandor introduced “why”.

 "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy . . . avenge your little Michael . . ." "Mycah." Arya stepped away from him. "You don't deserve the gift of mercy." The Hound watched her saddle Craven through eyes bright with fever. Not once did he attempt to rise and stop her. But when she mounted, he said, "A real wolf would finish a wounded animal."

-Arya XIII, ASOS

Arya’s moral code changes from this point forward.  It takes entering a literal House of Black and White, for Arya to start the journey of coming to terms with morality not being a simple yes and no answer.   While she hasn’t quite perfected the lesson (as we know Dareon’s fate and the fates of several to come), she is very much so ‘in progress’ on the topic, much like Sansa is currently on the road to becoming politically savvy.

 Give up on this quest of yours. The Hound is dead.

"You sound as if you pity him," said Brienne.

"I did. You would have pitied him as well, if you had seen him at the end. I came upon him by the Trident, drawn by his cries of pain. He begged me for the gift of mercy, but I am sworn not to kill again. Instead, I bathed his fevered brow with river water, and gave him wine to drink and a poultice for his wound, but my efforts were too little and too late. The Hound died there, in my arms. You may have seen a big black stallion in our stables. That was his warhorse, Stranger. A blasphemous name. We prefer to call him Driftwood, as he was found beside the river. I fear he has his former master's nature."

The horse. She had seen the stallion, had heard it kicking, but she had not understood. Destriers were trained to kick and bite. In war they were a weapon, like the men who rode them. Like the Hound. "It is true, then," she said dully. "Sandor Clegane is dead."

-Brienne VI, AFFC

Sandor’s arc embodies major ASOIAF themes: Mercy, reclaiming identity, and resurrection.  In moving Sandor off the page and into the quiet isles, it gives George time to develop Sandor’s characterization in a believable manner, while not wasting too much page time.  In exposition that offers Brienne’s plot progression, we are also told where Sandor has gone and what he is doing there.  

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

-Sansa V, ACOK

 When Sansa prayed for Sandor, her prayer was answered- Sandor was quite literally given a place to die, to reclaim his identity in resurrection, and a place to heal.

 "My lord is wise," Thoros told the others. "Brothers, a trial by battle is a holy thing. You heard me ask R'hllor to take a hand, and you saw his fiery finger snap Lord Beric's sword, just as he was about to make an end of it. The Lord of Light is not yet done with Joffrey's Hound, it would seem."

-Arya VII, ASOS

We are told quite literally by Thoros: The Lord of Light isn’t done with Sandor, yet.  Sandor is given to the Quiet Isle, in preparation for his role in the wars to come, whatever that may be.

 Frankenstein’s Monster: Putting the Dog to Sleep

I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. (20.18, Frankenstein)

I planned on exploring Frankenstein and his Monster in regards to Sandor killing the creator who made him this way, but the parallels of Qyburn creating Ser Robert Strong ring just as true.  Where Sandor Clegane is given a chance at resurrection, at a second life, at changing his ways, Gregor Clegane shows us that sometimes, in such villainy, sometimes there is no coming back.  While Gregor has done terrible, awful things, he is reduced into a piteous shell of a being, a monster, with no physical chance at coming back and embracing humanity.  

His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips. (5.2, Frankenstein)

Who could pity the monster that Gregor Clegane has become? Even before the necromancy, the countless rapes, murders, tortures, all because he could.  No one stopped him.  He awoke one day, big enough to shove his brother’s face into a brazier, and no one stopped him.  His father covered it up for him.  He wanted, and he took. The mysterious Clegane sister, dead, the father, dead. And no one stopped him. Sandor, a young man, leaving home to find some place to belong and survive, before he was next.  Gregor’s rise to power is best put by Sandor: no one could withstand him.  So, once more, who could pity the monster he has become?

While Cleganebowlers everywhere cheer and chant and don their yellow “GO DOGS!” foam fingers, we are brought to an important point.

The Hound can not kill The Mountain, because the Hound and the Mountain are dead.

Instead of Cleganebowl, let me just offer you the following: clegane-soul.

Alright. That was a joke.  Stay with me.

Sandor can’t beat his brother, because there’s no beating a sad, pathetic, hollow zombie.  This isn’t the Hound and the Mountain.  No one is as accursed as the kinslayer, and it should never be easy to kill a family member.  Where killing Gregor would’ve been the Hound’s dream about a year ago, the Hound turned up dead.  Sandor will be giving his brother the gift of mercy, taught to him by the two little girls that snuck beneath his skin.  

 “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” she sang sadly.

 As she dragged it up the muddy bank, one of her little brothers came prowling, his tongue lolling from his mouth. She had to snarl to drive him off, or else he would have fed. Only then did she stop to shake the water from her fur. The white thing lay facedown in the mud, her dead flesh wrinkled and pale, cold blood trickling from her throat. Rise, she thought. Rise and eat and run with us.

-Arya XII, ASOS

 “Mercy, mercy, mercy.”  Both Stark girls sing their songs of mercy.  Arya has dedicated so much time now in the Literal Morality House of Black and White, preparing and washing dead bodies, skinchanging and dreaming of wolves, that her plot is sure to lead her back to Westeros.  And in her dreams, we know she’s been in the Riverlands.  

 Maybe some real wolves will find you, Arya thought. Maybe they'll smell you when the sun goes down. Then he would learn what wolves did to dogs. "You shouldn't have hit me with an axe," she said. "You should have saved my mother." She turned her horse and rode away from him, and never looked back once.

-Arya XIII, ASOS

Arya’s black/white morality problem hasn’t come quite to its head yet.  But it will.  Because, as the audience knows, saving Arya’s mother wouldn’t have happened - it just isn’t that easy, wolf girl.  And Arya herself will have to learn that when she comes back to Westeros, when she makes it to the Riverlands, and when she comes face to face with Mother Merciless herself.  While she dragged her out of the stream and life was given to her, Arya will be the one to put the fish back in the water.  Mercy, mercy, mercy - a real wolf would finish a wounded animal.

The Mockingbird

"Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured. The Hound was right, she thought, I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me. The sun had fallen below the western wall, and the stones of the Red Keep glowed dark as blood.

-Sansa VI, AGOT

 "You have a good heart, my lady," she said to Sansa. "Not every maid would weep so for a man who set her aside and wed her to a dwarf." A good heart. I have a good heart. Hysterical laughter rose up her gullet, but Sansa choked it back down.

-Sansa V, ASOS

Where Arya has spent time learning to give and show mercy, we spend books with Sansa where she has given quite a bit too much of it.  Where Arya wields a sword, Sansa wields her courtesy, her arsenal appearing soft edged.  

 But those equipped weapons will change, too.  As Sansa gains agency in the Vale, learning to be the lady of a house, she begins to awaken to the treachery of those manipulating her for political gain, specifically Petyr Baelish.

 What if it is truth he wants, and justice for his murdered lady?" He smiled. "I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I'd ever let him harm my daughter?"

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

-Sansa I, AFFC

So when Petyr lies, on his hands and knees, in front of all of the northern lords and lords declarant, begging for mercy- the mercy she’s shown grown killers and men, the mercy she’s given to her enemies- Sansa will show a different sort of mercy.

When Petyr is begging mercy, mercy, mercy, when Sansa finds all of Lord Baelish’s betrayals, remember that she is giving herself mercy for once.  Mercy. For her family, for her, for basically anyone in the universe who has ever had to deal with this disgusting man.  

Tl;dr Sandor will kill his brother out of mercy, which is one of the main themes of his character arc, and a concept that the Stark sisters helped instill in him and he in them.

#sandor clegane #sansa stark #arya stark #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #mercy #sansa meta #arya meta #sandor meta

[lost-boy-grey0]

I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the workings of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. II. What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch ’gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare. III. If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed, neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. V. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bit the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, (‘since all is o’er,’ he saith And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;’) VI. When some discuss if near the other graves be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII. Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among ‘The Band’ to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower’s search addressed Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now - should I be fit? VIII. So, quiet as despair I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX. For mark! No sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backwards a last view O’er the safe road, ‘twas gone; grey plain all round; Nothing but plain to the horizon’s bound. I might go on, naught else remained to do. X. So on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind with none to awe, You’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove. XI. No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land’s portion. ‘See Or shut your eyes,’ said Nature peevishly, It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: ‘Tis the Last Judgement’s fire must cure this place Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.’ XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock’s harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? Tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute’s intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil’s stud! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I knew, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain. And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier’s art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert’s reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm to mine to fix me to the place, The way he used. Alas, one night’s disgrace! Out went my heart’s new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first, What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that: Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend’s glowing hoof - to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate’er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded - good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man’s cheek, Each step, of feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! - It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby’s shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage - XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque, What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. XXIV. And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel Men’s bodies out like silk? With all the air Of Tophet’s tool, on earth left unaware Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood - Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil’s Broke into moss, or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon’s bosom friend, Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, ‘Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me - solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when - In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts - you’re inside the den. XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool’s heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest’s mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps? - why day Came back again for that! before it left The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, - ‘Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!’ XXXIII. Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers, my peers - How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.’

#poetry #words #roland #the dark tower #robert browning

[docholligay]

Disclaimer: Don’t count this toward the fics limit/post this!

Because, you know, it’s not a fanfic link.

I mentioned that your love of westerns/western history eked its way into one of my thesis characters (like 60% you, 40% my late grandfather’s love of westerns; I vaguely recall a lot of John Wayne), so I figured I’d toss the first instance of it your way for funsies. Though it’s really only referenced briefly in Iconic Theme Songs™ in this one, but it was a start. There’s another mention in a later segment, and Nelle having multiple biographies on Doc Holliday is on the roster (because they’re all unique, damn it–or so she claims).

This is totally unsolicited, so please feel free to ignore me! I won’t be offended. But if you are bored and end up enjoying yourself, feel free to yell at me! And possibly rec some references I can sprinkle in if/when I find spots.

——-

Void Cat and the Mexican Standoff 

Death knocks politely, one to five taps around splinters and chipped paint. It’s rather useless, though, considering mortals cannot perceive Them. At least Their mother raised Them right. Freya pokes her head out the cat door, its flap digging into ashen fur.

“Oh,” Death rattles, tugging at Their hood, “good evening, Your Otherworldliness. It’s been a while. It’s nice to see you’re doing well, but I’m beginning to think there may be a mistake here.”

Freya blinks, slow and arhythmic, eternally-dilated pupils watching the twitches of Death’s finger tugging at the corner of Their hood, before she ducks back inside the apartment. Death waits. And waits.

“Um…” Death prepares to knock again when They hear scratching behind the door. It opens, and Freya sits before Them, prim and proper with a bit of crankiness buzzing among her whiskers. Freya does not move. Death tugs again at Their hood, awkwardly standing in the doorway.

“May I come in?”

Freya stares. Death clears Their throat. Death gives up, reaching inside Their robes for Their clipboard.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Your All-Knowingness, although you probably knew I would be coming. As I said, I think there may be a mistake.” The clipboard rattles with Death’s voice, and They flip through the attached papers with a fervor. “The Geminorum Collective has designated the cat at this residence for Collection. But that, uh, that cat would be you, my lady, and we can’t exactly take you unless there’s another one hiding.” Death tries to peer inside the door, but the static of the Void emanating from Freya’s gaze prevents Them from moving farther. Freya blinks again. Death taps on Their clipboard.

“Sooo. Not to offend, Lady Freya, but I need to at least bring back something for the Collective. Is there another pet in the residence, perhaps? A bird that has fallen out of your favor?”

Freya scratches her ear.

“No other pets, then. I think. Um, any unnecessary human tenants here? There’s only a ‘Nelle’ listed here, but there may be–” Death gesticulates, Their hands haphazardly circling the air. “–others. Around. I guess.”

Freya licks her paw. Death sighs.

“No others. Is this ‘Nelle’ human useful–”

The Void is loud, and if Death had ears, They would cover them. They step back slightly as Freya flicks her frazzled tail. Death makes a mental note to put the “Nelle” human on the To Avoid list.

Freya stares, impossibly wide eyes staring wider. Death is silent, making no move to anger the deity in front of Them. Cicadas scratch against the wall near the stairway light. Vaguely, They think they hear “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” warbling from a television somewhere inside.

“I need something, Your Voidjesty. I have a quota to fill. Kids to feed. I beseech you.”

Freya retreats inside and Death slumps. They tuck Their clipboard back into Their robes, and ignore the Void static still thrumming in Their chest, keeping Them in place. She returns shortly, trotting toward Them with the fresh corpse of a mouse in her mouth.

“Um.”

She sets it in front of Them with the pride of a huntress and stares, the Void echoing expectance. Death hopes Freya can’t see the slight disappointment on where Their face should be, and picks up the mouse by its tail.

“Thank you, Lady Freya.”

Death leaves, taking the light from the stairway lamp and the souls of the cicadas with Them. Freya urges the door to close and trots back to Nelle’s bedroom, curls up on her pillow, and stares at the television until it turns off.

Musings on Death as a job are always so interesting to me, and I sometimes wonder why I’ve really never done anything with the concept myself. The ideas of cats as gods is a lovely old world harken, the idea that Death wouldn’t be able to do their job if a god was guarding the door. 

Also this asks so many questions for me that I’m sure you don’t intend. Who the hell is married to death!? Who are their children!? What kind of quotas do you have to fil? What is the necessary paperwork? Where’s the oversight? 

I’m really intrigued by this idea of the Immortal God Cat

I love that, in the end, she brings him a mouse, as cats all do, and that has to suffice for his quotas. 

This was so good and also it made me think “a mexican standoff’ would be a good prompt party prompt.