#watcher gleam and glow

[raichett]

take only what you can carry

The Watchers offer the winner of Secret Life his choice of prize, before they leave forever.

Content warnings: very lightly implied/referenced memory alteration, important choices made in dreams. A very experimental style, which includes Second Person POV.

This can also be found on AO3.

–

TAKE ONLY WHAT YOU CAN CARRY

> Above: purple and blue, swollen with swirling clouds from horizon to horizon. Night. The cold stars are eyes cut in the fabric of the sky; they pierce through everything. They watch.

> Ahead: magical sparks and runes glitter and undulate in sinuous waves, in orbits, around an enchanting table. In a pile on top: lapis lazuli with the facets gleaming blue in the starlight. The book levitates above, but no bookshelves encircle. Instead, it sits surrounded by riches: heaps of gold, of emeralds, of diamonds and netherite and glowing books and anything that people have ever looked at and wanted.

> Behind: a figure you cannot see, but you know it is tall, and cloaked, and that it’s watching you. The broad wings would be casting a shadow where they mantle, but the spotlight of pale silver from above illuminates it all at the wrong angle for that to happen. This is a dream; this is a stage.

> This: a performance.

> You: the performer.

> Scene begins: you step forward, and a second spotlight of eyes that are stars that are the audience in the sky lights up and shines upon the second character. (The one behind you is not an actor, it is stage crew.) You recognise him, of course you do.

> Your partner upon the stage: Grian.

> You: “What’s this? Where are we?”

> Grian: “Your prize. Nowhere.”

> You: “Prize? I didn’t enter any competitions – or at least I don’t think I did! And we can’t be nowhere, since we’re here – that’s just silly, we’re obviously somewhere.”

> Grian: a huff, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You did. You won, Scar.” He doesn’t pursue the subject of your location, and instead gestures with his arm to the piles of riches.

> Behind: “Take only what you can carry. Anything left behind will be lost to you.” The voice echoes with a thousand tones all overlapping. It is not loud, and it is somehow understandable, exact.

> You: “Lost to me?”

> Grian: “You can’t come back here, after. This was the last game – the last secret. There’s nothing after this: it’s over.” A pause. Gentler, reassuring: “It’s over, Scar.”

> You: “Oh.”

> You: “It’s – everything? It’s over? What about you?”

> Grian: “Choose. Only what you can carry. Any of this – you can take any of it, but you can’t come back.”

> Behind: “It will be gone forever.”

> You: “Ah.”

> Glistening in the staring starlight: the riches of your prize, the mounds of precious gems and metals. Any armful of these would be enough to set someone for life.

> You: “Everything here? Gone forever? Real, you know, never coming back, never ever ever?”

> Grian: “Yeah, that’s what I said, isn’t it?” He’s shorter, impatient now.

> You: “… And you, too? You’re going, too?”

> Grian: silence.

> Behind: “Everything.”

> You: “Oh.”

> You: “I see.”

> The ground: soft and springy, like grass, as you step forward. You never did figure out where you were, but since you’re nowhere, and that nowhere can’t be returned to, it probably doesn’t matter in the long run.

> Above: the clouds swirl like whirlpools in the sky, cutting stars like eyes and they are watching you, the figure standing tall and dark behind is watching you, and Grian is watching you.

> You: “Only what I can carry, yeah?”

> Grian: “Yeah.” His voice is soft and sad. His eyes gleam lilac and lavender as he drinks you in, like looking back at the land slipping away on a ship, fixed on the final fading sight before the sea swallows the horizon whole.

> You: “Okay, I’ve chosen.”

> Your prize: Grian is warm and heavy when you lay your hands upon him and pick him up, heft him over your shoulders and wrap him in your arms. He is all of what you can carry; he is all that you want to take.

> Grian: “Oh.”

> Behind: laughter. And then the sound of breaking glass splintering and shattering. The dream whirls away from you in fractured light and a vicious howling wind that tries to tear Grian from your arms – you hold on all the tighter.

> The sun: rising golden and spilling through the curtains, touching soft fingers to your skin, warm in your bed. Your whole body aches, but the dream doesn’t spill through your fists the way your dreams usually do. Real, then, or something adjacent to it.

> Grian: a weight next to you, your fingers clutching his thick red jumper, unready to let go. His eyes are black again, humbled and wondrous as they stare at you, his mouth lightly parted still.

> Here: both of you. You’re both still here.

> You: “You know, it’s a good thing you’re so small, and that you don’t weigh much. Hollow bones and all.” You scramble for teasing, but your voice is still a bit too choked up to fully reach it.

> Grian: “You – Scar.” He whacks you on the chest with the flat of his palm, his fingers trembling. His wings rustle behind, stretch out. Purple still lingers on them, dripping out of the feathers to leave behind his usual bright colours with every second. You laugh, wet, and don’t let go, twisting your grip deeper into his clothes. “Scar…”

> You: “What is it?”

> Grian: “You chose me.”

> You: “Yeah.”

> Grian, bewildered: “You chose me.”

> You: “Yeah. I did.”

#my writing #grian #scarian #trafficshipping #goodtimeswithscar

[dont-f-with-moogles]

The Envelope (Part 2) (NSFW) Dazai x Reader 1261 words

Cold morning. A tentative blue threaded with pale clouds. Mist had gathered in the corners of the windows. The double doors remained closed for now; you still had time to unload the gleaming cups and saucers from the dishwasher. Your manager - Uzumaki’s renowned, veteran barista - passed by the counter. His mouth was pulled to the side as though he was suppressing an uncomfortable smile.

“I, ah… think someone is trying to call you.”

With a wave of his hand he gestured to the lit smartphone which lay, singing idly to itself, nestled between a tray of glasses and the petty cash tin. A leaden weight had settled in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t need to check to know who it was.

As you continued stacking the cups within a wall-mounted cupboard the phone’s melody ceased, only to be followed by the sound of a chime. One insistent ping followed another; a flurry of notifications without pause. With a pained sigh, you retrieved your phone. Refusing to scroll back and read the long reel of previous messages, your eyes settled on the most recent.

Not that I want you to rush back of course! It’s only a small fire after all.

There came the rapid tap of your thumbs in reply.

I told you this morning that I’m not coming back until after my shift.

Dropping the device down with a thud, you continued to put cups, glasses and cutlery away, all the while ignoring the series of shrill sounds which rang impatiently from your phone.

“Sounds like someone wants to talk to you,” the café owner observed, unlatching the double doors and releasing a flood of warm light into the long room. Rather than answer, you pretended to search for something in the dishwasher’s cutlery basket.

“Perhaps you ought to answer him?”

“What makes you think it’s a him?” you countered, looking up at just the wrong moment. The café manager’s smile was all-knowing. He was a people watcher; an inadvertent gatherer of secrets. He had held his position with quiet pride for many years, unobtrusively pouring coffee as the lives of his customers played out around him.

Lifting a small bag of sugar cubes, you began to refill the ceramic containers on the tables.

“...in any case, if you don’t answer, he might come up here.”

Hesitating, sugar tongs still in hand, you managed a derisive snort. It did not take long for your false bravado to cower upon itself. Thinking better of it, you stalked back to the counter to seize your phone.

I won’t be back til 6. Grab a shower or a coffee or some fresh bandages if you have indeed set fire to yourself - whatever you need, but don’t wait for me to get back. Spare key in the teapot.

The device had hardly touched the surface when its screen glowed in response.

Good to know there’s another spare. I took the key you hid in the sconce. Think I’ll hang onto it ;)

You do that. Think I’ll have the locks changed.

Ah! You’re driving me insane! <3

“Miss?”

“Coming!” you called, relieved by the distraction. A steady queue of customers had formed from the cash register, snaking out into the hallway beyond. Stifling a yawn, you poured coffee into paper cups, adding a dash of milk here; a shot of syrup there. Plastic lids were fastened on in succession. You stretched your arms and arched your aching back. Names were penned on cardboard. The morning rush was always this busy, only to be followed by… silence. There was the respite after the madness. The calm before the storm. Only a visit from your rather irregular regulars could break up the monotony now. The Armed Detectives from the fourth floor, with their wild antics and raucous laughter… You ground your teeth. Not that you were thinking about him though. Not that you were, even now, considering checking your phone for his messages. Too often you had witnessed those poor souls who fell for his superficial charms. They would weep, helpless, struggling to comprehend the reason for his sudden absence. How ignorant they were, never knowing he had already moved on to his next person of interest…

Even as you stood, reasoning so calmly with yourself, your hand was inciting a mutiny against your mind and body. You reached for your phone again.

Ditch work. Tell the boss you have a headache and need to stay in bed ;)

I think he might see through that brilliant scheme?

Cruel mistress! Don’t make me beg :(

This is on you. I’m not making you do anything.

Three little dots danced, taunting, as he crafted his reply. You set the device to one side each time the café owner strode past. It was more than your job’s worth to be caught sending messages to one of your regular customers.

As the manager stooped to clear one of the tables, your phone buzzed irritably.

Don’t pretend. And for the record, I hate being made to wait.

Wait for what exactly? You smiled; it wasn’t like you to behave so coyly but, somehow, his persistence had reeled you in like a spider’s silk.

Seriously? Don’t forget that I’d been trapped behind bars for WEEKS. You know I couldn’t stop thinking about you in there. I thought last night was all I needed but holy fuck, I already miss your pussy…

The weight in your stomach shifted. Something sparked, like flint on stone.

It’s 9:28 am! We’ve only just opened.

Well what time does your pussy open? Cause I’m

Heat flooded your cheeks. You felt your pulse beating in your throat; blood roared thunderously in your ears. You looked up - another poorly-timed gesture - to witness Ranpo glance away thoughtfully, his finger tapping his chin. The detective who saw through everything.

You dropped your phone with a clatter.

“I thought the temperature was mild today,” he observed dryly, such was his way of small talk. “Is it hot in here?”

“Yes,” you answered automatically, placing your phone face down before you could read the rest of Dazai’s message. Given the brief glimpse of the words hard scream beg and gag you could only assume it contained some tangible threats. You dusted down your black skirt self-consciously and reached to tighten the fastening in your hair, remembering that you had been forced to wear it loose today. Only its dark curtain, as it swung about the white frill of your collar, could hide the blemishes he had left upon your skin the night before. Incriminating marks which had branded you as his.

“Sorry, I uh- Let me pass you a menu-”

“Sweet curry,” Ranpo declared without pause. “And, not that it’s any of my business, but Dazai thrives on dysfunction. Nothing bores him more than having his own schemes go smoothly. I wouldn’t be so quick to give him the replies he wants.”

You gaped in astonishment. “That’s not- that’s-”

“One doesn’t need ultra deduction to read it in your distracted demeanour; the way you’re repeatedly picking your phone up, cursing to yourself… we’ve seen it all before. It’s the Dazai effect. Not to mention the circles under your eyes, your constant yawning…”

“Plus those hickeys speak for themselves.” Yosano had appeared behind him. “Pour us both a coffee - you look like you need it.”

Ruefully brushing your hair down against your neck, you turned away, poured out two cups and grabbed a blue Ramune from the fridge. What had ever made you think that sleeping with Osamu Dazai would have gone unnoticed by a group of professional detectives?

Part 1 (tw)

#part 2! #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #dazai x fem!reader #text replies #bungou stray dogs #bsd #n.sfw #my writing

[jadegretz]

Elisa Maza: Watcher of the Skies by Jade Gretz

Rain lashed against the gargoyle grotesques of Manhattan, their stone faces contorted in a silent scream that mirrored Elisa Maza's internal turmoil. Tonight, the city slumbered beneath an unnatural darkness, the neon glow muted by a thick, oppressive fog. It was a night unlike any other, a night where shadows seemed to writhe with an unseen life.

Elisa, her red and black suit plastered to her skin from the downpour, crouched atop a skyscraper, Big Bertha clutched tightly in her hand. Beside her, Goliath, his stone eyes gleaming with a warrior's resolve, scanned the shrouded city below.

"Something's wrong, Elisa," Goliath rumbled, his voice heavy with unease. "I can feel it in the very stones of the city."

Elisa nodded, a shiver racing down her spine. The gargoyles, their usual boisterous banter replaced by an unsettling silence, remained perched on their respective buildings, their stone bodies radiating a palpable fear.

The unease began earlier that night. A garbled transmission, a panicked plea from Lexington for help, had jolted them awake. But by the time Goliath and Elisa reached the Clock Tower, Lexington and his siblings were gone, vanished without a trace.

A primal scream, raw and filled with terror, echoed through the city, tearing through the fog. It originated from the Central Park Zoo, a place Elisa and the gargoyles knew all too well.

With a shared look of grim determination, Elisa and Goliath launched themselves into the swirling mist. The familiar path through the park seemed distorted, the normally vibrant landscape twisted into grotesqueries of nature. Twisted trees with gnarled branches reached out like skeletal claws, and the air thrummed with an unsettling energy.

They reached the lion enclosure, the source of the scream. Elisa's blood ran cold as she saw Demona, the arch-nemesis of the gargoyles, pacing frantically inside the cage. The metal bars, once a barrier, now lay twisted and broken at her feet.

"Demona?" Elisa called out, her voice barely audible over the howling wind. "What's going on here?"

Demona spun around, …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

#ai #aiart #digitalart #jadegretz #fantasyart #fanart #beautifulgirl #aiartwork #aiartcommunity #elizamaza #gargoyles #90scartoonart

[poemsgrim]

Lunar trance

Bathed in lunar pallor, the moon on high,

A spectral orb in the haunted sky.

Silver whispers in its ghostly gleam,

Casting shadows, a spectral dream.

A faceless watcher in the midnight mist,

Phantom guardian, by darkness kissed.

Its glow, a lantern for the spirits to play,

Casting haunting beams that linger and sway.

Each crater a tale of forgotten lore,

Moonbeams weaving a spectral chore.

A celestial lantern in the ghostly night,

A portal to realms where shadows alight.

Beware the moon's unsettling gaze,

As it unveils secrets in lunar phase.

In its glow, a mystery untold,

A cryptic tale, in moonlight unfolds.

#books #goth #mcr #poem #poems on tumblr #poetry #emo #goth aesthetic #goth girl #gothcore #gothgoth #gothique #emo girl #emo aesthetic #2000s emo #emocore #grunge #dark aesthetic #creative writing #creepy cute

[lucianjablonsky]

Beneath the moon

Beneath the moon and stars' soft gleam, Eternal companions in the night’s dream They offer solace to the weary souls, Who seek comfort where darkness unfolds Their gentle light, a silent embrace, Guides the lost in their lonely space Whispers of silver, echoes of old, In the vast night, stories unfold Yet in their glow, a sadness lies, Reflecting the tears in distant eyes For those who wander, seeking peace, Find only shadows that never cease The moon’s cold light, the stars’ faint glow, Speak of sorrows only night can know They weave a tapestry of silent grief, For hearts that seek an elusive relief In the stillness, where silence reigns, The sky absorbs our hidden pains Eternal watchers, they silently weep, For the dreams that die while we sleep ~ Moon Tears

#poems and quotes #poem #poems #poetry #poets on tumblr #original poem #writers and poets #poems on tumblr #poems and poetry #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry #sad poetry #sad thoughts #sad quotes #sorrow #sad poem #sad writing #beautiful poems #beautiful poetry #beautiful quote

[rxin3akamallory]

Marcie GEAH screenshot redraw

I’m sorry, “Rain” is my favorite episode and I’m unhinged!!

The Giroosters put down Marcie and E.B. after Guy successfully squished their superiority complex.

Guy: Hand over the beans.

The Giroosters nod in fear. Marcie hugs E.B.

Marcie: Oh, E.B.! You’re okay!

E.B.: We’re okay, thanks to the expert paint watcher.

Marcie smiles warmly at Guy, offering him her hand.

Marcie: From one E.B. protector to another, thank you.

Guy returns the smile and the two shake hands. The group then watch the Giroosters fearfully scurry off to retrieve Michellee’s beans from their nest.

E.B.: *laughs* Bean-go! Get it?

Marcie: *snickers* UnBEANlievable…

Guy playfully groans, sheepishly covering his face with his hat.

Marcie: Better get used to bean puns if you’re gonna date our mom.

Guy adjusts his hat, hope gleaming in his eyes.

Guy: You mean..?

E.B.: We’ll give you a glowing report, if we make it back before our mom kills us.

Guy sets a hand on both E.B. and Marcie’s shoulders.

Guy: Thanks, gatekeepers.

#green eggs and ham #geah netflix #art #fanart #screenshot redraw #self insert #self insert oc #marcie am i #marcie geah #marcie green eggs and ham #guy am i #guy geah #guy green eggs and ham #e.b. am i #e.b. geah #e.b. green eggs and ham

[lycantripuwu]

So we received our Tarokka readings from Madam Eva!

The Dm also did personal readings for each character but Ill post our group reading and then post our individual ones.

The tarokka readings are my fav since I can really sit down and theorize and the fact there will be major differences in the story makes it even more fun! (Dm is using a mixture of Mandymods, Dragnacarta and pyramkings additions to the module)

Her old hands working deftly, the ancient seer removes fourteen cards from the top of the deck, setting them aside. The remaining cards, she shuffles nimbly twice, three times, four.

Madam Eva sets both decks upon the surface of the velvet table. Closing her eyes, she places her right hand over the surface of the larger deck. The crimson flames dim and swirl in eldritch patterns as her lips move silently, a distant tension spreading through the air. The sounds of the rustling trees and rippling pool beyond the tent's walls begin to dim, the external world growing mute and insubstantial as the space within grows more solid—more real.

Slowly, reverently, the crone draws three cards from the top of the deck, laying them face down separately on the table, with the second laid between and above its partners. She then moves to the smaller deck, drawing two more cards. The first, she places below the first three, forming a cross. The second, she places in the center.

The lights of the candles sway like silhouettes, leaning in toward the cards like anxious watchers—yet the air in the tent is perfectly still. No light intrudes through the seams in the tent's walls; no voice rings out in the silence. Shadows and mist swirl at the boundaries of the tent, where the darkness of deepest night dwells—but here, at its center, light yet reigns.

The crone then moves her wrinkled hand to the left-most card—the first. She closes her eyes and tilts her head, as if listening to an unspoken word. The arcane lights within the tent swirl.

"This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will help you better understand your enemy."

A rainbow light dances across its surface. She flips the card.

"The Eight of Stars, oh so tragic, the Necromancer card."

Her dark pupils shift from side to side, as though reading from an unseen text.

A woman hangs above a roaring fire. Find her, and you will find the treasure you seek."

She moves her hand to the second card, this one at the top of the cross. As she closes her eyes and listens once more, the rainbow light vanishes from the first can, only to reappear upon the surface of the second.

"This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, a holy symbol of great hope."

The rainbow light flares, its colors fill you with peace and calm. She flips the card.

"Yes, as I suspected, the Two of Glyphs, the Missionary card."

Her eyes stare deep into the shadows that lurk in the corners of the tent.

"A snow-covered graveyard entombs what you seek."

She moves her hand to the third card, at the right arm of the cross, her eyelids closing like a trance, her lips pursed in quiet contemplation. The rainbow light vanishes, for a heartbeat—and then returns bathing the third card with its glow.

"This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance and broken sunlight."

The crone's voice is strong with purpose.

The rainbow light burns like a nova, pure and strong. It hurts to look at it. She flips the card. Madam Eva's eyes snap open, burning with a fierce

determination.

"Yes, yes, the Four of Stars, the Abjurer card."

Her eyes burn with the same intensity of the rainbow light that envelopes the card.

"I see a fallen house guarded by a great stone dragon. Look to the highest peak."

She moves to the fourth card, at the bottom of the cross, and listens once more, tracing small circles across its back as she hums a contemplative note. The magic lights leap and dance upon from the third card to the fourth, now casting swirling embers into the air as the walls of the tent gleam with the shimmer of twilight.

"This card sheds light on one who will help you greatly in the battle against darkness."

The rainbow light spins faster and faster until finally…She flips the card.

"Ah, the Mists card."

Her eyes spin with a majesty of color, they flick and move as if searching for something from beyond.

"A Vistana wanders this land alone, searching for her mentor. She does not stay in one place for long."

Finally, she moves her hand to the fifth card—and nearly recoils, her brow furrowing until the wrinkles split her forehead like a trench. Behind her, shadows encircle the rainbow light until tit is swallowed by the creeping dark. When next she speaks, Madam Eva's rasping voice is scarce above a whisper.

"Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to her."

Her hand trembles above the card for a silent moment, slowly the rainbow light spills over the card—and then deft, ancient fingers reveal its opposite side.

Madam Eva slowly exhales.

"The Broken One."

As the last syllable passes her lips, the old woman freezes— and then rocks back in her chair, her eyes rolling until their whites gleam like pearls in the darkness—and then she snaps back, the rainbow light glows pure.

"She lurks in the darkness where the morning light once shone—a sacred place."

The sound of the outside world returns—the voices of the Vistani, the crackling of the bonfire, the whisper of the wind, and the lapping of the waves against the shore of the pool. Light, grey and insubstantial, filters in once more through the canvas walls of the tent, and you feel yourselves breathe for the first time since the reading began.

#dnd #dungeons and dungeons #ttrpg #curse of strahd #Rhil darkstar #Mirre uldras #ireena kolyana #jace brightcrest #tarokka reading #ezmerelda d'avenir #madam eva

[writtenwyrm]

The Ascension

A Slay the Spire Story, Part 33

All Parts

cw: abuse

Anger

“Great One, the Watcher envoy is here!”

I shifted on my perch, already bored. On my righthand side, my Chosen stood stock-still, as they always did. The messenger bowed before us, relaying the news.

“Show them in.” My Chosen announced,

Standing tall and straight, I let my presence fill the room. The doors opened, and light flooded in. The room glowed, a spectacular, shimmering blue, as the light reflected off my feathers.

The envoy walked in, precise in every step, like toy soldiers. They wore a rich purple, and carried golden staffs, and every hair and sash was perfectly in place.

“Greetings, Great Phoenix.” The lead Watcher called. “We have come to make our Judgemnt, as is done every year. We thank you for your hospitality.”

“We welcome you.” My Chosen spoke, and I stayed silent, as was customary. “The Watchers are always welcome in the Spire, as you know. We can only hope that our new customs bring much to the…”

Their voices slowly faded from my mind as they continued to talk, back and forth, polite and monotone. I didn’t truly need to do much, so I allowed my mind to wander, observing the half-dozen strangers standing in my hall.

They were all blind, weren’t they? I’d heard that each new initiate spent two weeks staring directly at the sun in order to prepare them, and their eyes were pale and bleached. But they still tracked me as if they could see. And they stood so stiffly, too, without the slightest indication of soreness or boredom as the voices droned on.

What would it be like, to be one of them? I closed my eyes, shutting out the world around me—only briefly, I promised myself—and let myself imagine what the world would be like if I had been born among the Watchers, instead of where I was now.

There were sudden gasps all around me, and I opened my eyes in a hurry.

I couldn’t see. Except… I could, in a way. I could feel the world around me, sense the stone beneath my bare, fleshy feet. I could see the minds of those around me, too, albeit only faintly. Shock, awe, fear…

And I could practically taste the disapproval radiating from my Chosen. That was a more familiar feeling, and I knew what it meant.

I’d done something wrong again.

—

“You may go. Your God wishes to be alone.” My Chosen dismissed the guards, now that the great hall was empty, the Watchers gone on their way. Obediently, the blue-steel-clad guards tromped out of the room, and the doors closed behind them.

We waited in silence, for a few long minutes. I stared at the far wall, trying not to shuffle my wings and show my nervousness. But eventually, the emptiness of the room became too much, and the words burst from my mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“We will need to apologize for your… unseemly behavior. We are indeed fortunate that they stayed to finish their judgment of the Spire.” They sighed, long and weary, and my skin prickled. “Pray, my God, what would you consider a proper apology for a great and powerful being such as yourself to bestow upon them?”

I did not look down, unwilling to meet their eyes. “…Perhaps a bouquet of sapphire feathers?” I ventured, hopefully.

“For an embassy of Watcher disciples? Perhaps that would be prudent.”

For a moment, I let myself believe that would be all of it.

“And a talon.”

I flinched, and my toes curled in automatically, scraping the stone beneath my feet with razor-edged claws.

“Yes, I think that will do. The Watchers appreciate practical gifts such as that. I would almost suggest an offering of an eye, but, ah, that may come off as a mockery of their condition.”

Their arms, tucked so neatly within their sleeves, emerged smoothly, revealing the short blade held in one hand. They wiped the edge with a delicate cloth as they approached, and the practical steel gleamed in the light. “Now, let us ready the gift.”

I closed my eyes, and prepared for the pain.

—

I woke to the whirring sound of rolling machines. I scrambled to my feet, feeling for my sword, the hilt forming comfortingly to my hand.

Two strange god-machines rolled down the hallway, a mere twenty yards away. They sat upon either side of a traveling sphere on the wall, glowing faintly from within. They followed with dedication, keeping perfect pace. Like guards.

And only valuable things required guards.

Still shaking off the shackles of sleep, I stepped forward. They paid me no mind, unreactive to my presence. Hopeful, I took a swing at the glass-like surface of the sphere. It shattered like glass, and a thick blue liquid gushed onto the ground.

Immediately, they whirled on me.

What did you think was going to happen? Lucirron scorned in my mind. The dreadful things would hardly be guards if they didn’t fight to protect their charge.

I ignored him, preparing for battle instead. As they bubbled, internal fluids spinning and glowing, I stoked my own inner flame,

Then I threw my sword at them.

It bounced off the shell, but the angle and momentum meant it ricocheted between the two, back and forth, until I dove between them and grabbed it by the hilt, retrieving my weapon.

Finally I drew on the essence of my armor, and for a brief moment I became impervious. It was only a heartbeat, but that was enough time for the double streams of boiling liquid to strike my skin and splash off, leaving me untouched.

Then the protection fell away, and I was left standing in a column of superheated steam. The air wavered in front of my eyes, and I could hear the liquid sizzling under my boots.

I moved toward the foremost orb, scanning it for weaknesses, and finding one in the way it followed me. A quick slide to the left, and I had open access to its glass belly, which I immediately pummeled with quick, strong blows. The glass cracked, and the creature rolled away, spewing flame wildly as it went. The air increased even more in temperature, somehow.

The second orb turned toward me, and I could see it’s liquid insides roiling like a volcano. I had to kill it quickly, but by this point I felt like I understood the pain of an egg on the pan, my edges crisping. Burns covered my body, making it hard to think, hard to act.

Or at least, it would have once.

I spoke the Oath, and Lucirron howled his fury in my head. For I spoke it only quietly, and he hated how I had learned to warp his power.

Sacrifice

to destroy for a cause.

But who was to say what I had to offer? There was strength in giving up my blood, my time, in making myself vulnerable for the sake of a greater reward.

Instead, I offered up the pain and the wounds and the burns on my skin. I gave it all away, and in turn I felt my body strengthen itself in preparation for—

I caught the stream of liquid fire on the edge of my blade, and managed to turn it harmlessly to the side.

Refreshed from my second wind, the distracting pain gone, I threw myself back into the fight.

—

The small steel top spun on my fingertip, showing no sign of slowing down. It was hard to imagine it being worth the fight I’d just had to retrieve it, but perhaps it would show its power in a crucial moment and save me. Or maybe I would forget it in my pocket along with the darkstone necklace I’d scrounged off the gremlin leader a few days ago, back when I’d still been in the City.

Still, it was intriguing how it spun and spun after I’d twirled it, with no sign of stopping. If I let it, perhaps it would burn a hole in my fingertip.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A little more pain to fuel your conquest?

Lucirron’s voice murmured softly in my ear. I almost pitied him, nowadays. His attempts to goad me were getting weaker and more desperate, but that only made them easier to ignore. Instead of responding, I tucked the top away in my bag and got to work building a fire.

I didn’t need a flint and steel to start the tinder. Instead, I lifted my mask, then focused on my leg. A heavy bandage showed the still-painful result of my encounter with the boulder. The golden idol had been worth it in the end, but somehow I’d never gotten around to letting it heal more than superficially. The injury remained, slowing me down just the smallest fraction. Most of the time, I didn’t even notice, but once or twice it had tripped me up at a critical time.

Now, I silently invoked the Oath, and the pain from the injury surged up through my body. It escaped from my mouth in the form of a burst of flame, and for a moment the cavern was lit with a flash of incadencent fire.

Then it settled back down into a calm, crackling blaze, the dry bones I used in place of wood catching easily. I lowered the mask back into place.

Lucirron wailed his frustration somewhere in the back of my mind. He hated how I used his power, how I’d bent it to my will. Truly, it felt more like my power than his, now. It subsumed my bones and gave me strength, fueled my hunger, healed me.

I’d taken his power and made it my own, and now…

Lucirron was nothing more than a vengeful voice in my head. Like the chirping of a cricket scorned, buried in the sounds of the night.

So like a thorn from my finger, I plucked him out and tossed him into the fire, and let him burn bright and brief, until he was gone.

My mind was quiet, for the first time that I could remember. Gloriously, peacefully, silent.

I didn’t need him to guide my fury anymore. I could decide for myself.

I turned over on the ground and lay my head on my pack, closing my eyes. The warmth of the fire crackled at my back, and the burning of a new emotion simmered in my blood.

Contentment.

—

I woke, again, to the whirring sound of rolling machines. I scrambled to my feet, feeling for my sword—no, my staff. Another dream. A dream within a dream? Which was I, the Watcher, or the Ironclad? Or something else completely? Who had that person been, the one the Chosen had…

I shuddered, the strange feeling of dread rushing over me like a wave. There had been Watchers there, like me, except… I hadn’t been one of them.

I didn’t have much time to think about it, as my instincts guided me to hide behind a nearby set of vaguely hip-shaped rocks while the whirring got closer.

Just as in my dream, two of the fiery orbs rolled down the corridor, escorting a boil of stone that flowed down the wall like a bubble on the river.

What were they doing? There was a treasure of some sort in there, but why were they guarding it? Where were they taking it?

There was someone I could ask—in a fashion—who could understand these unusual machines. Carefully, so as not to spook them, I reached into my satchel and pressed my fingers to the cool surface of the prism.

[QUERY] PURPOSE of the MECHANICAL CREATURES

[ANALYSIS] ORB WALKERS are ESCORTING ERRONEOUS RELICS to the CITY

[ANALYSIS] ORB WALKERS are DISTRIBUTING POWER to RESTORE BALANCE

[DEFINE] BALANCE

[ERROR] BALANCE NOT FOUND

[DEFINE] BALANCE

[ERROR] BALANCE NOT FOUND

[ERROR] RECURSIVE LOOP DETECTED

I pulled out quickly, before the muffled terror could grow too strong. It was getting easier to slip from one set of memories to the next, flitting between the Defect and the Watcher with only a little bit of confusion during the transition.

That worried me, but I didn’t have time to think about it. The orb walkers were getting away.

I never had time to think, these past days.

I hefted my staff and charged.

—-

I rolled the colorful gambling chip over my fingers, thinking about the spinning top the Ironclad had held in my dream. The token danced over my fingers, gleaming in the firelight. I’d been taught the trick a long time ago, by…

By someone. A tutor? A friend? I couldn’t remember their voice, or their name.

Still the chip danced, irregardless of my broken memories.

My new memories tickled at me, of the Ironclad, of discarding his whispering voice of fury. It seemed familiar to something I’d been experiencing recently.

Don’t be a fool. My own malicious companions hissed in my mind. You’re seeing connections that aren’t there.

Two keys. One blue, one green. One from the Silent, the other… the Defect? I stared at the flickering flames, turning the thought over in my head.

It was just a hunch. A guess, really, based entirely on my growing understanding of the way power and dreams and belief seemed to work in this shifting realm.

Just a hunch. But maybe that was enough to try.

I thrust my hand into the fire before I could change my mind.

The pain seared up my arm, but I pushed deeper, groping blindly for what I hoped would be there… and the sharp edges of the key dug into my fingers.

I grabbed it, yanking my hand free. My whole arm seared with pain, and I could feel the cutting edge of the crystal bite into my palm. I was worried, distantly, that I might have caused permanent damage.

But most of all, I felt the fury.

I thought I had known what anger really was. I utilized it every day, to fight and to push myself onward through otherwise impossible odds. But my Wrath stance was just a tamed tool, a way for me to channel my emotions and force a combat state.

This was something else.

I pulled my hand to my chest, clutching the key. I wanted to kill something. Not just to protect myself, not just to fight and win, but to fulfill some sense of satisfaction deep in my gut.

I fought it. I had been expecting another voice, perhaps even Lucirron, shouting in my mind. But this was more primal than that, more ancient than an Ancient.

Calm, my amulet hummed to me, doing it’s best. But it was like a bucket of water against the sun-baked sands of the desert, evaporating in the vast, dreadful feeling.

How had he handled it? How could he have possibly kept this under control? How any one person could contain this much hatred was beyond me, but my dreams of him… I clutched to those, the memories of the Ironclad.

He hadn’t fought back. There was no fighting with an emotion like this. It just burned brighter, fueled by the fear.

In fact… I had the tools I needed already.

I couldn’t force myself to sit down and meditate, however. My knees just wouldn’t bend that far, not with this much fire in my bones.

So instead I scooped up my staff, and attacked the walls.

I didn’t often feel like shouting when I fought, but now I could hardly keep it down. I let it loose, bellowing every profanity I knew. The stone bones shattered under my blows. Ribs, spines, unidentified and miscellaneous bone-like shapes, I struck and crushed and broke.

And while I did, I listened.

For a few minutes, or maybe hours, it was just endless, wordless anger. But my patience gave way soon enough to a voice. My voice, my thoughts.

I hate what this place has done to me. I hate what I’ve become. I hate how I’ve changed.

I felt oddly disconnected from the thoughts, sunken deep into the satisfying crunch of breaking stone. But practice had given me the ability to spot the small thoughts as they started to crop up.

And they were my thoughts. The emotion, the pure and unadulterated anger, that was from the Ironclad. But it was only fuel for my mind to feed upon, and the fears were my own.

I’d been dutiful and faithful, only a few weeks ago. I would give anything to go back to that feeling of truth and confidence that I’d lost.

Except… it hasn’t truly been confidence, had it? Just ignorance. Or hope, if I was being generous. Hope that someone knew what they were doing. That I, of all people, was on the correct path.

This place had changed me, and there was no correct path. The spire had beckoned me forward, and there was no going back.

Then change it back. I thought to myself, crushing a spur of stone. Shape the world as it has shaped you.

The Ironclad hadn’t learned to control his fury, I came to realize. Nothing in the world could hold back passion and pain that deep.

He had simply learned to guide it.

My body felt invigorated, and adrenaline coursed through my veins. With renewed purpose, I packed my bag, carefully sorting each of the many relics I’d collected along the way. I gave the Akabeko a little pat on the head.

Then I wrapped myself in the various tools I’d collected, the potion belt slung over my shoulder and the dark chain knotted around my waist.

I took a minute to collect myself, be sure I had everything. Once I was satisfied, I began walking, away from the campfire. It didn’t matter which direction I went, at this point. I would end up where I needed to go, one way or another.

It was time to find what I’d been looking for.

#The Ascension #Slay The Spire #The Watcher #The Ironclad #fic #Part 33

[blackkatmagic]

I shall take the leap and ask for 4, if it hasn't been done? If not then uhhh 12?

I'm going to answer these in reverse order, but:

12. Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?

Hmm. I would say probably Monster, because it spawned....all of rwlf and a bunch of other fics regarding Savage and Feral and Maul.

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

I currently have 19 docs open in word, so that's what I'm going to count here. 2 of them are posted WIPs that should be updated sometime this week, while the rest are random bits of ideas that I'm playing with. For a snippet:

Maedhros wakes in a darkness without stars, a heavy chain around his throat, a crown like cold iron around his brow.

He thinks, in the first moment, that he’s been consigned to the pits of Angband, lightless and hot. It’s too cold for Melkor’s fortress, though; Maedhros’s scars ache, and his breath gusts white like there's frost in his lungs. He curls in on himself, covered only by his hair, and grasps for the collar that’s tight around neck.

It’s no collar, though, but a thin chain. A thin chain that slips through his fingers with the coolness of water, and makes the bright stone hung from it slide against his collarbone as pure starlight shines in the dark.

Breath tangling in his throat, Maedhros freezes. He swallows hard, but the beat of the oath doesn’t rise in his heart, doesn’t drive him on like madness. The Silmaril glows in the darkness, the light of the Two Trees undimmed even here, and Maedhros holds his breath, lets his fingers slide down the chain—

Jerks them away with a cry, skin burning with the heat of the flames he flung himself into, as the Silmaril’s light brightens like a warning.

Desperate, quick, Maedhros fumbles for the chain, tries to jerk it over his head. It’s too tight, though, won't come free, and he wrenches at it until it cuts at his skin but can't find a way to break it. The Silmaril sears his skin whenever it touches, and finally, finally Maedhros curls forward, letting it swing free, and closes his eyes against the light of his father’s doom.

“I bore you to the heart of the earth,” he tells it, ragged. “I threw you far from me. Why still do you haunt me?”

There's no answer, not even the echo of his own voice. The Silmaril hangs, gleaming, and still Maedhros isn't worthy of it, still the jewel is nothing meant for his foul hands, but it hangs around his throat like a hangman’s noose regardless.

And then, quiet, there's a step, a shift in the darkness.

Maedhros raises his head, slow, the weight on his brow seeming an impossible thing. The darkness stretches, nothing Elven eyes can see through, but he hears the faintest brush of leather and cloth and metal, hidden away by the shadows.

Too cold for Angband, he thinks grimly, and curls his hand around his other wrist, the stump of his severed hand aching in the cold. He isn't strung up from a mountain, either, left to the mercy of someone who should have no mercy left for him or his family.

“Who are you?” he asks, and wants to rise, but—his skin still stings from the burn of the Silmaril, and he crushes down the urge.

There's no answer, just a pause, as though his watcher wasn’t expecting to have been seen. The silence stretches, more complete, and Maedhros closes his eyes for a long second.

He isn't chained, he thinks, and carefully, gingerly gets his feet beneath himself. The jewel bumps against his collarbone, burns, and Maedhros winces but doesn’t waver.

“Am I not to know the name of the one who holds me?” he asks. “Or the location where I am held?”

The silence stretches, stretches, and then finally there's a breath.

“You are on a ship,” a low, rough voice says, and cloth drags over leather. Light comes up, a wash of painful and artificial brilliance, and Maedhros half-raises a hand to block it before he realizes the gesture is entirely futile. The light is all around, and in its glow he can finally see the bare metal that stretches out, the blue glow of a barrier bright and steady. He’s in a cell, twelve paces in either direction, and everything is polished metal and harsh, empty space, the hum of a hyperdrive loud in his bones.

Just outside the cell is a sentient, tall and horned, with skin marked yellow and black. He wears an armor Maedhros doesn’t know, and his eyes are gold and dark and wary as he watches Maedhros as though expecting an attack.

“You look to be a Zabrak,” Maedhros says after a moment. “But no Zabrak I know.”

The man frowns, just slightly. “A Nightbrother,” he says harshly. “From Dathomir.”

#kat answers #my writing #came singing in the sun

[nine-kingdoms-at-war]

"Come, fair Phantain, and sit a spell to learn of the world in which you now find yourself. As a Wanderer, perhaps Traveler, it is my pleasure to educate you on all I know of this world Norheim. I bid you, however, take my words to heart as to not is to know nothing and to know nothing can be to die in this land.

First, let us begin with what is most crucial, the knowledge of The Nine and their people. The Nine, dear Phantain, refers to the nine kingdoms currently alive in this world. Alasia, Hjoldan, Norvel, Tsandas, Liradt, Nael, Oculsa, Amaranthus and Abastria, each with their own cultures, peoples, histories and pieces.

To begin:

𝕬𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖎𝖆

Far to the north across the shifting infinite blue depths of The Great Expanse lies the collection of islands known as Alasia ruled by an enigmatic man, some say a god, known simply as The One. They are a humble people yet proud in their ways, beholden to duty, strength, nobility and peace above all.

Throughout the history of our current Nine they have remained neutral in near all wars despite possessing of a military power every bit the equal or even greater of Hjoldan and Abastria, their land protected by a grand colossus known as The Watcher or The Sentinel many times the size of the grandest mountains with eyes of fire and breath of thunder laying to waste all unwelcome who attempt passage to the islands it guards.

Should you be so fortunate, as I have been honored to be, to be allowed arrival, you will find yourself surrounded by wonders of a kind not even magic can explain. Great gleaming men without souls lifting burdens far beyond mortal ability, their blood flowing in metal crankings as if moved by locks of a kind fit for the finest Bearer's Chests, armor bearing horns, fearsome faces and pale glowing eyes impenetrable to any weapon to contact it and wondrous windows holding bards, playwrights and images of battle just to name a few.

Should you be granted the highest honor, an audience with The One, you will note his silence and imposing self first and foremost. To simply be in his presence is to feel small, though strangely safe if your intentions are pure, as he stands still as a statue, unblinking, unwavering, faceless behind his helm, his every subtle motion carrying the weight of a million words spoken by forceful mouth. You are left in awe in every moment. Is he a man? A god? Something beyond even the divine? You know not and care not, knowing only in certainty that his armies or even he alone could burn to ashes all you hold dear should you transgress upon him...a feeling with historical precedent.

His people, however rigid they may appear, are often more welcoming, relaxed, downright pleasant to be around as they offer you tidings of friendship and well-wishes alongside chances to enjoy flavorful foodstuffs prepared by skilled hands. Each of which, though from a land you know little of, tastes of comfort and home.

𝕹𝖔𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖑

Second, in order from far North to temperate South, is Norvel, the Land of Frost, a realm inhospitable to all but the most rugged, hearty souls. Souls such as you will find within the seven clans to call this beautiful waste home. All but one shares a stature diminutive, heads cresting not higher than the stomach of a grown man born of other lands and all are blunt, direct kind enjoying of a good drink and often cheerful but rarely softening words for the sake of sparing offense. The clans are as thus:

Darkforge- master metalworkers of the highest caliber brought into the world upon a floating island atop a sea of molten hell, the burning nature of their world inside the flames of Mount Forge seared into their soul, song and drink as they revel in consuming tankards filled with the very glowing rock which burns from the heart of the mountain. They will welcome you, yes, and feed your need for revelry but be cautious as few can withstand what they refer as a good night.

Frost Chasm- born clinging to the cliffs and scurrying amongst the labyrinthine tunnels of the Abyssal Crag, these Norva scale sheer cliffs and tunnel through rock as though they were but annoyances. Their affinity for the dark makes even the most abyssal reaches bright as daylight, their skill upon sheer cliffs seeming to defy the forces of nature effortlessly despite the imminent death certain from even one misplaced hand.

White Drift- seeing not but snow from the first of their breaths these fearless Norva call the Felted White their home, a region near devoid of plants or liquid water, a wet desert buried in endless cold. Despite their naturally diminutive size these brave tundrites have found a unique way to gain their sustenance: hunting and taming as livestock the fearsome Sadanau bears which stalk these frozen hinterlands, beasts said to be made from the very will to survive and prosper in the worst of reaches.

Frozen Abyss- a stark departure from the other Clans, these Norva are a time and again the size of any man and ten times as strong. Their name, a reference to the pit of ice around which a former center of their clan was built, is misleading as they spend most of theur time not in some frigid nothingness but instead fishing by hand in the icy depths of the Grand Respite into which their infants are tossed upon first cry.

Shardspyre- seeing the world from the ridges below the Great Shard, those of this clan are nearly untouched by any other peoples and are thus a living memorial to what it means to be truly ancient. Little is known of them as they rarely venture from their lofty sanctum, it is indeed safe to say it would take a moving mountain to bring them from atop their own.

Sandfell- the only Norva to call a region even mildly hospitable their home, this clan guards the sole pass between Norvel and all other Kingdoms as they stand vigil at Narnum's Gates less than a week from the border shared by Tsandas. They know battle daily yet also trade, both skills refined to a razor's edge.

Moonrisen- if the Sandfell are the guardians against an invasion by other kingdoms, the Moonrisen are that against an invasion of others from their home among the tattered wastes and blighted tundra of the Crushing Wane.

These clans exist in fluid alliance, a mildly cohesive, if often unwilling to be the aggressor, force none have yet managed to conquer when completely mobilized to war with united purpose. While the Moonrisen and Sandfell form the front of any push southward, it is the Frozen Abyss whose might when combined with arms made in the heart of Mount Forge are the true heralds of victory.

Currently among the Nine are they represented by a Darkforge noble, the ever blunt and often brash Lord Greiman Aus. He is their face in all things among other Kingdoms, a fitting post as the man is a living distillation of all it means to be Norva, he is friendly yet strong-willed, jovial with an edge of seriousness, every bit as tough as the frozen hinter around his home while maintaining the warmth of the fiery heart upon which the place of his birth rests. In the event it is not obvious, I state plainly, I admire greatly this man and for immense reason. One I shall reveal if asked in person.

𝕿𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖆𝖘

One week's travel from Narnum's Gates lies a land of savagery and survival upon its very worst, I speak of course of the Land of Tribes, Tsandas, which plays home to the innumerable tribes Tsandasi. To travel here under any flag but Traveler or Wanderer is to consign oneself as a guest to dinner, though not as a guest. For you see the Tsandasi are a troublesome sort, consumed with the belief that by devouring the flesh of those strong is their own strength brought ever higher until godhood.

They are a skilled and ferocious people, second of none in skill upon horseback, with bow or in vicious group though their craving for the meat of men sees them justly treated as vermin by all other Kingdoms, often meaning they are slain on sight unless accompanied by another of different race.

Under most days there is no unified face, I dare say they qualify not in any sense as a Kingdom as they war amongst their various tribes, they often forming from nothing and falling in gore within the same day, the stronger and larger preying upon those unable to best them. In the event of outside threat, however, as is the case in current age, the tribes quickly unify to face the invader as a great horde under a leader referred to as a Khaun.

As of current this Khaun is an abnormally educated, which is to say educated at all, man of the tribe Zauna, Warchief Yuvanei...though dog is apt a name as any for those among this wretched people.

𝕬𝖇𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖆

From frost to sand and now to war we reach the Land of Blood, Abastria. Since first forged by those exiled from Amaranthus this land has been ruled by despot after despot, each of ever-increasing cruelty, avarice, lust and violence only to be usurped in brutal fashion by the fruit of their own loins. Ten generations of Alabastra blood have ruled thus far, being as we are in the era of the eleventh, each bringing only conflict and strife into the land.

The people of this land live in terror, though some of the Orders Unbound are said to have seen prosperity and peace made by the hands of the current King, Lord David, whom slew his father Ravanaugh in midst of speech.

Abastrians are a mix, some yet as kaniving as their forebears, others seeming to have lost the Amaranthine edge, which is to say they are able to be trusted if only so long as they can be heard. The land itself is self-giving, verdant rich farmland tended by skilled farmers who through gaze ever castleward in fear produce more in a season than many Kingdoms do in a year.

Amongst this land of deep, deep dread and damned darkness done dreadfully there are two ranks feared more than any other, I speak of course of the Dark Angels and their superiors, the Archangels.

Standing in winged armor every bit as black as the serpentine soul of the man, nay the devil, who commands them so viciously, the Dark Angels are as unforgiving as they are imposing, a black horde of flying beauty fit to strike terror into all who see them and awe in all who know of them. Each is not one but two, two souls bound to each other since Induction to share fates in all things. Though this oath is held tightest in training, the bond is often carried for life after as though they are betrothed. With wings of enchanted steel they fly in terrible silence as crows forged in Infernus..a sight chillingly warm to behold.

Above this terror stand the Archangels, two or four or six-winged gods of battle and arbiters of the King's justice. Each is worth a legion of most other lands and this is reflected in their striking, I dare say glorious, countenance and appearance which makes them indeed fit their name. They master thoroughly the arts arcane, of sword or both at their own muted discretion, silent soldiers broken to grandeur by training easily capable of killing the greatest of men.. but what is to be expected of the elites in a land of despots other than to be made to sacrifice all of the self to gain safety in favor..

The King of the land, Lord David Alabastra, is yet again a tyrant who rules through facetious kindness so great as to fool the majority of his own people. Their are no revolts, no attempts from desperate few to end the sweet suffering he engenders through false freedom plain to see by any who venture forth therein as there existed, occurred in all ten eras before him. Perhaps this in part due to the man commonly seen to his right, a former Knight Errant of Hjoldan, the charming, dashing trator, Altraeus Lucidius. In any event, I encourage you to see for yourself this placid torment and blatant bribery through sinister civility should you be so brave.

He sits in vigil with eyes ever-open upon his Throne of Bones directly behind castle doors as the first devilishly alluring sight of note, a twisted visage of drawing blight calling the eye from vibrant violet portals of portent doom to bold, proud sword upon his hip..what a truly terrible image, it causes one to shudder simply write of it.

𝕬𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖍𝖚𝖘

Buffered in part from the Great Expanse by the nation she birthed, Amaranthus, the Land of Assassins, is a gorgeous realm of civility, beauty and elegant grace. Its people are striking, beautiful creatures of heavenly form and eloquent speech with an accent and voice which calls to the very depths one's innermost desires of pleasure and romance.

To live amongst them is to know boundless passion around you at all times, in all forms from poetry to art to wild entrapment physical and heartfelt. It is a blistering blessed volley of all things stirring.

Take heed, however, as there exists a proud edge of death and deceit in amongst the glamour, for you see all Amaranthine are trained practically from first steps the ways to manipulate, kill and eventually seduce to gain what they wish. To murder one of higher status than oneself is not only allowed but greatly encouraged by way of the Antium Sorvace which grant all property of the the slain of status to any of lower wealth below them who were responsible for the act. Travel lightly if you are of means, to be known as such is to be a target of great attraction in both lethal and more subtle ways.

This constant threat has fostered various alliances and factions within the court, those of import banding together and even bribing those who could threaten them into their service instead in a dramatic, admittedly clever game of blood and bed which serves to unite those who otherwise would be too consumed with unrepentant avarice to see past the handle of the dagger in their hand.

In terms military they lack a conventional force with which to do pitched battle, the Order of the Curved Scion acting as their most-known and possibly most inescapable organization of purposed shifters of history, toppling governors, coercing guards and poisioning wells among other deeds to secure victory before a battle can be brought of arms.

Their Queen, Lady Dania Anthus, is a true model of her subjects as she was born a peasant near the western border in a village too small to name, her wit and ruthlesness as a child granting her family greater and greater wealth with each victory as she moved from village to town to city and finally Arapes itself by point of blade or word of coercion played masterfully. These talents were only made more potent as she grew, a beautiful child becoming an evermore alluring woman of ample curve, hypnotic eye, swaying walk and seductive voice allowing her to worm her way into the court of her predecessor, Lady Marithia, and slay or seduce her supporters before killing her as she slept thus securing the throne.

She sits wide upon the throne now, her gaze and her legs as beautiful as Arapes's Auburn Gates and every bit as welcoming to those she wishes favor of.

𝕺𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖘𝖆

Far to the west of this land of blades lays the Realm of Mages, Oculsa. A land divided into two parts, The Wild Reaches and The Lands Untouched, the Kingdom is richer in magic than anywhere else upon Norheim which is reflected in the people therein whom are naturally gifted in arcane arts beyond the ability of the finest students of them elsewhere in addition to living lives measured in millenia rather than decades.

The regions vary greatly, even to their very people as those in The Lands Untouched are ethereal in looks, possessing of elegant form, long, pointed ears, hair and skin of color unseen elsewhere and striking eyes seeming to be cut of gems which bely the wise, knowledge-seeking souls within while their counterparts touched by the infectious, permeating magical plague in the Wild Reaches are contorted, mutated and often feral creatures attuned ubiquitously greatly to arcanity but often far removed from sanity thus existing more frequently than not as roving beasts spouting incantations and curses at utter random or only for the purposes of hunting.

Those Untouched living in the wonder of such treeborne heavens as The Everwyte and Vashendium are gifted with lives of art and knowledge both growing seeming to the infinite as more is added by the minute to Vashendium's Grand Libraries by use of Knowleka, enchanted parchments capable of creating tomes and scrolls as the user writes upon them with every word appearing the moment it is written.

On the rare occasion a threat is fool enough to come to their door, it can expect a fearsome coalition of masterful mages both Untouched and civil Wild fronted by tamed Maddened operating as vicious hounds of death among the ancient trees. Be warned: a victory against this defense means only wiser mages will take action.

By and many, Untouched are double-edged, possessing both immeasurable humility with a desire to guide younger races and a supreme level of arrogance birthed by the certainty their lives will see the end of all those not born of their kind. This combination is seen in no greater measure than the current Sage, the venerable and divine Lady Coranel Moranth whom has proven time and time again to hold wisdom beyond the ages of old paired inexorably with an uncontrollable desire to mother those willing to bow to her depth of insight and a complete disinterest in the affairs of those unwilling.

𝕷𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖙

Directly to the southeast of the arboreal paradise that is Oculsa there lays a land near lost from its own history, Liradt, the Unwritten Kingdom. Unwritten, as all but the most impactful events are forbidden to be recorded: births, deaths, plagues of a city, even short-lived wars are known only by mouth and bear the shifting details of tales told in such an organic matter unrestrained by cohesive perspective.

Its people, the enigmatic Liradi, are given collars of blessed metal upon birth which grow with them and produce ethereal chains increasing in length by a link for every month of life as a symbol of their firm attachment solely to the present. Mostly they are silent, appearing near downtrodden in reverence to the world around them rather than what words they could weave.

While seeming as harmless, if unintentionally off-putting, the nation is not one free of might as a number among them are selected each year to join the ranks of the Whispering Guard, an elite group trained to use their bodies and minds in terrifying, efficient fashion setting sole members as greater than whole teams of rank-and-file fighters from any other kingdom by use of blades blended seamlessly with spells unknown beyond Liradi borders.

The current ruler of this time-ceased Kingdom is one Chronicler Lirum Damos, an entity of whom beyond personality little is known: their past, family, method of rule claim and even exact sex are complete mysteries which shall never be known if anything is certain. They appear to rule fairly, the people happy beyond apparent status and the mines of gold which make the land known producing this blood of commerce in truly epic scale.

𝕹𝖆𝖊𝖑

Further yet east and bordered on all sides by larger, greater Kingdoms sits Nael, the Selfless Plain, a land wherein none but the one upon the throne is permitted a name of their own. The nation is small, less than three weeks from northern tip to southern ridge and but a few days east to west but this miniscule reach harbors farmlands capable of providing grain and fruit enough to supply easily whole armies several times over thanks to the unceasing work of the throngs of near hiveminded Naelmi whom toil until unable to move night and day unceasingly.

In abundance the Naelmi are completely devoid of individual identity or worth, speaking in emotionless, flat tones more appropriate for a dull manuscript given sapience than a living, breathing individual. Casualties of work or war simply moved without any sense of mourning or loss out of the path of work to be interred in blank, often unmarked graves once the task is complete and replacements can be found....to spend any exorbitant time in their midst is to be plagued by the nightmares forged in such swarming isolation, the memory of your stay as the one singular in the endless sea of their collective one that will doubtless haunt you.

If invaded or otherwise assailed, the Nameless Mist, the title for a mass coming together of individuals for war, forms as if in an instant as thousands of once docile entities now fight with fervor and fearlessness beyond imagining to expel the demon from their door.

Among this quiet myriad stands but one who can be called upon with comparative ease, who, though garbed exceptionally plainly by the standards of all other lands, spurrs with her mere presence the workers to toil with all their might and perhaps even more, whose every word is venerated as though it were spoken by the soul of every Naelmi whom hears it and whose each edict is followed unquestioned and without hesitation regardless of result.

This figure is Ilithia of Rubane, the Named one, a woman of great kindness and care for her subjects, full of warmth and spirit paired with a touch of naivete and an apparent lack of will in the face of more forceful, boisterous lords such as Alabastra, Hjoldir and Aus. This is understandable, if counterproductive, when dealing with such people.

𝕳𝖏𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖆𝖓

Now from a land where none are simply one, to a great realm where the reputation of oneself is all which matters we travel either north or south to Hjoldan, the Gilded Bastion. Among the Nine, this glimmering utopia of individual effort to the extremes is the greater of most, equal of few in raw military might with the Knights, Knights Errant, Gleaming Order and Gleaming Errant forming a force beyond reproach of honor which thus far has kept the dreadfull, evil, currish, villainous, vicious, avaricious, demonic, vile, sadistic, blight-ridden, cursed hordes of Abastria in check until such a day can come for ultimate victory against such an infernan force, grace be the Twin Lords.

Each citizen is given a blessed Scroll of Merit upon reaching their fifth year of life, an enchanted parchment upon golden support contained within a shell of temple-touched silver to carry with them and protect at all costs. To lose this glorious burden is tantamount to losing one's very soul as it is upon this ever-growing sheet of record are Marks of Merit bestowed for great deeds, tasks done beyond expectation, lives saved, battles won, products made in quality exceeding desire and other such proofs of skill or dedication are recorded indelibly to be shown as needed.

In most realms the measure of a person is their heart, their soul, their loves, family and friends. In Hjoldan this measure is solely the number and greatness of the Marks upon the Scroll connected to their back, this creates a culture of unceasing drive towards fame often at the expense of joy in life and, I dare to point out, health of the body in many instances as the craving for Marks can out-call instincts for self safety.

This is not to say all Marks are positive, negative ones, called Detractions, can be bestowed upon a Scroll when warranted. Though to forge false Marks in either direction is considered an unforgivable sin which results in the Scroll of the offender being burned in a ceremonial pyre within a temple to the Lord of Justice thus erasing all the deeds thereupon and consequently the worth and renown of the one to whom it was attached.

'But surely they can rebuild!' You may find yourself crying and, to an extent, you would be correct if they can convince One Beholden to forge unto them a new Scroll, a task of immense difficulty. This is to say nothing of the tribulation of earning new Marks to fill upon the parchment, a lifetime to build, another to earn once more though the stain of having a Scroll sent to pyre can never truly be removed. This effectively sentences the affected to a life of mistrust by those who know or notice the damning mark placed upon the new Scroll which marks it irrevocable as a replacement, thereby ensuring a deed which would have granted a Mark before must be done in thrice of measure to even be considered again, a vicious increase which more often than not is utterly dooming.

This is not to say Hjoldan and the Hjold themselves are without glory, they are kind, unflinching in their convictions, the hardest of workers outside Nael and often altruistic beyond equal. Truly it is a paradise of effort which stretches to greater and greater heights unto true divinity.

The Lord of the land, Lord Alamen Hjoldir, is a man of unencroachable greatness, having earned the right at relatively young age to challenge the previous master of the realm in pitched combat and won with reputedly little effort. He has ruled through the latter half of the reign of Abastria's Ravanaugh the Blooded, conducting countless battles with the tyrant and continuing the fight with his son, a continuation some apart from I have started to question the necessity and honor of.

Hjoldir is a brave king, free of concern of offending others, unblinking in the eye of danger, willfull beyond imagining and most of all boisterous exceeding description when speaking to other Lords on matters of state.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖆𝖗 𝕺𝖋 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊

To end this manuscript I wish to touch upon the most pressing matter of Norheim as a whole, the event which has spanned since first Abastria's Kings have looked borderward and saw the treasures beyond calling to them to seize. To those familiar whom have watched beyond their fields, mines or fisheries, this will seem as though I am speaking obvious, but to true Phantain this is a subject to be taken to heart.

I speak, dear readers, of The War of Nine.

This conflict, born of the first Lord Alabastra, Desarês, and his desire to expand his fledgling land of convicts from a small statehood to a truly feared realm has been the sole unifying force between many of the other Kingdoms whom in antiquity have warred both among each other and agsinst themselves, ushering in a strange peace of conflict.

This is not to say all are allied against Abastria, in the least not in recent history. Indeed, there was a time when Nael, Norvel, Liradt, Hjoldan, Tsandas, Oculsa and even Alasia were firmly connected in constant support against the deathly kingdom surrounded in some measure by all, when the need was seen as absolute by all nations. But that time died when did Ravanaugh, his son having since convinced Alasia and to an extent Norvel of his lack of outward malice.

Now this conflict, which sees Lord Alabastra beset near daily by attempts on his life and that of his people by forces primarily of Hjoldan, Amaranthus, Nael, Liradt and Tsandas, is one fought for myriad motives all under the overarching face of freeing Norheim from the Cursed Line Alabastra forever. It is of current a mostly silent war, free of large clashes of military might and instead fought in small raiding groups known as Parties sent to Castle Alabastra or by assassins waiting in the safest of places."

- Traveler Lacraine Motellius

First chapter,

Nature of Norheim

[ashtrayfloors]

The one spectator left to watch this fight stands revealed in the glow of the bakery window. One pocket is weighted with marbles; the buckles of his britches are below his knees. He watches the fighters edge into the darkness where the white shirt of the black boy is like an object levitated at a séance. Nothing else can be seen. Black boy and white boy are swallowed up. For a moment one can hear the shuffling feet of the white boy; then that, too, dissolves into darkness. The street is a tunnel with a lantern gleaming far at its end. The last fight-watcher stands as if paralyzed until the rumble of a passing car can be felt through the soles of his shoes, tingling the blood in his feet. Behind him the glow of the sunset reddens the sky. He goes toward it on the run, a racket of marbles, his eyes fixed on the FORD sign beyond the school building, where there is a hollow with a shack used by ice skaters under which he can crawl and peer out like a cat. When the streetlights cast more light he will go home.

—Wright Morris, from "A Fight Between a White Boy and a Black Boy in the Dusk of a Fall Afternoon in Omaha, Nebraska"

#quotations #wright morris #short story #a fight between a white boy and a black boy in the dusk of a fall afternoon in omaha nebraska #recently read

[phantomwisestory]

Phantomwise: chapter 6

20230323 0015 - 6 cards in total

The young man grips the sword nervously, wishing he had a hand free to fiddle with one of the many buttons of his coat. He looks back down at the shrinking world below him. He has never left the coastal city of Clandestire before: he is not sure he is supposed to now.

The glickerlocks have taken their second death. The life dangles from one world before dropping into the next, and the gleaming star-metal of the glickerlock clamps around the moment of passing, capturing the momentary spasm in the fabric of the universe as one life punches through it. The hole remains open, caught in the contraption, bleeding light from this world into that, bringing the earliest scent of a dragon’s roar from that world into this, glowing beneath the coat of the star-watcher who carries it.

The balloon chariot carries the new bearer of the sword, the Queen’s best sky rider and her gryphon, back over the royal plumes of the dust storm. They are high enough to see the stars. The gryphon keens, adjusting its wings uncomfortably, sad to see the stars so close yet not allowed to ride among them. The sky-rider soothingly scratches at its neck, bare feet planted firm in the basket, wondering at the fire in the heart of the balloon - wondering if it isn’t also a type of star in its own way.

The watcher has given the sword and now returns to her post, moving quickly over large distances the way ideas are able to skip politely over the non-dimension of a flat page edge. in no time at all, she is at the gate before her residence, where she is usually met with the sight of the house at the edge of the world where she keeps her watch, where the void and the next and the deep and all the other words people have for it in all their other languages is usually visible from behind the unstained glass of this world’s last outpost. But the lock of the gate is loose, and the house and garden are all swallowed. The very edges of the world bleed raw, into a startling darkness of infinite depth. The watcher stands in the gate and witnesses the dance, and the dancers part, and in their midst is a vast, monstrous, pierced heart. Not a human heart but a symbol more real than any living organ. The dance of the darkness has brought three swords - or perhaps the same sword three times - to meet in this eternal middle, and over the point of centre grows the heart, sized like a mountain, suspended but growing there in the void, the way the inevitable grows like a tumour in the heart of the future.

The head of every sunflower has turned, and has not had occasion to look away. For the sun has not left this end of the valley in quite an unusual length of time. He has worked his way beneath the threshold of the storm, so that far above him where the chariot rides there are still stars to read for those who need them. He does his valiant best to pour enough light that the dust does not consume every living thing, like the sunflowers, whose adoration beams back at him, though even now they are choking.

And above the castle grounds, in the high tower of the keep, in the heart of Otherlande, death pulls down her umbrella and shakes out her hair, her thighs bare above her boots, below her shorts. The Queen, who had heard her coming, and who even know has felt the second hole punched through the world in her name, looks up and grimaces. But she meets her embrace all the same, and neither woman has to clarify much, as she touches her lips to the Queen’s in a light, familiar gesture of greeting, whether or not the Queen isn’t a little bit secretly pleased that death has come to stay.

By Boogleboot

– Introduction to the Phantomwise story blog here

– Master-post of chapters here

– Link to a post about the chapter six spread here

#Phantomwise #Phantomwise tarot #creative writing #creative writing prompt #fiction

[neonlittindia]

Neon Lights - The New Age In Promoting

Check out at the lights around you. Take the piano light for example. What is it utilized for? All things considered, piano lights are helpful to give you light when you play. What was so troublesome in speculating that? Indeed, giving enlightenment is the essential motivation behind why lights are utilized, however there is something else to them too. Lights, for example, neon lights, are likewise utilized as an incredible promoting device.

Neon lights will be lights that have neon gas inside them at low tension. Numerous multiple times, other inactive gases like Argon, Krypton, Helium and Xenon could likewise be utilized. By the by, they are as yet called by a similar name.

The lights are accessible in various sizes and shapes, introducing various tones. For the most part, neon delivers a radiant red gleam. Concerning argon filled tubes, the enlightenment is lighter than neon. Typically, the tones created by argon filled tubes are yellow, blue, green and white.

There are a ton of justifications for why neon lights are valuable for publicizing. Billboards are vital to publicizing, and utilizing neon lights on these blocks can light up the absolute picture. The most compelling motivation why neon lights are plausible is on the grounds that keeping up with them is simple. Billboards could get amassed with soil and flotsam and jetsam with time, causing them to seem ugly. Then again, neon lights are not difficult to keep up with.

Neon lights will keep up with their sparkle for however long they are lit. This is on the grounds that they are made of glass. They are additionally ready to keep up with their glow for long on the grounds that they utilize charged inactive gases between the cylinder walls.

Utilizing billboards may be a decent technique for drawing watcher consideration, however utilizing neon lights is better. This is on the grounds that neon lights are noticeable from truly a distance. This way you wouldn't need to stress over the space allocated to you for promoting your item or administration.

These lights are becoming well known at a quick level. Assuming you take a gander at the drawn out impact of this prominence, the interest is before long going to expand the inventory. As the creation is expanded, there would be a lessening in the cost. Diminished costs will again make it more famous.

Another justification for why these lights will be famous in what's in store also is their eco-accommodating trademark. The lights utilize latent gases; this implies that they won't contaminate the climate in any capacity, if some way or another wrecked. Additionally, it will absolutely be non harmful to refrigerate, disengage or store.

Numerous sponsors could likewise utilize these lights with various movement procedures to draw in the crowd. These lights may be opened and shut all the while to create a picture. Besides, they are likewise significant in showing open/close signs outside a store. To many, they additionally portray a picture of the spot outside which they are put. This way you can think prior to entering a specific spot, regardless of whether it supplements your taste.

Neon lights are of an incredible assistance to proprietors of bars, bistros, gaming zones, and so forth. Especially, they are famous in the nightlife of occupied urban communities. Individuals like to see neon signs on these spots and furthermore instead of billboards. This makes these lights another prevailing fashion in publicizing.

For More Details Visit here:

Neon Lights

neon signs for sale

Neon Wall Light

[cybertranny]

Tell me about the rapunzel au? 👀

OKAY SO. This AU sprung from a single, vivid image that just would NOT leave my brain until I made a context for it.

You know the scene at the end of tangled? Where Eugene cuts Rapunzel's hair, and it's very dramatic?

[ID: A gif of two animated characters, Eugene and Rapunzel from Disney's Tangled. Eugene, who has a chain around his wrist, cuts Rapunzel's blond hair with a shard of mirror. She looks at him with a shocked expression as her hair turns brown.]

Picture that scene, but it's Jon as Rapunzel, and Martin severing his connection to the eye. Elias serves as Mother Gothel and the plot is *roughly* the same as the movie, with the caveat that Elias *wants* Jon to escape the tower in order to be marked by the fears. It's still cosmic horror: severing the eye's connection to Jon like that releases the fears out into other worlds; the only difference being maybe, just maybe Jon and Martin might be able to survive in this one.

WTGFs run The Snuggly Duckling, and the archive crew mostly hang out there. The fears are still not common knowledge, in this scenario. Also, instead of the castle being a safe, comforting place, I've decided the kingdom is being run by the Web.

Basira plays Maximus. I'm not sure if she's going to still be a literal horse or not, to be quite honest. But Daisy is the police officer / captain / whatever that Basira works with.

I also wrote out - you know the song? Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine, make the clock reverse, being back what once was mine - a version of that, changing it only slightly to make it Eye themed. I'm actually quite proud of it, I'll have to find where I wrote it. (That's where the title comes from! Watcher Gleam and Glow.)

I'm not saying this is an elaborate excuse to write Jon as a Disney princess, but it kind of is.

#watcher Gleam and Glow #asks #starrypawz #thank you for the ask!!!!!

[redorich]

So, hermit canyon, Grian, master of causing shenanigans, has free reign now.

Grian with no supervision, what will he do????

Eret wakes in the dead of night, filled with the utmost certainty that something is watching them. They sit up in bed, squinting in the dim moonlight streaming in through their window.

They pause. Their window. Their open window. They never sleep with an open window.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Eret winces at the stereotypical horror movie protagonist line. Looking around, they see nothing... until their closet creaks open. An eye peers out from the darkness, gleaming in the dim light in a way that's more unsettling than it would be if it was glowing.

"Grian," Eret says, clutching their blanket to their chest. This isn't a dream.

Grian pushes the closet door open so slowly that it creaks. The unnerving sound brings to mind wind chimes in the oppressive air before a hurricane.

"I like your shoelaces," Grian rasps.

Eret shakes their head, tears welling in their eyes against their will. "I can't," they gasp, "I can't say it."

"You can," the Watcher says, "you must."

Eret breathes out a shuddering wheeze. "I s-stole them from the president," they sob.

Grian's work is done. He vanishes without a trace.

(inspired by this post)

#im drunk #anyway #mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit canyon au #grian #eret #me.cpp

[butcheranons]

Bad Influence

summary: You love Bad more than anything else; well, maybe not as much as The Egg, but he’s up there. 

Unbeknownst to you, he hides his true nature with the kindest human eyes you’d ever seen. 

word count: 2.8k

A/N: this was once a drabble  👍 👍 (no beta we die like wilbur)

warnings: unprotected sex, somewhat exhibitionism (if you count the egg as a voyeur), overstimulation, breeding kink if you squint, too many pet names.

anatomy: gender neutral 

“Bit higher," You raise your hands along with your words, guiding the two men holding the decorative banner. “Perfect.“

“Where do these chairs go?” Turning your head at the new voice, you frown at the state of the furniture.

“What are these?”

“Dinner chairs.”

“They sure don’t like the ones I ordered.”

“What? They’re exactly as you requested, black dining chairs with red cushioning.”

“Red?!” You scoff, “I ordered black iron with crimson cushions! This is cherry! What are we? A picnic?!” You roll your eyes.

“C’mon, no one will notice the difference, just take these we have a lot of work to do.”

Your neck snaps at the sound, raised eyebrows as you hum, expecting him to say something else, but alas, he doubled down.

"I said: Just take em', we have five other deliveries today."

"What?!" There's this little pang of annoyance that sets on your nape, leaving your muscles sore at the thought of having to deal with lazy workers. "I have paid upfront."

He rolls his eyes.

"You insolent little thing..." Gritting your teeth, you look around before stepping forward, "Take these back or you and your bosses will hear from me. I will not let this pass. How dare you?!"

"Man... Why do you have to complicate, it's already paid for, just fuckin' take it."

"Language...!"

You hear a chime from behind and your shoulders relax, turning around there's this heat that creeps up your body when your eyes meet his.

"What's wrong, my little muffin?" His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you into his chest and letting his warmth envelop your body. He never failed to surprise you with how warm he was; constantly.

"Oh, sugar bear," You whine, tangling your fingers into his. "This is the end of the world! I asked for black iron with crimson cushioning and look at this disaster!"

He nods, a bit confused, trying to differentiate between the shades, but feeling your upsetness. "Cupcake, why don't you go manage the catering samples while I sort this out? I'm sure you will love the red velvet cake, I sure did!"

A wide smile breaks out on your lips, you give him a kiss on the cheek before running off to the kitchen, nothing but sweet red velvet cake and cherry pies on your mind. Welcomed by the scent of whipped cream and lemonade you're carried by your stomach to the caterer holding the delicacies.

Your tasting is interrupted by the loud banging of metal outside and you consider scolding your lazy workers, but give your attention to the cake samples instead.

You're sampling the chocolate red velvet with cherry frosting when Bad bursts through the doors, wiping his face with the crimson handkerchief you'd gifted him last anniversary. A sweet smile fills your face, "Honeypie, try this one!"

When his eyes meet yours, your heart fills with a sugary coating that seeps through your veins and directly into your brain, "I've had my filling, which one is your favourite?"

Humming, you let your body rest against his, "Mhm... Chocolate is the best, by far... But lemon is so good!"

"You've got a little bit of whipped cream..." His whispers are hot against your lips before he captures them, tongue flicking across the corners and to your cheek.

The heat in your body is noticeable.

"Thanks..."

"Mhm... This one is the best."

You giggle, slapping his chest, "You're so corny–"

"Only for you, my little blueberry muffin."

When the workers leave, the hall is a dazzling ruby tone all over, the vines seem to almost glow in pride, cascading from the ceiling like a blood waterfall. You wade through the floor they carefully polished, carpet over the dining room muffling your steps.

"Oh, it's perfect, honey bun!"

Bad gleams in joy, rushing to your side, admiring you almost as much as he adores the vines. "I was worried they wouldn't make it in time, but it's perfect."

"What about the mechanisms?"

"Ah, yes, Ant did a great job, come, look..." He holds your hand, pulling you through the hallway leading to the the egg. "We'll have them step right here," pointing to a large tile on the ground, he pulls a lever, which quickly raises it about two feet above your head. "And then it's just, wack!" His hands swing around in an attack motion and you smile.

Your heart palpitates at the thoughts of watching the sacrifice, having the best seat. From the raised position, the blood would splatter all over the watchers, a cloud of beautiful crimson falling at their heads.

"Oh...my almond cookie, this is beautiful! The Egg will be so proud!"

Bad chuckles at your praise, letting himself blush. He pulls the lever to lower back the platform as to leave everything in place.

You take a step forward, the heels of your shoes announce your movement. Standing at the centre, you face the egg, an unnatural warmth fills your chest. You pull at your blouse to appease your brain, though you know it wouldn't help. When your eyes meet Bad's, you can see his breath hitch, he makes it out as a cough.

"Join me, sugar bear!" You reach out your arms, eyes reflecting the red of everything around you.

Bad doesn't hesitate to follow your orders, pulling the lever and running across to catch the platform as it rises above the ground. You catch him in your arms, hands gliding across his chest and nape, he shivers under your touch.

"Do you want to give The Egg a show, muffin?'

Your pulse is so fast you believe anyone would be able to hear it, human or not. "Yes..." You nod, voice too breathless for the lack of action. The smile that catches his lips is almost demonic, and your chest craves him. His hands tease at your chest and you melt into his touch, "Please..."

"If you ask so nicely..." His whispers fall deaf in your ears but cut deep into your skin, burrowing in goosebumps along your body. "...Then I can't refuse."

When your lips meet his, it's sweet.

Sweeter than anything else you could ever wish for and you want to get lost in his kisses.

He holds you gently, but below the delicate fingers, there's this firmness that makes your heart stop. You know no one else could ever pry you off his arms and you're not opposed to the idea of being with him, on him 24/7.

Tongue exploring your mouth, you moan, hands occupied with fistfuls of his white dress shirt. You tug at the golden buttons, wanting nothing but to feel his chest on yours, let his body heat consume you and lull you into comfort.

"Do you trust me, muffin?"

You nod, your eyes glazed in lust can barely focus on his at this point. Bad smiles, placing a kiss on your forehead, he inhales your taste, your scent, your everything.

And then, he pushes you off the platform.

You feel the way your heart immediately jumps at the sight of danger, there's this cold that pools in your stomach and runs through your body, lowering your body temperature.

And before you know, you... fall?

But you don't meet the ground.

When you open your eyes, you're met with the under view of Bad's prideful grin. The vines around your arms feel hot, too hot. But they lift you up until you're in his reach again.

"Hi..." You breathe out, your heart still too unsettled to spot pounding in your chest.

You thought you'd die, or at least, get badly injured. Not that you didn't trust him, but maybe he made some errors in his calculations.

But then, again, if he wished for you to fall without the vines this time, you probably would.

And Bad pulls you in his arms, nose brushing against yours and you wonder how would ever doubt your little muffin?

"Did I scare you too much?" He caresses your cheeks, brushing your hair away from your face with so much adoration in his eyes you feel like a deity.

"No... just a little jumpscare."

He chuckles, kissing your nose softly, "Good."

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting his body flush against yours and fit you so perfectly. But you know you wish for a little bit more; after so much adrenaline, you feel some little... cravings.

And as if he read your mind, his hands wander your body, reaching for your waist with a little bit more force than usual. His fingers have no difficulty taking care of your belt or pants, he picked them out, anyway.

You let yourself loose in his kisses, your own fingers lost in his hair, pulling around the corners you know he likes a bit too much just so you get to hear his sugary moans. You devour each and every noise that escapes his throat.

Before you know, he’s got you in just your underwear. His lips leave yours for a second to take your hand and spin you around.

You don’t let go of the glisten in his eyes as he looks you up and down, tongue grazing over his lips hungrily. He could eat you up and it’d never be enough. No time with you would ever be enough.

Bad spins you just enough so now you’re facing the egg once again, back pressed tightly to his chest. His breathing bounces off your neck, making you swallow dry, hands nervous down your sides, wanting to touch him and feel him up—

“Look at how pretty you are, my little peanut,” His tongue glides along your cheek to reach your earlobe. “The Egg is so pleased with how beautiful you are... Let’s show your even prettier faces, should we?”

You nod, melting into his arms as his hands graze along your body; from your chest to your waist to your hips. His long fingers play with the band of your underwear, torturing you just so he can have the little whines that escape your throat unconsciously. When you reach behind your shoulder to pull and tangle his hair he chuckles along your skin.

His fingers are on you, skilfully reaching for the most sensitives places of your body. And you arch into his touch, leaving your neck fully exposed for him to nibble and suckle.

Your skin, otherwise perfect, is blemished with the traces of him.

Your lips crash against his, this time, more passionate than ever, all while his fingers don't lose their pace.

You're near your climax, your stomach churning around his fingers but it's worthless coming if it's not on him.

"Bad... Pudding, I need you..." It's a needy half-moan.

"Tell me the magic word, bombon..." His lips graze along your shoulder and you know, you feel it in your back how much he needs you, too. His face is completely flushed, the heat spread across his cheeks only rival your own heat, throbbing and needy.

"Please, baby, please... Give me–.... Please, I need you. Fuck me–"

The lustful smirk that takes over is by far not of his nature but you were his little bad influence.

"Mhmm..." Bad sings along your skin, one hand placed over your stomach and another on your shoulder blades.

He bends you over, the vines quickly tightening their grip over your arms; letting you hang as if you were laying down. While busy with his buckle and pants, he let his eyes fuck you over and over, the way your back looks to him, the faint red glow that touches your skin; You turn your head around and there's this lust, this yearning that grows on your belly.

Because Bad's otherwise kind, honey-brown eyes have now turned a devilish crimson.

His hands are rough when they pull off his pants, soon, coming around his cock, rock-solid and bright red. You wrongly assumed it might have been the redness of the room bouncing off his pale skin. There's a part of your brain that believes he's even bigger than you remembered though you chuck it to the amount of time it has been since your last.

You watch the inhuman amount of precum that drips from his glande and over his fingers, your mouth watering, tongue unconsciously running over your lips. Your reaction makes him chuckle.

Positioning himself at your entrance, his other hand leaves marks across your hips, holding you more firmly than he'd ever had. Not that you were complaining.

The tip goes in effortlessly, leaving behind this stretch that fills every particle of your being and clouds your thoughts with the ache of his cock. You hear him hiss, hands curling around your skin, leaving fingerprints all over. You're sure you will be admiring them tomorrow.

"So tight–" He hisses once again, "So, so tight– Just for me..."

Your eyes are rolling around in their sockets when he finally bottoms out, seemingly infinite in your canal. His fingers drag along your spine, ever so kindly letting you adjust before moving, even if his instincts are begging him otherwise.

When the expansion settles, you're unknowingly rolling your hips toward his, the grip of the vines making it harder to take control. But he lets ouch a soft chuckle, an adoring look sweeps his eyes for a second, so proud of your boldness. You were always a go-getter.

He is painfully slow, taking in every second of it, hitting your walls with a determination that makes you moan out incoherent strings of what you believed were words.

The sounds that erupt from his throat are feral and inhuman by nature, settling in every inch of your bones and activating your flight or flee instincts. You wondered if the third instinct was fuck.

Your chest dips down, the vines now holding your arms above your head while Bad's grip on your hips don't falter, instead, the new angle allowing him to speed up his thrusts; not losing any of the strength. Your brain is filled only by him and how amazing he feels in you.

He moans your name along with praises of how well you're taking him and you wonder just how in the world could he make such a sinful sequence of words sound so heavenly. Alas, you don't give much thought, your brain once again being quickly clouded with his cock and only his cock.

Bad pulls your waist, letting your back meet his chest. This position only heightens every touch of his, you’re so close, so warm, so good...

"The Egg isn't liking how quiet you are, sugar plum..."

You smile, stuck between watching the hypnotic crimson and the eyes of your adoring lover that swallows your moans.

His name leaves your lips like a prayer,

You will show The Egg how good Bad is to you.

"Bad, honey– Uh– I'm–"

"I know, muffin," His whispers are a caress along your ears, lulling you into your release.

You scream his name, the moans bouncing off the spongy walls of the cave and returning to your ears, you feel the way his grip tightens around your hips, the way you're milking him doesn't help how hard he's trying to hold back, prolong his time with you as much as he can.

"You're so good for me, just one more, babycakes..."

Every inch of your skin feels hot to the touch, even more than before. It's like you're on fire and freezing cold at the same time, each part that touches his body is a million times more sensitive. You feel each and every millimetre of his moves, the pleasure echoing around your body in waves.

"I don't know if I can." You shake your head, barely being able to think at this point, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

"Shh... You can, you're so good for me... So tight... You take me so well."

"Fill me up, pumpkin... Please, fill me up to the brim, let me feel you–", you moan, "–Fill me up so much I'm dripppin'!"

Oh, your Bad was too good for you.

His words are what tip you over the edge, getting him to catch his own climax. His hands don't leave your body, his lips coming to kiss all over your neck and jaw.

You melt into his touch, the vines releasing your arms and legs so you can collapse into him. He catches your body, coming to a sit and letting you sprawl over his chest, your hands reaching out to caress his hair.

"My little naughty cookie, if you spill one drop I'll have to fill you all over again..."

You giggle into his kisses, "Oh, no!" you exclaim sarcastically, giggling in between your words. He laughs, kissing your cheeks and forehead and everywhere he can get his lips on. Because you deserve so much, heavens, you're just perfect and you take him so well and you were made for him–

You feel loved.

You watch the glow of the vines brighten for a second and you both hum knowingly.

The Egg has been fed.

After all, there is a reason why orgasms were called "The little death."

#c: badboyhalo #mcyt smut #k: breeding #k: exhibitionism #k: overstimulation #the egg is packing #canonically besties its packing