Short Story - Blog Posts

I just made my 3rd poppy playtime story on A03 with my good friend Qibsichan AU smaller bodies

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56227324/chapters/142841473

This is made while I had Covid so this isn’t my best work I suggest you check my others being either smiling Olympics or let’s paint

(Let’s paint): https://archiveofourown.org/works/54900325

Smiling Olympics: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55245436/chapters/140132872

Story time

So, I was on the bus this evening. It’s a bus with middle schoolers and high schoolers on it and I was hanging out with my high school friend. He’s in 10th grade and I’m in eighth grade and I was playing around with my recently deceased dogs choke chain, and I put it on my wrist like it was handcuffs, and he jokingly grabs the middle of it, puts my arms up and pins me against the window, and we were talking like I wasn’t pinned against the window!

“So how was math? Finally finish your homework?”

“It was good, and no.”

“Well what can I do for ya' darling?”

“Um letting me go would be nice?”

“But your just so pretty from this angle…”

um what?

I’m writing this so there’s some kind of record in case I die. When I die, maybe. The longer this has gone on the more inevitable that has felt. I don’t know why this is happening or who is doing it to me. I wish I could point a finger at someone so the cops or whoever finds me after all this is over can get the bastard doing this, but…there’s nothing. Nothing!

I think I’m getting ahead of myself, though.

I’ll start at the beginning.

No one gets regular mail anymore. Everything is done through email or DMs. I mean, people still get junk mail and stuff, but not like mail-mail. I think that’s what made me so curious when I got the first envelope.

It didn’t have my address on it, or any stamps, or even a return address. Just my name written in a tidy script in the very center of the white rectangle. It wasn’t a legal envelope—more like the kind birthday cards come in. I don’t know why, but at the time it unnerved me. It wasn’t anywhere near my birthday, and the handwriting didn’t look like anyone’s I knew.

The envelope isn’t what’s important, though. I mean, it kind of is, but what was inside the envelope was more important.

The flap was tucked into the envelope, unsealed. When I opened it, two Polaroid pictures spilled out into my hand, one after the other in an eager cascade. If I didn’t know better, I would have said they jumped out of the envelope.

Curious and more confused by the moment, I flipped the pictures over.

The first one looked like something out of a horror movie. It showed a large concrete (or what I assumed was concrete) room. Concrete walls, floor, ceiling. In the center of the room was a hooded lamp hanging down over a person, naked, and tied to a chair. They were slumped forward, body weight straining against the ropes that bound them to the non-descript metal chair.

I blinked down at the thing, confused and more than a little worried. I had no idea why someone would send this to me. The shadows in the picture were too thick to make out the person’s face. I wondered if it was someone I knew, if this was supposed to be some kind of ransom demand, but there was no note accompanying the photos. My heart was already hammering as I looked at the other photo, hoping to find answers.

Instead, I found a picture of my face.

There, in halide and plastic, was my fucking face.

A pit opened up in my stomach as I stared down at it and my brain went blank. It refused to comprehend what was in front of it. In the photo, a gloved hand held a fistful of my hair, yanking it backward so my limp head rose enough to make me recognizable. My features were slack, like I was half-asleep or maybe drugged. I looked back to the gloved hand, but the wrist and arm were both covered by the sleeve of a sweater, making any guess as to who they were impossible.

It felt like the air had been punched out of me. I realized I was shaking, but couldn’t bring myself to look away from the half-lidded eyes—my eyes—in the picture.

I thought it had to be Photoshop—what else could it be?—but how do you Photoshop a Polaroid? It was one thing to create a Polaroid effect in the program, but that didn’t mean you could create a physical one. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know much about photo editing, but I supposed it was possible to Photoshop something like this and then take a picture with the Polaroids. But I couldn’t see anything in the pictures to indicate they weren’t legitimate. Either way, I couldn’t stomach whatever sick joke someone was trying to play.

I tossed the photos in the trash, and tried to put it from my mind.

And before you ask: yes, I thought about going to the police, but I didn’t think they would do anything. Technically speaking, no crime had been committed so even if I insisted on making a report, and even if I could convince them to dust for fingerprints or whatever cops do, I had little confidence that whatever this was wouldn’t be filed away and never see the light of day again. And, I guess, part of me just wanted to forget about it. Can you blame me? Those pictures freaked me out and I just wanted to pretend it never happened.

A week later, thought, there was another envelope in my mailbox. Same nondescript white envelope, unsealed, with my name written in unfamiliar, tidy handwriting.

My first instinct was to toss it into the trash without looking at the contents. No way in hell did I want to see more freaky pictures made to look like I was being held captive or…or worse.

To this day, I wish I had listened to my gut and thrown the envelope away—better yet, I wish I had burned it.

But I didn’t.

I can’t explain it. Even if I was a better wordsmith, I don’t think I could put into words the compulsion I had to open that envelope. It would be easier, even, to say that it was as if I was possessed—that it wasn’t really me unfurling the flap that had been tucked into the stiff white paper backing, or like I was being controlled when I pulled the next two photos out of the sheaf. But none of that is true. It was me. I did those things and I will never—never—stop regretting that I did.

Like last time, there were a pair of Polaroid pictures in the envelope.

But the images were…not like last time.

It was still my face in the images, and as best I could tell they—I?—was still in the concrete room. The same black-gloved hand had a grip on my hair, but this time…

(Jesus fucking Christ even just typing the words is hard; my hands are shaking just remembering it)

This time it looked as if I had been beaten bloody. The face—my face—was beaten almost beyond recognition. The only thing I had to really indicate that it was still me was the bone-deep feeling of recognition I had with the person in the image. My lips were swollen, bleeding from a split in the corner of the bottom lip. Bruises darkened my face, a cut on one cheek bone indicated where I’d been hit especially hard, and the eye on that side looked swollen and bloodied. Blood dribbled from my hairline and ran in rivulets down the side of my face.

Just looking at the picture made me feel like I needed to bolt. I wasn’t sure where I would go or for how long, but the need to get out of my home and go somewhere—anywhere else—was intense. But how could I go? I had no way of knowing who was doing this. They could be anyone I spoke to on the street. Someone I knew. A stranger. Where could I even go that would be safe?

I fought to control my breathing as I paced in my kitchen, needing to move my body before I screamed. It took all of my willpower just to stay indoors instead of running out into the streets and just run, run, run.

Finally, I looked at the other image.

A second hand had entered the frame, wearing black gloves like the first one and holding a pair of pliers. The rusted metal tips were inside my mouth, clamped onto a bloodied tooth already halfway out of a socket. My face was still swollen and beaten, lips stretched wide in a silent scream that I could all but hear. Tears made clean streaks through the rivers of blood on my face.

I remembering swearing over and over, my spine slick with sweat as I looked at the image over and over, trying to discern anything that could help me find out who was sending these fucked up images and why, but there was nothing. It felt like there was too much air in my little kitchen and yet I couldn’t get any of it into my lungs.

That was the first time I’d had a panic attack.

I didn’t know what it was until my friends found me a short time later, huddled in a corner and hyperventilating. In full honesty, the rest of that night was a blur. I remember my friends helping me drink water, trying to talk me down from whatever ledge they thought I’d climbed to. Despite my fears and uncertainties of who could be sending the pictures, I made the choice to trust them. Desperate for someone to see what I was seeing and help me figure out what to do or who to talk to, I tried to show them the Polaroids, but when they looked at the pictures, there was only a square of darkness, as if whoever had taken the picture had left the lens cap on.

The pictures were gone.

And yeah, I get the whole ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ thing. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to convince my friends or the police without proof. The next time the envelope showed up, I tried to take pictures with my phone. The one after that, I tried to record a video. It didn’t matter. No matter what I did, the files were corrupted, unusable, or gone. Just gone. Deleted themselves so thoroughly I couldn’t even dig them out of the trash folder in my phone gallery.

At that point, I thought I’d lost my mind. I couldn’t think of a single logical reason why or how this was happening. Not for the Polaroids, or why no one else could see them, or what was going on with the digital files. None of it.

Meanwhile, the images in the Polaroids were getting…worse.

A sick feeling rolled in my stomach daily. As much as I wanted to believe these were some kind of deep fake, there was something about it that felt so undeniably real. It got to a point where I couldn’t go out to my mailbox without the anxiety forcing me to empty the contents of my stomach. I had to wait until someone came to visit and ask if they could get my mail for me. And there was always an envelope along with whatever junk or bills that had been piling up. Every. Single. Time.

The stress made my life impossible. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t even leave the house most days. If I did, there was always the chance that my tormentor could find me and make good on all the threats they’d been sending me. At that point, that was all I could think of those Polaroids as: promises of violence.

Even now, I feel like I’m marching toward an inevitable pain. A future filled with only pain and suffering and that no matter what I do, there’s no stopping it. Only delaying it.

But I digress.

One of my friends said I needed to get help. Maybe I should have listened to them back then, but I was convinced that if I couldn’t get proof of the pictures themselves, then I would get proof of whoever was putting the envelopes in my mailbox. I figured I could at least that that to the police.

I ordered one of those self-installation security systems—the one with the off-brand Ring doorbell, cameras on my front door, mail box, etc. I even bought extra locks for my doors and windows. I spent the rest of the day setting up and testing my new security system. By the end of it, I felt pretty proud of myself. I was certain I was going to catch whoever was doing this and could turn them into the cops and all of this would just be a big bad dream. But I was wrong.

Sure enough, the security system picked up on movement around midnight that night. The new motion sensor light on the porch sprang to life, illuminating a figure wearing a dark hoodie. I jolted as fear struck me like lightning. They were tall, wide, imposing. They seemed impossibly large. Unavoidable. Undeniable.

I was watching them through the lens of a camera with two locked doors between us, and yet I felt as small and vulnerable as if they were in the room with me at that moment.

My eyes roamed the figure over and over, trying to find some kind of distinguishing features, but they angled themselves so the light shone from behind them. They became a dark silhouette—a shadow of death.

They stood there, still and stone for what seemed like hours. Even with the video on fast-forward, they hardly even swayed. Near 3AM, they turned, very slowly, toward the camera as though they knew exactly where to look for it. With agonizing slowness, they reached a gloved hand into their pocket and pulled out three polaroid photos. The camera refocused as the figure brought the pictures closer to the lens.

The first picture showed me duct tapped to the same chair with the figure standing behind me. Instead of pliers, they held a knife. The figure on my screen held up the second photo. In one hand they held the knife. In the other, an ear.

I wanted to look away, wanted to delete the video and crawl deep, deep under the covers of my bed, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed at a cellular level as the figure showed the third picture. The same bloodied knife hovered over the image of my downcast head. For a moment, I thought all that had changed between photos was the position of my head, but I soon realized something else had changed. The ear in the hooded figure's hand...it was the other ear.

My hands were shaking as I watched the figure pull the photo away from the lens. They dropped them onto the doorstep and walked away into the night.

I was practically soiling my pants but I took the security footage down to the police. When I pulled it up to show them…you guessed it. The file was corrupted and unusable. The police told me that without evidence or a suspect, they couldn’t even make a report. Useless bastards. No wonder people don’t like cops! I was basically trapped in my house, terrified, at my absolute wit’s end, and they couldn’t even make a report?!

Anyway, like I said at the beginning, I’m writing all of this in the inevitability of my death.

It’s been a few weeks since I was able to capture that first video, and my large friend has been on my doorstep every night. They don’t always have pictures. Sometimes they just stand there, staring at the camera lens as if they can see through it and into my eyes. My soul?

On the nights when they do have photos, they’re…I can’t even say. Each one is worse than the last, detailing my slow and steady dismemberment.

I can’t explain why, but I know that once the photos finally detail my death, that this figure is going to come for me. It isn’t going to matter how many locks I have on my doors, or how many weapons I horde in order to protect myself. It’s going to get in here and it’s going to take me and it’s going to do to me every single thing that happened in those pictures.

I still don’t know how or why this is happening, only that I can’t avoid it any longer.

I’m scared. God, I’m so fucking scared, but I don’t know what else I can do. If there’s even anything that can be done.

My friends have given up on me and I don’t have any family. Not even a pet. I’m alone. Just like in those photos. So, if you’re reading this, know that they’re my last words. I needed someone else—anyone else—to know what happened to me. I don’t know if you’ll believe a word of it, but if nothing else, can you do me a favor? Remember me. Please. I’m so alone and so afraid and I know that eventually I’m going to disappear. I just don’t want to be forgotten, too.

I don’t know how I got there.

Or, rather, I’m not sure.

Last I’d remembered, I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by my family. My husband, my daughter, and a couple doctors were standing by. I held my husband’s hand tight as I had gone into a seizure, side effect of an inoperable brain tumor. I’m fairly certain I died.

Yet here I was. On a rain-soaked street in what appeared to be any town in the Midwest, a bar in front of me, with two neon signs – a pretty typical ‘open’ sign, and a glowing white, cursive word – Purgatorio.

Not knowing what else to do, I went up to the door, tried to push it open, and the door held fast. I looked down, saw the sign that said ‘pull’, and obeyed. The door opened with ease, and I found myself in an empty bar – well, mostly. A man stood behind the counter, wearing a white dress-shirt, black jeans, a tie, and a black apron. He was wiping down the bar with a grey rag, and music – some folk rock band – played quietly from the speakers. As I walked in, a bell rang, and the man looked up.

He was a young man on the cusp of middle age, with black hair, pale green eyes, and a pierced right ear. He seemed unsurprised, and he called me forward. “Well,” he said, “Come in, have a drink.”

He pulled a bottle of whiskey from beneath the counter, and a tumbler glass. Getting ice from an old-fashioned machine behind him and putting some into the glass, he gestured me towards him again. “Come on, boy. You haven’t got much time until someone comes to collect you. It’s good to have a guest.”

I moved forward, and sat down in a leather stool at the bar. He poured whiskey into the glass and handed it to me. I looked at it, and then at his expectant face. “I don’t have any money,” I said, patting my clothing to look for a wallet I was pretty sure I lacked. I was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt under a simple grey hoodie. And no, I did not have a wallet, much less my own.

“I don’t want money,” he laughed. “I’m not in this for cash.”

He leaned in, and said in a voice alight with childish glee, “I do this for the stories. I’d like to hear yours, or as much of it as you want to share.”

I looked at him, and saw his nametag. It read, “Hello, my name is: Dante A.”

“What is this place? Why am I here?”

He poured another couple fingers of whiskey into the tumbler and gestured for me to drink. I took a sip. It was a good whiskey.

“Well, kid, you’re dead. Sorry to have to break it to you like this.”

Caught in the middle of another sip of whiskey, I gagged a little. “I can’t be dead – I’m here.”

He nodded. “Logical. But answer me this – where is here?”

Looking me up and down, he continued. “Because last you remember, you were somewhere else. It may have been a hospital bed, or in a car, or at home going to bed – but you woke up here, right outside my bar.”

He stepped away a couple steps and wiped down another part of the table. “As to your family, who are they? Tell me about them.”

I looked at him as suspiciously as I could, but it made a weird kind of sense. I began to speak, and the words poured out. He listened intently, nodding along as he cleaned up the bar. I told him how I’d met my husband – at a pride rally, in 2003. We’d fought tooth and nail for what we had – all the way up until our marriage was legalized and we could get married in our home state of Virginia. We settled down, opened up a book shop, and adopted our daughter.

All the while, while I droned on and on about my family, Dante looked like he was having the time of his life. He didn’t speak, only prodding me for more details. My daughter’s school teachers, what were they like? My husband, what was he like? He seemed insatiable in his lust for more information.

I drank as I spoke, and Dante refilled my glass each time I emptied it, and I found myself laughing at my own retelling, as I finished story after story. It felt like hours had passed.

Finally, I stopped. “Is this it?” I asked him, not feeling particularly drunk at the moment.

He looked at me, a twinkle in his eyes, and said, “Not even close.”

He leaned against the bar which he had finished cleaning, and looked out the rain-beaten windows at the front of the establishment. He seemed to fade off a little bit. I got his attention again, “I mean, is this all there is for the rest of eternity? Just sitting here and talking to you?”

He laughed. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Shrugging, I began again. “I mean – what about heaven? What about hell?”

He poured himself a glass and refilled mine. “What about heaven? What about hell?”

“Do they exist?”

Taking a sip, he spoke. “Yes, they do. I’ve seen them both.”

“And what’s this place?”

“A halfway point, sort of. For souls to wait for their guides.”

“Guides?”

“Angels, for the good. Devils for the bad. I get what I can out of those who come through. I remember your mother, when she came through. She said a lot about you.”

My mother had died some fifteen years ago. She was probably the most supportive person I’d ever known, and the first person I came out to. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had sat here, talking for hours to the same person I was, sharing stories of her life.

“Who came for her? Angel or devil?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know who comes for who, only that they do.”

“And what about you? Did anyone come for you? Will anyone come for you?”

He shrugged again. “I’m happy here, I built this place. I listen to stories. I guess that’s always been my job and my dream.”

“Do you ever want to move on?”

He paused, shrugged a final time, and then he perked up. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you, your story, your life? We’re nearing the end of your time here.”

“Where do you think I’ll go?”

He grabbed my hands, and looked me in the eye. “Look at me. Listen. You are the only judge of your life. Where do you think you deserve to go?”

I was a little dumbstruck. “I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of people tell me I’m going to hell.”

Dante looked up at the ceiling, muttered something in what sounded Italian, and looked back at me. “Well, in the words of the great Lewis Black, fuck them.”

“I’ve seen good people, I’ve seen bad. I’m not a judge, but most I can tell plain as day. And you, my friend, are not a bad-“

I heard a rapping at the door. Outside was standing a plain-looking man, dressed in a suit and tie, with steel-grey hair and an unyielding disposition. I looked at Dante. “What do you think?”

“Go,” he said, waving me on. “Go to where you belong.”

I walked back out through the door, and the man looked at me.

“You the new arrival?”

Looking back, at Dante, now thoroughly wiping the table again. “I suppose,” I said.

“Good. Would you step into the vehicle, please?”

I looked at the car behind the man. Black and simply-built, it looked solid enough. He opened the door, and I sat inside. He went around to the other side, got into the driver’s seat, and began to drive.

“Where are we going?”

He looked at me in the mirror, a stern expression on his face. Cracking a smile, he began to speak.

“On,” he said.

After you die, you expected an afterlife or either Heaven, or Hell. Instead you find yourself standing in front of a pub named ‘Purgatorio.’

He sat upon a hilltop, watching out over the plane of existence he lived in. He was a demon, minor lord of a plane of Hell. Unfortunately, he was melancholic about his life and the position he was in.

His father was Lucifer, the king of fallen angels, and lord of all of Hell. His mother was Lilith, the first human. In this sense, he was closer to humanity than any of his siblings; the only child of the cursed, immortal woman who had never truly fallen – at least not in the sense that man had.

He had dark, curly hair, short horns growing from his forehead, and black, leathery wings. He wore only a simple tunic, with a belt tied at the waist. He needed no shoes, and he was discontent with his lot in life.

For he was a simple creature, in his own way – all he desired in life was to drink and be merry, to spend his existence harming none in his debauchery. But that was not his job – he was the child of Lucifer, the child of blue flame – he was to be a fearsome creature, a servant of darkness – but try as he might, he could never bring himself to harm a soul – even the blackest among the damned were spared his whip, for he was a gentle soul – despite his appearance and heritage.

He sighed deeply, as his brother came up from the other side of the hill. “Iscarbiel,” hailed the demon, “What are you doing?”

The demon, dressed similarly but with a blue skin and red eyes, pointed teeth and large, curling ram’s horns, a longsword strapped to his side, walked up and sat beside him. “Nothing, Jimarciel,” said Iscarbiel.

“Nothing,” said Jimarciel, gnashing his teeth, “Nothing seems to be all you do nowadays!”

Iscarbiel leaned back, onto the scorched black grass of Asphodel. “Leave me be, Jimarciel. You do enough evil for the both of us, is that not true?”

Jimarciel laughed, a haughty, unearthly rattle. “Indeed I do,” he ceded, “But it is not me that father cares about. You are his favorite, and he demands your presence. Good luck, little brother.”

Iscarbiel got up, stretched, and began walking down the hill, towards the blackened hellscape through the fields of the damned, towards the black castle atop a mountain. His ears numb to the screams of the tortured, he flapped his wings once, twice, and was lifted, flying upwards towards the castle in which he lived, and hated with almost every fiber of his being.

Landing on a parapet encasing a balcony, avoiding the wickedly-pointed spears every couple of feet, and climbing down, he walked into his room, down the stairs and into the throne-room of his father.

His father looked much the same as him, with pale skin and a goatee, but with straight hair kept short, and nearly three times the height of a normal man. Sitting on a throne of dragon-bone and cushioned with blackened fabric, he walked forward, between tables where demons and fallen angels sat feasting on roasted animal carcasses, drinking wine of finest vintage.

Lucifer was angry. Iscarbiel walked slowly forward, to stand in front of his father.

His father glared at him, and began to speak in a voice, deep as the fathoms of the ocean and booming like thunder. “My son… you are weak.”

The assembled court laughed at this, as they continued their feast. Slamming the butt of his pitchfork, the symbol of his rule, into the ground, Lucifer bellowed, “Silence!”

“You have not tasted blood. You are not a torturer, like Jimarciel, or a general of great renown like Falzlynnel. You are not a magus, like Arunic, or a soldier, like Varysin. You are… weak.”

Loathing dripped from every word he spoke.

“But there is hope for you yet, my whelp, for our guards have caught something that you can… play with.”

Iscarbiel would sweat, if his body could, and fear crept into him like a poisoned dagger. What would his father have him do?

“An angel, sent by my father, to spy on me. Caught by Jimarciel, and brought alive to our dungeons. You will torture it until it swears allegiance to me, and then slaughter it. This is my command; carry it out and your rewards will be great. But be warned,” he almost whispered, in a sibilant hiss, ‘If you fail me, your screams will be far louder and greater than any that now resound across my plane.”

Iscarbiel kneeled, silently, trying to think of a way out of this. None was forthcoming, unfortunately.

“Lonchoriel! Show him to his prey.”

A fallen angel, dressed in fine, purple robes, stood, bowed before Lucifer, and spoke, “Thank you, my lord.”

Lonchoriel lead Iscarbiel down a spiral staircase to the left of the throne room, not speaking as he walked down, down into the depths, beyond the castle and into the bowels of the mountain. Finally, they entered the dungeons, darkened cells where his father’s prisoners were kept. Down the hallway to the very end, where a large door was chained shut. Whispering the password to the door, a word in a language only pronounceable by demons and the damned,  he turned and walked back down the hallway, speaking a simple warning. “Do not fail your father.”

With Lonchoriel gone, Iscarbiel gulped, and walked into the room, not knowing what to expect. He had never left his father’s realm – he had never waged war on the heavens, and he had never seen an angel. From the words of Jimarciel he expected an alien, monstrous entity – something of fire and death, whose hatred of the hells knew no bounds. Something awful, no doubt.

But walking into the torture chamber, he saw something he had never expected to see.

She seemed so… normal. Inhumanly beautiful, with amber hair – but still, alike to his mother and to him. Human in appearance, but with the feathered wings of a pure-white dove, folded behind her. Chained to the ceiling, kneeling on the ground but with her hands suspended above her head, she appeared barely conscious, with superficial bruises and cuts probably incurred in her capture. Upon his entrance, she looked up, and he saw her eyes – humanlike, but with orange irises that matched the shade of her hair. She spat on the ground – blood, red like a human’s, mixed in with the saliva. “Do your worst, demon,” she hissed.

Iscarbiel was dumbstruck. Moving to stand before her, he began to try and sound intimidating, “Fear me, angel, for I am the son of Lucifer – the Morningstar, the Blue Flame, the Lord of Hell – fear me because I am here to –,” he stopped, slapping his forehead. “Oh, enough talk.”

He pulled a tray of torture implements towards him. He was pretty sure how most of them worked – or, at least some of them. Picking up a scalpel, he moved towards her, and she glared at him, looking him in the eyes, unflinching as he moved the scalpel towards the flesh below her right eye. Just as it was about to touch skin, he stopped, stood up, put it down, hyperventilating. “Nine hells damn it all,” he exclaimed.

“You aren’t very good at this,” she observed, watching him closely.

“No, no I am not,” he concurred, staring down at the tray and shaking his head. “I’m Iscarbiel.”

“Anabiel.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

They stood there in silence for a couple moments, neither speaking, wondering what they should do. He couldn’t bring himself to torture her, and she knew it. His father was right. He was… weak.

“So, Iscarbiel, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know, Anabiel, what do we do?”

“You could let me go,” she said, cheekily.

“You have absolutely no idea how impossible that would be,” he sighed. “My father doesn’t trust me to do this, and I’m damned sure he’ll check in before the night is done.”

“Have you ever tortured someone before?” she inquired.

“Nope. Never before in my life have I done something like this. I mostly hung around his courts, listening to my older brothers’ tales of glory, how they torture the damned and kill angels – no offense.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t offended just a little bit.”

“Well, in either case – I never had the stomach for this sort of thing. I’m a fan of decadence, I take to the wine a little more than most, but I’m not a torturer. Any recommendations?”

“Well, torture doesn’t normally come with this much banter.”

“I figured as much,” he said, sitting down in front of her, pushing the wheeled cart aside.

“What will I do,” he pondered, half to himself. “I can’t torture anything, never have, probably never will. But if I don’t my father will torture me.”

“He’d torture his own flesh and blood?”

Iscarbiel laughed, and pulled down the front of his tunic a little to reveal a score of scars, aged and healed whip-scars. “it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Anabiel went quiet. “I’m sorry about your father,” she paused, as if shocked that she had said something like that. “I didn’t think I’d ever say that to a demon,” she explained.

“Well, I’ve never met an angel in my existence, so I think we’re both in rather uncharted territory.”

“Shouldn’t we loathe each other with every fiber of our existences?”

“Probably,” he said, “But I’ve never been particularly demonic or malicious, even for a demon. Especially for a demon,” he paused, then the questions came pouring out, “Why did you come to Hell? If I left, I’d never come back. Ever. Why risk it?”

She bristled, and then began to speak, “I can’t tell you that. Is this your endgame? Pretend to be incompetent and then hope that gets me to spill all the answers? I have to admit, that’s clever.”

“No, nothing like that! Honest!”

She spat on the ground again. “A likely story. Get out of here!”

He got up, a little in shock, and walked out of the room. Outside, he found someone waiting for him. Jimarciel was standing there, a disgusted look on his face. “I knew you couldn’t do it. Father’s right, you’re weak.”

He pushed Iscarbiel aside, and with a wave of his hand, disguised himself perfectly as Iscarbiel. “Leave,” he said. “I’m going to make her talk, and you’ll get the credit for it. I hate your weakness,” he growled, “But you are my blood, for better or for worse.”

As Jimarciel turned to the door, Iscarbiel grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t do it, Jii.”

Jimarciel turned back, and pushed Iscarbiel across the hall, to the base of the stairs. “And what will you do to stop me, whelp? You are a weakling. You can’t even torture a human soul – how could father have trusted you to torture an angel?”

Iscarbiel got up, shakily. And walked forward. “Back away, Jimarciel. I’m warning you.”

Jimarciel laughed and drew his longsword, blackened, infernal steel hissing with the evil with which it had been tempered. “Warning me, now, are you? Run away, you little fool, before I destroy you.”

Iscarbiel took a stumbling step forward, unarmed. Jimarciel laughed and took a stance, with his blade in position so it would be ready to strike. The air smelled of ozone as the blade crackled. “Don’t hurt her,” said Iscarbiel, shakily but resolute.

“Don’t hurt her,” mocked Jimarciel. “She’s an angel. She’s our enemy. Given the power, she would destroy us all. Don’t you care for your flesh and blood? Turn and flee, cur. It’s what you’re good at.”

A million memories flooded Iscarbiel’s mind. Of being bullied by his brothers, of Jimarciel and Falzlynnel laughing at him, beating him into a pulp and him being afraid to speak back. “Not anymore.”

Iscarbiel charged. He did not know what he had planned, but Jimarciel was ready. Driving the blade towards Iscarbiel, he expected an easy kill. But Iscarbiel was not so obliging. Diving into a roll, he went beside the blade, punching Jimarciel in the throat with all of his meager might.

Jimarciel gagged, a hiss, as his blade cleaved into the floor. Running into the cell, Iscarbiel grabbed a blade from the rolling cart of torture equipment. He looked at it, a simple enough dagger, and he readied himself to fight. Jimarciel growled, ripping his blade from the ground and turning to Iscarbiel.

“What will you do now, little one,” he hissed, “What will you do now that you’ve cornered yourself? I will take no mercy on you now.”

“I expected as much,” muttered Iscarbiel, readying himself to die.

Jimarciel laughed and charged forward, bloodlust making him foolish. This time he made sure to be ready for a quick dodge, but this time Iscarbiel was not going to dodge. Throwing himself onto the blade, he drove his dagger into Jimarciel’s heart. “What...?”

Jimarciel let go of his sword, looking down at the blade that had pierced his chest. The blade was of hell-forged steel, like his own. Pulling it out, he watched blackened ichor pour from the wound. Kneeling, then falling over, he moved no more.

Walking over to his brother’s corpse, with the longsword stuck through the right side of his stomach, ichor leaking from his pierced side. Groaning, he groped around on his brother’s corpse, finally finding it. His master key. Walking over to the angel, he unlocked her shackles. “Go,” he said, falling over and leaning on the ground, pain overwhelming, “Run. You can escape.”

Anabiel knelt next to him, lifting his head. “Go!” he hissed, barely able to breathe.

She put her hand to the base of the wound, then, reaching up, pulled it free from his stomach. He screamed, but she covered his mouth. Putting an ichor-soaked finger to her mouth, indicating silence, she put a hand on the wound, whispered a word in Enochian, and it stitched itself shut. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Catching his breath, he nodded.

They made their way up the stairs as quietly as possible, and he whispered to her, “At the top of this staircase is my father’s throne room. If I distract them, you can escape out the balcony at the back of the room. You can still fly, can’t you?”

She nodded. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll guard your escape and follow if I can.”

She looked worried.

“Don’t concern yourself with me,” he whispered. “I’m demonspawn, remember? I’m not capable of redemption.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and Iscarbiel ran into the center of the room, quite a sight, covered in black ichor as he was, both his own and his brother’s.

“Father!” he screamed. Lucifer rose from his throne, holding his pitchfork resolutely. “I’m tired, father. I’m tired of my brothers. I’m tired of this court. I’m tired of you.”

“Watch your tongue, boy! I have fought gods! Destroyed nations! What have you done, apart from embarrass my bloodline?”

Iscarbiel saw Anabiel sneak out the back, and he laughed back at his father. “Embarrass your bloodline? Don’t make me laugh! You were defeated, what have your fights wrought you but this wretched place?”

Lucifer howled, his appearance shifting as he took a more suitable size, similar to his son’s. His skin was black as coal and his face a triple, with one on each side save the back. The eyes of each face glowed crimson, and his wings burnt black and skeletal. “Know your place, boy!”

Iscarbiel drew his blade into a ready stance, ready to fight. Lucifer charged, his attack pattern more sophisticated than Jimarciel’s. Within seconds, he had gripped Iscarbiel by the throat, lifting him into the air. “What has the angel brought out of you, boy? What hidden nature is this?”

Iscarbiel saw Anabiel, wings spread, flying off of the balcony and away, further and further, into the distance.

“Love, father.” Iscarbiel choked out.

“Love,” sneered Lucifer.

Dropping the boy, he struck forward with the pitchfork, driving it through Iscarbiel’s chest.

“Love will not save you, boy.”

Iscarbiel lay back onto the floor as ichor drained from his body, and he blacked out, and saw no more.

 ---Epilogue---

Iscarbiel awoke in a white, formless landscape. Standing across from him was a muscled angel, who seemed normal enough, save for the third eye in the center of his forehead. Getting quickly to his feet, he stood in a defensive stance.

“Fear not, worm. I am not here to harm you. I’m here to save you, per my sister’s request.”

“Who?” Iscarbiel began.

“Don’t be rude, Metatron,” spoke a familiar voice behind him. Turning, he saw Anabiel.

“Anabiel! How-,” Iscarbiel stopped himself before he said it. How was he not dead?

“I petitioned my father for your return. He sent Metatron to draw you out of the void. I accompanied.”

“Why?”

“I saw something in you, Iscarbiel. Something no demon has shown before.”

Metatron began to speak. “I see all, boy. I was there when your father betrayed his, and his brethren like me. I see in you what was in him before he turned from the light. Bravery. Honor,” here he paused, “Love.”

“Your bravery in offering your life to save an angel was enough to make you an anomaly; expecting nothing in return made you a hero. And heroes deserve heaven’s blessings, regardless of their father’s sins.”

Anabiel gripped Iscarbiel’s hand. “Follow me,” she said, and lead him into paradise.

You’re a demon. A pretty awful one, might I add. You should have been an angel instead. The other demons constantly harass you for not fitting in or being like them. You end up falling in love with an angel and you have to convince her that you’re not like the others.

Fire, Death, Light, Dark. There are many such abilities beholden to the Awakened. Those powerful souls who can command a fundamental force of nature with their will alone. There are thousands of us, an underground society operating even to this day, under the guise of governmental organizations and secret agents. Some of us are hired guns, sought out to bring down oppressive regimes – at least on paper. Many hone their abilities through such work. Others try their hardest to help those who need it. Some of us, though, hunt down our fellows who break the laws of the Covenant, an ancient document made by the First Council of the Awakened, to bind us all and keep us secret. Those hunters are called the Vyadha

I’m one of the latter; day to day, I’m a private investigator in sunny Miami, but once in a while, a next-to-unused fax machine (which is unlisted and even unplugged) will spring to life and print out my next target. A picture, a name, and some basic information will be printed out and I’m to hunt them down, wherever they be, all costs assured. Who finds out what they did, who sends the commands, no one knows. It’s the job of the Vyadha to hunt them down, and to recruit other Awakened to serve as Vyadha; once they take the oath, they are bound to hunt down all who break the laws until they lay dying. Those who fail become the hunted.

It was one boring Tuesday in the middle of November when the fax machine did just what it does, printed out the face of an attractive twenty-something boy. Long, unkempt but clean blonde hair, blue eyes, a well-defined jawline, and dressed in some combination of black and leather. The name and aliases read as follows.

ALEKSANDER KUZNETSOV

“The Bright One, Sunspot, The Light of God”

Twenty-two, Russian origin, currently hiding out in Crimea. You know what to do.

I looked at his face again. I didn’t know him, but then again, I didn’t need to, to know what he was. I looked closely at his face, and I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t just one of the hired soldiers, he was one of the “Razbudili Rebenka”, the child soldiers that saw use in the latter days of the Soviet Union, whose use continued into the late twentieth century by the disenfranchised pieces of the disbanded country. When their use became a risk to secrecy, they were killed by their handlers, soldiers who were unawakened. Even against the powers of nature, a single bullet can take our lives just as easily.

I’d guess he probably killed his handler. I wonder if he had even met one of his own kind. I wondered if it would have made a difference. Probably not; it was too late for him, regardless.

Getting up from my seat, I picked up my overcoat and put it on, looking in a mirror. An aged face looked back. I’d been at this for a long time. I was born in 1973, a child of a poor German-Jewish immigrant, whose parents had moved here to avoid the Nazis, and a black woman, and for the first fifteen years of my life I was happy enough. Then, they came.

The Erwechter Henker, a sect of Awakened Neonazis who sought to kill all awakened bloodlines from ‘lesser races’. They tracked down my father and struck. An awakened whose powers were to control fire burned our house down, killing my father, asleep in bed, my mother taking me and running outside. The awakened who had burned down the house was waiting outside with a group of unawakened. They took pleasure in beating me and my mother until I lay dying and my mother dead. That was when it happened, my powers awakened, the bloodline coming alive like fire devouring my blood.

My power is a rare one; the ability to affect matter with my mind. I can agitate it, move it, pressurize it, among other things. Within seconds I’d boiled the unawakened’s brains within their skulls, and shattered the bones in the awakened’s arms and legs. Unable to move, and therein unable to use his abilities, I took my pleasure slowly forcing all his blood into his head until it popped like an overripe cherry. I was sixteen years old.

I’m not ashamed of what I did that night; swearing to never let this kind of man do what he did ever again, I buried my family and left that night, to hunt down the rest of the Erwechter. Thanks to my efforts, their sect will never take root in America ever again. That took a decade and a half to do. By the end of it, I had burned every bridge in my life. I had no family; fascists had taken all that from me. It was then that he came to me, a Vyadha calling himself Jack the Reaper. His power, to control darkness, was used to hunt down Nazis across South America, to inspire terror in them before they died. He was near ninety when he came to me.

It was night, and I was drunk, aimlessly wandering around the streets in the dark, when he approached. He was dressed in a suit and overcoat, looking every bit the sophisticate. I looked like a vagrant, mostly because I was. I had no money, no goals – I had done everything I’d sought out to do.

“You are lost,” he spoke, his voice overlaid with a subtle German accent. “You are better than this, herr Abner.”

I looked at him closely, wondering if he was a spy of some sort. “Are you one of them?”

He shook his head at this. “Do not ever mistake me for one of those shizcoff.”

“Then who-“

“I am like you. I am Erwecht, Awakened,” he interrupted me. “I have spent my life hunting down the scum that have robbed us of our families, and I knew your grandfather and father before they came to America. I had heard he had a son.”

I nodded to this, it making sense even in my relatively inebriated state.

“He was a good man. I am sorry to hear what happened to him. I’m sorry that this is the fate that has befallen you; your vengeance was justified, but it should not have cost you the life you could have lived.”

I nodded again, accepting his statement. I’d have been lying if I had not thought the same thing, many times.

“I am here to offer you a chance at a new life; I am Vyadha, of the ancient order of hunters who destroy those who would break our laws. One such as the Erwechter Henker, and many such groups across the world. I have come to offer you the oath to join. It is a lifelong commitment, and should not be taken lightly.”

Here he paused, thinking for a moment. “I do not have much time left, myself. I have spent my years hunting much the same chaff as you, sending them to whatever awaits them. You can continue my work.”

From there, he handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, as well as a cell-phone, something somewhat rarer at the time.

I did not call right away. I continued to wander, the thought never leaving my mind.

But, one night, that changed. Two weeks later, I was taking the subway downtown, and came across a scene. Two muggers assaulting a black woman, calling her several slurs along the way. What charming fellows, with Celtic crosses and swastikas tattooed on their necks and the backs of their heads. I shouted at them, and one of them turned to me, drawing a gun. “What do you want, shitskin?” he asked, pointing the gun at my head.

“Leave her alone.” I stated, calmly. It wasn’t the first time a neonazi had pointed a gun at me. Wasn’t even the dozenth, or even the dozenth dozen.

He laughed, drawing back the hammer on the pistol. “Nah, I think I’ll kill you. Then-“ he gestured at the woman, “Me and my friend will do what we want to her.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” I said, this time cracking a smile.

“And why’s that, you n-“ he stopped as I broke his hand with my mind, dragging it down, and causing the gun to discharge into his foot. Screaming in pain, I picked him up by the throat with one hand, and threw him bodily into his friend. I nod with my head, indicating the woman to leave the station, as I did what I always do to Nazis. Leaving behind quite the gory mess, I pulled the phone out, and dialed the number. The voice on the other end was familiar. “Have you made your decision?”

Looking down at the corpses of my attempted murderers, I answered, “Yeah, I think I have.”

Two days later, I met him in central park. “I used my connections to get the investigations against you to stop,” said Jack, holding a lit cigarette. “Two men dead to gang-related activities, I am afraid.”

We both stop to laugh a little. “What do I need to do?”

He tossed me a silver knife and a piece of parchment with writing on it. “Cut your hand and say the words aloud. That is all that need be done.”

Drawing the blade across my hand, I read the paper.

“I swear on the Powers that Be to honor the first covenant, to hunt down the enemies of life itself, and to keep the secrets of the First Council. I swear this on my life, on the lives of my ancestors, and the power passed through blood. On this day, until my last day, I swear.”

I felt something change – like my awakening, but stronger. Pain, yes, but almost in a good way. Like a cleansing. “It is good to meet another Vyadha,” said Jack, “Welcome, brother Abner.”

That all seemed so long ago. Jack took me under his wing for a few years, introducing me to his contacts and other awakened, like us. But in 2006, at the age of 95, he died peacefully in his sleep, and I made sure he was buried with his dead family in Germany.

He left me a tidy sum, secret bank accounts holding liquid assets nearing a half a million dollars. Funds stolen from Nazis he had hunted.

Now, in the present, I boarded the first plane I could get to Ukraine, calling in favors from some of my contacts for information on the target. He was indeed of the Rebenka, and had indeed killed his handler. He was famous for his abilities, to channel light into his body and out through his hands. The effect could be anything from creating fire to blowing apart a building, depending on the strength of the light and his own desires.

I rued the fact that Jack had died so long ago, his ability to extinguish light would have come in handy in this venture. But, there are other ways to handle this.

Arriving in Ukraine, I was met by one of my contacts, an elderly woman who had lived through worse regimes than the modern Russians and had been a friend to Jack. She brought me to her son, a mechanic who had helped me and Jack in the past. War-torn countries are often havens for Awakened seeking to escape world governments. He gave me a vehicle, I took out a fake passport – one that claimed I was a reporter from the states – and set out for Crimea.

Within a day’s drive, I was in Crimea, and trying to figure out where Aleksander was. I hoped he’d been making a scene, but, as I knew was likely, he’d gone underground. It took a week of searching before I even heard of someone matching his description.

He’d fallen in with a gang in Sevastopol, who had protected him in exchange for his services as a ‘peacekeeper’, an enforcer who hunted down rival gangs. I tracked him to a club, called P’yana Svolota, and kept a close eye on the door, before following him into the club, wearing a thick hood and gloves. A black man in Crimea would stand out like a sore thumb. And there he was – dressed in the leather he seemed to like so much, attempting to woo a dancer – and by woo, I mean he was snorting coke out of her bra. He was laughing and chatting up a couple of suspicious-looking gents in suits in Russian. I couldn’t make a scene, killing him here. I’d probably kill him before he could do anything, but I’d most likely get shot for my trouble. I listened to their conversation.

“I want my salary doubled,” he said, sniffling a little.

“You’re already the highest-paid employer in our service,” said one of the men in suits. “We can’t justify paying you more – despite your valued service.”

Laughing, Aleksander brushed his blonde hair away from his face, and began again, “I don’t think you understand, I’m not asking – I’m telling you what I want, and you give it to me, or I drop more bodies than just your enemies.”

“The boss will hear about this,” said the other man, “You can’t just go making threats like this –“

“I can and I will, you mat’ shlyukhoy,”

The two men in suits stood up and walked out, and I watched as he pushed the dancer away roughly and got up, going to the bathroom. I followed.

Inside the dingy, graffiti-laden bathroom, I stood a couple urinals away from him and when he went to wash his hands at the pair of sinks, and I joined him at the other.

“Hey, man,” I said in English.

“What do you want?” he responded in an accent-laden English.

I turned to him and used my powers to throw him into the wall.

“Sukin syn!” he exclaimed, followed by a stream of likewise vulgar slurs.

Aiming a hand towards me, I dodged out of the way as a burst of flame went from his hand to the far wall, nearly taking me out. Using my abilities, I pinned his arms against the wall, and he responded by shooting light out of every bare bit of skin he had – brighter than a flashbang. Losing my concentration, he dropped to the floor, diving towards me while I was blinded. Recovering quickly, I used my abilities to turn off the lights in the room.

Remembering what Jack had taught me about fighting in the dark. Guard on all sides. Use your other senses, he had told me, be prepared for a strike from any side, but if both you and your opponent are on equal footing, make sure to face wherever they are coming from.

I drew from my pocket a switchblade that I had bought on the trip here, knowing telekinesis would be less than useless without my sight to guide it. I heard his footsteps as he ran towards me, and threw myself forward in a tackle.

Unfortunately, I dropped my knife. We grappled on the floor, and I heard sounds from outside, shouting. As I pinned Aleksander, the door slammed open, spilling light into the room. I rolled off of Aleksander as he blasted a beam of light from his bare hands, at what would have been me, but striking the ceiling. Finding the knife, I crouched as he rolled backwards, throwing himself forward into a standing position. Firing blast after blast at me as I dodged as fast as I could, I got closer and closer to him. A blast grazed my arm, melting cloth and burning flesh, painful but survivable.

Finally, I stabbed the knife through his right hand, causing him to scream in pain. Though he was trained in hand-to-hand, he was mostly a ranged opponent and was unused to physical pain in combat. Pulling the knife out quickly as he tried to blast me again, I drove the knife home, slicing through leather and into his right lung. A scream becoming a gurgling gasp as the lung collapsed, I knocked him off his feet, and finished the job, slicing across his throat. I turned and saw the man standing in the doorway, trying to draw his gun, but it was already too late. I threw him out of the doorway with my mind, ran outside and got back into my loaned truck, and drove.

It took me a week, three cars and a couple thousand dollars, but I made it back to the States, and to my house. Taking a beer from the fridge, I relaxed into my chair, and turned on the television. A rerun of Friends was playing. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and let out a groan. My bandaged arm still hurt like hell. Then, the fax machine in the corner began to beep and print again.

There are many types of Mages in the world. Fire, Ice, Wind, Water, Death, Darkness, to name a few. But in this world, every type of mage is treated as equal. Everyone can be a good guy, no matter how dark your power. And anyone could be a bad guy, no matter how beautiful their ability…

“I swear they’re coming around,” said the man in purple robes and a gold crown, as he wandered down the hallway, open to the outside world on the right side, with marble pillars. He had black hair, with a short, well-kept beard growing, giving him the appearance of perhaps a twenty-something year old man.

“That’s all well and good, my king,” spoke the man walking with him, of about the same age. This one was dressed in plate mail, carrying a longsword at his waist. The armor is finely wrought, of steel and adorned with images of lions fighting serpents and the sun rising on each shoulder. His hair is the color of steel, though he does not seem much older. “But it never hurts to be prepared. Especially when they have been routinely sending assassins after you. You barely got away with your life last time.”

“Ah,” said the king, waving the man off as if he had said something meaningless, “What’s a few Drividien Death-Scorpions between the two most powerful families in the realms? Besides, with you there, they may as well have been sending me bouquets, my knight,” he ended, on a sarcastic note.

The knight closed his eyes and sighed, turning to his lord and speaking in hushed tones, “You know even I will fail given enough time. It is better to not give them a chance.”

The king rolled his eyes. “You were much more fun before I became king, Iotharius.”

Iotharius nodded. “Simpler times. Better times.”

The king nodded as well. “I long for such times again.”

“So do I, my king.”

“Drop the, ‘my king’ business, Io. Once you’ve been ‘watching over’ the king for nearly six months it becomes a little bit of a moot point.”

Iotharius began to whisper, “We can’t discuss that here, my lord-“

“Io, they already know. Or at least they suspect. We spend far too much time around each other to avoid rumors arising, and my refusal to appoint other guards to me makes me an easy target.”

Iotharius laughed a little. “What would your father think, Lord TIberion the third?”

Tiberion giggled a little as well. “To hell with what the old bastard would’ve said, I say. He’s dead and in the ground, and I’m here among the living. He can lecture me on proper behavior when I join him.”

“Careful what you wish for, because with the way you’re acting, that may not be that far into your future.”

Tiberion shook his head, and got a little closer to Iotharius. “Well, then, maybe I should give him a little to scold me about,” he said, grinning playfully. “Would hate for the afterlife to be boring, after all.”

Iotharius was now leaning against the side of a pillar, with Tiberius having one arm next to him. Their faces were inches apart. “Tibe, don’t you da-“ he said as Tiberion began to put his lips against his own, and they began to kiss.

Iotharius was almost lost in the passion – for Tiberion was good at what he did – but he was a knight, for the gods’ sakes. Gently pushing Tiberion away from him, he straightened his armor a bit, and Tiberion straightened his own robes, a little bit huffishly.

“We need to be more careful, my lord.”

Tiberion rolled his eyes, and mimed the knight’s stoic manner when he was fairly convinced Iotharius wasn’t watching.

“And I saw that!” snapped Iotharius.

“I think they’re coming around. They haven’t sent any assassins after me for at least six weeks.”

This began as a response to a writing prompt, but it’s deviated enough from the premise to post without it.

She was walking down the crowded street to her secret laboratory, a street with merchant stalls and strange smells from the Yggdras caravans who brought great foreign cuisine and creatures for those whose purses were heavier than their heads.

She was not such a one.

She was a Dravidii, the caste of those magical metal-smiths who could make clockwork golems; strange entities of bronze, steam and the mystic chemical of aether that granted them life. But this science was not without flaw or risk; to create a clockwork golem could take years of effort, effort which could be wasted if a single part was out of order or the incantation to bind the will of the creator to metal and aether.

And this art is expensive, so she kept moving, ignoring the temptations of the sights and sounds; to a mind such as hers it was almost torture, for inquisitiveness was her favor and her foible, her birthright and her curse. Such is the flawed nature of the Dravidii.

Closing her eyes and focusing on her destination, she took a second to gather herself and, opening her eyes anew, she struck forward.

That is, until thirty seconds later, when she heard a voice emerging from a thickly perfumed stall to her right. A Yggdras woman dressed in a thick shawl that did little to hide her figure, holding an amulet in her right hand and a dagger in her left, was speaking to her. “Come here, Ivana.”

Dumbstruck by both the woman and by the woman’s knowledge of her name, she stepped towards the stall. “For fifty dras, this master-crafted amulet could be yours.”

Ivana looked at the amulet for a few seconds, sizing it up. It was definitely of Dravidii make, a net of bronze around a core of aether. She had never seen anything like it, and it was indeed finely wrought. To own it would be to own a piece of not just beauty, but power. Who knows what secrets it could contain. What she could learn from its workings.

Wide-eyed and a little mesmerized, she broke her gaze long enough to look down at herself.

She saw her formal clothing, plain and cheap as it was – with what little flair a Dravidii could add to it. Glued-on gears on her simple cap, some red cloth wrapped around her waist as a garnish for her belt on simple brown trousers, a matching, threadbare coat – fifty dras would be enough to starve her for another week or two, and she wasn’t sure she could make it through that. Not again.

As the thoughts whirred through her head like the bronze gears of her project, she finally came to her decision. Closing her eyes, she shook her head no, and turned on her heels to return to her path.

“Wait, girl.”

She turned back to the woman, who had taken a half-step towards her and outstretched a hand. Upon Ivana looking back, she regained composure. Whispering a little under her breath in a foreign tongue, the Yggdras woman began again, “I was rude. I apologize.”

Cocking a single eyebrow, Ivana stood silently. She had some inkling of what this was about; it was rumored that some Yggdras had the second sight, the ability to perceive some wisp of the future before it occurred. Each caste had their own magic, after all – the Dravidii the ability to bend metal to their will, the Yggdras the ability to perceive the future – but each must hone their ability, and not all had it to the extent of others.

“Learning the name of another to attempt to sell them a bauble is hardly a fair tactic,” said Ivana, somewhat feigning annoyance. Who knew, maybe she could get a discount.

The Yggdras woman nodded. “Let me offer you two things then.”

This time the raised eyebrow went a little higher. An offer freely made by a Yggdras merchant was a rare thing, after all.

“I offer you this bauble,” she said, taking three steps to stand in front of Ivana, and handing it to her. “And this,” she said, leaning forward, so that their lips brushed together into a subtle kiss.

Ivana blushed at this, and began stammering a little, “I… not… my…”

Putting the bauble into her coat pocket, she looked down at her feet, managed to mumble a quick thanks, and began off on her way at double-pace, without looking back at the (now, very confused) Yggdras.

She made it to her destination, after turning down an alleyway and about hallway towards the end, opening a hidden door with the touch of a button, disguised as an outwardly-pointed brick.

Entering the facility, she looked around, taking stock of her equipment and checking for changes. Her chair at the worktable was as she had left it, and the half-built golem lay on the table there, each finely-made piece interlocking to form a frame. Sitting herself down at the table, she leaned back and let out a heavy and self-exasperated sigh. She probably could’ve handled the merchant with a bit more tact, after all. Pulling out the bauble, she was surprised to see a bit of paper wrapped around it.

Extracting the paper, she found that it had writing on it. Reading it, she found it said only two things.

My name is Yvi, if you wondered

And beneath that, somewhat hastily scrawled as if done quickly out of embarrassment.

Dinner?

Looking down at her worktable, and her half-finished project, she weighed her options. Awkward as she was, she was loathe to turn down the opportunity to repay Yvi for both the gift… and (blushing at the thought anew) the kiss.

She looked at the bauble again, and began to work. The easiest way to clear her mind, after all, she supposed. Maybe the answer would be written plain in gears and screws.

Tinkering with the bauble, she found it had no catch or secrets, it simply existed as a finely-wrought artpiece. She knew it hid secrets, but how to gain them was a mystery. So, she fixed a chain to the amulet, and put it around her neck. Where better to keep it safe, after all.

She began anew on her golem, using her abilities to work bronze into proper shape, attach metal ligaments, wire the ‘nerves’ of the thing, and test the steam capacity, all the while, reminiscing of the history of this place, and of her family.

Her father had been a Vanis, whose abilities were charm and manipulation, but who had honestly fallen for her mother, a Dravidii that she had taken after moreso than her frankly foppish father. Her mother had been a clockwork golem-maker as well, working alongside her brother, Ivana’s uncle.

Her father had wandered into her mother’s shop one day, and began asking questions about how one makes a clockwork golem. Her brother had been intent on kicking the wayfarer out of the shop, despite his pretty features, but she was honestly transfixed by the curiosity she found in his eyes. He would show up daily, listening to her for hours about how the art of golem-building was partly a magical and partly a physical craft; a body could be made to the letter from a blueprint, but without the binding of a Dravidii’s will to the metal, there was no hope of it ever coming alive.

Ivana’s father returned day after day until he finally worked up the courage to ask her mother out to dinner. From there, a romance quickly blossomed. Ivana’s mother’s parents were long-since dead, so her brother, Ivana’s uncle, stepped in at a couple points to ensure Ivana’s mother’s fair treatment. And indeed, her father treated her well, though Ivana’s uncle would oft boast over dinner about almost breaking the fop’s nose a couple times to set him straight.

A year later, he proposed. A year after that, Ivana was born. But the pregnancy was hard on her mother – she never quite recovered her full health after, and bout after bout of illness took their toll, and finally her life by the time Ivana was eleven. Her father tried to comfort her, but Ivana spent the days in her mother’s study, until her father realized what he must do. Entrusting Ivana to her uncle, Ivana learned the art her mother had so cherished – the art of making a golem.

Now it had been eight years, and Ivana was building her third golem. Among countless basic prototypes, she had made two working complex golems – not the basic toys she could sell for fifteen dras apiece to collectors and children, but those golems worth thousands upon thousands of dras, whose very worth could spare her from the poverty that had surely claimed her mother’s life, as plain as any illness.

Her uncle had left some year and a half ago, to find his own way, entrusting his secret workshop and business to Ivana. He had given her a few dras, and told her she could make her own way, and that he would return when he had finished his journey.

She had not heard from him since. She lived a lonely life, either spending her time here or at a rented room in a nearby inn. The owner charged her harshly, but fairly enough for a nearby stay to work. In truth, she had probably spent more nights sleeping in the workshop in her uncle’s old chair than at the inn, but she was close to a breakthrough.

A golem that could pass for a human. She had been in correspondence with her grandfather on her father’s side, and had gained insight into illusion and charm, those coveted abilities that those of Vanis blood possess. Though she did not have the blood – taking after her mother so she did – she managed to come up with a rudimentary formula to grant the golem a likeness of humanity, if done in conjunction with the proper aetheric mix and focals.

She spent the day working on the golem, but the breakthrough was not coming to her. It seemed she had reached an impasse, a block that hours at the table could not fix. Sighing in exasperated fashion, she got up. It was time to go back to the inn, rather than try to finish this work that seemed to be trying to evade her.

She left the workshop and looked up and down the alley. She saw nothing, save a couple boys standing at the end of the alley. Walking towards them, she began to try to ask them where their parents were, until one of the boys ran towards her. As he did, she caught a better look at him. No older than eight, he was a speedy little creature, running up, jumping up and catching her newly-gained amulet by the bauble and tearing it loose, without breaking stride, and running.

Surprised and knocked aside, Ivana began to run after the boy, who was laughing at his newly-invented game of keep-away. Running down the alleyway and into the now-empty street, he looked back and bellowed, “You’ll never catch me!”

That is, just as a heeled shoe stretched out from the shadows beyond the edge of the alley, tripping him and bowling him flat.

“Gavroche, Gavroche, Gavroche,” cooed Yvi. “I thought mum had taught you not to take things that don’t belong to you,” she said as she leaned down, grabbed the amulet, and walked back towards Ivana.

“I was just playing,” said Gavroche, reddening at Yvi’s interference, whether from embarrassment or anger one could not tell.

“Sure you were, Gav, sure,” said Yvi, handing the amulet back to Yvi. “I’d like to apologize for little Gav’s actions. Our mother tried to raise him better,” she said, glaring sharply back at the boy who had barely managed to get back up into a sitting position, rubbing a skinned knee.

Looking back at Ivana and cracking a smile, she spoke again, this time in a cheerier tone, “In light of recent discoveries of the terrors that walk the night, allow me to walk you to your home.”

Wandering down the street towards the inn, they found themselves talking about their lives, a wonderful pastime for those with as interesting lives as these two, even if they did not know it themselves.

“I’m sorry about Gav. He’s been like that ever since pa died last spring. He’s been trying to earn enough money to help mum keep the house, as have I, but he’s young. Not too much work out there for him, and little of it honest.”

Ivana rubbed her hands together, to keep the could out. “It’s okay. It’s not like I had the thing that long, or that it would cost me anything if he had taken it, I suppose.”

Yvi laughed a little. Looking at her again, Ivana saw that the woman she had seen earlier wasn’t much older than herself – maybe a couple months, but most of the show at the stall had been simple makeup and legerdemain, to make her seem older and wiser.

“So, how did you wind up in a secret workshop in the middle of an abandoned alley?” asked Yvi.

Ivana was temporarily thrown, which seemed to be happening a lot that day. “I – it’s not – ummm… please don’t tell my uncle that you know that it exists?”

Yvi laughed. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, and I’ll make sure Gav doesn’t tell anyone either. But I’m fairly certain half the town knows it exists – neither you nor your uncle are very subtle, you know.”

Ivana shrugged. It was a fair criticism.

Before either had known it, they had reached the inn, and Ivana turned to speak. “This is where we go our separate ways, I think,” she spoke softly, not really wanting to leave.

Yvi quickly grabbed Ivana’s hands in her own. They were warm, which was odd enough, given the season. “You never answered my question.”

Ivana looked at her blankly.

Yvi sighed. “Dinner, Ivana.”

Ivana remembered the note and blushed. “I… may… be…?”

Yvi turned aside a little and muttered, “Well, it’s better than a no…” before turning back to Ivana.

“You have never once in your life been asked out on a date before, have you?”

“Well… no...,” said Ivana, blushing a shade redder than crimson. Most of the local boys were scared of her uncle, with good reason, and she’d never been asked by a girl before – or been confident enough to ask another.

“Well, I guess I should go,” said Yvi suddenly, turning to return the way she had came.

“Wait! Yvi…,” Ivana shouted, and then got a little quieter. Taking a deep breath, and then letting the words stream out in a single uninterrupted stream, “Would-you-like-to-go-out-to-dinner-with-me-please?”

Out of breath and blushing redder as the conversation wore on, Ivana began to hyperventilate as subtly as she could manage (which is to say, not very subtly at all).

Yvi laughed. “Of course, silly girl. Meet me at my stall tomorrow at twilight, and don’t you dare be late.”

She then ran off into the night, and Ivana, finally, saw the family resemblance between Yvi and the little rogue, Gavroche.

Prompt - Dirt, Shoelaces, Hip

@big-bad-grimbark

Shadows danced as the gravedigger did his work, lit only by a single torch placed above him, dug into the ground at the foot of the grave. Opposite lie the memorial tombstone, for a William Berk, a man who died in his fifties, and was well-liked by the town. A shoelace salesman, he made a living selling what many did not realize they need – baubles that make life easier. Why, the gravedigger himself had bought a set just a fortnight ago, from the man himself, not that it mattered, he supposed.

The gravedigger continued his grim work, with each shovelful of dirt making the hole greater down, down into the dirt. But then something was wrong. He put his shovel to the dirt, and rather than reaching soft, moist earth, it hit something hard, like stone. Thinking that perhaps he had just hit a rather large rock, a not uncommon thing, he dug around it and uprooted it, and saw what it was.

It was not a stone, as he had thought, but a hip bone – from a human. The gravedigger shrieked aloud at the discovery, for this grave was not supposed to be inhabited. Scrambling for the edge of the grave, to climb out, he was gripped by the ankle by a hand – or rather, the skeletal remains of one. Ripping it from the ground in his mistake, he dragged the upper half of a human body from the ground with him. This body was mostly rotted – next to no meat remained on the bones, but the rotted remains were enough to hold the skeleton together.

The gravedigger was on the edge of the newly-dug burial ditch, when he saw it, and froze in horror. The ground of many graves was convulsing as if the things inside longed for release, and then clawing to the surface came the many dead. He watched as a man who died from a gunshot wound, buried a fortnight ago, whose body had begun to rot, clawed his way out of his grave. He watched a grave for lovers who died in an accident, as one rotten corpse crawled out, and helped the second to its feet. He watched as corpses, by the dozens, crawled from their graves and began to group together in the center of the graveyard.

He watched as the corpses of the Leer twins, who had drowned and been found days later, bloated with decay in the ponds buried with their favorite toys, met up with the skeletons who walked out of the Lovelace mausoleum; a married man and his wife, wealthy enough to afford affluence in death.

He watched, and then he saw Him.

He was a tall, thin figure, playing a flute, approaching the dead. He was dressed in a cloak and hood obscuring his upper face, but his hands were pale and paler still in the light of the full moon above. The sound of the flute was unearthly, but it seemed as though the dead were drawn to it. He played with skill, but the gravedigger could not hear it.

He watched as the skeletons from couples’ graves began to pair off and dance to an unheard tune played by the thin piper, and then those who died unmarried began to pair off and dance, a waltz to death’s memory. As they continued to dance, the gravedigger fought to free himself from the grip of his skeletal captor. Dragging himself to the surface, he ran towards the gate, trying to avoid the crowd of the dead.

But then the piper saw him, and began to play a different tune, one that the gravedigger could hear. The gravedigger felt frozen as he saw her rise from her grave – the woman he had loved in her life, though she died before her time. She rose, and he saw her as beautiful in death as she was in life, clad in a white dress. She approached him, and curtsied, and offered her hand to dance. Speechless, the gravedigger complied. Together they danced, closer and closer to the crowd, but the gravedigger could not care. For even as he looked, he saw them all as the beings they were in life; men and women, beautiful and forever in their prime. He saw none of the decayed beings they had become; he could not see the bone or smell the rot of aged and dead flesh. He could only see the couples dancing, happy as a yule-day ball.

The piper played faster, and faster still they danced, keeping time with the pace until the waltz became an insane jig, faster and faster they turned, turning and he noticed not them approaching the grave he had dug. He was too caught up in his love being returned to him, if only for the night.

For hours they danced, and the gravedigger could not feel the burning in his legs as they ached from exhaustion, he could not feel the pain of his own aging limbs as they were pushed to their limits. He could not see himself, as his time with the dead drew him closer to them; in both form and function.

Finally, they drew to the lip of the grave, after hours of dancing, and by the time he noticed his placement, he had lost his footing and tumbled into the grave. Hurting his back in the fall, he could not move his legs. He raised his hands for help, as he saw the ghostly party gather around the edge of the grave. He silently begged them for help, imploring them, imploring his beloved to rescue him.

But as this happened, the sun creeped over the horizon, and the glamer was broken. He saw them as they were – skeletal, ragged creatures in the tatters of burial clothing, skeletons, some with coins over their empty eye sockets. He saw his beloved as she was – a bare skeleton now, with a hole through the right cheekbone leading through to the back of her skull.

He tried to scream, but no voice came out. He looked up, and saw that skeletons were pushing the heavy tombstone – weighing near a ton. He saw as they pushed it closer and closer the edge, and finally noticed his hands – aged and wrinkled, as if he had aged four decades in as many hours. He raised them to protect him, as the tombstone reached the edge, and tipped into the grave. The last sight to greet his eyes before the tombstone struck was the face of the Piper, a face like a grinning death mask, its cheeks cut and restitched, a smile that never lowered. A last smile for the departed.

Look, we all make mistakes. Some, more than a few. Some, pretty bad ones in particular.

He was mine.

I was young, foolish, and met him at a cosplay convention. I assumed the short, nub-like horns were practical effects, and assumed he just didn’t want to break character. So, I asked him out, and we went out for drinks.

That’s when things got weird. It was still during the convention, and we both sat in the diner at the end of the street eating soul food and drinking chardonnay. When I asked him what his real name was, he laughed. It was a beautiful sound, like tinkling glass.

“I told you,” he said, “I’m the devil.”

When I laughed in turn, he seemed to pause. Looking pensive, he took out a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen and wrote on it. I can’t read upside down, and after he wrote it he covered it with his right hand. Grabbing his wineglass with his left and taking a sip, he stated matter-of-factly, “If I let you read this, you will see me as I truly am. No glamers, no illusions. But…” he stopped, again thinking.

“Read it at your own peril.”

He flipped the sheet over, and slid it across the table. I picked it up, and began to read.

There were five words written on the paper in Latin. “Ego sum, et videbitis me.”

“I don’t see why this –“ I looked at him, and stopped. He hadn’t really changed in form – he was still a young man, still beautiful, but the horns had shifted, turned into curling ram’s horns, and his eyes glowed red.

“Don’t shout, if you would,” He said calmly, “I prefer to not have to charm an entire room full of people, and I did just do you the service of putting your questions to rest.”

I was speechless, as one would be, given the circumstances. He put a finger to my lips, “I’ve had a fun time tonight, darling. Call me.” At this, he waved his hand over the paper, winked, and got up and strolled out, leaving a hundred-dollar bill on the table. I looked down on the paper. “Luci Morningstar – (666)-DAMNED1”.

Since then, I haven’t been able to rid myself of the cheeky bastard. He showed up at my house a couple weeks later – I came home from work and he was sitting on my sofa, drinking my beer, watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians on MY television!

Before I could even speak, he spoke, “You know, when I traded getting O.J. off for Robert’s soul, I didn’t think his family would make it this far. Maybe I should let him know the next time I visit his cage – I’m not sure he’d be glad or ashamed.”

“What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?”

He scoffed. “I am the devil, you know. Picking one lock isn’t exactly what one would imagine beyond me.”

I put my keys on the rack by the door. He began to speak again, “I’m still a little unhappy you never called me back. I thought we had a spark.”

I walked over and stood in front of the T.V. “Get out.”

He sighed, “I would, doll, but I seem to have made a few enemies. So, I decided to stop in, say hello. Maybe we can go on a second date? While I hide out from a few… less savory individuals.”

It was my turn to scoff. “Less savory than the devil?”

His expression turned from a smile to a stony stare. “Holy shit, you’re serious.”

He nodded. “You ever heard of the Archangels?”

I was raised catholic. Broke ties with my family over the whole ‘gay’ thing. “A little.”

“Well, don’t listen to everything you read. Michael is a brute who’s out for my blood, and Raphael’s the one nice enough to dress it up as procedure.” He sipped the beer again.

I took the beer away from him. “Hey!”

I downed the rest of his beer. “So,” I said, trying like hell to be resolute, “What do we do?”

Luci looked up at me. “Dinner?”

I went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “How about shots instead?”

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“This is ridiculous. You date the devil *one* time and next thing you know he thinks you’re his girlfriend!”

Prompt: Hemoglobin

@basement-boy

He drew the blade across his wrist with a small gasp of pain. He was young, and he was new to this. Perhaps he’d hide his youth behind stubble, the beginnings of a beard, but I have spent too long in this universe to be fooled by such a simple trick.

The room was in disarray, with tomes of daemonic names, magic spells and rituals lying open or even with pages ripped out. On the north side of the room, there was a desk covered in notes, with a single candle dripping wax to provide some meager light in the beginnings of twilight outside the window. The center of the room, carved into the wood floor and then traced with chalk was a hexagram, encircled by runes and the names of angels in Enochian. Anabiel. Gabriel. Sammiel. Names to guard against the thing he was summoning. Me.

He began the ritual as his blood dripped into a bowl on the southern side of the pentagram, and his whisperings caused the room to go cold and the wind to pick up through the window on the eastern side of the room, scattering papers and blowing out the candle. The room filled with shadow, despite the sun merely beginning to set.

“I summon thee, Okiabec, in the name of angels and by the six-pointed star. I summon thee, Okiabec, in the names of the Lord and the name of the Devil. El, Jah, Lucifer, Shaitan, I summon thee in these names. Appear and be bound, Okiabec, I command thee in the names of Metatron, Mikhael, Uriel, the watchers of the gate. I command thee in the name of the fallen; the many names of the Grigori, and the names of the Seraphs. Appear, Okiabec.”

When the words were completed, I appeared, as he said. Not that I had ability to avoid the summons. For his youth, the boy was skilled. I took the form of a draconian humanoid, naked, with black scales and a crown of horns growing in a ring around his forehead. In my right hand I held a curved khopesh blade, and in my left I held a net. Not that this form was corporeal.

Pointing the blade at the boy, I growled out a response to his summons in guttural, unearthly tones. “I am Okiabec, the spirit of disease. I fought besides the Morningstar when he stormed heaven, I was at his side when he forged Hell from the nether. I was there when man stepped from the light and left the garden, I was there when Moshe plagued Egypt; I have wrought destruction in my wake for untold Aeons. What makes you think you can summon me and control me?”

The boy was shivering in his monk robes, and I could tell he was not truly prepared for this. But, he would not relent his control. Which was good for him, I suppose, but his weakness was allowing me to gain ground in the battle of wills that was my tether to this mortal plane.

“I command thee to destroy the house of Osha, the worm who has dishonored me,” he barked, or rather, squeaked.

I laughed, a haughty, raucous sound that sounded less human and more like the squawking of a murder of crows. “And in return for this, what will you give me, boy? For such a task, an exchange of great value must be made.”

“I will give you the riches of the house of Ibrahim!”

I laughed anew, this time with more sincerity. “Mortal riches have no sway over me, boy of house Ibrahim. And this you should know.”

“I will give you the lives of our herds! Ten by ten cows, fifteen by fifteen chickens, four by four hounds!”

I growled. I grew bored of this game. “No riches will please me. No number of wretched beasts will sate my desires. You know but one thing you possess and can give me will make me obey you.”

The winds die, and the candle lights anew. “Give me your soul, boy of Ibrahim. Give me your immortal soul and I will serve you for twelve times twelve years, and raise the house of Ibrahim to the heights of greatness. Bring your foes to heel. End your enemies, not by honorable combat, but through the darkness. Disease will eat their pale humours and reduce them to beasts who grovel in your wake; give me your soul, and their riches will be yours. Nothing more and nothing less will satisfy me.”

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A little expressive sketch, enjoy your reading. And as usual, I apologise for the incorrect translation.

Laughter. Irritating, rude, vulgar laughter. Crowd laughter.

I bite the bullet. And they're baring their teeth. Just a little more, just a little more, and I'll be in their hands.

A mindless mob. Their smiles are predation and you're the prey.

Hit or run.

"Well, laugh, laugh," I baring my teeth in response, taking away the trembling. I don't want to disappear or sink into the ground. I want to tear.

Tear myself to pieces.

For the public's amusement.

For my own amusement.

The last thing I hear is "look" and a snide laugh. I open the door, I walk away.

Hit or run.

Run.

It's really

funny

Οιοπολος - Oiopolos, Sheep-Tending/Shepherd The shepherd plucked the lamb away from the den of wolves, walking away whilst the lamb bleated in fear, for it would be leaving the familiar coldness and lupine threats. "Where are you taking me, shepherd?" The lamb asked. "I'm taking you home." The shepherd replied, "I'm taking you away from that saddening situation." "But what if I get lost?" The lamb asked, hesitation pulling at its downy wool. "You were always lost, but it's alright." The young man smiled, as gentle as the breeze, "Now, you are found. That place wasn't home. It was only a house, see. There's a difference. You belong somewhere else. Not amongst snapping jaws and razor claws." The lamb followed close, basking in his warmth. It's strange. Though the fear of the unknown lingers in its heart, the thrill of freedom is undeniable. "Come with me, and have no worries." He held his hand out, a guide to an aimless wanderer, "Let me show you what it's like to go home, little lost lamb."

This is Pyre. They not so subtly take their design from Supergiant's video game Pyre. Don't laugh, I'm bad at naming things.

(Edited my original post removing the story from it. I've posted a link to it on AO3 instead.)

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The Embrace of Love and Death - A Short Rest: All Tied Up and Nowhere to Go

This short rest takes place between chapters 6 and 7 of The Embrace of Love and Death! Catch the full fanfic here

Lae’zel had been glaring at them from across camp all afternoon, Miss Fortune noticed. That wasn’t unusual by itself, but her facial expression was what caught their eye. In place of the usual disdain, she seemed to be trying to dissect them, as if they were a mystery she was trying to solve.

They suspected it had something to do with how easily they’d gotten out of her rope bindings yesterday, as she had scowled when they remarked on her shoddy ties. Reveling in their growing confidence as a leader and fighter, they decided to give her a hard time.

“You’re giving me a different grimace than usual, General,” they said with smug satisfaction as they ambled over to where she was whacking away at her training dummy. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you can’t stand the thought that I’m better than you at something.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said tersely without pausing in her maneuvers.

“It’s eating you up inside how quickly I got out of those ropes, isn’t it? You want to know how this pathetic little soft boy did it.”

“Chk. Perhaps,” she conceded.

“I could tell you, but it would be more effective to show you. Taking hostages hasn’t been our style so far but any of us should be able to if the need arises.”

“You speak sensibly.” Lae’zel lowered her fists and cocked her head, considering. “Show me.”

Miss Fortune knew that smiles didn’t get far with Lae’zel, so the half-elf simply turned on their heel and walked off, beckoning her to follow with a wave.

“Meet me around the fire pit. I’m going to see if the others would also like a demonstration.”

Shadowheart and Astarion both accepted the invitation, though Miss Fortune suspected their primary interest was to watch Lae’zel get humbled. Gale declined as if he found the whole idea of physically binding another human repulsive. Seeing as he could accomplish the same effect with magic they couldn’t quite blame him.

“All right, I’m going to demonstrate on you first, Lae’zel. So you can see for yourself I know what I’m doing. Hands behind your back,” Miss Fortune instructed once everyone had assembled.

Lae’zel crossed her arms in front of her chest, unmovable as a boulder.

“I guess you don’t want to learn after all. False alarm, friends, let’s disperse,” they said to the others, fatigue creeping into their voice.

“Chk. Fine,” Lae’zel relented.

“A wise choice, General.” Miss Fortune uncoiled the length of rope they’d grabbed from their tent, silently lamenting that they didn’t have silk cord. She would never be able to rip through that with brute strength. Instead, they had to make do with the limited bounty of what they’d scavenged so far on their adventure.

The half-elf made quick work of cinching the rope around her wrists in a tight figure eight pattern. “The trick - which you failed to do with me and Astarion - is to ensure the rope sits below the thumb joint,” they explained. Shadowheart and Astarion sidled over and leaned in to observe.

Miss Fortune continued wrapping the rope tightly before double-tying the knot higher up, well out of the reach of the Githyanki’s fingers. “You don’t want to leave any room for prying fingers to find purchase, or you’ll come back to an empty chair, room, what have you. Normally I’d bind the ankles too, but this will suffice for a beginner’s demonstration. Now, try to get out.”

She tried grasping at the rope first with her fingers, then attempted to wriggle her wrists loose. Her face contorted with rage and she began to swear when she realized she could find no purchase with her bindings. Miss Fortune took several steps back, crossing their arms over their chest and grinning like a fox who had just snared a rabbit. They took sadistic pleasure watching her struggle for once.

“Just imagine if I had tied your arms behind a tree or perhaps to a chair,” Miss Fortune mused cruelly. They chose to mimic Astarion’s languid pose and bored expression, pretending to inspect their nails as they spoke. “In that scenario I would have bound you at the waist and ankles as well, and you’d be a lost cause by that point. And if I really wanted to make sure you stayed put, I’d gag you too. Maybe even tie your ankles and hands together. Can never be too careful, can we?”

“Tsk’va, you’ve made your point,” Lae’zel spat, still wriggling wildly like a worm freshly dug up from the ground. “Untie me now!”

Miss Fortune drew closer, their expression darkening as they stared down their nose at her. “I don’t think I have yet. I’m tired of you calling me a ‘soft boy’ like it’s something I should be ashamed of. Keep it up and next time I tie you up, I’ll leave you like that. Do we have an understanding?”

Loathing danced in the Githyanki’s eyes as she glowered up at them. Her shoulder looked about ready to dislocate as she continued to struggle to make progress with the ropes, as if popping her arm out of its socket were preferable to conceding defeat. Knowing her, it probably was.

“Remember I don’t heal stupidity, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart called out.

Miss Fortune looked over their shoulder to shoot a grin Shadowheart’s way. Their eyes locked and she nodded, returning the grin with a wicked smile of her own. The half-elf rogue glimpsed over at Astarion as well, and their chest felt a touch lighter when they saw approval in his ruby gaze.

“We have an understanding,” Lae’zel rasped at last, tearing Miss Fortune’s attention away from the vampire.

“Wonderful!” Miss Fortune made quick work of untying her, making sure to step back quickly with the rope stretched between their hands to create a barrier in case her anger got the best of her. The warrior stretched her arms and rubbed her sore wrists but otherwise made no move to lunge for her antagonist.

With the demonstration-turned-warning complete, Miss Fortune spent a while longer showing everyone how to replicate what they did to Lae’zel on each other until everyone felt confident they could remember how to do it on their own.

“Class dismissed,” Miss Fortune announced. “I hope you all enjoyed rope play for beginners. Now I believe Astarion and I have a date in the woods with whatever animal is unlucky enough to encounter us. See you later, ladies,” Miss Fortune added with a wave as they casually sauntered off. Astarion followed close behind.

When they were out of earshot, the half-elf leaned in and murmured mischievously to the vampire “If you play your cards right, someday I might give you the more advanced lesson.”

Astarion guffawed in delight. “Is that a promise or a threat, little bird?”

“Both.”

A Clown met a Doctor at the asylum one day, and asked if she wanted to be free. The Doctor replied that it was the Clown who was the prisoner, but alas, she was already intrigued. The Doctor spoke with the Clown again, and again, as he told her of the freedom of the mind, from limits, from morals, from sanity. Carefully the Clown led the Doctor closer and closer to the edge. He told her he loved her, but he laughed as he said it. Down, down, down… The Doctor fell and was reborn, a Jester after his image.

There are no hearts for anyone outside this home.

Chapter 1 -- And the world didn't weep for joy (but it gave a great, relieved sigh)

A red sun rises in the great beyond. The sky swims with dark oranges, reds, and purples– a bruised, bleeding sky. The world awakens with one notion carried within the fleshy, pink muscle of their ever-working brains: Jackson Mayfield has come home.

–

“–we are all so relieved to see the young Mayfield son returned to his family’s arms safe and sound after three years of total mystery–”

“–Where has he been? What has he–”

“–possible kidnapping? Or, perhaps magic–”

Violet turned off the radio. A long hour had been spent attempting to found one channel not speaking of young ‘Jackson Mayfield’s’ return home to no fruition. 

Jackson Mayfield wasn’t cared about. At least, not before all of this. He was whispered about on those rare nights people dared to question just where he might be, what he might be doing, or if he was alive at all. His family never addressed any rumors that surrounded him, avoided any mention of him like the plague; it was as though his name had some sort of taboo attached to it, like if spoken, a dark fate would befall those who dared to raise their voices. He had ‘gone missing’ three years prior, leaving behind only a mockery of a bouquet and ashes and an empty seat at every gala that no one dared to touch. 

Her brother had gone the same way. And if people had cared so little for the disappearance of a young man of the House of Mayfield, son of Duke Burton himself, then they cared for the disappearance of her little brother even less. 

(Peasant, they called him when she went to the authorities. Called them. Commoners. And no one cared for the lives of the common. 

Unless, of course, that life inconvenienced them.) 

A hand slammed down on the desk in front of her, setting the contents haphazardly thrown onto it rattling and knocking her out of her thoughts. Her hands relaxed from their curled position reflexively. 

Oscar ‘Oz’ Hall. The journalist she worked under, or rather, apprenticed under. (Really, she just shadowed him, but sometimes she felt more like his handler than anything else.) 

He was a tall man of unimposing figure and a sharp, mischievous face that often had possible interviewees scampering off or avoiding him entirely. A large grin split his face in half– victorious– his wild red hair falling in front of his face and only serving to make him look all the more fox-like and less and less man. 

Violet shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs in what she hoped would come across as in a casual manner. He had given her that same smile two months ago, just before he threw himself over a chocolate fountain and totally ruined the dress of a young noble lady who they were lucky enough to find out that she found it spectacularly funny. 

“Yes?” she said, holding back a sigh. 

His grin became a tad strained. “Yes, what?”

Violet did sigh this time. “You want to say something; say it.”

Despite her bluntness, a trait many of the previous journalists that she had shadowed before had not appreciated as much as Oscar did, ‘insubordination’ they called it, Oscar’s grin came back full-force then some. “There’s a story in this.”

Understatement of the century but before Violet could tell him as such, he continued on. “A story that we can unearth. Jackson Mayfield–” he spread his arms, hands moving wildly with a flair. “–second born son, back after all these years, yet his family doesn’t say a word other than ‘Oh, we are so happy he’s home’!” He guffawed. 

Violet nodded along like she always did when he got into these jittery, excitable moods, hands tapping on the arm of her chair in a continuous pattern– pinkie, ring finger, middle, pointer, thumb and back again– and leaning forward with feigned interest. (It really wasn’t all that hard to fake it, she was interested, just not for the reasons the journalist was.) 

“Yes, that is suspicious; you’d think they would give more of a statement when the boy has been missing for so long,” she acknowledged. 

Oscar’s face brightened further, if possible. “Exactly! There’s obviously something they’re trying to hide and I’m going to find it.” His grin was full of teeth now, his eyes set into a determined stare as his eyes raised and lingered on some great beyond likely full of glory and girls and lots and lots of birds full of feathers he was terribly allergic to. 

Violet cocked a brow. “You are not going to be uncovering this.”

His expression crumbled entirely, face going stormy. “Violet, do you not–”

She cut him off. “I will be handling this story.”

For a long moment, his features fell into blankness, as though he had just short-circuited. Then, the grin was back, only all affectionate and happy and proud and all that icky stuff that had her face flushing as he threw himself unceremoniously over his desk to clasp his hands over her cheeks, causing a mug filled to the brim with pens to tip over and roll to the ground, shattering upon impact. But he ignored it in favor of cooing in her face and embarrassing her entirely. 

“Oh, Vi,” he gasped, actual tears glistening in his eyes. (She’s seen him watch and document the death of a puppy with the most unaffected expression before; what the hell–) “Darling, you’ve finally come out of that horrible shell of yours and come to the limelight; I am so proud–”

Violet did not flush because she was flustered. She did not. She was… fuming with rage. Yeah. Totally. “You ridiculous, ridiculous man– get your hands off of me you oversized lunatic–”

Oscar treated her like an overly eager toddler would treat a disgruntled cat— roughly bit affectionately. “Glory is an avoidant muse, dear, but I believe with enough effort–”

“You absolute idiot, I will–”

It took several minutes, a couple swats, and a few more broken mugs for him to lay off of her and sit. (Albeit on his desk but still, the small victories.) 

She could not get rid of that stupid look on his face, but she could be mad about it, so she glared at him fiercely. His grin grew impossibly wider. 

“Now, my dear flower–”

“It is Violet-”

“My dear flower, to secure an interview with the Mayfield family, you will have–”

Violet’s eyebrows drew together tightly. An interview? What is he on about? “I’m not going to be attempting to get an interview with them,” the apprentice said slowly, as though explaining something rather obvious. And it was. To her, at least. 

Oscar went deathly still, slowly cocking his head in a way that reminded her of a prowling feline. “You are… not?”

Violet snorted in that unladylike manner her mother hadn’t managed to beat out of her. “Of course not, they’ll answer none of my questions and leave me with more than I started with. It would do neither of us any good.”

A glint shone in the redhead’s gaze, a realization forming behind his chestnut brown eyes. “So… how do you plan to ‘crack’ this?” 

Violet shrugged, attempting to seem apathetic to his stare. “I’m infiltrating, of course.”

And if Violet let out a squawk that birds would be incredibly jealous when he launched himself at her again, for an embrace this time, that was nobody else’s business but her own.

--

This is for my Creative Writing class, but I decided to share it with the world as well just to see if people would enjoy it. I am not open to criticism so please, just enjoy what you are reading or, if not, scroll away. This will spare us both the heartache of hatred or any animosity. I will admit this is not to the best of my ability for I initially wrote this extremely sleep deprived and cranky and wanting a 'pick me up'.

My First Short Story

I hope you like it!

Mistakes

Mistakes are made, but they cannot be fixed. Ever. The ghosts of my past mistakes haunt me. They row their rickety boat down my stream of consciousness and pollute its crystal waters. They row their way into your mind to just reaffirm to me that nothing in life matters now. Nothing at all. After this mistake everything is nothing. I shake with anxiety. How will I continue? How will I recover from my mistake? How will my life ever be the same?

My mistake.

The mistake that I can never correct.

The hand fumbling.

The cheese puff falling.

The hand reaching.

The cheese puff crashing.

The hand failing.

the cheese puff dying.

The mistake that I can never correct.

Forever.

The cheese puff.

On the floor cold and alone.

Lost to the dust bunnies.

Ready to claim my mistake as their prize.

My life will never be the same.

The Myth of Shooting Stars

Why do we believe stars falling from the sky have the power to grant wishes? The first stars to do so were not stars at all. Long ago, when stories told to us were the lives of people, setting the stones we have built society on, two lovers lived. A life in name only. Lavish homes were their prison, days therein - eternal sentence. The sun mocked them day after day with its perpetual slow dance across the sky. At night, they were free. Darkness reached stealthy fingers towards their cages, absolving them. The moon lit their way. Each day, they died a little. Each night, they lived for each other. Along hidden paths, round narrow corners, past walls which had eyes, out towards soft grass and trees which greeted them with a familiar embrace, hiding them from sight. Away, away, away… Breathless when they reached the end, palms clasped together in a slick hold, having met halfway. But they never settled, chasing one another and giving in too easy because life already had them running in circles, keeping them apart. When they did tumble among the grass, their listlessness prevailed, two chained souls unshackled. They always danced at the precipice, to the music of the wild sea below, in the light of a billion stars overhead. The water melted into the sky, as they melted together and became one, and the moon smiled at them. And still a traitorous light spread slowly, scaring away the stars, running off the moon. And the sea glistened, and the lovers stilled, soothing wrists with kisses where binds would soon retake their place. Their cursed circle. Closing. Until one night, when lips lingered, and fingers clutched with abandon. When tears streamed down cheeks, spilling despair onto earth. And a broken whisper threatened to send the cliff crumbling down into the treacherous shallow below. “I wish we could stay and behold the new day being born.” And hands fist in the shirt of the one who knows - knows and wishes too. “I wish we could lie and laugh at the Sun when he comes for us.” And their eyes meet, except they are no longer eyes but rather twinkling reflections of the Heavens above. And there, mirrored, is the wish shared between them. The wish to not only reflect the Heavens, but become one with them, fly across them. And the Light comes, and the moon hides, and the sky pales and makes the stars disappear. For the Sun is jealous of the stars and wants the sky for himself. There he is, dripping blood across the horizon, ready to take what he is owed. Except he is met with two bright stars laughing at him. And the stars are holding hands. And they fall. And they claim the Heavens as the sea claims them.

Be With Me

Inspired by, Yandere Simulator.

••••••••••

As the sun took a peek, it's rays shine down upon the busy roads. A young man with short chestnut hair, with school uniform on was seen as one of the crowds.

Many people bypass him, walking and bumping along without even a mutter of an apology (Not like he can say anything, after all, he's the same). As he goes with the flow to his destination, a shiver went up his spine.

He turns slightly, found nothing out place. He waited for a bit. Then faces back to the front, continuing at a faster pace when he took a peek on his phone(?).

He goes faster.

His heart pounded, eyes dilating as he now took a full blown sprint….

…. Only stopping when he reach the gate for the train station.

He went inside, and took a seat. He felt his ears ringing, feeling more tired than ever. He should've exercised more.

As he started to think more calmly, he felt like he forgot something.

His lunch? He checked, It was here.

His books? Same thing.

His phone? Yup, safe in his body.

What did he forgot?

As he feel in deep thought, he kept glancing around the area. He caught something at his sight.

A minute left, until his train arrived.

… He'll think about it in the train.

As he stands up, he goes close to the yellow line with an appropriate distance.

A phone buzzed on his pocket. He raised a brow. Since, when did they text him at this time of day.

He took it out, and found a message. From an unknown number.

“....?”

He checks the message.

.. Oh?

He clicks down.

Oh!

A few seconds passed as he keeps clicking down.

.. H-huh?

His breath hitched. His grip loosen suddenly. As his phone tumbles down, his colour turned white.

He went to the back, following the letter's words. It says to wait here. Honestly, he didn't want to, but the push and nitpicking from his friends we're getting on his nerves. And they promised to make it worse than it is, if he didn't go.

No choice but to do it, he went. But, he didn't expect a confession.

A love confession at that.

His brain short circuited after, he didn't remember the rest.

He only snap out of it when he heard the announcer of the train. He turns--

--and suddenly felt himself flying. With a person hugging him.

Ah.. now he remembered. He rejected them and took off.

Guess this is -------

All he remember seeing then was a red line speeding down to him, until his sight turned dark.

••••••••••

Question.

Who hugged him?

Ugly Lie And Bitter Truth.

Nobody loves death. The cold touch of your very life force being sucked right out of you.

A so called godly creature staring down at you into your burning soul, ripping out all the knowledge you use to know. Everything you thought to be real, to be reality; fake, a fraud.

Or just darkness, your body thrown in a endless black void of nothingness only your existence floating alone. All by yourself, with no one to call your name, to say “Hello.” To embrace you in the dark as you fall, fall, fall. There is no one to say “Goodbye,” to, no one to say “I love you.”

A man just running, running, running, to nothing. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t remember. There’s no one to ask, for there no one around. Everything surrounding was covered in a white sheet, like a empty vacuum bag, just blank. Why am I running? Where am I going? were the constant questions that swirled around inside of his head. But then, before any answers could be constructed, a voice whispered in his ear. Something within told him to turn around, to look. It repeated over and over, look, look, look. The man obeyed the whisperer’s command.

Far, but close, a blurry figure walked directly towards him, carrying behind it a darkness of some-sort. The fog spread with every step following, covering the whiteness in dark. As the man stared at the mysterious creature before him, he couldn’t help but think of exactly what it could be. I-It carries the color black with i-it.. New questions were formed, developing at a devouring pace. It’s a man. N-No a male monster, with horns. As his thoughts rambled on, the being changed taking the characteristics his mind set. Transforming into a male humanoid-beast with horns, growing ten feet tall, with a scaly silver tail that thrashed about it went on walking, still become what it was told to be. Nails that once didn’t exist appeared now as claws, eyes that held no place, now shined a bright crimson red, hair that is now there matched the dye of the dark.

At the sight of such a monstrosity, the man let out a voiceless scream twirling on his heels as he darted down the only path that remained bright. Tap, tap tap went the entity’s feet, slow and steady yet winning the race between himself and the mortal man. No matter how fast he ran, he followed right behind.

Just as the human’s hope began to go like the clock of time ticking away, in the distance another figure stood. Like how the monster once was, it was blurry leaving the man to come up with it’s attire. It put off a warm feelings as it remained in it’s place. So gentle..

The man couldn’t help but think again of what it could be. A woman, there’s no doubt about it. She’s so warm. Just as fast as the thought came, it was so. The figure that was once gender-less, now a female. A woman with hair like pure gold that reached all the way to her feet, and eyes like the first tear of a newborn with branches and leaves of nature wrapped around her body like a dress. She’s perfect, too perfect to be human, but a Goddess she is. Her appearance was now that of a holy being. His eyes locked on her, nothing else could pry them away from the beauty. A smile spread on her face, the one of a mother opening her arms to her child. Picking up his speed he ran as fast as his legs could, longing to hug her, wanting her to keep him safe. Only three feet away the goddess remained when his arm reached out to her, but in vain. For before his fingertips brushed against her waist, behind him the monster had sent out his ‘demons’.

Out of the endless abyss hands formed of shadows latched themselves onto the man, retraining him, dragging him to the darkness. He cried and shouted, yanking, struggling to break free from their strangling clutches. With one final attempt, he surged forward snapping his binds and leaped into the goddess’ hold. Tears streamed down his face for he knew the beast could not reach him now. The only thing she did in return was wrap her arms around him, and slowly he began to disappear as he smiled happily. In only a single minute he was gone without a trace. Seeing this the monster let out a rasp sigh in the void that was now half black and white. The goddess continued to hold a neutral expression walking to the center of the borderline to end’s darkness.

“Why do people love me, but hate you?” She asked, staring at his hunched back. His face carried no emotion.

“Because your a beautiful lie, and I the ugly truth. You show them false illusions of happiness while I show them reality, try to take their hands and bring them to a place called “Paradise.” But you tell them their living, tell them lies when they are truly suffering. You make them think I’m bad, when you are the one who’s actually taking them to the gates of Hades.” The Goddess herself sighed, letting her lips twitch at her attempt to frown, but her godly body refused to allow her to do so.

“That’s what the do. The world tells me my roll in this universe. It tells you yours as well. We’re not allowed to tell them that I’m the real grim reaper, the real death called “Life” and your the real life called “Death.” The monster didn’t say a word until his corrupted image disappeared returning him back into an it, a blurry figure once again. Only then did he speak,

“Time to convince another soul.”

You should talk about your wof ocs :3

oh boy I got so excited to share my characters that I wrote a short story that takes place at the very beginning of my oc's lore. I'll put the character references at the end

Queen Treefrog was a young rainwing Queen, she had been in power for two weeks when she started acting odd. Leopard, a half nightwing dragonet was the first to notice the change. Treefrog had started doing things that just, didn’t make sense. She assigned battle training to the rainwing school lessons…claiming it was for the good of the tribe. Despite the fact that the rainwings have been at peace with all other tribes for longer than Leopard could remember. 

She looked a bit off too, as if a different shade of blue than normal…but everyone told him that she was the same colors and that Leopard must just not remember it right. She had a new scar even though she’d never got into any fights. Leopard could swear her patterns were different!

No matter how many differences Leopard pointed out, nobody believed him. The rainwings assumed the young hybrid was just paranoid. Leopard felt like he was going crazy, something was wrong and nobody else noticed! He decided to follow the Queen that night. She often left to patrol the rainforest at sundown. It proved difficult since he was unable to change his scale color, luckily the sunset helped him stick to the shadows. 

His little spy mission led him to a rather hard to find clearing. There was the Queen, standing in front of a corpse. Whoever it was had clearly decomposed a bit, Leopard had to fight his urge to gag. He couldn’t tell who it was. After a few moments Treefrog started to leave the clearing. As his Queen left curiosity flooded Leopard’s mind, he wanted to know who the dead rainwing was. Was it a criminal? Competition for the throne? Someone Treefrog just didn’t like?  Upon closer inspection, he froze. 

Lying dead in front of Leopard’s own eyes, was Queen Treefrog.

Queen Treefrog's reference

The faker's reference

Leopard's reference

A Bad Day Interrupted

A bad day, just like so many others lately. No matter how you tried, moments of actual contentment and joy never seemed to last quite long enough to be a mental break from everything. You have been severely depressed for little over a month, but it seems like you finally ran out of tears. Good, you hated making people worry about you.

Looking at the time on your phone, you are disappointed it isn't time to go home. Work isn't bad; the work is easily completed in time and you work with the nicest people you know. However, it is exhausting to consciously keep up the charade of being happy.

You are concerned for yourself. Nothing had happened, you just awoke one day and just been depressed since. On top of that, you are also anxious and self-abusing. Not physically, though the gnawing in your stomach reminds you that you are not eating as much as you probably should.

A lot of the abuse is mental; the thoughts in your head ripping you down to the lowest level of self-deprecation you have ever been. Words are weapons and they are inflicting so much pain.

You look at your phone as it buzzes. A message from your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/whomever. Upon opening, it is a small video clip of a panda cub sitting on a rock. It sneezes so hard it topples over and you can't help but chuckle, smiling a genuine smile for the first time all day.

They knew you were going through personal issues and were helping you look for a good therapist. Everday, they would find ways to show thier love in addition to texts and saying so. You feel guilty but accepted the extra affection, reciprocating the affection as best as you could.

One day at a time, with the love of your life making sure you make it through.

Because you would and have done the same for them.

Hey!

This is my first story on here! Please enjoy and thank you @flametigress for answering my story maker quiz and suggesting this!

I wish I could make this more aesthetically pleasing, but I’m not sure how to work Tumblr posts (well blogs) that well, so I’m always open to suggestions/teachings

TYSM ENJOY!

🔥𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒🔥

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧, 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 (𝐘/𝐧) 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.

𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬, 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬.

𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐢𝐭, 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬.

"𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭?" 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞.

𝐈 𝐧𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝, 𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬.𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐭, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐀𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐬.

𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.. 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.

𝐖𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭," 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫.

(𝐘/𝐧) 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞. “𝐈’𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥."

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. "𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥."

𝐌𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐀𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝, "𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭... 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬...“

𝐈 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. “𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬."

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐬, 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝.

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞, 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 @flametigress 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐳:

Romance, demon slayer, two people meeting for the first time, No, fem reader, 500 (word count), a kiss between reader and character, twin flames

Omg this story is such a slay!

I enjoyed writing this (I may or may not have gone over 500 words idk)

If you’d like to see more let me know! The best chance of your ideas getting uploaded is through my quiz (it’s pinned)

TYSM

~𝐁.𝐎.𝐀

Show Off.

Sylris has much pride of his build and is always choosing the most revealing clothes in public spaces just to show the word his handsomeness.

Anyway, last post of this memes collection; I got tired and I’ll be off Tumblr for a while. I had a pretty realistic dream with this app and others, and these dreams usually are predicting my future, so to avoid bad things to happen I’ll uninstall them 👍🏽 idk how much time I’ll be out, but I hope u won’t forget me when I come back lmao.

Class is going great

Behati is teaching Yuno to stand his ground 💪🏽 (he could use some grammar class, though lol)

I don’t talk a lot about them, so in case you don’t know, Behati is Yuno’s big sister. They’re the last Auvies(elves) in Martra and she’s raising him alone in a hut in the forest, so it’s gonna be a nice help when Ethan teaches him to write Latin Alphabet properly!

Smile, Ethie!

Ethan is lacking this much 🤏🏼 to go nuts in Martra, and Maya is like “let’s go besties ✌🏾😗”

Those freaks…

I saw the original on Pinterest, but the @ was too blurry to see, sry.

I saved a bunch of memes, and if I stay in the mood I’ll make them ✌🏽

(I forgot to make her halo 😭😭😭)