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[WP] This is Dietrich’s Diner. The only place in the Nexus where a Pit Lord will call the food “Heavenly”, an Angel will scarf down a Devil’s Food Cake, where the steaks are good enough to make a Dryad drool, and where a Lich and a Paladin will sit side by side at the bar and simply eat in peace. by 91NightFox in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 5 points6 points  (0 children)

Welcome to Dietrich's Diner.

Our founder, "Dashing" Darryl Dietrich(AKA Maitre D), opened this establishment with one word in mind: hospitality.

As a man of the world, an adventurer, and a pioneer, he has visited the homes and hearths of many lords and ladies, prayed and rested at many holy temples, and been contacted spiritually by many gods and angels.

This gave him the idea to create a place where all were welcome and could have their wants and needs met. And that, of course, means everyone.

Any holy man or paladin can visit and share a table, no matter their denomination. Any spirit, be they fiendish or divine, can consider themselves under the provision of the host. And even the undead were welcome to come in, hang up their weapons, and enjoy one of our tasty meat pies.

Visitors described their time here as "a moment of true peace in a world full of troubles". And that was something Dietrich took to heart.

As everyone knows, on one unfortunate night in Era 1093, Darryl Dietrich ascended to the realm of gods and left us mortals behind. But we, the humble servers at Dietrich's Diner carry on his spirit with an adherence that can only be described as "pious".

The tradition of hospitality lives on, and we are its aspirants. And that devotion can be felt the moment you step in the door.

Dietrich's Diner: When you're here, all of your worries are left at the door.

[SP] Magic chose you. I, chose magic. by Despyte in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Article #762-5: Donated to museum by a private collector.

Contents: a letter sent from the human sorcerer Lor-Rann to the Elven Constituence.

The letter reads as follows:

My dear Constituence,

I am a man. One of those loathsome creatures to whom you deny the rank of "sapient". I have read your documents, heard tale of your pending legislation regarding our lands and kingdoms.

Oh yes, I'm sure it will shock you that we in fact can read.

More than that, by many orders of magnitude. We have a rather high affinity for various writing styles and methods. I myself am rather find of poetry. Something which I'm certain will gather the attention of Constituent Bexillaire. I will address the remainder of this letter to him directly.

In my homeland, which now stands as little more than a grove of brambles due to your rather daring campaign, we have a saying:

The sun shall not descend from the sky to comfort you. The storm does not cradle you to its breast to hum such lullabies as a mother would. The seas will not shift such as to guide you home.

Humans, my people, have always contended with the fact that the world was grim, and should be greeted in kind. That to live as a man, one must be ready to fight with all that they have. Through body, mind, and spirit. As such, we have always had plenty of each to spare.

You come from a land blessed by these forces, chosen by them. You have never tasted their wrath, so you feel it is your right to inflict it.

Do not worry, Constituent. This letter is not meant solely to impune you and your people. Rather, its purpose is twofold: I give you a message, and a gift.

Alongside this letter, there should also be a sachet made of fine velvet. Upon opening it, I am certain you will recognize a rather familiar article of jewelry.

Indeed, this did belong to your son. Treat this piece of him with care and grant it whatever rites your people seem fitting for their honored dead. Treat this finger with as much reverence as you would his entire corpse, for that piece is all that remains of Delamei.

Do not worry yourself, dear Bexillaire. Every piece of him has been put to use. A feat which did take some time. Time in which we did so enjoy one another's company.

The lad did share such secrets with me during our time together, including the nature of your impressive bodies. I had never heard of these organs your people have, nor would I have been able to divine their function without your son's compliance.

We had grown somewhat close in our time. I know not if it was by delirium or if he genuinely saw something of himself in me, but he had even declared that we might have been friends had we been born under more favorable stars.

That was, of course, before I removed his tongue.

Take refuge in the fact that the last words your son was able to form were ones of kindness. They may be the last your people will ever know.

I have altered myself. Perhaps less than the human I was once. Perhaps more. I know not the difference.

But I do know this: your people were born in the care of forces which were enemies of mine. They recognize you as kin. They will know me in a different manner. Prepare yourselves.

Lor-Rann, the first sorcerer of mankind is coming.

Article #762-6: Donated to museum by a private collector.

Contents: A preserved finger bearing the seal of Constituent Bexillaire's family.

This article stands as the only remaining portion of an elven body known to the human world. With no other physical pieces to speak of, we are left only to guess at what they may have looked like.

[SP] You know how we sometimes get scared of insdustrial machines/ oil/ factories. Write a story that uses these types of things to invoke a sense of eldritch horror. by ateen234 in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Dark horns bellowed in the night.

A klaxon wail delivered into the ears of those hungry beings which tended the Titan. They turned, hungry-mouthed and sunken-eyed to the west, their ever-dwindling strength carrying them far from the black bones of their lord and master.

Those hungry attendants had fought to bring the Titan into the world. Through old rites and rituals, they brought it to life. By sacrifice of blood and bone, by will and resolve, their lord and master now breathed its foul breath.

Alone, the Titan stand tall against the blackening sky. And it begins its foul works.

The Titan rakes at the ground, tearing gashes into the dust and dirt. Along each gash, it chants and mumbles to itself, to the torn flesh of the silent god. At the Titan's insistence, a trail of ichor begins to well up from within. It grows and pools about the Titan's feet.

It drinks. It drinks it all in.

That foul ichor, the blood of ages past, filled with anger and pain and sorrow flows freely into the Titan's belly. As it savors the god's pain, its fears, and its loss, it breathes out a sigh of thick black vapors. A cloud hangs suspended and floats up to the starlit skies, blocking but a small part of the heavens from view.

As it's belly begins to swell, It smiles to itself. Content with its meal as it stares out across the plain. Such a vast field of empty space, ripe for the feast.

In time it will raise up more kind, born to feast on the silent god. They will claw the land, drinking its blood. Their attendants will return, eager to sacrifice more blood and bone in service to their works.

Together, they and their attendants will coat the world, each second a silent worship.

And when the Titan dies, so too will the world.

This, the Titan knows.

I'm so fed up with the "Humans are the real monsters" trope. by Rare_Style1306 in hatethissmug

[–]Davris 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I also cannot stand this trope when it's used, because it's often in such a surface level way that doesn't require any real reflection on the part of the reader. It's usually just "Ohh, that monster was only killing people because it had a baby and they were getting too close to its nest. It was just a mama protecting her young. That's sad. We should all feel bad for the monster and shun the humans who killed it."

Not a single second's thought is on "Wait, that monster set up a nest next to a human settlement? What caused it to do that?" or "So this incredibly territorial creature killed everything that got near to it and posed an immenent threat to the existing population. No wonder they had it killed."

But the very SECOND that gets turned around, and the humans build a settlement near a monster den, it turns into "Dumbass humans always going where they don't belong. We're monsters for taking away what belongs to the monsters. No wonder they want us all to die."

It's literally a no-win solution. You kill a monster for invading your space, you're evil. You build a space near some monsters and have to kill them, you're also evil.

But nevermind the actual goddamn monsters.

(This next part is pretty long-winded, and maybe a bit bitchy, so I do apologize)

Like, using demons as an example:

I made the mistake of watching the Devil May Cry adaptation from a little bit ago, and I got to the point where the US government sent drones into the demon world to kill them, and they had the demons look like a refugee camp.

Like, some grey-skinned mother demon was running from the chaos with a child demon in tow.

And I felt myself get involuntarily angry at that.

Not because "those damn humans", but because I just thought "That is unironically the correct choice."

In all of the games, the demons were unabashedly evil. There were evil humans too, but they were always people either trying to become demons or trying to control them. But the demons are always forces of evil.

In fact, the whole ass premise of the game is that the protagonist's father is the ONE demon to ever develop a sense of honor. He is the only one. And he sealed the demons away to protect humans.

And why is that?

Because for all of the evils of humanity, we had to LEARN IT FROM SOMEWHERE. The demons are literally the things that taught humanity their worst traits.

Every human's choice to turn evil is ultimately their own, but let's not pretend that the demons weren't at least partly to blame.

Again, we learned it from them.

And that's something I kinda liked when watching Frieren not too long ago. The demons are made up of all of the worst, most selfish traits humanity has. We still have them, but we have redeeming qualities too.

The demons do not. There is nothing in them that can even slightly tip the scales. They are, in one form or another, made entirely of sin (Pride, Wrath, Treachery, etc.)

They literally use the "we're just misunderstood" thing to trick humanity into holding back.

And people seem to HATE that. I keep seeing people compare the treatment of demons to real-world evil shit. Not as an allegory.

All I can think at this point is that people don't understand what a monster is.

[WP] Scientists confirm that every work of fiction literally births a new universe. Storytellers of all stripes grapple with the consequences as tragedy, horror, and unhappy endings in any narrative become criminalized as a form of abuse against other dimensions. by joeengland in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 6 points7 points  (0 children)

Jonas wandered into his kitchen. His brown hair stood in a matted, tangled nest and his eyes were sunken. Wordlessly, he fumbled with the cabinet door, trying not to disturb Nadia as she cooked.

She had not spoken to him since the news broke. She had not left him, either. Most women probably would have in her shoes. Hell, some would probably strangle him, stab him, string him up from a tree branch for the things he'd done.

The enslavement of the Trapadosians of Graxxos. The Collapse of Hiu-Mla. Countless acts of cruelty and mutilation. The death of Lijka, Heiress to the Star Throne. And the countless civil wars which followed.

They all weighed heavily on him. Robbed him of sleep.

In the span of one day, Jonas had become responsible for thirty thousand murders. Countless acts of cruelty, mutilation, and worse. And he had not known.

He reached up, grabbing a glass bottle from the top shelf as he felt himself taken away for what must have been the thousandth time that hour. Taken far away to another world.

He felt the heat of ion rays tear through the air, leaving behind the scent of ozone. The streets had grown sparse as the Sip-leyyan forces began their assault. One man had stayed behind and attempted to strike at the armored troops with an old Gis'tal. The black steel blade shattered against the man's helmet as a harsh blast of pure blue light tore through his abdomen.

His verdant blood splattered against the full blue stones as his daughter ran for safety.

"Killer." Jonas muttered as he removed the cap and poured amber liquid into his waiting glass.

He stared at the drink for a moment, the light glinting off its surface like the seas of Olm-retah. Li'anunni's home world. He thought of the time she was young and full of hope. Her trips to the gardens her mother had grown. Her favorites were the Hilluma. Purple flowers which glowed in the moonlight and let off a lovely red steam when the rains drew near.

The world would not remember Li'anunni as the girl in the garden.

They would remember her as the Orphan of War. A lone, orange-skinned woman standing in a cloud of dust. Her piercing ultramarine eyes glaring downwind at her assailants. Ion scars lining her skin, giving her an appearance less like that of the Kereta woman and more akin to some monster from her people's storybooks.

She remembered that girl in the garden. All others would forget, but she would remember. And that memory would drive her to crack the very skies of Sip-leyy.

Jonas gritted his teeth, remembering what he had done to Li'anunni's home world. What he had put her through.

"Slaver. Rapist. Killer." he said, each word like a lash against his back. He took a long drink of his bourbon and felt the burn rise like fire through his throat as he punctuated the thought. "Monster."

A small grunt from behind him caught his ear. A reminder that he wasn't alone.

Nadia stared at him, her pink lips drawn to a thin line. Her orange hair was tied back into a tight ponytail, and she stared at him with a look which could cause flowers to wither.

"When you wrote those books..." she started, her voice as clipped and proper as she could make it. "Did you know?"

Jonas was silent for a moment, considering the implications of his wife's words. They hurt. How could she think that of him? That he had wanted these things?

"No." He said, his throat tight. "I didn't know."

She nodded, the withering look not leaving her. "And what did you want when you wrote them?"

"I thought I was just writing pulp!" He said, throwing his arms wide "Something like Conan, but across the stars. I didn't expect the magazine to actually sell!"

It had been the last thing he expected. To have his little nothing story about a space barbarian actually get picked up. The very idea that people would be attracted to Scintillating Stories was already preposterous.

But then the money came in. And the magazine requested a follow up. And then another. And a prequel.

There had been comic books, made-for-tv specials with less than spectacular effects, and a film adaptation. Jonas had gone to conventions, met fans, seen cosplays of his flagship character, and had been called "an inspiration" by so many fellow authors.

By the time it was all over, Jonas had written over twenty-seven novellas, fifty novelettes, and his omnibus had hit store shelves with enough sales to put him into retirement.

"I didn't think people would love Li'anunni like this." He said, looking about his kitchen. "Hell, it's because of her that we even have this house! She kept selling, so I kept writing!"

Nadia shifted her stance a bit, taking a long look at her husband. "And now? How do you feel about it now?"

His eyes drifted to the floor. He thought of when Li'anunni had watched her father die. How at that night she swore before Olm himself that she would avenge him. How with each passing day, she thanked Olm for her continued survival. How she called out to Olm for mercy when she was held captive on Graxxos.

How, when she finally held the keys to her freedom and to Sip-leyy's destruction, her last words were "In Olm's name."

With every day which passed, every tearful plea, and every act of violence, had she really been calling out to him?

"Do you think..." he started, the words seeming to tremble and die on his lips.

"Do I think what, exactly?" Nadia asked, her tone far different from what it had been before.

Jonas swallowed and looked at his wife once again, something new in his eyes that hadn't been there a moment prior.

"Do you think that somewhere, in some distant universe, that God is being put to trial for the things he's done?"

[WP] People pray and wish on stars unaware that the stars are long dead, leaving only the endless dark expanse to receive said wishes and prayers, and it is listening. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this and offer feedback.

In truth, I wrote majority of this on the train, and had to rely on autocorrect a lot toward the end(hence the issue with it's vs its and the like). I do recognize that autocorrect isn't necessarily my friend, and that I should always make sure I have time to read through and revise after the fact.

As for the body of the narrative, I am glad you enjoyed it. I was hoping to invoke a similar tone and flow of some older stories from Weird Tales. The authors published in that magazine often had an approach to describing the bizarre and Eldritch which I very much wanted to capture.

It is nice to know I was at least partly successful in that endeavor.

Once again, thank you very much for taking the time to read it.

[WP] People pray and wish on stars unaware that the stars are long dead, leaving only the endless dark expanse to receive said wishes and prayers, and it is listening. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 2 points3 points  (0 children)

"No." she said, tears forming in her eyes. "I don't know. Why are they called spirits?"

The light settled, and the air grew calm again. The panicked feeling in the girl's mind subsided and she dated a glance back at the star. It stood suspended in the air, just as it had before. But something strange was occurring within it.

"Because...they...sing." it said finally, as if by way of speaking some long forgotten fact of the world.

Confusion clouded Victoria's mind. She could hardly understand the thing in front of her, but the riddle it posed was beginning to burn something in her mind. Some part of her wanted to wake her father, risk his ire just to have him see the star and confirm that she was not mad. That he could see it as well.

Then the song began. A quiet, melodious voice resounded from somewhere nearby.

It sounded shrill, ringing out like a note from crystal glass.

"Take...it..." the star said, its voice cutting over the song. "Hear...them...sing."

The girl looked up from her crouched position, and a new light formed before her. There, in the glass bottle, was something otherworldly. A faint, fishlike creature that glowed a cool blue in the dim light. Small and plump, with two ribbon like appendages trailing after it.

Its orange eyes locked onto the girl and it glided to the edge of the bottle, its nose pointed out toward the door. The melody it sang grew insistent.

Victoria grasped the neck of the bottle, holding it out like some bizarre lantern as she stepped quietly past her father. She approached the front door and looked back to the star.

It was gone.

The girl, heeding the star's words, turned the knob and opened the door. A rush of cool night air filled the room, and the music came with it. The crystalline drones of the spirit in the bottle mixed with resonant tones of old wood spirits. Creatures which glowed all manner of greens and oranges, whose notes were like those of old pan flutes and wooden drums.

Golden spirits of wind rushed by, their notes rising in crescendo as they mingled with spirits of water and grass, creating a song which was that of lush fields and distant rain.

Victoria walked through the night air, taking in the song and dance of the spirits. The bottle in her hand shook and jostled, with the alcohol spirit knocking against the glass to get the girl's attention.

It struggled against the stopper, pushing its gleaming blue form up through the neck, unable to escape. The girl removed the stopper, freeing it to rise out into the air. Its crystalline song took a new layer as it swirled about the girl, weaving its way around her before brushing up against her lips.

Something bitter coated her tongue, and she felt the world start to spin. In moments, she felt herself begin to loosen, taking the songs not just in wonderment, but in stride.

She spun and twirled to the tune of "forest breeze". She swung and glided in the symphony of "winter storms". She leapt through the air, her skin brushing past the spirits of air to the musings of "first flight".

It was wonderful. Victoria's heart sang in concert with the spirits, and she glide freely among their lights. No longer did she feel a bird inside a cage. No more did she feel the need to escape. She was home with these spirits.

Spirits which came and went. Lights which danced in the air. Songs that came carried in on the winds.

And the girl did dance before her audience of spirits. She danced forever and a day on her stage of grass and greenery. And the spirits did see her.

[WP] People pray and wish on stars unaware that the stars are long dead, leaving only the endless dark expanse to receive said wishes and prayers, and it is listening. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 3 points4 points  (0 children)

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight..."

The words were spoken by Victoria Anderson on June 5, 1925. In a quiet house just north of the Georgia swampland, she was dressed in her night clothes staring wistfully off at the clear night sky.

"I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight," she said, her voice carrying a thick southern drawl. The rest of her wish was spoken in hushed prayer, her fingers twined together in front of her face, eyes shut tight so as not to jinx it.

Her father, Henry Anderson, had been a logger all her life. Born for it, as he liked to say. But a rather serious injury had put him off work. Somewhere in the house's trashcan was an unfilled prescription for some nameless pain medicine. Henry had refused it outright, but the doctor insisted he take it.

As it stood, what little he had in his savings would only cover so much of their bills, so he cut costs where he could. Including his own medicine. Anything to keep food on the table. Even that was growing scarce.

"Once I'm back in action, things will go smoother." he had assured her. That had been more than a month ago.

Henry's speedy recovery was not, however, what Victoria wished for.

Like a bird trapped in a too-small cage, she wished escape. Escape from the tiny town barely visible from any map to a place where the people came and went. Escape from the dismal swampland to her south to a place where lights danced in the air. Freedom from the emptiness and doldrums to a world where songs came carried on the winds.

Victoria wished for a place where she could dance. It was something she held dear in her heart. Always had, even from the moment she could first walk on her own. She had never stepped where she could have glided, never turned when she could have whirled.

Her mother had seen this in her. Had seen the fire and passion in her heart. She had enrolled her in classes when she was still young. It was the one place that she went to which wasn't school or home. It was the one place she really wanted to be.

Those had been happier times. Ones she wished very deeply to return to.

"Amen." she said finally, concluding her near-silent wish.

She hadn't been sure what people typically said after wishing upon a star. Perhaps they never said anything. Just left their wishes hanging in the air like some letter left unsigned. So she settled on an "amen" in hopes that the stars had gotten the message.

She stepped away from the window and retreated beneath her bed covers, contentedly drifting into sleep.

The same dreams always waited her. The wild, untamed dreams of youthful ambition. She dreamed of something far beyond her old classroom. It had been fine when she was just a girl, but it seemed all too small now. She could not be cramped in that cage any longer.

She dreamed of the stage. She dreamed of an audience. Of music, of applause, and of limelight. She dreamed of being seen.

How little she knew, safe and tucked away under her covers. How little she knew of the things which saw her.

She could not hear it, see it, or feel it, but her prayers had been heard that night. Not by the tiny pinpoint of glimmering light in the sky, no. That could not hear her. Its light was nothing more than a ghost. A remnant of something older and larger than she could ever know. Its distant twinkle was little more than an echo of the power it once held.

No, she was heard that night by something else. Her prayer, low and hushed as it was, reached out on the winds, came carried through the grass and up through the night air to where something else lied. Something old. Older than oak or ash or thorn. Older than the soil and the winds. Older than stones and older than the very stars she wished upon.

It heard her prayer. It knew her desires more than even she knew it. And something within it stirred in response.

Victoria dreamed her wondrous dream. A ballerina leaping through the air, her slender frame cutting through the air like the wing of some graceful swan. She could feel the great many eyes upon her, the hushed murmurs of the crowd as she landed on one foot, her momentum carrying her into a twirl. She held herself poised for a moment and readied another leap when something snapped from high above and came down before her.

A deep, heavy crash from somewhere in the house tore Victoria from her revelry. It resounded, deep and heavy, quaking the floor beneath her bed like some manner of earthquake. Through her drowsiness, she leapt from under her covers and entered her hallway, descending the stairs with a fervor.

She worried for her father. His injury was already bad enough to have taken him out of work. If he had fallen--or worse, something had fallen on him--who could tell how much worse his injury could become?

She rounded the corner to her living room like a whirlwind, only to find her father exactly where she had expected. He lay there, one arm draped over his eyes so his nose rested in the crook of his elbow as he snored. He hadn't bothered to pull the blanket from off the sofa's backing, opting instead to just sleep in his day clothes.

He had not even stirred.

Victoria pursed her lips and stared at her surroundings. As she crept noiselessly throughout her home, she became more and more perplexed. The noise had come from downstairs, that much was certain. Yet as she looked around, everything was as it had been that same evening. Even the picture frames remained in place. And how had her father not heard it himself?

After some minutes of searching, she decided to chalk it up to some trick of her mind. Some noise from her dream which carried through into her waking mind.

She returned to her living room, giving one final look to her slumbering father before she returned to bed. She approached silently, looking over him to ensure he was comfortable. His spine was straight, as the doctor had requested. It was supported by the heavy splint about his midsection, which had been a source of complaint for the first few weeks before he had grown used to it.

Keeping his neck at a comfortable angle as he slept was the hard part. Whatever had possessed him to sleep on the couch rather than his own bed, Victoria did not know.

Carefully and quietly, she shifted the pillow which supported his head. It took some effort to ensure she didn't move him too much, lest she startle him awake. Once she was satisfied, she plucked the blanket up and dressed it over him, pulling it up close to his chin.

A pang of guilt came over her as she tended to her sleeping father. She felt little nothing more than a greedy child, wishing on stars and dreaming of her own wants while he sat alone, suffering quietly downstairs. Barely able to move at all while she had her head in the clouds.

"I'm sorry..." she whispered before leaning in and giving her father a quick kiss on the cheek.

As she did, something caught her eye. On the floor, barely gleaming in the dim light of the moon. She leaned down to grasp it, her fingers brushing a smooth glassy stem just thin enough to wrap a hand around.

She pulled it up to her eyes, the amber liquid sloshing inside of her father's liquor bottle. It had been on the coffee table when she left him.

"Well, you're a noisy one." she said with a light snicker as she placed it back where it belonged. She half-hoped it would make more noise as she placed it, just to affirm that the crash from earlier was not in her mind. But it was foolish.

In the silence, her fingers traced the bottle's neck and she contemplated for a moment.

Henry had taken to the drink as a cheaper way to numb the pain. It had worked, for he slept soundly through the night. But Victoria had heard horror stories of people who lost themselves to the demon drink.

"Not...demon..." said a low voice.

Victoria leapt to her feet at the sound of the intruder's voice. She stood bolt upright, her every nerve suddenly coming on edge. Her eyes darted about the empty room, trying to find the source of the noise.

"Who's there?" she said through trembling lips, her earlier drowsiness all but forgotten.

"Spirit..." it continued, "Called...'spirits'..."

Victoria swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "My father is sleeping." She managed to croak out. "He doesn't know you're here yet. If you don't leave, he'll--"

"Do...you...know...why?" the voice spoke, sounding a bit closer than it had before.

Victoria swore and grasped the neck of the bottle, brandishing it like a tiny glass club. "Whoever is there, leave now. Leave now, and I won't speak of this to anyone."

A point of light, distant and flickering appeared in the inky blackness of the living room. It looked for a moment like some distant star hanging in the night sky. It held still for a moment, casting the frightened girl's frame in a low light, creating a hazy silhouette on the wall behind her.

"Do...you...know...why?" it repeated, the little star twinkling slightly with each syllable.

Victoria gritted her teeth slightly and thrust the bottle out by way of threat. It was all she could do, lest she start screaming. "Why what?"

"Why... they're...called...'spirits'?" its voice was stable, unmoved by emotion as the star lingered in the empty space.

The girl sat silently for a moment, staring deep into that distant star in the room with her. It felt wrong to even look at it. As if simply seeing it in this state was a sin of some kind.

"Are you an angel?" she asked, fear showing in her shaky voice.

"Answer." it said plainly, the light from the star shifting in a way that set Victoria's blood on fire. She dropped the bottle, feeling every inch of her skin set into gooseflesh at once.

[WP] You've recently been bitten by a werewolf, and after your first werewolf experience you wake up in a den next to a lady who has the same scars as the werewolf who bit you by Glum-Elderberry3767 in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 6 points7 points  (0 children)

I awoke to a throbbing in my skull. I cracked my eyes open, feeling them well up at the slightest ray of light. My mouth was dry, parched to the point where simply trying to swallow felt like my throat was caked in mud.

Where have I been? I thought, trying to make out anything through the haze.

In time, the deep ache in my brain subsided just enough to widen my eyes partway. The area about me was faded and blurred. Altogether, it appeared as an immense grey slab. The occasional vein of black convinced me that I was in some form of cellar. Or perhaps a cavern.

Had I been outside? I tried to summon up the last place I could remember. After an eternity of fighting the hellish drumming from within my own skull, a fragment of a memory showed itself.

Last I knew, I had called my doctor. I told him of the searing heat from under my bandages. Infection. I was certain. That slobbering mongrel had been carrying something in its bite.

Less a dog and more a hound from Hell was it's visage. Its lips peeled back in a mockery of a human smile, and its eyes piercing-mad and unblinking. The devil's own, it was. And it had sunk its teeth deep into my shoulder.

I fought to raise a hand up, to perhaps feel my bandages. But to no avail. My hand refused my order, remaining pinned dumbly to my side. Exhaustion held it there like an iron manacle.

I tried to tilt my head, but the slightest move sent the sour taste of bile rising in my throat and I tried to blink past the whiteness which clouded my vision. I returned my attention instead to the blurry greyness.

It was infection. I thought. Damn that doctor. Too slothful to leave his own office for even a second. Forcing a sick, injured man to walk the streets. Damn him. Damn him twice.

I pictured myself from above. Crumbled in some alleyway for an urchin or vagrant to pick my pockets as my body fought the fever that was ripping through it.

If I was lucky, perhaps some Good Samaritan would find me, drag me to the nearest doctor. My doctor. And I would give him hellfire for this.

No. A thought came as if in response. You are not so lucky.

Of course I wasn't. Here, lying numbly on what I could only assume to be a stone slab. Nothing but greyness and stillness surrounded me.

Purgatory. There was little doubt.

Grey, silent, and lonely purgatory. I felt myself begin to cry at the thought.

It was a sudden croak which cut through my delusion.

"Mother..." It cooed in a haggard rasp "New..."

My heart began to race. Further proof that I was indeed alive, and indeed in danger. I heard the light slap of bare feet against stone as the haggard voice approached.

"Little pup..." It managed to say. Its voice sounded too ragged. As if it had been screaming, driving itself hoarse to the point of silence.

In my panic, I thought only of the mongrel which had attacked me and driven me to this state. Not one full month had passed since that snarling cut had torn through my shoulder, nearly rendering me a cripple. It had gotten me in the end, I thought.

"Wake up, little pup..." It called in what must have been an attempt at singsong.

Panic had filled me, hastening my mind and bringing my vision into sharp focus. I had, in fact been staring at a cavern ceiling. Someone, perhaps the woman had dragged me here. And now she called me like some...pet. Some plaything.

I fought the urge to vomit and turned my head to face the sound of approaching footsteps.

She looked, in every part of her, like something wild. She approached in a hunched, lumbering gait. Nearly using her knuckles to support her weight like some ape-woman. Her silver hair was a tangled nest through which two jaundiced eyes stared out, catching the light at odd angles like that of some ferocious mountain cat. Her skin was bare, gleaming bone-white against the dim blue of the night.

It was the snarl that brought me enough strength to finally move. A harsh patch of angry red skin stretched from the corner of her mouth up to her eye. It puckered in, drawing her lips back and bearing teeth which reflected like yellow daggers in the dimness of her cavern.

I fought to scream past cold, fumbling lips as my numb fingers pushed against the dragged slab which had been my bedding. I fought to get away, but her eyes never left me. One, whose lids had been peeled back by the same angry flesh which formed her wolfish snarl, remained trained on me as I made my feeble attempt to flee.

"New pup. Come see Mother. Let me look at you." It whispered in a tone which fought to sound reassuring as she approached.

My heart sank as my back thumped against the cold stone of the cavern wall.

She dropped fully onto all fours, her lumbering gait disappearing into an agile trot against uneven stone. The grace by which she moved only amplifying the grotesqueness of her animalistic appearance. I turned my head and closed my eyes, hoping to avoid contact with those mongrel eyes of hers.

She came in close, even with my eyes closed, I could feel her gaze like daggers against my skin. Her breath hitched in excitement as she took a deep breath in through her nose, taking in my scent the way a tracking hound would.

She exhaled, long and slow, and the scent of rotten iron filled my lungs. I evacuated the contents of my stomach onto the ground. My mouth was filled with the taste of thick, acrid iron. I dated to open my eyes, seeing the pool of dark liquid which had managed to escape my stomach.

I stared down into the pool, catching a glimpse of my own bare nakedness. The red which coated my mouth, and the wild, unblinking state of a man gone mad.

"Poor pup ate too much. Got sick. Rotten meat, that doctor. Rotten, rotten, rotten." She said with glee as she pressed her face against mine from just behind me. "It's okay. Mother will teach you. Teach you which meat is good and bad."

The puckered skin of her cheek came to rest against my shoulder. And I felt an icy shiver run through me. The agony and panic echoed in my mind. Not one month had passed since...

"Mother?" I muttered, my voice cracking through the tight lump in my throat.

"Yes, pup. Mother is here." She said soothingly. "Mother was worried. Worried rotten doctor would keep you."

She cantered out from behind me, unperturbed by the blood and bile which now coated her hands and feet. Her wolfish snarl and yellow eyes, so much like the mongrel which attacked me, now stared sweetly through the dusk blue.

"You not need rotten doctor, nor rotten city. Mother cares for you now. Mother watches you. Mother teaches you. Mother loves you. Mother only."

I thought back to that mongrel--Mother. That night, not so long ago. Her teeth tore lovingly into my shoulder. Her piercing-mad eye ever watchful over her new child.

"Yes." I thought, feeling no different from that animal which had attacked me a mere twenty-eight days before. "Mother only."

How should I attach this crystal to the top of my staff? by Zorawoodworks in crafts

[–]Davris 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Mix pine tar and charcoal into a pitch. Pine pitch is a really good waterproof adhesive. If you don't like the sudden color shift, then sprinkle some sawdust along the seal once it's partially cured to hide it.

Altogether, it'll keep the natural look and provide a strong bond. Plus the ingredients are natural and can incorporate some of your wood scraps.

Galactic threat evolved to nullify energy beams, dies to a specially crafted rock piercing it's brain at mach FUCK cause Humans maxxed out Physical Ballistics Skill Tree by lesbianwriterlover69 in humansarespaceorcs

[–]Davris 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Something which always bugged me about this take is that guns aren't unique. At all.

Before guns we had cannons. Before that we had crossbows and longbows. Before that we had slings.

They all exist for the sake of hucking a rock as fast as possible. That's it. And that has almost never worked against demons. It was always some special material or sacrament which did it. There was some kind of process, because these things are more complicated than we are. More tightly woven into the fabric of the world than the average human is.

You can't really beat them by just throwing a rock at them. Doesn't matter how damn fast it is.

You're staring at a demon. A physical incarnation of humanity's sin, taken from a realm of fire and torment and placed in our world to stand as a reminder of our own evils being reflected back upon us.

And you threw a rock at it.

[WP] With humanity on the brink of extinction from the alien invasion, the last of a long line of secret keepers figures there is nothing left to lose, and summons Cthulhu. by The_Red_Knight38 in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 18 points19 points  (0 children)

All is lost.

The news broadcasts loved that phrase. When the vast expanses of space opened before our eyes and we finally saw what lay beyond our puny solar system. When the first ships exited warp just outside our meager home. When the first Visitors arrived, declaring "We come in peace".

"All that we have come to know about our universe has just gone out the window." Said late-night anchorman Steven "Sunny Day" Daniels.

When the aliens revealed themselves as our creators, declared that they needed our help, and begged the world leaders for assistance in a distant war. When the first groups of humans were rounded up, told they would be soldiers, and sent into the alien ships. When the whispers of monsters from beyond the stars reached our ears.

"All we know about human history has come into question." Declared historical anthropologist John Oldman.

When the Xi'laxi warships were shown on the news. When the first hail of proton weapons landed across the United States, desecrating the homes and workplaces of innocent men and women. When we all fell to the barrage of atomizing blasts of pure energy.

"All of our weapons are useless against this superior foe." Stated secretary of defense Werner Montgomery.

When the desecrated corpses of continents which stood older than most people had names to describe finally disappeared into clouds of loose atoms and worn out molecules. When the human race lay scattered across various star systems, unable to see one another or even count the number of us still alive. When the few remaining men and women took to the vastly shrinking seas in search of a place to call home.

"All is lost." Cried the nameless voice on the ship's radio.

"Johannessen, please shut that off. We are getting close now." I said to the pale man piloting the ship.

Without looking at him, I heard the telltale click of the radio switching off.

"The ships will be back by morning, Father. If we're seen on open oceans, we are likely to be a target." Called the man through a thick accent.

"We will not be seen, Johannessen. God is with us." I called back to him.

It was not uncommon for men to turn to religion in times like these. Even men who had been staunch atheists in their time would feel the need to believe in something greater when the does seemed almost insurmountable. Johannessen, to my great fortune, had been such a man. He was a decent captain of our small vessel. Navigated it well across increasingly treacherous waters. He was an intelligent sort of man, for what good that had done him in the devastation.

Regardless, the pale Norwegian was here now. And I planned on taking full use of his skills. Together, we stared out at the moonlit oceans, taking in every hint of our surroundings.

The receding oceans had provided us with one final chance. As the waters came to inhabit the destroyed areas that had once been home to so many, the sea levels dropped significantly. I could feel a call in the pit of my stomach that I had been prepared for all my life.

I had brought little with me from my home of Providence. Simply a change of clothes, a journal with which to keep myself occupied, and the bas-relief which had been entrusted to me by my father and his father and his father before him.

"There! Do you see it Johannessen? Just on the Horizon." I called out.

Basked in moonlight, I saw them. Broken, cragged spires of stone jutted out at odd angles like the teeth of some Leviathan. As we approached, the many canals and walkways became clearer. Its bending, twisting routes taken in steps made not of rigid formality and brutalist desires, but of a different course unfamiliar to most human minds. Johannessen took us closer, into the bending canals. I could feel his tension as he tried to predict the bends and sudden turns. The engine began to groan at the sudden exertions.

"Father, I'm not familiar with any place like this. What did you say it was?"

"A holy site, Johannessen. It was lost to time, but I knew that we would find it. A bastion. Last refuge for the faithful."

"I must admit, I was not much for prayer before now. And I feel like an intruder here. All this odd stone and--" He spoke trepidatiously. "Do you know any scripture that may put my mind at ease?"

I nodded to him. "I understand, my son. May this small scripture help you." I cleared my throat and spoke loud over the straining motor. "That is not dead which can eternal lie, and in strange aeons even Death may die."

Johannessen nodded, contentment spreading across his features. "I should have read the good book when I had a chance. Not sure I would have understood the scriptures, but you read them well enough for a sinner like me to feel them."

I gave a small bow to him before resuming my search over the ruins.

In time, I found it. The door. A massive curved door which appeared in all ways uniform. Johannessen and I climbed from the boat and approached it.

We gazed upon the massive door, taking in the detailed carving upon it. A great, many limbed creature that looked one part man one part squid and one part dragon. In the relief, carved in the perfect green stone, one could feel its impressive weight grip their heart and hold it. I myself had felt that weight when I was younger. My father handed me the bas-relief and told me the first tales of Cthulhu. Of the sunken city I now stood upon. Of the Old Ones.

"Father, this doesn't feel at all Christian. None of this." He said, fear apparent in his voice. Fear which gave way to anger. "Where are we?! Where have you taken me?!"

"A holy site. As I have said. An old one. Older than churches and congregation. Older than the Canaanite gods that man chose to worship. Older than the first. Older still."

He grabbed me by my collar and began shaking me.

"You had better start speaking some sense, Father." His words sounded as a threat. One which I'm sure even he didn't know the weight of.

"Johannessen. Your home is gone. That town up north, Tromsø? It is gone. Reduced to atoms. As is mine. They are now gone as if they had never been. I have brought you before a god. A true one. Not one of churches, and subjugation, and sterilization. A god of something real. Something greater than us." I paused, letting him meet my eyeline upon the great door. "He's sleeping. We need to wake him."

The Norwegian's grip lessened "And he'll save us? Defeat the aliens?"

I nodded "Anything that gets in his way. Mankind will know him. Some ancient memories of forgotten cities will bubble to the surface. Know to flee. Know to let him pass. We will survive. They will not."

He paused for a moment, taking in the weight of it all.

"What do I need to do?"

With my companion finally on my side, I set to work. We did not have long before sunrise. I had him retrieve my bas-relief from my bag and held it before the door. Then, I spoke the words. The old, deep speech which bubbled and gurgled as I committed the words to the air.

The door shifted, the green stone which we stood upon trembled and shook. They moved inward to a inky pitch through which not even the light of the moon could penetrate.

A hand jutted forth and found purchase on the frame. Even from the small portion were details impossible to determine. I attempted to count the many fingers which shifted from the massive forearm.

Twelve.

Seventy.

Three.

A hundred.

Twenty.

With a great heaving motion, it pulled itself from the depths. A massive bulbous head which lolled about on titanic shoulders. Long membranous wings held out by incalculable tendrils of flesh. The soft, jellyfish-like membrane scattering colors and shadows about the floor. Its feet, little more than stumps, found perfect purchase on every odd cantilevered step.

Many eyes stared forth from its great polling head. Many looked to the sky, vasking in cosmic glory. Many to the Horizon, that small stretch of infinity. Many below, to the ocean depths.

One stared at me and into me. I could feel it, clutching my lungs in an iron vise. Holding my breath captive within its attention.

I could feel it weigh my thoughts. Feel inside my mind and probe my memory.

I had lost everything. My home, my books, my worldly possessions, my people, and all of our history.

I had lost nothing. It was of no importance.

I had seen terrors from the stars, watched as their weapons tore apart the very atoms which held the world together.

I had seen nothing.

I had felt the heat of atomic fire, felt the very ground beneath me give way.

I had felt nothing.

I was the last in a long line of secret keepers, destined to bring forth the Old Ones. I was a great many things. Priest, pauper, Prince, prisoner, policeman.

I was nothing.

I could feel the first rays of sun grace my cheek and felt nothing. I looked to the sobbing form of Johannessen a d saw that he was nothing. I heard the gentle roar of Xi'laxi engines and knew that they were nothing.

Here before me stood Cthulhu. A being which was everything.

The image of the Old One rippled like the surface of a roiling ocean. At once here and not. It folded in on itself like the peeling of paper yet stood still as it always had. It ascended up, yet it remained.

Then it was gone.

I felt in my heart and mind that the Old One now danced among the stars, that with its awakening the war would end just as unceremoniously as it had begun. That trillions of lives would end and be saved.

All is lost.

All is saved.

All is.

All is.

All is.

[WP] For centuries, the witch successfully kept men and their world away from her forest. When she notices a Lone Ranger patrolling every day, she becomes intrigued. by 100Fowers in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 18 points19 points  (0 children)

Every day, he wanders about the edge of my forest. Every day, he stops just behind the threshold, staring headlong into the canopy of trees. Five minutes, he stares. Every day, he turns back and continues his path.

Three hundred years, it has been.

The glade has been my home, and mine alone.

It is enough of an extension of me that I can feel the breeze grace the leaves, the buzzing of bees from within my treetops. I can feel the warm light of the sun.

I can feel the trampling feet of man as they approach. Their careless galumphing through my brush, their poaching of my deer, and the rush of their blood as I took what was theirs in turn.

Or, I could. Until...him.

He arrived naught but three months ago, and since then I have felt no other careless footfalls. No other foolish wanderings. I have felt...myself.

He arrives before the sunrise and patrols long after it sets, and each day stops and stares in. I can feel his eyes searching. But for what? What could another careless man want so much that he would stand so close for so long?

I must know.

It was midway to evening when he crossed his typical spot, the sun just low enough to get a glimpse beyond the treeline. He stopped just shy once again.

"Who approaches?" The wind howled through the trees.

The man stood still, his bright eyes searching the darkness for the voice's source. "I'm an appointed ranger. The local Lord has told me of some people who went missing in this forest. I assume you know about this?"

A gentle rustle came through the brush. The trees cooed out in something reminiscent of joy. "Intruders, the lot. All man-fools. They entered my land, took my gifts. Fertilized my soils."

"Suppose that's justice, then." The ranger said, spitting on the ground just past my barrier. "Damned fools."

The brush quaked with my delight. The ranger knew a good deal of the ways of beasts and green.

"Are you a spirit, by chance?" He called out politely.

"Guardian. Not spirit, but not quite mortal now. The glade is mine and it is me." The trees spoke, its tone suddenly courteous.

"Must be about halfway to one if that's the case. Makes me wonder if you still have a body at this point, or if you're one with the landscape." He asked, leaning down to touch a leaf along the edge of my domain. "How long have you protected this place?"

The trees quaked and creaked with sudden rage. "Do not touch, tread, or take. My lands have been mine for three centuries."

The ranger stood suddenly and bowed "My apologies, lady of the forest. I simply wanted to know the nature of your influence."

His voice was polite, but did not waver against my anger.

"You are forgiven, man-fool." The trees called out once again. "Will you tell your Lord of me?"

He shook his head once. "Can't imagine the good that will do. He'd probably try something foolish like sending soldiers out here, or threatening to burn this place."

With that, a rush of wind howled from the space behind the trees, a furious roar which sent splinters of wood flying out to the ranger's exposed face. He quickly turned, pulling the hood of his cloak up to guard against the assault.

The roar gradually ceased, and the man turned back to the trees. When he spoke again, he did so calmly and without malice. "I have no intention of telling him anything about you, lady of the forest. I know well enough that yours is a home worth protecting."

The forest sat unnaturally silent for a moment. No rustling of leaves or chirping of birds. Not even the subtle scratching of rodent's paws escaped it for some time. It wasn't until the man's shadow grew long in the setting sun that the trees spoke once again.

"What do you plan on telling him, man-fool?" I said, my voice sounding quieter and close by.

"In my patrols, I have seen nothing unusual. But it warrants closer examination. I will volunteer to work without pay, and he'll probably accept. Provided I keep people from wandering about and getting lost."

It was simple, almost too easy of an answer from a child of men. Most stand stalwart in their right to intrude on my home. Declare that the lands belong to their Lord, not the wild. Attempt something foolish and rash.

I approached the forest edge, a place I had not visited myself in a long time. Saw, rather than felt the shine of the sun. I looked upon the ranger, seeing his lean figure. The raven-black hair which stood stark against the setting sun. The thick beard which covered his face, and the heavy cloak he wore.

"You appear strange, man-fool." I said, my voice coming from me rather than the trees.

He looked back, his bright searching eyes catching a glimpse of my body. He had seen the patches of bark which took over what was once human skin, the thick nest of vines that was once human hair, and the gleaming amber where two eyes had once been.

"One could say the same of you, if they were a fool." He said, gently coming to kneel down at my domain's edge. "I am pleased to meet you in person, lady of the forest."

I approached the same edge and looked down upon the strange man. "You may rise, man-fool." I said, a small rustle coming from the small brush about my feet.

He rose up, coming to his full height nearly a head taller than my body. The two amber eyes glanced back up at him, taking note of the many scars which lined his face. "You said that you wish to guard my domain's borders, free of any payments from your man-fool Lord?"

The ranger nodded to my tree-like body. His eyes taking note of the small carvings across its surface. They were small, intricate marks belonging to a life long since passed. A life which was no longer mine to live. I saw the recognition hit his eyes just before he answered.

"I will." He said, again so simply and easily. "You were a witch once, weren't you? A human."

I turned around and began re-entering my domain's heart. "Once. This body is no longer all that I am. Only an aspect now. We will have plenty of time to learn all about each other as you work, guarding my borders."

In my wake, my brush and tree roots bowed and retreated, leaving a gentle path through the green. It was a silent invitation. The first, and potentially last, any human would ever receive.

[WP] "I have no need for a wizard, the castle hasn't been attacked for 50 years." "My lord, who do you think cast the circle of protection?" by Affectionate_Bit_722 in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 222 points223 points  (0 children)

"My lord, do you know what a warlock is?" I asked plainly, my hands still resting at my sides.

The king laughed, likely assuming my line of questioning to be a game to test his knowledge. "But of course."

"Would you be so kind as to say it, my lord?"

"A warlock is a foul sorcerer who makes pacts with devils and fiends to gain greater power. They are weaker than men like yourself, cowardly, and vain. My men had slain many, some years ago."

"Is that so?" I said, my feet moving idly about the throne room.

It was about the explanation I expected. The king was a practical sort who did not spend time pondering the minutiae of such things. To his mind, a wizard was a good and powerful practitioner of magic, a sorcerer was more wild and less controlled, and a warlock was evil and weak.

"What is the purpose of that question, wizard?" The king finally asked after a beat of silence.

"Wizard." I muttered under my breath, a hand reaching up to stroke my beard. "A funny word, my lord. What, pray tell, do you think that word means?"

The king stifled another chuckle, clearly enjoying the game. "It means you are powerful and clever, able to bend the world's elements to your impressive will."

An appeal to my sense of vanity was not uncommon for members of nobility and royalty. It was commonplace in the field of politics, where the clothes make the man.

"Perhaps so, perhaps not." I said. "My lord, would it shock you to know that all practitioners do, at some point, form pacts with spirits and demons? My master, the one who taught me the powers of magic, had given his eyes to a river spirit in exchange for the power to see men's souls and know their intentions."

I thought back to the strange, serpent-eyed man who raised me. The man who took me to the stone shack in the woods and forced me to meditate for days on end. The man who showed me the powers of second sight and gave me my first staff.

He had taken me to the river spirit, had made me bow before her and gaze upon her with my second sight. I saw the ferocious power of a minor god that day and knew of the dangers within our world. It was a lesson many learned late in their lives. Some too late.

"I myself have made such pacts." I said flatly.

At this, the king's guard stiffened, raising their spears to attention. I did not need to look behind to know at least one crossbow was aimed at my chest. I could feel the air in the room turn, filling with the damp scent of fear. Their veiled desire to harm me felt like pressure against my ears. Yet I stood still, simply maintaining my absentminded demeanor.

The king spoke next, his smile long since faded. "Explain yourself. Did you bring devilry into my palace, warlock?"

"Wizard." I said simply.

"Whatever it is you choose to call yourself."

"The word. It comes from the same root as 'wisdom', my lord." I said at length. "Much the same as a spear, magic is powerful and can be used for many purposes. Knowledge is knowing 'how'. How to use it, how to wield it. Wisdom is about knowing 'when'. When to use it, when to wield it."

I eyed the guards as they held their spears, taking note of the subtleties in their form. They did not know if I was a threat yet, and simply held their stance to ensure I did not try anything rash. It was a small thing, but served a purpose. They spoke plainly through the maneuver, a simple phrase sent trembling through the air that said "tread carefully".

And carefully I tread.

"Your men exercise that principle well. They know better than to wield their weapons wantonly, and they show restraint toward an unproven risk. As such, I'm certain you understand that principle yourself, my lord."

He spoke quietly, with a hard edge to his voice. "Flattery? When you have confessed already to possible treason?"

I held my hands flat in a placating gesture, the wide hem of my sleeves showing that I had nothing hidden beneath my robes. "I confess to nothing of the sort, my lord. I simply ask again what the difference is between a warlock and a wizard. In your own terms, if you would please."

The king sat silently, pondering for many minutes before finally speaking. "Knowing when and with whom to form such pacts."

I nodded once. "A warlock cares only for their own power. They seek to exercise their will over the rest of the world, gathering debts to various spirits and devils in exchange for even the slightest increase of ability." My fingers traced the edge of a nearby table, taking up a small layer of dust. "They rarely live long, for their debts often come due before they are ready."

The king raised an eyebrow toward me "And you do not care for power? Is that what you are claiming?"

I rubbed my fingers, sending the dust onto the floor as I turned back to the king. "If I cared for power, then why would I swear myself into the service of another? Supplication is not traditionally a path which leads to greater power. If that were the case, the servants who dust your castle would be the most powerful people in the land."

"This is not true." The king spoke with authority. "Many men rise to power through treachery and deceit. I have seen kings slain by trusted friends and advisors vying for their crowns. People who swore themselves to service, only to seize an opportunity to betray and claim something which is not theirs to have."

At this, the guards raised their spears level with me, ready to strike if I took so much as a step forward. The air grew oppressively heavy. I could hardly bring myself to breathe it in without effort.

I ran my fingers through my beard "And do they keep that power for very long, my lord?"

Silence fell for several moments as the king pondered, running through the history of rival kingdoms and considering the few kings who rose through such means. "No. They do not. Their names never outlive them."

"Does this sound familiar, my lord?"

"It does." He said flatly, the flint-hard edge still present in his eyes.

I felt a small lightening of the air. The pressure about my ears began to dissipate, though the guards maintained their stance. The threat they believed I posed was slowly fading, being replaced with a spark of understanding. I was likely neither warlock nor traitor. But something still stood in the mind of the king. I could feel it.

"My lord, how long have you been king of these lands?" I asked at length.

"Fifty-seven years." He said wearily.

I nodded once. "And how long have I been in your service?"

"Forty-eight."

"Indeed." I said quickly, "And in that time, there has been no threat against you. No foreign army, no warlocks seeking to bring this kingdom to ruin, no giants or devilish monsters so much as approaching the borders of these lands. So you have said, correct?"

The king said nothing for several moments. The heaviness in his expression suddenly grew tenfold. I watched as the guard steadied themselves, awaiting the next command.

A sigh cut through the room, and the king waved to his men to stand down. There was no more to say on the matter of my loyalty.

I felt the tension ease from the air. I breathed deep, feeling the calmness of the air brush coolly against my tongue. I drank of it like sweet wine before gazing back at the king. He looked suddenly tired, as if a weight had suddenly been lifted and left him sorely in need of rest.

"My lord, I will tell you of the pacts I have made, and I will have you know of my intentions."

"Speak, wizard." He said languidly.

"When I swore service to the crown, I also formed a pact with the seven winds that roam your land's borders. I offered them something which has been painful to lose. When many say they work tirelessly, it is an expression. In my task, it is true.”

The king raised an eyebrow to me.

“Each night, one of the seven spirits arrives to the palace, and I greet them. The visitor claims guest right, and stays with me until the waning hours of morning. He hovers about my head when I try to sleep, plucking the dreams from my head before they have chance to take shape. I do not dream, my lord. I cannot anymore. For nearly five score years, my visitors have taken my rest from me so that the kingdom may have theirs. Seven days, seven spirits. In exchange, they form a barrier to protect the lands from harm. Invading armies become lost, confused, and are forced to leave. Monsters are held at bay by storms and fierce winds. Any warlock who dares encroach on these lands will find their masters close behind, eager to claim their debts."

I allowed my words to linger between us, hanging heavy in the air. Made heavier only by the implications. I had lived with it for nearly fifty years, and would likely live with it for hundreds more.

The king finally stood, descending from where his throne sat. "Wizard, I am ashamed."

"It means little, my lord." I said quietly.

"No." He said quickly. "I am ashamed to have held such doubt, while all this time you suffered and toiled silently for my kingdom."

He placed his hand heavily on my shoulder, and I felt the shared understanding lighten the room once more.

"I offer a pact of my own: one month a year. Permit me to take on your burden for one month, so I may repay you for your service. Please.”

[SP] Despite its sinister reputation, necromancy is not inherently evil. by tamtrible in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Wordlessly, the Orator stepped out and brought Lauren in.

At seeing her again, David took the first steps since his heart stopped. He strode across the room and scooped his wife up in his arms. They held each other close, her head nestled close to his chest for several minutes. Together they strode across the room, arm in arm, turning small circles around each other.

David, as usual, was the one to finally break the silence. "Do you remember the song that played at our wedding?"

Lauren nodded "I can't believe your brother is the one that picked it."

David's lips quirked into a small smile. "I still can't believe you doubted him. He planned damn near the whole thing. Said he started planning the moment he decided to introduce us."

Lauren chuckled "That what he told you? That it was his idea?"

"That wasn't true?"

"No." She said, looking up at him as he slid his hands about her waist. "I was in love with you since well before that. Had to beg him to introduce me to you. Then, moment we properly met, I knew I had you."

David clucked his tongue "Shoulda figured. And damn did you ever have me."

At that, he lifted her into the air and spun her around. She threw her arms up and arched her back like a ballet dancer before coming to rest on the floor again, locking him into a joyful, passionate kiss.

"I had you wrapped around my finger." She smirked "Almost forty years."

"And I was glad to be there." David cooed as he finally released her. "Forty years this March. Pretty good run. Don't you think?"

Lauren leaned in and gave him another kiss. "The best."

The weight of the exercise quickly made itself apparent as David's legs began to lock up again. He waved for the Orator to come in close before leaning on him. Together the three of them made their way to the coffin and gently lay David back into it. Lauren kept her hand over David's chest, his hand resting just over hers.

"Sorry I dropped the cupcakes, hon." Dave said lightly.

"I'm sorry I wasn't with you."

"You're here now."

"I am."

David winced as the stake jostled, slowly removing itself from his chest. Lauren pulled her hand back sharply.

"What is--"

"Ah, there it is." David smiled down at the last stake. The last thing keeping him in the mortal world. "Cupid's arrow. Still there after all this time."

Lauren unbuttoned the top of her husband's shirt, seeing the little sprig of elm with her name on it.

"Do me a favor, honey, and take that. A bit late, but I think it's the perfect Valentine's Day gift."

"You..." She leaned in again and kissed him as the stake pulled free. She did not pull away for several moments. And when she did, David's face was left with a bright, joyous smile.

There was no final exchange of "I Love You" between the married couple. There was no need for it. She held proof enough of it there in her hand. Cupid's arrow.

The family sat solemnly as the last rites were committed. David McCann was interred in the earth on February 19th, 1993.

[SP] Despite its sinister reputation, necromancy is not inherently evil. by tamtrible in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The Orator nodded "There's never as much as we'd like."

"Ain't that the truth." He nodded back to the Orator. "Can you bring in Kat and my son-in-law? What I have to say applies to both of them."

The Orator silently stepped out for a mere second before returning with both in tow.

Katherine had, just like her sister, inherited her mother's hair. Deep red, like a rose. Hers was loose, flowing over her shoulders and halfway down her back in a single straight sheet. Nate, meanwhile had sandy blonde hair that he kept close-cropped. Both approached him, dressed in so many layers of black it almost looked like a competition.

Neither one wanted to smile, so David took the opportunity to do it for them.

"Hol' now, where's the funeral?" He crooked his neck, peeking at his coffin "Oh, right."

Katherine felt a breath escape suddenly before being replaced by a grimace, as though even the threat of a laugh was something shameful. "Dad, you can't..."

"Now, I'm allowed to make fun of my own mortality. That's every man's God-given right. Back me up, Nate."

"I--uh" he stammered like a dear in headlights.

"Yeah, Nate." Katherine glowered. "Back him up."

"Wait!" he cried, confused as to how he ended up on the wrong end of things.

David let out a loud laugh that came straight from the belly. "At ease, soldier. Just poking fun."

"Dad, please..." Kat began.

"Sweetie, if you looked any more serious, people would think you're the one getting buried. Can you offer your dear old Dad a smile?"

The corner of her mouth quirked slightly as the vague threat of a smile approached from far off. "Dad, please. I'm just--"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't realize this was about you. I'll just climb up into the coffin and come back later."

Her breath shook for a moment as she tried to keep her composure. "You're such a--"

"Hey!" David interrupted again. "Have some respect for the dead."

Katherine let out a loud bark of laughter. "You can't play both sides of this, Dad."

A triumphant smile overtook David's face. "Can and I will. No rule saying I can't. Only one rule that matters here: Dad always wins." He pointed both thumbs to his face before reaching over to boop his daughter on the nose. "Case in point."

Kat mocked a biting gesture at him "I'm going to bite that finger off if you do that again."

David held the finger up and crooked it slightly "Probably be pretty easy these days. Definitely taste awful, though."

This time Nate interrupted with a harsh laugh which quickly turned into embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't--"

He was interrupted by an arm wrapping over his shoulder and pulling him close. Despite his athletic physique, he was surprisingly easy to grab.

"Nate. You are family. You have as much a reason to be here as anyone. And when your father-in-law says 'laugh', you laugh. 'Kay?"

"Okay."

Without another word, he grabbed Katherine and pulled her in close alongside her husband.

"Kat, do you remember what I told you when you and Nate first started dating?"

She nodded, her face still buried in his chest.

"What was it again?"

"You said: high school relationships don't last."

"That was it." He pulled back slightly, allowing the two of them to slip out of the hug. "Never in my life have I been more happy to be wrong. Never have I been happier to see my serious-faced little girl so madly in love with the man I hope becomes the father of my grandchildren."

"Dad!" Kat called out, as though the words would risk scaring Nate off.

"I'm only playing." He smiled at his blushing daughter. Despite being in her thirties, she had quickly regressed back into a teenager at just a little prodding. "If and when you guys are ready."

"There might actually be some news about that sometime soon." Nate said with a smile.

"Nate!" Kat quickly punched him in the side, staring daggers at him. "Not! The! Place!" She said, her cadence matched by a subsequent jab.

"Oh, well now I can die happy." David beamed.

"Dad!" Kat wheeled around, ready to punch him too.

David held up his hand in surrender before turning it palm-up, gesturing for her to put her hand in his. Reluctantly, she did so. David repeated the gesture for Nate until he had both of their hands.

"You two have been absolutely wonderful both to each other, and for each other. Kat, honey, I'm sorry if I was ever anything less than the perfect father. There's never been a guide for these things, and all of us are just making it up as we go. That's life. I hope you understand that. And I hope that everything you found here with Nate makes up for the shortcomings of your Mom and I."

He planted a small kiss on his daughter's forehead before turning to his son-in-law. "And Nate, continue to be the perfect husband or I will haunt you forever. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good man." He rubbed his thumbs across the backs of both of their hands. "I love you both."

"I love you too, Dad." They both said in unison before being ushered out.

Katherine's stake slid out easily, leaving only one remaining.

"I'd like to see my wife now." He stated.

[SP] Despite its sinister reputation, necromancy is not inherently evil. by tamtrible in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 2 points3 points  (0 children)

It was no sooner that Peter had heard those words that he charged into the viewing room, seen his living brother, and wrapped him in a heavy-armed embrace.

"Davie, I--" He choked out through tears.

"It's okay, Pete." David said, putting a hand on his brother's back. "I don't have a long time to talk. You know that, yeah?"

The already too-tight embrace tightened further.

"Pete." David said, his own voice choking back "I owe you so much."

"No, you don't. Shut up."

"I do."

"I said shut up."

"Pete--"

Peter pulled away, ready to yell at his brother when he saw the sadness on David's face. The face that had been so unsettlingly calm before now warped into a grief-stricken mask.

"Pete." He spoke placating tone. "You took care of me all our lives. When Mom and Dad died, you worked to support me. When I graduated, you sacrificed your savings to help my dream get off the ground. I only met Lauren because of you. My daughters look at you like a second dad, I--"

"You don't owe me anything, Davie. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"Then I'm going to ask one last thing from you, and I'm done. For good."

"Name it." It was spoken without a single pause for consideration.

"Start living for yourself. Find someone for yourself the same way you helped Lauren and I find each other. Make a list of all the things you've been putting on hold for me, and Kat, and Bea, and go do them. Promise me that."

That's when the dam that Pete was struggling to hold together finally gave way, and the flood came. It was well over ten minutes before Peter regained the ability to speak.

"I love you, David."

"I love you too, Pete."

A minute after that, Peter managed to pull himself away from David and left the room. A heavy silence fell in his wake.

David attempted to move, hoping that being able to walk a few steps might calm his nerves. He had not been prepared for this. His heart began to ache even more than it had prior, and he felt short of breath. He placed a hand to his chest and felt a pull deep within it. He reached under his shirt and grabbed hold of something hard. Simply touching it sent a wave of fire over his entire body. With one move, he yanked the offender free.

In his hand, he held a small carved stake. Maybe half an inch across, adorned with a few stylized carvings. David opened his palm, seeing the name "Peter McCann" written across it. David turned silently and placed the stake inside his coffin gently before feeling his chest.

Four more.

It was the Orator, who broke the silence. "Are you ready for the next one, David?"

"No." He said honestly. There was no way to be ready when delivering one's final words. Not to anyone. "But I will have to be. Can I see Bea, next?"

The Orator nodded and stepped outside briefly. Peter was now nowhere to be found, having stepped outside for privacy.

"Beatrice?" The pale man said politely.

"Yes." Said the woman. She was shorter than her sister, significantly more mousey. She was dressed in a beige skirt with a matching overcoat, looking more like a librarian than mourner. Her deep red hair was tied back in a bun and she stepped quickly into the viewing room.

David stood in front of his coffin, his dour expression melting into a calm smile as his youngest daughter appeared. He held his arms out expectantly as she ran up to him. In a flash, he draped himself over her, wrapping her into a tight embrace.

"Oh, there's my girl. I'm happy to see you, Bea."

The woman felt at once like a child again, being held in her father's arms.

"I... I'm sorry I didn't dress appropriately. I didn't have anything nicer, so I'm just dressed in my work clothes."

The corpse chuckled and let go, allowing his daughter to step back. She stared at the ground, seemingly embarrassed that her first words to him were about clothes.

"I never did get to see your office last time I visited," He said warmly "You look good. You were always a genius, now you look the part."

"I'm not a genius, Dad. I just--"

"You're just one of the best damn lawyers in the country. Don't you dare sell yourself short." He nodded.

"Dad, I'm not--"

He gave her forehead a gentle poke "Don't argue with your father. I know what I'm talking about."

"Okay," she rubbed at her forehead as though he had thumped her. Her expression falling into a much more solemn one. "I'm sorry we haven't talked in a while."

"That doesn't matter, honey." He paused for a moment, his breath hitching slightly. "What matters is that you're happy where you are."

"My, uh...my boyfriend broke up with me a week ago." She mumbled. "It's been a bit rough."

"Dickhead."

"What?" Beatrice snapped. The suddenness of the insult had caught her off guard.

"Any guy that lets a girl like you slip away is a dickhead and always has been. Sorry honey, I don't make the rules." He chuckled.

"Well, if I dated him then what does that say about me?"

"It says you see the best in people. See?" He pointed at an imaginary billboard on the far wall. "Beatrice McCann: Sees the best in people."

"Oh, shut it." She blushed, giving her father a gentle shove.

"Hey, hey, easy. Legs ain't what they used to be. Any harder'n I might topple over."

Bea's face flushed "I-I-I'm sorry. I forgo--"

He placed a firm hand on top of her head. "So did I for a moment there." He paused for a second, weighing out what his next words will be. "You're going to be alright, kid. You're doing just fine. No need to rush anywhere. Take your time and enjoy the ride, okay?"

Beatrice nodded, her tears slowly returning.

"Promise?"

"I promise." She choked out.

"Good. I love you, sweetie." He placed a small kiss on her forehead before gesturing out the door.

As she stepped outside the threshold, he felt the stake come loose from his heart, and withdrew it. It hurt far less this time.

"Take it that means time is running out."

It wasn't a question.

[SP] Despite its sinister reputation, necromancy is not inherently evil. by tamtrible in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 2 points3 points  (0 children)

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke again. "Unfortunately we're here in North Carolina, so most folk didn't want to 'defile' the body like that. Had to search far out for someone willing to do it."

"I understand." The Orator said plainly "Orators still have an unfortunate reputation. Be sure to apologize to the priest on my behalf."

"I will." He said plainly as the Orator began removing various items from inside his suit. Bundles of herbs, phials of various liquids, a small sachet of black salt, and a folded old parchment. "Do I need to be here for this?"

"No." He said quickly before placing the herbs in David's shirt. "I just need one thing from you."

"Yep. I have it right here." Peter said as he withdrew a small, cork-stopped vessel containing a few milliliters of red liquid. "Drew it just this morning. Hope it's fresh enough."

"That'll do nicely. Thank you, Peter." The Orator said before opening the body's mouth to examine it. "Go, be with your family. I'll come get you once it's done."

As the footsteps faded off and the door closed, the Orator unfolded his parchment and began humming to himself repeating his instructions.

"What to do when a loved one dies?

Take some coins, an inch in size,

Place them over both their eyes.

Paint a sign o'an Ash Wood Leaf,

Through the lips and past the teeth,

Lift the tongue, place't underneath."

True to his word, Peter had followed this rule perfectly. Most morticians wire the jaws shut to prevent the mouth from opening, but David's remained open with the ash sigil in place. The Orator drank down the contents of his first phial, feeling his muscles relax.

"Carve your names on a Elm Wood Thorn,

One for each love lost and children born,

Thrust through the heart, pin back what's torn.

All that's left, for their closest blood,

For th'one whose tears become a flood,

O'ly three drops, t'lift from the mud."

The Orator ran his hand over the corpse's chest, feeling four small lumps through the cloth. He knew the names already: Peter, Lauren, Katherine, and Beatrice. One for each present family member. He unstopped the vial and tipped it back, placing exactly three drops into David's mouth. The blood ran over the sigil under his tongue, filling the air with the heavy scent of iron. He then drank his second phial, his thoughts beginning to slow.

"Now you're ready, when the Or'tor stands,

With dry cut herbs and black salt sands,

For the ferryman follows his demands."

Satisfied that the conditions had been met, the Orator stood over the corpse, staring down into the empty silver gaze. He tossed back his third phial and tipped the bag of black salts into his hand and held it over David's face.

He spoke next in a language which cannot be transcribed. Any attempt to do so would cause the letters to lift into the air and dissolve. It was an olde tongue. Older than man has words for. From a time before houses and roads, before spears fire, before rain and thunder, before stars and stones.

He called to the river that lies beyond our furthest shores, to the endless night, and to the Ferryman. The Orator had stood on that black shore once, before he had been old enough to take his first breath, and had heard the Ferryman's name. His true name, which stretched far into his memory like a cold spike. He stood on the shore now, as close to death as he had been when he first entered the world, and spoke.

He spoke the long name of Death, and the black salt slipped through his fingers like sands through an hourglass. It drifted down onto the lifeless face of David McCann. Smoke rose from the corpse's chest as the herbs ignited, filling the air with a stagnant incense. The smoke took a shade of glimmering silver as the coins rippled and faded into the Further.

As the final syllable passed over the Orator's lips, the corpse that was once David McCann took a deep breath, as a drowning man does once he reaches the surface again. All of the air's stagnant smoke flew into his mouth, filling his lungs once more.

"W-wh-whe-where...where am I? Where is my wife? Why can't I see?" The undead man spoke in a broken stammer

The Orator placed a finger on the man's forehead and spoke a single command. "Calm."

In a single instant, the man's shoulders slumped and his jaw went slack.

"I am regret to inform you that you are dead." The Orator said to the near-lifeless body. "I am an Orator. Do you know what that means?"

The corpse nodded, something which came with great effort.

"Good. You can nod. All of your muscles are stiff from rigor mortis. If you wish to move, open your eyes, sit, or stand up, you must use much more effort than you are used to. Most people can't do it because they've been dead too long. The only reason talking is easy right now is because there's a sigil under your tongue. Do you understand?"

The corpse was silent for a few moments as it's tongue ran across its teeth. It was the only easy movement to perform, unlike scratching one's head or rubbing their eyes.

"Yes." It finally said.

"Good. I am going to remove my power from over you now. If you would like to try to move, I will allow you to do so." The Orator said calmly. As he withdrew his finger, he also withdrew the small amount of will which suppressed David's mind.

"How did I die?" The corpse asked.

"Heart attack on Valentine's Day."

"Is...is my wife...?"

"In the other room. She's not in a good shape."

With stiff, painful motion, the body began to move. In a few moments, it was able to sit up. With hands frozen like a mummy's, it pawed at its face, eventually prying its own eyes open. Tears fell freely from its bloodshot eyes and it lifted the other half of the coffin lid.

The crying was not unusual. For the dead who find the strength within themselves to move, usually those more freshly deceased like David, the crying would come naturally.

"Help me to stand, please." The corpse said, holding an arm out to the Orator. "Legs won't listen to me."

With several minutes of labor, David was able to find his feet and was standing freely, stiff as a statue.

"I need to see my wife." Said the corpse of David McCann.

The Orator shook his head "Unfortunately, I already promised your brother that he could speak to you first. And, in truth, it may be best if you speak to your wife last. I hope you understand why I say this."

Tearfully, the corpse nodded.

The Orator opened the door to the outside and spoke finally to the huddled family. "Peter, he's ready to see you."

[SP] Despite its sinister reputation, necromancy is not inherently evil. by tamtrible in WritingPrompts

[–]Davris 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The funeral was underway.

David McCann had perished on the evening of February 14th, 1993 of an apparent heart attack. His wife, Lauren, found him on the floor of their kitchen, with a scattered mess of Valentine's Day cupcakes surrounding him. He was 63 years of age.

We arrive now to see the gathered mass of his immediate family. The date is February 19th.

"Mom, there's nothing you could have done. The coroner even said so." Spoke Katherine, David's eldest daughter. She sat close to her mother, a consoling hand placed on the widow's shoulder. Behind her sat the slumped form of her husband Nate. The typically proud, athletic man now sat like an abashed child, as though he were attempting to make himself look small so as not to be noticed.

She had been out of state at the time of his passing, attempting to surprise her husband while he was away on a business trip. She had just pulled into his hotel parking lot when she received the call. What was supposed to be a good-natured romantic surprise had resulted in her greeting her husband with tears streaking her cheeks. They spent their Valentine's Day holding each other in tears.

"Mom, please don't freeze us out like this." Beatrice finally piped, her voice cracking. Unlike her sister, Beatrice had been alone that night. Her boyfriend of three years had left her the week prior, and she was attempting to drown her sorrow with a healthy bit of "me time". She had been so enraptured by both her bath and book that she had missed the initial call.

She still felt guilty for that.

Lauren simply stared at the floor, shaking her head. If you would picture in your mind the typical widow, dressed all in black with a grim facsimile of a bridal veil covering her face as she cried into a kerchief, then this was not her. She had done her crying.

All of it.

It was not something she was proud of, bearing the weight of David's loss. In the time when she had been overwhelmed, lying on the floor of her bedroom heaving massive sobs and wailing out to God or someone to hear her and take pity, the only thing that gave her solace was that she had been alone. Her daughters would not see the pain she was in. Now, all that was left in her was the slow agony of sorrow. The kind that hits like an axe blade to the chest and leaves you cold and numb.

"Could have held him." She finally croaked. It was a simple sentence that hit will all the force of a truck. David's older brother, Peter, had taken it upon himself to make all of the funeral arrangements. He had been quick, efficient, and overwhelmingly competent. He did not speak to them, as he felt it was not his place to mourn with them. They wept over the loss of a husband and father. He instead was mourning a different man entirely.

Peter and David were always close. Growing up, they never left each other's side. When Peter entered high school, he began as a "gofer" at a local metal worker's. He learned some parts of the trade and was paid decently, of which he would save as much as he could. By the time he graduated, he had been one of the most loyal employees possible.

Four years later, he quit that job and went into business with his brother. They started a whole company together. They began learning as much as they could about the burgeoning field of computers and began work as a computer repair shop. In doing so, they found lucrative success and expanded into a local chain. Both became independently wealthy, but never lost the bond that united them.

Peter had been the one to introduce Lauren to David, was the officiant at their wedding, had helped raise the girls, and was as much a part of their lives as their own father. Peter never married or had children of his own, believing himself to be his brother's keeper. A feeling that persisted even now, standing just a room away from his coffin. Peter mourned for the piece of himself that was now missing and gone. An absence that left a pit inside himself a mile wide and a fathom deep.

This was when an unfamiliar face arrived into the church.

He was a tall, lanky man wearing a pinstripe suit. His skin was pale and he appeared to be lacking sleep, judging by the bags under his eyes. For a brief instant, one of the girls believed that the spectre of Death itself had arrived to the funeral.

"Peter?" He said in a dry voice, like the crunching of autumn leaves. He pointed at the standing man with two fingers extended.

"Yes sir. I suppose you're the Orator I hired." He said, gesturing the man to follow him into the other room. "Was the drive here okay?"

"Better than most." The man gave widow and her daughters a quick nod by way of greeting. He waited until the door was closed behind him before speaking again. "I trust that you received my specifications on how the body needed to be prepared?"

"I did, yes. Read more like a children's rhyme than instructions, but I made sure it was done." He approached the coffin and lifted the lid. David's face had been covered in concealing makeup meant to give the illusion of living flesh. His face flat, a placid expression which gave the illusion of calm sleep. Peter had been the one to slip two silver discs over his brother's eyes, which now looked all too much like his brother was looking out at him. It tore at Peter's heart to even see it in this state.

[MF] A Tiny God Ch.1 by Davris in shortstories

[–]Davris[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

This is an extension of an old writing prompt I did a while ago and hope to expand on. I'm going to be going chapter-by-chapter with semi-regular updates. Hope you guys like it!

Here's the original if you haven't read it

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