Oh it has been so long since I’ve started this blog. All the way back all the way far back in 2013. So many years of watching this fandom rise from humble beginnings to its various ups and downs. But I feel that in all that time, that I believe that this blog has reached the end of the line.

“Oh, so it isn’t a joke then? But an offering, perhaps?”

With a single motion, the demon grasped the top hat and took it from the spider child’s hands. Looking it over, Maxwell’s gaze returned to Webber.

     An animalistic wailing spewed from the cracking skeleton as the head split from the body, the behemoth of bone falling to the ancient floor with an echoing crash. The only part to remain of the twisted creature was its skull, the lights in its sockets flickering and fading as the last of the magic left its body.

     The Fuelweaver hissed its last words, a dying whisper as its skull joined the mass of bones that formed its body, once more a cold and still corpse. Bound by the rules They had set forth, the Fuelweaver was forced relinquish its hold on the Shadow Thurible, the cursed lantern standing in the collapsed bones. A dark light flicked inside, its ancient power burning brightly behind the lantern’s glass. There was nothing left between the demon and its quarry.

How horrendous it was, to attain such a victory. Yet it was but a prelude to what the shadow sought, seeking power not for its own sake, but for the battle ahead. A battle that he needed every advantage that he needed.

“Such a small and fickle thing you are...”

The Thurible. That most peculiar of relics, an item that seethed with the scent of the fuel... and tinged with the smell of roses. Grasping the handle, Maxwell swung it around, letting the shadowy smoke fill into the air. And to see it’s power, to command and hold the shadows to his will. To Maxwell, it made his path clear. To once more claim dominion over all, to reclaim this throne and to regain what he had lost.

“Now... now... now we shall see who truly is master of this realm!”

Facing the portal once more, the shadow held the Thurible out towards it, the darkened energies flooding into the ancient construction, coming to life with unnerving power. Slowly, a swirling portal formed, held stable with the power of the Thurible. And to the shadow’s side came the nightmarish creatures that once obeyed his will. Ah, lost power regained.

those words only added more on his suspicion about him. there’s no way he approached in friendly terms but maybe for something else. “you’re right. you have no obligation to answer.” he couldn’t push him to do it as well so he will take that answer. now his last words made him even more curious.

“and what do you mean by that?” 

Maxwell let out another chuckle as he tented his fingers together, leaning in a bit closer towards the white-haired stranger. “Ah, glad you understand by that, pal. I mean I wouldn’t want to have my opinion of you change simply because you did something so... unbecoming...”

only to say hello? whatever the case he wasn’t going to let his guard down with this man. he gives a strange vibe. “there’s nothing wrong to say hello though one must have a reason for approaching a stranger. am i mistaken?”

A soft chuckle escaped the demon’s lips. “Indeed, and although you are a stranger, simply saying hello has always been such a nice thing to do, pal. And besides, I could tell you my reasons, but I am under no obligation to say so, you know.”

     The creature roared in fury, the sound echoing through the darkened caverns and shaking the very earth beneath them. The mere idea that the abomination dared to touch him, clinging to his skeletal structure like a rotten flea, was enough to set this beast into a blinding rage, an angry light bursting through the cracks in his bones and bathing the surrounding stone in a bloody hue. Reaching its boney talons towards the attacked, the Fuelweaver began to claw at the shadow’s inhuman flesh in an attempt to force him free, the blackened ooze that fell from the shadow’s wounds hissed as it fell onto the Fuelweaver. He couldn’t allow this demon to succeed, even as he felt his arm push through the pulsating darkness that surrounded his form.

     Despite his protests, the lights that emanated from its body flickering as the fallen king began to separate the skeleton’s head from its spine, inky tendrils blinding to the skull as it began to pull from the fuel that clung to his bones. Even with whatever lifeforce that animated the ancient bones fading, this legs refusing to hold his weight and his arms bending under the strain of tearing into the shadow, the Fuelweaver couldn’t let the other take his power easily.

The failing king’s thrashing was nothing more than the last vestiges of power slowly fading away, of strength disappearing back into what core of existence and might there was. The Shadow cared little for what injury he suffered, such strikes and blows leaving gashes and marks that can easily be undone, easily mended. For the pain was merely temporary to the power that he sought.

“You’re nothing but the remnants of what is long gone, you beast! They shall never hold me like they held you! Your failures shall be my success! And in my success, all shall be made mine!”

With horrendous scream of unnatural rage, the Shadow plunged his hand to the very being of the old king, striking down through whatever force or power that held those ancient bones together. It mattered not what had happened before. For all Maxwell cared for was what happened here and now.

     There was no use in attempting in leap out of the way, The Fuelweaver was not afraid injury nor was he afraid of pain. No amount of physical torture would ever compare to the mind-shattering reality of those crawling horrors. Let these demon come for him, let him scream for his lost world, this demon would know what true agony was. Stepping only slightly to the side to keep the other’s disfigured limb from piercing through his centre, a low hiss sounded from the creature as his claws tore through the veil of darkness that clung to his bones.      The gash oozed like an oil slick, small drops of nightmare fuel falling onto the stone flooring. The Fuelweaver’s head slowly turned to gaze at the wound the other inflicted upon him, only a whisper of pain to be felt. He was no creature of flesh and blood, a slash with claws would do little to put down a lumbering beast of bone and shadow. Turn his head back towards his assailant, the demon was closer, an easy target for his clawed hands and horned head to pierce. He knew he’d need to be careful, he was no survivor, any semblance of humanity had drained from his body long before he entered the Atrium. The Fuelweaver’s eyes seemed to flicker for only a moment before he quickly reared his head back and charged it forward with crushing strength and speed, an attempt to gore the demon and toss him to the side.      The Fuelweaver couldn’t allow this demon to succeed. He had not a clue what he had planned, what he needed his power for, but he wouldn’t allow himself to do Their bidding, never again. This demon claimed he was a king, yet so was the Fuelweaver. A king that used the fuel, created and destroyed with it, brought his civilization to the newest heights with the darkness. He had thought he was king of the world, but what are kings to gods?

A mind that had long cracked from change and the world was a mind unwilling to back down no matter what blows or strikes were made. He was nothing more than but a creature born from the shadows, a manifestation of what no longer existed. But he persisted, persisted in his actions, charging through the waxing flow of darkness and shadows. No pain would match the anguish of mind, the torture of failure.

The thunderous roar of world and power echoed through, the Shadow’s desperate attacks following through whatever attack was made. With a body that cared little for nothing but power, what else would the Shadow do but face the attack head on. Horns pierced through shadowy flesh, darkness splattering about.

Yet such a tactic was left in error, in an attempt to force the attempted usurper away, the Shadow forcefully held on. With nightmarish strength of his own, he clung onto that horn with indefatigable fervor, using this new vantage point to thrust out his arm towards that darkened skull.

A gallery. A painting. A girl and a man... and fabricated child. Oh this gallery had its storied history, of events that seemed to defy explanation. But what was here? For the demon stumbled into this world in search of something to slake his boredom... and what did he find? A burnt portrait... and a pile of ashes...

Oh... but was it but a simple pile of ashes? To a normal person, perhaps, but to the demon?

“Oh my... what seething emotions there are... something that felt cheated... denied something... but of what...? Yes... yes... there is something here... something here worth knowing.”

Standing above the pile of ashes, the demon held his hand out, and with but a single shake of his hand, a single drop of nightmarish essence fell from his finger tip, and onto the pile of ashes.

“My fear drives me to ask, forgive my forward nature sir.” she bowed with a flurish. Casper wasn’t afraid, she didn’t have a reason to feel afraid, yet.

She was cautious and didn’t get much closer however she kept her relaxes nature about her.

“I can’t help my curiosity some times.”

“Ah, yes, fear. But then again, fear is useful when needed. Keeps you alive, keeps you safe. Yet fear can cripple you all the same. Glad to see you’re at least willing to admit your fears.”

Maxwell simply chuckles as he tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a smirk.

{🌹}: “But people who sleep forever can’t wake up anymore, right? So waking them up is impossible. I’m no God to wake them up again.”

The concept of death was still something that girl was not particularly educated with, because she’s never seen a person die in her life until that fateful event in the Fabricated World.

She’s read of miracles, people returning back to life, if this man can prove that there’s still an essence of Mary back in that world, she’d be willing to go back and save her. But at the moment, she doubts, she’s thinking logically, and currently, there was no way. Unless this man suddenly presents a magical vial that can revive dead people, this child would certainly believe. Ib wants to save her badly and she’ll do just about anything to remove the guilt in her heart.

{🌹}: “And mister… all that’s left of her is a pile of ashes… How am I supposed to wake her up, when she’s not even whole…?”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. All sleep must end eventually, no matter how it must be.”

Maxwell could think of no other way to try and worm his way further into this young child’s mind, but to keep on playing on this little thought of hers. Of some other that she could not save, and to prey on such feelings.

Though would she take the bait? Would she bite or would her guilt hold her back? Would it be that her hope or despair win out and decide her course of action?