The Heart of a Glacier

There is something amusing in how each of the women I have.. cultivated... is herself a deadly creature. And amusing in how each one has been freed like a caged falcon, to wing free and grow all the deadlier. My Eira. My mate. Her collar burst, my half-brother’s hand shaken from it, and her ferocity manifested. A bandit chief, a savage. And mine.

My devoted, devout priestess. Estamba. Albino like I was born, blind, and kept mewed by her faith to a faithless Goddess. Now she grows. She learns. And she hates like a sweet over-ripe fruit. 

They each belong to me, and I to them in my own way. I hear echoes. Of those who would be ours. Those my priestess could twist and turn. Sculpt like clay. I walk through swirling change and I listen to their cries in the eternal night. Seeking a light in the darkness.

(tagged by @luxelen )

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STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇsᴛᴏɴᴇ sᴛʀᴇᴇᴛs / ʟᴀᴍᴘs sʜɪɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏɢ / ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀ ғɪʀᴇᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ / ᴜɴᴏᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇs ᴏғ ᴡɪɴᴇ / ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢs sᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ ᴀʀᴇ / ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛʜʀɪʟʟ ᴏғ ғʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ / ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ ᴏғ ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ / ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ / ɢᴜɪʟᴛʏ ᴠɪᴄᴇs / ᴛᴏᴘ ʜᴀᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ sᴛɪᴄᴋs / sᴇʟғ-ᴅᴇsᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ / ᴏʟᴅ ᴅᴏᴄᴜᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴛᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ɪɴ sᴀғᴇs.

FRANKENSTEIN, OR THE MODERN PROMETHEUS

ʀᴀɪɴ ʜɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡᴘᴀɴᴇ / ᴄᴀɴᴅʟᴇs ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʟᴏᴡ / ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴ ʀᴀɴɢᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ, sɴᴏᴡʏ ᴛᴏᴘs / ғʀᴇɴᴢɪᴇᴅ ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴏɴ / ᴀ ᴄᴇᴍᴇᴛᴇʀʏ ᴀᴛ ᴅᴜsᴋ / sʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴜsᴇs / ᴀʟʟ-ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪʀsᴛ ғᴏʀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴɢᴇ / ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀɴᴇss ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴛʀᴇᴅ / ᴀ sᴇɴsᴇ ᴏғ ᴅᴜᴛʏ ᴡᴇɪɢʜɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀs / ɪɴᴇsᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ɢᴜɪʟᴛ / ᴛʜᴇ ғʀᴏᴢᴇɴ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴄᴛɪᴄ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇ / ᴛʜᴇ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴏғ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴄᴋ / ʟɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ sᴘᴀʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ.

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

ᴇʀᴏᴛɪᴄ ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ / ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴘᴀʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ / ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴄᴜʀʟs ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏsʏ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋs / ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ / ʙᴇᴇs ʟᴀᴢɪʟʏ ᴅʀɪғᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴀss / ʜᴇᴅᴏɴɪsᴍ / ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋɴᴇss ᴏғ ᴀ sᴏᴜʟ / ᴀ ᴅᴜsᴛʏ ᴀᴛᴛɪᴄ / ʜɪᴅɪɴɢ sᴇᴄʀᴇᴛs / ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғʟᴏᴏʀʙᴏᴀʀᴅs / ɢᴜᴛ-ᴡʀᴇɴᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ / ᴀ ᴅɪᴍʟʏ-ʟɪᴛ sᴛᴀɢᴇ / ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴄᴏʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴ.

THE PRIVATE MEMOIRS AND CONFESSIONS OF A JUSTIFIED SINNER

ᴄʟɪғғs ʀɪsɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs / sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴀᴍʙɪɢᴜᴏᴜsʟʏ sᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʟᴜʀᴋɪɴɢ / ᴇᴅɪɴʙᴜʀɢʜ’s ᴡɪɴᴅɪɴɢ sᴛʀᴇᴇᴛs / ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜs ᴢᴇᴀʟᴏᴛʀʏ / ᴄᴀʀᴇғᴜʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ / ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ʀɪᴠᴀʟʀʏ / ᴀ ʙɪʙʟᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴅɪsᴛɪɴɢᴜɪsʜᴀʙʟᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ / ᴀ ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴄʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ sʜɪғᴛɪɴɢ / sᴄᴏᴛᴛɪsʜ ʟᴀɪʀᴅs / sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴɪᴄ ᴍᴀsǫᴜᴇʀᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀs sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴘᴜʀᴇ.

DRACULA

ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪᴀʀɪᴇs / sᴜɪᴛᴏʀs ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟᴀᴅʏ / ᴄᴀsᴛʟᴇs ɴᴇsᴛʟᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ғᴏʀᴇsᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴs / ᴛᴇʀʀᴏʀ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ / ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴡʟɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴡᴏʟᴠᴇs / ᴀʀɪsᴛᴏᴄʀᴀᴛs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇs / ᴀ ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍɪɴɢ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ / ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʀɪsɪɴɢ / ʜᴏʀsᴇs’ ʜᴏᴏᴠᴇs ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴛʜ / ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ sᴛᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ sɴᴏᴡ / ᴄʀᴜᴄɪғɪxᴇs ᴡᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ ᴏғғ ᴇᴠɪʟ.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS

The Mists swirled and eddied. Gusts and currents brought the foglike aethereal matter into illusions of frantic movement. 

He sat like some primal statue. His long coat draped about him, a robe to the beglamoured eye. And in the shifting possibilities, it was a samite robe of purest white at the same time as it was a dusty ebon. His short hair the same hue as the unchanging, everchanging view Isambard gazed upon. This was home. Tyria never had been so. He was a man who moved like drawn silk when he chose to move. He prowled, crouching and inhaling like a predator scenting prey. Oddly, when he sat here within his preferred environment, Isambard tended toward stillness, as if to draw in every breath of the changing potentials to their fullest. In the unchanging Tyrian world, it was he who gusted and eddied, coiling and grasping like a miasma to corrode and corrupt.

It occurred to him that he had perhaps meditated long enough. It was time to effect change again. 

How long had he been gazing into the swirling nothing? A minute or two? A year? A century? Time was as meaningless as ideas of stable wholeness here.

Yes. 

A hundred years ago, or perhaps only a handful of winters, I was a different man. 

A ravening, ravenous wolf. And I sought every edge. Any edge. 

Favours and bonds can be better leashes than magic in many ways, and in those distant days, I forged a leash of my own for my wretched half-brother’s oldest children. A son and a daughter. 

No power is strong without sacrifice, and I sacrificed aplenty. Living bone carved from my thigh in the pouring rain. Silver stolen from the mountain’s bowels.

And I called forth a shadow, a thread of Wolf’s very tail, and wove the norn Spirit into the artifact I crafted. 

Created and gave, twinned, one to each of my kin. Binding them by their leashes, in a way none of the fools could grasp. I would feel their pain, their disquiet. I could save them.

And what would they do for me? How would I own them in return? So long as they carry their warhorns, my gifts, they do not see me for their enemy.

It’s nothing very complicated, and you might even think that it stemmed naturally from the fact that I am not, in fact, their enemy. 

But when you intend harm to their father, it’s a useful enough tool, and the leash therefore loose indeed upon them. So loose as to be unnoticed. Its opposite end is far tighter about MY throat should they fall into danger.

That was the man I was.

Eternity stretches between him and who I have become, first under the tutelage of Shi Xun, and then with my studies and work here in the Mists.

But that leash remains.

And so it was that, after a pleasant visit to my priestess, her shining adoration of me as ever a sweet ambrosia upon which I drew, I felt the pull as I have not in long years.

It seems that I have business in Tyria once more.