House Of A Hundred OCs

Yap session ⬇️

hey so i enjoy making emojis. here's half of the ones i've made so far. please use them, if you like! (i've put what i call them in the alt text, and i think it's silly and fun, but feel free to call them whatever works for you.)

Wasn’t expecting to have this done so soon but here it is, another installment in Meredith’s love life — next will probably be her masquerade fic with Theodore.

In which, Theodore asks Meredith a question one night while drunk, and her answer surprises him, leading to a long overdue conversation about feelings.

Also including @sunrisenfool​‘s J.C. Sanlaurento with the rest of the crew!

CW: Alcohol Title: Rose-Colored Boy by Paramore 3.6k words

For as rough a life on the seas could be, the crew of the Ruby was far from unhappy. They had just recently finished a successful raid, and they were tired, but in high spirits, which only grew when Meredith gave the announcement of what she called a free night. There would be no curfew, no expectations—so long as nothing was broken—the crew was free to do as they pleased. They would even be able to sleep in a little in the morning.

Which usually meant drink, and in excess. As Meredith unlocked the storage of the ship’s alcohol, the crew cheered until she waved them off.

“I don’t want to hear a single one of you complaining about being hungover tomorrow, do you understand me?”

This is, uh, very niche, but I’ve had a lot of thoughts about my Pirate Queen and her doctor, and I wanted to make her feel things and slow down for once, so here we are.

In which, Meredith gets injured, and Theodore convinces her to let him do his job, and take care of her.

CW: Blood, death, general violence Title: How To Rest by The Crane Wives 3.2k words

There were times when Theodore truly forgot the nature of being on a pirate ship. Mostly, the Ruby never had any issues, the sight of its flag enough to scare most passing ships into submission while Meredith and her crew boarded them, looking for payment to continue sailing.

But there were those brave, or foolish enough, to fight back, and on occasion, those who would even attack first.

No one on the Ruby saw the bandit’s ship, a little bug of a thing, until the bandits were scaling the ship. The sun was still high in the sky, and most of the crew were caught off guard, but not for long. Theodore was even fighting, grabbing his own knife to defend the sick bay along with Tariq—though not many people could get past the older man, so there wasn’t much for Theo to do but watch.

This does not get a title or a word count and there’s no other explanation aside from I wanted to put Saoirse and Valdemar in a room together but, well. They exist beyond the concept of rooms. Just a note that the game canon defines demons as former humans who make deals with the arcana. I think that’s true for SOME demons, like Vlastomil and Volta, but others like Valdemar are just energy that’s been around for a very very long time in my canon.

Beings who can pass through planes of existence as simply as humans breathe do not usually have casual meetings in the third or fourth dimension. They also do not “meet” at a particular time, time being essentially inconsequential to them. Instead, they convene randomly within the pockets of space, both inside the known universes and outside of them.

The being known as Valdemar does not particularly enjoy engaging with others like them, as many of the beings one might call their “peers” are unbearably young, rash, and boring. The other “demon” courtiers of Vesuvia fall under such categories. Still, when their human position becomes mundane, they do poke their tendrils into those pockets, searching for entertainment, for something to feed their need for chaos.

They sense, as they do not see (in the human context), the existence known to them as Zydhessai. The Cold Darkness. The humans call it Saoirse, a name supposed to mean “Freedom,” which is a funny little name for a being older than the concept of humanity, the very concept of “freedom.”

Zydhessai is not its name either, but then, nothing knows what is.

That name was given to it in whispers, from the groans of the earth as it raged along the surface, forming mountains and chasms and tearing the ocean along with it. That name was how Valdemar and every other ancient being managed to seal it away, encasing it in ice and burying it under the sea at the edge of the world, where it stayed for thousands of years—until the human freed it.

Obviously, Zydhessai is not pleased to see them.

The space around them prickles, irritation seeping into their form. It would be terrifying, if Valdemar still felt fear. Pulses of neon blue light spill from Zydhessai, its form indescribable in mere human words even by them.

Hello, they say.

You are bored, it replies.

Of course.

You have what they would call a “death wish,” then.

By “they,” it means humans. Valdemar doesn’t like that about Zydhessai. Its infatuation with humans, with referring to everything through their incredibly narrow and clouded lens. To humans, everything is simple. Categorizable. But not in any way that means anything. Good and bad, life and death. Such useless concepts.

Perhaps if I could die. The notion is humorous.

Zydhessai smiles, at least in the way Valdemar is able to recognize one. The blue light sharpens. We could test that notion, little one.

It has been hundreds of thousands of years since the battle. Valdemar still has scars, even if only metaphorical, from the event, from the way its energy lashed out at everything as it was forced into its prison. They know, as all similar beings do, that if something could kill them, it would be Zydhessai alone. But they are still bored, so they push.

What fun would that be?

It would be much fun. You don’t squish as easily as they do.

The space around them condenses. Valdemar squirms, suddenly feeling like one of Vulgora’s red beetles, carapace creaking under the pressure. They writhe, tendrils gripping at Zydhessai’s essence and slipping through and around and off as if it is made of nothing and everything at once. Perhaps it is.

It sips them, taking just a disorienting taste, a black hole in this space pulling at their threads. It could absorb them, they are sure. They are thrilled. They laugh even as they wriggle and fight. The fight feels… good. It feels, which is more than Valdemar usually is allowed. There’s a certain reciprocity there—they can see what Zydhessai sees for the briefest of moments, history folding and crashing and warping and they can taste it as it tastes them.

Then the space floods back in, pressure gone.

Zydhessai is still there, but further away. It’s grown tired of entertaining them, the blue light diffusing. And yet they live.