🌌 𝔐𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔞 🌌

And also concept art for how Salomé looks like (though she does have other outfits too, but this is her default outfit!)

"Grievously Wounded OC Meme" template for Salomé

(OC by @sadgirlnamedmaria)

Hey guys! This is a special request from dearest pookie, @sadgirlnamedmaria <33

All credits for Salomé’s character and design go to @sadgirlnamedmaria (here’s her designated art account: @madebmaria). Y’all PUH LEASE, her writing and artwork are phenomenal. If you’ve read anything of mine, I can guarantee you’ve read something of hers, and probably first, too. She’s been blessing Tumblr far longer than I’ve been collecting loose change on this corner of the internet. Can y’all tell I’m fangirling? 

I digress, hehe! Let’s set the stage: 

Salomé de la Mort, being solemnity incarnate, doesn’t find necessity—or reason—in violence. She’s a high priestess, after all. Her captivation comes from tongue, the wisdom and depth behind her words. Osmund Saddler thinks otherwise. So, enter Jack Krauser, her impromptu “teacher” for self-defence. 

Dearest pookies, sometimes brute force isn’t the best way to combat a woman’s poise, let alone use it as an excuse to undermine her strength…

CW: discussion of joint dislocation, toxic!Krauser, sadomasochistic!Krauser 

C: Canon x OC

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His Story: 2 Weeks Before the Meeting

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Heavy rains plagued rural Spain. 

The Spanish sky forever nurtured dark clouds, their haze clinging lowly to the ground, tangible against reaching hands. For that, Valdelobos remained gloomy and depressive. 

These were the perfect conditions for surreptition—for Osmund Saddler to quietly grow his reign. 

It wasn’t long before whispered talk of an ex-military combatant seeped through Saddler’s servants, the rumour contagious across his valet. Tongue-to-ear spread word of a certain ‘Jack Krauser’s’ arrival on Valdelobos’ secluded Island. How he found the location with his own volition remains unknown. Maybe it was through sheer force, fueled by anger and revenge, that enabled Krauser to reach the Island entirely. 

Maybe it was fate. 

Regardless, Saddler didn’t take too kindly to Krauser’s bloodshed, disrupting the equilibrium he had carefully set to monitor his citadel using his infected puppets. But when one man, free of parasitic influence, defeats the odds of unfavourable ratios, it’s bound to be looked into…To be questioned.

As Krauser advanced deeper into Saddler’s fortress, Saddler decided it was time he showed face. 

“Quite the prowess you possess,” Saddler spoke calmly, emerging from behind thick wooden doors. He accompanied himself with four mindless beings, draped in the whitest of cloth, covered completely from head to toe. Krauser stood at the bottom of cobblestone steps, eyeing the priest above. He was dishevelled, his hair unkempt beneath his red beret, forearms bloodied from his journey here. Yet, there was no fear in his eyes, no inkling of exhaustion. 

“But still,” Saddler continued, “you are confined by the frailty of human restraints. Mortal, you remain, and a man you will be.” 

“What I can become is your hand,” Krauser said. His voice was calculating, sharp against the back of his throat. “In return, I ask that you give to me pure, unadulterated power. That is what I seek—that is why I’m here.” 

Saddler turned to face Krauser, their eyes attempting to read the hidden intentions behind the other. 

“And how can I trust that you’ll be in absolute service to me, your faith unwavering?” Saddler inquired. “You mortal men pledge allegiance to your own people…yet, how easily have you betrayed them in the hunt for me?” 

“My people…?” Krauser scoffed, “...they’ve left me to die—to rot in some desolate jungle. They’ll burn for it.” 

“Hmm. Then I’ll have nothing to worry about…provided I do not turn on you,” Saddler reasoned. “I trust that you will not give me a reason to turn on you.” 

Krauser’s lips curled slightly, the flash of his canines barely visible. “Like you said, there’s nothing to worry about,” Krauser said slyly. Saddler’s eyes narrowed on the brute before him, but with the wave of his hand, one of his draped companions stepped forward.

“Give this man his…blessing,” Saddler cooed. “Let us rejoice for this newcomer, let us begin the ritual.” 

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Her Story: 4 Days Before the Meeting 

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The gentle flicker of candlelight illuminated the stone room. In what would traditionally carry bleak undertones, Salomé de la Mort evinced comfort in her temporary residence. Cobblestone bricks, slightly damp from rain, enclosed the priestess as she meticulously brushed her hair. 

She had been summoned to Valdelobos Island to rectify her, claimed to be, ‘inept’ combat skills, as coined by Osmund Saddler. Gentle reasoning with the Lord was futile as Saddler had already denoted his decision as non-negotiable, and frustratingly so.

Salomé does not condone violence, nor will she ever, and training in self-defence fell under the category of such. The situation was far from ideal, but Salomé refused to make it her burden. It was simply another event, another blip in her life that could be endured and later passed. 

The flame beside her blinked fervently against its wick, daring to die out without any apparent draft threatening its integrity. Something was amidst, the air heavy with secretive intentions. It was something Salomé was perceptive to, yet she could not discern what messages were relevant to her in this timeline. The candle only whispered quiet songs of apprehension and change, venerable hums of spirits dancing between realms parallel to our own. Perhaps something—or someone—would present itself to her, the intrusion abrasive, creating great shifts in her life. But this was only a precaution, a faint murmur from ancient life beyond mortal inception.

Salomé did not worry herself about coming judgments; a day spent in fear of tomorrow was a day’s peace wasted. She simply lets time take its course, facing hardships as they appear. 

The pomade warmed in her hand as she sculpted her curls, paying close attention to the waves they created. 

With a gentle fizzle, the candle burned out. 

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The Meeting 

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Two weeks have passed since Krauser’s arrival…Two weeks after Krauser had been exposed to Las Plagas’ dominant strain. 

The parasite etched its way through his body, claiming each singular cell as a host of indefinite hospitality. 

Krauser found himself perched on top of brick rubble, which appeared to be the remains of castle walls. A stronghold that lay flush against the earth, reclaiming its natural state. The same could not be said for Krauser, for his body now harboured something artificial—foreign to mankind. 

Behind him, Saddler presented himself. 

“American,” Saddler called out, “I have a task for you. If you could so kindly follow me to a more…open space.” 

“Mmm, how exciting,” Krauser drawled. His obedience was palpable, for the parasite had borne him a newfound strength attributed to the lord himself: Osmund Saddler. 

Walking at Saddler’s side, Krauser was led to flat terrain, its perimeter rimmed with ornate stone. Elegant swirls engraved into the rock reflected a gothic atmosphere below the dark sky. Trimmed grass filled the arena, the blades slick from the persistent rainfall. The smell of petrichor filled the air. 

A tall figure stood still in the centre, catching Krauser’s eye. 

A woman slowly took form as Krauser approached, her face concealed behind a delicate veil. Its lace nurtured intricately woven designs, partnered by its deep colour, a black darker than night. 

A gentle breeze took form across the clearing, blowing tender winds through the layered fabrics that draped the woman before him; she did not move. Krauser watched the air move around her, her veil flowing elegantly as if it bore life, but not weary enough to reveal anything to him. Her complexion remained hidden. Krauser could’ve sworn the scent of faded roses brushed his skin, adorned with traces of burning incense and hardened wax. 

The aroma dissipated in the same breath that it came. The air became still. 

“Jack Krauser,” Saddler interrupted, extending his arm outwards. “May I introduce you to our high priestess of Los Iluminados…Salomé de la Mort.” 

“Hmph,” Krauser grunted, “woman of death, huh? You look the part.” Krauser’s icy eyes peered into Salomé’s, hunting for the slightest invitation for banter. He found none. Salomé’s tranquillity was relentless, far greater than any repartee Krauser would try to manifest. 

“The honour is mine, Jack Krauser,” Salomé finally said. Her voice was low—motherly. Its smoothness traversed eloquently as the sound left her lips, almost as if it were dancing from the stages of sensation to perception across Krauser’s conscience. The feeling was foreign to him, too unfamiliar…too intense. It caused him to retreat within himself. 

Krauser upped his defences. 

“You will train this child,” Saddler finally informed. “It is absolutely necessary that she is well equipped within the art of combat. Her preservation is crucial to Los Iluminados.” Krauser almost laughed, running a thick hand across his hair before repositioning his beret. 

“Can’t we just keep the princess in her little tower?” Krauser scorned. “Wouldn’t want your beloved porcelain doll to crack now, hmm?” 

“I trust you’ll do as you are told, Mr. Krauser,” Saddler warned, already walking away to perch himself on the sidelines. “I’ll keep watch over your lessons.” 

Saddler disappeared into the fog, the thick smoke consuming his person, but his eyes were still present. They were a mere essence felt beyond the lines of the living.      

Krauser turned his attention back to Salomé. She simply looked back at him, her gaze ethereal. 

“You don’t want to get rid of some of those clothes,” Krauser mocked, eyeing Salomé’s bodice beneath her medieval garments. “It’ll be beneficial for everyone…allow for more movement.” He was jeering now. “Next time we reconvene, I expect you in more fitting training attire.” 

“I can assure you, Mr. Krauser, I am quite comfortable—but I do thank you for the concerns you share,” Salomé replied earnestly. Her voice remained stable, void of any threat towards Krauser's gratuitous prompts. 

“Quite the reserved witch, you are,” Krauser mumbled. “Fine, let’s start with some basics: avoiding surprise.” 

“I’m sure your expertise will be of great relevance for me,” Salomé calmly replied, expressing gratitude in her polite demeanour. This only frustrated Krauser more. 

It was instantaneous, the speed that Krauser took. With his recent acquaintance, a parasite of primal lifeform, he was able to quickly snake his fingers around Salomé’s right arm. His grip was tight around her skin, roughly pulling her close to him. The width of his shoulders blocked Salomé’s view, forcing her to attune to him entirely. 

“Women like you don’t belong out here,” Krauser cooed, “it only takes a little disturbance—a little force—to throw you off course.” His lips curled slightly at the corners, excited by the opportunity before him. Shifting his grip, Krauser moved two fingers to press into Salomé’s wrist. It was a threat: he’d dare break her arm. 

Salomé paid no mind; it was a presumed lesson after all…until Jack lifted her veil. 

For the first time, their eyes met without a barrier. Krauser was almost taken aback by the brilliance of her skin, the purest of white, almost illuminating back at him. She was spectral, ghostly, with eyes so dark they comforted death itself. One could easily become consumed in their eternal depth, falling endlessly into the void of her soul. 

Krauser hesitated, but he had a point to prove, one that he childishly trapped himself in. He took his role as ‘teacher’ literally, confident that this hierarchical position would render him invincible. Krauser strengthened his clasp. 

“Show me, China doll, how will you get out of this…? Maybe your teacher will reward you for-!” Krauser was cut off, a sudden crack filling his senses. Burning stemmed from his right hand. Glancing downward, Salomé returned her arms to rest delicately behind her back, leaving Krauser with his index and ring finger popped out of place. They were improperly angular, misaligned from the bone to which they were previously bound. 

Krauser shifted his gaze back to Salomé; she had already returned her veil to its original position. Air dramatically escaped his lungs, a bellowed growl emerging from his chest. He was laughing, but the sound was malicious and unsettling. Grabbing his fingers, Krauser snapped them back into place, his laughter unfaltering. 

During this time, Salomé gently turned her head, her senses recognizing the direction that Saddler had vanished into. She met Saddler’s eye, even from the distance she currently possessed. Despite her solemn interior, she had her doubts, certainly unwavering, about Krauser’s immediate credibility as a ‘teacher.’ Saddler dismissed her with the wave of his hand, solidifying the role she must endure as Krauser’s student. The position was final; Saddler had decided as such. 

Krauser cracked his knuckles, bringing Salomé’s attention back onto him. 

“Confident, aren’t you? We’ll have fun, you and me,” Krauser coaxed, puffing his chest. “And I’ll keep that fucking veil off you next time, put some feeling into your eyes…I’ll be there to see it—the one to give it to you.” Krauser's smile only grew wider, enthralled by the ‘challenge’ that stood before him. Perhaps not the conventional type, but one that took the form of maternity and poise, flesh and blood. 

“I patiently await the day, Mr. Krauser,” Salomé kindly replied, “you have much to accomplish.” 

Krauser drew his blade, the engraved serpent shining white light across the dark fabric that concealed Salomé. It was paradoxical, the way the purest of colours could emanate from someone so foul, so deeply flawed against the laws of human morality. And yet, reflect off the darkness of someone true in virtue, prestigiously appointed to a greater conscience. 

The two couldn't oppose each other more. 

“I expect that you wouldn’t have come here empty handed, Salomé,” Krauser chimed. It was the first time he had formally addressed her. 

“Your intuition precedes you, Mr. Krauser,” Salomé warmly encouraged, yet her tone remained low, her voice silky. Slowly, she drew a pin from her hair, its duality proving to be a thin blade sheathed behind her onyx curls. Even as a woman reverent of peace, she concluded that her compliance in this situation, that being to ultimately ‘train’ with Krauser, would provide the swiftest outcome for its finale. The sooner it was acted upon, the sooner it would end, and violence, by no means, was something she would dwell on.

With the swing of his blade, Krauser started their second lesson: appreciating the speed of knives. 

~~

There was indeed much for Krauser to accomplish in the midst of his new parasitic reign; Salomé was right about that. Whether she would be there to witness his growth or not remained a story untold. 

Only time could tell. 

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And also concept art for how Salomé looks like (though she does have other outfits too, but this is her default outfit!)

"Grievously Wounded OC Meme" template for Salomé

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Anonymous: "I have not good ideas but you're such a good writer!!! Everything you post is amazing so here is my sad jumbled request: fight/argument with Krause and him trying to make it up in his own weird way hurt/comfort?"

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