[UBH]

a woodland clearing, a pool shrouded in blackthorn; white blooms flowering beneath the stars. the water is cloudy and you can smell the salt. the moon does not reflect upon it.

Cast your questions upon the surface. Let the ink soak away. One of them is bound to respond to you -

mother. instinct. sanity. hunger. greed. risk. vanity. discovery. envy. protection.

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This is an askblog dedicated to a game currently in development, intended to allow interaction with 10 of the main entities.

Asks are always open.

You may not connect with whom you intended.

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Basic DNI criteria apply.

It is incredibly likely that I will not answer NSFW or sexual asks.

I may not answer repetitive asks.

Answers, whilst typically posted in paragraph format, may be restricted in length for plot purposes.

Have fun with it. Be ominous. I dare you.

It is possible that, in the future, asks may be opened for additional characters.

None of the 10 entities are romantically involved with each other. They are related. I will not answer asks implying anything other than platonic relations between them.

Updates may be inconsistent.

Asks about the game itself will not be answered. It does not have a set release-date, and is very early stages.

Responses will likely involve themes of religion/trauma/unreality/crypticism. If you wish for me to tag something, DM me.

DM me with any grievances or questions. I cannot answer in ask format.

"I seek advice from whoever may provide it. Over the previous season, unforeseen events had preoccupied my mind and time.

Now, due to said neglect, this little one had suffered. I wish to right my wrong; but I fear it being too late, despite my efforts to tend to it once more. Is there anything that can be done?"

Silence. Thick like coagulation, only half as bitter. It sits weighted upon your tongue. Something that ought to be smooth now turned to a slow-moving, viscous gelatin creeping down your throat and blooming into your lungs like sickened sprouts of rhododendron. Invasive and beautiful; perfumed with copper rings. It is warm, but utterly unlike the gentle embrace of someone who loves you. It is trickling, and slow, and wholly suffocating. Coughing it up only splatters stray drops of scarlet upon the withered bloom. Dry, brown petals crumple under the force like wet paper. The thing is saturated now - gone. Blinding mist unfurls around the edges of your vision, stinking of salt and carrying with it a whisper from strangled jaws. "You seek... my advice?"

The branches overhead sway, shaking with laughter. A crooked crown of knots and tangled thorn. "No. No, you do not. My advice exists in each and every one of you from the moment of your conception. You know it from the moment you begin to think. It is always in your mind for as long as it exists, and even despite this longevity, you do not want to know it. It is this not wanting to know that has led you through the woods with nothing but a dead weed. Perhaps in your grief, you had forgotten. One shall repeat oneself." A pause. In his endless yielding, he allows you a moment. He has too many of them. "You are going to expire one day. The dead will stay dead. I cannot help you. Do not begin to care for things once they are gone. I am not giving them back to you."

Something stirs deep within your core as you speak into the brine. Longing. Lack of serenity. The blackthorn rustling. Something ancient and primal. The pool is muddied with red clay, and something slicked down by all the sins of the world winds through the depths. Black and narrow. Eel-like. The noise of it brushing against the cracked sides of the pool is like that of jaws sinking into cartilage. Mud squelching, wet flesh. Soft tissues. Organs. Your stomach hurts. Hunger gnaws at you. Friends.

The thorns remain unmoving as you utter your question to the salt, the pool refusing to even ripple as wind whistled past your ears. It felt warm. The soft embrace of fleece and milk. "Not unto us, dearest child."

A voice - low and gentle, carried on the witherings of the breeze. It cradles you like the long lost hands of a mother you never quite knew personally, but your soul knew from conception. These were the hands that made you, and unto them your blood began its flow. Warm, and thick, and all-encompassing. It swallows you whole and you have never felt more alive. Your legs feel sluggish. "He cannot. It will not. I have made him so, and my son's furious machinations will not encumber us. Only you and yours." The voice - louder now, despite its whisperings. Her whisperings - You know her. You're sure of it. How could you not, with your very being sewn together by her loving embrace? Your flesh knit together by her will alone?

The wind picks up around you, muffled by the shroud of blackthorn; distant and mournful like the howling of a lost mutt. The branches sway in the gale, black twigs shaking, trembling - the dogs' tails wagging. The blooms closer to the brine pool, formerly a brilliant shade of white, seem to stain a muddy crimson around their torn edges. Brushed, not spilled - the remnants of something far too exciteable to exist near something so utterly delicate. It wants more. It knows it should not, but it does. The winds stir like a child begging, and your reflection smiles back at you. It isn't you, though - something in your mind insists that it isn't, and you aren't entirely sure if you believe what your brain is telling you. Yes, there are more of you than usual; but aren't you glad to have friends? Two, then one, then four, then three. The fourth is not somebody you recognise. It is not you. The rest are - you're sure of it now. Fragments, perhaps, but you all the same.