#bog lore

hello the worms greet you 🪱

my main coli leveler is Bog !! A Mire Flyer that tears through GLR & the Mire and drags helpless fodder alongside with him.

He has actually had a good few students even return alive & well! It has a great track record don’t ask anyone else about that.

(I also have a coli team for grinding anywhere but those three are the warriors of valor not the beasts that seemlessly fit into the venues..)

lore written for nami (NOT related to one peice 😭), one of my ocs (idt i ever posted her ref here? but one day i will remake it js cus my art has gotten better since then lol)

LONG POST ALERT

A drip of golden ichor. A bronze chalice with its watery surface pointed at the full moon. The red embers of the fire cast shadows dancing in the grooves of every surface.

The water in the bowl ripples, gold seeping and swirling on the surface like a curse festering on skin. With a loud yell, the elders begin their chant. One by one they raise their arms high to the sky, painted symbols glinting beneath yards of colored fabric. The onlookers stomp their feet and clap their hands, their gold jewelry tinkling in the wind, adding to the cacophony that was unfolding.

Then, silence.

The ichor had settled, and so had the crowd. Elder Nagawa raises her slender fingers, trembling under the weight of the rings betraying her noble status, and gives me a reassuring smile before she dips her finger into the bowl and pulls out the hardened swirl of gold.

Her fingers are stained a sickly black— the ichor was not meant for her. But she hands it to me, and as the soft metal grazes my hands, it begins to glow a ghostly blue. The crowd waits with bated breath. I only stare at the marvel in my hands, unsure of what to do. Months of practice and mental preparation slipped away like the water that was seeping through my fingers.

The ichor is dancing! A mesmerizing motion. Soft tendrils curve and swirl into and out of itself in a slow, meandering pattern, almost as if it was hypnotizing me.

Would I become a healer? A priestess? A scholar?

My thoughts were silenced by the metallic dance, my eyes glazing over until I could feel myself slipping away— like my soul had been plucked, gentle as a feather, from my body and tossed into the evening breeze. In my haze, my muscles loosened, my focus waned.

Crack! Then gasps.

When I had realized what I had done, it was too late. The ichor had slipped from my fingers and shattered on the ground. Littered across the sacred pedestal were bits and pieces of gold. I watched in helpless terror as the metal tried to weld itself together, its form forever marred and jutting out at odd angles.

I could feel dozens of gazes piercing into my back, their eyes blazing hot enough with anger, shame, disappointment, and fear, that it felt as if someone had set fire to my robes, the silken fabric burning a wretched mark into my back.

With a clunk, the ichor stops, skidding to a halt on the gravel path. Elder Nagawa steps forward, lips pursed, and gingerly picks up it up. Holding it up in the moonlight, she turns it this way and that, scrutinizing its every curve, scratch, and dimple.

“Nami Mizje, I divine you to be… a drifter.”

Gasps come from the crowd. I could hear my parents sobbing in the background. What had I done? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, not how it was supposed to go at all! Everything I had worked so hard for, everything I had set up for the rest of my life, gone. Just gone. What the hell. This can’t be true, surely there must be some way to reverse- no, redo the ceremony! Maybe my decision was invalid, the scroll dictates the ichor must be divined within the bronze chalice— maybe, just maybe-

I felt the cold weight of the dead ichor in my hands. Looking up, my eyes gazed directly into Elder Nagawa’s. They were full of rage. Shame. Disappointment.

It was a beautiful day.

Autumn had just begun, and the leaves were turning a bright orange hue. I had plucked a leaf from Maman’s cherry tree and twirled it in my fingers. The gradient was enchanting. Round and round the leaf twirled, the colors swirling together — fiery red, like the tattoo on Gabriel’s arm.

Shouts of laughter and the sound of dozens of little shoes drifted lazily up from the other side of the garden wall. Climbing up a pile of rocks, I peeked over the glazed roof tiles on the wall, hands holding on tight to the rain-slicked terracotta. I sighed, the whispers of a dream recalling itself from the back of my mind. On the street below was a group of rowdy kids, screaming and reveling in the afternoon sun. Kids like me.

But their faces were smeared in dirt, and their clothes were worn with freedom and love, while I was preened to a shiny image of perfection, and my clothes were fresh, only tainted with the cold absence of embrace. I was too short back then— I could never pull myself up and onto the wall.

I remember peering over that same portion of wall every day. Done so often my fingerprints would manifest in my vision if I ripped my gaze away from the street and down to the worn tiles.

“Rue, dear!” The sweet sound cuts into my trance, a firm hand pulling me away from the wall and back to the ground.

“Maman!” She stood in front of me, idle smile on her face as she tilts her head to the side, motioning for me to move. I dragged my feet as I followed behind her, my feet leaving trails of bare, red soil among the white gravel paths.

The bar was rowdy and full of lively chatter just moments ago. Now, there remains only the quiet humming of the dryad in the corner as she wipes down the tables. Glass clinks and clatters softly from the kitchen as the dishes are washed, and LaRue stacks the last of the cleaned shot glasses into a neat pile.

The soft buzzing of insects intensifies as they say goodbye and walk out into the chilly autumn night. Leaves skip in the breeze, cool wind tousling their hair as they start the nightly trek home. Their thoughts drift as they walk— the shipment for some new ale was going to be delayed, the neighborhood strays had congregated on the stairwell again, the old iron smith was still hammering away in the distance, the old lady down the road had a beautiful garden—

What was that? LaRue stops. Straining their ears, nothing could be heard other than the drone of animals in the night. There, again! They were sure of it. A muffled yell followed shortly with a dull thud. The scuffling and thudding of feet, one pair running, the other in stealthy pursuit. Then, gruff shouting as a man stumbles out of an alleyway, mere meters in front of LaRue, and trips on the ground. His eyes dart around, landing directly on LaRue’s stunned gaze. He opens his mouth— to beg, to scream, to shout, LaRue did not know. In nary a moment, the man was dead; eyes and mouth opened, a grotesque expression twisted on his face, blood pooling underneath him.

LaRue backs away, shaking themselves from their mystified stupor, and darting behind an empty cart parked near by, just as more footsteps approached. One pair limping. One pair light and quiet, perhaps dashing along on the rooftops. One pair flanking from the behind, steps heavy but casual.

The footsteps grow closer, and LaRue can feel their hand tightening around the switchblade in their pocket before the sound stops. LaRue dares a peek. There. Three people standing above the body of the man freshly felled. They prod at his lifeless form before swarming on him like vultures, emptying pockets and searching for valuables? Spare cash? Information? LaRue flicks the blade open with a silent motion, muscles tensed at the sight of the long blades at the entourage’s hips.

Wait. Blades? It was unmistakable. How foolish to not have realized sooner! Crimson uniforms. Blades polished with a glinting red hue. The swift and silent motions. Why now? Oh please, why must it be now? As if further taunting LaRue, they catch a glimpse of that horrid swirl, burning golden with the soul of a thousand trapped suns. Their hand goes up to their shoulder, the hollow, aching pain from years ago returning in a wave of memories. Fuck. Why won't she let me forget?

If I were to find you again. in that crowded bazaar, the sweet scent of spices pulling us closer.

If I were to find you placid. smiling up from the chips of wood breaking from your craft, you.

If I were to find you strewn. across the floor, the scent of marigolds and aloe sharply strung— reminding me.

inspired by Kotteri's chapters in veil where objects are in conversation

The air was still, the smell of incense and the quite whispers of small talk wafted through the air. I could almost feel myself nodding off.

Then, the children, sneaking out, giggling as they hush the other. Same time, same place, every night. The one with the tousled hair and calloused hands rocks on the balls of his feet, giddy about something or the other. I wonder what they could be talking about?

The other crawls out, closing the door gently behind. The soft click that I presume follows the door rises on deaf ears. The children grab on to each other, hand in hand. Clasped in companionship? Desperation? I become rather poetic without the stars around.

Down, down, down to the stream. They frolic in the tall reeds, clothes snagging burrs and burrs snagging clothes. One swings up onto the maple tree, its leaves quiver from the weight. The smaller one clambers up. They whisper in the leaves, and for once, I wish I could grow legs and run across the sky, just to get a peek at their expressions.

The moment stretches on for what seems to be hours. The stars finally awaken and twinkle their hellos. The clouds drift lazily by, always doing the opposite of hurrying. When I look down again, the children are somehow muddy and one is asleep on the riverbank. How quaint! I too wish I could lay down and hear the river of stars.

The tall one lies awake, eyes turned upward, counting the clouds as they pass. Occasionally, he turns to glance at the sleeping form beside him. I cannot see his face.

Was the moonlight always this dim?

Nami sat at the edge of her bed, twisting, turning, trying to force the frayed bits of twine together into something that would resemble a mask. She had already poured countless hours into this vain act, the space around her feet littered with torn grass and cracked beads, which she had poured so much love into crafting.

Sighing in frustration, Nami tossed the loose braid of fiber aside, knocking over the rest of the twine that was sitting in a basket just moments ago. Blessed Moon. This is the one thing she’s supposed to be good at, and she can’t even get this right.

The ceremony was a week ago already. Oh, how the time had flown. Aiye, Moon— this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not how it was supposed to go at all. She was going to— no, had to, was bound to be a shaman! That was her entire families legacy. They say these gifts are passed down through blood, from a mother’s womb to her child. First bestowed upon her peoples many, many moons ago from the Moon Mother herself, the gifts flowed down from one generation to the next like a never ending stream. Indeed! This is the objective truth. Nami would have it no other way. Every story, every lesson, every mutter of a chant mentioned the story of the Blessings.

And yet it was her, her own fault that things had turned out this way. Striped from the destiny that she had been preparing for her entire life, slipped through the cracks of her fingers like the very sand that her home was built on, torn from her begging, outstretched hands.

No. This isn’t right.

Drifter? Drifter? Nomads cursed to never have a home? Wandering forever, and ever, searching for a thing they can never hold? A boon that cannot be unearthed physically nor spiritually?

Nami scoffed into the darkness. The night gave no reply.

She was meant to be more. To have a place. To have a home, for Moon’s sake!

Nami lifts her head, gaze turning to her open window. The night was cool, a welcome reprieve in the usually suffocating heat. A gentle breeze lazily fluttered into her room, gently nudging the twine all over her bed. The moon hung in the sky, full and bright, a reminder that she was watching over them.

To her surprise, Nami felt a tear drop splatter onto her clothes. Swiping at her eyes, Nami got up and shut the window, yanking the curtains closed. Now left in total darkness, she could see nothing but a faint glimmer on her desk. Of course. How could she forget? The ichor. The damned ichor.

Nami reached over and grabbed the horrid thing. She could swear that, just for a moment, she could feel the gold squirm. As if she was still at the ceremony, as if she still had a chance to redefine her future. But it was final. The elders had already divined. She couldn’t change that. Scrubbing and forging records would do nothing to change the truth tied to her soul.

Nothing.

But the ichor moved! I felt it. There must be some magic left. There must be. There has to be!

Nami rushed to the window, throwing it open once again. The moonlight that flooded in seemed almost blinding. Squinting her eyes, hands held up to the sky, ichor placed inside her palms like a sacrifice, Nami begs. She begs, and pleads, and bargains, and begs, and pleads all over again for the Moon to do something. Anything.

Shutting her eyes from the blinding light, Nami holds the ichor close to her heart. Cupping it like a child, hoping it would morph into a balm that would heal her marred destiny. Whispering I’m sorry, please, this can’t be it, please— but the only response she heard was the lazy song of cicadas, indifferent to her plight.

Then— the tinkle of shattered glass. The ichor was now lying on the dirt outside, broken into pieces. She would be a shaman. She is a shaman. This is her true destiny. Nami turned away from the window, hot tears flowing down her cold cheeks.

And she could swear that, just for a moment, she saw the gold squirm.