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Genuinely curious if y'all would want a Chzo Mythos Community on Tumblr
(This is what a Community is btw)
Chzo Mythos Community?
I like the Chzo Mythos and I would join
I like the Chzo Mythos and I would NOT join
Infinitely more nuanced answer that I will put in a comment
I don't know what the Chzo Mythos is and I want to click a button
Reblog for more exposure pls
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Warm up page Feat. Agent Bloom (and a Doppio cameo)
One of my headcanons on werewolves in the Consuming Shadow/Differently Morpheus verse is they are usually smart in wolf form but if someone is a late bloomer in regards to Lycanthropy or is bitten by a werewolf later in life, they're more likely to be in thrall to their instincts and emotions- meaning they can be violent or (especially in Bloom's case) just really big humanoid huskies.
It's too early to stop. I've only been driving for-- hours. A lot of hours. But still only *hours*.
Still too soon, still too close. Have to get further away. I know how the Ministry works-- I was *part* of it for so long I couldn't forget even if I *wanted* to-- and as much as it would be nice to think they will be helpless without my guidance, that's not true.
Ngl, Bloom would describe the DEDA as the 'MiB, but British' out of context to potential recruits.
It's the silence that gets you, he thinks. No matter how prepared you are for the monsters to leap out of the shadows, no matter how resolved you are that if you have to die in the line of duty to save the world you will, no matter how tightly you're gripping the trigger of what is, when all is said and done, a very *mundane* gun when you're going up against an army of invading monstrosities-- all that aside, the silence is something *else*.
The silence is heavy and thick and leaves a bitter taste in its wake; it creeps and waits and even if you swing the light around, even if you force it back to the corners of the room, it never leaves. He can feel it, an almost tangible presence nipping at his heels, tugging at his sleeves and coiling through his hair. He knows this is a ridiculous notion-- this silence is no different from the silence he's *always* lived with, that everyone has always lived with, right? It's just like taking a lazy walk down a dark street-- you might *look* alone, you might even feel it, but there's life there, just out of sight, just out of reach. Nothing to worry about. It's just this dark street happens to be thick with forgotten ghosts and half-remembered indications that life *used* to exist here-- there's photos on the shelves (just don't look too closely don't see the faces), mirrors smashed on the walls (smashed to pieces the pieces gone careful where you tread lest they figured out how to lay traps). Room after room after room, only slightly off and slightly *untidy*, barely even indicating a rushed exit let alone a vicious slaughter, and even the wallpaper is undamaged and cheerful, step after step after silent step-- right up until he comes across one of those runes, scrawled in something not quite like blood, and he's yanked back to reality, where all of this is what *used* to be and no longer is. Visions of dancing children and laughing parents dissipate into smoke and there's only him again, stepping over a discarded box and trying not to breathe in. There's only him, rifling through drawers and hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of a stained page, hidden by someone who could never have guessed what was to come-- his arms aching from the strain, his hand cramping around the gun, his eyes throbbing in time with his heartbeat, still trying to peer through the gloom that he can never seem to shake, even in the light. He's walking through the house of a dead man, he thinks every time-- and every time, the full understanding of this makes him stumble.
But all the same, when he pushes the key into the locked door and pauses, listening, and hears something skittering back and away-- when he hears that, it's not fear he feels at the inevitable confrontation.
It's *relief*.
He's not alone after all.
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It's not so bad, he finds. Dying isn't as bad as he thought it would be.
It was worse in his dreams-- there, it took so *long*, and it was so painful, and the full weight of his failures crashed down and around, grinding any flicker of a peaceful end into the dirt. *There*, he saw in stark detail how it ended-- each and every time, with no room for confusion or doubt. But here-- not so much. He didn't even see it coming-- there was a hideous moan from behind him and before he could even turn around, that was it. He *thinks* he remembers a sharp pain at his neck, the *thud!* of something connecting, but it's hard to be sure. He should have paid more attention, he supposes. The static at the edges of his vision, the shambling shapes that disappeared when he got too close, the sounds that were never really there-- he should have been able to tell the difference between what was only in his head and what was in front of him, right? But he couldn't. So he just ignored it all, and now, here he was. Which was... was... Where *was* this? He can't remember much of anything anymore, and he can feel even less. Everything is just sort of-- numb, tolerable, forgettable. His thoughts flit around, sluggish and slippery, dripping through his fingers before he can capture them. He feels there was something *important* he was meant to do, but the idea he might have been able to save the world is laughable, in retrospect-- what was he meant to *do*? Quote obscure facts at an ancient god and bore it to death? Maybe he was. He would laugh, if he could figure out how to make his face move. Instead he only makes a noise, low in his throat. He should care more, he thinks-- this is it, the end, the *final chapter*, and what does it matter? All his successes, all his failures, it all ends the same way-- lying there on the cold, hard ground, his cheek pressed against the floor and his eyes gazing towards the opposite wall, unable to see anything past the spots and the creeping darkness. There's shuffling behind him, but it seems so far away, so much a danger for someone who *isn't* him. He just doesn't care anymore. What would be the point? He's failed, in the most spectacularly terrible way imaginable. But... it was worse in his dreams. In his dreams, he died alone-- collapsed, in agony, in darkness, *afraid*. At least here, at least now, he has his memories. The shuffling is closer now, and he lets out a sigh-- it's all he *can* do. He couldn't move even if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have the energy even if he *needed* it-- and one could argue that now, with the cold hand slapping closer and closer, with the stench getting stronger and stronger, he *does* need to, now. But he doesn't. He lies there, helpless and resigned. In the darkness, he sees his daughter, sitting on a box and kicking her legs back and forth. He knows she's not really there, that it's just his imagination, because she's *smiling*-- if she was really here, she wouldn't be at ease. She wouldn't be giggling and tilting her head up towards a sun that isn't there, her hair wouldn't be dancing in a breeze he couldn't feel. It's just an illusion. It's not *real*. He finds he doesn't care. He smiles back-- in his thoughts, at least, if not in person. Even when the creature touches him, even when it finally reaches him, still he smiles. And unlike in his dreams, the scholar doesn't die alone.
There's something about a locked door that fascinates me. I can only assume this is left from my days of less than legal activities-- I thought I had escaped the siren call entirely, locked for so long into bureaucracy and responsibilities, and yet... ...and yet, here we are, right back at that start again. My hand is on the handle, but it meets resistance not even half-way around the turn, jamming and locked fast.
There is skittering in the distance, but the dark is disorientating-- is it coming from behind me, or above me, or behind the door or behind the walls? I roll the torch around in a circle, inspecting the room I am currently lurking in, but I remain alone. Well, alone except for the limp corpse just outside the doorway to my left-- all that remains of the creature that tried to warn me of the perils of continuing. In true fashion, I refused to listen to what was undoubtedly sound advice. And I continued to ignore it, even now. The pick was smooth in my hand, slipping into position like an old friend. I cast the torch around the room again, well aware of the stupidity of what I was considering. The door was *right there*. There was absolutely no possibility that wouldn't come back and be relevant in the very, very near future-- and I hardly had *time* for games such as these, or the inclination to play with my life over something so trivial. But what if it *wasn't* trivial? Locked doors were rarely locked for no reason. And yet... ...and yet, here I was, crouching to get a better view at the lock and shining the light into it. There was a little corrosive damage-- as was to be expected, considering the nature of the creatures inhabiting the very next room, through a doorway that held no door-- but it didn't *appear* to be enough to prevent my goal from being achieved. No, what *would* be enough was turning my back on an open doorway and focusing all my attention on the lock. And yet... ...and yet, that was exactly what I was doing. I clasped the torch between my teeth, angling my neck uncomfortably to hold it in position as I slipped the pick into the lock, then nudging it against my shoulder until I hit the switch. The room was plunged into darkness, then, and for a moment I panicked. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears and all I could see were monsters in every shadow, and the full weight of my stupidity crashed down. But the moment passed and I was simply alone again, crouching in front of the door. The sound of blood pounding was replaced by faint ringing-- a faint buzz of utter silence-- but if I strained hard enough, I could still hear the faint skittering. It was nothing if not a subtle prompting that I could ill afford to waste my time.
So I didn't. I set to work immediately. The damage was greater than I anticipated, and the pick slipped almost instantly. I swore under my breath, almost silently, and adjusted my position, trying again. A skittering to my left and I spun, grabbing for my gun, but nothing was there-- I froze as a shuffle past the doorway indicated there was something very much *there*, although not in my immediate vicinity, and as it moved away, I remembered how to breathe. This was *not* my smartest decision, but-- irrationally, against all common sense-- my resolve was only strengthened. I turned my attention back to the lock, groping in the darkness until I touched the pick again, and resumed my efforts. Once past the initial damage, it moved quickly, smoothly, easily-- so much so I could hardly believe I had ever *forgotten* this feeling. When the tumbler turned and the lock clicked open I froze again, the sound seeming to echo in the silence, but nothing came flying out from the shadows to feast upon my marrow. Nothing came skittering, either, or lurching and moaning. It seemed my efforts had passed by unnoticed. Perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult to complete this mission, if everything was as unobservant as those in the next room. I chose not to think that I would most likely have to fight my way *through* them on the way out, and instead stood, my bones aching with the effort of straightening-- I was struck, suddenly, with the unwanted realization that I was out of practice in more than just this, and pushed the thought away. I pushed the handle, easing the door open, and left it ajar as I rolled the flashlight in one hand, and felt the familiar weight of my pistol in the other. There was nothing to do, now, but see my actions through. I stepped through the door. === The flashlight beam pierced the darkness-- the walls, the floor, the ceiling. I stabbed it about with no concern for what I might find-- only with the desire to find *something*. There was nothing. I frowned, and stepped forward again, but it was hardly necessary-- the room was empty, devoid of *anything*, even boxes. The shelves contained nothing but an empty Snickers wrapper, and there wasn't even a telling bloodstain on the floor in the corner. It was empty. The room was *empty*. Even the skittering was fainter-- proving that, indeed, there was nothing here that could justify the time I had wasted on this endeavour. But it wasn't the weight of despair that I felt on my shoulders, but the weight of *irritation*. I frowned there, alone, and shone the light around once more-- just in case something untoward had materialised in my wake, when my back was turned, but there was nothing. I remained alone, in an empty room, behind a locked door. I only had myself to blame, but I found it rather easy to blade the Shadow for this waste. It made me feel better, too. Turning, I stepped back through the door, glancing over my shoulder as I pulled it shut. I considered leaving it open as a warning for anyone else who may pass this way-- but what was the point? It would end up infested, if it was ever found again, and at least this way there was the *possibility* of a safe haven. A foolish thought, to be sure, but hope springs eternal. Too late, I remembered the open doorway-- and too late, only when I heard the *clank-clank*clank* at the far end of the room, attracted by the light, heading towards me, did I realise that my efforts had not, in fact, gone unnoticed. That *I* had not gone unnoticed, despite all evidence to the contrary. I felt a smile ghost across my lips as I raised my gun, well aware of how to deal with *this*, although I felt no glee at the prospect. And yet... ...and yet, I was somehow much more at ease now, in the heat of it, as I pulled the trigger and a muzzle flash sparked against the shadows, stopping the rattling staccato in its tracks-- now, as I stood there, readying myself again, I felt *relieved*. Perhaps, in time, I would have the opportunity to examine this personality trait. But for now, there was only the task that lay ahead, in the distance, and the creature in my way. It was not a difficult problem to solve.
Differently Morphous, Second Read Rant
I wrote a similar post when I read it for the first time last year, but I'm re-listening to Yahtzee Croshaw's book Differently Morphous.
