#deathratled

BAG   OF   BONES     ;      𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃   𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

                                ╰┈➤     @deathratled

▊   &&.   Cue  the  elf  pinching  between  his  brows,  as  he  sighs.  “I  just  know  I'm  going  to  regret  asking  this  question.  Puck,  may  I  ask  what  exactly  a  'sugar  daddy'  might  be?”

           ⸻            IF    PUCK   HAD   A  PIECE  OF  COPPER     for  every  time  some  old  person  asked  him  something  kink-related  in  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  he'd  have  two  pieces  of  copper  now.  (  Which  isn't  a  lot,  but  it's  weird  that  it  happened  twice.  )

Unfortunately,  Puck  is  both  the  best  &  worst  person  to  ask  such  questions.  The  grin  that  stretches  across  his  face  is  devilish.

           ❝     Me,  if  you're  lucky.     ❞

Then  he  cackles  at  his  own  joke,  hand  over  his  eyes  before  it wipes  at  non-existent  tears.     ❝     Hehe,  ahem,  sorry.  No,  that's  just  what  you  call  someone  who's  rich  that  buys  nice  things  for  someone  else  in  exchange  for  sex.     ❞ 

His  head  tilts.      ❝     Wouldn't  really  say I'm  rich,  though.  So,  I  guess  no  one's  lucky.     ❞   

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺 / pt 2.

"I'll probably be demon food by the end of this, you know?" he teases, not looking up, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before adding. "It's okay... I'm very yummy." And then, a beat.

His eyes soften as he steals a glance, he feels this strange vulnerability worming its way inside; parasitic, insidious.

The silence feels easy between them now, as Vhaal'krin leans the hilt of his dagger against his knee, carefully working on sharpening the blade, though attention drifts to Lyrth. "I hope..." his voice unexpectedly trails off, caught on a note of sincerity. "I mean... you know, drow don't really do the whole... hoping thing, but..." hoping would imply even a glimpse of light could make its amidst the sea of darkness they'd been condemned to; if they believed in that at all, why would they cling to Her web?

Vhaal'krin presses his thumb against the sharpened edge of his blade, his eyes no longer focused on the image reflected there now, seeming to absently wander now.

"If I did meet said fates, I'd tell them not to listen to you, because... you're very, very old, and clearly—the whole rodent thing has damaged your ability to cast judgement," he's proud of that one, can hetell? but there's no longer any malice, if there was ever any to begin with. "They shouldn't waste their time on me... I'm not very nice, and I can handle myself," he spares a halfhearted smile, pointing the dagger accusatorially towards the sharran. "But I'd tell them to be nice to you. Or I'd come after them. And I'd hope..." the sentiment leaves a bitter aftertaste in his tongue before it ever leaves his mouth, and as oxygen floods his lungs he feels his eyes drop to the floor, the humor slowly drop from the floor. "That you'd get to see them again."

🌙 𝑻𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒐𝒏 — Open

"Well, maybe not to you. But to other people around!" she replied, brows furrowing and arms crossing in front of her chest. Flowing sleeves draped over her front. She took a step forward, determined, strict... and with no power backing her demeanor.

"So please, stop saying such things. There is already enough death around. So YOU shall die LATER!" Why was everyone so ready to die? Were they certain of being allowed into a Godly realm? A nice one? She was not sure if Shar's afterlife was that much fun.

for muses that are getting to know each other

📜 ࣪ . ࿐ ˚ . THAT ACTUALLY DREW THE FAINTEST OF SMILES TO HIS LIPS. ❝I have always been intrigued by the Shadow Weave, as I’m sure many mages are. But until now, I… I never truly considered reaching for its power,❞ he mused, watching the violet fire dance in the chandelier’s glow.

There had to be a reason for all of this. It was impossible that he — someone destined for GREATNESS — was doomed to perish simply because he had touched a Sharran artifact in his tower!! No… this had to be fate, nudging him onto a path to something far grander. A path he had never considered before.

❝However, the cost is steep from what I know. Which, admittedly, isn’t much. Some say one either loses their sanity or surrenders their soul to Shar — or both.❞ He paused, turning to look at the Dark Justiciar.

Lorroakan would find a way to harness the Nightsong’s power one way or another, even if it meant improvising so he wouldn’t have to remove her from the Shadowfell. Yet eternity alone was no longer enough. What good was immortality alone when he could be so much more? Now that he had been touched by Shar’s true darkness, he found himself not terrified (as he should be) ; it had ignited something within him. A longing, a hunger, a need that refused to be denied…

Then again, an eternity drowned in nothing but loss, shadow, and madness was far from enticing.

If, of course, that was truly the fate that awaited.

❝I question whether that is the whole truth. I have seen knowledge restricted time and time again... Not to protect, but to ensure others never rise beyond their designated place.❞

@deathratled / CONT

IT HAD BEEN LIKE AN ANGEL AND A DEVIL WARRING ON SHADOWHEART’S SHOULDERS.

One voice urging her to fulfill her sacred duty, and the other, Sylverian’s, pleading with her to listen ; not to Shar, not to the Dark Justiciar, but to herself. To the part of her that he had always believed to be good. And in the end, it was that voice — the voice of reason, of her own heart — that prevailed.

The Nightsong lived.

But Sylverian barely had time to savor the relief before he saw the look on the Dark Justiciar’s face.

Bravery had never come easy to him, but he didn’t hesitate. Even with his magic utterly depleted, drained to the marrow from the fight against the necromancer, he stepped in front of the portal to block Lyrthindor’s way, lifted his rapier, and held tip against the Justiciar’s throat.

❝Drop the sword.❞

The words pulled at his mind like invisible strings, threading through his will, commanding obedience. Sylverian felt his fingers slacken and the golden hilt of his rapier slipped from his grasp, hitting the bloodstained stone floor with a metallic clatter.

His breath hitched ; but he didn’t move. Didn’t yield. Instead, he lifted his chin and met the Justiciar’s gaze with an icy, DEFIANT glare.

❝I thought we had already put an end to the monster haunting these halls, but I see now that I was wrong,❞ he spat, his voice laced with bitterness so unlike him.

Yet another monster stood before him.

Curse his bleeding heart. It was naive of him to think the Dark Justiciar could be saved, but some lost souls didn’t want to be rescued.

sentence starters

SUCH BEAUTY! The still-warm corpse, its flesh freshly torn, blood pooling upon cold stone. Oh, what a sight! ——— Oops. He had been staring, SMILING, utterly entranced... when the Sharran’s voice yanked him back to the present.

Zareth blinked, as if shaking off a dream, fighting the hunger that clawed at his ribs. This was wrong. No, it did not feel wrong!!

❝Perhaps.❞ He slowly turned to the Sharran. ❝But as you know, the tadpole has shredded my brain to ribbons, and I simply cannot remember~❞ he lilted, voice light, careless, as though none of this mattered. As though this didn’t scare and plague him so.

He leaned in, invading Lyrthindor’s space.

❝... You should be kinder to me, Lyrthindor.❞ A low, amused hum, his lips ghosting just above skin, breath warm against the elf’s throat. ❝You would not want my ruined mind to SNAP—❞ And with that, Zareth bared his teeth and snapped them shut, just shy of Lyrthindor’s throat.

Helplessness enshrouds him, a pained whimper stifled between his lips; as though he was the one in agony, and not undoubtedly the cause of his torment.

Shar.

Loathsome Shar.

He does not need to so much as utter the name through trembling lips for Vhaal'krin to curse it with disdain thickening in his throat. He wants her to stop. He cannot make her stop—and he cannot even appeal to his own goddess for mercy. Just this one, he wished to be something more than a pawn in this cosmic game lanceboard.

"...Why would you do something so—" His brows push into a tight knot. He can't choke the words out—can't scold him; his steeliness crumbles in his mouth, his spirit deflates, soft, weak. He wraps those long arms around the elf, as if seeking to soothe him, knowing he cannot, holding him tight, draping himself over him like a pale coat, ivory hair curtaining his limbs away, holding him in the drow's cocoon.

"Tell her to stop... tell her to give her to pick on someone her own size," He sounds teary, on the verge of crying, emotion lodged in his throat straining his words; like a child whose favorite toy has been snapped in half right in front of his eyes. "Just tell her to give it to me—just give it to me, you've had enough..." It's not how it works—he knows it's not how it works. But he wants it to be.

neyvin drops the carefully constructed flower crown onto lyrthindor's head. he wears a similar one himself, and can't help the slight smile that crosses his face at the sight of the dark justiciar in one.