#fivetales

for some of them, that's true. lilith had been like that for a time, though she's changed, && you knew her before she was in the coven too. kikimora has always never been shy about hiding her desire for power, && hunter, the ex-golden guard... well, you suppose that no one could have predicted that outcome.

everyone else, though? strangely, most of the average, low-ranking coven scouts you've met have just been in it for the benefits && job stability. you try not to think of them as shallow, the thought of your own chosen career path being more righteous sounding pretentious even in your own head. but some are just... for lack of another word... pathetic.

arlo is one of them, which is why you sent katya to him for information in the first place. who could've possibly guessed that he would've completely turned on the emperor.

" we’re friends, right? are we friends? " ( @fivetales )

well, they say hindsight is 20/20.

"..." one eyebrow raises, && you exhale through your nose. friends isn't a term you throw around lightly. but he seems so earnest, && he did give up so much. well, no matter. "sure we are." you clasp a hand on his shoulder. "you're a good kid, arlo." hopefully that satisfies him. "i'm glad we have you around. you're good company."

“  ...  ”  

around  halfway  through  his  dad’s  tirade,  c-136  is  pretty  sure  his  eye  physically  twitches  at  one  point.  you  know,  like  how  it  happens  in  a  fucking  cartoon  or  something,  when  someone’s  hearing  out  some  bullshit?  does  that  actually  happen  in  reality?  well,  either  way,  he’s  almost  certain  his  just  did  that,  and  he  has  to  rub  at  it  for  good  measure  in  an  effort  to  play  it  off  ---  act  like  he’s  just  tired,  or  something.  

morty  rakes  a  hand  through  his  hair,  nodding  in  a  detached  demonstration  of  understanding.  he’s  just  being  agreeable.

“  yup.  i-  i  know,  dad.  i’m  trying  to---  y’know,  k-  keep  on  top  of  shit.  ”  (and  failing  horribly.  but  the  effort  is  there.  not  that  his  father  would  fucking  know  that---  he’s  not  lived  with  you  for,  what,  four  years,  now?  ...  the  fuck  is  my  problem  today?  man,  he  doesn’t  know.  he’s  in  a  mood.)  morty  tries  to  stop  scowling,  and  tries  to  look  at  least  moderately  considerate  of  jerry’s  concerns.

so you do the next best thing: pick a successor who will obey out of fear, out of loyalty — if not to you, then to him. make promises, make threats / it’s all the same, in the end. it doesn’t matter if daiten iwasaki is fit to wear the uniform. there’s very little time left. you simply have to run out the clock.

the sound of footsteps greets you, but does not distract you from your examination of the portal door. it is of no consequence.

" your new golden guard is incompetent, emperor belos. "   ( @fivetales​ )

“now what did i say about UNSOLICITED OPINIONS?” you do not turn to look at her / uninterested in anything kikimora has to say. “you simply don’t understand. not that i would expect you to. you’re so pathetically narrow-minded. it’s a wonder you’ve lasted this long.” there’s a sarcastic twang to your voice, one that could almost be mistaken for humor / but you have not had anything to laugh about in a long time.

“in fact, it rather sounds like you’re questioning my judgement.” this time, you do smirk, && replace the mask on your face before you turn && make your way toward her, staff raised. still / eyes glow blue through the cracks. “how STRANGE. && here i thought you didn’t like hunter. ah, but it’s not about him at all, is it? let me guess. you think i should have given YOU the job, don’t you?” a sinister chuckle echoes hollowly around the throne room / as if your voice is everywhere at once. “still...” you pause in your tracks, && lower your staff. “you’re not wrong. leave. now. && do not return until you have brought my nephew to me.”

dizziness hits you, && you sway on your feet, lightheaded. two vines circle your wrists, pulling you back to the paint-chipped cast iron garden chair, holding you in place. && when you look up, expression grim && defiant, SHE is there     /     looming, smiling sweet as putrid petals past their prime.

you attempt to struggle. the vines only tighten.

“terra,” you start / the beginnings of a plea. too late now to escape     /     but maybe you can make her understand. you HAVE to. “i need you to listen to me. belos is—”

“ hey, hey, it’s okay. we’ve all done things we’re not proud of. ”   ( @fivetales​ )

“no,” you protest, futile as she leans closer. “i’m not playing GAMES with you anymore, terra. i’m not a child.” nausea rolls over you, expression pinching tight, && she produces a drinking horn of steaming liquid     /     tea, she tells you, for the discomfort. with wrists still restrained, you have no choice but to accept the offering     /     an unwanted sacrament. 

it burns your tongue, makes your head fuzzy     /     as if you could fall asleep right there. the next sip you blow on, a soft whistle through your teeth, before it hits your tongue. you carefully watch her expression, but it doesn’t shift. you settle back into the chair, head bowed ever so slightly. “thank you, head witch snapdragon,” you say     /     reluctantly docile. “i feel better already.”

                   embarrassment colors your cheeks / like the time your students found that old record a shop, the album you recorded right out of school. you didn’t even know they still sold that / && it’s difficult to be perceived as a person others look up to && admire ;   despite your status, despite your abilities, you have never been one to seek attention or praise. 

"i’ve heard a lot about you too,” you tell him, banishing your violin with a pluck of a string && extending your hand to the young man from the emperor’s coven, the last-minute turncoat / in your favor. “glad to have you with us.”

@veroxins / @fivetales

forgiveness. purity. destination.      these were words she often heard in her days at hexside, before the final evaluation for covens ;   before she was offered the chance of a lifetime. and with a running leap and reckless abandon, boscha had left everything that previously weighed her down behind  -  all for a greater purpose. 

his words are holy, golden and patriarchal in the same virtue as one would hold a prophet. fist furls in her kneel, politely excused to press against the crest of heart in sworn duty out of appreciation for his notion.  ( such distinguished resonance from her esteemed emperor like silks ‘pon her hell-born ears. . . )   truly belos was a merciful man to see past her daemonic heritage and limited witchcraft and see her as anything more than a brewstress. 

          “     yes ,  mi’lord .   and you ,  our greatest and most capable ,  are cherished for your sacrifices .  .  .   i cannot even  BEGIN  to imagine my own struggles compared to what you’ve given up for us  -  but i thank you regardless for your wisdom and mercy for my out-of-line complaint .     ”

                 “     to have even  uttered  such blasphemy and ungratefulness for all you’ve blessed me with --    i should have my tongue burned for such desecration .     ”

claws dig at her palm’s heel as she spits that lone word out in disgust, manicured with the whites and golden flakes of her beloved capital’s power and praise. behind her mask, she weeps for having doubted his decision in taking her into his coven, for who could dare to defy his judgment? boscha knows she is far too beneath him for a comforting touch, though she can’t help how her heart craves the reassurance ‘pon tainted crown.