#pete;

and uhhhh woe, art of Pete by a friend of mine be upon you !

Pete groaned quietly and ran his hand over his face as he woke up to an empty bed with messed sheets and he sighed lowly. He got up and wandered to the bathroom, grabbing his robe from the back of a chair and did his skincar routine and other mornings needs before the soft scent of tobacco smoke reached his nose and he stepped out into the hall.

I don't think you quite comprehend how this works, dog, there is no 'I will not do it.' I do not deal in rejections of my orders- especially not from miserable reprobates who couldn't even put on a proper show without being propped up so to speak. To me, to the crowd, or to a label, you were always a puppet. At least I am honest about my terms. Now. Shut up, and kill them."

Would you also believe that at 8 pieces of art I still can't explain why I latched onto this fucker the way I did back in the day but am now so deeply invested in him that the idea of doing anything different makes me break out in hives.

Because these things are all true.

His name's Pete. He's cool.

You're completely correct in your assumption that Pete is not a... normal dragon. If we're being wholly accurate, Pete's not been a living thing for quite some time.

And his fellows in the Ever Constantine Mall are not friends, so much as... his most notable cast of victims.

TW: Horror themes, dragon death, 'zombies'/living doll themes.

I Got No Strings...

"...Frontman of metal band 'Half Dagger' found dead in the Ever Constantine Mall mere weeks before its planned grand opening- Ice Flight's authorities are working alongside Lightning's developmental crews to determine if this event is foul play...."

Hungry, resurrected- A new comment, I'm speaking tongues and infected, Atomic. My throat corroded, dissected, I've cut it. Petyr Shacklefrost "Pete" [He/It] [Pre-Reanimation]

Petyr Shacklefrost Better known by simply "Pete" was at one point a promising musician, the lead vocalist of the band Half Dagger and a well known punk in Plague's music scene, Pete spent much of his early life clawing his way from niche obscurity in Plague's music circles to something resembling mainstream success. and at one point, he simply... gave up.

With a loss of will but lingering, cutthroat ambition, he turned to rumor and ghost stories- an interest in the occult had been commonplace within his crew, after all, and among the stories shared over cold, cheap brews in taverns after shows- the tale of a Plague local from some time ago made something of a Goddess- a battle poet, a bard- a Mirror with her bones twisted and reshaped for an escape that still proved entirely futile- who in death offered her blessings to musicians she deemed worthy. But laziness and ambition in tandem do not a smart man make- and a plea to the wrong goddess would seal his fate.

Pete would be given what he sought- his trade made in blood on the grounds between Shadow and Plague where thick purple earth gave way to crawling sinew, he would be given a pendant- and a set of rules by the voice of what he surely thought was the lady of music- a string was a string, after all, Right?

It is unclear what rule Pete broke, or if he simply grew to bore the mistress he accidentally swore himself to- Sixteen cycles after he found the fame he so desperately clamored for- he would be found broken and lifeless in the construction zone of the Ever Constantine Mall.

His death would not be the respite he sought.

WE ARE VOLT-SPIRE ! ! !

Is this what you wanted? A clearer state of mind? Better bite the bullet~! Press down on bruises like wine heals better with time! From Left to Right: Heartb-b-beat (She/Her), RebelRebel [He/they], Ripley [They/She], Arcade [He/Him])

Time moves forward, and despite its rocky start, the Ever Constantine Mall quickly recovers from the troubling events of its grand opening- capitalism keeps Lightning flight at the forefront of invention and innovation, after all! Neon-soaked and a popular hangout with young locals, It's no surprise that it would draw in young creatives, over time- and our plucky young heroes for this story are the teenaged members of 'VOLT-SPIRE!' a pop punk outfit made up of drummer Ripley, lead guitar and backing vocalist Arcade, bassist and lead vocalist HeartBeat, and 'generally here because he's the only one who knows how to do sound tech and how to play the keys' RebelRebel, VOLT-SPIRE! is a project of plucky hope and lofty ambition, naivety turned into wild upward momentum, this little group of friends are the eponymous mall rats- though these days, its unclear if they still go because they like being at the Ever Constantine, or if they're simply guilty about the fate of their former rhythm guitarist, and co-founder of the band, Ducky.

The VOLT-SPIRE! kids are little more than a group of kids trying to enjoy the fleeting remainder of their childhood before they're expected to spread their wings and find a place of their own- friendships strained by strange happenings at their favorite hangout in the twilight hours of their time together, they cling to the good memories desperately.

Unbeknownst to the four of them, though, the Ever Constantine now exists contained in a time-loop, cycling back on itself to allow for the pursuit and containment of INTRUDER- a member of The Host who was created in the initial cataclysm- but the mangled reflection that caused the disappearance of their friend Ducky is not the only thing that lurks among the neon lit halls.

Now: Survive.

Aren't you lucky you're a bleeder?- Do what you need to stay alive. Bast Whipwire [He/Him], Pete [Post reanimation]

A deal made to the Puppeteer is one that the living never hope to escape- Pete had hoped death might be the freedom he sought, cut free of her strings, no longer bound to the will of something he never hoped to understand- no longer a puppet tied to her twisted rules- a new one each day to keep his newfound fame- her mocking laughter each time he nearly broke one.

He is now little more than an echo of what once was. The shambling, wire-bound remains of a once wild-eyed, passionate performer, the "Pete" of today is little more than a hollow doll guided by hunger. it crawls within him, leaves him desperate and moving surprisingly quickly through darkened hallways cast only in pale neons with jerky, unearthly movements as if guided by marionette strings affixed to each point of his body. He does not speak, the once-confident and capable way he carried conversation swallowed up with wild, hyena-like laughter and spilling, streaking puddles of black gore from his maw and injuries in his battle jacket clad pelt, hot like a flame and evaporating as they drip- smoky hands forming to pull invisible strings around his body.

And in the pursuit of the INTRUDER- Agent Bast finds himself the caregiver of the teens now trapped after hours in their practice space, the very music store where Shacklefrost made his final gamble- and lost. Pete is not a symptom of what Bast seeks, nor is it an entity he can cure, but he is a stopping block, and the more prevalent danger to the innocents within the cycle.

And thus, the INTRUDER will have to wait.

Woe, Pete be upon ye.

Art by:

Thinking about how I own exactly 3 tundras and they're all some kind of screwed up creature or god.

Which just means I have TASTE and KNOW WHAT'S GOOD.