#plot thread

A large hunk of fossilized bone and star dust would sit inside a glass capsule, something similar to the ‘egg’ Eternatus called home for a good twenty years. The security did the best it could, shocking them, shooting out fire, and all manners of defensive firepower money could buy. It was never enough to trump a dragon’s hungry. A dying star’s final gambit.

Each large portion of a dead star eater flesh was consumed there at the spot, stripping the stadium and gym of something precious. It was right where it needed to be now after being taken. Stolen.

This was justifiable. 

Detective Pony - Episode 9, Three ideas

Ariadne inscribing the Minotaur in his labyrinth

He was drenched. 

Which, in most situations, would call for some serious first aid, blankets, heating pads, and a trip to the ER. In the weather that certain parts of Galar have been experiencing, it would be dangerous to walk around without the proper gear.

Leon didn’t have much say in that particular departed. He was as unfeeling as the water that had him landing a soaked foot into the freshly shoveled snow. It caked all the way up to his legs, and the drier parts of his attire were frosted. At this rate, he muses, he’d look nothing more than some wandering ice spirit that felt like the quaint and humble town of Turffield made for a great place to haunt.

It was still early yet, the clouds blocking sun’s light that threatened to spill over the horizon. The time truly only mattered for man and he was the leader of the community. Leader of the gym. 

“Milo!”

The Chairman called out into the crisp and freezing air once he saw a figure finally approach down the snow covered dirt path.

I have never forgiven myself for listening to her and abandoning you there. Every day I get closer to trying to find you. I know you'll never forgive me. I don't care.

Kankri had hoped this night would never come. It was getting to be light outside when the anons forced him to spill his secret, his proverbial guts all over the ground, and it burned him like a knife in his guts and his gullet, white hot, tearing him and ruining him. He rushed into his adjoining bathroom to empty his stomach into the toilet, bile searing in his throat and his mouth.

This whole thing was absolutely revolting. He washed his mouth, eyes puffy and tears burning at his eyes, in the sink, and then roared at his own face in the mirror and headbutted it. It shattered and cut his forehead and his scalp and nicked his horns. He slammed his fist against it in the next moment, breaking another place and cutting the side of his hand and his pinky finger badly.

Only one thing to do now. 

Own up.

He didn’t bother stopping his bleeding or cleaning up the shattered glass before he left his block. Servants tried to stop him, but he forbade their involvement, and his tone made them fear his anger. Moments later, his phone pinged and he looked down to see Delphine pleading he be safe.

Oops. 

Down, he descended, into the cold and the dark.

The former dungeon was seven floors. The top three were grain cellars, coated with lime to keep moisture out and each bag contained in a vacuum-sealed metal crate, ensuring that moisture did not mold the preserved good, nor did any pest reach it. In times of greater-than-normal hardship, these were doled out to his lowblooded communities, sometimes their only lifeline. The lower three still had bars on the cells, where they were removed from the upper floors. They were protected from moisture, but empty.

The lowest floor was dark, and cold, but dry. Arid, almost. A light came from a single cell at the end of the long hall of over thirty metal doors.

He walked slowly, dripping blood still from his hand and head, leaving little spatters of red as he walked.

In the cell with the light, which had no door, was a guard. He was tall and broad, more so than Kankri, and blueblooded. He was settled in a wide, comfortable chair, reading a book. A spear was propped up beside him. He looked up at Kankri and jumped to attention while something in the opposite cell hissed like a feral animal. 

“Sire, you’re bleeding!” said the guard, and Kankri nodded slowly, thoughtfully, like it hadn’t registered.

“Leave,” replied Kankri, and the guard did, taking his book with him and leaving the spear. Kankri turned toward the opposite cell, where a beautiful troll knelt, bruised and battered and scarred and missing chunks of what had once been lovely hair, long and curly. It laid on the floor still, with blood.

Kankri looked into the face of his offspring, save the nose, which was thinner and higher than his or Karkat’s, and chitin darker, so much darker.

The troll in the cell snarled, then started laughing, shaking the chains at Kankri that bound his neck and his wrists to the cornerstone of his cell.

I can’t kill him.