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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Last day of Inktober for writers! Closing it off with a drabble for Tillum. Fitting for a finalé, this one is quite long.
You give yourself a final inspection in the mirror. Every layer of silks, threads, and silver follow the shape of your body perfectly. An elaborate spiderweb pattern of silver and white wraps along your entire person. The threads even extend to your hair, with a bun that seems held together by a colony of loyal spiders. The eccentric breeder had assured you they were harmless, skittering across your skin for the night. You could not resist: After all, what was a spider queen without her loyal subjects?
“Madam?” You see the reflection of your butler behind you, looking at you patiently. “The guests have entered. We have prepared the appetizers and the musicians are all in place. Your presence is sorely missed.” He has the face of a statue. You always liked that about him.
“Excellent,” you chime back. The clicking of heels against marble follow your steps as you make to leave. One final thought strikes you, though. This is the least exclusive event you hold every sweep. Who knows what rabble could come in? Just to be safe, you bring a book out of your sylladex. The book is old, unassuming. Its bindings are not simply rust in color, but also fittingly coarse in its texture. You know exactly what page to open in this moment. There are others pages, but they are meant for the past or the future. They are not important right now.
The next thing you remember, you have already stepped out on the balcony overlooking the grand ballroom. Down below, people in costumes of varying quality congregate. A speech is expected and delivered. Thanking them for their attendance, you then express some quite heartfelt love for the holiday and the party. A polite applaud follows.
One would think you love the chance to have all eyes on you, but you are actually quite relieved to have that out of the way. Down on the floor with the other guests, you can see everything up close: The spiderwebs and bats decorating the walls; the jack-o-lanterns (carved with unique patterns) on the tables next to foods that fit the season. You sample some of the pumpkin pie, as well as a small tart shaped like an eyeball, both excellent, and wash it down with punch from a bowl filled with ice skulls.
The very best part about the party is the costumes, though. Some are store-bought, dull, uninteresting. Others have been handcrafted for the event, personalized recreations of fictional characters, or other more general themes. A redblood fluffs his Dracula-esque collar, a purpleblood raises his arm in a flourish to reveal dragonic webbing between his arms. You have a nice chat with a blueblood lady you’ve seen at a few other soirées. She had the clever idea to tear some old dresses for her costume. You agree to it being preferrable to simply throwing them away. Naturally, you recieve plenty of compliments. Several are greatly unsettled when they realise the spiders are, indeed, alive, and a few more compliment your dedication. Those get a genuine smile.
You are in the middle of explaining what planet colony you had the silver imported from, when there is some commotion among the crowd. Shouting, hissing, and cries of distress. You take a step back from the source, a loud figure shoving past the masses, wrenching the lady you were speaking with out of the way. Before you can even summon forth your grimoire, there’s a sharp feeling in your gut. Blood spills out of your stomach like a broken faucet. There’s violet everywhere. You look up to find your assailant, but everything is blurred. No words come out of your mouth, either, just more violet. It’s impossible to stem, no matter how desperately you clutch the wound, how firmly your jaw is shut. You feel life and consciousness alike fade into nothing.
You gasp, clutching your stomach. Your eyes twitch, surveying the surroundings. There’s a large mirror, some shelves. There’s a butler with, expresionless. The blood it- It’s no longer spilling out of you. Your perfectly layered costume is pushed and prodded out of the way, revealing un-opened skin. You dare open your mouth, and nothing comes forth.
Laplace makes its presence known with the almost overwhelming odor of rust. The pages seem to almost hum, and the last few words seem to leap off the page: ‘Tillum bleeds to death.’
I will not. “Call in some escorts. I want a body guard in every corner of the room, and eyes up from two balconies. I don’t care about short notice, I will pay them extra.” The butler excuses himself, and your eyes fall back to the pages. To your delight, the pages have begun to crackle and burn.
Catching up on prompts I missed for Inktober for writers with a drabble of Tillum.
You remember being young. Maybe no more than 3 or 4 sweeps. You remember how dark it was down there in the abyss, moonlight barely able to pierce the depths to provide slivers of light. Your sight was worse back then; You struggled to make out details. Most of your childhood, you lived in a wicked, silent void. Only silhouettes lived there. Rumbling silhouettes of varying sizes, some hungry and some harmless. Once upon a time, you held them at bay with a trident, in an effort to live up to your caste. To the people above, you still do.
You remember the only comfort being the tender caress of your lusus’ tentacle, and how it wrapped around you to shield from all that was cruel in the abyss. Her hide was like a veil that nothing could pierce. It was back then you were a foolish, naive little child.
One night, that comforting embrace changed. You remember how the bone-white skin had turned stygian, and the touch was no longer tender, but uncaring, and frightening. Her touch gave you images and dreams that kept you up during the day, saping away your comfort and safety. Ironically, you were safer. Silhouettes did not stay around your hive anymore. Wether they feared your mother, or if she had consumed them all, you did not know. The waters were quiter, though, quieter than death itself.
As you grew, you thought she had perhaps undergone some shift of maturity. That age had taken her splendid pallor and her kindness. A childish thought, clinging to the hope that your mother had been kind, at least once upon a time. More sweeps past, and you began questioning yourself. It had been so dark, how did you know she had been white in the first place? No, this was always your mother. No metamorphosis or replacement.
You remember a naive child who had been shown the furthest voids, but who had not been taught arts of the most arcane sort. A child who had not realised the nightmares were not nightmares, but visions, meant to guide her to her ultimate goal.
Continuing the Inktober for writers with a drabble for Tillum.
When Tillum awoke, the final rays of sunlight still shining on her mansion, her mind throbbed. Only dark dreams had come to her that night, feasting on her mind like rats. She remembers drowning in thick, viscous ink, she remembers her hair becoming a bouqet of garrotes for her poor neck. The only color that existed was a green symbol. Whose, she was not sure. She had seen it somewhere... She tries to focus, but her mind still reels from the plagueing nightmares.
Much to her dismay, her hand jitters as it grasps the elaborate cup, spots of black coffee spilling onto the plate. She inhales, the scent of the dark roast easing her nerves. When she sips, it is as if a warm blanket is draped over her. She begins to untangle her visions. It is custom for the horrorterrors to contact her in such harrowing ways, so that green symbol is clearly of signfiance to them. A person of interest, she’d imagine.
She scrambles for a pen, trying to force her shaking hand to be still so that she can recreate the symbol with hurried scribbling. The messy sketch is familiar, but it is so difficult to place. A few of sugar lumps served with the coffee disappears, and a large, leather-bound book now sits on the table. A compendium that you took from a legislacerator friend to “dispose of”, listing members of the old, illegal worships of the dark creatures in the outer rings. Many pages are falsified claims and baseless accusations from trolls ridding themselves of rivals, but the occasional entry has been correct.
Tillum cross-examines the scrawling with hundreds of entries. It takes three large cups of coffee and plenty of patience, but she eventually finds a match, tired eyes pouring over the entry with great appetite. Diviness Forescry, a seer who would recieve visions directly from the horrorterrors. Tillum dismisses the pang of jealousy. The Diviness died a long time ago, but she is certain to have ancestors. Just before exhaustion can claim her, she channels her authoritive tone into an order for an assistant to run a search for the Lavisk lineage. Then, she leans back into her seat and lets the deep sleep consume her.
pls N O | not shipping it | nah | maybe | I WISH it’d work | yasss | I ship it | wOW PLEASE!
2) … tell you shortly about how I think they’d work (or why they wouldn’t) in that quad/general opinions!
Couple of issues here: First of all, Rhemma seems too dismissive of Tillum, which is somewhat understandable, since she doesn’t seem interested in associating with hemoists.
Then, there’s the fact that Tillum is already so caught up in enough platonic rivalries to fill a planet; She simply couldn’t handle the stress of having one rival she ISN’T allowed to kill. Too busy to make space for a pitch.
Whether they could be good rivals beyond that is hard to say, but it seems possible. I’d say they’re equals intellectualy, and they have some shared interests to work with (eldritch stuff). Issue is that Tillum is filthy rich, so she might consider herself superior and use it as a sort of trump card, which I’d imagine would be grating. Meanwhile, Rhemma is way more successful in the eldritch circles, which makes her superior in another way.
So, basically, there’d be a power imbalance both wayssimultaneously.
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
o shit what about a witchy " you can't be here now " for raatri and tillum?
"Fortune favors the bold” is a saying you’re well familiar with. Certainly, being an active deals-broker and working hard to grab every opportunity that passes by is a wonderful idea.
What it doesn’t mean, is “kill your competitors”. Well, sometimes it does. But, not when the competitor is you. You deftly dodge a lunge from the cocky blueblood’s rapier, then another. Normally, your guard should be the ones to take care of this, but this sneaky crettin is apparently lighter on his feet than he is adept with a sword.
No matter. There is noone around but him. This is exactly the moment you need to bring out your strife specibus; A book, bound in black metal, carvings of eldritch creatures and arcane writing spreading over the metal and leather. The thing is huge, too. If you weren’t opening it right now, on would think you just intended to bludgeon him with it. As it stands, you’re opening up a familiar passage, eyes flying by instinct to the exact entry as you already begin to read aloud what was not meant to be spoken by trollian tongues.
Another lunge barely misses you, but before the fool can retract his arm, tentacles made from pure inky blackness has sprung from your free arm and grabbed hold of his neck, wrapping around him like an anaconda slowly squeezing to break his stupid little neck. It’s exilerating; What power you can wield when there is noone around to-
“Tillum...?” No. Your eyes fly from the asphyixating blueblood to the new person are the door. Raatri allowed herself in, surely from the sound of a struggle. Of course she had to hear it.
“You can’t be here now...” you whisper, not even thinking. What can you do? You need to make up an excuse, no it has to be murder. Or even honesty? She’s looking back and forth between you, the blueblood, and the stygian tentacle connecting you both. “R-Raatri, darling,” you intone. Regain composure! “I, uh, I was simply dealing with a very unwanted guest, you see.” A quiet gurgle comes from said guest, so you can finally drop him to the floor and dismiss the magic appendage. Your book is back in the specibus as fast as you manage, and you pray she didn’t see it.
“What was that?” She stares where the tentacle had been. She looks frightened- No, is that... Concern? “Is he...?”
“Him? He’s dead, dear. That’s not important now. What is important is- Uhm.” You’ll need bribes. Hefty ones. She’s chummy with Zamiir, so who knows what she’ll slip. Murder is possible, but if it’s tracked back to you, Zamiir won’t be happy. Can you live without his business? No, no, bribes is better. You, frankly, enjoy her company too much. But what do you get for someone so simple? Shiny stones?
“Tillum, it’s- It’s fine. We’ll talk about this s-”
“Now, then. I’ll uh. Call the servants for coffee and something to eat.” You can’t let her leave until this is settled.
> Your eyes drift across the ball room crowd. Dancing, conversing, some at the buffet and almost fighting for the food. It was louder than most celebrations, owning to all the more uncouth trolls running around. Well, that’s fine. Zamiir was cute, in that way.
> What is more important right now, though, is finding the more promising looking king and queen candidates. That troll, Raatri, had been quick to catch your attention in particular; Both king AND queen? Surely, that could be an interesting individual.
> It takes some looking around, but you eventually spot them in between two conversations, open for you to stride up and offer a hand.
