Ace of Snakes. Art by Svetlana Merkhasina, from the Everyday Women Tarot.

Content warning (roughly in order of appearance): Gore, Body Horror, Drug Usage, Sucidal Ideation, Drug Overdose

Jundian Diplomacy

Kresh stood in the center of the Bloodhall, the other clan leaders who had answered his summons arrayed around him. Each had an advisor, the oldest shaman of their clan alongside them. Kresh knew these people, had fought with them, both as enemy and more recently, as ally. They knew him, the upstart warrior-champion, founder of the splinter clan, Tol Angata, and the only clan leader to have seized the opportunity of interacting with the planes beyond Alara. Kresh had even set foot in the snowy mountains of Kamigawa after destroying a mining camp by invaders from the same plane. He had begun trading with the Brazen Coalition, whose ships sailed by the edge of Jund on their way to pilfer the other shards. And, on the advice of the outsider, the Hunter known as Bromley, he had sent his most decorated warrior (other than himself) and nine others to travel the multiverse. Of the ten, nine returned, and that alone marked the expedition as a success to many. But his tenure was not just one of boldness, he, more than anyone else, had fallen under the sway of the deceitful Rakka Mar. He had mostly redeemed himself by slaying the traitor, but it still left his judgment questionable in the eyes of his peers. And those peers were an interesting bunch.

Javid Hera, semi-hereditary leader of Highclan Tol Hera, the man who said humanity should take the war to the dragons, do more than just Life Hunts, and that they should claim the highest peaks to prove this, sat closest to Kresh. He was the man Kresh had fought and defeated to earn the right to form Tol Angata. Kresh spared his life because he did not seek to run Tol Hera, and because he didn’t disagree with Javid’s intentions, only his methods. Anyone willing to fight dragons was worth keeping alive. At least that was Kresh’s rationale at the time. He now sat on a boulder in the cavern, his age showing with the whitening of his hair. He had not spoken a word since arriving, and just stared at Kresh, seemingly irritated.

Neyjuth the Survivor, leader of the ill-fated Tol Breot. Formed by Breot the Slayer, a legendary hunter and skilled warrior, it was only misfortune that accounted for the hard times the Riftclan had fallen upon. During the Conflux, half of the clan had been transported to Grixis, and half left behind in Jund. Those in Grixis all perished except Neyjuth. Many were struck with a pox, hunger had set upon them, but even with all of that, they might have survived long enough to find Jund again or even just something not corrupted by Grixis to eat. It was Thraximundar who spelled their unfortunate end, killing Breot before he had time to react, and slaughtering all of them. Except for Neyjuth, who, infected with the pox, had been hidden by her lover, whose dying body covered hers, the rotting pustules on her skin and the corpse of her beloved masking her living scent from Thraximundar. Half a day later, she began crawling. She found the rest of Tol Breot, and despite the ministrations of the shamans, the pox still claimed her left hand and eye. She appointed herself leader, bested a challenger, and has been looking for ways to save Tol Breot ever since, letting non-humans from other shards, a rhox and a cohort of elves, join the clan. She now stood against one of the sangrite walls, idly tapping the fingers of her right arm on the bone and wood shield she wore upon her left. Her eye was flicking around the room, sizing up everyone else as Kresh was doing now. Their eyes met, and she gave him a small nod, but kept the scowl she perpetually wore.

Vilkesh the Crasher, leader of Tol Durek, the Ripclan. She was the youngest of those assembled here, only twenty-something, as compared to Javid, who was over fifty, or the rest, Kresh included, who were somewhere in their thirties or forties. She had been amenable to allowing Tol Breot to hunt regularly in their territory, which Kresh was hopeful would help with his goals at this meeting. The Ripclan did often fight with the viashino though. Vilkesh was presently cleaning her nails with a dagger and sitting cross-legged on a hide mat she’d brought with her.

There had once been five major clans, but Clan Nel Toth had been destroyed several years ago by one of their own, Meren. Kresh was no great ally of theirs, but the loss still stung, and the threat Meren and her undead, especially the dragon that now flew at her command, was one all clans had to deal with. Also, while there were other minor clans, loose collections of humans, sometimes with an elf or two, they largely followed at least one of the main four clans.

Sighing, Kresh looked to Gruak. With two thuds of his staff upon the stone floor, Gruak got the attention of everyone in the room.

“Clan leaders of Jund! I have called you here to our most sacred site, reclaimed from the undead of Grixis by the efforts of our most valiant warriors, to discuss our peoples’ future and our place within the multiverse! We stand at a moment where our decisions now will determine how the clans of Tol endure, and if we endure at all! Since the Conflux, and even before, the continuation of our ways has been called into question by how we have fared during these harsh and changing times!"

"The practices of how we hunt dragons have been challenged,” Kresh said, inclining his head to Javid Hera.

“Large swaths of our clans have been killed in quantities greater than even the most ill-fated Life Hunts!” He roared, looking at Neyjuth as he did so.

“We have had to deal with outsiders, both humans and otherwise, and some have even joined our ranks,” Kresh said, maintaining eye contact with her.

“And all of us have had our homes invaded! Whether by Bantian crusaders, the undead hordes, or by those who replace flesh with metal, regardless of if they called themselves Esper or Phyrexian!” Kresh roared once more, raising his sword, Mage Slayer, aloft as he did so.

“And yet more troubling than that are those who embrace dragons as objects worthy of worship and reverence! We have cast them out of our clans, but they still roam the mountains, a collection of elves and humans. What we do about these things is important. But there is a larger issue looming, one that connects to all of these others; how will we handle and interact with those from beyond the clans, be they from another plane or simply another shard! That is the core of why I have called you here today. I have a basic plan I want to propose, and I would like your input and cooperation with the plan. I believe that united, we are stronger! United, if the Esper attack one of us, they attack all of us! United, when one clan prospers, we all prosper! United, if one clan falls on hard times, the rest can support them! United, we can present ourselves to the multiverse as a people to be respected, to be dealt with fairly, and to be feared on the battlefield!”

“And you’d be the one in charge of this alliance, right?” Javid Hera snorted, crossing his arms.

she hadn't been fast enough. she hadn't been smart enough. she hadn't been good enough.

and now her moon was gone. possibly for good. Chima Tannari had fucked up.

She had found Hebi alone. cold. too cold. In the Undercity, it's a miracle nothing had tried to eat her yet. Or, Chima thought, noting the sickly red swell in her fiancee’s veins, nothing down here was dumb enough. Devesh was already done. She had left a note, but Chima couldn't be bothered to read it. Nothing mattered anymore.

It was only after she had arrived back home with the body did she feel the heartbeat. Faint, barely noticeable. But there. Thank every deity on every plane, Hebi was alive. Barely, but alive.

Which meant that Devesh had done something truly, truly heinous to Hebi. Curse every deity.

Months later, Hebi hadn't gotten any better. The new year was approaching, but Chima didn't care. She just went to the archives, sorted every new piece of paper and map and old thought strand into its proper spot. and then she watched Hebi. All day. She slept, barely, and lightly. She ate about once a week, when the pangs started to get bad. She couldn't bring herself to leave Hebi for longer.

Hebi’s family had reportedly been looking for their daughter & sister, but Chima didn't care. They wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. Devesh would never make it that easy. If this affliction had cure, it would likely only be available to that draugr of a Gorgon.

Chima Tannari had well and truly fucked up.

her ring still rested on her finger. and it hurt so much.

Rain slides the communicator away, grumbling as he puts the ruined welder onto his desk. It would have to be scrapped. Completely rehoused, if there were still any working components in it. He went to the engine room, pulling one of the batteries from the generator, and replacing it with an empty one, carrying the battery back. He hooked up a second welder to the battery and continued his work.

It'd been years since he needed to do that. He had managed to power smaller, hand held tools without a battery since he was 16. He wondered why he was having surges now. He knew his magic, his electricity was based on his emotions. If he got angry, he sparked and had a constant charge going through his body, but he wasn't angry, or stressed. Right now he just felt… nothing?

Maybe he should examine that more. Instead he continues welding the vent he had noticed damage in. The damn pigeon-rats had chewed through another section of wiring, and he had to burn out part of the vents to get to it. He shouldn't be doing this. His arms ached, and his back screamed for relief.

He wondered where Octavia was. She was visiting Chortos but that was hours ago, surely he would be asleep by now? He pushed the thought away. She’s fine. It's not his place to worry anymore, anyway. They had both made their decisions.

A few sparks crackled off his hair.

Rain looked at the patch job he did, examining the edges where the damage ended, and sighed with satisfaction at the inability to tell where the damage had occurred. No one would see this, except maybe 3-V, but that didn't mean he wanted to do shoddy work. He stepped down, letting his muscles relax.

He picks up his communicator and flips to Octavia’s contact. His fingers hover over the buttons to message her… before he puts it down with a sigh. It's not his place. He had made his decision. Now he lives with it. She was fine.

He hoped.

Part of him wished he didn't care, wished he could accept that Octavia was somewhere. Or wished he could lie to himself better. Convince himself she was out partying, or having fun with friends. Wished he hadn't noticed her exhaustion. He pushes those thoughts from his mind as well.

A few more sparks.

For the hundredth time that day, he told himself, again. It wasn't his place. He'd made his choice, and she'd made hers. They were friends, and barely at that point. Then he shoved the thoughts away, and began planning tomorrow.

More sparks.

Tomorrow was Leta’s funeral. Tomorrow he needed to be on his best behavior. Koda needed support, and Rain didn't know if he trusted anyone else who would be there to give it. He'd have to push more of his anger down.

This was his place, now. Because of the decisions he'd made.

A single spark fell, as the dull, empty feeling washed over him again.

Tomorrow was a new day.

He hoped it would bring new problems, not more of the same, but he doubted it.

It had been an odd day for Octavia. She had gone to visit her brother... She thinks. She remembered listening to him at the table. That was probably real, she remembered the feeling of the pencils in her hand and she doodles with him.

But she also remembered feeling like there were ants inside of her hands, so it was hard to tell.

She closed her eye for just a moment, and it was so dark when she woke up. How long had she managed to sleep? No one came rushing to help, so she must not have woken up screaming this time. She was so tired. The nightmares wouldn't let her sleep.

She dropped off Chortos' plushie in his room. He had been sleeping, fitfully, but he calmed down once she had carefully tucked the plush under his arm. She was jealous. And she knew it was irrational. She wanted to rest like that. To feel safe. She was so tired.

It took her a while to get down the stairs. Her balance was off, but the way the stairs swam and bent didn't help. She stopped into the kitchen for a snack on her way out. She saw Froggy in the cupboard when she opened it for snacks, but she'd been seeing a lot of things that weren't there lately, so she ignored her.

She needed to get back to the Silverwing.

Rain was...

There.

Not really waiting for her. No one was waiting for her. She had all the time in the world to...

Do something.

FRG-NUL-47, who may or may not have actually been there, was staring at her. She must have fallen asleep for a few seconds. Again. She smiled at the vision and closed the door. She had spent enough time intruding upon Lethaltooth and Silentsign's hospitality. She was mad no one had woken her up. She had work to go to. She needed to keep busy. She was so tired.

She had no more tears to cry about it, she had already cried the last time she woke up from a nightmare and it took a while for her to stop. Piloting training was on pause after she (allegedly) fell asleep at the wheel. Rain was still upset about that one. She could see his shadow hovering outside of her door sometimes when she was failing to sleep. Her bed felt so cold and empty and even after everything, unsafe. She may be co-owner, but what use was it if she couldn't get though a conversation without falling asleep for a few seconds at any slight lull in conversation? She was so tired. She was so tired. She was so—

On Innistrad. Not the ship.

This was not where she had meant to planeswalk.

Did she fall asleep while planeswalking...? The burned out wreckage of her mentor's home was right where she had left it and so were the grave markers and the grass had begun to regrow over the churned ritual circle from when she had trained with her friends and the leylines hummed deep in the earth in a way she always found comforting.

She needed to be closer. Laying in the churned earth as she had come to be was not enough. The basement. There was a basement. That's when she kept the last of her mentor's things. It had survived the fire, and the angel, and the things and the monsters.

Sanctuary.

She was so tired.

Maybe.. maybe it would be a place to rest. Quiet as the grave, like they always say! And she needed to get inside. The shadows outside of the clearing were beginning to roil and writhe in a way that could be very real on Innistrad and not just her fried brain or eye failing her and She was so tired.

The stone of the cellar floor hummed with power, enough she could feel in crawling across her skin. Or maybe that was the ants again. She floor was nice and cold, even if it was hard. She dragged whatever cloth or coverings she could find, creating a nest. But she left enough space that her hand could touch the ground. The leylines still pulsed soothingly and she wanted to feel them. The cellar door was firmly bolted, and she was finally alone. She had started crying. Probably when the tiles of the floor began to wave and swirl. She was thankful for the snack that FRG had given her. At least, she's pretty sure that's what happened. It was hard to tell when She was so tired. She was so tired. She was so tired she was so tired so tired so tired so

COLD! She woke up shivering. But not screaming. And the walls weren't melting this time. There was daylight streaming through the cracks of the cellar doors. The leylines still hummed soothingly below the stone below her freezing hand. She would need to get back to the Silverwing soon, if she hadn't returned last night. Rain... Might be worried. But probably not. He could wait for a few more minutes anyways.

Octavia took a few minutes to enjoy it, the quiet. The feeling of having rested.

Even if it was only likely for a couple hours.

And she was still kind of tired.

The Laughing Jester Inn was a cozy place. Built generations ago by the first humans to settle in the newly cleared Realm of Eldraine and added to as needs arose, it stood five stories tall and was constructed in a way that looked haphazard, but wasn't in any danger of falling over. Primarily constructed of oaken beams and whitewashed stones, the inn stood out among the buildings of the nearby town.

Visitors from the town had been all the inn saw in its inception, although the opening of an omenpath to Thunder Junction had made extraplanar visitors increasingly common. Now among the weary farmers and Syr Gwyn's knights of Locthwain you could find Obscura Operatives, Gruul Anarchomancers, Jeskai Monks, Dawnheart Witches and many more mingling, playing games, drinking, and enjoying entertainment sourced from across the Multiverse.

However today was a special occasion. The elderly innkeeper was telling anyone that would listen that it was his twin grandchildren's twenty third birthday today, and they had promised to come see him to celebrate.

"And a man like me, who's getting on in years, needs to see his family."

No one believed he was getting that old. Despite being nearly seventy he could easily be mistaken for two decades younger due to his youthful energy and very good aging. Even the barmaids, who actually did know, would roll their eyes at his shenanigans.

Freddie took a deep breath before entering, pushing open the door. Lively fiddle, cornett, drums, and theorbo playing wove through the noise of chatter. They entered first. A few people took notice of them dressed as they were in Pre-Invasion Locthwainian formalwear, all purples and golds. Their icy blue eyes swept the crowd.

Victory stepped in behind them, letting the door swing closed. Their prosthetic foot gleamed in the light from the windows and the firelight. They were dressed in a blue blazer over a plaid shirt and short blue pants. Their head had a flat cap in the same blue.

"Fferllydraig! Victoriallyn!" The innkeeper swept over to them and hugged them both at once. Victory was clearly embarrassed by their full first name being used.

"Hi Taid." Freddie said, beaming.

"Oh happy birthday you wonderful children, you!" One final squeeze and they were let go.

"Taid, Victory. Victory, our Taid, Owen Dabloso."

"Good to meet you." Victory's voice was cautious, a very soft Eldrainian tinge to what was essentially a New Capennan accent.

Meanwhile Freddie's accent was slamming even harder into Eldrainian. "We should pop over to the bar for a pint or two. Celebration day!"

Victory smiled awkwardly.

As the day crept into dusk, and the dusk crept into night, patrons came and went. Some wished the twins a happy birthday. Others didn't even acknowledge them. Until a fellow, dressed in in the clothes common on Thunder Junction, stepped in, and zeroed in on the bar. Specifically the twins.

He strode over and Victory felt a thunder pistol poke into their side.

"Come with me. Quiet-like. We don't have to make this messy," the bounty hunter rasped.

Victory slowly stood.

"Good. I appreciate it."

The pistol drifted very slightly.

In a flash, Victory had grabbed him and flipped him over their shoulder onto the bar.

One of the barmaids screamed. Owen ran up to see what was happening. A single shot of the thunder pistol missed Victory and crackled into a support beam. Many of the patrons helped restrain the bounty hunter.

"What are you doing with my grandchild?" Owen demanded.

"They murdered five men. Good men. I simply came to collect the bounty."

Owen raised an eyebrow and glanced to Victory.

"I did. Got arrested for it and went to jail. Wasn't fed and got an infection that turned gangrenous and lost me my foot. So I got out again."

Owen turned his attention back to the hunter. "So you mean to tell me, you want money so bad you'll accept bounties from a government that treats its prisoners like that?"

The hunter remained silent. Owen glanced to the patrons holding his limbs. They nodded, dragged him to the door and bodily threw him into the mud.

"And stay out!"

Owen did keep the thunder pistol though.

I love it when dark and gritty stories have overarching themes about like. The power of love. The inherent value of kindness. Humanity being fundamentally good. Inextinguishable hope. Stories where the plot itself is full of anguish and death—stories that might even end in tragedy—but where the message is so full of optimism. That yes, maybe it didn’t work out here, for these people, but one day it COULD. And don’t stop fighting for that better future until then.

Too many stories nowadays are all grimdark doomer nonsense that treat most of the world’s problems as inherent to existence itself and therefore unfixable, preferring to prop up a few individual characters for escaping the violent hegemony of humanity rather than examine the actual systemic causes of the shit they’re supposedly addressing, and I’m sick of it! If you can’t even imagine a better world in FICTION what good is your art even offering?

It’s not about pretending that everything is perfect. Far from it! But it is about being capable of imagining that better is possible, and finding hope now

Lost in Thought

The one who knows too much is lost. He doesn’t remember getting lost. He does not know where he is. That is one of the few things he really should know right now. He was walking home. Now he’s here. In this alleyway. He does not see the end of it, even though he should. He does not know where here is. He wishes he could remember how he got here. He is walking with a tense anxiety that tells him he should really be running, especially now. Why isn’t he? And why can’t he remember that? He needs to remember. There is a woman.

They are speeding up. Walking quicker. Only adrenaline lets him leap over a pile of bricks without knowing one hint about why he needs to. The alleyway is tightening. Colors are fading to tones of brown and grey. He is still jogging. Not sprinting yet. Not until he knows. He thinks to himself. He should know why he’s here. Knowing is half the battle. What battle? He needs to remember.

There is a woman, finger held to Her lips.

He is sprinting through twisting bends, metal structures grasping the backs of unknown buildings as though trees swallowing signposts, obscuring the way out of the maze of pillars and paths. There is something they need to remember. He can’t. He hears nothing. Why does he hear nothing? He needs to remember.

There is a woman. Skin colored with the mixture of a flower and an almost healed bruise, finger to lips in secrecy.

The cephalid is searching. Abandoned streets are rare in the city. Where could this one be? It’s too dark here, yet still too bright. No contrast. No information. He has to find a way back to the starkly split lights and shadows. He can’t. He tries to remember. Why?

There is a woman, Veil covering Her eyes, skin a sickly lavender, singular finger beckoning nothing but Utter Silence.

He is hiding against a corner. The dumpster against his back is cold as ice and the wall to his left is rough without any features of note. How did he get here? Where does he need to run to not be trapped? They try to remember. He can’t.

There is a woman. She is telling him to be quiet. She is forcing him to be quiet. A Veil covers Her eyes. Her skin is the tinge of a lost memory. She knows this. She holds a finger to Her lips, trapping a promise no one gave.

The victim is scrambling through the alley. His shoes catch on the exposed metal and loose concrete, ground long ruined with disuse. He needs to remember. How did he get here? He is slowing. He can’t run anymore. He just needs to remember. How? There is a woman. Her eyes are as empty as the slot this impression filled in his mind. A Veil covers them. Looking past it was a failure of will. Her skin makes sense now. There is no flesh to show life. She holds Her fingers to Her lips in the semi-universal sign for silence. Her lips likely open to nothing, the same void Her eyes lead to. 

He stops. Darkness expands. He stops. … …. …..

……

Vasro.

…

Yes. That’s right. Vasro. Vasro sits up. He still can’t remember. Why can’t they remember? He should be able to. He reaches into his mind, pushing with greater force than he could have used while rushing…. Deeper… into wherever he is. All he sees is an unfamiliar face he knows very well. He stops. He doesn’t want to see that face anymore. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t stop seeing it. He looks with his real eyes to try to drown it out. It helps, but not enough. A lattice of dark strings stretch out from him. A familiar horror is much more comforting. They fill the alleyway. It no longer reaches on forever. He sees darkness in his patron, and sees light at the end of the tunnel. He sits, and it doesn’t work. Until he remembers, until he remembers how he got here, until he remembers how to get back, until Her face is OUT OF HIS MIND, he can’t think for more than a few seconds. Who can help? He needs help. If he doesn’t get it, He’ll be stuck here. He’s not going to risk moving if it means getting lost again. And He can’t move, He can’t eat. Swift. Swift might be able to get this. He reaches out to his uncle in every way he knows right now. “I don’t know where I am other than that I’m on Capenna. I need help. Please help me.” (Thank you to @jasper-graphics for the dividers!)

Consequences VII

Teeth sinking into flesh. A cry of pain. Blood trailing from claw marks. Fresh bruises. Blood for blood, the lesser sacrificing for the better; these were the two true rules during training. The vampire was weaker, so he was forced to give more.

The hyenafolk growled as he woke from slumber. Another dream focused on their old coworker, the one who managed to get away. The one that he wanted back. He reminded himself to be patient, shook himself out, and rolled off of the table that had served as his medical cot. New membranes stretched across the bone wing frames. The stingers protruding from his lower back were sharper now, just like his claws and his teeth. At least the resurrection magic had brought him back to full fighting fitness despite who he and his spark were now bound to.

Arkuan’s footsteps were audible as he prowled through the new base that he and Flair had set up. Wooden floor, wooden walls, wooden roof and ceiling. Suspended in the air through the same magic and architecture that Eldraine’s storm giants used. Hidden from sight with misdirection enchantments stolen from the Obscura and Court of Omission alike. Isolated from the ground so that their quarry wouldn’t be able to use his own abilities to escape.

It also wasn’t hard to get a handful of mooks and minions. There were always people willing to do anything you ask for the right price. Others could be “convinced” through Flair’s practice. The humans – of course they were all human, there were so many of them that it was easier to send them to various planes to handle things themselves – worked in the base on the various dipshit duties that Arkuan couldn’t be bothered to keep track of.

Arkuan knocked on the open door to Flair’s new lab. It was quite similar to her old one in the Realm of Judgment and looked like a Simic doctor’s wet dream. Every operation table had straps to restrain someone that were enchanted to completely block any magic, internal or external. Arkuan had gotten them during the duo’s recent trip to restock as a “gift” for the doctor. Flair herself had gotten him a new machete to make up for the sword that had been left behind when they left the Realm of Judgment.

Flair looked up from her notepad. She grinned too widely. Her scorpion tail flicked around behind her. “Arkuan! Here I was thinking you might actually sleep in today.”

“Not when there are more things to plan.” Arkuan invited himself in and leaned against the wall. “Any clue where the little bastard ran off to yet?”

Flair didn’t have to ask who Arkuan meant. “Can’t get anyone to slip to Torrezon without being immediately pounced on by those bat demons. It’s a shame, I’d love to capture one and study it. Slowly take it apart and all, you know how it is.” She continued writing something that Arkuan didn’t bother trying to read. “He didn’t run off to Towashi or Innistrad again. Good chance he’s hiding somewhere in New Capenna though, that seems like somewhere he’d be.”

Arkuan snorted. “So close to the Realm? I doubt it. He’s a coward at heart.”

“Could always lure him out though.” Flair tapped her pen against the paper a few times. “Not with the younger brother, he’s a bigger threat than our idiot employees can handle. Gotta look out for the old man too. And that wiggly Omenpath guy.”

“Too many people to look out for,” Arkuan snorted. “Though if we worked together on a grab...”

Flair flashed him a grin. Her teeth were as bloodstained as his own. “Aww, so you do like me.” She flipped around her notepad to show him what she had been writing.

Arkuan leaned down and squinted at the paper to make out her horrid handwriting. “...Drugging and paralysis venom that can affect both holy beings and the undead? I’m so glad we’re on the same side. The little bastard won’t know what hit him.”

She snorted. “I mean, he will. It’ll probably be your fist.” She turned the notepad back around to keep writing. “You want first dibs on the stepdad? If not, I’m gonna test a few things on him so we don’t have the bias of everything we’ve already done to Swift.”

“As far as I care, you can make him dance and rearrange his rib cage to play as an instrument while he’s forced to watch. My claim is on Swift.” Arkuan suddenly became aware of how possessive he sounded.

Flair also noticed. “Touchy touchy touchy. You can keep him, you’re just responsible if he breaks out. I’m not making a leash for you to put him on.”

Arkuan snorted, though his thoughts lingered on that for a moment. Maybe not a leash, but something else that would make it clear to Swift that Arkuan was in charge again...the multiverse was full of objects that could keep a mage contained, after all... He shook his head. “Something to pick up next time we restock supplies, then. We need to put someone in the capital to watch the stepdad, see if we can come up with a good time to grab him.”

“I’ll put out a word to our more stealthy mooks,” Flair promised. “Maybe I can remove the blood from one and reanimate them to send... That’ll keep everyone from pouncing on them just for having a pulse.”

Arkuan took that as his cue to leave. As he stalked down the wooden hallway, he slowly grinned.

It was only a matter of time before he and Swift could pick up their “training” once more.

Pain. Searing pain. He couldn’t get free, he couldn’t run. All he felt was pain. Metal and bone and claw and tooth digging into skin. Arkuan towered over him with a sadistic grin, claws dug into his sides, and-

They woke up on the floor. They took a moment to realize that the scream they had heard was their own. They grimaced in pain as they grabbed the old couch and hauled themself back up onto it. The blanket they had been using was kicked down to the arm near where their feet had been.

Their body ached. Especially the stumps where their arm and leg had been. They disconnected their prosthetics and removed the anchors so they could rub the spots and work some healing magic in to try desperately to soothe the pain. Their hunger curled in the pit of their stomach and whimpered. It could smell the Halo-free vampires nearby and it was hungry.

“Swift?”

They flinched at the woman’s voice saying one of their names. It took them a moment to remember who they were around. “Hey Umi.”

The other vampire kept a firm grip on her cane as she pushed off from the wall to approach them. “I heard your scream. Are you okay?”

I’m fine- They caught themself before they lied. Umi deserved honesty. “I was...stuck in a memory,” they admitted slowly. “Woke up on the floor. But I’m not harmed and I wasn’t attacked.” They reattached the anchors for their prosthetics and sunk their magic into it. The pieces of their right arm and left leg returned to their normal positions. Their magic took the place of the joints and granted them more mobility than a flesh-and-blood arm or leg. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Umi snorted quietly. “As if I wasn’t already awake from my own stress. I’ve been working on restoring Maestros records and trying to keep it from vanishing from fae bullshit so much” – she yawned for a moment and then kept speaking – “that I think I might be going mad.”

Swift wondered if they could convince Lazaro to adopt Umi. The two were very similar, and Umi could do with a paternal figure. Swift couldn’t be that figure themself. They also yawned before they responded. “Well, that makes two of us.” They rubbed their face. They weren’t likely to get back to sleep, not with their hunger still whimpering. “How about we make some tea?”

Umi nodded and got up to head over to the small kitchen area. She retrieved her kettle and filled it with water, then put it on to heat it up. She began quietly digging through the cupboards to get clean cups, sugar, and tea leaves.

Swift took a few more minutes to calm themself down so they weren’t reflexively breathing again. Then they stood up and joined Umi in the kitchen. They reached up to get the cups down since they were taller than Umi even without wearing heels.

The actual process of making tea was simple and required a bit of waiting, but the two vampires returned to the couch and sat down so they could both drink it. It wasn’t enough to silence Swift’s hunger since it wasn’t blood, but they tried to ignore that. They tried to soothe themself as they slowly drank the tea.

They were safe. They were free. They were away from the Honorable Judge. They weren’t under Her control. Arkuan and Flair were gone for good.

Right?

Winter Study

The sound of a stylus tapping on a wax tablet was getting annoying. Unfortunately, Malkonia was the one annoying herself.

The tablet had been an initial gift from High Marshal Celino Guitirre, a member of the Legion of Dusk who was missing an arm like she now was and who had taken her under his remaining wing. She had been relearning how to write from her lessons with her aunt and was beginning to learn the Torrezone script and native languages from either the High Marshal or from Glorifier Abano. Glorifier Abano was a nervous-looking man who was just as tired as every other medic and healer that Malkonia had met, including her aunt.

Right now, she was curled up on the cot, using her own coils to help keep the tablet steady while she figured out how to string the words that she wanted together. She was making a solo attempt to put her feelings to wax just to get them out of her head. But nothing that she wrote put all of her feelings into words; the relief she felt knowing she was not alone and didn’t have to learn everything again all alone, the fear she felt that she’d never figure it out again, the ache of the cold seeping through her scales and into her bones, the renewed feeling of loneliness of being somewhere she didn’t know too well, even with people she did know... It went on and on. The longer she thought about it, the more overwhelmed all of her feelings became.

Finally defeated, Malkonia tossed the wax tablet (very gently) onto her cot, crossed her arms, and quietly pouted.

Her mother looked up from the book she had been reading. Hythonia the Cruel was no healer, but she had listened to Glorifier Abano’s instructions on how to help Malkonia with adapting to her disability. “Finally offended by the wax?” she asked in Therosian, raising a brow.

Malkonia smiled sheepishly and retrieved the tablet. “No, Mother. Just frustrated.”

Hythonia flipped to a new page in her book. Malkonia could read a bit of the title, something about love and lampades. She had once snuck into a different part of the cave and found it full of written poetry expounding on the virtues of love between women. She had read a page of one and grown so embarrassed about it that she put it back and didn’t ask her mother about why Hythonia even had those. “Perhaps you should go outside for a bit,” her mother finally recommended. “Put on your layers and go clear your head instead of glaring at the wax until you melt it.”

That was probably the best idea. And it let Malkonia uncurl for a little while. “Will do, Mother,” she said as she slithered off of the cot and went to retrieve another two layers. Getting dressed was thankfully rather easy thanks to the fact that most of it was just cloth. She couldn’t imagine trying to put on armor like the Legionnaires wore one-handed. The High Marshal had a puppy trained to help him with his, but he also knew how to actually put them on to begin with. The closest Malkonia had figured out so far was that there were buckles and straps.

Once her layers were in order, Malkonia dismissed herself and escaped out to the streets of Alta Torrezon. She was getting more used to the baffled looks that everyone gave her, but she had been lucky enough to not receive any threats so far. It helped that she had been out a few times with the High Marshal to test her new balance while slithering at a higher speed. She still couldn’t keep up with his exultation, but she at least wasn’t sliding directly into walls anymore.

The ground was cold, wet, and covered in a slush of what used to be snow. Water had melted and then refrozen into icicles and icy puddles among the stone of the streets. But in theory, spring was on its way, when it would grow warmer again and the snow would return to rain. People spoke around Malkonia, their voices melding into one another until it was just noise. She pulled the hood further down over her face and serpents. She slithered until she happened to look up at a nearby wall and realized that she recognized the woman sitting there.

Lily of Thyrsus was perched almost like a bird on top of a snow-covered half-wall, writing in a fairly large tome and occasionally looking up at a nearby building with a furrowed brow before she went back to writing. Malkonia listened to the scratching of the pen across the paper and was surprised to find a song. More hesitant strokes broke up the longer and smoother ones. Despite the weather, the goddess still wore the same blend of robes and armor as she had when she was called to help Malkonia.

Malkonia was surprised that the goddess was still there. She had seen glances of Lily over the past few weeks, but the young goddess seemed to slip through the streets of the capital like a shadow. When Malkonia finally bothered her aunt into agreeing to let her see one of the dawn services that the Church of Dusk held, Lily was present in the back of the room, writing notes in that ever-present tome. It seemed like everyone who needed to know that a foreign goddess was present was aware yet didn’t take issue with it, and Lily was merely observing things open to the public with a furrowed brow and a pen that never seemed to run dry. But she was always gone before Malkonia could talk to her.

But there the goddess sat, unbothered by the cold, writing away like a poet deep in thought. Malkonia hesitated for a moment before she slithered closer and made sure that Lily could hear her.

Lily looked up for a moment when she heard Malkonia approach. She offered a smile that made Malkonia forget how to speak for a moment. “Hello Malkonia.” She slid down from the wall and landed lightly on her feet. “How are you feeling?”

She was quietly thankful that Lily had given her a question. She could answer that, at least. “The pain’s not as sharp as it was before, but it’s still present.” She tilted her head. “Are...you not cold, Lily?”

“Ke veveia ochi, of course not,” Lily said, waving a little dismissively. She had spoken in Thyrsian first and then reflexively translated it. Malkonia assumed that this was a habit she had built up over time. “Snow and I are made of the same thing, and I don’t have the whole freezing of the blood thing to worry about.”

“Made of the same thing?” Malkonia repeated. She looked at the icicles and the slush and the snow. “Water? Even if you are, that doesn’t mean you can’t get frostbite or something worse. That targets the skin and muscle, not the blood.” Glorifier Abano had taught her a lot about cold-based injuries once he heard that Theros had no such winter and no such training. Before she realized what she was doing, Malkonia reached out and took one of Lily’s bare hands in her own, turning it over to check for discoloration. She did not see any indication of frostnip having set in yet, but better safe than sorry. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

Lily blinked a few times, then nodded her assent. “As you wish.” As she fell in step with Malkonia’s slithering, she asked another question. “Are they treating you well here?”

Malkonia nodded. “Of course! I’m...a little surprised by that, but I think Aunt Menea is doing enough that people are accepting that we’ll be here for a little while.” Menea was also representing the interests of Theros overall when it came to speaking with important Torrezone people like the Saint. She was the most likely person to pull it off, after all.

Malkonia herself had gotten to see Saint Elenda exactly once since arriving in Alta Torrezon. The Saint had been speaking with Mavren once when Hythonia brought Malkonia with her to speak with Mavren. Malkonia had been stricken by the Saint’s beauty. Everything about her, from the soft gold of her eyes to the wisps of grey among her dark hair, spoke not just of the divinity that she bore but also of her years of life and experience. She knew who she was and what she sought to teach the mortals who followed her, exactly as Malkonia’s mother and aunt did. The Saint was more than just beautiful; she was radiant, awe-inspiring, elegant. Malkonia had stayed silent out of worry that she might say something foolish.

Looking at Lily, Malkonia did not see that same certainty, but she saw a similar kind of divinity. Lily was a goddess closer to Malkonia’s age than to her mother and aunt’s. It was hard to tell if she was powerful, but it was clear to see that she was beautiful and inquisitive.

Malkonia realized that she had been staring. She shook her head slightly to try and get her mind back under control. “What brought you back to Alta Torrezon?” she asked. It had turned into a back-and-forth between them, one question for another.

Lily shifted her tome and pen into one arm to carry them more comfortably. She looked sheepish, like how Malkonia so often felt. “I find the architecture here to be very nice, but I don’t think my artistic abilities are good enough to copy what I see in them.”

“Can I see?” Malkonia asked, slithering a little closer to try and peek even though the book was closed.

Lily readjusted her grip again and opened the book. “Please don’t laugh.” She flipped past pages of writing in a script that looked like an older version of the Therosian script that Malkonia was learning and a bunch of strange symbols across the pages until she got to the last one she had been working on.

Malkonia studied the page. There were...certainly drawings on the page. One of those scribbles was probably meant to be the roses that were depicted across every building. Which meant that the lines around it were supposed to be the bricks of the wall.

“It’s...closer to an attempt than I can do right now,” she finally settled on. It was the most diplomatic way she could have put it.

Lily sucked in air between her teeth and closed the tome. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Like I said, I am no artist.”

“At least you’re making an attempt,” Malkonia offered. She didn’t laugh at Lily’s attempt to try something new. Apparently even goddesses struggled with picking up new skills.

“An attempt that I will not be sharing with the mortals back home, that’s for sure. My skills and hobbies tend more towards studying, adventuring, and antagonizing my mortal friends than towards architecture and drawing.” Lily studied Malkonia for a moment. Malkonia tried not to grow flustered. “What about you?”

Malkonia’s cheeks remained warm. “I help tend to the plants and bees in my aunt’s garden. And I’m studying to become a healer like she is. And just...generally studying to learn more of how worship of the pantheon goes now.” She reached up and tugged her hood down more as a cold wind came through. Lily didn’t shiver even though Malkonia herself did. “Seeing the different clothes across different planes is really cool. And...one time a trader came to Skathos and left behind a drawing for some kind of race across some other planes. The chariots they used were fascinating, there weren’t any animals drawing them but they still seemed like they were moving quickly in the image.”

“Chariots without animals drawing them...” Lily trailed off for a moment. Malkonia saw the exact moment when her description clicked. “Oh! The vehicles in that Ghirapur Grand Prix, right. I don’t yet know much about how they function, but I quite enjoyed the Amonkhet team’s work during the race.”

“Amonkhet?” Malkonia repeated. She got the door to the hospital-cathedral open and slithered in alongside Lily.

“It’s a desert plane. Sand and undead as far as the eye can see. Beautiful place,” Lily said, her voice lowering out of respect for the place they were now in. “I keep intending to head back, but I still have other work I need to do in the short term.”

Malkonia couldn’t help it. “Like drawing ‘buildings’?” she teased.

Lily laughed softly. Malkonia was slightly overwhelmed by how beautiful the goddess’s laugh was. “Or just making a valiant attempt to.”

Hythonia looked up from her book as Malkonia returned. She sized up Lily just like she had when Lily brought Malkonia back to her. “Lily of Thyrsus,” the elder gorgon finally greeted. “A pleasure to see you again.”

Lily bowed at the waist, keeping her tome pulled against her chest. “Lady Hythonia of Skathos. Likewise. How are you faring in this Torrezone winter?”

“Not particularly well. Theros has not been this cold in a very long time,” Hythonia grumbled as she returned to reading her book. “What of your plane, Thyrsus?”

“My mother’s plane,” Lily corrected, almost automatically. She shook her head. “We get winters like this one, but that depends on the year. This year we just have a ‘nippy’ cold rather than an overwhelming freeze.”

“A far more preferable type of weather to this one,” Hythonia agreed. Malkonia was surprised that her mother was getting along so well with someone, considering...well, it had been at least Malkonia’s entire life since Hythonia last received a guest, based on the fact that the statues had been in place from the day Malkonia hatched to now. “Though I suppose I would complain less were I home. Traveling is not something I enjoy. You seem like you have no such qualms.”

Lily smiled. Malkonia tried not to grow flustered upon seeing that smile again. “I consider myself an adventurer,” the goddess said with a small nod. “I have a certain restlessness that contributes to it.”

A certain restlessness. That was certainly a way to describe the emotions that Malkonia had been feeling ever since she followed Mavren on his pilgrimage. She wanted to keep traveling, to experience the lands and oceans of not just Theros but other planes as well. She knew that she was supposed to be training to become Skathos’s steward like her mother, but... “What’s it like?” she asked Lily before she could stop herself.

Lily considered her answer. “Do you want the realistic answer or the poetic one?”

“The realistic one.” Malkonia had gotten used to sleeping outside during her first trip.

“You get very used to uncomfortable sleeping and non-regular bathing. And eating trail rations, whatever you can hunt or gather, or whatever you can steal. Or just starving. That happened quite a bit before I started working with an adventuring party. You have to think ahead and plan a lot more than people imagine. It is not as simple as just grabbing a weapon and walking down the road. Especially if you are traveling alone or with people you don’t know very well.” Despite this, Lily smiled and Malkonia’s heart skipped a beat. “But when you are traveling with people that you trust, people who have proven themselves reliable both in combat and in adventuring, people who want to travel and to travel with you specifically? That is the greatest part, in my not-so-humble opinion.”

At this, the yearning in Malkonia’s heart only grew.

“…Yes, this is Makoto, in the Outer District. My team has handled the rogue pyromancer-”

“AHHH! THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!”

The Imperial samurai flinched, releasing the button from his radio and allowing his dispatcher to respond in a staticky, skeptical tone, “That screaming in the background doesn’t sound very ‘handled’ to me.”

“Well. There’s not a fire hazard anymore. And we apprehended the pyromancer as well.”

“So, why the panicking civilians?”

“There was a-”

“HOW DID THEY EVEN MALFUNCTION LIKE THIS!”

“-a slight complication during the apprehension.”

“And that is?”

“Well. A good samaritan provided assistance in taking down the threat. A tech mogul of some sort, I believe, who defended herself with an array of thopters with shielding tech.”

The dispatcher’s voice turned somewhat amused. “All right. Let’s hear it, then. How did involving a - civilian - in an Imperial operation possibly go wrong?”

“As I mentioned, we did suppress the threat. However, there was a-”

“I DID THE MATH TEN TIMES!”

“-a malfunction when some of the flames slipped past the shield wall. The thopters went rogue, and are…currently in the process of-”

“WHY DID I MAKE THE SHIELDS SO SHARP!”

“…You know what? You can probably guess what’s happening.”

“And why isn’t your team helping her?”

“Everyone else is down, either due to fire or thopter attacks. I’m currently taking cover and…assessing the…Oh, I know! I had to call it in!”

“Phenomenal.” Makoto flinched as he heard the sarcasm dripping from the dispatcher’s voice, even through the radio. “Reinforcements are on the way. In the meanwhile, go out and help that woman.”

“Right…”

“Now!”

“Of course!”

Makoto pocketed his radio, leapt out from behind cover, and sprinted toward the chaos. His panicked cries began soon after, joining those of the victim, though these screams did not transmit.

[I’m not a super frequent blue player, but it is a definite dopamine hit when you counter a big spell with a Mana Drain or Spell Swindle. And I can only imagine it’s similar with this one!]

there will be no context given

First Incarnation

Fossora was shuffling through the citadels of the undercity. It's limbs creaked and groaned like tendons were flexing and moving, as she found a familiar segment of rubble. Much of the undercity had become like this, columns stood high, then when the darkness and mildew set in they crumbled into sludge-like piles, bricks replaces with malted shells and coated in secretions. But the segments of stone here were opened, as if something was salvaged recently from it. It stuck it's head inside, knees against the cold tile, and gazed towards a ring. It was the same brass as an Izzet boiler, encrusted with sigils it couldn't identify in the light.

Winds pushed their way from the surface again. Snow had built around the crevices Fossora's vessel, used to climb through, back when she still had flesh. This bite of winter was the only sign it had moved beyond it's comfortable space, for the Izzet had redeemed themselves in it's eyes, the extra heat from their boilers held it's hands out to each and every living member under Fossora's care. Fevers and frostbite had faded from memory due to their innovations, and despite Fossora's gripes over their methodology and disregard for nature, it could not deny the pleasantries of seeing it's brood maintained. Eggs hatching early yet with healthy millipedes, beetles unlikely to sustain themselves bunkered-down, this joy permeated it's skeleton.