Questions always welcomed! :D

Organizational blog for the great monstrosity known as Anryuu Epic. Tbh, this is here because I want to talk to people about it, and I don't think I can do that without having a LOT of info readily available. What is this?

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Masterlist

What is this?

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Want to make OC for this story, or fan works, or anything else along those lines? DO IT

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Malachi Everald

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Malique Exousia

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Ismone Exousia

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Sasanvi Exousia

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In the heat of summer, thunderstorms roll through. Dark clouds gather, piling up above the land like smoky snowdrifts. Flashes of lightning cut across the sky. The rain pours, sometimes for days on end when there’s been weeks of dryness in between. 

In her tent, Lillianne is shielded from the downpour. Raindrops beat against the tarred canopy overhead, but only a few leaks trickle through. These evenings are quiet and most often spent alone. 

There’s no use going out to train when she’d only get drenched, and Mervyn refuses to leave the dry security of his own tent. 

Thus, it’s just her and the beating rain, the smell of moisture and heat coating the air, with no pressing matters to attend to until it’s late enough that she stands a chance of falling asleep. 

Supper was brought to her by one of the chore kids— the only ones who have to go out in the rain when the weather’s like this, scurrying from tent to tent with busywork and endless errands that Lillianne remembers all too well. 

Tonight’s evening meal is rice and some pale, creamy sauce, with chunks of mushroom and meat stewed in. It’s salty and rich, and still faintly warm. Lillianne eats slowly, savoring every bite. 

She’s tired, right now, in the pleasant way that settles over your bones after a hard few days of satisfying work. Her body is distantly sore. When she shifts and stretches, her muscles protest the movement with a dull, heavy burn. It’s not a threat, and nothing that she can’t endure— just a vague, far-away ache that anchors her to the present moment with a little more visceral force. 

When she’s done with her food, she leaves the dish by the tent flap. Peering outside, the rain is still going strong. Thunder rumbles in the distance past the grayed-out downpour, flattening the sparse yellow-green grass into the muddy ground. 

The air is warm and humid, a transparent fog of muggy heat sticking wetly to her skin. 

It’ll be hard to travel after this. The camp will have to stay in place for a few more days, until this latest streak of storms passes. Hauling everything around over wet terrain would be more trouble than it’s worth. 

Lillianne closes the tent flap and goes to sit back down. Perhaps she’ll get in a bit more studying before retiring to bed.

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Regana Exousia

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One day, she goes out for a flight. 

It’s a slow afternoon without much to do or any pressing responsibilities to attend to. The sky is clear and the weather is warm, and when Lillianne gets the sudden urge to go off on her own, she follows it. 

She gets a good distance away from camp, on foot, out into the rolling hills of brownish, scrubby grass and swaying flaxen stems. Out here, everything is flat and open. There are no buildings, hardly any trees, nothing in the way between her and the wide, brilliant sky. 

The moment she shifts feels like an inhale of breath that suddenly fills a body thrice its size. She expands, limbs changing, skin rippling, and falls back into her proper form as easily as getting to her feet from the ground. 

Her wings spread. The wind catches them in sharp, howling gusts. The grass has become specks of brown beneath her. 

It’s been years since she had the reason or opportunity to go into her full form, as is often the case for Anryuu. That doesn’t make the change now feel any less freeing, or any less right. 

With a kick-off from powerful limbs, she takes to the sky. Her wings beat, catch, lift her mass into the billowing breeze. She flies up until the ground is a watercolor blur of hues in the distance, until low-hanging clouds brush cold and misty against her scales. Higher still— until the air feels thin in her lungs and her muscles burn with the effort of it. 

It’s beautiful, up there in the sky. Peaceful. Alone. 

Whenever she does this, it feels like she could leave all of her problems behind on the ground. Like she could escape her life and everything in it if she just never came down. 

She doesn’t feel the urge to do this often, but once she’s there, the rush of it is hard to resist. It feels right, like swordfights, like battle, like trading blows and spilling blood. She loses track of time up there in the clouds, circling aimlessly so as not to end up too far from camp. 

Only when the sunlight turns golden and deep, honey-warm does Lillianne finally come down. 

She turns to land, ignoring the distant wish not to let it end so soon.

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 7: "Cannibalism/Codependency"

TW: Minor character death, blood/gore

Close enough, Juno thinks, as she examines the body yet again. It’s female, blonde, nearly the right height. No unfortunate scars or markings to ruin Juno’s mental image of who it’s supposed to be. The hair is missing those familiar red streaks, but... a bit of blood will do the trick, for now. 

She’s already removed the face— leaving a bloody mass of mangled meat in place of the wrong features, the wrong soul to attach to it. That was the first thing she did with the corpse, because seeing someone else was unbearable. 

Lovingly, Juno traces bloody fingers through the body’s short, golden hair. She clumps up red at the tips, trails crimson stains down from the crown of its head. She hasn’t seen the real thing in centuries, but she remembers Lillianne’s appearance as clearly as if a photograph was burned into her mind. 

She’d much rather have her dearest sister now, but beggars can’t be choosers. Close enough will simply have to suffice. 

For now, in a guest room in one of her manors, she and her stand-in sister are alone with each other, magificently isolated from the rest of the world. There’s no one to interrupt her, no one to take her precious sister away. 

With a sigh, Juno rests her head on the body’s chest. 

It’s too limp, too cold, but more appealing right now than another night spent with nothing but her imagination to comfort her. And she can fill in the blanks. Perhaps Lillianne would be this limp while regenerating from particularly nasty wounds. Something vicious enough to have damaged her sweet, pretty face, left her all torn up for Juno to dote on and nurse back to health.

If she takes good care of her sister while she’s weak and wounded, Lillianne will stroke her hair and praise her for it once she’s well. 

Good girl, Juno. Thank you for looking after me. 

Juno can all but hear the words already. She follows the syllables again and again in her head, shivering at the thought of Lillianne’s gratitude, at proving her own use. “I miss you...” she murmurs to the empty room, rubbing her cheek sweetly against the body’s corpse-cold chest. “I want to see you again, sister—”

Suddenly, her not-quite-perfect copy feels far from close enough. Juno wants the real thing. She longs for Lillianne to be with her again, desire so deep it aches like a wound. If only Lillianne could be a part of her, never separated... 

How nice it would be to consume her sister piece by piece, until Lillianne can never leave her behind again. How sweet it would be to have that eternal closeness, perfectly joined with the person who might as well be her other half. 

Juno thinks that, and turns her head to dig her teeth into the meat of the body’s chest. She rips off a chunk and swallows it whole, not bothering to savor a taste that doesn’t belong to her precious person. Her arms squeeze tighter around the body’s narrow waist. But this not-quite-Lillianne doesn’t curse or shove her away. It’s nothing but a hollow fake, in the end. Not enough at all. 

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 6: "Blackmail"

TW: Manipulation, unhealthy relationship

After the meeting, Regana and Aphri are alone. Everyone else has gone on their way— Regana herself isn’t quite sure why she lingers. The atmosphere in the conference room is heavy with tension. They’ve done this before. It never ends well. Not when there’s such a bitter grudge taking up space between them.

Aphri, as usual, has a thick stack of paperwork in front of her. She’s thumbing through pages, inking in signatures and notes here and there, absorbed in her own little world as if Regana might as well not exist. 

Just as the urge to say something starts to boil over, a pen hits the floor. 

Its slick metal surface rolls over to rest near Regana’s feed. “Excuse me, Miss Exousia. Would you please be so kind as to pick that up for me?” Aphri asks, polite and neutral and even-toned as always. Infuriatingly calm. 

Regana picks up the pen. “What do you think you’re trying to pull? Is this some excuse to look down on me?” she snarls, and slams it back to the table. 

Aphri looks up at her, all wide, placid blue eyes. “Of course not. I’m grateful that you take the time to attend these meetings; I know we’re not on the best of terms in our personal lives. Your cooperation is much appreciated.” 

Every time she looks at that face, all Regana can see is her mother’s killer. The late Queen Delphi is dead and gone, but her remnants linger in the most frustrating of places. There’s no escaping what she did. Aphri holds a legacy that Regana wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy— how unfortunate, that such a mild, submissive girl is the one whose shoulders must bear the weight of the crown. 

But it seems, somehow, that Aphri always has a way of getting what she wants. It doesn’t always look like what she wants from an outward glance, but she’s sneaky. Her goals are quiet things, and she always walks away satisfied. 

“You’re using me again, aren’t you?” Regana spits back. “There has to be a reason why you want me here— I know what you’re like. What political enemy are you threatening with my presence now, hm? Am I enough of a deterrent to keep Everald’s boy from showing his smug face at your table?” 

The problem with Aphri Novus is that one can never really know why she’s doing something, never be quite sure what she wants. A hollow person with no goals of her own, she’s always reaching for things just out of sight. 

Aphri smiles mildly. It’s not a happy thing, just a polite, deliberate gesture twisting at her lips. “Of course not, Miss Exousia. I merely value your participation in these trying times. There’s no ulterior motive.” 

Lies. Regana can’t spot the untruth, but she knows it’s there. Gritting her teeth, she storms out of the room before she can really lose her temper. 

Just as it’s always been with this girl, she knows she’s being used.

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 5: "Unethical Experimentation/Possessive Behavior"

TW: Slavery, power imbalance

The leading actress is a little Daryan lady who favors purple ballgowns with skirts that swim around her like a rippling, lavender pool. Daryan. Tiny, with a voice that carries across auditoriums and seemingly not a shred of fear or self-preservation in her body. Phantasmagoria Odiar is her name, and for whatever reason, she’s decided that Benn is her new favorite toy. 

“Now, after this scene, we’ll hold the next battle. Throw some extras into the ring, see if the monster leaves them in one piece.” She calls out stage directions and storyline tweaks with a wild smile carved across her pretty face, laughing daintily at the prospect of some poor extras getting mauled. 

Benn hates her. He thinks Cairo does too— and that part is saying something. Cairo doesn’t hate anyone, not even the people who keep him in cages, sell out on his image while he’s left as nothing more than a freak show. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says anyway, obediently, grinning back with his odd, blackened fangs. A consummate professional to the end. 

Benn can’t hold back his own grimace. They’ve been here all day, with Phantasmagoria barking orders and rearranging things on stage time and time again, in search of some unplaceable perfection that Benn wants no part in. 

Phantasmagoria is richer than she knows what to do with, richer than some poor nobody like him can even begin to comprehend. She’s from a noble house, real important folks, with the money to buy and sell people as she pleases. She could have anyone, and yet, she’s obsessed with him. 

Twirling closer, Phantasmagoria catches Benn’s chin in one dainty palm. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be sure to give you some scenes to shine in,” she purrs, stroking over his skin with sharpened nails. “I can’t wait to see how you do...” 

Benn resists every urge to pull away. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the opportunities. I’m most grateful,” he parrots compliantly, saying what he must. 

Is that why she’s doing all of this? A whole performance, meant to feed into her inexplicable fixation on him? They’ve been running through rehearsal details for hours, and the twists she’s planning are sure to come with a body count. Every time her gaze lands on him, Benn feels cold down to his fingertips, heartbeat fluttering with the instinctive urge to flee. 

Cairo sidles up to him while Phantasmagoria is distracted by someone else. “Hang in there, buddy,” he whispers, voice low and hushed. “Some of ‘em are crazy, the bosses here. She’ll get bored of you eventually.” 

He talks like he’s experienced it before, but Benn hardly feels reassured. There’s something weird about this. He doubts she’d let go so easily. 

Phantasmagoria calls out to one of the staff members lingering on the fringes of her in-progress show. Her pretty voice cuts sharp and nasty as she chews the man out for some small flaw in Benn’s costuming. Eugh. 

Benn can’t be rid of her soon enough.

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 4: Mindbreak

TW: Abusive relationship, implied sexual abuse

Orcus’s grip on her wrist is bruising as he drags her back to their shared room. Proserpina doesn’t fight it. When he’s in this kind of mood... he needs to keep her close. She can’t refuse him. She’d never want to. 

The door slams behind them. He pulls her to the bed and shoves her back, and Proserpina collapses obediently onto it. There’s no use fighting it, or begging him to be gentle. He’s so far lost in his own head that he wouldn’t hear her pleas— let alone care to oblige them. It’s best to comply, to let the mood pass.

Orcus tears at her jacket, trying to rip it off her shoulders and away. Buttons pop, seams strain. Proserpina twists to let him tug it off her arms. 

When she’s left in only the plain, white dress shirt underneath, he deems that satisfactory and crumples into her arms. Like a marionette with cut strings— one moment he’s towering above her, the next, he’s limp and nuzzling into the space between her arms. “Proserpina...” he mumbles, muffled where his face is shoved against her chest. “You c-can’t leave me... I need you.” 

A second later, she hears the wet sniffle of tears. 

Proserpina folds her arms around him in a gentle hug and lets him cry. He clings on tight, nails digging into her back viciously enough to leave little bloody crescents even through the cloth. By now, she already knows what those marks will look like. She’s born the scabs and scars countless times over the years. 

“Never,” she assures him. “I’ll be with you forever. No one can take me away.” She knows what words he wants to hear; their sounds are familiar on her lips, like vows repeated every time he starts to fear her abandonment. 

She’s everything to Orcus. From the time she was brought into his life in their childhood, she’s been the only thing keeping him sane. She loves him. He needs her. She has nothing without him, and he’d fall apart without her. What’s a little pain in the face of fulfilling her purpose? She’s a lifeline to him. She’s the safe place that prevents him from breaking down entirely. 

“Don’t you dare—!” he snarls, still sobbing. There are tears soaking the front of her shirt. His weight crushes down on her rib cage. 

But Proserpina understands. She knows how much he needs her, knows the purpose she serves. He only acts like this because he’s the one in pain. 

Time passes. Minutes blur together in a haze of stroking Orcus’s hair and shushing him while he cries. He only clings tighter— eventually, he leans up and sinks his teeth into her shoulder, just to feel her flinch and gasp.

That hurts, she wants to say. She doesn’t dare. Telling him no means that she’s dissatisfied. If she’s dissatisfied, it means she wants to leave him. He can use her body as he pleases, cause her any amount of pain, if that will make him understand that she loves him, that she’s never going to leave.

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 3: Corruption/Power Imbalance

TW: Blood/gore, amputation, human trafficking/slavery

Ran is lucky that she doesn’t have to attend these meetings, Asagi thinks. His older sister is so hyper-competent that their father doesn’t think she needs his lessons anymore. Not like the rest of them, who have to stand out on a frigid training field first thing in the morning, waiting for whatever concept Oros has decided needs to be drilled into their heads this time. 

His brothers don’t look any happier to be here than Asagi feels. ...well, Stali and Hakuren seem enthusiastic enough, but that’s normal for the two overachievers. Their hyped is everyone else’s miserable. 

“Wonder what he wants to show us so badly...” Kaito mumbles, sounding somewhere between irritated and half-asleep. 

“Who knows? I wish we could go back inside, already,” is Asagi’s complaining reply. Satski is waiting inside. Anything else is a waste of time. 

When their father finally appears, he’s dragging a beaten man by the hair. One of their merchandise, Asagi realizes, and abruptly snaps to attention. “This one—” Oros announces in that deep, booming voice that means business, “—thought that it’d be a good idea to try to get away from us last night.” 

Ah, an escape attempt. Those never go over well. Beside Asagi, Kaito rolls his eyes. Stali is standing at attention now, and Hakuren has a distinctly rabid look in his eyes. Great. Two out of four are now absolutely captivated. 

“Now remember, boys, he’s one of our better pieces this time around. Good-quality merchandise. We didn’t want him getting damaged,” Oros explains, as if the rest of them would dare to forget. “Your sister even found us a buyer, one that paid in advance... but, it wouldn’t reflect very well on our establishment to let this kind of disrespect slide, you know? That just wouldn’t work out.” 

A wide, dangerous smile creeps across their father’s face as he talks. Excitement at the prospect of what he’s about to do to his unfortunate captive, no doubt. Oros always punishes harshly, rules his stock with an iron fist.

Releasing his grip on the man’s hair, he’s thrown roughly to the ground. Oros then reaches for the sword at his hip. “We’ll refund the difference if we have to, boys. Right now, our reputation is at stake. This is how you teach ‘em!” 

He swings, and severs the man’s foot at the ankle. There’s no time to beg for mercy— the pain hits in an instant, and leaves him howling. 

“See, now he won’t be getting any funny ideas about running away!” Oros laughs, grinning wider as he shakes the blood off his blade. “You four can have your fun with him now. Rough him up good, make sure he learns his lesson.” 

As Hakuren and Stali turn on the now-crippled man, Asagi raises his hand. “Father, I’d like to be excused. Satski is waiting for me back inside.” 

Kaito chimes in. “Me too. The meatheads have it covered out here.” 

“Alright, alright, fine. You two are excused,” Oros grins, back to boisterously good-natured like some invisible switch had flipped. “Thanks for paying attention out here. These things are important lessons to know. Gotta learn how to run the business before somebody does your old man in!”

Asagi thinks, personally, that his father is the kind of man who might not ever die. He’s too large, too loud, too powerful. How could anyone take him down?

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 2: Body Horror/Coercion

TW: Grooming (non-sexual), manipulation, harm to children, referenced character death

The girl is young. She was abandoned too early to know exactly how old she is, but Tasalya would venture eight or nine at the latest. And just like Tasalya did at that age, she stares up at Cassius with adoration-filled wonder. 

“It’ll hardly be painful at all,” he assures her, in that gentle, patient voice he uses for people who are getting so very close to understanding some obvious truth. “And you’re a strong one, aren’t you? You can endure a little bit of discomfort for me. I know you can. That’s why I’m choosing you, you know. You’re special. I trust that you can give everything you have to aid me.”

As expected, the girl nods. The prospect of being special to someone always makes people more willing to do what Cassius wants, but Tasalya knows the words aren’t just empty flattery. Cassius only trusts special people, in the first place. There are a select few who are worthy of joining in his plans.

At least this girl seems to understand that. She tips her cheek into Cassius’s wide, warm palm with a worshipful smile tugging at her lips, nodding along to everything he says as if just hearing him speak is an honor. 

“If... if my life becomes yours,” she starts, quiet and unsure, “that will help you, won’t it? You’ll be better off because I was here?”

“Of course. And I’ll be ever so thankful to you for it.” 

The Life Machine is a magnificent contraption of tubes, pumps, and inner workings that harvests a subject’s potential life energy through the medium of Aura, where it can then be transferred to someone else. The subject’s lifespan decreases by a proportional amount of years as the recipient will then gain. The exact means of its function is more complicated than Tasalya comprehends, but in theory, using the energy it creates could give someone immortal life— at the cost, of course, of however many subjects must die to sustain it. 

That’s Cassius’s goal— an unceasing, unchanging existence, free at last from the fear of having everything he’s worked for torn away. This girl will be a sacrifice for that cause, just as every one that comes after her will be. 

A part of Tasalya hates to see it happen. Children are the most suitable subjects, with so much life left ahead of them. Using them while they’re young will minimize the number of people who ultimately have to pay the dearest price. She knows that, but... the prospect still doesn’t sit well. 

Cassius has a way of making people see the worth in serving him. Once they come to know him, they’d give up anything he asked. Tasalya is no different. She’d sacrifice her life in a heartbeat if he had use of it. 

This girl will die satisfied that her brief, cruel life had a purpose. She was useful. She was wanted. Those are greater comforts than the average abandoned orphan is afforded. She’ll live out her last few weeks captivated with the kindness Cassius has given her, happy as can be to lie down for the slaughter. 

Cassius needs this. That’s reason enough why it has to be done.

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@unwholesomeocweek Day 1: Violence/Divorce

Tw: Blood, gore, attempted murder, aftermath of an explosion, character death (sort of).

The first thing that Draco notices is the smell. Gunpowder. Dust and rubble. Blood. It hangs heavy and acrid in his nose, fills up his lungs until every breath takes in more pollution and scent than clean air.

The room is caved in. There’s a hole in the ceiling that lets in the evening breeze. Chunks of debris form a teetering tower, a haphazardly stacked, blunt-topped spire with inky red seeping out between the crevices. Blood. Coppery and sharp. And if Aracaan wasn’t here, wasn’t the one trapped in the blast, then who—?

Draco’s veins freeze over. Clammy sweat gathers on his palms. 

Soldiers scurry around like roaches, looking for evidence, cleaning up the aftermath of the explosion that tore the room in two. Draco hardly registers their faces. None of them matters. None of this matters. Aracaan isn’t dead. 

He stumbles through the warzone scene on shaky legs, eyes scanning every detail for any sign of a body. Someone got hurt. Who did he hurt? 

Finally, his gaze lands on an off-white tangle of hair. 

Admaris. 

Draco’s vision swims. There are medics huddled around her, moving her body, clearing away debris. There’s blood, so much blood, puddled beneath her and smeared across her crumpled form. Her clothes are torn and burned. Her face is streaked with soot. Her eyes are closed, and her body is ripped open like a stuffed toy torn apart at the seams. Shiny, ragged flesh, glistening insides ripped wide apart and bared to the gunpowder-heavy air. She’s not moving. 

His throat closes up and strangles a scream before it can escape. Someone is talking to him, but Draco can’t make out the words. This isn’t right. This isn’t what he was trying to do. Aracaan was supposed to be here tonight, so why is Admaris the one bleeding on the ground—? 

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. This isn’t what he wanted. Aracaan was the problem, the one who needed to disappear. Draco couldn’t keep on living knowing that the person who always overshadowed him still held the throne. He had to do something, anything, even if it was wrong. Annavelle would be a fine queen even without her husband in the way. They already had children, heirs. 

He would have been executed for the crime, no doubt, but even that would have been fine. Admaris is strong enough to carry out without him. 

Except, now it’s her broken body on the floor. She’s not breathing, someone yells. Draco’s throat goes tight. The walls twist and warp in the panicked sway of utter dread creeping over him. He wants to run to her, hold her before she’s taken away, but does he have the right, when he’s the one at fault? 

If Aracaan doesn’t kill him for this, he’ll end his own life to atone. If Admaris is gone, he shouldn’t keep existing in this world either. 

She’s gone, isn’t she? He ruined everything. Annavelle won’t forgive him for this. Aracaan might finally decide he’s worth hating. If he turns himself in, he can do one thing right, now that it’s too late for anything else to be saved.

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By the time the weather starts getting warm again, Lillianne has settled into her new role. 

Allat’s absence is still more present than she’d expected, remembered in half-hearted reminders and quick flashes of thought whenever something triggers a memory of the person who’s no longer there, but Lillianne likes her new authority enough to more than make up for it. 

It’s what Allat would have wanted, anyway— the strongest person available running the show. 

Her life becomes one of strategy, of planning, of making decisions for herself and for others to keep everyone alive and prospering. 

Mervyn brings documents and reports, discusses supply lines and resources, consults with her on where they should go to follow the trail of prosperity and stay out of the way of larger, stronger gangs.

Lillianne learns that their group has allies, others of their own that they’re on good terms with and whose paths are safe to cross. She learns that the group avoids larger towns (too many people, too much to fight at once), but that a small handful of villages are willing to pay a fee up front to avoid the potential conflict of a raid. 

She learns how to manage equipment, how to keep track of who has what, and what things will need to be repaired or replaced and when. She learns how to ration out meals and how to make sure that everyone gets their fair share of spoils and daily allotments alike. 

There’s more detail work involved than she would have expected, more little things that she has to be aware of than it had seemed while watching Allat work from a distance. 

Some parts are difficult. 

Mervyn has to give her lessons in mathematics and economics, and he jams in studies on history, warfare, and politics on the side. It’s the closest thing to schooling Lillianne has had since she was back in Dinah’s classroom all those years ago, and she finds she doesn’t mind it. She’s not good at it, but it’s bearable. 

She learns. These things are important. They’ll get her somewhere. This time, there’s a reason to pay attention that’s for her own sake, not just following along with where someone else sent her. 

For once, Lillianne wants to learn.

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Now I want to take away Revon's knife and give him paps and tell him he did a good job :(

He likes praise! Good luck taking away the knife, but at least he’s receptive to praise! …especially if it’s coming from Zaire Xavier. :)