Got any questions about the character? Drop 'em in the comments! I'll try to answer 'em all, and if I'm feelin' it, maybe even whip up some picture replies!
Text from the pic👇
Tillot Bonnet
Human, 31 years old, a mid‑level archivist of the Forge (the internal division of the Order of the Widow's Hammer). 6'2" tall 152‑154 lbs, gaunt and ungainly.
Tillot was born into a cloth merchant's family, in the cramped back room of a small shop. His father hauled silk from the south, while his mother raised the children and kept the ledgers. Childhood was poor but warm, until his sister Linna took to her bed with a fever. She was twelve. The healer could only throw up his hands, and Tillot sat by her bedside to the very end, powerless to change a thing.
One day an unusual customer stepped into the shop. An old archivist was looking for cloth for bookbinding. As they talked, he noticed how the boy calculated in his head and named wares in several tongues. He asked whether Tillot would like to learn to read. The boy said yes. That simple question rerouted his destiny.
The old man became a father to him, taught him all he knew, and opened up the darkest recesses of the archives. Tillot trusted him without reservation.
After his mentor's death, while sorting through his belongings, Tillot came upon a diary. There he read how his teacher had once met a soulthief, a desperate man seeking release from the bondage of a contract. He had promised to help, but then betrayed him by turning him over to the Inquisition for a promotion. That soulthief was executed.
Tillot's world crumbled. His faith in his teacher, and in the Order by extension, turned to dust. He stayed on at the Forge, but a hollowness took root inside him.
Tillot searched for a new purpose. One day, while sifting through dusty parchments in a far corner of the archive, he stumbled upon records concerning the dissolution of demonic contracts. There were fragments, hints, and marginal notes, and they seized his attention completely.
Soon he noticed a pattern. For a century and a half, reports had been surfacing from across the realm about priests of death who stole souls neatly, without cruelty, and sometimes even with a trace of compassion for the dying. No one had ever seen their faces, but the handwriting was always the same. Tillot cross‑referenced dates, places, and details, and realised that it was one person. Someone who had been at work for a hundred and fifty years, never been caught, and never lost their mind. And he resolved to find them.
Actually, this had been brewing for a long time, but now it's finally happened. I regret that things turned out this way, but I'll move forward — I'll revise the characters' story a bit, live and create for myself, not for "us." Over the years, I've grown weary of accommodating others' moods and desires, so what happened was for the best
They are neither truly born nor do they truly die. Each is a shard of the flesh of the Demon of Night, hatched from a shattered moon and sealed by the higher races in the depths of Hell.
Demons have no desire to free him. They are content with their role as parasites: stealing souls, feasting on the suffering of others.
To kill a demon is nearly impossible. Only with an artifact made of "teardrop" metal, on consecrated ground, or at the cost of your own life. Even when killed, it returns to the sleeping progenitor and will one day be reborn again.
One common trait among all demons is their coloration. Their wings, skin, and scales shimmer like those of butterflies: dark blue, purple, black, crimson. Eye-like patterns. Silvery pollen that lingers on your fingers.
That is why, in the world of the Reverse, moths and butterflies are considered unclean. Their appearance is an ill omen.
👇 18+ content
TISIPHONE
She is enormous — 7.25 feet tall. Heavy, bestial power. Her skin is bright green, as if glowing from within. Her legs are lion's paws with sharp claws. Her arms are eagle's talons, yellow and scaly.
Tisiphone is lustful — she needs to feel another's will crushed beneath her own. She is cunning — not intelligent, but with the instinct of a beast she knows she cannot take by force. Greedy and always hungry.
The souls that thieves bring her never satisfy her. She demands more, faster. By demon standards, she is not strong, so she seeks out the weak: the desperate, the dying, those who have no choice.
She did not save him out of pity. She saw a dying half-elf outcast — skilled, trainable, and most importantly, no one would miss him if he disappeared. She set the condition: his life in exchange for service. Agtur chose to live.
Now she lives inside his head. Not constantly — sometimes she falls silent for weeks. But she returns as a whisper, a chuckle, sudden pain in the brand.
Tisiphone is not attached to him. To her, he is a tool — convenient, obedient, skilled. She will not abandon him until he breaks or dies.
The forest greeted him with cold and dampness. Agthur walked not on a path. He rarely used roads at all — the risk of encountering those who asked too many questions was far too great. In his right hand, he carried a staff — a gift from Tisiphone.
He slowed his pace.
A scent. Thin, sweetish, almost imperceptible — it mingled with the smell of decaying leaves and fungal rot. A soul. Not yet locked within a body, but neither had it passed into the Flow. A candle smoldering, on the verge of being extinguished.
Agthur veered from his direction and followed the smell.
He found him at the foot of an old oak, among moss-covered roots. A man. About forty years old, stocky, with the rough hands of a hunter. Beside him lay a rusty knife and a broken crossbow. Some ten meters away, a boar lay dead — enormous, black, a bolt protruding from its flank. It had died, but not before fighting to the death.
The hunter was drenched in blood. A ragged gash in his side, beneath the ribs — a tusk had pierced straight through, puncturing a lung. The man was breathing, but each breath came as a wet gasp, and with every inhalation, pink foam bubbled from the wound.
Agthur crouched down. He placed his staff beside him, almost driving it into the earth.
"Don't move," he whispered. "It won't help you anyway."
The hunter tried to open his eyes. Through the haze of his dying consciousness, he could only make out a dark silhouette and a strange staff.
"Water..." the hunter rasped.
Agthur said nothing. He had no water. And water was not what the man needed.
He laid his palm on the man's forehead. The hunter did not resist — he had no strength left.
"Do you have a family?" Agthur asked. His voice was steady, almost indifferent. But his fingertips trembled slightly.
"A wife... children..." the hunter exhaled. "In the village..."
"They will never know. You simply won't return. The boar. A hunting accident."
Agthur leaned closer. The hunter's eyes rolled back — he was losing consciousness. His lung was drowning in blood. In a few more minutes, he would die on his own, without any ritual. His soul would pass into the Flow. Be reborn. Forget everything.
Or perhaps it would not pass. Perhaps it would remain trapped in this forest, in this body, beneath the oak's roots — and become a ghost. Agthur had seen such souls before. Neither alive nor dead. Wanted by no one.
"Forgive me," he said, very softly, almost soundlessly. Whether he was speaking to the hunter, to his soul, or to himself — it was impossible to tell.
He began to chant.
The words were ancient, learned by heart on the night Tisiphone had pulled him back from the other side. They offered no comfort, no promises, no pleas. They merely opened a door.
The soul slipped from the body through the hunter's parted lips — a translucent wisp of smoke, sweet, almost cloying. Agthur caught it in his palm, not allowing it to dissipate. With his other hand, he drew an amulet from beneath his tunic — a small vessel, a portal, cold as ice.
He sealed the soul within it.
One motion. No unnecessary gestures. Done correctly, done by ritual. Tisiphone would receive what was hers.
It would not have helped the hunter anyway.
Agthur closed the hunter's eyes. He folded the man's hands upon his chest. With his own sleeve, he wiped the blood from the hunter's face.
Then he stood, leaning on his staff.
"You didn't have to torment him with conversation," someone whispered from within. Tisiphone? His own conscience? Agthur did not answer.
He turned and walked deeper into the forest. The staff left shallow marks behind him — black dots upon the damp earth.
He did not look back.
Tumblr in Russian: https://www.tumblr.com/garleeck-ru?source=share
«You 'avin' a laugh?» Archie kicked his leg out, nearly knocking their only lamp off the bed. «Wiv a T-shirt?! Dwayne, I'm a fighter. In eight different manors they know me as Archie the Brick, an' you're —»
«Tying you up,» Dwayne finished flatly, carefully pulling the knot tight. «Archie the Brick, who is scared of spiders and cries at pet food adverts.»
«Weak,» Archie wheezed, straining. «I'll bust out in a sec, swear on me mum. I'll tear it to fookin' bits.»
«Tear it, then, mon cher,» the vampire whispered, sliding his lips lower down Archie's chest.
Archie went quiet. He did not tear it. Because, bloody hell, he liked it — lying helpless under his cold lover.
«You took my roughest T-shirt on purpose,» he breathed out, squinting down. «So I'd feel bad for it, yeah?»
«Exactement,» Dwayne breathed out against his belly. «Tu vois?»
The vampire's fingers wandered across Archie's abs — slow, torturously slow, never in a hurry. Archie arched up, trying to reach him with his thigh, his knee, anything. He could not. He just gasped for air.
«Fockin' 'ate you,» he croaked at the ceiling. «'Ate the bleedin' God what sent me you, you —»
«Tu mens,» Dwayne smiled. And went lower.
Archie felt cold breath on the inside of his thigh. He twitched, wanting to return the affection, but his hands were tied behind his back — all he could do was clench and unclench his fists.
«Let me go,» Archie whispered. His voice had gone down to a rasp, as if he had just fought ten rounds. «Let me go, Dwayne.»
«Pas si vite, mon ami,» Dwayne said softly. «You will not see the day.»
And then his lips touched the tip, and Archie forgot how to breathe. He bent like a bow, and the only thing he could do was stare at the ceiling, listen to his own heart, and feel how this bloody vampire slowly and properly dragged him down to hell.
«Dwayne, for fook's sake,» Archie wheezed, head thrown back. «Dwayne, I'm gonna —»
«Chut,» he heard from below. A soft voice. Dangerous. «Chut, doucement. I 'ave not even started yet.»
The T-shirt creaked at the seams but did not tear. The knot held. And Archie gave up — closed his eyes, dropped his head on the pillow and just moaned. Loudly. All over their bloody manor.
The sun was shining through the half-closed curtains, so bright it was as if it were celebrating yesterday's victory. It sliced the room into thin golden slices, where dust particles lazily swirled. Elya was the first to wake up. It was a special skill of hers, waking up before the rest of the world. She lay with her eyes open, getting used to the familiar mess from her childhood. Yesterday's open bottle of champagne was on the nightstand, along with two glasses with dried traces on the bottom. Zhenya's T-shirt was draped over the back of a chair. The apartment itself smelled of triumph and something elusively youthful. They had something to celebrate. It was the second season, and they had already won the Cup! Elya carefully turned her head. Her neck was pleasantly tight from spending half the night in an uncomfortable position, with his heavy arm draped over her. Zhenya's arm was resting across her shoulders, clasping her somewhere near her collarbones. It was like a lock made of muscles, tendons, and quiet care.
She was small. She had always known this, but next to him, the difference became almost grotesque: her dark, compact figure, compressed into a spring, and his long, broad-boned body, with arms that were too big for doorways.
He was breathing evenly, with a slight wheeze. His snoring sounded like a child's. Meanwhile, the sun had reached the pillow. Its rays fell on Zhenya's cheeks, illuminating his brown eyebrows, long eyelashes, and a scattering of freckles. In the summer, there were so many freckles that even his elbows were spotted.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand. Carefully avoiding slipping out of his grasp, she found the cold phone case and turned off the sound. Click!
Elya raised herself slightly on her elbow, as much as his embrace allowed. The best angle was revealed by her short brown hair, cascading over his forearm. Their heads were almost touching. However, her small head, with its pursed lips, was barely visible behind his massive shoulder and bicep, which were completely relaxed.
Zhenya, on the other hand, was a mountain on a pillow.
Elya smiled at the screen, her brown eyes narrowing into their usual warm slits. She loved this feeling, when the morning had already come and Zhenya wasn't awake yet, and she could steal a few minutes just for herself. She opened a chat with Vincent.
Elya quickly typed:
"The winner is sleeping. The territory has been conquered," and she attached a photo she had just taken.
Three seconds later, Vincent responded with a gif of a bear. Then he wrote:
"When is the wedding?"
Elya didn't respond. She put down her phone and gently nuzzled her nose against Zhenya's shoulder. He smelled like wine and, for some reason, a hint of cinnamon. His hand tightened around her shoulders in a reflexive gesture. Somewhere above her ear, he mumbled sleepily:
"El... don't go... there's still the third period..."
She laughed softly, feeling the vibrations of her laughter resonate through his body.
"Sleep, champion," she whispered. "We've already won the third period."
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