#black marrow

[necromorph-slayinglovemachine]

I'm still drawing, astonishingly

Fan art of my fave dragon from Dragon Cave, the Black Marrow

[minissoon]

𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆 | 𝙺𝙷𝙹

𝙻𝙰𝙳𝚈 𝙹𝙰𝙽𝙴 [𝙰𝙲𝚃 𝙾𝙽𝙴]

☦︎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛!𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐

☦︎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛, 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏

☦︎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚞

☦︎𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: [𝟸𝟷+!!!] 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 (𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛), 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 [ 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎], 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚡 (𝚏.𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐), 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚡 [𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚔] 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝 [𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜]. 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝟽𝟶 (𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐), 𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝟸𝟼.

☦︎𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍’𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝙽𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍...𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗.

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟺.𝟿𝙺

The mourning bells chimed, their somber tones reverberating through the damp air, while the rhythmic clicks of horses trotting on the cobblestones filled the streets of London. The sky loomed heavy with dark clouds, casting a pall over the bustling throng of businessmen and fair maidens, each clutching briefcases and the latest umbrellas, their faces a tapestry of concern and preoccupation.

There I stood, far removed from the crowd, a widow’s cloak draped over my head, its fabric absorbing the muted light of the day. My breath was hollow, soundless, as my fingers fidgeted with the staff I held—a slender rod crowned with a black stone that gleamed with an otherworldly glow, a beacon of my hidden power.

Night had yet to fall, yet the hour of reckoning drew near. A light drizzle began to descend, the dark grey skies rumbling ominously as I peered upward through the lace details of my hood, shielding my eyes from the encroaching light. The droplets struck my skin, burning like acid, yet I welcomed the sensation; the wounds of the past healed within seconds, invigorating me with a fierce vitality.

A smirk crept across my lips, fueled by a power that surged within me, absolute and intoxicating. Above, a crow circled, my ever-watchful companion and guide, casting a shadow over me as I strode into the heart of the city.

“Good evening, miss!” a young boy chirped as he dashed past, his laughter ringing like a bell, a stark contrast to the growing unease that enveloped the streets. I turned slightly, catching a glimpse of him, and a chill ran down my spine. He bore a striking resemblance to one of them—perhaps he was. My eyes glistened with a dark delight, a tactic Damien had once employed to warn me against advancing too far.

Damien cawed from above, perched atop a pole where the newsletters were affixed for the public. There it was, the crowd gathering around a particular notice, and I sensed something terrible had transpired—something gruesome.

“𝘚𝘌𝘕𝘈𝘛𝘖𝘙 𝘑𝘌𝘖𝘕𝘎’𝘚 𝘌𝘓𝘋𝘌𝘚𝘛, 𝘈 𝘏𝘖𝘓𝘓𝘖𝘞𝘌𝘋 𝘔𝘜𝘛𝘐𝘓𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘐𝘌𝘓𝘋𝘚“

My heart raced, and my skin prickled at the title, the murmurs of the people swirling around me, thick with fear and foreboding.

 “He was yet to marry,”

 “how awful,”

 “Have they caught the killer yet?” 

The air was heavy with dread, a palpable tension that seemed to seep into the very stones beneath my feet. Damien fluttered his wings, urging me to depart from the scene. I cast a furtive glance toward an alleyway that led into shadow, cobblestoned walls rising like sentinels on either side. With a light tap of my cane, a door creaked open, revealing a dark gateway devoid of light. Damien flew in first, and I followed closely behind, glancing back once more to ensure no one had seen my retreat into the obscurity.

As the door closed behind me, the world outside faded into a distant echo, leaving only the heavy silence of the unknown, where fear and anticipation intertwined, and the promise of vengeance lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.

It smelled horrid, a fetid stench that clung to the air like a shroud, as officers retched on the sides of the field. The others busied themselves, taking samples from the grotesque remnants of the man’s form. He lay flat on the ground, his head twisted backward at an unnatural angle, limbs sprawled in a macabre display, as if he had been discarded like refuse. The sight was horrific, a testament to the brutality that had befallen him, leaving him hollow from the inside, a shell of what once was. His eyes plucked from his very skull and the organs that once filled him whole, now gone.

“What on earth, who on earth?” a voice scowled, the words laced with disbelief and revulsion. The man, a stout figure with a pallid complexion, cringed at the sight, his stomach churning at the stench that wafted from the corpse. Photographers hovered nearby, capturing every twisted angle, every slash and gash of the man’s form, their cameras clicking like the snapping jaws of a predator.

As the crowd of officers parted, a figure emerged from the throng, a man of average stature, yet exuding an air of authority. He wore a suit of fine cashmere, tailored to perfection, and his hair was slicked back beneath a polished top hat. The man approached the scene with a measured gait, his white gloves gleaming against the backdrop of the grim tableau. He crouched near the body, his expression inscrutable as he assessed the scene with keen, observant eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Baggins,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, “it appears we have encountered a most unfortunate circumstance.” He gestured toward the victim, his gloved fingers hovering just above the twisted form. “The age of the deceased appears to be in the realm of twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six years. A young man, full of potential, now reduced to this… abomination.”

“Hongjoong, for heaven’s sake, can’t you be a bit more sensitive?” Mr. Baggins snapped, his brow furrowing as he surveyed the scene. “This is a murder investigation, not a bloody art critique.”

“Indeed, but one must appreciate the artistry of the crime, if only to understand the mind of the perpetrator,” Hongjoong replied, his tone unwavering. “The manner in which he has been positioned suggests a deliberate intent to instill fear. Look at the way his limbs are splayed—chaotic yet calculated. It is as if the killer wished to make a statement.”

Baggins grimaced, his gaze flickering back to the body. “A statement? What kind of monster would do this?”

“Monsters often wear the guise of men,” Hongjoong mused, his eyes narrowing as he examined the gaping wounds that marred the victim’s torso. “The lacerations are deep, suggesting a weapon of considerable sharpness. I would wager a dagger, perhaps, or a finely honed blade. The precision of the cuts indicates a certain level of skill, or perhaps a frenzied rage and vengeance of a sort.”

“Skill or rage, it matters not,” Baggins replied, his voice heavy with frustration. “What we need is to find the bastard who did this before he strikes again.”

“Agreed,” Hongjoong said, rising to his feet, his gaze lingering on the victim’s face, now a mask of horror frozen in time. “But we must tread carefully. The killer is not merely a brute; he is a thinker, a planner. He will not be easily apprehended.”

As the two men stood amidst the chaos, the air thick with the acrid scent of death, the reality of the situation settled heavily upon them. The young man, once vibrant and full of life, now lay lifeless in the field, a grim reminder of the darkness that lurked just beneath the surface of their society. And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the scene, Hongjoong felt a chill creep down his spine—a premonition that this was only the beginning of a far more sinister tale. 

He scanned the scene once more, his keen eyes searching for any clues that might lead them to their suspect. But there was nothing—no weapon in sight, no bloody handkerchief carelessly discarded as the perpetrator wiped his hands clean of the crime. Most importantly, there were no footprints. The drizzle had not been heavy enough to wash them away, nor had the mud swallowed them whole. It was as though—

“Hongjoong, are you coming?” Mr. Baggins called, snapping Hongjoong from his calculations. He stood near the carriage, impatience etched across his features. Hongjoong looked in his direction and offered a faint smile, but his gaze lingered on the scene, squinting as he jotted notes onto his refined notepad.

“Don’t you find it rather odd how there are no footprints?” he asked, stepping into the carriage. Once they were both settled, the horses neighed in anticipation, hooves trotting against the ground as Mr. Baggins replied, “What do you mean, no footprints?”

Hongjoong hummed thoughtfully. “At all. The drizzle couldn’t have washed them away. We would still see the remnants beneath. It is nearly impossible for a suspect weighing less than ten pounds not to leave a mark. But honestly, it’s as though…” He trailed off, his mind racing.

“Flown?” Mr. Baggins interjected, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, oddly so, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to,” Hongjoong answered, blinking rapidly as he fiddled with the scribbles in his notepad. The carriage lurched forward, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing in the air.

Mr. Baggins gulped softly, clearing his throat before he responded, “There are many things that exist in this world, but ghosts, I promise you, do not.”

“Indeed,” Hongjoong replied, his voice laced with a hint of irony. “Well then, we have an awful lot of work to do to catch him.” He peered out the window, watching the world blur past, while Mr. Baggins nodded, absorbing the silence that enveloped their conversation.

As the carriage rolled through the streets, Mr. Baggins’s mind flooded with the reports he had to deal with back at the station, the mundane worries of his wife’s supper plans, and the growing dread of the case that loomed over them. Meanwhile, Hongjoong remained fixated on the mystery of the missing footprints. Did the suspect truly fly? Or had he employed some form of contraption to place the body there, a device that defied the very laws of nature?

“Perhaps a mechanical device,” Hongjoong mused aloud, his thoughts spilling over. “Something that could lift a man without leaving a trace. It would explain the absence of evidence.”

“Or perhaps a trick of the light,” Mr. Baggins countered, his skepticism evident. “You’re letting your imagination run wild, Hongjoong. We must focus on the facts at hand.”

“Facts, yes, but facts can be deceiving,” Hongjoong replied, his voice tinged with urgency. “We must consider every possibility, no matter how outlandish it may seem. The absence of footprints is a clue in itself, a sign that our suspect is not merely a man of flesh and blood.”

Mr. Baggins sighed, the weight of the investigation pressing heavily upon him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to gather more evidence before we start chasing phantoms.”

As they continued their journey, the tension in the carriage thickened, each man lost in his own thoughts. Hongjoong’s mind raced with possibilities, while Mr. Baggins wrestled with the practicalities of their investigation. The city outside was alive with the bustle of life, yet within the confines of the carriage, a sense of foreboding settled over them, a premonition that the darkness they sought to uncover was far more insidious than either could imagine.

Several hours earlier

The Jeong residence was a cacophony of life, a delightful brawl of children scattering about, their laughter ringing through the air as they chased one another in a spirited game of tag. Fair maids bustled about, trays in hand and baskets filled with the week’s laundry, their skirts swishing as they navigated the chaos. I stood near the staircase, waiting for him to return, my heart fluttering with anticipation.

“Miss, you look awfully pale,” a young child commented from near the bottom rails, her innocent eyes wide with concern. I looked down at her, forcing a smile as I replied, “Don’t you worry, child, it’s just a little… cold.”

She stood amazed at the smoothness of my skin, how no veins were in sight, not a single blemish to mar my complexion. I reached my hand to push a stray strand of hair out of her face, but before I could, the large doors swung open.

“Sir Yunho, you have returned,” I said, bowing at his arrival.

The youngest of Senator Jeong’s three sons, Yunho was otherworldly in his presence, clad in a fine grey suit that hugged his form perfectly, his blouse crisp to the touch. He bowed slightly forward, stepping toward me and handing me his coat. “It feels good to be home. My brother is yet to follow.” My eyes lit up at the mention of his brother, the eldest—Minho.

“Do prepare a dinner; nothing too savory—he’s not much of a carnivore,” Yunho added, trailing up the stairs. I followed, nodding at his requests, and finally, we reached his study. He turned to me, his expression earnest. “And finally, tell the others to prepare the hall. It’ll be a celebration for his marriage. Do make it beautiful.”

“Of course, your grace,” I remarked politely, taking my leave toward the kitchen to notify the other maids of the tasks set out for the day.

Sighs and grunts filled the air as the maids cleaned up the mess left by the children. One of them had left a mud puddle on the floor, reminiscent of a foul accident. Mary scoffed and scowled, “Why must I be exposed to this degradation over and over again?”

“It’s your job, Mary. Stop complaining,” Aggy teased, rummaging through the cupboards to find decorations for the evening’s celebration. I stood in the corner, dazed, the whistle of the copper kettle on the stove ringing in my ears. I scratched at my wrist, a habit I had developed over the years as my mind raced with thoughts. It was like a chant—the whistle, then a scratch; the whistle, then a scratch; the whistle, then—

“Lady Jane!” Mary screamed, pulling me from my racing mind. “Yes?”

“Are you alright? You seemed a little out of it for a moment.”

“Not at all. I was just trying to remember what Yunho had asked of me. Luckily, I remembered. I’ll be on my way now,” I said, treading out of the kitchen and into the storage room.

Cobwebs and old photos scattered around the dimly lit space. I traced my fingers over the dusty shelves, searching for the lanterns suitable for the occasion. As I ventured further, I heard a voice in the corner, whispering, ‘He’s here.’

Shivers ran down my spine. I took the lanterns and scurried out, my heart racing. Curiously slow, I looked back, catching a glimpse of a shadow walking past before I shut the door. Knowingly, I continued my expedition into the house.

Placing the lanterns aside, I heard cheers and giggles in the foyer. I followed the sounds gracefully and lightly, careful not to disturb the air around me. They couldn’t leave a footprint, and I stood near the door, my eyes peeking through the crook.

It was him—Master Minho. A fine gentleman, well-built and tall, with a smile that could cut through the hearts of the maidens who wished he were theirs. His presence commanded the room, and as he laughed, the sound was like music, drawing everyone in. I felt a flutter in my chest, a mix of admiration and trepidation, as I watched him interact with the children, his warmth radiating like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

At that moment, I realized that the evening would not only be a celebration of his marriage but also a reminder of the distance that lay between us—a chasm filled with unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings. As I stood there, hidden in the shadows, I couldn’t help but wonder what the night would hold, both for the Jeong family and for me.

“Jane, do pour another glass for Minho,” Yunho called, his fingers clicking as laughter erupted around the table, the sound echoing warmly in the dining room. Madam Margaret sat opposite Minho and Yunho at the end of the table, her expression a mix of pride and expectation. Scattered about were the children of one of Yunho's distant cousins—Lidia, Glinda, John, and Maddison—each one bubbling with youthful exuberance. Senator Jeong and his wife observed the scene, their eyes glinting with satisfaction at the lively gathering.

I stepped forward with the wine jug in hand, my left hand cradling the bulge at the bottom while my right held the handle as I filled Minho's chalice with sweet wine.

As I leaned closer, I could feel it—the pace of his heartbeat, the flow of blood in his veins, and the breath that halted behind his mouth at my proximity. I paid no attention to him, only fulfilling my duties, my focus solely on the task at hand.

Once I stood back in my post, Mary nudged at my side and whispered, “Did you see how he looked at you?”

I did not answer, my gaze fixed ahead, my mind set on the one thing I had come to do—my job, of course.

“Madame Margaret must be blind; I could sense infidelity from a mile away,” she added, her voice low and conspiratorial.

“It’s a shame, though,” she said, her tone dripping with intrigue.

“What is?” I asked curiously, intrigued by her sudden shift in tone. Mary had always been the chatterbox, so I figured a little attention would shut her mouth immediately.

“I heard a tale that she can’t bear any children, hence why Minho finds interest in other women. But oddly, he chooses to marry her for the money,” she whispered, her eyes darting around to ensure no one was listening.

The weight of her words hung in the air, and I felt a knot form in my stomach. The implications of her gossip were heavy, and I couldn’t help but glance at Minho, who was now engaged in light-hearted banter with Yunho. His laughter rang out, but beneath it, I sensed an undercurrent of tension, a complexity that belied the jovial atmosphere.

As the evening wore on, I found myself lost in thought, the laughter and chatter around me fading into a distant hum. The dynamics at the table were shifting, and I could feel the unspoken words lingering in the air, a reminder of the secrets that lay beneath the surface of their seemingly perfect lives.

I returned to my duties, pouring wine and serving dishes, but my mind was elsewhere, caught in the web of Mary’s revelations. The night held a tension that was palpable, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the evening would reveal more than just the joy of a family reunion.

As I moved about the room, I caught glimpses of Minho’s gaze, the way it lingered on me for just a moment too long, and I felt a flutter of something—curiosity, perhaps, or longing. But I quickly dismissed it, reminding myself of my place in this grand household. I was merely a servant, a shadow flitting through the light of their lives, and yet, the weight of their expectations pressed down on me, heavy and unyielding.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the walls, illuminating their serious expressions as they discussed the wedding preparations.

“Have you finalized the arrangements for the wedding?” Yunho asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Almost,” Minho replied, his tone measured. “But I want to ensure everything is perfect. Margaret deserves nothing less.”

“Indeed, but we must also consider Father’s wishes,” Yunho interjected, his voice tinged with apprehension. “He insists that Margaret should bear a child first before the wedding.”

At this, tension filled the air, palpable and thick. Margaret, who had been quietly listening from the doorway, stammered, “I—I’m sure that can be arranged, but—”

“Minho, it’s your decision,” Yunho said, his gaze steady on his brother.

Minho took a deep breath, his expression resolute. “It will be done. We will honor Father’s wishes.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, a reminder of the expectations that loomed over them. Margaret’s face paled, and she looked down, her hands trembling slightly. The silence that followed was deafening, each man lost in his thoughts, the implications of their conversation settling heavily upon them.

Time passed, and dinner was over. The maids had retreated to their rooms, dressed in their nightdresses, the house settling into a quiet stillness. Yet I found myself unable to rest. I pranced around the house, my footsteps light as I grazed the furnishings of the custom furniture, the picture frames irking at my presence.

I stood by the large window, the moon hidden behind clouds, casting the room in shadows. My right wrist itched as I picked at the skin that had become a canvas for my anxious habits. Just as I felt the familiar sting, a warmth enveloped me, large arms cradling my form, a stark contrast to my cold demeanor.

“Your scent is far more divine than hers,” a voice murmured, his breath warm against the crook of my neck.

I turned slightly, my heart racing as I recognized the familiar presence. Minho. 

“You’re far out of your way, my liege; you should be in bed with your wife,” I remarked with a smirk dark enough to cause mischief. Minho didn’t falter; instead, he defied the opportunity to walk away, to retreat into the safety of the evening’s festivities.

“Why does her presence threaten you?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he wrestled with the implications of my words. But I had no wish whatsoever to take her place; I had my own goals, and although her husband-to-be was the key, she had nothing to do with me.

“Meet me in the cabin,” I said, stepping away as I began to tread toward the direction of the cabin nestled in the garden. The moonlight cast a silvery glow on the path, illuminating my way as I moved with purpose.

Minho cleared his throat, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed our exchange. With no one in sight, he hesitated, caught between duty and desire. Little did he know, however, that little Maddison stood at the bottom of the stairs, her wide eyes watching the scene unfold. At just four years old, she was a mere child, yet the weight of the moment pressed heavily upon her small shoulders. She never uttered a word, keeping the burden of her knowledge to herself, her innocence shielding her from the complexities of adult relationships.

The usual was not what I craved.

The secret endeavors at the witching hour—me, laid bare across his desk as he traced every curve of my stone-cold body, his lips sucking sweet bruises into my unyielding flesh. The way his fingers trespassed, coaxing heat where none should exist, teasing the illusion of life into my cursed form. It never advanced beyond the loopholes of lust, a dance of stolen breaths and bitten-off moans.

But tonight, everything would change.

The cabin door creaked open, and Minho stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of a single oil lamp. His cravat was loosened, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his gaze dark with something far more dangerous than desire.

"You called," he said, voice rough.

I smiled, slow and serpentine, peeling myself from the shadows. "And you came."

A beat of silence. Then—

He crossed the distance in three strides, hands gripping my waist, pressing me back against the desk. The wood groaned beneath us. His breath was hot against my throat as he murmured, "Tell me what you want."

I arched into him, nails scraping his scalp as I dragged his mouth to mine. "Everything."

Minho's teeth scraped against my pallid throat, his breath ragged with whiskey and wanting. "Christ, if only it were you in Margaret's place tonight," he growled, fingers digging into my thigh hard enough to bruise mortal flesh.

My sigh was velvet-dark, my lips brushing his ear as I whispered, "Is that how the honorable Senator's son speaks of his bride?" The itch beneath my wrist had become a living thing now, pulsing in time with each beat of Minho's traitorous heart.

His kiss was a losing man’s gamble—deep, searching and the copper taste of my deception. The itch in my wrist burned like a brand now, a shrill voice rising beneath my skin. I let one hand stroke his neck tenderly while the other twisted behind my back. The voice slithered through my mind like a blade between ribs:

"Through the heart."

The first stab was almost tender—a lover’s push, burying steel to the hilt just below his jaw. I felt the resistance of flesh give way, the blade slipping into the warm sanctuary of his body. Minho made a sound like a shattered wineglass, a high-pitched gasp that echoed in the stillness of the cabin. His blood hit my tongue before I could breathe—hot and metallic, flooding my mouth as his choked scream bubbled against my lips. The taste was intoxicating, a heady mix of betrayal and power. The second thrust went deeper, a wet crunch as blade met spine, and I reveled in the visceral connection between us, the intimacy of life and death entwined in a single, brutal act.

Then I lost count. Each thrust became a rhythm, a dance of destruction that pulsed with the beat of my heart. The desk became an altar of ruin, a sacred space transformed into a grotesque tableau of violence. His thrashing legs sent inkpots smashing to the floor, black fluid swirling with crimson, creating a macabre painting that dripped from the edges of the desk. Arterial spray painted the ceiling in jerking arcs, a chaotic masterpiece that would haunt the walls long after we were gone. A flap of skin from his neck landed on my cheek, warm as a lover’s kiss, and I couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it all.

"Damien."

He came as smoke from the rafters, coalescing into something between shadow and man, a dark specter that thrived in the aftermath of my violence. His presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the darkness that lurked within me.

"The field," he crooned, eyeless gaze drifting to the manor’s glowing windows, where the unsuspecting world continued on, blissfully unaware of the horrors unfolding within. "Where the crows grow fat... and the eldest dreams of nightmares made flesh."

I dragged Minho by his ankles through the dew-lashed grass, the chill of the night air biting at my skin. His wedding ring caught on briars, fingers plucking at nothing as if still trying to grasp reason from the air, a futile attempt to cling to life. His skull bounced off a stone with a crisp crack, peeling his scalp open like spoiled fruit, and I felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sound.

When the moon bled through the clouds, casting an eerie glow over the scene, I straddled his ruined chest and let myself work. The world around me faded, leaving only the two of us in this moment of grotesque intimacy. Splitting his ribs took leverage—my foot braced on his sternum, both hands wrenching up until bone gave with a moist snap. The smell hit first, a pungent wave of copper and iron, mingling with the sour tang of voided bowels. It was a scent that would linger in my memory, a reminder of the power I wielded.

His heart was still twitching when I pried it free, a grotesque jewel dripping between my fingers, warm and pulsing with the last remnants of life. I held it up, admiring the way it glistened in the moonlight, a trophy of my conquest.

"Shall I save the eyes?" I asked, my voice low and teasing as I held them up, optic nerves dangling like broken puppet strings, a macabre offering to the darkness that surrounded us.

Damien’s crow form cocked its head, a chuckle escaping his beak like rusted hinges creaking in the night. "The senator will want something to recognize," he replied, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down my spine.

I plucked them free with a wet pop, the sound echoing in the stillness, a final punctuation to the act of violence. As the last wisp of Minho’s essence disappeared into Damien’s maw, I wiped my hands on his ruined waistcoat, the fabric slick and warm beneath my fingers.

"Tell me," I whispered, licking gore from my knuckles, savoring the taste of power and revenge. "Does the eldest cry in his sleep?"

The crow’s beak clicked, a sound that resonated with the darkness that enveloped us. "He will count your footsteps outside his door," he replied, his tone dripping with malice, a reminder of the innocence that would soon be shattered.

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold. It was a thrill, a rush of anticipation at the thought of what was to come. The eldest of the next family, so naive, so unsuspecting—he would soon learn the price of betrayal. I could almost hear his soft sobs echoing in the night, a haunting melody that would accompany me as I continued my dark work.

The moon hung high above, a silent witness to the horrors I had wrought, and I felt a sense of satisfaction wash over me. This was only the beginning. The darkness within me stirred, eager for more, and I knew that I would not stop until every last thread of my vengeance had been woven into the fabric of this night.

My skin crawled with a satisfaction oh so absolute. I smirked, a light giggle escaping my lips as I tread away from Minho’s mutilated form.

“You’re amused,” Damien observed, his tone a blend of curiosity and caution. Indeed, I was. I hadn’t altered my appearance since that fateful day; I remained the very same, a specter of my former self.

“Thirty years, and he’d already forgotten,” i remarked, a hint of disbelief lacing my voice.

“Well, now you’ve left him with something to remember, haven’t you?” He replied, his voice dripping with a dark amusement.

“Indeed, my dear friend,” I continued, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a thick fog. “For they’ll all pay for what they’ve done. I intend to be the harbinger of their reckoning.”

Damien nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. “Beware of the future, for the consequences of your next encounter shall beacon upon your downfall”

“Consequences?” I echoed, a laugh escaping me, sharp and cold. “The only consequence I fear is the dullness of a life unfulfilled. Let them come; I welcome the storm.”

@ninjakitty15 @velvetdolor @lveegsoi

(Taglist Reqs are open)

[neonheartz]

[ Black Marrow Dragon ] - Black Marrows are named for their dark colored hides which are encased in a distinct exoskeleton. Their skull and the top edges of their spine push out from under the skin as they age. As such, their young need excessive amounts of calcium for this armor to develop. The older a Black Marrow dragon is, the more skeletal their appearance. They often use their skeletal looks to lure in foolish scavengers or terrify predators. These vicious dragons love nothing more than to crack open bones with their stony beaks and eat the marrow inside. Voracious scavengers, Black Marrows will swarm and devour corpses both old and fresh, sometimes even dragging larger finds to the water to allow them to “ripen.” Despite their dreadful demeanour and often horrid stench, Black Marrows are devoted mates and parents.

[minissoon]

𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚄𝙴 | 𝙺𝙷𝙹

☦︎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛!𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐

☦︎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛, 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏

☦︎ 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚞

☦︎𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: [𝟸𝟷+!!!] 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 (𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛), 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 [ 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎], 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚡 (𝚏.𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐), 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚡 [𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚔] 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝 [𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜]. 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝟽𝟶 (𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐), 𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝟸𝟼.

☦︎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚋, 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝. 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕. 𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗-𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟸.𝟹𝙺

The ambrosial aroma of alfalfa, simmering languidly upon the stove, permeated the very essence of my being, each inhalation a testament to the verdant bounty bestowed upon me by nature's generous hand. My collection of jars, each a veritable cornucopia of nature's treasures, stood resplendent, their contents a vivid tapestry of the earth's offerings. The walls of my humble abode, adorned with cascading ivy leaves, bore witness to the legacy of my forebears—both matriarchs and patriarchs—whose precious gems and iridescent crystals shimmered with an ethereal luminescence, casting a kaleidoscope of colors that danced playfully in the silvery embrace of the moonlight. 

As the somber gloom of the night enveloped the landscape, the winds, with an almost mischievous spirit, rustled through the grass, which swayed and twirled in a harmonious ballet, choreographed by the unseen forces of nature. Above, the clouds, delicate and ephemeral, drifted languidly across the vast expanse of the star-studded sky, their presence barely discernible against the backdrop of twinkling celestial bodies.

In the midst of this tranquil tableau, he lay in a deep slumber—the one whom I had once held dear to my heart—while I busied myself with the preparations for supper. The copper pots, gleaming with a warm patina, bubbled contentedly as they cradled the maize, a humble yet nourishing staple, while a pot of honey, golden and viscous, awaited its turn to grace the evening's repast with its sweet embrace.

Alas, such was the extent of my modest means; maize and honey constituted the entirety of my culinary offerings, for the price of sheep had soared beyond my reach. Moreover, the whispered admonitions of the spectral souls that inhabited the very walls of my cottage echoed in my mind, cautioning me against the consumption of animal flesh. Thus, I found solace in the simplicity of my fare, a reflection of both my circumstances and the enduring wisdom of those who had come before me.

I delicately unfurled my fortune cards across the weathered surface of the table, seeking to occupy the fleeting moments until the maize reached its culinary zenith. My fingers, nimble and practiced, shuffled the deck with an almost reverent precision, when, quite unexpectedly, two cards leapt forth from the pack, as if propelled by some unseen force, eager to unveil the narrative of my anticipated destiny.

Before I could summon the courage to reveal their hidden truths, a sudden gust of frigid air caressed the nape of my neck, sending an involuntary shiver coursing through my spine. It was as though the very essence of the night had conspired to envelop me in its chilling embrace. With a heart that raced in trepidation, I turned the cards over, and a wave of goosebumps cascaded across my forearms, prickling my skin with an unsettling awareness of the supernatural.

The first card, the Tower, appeared in its reversed position, a harbinger of upheaval and chaos, while the second card bore the ominous inscription of Death—a symbol not merely of mortality, but of profound transformation and the inexorable passage of time. My breath caught in my throat, a palpable tension suffusing the air around me, as the whispers of restless souls began to swirl and intertwine, their ethereal murmurs dimming the flickering glow of the candlelight that had previously illuminated my modest surroundings.

The shattering of glass echoed ominously in the distance, accompanied by the harrowing screams of my fair maidens, their voices rising in a cacophony of terror. Rising abruptly from my stool, I approached the window with a heart laden with dread, peering into the encroaching darkness. What I beheld sent a chill coursing through my veins: a throng of men, brandishing pitchforks and flickering lanterns, advanced with a menacing fervor. Their faces, obscured by the shadows of the night, were mere silhouettes, yet the brutality of their actions was all too apparent as they hurled the maidens to the ground, their anguished cries mingling with the frustrated grunts of their captors.

“Where is the witch?!” they bellowed, their voices a discordant symphony of rage and accusation. Panic surged within me, and I dashed to my chambers, desperate to rouse my beloved from his slumber, but alas, I was far too late; the doors of my sanctuary splintered under the weight of their fury, crashing down with a resounding finality.

The Senate had arrived, clad in rough black cotton cloaks that billowed ominously around them, their expressions twisted with disdain and malevolence. “What is it you want?” I stammered, my voice trembling as it escaped my parched throat, the weight of their presence pressing heavily upon me.

A suffocating silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the crackling hum of the flames that danced upon their pitchforks. The eldest among them, Senator Kim, unleashed a guttural sound from the depths of his throat, spitting contemptuously onto the wooden floorboards of my humble abode. “Witch! Devil!” he proclaimed with a fervor that sent a jolt of terror through my very core. My breath caught in my throat, the titles hurled at me like daggers, leaving me utterly dumbfounded by the absurdity of their accusations. “I do not follow; I am no witch, nor am I a devil. You must be mistaken,” I implored, my voice quaking with the weight of my disbelief, the intrusion upon my sanctuary igniting a profound sense of agonizing discomfort.

“You have been the architect of a heinous crime of witchcraft,” he thundered, his voice resonating with the fury of the storm that raged outside, as the townspeople’s screams crescendoed in response to the sight of their homes engulfed in flames. Younger men surged forward, their hands grasping me with an iron grip, as I writhed in futile resistance, my arms flailing against their unyielding hold. My knees buckled beneath me, collapsing to the ground, while my beloved remained blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding just beyond his door.

“What—”

“Witnessed by those whose testimonies have been heard,” Senator Kim interjected, his voice a relentless torrent.

“No, that is not true! I am but a herbalist. I only—”

“Herbalist with fire! You were communicating with the dead, the devil!” he accused, his words laced with venom.

“Lies! Damn those who have spoken ill upon my name!” I cried, desperation clawing at my throat.

“I shall not risk damnation upon these good people,” Senator Kim continued, his voice slicing through the air like a blade, commanding the men to drag me from the sanctuary of my humble residence.

My once-pristine white gown, now sullied and stained with the muddy earth, bore witness to my degradation as the townspeople swarmed around me, their faces contorted with rage and fear, fingers pointing accusatorily at my disheveled form. I had endured a brutal beating, three merciless blows to the head, as refuse and waste were hurled at me, each projectile a testament to the unfounded wrath that had been unleashed upon my innocent soul.

And then, in a cruel twist of fate, I found myself shackled, the cold metal biting into my skin as the senator delivered his final, damning declarations. Bruised and smeared with filth and blood, my heart raced with a primal fear as one of the men stepped ominously toward the threshold of my home, a flaming pitchfork clutched tightly in his hand.

The rusted brass collar encircled my neck, a cruel reminder of my captivity, while shackles bound my ankles and wrists, rendering me powerless.

“She did it!” a voice cried out, filled with venomous accusation.

“Agatha’s son died because of her!” another echoed, the whispers of the townspeople swirling around me like a tempest, their fervor feeding the flames of my impending doom as the senator prepared his words for my execution. The gentlemen at my doorstep stood poised, awaiting the final blow.

“Y/N Valerius, you have, by the decree of the senate and the will of the people, been found guilty, and it is passed upon you according to your gravest crimes…execution!”

A chorus of chants erupted, a cacophony of hatred and fervor, as the senator raised his hand, signaling the man to take charge. The pitchfork, now poised to grace the doorframe, sent my heart into a frantic triple beat, my eyes widening in horror as the realization of my fate dawned upon me.

“No—”

“Burn it all!” he commanded, his baritone voice resonating with an authority that brooked no dissent. I struggled against my bonds, writhing in a desperate attempt to save what little remained of my existence. My knees scraped against the unforgiving ground as they held me down, my screams erupting from the depths of my diaphragm, a primal cry as the flames began to engulf the walls of my home. I witnessed the fire ignite, a cruel paradox of speed and slowness, granting me a fleeting moment to save him. But then it was done; the scents of herbs and crystals exploded in a fiery conflagration as the flames grew ever higher.

Amidst the chaos, I could hear the subtle wails of his voice, the agony of the flames melting his skin away, charring him to his very marrow. The last vestiges of his being were consumed by the inferno, a tragic consequence of my sins. I wept, my eyes brimming with an emotion far more profound than mere anger or sadness; it was heartbreak incarnate. I wailed once more, my stomach churning with despair, for I had lost everything—my home, my love, and the very essence of my humanity. I was stripped bare of my dignity, left with nothing but the ashes of my former life.

“No evil shall reign, as long as I live,” the senator proclaimed, his voice a chilling decree as he strode toward the carriage that awaited him, a human-sized cage secured at the back. It was a cage reserved for the most notorious of criminals, and in their eyes, I was the embodiment of all that was vile—a murderer, a witch, a devil.

Prison was not a foreign concept to me; I had once been a mere cleaner, tasked with the eerie duties of maintaining the cells, distributing meals at the tender age of seventeen. That was until I had fled one fateful night, spurred on by a voice that whispered, “Take the leap, and beware of those who seek your downfall. Run, child, run.”

I had run as fast as my legs could carry me, the hound dogs barking furiously at my departure, yet hope propelled me forward. Had I known I would return to this wretched place, I would have never left. What had once been a gift had turned into a tragedy. I had never taken a life, and yet my love lay dead, taken from me in his sleep, deaf to the ruckus that had unfolded.

Now, my execution loomed just three days away, and I was left in a cell devoid of sustenance—no food, no water—merely a corner plastered with the remnants of humanity and the filth of rats. It was safe to say that I had begun to lose my sanity in the span of mere hours. The walls became my only companions, while the guards, alerted to my troubled illusions, dismissed my plight with indifference. Until one fateful night, a card slipped into my cell—the Tower card.

I could not reach for it, shackled as I was, far from its tantalizing proximity.

And then it appeared, a dark figure lurking in the corners, formless yet palpable. I felt no fear at its sight; rather, I was enveloped in an unexpected sense of comfort. “Your heart is weary, yet you grow insane by the hour,” it intoned, its voice imbued with an ancient power.

“I've lost much—much that cannot be replaced,” I replied, my voice trembling with the weight of my sorrow. It hummed in response, and then silence enveloped us. Its arm reached forward into the dim light, revealing wrinkled fingers adorned with long, black, sharp nails, and a mark upon its wrist—three pinnacles etched into its skin. “I know what you want, what you deeply desire.”

“Since you know so well, why don’t you enlighten me?” I challenged, my curiosity piqued.

“Revenge, I can feel it, I can see it,” it declared, the word resonating within me like a long-forgotten echo. Revenge? The thought had crossed my mind, the last words I had uttered before being hurled into the cage: “You will all be sorry.” It was a desire that paled in comparison to my longing for my love, yet I knew I had to make them pay for the atrocities they had committed against me.

“If you wish to receive, your right hand shall release you from such a fate,” it offered, its voice a seductive whisper.

“Will I be granted the opportunity to bring back life?” I inquired, hope igniting within me.

“For eight souls, it shall be your prize,” it replied, the weight of its words settling heavily upon my heart.

I pursed my lips at the thought—eight souls to bring him back. My heart raced not with fear, but with a grim determination. They had labeled me a witch, a devil, a murderer; I had nothing left to lose but my life. I extended my right hand slightly, and it stretched its arm to grasp mine, the contact sending shivers down my spine, as if it were desperate for this connection. Then, its nail pierced a vein on my wrist, blood curling in fine prints as it burned into my skin.

“Call upon my name, and you shall be free,” it instructed, pointing at the blood that now marked my wrist. And then it vanished, leaving behind a dark etching that formed a name upon my skin. Once red, it transformed to black, veins emanating from each letter.

“Damien.”

taglist (open): @ninjakitty15 @velvetdolor

[allaboutherock2011]

SLAUGHTERSUN - BLACK MARROW EP REVIEW

Slaughtersun are a band formed by Ben Karas, who is associate with the work invested into Thank You Scientist and Windfäärer and were formed in 2023 hailing from Lyndhurst, New Jersey. Slaughtersun provide top quality progressive death metal, that’s a sentence I never thought I’d see in written form from myself… TOP QUALITY PROGRESSIVE DEATH METAL. The EP has a collective 6 tracks and run time of…

SLAUGHTERSUN - BLACK MARROW EP REVIEW

[gbhbl]

EP Review: Slaughtersun - Black Marrow (Self Released)

There’s a wildness to Slaughtersun, one rooted in death metal, but with a sharper and more technical edge. Frantic, furious, and exemplified by the garish vocals.

Slaughtersun’s new EP, ‘Black Marrow’, is composed of the band’s first four singles (plus an intro and a live song), meticulously remixed and remastered. The EP will be released on January 10th, 2025. Sinister and ambient, the intro of Unearthly Propaganda sets the scene, allowing an intense combination of hefty riffs and drums to immediately batter the senses with Fall of the Firmament and…

EP Review: Slaughtersun - Black Marrow (Self Released)

[aeyolia]

Xander Niles /Xandias Zerelva - Crown Prince of Black Marrow

As much as he would never admit it, Jackson had the greatest heart of all. Yes, he was rough around the edges,with a quick temper and an even quicker sword. He had scars on his palms and blood stained lips. The look in his eyes showed that he had died a hundred different ways inside and still came back stronger. But you see that is the look of a kind person. Kind people are not born that way, they do not stumble into it. Pain makes them that way. Kind people are forged in fire and darkness and imploding stars…they have steel cores. Kindness is often mistaken for softness and let me tell you, friends….that is a mistake you don’t want to make.

The Earth Guardian

[toyfox-blog1]

these vicious dragons love nothing more than to crack open bones with their stony beaks and eat the marrow inside.