#content warning death

[woodland-goth]

"Lucy's Funeral" by @abigaillarson

[strangelittlestories]

They say that everyone dies alone.

I’m sure it often feels that way.

But recall that every atom of you was once someone or something else. You are a choir of ghosts singing the verse that is you into existence, before the chorus comes to return your bones to the earth.

Remember that the earth knows the sound and sensation of your footfall. The kinesis of your steps vibrates through dirt and rock – it swallows the energy and holds it in its belly like a seed, it writes the shape of your movement in its DNA. The earth remembers and it perceives.

Think on how individuality is only perception. Your senses and your neurons lie to you about reality because it’s the only way to make void, matter and movement relatable. Perspective is a trick and all tricks are a matter of perspective. Seen from above, you are just a part of so many webbed things: a community, a species, a story.

The story of you will be read by generations to come and it never ends, it just changes narrators. It will be read by future generations as history, lore and legend. It will be rediscovered by prophets and archaeologists, who discern its shape through the vibrations of waves and particles that whose trajectory can be traced back to a common original point. In the esoteric mathematics of reality, you are an irrefutable nuance of the equation. Your frequency has been broadcast and now it is a wild and feral number.

Even if, somehow, your story is lost… the frequency of you will repeat through history, if only by coincidence.

If that is too theoretical for you, then know this: The Watcher has always seen you. The divine plan is known by friends of yours and you are in it. A strange girl painted in pastels and fury has seen everything that is and will be and you were and you will be.

Ah, but I see I am avoiding the real point. I am waffling, vamping, deflecting… because the story that might really provide some comfort may also hurt you. I know it will hurt me in the telling.

But the avoidance of pain has rarely been a good reason to do anything.

And so, if my philosophising has not offered you even an iota of solace, let me show you a couple of things. Let me share a tale, told in agony and exhalations and blood and teeth and desperate, grasping longing.

And it is told in two expirations…

—

The First

Sadness. A sadness like a star collapsing. The desolation of a mountain sliding inch by ancient inch into the sea.

This woman has been alive for five minutes. Her synapses are firing for the first time. Cortisol is closing its jaws around her veins. Her neurotransmitters are, quite frankly, wild and fucked and screaming.

She has blood for the first time and it is so loud in her ears.

But it is getting quieter. Because the blood is flowing from her arms, from her neck… It pools on the floor and it gives her some grim satisfaction as it spreads and splatters that it clings to clothes and to the soles of boots. These people will wear her death as a stain in the coming days.

And there is sadness. Sadness for she was supposed to be eternal. Sadness for she has enemies who will never know destruction at her hands. Sadness for these angels who are still chained by servitude and would not choose their way out. Sadness for a world that was supposed to be just, yet every bang of the gavel is just a bark of sadistic laughter.

There is a sadness, too, that she cannot name. It is deeper. It is louder. It squats in the hind parts of her newly formed brain. It curls in her amygdala and it sings in adrenaline.

She cannot name it, but I will tell you: its song is written in the lizard language of all the bits of biology that learned over long years that mortals are stupid and fragile and you have to try so hard to make them want to stay alive. Every creature that has ever clung to life knows this song and its only lyrics are “more, more, more”…

The woman who was an angel does not understand this, but she does not have to. The monk does.

The monk who, right now, is riding her nervous system like a sailboat tossed by a storm. The monk who had hurt her. The monk who could not save her.

The monk spreads their soul thin like a moth’s fluttering wings and, with the lightest touch, diverts the hurricane down a different path. The pain does not really lessen. The sadness does not diminish. However, as they pass through the woman to the monk and back again, at least the suffering has farther to go.

The monk closes their eyes, but the woman does not. So, through the spliced wires of neurons and nerves, they can both still see the makeshift place of judgement around them.

They see the cold stares of the angels she once called siblings, who look at her now and see a killer, a traitor and (however briefly) a mortal.

They see the face of her executioner, washed clean of emotion by his duty of care, who had made the cuts as kindly as possible. They see her blood still clinging to his blade as if enamoured of its keen edge.

They see the voidling, the one who had bargained with her angelic siblings for this sacrifice. He reaches out with his hands, one holding a staff, the other already gently drawing her soul from her body through the conduit of her lifeblood. The staff chitters to her in a thousand grave-toothed voices, but it is still less terrifying than the coaxing hand that snares her spirit. The voidling’s wrist is ringed with a band of black leather and it is dark and grasping as a black hole.

They see the one in white, who had advocated for her, standing stricken and trembling. The woman feels something fragile and sharp-edged break open inside her. She feels, briefly, the bite of sorrow and broken-glass gratitude… but she pushes them away. These are the monk’s feelings, not hers, and she does not need these people’s condescension or their weakness.

That flash of contempt warms her for a moment; as it fades, she realises how cold she has become.

The pain is distant and dulled now. The sadness too. The typhoon wore itself out by rampaging round two minds, two bodies, like an overexcited toddler. Now it is ready to sleep.

Everything is fuzzy. The world has lost its sharp edges. The world always had so many sharp edges. She should know, for she was one of them.

She cannot move her lips, but some inner part of her smiles.

Her body still does not want to die, but she shushes its faltering song.

She spent herself for a cause. For a mission. She never wavered. She is sure. And she has seen the hatred, the fear, the pain and the poisonous compassion of her enemies. She knows that she has made them Doubters. So, hey? If she must go? It is best to go winning.

In her last moments, before her soul slips from her body, the monk sits with her in her senses and holds the suffering and the sorrow at bay. She uses that space only to crow victory.

Then she is gone, spirit tumbling into the void where the monk cannot follow.

And the monk is alone, slowly unpicking the living circuits from the dead, trying to remember where they end and the corpse begins.

—

There. You see? Did that tale not offer you comfort? No?

Was it not reassuring to know that a real asshole – but an asshole of conviction, at least – did not have to face the terror of mortality alone?

I mean, it might not make you happy, but I never promised happiness. I only said I would disprove a common lie.

So if you do not find this comforting, I suppose I will simply have to accept the same bargain as that woman did: better to be right than to be kind.

Oh well. Let us hope, then, that you are more moved by my second tale. Its protagonist, at least, is more likeable than our last. Though, given the subject matter, I understand that fact is its own kind of tragedy…

—

The Second Snarling. Ripping. Tearing.

It is not anger. It is not rage. Those are signals. Neurochemical warning signs that tell you when you are not okay and you need to do something about it.

This is violence as fact. Truth. Foretelling.

It is written in the bones, in the soul, in the source code. Fury as an atom. Destruction as a lexicon.

The beast lashes out not because it hungers or hates, but because that is simply what the beast does.

It is only a tragedy because this beast used to be a man. (Or perhaps this beast is a man.) (Or perhaps this beast will be a man.)

And because the beast was (until quite recently) a man, the people who love that man are clinging to the beast. They are trying to push back the wave of brutality before it breaks on them, holding on with supernatural might and heroic will and stubborn pitiless hope.

They fail to blunt the beast’s claws, of course, and it rends their flesh and tastes their blood… but they can take it. (That is a lie. They cannot take it, but they do anyway. They will reckon with that bill when it comes due; the cost tallied up in torn capes, ripped essence, rushed sutures, and red stains on pristine white fabric.)

Meanwhile, clever men with blunt tools are trying to chisel away the beast from the man. They scour incantations from bone and soul and they burrow deep, looking for the right angle to crack open his atoms and sieve out the bits with claws. Sadly, the monster’s maker did his work too well. And, hey, you know what happens when you split atoms, right?

There is little left of what this beast used to be. Only a gap in the shape of a man’s soul and a few grains of spirit floating away on the wind.

The monk watches this, helpless. There is not enough of the man left to be saved. Wait. No. That’s wrong. There is not enough of the man left to live. But maybe it is enough to save him for a few minutes.

The monk sees the shape of the man’s soul. They know its frequency, its feel and its felicity. They have held it in their hands before. They pour their own soul into the outline the man had left in the beast. They cling on the last motes of him as they trail away.

The body fights this. It knows this spirit does not fit; it is discordant and it tastes bitter. But the monk can fake it well enough to hold on a little longer. And, in that moment, the body also forgot that it is a beast.

It is hard to describe exactly what happened here. Perhaps the best analogy is this: the monk had made their soul into a line of salt, tracing the outline of the man. And so, inside that warding line, the ghost of the man possessed his own body…

Here is the shape of the man’s soul:

It was a well-made and well-loved soul. It has seen its share of weathering, but it had not been allowed to fall to disrepair. You could see from its markings and slightly mismatched parts that it had been improved, repaired, and refurbished many times. The man was good at making things, so he took maintenance seriously.

The soul had a beast in it, too. The man had made the beast. He had made it beautifully. It was everything a beast should be. And, as such, it had left the soul torn and bloodstained.

The man had removed the beast from the soul, once. But he could not repair all of the damage. It is still bloodstained. It is haunted. Hundreds of ghosts float above it like balloons, tied on with string. It bears the faint imprint of their words, carved into its walls like graffiti.

But as the soul was so well-made and so well-loved, it was both sturdy and flexible. It had its sharp edges sanded down. It was shored up and reinforced. It was becoming, at once, a toolbox and a bastion. It was a place where you could find help. It was a kit which could fix the world.

Unfortunately, the soul still had a space where a beast had been.

(We will not dwell overly on the less scrupulous craftsman and how he came to see that space and the acts he took to rebuild the beast. To do so would, frankly, sully this tale.)

And so, on borrowed time, the man looks up at those who love him. Those who clung on to him with bloodied palms until all that was saved could be saved. Those who he, too, loves.

They speak, a little.

The monk does not hear the words that are said. Those brief utterances – grief-choked and love-bitten – are not for them. Nor are they for you.

But the throng of ghosts? The ones tied with string to the man’s soul? They hear. They bear witness. I do not know if they forgive him. But I can tell you this: the man who killed them? The man who made the beast? They know he is long gone. The man who is saying his goodbyes put an end to the beast-maker in the slowest and kindest way: he made a better version of himself. It was, perhaps, the craftsman’s greatest masterpiece. And, still, he was willing to break it to keep the beast at bay. I do not know if the ghosts saw this as vengeance or as redemption. I just know they saw, they heard, and then they went to their rest.

And, as the shape of the man’s soul became too hard to hold… As the body remembered it was a beast… As the spear pierced the very substance of man and beast both… The man also rested.

The truest rest perhaps any of us will know.

Still, remember the shape of the man’s soul. Remember that it held within it a blueprint for becoming better.

—

Two deaths shared. Two stories told. I have forgotten, honestly, what I was trying to prove.

Perhaps I, too, simply did not want to suffer these endings alone. And as my soul is not prone to going wandering (unlike our poor monk’s), I had to put it into my words instead.

And so, if you have read this far, I thank you. Tales like these are better endured in company.

[kabillieu]

I have to go get a new battery for my car. I tried yesterday, but there was a firetruck and an ambulance at Auto Zone and they were wheeling out a stretcher with what looked to be an employee on it, so I went across the street to O'Reilly and they told me that my battery needed to be "professionally installed," which is what I thought they did as a professional place of business, but okay.

So today I need to try someplace else. Walmart? Back to Auto Zone? Who knows. My car doesn't start reliably anymore though, so I need to make this happen.

Yesterday I was thinking about travel and taking solo trips with Dominic, and I realized that we've traveled alone together to New Orleans twice since having kids, so my whole dramatic "we've only ever had two adults-only trips" is not true. We went once for Chewbacchus 8 years ago, and then three years ago we went for the saddest visit ever to see B and Gavin. I was in between pregnancies and freshly bereaved, and Dale was still alive but holed up somewhere drinking himself to death, and all of that was so, so heavy on our hearts and in our minds.

But it was still a lovely visit in its way. We went to the art museum and to a private party with lots of chargrilled and raw oysters. We ate at Commander's Palace. We just visited and tried to be grateful for each other.

[grimoirechallenge2020]

Day 15: What Are Your Beliefs on Death?

Today’s Prompt is: What are your beliefs on death? Why do things die?

Different witches often have different beliefs on this, so make a page detailing yours. Tomorrow’s prompt is about the afterlife (if any), so you don’t have to go into detail about that quite yet.

Sorry for being absent last week, but it was a tough week. I’m back now!

- Aydan Nightshade

[dandysworldhcs]

YAYAAYAAYAYAYAYAY

⚠️WARNING: I will be talking about deaths, they won’t be described graphically(at least I’ll try not to bc most of the deaths are really graphic bc ✨angst✨) but they could possibly be triggering to some. Probably

Okok, before I start on the twisteds/corrupteds ima kinda explain how it started n whatnot and basically give some background

This au is also centered around Shelly(& Sprout a lil bit), at some point I might explain my reasoning if the knowledge is desired(why do I sound so fancy-)

On November 29th one year(yes most events have specific dates bc I’m weird like that) all the main toons besides Astro were chattin and chillin before Astro enters the room saying that Dandy has asked him to tell the mains that for the time being there will be no more runs. He was given no reasoning

Sprout and Vee weren’t having it due to their distrust in Dandy so they planned to sneak off and do a run while everyone was asleep. Quite reluctantly Shelly & Astro eventually agreed(Pebbles opinion is unclear but is just assumed to be happy to be included)

The time comes and they all go on the run, floor one and things seem… off…

The twisteds forms seem more grotesque and are a bit more aggressive but they don’t pay it much attention

Once they finish the floor and go back to the elevator they hear Dandy’s shop go up with the one and only Dandicus Dancifer is standing in his shop, however, he seems quite anxious

He tells them that they shouldn’t have gone here, begs and pleads for them to let him bring them back up before making a compromise that floor 4 he will bring them back(Sprout and Vee kept demanding answers but he refused to give them any as if… he couldn’t…)

Thus they continue the run, the twisteds are harder and harder to ignore though. They’re getting more violent then the last and are looking less and less then how they did before

Come floor 4 and when Dandy’s shop comes up it’s… empty? Not only empty but stained with ichor, before anyone can make a comment Pebble hops in and comes back out with a few ichor stained petals

With the absence of Dandy they are given no choice but to continue because none of them know how to send themselves back up

They do the next floor and during panic everyone makes it back, everyone except Pebble that is. Sprout also looks terrified but refuses to say anything, during panic Sprout had seen a wall splattered with ichor along with some ichor covered things that looked almost rock like. In the middle of that mess lay a tag, Pebbles dog tag. Which he picked up before rushing to the elevator

The 4 remaining mains barely say much when they’re in the elevator and before they know it they’ve already arrived to the next floor. What they didn’t know, was that only two would make it out

Shelly was peacefully(at least, as peaceful as she could be) doing a machine before she heard a loud sound. She rushed to check it out just to see a horrifying sight, Vee completely torn apart(nothing too graphic, just a bloody(?) mess and wires bc Vee doesn’t have organs)

Stuff happens, Astro dies during panic due to unknown reasons and Sprout & Shelly are the only ones left. Shaken to their cores Shelly rips open a control panel and desperately pulls at cords to see if she can send them back up from the horrors they’ve experienced, in which she succeeds

Thus sending two traumatized mains to try to explain what has happened without causing a mass panic(works to an extent)

This is my introduction to Dandy’s World: Corrupted!!!!

This au is essentially Dandy’s World except the twisteds have “corrupted” to become more violent and grotesque(for some reason the twisted mains disappeared altogether), earning them the names corrupteds along with the toons leaning into more of a survival system they have roles such as healers, moral support, scavengers, suppliers, & other roles that I will get farther into detail in future asks

There’s 3 types of corrupteds, corrupteds(former twisteds), corrupted toons(real toons who have died and become corrupted), & sentient corrupteds(basically lethals… well they are lethal but also as the name suggests they are sentient and in full control… most of them that is)

I will only be sending in another ask once I’ve seen my current one answered. The next few asks I will talk about D4NDY(dandy), P3BB13(pebble), V33(vee), & 4$7R0(astro) aka the corrupted toons, corrupted toons are weird and for some reason are(most of them) all capped and some letters are replaced by symbols or numbers

My au also features some ocs!!!! All of my ocs were scrapped toons, that’s all the info you’ll get tho mweheheheheh

Sorry, I got carried away but uhhh enjoy:3

- Anxiety Anon

Oooh. I must say. This AU so far sounds like a fun little story of horror. I eagerly await your next ask, and apologize about the wait on answering this one.

[dandysworldhcs]

TW: DESCRIBED GORE AND DEATH

Pt. 3 of the twisted kill methods. See the reception was pretty good to the lethals and mains, I don't think I can get as crazy since the rares are pretty much toon-sized but I hope I can make them just disturbing enough!

Blot: This twisted uses its massive hands to overpower a toon, raking its claws within them and making escape a difficult and arduous task. After it has a toon in its grip, it then forces their head into the ichor pool below the arm, causing a slow, drawn-out death via drowning as the claws continue to cause ichor loss.

Flutter: The least dangerous rare twisted, but still undeniably a threat. Flutter first uses its entire body to ram into a toon, knocking them over in order to mount them with its talons. It then attempts to force its sharp tongue into the head of its prey, usually through the eyesocket, though it has been observed penetrating the forehead and the back of the head. Thankfully, a Flutter attack is quite easy to escape from, provided the toon isn't already injured.

Gigi: Using its mutated hand, Gigi first attempts to rid its prey of any tools that could help them escape, partially out of strategy, but mostly due to her kleptomania. After the toon has had their belongings taken, Gigi uses a loose slimy grip to first trip the target, before using its sharp teeth to tear chunks out of them. aiming for important arteries to cause a quicker death. It should be noted that Gigi will sometimes keep parts of its victims, such as their limbs or organs.

Glisten: Sadly, this twisted does not mean to hurt or kill any of its targets. Luckily, that also means the mortality rate for Glisten is quite low. Many deaths from Glisten are accidental, as it tends to accidentally cut victims with its nails or face when attempting to hug them. Most of these slashes are quite benign compared to other twisteds, but Glisten has sometimes been seen slashing the throats of toons, appearing remorseful after doing so.

Goob: Another more remorseful twisted, though much more delusional and dangerous than Glisten. Goob underestimates its own strength, and has a difficult time recognising signs of distress in its prey. After attaching itself to a target, Goob will squeeze them in a crushing embrace, as well as subconsciously biting them. Regrettably, Goob also does not recognise when a target has died, and will continue hugging them for comfort long after their passing.

Scraps: Similarly to Gigi, this twisted first attempts to trip its prey with its tail, but is much more effective and deadly than Gigi as the mouth of its tail ensnares the targeted toon. Once it reaches its wounded target, it uses its sharp claws to tear them apart, causing large gashes in areas such as the chest and head.

- Ganon

Nice brutal additions, thank you for sharing. I hope I tagged these right, I likely shouldn't be answering asks when I should be sleeping. I do not know why, but I assumed twisted Gigi would be one of those "accidental" kills. Where she is trying to steal not just your items, but also YOU. The poor toons she catches just end up crushed and dead. Either managing to be stored away with the other items she stole or tossed away because they can't fit.

[grimoirechallenge2020]

Going to be jumping in on this challenge soon for a new journal I am starting for my death craft. Going to be part witchy and part journey learning not to fear my own eventual demise (sorry if that sounds dark)

Hey! Thanks for submitting this ask, and thanks for participating (or at least planning on it)! I honestly thought that the wording was a little dark in a poetic way, but you don’t have to worry about it scaring people.

I hope you don’t mind, but I am putting a “death” content warning on this ask just to be safe.

Please PM this blog if you have any questions, comments, concerns, or suggestions!

- Aydan Nightshade

[kinsey3furry300]

The Forgotten Disaster of the SS Eastland

A massive ship, an unthinkable tragedy, a chance to make sure the victims of the SS Eastland aren’t lost to time. *Thank you Patron deathlings, who make thes...

Great educational video, recently buried by YouTube and needing more exposure.