#dmagedtexts

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 22: Relaxation - A Day on the Beach

The sun stood high over the Inner Sea, scattering gold across the waves like coins from some indulgent deity. Salvadore stood waist-deep in the water, arms crossed as he watched Mesclavete and Daeran debate over a seashell like children.

"It looks like a crown, don’t you think? The sea delivered it unto me, clearly recognizing my divine right."

Mesclavete huffed and splashed water towards Daeran, who loudly protested. “Hey, I said I wouldn’t get my hair wet!”

“Fabulous sea god you are.”

Daeran laughed, Salvadore grinned.  “You are behaving like boys. Do I need to separate you?”

"You would miss the entertainment," Daeran purred, stepping close to him and placing a wet, salty kiss on his lips.

“I married two disasters. I’m entertained plenty at all times.”

Mesclavete collapsed backward into the water with a dramatic groan and closed his eyes, floating towards them like a martyr under the sun.

Daeran watched him with tender admiration and placed the seashell on his chest. “There, maybe you were the chosen deity of this ocean all along.”

“No doubt about that,” Salvadore commented, warmth vibrating in his voice. “Well, you know,” he continued the conversation, “I could get used to this every once in a while. No meetings, no paperwork. Just sun, water, and the two of you.”

Mesclavete opened his eyes and smiled up at him. “Yes. It feels good to let the tide carry us. Just for a while.”

Later, they ended the day stretched out in the sand – Salvadore reading, Daeran half-dozing to the sound of the waves, and Mesclavete watching the steady movements of the sea – with their hearts quietly at ease.

They deserve some rest. (Mesclavete belongs to @tentiebear.) @owlcatober Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 13: Drinks - Not Another Drinking Contest

What had begun as a simple tease now quickly devolved into a spectacle between Daeran’s enthusiasm for his doomed idea and Salvadore’s supernatural indifference towards milder forms of poison.

The table was littered with half-empty glasses and uncorked bottles, the remains of Mesclavete’s meticulous cocktail craftsmanship. He stood nearby, sleeves rolled up, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Another round,” Daeran declared, voice slurred, but his eyes glistened with stubborn defiance. “If I’m going down, I’m going down in glory.”

Salvadore didn’t even smirk. He lounged like a sculpture in his chair, posture perfect, not a single strand of hair out of place. A half-full glass dangled elegantly from his fingers while his movements remained untouched by intoxication.

“Entertaining, yet foolish,” Salvadore said smoothly. With an elegant motion, he emptied his drink. “You’ve been slurring since glass four. This is eight.” 

An affirming hum left Mesclavete's lips. “Heavens know why you expect this attempt to go differently than the last one did. – Or the one before, for that matter. The alcohol doesn’t affect him.”

Daeran shot him a look, then raised a finger. “That is entirely incorrect, I assure you, my dear Mesclavetty. He is only half a vampire and therefore only half as immune to the effects of your delicious drinks. Now! Make the next one stronger! Put something vile in it. Burn me from the inside out if you have to. I won’t be bested by this stuck-up do-gooder.”

Mesclavete hesitated, not convinced in the slightest. “Daeran, if he is half-immune, he is still fifty percent more immune than you.”

Daeran leaned closer, eyes glassy. “We will see about that!”

Letting out a long sigh, Mesclavete relented. “Fine. But if you pass out, I’m not carrying you again.” He turned to the bottles like a man preparing a battle plan.

As he mixed, Salvadore watched silently, expression unreadable. “You’re indulging him.”

“He's hard to resist,” Mesclavete said without looking up, pouring a brilliant, ominous liquid into two fresh glasses he gave to his partners.

Daeran grinned, proudly lifting the new concoction. “I am indeed! To victory!”

Salvadore raised his glass with the faintest curl of a smile. “To inevitability.”

Well, what can I say, the day will come where Daeran finds a way to beat him. But it's not that day. 😂 Mix is @tentiebear's. ❤ @owlcatober Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 25: Inheritance - Musings of an Ending Day

Salvadore rarely spoke of his blood – not out of shame, but out of contempt. The truth of his origin clung to him like the scent of ash, always just beneath the pristine white of his uniforms, beneath the titles and accolades. He was a dhampir. – Not by choice. Not even by fault. A nameless vampire had marked his fate before he ever drew breath, sinking fangs into his mother while she had carried him in her womb.

He had asked once – only once – who it had been. His mother had refused to answer. Her silence was not grief. It was bitterness. He had never figured out who her resentment was directed at. His father for his frigid cruelty? His brother and him, because they chained her to him more tightly? The unknown vampire she refused to talk about? The word as a whole for the life she despised?

Salvadore wondered and had wondered many times:

What did it mean to inherit such a legacy? Blood that would burn under the sun if he leaned into this nature fully, claws and teeth meant to kill, and a hunger that would consume him if he’d allow it any power over him.

Even now, he could feel it sometimes, among those not knowing him as The Knight Commander. They all saw it. Not the man he had become, but the monster he might be.

And yet, Salvadore chose the light. Again, and again, and again.

He clung to righteousness like a shield. Strict in judgment. Proud of discipline. Arrogant, some whispered, because he believed nobility had to be earned, and was not something to be born with. He ruled his emotions like he would a kingdom – with control and self-assurance.

But in the dark, when no one watched, the question still crept closer.

Was he defying his heritage – or merely delaying it?

No.

His path might have begun in darkness, but he had chosen to be more.

The blood in his veins did not define him. It was his will that forged his destiny.

A dhampir in the sun. ☀ @owlcatober Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 23: Voice - Distractions

Salvadore’s voice echoed through the war room like a blade drawn from a gilded scabbard – sharp, clean, meant to be obeyed. He spoke with commanding certainty; his tone never rose in anger. It didn’t need to. His calm was a threat all its own, as was the quiet, absolute confidence that made everyone stand straighter and feel just a little more exposed in his presence.

“We take Drezen at dawn,” he ended his speech, “No compromises. No delays. If the demons don’t fear us yet, they will by morning. Let them come with claws and curses. Let them believe their chaos gives them power. We will answer with precision, with unity, with a will so sharp it cuts before the sword is drawn.”

Mix leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, but his gaze was fixed – no, pinned – to Salvadore. That voice. It was always like this. Every order, every pointed demand spoken with that perfect, deliberate articulation stirred something dangerously warm in his belly and … deeper.

Beside him, Daeran exhaled a slow, pleased breath.

“Oh, he does know how to make a threat sound like foreplay,” the Count murmured, lips curling in a lazy, wicked smile. “Tell me I’m not the only one who heard that last sentence and thought of something far more fun than demon-slaying.”

Mix didn’t answer at first. He was too busy imagining Salvadore’s voice in private, stripping command from him the same way he stripped command from others, just in a much more intimate way. The precision, the conceit …

“Bastard’s addicted to the sound of his own control.”

“Mm. And you aren’t?” Daeran replied, voice husky, conspiratorial. “Do you think he’s aware we’re barely listening to the tactics?”

“I’m listening,” Mix said, stiffly.

“Liar.”

At the table, Salvadore glanced over his shoulder. “Are you two finished?”

Mix tensed; Daeran merely huffed and gave him a smirk. “Barely started.”

“We are,” Mix corrected him fast. It was impossible that Salvadore had heard the content of their quiet exchange. Still, a blush crept over his cheeks.

Salvadore left it at that, turned back to the map, and dismissed the soldiers to rest before the coming assault.

Once more, Daeran leaned in, whispering even quieter now, his breath tickling his ear: “Oh, you must share your daydreams with me. – Him ordering you to kneel? Or maybe he is commenting on the quite desperate state you’re in …” His gaze flicked downwards.

“Shut it!” Flustered and trying to hide his embarrassment, Mix turned his face away: “You should get some rest, too. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Daeran looked far too self-satisfied. “And rest I shall, be assured, my dear.”

These two absolutely do not have a voice kink, clearly. 😂 Mesclavete belongs to @tentiebear. ❤️ @owlcatober Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 8: Promise / Bargain - Side by Side

Quietness had set in. For once, there were no howls of demons, no clashing steel, only the breath between battles and the crackling of the campfire in the center of the war-torn encampment.

The day's fighting had been brutal, but the night was calm, and the soldiers started to relax in this rare, fragile peace between the enemy’s attacks.

Mesclavete, however, sat with his back straight, his gaze distant as he stared into the flames. The tension in his jaw betrayed the storm brewing inside his mind. “If anything happens, if this war takes a turn, know this,” he said suddenly, voice low but firm. “I will protect you both. No matter the cost.”

Salvadore arched a brow. He had been polishing his gauntlet with deliberate grace and now looked up, soft amusement playing across his lips. “Oh?”

“I’m serious,” Mesclavete said, determination heavy in his tone. Yet, Salvadore knew him too well. Underneath the firm resolve, he recognized vulnerability, giving away his fear.

“You and Daeran are everything,” Mesclavete continued, “I don’t care if the world burns behind me. I’ll hold the line. I’ll bleed for you.”

From his bedroll nearby, Daeran raised his head. “I’m the last to complain about such a gracious offer, but isn’t that a touch melodramatic?”

Mesclavete huffed. “I mean it.”

Salvadore set down his gauntlet and searched Mesclavete’s gaze, not with disapproval, but with quiet fondness. “You will do nothing of that sort,” he corrected gently, rising to his feet and crossing the space between them, to sit closer to his concerned lover. “I am the protector. I swore it when we took command. And I would slay the gods themselves before I let anything happen to you.”

“Blasphemy and hubris, I’m quite pleased with tonight’s entertainment,” Daeran commented.

Mesclavete blinked, startled by the softness in Salvadore’s voice and the way his hand settled on his shoulder – firm, reassuring.

“You don’t always have to be the shield,” Salvadore murmured. “It’s all right to rest. With us, you can rest.”

Mesclavete swallowed, tension draining from his posture. Daeran smiled faintly, watching them both, for once choosing silence.

They would have each other’s backs. And he would make sure – with all he got – that no harm would befall them.

Dramatic, each one of them. 😂 Mesclavete is @tentiebear's. :3 @owlcatober 💕 Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 2: Ascent - Musings of a Dawning Day

The recently crowned King of Mendev and Primarch of the Wounded Lands stood upon his palace balcony, the white of his uniform pristine and unblemished, a silent testament to his control. – Over the battlefield, over his image, and over the blood he never let get close.

Salvadore looked out over the war-weary city of Drezen – his city –, in all its potential. Where others saw scars left by decades of bloodshed, he saw foundations for an empire. He had saved this land. Now he would shape it.

The gods had watched him seal the Worldwound with his own hand. He had defied demon lords, led armies, made pacts with powers celestial and demonic alike. And while others trembled at such choices, he had embraced them.

For now, and for decades to come, he would attend to his prize: The chance to build, the chance to create a kingdom of light for all those willing to follow him.

And then, one day in a faraway future, well …

He spoke little of it to his advisors, even the closest of them, but the Test of the Starstone called to him like a blade to its scabbard. He did not seek divinity for vanity – though pride burned hot in his chest –, but because he believed the world needed better gods. Gods who acted. Gods who protected. Gods who earned their worship. He had walked through the Abyss, and no divine hand reached to guide him. He had been his own salvation.

One day, he would face the Starstone. He would pass its trials, not as a supplicant, but as a conqueror. – Led by his visions of peace and progress greater than most dared to dream of, visions of prosperity and justice. He would forge them with his own hands, and no one – not man, nor devil, nor deity – would stand in his way.

Where do you get your confidence, Salvadore, and can I have some. 😂 @owlcatober Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 16: Affecton - Two Little Heartbeats

Salvadore sat in the waning afternoon light that streamed through the lofty windows of the palace. The day was cold, as many days in Drezen, and the chill lingered even within its halls. His partners had departed on a brief mission beyond the city and would not return until just before dawn. In their absence, Salvadore immersed himself in correspondence, official reports, and the occasional diplomatic audience. For hours, the quiet scratch of his quill marked the passage of time, yet his gaze repeatedly strayed from the parchment before him to the unruly skirmish unfolding at his side:

Two feline guests tumbled across the thick carpet. The calico had accompanied him from Kenabres – and now apparently brought a friend.

Daeran, as he had named it – after all, it was the true winner of the count’s lookalike contest –, darted forward with grace and mischievous glee, a streak of orange, black, and white. Amusement crossed Salvadore’s features at its theatrical flair and became a full smirk when the new arrival – a grey cat with silken soft fur – met the challenge with narrowed eyes and a patient, deliberate swat, its movements precise and practiced, like a veteran ranger controlling a battlefield.

The calico reared back, made a show of indignation, then flopped dramatically onto its side. The grey cat did not pounce; it simply padded over, circled the other feline twice with a little huff, then curled neatly beside it.

They both looked up at him for a moment, wide eyes unblinking. Daeran gave a chirrup, as if offering commentary. The grey merely blinked slowly, a prideful sign of affection.

Salvadore chuckled.

“You remind me of someone, too,” he murmured towards the visitor, studying the tiny grey warrior. “Ever watchful. Always ready to strike. – Dramatic and intense, but gods help anyone who dares threaten what is yours.” He would name it Mix.

The cats yawned almost in unison. A moment later, they were nestled side by side, dozing peacefully near the fireplace.

The Knight Commander returned to his notes, a subtle warmth in his chest. For now, there was peace – however brief – and love, in two quiet heartbeats curled beside each other and granting him company.

🐈💕 Mesclavete belongs to @tentiebear. :3 @owlcatober Previous post in the series

[dmagedgoods]

Owlcatober 2025: The Mythic and the Mundane

Day 26: Navigation - Moving in Circles

The wind howled over the desolate terrain of the Worldwound, carrying red dust and the occasional bone fragment. Twilight fell from a bruised sky, casting long shadows across the broken land.

Salvadore stood at the front of the party, his blue cloak still mostly untouched by the grime of their journey, the map unfurled in his gauntleted hands. He studied it in silence. – Again. His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed.

"We should've reached the ridge two hours ago," Mesclavete said near a half-collapsed obelisk. The way the corner of his mouth twitched upwards made Salvadore tense even further. "But here we are. Still circling what I’m fairly certain is the same demon-blasted rock we passed thrice."

"I don’t make mistakes," Salvadore answered firmly, without looking up. “There must be an anomaly, something corrupting the landmarks.”

"Of course," Mesclavete replied, amusement sparking in his eyes. "The land is wrong. Not the man reading the map."

Woljif snorted. “Hey, I ain’t the expert, but when the guy who brags about being able to navigate blindfolded starts leading us in circles, maybe he needs a break.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Salvadore muttered.

Regill, standing ramrod-straight, glanced around the terrain with sharp attention. “The commander’s misjudgment is unfortunate. We should reorient based on celestial position. Efficient. Unlike this.”

“Ah yes,” Daeran chimed in, brushing dust from his sleeve that wasn’t there. “For that dear Salvadore would need to admit that we are lost.”

Salvadore gritted his teeth. “We are not lost.”

With a grin, Mesclavete tilted his head. “Then lead on, Commander. Perhaps this time toward salvation instead of another scenic tour along the same three rocks.”

The others chuckled while the map rustled dangerously in Salvadore’s grip.

Salvadore doesn't make mistakes, and he is never wrong. 😌 Mesclavete belongs to @tentiebear. ❤️ @owlcatober 💕 Previous post in the series