#drafty drafts

[garrandia]

in the name of the moon HADES i'll punish you!

Melinoё the Post (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

[onlytavs]

WIP WHENEVER

Thank you, @optimisticgrey! Y'know–I just gotta ask... Do any of us do this on time? 😬

Well... I did begin working on more of Sion's history with The Black Seed, and it so happens to tie him to a certain devil the further back into it we go.

He was lost to the dim corners of his own mind now, where his fears and the specters haunting him bled together until he could no longer tell one from the other. The familiar trap snapped shut around him, and this time he couldn't see any path out of it at all. The dreamscape closed in with its usual cruelty, peeling away every scrap of dignity he'd earned in the waking world until he was small again, fragile, folded into the shape of the orphaned child he had once been. Here, before the druids rituals and before the Black Seed's slow, insidious rot took root in his soul, he was nothing but fear and memory, a trembling echo of the boy who had survived when he was never meant to. Sion's thoughts swirled in fragmented despair, a whirlwind of self-doubt that whispered he had always been this broken, that the connection to the weave he wielded was merely a veneer over the ichorous taint growing within.

In the waking world, Tove sat beside his still body, her worry a tight, burning knot beneath the steady expression she forced herself to wear. His coma had swallowed him whole, dragging him into a depth even his worst nightmares had never reached–a depth that explained why, in his mind, there was no path out at all. His breaths were shallow, his skin cold despite the blankets she'd wrapped around him, and every herbal poultice she pressed to his temples felt like a futile gesture against whatever storm raged behind his closed eyes. She kept working anyway, grinding herbs with trembling fingers, clinging to the motion as if staying busy might keep her from breaking. Tove's heart ached with a fierce protectiveness, her twin bond pulling at her like an invisible thread stretched too thin; she could sense the turmoil in him, a distant echo that made her own chest tighten, reminding her of their shared orphanhood and the druidic oaths that had bound them together against the world's cruelties.

The cavern's firelight flickered across his face, painting him in shifting gold and shadow, and she laced their hands together in a vice hold, as if sheer will alone could anchor him back to her. The distance between them felt wrong in a way she couldn't name, a hollow, echoing space that told her he was wandering somewhere shaped by curses older than either of them, somewhere she could not reach no matter how fiercely she held on. Tove's mind raced with unspoken fears, but the idea of losing her brother is what scared her most. He was the one constant in her life since their upbringing in the druids care–childhood memories flashing like lightning, fueling her resolve to guard him through the night. The silence around them thickened, heavy with the weight of everything she couldn't mend and every breath he struggled to take. All she could do was wait, breath tight in her chest, and hope he found his way back before the darkness decided to keep him this time.

And deep within that darkness, the voices found him.

They surrounded him, soft, broken murmurs and sharp, accusing cries that pierced straight through the fragile shell of who he'd become. They drifted out of the void like memories given shape, each one brushing against him with a familiarity that made his stomach twist, as if the dead themselves remembered him better than he remembered himself. Their grief clung to him like damp cloth, heavy and suffocating, while their fury threaded through the air with the sting of old wounds reopened. Sion folded into himself, pressing his hands over his pointed ears, trying to drown out the sound before it hollowed him out completely, but the voices slipped past every barrier he threw up, seeping into him with the persistence of sorrow that refuses to fade, settling in his bones like a truth he had spent his whole life trying not to hear. His thoughts fractured under their assault, a desperate internal plea for silence warring with the guilt that he deserved this torment, his necromantic affinity twisting the voices into something almost intimate, a reminder of the dead he commanded yet could never fully control.

"The boy with vines can hear us!"

"Please–they hurt me! Let me inside!"

"Tainted thing. You carry our pain–always."

His dream-self broke then, shoulders shaking in great, shuddering waves as sobs tore out of him in jagged pieces. No scream could rise above the voices, no flood of tears could wash their cruelty or their pleas from his skin; they clung to him too tightly, stitched into the very fabric of his being. The air felt suffocating around him, heavy and breathless, as if the void itself were drawing closer with every heartbeat, hungry for the last scraps of his sanity. Shadows pressed in from all sides, not just surrounding him but folding into him, swallowing the fragile boy he'd become all over again. Sion's mind reeled with overwhelming despair, each sob pulling him deeper into self-loathing, the weight of his survival crushing him anew.

And beneath it all, threading through the cacophony like a fragile vine straining toward light, came a soft, aching voice in the distance, one that was childlike and painfully familiar. It wavered at the edges of the void, thin as breath, yet it cut through the storm more sharply than any accusation or request. His own voice, perhaps–from some buried fragment of innocence he'd long since forgotten. The sound trembled with a vulnerability so raw it made the darkness around him shudder. Sion's heart clenched at the sound, a fleeting memory of simpler times surfacing amid the chaos, stirring a longing for the protection he and Tove had once found in each other.

"Don't let them take me," it pleaded, the words quivering with a fear so pure it made his chest seize. The voice tugged at him with desperate insistence, pulling him back toward memories of Tove's arms around him in their childhood. That was a time when innocence still believed, naively, that danger could be held at bay–when the world had not yet taught him how easily the small and the gentle could be taken. The memory clung to him like Tove's tiny hand gripping his sleeve, a reminder of the boy he once was and the boy he had never truly stopped being, no matter how many layers of pain had been stitched over him. In that moment, Sion's thoughts turned inward, a silent cry for the twin bond that had always grounded him, now feeling achingly distant in this isolated torment.

He remained curled in that same forsaken nook of oblivion, knees drawn tight to his chest, forehead pressed against them, fingers clawed over his ears as if he could physically tear the voices out of his skull. But they pressed on, unyielding as their words slipped through bone and blood like cold needles.

"You were meant to die for us!"

"Thief of life–"

"Drowned boy. Drowned boy. Drowned boy."

Each echoed cry struck with the weight of a memory he could not name, and his breaths came in ragged, uneven shudders, blurring the line between choking and weeping. His body felt impossibly small, stripped of every ounce of druidic strength he carried in the waking world, reduced again to the trembling child who had once clung to life by accident rather than design. Sion's mind fractured further, doubts amplifying the voices, his necromantic essence rebelling against him, turning the dead's pleas into a personal indictment of his existence.

Then something shifted.

It was not another voice and not another shadow rising from the void. It was a presence that pulsed through the darkness like a spark coaxed from dying coals, drifting toward him with a slow, deliberate grace that felt older than the dream itself. The moment it touched his shin, he knew exactly what it was.

The warmth gathered into a hand he had felt before, a touch that carried the quiet certainty of something infernal. Long, elegant fingers settled against his skin, smooth and flawless, and untouched by mortal life, their heat sinking into him with a familiarity that made his breath falter. This touch held no judgment; it held recognition, because the one behind it had always known where to find him. Sion's body tensed, a mix of revulsion and reluctant comfort surging through him, the infernal warmth a stark contrast to the cold void, stirring conflicted emotions he dared not name.

His body registered the deepening sensation with a delayed jolt, flinching only after a heartbeat's hesitation, as if his instincts had needed a moment to awaken and send a shock rippling through his bones. His reaction was instinctive, a reflex born of fear and memory colliding as he curled in on himself, unable to bring himself to lift his gaze to the only one who could find him here, in the confines of his own mind. The hand remained where it was, steady and unhurried, its warmth anchoring him in a way that felt both comforting and profoundly wrong. It did not tighten or withdraw. It simply stayed, patient as a creature that had all the time in the world to watch him unravel. The man behind it radiated a calm that contrasted sharply with the storm clawing at Sion's own mind–a calm well-practiced over centuries, deliberate, and intimately familiar. Sion grappled with the intrusion, part of him resenting the devil's inevitable appearance, another part grasping at the stability it offered amid the chaos.

A voice slid into the space between his quivering breaths then, smooth and coaxing, carrying the same infernal warmth as the hand on his knee as it purred, "Ah, my darling boy. Tell me, have you not yet wearied of this self-inflicted torment?"

The words curled around him like smoke, warm and suffocating all at once. Sion's breath caught in his throat with the bitter confirmation of what his trembling body had known from the first touch. Raphael. The devil whose schemes threaded through his life like spider silk, subtle and inescapable. Born of Mephistopheles, the same archdevil who had deceived the Verdant Circle into sealing the Black Seed inside a nameless child. Raphael had been woven into Sion's destiny since the ritual that marked him at five years old–a moment the child would never remember but one the ancient devil had witnessed with ageless clarity. When Sion survived what should have killed him, Mephistopheles took notice, intrigued by the willpower that kept the Seed contained. From that moment on, Raphael had been tasked with cultivating the bond the Hells had not expected a child to endure. His shadow. His undoing. Sion recoiled at the realization, a surge of defiance mingling with exhaustion, the cambion's presence both a threat and an unwelcome lifeline.

Slowly, as if savoring the moment, Raphael knelt before him. Sion felt the shift in the air before he saw it, the faint rustle of fabric, the whisper of infernal power settling into place. When he finally dared to lift his eyes, the devil's form settled before him with the same composed elegance it always carried. The crimson coat draped around him like liquid flame. His dark hair was swept back with flawless precision. His curved horns gleamed with an unholy luster, catching a light that did not exist in this realm.

But it was his eyes that held Sion captive. Those amber depths glowed with a hunger that was patient and ravenous in equal measure, a hunger veiled by infinite restraint, as if Raphael savored the luxury of waiting. The devil regarded him with the quiet delight of a predator who preferred to watch its prey unravel thread by trembling thread. And beneath that hunger lay something far more dangerous: understanding. Raphael did not look at him as a stranger, nor even as a curiosity. He looked at him as something long-observed, long-anticipated, something claimed in a way Sion had never agreed to and could never fully escape. Sion's gaze faltered under that stare, his emotions churning in a blend of resentment, fear... and a treacherous spark of relief at not being as alone in the void as he always felt.

"I did foretell our reunion, did I not?" Raphael's voice dipped lower, intimate as a lover's secret, each syllable brushing against Sion's nerves with practiced precision. "And here you kneel once more in the embrace of darkness, exactly as the stars–or perhaps the Hells–intended." His smile deepened, soft and cruel, the kind that promised both comfort and ruin. "You have worked so diligently to contain that exquisite agony within you, those ceaseless voices clawing at your spirit. And for what purpose? They chase you still, relentless hounds pursuing a weary fox."

His hand lingered on Sion's leg, a point of contact that burned with unnatural warmth, a subtle anchor in the chaos, as if Raphael were reminding him that there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere else he could be. Sion's skin prickled at the touch, his thoughts a desperate tangle of resistance and surrender, the warmth seeping in like a poison he couldn't entirely reject.

"You are aware, of course," he continued, his tone gentle with feigned fondness, like a collector admiring a rare artifact he had waited centuries to acquire, "that I possess the means to silence them eternally. A mere signature upon my contract, and peace could be yours–irrevocable, absolute."

The surrounding darkness constricted at his words, tightening like a noose. The voices surged, their clamor rising to a feverish pitch, drowning out reason, drowning out breath, drowning out everything except the unbearable pressure of being seen–truly seen–by the devil before him. Sion's resolve cracked under the onslaught, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together, the offer dangling like a forbidden fruit amid his suffering.

He lurched ahead, not to lash out in fury or to hurl curses and pleas, but simply to reach. The movement was agonizing in its fragility, a trembling surrender rather than an act of will. His hands pressed into the thickened dark, fingers splaying and clawing for purchase that dissolved beneath him like wet ash. His knees dragged through the viscous void, each inch forward a battle against the dream's suffocating resistance, as though the realm itself sought to keep him folded in despair. His breath hitched in broken, uneven sobs, each one scraping raw against his throat, his chest heaving with the effort of simply existing beneath the weight of the voices and Raphael's gaze. Still he crawled, eyes fixed downward, terrified of what he might see if he dared to look up again–terrified of what he already knew waited there. Sion wrestled with the dual weight of shame and need as he closed that short distance, the act of approaching Raphael feeling like a betrayal of his own strength, yet driven by an overwhelming desperation for solace.

When he finally reached Raphael, his arms rose with a desperate, instinctive urgency, looping around the cambion's waist as though clinging to the last solid thing in a world collapsing around him. His face buried itself into the velvet crimson folds of the devil's coat, the fabric swallowing the heat of his tears before they could fall. He held on with a fervor that bordered on feral, fingers curling into the coat as if loosening his grip would cast him adrift forever. A strangled sound escaped him–not articulate speech, but a raw, fractured exhale of everything he had been holding back. Breath, grief, terror, longing, all tangled into a single trembling whimper that hovered on the edge of a scream.

He voiced no assent, no denial. He merely held fast, as if this infernal figure were the sole unyielding pillar in a reality fracturing from its core, the only thing preventing him from dissolving entirely into the void. Sion's thoughts blurred in the embrace, a fleeting sense of safety warring with the knowledge of Raphael's true nature, his body seeking comfort even as his spirit recoiled.

Raphael stilled at the contact, the anticipated thrill of victory conspicuously absent, his usual dramatic flourishes suspended. No poetic cruelty to forge a deal, no artful contract dangled like bait. There was only the frantic thud of a boy's heartbeat pressed against his abdomen and the muffled struggle against tears–for weeping too loudly summoned peril, drawing a thousand more spectral voices eager for possession, desperate to lease his body for their unresolved cravings, to savor life once more through his veins. Raphael's composure faltered inwardly, a rare flicker of surprise at the unscripted vulnerability, his cambion instincts calculating the unexpected leverage this moment provided.

His hand hovered awkwardly in the air, a rare crack in his impeccable poise, as though he found himself in a role he had never rehearsed. Then, with glacial slowness, he lowered it to rest upon the back of Sion's head, bare fingers threading through auburn hair matted with sweat and the ashen residue of ghostly apparitions. The gesture was hesitant, almost uncertain, as though Raphael himself were unaccustomed to being clung to rather than feared from afar, and the unfamiliarity of it pressed a faint tension into his shoulders. In his thoughts, Raphael pondered the novelty, a mix of irritation and intrigue at this deviation from his planned seduction, the boy's raw need stirring something dormant within him.

A heavy pause enveloped them, thick as the void itself, stretching long enough that even the darkness seemed to hold its breath. Then Raphael exhaled, a sound less like triumph and more akin to veiled disappointment, its target ambiguous–perhaps Sion, perhaps the situation, perhaps even himself. "Poor, forsaken boy," he murmured, his voice attaining an uncharacteristic gentleness. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in that calculating manner, appraising the vulnerability laid bare before him, the way Sion clung as if he were the last tether keeping him from drifting further into oblivion. Raphael's gaze softened fractionally, a subtle shift born of that unrecognized shard of empathy, though he masked it with his eternal poise.

"This was not the culmination I envisioned," he intoned smoothly, the deception slipping from his tongue like honeyed wine. "Not in such… disarray." Sion remained silent, his arms tightening in a vise-like hold, pulling himself flush against Raphael's form as though merging with it could stop him from being severed from his corporeal form. Beneath it all, Raphael's magic thrummed, a sweet, insidious hum just under the skin–tempting, but not yet encroaching, a siren's call held in abeyance, waiting for the slightest crack in Sion's resolve. Sion's body relaxed minutely into the hum, his exhausted mind latching onto the promise it held, even as fear lingered.

"You demand nothing," Raphael pressed on, his words edging toward a snarl, laced with what might have been disgust or intrigue. "Not even liberation. Merely this." His fingers brushed through messy curls once more, deliberate and slow, as though testing the weight of this unexpected dependency. "Mere contact." His tone softened then, curiosity weaving through the oddity of his predicament, this strange, unbidden role thrust upon a lord of deals–a role he had never intended to play, yet could not quite bring himself to reject. Raphael's internal calculations shifted, recognizing the power in this intimacy, his cambion nature adapting to turn vulnerability into opportunity.

Then, softer still–almost tender, Raphael crooned, "Tell me, little ghost... Do you even comprehend your desires any longer?" The question slipped into the space between them like a velvet blade, gentle in tone yet cutting straight through the trembling boy in his arms.

Sion offered no response. His frame quaked with silent sobs in the cambion's reluctant embrace, the moment fraught with profound wrongness, a fracture in the expected script. No bargaining, no defiant protest; only desperate clinging, a raw hunger for touch, for any anchor amid the internal screams and the pervasive sense of his own aberration. His cheek nuzzled deeper into the coat's velvet, inhaling the faint, infernal scent like a drowning man gasping for air, as though the fabric itself might keep him tethered to something real, something solid, something that would not dissolve beneath him like the rest of the dream. His thoughts dissolved into pure sensation, the contact a balm against the isolation, the spiced scent a fleeting comfort, even from such a perilous source.

And Raphael... he grappled with an inexplicable sensation coiling beneath his ribs. Not disgust, precisely. Not arousal, nor simple pleasure. Something else–older, fainter. A shard of recognition that mirrored the hollow voids he himself harbored, buried deep in his cambion heart. The boy's trembling pressed against him like a confession, and Raphael found himself listening to it despite every instinct that told him he should not. This unexpected tenderness unsettled him, a rare intrusion into his calculated existence, prompting a fleeting introspection he quickly suppressed.

"Very well," he conceded at length, his voice regaining its polished cadence, though a faint tremor of something unspoken lingered beneath it. "You have proven an entertaining diversion, little ghost. I shall grant you this eve–a fleeting solace, borrowed from the Hells." The words were smooth, practiced, but lacked their usual venom; they fell more like a ritual than a threat, a concession he had not intended to make.

His crimson coat enveloped them both, a cocoon of opulent silk and latent sin, warding off the chill that seeped through the dreamscape. The gesture was almost protective, though Raphael would never name it as such–and Sion, shuddering in his arms, clung as though it were the only warmth left in a world built of shadows. His body eased slightly into the envelopment, a subconscious acceptance of the respite, his weary spirit grasping at the momentary peace Raphael offered.

The voices receded, not vanquished but muffled, as though spectral hands clamped over ghostly maws. The darkness lingered, but its bite dulled, no longer a ravenous beast tearing at the edges of his mind. For now, Sion breathed–shallow, quivering inhalations, but breaths nonetheless, each one a fragile victory carved out of the void. Relief washed through him in waves, his thoughts quieting for the first time, a profound gratitude mingling with wariness.

Raphael exhaled again, a meticulously measured sound that might have passed for a sigh in a lesser being. Sion pressed against him still, a pale tangle of shivering limbs and unvarnished desperation. There was nothing artful or seductive about it, merely the stark, aching need of someone denied respite for far too long. His grip trembled but did not loosen, as though the cambion's presence were the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the screaming dark.

Raphael gazed downward, taking in Sion's disheveled form: the sacred tattoos, the trembling breath, the way he clung as though Raphael were the only solid thing left in a collapsing world. Something in the sight unsettled him–not pity nor triumph, but a quiet, unwelcome stirring beneath his ribs, a recognition he had no desire to examine. It pressed against him like a memory he did not possess, a phantom ache he could not name, and for a moment he simply stared, caught between instinct and something far older. Raphael's expression softened imperceptibly, his eternal facade cracking just enough to reveal a hint of genuine contemplation.

The devil raised his hand once more, movements fluid as moonlight gliding over a tranquil lake, except this time he didn't tousle russet curls. Instead, he extended two fingers, poised with the precision of a ritualist who had performed this gesture across centuries. With a whisper that scarcely disturbed the air, he recited an infernal incantation laced with ancient power as he pressed the pads of them lightly to Sion's temple.

The touch was feather-soft, yet its impact reverberated like thunder in silence.

The screams ceased abruptly, and the ghosts relinquished their clawing grip on the druid's ribs; the voices of the dead, once a tumult of pleas, rage, and demands, now vanished into oblivion. Sion went slack in his arms, like a puppet whose taut strings had at last been severed, collapsing into merciful limpness. Darkness persisted in the dreamscape–yes. But it no longer writhed with malice, no longer gnawed at the fringes of his consciousness, nor embedded claws in his shoulders or hissed in his ears.

Only profound quiet remained. Sion's mind basked in the silence, a rare tranquility settling over him, his body surrendering fully to the reprieve.

Raphael's eyes flickered with a faint infernal glow, a minuscule smile curving his lips–subtle, satisfied. No contract sealed, no blood oath extracted under duress. Merely a gift, a tantalizing sample of his capabilities, designed to lure the little druid back, the scholar's curiosity, the stubborn resolve, the addict's craving all conspiring to draw him toward the inevitable deal, a lingering echo of what Raphael, and by extension his father, could bestow. Inwardly, Raphael savored the strategic mercy, knowing it would bind Sion more surely than chains.

But for this moment…

"I am not entirely devoid of mercy," Raphael murmured, his voice low as sin whispered in candlelight, "contrary to the tales mortals spin." He shifted gracefully, one leg extending beneath him as he drew Sion into a proper cradle, arms encircling the druid's back and knees, rocking him with gentle, rhythmic motions in the same way one might soothe a fever-racked child or a wounded forest beast–something fragile and trembling that had stumbled into his grasp.

"Sleep, little ghost," Raphael cooed, his thumb sweeping beneath Sion's eye to gather the faint warmth of silent tears, the gesture almost ceremonial in its gentleness. "One night free of the cacophony–no shrieking dead, no rending claws, no terror waiting to wrench you back into waking." His voice slipped through the dreamscape like a velvet incantation, as solemn as the rites he had whispered across centuries. He paused, studying the slackened form in his arms, the fragile quiet he himself had conjured. "And when dawn finds you," he continued, tone dipping into a coaxing purr, "should memory linger… reflect on what further mercies I might yet bestow. What higher form you might ascend to beneath my guidance."

[theartofmining]

mexican households run out of aluminum foil and mfs act like their husband will never return home from war cause he ran off with the mistress

[onlytavs]

ᴡɪᴘ ᴡᴇᴅɴᴇꜱᴅᴀʏ

No longer Wednesday, but thank you, @bladesingerlily ,for tagging me! Have a "fail to do things on time" Friday.

*WIP BELOW THE CUT*

Tagging:

@thecampjuicebox , @bongbubbles , @the-red-drow , @wasteful-sam , and @aoifethephoenixqueen !!!

If y'all wanna join the "fail to do things on time" Friday. 😆

[onlytavs]

THE BLACK SEED

The Black Seed did not retreat. It lingered in the shadowed recesses of Sion's dream, a specter born from the earth's forgotten sins, circling him with deliberate, predatory grace. Its boots sank into the loamy soil, each step a muffled thud that echoed like the settling of dirt over a fresh grave–one that whispered Sion's name in the language of decay.

"They tried to forge you into a cage," it murmured, its voice a silken thread laced with thorns, winding through the air like smoke from a dying fire. "A fragile, child-shaped coffin, bound in bark and hollow prayers, encasing something they lacked the courage to extinguish utterly." Its fingers hovered near Sion's shoulder, tracing invisible patterns in the chill between them–not quite touching, yet close enough to ignite a crawling itch across his skin, as if invisible roots were burrowing just beneath the surface, seeking entry.

"But you grew," it accused, the word slicing through the silence like a blade drawn across taut flesh. There was no forgiveness in that utterance, only a bitter resentment that hung heavy, accusing him of some unspoken crime against its design.

"You were never meant to."

Beneath Sion's flesh, the ivy stirred–a living tattoo of darkness, writhing and coiling like veins poisoned by midnight ink. The tendrils shifted visibly now, bulging against his skin, drawn inexorably toward the Seed as if compelled by an ancient homing instinct, a memory of origin clawing its way back.

"You were never meant to endure this long," the Seed continued, its tone a velvet shroud over sharpened steel. "Never meant to harden into the semblance of a man. Never meant to grasp at choices, to cling to the illusion of freedom." It halted before him, its presence a wall of suffocating shadow, eyes like bottomless wells reflecting Sion's own fractured soul back at him.

"Every breath you draw is a postponement," it stated flatly, devoid of emotion yet brimming with inexorable truth. "Every act of kindness you bestow–an unwelcome intrusion upon my patience."

Its hand extended then, pressing firmly against Sion's chest, right over the frantic drum of his heart. The touch was cold, invasive, like fingers of frost probing for weakness in a thawing corpse. "That ache you harbor," the Seed whispered, its breath a venomous caress against Sion's ear, intimate as a lover's secret yet laced with malice. "The way you yearn to be truly known, to bare your soul and yet endure the revelation?" Its fingers curled inward, digging like claws into fabric and flesh alike. "That is me, probing the frayed edges of your restraint, testing where you might unravel."

A bloom of agony erupted within Sion, searing as some buried force pushed back from deep inside, a desperate rebellion against the intrusion. The pain twisted like roots cracking through stone, spreading tendrils of fire through his veins.

The Seed leaned closer, its face inches from his, voice dropping to a hiss that slithered into his mind like a parasite seeking a host.

"And do you comprehend what will truly shatter you?" Its gaze drifted beyond him, into the encroaching void where shapes began to coalesce from the gloom. "It won't be the grip of fear," it assured, almost tenderly, as if sharing a cherished confidence, locking eyes with him once more, the depths swirling with unholy promise.

"It will be them–the others."

The ground trembled subtly beneath their feet, a subterranean groan as the darkness birthed forms at the periphery of the dream. Silhouettes materialized like ghosts summoned from Sion's fractured past: blurred visages, familiar contours–companions who had once shared his fire, strangers he had pulled from the brink, all those fragile lives he had dared to mend.

The Seed's voice coiled around him now, sinuous and unhurried, like vines ensnaring a crumbling statue. "I seep through you," it confessed with lazy indulgence, as if savoring the inevitability. "Into your hands that heal, your voice that soothes, your magic that binds."

In Sion's chest, the vines pulsed–a rhythmic throb, once, then twice, like a second heart awakening from dormancy.

"Every soul you salvage will carry my echo," it purred. "A whisper of corruption, a taint they can't quite name."

The silhouettes stirred uneasily at first: subtle recoils, hesitant glances, hands withdrawing as if from a flame that burned too strangely. Their forms twisted in discomfort, shadows lengthening as doubt took root.

"They'll sense the rot blooming within," the Seed continued, its smile a slow unfurling of sharpened petals. "And they'll question if it's you–the source of the decay, the hidden blight in their savior." Its grip on Sion's chest constricted, fingers like iron barbs, pulling him inexorably nearer.

"They'll mask it with politeness, of course–careful words, averted eyes, fearing to ignite what simmers beneath."

One by one, the figures began to dissolve, retreating into the swallowing abyss, their absences carving hollows in the dreamscape like wounds that refused to heal.

"When they begin to watch you with wariness instead of faith," the Seed intoned, its certainty a blade pressed to Sion's throat, "when your touch evokes not gratitude but a fleeting shudder–" It pressed its forehead to his, the contact a profane communion, skin to skin, will to will.

"Etch this into your memory," it commanded softly, the words burrowing deep. "You were never destined to walk among them as one of their own–never meant to belong, only to wither in isolation."

The soil stirred then, rising like a living tide, creeping up Sion's legs with glacial inevitability as the cold, clammy fingers of earth clutched at him, heavy as regret, pulling him downward into its embrace.

"And when solitude has hollowed you out," the Seed whispered, its breath a chill wind through barren branches, "when exhaustion has stripped away your last defenses–" Its voice deepened to a vow, resonant with ancient hunger. "I will be what takes root in the ruins of your spirit, blossoming forth to claim this vessel as my own, and stride once more among the living in your form."

The dream fractured then, collapsing inward like a heart ceasing its beat. The final vision etched into Sion's mind was the Seed's mouth shaping silent words, a malediction that needed no sound to pierce.

You should have died.

[onlytavs]

My Greatest Treasure

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

"Should things go south, Celine, ye give this t'Calla, and ye tell her–tell her 'at I never stopped thinkin' o'her," he swallowed hard, the words catching like splinters in his throat. His grip tightened on the letter, on the memory of her in the hope that it might hold to the very end.

"Ye get it t'her and ye watch o'er her fer me. Nae matter whit, aye? Promise me."

Callashi,

If you are reading this, it means I could not keep my promise to come back to you...

But it is a strange comfort, knowing you might one day hold this, even though I cannot be there to see your eyes trace the lines the same way you used to trace the letters in the air with your fingers, mouthing each sound like it was a spell. I remember the sway of the ship beneath us, the salt on your lips as you stumbled through your first common phrases, stubborn and bright-eyed, refusing to let the wind steal your syllables.

And I remember every time you got a word right, you'd look at me like you'd just won a battle.

You did, Calla.

You won me over with every page we read, every word you sounded out, every time you asked me to read it again, slower this time, so you could feel the shape of it on my lips.

You deserved more than I could ever provide...

You deserved more than a man made of ghosts and half-truths.

But for what it's worth, I would have given whatever remained of me to see you safe, and to have one more quiet morning beside you.

So if the world has taken me, then know this...

You were the only part of it I wanted to stay for.

Every step I took beside you was a rebellion against what I am, and I would lose a thousand times over to have had those moments again.

I hope, wherever you are, the sea carries you to gentler shores. I hope that when this letter finds you, you learn to read the words without pain... And when you think of me, don't remember the blades or the running, or the blood between us in our fight for freedom.

Remember the sound of the river the night before it all fell apart—your feet splashing in the water, our first kiss beneath the stars, and the moment we sailed away from it all toward something better. Home.

Remember that I tried.

And above all, remember that you were always my greatest treasure.

My precious Pearl...

– Ren

These beautiful images and Callashi the siren belong to a most wonderful friend: @thecampjuicebox

Thank you for not only letting me post these wholesome images of our babies, but for the ways in which you inspire me, as well as listen to me spitball all my crazy ideas with such grace–even when I think I can be annoying about them sometimes. 😚...😬

[onlytavs]

♫ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʟʟᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏᴏᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴀɪɴᴡᴏʀᴍꜱ ♫

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʀᴇᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢ ʟʏʀɪᴄꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅʀᴀꜰᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ʟʟ ꜰɪᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴢᴜʀɪñᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪

Zuriñe leaned back on her elbows, a sly grin curling her lips as she strummed the first teasing chords on her lute. Her voice rose into the night, mischievous and lilting, carrying through the camp like smoke.

‎♪ "Oh I woke with a squid in me skull, they say,

Tappin' morse code dreams through the gray–

Said 'Take over Faerûn,' I said 'Not today,'

Now I hum to confuse it away!"‎ ♪

Wyll, who had been idly polishing his blade, immediately broke into a grin. He dropped cross-legged to the ground, clapping along to the rhythm as though the song itself had taken hold of him. "Ha! Now that's the spirit!" he said, and hummed along to the tune of her voice, deep and bright as a tavern bell.

‎♪ "So raise up yer tankards and untangle yer hair,

There's a crab in my boot and I just don't care!

The seaweed's a blanket, the barnacles bite,

But I'll dance through the madness till

morning is bright!"‎ ♪

Karlach let out a bark of laughter, eyes crinkling as she slapped her knee. "Gods, you two are ridiculous!" she said, though her foot had already started tapping along. The grin she tried to fight off only grew wider when her eyes landed on Zuriñe's wild twirl, half-stringing her instrument, half-performing for their ragtag group of misfits, her ponytail swinging like a banner of mischief behind her.

With utter delight, Zuriñe rolled her shoulders in a mock shimmy, her next verse delivered with a swaggering slur worthy of any dockside drunk.

♪ "My left blade's drunk, my right one's proud,

They argue in scabbards and hiss way too loud.

A hermit crab's nested where honor once lived,

And my lute smells of trout–but it still gives me riffs!" ♪

She twirled the lute in her hand, pointing it at Astarion with a devilish wink. " SO OI! You try duel-waltzing with a mollusk in your frontal lobe–I dare you to make it look this good!"

Astarion threw his head back with a theatrical "Ha!" and raised his wineskin in mock salute. "Oh, please," he drawled, reclining further on his bedroll. "You wish you looked that good, darling."

From the edge of the firelight, Shadowheart snorted, half trying to hide her smile behind her cup. "You're both insufferable," she murmured, but there was warmth in the words, a quiet fondness she couldn't quite disguise.

Beside her, Gale chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement as he leaned toward her. "Not quite the Weeping Poet of Waterdeep," he murmured, "but considerably more charming."

Zuriñe cackled, spinning back into her tune with a drunken bow and a voice that rose like a storm tide.

♪ "So raise up yer tankards and untangle yer hair,

There's a crab in my boot and I just don't care!

The stars may be twitchy, the voices may lie,

But I'll flirt with the cosmos and spit in its eye!" ♪

That was all the encouragement Wyll needed. With a whoop, he sprang to his feet, hands clapping over his head as he launched into a full-blown jig. The firelight caught the gleam of his smile, and Karlach began laughing so hard she could hardly breathe as she snatched up a pinecone and tossed it at his boots.

"Show-off!" she shouted.

Undeterred, Wyll joined in with Zuriñe's singing, his voice rich and unrestrained, the words rolling out like a promise.

♪ "So if your brain's got squiggles and your boots got guests,

If your heartbeat's a ballad and fate never rests–

Just sway with the rhythm, keep chaos in sight...

And whistle that tune that says you'll win this fight." ♪

Zuriñe ended with a flourish: one leg stretched forward, her lute raised triumphantly overhead as the final note rang through the trees. The sound lingered, a ripple of laughter and melody fading into the hush of the forest.

Karlach was the first to speak, wiping tears from her eyes. "Oh my Gods–that was bloody perfect," she said between chuckles. "Crab in the boot, huh? That one's going in my brain forever. So dumb. I loved it."

Still catching his breath from dancing, Wyll swept into an exaggerated bow. "Madam, your stage presence is wasted on this traveling circus of blades and bad decisions."

Gale tilted his head, smiling. "Whimsical. Just the right amount of lyrical mischief. I'm impressed."

"Well, I think I lost brain cells," Astarion said dryly, though there was unmistakable laughter in his tone. "Which is saying something, considering the squatter currently living in mine."

Shadowheart arched a brow, her ability to contain the curve of her lips failing as the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. "She does have a talent for making near-certain death feel like a tavern game, doesn't she?"

Zuriñe only laughed softly at the newfound camaraderie amongst them, reclining on her elbows again, her grin lazy and content. "That's the idea," she said. "You don't survive this mess by thinking too hard. You survive by dancing through it."

For a while, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and their shared laughter melting into the night, leaving behind a comfortable quiet. Warmth flickered in every face, more than what the flames offered them. It was the kind that came from shared absurdity, from the bruised relief of still being here, still breathing, still surviving together.

Above them, the stars shimmered faintly, restless and strange. And as the camp settled into that fragile peace, Zuriñe began to pluck a softer tune under her breath. Nothing grand, nothing for an audience; just a melody that might turn into another song someday.

A song that might one day be finished.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪

[onlytavs]

WIP WEDNESDAY

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

For once, Rugan let himself feel it. Not just the heat of her foot pressed against his, not just the thrill of beating them at their own table. But the quiet knowledge that she was with him. Playing the game, yes–but playing it for them.

And in that, he found his strength.

Thevren stared at the winning hand for half a beat, brows raised, before his grin cracked wide. He barked out a laugh and slapped the table twice, the sound sharp enough to rattle the bowls. "By th'gods, Rugan! Ye sly bastard."

His arm slid free of Celine's shoulders, his grin only widening as he clapped Rugan on the back with a sting that carried both camaraderie and approval. "Well played." Another sharp clap, and then he rose in a single fluid motion, snapping his fingers at the crew gathered by the galley. "This calls for better drink!" he declared, already striding off toward the stores below deck.

The air shifted in his absence. The boisterous shield he had provided Rugan and Celine seemed to vanish with him, leaving silence thick enough to choke.

Celine didn't move her foot from Rugan's, though. If anything, the pressure grew with the subtle flex of her ankle tracing along his boot in deliberate reassurance. She leaned forward, chin resting on her hand, the lamplight glinting off the faint stain of red wine on her lips. Her expression was perfectly schooled into lazy disinterest, the picture of a woman amused by the evening's entertainment and nothing more.

But Rugan felt it. Every slow press of her foot against his beneath the table was their shared secret.

And Zarys looked anything but amused. Her eyes were narrowed, her cards neatly stacked and abandoned on the table, her posture angled towards them like a blade not yet drawn. When Rugan reached out to collect his winnings–small, pitiful coins in the grand scheme of things–her voice cut through the hush.

"Funny," she said, each syllable that cut through the quiet was coated in silk but sharp enough to draw blood. "Y'know, I can't decide what surprises me more–that you actually won a hand, or that you seem to have forgotten which side you're playing for these days."

Rugan's fingers tightened around the coins, then he set them down again slowly, with a growing disinterest in the old woven pouch as it clinked on the tabletop. His scar twitched where his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Careful, Zarys," he warned.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence where their eyes met. "Careful? I only meant that men with old loyalties tend to grow… sloppy when they find new distractions. And you, Rugan, have been very distracted of late." Her eyes cut pointedly toward Celine, then back to him, her mouth curving faintly. "Do remind me where your loyalties lie. With the Zhentarim? Or elsewhere?"

The words struck like a knife. Passive enough to pass as banter, crude enough to humiliate, and barbed enough to test him. Rugan's jaw flexed; the lines of tension pinched his entire face into a mask of pure displeasure, and his throat tightened to keep the words he wanted to spit down.

Before the dam broke, Celine's voice slipped in. Smooth as silk. "Oh, how droll," she said lightly, her smile untouched, her gaze resting on Zarys with a serene calm that was anything but passive. "One might think, from the way you speak, that the Zhentarim's strength is so fragile it can be undone by a card game and conversation." She tilted her head faintly, the picture of noble poise. "Surely it isn't."

Zarys's eyes narrowed further, irritation flaring. "You speak boldly for someone whose leash I can still see."

Celine's smile didn't falter, though Rugan saw the way her shoulders stiffened. She lifted her chin despite the barb meant to rile her.

"Yes, and yet here I am, sitting at your table, playing your games, eating your disgusting food. Imagine that."

𓂁﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏﹏𓊝﹏𓂁

Thanks, @bladesingerlily ! I actually managed to do the WIP Wdnesday on time for once. 😅

Tag, you're it!

@optimisticgrey , @wild-surge , @the-red-drow , and @window-on-the-west