seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from Venezuela
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Nepal
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Italy
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
Drafts 2
Summary: Viper's concept has went through a number of changes, though I'm not sure if I want to keep this version where he was once a revenge driven man that ends up corrupted by the seemingly normal Reader. Also some world building regarding an idea I had in mind about a giant snake that's been cut into two, so you have the Headless Snake and the Bodiless Snake, both giving some kind of boon depending on the part you find.
Would anyone believe you if you said that this man before you used to be upstanding? That he used to focus entirely on the justice of his revenge rather than relish in the violence of it all. Before, it was never his calling. You remember the way his eyes would lose all their shine every time his hands became dotted or soaked in blood.
It didn't matter if it was his or someone else, everything about him would just stop the moment the last breathe was taken. He'd be paused in the moment, lost in the mess of his own mind. Eventually he would pull himself back, for his goal was never truly done.
Viper rarely used to smile too. Before, he was the type of man that would dress up to the nines and carry around perfume just to give himself that little extra boost. In the early days that you knew him, you remember the mess that he was. Unshaven, white hair oily in all his unwashed glory, a hoodie that's been hand-washed so roughly that it was fraying at the seems.
He was a mess. A mess that cared for nothing but the search of his next target.
You never got the details of what exactly he was after. From all the words he grumbled at you over the flask, you just got that he was after something. A potent anger, a white hot core that's been pulsing in his heart long enough to push all thoughts of a happy future out.
This man was on a path that would only end in his death. Even when his quest for revenge was finished, you were more than sure that he would simply vanish. One day, you'd just open his apartment door and find the whole place empty of anything, even dust.
Like he didn't want to be found. As if he wanted to truly disappear from the world and be forgotten.
Honestly, the world that Viper belonged in wasn't one you ever expected to touch, let alone reach inside. A life of blood, of entanglements that all lead to a vicious fight of control and obedience. Assassinations, families ties stronger than any steel, and betrayals that seek to sever these ties.
All of it, on a hierarchy build around the potency of the Headless Snake’s blood.
Ah, you don't really care for the details. All you know is that Viper is alone because of betrayal. The life he was building, all of it came crumbling down in a single family gathering.
So then, why are you here? Why did you take an interest in a man that, by all means, has nothing to do with you?
Because you lead an interesting life of your own. Because you've seen atrocity after atrocity lay waste to the place you once called home.
And what you saw in that forest, when you saw those bodies and Viper bleeding into the graves he was digging, you were reminded of home.
You had found your sacrifice.
Draft 6
Summary: You wanted to see how Alban looked under the mask. He has... mixed feelings about it, more positive than he'd like to admit. Loneliness really makes one crave contact, doesn't it?
“It’s not as cold here,” you commented as you lay on your stomach, swinging your legs back and forth while you stared at the mask covering Alban’s face, “You can take that off. I’m sure you won’t catch anything. I won’t tell anyone what you look like under there too, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Alban wanted to turn around, hide away from your eyes that never seemed to lose their intensity no matter what happens. He supposes that’s just the power of insatiable curiosity.
He sighed.
“Nothing like that,” it was more for the cold than anything, but still, “it just feels… weird not to have it on. Strangely naked, I suppose.”
“Oh, alright,” you shrugged your shoulders and deflated against the sleeping bag, not even bothering to get inside it. Not as if you need it, but Alban insisted.
“…I can take it off for a bit, if that’s what you want.” He felt bad, quite honestly. Besides, it should be harmless, to just let you have a small peek. To put a name to a face, so to speak. Yeah, that’s it. Just for your sake and nothing more.
“Oh,” you perked right up with interest, “then, can I take it off for you?”
“What?” Huh? Wait, why?
“I just want to hold your face,” you sat up, brushing the dust off your pants, “it looks like such a nice shape.”
“I,” well, that’s… well. “I guess?”
“Thank you.” And with that, you rushed forward and practically tackled him down.
“Uh,” and, of course, words would be caught in his throat, “um.”
“Hold still, I need to figure out how this thing works,” you said so lightly, as if you didn’t have him trapped under your weight.
And Alban hated himself for how dry his mouth got. For how much… fun this kind of was. Ah, was he really so desperate for human touch that he’s willing to let himself be pinned down for it?
You brushed your fingers against the back of his exposed neck, his skin broke out into goosebumps and Alban thought, Yes, yes I am.
Draft 4
Summary: On the final layer of this frozen lab where no living creature should be, Alban encounters you as you step through the doors, untouched by the temperatures.
(Was playing Cataclysm: Dark Days Ahead and got struck with this little scene. Not complete, obviously, but I got over 800 words out, so I consider that a win! If this was to be a whole short story, it probably be about the Reader counting out how many promises where broken while in that final floor lab cell, and Alban basically being the one to carry the torch of those broken promises, even though the one who made said promises was the same person that gave his little sibling a horrible fate. Reader is not Alban's sibling by the way, but said sibling was involved in Reader's creation. I think.)
And out of the mist, in slow and leisurely steps, came you. Untouched by the frost that covers the walls, you pace through with only an over-sized lab coat to keep you warm.
He raised his gun, because what was he supposed to do when someone seemingly immune to this freezer of a lab pads out of the yawning jaws of wretched open iron doors? Everything that Alban has encountered down here hasn’t been human, why would he start to believe that you were suddenly the exception?
However, he didn’t shoot. When you’re in the lonely hellscape of a world for as long as he has, one can’t help but want to grasp at that small chance of another intelligent being. Someone to talk to and just, have a reminder that one’s not alone. A stupid desire, but it stayed his fingers either way.
“You’re…” and you spoke first, ignoring everything for the sake of focusing on his face, as though that was more interesting than the possibility that your body will be filled with bullets, “You’re not a face I recognize. Are you new? Do you know where everybody went?”
The ease in your tone spoke of confidence in one’s safety. You don’t think he’s a danger to you. And with all the creatures and undead Alban has found, trapped and killed, he probably wasn’t. If a battle broke out, he’d probably be lucky to even keep his torso.
…then, let’s talk. Distract and, perhaps, have a comrade. Or at least a neutral acquaintance.
“I don’t know,” Alban lowered his aim but never put his weapon away. Instead, he pointed to the curled back doors behind you, layer upon layers of metal bent by some unfathomable force. “Did you do that?”
“Hmm?” You turned back and looked around, peering into the darkness before landing on the doors, “Oh. Yes, I did. The power went out a bit ago, so I had to tear my way through. Am I in trouble?”
The look of guilt was gentle, almost afraid. His younger sibling gave him a look like that once, when they scribbled over the carpet with permanent marker. They didn’t know it was a bitch to wash out, in much the same way that you probably didn’t know that you’re not supposed to be tearing doors.
It’s… uncomfortable. Here he is, in a lab that got colder and colder with every sub-floor Alban entered, like whatever these bastards had they wanted to preserve in ice.
“What?” Because what else was he supposed to say?
“Sorry,” you rubbed the back of your neck, “Here, let me see if I can fix them. I didn’t let anyone out, I promise. I was just hungry.”
“Uh, wait wait, you uh,” this was dumb, he shouldn’t be doing this, he should be running, but he’s been alone for too long and dammit, he wanted to know more, “if you’re hungry, then here,” he dug out a protein bar, half-frozen and nearly impossible to bite through, “I got this.”
He’s got more, just in case. It’s a day over it’s expiration date but he’s sure it won’t kill you or anyone. He thinks. He’s not sure. Either way, starving, it’s not a way anyone should go, monster or otherwise. It was something those little kids shouldn’t have experienced.
You perked up with interest and, as much as he’d hate to say it, the innocence–the delicately and deliberately cultivated innocence–was disarming. It felt normal, and for a moment, Alban wasn’t living in a world that was ravaged by a splintering reality. In a world where ice doesn’t flow from the all-consuming black eye in the sky and humans don’t freeze over and break out of their shells as nightmare-ish creatures.
Here, it just felt like Alban encountered a strange person that needed a helping hand as much as he did.
You grabbed it in both hands, your likely stolen lab coat falling from your shoulders, leaving you in a stiff and dirty hospital gown reserved for all lab rats. The ice didn’t affect you, not a single part of you was even dusted in crystals, but even so, Alban dug into his backpack and pulled out a spare parka.
He draped it over your shoulders just as you bit into the bar, bits of it splintering right onto the floor.
“Thank you,” you said after swallowing, wiping at your mouth, “So, who are you, really?”
“Nobody important,” at least not to this lab. He doesn’t know much of this place, and he doubts this lab ever knew of his existence beyond just a name in a family tree. “Just a stranger to this place. My name’s Alban, and I’m just here to find out something.”
A trail of never ending papers and entries, of constant transfers from lab to hospital to another lab, and finally, here. A layers deep laboratory known more as a sarcophagus, a crypt. A place for unstable, and unusable waste.
His sibling was taken here, that’s all Alban knows.
Draft 3
Summary: You bring in a new guest that you probably should've left for dead in the ditch he put himself in. Oh well, he seems interesting enough, despite his clear exhaustion. At least you can help him bathe.
(Honestly still don't know if I want to stick with this concept of Viper. I like miserable men that's for sure. Viper is such a sourpuss in my mind, especially before his inevitable corruption at the hands of the Reader who may or may not be connected to the family tragedy that kickstarted Viper's need for revenge.)
“Hmm, you're not pushing me away,” you noted as you sprayed a small cut on his arm, watching the blood and muddy muck flow right down, “Didn't take you for someone that would be calm in good company.”
Or any company for that matter. When you pulled his arm over your shoulder, you were pretty much expecting him to fight you until he passed out. Would've let him too, just so you could drag him to a dry place all the easier. But no. You offered a helping hand and he didn't reject. He didn't accept either but the lack of resistance was enough. You're not one to take no for an answer
“It doesn't matter,” he wasn't even watching you. In fact, he hasn't looked at your eyes since you dragged him in here in your small little house you inherited. Just kept dazing off, gaze landing on any corner of the room, not quite here, “I got enough of 'em.”
And he sounded sleepy too.
“Heyo, wake up,” you tapped at his shoulder and he jolted, sloshing the water right over the rim of the tub and onto your bare feet, “Don't fall asleep. I want to talk. Who's them? The corpses?”
“Rats, vultures, the lot of them,” his words were slurring and he sunk deeper into the warm bath. You should probably get him out of here soon, but you'd like for him to be clean before you leave him be on your freshly washed sheets. Infections are nasty, festering on the aging of waste and grime. “Didn't get them all, but I got enough. Enough, enough… I'm enough, and I'm tired.”
Sounds like quite the long hunt. And exhausting, to place your self worth on whatever vengeance journey he’s on.
“Alrighty alrighy, lot of carrion feasting I see,” you washed the bubbles out of his white hair, “though, you might want to stop with the dramatics, you're not dying yet. I mean, look down.”
He already was so all it took was a movement of the eyes.
“…it's gone,” there was no shock, simply disappointment. Only then did he finally slide his attention to you, “You…”
“Yup, that big ol hole is gone now,” you grabbed your pot, scooped up some scarlet water and pour it over the rest of his now clean injuries. They sealed over just like that. The benefits of one who was swallowed a drop of the Headless Snake's blood, “Sorry if you wanted to die in that ditch over there. It's too bad that you were doing all that while I was on my walks.”
You don't live close but you lived close by enough.
Leaning off his arm, the man pressed his fingers into his now solid stomach in the water. His lips pulled back, teeth grinding against one another. He slammed his fist into your bathroom wall, shattering the tiles into shards and fine powder.
You dropped your pot, seized his jaw and yanked him to face you properly. His eyes widened and his hand lashed out and grabbed your neck. The muscles in his palm twitched, as though about to squeeze, but like him, your expression didn't change.
As you both glared at one another, you spoke.
“I placed each and every one of those tiles in this bathroom by hand, stranger,” it was a personal project you did out of pure enjoyment. Hours upon hours of effort, and he had the gall to smash it in front of your face like you'll just stay there and watch, “This house is precious to me, left behind by people no longer here, dead and gone. If you're going to hit anything, hit yourself. At least those bruises will take minutes to heal from.”
The shower head dripped. The fog of humidity passed around the both of you as it floated out the water. Both of your breathes were mixing with one another.
“Don't go ruining what little I have left,” your words sparked something in him, because you saw his eyes finally look away.
He let go and let his hands sink into the water. He was his dour self once more, all hunched to the side, eyes clouding over in the air of grayness he had around him.
There we go. Now you can continue.
Draft 5
Summary: You lead Alban around the facility you escaped from, all to sate your curiosity. It seems you know something about his sibling that he's been looking for.
(Funnily enough I'm in a yandere mood but I don't know what concept to go for. Anybody want to toss one in the inbox and see what character I make out of said concept? Something like "yandere next door neighbor who peers through secretly installed cameras," or whatever. I need to feed this boredom!)
“You’re not cold?” He’s been meaning to ask but, frankly, he was distracted by a number of other things. Now that you and he are here, in this strange lull of the deepest reaches of this abandoned lab, walking further and further in for answers, Alban thought may as well ask.
“Not at all,” and it was clearly not a lie, with the ease you walked about the ice-cold room, “it be weird if I was. It would mean that there’s something wrong with me. So no, I’m not cold.”
…right, right, you’re highly likely a patient here. A weird one. One that should’ve been in a different lab and yet, you’re here. Too dangerous perhaps? Too… odd to have any definitive and useful results?
But resisting ice at all should be something of a miracle. But then again, perhaps they can’t replicate that in anyone but you. Alban guesses that would be enough to get you sent to the crypt.
“So why do you have that lab coat? If you’re not cold?”
You have it tucked right under your arm, like it was luggage.
“Because it’s my aunt’s favorite coat. She said, ‘You can have everything if I drop dead.’ So it’s mine now.”
Oh. Huh.
“If?” ‘If’ and not ‘when?’
“You could cut off her head and she’d just regrow her body. I would know, I did that.”
Ah, of course. If one can practically live forever, he supposes it’s only natural these scientists would take it. Or, at least this particular one that he’s suspecting you didn’t like very much.
“…so, she’s dead now, I take it? How?” He tore a paper, but luckily, it wasn’t anything important.
“The frost got to her. Now she’s just a rolling head monster. I stuffed her down the toilet.”
That’s… an image. Ow.
“You… didn’t like her very much, did you?” Alban can practically imagine you crushing that head, cracking the skull just to make it easier to stuff down the pipes. It’s… an image.
“She played a lot of tricks on me. She takes my things, promises to give them back, and then never does. ‘I lost them,’ or ‘that’s just how it is,’ or even ‘that never belonged to you to begin with.’ It was irritating.”
Ah, you know what, that’s fair.
“Sounds less like tricks and more straight up lies,” Alban mumbled, kneeling down to shift through a pile of papers. Unfortunately they were stuck together, impossible to peel off with the freezing temperatures rendering the paper fragile. “Was that your life here?”
“One part of many. When I woke up, it was a happy time. Lot of parties, lot of celebrations just for the small things like eating and talking. I liked that, watching people smile.” Alban heard shifting in the back before your footsteps stopped right behind him, “So, I’m wondering, what will it take to make you smile?”
“You can’t even see my face,” it’s covered in a mask to keep the worst of the cold at bay, “How are you going to–”
Something heavy settled on his shoulders, and for a moment he thought you were going to pin him down, rip his layers of clothing open and eat whatever organs you can lay your hands on.
But then he heard a click, and moments later, warmth entered his skin. The almost sudden rush made him nauseous, but that did nothing to stop his muscles from unwinding. His joints clicked from his full body sigh.
“A… heated blanket?” Alban put down the papers and tugged the blanket closer around him, a cord connected to a controller slid on the ground, “…it works in temperatures such as these?”
“Yeah, they work perfectly well.” you patted his shoulders, happy to hear that at least some of the burden was lifted from them, “all thanks to Denise.”
Frost was already lining up the membranes of his lungs, and now, it rushes to consume to his bone marrow whole.
Alban gripped the blanket tighter, but made no move to shove it off him. Instead, he wrapped it more securely around himself.
“…Denise, was it?” He asked carefully, slowly coming to stand as turned towards you, shifting your weight from foot to foot, “Where is Denise? Do you know where they are?”
The smile on your face dulled, no longer reflected in your eyes. “You got tense again. Sorry, my bad. But yes, I know where Denise is. Want me to show you the way? It’s going to take a little while, though.”
“Then, lead the way.” He can take a few more hours. He can take on a hundred more days in this unbearable cold if it meant finding out what happened to his sibling.
Alban needs to know just how much they sacrificed just to provide for him and the family.
Drafts 1
Summary: Just an unfinished solo writing thing while playing Iron Valley. Basically it was just me testing out what it is I wanted, trying to create my own setting and characters, but then my brain got bored of it. So, I figured I may as well dump it here.
(I said I was going to start dumping my drafts here and I am going to commit to it. Drafts will be half actual prose writing and rambles on the side because I want people to enjoy the ideas and characters I have in my head. Hope this is fun!)
(Oh yeah, here's the link to the game I was playing. Lot of reading but it's easy to start and understand. Really does test out one's creative muscles.)
Today’s Spring pick for the Luminariae Post is as follows:
When a new branch grows, I always worry for what it may carry. The bark upon the trunk is many years old and yet it still insists on growing new leaves, new buds, and new fruits. A large and wise old tree, and yet it didn’t know age. It didn’t know where it should draw its limits. It simply grew and produced, as it always has, even when the threat of disease was always there.
But I’m not scornful. I’ll simply grab my polished clippers and snap off whatever rot has caught onto the leaves, onto the branches. I’ll eat the fruit it gives me, and carve a flute out of the wood I snipped off.
I’ve been there when you were young, when each new leaf would make me dance in the mud because I keep forgetting not to over water you. When your fruits would spawn out of seemingly nowhere, like your love for the world could not be contained, so you had to give it back as much and as fast as you could.
You’ve long outgrown me. I can’t even climb up to the very top of you as I once used to with my own little sister. You could still support me, but the youth in your new branches are not what they used to be. And yet, you still try and grow just as much fruit as you can, even when it’s no longer anything anyone can eat.
You’re just an old fool. You and I are two of a kind. And that it why you will always be one of my dearest friends.
And every day, I thank you for being who you are.
– Carmen
Heyo, author Noir here. So, the idea I had for this little segment is that every start of the new season, the Luminariae Post would post a submission that was sent to them by one of the residents in this small town of Arbor Hills. Typically they pick submissions that have something to do with the current season, or just a general connection to nature that can be connected to said season. It's also meant for the regular folk to take a peek into a small part of that resident that wrote the piece. Just fluff writing things.
Oh, and Carmen is a big ol dragon man, the one that basically provides the Reader with a house and a job, a nice bouncing point since the Reader starts off with literally nothing, not even clothes. He's a nice man, good roommate and clearly misses having other people live in his house. There's this big tree that the whole town pays their respects towards because of the sheer size and reach of its roots. In fact, most of the plants and trees you find often end up connecting their roots to that big tree, as it provides nutrients to said plants, leading to them weathering even the toughest of disasters. Rumor has it that Carmen was the one that planted that tree when it was a sapling, but that's just a rumor.
Spring 2
Time: [0/4]
| Forecast: Sunny | Luck: Neutral | Lucky Color: Lemon |
“Did you hear? Apparently our dear local baker has been in need of a new recipe to put as a potential special.”
“Oh? Which one? Is it that sweetie Ivory or that nutty Obsidian?”
“Don’t be mean Martha. But it is nutty Obsidian. Apparently he’s going a little crazy from lack of inspiration and just wants something new to really make his day pop from grays to happy pinks.”
“Hehehe, well in that case, you think he’ll want to try out some of my homemade cookies? Maybe that’ll perk him right up and get his head out of the pizza oven ashes?”
“Bleh, if you want to kill him… But yes, let’s. I’ll be the merciful one and bring him some of my delicious tea.”
“Let’s poison him together, Lily.”
The idea I had here is basically a cutscene being played out every day, where a couple of characters do something or have a conversation that implies a very long request. The town bulletin is still a thing, but those quests will end up being pretty short. The short requests do change often, I'd say once every two days, while the longer requests are more persistent, changing once every five days. Obsidian is basically this mad scientist-like baker that loves to go crazy with the designs and flavors of his baked goods. And, well, he's prone to losing inspiration and just wants something to get that flow going. He's a pretty intense cosmic star dude, the kind of energy that easy to be overwhelmed with. He has a sister named Ivory who helps out in the bakery, but is mostly found working with wood as the local carpenter. She's not gentle, she has that quiet intensity about her, and is just as wacky with her woods craft. She will get the request done, and will probably add some else to it. A weird feature that you probably won't notice until you accidentally activate it. Like a table that can convert itself into a suit of wood armor. You never know with these two.
Oh, and I have no clue who Martha and Lily are. Just that they're best friends who love to gossip, and were once very competitive rivals in school before someone tried to accuse them of cheating so they'd be unable to participate in theater. Yeah, those two were theater kids, and their rivalry, for the most part, was a fun exaggerated thing on their part that got a liiiiittle too real, but they're good now. They're middle-aged and married to their respective spouses.
“You doing alright?”
You snapped out of your reverie by a rumbling voice that’s not quite meant to overpower the general noise, so much as it should rumble underneath one’s feet.
You didn’t look at Carmen. You looked at his horns instead, all scratched up and chipped at in all their ridged and curling glory. It’s hard to look at him in the eyes. They aren’t particularly piercing, they’re just filled with a love for the world around him. A gentle and boundless love that he’s willing to share with you, a fellow roommate but a stranger still.
It’s… a lot. Too much. But it’s fine. He’s good and nice. He makes you all those warm and filling meals, and lets you take up a room in his house. You had nowhere else to go, but he gave you a hand anyway.
So, are you doing alright? He did ask.
You hummed out a yes. Because words would be too much in all this noise. The sensation of your throat rumbling, of moving your lips and making a conscious effort not to stutter. You’re already a little on edge as is.
“Hmm,” he copied your tone, though you didn’t know if that meant he believed you or not, “I know there’s a lot of little noises, but a small outing like this is good. It is something to get used to, that’s for certain.”
It’s… yeah, he’s right. It is a lot. Carmen’s farm isn’t exactly all the quiet either, with all the cows, chickens and bees he has, but there’s a different quality to the noise of people. It’s a… a rhythm, of sorts. The livestock back home are always keeping out a listening ear to the nature around them, so their own noises follow that beat, usually. But people… don’t really care, nor can they truly listen.
The rhythm isn’t bad, in the sense that it’s wrong and that people should pay more attention. It’s just… different. Absorbed in their own little pocket of time. And those pockets just, overlap in your ears.
You’ll probably get used to it, in the same way you got used to Carmen when you first woke up to his face looming right over under the arbor. It was an adjustment. The man’s over seven feet tall with a broad frame to fit, built over the years from heavy farm work. But, you suppose that’s the average height of all dragons. Well, his specific branch of dragon anyway. You don’t know any other dragon.
You nodded and let your eyes wander over the sparse crowd around you, to the area you’re both sitting on a bench in.
The village’s center, built around a pretty fountain that’s filled with little seashells, all in various pastel colors of white, blue and pink. One little kid in white sandals had to lay her belly on the ledge of the fountain just to reach in and drop her shell. Her little transparent wings fluttered with her excitement, dropping flecks of pink dust here and there.
A water spout spat right up her nose and the little fairy girl snorted then gave a big powerful sneeze. She launched herself right into the air. Luckily, before you or Carmen could rush right over, her father was right there to catch her.
Chuckling, her fairy father said, “I got a precious gift from the heavens!”
“No!” She yelled, raising her arms high like claws, “I am your worst nightmare! I eat your dreams and your banana splits!”
He gasped, “A monster! Oh no!”
She kicked her feet and lost a sandal in her giggles.
You jumped when Carmen gave chuckles of his own. The sheer volume of his voice never ceases to surprise you, that his happiness can be something so… loud? Strong? It’s solid. Which is kind of dumb now that you think about it. You’ve seen him lift an entire tree trunk with his arms and shoulder alone. It shouldn’t be shocking at all to find that his laugh has just as much power behind it.
But it is, because he would always bend down just so people could hear him. He didn’t like raising his voice just as much as he hated going into the details of his private life.
And with a flinch, Carmen realized as much. He looked to the side, scratched the back of his neck, and sighed out, “Sorry.”
Did you look bug-eyed? You probably did.
You shook your head at Carmen. He doesn’t need to apologize to you. It’s not his fault that you’re easily startled. Besides, he’s the one going out of his way to get you situated in this place. He didn’t have to do it, but he did anyway.
He nodded to you then hovered a hand right over your shoulder. He stopped, waited, and when you shifted closer, he patted you. The weight and strength of his bones alone almost made your joint creak.
“I’ll be going on ahead. I need to buy some things for the gardening day this week.” Carmen reached into his pocket and took out a few notes that you don’t really need. He pays you plenty for your services, but saying no to him–especially when he wants to spoil or be nice–just leaves a sour taste in your mouth. He stuffed them in your hands. “Go around, explore. Or relax by the community garden if you’d like. I’ll be by Peach’s place for the most part. I won’t go home unless you want to, okay?”
Ah, here it is, the big send off. You can’t really complain since you asked for this kind of time for yourself, but augh… It’s difficult all the same. You’ve been here for the better part of one year and you’ve yet to make a single friend. You haven’t really been trying, to be perfectly honest. Whenever you go out into the village on your moped, you’re strictly in working mode, schedule and time all planned out. Whenever people would try and talk to you during those hours, you get antsy and anxious.
You hate being off schedule. On top of that, if you weren’t working, you were around Carmen all the time. He’s a friendly and well known face. It’s only natural for people to gravitate towards him rather than you, especially when you would rather hide in his shadow than look at anyone.
You weren’t trying to make friends. Everything was just too unfamiliar for you to do that, or even think of it. And nobody pushed you to do that. In a way, you’re grateful for that, that the people here left you alone for the most part. A nice respect of your time and attention. They made attempts to talk to you, certainly, but that was about where the pushiness ended.
And, now, you’re calmer-ish. You can take the time and try.
You can go anywhere and make a friend.
…
Augh, you still can’t talk. Words just really don’t want to come out.
Well, baby steps, baby steps.
Carmen has since left you to yourself, with money in your hands. A nice sizable amount. Can’t buy a microwave with it, but you can grab a while feast of pastries if you wanted to.
…you know what? That sounds like a good idea. Having something to munch on while trying to make a friend would help calm you down some. Besides, a lot of people frequent the bakery. Surely you’ll be able to find someone who wants to befriend you.
That and you’ve heard of the gossip between those two women over there. Apparently the local baker needs some help. You don’t have any ideas, but maybe you’ll come up with something by the time you get there?
The crowd didn’t really get any thinner as you walked down the white stone path. Lots of people were gathered in small packs, but they were polite enough to shift slightly out of your way. You followed the scent of bread and soon enough found yourself inside the cozy atmosphere of a bakery.
Honestly, it seemed more like a home than it did a bakery, which makes sense since it looked like a store/home hybrid from the outside. But, rather than a home that seeks to hide emptiness with store bought furniture the owner vaguely likes, each table, chair and even the frame of the mirrors in this place were clearly handmade.
It was small though, and all the furniture had people either gathering or sitting on it. There wasn’t anywhere you could just pick and sit down for an hour or two while you mindlessly pick at your pastry and watch the people go by.
A healthy routine makes for a good base for potential friendships. At least that’s how Carmen puts it. You’re not sure if it’s true, but you may as well try, right?
You walk to the back of the line and wait. At the front, behind the register was someone that you can only describe as a galactic black hole. The white light that makes up what you think is hair slowly swirls around in a clock-wise motion, collecting light like a vent does smoke as it slowly gathers in some dark center you can’t make out. The white light hair fades into a dark shadow dappled with white little star pinpricks, doing nothing to to take away from the bright eyes that look around this way and that.
This person had no mouth to speak of as he nodded and packaged a new box of pan dulce. It’s interesting to you, watching the way their body never quite stabilized into something truly solid, but it was enough for his clothes to hang on. He didn’t have a uniform, it was just a set of comfy billowing clothes that had little tears and big patches over what was probably holes.
His form stretched up, bending in ways a shadow would as he gave the box to the person waiting in line.
“You wanted a surprise and a surprise is what you’ll get!”
Aaaand this is where I lost my steam, and I had a pretty good pace going too.
Reader is basically this dryad person that was born from the big tree(of which I have yet to name, eh) and as such, has little to no knowledge of many things beyond the general basics. Socializing is obviously not their thing. Many of the towns people just think they're a traveler from afar that suffers from amnesia, but since nobody witnesses the Reader coming out of the tree, it can't really be disputed that they're not a traveler.
There's a biblically accurate angel just, hanging out in Arbor Hills. He's the current master carpenter and boss of Ivory. He spends most of his time sleeping, and in the rare times one manages to make a request to him, you can be sure that whatever furniture he makes will never break, and will even have a little buff to them.
The angel's name is Peach, because someone called him "an absolute peach." With the last name Angel for the sake of simplicity. No matter how you poke and prod at him, you can't get details about his past, you'll just get references about how empty of an existence he was living before coming here. Now he can dream all he likes.
There's a tradition at the start of a new year to share stories you may have or have written. Arbor Hills is all about communal story crafting, so often the whole town will come together to either craft a new fairy tale, or add on to another existing tale. The only rule is that it has to have at least one true event in there, or be based on a true event. So you could have witnessed a bug trip over grass and flip itself over and craft a tale about a malicious weed that seeks to grow and prank all the bugs that nipped at it. That kind of thing. So, one of the Promises is to get ideas and make a story before Spring 1 rolls around. There are usually two groups, one group that's full of people that have written their stories on their own, and the other group that shares their ideas for a group story making session. Perfection is not expected. Just have fun. And if you don't want to make a story, just be a listening ear.
There's also another tradition where, after reaching a certain age, kiddos go to the community garden to pick out a seed they like and plant it somewhere in the town. This tradition does stretch out beyond just for the kids, you can do this as a new adult, or when you reach a huge milestone in your life. Don't worry about having to take incredible care of it, these seeds are magical and are often deeply connected to you. They grow as you grow, and if they get sick, you can be assured that they'll be taken care of by the garden spirits of the forest.
There aren't many dragons to be found. There be different types of dragons, but their lifespan varies quite a bit between them.
Same for the dryad. There's nobody else quite like you, and if there is, they're usually no bigger than the size of your palm. Tiny, squeaky things.
I know I have more things sitting in the brain, but I need to prodded at to really remember. So, if you want to poke at my brain, be my guest!
Dyrage 1
Summary: Long has Dyrage split off his attachments to the face you wore. As long as he is here, it must be kept that way. His job, at the current moment, is just to question you, to see if you have memories other than the one you have consumed.
(Ooof, been a while huh? Anyways, no clue if I want to make this character canon or not, but he's been on the brain so I wrote about him anyway. And also because these are literally my little brain creations, I can make anything or nothing canon as I wish. So... yeah!)
And in all your gross and pulsating meaty mass, you closed the distance, getting right into his face with the one that haunts his dreams. This part was human, but that's about as far as it goes. Only skin deep.
And yet, there was something in Dyrage that just… hopes that there was something else in there, that you didn't just copy the genetic and memorial make up of a person. That, somehow or another, you were the soul who's face you were. And that, if it's true, then surely there should be more. You were cut off from a bigger mass, from a red deeply red moss that grew on that divine tree.
A tree that made itself a forest out of Dyrage's own home.
"Does Serenity Hill seem familiar to you in any way."
All of this could've been done behind glass or even thousands of feet above, Dyrage knows that, but he, to an extent, also knows this creature. He knows you, and he knows that you have a particular diet. Or, rather, you know what it is he white coats want.
Stubborn. So stubborn that you would rather eat foods that disgust you. You're starving yourself and you don't care.
Dyrage want to pretend he doesn't know why he tries, but he hates lying to himself. Delusions were a color he'd much rather leave far behind him.
You tilted your head then leaned back, the membranes above his head twitching and turning with your every thought.
"Serenity Hill…" you reached both hands high above you, as though you were reaching up for the sun you're never allowed to see, "The village of white peaches and stagnation. The flavor was always stale upon the tongue, no matter how much effort was poured into the yield. And the texture… it was like biting into a ball of moss."
…The face that you wear and the voice that you speak with. He can't speak of purity, he can't say anything about tarnishing, but he wishes you were nothing more than a monstrosity. Back to that flesh being that was simply that, inhuman flesh in a tube. At least then you wouldn't be able to extract things from his most precious memories.
You speak of his home, of those white peaches as though you were actually there.
But that is all he can do. His thoughts are his alone. He can throw any number of insults within and not worry of what will happen outside.
"And where does this memory originate from?" Dyrage had to grip his pen just so nothing shows on his face. The things he has seen and done, he can't falter. He won't falter.
Your torso twisted around with rubber elasticity. You bowed and were back in front of his face once more.
"You should know well where the memory comes from," Bored. Dyrage allowed himself to entertain your request and already you were getting bored of him. Of course. Of course! "I didn't know you to be one to ask redundant questions. Is there something you're hoping for?"
"It's all standard procedure."
"Liar."
"Simply answer the question and I won't lie to you anymore."
"Hmm," you eased back and settled into the wall of flesh that consumes half the room, as though reclining on a sofa, "Well, it's not as though I truly hate lies."
Dyrage knows that. That man, your pet as he's been called, is still alive to this day. Resting from the strain of fusing a strand of yourself into his spine, but resting and alive nonetheless. He remembers the recordings, about how he was fine and that he’ll be back shortly.
That man, Ash, was also full of lies. No matter the face, no matter the authority, he will lie to them if it means he will not be thought about. Like he wants to disappear and not matter to anyone.
"Don't lie anymore for today," you said with a smile that simply didn't belong, "Tomorrow you can lie as much as you like. I want to see them all one day. There's only so many one can wrap themselves around in before they're nothing more than a suffocating bug."
"The question. I’m still waiting for an answer."
"From this one," you pointed to your face, "Serenity Hill comes from the memories of this one. Nothing more, nothing less."
"…are you sure? Nothing beyond… this?"
Was there truly nothing? Nothing within that collective memory? Nothing from when you were nothing more than a part of a red mass nesting in the bark groves? Was your head truly that empty of anything?
"Nothing beyond, you weird little seeker you. I don't hold any other origin point to draw from. I only have one well. A well that I can peek into to gather all your secrets. Though… well, that doesn't matter now does it? My words hold no power to anyone besides you."
Because you are a,
"Monster. You are right to know your position here. Your awareness makes you all the more precious. And as precious of a being you are, you will be kept safe in mind, body and soul."
A soul that belongs to no one else but you. A soul that Dyrage will not recognize. A soul with no hope in it.
"And for that safety, I'm glad," you snuggled in deeper, smiling wider, "surely this status will apply to my extensions, to my other precious limbs?"
To that man. To one who named himself Ash.
"Of course, we can't very well afford to lose such precious things."
"Who's to say what would happen if they were cut from me. I can't very well control the muscle memory within if that were to happen. After all, my priorities have evolved past instincts, but that's not to say they don't exist anymore."
There is a base and it must not be forgotten. Dyrage will never forget the bloody pedestal you built yourself upon. Your interests are odd, but your instincts remain.
"I will keep that in mind."
But such threats have never held power over him anyway. If you don’t have even a single secret regarding your true origins, about that white tree that has sprouted and laid its roots over the roofs and soil of his homeland, then you held little power.
Your words mean nothing. They have to mean nothing. They must continue to mean nothing.
Ash 4
Summary: You have long since fused a piece of yourself into his spine. Forever will a part of you be with him. However, the effects on him have been... uncomfortable.
(Hehehehe Ash suffering here we go! I'm fascinated by the idea of him having a piece of the monster reader just, there in his spine, doing who knows what to him. I think that would be fun, Ash having an extension of sorts right up in there. But now I'm just wondering if I should make this doctor character a, you know, an actual character.)
Ash has not once felt any amount of pain. The only thing he could feel right now was this emanating heat right from every dip and curve in his spine. It didn't bother him in the same way heat flashes would, but it made him… nervous. Uncomfortable. He didn't want anyone touching that place but what he wants mattered little to anyone else other than you.
A cold, gloved finger touched the base of his neck, then traced down the skin along his spine. Ash bit down on his sleeve, curling inwards as though that'll do anything to make it stop. Again, it wasn't pain. It was simply… uncomfortable. Like touching a scar that was much too deep and too close to your bone.
It wasn't bad, but calling it good was just… weird, but that's what it was. It felt… good. And Ash hated it.
"How does it feel?" He heard the white coat ask, voice softer than what Ash's used to, but that's been the pattern lately. A bunch of softer and kinder voices simply because he has a new and interesting use. "Any pain? Any problems right there? Changes to routine even?"
"Just, heat," A lot of heat. It's been hitting the backs of his lungs and made breathing weird. "Lot of it. No pain. It just feels weird. More weird than usual."
"Increased sensitivity then," the doctor mused than decided to pinch just as Ash was relaxing. He couldn't help the moan that was strangled out of him, "A pleasurable sensitivity at that."
Ash curled in further, his stomach churning, then dropped into the abyss altogether when he heard the lightest of laughter from the doctor.
Laughter meant amusement, joy at his expense. It will be made a memory, then will be spread over a coffee break. Others will know, and they will get curious. They'll poke at his spine when they think he's not looking. They'll make him do those noises again.
And what can he do about it? Nothing. Because he's a useless man that has nothing to his non-existent name. All he can do is stay curled up as he always does, the wounded animal he always felt he was.
Another, lighter pinch was given at the very base of his back. Ash curled his toes, but was almost proud that he managed to stay silent. He was panting behind his hand, sure, but being a silent shriveling mess was better than being a moaning one.
Alright, alright. Calm down, think of something other than that damn pinching. Get his mind away from the deep pulsing pleasure from his spine and gut.
He needs to know.
Ash gulped out, "Will this go away?"
He can't tell this doctor to stop. For all he knows, this could be all a play for this doc's sadistic pleasure and data collection all in one. If Ash challenges that nasty combo, he knows the punishment will be worse. Ash can no longer be thrown away, so death will not be end result. He's not allowed to die.
Not so long as traces of you remain in his spine. A damn curse on one hand, but you're the closest thing he has to a friend. What can he do besides let you do what you like? It's nice, seeing you happy, even if the attention will lead to more of the same torture.
“Hmm, perhaps it will, perhaps it won’t,” the doctor finally stopped his pinching, settling for a simple pat just under his neck, “personally, I’d prefer if it never went away. It’s rather fascinating, you know. As much as I’m curious to see all these contained creatures up close, I know very well I’m safest here.”
So, by all means, continue suffering for my sake.
And, as though he couldn’t do it himself–he couldn’t, he had to be walked here by one of the workers–the doctor tied his gown back up. Finally, his bare back was hidden. But now clothes were starting to feel itchy.
“Alright, we’re done here,” the man got up and knocked on the door, “I hope to see you again soon.”
