#prompt content

[thewesterncircle]

Puddles

Yo this is cowritten by me (widdlywiddlytwangtwang) and my friend (chocomochochino) so ye here go also sorry if send it a few times, mobile is a butt]]

The gentle splashes of rain filled the air, soaking everything and anything, nothing was saved. It tapped against windows, pattered against the trees leaves and dripped into newly formed puddles. Puddles that were quickly felled as a small cat-like man jumped into them with a yell of glee. 

Alex Jones ran around the field, hopping into every puddle he saw, giggling excitedly as he did so. 

"Come onnn! Hurry up!" 

He turned around toward the way he came, running toward a man of almost double his size, grasping onto his rain jacket and jumping up and down impatiently.

"I know, I know! Well I am bigger than you so I am slower…"

Sunny folds his arms over his chest, coat crinkling as he does so, a knowing smile on his face.

"I guess s- Hang on a minute-"

"Shush! Did you want to jump in puddles or not?"

He runs away from his cat-like friend excitedly, turning back with a wide smile.

"Come on then!"

"W-wait for me you huge lump!" Alex shouted, laughing as he sprinted to catch up with his friend. 

With one final stride, he leaped, launching himself onto his friend’s back.

Despite his best efforts to stay upright, Sunny stumbles and slips on the mud slicked floor, bringing the both of them to the ground and landing in a rather large mud filled puddle.

Untangling himself from the small lumian, he rolls over to face him, trying his best to hold back imminent laughter.

"I- Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, fine… I-"

Making eye contact with the larger man was the straw that broke the camel’s back, the both of them breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. 

They lay there for a moment, letting the moment wash over the two as the rain also did, soaking them more than they thought possible.

Alex looked around himself and at the pools of water that surrounded them both, still laughing quietly. Though his laughter stopped when he saw something out of the ordinary.

A red puddle.

The puddle, the colour of the blood he so closely worked with, sat just beside him.

He made to stand, starting to formulate a sentence telling his friend what he had seen, but slipped and fell into the pool he was so close to pointing out.

All around him, everything he could see, was red. Alex tried to cry out for help, but blood filled his mouth and he couldn’t breathe. 

Before he could drown, however, he fell through the blood and landed on a hard rock floor, at somebody’s feet.

"What the- Oh, hello there, mortal…"

The stranger’s voice was level, an almost familiar Scottish twang ringing through it.

Alex craned his head up, slowly with the edge of fearfulness to it, so much so that his neck ached from the strain of it. Passing what could have been three or four pairs of wings to reach the face of the person at who’s feet he had fallen.

Yet at the completion of the journey, his eyes widened in shock and horror and a strangled cry escaped his throat. For who seemingly stood in front on him was his friend who had been with him only a few moments ago. And yet not, all in the same.

The hellish being folded their arms and looked down upon Alex with what could be described as both pity and annoyance but how they could see him at all was a mystery. Five of his visible eyes, the others covered by another feathered wing on the right side his face, were seemingly blinded, dulled and black sclera greyed almost. The remanants of the other facial wing were horrifically mangled and hung uselessly at the side of his face, as were many of the wings on that side of his body yet not as much as the former.

"This is a surprise, I must say… Alternate dimensions, who would have guessed?… Certainly not I…"

How the demonic man spoke no one knew, for he seemed not to possess a mouth of any kind.

Alex trembled, whether in terror or confusion he didn’t know, perhaps it was both. But he didn’t have the mental capability to figure that out at the present time. He attempted to scramble to his feet but his legs shook and he fell to the stone floor again.

"Scared, little one? I would not blame you, you are in Hell after all…"

The creature crouched down to be at a closer level to Alex, tilting his head in amusement.

"What did you do to end up here, hm? I do wonder…"

"H-Hell?!"

"Yes, Hell. Are you telling me you are not meant to be here? Because I can see a great many sins within your soul, little one…"

Alex shuffled backwards, eyes wide in fear.

"I- I just- I fell! D-down a hole and through a- a-"

"A puddle? Yes, we know… It’s how we both ended up here after all…" A new voice called from behind him also scarily familiar. 

Too familiar in fact. 

Alex’s head whipped around to face the newcomer, and his eyes grew wide at what he saw.

The demon flashed a toothy grin, one full of needle sharp teeth that seemed unsettlingly wide and almost seemed to have too many teeth to even remotely be considered normal. It had many, many eyes, all glowing a toxic, unnatural green.

Although, on the wierd green glow front, he really wasn’t one to talk.

This other-him seemed to have ears and a tail like him only- doubled. The twin tails swayed lazily as the other him addressed him.

Alex stood up, shaking, face to face with his demonic doppelganger.

"How- wait- i-i dont understand…" he said, ears flattening against his head in fear.

"And neither did I… Funny, isn’t it?"

"I-"

"Oh the wondrous miracle of puddles…"

[thewesterncircle]

"~The city was in ruins, literally on fire. Juniper was no longer the small girl from the forest. She wasn’t the ragmuffin from the city either. She wasn’t even the forsaken vampire. She was going to become the most powerful blood mage in the world. And then…

She was going to raise hell.~”

((Look I actually did a submission for once!))

[thewesterncircle]

And the World Held Its Breath

Things weren’t always this way, with neat dimensional pockets and cosmic coils, clustering about one another like blossoms of dust and light. In the dark, chaotic universe, worship of the old gods wasn’t isolated to shadowed meetings and furtive whispers. Temples were built in their honor, lamentations were sung from their names. Back then, worlds shifted without reason and the stars were blocked out by the swirling masses of old horrors. Mortals were like lampreys, clinging desperately to the rocks amidst a savage sea. They’d do whatever it took to endear themselves to their unfathomable masters, even giving up their bodies to be used and burned out like paper dresses- but not before spawning monstrous, mongrel creatures.

As the years rolled by, the words of the elders grew more hollow. Younger generations were born knowing of nothing but the sun on their skin and the metered rhythm of the waves, with the runes of the sunken temples as foreign to them as anyone el-

An angry splash echoed from behind the cell door.

"What do you mean you don’t like my story!?" Ondine Cnidaerie said, slamming the old book shut on her lap. "Okay, maybe a few details are exaggerated, but it’s called ‘mythic history’, Squiddles! It’s supposed to sound dark and romantic and crap! If it just went 'oh, a bunch of crazy cultists got dictated by mermaids until the Church of Notch got popular', it wouldn’t be a good narrative, would it?”

A series of pops and clicks.

"You better change that attitude mister, if you want to survive long enough to host my supposed ancestor."

A gurgle.

"I am not terrible at blood magic! I mean, I’ve always been a jack of trades and master of none, but that can change. I can’t just sew monsters forever, even if blood magic is really damn tedious…" Ondine slumped irritably in her seat. "Everything here is just so much more complicated."

More tentacles slapped the water’s surface.

"I can’t return to the sea and neither can you. You’re not ready. I don’t even know if you’d survive with all those enderman parts. I reconfigured your organs to retain oxygen and skin to resist deterioration in a subaqueous state but I don’t know how much oceanic pressur- ugh, the answer’s just no." Ondine stood up, dragging her chair back to the writing desk. "I hoped this would help show you how important these experiments are!"

She sighed, pacing one of the various catacombs beneath the Mausoleum. “Besides… we’ve met so many interesting people, haven’t we? Even that party the Rangers and Easterners held, embarrassing as it was, had some enjoyable elements. This is our home now.

No matter how much things have changed.”

[thewesterncircle]

Its been a long life, and an even longer apocalypse, Sergeant, and you think you might be done waiting.

You are ankle deep in a meltwater stream, as you watch as the peak of Mount Caraveral gets demolished as an eighty ton meteor smashes into it from orbit. You don’t flinch, even as the horrid crunching noise echoes across your valley. It sounds like someone turned up the bass on children playing with marbles, and its nothing new to you when a few moments later it shakes the earth you stand on.

You shrug to yourself and brush a strand of hair out of your face. Its nothing new. Your fingers leave a wet trail across your forehead and you don’t bother wiping it off as drips roll down your forehead.

Not much bothers you anymore sergeant.

Its been a long life, and an even longer apocalypse. From your fleeting impressions of your god, you would’ve expected some divine implosion. Instead there is a drawn out artillery from the cosmos as the heavens shatter your planet, piece by piece.

The clouds are blown away in great golden ripples from the concussive force of the collision. The sun sets behind an intact mountain, and the last few rays shine through golden autumn leaves.

You aren’t being particularly productive as you stand like some sort of idiot in the middle of a freezing cold creek, watching the bombardment of your planet with something approaching serenity, but you really haven’t been yourself these past few years.

Besides, it doesn’t really feel like the end.

It feels like you’re waiting.

(You’ve been waiting a long time.)

Mind, you, Sergeant, don’t really know what you’ve been waiting for all these years. You consider yourself a pretty reasonable lady, but you can’t shake this lethargy that led you to set up here, next to this stream, next to a cemetery with one grave in it. That lethargy, you find, is anything but reasonable.

  So its autumn and you’re up to your ankles in frigid river water. You wade deeper, towards the middle of the creek for a better view of the clouds, and round stones clack in a mockery of the demolition of the peak. The hems of your rolled up pants are getting soaked and you wait.

Yellow brown leaves swirl past your vision and are swamped by the current dragging them through crystal clear meltwater and past the gravel banks. You drag your eyes down from the gradiated sky, framed by the branches of the trees that line the banks, and you meet his.

He’s standing on the bank opposite of you.

Your breath doesn’t catch in your throat, and your heart keeps beating its easy pace. In fact nothing is wrong here. You don’t say anything, Circe, you don’t feel anything. It feels like he belongs here, right in this moment.

This instant, it is exactly where they are supposed to be.

He looks startled to see you, Sergeant, stricken even. Leaves spiral around him and the setting sun wreaths him in a golden halo. He cuts an impressive figure with his coat and the perfect coif of his hair.

He looks like he’s about to cry, and the world’s holding its breath.

  The stream continues flowing and the leaves fall as the last of autumn comes. There are bright stars streaming through the air and you hear the distant booms of their landings. They fall like artillery shells, and you think you might be done waiting.

The gap-toothed god slowly offers you his hand. You only have to think for a moment of this world, this life, of Ariadne and her empty grave, and the walls that you’ve defended and the rubble of where you’ve failed, and you takes it, gingerly. You take it in the same manner as the first time you held Ariadne’s hand, and you were so fucking nervous.  And then with an eye aching twist in reality, you’re gone.

The world exhales.

The water burbles, columns of smoke twist in gold tinted skies, before everything breaks apart in a cataclysm befitting of your god.

[sgt-circe]

Its been a long life, and an even longer apocalypse, Sergeant, and you think you might be done waiting.

You are ankle deep in a meltwater stream, as you watch as the peak of Mount Caraveral gets demolished as an eighty ton meteor smashes into it from orbit. You don’t flinch, even as the horrid crunching noise echoes across your valley. It sounds like someone turned up the bass on children playing with marbles, and its nothing new to you when a few moments later it shakes the earth you stand on.

You shrug to yourself and brush a strand of hair out of your face. Its nothing new. Your fingers leave a wet trail across your forehead and you don’t bother wiping it off as drips roll down your forehead.

  Not much bothers you anymore sergeant.

  Its been a long life, and an even longer apocalypse. From your fleeting impressions of your god, you would’ve expected some divine implosion. Instead there is a drawn out artillery from the cosmos as the heavens shatter your planet, piece by piece.

  The clouds are blown away in great golden ripples from the concussive force of the collision. The sun sets behind an intact mountain, and the last few rays shine through golden autumn leaves.

You aren’t being particularly productive as you stand like some sort of idiot in the middle of a freezing cold creek, watching the bombardment of your planet with something approaching serenity, but you really haven’t been yourself these past few years.

  Besides, it doesn’t really feel like the end.

  It feels like you’re waiting.

  (You’ve been waiting a long time.)

  Mind, you, Sergeant, don’t really know what you’ve been waiting for all these years. You consider yourself a pretty reasonable lady, but you can’t shake this lethargy that led you to set up here, next to this stream, next to a cemetery with one grave in it. That lethargy, you find, is anything but reasonable.

  So its autumn and you’re up to your ankles in frigid river water. You wade deeper, towards the middle of the creek for a better view of the clouds, and round stones clack in a mockery of the demolition of the peak. The hems of your rolled up pants are getting soaked and you wait.

Yellow brown leaves swirl past your vision and are swamped by the current dragging them through crystal clear meltwater and past the gravel banks. You drag your eyes down from the gradiated sky, framed by the branches of the trees that line the banks, and you meet his.

He’s standing on the bank opposite of you.

Your breath doesn’t catch in your throat, and your heart keeps beating its easy pace. In fact nothing is wrong here. You don’t say anything, Circe, you don’t feel anything. It feels like he belongs here, right in this moment.

  This instant, it is exactly where they are supposed to be.

  He looks startled to see you, Sergeant, stricken even. Leaves spiral around him and the setting sun wreaths him in a golden halo. He cuts an impressive figure with his coat and the perfect coif of his hair.

  He looks like he’s about to cry, and the world’s holding its breath.

  The stream continues flowing and the leaves fall as the last of autumn comes. There are bright stars streaming through the air and you hear the distant booms of their landings. They fall like artillery shells, and you think you might be done waiting.

The gap-toothed god slowly offers you his hand. You only have to think for a moment of this world, this life, of Ariadne and her empty grave, and the walls that you’ve defended and the rubble of where you’ve failed, and you takes it, gingerly. You take it in the same manner as the first time you held Ariadne’s hand, and you were so fucking nervous.  And then with an eye aching twist in reality, you’re gone.

The world exhales.

  The water burbles, columns of smoke twist in gold tinted skies, before everything breaks apart in a cataclysm befitting of your god.

[thewesterncircle]

Wax

The Waxing Cresent- Moon of Regeneration.

A time of making plans, laying foundations, fortifying yourself. Starting change.

Here, she was deliberately cut off from the ocean. The Ominous Woods biome was thick with tall, dark-leaved trees, the very ground a deep indigo. The air was heavy with purple mist, swirling in damp clouds through the air. Sometimes Ondine would perch atop the Mausoleum, watching the blurred outline of the moon rise above the fog. It wasn’t the same, but that was probably for the best.

Her sewing machine rumbled as she worked, stitching the mats of skin together. From the hidden stairwell leading into the garden, a Teddy model fumbled down and around the corner on its many legs, clutching a small bundle of mail between mismatched arms. 

"What’s this? For me?" The Teddy nodded twice, still holding out the dispatch in offering. "… Thank you."

Ondine took them warily, watching the Teddy scuttle away into the deeper chambers of the Mausoleum. 

The first few were weathered postcards from old traveling partners, and she set them lovingly aside before slitting the last letter open with a nearby bone needle. The paper inside was soft to the touch, smelling faintly of surf and salted breeze.

Ondine quickly refolded it and sealed it in a nearby drawer, not sparing the casual scrawl a glance. She didn’t even want to know who it was from, didn’t want to check the bottom-right corner for the brand of the Radial God’s cult. 

'I can't go home.'  Ondine thought, revving up the machine once more. 'There's nothing back there anymore.'

Just the ancient, knowing sea beneath a bright, waxing moon.

[thewesterncircle]

Wax