Arrowhead [Ian | Ǎ͐rt̉ͮ̐ͩ̊ͩe͋̒ͮ̄mͪ̃͆͗̍ḯ̍̑̿̓̚s͛̉̀]

It had been a car park once, most likely. Perhaps an unfinished one, because there were no rusted skeletal automobiles amongst its floors. Either irradiated fire or time (the latter that can do so much more than the former) had eaten away at level and level until now they laid in pieces before the ground and only the scantest canopy remained pouring as sunlight through as shade.

What did remain were the pillars, rising near a hundred feet above in the air. All three feet thick, some still supporting remnants of floor and room while others stood alone as monoliths resilient to their forgotten creator’s intentions. Some, near their tops had been worn enough to resemble obelisks to a forgotten pharaoh. But none had crumbled away, none had fallen.

She had traversed through these columns before, both in step and mind. Scattered thoughts gave little tribute to this place: except for now. Something drew her here today. She followed not out of obedience but weariness, listening to the one river source in her head that still flowed clearly. It was not a soft call; it was an intermittent hiss and buzzing behind the eye and above the ear. That it led her here- this place was neither building nor forest meant but now stood as false tribute to both- did not dawn sweetly upon her. This reveal of a stage’s set was not a sweeping curtain, but stark destruction of the light’s shutter.

That Which Burns The Eyes [Cerus/A͝rt̷e̡m̨is͠]


The prince paused at the entrance to the once clearly majestic edifice, all senses on alert. Death was everywhere; the meaning of the macabre markposts didn’t elude him, as he paused to get a closer look. Whatever happened here had happened a long time ago, he figured, though he had, of course, heard the stories of feral ghouls infesting this particular landmark. 

None seemed to be in evidence at the moment though, and the graves seemed relatively new-though there was very little way to tell for sure. Cerus drew his sword carefully, almost soundlessly, as he stepped into the building. This was probably not a good sign and it didn’t hurt to be careful.

Reason would suggest he should walk away, but this had been a hospital; he was hardly a scavenger, but medical supplies were hard to come by and he could think of a few parties who might need such things. He was in the area anyway, so why not have a look?

Cerus walked along the deserted corridors, barely paying attention to the cadavers littering every single space; the building was nothing if not a massive mausoleum, he thought as he passed by room after room, corridor after corridor, the dead occupying every corner. Whatever had happened here had done so some time ago; despite his senses being on full alert, nothing but bis own footsteps disturbed the eerie, deathly stillness.

The main corridor stretched on, seemingly infinitely long until it reached a stairwell; marble and concrete, it spiraled downwards, into darkness. A lower level, obviously, some sort of basement, Cerus thought, pausing briefly to look for a flashlight in his pack.Its artificial light would be more reliable than an actual torch, especially if there was something lurking underground. 

Footstep vibrations shivered through stone and spine as the lone breathing above registered as whispers. The sound of steel sweeping from a sheath was joined by her raising shovel prepared to strike. A figure came before the stairwell standing just at the brink.

The figure should have stood in silhouette but for her dozen more shivering senses. Heat and movement glowed fiery among the ink black darkness, his beating heart dancing before her. She stood silent and still in place with weapon poised shielded in darkness. For briefest second she assumed he’d teen her in turn, but saw no pause of detection in his eyes or recognition of a fellow human form upon his face.

traveler traveler beware beware

this is something down down

down the darkened angry stair

she sang sacredly and silently a corruption from a internally tattooed prayer.

There was a sword wielded in his hand, unlike the dozens and dozens jian she’d found scattered in the ruins or in the hands of people and houses. This sword whispered an archived data shelved in a torn library was closer to scimitar.

When the figure reached into its pack and became distracted, no longer peering into her dwindling temporary sanctuary, she acted. She flew forward and swing her shovel towards the hand holding the scimitar. If he would attack her, she would force it into her terms.

That Which Burns The Eyes [Cerus/A͝rt̷e̡m̨is͠]

The hospital had been long been surrounded by a close-knit family pack of feral ghouls who called the forgotten streets home – each dispatched by loving hand and given final respite ([six little graves all lined up] to the doors like markposts) before the overarching building offered itself as prize to empty victor. how the words spew 

Hall after hall, room after room, a crumbling maze of cadavers, body after body cried hollow for gravebed that the sound became white noise and be scripted in mass for later catalogue. A wide trench later along the structure perhaps, but for now original intent and ritual could be performed. Bottles, syringe packages and equipment mentally kissed and enshrined in her bag.

She found herself venturing down, deep in the blackness to a blocked door half enshrined in rubble and carcasses. She delved not with her shovel but with grasping gentle hands as not to chip the poor people intermingled in rock.

The shovel only flew to raised arms and tight grip when a sensor within her half-working systems cried out someone’s coming

I’m currently working on starters for Art. If you’d like one, just hit the little heart and you’ll get one.

No promises on salience however.

(Also remember that she’s currently restriced to the D.C. coast, mostly the city ruins, but she will branch out into the wilds if need be.)

I’m currently working on starters for Art. If you’d like one, just hit the little heart and you’ll get one.

No promises on salience however.

(Also remember that she’s currently restriced to the D.C. coast, mostly the city ruins, but she will branch out into the wilds if need be.)

Hell Is Empty ‘Cause All The Devils Are Here [Rory|Quaid|A5-75]


You can’t be serious. Are you fucking kidding me? No. No NONO NO!! "YOU FUCK!" Pent up rage flourished over Rory as he watched the man walk out of the room, leaving him there once again.. with little options. “COME BACK HERE! COMe BAcK!” He was gone. That, Rory was sure of. Rory pushed himself onto his back, gritting his teeth in pain. Even deep breathing was heavy and hurt like no fucking tomorrow, but he couldn’t just lie there forever, and the pain wasn’t going to go away the longer he waited.


He had two options now. Play the game, or break the game. Break the game. If he were to try to get both the Med-X and the key, it would take incredibly careful consideration.. and precise movement and timing. One fuck up would seal his fate entirely.. and it wasn’t worth the risk. So play the game he would.

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The sky was boiling again.

It was very annoying, it needed to stop. but looking up she could see the curves and bubbling of the surface of the world, clouding getting sucked into the flashes. very unseemly.

she/it/her/was walked along the broken concrete of the street. In her hands was a wooden board she’d wrenched from a pile of ruble. She could smell sap from it, it stained her hands with sickly sweet scent (so stupid so sinful sow). Shouldn’t smell sap, but the smell was on her now.

She stopped beside a building where a trail of men’s boot prints burned in the dust, the edges lit with fire by her sensors. It was intended to point them out instead in scorched her eyes with its slow strong sour burn. The bootprints walked outward, but there was someone inside. She could hear them. They were laughing. Franticly. For a splintering moment she thought it was in her head, but that laughter there was never frantic, and this new one did not sound cruel.

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Molten Light
801 plays
Four Houses (Drabble)

Four houses standing in the road by the church. Sharpened shovel split the tendons of the knee for the one with the dancing cylinders first before it could bite into into her dust caked skin. The dancing cylinders were rescued from the house’s hands and twirled in her own until they spent the last of their breath in the houseface. The other houses had raced so she retrieved her shovel and hit there there there and another house broke apart in shambles. The codes her father’s gift took over from her lifting her from angry spittle spewing thought and danced of her its own accord and she could see herself dancing too both trapped and free and once under their accord truth was freedom once more oh that old lie yes please this one more time.

Back to resemblance as one dug its own hammer into the rubble inches from her (could feel the air from its hollow) and she jumped upon the hammer onto its arm and up to its back and dug her own shovel into him between cervicals just so. Insert blade between C1 and C2 and crack. Jump off the tumbling house and smash the windows to kill the light.

That left the fourth house that smacked her with a wooden board. Rather than be thrown aside by the force she took the hug for what it was and grabbed the house’s wrist in thanks, then pulled the ring from the pack of lemonades on its side, flying aside as the insulation burst out from the side. The house had fallen over but was still intact, clutching at the leg and moaning. Her shovel ended it at the neck.

She looked on and the surges throughout her died down now that the immediate threat and ended and the water subsided, and she saw the houses as they were: human once. People that had been stretched and extorted and insulated while awake while screaming and then filled packed BURSTING with things that weren’t them. Ragepainferocityhungerfirefirefirebloodlustsimpleness things until the people weren’t people they were just houses. Their living corpses. Now dead corpses. But they were still stretched out into forms that they hadn’t wanted.

She sat down next to the house-once-a-person and took its head in her arms. Placed her own forehead on its own. I’m sorry, she cried. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, she wept.

She was there for a very long time, and mourned each of them the houses-once-people. Maybe still people. But then she got up, got her shovel and began to dig. Graves for the people-once-houses. Graves for the houses too. I’m sorry. Because truth isn’t freedom: it’s its own cage. and you were stupid artemis for ever thinking so.

the falcon cannot see the falconer

memories were tricky, like trying to catch specks of dust in your hand

she wasn’t sure how she came here. she remembered leaving the woods when she found light and cold air and the unspoken seam where the trees broke forth into dead and empty grass. she remember finding cement ruins of buildings that were now nothing more than rocks bursting up from earth. there were bodies and bones and nothing new. in her hand was a long black shovel; she wasn’t sure where it had come from. perhaps she had been born with it.

she could see the city ahead, looming beyond. the obelisk lingered over them all, the spire a monument to a long forgotten god. she trembled on, bare feet treading broken earth. the shovel dragged behind her, each pebble and scattered touch of earth echoed in its metal cave (itsthereitsthereitshereitshere). above the sky was blanketed in a faded piss-yellow crumpled sheet of clouds that threatened to swallow her whole with its emptiness like a drop of water losing itself into the sea. her throat was cold.

two men saw her approach and approached in turn with the song hey sweetheart wanta play and the shovel flew, its sharp edge slicing the one’s neck. before the other could grasp the sight her arm (the shovel as much part of it as her own hand) struck a blow that crushed his chest. he lay on the ground gasping in air that enter both through throat and punctured lungs for a couple seconds.

she watched his signals trickle than crumple into themselves before dispersing and fly away. she stood, watching the empty vessels before setting the shovel to work again. two holes, seven feet long, two feet wide, six feet deep. then she was done and continued forth in her unhallowed pilgrimage, into the new wilds man had made and laid waste. she had been to this place Before, when she still had a name.

and so she lumbered on, slouching towards bethlehem.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
Robert Frost. (via unicollide)