Happy Tuesday webkinz fam 😊
Selling tons of virtual stuff! My doc does list pricing but since I want these items gone I am willing to take lower prices than marked on there so feel free to send me offers of what you want/want to pay for it 💕
There’s PSI, retired items, clothing, Christmas stuff, etc. Each section is color coded for organization. Just lmk what you’re interested in 😊
Message me with any questions/offers or if anything in the doc interests you.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1AVQN0vZh5adwquR2rwzpvX4hmEFFEznF20EGhVnABDU/edit

Living in a small southern town, you get used to the way things are. I grew up as a military brat, so my childhood memories are a blur of packing, unpacking, and getting settled. It had been seven years since we arrived, and nothing but the grace of God would make me move again. A few years ago, my father got orders to station at a base in the middle of the Mohave. I was only seventeen then, but after a few dozen screaming matches, I decided to strike out on my own a little early. I got a part-time job at the cafe, which was enough to rent a little run-down shack a couple of blocks from downtown. As far as I was concerned, I was living the dream—serving coffee a few hours a week and spending the rest of my time hanging out with friends, listening to music, and drinking.
That particular morning started the same as any other. I woke up around noon with a text from Mark to meet me at the cafe. Took me about two hours to get up and head over. The sun had just begun its descent as I pushed the door to the cafe open, the bell above tinkling softly. The sound bothered me a little bit, but I couldn’t tell why. It seemed to ring a little louder than I was expecting, and gave me this strange drilling sensation inside my head.
I ignored the feeling as the smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries washed over me. I saw Mark and Jamie already sat at our usual spot. Mark looked up as I approached, a grin spreading across his face. "Hey, Alex. Sarah should be here soon."
“So what's on the docket today?” I asked as I sat down, stealing a bear claw off Jamie's plate and taking a large bite before he had the chance to protest.
Mark’s excitement was almost palpable. He was always the one with the big ideas and crazy schemes, which I honestly appreciated. They got us into trouble more often than not, but it beat day drinking in the Walmart parking lot like everyone else our age.
"Alright, check this out," Mark said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "I was talking to my cousin who works for the county. He told me about this old, abandoned food processing factory just outside of town. They used to can peaches there."
I gave him a skeptical look. "That’s your idea? Old, canned peaches?"
"No, idiot," he scoffed. "They left behind a ton of nitrates and phosphates. I’ve been doing some reading, and we can use them to make fireworks. I was up all night figuring it out and putting these together." He subtly opened his backpack to reveal at least a dozen PVC pipes fitted on both ends.
"Now that's what I’m talking about," I said, grinning.
Sarah walked in, catching the tail end of our conversation. "Sorry I’m late, I had a breakout and had to stop by the pharmacy. Upped my allergy meds. I fucking hate pollen," she said as I scooted over to make room for her on the bench.
"Is there anything you aren't allergic to?" I laughed.
She rolled her eyes, ignoring my question. "So, what's the plan for today?"
Mark, Jamie and I exchanged cheeky glances. "Well," I started, "let’s just hope you’re not allergic to peaches."
We finally managed to pry the side door of the factory off, which broke free from the hinges and smashed against the floor. Stepping inside, the air was thick and rancid as we bounced the beams of our flashlights around the packaging floor.
"We should split up," Mark suggested. "Alex, you and Sarah check out the storage rooms for the chemicals. Jamie and I will find the control room and see if we can get the power back on."
All of us nodded as we went our separate ways. Sarah and I wandered down the dark hallways, kicking open doors and looking for anything that looked vaguely like chemicals. The corridors were dark and damp, with black mold snaking along the walls like veins.
The first few rooms we checked were empty, filled only with dust and the remnants of long-abandoned equipment. Each door creaked as we pushed it open, revealing more decay and desolation.
As we moved further down the hallway, the mold seemed to become more aggressive, spreading in thick, dark patches along the walls and floors. The air grew heavier, making it harder to breathe. We kicked open another door, our flashlights revealing more of the same—nothing useful.
"This place is a bust," Sarah muttered,
"Let's keep looking," I replied, though I was starting to feel the same way. "There has to be something."
We continued down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the silence. As we approached the end of the hall, something caught my eye. One door stood out, covered in black, creeping mold that seemed to pulse and writhe. Tendrils of fungus snaked out from the edges, reaching out into the hallway.
"Sarah, look at this," I said.
She turned to see what I was pointing at and her eyes widened. "That’s... different."
We approached the door cautiously as the tendrils moved and swayed.
With a deep breath, we each grabbed one side of the door and pulled. It resisted for a moment before giving way, the mold snapping and tearing as we forced it open. The smell that hit us was overpowering, a mix of rot and decay that made my eyes water.
Inside, our flashlights revealed a horrifying sight. At the back of the room sat several pallets with dozens of boxes of peaches each. But it was what grew from these boxes that will haunt my nightmares till my dying day.
The entire back wall was consumed by a towering fungal mass. Thick, fleshy stalks jutted out from the base, climbing nearly to the ceiling. The surface of the fungus glistened with a slimy, wet sheen, appearing almost like rotting flesh under our flashlight beams. Each stalk was covered in a mottled, sickly green and yellow hue, with patches of black mold that seemed to pulse in the dim light.
Interwoven within this horrific sight were bulbous growths, each one throbbing rhythmically, as if with a heartbeat of its own. They resembled obscene, overgrown tumors, ready to burst at the slightest touch. Long, sinewy tendrils extended from the main mass, creeping over the boxes and along the floor like the fingers of some malevolent creature, seeking out any life to ensnare.
The tendrils near the door twitched, slowly inching their way toward us as if aware of our presence. The air was thick with spores, glimmering in the light like tiny stars, each one a potential harbinger of decay and death.
"Oh my god," Sarah whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of our own breathing. "What is that thing?"
We stood there, frozen in shock and disgust, before I slammed the door shut.
"Let's get the hell out of here," I said.
We hurried back down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. The lights in the facility flickered on, casting a blinding white light. I heard a bubbling, groaning noise emanate from behind the fungal door, sending a wave of nausea through my body.
We met back up with Mark and Jamie in the main area and quickly told them what we saw.
"Yo, that sounds sick," Jamie exclaimed. "We should blow it up. I found the chemicals in the control room and these bad boys are ready to go," he said, holding up a pipe bomb.
"Yeah," Mark agreed, his eyes alight with excitement. "We'd be doing the world a favor, getting rid of that thing."
Sarah shook her head, her face pale. "No way. I'm not doing this. That thing... It's not normal. We need to get out of here and call someone who knows what they're doing."
Jamie frowned. "Come on, Sarah. Don't be a buzzkill. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something epic."
"Epic?" Sarah snapped. "That thing is dangerous. We don't know what we're dealing with. I'm not risking my life for some stupid joke."
Mark stepped in with a grin. "Alright, let's all calm down. If you’re scared you can just let the men handle it.”
Sarah crossed her arms. "Fine, but I'm staying here."
"Suit yourself," Jamie said, shrugging. "But we're not leaving without taking care of that thing."
"Alright, let's do this," Mark said, looking at Jamie and me. "We'll be quick. Sarah, stay here and keep an eye out.”
The hallway looked completely different in the fluorescent lighting. I could see now that each vein of fungus emanated from that single door, like a spiral portal threatening to suck us in.
"Let's make this quick," I whispered, glancing back at Jamie and Mark. "We light the bomb, throw it in, and get the hell out of here."
Jamie nodded, holding the pipe bomb tightly in his hand. "Ready when you are."
We reached the door, and the tendrils of fungus seemed even more aggressive, writhing and pulsing as if aware of our presence. The air was thick with spores.
"On three," I whispered, gripping the edge of the door. "One... two... three."
We yanked the door open, the mold snapping and tearing as it gave way. The smell of rot and decay hit us again, making my eyes water. The monstrous fungal mass loomed before us, its bulbous growths throbbing rhythmically.
Jamie lit the fuse and threw the bomb as hard as he could inside. It struck one of the orbs, which burst, shooting a fine white mist into the air.
"Run!" I shouted, slamming the door shut. We turned and sprinted down the hallway. The explosion sounded behind us, the shockwave lifting me off my feet and sending me tumbling to the ground.
Living in a small southern town, you get used to the way things are. My parents were in the army, so we moved a lot, but now I'm staying put. I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a small headache.
I ignored it and slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie. “So what's on the docket today?” I asked, stealing a doughnut off Jamie's plate.
“Going to go to an old peach factory and get some chemicals. I need to make some fireworks,” Mark replied, subtly revealing some pipe bombs in his bag.
Sarah walked in towards the tail end of our conversation and silently stood next to our table.
The three of us glanced at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Sarah,” I finally started. “Are you ok?”
“Y-yeah,” she replied. “Are YOU guys feeling ok?”
We exchanged uneasy glances. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I said. After a moment, she shook her head and sat down as we continued our plans.
That evening, we broke into the peach factory. We found this disgusting, gigantic fungal growth coming out of some boxes of peaches and we blew it up with some pipe bombs.
The next day I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a small migraine.
I ignored it and slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie. “So what's on the docket today?” I asked, stealing a maroon off Jamie's plate.
“Going to go to an old peach factory and get some chemicals. I need to make some fireworks,” Mark replied, subtly revealing some pipe bombs in his bag.
Sarah walked in towards the tail end of our conversation and silently stood next to our table.
The three of us glanced at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Sarah,” I finally started. “Are you ok?”
“Y-yeah,” she replied. “Not really. Are YOU guys feeling Ok?”
We exchanged uneasy glances. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I said. After a moment, she shook her head and sat down as we continued our plans.
That evening, we broke into the peach factory. We found this disgusting, gigantic fungal growth coming out of some boxes of peaches and we blew it up with some pipe bombs.
The next day I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a piercing migraine.
I ignored it and slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie. “So what's on the docket today?” I asked, stealing a bagel off Jamie's plate.
“Going to go to an old peach factory and get some chemicals. I need to make some fireworks,” Mark replied, subtly revealing some pipe bombs in his bag.
Sarah walked in towards the tail end of our conversation and silently stood next to our table.
The three of us glanced at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Sarah,” I finally started. “Are you ok?”
“What's going on?” she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m scared.”
We exchanged uneasy glances. “It’s fine, Sarah. Just take a seat,” I said. After a moment, she shook her head and sat down as we continued our plans.
That evening, we broke into the peach factory. We found this disgusting, gigantic fungal growth coming out of some boxes of peaches and we blew it up with some pipe bombs.
The next day I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a splitting migraine.
As I slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie, I noticed Sarah outside, fixated on a bird suspended in mid-flight. I went out to see her.
"Are you seeing this?" she asked, her voice tinged with astonishment.
"Yeah," I replied nonchalantly. "That happens all the time. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"What the hell do you mean, 'Am I feeling okay?'!" she screamed. "That bird is frozen mid-air, and you don't think anything weird is going on?"
Her yelling took me aback. I didn't understand her alarm, so I shrugged it off and joined Mark inside. As we began planning our nightly excursion to the peach factory, Sarah burst through the door, screaming, then vanished in a puff of smoke.
"That's odd," I mused, my brow furrowed in confusion before we shrugged it off and resumed our scheming.
The day after, I met Mark again at the cafe. This rhythm had become our existence: meetings by day, adventures by night at the old peach plant. That evening followed the familiar pattern; we reveled in the thrill of hurling pipe bombs into that small enclosed room.
This routine had completely engulfed our lives. Day after day at the cafe, night after night at the factory—it seemed as though this cycle was all we had ever known. Reflecting on it, I couldn't remember any other way of life.
However, one thing increasingly disturbed me—the ringing of the doorbell at the cafe's entrance. Each time I entered, the sound seemed sharper, more grating. Focusing on it brought a searing pain to my head, like a needle drilling through my skull. Yet, despite the agony, I found myself obsessing over it, the sound gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
One day, driven to the brink by this incessant ringing, I decided to confront it head-on. I stood by the door, letting the bell chime repeatedly. Each ring sliced through my mind, but I persisted, sweat beading on my forehead, teeth clenched in torment.
As the pain crescendoed, reality shattered. I woke to the blaring of a fire alarm, not the quaint doorbell I had imagined. The cafe was engulfed in chaos. The hallway was consumed by a sprawling fungal mass, its tendrils creeping along the walls.
In the dim, flickering light, I saw Jamie, or what was left of him. Half of his skull was missing, the fungus attached grotesquely to his exposed brain, pulsating with each eerie beat of his fading heart. Mark was there too, seemingly unharmed physically, but trapped in a delusion, his eyes glazed over, a smile playing on his lips as the fungus encased him.
Sarah lay collapsed by the fire alarm, her hand still on the lever. She had managed to pull it before succumbing to the spores that now clung to her body.
The tendrils that had enveloped me snapped violently, each break releasing a sickening crack that echoed through the eerie silence of the hallway. An outline of my body remained imprinted in the fungal mass, a mold from which I had desperately broken free.
Gritting my teeth against the pain and horror, I scrambled to Mark and Sarah. Mark was less entangled, lost in his fungal-induced stupor. I grabbed him under the arms, his body limp but alive, and dragged him across the floor. The fungus resisted, stretching like sinew before tearing away from him with wet, ripping sounds.
Sarah was heavier, her body weakened but still fighting. I clasped her wrists, pulling with all my strength. The fungus clung to her, tendrils winding up her arms like ivy. With a final, determined yank, the last of the tendrils snapped, freeing her. We left behind fragments of the monstrous growth clinging to her clothes.
Together, we staggered out into the night air, away from the suffocating enclosure. The cool air hit our faces, harsh yet cleansing. Behind us, the fire alarm continued to blare into the night. I fumbled with my phone, hands shaking, to dial the emergency number. The call went through, and within minutes, the sound of sirens cut through the stillness of the night, growing louder as help approached.
The next few days were a blur. I remember fading in and out of consciousness as nurses pumped antifungals directly into my IV, their faces blurring into the sterile environment. Once we were somewhat cognizant, the police wanted answers. One by one, we were interviewed, but we gave them nothing. I still don’t know what the exact penalty is for manufacturing explosives and using them to destroy a building, but I’m guessing it’s not community service. Jamie was still missing, and they hadn’t found any sign of him or his body. I tried to hide my tears as I knew he was already long gone.
After a few weeks, I was finally cleared for visitors and got to see Sarah again. She told me that after the explosion, she ran but couldn’t leave us behind. She came back, only to see us being consumed by the fungus. Try as she might, she wasn’t able to free us as she felt the oppressive spores take her under. She fought back and managed to pull the fire alarm before succumbing again. The doctors told her that her allergy medication gave her some resistance to the fungus; otherwise, she might have been a goner.
Mark was never the same. We never talked about what happened, and after trying once and him flipping out, I figured it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. That summer, he moved to upstate New York to work in his dad’s business. I haven’t seen him since. That fall, Sarah started college at Savannah State. I still call her every now and again, but it’s not like it used to be.
Despite all that happened, I’m not moving again. I’m happy here, and if it’s up to me, I’ll die in this little town. I still work at the cafe, as a manager now. On weekends, I come in and just sit at the booth we all used to share.
I still think about Jamie from time to time. I wonder if he's dead or still stuck in his delusion, picturing the four of us sitting at our table, talking, laughing, and passing the time. Sometimes, when the cafe is empty and the light is just right, I can almost see him there, his smile frozen in that moment before everything went wrong.
The cafe grows quieter each day, the hum of life fading into an eerie stillness. My skin feels different, as if the air itself whispers secrets I can't quite grasp. The itching that started as a minor annoyance has intensified, becoming a constant torment. I scratch at lesions that have begun to form on my arms and chest, red and raw, with patches of green spreading beneath the surface. I’ve started to wear long sleeves to cover my arms and a mask to hide my purpling lips.
Some nights, when closing, as I sit alone in the dim light of the cafe, the itching becomes unbearable. I claw at the lesions, feeling a dampness beneath my skin. Sometimes, when I cough, I could swear I see tiny spores hanging in the air, reminiscent of the bursting nodules growing on the stalks of the monster.
Occasionally, I hear the bell ring and the door open, but no one is there. I look outside into the empty night and see nothing. This went on for weeks, becoming more frequent. But one night, the door opened, and I saw Jamie standing there, the picture of health. I went to embrace him and noticed my lesions were gone too. It was almost as if we had never gone to the peach factory. It was suddenly morning, and the light shone through the cafe. For the first time in forever, we were happy. We talked about nothing, passing the time.
After what felt like hours, he told me it was time to go. But his mouth wasn’t moving—I felt like I could read his thoughts, and he could read mine. We stood up as I took one last look at the cafe and headed off with him, back to the peach factory.
As we walked, a strange calmness settled over me. I remember feeling that I wanted to ask if he had talked to Mark or Sarah, and wondered how they were doing. But deep down, somehow, I could feel their presence and I knew they were doing just fine. The sun was bright, the air crisp. The itching had vanished completely, replaced by an inexplicable craving for the sweetness of ripe peaches. Jamie and I shared a silent understanding, a bond deeper than any words could convey.
The factory loomed ahead, its doors wide open as if inviting us in. The familiar scent of peaches and something else—something earthy and ancient—filled the air. We stepped inside, side by side, feeling at home for the first time in ages.
The last thing I remember before the darkness took over was the feeling of the soft, warm peach flesh in my hand, and Jamie’s voice in my head saying, "Welcome home."

Murder Drones is an indie animated show produced and directed by GLITCH Productions. It was originally created by Liam Vickers before signing a contract with GLITCH to turn it into a show. The plot of the show follows young robot characters going on adventures throughout the episodes. The show is primarily marketed towards the teenage and child audiences. It is free to watch on YouTube meaning that it is available to be watched by anyone who has a Youtube channel. While all of this might seem innocent and harmless at first, there is much more to Murder Drones than meets the eye. We must take into consideration that the main characters of the show which are teenagers (as shown by the fact that they are seen going to school in multiple episodes) have highly sexualised designs and are often placed in highly suggestive situations with one another which has extremely disturbing implications. We must mention one character in specific, V, who has a ridiculously sexualised design due to her over exaggerated features and revealing outfit. This design choice obviously serves no purpose other than to bait lonely induvidials into clicking on Murder Drones episodes by using predatory tactics like this. Characters such as Lizzy and Doll also have revealing clothes that they never change once. There very clearly seems to exist a pattern of oversexualised female characters within the show. This sexualisation and objectification of women is never addressed. GLITCH Productions themselves also directly promotes shipping of their characters by integrating romantic relationships into the story. One such example is "Nuzi", a ship made canon by GLITCH Productions that involves the characters N and Uzi. Uzi is clearly shown to be underage as evidenced by the fact that she still goes to school and N is shown to be in his early 20's at lowest. This clear depiction of pedophilia is completely ignored by the show's writers and producers. Not only is it ignored, as a matter of fact, it is actively encouraged. Liam Vickers, the creator of Murder Drones has made several pedophilic remarks in the past regarding underage characters. The fact that the main person behind the entire show is possibly a pedophile does not help it's reputation in the slightest. Furthermore, Liam Vickers once had a thumbnail that clearly sexualized a fictional minor on one of the videos on his old Scary Story Time With Liam YouTube channel. Although, not as subtle as the depiction of problematic relationships, Murder Drones web series might be secretly promoting racism through different implications. Robots vs humans kind of stories are as old as our world, but i would like to draw attention to several "coincidentally" questionable moments. Main characters of the show all seem to have skin color of white and you might say that they are just robots and that their so called "skin color" is just the paint. That point might have been valid if the showrunner didn't make a design decision of making those robots look so much like real humans. Speaking about real humans, they are depicted as "shadowy silhouettes" of some sort, which inevitably makes them look pitch black. This would not have been so bad, only if the main character of the show - Uzi, didn't make numerous claims about killing all humans, and do keep in mind that the coloration of her skin is pale white. In conclusion, Murder Drones is an inherently pedophilic and racist show that is especially harmful considering that it is targeted towards minors and is accessible by anyone. It should be banned worldwide for promoting subtle pedophilic and anti-black agendas and preying on juvenile population of 3rd world countries that is unable to afford cable TV and is instead forced to watch YouTube videos.

Genocide looked to the sky. He thought of his mentor. The one who had saved him. He remembered his childhood. How powerless he was. He remembered the anger. He never wanted to hurt anybody. He thought of all the times he showed compassion. How much they hurt him for it. He saw the world before him, a graveyard. Humans. People that were supposed to be made in the image of some divine creator. They were but maggots feasting upon his remains. They ate away at his very being until nothing human remained. His thoughts were no longer his own. He had no joys in life that mattered. He hated humanity more than he could love anything about himself. He remember his first killing spree. Being gunned down by police. Left for dead. He remembered a hooded figure moving towards him. Getting closer the more he neared his death. He saw its pale face. Its impossibly black eyes. It was a man. This figure in question appeared to be of Japanese nationality with long, straight, loose hair. It emanated extreme malice. It offered him a choice. A purpose. Power. He thought the figure a reaper but it identified itself as Amakusa Masataka. Masataka guided him on how to kill and gave him specific locations to kill people in. In a sense, he became a hitman for quotas of people. He inquired what Masataka was. The presence of evil, his ability to appear and disappear at will, how he could control what people could see him and what people couldn't. While vague, years of killing for this being offered some insight. Amakusa Masataka belonged to a group of people not of this world. His people had been corrupted by a dark force long ago and had aligned themselves with the warlord who had subjugated their version of Japan. Their dark high priest assisted the warlord along with two others. These four rulers in turn served a larger order. The four were tasked with bringing about the end of the current world as an act of retribution for some fallen deity. Masataka's people acted as covert operatives for this empire. They were feared across the land and were collectively referred to as "Shinigami". An agent of the coming apocalypse, a servant of evil possessed by the will of those gods of death, Genocide would walk the earth.
Genocide stepped toward the station. A police cruiser rammed into him. He pulled out a knife and stabbed the hood of the car. The inhuman force of the knife created sparks which burst the engine into flames. The car crashed into a streetlight and exploded. A second cruiser neared the scene. No way a man could have done this. Yet still, out of the fires Genocide strode forth. It set upon the second vehicle, shooting out it's tires while jumping 9 feet into the air. The car tries to reverse but crashes into a wall. Genocide lands on the hood and kicks through the front window. Glass shatters under its boot, blinding the two officers inside. Genocide shoots one of the officers with a shotgun, killing him. The second officer in the passenger seat readies his pistol and takes aim. Only two shots fired, both directed at Genocide's head. It casually cocks its neck to avoid them. Then it grabs the officer's arm, breaking it. Genocide uses its free hand to grab the officer's head and bangs it into the dashboard no less than 5 times. The skull is shattered on the final impact. Genocide jumps off the car and continues on his mission.
Detective Evans speaks through a megaphone," This is your first and final warning. Stand down or we will use any and all means at our disposal to put you down." Genocide dropped its shotgun and raised its hands. A group of five SWAT team members rushed out the station, surrounding Genocide with riot shields. An officer accompanies them, edging behind the figure to apply handcuffs. Suddenly, Genocide springs to life , grabbing the officer behind him. He flips the officer over his head, slamming him into the pavement at his feet. Then Genocide stomps his head causing it to burst. Genocide drops a flash bomb from his coat sleeve, blinding the SWAT team as he draws his knife. He drives it into one SWAT member, the knife puncturing the shield and piercing his chest. Genocide kicks the corpse away withdrawing his knife. He goes to another, this time using the end of his boot toe in a rising kick to disarm their shield. He grabs them by the throat and drives the knife slowly into their eye socket. Another is tackled to the ground and beaten to death despite still being under the shield. Another is picked up and thrown into the fires still burning from the first auto incident. In no time, Genocide stood before an indistinguishable mass of gore, blood streaking across his black leather outfit. He laughed" So this is all you can give me. I'm not entertained." Officers took aim from the station windows, and snipers did so from other rooftops. Genocide laughed maniacally as he was rained down upon from all sides by a hailstorm of bullets. His body convulsed, but he did not fall. Moments more and he was on his knees. Still though, their efforts were futile. Gracia looked out and saw a black mist coalescing around the man in black. His blood. Blood erupted from his body only to transform into this dark mist that reentered his wounds. Genocide screamed. No. It was just an elevated pitch in his laughter. Optimism failed everyone yet again. Gracia saw Genocide holding something in his right hand. She could only make out a beeping red light. Genocide pushed the button triggering the carefully concealed explosives he laid in preparation for this event. C4 explosives went off in all the places he saw fit. The sniping posts he couldn't reach. The assault of lead lightened. Then Genocide drew an RPG from...somewhere. He collected himself and fired at the station's entrance. The explosion shook the station. From inside, the lights began to flicker. Communications were down on all fronts. Had he modified the rocket with some type of EMP? Not good. Amisdst the confusion Genocide entered using smoke bombs to mask his presence. Moving like a shadow, he killed everyone in the lobby silently with his knife. He made his way to the holding cells. Still they chanted. Still they praised. Still they raved for the arrival of genocide. Genocide shot the lock opening the cell. Jim Jimenez walked out and bowed before his master. Genocide smiled. He couldn't have imagined how proficient he had gotten with possession. Well, not quite possession. He had known of the Shinigami's ability to share their thoughts and emotions with humans. Shinigami like his mentor were ancient. They had so many years of memories, such strong a hatred for life that they overwhelmed the personality of the victim. The victim sees themselves as one of them. Shinigami can't force the will of the victim, so they find those who are already similar to them in some way. Genocide found the collective universal distrust of police to be a prime sentiment to capitalize on. He armed the inmates, infecting them with samples of his own dark essence.One particular inmate caught Genocide's eye. He knew the man's work. An arsonist. The one whom he recalls was responsible for blowing up his first car way back in high school. Rather than a standard firearm, Genocide gave the man a random assortment of grenades containing a special surprise. Genocide showed them visions of anarchy, of sending a message to a society that used and disregarded them. While this was also true of how he felt, years of living in darkness had changed him. He needed no purpose. No end goal. No justification. He just wanted to watch the world burn.
Genocide's small army broke off to engage several different wings of the station. Genocide went to the security room. He found Wayne, his informant, playing some FPS on one of the monitors. Wayne took of his headphones and asked," You kill everyone yet?" Genocide responded," No. You should get going before that happens. Your life becomes fair game if I run out of pigs to cook." Wayne clapped his hands, "Aight, GC my man, say less." He packed his things and left. Genocide drew a twin pair of handguns and laid waste to the station. He followed a group that took cover in the men's restroom. Kicking open multiple stalls he was surprised to find...nothing. Where had they gone? He turned around and saw his mentor, Masataka, smiling at him. It looked like him. Long, dark hair, black clothing, and soulless, empty eyes. But it wasn't. It was Genocide's own reflection in the mirror. Genocide smiled. He didn't notice the changes at first. They must have happened gradually. Subconsciously. From the final stall, an officer sprung into action, rushing Genocide, hitting him point blank with a shockgun round. Genocide felt the tingling sensation electrifying his body and grew numb. In spite of the pain, he took a single step. Then, another. He came within striking range of the officer and snatched the shockgun. Two more officers erupted from another stall, battering him with baton strikes. Genocide felt nothing. He clutched the shockgun in his hand like a bat and went to work pulverizing his attackers. An officer kicked in the bathroom door, a woman holding a pistol. She fired multiple times to no effect. Genocide stood covered in blood. He even let her reload. Twice. He wanted to see her despair. Her hopelessness. He walked towards her, shrugging off bullets as they pierced his body. His wounds healed nigh instantly due to the dark essence he had been imbued with. He held her face with both hands, lifting her body off the ground. As she screamed, he used her head to shatter the restroom mirror, running down the full length of it while smashing her into it at several points. He dropped the remains of what he held, washed his hands with soap, dried them, then exited the restroom.
The inmates that rallied for the cause of genocide attacked the station. Fortunately, they were nowhere near Genocide in terms of power and only carried one type of firearm each. They shared his healing ability but could be killed quite easily. Gracia encountered a sniper on the end or a west wing hallway. Other officers waited behind corners unable to get close. Gracia noticed the faulty lighting. In this hallway, the lights flickered in intervals of 3 seconds. Finding a pattern and timing her movements, she rushed the sniper at the exact moment the lights went out. Running the length of the hall, Gracia zigzagged, dodging the sniper inmate's bullets. She jumped on a wall, ran 3 feet on it, then kicked off it, pouncing on the assailant. She fired five shots into him, making sure to hit the brain and the heart. Two severe injuries that were impossible for Shinigami essence to heal simultaneously. Elsewhere, Evans took on another escaped inmate. A vehicular arsonist named Carson. Carson had a bag filled with an assortment of different grenades and was happily giving them out like candy on Halloween. "A flash bang here, a bit of tear gas there. Oh. Wait! Was that an ice grenade? Did the explosion freeze your leg to the floor? Whoops. Maybe a fire grenade will melt that for you. Hold on let me get one fore you," Carson rambled gleefully. Evans looked at the carnage before him. Officers burning. Officers partially frozen in blocks of ice. He took a breath and aimed his wristgun. He steadied his right forearm. Carson readied to throw a random grenade. Evans shot it the moment it left Carson's hand. The grenade exploded directly in front of Carson. Both Evans and Carson looked at each other in shock. Confetti. A party grenade? Carson quickly fumbled for another but was tackled and restrained by several officers. Meanwhile in the South wing, Lary had some colleagues set a trap for another shotgun toting inmate. He had them bait the inmate and flee. Giving chase he turned a corner and ran straight into Lary's fist. The inmate recovered and motioned to shoot Lary. "Let's tango. " Lary gave the code word. Nearby officers activated a device. A signal jammer of sorts. The inmate shoved the barrel of his gun into Lary's gut and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The special signal jammer in question was designed for firearms. It was a last resort as it left officers just as defenseless. Lary was having fun. He boxed the inmate in hand to hand combat. Despite the inmate's enhanced strength, Lary's technique pulled through. Lary ducked under one of the inmate's wide punches and did some type of rising uppercut where he jumped off the ground while spinning. One of the other officers whispered" The rising dragon." Lary smiled giving a thumbs up" Yeah, it was a rising dragon uppercut. Saw it in one O my kid's vidya games. Thought I'd try it out while I'm jacked on adrenaline".
Jim Jimenez looked long and hard at himself in the mirror. He was in the women's restroom. Some brainless woman had broken the men's restroom mirror with her face. For the first time in a long while Jim could think clearly. He was becoming sane. At the least he was no longer a raving lunatic. The life essence of the dark gods had healed the wounds to both his body and his mind. He saw his face, his scraggly dirty beard. He found a razor and shaved. He trimmed his beard somewhat. He liked it. He washed his hair. It fell down his face like silk, no longer greasy. His bloodshot eyes once burning with crazed intensity had cooled. He blinked. Just for a second, he saw the man known as Genocide. The man that attacked him. The one that killed him and gave him new life. The drug dealers. The police. They were all the same in his eyes now. They were all to blame for the world being what it is. Jim wanted to hate them. He wanted to take revenge, but he felt nothing. It didn't matter. He knew he was wronged, could logically justify acting against them, but he just didn't care anymore. About anything. He was finally free. Sensing his presence was no longer needed here, Jim vanished into the night. He needed to find someone who had had the answers he needed. Himself. Who had he been? Who was he now? Who could he become? Where was he going? So many questions to ponder indefinitely. So much time left in the rest of his life.
Genocide ran down the station's halls raining hailstorms of bullets upon its occupants. He had a handgun in each hand as well as a wristgun on each wrist. This effectively gave him 4 separate firearms that he could use simultaneously. Lary regrouped with Gracia, Evans, and a handful of others. They radioed all surviving officers near Genocide to flee to the roof. This plan had been set in motion days before the assault and had been kept hidden from most of the force. The plan involved scheduling flights for several helicopters to arrive at some point after Genocide arrived. There would be no way for him to prepare for them and pre-scheduling their arrival ensured they arrived regardless of if they were called or not. Lary and the others set about preparing the second jamming device. Genocide stood among a hallway of bodies. He saw one man clinging to life trying to crawl away. He decided on trying that other thing he saw his master do. He grabbed the dying man and pinned him to the wall. Slowly he drove a knife into his chest. As the man's life slipped away, something else entered his body. Genocide channeled a small amount of his essence into the vessel. He had steadily done this with other casualties around the station whose bodies were somewhat salvageable. He dropped the body he was holding and looked upon the others. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his eyed were black, both sclera and iris. The scene before him changed. Genocide had a vision. He saw a dead gray wasteland littered with bodies. These people however weren't cops and wore traditional Japanese attire. In his hand wasn't a gun or knife but a short sickle akin to a farming tool. He heard a dark voice call out to him. Slowly, the corpses around him began to rise, now mere puppets bound eternally to their master's whim. The bodies sold to the reaper who had claimed their lives. Genocide's vision ended. His eyes had returned normal. Around him, dead cops began to rise. His dark essence had entered their bodies and reanimated them. He sent his dead army to attack the officers fleeing to the roof of the station. These zombies swarmed the stairwell giving chase to the few survivors. There were five of them. They had two flights of stairs to climb and a horde of their former colleagues close behind them. One officer tripped and was set upon by the horde. The zombies didn't bite them but held them firmly in place. The other four officers stared down wondering what to do. They could hear Genocide chuckling. They could hear humming. They could feel the temperature rising. Their colleague and the two zombies holding him were hit by an enormous green fireball. Genocide had fired a Magnum Opus and had charged the bullet to level 3. The Magnum Opus was simply a magnum that shot fireballs, with bullets that could be charged by holding down the trigger. It had three levels of charges. Level 1 was a small reddish ball of plasma. Level 2 was slightly larger and yellow. Level 3 was the maximum charge and resulted in a large slow moving green blast of energy. The officer was ignited and Genocide watched gleefully as the force of the blast sent him flying through a wall. The four officers continued up firing occasionally to slow down the zombies. Soon they made it to a door leading to the roof. Before one officer could reach it, he was sniped by Genocide, a bullet to the head killing him instantly. The remaining three made it out. They regrouped with the others already there, 12 in total, including Lary, Evans, and Gracia. This would be their final stand. They just had to hold out until Genocide made it up there. They just had to keep Genocide occupied until the helicopters arrived. Genocide slowly ascended the stairs behind his horde. On the roof, the remaining survivors faced off against waves of the undead. Evans recognized the attackers. These zombies were being controlled by nanomachines. He heard the stories of several weapons encountered by soldiers on the battlefield. These creatures were called Metaldeads as they were reanimated via machines. They had been officially banned by most of the worlds' governments for being unethical. However, this did not stop the technology from being spread still between shady organizations, terrorists, etc. Evans wondered how Genocide got this form of nanotechnology. Evans long speculated that the dark essence used by most of the killers they encountered was a a form of nanotech however it was different from anything else he had seen or heard about. The dark essence seemed to be an amalgamation of other types of nanotech. Evans had to save his inquiries for later. He reloaded his wristgun and took aim at the approaching group of Metaldeads. Gracia steadied her handgun and shot two Metaldeads in the head. From the single door countless arms seemed to spill forth from the darkness. The other officers took turns firing in intervals. this allowed them to create a steady stream of fire where no more that three guns needed to be reloaded at once. The horde seemed to thin out over time as if they were making progress. In actuality, the Metaldeads were just making room for Genocide to enter. Genocide exploded in a sprint from the door. Everyone fired upon the killer. Genocide had now chosen a wrist mounted mini flamethrower to use as his weapon. He stormed past the oncoming bullets taking some damage, but refused to slow down. He unleashed a stream of fire that caught five of the officers in one fell swoop. Gracia fired five rounds into Genocide's face. He stumbled back. Lary took the chance to fire several mine gun bullets at Genocide's feet. The mines quickly detected his movement and exploded. In seconds, Genocide was on his back.
Staring at the night sky Genocide saw the moon. He reached for it. He called for the darkness to give him more power. His wounds began healing. In the sky he could hear the whirl of propellers. There were six helicopters in total. The first two had evacuated the survivors while the others stayed to engage Genocide. Genocide got up and unstrapped the sniper rifle from his back. He stood before the searchlights as a black silhouette, cornered but unwilling to back down. Lary stared down at him smiling. "Okay!" He shouted, "Let's Tango!" Upon this declaration the second jamming device was activated. Now, isolated on the roof, Genocide's guns couldn't be fired and the helicopters were out of range of the device. Now Genocide stood like a sitting duck. A helicopter fired a rocket. Genocide side stepped and grabbed it. He turned his body redirecting the rocket to hit another helicopter. As it exploded Genocide drew his knife and threw it at another helicopter. Behind the knife was such force that it shattered the helicopter window's glass, embedding itself in the pilot. This helicopter too went down where it exploded. "Holy clucknuggets!Did you see that!?" Lary said dumbfounded. Evans looked out the helicopter door he was in jaw open in shock. "There's no way." He collected himself quickly and radioed the remaining two helicopters to keep moving and to use their machineguns as much as possible. The helicopters reigned down upon Genocide tearing apart his body. Shreds of leather and darkened blood sprayed across the pavement of the roof. Gracia watched as Genocide's body was destroyed repeatedly as it tried to heal. Surely he had to stop at some point. After 10 minutes the helicopters had exhausted their cache of ammunition and soldiers opted to fire their own rifles and occasionally throw grenades. After about six minutes, they too had run out of bullets. Genocide stood unfazed. He had long since healed himself and now appeared intangible with gunfire seeming to pass through his body. His coat once ripped , now appeared whole though on closer inspection seemed to writhe. Gracia looked in horror as she remembered the tales her adopted father had told her. Tales he had in turn heard from his predecessors. Every so often officers had reported encounters with ghost like beings cloaked in a cloud of living dark mist. The beings were rumored to be responsible for the deaths of multiple people ranging from scientists, veterans, mafia, politicians, etc. They were seen near such crime scenes and even more shockingly appeared around several sites where suicides were committed. These beings were reportedly impervious to bullets and filled anyone who got near with an impending sense of dread. If Genocide was connected to them or somehow turning into one , there was little chance they would be able to defeat him. Gracia's fears were confirmed when she saw that Genocide's leather coat had been destroyed and he had replaced it with the dark mist coalescing from his own spilled blood. The dark mist, swirling, grew larger and several tendrils sprouted out from it. Gracia could briefly make out a figure standing next to Genocide. A hooded figure cloaked in the same black substance. The figure stared up at her with soulless, blackened eyes which seemed to beckon her to jump from the aircraft she was standing in. Compelling her to give in to the death that plagued the earth. Genocide kneeled to his master. The Shinigami, Masataka stared down at his disciple. "You have done a great service to us. Even now the sealed god stirs in its slumber. Its...Awakening will soon be upon us. It calls out for war. It begs for famine. It longs to continue its conquest. We are the death it so desires. The death that is necessary for this civilization to grow. Use the power that I have bestowed upon you. Finish the mission as you see fit." The Shinigami vanished and Genocide stood.Genocide stared at his hands. He remembered the first killing spree. He was on a bus. It stopped. A woman got on the bus and walked to the back smiling as she passed him. Something about her eyes unnerved him. They were so bright but something dark reflected inside them. He ignored the thought and put in his headphones. In minutes he had dozed off. He jumped awake. He looked around and froze in panic. All around him, everyone had been hacked to pieces. He saw the driver, actively being stabbed by a masked assailant. The mask, painted white with black eyeholes, stared back at him. It raised a finger over where its lips would be. Even under the expressionless visage, he could feel that same smile. He ran home that morning. He went to his room to find it destroyed. His posters, his computer, his tv, everything, had been ruined. He turned around and saw a man at the end of the hallway holding a sledge hammer. "The hell you been, boy?", his stepdad sneered. The man dropped his hammer and walked closer, veins pulsing with rage. He tried to explain how his car had caught fire forcing him to walk 4 miles to the nearest bus stop, but the man's fist was faster than his words. "Boy!Answer me when I talk to you!!" the man says as he backhands the taste out of the would be Genocide's mouth. He took that beating for several minutes before being left to stare at his ransacked room. He hated how his stepdad went out of his way to destroy the things he loved. Soon, another set of footsteps could be heard. It was his mother standing behind his locked door. She didn't knock, or say anything. She just stood there, doing nothing as always. He never knew if she came to talk to him or apologize. All he knew was that she could never bring herself to speak to or even acknowledge him. Maybe out of guilt or perhaps shame. A year or two later after he had had enough he ran away from home. Living out on the streets alone, without friends, or family, he would embark on countless killing sprees. These killings weren't of his own volition however. He was coerced by some corrupt officers from The Unit. They made him kill on their behalf. Sometimes they were protesters, sometimes they were drug dealers, other times, petty criminals they couldn't be bothered to process. It was routine for him to be used to kill entire houses of drug riddled addicts. During one such venture he entered a drug den, killing the dealer as instructed. He took out several junkies before turning to leave. A woman who survived her injuries clung to his heel begging him to stop. Looking down he aimed the handgun he was carrying at her head of long disheveled brown hair and fired. Feeling nothing, he kicked her body aside like trash when it hit him. Her face. This woman had been his mother. What was she doing in a place like this? He felt a shock of emotion. He wondered if she had always been like this, or had she changed after he left. He never made amends, but decided to stop killing from then on. The unit did not like that. Once it became apparent that he was no longer of use to them they started a manhunt to apprehend him with lethal force. They found him. They killed him. But he survived.
He remembered the girl on the bus. He remembered her eyes. Those of a sadistic killer. Still there was something else inside them. Something faint but deeper. So. Much. Sadness. Just like him. He felt the hatred begin to spread. His purpose, he decided, was to make all humans rot in the hell they created for him.
These people, he thought to himself, these living diseases, all needed to die. Their struggles, their problems, they spread like cancer to others. The only cure for humanity's sin, its collective wrongdoings, was genocide.
Around him, dark tendrils continued to form and expand, spinning in a vortex. Genocide pulled out two pistols. He squeezed the triggers to no effect. "As I see fit, huh? Hehe." He squeezed both guns in his hands, breaking them into pieces. He concentrated. In his hands, two more guns materialized now completely black due to being forged from the dark essence. Forged by his will. Immune to the jamming device that shut down conventional firearms. He raised his arms at each remaining helicopter and opened fire. Countless tendrils whipped out and slashed at his targets joining the dark essence bullets. It was chaos. Dark tendrils and bullets tore through every direction as Genocide spun and swirled around in 360 degrees firing randomly with purpose. A tendril pierced Gracia's right arm, another, her abdomen. She was however, fortunate, as the other passengers of her helicopter were dismembered. She barely had time to jump from the vehicle before it crashed. She fell 2 yards onto solid concrete. She felt immense pain as her right shoulder shattered on impact. She looked up to see Genocide's blade like appendages ripping through the other escape helicopters. She rolled onto her back and tried to steady herself. Within seconds her body began to repair itself. The nanocells inside her had saved her life but were now depleted. She would need another supplement lest she receive another fatal injury. The standard nanocells she and the others had were much less potent than those of the killers they faced. In truth, they had only minimal strength boosts being able to lift 5-8 more pounds than before and healing being limited to one or two fatal injuries so long as death didn't occur instantly. Gracia blacked out. She awoke the next morning in a hospital. There the doctors refilled her nanocells. She learned that the station had been left in ruins. Genocide had detonated some type of minature nuke following his rampage. He always blew up the stations as if to send a message. Gracia looked out the window thinking about why she became a cop. Twice her family had been murdered by them. Her biological family had been killed in an on record drug raid committed by a group of corrupt officers called The Unit. She had been adopted by another officer that arrived at the scene who found her as a child hiding in a closed. Sadly, he too was killed for trying to expose the activities of The Unit. Gracia joined the force to avenge both losses and bring justice to the killers that disguised themselves as normal people. Law enforcement was neither good, nor bad. It depended upon the people that made it up. In the dying corrupt world Gracia lived in, she vowed to be a beacon of light. Evans laid in a bed adjacent to Lary. "That damn Genocide's somethin else in' he?Like the stories you told us were understatements. That man could legit not die at this point in the story. Like he has friggin plot armor or somthin.'' Evans cut him off" I get it. We all got our asses handed to us. But did you see that ..thing that appeared next to him. Right before he created that black vortex that wiped us out. That must have something to do with his power. Maybe there's a still a way to stop him."Lary chimed in," That fella looked like he was on the way to a black metal concert wit all the black facepaint he was wearin' Creeped me out to be honest." As the survivors mulled over their predicament, the cycle of evil continued to spread elsewhere.
Budley flips through the pages of a magazine. He checks his watch. He looks around the gas station and doesn't see any customers. Seizing the opportunity, he puts in his headphones and begins playing an imaginary guitar as he jams to a progressive deathcore album. Oblivious to the screams coming from outside, the store clerk moves on to thumping two candy bars on the counter to simulate drums. Budley sees that his shift has ended and begins locking up the store. He sweeps the aisles and jumps as a shadow appears behind him. He turns and sees a well groomed bearded man dressed in a black hoodie, black shirt, and black and gray camo pants. The man holds out his hand and smiles. Budley rings up the pack of nicotine substitute gum. "Tryin to kick the habit huh?" Budley asks. The man replies, "Somethin like that. Gotta get my priorities back in check. Focus on the things that really matter. That damn KonCreep's a hell of a band aren't they?" He nods to the playlist on Budley's phone. "Yeah, they're killer. just got into them a month back." Budley answers. "You know, I'm something of a musician myself. Maybe you'll hear of me on the news someday." Jim Jimenez says as he sees himself out. He walks to the back of the building and passes an ominous form of graffiti. A woman lays unmoving and above her, written on concrete in red is a message that simply says "Genocide Reigns".

Genocide Reigns
(note: I'm an indie game developer making an action/horror title called Phantasphere. This story is a spin off set in the same universe)
Year 2480X Ryze County Police Department
He's coming. The ensuing panic spread like a virus infecting all present with symptoms of looming dread. Officers worked steadfast to prepare also taking what time remained to train the few combat hardened civilians whom had fled to the station earlier. If only they knew. This demon that presented itself as a man had led a string of senseless massacres across the country. Only recently had it begun to prioritize police stations and army bases as a means of breaking the will of civilians who knew they would be next. Officers from several counties across the states were transferred here for this last stand. This Genocide must not continue. Gracia checked her pistol. Some 20 bullets remained. "I can do this", she thought, "I have to". She had dealt with similar cases before. Some poor soul is overtaken by some inextricably evil force and makes it their life's work to propagate death. Gracia had killed quite a few already. Live arrests weren't always possible. Beyond saving, careful interrogations of the scarce live catches yielded a startling connection. These killers all alluded to a well of overwhelming hatred and despair that consumed them after making eye contact with...Pale, black eyed entities. Some type of demon? Ghost maybe? The idea seemed nonsensical, but there was evidence nonetheless that some outside force was using them to fulfill some unknown purpose. At the present time, all they could do was stop the killers after they had killed. It was always too late by then and more would appear randomly elsewhere. What good could be done here in an isolated station hoping to stop one guy out of possibly hundreds? "The guy we're waiting for is different from the others," detective Evans spoke from the center of a crowd nearby. Gracia moved in closer. "The others typically strike from the shadows, hide their faces behind masks, and prefer to get up close and personal with their victims. What we're dealing with is on a completely different scale. The trail of bloodshed this guy leaves is too difficult for the media to cover up. He loves the spectacle. Headlining the news. We can't keep using the burst pipeline excuse for 6 stations being destroyed in a row. We have to stop him before the world at large finds out. You wonder why we need so many people here? Its simple. We're gonna out-man this one man. He always attacks stations through the front door. Like other killers he's fast, strong- you know the usual, but he also uses guns." "What!", a voice rang out from the crowd. "They aren't supposed to do that!" another gasped. Officer Lary spoke with a cheesy grin" Ya tellin' me we just gotta deal with a regular ass gunman eh? That's a welcome change of pace init? Heck I'm too old to be running around being chased like I'm in some scary movie". The detective rebutted" You don't get it. He uses guns. Not a handgun, not rifles, not boom sticks, not rpgs, not knives not grenades but ALL of them. He uses guns. Plural. It'll take essentially an army to match his arsenal. He used to be a man named -redacted-, but in his pursuit of chaos he has become Genocide." A dark form manifests from the night outside the station. Genocide is coming.
Bang! something slams into the front door. Everyone freezes. Officer Tatum edges slowly to it, shockgun in hand. By no means lethal, the shockgun was lighter, easy to control, and could stun targets temporarily. If Genocide was here, Tatum could stun him and duck for cover leaving the station free to light him up like a Christmas tree. That was the plan they came up with. He got closer to the glass door and peered outside. He was met with hate filled bloodshot eyes framed by an unkempt beard and wild straggly hair. Tatum felt some relief. He knew the man outside. It was Jim Jimenez. Jim was a former drug dealer turned informant. He was found out and had to flee from his old life. He became homeless, hiding in plane sight. This allowed him safety at the cost of his mental health. Tatum knew the man, but those eyes were not his. Tatum blinked and saw that the look of malice had vanished. What he instead saw was a helpless, wounded man, bleeding from the right arm pleading for help. Tatum looked behind Jim, eyeing the empty lot. The coast seemingly clear Tatum unlocked the door and let Jim in. Jim had been roaming the town looking for shelter and tried squatting in an abandoned looking apartment complex. There he found that the building contained several murdered families some succumbing to gunshots but the majority having met their end to fire and suffocation. Jim had decided to make his way to the station to tell police what happened and met trouble on the way. He described getting stabbed by a man wearing a trench coat with long dark hair. Despite the injuries, Jim could move surprisingly well and seemed to ignore the pain. Jim insisted that the man had spared him on the condition he deliver a message. "What message?" Tatum asked. Jim beckoned him to come closer. Tatum leaned in and Jim whispered, "Tell them. Tell them that Genocide is coming closer." The following events were a blur. Jim had concealed the knife he was stabbed with. He stabbed Tatum 4 times in the chest and wrestled his shockgun away. Using Tatum as a shield, Jim engaged everyone in the lobby. Jim wasn't himself. He was stronger. He was faster. He was tactical. He would stun an officer in place only to stab them and use their as a body shield. No one could get a clear shot without hitting a colleague. Gracia watched the scene unfold. In minutes Jim had acquired a magnum from the holster of one of his victims. In seconds 3 officers had their heads exploded. The magnum rounds coated the walls red with those they hit and stained the clothes of those they missed. Gracia felt fear rising in her chest. She calmed herself and tried to think. She saw the bodies on the ground. The blood. She saw how dismissively Jim stepped over them. Like they were nothing. Like trash. She saw the man firing erratically into groups of people, not so much to kill but as to cause panic. That's it! As Gracia contemplated her next move it hit her. She was knocked backwards and landed on the ground. She weakly clutched her chest. Her breathing grew shallow. Jim mad his way deeper into the station. The officers were retreating from their standoff. Jim stepped over her body and saw red staining her uniform. Just another casualty. He moved on. At this point the civilians began panicking. Everyone gave up trying to save their allies and fired blindly at the madman. "Don't shoot the messenger," Jim laughed as he stripped his latest meat shield of an automatic rifle. Detective Evans took cover behind an overturned desk. To his left Larry struggled to light a cigar. "You still think this is a cakewalk?" Evans shouted firing 2 quick shots from his gun before ducking back down. Lary lost hold of his lighter and it clattered on the ground." Crap." He reached for it and looked in the corner of the room. A mirror. He looked at it for what seemed like ages and his smirk returned " Y'know that mex'n gal with the short hair. Where is she? I didn't see her get shot." Evans glanced a peak at Jim spraying lead in all directions. Behind him was a corpse. Evans blinked. It seemed to be getting closer. Its her. Gracia painstakingly inched her way into Jim's blind spot. She was roughly 6 feet away from him. Flanking him seemed like a brilliant idea but waiting idly by for the right moment as the people around her died filled her with anger. Worse still, she had to steal a blood soaked shirt from one of the deceased officers to keep up the facade. Inching ever so steadily she mad it within 3 feet of Jim. She reached behind her belt and unclipped a pair of handcuffs. Screams could be heard as more people were hit. Gracia couldn't wait any longer. Fluidly she got to her feet and rushed Jim. She kicked the back of his knee causing him to stumble as she put the handcuffs on him. Figuratively. The handcuffs were around Jim's neck. She yanked him back causing his gun to drop. "You don't know what you're doing." Jim spat. "We all need to accept it. The end of days is upon us. Death rides his horse through these forsaken lands. We must serve or be sacrificed in turn. Accept it!"He elbowed Gracia in the ribs causing her to let go. He spun around and lunged at her. She landed on her back, Jim steadily choking her. Gracia thought fast. She couldn't struggle. Jim was too strong. She delivered a precise chop to the center of Jim's neck which was exposed. Jim lurched back to catch his breath. A clean shot. A bullet pierced through Jim's back. Weakened, Gracia rolled him over and began punching him repeatedly using the handcuffs as brass knuckles. The sound of Jim's skull cracking echoed through the station. This would go on for nearly 20 seconds before Gracia stopped, checked his pulse, confirmed Jim was still alive, then finally put the cuffs on Jim's wrists.
Click. Bodies are wrapped and moved to a makeshift storage room. Click. The available weapons are gathered and redistributed. Click. Officers are assigned to sniping positions on neighboring buildings. Click. Police cruisers circle the lot outside. Click. In the holding cell, Jim opens his eyes. Click. Lary flicks his lighter. Click. Gracia sips coffee from a paper cup. Click. Shells hit the ground at the feet of Genocide. Click. Genocide walks outside a cafe and looks at the station in the distance. Click. Lary clicks his lighter.
"All ya'll gon' fall," Jim ranted." You can't drain the ocean. You can't put out the sun. Evil will always exist. That there Genocide is proof . I saw him. Saw myself within his eyes. Saw the evil in me that I could no longer try to hide. He taught me to embrace the darkness within. Its in all of us begging to be let out. Can you hear it!" Lary clicked his lighter and got up from his chair. He grabbed a cup of liquor from another officer mid sip and walked over to Jim. He doused it on Jim, the liquid stinging his open wounds. Jim yelped. Across the station, radios blurred to life. Several of their lookouts on the outside had been killed. "He's gon' get ya," Jim smiled imitating Lary's signature grin. "Genocide! Genocide! Genocide!" The other inmates saw the chance to irritate Lary and joined in all shouting in unison,"Ge-No-Cide! Ge-No-Cide! Ge-No-Cide!" The chanting grew louder. Unbearable. They invoked upon the name of the beast, and so it came.
Genocide is upon us. A wave of dread spread across the officers. They could feel its presence. Gracia knew the sensation. The awful aura that the other killers gave off. This was different. Far more oppressive. She struggled to breathe as the air got colder. Her instincts screamed for her to run. She could only imagine what the others were going through. Its time. Across the lot Genocide stood. A siren blared over the intercom. "Everyone get into positions!" Evans yelled. Wayne finished setting the last of the c4 near the station entrance. "That's the last of them. Have remote triggers set around all the major hallways. I'll be in the security room ready to pull the switch." Wayne acted as an explosives expert. His job was to detonate bombs placed throughout the station to slow down Genocide should it enter the building. He would stay in the security room, monitoring the cameras and giving real time updates on the officers' positions. From the holding cell, inmates chanted for Genocide. Lary got off his phone" That bastard mixed us up. How did we not notice?" Evans asked what he meant. Lary, dumbfounded, said that most of the town was already dead. Genocide had broken his usual pattern. He went on a killing spree across a defenseless town BEFORE attacking the police station. They had let everyone down. The people they swore to protect. This Genocide was a monster, but he was still a man. Capable of learning from his past actions. Planning. Adapting. It wasn't in his style to stealthily kill his victims or even use a silencer on any of his guns, but an exception had been made for tonight. An exception that would cost them. Gracia was stationed on the second floor. She peered out the window. Her heart skipped a beat. Two cruisers made slow donuts patrolling the lot and standing unmoving between them was a man all in black. Gracia called in to Wayne asking if he saw anything outside. Wayne said the monitors were all clear then checked again. He cursed. He noticed small details were off. The cameras showing the outside of the station were wrong. Sure they showed the same scenery and weather but cars passed by on screen too frequently for a dead town. Too many to make sense for the quarantine they had set in place. Wayne concluded that the cameras had been hacked. Different prerecorded footage was being shown on the live feed to misdirect them. Gracia saw the man look up at her. A light rain started to fall. The officers patrolling outside were contacted. From the holding cells, inmates called for genocide.

This complete guide on The Fool tarot card is brought to you by psychics4u.net. For more valuable information, insights and resources, visit: http://psychics4u.net/
What does the fool mean in the tarot cards? The fool is the most wild tarot card in the deck that you can ever get in a psychic reading. The meaning of the fool tarot card is all about new beginnings, a journey which is usually spiritual and fast change. It indicates that things are really going to go forward for you whether it’s love, relationship, money, work, career and health. But all of these good predictions will come true, only if you will believe in yourself and take calculated risks.
If you are interested in learning everything about the meaning of the fool’s journey tarot card, you came to the right place. Keep on reading till the end of this guide as you will find here lots of useful information regarding to:

1. The fool’s journey tarot card description and symbolism.
2. Personality traits.
3. The meaning in love, relationship, money, work, career and health.
4. Is the fool a good tarot card or is it bad?
5. Does the fool tarot card mean yes or no?
6. How to read the fool’s journey tarot card in upright and reversed position.
7. The fool tarot card meaning in past, present and future.
8. The meaning of the number 0 (zero) and 22.
9. Interpretation of astrological zodiac sign.
10. Meaning as feelings.
11. The fool tarot card art and history.

The fool tarot card meaning: Description and symbolism
When we take a first look at the art of fool’s journey tarot card, we immediately notice the bright yellow sun light, the worm rays, the orange – yellow sky and the lite brown ground. The fool has loose and comfortable clothes with flowers patterns on them, mostly yellow which also matches the shoes` shade. Yellow symbolize enlightenment, happy feelings and positive energies.
The fool is ready to take the leap of faith – start a journey to the unknown territory. He doesn’t care if he will encounter obstacles down the road or dangerous situations in the way. He is ready to go no matter what will happen. In fact the fool doesn’t even think about the meaning these problems.
The fool doesn’t care too much about the material world. He collected just the necessary items and packed all his little possessions in a small bag, holding it with his right hand. On the left hand he is holding a beautiful white rose. It means the willingness to scarify and devotion to the spiritual path of life.
Look at his face directed forward and up to the sky, they are full of inspiration, vision and confidence in the current moment. He is free of fear but also innocence because he isn’t aware of the fact that bad things might happen during the unknown journey.
He is standing on the hill, one step before the deadly abyss, caught in the moment. He trusts the universe that everything will turn on the right and positive side. The white dog is barking and jumping, trying to warn him about the chasm. The snowy white mountains and hills from behind also represent a potential slippery outcomes.
The fool is in movement, he is not just standing there, he took the first step and willing to take many more steps in order to complete the journey. In the end he is seeking meaningful spirituality, to be developed to a higher self. However, right now he doesn’t know exactly how to achieve it. There is no plan, no logical calculations, not even knowledge nor experience. Just the element of fire – the burning desire to go forward.
When we look at the fool’s face we can’t really recognize if it’s a man or a woman. That interpretation means it has both the male and female energies, working together in symbiosis.
The fool tarot card meaning as Personality (Persona)
The fool is a free spirit that has no worries, doesn’t always aware of dangerous and the consequences of his action, too impulsive, acting before thinking. This is why the fool needs help when making big decisions.
He is just like a little kid who is very curious and loves to explore everything about the world. He knows he will make mistakes and it will hurt a lot. Yet it doesn’t stop him from taking an action. He likes the experiences of life whether they are good or even bad. He can learn from each situation and grow wiser and stronger. His main goal is to go after the possibility, even if it doesn’t look very clear or doable at the current phase.
The art of celebrating the joy of life. Admiring the beautifulness of the little things, very positive, optimistic and looking at the bright side.
Flexible, can adapt to most situation. He doesn’t have a solid philosophy or principle he must apply, other than been carefree. He still doesn’t have a strong personality and foundations. He is waiting to be shaped by the future experiences.
He is new to this world; he doesn’t always play by the social norms or cultural rules. Mainly because the fool doesn’t knows the meaning of most of them yet. But after the experience is gained the personality will be shaped on the positive way.
What does the fool card mean in love and relationship reading?
The fool card in love and relationships is meaning a huge surprise. You might encounter your lover in a sequence of events that you never would predict, out of the blue. For example, a new stranger that comes into town, new neighbour or new work colleague.
It can also indicate that there is a person that is close to you, but you haven’t really thought you two are compatible in terms of romance, or can go along together because you two have different personality traits. You will suddenly realise that it can happen.
When it comes to a new relationship there is a lot of excitement in the air, meaning fresh positive energy and optimism. While it might give you good feelings and joy, you also need to be caution a bit. You don’t see the whole picture and what you can’t see might hurt you.
There will be warning signs and it is advised to take in consideration every weird signal into consideration. Your friends and family might have an opinion about your new love relationship, please note that they are not jealous or want things to go wrong for you. They just care that everything will work on the good path.
Don’t be too much swept of your feet, in the end you will have to face reality. What you think about a certain man or woman and what is going on in real life are two different things. Once you encounter the polarity between the two, you might be very disappointed.
If what you are looking for is a long term relationship like marriage, than this is not a good tarot card. The fool’s journey tarot card is indicating the beginning but not the middle and the end. Things will change or develop. If you want this to success there is still a lot of work to be done. The person you are seeing right now is not looking for a commitment. Maybe in the future it will change.
If you are a woman the fool tarot card also stand for fertility. It might predict a pregnancy – start of a new life.
The fool tarot card meaning in work, career and money
New possibilities are coming in your way. This is the time to take action and do what you always wanted. Maybe you always wanted to change your career, maybe you want to work somewhere else or maybe to have your own business.
The main interpretation or meaning is that you need to go with what you believe in, even if there will be hard times during that period. Some people will not like what you are doing, they will try to stop you and change your mind. Situations like this need to be balance. On the one hand it’s good to listen to them, because they have other point of view and might teach you new perspective. On the other way don’t let it to discourage you from achieving the goal.
Understand that making a change related to work and money has its own risks. You can find yourself unemployed for a while or even loosing money. But when we are looking at the long term of the journey, in most cases there will be a success.
The fool tarot card meaning health
Regarding health, the fool tarot card meaning is good physical conditions.
If you were sick before, the interpretation is that the illness might begin to disappear and you suppose to feel much better.
Another possible meaning and interpretation is regarding to health is physical accident. As you may very well know by now, the fool is taking risks without thinking about them too much. The fool is on the verge of the cliff and if something will go wrong he will slip down.
Is the fool a good tarot card or is it bad?
Basically the fool’s journey is a good tarot card, as the main meaning is a new beginning. Usually when we have something new in our life, it is exciting, gives us good feeling and very interesting and intriguing. At this moment we pay attention only to the good and positive aspects of the event. We normally drawn to the situation, don’t think too much about it and we don’t want to ruin it, just flow with the current.
However, nothing is perfect and you also need to be aware of dangerous situations that are a head of you. There will be warning signs of bad energies. Therefore the best practice is no keep an eye on what is going on.
Does the fool tarot card mean yes or no?
The fool’s journey tarot card is usually neutral. The card is symbolizing something fresh and new possibilities. It can turn bad or good depending or the steps you take during your journey. More often than not it is interpreted as a yes card.
The fool’s journey tarot card upright meaning
Upright keywords: new beginnings, freedom, originality, foolishness, spontaneity, travel, adventure, leap of faith, careless, innocence.
The upright meaning of the fool tarot card is about taking risks in order to improve your situation and gain more of what you really want in life. Every one of us has certain desires and personal goals that we want to pursue. So if this card show up in a psychic reading than it is a good time to start a new adventure.
You have to be brave and face your inner demons and fears. Although the card is generally positive, the road to happiness is not easy and you will encounter some problems. From that reason it is very crucial that you will have faith and believe in yourself. Believe that you can do it, even if right now it is not very clear how, you will find the solution. Even if everyone around advice or telling you that you will fail, don’t listen to them too much and go only with your inner true.
Don’t look back on past experiences. Even if you had bad moments, don’t let them hold you from changing your situation. Remember the lessons you have learned and just keep on go forward all the way.
The fool’s journey tarot card reversed meaning
Reversed keywords: lack of direction, chaos, naive, reckless, lack of direction, poor judgement
When the tarot card is being spread upside down (reversed), it means that you jumped too far without thinking about the implications of your action, this might put you in trouble. As shown graphically in the fool tarot card, he is standing right before the cliff. Every big step or reckless movement can bring him to death.
Even if the fool tarot card is showing in reversed it still means a new beginning, but something is holding you back. For example it can be fear of the unknown future, failure and inability to make decisions.
The reversed meaning in love and relationship: if you are single than you are not ready for a long term relationships, you will not find term partner. If you are already seen someone that he or she doesn’t ready to make a commitment. They just want to have fun and fool around.
With money and career, when the tarot card is reversed, beware that no one is taking an advantage or you. For example someone can offer you a bad business idea or shady investment opportunity. And in the end you will lose lots of money.
The fool tarot card meaning in past, present and future
When we relate to the past, the meaning of the fool tarot card is that you have wasted lots of time and energies on people or work or relationships that you are no longer interested in. you had enough with all of this and you are looking for something different.
The present: right now you need a change, you don’t know if it will turn out to be good or bad. You are standing on a crossroad, you need to make a choice and just go for it. Things are looking too complicated right now, this is fine and you will have to address those issues but not right now. The most important thing is that you’ll move on to the desired direction.
The future: the fool tarot card is mainly concern about the present moment. But it can give us a little projection on the future as well. In the future you will have to invent yourself, adapt and be very flexible. When you will see a new opportunity, don’t hesitate and don’t go back to your old habits, which are holding you back.
The fool tarot card number meaning
The fool tarot card is a part of the whole 22 major arcana cards. It referred to key number 0 (zero), meaning the first in the deck. But it can also be placed at the end – key number 22. Because of that fact, the fool symbolizing the beginning and the end of a life cycle. Further more, the cycle is endless so in theory it goes in never-ending loop forever and ever, repeat itself to the eternity.
During our life, we will go through the 21 keys or elements of the fool’s journey. We will meet people who will teach us lessons about life. We will change our behaviour and feelings in order to continue with the journey. So in the end we will go back to the very first place that it was all begun, but now we are different in the way that we are wiser and stronger. It is more like spiritual voyage of self discovery.
The word fool in French language means a sack that is full of air, not with material objects. This is the reason why everything is possible even if it doesn’t seem so. It is also a symbol of triumph.
The number zero in numerology represents no limitation and lots of positive options to choose from. It is nothing and yet it is also everything together. The order of the numbers doesn’t apply to zero, as it all start afterwards. So there is no past for the fool, only future.
22 innumerology is great transformation energy. It is the ability to turn dreams and wishes to come true to the world of reality.
The fool tarot card astrological zodiac sign
The fool tarot card astrological zodiac signs are Aquarius and Pisces.
Aquarius is the 11th zodiac in astrology, mainly represents the element of water. Liquid flow that travel on earth. Strong current of water that can creates its own path by shaping rivers, lakes and the bottom of the ocean. Always on the move, looking for new adventure and can get bored really quick.
Pisces is a dreamer very much like the fool’s personality from the tarot card. They want to go somewhere, but they can’t decide what the right direction for them is. They have this conflict as depict in the zodiac sign – two fish, each one of them is swimming to another side. Pisces are also very emotional and control by their feelings.
In astrology the role of Uranus planet is to be like a clock, to awake us and get us doing things. This is very similar to the fool’s situation as described in the tarot card. There is some burning flame of fire inside of him that wouldn’t let him rest until he will find his answers. It is a call to take immediate action.
The fool tarot card meaning as feelings
As feelings, the fool’s journey tarot card gives us positive feelings. In most cases the answers to you questions are yes, there are good energies and positive vibes surrounding you. Even if the tarot card show in reversed it is still have bigger aspect of positivity with a minor challenge that stands in your way. In fact, it the ancient days of psychic reading the card was actually a joker – the most powerful item in the deck.
The fool tarot card art and history
Long time ago when tarot cards were used as a game and not for psychic reading, the fool’s card was the most powerful card in the deck. He was outside of the order and if you had it, you could protect and win the game.
Few hundreds year later the art of this tarot card was described more as someone who has unwanted personality in society, and therefore he lost all his magic and power. People didn’t want to associate themselves with this image. It was considered a negative energy and bad omen from the future. It symbolized unsuccessful life, misfortune and tormeneted feelings.
Later on, the fool’s image became a man of courage. Until that very day, the fool’s is still the hero card on the tarot deck. Although he is numbered 0 (zero) which mean nothing, he denotes new journey and possibilities, which is everything we need.
In many myths, legends and folklore story through history, the fool is actually the wisest person of all. He might look a little different or simple or even out of the common norms, but he knows better. Although at the beginning he didn’t had too much wisdom, his actions and failures through life, brought him new experiences and valuable lessons to learn from. All of this could happen just because of one thing: he wasn’t afraid to take the risk.
In fact, those who are dismissing him or don’t understand him, are the real fools because they don’t know how much wisdom he has to offer to the world.
Other names for the fool tarot card: joker, jester, clown, buffoon, folie, fov, il matto, le fou, and le mat.
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Just over here changing a weird dress into a perfect skirt

Helena - Courtlady of Lannisport

Part 1

Reddit Account: SunstriderAlar
Discord Tag: u/SunstriderAlar
Name and House: Helena
Age: 22
Cultural Group: Westerman
Appearance: Helena is a young woman with soft doe-eyes, and unmistakable curling, golden hair. Raised by smallfolk, and Septa’s she wears her hair up and away from her face to ensure she does not let it get wet while cleaning or in her mouth while singing. She has delicate, porcelain, pale skin and cloudy soft blue eyes. No taller than 5’5” and is most often dressed in conservative simple fashions gathered by herself, or more elegant options gifted to her by a doting patron for formal events. Never shy to present her opinion, Helena has seen the world change, and her place in it numerous times. She is unafraid to do what she must, but knows the role of a woman.
Helena prefers to wear blue and yellow, the colours of Lord Swyft’s old sigil even though she has not lived in Cornfield for many years, and has no personal attachment to the house. Her real love though is unique broaches, and hairpins, different pins reveal different favours or stylings for different lords. She does enjoy crafting dresses as well, when the rare bolt of fabric comes her way she enjoys sewing and tailoring. She is often seen carrying a unique wooden six stringed lyre, or a three stringed lute; the former the cause for her name the Six Eyed Singer. She daps herself with lavender water most mornings, and cleans her teeth with mint, and rose now that she is employed by the Lannisters of Lannisport. Clean teeth are the hallmark of a charming, easy smile to make hearts of men and women alike flutter.
Trait: Elusive Shadow
Skill(s): Espionage, Devious, Schemer, Covert, Rumourmonger
Talent(s): Storyteller, lyre playing, deft fingers
Negative Trait(s): N/A
Starting Title(s): The Six-Eyed Singer, Septa Morgan, Jinny of Aegon’s Rest
Starting Location: Opening event

Part 2: Biography

Swyft Sept (3AC - 15AC)
Helena’s early life began in the Sept of Cornfield where her mother begged the Septa’s to take her. Dutifully, though reluctantly, they agreed, for what else were they to do, and where else was the girl to go. To the Governess of Cornfield, under the sanctity of the confessional, the woman, aching from the pain of birth and shame, confessed that the little girl was the bastard of Lord Swyft. The Governess, doubtful but knowing the man was not without vice, kept the secret to herself and allowed the girl to remain. The woman, who’s name was never revealed even to the Septa's, fled into the night shortly after never to be seen again. Helena was then, as promised, raised by the septas and the Governess of House Swyft. She learns basic literacy from the Seven Pointed Star with the Sisters and numbers from the Governess. Alongside her studies, she was put to work on chores like maid work, baking, cooking, cleaning, and serving Lord Swyft.
In 11AC, a travelling minstrel named The Lying Lyre arrived at Cornfield. A dashing young man with a shock of blonde curls that tumbled down his back like a mullet captivated Helena with his songs of far-off lands and noble families. In particular he sang of the Maiden’s Bay Tourney, the feats of House Targaryen, and after some time the Field of Fire and the failings of House Lannister. House Swyft was wealthy, and the Liar’s talents earned him much and more coin from the silver mines.
Helena of an age where curiosity ruled a child’s mind was enamoured with the man and his songs. She took up practising the lyre with him, and discovered that while no maestro, she had deft fingers and a mind for lyrics. Impressed by her interest and talent, the Liar gifted her a lyre before he left for future profits in far off lands. Some years of practice though, and a natural storyteller and rumourmonger Helena combined tales of the Seven Pointed Star and was invited to sing in the sept and even twice for Lord Swyft.
Six Eyed Singer (15AC - 20AC)
It was not to last though and following the slaughter in the Kingswood, the line of House Swyft was extinguished. Not wanting to test the new residents of Cornfield, the Warriors Sons and Poor Fellows, after all, all men have vice, she left Cornfield, and took to singing on the road. Going under the name Lyrebird, Helena played and sang for her coin and lodgings, a young girl protected only by being seen when she wanted and an elusive shadow when she did not.
Times on the road were not easy and The Lyrebird drew much attention. This necessitated the need for another alter ego and after a year on the road and towns and villages through the West were soon visited by the travelling Septa Morgan. The Septa heard confessions and sins, gave forgiveness and offered small advice to the poor and needy. She spared coins where she could and allowed Helena to remain covert. It did not matter to most that she was no real septa, she wore the robes, knew the words, and offered as a good moral compass to children. For most in the far flung reaches of the West she was enough.
Being raised in the faith though telling a perpetual lie about being a sister of the cloth was a little too much to bear for Helena. After a year with the reputation of Septa Morgan growing through the small folks of small villages, the Septa soon faded away. Instead Jinny of Aegon’s Rest started coming to smaller castles; Turnbury, Redbramble, Parren Hall, Oldstars and the like. She took on odd jobs cleaning, cooking, teaching a daughter to read or a son to do his numbers. She was after all no threat, knew her letters and numbers herself, and was capable of scheming many a septa or fatherly gatesman to let her in.
Jinny of Aegon’s Rest became a traveller through the keeps of the Westerlands. She heard the tales from children and small folk alike. She had never meant to undertake espionage, but her place inside various courts across the land, and her talent for being in the right place at the right time meant she was an unfortunate witness to many a courtly intrigue. As her small gifts earned her again a broad reputation she would be traded between greater lords. Soon she was playing for the elite, and earning the rewards that came with it. Helena of Cornfield once again took a new name, the Six Eyed Singer, which she quickly used to escape her courtly life and take again to the road as a travelling minstrel.
The Strawberry Tourney and Ball (20AC - Current)
The Six Eyed Singer formed a little bard troupe, nothing extravagant, she wasn’t playing for the Lannisters or the Targaryen’s yet, but enough to provide several shows across the Westerlands, Reach, and former Kingdom of the Trident. Her troupe, much like she had been accidentally, was devious, and while she or they sang, pockets were pinched, and many houses were looted. Her troupe when apart played for all the minor and middle nobles of the Trident and of the Reach too now. She and they were as much a part of the debauchery of the West as any of the wealthy merchants. There was no party too scandalous, no whorehouse unsung, no court too far flung for the right price and the West had gold burning through pockets.
The Six Eyed Singer was not the only bard with a troupe though and soon through the Kingdoms after Aegon’s conquest artisans, bards, and mummers alike filled the world with talent. In 20AC the Songbird made its mark, and with a little bit of fun, a lot of resentment for nobility, and an ingrained childlike sense of chaos, the first of the Songbirds’ letters sang. The voice of the little people flooded across the western coast of the Iron Throne. Lord Belaerys’ dragon had eaten several children whilst growing fat and hungry. Lancel Lannister had claimed the maidenhood of his chambermaid, and sired a bastard all at the age of just fifteen. Lord Frey schemed against his overlord for a free and independent Trident once again. Was all of it true? Impossible to say, but there were enough truths to turn heads, and the songs of the Songbird began to cause chaos in the Westerlands most of all. The Six Eyed Singer and her troupe played through it all, they were bards, but the Songbird was the most famous one of all; not their little merry band.
The Six Eyed Singer though continued her good work, and with her reputation came an invite to participate at the Strawberry Tourney and Ball alongside the other bardic troupes of the West and Reach. She was not so famous as to be alone, merely enough to earn an invite, and a paid job. The planning was years long, and with new songs and tunes came new rumours. While the Six-Eyed Singer played songs such as Fleece-eye, Dornish Sour Grapes, and Lion of the West, the Songbird worked their chaos.
A ripple pulsed through the tourney, first a cheater in the joust was revealed, Ser Byron who was disqualified as a result. Then a second cheater, this time in the melee, then a third cheater again in the joust Lord Payne had accepted a bribe from Lord Reyne to fall early. Cheating in the tourney was just the start, cheating in the bedroom of the ball was the main affair. Here the Songbird revealed three affairs; Lords Serret and Lyden were both fathers to children on women , not their wives. While Lady Serret and Lady Ruskin were bedfriends behind their husbands’ backs. There was one final scandal though, which was revealed to all at the tourney. Septon Karron was no true anointed Septon, and worse there was legitimacy to foulness surrounding young boys who served him.
The chaos broke over the tourney and all the artisans in attendance were forced to flee. Yet, all was not lost, for Lord Gerold Lannister of Lannisport had taken his eye to Helena and her playing. He offered her a job, for he wished to be a great sponsor of art in the new Seven Kingdoms. So it was she came to a courtly position, advising the Lord Lannister on matters of fine art, musicians, mummery, and all manner of artisanal dealings.
Timeline
3AC - Helena is born in the Sept of Cornfield, her mother a woman from Silverhill who begs the septa’s to take the girl in. She reveals her identity to the Governess of House Swyft, and claims the child is Lord Swyft’s bastard. She leaves shortly after giving birth and recovering.
4-10AC - She is raised in the cloister with the sisters, her Septa mothers raising her lessons on reading from the Seven Pointed Star, and numbers from the Governess to ensure that she can do basic arithmetic. She takes basic lessons in scullery maid work, baking, and general service work for old Lord Swyft.
11AC - A travelling minstrel, The Lying Lyre, comes through Cornfield to sing songs of the tourney of Maiden’s Bay, House Targaryen, and the Field of Fire. He takes a liking to the young Helena, and gifts her a lyre. He stays in Cornfield for some time, both because it is lucrative and because he enjoys teaching the young girl.
12-14AC - The Lying Lyre departs Cornfield but leaves a talented and hardworking Helena with the sisters once more. She takes to singing sections of the Seven Pointed Star, and even performs for Lord Swyft a few times.
15AC - The House of Swyft dies out and Helena, unaware of her claimed parentage but with a talent for song leaves the cloister and takes to the road, not trusting the new Warriors Sons or Poor Fellows. She uses the name Lyrebird and sings and plays her lyre for coin to survive.
16AC - After a year on the road Helena takes up the name Septa Morgan and takes to hearing confessions of the poor and needy across the Westerlands. Many of them need guidance and wearing her septa robes she is the perfect person to hear them. She is no real Septa but no amount of explaining the technicality of that stops people asking her to forgive them.
17AC - Her reputation as Septa Morgan grows a little too heavy on her shoulders, and Helena takes to wearing more common clothes, moving from keep to keep and working as a barmaid, scullery girl, and baker amongst other professions. She goes by the name Jinny of Aegon’s Rest.
18AC - Chance takes its favour on her, and Helena with her simple lyre is invited to play at a feast in Lannisport. Dressed now as a travelling minstrel she performs for the gathered nobles and earns herself invitations to other keeps. With her generous benefactors she hires a small troupe to perform her songs across the West.
19AC - Travelling the Westerlands, Helena under the moniker The Six Eyed Singer, takes her talents for being present at feasts and gatherings of all sorts.
20AC - Rumour of The Songbird takes hold, and the West is awash in the voice of the little people.
21AC - The Strawberry Tourney and Ball unfolds and Helena’s skills earn her favour with Lord Gerold Lannister.
22AC - Lord Gerold Lannister recognising her many talents picked her up to be one of the primary serving women in his House. His eye for artistic endeavours endeared him to her enough for a comfortable place as a favoured bard, painter, educator, and common court woman.

My hands are shaking as I write this, I have to document my story incase something happens to me in the next few days. I'm not sure where to begin but I suppose here is better than anywhere.
I've always had this weird feeling, this sensation inside of me that I was older than I actually was. By the time I was twelve, my soul felt as though it was forty. By the time I reached twenty, I felt like an old woman. I would watch people around my age acting foolish, and I always thought, "What a bunch of children." So it was no surprise to anyone that when I turned twenty-one, I left my hometown and college and decided to spend the summer alone by renting an old farmhouse in an insignificant town on the edge of an even more insignificant border.
When I told my mother, she had a veritable fit, unable to find the words. She spluttered and raged around me for days before I finally left early one morning to avoid her guilt and frustration with my choices. I was not sure why I craved solitude at such a young age, why I found solace in being alone and removed from society.
In high school, I had changed unexpectedly, cutting my long blonde hair short and dying it black, getting piercings that my mother loathed and claimed no young lady should have. You see, my mother was raised proper, as she called it. Good family, good husband, and finally a good life. She despised her perfect life being squashed by my alternative looks and feelings of the same world. She just didn't understand me or the world as it changed around her. I felt like I was just a trophy to her and my father, her perfect angel who had been tainted by my own demented thoughts.
I never told my parents where I was staying, one last rebellious mission before leaving for a few months, and it took me only a few hours to arrive at the farmhouse where I would be staying for the next few months. The land around the farm was dead or dying, old crops rose out of the dry dusty earth and had turned black and forgotten, as if this land was the example of dreams long forgotten and empty. A single dreary lane connected this desolate farmhouse to the rest of the world. On the outside, it was drab and looked as though it would fall apart. It had two stories but still seemed cramped and small, as if it were a single floor tied to the ground.
Across from the house, bordering the tall weeds that had reclaimed much of the farmland, stood a maudlin-looking faded red barn, one door propped open in a dejected manner revealing naught to me but shadows, dust, and a little mystery.
Next to the barn, staked into the ground on an old-looking cross, was a ragged scarecrow. It had drab brown clothing, but its face was oddly realistic, like it was watching me with a disapproving manner. Straw poked through its joints at odd angles like they were trying to break free from their confines. The scarecrow obviously didn't do its job as it was covered in no less than three crows.
I parked my car next to the barn and stepped out into the dusty yard before the farmhouse that I would make my home for the next few months. I checked under the front mat for the key and put it in the lock.
With a satisfying click, the door fell inward into the farmhouse. Surprisingly, the inside of the farmhouse was modern, clean, and looked quite inviting. I could smell the fresh paint on the walls, and everything was so white. The realtor had told me she would stop by tomorrow to collect the rent, and she had tried to chat my ear off on the phone about all the renovations she and her son were doing on the place.
I sighed with contentment and tossed my bags beside the door. I dug around in my bag and removed my camera, my father's old film shooter as he called it. I had taken up the hobby years ago for what I called capturing the oddity in the world.
I explored the small house a little more; the ground floor consisted of a single room and small bathroom with a shower. The bedroom was upstairs and was the only room, the stairs connected directly to the white and pink monstrosity that was the master bedroom. The pillows had laces on them and almost made me gag from the cuteness. There was even cute white lace curtains on the window with little flowers stitched onto them.
Out of the only window of the room, I could see the barn and the scarecrow. I aimed my camera at the pair and snapped a photo. From this angle, the scarecrow appeared to be staring straight at me. It stood next to the left side of the barn in a dejected manner like a chastised child.
A shudder involuntarily ran through me at the sight, but I moved on back downstairs. It was getting close to dinner time now, and I had brought some food with me.
After a few minutes, I had my dinner on the stove cooking and the crickets chirping outside the open window. As I sat down to eat next to the window, I felt at peace for one of the first times in years. The solitude of this old farm was exactly what I needed. The window supplied a nice breeze that wafted through the place, it smelled of grass and warm summer nights, made me feel at peace. The simple dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce and a glass of wine was all that I needed right here, right now in this moment.
That night I climbed into the frilly laced bed and sunk into the claustrophobic mattress. I felt like Goldilocks in the mama bear's bed as it was altogether too soft. From my perfumed bed, I had a good view out the window. I had left the porch light on, and it cast an eerie glow across the yard. The barn loomed ominously, stalwart against the light of the porch, like it was protecting the shadows from the battering ram of light. The somber scarecrow leaned against the left side of the barn.
With a small jump, I thought I saw its arm move slightly. I peered through my camera using the zoom to get a better view of the scarecrow. It was completely still in the night, and I laughed quietly to myself at my silliness. I had always enjoyed horror movies, but there was no chance I was living in one. I settled back into bed and put my camera down. Within a few minutes, I fell into sleep's warm embrace.
What felt like only a few minutes later, I sat up in bed. It was still dark out, I could hear crickets chirping through the open window, and I strained my ears for a moment.
I thought something had woken me up. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as a cold breeze wafted in through the window. I pulled the frilly blanket up around myself when I heard it. A thud sounded below me, shaking the whole world into silence. The crickets stopped chirping, and my heart felt like it had stopped beating. Someone was in the house. I hadn't locked the door or closed the kitchen window, and now someone was downstairs. A second thud sounded like a boot on the staircase. Then another and another as something was slowly moving up the stairs towards the room.
I don't know why I did it, but something came over me. I wasn't big or especially brave, but my normal cowardice in social situations changed instantly. With a dash, I tore across the room, flicking on the lights, ready to face my attacker, to defend myself against male or female. I would fight, and I would win.
But as the lights turned on, ready to strike with my foot, nothing was there. The staircase was empty, and upon further inspection, the entire house was empty. The kitchen window was open, and I shut and locked it securely before checking the door. Nothing. I sat down on the couch, my heart pounding out of my chest, as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
"I must have still been half-asleep," I said aloud to the room in a thinly veiled attempt to calm my nerves. It failed horribly, but I went with it. What else could you do in a situation like that?
After locking up the house, I went back up to that frilly four-poster bed in the bedroom and stared out the window. Nothing was in the yard except my car, the barn, and the same old sad-looking scarecrow staring across the yard.
Day 2
The next morning, I woke up to the soft light filtering through the lace curtains. Despite the strange events of the previous night, I felt strangely refreshed, as if the morning sun had chased away the shadows that lingered in my mind.
I descended the stairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under my weight, and headed to the kitchen. As I brewed a pot of coffee, my mind wandered back to the events of last night. Was it just a figment of my imagination, or was there really someone in the house?
Shaking off the unease, I decided to explore the farmhouse in the daylight. I wandered through the room, admiring the modern renovations that clashed with the rustic exterior. The farmhouse had a charm to it, despite its eerie surroundings.
As I made my way outside, the cool morning air greeted me, and I took a deep breath, letting the serenity of the countryside wash over me. The barn stood tall against the backdrop of the morning sky, and the scarecrow seemed to watch me as I crossed the yard.
I approached the barn, curiosity getting the better of me. Pushing open the creaky door, I stepped inside, the musty scent of hay filling my nostrils. The interior was dimly lit, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls.
I explored every nook and cranny of the barn, but found nothing out of the ordinary. As I turned to leave, something caught my eye. In the corner of the barn, hidden beneath a pile of old blankets, was a small wooden chest.
My heart racing with anticipation, I lifted the lid of the trunk and peered inside. What I found took my breath away. It was a collection of old photographs, yellowed with age, depicting scenes from a bygone era. They were of a man with his family, two young kids, and a beautiful young wife. The man had yellow blonde hair, almost like straw in texture, but he smiled so happily with his family.
I sifted through the photographs, my fingers trembling with excitement. Who had left these behind, and why? Each photograph seemed to tell a story, a glimpse into the past of this forgotten farmhouse.
As I sat there, lost in thought, a sudden noise jolted me back to reality. It was the sound of footsteps coming from outside the barn.
"Hello?" The dreamy voice of a woman called to me from the entrance to the barn.
I slammed the lid of the trunk shut, closing the memories up in a flurry as I spun around to be greeted by a quite pretty woman with blonde hair and a pink suit skirt combo. She had bright pink lipstick, that seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face, and quite shiny and sparkly blue eye shadow on her lids. I myself only wore black eyeliner. This woman was like Barbie in her proportions, thin waist, long hair, and large tracts of land, as my father would have said.
"Oh, hello," I said simply, always awkward in normal social situations.
If she noticed anything odd about me, she breezed over it in an easy manner. Taking me by the shoulders, she led me out of the dusty barn and into the yard.
"You must be Polly. We have been waiting a while for you to come. I simply must know what you think of the renovations to the house. Aren’t they just to die for?" The lady said all in one breath, as if she didn’t need air to speak.
"Yes, they are quite nice..." I started before she cut me off, not in a rude manner but instead in one that she would have continued on even if I had just told her I was not Polly and instead I was a mass murderer looking for my next victim.
"You see, me and my son Eli—yes, Eli, you stop lurking in the shadows over there," she said, continuing on as I noticed a younger man leaning up against the barn. He wore simple clothes of jeans and a white t-shirt but had a handsome face. His hair was brown and hung slightly over his eyes.
"I hope you don’t mind if my son here continues working on some renovations while you stay here? Strictly on the outside of the house, mind you. A fresh coat of white paint would make this little beauty shine. We would have finished by now if not for the accidents," she continued, completely unabashed by my silence.
"Sorry. But you are the realtor?" I said, trying to regain my feet under me.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry, dear!" she said with an affable cackle.
"Yes, yes, I am Barbara, but all my friends call me Barb. That over there is Eli. Eli, come say hi," Barb said while her painted talons rested firmly on my shoulder.
Eli stomped over, keeping his eyes low, in a sort of moody way that actually intrigued me, sort of.
When he glanced up at me, I noticed he drank in me from head to toe, and for the first time, I realized what I was wearing. An old rock t-shirt of one of my favorite bands and, of all things, my black pajama bottoms with cartoon bats on them that said "happy halloween."
I felt my face blush crimson as he made eye contact with me. He had very mysterious eyes of blue that seemed to cut right through my soul.
"Nice shirt," he said while gesturing to me. His voice was quiet and uncertain, as if he didn’t get much practice with the art. Knowing his mother, it seemed highly accurate.
"Thanks. Do you like them?" I asked.
"Oh, he likes all sorts of things, don’t you, Eli? Honestly, you two can gab on forever. But miss, I believe we have a small matter of payment," Barb said, drawing the conversation back to herself.
"Of course. Let me go get it," I said as I went back into the house and retrieved the envelope with the rent money in it.
Barb grabbed the envelope in her bright pink talons and snapped a piece of bubblegum between her teeth. With quick fingers, she leafed through the cash, counting it. As she counted, her normal bubbly personality seemed to disappear, giving way to what I gleaned was her true thoughts and feelings before the facade slipped on once again.
"Mmkay, perfect honey, this is the right amount. Now you have my number, so you call if you need anything. Like I said earlier, Eli will stop by from time to time to work on painting the house. I promise you he won’t be an imposition, just pay him no mind," Barb said in a sweet voice as she popped her gum in between each word.
"Eli, come on, please, I have an appointment in town," Barb said to her son, and they both climbed into a garish pink convertible with jewels hanging from the mirror wrapped in a gold chain.
Barb waved one last time as she sped off out of the driveway, covering me in dust as she spun the wheel around.
With their departure, I went inside and retrieved my camera. I spent a few minutes shooting a few pictures I thought were worthy. I re-entered the barn and pulled the old trunk out into the sunshine. Inside was only a handful of photos, some old clothes, and what looked like some old heirlooms. A beautifully old candlestick and a few leather-bound books lay at the bottom, covered by an old tablecloth. The tablecloth was a nice white with intricate swirling patterns inlaid around the edges.
Why would these things be packed away in here? They were so beautiful. I decided to bring the stuff inside for further inspection. As I lifted the trunk, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move in the tall grass at the edge of the property. I stared for a minute, but nothing moved again. I must be getting jumpy being alone like this. After last night and then this, I was just imagining things.
I brought the items inside and spread them out. I put the tablecloth on the table, and it hung low to the ground. I placed the candlestick by the window and took out the photos again, spreading them out.
The photos told me a story of a loving family that obviously lived in the farmhouse before me. They had a photo next to the barn, with a brand new looking scarecrow in the back. The man even had his arm around it; it looked so much cleaner and proper in this photo. I stared outside at the sad-looking scarecrow.
I took my camera and the photo and went outside to stand next to the scarecrow. His post hung kind of crooked in the earth like it was weighed down by the scarecrow.
I snapped a photo of the scarecrow as it was, then examined the original photo. I began resettling the post in the ground, but it kept sagging. I decided to pull him out of the ground and move him while I added more dirt to his hole. With some effort, I reseated him into his original hole. He already looked better, but I straightened his clothes and pulled out the last bits of straw that stuck out of his clothes. When I was finished, I looked back at him and took a photo, smiling while I did so at my work.
I then spent some time sweeping the front porch and banging the dust out of the cushions before I curled up on a wicker chair with plump cushions for a few hours reading a book I had brought with me.
I felt quite content at this place. The sounds of the crickets began again, putting me at ease as the sun began to descend. I had spent the entire day just relaxing, and it was perfect. I sat sprawled out in the chair, too lazy to go and make dinner or even move. My bladder was full, but I waited until the last moment before dashing inside and relieving myself.
That's when I noticed it, out in the yard. It seemed as if the scarecrow had moved closer. Once shrouded by the barn slightly, it now had moved a few steps into the light from the porch. My heart dropped at the sight. Not again, I must be asleep on the porch in the chair. I pinched myself, trying to wake up, but all I received was a sore arm.
I closed my eyes, then rubbed them, hoping to dispel whatever plagued my mind, but when I opened my eyes, I noticed the scarecrow was even closer. Halfway across the yard now, it sat menacingly, hanging crooked in the dirt. The scarecrow seemed to be staring at me with an intense gaze. The slits in its face were open now, and in the porch light, I swear I could see human eyes underneath the mask.
I moved towards the front door, locking it in a swift motion. I was shaking now, and it took me a minute to relax. I never took my eyes off the scarecrow for fear of it moving again.
My cellphone was upstairs, so I couldn't flee without the scarecrow moving again. I breathed out slightly and unlocked the door, letting it swing in with a creak. The night outside was silent, as if everything was holding its breath. The usual crickets that plagued me with their song day and night had fallen quiet. I stepped out onto the porch; I needed to go confront this demonic entity. Something about this still made me think this was a prank.
"Eli, is that you?" I called out to the scarecrow.
No response, of course. I steeled myself and put one foot off the porch, never taking my eyes off the scarecrow before me. Something seemed to be dripping from its head as I approached, a dark slime that seemed to be melting from its joints as it stood there silently, except for the constant drip of the liquid on the dry dirt before me.
I walked around the scarecrow, determined to figure out what was going on. As I circled it, my vision darkened for a moment as I faced towards the light of the house. I jumped as the scarecrow's head turned to face me as I looked away. The black liquid drained faster from the being, forming a shallow pool at its feet.
I'm not proud of what I did next, but I fled, taking my eyes off the scarecrow. I made a mad dash for the farmhouse. Behind me, I could hear the pounding of feet. I screamed as loud as my lungs would let me. My voice rang through the silence as I grabbed the door handle and wrenched open the door as I felt a strong grip fall on my shoulder.
I turned to defend myself, but nothing was there. The scarecrow was gone, the wooden cross had vanished, as had the pool of dark liquid in the dirt. The world sprung back to life; the crickets began chirping loudly, and my heart restarted. I slammed the door, and the air from my force scattered the photographs on the table. I ran upstairs, leaving the lights on in the house, and dove onto the bed, wrapping myself in the frilly blanket like a set of frilly armor.
I snatched my camera from the bedside table and held it close, determined to document the rest of the night. I held it in shaking hands as the noise downstairs began—the sound of boots crossing the floor to the stairs and the careful but heavy steps of ascension as they climbed closer and closer to me.
This time, I didn't lunge forward as the light was already on. I glanced out the window, but the scarecrow was still gone. I focused my camera on the stairs and waited as the steps came closer and closer. A shape began to form as the head of whatever was coming up the stairs crested the floor. Then a plain brown mask with slits where the eyes would be. It froze for a moment, then slowly turned its head towards me. Inside the slits were human eyes that seemed to be leaking dark red blood.
In the light, I could see it now. I snapped a photo of the beast, the flash setting off a reaction in the beast. The scarecrow moved so fast up the stairs it was a blur. My scream echoed throughout the house as it lunged at me. Filthy hands pinned me down, and the deep crimson liquid began pouring out of every joint of the scarecrow. It began covering my face, my eyes, and getting into my open mouth. I spluttered and kicked at the beast, but my blows had no purchase, as if the scarecrow on top of me had no substance to itself.
I coughed and spluttered on the liquid as it began to fill my mouth faster and faster. I tried not to swallow any, but it tried to find purchase as I was held down.
"Polly?" A nervous voice called from below.
Suddenly, as if the angels had called, the pressure dissipated, and I crashed to the floor in a heap, trying to spit the blood out, but nothing came—it was gone. Footsteps pounded up the stairs again, and I flew back in fear, closing my eyes.
"Oh my god. Polly, are you okay?" A voice said, and gentle hands grabbed my arm.
My eyes shot open at the human touch, and I grabbed Eli into a tight hug, where I promptly began sobbing in fear, my whole body shaking as Eli awkwardly hugged me.
"Don't worry, it's going to be okay," Eli said patiently to me as he hugged me back gently and began stroking my back.
I shivered in a choking sob and fell into his arms, desperately wanting to believe him, and for some reason, I did.

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection or transfer of a soul from one body into another. The process of projecting or transferring souls to either animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is specifically described as having the shape Stannis supporting this. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
This type of exchange is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King provided by Old Nan:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically. The description of his flesh turning to ash in this vision is representative also supports this interpretation.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of so-called blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.) which were already in place. It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual meaningfully contributed to their deaths.
The creation of the shadows is said by Melisandre to have required part of Stannis' "life-fire" or soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described in the community as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the text:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. "Fire consumes and in the end there's nothing left."

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows and likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable magical cost for these "kisses of life," at least at first glance. Thoros later tells us that he breathed part of his "flames" or soul into Beric:

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair.
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" as above although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he does not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Later he describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn and not transferred.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest in which they are introduced is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" or "ice zombies" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children has previously been discussed at length in the community in separate posts.) "Fire consumes, but cold preserves."
This would explain several of the unusual characteristics of the Others described by Tormund:

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this information is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which would also supports the idea that they are ghosts:

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory attempts to reconcile several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed using fire magic to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection or transfer of a soul from one body into another. The process of projecting or transferring souls to either animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is specifically described as having the shape Stannis supporting this. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
This type of exchange is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King provided by Old Nan:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically. The description of his flesh turning to ash in this vision is representative also supports this interpretation.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of so-called blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.) which were already in place. It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual meaningfully contributed to their deaths.
The creation of the shadows is said by Melisandre to have required part of Stannis' "life-fire" or soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described in the community as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the text:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. "Fire consumes and in the end there's nothing left."

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows and likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable magical cost for these "kisses of life," at least at first glance. Thoros later tells us that he breathed part of his "flames" or soul into Beric:

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair.
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" as above although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he does not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Later he describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn and not transferred.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest in which they are introduced is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" or "ice zombies" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children is linked in a separate post here.) "Fire consumes, but cold preserves."
This would explain several of the unusual characteristics of the Others described by Tormund:

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this information is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which would also supports the idea that they are ghosts:

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory attempts to reconcile several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed using fire magic to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

Hello! I'm a beginner sewer who recently completed a weekend bootcamp on sewing. I sewed my own dress from scratch with facing on the collar and cuffs. I also learned to hand sew. I have a $300 budget to get set up to machine-sew and hand-sew 100% wool and 100% linen clothing (with some limited silk) for medieval-themed historical re-enactment events. These will be outfits for myself, my elementary-aged children, and occasionally for friends.
This budget does not include cloth or patterns (just tools). I would like to include tailoring/measurement/cutting tools, key reference/learning books (I can check some of these from the library), and beginner tools for simple hand-sewn embroideries, stamping clothes with stencils and paint, and applying wool applique. I'd love to figure out how to make custom cloth-covered buttons as well to match dresses and coats.
Here is what I have on hand already, thanks to hand-me-downs from family and what I had already:

• a Singer XL-400 Futura sewing machine (no embroidery attachment, but I have a pedal).
• a Brother CS-6000i sewing and embroidery machine (with all attachments).
• Multi-color starter kits of thread sets and bobbin sets, plus white, black, and gray thread.
• a dedicated table and chair for sewing and cutting material.
• a decent ironing board, iron, cutting surface sheet, a see-through tailoring ruler, and a few sizes of non-fancy scissors - one from Joann's for cloth.

While I thought $300 would be plenty to get me started, I am already feeling overwhelmed by all the choices for tools available. Like, do I need a curved ruler? Or fancy Kai or Gingher scissors? Or a tool to correctly size collars? Do I need a machine to make cloth-covered buttons, or can I make them more cheaply? Some of these more expensive tools eat up my budget quickly.
Knowing that I'm a beginner, and will (almost) exclusively be sewing (90% machine sewing) with wool and linen to make medieval clothing that are intended to look hand-made, what "essentials" would you recommend I purchase or focus on? What can you not live without now that you've been sewing for years that you think I might need? What's turned out to not be useful? I'll shop around for the best prices on items once I've narrowed down my list. Thank you in advance for your advice!

I've recently come to realize that so, so many of my apparent friendships in childhood and adulthood were situations where I was being used in some way. I've broken it down into categories and I wonder if you all could relate to this pattern in your own lives.
Directly being used: In childhood there were friends where I literally did their homework (a LOT), in adulthood friends where I watched their kids for them (for free) or drove them places or lent them money. I always thought at the time that I was being nice and helpful and a good friend. But these kinds of favours weren't returned.
The butt of the joke: All through schooling this happened. Haven't seen it in adulthood, though. A group of kids would allow me to hang out with them but I would be the target for everyone's jokes and insults. They would also often play tricks or pranks on me for laughs. Basically I was something of an emotional punching bag.
A soul to save: A lot of my apparent friendships in university and afterwards were just people with deeply held religious beliefs that noticed I lacked a faith. This happened only once I let go of my childhood religion and turned agnostic. These people seem so nice and everything but they have an ulterior motive to recruit me into their church.
The practice friend: I found myself, especially in childhood, being someone's friend only up until they found a group to join or a better friend. Sometimes ex practice friends would still talk to me but laugh at me behind my back to their new friends.
Submissive friend: I've had situations where I end up with someone who sort of likes to just boss me around. These ones are always the same gender as me, female. It's a sort of mix of being used and being the butt of the joke, but usually only done by one person at a time. We do what they want, go where they want, talk when they want, talk about what they want, etc. They usually will try to change me into someone more respectable by their side (hair, clothes, etc.) and that sort of thing. It almost always fails because I'm kind of a hopelessly uncool person - so they become embarrassed of me and eventually depart.
Why I think this happens to CEN survivors
We're basically the perfect victims for fake, transactional friends. We were raised to not stand up for ourselves, to put our own needs last, to put others on pedestals, to have a low self-esteem, and to accept neglect and abuse as normal things. A lot of us ended up people pleasers who would basically do anything for any small amount of acceptance or attention. Even being the butt of a joke is this pattern - we enjoy seeing them laugh and be happy, even when it's at our expense.
We were starved for affection and they offered something that looked like affection at the time.
My only advice for myself and anyone else moving forward is to recognize these types of fake friends before we fall into the trap again. We deserve true kindness and mutual affection. As our self esteems improve I think this will happen less and less, as we will not be such perfect victims.
I'm curious what you all experienced as far as fake/transactional friendships in your lives so far. Please share your own stories and maybe we can all feel less alone about this and less ashamed that we were used in these ways.

Here's the thread where you can share any new patterns or products that you don't think deserve their own post. Any craft goes, whether you're sharing sewing patterns, weird yarn colourways, woodburning templates, soapmaking supplies, or any thing else that you'd like to discuss. If you think it deserves it's own thread, feel free to make one!

Love the shirt, took like one month to ship