As the last orange light of day drained from the sky, the living dead in Club Vlad rose. Max the skeleton and Jessie the…not skeleton…sewed up the gaping Y-shaped incision on Dom’s chest under Merrick’s direct supervision. Dom sat there, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. He’d woken with a headache and a feeling of cold, and even now, he could feel the dull throb above his left eye. It felt like someone was tearing his brain apart with a fork. He had told Merrick, and Merrick had nodded sadly. “Is my brain rotting?”
“Most likely,” Merrick had said.
There was a certain peace in the idea of losing his cursed humanity. As Merrick had said, he would feel no pain, know no quandaries. He would live only for the night and for his master. On the other hand, watching someone like Matt sit and stare into the distance, drool coursing down his chin and nothing happening behind his dead eyes, scared Dom. He didn’t want to be a braindead idiot. He didn’t care about keeping his emotions, he just wanted to function.
Like Merrick.
There wasn’t much he could do, however. He was dead and that was the end of it.
Once Dom was patched up and dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, Merrick called his children before him. “I have done my best to love and protect all of you,” he began. “Jessie, you were miserable with your grandmother, were you not?”
“Yes,” Jessie said tonelessly.
“You were depressed, bipolar, and cut yourself. Now you’re happy.”
“Yes,” she replied again.
“Joe, you were a two bit nobody staring down a ten year stretch in jail.”
“Yes.” Thin yellow liquid dripped from his nose.
“But now you are free.”
“Yes.”
“You appreciate what I’ve done for you.”
“Yes.”
Merrick flashed then, slamming his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair. “Then why do you keep fucking up? The police were here earlier. They have messages between you and Jessie. I told both of you to delete those. Then I find out that you bit someone and turned them despite my orders. We have an endless supply of blood here but you still went off on your own. How many are there?”
“Just one,” Joe said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“Yes.”
Merrick sagged back in his chair, looking somehow older. “Joe, take Matt and go to her. Bring her back here before she causes any more problems. God alone knows how many people she’s changed. Too many vampires without a father will bring heat on us, and you know what happens in that case? We get pieces of wood shoved in our chests.”
Turning to Dom, Merrick said, “I have a job for you and Jessie. We’re nearly out of embalming fluid. You haven’t had your first dose and the rest of us are starting to get ripe as well. I have a contact at a funeral home. He texted earlier that the order he placed on my behalf has come in. I want you to pick it up and to pay him.”
Dom had never been picked for anything in his whole life. No one had ever wanted him on their team and no one had ever placed their trust in him the way Merrick was now. He was honored, proud, and would do anything to not let Merrick down.
“That cop who came here might be a problem,” Merrick went on. “We may have to deal with him, but we’ll leave that for another night. In any case, I want this place cleaned from top to bottom. If the police come, I want them to see nothing out of the ordinary.”
Now that everyone had their marching orders, they dispersed. Merrick handed Dom an evelope stuffed with cash, and Dom slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie. The other team - Joe and Matt - left, while the remaining vampires began tidying up.
A fleet of vehicles waited in the parking lot behind Club Vlad. Dom and Jessie took a black pedo van with no back windows. They drove in silence, the radio off. Dom did not want to hear music, nor did he wish to speak to Jessie. Their kinship was one of blood and circumstance, not one of words and emotions. He had no questions for her and wished to answer none of his own. The only thoughts he had were of the mission ahead and of the growing pain in his skull. He thought of the staring stupid Matt, of the decayed Max, and a shiver went down his spine.
What was left of his humanity recoiled at the idea of becoming like them.
The pain grew hotter, more intense. He forced it away and focused on driving.
The funeral home was on North Allen Street, next to a restaurant called Pepperjack’s. A tall, white house with dark shutters and a sign out front, it looked like a quiet, peaceful place. “Pull around back,” Jessie said.
Dom pulled the van around back and parked under a balcony, killing the headlights. They got out and went to the back door, Jessie in the lead. He assumed that she had done this before and that the seller would recognize her. She knocked, and a few moments later, the door opened. A youngish man with a shaved head appeared, wearing an apron and gloves. He saw them and tensed a little. Dom could smell, rather than sense, his fear, and his throat panged with thirst. “Come on,” the man said quickly. He stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Dom noticed that he walked behind them, wary of putting his back to them. “Do you have the money?”
“Do you have our order?” Jessie countered.
“Yes,” the man said, “I’m really risking my neck for this. They don’t just give embalming fluid away, you know. They keep track of it and if they realize I’m over ordering, someone from the state’s going to come down here and check.”
He led them into an embalming room. Three boxes sat on a table. Dom gave the man his money, and he and Jessie carried the boxes outside, loading them into the van. The whole time they were there, the man was edgy, like he was afraid they were going to attack him. Dom would be a liar if he said that the hot smell of the man’s blood didn’t excite him. Perhaps once his brain rotted away, he wouldn’t be able to control himself, but for now, he could.
A lightning bolt of pain shot through his head and he nearly dropped the last box onto the ground.
Once the man was paid, Dom and Jessie drove back to Club Vlad. In fifteen minutes, they were drinking side by side from two passed out partygoers, their reward for a job well done.
Meanwhile, across the city, Joe and Matt weren’t doing as well. They were standing outside of Heather’s apartment. Joe, slightly annoyed (anger being another emotion vampires could feel, along with fear) pounded on the door. He knew she was in there; he could smell the putrid odor of decay. “Let us in,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”
Joe could barely remember changing her. He didn’t mean to, it just…happened. Like an unwanted pregnancy. You can bite someone as much as you want and drink as much as you want, but if you take too much at once and they die, you get the vampire equivalent of a baby. Joe liked the hunt. It was exciting. Having his meals brought to him Club Vlad didn’t arouse the same level of excitement. It was like shooting an animal tied to a tree. Or hiring a prostitute instead of wooing someone. No real satisfaction to it.
That was probably his greatest downfall. He had lured Jessie the same way, though Merrick was indeed interested in rescuing her from her grandmother. People you have saved obey just as well as people with no brains.
He felt fluid on his upper lip and sniffed. “Come on, let us in,” he said.
No response.
He looked at Matt and nodded to the door. Together, they rammed their shoulders against it. It shook in its frame. They were both dead and weak, but modern American architecture is even weaker, and the door eventually slammed open. The apartment beyond was dark, messy, and reeked of death. They searched high and low, and eventually found Heather huddled in a corner, trying to hide. She was naked save for a pair of panties, her body bloated and beginning to turn black. Her skin hung from her frame and her eyes were filled with blood and fear. It was a wonder no one had called the police yet. The smell was overpowering. “We’re here to help,” he said. “You have to come with us.”
She shook her head and trembled. Maybe she remembered that he was the one who did this to her. Maybe her memories had rotted away. Those were usually the first to go. Then your emotions, then your personality. Finally, your capacity for higher reasoning. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he said. That was a lie. He was not remorseful. Nor was he proud, for that matter. It just happened. Like rain. “But I want to help you. We can fix you.”
No amount of coaxing or conjoling could induce her to move. Joe weighed his options. He doubted anyone would call the cops even if they heard the door coming down - people who lived in places like this rarely called the cops, which helped Joe and his cause immensely. Even so, there was the possibility. Every minute they spent here was a minute that something could go wrong, and Joe had a lot to lose.
So, too, did Merrick.
Giving up, Joe took out his cellphone and called Merrick. “She refuses to come,” he said simply.
The line was quiet for a moment, then Merrick’s voice came back. Cold. Calculating. “Then do what you must.”
That was the go ahead.
Hanging up, Joe looked around the apartment and found a wooden chair in the kitchen. He lifted it over his head and slammed it on the counter, shattering it into a million pieces. He selected the longest, sharpest, and sturdiest looking one. He went back into the room and directed Matt to hold her down. She fought, kicked, and spat, but she was weaker than even they were. They had been embalmed. She hadn’t.
Matt pinned her hands above her head and Joe straddled her. Animal terror filled her eyes and she whipped her head from side to side. Joe lifted the makeshift stake with both hands, and brought it down as hard as he could, driving it deep into her heart. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and a high, otherworldly scream ripped from her throat. She bucked, thrashed, and kicked her feet. Her resistance began to ebb away until she was twitching…until she was still.
Heather from OKCupid was dead.
Truly dead.
Joe couldn’t help wondering what it was like.
Pulling the stake out, he tossed it aside and got to his feet, Matt doing likewise. A soul petrifying scream might be cause for even the tightest of lips to start talking. “Let’s go,” he said. And together, he and Matt fled, leaving the poor, dead body of Heather behind.
***
As it turned out, one of Heather’s neighbors did call the cops. At 10;13pm, Vanessa Rodregiez arrived with two patrolmen and found the front door of Apartment 237 knocked down. Guns drawn, they entered, Vanessa at the head. The first thing she noticed was the smell. It jammed itself into her nostrils, shoved its tongue down her throat, and violated her - all without even buying her dinner first.
Vanessa hadn’t been at this as long as her buddy Bruce had, but she knew a dead, rotting body when she smelled one. They searched the premises, and sure enough, they found a vic in the bedroom, lying in the gap between the bed and the wall; it looked like the former had been moved, perhaps in a struggle. Vanessa knelt down to check the vic’s pulse, but stopped.
There was no need.
The vic - who looked like a female but could have been an overweight male - hadn’t had a pulse in a very long time.
Examining the body, Vanessa found a wound in the chest, just above the heart. Black, stinking goo leaked from it, and Vanessa gagged. She fisted her hand to her mouth, retched, and then ran for the kitchen sink. Her partner for the night, Jim Walsh, stared down at the stiff before him, and his face turned a sickly shade of green. He avoided puking because he didn’t nose fuck the wound like Vanessa had, but he wasted no time in getting out there, dry heaving in the hallway where the air was somewhat fresh.
After leaving her lunch in the sink, Vanessa radioed back to headquarters, and before long, the place was crawling with cops. The assistant medical examiner - who had taken over after Ed Harris quit the previous night - knelt over the body and studied it. A solidly built black man with a mustache, his name was Leon and he knew death just as well as his old boss, so when he said the vic had been dead nearly two weeks, Vanessa accepted it.
That begged the question: Who broke in and screamed just now? A relative? The caller clearly heard screaming and peeked out her door to see two males fleeing on foot. Maybe they found the vic and freaked out? Or maybe they were the killers returning to the scene of the crime. After all, the vic had clearly been murdered.
In fact, they found a likely murder weapon. A long sliver of wood soaked in black goo. Blood turns black after a while, but there was something different about this stuff. “What is it?” Vanessa asked Leon.
“I’m not sure,” Leon said and pulled off a pair of Latex gloves he’d donned to examine the vic, “could be blood or…”
“Or what?” Vanessa asked.
“Or something,” Leon said. “Give me a few hours.”
And a few hours it was. Just before 1am, Leon called Vanessa at her desk. “I think you should come down here,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Vanessa stood over Leon as he pulled the vic’s chest open with a pair of tweezers. “That’s the heart,” he said, “whoever stabbed her scored a direct hit, but this…this is what concerns me.”
He prodded a furry lump with the tip of his scalpel.
“What is it?” Vanessa asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it looks like mold.”
That word - mold - triggered a memory in her brain. “Ed said something about mold last night. He found it in -”
“The Mason boy,” Leon finished.
“Yeah. The one who got up and ran off.”
Leon turned away from Vanessa and looked at the dead woman - for it was a woman. Vanessa got the impression that he didn’t want her to see his expression. “I’ve known Ed ten years. I know something happened last night, but a stiff getting up and walking off? I thought he was confused. Now…I don’t know. That makes two bodies in 24 hours. And get this. The chest wound? It was done post-mortem. I can’t find a cause of death anywhere. Except maybe blood loss but it’s hard to tell at this point. And speaking of blood…”
“What?” Vanessa asked quickly.
“When I opened her stomach up, a whole shit load of blood spilled out. And a lot of it was a lot fresher than she is.”
Vanessa furrowed her brow in confusion. “You mean…?”
“It’s not hers,” Leon said. “I can’t be 100 percent sure until I run tests, but I’d put money on it.”
Vanessa’s head spun with information both new and old. You know that full, heavy feeling you get when a poo is brewing in your guts? That’s kind of what Vanessa was feeling, only in her head instead of her stomach.
Leon was just as mystified by the whole thing as she was and stayed up late to run a few preliminary tests. By sunrise, he had confirmed that the blood inside of Heather’s stomach was not hers. In fact, it had come from at least three different sources. “Is it human?” Vanessa asked over the phone.
“Yes,” Leon said, sounding troubled, “it’s human.”
In the cobalt hour before sunrise, Vanessa sat at her desk and tried to piece this whole thing together. They had:

1. A corpse that (allegedly) woke up and dipped out
2. A dead girl who’d been stabbed in the heart with a piece of wood after somehow ingesting the blood of three different people.
3. Some missing kids
4. Oh, and both bodies - the girl’s and the runaway corpses’ - had the same weird fungus in their heart cavities.

All of this - even the missing kids, Vanessa felt - was related. She just didn’t know how. The only answer that half way fit was that both of those bodies were vampires. Like…what’s a vampire but a dead body that gets up and walks around at night? And how do you kill a vampire? Why, you drive a piece of wood through its heart.
The idea that vampires were real was dumb, but the more she turned it over in her mind, the more she became convinced that it was at least an option. A lot of things people thought were fantastic and made up turned out to be real, so why not vampires too?
Shortly after 8, Bruce came in. He was just sitting down when Vanessa came in and slapped her report on the desk. “Buckle up, bitch,” she said, “things just got weirder.”
He stared up at her with one of those grumpy - but cute -expressions he was so good at putting on. As he read, however, his brow knitted. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh.
“I have a theory - kind of,” Vanessa said, “but I don’t want to say it.”
“You might as well,” Bruce said. “It can’t be more kooky than reality these days.”
“Okay,” Vanessa started, “what if - and I’m just thinking out loud here - what if there are vampires in Albany?”
She expected Bruce to give her a dirty look, but he chewed it over, actually taking it seriously. “And those missing boys are victims?” he asked finally.
“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “That girl’s been dead two weeks. Maybe she bit Dominick Mason and he came back for revenge after realizing he was cursed to be a goddamn shit sucking vampire forever.”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, but who turned her?”
“I don’t know,” Vanessa said, “I don’t know.”
***
Before dawn painted the eastern sky, Merrick Garvis sat in his chamber like a withered king, a mess of IVs hooked into his arms and neck. The vault was silent save for the soft noise of the machines as they filtered out the old embalming fluid and replaced it with new embalming fluid. Embalming fluid always made him spacy, like a drug. The others had gone first, and even now lay near comatose around him like addicts in an opium den.
As far as he knew, Merrick was the oldest vampire in the world, perhaps, even, the oldest vampire to ever live. Though he was not fully honest with Dom, he was not lying when he said that vampires rotted like any other dead thing. Conditions considered, you had a few weeks tops if left untreated. There may be living vampires in remote corners of Egypt or the northern most reaches of Russia, where the climate preserved dead things, but unless you made it to one of those places, you were pretty well fucked.
Merrick was not a proud man, nor was he concerned with saving face - the dead have no need for that. He was being truthful when he said that he feared death. What’s more, he feared being helpless. Deep down, vampires are people, and people don’t exactly have the greatest track record with caring for their infirm. He read once that the first sign of a civilization was a broken leg that had healed, as it showed that someone stayed with and cared for a fellow human long enough for them to get well again. In Merrick’s opinion, that was true…and thus there was no civilization. Merrick was fifty-one when he died in the year 1982. In his lifetime, he had seen The Great Depression, World War II, and a million small acts of cruelty and selfishness in between. He’d seen beggars starving in the streets, abused children shuffled out of sight and out of mind, and disdain for the poor and the weak.
The living were awful, and the living dead were no different. Once their humanity rotted away, they cared only about filling their stomachs. They were like ticks - they would drink until their bellies literally ruptured…and then keep on drinking.
That left him in a precarious position. He was old, his body was weak. He couldn’t stand unassisted and if left to fend for himself, he would decay into a pile of bones within days. He would be cursed to lay in one spot for all eternity, aware and hungry, little more than a ghost tethered to a black and still beating heart.
He refused to let that happen to him. Thus, he had created a family, a clan of vampires loyal to him and to him alone. He did this through acts of simple kindness and understanding…but also through deception. He knew, for instance, how to preserve the brain. He’d figured out how to do it early on - you pickle it. Like a fetus preserved in a jar. He sawed off the top of his own head and filled it with a special solution that kept his brain - and his intelligence - intact. It slowly drained out through the nose and ears in a thin, yellow liquid, but it worked well enough. He couldn’t save everything, however, and had lost vital things in the process, such as most of his human memories, his sense of humor, and some motor functions. He shared this secret with only Joe, and a few others before, because he needed a strong captain. He kept the others in the dark because vampires - like people - are easier to control when they don’t think for themselves.
Right about now, however, Merrick was beginning to regret sharing the formula with even Joe. Joe had brought him nothing but grief. Joe, you see, could think for himself. He could make decisions. He could go behind Merrick’s back. Joe had something called free will, and free will is a worse affliction than vampirism. Free will is messy, free will is dangerous.
Free will could very well turn Merrick into a pile of bones.
That was, of course, if they weren’t discovered first. Joe had made several mistakes lately, not least of which was the turning of Heather. Sitting there in the predawn hour, attended by Tony, his gay bartender and human familiar, Merrick decided to have Joe killed. There are only two ways to kill a vampire: The stake and the flame. The latter seemed somehow appropriate in this case. After Joe, there would be no more captains, only him, one father with absolute power. That was how it had to be. One man, one vision. Democracies didn’t work. That was especially clear today. Everyone was so divided and nothing ever got done. If the humans had one strong leader, they might go in the wrong direction, but at least they would go somewhere. Instead, they stagnated.
Merrick didn’t particularly look forward to killing Joe, but it had to be done. To protect the family. To protect him.
And Merrick would do anything…anything at all…to protect himself.
***
Vampires.
Bruce kept coming back to that single wor, hoping each time that he would chuckle at the absurdity of it.
But he never did.
Did that mean he believed it? Not necessarily, but damn it, he considered it a possibility, and that alone was enough to make him feel like a fucking clown. All the evidence he had pointed to vampires, but then again, it might point to other things as well. Like aliens.
But let’s say the whole vampire thing was real. Who, like Vanessa asked, was patient zero? Who started this whole mess?
A name came to mind.
Merrick Garvis.
He had not had time to check into Garvis the previous day, but by God, he was going to do it now. He ran his name and social through the system and everything seemed to check out. Merrick Garvis was born on June 31, 1963 in -
Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 days in June?
Bruce checked, and there were, indeed, only 30 days in the month of June. Hm. Bruce did a little digging and found something out. Before 1987, social security numbers weren’t issued at birth. You had to sign up, using other forms of ID. Merrick Garvis applied for his in April 1984 and the date of birth on his state issued driver’s license was June 31. Bruce spent an hour on the phone with the DMV and learned that they had never issued a license to a Merrick Garvis. He then spoke to the Social Security Administration, and after much wrangling and frustration, he managed to get a photocopy of the license Garvis used to get his social security number. It was dated 1983.
The face staring back at him was almost exactly the same face he’d seen at Club Vlad, except maybe a touch less stiff and waxy. Though not as rough looking, there was no way in hell Garvis was 20 in that picture. It had to be a fake,
Bruce thought back to the events of the previous two days. Missing bodies, staked corpses, hearts that still beat after death.
Vampires didn’t seem like such a crazy explanation.
And if anyone was a fucking vampire around here, it was Merrick Garvis.

Wastelander
A thin veil of sand blew across the road, danced in erratic swirls over the cracked pavement, and then capered off into the dunes.
Kaelar watched it spin into a small dust devil that swept past the skeletal branches of dead shrubs and the faded remnant of an old sign sagging into the sand. Rocks and bits of concrete jumped from countless pits and holes weathered into the road, kicked out in front of him with each measured step.
The dust devil whirled up the face of a sandy hill and vanished down the other side. He fingered his water skin, still nearly full. Some of the old folk said dust devils could lead you to water. Kaelar had tried once, but all he’d found was more dust.
He returned his attention to the road and what lay at the end. Or rather, what he would do once he arrived. Most of the Old World had hidden troves of valuable artifacts in broken buildings and infrastructure, the decaying crypts that were once people’s homes. But the treasures were dwindling, and the waste was encroaching. Arable land was a unicorn, and clean water was scarce. And there was no shortage of violent gangs roaming the wastes, circling the small ramshackle communities like wolves, watching for any sign of weakness.
Towns were dying.
Hell, the planet was dying, some said. Murdered by the poisons unleashed by her children back before his father’s father’s time. Maybe it was true.
Kaelar put the thought out of his mind and peered through the shimmering heat at the shattered remains of a city rising out of the ash. Mercury, he called it, for he did not know its true name. In the distant past, something had destroyed the city, blasted its buildings and cratered its parks, unalived its people.
Now nothing remained but the dust of shattered dreams. You could walk an entire day and not cross Mercury. Unwise, but you could do it.
He passed another sign, larger than before but just as faded. This one straddled the highway on great metal legs that did not rust. The edges of the road crumbled and sagged into the sand, mirroring the slow decay of Mercury. Nothing grew out here in the waste but sun-bleached bones and stony cliffs.
He walked on.
The city loomed larger and took shape as the hours passed.
He could make out tiny details now. Windows gaping with no glass, rooftops jagged and crumbling, the rusted relics of countless vehicles choking intersections and the bones of an entire city scattered through debris-strewn streets. He detoured around collapsed walls blocking his way and ravines that had recently opened to swallow entire blocks. This took time, precious hours he did not have to spare. Crap.
Kaelar tipped back his wide-brimmed hat and glanced at the sun, blazing overhead. Ten hours til dark. He had to hurry.
Lowering his hat, he took a small sip from his waterskin. It was hot and tasted terrible, but soothed his parched throat. The air was hotter still, dry but stifling, and hard to breathe when the dust was up. Despite this, he wore old leathers, suffered them for the small protection they offered. A scrape could prove deadly.
He adjusted his canvas satchel, more of an extensive collection of mismatched patches than an actual bag, but strong enough to accommodate even the best hauls. His gloves were fingerless, and weighted across the knuckles in case he had need.
His eyes never stopped moving, scanning ahead, probing into the shadows gathered in doorways and alleys, ever wary of the dangers present within the Old World. Wild beasts were the least of his worries. Men were the deadliest creatures of all.
He dusted off his goggles and glanced at his pistol in a worn leather holster belted at his hip. Each cartridge in the gun’s cylinder was worth a week of clean water. He had four left. If I’m right, I’ll have more after today.
Kaelar moved deeper into the city, to the heart of the ruins. His destination was just ahead, a place he’d searched before but never found the heart to explore past the fourth level.
Today, that would change.
A sudden clattering sound came from an alley to his right.
Kaelar instinctively ducked and leaped to press himself against the side of a rusted-out truck. Peering over the hood, he listened; he watched. No movement. He was surprised to find his pistol in his hand, glinting in the sunlight. He didn’t remember drawing it.
His eyes scanned deeper into the alley, past refuse and debris. Nothing.
Kaelar turned, drew in a deep breath and rested on his haunches with his back against the truck. Something had made that sound. Was someone stalking him? Other scavengers could be dangerous. Some would open your veins just for stepping into what they perceived as their territory. Sweat tracked down through the dust on his face. A moment later he decided he couldn’t leave it to chance. Never leave an enemy at your back, his father had told him. That advice had served him well over the years.
There was no movement as far as he could see in any direction facing away from the alley. Just the skeletal girders and broken concrete of a dead city. That left the alley at his back.
He went to his belly and peered under the truck. Nothing. He stayed there for some time, watching and waiting. Sweating.
When nothing showed, he rose to a crouch and slowly advanced into the alley, pistol leading.
It was deserted. There was nothing of value, not a bit of lead. Clattering came from above, faint and distant. Jaw clenched, he holstered his weapon and shimmied up a drain pipe to the roof.
Strange machines made two neat rows on one side and a small shack with a single door on the other. Sunlight soaked into the roof’s black skin, shimmering up in waves. But that wasn’t what held his eye. A second structure rose beside the one on which he stood, snugged tight to it like lovers. The leeward wall sat in the shade, and something clung there to the brick.
Kaelar couldn’t believe his eyes.
His heart leapt for joy. He rushed to the wall, and reached out with a trembling hand to gently brush the white petals of the vines climbing the brick. It was real. It was alive!
“You can’t have them!” Kaelar felt a hot explosion in the back of his head. The world tilted on its side and the roof rushed up to meet him.
A figure stood over him, dark and terrible and haloed by the sunlight.
“Your kind are not welcome here, Wastelander.”
Kaelar reeled with vertigo. He opened his mouth to speak but a heavy boot snapped out and blasted away his world.
It was alive.

To live in the Undead Burg is a daily test of one’s wit and their will. The brutish and dull fall to the cunning, and the weak intellectual tears their own mind asunder. For those who escape the Asylum, it is sometimes enough to make one consider voyaging back to their cell.
After all, only a few are Chosen.
In the lower levels of the Undead Burg, a cloak of rat skin fluttered behind a walking corpse as they hurriedly turned the corner of a short length of stone stairs, slamming the shield of a hollow soldier against the ground just as the claws and fangs of the first hound rose to meet it. In truth he lacked the strength to properly defend himself with the thing, to raise it with only one arm and withstand a blow with the same, but it didn’t matter here. The lower corner of the shield lay braced against the bottommost of a length of stone steps. This, with his shoulder pressed against the shield’s top, made progress against him nearly impossible for a foe so light as this.
If idiocy was to lose one’s common sense, then it couldn’t account for the stupidity of an undead hound. The corpse raised a spear over the shield and swung it downward in a pathetic arc, the wood slapping against the metal with hardly a noise to report. Seeing the motion, the dog leapt sideways out of some horribly trained reflex, and in this manner crashed into large pile of eternally burning corpses. It yelped as the heat caught it, spasmed as it searched for purchase amidst the mass of charred bones and melted flesh, and promptly died. The commotion brought with it the sound of distant footsteps, and soon another beast had run headlong into the shield. This one took two similar “attacks” of the spear to repeat its fellow’s mistake, and the one after it four.
To think he had once been terrified of these things, and discovered his tactic in panic.
Beside the steps was a well, and (after a moment to ensure no further dogs were coming), it was this against which the corpse laid his heavy shield. The next test between him and his goal would require agility, something ill-afforded with such heavy hardware. For this, he turned his attention to the well’s crank, and set thereafter to turning it. From the depths was raised a target shield tied in place of a bucket, and upon it a collection of bones, a severed hand, a ring, and a candlestick. The corpse laid the miscellaneous treasures aside, untying the shield and equipping it to his left arm.
The first two thieves were marked by buckets… or rather, the buckets were set in place to tell the thieves which doors were to be hid behind. As travelers came and went, the buckets would roll down the hill as they were knocked aside or blown by the wind or carried around by the dogs, and thus the thieves’ stations would move. When it was determined one had rolled too far down the decline of the alleyway, an annoyed thief would inevitably carry it to a more desired station, pretend it had always been there, and hide themselves behind the newly marked door. It was possible some band of thieves set this tradition in place long ago and retained the habit after they’d eventually gone hollow, but proving this thought today would be nearly beyond impossible. The reasoning didn’t matter to the corpse, of course, but the effect he used to his advantage.
The tops of the doors he adorned with knives from the Lady of Moss- blades up, such that the forceful opening of the door would spin the knives just right to sink their poisonous bile into the victims below. What additional wastes and acids the corpse had applied need not be mentioned by name, only that they shared their patron creature with the leather cloak on his back. With his work done, he now walked the side of the alley as any clueless traveler would have, and awaited the springing of the trap.
As always, the third and lowermost thief signaled the attack by kicking open their door. The two now behind the corpse followed, and shortly thereafter issued their raspy exhales of pain amidst the clatter of falling steel. The corpse charged. The leader hurriedly reached for their throwing knives but was swiftly force-fed the edge of the corpse’s shield, thusly to be brought to the ground. Here was the corpse’s blade drawn, its cracked and jagged tip turned down towards its latest prey.
When skinning rats, it is important that one carries a sharp blade. This both to pierce the thick hide, and to avoid unnecessary damage to the intestines, stomach, and other usable bits lying beneath. Replacing the rat with a hollow, the corpse preferred the tip of a broken straight sword to the edge of his usual dagger. The motions made indeed bore some crude similarity to his work when harvesting leather, but the abandon of care became only more evident with each forceful cut and flailingly resisted gouge. In the end, what remained could hardly be discerned from a spot of muck on the road, a hollow-faced madman above it.
Further down, beyond a second set of stone steps, was another favorite spot of ambush for the thieves. The mutts at the end of the alley had long since devoured whatever scraps had been used to position them, and so readily charged forth at the beckoning call of the corpse. They found at his feet the now separated legs of the corpse’s most recent kill, adorned in many fresh gouges and oozing with a pungent liquid. The source of this meal mattered not to them, and so they eagerly set to work engorging themselves on the new flesh. So single-minded were they, intent on ridding themselves of the insatiable undead hunger that plagued them, that neither one slowed as a white foam began to pour from their mouths. Their stomachs first bulged, then split apart and spilt what little they had for content as the acid worked its way through. Their legs gave way from beneath them, first the hind, then the front, and yet still they desperately swallowed more of the decaying flesh and embedded stomach-skin pouches that rapidly digested them in return. When at last the pair had at last lost such strength as to no longer reach the meals inches away from their first gasping, then whining maws, the corpse delivered their mercy. A swift kick, and what little remained of their necks gave freedom to their lifeless skulls. The thieves, meanwhile, bore no challenge the corpse had not already faced. Knives over the first few doors, the greeting of jaw and shield, the pillaging of another victim. Nothing unusual, and nothing of note.
With the capra demon gone, some “chosen” adventurer having long since vanquished it from realm, little now stood between the corpse and… her… save only one thing. The corpse took the last flight of stairs three at a time, ricocheting off the wall on the outside of its only turn and bounding towards his target.
There she was, out in the open as always. The corpse sprinted down the stairs and, after passing a blind corner, set his left foot forward and crouched to halt his considerable momentum. The ambusher behind him was easily parried as he brought his shield up and behind him, cracking something in their forearm or perhaps their wrist. Not bothering to waste time, the corpse’s broken blade was brought upwards through the ambusher’s jaw until it snapped the bit bone between their eyes. This done, the corpse wrenched his weapon up and sideways with a hollow “pop” as the neck gave leave of its skull. The body collapsed to the side, its head twisting unnaturally upwards and backwards as it freed itself of the blade. The corpse, unbothered, bore no interest in holding either aloft. Now he turned, inspected the last of the thieves, and after a moment returned his blade to its holder.
“You are Patient.”
This first time he’d uttered the phrase, the last word was merely an attribute. ‘Twas a description of the one hollow that could be shot with any arrow, afflicted with any pain, and would yet remain loyally in her position. To be fair, it wasn’t for great gift a choice, as the position of “live bait” was reserved only for whichever of the thieves had been deemed least desirable by the rest. What caused this, and whatever penalties lay for abandoning of the post, were matters the corpse could only assume. The important part was that it was her, the thief who had become “Patient” by name. At their first encounter the corpse had considered dispatching her like the rest, but had hesitated in piercing her skin. He still bore the scar about his neck that she had given him for his idleness, and she still wore the rat skin “grieves” he’d forcefully tied to her for a marker. As time passed, the two gradually traded more scars and more black fur hide between them- the corpse receiving the former, Patient gaining the latter. He had stripped her and tied a pelt about her chest which lay now beneath her leather armor, he’d fashioned a double-thick leather stock to protect her neck, and though he tied gloves to her at a point she’d taken great effort in cutting them off. All this he had done across many visits, through much pain, and at expense of his best materials. Todays gift had by far been the hardest to craft- a thrice layered leather helm affixed on one side with a jawbone to replace what he’d broken so long ago.
His approach was slow, and well-rehearsed. At about ten paces, Patient’s patience finally broke as she ran for him. Today she chose to hesitate upon reaching him, though he'd learned this was by chance of random choice than any form of compassion. The corpse waited for the attack, not daring to kick another outcast as he had once been in life. She tried first her more viscous pattern, a pair of vigorous strikes that slid across the corpse’s target shield rather than bouncing away. She completed the maneuver and immediately prepared for a more powerful, slamming attack, granting the corpse the opportunity he had been seeking.
As she brought her blade down, the corpse deftly batted her strong hand away and gripped her shield with his open hand. Having no further need for his own shield, he cast it now away and spun the patient thief ‘round. She made as if to leap upward and over the corpse, but the maneuver was one he’d long since learned to counter. He stepped back, spinning himself so as to bring her sideways and around and down into a prone position with his right elbow along her back and his left hand pinning her knife arm down.
His next task, before gifts could be given, was to ensure he received no further scars in return. Placing his knee at her back to free one of his hands, he drew from beneath his cloak a coil of red twine fashioned from the same rats he’d skinned for his gift… some of the same, at least. With great effort, the twine was managed around the thief until she could no longer terribly well resist, and her hood was pulled back from her head.
Seeing the sunken red skin, the glowing eyes, the bare teeth, it reminded the corpse of life in the Pit of Outcasts. It was there he’d met the kindest of the living, the most desperate of the poor, and occasionally even a soul or two willing to speak or come close to him. ‘Twas a place for the diseased, the undead, and those criminals deemed too vile to disgrace the hangman’s noose with their neck. It was there he’d learned to knit and to sew, skills gifted to him from an undead woman not terribly discernable from the one before him now. The main difference, at least for now, was the slack jaw broken in uncountable pieces during their first encounter.
Casting the memories aside, the corpse set to his work. The leather about the thief’s neck stilled her head a little, but precisely cutting the skin beneath her jaw to remove the old bone was still a difficult task. The end result was unsightly, and it involved more than a few excessive cuts from the patient’s constant struggling, but it was enough to work with. Removing the old bone took a great deal of time thanks to the many fragments hidden in odd bits and pockets of flesh, but sliding the new one into place and wrapping it in the old muscle proved as easily said as done. The most tiring part was retying the cuts back closed, as the thief regained and continually demonstrated a greater ability to bite and snap as the corpse made more and more progress. The last of these gaps closed, the corpse finally wrapped the rest of the leather helmet about the thief’s skull and tied the loose end to the other side of her new jaw with more twine. It wasn’t his best work, but it was the best he’d done on something still kicking around.
Patient’s hood was returned to its proper position, and the corpse took hold of a length of twine connected to a slipknot in the middle of her back. Midway up the last stretch of stairs he’d come down, the twine was pulled and the knot it held gave way, restoring the thief her freedom. Knowing better than to stick around, the corpse fled to the top of the stairs, standing on the bridge overlooking her station just beyond where she would pursue. He watched as she freed herself of the last of the twine, as she looked to him, and as she eventually returned to her post. He said then the same thing he always said to her, though still he knew not if she recognized it.
“I am Aldin Paltry, the Leper of Hangknell. I will return again.”
He watched a moment more, but was paid not a glance in return. Back through the alley he went, bound for the dragon’s bridge.

Hi, I just wanted to share my gear list and was wondering if it will be good for mountaineering here in the US. I am currently 15 yo and will be summiting Mt. Whitney, Mt. Rainier, and Mt. Baker soon. Not everything is here like medicine or electronics but most of it is.
Big 3
Backpack - HMG Ice Pack 70
Tent - Kailas X3 Alpine Tent
Sleeping Bag - Eddie Bauer Karakoram 0
Sleeping Pad - Thermarest Xlite + Z pad
Outerwear
Jacket - Fjallraven Expedition Down Parka
Shell - OR Foray 2 Gortex Jacket
Mid Layer - Columbia Fleece Zip
Vest - Columbia Down Vest
Climbing Shirt - Kuhl Sun Hoody
Shirt - Under Armor Athletic Tee
Base Layer - 32 Degrees Base Layer
Climbing Pants - Black Diamond Notion Pants
Rain Pants - Berghaus MTN Seeker GTX Pants
Socks - Smart Wool Mountaineer Socks + REI Coop Liners
Boots - Old La Sportivas that I put superfeet in. I think B2 style
Gaitors - Berghaus Yeti Attak
Gloves - Burton Goretex Gloves / Gordini Gauntlet Gloves / Black Diamond Guide Gloves / REI Coop fingerless liner gloves
Hat - REI Coop Sun Hat
Beanie - Random fleece beanie
Buff - REI Coop Buff
Climbing Gear
Helmet - Black Diamond Half Dome
Crampons - Black Diamond Nerve Strap
Ice Axe - Black Diamond Venom
Rope - Borrowed
Poles - Cascade Mountain Tech Carbon fiber
Miscellaneous 4 Nalgene Bottles 1L Titanium Spoon Pack of Cards Clip On Snack Bag
There’s probably something I’m missing or need to leave at home so any tips would be greatly appreciated!

I'm very new to this area and am planning on doing mount Olympus in August. I've seen people wearing gloves in some videos of the climb and say they helped for the final rock scramble part, even in summer months, but from my research on gloves people often saying its for warmth or rope work. I don't think I'll need much of either there as its a fairly beginners level hike and doesn't get very cold. so I am wondering
A. do I even need them? and B. what exactly should I be looking for?
I'm assuming fingerless and grippy is a must so does anyone have any recommendations or advice on the subject. I don't plan on doing any winter climbs soon and would not be attempting any considerably hard climbing with constant ropes any time in the near future.
EDIT: I am referring to Mount Olympus in Greece and am doing E4 Trail Prionia to Skala peak (just trekking) and then on to Mytikas peak (rock scramble). It's about 2900m elevation and there is no ice or snow this time of year, just rocks for the last 30 minutes between Skala and Mytikas. Some videos I've seen show preinstalled ropes on the mountain for assistance up the rocks in some sections. I'm from Australia.
Thanks in advance :)

We can already wear a shirt and coat at the same time as well as a curse and makeup... Sometimes the hat and hair won't work together, but sometimes they do... Why not for the rings and gloves? Especially when the gloves are fingerless gloves 🥲 please🙏 😫 that's all, just a rant at Rare, anyways safe sailing

Ok so my dress is strapless and formfitted in kind of a brocade fabric? Anyway, I’ve never been good at accessorizing and I’m trying to figure out what to wear with my dress - any tips/suggestions for jewelry/hair accessories? I was thinking about fingerless gloves but idk

People say it's childish to be afraid of the dark. They say it's a symptom of an overactive imagination. And yet the same people- all people- know that you don’t go out at night, not without light or charm. And everyone knows, instinctively, in the marrow of their bones, that you don’t go out on a moonless night.
I had been out on a moonless night for days. Most people can’t tell, but once you're trained, you can- Darkness loves darkness. She likes to stretch her time out as long as she's possibly able. Everyone wants to spend time with kindred spirits. It’s nature, human or otherwise.
There’s nothing I can do about it, so I do my best to enjoy it. After all, you have to pick your battles, and my gun makes it pretty easy to figure out which ones I can win. She's a lovely gun. Big, which is fine with me, because I need all the power she can muster. Nine custom rounds rotate through, each enchanted by my own self. Not as effective as a professional enchantment, but I get by, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.
The only light came from the muzzle flare of my pistol. They smothered my campfire long ago, leaving me with only the vaguest sense of where they were, occasionally silhouetted against the trees when I fired. They were big, looming over me, high into the crooked trees and the moonless sky behind them. Who could say how long tonight would last?
I try not to cast on Nights, because it just acts like more of a beacon than I already am, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. My chest burned as I threw up a Buffer against a sudden wave of creatures, but they tore it down before it hardly had time to help. I bit down and cast a Warding, felt my arm burn harshly in the wild energy of the new moon and felt the following cold cut its way through my flesh and deep into my bones. Popping the spent rounds out with my right hand, my left knitted itself into the Ward shape automatically, trained by years of habit. Now I’ve really done it, I thought, because I could practically sense them perk up from miles off, even without casting a Seeing. It worked, though, and I was given brief respite for my efforts. I’d sure as hell pay for it in about 10 minutes, but for now I needed to stop bleeding and deal with the sensation of a drill pressed to the back of my skull.
“Skippers,” I growled. I hated Skippers.
The problem with Skippers is they’re small, harder to notice than anything else, and instead of trying to take off your head they try to get into your head. From there they can do whatever they want while you watch- make you walk off a cliff, bite off your own tongue, flay yourself alive. Like I said, whatever they want, and they're usually pretty mean. I’d seen them really go to work on all sorts of people, mostly people I knew and trained with. Hazards of the job- sorcerous training let you see a whole new world, but it opened you up to the threats that lived there, more so than regular folk. I was in worse shape than most sorcerers, which was part of what put me out at Night in the first place. Luckily, I’m better than most sorcerers, but it still meant I had to be careful.
To get rid of a Skipper, all you have to do is burn them off with a little Light. I'd needed the break- 3 of them dripped out of me right away, and a fourth started to run down my back as it tried to escape.
“Bastard.” I struck it with the handle of the gun as it slithered away. No sense wasting ammo on idiots like that.
The Ward wavered, the Night grew around me, and I hadn't even had time to heal anything. Damn.



Sam watched from behind the counter as the man walked through the door. Under the door, rather, as he had to duck to keep from hitting his head. He was pale, very pale, unlike the merchantfolk that usually came through the inn. His face was covered by a bushy beard, his hair was long, and his eyes were rimmed with red, but he could certainly be no older than 40. It was strange- for someone to come in so early in the morning, and look so tired- he must have been traveling all night, but he had no horse to be stabled.
The stranger was an armory- small blades and strange, bulbous jars jutted out from pockets and packs all over the man, daggers strapped to his legs, and even metal nubs in the knuckles of his gloves. What caught Sam's attention, though, was the man's huge gun, strapped tightly to his waist. He had never seen a gun that big, and the ammunition the man was carrying in the sacks around his waist must have weighed heavily on him, though he showed no signs of it.
“What does it cost for a room?” His voice did not match the tired, worn image in front of him. It was firm, and had the sound of recent laughter in it.
“Let me get my mom.” Sam began, starting for the back room. He never handled rooms.
“That's alright. You'll do fine. How much?” The man pulled out a purse, smaller than the other bags on his belt, and it was clearly much lighter than anything else he carried. “I’d like to find a bed and use it.” His voice did not betray him, nor did his hands, but the redness of his eyes did. They were a startling blue, and they seemed to contain nothing except exhaustion.
“I need your name,” Sam remembered as he directed the giant stranger to his room. The man's eyes, just for an instant, darted to one side before returning to Sam.
“Joan,” he said.
“O-kay.” Sam jotted the name down. “Two nights, food at 7 and 7, anything else you pay for.” He began to walk the man down the hall. “Strange accent. Are you from Melano, or Baden?” He didn’t really know what those accents sounded like, but he knew they were far from Newmark.
“No.” Joan walked into the room indicated with no further comments.
Sam stopped at the door while the man called Joan dropped his bags to the floor. “What kinda gun is that?”
“Mine,” he said simply, as he unbundled it’s holster from his belt. “I make the ammunition myself most of the time.”
“It's impressive. My paw was a soldier, and he showed me his old gun once, only it was a lot smaller than yours, and all rusted out besides, but-" Sam stopped as the man removed his cloak. There was a bright gash, still oozing dark blood, working its way up the man's side behind the thick leather plates. “Holy cripes! You oughta see a doctor, sor!”
Joan gave no indication that he could even feel the wound, nor did he instantly react when the boy cried out. “This? It looks a lot worse than it is. Rest, and solitude,” and here he looked at Sam, “will do me more good than any doctor from this town.” He moved to close the door, and against Sam's protest seemed to shut him out with no effort at all.
He ran down the hall to inform his mother of their newest guest.
I didn’t want the kid to see what I had to do next. It really wasn’t that bad- on the outside. Because we put so much ourselves in the spiritual world, the physical world didn’t matter so much. But it’s all tradeoffs. It had cut a pretty chunk out of me spirit-wise, and that hurt worse than any gash could. Really, I was better off than most sorcerers would’ve been with a cut like this- I had less to lose. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
I Worked a minor Healing, but anything more would’ve taken more out of me than I could hope to regain, so the rest had to be resigned to sleep. Stupid. I should never have let anything get that close anyway, but it seemed like the Skippers were going crazy last Night.
I was too tired even to dream. A small blessing.

Waking up was not pleasant- I was stiff and sore, and still hurting something fierce. And cold, of course. Always cold. The physical wound had scabbed over, and I figured I would get away with just a minor scar. My innards were still shredded, but marginally less so than before, so I could breathe without grimacing. I expected I’d be laid out for a few days yet. Lucky, since Night had just passed, so things would be calm for almost the entire month now.
Exhausted as I had been, I had no Wards up, nothing even blocking the door. Nice going. Practically begging for a stray to wander in and eat you. As I flipped the coin I’d lifted off the kid, I examined the room for anything that might have snuck in, but it was clear. This time.
It was around this point that I realized how hungry I was. It had been (what felt like) days without a hot meal, and apparently this podunk little inn could provide, so I wandered out to the main room to see if I could scare up some food.
When the kid saw me, his eyes widened. That’s never a good sign. Recognition meant questions, and the answers to those questions usually meant getting pushed to the next town before I had time to heal. I had been hoping to score a decent meal and a bath, at least.



Sam could hardly believe his eyes. “Criminy, sor, but I didn’t expect you to be up at all! It's barely been a day!” The cut had been bleeding heavily, and very deep, he was sure of it, but now the man was clean and walking as if he had never been injured.
The stranger called Joan sat heavily at a table, ignoring the implied question. “Any chance of a man getting some food around here?” He inquired. “Or, perhaps,” and he glanced at the barrels of ale behind the counter, “some drink?”
San quickly filled him a tankard and plate from supper earlier, then sat himself at the table, as the crowd in the room dwindled down to a late few. The man interested him. He did not seem to interest the man, however, as Joan simply ate and drank in silence, apparently unbothered by his wound. He was still pale, almost deathly so, but Sam had heard tell of people from far north being much lighter than the tanned workers of nearby towns.
“Are you a soldier?” Sam didn’t know much about the war to the south, but occasionally troops passed through, and he had heard his ma talk in the back room about an extra levy because the Northern Kingdoms were allied. “I never saw someone carry so many weapons that weren't a soldier. What are those jars you carry? Is that them new bombs they been talking about? With gunpowder, only you throw the jar so it’s like a cannonshot?” Sam did not know much about weapons, either, but he saw so few soldiers come through that he had to learn what he could, if he was going to join the war when he was of age.
“Sure, kid.” Joan tapped his empty tankard on the table and placed down the coin he had been flipping. Sam ran to fill it up again before sitting back down.
“So did you come from the southern border, where all the fights are? What's happening? Are we winning? We have all kinds of the Northern Kingdoms working together, right? We must be winning!”
“The southern border? No, no, I didn’t come from the southern border,” he snorted. “That whole war is just nonsense anyway. The Northern Kingdoms, in some alliance or another, have had it out for Onis since time began. Maybe even before. The war is just an excuse to keep the money rolling in. Seems like there’s less and less of it than ever.” He mumbled this last part into his cup.
“That’s- that’s not true!” Sam's pa had fought, same as Sam would. “The war is important! Onis could really invade anytime! Besides, you said you were a soldier. If you aren’t fighting in the war, how can you be a soldier?” Joan did not answer, but he reached for his sleeve for a moment as if to roll it up, then seemed to catch himself at the last second. Was he a deserter? “Are you a deserter?” Sam blurted out, realizing a second late that he was pushing his luck. Joan just tapped his mug again.
Sam's ma hurried over. “So sorry for this one, sor, he has a bad habit of being curious.” She cuffed him on the ear and it smarted.
“It's no problem, mam.” The stranger smiled warmly, but in his eyes there was nothing. It was a chilling sensation. “He fills my cup just fine.” His ma dragged him off before Sam could object, and Joan got up before Sam could return.


Broder laughed as he took Flander for another hand. Three hands up, he was, and showed no signs of slowing. He stopped, though, as a big man in a heavy cloak came to the table.
“Deal me in?” His voice, deep and rich, did not match the weathered exterior. The man was no farm hand, that much was clear. More a mercenary sort. Broder glanced around the table, but no one seemed to object outright, so he shrugged. One more fool for the best poker man in the west side of Newmark. “Promise I know the rules.”
“Can you make ante, pal?” Jaten sized him up from across the table, suspicious from the long, ratty hair sitting on his shoulders and the general sense of dirtiness emanating from the man. He didn't notice what Broder had seen- nice leather, warm coat, and firm shoes. The man had some money, at least.
“He's good for it, Jaten. What's your name, stranger?” Broder gestured at the empty space next to him as he began to deal the hands. The stranger threw his ante, and Broder couldn’t hear much left in the purse. The poor ones were easy to sucker in.
“Joan.”
“You from Onis or something, name like that?” Cogen sneered.
“Na, man, listen to his voice, he's from up in Lansing or summat.” Garrett spat. “You're pickin a fight so you don’t have to deal with your shite hand.”
“That's not true, mate! Maybe you ought to keep an eye on your own mess in front of ya!” Cogen threw in extra to compensate. They all knew each other, knew the tics and tells and habits, but this stranger would be interesting.
That was what Broder thought, but as they went round for a few hands, the stranger losing more than he won, it became clear he was just another sucker thinking he could smash the small town guys. He had seemed confident at first- smug, even- but Broder had moved in with a predatory efficiency and would not let up. He offered to buy a round for everyone, apparently hoping for mercy, or to dull them, but the man seemed to be getting a bit red in the nose much faster than the well-seasoned drinkers of the little town of Aren, where there was little else to do but work or drink, or play cards. Broder began to really work on Joan for everything he had left, preparing to take the man for anything he could offer. The game was boring, and Broder needed beer money, so he went to end the man entirely.
What Broder did not expect was for the man to turn his whole plan backwards by dropping a flush when he should’ve had nothing. That cleared the table pretty fast, and Broder noticed the man's nose was really not that red at all.
The hand was nonsense. He couldn't have won, couldn’t have had those cards. “Alright, pal, roll up your sleeves, eh? Just a friendly game, here, after all. No reason to stay all formal-like.” Broder saw the other men nod their approval.
“Are you sure? Isn’t it possible, just a little, that I might be better at the game than you?” Joan smirked, taunting the men.
“Roll those up in here or we'll roll em up for ya out back,” Cogen growled. He was the biggest, aside from the stranger himself, and had a knack for bar brawling.
“Alright. No need to get snippy that I beat you so bad.” Cogen almost stood, but Joan began to roll up his sleeves. Right, then left.
His left arm was covered up to the elbow in fresh burn scars- a bright, angry red. If Broder squinted, he could almost see fine lines tracing letters across the harshly burned skin, but he didn’t have to. He knew what he was looking at.
“You're a bloody wizard, ye stupid bastard!” Garrett exploded. “Ye- ye bastard! You used magic on our all heads, ye did!”
Joan's eyes darkened briefly, but he did not react.
“Garrett's got the right idea- who's to say you weren’t using magic trickery to win the game, eh? Seems like something your lot would do,” Jaten added smartly. “It seems only fair you give us back the money you stole.”
“In the interest of accuracy, I am a sorcerer. Wizards do not leave their little towers and their little books. Besides, if I had used any magic, why would I stop now?” The stranger pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just leave, or to make you forget you ever saw me?”
“Well- there are 4 of us! Maybe you couldn’t do us in all at once, eh?” Jaten shot back. There was a chorus of affirmation from the group. “Be honorable, man, just give us the money back.”
Joan rolled his sleeves down. “If I had wanted to,” he began quietly, gravel in his voice, “I could make you all give me your land, your wives, and your unborn sons and you wouldn’t even remember your names when I was done. I did not cheat,” he suddenly smiled. “You boys just suck at poker.”
“Now listen here, son,” Broder began. “You may be some wizard from up north-"
“East,” Joan interjected.
“You may be some fancy wizard from up north,” Broder continued, “but don’t think that means you can insult us small-town folk. We might not have your ‘education’ or what have you, but we know from poker.”
Joan sighed. “I am leaving town in two days. Leave me alone for those two days, and I will forget your names, faces, and the name of this backwater town you live in. I did not cheat you.” He looked each of them coldly in the eyes, and Broder saw that all the mirth and cheer that had been there earlier had been drained, replaced with nothingness. Not even hatred, or anger, but simply blank space. The stranger stood up with a groan, signaled for another round of drinks, and trudged to the back of the inn. None of the men followed.


I was lucky none of these farm hicks knew anything about casting, or else they’d have known I was bluffing. It didn’t seem like any of them could actually read my burns, because if they could’ve, they would’ve known I could only cast a couple Bindings, and that’s if I wasn’t hurting like hell.
What was most insulting, more than calling me a wizard, was that they thought I cheated to beat them at cards. I don’t need to cheat at cards. I had slipped a bit of coin out of their pockets as I brushed by, but that was hardly cheating. Just good, honest thievery. And to call me a wizard? I ought to burn down their houses anyway, just for that. I was cold just thinking about it.
Still, I had to accelerate my schedule and leave tonight. I hated to do it, but I needed to be three towns over by the time they decided to kick the shit out of me. Bastards.
Amidst my wrathful musings I became aware of a presence at the door.
It was that kid. What had he seen? I ran the scene over again and realized he had been watching the end from the table he had been cleaning. Sloppy. He'd tell everybody. I couldn’t kill a kid the way I would've those guys in front, and I didn’t want to besides. Kids have always had a hold on me, and it pissed me off. It wasn't like I could remember why. Besides, I didn’t exactly mind the town knowing; it just meant I’d have a tougher time sneaking out, and I was tired enough that it bugged me.
“Sor?” He nudged the door open, but not all the way, I noticed. “I saw your tattoo. What do they mean? My ma said not to ask, but those men seemed pretty upset out there. I asked them and they said you was a wizard, but I didn’t think they were real. Are you a wizard? Are those tattoos your clan or something?” He spoke fast, like he thought I would cut him off, or cut off his head. “What are you doing?”
I spoke carefully to mask my distaste for his questions. “I am not a wizard. Wizards hide in their towers and ask questions nobody is curious about.” I hoped the dismissal would be clear.
It was not.
“If you aren’t a wizard, what are you?”
“What I am right now, kid, is packing, and what I’m going to be in a minute is gone. Scram.” I looked around and realized that aside from the bags I could clip to my belt, I had nothing else with me. Damn.
“Well, whatever you are, sor, I know those marks mean you're bound to help people-" that wasn’t true “-and those men out there maybe won’t tell you, but I will! See, sor, we're in mighty need of a wizard these days, on account of a monster been stealing the livestock and trashing the lumber yards and-" he slowed his speech a bit, but before I could get a word in he continued- “and I think it took the Granlenses daughter, only cause they won’t tell anyone where she went but I haven’t seen her in town at all and she used to come help me with my chores some days and it’s been a long while, maybe a month or so. Anyway, nobody’ll believe me when I tell em, and I haven’t seen it exactly, but I’m sure there’s a monster!”
“Kid, you know not every stroke of bad luck is a monster, right?” People don’t believe in monsters or magic until it’s convenient for them, which means they know nothing about it, which means most of the time they’re just making up stories to get me killed or run off, or else they’re just plain dumb and attribute every case of rainy weather to a made up beast.
“I know that! I just know there’s a monster around here! Look, sor, I’ll help you find it even, and-"
“I charge for my services and I don’t take kids on field trips when I work. Are you going to pay me?” Most of the time, threat of payment was enough to deter all but the most determined, or most superstitious, folk.
“I bet if you kill it the whole town will pitch in! Please, sor, I just wanna help out, and it seems like you could fix us all up only nobody wants to ask.” He wasn’t lying, I could tell, but kids are always seeing things that aren’t there. On the other hand, sometimes kids are better at seeing what’s right in front of them.
And when it turned out to be nothing, it meant I had an excuse to stay an extra night without getting an attempted beating, probably.
“Alright, kid. Where was this monster last?” Hired by a kid who probably couldn’t even get on a horse on his own. If anyone caught wind of this, I’d never hear the end of it.

Hi, I'm trying to start making small latex things (fingerless gloves, gaters, skirts) and I think I have a good idea of what to do but I'm stuck on what type of ammonia based or water based glue I should use. mjtrends won't have theirs in stock for months and I would really like to start soon, I understand for solvent based glue best test is the glue to use and to use Bestine Thinner as the cleaner but what do I use for a water based/ammonia based glue?
Also is any roller acceptable to use as a seam roller? I would love to just grab everything I need at the blicks down the street from me.

I'm sorry for any formatting errors, I don't really use Reddit often to post, I mostly read stuff here, and also sorry for any grammar errors, English isn't my first language and I'm currently really stressed out by what happened yesterday. Also I'm not sure about what flare to use, so I'll just leave it without any flare.
so basically what happened is, I wanted to go yesterday to my friend's birthday party, and since we know each other very well, we're both queer and other friends are supportive or queer too, I figured I'd go in a feminine outfit (a black skirt, a black crop top with pink bows, tights, fishnets on my hands and arms, a choker and some fingerless gloves). now, thing is, I have a second friend group (which is also very queer-friendly, many people also are queer) in my current school and it isnt connected to the other group at all, since I'm studying in a secondary school in a big city, and the friend group which I was supposed to go to for that birthday, I met in the town where I live in primary school. Worth noting, I am boymoding in my school right now, but both my friend groups know that I'm trans. Also, here in Poland, the only means of communication with others is Messenger from Meta, I don't know why, I hate it, but I'm kinda forced to use it since everyone uses it, for now it doesnt really matter. In Poland its also common to have a class group chat, since it is useful, as we inform ourselves about homework, next tests etc., and in secondary, its even more common to have two class group chats, one without a "wychowawca" (I can best describe this role as a teacher who is organising trips, and is like a "guardian teacher" in school) and the other is with "wychowawca" just to have quicker and better communication with them, and thats also something you should keep in mind. Now, I was getting ready, everything was going smoothly etc., but then I remembered that my friend group from my school wanted to get a fit check from me just before I was to go to that birthday, so I just took the photo, chose the Share button in my library, pressed Messenger, wrote a text to be attached to the photo & SPECIFICALLY CHOSE MY FRIEND GROUP FROM SCHOOL TO SHARE IT TO, NOT THE CLASS GROUP CHAT. I am very sure of that, as the friend group chat has a way different name and profile picture than both the class group chats, and I was very conscious at the moment about what I was doing, also Messenger indicated that it sent the photo to my friend group. I was still preparing for the party after sending that photo, but something bothered me, and I decided to check if the photo actually got sent (as Messenger overall is a piece of shit and it sometimes cant send the image). Well, when I checked the app, instead of Messenger sending the photo to my friend group chat, IT GOT SENT TO MY CLASS GROUP CHAT WITH MY "WYCHOWAWCA". Immediately, I unsent it but a minute or two has passed between the time I sent the photo and the time I checked if it got sent, and so some people have already seen it. Thing is, I don't even know how many people have seen it before I unsent it, as everything just after I noticed it got sent to the wrong group chat has become a blur, I know that there were 6 dots indicating people, and I know one of them was grey and said either 1+ or 6+ which indicated that either one or six more people have read it, I'm not sure about that part at all since it's been a blur at this moment. I went to the birthday party and calmed down there as I got in the mood there but as soon as I left the party the fear and the stress all came back to me. My friend groups were both awesome and actually tried to help me but to no avail, as nothing honestly could be done, so they comforted me. I also confirmed that this glitch was happening on other people's iPhones (which I also use), so it isnt the only case of it happening. One of my classmates who is close to my friend group but not quite in the friend group has reached out to me and said that she could still see the caption of my photo, but not the photo. Turns out, Messenger also glitched on her iPhone, and showed her the caption of the photo, yet the photo was replaced with "Message unavailable" error saying that it can't be seen in this app. I and that classmate have started asking our other colleagues if my messages were deleted, she asked her friends, while I asked my friend group, all of them said that my messages were replaced with "deadname unsent message" (which is what should've popped up to my colleague, but it didn't). I'm really worried, I'm theoretically in one of the most queer friendly schools in my region and even in the whole Poland, but I'm still scared, as I just started studying in this school in September, and honestly I don't trust my classmates too much, since some of them were rude to me and my friends. Also, some of them were saying some lowkey transphobic stuff, and while I did want to come out to them this year, I didn't want it right now, as I'm still kinda scared about it and I have trust issues (since in preschool and half of my primary school, I was constantly laughed at and bullied). I already reached out to my school's psychologist, as I have already come out to her, but she still hasn't read my message, let alone replied to it (probably since I wrote it yesterday at about 9:45PM). I'm worried about everything right now, since I don't know how many people have seen the photo, did the glitch that happened to my colleague occur more than once (I'm hoping not, but I'm also worried that it did and the bastards didn't say anything just because), and the most important - who has seen this photo. I'm very worried that people will start gossiping about me, that I might get bullied, I'm really just scared of everything. I have to go to school this Tuesday (Monday is an off day in my school this week, as people are writing their baccalaureates), and I'm really really worried about everything. I was getting ready to come out, but I wasn't ready yet. I don't know what to do now, anything, even just comforting would be really really helpful. Also thank you for reading this.

I just finished watching ComplicatedKnots crochet a sewing pattern. And felt inspired to try it myself.
Since crochet 'fabric' is stretchy, I thought I could try a pattern meant for knits or 4-way stretch patterns.
My holdup, is that crochet takes quite a bit of time (especially since I am relatively new to it), and I don't want to buy a pattern that won't work.
Do you have any ideas for small free patterns to try out, meant for stretch fabrics? I found many that were free and small, but not for stretch fabrics. And many that were free and for stretch fabric, but definitely not small (circle skirts take a LOT of fabric).
Current Ideas: belts, Gloves/arm sleeves (whatever those are called), crop tops, and boleros
Any ideas are welcome, I'm excited to start experimenting and combining my two favorite crafts!

Hey everyone! Just in case you don’t remember or don’t know, let me give you a recap of the last entry. I was on the dark web watching gore vids as I do, saw that the cameraman was being a baby, complained, was forced to off an animal and now have to show the video of me doing that to a violent crazy. There was some stuff in between but that’s the gist. If you want the full context be my guest and click here.
I decided to stop being a pussy and go out into the living room. This guy had made the effort to gain my cousin’s trust enough to invite them over. Okay, maybe that wasn't the most impressive because he was a dumbass, but still. The point was that if they made the effort to do that, they probably wouldn't go serial killer mode on me while he was around. They could have shown up late at night like I expected, but they didn't, they wanted to blend in.
I walked in as they were starting a shitty action movie and sipping lean. Brick turned to me with surprise, drink.
“What you need?” he asked, already slouching.
“Nothing, I just wanted to hang out with you guys!” I tried to sound excited but it was hard to hide my pain.
An awkward silence filled the room as he contemplated if I was serious.
“Oh, alright, I don't know if you’ll like the movie we’re watching but you can join.”
I sat next to him for the first time in months and a few minutes into the movie with his commentary I started to miss when I was cleaning the cat’s corpse.
“Heh, this guy has zero brain cells! How does he not know that the dude with him is a spy?” he chuckled, and me and his friend looked straight at each other from across the couch.
His friend was quiet for the most part along with barely making a dent in their lean. Throwing out a few admittedly funny jokes and focusing on the film. It was a pretty normal night but I knew that wouldn't last long.
“That actress looks like a girl I dated back in New York. This Dominicana, we had a lot of good times, ended over petty shit though.” his friend pointed at the screen, chewing some cinnamon gummies. Shredding five of them in a matter of seconds with their sharp teeth.
“Woah dude, sorry, bet she was bad as…” Brick fell asleep mid-sentence.
I awkwardly eyed him to make sure that he was still alive.
His friend cranked up the volume on the TV and turned to me as the ads played.
“Not sure if you knew this but your brother can’t handle his purple.” they grinned, the screen reflecting in their brown eyes. The effects of lean had hit Brick like his namesake and he completely blacked out.
“Good thing his stubborn ass is set on proving he can.” they chuckled while getting up to close the blinds. They were exactly what I pictured when I heard their voice.
“Now show me the goods, kid, I want a peek before the rest of the crew sees it. I promise your bro won’t be getting up with how potent the shit is.”
I nodded as we went into my room and I pulled out my computer.
“Why didn't you spike his drink with something that would work faster?”I questioned while typing my password.
“If I did that then he’d get suspicious about why he passed out so suddenly. He’s not the brightest but he’s smart enough to know shit like that’s weird. It was best to let the syrup do the work for me.”
“Huh, surprised he has the cognitive skills for that.” I half-joked, putting on the video. The pressure was on, I was pretty sure I did a good job initially but watching it back I saw all the flaws. It was surreal seeing them nod their head and squint at sections like they were a teacher looking over a paper. Sure I reacted similarly but seeing it on another person’s face put it in perspective.
“So?”
They moved their tongue in their mouth and shook their head.
“Gonna be real, that was pretty basic.”
The color on my face flushed out as my semblance of a smile faded.
“I was gonna show it to my boys but I already know that they’ll turn this down.”
They got up, pulling two daggers out of their pockets.
“Wait are you serious man? Not even gonna give me a shot!” I put my hands up, subtly scooting further from them.
“Me giving you the chance to make this was you’re shot! So let’s get this over with, eye first.” they pointed with one of the blades, lunging at me. I rolled away and grabbed my bat from under my bed narrowly evading a stab.
“Oh come on!” I groaned with frustration, in truth, I was scared shitless but I would die before I let that show.
“Sorry, I refuse to waste anyone’s time, and don’t even THINK about running!” they screamed at me while putting one weapon in their mouth and pulling my hair. I swung my nail bat at their knee and they bit down, grabbing even more of my hair.
“You little shit!” they spat, slashing the arm I was holding my bat in. I bit my lip and breathed through my nose, still holding on. I smacked them in the legs twice, hoping the metal broke through their skin. They turned their head and spat one of the daggers out away from their face before falling to the floor. I kicked them in the side of the head and stood on their back. Raising it above them, it was going to hit when they slashed my heel.
I screamed, still bringing down the bat. They moved over and threw me off as I did, preventing it from slamming into their head. It was the most pain I’d felt and I held the urge to puke as I stood, swinging it into their stomach. They coughed and threw their sweaty beanie at my head. I gagged instantly as they ran at me like a bull, head-butting my torso. We fell to the floor as my bat rolled out of my hand. I panicked, trying to retrieve it, but they pulled me away from it with every attempt. Pulling themselves higher up on my body so my eyes met their neck and holding down both my arms. The handle of their blade, back in their mouth. With no other options, I kicked my legs beneath them. Kneeing them in the groin multiple times which they seemed to ignore.
“You asshole!” I growled, hating how small my voice was in comparison to theirs. I shouted but they placed a free hand over my mout and moved my dominant arm. I bit on their hand as they brought my thrashing limb closer to their face. I flailed it while doing everything I could to fight off their grip, but ultimately it didn't do shit. They stabbed right through my palm.
“FUCK!” I yelled, muffled by their skin.
My heart raced as the blood poured out and their face was inches from it, blade still in mouth. They removed the dagger from their mouth and pulled it from my hand with little regard.
“You know, I got some respect for the fight you put up,” they began with a tone that was strangely genuine. They remained on top of me but stopped holding down my now bleeding arm.
“Now, you are either gonna comply and let me kill you nicely, or I knock you out and take you somewhere where I can flay your skin.”
I nodded yes despite not wanting to.
“Good, now hold still-”
I tried to push myself up and they clicked their tongue, shoving me back down.
“I said hold still!” they reprimanded, bringing the knife closer to my face. I lashed more and they sunk part of their blade into my chest. At that point, I was seriously thinking I was going to die. In a final attempt, I strained against the pain and tried to grab my bat which they promptly threw from me. The fear of death overcame me as my heart raced faster than I knew it could. My eyes flickered and I thought back to how stupid I was for getting into this. I was sure I wasn't making it but the whole time I couldn't accept my death. I squirmed and screamed as the blade inched closer and they plunged their nails into the wound on my chest. Dodging each direct swing at my face until they used their bitten hand to clasp my face. Their grip on my jaw tightened, and they forced me to stare at them in their firey brown eyes. At that point, I was sure I was fucked. My movement settled as their blade made its way up to my eye. I was sure they’d stab me through one of my sockets, but they stopped. There was a long pause between us, only the sounds of the loud TV in the room audible.
They slowly looked at me up and down, gradually moving away. I was tempted to try to fight but I knew that was asking for death. They got off me, holding an arm out to help me up. The silence continued, but their irritated mumble made me hesitantly grab it.
“What are you-”
“Let me talk first,” they interrupted before I could ask.
“The video you made was pretty basic and it's clear you don’t have a lot of experience, but goddamn did you try.” they smiled, lifting me up. They walked back out to the living room. I limped behind them, suspicious of their positive attitude.
“Maybe you just caught me on a good day, but I think that someone like you shouldn't be taken this early.” they unzipped the bag they brought, taking out a medical kit.
“You remind me of myself when I was your age, a scrappy kid who’d seen way too much and got caught in shit as a result.” we walked into the bathroom, and they sat me on the closed toilet. Washing their hands before taking out some gauze. The whole situation was bizarre, seconds ago they tried to kill me, and now they were patching me up.
“Regardless, you shouldn't continue down this path. Take this as a warning, you will not be as lucky the next,” they cautioned applying rubbing alcohol. I winced as it dried up my injury.
“So, you're not killing me because I fought hard? I don’t get it, you kill people all the time, and some of them try to fight back.” I pointed out.
“That’s different, those victims are just that, victims, you are something more than that. To be honest, when I showed up didn't intend to kill you or propose a deal, I was hoping that being there at all would scare ya off, 'cause no kid should be watching murder.” They admitted, wrapping my hand.
“Unfortunately, you are even more stubborn, than your bro and I could tell that if I didn't do more you’d keep fucking around until you found out.”
It was believe what I was hearing.
“So this whole thing was your method to shooting me away?”
They nodded, grabbing a patch.
“Yeah, now do I have permission to pull up your shirt to patch the wound on your chest? Or do you think you can do it yourself and want me to turn around?”
I was surprised they were making an effort to accommodate me.
“Uh no it's fine, I don’t have anything there to hide. Even though I probably should.” I felt a bit embarrassed admitting that out loud.
“Hey don’t shit on yourself there is nothing wrong with how you look, besides I think you got more pressing problems than any body dysmorphia. Like, ya know, being a gore fiend.” their tone was light yet stern.
“Anyway, I hope this teaches you to stop getting involved. Something similar happened to me, and trust me the world doesn't need more people like myself.”
I was amazed at how they’d suddenly become so wise.
“Okay, I get the point of your painful PSA, but does that mean that you never intended to show the video?”
They pulled my shirt back down.
“I mean yeah,”
A smile slowly spread across my face and they furrowed their brow.
“Put that shit-eating grin away, I’m not taking you deeper down the rabbit hole.” They snarled, disinfecting my heel.
“Okay, well I guess I’ll just have to make another video and submit it elsewhere.”
They groaned, trashing the bloodied cotton ball.
“Have you learned nothing?” they grit their teeth, cutting more gauze.
“Look, I’ve been deep in for years. I know the danger, and I’m pretty shaken right now. But let’s be honest if you don't let me get involved under your supervision I’ll just go elsewhere”
I shrugged, I sounded dumb but I didn't care.
“Are you fucking kidding me! Kid, I could have killed you! That ass-whooping was me going easy on you!”
I sighed, trying to shift my bitch face to puppy eyes.
“I know the risks and as admittedly terrifying as it was, it was also exciting! Plus, if you help me train I could learn to better defend myself! Don’t you trust yourself over some random?”
Their face was cold but I could see the slightest sparks of warmth behind their eyes.
“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m agreeing to a dark web babysitting gig,” they muttered, wrapping my bandages.
“So, yes?!” I squealed with a bit too much excitement.
“Yes but if we’re doing this you gotta play by my rules. First, you work with my schedule. I drive you and control when you show up. If you can’t make it we got someone else who can do the job, but you can’t deal with this stuff without me.”
I found the first rule a little irritating but I knew I’d likely fuck up without them.
“Second, you can’t post any videos or photos of your work.”
I nodded, it was a given, though since they never said anything about writing about it… Well, here you are reading it you nosy freak.
“Lastly, under no circumstance are you to disobey me. We can disagree on things but if you go against me when I’m doing something for your good…”
They leaned in close and pulled my shirt.
“We will have an issue. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it, now back up your breath smells like artificial sugar and red dye 40.” I winced as they pulled away.
“Whatever you look like you shower annually.” They snarled.
“Okay, I agree to your terms.” I held out my fist and we fist-bumped to seal the deal.
“Ight, I'm gonna head out now, check your DMs on our website, it’ll give ya more details.”
I tried to get up but my leg still hurt and I struggled to stand. They clicked their tongue and held out their arms.
“Need help?”
“Yeah, thanks to you dickhead.”
They scoffed and picked me up, placing me in my bed.
“Good luck getting better, you’ll probably need it.”
They tucked the blanket over me and left.
The next day I limped out of bed, to find that as expected, my brother left before I woke up. Though, for once, he cleaned up the trash from the night before. It was a weekend so I just spent my time recovering from my injury. Luckily the aid kit in our bathroom still had all its supplies so I was able to change out my bandages regularly. I reflected a lot on life and started to appreciate that I was still standing, well more like leaning but you get it. Being that close to death, while exhilarating looking back, also instilled a new sense of fear in me.
I had been surrounded by death for so long that I forgot how scary the concept of never coming back was. I’d seen it happen to others on such a regular basis it lost its meaning, but almost experiencing it put things in perspective. Hell, I didn't even go on any gore real or fictional the whole weekend. It was bizarre, it’s probably hard for people to understand what it felt like so I’ll use an analogy everyone should get. Not watching any visible death media for two days was like going without underwear. Technically you don’t need it and sometimes you even forget why it being gone matters, but then you move around in your jeans too much and you miss it. Is that probably not a fair comparison? Yeah, but whatever I think most can agree going commando leaves you uncomfortable, especially when you dwell on it.
When Monday rolled around I didn't want to go to school, but my brother would get a call and throw a fit if I ditched so I went. Wearing fingerless red gloves to hide the stab through my palm. Managing to remember to pack the sweater that Abdul let me borrow right before I left. I sat in my usual spot and left out one of my tees for him to sit on so he wouldn't have to make contact with whatever ungodly germs were there.
“Wait, are you being,” he paused as he took a seat on the spot I’d laid out for him.
“Considerate?” he feigned shock, setting down his backpack.
“Please, I’m just being decent enough to not give you a seat that’ll give you five diseases.”
He shrugged, running his hand through his loose curly hair.
“Still pretty sweet by your standards.”
I rolled my eyes, quickly shoving his sweater back into his arms.
“You can have your ugly not-Christmas sweater back.”
He chuckled, holding it out in front of him for a moment.
“Thanks, and while I don’t think it's ugly, I’ll let you hold onto it.”
He handed it back to me with a smile so warm I thought I’d pass out.
“Why? I can afford stuff.”
“It’s not about that, I just feel like letting you have it, the colors fit with the other stuff you wear. Plus, I know you DIY your clothes a lot and I think you could make it look cooler than I could.”
I looked at it, and then back at him. He was so damn sweet it made me internally panic. How could someone this nice be talking to me? I couldn't help but think back to how I got my ass kicked Friday but was now with the human version of honey.
“Hello?” he waved his hand in front of me, snapping me out of my frozen state.
“I am so lucky to be alive with you.” I blurted out with way less hesitation than I should have.
His expression shifted to one of confusion and concern. My eyes widened as I began to fold and put the sweater away.
“Wow, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable I just-”
“I’m lucky to be alive with you too.” he cut me off, stopping me dead in my tracks. We sat in silence for a second, both waiting for the other to say something.
“Listen, I know I’m the first person who’s given you a chance in a while. You’ve been an outcast at this school for as long as you’ve been here and even if you kinda do it on purpose it’s not fair to you.” he opened up, once again reading me as easily as a picture book.
“I know you're going through a lot you can’t explain and I’m not going to force that out of you.” he continued, leaning in a bit closer.
“But Utsidihi, I meant it when I said I want you as a friend, and if you haven't heard it today, your life matters. Anyone who gave you a fair chance would be happy you’re here.”
I went stiff, I had not expected to hear those words. Ever.
“Okay, seriously why are you being so damn nice.” I laughed cause I was scared that if I didn't I’d cry like a little bitch.
“You seemed pretty upset last time I saw you, and it didn't take me long today to see that you probably needed to hear that. I just care about you alright? It’s not deep.” He calmly explained, I held back some tears and zipped up my bag.
“Well, you were right.” I smiled, taking in the moment. It’s mushy and pathetic, I know, but I hadn't had someone tell me something like that in years. I know I sound like a fucking loser but hey it's the truth.
“Seriously though, thank you, Abdul. That means a lot to me.”
He nodded, and we moved on to something else after giving ourselves a moment to process. I felt my body relax the further we got into our conversation. Since the start of my physical recovery, I’d been on edge. Being with him calmed me down from my shoulders slumping to my overall state of mind. The rest of the day was pretty normal, apart from my Algebra teacher yelling at me for falling asleep in class. Hell, I didn't even watch any gore when I got home! I mean, the urge was there but suppressing it was easier than I first expected. I even went to bed at 10:30 which I rarely do. I started to wonder if this was what being a “normal” teenager was like. All the basic stuff in my life without the leering images of murder in my head and on my screen. It almost felt nice being average. Almost being the keyword.
The next day wasn't noteworthy, but the night was. I had a nightmare I hadn’t gotten in a while. I was seven years old again, my dad was driving me back from school, and my mom sat next to me in the back seat. They said they were proud of me for how good I’d been. I was back in my seven-year-old mindset so I didn't think that someone being proud of me was strange. I hugged my mom, closing my eyes. She wrapped her arms around me tightly.
“You’ll never leave me, right mama?” I asked her.
“Of course not, you are my baby.” her voice turned distressed, and I felt her shiver. I pulled away, opening my eyes despite knowing what was coming. She was there against the wall, stomach slashed open and braids cut off. I started screaming, running in search of my dad, and I found him in the same state.
“No!” I woke up sobbing, globs of tears running down my face. I felt like shit, shaking under my blanket. I held onto a stuffed toy I had, wishing there was someone there to hold it. The scariest part of the dream was that it wasn't just a dream, it was a memory. My parents did get slashed open in front of me when I was seven, and before it happened, I had to see them cut both their hair. I started running my fingers through the long side of my hair, it was meant to settle me but I just felt even shitter. They were the one death that truly meant something to me, not just because they were my first, but because they’re the only people I’ve truly loved.
My heart started racing, I just wanted the pain to go away. I wanted someone to tell me that as horrible as what I saw was, that it wasn't that bad. I mean people die all the time, sometimes they don’t deserve it, but sometimes they don’t. It would be great if there were just situations where it didn't matter. Where it was like a death scene in a movie, it means something but you can make it mean nothing to you. As I wished for that case where you could mindlessly witness death, I remember that it existed. Even brutal murders could mean nothing if you let them. Maybe they were still tragedies to some, but they wouldn't lead to sleepless nights.
“They do exist,” I muttered to myself under my breath, before turning on my laptop. It took me a second to mentally adjust to seeing gore again, for a few minutes it made me feel like a bigger piece of shit, but I soon remembered why it helped me. I know trivializing it is wrong, but if I didn't then how else was I supposed to live? I mean everyone does it, each second you live happily someone is suffering from a fate worse than death, but as a society, we accept that and focus on our lives. Why? Because if we did we’d never find joy in anything! After going through my favorite videos I started to feel better. My spirits lifted and my appreciation for guts and blood renewed, I decided to go back to the site that led me to the craziness of the last week. I noticed a notification in my chat box on the gore site my cousin’s friend found me on.
“Hey sorry it took a minute, we had to move locations. I’m giving you one more chance to back out of this cause I guarantee it’s gonna fuck you up more. I’d much rather you get some goddamn therapy than hang with me or any of the even weirder people here.”
I contemplated how to respond. The message was fresh which meant they’d likely respond soon. I thought about how pleasant it was to live kinda normally, hanging with Abdul and mainly worrying about grades. But then, I thought about how much I’d have to start unpacking if I wanted to go down the path of normalcy, and how it would be impossible without snitching on myself. I guess it's wrong to call myself damaged goods but if that was an accurate description for anyone it was me. Besides, this was an opportunity to live a life that so few did successfully! Being under the wing of someone who knew the ropes of this stuff! It would probably get me killed but it would at least be a more interesting ride than a long slow life of sinking into depression. Risk and excitement? Or regret and monotony? Yeah, I knew what to pick.
“I’m still interested, got a schedule?” I waited in bated breath for a few minutes, worrying I’d missed my shot, but they hit me back.
“Yeah, next Friday, I’m picking you up after you get home. Get some good rest till then, you’ll need it.”
My face lit up, was it scary? Hell yes! Was I excited FUCK YEAH! No matter what happened next, I knew it would make it worth the risk for the thrill alone.

(This is Attempt #2, I am going to be counting each try for the hell of it!)
His name is Ester, a member of the Ars Goetia! He's a crow with dark grey fur (So that features like his beak, facial scar, thorn pattern, and eye outline stand out), he stands at about 1.85 (or 6'7") and has a fairly average body type.
His arms, legs, and facial structure are similar to Stolas's (Refer to Imgur link below), although Ester has a vertical third eye on his forehead that has a grey thorn pattern around it. Ester's eye colours are also more of a sangria shade.
Ester's black beak has a pale-grey "scar-like" streak across it.
He has a mid-length tail with a small spread of rhombus like pattern of mauve colour, strictly near the end of the feathers on the tail.
As for clothing, I will provide an imgur link that shows the clothing he will wear. The only desired changes is that he will not wear the fingerless gloves displayed in the jacket image, and the jeans will end at the knees. Also no shoes. As for the undershirt, the image of the rat does not need to be drawn but we would like the text to still be added. The link will also contain a facial reference for Stolas just for details like his eyes (Minus the second upper pair), his mouth and whatnot.
https://imgur.com/a/oFEGcuC
I truly hope this isn't too much of a big ask as I have no other available means to get an image ref for Ester, anyone who's willing to put in the effort will have my sincerest gratitude.

Cookie Cutter Lover Loafers
Woodland Faun Hooves
Midnight's Strike Heels
Carol of the Elves
Snuggly Reindeer Slippers
Starlight Rainbow Skirt
Starfrost Skirt
December's Dream Dancer Skirt
Mon cheri Tea Party skirt
Pleated Skirt
Miniskirt
Cherry blossom Kimono Skirt
Real life Mermaid
Starlight Cardigan
Starlight Hair bow
Starlight Puppy Poodle Purse
Starlight Beret (Hat)
Starlight necklace
Starlight Arm-Warmers
Summer Fantasy Beach Boardwalk Bodice
Totally-Not-Nerd Glasses
Winter Guardian-Thermal Bodice
Starfrost bonnet
December's dream fur muff
December's dream cossack hat
December's dream sleeves & gloves
Snow swan necklace & earrings
Snow swan hat
Moncheri clutch
Shadow empress fallen angel sleeves
Huggly snuggly knitted beanie hat
Polar-cutie bear hat
Gothiccutie earrings
Peppermint princess sleeves
Dear dollie headbow
Midnight's Strike Popstar armlets
Steampunk Aerotechnic Wings
Cherry blossom kimono sleeves
Starfrost cozy bodice
Dear dollie gloves
Wings:
Love Dragon
Pearls of the moon
The dragon's fire opal
Infernal Bat [2x]
Glitzy n' Icey
Keeper of the light[2x]
Mini social love butterfly
Winter butterfly
Kawaii spookeye
Mini lacey apron wings
Delicate blue rose [2x]