Synopsis: A Magus journey to save his world from mana contamination and make sure it don't fall back into the same path as he finds himself in an era before magic was developed.
Kai of the Sorcerer's Tower is one of the last mages left, barely surviving in a world ruled by creatures of the dark — where the era of mages ended, and most of the lands got contaminated with dead mana.
To save his world and fulfil his master's last wish, he put himself through a forbidden ritual, risking his soul being ripped into pieces to make his way into the past. In an era with abundant mana — an era yet to enter the Golden Era of Magic.
Things go wrong, of course, as they always do, and he finds himself thousands of years before the world fell to mana contamination — in the body of a young lord, Arzan.
All is not well, though, as the young lord was murdered by someone right at the cusp of a beast wave threatening the territory, while larger threats loom on the horizon.
There was a lot to do for Kai to regain his former strength in this time of primitive technology, but then again, he might just be able to change that.
Hello everyone, this is my first time posting on reddit. Hope you would like it!
Chapter 1
Sweat stung Kai’s eyes as he plunged his knife into the floor. He carved runes and Freyac syllables around him, wood splintering as his knife traced the erratic patterns.
He had, maybe, five minutes.
The cold floor of the Sorcerer’s Tower thrummed through him as the ritual circle released magical energy. The symbols were crude and unrecognisable, making him wonder if they were even going to work, but there was no choice.
While this was the most complicated ritual he'd ever done, he needed to make it work, to escape this place and to change things for the better.
He jumped in his seat as throaty and menacing shouts from outside echoed through the corridors.
They had found him.
His head snapped in fear, taking note of the shaky walls of the library. The wide room, once neatly organised, was now cluttered and disorganised with books scattered everywhere on the floor. Dust and cobwebs only added to the mess.
His breath came out in ragged puffs and he looked down at his scarred hands.
He drew the symbols faster. He needed to finish—now! But panic clawed at his chest, making him clumsy.
Footsteps echoed through the halls of the Sorcerer's Tower and he flinched.
The mana fiends were just outside.
The creaky, wooden door burst open behind him with a loud thud. Kai was fast on his feet, turning around to face the shadowy figure.
With the face of a bull and bulging muscles, the minotaur-like creature stood at seven feet, crowned by a pair of misshapen curved horns. Black lines ran through its arms and neck, and endless rows of fangs and protrusions stuck out from its back.
Its sharp claws seemed like they'd cut up the floor faster than Kai could with his knife.
It was covered in grey fur, interspersed with patches of dead skin from overexposure to the decayed mana.
Kai's heart thumped in his ears as he weaved his hand to the left, casting a [Gust] spell while visualising a strong force of wind knocking the corrupted monster down.
It hit its chest, making it screech and stumble back a few steps.
Kai tightened his fingers around the hilt of the knife.
The mana fiend got its feet under it again and lunged forward.
He felt his breath leaving his lungs at the sight. Before it could reach him, he rolled on the floor, dodging the charge while hacking its leg with the knife.
The fiend snarled threateningly as it slashed its claws at him in a swift motion. Kai prepared another spell and slid back, but he was too slow.
The spell structure broke apart and his vision wavered as he was thrown into a bookshelf, his knife skidding away.
Terrible pain hit him as he screamed in pain and touched his face.
Blood dripped on the floor as he stared at his palm. His left eye was bleeding. Was it even there?
“It gouged out… my eye,” he muttered, trying to fight through the pain.
He had severely underestimated the power of the mana fiend. Or maybe it was due to him being in this near-crippled state that his spells weren't as powerful.
Either way, I need to get up.
Kai shook his head and tried to stand.
Even if he couldn't see, he needed to go through the ritual. That was the only way to survive, but he had to fight off the mana fiend first.
The creature’s dark magic covered its claws, sending out blasts of corrupted energy that rippled and cut through the bookshelves as it got closer to him.
Kai grasped his left eye with one hand and, using his other hand, he cast [Mana Discharge], sending a blast of mana at the creature. It tried to block but was knocked back into a bookshelf, falling and crying out in pain.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have used such a spell with high mana requirements, but he had no time.
He cast the spell [Blinding], making the monster see white.
Making his way through the fallen bookshelves, he searched for his knife and found it right next to a puddle of blood.
He picked it up and looked towards the mana fiend.
As soon as the Blinding spell died down, it picked itself up, flailing its arm around and lunging at Kai, who was anticipating such a move.
Before it could get close to him, Kai yelled, “Astrum Vosem!”
The knife glistened with mana, fire crackling within the blade as he surged forward, aiming at the monster’s neck. The mana fiend slashed at him again, but he ducked, barely avoiding the hit.
Casting another [Blinding] spell, he sent the monster stumbling back before plunging the blade into its neck. Flames crackled as he twisted the blade, aiming for the black lines.
The mana fiend fell to the ground immediately, black liquid spewing everywhere.
It cried out in pain, trying to grab Kai, but he didn't give it the chance and kept digging deep into its neck until it stopped whimpering.
Blood oozed from Kai’s eye and he suddenly noticed a deep cut on his arm. Pain numbed all his senses, but there was no time to focus on it.
“The ritual,” Kai coughed blood, realising that crashing into the bookshelf had given him internal injuries. He dragged himself on the floor until he was ahead of his preparation and felt like cursing.
A part of the ritual circle was smeared due to the blood splatter from the fight.
It was ruined.
Quickly deciding on his new move, he started scribbling frantically, drawing up a new ritual circle.
His fingers were cramping and slippery as he tried his best to draw the symbols in his mind. With one eye gone, it was much harder, and every mistake made him swear softly.
He heard more floor-shattering movements through the door. There was more than one mana fiend and the fight had attracted them to his hideout.
He needed to hurry. He only had a minute until they got here if he was lucky.
“Shit!”
He made a mistake and felt like banging his head against the floor. While keeping his remaining eye on the open door, he alternated between the ritual circle that was smeared with blood and one that was barely half complete.
He would never finish it in time.
Having no choice, Kai abandoned it and decided to take a gamble with a ruined ritual circle. A few of the lines were messed up, but he ignored it and focused on completing it.
Just one more line!
He frantically carved out the patterns, joining them with each other and let out a sigh of relief as he saw a completed ritual of intersecting circles. A part of it was barely recognizable due to the blood.
A [Cleansing] spell might have helped, but he was out of mana. The fight with the fiend had drained his reserves.
He heard a shrill voice and, as expected, soon several more creatures came inside, filling the room. They were all beasts filled with corrupted mana, but it didn't matter now.
He gave them a look and dropped the blood on his hands on the ritual circle.
In his heart, he only wished that the ritual circle would work as expected. That it would send him back to an era where he might still have a chance to stop the apocalypse from happening.
The symbols ignited, and an intense flash of white light enveloped the room. Threads of mana passed through his soul, drawing power to keep the ritual running as his body slumped on the floor. The fleeting moment came to an end when the world surrounding Kai went completely white.
The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness were the yells of the ugly monsters.
Kai flinched as a sharp pain assaulted his chest. His whole body was numb as he panted on the floor.
It felt like he had just stepped out of a prolonged period of floating in the cosmos. He didn't know how long it had been, but it definitely felt like years. Probably centuries.
A few seconds went by as he calmed down before the numbness disappeared and his eyes adjusted. Wait! His eyes!
He touched his left eye and found it intact.
It's healed completely!!
He didn't know how he had gotten his left eye back. The ritual wasn't supposed to heal him at all. It was only supposed to take him back in time.
Where am I? Am I really alive?
He was surprised that the ritual had worked, though he didn't know to what degree. With how crude it had been, there was a greater chance of it failing.
If death wasn't in front of him, Kai would have never gone for it.
At least it hadn't shredded his soul into pieces to be eaten by whatever lay beyond the afterlife, so that was a positive.
He looked around.
Kai was lying on a hardwood floor as he stared at the ceiling. Different carvings on the ceiling made him frown. He didn't recognise any of them.
He was supposed to have woken up in a cave or a forest, not in a room.
Something bubbled up in his heart and he felt unusual. His eyes immediately went to his hands and he quickly realised that the scars were gone. He gasped in horror and sat up straight.
The sudden movement caused a rush of blood to his head that made him dizzy.
“What in the Mersal's name is happening?”
He looked down on his physique.
His eyes grew wide as he noticed the tunic he was wearing was covered in blood. He opened the tunic button by button to reveal…
“Is that… a knife wound?” Kai said aloud in shock.
As he said the words, the wound slowly closed as if someone had used a healing spell on him. But that was impossible.
Something had gone terribly wrong with the ritual and one more look at himself was enough for him to realise that this wasn't his body. He had taken someone else's identity.
That realisation struck him like a mana bolt in the head as he gasped.
He breathed to calm himself down and noticed something he had been missing.
“There's mana in the air! Pure uncontaminated mana!”
All his thoughts and questions halted when a rush of fresh air hit his nostrils. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of being alive once and for all. His instincts made him get to his feet.
The air had a quality about it that brought tears to his eyes— Mana. Goosebumps covered his entire body.
He breathed in once again.
The mana in the air was so powerful it crackled with every breath Kai took. The sheer amount of mana left him wordless. This surpassed anything he had ever felt before.
Kai raised his hands, feeling all the energy that filled the air. It filled the entire room, and in his 40 years of life, he had never felt so much.
His ritual had worked, albeit differently than what he had hoped.
What is this place? Kai looked around from where he stood.
The room was bathed in an eerie light that emanated from what looked like another ritual circle beneath him.
His eyes widened at another peculiar thing as he took in the situation that he was in the middle of.
Arcane symbols were drawn all around him. The symbols were alien to him; not being one of the languages he knew and had learned. Some of them seemed similar to Hales Tongue, but he couldn't be sure since blood had spilt over them.
It was a completely different ritual circle than the kinds he knew of.
Questions became hurricanes in his mind after seeing the symbols. He tried to focus and understand his situation better.
Although the ritual had worked, he knew there would be complications since a part of it was ruined. Half-completed ritual circles were always volatile. As a result of it, he had even changed bodies.
If his assumption was correct, the ritual had only sent his soul back in time which had found a compatible body for him to control. It didn't make a lot of sense to him, but then again, the soul was a part of magical theory that had barely progressed in years.
It was too mysterious.
He decided to gather information and took a look around the room.
There was a four-poster bed draped with heavy velvet right behind him. The bed was extremely lavish apart from the poor draping skills. The rest of the bedside decorations were canopy hangings and ornate wood furniture, including storage chests and cabinets for personal belongings.
Whoever used to own this body was rich. Maybe a lord or a wealthy merchant, Kai contemplated, looking over the room.
He walked towards the bed and touched it. It had gone stone cold. Nobody had used the bed for hours.
The fireplace caught his attention. It was the main focus of the room, with the hearth having heraldic symbols carved above it. This time, he recognised the language as Manakrit.
His fingertips followed them as he contemplated the meaning of it. It was a common tongue that had spanned centuries, so it was hard to say which era he was in. His ritual was supposed to bring him to the past, but he hadn't gotten time to specify a date.
His wish was simply to go back as far as possible. However, he assumed 500 years was the limit for the ritual, so he must be around that period.
In the first place, it had been a suicidal attempt with an unknown chance of success. Yet things had somehow worked out.
Looking around, he saw a picture frame stuck on the wall from the corner of his eye.
Kai turned and walked towards the picture. It was an old man. His bald head and his stern gaze were pointed to his left, as he sat in a seat comfortably.
It's weird that the picture is just sitting there in the corner. Either some important individual or the owner of this place.
With the ritual, everything seemed odd.
The former body owner had wounds that were fresh in two or three places, including his hands and feet. The clothes were covered with slightly dried-up blood.
“What was the guy even doing? He wasn't trying a similar ritual to go back in time, right?”
His voice was strange. Hoarse, and deeper than he remembered.
Closing his eyes, he remembered his last few minutes in the tower. It was infested with bloodthirsty creatures. Every moment was tense, but in this room, there was a weird sense of serenity that he hadn't felt in a long time.
He was alive, at least.
He sighed in content and opened his eyes. breathing mana with a wide smile.
The mana in the air tempted him to extend his hand. He needed more light to see around the symbols.
His index finger swirled a little into a circle while he envisioned lighting up the central fireplace. Normally, this spell would’ve ignited a small fireball, but nothing came.
Strange.
Immediately, Kai took a few steps forward. He inhaled the air, feeling the energy in his bones, and tried the spell again, his hand moving attempting a simple spell even a 1st circle mage could’ve done in a blink.
He even muttered an incantation for added effect, normally reserved for harder spells.
“Astrum Octavia.”
Once again, he successfully failed.
He’d normally cast something so simple with just intent, but it wasn't working.
Something clouded his mind. He looked down on his new body and concentrated internally. He could sense mana and could feel his Mana Veins, even his Mana Heart seemed intact, but focusing on it, he realised that the body he was in was a Non-Mage.
He hadn't even started his magical journey and couldn't cast a single spell.
All the mana organs were intact, but he hadn't awakened as a mage. The realisation of it made him wince. Not only had he lost his body, he had also lost his strength. He used to be a 5th Circle Magus. Now, he was a mere mortal. Ordinary.
If he had really awakened in a cave or a forest, he might have been killed by wild beasts.
“This… can’t be true.” Kai's refusal to believe the reality of his situation overwhelmed his thoughts for a few more seconds as he closed his eyes to feel his insides. Seconds stretched to minutes as he contemplated his new reality.
He slowly took in the fact that he was no longer Kai. He was in someone else's body and had taken over him. He didn't know who that person was, but he had been killed by whatever ritual he had been attempting.
A few possibilities flashed by his mind. Maybe his soul had been dragged here by the ritual this man was attempting? Or his ritual of regression had simply only been for his soul rather than his body.
As soon as his soul had found a suitable vessel, it had taken over him.
Though, these were simply possibilities he wasn't sure of.
He decided to investigate.
“What’s that?”
His eyes followed the trail of the bloody ritual on the floor to find a piece of parchment.
Kai bent down to swiftly pick it up. The torn page lay between his fingertips, the words written on it were with blood.
Whoever had written it had poor penmanship, to say the least. He slowly read out the words.
“I will die and be reborn. Everyone will fear my might and the dawn of blood will arrive again.”
He dropped the parchment on the floor, wondering if he had come back in the past and inside the body of a cultist. But even if it was a cultist, the surroundings including the room didn’t sum up, and if he was somehow in the body of a noble who was a ritualistic devotee, things would only get worse from here.
“I don't want to deal with a cult. At least not when I'm basically powerless,” he muttered, frowning as his voice turned bitter.
Kai let the weight of the situation settle in, but the door sprung open.
He immediately looked to the side and saw a woman with widened eyes. Her eyes were on the floor seeing the symbols, syllables, lines, and curves; all of it. Then they fell on the owner of the room, bloodied and in the middle of this encounter, with his hands at his side.
That was him and he noticed the woman looked like a maid.
“I-” The maid opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Kai stared at her, again feeling like he was simply going from one problem to another.
Ah shit! How do I get out of this one?
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I am a 32-year-old gay, chubby, feminine male. I've recently had family trouble: my father has gone missing on the Navajo reservation, which has taken a toll on my family. I was never close with my father due to being the oldest and seeing his alcoholic abuse cause domestic violence against my mother. My brother, the second child, who should have been named Junior but wasn't, worshiped our father and started taking up his career. Now that our father is missing, this sibling has taken up the alcoholic title. Though he may not be abusive, my mother and I think he might turn out to be soon. The baby of the family has had a love-hate relationship with our father. He also loves to blame everyone for his personal issues and bad choices. He has mother issues and is now copying our second brother by drinking every day. Both of them drinking has led to poor financial decisions, putting my mother and me in debt as we try to fix our finances and provide food and keep the house up to date. We rent the house we live in, so if we decide to move, the owner will likely charge us for the accumulated minor damages. I think I am the only one worried about this situation. Our mother is devastated by our father's disappearance. In my mind, they were soulmates and high school sweethearts. She was the cheerleader, and he was the sports jock. They loved each other, but my father's alcoholism was a huge problem, so she raised all three of us mostly on her own. There is evidence suggesting foul play in our father's disappearance, adding another layer of complexity to our family troubles. A bit about me: I struggled with coming out of the closet until I had my first boyfriend in 2011. My mother was very homophobic due to her religious upbringing but eventually learned to accept me. That first relationship only lasted a few months because his mother made a comment about my transportation to his home. At the time, I had no car, so I took the bus. When she asked how I got there, his response was "the bus," to which she said, "The bus? Isn't that for peasants?" This made me uncomfortable and led to our breakup. He was my first and only boyfriend, and I've never dated after him. At a young age, I was molested by a male cousin, which I believe influenced my sexuality and femininity. I have forgiven him and learned to move on with my life without blaming him. I've always wanted a job in Hollywood but have come to realize that's not going to happen. However, I landed the second best thing: working and traveling with Broadway shows. I took my first tour for ten months, back in 2022, came home, and took a season off. On this tour, I grew from my experiences and became an independent adult. I feel like I became the best version of myself. On tour, I had no one but myself, and I became independent. Now that I'm back home, I feel like I have to take care of everyone and make decisions for the long run. I'm not going to lie, I was sleeping with guys left and right and living life. When I came home, I reconnected with two guys: one a young African American guy and the other a Hispanic guy. The African American guy was younger than me, well-endowed, about my height, and very slender. We had known each other for the years I was on tour. He was living alone and had his own place. We were hooking up, and that's it. We connected less during my tour. I then reconnected with the Hispanic guy. He is about my age, shorter than me, and very masculine. He's a gentleman. When we first met, he came to my place. I thought that I had cleaned myself well, but when I pulled out my buttplug, I realized I hadn't. I excused myself and re-douched. He was very understanding and sweet about the whole situation, and I fell in love with his charm. When he left that night, I hoped I didn't scare him off, but he messaged me a few weeks later, this time inviting me to his place. He turned on his fireplace and laid blankets on the floor for us, being tender and romantic. After this encounter, I overthought the situation, building an idealized image of him, which made me sick with worry. He says he owns a company, which is why he doesn't reply quickly, but my social media feeds suggest otherwise. He never checks on me, but the African American guy did from time to time. A few weeks after visiting the Hispanic guy, I messaged the African American guy to see if he wanted to meet up. He told me he had become homeless and was looking for a bed at a homeless shelter. He asked if he could stay with me until he found a bed. Despite being undecided, I agreed. The worst part was that he showed me what a relationship with him could be like: affection, endless cuddles, and companionship. It was everything I wished for in a relationship, but I had to remind myself that I was only helping him temporarily. In this short time, he showed me love and what life could be like with a boyfriend. However, we eventually argued over something small, and he left, leaving me heartbroken. Songs from Ariana Grande's album became my anthems: "We Can't Be Friends," "I Wish I Hated You," and "Imperfect for You." I miss him, but he's too young to forgive me. I still see the Hispanic guy, but I fear I'm building him up to be something he's not. He still takes a while to reply to my messages, and I make excuses for his absence. I hope we'll become something, but I think that's unlikely, which also breaks my heart. A week ago, my siblings and mother and I had a huge argument, all of us under the influence. It started with me telling my mother that I wanted to move out. She, being overbearing, shut down and pushed me away from the idea, using my drunk siblings to turn against me. This brought out the worst in everyone, with all the built-up envy and jealousy coming out. Now, I'm indecisive about my future. Should I take a traveling job and leave my mother alone with my siblings, knowing they're not in the right state of mind? Is the person I'm seeing worth my emotional investment?

Oh how it tore me up inside, to see the last trace of hope in me had left your eyes. The winters cold and howling tides, Were not as painful as your last goodbye. To see you so, before you go, Never to love, This I know. A lover scorned, A heart is torn, This I know to be. Your once loving eyes Oh how they cried, An endless stream of blue. Such a sight Was a saddening fright, Their brown always looked best on you. For never tried, Our love has died, Never to be had. So now I sit, Trying to quit This perpetual sad. Maybe hope will bloom, In this empty room As flowers soon will spring. Alone in my dresser drawer, As the fireplace flickering roars, A dusted wedding ring.

Oh how it tore me up inside, to see the last trace of hope in me had left your eyes. The winters cold and howling tides, Were not as painful as your last goodbye. To see you so, before you go, Never to love, This I know. A lover scorned, A heart is torn, This I know to be. Your once loving eyes Oh how they cried, An endless stream of blue. Such a sight Was a saddening fright, Their brown always looked best on you. For never tried, Our love has died, Never to be had. So now I sit, Trying to quit This perpetual sad. Maybe hope will bloom, In this empty room As flowers soon will spring. Alone in my dresser drawer, As the fireplace flickering roars, A dusted wedding ring.

Hi everyone! I'm currently looking for any feedback on the first chapter of my short novel, which has just reached the second draft stage. It's about the main character being forced into eliminating the heads of an island conquered by vampires. The title is referencing a blood moon which remains present only on the island, always draping it in darkness and making it perfect for its inhabitants. I see it as a gothic Suicide Squad with less characters.
Thanks!
The chateau remarked itself as the jewel of the street.
The building rose above its accompanying homes, two stories larger than its nearest neighbours. A grand display of the original owner’s wealth, it now belonged to the vampires, like the rest of Prache. Looking down the street, Hitchforth recognised it from afar, his target for tonight’s mission. He watched stylish vampires enter through the front gate, greeted by ushers at the entrance, checking their invitations. Checking the inner pocket of his greatcoat, he searched for the invitation given to him, satisfied it was there. Hitchforth looked to his left and saw the rookie’s for tonight’s mission checking for his invitation. The rookie searched throughout his body, appearing to have lost the card, but found it before Hitchforth could scold him, offering it to his Educator.
The rookies they gave him rarely survived his missions. Sometimes he thought they were sent as a punishment, a test to see if they could survive. In his old age he had seen countless rookies, forgetting countless names and faces. This one beside him seemed nervous, adjusting his collar, wiping the sweat from his brow, avoiding eye contact with Hitchforth. This one might as well have been sentenced to an execution. What was his name? Anton? Arthur? It wouldn’t matter in the end, but the rookie’s nervousness could jeopardise the mission entirely.
“Tell me,” he said, seriousness in his tone. “Are you afraid of me or the vampires?”
The rookie fidgeted with his fingers before responding, wiping his brow from the new sweat that dripped. “B-b-both, sir.”
“Breathe. Fill your lungs and empty them. Like this.” Hitchforth demonstrated for the rookie, taking extra care to show the slow speed of the action.
The rookie did as instructed, inhaling and exhaling deeply.
“It helps?” Hitchforth asked.
“Yes sir,” the words spoken with more clarity and calmness.
“Good, let’s go into the lion’s den then.”

They approached the front entrance, lining up to be ushered in. Carmilla’s festivity had attracted the richest of Prache’s vampires, adorned in foreign jewels and extravagant clothing. The rookie almost slipped on an exceptionally long dress, caught by the cuff by Hitchforth. Looking behind him, he saw the fury in their red eyes, that Humanity’s Hope had been invited. Reaching the usher, Hitchforth handed his and the rookie’s invitations, inspecting the vampire’s face. The slightest twinge of shock showed on his face, but was quickly concealed with a stern, professional demeanour. He waved them both in, shooting a questioning glance as they passed by.
The building appeared larger inside than it was outside, if possible. The minimal red torches fitted on sconces and the amount of vampires fitted into the building helped accentuate its size. A sea of suits and dresses spread throughout its floor, different colours and materials shining in the ambient light. Imported marble made up the floor, dark and white tiles patterned intricately. Large windows draped by exotic curtains furnished the walls throughout the building, paintings spread in between the spaces. Hitchforth could just make out the paintings as portraits, the closest to him being a group of five vampires.
What surprised Hitchforth the most was the sounds that filled his ears. Music played by a orchestra filled the building with the sounds of strings, woodwinds, percussion and brass sections. Pushing past the crowd that had congregated near the front entrance, Hitchforth saw dancing. Vampires dancing in line with their partners to the music, alternating between partners, spinning with arms outstretched.
Behind the dance floor a grand staircase rose from the floor, providing access to the two other stories of the building. It was there that Hitchforth saw the target for tonight’s mission come down the stairs, stopping high enough to be seen, but low enough to be heard. Immediately the orchestra ceased its playing, the dancers also ceasing their dancing. The congregation around the entrance strode to the dance floor, taking Hitchforth and the rookie with them, waiting for her words.
She was tall and deathly beautiful, more civilised and confident than the others. She wore a dark crimson dress, accenting her red eyes and slender face. Her moonlight coloured hair draped straight down past her shoulders, shining despite the lack of light. Her red lips parted into a savage smile, displaying the pointed canines she shared with every member of her race. Hitchforth noticed she looked directly at him, her eyes sizing him as a lion would to its prey. Carmilla Sanguine had arrived.
She spoke to the guests, keeping her eyes on Hitchforth. “Welcome all, to the festivities of tonight. I hold today’s ball as a celebration of our independence as a species, our freedom from humanity.” The guests cheered at the words, delighted at the words. “And please give our warm Prache hospitality to our sanctioned guests of Humanity’s Hope, who have joined us.”
The vampires did not cheer at those words, hushing and hissing silently as they turned to see Hitchforth and the rookie. It was easy to find them, both wearing their issued dark green greatcoats. Hitchforth had refused formal attire for the event for himself and his rookie, knowing they would stand out regardless.
“Enjoy your time tonight and as always, long live our king.”
“Long live our king,” the crowd shouted out in unison, mirroring Carmilla’s words.
Carmilla stepped down the stairs, her guests returning to conversation and dancing. She mingled with her guests, leaving Hitchforth and the rookie alone.
“Sir, what now?” the rookie asked.
“She will come to us, she can’t help herself,” Hitchforth said whilst looking over her watching her conversations. From a distance he could still see the power she held, the fear in the faces of the vampires she held conversations with. From what he had been told, the heads of Prache kept to themselves mostly, only communicating when necessary. The mission would not be hindered by reinforcements, or so he had been told.
Carmilla made her way over to where Hitchforth and the rookie stood, flanked by two bodyguards in suits. She looked over the rookie, smiling and looking into his eyes. Hitchforth saw the rookie smile back, his nervousness gone. Already her mind games had begun.
“Hello, Carmilla,” he said, breaking her eye contact with the rookie.
“Greetings, Educator Hitchforth. And who might this be here?”
“My rookie. You know my name?” Carmilla had come closer to the rookie, stroking his cheek with her hand as Hitchforth spoke. Hitchforth saw the sharp nails on her hand, softly grazing the rookie’s skin.
“Isn’t fresh blood the best? We don’t get a lot of humans here, I’m sure you know.” Carmilla moved her hand away, turning and answering the Educator. “Of course, who doesn’t know the only Lycan Educator in Humanity’s Hope? I’m sure everyone here has smelt it already.”
“Fair enough. Can we talk in a more…,” Hitchforth looked around, noticing most of the guests were paying attention to their conversation. “Private place?”
“Of course, Educator. Allow me to lead the way,” she said, taking hold of the rookie’s hand and walking ahead. Hitchforth stared at him from behind to let go yet he continued, unable to escape her trance. Playing along, he followed Carmilla up the stairs, leaving behind the vampires to dance and socialise below.

Carmilla lead Hitchforth and the rookie up the stairs to the second floor, passing through multiple hallways and doors to reach their destination. The building’s halls and rooms seemed to continue endlessly, doors leading to more doors and longer hallways. They walked down a long staircase, perhaps made for the servants of the building. They walked through a large hallway containing Carmilla’s thralls, lined up against the wall, saluting as she passed. Eventually they reached a cold room with a large table in the centre with a fireplace emitting red flames. Red ash was a new invention created since the vampires had conquered Prache, a harmless light source for their needs. They had invested heavily into the island as their home and Hitchforth knew they would not give it up easily. Looking above the mantle place, Hitchforth noticed the familiar painting from the ballroom.
All the five vampires matched the descriptions he was told, to the point he could recognise them all. At the forefront sat Harrow Sanguine, the self-appointed king of Prache. He looked younger than the rest of his family, his ashen skin painted flawlessly. His fierce eyes stared back into Hitchforth, instilling fear from even his heart. To his right stood his wife, Rose Sanguine, who bore a strong resemblance to Carmilla, matching hair and all. To the king’s left stood Varney Sanguine, wearing his familiar grey suit and matching brown flat cap. Standing next to Varney was Father Nostra, the religious leader of Prache, wearing his black cassock. Finally, standing next to her mother was Carmilla Sanguine, identical to her real life presence.
“Where are we?” Hitchforth asked.
“A meeting room under the chateau. We won’t be disturbed here.”
“And your guests? They won’t be afraid you’ve gone missing?”
Carmilla laughed. “Those fools will be too blood drunk in the morning to remember their past few days. Our meeting will be fine.” She ordered her guards out of the room, instructing them to stay outside, just in case. “The guards will be waiting outside,” she said, warning in her tone.
“What do you want?”
“When my father sanctioned a member of Humanity’s Hope to visit the island, I was surprised they chose you.”
Hitchforth shrugged. “I’m expendable.”
“Yes, they do see you in that way, and that may be so. But I see more.”
Hitchforth furrowed his eyebrows. “Like what?”
“I see opportunity. I see power. I see a new path.”
“Care to explain?”
“You are the only Educator that is not human. On Prache we can give you freedom, like we have achieved.”
Hitchforth thought over what Carmilla said, processing her words. She had to have been desperate to separate him from any prying eyes, eager to keep her plans secret. The only choice was to continue.
“I see. They say a hand that lends help is matched by a hand that waits repayment. What is the repayment you seek from me?”
Carmilla smiled more than she had before, looking more unnatural than she ever had before. Her smile outstretched to the corners of her face and Hitchforth thought he saw her eyes darken lustfully. Not lust for blood, but lust for power. “The crown. With my connections and Humanity’s Hope, we can topple my father’s regime. He is outdated, out of touch with the population’s desires and needs. I can give it to them.”
Hitchforth scoffed at the words. “And you believe Humanity’s Hope is willing to partner with a vampire?”
“They partnered with you didn’t they? I see no difference.”
“I have no partnership. Something much worse.”
“It doesn’t matter. My father is eager to enact revenge for the prosecution vampires have felt for millennia. I am willing to move on.”
Hitchforth looked to the rookie, who had remained silent throughout the conversation. He sweated through his coat, leaving visible stains. The trance Carmilla had put him through had broken, putting her attention to Hitchforth. He could feel the slight strings pulling him in the direction she wanted, appealing to his emotions and desires. He considered over her terms, it made sense to accept the deal. Why would he protect his captors? His mind travelled elsewhere, to a farmhouse and her tending to her flower garden. He thought of her smile, and the little one that accompanied her.
“Do we have a deal? You have no choice either way, Educator,” Carmilla said, snapping Hitchforth back to reality.
He looked to his rookie, signalling under the table to warn him. Hitchforth saw him nod subtly, trying not to give away the motion.
“No,” Hitchforth said, raising the table above his head, smashing it into Carmilla’s body, sending her flying.

Lawman
A drop of scarlet fell into the dust.
Hauke ignored the bullet hole in his side and kept reloading. There would be time to bleed later.
He sat in a battered wooden chair under an awning, with one leg draped over its arm, eyes staring intently down the dirt road. A rhythmic metal clicking came from the guns he held as he filled their cylinders with fresh shells. But his eyes never left the road. There was no need; his hands worked without thought.
Beyond the awning, the sky was bare, the town was still, and the planet’s twin suns blazed with fury. Heat shimmered off the hard-packed dirt road running through the center of Aeos, and sweat made tracks down Hauke's face through the dust. Gehenna was technically a moon, though larger than most planets, stark and strange, a waterless desert world of jagged black mountains and sunbaked hardpan on the edge of Alliance space—on the edge of nowhere.
Most who worked at Deepcore's mining facility called the moon The Withered Lands. An apt name Hauke thought, for a place of perpetual sunlight and crushing heat. A place barren of life. No where any but a witling would wish to call home.
He was only here because corporate greed put this lonely settlement on a fringe world otherwise deemed uninhabitable; corporate greed and a ready supply of desperate people - the disillusioned and the displaced, the utterly broken. For most, their lives were a legacy of misery, and they left behind a past they hoped to forget. There was never a shortage of such expendables in a galaxy riddled with crime and war. No one would miss them. No one cared. That's why the outlaws chose this shit hole to put down roots. There were vulnerable people here, a flock of sheep placidly going about their daily lives as the wolves circled, and no Alliance security to protect them. Easy pickings.
Hauke shook his head and slid another round into an empty chamber. Shame, really. These are decent folk. Better than the other sewers he’d policed.
Then he shrugged.
Good people they might be, but it didn't matter. It should, but it didn’t. They were expendable. Everyone was, after a fashion, even Hauke.
Every worker who stepped off a Deepcore transit shuttle into the dust and the heat was undeniably corporate fodder, disposable flesh to be used and discarded like soiled toilet paper. Deepcore made no bones about this practice, nor did they bother with any pretense that their workers on Gehenna were anything but company fodder. Why should they? No one with wealth enough to matter was paying attention. Nobody in the Core gave two shits about a bunch of dregs dying on the Fringe. Who would? Alliance authorities? Funny. The money-made politicians in the halls of power wouldn't waste a bucket of piss on what they deemed rats squabbling for the right to live in society's sewers, filthy beggars and low-born rabble best ignored by their betters. Why waste resources cleaning them out when, given enough time, disease and starvation would do the job for them?
Hauke snapped his pistol's cylinder up into its housing and gave it an experimental spin. The smooth, well-oiled clicking that came forth drew a smile across his sun-roughened face. It was a warm and comforting sound, like a fireplace in winter. If you took care of your guns, they would take care of you.
Hauke favored the classics over the garbage that companies were peddling these days, six shooters from an era lost in time. They were reliable, never overheated or shorted, and were effective on anything that ever walked or crawled in the mud - given the proper ammo. The thunder of their song sent even the most hardened criminals fleeing for cover.
He paused his reloading and studied the brass casing he held. It was a Spartan Arms Blacktip, called shatter rounds on the streets. They were expensive, hard to come by, and highly deadly. And illegal. The speed loaders clipped to the tac-belt circling his waist held the same rounds. Even a Treskori's thick armored hide offered little protection against these babies.
Movement caught the corner of his eye and drew his attention to the north.
A small Dazkani woman darted out of a nearby alleyway and across the street, a lavender-skinned child in tow, rushing for a two-room cabin very much like his own. Her tan robes were trimmed in black and embroidered across the shoulders in her house pattern. Each frantic step revealed flashes of light purple flesh on a muscular thigh where the robes were divided down the side.
His eyes followed her progress.
Then the cabin door slammed shut behind them, and she peered out through its only window with jet black eyes full of fear.
Hauke shook his head. Though he didn't blame the people of Aeos. They were afraid, and for a good reason. Outlaws calling themselves The Reapers, with blade and barrel and cruel ways, had taken by force what little joy these people had found and made each day a misery. Then came Hauke and his revolvers, claiming to be the answer, though they only saw another killer here to sink his teeth into their town.
Eyes watched from windows and doorways across Aeos. He could feel their itch upon his skin, too many eyes and wringing hands awaiting the coming confrontation. If the Reapers won today, they would turn their ire upon the people of Aeos. Things would get ugly. Fast. No wonder they were worried. Hauke was just one man against dozens of killers. He smiled. That almost made it an even fight.
Whatever happens today, he thought, absently running an oilcloth over his gun and his eyes over the town. These people would do well to cut their losses and make for the inner systems far from Deepcore and outlaws and the wild lawlessness of The Outer Fringe. They would live longer and be happier for it.
He took up his second pistol, its nickel finish reflecting sharp flashes of silver in the sunlight.
Brass casings fell at his feet.
Deepcore was supposed to be the shining star of the mining industry, a leader among leaders whose policies demanded quality of life for all its employees and family-first values that resonated down to the lowest janitor. A good PR story, Hauke thought. Tall tells for the gullible and chronically stupid.
Anyone with two brain cells fighting for third place should understand it was all a carefully crafted illusion, a shiny veneer overlaying the odious truth, the plots, the lust for profits, treacherous ways corps did business.
Hauke's fingers moved with practiced grace, and the clicking continued. Red dripped from his side.
How many politicians must have been bought over the years to maintain such an elaborate facade? How many innocent people were stuffed into early graves to protect the dark secrets? His frown deepened. Too many.
In his experience, corruption was a disease that most often began at the top and snaked its way down through long-sitting senators and middling managers, black tendrils of rot coiling through the layers of a midden heap. Parasites, all of them. Getting fat and rich off the blood and tears of ordinary folk who want to live in peace and enjoy what few comforts they can afford.
But Hauke knew there was no such thing on the Fringe. Not on Gehenna. Not for the dregs, anyway. His stomach twisted, and he slowly ran the oilcloth over his second gun. Not in this galaxy.
He lifted his eyes and scanned the area. Aeos was a town built with the cheapest fiberplast factory Prefabs Hauke had ever seen. The kind of flimsy boxlike structures meant only for a temporary settlement, never a permanent city. Some buildings still showed faint traces of the original terracotta red from the factory. But most gleamed bone white in the harsh sunlight, pitted and wind-worn like the skeletal remains of some long-dead titan strewn across the sand. When the town died, like those before it, Deepcore would erect another on the sands that held its corpse. Even Gehenna could not stop profits.
Off to the west, the dark silos and rumbling machinery of the vast mining operation loomed over Aeos like a cruel overlord, uncaring of their suffering and singular in its purpose. Columns of thick black smoke rose from its inner workings to stain the sky, and an endless procession of thick-hulled barges—laden with ore until their sides bulged—strained for orbit. Day and night, the Impervium ore flowed from Gehenna's mines to fatten the pockets of Deepcore's elite back in the heart of the Corporate Alliance. Here was a state-of-the-art operation save three things: no drones, no automated equipment, and no modern conveniences; Aeos was built with shithouse parts. Profits again.
Even the barges were operated by organics, with no autopilot or AI-driven software. The moon's electromagnetic something-or-other interfered with guidance systems, so they did everything the old-fashioned way. And then there was Gehenna's powdery dust. It held magnetic particles that worked their way into the delicate inner guts of electronics and advanced machinery, sparing no circuit or wire. That's why they needed flesh and blood workers to do the job—blood sacrifices laid out upon the corporate altar.
As for Aeos itself, there was little else to it. Flat-roofed cabins with tattered awnings shading tiny porches crowded either side of the road. A few dilapidated parts shops and rundown diners, a large closed-air market beside a cluster of tall water tanks beaded with sweat. A sprawling communications array. A small starport built on a nearby plateau just outside town, made hazy by blowing dust. There were no Sky Towers rising from sprawling cityscapes, or manicured parks to bring beauty to this desolate place. No holographic skyways filled the night skies with the endless glittering lights of air traffic. None of the high-tech glitz and glow he was so accustomed to seeing on even the poorest of Alliance worlds. Aeos was sterile and rundown, abandoned by hope.
But today, that changed.
Hauke glanced at the upper edge of his augmented vision. Twenty past eleven local time, Gehenna time. His jaw muscles tensed, and he climbed to his feet, spinning his pistols into their holsters.
Time to settle an old score.
All was quiet as he stepped out into the dust-blown street, the laughter of children at play gone silent and the hustle and bustle of the little mining town strangely absent. Indeed nothing stirred but the wind, which briefly transformed the approaching outlaw into a grainy silhouette etched into the swirling dust.
Threiner.
The name came to him unbidden, a harsh whisper in his thoughts. A sudden surge of heat rose in his chest, an electric quickening of the heart. This was the culmination of a decades-long search and perhaps some small comfort for an old wound that had never fully healed. He'd come here to take the outlaw back to Ryari Prime to face Alliance justice, alive or maybe dead. It didn't matter.
Behind Threiner, a massive cerulean sphere twice the size of Jupiter filled the sky. Layer upon layer of milky clouds and swirling blue eddies drifted across its surface, vibrant hues muted behind a thin white haze. It rose from behind jagged black peaks that cut across the horizon, and he had to tilt his eyes to take it all in; an immense orb haloed in shimmering silver rings spreading wide across the sky. Hyperion was its name, a titanic gas giant and the largest planet in the A-9 system. A trick of its size, or perhaps Gehenna’s atmosphere, made Hyperion appear close enough for him to touch, as though Hauke could reach out and swirl a finger in the layers.
At last!
A voice rose from the stillness of his mind. A familiar voice. Peace for your father. Peace so that we can sleep. The heat in his chest blazed into a blinding thirst for vengeance, a wildfire out of control. It tried to overwhelm him. He shook with the effort of holding it back, teetering on the edge of sanity. His hands trembled as they inched toward his guns, fingertips brushing aged ivory handles—eager to let them sing.
Why do you fight me? The voice said. He is our enemy. An outlaw. A murderous swine who's earned a thousand deaths. That it should be by your hand can only be seen as justice—a just thing for all his victims.
No…I…
Think. The voice was a silken purr, a whisper of falling gossamer across his skin. It caressed him with seduction. Think of all who cry out from the grave. They cry out for vengeance! Who would hear their silent words? Give them justice. Give them peace. Kill Threiner. Kill him now!
No! Hauke's shout was a silent snarl, teeth bared, face twitching. He would not dishonor his father's memory or his badge. It was unthinkable! He was an Alliance Marshal, a man sworn to justice like his father before him. And justice was what he meant to have. Not murder.
Save your twisted words, brother. I'll not hear them.
The voice retreated like the battering waves of a storm that suddenly lost their fury and fell back into the sea. It took all of his strength to stuff the voice back down into the hollows of his mind, where it waited, lambent eyes in the dark. You will see in time that I know you, even if you do not know yourself. We are the same, brother, the voice whispered.
When Hauke was sure he'd mastered himself, he took a step forward. Then another. Another.
There were forty feet between them when he stopped and angled his body toward the outlaw. "Surrender, Threiner," he raised his voice to carry the distance and over the low moan of the wind. It sounded strange coming from his mask, a slightly electronic resonance. "Lay down your weapon. Now."
Their eyes locked, and the outlaw only scowled.
Threiner was Treskori, so he wore no mask over those hideous reptilian features; his species required none. Their robust systems quickly adapted to nearly any environment, something humans did not share.
Without a mask, Hauke would be light-headed in less than a minute, air drunk, it was called. Nausea would rack his gut a short time later. Things would begin to dim, to shut down, starting with his ability to reason. Walking and talking would become a chore. Then he would collapse in the sand, delirious and confused, lungs gasping in the burning air. Darkness would come shortly after, a soulless void to consume his world. In the end, he would have no strength to call for help or the wits to understand what was happening to him. Not a fate to be envied.
Threiner's slitted black-and-yellow eyes bore into Hauke's, and for a tense moment, they held in a silent struggle. Neither moved or blinked, still as statues. Only the wind gave voice, twining its fingers through Hauke's shoulder-length hair and shifting the dust between his boots. Then Threiner's scaled lips slowly peeled back to reveal serrated teeth in a vile show of contempt. It was meant to frighten him and mock him, the cruel smile of a predator toying with its prey.
Hauke wasn't impressed. He'd seen his like before, many times, and they all bled the same with hot lead in their hearts.
Yet an eight-foot Treskori with the speed of a gazelle was nothing to take lightly, a genuine threat. So Hauke remained cautious in case Threiner decided to rush. The outlaw held a heavy plasma cannon at his side in one massive three-clawed fist, tapping it idly against a thick trunk of a leg. One blast from that cannon would leave a basketball-sized hole in Hauke's chest if it left anything at all.
Threiner glared at him with supreme confidence. In Treskori culture, strength and size were the ultimate deciding factors, especially in battle. Yet even with a Treskori's great strength, that weapon—typically found mounted on assault vehicles—would be slow to wield, slow in a fight where speed mattered. Hauke resisted the urge to smile. Speed kills.
Threiner's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, following Hauke's eyes down to the plasma cannon, then snapping back up. A sneer that would have frozen helium slowly spread across his face. There was no armor or personal shielding that could defend against that weapon. And Threiner knew it.
Speed kills.
Hauke's hands drifted to the weathered leather holsters belted low on his hips and the nickel-plated revolvers waiting within. Immaculate they were, with quick-draw barrels and feather lite triggers for rapid fire. Their song was blood and death, and he had no doubt they would sing it soon. Engraved In fancy script along each barrel were the pistols' names, Justice and Virtue, exquisite artistry by the hand of a master gunsmith. These rare treasures were passed to him by his father with a lineage tracing to the days of his father's great-grandfather and beyond. A time when outlaws roamed the untamed west, and lawmen hunted them wherever they hid.
Threiner turned his head slowly, deliberately keeping one evil eye on Hauke, and spit a huge gob of green-tinged saliva into the dust, then snapped his glare back into place.
"Be smart, Threiner," Hauke said, though every inch of him hummed on the razor's edge of violence, and every fiber hoped Threiner would twitch that cannon in the wrong direction. "And you might live to see the outside of a prison cell again one day." The mouthpieces back in the Core wanted Threiner brought back alive if possible. Alive was better for the holovids the senators wanted to run. But if Threiner even breathed wrong, Hauke would not hesitate.
"No surrender, human," Threiner's deep hiss was full of malice, and vast musculature rippled across his shirtless bulk. "Pain. Much pain for you." From his great height, Raim Threiner glared down at Hauke as though looking at an insect he meant to crush under his boot—a naturally occurring, ever-present scowl that twisted his ugly face beyond hideous.
Threiner turned his head and spat again. "Pain," he said, scraping the sharp tip of an ebon claw across his throat scales. "All pain for you." Threiner's massive plasma rifle still hung idle at his side, barrel pointed at the ground, unmoving. But his free hand clenched into a fist. Sunlight glittered off thousands of small granular scales covering his skin like viridian glass, and a low growl issued deep within his throat, an ominous rumble that would have sent lesser beings running. But Hauke had seen it all before, and he stood firm, his jaw set, hands poised and ready. Whatever was going to happen would happen. Nothing could change that now.
Abruptly Hauke realized that Threiner was doing his best to hide a nervous edge. And rightly so. Confidence was a necessity if you wished to stay alive in this business. But blind arrogance would get you killed.
Most in his business had heard the tales of the human Lawman with lightning in his hands and ice in his veins. Most believed it was nothing more than a fairy tale, something cooked up by the Badges to keep little outlaws awake at night. Yet something must have clicked in Raim's little lizard brain. Perhaps it was the bullet-riddled bodies of his gang strewn about and already rigid in the sunlight, posing as corpses pose, that made him understand the legendary Lawman now stood before him.
"Surrender," Hauke repeated, his tone hard and flat. The icy look in his eyes said there would be no further chances. His hands hovered over his guns. Sweat stained the crown of his wide-brimmed bolero. Red dripped down his side. A sudden wind rippled folds into his shirt, kicking up a dirty haze. Everything went quiet. He could hear his heart, feel its fire surging down to his fingertips. His eyes narrowed, but he willed himself not to blink.
His hands itched to rip the guns from their holsters and let them sing. It would be so easy. Threiner wouldn't have time to process that Hauke had pulled steel before he died. His hands trembled. But he would give the outlaw a chance to lay down his weapon. He always did.
His father once told him that a man's honor was all he truly possessed. All else could be taken away or destroyed. Material possessions and riches would become someone else's when you died. In time, even your spouse. But your honor, your legacy, was yours to keep forever. This was made all the more important in a galaxy rife with treachery. A man's honor was sacred. His father had believed that, and so did Hauke. He had killed outlaws, true, more than a few: humans, Treskori, even Jasei. If they broke the law, killed, raped, or pillaged across The Alliance, he hunted them down. Most had surrendered peacefully.
For those foolish enough to pull on him, things had always ended badly; this he did not deny. He was ruthless and cunning, as one must be to survive hunting the galaxy's worst. He would not waste time with denials. He would not pretend to be righteous. He had never found a sense of pride or pleasure in the violence. He was a professional. He did not kill for joy. He only killed when given no choice. Even Raim Threiner, his father's killer, deserved his day in court. That was justice. That was how the system worked. He would bring this vile creature back alive if he could. The rest was up to Threiner.
"No surrender, human," Threiner repeated, breaking into Hauke's thoughts and rolling his broad angular head atop an even wider neck. Only seconds had passed since he first spoke. A transverse crest of bony spikes connected by a thin membrane of leathery flesh fanned up across the crown of his skull, rattling and bristling with anger. "Much pleasure to kill you, Marshal scum shit."
His response did not surprise Hauke.
The plasma rifle started up, and Hauke's hands flashed. There was thunder and smoke, time slowed.
Threiner lay on his back when the smoke cleared, slitted eyes staring blindly at Gehenna's twin suns. Four massive holes leaked green down his chest and pooled in the sand. Hauke's pistols roared again, and two more holes erupted in Threiner's head. Better to be sure than pay the price of folly.
Guess the senators weren't going to get their holovid back in the Core. Well, piss on them. Hauke was a lawman, and there were no politicians here.
People emerged from their shacks, peering plaintively up and down the streets. Their eyes were still fearful, but something else kindled behind them.
Hauke turned, gleaming pistols still in hand and lifted his voice to carry.
“People of Aeos,” he scanned their faces, and saw hope dawning where before there was only despair. “Raim is dead. The Reapers are dead. You are free.”

Hey there everyone I (23M) am pretty new to the fragrance world. Ive always worn fragrances since I was a pre teen, but they were always gifts, and not something I chose for myself.
Before getting into this I had two main bottles. Montblanc Legend EDT and Tommy Hillfiger Endless Blue. The Montblanc one was my signature scent, but I felt I wanted something more Me.
I recently bought YSL Y EDP, it smells pretty great, though I made the mistake of applying it like it was the Montblanc one. This thing is potent, I felt like I was a radioactive madlad while wearing it, the thing wouldn't come off. I went to sleep, still smelled like it, woke up, still smelled like it, took a shower, still smelled like it. It was somewhat annoying. But when applying it less (1-2 sprays) it smells very soft and I love the apple notes. It's growing on me, and I'm gravitating towards it more and more.
Well after discovering this sub, I went through a rabbit hole, looking at peoples collections, their best lists, and overall recs. I then made a list.
So far I have tried:
Chanel Bleu - This one had a stronger opening than I thought, it was pleasant, but I was expecting something a bit more chill. The dry down though, it's amazing, very mellow, and great for everyday wear. Would consider buying
Dior Sauvage - Wanted to see what all the hype is about. The opening was absolutely terrible for me, way too harsh, and not pleasant at all. An hour later it was still a bit harsh, the dry down was very good though, and I liked it a lot. I don't think I'd get it since it takes way too long for it to get good.
Terre d'Hermes EDT - I don't know if I became nose blind since I tried on the last two, but I couldn't smell this one at all. I smelled a bit of the opening, but after a while it's like I didn't spray anything. I have to try this one again.
Since my nose couldn't take it anymore there were a lot of fragrances I didn't manage to try on, these were:
Replica By the Fireplace
Azzaro Most Wanted
Valentino Born in Roma Intense
Givenchy Reserve Privee
JPG Le Beau Paradise Garden
My goal is to have a minimalist collection, something like this:
Signature Scent: Current is Montblanc Legend EDT, BDC might replace it when it's done
Spring: YSL Y EDP, Terre d'Hermes could fit here if I like it more than the YSL (would finish the bottle first)
Summer: Don't have one
Fall: Current is Tommy Hillfiger Endless Blue, looking for something better
Winter: Don't have one yet
If you guys also have recs for each one of this, feel free to share them, and I'll add them to the try on list.

(No spoilers pls)
From the person that was stuck at endless cannion
So, last night I was able to face the Owlks, and got used to the jumpscares which made it way easier to go through them, and today I got to the mural and I’m so glad I didn’t use the easier path because it was so fun getting through the harder path.
Anyway, I got to the mural and went into the elevator, went down into the hidden archive AND WAS ALREADY HYPED, but then there’s that one reel.
WHAT
ITS A FUCKING SIMULATION??
AND I COULD JUST DO THAT WITH THE ARTIFACT ALL ALONG??
I literally have no words, I love this game so so much
So, because of that I could explore way faster the other places, got my spine broken by the owlks at the fireplace Tried again and discovered the other hidden archive and that I can just FALL OUT OF THE WORLD like fucking MINECRAFT but then there’s a sea and then I can FINALLY blow off one of the seals.
I’m loving all of the simulation thing, I’ll stop for now cause I don’t want it to end that soon, but tomorrow I’ll try and enter the well and see how it goes.
Again, thanks for the tips on my other post! They were all really helpful ::)

The first night in the old Victorian was a love letter whispered by the wind through creaking floorboards. We, Sarah and I, young and in love, saw only the charm – the dusty chandeliers, the ornately carved fireplaces, the sprawling rooms that promised endless laughter. The realtor, a wiry woman with eyes that seemed to hold ancient secrets, simply smiled and said, "This house has a soul." We laughed, naive fools, dismissing it as a quirky sales pitch.
The laughter wouldn't last. It started subtly. A shiver snaking down my spine in the dead of night, a feeling of being watched from unseen corners. Then came the groans. Low, guttural sounds that seemed to emanate from the very walls, like the house itself was straining under an unseen weight. Sarah, ever the optimist, blamed settling wood, but the unease gnawed at us both.
One night, something shifted. It was 1:13 am, etched into my memory like a brand. A bone-deep cold seeped in, and the comforting weight of the walls vanished. In its place, an infinite, inky blackness stared back at me. Sarah screamed, a high-pitched sound that clawed at my sanity. The whispers started then, a cacophony of voices, each one a different shade of malice, slithering into my ears. It felt like a million minds pressing against mine, threatening to shatter it.
We huddled together, whimpering prayers into the void, until a sliver of dawn light peeked through the nonexistent window. Exhausted and terrified, we clung to each other, the once-charming house now a grotesque caricature of itself. This became our nightly routine – the chilling transformation at 1:13 am, the soul-crushing whispers, the desperate clinging to sanity until sunrise.
Days were a blur of exhaustion; nights, a waking nightmare. We researched the house, the town, anything that could explain this torment. We found nothing but hushed whispers about the "Old Soul Manor," tales of restless spirits and madness that clung to the place like cobwebs.
One night, fueled by sheer desperation, I fumbled for my phone, searching for a distraction, anything to break the suffocating silence. My finger landed on the music app, and on a whim, I hit play on the first playlist – a collection of mellow tunes we'd enjoyed on countless road trips. The first few notes were swallowed by the whispers, but then, something magical happened.
The house… relaxed. The groans subsided, the whispers retreated into the darkness. The nonexistent walls flickered back into existence, a comforting barrier against the unseen. We stared at each other, disbelief battling with a sliver of hope. Was it just a coincidence?
The next night, at the witching hour, I hit play again. Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. It was like a switch had been thrown, plunging the house back into a normal state. Over the following days, we tested it repeatedly. Every time, the band, “convenient royalty” played (we found a CD player at a thrift store, a lifeline)it silenced the house's nightly tantrum. It became our armor, our shield against the encroaching darkness.
Weeks turned into months. The house remained mostly docile, though it never truly felt welcoming. We were prisoners, not guests, bound by the strange power of the band. But it was a small price to pay for sanity. We settled into a fragile routine, the music a constant companion, a soothing balm against the ever-present unease.
Then, disaster struck. One night, the familiar whirring of the CD player sputtered and died. Panic surged through me, cold and immediate. Sarah noticed my white knuckles clutching the remote. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"The CD player," I choked out, the terror blooming in my chest. "It's broken."
At 1:13 am that night, the house woke up. The familiar groans echoed through the halls, louder, more menacing than ever before. The whispers returned, a rabid crescendo of voices hungry for vengeance. We huddled in the living room, the darkness pressing against the door like a ravenous beast. For the first time, there was no music to fight back the tide.
The house went ballistic. Furniture toppled, picture frames shattered on the walls. A spectral gust of wind slammed a bookcase against the wall, inches from where Sarah was huddled. We screamed, a desperate plea lost in the cacophony of the awakened house.
Suddenly, a deafening crack. The ceiling light fixture sputtered, showering sparks before plunging us into complete darkness. Then, an unseen force grabbed me, lifting me off the ground. I screamed, thrashing wildly against the invisible grip.
Just as abruptly, I was slammed back onto the floor. Gasping for breath, I scrambled to my feet, my hand brushing against Sarah.

Sarah was huddled in a corner, her face pale in the moonlight filtering through a broken window. Tears streamed down her cheeks, fear mirrored in her wide eyes. The house, no longer content with its display of power, seemed to be waiting.
"We need to get out of here," I croaked, my voice raw from screaming. The whispers intensified, a chilling chorus urging us on, beckoning us towards the unseen horrors that lurked in the darkness.
We stumbled blindly through the wreckage, the air thick with dust and the metallic tang of fear. Each step felt like a desperate gamble in a game rigged against us. Reaching the front door, I fumbled with the lock, my fingers clumsy with terror. It finally clicked open, and we spilled out onto the porch, gasping for the cool night air.
As soon as we were out, the chaos within subsided. The screams of the house died down, replaced by an unsettling silence. We didn't dare look back. We just ran, hearts pounding a frantic rhythm against our ribs, until we reached the safety of a friend's house miles away.
The next morning, we returned, armed with flashlights, hoping to salvage some of our belongings. But the house felt different. Cold and empty, devoid of the malevolent energy that had haunted us for months. The broken CD player lay on the floor, a silent testament to our ordeal.
We never went back. We found another apartment, a tiny, unassuming place, but it felt like a palace compared to the Old Soul Manor. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear whispers in my dreams, snatches of a million voices promising revenge. But the music, the music of Kings of Convenience, remains our anchor, a constant reminder that some melodies hold a power beyond comprehension, some songs are more than just music – they are a lifeline to sanity in the face of the unknown.
The Old Soul Manor still stands on the outskirts of town, a silent sentinel shrouded in mystery. The townsfolk whisper about strange lights in the windows sometimes, disembodied voices on the wind. But for us, it remains a chilling reminder of the night the house woke up, and the music that held the darkness at bay, until it couldn't anymore.

EDIT: Thanks for the concern of the few of you who texted.... Just for those asking I never included this when I was talking to you guys because I was still frantic and confused and scared but up until recently, in our newly bought place we never really had a stable internet connection.. wherever we were staying there was 4G connectivity and the 4G is capped so when it runs out it runs out. if that makes sense. buying a CD is cheaper. keeping it playing costs no data and it doesn't stop unless of course the damn thing decides to break and fling us into the abyss

The Striking Serpent

Nefarian Serpine stood at the door of his home, his hand on the knob, as he calmly quelled the violent urge to murder the man that had been set on his tail since he’d landed in this damned dimension. Traveling his home Dimension torn apart by endless war and death with the dopplegangers of old foes under the threat of death or worse, he had always known that they had been tasked with ending his life if he stepped over the line. But returning to this new Dimension had also confirmed the suspicions he had privately held since the journey: he was supposed to have joined those rotting corpses back home. While the others had been rewarded with favour and praise, he’d been cast to the shadows, a hidden shame. Despite helping destroy the portals that his old master, his old friend, had built in order to survive so that this world would be free of the Draugr scourge, he had been gifted with constant surveillance.
Mevolent.
The memory of the Elemental caused a ripple of something foreign go through Nefarian’s body. Something that made his skin go cold and his chest constrict slightly. Sighing deeply, he shook the feeling away and walked out into the bright day, immediately sensing his hidden shadow moving in synchronicity with him. His lip slightly curled in disgust, he made his way to the Roarhaven markets. His shadow had become sloppy recently, his presence having become far more discernible, almost to a point where Nefarian was beginning to wonder if it was even the same shadow.
As he walked in the clothes he’d purchased for himself, for the clothes delegated to him by the High Sanctuary were of poor design and poorer dimensions, and he felt far more comfortable in rich leather and soft silk, his pocket jingled softly with the monthly allowance given to him by the Sanctuary. Just another way to manipulate and control him. The jingle within his pockets provided a song that lured in more shadows, but these ones he didn’t care about, for the neglected children of the dead did not threaten him.
As he walked, he milled over his situation. Though Sorrows was no longer Supreme Mage, Creed left a broken man in hiding and Bespoke dealing with militant sorcerers, Serpine knew he was a target. Already the victim of a dozen attacks, ranging from physical assault, attempted murder and flying bullets, Serpine had grown more and more frustrated. The City Guard weren’t willing to help him, Pleasant and Cain laughed at him, and all of those who had attacked him had fled before he could deliver some painful retribution.
‘Not that it was so easy, anymore.’ Serpine thought mournfully. Despite the new hand Cain had granted him, he still experienced the phantom memory of the hand he’d once had. That beautiful red that glistened and shone alongside his magic, which vibrated with the screams of its victims. When the skeleton had cut it off, he’d felt a fragment of his Soul break away from him, and it had left a hole in him ever since. A hole he’d patched with a cold hatred and determination that carried him forth. But he’d heard tales of the version of him that was from this world. Another Serpine who wielded multiple forms of magic with cruelty and mastery. A version of him who had been free to experiment and revel in magic. Another thing the rebels had taken from him.
As such, he’d long since decided that living a static, immobile life in a city of sorcerers who hated him was not something he approved of. Nefarian Serpine was a proactive creature, always on the move and on the hunt. He was looking for a way to escape this city and make his way back to the place he’d always called home: His castle.
Walking down the street, he didn’t bother to react to the townsfolk as they recoiled from him, or as they made faces or performed threatening gestures. None of them mattered, and none of them posed a threat. He did keep his eye on the scattered members of the City Guard though, most of whom glared at him with unflinching hatred. He allowed his eyes to pass over them, mentally noting them but not sparking their hostility by directly challenging their stare. Today was not a day to tempt their wrath, for today, Nefarian was prepared to reclaim his freedom once more. After months of planning, he was finally ready. Ignoring them, he walked over to a vendor, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a City Guard approaching. This had happened too many times for his liking, but they’d been smart enough to always do it in public, refusing him the dignity of retaliation. But this one was different from the others. His boots weren’t laced up the way others were, and he wasn’t wearing the City Guard stripes properly, overlapping when they should’ve rested side-by-side. And even from a distance, from his peripherals, Nefarian saw the Guard’s eyes darting from left to right, never truly focussing on him. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t part of the City Guard.
Remaining calm, having already prepared for such an occasion, he pinched a few of the coins out of his pocket and placed some of them onto the vendor’s table, selecting a red apple from the assorted food items and turning on his heel, winking at the small children milling nearby. Sensing opportunity, they followed and he let them, and he made his way over to meet his hunter halfway.
“Stop, civilian!” The imposter ordered, his hand straying towards the baton strapped to his waist. As he did so, his coat moved, and the cold steel of a dagger winked at him as it caught the morning sun.
Nefarian raised an eyebrow and took a bite out of his apple, raising his right hand to wiggle his fingers at the imposter. As he’d expected - and hoped - the man flinched at the sight of the gloved right hand, and Nefarian opened up his left hand, allowing the coins within to spill onto the ground between them. The effect was instant, as the children on the street scrambled to procure their share of the riches, and there was a swarm of bodies that separated Nefarian from the man. Giving his stalker a sweeping bow, Nefarian turned and began walking in the opposite direction, beelining for an alleyway he’d taken note of days prior. As he neared the alleyway, the fingers on his left hand twitched, and he felt the icy cold tendrils of his magic curl around his arm, and he sent the purple vapour snaking on the cobbled ground towards the barrels stacked against the brick wall. He continued walking, his eyes on the small mirror he’d attached to the wall the day before, and he saw another figure further up ahead. His eyes flickered to the grate on the street a few steps away from him, even as he heard his city guard imposter behind him turning the corner. He looked at the mirror, seeing the man walk past the barrels, and he yanked his hand across his body and the barrels fell and scattered. The figure up ahead started running forward as Nefarian heard the man behind him trip over the tumbling barrels. Undeterred, he carried onward, taking another bite of his apple before pegging it at his new adversary. The man howled but continued forward, and Nefarian stepped into the arc of a punch, seeing the discipline and power behind it, and used it to his advantage. Shifting his feet, he swung the man sideways, knowing he would reach out to the wall with his remaining arm and miss the grate at his feet. Nefarian guided him all the way, ensuring that his foot wedged itself in between the bars.
The man grunted in pain, and they looked at each other. “Need a hand going down?”
Nefarian lashed out a kick into the man’s ankle, snapping it and letting the man fall further into the grate, his entire leg now broken with a compound fracture and stuck within the iron bars. Nefarian loomed over the screaming man, quelling the quick surge of excitement that rose within him. Business first.
“Who sent you?” He demanded. He winced, taking a step back and running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. That was a bit sudden. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this position, and I’m a little rusty. Usually there’s more exposition, talking, getting to know each other.”
“Please… please just… just let me go.” The shock of the injury had erased the pain and left him shaking.
Nefarian held up his hands in mock indignation. “Hey, I’m not the one keeping you here. Blame the grate that you carelessly stepped in.”
“You shoved me into it!”
“Actually, I tried shoving you into the wall. You stepping into the grate was just what I wanted to happen. Now,” Nefarian kneeled down beside him, “I don’t have my right hand anymore. Not the one that can torture someone without all the messy business. Which means we’re going to have to improvise.”
Nefarian reached out, grabbing hold of the exposed bone bleeding through the skin, and tugged. The man opened his mouth to scream, and Nefarian shoved a bundle of rags into his mouth, silencing him. He waited calmly for the man to stop thrashing, watching the blood trickle over his pale knuckles, the vividness of the colour mesmerising him for a moment. Once the man had calmed himself, he removed the makeshift gag.
The man spluttered, and Nef smiled at him. “See what I mean about getting to know each other? Just from that little tug, I discovered your pain tolerance, the warmth of your blood, the pitch of your screams. That’s the beauty of torture and pain - you get to know someone in a way no one else can.”
“You’re sick,” his would-be killer spat. “You’re a twisted, demented monster.”
“Who’s in control of your nervous system,” Nefarian replied. “Now, I’ll ask you the question again. Who sent you?”
“I don’t know! I swear I don’t know. But he sent a dozen or so of us, all hired muscle, telling us to stop you. He’s some bastard in the underground tunnels marketplace. Old. Looks like someone tried to melt his face.”
“An ugly one then?” Nefarian murmured. “And a dozen of you?”
“Roughly.”
Nefarian rose to his feet. “Well, thank you for -”
He heard a scraping sound from above, and the quick breath of someone preparing themselves. He twisted around, his purple vapour already coiling up to intercept the leaping figure from above. The new assailant found himself tethered by the vapour, and Nefarian watched as his trajectory was abruptly cut-off, introducing his new opponent to the ground with a satisfying crunch. In his peripherals, he saw his friend in the grate watch the entire spectacle with a surprised look on his face.
‘Great,’ he thought. ‘A party crasher.’
Keeping the man ensnared with his vapour, the purple coils sending chills up his arm and down his spine, he approached with cautious curiosity. “So. My shadow finally decides to step out into the light, and discovers that it burns. And who, may I ask, are you? Because I’ve been making all sorts of friends today, and I’m beginning to fill up my quota.”
The man managed to raise his head, and glared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ahh,” Nefarian nodded to himself. “You’re one of the slow ones. What I mean is, I’m thinking I’ll kill you, because my tolerance has reached its end with the lot of you trying to end my life. And at least this guy,” he pointed behind him, “didn’t stalk me for days on end. For some, that’s romantic. Others, it’s creepy. I found it creepy.”
“I… I think you should kill him and let me live.” Said grate man weakly.
Nefarian turned to him. “You stepped into a grate and broke your leg. You don’t get a say in this.” He turned back to his shadow.
The man in question, whom Nefarian noticed was wearing a ridiculous outfit designed to hide his features and physique, struggled for a moment. “Let me out of this Serpine,” he growled, “or the Sanctuary will throw you in a cell to rot.”
Nefarian knelt down, so his face was aligned with his shadow’s. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Interrogations. Experiments. For fun. But the consistent thing about it, regardless of the reason, were the stages of emotions that people went through. Of course there was first defiant anger, a certain belief in their durability. Now, for a Sanctuary agent, you haven’t done the greatest job of tailing me, have you? I’ve gone missing a few times. Given you the slip. Left you dangling. It must be embarrassing for you, having to come up with random crap to cover for it.”
“And at first it amused me. The whole cat and mouse game. I did it quite a lot, back in the day. It’s… fun, being the mouse for a change. But then I started getting attacked, and the game very quickly lost its appeal.” He leaned in, his right hand flexing.
The man’s eyes flickered down to his hand, and there was a flicker of fear that was replaced by gloating. “Don’t you bluff me, I know you lost your hand in the other Dim-”
His gloating ended in a choke as Nefarian lashed out, clamping his hand around the man’s neck, rage coursing through him. “That skeleton had no right for what he did. Dragging me back into that wasteland with that device attached to me. Cutting my hand off. And then he comes back and is celebrated. For what? He didn't succeed in killing Mevolent. He lost one of his own and he tortured and mutilated me. You know who blew up those godforsaken portals? I did. You know who retrieved the Sceptre of the Ancients? Me! Can you guess who helped them get into Mevolent’s palace in the first place!! It was me!” He took a moment, and, noticing the man turning blue, let go of his neck and closed his eyes, quenching his anger. It wouldn’t do for the occupants of the bar beside them to get curious about the loud noises around the back.
Nefarian sighed, and he glanced back at the man in the grate and realised he’d fainted from the pain. Walking over, he frisked him, finding the prize he was searching for. Shifting his body so his shadow couldn’t see what he was doing, he slipped the object into his jacket.
“Well, you have my undivided attention at least,” he turned slowly. A predator’s grace. “We’ve even passed the next stage! Denial, which is a crucial development here. Because soon, once the blustering and the bluffing and the false bravado has passed, there isn’t much left but fear. But before you become a blubbering mess, I have a question for you.”
The robed man said nothing, just staring warily, his face slowly receiving colour after going pale during his outburst.
“I brought us here for a reason . I was hoping it would stimulate your memory, since we both have a history with this alleyway. I was attacked, last week, by someone here. We struggled for a little bit, not because I was struggling against my assailant, but because I was curious,” Nefarian dipped his head lower, his eyes fixed upon the robed man’s. “I was curious as to what you would do, my shadow. If you’d react.”
The man swallowed, his eyes darting sideways looking for help. None came, and his eyes went back to Nefarian’s emerald green. “It’s…. It’s not my job to help you out of every struggle you find yourself in, Serpine. The Sanctuary instructed me to follow you, make sure you weren’t doing anything illegal, and that was it. If you’re looking for a nicer answer as to why I didn’t help you last week, go find it somewhere else.”
A tilt of the head. A narrowing of the eyes. Triumph coursed through the snake as he caught the mouse in the trap.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Nefarian said softly, revelling in the other man’s fear, “because there was no fight last week. And I’ve never come down this alleyway.”
“Then it must of been another alley-”
“No, it wasn’t,” Nefarian hardened his voice. “Whoever you are, you aren’t the same shadow I had a few weeks ago. That shadow was competent, quiet, gave me a challenge whenever I managed to evade them. They kept up. But then things changed. The shadow became slower. More predictable. Noticeable. You.
The robed man started to tremble. “Please. Please, just… I had to. He made me do it!”
“He, who?”
“The old man from the underground hall!”
Nefarian nodded to himself and got up, looming over the man. “Ahh, now this part is particularly delicious. Where not one but two stages of the procedure present themselves. Grief and pleading. Where you have lost all hope and have developed the ridiculous notion of reaching my empathy. My kindness. As if I hadn’t been causing pain for hours by that point. You’ve grown hopeful, deliriously so, hoping that I will stop.”
“And this is usually the part where the mind games begin. I let them have that hope. Pretend like I’ll let them go. Give them a second chance. Tell them I won’t kill their wife and child right in front of them. And as soon as I see that glimmer, I tear them down,” Nefarian tilted his head. “What’s the saying? It’s the tallest trees that fall the hardest.” He brought out the prize he’d acquired from the man in the grate, and the dagger’s sharp edge shone.
A single tear slid down the man’s cheek. “No…”
Nefarian nodded. “The last stage was acceptance. Not many reach that far, so don’t feel too bad.” He stepped forward, and with a practiced flick of his hand, slashed the dagger across the man’s throat. Despite the speed of which the cut occurred, his mind caught onto all the tugs and tears as the dagger caught on hardened flesh and tore through the tracheal wall. He watched the blood seep out like a fountain, and he felt that delicious warmth spread from his spine to the rest of his body.
Kneeling, he left the knife near the grate man’s hand and reached over to his exposed bone, wrenching it further. After a moment, he nodded. He was experienced enough to know when a pool of blood was one that none came back from.
‘An old man. A horribly burnt face.’
A face swam into his vision. It was a familiar one.
Kneeling down, making sure his knee didn’t scrape the ground - he didn’t enjoy the idea of getting his attire dirty - Nefarian scooped up his apple and held it before him. For a moment, he examined it, seeing the dirt and dust covering it. Then his sight shifted, and he quietly examined how the vivid red blood on his hand mixed and disappeared into the fruits red colouration. He felt his stomach growl softly, and with a noise of contempt, he tossed the apple into a nearby bin as he began walking. Leaving the two corpses where they laid, he wrung his hands, watching the warm crimson lifeforce of the pair flying away. He was unduly worried, for the bar beside the alleyway was well known for its violent, drunken brawls, and Nefarian was confident that the scene would be viewed as yet another drunken mishap gone terribly wrong. The blood stains that had inevitably appeared on his gloves and cuffs of his sleeves on the other hand…
As he passed one of the windows of the bar’s kitchen, he snatched at the kitchen towel that rested there. Passing it over his face and scrubbing at his glove and his cuffs until they were reasonably clean, he tossed it into a nearby drainage pipe and, after briefly checking his shoulder, moved into another alleyway. He walked down the dark alleyway, its once red brickwork covered in dark grime, moss and dirt, with flecks of what seemed to be old blood almost giving the brickwork back its red colouration. Empty bottles of drink littered the ground, some broken, some whole, sitting alongside random pieces of litter. Of course, sigils had been carved at the entrance of the alleyway, which, for any passerby, made the alleyway appear to be simply another alleyway - pristine, with some mess to avoid suspicion.
Approaching the iron door at the very end, he knocked once. After a moment, a voice emanated from within. “Who did that?”
“I, the One Who Knocked.” Nefarian said clearly. He mentally rolled his eyes at the passcode and took a step back. After a moment, he heard bolts being thrown open and locks turning, and the door opened before him.
Entering, he was immediately hit with the smell of magic. It was intoxicating, the smell of raw magical power and dangerous chemicals that bubbled and boiled in various corners of the grand space. Dimly lit, with clouds of scent covering the ceiling, he walked through the large hall, navigating past various merchants and makeshift market stalls and stores. There weren’t many down here brave enough to attempt jostling or haggling him, and many found their eyes darting down towards his gloved right hand. Fewer, but still some, in the crowd couldn't help but admire his features. Handsome, with a regal aura emanating from behind eyes that burned with passion and danger. Down here, danger was attractive. And threatening. It invited challenge.
But none came and he walked freely. In the Underground, magic was explored like nowhere else in the world. Inhibitions were loose, morals were staggeringly low and magic was seen being used at every corner. Nefarian could only assume that the musicians and radios stationed at certain places were playing music, for they were being vastly drowned out by the store owners and shop keepers that yelled and called out for the crowd’s attention, waving bottles of potions, fistfuls of magic and food items that looked like it would give you ulcers. There were promises of enhancing one’s magic through ‘Splash,’ a drug that Nefarian had discovered and had temporarily enjoyed, before realising the nasty side effects of fluctuating magic levels. Signum Linguists walked around acting like beacons, promising the utmost quality tattoos and sigil inscriptions for relatively low prices.
Further down, Nefarian skirted around the fighting pit, where Enhancers fought for the favour of the crowd and large sums of money. A sensitive had set up a small stall offering to glean into the future and a necromancer was offering his services as a hitman. There were bars filled with people of all disciplines and ages, laughing and cheering and occasionally fighting. Dancers spun around and swayed their hips, sparkling skin and bright flashes of colour from sigils on their hips winking out from the dim-lighting of the bars. Down here, anything went and the law held no jurisdiction.
But there was a type of enforcement that held the people in check. Men and women dressed in rough attire, not mingling, not conversing. They in equal parts stood out like they didn’t belong, and yet acted and moved like this was a natural place for them. Over the past few months, Nefarian had witnessed them dragging struggling and screaming people away, destroying shop stalls and taking whatever they wanted without paying. They were the enforcers and the bullies, and their master didn’t care how they acted as long as they kept the Underground in check. Nefarian had tried looking into them, but the urchins and beggars he’d bribed and connected himself with had turned up nothing but a black hole. However, he’d managed to evade them so far, and so they weren’t his primary concern.
Sticking to the middle of the crowd to avoid being accosted, as well as keeping a hand near his purse to deter pickpockets, he had reached halfway across the hall before he saw his intended target. A small, old man with peeling skin and mottled arms that gave him the appearance of a horrifically burned individual who’d never truly recovered. Nefarian watched him as he approached, seeing him carefully and methodically move his wares around his table. Acting as Nefarian had always known him; a man of cleanliness and pickiness, which is why he’d selected him for the job he’d had in mind. But reaching closer, he began to notice other signs. A slight shake in his hands. A slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. Despite appearing to be heavily focused on the contents on his table, his eyes darted all over the place, concentrating on faces as people walked past. The calm demeanor that had always exhuded from the man was utterly absent, replaced by an air of trepidation, caution and fear.
Inwardly, Nefarian sighed. Though he’d always been a solitary creature at heart, it had been nice speaking to someone who hadn’t tried killing him immediately. But he’d always suspected he’d be let down eventually - the vendor was selling to the black market, afterall. Flicking his wrist to slide his sleeve up, he tapped his wrist as if he were checking his watch, and a sigil lit up briefly on his skin. Looking at the vendor, he saw the man jerk up, and he stooped briefly to check something underneath the table. Nefarian imagined he was using the cameras under his stall, augmented by magic and connected to his house, to check the alert they were most certainly emitting. Nefarian imagined, with a small smile on his face, that the vendor was currently seeing his house burning, courtesy of a few sigils carved in strategic areas.
“Please, sorry, I have to-” The vendor struggled his way through the crowd, desperately making his way towards one of the exits. After a moment, Nefarian followed, and as he met the jostling crowd, he raised his gloved hand slightly, reaching over and tapping a sigil on his forearm, and there was a muted flash. When the transformation was complete, leaving his hand prickling, his eyes flickered back up, a smile with teeth creeping onto his face.
The chase. It had been so long since he’s experienced the adrenaline rush of hunting. Not that it was really a chase in the traditional sense. Whereas the vendor struggled through the teaming crowd examining wares at various stalls and leisurely walking through the hall, Nefarian cut through like a shark's fin through the surface of the ocean, the crowd backing away and spreading apart as they recognised him. Emerging out from the underground lair from one of the many exit’s, Nefarian took a moment to breathe in deep. The magic in the Underground was intoxicating, too an addicting point. It would be far too easy to disappear down there forever.
Rolling his shoulders, Nefarian began following the scrambling vendor, keeping his distance and looking around as if simply on a walk. Though the house was far, the smoke trailing up into the sky acted like a beacon. Slowly moving away from the main thoroughfare of the main streets and going deeper into the isolated houses of the wealthy, isolated by lengthy driveways and lush vegetation, Nefarian followed the vendor straight to his house. With elementals living in a city of magic, one didn’t need to wait for the firetruck or the experts to arrive, but they weren’t able to prevent the house from becoming a crumbling skeleton of what it once was.
He watched the vendor stumble into the remnants of his home, frantically scrounging for anything that may have survived the inferno. Nefarian watched him for a moment, keeping an ear out for any potential witnesses. Though a part of him wanted to hang back and admire his handiwork, he knew to make this quick, before the City Guard came investigating. Making his way forward, he placed his left hand on what remained of the doorway, feeling the warmth scalding his flesh slightly. After a moment, he stepped one foot into the house, and the sense of deja vu hit him from centuries ago.
“Hello Vector.”
The vendor seemed to freeze, his hands twitching slightly over a ruined picture frame lying on the ground. Turning slowly, Vector spotted Nefarian standing before him and his knees gave out. “Mr… Mr Serpine. What… what are you…?”
“Doing here? Well,” Nefarian gestured around him, “a house burning to the ground caught my attention. I must say, I was a bit surprised to find out that it was your house.”
Vector looked up at him silently, then, stiffening his lip, he picked himself back up. “And I suppose our meeting here was a coincidence?”
Nefarian saw the false bravado on the other man’s face and laughed. “Ok fine, I’ll drop the pretense. I knew this was your house because I followed you here. Because I looked at all of your treasured family photos while I carved sigils into the walls of your home. This,” he spread his arms out, gesturing to the house, “was entirely planned. But its execution was entirely up to you, my friend.”
“You set my house on fire!”
Nefarian shook his head and held up a finger. “Vector, you had a very simple task laid out ahead of you. Getting me out of this goddamned city. But my money wasn’t enough for you was it? Someone else paid more.”
“I have expenses, Serpine, and you’re not as scary as you’d like to believe yourself to be,” Vector said, his balled fists slowly glowing yellow. “Go die in a hole somewhere.”
“Oh, don’t worry about expenses, I’m pretty sure the fire took care of those. As for being scary…” he started walking forwards, raising his right hand.
Vector made a noise of disdain, but his feet carried him away from Nefarian until his back was against his fireplace. “I thought you’d dropped the act, Serpine. We all know what happened to-” His voice cut off as Nefarian pulled the glove off of his hand, revealing a glistening, red skinless hand. Nefarian reached out, clamping his right hand around Vector’s throat, and held him there.
“You have a job that I paid you to do,” he whispered, “and you’re going to do it, or you’ll go out the way you came into the world. Screaming.”
Vector managed a nod, gurgling some kind of affirmation. As he nodded, Nefarian attached something to the man’s arm, letting his sleeve slide back down. He backed away and let Vector drop, coughing and spluttering.
“Come now, we have to leave.”
Vector shook his head, remaining on the ground. “You’ll just kill me, and if you don’t, the people who want you gone will.”
“And leave a body to be traced back to me? I don’t think so. You do this for me, we walk in different directions and never have to deal with each other again. And you’re a resourceful man, I’m certain you’ll be able to keep yourself alive.”
“You burned my house to the ground and threatened me with death. I have nowhere safe to go now. Why should I do anything for you?”
Nefarian smiled, kneeling down to look Vector in the eyes. “Because all of this could have been avoided if you’d simply done as I asked. Because right now I’m here and they’re not. Because the pain disk on your arm will leave you screaming for hours, unable to be taken off unless I deactivate it or,” Nefarian tilted his head, “you cut your arm off. It’s up to you.”
Vector seemed to deflate before him, and he sighed. “Ok. Ok. I’ll take you to the castle. Get into my car.”
“My castle.” Nefarian corrected. “And your car, that’s this mobile object, correct?” He asked as he reached the silver automobile.
“Yes, get in.”
They began driving, and as they reached the gate, Nefarian asked the burning question that hadn’t been answered. “Who paid you?”
Vector’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “You have to unders-”
“I don’t want to hear the apologies and promises. They’ll mean nothing to either of us. Just spit the name out,” he held up the pain device’s controller, and the vendor grimaced.
“Christopher Reign is the man who had me paid.”
As they reached Shudder’s Gate, Nefarian’s mind raced. He knew of this man, but had never personally met him. ‘That’ll have to change,’ he thought to himself.
The vendor bribed the man at the gate and they continued forward, and as they drove on, Roarhaven fast becoming a solitary dot in the distance, Nefarian finally felt the vestiges of something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Freedom.

I yelled and woke with a start. Sweat dripped down my face. My breathing was hard and desperate. I could have sworn I had just been falling. The stickiness of sleep meddled with the cogs of my mind. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the gloom of my bedroom and I found myself alone, safe and warm. No danger here. My heart rate slowed and I chuckled nervously. Soon all fear had seeped from my mind and all memory of my dream had faded. I rolled out of bed and shivered. Quickly I pulled on a sweater and put on my furry slippers. It was cold in this cabin in the middle of the forest. Although internal plumbing and an electric generator had been added, there was still no central heating. This did not bother me much because I always enjoyed having an excuse to light the fire in the living room. I absolutely loved traditional fireplaces.

I was whistling happily in the kitchen, sipping on a glass of cold water as I poured fresh coffee beans into my electric grinder. The sound and smell of coffee being ground always made me content. As my coffee brewed in my French press I cracked two eggs into a bowel and began to whisk. Fifteen minutes later I carried a steaming hot cheese omelet and large mug of coffee out onto my front veranda. I stood in the open doorway, surveying the beauty of the outdoors in the early morning light. The air was cold and fresh; pregnant with complex mixtures of pine and lavender scents. I looked up to see the sky was a deep blue and devoid of all clouds. The thin, dark silhouettes of the trees that surrounded the cabin stood silent and ominous in the soft half-light of the morning. White coats of frost sparkled and melted on the grass as the sun climbed and brightened. I could hear the distant sound of the stream and the call of morning birds.

I sighed deeply with satisfaction and sat down on my wooden chair. This is what I loved more than anything. More than the city that bustles and bursts with busy human lives. More than squeezing myself between strangers on the tube. More than the sickening smell of the streets and the soulless lack of any natural sounds. In the city there were no crickets, no owls, no frogs. Out here there was an abundance of beauty. The trees were so patient and still. So very different from the rushed, ill-mannered commuters I had as my usual morning partners. I definitely preferred the trees. I took another deep breath. I blew on the steam that rose from my coffee mug and sipped cautiously. The coffee was rich and delicious and scalding hot. Perfect. I began to eat my omelet letting the serenity of nature continue to wash over me. My mood had not been so elated for many months and I was seriously thinking that I should move here full-time. Currently I was working as an English teacher and had decided to come out here to work on my novel and take a break from the city. From my life. Once my excellent breakfast was complete I walked back inside and decided to start a fire to warm up the cabin. As I stooped to check the small wicker basket near the fireplace, that should contain the dried firewood, my eyebrow arched when I found the basket empty. Huh? I could have sworn it was half-full yesterday. Puzzled, I picked up the basket. Soon I put on my large, worn black coat and made my way outside.

The frosted ground crunched under my large leather boots as I waded through the woods. Finding dry branches for the fire would be fairly difficult at this time of day as most of the ground was damp by now. However, my plan was just to dry them out in the oven before I used them. After spending a few minutes stooping to inspect sticks of various sizes and dampness I finally filled the basket. “Ok, time to go home.” I muttered aloud eagerly as I rubbed my hands together. The air was still cold enough to make my breath visible and I rubbed my hands together. Suddenly I stopped. I did not recognize where I was. But how? I had been exploring the woods for days now and not one time had I gotten lost.

My eyes darted back and forth and my head swiveled in confusion. Very soon a creeping panic began to climb from my stomach up into my lungs. My heart began to thump loudly. I looked up at the sun, the voice of my old man ringing in my mind, “Learn to navigate by the stars and sun and you’ll never lose your way”. I smiled, remembering his warm eyes and loud laughter. I missed him. I closed my eyes, concentrating. “Ok, that must be East, so that means I should walk…” I stretched out my arm and hand, index finger pointed. I turned on my heel. “North. That way.”

After a few moments I found my path blocked by a sudden sheer drop. I was facing an enormous quarry. My face blanched. “What… where the hell did this come from?” Again, panic seeped into my blood. “There aren’t any bloody quarries around here!” I moved forward to peek over the edge and peered down. The drop must be at least fifteen meters! I looked from left to right and saw no stairs or bridges. How the hell was I supposed to get across? My confusion grew and grew. Then I froze. There, lying at the bottom of the quarry, was a mangled body. The light in the sky was still too young to properly illuminate the quarry’s depths, but I could tell it was a body! My eyes bulged and my mouth opened wide with astonishment. “Jesus! Hello? Are you okay down there?” I yelled. Nothing but cold silence pressed against my ears. Suddenly I noticed a path that I had not seen before. It started to my right and wound down the slope before me. Quickly I started hurrying down towards the person; maybe I could still help? Soon I was at the bottom and I ran up to the body that lay still on the ground. As I got closer and the sun grew brighter I stopped dead. The body that lay crumpled at my feet was – me. “No way. There is just absolutely no way!” I shouted. I trembled as I took a step backward. My foot slipped on a large stone and I felt myself begin to fall to the ground.

Suddenly I yelped and my legs kicked out. I blinked in the sudden darkness and found myself on my sofa in the cabin’s living room. “What the hell? It was just a dream?” I said out loud as I sat up. I felt the softness of the couch cushions beneath me, I could smell the citrus scents leftover from the wash I’d given them recently. I stood up, my breathing still fast. The large windows showed a stormy afternoon. Rain pelted the glass heavily and the wind howled loudly. “What the hell? It was just a dream?” I repeated. I checked my watch. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. I raked my brain, trying to figure out what was happening. But the details of my dream were fading. “I was in the forest looking for firewood. Then I found that body in the quarry.” It had been so real. I felt quite disoriented. Was I truly awake now? Or still asleep? And that body? What had been so terrible about it? The dream had already seeped away. I couldn’t remember.

Still confused I made my way quickly towards the front door. Just as I opened it there was a deafening peal of thunder and a bright fork of lightning lit up the darkling sky. My mouth dropped open. There, just beyond the veranda, as if it had always been there, was the quarry. That cliff! I closed my mouth. “But… how…” Ignoring the icy rain, I walked towards the edge and once again peeked over. In the cold light of another flash of lightening I saw my own body twisted and broken on the ground below. I gasped. My mind reeled. My heart fluttered. “What is going on?” I yelled looking around for some sort of explanation. When I looked back down again my face turned white. The body, my body, was gone. Suddenly I felt the eyes of a stranger on my back. A feeling of dread crept up my spine. A twig snapped. I spun around.

I stood face to face with my shadow. But he did not look like me. Not exactly. Darkness coated his body like a skintight suit and I could not tell what he was wearing. He may have even been naked for all I know. I could see most of his face and hair, but his eyes were cloaked entirely in semi-circles of shadow which fell below each of his brows. He seemed utterly unconcerned about the storm. “You poor thing. You poor, wretched thing.” When he spoke, his voice was not mine. It was deep and commanding, yet gentle. His words came out slow and calm, almost lulling, “I caught you as you fell. You can be at peace forever. But you must choose now.” He stretched out a tenebrous hand and pointed toward the edge of the cliff. Suddenly I noticed something new appear in his hands. It was a book. It was my book. The one I had been writing. Had I already finished it? Or had I just started?

He turned to one of the middle pages and read, “‘Life is the antithesis of peace. Death is the antithesis of suffering.’” He snapped the book closed and turned again to face me, “How trite. Yet, so often the plainest truths are. All you want is peace, is it not? You are right in thinking that life can never provide this.” A cold smile curled his lips. “Even the living forests you so admire are crawling with suffering and conflict. Even the trees that appear so peaceful, so still, are wordlessly fighting each other for light. Racing against each other to claim their own space. It is the nature of the living to struggle.” Confusion fought with terror in my mind. I stammered. “I…I don’t understand. What is this place? Who are you?” Suddenly the man robed in darkness leapt at me and clasped my wrist, “You know who I am”. Small, pale crimson lights flared to life like ignes fatui in the depths of his sockets. He began to pull me towards the edge. “No! Wait!” I shouted, digging my heels into the mud. But he was too strong. He snarled, “Isn’t this what you wanted?” and before I could stop myself I was crying from desperation. Then with a strength that could not be human he lifted me above his head, and threw me over the side of the quarry. Lightning flashed as the air rushed through my hair. I screamed as I plummeted to my death.

I yelled and woke with a start. I heard the soft beeping of monitors. I felt the scratchy linens of a hospital bed beneath me. Pain followed swiftly and exploded through my limbs. My voice was croaky and dry as I spoke, “Where…what the hell…what happened?” A nurse rushed to my side. “It’s alright love, you’ve ‘ad a bit of a tumble. Doctor’s got you all sorted. Just rest now”. Her voice was warm and comforting, like a cup of tea.

My memory returned to me slowly. My family did not own any cabin in the forest. The day of the accident I had been jogging in the woods and took my usual route near the abandoned quarry. I remember exactly what had happened. For a long time, I was overwhelmed with my work and underwhelmed with my life. I wanted nothing more than to finish my novel and bail on all my other responsibilities. My father had also recently died after a long and horrible fight with cancer and it was the first time I realized that at my age life stops providing and starts taking. I realized that soon all those things, all those people, I could once rely on were not going to last forever. An invisible fire was lit in my flesh and I felt my time was rapidly running out.

I jogged far, leaving the city limits. As I stood at the edge of that quarry, panting, my sadness hanging on me heavily, I had, for a moment, contemplated jumping. As I stared down, I imagined my broken body at the bottom of the cliff. Then, like in all my low moments, I let the cold inhumanness of the universe fill me up. With my eyes closed all I could hear was my mother crying over my father’s corpse. All the constant knocking of debt collectors on our door. All I could see were the endless medical bills flooding the postbox. All I felt was loneliness. A horrible, unrelenting, unsolvable loneliness. I had no great love, no amazing career, and my writing would never be good enough to publish. All I could feel was the gaping hole my father had left behind. It hurt. For just a moment I convinced myself I did not belong here anymore. My lips trembled. I walked right up to the edge. I felt my sadness swell in my chest. I clenched my fists tightly. I imagined taking a single step forward. It would be so easy. I imagined the air rushing past me. Falling to my doom. I imagined the horrible pain of the impact. But I also imagined the peace that would come after. A peace I craved. I imagined a picturesque cabin in the woods. A beautiful fireplace. A shelter from the city. A place where I could rest. It was in that moment of contemplative despair, before I could fully commit to the act, that the old unstable ground of the quarry crumbled beneath my feet and I had slipped from the edge and fell. Only the shadows were there to catch me.

Recovery was slow. My mother and sister came to visit me multiple times and made the stay at the hospital bearable. How many dreams had I had? How much had I awoken and then re-awoken? Could I be sure I was truly awake now? As I pondered this I tried to remember. But all I could recall was that very last dream. Those dark horrible eyes. The terror of that very last fall. In that moment, I had realized what I wanted. Now I felt rejuvenated in a way I had not felt for many years. The exhaustion of my spirit had finally been ameliorated. I actually looked forward to getting out of bed. I actually wanted to go to school again. My passion for teaching was reignited. Soon after my recovery I even managed to get my novel published but did not make much money.

Many years have passed since my fall and I’m in my 60s now and retired and have never married. I now know that those dreams were not just dreams. That phantom I confronted has remained with me. Whenever the stresses of life pile up and I become fatigued, he comes to me. He still waits for me. He is real. I see his eyes covered in shadow. Tiny pinpricks of crimson flicker therein. At first, I only saw him rarely; glimpses in dreams. As time went on and I grew older and weary of the world once more I began to see him in the corner of my room every night. What’s worse was that in those moments when I feel the lowest I found myself craving the solitude of that cabin. The peace it brought with it. All this I craved despite the price.

Last week I attended my mother’s funeral. It was a small affair, most of her friends having died many years before. I saw my sister there with her husband and children. They are so happy and full of life. I feel a pang of jealousy but also relief. My life was always to be a solitary one. My sister and I cried during the service. When we chatted later we tried in vain to comfort each other. I returned alone to my home in London while she returned home with her husband and children to Edinburgh. I really missed her a great deal.

Since the funeral I see him constantly. Often his shadow-hidden hand stretches out and he holds a revolver. But he does not mean to shoot me. No. He holds the revolver’s ivory handle toward me. Sometimes he holds out a hangman’s noose. Sometimes it’s a long, ornate dagger. Most recently he holds out a canister of helium gas. And a plastic bag for my head. Each time he does this I resist him. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I even yell at him to leave. His face remains dark, stony and enigmatic.

None of this would scare me quite so much if I had not just realized one terrible detail. What turns my blood to ice from fear is that every time I see him he is infinitesimally closer. How had I not noticed before? Perhaps it was a kindness. Gooseflesh runs down my neck as I see him standing insidiously in my cold bedroom. He is near the edge of my bed now. He is patient and has respected my choice so far. Nevertheless, he holds out that same revolver. That same noose. That same dagger. I tremble with fright because I know I will not be able to resist him much longer. Perhaps soon I’ll know if this was all a dream too.

So after many months of endless house viewings and bidding wars and rejections, my offer was finally selected for this single story house in Flower Mound, Texas, built in 1998. The home inspection was today, and as a FIRST TIME home buyer, I'm posting to get some advice on whether I should go through with this purchase.
Per sq ft, the house is about $250, so definitely not cheap for this area. But I really like the location and the layout of the house.
There were a long list of things in the inspection report, but the major issues that concern me are below. What do y'all think?? Even after reviewing the list I still want the house. Any thoughts on the drainage issue and the tilting? Do you think that's too serious??
1) Downsputs of water at the back of the house were located so close to the house that the rain water was collecting to the back right corner of the house. The house was also observed to be tilted down about 5 inches in that back right corner. The inspector recommended the drainage to be re-routed away from the house. Looks like the seller is aware of this and says they are getting it fixed. I had thought about creating a concrete patio in the backyard anyway, and the inspector said if I can make a slight slope away from the house it will resolve the issue. There are drainage issues in front of the house too, so re-routing will need to be done there as well.
2) The tilt in the back right corner (likely caused by the drain of water going there) raised foundation concerns so I'm getting inspection done on Monday. The inspector did not see any visible evidence of foundation issues from the house, but because of tilting he said it is possible that they recommend putting a few piers in that back right corner.
3) No front or side gutters - cost money but can be done.
4) Kitchen tiles some cracked and not well bound - could be a foundation issue or the tilt. I was gonna get new tiles anyway.
5) Few windows have broken seal and are foggy
6) Fireplace doesn't turn on. The damper was missing they had shoved a few towels up there to close the gap.
7) Wood fence is old and sealant is needed
8) Gas Pipe bonding wire missing - who do I call??
9) Fire ants present - need to call pest control