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the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
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CEL
Part of the Furniture
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i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
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“Unit S-I5 to NCPD, we have apprehended the suspects. I repeat, Unit S-I5 to NCPD, we have apprehended the suspects.”



The crackle of a police scanner brings the sleek apartment alive. In a damn near instant, its occupant settles on his chair — lavender hair peeking out of a perfectly maintained grooming routine. He doesn’t really give a damn about the lifestyle.



Instead, Jamie Saito would argue there are more important things to focus on, as the wired channel continues to sing.



“We’re taking the suspects to the station, over.”



“How many are there?”



“Four, sir. Looks to all be edgerunners.”



“Of course they are.”




Four?




Now, isn’t that interesting.



The executive types onto his keyboard, pulls out a folder, as the report continues. Another monitor shows news footage of the firefight: gang war, according to the headlines. Some new territory grab until the cops came in, breaking off the fight, isn’t that nice?



lmfao, what a joke.



He keeps looking through his files. An idle glance is given to the newscast again — the reporter keeps things sanitary, clinical. He delivers a straightforward summary without giving all the details, and Jamie rolls his eyes.



He keeps searching.



“Got names for them?”


“One of them calls themself Q-Bit, sir. Damn sure they’re a netrunner. Got a rockerboy named Kitty with them, plus a solo called Archon.”


He settles on a clip of a company’s profile, then looks back at the feed.



Pause. Capture.



Jamie narrows his eyes as he stares at the screenshot.



Enhance.



In the background, a couple crates with a single logo plastered on the side.



“Well, well, well, my dear friend…”



Why on earth would Humanatech supplies be found in the fringes of a firefight?


“Didn’t you say there were four?”


“The last one’s with another team, sir.”


Especially when Humanatech has, curiously, been catching his attention as of late.


“I do love a good conspiracy.”



Something is brewing here — Jamie is certain. Moreover, he loves being right. And if months worth of unresolved investigations begin to draw together in the stringboard of his mind, whirring with near hundreds of potential ammunition, thread, and stray end, well then.



Play the right move, and that’s another player down.



The only thing that’s left, then, is confirmation. A means to blow this whole operation wide open, when the games corporations play always fasten their secrets and leave poison at the door. Humanatech may not be global, not yet, but its name holds weight, and for as long as he maintains employ of Ziggurat’s finest PR team — he knows whatever misstep he takes could stoke a larger fire.



Jamie sighs.



Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted that promotion.



He needs to find another route.



“Another solo. Handle’s Nightshade. He’s been around the mill a few times.”


Only then does the scanner actually break him out of his thoughts. It’s sudden, inelegant, when the executive’s head snaps to stare at the radio. Listen to the rest of the conversation.



“Take them all in for interrogation. We’ve got a long night ahead.”


“Of course, sir.”







Nightshade does not ask to use his one-call. It is given without request.



He does still take the call, though.



“Care to regale me with the grand epic of how you got caught by NCPD, babe?”



He sighs.



“Do I want to know how you found out, Jamie?”



“The good and respectable Night City way, of course! I watched the news.”



What Jamie doesn’t say, unsurprisingly, is that he’d wiretapped a cop car the last time they needed to take Ziggurat’s nepotism baby, in all his drunken glory, home. Nightshade rolls his eyes.



“The bail’s two thousand eddies.”



“Just for you?”



Immediately, he knows the trail of thought passing through the other boy’s head. He does not question it.



When you know Jamie Saito, you know that he always has some angle to play. A hundred different plans in his head — most stupid, some remarkable, and still some several shades of incomprehensible that it leaves saner men breaking. And so, he doesn’t ask.



He already has a feeling.



“Half that for each of the other runners. They’re fresh meat.”



“Are they any good?”



He considers this for a moment, allowing the phone to rest between his shoulder and his ear. In the same motion, one hand begins to trace the edges of chrome across his other arm.



Truthfully, he could break out if he wanted. A sword cybernetically attached to your bones does wonders, when unveiled. But Nightshade knows Jamie prefers to keep things clean. Easier plot point to backtrack on when you need it, as he puts it, in the unknown anomaly that is his head.



“They held their own better than the O-Zoners did.”



“And did you figure who the enemy gang was?”



“Don’t think they were a gang. Hired mercs, more like.”



“Epic.”



“It isn’t ‘epic’, Jamie.”



“It iiiiis for us. You know that as well as I do, Kai.”



He gives a non-committal sound that, only to Jamie’s ears, he suspects would read as agreement.



“Can’t tell if they’d be willing to work with a corpo.”



“Then they can consider me their super cool anonymous benefactor. For now, anyway.”



“You think they’re mad enough to want to dive headfirst into a job an anonymous benefactor will give them, after this shit?”



“Ohhhh, good point.”



Babe.”



But, I raise you: they’re newcomers with potential, and they’ve just been betrayed. Most of the O-Zoners dispersed by the time MAX-TAC came. And, remind me, what did the O-Zoners want again?”



“...All Gravestone told me was that Electrica heard there’d be a big dead drop. Black market-level shit.”



“And was this in a well-populated, well-known, or otherwise notable location, my dear knight in shining armor?”



“No.”



“So how would MAX-TAC immediately know where to go, just a few minutes after the firefight started? With all the manpower they brought?”



Of course he did his homework.



“You think the O-Zoners were sold out.”



“Night City’s a dog-eat-dog world, and the facts are all there. Not only do I think they were sold out. I'd bet there had to be a mole.”



He frowns.



“And if your friends are as new as you say they are — which, of course, I believe everything my amazing boyfriend has to say — I’m willing to bet they think they were compromised too.”



There’s a song in Jamie’s voice, one that reminds him of smug victory. He doesn’t bother to remind him what the tarot cards suggested last week. Jamie never believed in the esoterica. He always likes having shit answered, neatly. Immediately. Frustratingly. Nightshade is certain that, when faced with a locked door, Jamie would be perfectly content with blowing the whole damn thing open to sate his curiosity.



He tries not to think of a future in which that could well lead him to the darkest ditch, with little mercy of a good funeral. The kind of fate media journalists with a knack for hunting down truth and corruption only really get in this goddamn place.



He tries not to consider the possibility of worse.



“So you think that they’ll want answers.”



“Who wouldn’t? Nobody goes edgerunner just to take the dirt this city gives them. We go down fighting, and we give the big man hell while we’re at it too.”



Or you’re just shot down by the firing squad, Jamie, he almost says.



He hates the way concern and fear wraps around his person at the rhetoric. Turn back time a year, and Jamie should have been everything he hated in a person: rich boy coddled by a good family name, surrounded by the fancy lights and high-rise apartments. Doesn’t know any better, too sheltered by a world that loved to please him. The kind of wannabe revolutionist who only goes into the gig because it sounds cool, it sounds edgy, it sounds dangerous, and it’s not a matter of life-and-death, really, because privilege is one hell of a cushion you can run away to when the bad and the ugly show its colors. The slow death of poverty and corruption, as granted by the powers that be, isn’t a real thing; it’s a game. Demanding a revolution isn’t a necessity; it’s a pretty word. And the moment the curtain falls, Jamie can run away, to his fancy apartment, and all his riches, let the media swoon over the orphan boy who lost his rich parents at 22, only to inherit their whole empire. No troubles. Nothing to starve him into a slow, unremarkable, nameless death sentence.



Everything Kai Hamasaki despises about Night City, wrapped up nice and pretty in a human form.



But they’re here now, and he can’t ignore the burning buildings Jamie’s devoted himself to rushing into. The delicate tightrope he balances, knowing the proverbial abyss waiting for him below. The rich boy chooses this, absolutely; gambles identity, association, political belief, and causes with damn near reckless abandon. All because he thinks that he can outsmart every other force there is, and if he dies for this, then let it be doing the important thing.



Night City is home only to the terrible and the tragic. And Jamie is a good person, who believes in truth, justice, and fighting the good fight. And so, there is only one way for his story to go.



It terrifies him.



He wants to tell him to go back to the nice and easy, to take his hand and beg him to run away with him beyond these borders, go as far as they can go where the corporations and the conspiracies and the gangs and the cyber won’t find them. Try to see what country they can disappear to, rewrite their passports until it gets them a small house in the fringes of nowhere and plant a garden, have a pet, whatever other domestic bullshit can be had in this time. In this year. In this lifetime.



Instead, Nightshade sighs, and knows come heaven and hell and all the storms after, their work isn’t done.



“Need me to bring them to you, once they’re free?”



“Depends — did your sparkling personality win them over enough to trust you? Please don’t say it did too much, I’ll get jealous.”



Jamie.”



It’s baffling, how easy it is to love him, despite how Nightshade knows this story will go.



“I love you too, Kai.”



Somewhere, distant from his voice, Nightshade hears the ping of money sent.



“Time for us to figure out what Humanatech’s got in store, yeah?”



"Yeah. To shutting another corp down."



"That's the most romantic thing you've said to me."



"Jamie."



Not a few minutes later, an officer unlocks his door, and he knows it's back to work.



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[attr="class","prism-notes"]prompt - 08, call & response | this time went with two npcs from a cyberpunk 2020 campaign i dm-ed for my rl friends, genuinely rlly funny how the party response to these two went from "super untrustworthy people with their own agenda" to "CAN WE PLEASE WORK FOR THE POWER COUPLE"
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last edit on Jun 28, 2024 18:15:12 GMT by CEL



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
extremely. i'm stupid picky with graphics and want them to look aesthetically cohesive with the other crops i pick for a character, complimentary to the post template & wherever else i'd use the image (ex. post template, profileand the vibes of the character or their storyline (ex. 1 and 2 for a "doomed by the narrative tragic anti-villain", 1 for a "doctor and champion of life but with angel of death vibes" archetype, 1 for a "perfect noble son at the expense of his own personal identity" archetype, 1 for a "life of the party trickster with an endge of unhinged extremism" archetype) + the site setting and tone (ex. 1 and 2 for a dragon age site, so i wanted a more muted and subdued palette, kinda giving "parchment-y" energy).

i rlly wish i was kidding LMAO. i have so many psd files saved in my laptop for so many characters and crops. i usually like editing and finding the Best vibe for an image too, so its usually a win-win. usually. other times i cry and regret ever having photoshop.
last edit on Jun 28, 2024 6:28:18 GMT by CEL



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
as underwhelming as the main storyline of the stray gods orpheus dlc is (will freely admit i set my expectations too high and assumed the plot was smth it Wasnt based on the leaked achievements + trailer + prior summaries), the three ending options make me feel insane in an authorial level. i blame pathologic the marble nest for making me a sucker for "how do you move on from the fact your story/life is supposed to be over but here you are still persisting against the whims of fate. so what are you gonna do about it" vibes. 

also @/summerfall let me romance eros. i want the orpheus/eros route so badly its not even funny anymore.



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
the way me and my work friend are rlly indifferent to 90% of star wars properties (ask me my feelings about andor and rogue one i dare you) and yet here we are planning a daily watch party of the acolyte now all because of manny jacinto and criticism calling it a "queer marxist vandalization of star wars" will never not be funny to me



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
references to violence




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[attr="class","prism-textbox"]When she closes her eyes, the phantom pain returns until it hollows out her bones.



Not literally, Logan is sure. For as bad as the damage had been, the twins had gotten them to an ambulance before the wound became irreparable. There’s just the shadow of an action, a numbness across her shoulderblade where the knife had been. If she digs deeper at the sensation, she thinks she remembers the way the cultist twisted it — macabre rearrangement, sadistic enjoyment, predator toys with prey.



“Allow me to ask you again.”


Logan hates it.



“Are you scared, Miss Investigator?”


She still goes back to work.







There’s a child in front of her who claims he’s the devil, and Logan thinks this is the greatest fucking joke life’s played on her yet.



John doesn’t seem to think so, but John’s always been a sucker for this kind of shit. Believer in the supernatural and everything it entails. She thought it funny once, made a game of it. One side a believer, the other a cynic, makes for a credible enough investigation firm in a place like Saintsport, City of the Occult. Then they investigated an abandoned warehouse, walked into some fucked up cult initiation rite, Ren gets found out, and in trying to play the responsible adult who needs to make sure her high school intern is safe — Logan Hisau is beaten, dragged, and displayed before their leader like it’s a shitty snuff buff’s fantasy, and he stabs her until she screams, and Logan Hisau is acutely aware that none of this is a game anymore.



She still thinks the kid’s bullshitting her, though.



"You want us to help you find a way back home,” she repeats, dangling a lollipop across her fingers as she watches him. “Which is Hell.”


The kid sighs, the kind of way that reminds her too much of academic condescension, reminds her of that one twin (Henry, wasn’t it? Ugh, it doesn’t matter now).



“I told you mortal solutions wouldn’t work, Miss Duarte.”


His companion — the older woman (thirties, if she had to guess), with the sunglasses and the designer outfit, shakes her head. Slips the glasses down to stare at him, and truthfully, Logan is pretty damn sure she’s the kind of woman who could get anything she wanted with that look, which only begs the question of what her role is in all this.



“And I told you my family wouldn’t be an option. August alone would kill you.”



“I’d rather put my faith on witch hunters than… whatever that is.”



She hates him already.



“Big words from a demon, Addie.”



“If you must refer to me by name, do it properly.”



The woman turns to meet her gaze, apologetic, and all Logan can say is:



“You actually believe him?”


Moreover, what was that he said about witch hunters?



“There’s a great big world out there, yeah?” The woman smiles, drop-dead confidence, and Logan could almost trust that she knows what she’s about. “He’s the real article. The longer he stays here, the riskier it gets for his host.”



“A child’s body isn’t meant for long-term possession, and I despise how helpless it is,” the kid-demon-Addie interrupts. “Further, the longer away I am from my domain, the likelier my rivals would take advantage of the absence.”



“Right.”



“Wars in Hell have been waged for lesser conflicts. A Great Prince gone missing is more than that.”



She doesn’t believe what she’s hearing. Turns her head to John and Ren, needing the confirmation that this isn’t a dream. The fear in John’s eyes is enough of an argument as he starts, “Logan, if any of this shit is remotely true—you know it’s bad news. We’re not taking the case.”



“I can’t read him,” Ren adds. “It’s like… hearing nails on a chalkboard. I can’t sense his thoughts.”



The kid snorts. “Even your psychic agrees.”



Logan Hisau does not believe in ghosts, the supernatural, or what goes bump in the night. The only thing she’d ever believed in was herself, what she could make happen with her own two hands, and what facts and stories she could capture with a camera and a pen. The paranormal was never part of that equation. Witch hunters were not part of that equation. Demons were never part of that equation.



Her gut instinct claims to shut the door before the kid’s face, call out the prank and the joke, and focus on paying the next month’s rent. To stand at the precipice, humoring the delusion of a possible gang war for Hell was beyond her paygrade.



And yet, despite herself and her better judgment, she remembers the cult. Still active, still out there, still needs to be found.



Are you scared, Miss Investigator?




She tells John to drop Ren off at school, in the end.







“Assuming that I believe what you’re both telling me, and Hisau & Meyer Paranormal Investigations takes on your case.”



Logan taps the surface of her desk as she watches them—Arin Duarte, eldest of a supposed ancient family of witch hunters, and her self-imposed charge, Micah Lazarev, witch child currently… indisposed by a supposed possession by a Great Prince of Hell, Adremelech. All of it still sounds like a joke.



Her eyes narrow. “Let’s discuss payment.”



Adremelech smiles, smug as sin. Even in that body, he reminds her of power. Absolute.



“You’re in conversation with a demon, Miss Hisau. A Great Prince, even. What would you like in exchange?”



His eyes are bright gold hellfire. It sends a chill down her spine, and the room goes cold in each passing second. Logan keeps her gaze level.



“I could give you the means to start a revolution, challenge political leaders, run away to the next continent. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. Your darkest and most twisted dreams brought to life.”



He extends a hand. “All it takes is a deal.”



“Does it really count as a deal with a demon if I don’t think you’re one?” Logan muses, evaluating the limb. She notes the way Arin looks away, plausible deniability, maybe.



“If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?”



Logan has never been one for religion and spirituality — John cared more about that stuff than her — and yet everything about what she’s doing now screams at her to go, run, stop before it’s too late. Like she’s walking into something forbidden, and something that, if she does wrong, could end in so many variants of tragedy, loss, and suffering.



And yet, she remains unfazed. Impassive cool, even in the face of odds beyond a meager mortal journalist’s hands.



Are you scared, Miss Investigator?




“It’s called payment. You’re the one who needs my help. My conditions are your repayment,” she clarifies. In all the stories she’s heard, read, and watched, bargains with demons were never meant to be taken lightly. Each word must be deliberate. Each decision, certain.



He makes a non-committal, annoyed sound. Logan almost takes it as a victory.



“I can’t help you get home if this is all I’m capable of —” for extra measure, she gestures at her own person, so absolutely human it hurts, just like the knife wound, “— so let's talk.”



Her mind whirrs with all the possibility, heady with the danger of diving headfirst into a world beyond her. Moreover, sharpened resolve at the thought of facing a dark corner.



“Teach me forbidden witchcraft, black magic, whatever. Make me powerful enough to expose a cult, and I’ll find you a way home.”



It sounds so effortlessly simple, when spoken aloud.



He doesn’t say anything at first, and Logan wonders if he’s ever experienced been anything other than the toll collector. Part of her wonders if he’s already found a way to have it all blow up in her face.



She’ll still take that chance.



“And your companions?” Adremelech inquires, turning his gaze toward the office door. “You dismissed them before this, so I assume they wouldn’t be happy with this development?”



John would hate her if he knew. Try to stop her before she can even get a fraction of work done, stifle the match before the fire even comes. Ren would join him, and Logan will hate herself for disappointing a student that relied on her.



Are you scared, Miss Investigator?




But there’s a cult on the loose, and she needs this. Justice, retribution, karma — whatever you wanted to believe in. And so, when presented with an opportunity, no matter what it is…



“The psychic would be an issue, you realize. They can sense magic.” He talks with a casual drawl that unnerves, a cat waking up from a long slumber. Her nails dig into her palm.



She knows.



“We keep it a secret,” Logan decides, before glancing Arin’s way. The woman still doesn’t look at them, and she turns back to the wolf in this story. “And you teach me how to guard against myself against psychics. Misdirect their attention away from the magic, so they don’t notice anything’s changed.”



His smile widens, his eyes glow gold, hungry.



“That’s a new bargain, Miss Hisau.”



She had a feeling.



What is Logan Hisau willing to give to see justice done?

What cost is she willing to pay?




Are you scared, Miss Investigator?




“Name your price.”



He gives her a lazy, careless smile. “A favor.”



It’s easy to understand the situation. She was balancing a tightrope, and he was trying to cut the strings. But she was smarter, and reckless, and desperate.



In the end, though, never make a bargain with a person who believes they have nothing to lose.



Adremelech offers his hand again.



"Do we have a deal, Logan Hisau?"



Here is a secret Logan had always known: sometimes, stories and opportunities don't come in neatly wrapped presents. They don't come knocking on your door, waiting patiently for you to take them. And sometimes, they don't come without conditions. You have to grab on, and grab tight, and never let go. And you have to be willing to do whatever it takes. If you can't beat the odds, you change the game entirely.


Logan Hisau takes his outstretched hand, determination in her gaze, something boiling deep within her. You could say it was the magic of their contract, their deal, festering within like a plague. But it could have been something far more mundane, far more human, filling itself like its own disease and choking mortal men whole, as she decides to shake hands with a demon.


Are you scared, Miss Investigator?


She wouldn't be.



"It's a deal, Adremelech."

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[attr="class","prism-notes"]prompt - 12, forbidden | from an old private rp with my closest rp circle, would you believe me if i said our original pitch for this group of characters + their plotline was "silly shenanigans with funny regular people while our mcs have the big plot to do"
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last edit on Jun 28, 2024 18:18:28 GMT by CEL



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
references to survivor's guilt, suicide ideation, the concept of "being another reprise of your murderer as per a cycle of violence and trauma". content warning too for a lot of swearing?


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LAURA
I killed you once, didn’t I?


THIAN
Surprised you actually remember that.


LAURA
I’ve always been bad at forgetting.


THIAN
You killed me twice, for the record.








side a:



the blood of witches that demanded a better world lives and breathes in her veins, and her parents die in the afterthought of another man’s duty. takes what’s left behind of the family before she could learn vietnamese. gives them a new home, and everyone calls her the daughter of heretics and monsters, as they overwrite what remains of her name to a more acceptable alternative. she is not trinh, make her prince, and let everyone ignore the blood in her bones.



the girl had a brother, once. it didn’t last.



side b:

the blood of witches that yearned for a better world lives and breathes in his veins, and his parents die one-by-one in the classic story of runaway immigrants hung on the noose of their traumas, demons, and burdens. governments do as governments do, take what’s left behind of the family before he could learn vietnamese. gives them a substitute for a new home, at least temporarily, promising there will be better, and everyone calls him the kid who can never let go. there is no escaping his name, his face, or the person he is, but fuck, does trying to be palatable never turn out.


the boy had a brother, once. it didn’t last.






THIAN
Why the hell are you even here, anyway?


LAURA
I thought I could talk you out of this.


THIAN
You want to talk me out of this. You, of all fucking people?


LAURA
You sound like you hate me.


THIAN
I do. Fuck you.




the girl makes a friend, and he’s everything she isn’t. sunshine and gold in a person, with a heart so big it hurts. he’s a believer — in good, in worth, in salvation that always seemed so far away from her two hands. she thinks she loves him. it will never be enough.



when people speak of stories, he is the protagonist, and everyone else proves themselves a character worth remembering in each retelling. he’ll bleed for someone, anyone, and the world will call him great. and she will watch him in the sidelines, allow each decree and demand of her knowing it always comes with strings she willingly takes because it’s something, and she’s never the person chosen for the story, or the time, or the reason, or the cause — too difficult, too sad, too angry, too distant, too imperfect for someone else’s perfect hero’s journey. and he will keep winning, and she will keep losing, and her life will become a symphony of ghosts, almosts, maybes, and forgetting, until it drives her mad, and death takes her with the bullet of a man who wanted to reclaim his crown by killing his usurper — not her, but another. she just happens to be collateral.



wrath’s prince likes her enough to save her, though. so at least there’s that.



she’ll live.


the boy makes a friend, and she’s everything he isn’t. easy laughter and unrelenting hope in a person, with an unsated curiosity so big it’s overwhelming. she’s a believer — in possibility, in worth, in what might be. he knows he loves her, albeit not in the easy way many others understand. it will kill him. the first time, anyway.


when people speak of stories, he is the one surrounded by protagonists — the people proven to be worth remembering, with their own grand story, goal, motivation, or possibility for a place in the world. and he’s the one who waits and watches, always the love interest, the objective or the opportunity, and he’ll bleed for someone, anyone, and the world will call him foolish for even trying. difficult for trying to stop. and that will be the rest of his life: a series of loving and losing, personhood overwritten for the way someone wants him, until there’s no more to want — too difficult, too sad, too angry, too distant, too imperfect for someone’s perfect love story. and someone always has to leave, and it is never him, and his life will become a symphony of ghosts, almosts, maybes, and regretting, long after the first time he’s died with the bullet of a girl who just desperately wanted to be worth something. his death is not intentional, mind, simply collateral.


lust’s prince likes him well enough to save him, though, so at least there’s that.


he’ll live.






THIAN
Is this some sick way to atone in your head for killing Hathorne?


LAURA
That was two years ago. The Garden’s only come up in the past six months.


THIAN
You didn’t answer the question.


LAURA
I know.


THIAN
Are you even fucking sorry for what you did to me?


LAURA
I know you’ll never forgive me, so I’m trying to be better instead.


THIAN
Fuck that. I don’t get to be filler angst for your goddamn redemption story. Not after what all your bullshit put me through. The after-effects of what you did to me were fucking real, and I’m the one who’s still dealing with it.


LAURA
I know.


THIAN
So how the hell do you have the audacity to say shit like that?


LAURA
I’m sorry.


THIAN
I don’t forgive you.


LAURA
I know.


THIAN
…Do you mean it.


LAURA
Why else am I standing here — trying to talk to someone who’s decided to give himself up for a cause?


THIAN
This isn’t some Society bullshit?


LAURA
I’m sorry, Thian.


THIAN
Cool. I still don’t forgive you.


LAURA
I know. I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either.


THIAN
And yet you’re still standing there?


LAURA
...I guess I just know what it’s like. To think you’re a lost cause.






hunters will remember her as the witch who’d doomed their future. a cause she’d given a lifetime for, twiceover, will see only the failures and the problems she’d left. a match of good intentions, striking fire to burn it all down. she who killed her dearest friend, symbol of tomorrow, greatest witch hunter of this generation, future leader of the holiest creed, son of saints and kings. she who’d married witchcraft with the divine, ushering forward a new dawn of warfare and ammunition. the very pillars in which a cult hellbent on ringing forth kingdom come with their own hands has used to rise in prominence.



never the child soldier who just tried to listen, obey, and perpetuate. all because her survival rested on how well a weapon she could be.



laura prince thinks she really should not have been the one to live past the graveyard.



she thinks she will always be sorry, and as long as she lives, wrath’s song will whisper in her ear — a shackle and a collar that burns with all her regrets and mourning. she thinks all she wants anymore is to rest.



what a disservice that must be, after everything she has wrought.



perhaps there are fates far worse than death, in the end.




monsters will remember him as the voice of a generation. a cause that presents itself as the only road left when a mentor holds a gun to your forehead and your savior leads you into the only place left to go — with nowhere to return to, no home or person to find shelter in — where else can you stay, but the one that presents itself as that which is left for you? and so many others begin to see him, and hear the sound of the music he plays (never mind how much of it is colored in the undercurrent of desire itself), and all that’s left of the person is an idol. messenger. beloved, by the thousands, and never known.


all he is left is a mask — the proponent of injustice, demand, change — dissected into the hurts and fury of every monster that wanted something more. someone has to be. someone will. in the unstable balance that is the fate of this city, there is always one group who has to bend, and one who has to be hurt until they’ve had enough.


thian lê thinks st. romain really shouldn’t have missed the shot.


he thinks that, in the end, this must be all he’s ever been good for. a hollow vessel for a roaring crowd, and he thinks that this could be enough for him when there’s nothing (no one) else left with him.


maybe that all makes sense, then, and at least the illusion of love feels nice in the moment.


he doesn’t think there’s any coming back from this.






LAURA
You know that none of this is love.


THIAN
Yeah.


THIAN
Not like I have any other option, though.


LAURA
I said the same thing, once.


LAURA
It cost me everything.






once upon a time, a desperate girl shoots a boy in a cave, and he should have died. instead, his life is granted an irreparable cost.



skip a year or two later, and she’s everything she shouldn’t be — gave herself in to a demon, its promise, and can burn a man alive with her own two hands. huntress becomes hunted, but the cause still remains, and when there’s nowhere else to go, she meets the symbol of her god head on, awaits execution.



he offers penance with a single extended hand, and a query:



don’t you want to change this world for the better?



where else can you go, but to the end of the line?



fast forward years down the line — both witches, one hunter and the other hunted, and in searching for a way to keep herself alive, she takes aim.


once upon a time, a desperate boy follows after a dead girl in the eve of a macabre masquerade. she saves him from a mentor, and brings him to her safe space, and it isn’t his, and it’s ruled by a woman who’s lost everything to revolution, but she still extends a hand to him, sees how well he plays, and poses a simple offer.


aren’t you tired of being this way?


of losing. of having nothing. of always, always, always being the one left behind as the world moves forward, carrying the wounds of everyone else’s story.


don’t you want to change this world for the better?


he takes it.


she takes it.


he misses the person he used to be, and mourns everything he couldn’t become.


she misses the person she used to be, and mourns everything she couldn’t become.



she really should not have been the one who lived through this story.


he really should not have been the one this story turns to be about.






THIAN
I’m not like you. Shut up.


LAURA
I really hope you don’t turn out to be.


THIAN
Shut up.






side c (a different timeline):



“you know, you remind me of someone i once knew,” a boy with bright ginger hair says as he enters the car. immediately, thian considers slamming the door in his face. it’d make more sense, given their loyalties.



“if you say my brother, i will jump out this car.”



hathorne laughs, and it makes the blood in his veins boil.



“no, no. not him. she’s—she was definitely not him.”



thian’s not stupid enough to dismiss the word choice, but he can’t help the curiosity that comes with a comparison. even if to question it feels, dangerously, like accepting prophecy.



“was?”







LAURA
Do you think The Garden’s cause is worth dying for?


THIAN
I don’t know.


LAURA
Worth killing for?


THIAN
I don’t know.


LAURA
Worth San Llorona for?


THIAN
If this is your way of talking me out of the hole I dug myself in, you’re doing a shit job at it.


LAURA
Then I guess I’ll see you at their deadline, Hamelin.


THIAN


LAURA
For what its worth, I’m hoping not to pull the trigger a third time.


THIAN
But you will, if worst comes to worst?


LAURA
You sound like you want me to.


THIAN






all he ever wanted these days was to finally rest.







LAURA
Yeah. I know the feeling.

[attr="class","prism-meta"]
[attr="class","prism-notes"]prompt - 19, symmetry | my favorite au from this site was one where i killed my protag while his villain foil survived and went through a brutal redemption arc, got emo about it, especially given how hard it turned out the said villain foil mirrored another character i wrote, and here we are
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[attr="class","credits"]made by gimmick






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last edit on Jun 27, 2024 17:28:07 GMT by CEL



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
fixing the baby sims bug is so important to me actually, but does the "skinny dip with mummy" wish still come up?

in all seriousness though, in love with this concept. avidly anticipating!



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
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Oh Fire Which lighteth Us, protect us from Evil…


“Aye, yeah, you never did tell me — what brought you to the Eternal Fire?”


O Purest Fire, heal our Hearts.



“I mean, I’ve heard the rumors, but none of them can really be true, right, friend?”



Fire Most Holy, drive all Monstrosities from us.



“They say you came from Cintra, choked out as many mages and elves and hid under the floorboards until everything was ash. And others claim you’d murdered a duke. In. Cold. Blood. For the record. I daresay, I even heard one mention you to be the bastard of our good old Father Obaga, and that’s why he’s soft on you, friend.”



O Fire Which Turneth All to ash, incinerate the hearts of our Foes.


“It doesn’t explain why you have the blessing of Kreve, though. Or why you’re still here.”

O Fire Which Danceth, show us the Path which most pleasest thee


“Annnnd you’re staring at me. Terrifying glare, by the by. Could make a man think you’ll bury him in pieces.”

Red Flame which Burneth Brightly, spare us from Suffering.


“That only asks more questions, though. Why would someone like you turn to priesthood?”

Fire which Burneth Eternally, guide us after Death.


“Come now, if we’re to train together, wouldn’t it do us well to be, oh, I don’t know, friends?”

Heating Fire, guide us while we yet Live.


“At the very least, I’d like to understand what drives a holy man to a bottle of spirits each night.”

Eternal Fire, to thee we rest our prayers.



This is what Severine remembers, an absolute recollection of dreams and nightmares to haunt his waking moments:

Death, primarily.

A father taken too quickly with a soldier’s sword through the chest. A mother captured by the victors, thrown into the prettiest houses of the fat and blind. A sister whose leg is caught with thorns wrapped around to suffocate. A brother who saw fire too closely its wrath takes his eye. A baby left in the street, before magic takes over and swallows the earth. A friend lost to smoke. A neighbor gone mad. Whispers of a queen, her queen, the hero of this story, atop their final fortress, before she takes her last step forward —



“Do you really not know what happened in Cintra?” He asks, and it’s the first time she’s spoken this night, and his throat feels raw with a childhood’s worth of grief. Quickly, Severine finds it overwritten with something worse.



“Everyone knows what happened in Cintra, Sev,” Ribis responds, sighing.



“Everyone who knows what happened in Cintra had the luxury of hearing a story.”



Her grip on the bottle of spirits tightens, and Severine wonders what it must be like — to never be the witness. To only hear of tragedy and war, in all its macabre details, without an echo of memory in your body. Without the demons, or the nightmares, or being the one who survives the atrocity of another's victory.



“You didn’t see the mages at work. You didn’t see the Emhyr’s army destroy my home. You didn’t cling to the hope that Queen Calanthe would find a way to stop the invasion, only to hear that she jumped to her death.”



There must be a funeral in the fact she can’t even remember how old he’s been the night the world turned over. And, suddenly, Severine finds that she envies his companion. She finds that he wants him to choke on the sound of his own voice.



“If I’m still here after all of that, then there must be a reason.”



She’s aware there’s a simplicity to the logic: a desperate plea of hope, or sense, in a reality in which there is no reason to his trauma. Only the greed of a tyrant, and to be a footnote — a nameless statistic — in the history books of his war and his victories. In the lack of justice, faith must be enough of a substitute.



“A priest of Kreve found me, so there must be a reason why he did.”



What he doesn’t say is that she needs there to be.



There’s a newfound silence that sinks, enveloping the room. For a brief moment, Ribis does not speak, allowing only the hymns of the church ground to fill the quiet in his stead. Severine drinks.



“Kreve is a bit different from the Fire, isn’t it?” He asks.



“In a way,” she responds after.



Eternal Fire, in Thee we trust.



“Kreve believes in the fight against all evil, but above all else — Kreve wants to protect, to take decisive action. When you pray to Kreve, you pray to the sky, and it will point a way for you to go.”



There’s a kindness when he talks of the religion, like one does a relative of the wake.



“But,” Severine continues, “the Eternal Fire promises more than that.”



She knows that he’s staring at him. She does not meet his gaze.



“The Eternal Fire promises a tomorrow.”



When pressed to choose: isn’t that worth faith?



“To be the light that illuminates the darkness.”



To understand that, despite everything, there was meaning to what he’d endured.



“I came to the Eternal Fire,” she says instead, turning his gaze above (a sky full of stars, and all Severine can feel is the smoke of absolute desolation, in memoria), “because it gives me a purpose.”



“What kind of purpose?”



“To be alive, I think.”



Severine never wanted a path. All she needed was a reason.



“And do you think that’s worth what they’ll make us do?”



Only then does he look at the boy on the other bed, with his bright eyes and golden hair. Ribis is pretty in the way Severine knows she isn’t: his edges soft, sweetness in his lips. There is good in him — one that, achingly, reminds him of the siblings she’d already lost.



Ribis would have liked Kreve, Severine thinks. Their god demands less blood.



“If it means no other Northern Kingdom ends up like Cintra — I’d do anything the Fire asks.”



Eternal Fire, we have no other gods before Thee.



In a time far away, the edge of her poleaxe rests sweetly against the mage’s neck, silencing any plea it could ask. Its wide eyes meet his, sweat dripping down its brow. In this light, it looks almost helpless.

“May the Eternal Fire guide my path,” Ser Severine of Cintra, Once Chaplain of the Flaming Rose, Knight of Redania, Inquisitor of the Eternal Fire, living weapon of the church and hunter of all mages, murmurs, like prayer on his tongue. It is instinct by now, honed after all these years.

Wherever Ribis is, she only hopes he has seen kinder times.

“And I shall build your pyre.”

The mage is not granted a chance to scream when the guillotine falls.
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[attr="class","prism-notes"]prompt -  05, so they say | you know this character started out as a joking archetype on the concept of an edgelord priest for my party's witcher campaign. also they shot god at some point. they kinda died and i had to reroll a new character but, like, worth it.
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[attr="class","credits"]made by gimmick



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last edit on Jun 27, 2024 17:28:43 GMT by CEL



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
username: been using "celestique" in 90% of my online stuff for as long as i can remember, like, 2012 in fanfiction.net and never had reason/want/concern to change it tbh. had it since my ffn days, my youtube amv days, use it on ao3, and so on and so forth.

i chose it bc i used to be big on fairy tail when i was younger and wanted a single-word username that played on "celestial" (bc of lucy's key magic), thought of mystique from x-men, combined the two words, et voila.

hover: changli wuthering waves hot. i am a simple gay. i usually have good luck in getting gacha characters i like if i fc them (i.e. e2s1 aventurine in hsr; c0r1 clorinde in genshin; etc), but i haven't thought of a place or character i'd want to use changli for, so i'll settle for manifesting her here LMAO please



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
almost done with this new playthrough of dragon age origins and its rlly funny how much taste can change over the years. we don't psychoanalyze my original playthrough having the happiest possible ending whereas this one is just bittersweet with a hint of tragedy

also dang, this game was cooking



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
stray gods orpheus coming out on both pc + consoles next week is the only thing keeping me sane rn ill be honest

also i rlly SHOULDNT spend my money on watch_dogs 2 and legion of all things but i cant lie and say im not in the mood for their specific vibes rn, god help me



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
seconding what hellsy said above, reread some old posts and forgot i was cooking by having my three major characters in this site foil each other via different philosophies in different threads/posts, i.e


Freedom in Kirkwall is standing at the edge of a cliff, and knowing your only option is to dive headfirst.

Or, at the very least, that's how it feels as the reality of her situation dawns on her. In those stories from the novels she's read, Iseult could see this as the culmination of all her attempts to run from fate. Consequence. To survive, blood on her hands, and keep moving ahead. Not many could claim to have killed Templars, or Tevinter mercenaries. Not many mages could claim to survive even an encounter.

Power in Kirkwall comes synonymous with standing at a cliff's edge, knowing the only way forward is to jump.

Such is the price of something so transient — slippery, really. Every Prince of Revelry before him would know. After all, how many predecessors had become stepping stones for this throne?

How long would it take, until he could no longer maintain it?

They say the Prince of Starkhaven intends to take Kirkwall, and the Viscount is dead. In the search of someone who could represent — Roma Zhou volunteers, of all the possible options. Someone must. He would never hesitate when it is startlingly clear what indifference could make.


A future for Kirkwall means standing before a cliff, understanding the only path worth taking is the step forward.

last edit on Jun 16, 2024 6:37:39 GMT by CEL



coming soon.
the narrative
aliasCel, Nightlock
pronounsShe/They
821written posts
CELearned bits
offlinecurrently
CEL
Part of the Furniture
CEL Avatar
i don't get angry when i'm pissed; i'm the eternal optimist.
slay the princess pristine cut and stray gods orpheus dlc cannot release any sooner, please please please i want them

added thought: being a non-bridgerton watcher while all my rl friends are is a fascinating experience, i know virtually nothing about this show but i will commit war crimes for the honor of several characters
last edit on Jun 16, 2024 6:22:48 GMT by CEL



coming soon.