Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong closed her eyes again. The Beast had stopped pacing now, though its breath was still ragged. Steam rolled off its back. Its rage had nowhere to go—but it listened.

She reached out once more, her fingers trailing the worn surface of the gate.

“Light,” she whispered. “Then loss. But not all light fades.”







Her voice grew softer.

“She went deeper. She always does. Into places no one else could follow…”





Riversong’s other hand curled around her staff, her voice no longer shaking.

“But we’re still here.”



The orbs pulsed in rhythm—then ignited all at once.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The ruin groaned.

Stone shifted—slow at first, ancient mechanisms grinding into motion with a sound like earth waking from a long, bitter sleep. The six orbs flared brighter, casting kaleidoscopic reflections over the water-slicked walls. Then—

CRACK.

The center of the sealed gate split clean down the middle, light spilling through the crack like a sunrise beneath the sea. The stone pulled apart with a hiss of air and pressure, folding backward into the walls with surprising grace.

Beyond it:

A vast, sunken corridor.

The ceiling arched high overhead, held by pillars choked in coral and thick roots. Faint blue lights glimmered down the tunnel like stars underwater—distant, rhythmic, beckoning. The floor was slick with moss and tide marks, but walkable. Passable.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The moment the gate groaned open, the Beast surged to its feet.

It staggered at first—still shaking from the last blow, steam rising from its back—but its eyes flared again. The fury hadn’t cooled. It had only waited.

“Wait—!” Riversong called out, reaching toward him.

But he didn’t.

With a snarl, the Beast threw its weight forward and barreled into the corridor, shadows trailing behind like smoke pulled by grief. Its hooves cracked against stone, claws scraping moss-slick floor as it stormed into the ruin, breath ragged, chest heaving.

Sniffing. Searching.

Atticus had gone this way. He knew it.

Riversong froze for a breath—her hand still outstretched, eyes wide. Then she exhaled, tight and uncertain, clutching her staff.

“Of course,” she muttered, voice soft with worry. “He only knows forward.”

And she ran after him.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Beast’s steps echoed through the corridor like thunder trapped underground—deep, pulsing, relentless.

And then—sudden stillness.

The passage opened.

And beyond it—

Silence.

A massive, domed chamber yawned open before him—vast and hollow, carved from ancient stone long swallowed by time. The air here was thicker, colder, pressed down by weight that wasn’t gravity.

Waiting.

The room was round, symmetrical—too perfect. The floor was a wide disc, smooth and cracked with thin glowing lines that pulsed faintly beneath moss and damp. The far wall held no exit. Only stone. Smooth. Impossibly unmarred.

Above, the ceiling sloped like a hollowed shell. Etchings lined its surface—old sigils, some familiar, most lost to history. None glowed. None spoke.

There was no sound.

Not a whisper. Not a drip. Even the Beast’s breathing felt too loud.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast stalked into the chamber, claws tapping across the strange stone beneath his paws. The air hit him like a wall—cold, weighty, suffocating. His breath steamed in the stillness. Every scent felt dulled. Every echo swallowed.

He didn’t understand this place.

And he didn’t care.

Where was Atticus?

Where was she?

The Beast’s ears twitched. Nothing.

His body tensed—coiled.

Then he screamed.

A sharp, guttural roar tore from his throat, ripping through the quiet like a blade through silk. The chamber rang with it—but nothing answered.

He snapped.

Snarling, the Beast threw himself at the wall—again and again—horns scraping, hooves slamming, shoulders crashing against stone that didn’t yield. He howled, raged, clawed, his body wild with panic and fury, striking at the room itself as if it had taken her.

He would tear this place apart to bring her back.

Behind him—footsteps.

Riversong staggered into the chamber, one hand on the wall as she caught her breath. Her hair clung to her shoulders, soaked with sea and sweat. Her gaze fixed on the Beast, watching as he thrashed, shaking the floor with every blow.

And her eyes shifted—drawn not just to the chaos…

But to the silence.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The moment Riversong’s foot crossed the threshold—

SLAM.

The door behind her crashed shut, a sudden, deafening thunderclap that shook dust from the ceiling. The stone sealed smooth, seamless as a tomb.

No hinges. No seam. No way back.

The sound echoed—and then was swallowed. The chamber returned to stillness. Thicker now. Watching.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong’s breath hitched at the slam behind her—stone crashing into place like the final beat of a ritual—but what followed was worse.

It wasn’t silence.

It was something else. A sound, low and wrong, rising like pressure beneath her ribs. A breath drawn in by something unseen.

She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying herself.

The Beast didn’t flinch.

Its head snapped up—ears pricking, muscles tense. It turned slowly toward the source of that deeper presence, steam curling from its nostrils.

Then—

A roar.

Guttural. Twisted. Wounded. It answered the sound not with fear, but with fury. The walls trembled under the weight of its voice. The Beast stood tall, bared fangs gleaming, as if daring whatever watched to show itself.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

From the dark, something stirred.

At first, it was only a shape—too wide, too tall, too still. Then the eye opened.

Not two.

One.

Massive. Centered.

Blazing with a molten light that pulsed like a wound too deep to close.

The walls groaned, as though even the chamber strained under the weight of what had been trapped here.

From the far end of the room, the Riftkin stepped forward.

Towering.

Monstrous.

Four rms moved with slow, calculated grace—too smooth for something that large. Its horns scraped the ceiling. Its claws twitched with anticipation. And that eye never blinked.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast held his ground, muscles coiled, eyes blazing. He growled low—warning. Waiting. Ready to launch if the Riftkin so much as twitched wrong.

From behind him, Rippletail shimmered free from the staff, trembling in the air. It circled once around Riversong’s shoulder before ducking low into her hair, voice barely a whisper.

“R-Riversong… I don’t like this…”

“I know, little one,” she murmured, hand steady on her staff.

The Riftkin loomed—massive, unmoving, unnatural. The sealed door behind them. The weight of the chamber pressing in on all sides. The Beast’s breath ragged with fury beside her.

She looked at him—at the pain blazing beneath his fur, burning so hot it nearly scorched her skin just standing near. Mordecai. Her son, buried inside with wrath. Their pain together.

No.

They would not play this game. They would not become what had tried to destroy them.

Riversong stepped forward.

Calm.

Unshaken.

Rippletail peeked out from her long white hair as her crystal-tipped staff began to glow—soft and gentle, like moonlight reflected in a stream.

She extended her other arm, palm out toward the Beast.

"The River’s Lullaby" (1/session) Like the soft song of flowing water, Riversong’s spirit weaves harmony into the restless, calling even the most untamed hearts to stillness. Once per session, she can calm a frightened, enraged, or unstable creature, guiding it gently back from the brink of violence. The effect is not control, but a wordless understanding, allowing the creature to find peace through its own will.

“Enough,” she said, her voice low but clear. Not pleading—guiding. “We do not have to hurt anymore.”

And as her words echoed, the magic unfurled: not force, not control—but a tether of stillness. A lullaby without song. A river choosing to flow instead of flood.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Riftkin’s body jerked—sudden, violent.

Its limbs flared wide, that central eye pulsing bright with molten fury. For a breathless second, it looked as though the lullaby had failed. A roar tore from its throat—inhuman, distorted—shaking the very walls of the ruin. Its claws scraped against the floor as it lunged forward a half step.

The Beast dropped low, snarling, ready to launch.

But Riversong didn’t move.

Her palm remained steady. Her voice unshaken.

And the light in her staff pulsed again—soft, unwavering.

Not a command.

A choice.

The Riftkin froze, every muscle twitching, trembling under its own strain. Its breath came hard. Labored. Like something ancient remembering how to breathe for the first time.

Then—

It exhaled.

The glow in its eye dimmed, shifting from fire to amber. Still molten—but no longer burning.

The Riftkin turned slowly, lumbering toward the far end of the chamber. It dragged one massive hand across the stone wall—once, twice—until something clicked.

With a low rumble, a seam opened.

A hidden door.

The Riftkin pressed its upper arms into the stone and pulled. The door shifted open—heavy, old, groaning like bones being moved after centuries.

Light spilled in—soft, blue, distant.

Then it turned back.

Faced them.

And knelt.

Massive, dark, silent.

Its eye lowered, gaze soft but never closed.

---

The passage beyond the Riftkin’s gesture yawned open like the throat of a long-forgotten reef—narrow, glimmering, and alive with ancient oceanic breath.

The walls shimmered with embedded coral—sprawling growths of blue, violet, and pale rose that pulsed faintly with bioluminescence. Each step into the corridor echoed with a soft, watery hush, like waves drawn through stone. Tiny organisms blinked within the coral like stars behind glass, casting shifting lights across the slick floor.

Veins of barnacle-encrusted crystal spidered through the ceiling, catching the glow and bending it into soft, wavering patterns that danced along the walls like memories half-forgotten. Shell fragments lay beneath thin sheets of water that coated the stone, making each footfall slick, reflective, dreamlike.

Above, the ceiling curved in arches shaped like open clamshells—elegant and vast, crusted with pale minerals. Some of them dripped steadily, like the passage wept slow, steady tears from the weight of the sea pressing down, even this far inland.

As Riversong and the Beast moved through it, the very air changed—thicker, charged with a deep, quiet pressure. It felt less like walking toward something and more like sinking into it.

The ruin did not threaten.

It waited.

Silent. Patient.

And up ahead, past the bend where coral grew thickest and the glow brightest—something stirred.

The final room.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong walked beside the Beast.

For once, he didn’t charge forward. Didn’t tear at the stone or roar at the dark. The fury still burned beneath his skin—but something in him had quieted. Not peace, no. But a pause. A breath drawn, rather than spent.

When she had calmed the Riftkin, something in him had knelt with her. Not because he was commanded—but because something in him understood the stillness.

Now they walked together.

Her staff pulsed with soft light in one hand. The other rested gently atop the Beast’s massive shoulder, fingers threading through thick, shadow-warmed fur. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just walked—step for step—with her.

The coral grew thicker around them now. Living walls of violet and blue shimmered faintly, casting drifting light across the passage like they were moving through the ribs of a sleeping leviathan.

The Beast let out a low growl—quiet, resonant, not meant to threaten. Just to be known.

Riversong’s fingers ran gently through his fur again. She closed her eyes for a moment. Breathed. Then opened them.

Her voice didn’t echo when she spoke.

It didn’t need to.

“It’s time to come out,” she said, soft but certain—addressed not to shadow, or sea, or stone.

But to whatever waited in the final room.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

From the far end of the coral-lit chamber, a ripple passed through the light—subtle at first, like a current shifting direction. Then it split open.

Atticus emerged.

No disguise now.

No veil of Ephraim’s borrowed skin.

Only him.

Lithe. Tall. Alien. The glow of deep-sea light danced in his wide, impossible eyes—pupils burning with eerie cheer, teeth bared in a grin that didn’t reach his soul. If he had one.

He strode forward like he belonged here, like the ocean had carved the room just for him. His coat swayed with each step, adorned in baubles of bone and glimmering glass. His lantern pulsed with soft green light overhead, swinging lazily like a lure.

Both arms lifted slowly—open-palmed.

“Here I am,” he said, voice velvet and venom. “No tricks. No borrowed beauty. Just me.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast did not move.

It stood rooted at the center of the chamber, shoulders rising and falling in slow, jagged rhythm. Shadow steamed off its back like heat from a forge, but its claws did not scrape. Its maw did not snap. Its eyes—still glowing with that blistering wrath—were angled low, not at Atticus… but just beyond him. Toward the ground.

Like a storm held in pause.

Breathing. Smoldering. Present.

But still.

Riversong stood beside him, her hand resting gently at the base of his thick, bristled mane. She had not pulled it away, even now. Her staff remained at her side, lit with a quiet ripple of magic—but no threat. No posture of combat.

She watched as Atticus emerged, unmasked, tall and gleaming with the strange grace of something forged beneath impossible pressure. And when he spoke, when he opened those long, empty palms and revealed nothing but himself…

She didn’t raise her staff.

She nodded once.

Softly.

“Thank you,” she said.

The words drifted like an exhale—genuine, weathered, oddly warm.

And then she tilted her head, one step forward—not fearful, not bold. Simply present. A woman who had walked through decades of grief, joy, and silence, and come out the other side with more questions than answers. But still… willing to ask.

Her voice came gently.

"All this," she said, motioning to the coral-lit chamber, to the Beast beside her, to the ruin itself, still echoing with the aftermath of violence, "and you come dressed in your own skin at last.”

She smiled—not mocking. Not smug. Just… a quiet, knowing thing.

“Why now?”

Her gaze held his, steady as tide. "What is it, Atticus, that makes you think your face isn’t enough?"

She didn’t demand.

She didn’t accuse.

She simply asked. Like a mother who had seen too many people spend their lives pretending not to be themselves—and couldn’t help but wonder why.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Atticus didn’t laugh.

Not this time.

He stood there, arms still wide, palms exposed—like a statue caught mid-confession. Water clung to his coat, glinting like glass in the coral light, but nothing in him moved. Not his gills. Not his tail. Not even the sway of breath.

Just—stillness.

So precise it became unnatural.

He tilted his head ever so slightly at Riversong’s words, and his eyes—those glowing pits of cruel calm—narrowed, faintly amused. Not at her. Not at the question. At the memory it conjured.

“They always ask the soft ones,” he said, voice quiet. “The ones that sound like kindness but bite like guilt.”

Then, to the Beast:

“But not him.”

His gaze locked on the creature—on the steam, the fire, the raw fury sheathed in form.

“I come now in my own skin, and he wears a grave,” Atticus said, stepping forward by the smallest inch. “And I’m the one hiding?”

He smiled now—not cruel, not wide. Just sharp. Clean.

“You all act like this Wrath is noble. Like it’s love.” His tone didn’t rise, but it coiled tighter, words snapping like reins. “But it's just armor, isn't it? A bigger cage. A louder silence.”

Still, he didn’t move beyond that subtle lean. Didn’t breathe too deep.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong kept her hand nestled in the Beast’s fur, her touch slow, deliberate—soothing more than restraining. Her gaze remained on Atticus, but her posture was anything but combative. She gave a small, amused breath, almost a laugh, as if she had heard an old song in his voice.

"I'm sure you wouldn't expect someone like me to have anything worth saying,” she murmured with a quiet smile, her voice like warm rain. “But I don’t ask to trick you, Atticus. I ask… simply because I ask.”

She looked to the Beast again, stroking along the ridge of its tense shoulder, her fingers threading gently through the fire-warmed fur.

“Hiding…” she repeated, almost to herself. Her voice softened—not out of pity, but recognition. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it, if this universe offered us simple truths? A world where Riftkin walk free, where magic doesn’t fracture the soul, where gods don’t spin grief into legacy.”

Her hand paused. She looked at the Beast, and then back to Atticus.

“All of that—so vast, so complex—and still, it’s the smallest thing that aches the most.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “To be understood.”

There was no venom in her tone. No judgment. Just that quiet steadiness she carried like bone-deep memory.

“Despite the fact I rode him in pursuit of you,” she said gently, her thumb brushing along the Beast’s fur, “and we seemed to speak as one… I never truly loved Wrath. Not like the others did. Maybe not even like I should have.”

She looked down.

“I thought he was something that could be removed. Something I could take away from someone I loved.” Her palm pressed against the Beast’s side. “But it was never meant to be like that. And I still don’t understand why.”

The silence hung like mist.

“But we don’t have to understand everything, Atticus.” She looked up again, not smiling now, but steady. Clear. “People get built different. We don’t need to figure it out. We just need to respect it.”

The Beast exhaled—not as a roar, but a long, ragged sound like embers catching breath. Still, it didn’t move.

Riversong took a breath, light and full.

Then—she looked at Atticus once more, her voice low, but unmistakably sincere:

“You’ve spent so long becoming someone else… I hope one day you give yourself permission to become yourself instead.”

Her voice dropped, quieter now. Not pleading. Just honest.

“We need Ephraim back, Atticus. The others taken, too.”

She blinked slowly, the weight behind her eyes steady. “You know that. I think you’ve always known that since we...started bonding.” She smiled slightly. "I haven't had fun like that in a while."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Atticus was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that the air in the room began to feel less like it was holding breath—and more like it was waiting to exhale.

He did not sneer. He did not lash. His mask—though still physically present, hooked lazily at his side—might as well have been shattered already. There was nothing to hide.

His head tilted slightly, just enough to catch Riversong in full view. He looked at her—not past her, not through her, but at her. The words she'd spoken hadn't been dismissed. They had landed.

For a moment.

“There’s a saying among Kin…” he murmured, voice low and slow, like the start of a folktale. “That water carries memory.”

The chamber didn’t echo this time. It swallowed the words, held them close.

He let the sentence hang in the air—almost reverent. And then, gently, like setting a candle down before it could burn too long—

“But memory is fickle.”

He rose to a half-stand, his hands still open, wrists limp at his sides. A tilt of the head. A calmness that was not peace, but preparation.

“We remember what we see,” he continued, voice threading between them like silk through stone. “We believe what we know. Ephraim believed that Orlin was guilty. So it was. Truth doesn’t matter, not to belief.”

He looked to the Beast—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.

Understanding.

“Not that we care,” he added, gently, almost conversational. “All Kin must die. We know this as Harlekins.”

The smile returned now—soft. Strangely warm. Beautiful, even, if not for the razor hidden behind it.

“But our time is defined by relationships,” he said, words slow and certain now. “The time we spend with the people we love.”

He turned his eyes back to Riversong—measured, deliberate.

“And you, Riversong… You seem to love deeply. You love your son. His wife. Your husband. The Riftkin. You carry all of them. You always have.”

He stepped forward—just once. Not threatening. Just present.

“Fascinating,” he breathed. “Truly.”

Then—

He dropped to his knees.

Without flair. Without mockery. Just lowered himself to the cold, wet stone floor and looked up at her.

At them.

He didn’t reach for his mask.

He didn’t reach for a weapon.

He just opened his hands wider.

“You should kill me,” he said.

And he meant it.

“Crush my mask. Take my life. End it. You’ve come all this way—chased me across cities, through ruin and tide. Why waste another second?”

A pause.

The silence was no longer waiting. It tightened.

“This is the part where vengeance feels good,” he said, eyes fixed not on Riversong… but on the Beast.

“You’ve already won.”

And still—

He smiled.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast didn’t move.

It breathed—low, heavy, steady—but remained still, bristling under Riversong’s hand. A growl pulsed beneath its throat like a storm waiting in the bones. But it held.

Riversong watched Atticus kneel, her fingers still buried in the thick fur of the Beast’s shoulder. She gave a slow, quiet sigh as his words settled between them.

But memory is fickle.

She thought on that. Then, with the faintest smile, she murmured,
“Maybe so. But the river remembers what the rain forgets.”

Her eyes stayed on him. Kind. Tired. Clear.

She stepped forward—just slightly—and reached out, her hand lowering toward Atticus in quiet offering.

“Atticus—” she began softly.

But then she froze.

Her breath caught. Eyes widened. She had made a mistake.

Her hand had left the Beast.

And in that breath—

It moved.

Like a dam bursting.

The Beast’s body surged forward, a wave of blackened muscle and fire. Its fur flared like smoke catching wind. Fangs bared. Eyes lit like twin furnaces.

It roared—an earth-shaking, bone-deep howl—and launched.

The porcelain mask was in its jaws before Atticus could breathe. A crack echoed—then another—jaws clamping down, crushing through ceramic like bone.

The Beast crouched low, shoulders heaving, massive form looming over Atticus like judgment made flesh. Flames curled from its mouth as it snarled, pinning him beneath shadow and fury.

And Riversong—
She didn’t speak.
She only watched.

Hand still hanging in the air where the offer had once been.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The crack of ceramic still rang in the air when the silence shattered again.

Not with grief.

Not with vengeance.

But laughter.

It rippled in from behind. Not loud at first—soft, almost sweet. The kind of giggle you’d hear backstage before a curtain rose. But then it built. And built. Until it curled upward into something jagged, shrieking, shrill with delight.

And there—at the far edge of the chamber’s coral-lit wall—Poise emerged like a fever dream.

A silhouette made of limbs too graceful and posture too precise, swathed in a dress that shimmered like a spilled oil painting—spirals of rainbow and dusk stitched into living fabric. Their hips swayed with practiced ease, the hem of their gown slithering across the stone like a serpent made of silk. One clawed hand rested delicately against the side of their masked face, fingers fluttering like they’d just seen the most divine tragedy unfold before them.

“Ohhhh," Poise purred, voice high and sharp as glass. “That was beautiful.”

They twirled once—arms outstretched in mock mourning, spinning in place like a dancer drunk on applause.

“I mean really! The drama! The betrayal! The broken little mask!” They clutched their chest, letting their head roll back in glee. “You people know how to throw a death scene!”

Their head snapped forward again, the ears of their porcelain mask tilted just slightly as they stepped closer—heels clicking.

“And you, my darling Mordecai…” Their voice dropped into a velvet purr. “Do you know how hard it is to make murder look that good? I could kiss you for it. Truly.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast froze.

Not in fear.

But in a silence that crackled beneath its skin—muscles coiled, head slowly turning, eyes burning brighter.

Riversong turned with far less tension. She blinked once at the figure approaching through the coral light. Another Harlekin, yes—dangerous, surely—but her first instinct wasn’t panic. It was honest admiration.

“Oh wow,” she breathed, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Your dress is beautiful.”

She clasped her staff lightly under one arm, gaze drifting along the shimmering folds of Poise’s gown. “Rhinestones out here like that?” she chuckled. “You’re onto something.”

She crossed her arms, amused in spite of herself, and added with a smirk, “Really makes me regret this moss-stained wrap.”

The Beast flicked its head toward her with a low growl—not loud, but pointed. Irritated. Almost scolding.

She glanced back at him with a raised brow, unbothered. “What? I’m not gonna lie. It’s a look.”

But the moment passed.

The Beast turned fully to face Poise now—no more distractions. The shimmer, the mask, the laugh—none of it changed what it saw. Not to Wrath. Not to Mordecai. There, behind all the silk and showmanship, was something old.

Something that had always known exactly how to twist the knife.

The roar erupted like a flame catching air—feral, deep, a storm cracking from its throat as it launched forward, claws scraping stone, jaws open to tear.

Riversong staggered back a step, hand rising instinctively—not in fear, but reflex—as the Beast barreled past her.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Poise didn't flinch.

Not when the roar shook the chamber. Not when the Beast charged with enough fury to split mountains.

They only sighed—long, theatrical—one hand delicately placed over their chest.

"Belarus, darling. If you'd be so kind."

CRACK—

Stone split as a massive figure dropped from the coral ceiling like a thunderbolt of ink and bone.

Belarus hit the ground hard—arms outstretched, legs planted. His frame was wide, his limbs chitinous, and two enormous antennae curled forward like crown-tipped spears. The mask he wore was plain, a deep gray with sharp, antlike mandibles sculpted into the jaw.

And when the Beast struck him—

It didn’t land.

The impact rippled.

A burst of violet light spiraled out from Belarus’s chest like a bell toll underwater. It didn’t block the hit—it received it. The full weight of the blow transferred not to flesh, but to magic. To shared pain. A tether. A conduit.

Belarus grunted, knees bending, the coral floor cracking beneath his feet—but he didn’t fall. He held. He anchored.

Poise, behind him, let out a delighted gasp.

“Oh, my God, I love that part,” they cooed, stepping lightly around Belarus like the stage had been set for them. “He’s very good at catching things. Even tantrums.”

They stopped—just a few paces from the writhing heat of the Beast. Just outside the flare of its teeth.

Then, calm as moonlight, they raised both hands.

“No need to rush,” Poise said, voice suddenly velvet-smooth. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

Their head tilted.

“I came to tell you the truth.”

Their arms lowered—slow, elegant.

"You killed Atticus,” they said, tone soft and almost reverent. “But in doing so… you fulfilled the last wish of a dying man.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast staggered back a step, breath heaving, muscles twitching beneath the bristling flames along its spine. Its chest heaved with fury, fangs bared, eyes seething with that unrelenting fire. It roared again—louder this time—thrashing its head, scattering embers like sparks from a forge.

Riversong stood her ground but didn’t move forward, her eyes narrowing with caution. “I wouldn’t expect much of a conversation with him,” she said, voice steady. “I don’t think he talks.”

The Beast growled at her—a low, sharp sound—before turning back on Belarus and Poise, its breath rasping like a furnace stoked too long. The flickering shadows around its frame pulsed brighter—like the heat was building, begging to be unleashed again.

And it was.

With another roar, the Beast launched forward once more at Poise—head down, horns gleaming, charging with the force of a collapsing mountain. No strategy. No question. Only raw fury.

Riversong flinched, one hand lifted instinctively—but her voice cut through the tension, firmer than before.

“What are you trying to get out of this?” she called out, eyes locked on Poise now. “All of this… why?”

There was no trembling in her words anymore.

Only the sharp clarity of someone who had seen too much grief to be impressed by a show.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Belarus didn’t speak either.

But he moved like stone made flesh, arms wide, planted between the Beast and Poise like a monolith of silent defiance. Magic radiated off his body in long, steady pulses—defensive, resilient. When the Beast struck, it struck Belarus, and Belarus absorbed it—his body trembling slightly with the weight of each blow, his mask unmoving, his stance unwavering. The chamber echoed with each impact, like thunder trapped in a bottle.

Poise stood just behind him, unfazed.

One clawed hand lifted, brushing invisible dust from the glittering curve of his shoulder. His dress shimmered in the low coral light—glamorous, untouched by the violence. Then, with a single twirl of his wrist, he turned toward Riversong, striking a fluid, theatrical pose with one hip cocked and an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh darling,” he said, voice velvet-smooth and dripping with venomous amusement. “Don’t you see? It was never about the conversation.”

He gestured around the chamber, slow and sweeping, as if unveiling a stage set.

“This?” His voice rose. “This was a play. A single, beautiful act.” He laughed—sharp, high, a little too delighted. “Atticus always knew he wouldn’t make it to curtain call.”

Poise tilted his head, the mask catching light in a shimmer of ivory and shadow.

“But death, you see…” He stepped lightly to the side as Belarus absorbed another hit behind him, “…death has ripples.”

He made a spiraling gesture with his fingers.

“And now?” His grin was audible. “Now Ephraim wakes up—believing she saw Mordecai try to kill her form. She felt the betrayal. Not because it happened. But because the magic needed it to be true.”

His voice dropped, lips close to the air, like confessing to a lover.

“She’ll never forgive him. And he’ll know it.”

He turned slowly, dress swirling, walking a few steps toward the far end of the room—toward another unseen passage.

Belarus stood his ground, body battered but unbroken, guarding his exit like a sentinel of shared suffering.

Poise glanced back once, over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he added with a flourish. "And I've grown tired of your city... let's do find a new spot to Rendezvous,"

He snapped his fingers.

“I'd say bring Ephraim but... who knows what company she'll want to keep? Perhaps she'll want to sit on the council with me once more. I do miss her wit."

Then he walked into the dark—smiling.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast stood heaving, chest rising in ragged pulls, the weight of Poise’s exit settling like ash in its fur. It didn’t chase.

It couldn’t.

It just stared—shoulders trembling, horns lowered, eyes flaring without focus. The adrenaline was fading, but something deeper remained. A raw pulse of ache that couldn’t be burned out. Not even by Wrath.

Riversong stood still, a chill along her arms as Poise’s words echoed like poison:

“She felt the betrayal. Not because it happened. But because the magic needed it to be true.

Her lips parted. “No…” she whispered. “Ephraim wouldn’t.”
She looked at the Beast. Her voice was firmer now, shaking off the chill. “She knows him.”

Riversong stepped forward, hand out, palm settling against the curve of the Beast’s broad shoulder. Her fingers sank into the scorched black fur. The heat of him pulsed beneath, but so did something else—something caught in the cage of muscle and fury.

She met its eyes.

Not pupils. No familiarity. Just burning sockets of flame. Empty and too full. Still, she leaned in, forehead nearly to his, her voice hushed like wind through the trees.

“You’re still in there.”
A pause. Her breath caught.
“It’ll be alright. Come on. We need to get back to her. She needs you.”

The stone slabs creaked open behind them, but Riversong didn’t turn. She nudged the Beast gently, and slowly, like fog rolling through memory, they began to walk.

---

A long time ago, on a familiar old houseboat:

Silvano’s ears flicked, and his tail twitched against the floorboards. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’s just trying to get by, same as anyone. But I cornered him, stirred things up for my own ends. Now I can’t stop thinking about the mess I left him in.”

Mordecai let the silence linger, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re feeling guilt,” he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact. “And it’s not the first time, is it?”

Silvano’s jaw tightened. “Does it matter if it is? Guilt doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t change what I’ve done.”

“No,” Mordecai agreed, leaning forward slightly. “But it tells you something about yourself. Guilt is a signal, Silvano. It means you still have lines you don’t want to cross. Boundaries you haven’t given up on. The question is, what do you want to do about it?”

Silvano scoffed, though there was no real heat behind it. “What can I do? Apologize? Clean up the mess? This life doesn’t leave room for second chances.”

Mordecai stroked his beard, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right—second chances don’t come easy. But they do exist, even here. The problem is, they usually cost something. Are you willing to pay that price to keep your conscience intact?”

Silvano frowned, his hands gripping the edge of his stool. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve spent so long surviving, scheming, staying ahead. I’m not sure I even know who I am anymore.”

Mordecai’s smile was faint but knowing. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To figure that out.”

Silvano blinked, caught off guard. He opened his mouth to argue but found no words. Mordecai had a way of cutting through his defenses, seeing past the walls he carefully maintained.

“You know,” Mordecai continued, leaning back with a slow drag from his cigarette, “it’s not weakness to care. It’s not even weakness to regret. But it is weakness to let those feelings paralyze you. You’re smart, Silvano. You know how to play the game. But if you lose sight of yourself, what’s the point?”

Silvano stared down at his empty glass, Mordecai’s words settling over him like a weight. “You make it sound so simple,” he muttered.

“It’s not,” Mordecai said with a faint chuckle. “But neither is surviving. And you’ve managed that just fine.”

---

Across the sea they walked—not with urgency, not with fire, but with the silence of something lost. The Beast didn’t run. He drifted. His paws and hooves touched the ocean surface as if it were stone, the same path he tore through when chasing Atticus. Now, it held him like a ghost walking home.

Riversong rode atop him again, one hand resting steady on his back, her staff across her lap. Neither spoke.

The water rolled beneath them.

---

Through the woods, they passed ruin after ruin. Scorched trees. Shredded bark. Earth still blackened where flames once burned too hot to be natural. It was silent now—but the path bore the mark of fury. A trail not made by a monster…

…but by pain.

---

The Beast’s head dipped. He sniffed the earth, slow, cautious. A scent.

Not Atticus.

Her.

Ephraim.

His tail shifted. Not wagging—but not still. A whine—soft, wounded—broke from his throat.

Riversong smiled faintly. “Soon,” she whispered, stroking the mane behind his shoulders. “You won’t have to keep hurting.”

---

They re-entered the Riftkin District, the same path the Beast had fled through days ago in pure chaos. Now—he returned slow. Quiet.

The porcelain masks under his hooves cracked as he stepped forward.

He looked toward the building where she had once been.

Stillness.

The district was quiet again, but not empty. It felt heavy. Like the air was mourning too.

Riversong slid from his back. Her hooves met the ground with a soft thud. She placed one final hand against his neck, grounding him.

The Beast let out a low, exhausted whine.

He looked up at the building.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Darkness clung to her lungs.

Not the comforting dark of sleep or spellwork—but something heavier. Older. A pressure behind her ribs. Like she'd been underwater too long. Like her body remembered drowning, even if she didn’t.

And then—
Light.

No, not light. Sensation. Cold air brushing her arms. The weight of cloth clinging damp to her skin. The taste of salt on her tongue, bitter and metallic.

Her body jerked before she even knew why.

She gasped.

Choked.

Then sat up fast—too fast—fingers digging into the sheets like she could claw her way back from something that hadn’t let go yet.

She was crying.

She didn’t know when it had started. The tears burned cold, not hot. Her breath came in shallow bursts. Her heart wouldn’t slow. Her whole body ached—not from injury, but from something deeper. Like grief. Or fear.

She blinked.

The room was familiar.

But it felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Too clean.

Her hand went to her chest—flat, searching—and the other to her side, as if bracing for pain. She whispered—hoarse, dry:

“...Mordecai?”

No answer.

Just her breath in the stillness.

She curled forward slowly, arms wrapping around herself. As if holding herself together was the only thing she could do.

But the worst part?

She didn’t know what was real.

Or who had hurt her.

Or why the image of him—his horns, his hands, his eyes—felt like a blade lodged in the back of her mind.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon had kept to his post, silent and still. He didn’t like this place—too quiet, too clean. Something hung in the air. Heavy. Wrong.

Ephraim hadn’t stirred for hours. Breathing, but still. Her skin cold, soaked like she'd been dragged from a river. He didn’t understand it. Magic, maybe. Riftkin things. He stayed anyway.

He kept thinking about the beast.

The one that burst from the district.

He’d never seen a creature like that. Not just big—wrong. Like it tore the world around it just by breathing. That roar still rang in his ears.

Then—

A gasp. A sound like drowning. Wet crying.

Eryon spun, boots heavy against the floor.

“Lady Ephraim!” he barked, rushing to her side. His hand hovered, not touching—ready to catch, steady, do something.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t seem to see anything.

“You’re awake…” he muttered, but it didn’t sound like a relief. She was shaking. Holding herself. Eyes lost.

“Mordecai’s not here,” he said, blunt. Not cruel—just true.

He paused, trying to say more.

Didn’t.

Then a sound outside. Heavy. Like something big was breathing just beyond the door.

Eryon turned, hand on his axe. Ear twitching.