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  • Ich Rekommi mal wieder so, weil ich es sonst wieder garantiert vergesse - ich kenne mich ja (*schaut zu den mehreren hundert unbeantworteten Kommentaren auf Ao3 und rennt weinend davon*)


    Und ich sage auch einfach direkt mal hier Bescheid: Meine neue Longfic ist nun auf Ao3 - und es ist dieses Mal dann auch Dark Fantasy geworden. Mit Witcher Referenzen, Bastet


    The lesser Evil


    Und wow. Die Zusammenfassung der Geschichte klingt echt dark. Aber das ist keineswegs was Schlechtes, wie ich finde. Ganz im Gegenteil. Könnte man das schon als Dark Fantasy bezeichnen als Genre der Serie? Wirkt zumindest von deinen Beschreibungen ein bisschen so und well, was soll ich sagen - ich liebe Dark Fantasy. xD

    Ja, die Serie wurde offiziell als Dark Fantasy/Horror deklariert. Auch zurecht, weil sie ist sehr blutig. Also in der ersten Folge sehen wir gleich wie ein kleines Kind zerfleischt wird und solche Späße. Also recht viel Splatter, würde ich sagen. Und eben ja, auch düstere Themen, selbst wenn das Dark Fantasy wirklich eher aus dem blutigen Bereich kommt, als dem anderen. Also wie gesagt: Es gibt eine Folge, die Vergewaltigungen beinhaltet. Dafür zwar gleich zwei hintereinander, aber es ist nur eine Folge.


    Ach ja, übrigens, weil das BB aus irgendeinem Grund mir daraus kein Zitat machen mag: Ja, Castlevania ist ein richtig großes Videospielfranchise. Also so groß, dass es zusammen mit Metroid effektiv zur Grundlage eines Genres geworden ist: Metroidvania. Action-Plattformer, in denen man durch das Erhalten von Items und neuen Fähigkeiten zunehmend neue Bereiche begehen kann :D Wobei das zumindest ursprünglich so war. Konami... weiß wie bei Silent Hill nicht so wirklich, was sie mit der Lizenz machen sollen oder wollen. Weil, welp... Konami, ne? Sie haben effektiv einige Spiele gemacht, sind dann in den späten 2000er dazu übergegangen Castlevania Action-RPGs zu machen, die dann weniger erfolgreich waren. Dann gab es noch ein paar Spiele hier und da und dasneuste ist ein Mobile Game, aber sie machen wenig mit der Lizenz. Was halt auch daran liegt, dass sie... einen kleinen Fehler gemacht haben: Die Spiele gehen halt darum, Dracula zu besiegen, der effektiv alle 100 Jahre wiederbelebt wird... allerdings haben sie ein Maximum eingebaut - und dann war Dracula halt zum letzten Mal im 2. WK wiederbelebt und... Dann mussten sie schauen, was sie machen.


    Danach gab es dann zwei Spiele, in denen Dracula als Japanischer Highschooler Wiedergeboren wurde (also technisch gesehen spanischer Austauschschüler in Japan mit dem Wunderbaren Namen Soma Cruz) - aber die kamen noch auf dem NDS heraus. Dann haben sie es mit einem Reboot versucht und seither... ist das ganze recht tot. Weil, wie gesagt... Konami.


    Ich finde es übrigens außerordentlich sympathisch das du auch jemand bist, der gern weiterdenkt. Also Canon nimmt und sich dazu dann noch weitere Gedanken gemacht, es ausbaut und eigene Werke daraus macht. Das mache ich auch sehr gern; insbesondere wenn es eben auch Charaktere betrifft, mit denen man sich gut identifizieren kann oder die man einfach auch unabhängig davon absolut lieben lernt etc. Da ist es auch immer von Vorteil, wenn man auch die Welt mag und kennt, um da halt auch effektiv weiter dran rumzubasteln. Könnte ich tbh Stunden lang mach - mich einfach irgendwo reindenken und weiterdenken und daraus dann was eigenes entwickeln, was aber immernoch Bezug auf den Canon nimmt.

    Werde demzufolge auch nochmal deine Werke "in der richtigen Reihenfolge" lesen. Insbesondere wenn ich Castlevania jetzt bald selbst schaue. :>

    Ich meine, ich habe sehr viel Fluff zu der Serie geschrieben. Einfach weil ich der Meinung bin, dass die charaktere sich das auch mal verdient haben xD Es ist halt ein sehr großer Unterschied darin, wie ich das Trio (+ Greta) schreibe und dann halt die Styria-Truppe. Weil... Das Trio tut sich doch leichter, einander zu vertrauen und dann mal die Mauern fallen zu lassen. Hector und Isaac sind dagegen sehr guarded. Und dann haben wir halt noch Striga und Morana... Und während Striga halt sich eher bereit sieht in Menschen Personen zu sehen ist Morana dafür einfach zu alt. Ich habe sie nun 1700 Jahre alt gemacht (ihre Charakterdesignerin sagte, Morana ist über 1200 Jahre, vielleicht sogar 2000 Jahre alt - und ich wollte sie in eine bestimmte Ecke aus Persien setzen)... Und mit 1700 Jahren siehst du dir halt so ein Menschlein mit 25-30 Jahre an und denkst dir: "Ein Baby." Wobei ich darüber auch noch einmal ein wenig mehr schreiben werde... Ich meine, die Geschichte am Montag die ich hochladen werde ha Morana und Hector als Hauptfiguren. Aber auch so. Morana ist mit ihrem Alter halt allein. Selbst unter Vampiren überschreiten nur wenige 500 und kaum jemand die 1000 Jahre. (Sagt der Canon so nicht, aber... fast alle Vampire von denen wir das Alter kennen sind zwischen 200 und 500 Jahren alt - mit nur zwei Charakteren, die älter sind: Morana und Cho.)


    Oh Gott, ich nerde dich gerade zu, tut mir leid. Es ist spät. Meine Filter sind weg lol


    Aber ich habe halt auch... sehr viel weiterentwickelt. Ich meine... Ich... Ich weiß was in dieser Welt für die nächsten 100 Jahre passieren wird. Ohne Scheiß xD Aktuell sind auf meiner Festplatte gesamt 300k unveröffentlichte Worte zu Castlevania... Ahaha. xD""" Und ich schreibe noch an einer 25 Kapitel Geschichte dazu.


    Und... dann habe ich da noch 2 Mittellange Geschichten (like 10-15 Kapitel so) zu den Kids von dem Haupttrio.



    Nocturne ist dann quasi ... die Fortsetzung bzw. nächste "Staffel"?

    Mehr oder minder.


    Also wie gesagt: In den Spielen ist es so, dass Dracula alle 100 Jahre wiederkommt - und ab und zu nicht richtig besiegt wird, was dann bedeutet, dass er im selben Jahrhundert 1-3 Jahre nach dem ursprünglichen Auftauchen noch eine Bonusrunde dreht. xD Und Draculas erster Angriff in der Timeline der Spiele ist 1476 (was fun fact das Jahr des historischen Todes von Vlad Tepes war). Zwar ist das nicht das erste Spiel in der Timeline (das ist Lament of Innocent, in dem es um die Vorgeschichte von Dracula geht). Und die Castlevanai Serie handelt halt in Staffel 1+2 von diesem Spiel, wobei sie noch ein paar Aspekte aus Curse of Darkness reinnehmen.


    Das beliebsteste Spiel aus der Reihe ist aber Symphony of the Night. (Zurecht, es ist ein richtig gutes Spiel.) Was technisch gesehen eben so ein Beispiel von "Dracula dreht ne Bonusrunde" ist, nachdem er 4 Jahre vorher in Rondo of Blood besiegt wurde. Und uuuuuursprünglich wollte Netflix sogar nur die Filmrechte für Symphony of the Night, weil es halt so beliebt ist, haben. Aber... sie haben die Rechte hierfür super billig bekommen... Weshalb sie halt erst das gemacht haben. Aber nun wollen sie halt Symphony of the Night und Rondo of Blood als Castlevania: Nocturne machen. Wobei das Fnadom aktuell rätselt, inwieweit die serie dann nun überhaupt auf dem Spiel beruht, weil a) wir wissen, dass Nocturne in Frankreich, statt der Wallachei spielt und b) ... müssen sie entweder das Ende der Serie soweit retconnen oder sich was anderes als Dracula einfallen lassen. xD" Weil... Ähm. Nun. Sagen wir es mal so, das ganze mit Bösewicht Dracula hat sich am Ende der Serie erledigt.


    Und uh, sehr gut. Wenn du deinen Whumpuary postest, highlighte mich mal! Ich beobachte zwar die Topics im FF-Bereich aber manchmal übersehe ich auch gern mal was. Weil: Wirst mich wohl jetzt nicht mehr los als Leser, hehe.

    Mache ich dann. Ich werde das hier wohl Ende des Monats als Batch posten. ^-^ Mit allen 10 Ficlets.


    Oder soll ich es in Zwei Fünfer-Packs posten? Hmm.


    Das ist mitunter nicht einfach, weil Charaktere manchmal sehr "starr" wirken können oder das Gespräch fast schon gezwungen wird, weil "die Charaktere halt mal miteinander reden müssen" oÄ.

    Hihi. Das lustige hier ist ja fast, dass die beiden Notgedrungen miteinander sprechen, nachdem sie nun mal beide da sitzen und der Stute bei ihrer Sache zuschauen. xD Aber... Uhm. Ich weiß es ehrlich gesagt nicht. Ich channel irgendwie die Charaktere. Und Striga fällt mir sehr leicht zu schreiben - und sei es auch nur weil ich sie so massiv geheadcanoned habe. xD (To be fair, sie hat in der Serie fünf Szenen, in denen sie spricht - da kann man viel interpretieren.)


    Ich weiß nicht, ob du The Owl House kennst, aber sie channelt gerade bei mir wirklich sehr Eda: "Haha, someone is beating up some dumb humans........ Wait, those are my dumb humans!"


    Ich konnte mich gut in Hector hineinversetzen, weil du die Gedanken sehr gut rübergebracht hast zwischen den Gesprächen. Besonders gut hat mir auch das kleine Gespräch über Ehrlichkeit gefallen; also das Tiere ehrlich sind. Unumstritten ehrlich sogar. Das passt auch sehr gut zum Titel, auf den ich jetzt auch eingehen möchte:

    Das ist gut. Er ist halt irgendwie so mein seelenverwandter Charakter (aka ich projeziere ungesund viel auf diesen Charakter). Er spricht halt auch so viel über Tiere, weil Tiere seine Art sind, die Welt zu verstehen. Er versteht Menschen nicht, aber Tiere versteht er. Weil Tiere ein wenig einfacher zu verstehen sind und in der Regel nicht versuchen werden auf Rachefeldzüge zu gehen oder ihn zu versklaven. Und ja, ich fühle das. Ich fühle das.


    Zwar macht der Titel des Werkes Sinn, wenn man ihn zu Beginn liest, aber die wahre Message dahinter, bekommt man erst nach und nach im Werk selbst mit. Das hast du hier finde ich echt klasse rübergebracht, insbesondere diese ... ja, kinda Ironie dahinter. Weil wenn man es so betrachtet ist Loyalität ein sehr seltenes aber wertvolles Gut. Die kleine Doppeldeutigkeit (also das "Hunde" zwar als sehr loyal gelten aber eben "Hunde" sind und weniger eine "ebenbürtige/gleichgestellte Person" (= Sklave?) in diesem Kontext) gefällt mir auch sehr gut - zumindest in der Art, wie ich es interpretiere bzw. interpretiert habe.

    Yay. Du hast gar keine Ahnung, wie viel mir dieser Absatz bedeutet, weil es einfach immer schön ist, wenn sich jemand damit auseinandersetzt, was man damit sagen wollte :D Und es ist halt ein Dauerthema in der Serie dass spezifscih Hector aber im weiteren Sinne Menschen - nun... Der Status als Personen abgesprochen wird. Hector wird immer als Hund oder Puppy von den Vampiren bezeichnet - und andere Menschen als Vieh. Und ja, es sagt halt auch viel darüber aus, wie die Welt gesehen wird - und das finde ich halt spannend.


    Gerade, weil Hector im Umkehrschluss halt genau dasselbe Macht. (Er vergleicht die Vampire mit Raubtieren.)


    Eine weitere Thematik, mit der ich mich auch gerne mal in Werken auseinandersetze, die mir sehr gefallen hat: Unsterblichkeit. Und das es eigentlich niemand wirklich ist - nicht einmal Vampire. Das hat eine so bittersweete Bedeutung, die ich gern mit in Werken habe. Diese eine Wahrheit, die jeder kennt, aber oftmals nicht wahrhaben möchte. Besonders nicht in einem solchen Gedankenkarussell. Dennoch wirkt es halt echt und greifbar, wenn man darüber nachdenkt - sei es nun aktiv als Charakter oder aber als Leser, weil man darüber dann ebenfalls nachdenkt.

    Ja, das ist halt ein Thema über das ich mir wirklich viel Gedanken gemacht habe. Siehst du... Es gibt... bestimmte Ecken vom Fandom die sich sehr darüber aufregen, dass Lenore sich selbst umbringt. Und, tbh, ich kann es abseits von "Da war keine Triggerwarnung" nicht nachvollziehen, weil... Sie ist nicht 20, sie ist 200. Sie wird nie einen natürlichen Tod erleben. Entweder sie wird ermordet oder sie bringt sich selbst um - wahrscheinlich dadurch in die Sonne zu gehen. Und... Vampire sind auch nur Menschen, die unsterblich gemacht wurden. Und ich denke die meisten können die "Ewigkeit" nicht ertragen. Irgendwann geht es halt nicht mehr. Bei Lenore war der Punkt dann eben mit 200 Jahren erreicht. Ewig Leben kann nicht das Ziel sein.

  • Welp. Hier ist dann die nächste Geschichte, die in der Steiermark spielt. Dieses Mal mit Morana und Hector.


    Für Il Dottore eine kurze Erklärung: Morana ist ein Charakter über den wir praktisch nichts wissen. Alles was wir wissen: Sie ist alt (laut einer Charakterdesignerin über 1000 Jahre alt) und kommt aus dem persischen Raum. Ich habe sie letzten Endes 1700 Jahre alt gemacht, so dass sie aus der späten Zeit des persischen Imperiums kommt. In der Serie ist es ein wenig seltsam. Sie ist eindeutlich keine Kämpferin. Also überhaupt nicht. Was komisch ist, denn eigentlich sollte man meinen (also anerkannte Popkultur und so) dass alte Vampire stärker sind und sie ist die älteste Vampira, die wir sehen. Da sie es nicht ist, habe ich ihr nicht-kämpferische Fähigkeiten gegeben: Empathische Telepathie und die Fähigkeit zu einem gewissen Maßstab Gefühle zu manipulieren.


    Ach ja, und Freitag lade ich hier wohl mal die ersten fünf Whumpuary Geschichten hoch.



    Kindred Spirits


    Her room was still unchanged. They had not touched it, had not reused it. It was still the same. Small, compared to what Morana and her other sisters had used, because she had not been their equal when she had arrived—and yet had not wanted another room later on. It lacked the overbearing opulence Carmilla’s room had possessed or the wide architecture of the room that Morana was sharing with her wife once again.

    No. Lenore’s room had always been simple. Looking more like a room in the farm of some country gentry, not an actual princess. Definitely not a queen.

    Morana still did not know how she felt about it. Not the room, of course. No. Her death. Lenore’s death.

    She was angry about Carmilla. About the man killing her. But she also knew that Carmilla had long perfected the art of making herself enemies. She had died in combat. Honorable. Of sorts. But Lenore? Sweet, naïve Lenore?

    Morana had talked with Striga and of course Striga was right. It was not unusual. A lot of vampires walked into the sun at some point. Because what else was there for them? They would not die a natural death, so the choice was either dying in combat, through some sort of stupid accident or, well, or the death in the sun.

    Living forever was not a thing human souls were made for. And too many of them possessed human souls.

    No.

    What got to Morana was learning how it happened. Two weeks after Carmilla’s death. Two weeks! And they had abandoned her. They should've returned, should at least have tried to save her. But they did not, just assuming she was already dead. Because it made the most sense, didn't it? How was sweet Lenore, who like Morana had never possessed much in form of combat abilities aside from the usual strength and speed that came from being a vampire, to survive, while Carmilla had died?

    She was still struggling to understand.

    Sitting on this sofa here, she sighed. She did not cry anymore. Because it would be silly. She was old. Ancient. Almost two millennia. Most people she had ever known in her life were dead. Because nothing lived forever. Nothing but her, that was.

    She hated change. She hated to again and again loose whatever stability she had found in her world. But she had gotten used to it. Somehow.

    And yet…

    Morana got up to leave the room. The sun had just set—she could feel it—leaving her with things to do. Because it was the only reason for them to be allowed back here, right? In exchange for their services. Ha! Serving fucking humans.

    She hated it.

    She hated how things had changed in just about three years.

    She hated how the self-proclaimed king would talk to her. As if they were equals. As if he even could imagine what it was to be ancient like her.

    Nobody could, of course. Not even Striga.

    Carmilla had not been able to understand it either, who had allowed herself to be lulled into a wrong sense of security. Into a worldview in which she could not be touched. Because she was clever. Because she thought ahead. And yet, she had not seen the forgemaster coming—had not seen their own forgemaster cutting of his finger to be free.

    Ironic, really. As Carmilla of all people had to understand the lengths people would go through for freedom.

    Their own forgemaster was so much quieter than the self-proclaimed king. He did not talk much about his motivation—and whenever they met in the library, she was rather certain he wanted to be elsewhere as much as she did.

    “A scaredy cat,” Striga had taken on calling him. And Morana could see it. There was always this look in his eyes. Searching for a path to escape if push came to shove. His muscles where tense, whenever she was near. As if he was ready to jump up and run. He never had done so, no, but she felt he wished so.

    It was the idea of the self-proclaimed king for them to run through this exercise. She presumed the man meant well for his friend. After all the little scaredy cat forgemaster wanted to learn magic, history, philosophy—and they had so many books on it. So many books he could not read, as his knowledge of old languages was restrained to Latin, Greek and just a bit of Aramaic. So, the king had decreed, she would teach him the other languages to be studied here. Akkadian, Egyptian, Persian, Sanskrit and Chinese. And the little forgemaster was a quick learner, being able to read three of the languages fairly well ever only ten months. He still watched her the same way, a sheep might watch the wolf entering the stables.

    His fear was reasonable, of course, because he would've liked nothing more but to make him suffer. But she didn't. Because she assumed they needed stability. Because Striga did not want another fight.

    Right now, they were working on old Persian – funnily enough the language of Morana’s few human years. Like Akkadian he still had trouble reading the cuneiform. While he had already known some words – both in Akkadian and Persian – from spells he had once learned, his reading was slow and shaky. “Thâtiy Dârayavaush xshâvi…”

    “Xshâviyathiya,” she corrected him.

    “Oh, right.” He did not look to her, looked only into the book, before trying the entire sentence anew. “Thâtiy Dârayavaush xshâyathiya kâra Pârsa utâ Mâda hya upâ mâm â.”

    She could not fault him, of course, that he had never learned to read cuneiform. After all it was rarely ever transcribed onto paper outside of vampire libraries. At least not in long form. Sure, some humans had written down a sentence here or there, often spells of magic or something of the like – but to create new spells one had to understand the language on a level that humans these days simply didn’t.

    Yet, she was annoyed with every mistake he made, with the way his voice would strain as he was reading the words from the paper. He was so human. So fallible. So easily killed. She could kill him. Of course, she could. And she could make it a long and painful death.

    But it wasn’t an option. Not really. Not as long as she did not want to leave again. So, she sat here, listening to him read a simple historical text. A text that was still easier to understand than a philosophical or religious text might’ve been.

    “I am sorry,” he muttered the next time she corrected him. He was making notes on pieces of parchment, his fingertips black with spilled ink.

    She wanted to groan, she wanted to slap him, because he was stumbling over the same set of syllables again and again. But she didn't. She just sighed. “Take a break.” They had been at it for over an hour now. And it was not as if there really was a timeframe in which he had to master it all, was there?

    At this he nodded, still without looking at her. Instead, he focused on his parchment, transcribing his scribbles into a clearer writing on another piece. Wasteful, she would say, but it was not as if they were lacking for much in the castle.

    As he was finished, he looked into the book once more, as if it might reveal some information to him.

    She could not even tell, what he was hoping to gain from all of this. Why he wanted to even understand it. He was only human, after all. Only a little human, who would die in maybe thirty to forty more years—if he was lucky.

    The worst thing about this little forgemaster was his warmth. There was still warmth in him. Something that should not be there after everything he so clearly had done. Working with Dracula. There was a softness, too.

    Whenever he was not in the library or with his dear self-proclaimed king, he would be out there at the stables. Caring for some animals. Or rather just spending time with them. He would just do that almost every day.

    There was a stable hand lost in him. A much more useful job for him, instead of tiring his fragile human brain with philosophy. Humans would never be good philosophers, no matter how hard they tried. Because philosophy needed a hindsight that humans just could not possess with their ridiculously short lives.

    But he… tried. That was the most she could say.

    Not that she had ever read his writing. Not more than a few sentences here or there when she looked over his shoulder. He was wasting a lot of paper with it, as he was scribbling a lot, scratching stuff out, rewriting whole pages.

    She had seen human scribes before and they usually worked… more cleanly. He didn’t.

    He was not stupid (for a human) but unordered. But what else was she to expect?

    Right now, he was opening it again, writing down some notes and crossing out others and once more she could not help but to look over his shoulder. His handwriting at least was rather orderly and easy to read.

    He was waxing on, of course. Waxing on about the meaning of life—the most popular theme among human philosophers. His difference in approach, of course, was, that he had the perspective of knowing of immortality and how a life could be stretched on and on for centuries. There was one thing, that jumped out at her, though: I don’t believe, there is a happy vampire.

    She could not help but scoff at that. “There are happy vampires.”

    He instinctively covered his writing with his body, as he noticed her reading. “I…” For just a moment their eyes met, before he looked down again.

    In truth, she did not really want to know what he was thinking. Or did she? “Do you think, I am unhappy?”

    He looked at his writing, before closing up the book again. There was fear in his eyes once more, though he still did not dare to look directly at her. “I… I don’t think you are happy.”

    Another scoff. “Why?”

    “You’d rather not be here, would you? At the castle, I mean. With… us.”

    “That is true.”

    “And I do assume you were not happy out there, because otherwise you would not choose this over the life out there.” He spoke quiet, his eyes fixed on one of the table legs.

    Most of all she hated to admit, that his reasoning was of course not wrong. “We were happy, before Dracula started his whole campaign on the world.”

    At this he was silent. What could someone like him say to that?

    She dared to sense him – something she normally did not do. After all she knew what she would feel there. Fear. She was right about this. Though there was something else. Anger. Well, she assumed that after everything this was warranted. And one other thing. Pity.

    Pity from a human!

    Just barely she held back the instinct to slap him, to shove him to the ground. She was not going to make a scene about it. “Why would you think otherwise?”

    “Because I see it in your eyes,” he whispered. “You are all… sad.” He pursed his lips, so clearly considering how much he could say without getting killed for it. “The younger vampires, too. Their sadness is different, though. Yours… is cold. And angry.”

    Once more she scoffed at him. Because this was just silly. “Oh, I am angry.”

    “I know.” She could still sense the fear from him. Though trying to get a better sense she also could feel that it was mused in a way. He had accepted it, the fear. It was not the heart racing fear of a human freshly cornered, but rather the fear of a human fully aware he could die any day.

    Actually not that much like a scaredy cat at all.

    She sighed, because she knew that kind of fear well. Not from herself, though she might have had it before, but from young vampires. She had felt in within them so many times. In Carmilla, too, back in the day. As well as Lenore. Not in Striga, though. It had been what had made her different in the first place.

    “Are you afraid of me?” Those words slipped out before she could hold them off. She hoped for a “yes”, because he would be more stupid than assumed if he said anything else.

    He nodded. Silently. Before adding. “You enjoy making others feel pain, right?”

    “Where is that coming from?”

    “Just something…” He stopped, pursing his lips once more. “Something Lenore had said.”

    To frighten him, right? She looked at him, though it was hard to gather more from his feelings. They were mixed up. Fear, anger, pity, sadness. All intermingling in his spirit, in his aura, as some humans would say.

    Lenore had always tried to keep up with them of course. And had failed again and again. She had been weak. Really weak. She had not even gained those powers Morana had held—or Laura for that matter. And maybe she had also lacked the anger, that had made them strong. The other three of them. There had been anger, but not the hot, burning kind. Mostly just sadness over the death of the person she had never been allowed to be.

    Oh, she had played this little forgemaster like a fiddle. But Morana had sensed it, too. Regret over it. Just a quiet, little regret, that was never to be spoken out loud.

    She had been too soft for this. For ruling. For ruling over humans, that were nothing much more than cattle. A concept that only worked for keeping one above them, if you did not pity the cow let to the slaughter either, if you had not tears in your eyes, as you could hear the pigs in the slaughter house squealing for their insignificant lives.

    Carmilla had often chided her for it. Had chided her as stupid, as too soft. And silently Morana had agreed—was still agreeing with it.

    And yet, even she was not unable to see the bitter irony in how everything had turned out. With two kindred spirits more attached to life than either would admit.

    The forgemaster was looking at the book they had been working from. “Should… should we continue?” he dared to ask.

    She looked at it, then back to him. “Why didn’t she die when your precious king took the castle?” She still was unable—and unwilling—to hide her disdain.

    For just a short moment the forgemaster’s eyes flickered up to her. “Because… Because I asked Isaac not to. Not to kill her.”

    “Why?”

    “Because I was a stupid idiot,” he muttered. “Because I actually liked her.” And he used that word— “like”, but he did mean something else, didn’t he? That little thing a human actually was unable to ever truly understand.

    She felt like laughing over this and did not quite know why. She stopped herself, but she knew it would’ve been a rather sad laugh indeed. “You did not understand her.” She spoke those words, knowing she was lying. Because at least she was fairly certain about one thing: he had tried to understand.

    And for once he was holding her gaze. “I know.” There was a new emotion in him. Self-loathing.

    What she hated most, was the fact that it was an emotion they shared. Because it was a thing; they both were guilty of: her death.

    And yet she did not voice those thoughts, because the last thing she needed right now was kinship with this stupid human. So, she just opened up the book for him, the cuneiform so evenly written over the page. “Continue.”

  • because she had not been their equal when she had arrived—and yet had not wanted another room later on. It lacked the overbearing opulence Carmilla’s room had possessed or the wide architecture of the room that Morana was sharing with her wife once again.

    Ganz interessant, ja es macht Sinn dass nicht jeder des Quartetts sofort den selben Rang hätte, außer vielleicht wenn es sich um eine alte Militäralliant gehandelt hätte.

    Ich nehme an sie ist auch ein Typ, die eher auf Zweckmäßigkeit und Ordnung steht.

    Und sie hat ihren eigenen Raum, obwohl sie eine Frau hat, das ist gut dass dus ansprichst, man müsste meinen sie schliefen zusammen und da es ein Schloss ist, gäbe es ab da genug Raum für Privatnutzung, wie Studienräume und Büchereien.


    They would not die a natural death

    Na ja, sie können noch verhungern, schätze ich.

    She hated change. She hated to again and again loose whatever stability she had found in her world. But she had gotten used to it. Somehow

    Es ist einfach über den Tod zu schreiben wenn man eine Unsterbliche beschreibt, aber realistisch gesehen verliert jede Person geliebte Personen. Haustiere, Eltern, Freunde.

    Was eine unsterbliche Person eher belastet wäre die Einsamkeit allein zu sein als die einzige Person ihrer Zeit und die Unfähigkeit über diese alten Zeiten mit jemand anderem zu reden der da war. Und wie es nach und nach schwerer wird sich an neue Zeiten zu gewöhnen und anzupassen.

    Nur logisch, dass sie sich Stabilität wünscht, Stillstand. Stillstand ist vorhersehbar und einfach, unkompliziert.


    His fear was reasonable, of course, because he would've liked nothing more but to make him suffer. But she didn't.

    Das war immer was, was komisch vorkam. Sie wurde als jemand bezeichnet welche gerne Foltert, aber ihre Erinnerungswürdigste Szene war mit ihrer Partnerin wenn sie Mitleid mit den Farmern hatten, weil sie verstanden was diese motivierte und das ist ein starker Kontrast.


    So, she sat here, listening to him read a simple historical text.

    Muss sich sehr seltsam anfühlen wenn man dagewesen ist, wenn etwas geschehen ist, was als heute historisch bezeichnet wird.

    Nun ja, ich war am Leben als 9.11 stattfand und viele kids heutzutage nicht, vielleicht sogar manche Erwachsene.


  • Okay. Aber wie ich es Il Dottore versprochen habe, hier kommen die ersten fünf Geschichten aus meiner Whumpuary Reihe. :D Diese sind auch größtenteils sehr fandom-blind friendly, da sie mit einer Ausnahme Pre-Canon spielen :)


    Alle fünf genau 1000 Wörter lang!



    The Chained Goddess

    1064


    Nightmares.

    They were just another thing that bound them together. Nightmares, that were equal parts fear and memory. The exact flavor between them might differ, but they all had them.

    Morana did not even know what it was like to sleep without them. Without nightmares. She did not even know whether there once had been a time in her life in which she had not been haunted by them. After all those things that lay more than 500 years in the past were blurry in her memory, getting only blurrier as time went on.

    She could only wonder if those things she saw in her own nightmares were things that had happened or ways of her mind to fill the blanks. It was not even the blood and death that disturbed her most about it. It was more the knowledge that the same thing would happen over and over again. That people would expect her to do it over and over. To be the harbinger of death. To be the harbinger of justice. To be so many other things to so many at that.

    While she barely did remember the kingdom she had once come from, she knew of the many roles she had inhabited in it. She knew of the many obligations she had. Towards the people. Towards men as well. Because it seemed there was no world in which women did not have obligations towards men.

    She had tried to sleep. In fact there had been a time where she had not slept for a whole decade. Vampires did not need to sleep after all. They could go on without it. But it had turned out that without the sleep, the nights would bleed into one another, would become less real to her mind. Without the sleep strange specters started to haunt her waking life. And thus, she gave in. Thus, she slept again – only to be woken up every other day, sweat covering her body, as if in those nightmares it still remembered humanity.

    Now she was here again. Sitting upright in the bed she shared with the other woman. She knew outside the sun was still high in the sky, forbidding her to leave the room. Because life had cursed her in more than one way, it seemed.

    She was over a millennium old by now. She was ancient, even by vampire standards. And most ancient vampires… they did not become immune to the sun, but would no longer burn. Rather get the worst of all sunburn. She was not it. Just as her powers did not allow her to fight, she never had gained the ability to walk in the sun again. She was different.

    Instead, she was confined inside during those sunlight hours. Sitting here, unable to find sleep again.

    She had been a goddess in her dream. A goddess bringing death and destruction down to the world. And yet a goddess chained by her obligations, by everyone who wanted her to be something she really was not. A goddess at the same time powerful and powerless. A goddess, who had been alone for centuries. A goddess, who was expected to serve the same civilization, that in the end crumbled to dust, now nothing more than ruins buried under desert sands.

    The last part she knew to be true. She knew that the city, she had once ruled, was long gone and forgotten. She even remembered the name – being maybe the only being to remember it. It had burned, but she did not remember who had been the one burning it. It might well have been herself.

    And now she was here. In a place so completely different from it. In a place that might one day burn as well. In a place…

    “Love?” The voice of the other woman cut through the buzzing filling her mind. There was a strong hand on her shoulder, gripping her firmly, reassuringly, pulling her back into the here and now. Away from the past. Away from the possible future as well.

    She looked at the other woman, who had sat up now as well. Those eyes looking surprisingly tired for a vampire. “It's alright,” she whispered. “Just another nightmare.”

    “Which one was it?” Striga asked. She pulled Morana close, held her in those ridiculously strong arms in a way nobody had done before they had met. At least not for centuries.

    “I was a chained goddess,” she whispered. “Chained.” Chained and enslaved, really.

    It was the one thing she was rather certain of: She had been turned into a vampire to rule. Because vampires were better rulers, as they no longer were bound by those silly, little mortal desires. She remembered that all the rulers of her city had been like her. Vampires. Turned by one other vampire. But she did remember nothing of him but blood-red eyes.

    “Maybe we should travel there at some point,” Striga whispered, her hand so carefully caressing Morana's shoulder. “We could travel there and… See the ruins.” She already knew how much it haunted Morana, that she only remembered bits and pieces.

    “No.” Morana shook her head. “No. I'd rather stay here with you.” Here, where her life had been stable for the first time in centuries. Stable… Well, it had only been three years now, hadn't it? Three years since she had decided to stay.

    “I am not talking now. I am talking in a few decades time.” There was a smile so clearly audible from Striga's voice. “We have eternity, after all.”

    This, at least, made Morana smile. “We do, Love.” And maybe, over the centuries, she would find a way to unlock those memories she had lost. To figure out which part of the nightmares were real and which imagined. To remember what had happened when her kingdom fell.

    “Shall I hold you?” Striga asked softly, making Morana nod.

    She lifted her head to kiss the other woman softly, smile at her. “That would be wonderful, my Love.”


    The Last Belmont


    1468


    Those people… They had told him the creature attacking their village was a demon, a night creature of some sort. This wasn't. It clearly wasn't. It was a Bes and Trevor did not even have a proper sword on him.

    The creature had once been a pig, no doubt, a boar, now possessed by the Bes, grown to the size of a small fucking tree, howling with a voice that was so clearly from another time. Raging red eyes watched him, as he held the long knife he had close.

    The bloody whip was no good at all, as it did to squat against fucking beasts of nature. He already was bleeding, was already bruised from the fight and was somewhat sure he was about to die.

    Ha. He should've stayed in fucking Targoviste. Because at least working the streets there did not get him killed. But, well, it was not much of a life either, was it?

    Now the boar was running towards him again, those massive hooves just trampling the ground, crushing bushes in the way. And Trevor did the one thing his mind was going to offer. He jumped, trying to land on the stupid creature's head, to get a proper angle to attack. Somehow his jump was even high enough to lang him on the snout, able to push himself further up. He almost slipped and the bloody beast wanted to make sure he did. All it probably wanted to do was to trample him to dead and be done with it.

    “Fuck you,” he growled, as he struck his knife into the creature's eye, enticing another otherworldly scream from it. He pulled his knife out again, just to go for another attack. Then another one. His own blood mixed with the black blood of the creature, as it finally managed to throw him off.

    He was not even able to think properly, before his back already hit one of the trees. He groaned in pain, his vision going black for just a moment. It was instinct, nothing else, that made him roll to the side, before the now blind creature crashed into the very same tree. It was roaring in anger and pain.

    Slowly his vision returned, as he tried so hard to get back up onto his feet.

    Fucking family legacy. He had thought this was gonna come easy to him. Be a monster hunter. Finally fulfill his destiny. Finally do something fucking good with his life. But he might as well have thrown himself off the stupid city walls.

    He tasted blood in his mouth, spat and was at the same time quite certain at least half of his body was by now covered in bruises. He bet, here were a couple of broken bones in there as well. Maybe some broken ribs or something. But at least the beast could not see him.

    Maybe he should just leave it at that. With the black blood gushing out of where the monster's eyes have been, the thing would probably die within a few hours. Not a pretty kill, but a kill no less. He did not have a proper sword, nothing to pierce that thick skull.

    So he just…

    The creature turned its head around, apparently having heard the underbrush beneath his feet crackle. Another roar, as it was galloping towards him and this time he just was not quick enough. There were hooves beating down on him, trampling him, ready to kill. He was going to fucking die - and with him the bloody family legacy.

    Because, hell, it turned out a kid did not make for a great monster hunter after all.

    Only that there was some hunter instincts left in him still. It was not rational decision. Just a sudden hit of inspiration, as he brought his sword between himself and the creature's underside, that was so much less protected than anything else.

    Cold steel cut into dark flesh, more of the black blood gushing forward, as the creature screeched – and then collapsed. On top of him. It was still twitching, still trying to get up, but then… He was not even certain. All he knew that it suddenly stopped, with the fucking beast on top of him.

    He would've laughed, if he had been able to breath. He was still fairly certain he was gonna die now. Of… something. Anything. Trevor Belmont, the last of the Belmonts, dead. Slain by a single stupid bloody Bes.

    What other end had ever awaited him, really? It had been five years, since his family had been murdered. And he was still only but a kid. A very human, very mortal kid at that. Not fully grown and rather scrunchy, given that he had not had a good fucking meal in quite a while.

    He had been supposed to die with his family, God darn it.

    And yet, he somehow was still straining, still trying to get his limbs beneath himself, just for enough that he could push himself out from underneath the cursed creature.

    It hurt. It hurt so much.

    Pathetic.

    He groaned and pushed and pulled, somehow trying to get a grip on the marshy forest floor.

    He should have died that day with his family. He really should've. If anyone had been supposed to life, why not his brother, who at least would've been able to continue the bloody family legacy? Why not his father? His aunt or uncle? Why not his cousin for that matter? All of them had at least learned how to fight by that day. All of them had at least been hunters.

    He wasn't. He just was a bloody kid, who strained to get out from underneath the Bes, fighting down a scream of pain, as he realized at least some of his ribs were broken. And yet he struggled, until he finally managed to move, until he finally got free.

    He was no bloody hunter. But he was the only thing left of his family.



    The Dying Child


    1471


    “Ynes,” Sypha whispered, holding the young girl's hand. “Ynes?”

    But the girl did not reply. She was lying there, feverish, her breath so heavy. Sypha could not even tell, if she was still conscious.

    In the end she was supposed to get better, not worse. But somehow… Somehow it was not happening and Sypha hated it. Because all she could do was sit here and hold her hand, as it was her turn to stay by the sickbed. Only that it was not a bed, of course, just as sleeping place made from hay and fabric in the corner of an old barn. Just another place to stay until…

    She looked at the girl. Ynes was just twelve years old of course. Her hair was dark like her mother's, who had fallen sick with the coughs as well, even though it was only autumn and the time for coughs should not yet be here.

    Their caravan had even made it to the city, had even managed to get enough money to buy some medicine. Some herbs. Lime, chamomile and thyme. It should help the fever, the infection and the coughs. Only that it did not seem to be working for Ynes.

    It had worked for her mother, somehow. Therese was still weak and her fever still there, but her breathing had improved. She was not strong enough to stay by her daughter’s side, but she would make it. She had to make it. But Ynes?

    The girl had had the fever for six days now and no matter how many teas they would make from the blossom of lime, the fever was not going down. She was not coughing anymore for sure, but Sypha was rather certain, that it was because she was too weak to cough now. Her breath was so heavy, rattling in her lungs and respiratory system, while sweat was pearling on the girl's forehead. And all Sypha knew how to do, was to summon bits of ice in a feeble attempt to cool the girl down.

    “Ynes,” she whispered, pressing the girl's hand. “Ynes…”

    There were tears burning in Sypha's eyes. She hated this. She hated all of this. Feeling so helpless, so useless most of all. It was the same thing every year. Someone would die of the coughs. If not in their caravan, they would hear about it when they met up with another one. But someone would die. Someone would be killed by the coughs.

    There it was again. The low whines the girl would make from time to time, squirming while her eyes were moving behind closed lids. Nightmares, maybe, or hallucinations introduced by the fever. Yet another thing Sypha could not do anything about.

    What would she not give to learn healing magic. But even between speakers there were only mumblings about it. Some said it was not possible at all. Some said it was a skill only to be learned by creatures from other worlds. Nobody knew how they could learn it – how simple humans could learn it. But it should be possible, right? After all magic was nothing but forcing one's own will upon the world, so why should it's power end at the bodies of other humans? How could it be that necromancers and forgemasters were able to revive the dead and Sypha was powerless to beat the infection in the little girl's body?

    It was not fair. It was simply not fair. And Sypha could not do anything.

    Then the girl drew in an especially deep breath, followed by a weak cough. Sypha had not expected for Ynes to open her eyes again and yet here she was, green eyes staring at Sypha, who could not say if the girl even recognized her.

    There was fear in the girl's eyes. A fear that Sypha could not even begin to describe. The eyes were wandering now, flashing from one corner of the barn to the next.

    “Ynes,” Sypha whispered. “Ynes.” She pressed the hand once more. The little, sweaty hand, leading to the girl to look at her. Pale lips formed silent words, a whisper too quiet for Sypha to understand.

    “What is it?” She whispered. “What is it?”

    “Ma…” That was all the girl managed, looking around. There were tears pooling in her eyes, as she tried to sit up. “Ma.”

    “Your mother is still sick, but she is getting better, I promise,” Sypha whispered. “So you have to get better as well, do you understand?”

    The tears were running down the girl's cheeks, as she pushed herself up only to fall down into the hay again. “Ma…” she rasped, the breath once more rattling in her throat. The green eyes closed again, as Sypha shook the thin shoulders.

    “Ynes,” she whispered. “Ynes, stay with me. You have to stay with me, do you hear me?”

    Only a raspy breath was her reply. Even now the eyes were moving behind the lids again, but if she little girl tried to open her eyes again, she failed.

    Fear was gripping Sypha now. She had been at enough death beds to know what this meant. She was not even thinking as she was turning around. “Tata,” she asked. “Tata, please!”

    Her grandfather woke, looking at her questioningly. “Sypha?”

    “Tata, I think she is dying. I think…” Even Sypha was holding back the tears now. It was bad enough when an older person died, but Ynes? She was still a child. Still had a whole life ahead of her.

    Now her grandfather moved over to her, taking the child's other hand. He bowed down to listen to those raspy breath, each of them weaker than the last. Then he looked at her, shook his head.

    “No,” Sypha whispered, as she pressed the little hand. “No. Ynes. Please. You can make it. You can…” Her voice was getting louder, more desperate now. Others were waking as well. “Ynes. Ynes, please,” she whispered, looking at the girl. But Ynes had stopped breathing.



    The Broken Prince

    1476



    He did not even know why out of all places in the castle he had come here. He was not really thinking. He just…

    He did not even know. He did not know anything. The one thing he knew was that he was alone. Again. And maybe it was for the best. Maybe...

    He was alone.

    He did not even manage to get to that bed, collapsing only at the point on the floor where his father had died. How long? Two months ago? Or was it weeks? What difference did it make? His father was dead. So was his mother. Everyone was dead. He was alone.

    He had killed his father.

    He had killed them.

    What was he even supposed to do now?

    What could he do?

    Why was nobody here he could ask?

    But who was even supposed to be here? His father? His father had tried to kill the world. The literal world! He had tried to kill everyone. He had to be stopped. Right?

    Right.

    But why?

    Why was he dead? Why was he not here? Why was his mother not here?

    He needed them. He needed them now. He needed to be held, to be hugged. He wanted it. He wanted his mother back, who would run her finger though his hair and sing him songs of old. Who had once read him stories.

    It had been long ago. But he needed it now. He just needed somebody.

    What was he supposed to do?

    They were dead.

    Everyone was dead.

    What had he done wrong?

    He had wanted to help them. Taka. Sumi. He had wanted to help them become proper hunters. He would have taught them. To fight. To do magic. He had the knowledge. If nothing else he had knowledge. The things his father had once taught him. The things he had learned himself from those thousands upon thousands of books in the castle. He knew so much. He should teach others. He had wanted to teach them.

    But they had not trusted him. They had…

    Why?

    What had he done wrong?

    Because it had to have been something he had done. There had to have been something he could have done to change things. To make things different. He had not wanted to kill them. He had not wanted them dead. He had never wanted anyone dead. Not them. Not his father. And yet they had died.

    He had killed them.

    What had he done wrong?

    There must have been something he could have done different. Something he could have said, something he could have done. They were not evil, after all. They had not been. They had just been… wronged. Wronged by a world. By a whole world.

    But so had Trevor. The stupid Belmont. He had been wronged as well. And he had not tried to kill him.

    And yet he had left. Hadn't he? Trevor had left. Like everybody always left.

    Maybe it was his fault after all. Maybe he was doing something wrong. Because people always left. His parents had left him, too. They had left him, once he had been old enough to stay by himself. So maybe it was him after all. Maybe he just was someone people did not want to be around. Maybe he was just…

    But what was it? What was he doing wrong?

    He had not wanted them to die. Not his father. Not Taka and Sumi. He had not wanted any of them to die.

    If they did not trust him, they should've just left. Why didn't they just leave? Why had they done this to him? Why had they tried to kill him? Why did they… He did not even understand. He understood nothing any longer. What had even happened? Why had it happened? Why…?

    Where had everything gone so wrong?

    Maybe he was the one who should have left. Just leave the castle to them. What did he even care? Sure, the castle held some ancient magics, but most people would not even understand them. And the castle held some good knowledge, too. Stuff that could be used to help…

    Why didn't he just leave?

    But he couldn't, could he? Because he did not know the world out there. He did not know anything but this castle and those bits and pieces he remembered from the journey to and from Gresit. He did not know the world. He did not understand it.

    Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe that was, where he had gone wrong. He had not understood them, had he? And because of that they had done this to him. Because he had not understood them and he had done something wrong. Only that he did not know what.

    Maybe that was the reason why they had left him, too. Trevor and Sypha.

    No. No. They just wanted… Sypha had a family. At least she did have a family. And Trevor… Trevor was just an idiot in the end. And idiot, who had left as well.

    Why?

    Why had he even defended himself? Why had he done it? Why had he not allowed them to kill him? After all there was nothing left for him in this world. He had no family any longer. He had no friends. He had no goals in his life, nothing he could reach. They had. They had wanted to defend their people. They had had a people.

    So why had he even defended himself? What was there about him to defend? Why did he even want to live anymore? What for?

    He did not know. He did not know anything. All he knew was, that he could not take it any longer. Any of this. The pain. The fear. The sadness. He did not want to feel it any longer. But what else was there? The world was not going to change. They would not come back to life. His mother. His father. Taka. Sumi. He would forever be alone.


    The Circling Vultures

    1471


    It was a small knife. A tiny one, in fact. Just tiny enough not to be noticed. Tiny enough to somehow slide through between Isaac's ribs. Thankfully also tiny enough to not reach his lungs. He was rather certain of it. As such, he hissed, he groaned, but then managed to land a blow against his attacker's head.

    The man was not doing this professionally. He was just a small-time bandit. All three of them were. Trying to get by, probably. But Isaac did not care. He did not care at all.

    He landed another blow, this time getting the man to the ground, while Isaac was already opening his belt. He saw the other man coming for him and he was prepared. He caught that arm holding the longer knife within the leather, knowing fully well how the bolts were ripping off the skin. He did not care about that either. Ignoring the man's scream, his attention already shifting to the third bandit, who had kept his distance. He was holding a crossbow and was standing on the other end of the alleyway.

    Why?

    Why were humans like this?

    So egoistical. So stupid. Isaac would not have cared about any of them. Would not have cared about their existence. They could all have lived out their lives apart from one another. But no, they had to attack him. Just like every human had to attack him, it seemed.

    How had the Lord's great creation turned into this? Cruel. Pathetic. Evil.

    The guy with the tiny knife got up and Isaac had enough of this. He kicked the men in the ribs, feeling the satisfying break of the rather thin bones. When the man was pushed against the alley wall, Isaac landed a second kick against the man's hand holding the knife.

    There was a scream of pain, but Isaac did not care.

    He did care, however, about the bolt hissing for him, somehow managing to duck. The wooden bolt splintered at the old wall behind him, while he was running. He was quick. Because he never could have afforded not to be. He had reached the third man, before the guy was able to reload the crossbow. Isaac's belt looped around the man's throat, ripping it open, blood spluttering all over the already dirty ground.

    Leaving him alone, here.

    Well, not entirely alone. The guy with the tiny knife was still wailing in pain. As was the friend with the larger knife. It did not matter. They did not matter. They were just like all the other humans he had ever met. Petty. Greedy. Not once did they think about not attacking him. About not taking from him. Like everyone else already had. No more. He would not allow it to happen any longer. He had come to that decision years ago.

    He wrapped the belt around his fist, looking around once more, before shaking his head. Maybe he should kill them. It would only be fair. Because they most certainly had been planning on killing him. But in the end, they did not matter enough. Just some stupid, pathetic humans.

    He had more important things to care about.

    And so, he left. The stab wound between his ribs was maybe an inch deep. He could feel it with every breath. But he had long learned to not show it. Holding himself upright he walked down the mostly empty street. He had to hide the pain, because if he did not do it, the vultures would descent.

    It was a cruel world and even these days he was struggling to understand it. Because he knew for a fact that God was good. And yet his entire creation was long rotten to the core. It deserved to be expunged from the face of the world. It deserved to be annihilated.

    Isaac knew, that this included him. He was cruel as well. Because the world had not allowed him to be anything but. It was a cruel world in which only the cruel would survive. So, cruel he had become. Because he would not be eaten alive. He would not show the weakness the others were looking for.

    So, he made his way with a slow, but steady pace out of the small town, keeping up that pace, until he was sure to be alone. Only then did he allow himself to hiss in pain once more, one hand covering the wound now.

    It would not kill him. He was rather sure of it. It would not kill him, just as the other things had not killed him before. The Lord knew, how the world had tried to kill Isaac. Without success. He would live. Another day and then another one. Until the end. Until the end of the world, which could not come too soon.

    He drew in another breath, before starting the four miles walk back to the ruins he was inhabiting now. Not home, but a place to stay.

    Because he did not have a home. He never once had. But he did not need one. Just shelter from the world. From that open and cruel world trying to swallow him. Until that day would come…

    He had thought about it. About ending the world by himself. He had found that book a while ago. A book by a renegade mage, speaking of a practice that would draw souls from hell to create monsters from them. An army of monsters, to end the world, to end the creation that had long gone wrong. A part of him liked the idea. A part of him did. But there was also this other part, that did not want to be the one swinging the sword so to speak. He was not a leader. And as such he was not the one to enact God's will.

    Maybe he was just waiting for the right person. The warrior with the righteous fury to finally expunge the cruel creation and create true paradise.

  • Und dass sie letzten Endes versteht, dass Carmillas Plan dauerhafter Krieg bedeuten würde

    Nicht einmal nur das, aber die Verwaltung eines solchen Gebietes würde viel Reisen bedeuten und als solches wären sie ständig dazu gezwungen von einem Stützpunkt zum Nächsten zu hetzen, um diese zu checken.

    while.

    He had been supposed to die with his family, God darn it.

    Ziemlich viel Selbsthass, ich denke das Thema ist recht offensichtlich mit dem Schluss, er glaubt nicht in die Fußstapfen seiner Familie treten zu können und er ist überwältigt davon alles selbst lernen zu müssen, während er gerade so seinen ersten Kill macht.

    Das passt sehr gut zu seiner Line gegen Ende, wenn er sagt, die Welt gehöre denen die Bauen können.

    Also verneint er sich selbst dann, wenn er endlich sein Handwerk gelernt hat.


    Now her grandfather moved over to her, taking the child's other hand. He bowed down to listen to those raspy breath, each of them weaker than the last. Then he looked at her, shook his head

    Auf der anderen Seite wiederum werden Charaktermotivationen aufgebaut.


    Maybe it was his fault after all. Maybe he was doing something wrong. Because people always left. His parents had left him, too. They had left him, once he had been old enough

    Oh ja, das ist wahr. Seine Mutter zog los, um anderen zu helfen und Drakula, um Menschen neu kennen zu lernen.

    Keiner hat ihn mitgenommen. Und wenn ich mich recht erinnere, wurde er auch furchtbar früh erwachsen.


  • Okay, ich habe die nächste Steiermark-Geschichte. :D Dieses mal mit Striga und Isaac.


    Hintergrund ist hier nun noch einmal für die fandom blinden, für den fall, dass interessant ( Il Dottore ) hier zwei Sachen: Isaac ist kanonisch Muslim und er betreibt kanonisch Selbstgeißelung. Es ist ein wenig offen gelassen, ob er dies nach dem Ende noch macht, aber ich habe mich entschlossen, dass er es halt eben doch weiter tut.


    Und boy howdy, ich habe für diese Geschichten angefangen im Koran und islamischen Schriften zu lesen. Zu meiner Überraschung habe ich festgestellt, dass hier wirklich recherche betrieben wurde. Aber gut, ich weiß, dass sowohl Produzent, als auch der Synchronsprecher von Isaac (die beide Muslimischer Herkunft sind) Sensitivity Arbeit gemacht haben.


    A Question of Faith


    The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, as Striga made her way through the corridors of the castle that were so familiar after the four hundred years she had lived here. She could feel a slight bit of hunger in the back of her mind, not having fed for a week. Though she knew well she could go without blood for at least another week after this. She was old enough that she could bear the hunger for up to a month, though she preferred not to.

    It was the inconvenient part of their new lot in life. She could not just ride out there, grab a single human and devour their blood. It had to be done properly. Only taking from consenting prey. Though in the end it was just this: An inconvenience for someone as old as her. It was the younger vampires struggling more with it, as the hunger was still very much in the front of the minds for them.

    Just as she had half a mind to go down, to find someone willing to let her drink, she passed the door of their little king’s office, hearing very well that he was in there. There was a whipping sound, she by now had learned to expect. It was something he did. At least every other day, after his little boyfriend had stopped him from doing it daily.

    There was still a morbid curiosity she felt about it, as she opened the door to enter. Because she did not understand it at all. It seemed not to be about the harm itself, as he was in a state of deep meditation over it. Yet, it seemed almost suicidal to keep doing it surrounded by vampires.

    Again: She was old. Even feeling the hunger gnawing in the back of her mind, she could ignore it. Suppress it, even though his blood smelled sweet and promising. But younger vampires? He was a fighter, this self-crowned king. She knew him to be. He was a good fighter. But even a good fighter would die, if he did not expect and attack.

    More than anything it surprised her though, how his body did not seem to react to the pain. There was some reaction to be expected. Maybe a twitch. Maybe a moan. But there was nothing. His face being completely even, his eyes closed as the whip snapped over his right shoulder, then his left, then back to the right again.

    She had seen the wounds. They were never actually deep. After all he fought with his chest bare when they were sparing. And still... She almost winced imagining it – and she was able to heal superficial wounds like this almost instantaneously.

    In the end, he stopped, opening his eyes. In a calm manner, he took the whipping belt, putting it over the chair, as he rose from his position. Only then he acknowledged her presence. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

    She smiled a thin smile. “Not really, if you aren't to offer me your blood.”

    He returned the smile. He was guarded, just a tiny bit. “I am afraid I won't do that, no.”

    “I was afraid so.” She mimed an overly dramatic sigh, but shrugged. There were people living here now with good food and good drink, mostly just to allow the vampires to feed. People who were content with this. People who were being paid. In the end, as Morana would say, everything could be solved with the right amount of administration.

    “What were you even doing here?” he asked, getting out a cloth to clean of the belt.

    “Morbid curiosity,” she replied.

    He looked at her for just a moment, then he shrugged. “I guess.”

    It was also still rather confusing to her, that he almost seemed relaxed around her. As if he really did not expect her to attack. He would spar with her, as if she did not have reason to kill him. She would not, of course, but still, she could not make heads or tails of this trust.

    This man did not seem to know fear – and it was something that made him interesting.

    She leaned against his desk, watching him. Her arms crossed.

    He did not even give her much of his attention, as he continued cleaning the belt, those small little metal thorns sticking out of it. The leather was already discolored from blood that had soaked into it – not just his own, as she knew. He was using it to fight after all.

    “You can ask,” he said, still without looking at her.

    She huffed, looking at his back. There were scars spread all over it. Scars from those years of self-flagellations. It was still unbelievable that he could stand, his back straight. As if he really could not feel the pain. But maybe he did not, given he was doing this for… well, it was not as if she knew for how long. In the end, she sighed, her arms still crossed. “Why?”

    He looked at the belt in his hand, letting the leather run through his palm. “Originally I did it, because I felt the need to punish myself.” He paused, clearly sensing her question. “For being human. For being as corrupted as the rest of humanity. Spiteful. Cruel. I thought I needed to be punished for it.”

    “And now you don't,” she gathered.

    “I don't,” he replied, finally raising his head to actually meet her eyes.

    “So, why do you keep doing it?”

    He paused at this, now hanging the belt back over the chair again. “I found that it calms me, that it centers me. It gives me a feeling of control.”

    “Control?”

    “Over my own pain. My own experience.”

    “So, you do feel pain.”

    Much to her surprise, he chuckled. “Of course I do.”

    She watched him for a long moment. “You are an interesting human. I will give you that.”

    “I by now believe that most humans are interesting, once you get to know them.”

    “Some are more interesting than others,” she countered.

    He pondered this for a moment. “Maybe.”

    The thing that made him interesting was the fact that she could still not quite figure him out. While he liked to talk about his philosophy, there was just this one piece she was missing: About three years ago, he had been Dracula's forgemaster, being the one creating little beasties for his master to slay the world with. She knew he had been saved by Dracula, when Alucard and his little human friends had attacked the castle. But then, after three months, he had arrived here in Styria, killing Carmilla and claiming the realm, making it his little experiment for a better world. And she was all-too curious what had happened in between.

    “You are hungry and yet you are still here,” he observed.

    “Yes,” she replied.

    “Why?”

    “As I said: Morbid curiosity.” She looked over to the window, where the sky was still tinted in a reddish hue. It was early summer and the window was open, allowing for a hint of the smell from the blossoming forest to drift up here. She enjoyed the scent. She enjoyed the summers. Maybe after having had some sips of blood, she would go outside, take one of her horses to ride. Maybe taking Morana, if she wanted to. But right now, she was still looking at the forgemaster crowned king. “You said you pray, when you are doing that.”

    “I do,” he replied.

    “What do you pray for?”

    “Prosperity. Health. A good harvest,” he replied in his usual calm manner. “Forgiveness.”

    She could not help a smirk at that last word. “So, you are feeling guilty.” He always seemed to be fine with the crimes he had committed against humanity. Other than his little boyfriend, who so clearly was trying to calm his conscience on other ways.

    He hesitated at this. “I am… I don't feel guilty about those I killed, but I do feel guilt on my behavior. I…” He chose his words carefully. “It was not right what I did. But more than that I was overzealous. I thought that my work was the wish of God.”

    “The one you are praying to,” she concluded.

    “The one God there is,” he replied. “I thought I knew his mind. I was vain, I was prideful. I thought I was…” He hesitated once more, pursing his lips. “I thought I was chosen for a greater purpose.”

    “That is vain.”

    “I know.” He got up, taking his robes from the desk and unfolding them, before pulling them over his head. Once again, she had to wonder if they did not hurt against his skin, but if they did he did not show. “And I have to ask for forgiveness for it.”

    She found herself smirking still, as she watched him. “I wonder though. You do believe in your god, your religion. And… Correct me if I am wrong, but is there no such thing as some sort of commandment not to kill? I never have read your holy texts— “ She had not even managed to sit through the whole bible, even after learning Latin. “—but I am rather sure such a commandment exists.”

    “It does,” he admitted. “But it also allows for the killing of sinners.” He moved over to the window, looking outside as well. “So, if I believed the whole world to have sinned…”

    “But you do not believe that anymore, do you?”

    “Oh, I believe most people sin,” he said. “It is just that I understand now that they don't have much of a choice. It is the world that makes them sin. It is the world that makes them cruel. So, I do figure that instead of killing all the sinners, it should be my duty…”

    She stopped him with a groan. “Yes, yes. I heard that one the last ten times you told me.”

    He turned his head to her. “So, why keep asking?”

    “Maybe because it is rare to find someone who actually believes in a god still.”

    “You don't.”

    “Most vampires don't,” she replied, knowing it to be true. There was this thing about immortality that allowed you to see the world in a new light. There was this thing about learning about all the hidden and forgotten sciences and about the true magics that made it so very hard to believe in a higher power.

    And she knew that for most of the normal people, faith was a thing that if anything helped them survive, but that was often not a conviction. Not even for the men of the cloth, who would preach abstinence one moment and then father three children with three different farmers' daughters in the next. Sanctimonious. That's all they were. Most of them.

    When she had been human, they had gone to church on the Sundays, yes, but she was rather certain that she had never actually believed. After all: If God was good, why would he have half her family die? And if God was bad, why would she ever pray to him?

    Of course, there was not much faith left in Styria to begin with. It had only seemed sensible to discourage it. After all: As long as there was faith and men of the cloth, there would be Holy Water and the believe in them as demons. No, discouraging it had been the easy way to deal with it, to prevent further insurrections.

    “I guess so,” he muttered. He did not take offense to it, did not protest, just nodded, looking out of the window.

    “Why do you?”

    This got him to lift his gaze again. “Because I know it in my heart to be true.”

    “Even without any proof of it? Without anyone around you sharing that believe?” She raised one eyebrow.

    “Even without it,” he replied.

    She could not help but ponder this a moment, as her curiosity was still keeping up. He used her pause, though.

    “But what do you believe in?”

    “Me?” She laughed. “I believe in nothing.”

    “You have to believe in something. What is your purpose on this world? What happens to your soul if you die?”

    “I don't have any purpose but to live and make the best out of the life I have.”

    “Who says so?” he asked further.

    I say so. Because it is what I decided for myself.”

    This answer seemed to amuse him, as a slight smile was playing around his lips once more. “I see.”

    “What do you believe is your purpose?”

    “To enact God's will,” he replied.

    “But you just said it was vain and overzealous to believe to know what it was, no?”

    “It was.”

    “So how do you know God's will?”

    “I believe He will send me a sign if I am doing wrong.”

    She could not help a chuckle. “So, did he send you a sign the last time around?”

    “He did,” he simply said and ignored it, as she raised her eyebrow once again. With a slight sigh, he turned away from the window, almost purposefully turning his back on her, as he walked over to the desk to take his belt and put it away. Then he moved over to the door. “I am going to take a walk,” he said, turning to her with the faintest smile on his lips once again.

    “You are not going to tell me, are you?” she asked.

    “No, I won't,” he replied. “Because what happened is between Him and I.” With that he left through the door, leaving her in his office to ponder.

    He was interesting for a human. And be it just because he had convictions and ideals, he could single-mindedly follow. He was a dreamer, even though he probably did not think of himself as such. But neither had Carmilla—they had just all known her to be it still.

    A better world, because God commanded it. She chuckled at the notion, because it seemed so human. Believes changed, religions changed. She was old enough to remember a time, in which the Christians faithful would appear as sinners to the Christians today and the other way around. Morana remembered a time before Christianity existed—not the speak of the believe this man held.

    Striga had to wonder though, what it would feel like to actually believe to be touched by a higher power. Who knew?

    Vampires did not believe and still there was long discussions between certain vampires on why some religious artefacts and ordained things could harm them in a way that normal weapons never could. Some figured it was the believe the humans put into it. But of course, they could not know. Nobody could. It was all a question of believe.

    Humans…

    She shook her head, remembering the reason she had risen early. There was still the hunger burning in the back of her throat, so she supposed she would drink. And then… Well, the night was still young.

  • SO! Ist ja ... fast am Wochenende. Wait. Es ist Wochenende. Nur ein anderes ... - egaaal. Das zählt. xd

    Jaja, ich und mein Zeitmanagement, amazing. Aber zumindest hast du mir ganz viel zum Lesen gegeben, was mich absolut gefreut hat, hehe. Übrigens habe ich es auch geschafft endlich mal anzufangen mit Gucken! Und halleluja. Ich weiß gar nicht, wo ich da anfangen soll mit Denken. Aber ich bin bislang nicht enttäuscht; es ist echt unglaublich interessant. Laut Netflix Einordnung bin ich am Anfang der zweiten "Staffel". Vermutlich bin ich auch echt basic, aber Alucard ist ... außerordentlich interessant. *hust.* Wobei ich auch Trevor und Sypha mag - vor allem die Kombi ist genial, haha. Aber allzu weit bin ich auch noch nicht und kenne entsprechend noch nicht viele Charaktere (aber ich glaube Isaac ist auch schon vorgekommen; bin mir grad nicht sicher). Aber die Drei sind gerade wenn man mit Castlevania anfängt eeeecht gut gewählt imo.

    Und: Is it just me oder gibt der Bishop in "Staffel" 1 harte Claude Frollo-Vibes? xD


    That being said - ich bin irgendwie bei »The Broken Prince« hängengeblieben. Na, wer hätt's erwartet nachdem ich grad davon sprach, dass ich Alucard bereits in den ersten drei Sekunden seines Erscheinens mochte. Manchmal bin ich irgendwie doch sehr berechenbar was fiktionale Charaktere angeht. Aber na ja. Ich mein, ich weiß bei weitem noch nicht viel über ihn, aber allein dein Werk zu ihm hier zeigt mir irgendwie, dass er ein sehr interessanter Charakter zu sein scheint, der- ... jia.

    Tbh würde ich ihn einfach nur gern knuddeln, oof (wobei das nach dem Erlebten vermutlich nicht unbedingt die beste Idee ist. Aber ich denke du verstehst, was ich meine). Ich mein, das Thema des "Allein seins" und der "Unsterblichkeit" hatten wir ja schon zuvor mal angerissen, aber hier ist es nochmal auf andere Weise so deutlich hervorgehoben worden, dass ich ihm am liebsten einfach nur sagen möchte, dass er nicht allein ist. Dass es jemand gibt, der da ist. Der zuhört. Aber gleichzeitig bin ich nur ein Leser und nicht in der Welt inbegriffen und es klingt so, als wäre da wirklich niemand, der bei ihm ist auf Dauer. Urgh. Wie war das mit: Hey, Charaktere brauchen eines in diesem Fandom! Trauma! Ich brauch dringend fluff oder wholesomeness für ihn nach dem Werk. Er scheint mir nämlich irgendwie ein Charakter zu sein, der das verdient hätte. ;; Ich sehe es schon kommen. Ich übernehme das irgendwann mal in der Zukunft und schreibe 1 fluff Moment für ihn; schiebe ihm eine random Begegnung zu mit einem random Menschen oder bekannten Charakter und- ... wow, not me planing an oneshot rn, lmfao.
    Völlig abseits von dieser Thematik, gibt es da ja auch noch eine gänzlich andere in diesem Werk. Bzw. mehrere. Ich hatte ja schon mal gesagt, dass ich es sehr gut finde, dass du solch harte Themen mit deinen Werken ansprichst. Und auch hier wieder: Damn. Also die Emotionen kamen unglaublich gut zur Geltung und auch die Umsetzung. Mostly waren es ja seine Gedanken, die man als Leser mitbekommen hat (deswegen wohl auch der Drang, ihn iwie compforten zu wollen ...), aber die hast du sehr gut dargestellt. Es hat sich vor allem auch gut gelesen; manchmal hat man ja das Problem das reine Gedanken-Werke schnell starr wirken oder das man da nicht wirklich einen roten Faden rein bekommt. War hier absolut nicht das Problem.

    Insofern ist auch hier der Titel wieder gut gewählt. "Prince" ist vermutlich die Anlehnung an seinen Vater und "broken", well. Einerseits das es wohl nicht mehr wirklich etwas gibt, was seinen Status rechtfertigen würde und andererseits scheint auch das Erlebte ihn an einen Punkt zu bringen, an denen er genau das ist: broken. Ich mein in Anbetracht der ganzen Umstände ist das vermutlich auch mehr als verständlich. Es gibt eben immer nur ein gewisses Maß an "Dingen", die man selbst aushält und wenn das irgendwann überschritten wird, well. Bricht man. Traurigerweise ist es vermutlich wie Glas - man bricht und vlt. funktioniert man danach noch, aber man sieht es und es bleibt "kaputt".


    Ja ... ein sehr düsteres Werk. Aber auch ein sehr Gutes. I mean, ich mag düstere Werke. Einfach weil man sich manchmal gut in sie hineindenken kann und auch über Dinge nachdenkt, vor denen man eventuell eher zurückschreckt sonst. Aber es ist mMn eben auch wichtig, dass man mit solchen Themen auseinandersetzt.


    Bis zum nächsten Kommentar. <3

    Kramurx