Its been brought to my attention that the problems I face in my friendships and relationships are my fault. I have been informed that I ask for too much, do not do enough, refuse to properly communicate, and that I am inconsiderate.
I have been informed that, generally, I am an unpleasant person who refuses to admit any guilt. I am, apparently, lazy, abusive, manipulative, and gaslighting. Brain damage and severe PTSD are excuses that I should not use.
I have been told that I am not open enough with my feelings and that my expression of feelings is inappropriate, and more to the point, not aimed at myself, which is where the blame should firmly go. Others are, in fact, not part of the problem; it is, in its entirety, my fault.
Lt. Jurgen's hatchet-thin face twisted in disgust as he looked over the grimy leaflet handed to him by a trembling trooper. The air was heavy with smoke and the smell of charred flesh and rancid death.
No breeze stirred the stifling air of the trench, yet the greasy parchment in the el-tee's hand seemed to twitch and tremble, as though in a breeze all of its own.
"Private Simmons, are you familiar with this vile smiling abomination?"
The young man, face smudged by soot and filth, went white under the coating of muck. "Yes sir...its...the Smiling Death!"
"What's it mean, Private?" snapped Jurgens.
Superstition was for the weak minded, and these poor bastards in his company were the weakest for miles.
"Why do you have to do it?!" demanded Rein. He clutched one of Day's shirts in his hands, his knuckles white. "Can't your dad handle it? He's the King, after all; isnt that part of his job?!"
Damien shook his head, trying not to look at his boyfriend. "Its not just his job."
"You told me you weren't going to cover for him again, remember?" asked Rein, panic obvious in his voice. "You almost died the last time."
"I'm just like my dad, Rein." Day buckled his belt, then pulled on his duster. Void energy crackled around him. "Death doesn't take."
"That's no fucking excuse, damn it!" Rein came up off the bed, wrapping his slender arms around the man he'd found so much happiness with. "I cleaned the blood off you last time, my love. I saw the scars, the old and the new. I hate that this is your life. Stay with me."
Darsyx held him, but only just. Part of the God of Protection understood exactly what his friend was going through, and refused to bring his full strength to bear, but he worried that might have to.
Vrayl was not himself.
"WHO FUCKING DID THIS, NERMAL?! WHO!?" Vrayl lunged, and Darsyx slammed him to the tiled floor of Nermal's throne room. Vrayl let loose a strangled roar as Darsyx expertly wrapped one arm around his neck, locking it in.
The throne room shook as a pulse of Vrayl's power sent tiles flickering away like leaves in the wind. Even with Darsyx's arm around his throat, Vrayl still dragged himself back to his feet, another step closer. "SHE'S DEAD, NERMAL. MY TENLEE IS DEAD!"
"Tsk, tsk, boy, such language." The tall man turned his head, looking at Draz over his shoulder with eyes that held the whole of existence. "And in my Heaven, no less."
"Fuck you," Draz snarled, waving his middle finger. The older man only chuckled.
"Come to see what I'm making?" he asked, gesturing with his chin to whatever was on the table in front of him, obscured by his powerfully-built frame. Draz furrowed his brow.
"I don't have time for the 'look at this new universe' bullshit," Draz responded, but he walked over to the table all the same. It held a birdhouse, nearly complete. A neat tap of the hammer drove in a nail, one after the other with practiced skill.
"I used to think I was the stuff of heroes, that I was meant for so much more than all of this. I used to think that I was the hero of the story, the knight in shining armor, the dragonslayer."
"But life's a fickle thing and I realized I was never even the hero's sidekick. Rather, I was convinced I was the villain, the monster lurking in the darkness, the dragon that a noble knight rides forth to do battle with. Evil, but a necessary evil, an evil with a purpose."
"I look back on those days with a bitter little laugh, now. I've been through the pages of that story and come out the other side, and what's left is sobering enough to make you crave the drink."
He'd watched it. The tape. Yeah, that one, the one where you'd die in a week after watching it, because some supernatural bitch would crawl out of the TV and murder you to death. He checked his watch.
Should be any second now.
She could feel it, the pulsing call of her newest victim. Something beyond good and evil, beyond life and death, bound them now, and she would follow that thread of life until she found the source...and then she'd tear it to shreds.
That static-glow doorway beckoned her.
She pushed her way through, head first, her eyes adapting to the gloom of the room she entered. She saw the empty couch, and a glimmer of a smile curled her blackened lips. Oh, how sweet would the suffering be!
She pushed her head completely through, teeth flashing in the dark.
I figure its a good idea for me to discuss the 4 main settings I'll be writing in. This isnt to say that I'll be writing SOLELY in those settings, just a lot of it.
Follow along, yes?
First up is a setting of my own creation, Drazverse. No, its not the actual universe's name.
Drazverse is the massive world-setting that centers around Draz Valarauko, his family, and his friends. If you end up enjoying what you see, you can always feel free to ask me about it. The world is one with a lot of lore and history, and Im a loser who loves talking about it.
The next setting is the Bolter Bitches. Yes, the Bolter Bitches are, essentially, just Warhammer 40K fanfiction, but I love the idea. Who knows? Maybe one day Black Library will hit me up, and it wont just be James Swallow people think about when it comes to the Sisters.
The daemon's backhand sent the boy across the room, skidding through the viscera coating the small hab-cell. The boy spit blood, sobbing, hands scrabbling in the muck that had once been his family.
"What will you do now, child? Your hope is gone, your father the very pool of blood you lie in," intoned the daemon, dark mirth in its inhuman voice.
Tears left pale tracks in the blood coating the boy's face, his small body shaking in fear, but his fingers found what they sought in his father's remains. With both hands, the boy lifted the bolt-pistol.