I Saw A Giant Billboard For A Plumber That Was Basically Just This

they got rid of the classical elements & replaced it with something called the 'four harmonious insects' so now instead of fire, water, etc we have moth, spider, leech and worm.

He left his village a long time ago.

He did it for simple reasons. He wished to serve his Lords. He wished to keep his village safe from all manner of threats that lurk in this world. He wished for a full stomach and a fuller purse.

They accepted him into their service, and decided to have him as a Man-At-Arms.

He thanked them for their understanding and care, when they have no such things.

They took his legs, and replaced them with segmented metal things, which would allow him to run and jump further and faster. They took his eyes, which insisted on blinking and flinching, and made it so that he would miss no shots through fault of his own. They took his arms, and gave him new ones, covered in blades and places to mount weapons and ammunition.

They sent him out among countless others.

…

It is much, much later.

He marches alongside his comrades. He marches alongside towering Implements, which fill him with a sense of dread and unease, despite the fact that they are on the same side. He marches towards his enemy.

Corrosion awaits.

The ground is stained a dirty orange. Leaves drop from the trees and hit the ground in a cacophony of falling rust. He sees things that were once people, now twisted into metal shapes. It smells of rot.

Alongside his comrades, he readies his weapons.

They burn it all down.

…

It is a bit later.

The area has been cleaned and secured. They continue marching.

The place into which they march is Corrosion no longer. This is the domain of Decay.

Half-dead and never-living things surround them and charge forwards.

Gunfire rakes through the air. Gouts of flame burst forth from some of the Implements. Others open fire with immense cannon. Some sweep through the enemy with oversized blades and crushing instruments. He joins his comrades. He fires upon the enemy.

The march continues.

Comrade and foe alike fall.

Implements stagger and are dragged down by the sheer weight of the enemy.

His ammunition runs dry. His comrades suffer the same fate.

The march continues.

Now they fight with blades alone. The march has slowed. Death is omnipresent, watching over both sides and exacting a heavy toll.

His comrades drop, one by one.

The march continues.

He marches alone.

The march continues.

He marches right out of the other end of the Decay.

…

‘... and for your services to The Court, you are to be rewarded with a place among our number, safe from the Corrosion and Decay that spoiled so many of your fine compatriots.’

He is knighted.

They take his lungs. They take his spine. They take his brain. They take his mind.

He thinks of his village, and how long it has been.

He does not understand.

But, he supposes, he does not have to. He is one of The Court now, and the actions of mere humans are far below him. He does not care any more.

His new brain and heart tick away steadily, and he rises.

The Prince of this city was always a bit eccentric, she thinks. Maybe they live in the past because it comforts them, she considers as she sips on her drink. Maybe, she realises, it doesn’t matter.

The past can be oh so much fun, and what are Kindred if not stuck in the past? The outfits are fun. The food is fun. And most of all, the roles and dynamics are fun.

Oh, she could talk for hours about the roles and dynamics.

Sometimes the Prince listens.

They sit on their throne - ostentatious perhaps, but it lends them a certain air she can’t quite describe - in their lovely outfit. Something halfway between a dress and suit, the skirt billowing out around their legs and the base of the throne and the collar of their shirt closing around their neck, she thinks they look rather refined.

Naturally, her eyes are drawn to the crown that rests atop their head, finely crafted from precious metals and ornamented with countless jewels. It was made according to their exacting specifications, and their watchful eye held court over every aspect of its making.

She thinks of the ball only a door away. She thinks of all the people dancing and whirling and mixing in all their finery. She thinks of the servants and maids - Kindred, Ghoul, and mortal alike - who drift between the revellers, attending to their needs.

She knows her history, having been undead for a rather large part of it. This is no medieval court, laughing on and celebrating as the peasants starve. This is no later gathering of the same sort of group, designed to show off the riches of empires and the riches of those present.

This is something more. Something so much better.

Her Prince built this. It is because of them that all the people within can forget their troubles for a night. It is because of them that so many people meet under the same roof and have some actual fun together. It is their work, and all those who have helped to build it have been rewarded.

It is because of this that she offers herself as a subject under their rule. She trusts them, completely and utterly. They rule over her body and mind as surely as they rule over this room, this building, this city.

The snap of their fingers breaks her out of this train of thought. It reminds her of the role she has to play, one she dearly loves.

She approaches the throne silently and stands in front of the Prince, waiting for them to take charge and play their role.

Their hand moves towards her with a relaxed grace. It rests in front of her. She kneels, and kisses their hand, as proper court etiquette dictates.

They gesture for her to rise. They place a hand on her hip. They pull her closer.

Her knees buckle as she is brought onto the throne. The pressure bringing her forwards stops.

She sits astride their legs, their hand still on her hip. Their other hand deftly undoes the buttons and fastenings on her dress, and pulls it off of her. Slowly, dragging the process out so as being better able to appreciate the final result, they remove all manner of other layers.

By the end of this, petticoat and corset and yet more are strewn about the base of the throne. They look at her, drinking her in with their eyes. Their head moves in, and their lips meet hers.

She moans softly, almost inaudibly. She returns the favour. One should be grateful for a Prince’s attention, after all.

Her hands are on their shirt. Buttons come undone. She lacks their practised hand, but where she fumbles they remove their hand from her hip and use it to guide hers.

She holds onto them, in much the same way a drifting sailor would hold onto a floating piece of timber.

They remove their hands from her.

‘Such a loyal subject.’

Their hands return, dragging up the sides of her legs, fingers trailing and making her shake in anticipation.

They remove their hands from her.

‘Aren’t you just perfect, princess.’

Their hands return. They move to the space in between her legs.

In the court, one should be quiet and refined. Only speaking when spoken to. Avoiding making any unwelcome or unpleasant noises. All movement should be controlled and measured.

She does quite the opposite of this. She quivers. Her body writhes and she lets out countless noises.

Then they pause, and she goes still.

‘Aren’t you being such a doll for me.’

Her Prince continues.

Her chest rises and falls faster and faster. She moves into their movements. She responds in kind, rewarding their work.

She collapses. Her strings are cut. Every muscle in her body tenses and goes limp. She falls backwards, and her cries of pleasure ring out.

The Prince catches her.

They press her close to them.

They thank her.

She rests her head on their chest. She brings her legs up and curls up on their lap. Their hand rests on her head.

They both stay like this for quite a while.

i should figure out how to homebrew white monster actually

The hooks push through her hands as she hangs there, motionless, swinging limply from the chains that connect her body to the ceiling.

It’s cold.

It’s dark.

It’s lonely.

Two sharp thumps can be heard as the door in front of her is unlocked. A harsh scraping noise emanates as it is pulled aside, struggling against the ice that conspires to hold it shut.

Her butcher stands, framed by the light from the doorway. As she waits there, taking in the sight before her, glimmering crystals of frost formed from her breath appear, then fall, then vanish.

Her butcher cuts her down, leaving behind a few vestigial bits of flesh. The ones with five fingers and palms and all those useless scraps.

Her legs fail to support her, buckling as she collapses towards the ground.

Her butcher catches her.

Holds her.

Changes her grip.

Carries her out of the room.

And then she is carved apart.

She is asphyxiated by smoke. She is dehydrated and left to dry on racks. She is minced and placed in neat little shells. She is burnt. She is chilled. She is preserved.

Under the watchful eyes of her lovely butcher, she is irrevocably divided and forever changed. Under her care she is given purpose and made to look perfect.

In the end, when all is said and done, it is the caring teeth of her butcher that sink into her. It is her tongue that tastes her. It is down her gullet that she is swallowed.

Her butcher appreciates her, savours her, values her.

Her butcher consumes her.

unknown forces compelled me to draw this

Auditory processing issues

would you?

‘May I have your name?’ I enquire.

‘                 '

It rings hollow. It disgusts me. It is a lie, and there is nothing we detest more than lies.

But it proves that he is a fool. So I demand more.

‘May I have your assistance?’

‘Of course. Anything you want me to do.’

So his fate is sealed.

I ask him back to mine. To tidy up and arrange the place. To help in my work. Of course, he is inept at first. He was not raised to place flowers in vases, or use a broom, or organise a library.

So I make him adept. For each of his failures - each mote of dust out of place, every fallen petal in the garden, all the slight imperfections - I change him. He is the first thing to go. The mind follows shortly after, with the body trailing behind.

She is now hollower than ever, yet no longer hollow at all. She is adept, her porcelain fingers better at the housework than ever, her new shiny joints no longer complaining from long hours working in the garden, her unblinking eyes finding every little detail to correct and make proper.

Her new voice, light and musical, no longer elicits such disgust in me, for it cannot tell the same lies that the old voice, so coarse and grating, could.

After a certain amount of time, which I do not care to describe for time means little to us, she tells me this:

‘I’m happy, miss.’