Lunafullia - Blog Posts

Space: Hidden Scar

Fandom: Original Work

AU?: N/A

Extra: Original characters again, whoop whoop!!

Warnings: Stabbings, self blame, attack, bodily harm

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

The Warden Of Jejivan High Security Prison

The prison warden was an intimidating man, a tall fae with horns that looked sharper than a freshly sharpened blade. With his uniform and his flawless face, every inmate and worker within the prison assumed that was just how he was - a cold, physically flawless man who gave no sympathy. But, this couldn't be further from the truth.

Fëanor sat in his office with camera screens humming away to his left, his fountain pen scratching the page. He was leaning stressfully on his desk, his hand on his head and his elbow on the desk's surface, practically holding his head up. A new inmate had recently been put into solitary confinement, and the inmate was someone that Fëanor had known in the past. "How was the funeral...? Oh right, you couldn't attend, you were in a hospital bed... Kinda deserved considering you let my brother die...". Those had been the inmate's taunting words to Fëanor when they had arrived. The words that echoed through the warden's mind. Fëanor had to hold himself back from lashing out, keeping his cool.

He hadn't let anyone die, and if he could, he'd save all the victims he was unable to save. The inmate's brother was a victim to a case that had taken three teams of profilers and federal police to hunt down the criminal responsible. Fëanor was no stranger to the blame being put on him for 'not finding the criminal quicker', but he'd not expected the inmate to attack him - actually why the inmate was there, the only reason it'd taken so long to arrest him was because Fëanor hadn't been able to confirm who attacked him until the day prior to the inmate's arrival.

The attack was nothing special, except it'd been executed well. Fëanor had been at home when it happened, the attacker somehow breaking in with stealth akin to a vampire's. It'd started with the click of a gun being loaded to fire while Fëanor wasn't looking. The fae had looked at his assailant at that point, the gun firing and missing Fëanor by mere millimetres, the warden not even flinching. Silence had followed for a good few moments, until crashes of bodies falling into tables resonated through the room. The warden had fought back as much as he could, the assailant fighting tooth and nail to tire Fëanor out before slamming the battle of the pistol into the fae's jaw. The pain was dizzying, Fëanor's focus and concentration destroyed. Unable to fight back, Fëanor had no way to stop every sink of a blade into his body - arms, chest, stomach, legs - but all aimed perfectly so Fëanor wouldn't definitely die, but left enough of a chance it could happen. The assailant had leapt out of Fëanor's window by the time his neighbours came to him, having heard the commotion.

He'd been hospitalised for weeks afterwards, stitched up and hooked to wires and painkillers. He still felt the ache of the wounds through the painkillers, but any stronger of a dosage would kill him.

Fëanor hid the scars of the incident, feeling ashamed and full of self-hatred when he saw them himself. He hated it. If his teams and he had figured out who the criminal was sooner, his attacker's brother would still be alive. And, for once in his life, Fëanor blamed himself for it. He blamed himself, believing he deserved the attack, since he failed to save that guy.

No one knew about what happened to him, aside from his neighbours, and Fëanor planned to keep it that way. What would people think? The warden of Jejivan's most notorious prison being unable to defend himself? He'd be a laughing stock and a target.

The prison warden was an intimidating man, a tall fae with horns that looked sharper than a freshly sharpened blade. With his uniform and his flawless face, every inmate and worker within the prison assumed incorrectly about him - yes he was cold, but he was also scarred and ashamed, afraid to admit it aloud.

Space: Nightmares

Fandom: Original Work

AU?: N/A

Extra: Original characters again, whoop whoop!!

Warnings: Abuse, Blood mentioned, death, lifeless bodies referred to as dolls

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

A Nightmare For Death

Trembling with both sections of his tail in his mouth, chewing on scales and leathery flesh, the boy remained as silent as possible. The tiny safe room his mother had installed into his room was a secret to that monster of a man. Why was he doing this? Young, little Mortalitas had done nothing wrong!

"C'mon brat, I know you're in this house somewhere!"

Still, he remained silent, daring to peer into the little view slot that he had so he could see if he was safe. He had to cover his mouth to stifle a scream. That was his mother... Dead. Lifeless. Being dragged like a pathetic doll by her clothes. Of course, the stifled scream didn't go unnoticed, and Mortalitas panicked as his hidey hole was approached.

The man, his father, or at least he's supposed to call this wretched man, had an expression that was more gnarled than an old iron gate. A vile, violent, vicious man who didn't understand the concept of love unless it required forceful and mercilessly hands. Not that it was love, and young, little Mortalitas knew that.

But when the little hidey hole was revealed, everything changed. The body was no longer his mother's, but rather instead his husband's. No... That wasn't possible... His husband wouldn't have been killed. Right? RIGHT? But alas, the clothing was now the Prince's official attire, ripped and shredded. The tri-coloured hair - blonde, baby blue and pastel pink - was matted with blood, the usually lively body language rendered down to the same movements of a ragdoll.

Similarly, his father was no longer his father. For one, his father did not have brown hair like the mud of a floodplain, shaggy and unkempt. His father didn't have grey, steel eyes that held not even one sane moral behind them. His father wasn't a mindless, cruel human, who's only concern was experimentation and torture. But yes, the man had changed too. Clad in a white lab coat stained red, with larger gloves of that sickening doctors' blue, a sneer plastered like a smile on his face - the CEO and lead scientist of the country's biggest threat.

=======================================

Waking with a startled gasp, the king stared at the ceiling with his chest heaving. His usually playful and unserious partner sat up beside him, a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Mortal...?"

The king could only sit up himself, and hold onto Jester with a vice hug, refusing to let him go. Jester held Mortalitas in return, securely in his arms where no one could dare to hurt him. Jester wasn't too clued up on Mortalitas' childhood, but he had a few ideas of what had occurred for his kingly lover. He never pried for the information but this was clearly more than his past.

"Mortal, dear...?"

"... You were dead... He killed you..."

The usually manic prince could only hold his beloved tighter. He knew that Mortalitas had lost almost everyone in his life, and he knew that he feared losing Jester. He made the attempt to soothe him, gentle hands raking through surprisingly untangled hair of a white, purple and black combination. It was painful, watching him struggle with no way for Jester to help. If only he could take away all that horror, pain, trauma, terror... Everything that his beloved ever suffered. But of course, that isn't possible. Jester can only hold him while he sobs, gut-wrenching heaves of his chest as his hands cling tightly to Jester. Sounds that no one ever wants to hear from anyone. Sounds that no matter what happens, you want to protect them with your whole being.

And, despite his lesser power, Jester would throw himself in harms way for the man in his arms.

SPOODER MONSTER :D

Rotten Escape

Space: They're Coming For Me

Fandom: Original Work

AU?: N/A

Extra: This, like the other entries, is my own world and characters. This one's a little shorter than the others

Warnings: Brief descriptions of rotting, death

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

No light to trust, for the moon gave no cover to the girl as she stumbled over roots. Run... Just keep running: that's what she kept telling herself. She could hear their voices, shouting to bring her back. Back to that white room with nothing but a minimal bed and a restraint system in case she got violent.

She was 8. Permanently 8. That's why they wanted her body as it slowly rotted away from her bones. They wanted sick, sick answers that she would refuse to be the subject of. They weren't welcome here. They landed and never disappeared. 8 years old and she ran through a woodland full of a misty blanket. Home. That's where she needed to get. To wriggle through the gnarled gates of the citadel grounds, and beg for help. Beg someone to tell her father that she was home.

She reached the gate, and almost as soon as she had, the gate swung over and she was hauled off the ground into the arms of a man. Pale tri-coloured hair was all it took for her to know that she was safe.

"You're safe, Cas, you're safe", the voice of one of her fathers rang through her ears and she lifted her head slightly. She saw the gleam of metal walk by, slow and deadly. Far too curious for her own good, she turned her head to watch as the woosh of air was met with the wet squelch of flesh and blood. A few thuds followed, presumably heads of the bodies that collapsed down to the floor.

"They were coming for me...", the forever young girl spoke, staring at the bodies outside the gate. They had been so close to getting her. Broke from her staring by a hand on her head, she looked up to the gentle brown eyes of her second father.

"They will never have you, Cassie, not if I have anything to say about it".

⛧˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛦Vipera's Case⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧

An OC Short/One Shot story

Warnings: Murder, mentions of gouged out eyes, prison mentioned, decapitation

READ WITH CAUTION

Sometimes, the coldest killers are the happiest children...

That's what he'd heard and he knew it was true. He knew who he was and who he'd become. He was a happy, oblivious child who had no worries... At least, before everything happened.

⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧⋆༺𓆩⋆♱✮♱⋆𓆪༻⋆⛧˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛦

The last semester of the year ended, and Vipera was prepared to go home for a few weeks - home to his family who had adopted the young fae when he was only a baby. Everything seemed normal - the walk to the train, the train ride to his hometown, the trek to his house, greeting his neighbours. Everything was normal.

Until it wasn't.

Vipera entered his family's home with a bright smile on his face, and a call to say he was home. He was met with a thick and bloody silence. He stared at the doorway of the living room, locking eyes with someone he didn't know and catching eye of someone fleeing out the window. Stupidly, the fae looked down. A thud of Vipera's belongings falling to the floor sounded out. This man was holding the vibrant red hair of his adoptive father. His father's expression was lifeless, his eyes gouged out and his body... Well, not attached. Daring to look behind the man, Vipera saw red. His brothers and his sister, his mother, his aunt, one of his cousins, his father - all of them decapitated and eyeless.

Without even a second thought, Vipera lashed out, charging at this man with a violent snarl. His fist collided with this murderer's temple, sending the man backwards. In a rage, the fae flung blow after blow at the man, completely ignoring his eye getting ripped out of its socket. Vipera didn't stop, not even when the man was dead, obliterating his face until he was unrecognisable. When he did finally realise, he froze, his body numb as the dread and anguish washed over him. He stumbled backwards as he stood up, and made a call to the cops, before he ran for it, fleeing the scene.

⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧⋆༺𓆩⋆♱✮♱⋆𓆪༻⋆⛧˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛦

Several years down the line, the case of the Occidendum family had gone cold, Vipera pronounced dead after no trace of him was found. In the midst of his disappearance, he was taken under the wing of some alcoholic psychopath. Vipera would kill for him, his lack of care or emotion making him ideal for such dirty work. He worked for him in agreement that he would find whoever fled his house that day.

The psychopath kept his word.

Daylor. That was the bastard's name. The one who ran that day. Tracked down, he would pay. Pay for what the fuck he did. Issue? Well, this little Daylor happened to be the brother of Fëanor, the warden of the country's most inescapable prison.

And yet... Vipera didn't care at all.

⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧⋆༺𓆩⋆♱✮♱⋆𓆪༻⋆⛧˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛦

75 years of killing couldn't have been more of a help. 75 years of slaughter, 100s of lives taken without being caught.

"Daylor."

He had found the man. His stare was cold and Daylor's was scared. Terrified. He knew who Vipera was. He knew what the little fae had done 80 years ago to his beloved friend. Without missing a beat, Vipera swung and hence commenced the fight that would change Vipera's life for the worst.

A crack and a thud made Vipera pause, staring at the majority of his horn now on the floor. He snarled and used it to his advantage, snatching it up and holding it point-down towards Daylor's throat.

The stab was never made.

Struggling frantically, Vipera did everything in his power to try and free himself from the hands that held him tight. He screamed, begging whoever had a hold of him to let him finish the job, to let him complete his revenge.

"Vipera Occidendum, you have every right to remain silent. You will be seen in court for several accounts of murder and attempted murder. Whatever you do and say can and will be used against you."

Fëanor.

Vipera fell limp in the hold of the warden. He had no chance. The warden was at least 8 times his age, and hence made him far more capable than Vipera.

"Like how I'm the one serving a pissing sentence. HE HELPED KILL MY FUCKING FAMILY!" Vipera snarled, snapping at Fëanor all while staring down at Daylor with a murderous glare.

⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧⋆༺𓆩⋆♱✮♱⋆𓆪༻⋆⛧˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛦

Life.

A life sentence.

He'd die being known as the Remorseless Killer of Jejivan. Never as a man hunting and preparing for revenge. He'd die here. In this prison. At least... He assumed so... Who knew? Perhaps one day, he'd be let free.

Sometimes, the coldest killers are the happiest children... And Vipera was one of them.

⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧⋆༺𓆩⋆♱✮♱⋆𓆪༻⋆⛧˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛦

Original Character: Dragon Form

My OC's (Mortalitas Mors Noxalus) dragon form, drawn with Krita.

Kerosene's Collection

Space: The Collector

Fandom: Original Work

AU?: N/A

Extra: This, like the other entries, is my own world and characters.

Warnings: Mentions of real skulls, torture, murder and blood

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

A deep smell of chemicals and vinegar filled the room, a seemingly normal room to the outside world. But, trust me when I say, the contents of this room are far from normal. At its centre was a metal table with 4 reels of chains drilled to the underside. Those chains had bands of leather, able to be buckled tight, connected to the end. The top surface was scratched and battered, the small trenches in the metal seeming to be stained a reddish brown, similar to old blood on fabric. Around the edge of the room was counters and cabinets and cupboards galore. Some cupboards were labelled: beakers, flasks, pipettes, that sort of thing. Cabinets were bolted shut and locked with heavy-duty padlocks, no one was getting into them.

But that wasn't the weirdest thing within this room. In the far left alcove there's a series of shelves, each one lined with skulls. Though, the skulls were not the fake realistic ones, decorated with roses or playing cards. They were as real as the rest of the room. They ranged in shape, size and species - some were human, others had fangs, horns and wing bones as well. Each one had a little plaque in front of it, like the plaques you get for a teacher's or boss' desk, with names etched into them. The names of those who the skulls belonged to.

An echoey thud resonated through the room, followed by babbling from a psychopath. Babbling about how he'd have another for his beloved collection. Another person on his list, tortured and destroyed. How he'd join in on the search parties when they were announced missing. Muffled screams and aimless kicks accompanied the man, his hand tangled into messy hair while his wrist was clung to. Not that he could feel it - metal had no nerves - and this pathetic, screaming scum was the reason behind the metal. He would take his sweet time with this one.

Ragging the little shit by the hair, he tossed them like an old doll onto the metal, painfully holding their head down while he fastened the band over them. Chains clanked and tinkled as he moved the binds, locking this darling freak to the bed of their death.

What would he do? How would he do it? Oh the possibilities!!!

All he did know though... Was that there would be a new head on his collection...

His Majesty's Horror

Space: Go Through Me

Fandom: Original Work

AU?: N/A

Extra: This, like the other entries, is my own world and characters.

Warnings: Abuse, battle, gore

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

The door creaked open, the young boy's mother poking her head into the room. A look of guilt and sorrow came over her face as she saw her son awake, curled up with his hands over his ears and tail wrapped around himself. She quietly made her way over, sitting on the boy's bed. The instant she did, he crawled into her arms and clung to her side.

"Did Daddy hurt you again?" The boy asked, toying with the cotton of his mother's pajama top.

"He only shouted, don't worry," she rested her head atop his, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

Avalyn Noxalus, a strong and independent woman, tough to break and destroy. She cherished her son like he was her hoard. Not a single soul would hurt him, not while she lived. Despite the fear set in her home, she remained warm and loving for her son's sake.

Pulling the boy onto her lap, Avalyn started to plait her son's hair, an attempt to put him at ease. She sang a lullaby to him, quiet enough so only he could hear her. A silent promise that no one would hurt him.

============================================

Blood covered his face, hands, arms... Everywhere. The scythe dripped with that ruby substance, the stringy remains of some poor beggar's intestines caught on one of the many curled sections. Guts and blood splattered the walls and ceilings, more on the floor - smeared along pearly white tiles. Metal scraped along pot tiles, the sound just short of nails on a chalkboard. Heavy breaths and low growls led the scratching blade, heading towards the main laboratory.

They had her. They had her, somewhere in this disgusting building. And he would be damned if he failed to get her out. She had spent years protecting him from the violence of his father, now it was his turn to protect her from the violence of the world.

He glared back down the hallway, hand on the doorway. An endless run of bodies, disfigured and in more pieces than what it would seem. For the ones that still had life, they dragged themselves like zombies across the floors in an attempt to stand, or to die with a wheeze on top of another. A mad grin spread over his face at the sight of their pathetic and useless bodies as he pushed the door open.

Met with guns to his face, or rather to his stomach, he stared down at the human scientists with a snarl. He towered over them, adjusting his grip on the scythe. Time seemed to slow as he swung, the blade pushing on skin before breaking through, tearing into flesh. Bloodcurdling screams wretched from their mouths, the blade of the scythe ripping their bodies clean in half at the abdomen. He swung it back the other way, taking heads from the shoulders as he did. Blood spilled from various points, mixing into one large puddle under the bodies.

Scientists further into the room stare in horror, fight or flight starting to kick in - and naturally, they all made to flee. The swirling whoosh of something flying through the air was the last thing they'd all hear, the blade hugging their bodies and slicing them through the middle as it went. Blood splattered across the floor, over equipment, up the walls - everywhere. Guts were cut to pieces, scattered wherever they landed.

He found her, Avalyn Noxalus, shattering the glass of the cylinder that held her. Before he could put her on his back, the sound of machinery caught his attention.

"She is ours now, you have no further connection to her".

He laughed, turning to face the machine. He grinned like a maniac, resting the scythe on his shoulder.

"You want to keep her? Get through me first..."

Bad Things Happen: Masterlist

So it's easier to locate all my BTH Bingo works, here's the master list!

Entry 1: It's Quiet... Too Quiet

Title: Revenge of the Ringmaster

Snippet: He didn't know. And yet he was the one blamed. He didn't know there was a monstrosity beneath the circus. Several heads, maybe 30 of them? He couldn't quite recall. Each head had black holes for eyes, with teeth like the spikes on a flail. He didn't know.

Entry 2: Dragging Themselves Along The Ground

Title: The Vampire King's Match

Snippet: He crashed to the ground, a blood-curdling shriek bubbling up and out his mouth. He didn't understand. His regeneration was impeccably fast, so why wasn't he regenerating?! "Silver is a beautiful yet dangerous thing... Is it not, Your Majesty?"

Entry 3: Go Through Me

Title: His Majesty's Horror

Snippet: They had her. They had her, somewhere in this disgusting building. And he would be damned if he failed to get her out. She had spent years protecting him from the violence of his father, now it was his turn to protect her from the violence of the world.

Entry 4: The Collector

Title: Kerosene's Collection

Snippet: Muffled screams and aimless kicks accompanied the man, his hand tangled into messy hair while his wrist was clung to. Not that he could feel it - metal had no nerves - and this pathetic, screaming scum was the reason behind the metal. He would take his sweet time with this one.

Entry 5: They Will Come For Me

Title: Rotten Escape

Snippet: She reached the gate, and almost as soon as she had, the gate swung over and she was hauled off the ground into the arms of a man. Pale tri-coloured hair was all it took for her to know that she was safe.

Entry 6: Nightmares

Title: A Nightmare For Death

Snippet: It was painful, watching him struggle with no way for Jester to help. If only he could take away all that horror, pain, trauma, terror... Everything that his beloved ever suffered. But of course, that isn't possible. Jester can only hold him while he sobs, gut-wrenching heaves of his chest as his hands cling tightly to Jester. Sounds that no one ever wants to hear from anyone. Sounds that no matter what happens, you want to protect them with your whole being.

Entry 7: Hidden Scars

Title: The Warden Of Jejivan High Security Prison

Snippet: Fëanor hid the scars of the incident, feeling ashamed and full of self-hatred when he saw them himself. He hated it. If his teams and he had figured out who the criminal was sooner, his attacker's brother would still be alive. And, for once in his life, Fëanor blamed himself for it. He blamed himself, believing he deserved the attack, since he failed to save that guy.

Entry 8: ???

Title:

Snippet:

The Vampire King's Match

Space: Dragging Themselves Along The Ground

Fandom: N/A

AU?: N/A

Extra: This, like the first entry, is my own world and characters.

Warnings: Blood, Injury, Fights

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

Everything was fine. Everything was fine before the assassins arrived. Cries and screams of men, women and children alike poisoned the usually peaceful air. His Royal Highness of Bludpyra stood face to face with many foes in his long life, but these assassins were man-made. They could not regenerate their injuries nor could they hypnotise, levitate or use telekinesis, but they were faster and more agile than the average vampire.

Karayan, as he happened to be in the village at the time of the attack, had skewered and slashed many of the artificial vampires to smithereens. However, there was one that was clearly the perfected model. Slim, tall, and weak in appearance, yet lethally strong in reality. It annoyed Karayan. He ordered the ones who were still alive to get inside their homes, while he stood face to face with the last.

Karayan was nothing short of powerful. He'd lived for centuries, perfecting his immunity to sunlight and all of his found capabilities. His scythe, a weapon perfectly designed for him and him alone, floated beside him. He kept calm, blocking the attacks that were sent his way with the scythe, not moving a muscle. Upon spotting an opening, a pale and dead hand grasped the scythe and swung it at a crazy speed. Karayan's eyes grew wide - the bastard had dodged. Before Karayan could regain his focus, a burn screamed through his thighs.

He crashed to the ground, a blood-curdling shriek bubbling up and out his mouth. He didn't understand. His regeneration was impeccably fast, so why wasn't he regenerating?!

"Silver is a beautiful yet dangerous thing... Is it not, Your Majesty?"

Karayan had never felt panic so bad in his life. Like how a heated blade would cauterise the wound it inflicts, the sword this man-made piece of shit wielded had closed the wounds it made. Well, it had closed off the points that Karayan would regenerate from. Fight or flight had become his mindset, a snarl curling onto his face. Gritting his jaw through the pain, Karayan commanded his scythe again, giving his opponent a flurry of furious attacks that sent them stumbling.

With a big enough distance, Karayan clawed at the ground, pulling himself along the blood tainted earth. He knew he was adding to the red. He may not have had a pulse, but his long-dead blood seeped out as a steady run. He dragged himself, pain and all, along the ground.

A scream of agony and surprise had him halt in his escape. This stupid fucker just had to take a arm off as well. Karayan snarled at the assassin, rolling out of the way as a frenzied strike was made towards his chest. Karayan grinned at the look of anger on his opponent's face, and at the fact his scythe was floating at an angle behind the attacker.

Mortal blood splattered over the ground and over what remained of Karayan's body. The vampiric king laid on the ground, gasping for the air he didn't need. He had won, yes, but he was in pain. He laid in his own blood, and that of the assassins he had killed to protect his people. Speaking of his people, a young woman was first to leave her home, a gasp of horror caught on Karayan's ears. He tilted his head back, looking back at the lady as she rushed over to him.

"Your Highness, can you hear me?"

Karayan slowly nodded, recognising the lady to be the wife of his friend's butler. "I can hear you, Lady Serene... I can hear you," he replied, his tone swept with his agony.

Lady Serene Haworth, an elven lady of underestimated power. She was one of a few necromancers that lived in Bludpyra, in this village on the borders of the neighbouring nation where her husband worked. She was a healer, and commonly helped Karayan's servants.

"Let me heal you, Your Majesty..."

Space: It's Quiet... Too Quiet

Fandom: N/A

AU?: N/A

Extra: This one is being written with connections to my own characters and their plot line(s).

Tag: @badthingshappenbingo

Lunafullia: The Revenge Of The Ringmaster

The circus grounds of Jejivan. A lively and warm atmosphere all year round, the acts and staff having as much fun as their fans and supporters! Cheers and awes would leave the glow of the tent's entrance around 6 o'clock every night for around 4 hours, 6 hours if it was a special night. Located a few miles south of the capital's centre, it stood to be the biggest source of enjoyment from residents and tourists alike. Hell, even the royals would attend frequently. Who'd expect high ranked members of society to attend events in a red and white tent that seemed to destroy all aspects of basic physics?

Jejivan's Circus. That was its name. Simple yet memorable. The main tent stood at a scarily tall 75ft, the other smaller tents standing at 55ft. Of course, that meant the space inside was just as scarily large, the centre masts stationed over 80ft apart, with a width of over 100 to add - and that's just the main tent. Why would a tent have to be so big? Well, the ringmaster and circus owner wasn't the smallest man - or naga - on Lunafullia's surface. He had to fit somehow!

Speaking of, shall we delve into the ringmaster?

A naga of the largest variety, measuring in at around 90ft long, was the ringmaster. His name was Ryoko Occidendum, and he'd been running this circus for over 150 years. He was the father of the acts, figuratively speaking at least. He made every night unique, with help from his brother on the occasion. As we mention him, Reign Occidendum is the creative manager of the circus, and also the stand in ringmaster if Ryoko couldn't partake. How would that work? Well, Ryoko and Reign are twins, identical twins.

But enough about that! This circus ran for hundreds of years, originally being called Occidendum's Circus, for it was a family thing. Popular, thriving, safe; all things for the circus that was true.

Until it was not.

No birds sang, no sounds at all. Not even the weight of his tail made a sound as he slithered over the abandoned grounds. Or, at least he didn't hear it.

He didn't know. And yet he was the one blamed. He didn't know there was a monstrosity beneath the circus. Several heads, maybe 30 of them? He couldn't quite recall. Each head had black holes for eyes, with teeth like the spikes on a flail. He didn't know.

The tent still stood. But the pain he felt, staring at the shreds of his life, was far too much. The white and red vibrance had been replaced by yellowed and tattered violence, the stench of damp fabric assaulting his senses. The fabric was torn to no end, the centre masts having trenches from where its destroyer had tried to claw its way out of its confines. Old stalls, from which attendees would've gotten their merch and snacks, now rotted and collapsed.

The air stood still. The sickening smells didn't waft away. No sound broke the silence.

It was still there.

Somewhere.

Despite the pain in his chest, he pulled back the ribbons of the tent's entrance, half debating to coil and cry. He didn't stop, advancing into the place he once stood. He stared at the main stage, the memories already surfacing.

"Welcome ladies and gents and everyone present! The circus opens its curtains to you!"

He'd said that. As he had every night. The distinguished hat he always wore, his tailcoat a charming blue, like the early hours of the morning sky. He had his tail, the reds and greens of his scales reflecting the fire light that illuminated their stages, coiled beneath him, his cane raised in a dramatic introduction.

They'd gotten two hours into their set for the night when the first grumble had been heard.

"And what a spectacular performance from our very own pirate captain! Never ceasing to amaze his crew~! Up next-"

He'd been introducing their fire dance act. He remembered it so clearly. He was cut short by a grumble, growl of sorts. He had regained his composure before attempting to introduce the act again, until a loud snarl had ripped through the grounds. He had been scared out of his skin, the first head making its horrific presence known. He had immediately called the night off, shouting and screaming for everyone to get out.

He slithered around the debris, his hood flaring slightly. He was paranoid. Rightly so, though. He didn't know what that creature had been. All he knew was that it had appeared, and ate its way through over 200 supporters of the circus, and hadn't been seen since the grounds were abandoned.

15 years ago to the day.

15 years ago, screams of fear and horror had filled the circus. Reports channeled over the city and beyond. He had been blamed for hiding it. He had insisted he'd not known it was there, and that he had no idea what it was. Survivors backed him up, informing investigators that he had been just as scared as the rest of them.

Now, 15 years on, the area was dead. Silent. Nothing. He had no reason to be there, but there he was.

Clutching his modified masamune with a white-knuckled grip, Jejivan's Circus' former ringmaster relaxed himself, glaring at the place the beast had come from all those years ago. It had destroyed his life.

He felt eyes on him, and his hood flared further. He locked his attention on the darkness ahead.

His life had been destroyed that night: his career, his family's past, his brother, his family at the circus. That beast had killed those he loved, had killed his life and reason for living.

Ryoko had come to repay the favour... Only this time, as the Lord of Jejivan, the Noble Naga of Death.

He would avenge his murdered friends and family.

The memories would be put to an end.

And he'd not be nice about it...