mxmartyr
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Every miracle that Val has conjured has turned against her. Even her god has fled her, leeching what little life it can from the hallowed husk of her mother's daughter before turning its back on her. There is no reason for her to continue. And yet, Val fails to die.
In the wreckage of Glottage, Shrue wakes to find themself anathema, alone, and at the mercy of the apocalyptic god-storm sweeping out over the Peninsula.
What else is there left to do but go on a road trip?
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Mercer finds her freedom in the Beast, in the frantic, animal terror of her prey as it takes flight across the field and in the thrum of adrenaline coursing through quivering, elongated muscles stretched nearly to their breaking point as she gives chase. For her, the Beast provides – a purpose, an escape, a wild and terrible joy.
And, you find freedom too.
Of course you do.
Or: Gage has always dwelt in the shadow of their god.
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"You've got potential, little parasite
I tie your hands so I can wish you well
'Cause I'm a gentleman and you are like
A caterpillar of the commonwealth"Shrue tries out a new bar. This goes terribly for them, and brilliantly for Carson.
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the stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom by mxmartyr
Fandoms: The Silt Verses (Podcast)
19 Oct 2024
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Shrue had built their platform on being a model member of the community, a local, a “family man.” But the more they invested in their work, the further that image seemed to be from the truth, and no number of reiterations to the press that they’d “grown up around the water” could detract from how far downstream the currents had carried them. The prestige of their position and the duties that came with it had spilled out over their world like an oil slick; a glimmering fetid iridescence that choked out all life beneath the surface.
Of course, this was all assuming they even had a family.
[Yet another character study of my favourite politician, focusing on their complacency, alcoholism and of course their Shruedinger's family.]
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That was the job though, Shrue rationalised. Behind a thin veneer of comradery lay an endless parade of smoke and mirrors. It was all optics; about endearing yourself to constituents and co-workers, making yourself seem appealing and masking your weaknesses so they couldn’t be used against you. You’d be a fool to expect anything different. Who would willingly roll over and present their soft white underbelly for piercing?
Or, in the aftermath of the Love Saints' attack, Adjudicator Shrue reflects on some things.