THE BANSHEE SIGIL - 1

A flannel stained in blood

OVA - 1

A FLANNEL STAINED IN BLOOD

“The Nominonica does not give power.
It awakens what was buried.”

✦✦✦

“He is the dream that thinks it made the world.
But I am the scream that woke it up.”
— Warda

✦✦✦

My name is… Scarlit.
Scarlitrose, actually.

Adjust glasses. On nose.

Think of me, as Jessica Alba… in a flannel.
Kim Possible, post-exorcism. A shy and timid bookworm. Studious, and in college, a research assistant.

I was… until my grabby hands fuckin’ professor tried to feel me up then turned into a freaking tentacle faced Cthulhu freak.

That was how it all started.
How I found the Nominonica.
How it branded me the Banshee Sigil.
How I then inherited the soul of Hades.
How she first came into being.

⟡
I don’t think of me, myself.
And her… as being the same girl.
⟡

I mean, she is so fierce… so fucking confident.
Brave like storming into a frat party with a crowbar to get the girl you literally love like a freaking sister out of the drooling hands of a drunk wolf man in an upstairs bedroom pulling her pants down around her ankles.

I surprise myself like that… sometimes,
but other times?
I’m too shy to speak.

Too timid to ask someone to move in a store so I can get to the item I need…
Been there before?

Maybe I’m just like super total weirdo type shit.
Maybe.

⊹

I guess, the warrior goddess… was somewhere in me.
Before the book. Before I got branded the Banshee Sigil.

But after she came into my being,
I saw us as two very different beings.

I am Clark fuckin’ Kent.
She is the fucking Superman.

Not the hero the world deserves…
Because honestly it doesn’t. Deserve her…
The sacrifices she has made of her body and mind.
Her soul and her spiritual fortitude.

But she is the hero the world gets.
She is the one the world gets.

In 2025… regardless of James Gunn’s opinion, about it?
Superman isn’t a man, at all.

SHE is a woman.

She bleeds once a month.
But for multiple days. And it sucks.
It really fucking sucks having a damn freaking period.

But that’s the power of being a woman.
We can bleed from our guts for days on end like we got stabbed,
and still have the power to cuss you out,
and navigate the world of wolves
and not get eaten by one.

We are the shit.
Women… are fucking warriors.
And we have always been the strongest on any battlefield of men.

That’s where she comes into all this.
The Rose.
Warda.
The war goddess.

And she is the reason I have to keep killing the fucking wet ones
that just won’t stop slipping through the cosmic wet ass pussy
following me through the rift.

My eternal curse.
The curse of the black flame.

✦✦✦

Kelly punches the bag.
One two. One two three. One two. One two three four.
One. two. one two three four…

She was always the victim.
Always somebody’s punching bag.
Her mom’s. Her dad’s. Her sister’s.

The girls at school. Bullied. Beaten.
By peers, and by her own family.
By a few boyfriends in her teen years back in high school.

Guys she now sees were way too frickin’ old for her.

But she didn’t know that back then
and has some daddy issues.

⟡
Can I call you daddy… she whispered in the dark.

No guy has ever said no.
To a girl calling him daddy in bed.

At least, I never have…
But maybe that’s just me…
I love a daddy’s girl.

They need a lot of love…
and a guy like me that writes about mystic knight super girls
has a lot of left out love to give.
⟡

Kelly had always been someone’s punching bag.
Prey for predators.

Until she met her best friend.
Scarlitrose.
In college.

She found in Scarlet, a legitimate real-life superhero.

The night she came rushing into that frat party
clutching that crowbar like a maniac
yelling and waving it around,
and proving she was not scared
to fucking cave those drunk assholes fuckin’ skulls in.

Everything changed that night… for Kelly.
Nothing has been the same since then…
Not for her. It hasn’t.

That night cemented her
to learn how to never be the victim
ever fucking again.

No more getting too drunk
and letting guys take advantage of her.
Because she felt like she deserved it.

No.

No more being a punching bag.
Now she’s the one doing all the punching on the punching bag.
Training in boxing and MMA.
Six days a week.
All she does is train.

But she is nowhere near as badass
as the most awesome best friend soul sister
a girl could ever dream of.

Scarlitrose really is a freakin’ badass.

And she is so glad to be her friend.
She loves her as a total sister.
Even though they aren’t real ones…
but sometimes, family is the people you choose.
Not the ones that fuckin’ hit you all the time.

✦✦✦

⟡ Dream sequence ⟡

Scarlitrose awakens from a weird dream.
It feels like a memory she forgot.

But as her eyes flutter open
she immediately begins to forget.

It was about…

⟡
She blinks her eyes awake,
then climbs free from bed to go pee.

She slips off the toilet into the shower
and gets dressed to start her day.

Brushes her slightly curly red hair out of face
so she can actually see out of her glasses.

They’re thick as a car’s windshield.

She looks like Marilyn Monroe
trying to play timid librarian in the hallway.

As if putting on eyeglasses is a way
of making her in anyway less totally gorgeous,
and not the ultimate studious college girl fantasy
of every horny guy that never got laid enough in life.

She dresses in flared blue denim jeans,
and has on a pair of black flip flops,
and a tank top under her flannel.

Vintage flannels kick so much ass.

Working in the bookstore
is the fiber of her being—
it grounds her in the chaos.

In spite of the fact,
she sometimes has no choice
but to go running out on her shift
and go fight monsters in a parking lot a few blocks away.

Then comes back, no glasses, and can’t see.

She keeps trying to get Warda to stop throwing them
and breaking them every time she transforms into her…
but she hasn’t figured out an actual way of communicating to the war goddess.

⟡ Maybe I try to write it on my arm… ⟡

A sudden twinge in the cosmic ether
draws her attention towards the front display glass window.

Somewhere outside,
a rift has opened.

And the wet ones are getting through it…

it’s fucking hero time.
Sorry Ben but I couldn’t think of anything else.

Scarlitrose goes to the store manager and says she has an emergency
and has to run.

She doesn’t actually await a response.
She runs out. Commonplace…

It’s been months now since her getting hired
and in the time, she has worked here,
Scarlitrose has had to transform and fight monsters
on more than one occasion.

Like three or four times actually.
After a while the battles begin to bleed into each other
and become one singular acid trip in hell.

Her banshee sigil is glowing.
On the back of her hand.
The tattoo marking that serves as her brand
by the Book of Dragon Blood.

The book actually condensed itself into the marking
and forms the sigil.

From out of the sigil
she summons the black flame sword of the underworld.

Euronymos… the necrosword.

✦✦✦

Scarlitrose can sense the rift.
She runs towards it blindly
never slowing down to stop for people
she literally shoves out of her way.

She already feels the goddess taking over
as her adrenaline pulses.

Doesn’t even have to be the full metamorphosis.
Warda is crying out for the sacred warpath.

Her heat spreads from her lower abdomen
through to her chest
and smothers her under the flames.

The flip flops disappeared… like five, six blocks ago.

Running barefoot in flares.
And a flannel.
That’s me.

Scarlitrose searches the street
for any sign of carnage.

Then she hears the first screams
from someone getting torn apart
by nasty green skinned fishy frog god monsters.

They look like Pepe the frog
turned into a half Cthulhian tentacle head
by malevolent occult magic.

That’s basically what the wet ones are.

They are the hive mind embodiments of Cthulhu…
the god in the deep.
They are like his limbs.
Fingers, and toes.
Arms, and legs.

Her sigil has some attachment to them.
It makes the rifts open,
and the Eldritchians come pouring through.

But it’s easier if we just call them the wet ones.
Cuz they’re all squishy and gross and wet,
like jellyfish.

They spew blueish green crud sludge
when you cut into them.

Scarlitrose raises her hand extending her arm, palm open,
and she yells out:

“Euronymos!”

Calling for the necrosword.

It manifests from a sudden combustion of black necroflames
that swirl around her hand
giving rise to the ominous looking sword.

It’s entirety is all black
and has a tiny skull face that’s embedded in the hilt.
The little skull eyes glow on it.
They glow an eerie green.

Her eyes, are green.
They glow too… when the transformation occurs.

⟡ Her short curly red hair grows long ⟡
Way past her shoulders.
Halfway down her back
to her ass almost.

It turns a bit darker.
Rage red.

She throws her glasses.
They break on the ground somewhere.

Warda is taking over her now…

The war goddess becomes the living being of Scarlitrose,
as she gains full control of her body and mind.

She can see it all.
The carnage in the battle.

But she can’t do anything.

Warda is now in the driver’s seat…
the way it is for her…
when Scarlitrose is in control…
the rest of the time.

They are like twin sisters
sharing a single body.

Warda rushes the wet ones…
She swings the sword.
Cutting them in half
by lethal blows
from its necroflamed blade.

Chopping the gross ass fishy frog creeps
into bits…

✦✦✦

Scarlitrose wakes up in bed.
She knows how she got there.

She’s naked.
And she’s warm.

And she can feel a cock
on the back of her thigh…

The guy Warda fucked all night,
and she loved every minute of it.

It was the most thrilling thing
she has done for weeks.

It always happens.
Warda likes to fuck.
She gets turned on, after a battle.
She needs the release from combat,
and seeks it, by conquest.
With men.

Scarlitrose is basically like, asexual.
But not because she isn’t ever horny.
Or wants to have sex…

She likes cock.
She likes the way it fills her.
The pressure, the stretch.

It’s fucking incredible.

But she is too timid.
To ever invite it, into her life.

That’s what Warda is for…
to claim…
the cock
she is too afraid to go after…

Even… when she wants it.
In her life…
and inside her.

⊹

Scarlitrose scrambles from the bed.
The guy is too tired
to rise from false death.

Pleasing a war goddess
drains every fluid in your body.
Leaves you lying there
like a dead body
for hours afterwards.

Guy knew his shit.
But still…
men have limits.
Warda has none…
she has none, limits.

She goes into the guy’s bathroom
and finds some scissors.

Begins to cut all this extra fucking hair off.
Warda has long hair.
Scarlitrose doesn’t.

Not having her glasses
makes this a bit more problematic
but it’s happened enough times
she can basically do it…
off memory alone.

The muscle memory of the act.

Like last night.

⟡
The memory flashes through her mind
and she feels it, between her legs.
⟡

fuck

Fuck, he made me cum really fucking good.

I think I…
wanna go fuck this asshole some more…

Scarlitrose crawls into bed.

As if she is still the war goddess.
Waking him up.

He is gonna have to please the goddess more.

She climbs on his hard cock
as if she is still the war goddess…

But…

for now…
she is the war goddess…

⟡⟡⟡

Scarlitrose is, not…
Warda.

WARDA - THE WAR GODDESS.