#A STORY IS A SEARCH FOR TRUTH AND THUS FOR ANSWERS

[fictionadventurer]

I would like to publicly debate Mr. Andrew Peterson about his stance on endings please and thank you.

[leighsartworks216]

Understanding

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

I DIDN'T FORGET TO POST THIS ON THURSDAY!!! I found updating on Thursdays actually a horrible idea considering it's one of my busiest days of the week, so I'm shifting to post on Saturdays now. Sorry for anyone who was looking forward to an update then and didn't see one <333

Warnings: none that I know of, but lmk if I missed something

Word Count: 1,910

Main Masterlist

AO3

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You’re scared to leave your room the next day. Not for fear of being hurt… or worse, surprisingly enough. You spent all night (day? It’s hard to keep track of time here) organizing your thoughts and morals. You couldn’t rest until you figured them out, and you were awake still long after, figuring out what to say to him.

With a deep breath and a quick run-through of the script you put together, you follow the rocky walls through the lair. You feel like a child again, trying to sneak out of the temple. As though any moment you’ll be caught and forced to recite hymns to atone for your mischief.

Your search for the fiend is made easy when you hear the quiet clink of metal hitting each other. It leads you to the treasure room, far more echoey than any other room you’ve been to thus far and with air that doesn’t feel as condensed.

Something is tossed into a pile of coins. You can hear them sliding down the side, scraping over one another before coming to rest on the floor. And again.

“Are you… organizing?”

The coins still and you’re left in the silence. You can just barely hear his breathing, the swish of air around the tail you’ve seen in your visions.

“You…” You inhale, trying to find the words you rehearsed to yourself over and over again, lost somewhere in the aether, never to return. “I don’t think you’re… as much of a monster as you make yourself out to be.”

He chuckles humorlessly. You startle at the sound. “No? How come, pet? Is it not in my nature to desecrate the world and its innocents? Is it not destiny that makes me maim?” Something is lifted from one pile and tossed into another with a loud clatter.

You clear your throat. Destiny is a complicated topic, one that has no tried and true answer. Thinking such is blasphemous in itself. You banish the thought quickly before you call down Astra’s ire upon you.

“You said they were trying to kill you. If that is the truth, then you are the innocent here. Everyone will do anything in their power to save their own life, even if that means taking another.” You exhale unevenly. “As far as I’m concerned, their lives were forfeit as soon as they encroached on your…” You gesture vaguely around. “Home.”

“Does your god share your opinion?”

A weak laugh jostles out of you. “Probably not,” you admit. You swallow nervously. “I’m sure He’ll let me know if He doesn’t. But He doesn’t speak for me, and I can only speak so much of His will into existence. Whether He likes it or not, I have beliefs outside of Him, and I believe that you’re not as unredeemable and unforgivable as the stories say… If you were, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Your heart thuds uncomfortably in your chest as you wait for any sort of response from him. Maybe you said something wrong, somewhere, somehow, and made things worse. Maybe calling him innocent was an insult, a miscommunication between dragons and mortals, blindly overstepped. But you wait. You listen.

Slowly, you hear him moving again. “Come here.”

For a moment, you think he’s calling you over so he can kill you, strip your bones and discard you with the rest. You force that assumption down, despite how tempting it sounds to get the hell out of there. You wouldn’t get very far anyway.

Carefully, you step further into the room. You have to abandon the reassurance of the doorway in favor of wide open space. Sliding your feet across the floor, you’re careful not to step on anything, with your arms outstretched to feel for anything solid. Some ways from the door, something hard and strong wraps around your waist and drags you to the side. You jump, yelping uncertaintly as you’re nudged to sit down on something plush and soft. It’s unlike anything else you’ve felt around the tunnels.

“I am organizing,” he confirms, as though your outpouring of sympathy never happened. “You can sit here while I do.”

You hesitantly, curiously, feel the plush cushion. It’s almost velvety beneath your fingers, if not a bit rough. “How long has this been here?”

It’s rhetorical, but you hear him chuckle. “Long before you got here, oracle.”

You try not to show your surprise at the new nickname for you. Anything aside from “pet” is greatly welcomed. It does more to ease your nerves than anything else he could have chosen to say.

“Speaking of which, any new insights on your prophecy?”

Gods, you’d nearly forgotten all about it. “Not especially,” you say, “though you being a fiend does answer some of my questions.”

More clinking metal. Rather than being thrown, it sounds like it was carefully placed on the floor. “How so?”

“Your appearance, primarily. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

“‘Seen’? Did you forget you’re blind, or have you lost your wits in the short time you’ve been here?”

You laugh. Ah, right, he’s never met a Chosen before. You find a back to the furniture you sit on. It’s wooden and intricate. You adjust to lean up against it, legs stretched out along the rest of the cushion. It feels heavenly after days of sleeping on hard rock. “No, I’m as sane as I can be. It’s how I receive the prophecies from Astra; he plays the events in my mind and I can see them actually played out before me as I sleep.”

He hmphs. Something heavy shifts across the floor. “That’s a bit cruel.”

“How do you mean?”

“How long have you been blind?”

“Um, my whole life. I was born this way.”

“And yet he dangles the gift of sight before you every time you need to relay the future. You’d think a god like him could find a better way to do so.”

You pick at the cloth on your hands. “I… I have no comment.”

“Do you miss it when you wake up? Being able to see?”

Do you? You’ve become so intimately accustomed to it, you don’t think about it anymore. Being allowed to see prophecies in such a unique way has become so detached from your blindness; you can’t seem to reconcile them together anymore. The waking world and the world of dreams are two separate entities, incomparable.

“I guess I just don’t think about it once I’ve woken up,” you choose to say.

“Do you wish you could see?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation, no doubt. You feel his eyes on you as you smile. “For all the hardships and struggles, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Do you wish you weren’t a dragon?”

He scoffs, amused, but a sour note lingers. He doesn’t answer. You suspect he may just wish such a thing.

You undo the messy knot in the cloth around your left hand and begin to unwrap it. Your hands don’t hurt anymore, so perhaps they’ve healed? Either way, these things probably need to be changed out. You clear your throat. “I don’t know much about dragons. Nothing that I’d consider trustworthy information, anyway.”

“What have you heard?”

“The usual: fiends are terrifying beasts that feed on human flesh and steal innocent girls for their own pleasure. They have huge lairs full of gold and priceless treasures.” You set the first wrap aside and begin working on the second. “The lair and hoard are true, I would assume, since…” You gesture around.

“Yes, those are true,” he laughs. You hear his footsteps getting closer. “I can’t say anything for my appearance, but we don’t eat human flesh. I’m sure some of us have stolen girls in the past. As for myself, you’re the first mortal I’ve brought back here.”

“What do you eat?” You can’t recall hearing him eat anything since you arrived. Even from afar, you could usually pinpoint the distinct chewing sounds, as unpleasant as they are. And for how many skeletons you stumbled upon yesterday…

He doesn’t respond right away. His steps stop in front of you, halting your wrapping as you wait for what will happen next. You nearly startle when his voice returns beside your ear, hot breath fanning against your skin and drawing goosebumps along your arms against your will. “Human souls,” he says. You think he’s smirking. He sounds far too amused. “The bones you found. They’re from hunters who come to kill me. Thieves who try to claim my treasures. I ate their souls.”

You swallow. “Will you eat mine?”

He chuckles as he backs away, speaking to you face to face. “Would you like me to?”

“No,” you answer sharply.

“Then I won’t.”

“I assume this is a very rare special treatment, not extended to others.”

“As curious as I am to know what an oracle’s soul tastes like,” he teases with a mournful sigh. “Let me see your hands.”

You finish unwrapping your right hand. The cloth drops into a pile with the other, and you hold both your hands in front of you, palms up. Something hard and sharp holds the back of your hands, startling you. They leave for a second, before holding them again.

“Are those… your hands?”

He hums an affirmative. He tilts your hands from side to side, examining the old injuries you sustained. “They’ve healed well,” he says, sounding impressed. “I guess I was wrong to underestimate you.”

You huff a laugh. “I told you! The people in the city are rough; even I picked up some things here and there for my own sake. I probably wouldn’t have been able to run away if I hadn’t been just a little resourceful.”

“You’re getting cocky now, oracle. Mind your head doesn’t get too big and fall from your shoulders.” He lets go of your hands. Something flicks your forehead. You grab it before he can fully pull away.

It’s sharp and tough, with ridges and plating coming together to form gauntlet-like fingers and a rough palm. He doesn’t take his hand back. You can feel his eyes watching you, staring you down like a bird of prey, but your curiosity fends off the embarrassment.

When you find his wrist, you think maybe you’ll find soft skin. Instead, it’s just more hard plating, as high up as you dare to feel. It’s cold, texture akin to a beetle’s shell. You hold the back of his hand in your palm, as he’d just done to you, and trace the other overtop. A small heart shape catches your attention. You follow its contour a few times, before lightly feeling up the lengths of his fingers. The tips are pointed, enough that if you dared press any harder, they’d surely break through your skin and draw blood.

“Why did you run away?” he asks, voice reduced to a low rumble.

You release his hand. “Astra gave me a prophecy that they didn’t like,” you explain matter-of-factly. Though, maybe he can see the sorrow that crosses your face. “It’s not the first time, but this one predicted the coming of doomsday. It topped the pile of bad prophecies, tipped the scale too far, and they decided I was the one wishing doom on their families. I heard them talking wherever I went, plotting to kill me at dawn’s first light, as a sacrifice to appease Astra. So, I ran.”

“Just the messenger, right?”

“Precisely.”

---

Tag List:

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[thedemonofcat]

When Jaskier was thirteen, two life-altering things happened. First, his mother—the only person who had ever truly cared for him—died after a long battle with illness. Second, his father, the Earl of Lettenhove, summoned a witcher.

Jaskier had always known he was different. Whispers echoed through the halls of the estate—maids and stablehands murmuring that he was the product of his mother’s affair with a non-human. To the Earl, his son was a shameful reminder of betrayal, a "freak" unworthy of a noble title.

So when his mother passed, the Earl saw no more use for the boy and called for a witcher—not to help, but to eliminate what he believed was a monster.

But the witcher who arrived saw the truth. Jaskier wasn’t a monster—just a frightened, grieving child. Instead of killing him, the witcher faked Jaskier’s death and took him away.

Jaskier was too old to undergo the Trial of the Grasses, and even if he weren’t, few remained who could administer it. Still, the witcher couldn’t leave him behind. With nowhere else to go, Jaskier became his ward.

Over the years, they forged a powerful bond. What began as survival evolved into something more—trust, companionship, even love. The witcher, once a stranger, became the closest thing Jaskier had to a father. They traveled the Continent together, and when the time came, Jaskier enrolled at Oxenfurt Academy, where he began training to become a bard.

Then, on the eve of Jaskier’s eighteenth birthday, the witcher disappeared—no trace, no goodbye.

Desperate for answers, Jaskier set out to find another witcher.

That search led him to Geralt of Rivia. And thus, a new story began.

[lovezbrownies]

Devout. (M!Yandere Scholar.) Part One.

General Masterlist - Pinterest Board

Synopsis: Ronan Solmere is a devout scholar, who only believes in logic. So what happens when he falls in love with an ancient god who is now forgotten in the middle of a cave and wishes to bring them back into remembrance? A story of desperation and pathetic men.

PAIRING: Yandere!Ronan X GN!Reader.

ALLERT: Reader is depicted with hair/hair long enough to flow in the wind, so a little below ear level at the very least. Other than that Reader is completely not depicted to be any race, gender, or size.

Ronan Solmere was born into a prestigious family of scholars, historians, and occultists—people who prided themselves on knowledge above all else. From childhood, he was surrounded by dusty tomes, flickering candlelight, and whispers of things that should never be spoken aloud. He was a prodigy, absorbing everything with a hunger that frightened even his mentors.

Yet, for all his brilliance, Ronan had always been alone. His mind was a labyrinth of theories and ideas, of half-formed thoughts and forgotten knowledge waiting to be unearthed, but none of it ever made him feel truly alive. Books were his only companions, their ink-stained pages the only hands that had ever reached out to him, and yet, for all the wisdom they offered, they could never answer the question that gnawed at the edges of his existence: 

What else is out there? He had read every tome, studied every scrap of history he could find, but it was never enough—it would never be enough. The world was still too vast, too unknown, and the hunger in his soul would not let him rest. It was this hunger that drove him deeper into his studies, until days bled into nights, until the voices of the living faded into the background like distant echoes, until even the warmth of the sun became foreign to him.

And then, one day, he found it. A fragment of a story carved into the very bones of the earth, its meaning fractured but undeniable. Ancient inscriptions, written by hands long turned to dust, spoke of something lost—something buried within the mountain’s heart. The tale was incomplete, broken by time and erosion, yet even in its ruin, it called to him. 

The idea of an unfinished story, of knowledge left to rot in the dark, was unbearable. What had they written about? Why had it been abandoned? More importantly, who had written it, and what had they tried to hide? These questions took root in his mind, growing like ivy, twisting and curling until they were all he could think about. The unknown was intolerable, maddening, and he could not resist the pull of it.

Thus, the ever-starved scholar in him made it his very life’s mission to uncover the truth. He spent weeks searching, tracing the edges of the mountain, following whispers in research papers and half-forgotten myths, until at last, his efforts bore fruit. At the mountain’s base, hidden beneath a thick curtain of tangled vines and wild shrubbery, he found an entrance—a cave, untouched, unseen, waiting. A place no map had recorded, no explorer had documented. The mouth of the cave loomed before him, gaping like the maw of some slumbering beast, the air around it thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something old, something watching. But strangely, it was not Ronan who first disturbed the entrance.

No, it was a rabbit.

A small, delicate thing, pure white against the darkened stone, its fur so pristine it almost seemed to glow. It moved without fear, weaving effortlessly through the vines, slipping into the cave’s depths as if it had done so a thousand times before. And Ronan, for all his logic and reason, found himself hesitating. Why did it feel like an invitation? He wasn’t one to believe in omens or fate, and yet, he couldn’t shake the eerie familiarity of it all—like a tale he had read long ago, or a dream he had nearly forgotten. 

The image of Alice and her rabbit crossed his mind unbidden, a silly comparison, perhaps, but fitting. He, too, was being led into the unknown, driven not by fear but by curiosity, by an insatiable need to see more, to know more, to discover what lay beyond the veil of the ordinary. 

And so, like a helpless, curious girl stumbling after a fairy tale, Ronan stepped through the vines and followed.

As Ronan followed the pure white rabbit deeper into the cave, an unsettling sense of anticipation settled within him, as if the very walls were watching. The air grew colder, heavier, and with each step he took, a strange energy began to pulse within him, sparking beneath his skin. Magic, untamed and restless, ignited the palms of his hands—flickers of flame dancing between his fingers, casting long, jittery shadows on the walls. His eyes, wide with fascination, traced the ancient carvings etched into the stone.

The drawings were crude at first, rough lines that spoke of a time long past, but the story was unmistakable: it was the tale of a lesser god, neither the weakest nor the strongest of deities. A being powerful enough to command worship but not enough to endure the tests of time. A good god, by all measures. A god who should have been remembered, praised for centuries, whose name should have been spoken with reverence, prayed to with desperation. Yet here, in this forsaken cave, there was no worship, no glory—only fading lines and forgotten dreams.

Ronan’s gaze fixed on the images: scenes of a god’s kindness, the god’s urgency to answer the prayers of their believers. But there was something strange about it—the only followers depicted were the villagers of the very mountain. How could this be? The drawings told a tale of a devotion so pure, so earnest, that it sustained the god through millennia. Villagers had lived here, praying at the foot of this mountain, offering their lives and hopes to the deity they believed in. It had been enough to fuel the god for centuries, to give them form and power. Yet, as Ronan’s eyes wandered across the walls, something felt off.

Where had the almighty calamity god gone? Where were their followers? The god had vanished, and with them, the village—once prosperous, as depicted in the wall art, is now lost to time. The deeper Ronan ventured into the cave, the more fragmented the images became. The artist, or more like generations of artists, it seemed, had grown weary, frustrated, perhaps even fearful. The lines became jagged, the symbols less detailed, the stories less full of life. It was as if the devotion that had once powered the god was fading from the walls themselves.

By the end of the cave, the drawings grew sparse, their edges fraying into nothing. The last few images were simple, almost chilling in their finality—a single lonely villager, their face obscured by sorrow. Around them, concentric circles, drawn in frantic strokes, seemed to represent a loss. The disappearance of the god, the disappearance of hope. 

The final drawing was an image of grief—a broken figure, kneeling in despair, hands reaching out in a futile attempt to bring their god back. They wished for the return of the god, wished for their family, wished to revive the village to its prime, to restore everything they had lost.

But their god had abandoned them long ago, long before the villagers' hearts turned cold. In the beginning, the god had answered every prayer, every cry for mercy, for guidance, for blessings. But as time passed, something changed. The villagers, once humble and grateful, began to ask for more—more than they deserved, more than they needed. The greed festered within them, a dark seed that took root in their hearts. Their god, once generous and giving, became hesitant, cautious. The once pure desire for divine favor twisted into demands, tainted with sin, with selfishness. And the god, in their wisdom, began to withdraw, unwilling to nourish the evil blooming within their people.

The prayers grew quieter, then more desperate, until they became accusations. The villagers, once fervent in their belief, now spoke against the god they had once adored. The sacred name of the calamity god was no longer uttered with reverence but with mockery, with bitterness. Curses replaced blessings. They turned their backs on the god, forgetting the kindness they had once received, blinded by their own hunger for more.

And so, the god, wounded by the greed and disdain of those they had once cared for, made their decision. They left. With a heavy heart and sorrowful eyes, the god announced their departure. The villagers, now unworthy of the god’s love, were free to seek another, one who would answer every demand, regardless of how cruel or selfish. 

A god who would grant wishes without hesitation, without judgment, without mercy. And so, the calamity god turned away, leaving the villagers to their fate, choosing instead to roam the roads carved by their Father of Omnipotence, seeking solace in the vast beauty of the world, leaving behind a broken village.

In time, the villagers found a new god, one who promised to fulfill their every whim. But the price of their greed was more than they had ever anticipated. The village, once thriving, began to wither. Famine came, followed by drought. The crops failed, the rivers dried, and even the children began to vanish. The villagers, who had once reveled in their new god’s promises, now found themselves on their knees, pleading for the return of the god they had forsaken. But it was too late. 

The new god, a vengeful and bitter sibling of the calamity god, was not as merciful. Slowly, painfully, they began to exact revenge—killing the villagers one by one, torturing them with hunger, disease, and despair. The gods’ broken-hearted sibling paid them back in kind for their betrayal, ensuring that no one would escape their vengeance.

The cries of the dying echoed through the empty streets as the last of the villagers begged for mercy. Begged for the return of their true god, the one they had cast aside. But the calamity god did not answer. Or at least, that’s what it seemed. Ronan could feel the weight of the silence in the air, thick and suffocating. The abandoned wooden and straw houses, the remnants of a once-thriving village, stood as silent witnesses to the god’s final decision. 

The god had not answered. Not in the way the villagers had hoped. And though the cries of the desperate echoed through the forgotten halls, Ronan knew the truth—they had been left to their fate, forsaken by the very deity they had once worshiped. And their new god, cruel and heartless, had avenged the calamity god’s broken spirit, ensuring that no one would live to remember the god’s name.

Ronan was unsure of how the story had truly ended, but in the silence of the cave, in the stillness of the forsaken village, he knew this: the god had abandoned them, and their vengeance had come. The villagers had made their choice, and now they would suffer for it, their bodies and souls alike taken by the wrath of the divine.

Ronan stood frozen, unable to tear his gaze away, his very breath stolen by the sheer divinity before him. At the heart of the cavern, carved with reverence beyond human comprehension, was you—a god once worshipped, once loved, now abandoned yet preserved in eternal stone. The cavern walls, though once filled with countless prayers and desperate carvings of your name, felt deathly silent now, as if waiting for the one being they longed for to finally return. And you, standing tall and unyielding, were the only one who remained.

It was clear that you had been cherished. Even in your stillness, even in the lifelessness of the cold, carved stone, you were mesmerizing—too perfect for mortal hands to have created without devotion bordering on obsession. Your hair, sculpted with delicate precision, flowed behind you as if caught in an unseen wind, every strand shaped with aching care, a lover’s touch immortalized in stone. Your expression was soft yet distant, your gaze tilted ever so slightly downward, as though you were once shy to meet the eyes of those who knelt before you. And your lips… a small, enigmatic smile curved upon them, frozen in time, caught between warmth and secrecy, as though hiding the echo of a laughter lost to centuries.

But it was your eyes that truly stole his breath.

The irises had been carved out, replaced with two perfect, polished pieces of gold, gleaming even in the dim, flickering light of his fire. Not merely decoration—a sacrifice. Gold was no trivial material, no cheap adornment. Whoever had created this had given up wealth, power, their very livelihood, all for the sake of capturing you, of ensuring that your gaze would never lose its luster. It was love. There was no other word for it. The depth of that devotion pressed into his chest like an unbearable weight, stealing the very air from his lungs.

And in that moment, he was no different from them.

His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to reach out, to touch, to trace the curve of your face, to feel even a fraction of what had driven an entire people to their knees in worship. The warmth of the firelight reflected in your golden eyes, making them glimmer like they were truly watching him, and an ache bloomed deep in his ribs. What was this feeling? This irrational, all-consuming, impossible sensation clawing its way into his heart? You were a god, a long-forgotten deity whose name had not been spoken in centuries, and yet—he wanted you. Not just to study, not just to understand, but to know.

Had you ever loved a mortal before?

The thought sent a sharp thrill through his spine, both ridiculous and intoxicating. Did gods… date mortals? It was a foolish notion, laughable even, and yet his mind refused to let it go. He imagined, for just a moment, what it would feel like to be the object of a god’s attention. To have those golden eyes look upon him not with passive observation, but with true interest, with the same tenderness that had once belonged to the people who carved this shrine.

And then, reality struck him like a cruel joke.

What did he have to offer? He was no one. No great sorcerer, no noble hero of legend. His magic was weak, barely enough to sustain him within the ranks of the Royal Scholars. His childhood dream of becoming a powerful mage had shattered years ago, crumbling beneath the weight of his limitations. He was just a man. Just a man standing before a god whose followers had once carved their love into stone—followers who had still lost you in the end.

But still, he was here, wasn’t he?

Still breathing in the remnants of your presence, still aching to understand you, still willing to fall if it meant knowing more. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs, the sound deafening in the cavern’s silence. His lips parted, a breathless whisper caught in his throat.

The thought sent a sharp, dizzying rush through his veins, something almost feverish in its intensity. Your savior. It was a ridiculous notion, yet the mere possibility of it set his heart ablaze. The idea that he, a mere scholar with nothing but ink-stained fingers and a mind consumed by obsession, could be the one to bring you back into the world… it was exhilarating.

His fingers hovered over the carved stone tablet at your feet, barely brushing its timeworn surface. Your name. It was right there, preserved through centuries of dust and decay, waiting—waiting for him. He traced each letter with reverence, whispering it under his breath, feeling the shape of it on his tongue like a sacred incantation. So many had once called upon you, prayed to you, offered their devotion to you, and yet… you had been forgotten. Left to gather dust in the darkness of this cavern, abandoned by the very people who had once adored you.

It made his stomach twist with something close to rage.

How could they? How could anyone willingly turn their backs on something—someone—so divine? The gods above must have been blind to allow this injustice to happen. He could almost picture it: you, standing before your people one last time, watching as their devotion waned, as their voices no longer lifted in prayer, as their faith crumbled into greed. Did you grieve for them? Or had you merely accepted it, retreating into the world, leaving behind only whispers of your name and a statue that would one day be forgotten?

No.

Ronan clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He refused to accept that. You deserved more. You deserved to be known, to be worshipped, to have the world fall at your feet once more. And if no one else would do it, then—then he would.

The idea settled deep into his bones, solid and immovable. It was no longer a passing thought, no longer the foolish musings of an enraptured scholar. It was a conviction. A calling. If you had no worshippers left, then he would become the first of many. He would spread your name, carve your likeness into the hearts of men, gather followers until your presence could no longer be ignored. He would bring you back.

And then… then perhaps he would finally hear your voice.

The thought made his breath hitch, his cheeks burning with something dangerously close to longing. What would you sound like? Would your voice be gentle, like the murmuring wind through ancient trees? Or would it be rich and velvety, commanding and undeniable? Would you smile at him, whisper his name like a prayer? Would you… thank him?

His stomach twisted, a strange, delicious ache curling through his chest.

Would you love him for it?

He shook his head, pressing his knuckles against his lips as if to physically suppress the thought. Blasphemous. Utterly, shamelessly blasphemous. You were a god, and he—he was nothing.

But gods had loved mortals before. Hadn’t they?

Perhaps, if he was devout enough, if he worshipped you fiercely enough, if he proved himself utterly and completely yours—perhaps you would look upon him with favor. Perhaps, one day, you would see him.

A slow, trembling breath left his lips. Yes. He would make sure of it.

[fruttymoment]

Ok but like favorite slugcat OVERALL, like, in general. If you had to pick one.

There is no such thing as overall and general. To do this you have to decide criterias, weight them and see which one is the most important one; thus the slugcat connected to the criteria becomes the 'overall' choice.

Now; we can use some scientific multi criteria decision making methods such as ANP and VIKOR in order to rank the reasoning and the no 1 slugcat which would be the overall choice. However doing so; ANP requires 'professional views' from other professional people. Searching for at least a hundred of professional Rain World players and making them give a 1 to 9 score for the criterias to build the ANP system seems rough. Meanwhile, doing basic weighting such as Entrophy would be less scientific and truthful.

In short; there will never the 'correct overall favorite slugcat' for my answer unless I myself give it a reasoning following the criterias.

Let me put it in the simplest way possible.

Saint / Watcher.

As you can see I can't even choose one because how similiar they are. But as you might have guessed; lore, story and environment is my favorite and most important criteria in Rain World. And those two have it all.

If you still still want me to choose over between Saint and Watcher, since they are extremely familiar; I have to choose an another criteria to choose one of them due to using the entrophy method which it suggest that I must choose the biggest 'changing' criteria.

Let me compare their gameplay then.

Even the gameplay of Saint and Watcher is the same; we hunt for Echoes. Thus, I must compare their ability instead. That's the only thing I can truly compare and choose of.

Saint's ability is to use their toing to navigate and climb around; and they have the unique gameplay of 'freezing'. Saint campaign has no rain, instead it has a snowstorm mechanic in which you have to keep yourself warm and the snowstorm gets worse as the cycle goes on to the point going outside becomes intense. This unique mechanic is fun, though I kinda don't find it too different from the og rain mechanic as the snowstorm at one point will also almost instantly kill you. Of course not fast as the rain would. I am of course not counting ascended Saint; in where we can fly. Fun mechanic but the toing already provides some sort of the same experience if you know how to use it. The only time I use the flying is passing annoying waters in Shoreline as such.

The Watcher has the most unique ability I ever saw in a scug. Invisibility. Unlike some people said, it actually does not make you invincible. If you become invisible and touch a lizard, they actually sense you and can chomp you. Literally that's what happened to me many times. This invisibility is such a fun ability and a great reminder that Rain World, in it's core; is NOT a game where you just fight back. As a helpless scug all you can do is become invisible for a while to stay alive. This is why Downpour, which is not canon (unlike Watcher, which is canon and made by devs); has agressive scugs like Artificer. Fun to play but absolutely not how you should play Rain World in og way. The og experience of Rain World is being a defensive scared scug. Even hunter is brutally harder cuz all they have is the ability to carry another spear. Not point blank a lizard with a bomb and be alive & dodge everything.

Gameplay wise? I think going invisible to plan ahead and be dubious and also sloowlly float in the air and travelling to another dimension of Watcher is very fun! Saint's toing movements and insta-killing everything as ascended is peak tho. So I struggle to choose here.

.. which means I fail to choose yet again.

Screw the gameplay then. Let's have the other criteria : regions and music.

Now

I LOOVEE the snow and music of Saint. It feels lonely and amazing.

But oh my god. Watcher's regions and MUSIC is something ELSE. They feel amazing and realsitic, they have actual great weather effects and more and the MUSIC of Watcher is simply the best in my opinion. Watcher's regions are already existed mod regions sure, but most of the people who modded them already worked for Rain World in great terms. Not to mention, if I am correct; some modded regions were literally og concepts from the devs themselves.

Tldr ; THE WATCHEERR

[theblueprincess590]

The Heart of a Toy-An Analysis of KH3

Ever since finishing Kingdom Hearts 2 Nomura has been insistent on including Toy story in Kingdom hearts 3 even going as far as to say in an interview with Jen Simpkins from GameRader’s Edge Magazine, “After we were done with Kingdom Hearts II and were starting to consider III, we started talks with Disney, I remember saying, ‘If we can’t use Pixar, then we can’t have a third game.’ It’s that important to the game series,” (Nomura). And it’s clear to see why Nomura put so much importance on Toy Story once you realize how much its story connects to and reinforces the themes and mythos of Kingdom Hearts.

Toy Box is a magical world. While it appears to be the same of our own it holds a great secret, Toys are alive. When a child looks away a Toy springs to life revealing a heart of their very own, but that begs the question, how does a toy possess a heart? In Kingdom Hearts 3 we learn the answer. A toy is given a heart by the love of children. When a child looks upon a toy they do not see a cheap piece of plastic but instead they see a friend with a heart of its own to be loved and cherished. And it is that belief which truly gives the toys a heart. This is what Woody means when he says the Toys within Galaxy Toys have yet to figure it out. That they have yet to realize the love of a child and thus are empty shells without a heart of their own.

As Young Xehanort himself points out this draws heavily parallels between the toys and Nobodies, both incomplete creatures searching for their missing Half, but this parallel isn't just there to establish why the heartless can possess the empty toys. The point of this Parallel is to answer a question that has haunted the narrative of Kingdom Hearts since the events of KH2, Why does Roxas have a heart?

Roxas, just like his somebody, is an anomaly in the world of Kingdom Hearts. He is a nobody that bears neither the face nor the memories of his original self. He is more shallow than any other nobody, less a body without a heart and more a broken shell. Yet not only was Roxas the first nobody to grow a heart but said heart was his alone. Throughout the events of Days Roxas grows from a barely living husk of a man to one who definitely proclaims his own existence and personhood. And this is thanks to the bonds forged in his first year. Just like how a Toy is given a heart through the eyes of a child Roxas was given a heart by those that were drawn to him. From those he shared ice cream with under the twilight sky, the trio he befriended ever so slightly on a lazy afternoon, the fairy tale heroes his somebody cherished, and even the forgotten longing of brothership from the King of Nothing Roxas began to be shaped by those around him. His soul is learning the rules of the world, the nature of a heart, the simple joys of friendship, the sting of betrayal, and the heartbreak of goodbyes. As Roxas’s newborn heart grew with every day he too gained the ability to see the hearts of others whether it be in the Flurry of Dancing Flames whose false smile became true or the Puppet who became a Real Girl. But perhaps the final proof of Roxas' heart lies with his own “Andy”. Sora at first refused to see his “Woody”, whether it be or out of ignorance or prejudice Sora denied Roxas existence, refusing to heed the clues of the other half or feel his presence in his heart. That is until Roxas forced Sora to acknowledge him. Within the very core of his heart Sora came face to face with Roxas and was forced to acknowledge their connection through the Keyblades in order to win the fight. With Roxas’s tragedy laid before him Sora is at last ready to accept the truth and later on in the realm of sleep acknowledge not only Roxas’s existence but that he has a heart of his own. Just like how Andy gave woody and Buzz hearts by writing his name on them, Sora gives his Nobody a heart by acknowledging him as his own person.

While Toy Box Provides many answers it also raises a new question. If A toy gets its heart from a child’s love what happens when a toy becomes worlds apart from its kid? This question plaques Buzz throughout the events of Toy Box. With every possessed toy they defeat Buzz sees himself in them more and more. He fears that as he continues to drift away from Andy he too will lose his heart and become just another lifeless puppet . Ironically enough it is this very fear of separation that allows the darkness to grow inside Buzz making him another weapon for the heartless. In contrast to Buzz Woody is able to resist the pull of darkness. Woody has already dealt with the fear of separation first through his anxiety over being replaced by Buzz as Andy's favorite toy and second when he became paranoid over the idea of Andy abandoning if he broke. Both events taught Woody something important that yes his time with Andy is not permanent, that someday they will part but that doesn't mean their bond will ever end. Thanks to the events of Toy story 1 and 2 Woody has the resolve to face the hardships of Young Xehanort’s trials and keep his faith in Andy. And this is why Woody is the one to challenge Young Xehanort.

ToyBox is ultimately an encapsulation of the themes of Kingdom Hearts. This can be seen through the many parallels between The World and KH as a series. We’ve already pointed out the connection between the toys and Nobodies but what about how the world is split in two just like in dream drop Distance. Or how about the toy's separation from Andy mirrors Sora’s separation from Riku and Kairi in KH1 with Woody managing to resist the pull to darkness and put his faith in the light because he knows the true strength of a heart thanks to his connections. And lets not forget Buzz’s possession calling back to Riku and Terra��s fall to darkness. Even Buzz’s salvation continues to draw parallels between him and Riku with how they are both saved from the darkness by their friends never giving up on them. Yes Toy Box is a world built up from the ground to parallel the events of Kingdom Hearts, but why is that? Why out of all the other worlds in KH3 was this one chosen to hold a mirror directly to Sora’s journey? Well that's simple because the story of Toy Story is at its core a story about friendship, about how bonds can last forever even if the time spent together is finite.

There is another purpose however for Why Toy Box is set up this way. Toy Box’s main role in the overall narrative of Kingdom Hearts 3 is to be a test trial for his destined clash with Master Xehanort. The main antagonist of Toy Box is Young Xehanort who split the world in two and took the toys away from Andy in order to conduct an experiment. Said experiment was to see whether or not a toy is not only capable of having a heart but if they can carry darkness. This is all done as part of the True Organization's goal to achieve their final vessel but as the world’s story progresses it becomes Clear that Young Xehanort has his own reasons for doing all this. Young Xehnaort wishes to use this experiment to validate himself. Young Xehanort is the earliest version of Xehanort and thus represents his cynical beliefs at their most immature. He believes that not only is darkness the heart’s true nature but that strength comes from isolation. That it is not bonds and connections that make a heart strong but instead the never ending darkness that is born from fighting alone. It is a fundamentally childish ideal not born from understanding but instead self serving cynicism. And that is why Young Xehnort was chosen to be the villain of this world as his childish ideals serve as the perfect test run for Sora, allowing him to confront a weaker version of Xehnort’s ideals and see just how far his own ideals can stand up against him. Ultimately Sora manages to pass the test but not without some help. In the End Woody is the one to ultimately confront Young Xehanort and Save Buzz. Using his maturity Woody is able to shut down Young Xehanort’s childish worldview and break the darkness imprisoning Buzz. So While Sora is victorious in the end it does beg the question, Is Sora truly ready to confront Master Xehanort?

Source

https://www.kh13.com/news/edge-magazine-interviews-tetsuya-nomura-and-tai-yasue-on-pixar-in-kingdom-hearts-iii-the-switch-to-unreal-engine-4-and-more-r2799/

[descendedgaia]

𝕭𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝕱𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘

ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢 2

phainon x gn!reader wc: 2.76k tw: angst, death, martyrdom, apocalypse, hope v despair, trauma Story Elements taken from Punishing: Gray Raven, The Surviving Lucem Masterlist ☲IN which you are not a Chrysos Heir or a Titan, but a human being who struggles and shall bring the story of the Flame Chasers the grand and spectacular ending it deserves. Previous Chapter

── .✦·········────

Ten Hours Ago

As you had journeyed with Priam to hopefully fetch those who had been left behind, the rest of the refugees had stayed together at the outskirts of Olenius. Thankfully, due to a two-pronged approach of Helena’s blunt fierceness and Argus’s diplomacy, the refugees of Ladon and those of Olenius had entered a tense truce.

As there were only two Dromas instead of three, Helena made the executive decision to wait before they continued the long and arduous journey to Okhema. Thus to search for supplies and get prepared for her delivery, Io gave a heads-up to Lamia and others before leaving with Pheidippides and the others. 

Protected by her companions, Io manages to collect all she needs much earlier than she expects. As she is pregnant and cannot move that much, she sits on a bench in the ruins of an open-air plaza that must’ve once been a bustling street market. Casting her gaze at the boundless horizon, Io rubs her hand against the blanket she just found and checks the supplies she will need to deliver her child.

“Yeah…,” Io murmurs to no one in particular except to reassure herself. “Everything’s here.”

Nonetheless, her conscience is occupied with the future of her child. And yet…

“I’m not sure…,” Io places a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth under the flesh of new life yet to be conceived. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring you into this world.”

She thinks about this harsh and cruel world that has ripped brethren from family, of the same world that took her husband and the father of this child. Of this world that discarded children like Astyanax and Patroclus and forced them to scramble for each scrap. Of the many refugees in this apocalypse that have lost their livelihoods. And of you, the one who labors to save each ephemeral life and painfully grieves each one that passes on.

“If only you could answer that question for me my child…that’d be nice,” Io sighs. She sniffles and tilts her head back to blink away her tears. 

Before meeting Astyanax, someone else had asked her the same question: Why have a child? Back then, Io didn’t hesitate to give a positive answer about loving her child and shielding them from the horrors of the world. 

Io grew up in an environment where she was constantly hungry and on the run, but even so, she considered herself a happy and lucky girl. She was loved by her family and her husband, and she wanted to share that same love with her child. Io and her husband had planned out a future for their baby and worked very hard to make it happen. She remembers the tears of relief and joy that slipped down their cheeks when they were welcomed by the Tempest Troupe and traveled with them to ensure the safety of their family.

But like all things in this ruined world dictated, everything crumbled away like fragile sandcastles into the Black Tide’s whirlpool. Those who once loved her are now nothing more than memories of the past: fleeting and forever out of reach.

If things get worse Io cannot protect herself, let alone her child. So…

Is it really a good idea to bring her child into this world?

She has lost count of how many times she pondered the question after talking to Astyanax. 

“Everyone’s gone and there’s no more home for me to go back to…,” Io whispers into the wind. “If I have to lose you too…”

Humans do not have the capacity to be solitary creatures, thus craving interaction and connection with others of their kind. This truth is what is captured within each tear droplet that Io sheds as she thinks about the possibility of having to live out the rest of her life alone: For she wishes to love her child and be loved back. And that reasoning…

“...It’s so selfish of me,” Io weeps. It is a selfish act to bring a new life into this cruel world just to not feel lonely and be loved. That is not fair to a child who cannot consent to being born. “But…”

Who is to say that this child will despise this world?

Short and eventful as it may be, Io’s 27 years of her life are beautiful because of her loved ones and especially, her parents. 

“No one knows what the future may hold…”

So, who should make this decision?

As Io thinks, a familiar face calls out from the alleyway. It’s so faint that she could’ve mistaken it for the wind. 

“Run…now…”

She looks over to the source of the raspy voice and her heart crawls up to her throat. It is no human but a monstrosity of the Black Tide. Its jagged and clawed hands skitter and hook at the ruined concrete. Its body, though shaped with sharp and hostile angles, drips with sludge that gives an impression of rotting flesh…and the amber in its breast pulses with a poisonous gold.

“...Io…run…now…”

The Black Tide was never simply a black sludge that poisons all that it touches. It is a calamity: the same force that drove the Titans of Amphoreus mad with insanity and salts the soil so no one may live in this world. It is the apocalypse itself that festers the body and the cruel predator that lures its victims with the voices of others lost to the evernight.

And whose voice does it imitate before Io?

Pheidippides.

Fortunately, this monster is too far to pounce and Io immediately runs away before it's too late.

“H-...Help!”

She has read many books and knows that running at 39 weeks of pregnancy could lead to early labor. She is not ready to see her baby yet, but at this moment, she has no choice but to sprint with all of her might while holding her baby.

“...Kephale…!” Io begs with each sobbing wheeze. “Oronyx…Please give me a little bit more time. Please!”

With her pain gradually increasing, Io runs as fast as she can toward the direction of the rest of the refugees from Ladon. And as always…no god will answer a mortal’s desperate pleas.

── .✦·········────

Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! 

Priam huffs as he stumbles back, dropping his broken pipe, and takes care that there are no splatters of the Black Tide on his person.

“That creature had Pheidippides’s voice,” Helena clicks her tongue as she looks over the remains of the Black Tide creature. “We’re too late…”

“Yet, there hasn’t been anything from Io,” you mutter as you herd Hector away from approaching the Black Tide creature. 

“Then we keep searching for her,” Helena declares.

“Right.”

── .✦·········────

She doesn’t know for how long she runs, for how long she passed out. Ten hours? More? Io has no idea anymore. The only thing she is aware of is the fact that the distant dim light of Okhema in the distance has dimmed to signify the beginning of the night, a darkness that conceals the bloodstains on the road.

The child in her arms, who should’ve been born in a clean room surrounded by their family, slipped into this world and was greeted with the gritty mud.

“...Hello there little one,” Io huffs as she cradles this precious babe to her bossom, quietly sobbing to herself as the shrieks of her newborn pierce the night. “...It’s a girl.”

Are her tears one of happiness?

No, they are of despair.

Io weeps in despair because she cannot stymie the flow of blood from her body. The more she bleeds, the colder and colder her body becomes. Io doesn’t need to know what exactly is going on, because she can tell all the same.

She’s dying.

But there is no time to lose. Io trembles as she swaddles her baby covered in blood. “I’m sorry…but we have no choice…”

Tremors race up and down all of her limbs as she adjusts her hands around her newborn, palms flat and fingers curled around the most vulnerable parts of her child. The baby’s neck is so soft and delicate. Simply strangle it and this life, who has not yet seen this world, will die a quick and painless death.

This little life will not have to wait in this long cold night for aid, nor will she be forced to face the horrible unknown.

But even if such an action is as simple as squeezing her fingers, Io cannot bring herself to do it. Because just as a baby cannot consent to being born, it also cannot consent to being killed. Perhaps if Io had made this decision when she first became pregnant, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. But this child has already been born and is now alive. 

“I have to make this choice for you, sweetie,” Io murmurs to her babe as tears spill over her cheeks. “You hate Mommy, right? I’m so sorry…”

Is it because she regrets her decision back then? Does she regret meeting her husband and conceiving this little life? Would she have lived a safer life if she hadn’t been pregnant?

“Maybe…,” Io curls forward, placing her forehead delicately against her newborn’s own. And at this intimate contact, her little precious baby quietens her shrieks and coos in curiosity. Such an innocent sound makes Io’s heart ache and brim with so much love. But it is that same love that tears her heart apart at the seams and brings her unimaginable anguish. Because pathetic as it may be…

“This is the happiest I’ve ever been,” Io whispers.

Are you really happy?

There is no yes or no that comes up to the forefront of Io’s mind. Instead her body betrays her as her hands rhythmically pat her babe instead of curling her fingers and extinguishing this life. 

“I’m such a cowardly and selfish mother…”

Because having this child is neither Io’s happiness or her torment, but her longing. The nearer death draws, the more she cannot bear the thought of parting with this child.

In this everlasting twilight, Io huddles in despair and desperately makes a prayer once more to the many Titans of Amphoreus. 

“Please save my child…let her live. Please give her enough time to choose wisely.”

And yet again, none of the divine answer her pleas but you do.

You are announced with the sound of a loud bark a short distance away. Hector yips frantically as he rushes forward, weaving through the terrain. You follow just close behind and are greeted with the visage of Io’s broken body weakly cradling her newborn baby in her arms.

“Io!”

You come immediately to her side, hands immediately helping her to a better position when Io strains and shifts at your presence. Immediately her bloody body, her baby, and the blood that pools at Io’s legs paints a clear picture to you.

“This is…postpartum bleeding,” you identify quickly. Thankfully you have your medical supplies with you and you make to rummage through them to help. But the reality of the situation is that what medical supplies you have are sparse, and you are not equipped to handle blood loss. If you did, then you wouldn’t have had to bury Ianthe in Ladon.

“We can’t do a blood transfusion now,” you talk aloud as you furiously rummage through your bag, trying to find something, anything , that would help this situation. “And even if I can’t stop the bleeding then—”

“...Thank you,” Io rasps. 

You don’t want to hear any ‘thank you’s in this situation. 

“No…,” you shake your head furiously. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Hector whines as he nudges his hand against the back of Io’s hand. Though weak, Io smiles and musters enough strength to place a hand over Hector’s head in comfort.

“Can I…,” Io gasps for each breath. “Can I ask you for one thing?”

You open your mouth, the words to tell her to stop talking like this sit heavily on your tongue. But you swallow those words painfully and squeeze your eyes, holding your desperation from spilling over. Both you and Io know that there is nothing you can do to save Io’s life.

“I’m listening…,” you barely manage the words. 

“Take my baby away…,” Io holds her child to you. “Please let her live…Help her grow up and make sure she can think for herself and make her own decision.”

You gently take this baby from Io’s arm and cradle her to your chest. Already missing the warmth of her mother, this baby whimpers and sniffles, but you bounce her in your arms and assuage any tears or sobs that may come about. And Io, Io is so relieved to see her baby in your arms.

“...Thank you. Truly. Thank you.”

The dying Io sighs and relaxes, almost as if the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders. But it does not change the deathly pallor that has taken ahold of her skin. 

“When she grows up, please tell her Mommy and Daddy brought her into the world. Because…because we thought this world was as beautiful as it was turbulent. We would love to tell her about it ourselves, but we can’t. We’re useless…”

Tears roll down Io’s smiling face. “So…if in the future she tries her best to get what she wants and still despises this world…tell her to go find Mommy and Daddy.”

“Io…”

“It’s okay…life isn’t supposed to be a bondage, but a force for good. The choice is hers.”

Io’s breathing becomes increasingly more shallow and quiet, but she hangs on tight for as long as she can, straining against death every second to keep her eyes on her child. “I want to name her Phoebe, what do you think?”

You look down at this baby who is grasping at your shirt clumsily with her hands. “Phoebe…it’s a beautiful name.”

“Good…,” Io sniffles, eyes so full of love until the last glimmer of life fades away. “I don’t regret giving birth to my baby girl. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her. Now…I see her…but I won’t be there for her…”

Her eyes glaze over, her chest undulating with one last inhale before her body becomes deathly still. But even in the face of death, there is a smile on her face, as if she’s still repeating her last words to you.

I don’t regret giving birth to my baby girl. 

“Do you also not regret dying?” you ask her still body sadly. “Why…”

Astyanax’s answer was written on paper: he wanted to help others. Io’s answer is pronounced: she gave birth to a life she held dear. Both the boy and the woman, in their different situations and with their different beliefs, made the same choice to sacrifice themselves for another life. 

Astyanax, who abhorred the future and despised life, saved another despite wanting to belong.

Io, who embraced the future and a loved life, gave birth to someone dear even at the cost of her own life. 

However faint the hope appeared, they both tried their best as singular people to alleviate the burden and horrors of this world’s calamity. Here, you finally understand what Helena meant.

“Even the smallest change and help can make a difference, although they may not seem so for the time being.” 

Life is so short, but that doesn’t make it meaningless. Every life leaves its unique mark in this world, passing on to the next life. You understand that death gives life from one being to another being: to birds, beasts, insects, and flowers. And those lives, in turn, will give their lives to others through death. Life breeds life, without death life cannot continue.

You gather Hector and Phoebe close and tight to your body, holding them and sharing your warmth beneath the cold empty sky. The border collie whimpers, curling into you and nudges your arm sadly. 

“Even the smallest change and help can make a difference,” you repeat aloud. “Although they may not seem so for the time being.”

You hold proof of that truth in your arms. Hector, the faithful companion, that Astyanax chose over himself for compassion and love. Phoebe, the tiny babe, that Io chose to give birth and love even if her life was nearing its end. 

Every life and effort will make a change in the end.

The question is, at the very end of the road, when you will also have to offer your life to preserve others, how much could you change?

[Previous Chapter]

[kabsey]

I’ve never been more prepared for you to yap excessively on where Viago picked up this random poor elven kid that imprints on him 🎤

Well, damn. You just made this yapper's whole night. Thank you!

Short answer: Ansburg!

Long answer: Ilene was raised in the Ansburg alienage by her mother, who was a Dalish hunter who left her clan. She never told Ilene why or anything about her father, but she did teach her how to shoot a bow and some Dalish traditions and elvhen language. Unfortunately her mother also thought the other elves in the alienage were beneath her, and thus they were not terribly well liked.

When Ilene was about 10, her mother contracted a wasting sickness (i.e., cancer). Her health deteriorated rapidly, and while Ilene cared for her as best she could, she also began to spend a lot of time wandering the city just to get some space and air. She discovered she was hassled a lot less if she used the rooftops, and she made a game out of going to the docks on the river, watching the ships come in, and picking out someone to follow without them catching her.

When her mother was very close to death and suffering a great deal, Ilene went to the docks and said a prayer to Falon'din that he would grant her mother peace. That day she decided to follow a man with a cape and a cane. He managed to lose her a couple of times (which didn't normally happen), but she caught up to him just in time to watch through a window as he poisoned a man.

When he left the house, she followed him, but he confronted her in an alley to ask what she was doing. I've actually written a bit of this:

When a spill of light from a residence above falls across the girl, he sees she is not quite so young as her size suggests. A child, yes, but elven and undernourished—and old enough to have sought him out deliberately rather than accidentally wandering across his path. She pauses half a dozen steps away, assessing him with a tilted head and watchful gaze. "Did you kill that man?" He is capable of spinning a lovely web of lies when the occasion calls for it, sprinkling in droplets of truth like morning dew. But the girl's brown eyes are sharp, nearly cold, and he has heard enough stories from Teia Cantori to know that nothing he says will shock this child and no authorities will listen to her even if he did. "Yes," he replies. Her feet shuffle half a step closer. Bare, he notes. "Why?" "Someone paid me." A hint of surprise and... something else... twitches the girl's eyebrows upward. "A lot?" she asks. "Yes." That something in her expression dims again, but she tugs a tightly clenched fist from the pocket of her threadbare trousers and extends it toward him. When her fingers uncurl, they reveal a smattering of the local coin, not even enough for a hot meal from the vendors on the street. He stares for a moment before the implication hits him, and he finds himself searching her face for cuts and bruises, her posture and the cant of her hips for something worse. Under his scrutiny, her eyes leave his for the first time. "I... can get more," she says. She is a terrible liar. He wonders how long it has taken her, what exactly she has done, to scrape together the meager hoard in her palm. Then she lifts her chin, jaw set. "And she's already dying. You wouldn't even have to do much. It wouldn't be fair to charge the full price."

Despite his better judgment, Viago (who is 20 at this point—I fudge with the canon ages some) goes with Ilene to her home and sees her mother. He can easily give her something to grant her a peaceful death, and he says he will... if the girl agrees to come with him after and become a Crow.

Once he's administered the poison, he leaves to give Ilene some time with her mother. He tells her he will be back for her at sunset. He then goes to a local cafe and proceeds to have an existential breakdown because wtf is he doing? After a while, he calms down and convinces himself that she probably won't even be there when he gets back; surely someone will check on her and take her in.

But when he gets back to the small shack on the edge of the alienage, she's leaning against the wall, waiting for him. She has nothing with her but the clothes on her back and a bow. They walk down to the docks together and board the ship back to Antiva.

[circeyoru]

Hiiiii love your series collection of souls I don't know if you answered this but why did trick kill you both or put you to sleep ? Again sorry if you already answered this love ya byeeee

This is for {Collection of Overlords}, check MASTERLIST for the work

Ahhh, the million dollar question that has yet to be answered anywhere. Why were you completely absent from the show or the time before that? Why did you disappear and even making Alastor disappear off the grid to search for you?

I’m not sure if I wrote it, but it was implied that Trick killed you out of jealousy and loneliness. Now why I never explained this in the story part is because it’s heavy lore on Trick/Noir and your relationship and past. Specifically, Trick/Noir is an OC in this series that pairs with you and not meant to take up much of the story cause this series already has a lot of other characters to focus on. However, I did think about it and will answer the question and reveal the lore once an ask was in. Here it is.

(a bit of background to those that forgot some details, Noir and Trick are the same person and the total opposite of you in terms of power element. Noir refers to when they are still acting holy and good like the god Heaven and Earth saw and depicted, while Trick refers to when they see the ugliness of Heaven and humans thus giving up the godly acts)

You and Noir essentially came to being the same time Heaven and Hell did. At any point in time, all your actions and behaviours are never wrong or right, there’s no judgement on you two unless you will it so. Naturally, it goes without saying that no one other than Noir/Trick and yourself have the right to judge your thoughts, words, and actions. 

In the beginning, Heaven and Earth are close, in a sense. What with all the creation and stuff, Hell was not mentioned until the fall of Lucifer and Lilith. While you had Hell to call home or at least a base of operation to build an empire (in a way), Noir never claimed Heaven because they saw Heaven to be protected and ruled by the elders and angels. So you can actually see Noir to be the isolated one despite have their existence more known and loved (albeit wrongly). This is where Noir takes the god role seriously and tries to act like how the elders depicted them to be. 

Now you and Noir do meet up from time to time to exchange experience so a clear sense that a balance is still present is strengthened. You’re not blind to notice Noir’s new characteristic, but you just don’t judge it and think as long as Noir is doing well then it’s all good. Plus, you two were fundamentally different, total opposites, so what you like or do might be different as well. 

The question is: Where is the breaking point? The trigger that made Noir see truth. The reason why Noir is now Trick. 

Simple answer, Lucifer’s fall.

[Charlie: “Lucifer was one of these angels. He was a dreamer with fantastical ideas for All of creation. But he was seen as a troublemaker by the elders of Heaven. For they felt his way of thinking was dangerous to the order of their world.”]

Here Lucifer was judged to be the black when it’s not supposed to be possible in Heaven. You know, nothing evil and bad and dark and all the other negative things. Yet the elders label Lucifer to be one of those, you have no knowledge of this and it’s not like you care for the workings of Heaven, but Noir does. The point is, Noir see no fault in Lucifer’s way of thinking or actions. 

At first, the labelling was fine. It’s when Lucifer was cast out of Heaven did Noir turn to Trick. You knew of Lucifer’s fall into Hell but did nothing because you saw no deed to do. It’s when you met up with Noir and saw the change did you realize something must be done. Noir, now Trick, gave up on humanity and Heaven. They weren’t the ‘holy’ being they were pretending to suit the image others painted them in. 

In that realization came another that was more related to you. Trick realized that you were always by their side no matter what, even when they were obsessed with satisfying Heaven and human’s ideal image of them as a ‘god’. Trick realized that there was no such thing and you and them weren’t enemies like Heaven painted you to be or your home, Hell. 

From that point on, Trick arranges more visits for a gathering of just you two. Slowly, it turns to envy and jealousy that other unworthy beings and souls were taking too much of your time and energy, like Trick’s situation when they were Noir. 

The part where the two of you were killable when done on the other was found by Trick when he used holy magic on you and you realized the ending when you were ‘brought by to life’ earlier than Trick. The recovery is done by slumber where nothing can interrupt you two, it is only with the passage of time do you two heal. But because the balance rests of you two’s shoulders, you two won’t be dead for too long. 

Trick kills you for boredom and entertainment on the surface. On a deper level, it’s because Trick is lonely and wants your companionship like before the whole nonsense with god, good and evil, and humans. You don’t mind the death and being killed parts, but you do mind that you wasted good time to manage Hell.

[girlactionfigure]

The deepest question any of us can ask is: Who am I? To answer it we have to go deeper than, Where do I live? or What do I do? The most fateful moment in my life came when I asked myself that question and knew the answer had to be: I am a Jew. This is why.

I am a Jew not because I believe that Judaism contains all there is of the human story. I admire other traditions and their contributions to the world. Nor am I a Jew because of anti-Semitism or anti-Zionism. What happens to me does not define who I am: ours is a people of faith, not fate. Nor is it because I think that Jews are better than others, more intelligent, creative, generous or successful. It’s not Jews who are different, but Judaism. It’s not so much what we are but what we are called on to be.

I am a Jew because, being a child of my people, I have heard the call to add my chapter to its unfinished story. I am a stage on its journey, a connecting link between the generations. The dreams and hopes of my ancestors live on in me, and I am the guardian of their trust, now and for the future.

I am a Jew because our ancestors were the first to see that the world is driven by a moral purpose, that reality is not a ceaseless war of the elements, to be worshipped as gods, nor history a battle in which might is right and power is to be appeased. The Judaic tradition shaped the moral civilisation of the West, teaching for the first time that human life is sacred, that the individual may never be sacrificed for the mass, and that rich and poor, great and small, are all equal before God.

I am a Jew because I am the moral heir of those who stood at the foot of Mount Sinai and pledged themselves to live by these truths for all time. I am the descendant of countless generations of ancestors who, though sorely tested and bitterly tried, remained faithful to that covenant when they might so easily have defected.

I am a Jew because of Shabbat, the world’s greatest religious institution, a time in which there is no manipulation of nature or our fellow human beings, in which we come together in freedom and equality to create, every week, an anticipation of the messianic age.

I am a Jew because our nation, though at times it suffered the deepest poverty, never gave up on its commitment to helping the poor, or rescuing Jews from other lands, or fighting for justice for the oppressed, and did so without self-congratulation, because it was a mitzvah, because a Jew could do no less.

I am a Jew because I cherish the Torah, knowing that God is to be found not just in natural forces but in moral meanings, in words, texts, teachings and commands, and because Jews, though they lacked all else, never ceased to value education as a sacred task, endowing the individual with dignity and depth.

I am a Jew because of our people’s passionate faith in freedom, holding that each of us is a moral agent, and that in this lies our unique dignity as human beings; and because Judaism never left its ideals at the level of lofty aspirations, but instead translated them into deeds which we call mitzvot, and a way, which we call the halakhah, and thus brought heaven down to earth.

I am proud, simply, to be a Jew.

I am proud to be part of a people who, though scarred and traumatised, never lost their humour or their faith, their ability to laugh at present troubles and still believe in ultimate redemption; who saw human history as a journey, and never stopped traveling and searching.

I am proud to be part of an age in which my people, ravaged by the worst crime ever to be committed against a people, responded by reviving a land, recovering their sovereignty rescuing threatened Jews throughout the world, rebuilding Jerusalem, and proving themselves to be as courageous in the pursuit of peace as in defending themselves in war.

I am proud that our ancestors refused to be satisfied with premature consolations, and in answer to the question, “Has the Messiah come?” always answered, “Not yet.”

I am proud to belong to the people Israel, whose name means “one who wrestles with God and with man and prevails.” For though we have loved humanity, we have never stopped wrestling with it, challenging the idols of every age. And though we have loved God with an everlasting love, we have never stopped wrestling with Him nor He with us.

I admire other civilizations and traditions, and believe each has brought something special into the world, Aval zeh shelanu, “but this is ours.” This is my people, my heritage, my faith. In our uniqueness lies our universality. Through being what we alone are, we give to humanity what only we can give.

This, then, is our story, our gift to the next generation. I received it from my parents and they from theirs across great expanses of space and time. There is nothing quite like it. It changed and still challenges the moral imagination of mankind.

I want to say to Jews around the world: Take it, cherish it, learn to understand and to love it. Carry it and it will carry you. And may you in turn pass it on to future generations. For you are a member of an eternal people, a letter in their scroll. Let their eternity live on in you.

(Thank you The Rabbi Sacks Legacy this is incredible!)

Rabbi Yisroel Bernath 

[greenhorn-the-fool]

Welcome to the World of Greenhorn!

by J.M. O'Barr

This is a comic series that is written and illustrated by me, J.M. With a lot of training in art school, I've decided to take this senior thesis I made into the public eye and see how it goes! It was made with a lot of love for the history of comics, so I hope you enjoy!

The story is a loose adaptation of the story told through the tarot cards, "The Fool's Journey". A story of self-actualization, following a fool on a path of enlightenment and self-actualization. Every major character and the arc they're most prevalent in is based on a major arcana, and every other chapter is named after the minor arcana. It's okay if you're unfamiliar with them, though, I wanted to spin these ideas to fit my needs anyways. It's a wild, fantastical world of "Medieval America" with mythical beings, cryptids, looney demons, knights juggling in a circus, fortresses built on top of ancient factories, new cobblestone castles, advanced ancient technology, and a lot of history that's stranger than fiction! This is fiction, but you see my point.

Amongst it all is our fool, Hugo Greenhorn, equipped with nothing but a bindle and his wits in a hostile world. He has had green bull horns as a part of his anatomy for as long as he could remember, much to the confusion to everyone around him. No one knows why he has green horns. Most think it's a curse, or ailment, or a birth defect. Hugo isn't very sure himself. There is a lot about himself that he doesn't know. He was raised by the Smile Knights, a circus of warriors who serve humor as their god. He's learned a lot of tricks and skills from them growing up, but one of the first things Hugo learned about himself became clear: his happiness was measured in miles. And so, he set off on a journey in search of his true purpose and meaning. He's very self-reflective for a kid his age!

Hugo often talks to a wisp that appears only to him. The fool's flame, ignus faatus, the will of the wisp, a enigmatic flame just as mysterious as Hugo himself. It is unknown whether this wisp will lead to fate or ruin, yet Hugo follows it anyways. It has save him once before, so he will trust it's intuition.

Accompanying him is the trickster, Captain Pastuzo. He is the head of the roaming band of Smile Knights, clowns who serve their country in smiles and good humor. He doesn't smile himself very much, though. He's lived a lot of life. Despite this, he has a fondness for Hugo ever since he appeared from the woods, so the kid's happiness is his top priority. So, when Hugo grew older and wanted to set out on his own, Pastuzo relectantly joined him. 'We'd be much safer traveling with the band', he said, 'What more wonders are there that you can't find at the circus?' But like most children, Hugo is unwavering in his desires, and so Pastuzo provides support through protection. He is more of a trellis to the plant that is Hugo. Truth be told, he's rather interested in the kind of man Hugo will become as well, as long as the kid isn't eaten by then. The only thing to do to a kid this adamant is to equip him with everything needed for the path forward.

Together, they travel the country of Cradle in search of answers. For Hugo, he wants to know the secrets of the wisp and learn who he is beyond the boy with green horns. For Pastuzo, he wants to know where Hugo came from, the nature of his horns and-- if fate allows it-- return him to where he came from.

That's the story thus far! I'm doing a cold open in the comic. I hope you enjoy it! I will update regularly.

[fictionadventurer]

For all the talk about bad Christian fiction, I've seen several different ways that Christianity can be well-integrated into the story.

The story is about something unrelated to Christianity, but the characters are Christian and their faith affects their outlook and daily life. I recently stumbled across Wormwood Abbey by Christina Baehr, which is a light, fairly forgettable cozy fantasy that happens to do this really well. The story is about a woman who learns that dragons exist around her family's estate, but as the daughter of a rector, she often mentions prayer, sings religious songs, or thinks of Bible verses that relate to things she experiences. The Christianity feels organic to the character, and thus enhances the story rather than distracting from it.

The world is a Christian world where Christian beliefs are shown to be the correct framework through which to view the world. This happens in good Christian fantasy, like Lewis and Tolkien, but there are plenty of real-world stories where the themes line up with Christian truths, and this can make a story Christian whether or not religion is explicitly practiced by characters within the story.

The characters wrestle with how to apply their faith in their daily lives. Regina Doman's Fairy Tale Novels often feature this, as the characters struggle to deal with plot problems while living out their faith. Amy Lynn Green's work often features this as well--characters hold certain values (like, for instance, a Quaker pacifist) and have to figure out how they apply or don't apply to specific situations, especially when they conflict with other values, or they have to figure out how to live out their values (such as forgiveness) in moments where it seems impossible or even ill-advised. Charlotte Yonge's best works (specifically, what I've read of The Three Brides) do this as well--instead of preaching the one right answer, you have characters trying to figure out what the best answer is as they figure out what's right or wrong in this specific situation.

Characters face the revelation that there's a spiritual world that exists beyond our ordinary world, which can cause terror, but also provide comfort and hope. Elizabeth Goudge's novels often exist in this space, with very internal stories of characters coming to embrace the truths that come with living in a spiritual world. To a lesser extent, I'd say Amanda Dykes' work often fits here, with characters ultimately find comfort and hope from philosophies that line up with Christian truth. In less-cozy works, there's also the possibility of stories where an entirely secular person encounters God and has to figure out what that means for their life.

So our options are Christianity as character, Christianity as setting, Christianity as theme, or Christianity as plot. The ways this is integrated most seamlessly is when Christianity (or the ways they struggle with it) is a vital part of the character, so the plot that arises from it lines up with a Christian worldview. It also works well for the characters to just exist within a world where Christian truths are the way the world works. It doesn't even necessarily require the characters to be explicitly religious. Truth is something that everyone is searching for, and stories that honestly showcase truth or the search for it are going to resonate with a wide audience, even if they aren't Christian themselves.

[frenchiefreyed]

Random Oneshot Story Teehee

Okay, I felt a random surge of motivation and decided to both draw and write for an OC I haven't drawn or written for yet (Fancy Flower Tea, who later changes her name to Teastain, but referring to her as both is ok :] ). I had literally nothing planned about their backstory or anything prior to drawing them and writing for them, so you'll be seeing not only first draft writing that I threw together in less than an hour (54 minutes to be exact, according to Word), but also quite literally ideas being formed AS I write. So, it'll probably be shit, but that's okay!! I'm telling myself that, at least, hoping eventually I'll believe it.

My goal for writing about this OC was to reach at least 1000 words. Yeah... I exceeded that a bit, but I did actually manage to keep it relatively short this time. This also hasn't been edited at all so sorry if there's weird errors.

Anyway, I bring you: Becoming Stained.

               “Yet again, you’ve… struggled to complete your duties.”

               Somehow, Rooibos’ attempt to sugarcoat Fancy’s shortcomings only served to make the criticism sting more. Fancy hung her head.

               “You’re a talented unicorn and skilled with magic,” Rooibos tilted Fancy’s chin up with her hoof, encouraging her daughter to look into her eyes, “but it’s the traditional things that you struggle so severely with. This has been an ongoing issue for years now. You really promise there isn’t something you’re keeping from me?”

               “No, mother,” Fancy answered automatically. It was the truth, but it had dulled and dried up with repetition over the course of several years, such that the reassurance spilled out of her dryly and dispassionately.

               “I understand that we are four-legged, and it is a struggle to walk on only three of our legs when we are carrying something,” Rooibos gently grabbed the teacup from her daughter’s hooves, placing it back into its display case and shutting the glass door, “but plenty of ponies have managed it for at least our formal gatherings, let alone simple greetings. That includes all of your ancestors, and practically every non-unicorn. We have never had anyone in our family struggle that much with this kind of task. There has to be something you’re not telling me.”

               Fancy dug through her mind, trying to search for any explanation. It was no use. All she could come up with was, “I think I’m just clumsy and can’t keep my balance.”

               “Clumsiness shouldn’t be a permanent affliction.” Rooibos retorted, glaring at her daughter. The coldness was starting to come through, as it always did during these conversations. “I was clumsy when I was younger. We are all born clumsy. But with enough effort and care, we grow out of it. So why haven’t you?”

               “It’s just not sticking in my brain,” Fancy was starting to become upset, and it was showing in her voice. As hard as she tried – and she really did try! – to keep herself composed during these discussions, it felt like every new conversation stacked up in her spirit, building off of each other and cluttering her brain. Thus, each new “mother-daughter bonding talk” resulted in Fancy losing her composure more and more easily. This seemed to give her mother the impression that she was ‘getting somewhere’ with Fancy.

               “Oh?” Fancy’s mother feigned intrigue.

               “It doesn’t feel natural. We’re unicorns! We’re not supposed to walk on three hooves, unless we must. The whole ‘holding teacups in our hooves’ thing, it’s ridiculous. I know it’s tradition, but nobody can tell me any reason why we have to do it other than that. I don’t understand why I can’t just use my levitation and walk normally.”

               “Other ponies find it disrespectful, because of the tradition,” Rooibos’ smile was becoming increasingly tight, “it is almost like you are telling them, ‘I don’t care about manners’. And manners exist so that other ponies feel respected, and so that you can express to others that you are poised and elegant.”

               “If anyone were to ask me if I meant to disrespect them, I would tell them ‘of course not’. If ponies feel disrespected by how I act, why can’t they just ask if that’s how I intend to come across?” asked Fancy.

               “Fancy Flower Tea!” Rooibos raised her voice. Fancy flinched. “You are a part of our family and our society, which means that you have been given all the information as to how to conduct yourself properly as part of that society. I am telling you now, as I have been telling you practically since birth, that not following our conduct is disrespectful. You do not need to be asked because I am telling you now that it is so. So, learn it. And learn it quickly. Because if you make a fool of me any further, I will find some other society for you to be a part of.”

               The threat was palpable, and sickening. Fancy gulped, then nodded. Rooibos left the room, slamming the door (somehow still elegantly) behind her. Fancy stewed in the suffocating silence for a few minutes before retreating to her own bedroom.

               From that day on, Fancy had resolved to carry around teacups and teapots constantly, even outside of situations that would normally call for it. From the moment she got out of bed to the moment she got back into bed; she was carrying a teapot or teacup in one of her front hooves. Even if she were to wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, she would carry the porcelain with her until she reached the bathroom (placing it on the ground outside of the bathroom before she entered, of course – she wasn’t a heathen!)

               Certainly, her ability to navigate the world while holding objects improved as the years went by. She still occasionally wobbled, spilled tea, or, on very rare occasions, took a tumble and broke the dishes in question. But, although the eccentricity of her new habit was noticed and seemingly judged by her peers, her mother seemed finally satisfied that she had been ‘truly trying’, as though she hadn’t been trying hard enough before. As it happened, Fancy wasn’t at all used to approval from either of her parents, so this smidgeon of appreciation only incentivized her to continue.

               Then Fancy met Yours Truly.

               Yours Truly was a young mare, just like her, that Fancy met in her Draconian Literature II class. But she didn’t necessarily seem to meet the standard of most other ponies that attended the school. To put it bluntly, she wasn’t elegant or graceful whatsoever, and most ignored her existence. This resulted in a pony not only starving for attention but having a lot of spare time to indulge in a slew of hobbies, such as reading and crocheting. The two ponies connected quickly. Fancy was intrigued by this seemingly new type of pony that she had never encountered before. Truly seemed gladdened by Fancy’s uniqueness, too; particularly, that she didn’t give off the aura of being perfect in every single way. At least, not wanting to be.

               It was a few months after they had become friends that they were spending an evening at the beach. It had been an overcast day followed by an even more overcast afternoon, which Fancy and Truly both found to be the perfect weather for the beach. There were only a couple of other ponies around, and they seemed to either be asleep or distracted by swimming or surfing. Fancy and Truly had been talking for hours. Finally, the topic of Fancy’s tea-carrying habit came up.

               “Y’know, I think the whole ‘teacup holding’ thing isn’t really healthy.”

               Truly was often brutally honest, sometimes shockingly so. This was another such instance.

               “What, like I’ll get carpal tunnel or something?” Fancy looked down at her hoof scrutinizingly. “I switch between what hooves I use to carry the dishes, so I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

               Truly laughed. “No! I mean emotionally. You do it to impress your parents, but you do it even when they’re not around. It’s like they have constant power over you and your actions. I dunno. Seems like it would make it hard to be truly yourself,”

               “Isn’t that kind of how it works?” Fancy asked.

               “To some extent, yes, but it seems like a pretty extreme extent for you. I mean, I have to do the tea thing when I’m at formal gatherings, too, but you don’t see me carrying tea around constantly. I’d have less of a problem with it if you were doing it for you.”

               “Well, I was doing it for me. I was doing it so my mother wouldn’t send me off somewhere else.”

               Truly glared. The argument seemed incredibly weak, but in a way that was hard to formally argue against. Fortunately, her glare seemed to be sufficient.

               “Look, Truly, I do appreciate your concern but I think I’m fine.”

               “So you’ve never wanted to, say, drop the teacup on the ground?” Truly’s eyes were challenging Fancy, as though she could read her mind.

               “I don’t know what you’re getting at,”

               “I dunno! Symbolic rebellion! The freedom of not having your mother looming over you, even for three seconds. I think some part of you wishes for that freedom. You always seem so tensed up all the time. It’s the first thing I can think of to try to relieve that.”

               Fancy considered the option. It scared her how much of a bastardization even just the idea seemed to be, to her. Her mother had never instructed her to walk around constantly with tea in her hooves. This was entirely a self-imposed rule, and yet the idea of dropping her tea intentionally sent a strong mental image of parental abandonment.

               “I dunno… Maybe somepony here knows me, and they’ll see me do it, and—”

               “Do you genuinely think other ponies care whether or not you’re holding a cup of tea at the beach?”

               Fancy sighed. “No. I guess not.”

               “I’m not gonna force you to do it if you don’t want to.” Truly leaned back, flipping open her book. “I was just bringing up the idea. You do with it what you will.”

               There was a strange sound. Truly looked over. Fancy was sitting with a horrified look on her face. She had tipped her teacup over, spilling about a fifth of its contents onto the sand. She had quickly corrected herself so that the entire cup wouldn’t be emptied, but the damage had been done. She looked as though she were traumatized. Truly couldn’t help but laugh.

               “Baby steps, I guess.”

[themculibrary]

Bruce And Tony (Science Boyfriends) Masterlist 3

part one, part two

A Manic Monday in the Life of Bruce Banner (ao3) - agentsimmons T, 8k

Summary: Being a dad to so many kids, a hardworking scientist and the s.o. of someone high profile is bound to lead to stress overload sometimes. Thus, Bruce experiences a very manic Monday morning.

A mate in the African Jungle (ao3) - MoPerson E, 3k

Summary: The sun was shining. The trees were green. Sixteen year old Tony Stark was in his element deep in the African jungle. His life was good and he had a great family. It was his good fortune that brought him Bruce Banner, the son of the biologists coming to study the wildlife on the reserve. A mate and a precious child await him.

Blue As True As Blue Can Be (ao3) - aaralyn M, 77k

Summary: Tony Stark has worked hard to make sure everyone sees exactly what he wants them to. After all, they'd all rather see the asshole with the too-bright smile than the terrified person underneath who is desperately trying to conceal that which has caused him so much pain. Trust him, he knows.

(Tony Stark is a mutant, and his father had made sure to note /exactly/ how he felt about that. Now, with the Avengers living with him full-time, it's getting more and more difficult to hide the part of him that almost no one still alive knows about.)

by the light of all your bridges burning (ao3) - branwyn M, 39k

Summary: Bruce Banner is twelve years old. It's not an easy age. For anyone.

Danger is my Middle Name (ao3) - MoPerson E, 4k

Summary: Tony hated trying to cover up who he was. But a contaminated water supply would throw a monkey wrench into his carefully air sealed rouse.

Destiny Says So (ao3) - Rosawyn T, 2k

Summary: Tony is curious about Bruce's soul-mark, if he's found his soulmate yet. And of course there's also the matter of Tony's own soul-marks.

Disconnected (ao3) - brucebabener T, 8k

Summary: Bruce knew his entire life that his "soulmate" was out there. When he meets Tony and finds out it's him, Bruce quickly realizes Tony doesn't feel the same way for him.

Electrolyte Mind (ao3) - writtenbypira N/R, 53k

Summary: (High school AU) The first time Tony Stark talks to Bruce Banner is the same day Bruce Banner first tries to kill himself.

Tony Stark doesn’t realize he is the reason that Bruce fails.

Bruce Banner doesn’t realize he repays the favor three years later.

Five Times Tony Protected Bruce, and One Time Bruce Returned the Favor (ao3) - Zorro_sci T, 5k

Summary: Exactly what the title says. That is all. : )

Forged With Blood, Forged With Fire (ao3) - agentsimmons M, 91k

Summary: When Bruce looks over Tony's blood work he notices an anomaly that sets them both on a search for answers and shows them just how much they mean to one another in the process. But when the truth finally becomes clear, it's only the start of more obstacles and changes to come as they each find themselves facing new enemies and old.

headspace (ao3) - IsisKitsune M, 7k

Summary: “Come on! You can’t go run off every time that damn watch screams that your heart is beating above normal. It’s just making out, how bad can it get?” “Tony, we’re been through this…”

In which Bruce thinks Hulk is the epic cockblock and Tony is helping them get on the same page.

home (ao3) - NotEvenCloseToStraight M, 11k

Summary: An Ace!Bruce-centric peek into our favorite Poly-family, from the first meeting with Alpha!Tony through the addition of Thor, Loki and the most recent kiddos.

You guys know how the story goes– unconditional acceptance, Alpha!Tony being an instantly smitten kitten, tooth rotting sweetness and our favorite genius getting all the love he deserves.

In the Broken World (ao3) - sahiya G, 15k

Summary: Truly, Bruce only meant to stay a day or two at the lake house. He never intended to move in with Tony and Peter; the two of them were clearly a world unto themselves, and Bruce didn’t want to wear out his welcome. He also didn’t want to be on the outside looking in all the time, so for everyone’s sake, it seemed wise to limit this first stay to just a day or two.

And yet. Three days passed, then five. Bruce didn’t feel like an intruder, and he didn’t feel unwelcome. He felt... comfortable. And he came to the somewhat disturbing realization that he had no desire to ever be anywhere else.

in this together (ao3) - i_buchanan E, 62k

Summary: Bruce was pretty sure that he was going to be the youngest person at MIT. He didn’t realize that honor actually went to his roommate, the already-infamous Tony Stark. Granted, the child prodigy turns out to be nothing like he expects, for better or worse, and Bruce figures that they just have to make it work. Besides, it should only be for one semester, right?

Or, the fic where they live together, move out together, and eventually get together.

Just a Touch (ao3) - The_Buzz T, 8k

Summary: When Bruce and Tony are trapped under the debris from a bomb, Bruce can't afford to transform into the Hulk without risking Tony's life. To make matters worse, Bruce is badly hurt and help might not be on the way for a while.

meanwhile the world goes on (ao3) - sahiya G, 7k

Summary: Bruce had no idea what he would find when he finally returned to Earth, bruised and battered and exhausted. Two years was long enough for a lot to happen, and Bruce had long ago stopped trying to predict the future. Tony was the futurist, not him.

He hoped that Tony was okay, more or less, and he expected that even if he was, he would sooner spit in his face than kiss him hello. Bruce could handle that. He deserved it, even.

What he didn’t expect was the kid.

Somewhere That's Green (ao3) - volunteerfd T, 63k

Summary: A mild-mannered dork’s nerdy hobby leads to the creation of a gigantic green monster that ruins his life. But there is a happy ending.

In which Bruce Banner owns a flower shop on Skid Row, Audrey Fulquard is his assistant, and Tony Stark is Tony Stark.

Special Delivery (ao3) - heyjupiter G, 3k

Summary: When Peter leaves for a semester abroad in Wakanda, Bruce and Tony send him care packages. When Peter returns from Wakanda, he brings back gifts for Bruce and Tony to return the favor.

the world's a beast of a burden (ao3) - sleeponrooftops T, 1k

Summary: In which Steve takes a look at Tony the bully and Bruce the very, very nice man and doesn't understand them at all.

When Bruce Banner Asks for a Favor and Gets A Lapful of Tony Stark Instead (Not that he's complaining) (ao3) - Aria_Lerendeair E, 7k

Summary: Tony missed Bruce when he disappeared six months ago. He likes the Hulk, but has a 'thing' for Bruce. He decides to convince him to stay by showing him his state of the art lab(s) (yes, there are two) he built for him. Maybe even seduce him if he has the chance.

[m-printed]

#𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁

who: friends etc ! ( assume connections ) where: anchorage public library when: a couple of days after may 17th

sleep eluded him most nights, and caffeine had long since ceased to be a viable option. the liter of energy drinks on his bedside table had doubled in quantity—pointless dollars squandered at the 7/11. his condition had only deteriorated with the unsettling news of flying gargoyles, or whatever those creatures were—beasts said to have spirited adisorn away to pinnella pass. instead of vague, indescribable shadows haunting the foot of his bed, he now saw them vividly—petrified in terror, immobile. his eyes would fixate on their claws, their fangs, and he would attempt to scream as the nightlight's bulb hummed a melancholic tune.

mark spent countless hours pondering if it was something he'd done or said, or perhaps something he hadn't done, that precipitated their disappearance. perhaps adi had grown weary of waiting for a ring to symbolize his commitment. maybe the endless seesaw act of raising callie and caring for him when his cataplexy was triggered had finally worn them down. he wallowed in self-pity during those initial weeks until an insatiable hunger for answers took hold.

his new drive was ensuring they didn't become just another cold case and uncovering the myster of pinnella pass. to some, the library might seem mundane, but it had become his sanctuary. he immersed himself in tomes of the supernatural, geographical surveys, ghostly tales, and diligently searched for parallel cases. thus far, his efforts had yielded nothing. seated in a secluded corner on the library's second story, marcus focused intently on his research. he felt a profound duty to adisorn, callie, and the people he once thought of as future in-laws, to unearth the truth. the mystery of his partner’s fate gnawed at him incessantly.

feeling a presence, he looked up to meet a familiar gaze. "oh... hey."

friendships were challenging to maintain amidst such profound sorrow and grief, but he managed a smile and a wave, signaling they were welcome to join him. "listen, i appreciate you looking out for me. i really do." he bit his lip, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "i've been meaning to call you back, i've just been... you know."

[ao3feed-piltovers-finest]

Fate Finds A Way

by perseph0ne_13

“What do you do for work?” Caitlyn asks, brow quirking

Vi sighs, “I… am a priest.”

“You’re… a priest,” Caitlyn looks her up and down, as if she doesn’t believe it. “You?”

“I–” Vi recoils slightly, eyes widening and mouth dropping– a silent laugh, disbelieving. “–What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” She answers easily, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. “I just… well, I didn’t think you looked very priestly, is all.”

Vi blinks once, twice, “...What did you think I looked like, then?”

And Caitlyn looks her up and down once, twice over– Vi thinks she imagines the way she bites her lip.

“Where’s the fun in telling you?” She counters, faintly brushing her hand against Vi’s– and Vi breathes in sharply, not expecting the way sparks shoot up her arm from where they briefly touch. “It’s more fun to keep you guessing, Father Vi.”

OR

Vi's spent the last 700 years searching for her sister/infamous Ghost King, Jinx. When one of those searches goes wrong, it leads Vi to another Ghost King (or three), thus kickstarting her journey towards closure, truth, and her rise to the top-- plus a love story for the ages in between.

/ Vi and Cait pining for 7 centuries.

Words: 18231, Chapters: 2/8, Language: English

Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F

Characters: Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn (League of Legends), Jayce (League of Legends), Mel Medarda, Jinx (League of Legends)

Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn & Vi (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: Tags will be updated as I post, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Hearing Impaired Vi, Caitlyn and Vi are in Love (League of Legends), except they are REALLY stupid, Mutual Pining, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, like extremely slow burn, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, God Vi, Ghost King Caitlyn Kiramman, But also, Princess Caitlyn Kiramman, Knight Vi, kind of?, Caitlyn is actually Deranged and Devoted, POV Alternating, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Read on A03. from AO3 works tagged ‘Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)’