#They exist in multiple layers of existence at the same time

[sixeyesonathiel]

your goddess loves you this much

pairing — yandere hero!satoru x goddess!reader

synopsis : you are a benevolent goddess, the eternal comfort in the chaos, welcoming a lost hero into your divine realm after a harrowing journey between worlds. with soft words and steady hands, you guide him through uncertainty, offering warmth, purpose, and a weapon to wield against the darkness threatening your land. loop after loop, you are his constant—his salvation, his truth. after all, isn't that what a good goddess does?

wc — 4.4k tags — oneshot, yandere, psychological horror, time loop, unreliable narrator, slow burn insanity, obsession, manipulation, role reversal, emotional control, gaslighting, looping timeline, moral erosion, poetic justice, deconstruction of heroism, implied multiple deaths

gen masterlist

the weight of his head against your thighs has become as familiar as breathing—more familiar, perhaps, since breathing is something you’ve never needed to think about until now. until him.

you feel the tremors first, always the tremors. the way his body shakes like a leaf caught in a winter storm, muscles twitching with phantom pain from wounds that no longer exist but live on in the meat memory of mortal flesh. his white hair spreads across the silk of your dress like spilled moonlight, each strand catching the ethereal light of your divine realm. it’s damp with cold sweat that shouldn’t exist here, in this place beyond temperature and discomfort, but it does because you will it to. because you find something intoxicating about the way mortality clings to him even in your perfect sanctuary.

loop 847.

the number sits in your mind like a precious jewel, polished smooth by repetition. you’ve been counting since the very beginning, though the significance has evolved from mere record-keeping to something approaching obsession. what started as clinical curiosity—how many times can a soul break before it stops reforming?—has become something else entirely. something you refuse to examine too closely, even in the privacy of your own divine consciousness.

what matters now is the delicious anticipation building in your chest as his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. those ridiculously long lashes that would make mortals weep with envy, dark against skin that’s too pale from shock and trauma. you count the seconds—three, two, one—before those brilliant blue eyes snap open, wide and unfocused, pupils blown with terror that makes your divine essence sing with dark satisfaction.

there it is. that moment of pure, distilled anguish that you’ve become addicted to witnessing. the way his gaze darts around frantically before finding your face and latching onto it like a lifeline. the relief that floods his features is almost as beautiful as the terror that preceded it.

“shh,” you whisper, the same script, the same gentle tone that’s become your favorite performance piece. your fingers card through his hair with practiced tenderness—so soft, so perfectly maintained despite the violence he’s just endured. the last death had been particularly inspired, even by your standards. the demon lord’s claws had taken their time, peeling him apart layer by layer while you watched from your scrying pool with the focused attention of a scholar studying ancient texts. you’d rested your chin on your palm, legs crossed elegantly, occasionally taking sips of divine nectar as his screams echoed across dimensions.

“you’re safe now,” you continue, letting each word drip with honey-sweet compassion. “you’re with me.”

his breathing comes in sharp, shallow gasps that make his ribs flutter like bird wings beneath his torn shirt. you can feel his heart hammering against his chest where his side presses against your lap—such a frantic, desperate rhythm. mortal hearts are so wonderfully expressive, unlike the steady, emotionless pulse of divine essence. his heart tells stories: of fear conquered and reborn, of trust given and shattered and painstakingly rebuilt, of a soul slowly learning to depend on you for everything that matters.

“i—” his voice cracks like ice under pressure, and oh, how you savor that sound. you’ve heard it 846 times before, but it never loses its appeal. “i was... there was pain, so much—”

“a nightmare,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the sharp line of his jaw. such perfect bone structure, even when it’s slack with shock. his skin is always so warm when he first awakens, as if his body remembers the fire that consumed him three loops ago, or the ice that froze his blood solid in loop 739, or the poison that ate through his organs while he writhed on the ground in loop 623. each death leaves its signature in ways only you can perceive. “just a terrible nightmare from your human world. you’re here now, with me.”

the lie flows as smoothly as silk, perfectly crafted after centuries of refinement. you’ve become an artist of deception, painting reality in whatever colors best serve your purposes. and your purpose, though you’d never admit it even in the deepest recesses of your mind, is to keep him exactly like this: broken, dependent, desperate for the comfort only you can provide.

satoru’s eyes search your face with that desperate intensity you’ve grown to crave. like a drowning man looking for driftwood, like a lost child seeking its mother, like a worshipper gazing upon their god. the trust there is so complete, so absolute, that it makes something warm and possessive unfurl in your chest. he has no idea. no idea at all that the goddess cradling him so tenderly is the architect of every scream, every moment of agony, every carefully orchestrated betrayal that led to his destruction.

you are merciful in his eyes. you are kind. you are his salvation made manifest.

the lies taste sweeter than ambrosia on your tongue.

“goddess...” he breathes, and his hand—scarred now in ways he doesn’t remember earning, marked by battles that exist only in the spaces between consciousness—reaches up to touch your cheek with trembling fingers. the reverence in that simple gesture makes your divine essence purr with satisfaction. “you’re real. you’re actually real.”

“of course i’m real.” you lean into his touch, letting your expression soften into something that could almost pass for love if observed from the right angle. it’s not difficult anymore; you’ve had centuries to perfect this particular mask, to understand exactly which micro-expressions most effectively convey maternal affection mixed with divine benevolence. “i’ve been waiting for you, hero.”

hero. the title sits in the air between you like a blade waiting to fall, because you both know what heroes are made for. they’re not made for happy endings or peaceful retirements. they’re made to suffer beautifully, dramatically, in ways that make for compelling stories. they’re made to sacrifice everything, to lose everyone they care about, to stand alone against impossible odds until the very weight of their nobility crushes them.

they’re made to break, over and over, until breaking becomes their most defining characteristic.

and satoru breaks so very prettily for you.

you help him sit up slowly, your hands steady on his shoulders as he sways like a tree in high wind. his body remembers trauma it can’t consciously place, muscles locked tight with anticipation of pain that isn’t coming. not yet. the reprieve is temporary, always temporary, but he doesn’t know that. he thinks this moment of peace might last, and that hope is almost as delicious as the despair that will follow.

“i don’t... understand,” he says, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple hard enough to leave red marks on his pale skin. “everything feels wrong. like i’m forgetting something important. something crucial.”

everything, you think with dark satisfaction, watching the way his brow furrows with concentration. you’re forgetting everything that matters, and i’m the only constant in your dissolving world. i’m the only truth you’re allowed to keep.

“memory can be hazy when crossing between realms,” you offer with gentle wisdom, guiding him to his feet with hands that seem to care only for his wellbeing. he moves like he’s testing each step, uncertain of his own body’s capabilities. which makes sense—how many times has this body failed him? how many times have these hands been unable to grip a weapon when he needed it most, these legs unable to carry him to safety? “the transition between worlds can be... disorienting. it will clear in time.”

another lie, of course. his memories will never clear because you’ve specifically designed the magic to prevent it. instead, they’ll remain trapped in that liminal space between dream and reality, close enough to create unease but never quite accessible enough to provide clarity. it’s one of your more elegant touches, that spell. it ensures he’ll always feel slightly off-balance, always in need of your grounding presence.

the chamber around you gleams with ethereal light that seems to emanate from the very air itself. marble and gold and impossible architecture that defies mortal comprehension stretch in all directions, creating a space that’s both infinite and intimate. crystalline pillars support a ceiling that shows glimpses of distant stars, while fountains of liquid light provide a soothing soundtrack to your interactions. it’s designed to inspire awe and comfort in equal measure, to make mortals feel both humbled and protected.

but satoru’s eyes don’t linger on the divine beauty surrounding him. they stay fixed on you with an intensity that’s become familiar over the centuries, hungry and searching, like you’re the only real thing in existence.

you are, in a way. everything else—the weapons, the quests, the monsters that will tear him apart in increasingly creative ways—are props in your private theater. but you? you’re the constant. the comfort. the reward he gets for playing his part so very, very well.

“tell me about the world,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. a thread of steel you haven’t heard before, barely perceptible but definitely present. like the first hairline crack in perfect glass. “tell me about my purpose here.”

you gesture toward the vast armory that stretches beyond the main chamber, a space that could house armies worth of weapons. each piece gleams with deceptive promise—swords that will shatter at crucial moments, armor that will fail when he needs it most, shields that will crumble to dust, magic artifacts that will betray him in creative ways you’ve spent decades perfecting. some of them are beautiful enough to make mortals weep, others radiate power that makes the air itself sing. all of them are tools of his eventual destruction, crafted with the same loving attention to detail that a mother might put into her child’s favorite meal.

“you are chosen,” you begin, the familiar words flowing like water over worn stones. you’ve recited this speech so many times it’s become a prayer, a litany, a song that shapes reality itself. “a hero summoned from your world to save ours from—”

“from what?” the interruption is sharp, unexpected, cutting through your carefully crafted monologue like a blade through silk. satoru’s blue eyes have focused with laser intensity on your face, and there’s something different about his gaze. something that makes the base of your spine prickle with unease. “what exactly am i saving the world from?”

in all 847 loops, he’s never asked that question with such pointed curiosity. usually he’s too traumatized, too desperate for comfort and guidance to think beyond the immediate moment of safety in your presence. usually he accepts your explanations with the blind faith of a drowning man accepting a rope, never questioning its source or strength.

but you adapt. you always adapt. that’s what’s made you so successful at this game.

“darkness,” you say simply, letting a shadow of ancient sorrow cross your features. you’ve practiced this expression in divine mirrors, perfecting the exact degree of pain that suggests personal loss without overwhelming your audience. “an ancient evil that threatens to consume everything good and pure in this realm. only a hero from another world, untainted by our corruption, can hope to stand against it.”

it’s not technically a lie, which makes it easier to sell. there is darkness in this world—you’ve created most of it yourself, shaped it into increasingly elaborate death traps and moral quandaries, each one designed to push him further toward the breaking point you find so psychologically fascinating. you’ve crafted villains with compelling motivations, tragic backstories that make their evil feel almost justified. you’ve built societies that force impossible choices, where saving one group means dooming another.

you are the darkness he’s meant to fight, but he doesn’t need to know that. not yet.

satoru stares at you for a long moment, and something shifts behind his eyes. a recognition that makes your divine blood run cold in ways you didn’t know were possible. it’s like watching someone solve a puzzle you thought was perfectly obscured, seeing the moment when scattered pieces suddenly form a coherent picture.

“show me the weapons,” he says finally, but his voice carries undertones you can’t quite parse.

relief floods through you like warm honey. familiar territory at last. you lead him through the armory, past blades that sing with false promises and shields that radiate protective energy they’ll never actually provide. the space is vast enough to echo, filled with the soft chiming of metal and crystal, the whisper of displaced air around objects of power.

he examines each piece carefully, too carefully, running his fingers along edges and testing the weight of handles with a thoroughness that seems excessive. you watch him move through the displays, cataloguing his reactions for future reference. does he linger longer at certain types of weapons? does he seem drawn to particular magical signatures?

“this one broke,” he murmurs suddenly, fingers hovering over a silver sword without quite touching its gleaming surface. the blade is perfect, unmarked, radiating holy power that makes the air shimmer around it. there’s no possible way he could know about its hidden flaw—the microscopic fracture in its core that will cause it to shatter at the worst possible moment. “didn’t it?”

your mask doesn’t slip. it can’t slip, not after all this time, not when you’re so close to sending him off on another perfectly orchestrated tragedy. “i’m sorry?”

“nothing.” but his smile is wrong, too sharp around the edges, too knowing. it reminds you uncomfortably of your own expression when you’re particularly pleased with a clever manipulation. “just... déjà vu, i suppose.”

he moves deeper into the armory, and you follow, unease growing with each step like storm clouds gathering on a clear horizon. something is different this time, something has changed in the delicate balance of your game, and you can’t quite identify what. it’s like trying to pin down the source of a sound that exists just at the edge of hearing—present but elusive, important but incomprehensible.

satoru stops in front of a section displaying particularly vicious-looking weapons—axes that will grow too heavy to lift at crucial moments, spears that will snap under pressure, maces that will turn on their wielders when activated. each one is a masterpiece of deceptive craftsmanship, beautiful and deadly and ultimately useless when it matters most.

he studies them all with that same unsettling intensity, head tilted like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.

then he turns to you, and the smile on his face makes your divine essence recoil instinctively.

“i’ve been thinking,” he says conversationally, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that seems casual but somehow radiates contained energy, “about patterns.”

the word hits you like a physical blow, resonating through your divine consciousness in ways that mortal language shouldn’t be able to achieve. you keep your expression serene, but your supernatural senses are suddenly hyperaware of every detail—the way he’s positioned himself between you and the nearest exit, the careful distance he’s maintained, the way his gaze never quite leaves your face even when he seems to be looking at weapons.

“patterns?” you echo, your voice steady despite the growing void in your chest where certainty used to live.

“mmm.” he takes a step closer, and every instinct you possess—instincts honed by millennia of existing as a predator among predators—screams at you to step back. but you don’t, can’t, because that would acknowledge the shift in dynamic you’re desperately pretending isn’t happening. “like how some things feel familiar even when they shouldn’t. how some fears feel earned instead of inherited from nightmares.”

another step. your heart—do you have a heart? you’ve never been certain, but something in your chest is definitely racing now—begins to beat with mortal urgency.

“how some people feel too good to be true,” he continues, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “how some kindnesses feel like they come with invisible price tags.”

the silence stretches between you like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension that threatens to snap at any moment. satoru’s blue eyes search your face with surgical precision, and for the first time in centuries, you feel truly seen. not the carefully crafted mask you wear, but the thing underneath. the thing that finds such exquisite pleasure in his pain, that orchestrates his suffering with the dedication of a master artist.

the thing that loves him in the most twisted way possible—not as a person, but as a beautiful object to be broken and mended and broken again.

“choose your weapon,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. it doesn’t, because goddesses don’t shake, don’t falter, don’t lose control of situations they’ve spent centuries perfecting. “the world needs its hero.”

satoru laughs, and the sound is nothing like the broken sobs or desperate gasps you’re used to hearing from him. it’s rich and dark and full of terrible understanding, like the laughter of someone who’s just gotten the punchline to a very long, very cruel joke.

“oh, i’ve already chosen,” he says, and his hand shoots out faster than your divine reflexes can track.

his fingers close around your wrist like a shackle forged from mortal determination, and the contact burns in ways that have nothing to do with temperature. for the first time in your existence, you feel small. vulnerable. caught.

“i choose you.”

instinct takes over before conscious thought can intervene. you reach for your divine power, the endless well of cosmic energy that’s been your birthright since the moment of your creation. it should be as easy as breathing, as natural as existing—power flowing through you like golden fire, reshaping reality according to your will.

instead, you feel... nothing.

not the absence of power, which would at least be something, but a hollow emptiness where your divine nature used to reside. like reaching for a sword and finding only air, like trying to breathe underwater and getting nothing but liquid suffocation.

you try again, panic beginning to claw at the edges of your perfect composure. surely this is just shock, just surprise disrupting your concentration. you’ve had your power for millennia—it can’t just disappear, can’t just abandon you when you need it most.

but the air remains stubbornly still around you. no wind rises at your call, no light bends to your will, no reality shifts to accommodate your desires. you are as powerless as any mortal, as vulnerable as the humans you’ve spent so long manipulating.

the realization hits you like ice water: he’s not just grabbing you.

he’s dragging you down.

the world dissolves around you, divine architecture collapsing into streams of light and shadow. your perfect sanctuary, your place of absolute power, crumbles like sand castles before the tide. you feel yourself being torn from your celestial throne, stripped of the comfortable distance between observer and observed, between puppet master and puppet.

the sensation is violating in a way you’ve never experienced—like being turned inside out, every carefully hidden thought and motivation exposed to harsh light. you’ve never been vulnerable before, never been at the mercy of another’s will, and the terror that floods through you is more overwhelming than anything you’ve ever imposed on him.

when reality reassembles itself, you’re on your knees in mortal grass, mortal dirt staining the pristine white of your divine robes. the earth beneath you is real in ways your realm never was—rough, imperfect, stubbornly resistant to your will. the air tastes different here, heavier, full of mortality and consequence and the complete absence of your absolute control.

you look up to find satoru standing over you, and his expression is nothing like the desperate devotion you’re used to seeing. his blue eyes are calm, calculating, almost gentle in their cruelty. there’s no trace of the shattered hero you’ve been so carefully maintaining. instead, there’s something that looks almost like...

relief.

“surprised?” he asks, crouching down to your level with fluid grace. his hand cups your chin with mock tenderness, fingers warm against skin that suddenly feels too fragile, forcing you to meet his gaze. “you shouldn’t be. you taught me so well, after all.”

“satoru—” you begin, but he presses his thumb against your lips, silencing you with the same casual dominance you’ve used on him countless times.

“eight hundred and forty-seven times,” he says conversationally, like he’s discussing the weather or commenting on the quality of mortal wine. “that’s how many times you’ve killed me. how many times you’ve held me while i shook apart, whispering lies about salvation and purpose and the greater good.”

your divine mind reels, struggling to process the impossibility of what he’s saying. he couldn’t remember. you’d been so careful, so precise in your manipulations. the memory spells were perfect, tested across centuries of use. he shouldn’t be able to retain anything between loops, let alone count them.

“oh, but i do remember,” he continues, as if reading your thoughts with the same ease you once read his. “every death. every betrayal. every weapon that failed at the crucial moment. every ally who turned out to be an enemy in disguise. every moment of false comfort in your lap while you planned my next exquisite destruction.”

his grip on your chin tightens, just shy of painful, and you could break free—should be able to break free—but something is fundamentally wrong with your body here. dulled, muted, constrained by mortal flesh and mortal limitations in ways that make your divine consciousness scream with claustrophobic panic.

“the first few hundred times, i believed you completely,” satoru admits, thumb stroking along your jawline with possessive familiarity. “trusted you with everything i had. you were so convincing, so perfectly compassionate. the way you held me, the way you looked at me like i mattered... i thought it was real.”

something in his voice makes you want to protest, to insist that it was real, that your care for him wasn’t entirely fabricated. but the words die in your throat because you know they’d be lies, and somehow you suspect he’d know too.

“but patterns, goddess...” he continues, voice dropping to something almost fond. “patterns are hard to ignore when you’re paying attention. and after the first few hundred deaths, i started paying very close attention indeed.”

he releases your chin only to thread his fingers through your hair, the gesture a perfect mockery of all the times you’ve done the same to him. when he tugs, just lightly, you can’t suppress the small sound that escapes your throat—part surprise, part something you refuse to name.

his smile widens at the sound, blue eyes lighting up with the same dark satisfaction you’ve seen in your own reflection when a plan comes together perfectly.

“the way you always knew exactly what to say to comfort me,” he muses, fingers still tangled in your hair. “the way you never seemed surprised by the specific ways i’d been hurt. the way you’d touch the wounds that were no longer there, like you were checking your work.”

each observation hits like a physical blow, stripping away layers of deception until you feel raw and exposed. you want to deny it, to maintain the fiction that has sustained you for so long, but what’s the point? he sees you now, really sees you, and there’s no mask perfect enough to hide behind.

“and then there were the weapons themselves,” satoru continues, almost conversational now. “each one perfectly suited to my preferences, each one guaranteed to fail in exactly the way that would cause maximum suffering. it was almost artistic, really. i found myself admiring the craftsmanship even as they killed me.”

he leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear, close enough that the warmth of him surrounds you like an embrace.

“you have such beautiful taste in tragedies,” he whispers, and the words make you shiver in ways that have nothing to do with cold.

“and now here we are,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something almost intimate as he pulls back to meet your eyes again. “no divine realm to retreat to. no reset button to press when things get uncomfortable. just you and me and all the time in the world to explore some new patterns.”

the realization hits you like a physical blow: he’s not going to play hero anymore. he’s not going to quest or fight or die gloriously for your entertainment. the game you’ve spent centuries perfecting, the delicate balance of hope and despair that’s sustained you for so long—it’s over.

he’s going to keep you instead.

“the world—” you start desperately, grasping for any argument that might restore the familiar dynamic between you.

“can burn,” he finishes simply, with the casual dismissal of someone discussing an unwanted dinner invitation. “i’m done saving things. done being your perfect little tragedy. this time, i think i’ll try being the one in control.”

your hands shake where they’re pressed against the earth, divine composure finally cracking under the weight of complete role reversal. for the first time in millennia, you don’t know what comes next. don’t know the script or the ending or how to manipulate the variables in your favor. the future stretches ahead of you, vast and unknowable and entirely outside your control.

you are no longer the author of this story.

you are no longer anything but a character in his.

satoru seems to sense your realization, because his expression softens into something almost pitying. he helps you to your feet with gentle hands, steadying you when your legs threaten to give out under the weight of mortality and consequence. his touch is warm, familiar, almost loving—and that makes it so much worse.

“don’t look so lost,” he says kindly, and the tone is so familiar it makes you dizzy with déjà vu. how many times have you used that exact inflection to comfort him? how many times have you steadied him just like this, with patient hands and false compassion? “i’ll take good care of you. after all...”

his lips brush against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper that makes your divine blood sing with terror and something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“you taught me exactly how it’s done.” he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and his smile is soft and loving and absolutely terrifying.

your mouth opens—maybe to beg, maybe to explain—but no sound comes out before he leans in.

“shh,” he whispers, and his thumb smears a tear across your cheek you didn’t realize had fallen, dragging it down like a mark. “don’t be afraid. you’re safe now.”

a/n: i might write this into a long fic someday 🌝

[completeoveranalysis]

[1]

Here we are in xxxHolic: Chapter 87ish!

And eeeeee we have the moment of Watanuki’s creation! The moment where Lava Lamp’s wish resulted in Watanuki’s sudden existence! A moment that we already saw happen in Tsubasa, but would be wild to try and figure out without that.

And most importantly we see the moment of Yuuko defending him. She has her arms outstretched to either side of him, sheltering him within her grasp. He is in soft greys, while she is in stark black. His eyes are closed, head slightly tilted, while Yuuko looks directly ahead, her gaze firm. Both of their existences are abnormal - he has only just been born, but she uses her strength to shield him from the forces that would use him for their benefit and leave him with nothing. Yuuko has made a place for Watanuki within existence itself, just as her gesture here shows that he has a place with her in this moment (as well as later). And her little smoke trails wind around her and Watanuki both, showing that their fates are wound together and intertwined. 

It’s a 10/10 moment, no notes no flaws, only endless admiration.

[slickricklj]

Jill Valentine + Chris Redfield - When you know, you know.

Bonus:

[bet-on-me-13]

Bruce owes Danny money. He does Not want to pay up.

So! Danny had to run away from Amity Park when his parents discovered his Powers. But every time he tried to stay in a single place in America, they somehow managed to find him.

Turns out, they were working with the GIW to track him using the GIW's resources and the Fenton's Genius to find him everywhere he ran to. Eventually, Danny figured he had had enough and ran to Europe where the GIW had no Jurisdiction.

After wandering for a while, Danny was found and recruited by the League of Assasins. He was powerful, skilled, and connected to the Lazarus Pits, so they approached him with a job offer.

They would hide him from the Fentons, who had began to search for him in Europe independently, and in return he would work for them as an Assasin.

Considering his situation, Danny agreed.

He began training to be an Assasin, supplementing his Ghost Abilities with the abilities of an Assasin to become even more Stealthy.

While training under the League, Danny met another recruit simply known as Bruce. They trained together for years, even going on a few missions together gathering intel, and using disguises to hid in plain sight.

On one of these missions, Danny lent Bruce some money with the promise to get paid back when they returned to the League. That same night, Bruce left the League of Assasins and never came back.

...

Bruce was sitting in the Batcave going over a case with Tim, Jason was off to the side cleaning his Guns, and Dick and Cass were holding an acrobatics competition in their Obstacle Course, with Damien, Steph, and Duke cheering them on.

Suddenly an Eldritch Emerald Light sprang to life in the center of the Batcave, and everybody dropped what they were doing and sprang to action.

Slowly, a glowing green figure emerged from the Light. He appeared Eldritch in Nature, as if he existed in multiple layers of reality at once and looking at him gave them minor headaches. Then, the figure spoke up.

"BRUCE. ITS BEEN 15 YEARS. YOU STILL OWE ME 16 DOLLARS."

Recognizing Danny, Bruce took a moment to compose himself before responding.

"Fuck Off."

[itscamile222]

HOW SHIFTING WORKS- scientifically based thesis

“we´are infinite beings destined to explore the infinite universe”

NOTE: i´m not a scientist nor a physicist. This essay is based on self interpretation of information and things i´ve learned about consciousness, quantum physics, nature of reality, etc.

We´re four dimensional beings, meaning we´re composed of both physical and non physical (intangible) things. We have three layers: body, psyche (alias consciousness) and soul. Our bodies are just the envelope, the vehicle our consciousness occupies in order to live a human experience. Accordingly, our true self is not our body, but the consciousness that occupies it. Having that in mind, we´re able to move to the next point.

Everything — and this is scientifically proven — is made of energy. Vibrating energy makes matter, and consequently both matter and energy have frequencies. Every single thing has a different frequency: objects, sounds, emotions, etc. Therefore, reality as a whole, with all of its elements combined, vibrates at its own frequency.

Thanks to quantum physics, we know particles of energy can be in different states and multiple places at the same time in superposition when there isn't a conscious observer. While being observed, energy/particles behave differently, being perceived at one state and place. This experiment shows the same particle can and does exist in many states/places at once, but we´re only able to perceive one state/place at a time.

ENERGY → MATTER → REALITY

We can only perceive one reality (state of energy/matter as a whole) at a time for the reason the human experience we're living limits us to do so. Although, like energy is coexisting in many places/states at once, and we know for certain that energy composes matter, which makes the (physical) reality, we can affirm there are many other realities besides this one, but we´re not able neither to perceive nor interact with them.

ENERGY → MATTER → REALITY

“ ↳ MATTER → REALITY

“ ↳ MATTER → REALITY

“ ↳ MATTER → REALITY

“ ↳ MATTER → REALITY

+∞

PINK: what we percieve

BLUE: what coexists but we don’t perceive

Summing things up, there are many other realities coexisting in the very same space as this one, but each reality exists in different frequencies, so realities never interact with each other. That said, we are able to introduce the main character: shifting.

Shifting doesn't happen in your consciousness, shifting happens with — and thanks to— your consciousness. Your body is trapped in this reality because it's part of this reality, for the reason bodies are physical things that can only exist in one state. Your consciousness, on the other hand, contrary to your body, can shift because it's not something physical, it's not made of matter. Consciousness doesn't belong to any reality, it just experiences them. Consciousness cannot die, so when your body faces death, your consciousness continues existing in other realities. This can explain both reincarnation and heaven, since your consciousness shifts to a reality that fits what you expect/believe you´ll experience after death.

With shifting, we´re doing the same but intentionally, choosing the reality we want to experience,with the difference our Cr body is still alive, so we can come back.

By shifting, we´re changing the frequency of our consciousness — which is the same as our Cr— to match the frequency of the reality we want to become aware of. You have to shift your inner world in order to shift the outer physical world (the 4d and the 3d).

[wisteriaiswriting]

Physical Headcanons

These are my versions and what I see for each survivor, killer and reader, these will be used in any future fics written.

Words: 1600

Small tw for Two Time: Self harm scars, if there's anything else please let me know!

Overall:

Whenever someone is transferred into this world they suddenly stop changing, no more aging, hair doesn’t grow etc; It’s as if time has just stopped suddenly.

With the small exception to anyone who enters with pre existing injuries, if they’re small they automatically start healing, larger/fatal ones need help from others before naturally healing.

Everyone has some level of amnesia, some have it worse than others but it’s always there.

He/Him

Has those ear wings and a pair of extra large wings on his back, the back pair were forcefully clipped when he entered this realm.

Which has caused him to hide them most of the time, leading to unkept feathers and pain when stretching. Although they do move and flap when he’s excited, it takes him a minute to realise and calm them down.

He also has little bunches of feathers over his body, they tend to blend in with his skin and fade into a brown.

His hair is just slightly greasy, it’s not a greasy feeling but it looks like it. It’s a lighter brown that's curly.

I just feel like he’s 5' 8, idk what it is but he just gives that vibe.

I WANT THAT FAT MAN! /j

Fr though, definitely has some chub on his bones. Before and during forsaken he had/has no shame, and he makes that clear.

He/Him

His hard hat has a few scuffs and scratches all over, although they are small and barely noticeable.

Has a belt full of tools, it’s one of those magical bags as he’ll pull stuff out to make dispensers, things that shouldn’t fit.

Messy, unkempt gray hair that matches his skin tone, only reaches his shoulders but is tied into a low ponytail. Outside rounds he has his hair loose and he’s so glad it doesn’t grow.

We know how short he is, standing at 4’ 9 and that doesn’t change here.

Has a (Not so) surprising amount of strength, although his muscles are mostly covered by a layer of fat.

He/Him

His hands have multiple burn marks from the pizzas and ovens, none of which have disappeared since being forsakened. Also has small and larger stains on his shirt, some are pizza sauce, others are drinks, doesn’t know or care what the other ones are at this point.

His hair is a messy and fluffy mix, constantly moving it out of his eyes but never got to get a haircut. Because of this his hair is always tied up in a lower ponytail that reaches around his shoulder blades.

An even 6 foot tall, stands over a few other survivors but definetly isn’t the tallest. (Doesn’t like it, was the tallest at the pizza place.)

Tall and lean, has some muscle but nowhere near Guest level, enough to carry pizzas and the occasional full crates.

He/Him

Nearly every round causes his glasses to break or crack, becoming fixed as soon as he returns to the cabin.

Always has deep and obvious eye bags, due to his time as a parent the stress never left him, so in this realm no matter how much he sleeps they don’t change.

His hair is short, shaved on the sides but mullet-like on the back dark brown and clean.

He’s a short man, only 5’ 5. Was taller in his hacker days but somehow shrunk over the years, was only 5’ 7 though.

Has a dad bod, gained after his hacker days and adopted C00lkidd.

He/Him

This man is covered in hair, rarely shaved before this but now he can’t.

Has his fair share of scars, small and large, none disappeared since dropping into this realm.

Short, roughed up blue hair, same texture as Shedletsky. Always uses some gel after waking up.

6’ 4, I mean look at him (And the fanart) and tell me he isn’t tall.

Is all muscle, doesn’t get to work out as much here but his body doesn’t change.

He/She/They

Was a new scenekid, so he has those striped gloves and legwarmers.

Has a small crossbody bag to hold all his supplies, sometimes it holds more than it should but he learned not to question it.

I’m a long haired Noob believer, always tied up in a bun. Also has raccoon stripes and a fringe that gets in his eyes.

Noob is a whopping 6’ 1, with his voice and how he carried himself when he first dropped in, the others were surprised at his height.

He has some muscle but nowhere near Guest.

They/Them

Is almost covered in a variety of scars, although plenty aren’t visible. The others can see some cuts on their wrists.

Their hair is very short, almost pitch black and is so uneven. They cut it themself so it’s never even or neat.

They stand at 5’ 7, although they do seem shorter to others due to how much they lean over.

Two Time is so lanky, was likely malnourished before being forsakened and it carried over.

He/They

He has three pairs of wings, all three are so small that Taph could never fly, they sit on their shoulders, face and on his lower back. The back pairs are normally hidden under his robe.

All the gold accessories tend to glow slightly, not enough to bother others or himself but he’s a nice little light source.

Their height tends to fluctuate between 5’ 5 and 5’ 11, though he does prefer to stay at the taller end.

It’s hard to see what their body looks like, but he is quite lean. Can take a good hit or two though.

He/They

His sunglasses are always cracked, it happened after he was killed, they cracked when his head hit the ground.

Has a few playing cards stuck in the band on his fedora, the King of spades and the ace of hearts.

I was stuck between long haired Chance or short hair, so I’m going with neck length. Slightly greasy, light gray with small curls at the ends.

He’s also pretty short, standing at 5’ 5 like 007n7. But is the opposite of Two Time, he sounded and seemed taller.

His body is pretty average I believe, has some fat on him but tends to look skinny.

He/She/They

She is constantly glowing, like every single second they are a walking glowstick. The brightness though tends to become brighter or dimmer depending on his emotion. If he’s angry then she’s glowing brighter, finally stops in their sleep.

While all the other accessories are still there, they are quite hard to see.

In my heart they always have and had the white hair. Long and surprisingly smooth to the touch, it surprises everyone who manages to touch it. (Mainly C00lkidd.)

He just screams tall, like just taller than the survivors so I settled on 6’ 8.

Her body type is pretty lean with a bit of muscle, where you can see his bones are surrounded by a jelly type material, just a bit firmer.

He/Him

His fully corrupted arm tends to drag along the ground with how large it is, at first he held it up but overtime he lost the energy to do so.

All limbs are corrupted to some degree, his arms are the worst.

I was debating between short, slicked back hair or bald, but his hair is short and slicked back, a pale yellow.

6’ 10, idk, he just gives the vibe of being unnaturally tall, now the second tallest killer.

Has plenty of muscle but most is hidden under a layer of fat, so others tend to forget how strong he actually is.

He/Him

In my eyes he’s just the whimsical skin, which means he always has a little propeller hat, it’s as if it’s stuck on his head. Like it never comes off.

Alongside the giant lollipop, it tends to break through the rounds but always fixes itself afterwards.

BALD, HE’S BALD! But fr though this kids head is smooth.

Before forsaken he was shorter than the other kids, only being 4 feet tall, but now he was stretched, standing at 6’ 6.

Is so lanky and lean, you can see and even feel his bones. That alongside being a kid his injuries hurt more than normal.

He/Him

Has one of those real fluffy scarves/fur on his coat, idk what it’s called, but it’s soft to the touch and white.

His bunnies are actually one rabbit, it’s pure white and quite large. No clue where he keeps her. (Yes it’s a girl, I don’t have a name though)

Always has a shadow from his hat, it looks darker because of his face crest.

Short, shaven on the sides, black hair. Has a goot amount of stubble as well.

Even 7 ft, being the tallest killer. It throws everyone else off seeing him compared to John.

Is mainly muscle but due to the coat it’s hidden most of the time.

Reader

He/They (Depends on the fic)

Was a friendly hacker and exploiter, often being found in tycoon or hangout games, so they are known but uncatchable to the admins.

Has a different version of c00lgui, it has the same things available but doesn’t use them. Mainly using it to fly/float around, increase money or stats and (nicely) mess with others.

They tend to float a few inches off the ground even without the help of their commands

Calling it the EZgui, was meant to be a placeholder but it just stuck.

Is normally hidden under hoods when they aren’t sure if any admins are around.

[voice-of-the-tired]

the voice of the opportunist is a character with a surprising amount of layers to him and I love him. he's a rat bastard but he's my rat bastard.

with opportunist, I feel like it's impossible to really get a grasp on his character unless you do almost every route where he's the new voice (so, ignoring razor and moc) the only exception being beast's wild, really. because you need the contrast those routes present to understand his behaviour.

he has a very interesting mindset and philosophy, and I find it crucial to see the differences between how he acts and adapts between multiple situations and princesses, for example:

his willingness to slay thorn vs wanting to spare wild and hea; he doesn't trust thorn after she betrayed us in chapter 2. he doesn't see wild as a threat when she's so completely helpless, nor does he want to be alone. he feels bad for hea who was trapped in the same misery as him.

or his groveling attitude in wraith vs crueler taunting in patd vs wariness in witch. this is how he behaves when faced with different enemies (aka versions of the princess); kneeling over to those who are more powerful, being cocky and cruel with those who are weaker, and being careful to gain an upper edge against those who are equal.

and there's not only importance in the differences, but also in the consistencies within those same situations;

the desire to be on top in all routes. the quick change of opinions depending on who has leverage. the want to survive mentioned in both witch and wraith and implicit on hea (and patd if you stretch)... it's all linked, and a parallel to hunted.

both have this need to survive carved deep into their natures, it's just that to opportunist this manifests in a social context and the idea that safety only exists at the tip of the world.

like, hunted also adapts depending on different enemies - only flee when she has no apparent weaknesses (beast), strategize to defeat her if it helps (eotn), just go at her if you're equals (stubborn den), help her if you're not actually enemies (skeptic den). hunted also wants safety (mirror dialogue especially shows this). the main differing characteristic between the 2 of them is that hunted isn't a massive piece of shit and is actually helpful lmfao.

anyways, trying to understand opportunist is like piecing together a puzzle. considering he seems like one of the most one dimensional voices at first, it's incredible how much depth there is to him.

also he's a fucking riot. he's actually so funny, steals the show every time.

[sporesgalaxy]

I HEARD WE WERE SHARING DANNY PHANTOM OCS FOR @dpocparadeevent AND I CAME RUNNING AS FAST AS I COULD!!!!!! BEHOLD, FAN FAVORITE CANON CHARACTER (lying),

SILENCE ALEXANDER

Silence is a ghost librarian who roams the Ghost Zone and the living world in order to learn everything there is to know about ghosts!

Age: ~150yrs

Height: short

Sexuality: Bisexual

Gender: Bisexual*

Powers: pyromancy, smoke-mancy, book summoning, encyclopedic knowledge of ectobiology and ghost history, and also literally possesses multiple encyclopedias about those things. She wrote most of them.

Weaknesses: water, her own hubris, emotional constipation, Vlad Masters who said that? must've been the wind...

•••

Silence keeps a massive hoarde of unique books and strange artifacts in her library inside the Ghost Zone. She will even lend these books and artifacts...in exchange for information of equal value! Plus, whatever info you offer isn't safe from being traded with others just as readily, should someone have a worthwhile offer for it! If someone uses that information to hurt you, then that isn't Silence's problem.

She uses one such artifact to disguise herself and traverse the human world. She is completely unable to use any ghost powers while disguised, but she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she can almost forget she's a ghost at all...except that she can't taste or feel things the same way a human could.

She's very knowledgeable, but sometimes her pessemistic biases lead her to draw questionable conclusions. She assumes that all ghosts are fundamentally self-serving-- which means there's nothing wrong with her being selfish too!

PLOT INVOLVEMENT:

Silence met Vlad in the 90s, and was beyond thrilled that an unprecedented creature like a Halfa could exist. They got along like a house on fire and made it everyone else's problem for a year or so.

Then Silence suddenly disappeared, leaving Vlad with unfettered access to her many, many resources. How strange...

Silence reappeared 10 years later (during the events of the show) and wasted no time getting petty revenge by setting Vlad's mansion on fire.

She's not satisfied with just destroying his belongings, though. Silence also makes a point to befriend the Fenton family in disguise, using them to catch up on the years of research she missed.

Danny catches on almost immediately, but Silence is able to win him over with promises of Ghost Zone knowledge and dirt on Vlad. She seems to know a little more about Vlad than a "former business partner" should, but hey, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? And Danny doesn't have a lot of friends in the Ghost Zone.

Unfortunately, Danny will go on to learn that Silence is actually friends with most of his OTHER enemies, because Silence firmly believes that the ends justify the means when it comes to getting her hands on valuable information.

Even her and Vlad's mutual hatred seems a little, um...layered. Not that either of them will ever admit it.

Silence does not consider herself evil or underhanded, just...driven to succeed. She firmly believes that everything she does is necessary, and serves the greater good of scientific advancement.

Silence lived a very lonely human life and died feeling irrelevant and replaceable. She sees a kindred spirit in Vlad, which is both attractive and infuriating. She was deeply in love with Vlad during their time together in the 90s, but she refused to tell him and he was blinded by his focus on Maddie as usual. Vlad's betrayal reinforced Silence's pessemistic worldview and her unwillingness to be honest or vulnerable with others. Somehow, though, it didn't completely get rid of her crush on him...much to her continued chagrin.

---

BET YOU FORGOT ABOUT THAT ASTERISK. BUT I DIDN'T.

*Gender: Bisexual -- Antiquated version of the term that she still likes & identifies as. Similar to being bigender or genderfluid. Most people default to she/her and Silence doesn't really care.

---

Blorbo!

[inhunenthusiast]

“Gihun and Inho will never be canon”

Well idgaf because they already are to me.

There’s too many implications that leave room for their relationship to be interpreted as much more intimate and romantic than people want to see.

It doesn’t always have to be all black and white.

While it’s true that they’re not canon-confirmed, it’s still readable and hinted in the subtext.

The romantic connection isn’t just “made up” by shippers, it was always there. There’s more than enough parallels in their dynamic that makes sense for this kind of connection to develop between them and on top of that we can’t forget that the actors still have their instructions how to portray the character and the cinematography is always purposefully chosen to be symbolic. Director HDH especially mentioned the chemistry between LBH and LJJ multiple times already.

In my opinion, the involvement of also romantic feelings being part of Gihun and Inho’s dynamic, only adds another deep emotional layer to their already complex relationship.

Yes, squid game isn’t a romance but it’s also about humans learning the deepest parts of their selves, to be laid bare to what they feel and how they act upon it. I find the idea of Gihun being the one who makes Inho feel deeply again after such a long time of callousness beautiful and fitting.

It’s not a healthy love, it's very messy and toxic, but it fits the story. There's obviously also a lot of negative feelings and trauma that weighs heavy. But their strong connection and their intertwined fate would be what makes the change in the end.

Even if the outcomes will be different in season 3, without them coming to a mutual understanding and reconciliation, it wouldn't make their relationship less meaningful or intimate to me.

Because it still wouldn’t erase what once existed between them and how they influenced each other. Their paths were always destined to cross.

Hwang Dong-hyuk: “Thinking about their characters, they had the same journey but chose different fates. That’s the perspective I had from the start for these two characters.”

[nnnaaahhhiiiaaa]

Spy Rivals in Love Pt.1 - vick (iris)

Summary | You, known as the 'Scarlet Lady,' are a spy for the NSS in Korea. Your greatest rival is Vick, an agent from an enemy organization. Although you both despise each other and face off with all your hatred, every time you meet, the tension turns into something more intense—a connection you can't ignore, despite everything that separates you.

Pairing | iris!vick x fem!reader.

Genre | 2000s era, enemies to lovers.

Warnings | explicit violence, use of weapons and chase escenes, strong lenguage, tension, blood.

Author's note | English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling mistakes.

"You know what to do, Scarlet Lady. If you get caught, the whole plan goes to hell."

Kim Hyun-joon's voice was firm, but in his dark eyes, a warning gleamed. He knew this was a game of precision, and any mistake would cost more than just a failed mission.

You didn’t need to respond. You simply nodded in silence before turning on your heels, letting the dim warehouse light glisten over the latex of your black catsuit. The familiar weight of the gadget belt rested on your waist, each tool meticulously selected for infiltration.

Your objective: classified information, buried under multiple layers of security within the NSS headquarters. A file so valuable it could dismantle covert operations and expose the agency’s deepest secrets. But for you, this wasn’t just another mission. It was personal. The same organization you were about to tear apart had betrayed your older brother, Hyun-joon, condemning him to a fate he could never escape.

Before leaving, you covered the suit with a brown trench coat, added a matching beret, and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. A flawless disguise. No one inside the NSS knew your face or your real name. If everything went according to plan, you could move unnoticed. And if something went wrong… well, you always had an escape route.

From the outside, the building looked like an ordinary government facility: reflective windows, guards at the entrance, a pristine lobby. But you knew the truth. Behind that façade lay the very heart of the NSS, where the most clandestine operations were carried out far from the world’s eyes.

For someone like you, this was a challenge, yes, but far from impossible. You weren’t considered one of the world’s top three spies for nothing. At least, that’s what Hyun-joon and your few allies said. The reality was that no one truly knew you. You didn’t exist in databases, left no fingerprints, had no past. If someone searched for you, they would find little more than a ghost.

On the surface, however, you led an ordinary life, meticulously crafted to divert suspicion. A professor at the prestigious Seoul University. History and physical chemistry. Two subjects with enough logic and strategy to keep you sharp, and enough narrative to hide the truth between the lines. No one at the university would ever suspect that the quiet and elegant professor was, in reality, the shadow that haunted the world’s most powerful organizations.

Tonight, however, you weren’t a professor. You weren’t an ordinary citizen. Tonight, you were the Scarlet Dame, and the board was set for the first move.

With steady steps and natural elegance, you walked toward the reception desk without raising suspicion. Every movement was measured, every gesture calculated. You weren’t just an infiltrator; you were a shadow slipping through the cracks of the system.

Behind the counter, a woman with brown hair, an immaculate uniform, and a friendly expression looked up as she saw you approaching.

"Good morning, may I help you with something?" she asked professionally.

You smiled with the warmth of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide. Leaving behind the façade of a reserved woman, you tilted your head slightly and spoke enthusiastically:

"Oh, thank goodness! Look, my forgetful husband has left his lunch at home again. Again! So, I decided to bring it to him personally before he spends the whole morning without eating."

The receptionist blinked, hesitating for a second before composing herself. "Oh, I see, but... I’m really sorry, miss. We can’t let you through. If you tell me your name, I can notify him to come down and pick it up."

Your smile remained intact, but a glimmer of mischief shone in your eyes.

"Come on, sweetie, you know how men are when they’re in important meetings. He asked me not to disturb him under any circumstances. Plus, it’ll only be a minute. Our eight-year-old son is waiting in the car, and I can’t leave him alone for too long."

You added a slight note of urgency to your voice, just enough to stir the receptionist’s empathy without raising suspicion.

The woman bit her lower lip, visibly uncertain. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she handed you a visitor's pass.

"Okay, but please don’t mention that I let you through."

"Of course, darling! Nothing happened, okay?" You winked at her and waved goodbye as if you were lifelong friends.

Two security guards approached to escort you to the elevator. Everything was going according to plan.

But as soon as the doors closed, the game changed.

You drew an innocent smile as you raised the tupperware you were holding in your hands. "Guys, would you like some kimchi with rice? It’s delicious."

The two men exchanged confused looks. One raised an eyebrow.

"No?" You feigned an expression of regret. "What a shame..."

The blow came without warning. With a precise motion, you slammed the tupperware against one of the guards’ noses, making him stagger back with a muffled curse. Before the other could react, you delivered a direct kick to his chest, sending him crashing into the elevator wall.

The first tried to recover, but you didn’t give him the chance. With a flawless spinning kick, you knocked him out. The second guard fell to the ground with a sharp thud just a second later.

Silence.

You looked down at the unconscious bodies at your feet and sighed, adjusting your trench coat.

"I think I may have overdone it..."

You crouched down to pick up the tupperware from the floor. Fortunately, it was still tightly sealed. "Well, at least the food’s still intact."

With a swift motion, you discarded the trench coat, beret, and sunglasses, letting them fall carelessly on the unconscious bodies of the guards. Now, dressed only in your black latex catsuit, you felt much more in your element. The slight pressure of the suit against your skin was familiar, almost comforting.

As the elevator descended toward the underground levels, you shrugged and opened the tupperware. After all, you weren’t going to waste food because of a simple infiltration plan. It had cost you money, and besides, you didn’t know when you’d have the chance to eat something decent again. Calmly, you took a bite of rice and kimchi, enjoying the slight burn of spice on your tongue as the numbers on the panel descended.

But when the elevator was about to reach the final underground level, your real job began.

Without wasting any time, you agilely climbed onto the side security bar and pushed open the elevator’s roof hatch. You opened it with ease and propelled yourself up, emerging with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times.

From your new position, you opened a nearby ventilation shaft and slipped inside silently. Before moving forward, you looked down at the unconscious guards. You couldn’t leave loose ends.

With efficiency, you grabbed them by the armpits and, with a bit of effort, hauled them to the top of the elevator, leaving them there. You took two chloroform-soaked handkerchiefs from your gadget belt and gently placed them over their noses. They wouldn’t wake up unless someone found them.

When the elevator reached its destination and the doors opened with a metallic sound, the interior was completely empty. From the security cameras, it would just appear as an elevator arriving with no passengers.

Perfect.

You slipped silently through the ventilation shaft, keeping your breathing as controlled as possible. Every movement was calculated to avoid the slightest noise, knowing that any out-of-place sound could give you away. The cold metal beneath your hands and knees made a faint creak with each move, but you were careful enough to minimize it.

From above, through the slats of the vent, you observed several rooms as you moved. Some had messy desks and monitors left on idle, others had metal file cabinets full of classified documents. However, none seemed to be your destination. You knew exactly what to look for: an access terminal with a highly protected system, strategically placed cameras, and, most importantly, the complete absence of regular employees.

Finally, after several meters of movement, you found it. Through the lower grate, you spotted a larger, almost sterile room with a huge security screen on the wall and multiple files organized with unsettling precision. Everything was in place, too neat. This was the place.

With precise movements, you carefully removed the grate and set it aside inside the vent. You gripped the edge with both hands and dropped down with feline elegance. You rolled onto the floor to cushion the impact and stood up fluidly, quickly scanning your surroundings.

Absolute silence.

Something didn’t feel right.

You had expected at least one guard patrolling or an active camera, but the room was empty, almost as if someone had cleaned the area before your arrival. The feeling of unease began to settle in your chest.

And then, a voice broke the silence.

"You’re late."

The sound came from behind you.

Your body reacted before your mind processed the danger. In an automatic move, you drew the mini pistol from your belt and spun on your heel, aiming directly at the source of the voice.

It wasn’t necessary to see him to know who it was.

His relaxed posture, the way he pronounced every word calmly, and most of all, the fact that he hadn’t tried to attack you immediately, confirmed what you already suspected.

"I see we’re after the same thing, Vick." Your tone was cold, controlled, though deep down you hated that he had caught you by surprise.

The man in front of you smiled to the side, that mocking expression you hated so much. His eyes sparkled with amusement, as if finding you here was more of a game to him than a real competition.

"But only one of us is going to walk away with it, Y/N."

Your jaw tightened as you heard your name leave his lips. No matter how many times he did it, it always provoked the same reaction.

"Don’t call me that." You murmured with a mix of irritation and warning, not lowering the weapon for even a second. "I’m still wondering how you figured it out."

Vick sighed with feigned laziness before holstering his own weapon, as if his confidence in the situation was absolute. He was the kind of man who enjoyed playing with his prey, testing the waters before making his move.

"You know I always find out what interests me." His voice was calm, even seductive, as he slowly began to advance toward you.

You didn’t hesitate to take a step back. His intentions were never clear, but you knew his game well. He had learned to read you over time, to provoke reactions in you that you didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing.

"Stay back." You warned firmly, raising the gun again and pointing it directly at his hand. "I won’t show mercy this time. I’m warning you."

Vick stopped for a moment, assessing your expression, as if looking for a crack in your determination. However, his smile didn’t fade. On the contrary, it widened, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

The tension in the room was palpable, like a taut rope ready to snap.

One of you would walk out victorious.

The other… wouldn’t.

@kartdeko @i-might-be-vanny

[gay-dorito-dust]

Viktor’s journal.

How can you mourn someone that you weren’t quite sure was dead? You couldn’t simply afford to make funeral arrangements just to bury an empty coffin six feet underground when you yourself were unsure of what has become of your beloved Viktor.

You didn’t exactly know where the arcane had taken him. So should you even at all assume him as dead or just more so in another plan of existence far beyond your reach? And if so would he ever find his ways back? or did he think that where he was currently was a suitable place for his misguided and misconstrued ideologies of perfection? Seeing no point in returning to you after all he’s done?

You weren’t quite sure what to make of all of this but that didn’t ease the ache in your heart as you found a journal of his laying nearby, a thin layer of dust covering it, clearly showing the passage of time of the last viktor stepped foot in this room becoming more painfully evident as you brushed it clear before opening it. It was a rather standard journal filled to the brim of notes, sketches and annotations belonging to Viktor throughout the ever evolving stages of understanding the hexcore, nothing new as it was the only thing he talked about so passionately with a gleam in his eyes.

He wanted to use it for good and for the betterment of others but as you look at the notes and recall the memories of Viktor telling you the advancements they could make with hextech, it felt all but painful now knowing and experiencing what you have at the hands of the hexcore; you and everyone else almost became one of those weird sleek white and gold plated humanoid creatures not too long ago. So it was needless to say that your feelings towards the hexcore weren’t the same as they use to be, though then again neither was Viktor’s when he changed.

‘I want to use it to better the lives of others.’ He once said as his amber eyes gleamed brighter than you’ve ever seen before.

You wished that was the case but as the old saying went: evil deeds are paved with good intentions.

Viktor’s heart was in the right place but the hexcore corrupted his mind into ignoring it, ignoring his humanity in his pursuit in perfecting the imperfect. You had lost Viktor to the hexcore on multiple occasions way before his physical and mental change after the attack upon the council, an attack he was meant to die in. You had lost him and thus didn’t know where you were qualified to mourn a man who could potentially still be still living in another plan of existence.

The further you delved into the journal, mind lost in the memories as you tried to use to make sense as to where everything went wrong, that you didn’t notice that you had reached the very end of the journal and notes regarding the hexcore had become notes regarding yourself. The chicken scratch writing of a scientist had become notes written in the most beautiful and eloquent handwriting you’ve ever seen.

Notes such as;

‘The initial reaction i had towards my newfound feelings towards y/n was to deny them. They were my friend and I thought as such for a long time until I began to think about them on a regular basis, almost as though I need to have them close to properly function. it’s distraction but it’s a distraction that I welcome without annoyance, an distraction that I want to have near me all the time just to claim I had a good day.

‘They didn’t come by today, which is something that I shouldn’t let affect me as greatly as it does. However I couldn’t help but keep looking back towards the door to the lab in hopes that I would see them. I was told that I was looking as though a love sick puppy dog, waiting for them to come through those doors as per usual and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little sad when more of the days pass and I didn’t see them. Maybe they’ll come back tomorrow?

‘The feelings have a name as I’ve found as of recent, love. It’s love that I feel for them. They’ve consumed my thoughts and I’ve found myself tinkering with spare parts in hopes of making things that they’d like, all of which I have locked away in a box beneath my bed that I’d open sooner or later in hopes of improving them. Will i ever give them to y/n? Perhaps after I crack this equation for the hexcore, I’m so close to a breakthrough and feel as if the excitement I’ll feel will bring me to confess to them in a heat of the moment type scenario.

I hope they reciprocate my feelings.

That was the last entry of his notes and it was dated as the day before the attack on the council and you softly closed the journal, holding it close to your chest as you closed your eyes, breathing deeply as the idea that things could’ve been extremely different had things not escalated the way they did.

So once you had composed yourself enough to go to Viktor’s house in order to find the box he spoke of in his notes, finding that it had already been opened, almost as though his spirit knew you were going to come here afterwards and made it more accessible to you; and within it was a plethora of beautifully wielded masterpieces in the form of mechanical birds, flowers and even smaller things for you to fidget with should your nerves get the best of you.

Viktor was so thoughtful and you couldn’t help but let out a pained whimper as you cradled the box in your arms before finding yourself falling asleep in Viktor’s old bed with dried tears upon your cheeks. Life was cruel to take Viktor away from you but for some unexplainable reason, you’ve never felt closer to him than you did as you held his journal and gifts close to your chest.

Unaware of how one of the Birds eye’s glowed blue and the petals of the flowers blossomed in a similar colour.

[lampridius]

─── 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: ❝𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓❞

preview: whispers say the crown’s cloaked advisor is immortal - a man untouched by time, with eyes like starlight and a voice that silences rooms. you, a former foreign healer turned spy, are tasked with uncovering him and his secrets. but some truths are written in blood... and longing.

tags: royalty/kingdom au, historical au, mydei x reader, romance, angst, suspected reincarnation, god mydei, former healer reader, spy reader, advisor mydei, not canon lore or character placements in the story, side characters are the amphoreus cast, multiple endings.

word count: 4.7k taglist: @seraphim-terrestrial, @iruanmey, @angel-of-requiem, @daylightfadestogray ─── 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐

you arrive at castrum kremnos under a sky bruised purple by dusk. the city rises before you like the jagged edge of a blade, its walls swallowed in mist and lit by the flicker of pyres that never die. the gates, forged from blackened steel, open with a groan that echoes like a warning, and you step into a world that breathes war with every shudder of stone.

this is not a place built for peace. the air hums with tension, thick with the scent of burnt oil and rusted blood. soldiers in dark armour march in formations too precise to be human, their eyes hollow behind visored helmets. somewhere beyond the smoke - choked alleys, drums of war beat in relentless cadence, marking time not with hours, but with lives lost.

at the city’s heart stands the iron citadel, a fortress of towering spires and fractured battlements, where the young monarch rules from a throne of broken blades. nikador, they call him - the titan of strife. you’ve heard the stories: how he led his first campaign at thirteen, how he crushed an insurgency with a glare and no mercy. you expect arrogance. you find something worse.

nikador is still when you approach the capital, his men swarmed around him like bees towards their queen. still as stone, but eyes aflame with a fury that no crown can tame. youth clings to him only in the curve of his jaw; the rest has been carved away by war. at his side are the advisors - figures cloaked in secrecy and shadow. 

a woman blinded with a cloth, who, according to rumours, sees too much. a beautiful figure with butterflies dancing around her, commands with silence, a simple raised hand to order soldiers, nothing more, nothing less. a scribe who writes only prophecies in vanishing ink, each one more mysterious than the last. he stares at you for a while, his eyes boring into yours, your lips become dry, and your hands start to become sweaty, until he averts his gaze towards more pressing matters, it seems.

your cover remains intact. a court healer from okhema, keeper of poultices and pulse-readings, chosen for your hands, but more so for your ears. you blend into the daily life of castrum kremnos - tending wounds, dispensing sage-root for nerves, brewing sleep elixirs strong enough to quiet the dreams that echo through this city like war drums. no one suspects the soft-spoken foreigner who bows too often and listens too well.

but behind the veil of routine, your true task coils tighter with each passing day.

the court speaks his name like a curse. quietly. cautiously. never twice in the same breath. no one points him out directly. no one dares. instead, they offer fragments:

“he wears the night like a cloak.”

“hair like a dull sunset, that no light touches.” you wonder what that even means.

they say his voice never rises. that it doesn’t need to. that you’ll stop breathing before he finishes a sentence, because your body knows something your mind can’t accept: he is old in a way the world forgot.

he’s been spotted only in whispers - in the citadel’s upper halls, where stained glass filters the dying light into colours that don’t exist. he’s described as tall, gliding more than walking, in robes layered like the shrouds of emperors long entombed. peachy threads cross the dark fabric like veins of lightning in storm clouds. his hands are pale, yet stong. calloused. still. but it’s his eyes that haunt the survivors - pale red or a dark pink, hard to say, because they reflect things that aren’t behind you.

no two people agree on his expression. to some, he looks mournful. to others - cold, like a thing waiting to thaw before it kills.

your superiors believe he is manipulating the young monarch nikador. they fear he is not merely a puppeteer but an ancient force bound to kremnos, feeding on its chaos, shaping war as one shapes clay. they even whisper the unthinkable: that he may be immortal.

but who is this man that is speaken of so… fearfully?

“mydei…” you managed to let out in a hushed voice, heart thumping loudly inside your chest, waiting to burst out in a pool of blood. “this may be difficult, he is a man of many secrets,”

the mist curls low as you walk the stone road toward the iron citadel, the heart of castrum kremnos. the air is thick with soot and distant ashfall, and the muffled clang of a forge rings somewhere behind you like a memory trying to surface. you keep your head down, hood drawn low, eyes flicking now and then to the flickering torchlight that lines the main artery of the capital.

the gates of the citadel loom ahead: iron-veined stone, engraved with murals of war long past and still unfinished. you tighten your grip on the satchel slung across your shoulder, mentally rehearsing your reason for entry - called to tend to the duchess, cyrene, is what her name was, who hasn’t spoken in days and sometimes screams in languages even the old tongues don’t recognize.

you barely notice the figure who steps into your path until he speaks.

“you’re the healer from okhema.”

the voice is dry, faintly irritated. you look up - and find yourself face-to-face with anaxagoras. the scribe. it seems he has broken away from the crowd of soldiers and the king, specifically to speak to you, no less.

he is taller than you expected. narrow-shouldered and clad in a dark blue robe that looks as though it was once ivory, now stained with ink and dust from old books, you presume. scrolls bristle from the folds like blades. 

you clear your throat, heart tightening. “yes. i’m the one summoned. for the duchess.”

he narrows his eyes, not suspicious - merely annoyed. “i figured as much. lady aglaea made the request. always dramatic, that one. as if we haven’t a single competent healer in all of kremnos.”

you bow your head slightly. “i go where i’m needed.”

he snorts, more exasperated than hostile. “let’s hope your skills justify the message she sent. i had to reassign three scribes and had four servants clear your quarters.” he pauses, then adds more quietly, “still. if she called for you, there’s reason. aglaea’s… careless with people, not with pain.”

without another word, he gestures for you to follow. the guards at the citadel gate step aside, barely sparing you a glance. you pass under the arch and into the belly of the city’s heart. the walls close in. the torches dim. and as anaxagoras leads you deeper, he glances back over his shoulder just once.

“she hasn’t been the same since the last full moon,” he mutters. “if she speaks to you, write it down. even the madness. especially the madness.”

you follow anaxagoras through the inner halls, trying not to stare too openly.

the place feels ancient, but not in the way of ruins. it’s alive with age - its stone groaning softly beneath your feet, the vaulted ceilings high above webbed with iron supports that look more like ribs than architecture. murals of past monarchs stretch across the walls, their faces eroded by time or purpose. you pass under archways etched with language you don’t recognize, though some seem to shift when you don’t look directly at them.

the air smells of parchment, and something metallic that clings faintly to the back of your tongue - blood, perhaps.

you note the details automatically: placement of guards, blind spots in corridors, which stairwells echo and which don’t. your bag, heavy with herbs and healing tools, spare clothes, and encoded letters from your superiors, pulls against your shoulder. you had hoped to deposit it in your assigned quarters before being summoned anywhere official.

no such luck.

“your presence is requested for the council meeting taking place,” anaxagoras says without looking back.

you blink. “when is it?”

“now.”

you stop walking. “now?”

he sighs, not stopping. “yes, healer. that’s what ‘right now’ generally means. i assume they teach time comprehension in okhema?”

you grit your teeth as you catch up. “i wasn’t informed i’d be expected so soon.”

“you’re here, aren’t you?” he replies, dry as dust.

you glance down at your satchel. it’s far too conspicuous. heavy, slightly sweat-stained from your walk, and completely unsuited for a council chamber where the eyes of a monarch and his veiled serpents will be on you.

as if reading your mind, anaxagoras stops mid-step, turns, and snaps his fingers once.

from the gloom behind you, two servants appear almost noiselessly. you hadn’t heard them approach. they wear gray robes with hoods pulled low, faces obscured, movements precise.

anaxagoras gestures at your bag. “to her quarters. the guest healer’s wing. don’t open it.”

they bow in unison - silent, fluid - and take your belongings with eerie gentleness. then, without another word, they vanish the way they came, as if the shadows swallowed them whole.

you stand a moment longer, unsettled.

anaxagoras is already walking again. “come along. the council waits for no one. not even the newly imported.” you follow, the weight gone from your shoulder - but a heavier one beginning to settle in your chest.

the heavy doors of the council chamber creak open, and you step into a silence so complete it feels constructed. as though even the air was told to still itself.

the chamber is vast, dimly lit by braziers hanging from chains above. smoke rises slowly, curling toward a ceiling lost in shadow. a long crescent of seats lines the room’s centre, half of them occupied by figures draped in robes or armour, their faces half-lit, unreadable. behind them, looming banners display the sigil of kremnos - a black sun pierced by a broken spear.

at the far end, elevated slightly on a dais carved from a single slab of obsidian, sits nikador.

the titan of strife.

he is young - too young for the throne they say he inherited in blood and fire. but he sits with the stillness of someone born in war, his body loose yet coiled. his crown is a circlet of jagged steel, simple and brutal. one hand rests on the arm of the throne; the other on the hilt of a sword sheathed across his lap - not ceremonial, but worn, nicked from use. his eyes, a sharp and tempered grey, rest on you the moment you enter.

you feel them like a weight.

anaxagoras immediately drops to one knee, fist to chest, head bowed. “your majesty.”

your breath catches. you copy the motion a heartbeat later, your movements slightly awkward but deep enough to pass. your knee strikes the cold stone. fist to chest. head lowered. you cannot afford a misstep. not here. offending the monarch, even by posture, is a criminal offense in kremnos. the last healer who misjudged the depth of his bow left the citadel headless - so you were told.

“rise,” nikador says.

the word is quiet. but it rings.

you and anaxagoras stand. he walks without hesitation to a seat near the chamber door on the right-hand side. you follow, mimicking his composure, and settle into the chair beside him. the stone is cold even through the fabric of your robe.

around you, murmurs begin to stir. not toward you, not yet - but you can feel it. the low murmur of sharks tasting something unfamiliar in the water.

anaxagoras leans slightly toward you, not looking away from the centre of the room. “don’t speak unless addressed,” he mutters. “even if they accuse you of treason. especially then.”

you nod, your throat tight. in the centre of the chamber, the space reserved for those who speak before the king is still empty.

but you feel it. the room is not full yet.

the council chamber stills again - not with sound, but with the absence of it - as the doors open a second time.

mydei.

no one announces him. no guard flanks him. 

his cloak is dark, heavy, trimmed with metallic thread that catches the firelight. but it’s loose, not drawn fully across his body. beneath it, you glimpse the impossible musculature of someone who should be a warrior, not a court advisor. his bare skin is pale as marble, marred - or perhaps marked - by red, tattoo-like designs that stretch over his shoulder and chest in precise, ancient patterns. they don’t seem ornamental. they look like claims.

symbols of belonging. or binding.

he does not kneel. he doesn’t so much as pause. he strides through the chamber with the arrogance of someone who knows no punishment awaits him. and none ever will.

you watch, barely breathing, as he takes his seat - high-backed, carved from black iron - without a word or a bow. one hand rests lazily on the armrest. the other curls beneath his chin.

and then-

his gaze lifts.

it pierces through the lowlight, past the murmuring councillors and the smoke-heavy air, past your healer’s robes and your bowed head and every lie you’ve stitched around yourself.

he stares straight at you.

you go still.

his cheek rests on his fist, a picture of casual boredom. but his eyes-

red.

not pale red. not dark pink. red, like arterial blood, fresh and spilled. they are deep, glowing, and utterly calm. and in them, you feel no malice. no welcome. just knowledge.

as if he already knows who you are.

as if he has known from the moment you crossed the border into kremnos.

your fingers grip the edge of your seat. you don’t look away, but your breath comes thinner now.

beside you, anaxagoras scribbles something absently on a scroll, utterly unaware. but across the chamber, in silence thick as war fog, mydei watches.

and does not blink.

negotiations start flying right away, as if suddenly a switch has been turned on in the bleak courtroom. a tall man in black and white clothes, the colour of crushed snow rises from his seat. you don’t recognize him. “phainon,” someone nearby whispers. he’s young, soft-featured, and speaks with a voice meant for theaters, not war rooms.

“janusopolis,” he says, “refuses full tribute. again. but we must consider why. a trade hub of its size demands influence. they are not some petty vassal - they fund nearly a third of our northern grain routes. denying them representation pushes them closer to insurrection.”

you know janusopolis well enough. a glittering wound on the border - rich in silver, wine, and merchant princes who believe gold equals governance. your mission file had footnotes about its growing resistance. this - this taxation dispute - was inevitable. you couldn’t care for it, but now that you’re here, you might as well listen to what they have to say.

“we should open talks,” phainon continues. “fashion diplomacy. let them believe they’re equal, even if they are not.”

before the murmurs can fully agree or disagree, anaxagoras stands.

“no.” he doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts like shears through silk. “they are subjects,” he says. “and subjects do not bargain. we send troops. a thousand soldiers posted at their ports. they will remember the cost of arrogance.”

the tension sharpens, becomes fractious. a few council members begin to talk over one another - debate swelling toward cacophony. voices climb. names are invoked. maps referenced. you sit quietly, eyes flicking from speaker to speaker, until-

the sound drains out.

no command was given.

no word spoken.

but they fall silent. every one of them.

you feel it before you understand it - a pressure, like invisible hands pressing on the back of your neck. the hair along your arms stands on end.

you glance toward the throne and see the source.

nikador has not moved much. just turned his head slightly. just let his gaze rest on them - not sharp, not angry. just looking.

and they stop speaking as if their throats were cinched shut. you feel a chill down your spine. this isn’t charisma. it’s not even fear.

it’s gravity.

the kind that crushes lungs. the kind that bends iron.

nikador exhales through his nose. a quiet sound, but it shatters the spell like glass cracking. his head turns just slightly. he doesn’t look at you. he looks to his left. toward the shadowed corner of the council ring.

“mydei,” he says, his voice smooth and low. “have you anything to say?”

there’s a pause. mydei doesn’t move. doesn’t shift. still resting his cheek lazily on his fist, red eyes half-lidded.

“no,” he says.

that’s all.

you glance at him again, and the chill returns. because there’s no indifference in that refusal. just certainty. the kind that says he could end the problem with a sentence - but chooses not to.

a sound cuts gently through the lingering silence. a soft clearing of the throat, but deliberate - performed with the cadence of someone used to being ignored and refusing to accept it.

you turn.

behind you, a woman rises. aglaea.

she stands with a kind of quiet finality, like a candle snuffed between two fingers. her presence is striking not because of grandeur, but because of contrast. the blindfold she was once known for - worn at all public functions, according to your intelligence briefs - is gone.

in its place: eyes. eyes of impossible hue.

the top, green, deep as summer moss. the bottom, gold, gleaming like an old coin in firelight. neither has a pupil. they shimmer faintly in the light, like gemstones that remember what they’ve seen.

“i would like to speak,” she says, her voice neither soft nor loud, but perfectly calibrated to thread through the chamber.

nikador does not object. no one dares.

she extends a hand - slender, long-fingered, wrapped in threads of gold, not for decoration but for sealing, for binding. “the court should be made aware,” aglaea says, her attention half-turned toward you, “that this is the healer i summoned from okhema. by my request and under my seal.”

she does not name you. no title. no introduction. merely a confirmation that you are hers, and that should be enough. you nod, unsure if you're supposed to rise or speak. you remain seated, posture straight.

no one says anything.

no one even looks your way.

the council chamber, like a living beast, has already moved on. they are still caught on tribute and rebellion, on strategy and silence. not on you. not yet.

you glance at aglaea’s hand, still raised as if she expected the acknowledgment to matter. it lowers slowly, fingers curling back to her side. her eyes do not blink. those gem-bright orbs seem almost to shine brighter in the stillness.

and though the court does not care…

she does.

she sits again. 

after a long, gruelling session of back and forth, the room goes silent once more. the council is dismissed not with words, but with movement. one by one, the members rise and drift toward the doors like ghosts relieved of temporary formality. nikador doesn’t stand; he simply leans back in his throne, exhaling once, long and silent. it’s enough. the chamber empties itself as if in obedience to breath.

you follow anaxagoras as he rises, scrolls bundled beneath one arm. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t wait, just walks. you trail after him through a torch-lit corridor, the marble beneath your boots humming with the weight of footsteps older than you, older than most things.

silence lingers between you, but it isn’t heavy. it’s simply… routine. like he’s done this walk too many times to make conversation necessary. or welcome.

the halls of the citadel spiral inward, like ribs of a great stone beast. tapestries hang like skin: dark, fraying, stitched with scenes of conquest and mourning. you pass statues with empty eyes. windows narrow enough to be defensive slits. and always the quiet hum of kremnos itself - restless, armoured, waiting.

finally, anaxagoras stops before a thick oak door.

your room is small, but not unpleasant. stone walls, a narrow window letting in a sliver of the pale sky, and a bed stiff enough to remind you you’re not welcome to stay. there’s a basin of water, a desk with ink and parchment, and a wardrobe large enough for someone else’s secrets. nothing more. nothing less.

anaxagoras gestures at the door. “i’ll return shortly. you’ll attend to the duchess then.”

he says no more. no reassurance. no farewell. just leaves, his footsteps swallowed by the corridor as though the walls are eager to keep his presence.

you set your satchel on the bed. you stare at it.

a part of you tells you not to unpack. you won’t be here long. you’re here for the duchess, the court, the mission. mydei. you are not meant to nest in this place.

and yet…

your hands move on their own. one by one, you begin to remove your things. not much. vials of tincture. a roll of bandages sealed in wax cloth. a small carved idol of a goddess no one here would recognize. a folded letter with a wax seal you haven’t broken. not yet.

you line the vials on the desk in neat order. you lay the idol at the head of your bed. you tuck the letter beneath your pillow.

it makes no sound.

but you feel it. a shift behind you. not a creak. not a breath. but the air changes shape - like someone’s stepped into it.

you freeze. the last thing you unpacked slips through your fingers.

you turn.

mydei. 

he is silent. still.

his presence consumes the doorway - not by size, but by certainty. cloak parted. bare arms inked in those red, winding symbols, aglow with something too ancient to be magic. his expression is unreadable, but his eyes…

those eyes, the colour of fresh blood and deeper things still, fix on you without blinking.

he doesn't speak for a long moment.

then-

“you should be careful, outsider,” he says, voice low, velvet-lined steel. “this place does not suffer curiosity well. i urge you not to involve yourself in matters that do not concern you,” he turns, cloak trailing, and vanishes through the door, closing it behind him without a sound. it’s like he knows. 

and once again, you are alone. and somehow, more watched than ever.

half an hour passes in a flash, the quiet in your quarters is unlike any quiet you’ve known. it isn't peace - it’s listening. you spend the time checking your satchel, fingers brushing over dried koba root, powdered moss, balmstones wrapped in cloth, and a vial of distilled khera oil. everything you need to look like a healer. everything you need to be one, if it comes to that. of course, you were a healer before… all of this. 

a knock. not a loud one - measured, two taps. the door opens before you answer.

anaxagoras stands in the doorway again, as unreadable as before. “she’s ready,” he says.

you nod and sling your satchel over your shoulder.

he says nothing else, just turns. you follow him once more. it seems that’s all you’ve been doing lately, following. this time, the path winds deeper into the citadel’s body - not just physically, but culturally. the austerity of stone begins to shift.

first, the torches are replaced by golden sconces burning scented oil. then, the stair rails become polished brass. the walls, once plain stone, are now covered in fine woodwork and geometric murals. at some point, the stone floors give way to carpet - deep gold, soft underfoot, dense enough to silence the echo of your steps.

everything gleams. quietly, but insistently.

this part of kremnos was not built during war. it was built after, when someone had time - and power - to dream of beauty.

anaxagoras stops before a tall door inlaid with golden leafing and faint sigils you don't recognize. he doesn’t knock. he simply opens it and gestures you in. you step forward into the chamber.

soft light spills across the room from a window of colored glass, painting the walls with fractured warmth. the scent of lavender and something sharper - alcohol, maybe - lingers in the air.

and on the grand bed at the centre, half-buried in silk and gauze, lies the duchess cyrene.

still. pale. breathing, but only just.

before you can ask anything, anaxagoras murmurs, “i’ll return later,” and the door shuts behind you.

you're alone now.

alone with the duchess, your mission - and whatever secret sickness this citadel hides. 

you work in silence.

careful hands. precise movements.

a poultice of blue-leaf root to stabilize the fever. a balm of cooled khera oil to soothe the skin. the duchess lies motionless, her breathing shallow but steady - like someone trapped mid-dream.

you loosen the ties of her nightgown gently, revealing the centre of her chest where the skin has darkened slightly, as if kissed by heat, not flame. there, etched into her flesh like ink pressed beneath skin, glows a mark.

faintly gold.

it pulses - not rhythmically, but like it remembers a heartbeat. you lean closer. you’ve never seen—

“i’ve seen this before,” someone says. you flinch so violently that your elbow knocks over a vial. it rolls off the side of the bed and shatters on the floor.

you twist around, heart in your throat. mydei stands in the doorway.

again.

how does he move so quietly?

he walks in, slowly, eyes on the duchess, not you. his expression is not blank this time. it’s... distant. weighted. mournful, even. “a long time ago,” he murmurs, more to the air than to you.

you rise halfway to your feet, defensive. “if you knew what this was… if you knew how to heal her, why let lady aglaea send for me?” you don’t mean for your voice to shake, but it does.

he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“i didn’t stop her,” he says, tone even, “because something in me told me not to.” that makes no sense. he knows that. but he says it like it’s truth. like it’s final. he finally looks at you. “i remember this mark. but i don’t remember why.”

you realize now he’s not speaking as an advisor.

he’s speaking as something older than that. 

in the days that follow, you heal with one hand and listen with the other.

no one here speaks openly. the court speaks in ellipses, half-finished thoughts, names left hanging like blades. but servants - servants talk when they forget you're there.

they mention mydei in hushed tones, not out of fear, but uncertainty. one detail repeats often, whispered while folding linens or lighting lamps:

“he never eats. not in front of anyone.”

you ask, lightly, “perhaps he’s simply private.”

they glance at each other, then at the floor. “he's been private for decades.”

you probe further when you can. the older nobles are more careful, but drink loosens some tongues. in a marble hall laced with ivy, you speak with a former archivist turned minor lord. you mention mydei's composure, his stillness.

the lord snorts softly into his cup. “i serve under king nikador. before that, queen lassa. and before her, old king theros. mydei was there for all three.” he glances toward the council wing. “he looks the same now as he did then.”

you wait a beat, “he seems to be pretty open about his… wisdom,”

“i’ve seen portraits. older than me. and him - exactly him - in them. when someone asked, he said it was coincidence.” the lord shakes his head, ignoring your statement entirely. “coincidence, my ass. that man has outlived bloodlines.”

the rumors multiply, take shape. not like fact - more like shadow: consistent but never graspable.

and then one night, you see him. you had followed a noise. a soft chiming. not metallic - tonal, like singing glass. it leads you through an unused corridor in the eastern wing of the citadel. you’re sure it’s empty. the walls are dusty, the windows high and blind with age.

but the door is open. 

inside: a forgotten temple. no braziers. no gold. just weathered stone and a sunken altar covered in ivy and old ash.

and there he is.

mydei.

kneeling.

his cloak lies folded beside him. his chest is bare, the red glyphs on his body seeming to move, faintly pulsing in time with his breath.

he is praying.

not in the kremnoian language. not in any dialect you've learned.

the language is rough, syllables folding into each other like wind over ancient rock. it hurts to listen to. not like sound - but like something being stirred inside you that shouldn’t be touched.

you slip away before he sees you.

you tell yourself you imagined it. but that night, you dream in that same language. you wake not remembering a single word.

only the taste of something old and true.

[b1asho]

Huzzahh, it's species number 3! (There's a total of 6, including humans. 7 if you count artificial intelligences, 8 if you count the uhh other intelligences).

An official up to date visual for everyone's favorite communist amphibians, the Kixeli, and some up-to-date info!! ->

Kixeli are a small sophont species hailing from a planet covered mostly in ocean. They are amphibious, and originally evolved to switch between swimming and climbing using their webbed hands and powerful arms.

Their skin is permeable, allowing them to extend their time underwater to hunt and gather as well as reproduce, but due to their larger body and brain size/oxygen needs this isn’t sustainable and they must return to the surface.

Alongside their frequent trips outside the water, they also have a mucus layer and several specialized glands (including in their face by their eyes) to help remove excess salt and change levels of urea in their body to help make sure they dont lose resources when in the ocean.

Kixeli are omnivorous, with a focus on fruits and sealife. many cultures have a preference against eating anything that lives above water, including birds and the like, because they see themselves as spiritual equals to those animals as fellow air breathers.

They are oviparous, and have a specific mating season.

Most Kixeli have multiple variable spawn partners and see it as strange to be nailed down to one. Anyone who participated lays their eggs in a communal tide pool carved out in their communities.

Hatchlings are entirely aquatic wirh gills until later months of age, where they will begin to poke their head above water for air and start interacting more with the adults around them, who feed them a nutritive crop milk as they have already absorbed most of their tail by now.

This period is also the beginning of their understanding of language.

Once they lose their tail and grow in their limbs, they are still mostly helpless until those fully develop and myst cling to a caretaker adult in the community (blood parents don’t necessarily always raise their own children, but as someone who laid eggs they are responsible for children as a caretaker so anyone who didn’t want eggs gets left alone).

During their puberty, they will develop adult skin markings, and some can even end up changing sexes (much for the same reason some of them grow gliding membranes, as the result of population and resources balance in their surroundings).

Speakijg of that, there are two categories of Kixeli in their communities: Kel (swimmer) and Arasit (flier).

Arasit are just a rare continuation of their life cycle, since most Kixeli kids end up growing into Kel adults.

Sometimes, though, an Arasit will develop in case the community strongly needs to seek out new territory over long distance (triggered by close proximity to many other Kixeli and a variety of other unknown gactors, like grasshoppers turnkng into locusts.) They can’t truly fly, but they can use the powerful ocean winds and even some launching technology to glide very far to scout new resources and other communities).

Arasit are highly celebrated as voyagers, but Kel are also valued as providers for their existing community and even accompany voyages on ships to help their Arasit stay alive.

Some Arasit will cut and cauterize their membranes to make it easier for them to swim to symbolize they are staying in the community, though usually, they just poke small holes in there so they can wear clothes and be sanitary.

Their blood uses the hemocyanin molecule to carry oxygen, making their blood a bright blue when oxygenated and a thin blue/clear when unoxygenated (so you can see the other warmish colored pigments in there when it’s inside them, that yellowish stuff)

Their ancestors dwelled in deeper, cooler water where this blood type was most advantageous, but a global warming period brought them up to warm waters and eventually above the surface to capitalize on resources.

During this process, they developed some ways to improve the molecule’s lower efficiency in the heat. For one, they kept a small body size so there’s less to deal with. Another thing is that they get oxygen (albeit a small amount) from all over their body constantly through their skin, also somewhat making up for it.

The main mechanism, though, is their metabolism/temperature. They can quickly adjust their metabolism depending on the oxygen conditions in their surroundings to prevent immediate failure if they don’t have access to the right conditions to otherwise cope (this, and along with hemocyanin’s natural ability to handle low oxygen and their skin breathing, means they can tolerate very low oxygen areas that would cause a human to faint, though they’ll typically be pretty out of commission too, and this can have longer lasting effects on their health from the whiplash.)

they use their surroundings for heat when they aren’t doing anything too strenuous, and because they aren’t really producing much of their own they can tolerate even higher temperatures that would normally put them out of commission (and they actually heavily rely on that heat for ease in a lot of other processes), to do anything that has bigger oxygen needs, they can dip into cooler water/shade for periods of higher activity (but can’t stay too cold for too long or else aforementioned other processes will shut down, though it does increase the effectiveness to the point where they can do a whole lot and allows them to swim/navigate cooler areas where their early competitors couldn’t return to, it only as long as they got back quickly and warmed up)

they basically swing between these two extremes but tend to stay at a warmish middle-ground, wearing heating pads on part of their body while still letting larger areas cool off, if that makes sense.

Hemocyanin’s other properties don’t automatically give them a longer life, in fact theirs is very short compared to other species, but it does make them resistant to cancers (a common threat on their sunny planet) and the spread of diseases in their dense communities

Being cold-blooded wasn’t a problem on their mostly tropical planet. It is a considerable problem once they left it, though, hence the heating pads most wear to warm up.

many also live in areas without a large body of water nearby (or an easy way to access said body of water) but still need to stay damp to maintain their music layer and trap oxygen, so many also carry spray bottles or wet rags with them to always stay damp.

Kixeli are highly social (with their name even roughly translating to "belonging together"). they rarely live in groups of less than 5.

They experience severe negative side effects from isolation. Their naturally intense empathy also makes it extremely damaging for them to see other Kixeli injured or dead, sometimes leading to their own death from shock if they were the one that did it (though this has not stopped wars over their scarce resources in the past, typically because that intense sense of kinship was naturally strongest towards those among their own community, and if Their community was suffering then they had to get rid of the source of it by any means. )

This period nearly drove them to extinction, and led to a Global Community movement that argued for intercommunity cooperation and the end of 'us and them thinking'.

Due to their sliminess, Kixeli normally keep clothing to a minimum and overall don’t have a need for it beyond temperature control and ornamentation.

They have none of their own social taboos about nakedness, having no external genitalia, but still often clothe themselves to the standards of others due to the pressure/need to be polite from other species.

They also have few class divides within their own communities, with everyone working for the good of the whole, and no sex/gender roles beyond squirter and egg layer since everyone cares for the eggs.

To humans, their language sounds like birdsong, with lots of repetitive noises and subtle shifts in pattern and tone.

Their unique vocalization makes their languages hard to learn and even harder to speak, but they themselves are incredible mimics (only surpassed in some ways by humans because lips and teeth).

The fin on their forehead is similar to eyebrows in communicating emotion or tone. They can see a similar color spectrum to humans and love bright contrasting colors similar to their own skin patterns.

They favor “fast food”, or anything that can be carried easily as you swing around in a tree or on a boat.

Payment/restaurants doesn’t really exist for them, they just have areas where food brought in by providers is available to the community (or people just eat what they catch and then bring extra to the community.)

They also don’t chew their food, though some dishes are meant to be squished to the roof of the mouth with the tongue to experience the flavor

Their clothing is often “readable” in that many individuals wear clothing that represents a certain story, event in their life, event in their community, or mythical hero that can be derived from looking at their clothing from the head down.

In the two guys up there, the Arasit is wearing the equivalent of booty shorts cut scantily close to their Hole depicting one version about the founding of the first community (though a simplified one, so it’s actually more like the equivalent of wearing a crop top tee with a little monochrome dog on it or something).

This kind of imagery is common among Arasit, even modern ones, because founding/birth/life are their associations in religious cultures.

The Kel alongside them is wearing a more complex getup meant to show the inciting incident of one of the nomadic communities mythic hero’s journey, when he was cast from the star sea by the wicked Long Arms into the deep sea.

This would be seen as all most goth since this part of the story is seen as eerie and it depicts their underworld along the hem and bracelets.

By wearing clothing associated with a specific figure//story, they can also show gender identity based on whether that figure or hod was male, female, neuther, etc(helping people draw the right conclusions despite the visible evidence of their sex written on all their skin. The clothing and any makeup done on the fin is usually their main reference point for judging how to address someone. )

[basedonconjecture]

shy nerdy illario? shy nerdy illario.

So I recently posted some rambling Illario Dellamorte thoughts in the tags of this post featuring his awkward little handwave at Cafe Pietra during the Coffee with the Crows quest about believing in a shy nerdy Illario.

The tags for context:

#illario dellamorte who are you when you aren’t performing #never lets anyone know what his real passions are so they can’t take them from him or use them against him #is even more awkward than lucanis

There were more but these are the ones that said thoughts mostly center on.

I don't think I'm really an outlier when it comes to recognizing that Illario very often operates in what feels like very scripted ways. He's built up a certain reputation, people expect him to be a specific way, and he plays into that. At the same time, there's an air of cynicism about him when he does. I look to that moment in The Wigmaker Job when he's introducing himself to the elf in the alienage as the "Lesser" Dellamorte and go back and forth on what's really happening. I've talked a little bit this before and how I think the joke, while painfully self-deprecating, only works as a joke there because it's understood on some level that Lucanis doesn't believe it to be true even if everyone else does. But it's a sort of viciously repeating cycle right? If he introduces himself in this manner to everyone he meets, if he defaults to the self-deprecative, silver-tongued charmer who spends hours on frivolous things like gloves, then this is the sum of who he becomes to people. He disarms them before they have a chance to form any other opinion, be potentially disappointed in, and/or criticize him (for anything that matters). He's told them what he wants them to believe about him, what they will inevitably come to believe anyway, and allows that to be the preeminent version of Illario Dellamorte that exists to the wider world. It is so strategic and so so damning on an interpersonal level.

What does any of this have to do with shy nerdy Illario I keep mentioning? One of the questions I ask above is: who is Illario Dellamorte when he's not performing? Without the cynicism attached to playing a role in which one is never quite certain whether one is liked for the performance or for the bits of truth in said performance, without the drive to external validation in pleasing other people, without the necessity of differentiating himself from his cousin or his grandmother, who does he then become? In TWJ, Lucanis mentions, in passing, that Illario doesn't have any friends and never leaves Treviso. This could be hyperbole, the ribbing between siblings, and not to be taken literally—or it could also be that, when not working a contract, Illario keeps to himself, maybe not so much a homebody as Lucanis, but not as much of a carouser as being a flirt and a supposed enjoyer of nightlife suggests. I tend to lean more toward the latter. When removed from the role of Master Dellamorte the Lesser™ I think Illario does fall closer to Lucanis on the scale of introversion/extroversion, his social agility being learned rather than inherent, and I think he has an unfortunate tendency to feel some control over people in the way he manipulates them. If he can figure out what they want, if he can make them like him even, they become more predictable. He doesn't get hurt. But do they ever really like him for him? Could they? I think he really very much struggles with that cynicism wrt to his personal relationships and pushing past it to make any genuine connections with people. I also imagine that he places his personal interests beneath layers and layers of apathy to, in a way, shield them from judgment. For someone very often criticized on multiple fronts, I can't imagine there's much appeal in being openly earnest and enthusiastic about anything. Ever. Everything—and everyone—is kept at a distance. If one is never taken seriously anyway, what is the point of trying? But if you spend so long burying the things you enjoy in life under apathy, you forget how to talk about them and how to engage with them honestly. I think there's a very real possibility that Illario has at least one interest or hobby that he's really very passionate and stupidly knowledgeable about that absolutely no one in his life is aware of because he won't let them be. (I personally think it probably falls somewhere in the arts, like music or painting or fashion, just based on the everything about him, but could you imagine if it's something tangential like chemistry?? Poisons and cosmetics, do you see my vision? I can't be the only one to have thought about this, right???). In a world where someone manages to break through the cynicism enough to learn this about him, I don't think he'd know how to talk about it, at least not without practice, and I think he would flounder, frankly. Importantly, this struggle would also occur when attempting to be genuine with people too—people who expect him to flatter and cajole and be a specific way—and I think he would fumble and say the wrong thing and put his foot in his mouth in the attempt to learn how to be vulnerable. Illario trying to reconcile how he used to approach relationships versus how he should and wants to approach relationships is something that, to me, can be quite crunchy in both the character growth sense and just calculating the amount of psychic damage he'd be able to take Being Perceived for realsies before imploding.

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

How do you feel about the design trend of elves in fantasy media always being super skinny? That theirs just super lean no matter what, with no fat/ muscular/ or otherwise none-thin elves being completely none-existent. Personally I find it super annoying and cowardly that people are afraid to portray none-skinny elves. Like their arn’t gonna be atleast some elves who have alternate dietary or lifestyle habits? Who have thyroid or metabolic conditions? Are the victims of a magical curse or gained weight due to medication? Or elves who are just naturally plumper with no real explanation behind it? Or elves who willfully choose to get fat or buff for their own personal reasons?

And most of the in-universe explanations for this enforced lack of body diversity often being lackluster. Often boiling down to “just cause”. Theirs only been afew explinations I’ve that actually make sense and are engaging, like that elves are humanoid agility based carnivores like big cats/ have a strong culture of vanity and shame that makes them scared to stand out. One of my favorites (mostly because it’s portrayed as a problem) being that elves are really efficient at processing sugar and inefficient at processing magic, expending massive quantities of calories when casting spells. To the point they can burn through all their bodies sugar and fat reserves and start burning muscle and organ tissue, something that can cause serious and often permanent damage.

For my own elves I do follow the conventional design in that they are leaner by default, however that does not stop fat/ buff/ or otherwise thick elves from existing. Their are fat and buff elves for the same reasons as any other species, as their will always be people who fall outside their species/cultural norms be it by choice/ chance/ or consequence. And having multiple plumper elven characters with varying relationships with their bodies and peoples reactions to them.

I believe it comes from the idea that elves must be Beautiful and as a result people try to make them follow modern human beauty standards, even though our standards vary over time and in different cultures. There are biological reasons that some animals gain and retain fat differently from others. Humans are very good at retaining fat because of the way our endurance metabolism works, and it's good for us to have a layer of fat for insulation. But then like, a snake with a lot of fat in it's body is genuinely unhealthy.

I don't mind people finding interesting biological reasons to make any fantasy people more naturally skinny, and I think they can be fascinating! My goblins aren't good at retaining fat because they're amphibians. My drow tend to be less fat, except the minstrel drow who have a different metabolism wired to put on lots of fat real fast so they can travel long distances.

I also think if people are intentionally looking for excuses to make their fantasy folks skinny all the time, maybe they've got some fatphobia to unpack lol.

It's important to study fat bodies just as much as skinny ones! People have all sorts of body shapes and it's not really fair to ignore that diversity when creating fantasy people. Especially if they're designed to look mostly humanoid with just some pointy ears.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Literary Theme

Literary theme - the main idea or underlying meaning a writer explores in a novel, short story, or other literary work.

The theme of a story can be conveyed using characters, setting, dialogue, plot, or a combination of all of these elements.

In simpler stories, the theme may be a moral or message: “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

In more complex stories, the central theme is typically a more open-ended exploration of some fundamental aspect of society or humanity.

Common Themes in Literature

The best literary themes explore human nature on a universal level. It’s no surprise, then, that multiple books may share the same central idea. Each of the following popular theme examples reveals the human condition and offers readers food for thought long after the story is finished.

Good vs. evil

Love

Redemption

Courage and perseverance

Coming of age

Revenge

Ways to Create Literary Themes in Your Writing

Incorporating a solid literary theme into your work won’t happen by accident, but it doesn’t have to be incredibly difficult, either. Whether you’re composing short stories, writing a novel, or working on a screenplay, incorporate the following literary devices to better convey the theme of your story. As you layer them in, they should be as subtle as the theme itself.

Put your characters in conflict with one another. Most themes center on controversial ideas that are a source of conflict for human beings. By putting your characters in conflict, you’ll create more opportunities for actions, choices, and conversations that enable them, and your readers, to tackle your theme head on.

Reinforce your theme with motifs. A motif is a recurring image or detail that highlights the central ideas in a story through repetition. In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, for example, Gatsby’s constant, lavish parties emphasize the theme of excess, materialism, and the pursuit of the American dream. Use motif to shed additional light on the theme and also give readers a reminder of its existence.

Represent your theme with symbols. Symbols are objects, characters, or settings that are used to represent something else (while, again, supporting the theme). A symbol may appear one time, or be present throughout the story. In The Great Gatsby, a green light symbolizes Gatsby’s dream for a better life with Daisy. In the beginning of the book, he reaches toward it; in the end, it seems unreachable.

Literary Theme: Good vs. Evil

The classic battle between light and dark, altruism and antagonism, the theme of good versus evil stretches beyond even Biblical times.

A story about good triumphing over evil may pit two characters directly against each other, or a main character against society at large, as in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

In addition, the theme of good versus evil may be explored through the external actions and dialogue of the characters, or via their internal struggle to do the right thing when faced with temptation.

Literary Theme: Love

Love is one of the most universal themes in literature, as in life. In fact, the theme of love is underpins many of the stories we’ve discussed so far. Love can be a force for good that inspires people to sacrifice themselves for others, or a toxic force that drives people to madness or violence. Different flavors of love as a literary theme include:

Forbidden love. Yearning and disapproval collide in forbidden love stories, which often find star-crossed lovers hurtling towards a tragic fate. Examples include: Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare and Atonement by Ian McEwan.

Family love. Stories about the love between parents and children or siblings often explore the costs or challenges of family loyalty. Examples include: The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner and My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult.

Unrequited love. The pain of loving someone who does not return your affection is a frequent subject in literature. Examples include: The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux and The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.

Friendship. The power of friendship to carry people through hard times and change them—whether for better or worse—is an especially common theme in young adult literature. Examples include: The Body by Stephen King (adapted into a film, Stand By Me) and The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Literary Theme: Redemption

Failures or tragedies set the stage for a sad story, but it doesn’t have to end this way: in books that employ redemption as a central theme, characters see the errors of their ways and strive to right the wrongs they’ve committed, making for an uplifting tale. Stories of redemption often involve a reformed character sacrificing his or her freedom or life.

Examples of stories that explore redemption include A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens and Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.

Literary Theme: Courage and Perseverance

The triumph of the human spirit in the face of adversity is a hugely popular theme in literature, film, and real life. Characters in stories about courage endure difficult circumstances or impossible odds, persevering through sheer determination, grit, and gall.

Examples of stories with courage as their central theme include: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle and Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden.

Literary Theme: Coming of Age

Also known as a bildungsroman, a classic coming-of-age story follows one or more characters during their journey of growing up into adulthood. These characters may experience everything from a loss of innocence, to an awakening or self-awareness before finally reaching maturity. While coming of age stories are popular in young adult literature, they’re also common in memoirs.

Examples of books that employ coming of age as a central theme include Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, and The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger.

Literary Theme: Revenge

A common plot in literature, the theme of revenge sets up a conflict between one character and his or her enemies as he or she journeys to avenge wrongs done to them. A revenge story may depict the trials a character must endure in order to achieve their vengeance—or, explore the human cost and moral dilemmas around pursuing vengeance in the first place

Examples of stories that use revenge as their central theme include: The Iliad by Homer, Carrie by Stephen King, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas, and Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

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