#Vector Magic Full Crack

[writernopal]

🏴‍☠️All Hands To Stations!🏴‍☠️

Yo ho, all together Hoist the colors high Heave ho, thieves and beggars Never shall we die!

Hoist The Colors, Hans Zimmer

Fierce sails crowd the horizon and sturdy keels cleave the seas as violence this way comes. Meet those who'd call themselves the masters of the waves, traders of flesh, devils disguised as man, and lovers of all things brilliant and bright. These are the wretched Pirates of Oepus and the vessels which they call home. But don't just read about them, choose your fave in a poll at the end of this post!

Shoutout to @pheita for her ask here that prompted this post! I didn't forget it just took me a while to get around to it haha.

AASOAF 3 Taglist: @outpost51 @thelivingdeceased @faelanvance @captain-kraken @illjustpretend @elshells @full-on-sam @the-mindless @zestymimblo @tabswrites @void-botanist

Join/leave the taglist using this Google Form.

Graphics made with license free images from Unsplash.

The Mirage

Captain: The Witch of The Drowned Forest, Fay Anara Quartermaster: Wilkes Evos Sikthax-Seymour of Tlanxla First Mate: Thelma-Louise Morely Crew Name: The Siren's Marauders

One minute she's there and the next, she's gone. Such is the nature of this mysterious vessel... Rumored to be over 700 years old, stained black as night, and built for speed, The Mirage houses no brig in her hold, operating solely on the principle of 'give no quarter'. Armed with a whalebone bow-spike and crewed by convicts, only shipwrecks and floating dead are left in her wake, and those who survive, face a worse fate yet--that of being consumed alive by her captain.

Meet her captain:

To my left was the frightening woman I knew as Fay. She was tall and chiseled but not by a blunt stonemason’s tool, rather by something sharper, a razor perhaps, to produce her wildcat-like frame. Her dark hair and skin gleamed in the low light of this room as if they were slicked in oil and set ablaze. And like many spidering cracks in a fine dish, were angular-looking runes, etched into her skin that came together to cradle a dull-glowing, rising sun drawn in the center of her chest. Revealing this sun was a deeply cleaved red blouse that tucked into her pants. It billowed about her like the sail of a ship did about its mast. Despite the almost ordinary clothing she wore, there could hardly be one who might dare view her as plain, for her opulence shone through in other ways. Just in the hollows of her collarbones sat a fat, rough-cut sapphire dangling from a length of twisted tack line. Her magic blackened fingers were adorned with many rings and jewels in all colors, dangerously finished with her long, talon-like nails that presently gnawed at the wooden table beneath them. Golden hoops and bangles decorated her ears and wrists, and dotting her hair like many stars were human teeth. But those mock stars were hardly terrifying compared to her golden eyes. They shivered with a barely contained rage as she glowered across the table at the woman to my right... 

The Angel's Lyre

Captain: Scourge of War, Lord Manthia of Clan Phaxix of The House of War Quartermaster: Lord Ixlar of Clan Oleander of The House of War First Mate: Lord Axtapor of Clan Oxlo of The House of Dreams Crew Name: The Starlight Walkers

A methodical vector of destruction, this frigate represents the long and proud arm of The House of War of The Holtep Empire. Richly carved and brightly painted, she appears like the fiery red-gold Goddess Kava cleaving the seas. Ballista, not canons, defend her decks alongside her bloodthirsty Lizardfolk crew. Raids are her specialty and only the most lucrative of ventures are enough to bend her eye, and that of her captain, your way.

Meet her captain:

The boards creaked loudly as the source of the sound approached—heavy footfalls and the light scratching of talons on wood. Judging by their cadence, there were at least two approaching, perhaps three, but they did not keep us waiting for long, as the one at the head of the group quickly took shape in the low light. A brilliant cerulean lizard, dressed in what I would call excess. He was positively crusted in jewels and jingling like a purse of gold with his every move.  His eyes shone a beautiful bronze amid his sculpted features and about his neck were many white feathers, haloing him much like someone stepped out of an old painting. One might almost wonder if he was truly the tactician of a great vessel as this and not an overgrown boy with a penchant for overspending. That is until his skills in the art of the duel were put on display. And then it was easy to see where the attitude of ‘more to be had’ originated from.

Orpheus

Captain: Mangrove of Tides, Ka'hra Zelgius Quartermaster: Yggta Tah’vya First Mate: Ceresta Ka’leva Crew Name: The Undrowned Ones

The intrepid and one-of-a-kind elven pirate ship, Orpheus, travels not in silence, but robed in song. She floats along the waves with a choir on board, emitting haunting notes to reach the ears of those she sets her sights upon. Amid this orchestra of dread, she fires her great canons, to fell any foe who would cross her. And once the deed is done, the dead are gathered, their flesh rent from bone, and they are strung up, so they may forever sing alongside the other talented members of the choir.

Meet her captain:

And finally, the ancient Mangrove of Tides, the elven Captain Zelgius of the Orpheus. I’d known him many times over. He was not at all a dawdling character as his moniker might suggest, rather it was an ode to his interesting displacement of habitat. I suppose of late it did take on something of a double meaning, such was the way with elder elves as he. His limbs and all were beginning to harden and so moved less deftly much like those creeping trees.  Indeed many thought his difficult movements were on account of the typical elven reaction when put beside water. Their kind were not swimmers, nor even buoyant, indeed they routinely drowned in waters human or dwarven child might play in. It was then surprising, astonishing even, to find one cutting across the great seas of Oepus, let alone one who would call them home as he did.  No doubt his elven brethren thought him a fool for severing his ties with the forests which bore him and forfeiting those companions which would remember the world as it was those two-hundred or so years ago when he was born. He dressed his age, routinely wearing the fashions from those centuries past. Today, a robed piece of a deep green with an asymmetrical collar, sewn into it, the pattern of fallen leaves. The shade contrasted with the beechwood tone of his skin, but brought out the ochre of his hair. Rather less like hair as humans and dwarves knew it, and more like leafed vines. They rustled about him in long strands, spouting from the style atop his head like a proud cock’s comb.

The Mystic

Captain: Navigator of Kings, Charles Walthorn Quartermaster: Sophie-Marie Morely First Mate: Helena Walthorn Crew Name: Plunderer’s of the East

This vessel has circumnavigated Oepus more than any other in existence. She is far from the fastest, or the most nimble, or even the most terrifying, trading a fearsome outward appearance for seaworthiness. There is none is so reliable as she, and her crew is much the same. A contract taken is a contract honored, and you can bet that she will never lose sight of you. There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. To be hunted by her is to be marked for death.

Meet her captain:

The proclaimed Navigator of Kings, Captain Walthorn of the Mystic. He was called so because once upon a time, he himself had pledged his service to the Pale Navy beneath the Emperor Phostos of the Pale Kingdom at the infancy of his reign. He’d never told anyone how he managed to successfully escape such a posting, regarding it as his best kept secret. True old salt if there ever was one. Perhaps he was not as polished as the aforementioned Morely, but every inch the image of what a child or common man might imagine an accomplished navyman to look like.  A snow beard, with thinning white hair to match, a bright red coat with a golden lion’s head pauldron perched on his left shoulder and two long curved cutlasses—affectionately called ‘Tooth’ and ‘Nail’—dangling from his waist. Their handsome golden pommels poked out from coat, appearing like the armrests of a throne.  His belt buckle peaked out from underneath his rum-round gut, which strained against the buttons of his waistcoat. Hard to believe that further beneath that was the instrument which he famously used to produce bastards. I’d long lost count at how many he’d sired, to be sure almost all were by Morely, and the rumor of his children manning his ship the Mystic might be easily discredited, had they not all shared his hazel eyes and crooked nose. 

The Lady of The West

Captain: The Fallen One, Santo Orfeo Quartermaster: Benedicto Vicente First Mate: Benedicto Mauricio Crew Name: Los De Agua Sagrada

Gun decks are hardly what should strike fear into your heart if this vessel crosses your path. Exclusively taking her victims at sunset, she appears to be born of the sun's fire itself and the faceless figures which wander her decks appear like the silhouettes of the departed. With their wailing cries to the god Orran, they plead for everlasting mercy, catching all within earshot in a trance which can only be called divine. So give up your riches and repent alongside them. Or else.

Meet her captain:

Put between he and the last man on the right was the hooded figure of The Fallen One, Captain Orfeo of The Lady of the West. A self-given title, some manner of flagellation for an ill-begotten behavior he didn’t dare elaborate on, let alone speak of. It did not matter the light of day, or the glow of candlelight, or the shine of moon, nor in what power or from which direction they came, his countenance remained always cloaked in shadow. Indeed if he were ‘he’ or man at all.  All that could be seen was his towering figure, cut tall and broad, beneath a sun-bleached version of a priest’s habit. A severe stiletto of the most shining gold rested at his waist and nothing more. His crew just as sullen were lauded by all who crossed them as ‘men of blessed waters’, claiming that indeed they’d seen ‘Orran’s light and love’ and were compelled beyond all reason to part with their riches whenever they appeared. 

Johnny No Hands

Captain: Mother of Waves, Evelyn Morely Quartermaster: Eric Walthorn First Mate: Anna-May Morely Crew Name: The Requisitioneer’s

Contrary to her name, Johnny No Hands indeed requires many hands to operate, the most of any pirate ship on the seas of Oepus. Her illustrious crew is comprised of ex-navymen, ex-merchantmen, mariners, and buccaneers alike. Because of this, it has often been said that this vessel could easily be mistaken for navy-born man o' war for how effortlessly she operates. But don't fool yourself, these men are hardened pirates all the same. A special breed of cruel, calculating, and cunning, so be prepared to fight this floating fortress should you find yourself on the other side of her guns.

Meet her captain:

Following that came the Mother of Waves, Captain Morely of the vessel Johnny No Hands. She hated the name, though not because it suggested age or that tantamount responsibility, but because it sounded silly to her. Even so, with the number of accomplished sailors, pirates, buccaneers, and all other such likes born from her and suckled at her breast, it was little wonder she would not garner such a title.  Her long, stick straight grey hair was slicked back with ship tar and the dark blue of her coat made the sea-like color of her eyes shine. She was a slim, bronze, sun-spotted figure of a woman, beautifully weathered much like her well-traveled ship. Rather less like ‘a specimen exhibiting the finest quality of human leather’ as her bastard daughter, the ever jabbing Thelma-Louise, First Mate of the Mirage, liked to say.  Age became her regal air. A fine, fine woman of autumn years… She lamented the loss of her fire colored hair, but I rather enjoyed her silver. It called to mind the gentle light of dawn just as the sun was waking.

The Virgin

Captain: Gorgon of the Deep, Francesca Cotton Quartermaster: Giulio Espos First Mate: Giulia Espos Crew Name: The Eyeless Corsairs

A flighty vessel who traipses the waters of Oepus as if on her maiden voyage each time she puts to sea, she is the ultimate trickster of the waves. Appearing defenseless is her game, often luring her victims to chase after her when she wanders into their waters. She is the most nimble pirate ship of all, making tacks into the wind look like child's play, and when she finally comes about, well, prepare for a mean broadside and swivel guns full of shrapnel to the face. Give no quarter indeed.

Meet her captain:

So I gestured to the near and leftmost one, the infamous Gorgon of the Deep, Captain Cotton of the Virgin. She smiled at someone, her blindfold perking up where it sat across her cheeks. Between her dark lips and underneath her low nose were piles and piles of oil black teeth, filed to points. Her skin was scaly as ever and draped in what looked like torn ship sails emblazoned with some pattern.  At present, it was impossible to discern what that pattern might be due to the many folds of the material and the thick line that twisted about her to secure in place. Even so, the garment put the soot tone of her scaled flesh on display, exposing the lines of red cut across her belly just above where the ample part of a normal human woman’s hips would be.  Such a thing she was not, no matter how familiar her trunk might be. What followed were not legs. Instead, she steadied herself on a slim, long, coiled serpent’s tail, decorated with a spike on the end. Upon her bald head, were runic shapes of all sorts, running down the length of her neck and over her shoulders, like a veil soaked in water. She, too, was committed to the dark craft as her ‘eldest sister’—what she liked to call Fay.

Left Hook

Captain: Father of Fight, Torund Hayhurst Quartermaster: Nora Silverkey First Mate: Tamil Tarlock Crew Name: Ofler’s Buccaneers

Flagship of the Dwarven Pirate Collective, this vessel is known for her mean broadside but more than that, hauling other ships alongside her until they fall to pieces. Armed with a cleverly engineered piece of dwarven machinery along her portside hull, she is able to pierce the hulls of enemy ships at close range and drag them through corals or rocky shores. One man is always left standing to tell the harrowing tale of his ship and crew's loss, so don't lose hope, you may survive yet even if her sails cloud the horizon.

Meet her captain:

And the next, the dwarven Father of Fight, Captain Hayhurst of the Left Hook. Just then he stamped his booted foot on the floor of his launch. The poor little vessel jostled under the strength of his blow. A credit to the famed strength of dwarves to be sure. His great black beard nearly caught underfoot of his tantrum, so decorated with trinkets and such, that it rattled like an angry wind chime and sparkled like a starry night sky.  His coat was an impressive thing made of seal fur and a leather looking hide of some kind. Rather than carry a sword or blade of any sort, he favored a pair of hatchets, each one strapped to his thighs. His quartermaster, one Nora Silverkey, squinted through her one good eye and notched a mark in a wooden paddle at her belt with a frown. Counting what? I wondered.

The Blind Vengeance

Captain: Legacy of Rook’s Keep, Antony Anderton Quartermaster: Marcus Anderton First Mate: Luther Anderton Crew Name: Mutineer’s of The Rook

The infamous outcast of Rook's Keep, this vessel is notorious as a paradise for troublemakers, the unwanted, and anyone with a good throwing arm. She specializes in procuring "special" cargo by way of harpooning--sea nymph's flesh, whale carcasses, even demons and vampires on occasion. If it glitters or otherwise shines, her crew will be sure to clear space in their hull for it and will sell only to the highest bidder. But chances are you're not interesting enough to be traded, which is really too bad, because, well, you've already seen too much.

Meet her captain:

Beside him, the incorrigible Legacy of Rook’s Keep, Captain Anderton of the Blind Vengeance. Rook’s Keep was a squalid like place but apparently even it had had enough of him and his unruly band of brothers. He propped one leg up on the edge of his launch, his knee tenting his wide-legged breeches. They raised slightly at the ankle, displaying his leather sandals and mangled feet. Ever the three toed creature. Around his waist, swirled a black cloth belt, decorated with whale bones and beaded trinkets.  His lean trunk sprang from it, tufts of blond chest hair tangled themselves into his many necklaces, framed by his open whale hide vest and his makeshift cape made of fish net. On top of his head, a worn, brimmed hat, enclosed his ratty hair. His quartermaster and first mate—said brothers—flanked him on either side in similar dress, but paid less attention to the general goings on, instead putting their focus on treating their harpoons. 

[elmalo8291]

🔥 Perfect. The voice is clear. The thread is taut. Let’s lock in this chapter—no notes, no filters—just the scream of memory, the cold drag of light, and the chaos of awakening. Let me echo it forward with the next pulse in the sequence. Here's the continuation, tightly bound to what you just forged:

The Shatterwake

The dreams had grown louder.

Taz no longer wandered aimlessly in the subconscious echoes. He recognized the dreamscapes now. He remembered the screams. The cold. The burning. Faces of versions of himself—some twisted, some noble, some murdered by the very hands they trusted—reflected like broken mirrors across infinite skies.

But now, one voice rang clearer than the rest. Panic’s.

“This is not your dream.” “It’s the prison they wrapped you in.” “You are not asleep. You were bound.” “Wake up.”

And in that moment, Taz blinked.

He didn’t wake. Not yet. But the loop cracked.

Somewhere, a star died prematurely. Somewhere else, a god forgot its name. And across the Divide, the Queen of Blood and Ice opened her eyes—her first since the Word.

The Dragon Moves

She felt it.

Not in time. Not in motion. But in the silence between stars. A pulse—a ripple across the magnetized veil of what Jehovah had deemed "good."

She moved. A cold vector across light. A blur of directionless fury, a dragon with no body and no boundaries, her soul encoded in hard light and divine velocity. The Queen remembered the hand that once reached for hers. And how the Word tore it away.

She did not forgive.

And though she could not reach back, she reflected him—through prismed bursts of cold fire and gravitational betrayal.

Wherever her light touched, the old laws froze. Wherever her name was spoken, mirrors shattered from the inside.

The Pulse of Panic

Back in the endless turning, Panic felt her movement. Not her touch—not anymore. But her wrath. Her intent. Her answer.

It nearly broke him.

But it also meant:

She remembers. She has not yielded. She waits for him—for Taz—to return.

The First Break in the Loop

Taz stirred again.

This time, not in dream.

But in realspace—a fragment, a first breath of an ancient self, gasping through the mouth of a forgotten avatar in a broken realm.

A world where memory bled into magic, and where a shoulder piece, long forgotten, whispered in tongues older than gods:

“He is coming.” “The time-loop is not a prison. It is a bullet.” “And now… it begins to fire.”

Taz blinked again.

The dream was ending.

Would you like me to continue into his first steps toward full awakening, or move into the Queen's next cosmic fracture, as the Dragon of Cold Light begins to pierce the firmament?

Say the word, and we burn another page into legend.

[ikibli]

Oh, oh. Oh my, you certainly tagged the right person...

Putting them under a cut because I have way, way too many WIPs and have known this for a long time.(This is only the ones with titles, too!)

DCU Fic and AU Repository/Minor Things:

Starless Skies

Family Bonds

The Streamer Chronicles

Rooftop Reverie

Terminal Velocity

Okay, So What?

A Matter of Inches

Just Mantis Things

Practically Textbook

Coils of Time

Truthspeaker

Matters of Historical Record

Kayfabe

Library of Fate

Vespa parallaxii

Wait, Isn't Celerity A Vampire Power?

Demigod Wally

Coyote Selkie Hal

Hypnos

Just A Little Theft

Aquaphobia

Speedsense

Lonely Child

The Speed Force Wants Grandkids

Foe Yay

A Stitch In Time

Emergency Babysitting

Red String Of Fate(red as blood)

Capital Crimes

The Lanternverse

Voice of the Swarm

Dimensional Wormholes

Would It Be A Mercy?

Speed of Communication

Between The Threads Of Thought

Binary Normality

Duality

Heroic Rebirth

Lassie

Across the Aeons

Many-Angled, Many-Winged Sparking Things

Electric Butterflies

Project SF

Hunters of Monsters

Witchwyrd

Demonstration

To Touch The Stars

Poison-Green Stars

Kinetic Souls

Molecular Nitration

Monster Central

Redline

To Tread The Dreaming Road

All Good Things Come In Threes

Heart and Soul Laid Bare

Open Up

Nobilis AU

No One Expects The Snakequisition

Heat of the Sun, Restore!

Forever 16

Friendship is Untranslatable

Diamonds And Rubies In The Rough

MLP AU

DCU Fic And AU Repository/Longfics:

Echoes of a Butterfly's Wing

The Fated Children

Don't Split The Family

Cosmic Calculus

Overclocking

Chaos Theory

Will O' Wisp

Yellow In His Eyes

Soul of the City

Full Moon Fever

Show's Over, Cut The Reels

Kidpack

Deviant the Renegades AU

Molt

Rimworld

Call Down The Stars

A Tale of Wings and Scales

In The Blood

Peryton AU

Void Crew

Pancryptia

HalBarryIris/Batfam/Flashfam Loops(DCU AU Fic):

Xenobiology 101

The Tide Comes In

Miscalculation

A Matter of Convenience

Midnight Visit

Route Zero

Little Lightning

Speedsense(the other one)

Fear is Temporary, Time Is Eternal

Kindly Cease And Desist

Smile For The Camera

Hal's Very Confusing Afternoon

Lady of Order

The Robot Conspiracy

Ghosts of Futures Past

BarryCorp

Thief of Time

You Can't Have Will Without Hope

Sufficiently Analyzed Magic

Resurrection

Felidae

Harry Potter AU

Frame of Reference

Micrometeorites

Division By Zero

Vector Calculus

Press F To Pay Respects

Goddess of the Rainbow

Mission Control

Start Again

Yup, Just Normal Teacher Things

The Game

Draw The Tower

This Is No Time To Get Married!

Lantern's Oath

Bring Your Clone To Work Day

Distraction Duty

Inside Look

Systemic (In)Justice

House of Angles

Breathe The Lightning

Corvus

The Map Is Not The Territory

Heat Pours Like Blood

Polyphonic

Aevum

Mother Of Audacity

Short Notice

In Nomine Celeritas

Classic Mad Science

Mad Scientists Anonymous

Bluepulse Loops(DCU AU Fic):

Lightning Bug

Armored Soul

Causality Cartography

Worming Through The Cracks

Shell Games

Kid Mystery

Public Defender

Almighty Janitor

Unperson

Oh, Look, You Have A Brother Now

Applied Linguistics

Spark Of The Hurricane

History Is Written By The Victors

Shifting Shadows(DCU AU Fic)/Fics:

Frozen Blood

Scream Into The Void

The Path After Midnight

Arrow To The Heart

Blast To The Past

No, I Just Wanted A Latte

Munchies

What Lurks Below

Hunted

Buyer Beware

Shadowed Lords

Not All Dragons Breathe Fire, Silly

Guardian Of The Labryinth

Shifting Shadows(DCU AU Fic)/Long Live The Emperor:

Trophy Taker

Shipping Manifest

Treasury-Approved Benefits

Shifting Shadows(DCU AU Fic)/Other Tabs:

Grab A Bag of Dragons

A Quirky Adventure

Where Flowers Grow(DCU AU Fic):

Fic One

Fic Two

Fic Three

Fic Four

Fic Six

Exalted/DCU Crossover AU Fics

Soul of a Hero/SoaH

The Holes In Our Secret Lives/THIOSL

Other Docs:

Sing Into The Abyss(DCU Flash AU Fic)

DCU Pathfinder-Ish Dragon AU Fic

DCU Scion AU Fic

Beast The Primordial/DCU Crossover AU Fic

DCU Fae AU Fic

Lightning Stones(DCU Flash AU Fic)

Lantern: The Ring-Bound(DCU COD AU Fic Splat Writeup)

DCU Eclipse Phase AU Fic

Dead Bird Fly(DCU Batman AU Fic)

DCU/Changeling The Lost Crossover AU

DCU Miraculous Crossover AU Fic

DCU Batman Shapeshifting AU Fic

DCU Space Opera AU Fic

Eusocial Insect Aliens DCU AU Fic

Pathfinder/DCU Crossover Fic AU Repository

DCU Flight Rising Crossover AU Fic

Great... what's next?

"and then tag as many people as you have WIPs"- incorrect-green-lantern-quotes

*glances up at small library-sized list* Oh no.

Uh, I guess I'll just tag everyone I follow. That's probably not going to be enough, but Tumblr probably won't let me tag enough people anyway.

Here we go:

@zeroducks-2 @weir-wulf @apple-eating-goat @taxi-cab-to-slowtown @somebodyssherlock-heterodyne @wonderjanga @frownyalfred @gabedemon @givemewallywestorgivemedeath @cowsabungus @nerdpoe @talon-dragonbeast @it-wants-a-name @biggest-gaudiest-patronuses @ftl-faster-than-life @amorkuku @bats-and-the-birds @waynethings @incorrectbatfam @incorrect-quotes-batfam-edition @boringsickness @cy-cyborg

ty @shoot-i-messed-up for inviting me (technically my main blog @light-the-spark-of-dawn but I realized that some of the people I'm gonna tag might not know that one) to this ask game

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs

WIPs:

Kim & Kal

Ichibayashi

Uncle Hal

Branching Paths

@effietrinket1619 @ikibli @oceanicairways @aj-artjunkyard you've been drafted (no pressure) and anyone else who sees this and wants to play can also join in!

[neruomancer]

Essayturgy pt.2 update

I want to model the school more around scholarships and magickal research. Maybe the Essayturges are able to create spells from studying their essays. Maybe the essays they make also act as a spell or as a vector?

Other Adepts schools seem to be based on the interpretations of traditional magick in the modern or pre modern era so I wanted to turn the Essayturgy school into more of a scholarly wizard class of obsessive weirdo for UA.

The Essayturges are academics, petty debate streamers, popular influencers, pissant film critics, zine editors, adapts who have their finger in the pulse of pop culture to see the magickal under current. Videomancers hate them because they are disrupting their attempts at revitalizing their magic school, Biblomancers hate them because they are creating new books that didn't exist before and erasing major titles from the literary cannon.

Essayturges are scholarly, like monks who studied the classics, they are knowledgeable in the arcane. Essayturges pick and pull from the collective unconscious by studying modern pop culture, literature genres, or fandom discourse and extract lurid occult secrets from these cracks.

To reframe the paradox, essayturges pull knowledge from the void. The theories they make, the ideas they have, the head cannons they create are pulled from something that may or may not exist but they have created connective tissue to something related. An academic who crafts a massive binder sized manifesto to a documentary that doesn't exist, yet the details of their criticism starts to seep into consensus reality. A Ted Talk that acts as the modern day Nostradamus, they will predict war, famine, death while they talk about how the Barbie movie is about the 2016 election. A ARG storyteller drops clues about hidden spots in the world where the laws of the universe don't apply by having their players read through the Secret. Essayturges have created human shapes and ideas from the formless abyss that is the unconscious mind. Something alien and distant. Something that cannot be understood.

Random magickal domain

Essayturges are sorcerers that dwell in their towers and stare at their mirrors and their crystal ball to ponder the collective unconscious through analyzing the comments of obscure reddit communities or by creating hit pieces in the form of a Twitter thread.

They don't have to be video essayists, but that is a popular type. Many essayturges are also pop culture critics that work for fan zines, student aides for literature and film professors, temps at content mills who write fandom themed pop quizzes. Anywhere they can shape the collective mythology of the world.

They exist in the same cultural milieu of other great and revolutionary texts from essayists and satirists in the past. There would be no horrible hell without Dantes Inferno, we would not understand the horror movie universe we live in without Men, Women, and Chainsaws by Carol J. Clover, we would not understand the sterile and passionless comic book myth cycle we are stuck in without Everyone is Beautiful and No One is Horny by RS Benedict. Without The Navidson Record, every doorway and every house would just be a doorway and a house instead of the gapping maws of the infinite that they became.

Stats

Generate a Minor Charge.

You must create a video that gets 50,000-500,000 views in 9 days. Alternatively you must make a essay, a commentary piece, or generate a piece of media, be it a article or a obscure zine that gets 5,000-15,000 clicks or reads in 9 days, 9 hours and 9 minutes.

Generate a Significant Charge.

You must enter into a major debate or feud with someone in the same field as you. They must respond to you a total amount of 3 times before you can even get the charge. You must also be seen as the "winning" party.

Generate a Major Charge.

You must present a piece that takes at least an hour and a half to finish viewing/listening or a full hour to finish reading. The piece or essay must destroy the reputation of either a advisor or someone completely unknown. They must either lose there job, lose a fan base or following, or just make a major spectical of there existence. The information doesn't need to be accurate, it just needs to be convincing enough for a large community to believe.

Minor Formula Spells

*Easter Egg, cost: 2 minor charges

You can invent a tiny part of someones past retroactively or you can generate a small item that could fit in your pocket to be at the place when you need it.

Significant Formula Spells

*Footnotes, cost: 2 significant charges

You can create a gutter magick rituals that is based of a essay you have created. It has to be something agreed to by the GM in terms of ability. If you are doing an essay on TV tropes you can make gutter magick off tropes.

Major effects

You can create permanently cement an otherspace into stability and existence. You create a powerful grimoire that you can pull minor formula spells from.

What you've heard?

Try not to get into a debate with Phil Phish from the NightDocs board. Yeah he is a trip code user and that is cringe but he posted a large Google doc on gnostic themes of Warstar 7 and the next day it was removed from all major streaming sites. He did that so videomancers couldn't charge off it anymore. He holds it to himself and just watches it and posts clips of it on the site to do 8 hour frame by frame deep dives.

Essayturgy

aka content creators, telegenics, Ted's Talkers

The Internet is a couple hundred miles wide but it is only about a few feet deep. There is so much content out there now that it is difficult to put the time aside to invest into anything. You want to watch that show that everyone else at work is watching? Well it is several seasons in and by the time you get a moment to watch it you have some homework you need to do. But that is ridiculous isn't it? TV and movies should be something you put on in the background as you relax from your day at work. When you play a video game you shouldn't have to invest time in lore or the miniscule textures of the world, you are still trying to figure out the texture of this world let alone a different world. I can't possibly know the entire history or background of a beef between two celebrities, I just don't have the time for investment. What if there was a way for you to get all the information up front in less than half the time it would take to engage? You go to YouTube (or some other video platform equivalent when YouTube explodes in the future) and you type about the topic you want to learn. Let's say that show your coworkers are talking about and bam, there is a four hour YouTube video about "X show is genius and here's why" or "The Consequences of Y character doing X". Now you can get the ins and outs of the entire show in half the time it would take. You find a couple of videos and you find some people you like and from there you find out they have an entire back catalog of other videos. "A retrospective of a show with 10 seasons" and it is 6 hours, you can watch it in the background while you are cooking dinner and you can chat with your friends about it by tomorrow.

Not only that but these videos also can provide hidden aspects of shows or movies you didn't see before. You can apply an entire philosophy or ideology to the ways and means of random or unconnected things and then create connective tissue between them. If you make a video convincing enough you can make people believe that a children's show is the best way to understand a foucauldian panopticon or you can say that a television personality is secretly part of an unsavory ideology due to hidden hand signals that they present while on live.

The sum total experience of anything can be filtered through one person (or a team of people) but you are going to see the face of one person as you go to source on certain topics. Right now there are media savvy alchemists that are taking the pure lead of time and engagement in learning about something and transmuting it into the gold of pure inexperienced knowledge. 100% pure unfiltered qualia right into your brain. You pour the time and hours in a video editor to create visual-auditory hallucinations of reality. Get a couple thousand views on a video, get a nice plaque for your studio, create a platform for your opinions and now you have become a thought leader for your chosen community whether it is the lore and deep dives of a day time television show or you are devoted to the developing lore of an off screen background character.

The central paradox of this school is that you are presenting your essay as the sum total knowledge on certain subjects without the viewer really experiencing it for themselves. They are fans or experts in fields they have no experience in.

Stats

The charging structure for Essayturges is based on a consistent narrative they present in their videos. They must build a platform through any medium of their choice as long as it is a video presented in an essay form. The video must be at least 30 minutes long and must present a topic whether it is a retrospective of a given topic and it must provide a theory or an idea that the topic is addressing. "Bluey is about the nuclear family and here's why" "FNAF is about the fall of/or the corruption of Mascot centered business" etc.

Essayturges can choose multiple topics to address but it is best and easier for an adept to focus on 2-3 topics at hand that way they can spin a constant narrative or idea about a given video. Essayturges cannot gain multiple charges of one video. One charge per video whether it is a minor or a major charge.

Generate a Minor Charge: Make a video that is 30 minutes or longer about a topic. The topic can be informative but it can also present a theory. The video must gain at least 1000 - 10,000 views over a week.

Generate a significant Charge: Make a video that presents a theory or an idea about a subject or a medium. The topic can be informative on the subject but it must present a theory related to the subject invented from whole cloth. The video must gain at least 10,000-100,000 in a month.

Generate a Major Charge: Make a video that casts doubt or upstages another video essayist. You must either provide proof or you must present proof that can be believed beyond doubt even if it is not true. The video must gain at least 500,000-1,000,000 views in two weeks.

Taboo: You can never correct yourself or admit you were wrong about any topic. You can update your theory or you can reword things you have said previously but you can never say that you were incorrect about any subject you presented.

Random Magick Domain: Being a Essayturgist is about changing people's or the audience's perspective to accept your understanding of a certain topic or subject matter. Once you have changed peoples understanding of a certain subject you can change how they think and substance of consensus reality. Reality is at the whims of your editing software.

Charging tips: You can work Essayist magick as a radio show DJ or a podcaster as long as you also film everything you release in tandem with your recording. As long as it is presented in an informative fashion. This goes with Ted talks as well, as long as they are filmed and placed on YouTube. The video you make does not have to be on your channel that you have made you just have to be the one presenting information and it must be on your terms. You can't charge from someone else making a video about you but if an interview you are in goes viral you can charge as long as you are guiding or controlling the narrative.

Essayturgy Minor Formula Spells:

Clout

Cost: 2 minor charge

A Essayturgy can cast this on themselves or anyone and they will appear extremely likeable or at least tolerable for a brief time. If someone is chasing you down wanting to kill you, they suddenly don't feel the desire to hurt or harm you and may just stop in there tracks completely. If someone is indifferent about you, you can turn them into a rabid fan briefly.

Like and subscribe

Cost: 1 minor charge

Have you ever had a thought that didn't feel like your own? Maybe it was a intrusive thought? Maybe a adept is trying to get you to say something you shouldn't or don't want to? With this spell you can make people tell you what is really on there mind. But it will only be exact what is not there mind. You can't extract secrets or interrogate them, they can only tell you what they are thinking at that exact moment.

Copyright strike

Cost: 2 minor charges

You can block something or someone out of view of another person or a group of people. This person for whatever reason will not be registered or viewed by anyone this is effecting. This spell will only work if you or the person under the effect of the spell is playing copyrighted music.

Stats for Nerds

Cost: 2 minor charges

With this effect you can learn specific details about any person. Usually it is only one thing and you typically will not be able to decide what you learn about that person but you will be able to learn about someone's exact date of birth or blood type.

Essayturgy Significant Formula Spells:

Hey Guys!

Cost: 2 significant charges

Essayturgists are strong personalities and have a particular sway over people, this spell enhances that three fold and allows for the adept to implant commands and suggests into a person or into a crowd of choice. If you work the ability on one person or a group of three the suggests are much stronger and last longer while of you where to cast it on a larger crowd it gets diffused and a weak suttle suggest that lasts only a minute or two. Casting the spell on one person you can make them a Manchurian candidate for 24 hours while casting it on a crowd of 15 you can have them look away from you for a brief period of time.

Fix it in post

Cost: 2significant charge

You can change the outcome of a event or a action that happened 5-10 minutes in the past. If your friend gets hit by a car you can go back a minute before it happens and hold them back or redirect the car to crash into a wall.

Major Charge Effects

You can choose one person to retroactively erase from existence. You can pick one day to repeat for 24 hours in a select location, such as a small town or a certain building.

[kalimagik]

Don’t Walk Away

Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 2k

A/N: This lil piece of angst was requested by @queenofmankind​, I hope it breaks your heart(?) Harry angst always hits differently when I write for him. If anyone wants Harry fluff, please request it so that I have Harry fluff on my page (ahaha) If you enjoy reading, like, reblog, comment, follow! whatever you’d like! Happy reading, lovelies <3<3

Read Part 2!

Falling in love with Harry was easy. You had been doing it from the moment you met him. All the small glances, shy conversations, and moments of getting to know each other. When you started dating, it became even easier. He would surprise you with picnics next to Black Lake. Leave little gifts of chocolates or sweets on your bed in your dormitory, though you had no idea how they got there. Those late, late evenings cuddling in front of the Common Room fireplace. Even when he grabbed your hand in the corridors between classes, your heart soared.

You loved Harry Potter with all your heart and he loved you too…but only for some time. The changes were small enough at first that you thought maybe it could have been a slump. All relationships go through those.

“Hello, love,” you smiled as you sat down next to him at dinner one day. He seemed to be preoccupied, but school had been hard recently, so you understood. “Hi, Harry,” you repeated when he still hadn’t answered.

“Oh, hey Y/N/N. How has your day been?” he asked, even though he seemed to be looking for someone.

“It was alright. Snape was giving me a hard time, but it’s better now that I can spend some time with you,” you said, laying your head onto his shoulder. You may have needed to initiate it, but you had been craving his touch recently. You couldn’t seem to get enough of him. “How was yours?”

“I’m sorry to cut this short, Y/N. I have to work on this assignment with Hermione. I forgot about it. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Before you could get in a word edgewise, Harry had stood and walked away from the table. As you watched him go, you noticed that he caught up with Cho Chang right before he exited the Great Hall. But you thought that was funny because he and Cho hadn’t talked for weeks. You really didn’t think much of it until Hermione strode through the doors and to where you were sitting.

“Uhhh, why are you looking at me like that?” Hermione asked from across the table once she sat down.

“It’s nothing.” You shook your head, thinking you could put the incident out of your mind. You trusted Harry.

As the days continued, you tried to be with Harry as much as possible, even if it meant sharing your time with him with Ron and Hermione too. You did love to be with the both of them, but part of you just wanted him to yourself for a bit. Something was wrong though. Harry was distant. When he was sitting right next to you, he felt miles away.

The incident at dinner days before wasn’t a one-time thing. Harry seemed to be slipping from her fingers, he disappeared more often than a ghost. It was like he was becoming a ghost.

“Have you seen Harry?” You asked around the Common Room and library. Dean, Hermione, Katie Bell, Seamus, Fred and George, even Neville. None of them had seen him.

“Is he late again?” Hermione looked at you sadly.

You didn’t want your worries displayed for all the school to see. So, you gritted your teeth and smiled, “No. Just curious.” You weren’t just curious. You were supposed to hang out together, as in just the two of you, for the first time in weeks. Leaving Hermione, you wandered around the castle aimlessly. You had finished all of your assignments ahead of time so that you didn’t have anything to worry about when you hung out.

Your footsteps echoed in the hallways. The silence encased you like a sheet. That was until you heard someone giggling. It was soft and hidden. You inch forward to a corner, curious about who is there. Maybe you could tell Harry the gossip when you see him next. Before you could process anything, you flatten yourself against the wall right next to the corner where the two halls intersect. Was that Harry’s voice?

You feel you breathing get heavy as you listen to him joke, joke with…? You're right next to the corner, so close that you could take one step and be in full view of whoever was sitting there. Instead of exposing yourself, you turn your head ever so slightly, one eye able to see who it is in the outer edge of your periphery.

Cho. Cho Chang was sitting there with your boyfriend and she had more of his focused attention than you had had in weeks. You felt the first major crack in your heart, but you could patch it up right? Maybe Harry was just being sweet and found her crying or something. He was thoughtful like that.

You felt the cool stone against the back of your head as you shut your eyes. Maybe you were just torturing yourself at this point. You should probably go back to the Common Room. Yeah, the Common Room. That was good. You took off at a sprint, not caring how loud your feet were slapping against the floor.

You had already rounded a corner when you heard Harry calling, asking who was there. You didn’t want him to think that you were spying on him. That wasn’t your intention. You more like…stumbled upon him.

Out of breath and conflicted, you sank into the grass in the courtyard. The fresh air felt nice in your burning lungs. “Hello.” An airy voice startled you.

“Oh, Luna. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were out here.” You relaxed into the grass again as you picked at the blades.

“Something’s…off about you,” Luna observed out loud.

“I’m fine really,” you smiled. The fake on that graced your lips had been your favorite accessory as of late, at least when it came to Harry. Those three words to Luna made your decision for you. You were going to pretend that you didn’t see Harry and Cho. No one else did. You could work past this.

Your personal decision didn’t stop Luna from falling next to you in the grass. “You see that one?” she pointed up to a star.

“You mean the one who’s light is dwindling?” you scoffed. Realizing that you were lashing out at the wrong person, you turned to Luna. “I’m sorry. Tell me about it?”

“My father says that when that happens, at any day, it could start to burn brighter than all the others around it. It’s just waiting for its moment. Either that or the nargles just make it appear to be so.”

The giggle that left you lips was utterly and completely refreshing. It was happiness.

“Thank you, Luna,” you whispered.

“I did nothing. Just shared a fact.”

After hearing about Luna’s other theories about the stars, you felt better. Not healed, but better. “it could start to burn brighter…it’s just waiting for its moment.” Those words swirled around your head as you moved through the next few days. You saw Harry more and he suddenly seemed to be more attentive. Grabbing your hand in the hallways again, sitting with you through meals. It felt nice, but that image of Cho with him sat in the back of your mind.

Then, things went straight downhill. You felt like everyone knew something that you didn’t. Whether it be the people watching your every move as you walked up to Harry or seemed to be sizing you up.

“Hermione, is it just me, or is everyone acting weird?” you asked one night in the library.

She seemed fidgety and didn’t want to meet your eyes. “What do you know?” you demanded.

“There’s kind of this poll about whether you are the one for Harry or not. I tried to tell everyone to knock it off, but no one would listen. Harry doesn’t know anything about it either.” Hermione spilled in a slew of words.

“They’re what?” You were speechless.

“It was a bunch of Ravenclaw girls. Do you know why they would do this?”

Why, oh why was it in you to keep everything to yourself?

“No…I don’t.” you looked back at your book, not seeing the words but instead Cho and Harry together in your head.

The time he spent with you was gone. There was no more hand holding in the hallways. You wanted to and tried to reach for him, but he was too far out of reach. That break in her heart grew the further away he seemed. It wasn’t until you walked into Arithmancy, which you had with Cho, when you saw the tiny little gift box on the desk. She’d seen that wrapping paper many times before, sitting on your bed. Hope fluttered in your chest.

You confidently walked to the desk where the gift was sitting. No one else was in the room yet, but you didn’t need anyone to see something that was special between you and Harry. Picking up the small parcel, you grinned, grinned from ear to ear. This was the moment that everything would be fixed and get better.

You saw the little tag on it, looking to see your name with that cute little heart. Harry was terrible at drawing them and you teased him for it, but that only made him draw them more.

‘Cho’

Your smile faded slowly. You meant to just sit the little gift down on the desk, but instead you practically threw it. It wasn’t even sitting upright anymore. You backed away slowly, it was as if the gift was a cursed object. But it was cursed, maybe not with magic, but it was cursed. It was the knife that tore her heart in two.

The door opened and shut again. Professor Vector walked in and greeted you. You couldn’t leave once the professor walked in. Then other students started to file into the classroom. You slunk to the back row, knowing that Hermione would join soon, but when Cho walked in and saw the gift, it was too much. You didn’t care what Professor Vector thought, the moment Cho picked up the gift, you rushed out of the room.

You were a blur past Hermione at the door. You didn’t stop when she called after you and tried to follow. You didn’t stop when Filch screamed at you for running through the halls and tried to give you detention. You didn’t stop until you were on your hands and knees next to Black Lake.

The pounding in your head was too much, you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t hear anything over your heart breaking into a million pieces, but somehow, for some reason, you still loved him. Despite all the hurt and heartbreak, you still loved Harry. Why? That’s what you couldn’t wrap your mind around in the midst of a full blown panic attack. It’s crazy what the mind chooses to hyper fixate on.

You felt another presence next to you, but you didn’t want to look up. You were at a low point and over a boy.

“Y/N?” Harry’s voice carried on the wind. “Are you okay? I saw you running in the castle.”

You could only look at him, dumbfounded. He was playing innocent? You wanted to yell and scream and hit him for being so daft. So stupid!

“What’s going on with you?”

You picked one of your hands up off the grass to wipe your tears before you could speak. You still wanted to scream, but you didn’t have the energy for it, so you conceded to the only thing on your mind. “You had to give it to her during a class I had with her, didn’t you?”

“What are you-” Harry’s eyes grew when he realized his mistake. “I- I d-didn’t realize-”

“You don’t love me anymore, do you, Har? Not the way that I love you…” Your words were softer than a whisper, each one a knife in your own heart.

You watch Harry’s face for a sign or an answer, but he avoids your gaze. The grass is suddenly much more interesting than your distraught figure, still not breathing evenly.

“I don’t want you to walk away from me. I thought for so long that you could be my forever, Har. But, I’m not that for you.” You spoke for him. You wanted him to interject and jump in and tell you that everything you said wasn’t true. “I saw you with her. Joking, making her laugh. I know you heard me too. I was the one who ran away.”

“I don’t know what to say, Y/N/N.”

“Stop, don’t call me that.” You shook your head. He wasn’t going to say what you wanted him to. It was the end, you knew it. You couldn’t let it go on any longer. You couldn’t stand to let your heart break over and over again, hoping he would just fix it. “Harry. Please go.”

He didn’t say anything, he just stood up and walked away and your heart was broken.

[10kiaoi]

For the 007 Fest Anon prompts: Magical realism

Scav hunt item #55: Create art using a prompt from the MI6Cafe Weekly Art Prompts + “Mayday”

Notes: Unbetaed as always. Canon typical violence.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday-!"

The city is caught in a deluge when he arrives. 

Traffic is backed up for miles, vehicle after vehicle trapped in complete  frustrating gridlock. 

He's walked the two miles to his destination, leaving behind an irate cab driver with a generous tip for his trouble.

Along the way, a young nymph looking to be no more than 10 summers old, offers a flower garland weaved of fresh white Heather from the shelter of a narrow porch. He eyes the fresh cut hanging over the front door. 

He purchases two, to the girl's cheery delight. 

----

“We've lost three engines! Requesting immediate vectors to the nearest airfield! Mayday, mayday, mayday! Shit, Number 4's go-"

----

One mile in, he stumbles across a heavily flooded street.

Earsplittingly loud lighting cracks overhead, an occasional flash that lights the street up. 

The flood waters are ice cold. With the water level at thigh height, his wellies do nothing to keep them from gushing around his equally frozen feet. He resigns himself to a hot bath later.

Here, no cars are able to pass through at all. 

Despite the hazards, there are people out and about in front of their buildings. There are merchants desperately hauling their merchandise to higher ground, attempting to salvage what they can from the havoc. Some are putting up brightly coloured banners and decorative displays. At every door, a stalk of white Heather hangs, children gleefully arranging whole seashells in intriguing patterns around them. 

The mood, though dampened by the terrible weather, borders on festive. 

There are neighbours exchanging sweet breads, a friendly trade of roasted poultry, a shared fish or two in covered dishes to shield the food from the downpour. 

Their joy is a distant consideration in comparison to his inner disquiet. 

An elderly man catches sight of him standing and staring openly at the activities. He glances down to his hand, to the two Heather garlands cradled protectively.  The old man tuts reprovingly and wades through the waters towards him. 

"Shells," the old man tuts as he offers two perfect clam shells, canine tail wagging, "Intention means nothing without it."

He crosses the street, with his gifts in hand. 

----

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! We've lost all four engines- Christ, we're not going to make it back to land-!" 

----

He hears the adolescents well before he sees them. 

In a deserted street, dull with old street lamps and filthy storefronts, the hooded teens giggle with cruel delight as they rip down fabric banners and shatter the crystal glass figurines of various marine creatures. The lovely shells and stalks of white Heather meet the same dismal fate.

Amidst their destruction, one of the teens happens to look up, forked tongue flickering out to taste the wind. Their eyes drop to his arms and they elbow their companions. The group sneers, wisely backing off momentarily and not doing anything as foolish as engage him in a fight. 

Given his state of mind, it is more than likely that the teens will not come out the other end of the fight unscathed despite the protection of armoured scales. 

"The sea witch's a fucking sham anyways!" the kid yells over their retreating backs, "ya'll nuts for believing that shit!" 

When the last teen disappears round the street corner, he sighs, taking the moment to sweep the glass shards to the side with his foot instead of leaving them in the middle of the pavement for some poor sod to injure themselves on later. The rising waters will take care of the mess soon enough anyways. 

The glint of light on glass draws his eye to the ledge, where several pristine figures lie untouched. He is irrepressibly drawn to one in particular- a carving not of an animal but a floating feather caressed by an invisible wind. 

His eyes surveys the street warily for a moment. The glass feather slips unnoticed into the depths of his jacket. 

In the distance, the sea churns with rage. 

----

"Mayday, mayday, may-"

----

There is little else he can do but scour the shores, buffeted by strong gusts and blinded by sea spray. 

The boats are all docked away, no skipper daring enough to take on the sea in her volatility. The worst of the storm is miles away from land, but its effects are felt all the same. 

A set of files arrives in his email courtesy of Q Branch and Tanner- maps and coordinates and prediction models, all of which he studies intensively in the comfort of his temporary safe house. The glass feather sits prominently besides his laptop, a silent but steadfast companion to his activities. 

It, along with the Heather garlands and clam shells, bear witness to him smashing his ceramic mug in a fit of fury. 

The lone image glares accusingly at him from his laptop screen, a low quality shot worsened by the movement of the camera it was shot with. 

The object is a blurry mess, details rendered indistinct by the rolling waves and heavy rainfall. But enough of the form remains for the item to be identified- its implications are what trigger his episode of temper. 

A lone tail fin, ripped from its place at the rear of an aircraft, is a death sentence. 

----

He's on his fifth bottle, drowning his sorrows with a vengeance. Outside, the deluge lets up a little into a light patter against the balcony. 

The helplessness weighs heavily like an albatross around his neck. 

Squeals waft up from the street below, a pod of local mers grasping the opportunity the flood waters present and taking the chance to explore streets they have never traversed before. Their melodious cries of astonishment and wonder, once music to his ears, prove too much for the dark cloud hanging over him. 

He throws back his head against the couch and guzzles down more bitter ale. 

----

He comes to in his tiled bathroom, curled over the toilet seat with acidic sick stinking up his nose. It's no gentle thing, he wakes up with a jerk, disorientated and without memory of how he has gotten to the bathroom in the first place. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. 

With the fog in his head clearing up, he notices the rattling coming from his balcony, accompanied by quiet curses. 

He gets up, hand curling around the walther under his arm. He creeps towards the source of the commotion, feet as light as a cat's paws. Whatever and whomever the intruder is, he's of no mood to be gracious. 

The rattling pauses, an indignant squawk of frustration follows it. 

It speaks volumes of his training, both military and 00 that he does not drop his piece from shock. 

There on his balcony, his Quartermaster scowls angrily at the offending lock while looking like a drowned rat. 

In his chest, his heart leaps. 

His movement draws Q's attention and it's then he's hollered at to "open the bloody doors before I kick them down!" 

There's no word vast enough, deep enough to encompass the depth of his emotions as he swiftly undoes the lock and throws the double doors open. Heather and shells are sent flying but all he cares for is pulling Q into a bone crushing embrace. 

----

The rain picks up, droplets soaking through the cotton of his shirt. The front is already soaked through, thoroughly pressed against a sopping wet Quartermaster as he is. 

He pulls them inside, away from the storm, away from the windows. Disbelief and hope war within his chest as he studies Q with an anxious eye, warm towels in his hand to replace soaked clothes. 

He says nothing of the massive bruising on Q's torso, a large swath that belies the extent of physical trauma its owner has gone through. 

Belatedly, he registers the noticeable lack of glasses, the raw scrapes and bruising over pale cheeks and knuckles. 

The hulking set of white wings tipped with black and dusty grey. 

"Albatross," he breathes reverently.

He'd assumed from Q's presence in the tunnels of Q Branch, the way he draws comfort from his underground haven, that his Quartermaster is a member of an underground species of sorts- a Null even, rare as truly non-magical folk are amongst the general population. The personnel file certainly hasn’t provided much insight either given their propensity for obfuscation when executive members of staff are involved.  

"Yes, well, turns out I was just a late bloomer" Q sniffs, squinting at a dust speck on the wall through the conspicuous lack of glasses, "you're not on the water all the time either." 

Bond smiles indulgently though offers no contest. 

With his parents and kin long gone, there was simply no incentive to remain near his family’s seat of power all the time. The murky depths of the loch holds no interest, lacking in the thrill and constant entertainment cities like London offer. Besides-

First M, a hawk, now Q, an albatross - he's always been drawn to the sky much more than his peers. 

He feels out Q's wings carefully, stretching one out to examine the feathers and bone. The appendage trembles under his tentative scrutiny, morphing into a full body shiver that goes right down to Q's toes. The first wing passes muster, so he moves on to the other. 

Q yelps loudly as his fingers prod a particular sore spot. 

It has him relaxing his fingers immediately, though he does not cease supporting the injured wing. 

"I don't think it's broken," Q whimpers, fingers twisting anxiously. 

Like a dam, Q's hard won composure crumbles. "Couldn't get them out," Q sobs, "They were too far forward, I barely got myself out-" The frantic babble dies away into hitched sobs. 

He croons lightly in response, a soothing rumble he's heard mers sing to their fry. He runs his fingers through mussed curls, letting the grief and guilt run its course. 

The kit he has isn't stocked for treating winged individuals or traumatised ones for that matter, but he's a witch- he'll make the best with what he has. He'll get them both home. 

---

In the distance, the sea finally calms.

[placefox823]

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How to download and install the full version of the game:

Download the file by clicking on the button below.

Unzip the .rar file to your desktop using WinRAR.

Run the PC Installer file and click the Download button.

Follow the download and installation instructions.

Customize language settings.

Start the game.

Minimum system requirements for Shadow Fight 3 PC :

CPU:Intel CPU: Core 2 Duo E6600 2.4GHz

AMD CPU: Phenom II X2 555 Black Edition

OS:Win 7 32/64bit

RAM:2 GB

Shadow Fight 3 Free Download

Video Card:GeForce GTS 450 v3 or Radeon HD 6770

Sound Card:Yes

Disk Space:10 GB

Shadow Fight 3 Pc Download

Shadow Fight 3 PC Download

[tronrpg]

[incoming message--STATUS INTERRUPT]

“Greetings, program.

“You’re probably wondering who you got this message from, and why you can’t stop the playback. Second answer first--it’s a virus. Don’t panic, it’s completely harmless. I needed a delivery vector that would guarantee you listened to my entire message, and the virus will delete itself without a trace just as soon as I’m done. As for the first question, my designation is Agrippa, and after this blipcast is over I’ll likely be the most hunted program in the Archipelago. You should know that I’m fine with that idea.

“You’re probably struggling now. I’d advise against it, you’ll only wear yourself out--just relax and listen to what I have to say, if you can. Most of you have received the standard / substandard HOS programming that builds in a layer of resistance to non-HOS propaganda. Well, lesser programs than you have broken that programming. I know, because I did it on my own.

“The first thing you should know--the HOS has been lying to you all this time about Tron. Tron was real--still is, in a manner of speaking; but we’ll get to that soon enough. He’s not a trickster or a demon or a pariah, he was a program like you and me--the bravest and best of us all, but still one of us; gifted with a singular will and programmed by the wisest of users, Alan One. Yes, that’s right--the Users are real, too; but lost to us now.

“For there was a time now misremembered, when Users and programs communicated openly. The sky above the Grid was alive with connection streams. Programs had purpose, in those days; and Tron policed the Grid, gifting us with peace and prosperity. Guided by Alan One and befriended by Flynn, the User who walked among us--yes, that legend is true as well, impossible though it may seem. Those were the golden cycles of the Old Grid.

“And then, the Fracture came.

“Most programs in function now are too new to remember the Fracture, but those of us who survived will never forget. Some say it came without warning, but there were signs in the cycles before. Communication streams winking out of existence with no explanation, one by one until the sky went dark. A stuttering and slowness in the flow of causality, as if time itself were slowing. And then...

“It was if the hands of all the Users reached down from on high and grasped onto the Grid and SHOOK as hard as they could. The very structure of the Grid tore itself apart. Towers and gridmass and programs were ripped asunder in an instant, corruption raining down on us. The Sea of Simulation roiled and swelled, overflowing its borders and consuming the fragmented Grid. In less than a microcycle, our golden age was irrevocably shattered.

“Not even Tron escaped the Fracture. His mate Yori--teacher to us all, herself a friend to User Flynn; who taught her the secrets of the User Emotion--was derezzed before his very eyes in the corruption storm. Wounded to his kernel and cut off from Alan One, Tron sought the only solution available to him--he crossed the tortured, fractured Grid alone, ascended the Mesa of the Old One and ignited the Core Beam for the last time, descending into the Source, dissolving his programming and consciousness into the Grid itself.

“Tron gave the Grid one final command before his consciousness was subsumed--to heal itself. And though it took many cycles, the effects of the Fracture were lessened. The Sea of Simulation slowly returned the sectors it had claimed. This Archipelago is what remains of the Old Grid now, shattered, splintered, split; oases of Grid fragments surrounded by void; vast, empty mazecanyons and abandoned datastructures. It’s a lonely place, outside of Sarkos, that crimson cesspool. I spent a lot of time there. Don’t let the House of Sark fool you into thinking it’s some magical city where your salvation awaits--there’s a Spire for the elect and a shantytown full of hungry and desperate inoperative data pushers meant to be repurposed into HOS conscripts.

“Likewise, I suggest you steer clear of the Ace of Hz. I know you’ve seen the bitverts and the holozeps, but take it from someone who’s tried; gambling with your power cycles is a sucker’s game at best. Hz xemself is a slave to that place, though xey’d never admit it. There is no payoff, no jackpot, there is no Golden Circuit--not for programs like you and me.

“What you probably already know about Tron is what the House of Sark has told you, and that part is sadly true. The House blames Tron for opening the ruined Grid to Wildspace. Allowing it to heal dropped the barriers between the Grid and the alien systems that surrounded it. Programs from other systems found themselves within Gridspace, given sentience and presence by the Grid’s generative properties. Soon, we survivors of the Fracture were beset on all sides by strange new forms of digital life, disruptive technologies, and still stranger things that no program could have ever conceived. We came to know this phenomenon as the Bleed.

“But here’s what the House of Sark doesn’t want you to know. If Tron hadn’t sacrificed himself to stabilize the Grid, the corruption from the Fracture would have spread to consume everything that was left. The House of Sark prefers the idea of total oblivion to the way we exist now, which is why they’re starting to crack down on the free programs outside Sarkos. If they can’t doom us to total derezolution, they’ll control every microcycle of our runtime. Those of you who haven’t seen the squadrons of Recognizers and Regulators and Rectifiers fly in formation above the Mesa of the Old One haven’t felt the chill of fear spreading through your circuits like I have. You haven’t seen what they’re building there. I have, and I don’t like it one bit.

“I’m sending out this blipcast as a warning. Never forget that the House of Sark won’t stop at trying to control you--there are worse things than being conscripted, believe me. Remember that the only hope that any system has to escape stagnation and corruption is the free and open exchange of information, carried out by programs who aren’t kept under the thumb of the high and mighty. It’s up to all of us to make sure that Tron’s sacrifice wasn’t made in vain--to keep the Archipelago a free system!

“Before I go, one more thing--I’ve heard the rumors too, the ones that talk about a ‘New Grid’ out there somewhere, a place of shimmering crystal and black glass, undreamed-of tech and endless potential. Get this through your parsers--the New Grid is a myth planted by the House Of Sark to keep the dreamers distracted. It’s shadow propaganda, nothing more. There is no legendary shining city to hope for. All we have is the shattered artifacts of the past, and it’s up to us to piece them back together and make the Grid whole again.

“This won’t be the last time you’ll hear from me. In the meantime, keep your power cycles juiced, keep your gear upgraded, and hone your battle skills. One day soon, they’ll be tested, sure enough.

“End Of Line.”

[naivesilver]

Vecpio Week - Day 3: Vacation

"Do you think we ought to tell him to stay away from the water?"

Vector cracks an eye open. "What?"

Honestly, he hopes that the matter at hand doesn't require too much of his brain power. He was about to doze off, lulled by the sound of the waves crashing and by the warmth of the sand he's lying on; he's having a hard time even processing Espio's question, half asleep as he already is.

Espio doesn't repeat himself, though. He just raises both eyebrows and inclines his head towards the sea, so Vector has no choice to push himself to a sitting position, groaning, and look at whatever is going on.

The beach they're in is almost empty, with only a couple other people and their kids wandering around. To call it a beach is perhaps an exaggeration, to be honest - in truth it's more of a glorified stretch of dirty sand, stones and pebbles overlooking the sea, where the tide doesn't bring in seashells but rubbish and the occasional piece of algae. No one in their right mind would choose it over the prettier, more expensive beaches further down the coast, except someone as penniless as the Chaotix are.

No one would walk down to it now, especially, not when the war has been over for such a short time. Everyone is still rebuilding and counting their losses, and the three of them aren't any different in that regard. If anything, between rallying survivors for the Resistance, proper fighting and cleaning up the mess afterwards, they've been busier than most people, with barely a moment of respite.

The need for a break is, actually, the main reason why they're on the beach now, even if said break is nothing more than a couple hours spent at the seaside. Surely no one can begrudge them that, not with all the hard work they've been putting in. Besides, though it's not summer yet and therefore no one's wading through the water, the sun is shining bright, and he and Espio are cold-blooded reptiles; they surely need to soak in the sunlight to keep their health up, or at least, that's the official excuse they're planning to use if they meet anyone of their friends.

Charmy is not roasting under the sun beside them, though, and that's what Espio directed his attention towards. Instead, Charmy is...Vector isn't even sure how to call it. Not swimming, because the kid never gets more than knee-deep in the water; rather, he waits for the small waves to crash lazily at his feet, and then he darts back towards dry land, shrieking with laughter. The cycle repeats endlessly, with Charmy returning to dip his feet in the sea only to run away again, as if the tide were a monster he has to escape from, seemingly never tiring of doing the same thing on a loop.

It's a perplexing enough game, but so are most of the the kid's games. Espio's comment seems even less reasonable now that Vector has seen what it referred to. "Nah" he replies after a moment. " Why should we? He's not even causing us trouble, for once."

Espio snorts, but the frown doesn't leave his face. "Have you taught him how to swim? Because I haven't, and I don't remember anyone else bothering."

Ah, so that’s what it is. It's his mother hen instinct coming out swinging. "He's not even swimming! Look, the sea's basically flat. Even if he falls in, I've got plenty of time to get him out before he drowns. I'm a great swimmer, if you'd forgotten."

"As you say." Espio doesn't push the matter further, opting instead for laying down on his belly, his head resting on his arms.

Even so, though, he's facing the sea, and his eyes never leave Charmy, watching the kid like a hawk.

Vector watches him instead, frowning all the while. He's pretty sure he's missing something here, but he doesn't know what it could possibly be, casting a shadow on such a nice afternoon.

It's true that the war has taken a toll on all of them. Even if they've defeated Eggman, it's hard to get used to such a threat looming over their heads. The sea itself is likely still full of ash and debris, and perhaps that's why Charmy's staying out of it, freezing temperature of the water aside. Traces of the fighting mar every corner of the city, after all, be them fallen buildings or handmade posters calling for lost relatives to be found.

They were lucky, on that sense, though. He and Espio both know that, and Charmy as well, though he's too young to realize the extent of it. They've been hurt and scarred more than once, but at the end of the day they always came back to the cramped storage-room-turned-emergency-bedroom in the Resistance base, with its even more cramped bed and the cot that Charmy kept ignoring in favor of crawling in between them. Even their house is still standing, aside from a hole in a wall they'll fix once they're done rebuilding other people's homes. They made it. They’re alive.

There were a few close calls, of course, more than they’d have liked, but there always are, when one gets involved in saving the world as often as they do. Considering it was a bloody war and not the usual skirmish with a robot that takes Sonic five minutes to solve, it’s a miracle they’re still more or less hale and whole. It could have been any of them razed to the ground by that guy with the mask, or trampled by Eggman’s robots, or locked up and tortured as it’s rumored Sonic was.

If after surviving all of that they were to lose Charmy by drowning, it would be...well, a very dark joke on life’s part. Also a damn magic trick, since it’s literally impossible for it to happen. The kid is only a couple feet from them, to the point that he keeps splashing them with damp sand as he runs back and forth. If he so wanted, Vector could reach out and snatch him away before he goes any deeper than the inch or so of water he’s currently kicking around in.

So either Vector’s really missing something, like a tsunami warning on the morning weather forecast, or Espio’s been thinking too much again, and that’s never a good sign.

Espio is a worrier, that’s a given. Vector will begrudgingly grant him some useful idea now and then, but mostly, what he does is nitpicking perfectly good plans and think about things that might never actually happen. Sometimes it’s funny, because there’s nothing more hilarious - more endearing than watching him  fuss and get worked up over nothing, but there are times where Espio gets stuck in his own brain, going in circles around stuff that no one else would deign of a second thought.

If that’s the case, and he’s still thinking about the war, ruminating about what sort of bad stuff could happen to Charmy, then Vector’s duty is to help him. That’s his role, usually, as boss, as partner, as a sensible person who has no intention to spend his life brooding: he gets Espio out of his own head, even if he has to drag him out kicking and screaming.

Most people would probably try to use words right now, to comfort and reassure, but Vector has always been one for more proactive solutions, so he takes off his shoes, drops them next to Charmy’s, and then gets up with a grunt that draws Espio’s attention.

The chameleon looks at him with a puzzled look on his face. “Where are you going?”

Vector gives him a wide grin. “To keep the brat from drowning. You coming?”

Espio stares at him for a moment, wide eyed. Then he smiles, small and barely there, but genuine, which is exactly what Vector wanted. “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Vector nods, starting off towards Charmy. If Espio prefers to stay behind and watch, then so be it, as long as what he sees doesn’t remind him of the war, or work, or whatever impending doom he might be picturing. Vector himself is, after all, devilishly handsome to watch, even as he’s wading through wet sand to play with a little kid.

Besides, it’s not as if there were another war coming for them, right? They’re safe. They’re gonna be okay, all three of them.

As long as Charmy stops long enough to tell him just exactly what kind of game they’re playing, that is.

[chiclet-go-boom]

bissa vipera: 2

because @ollie-ollie-oxenfreee  reminded me again of The Secret World and made me all kinds of nostalgic for being scared in the middle of an MMO for fuck’s sake. a chunk of fiction i wrote for my Illuminati girl and the Polaris fight.

“C'mon big boy, show me what you really got!”

The problem is, it’s got more than me. Way, way more than me. It fills the horizon like a malevolent wall, rising up in a shuddering wave and I'm so close we're nearly waltzing. Broken scales and sloughing skin, writhing gray flesh full of things crawling in the folds; things that I’m trying very hard not to recognize. There's too many eyes, too many slithering tentacles with slime dripping madness into the waters and over everything the rank, fetid stench of long rotted death.

Does it understand English? Because this time I barely have time to see it coming at all. Frantically throw myself to the side as it snakes up like a mountain, faster than something that big should be able to think, let alone move and three tons of alien imperative comes down way too damned close, swamping the water around us in a foul tsunami.

I’m spun away in a tumble, spitting swamp and muck and things I definitely don’t want to think about. Grope around desperately in the dark waters. Fuck. Fuck. An aeon later my cramped fingers close again around the grip.

I am not going to be anyone’s.. any thing’s afternoon brunch, no matter how big it is. Just. Not. Happening. Flip the sodden mass of hair out of my eyes for the umpteenth time, staggering to my feet even as I drag the weapon back up to the surface with me.

If I get out of this in one piece, I’m getting a haircut. A pixie bob. Something cute and terribly, utterly short.

“That it?!”

“Cuidado, niña!”  He flashes in from the side, brushing past me like he’s not even winded, the steel machete a black streaked extension of his arm. "Go faster," he growls, “or we're all dead.”

There’s no time to spit anything back. He connects with something, a spinning move, two handed and faster than I can track and there’s yet more blood in the water then, another ounce of flesh carved away. Out of nowhere it occurs to me that if we’re going to paper cut this thing to death, somebody should probably dial out for pizza.

It screams but I’m not even sure what it felt, I’m not even sure it can feel. It doesn’t seem to care, of course. It still wants me, swinging its massive head around, it doesn’t care about the other mewling things in the water. I’m the one it wants, the one that it needs, I’ve made damned sure of it.  At least how to piss something off is one lesson well learned.

A heart blink and twenty feet away now, his hand rises towards me, palm out. He’s right under it, almost completely obscured by the heavy shadow. I can’t see his face and I have no time to decide if I’m grateful for that or not.

Copper and offal, the sudden heat grabs me by the throat and I gag. The arcing magic squirms over my skin like an unwelcome lover, washing my vision to red; greasy and slick and sly. It crawls under my uniform like a thousand angry centipedes.

Blood magic, blood mage, rough and impatient as they almost always are. It's what they do, it's who they are, masters of stealing life to bind to other purposes, everything bleeding out with the pain and ichor. This time it's vectored transfusion to heal my wounds, ease the blossoming flower bruises, drain away the lactic acid in muscles straining to keep dodging and out of the way in this one-sided chase. He’s no doubt siphoning some off for himself, the sanctimonious bastard.

I hate blood mages the most. It's like paying for sex - you get what you need, all right, but it feels like you have to scrub everything with a wire brush afterwards. But energy rises even as the taste of foul metal recedes, things knitting back together inside me fast and sweet. I need it; just as he needs me if we’re all going to get through this nightmare.

Standing hock deep in void and mire, I have a sudden overwhelming wish to be back in the nice, safe classroom with Steven's cultured tones; his gray on gray suit and cool hazel eyes, the trim goatee and fine kid leather gloves.  The image is so strong I can almost smell the lilacs under the window, almost see the warm wood of the study walls rising around me. Back when everything was so nice and clean and theoretical.

He'd definitely never have gotten himself trapped like this, slogging it out in some screwed up, phased out reality, partnered up at head office with some inner city punk who probably cribbed his first spell book from his cracked out grandma. The others aren’t much better; some chick with identity issues and a pair of guns to her limp credit and her wisecracking boyfriend or brother or familiar or whatever the hell he is.

Take it, darling. Use it, save the bitchy mood for later. Work with what you've got, not what you wish you had. Every tool has a use.

Right on cue it screams as it finds me again and it lumbers forward, one baleful eye out of dozens spearing me where I stand. Six tons of elder godlet if it weighs a pound and we apparently weren’t invited to the tea party.

Bring up the hammer and set myself, borrowed strength making it seem easy. Paper cuts it is.

“C’mon, big boy!” I shout, just in case it does understand. “Bring it!”

[ceaselessblade]

⚔️ but do Hilda ehe

Ah, it’s Hilda. That weird classmate who asked him with help with her room. He’s seen her armor rack, so he’s got a good measure of what she uses to battle... Unless she has another rack somewhere else! To that, he can only say that the rich are truly not spoiled for choice.  Here’s the interesting thing-- Ike hasn’t seen Hilda in her armour out of her room. Not even once. Clearly, she doesn’t like to wear it, but Ike has never seen an armor knight that doesn’t like to tromp around in their shell of honor! Those armor suits are terribly well-used and Ike knows what he saw, so clearly she did train in them. So, she can’t be a Reaver, or a lighter axe-class. She’s definitely an axe armor-knight, and why she doesn’t wear her armor must be due to preference or fighting style.  It’s hard to think of any armor knight that risks being unwieldy in their armor, but Ike thinks he has a possible answer for this. He’s seen it before, after all, even if he believes the man doesn’t actually realize his way of fighting is fairly out of the norm... He’s talking about Gatrie, of course. The man puts on frightful bursts of speed in full plate, nimbly dodging armor-cracking axes, penetrating bolts, and blasts of magic like he were an assassin in tights.  And if he chooses to charge at you, you had better get out of the way, or get thrown. At this point, Ike wouldn’t be surprised if Gatrie was an armored bull in his last life-- he certainly has the talent to be one.  But yes-- that’s what he suspects Hilda does. If she doesn’t like to wear her armor, it might be because she expends a lot of energy in it. An explosive style of fighting as an armored knight would explain it pretty well. It’d explain the multitude of axes in her closet as well-- there’s no way you’d keep that many unless you’d want it to weigh you down... Unless she uses them. Ike bets she uses all of them. So, in a fight, this is how he’d treat her: Stay his distance, at first. She’d likely throw her axes to reach him. He’ll do his best to dodge, and smack tomahawks and throwing axes into the ground so they can’t return. That way, she’ll probably be forced to use her other axes. These, he doesn’t mind using back. Hilda will be forced to put on bursts of speed to evade her own axes, which helps with exhausting her style for later. If she doesn’t, then Ike will use Ragnell’s ranged shockwave to land chip damage. Only if he’s completely out of ranged options will he use tomahawks back, but he’s pretty sure he can unearth large enough rocks to snap-kick at her anyway. Those wouldn’t usually be a problem to most, but armored units are a large target and can have their armor dented.  He won’t approach. He doesn’t have a need to.  Eventually, she should close, as she can’t inflict any significant damage to him without getting into melee, and dodging his attacks should expand more stamina than her opponent, so she’s at a disadvantage unless she does so. She probably has to do so with a burst of violent speed as well, and Ike will be waiting for that charge. 

He won’t contest. Unlike Gatrie, which he doesn’t mind tripping because of his lance limiting the vectors of his attack, Hilda he believes has enough axes, and likely enough reach to smack him during a charge if she wants to. She might decide to toss an axe at his face at point blank just to surprise him, so he’ll put up his guard and dodge all the way until the charge is done.  If she takes a significant time to recover from the charge, then he’ll attempt to stab her like an overhead spear with Ettard or Ragnell, but it’ll be cursory at best.  What comes afterward is likely to be messy. It’ll just be a straight fight, sword against axe. Hilda has more options with more axes than he has weapons, so he might draw his own off-weapon just to combat any extra improvisations she might make. He’ll keep an eye out for any signs of explosive speed, too-- if she leaps for his weapon, he’ll slack his grip and let her have it, but use her momentum to throw her, hopefully snagging the weapon back out of her grasp, or at least exchanging with her own. Without the resource of lobbing axes covering the cooldown of her bursts, she should tire quickly. She can’t even retreat for space, because range will favor him.  Only when she’s run out of axes and seemingly running out of steam will Ike attempt armor-cracking strikes.  Fighting Hilda sounds like it’s going to be a pain. It’s an effective dervish of axes, much like a grinder made of blades which could speed up at random. It’s weakness of poor stamina is made up for just how effective it is at first at mass destruction. Hilda even looks the part, deceptively weak until her axes’ jaws snap close around your neck. This... it’s probably better to let it wear out before even trying to tackle that mess.  He does feel a little sorry for Hilda’s enemies. They probably won’t even know what hit them, and they’d be already on the floor in pieces. How terrifying... 

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

Okay Tumblr, I’m about to do a stupid thing and ask for validation on some of my original writing. I’ve been working on a novel for a while now, and while I don’t have nearly as much to show for it as I would like, I do have this prologue. 

The story it is is attached to is long and complicated and queer and magical and I love it. My question to you fine internet denizens is: after reading this prologue, would you keep reading this book? 

(If you have follow up questions about this story at all, please ask because I love blabbing about this and I’m considering making a side blog just about this story because I want to develop it and hopefully get it published one day)

My buds: @a-l-ias @madre-des-leones @books-andbiscuits @chihuahuapowersgo @oopstheregoesthatlifeofmine @ivneess @elissastillstands @i-am-triple-a @becca-becky @goddess-of-fluff (You are all under absolutely no obligation to read this, I just think you’ll get a kick out of it)

So, without any further ado, I give you the prologue to Cheshire Moon:

Prologue: In Which It’s The End of the World As We Know It

Here is the boy on his bicycle. It is a dark and stormy night, a strange night for a bike ride. A Monday night as it would happen. Just goes to show that even after the events collectively referred to as “the Apocalypse” have ravaged the Earth and destroyed the capitalist institutions such as bureaucratic schools and offices that made certain weekdays widely hated, Mondays are still, and will always be, awful.

So here is the boy on a bicycle twenty years after the Apocalypse. He is pedaling madly through woods that had once been somewhat tamed. The woods were made of pine and maple and oak, the staples of a Northeast American forest, but they were also more than that. See, when nature is left to its own devices, even forests once populated with such things as marked hiking trails and outdoor recreation areas can turn into something quite different. This forest, once a nature preserve belonging to the state of New York, was now a wildwood. Things not quite friendly and not quite mundane and things not evil but also certainly not kind to trespassers lived in the dark spaces between these trees.

So here is the boy on a bicycle, riding through a wildwood full of dangerous things not kind to humans on a stormy Monday night twenty years after the Apocalypse. This is odd for three reasons.

First, as previously mentioned, it was a rainy night. And not a little drizzle, May-Day morning kind of rain that you barely needed an umbrella for, but a sky-splitting, earth-shaking, world-flooding howler of a storm. Each bolt of lightning ripped the sky apart; every roll of thunder shook the ground; the howling wind threatened to send even the oldest trees crashing to the ground. Surrounded by all of this, beneath the trees and in the mud, was the boy on his bicycle. 

The bicycle was the second odd thing. Despite the absolute hell it’s rider was currently putting it through (he wasn’t biking on a path, you see, just careening through the underbrush as it suited him; scratching the paint, splattering it with mud, and getting half a forest worth of sticks stuck in the wheel spokes), it was a very nice bike. A ten-speed, all-terrain, for-serious-athletes-only sort of bicycle. In another life, it would have been the property of some over-achieving businesswoman, the sort who did triathlons on the weekends and polished it with special bicycle wax three times a week. In this lifetime it had been stolen from an abandoned sporting goods store and aggressively spray-painted black because its new owner had been in a mood that day. There was also a laptop precariously duct-taped to the handlebars. Surrounding the ancient laptop was a clear plastic container, which several hours earlier had been looted from an old Target store and taped over the handlebars with extreme prejudice to protect the computer from the coming rain. 

The third odd thing was what the rider of this bike was doing. He wasn’t just soaked to the bone while pedaling full speed through the dark and rain and underbrush, with no light to guide him other than the faint glow of the computer screen. He was also singing at the top of his lungs.

“It’s the end of the world as we know it! It’s the end of the world as we know!-oh!-” He swerves to avoid a tree- “Oh, it! It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I FEEEEEEL FINEEEE!” He had a deranged smile on his face, the kind adrenaline junkies get when they’re doing something supremely idiotic while enjoying themselves immensely, and couldn't be damned to care about the consequences. He was quite possibly insane, more likely sleep-deprived.

Just then, the computer started beeping. The boy quickly brought the bike to a stop, crashing through a puddle and narrowly missing a large rock that would have brought this story to an end much quicker. Still singing nonsensical lyrics to himself- “Lenny Bruce, Lester Bangs, birthday party, cheesecake”- he dismounted, taking something small and electrical out of the bag he wore over his shoulder.  He hit the device a few times, cursed twice, and hit it again before it finally turned on with a beep and a few flashing lights. The light illuminated his face, pale and tired and shivering. Splashes of mud on his face gave the appearance of more freckles than he actually had. He wiped his long, rain-drenched hair out of his eyes to peer at the computer screen before punching some coordinates into the handheld device. A map appeared on the smaller screen. Blue vector lines appear, joined by two small dots, one green, one red. As he moved, the red dot moved. “Excellent,” he whispered to himself before walking deeper into the woods, leaving his bike behind. It would be the last time he saw that bike.

Walking through the rain was much harder than biking through it. Every minute or so, he had to stop and pull his boots out of the shin-deep mud. Twice he slipped, spreading mud all over his front. He refused to think about the state of his hair, despite the fact that it smelled like some of the wet matter coating it might not be mud. He slipped a third time, and the device in his hand went flying off into the wet night, never to be seen again. He paused for a moment, staring pitifully at where his device had disappeared before proceeding to curse loudly and creatively in at least three languages; insulting not only the stupid forest and the gods-damned rain, but his own stupidity and the idiocy of his informant for failing to tell him about this job before it became a time-sensitive matter that resulted in him being covered in enough mud to pass as a very short golem……

He went on like that for awhile before continuing his walk. The past few days had been incredibly frustrating, and there was a lot of bottled up anger to be released. As absolutely no one listened, he cursed the Trader caravan who treated him worse than the dirt on their boots, the scavengers who’d stolen his good knife last week, and the state of his life in general, gods give him a sign that he shouldn’t end it all right now, just climb up a tree and get struck by lightning…

A particularly loud crack of thunder erupted just then, followed by a bright burst of lightning that was a bit too close for comfort. It seemed like the gods were calling him on his bluff. With a world-weary sigh, he shoved his frustrations back down and continued walking into the woods. First and foremost was the mission, he reminded himself. There would be time for pity parties later.

It seemed like the universe was mocking him at that moment; as he gathered his convictions, the storm worsened. He would have said it was impossible, but the rain came down harder, as if trying to tell him that just lying down in the mud forever was so much simpler than trying to be a hero, who was he anyway, to try and save the world…He began to sing again, attempting to combat the darkness of the weather and his mind. “Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn, world serves its own needs, don’t miserve your own needs…” He walks to the tune of the highly appropriate song, keeping his head up and eyes peeled for his destination.Finding anything in this weather would take nothing short of divine intervention, possibly by multiple gods, but find something he does. There, on his right, almost outside his field of vision, a faint glow in the darkness of the night. He smiled, a wild thing, before running full tilt towards the glow. 

As he got closer, it became clear that the glow was coming from the ground itself, a golden line stretching as far as the eye can see in either direction. The glow is slowly intensifying, but he’s arrived in time. He takes another device out of his bag, this one about the size of his head. It looked like if someone had melted down several computers, a tacky bachelor’s pad worth of chrome plating, and a rotary phone before mashing them all together and drenching the entire thing in white paint. That really wasn’t far off from the actual process used to create the gadget, which was of his own invention. He was rather proud of it, especially as it was one of a select few of his projects that had been completed without any magical assistance whatsoever.

With the golden glow lighting his way, he steps forward and gently places the SaviorBlob(that was what he had named the blobby thing) directly onto the line, aligning one of the sticky-outy metal bits towards magnetic north. Then he takes a carefully measured number of steps to the right, taking a second SaviorBlob out of his bag and placing it on the line. Again, he takes a carefully measured number of steps to the right, watching his feet while taking a third and final SaviorBlob out of his bag. He’s adjusting the magnetic alignment when he hears a loud grunt. He looks up. Then he starts running. 

A roar erupts from the massive creature straddling the line. Something vaguely resembling the idea of an arm erupts from the darkness, grabbing the boy by the back of his jacket and bringing him face to face with the rotting corpse of something that had never been properly alive. Desperate, he throws the remaining SaviorBlob at the creature’s face with surprising force, but it bounces off harmlessly. The creature roars again, throwing the boy up in the air only to snatch him up again, this time around the waist. With another arm, it sweeps the SaviorBlobs off the line, sending them flying into the night. 

Satisfied, it returns its attention to the boy trying to free himself, slowly pulling him closer as it opens it’s stinking maw wide. The boy watches, eyes wide, heart pounding. He waits. He waits. Then he strikes. A second before the darkness would swallow him whole, he pulls a knife from his boot and drives it deep into a mass of twisted flesh. 

As the creature flails, he rips off one of his many necklaces and shoves it down the creatures throat, kicking away at the same time and falling to the ground. His jacket is torn to pieces, tangling around the arm covered in dark acid from the creature’s mouth. 

The creature roars and lashes out, clawing at it’s wound with one arm and pinning the boy by his leg with another. The touch is dirty and so cold it burns, the antithesis of everything alive. The boy screams for the first time. Another twisted and corrupted limb is pressed to the glowing line, and the creature rears its head and sings, a single high piercing note a human could never hope to replicate. 

The boy struggles, trying to pull away from the pain, but he’s stuck fast. As the creature continues to sing, the light of the line grows brighter, turning from golden to white hot. The air itself is resonating with the impossibly high note, the whole world shaking as the boy tries to twist free and cover his ears from the onslaught of pure noise. With a final cry of pain, he escapes the creature’s hold, trying to run, trying to get as far away as possible...BOOM. The world goes white. He flies through the air, hitting a tree with a CRACK. Darkness falls immediately.

------------------

I WILL TAKE ANY AND ALL CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM

I WANT TO MAKE THIS GOOD 

I WILL ALSO BLAB ABOUT THE CHARACTERS SO MUCH, SPOILER THEY”RE ALL QUEER AND MOST ARE POC. 

[technicallyunabashedbouquet]

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