#light and night polyphony

[aishangotome]

Main Story S2 Chapter 5 Polyphony Ending: Consumer of the Past (吃回憶的人) | Light and Night 光與夜之戀

Dreamland

♡———♡

Ye Chuan's Story

This journey leads to life's boundless night.

The hands of the clock on the wall pointed towards nine o'clock.

Having finished the housework efficiently, the nurse settled Ye Chuan in bed and helped him turn on the radio by the bedside.

The familiar voice of the host came from the radio. Ye Chuan adjusted himself to a comfortable position, lay down, and said thank you.

The nurse waved it off, carefully helped him tuck in the blanket corners, and told Ye Chuan that his son had specifically instructed her to do this multiple times. He said that Ye Chuan could only sleep well listening to the radio.

Having done all this, the nurse got up to turn off the light and quietly closed the door. The room immediately fell into darkness, leaving only the dim yellow glow of the night light in the corner.

His eyelids grew heavy. Ye Chuan slowly closed his eyes, listening to the footsteps outside the door fade into the distance.

Before long, only the host's gentle voice and intermittent static remained in his ear.

This radio, used for many years, also had quite a few problems.

In a daze, Ye Chuan thought the boy not yet ten years old was lying beside him.

They had no money for a TV, only a second-hand radio picked up from a recycling station. Several tiles were missing from the roof, and the hard plank bed creaked whenever they moved slightly.

When the weather was good, the sky was full of stars. Moonlight would shine in through the gaps in the roof, falling on them.

The boy was slow to fall asleep, mumbling in his ear.

"Later, we must live in a big house, so everyone respects us."

Ye Chuan humored him dismissively, saying he would enjoy a good life later, while awkwardly patting the boy's back to coax him to sleep.

The two of them dreamt together like this, one sentence after another, until they both sank into slumber.

——"Now interrupting with breaking news: Just now, a magnitude 3.6 earthquake occurred in the neighboring city, with a focal depth of 10 kilometers. The shaking was noticeable in the Yu district..."

Half-asleep and half-awake, Ye Chuan heard the word "earthquake" on the radio. He reflexively reached beside him, but his hand met emptiness.

He was startled and broke out in a cold sweat. After sitting up, he slapped his head, thinking how confused he was. Osborn wasn't home.

Then where was Osborn? Ye Chuan pondered. Oh, he remembered now. Osborn was in the neighboring city.

Oh no, he thought. Then he has to go pick up Osborn quickly.

Ye Chuan didn't realize that the hands of the clock on the wall already pointed to deep night. He put on a jacket, grabbed his wallet, and walked out.

At first, he habitually walked towards the long-distance bus station. After hesitating for a few seconds, he directly hailed a taxi on the roadside.

The driver's face showed surprise when he heard the destination.

"The fare to the neighboring city is quite expensive."

"Expensive isn't an issue. There was an earthquake, and my son is still waiting for me to pick him up."

Ye Chuan urged him to hurry.

The night was vast and dark. This road to the neighboring city was really too long. Ye Chuan wondered if Osborn was injured? Would he be getting impatient?

He had to pick him up and bring him home quickly...

----

Zhou Yan's Story

Real death does not need to happen at the moment it is witnessed.

When Zhou Yan arrived at the laboratory, the fire had already been extinguished.

The foul smell in the air had not yet dissipated. Lu Chen stood in the ruins, silent.

Zhou Yan didn't know what he was thinking, so he just stood silently by his side, waiting for the young master's next command.

"He died."

Suddenly, Zhou Yan thought he heard Lu Chen say these words.

The words were very familiar. After a few seconds, Zhou Yan remembered that he had heard this sentence twice before.

The first time was when Lu Chen came out of the cellar after being punished for stabbing that woman's hand, muttering to himself.

His face was very pale, his eyes unfocused and fixated on empty space, as if he wanted to confide in someone, or perhaps just stating a fact.

Lu Chen had always shown a maturity and calmness far beyond ordinary people, so when he showed a hint of unease, Zhou Yan also felt at a loss.

He thought for a while and asked dryly if Lu Chen wanted to come to his place for dinner.

Lu Chen must have been surprised at the time. But just as Zhou Yan realized the foolishness of his suggestion and wanted to withdraw it, Lu Chen agreed.

So that day, Zhou Yan took Lu Chen home and ate his parents' stew. It was a very simple way of cooking, but Lu Chen was very composed.

The second time was long after the Master went missing. Suddenly, one day, the news spread that he had died. The Lu family held a funeral for him without a body.

That funeral was almost like a grand performance. Countless people expressed just the right amount of regret and sympathy to Lu Chen and the Master of the Lu family.

Lu Chen's performance, of course, was also flawless. At that funeral, he was the sorrowful but strong young master of the Lu family.

Not until the crowd had all dispersed, Zhou Yan saw that Lu Chen stopped in front of a photo from several years ago. He said in a low voice—"He died."

At that time, Lu Chen had long since passed the Blood Race trial. When he said those words, his expression was somewhat complex, showing relief and resignation, but not sadness.

And now, it was the third time Zhou Yan had heard this sentence. Lu Chen's tone was very cold, and also very calm, without any emotion, as if he was talking about a stranger.

Zhou Yan hesitated for a moment. Finally, just like when he was little, he spoke respectfully.

"Tonight... would you consider having dinner at my home? My family would be very honored."

Lu Chen turned his head. His eyes were still completely calm.

"No need. Take me to Wan Zhen. Then you can go back first. You don't need to wait for me to finish work."

He turned and walked away from the ruins.

The long night gradually ended at some point. The world outside the ruined walls was gradually enveloped by the morning light of daybreak.

Zhou Yan watched Lu Chen walk step by step in that bright light, emerging from the long darkness behind him.

----

Osborn's Father's Story

Perhaps for a brief instant, the joy was real.

Not until the black car stopped in front of a completely ordinary abandoned building, did the youth, who had been looking out the window, snap back from his silence.

The man got out first, went around to the youth's side, opened the car door for him, and smiled.

"Son, we're home."

But this wasn't the home they once had. The man saw the youth's doubt and told him.

"Your mother and I had many places we lived. Most were destroyed. But it doesn't matter. Anywhere family is, that's called home."

The youth's eyes flickered slightly at these words. The man's smile deepened as he saw that touch of emotion, and he led the youth, who was completely unaware, onto a long corridor.

As he walked, he continued to sigh emotionally—

"I didn't expect you'd even give up your body to come back to me."

He deliberately made his voice gentle, and his tone perfectly conveyed tenderness and happiness.

But the youth didn't feel it was a shame. He didn't care about that weak body at all. After all, now, he possessed something Osborn couldn't have.

Soon, they reached the end of the corridor. The tightly closed door opened, and a bone-chilling coldness crawled up the youth's spine.

In the flickering light and shadow, the youth saw many cold experiment instruments, and rows of lifelike mud dolls.

They smiled, watching the person who had just walked in with dazed eyes. Their faces were all different, yet subtly familiar.

The youth looked at the man beside him. The man was still smiling, his face also subtly familiar in the same way.

He understood.

"Child, I am dying. If I can obtain just a little power from your body, it can allow me to live."

"Then what about me? Will I become like these dolls?"

The youth counter-questioned coldly.

"How could that happen?"

The man looked at the youth with an admiring gaze.

"You are my highest masterpiece. How could you turn into those ugly mud people?"

"Wouldn't it be good if we, father and son, could stay together forever, just by you sacrificing a little power?"

The man's tone was expectant and fervent.

The youth was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, he suddenly asked—

"When I was born, what did you feel?"

The man did not know the exact answer to this question.

The memory from his fragmented soul told him that he should have been joyful—this child perfectly inherited the abilities of a god and the Blood Race; he was a unique experimental subject.

But did that joy include the simple happiness of a father feeling the birth of his child?

The light in the youth's eyes gradually dimmed. At this moment, the heavy door behind him collapsed with a roar.

Smoke and dust dispersed. That girl and Osborn burst in together.

----

Jesse's Story

In the process of cleaning up a muddy mess, it's hard not to get covered in mud.

Jesse opened his eyes on the sofa. The first thing he saw was the ceiling in the twilight. The second was Yu Yang's face, full of worry, beside him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but when he made the first syllable, he found his voice was horribly hoarse. That dizzy, weightless feeling surged up again.

Jesse had to close his eyes again, gritting his teeth and waiting for it to pass.

To distract himself, he started thinking about why Yu Yang was here.

A few dozen minutes ago, he was at Lianshan Group reporting the location of an illegal DEA trafficking den. The sudden dizziness forced him to stop.

He ended the report hastily, saying he had something urgent and needed to leave temporarily. Yu Yang must have felt uneasy at that moment and followed him, coincidentally finding him unconscious in the room.

Jesse opened his eyes again. It was still Yu Yang's face, but this time he was holding a glass of water.

"You know, when I came over just now, you were talking to a coat rack and calling her name."

"You were also saying things like 'I know, I won't take DEA,' and telling her to go back and rest well, not to get tired."

"Oh right, you even took off your jacket and put it on the coat rack. Jesse, ah, Jesse..."

Yu Yang shook his head and handed him the water.

In a daze, Jesse recalled there was such a moment, but he thought he was dreaming. In the dream, the girl was worried and hesitant, as if she knew the secret he was trying to hide.

He drank some water to cover up, imagining the scene Yu Yang described, and laughed.

Yu Yang also relaxed and smiled. Their laughter lasted for a while, then quickly stopped abruptly.

Yu Yang handed him a box with a worn surface. He took it and opened it, finding familiar white pills—DEA. Jesse's face sank.

"Yu Yang, what do you want?"

"The team's injuries are already serious. Many people used large amounts of DEA during treatment, and it's... hard to quit right away."

Yu Yang spoke hesitantly, struggling to finish his words.

"Xiao Xia, if it's really too much, you don't have to keep forcing yourself. We..."

Jesse closed the box with a cold face, turned, and threw it into a pile of confiscated items nearby. He stood up and walked out.

The first few steps were still a bit dizzy and weak. He forcefully suppressed it, and his appearance returned to normal.

He hadn't walked far when Yu Yang followed him, looking dejected, seeming to say "sorry."

Jesse didn't address that topic. He stopped, casually put his arm around Yu Yang's shoulder, and asked what he wanted for dinner.

Yu Yang was startled. He smiled helplessly and relievedly. Their laughter continued as they walked away.

----

Youth (Osborn)'s POV

Entering the Bounty Guild task hall, the youth accidentally bumped into someone.

He subconsciously prepared to go around, but when the other person saw him, their eyes lit up, and they enthusiastically put an arm around his shoulder.

Bounty Hunter A: Xiao! You haven't been around for a long time. Are you here to pick up a task today?

Only then did he remember that he looked like Osborn. He subtly freed himself from the other person's warm grasp, responded vaguely, and continued forward.

Dim, circular lights were cast down from the ceiling. The bounty hunters, who usually lived life on the edge, were relaxing, sitting at different round tables.

He walked forward, and along the way, people kept greeting him, inviting him over for a drink. Everyone seemed very familiar with him.

Bounty Hunter B: Xiao, the bounty for the last task has been paid out. Remember to go collect it! It's a huge sum of money. Be careful the boss doesn't keep it for himself.

On the other side of the hall, the young clerk behind the bar finished wiping a glass.

Clerk: The boss wouldn't do something so low-class. Xiao, you're finally here. This money has been waiting for you for a long time.

He walked to the counter to collect the money. He understood that it was for him, but he had no idea how to collect it.

He hesitated for a few seconds. Seeing his momentarily blank expression, the young man nodded playfully.

Clerk: It's rare to see you so spaced out. Did you drink too much? I heard you've been with a beauty recently—

An image of a bright smiling face flashed through his mind. An indescribable irritation surged into his chest. He rapped his knuckles hard on the counter.

The young man was startled. Then, as if understanding something, he pushed a stack of money over, raising his hands in surrender.

Clerk: My mistake, my mistake. In our line of work, it's better to be careful.

Clerk: Just confirm the amount is correct, and we'll finish the task process.

He quickly glanced at the money and casually picked it up, putting it in his pocket. As he left, he heard the other person muttering something, perhaps like "He's in a bad mood today."

He turned and found a corner seat, ordered a black rum from the bartender, and sat in the shadows, observing this world so closely related to Osborn—

Although most bounty hunters chose this dangerous profession for money and gathered for profit, their conversations and behavior suggested they also valued loyalty and principles.

Even living in this dangerous, dark underground world, they were still truly living, not just existing numbly like living dead.

Not far away, several bounty hunters were discussing the top-ranked task on the board.

An extremely considerable bounty, an extremely high risk assessment coefficient, and an extremely strict time limit.

Bounty Hunter A: Tsk, that task only has 12 hours left. It looks really tempting...

Bounty Hunter B: With our level, forget it. Only Xiao can complete it.

Bounty Hunter A: It's good to know your limitations! But speaking of which, why hasn't Xiao come to take this task yet?

Amidst the loud laughter, he looked at the screen in the middle of the hall.

He suddenly felt inclined to take it, but he didn't know how to accept a task. Just as he was about to dismiss this thought, a voice suddenly sounded in the depths of his heart.

Osborn: There's a machine below the task board, or you can ask the person at the bar.

Osborn: The intelligence room on the right can provide relevant information and material support.

Osborn had woken up from his deep sleep at some point. His tone was light and casual, like an older brother instructing his younger sibling.

The youth unconsciously clenched his fingers. He was angry at this illusion and felt ashamed of his momentary relaxation when he heard the voice.

Youth: Aren't you afraid?

He lowered his voice, threatening coldly.

Youth: I will destroy these things you traded your soul for. I'll show you.

As soon as the youth finished speaking, a suffocating pressure surged towards him like a tide, pressing down on his spirit with crushing weight.

At the same time, Osborn's extremely calm voice sounded.

Osborn: You can certainly try.

After an instant of instinctive retreat, the youth braced himself, preparing to fight back and suppress, but the mental pressure suddenly eased at that moment. He lunged into emptiness.

Osborn: Be careful.

Accompanied by these words, the previous pressure vanished like smoke, and Osborn in the depths of his consciousness returned to sleep.

The youth gritted his teeth. He stared at Osborn's reflection in the wine glass.

Pushing away the black rum he hadn't touched, he walked back to the counter.

Youth: The task ranked number one, I'll take it.

With the young man's unsurprised expression, he accepted the task and turned to leave, brushing past several people rushing in.

Bounty Hunter C: Didn't someone just say Xiao appeared? Where is he?

Bounty Hunter D: He didn't leave again, did he? I didn't see him...

The youth listened indifferently to the voices behind him, pulled down the brim of his cap, and left the hall.

Completely unlike when he arrived, this time no one noticed him, and no one said goodbye.

.

.

.

.

.

Chapter Card: Osborn - The Circular Highway (环形公路)

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[riza-jes]

Ace’s the storm, the hurricane in human form, who somehow still manages to retain all the strength, power and volatility in his essentially immemorial figure.

Ace is the whirlwind, is smirks, is the grin and the smile in one face, is the searing sun in the storm without rain. Ace is everything, all he wished for, all he ever sought. Ace is the storm with which he bursts into your life, infusing you with the strength to continue on the path you've been following.

He turns your life upside down and yet drawn without a chance for subterfuge into the abyss of the sea, where the world and feelings begin to shine in completely new colours, reaching unprecedented depths and touching all the strings of the soul. It's a grin on the face, it's wicked imitations, it's freckles that sparkle around the campfire in the night, it's an ingenuous offer of friendship and a shoulder of solidarity. Ace is rage and anger for defence, for fighting. He is unwavering loyalty and sheer will, Ace who is no match for the size of giants, but manages to stand on equal footing with them.

Ace is the peace and stability of the Grandline Sea on the best day. It's a fire in the freezing winter of Winter Island. It's a flame of confidence that lights your way. Ace is the windstorm, he is the storm, he is the tornado. He is a natural phenomenon that gives, and gives, with heat and without combusting. Ace is the polyphony of a sea storm, and a measured lullaby in a ship's cabin.

With Ace one feels at home, and with Ace one feels like being in the abyss of the storm in the crow's nest itself.

Ace is the flame, the source and the Will. He is, there he is. And you reach for him like the brightest star.

He is the storm and death and fire is his essence.

And with him you're sure you'll achieve anything.

[myreia]

Polyphony at Twilight

Rating: General Characters: Jehantel, Aureia (WoL) Word Count: 3,103 Summary: A wandering minstrel and an ex-Garlean operative share a meal around a campfire where both reveal more secrets than they intend. Read on AO3

Deep in the Twelveswood, in the shadow of a hollowed out tree trunk, a campfire crackles, its flames dancing to and fro to their own rhythm as they reach for the stars.

Jehantel leans forwards, forearms on his knees, and observes the woman across from him. She sits cross-legged, brows drawn together and lips pursed with concentration as she stirs the pot strung over the fire. What was once his evening meal is now theirs to share, his simple stew bolstered by spices and meats far too fine to have come from these woods. Some Gridanians may find her half-Elezen features a novelty, but his visitor has always struck him as quite ordinary. Dark hair and ruby eyes of a kind he has seen countless times before, and a face that can blend in naturally in a crowd.

What is not ordinary is the quiet power with which she carries herself. It is not noticeable on a cursory look, but a keen eye will note what many will not—the efficacy of her movements, the precise way she surveys her surroundings, how she never quite fully relaxes even when in safe company. She’s a soldier. A warrior.

A spy.

Not anymore, perhaps, but some habits never fully die. He knows that more than most.

“I must thank you, stranger, for this gift,” he says, nodding to the pot. “You did not have to go out of your way for me.”

His guest shrugs and keeps stirring. “I was in the area,” she replies.

“That is becoming a common refrain, I see.” He chuckles, thinking back to the first time she stumbled upon his quiet camp. She was haggard and exhausted, bleeding from a cut on her cheek and drenched to the bone from a day of endless rain. She sheltered with him for the night; breaking bread and allowing him to tend to her wounds. She didn’t say much, though her gaze never strayed far from the brilliant bow she carried with her, its pulsing light a beacon in the dark.

It is a magnificent weapon, one seemingly composed entirely of aether. That she still carries it with her only confirms his suspicions—she is no ordinary archer, nor is she a member of the Gods’ Quiver. For what purpose, then, did she return? This is the third time their paths have crossed, one too many for it to be incidental.

And so it is with burning curiosity that he asks his next question. “Have you reconsidered my offer, young one?” Jehantel says, catching her eye.

Her hand slows, the wooden spoon scraping against the sides of the pot. “The answer is still no,” she replies shortly. “I’m not interested.”

“And yet you have found yourself here, in a place not easy to find, far from the roads most travelled. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the company. Rare is it for these old bones to meet new faces.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. With a shrug, she returns to the stew and absorbs herself in tending it, stirring with a little too much intention. A performance, in its own way, and a convincing one. Not all those who playact are actors, just as not all who dance are dancers.

Exhaling a long breath, Jehantel rearranges himself on his log, stretching out his long legs and tipping his hat to the sky. Evening is settling in and the Twelveswood is bristling with activity. Beyond the leafy canopy, a swath of pinkish purple sweeps across the sky like the brushstrokes of a painter, and the first few stars emerge from the haze. Insects hum in the dark, their rhythmic chitters a counterpoint to the hoots of nocturnal birds and the flutter of bat wings. The woods is a symphony in the dusk, its melodies rising and falling in harmonious rhapsody to those with the patience to hear it.

Before him, the campfire dwindles. Humming to himself, he reaches behind the log to dig through his meager belongings and withdraws his lyre. A small, battered thing, much beloved and well trusted. His constant companion. They have journeyed far and wide together, and they will do so again.

Hesitant fingers touch the strings, the familiarity of the movements at war with the stiffness in his joints that now besieges him in his later years. It has been some days since last he played, his hands and wrists requiring rest. There is always a moment’s pause when he returns after a recess, the fear that his fingers will stumble and fall as if the skill earned from years of playing has simply vanished overnight. But the fear is never long-lived, dissipating the moment he closes his eyes and plucks the first few notes.

He plays. He sings. The music soars, the ancient Gridanian battlesong resounding to the very roots of the trees. The forest quiets and even the wind holds its breath, as if the whole of the Twelveswood is listening.

But there is one in the audience who is not.

Jehantel slows, drawing out the last phrase to an aching stop in an elongated ritardando. When he cracks open his eyes, he spots her on the far side of the fire—knees drawn into her chest, head crooked into her shoulder—staring absently into the flames. The stew bubbles away, forgotten.

“You are displeased,” he says softly.

His guest looks up. “No, I…” She sighs and passes a hand across her face. “I’m sorry. It’s lovely.”

“Your countenance would say you think otherwise.”

“I don’t, I…” She loosens her grip on her knees and falls back into her cross-legged position. Though he calls her young one, it has not occurred to him until now just how young she is. Old enough to be long out of the unpredictable ebb and flow of young adulthood, but young enough that she still has much to learn, about herself and the world. Just as he did when he was her age. By the Twelve, he may have even been younger than her when his companions were lost and the course of his life was changed forever. “It’s hard for me to hear, that’s all.”

“The lyre? Its notes are not for everyone.”

“No, the…” She grimaces. “The song. All of it.”

He frowns. “Is it perhaps the lyrics that are not to your taste? I once met a fellow who abhorred rhyming schemes. For what reason I know not, but once he learned to avoid the tavern at night, he was gifted with pleasant dreams.”

Not his best work by any stretch, but it serves its purpose. Her lips twitch—another hidden smile—and she quickly looks away, letting her hair fall across her face.

“It’s not that, either,” she says after a moment. “I don’t like… I’ve never enjoyed… I… never mind.” In the growing dim of twilight, she seems an echo of herself, as if lost in a distant memory. For someone so confident she is strangely tongue-tied, unable or unwilling to explain herself further.

A sentiment he understands well.  

“If the music does not speak to you, it does not speak to you,” Jehantel says gently. “There is no shame in that.”

She laughs darkly. “Oh, it speaks. Believe me, it speaks, like the drunkard at the tavern who doesn’t know when to shut up.” Her gaze wanders, sweeping out from their shelter in the great tree to the forest beyond. She follows the scurrying of squirrels as they dart through the underbrush, the flight of a bat as it arcs through the air, the green glow of a wind sprite dancing above tall blades of grass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your playing again. I’m sure if you played for anyone else, they would love it. I know it’s precious to you, like it’s precious to a lot of people. But when I hear music like that, I feel like someone is stabbing me in the head. Soft or loud, it doesn’t matter. I need to scream to blot it out or walk away, otherwise I will well and truly lose my mind. That’s why I can’t accept your offer.”

Shaking her head, she returns her attention to the campfire. It is dying in earnest now, reduced to glowing embers and red hot logs. Cursing under her breath, the stranger rises to her feet and fetches kindling. She tosses it on the blackened remains and kneels down, attempting to blow life back into it. When it fails to catch, she tucks her hair back behind her ears in a businesslike manner and hovers her hand above the embers. A ball of fire-aspected aether appears in her palm, yellow-orange and bursting with energy.

The kindling sparks, the fire roars, and the stew continues to bubble.

“There,” she says happily and sits back on her haunches.

Jehantel surveys her curiously, his lyre lying heavily in his lap. “Perhaps you would find it to be a different case if you took it up on your own volition,” he continues. “There is joy to be found in music and song, yes, but as with most events in life, if it is forced upon you without invitation, then it is more anguish than delight.”

She stares at him, the glow of dancing flames reflected in her ruby eyes. “Jehantel…”

He returns her gaze. “You are no archer of the Archers’ Guild, are you?”

“No, not really. How did you know?”

“You brought foreign herbs where a Gridanian would have harvested from their local garden, you bought meat when you could have hunted your own, you just performed an exemplary example of controlled thaumaturgy without a focus, and—most important of all—your bow is attracting moths, my dear.” He nods at the gleaming weapon lying in the grass. A couple of the small creatures flit about it and bounce off its limbs. “Dare I ask where you obtained it? I imagine the story could make for quite the gallant ballad.”

“I don’t think there’s much gallantry in falling down a hole into underground ruins.”

“Perhaps there would not be, but perhaps there would. Where is your sense of imagination and wonder, young one?”

“I just don’t think it would make a good story!” She blows out a puff of air and grabs the spoon, then returns to stirring the pot. “There isn’t anything interesting about getting lost in a maze and tripping traps.”

“And yet even after your escape, you’ve returned for more.”

“I, well—” She cuts off and raises her head, looking at him sharply.

He smiles. “I am of the Twelveswood, my dear. I recognize a Padjali weapon when I see one. And I have heard more than one tale about what awaits in Gelmorra below, and the Wood Wailers’ call for adventurers.”

She falls silent for a moment. To his surprise, her expression softens and she busies herself with the bubbling stew, giving it one final stir. “Dinner’s ready,” she says quietly, scraping the bottom with the spoon. “I think it may be a little burnt… I may have overdone it when I relit the fire.”

“Dinner with company always tastes better than dinner alone. No matter how burnt.”

The stew is, all things considered, delicious. Though she has said many times she is no cook, it is clear that she knows a thing or two about cooking in the wilderness. She may not be a hunter—at least not by the Gridanian definition—but she is at home in the wilds. The mark of someone who has wandered very far indeed.

“If I may, my dear,” Jehantel ventures after some time. “You are a combatant by nature, yes? Perhaps your aversion to music is simply a dislike of the ballads spun by songsters in taverns and inns. The power of song can enchant and captivate an audience, for certain, but it can be so much more. A talent, a skill to shape the very outcome of conflict.”

He glances at her, watching her closely. Though she pretends to be more captivated by her soup than she is by his speech, she sits with a straightened back and an ear turned towards him. “The archer upon the field can shift the tide of battle. It takes a stalwart and steadfast soul to remain behind, to support the company from the rear and watch as their comrades forge ahead only to fall in bloodied soil. How he must have raged then, watching his fellows fall and unable to look away and abandon his duty lest that moment cost another his life. Such inner turmoil gave rise to action, the only action he could take. In desperation, with his bow as a makeshift instrument, he sang and by the strength of his voice, he gave the gift of spirit to his comrades.”

She scrapes the last of her stew out of the bottom of her bowl. “I know the stories of the minstrel companies,” she says flatly. “I think it’s rubbish.”

He raises an eyebrow. Clearing his throat, he sets his bowl down at his feet and clasps his hands in his lap. “By all means,” he invites, gesturing with a hand.

“You see the power of song as one that invigorates on the battlefield or gives comfort to the dying. Beautiful and well-meaning in theory, but in practice? I know something of war music, Eorzea’s not the only realm to have it. What about the war horns, signalling the moment before the charge? Or the sound of a thousand soldiers marching in formation, more important in number than they are as people. What about the klaxons blaring as a warning when your fortress is breached? Or the same damn music they play in the mess hall every night, lulling you into a stupor so you never think twice, or the processional marches when your unit is paraded on display at the capital as a reminder of the good you’re doing for your nation? The anthems sung, again and again, as a reminder of where you come from and what you are fighting for with no room to question why?”

Her eyes glint as she speaks, the words falling faster and faster until her voice rises in a crescendo. “That was the music I was raised on, Jehantel. And there may be a world of difference from the ballads you sing and the songs I heard as a child, but there is one thing that remains the same. In peace time, it may be pleasant and entertaining, but in times of war? It’s propaganda wrapped in romanticism, making you believe whatever your leaders want you to believe.”

The campfire pops, spitting sparks, the crack echoing off into the distant woods.

Jehantel meets her eyes. “Have you considered, young one, that you are a cynic?”

“Have you considered, old one, that you’re a sentimentalist?”

He chuckles. Oh, to be properly scolded by the sharp tongue of youth.

His guest sets her bowl aside. “Perhaps I can’t stand to hear music in the same way you can’t stand to pick up your bow,” she says solemnly. Her gaze passes behind him, peering through the dark to where his bow rests upright against a tree. “You live in the woods, but you’re no hunter. You have the build of an archer, and yet you can’t bring yourself to draw it. A treasured belonging you bring everywhere because you can’t bear to let go, but it makes you sick to look at it.”

Her words strike true. Guilt twists in his gut, fierce and raw, like wound that will always find a way to rip itself open long after the initial injury. He inhales a sharp breath, the pang of familiar tears stinging in his eyes. Still, he holds steadfast and true, and follows her gaze to the Artemis bow.

“When did it happen?” she asks quietly.

His shoulders sag. “Decades ago,” he replies. “I lost my companions. My comrades. My friends. All in a single night of slaughter.”

“And you left everything you knew behind because of it.”

“Aye. I did. A simple minstrel is all I am now.”

“A simple minstrel in search for lost battlesongs.” Though the remark is pointed, he can hear the soft smile behind it. “You have not forgotten who you are, Jehantel.”

His heart lurches and finally he summons the strength to tear his gaze away from the bow. He finds her watching the fire, warming her hands above the flames. The weight of old grief is plain as day, etched across her face. Were she anyone else he would consider playing her a melody, something to soothe the ache in her heart. But she cannot hear the melody for what it is. In her ears, it is corrupted and twisted, malformed from what it should be.

Just like his remembrance of his bow.

Whatever has caused her grief, it has not carried her away from the fight. If anything, it has pushed her towards it. Steeled her, tempered her. Reforged her anew. That is the adaptability of youth.

He clears his throat. “Young one, if I may,” he says hesitantly. “Why do you find the strength to press on?”

His guest exhales a breath and rises to her feet, brushing grass off her clothes. “Because there’s work to be done and a life to live,” she replies. “And if I stop now, it means that they win.”

Wind whistles through the trees, rustling the canopy above. Night has fallen in earnest now, and the Twelveswood is ever more alive.

“Thank you for the stew,” his guest says, stooping to collect her bow. It gleams in her hand, illuminating her in a soft aura of greenish white as she slings it onto her back. “And the company. I should be going now.”

Jehantel raises a hand as if to say farewell, before a new idea gets the better of him. “My dear, if I may,” he says. “Would you sing a melody of your homeland? I will admit I have a certain amount of curiosity.”

She laughs, hands falling to her sides as she finishes adjusting her bow. “No, Jehantel,” she replies. “Goodnight. And goodbye.”

Out through the clearing the former Garlean agent strides, her footfalls soft as the first spring rains. The light of her bow bobs in the distance, growing smaller and smaller until it vanishes into the darkness of the night.

“Farewell, Mistress Malathar,” Jehantel whispers to the trees, a smile on his face.

A third and final visit. He will not see her again.

[asstroyess]

saw hadestown last night and knew about it except the like basic summary, heres some things that i loved

- Everyone, including orchestra, toasting together

- (Jordan Fisher’s) Orpheus trying to hold (Maia Reficco’) Eurydice’s hand and missing so she had to scramble to grab his hand

- The show just suddenly starting with the entire cast running in, having a good time, and then the story starting as (Stephanie Mills’s) Hermes begins to narrate and Orpheus and Eurydice run out and back in. Really showed how this is just a tale they tell over and over again

- (Tara Jackson’s) Persephone’s entire drunk dance

- When (Philip Boykin’s) Hades gave Persephone a flower the entire audience aww-ed,

- Hades’s crazy deep voice, literally shook my bones

- The Ensemble, in general (especially during scene where finally able to see, all their individual reactions were unique and lowkey made me emotional)

-Orpheus, Hades (and maybe Persephone) harmonizing quickly during a ‘laalalala’ lyric

- Every single time Orpheus sang any version of Epic and all the lights lit up as the ensemble joined, seriously I felt I was seeing into heaven

- The lighting immersing you far into the world with blinding light, absolute darkness, sudden flashes onto characters, etc.

- The stage suddenly just opening up even more??? like what?? and it spinning and going up and down and omg whoever designed this stage is a genius

- the subtle fourth wall breaks that feel like their really speaking right to you

- Persephone death-glaring at Hades from behind Orpheus and Eurydice when he’s deciding whether or not to let them go

- the costume design

- Orpheus just suddenly running in from the audience like two feet away from me

- Hermes both narrating and also being a big part of the story, the one who raises Orpheus and tells him how to get to the Underworld, also being an entire vibe

- (Jessie Shelton, Brit West, KC Dela Cruz’s) The Fates being huge bullies and having a fantastic time doing so

- Everyone singing so beautifully, I know this is a Broadway show, but still!! The harmonies, the solos, the duets, the polyphony’s, going from singing so softly to having a sudden rasp or becoming loud

- Persephone singing a song with Orpheus on the guitar at the end of bows

[cliozaur]

- This chapter reads like a patchwork, taking us into the realm of memory and archives. It's an intriguing blend of the expectations and preparations for the riot, interwoven with recollections of these preparations as past events. Hugo employs an effective strategy to convey the mass nature of the event—through the polyphony of conversations, diverse locations, and participants. Some scenes may seem familiar—the way secret societies are presented bears resemblance to what we've already learned about Les Amis. However, the crucial point is that they were not the sole ones; not absolutely unique.

- Then, Hugo delves into "the archives," describing the material remnants left from that period: "There was nothing but words, transparent yet vague—sometimes idle reports, rumors, hearsay." These involve police agents' reports and remnants of enigmatic inscriptions on pieces of paper that can still be deciphered. Hugo painstakingly reproduces these fragments. I was truly impressed by the plethora of police reports Hugo provides as evidence of the seriousness and extensive scale of the preparatory work.

- Another astounding aspect is the omnipresence of weapons and discussions revolving around them. Even children's discoveries during their games are documented in police reports: “In a ditch on the boulevard, between Père-Lachaise and the Barrière du Trône, at the most deserted spot, some children, while playing, discovered beneath a mass of shavings and refuse bits of wood, a bag containing a bullet-mould, a wooden punch for the preparation of cartridges, a wooden bowl, in which there were grains of hunting-powder, and a little cast-iron pot whose interior presented evident traces of melted lead.” Countless other stories narrate the preparation and concealment of weaponry. The uprising was conceived as a violent revolt from its very inception.

- The working class, alongside educated stump orators and members of secret societies, fuels the preparations. Nonetheless, the bourgeoisie endeavors to insinuate itself into the process by posing inquiries: “They said: “How is the rising coming along?” in the same tone in which they would have said: “How is your wife?”” and by (sometimes) proposing their weapons.

- Concluding the chapter, Hugo conjures an image of the "savages of civilization" (an oxymoron)—individuals aspiring to elevated ideals yet pursuing them through violent means: “They demanded light with the mask of night.” They yearned for light while shrouded in the veil of night." And then we encounter their antithesis—pleasant, smiling individuals who “insist gently on demeanor and the preservation of the past, of the Middle Ages, of divine right, of fanaticism, of innocence, of slavery, of the death penalty, of war, glorifying in low tones and with politeness, the sword, the stake, and the scaffold.” These are much worse than “the savages,” “barbarians of civilization,” because they are “the civilized men of barbarism.” And in the last sentences Hugo distances himself from any form of violence: “Neither despotism nor terrorism. We desire progress with a gentle slope,” and he is placing great hope in god’s will in this question. Interesting but not very effective.

[bivouacrecording]

60 Minute Cities: Mexico City

Listen to the collection / Read the album booklet

Buy this album

I first arrived in Mexico in 2009 to work with the visual-artist Francis Alys / I just met him a few months ago on a shoot in Morocco and Spain / I was living at his workshop; a small flat on the top of the house with a big balcony / It was in the historic center of Mexico City, behind the Zocalo (main square), right behind the tourist areas / It's the quietest part of the city at night and is extremely 'soundy' (noisy for others) during the day / Street sellers are the main sound sources of the polyphony / After that, I first traveled a few times a year to Mexico, principally to work with Francis, but also just to be there- to live in the city or travel in the country / I moved my 'base' there at the end of 2012. I’m still living in the center, but in another area and am still trying to discover new places and new sounds in this huge city //

All recordings and Photos by Felix Blume

Artist Bio:

Félix Blume (Narbonne, France, 1984) is a sound artist and sound engineer / He currently works and lives between Mexico, France and Belgium / His personal work is based on field-recordings using sound as a basic material, in sound pieces, videos, actions and installations / He works with communities in the public space / In his pieces, he blurs the line between sounds and music by changing noise in sounds that eventually sheds a new light on the perception of the surrounding sounds / The particularity of his work is that the audio and visual aspects are closely intertwined / As a sound collector, he has a large sound library recorded from different parts of the world that he freely shares on the Internet / He has participated in exhibitions in Spain, Mexico, Chile, France, Germany and Belgium / His sound pieces were broadcasted in galleries and radios from all over the world / His work Los Gritos de México was granted the “Pierre Schaeffer” prize in the French festival Phonurgia / His work as sound engineer focus on sound recording and sound design for documentaries, feature films and video art, collaborating with different directors and visual artists as Francis Alÿs among others //

www.felixblume.com

/ Read about the 60 Minute Cities Project /

[wrooom]

Porsche 911 GT3 RS 

By At1503

[asphuxia]

/ * SOUL SONG.

dancer mastery drabble.

There had once been a time when the princess of life had danced, endlessly, happy, and carefree– not a single sorrow or agony.

Ymir had been a realm so vibrant, every other sound a colourful melody; the polyphony of birdsong, the joy of her people, the rippling current of the realm’s springs. During the day, the realm basked in the golden glow of the sun, nothing escaping each ray of light. And in the night, stars enveloped the world— each streaking across the dark expanse overhead, as though kindled sparks chasing capriciously after the other. It is a realm unlike any other, of boundless magic and beginnings, all written at the very heart of the world tree.

With each step she takes, life rises to meet the princess; flowers bloom to catch her feet, grass sprouting to soften her step. Ahead of her, Ymir’s shining face beams. The arms of the goddess are wide open, inviting as the smile upon her face, as loving as the realm itself. Eir’s legs stumble in her excitement, joy overruling her patience and composure— she nearly sends herself tumbling into the springs before a hand comes to wrap around her waist, lifting her upright.

Then, that song of life reaches her ears. It is beautiful— a melody ever-changing, a fate constantly rewritten. The young heir’s lip twitches, blossoming into a deeply felt happiness across her face. A giggle escapes her when she is guided by familiar hands, finding herself standing on another’s feet. Ivory tresses shade her from the sun’s glare, and Eir does not have to think to know who it is. Soft hands wrap around her own, leading her in their shared dance; the princess surrenders herself freely.

“Oh!” Her mother’s feet carry her with ease; one step after the other, with her own soft, atop them– left, right, left, right. Eir feels herself lifted up by strong arms, white dress billowing in the air. She twirls, wind against her face and hair fluttering in the breeze. White wings spread to envelop her, each feather soft upon her skin— oh, how the blood of dragons within sings. It is a chorus of joy before she finally reunites with the ground. “Heehee…!”

“Again,” she grins, smiling from ear to ear. She knows this dance well; in the gentle moonlight, her mother would perform every step. Graceful as a swan, delicate as a flower; Ymir’s people would look on, encompassed by the sight of their ruler. She was a reverent sight, something truly breathed life into by the divine. Eir could only hope to succeed her in a measure they would both be proud of.

It is their land’s sacred dance she learns, after all— a symbol of their divinity; one the queen passes onto her daughter before she yet knows to walk. It begins with the realm’s song, is sung by its ruler’s heart, and performed by the royal’s dance. Gently, Eir twirls to mimic her mother; each step slower and clumsier in its mirrored form. But she tries, nevertheless.

… Oh, how she longs to hear life’s song again. To sing it from her very soul.

… To dance with all the love her mother had sacrificed, if only that her daughter might live.

But eventually, the illusion fades, and the princess is left staring at Fódlan’s stars— distant and static, in a sea of darkness. And that wish remains all that it is: merely a wish.

[luthien-under-bough]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @torrefaction-of-silver to share an excerpt from a WIP. After focusing solely on Dragon Age: Inquisition for daily June prompts, I'm excited to pick up my Horizon Zero Dawn fics again.

This is a snippet from an Aloy/Avad story, set some vague time post-canon (no HFW spoilers), where Avad tends to Aloy's wounds whenever she returns to Meridian. The idea for this story was inspired by my lovely fellow Alvad enjoyer, @chronic-ghost. THIS ONE'S FOR YOU GURL. 😘

The night is quiet.

There are no brawls drawing the city guards from their perches, no rowdy Oseram staggering through the streets, no bawdy songs rising above the taverns. From the towers of the palace, only a few flickering lights stand out among the darkness—a sleepy sprawl, blinking away the remaining cares of the day.

A city at peace.

And yet, Sun-King Avad knows that while the night may be quiet, it is never silent.

These past years of waiting and listening have attuned Avad’s ears to the intricate after-dark polyphony. Insects chirring, birds chirping and screeching into the inky night sky. He can hear the subtle differences: the dry scrape of a lizard’s claws darting across the stone, compared to the slow drag of a vulture’s talon, heavier and full of malice. The rapid beating of a crow's wings to the steady glide of a hawk. A skittering rat to a frolicking squirrel.

It’s unfathomable, now, that he ever thought the night could be silent.

She’s been gone for weeks.

It’s nothing new, of course—she’s always coming and going. It’s part of what he loves about her, after all. She wouldn’t be Aloy if she wasn’t drifting in and out of Meridian, in and out of his life, like a summer breeze.

But what reassures him is summer, inevitably, always returns.

And so does she.

[aishangotome]

Main Story S2 Chapter 4 Polyphony Ending: A Withering Daffodil (凋亡的水仙) | Light and Night 光與夜之戀

S2 Chapter 4 Dreamland

Witness's Story

Rejection is not the end; it is only the beginning.

The afternoon office hours were making her drowsy. Thirty years of day-in, day-out work had passed, and a month after stopping her medication, her heart finally no longer ached faintly.

She could have enjoyed this dull afternoon, but the blue folder on her desk made her sleepiness vanish without a trace.

Several days ago, she had encountered that young doctor named Charlie downstairs in her company.

Saying "encountered" wasn't quite accurate; the other party had clearly come prepared.

Holding a record of a post that should have disappeared long ago, Charlie asked her if she had noticed the side effects of the drug DEA and had ever tried to report them to the relevant departments.

"I've also discovered this, and there's a theoretical basis for it,"

He said--

"But information alone isn't enough. I'm preparing to hold a press conference to attract public attention."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Would you be willing to attend as a witness?"

She remembered his eyes, purple, like clear crystals in the sunlight, with a hint of a smile.

They were also filled with the fearlessness and courage of some idealistic martyr.

He said---

"I've thought about many more subtle ways to ask, but this way should still be the best."

Yes, this way was still the best. But she still shook her head and denied it.

"That post doesn't exist, and DEA doesn't have any side effects," she replied.

Her tone and expression must have revealed something -- for example, that her denial wasn't firm, and the other party had keenly noticed it.

Since that day, the young doctor often appeared around her, so much so that her colleagues jokingly said that she had found romance in her fifties, with a handsome young man waiting for her at the door after work.

Romance? She couldn't help but admire her colleagues' overactive imaginations.

Couldn't they see that this legendary handsome young man would occasionally hold two popsicles while waiting, sharing them with a pretty young woman beside him?

When she came out, the pretty young woman would always smile at her shyly, and the handsome young man would raise his hand and greet her cheerfully.

She had criticized his recklessness and earnestly told him not to hold naïve ideals of executing justice.

In her opinion, any action by this young doctor would ultimately sink without a trace, or worse, be like a moth drawn to a flame.

What's more, why would the public believe him? Just based on those documents and a few scattered witnesses?

"It doesn't matter."

Charlie shrugged, seemingly not caring whether people believed him or not.

"What I want is for the press conference to be held."

All he wanted was to draw everyone's attention to DEA once.

Seeing that she still had no intention of yielding, Charlie didn't press further.

He only said one last sentence---

"At least within the scope of your influence, persuade your relatives and friends to reduce their use of DEA. Its side effects are even more serious than what was mentioned in the post."

He didn't seem disappointed. It was a kind-hearted piece of advice. She thought she could accept it.

Her gaze fell back to the desk. The blue folder had been opened at some point, revealing a thick stack of materials inside.

Countless experiments, analyses, and verifications showed how much effort the person who wrote this material had put in.

The young doctor's words echoed in her ears again and again. Finally, she picked up her phone and dialed the number on the black and gold business card.

One last time, she thought. Let her be a brave and fearless person once more.

-

Dr. He's Story

He knew clearly that he was stepping into the abyss.

As people age, they tend to recall many things from the past. Recently, Dr. He often thought of the scene when the Zha family left Guangqi.

Charlie was only five years old, but he was already very sure he wanted to be a doctor, even though he didn't seem to understand what a doctor was.

His hand trembling, he habitually took out a pill and put it in his mouth, then reluctantly picked up his water glass.

During this process, he kept telling himself that this abnormality was just due to fatigue and would get better soon.

The warm water went down his throat, and the pill disappeared into his mouth.

Almost simultaneously, a familiar, persistent voice rang in Dr. He's mind --

"Heart problems are just one of the side effects; there are many others..."

Persistent was a very fitting label for Charlie.

This persistence was reflected in his doctor's benevolence and also in his tireless investigation.

The last time he saw Charlie was at the hospital entrance.

At that time, Charlie had just come out of the operating room, swallowed a pill, and with a slight bow of his head, saw Charlie passing by in a hurry through the window.

"He's lost weight." He looked at the noticeably haggard figure, shaking his head and sighing.

If he wasn't mistaken, that face must be covered in dust and fatigue now, and his eyes must be bloodshot.

He was still running around for the "truth."

Old He was momentarily dazed. When he came back to his senses, the trembling in his hand had subsided. The medicine had taken effect.

But a pair of sharp purple eyes seemed to appear before him, their gaze clear, without any redness, and without a smile, only disappointment.

Scenes of the two of them performing surgery together also surfaced one by one, the casual yet respectful "Master" and "Old He" echoing in his ears.

Actually, he didn't need these memories to remind him.

No matter when, he could never forget his original intention for inviting Charlie, nor could he deny Charlie's obsession with "saving people."

This was what a doctor should do, but the prerequisite was to have the identity of a "doctor," and he was about to lose everything.

Now that things had come to this, he had no way back. He even knew clearly that he was stepping into the abyss.

.....

Charlie's voice was close at hand, his tone betraying fatigue but also relaxed and natural. He could tell that Charlie was happy for him.

He gave a vague "hmm," hesitated for a few seconds, then turned around and awkwardly changed the subject, his hand unconsciously reaching into the pocket of his white coat.

-

Zha Zhao Peng's Story

He knew his child was strong.

The five minutes he stood in front of the French windows were rare moments for Zha Zhao Peng when he thought of nothing.

Outside the window, the sky was clear and bright, but the various media platforms were far from peaceful.

The news of the Novaten Pharmaceutical heir's disappearance in the DEA warehouse fire was rampant, with speculation, sympathy, and gloating voices abound.

"Sir, should we cancel today's meeting?"

Ji Xiu asked as usual, with dark circles under his eyes.

He remembered clearly that the last time such a major change occurred was twenty-three years ago, and the master had canceled a whole month's work. Perhaps the current Zha family also needed time to breathe.

Zha Zhao Peng withdrew his gaze from the distance and looked at Ji Xiu, neither sad nor angry.

"No need to cancel."

He paused, then asked,

"How much longer until he arrives?"

"About five minutes."

Zha Zhao Peng nodded and sat back down at his desk. The computer screen was still on the news reports and on-site photos of the fire.

Fire, disappearance—he was familiar with all of this, just as he was familiar with the person he was about to meet.

Five minutes later, the minister arrived. Zha Zhao Peng, with just the right amount of sadness and the dullness that sadness brought, finalized the subsequent cooperation on DEA with him.

As the meeting was drawing to a close, the minister paused and sighed with heartfelt grief.

"My condolences, Old Zha. I watched that child grow up too. If you need anything, I'll provide all the help I can."

Not too much sorrow, just the right amount of sincerity—politicians were the best actors.

Zha Zhao Peng had gotten used to this performance more than a decade ago and knew that there was no point in feeling disgusted by it.

So he nodded silently, thanking the other party. The minister's performance received its feedback. He stood up, ready to leave.

But just then, Zha Zhao Peng behind him spoke again.

"Speaking of which, don't you also have a child who's about the same age as Charlie?"

The minister shook his head.

"Old Zha, you're not in a suitable state to talk about this right now. Get some rest."

"Not suitable? Perhaps. Twenty-three years ago, I was much better off than I am now, because there was still Charlie."

"He was a strong child. After the fire department found him, he was critically ill several times, but he still survived."

"But I don't know if all children are like that."

But I don't know if your child is like that.

....

Those snake-like eyes seemed to look right through him, towards his child.

-

Wang Shou's Story

Recklessness was the only path to becoming king.

Before meeting that supreme being, he had been in a strange state for a long time.

Without desire, without demand, without love, and even more so without hatred. He wandered aimlessly day after day, in the underworld. Together with all those who had been abandoned by the annals of history, the fallen ones, he wandered in the underworld.

And "above"?... To him, it was just a distant word, a past that had lost its meaning.

He had thought he would continue to wander like this until space itself disappeared and time was exhausted.

But fate seemed to still favor him, bringing him before that being.

He didn't know how long the other had been there, but it must have been longer than his own eternity.

And in that long span of time, He had always maintained a strong emotion for the world above, like hatred, and like ambition.

That intense emotion also enveloped him, reawakening his desire to be an emperor.

Meaning returned to him, and everything on the surface, everything in the past, even his own name, he remembered.

He recalled how the spirited young general had fought for him on all sides, and how he had turned against him. He remembered how his empire had been destroyed in an instant, and how he had died, his country perished, becoming a forgotten failure in history.

He extended an invitation to him, asking him to return to the battlefield and conquer, to bring the world above back into his grasp. He readily agreed.

He began to prepare for this day after day, no matter how long it took, he would wait.

Undisturbed by external forces, unmoved by material things, only then could he shoulder the great affairs of the world.

Now, that day was about to arrive. He had found the girl's unparalleled power. The supreme being had also seen the man with the black wings.

He did not yet know how He would use him, but in any case, everything foreshadowed a very good beginning.

-

Charlie's POV

Before the DEA warehouse fire.

Charlie arrived at the laboratory. Without any pleasantries or preamble, he directly handed a piece of paper filled with writing to Kellerman.

Kellerman: You solved the last set of formulas?

The stark white light of the laboratory shone on the paper. The handwriting looked so faint it felt unreal, just like Charlie's mental state.

Kellerman saw the dark circles under his eyes. Without asking, he knew that Charlie hadn't rested for several days in a row.

Charlie: I can't stay here for too long. If anything comes up, find me at the Ritz bar.

Charlie: The first-generation DEA side effect antidote will take at least five more days to complete development. I'll be there during these days.

Kellerman: Can't you just go back to Guangqi? Charlie, you need to rest.

Charlie silently curved his lips into a smile but didn't say anything. He just shook his head, his purple eyes slightly closed, as if trying to suppress the longing and attachment that welled up in his heart.

Charlie: Once the antidote is complete, I'll trouble you to dismiss everyone.

Kellerman: You're shutting down the lab?

Charlie: Just consider it a long vacation. Stay on standby at home.

Kellerman: Be careful.

Kellerman was about to turn back to his experiment when the corner of his eye caught a "green" shadow. He turned his head and noticed that Charlie was carrying a bag full of avocados.

Kellerman: Aren't you allergic to avocados? You never even eat avocado salad at gatherings. Why are you buying so many today?

Charlie blinked innocently, his eyes filled with confusion and a hint of barely perceptible mischief.

Charlie: Really? You must be mistaken. Avocado is my favorite.

He finished speaking and turned to leave, even his wave looking very natural and unrestrained. Kellerman couldn't help but raise his hand and scratch his head.

-

People were coming and going on the street. Charlie walked through the crowd carrying the bag, feeling a sense of being lost in time.

Several years ago, he was also like this, carrying avocados and weaving through the crowds on the same street.

It was just that back then, he was fully disguised, afraid of meeting anyone familiar who would know the difference between him and his brother: his older brother was allergic to avocados, while the younger brother loved them.

But that day, he was so incredibly craving them, craving them so much that nothing he did could alleviate the desire for avocados. So in the end, he still went out to the supermarket.

It was close to closing time at the supermarket, and only one box of premium avocados remained. There were ordinary ones, of course, but he didn't like those.

Charlie: There's still some left.

He reached out expectantly, but just as his fingers touched the edge of the box, another hand gripped the other side.

He thought he was a gentleman and should gracefully let go. But he didn't.

Girl: You can have them.

The girl opposite him let go first. By the time Charlie came back to his senses, she had already disappeared. He didn't even have a chance to thank her.

But fate is a wonderful thing. He ran into her again at the supermarket entrance. She was carrying large and small bags from the supermarket and got into a car.

Probably tourists traveling with friends? Through the receding car window, he clearly saw the girl and her friends laughing and playing, looking happy and carefree.

For some reason, he stood there for quite a while, watching the car full of happiness drive further and further away, before finally taking his avocados and hiding in a hotel room to devour them all.

In just over ten minutes, he seemed to have felt the girl's heartfelt happiness and freedom.

Thinking of this, the corners of Charlie's mouth involuntarily turned up slightly. He stopped at the intersection where that car had driven away years ago, the girl's face vaguely overlapping with that of another person who haunted his dreams.

.

.

.

.

.

Charlie - Embracing the Inferno (投奔烈火)

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[burlveneer-music]

Joe Fiedler’s Open Sesame - Fuzzy and Blue - my WVUD pal Ako turned me on to this last night, a trombone-led quintet doing Sesame Street songs! (Oh, and Fiedler actually works on Sesame Street!)

In 2019 trombonist Joe Fiedler released Open Sesame, packed with inventive jazz readings of material drawn from his longstanding “day job” as an EMMY-nominated music director and staff arranger for the famed children’s show Sesame Street. The effort was equally beloved by lay listeners and the jazz world alike. DownBeat praised the music’s “diverse aesthetic,” in which Fiedler blends “elements of funk, rock, free-jazz and New Orleans polyphony into a potent mix that gives depth and texture to the lighthearted compositions.” When Fiedler and the band toured the music, including a stop at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola with guest luminaries Wynton Marsalis and none other than Elmo himself, the realization set in that the project would be no one-off. “I have these songbooks from the Sesame Street office,” Fiedler says, “and if you whip through the first 30 tunes, absolutely everyone knows them. But there are six or seven thousand songs they’ve done over the past 50 years, with plenty of gold in there to do a second album for sure.” Fuzzy and Blue, Fiedler’s second volume of Sesame Street songs, shines still more light on the extraordinary wit and melodic gift of the foundational Sesame Street composers Joe Raposo and Jeffrey Moss, among others. The album boasts the same top-tier lineup as Open Sesame, with a couple of twists. Trumpeter Steven Bernstein, who played on only part of Open Sesame, now becomes an integral cog in a nimble three-horn section, expanding and varying the palette and allowing Fiedler to bring his seasoned orchestration skills to the foreground. Reedman Jeff Lederer plays tenor and clarinet and relies more heavily on soprano sax this time out, helping achieve the ideal blend of colors and registers that Fiedler was seeking. Drummer Michael Sarin and bassist Sean Conly keep the rhythms locked and creatively churning, from the Dr. John/Professor Longhair vibe of “Fuzzy and Blue” to the reggae feel of “Elmo’s Song” (by Tony Geiss), to the Hugh Masekela-inspired Afropop of “Ladybug’s Picnic” (originally a peppy country novelty by the late William “Bud” Luckey). The ensemble also gets a visit from vocal powerhouse Miles Griffith, the very model of a guest on Sesame Street. On the “I Love Trash/C Is for Cookie” melange (a one-two shot of Moss and Raposo), Griffith’s singing is unabashed, larger than life, uproariously funny but insightful and firmly in control. He’s equally compelling in a sociopolitical vein on “I Am Somebody,” in which Fiedler combines an original song with the lyrics of Reverend William Holmes Borders — words recited to powerful effect on Sesame Street in 1972 by Reverend Jesse Jackson. Fiedler felt a need on Fuzzy and Blue to acknowledge social tumult at the close of the Trump presidency and the still-tentative aftermath of the COVID pandemic. “We Are All Earthlings,” a gentle and idyllic Jeffrey Moss folk ballad from 1993, accomplishes this as well, though Fiedler brings a stark added tension with his Stravinsky-esque horn voicings. Throughout the album there’s an atmosphere of fun, “a sense of burlesque” as Fiedler put it in the Open Sesame liner notes, that flows from the trombonist’s deep love of Ray Anderson, the Jazz Passengers, Carla Bley and other major influences. Steven Bernstein’s Sexmob is another. The improvisational openness and risk of Fiedler’s trio dates Sacred Chrome Orb, The Crab, I’m In and Joe Fiedler Plays the Music of Albert Mangelsdorff also carry over to this more song-oriented endeavor. Fuzzy and Blue, like its predecessor, is Fiedler’s way of bringing it all together, reminding himself and all of us that inspiration can and does come from everywhere, and that everything is connected.

[myreia]

✦ multifandom | fanfic & art | screenshots

final fantasy, dragon age, fire emblem: three houses, baldur’s gate, dragon's dogma 2, elden ring, cosmere, clair obscur: expedition 33, the occasional star wars, & a few other interests. my blog runs on a queue!

• ao3 • writing masterlist • writing tag • my art • oc tag • oc art (gifts/commissions) • fic recs

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✦ ffxiv

—aureia malathar [she/her] | character tag

warrior of light. ex-garlean operative. combat specialist. mage. either making up for the past or burying her trauma six fulms deep, there is no in-between.

• expacs are tagged by expac name (not consistent, but I try!) • this blog is not spoiler free for a realm reborn to endwalker • no dawntrail spoilers or news, please and thank you!

—projects

• febhyurary 2024 • wolcred week 2024 • level 90 compendium

• ffxivwrites 2024: sketches of times lost — collection, many ships, many genres, see table of contents for ratings & tags (includes f/f, m/f & gen fics) — tumblr tag | masterpost • wolmeric week 2025: the crux of me & you — anthology, 7 stories set between a realm reborn and stormblood 4.5 — tumblr tag | masterpost

—recent fics

• guiding night — alisaie & wol friendship, background alisaie x tesleen | death, grief and loss | general | 3,633 word [complete] • silver linings, hearts of gold — serendipity & wol friendship | light-hearted, humour | teen | 3,172 words [complete] • all the spaces in-between — wolmeric | romance, smut, linkpearl sex | explicit | 5,245 words [complete] • halcyon's end — ryne x gaia | hurt/comfort, young love, set during endwalker | teen | 4 chapters | 9,065 words [complete] • polyphony at twilight — wol & jehantel | music, war veterans, angst | general | 3,103 words [complete]

• 18+ only. may occasionally be explicit • my pronouns are she/they • answered asks are under answered! • feel free to interact/collab (even if we're not mutuals!), I love hearing from people <3 • mutuals can message me for my discord <3 • if you need something tagged, please let me know!

[spaceintruderdetector]

Dreamscenes 1-4 / four hours of ambient music

https://archive.org/details/Ambientblog_DreamScenes

pt1-

Biosphere – Chamber – Insomnia

Laurie Anderson – Bright Red – Bright Red / Tightrope

Laswell / Hosono / Harris – Main Dream – Alien Ambient Galaxy

Steve Roach – Early Dawn – Early Man

Sara Ayers – A Moment Passing – MP3.com

DreamState – Floating/Dreaming – Linger [MP3.com]

Jocelyn Montgomery / David Lynch – Flame and Vision – Lux Vivens

Kit Clayton – Nuchu – ~scape,

Arvo Pärt – Spiegel im Spiegel – Alina

Brian Eno – Old Brompton Road, feb. 20 – Music for the White Cube

Luc Ferrari – Music Promenade (1969) – Ohm – Gurus of Electronic Music

Jon Hassell – Dream Theory – Dream Theory (in Malay)

Farfield – Ascent – Glastonbury 2000 – [MP3.com]

Dave Stafford – Willing Participation in the Dream – [MP3.com]

Thomas Koener / TT Wipp – Measurait la Force – Sonic Boom

Russell Mills / Ian Walton – Mantle – Sonic Boom

Stina Nordenstamm – Come to Me – People are Strange

AV911 – Evening Rain Storm – [MP3.com]

Christina Kubisch – Sechs Spiegel, Sechs Spiegel

Yonderboi – Sinking Slowly – Shallow and Profound

pt2-

Hassell / Arreguin / Muhoberac / Freeman – Amsterdam Blue (Cortege) – Million Dollar Hotel OST

Bill Laswell – Broken Dream – Ambient Compendium

Paul Lansky – 6 Fantasies on a poem by Thomas Campion: Her Song (1978) – OHM – Gurus of Electronic Music

Rachel’s Handwriting – Full on Night, Full on Night Obscurio – Flow – [MP3.com]

Russell Mills – A Swoon in Amber – Pearl + Umbra

Rothko – Suddenly Becomes Light – [MP3.com]

Steve Roach – Begins Looking Skyward – Early Man

Scanner – Ground Veil – [MP3.com]

John Surman – A Monastic Calling – Absalom Dawe

SAO – Evening Fire on Mimosa Ridge – [MP3.com]

Robert Ashley – Automatic Writing (1979) – OHM – Gurus of Electronic Music

Thomas Koener / Max Eastley – In Concert – Sonic Boom

Robyn Schulkowsky / Nils Petter Molvaer – Hastening Westward VII – Hastening Westward

Maryanne Amacher – Living Sound, Patent Pending (1979) – OHM – Gurus of Electronic Music

Jamuud – Sayan – Niskala

Paul Bowles / Bill Laswell – Baptism of Solitude – Baptism of Solitude

Sheila Chandra – AboneCroneDrone 1 – AboneCroneDrone

Stuart Dempster – Melodic Communion – Underground Overlays in the Cistern Chapel

pt3-

Biosphere – Le Grand Dôme – Cirque

Fred Szymansky – It’s Hard to Know – A Storm of Drones

Giles Reaves – Toward the One – [MP3.com]

Michel Redolfi – Palm Canyon – A Swarm of Drones

Umlaut Soundscapes – The Sarcophagus part One – [MP3.com]

Eliane Radigue – Mila’s Journey – Inspired by a Dream

Kudsi Erguner – Suheyla

Steve Roach / Thupten Pema Lama – Prayers to the Protector(instrumental) – Prayer to the Protector

Sara Ayers – Strand of Pearls – [MP3.com]

Startled Insects – Lifepulse – Lifepulse

Laurie Anderson – Tightrope – Bright Red / Tightrope

Laswell / Hosono / Harris – Main Dream – Alien Ambient Galaxy

A Silver Mt. Zion – 13 Angels Standing Guard around the Side – He has left us alone

Brian Eno – Camden Town, feb 24 – White Cube

Hector Zazou – Notte – Les Nouvelles Polyphonies Corses

pt4-

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan – Sea of Vapours – Mustt Mustt

Zero Ohms – Power of Nothingness – [MP3.com]

Bill Laswell / Michael J. Harris – Distal Sonority – Ambient Compendium

DreamState – PM Landscape 1 – [MP3.com]

Tim Gerwing – Chikatetsu – [MP3.com]

SAO – Grassland – [MP3.com]

Thomas Koener – Permafrost – Permafrost

Christina Kubisch – Oase 2000 – Sonic Boom

Vidna Obmana – Evening Chorus (gamelan 2) – Anthology Part One 1992-1994

Ronu Majumdar – A Day for Trade Winds – Hollow Bamboo

Brian Eno – Kentish Town, jan 29 – White Cube

Brian Eno – Barbican Station, feb 24 – White Cube

David Hayden – Calling the Spirit of the Canyon – [MP3.com]

Zero Ohms – Radha Shabda – [MP3.com]

Russell Mills – Heaven Dips – Pearl + Umbra

Faultline – Mystery Track – Closer Colder

David Darling – Dawn – Dark Wood

Godspeed You Black Emperor – The Buildings they are sleeping – Raise your hands…

Sara Ayers – Night Hounds – [MP3.com]

Olivier Messiaen – Oraison (1937) – OHM – Gurus of Electronic Music

Steve Reich – Interior of the Cave – The Cave

[aioba1503-sdm]

Please, Please, Please Go Check Out The Beautiful and Inspiring Music Linked In This Post! Please!

Listen As You Read

Piece: The Arched Window by MidiMusic

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7mJzTkc5rc

The arched window of the library shows me so many things. The light shining through shows not just the children and my love outside, but my memories. Some make me cry, others make me smile. To get to this moment of time, I've lost so much. But I've gained so much, and I've been able to keep so much. I will miss those friends and family. I've always missed them. Since the second they disappeared from my life. I miss everything, especially the laughter. But the memories always remind of how proud I am. Of how proud I should be. I am proud. Life is finally something for me to enjoy. I'm proud of that.

Listen As You Read

Piece: Classical Music - #1 by MidiMusic

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zm_Y_5AKhvw

The dance is getting more intense...Is it ever going to stop? I don't think my legs can carry on much longer. I hope it stops soon. But I don't want it to stop! I want to keep dancing! That's all I ever feel like doing! Why won't my legs just let me carry on dancing?

Listen As You Read

Piece: Polyphony by MidiMusic

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOpLXK_otyg

All these questions. All these answers. But none of them match! Can I make them match? Or will they get mad at me again? It's so fun asking new questions, and making new answers, even if they don't fit. I'll just keep asking until I get an answer and a question that finally match! Or should I go through the questions and answers I already have and see if any of those match up? No, just keep asking questions and making answers.

Listen As You Read

Piece: Pondering by MidiMusic

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRX8V5Dl7eM&t=6s

Sitting by a lake, watching the people, but not really watching. The person next to me is talking, and I'm listening. Am I listening to them though? Perhaps I'm only listening to me. I believe I'm thinking, but what am I thinking about? I feel nostalgia creeping through me in a comforting way, but what am I feeling nostalgia for? And, is this really what my voice sounds like? Or have I come up with a new voice that I use, but I will only hear it coming from me? What is that person saying again? The only thing I'm very certain of, is that I'm smiling for some reason. But what is that reason? Why am I smiling?

Listen As You Read

Piece: Am Anfang (In The Beginning) by Zulaski Kaitzo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbkKSiIHpqE

If I can just reach the door before the music ends, I can escape from these retched creatures. They will not kill me! Not today! Not in this life, or the next, or the many more after that! I will not allow it! I just have to keep dancing. Wait! Why has the music changed? No! I’m going the wrong way! They’re trying to lead me away from the door! I’ll just have to be more clever. Another change! I’m running out of energy. My legs are starting to feel more like lead than my own skin and blood. No! I have to stay dancing! I have to outsmart these vile things. They will not have me! Never! Almost there. Just a few more turns before the ending and I can escape! Now’s my only chance! If I don’t leave before it ends, I will not survive the rest of this night. The door slams shut, and I feel my legs collapse. I’m free.

Listen As You Read

Piece: Arrival of the Hero by Batikan Iscan

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gL7vUIB4yZk

I don’t have an actual short story for this piece yet, but it definitely inspired me enough to have a rough layout of the story. I think I might even use this for the book I’m working on!

The hero has been disgraced and has gone into hiding. After finding out that someone very important to them has been taken by their archenemy, the disgraced hero goes to save them. The hero keeps fighting, but it's getting harder because their self doubt and dark memories are getting to them, distracting them, giving the enemy more and more chances to attack. When the hero thinks that they can't go on, the hero's friends, that they thought they lost forever, help them carry on (physically or mentally).

Listen As You Read

Piece: The Pack Hunts As One by Batikan Iscan

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4JYG4xtHXw

No one is left behind. No one is to go ahead. If one is taken, we fight to get them back. The pack is one. No hunt will be continued until a member has rested. The pack is family. The pack hunts as one.

Please, please, please make sure to check out all of these amazing piece by these three amazing composers. I love all of these pieces, especially since they gave me a bit of a creative boost. The composer of Am Anfang actually suggested me trying an animation of it and it seems like a fun thing to try! And of course, all the credit for these beautiful pieces of music go to their respectiv creators and owners!

[infinitesplinters]

The Heavy Earth Will Wash Us Away With Her Tears

Into place was a moon upon a river I am sunk soon to render judgment onto my feeling of scraping along the carpet for my face. There was no real polyphony, the sound of screaming into shells. Another last chance goodbye through the reflected light made terroriscent by knowing the limits that this perceptive humanness, disease of myself, must contain & ascribe. Person vision tight, a hobby of playing the harp and having to go before it’s time. Reading this & not. Meet the outrage of my knees, they are wrinkled & dry from too much wind. A half clasped desire to be free. Someone mistook the scars for a bruise again. It is gone even though I can’t believe, you’re raining down the violence of truth, calling it a look around: here I am, wet & afraid, alive, looking to the dark sky. What doesn’t break begins, what breaks has become, sending sentimental cards and notes to who and what I don’t know how to love. To remnants, the last pieces I was told I’m supposed to let go. The rope burns, the hieroglyphic ash hatchery buried miles down under my tongue. Liquidated to decry how the street came to be filled with wildflowers & blues. Night, it seems, is one of those places we must meet to know how to see. A particle collapsing from the puddled sheen: my image makes shapes. In the shadow of the story, I can slide away again.