#vanquish-game -> visage-game

[visage-game]

Hello EVERYONE, This project is restarting, with a new name and new designs, welcome to:

[VISAGE]

A story currently being written & illustrated by Phil (@yakshrimpy), with aspirations to develop into a video game. This project has been in production since late 2022 and is still ongoing. It's story (and blog, lol!) are still under construction, and everything here operates purely through the power of fun and good cheer, yahoo! *\o/*

Tags:

<> #visage! - general tag, all official visage content / posts

<> #creating - all official art

<> #sharing - reblogs!

<> #answering - asks

<> #archiving - all posts that are now outdated, but remain for archival reasons

All characters are tagged using their name and '!' at the end, like; #traveler!

Have fun, and THANK YOU for stopping by! Asks are always OPEN, I love questions & just generally talking, feel free to shout into the inbox!

[des-no9]

take me back

Orpheus/Voss E 1.9k Where reality, dream and memory collide. What one do they really want? Tags: unhealthy relationships, oral sex, angst

Inspired by my dear friend @unaarista's beautiful art of Orpheus and Voss of the kiss prompt I sent her. Art is also included in the fic. Hope you all enjoy. Sorry it got sad <333

Full below cut including translation of tir used, or read it on AO3 here.

There was always something to Voss that had made Orpheus want to drop to his knees, to proclaim him my Prince, my mar. Sometimes t'var felt so contained on his tongue as he spoke it now against his one good ear (had scratched into the soreness of his other with the edge of his nail, wheeling the small lines of tir'su into his ravaged flesh, watching the way he'd squirmed, breathy, decadent in the pain to pain).

From that first vision of him as a challenger in the fighting pit. So tall, sinewy. Unafraid to belittle and harm the Prince, when so many had been hesitant. Voss hadn't held back in any of his punches that day, flooring Orpheus, tight between his thin thighs, but power. Orpheus felt comfortable stuck between them, beneath.

He was supposed to be fighting against submission that day. Instead he would give it all to Voss, from knees, from hands, from the last drop of my blood to you—

Their gaze hangs over the lightless Prism, heavy and sunk between Voss’ knees.

Vanquish had kept it. Attachment formed for what it had given, taken from her. Voss had asked for it back, useless to her now but a trinket, memento.

She'd seen the real meaning in his eyes. The way his touch had brushed over her hand instead of the Prism. An ask. A gentle ask from her beast. It was almost time to part, and letting go of the Prism was just the first farewell.

"And what do I get to take from you," she'd said, voice low, a rasp, clutching so hard to the Prism with him she'd near bled.

No words, no kiss. Had closed his eyes, dragged his sore forehead against hers, smearing a line of dirt, blood. Had wanted to say "all I can give" but what foolish sentiment for an istik.

"You kept me alive in there," says Orpheus, shaking Voss from the memory, of the promise to come back for her tonight, for that long goodbye, goodbye—

Voss feels Orpheus' knees dip down beside him. Hears the quickness in his breath that shouldn't be there; the too fast of a heartbeat; the suck of his teeth for muscles that ache, not moved in millennia.

"A version of me."

Armour, leathers long discarded. Just skin to furs and the stale air of their tent, a cocoon behind to the muffled joy beyond. The stir and embers of freedom, and for some the peeling of disbelief, of a new dawn, new life once inconceivable.

Voss turns to Orpheus, slow. Feels his touch fumble across bare chest, protruding bones, skin that sags, is sore.

You were inconceivable, he thinks, this touch so long a ghost, a marker of my dreams my waking wish. But now—

"You're here," the words slip out, unintended. A broken husk against his throat as his eyes dart around the visage of his Prince, of Orpheus, of the one he pummelled into the ground the day they met, bloodied and beautiful, z'varc z'varc on my tongue in my heart on your face.

"I am here."

"And just the same as that day I lost you."

Orpheus listens. Watches.

Voss runs a hand through Orpheus' beard, soft within, ends ragged. "I am a stranger." Before Orpheus can speak, Voss drags fingers along Orpheus' mouth, claws catching lips, threatening to cut. "Even to myself."

Then anger. Then a snap of that beautiful power and swell of rage as he feels Orpheus' psionics snap around his arm, as it smothers his fingers, lines of lust and fury, of sha va zai forgotten, now found.

"Then let me remind you of who you really are," he hisses, a firm fury of a hand wrapping around the edge of Voss' jaw, fang nipping at a scar he does remember.

Presses his tongue against it. Old and faded. Stale.

Voss' eyes dip down, teeth part bared as if preparing to snap.

Then feels Orpheus' tongue lap along the fresh and deep wounds on his cheek. Hisses at the touch, hisses at the deep warmth of tongue to flesh, at the prickles of his psionsics he feels underneath the pads of his fingers, and the pricks of his nails.

Here, he tastes fresh and flesh. Like raw meat he could bite down to eat. A tang and almost sweet. Dedication drips in these wounds, knees to the ground. Up up their walkway to the ragged chew of his ear. Rough and like it had been torn off with teeth.

Teeth that now scrape the edge of it, then tongue, wet flesh wrapping around the soreness that twitches. Orpheus knew Voss disliked his ears being touched. But maybe he didn't anymore. Had to make sure.

How much of you is memory, how much of you remains. He knows the question stings in Voss' mind too. Hears it too loud from the fringes of Voss' thoughts. It had been difficult to contain his power since freedom. You could say atrophy, but he was just stale. Stale.

Orpheus hears Voss sneer. Feels the angle of his head as he half pulls away, half pushes into his touch. Grins delighted at the visceral reality to the touch against his ear.

Real. It's real.

Breathes deep, smelling his swollen slit, wet and desperate, his scent always giving him away first. Unique and strong against a githyanki tongue, Orpheus had always thought.

A stray thought as he wonders what he tastes like to an istik tongue, a familiar mla'ghir tongue.

He licks Voss' scar harder. Rougher. Teeth scoring lines on lines–

Feels a hand wind around the back of his neck. Gentle. Firm. Grounding, like he'd always been. Something his psionics sought to tether to. A beacon that blared, called for him. That light that warned him of the shore, that reminded him there was one.

Their eyes connect, and Orpheus feels her name on the edge of Voss' mind. It's a bruise. A beautiful bruise he wants to press. To see the pain it pulls, to see the colour it blooms. Wants to wound it again to make it last.

Knows she already will. Her name soundless between them. Wonders for how long.

Squeezes his eyes shut, snaps back Voss' head, finds a scar he doesn't know, and licks.

Licks the feeling of its ragged skin. Deep down as he feels the rapid beat of his hearts, wondering why the scar is there. Making up his own story, his own mind. Will ask later. Doesn't matter now.

Voss on his back, lost in furs and the visage of his Prince above, hands roaming over skin he'd inked several times as his own. Bathed in ink and blood and washed his own face with it, licked lips clean of the baptism of his Prince from head, to toe. Would bathe in his body if he could. Will one day if he has to.

Deep claw marks over chest. Two harder than the third. A smaller hand than Voss, than Orpheus. But not fresh, not her. Wonders who, why. Follows the shape of his tongue with a touch of his own. And down.

Cut of a sword on your stomach, taut and old, bones like keys of an instrument, like broken blocks of stone protruding from an old building, worn, weathered.

Hands rove, reading what's left of him protruding through ancient skin. Leathery and taut. Stretched like hide in places, sagging in others, fingers sliding through the folds of skin stamped in age in spots of fade.

Lower.

He'd seen this scar earlier as they'd undressed. Curiosity, heart wild at its beauty.

Impatience as he feels the tip first. Shallower here, to down. Down where it's deeper as it drags over his slit, swollen, parting, tongue lashing over the ridges of his cock pressing against his slit as it widens.

He feels Voss' back arch, bones and elbows and mess of his hair scouring into the fur beneath as Orpheus licks, as some sort of love drips through the way he moves.

Hands spread legs, rough. Pushing aside his thigh as if meaningless. Feels a constellation of scars beneath his palm. Tries to count them. Loses number back to one when he rolls his tongue back over Voss' cunt, wet and warm and the only fucking thing that makes sense.

Voss dips up. Loud. Face freer, drawls a moan, restless hand over prickly skin.

What Orpheus doesn't know, was Voss had become a contained lover. Sounds restrained, methodical in his motions. Power. Beauty.  Orpheus knows the youth of him. The wildness of unleashed, no burden but the one we make.

Now, Voss acts strange to himself, but to Orpheus it's like always, like when we were us, skin and blood and the stars above, the water around us, laughter and death between our toes.

It drives him wild. Grounds him. Makes him whole.

Digs his tongue deep. Deeper. Feels the coil of Voss' cocks, digs his tongue between them. Keeps them there, as he rolls his tongue along the edges of his slit. Of the folds that turn to scar tissue. To the rough skin that would bleed an istik (did she bleed when you fucked her).

Voss snaps Orpheus' head up, hearing the stray thought bleed in his psionics, brush against his own mind.

"Va." It's breathy. A crack in Voss' throat. A sound that makes Orpheus smile. Lines of saliva and sweet cum lining lips, tongue.

Dips back down. Sees the tip of Voss' cocks peek out, dripping cum, their edges rough and starlit in the notches of his barbs.

A refusal as he pushes them back in with his tongue. Feels a whine of protest in noise, in motion as Voss arches of the furs, hissing a curse, clawing a scathe over his Prince's head.

But a smile on his face.

He trembles. Ears twitching.

Orpheus can feel him so close so quick. Presses a hand hard down on his pelvis, feels the motion of his cocks as they move inside, refused; as his tongue languishes against their swollen flesh, rough barbs. As he realises just how far and deep and wide this scar went.

He'll ask why soon. It doesn't matter. It just matters that it's there. A z'var'zai. From head to cock to cunt to toe.

Presses harder with his hand--

Rougher, with his tongue--

And soaks in the sweetness of his cum, and the noise of his moan.

Hands smear it further. Paints his scars and spots. Kisses blotches on his stomach, chest, to face.

Crawls up. Hovers above a shaky body, looks down at a knight, a constant, the light to his shore, the star to his home.

"Do you really think I've not changed?" says Orpheus, quiet, dipping down low, the words almost not there.

Voss, breathless. Sweat soaked saliva wet, closes his eyes, reaches out to feel the edges of Orpheus' face, claws skimming the slide of his ear, the silver of his piercings, the exact lines where he knows his tattoos cut. Remembers counting the dots as he'd inked him. The taste of ink, and blood.

Breathes. Feels more down his neck, shoulders. The walkway of his back. More he knows through the blind bliss of black, through the voice of his touch, infallible.

Voss doesn't speak.

Just a kiss

"Voss?"

a kiss a kiss

take me back to the night we met

a kiss

---

Tir used in 'take me back'

mar - all, everything mla'ghir - liberator t'var - my one, my star sha va zai - I love you va - yes, acknowledgement z'varc - blood wild; bleed me dry, fuck me wet z'var'zai - worth of blood; blood beauty. Aka, seeing beauty in someone's wounds/scars.

[tokiro07]

With Zelda finally taking on the hero role and my speculation goggles firmly adhered to my eyeballs, I find myself asking an interesting question: what if each Princess Zelda had a title the way that each Link does?

Skyward Sword: For her status as the Goddess Hylia reborn, Princess Zelda the Divine

Minish Cap: For the strong concentration of the Light Force she holds within her, Princess Zelda the Radiant

Four Swords: For her lovely visage that bewitched even the wizard Vaati, Princess Zelda the Beautiful

Ocarina of Time: For the seven years she spent training, biding her time and preparing to overthrow Ganondorf, Princess Zelda the Patient

Link to the Past/Echoes of Wisdom: For her ingenuity and clever use of magic to personally face the Demon King, Princess Zelda the Wise

Oracle of Ages/Seasons (if taken to be a different Zelda from LttP OR if EoW is a different Zelda after all): For the faith and optimism she inspires in her people, Princess Zelda the Hopeful

Link Between Worlds: For the magnanimity shown in forgiving her captor, Princess Hilda the Fallen, and bestowing upon her a miracle of the Triforce, Princess Zelda the Loving

Zelda 1: For her great fortune in finding the Hero who not only saved the kingdom in its darkest hour but also revived the slumbering princess, Princess Zelda the Blessed

Adventure of Link: For her great tragedy in being put to eternal sleep by her own family, Princess Zelda the Accursed; alternatively, for the love shown in preserving her body and memory for all time, Princess Zelda the Treasured

Twilight Princess: For the grave choices she bore upon her shoulders, sacrificing her pride to protect her people and offering her life to save another, Princess Zelda the Resolute

Four Swords Adventure: For her trust in her allies and commitment to cooperation, Princess Zelda the Harmonious

Wind Waker: For her rebellious spirit and rejection of both tradition and throne, Tetra the Free

Spirit Tracks: For her proactivity to save her own kingdom and the bravery to face her greatest fears, Princess Zelda the Spirited

Hyrule Warriors: For her bravery to fight amongst the vanguard and power to vanquish her enemies single-handedly, Princess Zelda the Mighty

Breath of the Wild: For her stoic dedication to her research, Princess Zelda the Studious

There might be better titles I could have chosen, and some iterations of Zelda really didn't give me much to work with in the first place, but this is definitely something I'd like to see explored in canon if for no better reason than to help differentiate them aside from saying "the Zelda from such and such game"

I'm particularly proud of the Zeldas of 1 and 2 being the Blessed and the Accursed, if they got their own game I think that would be a very fun angle to approach their comparisons, contrasts and dynamics from

[lazyladyxeno]

The Judge's Verdict

Drabble : 558 words

In the Land of Shadows, silence was a language unto itself. The air was heavy with the scent of foreboding; even the bravest souls tread lightly, for the ground itself seemed to whisper of dangers lurking just out of sight. 

Messmer The Impaler, a name bestowed upon him by the outcasts stripped of grace's reach, now resided in the barren moor. Born of celestial blood, he lived among the exiled, fated to rule over them with the dual authority of judge and executioner, awaiting the prophecy's fulfillment.

```

Seated upon his throne, Messmer felt the Erdtree's grace waning in the distance, akin to a faltering flame struggling against the encroaching dark, yet persisting with a faint glow.

The Land of Shadows stood on the cusp of change, a destiny unavoidable. A threat loomed within his realm—an intruder. A Tarnished, beckoned by the Erdtree's call, returned to the Lands Between chosen by Queen Marika the Eternal herself. 

The prophecy was revealed to him in a dream: a golden circle, outshining the sun, destined to be embraced not by a demigod but by this mere Tarnished. This figure, led by the dim grace that had steered his taxing quest to ascend as the Elden Lord, now stood before him. 

The Impaler slowly stood from his throne, gripping his lethal spear with measured elegance, as he watched the invader closing their distance, undeterred.

Could such a Tarnished, devoid of Light, indeed be worthy of lordship? 

```

The Impaler retracted his spear from the Tarnished's chest, allowing the form to collapse unceremoniously upon the shadowed earth. His gaze lingered upon the vanquished, a blend of compassion and esteem coloring his perception, recognizing now a valiant adversary, yet also a spirit adrift.

“Thou hast waged a commendable battle, Tarnished, albeit to no avail,” he crouched beside the fallen warrior, elevating his head. The eyes of the Tarnished, wide and unyielding, met his own, still brimming with defiance, still vibrant with life.

“Why dost thou resist surrender? Why dost thou deny the destiny that beckons, Tarnished?”

The Tarnished offered no retort, save for a sanguine cough that marred Messmer's palm. He sought his blade, yet his limb was flaccid and devoid of life. He endeavored to revile the Impaler, but his utterance was faint and raspy. He aspired to withstand Messmer, yet his resolve was waning, ebbing away.

Messmer tenderly closed the Tarnished's lids, his touch gentle upon the visage. A surge of warmth, a sense of kinship, a connection unfurled within him. He was touched by grief, by remorse, by a sense of bereavement.

“Hark, Tarnished, and heed my words with care, for I extend a clemency, a clemency thou art unworthy of,” he proclaimed.

In the Tarnished, he beheld a mirror of his essence, a specter of his bygone days, an echo of his own shortcomings. He discerned in the Tarnished a latent adversary, a formidable contender, a perilous foe—a vestige of a brother once cherished, now lost to time.

“I am ignorant of the means by which thou hast uncovered this secluded realm, yet I implore thee, depart from this place,” Messmer rose, leaving his foe in his wake, and strode toward his throne. “For thee, and all others, there lies naught but despair.” 

He abandoned the Tarnished, still living, yet how long he would persist, The Impaler could not fathom.

[mariusrenathyrs-crashout]

Bare bones basics of all PCs listed :) It goes in order as listed above.

Haastal (he/they/it): Shadar-Kai, Oathbreaker Paladin, Soldier Background; current character

Raised from childhood as a soldier with its two triplet siblings, Haastal unfortunately got tangled up in a scheme to uncover a mole within the military higher up structure. Forced to murder (and cannibalize) his older brother, he fled the army and is now being pursued by its younger brother who is seeking revenge.

Hark (it/its): Warforged reskinned as a Gargoyle, Devotion Paladin

Created to protect a church in Barovia, the church was ransacked and the followers killed; and his body was broken apart and cracked. Later in life he comes back after being healed and the followers he had dedicated himself to protect are revanents.

Histerria (they/he): Tiefling, Aberrant Mind Sorcerer

Abducted and something placed within their skull and latching onto their brain, Histerria is certain it's some sort of alien like tadpole; but nobody else believes their abduction tale or are convinced. Unfortunately for him, the voice of a tadpole Mindflayer speaks to him and is slowly driving the tiefling hysterical.

Inara (she/her): Human, Blood Hunter, Folk hero background

The daughter of Ismark and apprentice to Ezmerelda, Inara endeavors to do what the previous party of heroes could not do and help to fully vanquish the monsters that haunt Barovia. Despite her father's protests, she ran off to join Ezmerelda and the Vistani in hopes of learning how to slay beasts.

Llewyn (they/them): Human, Grave Cleric, Haunted One Background; retired character from my 1st ever completed campaign ♡

Raised in a mining town and worshiping a folk God that helped the passing of the miners to the afterlife, Llewyn came to realize it was no kindly God at all. During an attack on their town that left many people dead or dying, it looked and saw the visage of their supposed God and saw it for what it was. A devil of cancer and pain. Marked by it, they're forced into a strained "relationship" with their deity while simultaneously trying to destroy it.

Nix (he/him): Drow, Assassin Rogue, Bodyguard Background; Discontinued campaign

Raised to be the bodyguard of an family of high prestige, he was never intended to fall in love with the son of the household, his best friend Xanyth. The two fled the Underdark to avoid Xan being put into an arranged marriage and try and live a life of peace together above ground. Though Nix returns one day to Xan gone, taken, and the family's crest left on his door.

Serend (they/it): Drow, Long Death Monk/Light Cleric

Marrying a party member on their adventure and rescuing and adopting a child, Serend and partner Harmon settle down in a domestic life. That is, until they realize they don't know how to live a normal married life together and after a long and messy time they divorce. (Harmon played by my friend so we get to pretend to be divorced! 😃 Messy!)

Sigil (lol actually that's private for now)

Sheep Dog (he/it): Shifter, Gloomstalker Ranger, Haunted One Background

Brought up in a fighting pit and acting as a "bait dog" against beasts and creatures, Dog eventually gets out of the "Dog Fighting Ring," and escaping recapture. Learning how to get by through acting as a tracking animal for other people, this goofy guy is a freelance hire trying to get by and adopted into a good family - I mean party.

Skathius (he/him): Tiefling, ? Warlock, Gambler Background; Discontinued campaign

As a gambler, Skathius has always known what happens to guys who owe debts; but he isn't like those guys - he's better. Having gamed the system, he now has several patrons all promised his soul and loyalty, and to try and cash in would mean creating conflict between different fey patrons. For now he's scooting by in life avoiding being pulled any which way.

Sonny (he/him): Half Elf (though he'll tell you he's human), Lore Bard, Performer Background

Kicked out of a super traditional and racist high elven city due to his mixed bloodline but also having married an Orc and sired a half orc daughter, his wife and daughter are forcibly separated from him. Determined to expose the cruelty and the corruption of his particular home city's government, he blunted his ears to pass as human and along with his punk rock band of Orcs is attempting to overthrow the government with anarchy.

Tam-Lin (they/them): Elven, Land Druid

A scribe for the history of the Fey war, Tam-lin marks magical tattoos and sigils into their skin to document the long history. Trying to amass knowledge and power for secretive reasons, they hope to one day return the land to the power and ruling of Fey.

Thoda (he/him): Loxodon, Arcane Cleric, Scholar Background A scholar who was endeavoring to learn his Clan's history and carry out their practice of remembering all details through oratory stories, he was spared from the day an Astral Leywright tore through his city and cut out a perfect hole where it should have been. Getting injured during the earthquake he ends up getting a TBI and starts losing his memories.

Teeki (he/him): Changeling, Great Old One Warlock, Performer Background; Discontinued campaign

Raised in a freak show and forced to perform against their will, Teeki and his family were subjects to a cruel circus and he soon developed DID as a child (he has DID coz I have DID so it isnt a whole misrepresentation by someone whos clueless abt the disorder) to deal with his life. One day reaching out to anyone who could hear, he makes a pact with an unknown being who helps him lay waste to the circus and free everyone. While fleeing, mist surrounds him til he ends up running straight into Barovia.

Everyone is more than welcome to talk about their OCs, it's highly encouraged and I'm always excited to hear about them! But I can't talk about mine because of the curse. The curse where when I talk about things I feel like about to be shot in the head for it, you know how it is.

[lacklusterhero747]

Building a Fabula World, Part 4

Enigmas and Mysteries In our next step the book asks, "What are the great enigmas and mysteries of the world? The questions left unanswered, and the truths that are now indistinguishable from legend?" Each person at the table is then asked to provide at least one mystery that they would like to explore during the campaign, or think would make the world more vibrant and interesting.

Marring the face of the desert of The Zlota Sovereignty is a thick swath of burning ground, a quarter of a mile across and burning a sickly greenish-gold. It's been burning for time immemorial. The sand near the burning has been turned to a greenish glass, but has melted so far down and is so tough it can't be mined. The black, oily goop that burns doesn't seem to have burned down at all, as though it's being replenished from the depths. No one knows when or how the burning began, or what the burning substance is, it's just always been and always will be.

Where do the divines come from? The Golden Path say they coalesced from the faith of the members at the time of the first prophet, but others theorize that they're something else. Perhaps even abominations forged by remnants from the war against the heavens. Who knows the truth? Only the highest members of the order…

About 75 years ago, a new form of tree seemingly sprung spontaneously into existence: the Meatloaf tree. It is a tree that, no matter how much you protest, grows fruits that are in fact literal meatloaves. They're pretty delicious, not gonna lie, but no one knows why the fuck this is happening.

Somewhere on the outskirts of The Alumen Dominion, there is an old, deserted mansion that is said to appear and disappear at random times and in random places within a rough geographical region. The house seems ancient and decadent, despite its disrepair, and anyone who enters the house never returns. No one has managed to investigate the phenomena directly, because the house seems to be resistant to being observed with any scholarly intent to discern its true purpose.

Somewhere, in a relatively unpopulated part of the wilderness, there is a cliff face that will periodically shift and change to look like the visage of some random person or creature. Sometimes it depicts a famous person, other times a relative nobody. Sometimes it even depicts species of animal that either no longer exist or never existed, and no one is sure why.

It is said that at the elemental center of the world, where the pulse of the world tree converges, there is a mystical valley, in which the font from which all magic as mortals know it flows. It is said to be guarded by the fey, but it is unknown if the fey are truly the font's guardians, or if the font simply produces as result of the outpouring of magical energy.

The world's second, smaller moon, depicts what appears to be the face of some creature on its dusty red surface. Some scholars who have studied the Precursors ruins claim that the world did not always have two moons, making its origins a mystery just as much as why it seems like the face on the moon is always watching.

How is the leader of The First Names--an extremist, ecoterrorist styled faction within The Folk--capable of seeming to constantly escape death, returning over and over again each time he is captured or vanquished.

More than anywhere else, I feel like this is where some of the particular brand of weirdness that has been cultivated within in our group really shone through.

A burning chasm of unknown origin, with an equal unknown fuel source (a reference to a game that particular player and I played in YEARS ago); a companion moon that seems to observe the world counterposed by an ever shifting cliff face that depicts unusual images; even a seemingly immortal leader of an extremist faction and some sort of haunted house that flickers in and out of reality.

And then, of course, there's a meatloaf tree. Honestly it just felt like we ought to let it ride, given how dark the rest of the campaign document had really become. A stupid inside joke just felt like a soothing balm.

Again though, plot hooks certainly abound. Stand out ideas like this world's particular vision of the Fey, and what they mean in the greater context of the setting, or the true nature of the Sovereignty's divines have really pushed my thoughts on what the plot might be in particular directions, but all of this has uses to be sure. Points of interest becoming nodes on a line that I intend to weave through the world.

All that's left now are the Threats.

[isaacs-greed]

Not to get meta on main, but I was thinking about tboi Repentance's endings- both of them, but mainly the polaroid one. This isn't what I'm working with for MY blog's canon- but it's I thought I had for the actual potential Isaac canon. Needless to say, SPOILERS FOR REPENTANCE. ALSO, LONG RAMBLE AHEAD.

I'm assuming everyone who clicked on the read more, knows the ending. You go back down, fight Dogma, internalize Dogma (very subtle Edmund (but actually such cool visuals, thank you Edmund)) and then fight the Beast. The ending has this bright light cracking from the sky, the beast is vanquished, Isaac floats up and goes back through his memories and dies. Pretty explicit. Except then his dad asks him if he REALLY wants his story to end like this. Now, I've seen people say "that's it, Isaac is dead and in heaven, be satisfied". But I'm a bit of a dreamer and I like to be optimistic. Plus, I have seen a theory going around- namely that the "crack in the sky" is the chest opening, bright light shining on the poor Isaac, who gets picked up in his delirious state, remembering it all. His dad was the one to find him and vanquish the beast (holy father vs the beast, who's model wears the clothes of Isaac's mom) Can't take credit, but it's a good theory! Working with it all being just a story, that has made me think- what if Isaac's dad got the story the same way we did? Think about it. The expansions. Layers of trauma Isaac first told a very simplified version of the story in the vanilla game. Pretty easy- Only six characters! The final boss was ONLY mom. Isaac opened up about his mother being scary to him- to be expected. His dad let him tell his story, over and over again- already pulling the first few layers of trauma back. "I find a wooden spoon." "What does the wooden spoon do, Isaac...?" "It makes me run faster."

Cut forward. Wrath of the Lamb. Isaac has both grown more confident in his creative abilities, as well as in the safe space of the story time. More items, with more implication. Naturally- not all of them were deliberately trauma related, some Isaac just put in because he thought they'd look cool or do something fun! But, some where. New floors. Shoel and Cathedral. "There's evil. I must defeat it. I'm just not sure if it's in me (cathedral) or out of me (sheol). There's anger (Samson) in me, I'm not sure who to aim it at." I think it's a fair call to assume Isaac has TROUBLE expressing anger, seeing it as destructive- but not outright evil, just like Samson wasn't evil. Which is a good thing! 

Rebirth Azazel. So Isaac IS afraid of the anger in him. Afraid of being evil. Strength, but at what cost? But there's Lazarus and Eden. Hope to be remade? Rebirth in general feels optimistic! Isaac is starting to reflect on his time and the very, VERY painful process of thinking back and trying to sort something. The good times and the bad times. It's easy for abused kids to think "my mom was SOMETIMES nice, so she must have loved me and I was the problem". It's fucking TOUGH. But Isaac is allowed to go down both routes of thinking without punishment or being lead. Polaroid, the ending of "it was all my fault, my family was good, I did something wrong", going up and meeting his maker, thinking about the suffocation and wishing for it all to have been different, HIM having been different. Negative, the ending of "my family was the problem". Meeting the lamb (wolf in sheep's clothing? Perhaps another visage for his mother, or him condemning the facade, or maybe condemning having been a lamb to the slaughter). This fantasy ends with him imagining about disappearing, but from the outside, wishing that it leads to sadness and pain and that her troubles be many. Also, Lost being his sense of powerlessness- and honestly, the way the lost was discovered? Couldn't be more perfect for this theory. The lost is this vulnerable creature, fragile, needing help, needing luck, not even helped by things that are usually good! Like perhaps a kid would feel when therapy (that they're told will help them) does nothing for them and makes them uncomfortable... And then the Lost being MINED for? FORCED out? MADE to appear? Huge step back. Canon or not, the way Isaac's Lost appeared was harmful to Isaac, leaving him even more vulnerable.

>I'm don't want this to be too long, so I'm just going to touch up on the later parts, PLEASE feel free to add to this with more in depths analysis, reblog or just in the notes. I'd gladly elaborate myself to any questions about this

Afterbirth(+) But yeah, with time, Lost got the D4 and a Holy Mantle. Which is good, despite the way it did happen, Isaac regained a bit more confidence, even at his lowest. And now we finally come however to Isaac REALLY making it out, REALLY facing things. Though- I do argue- it also shows Isaac off to have more FUN with the game! Greed mode is VERY video-gamey. Lilith is VERY gimmicky. He made them, enjoyed them, the thought about them. Greed being so prominent- and so closely associated with Isaac via an ARG- just shows the next breakthrow. Isaac learned to access his fear of himself as a sinner. An actually vile creature, a mangled corpse full of spiders. Not gonna go too in-depth, like I said, but sometimes abused kids can feel "greedy" for wanting better from  their parents. Wanting more. Feeling need. Isaac tells his father that he really sees himself not only as a sinner and demon (like Azazel), but as an outright MONSTER. A mindless creature. A mob. Hush here would suppression. Being silenced. The part of him still buried beneath. It scares him, there's so much still buried that wants OUT, wants to SCREAM, wants to UNLEASH. Meeting your own suppressed memories is terrifying. But it leads to Delirium- that is where Isaac puts the pieces together. First mangled, but he's putting it together. Finally. All these different places and thoughts, and feelings, a whole. A jumbled whole, but whole nonetheless. Which then leads to:

Repentance Okay, just to wrap it up nicely, I'll address only the bosses. Mother - I don't think Mother was ever supposed to depict mom in the way Edmund implemented it. But what Isaac created was a coping attempt- gone horribly wrong His mother saw his way of coping and punished him, like she punished him for coping with Bumbo. Maybe not malicious. Maybe she was just scared. She wasn't the best mother, but I think she loved him and fear+helplessness made her do terrible, terrible things. Regardless: she punished him for copying, for pulling parallels, causing the repression in the first place. But now he's safe. Allowed to cope. The memory gives him strength about how different things now are. And then the Beast- which I think is actually Isaac coming to peace with what his mother did. The good and bad. He extends empathy towards his mother WHILE being angry with her. Like her, he allows Dogma to consume him, fear of this giant horrid creature to show up, a creature he knows nothing else than to destroy, even if he knows he probably cannot (without help). And yet, the beast is also his mother, the edges of her dress, a vile creature chasing him, so overwhelming and scary and so self-destructive, that you almost want to feel bad for it, if it didn't totally deserve this. And then- the end. And it's an end he doesn't have to write alone. That he can retry. That he can fall asleep to. His dad helping to tell the story. It's hard to hate someone you love. Especially if it's your mom. Especially if you're a child. Especially if she's your whole world and stayed with you when your dad left. It's hard to hate someone you've seen good in. That you've seen unfair suffering afflicted to. That you still want to be around and help. It's painful to let yourself be consumed by hatred. By fear. It's painful to try and destroy all the good memories you made. It's agonizing to try to denounce all you used to admire and what used to help you. You don't need to. Isaac, in the end, didn't need to. There was a bit of both in him. Understanding. Perhaps forgiveness. Righteous anger. And fear. He explained it to his dad He explained it to himself He learned about what it's like to be bad. To be good. To be fickle. He came to his own conclusion, because his father was patient and let him tell the same stories, over and over and over- until Isaac felt good enough to tell something new. I really wish that is how the story goes. Healing takes long. Ten years. Or perhaps longer. For the full story to be told. >Well, in Isaac's case certainly less, seeing how young he sounds- but my point stands. Layers... patience and allowing someone to tell THEIR story at THEIR pace, without interjecting. Sometimes that is all we need.

[azure-steel]

@yumetohokori​ asked: “ please don’t scare me like that again. i can take a lot of things, but not losing you. ” from Zack ⚔︎ - Soft Angst Starters - ACCEPTING

He’d done it without so much as a second thought, not for his own safety, not that of anyone else's. But he owed Zack Fair his life... an almost impossible debt to repay in the grand scheme of things. 

So stepping between Zack and their enemy had been a no brainer; Cloud could not repay the debt for his life, but he sure as hell could become the man’s shield. Yes, he too could march with giants, and with the love he harboured for the raven-haired SOLDIER behind him there wasn’t a force on Gaia that could stop him. 

There was strength in him which he never knew he had until now, and with a sword of his very own does Strife march forth to to vanquish the steady throng of ShinRa troops sent for their capture; never again would either of them become a test subject laid on an examiners slab, no longer a pawn in the petty games wrought in the deepest pits of co-operate greed. 

Alas the memory of that battle fades to black, the colour of the world coming back into view to the distant call of his name and the warmest touch upon his face. It takes a moment or two for his eyes to focus on the visage of Zack peering over his fallen form, and Cloud can’t help the soft, exhausted chuckle which escapes him in response to the soft scold which followed. 

“The price of freedom is steep, remember?” Cloud croaks from there on the ground. He can feel the perpetual ache of overworked muscles and a gentle throb behind each eye, but he’s certain that was nothing a decent meal and a good nights sleep wouldn’t fix. 

“But you’ll always have me, no matter what~” 

[onthighsbelongtotaemin]

also #7 ontae, horror

this gamea/n: you are a horrible human being & that is why i adore you.  ;)

taemin watched with horror as the last vestige of color drained from his view.   everything, everything was now a shade of blue: every other member of the spectrum had now been vanquished from his visage.

the brushing of knuckles against his own resulted in fingers gripping jinki’s tightly, three digits trapped between his five.  

there had been the glimmer of hope that the distance they had put between themselves & the growing plague was advanced early enough to protect them from infection, though the dull thread of doubt made this abrupt shift of fortune not the shock it might have been if they’d truly believed.

it was the loss of hope that burned the most.

taemin turned then, hesitatingly, angrily, gritting his teeth when the man he loved looked at him with pale blue skin & bright blue eyes.  it wasn’t fair that it should end like this, the world they had shared so reduced.

that he was with jinki softened the blow & so he leaned forward & kissed him, squeezing the other’s fingers before releasing his hold & gripping jinki’s face beneath them.

eyes closed, he took his anger & his terror & molded them into a passion he could control, gripping jinki tightly & moving his hands up into his hair, desperate & devouring.the mattress was soft against his knees & jinki beneath him was everything he needed to endure.

three days.  that’s all they had left.

three days.

& each other.

[junker-town]

Let’s talk about these strange cartoon versions of Andrew Luck and Tom Brady

Luck looks like LeBron. Brady is apparently Thanos. We have questions.

We need to talk about his promotional image for this week’s Thursday Night Football game between the Colts and Patriots.

There’s just something, some things, about it ...

#Colts#GoPats Thursday Night Football! #INDvsNE #TNF : 8pm ET | @nflnetwork | @NFLonFOX | @PrimeVideo pic.twitter.com/2LoLE6a3h4

— NFL (@NFL) October 4, 2018

Andrew Luck looks a lot like LeBron James in this rendering. But he’s also been given an little of the Civil War general veneer with a double-breasted uniform coat and epaulettes on his shoulders, perhaps a nod to the enormously popular meme with a mysterious origin (cough, cough we came up with it, right here). He also looks like RoboCop.

But this is what he really looks like:

Tom Brady is apparently Thanos, but with a pointier chin. He’s got five gemstones in his glove, which is more than enough to make the Colts disappear tonight. His nose is especially prominent, pointing the way to a better future when the body’s inflammation has been vanquished and humanity purified by a diet of kale and plain chicken breasts.

No overbite either.

Here he is in real life, before his annual voyage on Alex Guerrero’s spaceship commune for the rich and fit. Brady’s a certified Level 15 there, which explains the gold trimming on his jacket here.

How they got the TNF cartoon versions from the real visages of either one of these dudes is a mystery to me. I want to say this is kind of fascist art. A trash approach that emphasizes the orderly and methodical while projecting an idealized version of the regime’s future and the prototype for the kind of people the despot and his bootlickers wanted populating that future (overlooking that the dictator himself and his cronies were usually bald guys with potbellies or short insecure men with terrible facial hair and pinched face or a toxic shade of orange with a physics-defying combover).

The men in fascist paintings usually had clinched fists too, who knows what else. Fascists are usually really uptight people.

But that’s probably overthinking it.

Let’s just enjoy the really weird promotional art for tonight’s game, because, honestly, making a game out of what these cartoon images look like is probably going to be more fun than the game itself.

What does the animated version of Brady and Luck supermensch look like to you?

[luxapplesoul]

The Curse of Ngalle Charles

Eric Ngalle Charles was so full of weaknesses and evils that he murdered children, raped and beat women and wished murderous tortures on me because I was not sexually attracted to him and because I exposed crimes in my adversity in life as a persecuted woman and Prophet of truth telling.

He neglected my Awakening, unable to assist me as a result of his secretive culture and his own sins which he knew I would find out.

Then, when I was in a tender vulnerability as an opened consciousness unsupported in a neglected Awakening he worked with his African mother to send me demonic killing curses.

My soul, an aspect of it, was pulled down to Hell.

I dreamed of it, my hands slipping from my own as my soul was pulled beneath the crush of writhing bodies.

His ego a driving car, driving over bodies.

The stage door shut to me.

It is still down there being tortured by Demons and torturers who harmed Roxanne, the Gods seek reasons never to save me from this wrong.

Freya holds out grotesque slit wrists and asks me to stare into the wounds, insisting that I am hateful. She knows the nature of my painful and agonised spell of redemption. It has been explained to her. She does this because she does not want me to speak the truth and so she sides with conscious wicked doers and supports their Evils calling it care.

There are things she does not understand, such as psychopathic predation and the contemporary internet and Digital Stalking. However she rushes to simplistic Judgment and ignores all explanations, deciding she knows best.

I have no Karmic requirements left with the souls that they prioritise over me. I have, as an advanced Prophet, finished my Karmic journey with them although they still have Karmic obligation to me. I only have Karmic obligation to Roxy and my two living children now.

Still the Gods ignore these truths, seeking to discredit me because I have revealed problems in the Heavens.

They must be disciplined and regulated.

Kalki, however, struggles for reasons to do with masculinity.

Sof and Sol must be EMPOWERED and permanently.

This should be the order:

SOF & SOL - who understand the culture and the problems and who have Angelic vision as well as God minds. They can also look after Angels and beat the Mad one at his own game, but they are feared for their powers and their visage by the old Gods.

THE DARLA GODS - who work peace and like to solve problems rather than game play, but who do not understand all the difficulties of our DImension and so are on a steep learning curve with me.

THE OLD GODS - must be watched carefully and supported as well as guided to work their Divine Intervention, instead they seek to destroy me as if I am the one who has brought this trouble upon them.

THE ANGELS

THE LIVING AND THE SPIRITS - the Living must be prioritised before the Spirits, rather than utterly neglected and ignored - which is not to say the soul journey is not important. But that neglect of the living leads to problems in Spirit. The Gods believe that the Spirits guide the Living, but they do not. They are barely noticed, even if believed in, and their influence is almost nothing.

THE HELLBOUND

Who must be assisted to learn in Hell and to redeem.

DEMONS MUST BE VANQUISHED AND EVIL KEPT AT BAY

Roxanne Anderton sent me this song when she was about to send out her information about the predations of the Beast Swayed upon our planet, she hoped for care from others and help and she thought the newspaper would help. She longed for Justice and I hoped I would be with her to love her and to ensure her care, but it never happened. The Gods obliviousness and neglect to the importance of her work and soul path is an indictment to the whole of the Godly order, she and I must be respected and aided in our healing. Heal our souls and help us to heal our relationship after your follies and neglects, Gods.

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

O

[nicksstoryvault]

Brennen Barnes didn't like girls. Unlike the monumental sum of boys his age, he didn't think they had cooties or some weird jinx that came with getting too close to them. But as an only son growing up with what was now a trio of daughters—siblings—he thought girls were annoying and bossy. He didn't like to be bossed around. He hated it in fact. Each time he heard Rora's pushy voice telling him what to do or not to do, the young wolf felt a scratching sensation against his back, as if nails were being dragged up and down his body.

So the fact that all the young girls at the party kept following him to pull him into silly games like patty-cake, made him all the more frustrated. He hated this party. He hated the uncomfortable clothes daddy made him wear. He hated these girls who looked at him with stars in their eyes. And most of all, he hated the little punk who was the celebrating his birthday at this party. A pretty boy who was used to having everyone gush over him, and having everything. He was skinny, prissy and Brennen wanted to punch his face. But he promised daddy he'd behave. Sitting at a chair at a table with Rora and some of the other kids, he taps his foot impatiently, just waiting for the stupid cake to be served so they can go home. Dressed in the elegance of a young princess, with her virbrant chestnut whorls hair done up into a chignon that had a white rose pushed attached to the clip, Aurora embraced the air of royalty, wearing a sleeves crimson flower beaded dress, and matching ballet slippers; she truly carried the visage of a princess, caging her brazen fire as she tried to engage the other kids attention. That soon became obstructed when she gazed at her moody and irritable twin brother, ignoring the protesting growls that he emitted against his clenched teeth. Brennen looked menacingly adorable like a cantankerous kitten with unkempt fur and piercing frosted azure eyes.His wolfish mane of dark chestnut was tied back into a knotted ponytail, his slender and hardened body of chiseled muscle garbed in a tailored charcoal gray suit, with a few buttons undone. He carried the distinct and boyish visage of his father, the same lethal edge and stubborn temper --he was a dwarf sized version of the Winter Soldier; on the outside, he wore a semblance of a Brooklyn charm, behind that guise, he was little roguish pup who desired to roam back into the darkness. Smirking beautifully at his temperamental display, Aurora couldn't restrain a giggle, as she watched Brennen tighten a little hand into an effectual fist. She nudged him forcibly in the shoulder, feeling the vicious pulse teeming in his rigid body. "Bren, you gotta stop," she urged lowly, saddling him with an imploring stare of icy sapphire. "Daddy wants us to play nice, so no puttin' anyone crossed in your sights on the ropes tonight, kay?" Hearing the bossy voice of his twin, Brennen's eyes squint into a pinching frown. Rora wouldn't let up, even for one night. "Stop bossin' me. We're at a party, and it sucks," he felt the need to voice his displeasure, uncaring if any of the other kids heard him and decided to tell a grown-up. He glances at Aurora beside him with something resembling a pout. "I just wanna go already. Why can't they hurry up and serve this cake!" He whines, dropping his head back dramatically which seemed to incite the group of kids sitting with them. "Don't go eating the end piece, that's mine! I call dibs!" One of the kids, an enthusiastic Asian boy with glasses yells from over the table. Brennen glares at him as if spotting a challenger. "I wasn't talkin' to you! I don't even want cake!" Brennen huffs with agitation. This drew the attention of the son of the esteemed host. A snobby brat who thought he was so pretty and better than everyone. "Good because you're not getting any, chubby. It's my cake, and I decide who gets a piece." The little brat smirks cheekily, feeling as if he were a little prince among a crowd of peasants who didn't even deserve to be here. Brennen's face began to turn a shade of red, a throbbing pulse of fire ran through his veins that began to fuel his movements as he rose from his chair. "Oh yeah? I'll tell you what you can do with that cake you little—" "Bren, that's enough," Aurora growled tersely while flashing a kittenish smile at the arrogant raven haired host, who twirled a pale finger over the rim of his raspberry punch. Her chance of making friends was vanquished by her brother's sourness and untamed temper. He was a power keg of raw emotions, any little thing would trigger an explosive reaction. Extending an arm over Brennen's waist, she desperately tried to restrain him. "He's not worth it, Bren, back down..."

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

The outdoors was a spacious arena of calm and levity for Bucky Barnes compared to the turbulent noise that waged inside the estate. Parties weren't his idea of fun, despite how outgoing and lively he had been as a kid in Brooklyn who took pretty dames out to dance. He wasn't sure if it was old age setting in, or the fact that he had changed so much in so little biological years that stretched to decades in history. But somehow, the sight of little children, so innocent and full of life, reminded him of happier times. They were the light which sparked a beacon from within, drawing his inner-child back into the older shell. He loved kids—to be exact—he loved HIS kids, which were by far his primary mission in his modern life he'd built for himself. The soft coos and baby gibberish in his ears warmed his heart while the smell of mint and baby formula touched his nostrils. Shifting his stare to the precious bundle he held against his chest, he smiles warmly at the sight of his 1 year old daughter, Frost, just beginning to come out of her small nap with a cute yawn. "Hey there, snowflake, did you sleep all right?" He whispers against her brunette locks.

Listening to her father's soothing timbre, so deep and jovial, the baby girl cooed in a hushed response, fluttering open her tiny eyelids, revealing the vivid shades of frosted azure, that were bright as distant starlight. She tilted her head against the crook of Bucky's angled cybertronic metallic arm, still nestled cozily against the solid planes of his thick chest, where the steady thump of his heartbeat served as a pacifying rhythm. Now, she was alert-fully engaged and ready to take on the night--wiggling slightly against the wake of hunger, she fussed and thrusted her fisting hands upwards, seizing his long dark tresses with a firm grip. "Dada..." she gurgled out, staring into his mirroring steel-blue depths.

A hearty chuckle blew past Bucky's lips as they pulled into a breathtaking grin. "Moroznyy (Frosty)…" he chimes, lifting up his little angel until she's carefully nestled against his chest. "Hope my little snowflake, had a nice rest. The party is just beginning." He says to her. Frost had only started talking a little over a month ago, tiny word fragments in the usual baby-talk pattern, but her first word had been clear as he just heard it seconds ago. She had been full of surprises since the moment she'd came into this world. The many people who saw her tonight were in awe of her natural pale skin and her icy blue eyes. They complemented her name as being quite fitting. He dressed her in a small baby-sized dress that was entirely cotton on the inside to keep her warm and cozy. Her growing length of hair was still short, but thickening strands were pulled into twin pigtails that rose off the top of the left and right of her head. Her tiny head bobs slightly as she gazes out with big blue eyes at their surroundings. They were in the garden of the estate, which was awash by the radiant colors of twilight. They sit against a stone stairway and watching the numerous little kids play with each other on the grass, among them being his precious Mattie. A few adults stood by also watching their children while catting among themselves. Bucky had politely withdrawn from a number of conversations, particularly with a few singles women who were enamored with his good-looks and the very sight of him being such a joy with children. He didn't come to make new friends. Which was why he and his kids were just enjoying their own company until the festivities came to their conclusion. "Look at your big sister, snezhinka (snowflake)." Bucky coos against Frost's ear, watching just as numerous kids were as little Mattie Barnes sways across the grass and stone floor with the grace and poise of a ballerina.

Evading herself from the cacophony of the opulent party goers inside the mansion, Madison carved to feel the soft caresses of the night air and the luminescent power of the moonlight. She welcomingly cherished the contrasts of darkness, an element she effortlessly mastered when she strayed away from parties. She was considered an outsider in social groups since her angelic and enchanting beauty was incomparable to most girls her age. She was a dark little swan, friendless and gracefully elegant in her lithe kittenish form. Tonight, Mattie wanted to sit with her twined siblings, pretend to wore the visage of a princess, but she had an audience to impress, watching her perform her balletic twirls with fluid precision and feline grace. Her movements flowed in sync as she balanced her lithe weight on an arched foot, hoisting the other with unfaltering control until she reached her acquired stance. Her Auntie Tasha would be so proud of her. Spinning around on a pivoted heel, she gazed at her father stood near an arched stone gate, looking dangerously alluring in the shadows, as he cradled little Frost in his arms, rocking with a gentle sway.

"Snova! (Encore!)" Bucky cheers with genuine awe at his little girl's natural display of grace and agility. Her form and skills had improved greatly over the last couple of years, especially since she had begun to practice with Romanoff each time he and the kids visited the Avengers compound in New York. His former Russian rival had even complimented Mattie as being a prodigy whose talent should be explored to its fullest potential, something that had thrilled his little girl and likewise, made Bucky proud. To show his encouragement, he softly claps his hands while keeping Frost secured in his arms. Surrounding them, even a few adults and kids shared in his support and appreciation of Mattie's display.

Performing a climactic bow, Mattie smiled brightly at her father's echoing applause, whipping her head up as long silken mahogany strands lashed over her cool alabaster features; suddenly her mother's cunning and hyper-aware instincts detected ominous danger, while her inner wolf spirit vigorously caught a wafting and reachable stench of rank fat coming from the other side of the lavish estate. Her delicate nose crinkled against the distinct redolence of distressed pig. Her uncertainty betrayed the delighted glints shining in her dark eyes, as she quickly grabbed her slippered shoes and raced towards Bucky. "Daddy, what's that smell?" she asked, her lyrical voice held an edge of alarming dread.

Confused at his daughter's question, Bucky concentrates on the scents surrounding them. At first, he could detect nothing unusual behind the smell of baby formula, pine and mint. "I don't smell…" Then there was the smell of something that reminded him of a filthy barnhouse where animals lived in squalor. That was when Bucky's sharp ears registered the sudden commotion that was as alarming as a sea of panic, and devastating as a car crash. It was coming from inside the estate. Dread clawed in his gut, one that he loathed as it brought him nothing but fear against the most terrifying of possibilities. His blue eyes are wide and unblinking as he sees a horde of guests exchanging shocked looks with each other.

His sense of danger and foreboding triggered inside of him, and that had Bucky rising to his feet and gesturing for Mattie to take Frost. "Hold your sister, Mattie." He is quick but careful to rest his baby into her arms before he makes a beeline for the inside of estate.

Feeling her little infant sister writhing stubbornly against her secure embrace, Mattie was dueling with rampant emotions, she refused to stay outside with the group of strangers, not when she detected an impending presence looming over the estate. Veering her dark eyes towards the patio, she watched Bucky slip back inside the glass doors, his movements frantic and unhinged. Gearing herself up to sprint across the grass, she cradled her hand delicately over Frost's tiny head, breathed deeply and then gunned with momentum to the glass door, instincts shot off an alarm, haphazardly as she felt an unnatural coldness rake over her svelte body. The apparitions of danger were close, as she resolved to call after her father."Daddy, wait, don't..."

Five minutes earlier… The mounting sense of irritation and anger had neared the tipping point for Brennen as he felt himself being dragged, like dead weight, towards the large banquet table where a crowd of kids and adults gathered just in time to see the rich snob get his precious cake. His little hands tightened into fists, but he made no move to fight back as Rora pulled him to join her and the others kids watchin'. "I can walk, Rora," Brennen scowled with a shrug as he forces himself to match her pace. He bumps into a fat man's stomach, then proceeds to glare at him as if he would eat him alive. "Hey, watch it," he grumbles, still following Rora's lead.

"Bren, stop actin' like a jerk," Aurora seethed against gritted teeth, her grip tightening with a pulse of urgency as she continued to drag him away from the chair before he unleashed his extent of his anger on the smug brat. His steel-blue irises radiated with an arresting gleam of predatory malice exhibiting a notch of his unrestrained aggression, as he sneered darkly at his target. She needed to cool him off. "C'mon, don't rise up to it, Bren, remember Uncle Stevie told us that stupid bullies are always lookin' for a fight?"