alghulras

[alghulras]

The girl before him is a study in contrasts. The steel of her voice is her mother’s, but the sharp edges of it, the refusal to yield, belong to him. The Bat’s blood runs through her veins, yes, but so does his.

Once, he had tested her, as he had tested all who claimed loyalty to his name. She had not broken. She had not wavered. He remembers watching her among the ranks, not as a child seeking approval but as a warrior proving her worth. Not all of his blood had been so willing to embrace the teachings of the League, and yet, here she stood—not to beg, not to barter, but to claim.

Ah. There is something familiar in that.

He watches her. He has always watched her. From the moment she first took a blade into her hand, from the first time she bled in the name of discipline, of control.

Ra’s does not respond immediately. Silence is a weapon, one he wields with precision. A heartbeat passes. Then another. Not a test—no, she has already passed that. This is something else.

There is no wasted breath in Ra’s al Ghul’s world. No wasted time.

Gratitude is an unnecessary gesture, one he does not require. He has no interest in thanks, only in results. It is misplaced, until the task is complete. Victory is expected. Defeat is unthinkable.

Still, he allows the words to pass unchallenged.

"You have come to me because you understand what must be done. That is enough."

A mission, not a plea.

His granddaughter stands before him not as a petitioner, but as an heir demanding what she is owed.

And yet, not an heir. Not truly. She does not seek the throne. She does not crave dominion. She does not hunger for the power he should have given her long ago, had she only reached for it.

His bloodline has produced many warriors, but few are so willing to destroy in the name of love. Ivy does not offer him allegiance. She offers him purpose—one he understands.

"Time is not on your side," His hands fold behind his back, a posture of command, of centuries of decision.

"Our enemy has made a mistake," he continues, "but whether it was in taking him or in leaving us free to hunt them remains to be seen."

There is nothing left to discuss—only action.

"Tell me what you know. Tell me who they are, where they hide, what forces they command. Every movement. Every name. Every weakness."

The air carries the scent of ancient wood and the distant embers of a dying fire. Ra’s al Ghul does not turn, nor does he need to. He has already marked the presence, weighed the sound of footfalls, and the rhythm of breath. "You stand before me," he observes, voice as even as the stillness around him. "That is no small thing."

There is no threat in his words, nor is there reassurance. Only the weight of understanding, of knowing that every choice leads to consequence. His hands remain at his sides, but power does not need to be brandished to be known.

"Either you seek something… or you have already made a mistake."

His gaze is patient in its scrutiny, not merely idle curiosity.

"Speak," he commands, though the word is not harsh. It is an invitation, or perhaps, a test. "What is it you hope to gain from this?"

[alghulras]

⚖⛰🌤.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

🗡🌪🐍.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

An eagle for vigilance, an hourglass for patience, and the moon for the inevitability of fate. A fitting emblem for the All-Seeing.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

🦅⏳🌑.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

You claim they are not hieroglyphics, yet they require translation. Fascinating. So they are not ancient script, merely a modern cipher.

Emojis.... a language reduced to illustrations. A language of symbols meant to convey intent without words? How primitive. Or perhaps… how efficient?

Death and arson? If that is what these symbols suggest, then perhaps your so-called ‘emojis’ are more insidious than I thought.

These... 'emojis' are merely a warrior’s greeting, not a threat. A blade to signify strength, a skull to honour those who came before us, and fire to symbolize the eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth. In another time, such symbols might have been etched into stone. Now, they are sent through glowing screens. Progress, I suppose.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

A true strategist keeps their options open, I see. The youthful spirit—so quick to defy, so indecisive in its culinary ventures. If nothing else, your unpredictability keeps me entertained.

Consider me....impressed. Who am I to stand in the way of innovation?

First, paper; next, revolution. A natural progression, I suppose. I shall await your manifesto with great interest—hopefully, it is not written on something you intend to eat.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

True knowledge is the only sustenance worthy of a mind like yours. If you must taste something forbidden, I would rather it be power....

Although, if indulging in such peculiar tastes brings you amusement, then who am I to interfere? If nothing else, your curiosity remains admirable.

You are nothing if not inventive. I trust you will find a way to make even this an advantage.

I shall take comfort in knowing that, should you ever find yourself without rations, your resourcefulness will sustain you.

There are many paths to greatness, and while I had not foreseen 'devourer of parchment' among them, I remain confident you will carve your own legend—perhaps with ink-stained teeth.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

You send me... hieroglyphs? What cryptic language is this?

Do you wish for me to respond in kind? Very well. ⚔️☠️🔥—There. Are we communicating now?

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

That is unacceptable. Starvation dulls the blade. Hunger makes for poor judgment and weak hands.

The League does not let the living wither away in such a manner. Tell me what must be done to amend this.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

Hmph. Paper, of all things.....was it at least an interesting read?

Shall I be grateful this is not a rebellion? Or should I expect that later today, once you have finished your… literary feast?

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

Is this an act of rebellion, or have we failed you so completely that you believe cellulose is a viable source of sustenance?

If this is an experiment, I applaud your curiosity. If it is a dietary choice, I fear for our future. If this is some misguided survival exercise, allow me to inform you—there are better ways to test your resilience than digesting parchment.

There is strength in discipline. There is wisdom in patience. There is nothing to be gained from eating paper. If your hunger is so dire, I will ensure you are properly fed. The League does not raise its warriors on ink and pulp.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

Cassandra....

Is this what has become of you? The greatest mind of the League....

You carry the blood of Cain, and you choose to nourish yourself with paper? If you seek knowledge, I assure you, there are more effective ways to absorb it than through ingestion.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

Damian, surely, we can do better than… stationery for sustenance?

Do I even want to know what possessed you to do this? There are many ways to make one’s mark upon history, grandson. Eating it is not among them.

If you insist on this habit, at least allow me to provide you with the finest parchment.

....More importantly, let us keep this between us, lest your mother decide I am unfit to influence you.

DAMIAN IS TRYING TO EAT PAPER AGAIN!!

[alghulras]

Ah, the rumors of my demise.

You admire my past, yet fail to see—my work is far from finished. The world still rots, and I still remain. If history has taught us anything, it is that I am not so easily laid to rest.

It is amusing, how often men bury their fears in the graves of those they do not understand. If that brings you comfort, you are welcome to believe it. But the world still trembles at my name. That is hardly the mark of a dead man.

I've been reading lots go history stuff and I gotta say this Ra's Al Ghoul guy is a mf genius

although people who still think he's alive are crazy mfs, he's been recorded dead for hundred of Years now

[alghulras]

She does not bow. Good. She does not avert her gaze. Better. "You are your mother’s daughter." He sees echoes of Talia, of himself, of every blade the League has ever honed to perfection. She is not their weapon. She has never been. Ra’s does not need to hear the hesitation in her voice to recognise it—he sees it in the way her fingers twitch before stilling, in the way her shoulders are squared just a touch too tightly. It is fleeting, burned away by something stronger. "You wear no mask, yet your purpose is clear," He has seen many come before him, heads bowed in supplication or defiance, but she stands with neither. Ivy al Ghul Wayne. He hears how she speaks it, how she carries it, as if it is a weapon forged in two flames. Ivy al Ghul Wayne. The name is a paradox, two legacies pulling in opposite directions.

Ra’s observes her as he might a battlefield, tracing the invisible scars that history has left upon her. She stands as she was taught to stand, speaks with the steel she inherited, but the loyalty in her voice is her own. She does not burn for the world. She burns for those she holds close, and she is willing to set all else to ash to keep them safe.

She does not serve an ideal. She serves those she loves. "You stand before me not as my soldier, not as my heir—as my blood,"

That is what makes her dangerous. That is why she is here. She is not here as an assassin. Nor as one of Gotham’s children. She is here as something else entirely. A daughter. A granddaughter. A sister. The lines between them blur.

"You are here because the world has failed you," he says at last, "Because you have realized that there are limits to what mercy can accomplish. That is a lesson your father still refuses to learn."

The corner of his mouth twitches in something that could be amusement, or something far colder.

"You have learned that mercy is not a weapon that serves you. That is a lesson I once tried to teach your father." He regards her as one does a blade held at arm’s length—weighing the edge, calculating how deep the wound would cut should it turn against him.

"You are here now, asking for my help. And so, you shall have it."

The air carries the scent of ancient wood and the distant embers of a dying fire. Ra’s al Ghul does not turn, nor does he need to. He has already marked the presence, weighed the sound of footfalls, and the rhythm of breath. "You stand before me," he observes, voice as even as the stillness around him. "That is no small thing."

There is no threat in his words, nor is there reassurance. Only the weight of understanding, of knowing that every choice leads to consequence. His hands remain at his sides, but power does not need to be brandished to be known.

"Either you seek something… or you have already made a mistake."

His gaze is patient in its scrutiny, not merely idle curiosity.

"Speak," he commands, though the word is not harsh. It is an invitation, or perhaps, a test. "What is it you hope to gain from this?"

[alghulras]

who do You Feel About killers for hire

You Know Liek Deadshot. Deathstrok. KGBeast. Merlyn. Lady shiva and The Others like em

Loyalty, like skill, must be tested. Those who have earned their place in the League understand that their blades are not their own, but an extension of something far greater.

A hired blade is a tool, nothing more. They fight for coin, for fleeting gain, without purpose beyond their next contract. There is no discipline in that, no vision—only the greed of an inferior species.

We are not weapons to be wielded by those unworthy of true power. Those who stand among us understand this—or they do not stand for long.

I have seen men who kill for money. I have seen men who kill for belief. And I have seen the difference between them.

There are those who kill for principle, and those who kill for profit. Men like Slade Wilson and Floyd Lawton fall into the latter—skilled, yes, but ultimately directionless. They sell their talents to the highest bidder, never questioning the hands that hold their leash. A waste of ability. A waste of purpose.

Anatoli Knyazev is a brute masquerading as a soldier. He kills because it is what he was shaped to do, but there is no refinement in him, no greater understanding of what his violence should mean. He lacks discipline, and that is why he will never be anything more than a hired thug.

Then, there are those like Merlyn. He has touched greatness, walked among the League, and yet he remains shackled by his own selfish ambitions. He understands what it means to be more than a common assassin, and still, he chooses the lesser path.

David Cain was once a weapon of great precision, but even the finest blade dulls when left to rust. He trained his daughter to surpass him, yet failed to see how he himself had fallen short. His devotion to craft is unquestionable, but devotion without vision is wasted. A soldier who outlives his purpose becomes little more than a corpse.

Cheshire is dangerous, but she mistakes volatility for strength. Poison is her signature, and like poison, she is unpredictable—deadly, but without control. She does not serve cause or principle, only her own whims. A woman like that burns bright. Fire without direction consumes itself, in the end.

Bane... A creature of rage and strength, born from a prison and forged in violence. He is a paradox. His mind is sharp, yet clouded by his pride. He believes his power is his own, that he is the master of his fate. In truth, his strength is a crutch, one that he leans upon because he fears to face his own limitations. He could have been more, yet he remains a prisoner of his own design. Like all who seek only to destroy, he will one day be destroyed.

And Shiva… Shiva is different. She does not kill for coin or cause—she kills because it is the purest expression of mastery. She has no illusions of morality, no delusions of grandeur. Of all who walk this world as killers, she alone is honest in her purpose.

The League demands loyalty, not to me— to the world we would shape. That is why I do not employ mercenaries. They do not think beyond their next contract, their next target. And a man who does not think beyond himself is of no use to me.