#//moved reaver to his own blog that's up now

[dumbmusclehypnojockboy]

Odds & Ends: The Muscle Shirt, a Sk8ter Dreams story

9,900 Subscribers SPECIAL

Thank you everyone! In the lead up to the big 10,000 subs, I'm going to be posting some of my oldest original stuff. I used to be a tf writer known as LanceFan2001 or Ikaika. I frequented cyoc.net and the narcississ archive (i think it's the predecessor to the current GSS.com) and the original gay muscle story archives.

These were the days that we had to put warning lables before we posting gay stuff. It was a time before network admins or parental controls, It was a different world. But maybe not so different.

I was lucky to find a community, and someone important to me, whom I have lost contact with was O'Melissokomos: The Bee Keeper. He had his own site, that was part transformation stories part political news blog. It just worked. Anyway, he illustrated this story. I am so thankful that CYOC still has those images. So, I present,for the first time with illustrations , Odds & Ends: The Muscle Shirt.

Odds and Ends: the Muscle Shirt

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction depicting gay sex. If reading such material is offensive to you, or if you are under the legal age to read such material, please read something else.

Author's Note: This is a tale in the Sk8ter Dreams universe spin- off, "Odds and Ends". Special Thanks goes out to Reaver who started this universe.

Second Author's Note: This story is not meant to offend ANYONE. It is FANTASY, and should be taken as so. Thank you! >>>Ikaika<;<<

Trent Stephens dried his hair with a towel he had taken to storing in his school locker-yet again. This time, some freshman jocks had the pleasure of "flushing" him. You would think that as a high school senior, Trent would be the one administering that particular rite of passage, or at the very least would garner a little respect from the incoming freshmen. Sadly, he did neither.

Perhaps it was because of his appearance that he faired so poorly with his peers. Trent stood at 5'6", and weighed 235 pounds, most of it fat. He never wore any trendy clothing, instead, sticking to a wardrobe consisting of thrift store finds. Perhaps, adding to Trent's position on the bottom of the social ladder, was the combined fact that he was the new kid, who had no backbone.

Trent was also a nerd. Growing up, while the other boys were outside, playing tag or participating in sports, he preferred to sit in the library and read books, or sit in front of his custom-built computer, and play games. He really had no friends either. He obviously didn't fit in with the jocks or trend setters, and even the computer nerds felt that he was too geeky for their clique.

Trent slammed his locker shut, and with a clumsy, jerking movement, swung his book bag over his shoulder. Just as he was leaving the school, his backpack, filled to the brim with books for school, and "a little light reading", ripped at the seams, causing one of the straps to tear, and littering the deserted hallway with his books and folder paper. "Shit," he silently cursed, "What else can go wrong today?"

It took Trent about 15 minutes to pick up his things, and find a plastic bag to put his stuff in. He exited the school, and made his way to the bust stoop. As he approached the stop, he heard the bus approaching. He ran for it, only to be left behind in a cloud of dust, as the bus zoomed past.

"Great," he thought to himself, "looks like I'm walking home again."

Luckily for Trent, he only lived a mile from the school. He began his trek home, huffing and puffing in the hot and humid August sun.

He passed the many banks, stores and strip malls that were a common sight in suburbia, not paying too much attention to what he was seeing. He walked by a bakery, enjoying the smells waffing in the air. He pressed his face against the glass to see what treats were available for sale inside. As he glanced back towards the sidewalk, he noticed something unusual. The lot next to the bakery, that had been empty ever since Trent had moved to town, was now filled. In it, a store had appeared, almost overnight. Green awning lined the front and the sides of the store, and a sign reading "Odds & Ends", displayed the name of the establishment.

His curiosity piqued, Trent entered the store, and he heard the jingle of a bell ring overhead. Trent took a moment to look over the shop. It looked like a thrift store, with shelves piled high displaying miscellaneous artifacts. There were also a few racks, tables and bins of clothing, and a shoe rack in the corner. His eyes fell upon one item in particular... a sleeveless, Navy Blue, Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. Trent walked towards the rack, his palms sweating in anticipation. The shirt looked oversized... Really oversized! Just as eh was about to reach for the shirt, a voice called out to him, "Can I help you, sir?"

Trent jumped in surprise. "Where did he come from?" he wondered as he got a look at the person the voice belonged to. He was a teenager, looking both innocent and mature. The shopkeeper was dressed in a baggy green shirt, and had a backwards, sized, baseball cap on with a logo that was unfamiliar to Trent.

"Hi," Trent said, a little shakily.

"Hello," The shopkeeper said, "looking for anything in particular today?"

"Well, this shirt intrigued me," Trent answered. "I've never seen such a large A & F shirt before. Is it genuine?"

"Indeed it is, sir," the shopkeeper said, as he calmly walked to the rack, picked up the shirt, and showed Trent the sewed-in labels.

Trent looked at the labels, the shopkeeper presented. Stitched into the material of the shirt was an original label. It showed the size of the shirt as being a XXL. It also had a second tag sewed in above the main tag that read "muscle."

"I never knew A & F made shirts in a XXL size," Trent quasi-asked, quasi-stated.

"If I'm not mistaken," the merchant replied, "They tried it once, but found that it didn't fit in with their marketing campaign."

"Heh," Trent thought, "their marketing campaign. All those hot models in, but mostly out of their tightly fitted clothing. Those hot bodies... how I wished I had a body like that.

"How much?" Trent asked.

"Only $5.00," the storekeeper responded, "but, I think that it's a little too big for you. Why don't you try it on? The fitting room's right there," he added as he ushered Trent into what looked like a closet with a shower curtain in front of it.

Trent shrugged his shoulders, took the shirt the teen held out, and slid the curtain shut. Feeling a little strange, he shucked off his sweaty polo shirt, and put on the Abercrombie & Fitch tee. Trent looked into the mirror. He felt that the shirt fit him just fine. It wasn't baggy at all. In fact, the vertical white stripes down the sides of the shirt, actually helped Trent look a bit simmer. It was his slight paunch, however, which stretched the shirt out a little, that kind of ruined the effect.

"How does it look sir?" The storekeeper asked, breaking Trent from his train of thought.

"It's a little tight," Trent said.

"Nonsense!" The teen replied, opening the curtain and ushering Trent out of the room, and in front of a mirror mounted on a wall. "Let me take a look."

"It's a muscle shirt," the shopkeeper said, "so, it's supposed to be a little tight." He tugged the shirt in a few places, adjusting a few folds, and smoothing out the shirt. "Looks like a perfect fit to me," he said, admiring his work.

"How can you say that?" Trent asked, a little irritated.

"Look in the mirror."

Trent did as the shopkeeper asked, and was taken aback by what he saw. His stomach wasn't protruding as much as it was just a few moments ago... In fact, his belly seemed to be diminishing, the accumilated fat, just melting away.

"How did that happen?" Trent asked.

"What do you mean sir?"

"That," Trent said, as he pointed to his stomach in the mirror. Trent let out an audible gasp as he was in for another surprise. His once flabby stomach was now gone. He stood transfixed as ridges formed on the shirt, holding tight to his body, and revealing slight definition. The crevices deepened as a four-pack developed into a six-pack which then morphed into a highly defined, ripped eight-pack.

"Whoa... What was THAT?" Trent asked dumbfounded.

"I still don't know what you're talking about sir," the shop keeper said, ignorant to the fact that Trent was changing before his own eyes.

Trent realized that he was now looking down on his companion. He could have sworn that he was eye to eye with the shopkeeper when he had walked into the store.

"This is so fucking cool," Trent said.

"Sir," the shopkeeper responded, "I still don't know what you're talking about..."

But the shopkeeper's remarks were cut short, as Trent doubled over, and reached for his legs. They were cramping... BIG TIME! As he put his hands around his calves, he thought to himself, "They're growing!"

And he was correct in his analysis. Trent's claves were growing. In fact, his whole leg was expanding in both directions. Rock hard muscle developed on his calves and thighs, as they both lengthened. They were engulfed in pain, until finally, the growth stopped. The results were diamond shaped calves, the definition impeccable, and the size of a football. His thighs were so thick, they resembled the trunk of a coconut tree.

Trent then began to feel a pressure around his feet. They felt squeezed into his shoe all of a sudden... suffocating in the tight quarters in which they were contained. Quickly, Trent bent down to take off the shoes. When he did so, he found that his feet were also growing. Creeping past a size 11... slowly stretching, elongating past a 12 �... the bones crunching, crackling and reconstructing themselves, finally stopping at a size 15. His socks then reshaped, and readjusted themselves from knee high tube socks, a pair of Nike no-show socks.

"Are you okay sir," the shopkeeper asked, not really understanding what his customer was going on about.

"I don't kn..." Trent cried out, "But.. but... ARRGGGHHHHHH..."

Trent's comment was cut short by a new pain, this time centered in his chest. On the one hand, he felt like he was being massaged, yet on the other hand, he felt like his chest muscles were being pulled apart. He started sweating profusely, as he gawked in the mirror. His man-tits were disappearing! They were restructuring themselves, turning the once jiggly fat reserves, into solid plates of steel. His pectoral muscles (that's what they were now, not fat, but pure muscles) stretched his shirt to the limit. Trent realized that the shirt he was wearing began to shrink. The bottom hem creeping up, revealing the cobblestone bricks he now had for abs. Trent watched as his nipples shifted, now facing outwards, instead of the downward direction they once faced.

His pecs now pumped, the pain moved to his sides, back and shoulders. Trent's traps, lats and back muscles grew out, forcing his arms to hang at an angle, instead of straight down. His shoulders widened and broadened. The changes finally stopped when Trent's frame looked like a doorway: intimidatingly looming.

Trent didn't have time to comment on this, however, as the pain moved to his arms. Bones crackled and muscles elongated to keep up with his lengthening arms, which grew in proportion to his new physiology. Then, as they stopped their downward journey, his arms began to swell. Like a balloon inflates, Trent's arms blew up, but unlike a balloon, Trent's biceps and triceps were filling up with strong, hard, potent muscle tissue.

Trent's arms continued bulking up, finally reaching a point when his upper arms resembled basketballs. His skin was stretched tight, that it appeared his skin was no more than a sheet of paper. The feeling shot from the arms, down to the forearms. They pumped up, increasing in size, finally looking like miniature legs of lamb, but without any of the fat.

Next, Trent's hands expanded. Growing to mach the size of the rest of his body... HUGE! Joints popped, bones broke apart and reformed, and ligaments and tendons realigned themselves until Trent could more than easily palm a bowling ball... yes, a bowling ball!

At this point, Trent looked into the mirror, and realized what was happening. He saw his solid body, rippling with newly formed mass and muscle. He was turning into a jock. He was becoming one of those jocks he had always fantasized about being. One of those jocks that had always picked on him. The very jocks he detested, yet, subconsciously longed to be.

With that thought, an erotic rush came over Trent's body, centered in his groin. He accepted these changes... No... not accepted, he embraced them... welcomed them. Then, he felt movement on his thighs, and realized that his briefs were turning into boxer briefs... The underwear inched down his thighs, and fit tightly over the densely packed muscles of Trent's thighs and bubble butt. Then, he felt more movement, and an electric shock in his penis. "No, not my penis," Trent corrected himself, "My cock... my fuck stick."

He felt his cock snake down his thighs, and was surprised when the growth seemed to complete itself when it reached about three-quarters of the way down his thigh. Another erotic rush shook his body, as his balls swelled in size from the size of grapes to the size of golf balls, and even then, a little bit bigger. Trent's nutsack dropped, and met expanded to match the growth of its contents.

"UUUGGGH!" Trent grunted, his now deep voice, echoing with a bassy resonance. "Oh, fuck!" he exclaimed, a new sensation spreading across his face and neck.

"Sir," the shopkeeper said, "If you're going to be a while in front of that mirror, I'll just be doing a few things that need to get done. Just call me if I can help you with anything." And with that, he disappeared from Trent's view.

Trent watched in the mirror as his face rearranged itself. First, his eyes lightened, going from a dark brown, to hazel, passing pale green, and finally stopping at a bright, mesmerizing blue. His cheekbones and facial structure transfigured, giving Trent more angular features, raising his cheekbones higher, and squaring off his jaw. Then, his nose collapsed, and reconstructed itself, giving Trent a nose that appeared to have been broken a few times, yet still having a shape that perfectly matched his other facial features. The pieces of the puzzle coming together, Trent looked into the mirror, and marveled at the fact that the face looking back at him was a face that could be on billboards, magazine covers, and even in the Abercrombie and Fitch Quarterly!

Trent's hair lightened in color. Changing in a few seconds from black, to a sun-highlighted, bleached blond look. It filled in fuller, and thicker than ever before, and all of a sudden, his scalp started itching, as it all started receding back into his skull. All that was lift was a short crew cut, with the sides and back faded down, and his bangs up-turned and spiked out. Then, he watched as his sideburns filled out.

The itching exploded all over his body, as all the hair on his chest, legs, arms, abdomen, back, underarms and crotch, retracted back into his skin. The itching continued as fine blond hairs, started filling in creating just a very slight treasure trail that lead to a very well trimmed and maintained patch of hair. His balls still remained hairless, as did the rest of his body, which would forever remain so. Trent's skin then started darkening. It changed from the pasty white that he once was, and darkened into a rich, golden tan. His complexion was simply perfect, and his whole body just radiated a glowing aura.

All of a sudden, Trent clutched his chest. It felt like something was moving in his heart. He felt something crawling under his skin, and in a moment, he realized that the sensation was veins. Veins snaking their way across his body, down and across his chest and abdomen. Veins popped along his legs, and arms, forming obvious webs and patterns here and there. And then veins started popping along his newly muscled neck.

Trent was feeling pumped! He felt the strength that he now possessed welling inside of him. As he made a double bicep pose in the mirror, he froze. He wanted to stop posing, to go into a most muscular pose (something that he never knew about before), but was frozen in place. Something was wrong... something was tickling him? Trent looked into the mirror at his stomach, and saw that his clothing was now changing. The shirt he tried on remained the blue and white sleeveless Abercrombie and Fitch shirt that it was, however, bottom hem crept up, and took on the appearance of a cut-off tee-shirt.

His former jeans, which now looked like ridiculous high-waters, tied on with a cloth belt (which seemed to have tightened itself throughout the transformation) altered themselves. They grew longer to match Trent's new height. Then, they changed colors. In some places it got darker, turning into a dark brown or black. In other areas, the jeans lightened, turning olive or light green. Then, as a whole, the jeans began to fade, looking as if they had been washed many, many times. Rips and tears appeared randomly, and Trent's belt's excess length hung in front, perhaps hinting at the massive organ that Trent now possessed. The pants had become a pair of waist 28, vintage wash cammos from Abercrombie and Fitch.

The shoes that Trent had cast off earlier now faded out of reality. They disappeared from sight! A brand new pair of black and white Nike cross-trainers formed on his feet.

Trent's book bag then began to flicker. It elongated and widened, darkening to black. A logo appeared on it, finally revealing itself to be the Adidas logo. Trent's backpack had become a gym bag. The books that were in a plastic bag next to the backpack disappeared, gone from Trent's memory, and the memory of the world. The new gym bag filled itself with workout clothing, a pair of shoes, and a jock strap. Not to mention a few other items... condoms and lube!

Suddenly, a sharp, throbbing pain erupted in his head. Trent quickly reached for his temples. It was like a vise was pressing his head, squeezing tighter and tighter. "ARRRRGH," Trent screamed in anguish, "My fucking head! What the fuck is happening to m... ARRRGH!" The pain was incredible!

A new feeling was added to the torture he was enduring. From somewhere within his cranial cavity, it felt like his brains were being forced through a small sieve. Trent's natural ability to learn, and hold knowledge of the world decreased. His very IQ lowered, nearing 90. Things Trent learned from school and books seeped from his head, leaving an empty brain. "Fucking A man, make this stop," Trent cried out, still in pain.

As the torture continued, Trent's brain rewrote itself with information. It filled with knowledge about working out, nutrition, and sports. Trent could no longer tell you the state capitols, but he could tell you that he worked out everyday for two hours, doing bench presses, cable flies, and bicep curls. He could ramble of rosters from sports teams. He didn't know anything about foreign trade policies, but he now knew that the Camero was a bitchin' ride.

Trent's attitudes changed. He now had an aversion for geeks and nerds. His life revolved around, hot guys, hot cars, hot sex, and flexing his muscles on and off the sports field. His world now focused on keggers, and his vocabulary now only encompassed simple words and phrases. Trent no longer would be the sniveling coward who just took everything that came his way. He would now be a cocky jock, who had an air of arrogance and confidence in everything that he did. And his voice, no longer would Trent be confused for a woman on the phone. Instead, his testosterone charged voice boomed with a bassy resonance.

And, as suddenly as the pain started, it stopped in an instant.

"Whoa," Trent said, "That was one nasty trip. I wonder if that's the ephidra in Xenadrine or somethin'."

The sales person came back to the dressing area. Not having heard or seen Trent in a while, he was a little concerned about his customer. "You still doing okay, sir?" he asked.

"Yeah, dude," Trent replied, "I'm okay. That was one hell of a rush!"

"Sorry sir."

"Not your fault guy," Trent said, "what do I owe you for the shirt?"

"Let's see now," the shop keeper said, "Five dollars for the shirt."

Trent reached into his pocket, and retrieved his money, having a little difficulty counting out five ones.

"Thanks man, that's fucking cheap! Let me know if you get anymore in." Trent said after handing the kid his money. "I gotta go to the gym... There's a stud waiting for me, and he's gonna be in for the pounding of his life," he added, thinking about how the star quarterback was his own personal boy toy. Man, this shirt is gonna look awesome on me tomorrow when I start going to my new school `Trent Hall's School for Young Adults'."

"I'm sure it will sir," the shop keeper replied.

And with that, Trent Stephens picked up his gym bag, and walked out the door, the bell overhead jingling one last time, and headed out to his new life.

"Another satisfied customer," the mysterious shopkeeper said to no one in particular. •

`

Please let me know if you liked this retro post. I have some others that are in reserve, so if you would like to see me post more, like and comment!

[morgana-ren]

Hiya, it's me again, thanks for answering my ask! And believe me, I am so interested in the degeneracy. I only discovered your blog, like, two weeks ago- and I am having a blast. The brainrot is so real right now.

Long message, but- to go off of what you said- I had a feeling Reaver would be the one a meta-knowledge person would have the most issue with. You already hinted in other posts that he REALLY doesn't like when his past comes up. But it is fun to see just how affected he is by that.

Really, all of the bastards are intriguing. I do have to say, I am biased towards Ilya for my own reasons (they are not reasonable at all, I am shameless and a disaster over that man- especially when you said he's inspired by one of my favorite artist's works??), but each one's reactions to a meta-character are fun to see. Astarion's was surprising, but he also still has the closest attachment to his "empathy" compared to the others.

If you'd want to do a before they find out/make a move, I would love to see more- but I honestly would love to read anything about these wretched men lol! Hope you're having a good day!

Oh good! I'm so glad you enjoy it! I know a lot of people get annoyed because that is not why they followed me but it seems like there's a few people who do enjoy it, so of course I will keep going lmao Any excuse to talk about the wretches, to be honest!

Reaver is very sensitive of his past. He insists he isn't human (you know, all of his friends aren't human, so neither is he) and unfortunately, loving and feeling things is all too human for him. Having a flawed past is all too human. All that pain and misery is all too human. He makes Corvus calm his nightmares so he doesn't experience them anymore. He drinks blood like Astarion does because his vision of himself demands it. He will also try partake in a little one-off cannibalism because he's jealous that Corvus can eat people, but it grosses the others out. He's a... strange man. His goal is to be the most depraved, debauched, wretched man you've ever seen.

Ilya is my special boy. He's absolutely horrible, but in a weird, nuanced way, same as the others. He chases pleasure with the same fever that Reaver does, but is much more subtle about it. He plays puppet master. He thinks he's soooo clever. His desires literally rival Reaver in debasement and just sheer depravity, but he doesn't have the same reputation for filth in the group.

Do you have anything in specific? Like specific scenarios where you would be meeting them or if you're just yoinked in, or anything in specific I can construct for you? A lot of it varies on how you meet them, where they are wandering around when they see you, etc. Like if you get yoinked in, or whatever else have you. I'm happy to explore any of it! <3

[kettlequills]

ok so this was inspired by this post made by @argisthebulwark - check her blog out! - about dovahkiin soulmates that could feel each other's pain. naturally i ran with the concept of dragonborn soulmates. feat. my ldb laataazin/miraak.

Laataazin has always felt trapped. Before they are Laat-aaz, even, when they are a nameless prisoner, hands-bound, another to be executed through a simple whim of fate. No memories then in the buzzing darkness of their mind, but a feeling of fear, confusion, brief-dawning wonderment on the heels of hot green rage in the drumming space of their chest that was theirs-and-not-theirs. Breath hurting, unused lungs and trembling hands that will not grip round the hilt of the sword Hadvar tries to press into their hands like they know it ought. Like they know scars on their bodies – body, for there is only one Dragonborn, only one.

How dare, their mind rages, how dare the gods try to discard me.

These thoughts, these hungers, these fears, are surely Laataazin’s alone, clear as Masser’s moonlight in the dark sky.

They have known imprisonment, in the cold, whispering bowels of Dragonsreach dungeons, where Mephala murmurs maliciously in every iron bar and chiselled stone, hissing breaths dampening, soft and light as cobwebs falling upon a sleeper’s eye, sanity, safety, sight. Trying to tempt, twist, torment total truth from the prisoner-that-would-be-Laataazin, named Dovahkiin and wrestling the ashes of Mirmulnir into restless ebb. Oil-and-ink in Laat’s nose, and a will that is theirs-and-not-theirs, resistant, defiant, no more daedra than dragonfire, sings firm around Mephala’s words, like the thrum of earthbones a song that refuses to be a bound-and-fooled-slave again.

Don’t complain so much, says the thoughts-that-are-Laataazin, they’ll let you out.

Their dragon-soul, for it must be theirs, is loud, angry, knows their head. It refuses to be quieted, grumbles and snaps at the rolls and reams of papery scrolls the Greybeards set down in front of them, snarling answers in a mother-tongue Laataazin has never known, with the air of distant, impatient distraction, like wings brushing across planes. Laataazin is not much of a reader, puzzles through relearning letters in dusty texts that take bored moments to recall when their body slumps softening into slow sleep. They wake with understanding and vague, boundless frustration, dragon-words in dragon-soul that mutter about Stupid fools and their vapid teachings, you will never learn with these chains on your wings.

Laataazin meditates for endless hours on frigid snowcaps with Paarthurnax’s breath steaming the snow and still thinks of smashing skulls and bloodied steel, still thinks of broken wills and shattered spirits.

It is, they tell Paarthurnax, a losing battle. There is something in them that wants out, and it will stop at nothing, nothing, to claw itself free from the trap locked shut around its howling muzzle.

Mortality is a losing battle, Paarthurnax reminds them. It is their nature to beat against the bars of inevitability, and turn their faces from the grind of time.

Hypocritical lizard, the soul-that-must-be-Laataazin’s mutters, and Laataazin chooses not to share this or the smile it provokes.

Laataazin goes about their divine-driven hunting of twin-souled dragons, who speak to them in a language they know, who challenge them to fights they win, who know them and are stranger to them in a way that only the careless and god-flung may be. They do not want to kill the dragons that are like themselves, who look at the sky and see a glorious road untravelled rather than the distant god-realm for no mortal to cross.

Your soft heart will do us harm, their soul reminds them. Do not spare what hungers to hurt.

Delphine tells them that they are not bloodthirsty enough, that they accept the surrender of too many, and create surrender still where there is not even that. That there is no point sparing monsters, and that Laataazin has a duty, a destiny, a fate.

Laataazin tells Delphine and their soul both that they have chosen a different path. But Akatosh does not make the same mistake twice, and this time, there is no give in the leash of fate wrapped tightly around the neck of the Last Dragonborn.

Ushered by inevitability, they go to face Alduin, and within them their soul rants and raves for its freedom. Fate! Fate! The gods laugh at us.

In Sovngarde, they feel empty, empty. It is a dead place for dead souls, and there is no place for living ties in bodies that breathe and fates that twine. Laataazin’s chest feels cold and dim, unwarmed by so total an omnipresence they had thought it part of themselves. It is not, they know now. There is… something, someone, else.

Gormlaith’s golden hair shines like septims when she smiles at Laataazin, all bared teeth. I knew you would come around, she says, and Laataazin wonders which of them she is talking to, Alduin-that-is-Akatosh, or Laataazin-that-is-trapped. Like standing in a boxful of mirrors, making eye-contact with a thousand versions of an image, an icon, a legend, borne through the ages to consume itself.

It is done. Alduin returns to himself, and fate twirls the key to the shackles of its Last prisoner. Tsun drags their weeping body from the gate and casts it into the realm of air and sunlight, wordless in the face of their inappropriate grief. When Laataazin returns, staggering and coughing out their lungs onto the windswept emptiness of the snow-throat beneath the watching dragon-eyes, feeling slams back into them with all the force of a tidal wave. Pure, blistering rage, fanned so hot it can only be the most animal of panic.

Where did you go? demands the thing-that-is-not-Laataazin. Why couldn’t I feel you?

Laataazin presses their hand to their chest and feels relief, relief, vast enough to swallow the sun.

I thought I had lost you, the prisoner thinks.

Come to me, longs the other.

What force on Tamriel could resist a plea like that? To Solstheim it is and kneeling in the hot ash Laataazin feels the sky all around them open up and his presence close in like breath on their neck.

You are so much louder here, Laataazin tells him, their steps still wobbly from the boat.

You walk on my land now, Miraak replies, and what a wonder to know his name, to touch with travel-sore body land his own has walked, see with dust-stung eyes what his has seen. I grow ever nearer to you.

You did not need to enslave these people, Laataazin thinks at the Tree Stone, watching empty-eyed cultists and blankened reavers work on towering edifices of stone. The mumbling figures remind them of Sovngarde, that terrible emptiness where once a gnawing pain sat. I am here.

I did not think you would come. Miraak’s admission is grudging, a little bitter. But as Laataazin walks through the stone doors of the temple, they hear the clatter of tools dropping, and the shouts of startled reavers.

Laat grins, feels it mark their face wide and feral. Put your best panties on then, for I shall see you soon.

Do not keep me waiting any longer. His pain is audible in the bones that house their heart, his impatience like whips licking the soles of their feet, his eagerness like teeth to their neck. Laataazin opens the Book, and there he is.

“You are shorter than I expected,” is what the soul-of-their-soul tells them, towering over them, crowned in blue and gold like fearless god and dripping ink like blood.

“And you are as obnoxious as I predicted,” Laataazin says, but already they are approaching him, and he does not move away but flinches when their hands meet his chest.

They bear together his pain from centuries of untouched isolation, the nerves awakened by another that burn like needles and dragon-fire, and they bear together the pleasure too, found in smoothing gauntleted hands over thick robes, found in solidity, presence.

I would touch you like this everywhere you could bear it, then more, Laataazin thinks, and their hands come away inkstained when they lift them to cup the golden mask, which tilts, as if its wearer has flinched again at the thought whispered into the ear of his mind like a promise.

The prince that Laataazin favours most is not cunning Mephala who whispers to them in Whiterun, nor Hermeaus Mora, who believes himself masterful gardener of all, but ruby-red Sanguine, who with a gift of a loving if unconventional wife found in a night of revelry wins anew with each feathered kiss their loyalty. It is therefore Miraak who tears himself from this indulgence of touch first, and takes a few steps back. The words of fate are a well-settled cloak employing the ruthless machine of purpose.

“And so the First meets the Last at the summit of Apocrypha,” Miraak says, ringing, proud. “Tell me, did you enjoy the dregs of my destiny?”

“If you had not turned from your fate to kill Alduin, I would not have awoken,” Laataazin replies, dryly, “so to some extent, yes. To other extents, fuck you.”

“That same fate decrees you must die for me to win my freedom.” Miraak’s mask is expressionless, but Laataazin does not need it – they can feel through the glass of body-barriers the surge and roil of the infection of wounds thousands of years untreated, the bitterness, the fear. It has beat within their heart from the very first moment of their waking in Helgen, as their grief, their loss, burns like wildfires in his.

“Freedom?” says one prisoner to another. “What freedom is this? Aren’t you tired of being what they ask of you? Haven’t you paid the price?”

“Do you not feel how the world has warped around you since you awoke?” Miraak’s hand is tightening on his sword hilt, but he does not draw. “You cannot die, you do not sleep, you are not real, or you alone exist – there can only be one Dragonborn.”

“We will both be free,” Laataazin asserts.

“Time, and reality, would not survive us both,” Miraak says, but Laataazin knows their dragon-soul, and knows he is hungry, hungry, and tired of cages.

Boldly, Laataazin reaches out. Miraak takes their hand, masked eyes searching, like he is a man on open water clinging to the uncertain shelter of driftwood.

“That is Akatosh’s problem,” says Laataazin, “I choose to have you.”

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

All The Days Ahead, Chapter 9: I Want You For Worse Or For Better

Mal x Simon, Firefly. Book POV. Also on AO3. Ch 1-8 on my blog.

“Friends and family,” Book says, as though he’s beginning a wedding before a much larger group than the nine of them. “We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Malcolm Reynolds and Simon Tam in a union of love--a true and equal match of hearts, souls, and minds.”

The wedding manages to begin exactly when they planned for it, a miracle all by itself. Mal’s recovery, though not without its setbacks, is behind them. Their last job left no one injured, they haven’t come upon the Alliance or Reavers in days, and thanks to Kaylee and Inara, the arrangements are complete. 

Now Kaylee stands to the Shepherd’s right, with Zoe and Wash, and Inara stands to Book’s left, with River and Jayne. They all watch as Mal and Simon walk toward them from the other end of the deck, connected by the blue o juju they’re each holding onto at one end. 

Once they reach the others, the two men let go of the set of twenty-one beads, giving them to Book. Mal takes his place next to Kaylee, and Simon moves to the space between Inara and the preacher.

“Friends and family,” Book says, as though he’s beginning a wedding before a much larger group than the nine of them. “We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Malcolm Reynolds and Simon Tam in a union of love--a true and equal match of hearts, souls, and minds.”

Cued by his words, Zoe and Inara hold out candles. Mal lights the red one in Zoe’s hands, and Simon lights the gold. 

“Before us all, they vow to respect and to honor each other, to be faithful and true,” Book continues. “They'll exchange further sentiments now.”

He waits, watching Mal place his hand on top of Simon’s with palms touching. Then Book wraps a yellow ribbon around their joined hands, binding them together.

“Ain’t never been much for words,” Mal says, his eyes locked on Simon’s. “Some of the best advice I ever got was to speak true, or say nothing at all. Much of the time, it means I get quiet. But in this case, I can speak nothing but true, and say that I love you in a way I never expected to love another person, and I would do near about anything to keep you safe and make you happy. Despite the particulars, I’m real glad you chose my ship to be a fugitive on.”

There’s a murmur of laughter around them at Mal’s final words. Simon is still smiling a little when he speaks.

“I’m not always good at...finding the right words. So I thought a lot about what I wanted to say today, how I could best express my, my happiness and my appreciation for everything you’ve brought to my life since we met. I decided that for once, perhaps I should speak your language, and keep it simple. I love you with all my heart. Every morning that we wake up together is better because I’m with you. I don't know whether it was luck or a kind of fate that brought us together, on your ship...but I'm very grateful that we're here. All I want is to live, work, and fight beside you for the rest of our days.”

Book unwinds the ribbon from their hands, pausing while River holds out a small box. “These two have freely chosen to be tied in life, 'til death someday parts them. With this exchange of rings, they tell every world in every galaxy, as well as the skies themselves, how strong and deep their devotion is, and will remain.”

Simon slips on Mal’s wedding ring first, a shining black band made of polished stone. Mal returns the gesture, watching the way tiny emeralds in Simon’s ring catch the light.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband,” Book tells them. “I believe Wash has the saké.”

Wash hands Mal the small cup of rice wine, and he takes a sip from it before passing it to Simon. Once they’ve both drunk from it, Wash takes it back.

That final formality accomplished, Book grins at them. “It seems to me, now would be the proper time for your first kiss as married men.”

While they kiss, long and enthusiastic, the others burst into sound. Kaylee is crying a little, River is clapping, and Jayne whistles and stomps his feet like they’re at a festival instead of a wedding. 

With the ceremony ended, Book follows the others toward the party food, appreciating the way Serenity has been specially decorated for the wedding.

The incense Inara has lit around the open space, along with Kaylee’s scattered arrangements of flowers, gives the ship a joyful atmosphere. It truly feels like a mix of both Mal and Simon’s backgrounds, beauty meeting earthiness. The men may not have invited God to their union, but Book can feel Him in the very air that surrounds them.

Everyone talks as they gather food, strands of conversation overlapping until Book can only catch snatches. 

“Do you think it’s too much?” asks Kaylee in a worried tone, but he doesn’t hear Inara’s reply. 

“I’m serious! They use gophers!” Wash says to Mal, and Book is a mite glad not to know the context of that one, to be honest.

“Any occasion to wear a dress...” Zoe is telling Simon, and Book turns to River, done selecting his food. 

“What an amazing array this is, I must say. It smells delightful.”

With Inara’s help sourcing the ingredients, Kaylee and Wash have prepared a feast fit for a crew with hearty appetites. Despite his opinion on the morality of her work, even Book has to admit that they all benefit from Inara’s esteemed contacts across the ‘verse. Especially once he tastes the herb-root soup. It used to be his favorite at the Abbey.

“Dig in, everybody,” Mal declares as they sit down with their bowls and plates along the table that has been moved downstairs for the party. “No better way to mark an occasion, I reckon, than with good food, and good friends.”

“Hear, hear,” Book agrees. “And might I just say, there’s no better occasion than a true meeting of hearts like yours. May you fly free together for years to come.”

Mal nods in acknowledgement of the blessing, and Simon smiles. 

Looking around the table, Book lifts his cup in a toast. “To Mal and Simon, our very own newlyweds.”

“To Mal and Simon!” 

The others drink, and River pouts a little after sipping from her cup. Simon stopped her when she tried to pour the same tonic as everyone else, with a firm, “Not today, mei-mei.”

Book has overheard her arguing with Simon about the artificial construct of age a lot lately, but luckily for everyone, the doctor is used to the way his sister can be both a stubborn child and a skillful logician at the same time. 

Given her usual state of behavior, the shepherd can only imagine what young River might be like inebriated. It’s a rather concerning picture.

Luckily, the girl’s mood shifts as soon as Kaylee puts on music. She pulls Simon away from Mal long enough to dance with her--and then afterwards, somehow convinces Mal to do the same. 

Book settles in to enjoy the party, pleased that once they’re reunited, the happy couple seem to be enjoying themselves. 

Along with everyone else, he thinks, amused as Wash and Zoe dance by him. Their band of misfits has become a family, and he suspects Inara was right in telling him this is where he belongs.

This is where they all belong. And tonight they get to celebrate that, together.

[poorquentyn]

Thanks for the great blog - always a pleasure to read. Was Euron always planning to go to Oldtown? The facts underlying the Eldritch Apocalypse theory (which I love!) would seem to suggest he's had his eye on it for a while, but as recently as taking the Shield Islands, it seemed like his original plan was to sail to Essos. Did the plan significantly change after pushback from the ironborn, or did he simply reshuffle his agenda items and go to Oldtown earlier than he had initially planned?

(TWOW spoilers)

Euron’s initial plan was indeed to approach Dany personally. Perhaps his comment on how the Ironborn’s preference of grapes over dragons altered that plan is meant, like Littlefinger’s aside on how Cersei’s failures have forced him to sacrifice his “four or five quiet years to plant some seeds and allow some fruits to ripen,” as a direct comment from GRRM on how abandoning the five year gap changed the story. Euron might’ve been supposed to return to Essos himself for Dany at some point in the writing process, but the trajectory we’ve got given Sam V AFFC, the visions of Euron that pop up in ADWD, and of course “The Forsaken” works perfectly well on its own. 

Once his followers resisted and he decided to dispatch Victarion and the Iron Fleet to Slaver’s Bay instead, Euron found himself in a position not unlike Aegon’s on the opposite coast: in need of a conquest he could brandish before his men and use as a base of operations while awaiting the silver queen and her dragons. The Griffs went with Storm’s End; at the end of AFFC, it’s revealed that the Crow’s Eye chose Oldtown.

The most perilous part of the voyage was the last. The Redwyne Straits were swarming with longships, as they had been warned in Tyrosh. With the main strength of the Arbor’s fleet on the far side of Westeros, the ironmen had sacked Ryamsport and taken Vinetown and Starfish Harbor for their own, using them as bases to prey on shipping bound for Oldtown.

“Battle here,” said Xhondo. “Not so long.”

“Who would be so mad as to raid this close to Oldtown?”

Xhondo pointed at a half-sunken longship in the shallows. The remnants of a banner drooped from her stern, smoke-stained and ragged. The charge was one Sam had never seen before: a red eye with a black pupil, beneath a black iron crown supported by two crows.

“It grieves me that honest men must suffer such discourtesy, but sooner that than ironmen in Oldtown. Only a fortnight ago some of those bloody bastards captured a Tyroshi merchantman in the straits. They killed her crew, donned their clothes, and used the dyes they found to color their whiskers half a hundred colors. Once inside the walls they meant to set the port ablaze and open a gate from within whilst we fought the fire.Might have worked, but they ran afoul of the Lady of the Tower, and her oarsmaster has a Tyroshi wife. When he saw all the green and purple beards he hailed them in the tongue of Tyrosh, and notone of them had the words to hail him back.”

Sam was aghast. “They cannot mean to raid Oldtown.”

The captain of the Huntress gave him a curious look. “These are no mere reavers. The ironmen have always raided where they could. They would strike sudden from the sea, carry off some gold and girls, and sail away, but there were seldom more than one or two longships, and never more than half a dozen. Hundreds of their ships afflict us now, sailing out of the Shield Islands and some of the rocks around the Arbor. They have taken Stonecrab Cay, the Isle of Pigs, and the Mermaid’s Palace, and there are other nests on Horseshoe Rock and Bastard’s Cradle. Without Lord Redwyne’s fleet, we lack the ships to come to grips with them.”

“What is Lord Hightower doing?” Sam blurted. “My father always said he was as wealthy as the Lannisters, and could command thrice as many swords as any of Highgarden’s other bannermen.”

“More, if he sweeps the cobblestones,” the captain said, “but swords are no good against the ironmen, unless the men who wield them know how to walk on water.” 

“The Hightower must be doing something.”

“To be sure. Lord Leyton’s locked atop his tower with the Mad Maid, consulting books of spells. Might be he’ll raise an army from the deeps. Or not. Baelor’s building galleys, Gunthor has charge of the harbor, Garth is training new recruits, and Humfrey’s gone to Lys to hire sellsails. If he can winkle a proper fleet out of his whore of a sister, we can start paying back the ironmen with some of their own coin. Till then, the best we can do is guard the sound and wait for the bitch queen in King’s Landing to let Lord Paxter off his leash.”

The bitterness of the captain’s final words shocked Sam as much as the things he said. If King’s Landing loses Oldtown and the Arbor, the whole realm will fall to pieces, he thought as he watched the Huntress and her sisters moving off.

Euron and Aegon are parallels in many respects: the most significant new characters introduced in AFFC and ADWD respectively, they’re unexpected claimants who shake up the war by hijacking the story elements of the more well-established characters, particularly Dany. Of course, Euron’s motives are rather different from Aegon’s. The former has no interest in sustainable rule, so the Whispering Sound is less a rallying point for coalition-building like Storm’s End than a staging ground for his “sea of blood.” Moqorro, Melisandre, and Damphair have all seen visions of that unholy tide (Mel’s pointing at the Oldtown area specifically), and indeed it seems from “The Forsaken” that the Redwyne fleet is being set up as the climax to the mass blood sacrifices committed by Euron’s men. Basically, in the wake of his men and perhaps the author’s rewrites changing his plan, Euron’s now out to power up before his dragon arrives. 

And Oldtown, my favorite setting in the world of ice and fire, makes perfect sense as the ground zero for Euron’s apocalypse. Just as his eyepatch covers up the Crow’s Eye, his Pirate King performance shielding his C’thuloid soul, Oldtown’s public face as a prosperous port city home to thriving institutions only just barely covers up what this place really is. It’s a “hinge of the world,” an eldritch city, the closest thing to a Westerosi Asshai; all the lofty monuments to the “overproud,” from the Faith to the Citadel to the Hightowers, are undercut and undergirded by tentacled roots as big as trees. Oldtown is The Death of Dragons and the Faceless Man trying to steal it. Leyton and Malora get it, but they’re thought mad, and have cut themselves off from the city’s defenses at this point. Marwyn the Mage gets it…

“The grey sheep have closed their eyes, but the mastiff sees the truth. Old powers waken. Shadows stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and heroes.”

The Mage was not like other maesters. People said that he kept company with whores and hedge wizards, talked with hairy Ibbenese and pitch-black Summer Islanders in their own tongues, and sacrificed to queer gods at the little sailors’ temples down by the wharves. Men spoke of seeing him down in the undercity, in rat pits and black brothels, consorting with mummers, singers, sellswords, even beggars.

“Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords?” He spat. “The world the Citadel is building has no place in it for sorcery or prophecy or glass candles, much less for dragons.”

…but he skipped town. (And is also widely thought mad.) Alongside dragons and krakens, Damphair saw a sphinx bowing to Big Brother, and such is the face the Citadel shows to the world:

The gates of the Citadel were flanked by a pair of towering green sphinxes with the bodies of lions, the wings of eagles, and the tails of serpents.

So not only is Oldtown the absolute perfect kindling for Euron’s particular fire, but he’s also the payoff for the setup regarding the Citadel. The grey sheep are certain they’ve built a world without magic, but they’re wrong and the Mage and the Mad Maid are right, because the Crow’s Eye is coming. Oldtown is where he finally tears off the mask and jumps:

“Perhaps we can fly. All of us. How will we ever know unless we leap from some tall tower?” The wind came gusting through the window and stirred his sable cloak. There was something obscene and disturbing about his nakedness. “No man ever truly knows what he can do unless he dares to leap.”

[stuffandthingstwd]

I Didn’t Want You To Find Out Like This - Old!Logan

Okay, so I’m writing this Logan [Wolverine] imagine on this blog – even though this is a TWD theme, I was moved by Logan and felt that I needed to write, write, write, old man Logan. So, enjoy! – kind of changing the events up as I don’t want to copy everything from the movie and seen it once so far. * Logan and reader have known each other for over a decade. Reader gets thrown into the mess with both Laura and Logan, revealing something to him she has kept a secret. * PS: S P O I L E R S - S P O I L E R S !!!

A familiar body walked into the hotel lobby in where you worked your dull job that didn’t pay you enough. You looked up from your book as an even more familiar voice spoke your name and dinged the small bell on the desk. “Y/N, it’s been a long time.” you knew who’s voice it was but you were shocked because you haven’t heard it in 10 years. The man who spoke to you pulled down a pair of shades and looked into your eyes. “Logan?” you stuttered out as utter shock caused your brain to pause for a moment. He chuckled slightly and asked you to step out from behind the desk where you were working. “You haven’t changed.” he examined your body, you were a mutant like he was but never revealed to anyone exactly what it was. It caused you to age at a slower pace than an average human would but you also had another mutation that you hid from the world, including Logan “I need to ask you for a favor.” this offended you, the man hasn’t seen you in 10 years and automatically asks you for a favor. You wound your arm back and gave Logan a firm slap to the right side of his face, he took it like it was a small pinch and rubbed the welt slightly. “You’re upset by that, I understand.”  you huffed and puffed with anger as you could feel the blood rushing to your face as you wanted to continue to pummel his face but you let yourself cool down as you noticed his appearance. 

Logan looked much older, scarred, and tired. He paced around for a moment while he let you cool off and you noticed that he was walking with a limp, this made your heart drop because you knew there was something wrong with him. You sighed loudly, “What is it?” he grabbed your arm and pulled you out from the lobby and outside into the pouring rain. Logan explained that Charles was still alive and he was hiding him from the world as well as those who wanted to get to him. “I need your help. You’re one of the only mutants alive that I know.” he looked deep into your eyes as seriousness oozed from his expression. “Okay..” you reluctantly agreed but you knew he needed your help.

Several months later … 

Standing in the kitchen of a cramped building in the middle of the Mexico desert, you scrubbed roughly at dishes that had been stacking up for quite sometime. You were taking your frustration out on the white ceramic plates as your annoyance was because Charles was running low on medication, which was a problem for everyone in the world. Not only the pressures of caring for Charles but Logan was just a distant from you as he was when you met over a decade ago. He was getting more sick and worn out as the months gone by, something was wrong with him but anytime you mentioned it to him he would push you off of it in a crude way. The door swung open causing a large clang pushed you over the edge and when you flipped around to see what caused the loud banging, “Caliban!” but it was Logan who was clearly in the middle of freaking out. “Where’s Caliban? And who the hell is that?!” you pointed the soapy sponge at a small girl that was now sitting at the kitchen table. Charles had accompanied them into the kitchen as he was smiling ear to ear, “Y/N! Y/N! This is the Laura I was talking about.” he stared at her in awe, explaining to you and Logan that they were communicating. This caused Logan to give Charles his medicine quickly but Charles insisted that this Laura was a mutant; this only irritated Logan further.  “What’s her gift Charles? Eating? Pipe throwing?” Laura had been stuffing her face since she sat down in the chair, your eyes widened. “Pipe throwing? What?!” you were starting to freak out at the amount of events that were happening in the small amount of time. 

Trucks were rolling in over the horizon and Logan cursed under his breath as he ran outside. “Logan!” you yelled out as you ran for Charles but Laura placed a firm hand on your arm and squeezed with a protective grip. 2 men stormed into the building and pointed guns at Charles and yourself, Laura’s power as a mutant proved as adamantium claws protruded from her fists; she lunged at the two men, slicing one of their heads off and fatally stabbing the other’s. “Holy shit..” your jaw dropped open in utter surprise. “I told you.” Charles looked up, happily proving he was correct. You followed after Laura quickly as she threw the head of one of the soldiers towards the crowd that was surrounding Logan, she then showed her claws and proceeded to attack the soldiers like an animal. “God, she almost reminds me of …” Logan grabbed a hold of you and shoved you as well as Charles into the back of the limousine. He floored it through a fence which you gasped loudly, “Oh no! I liked this thing.” Logan gave you an annoyed look as you all sped away in safety. “What about Caliban?” you looked out the shot up back window, worrying about Caliban.

 As the four of you stopped at a convince store, you all watched a video on Gabriela’s phone, the woman who took care of Laura. It explained that Laura was made in a lab and was treated as an object, this made you have memories of your childhood but you snapped out of it when Charles dawned a huge reveal to Logan. “She’s your daughter Logan..” you reached out your hand to comfort him but he just swatted it away and took Charles into the bathroom so he could pee. 

After surviving Charles’ freak out in the hotel in Oklahoma City where the Reavers and Dennis nearly captured Laura and killed Charles, you were on the road heading towards Eden. Eden was the sanctuary that Gabriela asked Logan to take Laura to, so that she would be safe. The four of you aided in helping a family get their horses back into the trailer that was ran off the road by the self driving semis, which ran the four of you off as well. The invited you into their home and insisted that you all stayed for dinner and the night. “I would say you were a good pupil but the words would choke me.”  Charles joked as he and Logan were describing the school for gifted youngsters in an incognito way. “Yeah I’ll second that.” you smiled over to Logan who was laughing along with the rest of you sitting at the table. After dinner Logan took Charles up to bed and went out to aid Will Munson with some troublesome men that caused the family problems. You knocked slightly on Charles’ door, he was speaking to someone and opened it slowly to only see a shadowy figure standing by his bed, “Charles!” you yelled out as the shadow figure stepped into the low light of the lamp next to the bed, stabbing Charles through his chest. “Noooooooo!” you screamed out, tears streaming down your face. The figure was a mutant that bared a similarity to Logan but was nothing but an emotionless weapon. You jumped on top of him, utilizing your mutation to absorb anything you willingly latch yourself onto, sucking onto them like a leech; using some of their power to your ability. You absorbed the weapon’s strength, knocking him into the walls, wrestling him to the ground. The weapon threw you roughly onto the floor, knocking the wind from your lungs for a moment. The weapon grabbed a hold of Laura while slaughtering the Munson’s in it’s path. 

You scampered to your feet, charging after the weapon. Still wielding the strength of the weapon you wrestled him down to the ground outside of the house as Logan ran to get Charles. The weapon was taking Laura closer to a van where his creator was at, waiting but an explosion was set off, seemingly killing whoever was near it. Laura freed herself and the two of you started beating down the weapon as Logan who watched Charles die starts charging towards the weapon, his claws at ready. The two of them wrestled, Logan who was weaker than the weapon was holding his own well. “Laura!” you yelled over to her. “Hang on, please.” you grabbed a hold of Laura’s hands and claws, absorbing the adamantium from her body. It coated over your body like a glove, encasing you in the impenetrable metal. The weapon overpowered Logan, sinking it’s claws into his chest as he yelled in agony. You ran and landed a punch into the side of the weapon’s face, sending it flying into a tree. “Y/N?” Logan coughed out as the wound took a toll on his body. He always wondered what your mutation was and was amazed as you were coated in the silvery metal that he shared. The weapon charged again and you blocked his attacks as his claws slid off of your adamantium coating. You kicked him with another swift blow just as you went to attack again, a truck rammed into the weapon and impaled it onto a piece of sharp farming equipment. Out stepped Will who started shooting the weapon with his shotgun until it was empty, then turning to both Logan and yourself, shotgun at ready. You raised your hands in defense as none of you wanted this to happen. But Will fell over, laying dead on the ground as he succumbed to his wounds from the weapon. 

You turned to Logan as you were still coated in the adamantium shell, his face with in awe because of what you did to fight for him. “Logan I wanted to tell you before..” you trailed off, looking at his wounds that concerned you because he wasn’t healing. You ran to him and held onto him tightly. You pressed your hand to his chest and attempted to absorb his wound, it was apart of your power. You could absorb wounds but it could backfire if you absorbed too much and would suffer the wounds yourself. He pushed your hand away from him, there was so much sadness in his face. “I know about Charles..But Logan, you have to let me help you.” you raised your hand again but he only pushed it away once more. “Let’s go..” you supported Logan, your absorbed adamantium shell faded as the two of you gathered Charles’ body to give him a proper burial.

[tagnoob]

A new war for a new year, and its first major battle hit yesterday with as many as 4,000 pilots in local as much of null sec declared sides in the war between TEST, Circle-of-Two, and their allies and the Stainwagon Coalition, whose composition I noted in a war preview post last week.

One of those fights – Local at 21:16 UTC Jan. 1, 2017

The location was the system of F4R2-Q in the Catch region where TEST and CO2 had each placed a Fortizar citadel to act as staging points for their invasion of the region.

On the Imperium side there was a pre-battle State of the Goonion where The Mittani spoke of standing by those who had stood by us during the Casino War and opposing those who proved faithless when the going got tough.

I was already in Asher’s just formed Machariel fleet before the address concluded, joining the logi contingent in a Guardian.  The fleet quickly filled up and we ended up with too much logi, so some of them were sent off to other fleets, but I stuck around preferring to fly with Asher and Arrendis and more than a few fellow Reavers.

This was clearly going to be a big op.  As our subcap fleet undocked and moved to where we would get bridged, there were a lot of capital ships hanging on our staging Fortizar.

Cap Fleet still not fully undocked

We hung out waiting for out bridge for a bit, with the usual calls for people who were not in range of the titan or who had accidentally clicked in space and started wandering off.  Coms were busy as we were in the mode where multiple fleets share the same coms channel, so chatter had to be heavily restricted.

Tethered and Waiting for the bridge

I did get a bit cocky though and logged in my alt and got him setup in a pointing Vigil.  I did not join the fleet, but made my way along the gate route to the destination system where I warped out to one of our staging towers where fleets were staging and went into a 150km orbit to just watch from above things.  TEST and CO2 did not have the luxury of towers in the system as, in a repeat of the battle of 6VDT-H (another 4K pilot battle), they let us sneak in and put towers up on all the moons in the system.  They were depending on their Fortizars for safe points.

And then we warped in and the battle began.

What does one say about a battle where the server has hit 10% time dilation and still cannot keep up, so people get disconnected, parts of the UI stop working, where no action is reliable, where ships get stuck in your overview and appear there long after they have gone?

Wilhelm got disconnected four times during the battle.  But things were moving so slowly that I never had to worry about warping back to the fleet.  Even during the peak, when it took me 20 minutes to log back in and load grid, I found myself still on anchor, still capping up my partners in the cap chain, all as though I had never left.  The main problem was once when one of my cap buddies dumped out of the chain at the same time and I had to get back in fleet, get the watch list up, target a new buddy, and start capping him.  That series of actions took 15 minutes.  And then the old buddy got back in and I was another five minutes getting things sorted back to the way they were.

On the other hand, when time is moving slow and your fleet is clearly going to be sitting on grid exchanging alpha strikes, which kill a ship in a single volley leaving nothing to repair, you can find time to do other things.  I managed to go take a shower, make lunch, take down the Christmas lights on the house, and eat dinner while watching a TV show.  I just had to check my position at every set of commercials.

When our fleet started taking a few losses, I put my alt in and had him paint targets as Asher called for it.  But then he got disconnected, so I let him be for a while, choosing to focus on logi.  We did save a few people… more than a few… when attempts at alpha strikes were done badly and ended up as ragged volleys that applied damage over what seemed like a long stretch of time.  We kept Asher alive a few times as opposing fleets locked him up in an attempt to headshot him.

A while later, when things had hit a routine as we sat near the CO2 Fortizar I logged my alt back in.  However, he had been some place bad while I was away, having had his armor peeled away well into half structure, though his shields were back to full.  As he auto-warped onto grid again he landed in the midst of a TEST fleet and the ship wasn’t long for the world.  I did managed to paint and shoot a Flycatcher and a Sabre as that Vigil went out in a blaze of glory.

Painters on, missiles firing

I left him there in his pod as a vantage point for screen shots before eventually pointing him at the gate home where he was picked off by Solar Fleet camp on the gate that was happily taking out anybody trying to leave.  I watched a couple of Oneiros logi cruisers get popped before it was my turn.

That leads us to who took sides with whom.  I am waiting for a full accounting… or at least a battle report that will generate accurately… but it looked like Provi Bloc, led by CVA, came out in support of Stainwagon and we made them temp blue for the fight.  Meanwhile, the Drone Region Federation, the “other” Russians that don’t get along with the Stainwagon Russians came out to join TEST and CO2, which saw us fighting people we had teamed up with in the past, like Solar Fleet, and former enemies like the Dronewalkers and Legion of xXDeathXx allied.

And then there was NCDot who came on down just to shoot targets of opportunity on both sides of the fight.  Have to respect that.

The fight went on and on as reports of the two Fortizars had them inching slowly to their doom.  Eventually the CO2 Fortizar exploded at 03:11 UTC and the fight shifted to focus around the TEST Fortizar, which had been erroneously reported as dead at 23:30, but which didn’t actually die until 04:14.

Somewhere along the way I managed to get a combat drone out and on each of the Fortizars in order to secure myself a spot on the kill mail.  I also was able to get in on a few of the opposing dreadnoughts at the end when the enemy had essentially given up shooting us and was trying to extract what they could from the field.  When the TEST Fortizar went up there was a short period of mopping up as tidi finally rose above 10%.

As the system emptied out, the game sped up, which was almost disorienting.  Things that had been essentially moving in slow motion for hours were suddenly running at full speed.  And then in a euphoric fit, Asher said he would make us ten participation links, one for each hour the fleet was out, something he no doubt immediately regretted as then he had to go make the damn things.  I would have been happy with a few less and a quicker trip home.

However, we did have to cover capitals as the went back to staging.  Fortunately we were only a gate and a jump from home, so it wasn’t a long haul.  We caught a titan bridge and covered a gate for the supers, then docked back up for the night.  And just in time too, as the new season of Sherlock was set to start on PBS just 11 minutes after I logged out.  But it had been a long day in space.

Fleet time – 10 hours 49 minutes

That leaves the result of the battle.

We won the objective.  TEST and CO2 lost their Fortizars and will continue to stage from NPC null sec space for now.  While they are pushing this off as no big deal, just a matter of a couple of gates, when your plan is an invasion and you are repulsed, you have lost.

Then there is the ISK war.  On Reddit, which is largely the sphere of TEST, our foes are claiming a stunning victory, claiming to have killed as much as 600 billion ISK in ships over the course of the battle.  They are oddly quiet about their own losses however.  They are likely less, so they have probably won the ISK war. How much less remains in question until things settle down and a battle report can be generated.  I cannot reliably fetch my own profile on zKillboard, much less a battle report.  All we have right now is ship losses.

DOTLAN report on ships destroyed

But the question arises as to who can afford losses and who can’t.

TEST and CO2 just lost all of their space after a couple months of war in Tribute.  They are currently living in NPC null sec and do not have any territory from which to extract wealth.

I do not know the state of Stainwagon, though they have been hanging out in their space for a long time, so it should be safe to assume they are not poor.

Then there is the Imperium, which has been working to restore it coffers since the end of summer in Delve.  Look at the November economic report and note which region has the largest amount of mining going on.  We lost 600 billion in ISK worth of ships in our own system less than a month ago and were still happy to go to war.  So I do not think the losses will dissuade us from our cause.

Also this is just the first major battle of the war.  Both sides can afford to dismiss what happened and claim it as a victory.  But which side is going to be able to sustain the fights, the losses, the day long events spent in 10% tidi?  That question has yet to be answered.

So the war is on.

Also, I am totally set for participation links for the month, with 11 in already.

Here is coverage of the battle on other sites, which I will update as more show up:

INN – The Traitor’s War Breaks Out – The Battle of F4R2-Q (live blog attempt)

The Nosy Gamer – The Winter War: Death To Supercarriers And Citadels

Video of the Battle from an NCDot pilot

And then some screen shots from my 10 hours in space yesterday:

Cap Fleet still not fully undocked

Tethered and Waiting for the bridge

Bridges up, subcaps on the way

Machariel Ball

Inititive Apoc Navy Issues

Machs with a smart bomb running

TEST Maelstroms

Asher in a smart bomb ring in front of a lava planet… art, bitches!

Vigil over the battle

Fighters and a command burst

Fortizar lit by explosions

Doomed Vigil in the middle of things

Oneiros tackled by Solar Fleet

Fighters in the glow of battle

More fighters

Wreckage and battle

Arrendis in the Dark Guardian

Dreads in the warm glow of an explosion

The CO2 Fortizar dies

Explosions

A Phoenix hanging on

Finally, screw that MTU!

Opening the New War at F4R2-Q A new war for a new year, and its first major battle hit yesterday with as many as 4,000 pilots in local as much of null sec declared sides in the war between TEST, Circle-of-Two, and their allies and the Stainwagon Coalition, whose composition I noted…