#< You are Wielder/Other of Rapture >

[askyourwritergrandma]

To: Writer grandma

From: Neva

Hello dear!

I’m neva, nice to meet you.

I was wondering if you had any tips on where to start world-building for fantasy novels. I know it’s pretty general, but i found a lot of information and it’s overwhelming af and some of it misleadingly.

Your truly,

Nevata. <3

Hi Neva!

Oh boy, world building for fantasy novels is an adventure. I don't want to overwhelm you with a long list of things to think about without first suggesting you answer these questions for yourself:

How grand of a setting are you going to have? If you're doing anything large scale that's going to include multiple countries you will need a world map (and a bunch of other things). If you're doing something smaller scale that stays within a set boundary you don't need a map for the whole world. So it's important to know how huge you're going.

Are you relying on the genre-established creatures and magic wielders? Elves and orcs and whatnot. If yes, you don't need to do a ton of work building up those cultures except to add your specifics to it because the fantasy genre has been doing all the work for you already.

Are there hierarchies of magic/creatures/royalty/etc.

How technologically advanced is your world? If you're going traditional, no running water, no electricity type fantasy it'll be a good idea to do some research into how people lived in those time periods.

But you asked how to start with world building? That's under the read more:

Wait, I lied, as a diehard pantser, my #1 advice to you is that while you do not have to know everything before you start, as you figure it out write it down.

But if you're going large scale, full globe/continent travel you will need:

A map. There are a lot of generators for maps and place names online. Start with the place your story starts, don't sweat it if you can't fill in the whole map, just add in things as you discover them.

Think of what you learned in high school geography, you need to have at least a basic, beginning understanding of those things about your area. What kind of climate does it have? Culture? Resources? This sounds like a lot, but if your country is modeled after somewhere you've lived you have almost all of that information already in your brain. Don't overthink it

Alliances and rivalries. You don't have to nail this down before you start writing but knowing it can help

Religions and/or ethnic groups. Again, you don't need to know this immediately before you know the story but it is important to think of as you get started.

If you're using genre established characters:

Who is the dominant species in your setting, is this the most common configuration or no?

How well do the different species get along? Are they able to trade? Interact publicly? Can they be roommates?

How long has the current social situation (getting along or not) been the norm?

If you're having any kind of magical ability in this story

This is my absolute #1 most important thing you need to know if your story is going to have magic and that is to pick the topmost limit that any magic person can reach and never change it. Once you've set the limit and you've written that into the story you cannot change it.

Hierarchies?

Royalty? You don't need to invent a line of succession, just find a royal line in history or present day and model the rules after them.

Magic wielders? Using the set up of a military and just renaming the positions is a beautiful cheat. You can also use journeyman/master/apprentice (etc) set up. Knowing this before you start and having it jotted down on something by your computer will help you.

But wait, what about history?

You only need to know:

Any massively important historical figures everyone in the world would know about (i.e. Genghis Khan)

Any prophecies that everyone would know about (The Christian Rapture comes to mind)

Any massive genocide that everyone would know about (Holocaust)

Any war large enough it is still effecting people to this day (basically any recent war would count)

I know this also threw a lot of information at you. I hope it wasn't overwhelming. There are a lot of other things that you can think of or research but you'll find them as you go along. You basically need to know where the walls are in your story so you can get to the fun part where you start buying furniture.

Good luck Neva! If you have any other questions send them in!

[mrdemarlowe]

"The 333" Prologue: Betrayals

At the height of humanity’s ignorance, a war was waged.

The night sky morphed into a sea of darkness, as legions of Angels swarmed towards Earth’s land. The Angel’s invisible form only made visible by the trails of fire they left behind on route towards the highest populated areas on the planet.

This event would have multiple consequences for humankind.

To start, almost ninety percent of Earth’s land was destroyed and submerged into the oceans, leaving the remaining ten percent of land poisoned or too small to inhabit. In order to deal with this calamity, the survivors of humanity took to massive sea craft, hastily outfitted for long voyages, and began their long and difficult way through the world’s now dominant oceans. Where they would sail for close to twenty years before finally finding a home on land.

A second consequence of the “Rapture” (as some would take to calling it), was a mysterious mutation that occurred within living creatures and caused grotesque deformation and dampened physical ability within the afflicted. In time however, the survivors began to notice that the once prominent and disfiguring mutations were evolving to less visible, more enhancing mutations.

This would be the rough explanation for the creation of the Loma, a new race of humankind that had adapted with abilities.

The third and final consequence of our war had much to do with the first and second, this would make way for the subspecies of monster races to emerge from mutated manifestations of human consciousness. Of course, not many scientists were counted among the survivors of humanity, so even though not many knew the true origins of these races, this was the generally agreed upon explanation. All they knew, or needed to know, was the danger these races would bring for humans in the future.

The Carrier City, home to our race’s remaining people, would steadily drift closer to an unknown fate, and towards a place with divine implications, but demonic foundations.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the world from humankind, a different race emerged. This race had been created through the evil that man had poured into the land, through years and years of blood soaked battles.

Appearing in various corrupted forms, with demonic ambitions and enhanced abilities, the Demazo Race began it’s task to create a new continent in order to lure in any surviving humans for subjugation.

Thus, after almost twenty years at sea, humanity came across a massive land mass they had never seen before.

The scholars on board Carrier City boldly claimed this error on the navigation teams and captain of the vessel, Domillus Sysa. There were accusations of concealing land, or deliberate avoidance in order to sustain control over humanity.

In the end, a small faction of rebels would depart to make their own journeys on the new land, as Sysa’s group would settle in the northernmost territory of their new home. This territory was named Bernum, and was the first land to be discovered and claimed by humankind in years.

The continent humanity had landed on was named Lynn, after the late wife of Domillus, who had risked her own health in order to develop a treatment for some unknown disease that had plagued Carrier City early on in its voyage.

None disagreed, and a new kingdom arose from the ashes of a war not yet forgotten.

In the years to come, a new history began to unfold created from the actions of King Sysa and his bloodline, leading humanity down a new path of existence within the land of Lynn.

This is where we’ll start our story.

Bernum consisted of three distinct geographic features. It’s mystic forest of Demal Dora, which guarded the entrance from southern invaders, to it’s vast mountain-scape, which created a perfect foundation for Bernum’s eventual Kingdom with natural defenses, and its beaches down on the north side of Bernum’s border, which provided a great area for ports and fishing.

It’s within the first geographic feature, where a small campfire can be seen. Sitting around this fire, sheltered from a raging wind, were four men of varying age.

The first man Jacoby Simms, a grizzly man with silver hair and beard equivalent to the moon, who’s short stature warred constantly with his fiercely overbearing presence, sat idly stoking the flames. His hair and beard, both braided heavily with an assortment of gleaming metallic objects, glistened as it rubbed against his silver armor. His heart and mind were heavy this night, and no amount of drink or song was helping to appease his stress.

But it mattered little, his stress would not be transferred to his subordinates, he loosed a short soft sigh, and fixed himself upright.

“Anyone up for a Sysan Story?” He asked in his gruff but heavily accented voice. “I know one that’ll go great with a moonlit night like we have here.”

The smile on his face was clearly forced, but he had small hope that his crew had not noticed as he stood to begin.

“I’d rather you tell us what was said in Bella and Cyllym.”

This response came from Cassius Grau, a young man of twenty one years, who’s youth often went unnoticed under his wise and questioning eyes. But with his messy hair, and growing stubble, his questions and air of authority quickly vanished under the uncertainty of his power.

To his left sat the youngest of the four, a young man of nineteen, with short dirty blond hair, and a constant look of paranoia in his eyes named Elliott Alba.

Elliott scoffed quietly, before continuing his scan of the dark surrounding forest. “We aren’t high enough in the chain of command to understand these things.”

This was said almost in complete unison with the words of the last man who sat directly across from Cassius. Tristan Zuna, who had started with “You” instead of “We”, and was quite irritated at the mocking done by his pupil, finished his statement with a word of chastisement. His jet black pencil tip mustache and hair, which he kept in the slicked back style of old world Spaniards represented his refined and suave personality and his slick black armor complemented him to a T as well.

“I suggest you stop with the interruptions, and listen to your elders.” Tristan finished eyeing both pupils.

“Don’t be so rough on the boys,” Jacoby laughed, “they’re just nervous of war, and rightly so. But we can talk about that tomorrow when we report to the King. For now let’s recount the tale of Demarlowe Sysa, the fourth King of Lynn, and the wielder of the *Holy Roar*.”

“In those days, demons still ran the majority of Lynn’s southern half, and war between the races had been an ongoing struggle for the past Sysa King’s. But King Demarlowe was young, he knew that he had the strength his father had lacked in his old age. He knew he had the power to subdue the Demon race for good.”

Jacoby paused for effect, before continuing.

“It was on a night like this, with the moon in full view, that the King led his forces to retake Bristol and Fallpin. He discovered his Holy Roar, and with it he banished the Demon Prince to the deepest pit of hell.”

“I doubt things were that simple.” Cassius interjected. “The rest of the Kingdom’s territories were still united in it’s support of the King.”

“And they still are…” Tristan began to argue, but Jacoby stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“This world is ever changing, things come and go, and sometimes we humans crave things we can no longer have, or will never be able to have. This can make us do evil things.” Jacoby looked the boys each in the eyes. “If war becomes an outcome that we are to expect, it is our own fault as a race for our desires and flaws. We just need to trust in those who have a higher sense of divine purpose.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Cassius replied, a sinister smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “We should trust in someone with a higher purpose than just taxes, and technology. We need power and knowledge, with a system designed to cater to those who’ve obtained both. We need a new way.”

“Don’t you ever speak such treasonous words in our prese…” Tristan began to yell, but was cut short by Elliott’s calm whisper.

“Null.”

With this, the two older men found themselves unable to use their Lomatic abilities, and as the cold chill of fear rose deep in their chests they turned to see Cassius Grau rise from his spot with the sinister smile fully visible on his face.

“Lunaius et Espanza” he began in a strange foreign language, before switching back. “Kill each other, make it look like an enemy ambush, and die knowing you’re both failures as teachers. Your own students overpowered you.”

With an evil bout of laughter, the boys watched as their former mentors ripped each other apart while the reflections of the campfire danced inside pools of blood.

The first betrayal was finished.

The Next Day:

As the midday sun reached its place above Bernum’s cityscape, two tattered and frantic riders were seen approaching the Kingdom’s gates. Standing Guard today was Rose Petallis and Sylvia Lennox, two of the most promising Royal Guard recruits in their generation.

Rose, a sweet and logical girl, almost twenty years in age, with warm auburn hair and soft amber eyes, was the first to notice Bernum’s crest on the riders cloaks. This was also when she realized the identity of the men, as Cassius Grau and Elliott Alba reached the entrance.

Sylvia, who was much more aggressive in nature, brushed back her golden blonde hair from her light green eyes and shouted to the men below.

“Identify yourselves or submit to apprehension and interrogation.” She finished, still eyeing them suspiciously.

The pair waited a couple moments for any response before calling down again. This time, the question came from Rose.

“Cassius? Elliott? Where are Sir Jacoby and Tristan?” She asked each question in fast succession, worry clear in her voice. “What’s going on guys?”

“Stop talking!” Sylvia scolded, “Until we’ve confirmed their identity, we mustn’t reveal any important information.”

With seemingly no words coming from below, the two girls decided to head down for a closer look. When they reached the bottom they noticed something off about the two men.

They were bloody, with pieces of clothing ripped off in various places. The frantic energy had faded, and the two men now lay slumped over on their mounts. The scene looked slightly staged but the girls immediately recognized their comrades outside the gate.

“That’s the boys,” Sylvia observed, turning to lift the gate. “ Something must have happened down in Demal Dora. We must inform the King.”

As she finished lifting the gates, Sylvia noticed a brief glimmer of metal before a slice appeared across her jaw and cutting down the length of her chest. As she fell to the ground, life fading from her eyes, the form of Elliott Alba appeared in front of her.

“You really were so beautiful…” He sighed softly. “Such a shame.”

Then he plunged his sword deep into her gut, pulled it out and walked away, as Cassius finished off a struggling Rose with a swift snap of the neck.

Sylvia’s eyes filled with darkness as her vision faded, the last image seen replaying in her head. Cassius and Elliott, with putrid smiles on their faces, walking towards the castle. Their second betrayal complete.

Meanwhile, at the castle:

In the highest observation tower, a frightened and confused Darla Brand has just witnessed the betrayal of her comrades at the gate.

Her dark brown hair, usually worn down, had been tied back to prevent obstructing her view of the seasonal migration of the local birds, but what she had seen by the gates was a simple mistake of curiosity.

The fear and confusion changed to anger and a determination to inform her guardsmen of the incoming danger, but as she reached for the door handle she found it already turning. Once it opened, she was relieved to see her fiancé, Prince Damian Sysa, who had just arrived to surprise her with lunch.

“Cassius and Elliott are back,” she started, “but something is wrong, they attacked Sylvia and Rose. I just saw the entire thing from the observation scope, and they’re on their way here. I think something is going on.”

As she finished, she noticed the doubt in her betrothed ones eyes flicker slowly before switching over to trust when he noticed her gaze. She gave him a moment to grasp the situation before prompting him to action.

“I need you to trust me, go inform your father.” She begged. “I need to go and help the girls at the gate, but when you escape with the King, come and meet me there.”

With this, she raced off leaving Prince Damian to warn his father of the coming attack.

In a quick moment of thinking, Damian decided to utilize his ability.

A quietness filled the room as his eyes closed to this world into another.

The Luullo Void was a dimension built entirely on silence. Only those born with Luullo type abilities can access the void, but even among them few can freely roam inside it’s realm with consciousness.

Prince Damian searched quickly for any aura inside the void, knowing only one person who could help at a time like this. But to no avail, Damian could only reach out in hope.

Finally, after a few seconds, Damian reached the consciousness of his mentor, the only other man to have made conscious contact inside the void. Adamantis Black, his father’s right hand and the commander of Bernum’s Royal Guard.

In the throne room, located on the opposite side of the Castle:

Adamantis Black, a man of few words with dark black hair and a trimmed and kept beard to match stands across from King Darius Sysa, Bernum’s current ruler.

As he finished his report, he feels a pinprick of anxiety coming from the Luullo Void. Without hesitation he establishes connection, and as a first instinct scolds his pupil.

“If you can’t free your mind of anxiety, everyone will feel your presence here my young student.” He chastised lovingly. “We’ve discussed this issue before.”

He felt a mischievous smirk form on his face before remembering his current location. The king eyed him, clearing questioning the smirk.

“Your son has entered the void,” he answered without orders. “he is getting stronger, but as of yet has much to lear…”

He was cut off by a desperate Prince Damian.

“My Father… danger. Cass and El… attack. Protect the King.” His last sentence was short enough to come in clear and was the only one to catch Adamantis off guard.

Without hesitation the King’s commander charged for the door to secure the room, but was too late.

The door handle turned, and in walked a young man with jet black hair and a look of pure delight clear across his face.

“Hello father.” He addressed Adamantis, before spotting the King. With a quick bow he finished, “Your Highness.”

“What’s wrong Sebastian,” Adamantis asked, noticing that something wasn’t quite right with his son. “Do you know what’s going on with Cass and Elliott?”

“Indeed I do father,” Sebastian replied coldly. “In fact, I told them to do it. I made all of this fun happen today.”

At a point of almost hysterical laughter, Sebastian slowly begins to calm down as King Darius rises from his throne.

“Explain yourself now boy, or so help me, I’ll make you slap yourself into a coma.” The King started, an air of intense anger beginning to permeate from his every word.

“Empty threats at this point my King,” Sebastian turned his gaze more intently displaying his pleasure at his achievements. “Everything is as I’ve planned. The envoy from Cyllym to Bella claiming war, the spies in our capitol, even the assassinations in Aurora that closed the trade agreements with Bernum.”

Without another word needed, The King began to incite his ability the King’s Command, which allowed him to speak orders into fruition, however it would not activate, much to the King’s surprise and dismay.

As both Adamantis and King Sysa stared in horror, the walls began to fade away to a dark pitch black nothingness. Leaving behind only, the three men.

“Welcome to my Noir.” Sebastian spoke smoothly, as two more figures emerged behind him. “Glad you boys made it in time to enjoy the fun.”

As the figures began to materialize, the King noticed the faces of both Cassius Grau and Elliott Alba, grinning as if they had just spent the night with a commune of women. Each covered in blood without a hint of injury the King could discern.

“I take it you boys are going along with this then?” He asked, already knowing the answer. A sadness had already began to sit in his eyes and words carried heaviness at the thought of this treachery. “Why?”

“Simple Old man, it’s time for a new line of Kings.” Sebastian, who had now made his way closer to his father, began slowly. “Let’s not waste any more of it.”

Before he could react, Adamantis Black found himself deep within the Luullo Void once more. Yet this time felt different, almost permanent in a way. He saw far more clearly within the void than he had ever seen before. And in his final moments of life, he discovered the experience of being reborn into another.

As Sebastian Black’s blade finished it’s downward slice, Adamantis Black took his last breath, and his body hit the ground with a heavy thud.

The King could do nothing but kneel at his best friends side and watch as life faded from his corpse. An anger again beginning to form deep within his gut. With no hesitation, he began to curse Sebastian Black.

“You are evil incarnate, you shape yourself in ways to mix with innocence but you are corruption to your core. You will hurt those closest to you with no remorse, and trade power for bits of your soul. Yet your evil will be your undoing. It will consume you and erase your existence forever.”

As the King finished his fierce last command all three boys lunged forward. Each one plunging their swords deep into the King’s chest. And watched as his body landed uncomfortably on the ground.

“It’s a new Era boys, let’s make sure it remembers who we are.” Sebastian mutters proudly.

The blackness faded away leaving no trace of the incident that had just occurred, just a cruel smiling Sebastian sitting on the King’s throne. With his third and final betrayal finished, he commenced with his last objective.

“Inform the council of elders knows of the Prince’s treason, and make sure you capture them before they escape.”

With Sebastian’s orders, the two men disappeared to capture the prince, as Sebastian peered happily through his new throne room’s window.

A few moments earlier:

Prince Damian had felt the disconnection from his mentor before anything else, and once he had realized what that meant, began making his way towards the throne room. However he was stopped by a reestablished connection to Adamantis Black who spoke briefly through the Void.

“I am dead, your father is surrounded, nothing you can do, run, take Darla and the baby, live.”

As tears filled his eyes, Damian understood his mentors words, and he raced to find Darla and escape the castle grounds. He would never return to his home territory, and he rode away from it’s borders with tears in his eyes and hatred in his heart. He turned to give one last glance to his old life, then turned back and headed towards his new one.

In the years that followed, Damian and Darla would settle cautiously within the territory of Alorica where they would have their daughter Donna, and would stay hidden for years until sickness took hold of Darla and eventually, Prince Damian as well.

[miraworos]

Not a Mouse Shall Disturb This Hallow'd House

Let's check in on the cricket finals, shall we? Crowley thought, as he pulled out his phone and collapsed onto the couch in the back room of the bookshop. He tapped a betting app to pull up the scores, smiling at the results. He wasn't a cricket fan, or really a sports fan, or even a gambling fan, when it came down to it. But rigging sports results against the larger betting population was a fun and easy way to keep the instincts sharp, as it were.

Crowley was feeling particularly tingly over the blistering comments filling up the betting blogs when there was a crash, and an alarmingly high-pitched shriek came from the front of the bookshop, where the angel had been dusting his shelves.

Crowley fumbled his phone. The blasted thing slipped out of his grasp to the floor, screen cracking, despite his desperate attempts to recapture it.

Bloody slippery squares of insolence.

Another shriek tore through the shop, and Crowley leapt to his feet. If something was indeed attacking his angel, then whatever-it-was was about to meet the business end of a woodchipper. On the other hand, if it were merely the angel emitting his distinct shriek-sneeze--which happened when he got dust up his nose--then said angel was buying Crowley a new phone.

It was neither, it turned out, for when Crowley rounded the last bookcase to assess the damage, one Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword, climbed Crowley like a tree, feather duster in hand, still shrieking (though, thankfully, at a slightly lower volume).

Crowley sighed.

"What appears to be the problem?" he asked, keeping his tone mild as he held his angel aloft.

"M-mouse!" Aziraphale shrieked again, pointing with the feather duster to a corner of the room cluttered with several waist-high stacks of books.

Crowley lurched towards Aziraphale's desk, and deposited the angel into the desk chair. Leaning against one of the wings of the chair, Crowley took the opportunity (as he often did these days) to speak closely into the angel's ear.

"How is it that you can stuff doves up your sleeves and wear them to a party, and pull rabbits out of hidey holes by their earlobes, yet you go ballistic over the presence of teeny, tiny mouse?"

As Crowley suspected, the mere ghost of his breath on Aziraphale's neck was enough to both calm the angel's jitters and incite an entirely different, and highly satisfactory, set of observable reactions.

"Well, it isn't the same! Obviously. Mice are-are-are book eaters."

Crowley laughed, instigating the immediate ire of one fussy angel.

"Would you like me to get rid of it for you?" Crowley purred. He allowed his irises to turn full snake, sharpening his features ever so slightly for emphasis. After all, mice were a particular delicacy.

"Not at all," Aziraphale said, straightening his waistcoat as well as he could while still holding the feather duster. "Crowley, I'm surprised at you. There will be no dealing of death in my shop!"

"Alright, angel. Calm down." Crowley straightened, though he left his arm draped across the back of the chair. "What would you prefer?"

"Just...just take it away. Elsewhere."

Crowley shrugged and made to snap his fingers.

"Not like that!" the angel gasped, grabbing his hand.

"Whyever not?"

"We never really know where things go when we banish them. She could end up i-in a room full of rocking chairs...or worse, elephants. You can't just miracle her away. She's a living being with feelings, you know."

Aaand there it was. That soulful, blue-eyed expression full of confidence that Crowley could and would make everything better again. Would take his hand, would save his books, would prove he cared.

So Crowley sighed, straightened his sunglasses, and prepared to go to war with a mouse--the human way.

Three hours and copious amounts of cursing later, he emerged from the battle dusty and bruised but victorious, his adversary successfully trapped in a cage. Then he took the mouse in his Bentley to St. James’s Park and let it go. All of which just proved how completely besotted he still was with the angel, even after all this time, because it honestly hadn’t occurred to him until he was on his way back to the shop that he could have easily miracled away or eaten the bloody mouse the second he’d left Aziraphale’s presence and avoid sullying his beloved Bentley.

Ah, well. The things we do for love...

Upon returning to the bookshop, he burst through the door like a gallant knight, expecting a rapturous reward from his damsel in distress for a dragon well slain, only to see the damsel in question balancing precariously on top of a bookcase.

"What the--?"

"She had an accomplice!" Aziraphale shrieked.

Crowley closed his eyes, slowly inhaling and then exhaling. And after quietly banging his head against the still open door, he waded into the fray once again for his angel.

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[thedistantstorm]

An End to Opulence

The Shadow of the Earth | Emperor Calus | The Vanguard | The Last City | Character Death

And thus the Shadow of the Earth was slain by Suraya Hawthorne.

-/

There were ashes in his mouth.

There was no way around it, with much of the City on fire. No matter. He had never been much of a solar Guardian, but any kind of energy churned up enough would burn. He could still hear their screams, even now.

He loved it.

It was as delicious as he'd been told it would be, shrill and unfiltered. A treat for his refined palate.

Eventually, all things had to come to a close. He checked his gun. His cloak, violet and gold, billowed behind him with a tarnished shimmer. Looked up, at the great plumes of smoke that rose from the remains of the Tower.

The end-times were upon them.

Besides, he was no Guardian. Not any longer. Regardless of the soft, tragic insisting of his Ghost, who hovered at his shoulder. He would be one of the last, but he too would be purged.

The line between Light and Dark is so very thin...

No. Uldren was dead. Again. And again. Over and over and over. He had died over and over, until his Light had been gone for good. Enough, he told himself. It was time to grow fat from strength, to bathe this planet in the splendor only he could provide.

The Shadow of the Earth had a job to do.

The Emperor had shared his plans. Told his Shadow of the future they would create, before the end. In turn, the Shadow of the Earth shared them with his Ghost, who did not believe in in the Emperor's designs. The Shadow did not share them any more.

It isn't right, he'd said. I don't want to lose you, he'd pleaded.

But they will all lose, eventually. Not even the glorious Emperor in all his splendor can stop Death from coming. This is about feasting upon what remains, living in rapture, engorging upon pleasure right until those final moments.

Ghost does not speak anymore. Not even in those electrical whimpers. Not unless he knew of what the Shadow was about to do.

Here and now, there was no way he couldn't.

The Earth... and its Vanguard... and its people had been given a choice. They would not release themselves of their worldly attachments. That is why a shadow was cast, why he must cull them. 

Very few understand. Those who do fight eagerly, growing fat from the enrichment provided. Those who do not are met with violent mercy. Above all, Emperor Calus inspires his Shadows to be benevolent.

There are no second chances in the end-times. Those who choose to repent, to abandon their tethers to the mundane only under the threat of death will never know the euphoria, the rapture of this enlightenment. That is why they don't deserve it. There is no room here for the unworthy.

The pleading of the Ghost annoyed him immensely. No longer can they communicate through thought, for the Shadow will not have the Traveler's spawn undermine him.

"Be silent," He barked. The Shadow's gaze must be strong, for the Ghost had flinched back, expecting to be swatted. His shell, once bright and polished, is chipped. The once Chosen tsksed. "It wouldn't have hurt if I had struck you."

In reply, the Ghost trembled, shrinking back further. It does not say as much, but this had hurt. It hurts actively. Darkness: his partner emitted it like a muffling blanket, a defense the small bot had no chance of defeating. It penetrated their bond like a pinprick - harmless, at first. But now it feels like the Traveler's Light being ripped from his core to linger. He does it, he will continue to do it. He knows, somewhere in his miniscule circuits that the goodness that once was his partner - that made him the brightest Light in all the universe is still deep down in there somewhere.

It had to be.

He still called upon the void, was able to summon his spear of lightning. Even if he chose to do so rarely now. It had to count for something.

Right?

They ascended the South Elevator, and when it inevitably froze half way up, the Shadow's eyes glowed blue, sending them on their way with an arc pulse. Reassuring, though the Ghost could not voice it aloud from where he hovered quietly in his Guardian's blind spot.

They were all but waiting on the lookout together, the platform above Shaxx's Crucible station, looking out at the world below. Ruined, all of it. By his hand. A testament to the Emperor's lavish designs.

Ikora noticed him first, the void already summoned to her hand with hardly a second glance. She does not speak, but the words blaze in her eyes. How could you, they say. Traitor. Monster!

Shadow. 

Zavala did not move, remained still, his hands fisted atop the railing. Perhaps the gasp of from Ikora's parted lips reached his ears. Perhaps ages of battle left him wise enough to know his fate.

"If it will stop all this, I will die gladly."

A Thorn, black as night, as dark as the death of worlds was pointed at his back.

"You'll be the first," the Shadow said, almost delighted. "You won't be the last."

The scribes had written of acts to come. In many there were errors, discrepancies, waiting to be rewritten. They foretold of Zavala accepting his fate, and yet they assumed Ikora would turn sand to diamonds and alter worlds.

And yet it is Ikora who whimpered when the gun is pointed at her vest, stopping a charging Zavala - willing to die but not accepting of death - from his assault.

Delicious. Calus would find the story decadent, interesting. The plot twists had always been his favorite, after all.

"Ah, ah. Don't make me deviate," He threatened, almost playful. His gaze swung to Ikora, to her eyes of swirling gold with pupils constricted in panic. "She's terrified of dying. Death is coming for us all, you know. You had a choice," He shrugs, almost grandly. "You chose not to rise to the occasion and look where it led."

"This is madness!" Zavala snarled, through gritted teeth. "Genocide! These are the people you swore to protect, and you're having them slaughtered in droves.

The Thorn pointed at Ikora tilted to the side as its wielder considered, but does not waver in its aim. "But I am protecting them. I'm saving them from their earthly afflictions. If they won't embody the rapture, embrace their enlightenment, they will only know fear and hate. I'm erasing that from them. It is the least I can do."

"You're insane."

The words barely sound like the strongest Warlock, but it had been Ikora speaking all the same. He doesn't think about it, whipped out a second cannon and let its shot bite into her shoulder. She grunted, staggered, but did not fall.

Instead, her eyes darkened monumentally, and though her blood dripped slowly on deckplates she did not make any attempt to stifle the bleeding. She looked hateful. Powerless.

As they all would be, in the end. 

The Commander, on the other hand… he would still have to die first. Ikora would die wallowing in her futility, more so watching events unfold, but Zavala was unyielding. He would never let go of his ideals, not even in those last seconds when Death's maw closed around his throat.

Thorn's sight returned to Zavala, aimed at his chest. No amount of armor would shield him from the Shadow's deadly intent.

"Would you like to say your goodbyes? I had given you a day, but clearly you didn't take me seriously." The Shadow laughed, a menacing thing. "I am, after all, benevolent."

Zavala would not speak a word. His eyes were reduced to narrowed slits of hard, angry blue.

"You don't have to do this," A tiny voice intervened. Trembled, his entire body shook with fear of retaliation, but he proceeded. "You don't need to kill them."

"Be silent!" The Shadow boomed. "You do not understand."

"I understand this is wrong." He hovered into his partner's periphery. "You have to know this is wrong."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" The once-Hunter growled, "You do not listen!"

A shiver and shake of his cones leaves him almost wilted and yet his voice comes out resigned, angry. "These are your mentors and you want to kill them. It's wrong. You're wrong," He accused, directly. "It's you who doesn't listen to me, Guardian."

A black-gloved hand stashes his second canon and plucks the Ghost from mid-air. He throws the tiny robot with inhuman strength, letting him bounce and skid across the deckplates, cast aside. "Don't call me that! I'm not a Guardian!"

"No," Came a curt voice behind him. "You aren't."

"You shouldn't be here," The Shadow gritted. "It isn't your time yet."

"I think that's for me to decide." Hawthorne leaned heavy on her left hip, falcon perched on her right shoulder. Her eyes looked like polished stone. "Put your gun down."

"It's his time," The Shadow informed her. "Then hers," He nodded to Ikora. "You'll be… later."

"Enough. Stop with the crazy talk. The Cabal Emperor is insane. You used to tell me that!"

"I was wrong. He is… more."

"He is wrong, and right now, so are you."

"Stop arguing." He trained the sights of his secondary on her, a threat. Louis chirped shrilly in reply, his wings beating as he hovered ever higher, ready to defend her.

When the Shadow's back turned once more, Thorn straightening, this supposedly fated moment upon them, the falcon swooped down like a compact missile.

The shot sounded in a different direction.

A flash of green - the muzzle flash - erupted like a verdant sun. A sharp sound, shrieking. Pained. Another flash - white - followed.

In a single moment, time stopped and restarted. Hawthorne staggered backwards, clutching her chest, taking a knee. Several feet away, the discarded Ghost blinked to awareness, unbelieving of what it was seeing.

There was nothing left. No feathers, not a drop of blood. Thorn was all-consuming. 

"He would have taken that bullet no matter what," The Shadow scoffed, when one of the Vanguard parted their lips, meaning to comment in the following silence. "Better to extinguish him up front than allow him to interfere with my justice."

"This isn't justice," Hawthorne said, shaky, almost. She shifted, moving closer.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't. I'll kill you too." He returned his focus to Zavala, who looked even more furious than before. 

"You just-" The Ghost clicked, hovering warily from its place on the ground in a state of shock. It had seen the flashes, felt it in its innermost places. "I don't believe it," He wailed softly. "It's gone. All of it - it's-"

Are you alright?

He stilled. It sounded quiet almost like it came from… but it was all wrong. That isn't how- "You just..." He looked at her. She appeared more wary than surprised. As if... I-I'm sorry.

Me too.

Hawthorne returned to her feet, gun in hand. "This is your last warning," She said, tone like ice. "I don't want to do this, but I will if I have to."

"Cute, Hawthorne, but-"

"I'm not kidding." Her eyes narrow.

Ghost feels it. He feels it like the sun after a rain, like a campfire in the wilderness. It feels like coming home. And yet it hurt, worse than anything he'd ever known, to realize the truth. "Guardian," He warbled.

"I told you-"

"I know," Hawthorne said, hushed. She blinked and tears fell from her eyes. "I know."

She drew a weapon that glinted white. The Shadow turned then, shaking his head. The antithesis of Thorn was trained on him. "That will never stack up."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Your Ghost." Her eyes glowed, like dull embers. It was the only warning he got.

"Wh-"

Another flash. Orange and yellow, like the sunset, the twilight sky.

She lowered the gun, body ignited in flame.

It hurt her too, Ghost realized without actually knowing anything. He hovered to her tentatively. Their gazes met.

The Shadow gasped, the single shot enough to kill, but not instantly.

"I wish he could have kept you."

The tears steamed and evaporated as they leaked from her eyes, burning her cheeks. She took a knee beside him. His body jerked, his organs recoiling in shock, shouting down. He looked at her, words trying to find their way from his mouth.

With a sad keen, the Ghost touched his once-partner's forehead, burrowed itself against his cheek. "I'm sorry I failed you." The Shadow tried to bring his hands up. Whether to harm the tiny bot or to console him, they would never know. Death did not wait. In the City below, their attackers drew back. 

“Where did you get that gun?”

“He left it with me, a long while back.” Hawthorne sighed, sounding as though she had never been more exhausted. “Wasn’t particularly thrilled about having a hand cannon, but I suppose it did the trick.”

"The Psions were likely aware of his-" The Shadow's Ghost paused, "You know. I think he’d allowed them to link with him, to see his thoughts. They're withdrawing now. Without him, they don't stand a chance."

"Ghost." Ikora's eyes glimmered, both pained and relieved. Her own still did not make any move to heal her. "Is he-?"

Zavala watched as Hawthorne closed the fallen Guardian's unseeing eyes, removing the gun from his waist, ignoring the blackened husk that was Thorn. "His connection to the Light was severed," Ghost confirmed. "When he-"

Ophiuchus emerged immediately in motes of Light. "I told you," He soothed, immediately, healing her.

A gun was handed to the Warlock, grip first. She saw the familiar symbol, the worn etching. "This is-"

"Yours, now." Hawthorne holstered Lumina somewhere on her back, beneath her poncho. No one asked her where she had gotten it, more concerned with the gun in her proffered hand. “Take it.”

She did. They did not speak on what it meant. In many ways, they did not have to.

The City burned for days and days, but its people persisted. Leaders rose to the occasion. Humanity came together, as it had time and time again, to push back the Darkness. And when the remains of the Shadows rallied, seeing retribution for their fallen leader, a Light was cast upon them.

-/

Years Earlier:

“And thus the Shadow of the Earth was slain by Suraya Hawthorne.” The scribe flinched, not expecting the Emperor to be directly behind them. “Interesting, I suppose,” He blanches, “But you’ve forgotten one key element.”

“Yes, your Greatness?”

“My Shadow will not be like any you’ve seen before. They are not yet perfect, but they will be made so by my designs.” He gripped the scribe’s head with a giant palm, squeezing to prove his point. The Psion died without so much as a sound, but all the others heard his anguish telepathically. 

“And when they are, only one as perfect as I will be able to cull them.” He looked around the room at the group of them. Clapped his hands and immediately his cup was full of wine once more. Jubilantly, he bellowed, “Surely one of you must be capable of writing something a bit more imaginative!”

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Highway to Hellsite

Because @abalonetea low-key encouraged me to finish an AU scene despite not knowing what it was, and @idreamonpaper and @drabbleitout actually encouraged this weirdness at one point, and I have no willpower when it comes to both spoiling and embarassing the hell out of Jackson Alistair Lewis. A short non-magical AU about blogging and your obvious crush on a celebrity going viral.

Jackson Alistair woke to the sound of his phone obsessively buzzing in his ear. He moved, stretched, felt something pop in his back and slowly lowered himself back onto the pillow, blinking at the ceiling for far longer than he supposed he really needed to. He had some things to consider, though nothing so much to worry about, he thought. He had survived the gala, uploaded a decent number of shots, and, overall, not completely flopped at his first press event. Good. It all faded out, a little, in comparison to the real reason he was even invited. Being the administrator of the first known DawnShadow fan page wasn’t much for a marketing resume, but damn if it wasn’t good for getting in close with DawnShadow’s marketing team when the band reformed and started catching on. So, maybe his interests hadn’t been one hundred percent professional.

The event certainly had been, at any rate. A fundraiser, a big deal. He hadn’t actually known much about the organization up front, just that it was run by the founder of a network of medical facilities. He knew who that man was, though. And he knew who that man’s second-in-command on his medical staff was. And if there was one thing that was bound to get Nathaniel Ettonridge out into the world, it was his crazy-genious daughter. Even if the band hadn’t been contracted to perform at the more public part of the event (which, thank whatever powers, they had), Nat would be sure to make an appearance. And what an appearance it had been, though the tailored coat was nothing compared to the guitar god on his arm. There had always been rumors, but this was…Well, whatever it was, it felt important. Maybe just because he'd spent so long looking at ancient pictures and wondering, but...maybe not that, really.

The phone buzzed again, and he finally bothered to look at it. A lot of new notifications, more honestly than he’d expected – in fact, suspiciously many. And a few messages from Sydney, who hadn’t dragged herself clear across the country just to watch him snap pictures at an event she wasn’t actually invited to. Understandable. The messages were about what he expected. How was the event, was it exciting meeting everyone, how did he end up getting on stage? And then, a little bit of a different one.

“Did you bring anyone back with you? ;)”

Of course not, and what sort of strange question was that? He asked her as much.

“I’m just teasing. But we’ve talked about this. You can tell me anything. I did figure it was probably a joke, though…” A joke? What was a joke? After a minute of him not answering, another alert snapped him back. “…” And then another. “You haven’t seen it yet?”

He flipped on instinct back to the notifications. A lot of new traffic, likes, reblogs, retweets, notes from all over the series of pages he’d been maintaining across their different platforms. And then, before all that, the ominous truth of the matter.

“Kim ‘at’ed me in something?” he asked, out loud, and then paused to consider the odd sensation of trying to say “@” out loud. What was more, it was a post from another blog, someone he had met the night before. He paused, thought about it before he even attempted to open it, and couldn’t recall anything that had occurred between him and Sarra being interesting enough to go viral. Finally, he went to her account, and stared for a long moment at the odd gradients that served as placeholders for what must have been a completely unreasonable amount of pictures. He glanced over his shoulder to his laptop, and wondered if it was worth another attempt to connect to the hotel’s terrible wifi. Finally, after far too long, the images began to materialize. He scrolled around a little, not looking, just moving the screen up and down, and wondered in an aggravatingly sincere confusion how someone else’s hellsite post had managed to send that much attention to him not just on said hellsite, but across the board.

He scrolled back to the top.

It had only one line of explanation. “The most interesting thing that happened all night.” And the first picture under that wasn’t one she had taken. It was a screenshot of one of his. And so were a few of the ones after that. And there were a few of her pictures, of him, usually of him taking pictures, of…Well, until he saw them all in one place, he hadn’t realized just how many pictures he had taken of the same person. The first large swath of reblogs were all Sarra, adding more pictures to the string.

People, at first. It was just a very striking image, one he couldn’t possibly pass up. The fact that Dr. Orion Lourandera’s other main celebrity contacts were royalty in the fashion industry, and his own siblings, was too good to be true. At first glance, the twins were almost indistinguishable from each other. Jackson wasn’t totally sure if the garments they were wearing would be considered gowns or coats, but the long gauzy material, all blue and green and teal with glints of gold, trailed to the floor like peacocks’ feathers. The sister was the one with her hair swept up and pinned, the one who never took her sunglasses off. The other, with short hair swept back and impractically high heels, was the brother. At some point, his outermost layer – apparently some sort of jacket – was discarded, to reveal that the rest of whatever sort of couture clothing item that was, was open down most of the back. Intricate scrolling tattoos of very small text ran from the base of his neck down his spine to the small of his back, and Jackson remembered wondering just how close one would have to get to actually be able to read it. He did not, on the other hand, remember just how many pictures he'd tried to get of it. Or how long he'd actually stared while wondering, though that was apparently long enough for Sarra to notice and snap a few pictures of Jackson frozen like a statue with his camera half forgotten as the rest of the guests moved around him. It was a decently long exposure, if the motion blurs on everyone else were anything to judge by.

He finally managed to scroll past the vast swath of his pictures of Anderson Lourandera, with its handful of pictures of himself, before the next section started. This one was all pictures of Jackson, posted by an instagram account he'd never heard of before. Something private maybe? The first one had managed to clearly catch the moment the doorman had IDed him, and how much taller everyone else around him was, and was simply captioned, “Whose baby is this??? Why is he here alone???” with a teary-eyed emoji and a random selection of hearts. The one after was Jackson, as well as a few other camera-wielders, and based on the small lock of blonde hair in the corner of the image, this was a picture that Anderson had discreetly taken over his own shoulder while leaning dramatically on the bar. “These media boys think I'm posing for them. They must never learn the truth. #too drunk for these heels #i will literally fall over #no srsly #someone #stop ogling and help me #dammit."

The captions weren't all exactly coherent, but there were…Well, there were a lot of pictures of Jackson. Including a very zoomed in one of him showing his ID to the bartender. His info had, thankfully, been blurred out, but based on the small excited-looking key smash, whatever had been seen was exciting. Oh, Jackson realized, thinking back to the first picture, the fact that this man had thought he was a child, my age I guess.

And then, there was one of him talking to Sarra, who was pointedly side-eyeing the camera. “Askfbsi I've been caught,” and then a very distraught little emoji.

Then, there were the concert shots. A couple of Jackson in the crowd, looking particularly giddy, and captions pointing it out. Then, a few posts with no pictures, just black, with very over-excited and unspecific captions. And finally, the part where he ended up on stage, himself.

Jackson still remembered the feeling of awe, like a coronation, when the strap of the PRS was lowered over his head, the feeling of the strings under his finger, the mother-of-pearl inlays glinting under the stage lights. Nix, with the same ancient red Fender, cluing him in on the set, testing his knowledge on a couple things. No problem. That's why Jackson was here – he was the guy who knew it all.

It was only screenshots but it was clearly a series of videos. When he got to tear into his favorite solo. The moment of shock he'd hoped nobody had noticed when Nathaniel hit that note in Firebird. Nathaniel daring Jackson to do the vocals for Twilight Angel. People cheered, good-natured but egging him on, until he agreed. Sarra had interjected in the next post to add the link to the full video, with a struck-through comment of “no but for real he was amazing go watch it.”

And, in glorious conclusion, a picture Sarra had taken herself, a panoramic view of the scene, of the over-dramatic rapturous look, head tossed back, laughing out loud, of Jackson killing the last solo in the outro of Visions of Midnight on one edge of the image, and, on the other side, Anderson Lourandera, gaze locked on the stage, skin tinted with a faint alcohol-induced blush. One shining with energy, and with the aid of stagelights, the other a vibrant beacon standing out of a sea of dark suits and satin and velvet winter dresses. It was, Jackson concluded, a very odd scene, and it suggested that people had shown up with the image of a more political event in their minds. That seemed like it should have been important, but he couldn't place why. Couldn't quite care. Found himself forgetting, failing to notice, a little more every time he looked back at the picture. He did manage to notice that the artistry of it put every one of his shots to shame.

A few other comments came up under that, a lot of people gushing about various aspects, and a few repeating the demand to know who this kid was. And then, the conclusion, which had been reblogged back to Sarra's page as well. A screenshot of a select few of the posts from Jackson's “house of light" tag, which had existed long before the gala but which now included a couple of last night's pictures, and a screenshot of part of the House of Light's official blog, including a couple of shots of Jackson walking out in a long-hemmed vintage velvet coat that, now that he thought about it, was actually from HoL. The tags underneath included the phrase “#if you see this #call us.” And that was where the “@” appeared. Kim's commentary read, “Admins for @visionsofdawnshadow and @houseoflight-courtofshadow need to quit being horny on main.”

Jackson stared at it for a long moment, then took a screenshot of the whole thing and, after another minute if hesitation, sent it to Sydney.

“Is this what you meant?” he asked.

“Don't freak out,” Sydney answered. “Besides, like I said, I was already pretty sure nothing happened…”

“Why?”

“Well, I know who you are so…I called? The west coast shop. Mostly talked to Eva. (Cuuute accents, by the way).”

Jackson's brain failed to formulate more than “…,” so that was what he sent her.

“It's no secret they work a lot with the band, so he's heading back east with them.”

…

“Aaand it wouldn't hurt to have an assistant/photographer/model/killer musician on board for that kind of project?”

. . .

“…We sort of figured…you might want the job. She thought maybe you could meet with them before you leave? If you don't want to I can totally call her back!”

Jackson switched back to the page of Sarra and Kim's pictures, stared at that panorama for a minute. Saved it. Looked again. Reblogged it to his own page, added a relevantly embarrassed-looking gif. Wrote back to Sydney, “Just tell me where to go.” Then, a second later, “Also, I love you.”