#Circular Gold Stage

[dsthomefurniture21]

White Look Water Fountain For Wedding Decor

This Setup includes –

One big FRP Fountain with

Four Moroccan lamps

This Beautiful setup is manufacture by us and exported to our client in Switzerland. They have done amazing work with our extra-ordinary props. These Props can be used on many occasions like for weddings on Haldi ceremony as well as after marriage on the baby shower.

[armthearmour]

Arms and Armor of the Hallstatt Celts: A (not-so) Brief Overview

The Hallstatt culture is an archaeologically-defined material culture group. The typesite for this group is in Hallstatt, Austria, where a deep salt mine which had been in use since the Neolithic served as the lifeblood of the local community. A substantial cemetery of approximately 1,300 burials near the mine has helped to clearly define artistic trends associated with this cultural group. The culture is associated with early Celtic or proto-Celtic language speaking groups, and for a long time, was thought to have been the origin of the proto-celtic language. This idea has since been debunked, as it is now known the first proto-Celtic speakers predated the Hallstatt culture.

The Hallstatt culture is divided into four phases, A-D (henceforth abbreviated as Ha. A-D). The first two of these phases are associated with the end of the bronze age in the region, the last two, with the beginning of the iron age.

Since the defining of the culture in 1846, Hallstatt influence has been found from Eastern France to Hungary, as far south as Serbia and as far North as Poland. The core Hallstatt region covers much of Austria and Southern Germany. By the Ha. C period, distinct practices had arisen in the Hallstatt sphere of influence: distinct enough for academics to split the culture into two “zones”, the East and the West.

Unfortunately, due to the antiquity of this culture and the utter lack of any written records concerning them, the archaeological record is both relatively thin, and the only source of information available for these people. As such, in constructing a timeline of Hallstatt arms and armor, there will be substantial gaps which we can only hope will be filled by future discoveries.

Armor

Three types of armor are commonly found in Hallstatt contexts: belts, cuirasses, and helmets.

That broad belts (both of leather and of bronze) are considered armor in the ancient Mediterranean is clear from references in which these items are placed in context with other armor. In the Iliad, for example, in book 7 after Ajax and Hector meet on the field of battle and fight to a stalemate, they exchange equipment. Hector “gave over his silver-studded sword, bringing with it the sheath and well-cut baldric” (l. 303-304), while Ajax reciprocated with “his war-belt bright with crimson” (l. 305). Additionally, a short list of military equipment issued by the Neo-Assyrian empire recovered in Tel Halaf lists 10 leather belts alongside bows, swords, spears, and other arms and armor.

A number of bronze and gold belt plates survive from both the Eastern and Western zones, though most of these plates date to the Ha. D period.

While the majority of these plates are decorated with embossed and incised geometric patterns, some (particularly from the Eastern zone) include scenes of warriors on foot and on horseback.

The cuirasses of the Hallstatt period exhibit an interesting progression. In their most basic form, these bronze cuirasses remain essentially the same from Ha. A-D. They are characterized by essentially simple forms: a tubular breast and backplate which terminates at the waist and includes a tall standing collar to defend the neck. The earliest examples, however, include substantial embossed decoration in much the same manner as appears on the belt plates.

Only in the late Ha. B to early Ha. C period does this decoration begin to take on a more anatomical form; a group of seven cuirasses recovered in Marmesse, France in 1974 shows this evolution nicely. These cuirasses retain the same form, though a slight taper is now evident near the waist. The circular embossing closely resembles that of the previous period, however embossed lines are now apparent, and the placement of the embossing is such as to evoke the musculature of the warrior wearing it.

The final stage of the cuirasse’s evolution arrives in Ha. D. This form is much more plain, lacking the apparent horror vacui which typified earlier iterations of this style. Instead, the anatomical element is even more pronounced: embossing emphasizes the warrior’s pectoral and abdominal muscles, and additional circular bronze plates are riveted to the upper chest to simulate nipples.

The final element of armor with substantial enough evidence in a Hallstatt context to be addressed is the helmet. Unfortunately, surviving helmets are extremely scarce, and there is no pictorial evidence to consult prior to the Ha. D period.

Four helmet types appear both archaeologically and artistically in Hallstatt contexts. We will call these the crested, the plated, the double-crested, and the Negau.

Only one artistic example of the crested helmet is to be found, and no archaeological examples. It is to be found on a grave good in the shape of a wagon adorned with many figures made ca. 600 BC and recovered in Strettweg, Austria.

A find from Normandy (outside the Hallstatt sphere of influence) dated ca. 1200-700 BC shows what this type of helmet may have looked like.

The plated type is nearly as obscure, represented by only a single survival and a single artwork. The helmet, recovered in Šentvid, Slovenia and dated ca. 800-450 BC, is curious for the distinct pearly texture of its surface.

A number of similar helmets appear on a situla recovered from the Certosa Necropolis in modern Bologna, Italy. This situla is dated ca. 600 BC, and bears a striking resemblance to other situlae found in Hallstatt contexts.

The most well attested form of Hallstatt helmet is the double-crested type. This type appears with the onset of Ha. D, and sees use until the end of the Hallstatt period. It is attested to by several survivals

and numerous depictions on a number of situlae

and belt plates.

This type is so-called for the twin crests that adorn the helmet’s skull; crests which, as is attested by the pictorial evidence, served as anchors to large plumes likely made from horse hair.

The final type is named for a town in Slovenia where a large cache of helmets of this type was found in 1812. The Negau type appears at the very tail end of Ha. D, and primarily in Etruscan and Italic contexts. However a number of finds (including the eponymous horde) come from regions of Hallstatt (and eventually La Téne) influence.

Weapons

The weapons which can be found in Hallstatt contexts are very much the same as those found elsewhere in Europe, consisting primarily on spears, axes, swords, and daggers. The spears and axes of the period are very similar to those found elsewhere in Europe and across the Mediterranean in the late bronze to early iron age, and as such will not be discussed further.

Indeed, even the swords of the Hallstatt bronze age (Ha. A-B) bear no significant differences from other swords found in Central and Western Europe at the time.

It is not until Ha. C, and the advent of the iron age, when two new types unique to the culture emerge. Though similar, these sword types, called Gündlingen

and Mindelheim, are distinguished by a number of factors.

First and foremost is size, with Mindelheim swords averaging around 85 cm or 33.5 in in length, while the Gündlingen type only averages 70-75 cm (27.5-29.5 in). Another striking feature of the Mindelheim type which is almost non-existent on Gündlingen swords is a pair of deep grooves on either side of the blade. Additionally, Gündlingen swords are only ever found in bronze, while Mindelheim can be found in either bronze or iron. Gündlingen swords seem to have been tremendously greater in popularity, with only 27 examples of the Mindelheim type being known to over 240 of the Gündlingen. There is also a geographical element: the majority of Mindelheim swords have been found in the east from Austria to Germany, Poland, and as far north as Sweden. Gündlingen swords, by contrast, have mostly been found in the west, as far as Britain and Ireland. Neither type, however, can be found in the core Hallstatt Regions after the advent of Ha. D, when daggers become the primary funerary good of the elite.

Daggers, of course, were not unknown in Hallstatt regions prior to 620 BC. A number of survivals from Ha. A-B attest to the fact that single-edged daggers were popular.

With the advent of the iron age and the rise in popularity of the peculiar Hallstatt sword types, daggers become more rare, until once again they spring back to the fore in Ha. D. At this time, a particular dagger type is almost ubiquitous. This dagger has long, straight quillons mirrored by a tubular pommel. The grip is thin, and the blade is broad and double-edged. This same basic form is present, both plain and with various embellishments, until the end of the Hallstatt period.

[hezzabeth]

The trumpets were old plastic souvenirs painted gold, so the off-key wailing was hardly surprising. A band of disheveled people marched onto the stage, still blowing on the plastic trumpets. Surprisingly, Isabeau was among them, her face displaying a bored, blank expression. They abruptly stopped once they reached the center of the scaffold, the wood creaking under their feet.

A man wearing green tights and a shirt reading "Medieval Christmas market 3345" on it walked onto the stage. His hair had been cut into a peculiar bowl shape with a blunt fringe, and someone had painted red circles on his cheeks.

"All hail Sister Morganna! Conduit of the one true god," the man bellowed in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Did you bring your solar flare gun?” Dityaa asked.

“Of course I did! I never go anywhere without it,” Revati snapped back.

Revati had never seen Sister Morganna up close. During her childhood visits, Sister Morganna was a distant figure. Glimpses of her gloved hands could be seen waving from the castle windows. Every summer solstice, she would lead a parade across the park, carried by men in a gold and white carriage. Through the mesh curtain windows, her shadowy figure could be seen shifting about. Now, Sister Morganna was walking across the scaffold boldly and freely.

She was dressed in a sky-blue and emerald dress, with a thick red and golden scarf covering her scalp, the ends trailing down her shoulders. Slowly, she turned toward the waiting audience, and Revati gasped. Sister Morganna's skin was the same color as fresh lavender. A single round, circular eye glanced about—an eye that could see and understand everything, even things that had yet to be—an eye that could glance into the very nature of people.

“She’s an alien!” whispered Dityaa.

It was an eye that could read minds; no wonder she had successfully started a cult.

“Technically, she’s a human from a faraway planet,” Revati hissed back.

The "faraway planet" was the closest the solar system got to actual aliens. Over a thousand years ago, a group of scientists set off to colonize Pluto. Obviously, they vanished, the ship sinking into the darkness of space. Three hundred years ago, their descendants returned. They were, of course, different.

Sister Morganna calmly walked across the stage and raised her hand.

“Praise be to Marduk, son of the sun, radiant is he,” Sister Morganna said.

“Radiant is he,” the crowd echoed, their expressions blank.

“Who’s Marduk?” Hissed Dityaa.

Revati merely shrugged, completely confused.

“Today we bring forward two heretics, those who smother the great transition,” Sister Morganna said, gesturing towards Bridgadeiro and Aurora.

“Heretic? I don’t even understand what I did! All I said was 'Bless Goup' when my new friend sneezed,” Bridgadeiro argued, nodding at Aurora.

“And I didn’t do anything! I swear,” Aurora cried.

“Goup is a lie! A false prophet created by an ancient snake oil seller,” Sister Morganna said with a small, tight smile.

“False prophet? The rainbow mat of crystal light has been proven to work! It balances your mind, body, and spirit,” Bridgadeiro smiled, and Sister Morganna turned to him, her one eye slowly blinking.

“I can see you standing on that mat, praying to the dark,” she whispered. “Your brother, he drowned, didn’t he? On that hot summer night? You cried and prayed! You think it was her that brought him back,” she added, and the smile dropped from Bridgadeiro’s face.

“She did save him! Goup saved him,” Bridgadeiro said, and Sister Morganna shook her head.

“Oh, you’re a true believer... you poor little boy,” she sighed. “Some gods are lies, but Marduk is true and ancient. My people have lived on his surface! We have been blessed with his gifts! Praise Marduk,” Sister Morganna said.

“Praise Marduk,” the entire crowd screamed, including Revati, who found herself clapping her hand over her mouth. Sister Marduk had hijacked her vocal cords.

“Now repent and embrace Marduk or sacrifice your light to his glory,” Sister Marduk cried.

“I repent! All hail Marduk!” Aurora cried, bursting into tears.

“Well, I’m not repenting. Marduk is just another name for your home planet that blew up centuries ago,” Bridgadeiro said with a small shrug.

“Very well,” Sister Morganna said. Revati sighed, pulling out her solar gun and setting the final charge to maximum.

“Oh, you’re not going to…” whispered Dityaa, and Revati nodded, pulling the trigger.

The solar flare hit the stage in a blinding loop of ultraviolet light. Sister Morganna screamed, flying upwards and landing face-first in the crowd, her body twitching.

“Praise Marduk! This must be an omen!” Aurora smartly yelled from the stage.

The crowd, no longer under Sister Morganna’s control, began to scatter in all directions. Some stumbled towards the fallen leader, striking her with whatever they could find. Others pushed and shoved each other, stumbling over cobblestones.

Through it all, Bridgadeiro stood, completely confused, his hands still tied behind his back. People pushed and shoved, stumbling over each other and tripping on the slick cobblestones. Revati fought through the tidal wave of chaos until she reached the scaffold again. Bridgadeiro was staring down at her, completely transfixed.

“Did you just save my life again?” He asked.

“Yes!” Revati replied, climbing up to the scaffold.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen! He said it so quickly,” Aurora said as Revati began to undo her bound hands.

“It was pure instinct!” protested Bridgadeiro.

The crowd was starting to swarm towards the stage like ants around a sugar cube. From above, Revati could see the smoking, twitching form of Sister Morganna.

“What are they doing?” Bridgadeiro asked, and there was a faint creaking sound as Isabeau joined Revati.

“They’re probably going to kill her; none of them wanted to worship an ancient Babylonian god!” Isabeau said and then she smiled. An actual smile. “I can talk normally again! She’s really gone!” Isabeau cried with delight as Aurora pulled her hands free.

“She’s gone!” Aurora echoed, grabbing Isabeau. Revati watched them kiss for a fraction of a second before politely turning her head.

“Did she really control all these people with her mind? Why would she do that?” Bridgadeiro asked as Revati began to undo his constraints.

“The tornado and the second invasion messed a lot of people up,” Revati merely replied.

“You seem fine,” Bridgadeiro replied, and Revati chuckled.

“Trust me, I’m not fine,” Revati said firmly. Life on Baker Street before the tornado had been hard. But there had been drawing lessons with her father. There had been fairytales with her mother. There had been tea parties with Dityaa. Dityaa.

“Where’s Dityaa?” Revati said as Bridgadeiro tugged his hands free. There was no telltale flash of Snow White silk in the crowd. Everyone was dressed in shades of green and mud brown.

“She was out there before,” Bridgadeiro said, gesturing to the bottom left corner of the courtyard. Revati jumped swiftly off the scaffold, ignoring the pain searing up her ankles. People were pressing in from all sides, shrieking, laughing, and, in some cases, singing. A blur of purple skin and red fabric passed her head on outstretched hands.

“Did you see a girl in a white dress?” Revati screamed in general; no one answered, and the crowd pushed her forward. People were spilling out of the courtyard into the laneways. Someone had decided to start looting the shops. Revati felt herself thrown against a wall, crushed face-first into the bricks. A hand grabbed hers, calloused, well-worn fingers gripping her wrist.

“I saw her at the end of the crowd! This way!” Bridgadeiro ordered her.

“You’re helping,” Revati gasped; something hot and red was trickling down her cheek. Revati was bleeding.

“Let the crowd push you forward; don’t fight it and try not to stumble,” Bridgadeiro said firmly, still holding her hand. The crowd surged and pressed in. Revati could see nothing but gleeful faces, smell nothing but hot, foul sweat.

Then suddenly, the crowd began to break into pieces, trickling away like water. They had reached the back wall of Medieval Faire. There was a hole in the wall. A massive hole. Beyond the hole lay the freezing wilderness of Mars. People were climbing out of the hole, running into the cube-shaped snow. One of them was Dityaa, spinning around and dancing with the Duke of Io. Dityaa spotted them and waved happily.

“They’re all going to freeze to death,” Revati realized, marching to the hole.

“It looks like some of them had enough to steal jackets,” Bridgadeiro added. Revati and Dityaa rarely left the park. When they did, Amma always made them wear her old protective gear. Dityaa seemed oblivious to the cold. It was almost as if the Duke's love was covering her in a warm, sacred light.

The escaping people were beginning to join in with their dancing.

“Look! He was waiting for me outside the wall,” Dityaa yelled, resting her head on his shoulder. Revati stepped closer to the wall. Revati let go of Bridgadeiro’s hand and carefully climbed through the hole. The freezing winter of Mars blew around her, fighting against the park's atmospheric heating system. Snow began to blow around her chest, and Revati felt flushed and dizzy.

The Duke was dressed in the same outfit from the night before. The same thin jacket and trousers. Up close, his blue hair was a little too shiny. Up close, Revati could actually feel heat wafting off his body.

“The Duke was waiting for you… outside in that outfit?” Revati asked suspiciously. Dityaa’s expression froze for a moment as if considering this.

“Sissy’s right! Let’s get out of the cold, darling; I have so much to tell you,” smiled Dityaa. The Duke held up a hand. The tip of his finger turned blue.

“Ah, the sister,” he remarked, reaching towards Revati. His eyes glowed with the brilliance of true Ai, and darkness prevailed.

Here's the revised text with corrected spelling and grammar:

True, jet-black, soothing darkness.

For Revati, who spent most of her nights lost in nightmares, it was actually comforting.

In fact, Revati felt herself sink into it.

The darkness was as soft as the mattress she once slept on.

“Oh, don’t sink into it, Dimpy. It’s not time for that,” her father’s voice whispered in her ear.

Dimpy.

Revati was Dimpy, Dityaa was Rinky.

Jay would draw pictures of them flying across the stars with wings.

Dimpy and Rinky; the sisters were so close they could be twins.

“You’re not real. You died, and your consciousness is in a plastic box,” Revati muttered.

The darkness was warm and sleepy, lulling Revati into nothing at all.

“Some of me is in that box, but scientists don’t know everything. Some of me is also in you, in your sister, and in your mother,” her father’s voice said.

“And I’m guessing I’m dead?” Revati whispered.

“No, you’re just recovering from a traumatic brain injury. Someone has placed a standard issue healing pad on your forehead,” Jay’s voice replied soothingly.

“And how do you know that?” Revati groaned doubtfully.

A distant, tiny light had appeared in the dark.

A pinprick that seemed to strip away things.

“Dimpy, you know I was a nurse! Relax, your glia cells are busy repairing themselves. Look, they move like fireflies,” her father said.

He was right; more dots of light had appeared.

They buzzed around gently.

For a moment, one of them flashed, lighting up everything.

Revati, in that second, saw a much younger Dityaa handing her a doll.

“I remember that doll. I bought it the day Dityaa was born,” her father said.

“Dityaa tried to give it to me after we buried you. I told her I’d take the book of fairy tales instead,” Revati remembered.

“Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Mithila, the earth yielded a miraculous gift. A baby girl was born. She was discovered in a furrow by King Janaka and named Sita. As she grew, her grace and beauty were matched only by her wisdom and strength of character.

One day, Rama, a prince known for his valor and virtue, won her hand in marriage by stringing the mighty bow of Lord Shiva.

Soon after the wedding, Rama and his best friend were exiled to the forest. Sita, full of devotion, followed.

The forest was dark and full of dangers.

The most dangerous being was the demon king Ravana,” a woman’s voice, the voice of the maternity droid, whispered.

The lights were growing stronger, and Revati remembered something.

“Dityaa’s in trouble,” Revati realized.

“Yes, she is,” her father replied.

Revati’s mind was so bright she could see her father.

He looked younger than what she remembered.

He was dressed in the blue protective outfit Amma kept packed away.

Standing next to him was a woman.

A familiar woman cloaked in a fuchsia and green saree.

“You’re the lost princess,” Revati realized, and the Princess nodded.

“Wake me up, wake me up, and I will find my daughter,” the Lost Princess insisted.

[preciouslandmermaid]

of songbirds, swords, and spice

pairing: Opla!Zoro x Opla!Sanji x Fem! Reader (no use of Y/N or L/N)

tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, trauma, eventual smut, angst, humor, canon-typical violence, found family, polyamory, falling in love, POV multiple, reader-insert, action/adventure, past abuse, eventual romance, touch starved, PTSD, mentions of slavery/forced labor, battle couple, devil fruit user reader, hurt/comfort, mulit-chapter fic (other tags to be added)

🏴‍☠️ read on AO3 🏴‍☠️ Masterpost

summary: You've performed at Le Cupidon Doré, your "grandmother" Estella's business, for the past four years. Every full moon, you step onto stage and enchant the patrons and collect their hard earned berry. Tonight is no different. It isn't.

Until you realize another devil-fruit eater is in the crowd. Fate, as you've learned, has a bad habit of mucking things up just when you were starting to get comfortable.

You closed your eyes as Kinari brushed makeup across your face in delicate, teasing strokes that threatened to illicit an ill-timed sneeze. Backstage was a mess of feathers, and perfumes, and cluttered vanity tables, shining bulbs of light to illuminate every stroke, every line, every dust of color. The other performers moved like fish swimming through the iridescent streams of fabric. The chaotic, yet organized energy was familiar. Almost comforting. Everyone gets like this before a show, your lips twisted wryly, it’s as if we don’t do this night after night! There were a few amateurs backstage, but Estella wouldn’t let them perform because the full moon show was reserved for the best of the best.

“Still….” Kinari drawled the word out and her pink box-braids fell across her smiling face. “I think you’re brave.”

Brave. Right. You stopped using words like ‘bravery’ and ‘chivalry’ years ago. You and Estella’s long-running arrangement wasn’t brave, but it was clever and you’d rather be smart than brave. Madam Estella said brave people were fools half the time and the rest were martyrs. Instead of saying this to the young artist, you replied--

“You’re too kind, Kinari.” You reached for the earplugs on your vanity and pass them to her. “Don’t forget to wear these tonight.”

“I won’t,” she replied, sing-song and light. She selected two outfits from the rack and held them aloft for you.

“Whoo-hoo! Look at this place!” Luffy threw his arms into the air, “it’s got a buffet!”

There’s nothing Zoro could say to stop his captain from barreling toward the buffet and heaping food onto his plate. He glanced around the finely decorated establishment. Nightingale Island wasn’t much to look at, but the locals talked highly of ‘Le Cupidon Doré’. When Luffy heard ‘all you can eat’, well – there wasn’t much argument to be had about where the crew was going next since they were officially resupplied.

“Tacky,” Nami said, pointing her fork at the smiling cherubs decorating the pillars, “and probably not real gold.”

Zoro rested his elbow on the back of booth and ordered a drink. The booze was cheap here and that’s decent enough for him.

“It’s no Baratie, but it has its charms…” Sanji said.

His blue eyes scanned the guests and staff. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in gold and white and wore elaborate headpieces that ranged from spokes covering half their heads to intricate swooping designs that appeared like twisted halos. Their cheeks shone with glitter. They bobbed and weaved, a practiced ease and gracefulness to their movements that reminded Zoro of sword fighting.

The tables created a half-moon around the circular stage. But two rows of chairs clustered next to the stage were without tables and labeled ‘VIP’. They were completely packed and he doubted even Luffy could fit between the bodies.

“Your drink, sir.” The waiter dropped his head low and Zoro noticed something inside the waiter’s ear. Why are they wearing earplugs? He frowned, brought his glass to his lips, and abruptly stood.

Luffy dropped his stacked plate onto the table and its’ weight upset their drinks. “Where are you going?”

“Gotta check something.”

He circuited the dining room, dodging Usopp carrying his full-plate, and confirmed his suspicions. All the waiters are wearing earplugs. Weird. Why would a place that caters to nightly performances have staff wearing earplugs? The establishment wasn’t large so it’s easy to find their table again.

Luffy tore into a drumstick and looked up at Zoro. “Find anything cool?” He asked, chewing.

“Something’s weird,” he said, “all the waiters are wearing earplugs.”

Luffy shrugged, unconcerned. “Maybe this place gets really crazy!” His dark eyes brightened.

But Zoro wasn’t mollified by Luffy’s response. Their luck fluctuated from bad, to shitty, to worse with a few good days peppered in. They were on a winning streak with the grand line map in their possession and a functioning ship, but how long would that last?

“Maybe all the singers suck and we wasted berry by paying the door fee,” said Nami and Zoro tilted his chin in consideration.

“Aw, come on!” Usopp wiped grease from his mouth. “Look at this place. It’s packed. There’s no way the show is bad. It’ll be fun.”

The lights flashed, signaling the start of the show, and Zoro leaned into the cushions. He hoped Nami was right. He hoped this was a terrible show and that was why the waiters wore earplugs. Maybe he could rip pieces of the tablecloth and stuff his ears too.

An elderly woman rolled her wheelchair onto the stage.

“Tonight is the full moon,” she said, her voice as clear and bright as icicles, “and as our regulars know, we have a special performer on nights such as these.” The crowd muttered in agreement and clapped. Luffy joined them, hollering alongside the eager guests, although Zoro couldn’t understand why he bothered. This show wasn’t going to be anymore special because it was performed on the full moon.

Sanji sat up straighter. “Should we try to get closer? I’d hate to miss anything.”

“We’re not getting closer.” Zoro scowled.

He replied, “I wasn’t talking to you.” Sanji looked longingly at Nami. “Did you want to get closer?”

Nami gave him a thin smile. “I’m good.”

“Listen closely and open your hearts,” the elderly woman said, “and enjoy!”

Her wheelchair edged backward into the darkness and a shower of white petals fell onto the stage. A chrous of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ rose above the din of clinking plates and silverware. A woman stepped onto the stage and Zoro refilled his sake. He didn’t get why this was such a big deal. It’s stupid, he thought, scowling, all this excitement for one woman? He glanced at the stage. The performer was wearing a long, flowing dark blue robe and skirt. The details on the flowing sleeves, robe, and skirt depicted a semi-translucent white stag alongside large pale lilies, petals, and clouds of mist.

“She’s beautiful,” Sanji mutters.

The sleeves billowed and moved like the rolling ocean waves as the performer gripped the microphone. Zoro looked away, uninterested.

You closed your eyes, preparing yourself, before the first lines of the song spilled like honey from your lips. No music accompanied your voice. There was no need for it. You opened your eyes to the dazed and captivated crowd. The VIP section was practically falling out of their seats and onto their knees before you.

You sang a beautiful and entrancing melody, a song of soft and gorgeous serenity. The lyrics weren’t as important as the rhythm and intention. A fast-paced, intense song often inspired anger or excitement. A slower, dreamier song like this one lulled the crowd into complicity and adoration. You spent nine years perfecting your craft and the last four running this business alongside Estella. You knew what worked and what didn’t.

“Sanji!” someone yelled from a table, “you’re gonna drool on my plate.”

Another devil-fruit eater. You squinted toward the table, though it was hard to see due to the spotlight blanketing everywhere, except for the VIP section, in shadow. For whatever reason your voice didn’t affect other devil-fruit eaters like yourself. Luckily, it didn’t matter for tonight. The boy in the straw hat was safe. Only the VIP section was targeted by Estella’s staff to have their pockets checked and liberate them of extra berry.

“Hey, wait a minute--” straw hat leapt to his feet. “What’re you guys doing?” The waiter holding a man’s wallet froze. Shit. He’s noticed. You stepped from the stage and your flowing robes dragged behind you like silk water. The spotlight followed you as you approached the dining table.

Your gaze slid over their astonished faces. A tangerine haired woman dropped her fork onto her plate. A well-dressed blonde man had one hand pressed to his chest – as if you struck him in the heart.

“Wow…” a lean man with a chestnut bandanna rested his chin in his hands. “You’re incredible.”

“Usopp?” Straw hat waved his hand in front of the man’s face. “Blink, Usopp! Blink!”

A moss-haired swordsman held the rim of his sake cup against his lips, but wasn’t drinking, like he’s frozen in time.

The front doors burst, “show’s over!” A pirate wearing an outfit of scarlet and dark crimson stood in the doorway with his pistols drawn. “The bloody bandits are here for their due.”

masterpost // > > next chapter

[yeyinde]

NEON MEDUSA | cyberpunk au

Captain John Price x Reader

"Make the smart choice, love." He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach.  Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

》 WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | no smut; allusions to political corruption, moral ambiguity; standard Cyberpunk rules apply; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity

》 WC: 11,1k

》 NOTES: Remember when I said I probably wasn't going to do a chaptered fic? Yeah, me too

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT

PART I | STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES

He sits in the crowded bar with nothing to keep him company but a half-empty glass of scotch and a burning cigar. 

He alternates between the two. A swallow of his drink. A sip of water. A drag of his cigar. 

(Routine. Always in threes. Always with that same pinched look on his face, partially hidden in the shadows, concealed beneath a beanie, and shaded in smoke.)

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine. The flash of light, brief and evanescent, illuminates his face in short bursts of orange in a room bathed in indigo save for the stage, where his gaze stays, fixed, almost unwaveringly, on the dancers as they display the greatest feat of technological advancement to date: nanobots. 

Their chromatic skin shifts into various hues to accommodate each request made by the patrons, their bodies morphing into something new with each token taken from the hungry-eyed viewers. 

Despite the keenness in his sharp eyes, he makes no purchases of his own—seemingly content to just watch the hedonistic spectacle unfolding before him.

It is not uncommon for people to come here and just observe, happy enough to watch whatever the rest of the people—voyeurs—order, but there's something about him that stands out. 

(Or maybe it's just you. 

He piques your interest in a way most people just don't. Not here. Not in the gold-dusted cesspool of opulent depravity.)

And there isn't anything noteworthy about him. Nothing that stands out against everyone else. 

He was easily swallowed by the curated tenebrous that leaked into the tight space of the auditorium—an artificial sense of seclusion and privacy in shades of shadowed indigo that means little when you can see everything from your perch in the observation deck. He isn't flashy in any sense—his broad shoulders are covered in a raw topaz corduroy jacket with tuffs of seashell white plumage around the collar and button lines, and he wears a simple pair of black trousers, and leather boots. A charcoal beanie sits low on his brow. 

He's big. Bigger than most of the men in the room—both in width and height. He'd tower over them, and his broad shoulders and thick bulk would swallow them whole. 

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club. The circular, egg-shaped room with its glass floors and walls has an interface built in to spy on the patrons below. 

It's a place where you spend most of your nights when you weren't wandering the alcoves in the underbelly in search of trinkets to sell, or money to make to somehow chip away at the insurmountable debt you owe the owner of the club for saving you, a price you'll never begin to pay back at your current rate.

You come here to watch the spectacle at one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. 

(And—

Take notes.)

The bar is a hidden gem of the red light district, a place only known by reputation and hushed whispers in the derelict underground. 

On its surface, it looks like any other staple of depravity that the sprawling steel metropolis tries to pretend doesn't exist when foreign diplomats venture close to the technological epicentre of human advancement. Another grim, ramshackle bar in a desolate sea of many. Dingy wax paper covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the passersby a tantalising view of a dancing silhouette beckoning them forward with mechanical fingers, and a bright red grin. 

It's only when they try to enter the establishment does the stark differences between every other brothel masquerading as a bar come to light. 

A bouncer stands in the enclosed foyer covered in piss-stained cardboard, and a cracked comm with loose wires sparking on the wall. It reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. For added effect, the shadow of a bug skitters into the fist-shaped hole in the wall. 

"Password?" He barks, his hand curling, pointedly, over the handle of his gyrojet. A threat. 

It deters most people simply wandering by in search of sin. 

Except for the ones with an invitation. The password. That prized piece of information gets them access to a club funded by the Inner Circle. 

Most of the clubs in this district are known for their loose morals and shady rules, but none are as infamous as the White Horse, who dabbles in more than just pleasures of the flesh. A place where shady deals are conducted in secrecy in the opulent booths overlooking the stage. Where the madams, and misters overseeing the dancers turn a blind eye to illegal requests that are made. 

A den of sin and filth wrapped in decadence. A place where anything goes so long as you have the money, the power, the status. Where nothing is barred, and the beds on the upper level are never empty. 

More money passes through here on a bad day than those living in squalor near the district will ever see in their extended lifespans. 

Men spend impetuosity to drag the dancers away, the nanos shifting into something new, something garish, to their deviant delights. 

And men like him are a dime a dozen. You can find one anywhere in the red light district, sipping on alcohol, and feasting on the libertine victuals offered for the taking. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy. Another concealed face in the louche mouth of debauchery. 

And yet—

He stands out. 

The only vice he partakes in is a cigar and drink. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the soft curves of the dancers, or the bared flesh they offer up. He watches with a detached, almost clinical disinterest.

Maybe, then, it isn't so much of what he is, but rather what he isn't. 

There is a wryness to him, a soft derision in his steel gaze that seems out of place in a seedy bar filled to the brim with licentiousness. Most men come to quench their lustful appetite on the display of grandeur in front of them, making demands with a press of their finger to shape the dancers in front of them to whatever matches their hunger. 

None of them has ever looked so disgusted. 

He tries to hide it, face folding into something passive, nonchalant, when he thinks people are staring, or when the barkeep makes his way over to pour him another shot, but it breaks sometimes. Beneath the rim of his odd bucket hat, startling blue eyes morph into contempt at the men around him. Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean. 

It's an odd look considering where he is, and the prestige, the importance (both financial and influential) that he must carry just to be let inside, and yet—

Scorn. Derision. Disgust. 

None of it is directed at the dancers gyrating on the flashing stage, putting on a grand performance of a technological prowess yet to be made available to the general public. Their willingness to contort their artificial bodies into various forms—men, women, genderless beings, animalistic features, elongated limbs, and a whole host of pabulum effigies—just for the paying patrons' lustful amusement incites none of the blunt disdain he directs at the men and women around him. 

It's not the performers, then, but the audience.

Some come here with their status placed upon their head like a crown, chin refusing to dip down an inch lest the artificial diadem slip from their clinging fingers. They wear their aristocracy like a perfume, letting it permeate in the air surrounding them for all to inhale, to notice. They like to pretend they aren't enticed by the display available to them and are often mockingly cruel to the dancers, and the workers catering to their paying whims. It's a game to them. Coming here is a sport. A fulfilment of a quota. 

An invitation alone is worth more than the going price of most cities, and the opportunity to maybe rub elbows with the financier of the establishment is enough to make greed spin in their eyes. 

As cruel as they are to the staff, and as much as they like to lift their noses high in contempt, it's a farce. They're posturing. 

The intrigue in their green eyes doesn't mask their peacocking. 

His, you find, is genuine. 

But why?

It's there that he makes his fatal mistake. 

A man, a regular from Verdansk, grabs a passing dancer a little too hard, jostling their shoulder until metal grinds together in a piercing whine that goes wholly ignored in the pulsing bass, and jeers from the crowd. 

He pulls them down, a lustrous smirk creeping across his face, and whispers something in their ear before jerking his chin toward the upper deck where the rooms are. 

The exchange, his rough treatment of them, goes largely unnoticed—or rather, ignored—by the crowd. It's hardly a spectacle—not worthy of their attention like the display on the stage. 

But he catches it. 

Amongst the vile sycophants and their greedy stares, he stands out in stark contrast when his eyes narrow in anger, knuckles whitening around the glass. 

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves. 

A hero. A martyr. A saviour. 

Muted whispers in shadows. Promises they'll never be able to keep burrowed into filament; sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running. 

For the greater good, of course. 

The battered remains of love in shambles mean little to them when they place the world on their shoulders to absolve themselves of their sins. The weight of it crushes pity and sorrow and contrition and failure into a ground powder that they can sneeze away with—

I had no choice. 

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness. They lash out at what they name injustice but sometimes slip up and use their given name when calling everything wrong with the world, with them, into question. 

It's a good thing that they usually avoid places like this. 

One where the people who fight for good, for humanity—the ones who wave and blink and grin on the holographic advertisements on each major street corner, or wander around with their translucent skin and faux smiles as they shell out promises (and products) of a better tomorrow—let their faces twist in horrific depravity under the strobe lights and cover of darkness. Politicians. People in power. 

It's enough to snuff out any sense of optimism. 

This is a place where hope comes to die with a single press of a greasy finger against a holographic screen. 

A man like him has no reason to tuck himself into the corner, eyes misting over in anger and contemptuous spite at the patrons who feed the rapid descent of mortality. 

The sight of him gnarls a sense of unease in your chest. A burgeoning bloom of that poisonous seed they warned you to stay away from. The one that strikes like a cobra and burns like a molten rock against your skin. That leaves you a raw, gaping wound festering in the cesspool they make sanguine promises to pull you out of. 

They never do. 

They make grand claims about being given a prophecy of martyrdom, and how they must devote themselves, wholly, to a cause that never comes to fruition like it does in the aeons-old fairytale of a bygone era when romance meant something. 

Your fingers curl over the golden bars of the gilded cage you've been left in, and you wonder through the raw ache in your chest as it splits open, another wound among many, who he's trying to save here. 

Then, grimly, you wonder how long it'll take for him to give up like the rest. 

Intrigue gnaws at you until the needling pinch of curiosity becomes too much to bear. 

(Curiosity, and something you'd rather not think about—)

It's easy to slip away from your perch unnoticed. No one bothers with you much outside of bringing you to sporadic liaisons with the man who acts as a silent owner of the bar—among many, many other things—and you use that sense of anonymity to wander down to the ground floor, and toward the man sitting in the corner. 

The difference between them and him is made more apparent when you move closer. 

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin over the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut in a passage of pain that flickers over his face. With him too preoccupied with his headache, he doesn't notice you sidle up, and you take the opportunity to study him with an eager gaze. 

He's handsome. 

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie, catching in the shadowed glow of the pink and purple strobe lights flashing through the dim room. The circular curve and the soft metallic give the impression of the beginnings of a cranial implant. One that costs a hefty price to upkeep, but gives the wearer unlimited access to information fed directly to their non-dominant eye. 

It's something only issued to the military. To the police force. 

But the shape of it is archaic, old. Something of a crest—a familial design unique to the big families, to the clubs, that run the city, or parts of it. Gangsters. Mercenaries. Merchants. Scholars. Politicians. 

Nepotism, undoubtedly, shaped the enhancement, but the design is foreign to you. You think of the common ones—the local police force and security, Shadow Company; the innovative engineers of the Inner Circle; the Shepherd family and their long, and bloody, history of politicians, leaders—but none fit the intricate weavings snaking down his temple. 

Another peculiarity to add to the growing list. 

The limited light in the darkened auditorium colour him a chiaroscuro of light of blue and grainy black, and the way he keeps his palm positioned over his face as he rubs the tension from his brow leaves the rest of his face hidden from your prying gaze. A shame, you think, and make the mistake of moving closer. 

Beneath a metal knuckle, his eye cracks open. 

"I'm not interested."

The timbre of his voice is rough—a masculine rasp that's abrasive, and thick with something heavy in the back of his throat. It makes you shiver. You blame it on the noviceness of your incipient intrigue. 

"Oh?" You mock, and offer back a shrug you hope is more blasè than perturbed. "That's kinda surprising in a place like this." 

"I'm not here for that—" his words cut off with a sharp huff, voice tapering off as he digs his thumb into the divot between his brow until the skin is indented from the metal.

The way he says the word is full of an exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he's tired. Of this, of the anger coursing through his veins. 

A hero on the verge of cracking apart at the seams.. 

(It didn't take him long.)

He's a picture of bone-weariness when he bows his head over the table, elbows knocking against the surface with a harsh thud that makes you wince. He doesn't seem to notice it—or maybe he's so far gone, that anything that isn't bitter disappointment or the white-hot sting of rejection feels almost good to him. A break in the routine. A physical hurt in place of the emotional turmoil saviours like him must face. 

If, of course, he even is one. 

You question your original assessment of him when his wrist bends, and his long, thick fingers wrap around the rim of the glass. 

A hero. Maybe you were wrong. 

He looks like the same tired men who spend their waking hours working a job they hate, one that grinds against their skin until a hole forms and the wound begins to rot. Miserable. They reek of bitterness and discontentment. And when they're not being burnt out against the heel of a profession that doesn't even know they exist, much less care about the droop in their shoulders, the callouses, the ennui and megrim towards life, they combat the existential despair by saturating their organs in liquid formaldehyde to stop the slow, methodical rot of that pesky little thing called hope. Happiness. 

You wonder if he came here for something different to numb the self-inflicted loneliness, or if all that anger he directs at the men is just a reflection of his desires that disgust him so much. 

It's the crushing sense of disappointment that maybe you were wrong and, worse yet, maybe he was right. 

(In this life, there are only idiotic hopefuls and those smart enough to know better.) 

Still. 

Still. 

He's different in a way you're not used to. A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning. 

Interesting. 

You wonder what makes him tick. What ugliness he's hiding, and what secrets he's running from. 

His neck is thick, muscles tensing when he tosses his head back, and swallows down the last of his drink. 

(You wonder what it would feel like to sink your teeth into his jugular—)

"I don't need another drink, either," he says, voice thick from the burn of alcohol, and little more than a growl. 

You offer another shrug—one that he doesn't see when he bows his head again, palms scoring down his face. 

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

His thumb presses into his temple, index finger sliding over his forehead until it rests in his webspace. He inhales deeply in palpable exasperation, broad chest expanding and pulling the charcoal shirt taut across his shoulders. 

"Then what the hell—" 

His lids crack open, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at you, properly, for the first time since you wandered over. 

The surprise in his gaze as he takes you in makes your heart jump, slamming harshly against its bone prison. His eyes—a deep, almost unending blue—are pretty. Piercing. 

He swallows again, hand pulling away from his brow slowly—dazed, almost, as if he'd been expecting one of the dancers on stage instead of—

Well. You. 

Human. Wholly. 

It usually catches people off-guard to see someone so bare, so void of any visible enhancements or upgrades. 

On the surface, anyway. The debt you wracked up from the man says something must have been done. That one day, you'll dig too deep into your tissue and find wires and cylindrical tubes instead of veins. A circuit board instead of a heart. An artificial stem instead of a brain. 

More android than human. 

Your teeth sink into the soft flesh around the corner of your mouth, and you brace yourself for it—for the—

"I didn't realise I talkin' to a bloody bot."

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't. 

"I'm not." 

He blinks at you once, mystified, but then something in his gaze sharpens. A keen awareness, a spatial depth, that seems out of place on a mere man. You think of the holographic images of grizzly bears mid-hunt, stalking their prey through the thick furze, and then of the curiosity that dips from beady, ink-black eyes when they find something that disturbs their territory. An unknown thing—neither predator nor prey. 

He turns in the seat, shifting until his body is facing you. His elbow rests on the table, hand dropping down again to hold onto the rim of his glass. The other drops to the back headrest of the seat. 

He doesn't move over or offer you a spot to sit. A pointed gesture, you're sure. A sign of your disturbance. An unwelcome visitor. 

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable. 

He's bigger than you thought. Threateningly so. 

"That right?" He says the words slowly, and draws them out in that coarse voice of his. 

His index finger taps a strange rhythm on the rim of the glass as he considers the weight of what you divulged, and your eyes are quickly drawn to his human hand—thick, scarred fingers; knuckles scabbed and cracked—and to his nails. They're short, and jagged. Grizzled. They're dirty, too. A fine line of dirt sits under the gnawed hyponychium, bitten down to the plate. 

"Fancy that—a purist."

His words make you snort, and you tear your gaze away from his filthy nails—dirty hands—and shake your head in refusal. Dismay. Exasperation. Some amalgamation of them all. 

He isn't the first to assume that of you, and you know he won't be the last. 

Your physical appearance is startling to some who quickly think you're an android with your untainted skin, void of any visible enhancements like the ones cutting through his cheeks, etched into his temple, his chin. The entirety of his left hand. 

Some consider the relationship between humans and technology to be almost symbiotic. After all, artificial intelligence, modern human evolution, and cybernetics wouldn't exist without the fundamental human imagination, nor their human hands to construct life into these grand things. 

It usually falls into two categories—technological subservience: those who believe AI, androids, robots, cyborgs, and nanobots were created by humans and therefore, belonged to humans; and technological coexistence: the merger between us and them until the lines blur, and it becomes one and the same. 

(Or, more extreme: technological dominance—zealots who believe that god exists in the mainframe of AI, and worship them like deities.)

On the opposite scale lies the purists. Those who believe that the relationship is not symbiotic, but parasitic. A curse. 

"Hardly—" The defensiveness in your tone makes you wince, and you soften the edge of your words when his forehead creases, adding: "It's all internal." 

"Internal, huh," his eyes dip, rolling down the length of your body as if confirming your claims. The weight of his gaze makes your skin burn, blistering under the intensity of his bold stare. "That's unusual, ain't it?" 

"Not where I'm from."

"And where is that, hmm?" 

The way his voice tapers off into a growl makes you shiver. Feverish. 

Dangerous. This man is dangerous. 

"I—" You swallow down the thick pool of anxiety that swells in the back of your throat. You're not afraid of him, but there's this overwhelming sense of intimidation that bleeds from the furrow of his brow, the unrelenting stare he fixes on you—almost as if you're being interrogated. Unease makes your stomach churn. 

Maybe this was a mistake—

His eyebrows lift in a silent display of impatience. 

It's not something you speak about openly—or at all, really—but the words brim on your tongue, as if pulled there by the magnetic draw of the man sitting in front of you, fingers tapping against the rim of the empty glass while the other reaches over his chest, torso twisting as he blindly pats around for the cigar burning away in the ashtray. 

"I don't know," you murmur, letting the words puncture your chest when they slip past the seam of your lips. "Don't remember much of it." 

He considers your words with a slight tilt of his head. Thick, metallic fingers draw the burning cigar to his full mouth, partially hidden behind the wry curls around his lips and chin. He settles in his seat again, eyes lidded, heavy. 

"That so?" 

The end burns orange when he draws in a mouthful of tobacco-saturated smoke, eyes creasing slightly as the endorphins bloom under the deluge of nicotine coursing through him. 

The sight of him, thick thighs spread over the polymer seat of the booth, elbow resting on the table with his wrist bent, fingers still on the rim of the glass, cigar in his other hand, makes something warm fill your chest. 

Trepidation, you hope. 

You offer a shaky shrug in response, and nothing more. 

He hums. "Unusual, innit? Not rememberin'." 

The entire history of your life is a black hole until three years ago when you woke up in a luxury hospital room with an unplayable debt on your head and a body that has never really felt like your own. 

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

You echo the words he said to you all those years ago when you asked who you were, where you came from, and why you didn't know—

"It must not be worth knowing."

It's a murmured echo not meant to be taken seriously. There's no deeper meaning behind the regurgitated words that ring out in your head; a quick response to those questions that rear late at night when you can't sleep, and your mind wants to torture you further. 

It doesn't matter. 

And really, it doesn't. You can't remember it, and in the three years you've been living, reacclimating to the idea of recall and recollection, no one has ever tried to find you. 

There's no memo being sent out to the great beyond with your name or face attached to it. No one but him has claimed to know you. To care. 

Whatever happened in that life is gone. Empty. A black void of nothing, not even embers or a crackling voice. It's a hole where your sense of belonging goes to rot. 

It does not matter. Not anymore. 

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might. 

It's swallowed down by a flash of teeth peaking through his amber beard. A rictus grin greets your words. 

"That so?" 

All you can do is nod. 

"Doesn't help convince me you ain't a bot." 

"I'm not." 

His brow ticks up. "Do bots know their bots? Androids can be made to think, created with sentience, but they aren't. It's only when they hurt, do they realise—they were never human at all."

Your chest tightens. He didn't just strike a nerve, he bludgeoned into it. 

"I am," you argue, but the words are less sure, firm, than you want them to be. They tumble out, shaky and filled with the fears that have been twisting inside your head since you blinked into existence, and read accounts of androids doing the same. "I bleed. I hurt. I feel. I think. I—"

He bites on the end of his cigar before drawing both hands up in front of him, palms open and facing you. 

"Easy, there." He mutters, voice low and muffed around the stem of the cigar, and—

Soothing. 

"I'm only teasin' you. If you say you're human, you're human. That's all that matters, mm?"

You shudder. "I am, I—"

"What's your name?" 

You echo the name given to you when you woke up in a daze and were told to meet the man who saved your life. The one he greeted you with when he welcomed you into his luxury office of cut mahogany and reinforced carbon. 

When it slips out, the pinch between his brow deepens. 

"That's your name? Or is that just what they call you?"

"It's—" you flounder for a moment. "It's my name."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Can I be sure of anything?" You volley back, venom leaking into the words. 

"You haven't gone lookin'?"

"For what?" 

Where would you even start?

"You know…" he begins, shifting in his seat once more. There is a tension in his brow. An even curl to his lips, teeth still bared. "I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

"I'm not missing." 

His eyes are filmed with a facsimile of something placid. Even. But there is a current beneath the surface. A raging torrent of unsettled water churning up the seabed. It'll drag you to the bottom, and press you flat against the rocks as it roars above you. 

You might be able to crack your eyes open under the swell, fingers digging into the murky sediment below your supine body, and vaguely make out of the rippling surface. A taunting mirage just within reach but the tumultuous waves would crush your fingers for even trying to grasp for it. 

You shiver. 

"You sure about that, love?" 

Love. Love. The words stick against some part of your head, clinging to the fibrils and ringing across gyri until every synapse rattles with the heavy tenor splitting you apart. 

"—Do you know me?"

The look surfaces. 

"No." You seldom feel hopeful that anyone does anymore. Maybe on a distant planet, in a distant city, someone is still looking for you. "But I am lookin' for someone." 

"Looking—" your brow furrows together as you eye him warily. Concern etches into your chest. Knotting tight like a spooled ball. "Looking for who?"

He shrugs. 

He shifts in his seat, brings his hand away from the glass, reaches into the sherpa-covered folds of his jacket, and pulls out a small device. He proffers it to you, the design is reminiscent of a netphone, but—

Out of date. 

You stifle a grin as you take it from him, but it's barely hidden, and he huffs when he catches sight of it. A soft chuff of mirth spilling from between full lips. 

"Watch it," he mutters. 

Your eyes run along the length of the thin phone—dark chrome, chipped in some places along the sleek, curved edges, but the screen is intact—and you marvel at the oddity presented to you. It's not like the netphones made by Four Horseman Corp., but the design is almost a replica. 

The man reaches up, and presses his cybernetic finger against a small, concave placeholder near what must be the mouth of the device, and the screen flickers to life. 

A man stares back at you. His hair is blond with the sides shaved, and the top long. Handsome, you think, with his full lips, and long nose. The light dusting of his beard around his cheeks and moustache—just as blond as his hair. He looks like the models that pose on the holographic glass of the boutiques downtown. 

"Who is he?" 

"Alex Keller. He's been missing for six days."

Six days. 

Something ugly rots inside of you. 

"And you think he's been here?" 

"Last place he was."

"Couldn't be," you murmur, shaking your head. "I'm here almost every night, and I've never seen him before."

"Might not 'ave noticed him, bein' so distracted 'an all."

"Distracted?"

Your lift your chin, confusion etched into your furrowing brow. 

When he catches your eye, he jerks his head toward the stage. "You work here, don't you?"

"Work—"

It never really occurred to you that he'd think you were a dancer. A working bot. An android. Pleasure Androids—a disgusting attempt at cheekiness from the makers; the slogan on the advertisement makes pledges and promises about the state of the art pleasure-bots designed to suit your needs, upgraded now with nanobots that change their shape, their anatomy, in the blink of an eye. 

You exhale through your nose. It isn't the first time you've been mistaken as such, and maybe if you were, the debt would have some small indent in it by now, but—

"No, I'm not allowed." You murmur, shrugging. "I know the owner so I just come here sometimes to hang out. People watch." A wry smile twists at the corner of your lips. "You see all manner of things in a place like this. Kinda entertaining if it wasn't so—"

Disgusting. 

"You know the owner?"

His words are careful. Concise. 

"Do you?"

He shouldn't. He is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. 

The man says nothing, and gives away little more than a slight incline of his shoulders. Neither agreement nor refusal. His prevarication worries you. 

"Hey, who did you say you were again?"

He brings the cigar to his lips, eyes never wavering from yours, and draws in a mouthful of chemical fumes. It was that intense stare that drew you to him, but now that the weight of it is on you, you find yourself feeling like little more than a bug under a microscope. 

His chest rumbles when he shifts, twin funnels of smoke flaring from his nostrils. It disperses into wisps, and quickly scatters when it meets the fur lining his jacket.

"I didn't," he mumbles, voice pinched in a low, airy growl tinged with smoke. More evocation. 

"Well," you add, brows notching up in a pointed gesture for him to continue. 

He doesn't, opting instead to bring the cigar back to his mouth. Ashes drop, landing in his umber beard. 

He's messing with you. Drawing your discomfort out. 

"Who are you?" 

The demand comes out less forcefully than you intended, words trembling with your surmounting unease. 

It would be all too in character for him to send someone to spy on you, to catch you unawares, and to feed the hungry with his secrets. 

"Doesn't matter." 

Your glare does little to away him. "I'm leaving—"

"I'm just lookin' for my friend."

"Like I said, he couldn't be here. I've been here every night this month. I would have seen him." Seeing the gnarled expression that slips over his brow, a broken anger tinged with equal parts frustration and, most breakingly of all, desperation, you add, if only to soften the blow: "I can ask around, maybe. See if the workers know anything." 

"I've been," he rasps, words still bleeding with his frustration. "They don't know anything." 

You huff, shaking your head. "Asking those kinda questions here is what makes people go missing in the first place. Is that what your friend did? Come poking around and—"

Balming one wound just to prick at it later. Your words, the bitter sting, get you a flash of teeth, bared canines in sharp indignation. 

The man leans forward, eyes pelagic and fixed, unflinching, on you. It makes you squirm. Heat blooms under your cheeks. The rush of it makes you dizzy.

"And what makes you special, then?" 

You shrug, and hope the tremble in your limbs goes unnoticed. "I get a free pass." 

"Why?" 

"It helps to know people."

"Like the owner."

"Yes," you murmur, voice laced with your hesitation. "Like him." 

"Him, hmm?" His eyes narrow. "And his name wouldn't happen to be Vladimir Makarov, would it?" 

"How—?" Then, hastily, you add: "No. The tech mogul? No. Why—why would—"

"Save it." He reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sleek, black card. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, fingers curled over the edge, thumb braced against the side, he tilts the screen. Immediately, the black filmed surface under his thumb shivers, flickering into a shape. A logo. 

The emblem makes your eyes widen. "Military police?" 

He hums. When his thumb pulls away from the surface, it changes back to a blank, black rectangle. Void of any meaning. Any substance. 

Your breath quickens when he slides it back into his pocket. 

"Why are you—"

"Makarov's been naughty, hasn't he? The future Zakhaev promised is a bright one, isn't it? Better eyesight. Better sense of smell. New, indestructible limbs—" He rolls the knuckles of his cybernetic hand at you, appendages moving instantly. "Stop ageing. Stop getting sick. Everything that could kill us is no longer an issue, hmm? For a price, of course." 

"Nothing in life is free—" the words are ripped from Imran's advertisement ages ago. Nothing in life is free, but sometimes a better tomorrow is worth the price of today. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just get a loan through the Four Horseman, hmm? Pay them back a paltry sum every month. Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now." 

The new slogan. You try not to shiver under his abrasive, scorching stare. 

"But," he continues, shrugging. "When you can't pay, is he the one who sends his henchmen after them? The ultranationalists. The ones that take back his tech through force and sell the parts on the black market. And—" his eyes harden. "The cycle repeats. People die, debts go unpaid, and yet—mysteriously enough, he grows richer. Now, why is that, mm? How can that be possible?"

"Makarov isn't connected to the Ultranationalists. He's—"

"A businessman? A pseudo-politician? A philanthropist just tryin' to make the world a better place, hmm?" He leans forward, eyes cutting into jagged ashlar. "Then why is the Horseman funding them?"

"He isn't. It must be some kind of mistake—"

"You say that like you know him. Know him personally." 

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, love. Won't do you any good." He leans back, hand falling to the side of his glass. He taps out a strange rhythm with his index finger—the old tune of some forgotten song. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. "I heard about you."

His words are a strangled pressure around your throat. Heard about you. Impossible. No one has. No one ever does. You're as invisible as Makarov wants, followed around by his henchmen at a sizable distance. They never bother interacting with you. Never speak unless they have to. 

You're a flea hiding in the soft coat of a millionaire. Unneeded. Unwanted. A burden. 

Your circle mostly consists of people who frequent the underground. The black market where you can find almost anything for a price—even the age-old books about fairytales and fantastical adventures. Information, too, if you know what you ask for. 

Your face has never shown up on a missing person bulletin. No one has ever asked about you. 

(No one cares, no one knows—

—six days. 

Three years. 

It doesn't matter—)

In your crushing silence, the man's eyes narrow. There is no flash of victory in his gaze, but you scent the arousal of a predator stalking its weakened prey nevertheless. 

"Heard 'bout your debt, too—" he tuts, a rasping coo that sounds how you imagine the bristled tongue of a big cat would feel shredding your skin. "He's the one who saved you, ain't he?"

It becomes too much. The pressure bubbles over. 

All your meagre years of existence have taught you to quell the surge of fight or flight, to push it down and stand firm, stoic, amid the array of nefarious people who happened to cross your lonely path in the catacombs where they barter over lives, and makes deals with the devil for any number of precious commodities—even people. A person with a debt, you found, is worth significantly less than someone without. A truism you've heard hissed into your ears when you turned their offer of freedom down. 

Handing the leash from one hand to another is hardly autonomous. 

You know from these experiences that any sense of weakness or fear is blood in the water. A struggling fish on the verge of being eaten by the predators lured in by its futile struggle to stay alive. 

In its effort to survive, it inadvertently signs its death warrant. 

If you don't look like you belong, then you don't. A simple fact you've picked up from years of weaving in and out of Makarov's towering shadow. 

It's easy to forge some sense of delusive confidence in the face of those people, the ones who clutch at your arms hard enough to leave an ache in your bones, but something about his composure, his gall, to approach you like this makes that carefully constructed mask crumble into broken pieces at your trembling feet. 

His eyes, you think. They're not the flat, empty gaze of a predator sparking to life when a piece of meat is dangled in front of it, but something deadlier. 

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances. 

The look in his eyes says he can wait this out for as long as it takes. 

Fight or flight. You've crushed the concept down to basal parts: a silly whim that will just get you killed. Fight and you'll be forced to contend with people who've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Flee and you'll never be allowed back inside. 

You've never had any choice but to ride the high of adrenaline and paranoia out until they got bored with your vacant stoicism. 

(Or—when in doubt—use your trump card of touch me again and do you have any idea what Makarov will do to you?)

Somehow, you know neither option will work on him.

And it itches under your skin. Hackles raising. Heart pulsing. Blood rushing with the heady cocktail of adrenaline. 

You turn, ready to flee, but his hand lashes out through the shadows, catching your forearm in a tight grip. 

"Look, love," he murmurs, words low, guttural, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "This is bigger than you. Than me. Do you want that debt gone? To be free of 'im? Well, here's your chance."

A test. The information he knows is too much for any regular officer—even a military one.

"Makarov isn't like that."

There's a flash of something—disappointment, maybe; disgust—but it's gone in an instant. Hidden behind layers and layers of distance. 

"Maybe not. But several of his companies showed up on someone's ledger. We know this person wasn't a partner in the Horseman. He wasn't one of the four. But he was collecting money from Makarov."

"It's probably through his charity fund." 

"Don't you wanna know why your saviour is funnelling money to corrupt officials? Or why do people who can't pay for upgrades end up dead on the street? Stripped down like a piece of meat and sold for profit. Doesn't any of this concern you?"

"Makarov would never do that—he'd never stain his public image."

"He isn't the man you think he is. None of them are."

"Maybe you're not the man I thought you were. Maybe coming over here was a mistake." 

An impasse. Uncrossable. 

He's a rat, you think. A plant from Makarov to test your resolve. Your will. 

The glare on your face hardens. Yuri must have told him your type. Must have let it slip the kind of man that seems to catch your interest. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. A tapered waist. Gruff, chiselled men with dirty hands, stained from hard work. Honest, good men. 

Men who belong in fairy tales. Blacksmiths and forgers. Miners. Ironworkers. The kind who wants nothing in life but simplicity, a warm bed, and a hearty meal. Ones who stand up to injustices but would never, ever call themselves a hero. 

A rough gentlemen that wouldn't even consider themselves as such. 

Stupid. How stupid. 

He was always too good to be true. You should have known better. 

When the silence stretches on, pulled taut like a rubber band, he huffs. Shattering the icy tension with another roll of his massive shoulder. 

"Here," he reaches into the folds of his jacket once more, and retrieves a new card. A chip. "If you ever change your mind, gimme a call."

Makarov is a smart man. 

"I won't." 

But he's raised you to be smarter. 

Makarov is many things—a money-hungry monster included—but above all of that, he's a businessman with a reputation. 

He's only one-fourth of a massive tech conglomerate that puts public relations and corporate profits over everything else—even personal gain. None of the heads makes any decisions without express permission from everyone who eats at the table. Doing otherwise would get you killed. 

Have you ever heard the story of a hydra? That's what we are. Four horsemen. The heads might change but there will always be four. 

To do something like this would put him at direct odds of everything the Horsemen, the Inner Circle, set forth to do. Risking it all to sell his own repossessed parts at a lower profit margin on the black market is absurd. Crazy. 

He'll make more money on the interest each debt accumulates than he would having it paid off in full, or even wiped. It's an unspoken underline all the Horsemen profit from. Their own personal gain. 

You can't see him losing that over a meagre payout in the black market. 

And as a regular peruser of the market, you would have noticed him, or someone in his circle, down there. 

(You know everyone down there.)

It's impossible. 

And yet—

The run-in with the man rattles you still. 

You're quick to deduce that he isn't a plant by Makarov. He'd never let one of his talk about him like that or accuse him of the kind of things that would bring the Horsemen together in a way that could only end with Makarov on trial. 

It being Makarov is a gamble he'd never take. 

But him not being on Makarov's payroll is equally risky. It's not exactly a secret that the Inner Circle runs around with shady groups—Ultranationalists., and Konni rogues being some of them—but nothing has ever been confirmed, and the Ultranationalists have never been loyal to anyone except their agenda. 

People who tend to ask questions about the Horsemen are either added to the payroll or, if that doesn't work, silenced. 

Military. They don't usually get involved in corporate affairs. 

But you suppose a missing friend is enough to spur anyone on. 

You should forget him. Should push him from your mind, and pretend he was just a figment of your imagination. Something that crawled from the foetid cesspit where hope rots, and stood in front of you offering sanctuary with hands that leaked pestilence down on the grungy floor of the club that bred and reared depravity. 

What he was offering couldn't exist in the same space as that place. 

But he knew you. Knew about your debt. The one thing you wanted more than anything else offered up in a chrome-plated palm. And—despite everything you've tried to erase it—the only group who'd have the ability to do so approaches you. 

It's odd. This whole situation seems strange. 

Offering up information on Makarov to the military in exchange for freedom. You know it isn't him. It can't be. The risks outweigh any potential money Makarov would make doing this. His life for a paltry sum when a single person's debt on their upgrades singlehandedly paid for several of his his penthouses in Al Mazrah. 

Seems too good to be true, and you were taught to be wary of the hand that feeds you.

Logically, you know you should toss the chip away, and never deal with this again. Or, better yet, to hand it over to Makarov to deal with and bargain for a chunk to come from your debt. 

If you were selfish, you would. 

No. 

If you weren't selfish, you would. But you are, so you don't. You don't because he didn't promise a chunk, he promised all. All of it. Gone. Erased. Voided. The balance on your head would be zero. Nothing. You'd be free of Makarov—a man who saved you only to imprison you in a gilded cage. 

A man who is more enigma than you could ever begin to unravel. 

Why he keeps you around on a short leash, content to let you weave in and out of his many assets as you please, only having to meet with him every few months in what feels like glorified check-ins to confirm you're still desperately seeking a way to sever the ties that are reinforced with steel. 

The man is strange, but Makarov and his murky intentions for you are even more so. 

It makes those needling questions rear again. Ones that can't help but wonder if Makarov keeps you around because you happen to be his greatest achievement: manufactured sentience. 

After all, even the most sentient androids in the world know, fundamentally, that they are not humans. There is a categorical difference, and the idea of false humanity was deemed too cruel to bestow upon someone—android, cyborg, or otherwise—and so, telling you outright that your insides are an immaculately designed machine is not only illegal, but it's also the one thing he'll do anything to avoid—

"—a PR nightmare," he spits, words soaked in the same venom that leaks from his narrowed glare. You watch the implosion from your perch near the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse, eyes gazing impassively out at the technicolour city sprawling below. His voice carries through the room. "A fucking—"

Disaster. 

In a stroke of unfortunate luck, someone in the local police department made a report on a man left for dead in the gritty downtown streets of the city—affectionately named Killhouse—after being stripped of all his implants with near-surgical precision. 

No one ever reports on these specific cases because of how often they happen, and where. It's no secret the police keep a wide distance around the area that moonlights as a broken redlight district and the entrance to the black market. It's almost wholly under the thumb of the constantly warring Vanguards—the Hellhounds and the Tyrants are almost always in some type of civil dispute—and a very not-so-secret secret is that they pay the police to turn the other way. 

This, then, is quite a deviation in how things are normally done. 

His debt to Four Horseman Corp is made known to the world—an insurmountable number that never seems to decrease due to the exorbitant interest piled high. 

It brings about uncomfortable questions, and the greedy outlets sink their claws into the morsel offered like starving rats scavenging for scraps. They plaster it everywhere until a discussion starts. 

Why is interest so high? 

The discourse surrounding the oligarchy on technology is not a new one by any means, but for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel like it's going to get swept away anytime soon. The launch of their new nanotechnology is halted until it dies down. Until the media circus has quieted enough not to let sales of a new product tank.

PR nightmare, indeed. 

The timing is suspicious, but the cop who made the report is new enough that it doesn't raise too many eyebrows. Human error. A simple mistake.

You think back to the man, fingers idly running over the groove of the chip you told yourself you'd toss out nine times already, and wonder if it's connected. 

Makarov's call wasn't too impromptu considering he regularly likes to check in, but he sent Anatoly instead of Yuri and something about the brutal man leering at you sets your teeth on edge. 

His usual meetings mainly just consist of him lauding your neverending debt over your head, and reminding you he doesn't accept dirty money. And, of course, to gather names. 

Your appearances at the White Horse are less about contemplating the depravity of the upper echelon, and assembling a list of men and women who visit, and what they purchase. 

Makarov's greatest achievement—and his biggest spy. 

"You hear anything?" 

In the darkened glass, his reflection lifts his head from where it was bowed over a netpad, angry eyes skimming through the abundance of articles, and fixes themselves on you. Narrowing. 

"Hear what?"

"What else?" He huffs. Wrong answer. "Anything about this when you were at the club."

You haven't been back since that night, offering excuses to your watchman, and glorified chauffeur as to why you couldn't go. 

"No," you say and hate the way your mind immediately flashes back to that man. "Nothing really." 

He stands up from his chair—throne, really—and lays his palms flat on the surface of his chrome-plated desk. It sparks to life under his fingertips, LED lights flaring through the wires embedded into the grain. A holographic menu in net blue pops up in front of him. 

The glass inverts the image, but you could make out the familiar cage anywhere. 

"You left your post for a while. Borodin said you slipped away from him." 

It's not outright accusatory yet, but you catch the paper-thin wisps of suspicion in his tone all the same. 

It doesn't surprise you when he follows it up with, "so, where'd you go?"

"I saw someone," you shrug. "Wanted to get a better look."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know." It's not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, and you think he senses that. 

"It wouldn't happen to be a police officer, would it? This stupid shit—," he lifts his hand, sweeping it across the articles drifting by in the side of the screen before laying it over his brow. "—could end me. And the timing, too."

Words bubble in your throat. You don't know what compels you to speak them aloud—maybe the needle of humour weaving through the conflicting tangle of everything gnarling inside of your chest—but they tumble from your lips without any regard to who, exactly, you're speaking to. 

"Maybe once you're gone, I won't have to worry about my debt anymore."

The hand rubbing his forehead stills. 

You tense, teeth sinking into your tongue until you taste blood. Stupid. 

"Is that what you think, kitten?" Slowly, he lifts his head, hand sliding down until it covers his jaw. His eyes are burning. "You don't owe a debt to me—you owe a debt to the Inner Circle. Not the Horsemen, not Zakhaev. But to us."

You turn from the window with a sharp jerk, eyes widening. Despair sinks its claws into your jugular. 

"You're an asset. An investment. The technology used to save your life is unprecedented. Do you think we'll just let you go? Do you know how long it'll take to pay your debt off, kitten? Five hundred and thirty-six years—and you're barely paying off the interest as it is." 

Makarov often has his lackeys do the intimation for him—Anatoly in particular—while he hides behind the mask of a charismatic innovator just looking to improve the world. It's rare he ever raises his voice, or his hand.

This, the picture of anger perched behind his chrome throne, is the closest to something true to his real self than you'd ever seen before. Anger. Bitterness. Contempt.

He moves slowly around the desk, and you feel every second of it like a blunt stab to your chest. Trepidation, fear. 

You've become so complacent with what Makarov pretends to be that you forget who he really was.

When he finally reaches you, the storm cloud in his gaze clears into something like sadistic victory. Vindication. 

He leans down, his chin brushing over your cheek. 

"You better hope nothing happens to me. I'm the only reason you're not being made to work for us as well. You like your freedom, yes? Then I suggest you pray I stay alive, kitten." 

You stare at the image on the screen, and try not to let yourself weep at the sight of it so bluntly looming before you. 

A debt owed to the Inner Circle. 

A contact promising payment in addition to employment to them. The handler of the current account is Vladimir Makarov. 

Maybe it's naïvety, ignorance, but you've always assumed the loan was only to Makarov. He was the first person you saw when you woke up—the first real one, anyway—and something about him seemed almost too big for the small room you were housed in. Too surreal. Everything felt new and strange and familiar and old and comforting and—

And then he said: 

You know how this works, don't you? 

You didn't. Or maybe, once upon a time, you did, but everything inside of your head was scraped clean with a scaple until the walls were barren and empty. Void of any substance.

Who you were was a black hole. A vaccum. 

Makarov was the one who filled the vacant space with purpose. With meaning. 

And you hated him for it. 

Made to pretend to be whatever he decided fit his needs; a puppet for his amusement. 

He owned you. 

Made you whole again. 

In that, you just assumed that he was the one who footed the exorbitant bill to resuscitate you from whatever hell you clawed out of, narrowly avoiding the gnashing maw of death. It made sense. 

And in many ways, you just assumed that he would die. 

A corrupt CEO. They're rampant here. Heads roll all the time, and you were content with waiting it out until someone put the barrel of a gun to his forehead and told him his tyranny was up. Freedom drenched in the blood of your financier. 

Fitting, isn't it?

You were pulled from the blood-soaked cobblestone, and given a second breath of life by his hands. 

Born in blood. 

(Born in blood. Died in blood. Born in blood. Freed.)

You slip the chip into your phone, breath held in your throat as the calling card loads. 

It's archaic. No one uses these chips anymore except old people, and the government. Untraceable. It's good for a single contact number only. The sight of it makes you huff—a shaky bloom of mirth in your chest. 

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own. 

(Something you'd rather not think about.)

The screen idles for a moment. No answer. A sham call. A fakeout. A—

He doesn't appear on the screen. It's blank. In the black surface, your sallow face stares back. Traitor. 

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"You expected me to?" 

"If you were smart, you would have."

"If I was actually smart, I wouldn't be calling you at all." 

"Mm, I'm glad you did," he murmurs, voice tinny and thin through the speaker. "A debt that big won't just go away…"

It stings. You swallow it down. "Yeah. Guess you got that right." 

"What's wrong?" 

"Aw, do you care? That's sweet." 

"I've been called many things, love. Sweet ain't one of them." He shifts. You hear the clink of his metal fingers tapping over the ancient phone in his hand. A surly old man with an old chip. You stifle a laugh. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. This whole thing is—

"—Important that we find the link between the missing parts and Makarov. It might lead us to Alex, and—"

"Huh?" You blink. "I never said I'd—"

"Go see what you can dig up for me. I need something—a paper trail. I can't get into the black market, but you can."

"How do you know what?" 

"Know a bit about you, love."

"How?" 

"You ain't the only one with friends in high places." Another shift. The grind of metal against metal. "Now, are you in? Or are you gonna try and pay this debt off on your own, hmm? How long will that take you? Few hundred years?"

"Makarov will kill me if I do this—"

"And how many people will be killed if you don't?"

You don't answer. Can't. That responsibility shouldn't be on your head. 

He sighs. A rough huff of static through the line.

"If you want that debt gone, meet me at the location m'gonna send you. You called for a reason. Makarov can't touch you if you owe him nothing. Their ship is sinkin', love. You gonna go down with them? Be a prisoner your whole life? Or are you gonna be smart an' abandon ship while you still have the chance, because once I leave that place, m'not gonna answer again. You'll be on your own."

"I'll think about it."

"Make the smart choice, love."

He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates in the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. 

A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach. 

Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head. 

[talonabraxas]

The Golden Gate by Talon Abraxas

The zodiac structural principles are both energetic and geometric which are being aligned to the Alchemical Laws of God hosted by the Krystal Star. The Earth’s Magnetosphere and the Solar System’s heliosphere are getting exponentially weaker. These alterations to the magnetic field allow an increasing saturation of cosmic rays into our inner solar system. The progression through the Magnum Opus or the 13 constellation activations in this 12 month cycle, each bring in an Alchemical Law. We are moving through specific Laws of Alchemy located in the Ophiuchus constellation activation. This quality of Silver-Gold frequency is being transmitted to our Sun and planetary body for the first time. Through the Silver Ray dissolving into the Golden Gate, the returning of the Spirit to the center of Unity or the process of inner Unification is activated as a Law.

This alignment begins a new exposure and is transmitting a new substance, which has qualities of both Elemental Water and Elemental Aether. This is carried in a mixture within these plasmic Silver-Gold liquid light frequencies, which make it Divine Fire Water. Fire Water is a new spiritual element being created through this alchemical process transmitted to the planetary body and humanity. The river of living waters from the Mothers Creatrix, Rainbow Krystal Waters, flow out from the throne of God and unify into the dimensional door of The Golden Gate. The highest emanation of this mysterious elixir is both silver and gold, the Chalice of God which opens the portal of The Golden Gate.

The ancients called this circuit path made around the galactic equator, the Gate of the Gods or The Golden Gate. The Orion constellation sits in the opposite direction, which would be considered the anti-galactic center. The ancients called this circuit path the Gate of Man or The Silver Gate. Ophiuchus and Orion are mirror images of opposing polarity. Together, they represent the ascending path through the Gate of Man meeting at the Gate of the Gods. The many Ascension Stages we endure to reach our spiritual Magnum Opus, are the stages of humanity moving through these sequences of consciousness gateways.

We all incarnate as earthly beings that evolve through the Precession of the Equinoxes. This takes us through the consciousness realms moving through the ecliptic path of the Gate of Man to eventually complete the evolution cycle, which intersects at the Galactic Center. Once we unify the consciousness experiences through the Gate of Man intersecting with the Galactic Equator at Ophiuchus’ feet, we are potentially given access to The Golden Gate. This allows us to proceed on the Ascension path to become resurrected eternal spiritual beings unified with the Cosmic Holy Spirit. From our solar system the Galactic Center lies visually along a line that passes through The Golden Gate. This is the Gate to Eternal Life which pours out the Universal Elixir that opens at the end of Precession Cycles.

The Golden Gate is located on the circuit path, where the two great celestial spheres intersect together that create four quadrants. The quadrant is one of four circular sectors in the equal division of the planetary sphere. These are marked by the Four Royal Stars. The first great circuit is the path of the Sun through the zodiac made in its annual cycle. The other is the circle path made from the center of our Milky Way galaxy called the galactic equator.

The intersection point made between the two circuits located between Taurus and Gemini constellations is known as The Silver Gate. The intersection point of the two circuits between Scorpio and Sagittarius constellations, right under Ophiuchus right foot, is known as The Golden Gate.

Galactic Plane The circle path made from the center of our Milky Way galaxy is called the galactic equator or Galactic Plane.

The galactic plane is the plane in which the majority of a disk-shaped galaxy's mass lies. The directions perpendicular to the galactic plane point to the galactic poles. Most often, in actual usage, the terms "galactic plane" and "galactic poles" are used to refer specifically to the plane and poles of the Milky Way, which is the galaxy in which the Earth is located.

[oz-qwin]

I am really invested in your little small idea for winged sonic and shadow au. Have you got any other tidbits about that au you’d be willing to share?

I do have a "small" few, wo/ visuals this time sadly :(

In the main drawing, you can see a trail of feathers falling behind Sonic. In "game" this is a flight trail with a low opacity white, not actual feathers falling out of the wings; its just a cool game graphic to show his flight trail.

Shadow has a more basic -black fading into red- lines that fade out. His wings are cool enough to not need anything else to specialize it further.

-

The 5 golden feathers when collected by Sonic make his wings gold, and hold onto the feathers that he has on hand.

Explanation:

Normal feathers act like rings, a lot of them can be found around one single stage easy-pesy. But when flying Sonic loses them very slowly, like when he's Super Sonic. When tracking up speed or boosting he loses more -around 5-10- in an instant. A trade for control for speed as well when it comes to his flight control, the gold feathers dont have this weakness. He cant get rid of the first collected feather though, no matter how hard he has tried so that Shadow would stop being mad at him for doing something stupid.

Shadow is unable to interact with the feathers ever since Sonic did. So he gets none of this. :)

-

The main drawing that i made is a small moment that shows Shadow experiencing how freeing it can feel to fly and to not be afraid of his Black Arms wings and what they mean. That he can enjoy it (flying) without letting his past connections with the Black Arms to sour the moments for him by pulling his attention off of himself and instead onto makeing sure Sonic doesn't kill himself for not keeping track of his feather count and crashing headfirst into something immediately. Witch he had already done at that point.

Like a trust fall.

In that moment Shadow realizes all of that and allows himself to enjoy it by experiencing the cute moment with Sonic. He doesn't dismiss his feelings later that night or any other time though, that would be a shallow writing of his character.

-

There is a "main-hub" which is a town full of the winged people i described originally. Its mostly a town in trees or harsh drop off cliffs, branches and vines connect building to building so that people can move easily if they are carrying things that are heavy or cant fly at the moment for any resion. The entrances are mostly large circular holes so that landing with their wings easier.

This is where Shadow and Sonic go mainly to find info on how to get home, and getting to know the locals, and their stories/mythic tales that can potentially lead to them getting home or give them info on what's happening with Sonic getting wings.

-

Sooner or later they get home, and Sonic loses the wings (obviously). Shadow -now used to flying w/him- is saddened with this. But he too now doesn't have the access to his wings (since I'm assuming that Sonic x Shadow generations won't let him have access to them after the game) , so even if he wanted to he won't be able to fly whist carrying him either.

So, every now and again both of them wonder or think about having wings and flying together again. But they get their frustration out about this by............ YOU GESSED IT! Racing each other or going on runs/marathons like they always have! Because its the closest that they can get to it without costing A LOT of money.

-

:3

Thats basically it.

Have fun with all of this info!

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Greatest Showman [Loki x Fem. Reader]

Part of the Secret Santa Drabbles hosted by @fictive-sl0th A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki's interest in musicals provides some interesting inspiration for the bedroom. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smuttish. Language. (w/c 931) A/N: Prompt: Loki loves musicals - hope you like it @wheredafandomat 💕

“Darling I had an idea, about what you said, regarding roleplay and... inspiration.” You hummed in acknowledgement, engrossed in the book in your lap as you lay tucked in bed. The proceeding silence broke your concentration, looking up to your lover leaning naked against the bathroom door-frame. You giggled, placing the book to the side. “Sorry. OK. I’m listening.” “To me? Or to him?” Loki purred, casting his eyes down to what strained upward against his taut stomach.

You smirked, raising your eyebrows and casting the duvet aside, patting the mattress. “To you, my love. Now what’s your idea?” you said seductively, running your hungry eyes over his sculpted body.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Musicals.” he quipped, waiting for your reaction. “Musicals.” you repeated sceptically, your forehead creasing. “I know you’re a fan of them but...I don’t know. I’m not sure there’s anything very sexy about musicals Lokes.” you murmured apologetically, seeing his smile broaden. “Au contraire, darling.” he purred, raising his thumb and forefinger to the side. “I shall present three options for tonight's lovemaking festivities.” He snapped his fingers, the room around you dissolving into darkness. The bed was transported to the side of a circus ring, the smell of sawdust swirling in your nostrils. You gasped as a solitary spotlight snapped onto your dark god. His face was lowered, a top hat glinting beneath the cool hue. A chorus of drums and stomps sounded in the air, voices harmonising as they bayed for their master to begin. You clenched, gripping the sheets beneath you. He looked fucking incredible.

Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for. Been searching in the dark / Sweat soaking through the floor. Loki was dressed as a Victorian ring-master; P.T Barnam, to be exact. A theatrical red overcoat sat tight on his shoulders; a gold brocaded waistcoat snug around his midriff, the same heavy thread adorning elaborate cuffs. A garish golden broach adorned his shoulder, the tight fit of his black trousers doing nothing to hide the godly cock hard beneath them. He raised his head, cheekbones flashing dangerously beneath the brim of the hat. His hair fell around his shoulders, a cream starched cravat wound intricately around his neck. Shadows cast against his exposed jawline in the circular light as he used an ornate cane in his grip to push the brim upward, revealing a coy smile. “Are you ready for the show?” he projected, spinning towards an invisible crowd that roared with applause, that velvet voice filling the theatrical space. You shivered with desire, coveting every inch of his powerful form coated in structured wool; the buckles of his overcoat glinting in the light as he turned back to face you. Suddenly the room spun again, and in a second the sawdust and empty stands were gone. In their place, a rich red curtain stretched upward endlessly; rustling in a ghostly breeze. Loki stood on a low stage as familiar music played; a piano tinkling to life in the gloom. A dark high-collared cloak surrounded his body, his face even paler than usual. Deep purple makeup coated his lips, his eyes enlarged with dramatically smokey eyeshadow. Those cheekbones sang in the low light, heavy contouring sweeping upward. In a flash, he threw the cloak backwards, making it flutter to the ground by his feet. You gasped again, hands flying to your mouth as Loki strutted down the steps of the stage in time with the music.

Why don't you/ Stay for the night? Or maybe a bite/ I can show you my favourite Obsession A sleeveless corset was laced haphazardly to his midriff, dark sparkles fizzing in the low lights against his chiselled abs. Sinful fishnet stockings stretched against those thick thighs, running down endless legs into a pair of high heels. The suspenders strapped to a belt around his hips hung against a devastatingly tight pair of leather underwear. His manhood throbbed against the fabric with every stride, teasing you as you crawled forward to rest on your knees. Begging. You could feel saliva building in your mouth as Loki drew closer in time with the music, his curls wild. He was charged with raw sexual energy as he flipped his hair, crawling atop the bed like an animal. A pearl necklace hung invitingly as he stopped at your eye level on all fours, reaching to draw a finger over your lips with one gloved hand. Your eyes fluttered shut, ready to be irrevocably fucked by your sweet transvestite lover before you felt the room shift once more.

The final option, you thought as your head spun; seeing a burgundy warmth growing behind your eyelids. You braced as something rocked beneath you, opening your eyes. Hundred of candles glowed in ornate candelabras floating in the air, shimmering water passing inexplicably beneath the small barge you found yourself in. An angelic soprano voice filled the air like a heavy scent, intoxicating your senses as flames danced on the subterranean canal.

In sleep he sang to me / In dreams he came That voice which calls to me / And speaks my name

Stone pillars towered to black nothingness above, candles dotting the air in swaying, ethereal rhythm. Your head whipped round, finding Loki looming with another flowing, more luxurious cape swirling around him. He was sombre as he steered the boat with one long oar. A high-necked shirt accentuated the angle of his jaw leading down to a tight waistcoat. Always so tight, you thought; squeezing your thighs together. The god’s hair was tied back with a ribbon, half of his beautiful face covered by a white, porcelain mask. The exposed side of his mouth was curled in a secretive smirk, enjoying every second of his theatrical endeavours. You tried to speak, words catching behind your teeth before the air was knocked out of you by another shift of magic. Loki’s lithe frame was suddenly pressed to yours on your bed, his tongue slipping between your lips as you squirmed beneath him. He thrust his hips gently against your open thighs, naked and ready to grant you anything you desired. “So, my darling...which musical anti-hero will you take to your bed this night?” he purred against your cheek, placing messy kisses down your neck as you moaned in anticipation. “All of them?” you whispered shyly, hearing Loki chuckle before the room swirled around you once again.

@lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @gigglingtigger @holymultiplefandomsbatman @muddyorbsblr @xorpsbane @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @holdmytesseract @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @mrsbarnes32557038 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @ladylovesloki @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokisgirll @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @peachyymallows @soldeloki @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @lunarnights95 @coldnique

[clown-paws]

> fanbot brainstorming! this is Circuit, my newest beloved OC. took a while but i really like it's design and character so far. while it can't sing or play, it's normally brought on stage for mime work and joking with its siblings in betwen songs. it's the baby of the group!

> ID below and in alt text -

[Image Description: Two digital paintings of my Steam Powered Giraffe fanbot, Circuit. On the left is a full body drawing, and to the right is a 3/4 angle head shot. It is designed like a clown and has white metal casing, with red, circular cheeks and clown nose. It's cheeks are lined with LEDs. It has a teal metal on the eyelids, the inside of it's ear, it's mouth and tongue and two lines of teal running down it's neck, where it's neck muscles would be. It's eyelids are split into different metal plates to give the illusion of long eyelashes up to it's eyebrow lines. There is a faint, mainly purple lighting on it's left. The background is a light lavender with a hint of blue.

Full body Painting: Circuit is wearing a large, black cone hat with three red pompoms running down the center and a blue brim. A black, poofy dress with a circle skirt, blue spiked clown collar with red LEDs on the tips, blue ruffled cuffs, two red pompoms in the center of the torso part, a red waist ribbon and red ballet ribbons up to it's knees. It's feet are shaped as heeled shoes with a red heel stripe, blue toe and red pompoms on the tips. It is smiling, mouth open, and looking off to the left with it's left hand on it's hip. The right arm is lifted and it is holding onto the string of a pink, heart shaped balloon. It is lifting it's right leg up off the ground, pointed straight.

Headshot: The spiked collar is visible below Circuit's neck. It is looking down at something in front of it, mouth wide open in shock and eyes wide. It has a yellow star earring. Its tongue is horizontally lined. It has wires, grey metal parts and two red buttons exposed on the side of it's head. There are white lights in the centre of it's irises.

There is white text all over the image. The backstory parts are bullet-pointed with stars. Text reads:

Circuit. [Circuit is in bold and larger than the other text, with a white star beside the name and a gold star inside the white.]

1.65 meters/ 5' 5".

It/its.

Entertainer.

Was programmed as a nurse, like Upgrade, during the wars. Eventually damaged + lost post World War 2, metal + joints rusted away.

Was found and repurposed as an entertainer in circuses in the 50s - was brought back to the band in the 2000s.

Faulty speech + hearing - delayed responses. Head wires exposed for easy tuning. [tuning is underlined and has an arrow pointing to the red buttons on the side of it's head.]

Doesn't sing due to malfunctions.

LEDs [pointing to the red lights on the tips of the collar and it's cheeks in the headshot.]

End ID.]

[fromthedust]

The Nebra Sky Disc - bronze, gold - Unetice culture - Early Bronze Age - c.1800-1600 BCE

The Nebra sky disc is a bronze disc of around 30 cm (12") diameter and a weight of 2.2 kg (4.9 lb), having a blue-green patina and inlaid with gold symbols. These symbols are interpreted generally as the Sun, a lunar crescent, and stars (including a cluster of seven stars interpreted as the Pleiades). Two golden arcs along the sides, interpreted to mark the angle between the solstices, were added later. A final addition was another arc at the bottom with internal parallel lines, which is usually interpreted as a solar boat with numerous oars, though some authors have also suggested that it may represent a rainbow, the Aurora Borealis, or a comet.

The disc was found buried on the Mittelberg hill near Nebra in Germany. It is dated by archaeologists to c. 1800–1600 BCE and attributed to the Early Bronze Age Unetice culture. It served as a reminder of when it was necessary to synchronize the lunar and solar years by inserting a leap month. This phenomenon occurred when the three-and-a-half-day-old moon —the crescent moon on the disc— was visible at the same time as the Pleiades. As preserved, the disc was developed in four stages:

Initially the disc had thirty-two small round gold circles, a large circular plate, and a large crescent-shaped plate attached. The circular plate is interpreted as the Sun, the crescent shape as the Moon, and the dots as stars, with the cluster of seven dots likely representing the Pleiades star cluster.  At some later date, two arcs (constructed from gold of a different origin, as shown by its chemical impurities) were added at opposite edges of the disc. To make space for these arcs, one small circle was moved from the left side toward the center of the disc and two of the circles on the right were covered over, so that thirty remain visible. The two arcs span an angle of 82°, correctly indicating the angle between the positions of sunset at summer and winter solstice at the latitude of the Mittelberg (51°N).  The final addition was another arc at the bottom, identified as a solar boat, again made of gold, but originating from another different source. By the time the disc was buried it also had 38 to 40 holes punched out around its perimeter, each approximately 3 millimetres (0.12 in) in diameter. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nebra_sky_disc

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 8: Schemes and Artisans

AO3 - Masterlist

A theater had been erected amidst the lush gardens of the Red Keep, its semi-circular structure complemented by the captivating backdrop of the vast expanse of the sea. The structure was a mix of marble and limestone, ornately carved, and had been built during the reign of Jaehaerys and Alyssan. 

Daenera had arranged three elegantly sets of tables on the balcony, offering a splendid view overlooking the stage and the sea. Her invitations had been extended to esteemed guests, including Tris Caswell, the second daughter of Lord Merryweather, Kaylys Merryweather, Lady Fell, and Lady Sylvie Rosby. An invitation had also been extended to Queen Alicent, but that had politely declined, much to Daenera’s delight. 

The early morning had been spent making the last preparations. The tables were filled with cakes and fruit, a colorful display of abundance and wealth, with the possibility of being watered with some of the finest wine Westeros had to offer. Daenera had chosen a colorful dress of orange and gold and her hair were braided in the traditional Targaryen way, keeping it from blowing into her face.

She was standing on the balcony, listening to the ladies talk among themselves excitedly, already indulging in the wine. The sun shone brightly and were it not for the shadow the stretched out fabric provides, they would surely have burned. 

Jelissa hurried into the middle of the theater, her steps clicking over the pale stone. She looked up at Daenera, a bright smile on her lips. “We’re ready!” 

Daenera nodded in acknowledgement. 

Jelissa hurried away, letting the guards at the gate know that they could open. She then sprinted back to stand with Joyce by the side of the rounded stage, the table in front of them filled with leather pouches, brimming with unspent money and the promise of more to come. 

A mass of people filed in through the gates. People of all colors, backgrounds and skills. Some were from Lys, some Essos, some Pentos. There were Westerosi singers, artists and musicians. Daenera smiled as they gathered by the backdrop of the ocean, all looking up at her expectantly. 

“Welcome, my artisans!” Daenera greeted loudly, letting her voice carry out into the theater. “I am Princess Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.” Her eyes were sharp as they filtered through the mass of people, lingering on the few that displayed some sort of scrutiny to her words. “I’ve always enjoyed the arts of music and dance, and with my return to the capital, I found myself able to finally show patronage to the thing that I love.” 

It wasn’t the entire truth. While she enjoyed music, song and theater, she wasn’t as invested as some other ladies were to the arts. But the thing about artists was, that they traveled throughout the continent, singing their song, acting in plays, telling their stories. And such things held sway. 

It was a tactic Queen Visenya herself had once used. 

“My mother, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra, has tasked me with finding artists to patronage. She too is a lover of the arts. We wish that you bring the joy you give us, out into every corner of Westeros. We wish you to sing your songs, play your tunes, and tell your stories to the people. That is our wish.”

And it wouldn’t hurt to sing a little something about her. 

“Now, please, show us what you’ve got!”

Daenera looked down at Joyce, giving the maid a nod, who nodded back in acknowledgement. Joyce called out the first number as Daenera took her seat, picking up a grape and propping it into her mouth. 

The first artist was a singer. He began with high appraise to Daenera, telling her about his adventures, where he had been, who he had sung for. That was the dreary part of the whole thing. She wasn’t interested in that, all she wanted to know was whether they could sing and what they’d sing. 

The Bear and The Maiden Fair seemed to be a favorite among the singers and musicians. Each time it was sung, it lost its appeal, until Daenera would rather listen to Aemond call her a bastard than listen to it once more. 

By the time they had reached number seventy seven, more than half the songs had been The Bear and The Maiden Fair. One third of what was left were Maids that bloom in spring, and the rest after that False and the Fair, and Flower of Spring and Little Flower. 

It was then an older man stepped out into the middle of the stage, a lute kept close to his breast, dark beard kept and freshly shaved. At the corners of his eyes were crows feet and a deep line cleaved through his forehead. He bowed to the princess and her company. “I am Samwell Tradd, my princess. I have played the cold seat of the North, to the sand dunes of Dorne, but I have played for none other as important as your mother, the good princess, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

This piqued Daenera’s interest and she stood from her seat, carrying the cup of wine with her to the railing of the balcony, which she leaned against with her forearms, squinting in the sunlight of the afternoon. “You played for my mother?”

“That I did, Princess,” Ser Samwell Tradd confirmed. “It was a pleasure to play for her.”

“What did you play?”

Samwell Tradd chuckled to himself. “ Under the Dragon's eye.”

Daenera grinned. 

“She made me sing it… two dozen times over,” Samwell told the princess. “She would not hear another, only that, until my hand cramped and my voice was raw, and even then, she bid me continue.”

“Then would it not suit you if I asked you to play it again?” Daenera responded with a gracious smile. 

“For you, The Realms Flower, I will play it again.” Samwell Tradd plucked a few strings on the lute, humming to loosen his vocal cords, and then began to sing. 

She fled with her ships and her people,Her heart broken for those she could not save.Nymeria, fearless and wise, led with determination in her eyes. With ten thousand ships, she led her people’s flight, Across the Narrow Sea, seeking a new life. 

Under the dragon’s eye, they sailed so far and wide, Nymeria and her Rhoynar, their hopes and dreams allied. Through hardships and trails, their spirits remained high,Bound by a destiny, under the dragon’s watchful eye. 

Through stormy seas and treacherous tides they roamed, Leaving behind their homeland, their past disowned. With strength and resilience, they faced each new day, Guided by Nymeria’s wisdom, they found their own way. Through shifting sands, they found their place, United under Nymeria’s willful grace. 

So let the tale be sung, of Nymeria’s nobel quest, Of the Rhoynar’s journey, their resilience put to a test. Under the dragon’s eye, their spirit never broke, A testament to courage.

Under the dragon’s eye. 

“…Under the dragon’s eye,” Samwell Tradd finished. 

Daenera exchanged a knowing nod with Joyce, who discreetly handed the singer a pouch filled with jiggling coins. It carried more than mere currency, it was a symbol of her endorsement, and more significantly, Rhaenyra’s endorsement. Unspoken expectations were attached to the weight of those coins, urging the singer to spread the good word of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realms Delight, and the Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne. 

While some noble houses disregarded the significance of the common folk, Daenera recognized their importance. After all, it was the small folk who dutifully paid their taxes, who ensured the smooth flow of goods, who tirelessly toiled to create the fabrics and wines that the nobles delighted in. Though unaware of their latent power, the small folk held a sway over the very fabric of society. 

And with the small folks' support, they could sway their lords and ladies. 

By the time the sun had dipped down behind the horizon, Daenera’s head was buzzing with wine, sun and song. Fragmented lyrics sailed around her skull, not able to gather enough strength to become a full song. Lady Fell had left the younger ladies to their own devices, citing exhaustion. Daenera couldn’t blame the older woman. 

“Have you heard about Prince Aemond?” Kaylys Merryweather said, fanning herself with the fan, her cheeks flush with the wine. She smiled covertly. They were all leaning back, enjoying the otherwise quiet. Daenera had called it quits, telling the remainder of the performers to come back on the morrow. At the mention of Aemond her head propped up again. 

“That someone tried to poison him?” Lady Sylvie Rosby quipped behind her own fan, crumbs littering her chest from all the cakes she had indulged herself in. Kaylys Merryweather and Lady Rosby shared a look.

“I heard that it was an allergic reaction,” Tris Caswell interjected. 

“An allergic reaction? Please, that is the excuse you use for covering up poisoning,” Kaylys Merryweather criticized. “Someone poisoned his sword.”

“Do they know who did it?” Daenera inquired, her voice raw and tired. 

Lady Merryweather shook her head, her blond strands whipping over her shoulders and back again. “They have no idea. Some say it was a failed assasination-,”

“Oh please,” Daenera groaned at the grotesqueness of that statement. If she wanted him dead, she very well would have used something else, something less obvious and that left little to no evidence. An assassination with poisoning, should either be quick or drawn out over time, the ladder creating less suspicion if the poisoned had a history of illness. No one would suspect a thing after a long bout of fever and illness. People simply dropped dead of that. 

“A scorn lover then?” Lady Sylvie suggested. 

“Or Aegon,” Tris proposed. The women all nodded in silence, thinking. “Aegon is known for his absurd pranks.”

“But would he harm his own brother?” Lady Sylvie asked.  Aegon would most definitely harm his brother for his own amusement , Daenera thought. 

“I saw his hands. They were swollen and red, the poor thing. The Maesters said that they’d itch and burn for a few days, and there was little they could do.”

“It’s just awful,” Lady Sylvie continued in a huff. “If the princes aren't safe from such attacks, then we’re all at risk.”

“I severely doubt you are at risk, Lady Sylvie,” Daenera cut in. “Why would an assassin or prankster target you?”

Lady Sylvie blinked at Daenera’s cutting words. Daenera wouldn’t entertain her with pretends of importance. Lady Sylvie might be a lady, but she wasjust a lady. She was neither heir nor the first born. Her brother was more of a target and her father even more still. Her words seemed to have struck a chord and Lady Sylvie glowered. 

“I personally think Prince Aemond is quite handsome,” Lady Merryweather continued, ignorant to the tension. The second daughter to Lord Merrywhether were betrothed to one of the lower houses of the Reach, the name of which eluded Daenera. The Lady was five and twenty, a crone by small folks' accounts. She was allowed to dream though. 

Everyone stared at her.

“What?”

“He's been maimed,” Lady Sylvie chided. “He’s a one eyed prince. And have you seen the scar? It's so grim and disgusting. If it had been me, I would have flung myself from the highest window in the Keep.” 

You may yet do that .

“I think he’s handsome,” Lady Merrywheather reiterated. “And strong and tall. I can overlook the scar and maiming for the handsome side of his face.”

“You’ll have to sit at his right side then,” Daenera muttered, head throbbing with the subject of Aemond and ‘handsome’ in the same sentence. If the cutting edge of a knife was handsome, then she supposed Lady Merryweather was right. “Or perhaps it’s best to sit where he cannot see you.”

“What do you think he’s got hiding underneath his eyepatch?” Tris quietly asked. 

“Not his eye,” Daenera responded, bored with the conversation. 

They ended the evening not long after, scattering to the winds while the servant’s cleaned up and prepared for the day after. Daenera had dismissed her maids after presenting them with a piece of cake each and kind words for a job well done. Jelissa had been extremely excited, rambling on about her favorite singer, while Joyce teased her relentlessly. Daenera watched them go, turning on her heels to take the long way back to her quarters, heading through the garden. 

The rose bushes barely managed to overpower the smell of the city. On days where the wind came from land, it was especially rough. But on this day, the gods had graced them with a mild sea wind. The sky turned golden as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the last rays keeping the gardens from falling into shadow. 

Daenera took a deep breath, trying to clear her heavy head, rolling her stiff neck from spending the day on her ass.  

“You’re quite creative, I have to give you that,” Aemond’s voice split her quiet apart, the sound like a pick beating against stone, splitting it in two. 

Daenera’s shoulders immediately tensed up and she breathed out an annoyed huff. “You’re out of the infirmary.”

“Poisoned sword,” Aemond hummed, approaching her. It was strange to see him here, in the gardens, surrounded by soft beauty. It had been just as strange to see him in the sept, though there the heavy smog had coiled around him, curled up the nape of his neck, hung around him like a cloak of shadows. Now he was bathed in golden light that made him seem wholly unholy. 

He was no man of flowers. He was a sword, meant to cut, to stab, to bleed one dry. A weapon. 

“If it were poison you’d be dead,” Daenera corrected him. “Or severely sick. As I’ve heard, you must have had an allergic reaction to something.”

His scoff was sharp and dismissing. “An allergic reaction?”

“Those sometimes take a few days to recover from. I believe you’ll be back to your pristine state before the feast.” 

Her gaze flickered across his face, trying to decipher his intentions, though the wine clouded her thoughts. From his cheekbones down to the curl of his smirking lip, she studied him briefly before refocusing on his eyes, masking the curiosity clawing at her insides with thinly veiled sympathy that bordered on mock pity. “Does it ich terribly?”

Daenera squealed when Aemond gripped her arm, pulling her into one of the alcoves of the garden. They were totally enclosed by an overgrown pavilion, the vines climbing up the columns, to spread across the roof. She balked at him, ripping her arm out of his grip, noting the bandaged hand. “What are you doing?!” 

“You vicious little cunt,” Aemond sneered, his face contorting in disdain. 

The wine not only made her cheeks flushed but it dulled her senses as well. “Mmm, call me that again, I rather enjoy it.”

Aemond’s eyes were all fire and ice. They burned with an intensity she hadn’t yet seen, with something utterly terrifying and vicious. Something with teeth and claws and breath of fire. “I should punish you, and tear you apart.”

“What are you going to do, bend me over the knee like a child?” Daenera taunted him, flipping her braid back to its proper place, her eye glaring daggers at the prince. “If I remember correctly, you were the one to start this. You burned me. Or have you forgotten?”

Daenera raised her bandaged hand and provocatively waved it in front of his face. He had burned her writing hand, and she had retaliated by making it itch so intensely that he might desire to peel off his own skin. All she had done was to respond to his initial transgression. They could have maintained their distance, preserved civility, but he just had to bother her.

With a mocking expression, Daenera glanced down at his hand, then back up at him. “Oh, was it your swordhand? Can’t have a little fun without it?”

“Do you believe I won't retaliate?” Aemond bit at her. “Do you think I’m oblivious to your schemes?”

Daenera blinked. 

“Talking with Caswell, befriending his daughter, the musicians. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“I have no idea what you’re alluding to,” Daenera feigned ignorance. 

“Surprising, I must say,” Aemond taunted with a sly smirk. “Your feeble attempts are bound to fail, I will make sure of it, Lady Strong. ”

Aemond advanced towards her, a predator stalking its prey, his teeth appearing sharp as fangs in the warning light. Shadows enveloped him, accentuating his sharp bone structure, tracing delicately over his features. In the dim light, he became the embodiment of wickedness. There was an inherent darkness within him that would forever resist any semblance of light of purity. 

It was as intriguing as it was frightening. 

Her back collided with a stone column, and the tendrils of the overgrown vines brushed against her bare shoulders, entangling with her hair. She swallowed, feeling the dizziness intensify from the wine. 

In an instance, Aemond’s hand clasped around her jaw, his fingers digging into the delicate flesh of her cheeks, reminiscing of their encounter in the sept. Her eyes widened, and she fought against his grip, attempting to push him away as her heart picked up speed. 

Aemond absorbed her strikes against his chest as if they were nothing, a menacing growl emanating from deep within him, gradually morphing into a coarse chuckle. “I’m only giving voice to what is so plain for everyone to see.”

“That is treason!” Daenera growled. 

“It is the truth, is it not?” Aemond asked amused at her anger. “ That’s why you play your little scheme with the lords and ladies, so desperately hoping to forge alliances in case your mothers imprudence comes to light. Should it not be my sweet half-sister who’s out here, tirelessly forging those alliances? Shouldn’t she be the one fighting tooth and nail to secure her own place as heir to the throne?”

“Aemond,” Daenera warned. 

“It’s what they’re all thinking,” Aemond continued maliciously. “Along with wondering whether you take after her.” 

Daenera tried to pry her face from his grip, but he held fast. 

“They’re all wondering whether a marriage to you is worth the risk. And weather you are as impudent as your mother…” Daenera beat against him, growling at the insult. “They think ‘will she carry bastards and try and pass them off as true borns’.”

The scent of smoke and crackling fire surrounded her as Aemond drew nearer. With each beat of her heart, a surge of heat cascaded down her spine, coiling in the depths of her belly. Her gaze darted between his piercing blue eye and the eyepatch, as if they would tell her something she didn’t know, and then lowered to his lips, drawn into a sharp sneer. Her heart shuddered in her chest, her gaze burning with intensity.

“I am going to ruin you,” Aemond vowed. “I’m going to ruin you, consume you, destroy you.” 

In a fleeting instant, his gaze descended to her lips, carrying a wicked and malicious gleam, brimming with both hatred and an unnameable, devastating force. His thumb brushed against her lips, a menacing gesture that threatened to smudge the lip tint she had applied to accentuate one of her redeeming features. If her mind had been clearer, she might have sunk her teeth into his thumb. 

Aemond’s pale locks tickled the exposed skin of her bosom as he leaned in, his breath scorching against the delicate shell of her ear. “I’m going to destroy you and win this war.”

He abruptly released her and Daenera pushed him away from her, breathing heavily and forcefully, eyes ablaze with indignation and fury. Who did he think he was?

She sneered. “I will take out your other eye before I let you destroy me. Two can play at this game. And if you burn me, I will burn you.” 

Once again, Daenera found herself feeling from the suffocating presence of Aemond. Clutching her skirts tightly, she propelled herself forward, each step one of panic and determination. The corridors of the Keep blurred as her hurried steps echoed, giving rise to the feeling of the ghosts laughing at her. 

King’s Landing had become a treacherous maze of power and deceit, and Aemond embodied the shifting tides of its dark underbelly. His transformation was undeniable, a chilling embodiment of calculated malevolence and an untamed chaos. He was an unpredictable storm she had to venture through. 

As Daenera ascended the stairs, the weight of realization settled upon her. Aemond’s presence had already begun to creep under her skin. She would have to root it out and shield herself from it, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the seeds of darkness he had planted wouldn’t be so easily removed. She supposed it was a challenge she would have to accept.

[chuckesocial]

Chuck E. Cheese's entertainment center. The focal point is an animatronic character of Chuck E. Cheese, a large gray mouse dressed in a tuxedo with a red bow tie and a gold vest, standing on a small platform. Behind the character is a large, glittering gold star, and above it, a neon sign reads "Chuck E. Cheese" in bright red letters. To the right of the animatronic is a small stage or booth with a colorful, semi-circular design on top. A hand is visible inside the booth, suggesting some form of interactive or performance element. The background is dark, with black curtains adding to the stage-like atmosphere.

[oftenwantedafton]

Craving - Vampire Dave Miller/William Afton/Springtrap x Female Urban Explorer Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Mature

Warnings for blood and violence

Summary - There is something hungry dwelling inside the depths of the pizzeria in the abandoned shopping mall; something that craves your blood to sustain it.

Also available on AO3

Past the withering potted plants and forgotten vending machines, deep in the abandoned shopping mall where the daylight filtering through the skylights can never reach, the pizzeria slumbers.

Unsheltered by security gates, the glass windows offer an unobstructed peak inside the restaurant. The illumination of your flashlight reveals a confetti patterned carpet just beyond cordoned welcome signs with the franchise’s popular animal mascots illustrated in cheerful splashes of primary colors.

You enter Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria cautiously, but the glass front doors ease open silently. There is the faintest scent of pizza from years ago, the greasy odor still impossibly lingering. Assuring yourself there are no trip hazards you continue forward, moving the light over the rows of tables and chairs. There are stained glass windows set into several of the booth’s wooden frames, one for each of the animatronics, each rendering a friendly caricature.

A row of crane machines line one wall filled with various stuffed animals. The prize counter houses bins of cheap metal security badges and plastic trinkets. A dusty roll of tickets perched on the corner has unwound in a long line, the printed bits of paper cascading down into a messy pile. A glint on the opposite side of the booth reveals a small pile of tokens in a shade somewhere between gold and bronze, etched with the image of Freddy Fazbear himself.

At the far end of the dining room are the stages, one larger platform and a smaller circular one nearby. You cautiously lift the heavy fabric of the star patterned curtains and nearly yell when you catch sight of a trio of animatronics. The brown bear is in the center, clutching a microphone in one paw. To his left is a large yellow chicken wearing a confetti printed bib holding a plate with a large pink cupcake. The final member of the group is a blue rabbit clutching a red electric guitar. Regaining your composure, you study them for awhile longer, deciding to leave the other curtain untouched for now.

The arcade machines are silent, the neon guide lights labeling the exits and restrooms long extinguished. The first hallway you reach leads to the kitchen area. The pots and pans and dishes are stacked neatly on the shelves. There are rows of folded pizza boxes and the stainless steel work surfaces are free of clutter. You exit and find yourself reaching areas that are labeled Storage and Maintenance. The janitorial closet unsurprisingly holds nothing of interest, but the maintenance area is far more intriguing.

Here there is the first real signs of chaos, though you quickly realize it’s not from any vandalism but rather the sheer volume of the objects themselves scattered on every surface, from shelves to counters to the floor. Much of it is foreign to you. There are pieces of metal and loops of wire, bits and pieces of things you think must be internal components of the animatronics themselves. You catch sight of steel limbs, sightless eyes, frightening rows of teeth. There is a headless torso housing a rib cage with sharp metal tips and a slumped costume tucked into one corner that sets your heart pounding when you mistake it intially for a corpse. The place feels different, more sinister than the rest of the locations you’ve explored thus far.

The next discovery is the manager’s office. A large steel desk and filing cabinet greets you. The calendar hanging on the wall is many years out of date. There is an old clunky looking rotary phone and a stack of folders. You flip through one briefly and realize it’s an employee’s resume and a performance review.

The final room you investigate is the security office.

The door does not open easily, resisting your initial efforts. It feels like shoving the lid of a coffin aside, the door grating unevenly along the floor, as if it has somehow shifted over time and no longer swings cleanly in its frame. It makes a terrible screeching sound and you pause mid motion, trying not to breathe too loudly.

The darkness of the revealed interior seems to swallow most of your flashlight’s beam. You can just make out stacks of blank monitors. The desk holds a switchboard and a red and white striped paper cup long forgotten by a previous guard. The walls are covered in children’s artwork done in crayons and pencils and watercolors. There are posters and operating instructions and decorations crafted from paper plates and construction paper that resemble the animatronics. It’s a strange combination of adult and child themed decor. You bump into the swivel desk chair when you turn away and the chair rolls back into the shadows until you hear it thud as it collides with something.

You move to retrieve it, having no desire to disturb anything as has always been your code during urban explorations, when you realize what it is the chair has struck.

In the increasingly faltering light you see a yellow rabbit mascot slouched against the wall. The head is dropped forward and you cannot see its features. The purple bow tie is frayed, the black buttons no longer shiny. The tip of one ear has been worn away, exposing the innards of the suit. The entire structure is decaying, fur and fabric vacant in places, revealing steel and wires.

You cannot say what makes you reach out to the slumped figure. It is as if you have no control over your own limbs, fingers seeking to touch the headpiece, catching on something sharp. You wince and jerk back, the flashlight’s ray bouncing unsteadily around the room before you drop it. Blood drips from your injury, the warm wetness sliding down your hand.

Slowly the yellow rabbit’s head lifts, the silver eyes sparking to life.

“More.” Its voice is like rusted cogs grinding together.

Frozen in terror, you make easy prey. Metal digits grab your wounded hand and drag it back towards its face. There is the sensation of cold metal and then something warm and wet inside the suit touches you and strokes across the blood trail. It’s licking you, lapping until it feels your pulse. You feel teeth graze the flesh above your veins and then fangs pierce that tender barrier. A mouth clamps down, sucking, and you finally find yourself able to attempt to escape, tugging against the rabbit figure’s grasp, but your efforts are futile. Its grip is like an iron manacle. You hear it growl warningly and you become subdued once more, passively letting it drink your blood.

You’re lightheaded when it releases you at last, surprised in your final conscious moments when its arms brace your body protectively before you collapse to the floor.

[minti-tales]

Vierapril '24 - Day 1: Regal

More dramatics with the Ancients.

Endwalker spoilers ahoy.

King Leonides clung to a rock as horrid winds blew, and rain poured down upon his wizened head. His royal robes, once bright purples and golds, were splatted with mud and muck from days of travel. Even his beard, his beautiful beard of hair as bright as fresh-fallen snow, was but matted grey slush.

Ah! To be reduced to a common beggar, to wander and wither away! The barbarity of it all!

"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!" The beggar-king howled towards the sky, shaking his fists in righteous anger.

"Rage, blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks. You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires, vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts, singe my white head.

And thou, all-shaking thunder, strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world. Crack Natures' moulds, all brotherhood spill at once, that makes ingrateful man!" Leonides frowned, rose to his feet, and raised a hand into the air. With a sharp snap of fingers and thumb, the world suddenly melted around him, leaving only himself, and two masked and robed figures, on a circular marble dais. The wind - the true wind of Elpis - brushed past his chin, sending his "beard" fluttering off towards a patch of perpetually blooming flowers.

"Why did you stop? That was excellent so far, excellent." One of the masked figures, a tall man with dark black hair and striking green eyes, clapped his hands and smiled pleasantly. "I could just *see* you falling into the pits of despair. Couldn't you, Hythlodaeus?"

The other figure, made up to look like King Leonides' long-suffering court fool, grinned from beneath the heavy dabs of powder on his face. "As if our dear Emet-Selch needed any help taking the stage. I'd take my hat off for you, but I fear that would break the spell Dionysos has weaved for us thus far." He pointed towards his foppish silk hat and soiled peasant's clothes, and grinned even more. "Perhaps you take offense at being called 'nuncle', in the next line? I am the King's Fool, after all. It's my purpose to be your advisor, your friend. Even in dark moments as these, betrayed by your daughters and your kingdom."

Having shed the rest of his costume, Emet-Selch moved with effortless grace towards the rim of the dais, crossed his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes. "What a poor excuse of a king." he said, after a time. "A true king would never let himself fall to such lows. Wallowing in the dirt, crying at the winds." Turning to Dionysos, he continued, his anger echoed by the stage's acoustics. "I shudder to think if you were inspired by the world below. Is this what you see in it? Betrayal? Loss? Madness?" A step closer. "What we have created - what we have fashioned ever so carefully - is nothing less than perfect. So, with that in mind, I want this rewritten. Understand, this 'play' of yours will reflect what we've worked for. Not some dark fantasy you've cobbled together." Leonides' robes were thrown unceremoniously at Dionysos's feet.

Dionysos could only look on in shock as Emet stormed off into the night, bolts of lightning sent streaking across the night sky, in his wake. Shortly after, fat drops of rain loosed themselves from the fluffy clouds above, threatening to wash the whole production away. I struck a nerve, I take it, he thought.

It took a moment to kneel down and pick up the "king's" robes, to cradle them in the ancient's arms like a mother with her babe. Fine fabric like this shouldn't be left to the mercies of the evening; Phoenix had done too good a job willing the clothes into being. The dirt and muck were but illusions, of course. Is this what I should be doing as Azem, writing about the world as it is? Is that not allowed anymore?

A kindly voice came from behind, and a hand gently placed on Dionysos' shoulder. "You must forgive Emet-Selch. He's still suffering from the effects of the memory loss we experienced. I know it weighs heavily on him-"

"-as it does on all of us." Dionysos groaned and pressed the robes up to his face. "Hermes and his experiments." It felt oddly comforting to rub sopping wet cloth on his face. "Perhaps Hephastus would be more open to my mummery. I'm sure I could find a place for his child, too. What was their name? Damned if I've forgotten."

Of the Muses who flocked to Dionysos, who eternally demanded his attention, there were a few who gave him the comfort and kindness he needed. Calliope (sweet, hopeless Calliope), Ajax (strong, stoic Ajax), and, unofficially, Hythlodaeus. Granted, he wasn't around nearly enough to be called a Muse, but the love was there, regardless. A good love. Agape. The love that could keep a rainy night from not being as bad as it could be.

He was close by, wasn't he. Embracing a beleaguered playwright, putting forehead to forehead. Holding Dionysos just the way he liked it.

"My old friend," Hythlodaeus whispered. " 'Court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain water out o' door. Good brother, in, and ask thy friend's blessing. Here's a night pities nether wise men nor fools.'"

"That's not how the line goes," Dionysos whispered back.

"I'd take the hint if I'd your mind."

"I will."

~~~~~~~~

[stone-stars]

So recently I had the pleasure of designing this pin and sticker for @innbetween's season 5 crowdfund! Which (as of posting this) is ALMOST OVER! Go support them!!!

[ID: Two similar circular designs of the quote "If you don't like what you've become, you may change again." The first only has the second half of the quote. The border is made of branches, with leaves sprouting from the branches on the left and empty branches on the right. One acorn hangs from one of the empty branches. Along the bottom of the border, plants sprout on the left while mushrooms grow on the right. The background is dark green. In the first design, the text and all the lineart is gold, and the leaves, plants, acorn, and mushrooms are colored in simple flat colors. In the second design, the text is gold, but the branches are brown, and there is more detail and texture in the various parts of the design.]

Since the crowdfund is wrapping up I wanted to share some of the early designs and some of my thoughts on the finished design, because honestly i loved a lot of them.

[ID: Rough sketches of a variety of designs, all featuring the "If you don't like what you've become, you may change again." Some feature only the second half of the quote ("You may change again"). The first is a sketch version of the design above. The second is a rounded rectangle, with the "I" on again being dotted with sprouting mushrooms. The third is a pair of acorns, one with the full quote and one with the half quote. The fourth is a circle with a tree with an acorn falling from it. The fifth is a mushroom. The sixth is an acorn on a branch, with the first half of the quote on a leaf and the second half on an acorn.]

You might've guessed it, but considering Tode, who says the quote in the show, is a druid, the designs are all heavily nature themed.

Fun little note! On all the designs, the leaves are oak leaves to tie into the acorn, and the mushrooms are based on Amanita muscaria, which is among the mushrooms most frequently called Toadstools (see what i did there).

In all honesty, when Hannah came to me with the quote, the first design that came into my head was the one that we ultimately settled on. We actually took another design (the other circular one with the oak tree) to a more refined stage, but the final design just clicked in the end.

And here's a little breakdown of that design! There's a lot of elements going on here, but in general I wanted the details to represent that no matter where you are in life, you still have the potential to change. Thus, the 'cycle', so to speak.

[ID: The final design, this time annotated. There's a circle of labels around the border, with arrows pointing to the next label. The cycle is "Sprouts: New growth" → "Oak leaves: Life, thriving" → "Bare branches: Death/dying" → "Acorn: Seed (potential/rebirth)" → "Mushrooms: Decomposers". At the bottom, there's a horizontal line that's split down the middle. To the left is "Life" and to the right is "Death"]

Here's the thing: I had so much fun with this design. It was fun to think through all the little things I could include, and it was so much fun to work on a design for a show and a sentiment that I love with my whole heart.

So once again, if you want a sticker or pin with this design, or if you just want to support an incredible podcast, go support Inn Between's crowdfund! And if you do get one of my designs, tag me in it when it gets to you, I'd love to see 👀!

[talonabraxas]

The Heptagram of the Seven DaysThe Heptagram of the Seven days is a particularly interesting way to view the order of the celestial bodies. If reading clockwise from the top-most symbol, it is the order of the planets from the Geo-centric Qabalistic model: Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sol, Venus, Mercury, Luna. If read following the lines of the Heptagram, one gets the days of the week: Saturday (Saturn’s Day), Sunday (Sun’s Day), Monday (Moon’s Day), Tuesday (Tiw’s Day, Norse War God), Wednesday (Wodin’s Day), Thursday (Thor’s Day), Friday (Frigga’s Day, Norse Love God.) Crowley attributes this realization to Frater Deo Duce Comite Ferro, S.L. MacGregor Mathers. This is one of two different kinds of Heptagrams. This version is known as 7/3 Heptagram, as each line connects the planet that is three planets away. The other version of the Heptagram is called a 7/2 Heptagram, and is used for the Seal of A∴A∴. DANCE OF THE SEVEN VEILS “The seven spheres attached to the seven planets symbolize seven principles, seven different states of matter and spirit, seven different worlds which each man and each humanity must pass through in their evolution across a solar system.” – The Wisdom of Egypt7 the sum of my name YOSRA HARZALLAH7 Daughters of Atlas7 Stages of Alchemy - Calcination, Dissolution, Separation, Conjunction, Fermentation, Distillation, Coagulation.7 Hermetic principles - Mentalism, Correspondence, Vibration, Polarity, Rhythm, Cause and Effect, Gender.7 Notes of the musical scale.7 Systems of Symbolism - numbers, geometrical figures, letters, words, magic, alchemy, astrology.7 Rays of Light - Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple, Violet.7 Planets of Antiquity - Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn.7 Churches of Asia Minor7 Personality Types - Lunar, Mercurial, Venusian, Solar, Martial, Jovial, Saturnine.7 Days of Week - Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.7 Arch Angels - Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Chamuel, Jophiel, and Zadkiel.7 Metals of Antiquity - Lead, Tin, Iron, Copper, Mercury, Silver, Gold.7 Chakras - Muladhara, Svadhisthana, Manipura, Anahata, Vishuddha, Ajna, Sahasrara.7 Emotive Spheres of Kabbalah7 Seals.7 Root Races, each with 7 sub-races7 Days of Creation7 Virtues - Faith, Hope, Charity, Fortitude, Justice, Prudence, Temperance.7 Vices - Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth/dejection, Avarice, Gluttony, Lust.7 Stages of Man - the infant, the school-boy, the lover, the soldier, the judge, the elderly man, the senile one.7 Liberal Arts - grammar, rhetoric, logic, arithmetic, music, geometry, and astronomy - the first three in the Trivium, the latter four in the Quadrivium.7 Wonders of the Ancient World - Pyramids of Egypt, Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Statue of Zeus at Olympia, Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, Mausoleum of King Mausolus at Halicarnassus, Colossus of Rhodes, Pharos Lighthouse at Alexandria.7 Headed Hydra7 Headed Lion7 Headed Dragon7 Headed Serpent7 Seas - Arctic, Antarctic, North and South Pacific, North and South Atlantic and the Indian Ocean.7 Continents - North America, South America, Africa, Europe, Asia, Australia and Antarctica.7 Seven Sisters of the Pleiades star system.7 Parts to the embryo - Amnion, Chorionic Villi, Spinal Cord, Heart, Brain, Umbilical Cord, Yolk Sac.7 Parts of the body - Head, Thorax, Abdomen, Two Arms, Two Legs.7 Major Organs - Brain, Heart, Lungs, Stomach, Intestines, Liver, and Pancreas.7 Glands - Pineal, Pituitary, Thyroid, Thymus, Adrenal, Lyden and Gonad.7 Divisions to the brain - Cerebrum, Cerebellum, Pons Varolii, Medulla Oblongatta, Corpus Callosum, Spinal Cord, Meninges.7 Parts to the inner ear - Vestibule, Auditory Canal, Tympanic Membrane, Ossicles, Semi-circular Canal, Cochlea, Membranous Labyrinth.7 Parts to the retina - Cornea, Aqueous Humor, Lens, Vitreous Humor, Retina, Sclera, Iris.7 Cavities to the heart - Right and Left Ventricle, Right and Left Atrium, Tricuspid Valve, Mitral Valve, Septum.7 Body systems - Muscular, Skeletal, Nervous, Digestive, Respiratory, Excretory, Circulatory.7 Bodily functions - Respiration, Circulation, Assimilation, Excretion, Reproduction, Sensation, Reaction.7 Levels in the Periodic Table of the Elements.…and, of course, the 7 Dwarfs.“The Principles of Truth are Seven; he who knows these, understandingly, possesses the Magic Key before whose touch all the Doors of the Temple fly open.” –The Kybalion“And God created seven Heavens and seven Earths, and through them all, descends His Command.” – scriptural translation