#Cyclone Wind Speed

[umangharyana]

चक्रवाती तूफान फेंगल: तमिलनाडु और पुडुचेरी में भारी बारिश और तेज हवाओं का अलर्ट

नई दिल्ली: देशभर में मौसम का मिजाज बदल गया है और इस बार दक्षिण-पश्चिम बंगाल की खाड़ी में उठा चक्रवाती तूफान ‘फेंगल’ ने सभी की चिंता बढ़ा दी है। भारतीय मौसम विभाग (IMD) ने शनिवार, 30 नवंबर के दौरान चक्रवात के तमिलनाडु और पुडुचेरी तट से टकराने का अनुमान जताया है। इस तूफान ने गति पकड़ते हुए तेज हवाएं और भारी बारिश की चेतावनी दी है, जिससे कई इलाकों में बाढ़ जैसी स्थितियां उत्पन्न हो सकती हैं। फेंगल…

[humandisastersquad]

we thank you for your sacrifice moreton bay o7

[leaf4e]

thats the last speed classification for storm. which is "seldom experienced inland". and the next one is violent storm. the second last group on the beufort scale

[wachinyeya]

04.10.2025-Story by Marina Wang

In 1992, Hurricane Andrew, one of the most devastating tropical cyclones in U.S. history, ravaged Elliott Key, Florida. “Most of the island was covered in seawater, and about a quarter of the trees were either toppled or completely broken,” says Sarah Steele Cabrera, a biologist at the University of Florida. “There was not a leaf to be seen.”

At the time, conservationists fretted that the enormous hurricane was going to wipe out the last of the island’s Schaus’ swallowtails (Papilio aristodemus), a species of endangered black-and-yellow butterfly native to southern Florida and now found only on Elliott Key and nearby Key Largo. And the butterfly’s numbers on the island did take an initial hit from the storm. But only four years later, much to scientists’ surprise, the population jumped dramatically. Now, a 36-year-long dataset shows that Schaus’ swallowtails saw similar post-hurricane population bumps after two subsequent hurricanes: Wilma in 2005 and Irma in 2017.

In 1976, the Schaus’ swallowtail butterfly became one of the first insects to be listed under the U.S. Endangered Species Act, Cabrera says. This critically endangered butterfly prefers higher-elevation hammock forests with a mix of standing trees and grassland—a habitat that also happens to be prime real estate in the Florida Keys. The butterfly’s numbers on Elliott Key hit an all-time low in 2007, just two years after Hurricane Wilma, with an estimated 56 individuals remaining. But the most recent estimate from 2021 shows the island’s population sitting at a slightly more comfortable 4,400 or so.

While it seems counterintuitive, the dataset suggests that hurricanes are partly responsible for the butterfly’s current spike in population. To make sense of the recurring post-hurricane peaks, Cabrera and colleagues analyzed how butterfly numbers varied with precipitation, wind speed, temperature, and other meteorological variables.

When a hurricane first makes landfall, Cabrera says, the storm’s high winds kill many adult butterflies, while its surges of salty ocean water drown many caterpillars. In the immediate storm’s aftermath, both butterflies and caterpillars have fewer flowers or leaves to feed on. But as the damage fades and the years march on, toppled trees and downed branches create gaps in the canopy that let light penetrate to the forest floor. With more space and light, understory plants flourish, bringing fresh greenery for caterpillars and blooming flowers for butterflies.

“Hurricanes are natural disturbance events that shape population dynamics in ways that we are only just beginning to understand,” Cabrera says. 

Jess Zimmerman, an ecologist at the University of Puerto Rico who was not involved in the study, says the nearly four decades of observations that went into this research offer the perspective of a wide-angle lens, yielding much more insight into the butterfly’s long-term crests and troughs than a narrower dataset could provide. As a result, he says, scientists are now more confident that the Schaus’ swallowtail population has remained fairly stable over the long term, despite high year-to-year volatility.

In general, Zimmerman says, animals that evolved in areas prone to disturbance are adapted to handle those variables. Schaus’ swallowtails, like many of the insects that Zimmerman studies, have many offspring and their populations can balloon under the right conditions. “They have ways of making it through these disturbances without getting lost,” he says.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

words to use instead of air/wind?

Air—the mixture of invisible odorless tasteless gases (such as nitrogen and oxygen) that surrounds the earth

Wind—a natural movement of air of any velocity

Airflow - a flow of air; especially: the motion of air (as around parts of an airplane in flight) relative to the surface of a body immersed in it

Airstream - a current of air

Billow - to bulge or swell out (as through action of the wind)

Blast - a violent gust of wind

Blow - an instance of air moving with speed or force; a blowing of wind especially when strong or violent

Bluster - a violent boisterous blowing

Breath - a slight breeze; air inhaled and exhaled in breathing

Breeze - a light gentle wind

Buran - a northeasterly wind of gale force in Russia and central Asia usually identified with sandstorms in summer and blizzards in winter

Chinook - a warm moist southwest wind of the coast from Oregon northward; a warm dry wind that descends the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains

Current - the part of a fluid body (such as air or water) moving continuously in a certain direction

Cyclone - a storm or system of winds that rotates about a center of low atmospheric pressure, advances at a speed of 20 to 30 miles (about 30 to 50 kilometers) an hour, and often brings heavy rain

Draft - a current of air in a closed-in space

Eddy - a current of water or air running contrary to the main current; especially: a circular current

Flatus - gas generated in the stomach or bowels

Flurry - a gust of wind

Gale - a strong current of air

Gas - a fluid (such as air) that has neither independent shape nor volume but tends to expand indefinitely

Gust - a sudden brief rush of wind

Headwind - a wind having the opposite general direction to a course of movement (as of an aircraft)

Mistral - a strong cold dry northerly wind of southern France

Northeaster - a strong northeast wind

Norther - a strong north wind

Northwester - a strong northwest wind

Puff - an act or instance of puffing; whiff

Respiration - the movement of air or dissolved gases into and out of the lungs

Scud - a gust of wind

Sigh - the sound of gently moving or escaping air

Slipstream - a stream of fluid (such as air or water) driven aft by a propeller

Southeaster - a strong southeast wind

Southwester - a strong southwest wind

Squall - a sudden violent wind often with rain or snow

Storm - wind having a speed of 64 to 72 miles (103 to 117 kilometers) per hour

Stream - any body of flowing fluid (such as water or gas)

Tailwind - a wind having the same general direction as a course of movement (as of an aircraft)

Tempest - a violent storm; a disturbance of the atmosphere accompanied by wind and often by precipitation (as rain or snow)

Tornado - a violent destructive whirling wind accompanied by a funnel-shaped cloud that progresses in a narrow path over the land

Updraft - an upward movement of gas (such as air)

Uprush - an upward rush (as of gas or liquid)

Vapor - a substance in the gaseous state as distinguished from the liquid or solid state

Ventilation - circulation of air

Waft - a slight breeze; puff

Westerly - a wind from the west

Whiff - a quick puff or slight gust especially of air, odor, gas, smoke, or spray

Whirlwind - a small rotating windstorm of limited extent

Williwaw - a sudden violent wind

Windblast - a gust of wind

Windflaw - a gust of wind

Windstorm - a storm marked by high wind with little or no precipitation

Zephyr - a breeze from the west

Hope this helps with your writing. Do tag me, or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[yellowjestertfs]

The Billionaires Secret

“Hi there. Find what what you were looking for?” I ask in my customary upbeat yet soul-dead customer service voice.

“I think so. Going to give this one a try.” She says handing me a copy of a book called The Billionaire’s Secret from the romance section. I can see why she picked it, on the cover a man in a suit lay on a bed with the buttons of his dress shirt undone showing off his impressive six-pack and strong hairless chest. Brownish red eyes smolder seductively outwards from a masculine face. High cheekbones, soft lips, and a wide square jaw adorned with black stubble that connects to a short-styled head of black hair.

“I’m Bridget by the way,” she says, obviously a bit embarrassed to see me eying up the cover. “Oh, and this is Dan.” She says gesturing at the man standing a few paces away, engrossed by some mobile game on his phone. 

“Nice to meet you, Bridget.” I scan the book. “That will be $17,” I say. 

She glances over at Dan, he doesn't seem to notice so she retrieves her credit card from her purse and taps it against the machine. “I don’t know why I expected him to offer.” She tells me in a conspiratorial whisper “He’s broke. I mean not that it matters to me, but it would just be nice to date a wealthy man or one who at least pays attention to me.” 

Customers often confided in me. I wish I could say it is because of my open honest face or charismatic demeanor but it probably had more to do with a book I once ate about a bartender people told all their secrets to.

I look around. There are a few consumers browsing the book shelves and my manager is sitting at his desk in the back, no one close enough to notice. Bridget seems sweet, too sweet to be with a man like Dan. Poor girl just wants to escape with some fiction, so why not indulge her a little.

“Did you get a chance to check out our books on sale?” I ask Bridget diverting her attention away. She looks over at the shelf I pointed at giving me enough time to crack my knuckles, take a deep breath, and begin.

I place my hands over the cover of the book and it springs open, the pages start to turn themselves slow at first then speed up. Words start to flow from the book as the pages flip past. The letters lift from the page like a sticker being peeled, floating into the air to spin around me. They form a cyclone of black ink as the pages that flip by are left blank.

I feel the lines as they flow off the paper. The first line reads. “Kustav tower is 400 stories tall, rumor has it, it’s smaller than Dane Kustav’s dick.” 

I directed the words towards Bridget’s boyfriend. The ink splashes into him, absorbing into his gray hoodie but leaving no mark. None except for the fact that his basketball shorts start to thrash like a wild animal is trapped inside. Dan didn't look up from his phone even as his dick doubled and then tripled in size to match the one described in the book Billionaires Secrets.

I tried to be sparing with my abilities. Fiction is great so long as it stays fiction, otherwise you have evil robots or sparkly vampires running around. Still, every once in a while my heroic urges will take over and I am called to help someone with my power to bring words to life. Bridget is one of those people.

More words flowed off the page. “Dane Kustav is well dressed at all times. One would be hard-pressed to ever see Dane not in a suit. If one did see him without a suit, it would be in the bedroom where they would be very, very hard pressed indeed.”

The words spin around me once then drift over to Dan again on an invisible wind. This time his clothes were affected by the words. His grey hoodie which he wore with the hood up, melted off his body, the threads unwinding then rebinding themselves into a far higher quality dress shirt and black jacket complete with a blue tie. His shorts became black dress pants and his sneakers a pair of brown loafers. The outline of his much larger dick was clear in his new tighter pants. A few seconds passed with no changes then, slowly his tie undid itself and each of the buttons on his dress shirt opened so that he was sporting a matching look to that of the man on the cover of the book. Unlike the cover, however, Dan lacked the chiseled face or body to pull off the open shirt. His slight gut and saggy, hairy chest made the outfit look awkward rather than sexy.

Bridget looked up from the sale rack and glanced at her half-nude boyfriend with a chagrined glance. In her mind, he was always dressed in the finest clothes even if he still acted like a man-child.

“Dane Kustav towered over everyone be that in stature or in business.” 

I directed the words into him. Dan shot upwards, his modest 5’10” frame becoming a proud 6’3”, clothes growing to match. And though it wasn’t visible Dan’s head was also filled with business smarts he had lacked before. The game on his phone shifted from Fruit Ninja to Hey Day.

The pages continue to flip, their words leaving the page to float in the air under my command.

“Dane Kustav's muscles were like that of a brass statue, smooth, hard, and golden. Each curve could only have been sculpted by the hands of an artist for nature could never make anybody so perfect.”

I look over at Dan’s soft pudgy body. Not the words I would use to describe him, at least not yet. I float the sentence to him.

Instantly Dan’s belly flattens. One by one his abs pop into being as if pushed out from the inside like one of those pop-it toys. His man boobs visibly transmute from fat to muscle, perking up and then growing into a strong chest like that of the man on the cover of the book. Inside the sleeves of his dress shirt, his arms thicken into a pair of round vascular biceps while his legs below do the same. A tan, like oil spreading over water seeps across his body until his exposed muscles really looked like sculpture bronze turned to life. The few hairs that had looked sloppy before now lent his body a rugged masculinity.

Bridget looks at her boyfriend with a new lust. Her hands start to roam his abs and chest but Dan, still on his phone, only bats them away. 

Man-child indeed, a man in the body, a child in the face and the personality. I divert my attention back to the flipping pages looking for words I could use to fix that. The book is reaching the end, and the main character, assistant to the billionaire, has finally seduced her boss in a very steamy scene. High-class writing it is not, but at least it gives me plenty to work with.

“I ran my hand down his sharp square jaw.” 

I throw the words at him. The shape of his face shifts to be more masculine.

“He looked at me through squinted sexy amber eyes.”

His eyes shift from a pale blue to an amber so rich it almost looked red. He finally looks up from his phone and deep into Bridget's eyes. She returns the stare with a smile. 

“He brought my hand up to his cheek, I felt each bristle of his short sharp stubble.”

Dan moves Bridget's fingers up to his face which is now covered in a sexy two days' worth of growth.

“Then he kissed me with his soft sensual lips hard enough to make me weak in the knees.”

The words flow off the page and into him. His lips grow pillowy and pink and interlocked with Bridget’s. He wraps his muscular arms around her, keeping her steady as she collapses into him. 

“I warp my fingers into his jet-black quaffed hair as I prepare for him to take me.”

His hair gains a stylish cut and is dark as pitch, body hair and stubble do the same. Bridget greedily runs her hand through his new dark dew.

“He smelled like sports deodorant, woody cologne, and sex. I wanted nothing more than this man to take me.”

The bookstore fills with his scent. I am surprised to find myself turned on by the whole thing. I have reached the end of the book, the final page.

“It was then that I learned the billionaire's secret.”

This was the good stuff. I leech the words off the page and send them to Dan, or rather now, Dane.

“His secret wasn’t that he was hot, or rich, or could make any girl swoon.”

Their kiss intensifies. Dane started to undo Bridget's blouse.

“No, the billionaire's secret was.”

Suddenly Dane pulls away.

“The billionaire was gay.”

“Sorry Bridget,” Dane says taking a few steps back and looking at her with sudden realization. “I don’t think I can do this.” 

His eyes wander over to lock onto mine, rich amber orbs seeming to really take me in. He winks. “You thought, I think that could work. What are you doing after this?” He asks smoothly “Want to go get coffee in Paris on my jet? My treat.”

[nonsense-by-nell]

The Eye of the Storm; Sanemi Shinazugawa X Fem! reader

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

1.7k words. Warnings: cursing, violence, death (demon)

The storm had rolled in before the sun even set - grey waves crashing violently along the cliffs, the scent of salt and blood heavy in the air.

You crouched on the tiled roof of a bathhouse, your blade resting across your knees. Below, the marketplace lay silent, no footsteps, no voices, just overturned carts, damp lanterns and drag marks in mud.

A flicker behind the temple gates. Movement. Something was here.

You dropped from the roof in near silence, crouching behind a broken cart, eyes narrowing.

Your heartbeat had already slowed; focus tightening like the eye of a cyclone. There you are.

A person - well, a woman. She was beautiful, one sight of her and you find yourself dumb, in the sense that your thoughts have stopped flowing, your blade is lowering and the speech ready to leave your lips silences itself in reverence to the sight of dark, flowing locks, sweetheart lips and crystal, blue eyes that are looking at you.

Wait.

She's looking at you.

She's walking towards you.

Why can't you move? Why can't you speak?

Her lips part. Her footsteps are speeding to a run. Is she going to speak?

She screams.

In that empty scream is the pain of the indifferent, of a monster that sold its soul for ease and instead found hell. It can wrap itself in beautiful skin, or show itself in the rancid hide of a decaying creature of the abyss, yet you see it regardless of disguise.

"Hey," you call out, standing slowly, blade drawn. "Nice blood-art you got there, almost fooled me.”

Crystal blue eyes snap to you, the kanji of 'Lower Three' etched into her left eye now visible. "Another one. Another to shred!" Her voice cracked like wet bark and then she's launched at you with lightning speed, claws extended.

"What do you do?" You ask casually, katana at the ready. "Infatuate your target and then strike? Clever. I love girl power."

She screams in your face - you scream back. Ooh. We're harmonizing. I love making female friendships, you think idly, raising your sword when you see her hand coming for you.

Typhoon Breathing, First Form: Cyclone Step

Your blade swept outward in a full arc - wind whipping so violently it knocked roof tiles off a nearby hut.

You distantly hear villagers scream.

You don't hesitate; you slide beneath the creature, flip upward, and drive your blade into her back with a shout.

Second Form: Pressure Break

A burst of compressed air exploded from beneath your boots, launching both of you into the wall of a temple with devastating force. Tiles shatter. Villagers scream. The demon roared.

"You break everything you touch!" She howled, an accusing finger pointed your way as the steam of her regeneration rises.

"Next is your neck." You say through gritted teeth, leaping back and twisting midair like a drill, blade pointed downward, driving it straight into the demon's chest. The entire ground caved beneath you, sending a shockwave that shattered every lantern and splintered three houses outward like a burst wave. When the dust cleared, the demon's head lay a few feet away from its body. You stood above it, panting, one arm trembling slightly from the force of the final strike.

Heh. Where's your Lower Three gone, Muzan? Suck on that.

You look at your surroundings.

Well... maybe it is not just the demon that's gone.

The village was... pretty much a disaster zone.

But nobody was dead. So… a win is a win.

"MESSAGE FROM HEADQUATERS- IMMEDIATE RECALL - REPORT TO ESTATE!"

You cringe, batting the Kasugai crow away instinctively to ease the ringing in your ears that its high pitched cawing has caused. Once the message registers in your battle-fuddled brain, you sigh and sheathe your sword. "Let me guess," you mutter, glancing back at the trail of destruction behind you, "they're pissed again?"

The crow tilts its head and stares at you with its beady eyes for a long moment, and then—

"CAW!!!” Its wings spread wide with the sound, like it’s ready for takeoff, beak peeking out to give you a sharp peck.

"Damn fucking bird!" You curse, reeling back and rubbing your cheek. One day, I'm gonna chop you up and fry you in a—

The crow moves to repeat its attack, halting your inward, bird, murder plan.

"Okay! Okay! I'm going!"

-

The doors slid open with a groan, revealing the high hall of the Ubuyashiki Estate. You stepped inside, boots still wet with rain, the sound of your steps echoing like distant thunder. Your blade was cleaned, but your haori still bore blood - not yours, of course.

Nine figures waited in a crescent before you.

The Hashira.

You pause mid-step. Well fuck. You were expecting the usual line of Kakushi telling you off, this sight may as well be a whole fucking smack-punch to the jaw.

Their presence hit like pressure in the air - too heavy, too perfect. Each one radiated something ethereal. This wasn't a meeting; it was a judgement, a trial of your fate.

Ubuyashiki sat calmly, his face serene as ever despite his frail condition. Two younger girls, who you assume are his daughters, peek from behind his sleeves like spirits in a shrine.

"Y/n Suzuhara, rank Kinoe," he says gently, "thank you for coming.”

You bow stiffly, not quite disrespectful, but not deferential either.

"You were sent to dispatch a Lower Moon in Shirhama. The demon was slain, and no civilians died. That is... commendable."

An awkward, long. pregnant pause.

"However," Shinobu, the Insect Hashira, spoke next, smile dagger-sharp,"you leveled half the market to do it. And a temple. And scared an entire rescue team into fleeing."

"I didn't ask for backup," you mutter under your breath, her smile filling you with a strong urge to smack it off her face.

Shinobu tilts her head, unimpressed. "That's not how squads work."

"Her breathing form is chaotic,” Obanai said flatly, arms folded under his coiled snake. "She destabilizes everything around her. Just get rid of her already."

"Now now " Tengen speaks up. "She's a Kinoe ranked slayer, clearly capable of killing Lower Moons. With the caliber of demon slayers on the decline, we shouldn't be so hasty to dismiss one of her skillset."

"He's got a point." Kyojuro says in agreement, the usual grin painting his face. "If it weren't for her... unusual... destructive habits, she'd be standing among us."

"I won't remember the outcome, so I don't really care." Muichiro speaks up idly. You hold back your amused snort; I aspire to be that level of unbothered.

"Her standing among us is an insult. She's feral." Obanai deadpans.

"And Shinazugawa isn't?" Tengen whispers to Kyojuro, the flame haired individual whacking his arm in mirth after.

More men speak, so you stop listening.

"But she hasn't had a civilian's life slip through her fingers."

"Oh, and half a town in damage every time she goes on a mission makes that okay?"

"It shouldn't be so easily dismissed."

"She can't work on a team; she doesn't belong."

'I'm not trying to belong." You snap. Fucking men.

The room tensed.

Giyuu blinked slowly. Tengen disguises a snort as a cough and turns around to compose himself — Kyojuro, upon seeing his best friend's reaction, flushes red and puffs his cheeks up, his eyes darting anywhere but the flashy male’s direction. Sanemi makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

Mitsuri leaned forward, eyes soft with worry."But don't you want people to fight with you? It's not safe to be alone."

Your expression was one of boredom, "it's safer than trusting someone not to get in my way, or, I don't know, not die next to me."

"No matter your views on working in a squad - you destroyed half the town square - again.” Gyomei speaks up, voice low, deep and commanding — his usual tears already slipping down his face at the thought of the suffering area.

You cross your arms. "They should reinforce their buildings.”

"The temple was sacred."

"So was the woman I saved."

Obanai's lips thinned under his bandages. "This isn't the first time your methods have caused concern. You show no regard for property, chain of command, or coordination. You operate like a storm with no warning."

You smirk. "How very literal of you." Prick.

Suzuhara Y/n. Typhoon Breathing. Dangerous. Untrained. Blacklisted from team assignments.

You knew the whispers. You wore them like armor.

"Enough." Ubuyashiki said gently, and the room stilled again. "You are not being removed from the Corps, but it is clear that you need guidance. One last chance. We are assigning you a mentor, someone to rein you in.”

You tense and then scoff. "Oh, I can't wait to meet the poor fool."

"Therefore," he cuts you off before you can add anything else, "you will be placed under the mentorship of a Hashira."

You pause, blink, and then look around the room.

Oh for fuck sake.

"It is only fitting," Ubuyashiki continued, "that the Wind train the Storm."

All of Sanemi's politeness towards the Master seemed to disappear into thin air for a moment. He stands up straight, heavy with tension, arms folded and the very picture of fury. His eyes cut through you like glass. You'd heard the stories. The Wind Hashira. Rage incarnate, Covered in scars and soaked in blood more often than not, not a single ounce of patience in his being.

"You expect me to fix that?"

Now that’s just rude.

You square your shoulders, a noise of distaste leaving your lips. "You think I need fixing?"

"Oh ho ho." Tengen mutters under his breath, full of mirth.

“How are you meant to 'fix' me? Shouldn't I be worried you'll blow up the place first?" You continue, tone biting. Your glares met like blades drawn in a quiet dojo.

"Big talk from someone that needs a babysitter. Watch your mouth."

Before you can open your mouth with a seething retort, Ubuyashiki speaks again.

"You will train under Shinazugawa for one lunar cycle. If your behavior does not improve, then your position in the Corps will be reconsidered."

Blacklisted or broken in. These are your options.

“Oh fantastic.” Sanemi grunts under his breath.

You side eye the Wind Hashira with distaste.

Fuck you. “Very well.”

Taisho Era Secret!

Y/n was born to a shrine keeper mother and a fisherman father. She was raised surrounded by wind and water, and so storms were sacred in her village! Due to this, she has a superstitious habit of carrying a flask of rainwater from her village shrine!

[sugar-plum-writer]

A Heian Era Affair

Paring: GojoSatrou!ModernEra x FemReader!HeianEra! Tags: Fem!Reader; Gojo!imagines; slight!mention of violence; 18+ as more chapters come; slow burn [I want to have a good build up~ just like my Sukuna series fic~]; An ancient Japan romance through time with reader Text: Gojo ends up in the Heian Era through unknown reason (will be reveled later on) and meets reader and hence journey begins both of adventure and romance~ [If you all like it, please heart and reblog the post! to know you want to read more~ and follow for chapter updates! or leave a comment to tag you when I put out new chapters~ I will do my best to roll out UPDATES ASAP!]

CHAPTER - 1

The bamboo trees rustled as the cool wind blew, almost hauntingly as if carrying a message from another side of the world. Wiping your sweat with a ragged cloth, you stumbled and walked while carrying a bucket of water to your old wooden house.

It was hard to make a living, the minister of your area was evil, exploiting the people to death, and raising taxes beyond what people could pay. It was a nightmare- no worse at least you could wake up from nightmares but what about reality? can you wake up from it?

Sometimes you wanted to barge in and rip his head off. Too bad you could not, the guards were too strong, and with your strength you doubt you could ever survive.

Sighing, you returned to the river to fill your bucket again.

You had just bent over when a strong gust of wind started blowing out from nowhere, the trees shrieked as the water rippled- throwing you back 10 feet away with a slam- making you hit a tree. The sharp pain made your back go numb. As you tried to get up staggering- the wind kicked up a notch increasing it's speed and power like a cyclone. Your eyes widened in horror as you looked at what was happening- a big black hole appeared in the middle of the river; with water distorting around it and floating up defying gravity.

"What on-"

Before your brain could comprehend what just happened, a white-haired man flew out of the hole towards you, slamming into you-

Bang

Opening your eyes, you tried to get up, but- found the man on top of you, your legs intertwined together, he groaned as he tried to stand

"Ugh"

His voice was deep causing you to freeze a moment, but you came back to your senses and pushed him off

"Who are you!? You demon!" you screamed as you looked at him

"Me? Ah I am Gojo Satoru and no I am no demon, it's the first someone has called me a demon! sure I might be tall but it does not mean I am a demon haha~" he smiled as he looked at you helping you stand up

"What-!? but you j-"

"Do you know where this is? I am a bit in a hurry"

"This is Mizushima village…."

He paused

"What?…. since when did we have a Mizushima village in Japan? Isn't Mizushima an Island!? which prefecture even is this?"

"Prefecture? Our village is part of the Minamoto Clan on the West side"

He paused longer this time

"Minamoto Clan?…"

"Yeah"

"eh?" he froze as he cocked his head to the side

"For real?"

"Yeah"

"I….what-what era is this?" his voice trembled a bit

"This is the Heian Era…the year is 1185…" You looked at him as he stood grounded on the spot contemplating the meaning of his life

Now that you observed him, he was wearing weird clothing the fabric was also very different from what you had ever seen, it was so smooth and very different from cotton- almost otherworldly

"Is he a noble? from Heian-kyo?", you thought to yourself and backed away a bit

"I am…1000 years in the past oh shit"

"Shit? What does it mean? which part are you from? your Japanese is very weird" You looked at him even more confused, even his accent was weird and some words he used were different

"Ah…." he looked at you struggling to explain

"You see…I am from the future more than 1000 years from the future, I know it sounds absurd but..it is the truth" he looked at you seriously meaning every word he said

"Huh? What-what bullshit are you saying? Are you a psycho? possessed?" you looked at him bewildered

"What is bullshit?" he looked at you confused

"I-I am leaving; good day to you, to ask what bullshit means I- you should find a priest" Picking up your bucket you hurried away wondering why you always met weirdos

"Wait-!" he yelled but you turned deaf to his words and ran as fast as your feet allowed you to.

You ran as fast as you could but he appeared in front of you almost like magic

"Please listen to me! I am not lying!!" he grabbed you by the shoulders frantically

"I really am from the future!"

"You freak let go of me!! AHHHHH!" you punched him doing little to no damage and screaming

This continued for some time, you running and him teleporting wherever you were it went on for a few hours and soon both of you sat panting on the ground

"Man…you sure got some stamina.." he wiped the sweat off his forehead simultaneously removing the blindfold

You froze- his eyes- were breathtaking; looking into them your heart exploded like fireworks, so serene, it felt like you were looking at the sky itself. You had never seen such eyes ever

How can someone be this good-looking?

"What? too captive by my looks~ Ah I guess even in the Heian Era I am attractive~" he leaned in with a smirk causing you to look away blushing crimson

"Who would!? you demon! Get away!"

He pouted a bit disappointed

"H…How do I believe you are from the future? And your powers? What are you?"

"I am a sorcerer from the Gojo Clan and…as for how I am from the future…" he scratched his head

"Got it!"

He smirked and took out a weird looking box and opened it

"Here try some, I bet you have never eaten something like this! It is a cheesecake that too from a very famous shop"

With swift movement from his hands, he put the cake in your hands, its scent was sweet, it was jiggly- even a bit liquid-y making you wonder if it was poison

"You...you sure humans can eat this?" your hands trembled as you held the plate

"Yes, it is! here~" he took the fork in his hands and ate a small bite of the cake- grinning

"Ah it really is good~"

Seeing him eat it and look so elated you also wanted a bite- how bad could it be? with a gulp and sharp breath you took a bite- a bite so good it made your eyes light up-

The flavor was exploding in your mouth, it had a rich and creamy flavor with a slightly tangy and sweet taste. The texture was smooth and dense melting in your mouth it felt like heaven.

"It must be so expensive....even in death I doubt I could eat something like this.."

He paused for a moment but then a smile crept up his lips

"Eh it was nothing just enjoy~" he winked

"You should see your reaction~ now that's a nice expression! It makes me wonder what other reactions you can make if I gave you other things~" smirking he leaned in his breath inches away from yours

"So...Do you believe me now?"

"....Yeah" nodding you took another bite

"Yay! Thank you~ please look after me from now on~"

[Link to my master list~ enjoy!]

[telemna-hyelle]

Happy 39th Birthday to the Legend of Zelda

a happy birthday to my favorite video game series of all time, so I typed out a quick birthday gift. Happy Birthday to the Legend of Zelda! Thank you for 39 wonderful years of adventure, and here's to many more!

~~~~

Link had been wandering all over the mountains for the last few days, stubbing his toes and bruising his shins on stones, pointy rocks digging into his bedroll, and beating off packs of lynels over and over again. He knew there had to be a dungeon around here, but it was proving elusive so far, and as much as he loved exploring, he was getting a little tired of a landscape that consisted of nothing besides rocks, more rocks, and lynels.

He sighed, rolling from his side onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head. The clouds hung thick and heavy over the mountains, scudding along like grumpy moblins across the sky.

But every so often, a star would peek out behind the clouds, no less bright for the shadows that tried to obscure them.

Link found himself reaching up for that star, as if he could touch it.

What would it be like, if I could fly up high and touch the stars?

It would certainly make all this hunting-for-dungeons-in-the-mountains easier. Just fly over the mountains and search from above!

What would it be like?

He loved it when he rode the cyclone his magic flute summoned, hurtling through the air at unbelievable speeds, the winds whipping around him so fast he couldn’t even see, and it was all he could do to keep his hat on his head.

But… that wasn’t the kind of flying he really wanted to do. The kind he dreamed about sometimes.

Flying where he could go wherever he wanted, take whatever path he chose, not gamble on the magic of an old wooden flute. Where he blazed a trail across the skies, touched clouds, and viewed the world from above.

Maybe someday he’d figure out a way…and then, maybe, he’d be able to see if there was any lands in the skies for him to explore.

He closed his fist and imagined he held a shard of starlight in his hand.

Somehow, he was sure there were.

(when he dreamed that night, he dreamed of free blue skies, a moon big and bright and gold, of clear air and creamy clouds so thick and fluffy that you would think you could walk on them, and a faithful friend that blazed a path across the skies like a crimson torch. The dream was warm, and fun, and so, so familiar.

One day he would find a spell that would give him wings, and it'd almost right.

He also dreamed of waking a girl from a long, long sleep, and being awarded with a hug and a smile. One day, that, too, would seem familiar.)

(he would not be the last boy to dream of flying, and that boy would explore the skies)

~~~~

[weirdmageddon]

milton rapidly intensified from a category 1 to a category 5 hurricane in under 24 hours. it will hopefully SLIGHTLY “weaken” in wind speed before fall due to wind shear, but i don’t like using the word weaken because it’s a major hurricane no matter what and it’s likely not enough to offset catastrophic damage.

tampa bay area has not been directly hit since 1921, the infrastructure may not be adequate. a category 5 tropical cyclone is without exaggeration the most powerful class of storm capable of being produced on planet earth

i’m in sarasota which is right in the crosshairs of hurricane milton. i think i will be safe physically because i am so so so so lucky to live in a building made of solid concrete + hurricane proof glass and i’m not in an evacuation/flood zone. i live on the first floor so if a tree falls on the building it will hit the roof which is the second floor. so i’ll probably bunker in the bathroom which is the safest room in my complex in the center of the building away from windows.

what i’m more worried about is being without power or water for a long time. it’s very hot and humid and without air conditioning florida is swamp-ass swamp-taint sweat hell.

we have a huge stack of water bottles that we copped in preparation for helene and thank god we didnt have to use it. flashlights and batteries, portable chargers, usb powered fan that i can use a car phone charger and a 9-volt battery attached by a little metal spring from a mechanical pen to activate (awesome hack i did back in 2017 with irma), a box of snacks, plenty of weed edibles (for me), wine (for my mom) and we will be feasting on peanut butter and bread.

[xiiithhazard]

The Grim - Chapter 1

I didn’t like the fact that an amazing setting like The Grim was sidelined and turned into a glorified battle arena. So, this is what The Grim should have been. (Sonic Prime Universe.)

…

Word Prompt 11 – Adventure

@year-of-the-echidna

…

Chapter 1:

“Not agaaaaaaain!” Sonic screamed, frustration tearing through him as he found himself falling into yet another new world. This one just as different as the last three he had been dragged into through unknown magical means. But something was off this time. Something was missing. Something important.

Land

And not in the same way as No Place, heck he might have even preferred the water at this point. As this world appeared devoid of – well – a world. It was just night skies and clouds, for as far as he could see.

“Okay, okay. Don’t panic.” He told himself, trying to flip around in the air, to control his movement. And searched in every direction for – something – anything. And he found it. However, it came in the form of a massive cyclone of angry-looking clouds, and he was falling right into the eye of it.

“Oh, come on.” He grumped, but the sound was ripped away by the howling winds, that were quick to throw him around like a BB in a can. It only took a couple seconds before he had no idea if he was even going down anymore. Until he smacked face first into something very real and solid.

“Ow.” He muttered into the object, as the rest of his body collapsed. But let out a sigh of relief, glad to be on solid ground again.

Or – was it?

He opened his eyes, as he heard rock music playing nearby, and noticed that themetal thing he’d landed on was moving. Pushing himself up, he looked around, growing more apprehensive by the second, as he realized that he was on the deck of an airship.   

“Uh oh.” He whispered for the only people he knew with ‘airships’ would be the council or Eggman. “Da!” He gasped when a sleek, metal arrow hit the deck, not an inch from his face, and proceeded to explode with electricity. Prompting him to bolt to his feet, and dart across the deck, as another flew past his ear.

“Uh – I come in peace.” He tried, when he ran straight into a wall and turned toward the source of the arrows. Only for three more to lodge themselves in the metal surface. Forcing him to stand at an awkward angle to avoid them all. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He cried out in a panic. Running in zig zags, trying to find a way off the ship without having to go through the sharpshooter from hell.

Fate had other ideas, however, as a bolt of lightning proceeded to strike the ship. Sending the whole thing careening to one side. And, seeing as he wasn’t fortunate enough to be bolted down, Sonic was also sent sliding across the deck, until he splatted against the railing wall again. Though he was glad to see a huge piece of machinery sucking up the electricity, he wasn’t burned to a nice black crisp.

“I hate walls.” He complained, rubbing at his repeatedly abused face, before a pair of feet landed directly in front of him. Forcing him to backpedal, managing to escape the crossbow shoved in his face by inches, before he got back on his feet. Only for the ship to right itself and he promptly fell on his face. While his attacker just descended the rotating walls with effortless control, each step secured by their magnetic boots.

“Hey, look I’m not –” Sonic tried again, holding his hands up, only to freeze when he got a look at the sharpshooter. Though they were clad in an outfit reminiscence of a ninja’s, complete with a hood that covered the face, he was able to catch a glimpse of their crossbow, which was attached directly to their right arm, which was robotic.

“Well, that makes this easier.” He whispered to himself grinning, as he no longer had reason to hold back and flipped backward, catching the robot’s weapon on the upward kick, while also getting him back to his feet all last. Thus, he was able to get back up to speed. Though keeping ahead of the insane marksman proved harder than he would have liked, as the slick floor, constant winds, and lack of space to run made the whole process rather difficult. So, he decided to just use it to his advantage instead.

With the wind at his back, he took a chance and ran at the robot, allowing himself to slide across the deck and under its legs, to get into its blind spot. However, before he could even manage a sassy remark, the air in his lungs was expelled, when something wrapped around his arms and chest. He hit the deck a second later, hard enough to leave him counting the little birdies, before he was unceremoniously yanked across the floor. Coming to rest at the feet of yet another of the ship’s residents. But, after taking a peek, Sonic realized that he recognized this one.

"Knuckles?" The name left his mouth before he could stop it. And the echidna paused for a moment, as he curled the other end of the rope around his hand, slight recognition on his face. And, for the first time since arriving, Sonic felt a flicker of hope.

Maybe—just maybe—he was finally home.

But Knuckles planted a firm foot against the closest section of rope, keeping Sonic pinned in place and allowing the hedgehog a clear view of his face. Which made it very clear that this was not in home world, or any of the others for that matter.

Not only was this Knuckles wearing a cowboy hat and leather jacket, but he was also quite a bit older. His was taller, his dreads were longer, and he now had one normal and one mechanical eye.

“Don’t move.” He ordered, his tone was calm, but there was an underlying level of warning, that made Sonic obey out of pure fear. Only for the ninja he’d been fighting earlier to run over as well, causing the hood to be caught by the wind and thrown away, revealing yet another of his friends – that were not actually his friends.

“Amy?” He whispered in horror. Realizing that he had almost attacked her without restraint. If Knuckles hadn’t been there, he might have hurt her – or worse.

“Quick little nuisance, isn’t he?” She stated with annoyance. Before leveling her crossbow arm at him again. But he only found himself deflating at the realization that this was yet another version of her that had been robotized. Well, at least it was just her arm this time. But still. “Now how did you get on the ship?”

“I – fell.” Sonic answered, trying to get away from the point of her arrow, but the rope made it impossible.

“From where?” She countered and he snapped his mouth shut, realizing that even from the little he’d seen of the sky, there was nothing that he could have fallen from. “Are you an Aparoid?” She snarled, her bow ready to fire, if he so much as blinked the wrong way. That is until Knuckles reached over to put his hand on the weapon, forcing her to lower it. However, Sonic found himself almost preferring the bow, as he now had to deal with that scary red laser of an eye narrowing in on him instead. But it didn’t linger this time. As the echidna reached up to touch his ear instead.

“Yes Captain.” He spoke into what had to be a com-link, his tone displaying a great deal of respect for whoever was on the other end of the line. “Uncertain.” He admitted, looking back at Sonic from the corner of his eye, then paused again. “Contained.” He answered, before his attention shifted to the sky, as lightning struck the ship and everything shifted again. But neither Knuckles nor Amy appeared to notice, as their boots kept them attached to the deck.

Sonic was about to ask where he could get himself a pair of those, when a shadow flew through the clouds behind his two other-dimensional friends. Causing them both to turn, as if instinct alone had informed them of its presence.

“What was that?” The hedgehog squeaked. As the thing hadn’t looked like any living creature he’d ever encountered. It had been too disproportionate – too sharp.

Not-Amy didn’t bother to answer him. As she readied her crossbow again and moved to stand back to back with Not-Knuckles. Guarding their position, while he continued to talk to his com-link, as if nothing was amiss.

“Looks like we have a swarm, Captain.” He spoke over the wind. Pulling a gun from the holster at his side, and casually examined the clouds, as more and more of the shadow things swept through the storm. Then at random and without even looking, he fired off a round of what looked to be pure light. The sound it made it return was nothing short of actual thunder, causing Sonic to duck despite knowing he wasn’t the target. Only to look up again, when something large and squishy smashed into the deck.

He couldn’t get a good look at it, as he was still wrapped up in rope and the storm was only getting worse, making it so dark that he could no longer see his own feet. But that didn’t stop him from bolting when the cry of some kind of animal screeched from the clouds, like something straight out of his worst nightmares. But Not-Knuckles yanked him back with the rope, causing the hedgehog to face plant with the metal floor once again.

“They’re starting to land, Admiral.” Not-Amy spoke from the darkness. The sound of her crossbow coming every couple of seconds, which was followed by more screams or thunks of impact, as creatures fell to her skill.

“Noted.” Not-Knuckles declared, somehow still keeping calm, as he fired off a couple more rounds from his gun. Then he yanked on the rope again and Sonic found himself flung up to be carried like a bag under the guy’s arm.

“Hey, I can walk.” He complained. Only for the gun to be fired again, right over his head this time. And he made an undignified noise of shock, before a creature splattered into the deck and slid through the water, until it stopped mere inches away. ‘Okay, I’ll admit it. This Knuckles is kind-a cool.’ Sonic thought to himself. Though there was no way he would concede that fact out loud.

Not-Knuckles didn’t even register the danger, as he took off running. Hopping over the body of the thing he’d killed. And began navigating the deck of the ship, like he could see in the dark. In the end, all he had to find was a wall. Where he dropped Sonic again, giving the hedgehog only a second to realize that he’d been untied, before something was slapped around his wrist, which beeped, as he found himself magnetized to the metal wall.

“Oh, come on, I can help.” Sonic complained, trying to pull free, but the cuff wasn’t having it.

“No.” Not-Knuckles declared. Before turning back around and shot another thing in the dark, which cried out with more anger than pain, prompting the echidna to adjust his aim ever so slightly and fire again. This time earning himself a thud, as the creature collapsed on the deck. “Captain, we could use a little light down here.” He spoke into his com, giving his fancy railgun thing a rest, as it appeared to reload itself on the electric charges in the air.

As he watched it, Sonic realized something. The thing didn’t even have a trigger. Instead, the echidna’s metal eye reacted a split second before the gun went off. Which explained how he was making such amazing shots, in near pitch darkness.

All of this made it pretty clear to Sonic that there was a Tails in this dimension as well. And he, if Knuckles’ eye was any indication, he on par with his own best friend. Maybe even Nine. Which meant all was not lost. If he could just convince someone to let him talk to the fox.

Of course, before he could even make the attempt, a large shadow flew over his head, heading straight at his friend’s back. “Knucks!” He called out, trying to go to his aid, but was pulled back by the cuff. But the echidna had it covered.

With a simple step to the side, he let the creature fly past. Then, in a single motion, he unraveled his rope, now revealed to be steel cable, and lashed it out like a whip, striking the nightmare from the sky with a crack of thunder and a flash of electricity.

Sonic winced as the violent light sparked and snapped from the darkness. Leaving the thing a smoldering husk on the ground. And he found himself grateful Knuckles hadn’t used that particular setting on him when he’d been captured.

He jumped again, when a loud *pop* sounded overhead, then a bright blue flare erupted in the sky. Setting the storming clouds around them ablaze and allowing Sonic to see the creatures they were fighting. He wished he hadn’t.

There were hundreds of them. Though they took the general shape of animals, that was about the only thing they shared, If he had to guess, they looked something like a sentient, insectoid, virus, with a pension for spikes and the color black, that had taken over the bodies of either bats, birds or flying dinosaurs. They were so warped it was hard to tell which.

The good news though, they hated the new light source. It wasn’t hard to see why either, as they started to smoke, as if they were being burned from the inside out. This left them sitting ducks, allowing Knuckles and Amy to pick them off like flies. But no matter how many they killed; it seemed like seven more would just take their place. And any they didn’t focus on right away, fell out of the sky and started – eating the ship.

Well, Sonic wasn’t sure what they were doing, just that the metal would begin showing signs of a blue, green, and purple corrosion that pulsed with phosphorescent light, after it was touched. But it seemed the sky pirates had this covered, as well. For when the ship was once again struck by lightning, the creatures were electrocuted, until they were burnt to a smoldering crisp.

“Preparing lattice.” The commanding presence of a female voice spoke over a speaker somewhere. Prompting Amy to retreat behind an unseen line. While Knuckles strolled back at a easier pace, recharging his gun again, as if this were a mere walk in the park for him. Only deviating from his task, when one of the creatures flew at him with a hideous screech. But he just raised a fist and allowed it to run directly into him. Not so much as breaking his stride, as the creature crumbled like a sheet of tinfoil going up against a bowling ball.

A second later, he too crossed some invisible line, just as the whole deck of the ship unfolded behind him. Whipping out four long devices, that soon extended three more times. Then fanned out to lay four massive metal nets on either side of the ship.

Within moments, all four were struck by lightning and the power was siphoned off in a beautiful effect that made them look more like wings, as they beat up and down, pulling in even more lightning from every direction. Until an unknown limit was reached, and they raised up to meet each other at the tips, causing a spark and then the world exploded with light.

It only lasted a second, but as Sonic blinked away his temporary blindness. He looked up to find bits of smoldering and blackened pieces of body parts falling all around them, as the entire swarm was culled. Leaving nothing alive to retreat.

“Whoa.” He whispered in awe, as the rain broke through their little pocket of vaporized water and started falling again.

“Report.” The female voice, whom he guessed was the Captain, commanded over the speaker. Prompting Not-Knuckles to walk out over the deck, kicking the remains of nightmare fuel away, as he went.

“No serious damage.” He stated. Though he appeared concerned about a part of the railing wall, where the corrosion seemed to be spreading. “Feel free to Parse, Captain.”

“Parse?” Sonic repeated, looking at Not-Amy for an explanation. But she just lifted her metal arm, allowing the crossbow to fold away and give her better use of her hand. Other than that, she ignored him, instead addressing Knuckles again.

“Admiral, you’re infected.” She pointed out, prompting him to check his right hand, which he had used to bludgeon the creature before. It was now showing signs of that same strange, pulsating corrosion as the ship. But he didn’t look that concerned. As he just flipped his gun back into its holster and tapped a small glowing device strapped around his chest. Something Sonic realized they both had.

A moment later, the echidna winced, as he was shocked with a brutal display of electricity. And, for a moment, Sonic thought they had all gone nuts. But then Knuckles whipped his infected hand through the air, flicking the now dead and burned corrosion away, before going about his business.

Sonic pulled his eyes from this weirdness, when the nets lifted again, fanning overhead like twin pairs of protective angel wings, before releasing the captured electricity directly into the ship’s hull. Causing Sonic to cringe as it came for him as well. However, it didn’t appear to have any effect on anything other than the persistent corruption, which was burned away along with most of the creature remains on the deck. Then, with one last flick of the wings, they folded back into the floor, and everything was normal again.

Well, aside from the fact that they were still sitting in the eye of a giant hurricane.

A few more flares were shot into the sky, as the light from the wings faded. Allowing Amy and Knuckles to walk around the ship, checking for anything of concern.

“All good, Captain.” Knuckles reported, as he returned to where he’d left Sonic. “What should I do with the stowaway?” He waited a moment for the answer to come over his com. Then leaned down to grab Sonic’s free hand.

The hedgehog tried to protest, but the guy’s grip was like a steel vice. And in the end, all it took to end his struggle was another sharp glare from his mechanical eye.

“Wow man, who or what got a good shot on you?” Sonic found himself asking, without checking in with the smart side of his brain. So, he wasn’t all that surprised when he didn’t get an answer. Instead, Knuckles just slapped another magnetic cuff over his other wrist. Then released his trapped hand, allowing the two to magnetize to each other instead. “Oh, come on Dude. There’s no need to be like this. You can trust me.” Not-Knuckles gave him a look, that just said ‘No I can’t.’ Which – okay, that was fair.

With this, the echidna stood up again, attaching something to his belt, as he walked away. And, for a moment, Sonic thought that maybe he’d been given some kind of freedom. But then his cuffs activated, and he was pulled off the floor by his wrists.

“Is this really necessary?” He complained over the storm.

“Yes.” Knuckles stated matter-a-factly, and Sonic glared at his, but he was once again ignored, as the echidna turned back to address Not-Amy. “Can you handle the rest?”

“Don’t insult me.” She countered, raising her metal arm in warning. “Unless you’d like a second fancy hole in the head, to go with the first.” Sonic blinked at that and took a step to the right, so he was standing behind the echidna. ‘Gees, she was a little intense.’

Not-Knuckles only laughed and tilted his hat in a respectful manner. “Apologies, my lady.” He offered, then walked across the deck. Forcing Sonic to follow along, as the key on his belt insisted.

Of course, he did not appreciate the idea of being led around like a dog on a leash. So, the hedgehog zeroed in on the key and smiled. His hands being bound didn’t stop him from going fast. Therefore, it only took a split second for him to reach his goal, and had the key in his hand, just before an electric force blew him back, like he’d been hit with a giant invisible fist.

He whined in pain, as he found himself once again on his back, with everything hurting. Then Not-Knuckles leaned over him, his smile indicating he was more than just a little amused. “Don’t do that.” He warned and Sonic lifted his bound hands to give a thumbs up of agreement.

Expecting to be dragged back to his feet, despite the fact that he was pretty sure his legs had stopped working after that. He was instead shocked, when the echidna gave him a few minutes to recover, before helping him up, in a rare of gentleness.

His brain began to hurt, as he tried to reconcile this action with Knuckles the Echidna, as he received some much-needed walking assistance, until they reached a door, and escaped the downpour of rain at last.

Once inside, Knuckles gave him another couple of minutes to recover, as he removed his hat and squeezed the water from his dreadlocks. Which made Sonic’s rattled brain focus on the strange fact that it hadn’t blown away in the wind.

“So – uh. You got a name?” He asked, as they traversed a barren, metal hall. Lit with a line of soft blue light at the bottom of one wall. “Knucks?” He tried when he didn’t receive an answer, even though he already knew he’d be wrong. But that didn’t stop him from trying. “Gnarly? Dread?” He guessed. That wasn’t unreasonable, they were both pirates, right?

In the end, the hedgehog was just left to pout when he didn’t so much as receive a grunt of response. “Admiral it is, I guess.” He muttered. Only to think about it a bit more. “Hang on. I don’t know all that much about the Navy. But – isn’t an Admiral the same thing as a Captain?” In fact, he was pretty sure that Admiral indicated he commanded more than one ship. Which would give him an even higher rank.

Again, Not-Knuckles didn’t answer and just continued to navigate the corridors, ignoring him all the while. “You don’t talk much, do you?” Sonic went on, walking up a little closer to the guy. Trying to gauge his reaction. “You know, you remind me of a friend of mine.” He continued. “Though he can be a real hot head. I’ll bet you can too.” Despite his better judgement, he reached out to poke the echidna in the shoulder, before zipping away, expecting to be swat at. But – nothing. “Oh, come on, I know it’s in there.”

Instead of an answer, the Admiral just turned a corner, forcing Sonic’s cuffs to follow at a sharp angle. And he had to struggle to readjust himself. As they started up some narrow stairs. “See – told ya.” He quailed, though he wasn’t sure why that made him so happy. “I could always get under Knuckles’ skin. It’s kind of my thing.” He bragged as they took a corner on the staircase, allowing the echidna to look at him, without turning around. Causing Sonic to snap his mouth shut, as the glare he got from that silver eye was just downright scary.

However, yet again, this was the only form of hostility he received. Which was just plan jarring. All the other versions of Knuckles had been easy to rile up and quick to anger. Just like the original. It had been almost comforting in a way. The one constant between the worlds. But this one was almost unnaturally calm and collected. Without it he was just reminded that this was not his world, and this was not his friend.

“I miss Knuckles.” He muttered to himself, then cringed away from the statement. “I can’t believe I just said that.” Distracted by this revelation, he ran straight into the Admiral when he stopped moving. And proceeded to rub his abused nose, before peaking around the roadblock, to find that they had arrived at what could only be the bridge of the ship.

Here he found yet another non-friend, this one a copy of Big, who stood working at a high-tech looking table of maps, compasses, and schematics, his constant companion Froggy, asleep on his head. Both of which were, once again, older. Big was even showing signs of gray hair.

And on other side of the room, stormed the brooding, furious form of yet another version of Rouge. This one much more – mature. Her hair was quite a bit longer too, and she was clad in a stylish pirate-looking getup, with a long frilly coat. However, yet again, there was one thing that made it very clear that she was not Rouge the Bat. Her wings – which had been replaced with a fully mechanical set.

“Damn bugs!” She swore in a tone so full of promised death, he started to feel bad for any nightmare creature that stumbled into her line of sight. “Eat my ship, will you? Next time I’ll blast your brains right out through your –”

“Captain.” Not-Knuckles interrupted, smirking with amusement at her rant. Which earned himself a glare of disapproval. But he was spared the fate of being spontaneously combusted, as her attention soon turned to Sonic. Causing him to stand at attention for – some reason.

“And what are you supposed to be?” She asked like he was a surprise tax audit.

“Uh – a hedgehog.” He answered, trying to offer a smile as well. But she just turned back to Knuckles.

“It speaks?” She noted.

“Almost constantly.” The echidna reported earning a glare from Sonic.

“And how did this stowaway get on my ship?” She raged. Though this time it was directed at Knuckles. Prompting Sonic to become defensive.

“Hey, hold on. It’s not his fault. I just – kind of – landed here. That’s all.” He tried. Though it sounded stupid even to him. And Not-Rouge appeared to agree, as she just glowered at him again. Gees, and he thought Knuckles was scary. This lady had a look that could shave the fur off a cat.

“Aparoid?” She asked, turning back to the Admiral, who just shrugged.

“Not that I can see.”

“What is an Aparoid?” Sonic insisted. Realizing that was the second time he’d been called that. But, as usual, he was ignored, as Rouge just beat her wings in an irritated manner, forcing both Sonic and Knuckles to shift out of the way or be cut in half by the razor-sharp metal.

“Whatever it is, if you’re going to let it on my ship, it’s your responsibility.” She proclaimed, glaring at Knuckles again before storming away to stand next to the wheel.

“Yes Captain.” The Admiral muttered in an irritated tone of voice, lowering the brim of his hat to hide the unhappiness in his expression.

“Hey, I said it wasn’t his fault.” Sonic tried again. Only for the Pirate Queen to turn on him in with some much fury, that he could have sworn he felt his soul leave his body for a moment.

“Knox.” She growled, her voice calm despite the radiating waves of eternal torment she was directing their way. Which did more to silence Sonic then the fact that Knuckles had slapped a mitt over his mouth and held him in a death lock, keeping the hedgehog from speaking again. “I don’t care if you have to throw it overboard. But get this nuisance off my Bridge.” She whispered, causing Sonic to recover from the shock.

Though, despite gripping the echidna’s arm with both hands and fighting to escape, he didn’t even cause a disturbance in his stance, as the Admiral bowed. “Aye Captain.” He agreed. Causing the hedgehog to make some uncouth and unmanly noises, as he was hauled from the room without another word. But he could do nothing to escape the promise of certain death that was now coming for him.

…

Please share some reviews and comments, I’d love to hear what people think of my work.

[edutainer2022]

A cold, vicious cyclone caught me unawares in the middle of the city the other day, right as I decided it was too hot for the coat. So, naturally, Scott gets under the weather in NYC, quite literally (and is being a stubborn doofus about it). It's an Earth and Sky fluff, but in the end, John decided he wanted in, so Earth and Star have a good hearty chat too. Virgil and John are being very good brothers. Absolutely nothing hurts. A greatful boop to @idontknowreallywhy, @astranite and @janetm74 for soft fabrics and Top Gun featuring.

UNDER THE WEATHER

The perks of living on a tropical island included not only it being remote, secluded and perfect to house a state-of-the-art rescue operation. It was also the whole being TROPICAL deal. Whenever one stepped out - it was reliably warm. The downside of living on a remote tropical island was losing the habit to navigate the regular four-seasons weather. Or the fickle New York City climate.

Truthfully, Scott didn't miss it much. Of course, he'd be fondly nostalgic about Kansas and snow slides, or, would occasionally get caught up in the inherent wistful mood of early NYC fall. But he definitely didn't miss THIS - being caught up in the icy torrent and orange warning winds two blocks away from the Tracy Tower. In nothing but his dress shirt and slacks.

They were at Tracy Industries headquarters with Virgil for the better half of the week. Virgil was involved in pre-screening the latest batch of R&D pitches, before they would move on to Brains and John for the final approval and production. Scott was held hostage by the Department of Finance for budget amendments and redistribution.

When the opportunity presented itself, well into the afternoon, to escape his own untimely death by paperwork or premeditated murder of a high ranking employee, Scott ran for the hills, slipping expertly beneath the radar of Kayo's handpicked security detail.

His underlying motive was quite noble - to walk to that coffe-shop Virgil liked and get his brother and himself some decent coffee. Virgil loved coffee and Scott loved Virgil - the rationale for his sortie was ironclad. Of course, pursuing exclusively immaculate fraternal care didn't provide for ditching his earpiece and wrist com. The hasty retreat also meant his designer (and more importantly in his current predicament - woolen) jacket got left hanging on the back of his chair by the bay window. He forgot this wasn't Tracy Island, the sun outside the window and climate control in the offices and their penthouse at the top of the Tracy Tower lulled his vigilance. And now, without a comm to get a timely warning from Eos or to call a cab (or the security SUV with a profound apology, or One from the landing pad on the roof), Scott was caught in the sudden onslaught of a cyclone.

The prudent thing to do would be to go back to the Tower. So, of course, Scott decided in favor of the opposite and broke into a run for the rest of the distance to the coffee place. The relentless laws of physics - speed and resistance - made sure he was soaked through the very last thread of clothing on his body and chilled to the bone by the time he got there.

His hair plastered to the forhead, the supershiny gel having lost the round with the freezing downpour, rivers of water drained down from the top of his head all the way past the suit slacks and dress shoes splashed in muck. There were poodles of water INSIDE his shoes. His socks were wet. His shirt was drenched. The squelching of the fabric as he walked up to the counter suggested he was wet EVERYWHERE. Yuk! That, at least, he didn't know as he was getting numb all over from the cold.

Scott was aware he probably looked like a wet stray cat. It was that or his shirt became see-through in the rain - as a barrista with a cute smile tried to waive his fee for the coffee. Unacceptable! He paid for two extra large, extra strong brews,  and rushed out, stifling a sneeze. Must have been the shirt, since one of the take-away cups had a phone number scrolled on the side. Which was a small consolation, as he broke into a jog again, making his way back through the raging elements.

***

The Tracy Industries front desk in the lobby, thankfully, didn't detain him, so he snuck into the elevator, not making eye contact with anyone. It was getting increasingly hard to hold the coffee cups - his hands were numb and shaking, and his teeth were clattering in time with full body shivers. Scott was sure he had hit the executive floor button, but the elevator made no stop, gliding all the way up to the private penthouse. Figures. He'd probably earned himself a lecture not only from the on site security team, but from John as well.

The door slid open on his approach across an antechember and he was welcomed in the hallway by a wall of flannel presided by furrowed black brows. Scott brandished the procured coffee cups like a shield, instinctively. He would sound more nonchalant if he were not stuttering from the cold.

"Hey, Virg, I got your favorite coffee!"

His face muscles were too frozen for a smile.

Virgil was holding a massive towel, or maybe a full body length terrycloth sheet, like an unfurled banner, and appeared completely unmoved by Scott's heroic endeavor.

"How very kind of you! Now step on the rug and strip. I'm not mopping after you!"

Scott looked down and found himself standing, indeed, on one of Gordon's old bright pool towels. It was already soaked halfway through with all the water Scott was dripping. He felt marginally ashamed as the elevator likely sported poodles too. But it was hard to maintain several self-deprecating emotions at once, being that cold and miserable.

The styrofoam cups were tentatively deposited on the glove table. Scott peeled off his soaked dress shirt and shed the trousers more than eagerly, toed off wet (and probably ruined too) shoes. Francesco the designer would bite his head off. But that could wait. He needed something warm off the rack now! A move off the towel was aborted, however, by the reappearance of the Eyebrows over the terrycloth edge.

"Uh-uh! Everything, Scooter! You're NOT wedging your undies behind the shower stall. Again!"

Scott sighed. That was ONE TIME! He was sneaking back past the curfew and tried to conceal evidence. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. The moment the last wet cloth on him joined the pile on the floor, he was wrapped head to ankles in the sea of soft blue fabric and steered in the general direction of the shower.

"You know the drill! Try to warm up under hot water as long as you can. If you feel lightheaded - yell, I'll be right here."

The scolding shower helped somewhat. He could still feel the freezing grip around his ribs, but his extremities were not as numb anymore, at least. There was a stack of warm sleepwear waiting for him as he stepped out in the cloud of fog. Scott smiled - it was a motley assembly of his own clean trunks and sweatpants, a well-worn soft flannel shirt and a Denver Engineering hoodie, that swapmed his frame. Hair toweled off and curling every which way, he was mostly ready to venture back out into the colder world, but felt dead tired.

There was a nest of throw pillows and a blanket, assembled on the couch, unfolded to full length, in the living room. Scott made an immediate beeline for it and tugged the blanket around his shoulders, trying to fold his feet beneath as well. The shivers were crawling back. Virgil emerged from a door that was decidedly neither Scott's nor his own room, carrying a pair of fluffy bright orange socks and an extra comforter.

***

After some gentle, yet determined, coaxing, the orange socks were tugged onto Scott's icy cold feet and a second blanket was tucked snuggly around him. Virgil settled by his side against a couple of snatched pillows, pondering idly that they would need to get a spare weighted blanket for the penthouse too. They would also owe John more socks. The Scott-sized frozen burrito shuffled closer and Virgil wrapped an arm around his wayward big brother, offering more of his body warmth. The chills worried Virgil. Scott was fit and healthy, but he was chronically exhausted and hadn't been exposed to cyclones without IR-grade water-proof gear, or at least a raincoat, in a while.

"So... you wanna watch Top Gun?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Scott's face immediately shot up, beaming with a thousand suns. He also did an enthusiastic giant caterpillar wiggle, blanket and all. Virgil thought in that moment his core memory was probably Scott, all bright eyes, gap-teeth smile and dimples, bouncing with excitement and unbridled energy. He wished he got to revisit it more often.

The opening frames rolled on the holoscreen to the sound of the all too familiar Anthem. Virgil finally reached for so hard earned cup of coffee, now reheated, and couldn't contain a snort.

"Aw, Scooter, you actually scored a number for your troubles?"

It was obvious Scott wasn't going to last through the movie - his eyes were droopping and voice slurred, mostly muffled by plaid flannel.

"M'dashin'!"

A smaller hologram appeared at that exact moment on Virgil's comm. John looked way too amused:

"Actually, that's the number of a homeless shelter around the corner from the coffee shop."

Virgil's laughter full on rumbled at that. He raised a hand to ruffle the back of big brother's head:

"Oh yeah, you're a dashing idiot."

"M'cold."

The muffled complain was exemplified by a full body shiver.

"Sure, Scotty! You're a cold, wet, dashing idiot."

There was no protest to that, just a soft, slightly stuffed snore. Virgil adjusted the hold on the now sound asleep biggest brother to snuggle him closer.

***

The F-14A Tomcat was playing chicken with a MiG-28 on the screen. John's hologram lingered. Virgil could tell the space ginger was concerned more than he let on. John finally spoke.

"Is he gonna be alright? Should I cancel his Friday?"

Untamed by the gel, the now dry and fluffy ringlets made it difficult to reach Scott's forhead, but the back of Virgil's hand found the way, careful not to disturb. The skin was cool to his touch, no signs of fever.

"He'll be alright. He just needs to warm up and sleep it off."

He moved to rub a soothing circle over Scott's back as the big brother relaxed deeper into sleep. It was sorely tempting to clear Scott's schedule for the next day and mandate more rest. But Virgil was aware it would pose a risk of Scott, not held down by a cold, hairing off to the island in One, insisting to be back on the roster, if not on TI business. That would be a shame, as a big part of the weekend, Virgil had been looking forward to, was going to see Tosca at the Metropolitan Opera with biggest brother.

John  was still hovering, unconvinced. Virgil siged, but smiled:

"Well, Johnny, unless you want to come down from orbit and join me at the box, I'd rather our reservation to a sold out six months in advance opera didn't fall through."

John looked appropriately appalled and quite earnest:

"I love you more than my life, brother, but I do draw a line at too many people doing too many loud things in a confined space. Call me Johnny and see how often I come down from orbit!"

Virgil stifled a huff of laughter, as Scott shuddered and groaned quietly, but, thankfully, didn't wake up. The warm-up circles over his back and shoulders resumed. Virgil hugged him closer. John shifted attention to the swaddled biggest brother in fond amusement.

"What did you bribe him with, anyway?"

Virgil didn't have the energy to protest.

"Apfelschtrudel from that place Gordon found. And he can preview the R&D projects I selected for Brains, if he gets bored. No call-outs, no reports, no work mail though."

The gazed Virgil fixed on John was full of fair warning. It was John's turn to smile.

"Don't worry. You love watching opera and Scott loves watching us doing what we love. He'll be fine. And locked out of his work accounts, for good measure."

Silence stretched for several moments, interrupted only by Scott's soft snoring.

Virgil looked down on the slumbering brother in his arms, then back at John.

"I wish he did more of what he loves. Just Scott. For himself - not for us, or for the company, or the world."

That wasn't an issue easily solved in a casual conversation through an impromptu movie night. If at all. John knew that too, all too well. The brother in orbit chewed on his lip, lost in thought.

"You could sugget he get coffee in that place again. She's a Hudson Uni postgraduate. Cultural Anthropology."

Virgil was mostly used to John's the Resident Genius thoughts veering in unexpected directions, but the ginger thoroughly lost him there.

"Huh? Who's a postgrad where?"

John rolled his eyes in exasperation commonly reserved to explaining things to the bristling rescuees and a five year old Gordon.

"The barrista that gave Scott a shelter number today. She works part time and volunteers there often. One time she even volunteered at the IR disaster site. Remember, the sinkhole? She seems nice."

Top Gun closing scenes were replaced by assorted social media pages and university profile pages. Virgil gulped.

"John! You can't go doxxing random people!"

John's hologram up in orbit shrugged:

"I have Eos run background checks automatically on anyone who comes in contact with you guys. We can't take any chances!"

There was sound and, sadly, field proved reasoning behind what nearly cost them barely averted tragedy on several occasions. But still... Virgil kept staring at a pretty blond smiling from the holoscreen.

"That gotta be illegal!"

"Only if I get caught."

Turquoise eyes twinkled in nothing remotely resembling remorse. He still didn't cut off the call.

"Do you wanna come down here for the weekend?"

Virgil suddenly felt the need to have more brothers accounted for and within reach. There was hope in the way John actually gave it a thought.

"Only if you don't make me go to the opera. I ordered you pizza, by the way."

A wave of warmth washed over Virgil and he tightened the grip on Scott's frame instinctively.

"You're my favoretest brother not asleep at the moment!"

He was graced with another eyeroll.

"You spend entirely too much time around Gordon. I'll have Eos screen the calls and land the elevator on the Tower tomorrow evening, your time, if there's no major catastrophe."

Virgil resisted the urge to fistpupm in the air. Definitely too much time around Gordon. Another thought occurred to him as he remembered a detail John mentioned when vetting the unsuspecting compassionate barrista.

"Hey, John! Could you..."

"Right ahead of you, brother. An anonymous donation was made to the homeless shelter and free kitchen an hour ago."

And they said Virgil and Scott were uncanny telepathic. Then again, it was to be expected. Anyone who was genuinely kind and considerate to their favorite Idiot, or attempted to course-correct his destruction path, inadvertently gained a lifelong ally in every one of them. Maybe he really needed to nudge Scott to go get more of the good coffee tomorrow. Equipped with an umbrella that time around.

[humandisastersquad]

In terms of actual impact the cyclone might have on where im living directly, it mainly ranges from power outage (inconvenient) to Neighbours’ Fuck Huge Gum Trees Destroying The Unit (Fuck) and little in between.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone. 

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured. 

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still. 

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught. 

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite. 

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.  

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon. 

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers. 

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood. 

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know. 

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up. 

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette. 

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger. 

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently. 

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles. 

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?” 

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries. 

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.” 

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes. 

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.” 

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.” 

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst. 

Nothing survives Hellfire. 

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons. 

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace. 

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.  

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you. 

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself. 

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart. 

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously. 

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!” 

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly. 

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location. 

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight. 

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself. 

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.” 

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you. 

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race. 

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness. 

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target. 

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back. 

You are running out of time. 

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch. 

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.” 

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death. 

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room. 

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters. 

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.” 

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely. 

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.” 

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.” 

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you. 

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.” 

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?” 

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers. 

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.  

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest. 

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep. 

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening. 

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves. 

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.” 

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh. 

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece. 

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.” 

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries. 

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in. 

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.” 

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips. 

 “Yes, sing.” 

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call. 

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?” 

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.  

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs. 

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them. 

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity. 

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion. 

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served. 

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin. 

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“ 

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges. 

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door. 

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door. 

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What’s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly. 

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.” 

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click. 

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.  

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it. 

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true. 

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence. 

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.  

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.  

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.  

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.  

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life. 

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”  

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years. 

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.  

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”  

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.  

But Gods, you are so hungry.  

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”  

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”  

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”  

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”  

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.  

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.  

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”  

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone. 

Fear. Fear. Fear. 

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.  

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers. 

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. 

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing. 

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.  

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time. 

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness. 

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady. 

“Why what, pet?” 

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“ 

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.” 

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.  

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way. 

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul. 

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be? 

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck. 

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line. 

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding. 

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful. 

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair. 

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.” 

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.” 

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily. 

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.” 

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear. 

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils. 

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help. 

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried. 

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?” 

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.” 

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay. 

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you. 

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.” 

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps. 

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!” 

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.” 

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.” 

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?” 

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.” 

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge. 

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.  

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal. 

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed. 

“They will heal in time.” 

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt. 

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles. 

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?” 

 She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.” 

“I want to see him - this version of him.” 

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.” 

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?” 

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.” 

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.” 

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.” 

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Yale Climate Connections:

fter a spectacular burst of rapid intensification, Hurricane Helene made landfall just east of the mouth of the Aucilla River, about 10 miles west-southwest of Perry, Florida, at about 11:10 p.m. EDT Thursday. Top sustained winds were estimated at 140 mph, making Helene a Category 4 hurricane at landfall. We’ll have much more on Helene’s many impacts—some still unfolding on Friday—in our next Eye in the Storm post.

Helene’s landfall gives the U.S. a record eight Cat 4 or Cat 5 Atlantic hurricane landfalls in the past eight years (2017-2024), seven of them being continental U.S. landfalls. That’s as many Cat 4 and 5 landfalls as occurred in the prior 57 years. The only comparable beating the U.S. has taken from Category 4 and 5 landfalling hurricanes occurred in the six years from 1945 to 1950, when five Category 4 hurricanes hit South Florida.

With the U.S. taking such a beating from extreme hurricanes in recent years, it’s worth reviewing how climate change is contributing to making hurricanes worse.

Climate change makes the strongest hurricanes stronger

As far back as 1987, MIT hurricane scientist Kerry Emanuel theorized that the wind speeds in hurricanes can be expected to increase about 5% for every increase of one degree Celsius (1.8°F) in tropical ocean temperature, assuming that the average wind speed near the surface of the tropical oceans does not change. Computer modeling has found a slightly smaller magnitude (4%) for the increase.

According to NOAA’s Coral Reef Watch, sea surface temperatures along Helene’s path through the western Caribbean and eastern Gulf of Mexico were about 1-2 degrees Celsius (1.8-3.6°F) above the long-term average. Using the theoretical results above, this increase in sea surface temperatures equated to a 50-100% increase in Helene’s destructive power.

Global warming increases hurricane rainfall

One of the more confident predictions we can make for hurricanes in the future is that they will dump more rain. Global warming increases the rate at which ocean water evaporates into the air, and increases the amount of water vapor the atmosphere contains when fully saturated. This result is about 7% more water vapor in saturated air for every 1°C of ocean warming. This increase in atmospheric water vapor can cause a much larger increase in hurricane rainfall than one might surmise, since water vapor retains the heat energy that was required to evaporate the water, and when the water vapor condenses into rain, this latent heat is released. The extra heat helps power the hurricane, making it larger and more intense, allowing it to pull in water vapor from an even larger area and thus dump more rain.

Climate change causes more rapidly intensifying hurricanes

As discussed in detail in our 2020 post, rapidly intensifying hurricanes like Helene, Ida, Michael, Laura, and Harvey that strengthen just before landfall are among the most dangerous storms as they can catch forecasters and populations off guard, risking inadequate evacuation efforts and large casualties. Unfortunately, not only is human-caused climate change making the strongest hurricanes stronger, but it is also making dangerous rapidly intensifying hurricanes like Helene more common.

According to research published in 2019 in Nature Communications, “Recent increases in tropical cyclone intensification rates,” Atlantic hurricanes showed “highly unusual” upward trends in rapid intensification during the period 1982–2009, trends that can be explained only by including human-caused climate change as a contributing cause. The largest change occurred in the strongest 5% of storms: For those, 24-hour intensification rates increased by about 3-4 mph per decade between 1982 and 2009.

Sea level rise increases storm surge damage

Of the six tide gauges with long-term periods of record along the west coast of Florida, Helene set an all-time high water record at three of them (Cedar Key, Clearwater Beach, and St. Petersburg) – in all three cases just before or just after midnight Thursday night – and came in second or third place behind Hurricane Ian of 2022 and Hurricane Irma of 2017 at the other two (Ft. Myers and Naples). Sea level rise made these records easier to set. Sea level rise since 1947 at the St. Petersburg, Fla., tide gauge has been about 3.09 mm per year, or about 0.3 meters (1.0 feet) if extrapolated to a 100-year period (Figure 1). A substantial portion of this sea level rise is the result of human-caused global warming; the global sea level rise since 1900 is estimated to be about 7.5 inches (0.19 meters). Most of this rise has occurred because of melting of glaciers and because water expands when heated. Over the past 10 years, sea level rise has accelerated along the Florida coast, and the rate has been about 7 mm per year (2.3 feet per century) at St. Petersburg. Changes in ocean circulation and wind patterns, with climate change a potential contributing factor, are thought to be the reason for the acceleration.

[mortalasworld]

she was not just his tsuguko

Character Profile

Name: Nakamura Hana (中村 花)

Appearance:

-Hair: Long, flowing dark blue hair, often tied into a high ponytail.

-Eyes: Striking shade of violet, reflecting her determination and inner strength.

-Haori: Dark blue haori adorned with silver lightning patterns, symbolizing her connection to the storm.

Breathing Technique: Storm Breathing (嵐の呼吸, Arashi no Kokyū)

-First Form: Thunderclap Strike (雷鳴の一撃, Raimei no Ichigeki) - A swift, powerful strike that mimics the sudden impact of a thunderclap, capable of stunning and disorienting the enemy.

-Second Form: Gale Force Slash (烈風の斬撃, Reppū no Zangeki) - A rapid, sweeping attack that generates a powerful gust of wind, pushing back enemies and creating space.

-Third Form: Lightning Flash (閃光の閃撃, Senkō no Sengeki) - A blindingly fast strike that leaves afterimages, making it difficult for the enemy to predict Hana's movements.

-Fourth Form: Tempest Fury (嵐の怒り, Arashi no Ikari) - A series of relentless, powerful strikes that mimic the chaotic and destructive nature of a storm.

-Fifth Form: Storm's Embrace (嵐の抱擁, Arashi no Hōyō) - A defensive technique that creates a barrier of swirling wind and lightning, protecting Hana from incoming attacks.

-Sixth Form: Cyclone Dance (旋風の舞, Senpū no Mai) - A graceful, flowing series of attacks that combine speed and power, overwhelming the enemy with a barrage of strikes.

-Seventh Form: Thunderstorm Finale (雷雨の終焉, Raiu no Shūen) - The ultimate form of Storm Breathing, where Hana channels the full power of a storm into a devastating, all-encompassing attack.

-Eighth Form: Storm's Requiem (嵐の鎮魂歌, Arashi no Chinkonka) - A powerful, sweeping attack that combines wind and lightning to create a devastating, wide-range strike.

-Ninth Form: Tempest's Wrath (嵐の怒り, Arashi no Ikari) - A relentless barrage of strikes that mimic the chaotic and destructive nature of a storm, overwhelming the enemy with sheer force.

-Tenth Form: Eye of the Storm (嵐の目, Arashi no Me) - A defensive technique that creates a calm center amidst the chaos, allowing Hana to regain her composure and plan her next move.

Personality:

Hana is fiercely loyal and dedicated, both to her training and to Obanai. She is calm and composed in battle, with a sharp mind and quick reflexes. Despite her serious demeanor, she has a gentle and caring side, especially towards Obanai, whom she admires deeply. Her determination to prove herself often leads her to push beyond her limits.

Background:

Hana was orphaned at a young age when her family was killed by demons. She was found and taken in by the Demon Slayer Corps, where she quickly showed promise. Recognizing her potential, Obanai Iguro took her under his wing as his tsuguko. Over time, their relationship grew from mentor and student to something deeper, with both developing strong feelings for each other.

Relationships:

Best Friends:

-Tengen Uzui: Tengen, with his flamboyant personality and unwavering confidence, brings a vibrant energy to Hana's life. Despite their contrasting natures, they share a deep bond of trust and camaraderie. Tengen often encourages Hana to embrace her strengths and not shy away from her potential.

-Shinobu Kocho: Shinobu’s calm and nurturing demeanor complements Hana’s serious nature. As a fellow female Demon Slayer, Shinobu provides Hana with guidance and support, helping her navigate the challenges of their dangerous world. Their friendship is built on mutual respect and understanding.

Love Interest:

-Obanai Iguro: Obanai is not only Hana's mentor but also the person she holds closest to her heart. Their relationship, built on a foundation of trust and shared experiences, has blossomed into a deep and abiding love. Obanai's protective nature and Hana's unwavering loyalty create a powerful bond between them.

KNY character Masterlist

I have a lot of different routes prepared for them