#Dauntless Dawn

[collectively-kyrit]

Dauntless Dawn, the Draxi

With the resolution of our Curse of Strahd campaign, all of our characters were brought back to their normal plane and set off to pick up their lives. For my Tabaxi Monk, Friend of Foe, this meant following through on a promise to another party member that he would confess his feelings for the live of his life.

And thus Dauntless Dawn, half Tabaxi, half brass dragon (lovingly deemed a Draxi by me), was inevitably born! I do not know if I'll ever get to play as her in a campaign (would require some homebrew for sure), but she would likely take to being a bard with possibly some multiclassing. Having grown up on stories of her dad's adventures and those of his Dawnseeker companions, Dawn would absolutely take to a life of adventures herself.

The little fellow on the lefthand side of her reference sheet is Jeb, a mimic that her father and friends adopted during their time in the valley of Barovia. Dawn has grown up with him at her side, expanding on the commands that her father taught him so that he can join her in her travels and make himself useful. Most commonly, Jeb can be found disguised somewhere on Dawn's person; coin pouch, ring, arm wrapping, and the like. When asked to though he'll take a more specific form, such as that of a lute so that Dawn doesn't have to waste funds. Still the scardy cat that he was when the Dawnseekers found him though, Jeb will not take the form of any weapons or armor!

I could ramble for ages, but I'll save that for future artwork featuring Dawn. I'm absolutely elated to have been able to commission this design though. I gave Earth very little to work with since at the time I knew very little about what I wanted for the character aside from name, probable class, and that they would adopt Jeb. Earth took that little bit of info along with the parents designs and came up with this absolutely gorgeous design! And even managed to get clothes on her despite those big ol wings! I've said it probably at least a dozen times, but please please check out Earth's work. She's such a gem. <3

[gogandmagog]

What do you think Gilbert’s most under-rated moment is? Of all the books. 😊

— Anne’s House of Dreams, Lucy Maud Montgomery

Man, it bursts my little bubble to think about the ‘Dawn and Dusk’ chapter of ‘House of Dreams’ too much but Gilbert’s most underrated moment has surely gotta be this one.

Gilbert’s dauntless integrity is really easy to overlook in the shadow of the ineffable sorrow of this moment. This is the single most violent blow in the world to hand a mother (or arguably anyone anywhere; the loss of a child is such a ruinous grief that not everyone survives it, and here even Marilla, a strong believer in moral code, in Providence, and honesties… openly flees the scene) and yet Gilbert delivers it so softly, and directly. The fortitude it must’ve taken to not honey the inevitability of Joy’s ‘going’, by spinning counterfeit hope, that maybe he couldn’t be totally sure of what was to come, or that there was even a very small chance of recovery. With the understanding, of course, that Gilbert would’ve been properly trained in the parsing and distributing of ugly tidings (practised as a class exercise in medical schools, even in the 1880’s — though still not necessarily a very teachable skill)… but all those fine words and bedside manner instructions count for a whole lot less when it’s your own much desired child, your own much loved wife, and your own present bracing against the crippling tragedy still at hand.

For me, this moment just speaks of true shining character. Though Anne pointedly asked, where Leslie did not, we can also still see when we compare these two harsh occasions of outing-the-truths, that Gilbert’s going to do the right thing, no matter how agonising, no matter how personal, and no matter the infliction to himself. 🥹 And anyway, I love him soooo much for it.

In the even bigger picture of this chapter, how ready Gilbert is to humble himself is also up for discovery. Doctor Dave was called to the house. Doctor Dave was retiring, out of date with his technique, and so old fashioned that Gilbert wasn’t in the habit of consulting with him unless things were philosophically dire. At this point, Gilbert had already righted some Doctor Dave wrongs in the community; saved lives that he would’ve lost. And when we let all that sink in, Gilbert’s desperation in ‘Dawn and Dusk’ starkly shows through.

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [03]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: no warnings apply

Summary: A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start. Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

Notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

Words: 4.3k

A/N: A shorter chapter, but I still hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you so much again for all the support! ♥ If anyone new wants to join the taglist, just lemme know!

03: wring those embers

back then, i was dauntless and dawn could never know and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

Indeed, at Rotwell everyone works hard to solve the Problem. It is quite impressive how immaculate they look while doing it—as though in addition to the highly sensitive Psychic Talents every Rotwell agent possesses, they secretly train to perform under stress with no fold in their jackets, no holes in their pants, no grime smudges on their faces. Seems as though your invitation to those seminars got lost on the mailing route.

You slither by the countless other agents in their splendid burgundy jackets, aware you stick out like a sore thumb with your torn coat and muddy steel-capped boots. After the night you had, it is hard to plaster on the charming smile that is Rotwell’s USP. Every winning smile sent your way by your colleagues is too bright, too clean. They look very new and fresh and shiny, like someone has popped them out of a plastic case this morning.

The glittering glass building rises on Regent Street with its smooth-fronted edifice of glass and marble. Snarling lions, holding rapiers in their forepaws, have been inscribed into the glass of its sliding double doors. Outside, a line of the desperate and ghost-haunted stands, waiting to get inside and petition the company for help. You squeeze past them inside the spacey foyer, a wide room with gold-fringed red carpets leading to the different departments laid out before a row of neat receptionists sitting at their tidy desks. Right at the room’s centre, in front of the white-marbled wide stairs leading to the upper floor, stands Tom Rotwell’s marble bust with its forever-frozen, blank expression passing judgement over his legacy. You feel very small under his scrutinising gaze, and duck along the marble pillars towards the maintenance apartment on ground floor.

Someone barks your name. There goes your plan to head in unnoticed and get cleaned up before any of the adult supervisors catches you. But when you turn, you recognise the scrawny boy heading your way: Aleck Gorobec, an agent from the Domestic Hauntings Division. He’s always had this habit of chewing on something—right now, he’s working a toothpick between his front teeth as though he’s trying to make a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Hey, Crawford wants you in his office.”

The relief vanishes in an instant. If you had to chose between spending the afternoon in Daniel Crawford’s office or doing a tango with a Wraith, you’d be already on your way to put on your best Sunday dress.

“Like, right now? ‘Cause I really need to get a new jacket—”

“NOW now,” he says. “Better not keep him waiting, he seemed prety pissed. I think he got into a fight with his wife. Again.”

Even better. He’ll chew you, spit you out and feed your remains to that little rat of a dog he owns.

You will find no support in Aleck; now that he has relayed the message, he turns and saunters back to his little group of half-sized lackeys with identical hair cuts, leaving you to your fate.

So you make your way towards the staff elevators and think about faking a heart attack so you could skip seeing Crawford. They wouldn’t let someone with a weak heart deal with something as harsh as work regulations, would they?

The lift brings you up two more floors to the deputy sector. Each floor is lined with heavy crimson carpets you know for a fact are steam-cleaned every night when the majority of agents set out for cases. Employees on this floor have their own canteen and coffee shop regular agents aren’t allowed to use—you have a feeling a cup of coffee or tea they serve up here costs half of your rent compared to the one they sell downstairs that is delivered by the local Starbucks.

Muffled voices drift through the rows of closed oak doors. Somehow, the smell always reminds you of a teacher‘s room; stuffy but comforting in a way, the sleek couches and spartan cabinets in the small waiting areas and lounges have absorbed the coffee smell over the years.

Crawford’s office is at the end of the long hall. You were hoping he would be caught up in a phone call as well, but when you knock, there’s an immediate “Come in!”

Andrew Crawford is a small, stocky man with little to no neck depending on his mood for the day. Apart from making it his life ambition to harass every even slightly successful agent under the age of 25, his other hobbies include collecting every type of Little Trees Car Air Fresheners on the market. As far as you know, he doesn’t even own a car.

“Took you long enough,” Crawford grumbles. His little hairy moustache twitches in annoyance. “Take a seat.”

You prefer to stand. Somehow you don’t think that’s what Crawford wants to hear. So you make your way across the office, slowly sinking into the hard plastic chair. Deputies’ rooms are all furnished equally: marble-topped desks, chairs, bins, filing cabinets and a few plants. You count ten, eleven, twelve of those air fresheners hanging from a single yucca plant.

Crawford finishes abusing his plastic keyboard, throws a glance at a large-scale street map of the Strands, his area he’s responsible for, takes a swig of cold tea and turns to you for the first time.

“Wait, where’s your damn jack—” Crawford stops, takes you fully in: the tears and holes, the grime and ectoplasm smudges on the once-splendid red. He grunts, and leans so far back in his swivel chair it creaks loudly in protest. “Almost didn’t recognise it. Say, Rotwell is one of the best employers anyone with Psychic talents could ask for, don’t you agree?”

You hate questions like this. “I, er—yes?”

Crawford looks at you. Then looks some more, as though he’s just waiting for you to realise what this is all about. He clears his throat and leans forward, puts his massive arms on the table as though he’s just having a chat with a close pal in a pub after work. “See, thing is, I was informed you were seen with unknown operatives from other agencies. And last time I checked—” He turns to the monitor to his left, slams his thick fingers on a few keys—“you were not on a job that required assistance from external agents.”

You start fidgeting with the hem of your gloves. “Well, no, but sir, I was attacked—”

“I heard that happens from time to time when engaging ghosts.”

“No, I mean by a man. Someone alive.”

Crawford eyes you suspiciously with his tiny, dark eyes. “When did that happen?”

“In the early morning hours. Three, four a.m.”

“And what do you want me to do about it now?”

You open your mouth, and close it. One of Crawfords few talents is successfully making you feel as though you are the problem. What if you were? What if you’re overreacting? An agent’s life tends to be dangerous, what of it? “Well, the culprit is still out—”

“Do you have a name? Did you see his face?”

“No, and I didn’t, but—”

“Then what exactly do you expect from me? Clearly, nothing serious happened to you, you got off with just a few scratches. The real issue is that due to what recently transpired, further employment might be a problem.”

You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration, feeling your body burning with anger, your blood boiling with rage that threatens to spill over. “I have worked here for five years, without any complaints, no breaches of contract.” You ball your hands into tight fists. “I am an exceptional agent, you know that. And you’re letting me go just like that?”

Crawford sighs wearily. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I am aware you are one of our more lucrative agents. But lucky for you, we are not letting you go. I merely suspend you for conducting unauthorised work with an external agency. Until your suspension is lifted, all benefits are revoked. That includes using certain facilities and access to equipment for field work. You can leave your jacket here.” Crawford reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two fingers, before returning to the paperwork in front of him.

It takes a moment to stir from the ice-cold grip that has taken hold of your body and heart. Your mouth is dry and a fist-big chunk of anxiety is lodged tightly in your throat. “I was not working with anyone. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Crawford replies calmly; something has caught his attention on the monitor, he isn’t even looking at you, “we’re just taking safety measures to ensure the confidentiality agreement wasn’t breached on your end.”

“But I—”

He looks up at you then, and blinks as though wondering why you are still wasting his time. “And where is your rapier?”

“Still at ho—the dormitory.”

“All right. No need to bother. We’ll send someone later to clear out the room. If you need help finding new accommodates, there are a few establishments offering lodge for little money in Lambeth I heard.”

The aggressive typing resumes. You are clearly dismissed.

Wrenching out of the jacket, you make no effort to hide your anger and frustration. Crawford gets a balled-up knot of dirty fabric thrown on his desk, but he seems to care little for your tantrum safe for raising a single bushy eyebrow at the flickering screen.

You stomp outside the room, slamming the door shut behind you hard enough it rattles the golden-framed paintings of rolling hills and slithering lakes on the wall.

You’ll show him. You’ll show them all.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the polished glass window on your way out—no wine-red jacket, nothing to identify who your employer, no former employer was; just your tired face yet eyes bright with determination, for the first time since a long while, you look like yourself again.

At the Lions Den, it isn’t just the cleaning crew mingling near the entrance. DEPRAC vans park in front of the main doors. A few officers are lost in a deep conversation about the intricately interwoven iron railings decorating the windows on the first floor. Two very tall, very sturdy Rotwell agents stand guard, self-important and with their chests puffed out as though they are guarding Buckingham Palace itself.

There is no way you’ll be able to get inside through the main entrance—even if you did, you have a gnawing suspicion security has been tripled inside since yesterday. They must have figured out someone has broken in, otherwise why would DEPRAC be here?

You duck behind naked rhododendron bushes and sneak towards the iron door leading to the back garden. Many residences in Chelsea have garden terraces; this one is a courtyard between several buildings. Slim paths wind through the back and disappear behind shoulder-high hedges. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the late fall, are strung with chains of white lights, and stylish ghost lamps scattered between them that give off the familiar green glow at night. A small fountain plashes musically in the centre of the yard.

Minding the pebbles crunching under your boots, you gingerly make your way across the lounging area, past the small tables and cushioned three-piece suites—until you catch the swish of a black coat disappearing around a corner.

Just great.

You hurry after it, hearing the crunch of stone under heavy work boots somewhere behind you. DEPRAC, or worse, Rotwell agents.

The two are hiding behind a bench facing the back entrance. Before whoever strolls behind you can round the corner, you grab Lockwood by the end of his coat, and Lucy by the back of her collar, and yank them behind the trunk of an elm casting long, dark shadows on the building.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss; all three of you are cowering so close together your knees almost touch.

Lucy looks as though she is still recovering from being grabbed like that—by considering if she should swing at you or not. Lockwood on the contrary has already collected himself and put on a diplomatic smile. Yet you can see the steady, fast hammering of his pulse against his throat.

“Why, Lucy has never seen the infamous Lions Den, that’s why I took her up on a little sightseeing—” Lockwood begins.

“We need to get inside,” Lucy hisses back. Straightforward, to the point, like an arrow aiming true. You can work with that.

“Not sure if you noticed, but Rotwell dormitories have a strict jacket-only policy,” you say. You feel their eyes on you like a pair of red-hot coals.

“Where’s your jacket then?” Lucy asks.

You draw your shoulders back. “I quit. This morning. Afternoon. So, no jacket for me.” What’s a little lie if they will never find out the truth. Whatever shrapnel of self-respect you can hold, you will staple it on you as though it is the last leaf whipping on a barren branch during a cold winter storm—the last remnant of the previous season where everything was warmer and cosier.

There is silence. You can hear the soft electrical hum of the lights and ghost lamps turning on above your heads as dawn sets in, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

Lockwood and Lucy exchange looks—it seems like a glance, but you recognise a full blown conversation governed by face muscles and eye narrowing; it is the same whenever you and Kipps argue about something without wanting a third person to understand the topic. Kipps’s teams calls it your ‘sibling conversation.’ Lockwood and Lucy look a lot like that right now, conjuring full volumes with shared glances only.

“Just follow me,” you mumble, and duck behind a juniper tree before they can reach the conclusion of their argument. “And keep your heads down.”

You lead them away from the agents strolling down the path you’ve been on just a minute ago. Lockwood and Lucy immediately stick to your heels, careful their heads don’t poke over the hedges.

The three of you sneak around the east wing, through another iron gate and pause to listen for voices. Only a couple House Sparrows chirp in the trees above your heads. This could be a graveyard for how frequent visitors stroll by.

Finding your apartment isn’t hard. Bright, neon-yellow DEPRAC tape marks an X where the full-height window, smashed and gaping, leads inside the rooms. Glass lies strewn across the grass. The entrance to your apartment is like a dark mouth, the broken glass still sticking to its frames standing out like jagged teeth.

Again, you listen for voices. Again, only silence answers. You look back at Lockwood and Lucy. “I’ll go check things out. You stay here and keep watch. If anyone comes, let me know.”

Not interested in any disagreement or otherwise unsolicited opinions, you turn to slip inside. A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start.

Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

You wrestle with what you should say. You have never been skilled at putting things delicately. Frankly, you’re better off on your own than having to worry about those two—and yet. If Lockwood and his agents had not let you stay and patched you up, what use would have your confidence now?

Not trusting your voice, you nod.

Glass shards crunch under your boots when you step inside. The whole room is demolished: furniture overturned, the cupboards have been completely and methodically emptied. All the drawers are missing. What remains of your desk is splinters and broken leftovers. Your clothes have been ripped off the hangers and thrown on the ground, some even torn. You don’t want to think about how you would have met the same end if he had gotten you into his hands.

The wardrobe’s door barely hanging on its hinges squeals when you carefully pull it open. You find your duffel bag at the bottom, and meticulously start throwing whatever intact clothes you can find inside. A few shirts, something you can wear to sleep, underwear, a few jeans, your favourite turtlenecks, sweaters. A package of unopened gloves. Your library pass that grants you access to every Archive in London—the one you thought you’d lost a week ago and technically should return to Rotwell.

An old, outdated kit with a few zip fasteners missing hangs from a hook. Whatever leftover equipment from missions you’ve hoarded over the years—salt bombs, iron fillings, hands-sized lavender packages, one canister of Greek fire, a slightly rusty iron chain—you pull out from the back corner and cram inside the kit. There’s also the last model of a layered leather harness with small pockets and buckles to hold equipment that you prefer to the standard agent belt around the waist.

It should be enough to manage simple cases as a freelance psychic operative until you find your bearings and build a reputation. Type Ones should be no problem, and most non-agents can’t tell the difference between grocery-bought salt and the extra grainy and purified salt from Sunrise Corp. You’ll have to drop by at the Thames Embankment at some point, where a lot of the cheaper merchants ply their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge.

But your first job will be making sure no one will get hurt over that stupid key ever again.

There is one more thing. On the door, tapped against the wood, is an old photograph. Matthew, Kipps, you. Age eighteen and thirteen, the boys crowd you and pull grimaces behind your beaming face as you proudly present your shining new rapier and the Fittes Manual to the camera. Seven years, but it feels like a lifetime.

People always used to say that you two have the same eyes—everything else is different like night and day. His blonde curls shine like a halo in the setting sun stealing through the curtained window in the back. He has a half-smile on his face, and his head tilted towards Kipps as though he is just on the verge of turning and telling him something. You see the same dimple on his cheek that you have when you smile, and when you squint you can make out the small smudge of pasta on the corner of his mouth you guys had earlier to celebrate you achieving third grade.

You fight the urge to touch his face on the picture—the only comfort during the first months without him. Even though you know he won’t come back, sometimes you wished an echo would reverberate, something that connects you to him apart from the memory of the last day spent together before he died. You take the picture and fold it neatly before putting it into your back. Grief can try and catch up later when you’re too busy to give it more thought.

As you get your stuff ready, something glinting on the ground catches your eye. It is a small, polished coin, flat on one side and engraved on the other. Depicted on the bottom is an infinity sign, and above is a double cross. You brush your thumb against it, but of course there is no psychic echo attached to this item. Because it belongs to a living person—that living person who must have lost it when he destroyed the interior.

Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat. You stare at the symbol for some time, unblinking. The bitter taste of a certain word spreads on your tongue, closing your throat.

Unwrapping this revelation will have to wait. You move swiftly to the hallway and stand before the umbrella rack that holds your rapiers. Most of them are a little too fancy not to link them back to one of the bigger agents with their jewelled handles, but there are two with simple designs, so you decide on the 17th Century Italian Rapier.

“Take the Solinger Rapier,” comes Lockwood’s voice from behind you, startling you. You shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t listen to orders, still you throw a glare at him over your shoulder which he promptly ignores by giving you a bright grin. “More balanced.”

“So much for being a team. Scared I’ll just run off with the evidence?”

“Ah, so you did find something. Well, we at Lockwood and Co. hold teamwork to the highest account. It is only polite I help.”

Any reply gets stuck in your throat when loud steps thump on the other side of the apartment’s door. Lockwood and you look at each other, eyes wide.

You throw your kit at him without a second thought so you can go after your other bag, and to his credit, he catches it effortlessly and bolts for the smashed window. Before you follow, you quickly snatch the Solinger Rapier and fasten it to your belt.

With your duffel bag in hand, you join Lockwood and Lucy outside. The sun is already behind the horizon, the sky a pale grey-blue, the colour of tempered steel. You take your kit back from Lockwood, ignoring his satisfied grin like a cat in the sun when he notices which rapier model dangles from your hip, and lead them back through the gardens out on Dovehouse Street.

Everything is going so smoothly. Too smoothly. Since the universe can’t have that, just as you close the iron gate behind you and set out down the street to where you guys can call a cab, a familiar voice calls out your name—a voice that always has your fight-flight-response kicking in, tending towards fight the moment you turn around and see Sebastian Vernon’s self-satisfied, arrogant grin.

Sebastian Vernon, a fellow Rotwell operative at the height of his career: he’s recently turned 19, he managed to luck out a Jack of all Trades regarding Psychic Talents and sports an impressive, sharp jawline many girls you know swoon over. The Golden Boy, The Pride of Rotwell. Of course he developed an ego as big as an inflated balloon with nicknames like that.

“Did you get my note this morning?” His voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Great drawing, isn’t it?”

“So it was you. I almost couldn’t tell; it looked like a five year old drew that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his smile cools down to freezing point. “I heard they kicked you out,” he continues. “What was it this time? Botched a job? Set a customer’s house on fire?” He strides towards you with his hands behind his back, his cologne trailing like a cloak. His hair is pinned up fashionably, expression arch. He has always possessed a regal bearing. You can’t understand how he manages to look down his nose at you, even though you are one head taller.

You have crewed with him sometimes during the years, and neither have warmed to the other. You try to chalk it up to personality conflict, but deep down, you know that it is mutual dislike. Sebastian always finds ways to make you feel less-than with the barest twist of inflection or a carefully chosen word slipped like a knife between the ribs, so sharp you don’t notice the wound until you look up from a lapful of blood. And you aren’t above a blunt riposte, even if it often comes far too late.

When he’s close enough to stand in front of you, he whistles. “Like what you did with your face. Gotta compliment whoever gave you that shiner.”

“Jealous they managed that within a day when you couldn’t do it in the last five years?”

His smile turns arctic. At least that’s something you can always hold against him: kicking his ass in every in-house rapier duel since joining Rotwell.

“Always with that big mouth,” Sebastian seethes. “Whoever rearranged your face should have done us all a favour and shut you up for good.”

“I would appreciate,” Lockwood says in a conversational tone, making you startle—you have completely forgotten him and Lucy, “if you do not threaten my agency’s associate.”

He holds himself leisurely, relaxed. His long, slender fingers curl around his belt—not outright resting on his rapier handle, but close enough that he could reach it with one swift, quick movement if he wanted.

Sebastian blinks. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

A corner of Lockwood’s mouth twitches. His voice is deceptively calm, his smile wolfish. “Lockwood from Lockwood and Co.”

Sebastian’s pale blue eyes widen. He looks at you. “You’re telling me you’re working with Andrew Lockwood? From the Lockwood and Co.?” A sort of deranged laugh escapes him. “I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad! Surely, even you can do better than Lockwood and Co.!”

You throw a quick glance at Lockwood. He regards Sebastian in silence, and his face can be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which you realise now makes him all the more terrifying. His gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent.

“Why not ask your ginger boyfriend if he can get you a position at Fittes’s?” Sebastian’s smile crooks into a cruel half-moon. “Or has he already reached his expiration date?”

You open your mouth—and to your surprise Lucy shoulders past Lockwood and wrenches one of your bags out of your hand. Her eyes are blazing, red blotches of rage spot her cheeks and neck. “His name is Anthony Lockwood. And Kipps—Quill Kipps has a name, too! If you don’t have anything nice to say to your fellow—former colleague after everything she’s been through, then best keep your mouth shut.”

She whirls around and marches off, like a sudden autumn storm sweeping through the streets. Lockwood and you share a look; you notice his eyes glint with barely contained mirth and pride before he dashes after Lucy.

When you glance at Sebastian, he keeps his face blank, but the emotion behind it becomes unsettling and dangerous, like a vague whiff of burning plastic from an electrical outlet.

You hurry after your two new companions. Sebastian’s voice trails after you like a shadow. “Careful you don’t get your new team killed. Again.”

You draw up your shoulders, take your doubt, ball it up, and crush it into a fuel you can use.

“So,” you say when you caught up with Lockwood and Lucy. You’d offer to take your bag back, but Lucy holds it as though she can’t wait to use it as a weapon and bludgeon someone with it. “Kipps has a name, too. Nice one.”

“Shut it. I just can’t stand haughty guys like him,” Lucy grumbles, impatiently swiping hair out of her eyes.

“Funny,” Lockwood notices brightly, “how you sometimes use that same voice with me.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders dissipates.

“I gotta admit, good teamwork so far,” you say. “I guess I can let you take a look at this.”

You flip the coin between your fingers and present it with the symbol up on your open palm.

Lockwood wastes no time plucking it from your hand, his fingertips brushing against your gloves. Even through the fabric, you feel the warmth of his skin. You put that information into a box, close it up, and shove it into a far, dark corner where you’ll hopefully forget it and it can collect dust.

“Fascinating,” Lockwood mumbles, inspecting the coin from every angle. “Does anyone know what this symbol means?”

Lucy glances at his open palm. “No.”

He said so earlier. No secrets, no holding back information. Yet this is something you can’t share yet. The fact that somehow, this symbol seems … familiar.

“No,” you echo, eyes fixed ahead on the road. Black clouds, like slabs of onyx, gather at the horizon, rolling over London. “Never seen it before.”

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[heliads]

Pls could you do an imagine four X reader. Where the reader is an initiate and is secretly dating for but all the other initiate are picking on the reader , could you also make a part 1 and 2 with a bit of smut 😊😜🙏

Enjoy your day and I love your posts

hi! i don't write smut so i just did your request without it :)

masterlist

The worst part of the fall only comes at the end. You expected the panic to set in when you were plummeting through the air, or even when you jumped off of the roof in the name of Dauntless initiation, but no. Even after you lie there on the net, dazed after losing those few lungfuls of freedom you’d managed to snatch during your drop, it still doesn’t feel as if you’ve done much of anything. 

You only know you’ve irrevocably changed the course of your future when you feel a young man take your hand to help you out of the net. You’re blinking up at the ceiling, delighting in what you’ve done, and then you find yourself staring at somebody you know will ruin your life, even without seeing the future. 

The problem is him, of course, the problem is the fact that your heart starts to beat so loudly in your chest upon coming face to face with him that you’re certain he must be able to hear it. He’s handsome, obviously, the kind of beautiful they only lie about in stories, but most importantly, he’s regarding you with the sort of half smirk that tells you he’ll be nothing but trouble. 

Looking back on it, you probably loved him from that moment forward. He might have felt the same way, too, judging by the way he kept his fingers wrapped around yours for a beat too long. Eventually, he coughed and looked away hurriedly, but even after the other initiates came down, his gaze kept flicking to you, over and over again like a compass finding true north. 

He introduced himself soon enough, first to the initiation class at large and then, later, to you alone. You’d already been awake when the leaders called for everyone to get over to the training center, having been forced into uncanny awareness by the sheer excitement of what was to come. 

Thus you’d been the first to show up to training by a long shot. Four met you by the door with a wry grin and a prediction that this could surely only mean good things for your future as an initiate. You had heard that he was known for his sharp wit and cool words, but Four never showed you that supposed side of him.

Instead, he treated you with genuine kindness, something you quickly learned is a rarity around here. As the days went by, and Four’s temper remained even, you got to know him better than most. He spends long evenings practicing his skills in front of punching bags and targets so he doesn’t have to think about anything else, he got a lot of his tattoos to cover himself up instead of calling attention to himself like everyone else. 

Most of all, you learn that you love him. It is not an easy decision to make, acknowledging this stubborn feeling, but it somehow seems right. You knew from the first time you laid eyes on him that Four would mean more to you than anyone else here, and you weren’t wrong. He makes you feel complete, even more so than switching factions and finding a new home in Dauntless. 

As it turns out, you aren’t the only one harboring feelings. One night, after a late party and a couple drinks, you find yourself walking back to the dorms alone with Four. He keeps starting to say something and then stopping, swallowing back his words before he can commit to something he may regret. 

Eventually, one hall away from the initiates’ quarters, Four manages to get over his tied tongue long enough to say that he loves you too. He does it with eyes averted, body practically shifted away from you as if in fear of how you’ll respond. 

In return, you mention that you love him as well, and watch a slow sunrise of a smile dawn on his face. Four is typically good at concealing his emotions, but it doesn’t work out today. He’s grinning like a child, the boy he must have been before this world sucked him dry of all his joy. For once, he is more than skin and bone, more than blood and bullets. He is in love with you, and that is all that matters. 

You think you would be perfectly content with your story ending there, with a confession and a smile and a kiss hidden in the dark corridors of Dauntless. Unfortunately, you’re still an initiate, and that means your relationship has to remain a secret. Four doesn’t want anyone to think that you’re only getting a good ranking because you’re seeing one of the training leaders, so you keep everything under wraps. 

Some part of you wishes it could be put in the open, what you have. You watch couples walking around the Dauntless complex, casually showing off hands in pockets and borrowed clothes, gifted guns and matching tattoos. It hurts like a dull blade to see them and realize that you’ll never be able to have that so long as you’re in initiation, but you can wait. Training won’t last forever, and once that’s done, Four swears that the two of you would have the world if you wanted it. 

For now, you keep back your jealousy of all the public couples, and choose instead to focus on what you do have now, which is Four all to yourself. The two of you meet up in his apartment night after night, talking over the day’s events or just sitting there in silence. Neither of you have to say a word for the other to understand you, and it is wonderful. 

After all, this is what you wanted, even if no one else knows about it. People go their entire lives just wishing to have a love like the one you and Four share, and you have it right here before you. No one else has ever cared about you the way Four does, and perhaps no one ever will. It scares you sometimes, the depths of your affection, but this is Dauntless; fear is joy. You love it all the while. 

Besides, you’re already hard at work setting up a future for yourself. You’re doing really well in initiation, and Four has nothing to do with that. You belong in Dauntless, plain and simple, and everyone can see it. 

However, in this case attention is bad once again. Once you started rising through the rankings during the first couple days, and especially after you resolutely stayed there at the top, people started to grumble as they always do. No one likes to see success, not if it’s not them, not if it can keep them from getting what they want. You keep being on the receiving end of accusatory glares and burning jealousy, and although you’ve sworn to yourself to pay it no mind, it’s getting kind of hard to ignore. 

There’s this one group of girls that have proven themselves to be the worst. Perhaps it’s their status as former Candor coming to their aid in terms of seeking out lies, but they’ve gotten as close as anyone to figuring out that you’re dating Four. 

As of right now, they believe that you, much like most of the other trainee girls and boys including themselves, have a crush on Four, and that he’s been giving most of his hard earned praise to you. This alone is unforgivable to them, but it’s the fact that they’re consistently below you in the rankings that drives the final nail into the coffin. 

You’ve been waiting for them to try something for a while now. Four has certainly warned you about it. Apparently, every year someone tries to take out one of the higher ranked initiates, or get in their heads long enough to make them doubt themselves right before a crucial fight. This year, the target is most likely in your back, something that neither Four nor you particularly appreciate. 

You think they’re planning something, too, something that’s going to happen sooner rather than later. They’ve gotten more bold with their comments, more antagonistic with their stares. At some point, they’re going to make their move, and you have to be ready when they do. 

Today appears to be that day. The initiates have been given half an hour to ready themselves before another round of graded fights. It’ll be the second to last one before phase one of training ends, so everyone’s panicked, trying to figure out how they can scrape out a good showing in time to save themselves. Most will manage it. A few won’t, and you can tell which ones those are just by glancing around the room. 

Speaking of which, you can see some now. That one pack of girls has been hovering around the cutoff line for a while. Judging by the way their eyes settle on you with an almost grateful viciousness, they’re in need of some sort of distraction from their imminent loss. 

They happen to drift over to your punching bag soon enough, and the lead one whispers something to you over the beat of your fists. 

“I wonder if Four will like you so much after you fail the next round.”

They start to sweep away across the training room, but stop moving when you call out to them. You have no doubt that they want this, a confrontation, but you want it too. 

“What did you say to me?”

You keep your tone ice cold, but they’re still all smiles when they turn back around. The lead girl, a nuisance named Tina, is practically beaming at you. 

“Oh, nothing. We were just thinking about how fun it will be to watch Four grow disgusted with you after you lose your next fight. I think we’d all love to see it.”

You arch a brow. “Who said I was losing?”

Tina smirks. “You’ll be fighting me. That’s why.”

“Again,” you say, “why does that mean I’ll be losing? You’re as much a threat as a child.”

Tina’s face sours like she’s just bitten into a lemon. “Very funny joke, Y/N, but trust me, you’re going to wish you never said that. You may have everyone else fooled, but not me. I know you’re just a little cheater, so bad at being good that you think you have to flirt with Four to make it around here.”

Your stomach twists. Man, you hate her. You’re just about to open your mouth and say something equally hurtful back, but someone beats you to it, and that someone is Four. 

“I think I’m confused, initiate. How is it that you think talking badly to one of the highest ranked people here is going to get you anything?”

Tina’s face drops in a flash, and she quickly scrambled to save face. “I meant nothing like that. I was just having a friendly conversation with a fellow trainee.”

Four moves to stand beside you, face as hard as if it had been carved from stone. “Do you think I’m stupid, initiate? You think I can’t hear you?”

Tina starts stuttering something about how she meant nothing of the sort, but Four speaks over her as if she’d never made a sound. 

“Y/N is highly ranked because she’s one of the best. I have nothing to do with that, and she might be that good in spite of me, because I’m the one giving her all the hardest fights. You, on the other hand, are one round away from becoming factionless. Who knows, maybe that’ll happen today.”

Tina’s friends have quickly disappeared into the corners of the training room, and she seems to have realized that she’s now very alone. She winces and mutters a quick apology, evidently quite desperate to leave and save face. 

Before she can go, though, Four leans forward and whispers one last thing in her ear.  “Oh, and and just so you know? Y/N was flirting with me because I’ve been flirting with her. We’re dating. Get over it, and stop using that as an excuse to justify your own terrible behavior.”

Four flashes the girl a smile that's as sharp as a blade, and you can practically see the blood fall as Tina all but runs away. 

You raise a brow at Four once she’s out of earshot. “I thought we weren’t telling anyone that we were together.”

Four just chuckles. “I have a feeling that she won’t be telling anyone. Good luck for today's fights, Y/N. I look forward to seeing you win.”

With that, he strides back out into the training room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a smile as bright as the sun. Even disregarding the fights to come, you have a feeling that you’ve won in a landslide. 

divergent tag list: @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace, @gods-fools-heroes

[casposters]

Title: Guadalcanal 1942–43: Japan's Bid to Knock Out Henderson Field and the Cactus Air Force Authors: Mark Stille & Jim Laurier

Attack on the “High-Speed Convoy” On October 15, the remnants of the attack aircraft from the Cactus Air Force attacked the Japanese “High-Speed Convoy” of six transports and eight destroyers. The transports arrived off Guadalcanal at midnight and immediately began to unload. When dawn broke, the Marines found the transports protected by Zeros from carriers Hiyo and Junyo and floatplanes from the R Area Air Force. Japanese bombardments of Henderson Field by battleships and cruisers the previous two nights left few American aircraft operational and little fuel. The fuel problem was solved when one of Geiger’s staff officers remembered the location of an emergency fuel reserve. As the Marines searched for fuel, the mechanics worked furiously to return damaged aircraft to flyable condition. Eventually, Geiger prepared a coordinated strike of 12 Dauntlesses escorted by eight Wildcats, three P-39s, and a single P-400. Geiger added his personal PBY-5A flying boat to the strike flown by his personal pilot Major Jack Cram. Using the slow and plodding PBY in daylight was considered suicidal, but the situation demanded every aircraft be committed. The PBY was fitted with two torpedoes and Cram was given his first-ever lesson on how to conduct a torpedo attack. The plan was for the Dauntlesses to attack first and draw attention away from the low-flying PBY. Cram put the aircraft into a dive and reached 240 knots, beyond the PBY’s safe speed. He succeeded in launching his two torpedoes at transport Sasago Maru. The ship was set afire, though it is not known if the cause was a Dauntless bomb or one of Cram’s torpedoes.

Wildcats and Zeros were exchanging fire behind the lumbering PBY. After delivering his attack, Cram turned left to regain the Marine perimeter. One Zero riddled the PBY and closed for the kill. A Wildcat got behind the Zero and brought it down on the edge of Henderson Field. Both Cram and his PBY survived this harrowing experience.

[alienturnipp]

The OCs assembled <3 Their credits are under cut!

Larger size pics: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Lyra Cousland @chisotahn Reth @wolfs-dawn Malachi Trevelyan @fthechantry Thalia Trevelyan @nirikeehan Connor Trevelyan @plisuu Neria Surana Lavellan @inquisimer Maordrid @mogwaei Cariane Amell @my-dumb-obsessions Neria Surana @windwalker57 Irassalin Lavellan @xochihuacoyotl Lucky Hawke @blue-eyes-white-privilege69 Athel Lavellan @calicocantaloupe Celia Mac-Tir Cousland @dauntless-necromancer Marian Hawke @sillyliterature Fenya Hawke @whiskynorocks

[jewishdainix]

Back then i was dauntless the dawn could never know and my weekness made me weep less than i would ever show you i burned so bright it blind but i know that light guided me here

I walk into that river to wring those embers from my beoken heart broken liver youll never get your dinner if you dont know how to get along a fox somewhere is hiding that light i thought wa sblinding brought me

Here

I look into the river and see a face i dont understaaaand

Were both unwanted daughters but theres more than whater in these autumn hands whats this who are you what changed i ask

So strange

She repliiiiiiees

Shoulder the skys (i cant wait to show you) open those eyessss (all i know you cann beee just let the rain come let the rain come) theres a kiiind of calling

Calling

Back then i wasnt hopeful but now my inks blood red not black and I blink like ripping evalopes in the hopes that youll right back and on the banks of that river i shiver as a fox stands frozen and I close them I close them I close my eyyyyes

Cause Im between that just one more and drank too much again

And i promise you ill write I love you with my fingers on your sleeping hand and when that fox howles ill howl with it in cries ill find an end

And when I think im fine youll visit and then you happen to me you happen to me all over again in the waters i see a face

I dont want to look

Back

Do they like my dress its got pockets? The rock beneath my feet begin to crack

Oh I look into the waters long ago that current caught us and we triiied

I tried

I really fucking tried

But the rain kept coming down

I WATCHES THAT WOMAN DROWN

SHOULDER THE SKYYYYYYYYYYS (I CANT WAIT TO SHOW YOU ALL I KNOW) OPEN THOSE EYESSSSS (YOU CAN BEEE JUST LET THE RAIN COME LET THE RAIN COME) THERES A KIIIIIIIIIIIND (COME NOW DARLING CANT YOU HEAR IT HOWLING YOU ITS) OF CALLING

(CALLLING)

CALLING

SHOULDER THE SKYYYYYYYYYYS (I CANT WAIT TO SHOW YOU ALL I KNOW) OPEN THOSE EYESSSSS (YOU CAN BEEE JUST LET THE RAIN COME LET THE RAIN COME) THERES A KIIIIIIIIIIIND (COME NOW DARLING CANT YOU HEAR IT HOWLING YOU ITS) OF CALLING

(CALLING)

CALLING

SHOULDER THE SKYYYYYYYYYYS (I CANT WAIT TO SHOW YOU ALL I KNOW) OPEN THOSE EYESSSSS (YOU CAN BEEE JUST LET THE RAIN COME LET THE RAIN COME) THERES A KIIIIIIIIIIIND (COME NOW DARLING CANT YOU HEAR IT HOWLING YOU ITS) OF CALLING

CALLING

CALLING

SHOULDER THE SKYYYYYYYYYYS (I CANT WAIT TO SHOW YOU ALL I KNOW) OPEN THOSE EYESSSSS (YOU CAN BEEE JUST LET THE RAIN COME LET THE RAIN COME) THERES A KIIIIIIIIIIIND (COME NOW DARLING CANT YOU HEAR IT HOWLING YOU ITS) OF CALLING

(CALLING)

CALLING

SHOULDER THE SKYYYYYYYYYYS (I CANT WAIT TO SHOW YOU ALL I KNOW you caaaan beee) open those eyyyyyes (just let the rain come let the rain come) theres a kiiiiind (come now daeling dont you hear it howling you its ) a calling

(Calling) calling

In

The rainfall

[fluentisonus]

Since we've finally gotten there & it's my favorite song in the book!! This is my personal favorite version of the Song of Eärendil/Eärendil Was a Mariner

Lyrics (also in today's newsletter):

that tarried in Arvernien;

Eärendil was a mariner

he built a boat of timber felled

in Nimbrethil to journey in;

her sails he wove of silver fair,

of silver were her lanterns made,

her prow he fashioned like a swan,

and light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,

in chainéd rings he armoured him;

his shining shield was scored with runes

to ward all wounds and harm from him;

his bow was made of dragon-horn,

his arrows shorn of ebony,

of silver was his habergeon,

his scabbard of chalcedony;

his sword of steel was valiant,

of adamant his helmet tall,

an eagle-plume upon his crest,

upon his breast an emerald.

 

Beneath the Moon and under star

he wandered far from northern strands,

bewildered on enchanted ways

beyond the days of mortal lands.

From gnashing of the Narrow Ice

where shadow lies on frozen hills,

from nether heats and burning waste

he turned in haste, and roving still

on starless waters far astray

at last he came to Night of Naught,

and passed, and never sight he saw

of shining shore nor light he sought.

The winds of wrath came driving him,

and blindly in the foam he fled

from west to east, and errandless,

unheralded he homeward sped.

 

There flying Elwing came to him,

and flame was in the darkness lit;

more bright than light of diamond

the fire upon her carcanet.

The Silmaril she bound on him

and crowned him with the living light,

and dauntless then with burning brow

he turned his prow; and in the night

from Otherworld beyond the Sea

there strong and free a storm arose,

a wind of power in Tarmenel;

by paths that seldom mortal goes

his boat it bore with biting breath

as might of death across the grey

and long-forsaken seas distressed:

from east to west he passed away.

Through Evernight he back was borne

on black and roaring waves that ran

o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores

that drowned before the Days began,

until he heard on strands of pearl

where ends the world the music long,

where ever-foaming billows roll

the yellow gold and jewels wan.

He saw the Mountain silent rise

where twilight lies upon the knees

of Valinor, and Eldamar

beheld afar beyond the seas.

A wanderer escaped from night

to haven white he came at last,

to Elvenhome the green and fair

where keen the air, where pale as glass

beneath the Hill of Ilmarin

a-glimmer in a valley sheer

the lamplit towers of Tirion

are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

 

He tarried there from errantry,

and melodies they taught to him,

and sages old him marvels told,

and harps of gold they brought to him.

They clothed him then in elven-white,

and seven lights before him sent,

as through the Calacirian

to hidden land forlorn he went.

He came unto the timeless halls

where shining fall the countless years,

and endless reigns the Elder King

in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;

and words unheard were spoken then

of folk of Men and Elven-kin,

beyond the world were visions showed

forbid to those that dwell therein.

 

A ship then new they built for him

of mithril and of elven-glass

with shining prow; no shaven oar

nor sail she bore on silver mast:

the Silmaril as lantern light

and banner bright with living flame

to gleam thereon by Elbereth

herself was set, who thither came

and wings immortal made for him,

and laid on him undying doom,

to sail the shoreless skies and come

behind the Sun and light of Moon.

 

From Evereven's lofty hills

where softly silver fountains fall

his wings him bore, a wandering light,

beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.

From World's End then he turned away,

and yearned again to find afar

his home through shadows journeying,

and burning as an island star

on high above the mists he came,

a distant flame before the Sun,

a wonder ere the waking dawn

where grey the Norland waters run.

 

And over Middle-earth he passed

and heard at last the weeping sore

of women and of elven-maids

in Elder Days, in years of yore.

But on him mighty doom was laid,

till Moon should fade, an orbéd star

to pass, and tarry never more

on Hither Shores where mortals are;

for ever still a herald on

an errand that should never rest

to bear his shining lamp afar,

the Flammifer of Westernesse.

[glitchysquidd]

What games do you already have currently?

Um... a lot..

But I'll tell you what games I enjoy playing.

Celeste, Incryption, Overwatch, Fortnite, Rec Room, Minecraft, MoonLighter, GTA5, Slime Rancher, FNAF, Spiderman, Batman Arkham, Dead By Daylight, Rocket League, Amnesia Collection, Amnesia The Bunker, Alien Isolation, Dead Cells, Deltarune, Undertale, Fall Guys, Gang Beasts, Hollow Knight, Human Fall Flat, I am Bread, Jurassic World Evolution 2, Kingdom: New Lands, Lots of Lego Games, Little Nightmares 1 & 2, Machinarium, Maneater, Minecraft Dungeons, Terraria, Mortal Kombat, OKAGE: Shadow King, Overcooked 2, Plants VS Zombies: Battle for Neighborville, Proteus, Rayman, LBP 2 & 3, Sackboy: A Big Adventure, SOMA, Sonic Adventures 1 & 2, Sonic Generations, Sparkle 2, The Deer God, The Sly Collection, Untitled Goose Game, A Hat in Time, ABZÛ, Among US, Alan Wake Remastered, Apex, ARK, Biomutant, Bioshock Collection, Bloodborne, Borderlands Collection, Black Ops 4, Modern Warfare 1 & 2, Cities Skylines, Control, Dauntless, Death's Door, Don't Starve Together, Dreams, DOOM, Ending, Enter The Gungeon, Erica, Evil Dead, Fade to Silence, Fallout 4, Far Cry 3 & 4, Ghost of a Tale, God of War, Gravity Rush Remastered, HITMAN 2, Horizon Zero Dawn both games and DLC, Journey, INSIDE, Just Cause 4, Meet Your Maker, Party Hard, Prey, Predator: Hunting Grounds, Q*Bert Rebooted, Tomb Raider, Slay the Spire, Spiritfarer, Stray, Subnautica, The Blackout Club, The Escapists, Sims 4, Until Dawn, Velocibox, Werewolf: The Apocalypse, Wytchwood, Bugsnax, Chicory: A Colorful Tale.

(I have more than that but those aren't my games, their my sister's, we share a ps4)

[dkniade]

I found an old Albedo x Dorian draft

What is this… Why is it so sad. Out of character in some parts. But I’ll share some interesting parts

Warning: guilt-tripping, nsfw (but they’re mostly talking about identity), self-objectification

-

“As you know, it’s my goal to seek out more knowledge. The feeling of discovery and success is truly exquisite... Albedo, I’ve always wanted a perfect son. As the prototype, you will not fail your master, will you? Can you promise mother that?”

Back then I was dauntless / And dawn could never know / That my weakness made me weep less / Than I would ever show you

-

DORIAN: Different people, huh… Where are you going to touch me?

ALBEDO: Ah… I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

DORIAN: What? You’re giving me a choice in how I want to submit?

-

ALBEDO: As opposed to the twisted beauty and perfection Rhinedottir had expected, the way you naturally look right now deserves to be sketched down.

DORIAN: Even if I want to see you lying beneath me? As a testimony to what I can do, what pleasure I can bring to you?

ALBEDO: As scientists, should we not experiment, and transform what’s unknown into familiarity?

-

ALBEDO: Because we share the same experience. Because you understand the hardships I’ve been through, just as you trusted me with yours. Due to this, you understand this body…

DORIAN pauses and looks back at him a little sadly.

DORIAN: This body of yours, that’s more perfect than mine.

ALBEDO: Let me put forth an analogy. Each painting is an artwork in their own right even if they’re of the same subject, and a difference in style does not make one lesser than the other.

DORIAN: Perfection… Affection… They’re such elusive things. While it can please someone else, a tool… can’t possibly receive pleasure itself. It does not have its own identity.

ALBEDO: No, I’d say straying from realism and experimenting with art styles is a mark of individuality, so relax.

-

DORIAN: …How would you even please someone like me?

ALBEDO: I would kiss the absent mark on your neck.

ALBEDO: Until it reappears as a symbol of your humanity.

[remedyxtragedy]

Scintilla--

(picture created by me) Dainty heads are rested onto pillows of sunflowers and orange carnations as grief-stricken hearts bid them farewell, squeeze at their hands, and leave to them trinkets of endearment as they go on in dull locomotion Guiltless, dauntless, rageless eyes observe from a nearby hedgegrow, basking in, drinking in the melancholic display he's woven with juxtaposing joy Such beautiful pictures they painted, nails glossed a youthful crimson and all the while there they lay in those small bodies hardly shy of maturity adorned in red dresses, sprawled across their beds of rest so elegantly yet capriciously like petals ripped from a rose and scattered by the elements of nature Flickers of a life once precious and pure dance across their cold pale faces, iridescent of the beauty that still graces them even in their eternal calm There's a scintilla of something sweet and fruitful that beckons fiendish hands, beyond their untainted flesh and bone, nestled deep in their supple marrow, bashful and wary of the knives that threaten to carve them, the fingers that yearn to pry at them, and the eyes that linger to shamelessly relish their vernal allure The taste of their vibrance is one that's never failed to ensnare and capture a man who's heart, mind, and soul has long since been consumed by flames of lust and lechery New Autumns and springs are telltale of another collection of nosegays he pricks and fondles at till they bleed the essence he so fancies, another fragment of his former self that will now corrode and wither off into ash with the very conceptions that once restrained him from frolicking too deep into the meadows of desire that enticed him deviously

With a skill he's honed through every vibrant flower he's ever met to pluck from its garden and later desecrate for thrill, he treats them no different than a tender fruit and peels back the layers that keep him from the richness buried inside

The succulence and freshness, however, can only be preserved for so long before the flavor goes stale, the color fades away, and the petals begin to wilt, and so in his own way the man bids them farewell, a proper departure most deserving for a flower now dull and dry and all devoid of the vibrance it once yielded, dissolved of the very thing that gave it value

Always, will the Scintilla of innocence embedded in any flower desirable to the eye ignite the dawn of a new harvest

Decided to post a poem today instead of a Remedy talks, which I'm frankly kind of glad about because this is the first poem I've ever actually put intricate thought and effort into and I'm actually, surprisingly, kind of impressed with the results. However, I'm far more interested in other people's thoughts and their interpretations; I had a particular story to tell and I want to see if people can actually derive that from what I've created

But without further ado, toodles

[driftward]

Title: The Flow of Battle Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Y'shtola Rhul, Scions of the Seventh Dawn Summary: The thoughts and feelings of one sorceress as she and her comrades sweep the plains of Paglth'an Notes: YOTP May entry: Mission Fic. Look, I was busy.

The smoke and fire of battle swept around them, and they in turn swept through it nigh effortlessly, as though it were no more than fog parting before a mighty ship, tall and proud and powerful. Cautious, for there was risk in the fog of war, but undaunted, for the skill of its crew were more than measure for the task.

And she knew no ship could sail higher than Zoissette Vauban.

That the work needed to be done was as unpleasant as it was necessary, but despite that, there was a certain thrill to battle that Y’shtola found herself drawn to. The execution of proving the mastery of her skill, the elements coming to her as easy as breathing and scattering the enemy as though they were leaves on the wind. The levin sensation inside of her as she called upon the forces of aether and shaped them into that which would be needed to arrange the battlefield to her desires.

And with the assurance brought by the presence of her Warrior of Light, why, there was no challenge she could not rise to, no enemy force she would not overcome, no stratagem they could not defeat together. It was a joy watching Zoissette in action, whether she served as a dauntless glacier that Y’shtola could stand astride, safe and secure in the protection her shield wall provided, or as a terrible driving blizzard of weaponry and spellwork that Y’shtola could stand in the eye of as they delivered defeat to their enemies.

And defeat was delivered, giving them a moment of respite. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn rallied around Zoissette, and Y’shtola waited patiently alongside the rest as Zoissette eyed the ravine and considered their options.

She came to her conclusions quickly, and turned to the group.

“Thancred, take the twins and head up that ridge. We are covered by cliff wall from the other ridge, so they most likely picked that one to put their ranged capabilities on. Keep them from firing on us.”

Thancred just nodded, as he began to jog in the direction Zoissette was pointing. Alisaie punched a hand into her fist as she moved after him, and Alphinaud began paging through his grimoire for the spells he would need.

“Everyone else, with me. Urianger, back line, provide support. G’raha, forward picket, by my side. I will take the vanguard. We center around Y’shtola.”

Zoissette looked to her, and she nodded in response. “I am to be your magical artillery, then? Very well. I shall show the Telophorai a thing or two they shan’t soon forget.”

With nods all around, they plunged into the ravine.

Zoissette proved to be correct, which was expected. On the ridge above them, Y’shtola could glance archers being stunned by red magicks while Thancred lived up to the namesake of his profession, rushing in and disabling gun emplacements before they could be brought to bear. And she was certain if she looked closely, she could see Alphinaud providing succor through his puissant spell casting, but she paid them no further mind. Each team had a job to do, and hers was to bring down the might of the elements upon their enemies.

The dance began anew. She trusted Zoissette, as she trusted each of them, and that trust would not be betrayed today. She did not flinch when a small group of addled Garlean troopers broke formation to make for her, and Zoissette was there in barely a blink, planting her shield as aetheric wings sprayed out from her like sea spray from the bow of a dreadnought. The enemy broke upon it, and scant moments later, Y’shtola’s spells scattered them. She had learned the hand language from Zoissette, and so she knew the signs as they were made to her, and without hesitation she directed lightning to sweep around as Zoissette and G’raha plunged into another group.

And when they pulled back wordlessly, she pulled back with them, unworried. Urianger covered them, his spells bolstering their defenses and slowing the enemy advance.

Zoissette was stalling. A habit of hers. It drove Alisaie crazy, but Y’shtola found she minded it not at all, for she knew what the woman was doing.

Analyzing.

She continued to throw spells into their enemies, waiting. Looks and subtle hand gestures were exchanged as Zoissette directed the team into positions. Figuring things out. Taking the time to think. And then, Y’shtola spotted it, the subtle shift in Zoissette’s posture.

The puzzle was solved.

“Y’shtola, fall back, target that dragon. Urianger, gravity on that group of soldiers, keep them occupied. G’raha, to its flank,” said Zoissette, even as she charged in shield first, to slam her steel into the face of an enemy.

They did as they were told, quickly and without question. G’raha harried the creature from the side while the Garlean conscripts found themselves confounded by Urianger’s spell works, and Zoissette moved quickly amongst the enemy, keeping them from organizing any effective counter-attack.

For her part, Y’shtola pulled deep on the elements. The battlefield seemed to fade away, as she focused, trusting Zoissette and the others to keep her safe. Aether was threaded before her staff, wisps of fire materializing from the air in strands and being woven into a mighty braid that she grew into a massive fireball high in the air. It swelled so large that it began to wobble on itself, too much energy in too small a space, threatening to become unstable and lash out.

Just before it would have been a moment too long, she released it, and a second sun fell in the ravine, a powerful raging gust of air flowing before its shockwave as static crackled in the air, its fellow astral elements of levin and wind being unable to resist being pulled into existence as well.

Soldiers and dragons and more fell, opening the way to dive deeper into enemy territory, and Zoissette wasted no time in exploiting the opportunity.

“Come to me!” she called out, and they followed.

Y’shtola smiled thickly at herself. The work was unpleasant. The reasons unfortunate. But the opportunity to exercise her mastery thanks to the efforts of puissant allies who knew how to capitalize on her talents, well.

That was its own tiny sublime joy, and she would secret it away. Pleased with herself, she was quick to stay with the group into the next fray and beyond.

It was later, onboard the airship, when each of them were able to take their rest and reflect on the actions of the day. Y’shtola could feel the day’s exertions in the very marrow of her bones, and exhaustion was writ in the forms of her comrades as well.

But she waited by a railing, taking her ease, reflecting, watching as Zoissette went to each of them one by one. A hand to a shoulder here, a murmur of commiseration there. They were all ‘tins in the same skip’, as Zoissette would say, and she looked after them as much, if not more, as they looked after one another. She had shed her awkwardness over the years, and replaced it with an earnest, naked honesty that the others had come to learn to appreciate.

As Y’shtola had.

At last, Zoissette came to her side, leaning against the airship railing and looking outward at a world that was going by swiftly. But she was not watching it, not really.

Y’shtola reached up a hand and touched it to her shoulder, and Zoissette quietly reached up and touched it back.

They had fought side by side. They had been where they were needed. They had worked together for common goal. Another day’s battle won, another struggle yet to come.

But they were here for one another, and for Y’shtola, that was all that mattered just now. And it warmed her to know Zoissette knew that, and felt much the same.

As they shared touch and gentle conversation, Y’shtola knew that tomorrow’s troubles would come all the same. But that, too, they would face together.

[pama-saga]

Intro Redux

Jesse spares PAMA, causing a butterfly effect of sorts. How will Beacontown react?

Current arc: Aftermath

Tags

#page - Any page posted.

#ask - Any answered ask.

#lore post - Previously non-ask related work. Now an archival tag.

#worldbuilding - What it says on the tin.

#miscellaneous - Anything unrelated or silly.

#reference - Character references

Content warnings: violent content, character death, discrimination (but only in Dawn's world so it's not a big overarcing theme here), depictions of abuse, and probably some more things I can't get into due to spoilers.

Cameo info here!

Start from the beginning here!

AU masterpost

Read Aftermath (and the prologue) chronologically on ComicFury here!

Read the lore chronologically on ComicFury!

Read Dauntless chronologically on ComicFury!

More indepth summaries under the cut

Prologue: Jesse spares PAMA, and they must figure out what to do with their life now.

Aftermath: After making PAMA his assistant, Radar finds a rebellion growing in Beacontown. How willing is either side to sculpt Beacontown in their image?

[flcralhaze]

{ alperen duymaz , 33 , cis man , he/him } we are so glad to see you safe, military commander timur arslan of turkey ! it’s dangerous out in the world these days , but i hear that you are disciplined and dauntless enough to handle it. just don’t let your ruthlessness bring you down. stay on your guard , because with your secret being at risk for exposure , you wouldn’t want everyone to find out you've committed numerous crimes at the behest of the royal family you serve.

basic information.

full name: timur arslan. name meaning: of iron. age: thirty-three. date of birth: november 10th. astrological sign: scorpio. gender & pronouns: cis man , he / him. orientation: biromantic , bisexual. spoken languages: turkish , persian , arabic , english. title: military commander of turkey. martial status: unwed , unbetrothed. loyalty: the abduls.

personality.

positive: disciplined ,  dauntless ,  confidant , loyal ,  tactical. negative: ruthless ,  insensitive ,  amoral , calculative , mercurial. moral alignment: lawful evil. temperament: choleric. mbti: entj - the commander. enneagram: 6w5 , the defender. hobbies: sword fighting , hunting , chess , strategy games.

familial ties.

father: hazar arslan , deceased. mother: saadet arslan. siblings: four siblings , all alive.

history.

there was only one path for timur arslan. a sword was placed in his hand when he was young, and he was raised for the military. the arslans, a family with its own rich history, was known for their faithfulness to the ruling abduls through both good and bad times. it was only fitting that one of their children would continue such service by fighting for them. lord arslan was immensely pleased that he chose correctly for timur took to fighting with ease. many would call him a prodigy when he began besting men far older than him when sparring. not that failure was ever an option, a fact timur was well aware of so despite natural talent, he trained from dawn until dusk, if not longer, skill enhancing instinct, forging a truly skilled fighter.

he joined the turkish army as soon as he was old enough. no one was surprised when he rose quickly up the ranks, proving himself as not only a fighter but a strategic mind, often adjusting strategies on the spot when necessary. but the military was different than sparring in the safety of his family's manor; the real world was brutal, and timur adapted so it wouldn't swallow him whole. what was the point of fighting with honor when it would result in your death or harm to the kingdom you served?

the higher in the ranks he rose, the more the abduls paid attention to him. the glory of the empire needed strong hands to safeguard it for victory didn't come without a price, and after their war torn history and a new promise of peace, the royals couldn't dirty their hands. especially not the ruling sultan. it started small. timur was tasked with missions that danced along the line of morality, but the more of those he fulfilled without question the more nefarious the tasks grew. in the darkness of night, enemies of the empire would be felled by a faceless shadow. when more public shows were required, evidence would be carefully planted, documents forged. and if the hands of justice appeared to be reaching in the wrong direction, accidents would occur.

timur's morals weren't initially so far gone that they were silent, but he had been raised to be loyal to the abduls, to not question the orders of his superiors, to serve the empire. that was what he was going - or so he told himself, and similar words were echoed by the sultan himself, praising timur for each successful mission, telling him that he was safeguarding and ensuring the strength of the nation from their enemies. his hands grew bloodier, his mind darker, and his morals quieter.

arc o1.

as military commander, timur accompanied the abduls to lal qila. he remained mostly in the background as was common for him, a silent killer protector. the investigation concerned him little, beyond easily quashed anxieties that his own bloody history would be revealed, and his concern was the safety of the abduls, which included the persian sultan who'd once bore the abdul name. though as tensions between kin mounted, timur kept the fact that he also kept tabs on the man a secret lest protection be mistaken for spying by one royal and loyalty questioned by another.

surviving the reckoning was easy for a man of war. and if in the chaos, he eliminated other targets given to him then no one could prove that when those behind the reckoning wore their bloodthirsty nature for all to see. but timur also assisted in more honorable ways, offering his mind and sword as plans for ousting the rebels were constructed.

timeskip.

when the tides turned against the ruling sultan, timur had no intention of being dragged down with him. it seemed loyalty, at least to one man, had its limits. particularly when it was other members of the abdul family supporting the banishment. timur ensured his involvement in the sultan's crimes were well concealed, utilizing the skills that had previously protected the man he was now turning a blind eye to, and when sultan rostam and his spouse took control, timur was one of the first to swear his fealty. after all, the arslans had forever been loyal to the abduls, the first name mattered little.

however, timur didn't believe the conflict was truly over. no fight truly was when one's opponent still lived, and having worked closely with the former sultan, he knew his character. banishment wouldn't prevent him return as the nations gathered once more. only timur stood unsure what he should do if the sultan returned, never before having to choose between two members of the royal family. what he did know was that the peace the abduls still fought for would not be maintained without bloodshed, he was proof of that.

headcanons.

tba.

[ivyithink]

Back then, I was dauntless

And dawn could never know

And my weakness made me weep less

Than I would ever show you

I'd burn so bright it blinded

Now I know that light guided me here

(lyrics are from “The Calling” by The Amazing Devil)

(and the quality of the images is atrocious, of course; click to see better)

bonus! listen, i know no photograph could have been made back when these boys were young and almost happy, so i guess it’s more like a metaphor, kapish?

[rxbysxllivan]

self-para  \  the calling. outside the daily dose. approximately midnight.

trigger warnings: knives, blood, murder, corpses, stabbing, death. mentioned: @dilara-kr , @yasmindemirxx , @kyleyangs , @veracalma , lu

back then, i was dauntless, and dawn could never know, and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you. i burned so bright it blinded, now i know that light guided me here.

After a long day, Ruby settles in at The Daily Dose. She’s a frequent coffee drinker, but not someone that often hangs around the small cafe—Deadlights is more her style. But they had been so busy with meeting Yasmin and Emine at the movies and doing some last-minute shopping that the cafe was the best place to crash.

Coffee in one hand, they’re scribbling notes with the other, lyrics scrawled under the tip of their pen. Nothing coherent, it doesn’t even rhyme—it’s more like poetry at this point in time—but there’s no way she’s focused enough to edit at this point. She just needs to get it out of her head and down on paper.

Somebody, it must have been a staff member, stops near her table to tell her they’re closing up. She blinks out of her stupor, sending them a nod before sighing. A final sip of her drink and she’ll head out. It’s getting late, anyway, and her weekend isn't exactly shaping up to be a lazy, hang-out-in-bed kind of time.

A blurry figure in the corner of her vision catches her eye, and Ruby turns as they set down their cup, squinting through the dark toward it. Unfortunately, the lifted trunk of their car blocks her full view of the person, and she can’t quite see whatever it is they’re holding. All she can see is their grey hoodie, and the way their armload flops. Almost like a corpse.

A winding feeling works its way through her gut, fear and curiosity grasping at her heart with a cold hand. Coffee and notebook abandoned, she stands, brows furrowed as she moves towards the door. Their steps speed up the closer to out of the store they get, pushing through the glass doors that lead inside as they move away from the cafe.

She definitely shouldn’t be moving closer, but if something’s gone wrong, she needs to know—either to warn others or to help. “Hello?” they call out, almost against their better instincts. Their voice is firm, somewhat angry as they step closer, high heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk. What is going on over there?

They round the corner of the car, but just as they’re about to move closer there’s a sharp pain in between her shoulder blades. It’s everything she can do not to scream as stumbles forward, heel catching on the sidewalk and causing her to crumble to the ground in agony. Their hair flips over their face, effectively blocking any further shot she may have had to catch the murderer in action.

Not that it matters; there’s no way she’s walking out of this. Another ripple of pain shoots through her as the knife is abruptly pulled out. She can feel the warm sensation of blood trickling down their back, staining their t-shirt with a deep red. They can’t take a deep enough breath to counteract the aching wound, only shallow gasps coming out as they reach desperately forward. If they can crawl away from their attacker, maybe they can get free. Somehow.

The intense, sharp feeling returns as the knife bites into her back again. And again, and again, and again, pain lancing throughout their whole body in spasms as the killer relentlessly attacks. Inwardly, she’s cursing herself for not traveling away with Lu, for not sticking up in New York with one of their many failed gigs. But Icarus flew too close to the sun. Her efforts were all for naught, and it ended tonight. 

They blinked, memories flashing before their eyes, too fast to count. 

Dee. Her best friend from high school, and one of the only ones that had stuck. Long nights spent talking about any subject under the sun. The other woman’s eternal optimism. Bonding over fashion. 

Yasmin. Playdates with Emine, or girl days with her mom. Just spending time in the other's presence. Coffee, drinks, parties, you name it. They’d literally just seen the other two earlier that day. Thank god they’d made it to the movies. 

Vera. One of her closest friends. Long wine nights around the tv—hell, they'd had one just a few days ago. (Now, they would never happen again.) The only one she'd consistently trusted with her secrets, aside from Kyle. 

Kyle. God, Kyle. Hadn’t he lost enough? It felt like only a few days ago that she’d apologized, their aggressive words at the gala still echoing within their skull. They still hadn't forgiven themselves though. Sure, they'd fought before, but never like that. And now, she'd never get a chance to fix things.

The world fades to black and Ruby can feel themselves fading with it. It’s time.