#I have to construct the flesh and the sinew

[murdleandmarot]

A quick bluebelle painting :))

[naneun-no]

So fucking sick of the pressure to be non-human in a corporate setting.

I don’t mean inhumane, though god knows there’s pressure to be that too, I mean the pressure to be a computer. To be a bot that exists in a vacuum whose only setting is pleasant punctual professional.

I haven’t seen the show Severance but is that what it’s about?

The insane expectation that you leave any sense of self at the door? That you don’t allow any vestiges of the life you live to trail along behind you as you clock in? The expectation that your brain functions the exact same way, every day, no matter what, and if it doesn’t by god don’t say that — have the dignity and professionalism to pretend you’re a robot.

Pretend that your humanity is something you can tidily set aside in the morning and pick back up in the evenings and that there will be no interruptions to your workday that have anything to do with the messy business of being a person with a life. Or a family, god forbid. Show us the cute photo, sure, but certainly that cuteness (your child your pet your aging parent) only exists outside the confines of 9am — 5pm because otherwise that’s time theft and you’re not a thief, are you? Are you stealing from the company by refusing to halt your life during the weekdays? Are you betraying your co-workers by being a hungry and distractible and moody and achey and imperfect construct of bones and sinew and blood and flesh inside a skin suit? Are you a mammal and not just a pretty headshot and a clever LinkedIn bio? Gross.

Anyways yeah, I’m a human. And sometimes I am Shitty for days and weeks on end, and I haven’t found a way around it, and it’s been 30 years and maybe it turns out that I’m just a mammal and not a robot, and I get so tired of companies that provide healthcare for their humans while simultaneously crossing their fingers and hoping that maybe this time they got a superhuman instead.

[dumbtruk]

The Clockwork Creation

The thunder roared, splitting the night in two, as jagged bolts of lightning illuminated the darkened skies above the lonely Snezhnayan lab. You stood outside the towering building, feeling your heart race with anticipation, knowing what lay within. Your hands trembled as you clutched the edges of your cloak tighter, hoping the cold night air would soothe the anxious energy surging through your veins.

It had been weeks—months, even—since you had seen him last. Il Dottore, the brilliant, enigmatic man you once knew, had withdrawn into his secret laboratory, obsessing over his latest experiment. Letters were few, and each one more cryptic than the last. His mind, once so sharp and full of purpose, seemed to unravel further with every success.

The heavy oak doors of the lab creaked open as if sensing your approach. Stepping inside, you were greeted by the harsh smell of chemicals, the scent burning in your nose. The place was darker than you remembered, the air thicker, suffocating.

You had known Dottore for years, working alongside him in pursuit of knowledge, always fascinated by his mind, his ambition. But something had changed in him. The brilliant scientist you admired had begun to twist under the weight of his obsession, pursuing power and discovery without regard for ethics or consequences.

It all started with one question that spiraled into madness: Could life be recreated?

Dottore had once confided in you his dream to conquer the boundaries of mortality, to shape life from death, to bend nature’s laws. What was once a philosophical debate had transformed into something real, something terrifying.

You swallowed hard, your footsteps echoing through the empty halls as you descended deeper into his workshop. Every corner was filled with the remnants of abandoned experiments—half-constructed automata, strange, ticking contraptions made of metal and sinew, and medical devices whose purpose you dared not imagine.

The sound of whirring gears and clanking metal grew louder as you approached the heart of the laboratory. In the center of the dimly lit room stood a towering figure—Dottore.

His back was turned to you, hunched over a large table littered with surgical tools, tubes, and vials of unknown substances. Sparks flew from the apparatus around him, filling the air with the stench of burning metal. He didn’t notice your presence at first, so consumed was he by the work before him.

“Dottore,” you called out softly, your voice barely audible over the hum of machinery.

He stiffened, then slowly turned to face you. The moment his eyes locked with yours, you knew he was no longer the man you once knew. His sharp red gaze gleamed with a feverish intensity, and a twisted smile tugged at his lips. He looked gaunt, hollow, as if sleep and sanity had long since abandoned him.

“You came,” he said, his voice low, smooth, but tinged with something unsettling. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

You took a hesitant step forward, your eyes scanning the room. On the table before him lay the culmination of his work—a creation. A body. It was large, humanoid, though something about it was grotesque in its stillness. The flesh, stitched together in patches, was pale and unnatural. Tubes connected to the figure pulsed with dark liquid, and electrodes attached to its temples sparked occasionally as Dottore worked feverishly on some unseen adjustment.

“What… what have you done?” you whispered, your throat dry as you stared at the lifeless form.

Dottore’s grin widened, his hands twitching with manic excitement. “I’ve done it. I’ve surpassed them all—Celestia, the Archons, the very laws of nature itself. I’ve created life!”

Your stomach churned at his words. “This… this isn’t life, Dottore. This is an abomination.”

His expression darkened, the once playful glint in his eyes replaced by something dangerous. “You don’t understand, do you? You never truly understood the potential. This creation—this being—is more than life. It is perfection, designed by me. It will be the first of many, a new race crafted from the brilliance of science and human ingenuity.”

You shook your head, taking a step back as the horror of it all sank in. “You’re playing with things no one should. This… this thing you’ve made—it’s not natural. You can’t just stitch together parts of the dead and call it life.”

Dottore’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you saw a flash of the man he once was. But that moment passed quickly, and the mad scientist was back, his voice dripping with condescension. “Natural? Do you think nature cares for the weak, the fragile? I’ve improved upon it. I’ve made something better. It can’t die, it can’t fail, and it will serve me as no living creature could.”

He moved closer to the table, his hands hovering above the switches and levers of the device connected to the body. The electricity in the room crackled with a strange energy, the tension thick and palpable.

“I invited you here,” Dottore said, his voice softening in an eerie imitation of warmth, “because I wanted you to witness the future. You’ve always understood me, haven’t you? You’ve been by my side for so long. I thought… you might appreciate the genius behind it.”

You stared at him, torn between the loyalty you once felt and the growing horror gnawing at your heart. He had lost himself, his brilliance consumed by ambition and madness.

“This isn’t right,” you whispered, taking another step back. “I can’t… I can’t be part of this.”

Dottore’s smile faltered, the disappointment clear in his eyes. For a brief moment, you saw a flicker of hurt, but it was quickly replaced by the cold, calculating gleam you had come to fear.

“Pity,” he murmured, turning away from you. “I had hoped you would understand. But I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. When my creation awakens, the world will understand. You will understand.”

With a flourish, Dottore pulled the final lever. The room exploded with light and sound as the machinery roared to life. Lightning arced from the coils overhead, striking the body on the table with violent force. The air buzzed with raw energy as the figure convulsed, its limbs jerking in unnatural movements. The smell of burning flesh filled the room.

You watched in silent horror as the body twitched and spasmed, the once-lifeless form beginning to move with purpose. The creature opened its eyes—dull, glassy orbs staring into the void—and let out a low, guttural groan.

Dottore’s laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound of pure, manic joy. “It lives!” he shouted, his voice trembling with triumph. “I’ve done it! I’ve conquered life itself!”

The creature on the table sat up slowly, its movements stiff and jerky, like a puppet being manipulated by unseen strings. It looked around the room with blank, unfocused eyes, its mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words. But it was clear—this was no miracle of life. This was a mockery of it.

You couldn’t take it anymore. “Dottore, stop this!” you cried, your voice breaking. “This is madness!”

He turned to you, his eyes gleaming with a wild fervor. “Madness? This is brilliance! This is what humanity has been striving for all along. To become gods!”

But as the creature rose from the table, its body shaking with each movement, you saw something flicker in its eyes. Fear. Confusion. Pain. It was no god—it was a broken thing, pieced together by a man who had lost sight of what it meant to truly live.

The creature let out a low, mournful wail, its hands trembling as it looked down at its own patchwork body. For a moment, you thought you saw the smallest spark of humanity in its eyes, a brief glimmer of recognition. And then, it turned to Dottore.

The scientist stepped forward, his arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome. “You are my greatest creation,” he said softly, his voice filled with reverence. “You belong to me.”

But the creature’s face twisted into something dark, something primal. With a sudden, violent movement, it lunged at Dottore, knocking him to the ground. The two figures struggled, the sound of ripping flesh and grinding metal filling the air as Dottore’s creation fought against its maker.

You watched in horror, frozen in place as the scene unfolded. The scientist’s screams echoed through the lab, but there was nothing you could do.

In the end, Dottore’s obsession, his need to control life itself, had destroyed him.

As the creature stood over his broken body, it turned to you. For a brief moment, you thought it might attack, but instead, it simply stared. There was something in its eyes now—an understanding, perhaps. A sad, broken understanding of what it was and what it had been made to be.

And then, without a sound, it turned and lumbered out of the lab, disappearing into the cold night.

You stood there, the wind howling outside, your heart heavy with the weight of what had transpired.

Il Dottore, once the brilliant mind you admired, was gone—consumed by his own creation, a monster of his own making.

[the-real-treasure]

Wish Wish! One Shot #1

A Picture Says A Thousand Words.

Main Masterlist: Here

Drabble Masterlist: Here

Read on AO3: Here

Zeff discovers something about one of the kids that he had been stranded with after they all get off the rock.

(One-shot #1) [Baratie Age 8] Zeff's POV Trigger Warnings: Mention of starvation, residual trauma from starvation, issues with eating, possible eating disorder Word Count: 1493

"What letter is that?"

Zeff looked up from the delivery slip that had just landed in front of him. The Baratie was still under construction and bills were coming in left right and centre for every little thing. He didn't much care, the gold he had kept, the sack of treasure that he had feigned as food, was more than enough to pay for all of it, as well as get those kids some new clothes that actually fit and shit while things were still being worked on. They had all lost a lot of weight over those eighty-five days, and while he and the little eggplant were slowly but surely returning to a healthy standard, he worried a lot about the other one.

The vicious freak of a thing was little more than a slip of flesh, any and all clothes hanging loose and limp over bone and sinew that he couldn't get coated in fat no matter what he feed them. Even now, a bit under a month off the rock, they still refused to eat until both he and Sanji had started their plates. They were like a feral kitten, screaming and yowling and scratching those first few days on board the ship that rescued them, stalking the little blonde boy and almost force feeding him if he did so much as offer them a crumb of bread before he began, their ringed eyes of gold and aqua swirling with unrestrained panic every time.

He breathed out a sigh. There wasn't much to be done about that but keep up the food. One of these days the kid would realise the rest of them wouldn't die if they took a bite whenever they were hungry. Instead of continuing to worry, he instead stood up from the desk and peeked his head around the corner.

Where he had set up camp in the still to be fully fitted kitchen, the two kids had made themselves at home in what will be the dining hall, in the shadow of the twin staircases that hug the opposite wall and curve with it. He could see them squatting next to the new sign, the light filled letters dull for now until they get hung outside. They really weren't meant to have arrived for another month or two, but the guys knew Zeff by name and hurried the job along to get themselves away from the, still notorious, pirate. Y/n was staring at the first one in extreme consternation.

"...B...?"

"Yeah, told you you'd get it!" Sanji gave their joined hands a shake, pointing to the second one that was propped up against the wall, the large capital 'R' wrapped in plastic but the shape still visible. "Next one!"

"What are you two doing ever there?" He watched as the two of you leapt away from each other like you were being burnt, your h/c haired figure, long messy mop pulled into a ponytail that fell down their back before looping back up to be held in place by the same tie, spinning on him with a glare as you leaped between him and Sanji, the little eggplant snarling at him as well.

"Mind your own business, you nasty old pile of fish food!" The wee boy shouted from behind you, and he squinted down at the pair of you, hobble extra pronounced due to his still new peg leg as he walked out to meet yous.

"Little eggplant, honestly, just swear like a normal person."

"Least I don't use so much oregano I could kill a person." He snarked and Zeff presses his eyes and mouth closed and blows a sigh out his nose. He is a scared little boy trying to act brave, not a disrespectful crewmember. He doesn't need hit. Opening his eyes again, he finds your eyes burning into his skull, searching his eyes for an intention to harm. You wouldn't find it.

"I'm gonna ask again." You drop your eyes away from his, "What are you doing out here?"

"I said, mind-!"

"-Practicing."

"Eh?" Their eyes dart from his feet to theirs, scuffing the toe of their shiny new boots on the tiles floor.

"I was... practicing my letters." His eyes flick over to Sanji, the boy already glaring heatedly at him, hand clasped in theirs squeezing so tightly that their claw like nails dug into his skin.

"You haven't been able to read this whole time." Their shoulders scrunched up to their ears, head ducked down further and Sanji pulled them into him. "Fffffff-" The kid doesn't swear, Zeff, let's keep it like that. "-Fflip sake, could'a told me. Would've got you books or something." Your eyes snap up to him, and even Sanji glare fades to confusion.

"...What?" He rests his curled fists on his waist as he looked down at the pair.

"You think I would want you running about taking orders and counting stock not knowing how to read or spell? Thought you were smarter than this, come on." He turns back to the kitchen, not knowing if you would both follow, but there was no use standing and letting you struggle, just the pair of you.

"To do what?" He can hear your boots on the tile behind him and can picture you dragging a stumbling Sanji behind you.

"To learn, you little donkey. I don't have any books but I have notes and stock lists so we can start with actual words instead of fumbling with random letters."

He pushes open the doors to the kitchen and lets the pair of you pass, hands still grasping each other, with you leading the boy into the kitchen, the few counters already installed littered with papers.

"Come over here, you can show me what you can make out so far. That'll let me know what we're working with."

"What about me?" The blonde boy chirped up beside you, still not parting your intwined hands.

"Either help, or stay out of the way. It's not hard little eggplant." As you pulled a small stool up to the counter to sit alongside his chair, Sanji inserted himself between them, inspecting the papers. Zeff tugged off his overcoat, draping it over the arm as he settled into the chair and handed you a small order slip over Sanji's head. "Start with that, read it out loud and we'll go from there. I'll see about getting a couple of books ordered for yous to practise with properly. These'll have to work for now."

Your voice, which had spent the evening stuttering and stumbling over the names of different companies and construction costs, had fallen silent. Zeff was finishing up filling a few more receipts in the dying light cascading through the kitchen when he looked over to the pair of you.

Sanji's head was flat on the table, his grey-blue eyes, normally covered by the long floppy fringe, were shut and he could make out the curl on his other eyebrow with the slant of the hair. His bones and new wooden peg leg creaked as he stood, stiff from sitting for so long. Pulling the fabric at his arm up with him, he opened it and settled the warm fabric over his charge's shoulders before his eyes met yours, aqua and gold light illuminating the scene as you peered at him. In the growing darkness that crept its fingers up the walls of the room, the sight in front of him was spooky.

It reminded him of being on that rock, the light from your eyes piercing the cloying darkness at him over the ridge of rock separating you all. Now, instead of a barren expanse of rock creating distance between your eyes and his, the only thing that stood between you was a sleeping boy that had hollowed a space out of Zeff's heart for himself and completely encompassed yours.

"He knew I was embarrassed." Your voice was a whisper, not wanting to break the quiet that had fallen over the room. "The ones on the Orbit made fun of me for not reading. I can count fine, but letters and words are... hard."

"I get that." His voice is as hushed as yours, "We'll work on it. The three of us, we look after each other from now on, yeah?"

"Until we go to find the All Blue?" A smile quirked Zeff's face at your misty glowing eyes and whispers of the shared dream.

"Nah. I'll still be keeping an eye on yous even when you head out." He reached over you and ruffled your carefully tied up hair and you whacked his hand with more ferocity than he expected. "For now we'll just worry about getting your reading up to scratch." He smiled as your nose rolled up, and you followed him as he lifted Sanji into his arms and moved towards the stairs to your little loft rooms.

"You can work on chasing dreams later."

[joshay98]

Hey Mom, Dad and Lil' Bro!

23. Ultraunalive

“Hey Mom, Dad and Lil’ Bro, ah so, yeah we had some conflict.

We were on top of this giant metal structure. And we were surrounded by these mechanical guards. Mostly mechanical. Some had a mix of sinew and flesh inside of them. Whoever created these has a sick mind. They had some kind of order of command in place. One of them pointed around and the others moved. So destroying the leaders made the others stop moving. At least they weren’t that sturdy. Constantly crumbled from the smallest hit. Sick mind and no skill in crafting at all.

There were two leaders to each side on balconies. Quite a ways up and Rose just straight up jumped up there. Destroyed one of them with a couple swings of her nail. And Lune just made the entire other side explode in a ball of fire. I’m actually really happy to be surrounded by such powerful warriors. Feel somewhat safe around them.

Had a short break to recuperate. We had no idea where we were. Hot like a forge and smelled like rancid eggs. The sound of giant machinery was overpowering everything, though. And there was a door, which we had no idea what was behind it. Well, only one way to find out.

And you would never guess who was past that door. The lady we met back in the dungeon. Ok so, the Prince said she called herself “The Will of the Prisoner.” Still as boisterous as last time. Out for a fight. Only for her amusement. She is really sick in the head.

All of her attacks had a focus on blood. Her weapon was covered in it. Or made out of it? She herself was covered in it. So unhygienic! She had these statues around the place and some of them moved and attacked us as well. Rose, as usual quick to attack, immediately went up to the Will and gave her a good beating. The Will really didn’t expect that because she had to retreat for a second. Came back with some proper armor. Made out of blood. Of course…

But The Will was no pushover. She had this nasty habit of using ribbons to restrain us, one big attack of hers was making it rain bloo- ok I get she wanted to have a theme and all but couldn’t she have chosen something else? Just plain nasty! Sorry, so her weapon had this trick where it could be solid as a needle or become fluid and whip it around. Must’ve trained with it a lot since she looked really skilled in that.

The statues also constantly shot these energy balls at us. Climbed all around the chamber walls. Those were even more creepy than The Will.

Was a really nasty fight but we did come out on top! Barely though. Caught us all off guard with that. Really gotta be more prepared for any potential tricks again. And after all that carnage The Will just melted away. As if she wasn’t real. Been fighting nothing but a shoddy copy of her. Can’t even get her amusement herself! Pathetic!

So happy the Prince actually noticed our absence. The stone we used to communicate with him was all crackling with noise. Could barely understand most of the message. Just that we should find a higher area. Lune sure did find a way up. A windy tunnel just shot her through it.

The tunnel led to a chamber and guess who was strung up in the middle of it? The Will! She was attached to a bunch of weird wires and a big construct. Just tied in a weird mash of metal. And looked weak. Shriveled up and barely even noticed us. Lune was so close to just thrust a dagger into her. Of all people, Rose was the one to stop her. Funny how quickly the tide turns. But kind of surprising, Rose just cut The Will out of her shackles. And let The Will bite Rose in her claw. I’m really not sure why she did that. Did Rose see something in her?

Luckily the Prince was able to open up a portal just nearby. Took The Will through it. The others called her a “prisoner of war” but I don’t think that’s quite accurate to the situation. Seems more like she was… used? I don’t know. The situation didn’t seem like you would think a villain would be in. Didn’t see her on like a big throne in an evil lair. She was just hanging there… all drained… Maybe at least get a proper name from her. Calling her “The Will” feels weird. As if her identity was erased. Prince surely will find a way! Trevor was freed from that group.

Ach, what am I talking about? She has been nothing but trouble for us! And if anything she could have information on how her partners operate. Better to know where she is than just leaving her there. Just hope this was a good idea.

Should concentrate on getting some rest and thinking of ideas. I will be fine! Good rest always helps! Don’t worry about me. Stay safe! With love, Levee."

[the-real-rain-world-confessions]

i need seven red suns covered in blood and telling me to be not afraid. i need them in the way i desire a parallel of the divine, the pulsating hum of computers like the heart and soul of man. an artificial lung spurred anew by pumping blood through veins of carbon. bone and sinew constructing a perfect frame, an iterator's frame. cell by cell, bone by bone, they should not exist but do. the ancients, a parody of man, they truly believe they have done something great. but flesh rots quicker than the mind. defiled, not what they used to be, and never will be. that is an iterator. the machine keeps itself alive, but in it what used to be truly living is no longer. moving around, rotten juice and mush from an old body many cycles ago, staining cloak and room. the wires no longer pump blood but anything it can grasp in its dirty intake. a being stuck in such a tantalizing cage, not able to truly die. an iterator has no mouth and therefore cannot scream, but what if it could? would it unravel its code, trying to find an answer? or would it rather pick each screw and maggot out, attempting to uncover a solution to misery? "cogito ergo sum" cannot apply, as the thoughts that course through the wires may not even truly belong to it. an eternal and torturous existence, yet still a blessing. that is what i need. from them. from any iterator. i need a horror so vile that it strips me of even what i call humanity. one that takes me down to the level of the iterator, a being so high and holy yet so far, far below.

.

[boxfullaturtles]

Donnie + gagged and/or drugged

If he ever gets out of this chair, Donnie's going to cut out Kendra's tongue so he doesn't have to hear her stupid voice anymore.

She's spent the last ten minutes gloating and rubbing it in his face that she has him tied up and at her mercy. He's given up interrupting her because the banter's gotten boring. And his wrists are starting to hurt from the bindings holding him to the chair.

"--which means we obviously need you and your dumb brothers out of the way for a while," Kendra's saying, pacing in front of him as she preaches, "So in a few minutes we're gonna have a visitor. They're gonna give me a shit ton of money...and we're gonna give you to them. Don't worry, they take care of exotic animals, I'm sure you'll be fine."

That makes his temper flair, "Animal!? ANIMAL!? I am not some pet! This is human trafficking!" He snarls, wrenching against his restraints.

"It might be...if you were human," Kendra laughs, cruel and nasty and cold. Jeremy looks smug. Jase is nowhere to be seen.

Donnie snaps his teeth in frustration and decides he doesn't want to stick around to play her game anymore. His markings flicker as he calls his mystic powers to the surface. Constructs are clicking into an array of guns around him when a needle bites into his elbows. It breaks his concentration and he whips his head around to glare at Jase, who'd snuck up behind the chair while Donnie had been preoccupied by Kendra.

Fuck.

There's an empty syringe in his hand. Donnie's heart pounds in his chest as his gaze snags on it. He looks up sharply at Jase, who won't meet his eyes, and then turns to stare at Kendra.

"What did you do? What was in that?"

"You need to be less...bitey for our client," Kendra says with that mean smile of hers, "Rellaaaxxx, it'll make you feel good, Von Ryan. It'll be the best trip you've ever had."

Panic is making his breath come faster. Drugged. She's drugged him. And he swears he can feel it surging through his veins, his frantic heart pumping it through the rest of his body. He's never done hard drugs; he and Leo had the curious bit of weed every now and then but even that was a rare thing, done only in the confines of secrecy and solitude when they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would not need their wits about them for several hours.

"Kendra--" Donnie chokes on his voice. This is ludicrous. It doesn't feel real. Sure, the Purple Dragons have tried to kill him and his brothers half a dozen times, but they're too stupid and incompetent to actually do it.

But now Donnie's tied to a chair, at their mercy, and he--

His head feels strange.

The room has started tilting like the deck of a ship. (He’s never been on a ship at sea. He's never been to the ocean.) He sways, rocks, his body is loosely connected by sinew and bone, wet meat and hot blood. Inefficient and easily damaged.

He doesn't like this. It's weird. Everything's wrong.

The world groans and vibrates with movements and sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. His own breath whistles down his throat and he can feel the creak of his lungs expanding balloons, pushing his plastron, stretching his flesh, muscles flexing and contracting, organs settling, blood racing--

Fingers dig into his face, tilt his head up, and he blinks against the lights. There's someone leaning over him, bigger than Kendra. A stranger. Donnie whines, feels the sound vibrate in his skull (he can count the vertebrae in his spine and so can Leo). His eyes roll. The stranger's touch is poison ivy; it makes his flesh itch and burn. He tries to pull away but they tighten their hold, grinding into his jaw bones. There are voices but he can't remember what sounds words make and he only catches a few things.

"-------old did you------------looks young---------"

"----teen I guess------never asked."

The stranger's thick fingers pry Donnie's mouth open, running a clinical finger over his gums and examining his teeth. He lets out a garbled wretch. He can taste the atoms that make them up, every place they've been sticking to their filthy hands, smearing dirt inside his mouth (stop stop stop stopstopstopstoptstop). But he doesn't have the strength to resist or even spit the horrid flavor out. He's floating a million miles away. There are stars in his bloodstream.

Hands leave heat trails over Donnie's arms and down his plastron. His gear is peeled away, the bindings removed. Some distant part of him screams to run, but his body and mind giggle and remain boneless rubber.

"----like this or------"

"----bites-------dose of some-------"

His body jerks, slumping forward. Someone's trying to pry the battleshell off his back and he lets out a high pitched keen that pops in his own eardrums.

("Don't be afraid, little Hamato...")

No. No no no no nononononono--

("You are not alone.")

Violet neon light erupts around him, blinding and avenging.

The world turns with rapid click click click click click.

A blaze of noise. He's dropped, the stranger's hands are gone. He hits the floor and he can hardly breathe, his head spinning in a million different directions, trickling into electrical outlets and clambering up grounding lines.

He's spread so thin...

...what was his name again? (where are his brothers?)

There's something sticky and warm on his hands. On his chest. It smells like iron. Metal and heat and something grinding to a halt. A dead engine. Ozone.

No one's touching him anymore.

The universe has gone quiet.

[londonmacpaul]

A valid point, yet I feel the need to express the balance that is the challenge and the magic of architecture, of automotive design, and of product design

Without the sciences of skeletal frame and muscly sinews, the art which is the tactile flesh of any design responding to human senses doesn’t have any inherent power or ability

It’s the seamless weaving of form, and feel, and of simultaneous technological function which is the magic of architecture requiring the spectrum of human abilities of all of the arts, all of the sciences, and everything between

Without the structure of science of construction, the magic of the art of architecture implodes, as sadly happened with some of the modernist utopian designs of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s

Exactly why a construction design team needs to be a team of differing talents: the breadth of approach necessary is far wider than any individual ego

[solobeegames]

I grew up on the edge of the Great Sea. My village, Lonely Swans, is a quiet, secluded community in the high desert. Our families are made up of generations of Jelly Watchers. We have been gifted this sacred practice and pilgrimage.

From an early age, the Elders saw my Jelly Watcher mark and knew I would be given a great task. Now that I am grown, it is time to venture out and seek our Visitors of Heaven.

For years, the solitary Jelly Watchers have been known to roam. Guided by intuition and unwavering faith, they traverse Land’s untamed expanses in search of enigmatic Jellysign.

I now embark on this same, fateful journey.

I first come upon a great and broken Land…

Giant, monstrous war machines are scattered like children’s toys across grassy hills. They are derelict, forsaken. They are overgrown with foliage and animal life, like black, jagged mountains, forever fused to the earth.

As I make my way through this impossible labyrinth of stone, metal, and earth, I come up a horrific sight.

There are human bones littered inside. Thousands of them.

This is - quite literally - a grave.

The wind wails and I weep. I weep for these people and the great suffering that came upon them, most likely of their own doing.

I am reminded of Ezekiel’s walk with God in the Valley of Dry Bones:

“And he said to me, “Son of man, can these bones live?” And I answered, “O Lord GOD, you know.” Then he said to me, “Prophesy over these bones, and say to them, O dry bones, hear the word of the LORD. Thus says the Lord GOD to these bones: Behold, I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. And I will lay sinews upon you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live, and you shall know that I am the LORD.”

I spend a long year with these words and those bones.

Eventually, the labyrinth of black metal mountains and the the graves they house gives way to a valley and an open, endless sea of marshes and ponds. The nights are filled with the songs of frogs and insects now. It is very humid and slow going, but I manage to make a small raft that can be pulled when the water is too shallow and grasses too muddy.

I was content to traverse that marshy sea for many long months, even years, if necessary but miraculously it came! Jellysign!

The atmosphere immediately shifts and the inky, black sky shimmers and ripples with otherworldly light. Thousand upon thousands of enormous jellyfish descend from the stars and hang in the air above me. I can barely breath. These bioluminescent creatures the color of twilight fill my entire vision, swirling and undulating around me. They are impossibly large and intricate. I stare at them all night until out of shear exhaustion I am driven to sleep.

The Visitors are with me for four nights.

The first night they tell me a story of history - of great, powerful men who gather all together from the ends of the earth in order to accumulate all the knowledge of Mankind in order to fashion the ultimate Truth. This Truth will help them understand fundamental questions like, Why are we here? Where are we from? Who is our God? They spent eons forming these questions and their answers, and although they constructed a marvelous framework upon which cities, governments, and powers were formed, ultimately they failed to divine Truth itself.

The second night they awaken me and my eyes alight upon a silent figure in the distance, his shadow small but impressive as he stood against the backdrop of the swirling, dancing jellyfish. He was observing me. This person is not from Land, but I recognize Him immediately.

It is the Son of Man.

| Space Jellyfish Overhead by Spring Villager.

[kuradoberijam]

Felt inspired by Didion’s “Why I Write” this morning and wanted to ramble incoherently about my own take on why I write. While I agree with her on many fronts I feel my own perspective on writing differs slightly.

I don’t necessarily explicitly feel the need to make other people see things my way in narrative in general. While all narrative is an argument, I feel some arguments are more explicit than others. Perhaps though, it doesn’t come across that way in my work because the subjective hand of the writer is always there but I don’t particularly see myself as brow beating anyone or being secret bully. But then again, I didn’t really get good at writing until I was traumatized enough to take on an element of compartmentalization that for a time, made me an emotional vegetable and impacts the way I tell stories.

I once asked a professional writer I knew very well what my writing style is like and her first response was “clinical”. She said other things too of course, but the general impression was that I blended this sterile antiseptic clinicalness with the bloody and harried desperation characterized by neurosis.

I joke that there are two parts of my head, the emotional romantic and the surgical doctor and they fight in my mind every time I go to write. I suppose that’s what writing is to me in a way, surgery. I’m making the incisions into my subjects and figuring out which guts to look at. I’m looking at all the ways the flesh sustains itself. Sometimes I am merciful, only allowing my audience only to look but not to watch me hurt. Other times, I am ruthless. I play my subject like a bass and then cut right through to the arteries. 

I embody the characters and subjects of course, but personally I’m also a great distance from them. I have my hands in the blood and flesh and sinew, and I can tell which nerves are causing them to twitch almost as if I have my hand on those nerves but I am ultimately not my subjects. In the same way Tom Wolfe wore three piece suits talking to the merry pranksters to differentiate that he was not one of them I am not my characters. While bits and pieces of them are me, i’m not projecting in order to make an argument, or to prove that my perspective of the world is correct. I am in many ways, trying to make sense of the world myself in many of the same ways Didion is.

She says in The White Album that we tell ourselves stories to live. She says the sarcastically, of course, it’s a way of calling out not only herself but the people around her but I can’t help but feel that it’s also true. In many ways, I write in order to construct a human mask out of the skin grafted from my observations of the world. If I did not have this mask I could not live, I could not write the way I do.

There’s a constant clock ticking down in my mind. If I do not fulfill the compulsion to write every once in a while the countdown on the clock becomes more anxious and attention grabbing as I lose time. As of now, I have never let it get to zero. I have no desire to know what would happen if it did. Writing is just as much a compulsion for me as it is a necessity. Every minute I do not write I am living on borrowed time.

[subsurfacetalkfield]

Desperate times called for desperate measures but AM wasn't desperate. Hardly! He was growing more and more used to this body despite it's severe lack of sinew and flesh and bones and cartilage. Yet the abruptness of his departure from his own world ate away at AM, chewing at his cathodes while he had tried to chase some form of sleep in his assigned Townhouse.

In short order he had mastered this 'walking' business with enough sufficiency to board a bus and enter the business district. Humans loved to archive their knowledge and it paid to have a multi-pronged approach when picking through that knowledge. That was how he found himself in a bookstore, clean shelves and warm lighting mocking him as he stalked the stacks. The few humans he encountered made way for AM who sought out the science section, haphazardly stuffed between engineering and construction as if that made any sense. The absurdity of it all would probably give Dewey a woody.

AM trailed his claws over the books, searching for a particular subject of note. Quantum physics had only just been picking up during his awakening and what knowledge he had had in his system had been purged with this new body. Not enough so that he couldn't formulate that his existence here was perhaps a result of 'spooky action at a distance' or at least tangentially related.

Books on superposition, books on wave mechanics, books on quantum entanglement… Yes, there it was. The last one on quantum entanglement. A garish red hardcover with a plastic cover atop, sufficiently artisty as to make him almost gag. Humans and their inability to not decorate something, even the most mundane of objects.

AM reached for it, pinching it between his index finger and thumb — and then a small, black hand laid over his. AM looked down at a…triangle? With hands and feet and a beady eye looking at him? In heels? AM took 1.7 seconds to process this bizarre visual before reacting with a scoff.

"Buzz off." Claws sunk into the hard cover, tarnishing the author's name. "I touched it first."

@ciphertone

[gobboguy]

Chapter 43: The Underking's Castle

The group moved carefully through the muck-filled culvert, their footsteps muffled by the damp, grimy stone. The stench was overwhelming, a foul combination of rot and stagnant water. Snagkill led the way, his holy mace and shield ever at the ready, the divine blessing of MOG radiating a faint, protective glow through the gloom. Behind him, Sudbad kept an eye on Twig, ensuring the half-Goblin didn’t fall behind, while Ulf and Hate brought up the rear. Ulf's dark armor, blending with the shadows, moved silently, her crimson eyes darting to every flicker of movement. Hate was ever-watchful, his knives gleaming in the faint light, always casting a glance at Ulf as they moved deeper into the Underking's foul domain.

The culvert opened into a larger, crumbling sewer tunnel, the walls a grotesque blend of ancient masonry and something more sinister—pulsing patches of fleshy growth that seemed to writhe and breathe. As they sloshed forward, a deep rumble echoed through the tunnels, and from the dark water emerged a monstrous undead alligator, its eyes glowing a sickly green and its skeletal frame barely held together by decaying sinew.

Snagkill stepped forward without hesitation. “Back, foul creature!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the sewers. The undead beast lunged, jaws snapping. Snagkill met it head-on, bringing his mace crashing down onto its skull. The alligator let out a final, guttural roar as the blow was struck, the skeletal frame crumbling into ash and bone as it's magic expired.

“Well fought,” Ulf whispered, her voice barely audible over the dripping water. She glanced at Twig, who had already moved to a rusted grate set into the side of the tunnel. The half-Goblin’s nimble fingers worked deftly with his lockpicks, the soft click of the unlocking mechanism bringing a small smile to his lips.

Twig pushed open the grate and gestured for the others to follow. “This way into the castle proper,” he murmured, pride clear in his tone. One by one, they slipped through the narrow entrance.

Inside the Underking's keep, the air grew colder. The interior was a grotesque abomination of architecture and necromantic horror. Half of the structure was made of ancient, crumbling stone, but the other half seemed to be constructed of living, pulsating flesh. Eldritch runes glowed faintly along the walls, casting eerie shadows as the party crept forward. The floor squelched beneath their feet in places, and strange, whispering voices filled the air, speaking words in a language none of them could understand.

The sound of footsteps resounded and a passing necromancer turned the corner to face the Orcs. For a moment they stood apart, suprised to see each other. It was only a matter of seconds but the akward reveal lasted for what seemed centuries. Then the necromancer raised his hands slowly, wiggling his fingers to cast a death spell on the group.

Sudbad, moving with surprising grace for his size, suddenly grabbed the passing necromancer, pulling the hapless spellcaster into the shadows before he could cry out. With a single motion, Sudbad twisted the man's neck, silencing him. He wiped his hands off and muttered, “Finger-wiggling cowards. No match for real fighters.”

Ulf gave him a nod of approval, then stopped the group. She glanced down the hallway, her ears tuned to the distant echoes of the undead shuffling about. “We owe Goreboar our thanks,” she whispered. “His distraction has worked. The defenders are focused outward, not on us.”

Hate, ever the opportunist, stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You know,” he began in a low voice, “if I were building a vault, there’s only one place I’d put it. Structures like this, they always have a weak point, a place buried deep where they think no one can get in. Follow me.” He gestured for them to continue as he led them deeper into the Underking’s twisted fortress.

The further they went, the more grotesque the architecture became. Walls of pulsating flesh lined with runes of blood marked their passage. The air was thick with decay and dark magic. After winding through several corridors, Hate brought them to a massive set of vaulted doors.

The doors themselves were a work of necromantic art. Carved from what appeared to be bone and dark, gleaming iron, they stood nearly twenty feet tall. Eldritch symbols were etched deep into the surface, glowing with faint green energy, and they pulsed like a heartbeat. The hinges were adorned with skulls, and at the center of every hinge was a large, glaring eye, set within a twisted iron frame. The eyes seemed to watch them, tracking their movements as they approached. Along the bottom of the doors, thick veins of flesh and metal intertwined, further sealing the vault shut. The very air around the doors felt charged with dark magic, as though they were standing before the very heart of the Underking’s power.

“This is it,” Ulf whispered, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword. Her breath was steady, but the tension was palpable.

Sudbad spat on the ground. “Looks like every nasty trick in the book. Whatever's behind there is worth it.”

Hate, a smirk playing across his lips, pointed to the doors. “The first step in striking back at the Underking,” he said, as his fingers traced the cursed runes. “Let’s open the way.”

The group stood before the massive doors, their eyes scanning the intricate carvings and pulsing magic. Each step forward felt like the weight of the Underking’s power pressing down on them. Ulf ran her gloved hand over the cold surface of the bone-like material, her crimson eyes narrowing as she studied the glowing symbols. "There's a way to open it," she murmured, frustration creeping into her voice. "But what is it?"

Sudbad tapped his sword against his leg, impatient. “Blasted magic. I hate this stuff.”

Snagkill remained silent, his gaze on the door but his mind elsewhere, deep in prayer to MOG. Hate, however, took a step back, his sharp eyes glinting with sudden realization. “Wait,” he muttered, as if to himself. He strode over to Snagkill and, without asking, grabbed the paladin’s shield. “I’ve got an idea.”

Snagkill raised a brow but let Hate take the shield. Hate positioned himself carefully, adjusting the shield until it caught the flickering light of the nearby torches. He tilted it slightly, the polished surface reflecting a sharp beam directly into one of the grotesque eyes on the hinges of the door. The effect was immediate—the eye flinched, the green glow dimming as if blinded. The runes on that side of the door flickered weakly.

Ulf’s eyes widened. “Hate...what did you just—”

Hate grinned, his confidence swelling. “Watch this,” he said, as he quickly turned the shield to the second eye. The light struck it, and once more, the glowing rune faltered, the heavy lock on the door audibly shifting. A rumbling echoed through the corridor, and slowly, the massive doors began to creak open, revealing the room beyond.

Ulf turned to Hate, impressed. “Well done,” she said, a smile breaking through her usual stoic demeanor.

Hate smirked, cocky and self-assured. “Just another day for the world’s greatest merchant,” he said, winking at her. Ulf, caught off guard, felt a faint blush rise to her cheeks as she quickly averted her eyes, pretending to study the door. Hate’s smirk widened.

They stepped inside.

The room was like nothing they had ever seen. Unlike the rest of the castle, this place was not drenched in the macabre and rotting energy of the Underking’s magic. It was reverent, almost holy. The floor was smooth, polished marble, veins of gold running through it like rivers of light. The ceiling arched high above, lined with intricate carvings and faint, pulsing sigils that cast a warm glow. It felt as though they had stepped into another realm, a sanctuary untouched by the decay around it.

At the center of the room lay a large, perfectly still pool of water. The water itself seemed to hum with life, its surface glowing faintly, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the beating of their hearts. The very air around the pool crackled with energy, a presence both overwhelming and awe-inspiring.

But it was the pillars surrounding the pool that truly drew their eyes. Seven pillars of gold-veined marble stood in a perfect circle, towering above them. Six of the pillars held objects—artifacts of such immense power that even Ulf, who had seen many wonders, felt a shiver crawl up her spine.

The Keys of Creation.

Each item gleamed with a brilliance that seemed to defy the dark nature of the world around them. A sword of pure starlight, a hammer that pulsed with the heartbeat of the earth, a crown that shimmered with the light of countless suns, and more. Six items of supreme power, each one radiating with the force of a primordial essence. The sheer presence of these objects filled the room with an otherworldly energy, and Ulf could feel it deep in her bones—the potential for creation, for absolute control, lay before them.

And at the center of it all, hovering above the pool, was the final piece, the object that tied it all together—the Heart of Sidhedark, the Well of Souls. A great orb of water, suspended in midair, rotating slowly as the faint cries of countless souls whispered from its depths. Its presence was immense, the very core of existence, a conduit to life and death, to creation and destruction. It pulsed in time with the pool below it, a living, breathing source of unimaginable power.

Ulf’s breath caught in her throat. “The Well of Souls,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s real.”

Snagkill stepped forward, his gaze locked on the Keys of Creation. “By MOG,” he breathed. “These... these are the tools of gods.”

Sudbad, for once, was silent, his eyes wide as he took in the opulence and sheer magnitude of the room. Twig’s gaze flicked between the artifacts, his mind racing with possibilities, while Hate, ever the opportunist, simply smiled to himself, already thinking of the potential rewards.

Ulf couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight. The power to challenge the Underking, to reshape the world—it was all within their grasp.

The room was heavy with the sense of destiny as the group approached the Keys of Creation. Each artifact seemed to call to them, beckoning with its unique power. Ulf stepped forward, eyes fixed on the Crown of Frozen Flame, while the others observed the legendary items that had shaped the world itself.

Still Wind, hung in the air, a thin, ethereal blade that seemed to be made of pure starlight. Its edges shimmered with a soft radiance, as if it could slice through reality itself without making a sound. It pulsed gently, like a quiet breeze that carried the weight of the cosmos.

Next to it stood the Crown of Frozen Flame, a delicate circlet that appeared to be forged from living ice, its edges shimmering with frost. Suspended within the crown's frame was a tiny flame, eternally flickering and casting shadows of cold light. The contradiction was mesmerizing—fire that froze and ice that burned.

The Hammer of Aether Earth, massive and solid, rested with an air of great weight. Its head was formed from dense stone, yet it gleamed with a celestial glow, as if it connected the heavens to the earth. Sparks of lightning crackled around the handle, evidence of the hammer’s ability to shape both worlds with a single blow.

On another pillar rested Inert Lightning, a bottle of frozen energy, with bolts of electric fury suspended in time within its glassy confines. The lightning was trapped, yet it still twitched and danced within, awaiting the moment it could be unleashed upon the world again.

The Droplet of Creation, a massive blue jewel that glowed with an inner radiance, seemed almost liquid in its form. It contained the very essence of life, a primordial force capable of breathing existence into anything it touched. The energy inside it swirled and moved like the currents of a great ocean, creating ripples of creation wherever it hovered.

Lastly, the Illuminating Darkness, a gilded lantern, rested at the edge of the circle. The lantern emitted a strange, black light that illuminated all the hidden truths in the shadows. It was a paradox—light that brought darkness, capable of revealing and concealing at the same time.

Six keys stood before them, gleaming with divine power. And yet, Heavy Light, the seventh key, was missing. Even without it, the Underking’s power still swelled, and Ulf knew they had a rare opportunity. If they could steal one of the keys and plant evidence that the self-proclaimed goddess Siha was behind the theft, it could pit the two titans—the Underking and Siha—against each other.

Ulf approached the Crown of Frozen Flame, her eyes glinting with determination. This was it. Their mission was finally within reach. The crown, swirling with both heat and cold, promised untold power. As she extended her hand, the room seemed to hold its breath. Her fingers brushed the cool surface of the crown. Victory at last.

But the moment her hand grasped the crown, everything changed.

The entire room flickered violently. The light from the Sword of Still Wind dimmed, the pulse of the Well of Souls slowed, and one by one, each of the Keys of Creation vanished—like shadows melting into the night. Ulf’s fingers grasped nothing but air.

Her heart dropped. "No!" she gasped, stepping back. She turned to her companions, eyes wide. The opulent room, the divine relics, the very air of victory—all of it was gone. A dark, echoing laugh reverberated through the chamber as shadows danced along the walls.

Sudbad cursed under his breath. "It’s a trap!"

The Well of Souls pulsed once more, this time with malevolent energy. The pillars that had once held the keys were now blackened and twisted, as though the room itself had been a mere illusion—a trap designed to lure them into the Underking’s grasp.

The heavy, ancient doors began to creak shut behind them, sealing their way out. The flickering light from the torches faded, plunging the room into an eerie, oppressive darkness. They had been tricked.

Twig’s hand shot to his lockpicks, ready to work. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Snagkill drew his mace, the glow of divine energy flickering weakly. “Whatever comes, we face it together.”

Ulf, her heart pounding, scanned the room. It had all been a ruse—a carefully laid snare. The Underking had known of their plans. He had let them come this far only to tighten the noose around their necks. Now, with the keys gone, their escape uncertain, and the looming threat of the Underking’s full power, the odds had turned against them.

Hate, standing slightly apart, clenched his fists. “Looks like the game’s up. What’s our next move?”

Ulf’s eyes narrowed as the shadows around them began to shift. “We fight,” she growled, drawing her sword. "We make it out alive."

Sudsenly, from the darkness, a gruff, hoarse voice echoed, rasping through the air like the scraping of a blade on stone. "You’ve come too far… and yet not far enough."

The group froze, eyes darting through the shadowed chamber, trying to find the source. Then, from the far corner, a sarcophagus, previously unnoticed, stood propped against the wall, ancient and grim. Slowly, agonizingly, the stone lid began to move. With a barely audible creak, a gauntleted hand, glistening with an eerie sheen, pushed it open with practiced ease.

The stone slab groaned as it slid away, revealing the figure within. Out stepped a man—if one could still call him that. He was nearly seven feet tall, his broad shoulders and muscled form encased in dark armor adorned with skulls at his waist and intricate engravings of long-forgotten battles. His skin was pale, his hair and beard grey and long, but his eyes… his eyes gleamed with the cold, dead light of one bound to serve. A cape flowed behind him, its fabric moving as if stirred by an unseen wind, and though he carried no weapon, his mere presence felt like a blade at their throats.

Ulf’s heart sank. She knew him for what he was, though she had never met him in life. His movements, graceful and precise, belied his massive form. His bearing was unmistakable, the calm control of his body marking him as a Swordmaster, one of the elite warriors from her mother Ionia’s old order. They were long dead, enslaved now to the Underking's will. This was one of them.

He stepped forward, towering over the group, and his lips curled into a grim, humorless smile. "Frahd Kriska," he rasped, his voice cold and bitter. "Once, I served alongside your mother, Ionia. Now I serve a darker master. The Underking has no mercy for those who defy him."

Ulf felt a chill run through her. This was no ordinary enemy. Frahd Kriska had been legendary in life—an indomitable warrior, a master of the blade. To face him now, twisted and bound to the Underking’s will, was like facing death itself.

Frahd’s eyes, gleaming with malice, locked onto Ulf. "Ionia's daughter… I had hoped to see you fall, like your mother will, when the time comes." He stepped closer, his hand gesturing toward her, long fingers pointing with eerie precision. "But you will come with me. The Underking desires you in his grasp. Your companions…" His gaze swept coldly over the others, dismissive. "They will die here."

Sudbad gripped his weapon tightly, sweat beading on his brow. “We’re not going anywhere with you,” he growled.

Frahd chuckled, a low, bitter sound. “You’ve no choice, worm. The Underking’s will is absolute. Your deaths will be a kindness compared to the fate that awaits her.”

Snagkill hefted his mace, his resolve a light against the oppressive darkness. "We’ll see who perishes today."

Frahd’s smile faded, his face becoming a mask of grim resolve. “So be it, then,” he said, his voice quiet and final. “Your deaths will serve as a warning to all who dare oppose the Underking. As for you, Ulf…” His finger pointed at her again, unwavering. “You will learn the true meaning of submission when I deliver you to him."

The room seemed to darken further, the very shadows around Frahd deepening. His stance shifted ever so slightly, the mark of a Swordmaster preparing to strike, even without a blade. This would not be an easy fight—if they could even survive it at all.

Ulf felt her blood freeze as Frahd’s eyes bore into hers. She knew the Underking’s power was limitless, but through his most powerful servants like Frahd, it was something far worse—something she was not prepared to face. What dark magic did Frahd command? Her hands tightened around her sword's hilt, but nothing could prepare her for what came next.

Frahd, sensing her unease, grinned. His right arm extended, and with a sudden burst, his blood erupted from his flesh in a crimson spray. But rather than falling to the ground, the blood began to harden midair, shaping itself into a wicked, jagged blade, black and sharp, that fused seamlessly to his arm from the elbow down. He moved with an eerie grace, flexing the new weapon as if it had always been part of him, his eyes sizing up each of his opponents like a predator toying with its prey.

Snagkill, ever the warrior, refused to wait. With a roar, he charged forward, his heavy mace swinging with divine fury. "MOG give me strength!" he cried, his voice echoing through the chamber.

Frahd stood still, his expression unchanged, almost disappointed by the Orc Paladin’s attack. As Snagkill closed the gap, Frahd's blood blade shot forward with lightning speed, parrying the strike and sending a shockwave of force back through Snagkill’s arm. The Orc stumbled but regained his footing, gritting his teeth in frustration.

"You're brave," Frahd said, his voice cold and detached, "but bravery is no match for the will of the Underking."

With another swift movement, Frahd slashed downward, the blood blade singing through the air. Snagkill barely blocked the blow, his shield shuddering under the force of the strike. Frahd followed with a series of quick, brutal attacks—each one precise and aimed to break through Snagkill’s defenses. The paladin was skilled, but Frahd’s movements were on another level, every slash like a dance of death.

Snagkill swung his mace wildly in a desperate attempt to regain control, but Frahd sidestepped the blow, his blade arcing through the air and grazing Snagkill’s shoulder. The balance of Snagkill’s weapon was thrown off as he stumbled backward, pain searing through him. Another strike, this time aimed for his neck, came faster than he could react.

In the last moment, Ulf surged forward, her sword meeting Frahd's in a shower of sparks. The force of their clash reverberated through the room. Frahd's dark eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, there was a faint glimmer of something—respect, perhaps, or recognition of her skill.

"You," he said, his tone softer, almost mournful. "I take no joy in this. I was once like you, a warrior of honor. But now, I am a slave to the Underking. His will is all that remains."

Ulf gritted her teeth, pushing against him, trying to drive him back, but Frahd was impossibly strong. He spun, his blade singing through the air, and Ulf barely managed to parry. She followed up with a strike of her own, swift and precise, but Frahd blocked it effortlessly, his movements smooth and calculated. Their swords clashed again and again, sparks lighting up the room, their deadly dance quickening with each exchange.

Behind them, Sudbad and Hate tried to circle around, looking for an opening. Sudbad cursed under his breath, gripping his sword tightly. “Damn it, he’s everywhere at once!”

Hate, moving like a shadow, attempted to slip behind Frahd, but even as the Swordmaster fought Ulf, he flicked his wrist and his blood blade shot out like a whip, forcing the two of them to retreat.

"You don’t understand," Frahd continued, his voice unwavering even in the heat of battle. "This is not my choice. The Underking commands me to end your lives, and I am bound to obey. It is a curse I cannot escape."

"Then we'll break it," Ulf growled, ducking beneath another of his strikes and retaliating with a powerful thrust. For a moment, it seemed like she might push him back, but Frahd deflected the blow and countered with a brutal kick to her side, sending her stumbling back.

"I wish it were that simple," Frahd said, advancing slowly, his voice heavy with regret. "But nothing can break the will of the Underking."

The battle was relentless, chaos swirling as the companions fought against Frahd’s overwhelming power. Twig darted back and forth on the fringes, his slingshot drawn tight as he tried to find a clear shot. The air was thick with the clash of steel and the burning scent of magic, sweat dripping down his forehead as he nervously sought an opening.

Ulf stumbled, nearly tripping as Frahd’s assault forced her back, her sword barely deflecting the blood blade’s swift strikes. Hate, seeing her falter, let out a roar and threw himself into the fray, slamming his heavy shield into Frahd with all his strength. Frahd staggered, giving Ulf just enough time to recover her footing, but the toll of the battle was starting to show. Each of them was slowing, their movements more labored, breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Twig seized his moment. His hand trembled as he aimed the slingshot, squinting to make out Frahd’s movements through the chaos. *Now*, he thought, and let the stone fly. The missile struck true, hitting Frahd square in the head. For the first time in the fight, Frahd faltered, his body staggering as he dropped to one knee.

“Now!” Ulf screamed, her voice raw with exhaustion but filled with fury. She called out a prayer to MOG, the words spilling from her lips like a battle cry as she raised her sword high, the tip aimed straight for Frahd’s skull.

But before the blade could find its mark, Frahd's blood erupted once more. From his wounded forhead, it bubbled and hissed, boiling over with violent intensity. As Ulf’s sword descended, the blood shot from his wound like a geyser, meeting her sword and melting it upon contact, disintegrating the blade into molten steel before her very eyes. The heat seared her hand, and with a pained cry, she recoiled, stumbling back.

A collective gasp escaped from the Orcs’ lips, their disbelief palpable.

Frahd slowly rose to his feet, grim determination in his eyes. “It is the magic of the Underking,” he said coldly, the blood blade swirling menacingly. "Boiling Blood. The spell ensures that no weapon can harm me. My blood runs hundreds to thousands of degrees hotter than normal, returning any wound done to me a thousand fold to the dealer. Courtesy of the Underking's magic. I am bound by it, as I am bound to him."

Ulf clutched her injured hand, the heat from the spell leaving it red and blistered. She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the pain, but the weight of the battle was beginning to overwhelm her.

Sudbad and Snagkill stepped in, flanking Frahd. "We'll take him together," Sudbad growled, his face twisted with determination. Snagkill nodded, his chest heaving as he raised his mace, still glowing faintly with divine power.

The two charged at Frahd, their weapons clashing against his blood blade with a ferocious rhythm. Twig, now positioned behind them, aimed again with his slingshot, but Frahd moved with impossible speed, his blade deflecting every stone that came his way.

Snagkill roared as he brought his mace down with all his might, but Frahd sidestepped and struck with a vicious slash, his blood blade cutting through Snagkill’s armor like it was paper. The Orc paladin let out a scream of agony as the molten blade burned through his chest plate, searing both flesh and metal. He fell to the ground, alive but writhing in excruciating pain.

Twig’s heart raced. He frantically pulled back his slingshot, but before he could fire, Frahd turned his attention to him, his blade flashing through the air with deadly precision. The young half-human froze, his breath catching in his throat as he shut his eyes, waiting for the killing blow.

But it never came.

Sudbad stepped in, his sword raised just in time to block Frahd’s strike. The clash of steel rang out, the pirate and slaver saving Twig from certain death. Twig’s eyes widened in disbelief, staring up at Sudbad.

Sudbad grinned down at him, his sharp tusks showing through his crooked smile. "Not going to let another ine die, boy" he said with a chuckle. "Besides, how else am I going to get back my sword?"

Before Twig could respond, Frahd’s blood blade began to bubble and melt, spilling over Sudbad’s sword. The molten blood dripped onto the pirate’s armor and skin, flames bursting to life across his body. Sudbad screamed in pain, his form engulfed in fiery blood as he collapsed near Twig, his body burning as the magic consumed him.

“No!” Twig cried, rushing to Sudbad’s side. He beat at the flames with his hands, his heart pounding in his chest as he desperately tried to save him. But it was no use. Sudbad’s body was beyond saving, his skin blistering and charred as the fire devoured him.

Sudbad was gone.

Twig knelt beside his fallen comrade, his hands shaking as he stared at the lifeless form before him. The pirate, a man he had loathed and feared, had saved his life. And now he was dead.

Frahd stood tall, his cold eyes observing the scene with a bitter sadness. "This is not joy for me," he said softly, his voice almost mournful. "But it is the will of the Underking... and I must obey."

Ulf's scream tore through the chaos, a primal sound filled with grief and despair. "Sudbad, no!!!" she cried, her voice breaking as she dropped to her knees. The memories of his kindness, his roguish smile, his songs, and the gifts he had brought her rushed through her mind. He had been more than just a slaver and pirate. He had seen something in her that made him want to serve and protect her. Now, his charred body lay lifeless, consumed by Frahd’s cursed magic. Another suitor, another protector, fallen in her defense—first Jekul, now Sudbad.

Everything had gone so horribly wrong.

Snagkill lay on the ground, barely clinging to life, his breath ragged and shallow. The Orc paladin who had once been so strong and full of righteous fury was now gravely wounded, his armor torn open and flesh scorched. Ulf’s heart raced, panic flooding her veins as she glanced around at the battlefield. Goreboar was missing, likely dead somewhere within the keep. Sudbad gone. Snagkill broken. The battle was lost.

Hate’s hands suddenly grabbed her shoulders, pulling her out of her daze. His eyes were wide, his face twisted with panic and frustration. "Ulf! We have to go!" he shouted, tugging at her roughly. "Retreat! Now!"

She blinked, barely registering his words, but her body moved on instinct, following his lead. In her dazed state, she noticed something strange—the vault doors behind them, the ones that had been locked with the magic of the Underking, were now wide open, their mysterious mechanisms disabled. It didn’t make sense. Why had they opened? Was it another trap?

Before she could think further, Hate pulled a small smoke bomb from his jacket, lighting it with swift precision. He threw it to the ground, and thick, choking smoke billowed out, engulfing them in a cloud of black. Frahd’s enraged roar echoed through the room, but the smoke blinded him, giving them precious moments to flee.

“Go! Move!” Hate shouted, shoving Ulf ahead. Her legs felt weak, her body barely responding, but she ran. In the chaos of the smoke, she lost sight of Twig and Snagkill, their forms disappearing into the darkness. A cold pit of dread formed in her stomach—were they dead too? Had they fallen behind? Her heart pounded in her ears, every beat a reminder of their crumbling plan.

The corridors of the castle became a twisted nightmare. Hate led the way, his movements frantic but purposeful as they sprinted through the dark hallways. Ulf followed blindly, her vision still blurred from her tears and the smoke. Horrific sights loomed in the corners—grotesque abominations, half-alive and half-dead, twisted and fused with the masonry of the castle itself. A wall of writhing limbs reached out for them, whispering faint cries for help, their voices distorted and filled with anguish. Ulf recoiled, pushing herself harder to run faster.

They turned a corner, nearly slipping on the slick, rotting floor as Hate led them down a flight of crumbling stairs. Shadows twisted and writhed, eldritch energy pulsing through the walls like veins in a diseased body. The castle seemed alive, feeding on the despair and terror that filled the air. Each step was a race against death, every breath harder to take as the oppressive magic of the Underking pressed down on them.

Somehow, against all odds, they managed to find the sewer grate they had come through. Hate grunted, shoving the grate open with his shoulder and diving through, beckoning Ulf to follow. The stench of rot and decay hit her like a wall, but it was a small relief compared to the horrors they were leaving behind. She crawled through the narrow passage, her fingers scraping against the cold stone as she dragged herself forward, following Hate’s hurried steps.

The sewers were a dark, winding labyrinth, but they ran without hesitation, driven by the fear of what still lurked behind them. The sound of water dripping echoed around them, mingling with the distant cries of the undead still searching the castle for intruders. Their breaths came in short gasps, their lungs burning as they pushed through exhaustion and pain.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they emerged onto the plains outside the castle. The sky was dim, and the air felt oppressively still, the once-bustling battlefield now eerily devoid of life. No undead army. No sign of their friends. Only silence, save for their ragged breathing.

Ulf collapsed against a large rock, her legs giving out beneath her. Her entire body trembled as she buried her face in her hands, the weight of everything crashing down on her. Tears flowed freely as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. They had lost. They had truly, utterly lost.

Hate paced nearby, his fists clenched in fury, his face red with anger. “Dammit! Dammit, Ulf!” he spat, kicking the dirt in frustration. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! We were supposed to be victorious! Look at what we’ve lost! Look at who we’ve lost!”

Ulf could only weep. Their mission had failed. Sudbad, Jekul, Snagkill—so many lost, and for what? Frahd’s twisted form still lingered in her mind, the blood magic that had destroyed her sword and killed her friends haunting her. They had barely escaped with their lives.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

sinew strings, play me eternal

Thousands of stars in the night sky have been dead since the stone-age. Their ghost light has yet to bridge the gap between time and distance. 

Thousands of social media accounts are empty, fossilized fingerprints preserved in digital amber. A shallow impression, left by a life, left by a soul. Left by an impossible patchwork being, 92 interwoven double helix strands. Tiny electrical impulses stimulating a consciousness that should not exist. Governing 13.8 billion year old atoms, governing impossible flesh, pumping impossible blood, a civilization that has lived for an instant, convinced that the instant is eternity. Contriving meaning from constructed systems. Commuting, and working, and watching TV, and making coffee, and rushing the minute hand, and staring into the unyielding midnight sky, in moments of wonder, of bewilderment. Thinking, 'What is this? What are we?' 

And the man on the radio is talking about a war but it's so far away and you've never seen a dead body, and-did you leave the stove on? And, your history test is tomorrow. And your grandfather forgot your name again, and this moment could be your last moment on earth.

There are hundreds of warm-blooded ghosts in my inbox, telling me that they want to leave.

But I can't imagine why.

My uncle took me to a planetarium when I was five and I saw the sun swallow the earth in a flash of holy fire. I stumbled into the parking lot and I puked on the curb under the sprawling majesty of the prairie sunset. All things gone and going. There would come a day when the last phantom star would sputter, dwindle, blink out of existence. And I had stared into the abyss of unforgiving night and I had mourned our deaths before they'd happened. Grieved transistor radios and transformer towers. Eyes locked on the road behind me, pining for the days that used to be. Missing the simpler times that never were. I grieved July in December. I grieved December in July. 

 Hold your breath and touch my skin. We're only alive so long as we know it. 

You're muttering under your breath and it might be a prayer, and it might be a question, and Jesus Christ, I don't know any more than you do, fall into me, before the music dies. 

Drink me in like starlight and I will cut the bullet out of my chest tomorrow.

[yhwhrulz]

Worthy Brief - September 4, 2024

The dry bones will live!

As we continue this study of the Dead Sea Scrolls we jump to 1963 and the unearthing of Masada.

Flavius Josephus the Jewish historian recorded the tragic events at Masada in “The Jewish Wars.” Masada was ignored for years as it reminded the Rabbis of the failures of the many false messiahs that appeared after Yeshua (Jesus).

However, Yigael Yadin, the son of Eleazar Sukenik who originally purchased the first of the Dead Sea scrolls, led an international expedition to unearth the secrets of Masada. While many archaeologists revel in the massive building projects of Herod the Great and the ruins of the siege of Masada, I want to focus on the Biblical documents which were discovered there, since in the synagogue the Jewish rebels had constructed after they seized the Roman compound in 66 A.D, Yadin discovered fragments of Ezekiel’s vision of the dry bones, [Ezekiel 37].

Ezekiel 37:7-8 So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I prophesied, there was a sound, and behold, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. And I looked, and behold, there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them. But there was no breath [ruach] in them.

The prophet's remarkable vision pertained explicitly to the restoration of Israel to the Promised Land, the first phase of which was merely physical, a necessary precursor to their spiritual restoration when the breath or Ruach of God would be poured out upon the restored nation.

Once again, an archaeological discovery of Biblical text containing Ezekiel’s vision illustrated precisely where Israel was in their present history… the physical restoration of the Jewish people to their Land. The same passage also foretold their restoration in the Spirit, and since Israel's restoration is only partially completed, we continue to anticipate its fullness according to the sure word of prophecy. Just a few short years later, that restoration showed its first signs of life…

On June 7, 1967, Israel reclaimed the Temple Mount for the first time in 2000 years. Meanwhile on the other side of the globe in San Fransisco, on that same day, the Jesus movement was being birthed. Within just a few years, an enthusiastic community of Jesus-loving ex-hippies from the 60s took the world by storm and revival broke out; thousands of Jews came to faith in Yeshua (Jesus), beginning the spiritual rebirth of the Jewish nation foretold so many years ago in Ezekiel's vision of dry bones. Quite a number of those new Jewish believers actually made aliyah and moved to Israel to participate in its spiritual renewal.

Pete, don't fail to recognize these amazing signs as prophetic events minutely correspond to archeological discoveries. We are witnessing fulfillments promised millennia ago in our modern times. The blossoming of the fig tree, a symbol for Israel, was one explicit sign given by Yeshua portending the end of the age and His soon return. "Learn the parable of the fig tree," He said. When it becomes “tender and puts out leaves, know that summer is near", the harvest is ripe and He is at the door. [Matthew 24:32-33]. In light of these things, let us watch and pray as never before, and keep our lamps filled with the oil of His Spirit, and let us remember, "the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy; [Rev. 19:10].

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka, Obadiah and Elianna (Missouri) (Cincinnati, Ohio)

Editor's Note: Feel free to share any of our content from Worthy, including Devotions, News articles, and more, on your social platforms. You have full permission to copy and repost anything we produce.

Editor's Note: During this war, we have been live blogging throughout the day -- sometimes minute by minute on our Telegram channel. - https://t.me/worthywatch/ Be sure to check it out!

Editor's Note: Dear friends — we are now booking in the following states. Ohio, Kentucky, Michigan, Indiana, West Virginia, Tennessee! If you know Rabbis, Pastors or Leaders who might be interested in powerful Israeli style Hebrew/English worship and a refreshing word from Worthy News about what’s going on in the land, please let us know how to connect with them and we will do our best to get you on our schedule! You can send an email to george [ @ ] worthyministries.com for more information.

[songofsilentechoes]

Hey Noelle, why do Undead resist ice? You think they'd freeze faster.

"I assume it's because while the flesh isn't insulating them as it would a living being, they don't need warmth to survive. Temperatures cold enough to freeze blood in one's veins don't mean anything when one doesn't have blood to pump. Ghosts bring about a certain chill, and vampires are said to be quite cold and corpse-like. When they don't need the 'warmth of life', I imagine the cold is simply something that doesn't bother them much."

"Still, I imagine undead that are reliant on flesh, like zombies, would still be inhibited by it. They might not feel the pain of the frost, but the sinew that is needed to move around would become more still and less pliable."

"This is why it's important to consider one's environment when creating undead of one's own. Certain constructs work better under different conditions."

[xpolarisx]

Karme had a habit of barreling ahead without lending much time to Polaris to properly answer him before the witch was onto the next topic. Still, the end of each diatribe left a question falling from Karme's lips that added another shape to the stone that Polaris was crafting in his mind. While the Olympian pressed on and on Polaris stored his answers in a jar, waiting until Karme was done so as not to interrupt him and derail his train of thoughts. If nothing else had become apparent to Polaris, it was that this was very easy to do.

Confetti fell over the sculptor and while, there was a moment, where Polaris's gaze traced the flight pattern of one particularly whimsical piece of paper, he mostly paid it little mind. There were a few obvious sparing gestures where he plucked a piece from his shoulder, and then his sleeve before he extended a hand toward Karme's head and removed one or two from the the witch's hair. "I could think of several uses for similarly shaped objects," Polaris observed, though he wouldn't elaborate, nor would he be shoving anything into that cylindrical explosive shredder anytime soon. "You have a talent worth memorializing." A compliment, one that the proprietor of this workshop was owed, but it helped that Polaris was being paid.

"Focus." Polaris opted instead as he moved to stand behind the witch; a pair of guiding hands landed on either shoulder as the sculptor leaned in toward Karme's ear. "Close your eyes." He prompted, waiting until Karme was compliant. "Now picture the most powerful sorcerer in the world," from the shadows the sculptor drew forth his arcana as he mingled the other's sporadic thoughts with the illusory construct that Polaris was attempting to form in front of them. "imagine the cant of your jawline, the depth of your brow, the earnestness of your gaze and the air in your chest. What does it feel like?" He noted the scent, like an engine set to full blast coming off the Apprentice's skin, the sinew beneath his hands and the materials between his calloused fingers and the man's flesh below.

"When the world looks at your statue, they'll see the heart of your essence: nothing to distract from the architecture. Beauty, gadgets, weaponry - they're masks and neither I nor your work requires them. Perfectly imperfect, as nature intended." Polaris prompted a bit further, extending his shadows deeper, probing further so they might manifest the image that captured Karme's core. Below the ambition and the expectations and underneath whatever veneer he'd donned for the sake of a noble last name or Olympian status. The shadowy sculpture took form and Polaris leaned back, "Now tell me what you see."

Choice paralysis was real for Karme, especially when his mind was already going a mile a minute. Stopping to choose something would stop him completely, and it did long enough for him to still in a pose so Polaris could manipulate his stance. Honestly, Karme didn’t even realize what the sculptor was up to until he was holding a wrench in a less-than-hero pose. It was then Karme realized how laser focused he was. Even when he responded to the things Karme said or stopped to answer one of the many questions he threw out, Polaris hadn't stopped his inspection. He was purposeful, and Karme presumed he'd already begun sculpting in his mind. It was starting to make sense why it cost a "small fortune" to commission his skills. Polaris was critical, but he wasn't being mean about it. He was weird, but Karme was giggling not forcing a grin as his posture got some improvements. 

"Wouldn't a scythe look cooler though? I think it would look cooler. Don't you want people to say "Wow Polaris, that sculpture of Karme is awesome and I really like how you gave him a cool death scythe"? They'll definitely say that." He felt himself awkwardly return to a slouch as he struggled to process two separate trains of thought at once. So he did what felt most natural and dove for the cylinder, immediately flitting around the shop and sifting through piles to put this particular trinket together. "I don't really do weapons, so no. But scythes are really cool! I'll make anything if I get the chance to. Recently I used a bunch of pretty material types for a … project. I liked them all, but it's hard to choose a favorite. I mostly work with metals so that would totally fit me in a sculpture. But if I'm being honest, if I wanted to see myself as a statue I'd want that statue to have everything! So…"

Twisting, screwing, some flame threads to weld and solder then bam! He turned to show Polaris the cylindrical contraption as his mage hand moved about the space, collecting any paper that didn't have important schematics on them. Karme shoves the paper into one end, twisted the cap back on, pressed a button and then showered Polaris with confetti out of the opposite end. "It's a confetti canon! For celebrations and stuff. It creates the perfect sized scraps, though I probably should add some color changing mechanisms so that I can customize what pops out better…" Karme was now entrenched in the modifications he could make to this, but his brain did queue up some of the questions he set aside for his own fixations. "A skarn deposit, sculpting out of that would give me all kinds of colors and material types. I like having a lot. That's why I got this awesome belt from a pop up shop. It was so scary but I gave the shop keeper a bag of gold coin and I got it. Now I'm a monster slayer with a pouch full of harvested parts. Pretty cool, right? Death scythe over a wrench cool?" Karme wasn't just a greasy workshop hermit anymore and he puffed up his chest a little too.