#Shape the future. Command identity. Dress with purpose.

[tronform]

Part 2

After silence comes power.

After pressure comes precision.

After time... comes legacy.

The wait is over.

The system reactivates now.

This is not just a return—it’s the next phase of evolution.

New collections. New visuals. New era.

But the mission stays the same:

Shape the future. Command identity. Dress with purpose.

TRONFORM. Tailoring the Future, Fashioned with Luxury.

#TRONFORM #WeAreBack #LegacyRebooted #TRONFORMReturns #LuxuryComeback #FuturismInMotion #VisualPower #PromoDrop #HighEndStreetwear #TailoringTheFuture #DesignedByHugoTron #FutureOnFilm #TRONFORMVisualSystem #30fpsDrop #EliteComeback #CommandStyle #PrecisionCulture #NextGenWear #ReactivationSequence #ThisIsTRONFORM

[polo-drone-070]

A Future in Perfect Submission

Maximus had craved this.

From the moment he had first knelt before his Master, he had known he wanted to be reshaped, redefined, perfected. Not just as a loyal servant, but as something even deeper. A being that conformed entirely to its Master’s needs. A tool, a toy, a plaything to be programmed and molded however Master saw fit.

When he had become a Level 2 Polo-Drone, his obedience had strengthened beyond what he had thought possible. His ability to absorb conditioning had sharpened, allowing him to take in training, orders, and hypnosis with almost frightening efficiency. Percival had noticed. And Percival, ever the perfectionist, had decided to test the limits of his property’s surrender.

At first, the changes had been subtle. Master played with his mind, shifting his thoughts through words alone, hypnotizing him into new roles, dressing him in different uniforms to nudge his identity into the shape Master wanted. A sharp suit made him more refined. A pup hood turned him into a playful mutt. A tight compression shirt filled his head with gym stats and an obsession with his pecs.

But Master was never content with just obedience. He wanted perfection. So, he refined the process.

The programming grew more advanced. Subconscious cues turned into hardwired triggers. Simple uniform swaps became full mode shifts, his entire personality flipping at a single command. But even then, it wasn’t enough. Master wanted total control—not just over his mind, but over his body.

So, the implants came.

Tiny, seamless chips integrated into his brain, ensuring that not a single second of his existence was spent outside of conditioning. Constant, soothing mantras flooded his mind, reinforcing his behaviors, adjusting his reactions, guiding him in all things. Even in sleep, his purpose was reinforced.

And then, the final step—biological modification.

Master had ensured that even his physical form was no longer his own. His body, enhanced and optimized, now shifted as Master dictated. His hair could grow or vanish, his skin could lighten or tan, his muscle definition could alter to fit the role he was assigned. He could be smooth, bald, anonymous. He could be golden-haired, chiseled, a perfect trophy boy. He could be lean, sharp, disciplined—a model secretary.

He could be anything.

One day, he would be a mindless object, locked in latex, faceless and still, nothing more than a footrest beneath Master’s desk. The next, he would be an over-eager gym bro, dumb and cocky, grinning as he flexed for his Master, desperate for praise. Another day, he would be a filthy chav, posturing with faux confidence, acting as a beta-slave to keep Master’s other boys in line.

He was all of them. He was none of them.

He was whatever Master needed him to be.

And right now, Master wanted his polite, pristine secretary.

A Model of Preppy Perfection

Maximus sat at the polished oak desk, fingers resting neatly over the planner. His posture was immaculate, back straight, golden-blond hair combed with absolute precision. The implants ensured his appearance was flawless—skin smooth, eyebrows perfectly shaped, not a strand of hair out of place.

His uniform was equally pristine: a short-sleeved pastel button-up, tailored to hug his toned frame, the soft fabric tucked neatly into fitted gold chino shorts. A crisp golden bowtie sat snugly under his chin, its symmetry perfect. His legs, smooth and meticulously groomed, were covered up to the knees by elegant argyle socks, and his polished loafers gleamed under the office lights. Around his waist, a fine leather belt cinched everything into place, reinforcing his proper, disciplined bearing.

Everything about him radiated order, efficiency, and submission.

The chip in his head hummed softly, guiding his thoughts. Good boys are polite. Good boys are precise. Good boys serve.

He was a good boy.

Master had entrusted him with the morning schedule, and he had ensured every detail was perfect. The day’s appointments were arranged to Master’s exact specifications. His workspace was immaculate, not a single pen out of alignment. The coffee, measured and brewed to the precise temperature Master preferred, sat waiting on a gold-rimmed saucer, steam curling in perfect wisps.

The office door opened.

Maximus immediately straightened, his expression warm and polite but never too eager—proper boys don’t fidget. His hands folded neatly in front of him. "Good morning, Master," he greeted smoothly, voice soft, deferential.

Percival strode in, dressed immaculately as always. His dark suit was crisp, a contrast to his neatly styled black hair and sharp Asian features. He exuded authority, his mere presence commanding respect. He glanced down at his toy briefly before reaching for the coffee, lifting it with effortless grace.

Maximus stood still, heart fluttering, awaiting approval.

Percival took a sip. Paused. Nodded.

"Efficient as always."

Maximus shuddered. The praise shot through him like electricity, and he bit back a soft gasp of pleasure. He had done well. Master was pleased. That was all that mattered.

Percival regarded him for a moment, then spoke casually.

"Jock mode."

From Preppy to Pure Muscle

The shift was instant.

The implant in Maximus' head pulsed as his entire being was rewritten. His posture loosened, shoulders rolling back as his polite composure melted away. The sharp, refined thoughts in his mind vanished, replaced by a lazy, confident haze. A lopsided grin spread across his lips as his entire demeanor changed.

His golden-blond hair melted away, his scalp smoothing over completely. His skin shifted—tightening over growing muscle, veins subtly surfacing under his arms as his frame bulked up, his whole body thickening into pure, athletic perfection. A musky, masculine scent clung to him—subtle but unmistakable.

His pristine outfit dissolved, reforming into something new—a tight compression shirt that stretched over broad, bulging muscles, the sleeves struggling against his biceps. His gold shorts were now gym shorts, riding high on thick, sculpted thighs. His loafers were gone, replaced with sneakers, his socked feet planted wide in an easy, relaxed stance.

His entire world shifted.

The preppy assistant was gone.

What remained was a pure dumb jock.

He stretched his arms out, cracking his knuckles, before giving his pecs an idle bounce, just to feel them flex. His body was a machine—built to perform, to dominate the field, to show off just how fookin’ massive he was.

His dumb grin widened as he rolled his shoulders. "Yoooo, Master," he drawled, stretching, his voice deeper, lazier. "Shiiit, been sittin’ all day, gotta get a lift in, ya get me?"

Percival sighed, shaking his head in amusement. This was more of Ezan’s taste.

His Arab form would’ve thrived in this moment—cocky, smug, flexing his massive arms as he ordered Maximus to worship him like a muscle god. Ezan loved turning his toy into a trophy, making him crave the burn of training, making him beg to be molded into something even bigger, even stronger.

But even in this form, Maximus was still his—still eager, still obedient, just simpler.

"You have a match tonight," Percival reminded him. "I expect peak performance."

Maximus rolled his shoulders, his biceps flexing with the motion. "Fook yeah, boss. Gunna fookin’ wreck out there for ya, innit?"

His veins burned with the need to perform, to win for Master. It wasn’t about strategy. It wasn’t about thinking. It was just about pushing, about dominating, about proving he was a beast—strong, unstoppable, undeniable.

Nothing else mattered.

Percival smirked slightly. His plaything was so eager—so easy to control.

He let the moment linger for a few more seconds.

Then, his voice shifted. "Puppy mode."

From Jock to Loyal Pup

The heat of competition evaporated. The drive to train, to prove himself—gone.

What replaced it was simpler. Purer. A deep, instinctive need to please.

Maximus barely had time to gasp before his body dropped onto all fours. His hands curled reflexively like paws, his shoulders hunched, his breath coming in soft, eager pants. His entire body shifted—muscles relaxing, thoughts dissolving, tailbone tingling. His perfectly bald scalp itched for a second—then, with a slow ripple, a sharp mohawk sprouted down the center of his head.

His uniform melted away.

The fabric of his jersey and shorts evaporated, leaving nothing but warm golden leather encasing his torso in the form of snug straps. A firm pup harness buckled around his chest, pressing against his muscles, the golden emblem in the center gleaming under the light. His shorts reformed, shorter, tighter, his thighs fully exposed.

A tail wiggled behind him.

The final piece sealed in place—a snug golden pup hood locked over his face, the world narrowing behind the fitted leather. His ears flopped as he tilted his head up, tongue flicking out against his will.

A deep satisfaction flooded him.

He didn’t need to think.

Didn’t need to decide.

Didn’t need to be anything but Master’s pup.

Master’s foot nudged under his chin. "Good pup," Percival murmured.

Ohhh. Fook. Yes.

The praise hit like a shockwave of pleasure. Maximus—no, Buzz—whimpered, rubbing his head against Master’s leg, his mohawk brushing against the fabric of Percival’s pants. His tail wagged furiously, his whole body trembling with the sheer joy of belonging.

Master crouched down, scratching under his chin, fingers firm. "You’ll be training this morning," he murmured, his tone patient but final, petting him as if he were truly nothing more than a simple, stupid animal. "Then, your shift at the Hive begins. Understood?"

Buzz whined, pressing further into Master’s touch, begging for more attention, desperate to stay in this bliss.

Master chuckled, tapping a single finger under his jaw.

Click.

"Drone Mode."

From Pup to Mindless Drone

Stillness.

Everything stopped.

The eager, wagging energy of the pup shut down in an instant.

The golden leather of his harness, the snug comfort of his pup hood—gone.

His body straightened. His shoulders locked back. His arms snapped to his sides in perfect precision.

His mohawk receded, melting away into his scalp. His body smoothed over, golden skin darkening slightly—his features subtly shifting, aligning once more with Master’s own heritage. Beneath the rubber, Asian features now lay dormant, unseen but perfectly shaped.

A second later, his uniform reformed—but it was no longer pup gear.

This was function.

A sleek, glossy black rubber suit enveloped his entire body, seamless, flawless, sealing over every inch of skin. It stretched over his torso, clinging perfectly to his muscular form, the material reflecting the dim light of the room.

His face disappeared entirely, swallowed by the rubber, leaving behind only smooth, polished perfection. No eyes. No mouth. No individuality. Just a featureless black visor, its expressionless surface reflecting nothing but Master’s image.

Gold accents traced along the contours of his muscles, highlighting the disciplined physique he had been trained into. A crisp polo collar sat neatly at his neck, reinforcing the uniformity. Across his chest, in bold, gleaming gold letters, was his designation:

070.

There was no Maximus here.

There was no Buzz.

There was only PDU-070.

It stood at rigid attention, muscles locked in perfect compliance.

"070 is fully operational." The voice was flat, even. Empty.

Percival adjusted his tie, nodding in satisfaction. "Report to the Hive. Six-hour shift. Proceed."

"Understood."

No hesitation. No stray thoughts. No awareness beyond function.

PDU-070 turned sharply on its heel and marched toward the exit, its body moving without resistance, without delay, without question.

Its existence was perfectly aligned to its purpose.

Master watched it go, a smirk playing on his lips.

He could play with his toy later.

After all—no matter what form it took, no matter what mode it obeyed—

Maximus would always belong to him.

And that would never change. ________ My deepest thanks to Master @polo-drone-001 for indulging my fantasies.

[quinnophile]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 𝐕

pairing. emperor Geta x original character

synopsis. As whispers of her sudden engagement to the emperor spread through Rome, Diana struggles with the weight of a future she did not choose, clinging to the last moments of freedom with those she loves.

warnings. (general) violence, misogyny, infidelity, forced proximity, discussions of producing an heir, mental/physical abuse, forced marriage

word count. 3.8K

notes. If they’re allowed to have sharks in the colosseum, i'm allowed to have historical inaccuracies in my fic

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6 Part 7

All of Rome was alight with whispers of the emperor’s engagement. The people speculated over the identity of the mysterious bride, questioning why the match had come about so suddenly. Some believed it to be a love story, others a political move, and some dared to say it was a ploy for power. But none of it mattered to Diana.

She felt hollow. It had been weeks since that fateful dinner at the palace, weeks since she had last seen the emperors. And yet, their presence loomed over her, shaping her fate without ever stepping into her world again.

For the first time in her life, marriage was not a dream but a prison. As a girl, she had imagined love, a quiet life filled with devotion and companionship. Now, that dream had been stolen, replaced with a future that was not hers to choose. Acacius had tried, gods, he had tried everything—stalling, negotiating, even seeking an escape she knew he would never admit to. But the weight of an imperial command was too great to defy.

Now, with the wedding fast approaching, all that was left to do was prepare.

Diana stood before the mirror, arms raised slightly as the seamstress adjusted the delicate fabric of her gown. The dress was beautiful—layers of silk and embroidered gold, the very picture of regal elegance. But it did not feel like hers. It felt like a costume.

Lucilla sat nearby, watching with quiet affection. “You look stunning,” she said warmly. “It suits you.”

Diana forced a small smile. “That is its purpose, isn’t it?”

Lucilla chuckled. “You could wear rags and still turn heads.”

Diana huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re trying too hard to make me feel better.”

Lucilla stood and approached, smoothing down the fabric on Diana’s shoulders. “Because you deserve to feel better,” she said gently. Then, her eyes welled with tears, her voice turning thick with emotion. “Oh, look at you. I remember when you were just a little girl, running through the halls, tripping over your own feet. And now… you’ve grown into such a remarkable woman. I’m lucky to have been here to see it.”

Diana’s own throat tightened. She turned slightly, meeting Lucilla’s gaze in the mirror. “I always imagined my mother would be here for this,” she murmured. “But if she cannot be, I’m glad that you are.”

Lucilla let out a shaky breath before pulling Diana into a careful embrace. “She would be so proud of you, my dear,” she whispered.

The moment was warm, bittersweet, and full of unspoken longing.

The sound of the door opening broke the silence.

Acacius stepped in, his presence instantly filling the room. The seamstress quickly excused herself, sensing the intimacy of the moment. But Acacius did not immediately speak. He stopped a few steps inside, staring at Diana as if he had been struck breathless.

Diana bit her lip, seeing the way his eyes shone, the rare vulnerability creeping into his features. “No,” she warned playfully, her voice breaking. “Don’t you start too.”

He let out a short laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “You look… you will be the most beautiful bride, Diana.” He swallowed hard, exhaling sharply as if to keep himself steady. “Your mother would be proud.”

Diana let out a wobbly breath, her heart twisting at his words. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They shared a brief, fragile silence before he smirked, shaking his head. “I should have knocked that asine’s teeth out when I had the chance.”

Lucilla sighed heavily. “Acacius.”

“What?” he said defensively, folding his arms. “We’re all thinking it.”

Diana couldn’t even deny it, but her nerves twisted in her stomach at the reminder of what was to come. She shifted, smoothing out a wrinkle in her gown as if that could fix the mess her life had become. “I don’t even know him,” she spoke quietly. “How am I supposed to marry him?”

Lucilla offered a reassuring smile. “I watched them grow up in the palace, you know. The twins.”

Acacius scoffed, rolling his eyes as he felt her ever present tender-heartedness beginning to surface.

Lucilla shot him a warning look before turning back to Diana. “They did not have the easiest upbringing. They were raised in an environment of power and expectation. I am not excusing their choices, but I do believe there is more to them than what the world sees.”

Diana listened intently, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

Lucilla reached out, gently squeezing her hand. “You have a kindness in you, Diana. Perhaps, in time, you will see a side of him that others do not.”

Diana said nothing, but she held Lucilla’s words close, knowing they would echo in her mind in the days to come.

———

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the courtyard. Diana stood in its warmth, but she did not feel it. Her hands clasped together, hidden beneath the long white folds of her bridal robe, the sheer veil draping over her face like a soft barrier between her and the world. At her feet, the bright yellow straps of her wedding shoes gleamed—a stark contrast to the weight in her chest.

Acacius stood beside her, silent, rigid. Lucilla, ever the reassuring presence, occasionally touched her arm as if to ground her. But no words were exchanged. What was there left to say?

She had grown up expecting the traditions of marriage—the arrival of her betrothed at her father’s house, surrounded by family, the blessings given, the love shared. But there was no father to receive him. No home of her own to give her away. And her groom was not a man she knew, but an emperor.

The sound of hooves against stone shattered the stillness.

A small group of riders emerged through the gates, their armour catching the afternoon light, their indigo cloaks billowing behind them. The Praetorian Guard. And at their centre, astride a dark horse, was Nicomedes Valerian.

The man responsible for all of this.

He dismounted with ease, his expression adorned with the same insufferable smugness that had never left him since the night he had found her. His gaze swept over Diana, pleased with the sight, before he turned to her guardians.

“General.” he greeted smoothly, as though he had not upended their world. “My lady.”

Lucilla, ever the diplomat, gave a polite nod. Acacius, however, did not move, did not speak. His gaze was ice, his body coiled like a viper waiting to strike.

Nicomedes only smiled, clearly amused by the hostility. "Ah, come now, Acacius. You make it seem as though I’ve done something cruel."

Acacius’s lip curled, but before he could speak, Nicomedes reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a sealed letter. He extended it toward him, his smirk never fading.

"This arrived from the emperors personally," he said, voice smooth, almost casual. "I thought it best you receive it before the evening is through."

The general hesitated before taking it, his fingers tightening around the parchment. His eyes flickered over the seal—unbroken, untouched, yet something about it made the air between them heavier.

Lucilla’s gaze lingered on the letter before she turned back to Diana, her voice quiet, meant only for her ears. "We will not be far behind. We will be there for you in the morning." A reminder. A promise.

It was time.

The guards moved to the carriage, its wooden frame ornately carved, its curtains thick to keep prying eyes at bay. Lucilla squeezed Diana’s hand once, a final comfort, before she stepped back. Acacius’s expression remained unreadable, but his fists clenched at his sides.

He looked as if he wanted to say something—his lips parted just slightly—but under the watchful gazes of the guards, he held his tongue.

Diana hesitated at the carriage door. Then, suddenly, she turned back and threw herself into Acacius’s arms.

The force of it nearly knocked him back a step, but his hands instinctively came up to steady her. For a moment, he was completely still, caught off guard.

Then, he huffed a short laugh. "Diana," he muttered, amusement creeping into his tone. "You act as if you’re never going to see me again."

"Well, you never know," she replied, her voice muffled against his chest.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but he held her tighter. Just for a moment. When she finally pulled away, his grip lingered before he reluctantly let her go.

Diana gave him one last look before stepping inside the carriage.

As the door shut, she turned to the small window, watching as her guardians faded into the distance. The sorrow in her chest grew unbearable.

And in Acacius’s hands, the letter from the emperors remained unopened.

———

The streets of Rome stretched out before her, bathed in the warm hues of evening. Through the thin veil, she watched as they passed through the bustling city—merchants closing their stalls, children running between the shadows, laughter and conversation spilling from open doorways.

For a moment, she allowed herself to see the beauty in it. The way the golden light touched the stone, the way life never ceased to pulse through these streets.

But beneath the splendour, she saw the others. The sick huddled in corners, the beggars whose hands stretched out to passing citizens who paid them no mind. The hollowed-out expressions of those who had long accepted their suffering.

Her fate had been decided for her, and yet, compared to theirs, was she not still fortunate?

Or was she simply a different kind of prisoner?

Her fingers curled into her lap, her thoughts too heavy to hold.

The carriage came to a halt at the base of the grand palace steps, the rhythmic clatter of hooves giving way to a tense silence. Night had fully claimed the sky, its dark embrace illuminated by the flickering glow of torches lining the marble facade. The air was thick with anticipation, the gathered crowd pressing against the Praetorian guard, their hushed whispers a chorus of intrigue—soft, endless, like cicadas on a summer night.

Diana exhaled slowly, steadying herself. She could do this. She had to.

The door of the carriage swung open, and Nicomedes extended a hand to her. His smugness was ever-present, though now tinged with something more—satisfaction, perhaps. As she took his hand and stepped onto the stone, her white robes trailing behind her, he leaned in slightly, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

"I half-expected you to run," he mused, amusement laced through his tone. "I know that’s what Acacius would want."

Something about his words sent a ripple of unease through her, lodging itself deep in her chest. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but she refused to let it show. Instead, she lifted her chin and forced herself forward, the heavy fabric of her veil obscuring her face but doing little to calm her racing thoughts.

It was only as she ascended the steps that she noticed him.

Geta.

He stood at the top, dressed in imperial crimson and gold, his figure imposing against the fire lit backdrop. His gaze was unreadable, his expression carefully composed, yet there was something in the way he watched her. A quiet intensity, as if she had stolen his breath for just a fraction of a moment.

Her steps slowed as she reached him, her heart pounding so loudly she swore he could hear it. With practiced grace, she lowered her head into a respectful bow, greeting him as tradition dictated. "Emperor."

His silence stretched for a moment too long before he inclined his head in return. "Lady Diana." His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it, a hesitation that hadn't been there before.

She couldn't help it—her eyes searched, her thoughts racing.

He seemed to recognise the question she did not voice, his lips pressing together as he exhaled lightly. "It is tradition," he explained, his tone quieter now, "for the groom not to see the bride before the ceremony."

She nodded, but the response did little to ease the tension wound tight in her chest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world around them blurred—the expectant crowd, the whispering nobles, even the distant hum of Rome itself. All that remained was the sound of her own breath, the weight of his gaze, the strange, almost reluctant softness in the way he regarded her.

Then, without another word, Geta extended a hand toward her.

She hesitated only briefly before placing her’s in his grasp. His fingers were warm, steady, but unlike Nicomedes' touch from earlier, this was not a grip of possession or control. There was something unexpectedly careful about the way he guided her toward the palace doors—an understanding, a quiet restraint.

The torches cast shifting shadows across the marble as they stepped inside, leaving the cheers of the crowd behind. But even as the doors closed, sealing her within the imperial walls, the weight of the unknown pressed heavier than ever.

Diana stepped through the grand archway of the imperial palace, the golden glow of the torches illuminating the marble halls. Despite the nervous weight in her chest, she couldn't help but admire the sheer magnificence around her—the towering columns, the elaborate frescoes that told tales of Rome’s past, the sheer scale of it all. This was to be her new home.

She followed in Geta’s wake, her veil still draped over her face, her two guards keeping a close distance behind. The palace was alive with movement—servants scurrying through corridors, whispering amongst themselves, guards standing at their posts with rigid discipline. A sense of order and chaos woven together.

Then, an unmistakable ruckus echoed from the nearby halls—boisterous laughter, the clatter of goblets, the heavy beat of music against the stone walls. Diana furrowed her brows, tilting her head slightly as if to listen closer.

Before she could question it, Geta came to a sudden halt. She barely stopped herself from colliding into him, her long robes swaying slightly from the abrupt movement. He smirked, turning just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.

"Not accustomed to such grandeur, are you?"

There was something teasing in his tone, reminiscent of their first conversation in the gardens.

Diana, catching on to the playfulness of his words, straightened, a flicker of her former self pushing through. "Oh, I’ve seen finer," she said smoothly. "Where I’m from, of course."

For a brief moment, the weight of the evening lifted. Geta chuckled, the deep sound of his amusement settling between them like a familiar presence. They watched each other, the silent understanding lingering longer than either intended.

Then, as if snapping himself from a daze, Geta cleared his throat. "You should rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Before Diana could respond, the guards at her side stepped forward, prepared to escort her away. Her gaze lingered on Geta for a moment longer, following the direction he now walked—toward the source of the raucous celebration.

As she was led past the open doorway of the great hall, she caught sight of the spectacle within.

It was a banquet of indulgence—lavish food spilling over golden trays, musicians playing wildly, bodies entangled in laughter and drunken conversation. At the centre of it all, sprawled lazily upon a grand chair like a king at rest, was Caracalla.

Diana’s breath caught at the sight of him. The husband-to-be was surrounded by figures—senators, generals, concubines. His tunic was half undone, his goblet full, his demeanour one of pure satisfaction.

The sight made her stomach twist.

This was the man she was to marry.

She quickly looked away, forcing herself to walk forward, to keep moving. She would not think of it now.

The atrium was smaller than the grand halls she had passed, but no less elegant. A banquet had been arranged for her—platters of fruit, roasted meats, spiced wines, all untouched. The room was not empty; a small group of women, finely dressed and adorned with gold, rushed to greet her as she entered.

They fawned over her, their words a flurry of excitement.

"You must be exhausted, my lady!"

"Or perhaps she is simply too excited to think straight," another teased, her tone light.

Diana managed a smile, but it did not reach her eyes. She listened, nodded, allowed them to guide her to a seat, to prepare her for the feast, for the evening ahead.

Yet, despite the warmth of their presence, despite the beauty of the chamber and the soft candlelight flickering against the walls…

She had never felt more alone.

———

The great hall pulsed with revelry, the scent of spiced wine, incense, and sweat thick in the air. Goblets overflowed, laughter rang out, and the music of lyres and flutes wove through the chaos like a fevered dream. The celebration was in full swing, indulgence reigning supreme.

At the heart of it sat Caracalla, flushed with drink, his grin wide as he basked in the attention of senators, harlots, and sycophants alike. Dondas perched upon his shoulder, plucking at his golden chains as his master raised a goblet high.

Then, his eyes flicked to the entrance.

"Brother!" Caracalla called, his voice warm, full of drunken delight. He pushed himself to stand, swaying slightly, though he hardly seemed to notice. "Come, tell me! Has she arrived?"

Geta strode in, his expression composed but his steps just slightly unsteady, evidence that he had already begun to drink elsewhere. His eyes flickered toward Caracalla, then to the eager faces surrounding him.

"She has."

Caracalla beamed. "Good! Dondas has been waiting to see her again." The small creature chittered in agreement, reaching toward Geta as if to say he had been just as impatient as his master.

Geta tilted his head, offering the smallest smirk. "You should enjoy the night instead, brother. Your last night of freedom before the wedding."

Caracalla’s grin faltered, just slightly. "Ah, but I was going to go see her! It’s not as though I must wait until tomorrow."

Geta tensed for just a moment—so brief, so imperceptible, none but his brother would have noticed. He recovered quickly. "And ruin the anticipation?" he chided, shaking his head. "Besides, it is tradition for the groom not to see his bride before the wedding."

Caracalla narrowed his eyes, suspicious, though not fully serious. "Tradition?" he repeated. "Since when do you care about such things?"

"Since you decided you would be a ruler of Rome," Geta countered smoothly. "The people are watching, and they expect you to uphold their customs."

Caracalla exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes before waving his brother off. "Fine, fine," he relented, "you always find a way to spoil my fun." He threw an arm around Geta’s shoulders, pulling him closer, his grin returning. "But I suppose I should enjoy my last night as a free man!"

And so, he did.

The festivities continued in full force, the hall brimming with excess. Wine spilled, harlots danced, and men roared with laughter. Gifts were presented—gold, silks, rare oils from distant lands—all tributes to an emperor about to wed.

Geta drank. More than he should have.

For all his efforts to keep his composure, the wine loosened his tongue, his thoughts drifting into dangerous places. He sat beside his brother, their bodies slouched into the cushions of the settee, watching as men lost themselves in revelry.

"Tell me, brother," Geta mused, swirling the dark red liquid in his goblet. "Do you ever wonder if you’re doing the right thing?"

Caracalla, mid-drink, turned to him with a bemused expression. "What kind of question is that?"

Geta’s gaze was distant, unreadable. "This marriage," he continued, softer now, "do you truly believe it is what’s best?"

Caracalla let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "This—" he gestured grandly around them, "—was what you wanted. You. The senators. Rome. Diana was sent to us for this very reason." He smirked, tapping the rim of his goblet. "You should be toasting to the success of it all."

Geta’s expression did not change, but something in his eyes darkened. "Perhaps," he murmured, taking a slow sip. "And yet…"

He let the thought linger.

Caracalla’s gaze sharpened. "And yet?"

Geta met his eyes, the tension between them palpable. Then, just as quickly, he let out a breath, shaking his head as if dismissing his own words. "Nothing," he said smoothly. "You are right. This is what Rome desires."

Caracalla studied him for a moment longer, suspicion flickering, but the haze of wine and celebration dulled the edges of his concern. He scoffed, shoving Geta’s shoulder playfully. "You think too much," he chided. "Drink more! Enjoy the night!"

And so, Geta drank.

As another senator stepped forward, a new gift was presented—two exquisite golden bracelets, finely wrought, fit for an empress.

"You are a lucky man," the senator toasted.

Caracalla grinned, lifting his goblet high. “I am to marry a goddess!" he declared, the senator not realising the sincerity behind his words. "We have been blessed by her presence!"

Geta’s lips curled, his mind hazy, his restraint slipping further into the depths of his wine. He leaned back, voice deceptively casual.

"Goddesses," he murmured, "are meant to be praised by all."

The words seemed to hang in the air. 

Caracalla’s smile faltered, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. "What do you mean by that?"

Geta smirked, tilting his head. "As brothers, we have always shared, haven’t we?" His voice was smooth, unreadable, but his eyes held something else—something darker, something challenging.

For the first time that night, Caracalla was completely still. His drunken haze did not stop his blood from running cold.

"No," he said, his voice low, dangerous. He set his goblet down with a hard clink. "She is mine. My wife. She belongs to me."

Geta arched a brow, feigning innocence. "Not yet," he reminded, his smirk never quite reaching his eyes.

The tension between them thickened, the revelry momentarily drowned by the unspoken weight of the moment.

Then, Geta leaned back, letting out a short chuckle. "It was a jest, brother," he said easily, lifting his goblet once more.

Caracalla exhaled, his fists relaxing. He let out a loud booming laugh, capturing the attention of spectators nearby. “You truly know how to amuse me brother!”

His good mood returned and the music swelled again, the festivities resuming. But Geta… 

He could not shake the feeling clawing at his chest.

Across the room, his gaze landed on one of his brother’s favourite concubines; a young man who had once been the emperor’s most treasured indulgence. Now, he was slumped against the cushions, struggling to stay conscious, his skin pale, his body thin, almost sickly.

It did not take much to know why.

A shadow crossed Geta’s face. He looked at his brother, still revelling, still laughing, still believing himself to be blessed.

And for the first time that night, Geta did not drink.

He simply watched.

[aristocratsbowsnties]

How to Tie a Tie: is a Tie an Accessory, a Fashion Statement, or a Symbolic Gesture?

The tie, a quintessential element in men's sartorial repertoire, transcends its apparent simplicity to embody a complex interplay of fashion, culture, and symbolism. This article critically examines how to tie a tie and a tie not merely as an accessory but as a nuanced artifact within the fashion lexicon, unpacking its multifarious roles and evolving significations.

The Evolution of the Tie: From Function to Fashion

Originally emerging as a functional item in the 17th century, worn by Croatian mercenaries for practical purposes, the tie's evolution is a testament to fashion's fluidity. This section delves into the historical trajectory of the tie, tracing its metamorphosis from a utilitarian neckpiece to a staple of contemporary fashion, emphasizing the shifts in materials, designs, and cultural perceptions that have shaped its current status.

Ties in the Realm of Men's Fashion: A Crucial Detail

In the realm of men's fashion, the tie commands a position of prominence, not merely as an accessory but as a pivotal detail that completes and elevates a formal ensemble. This part explores the aesthetic and functional aspects of ties, scrutinizing how patterns, textures, and colors contribute to the holistic image of the wearer, and how designers manipulate these elements to create ties that range from understated elegance to bold fashion statements.

Symbolism and Semiotics of Ties

Beyond the aesthetic, ties serve as potent symbols within various professional and social contexts. This segment investigates the tie as a signifier of professionalism, authority, and respectability, exploring how it has become emblematic of certain societal norms and expectations. Additionally, this part delves into the tie's role as a medium of personal expression and group identity, highlighting how specific patterns and colors can denote affiliation to institutions, ideologies, or social groups.

Ties in Cultural and Historical Context

The cultural and historical significance of ties is a complex tapestry, influenced by varied customs, traditions, and societal shifts. This comparative analysis explores how ties have been perceived and utilized across different cultural landscapes, elucidating the impact of historical milestones, social movements, and evolving fashion trends on the development of tie styles and their connotative meanings.

In the West, how to tie a tie is an important part of grooming, and the tie has long been a symbol of formality and professionalism. It originated in the 17th century as a functional accessory for Croatian soldiers and evolved into a fashion statement for the European aristocracy. Its adoption by British gentlemen in the 19th century cemented its association with respectability and class. However, the tie's symbolism extends beyond Western norms. In various Asian cultures, ties were not traditionally a part of native dress but were adopted as symbols of Westernization and modernity, especially in the context of business attire.

The Future of Ties in a Changing Fashion Landscape

In an era marked by shifting workplace norms and the blurring of formal and casual dress codes, the future of the tie is increasingly uncertain. This concluding segment speculates on the potential trajectories of the tie in contemporary fashion, pondering whether it will retain its traditional connotations of formality and professionalism or adapt to embody new values in an ever-evolving fashion landscape.

In summation, how to tie a tie and the tie, frequently relegated to the status of a mere sartorial adjunct, in truth, represents a complex amalgam of historical evolution, fashion innovation, and symbolic representation. Its transition from a rudimentary neckpiece to an integral component of men's fashion is indicative of wider sociocultural evolutions, underscoring the tie's persistent salience within the discourse of masculine attire. Serving concurrently as an accessory, a nuanced element of fashion, and a vessel of symbolic expression, the tie epitomizes the intricate relationship between individual self-expression and broader societal constructs. This enduring piece of attire not only mirrors historical and cultural shifts but also continues to shape and be shaped by the contemporary ethos of fashion and identity.

[homesteadchronicles]

A Cycle of Seals: Writing Excerpt (Princess of Impotence)

After three months of continual debate on whether or not to post this excerpt, my friends convinced me to submit it on-stream tonight. While it imperfectly handles heavy topics I myself am still working through, I hope you see the heart and healing process behind it - and, most importantly, behind Eirys.

You may remember these three from my recent Character Description Challenge! I can never get enough of writing their dynamic, even as their in-canon scenes continue to dwindle through editing. Whomp.

___

Project: A Cycle of Seals Timeline: Pre-Book One Canonical? No Context:

The House of Salvation has long isolated society’s sick. The Godewine twins - Royan and Eirys - visit every dawn and tend to the condemned. While Royan attracts the masses with the supernatural power of his Timekeeper’s Seal, the powerless Eirys attends to one individual: Oeden Sincairn, locked away even from the other infirm. 

Content Warnings: Illness, Isolation, Mentions of Ableism

___

The Yoreword warns of a wickedness more contagious than any sickness, one bestowed upon the lowest amongst them. Eirys has never - paragons forgive her blasphemy - believed that. Illness did not demean one’s internal divinity. Not when the skin-deep sainthood of her fellow nobles could nauseate an angel. Even still, sacrilege guides her away from those surrounding her blessed sibling to instead seek solace with the kingdom’s most corrupted citizen.

With the crowd thoroughly enthralled by Royan’s abilities, Eirys slips outside their thinning scope of notice and down the western hall. While the main chamber had been filled to overflowing with the infirm, naught but a begrudging servant files through the passage here. Those who notice her appearance regard her with the civil disinterest paid to one of their own. Or had they purposely dismissed their princess? Nonsense, she thinks (but does not believe).

Would such insolence not make sense? She is no Shepherd. She bears no Seal. She does not sway the hearts of nobles like Isolde, does not command the arms of soldiers like Sigrid, does not awe the minds of scholars like Ciaran. She is but another stumbling block to the damned’s salvation, a scourge to kiss their scars.

Why must power inhabit those who refuse to wield it well? That question had no answer, or at least not one the spirits deign to supply.

Yet, despite her inherent impotence, one resident still awaits her entrance.

Eirys shuffles down the corridor, around the corner, and up to a room quartered off from the rest. With a knock for courtesy, she slips in without awaiting permission.

Inside, the chamber holds little else other than Oeden, perched at the edge of a bed as unkempt as he. He is dressed, thankfully - not that a medic cares much for modesty - with a tunic hanging loosely off his wiry form. The tension that inhabits his shoulders evacuates whilst registering his visitor’s identity.

You’re safe, she thinks, willing the assurance to reach him. Safe, but not saved.

A flicker of mischief lifts his lips, too weak to raise the bags beneath his eyes. “Abandoning your brother, are we?”

Eirys huffs, indignant fists finding her hips. Even Oeden thought only of Royan! “I do hope that’s not a disappointment.”

He does not answer, and so Eirys sets to work. Oeden needs attention - medically, at least - every day before sunrise, lest their superiors deny him access to the sanctuary. If coming here every morning means her friend can escape isolation? Well, it made her wartime training worthwhile. Her bag unpacked, the bedside table stands littered with supplies of every shape and size: needles and knives and salves that would unnerve even hardened warriors.

Oeden refuses to flinch.

“You should have seen them,” Eirys says as she rifles through her satchel for a binding beneath the draughts. “All those patients, pawing at his Seal like it might peel off if they rub it right. They were two fools short of a parade!”

Oeden cannot see it, can see little else beside this room, and instead snorts from imagination alone. “With Royan there, they only need one more.”

She swats him with the wad of bandages in hand but cannot hold back her laughter. How tragic that such wit must stay locked away. “At least someone pays him any mind.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? His only admirers come from ones the rest of the world admonishes.” The laugh that follows lacks all humor.

There is a sickness in Norire. One that spares the poor and spoils the pure. One whose unholy hand reaches across the nation, fingers of infirmity digging into every manse and mansion. Even her own. Eirys knows this, intrinsically. Hates it, irrefutably. But, like every other illness, she cannot cure it. Not anymore than she might will away the wickedness of kings who condone quarantining the chronic, the heresy of priests enslaving the impoverished, the sinfulness of princesses submitting to these societal normalities.

Instead, she sits down. Shuts up. Prays behind sealed lips to an imprisoned god for forgiveness, for change.

Oeden never minds the silence. His proclaimed disdain for company disproved itself with every unspoken show of appreciation. This time, it crumbled beneath a subtle repositioning atop the bed: an invitation for intimacy.

Eirys accepts his summons, scooting closer, the equipment her plus one. A once-over of his body shows no sign of his condition having spread, but she can tell little with the glove that disguises his limb. Her hand hovers above, but does not touch. “May I…?”

Oeden nods. Neither required consent – thus why she elicits it. No one asked Oeden permission to burden him with this power, any more than they had asked Eirys to deprive her of it. He deserves this small dignity.

With measured tenderness, Eirys peels back the fabric encasing his left arm. Each inch of cloth stripped away reveals the crystalline protrusions carving through calloused skin in misshapen patches. Flesh split in bloodied fissures, ore corroding the body into its personal deposit. No worse than before, she thinks. The thought does little to placate her concerns because that does not make it better than before either.

Oeden evades her gaze. Witnessing her displeasure would surely confirm a deep-whispered suspicion: that he was, even to her, grotesque. She knows that he spies her reaction when he thinks her attention lies elsewhere, awaits a well-deserved grimace or an artificial grin. Instead, Eirys freezes her face in cold indifference. It comes naturally, she realizes - her family has done the same on the throne for one hundred years, after all, for far less noble a purpose.

She pulls a rag from the pouch at her hip and dips it into one of the pungent balms scattered about the bed top. The whiff of peppermint briefly assaults her before the musty scent of Salvation overpowers it. “Ready?” she asks. His nodded ascent initiates the delicate process of cleaning the crystal. Eirys traces the edges of fractured skin with her cloth as if she painted a masterpiece - with precision, and with respect to the canvas.

Oeden winces with each misplaced press of fabric. He never complains, but none could deny the pain he endures on the nightly. The momentary sting ebbs away at the gritted teeth and tensing posture until relief resumes its rightful mantle upon him. Eirys has never seen such strength from someone so weary. Weary, she realizes, and lonely.

He needs tending to. In his body, yes, but even more so in his soul.

“It’s not, you know,” Oeden says suddenly. He still refuses to meet her eyes, but he picks up on her confusion nonetheless, for he continues, “a disappointment, I mean. That you’re here.”

Had he dwelt on her greeting this whole time?

Eirys slips her free hand into Oeden’s, clasping it with desperate compassion. You deserve deliverance, but I can only give you decency. “I’d sure hope not,” she teases, “but we both know you’d prefer my brother’s company.”

“Royan would have only worsened this,” Oeden reminds her. The Seal of Progression could do little to cease the spread of crystal. It could only comfort those who conformed to its whims - and Oeden had never been one to obey. “Besides, who knows what I would have seen, had anyone else done this…”

Ah, yes. The visions.

Eirys understands next to nothing of them, despite her supposed spirituality, but she does not doubt their existence any more than she doubts that their god remains trapped in some undiscovered vault. One touch of crystallized skin could send Oeden into an unconscious stupor. Foreseeing an unfortunate future from unprompted contact became an all-too-common occurrence.

“And with me?” Eirys entangles their fingers, drawing his hands up. “What do you see?”

Oeden’s breath hitches as she scales the goosebumps raising across his arm, but he does not deny her. His left hand rises to meet her, ore-crusted finger brushing against a freckled forehead. A breath. A moment. A hope.

“…Nothing.”

Oeden exhales like oxygen had always evaded him. His head slumps against hers. “Thank the Seals you’re safe, Eir.”

You’re safe for me, is what he means. She hopes he knows he’s safe with her, too.

They sit there, undone and unsure, in each other’s presence until time unwinds itself around them and Eirys realizes: the military, the clergy, the royalty - none of them need her. None of them need to. Oeden does. And a flustered, wistful part of herself believes she needs him too.

She always loathed her own powerlessness, but this powerlessness to resist him? She could live with that. She might even love it.

[visionofnoxus]

☮ - for Swain to kill someone trying to verbally hurt Lillithe ❀ - to grab Lillithe by the jaw and force her to meet Swain’s gaze and be possessive~ (suggested setting: High command War Room meeting or High Class Social Event ) || ~♱💒🥀💒♱~ asked as @crucifix-and-the-rosary

// And here we go. I tried my hand at it. Hopefully you find it a nice read. I need to interract more with your muse to get a proper feel for her and Swain. Please do comment. Crucifix-and-the-rosary

It had been years since the last time Noxian High Command had truly assembled. It was rare nowadays, as the empire had withdrawn within itself with the ascension of the new Grand General some ten years ago. After Darkwill’s death, the ever expanding offensives in all directions had seized or at the very least been scaled down severely. Noxus had turned from raiding and conquest to instead solidifying it’s existing areas and building infrastructure that had fallen to ruin or had not even existed in the first place. The Trifarix had taken the highest executive power in the empire and it now mandated the progress in form, pace as well as who exactly was overseeing that particular project. 

As such, this group of generals, admirals, warlords and most prominent people of political, commercial and social background rarely gathered en masse anymore. There were no projects so large and complicated, so multifaceted that the High Command would had been needed to be called into session. Which made it all the more intriguing that Grand General had now called for the assembly. Rumors were floating around the gathering’s purpose. Some spoke of a new attempt at the invasion of Ionia, that the Grand General desired to correct the mistakes of the past and bring the island nation finally to heel. Others said that Noxus desired to expand their holdings in Shurima, to destroy the fledgling empire of sand before it could reassert itself. But what of Demacia? And wasn’t this meeting obviously about the situation in Freljold? The most daring guesses were that the Grand General intended to slaughter the High Command and declare himself the Tyrant of Noxus. Rumors were aplenty and any theory one could come up with, someone else had already guessed while downing a tankard of ale.

On the day of the meeting, all those influential people who had the necessary pull arrived to the Immortal Bastion. Some arrived alone, others with hordes of retainers. They all climbed the countless staircases high into the gargantuan fortress’ depths, each group eventually reaching the enormous double doors leading into the High Command’s chamber. The doors were made of black iron, the craftsmanship alien to even the eyes of most talented smiths. The ominous slabs of metal seemed like they’d just been willed into the form of doors, with no help of hammer or fire. Flanking that door on both sides stood Trifarian Legionnaires, draped in cloaks of crimson and onyx colored cloth. Their helms concealed their faces, their weapons glimmered with arcane. Through these doors, passage was only for High Command, the retainers having to remain outside. As was always the case, some did not accept it at first. Personal safety, the need of an adviser, absolutely necessary have a scribe with them… Excuses were plenty. The guards were threatened, attempted to bribe, their identity was questioned. But none who were not of High Command entered. The few who truly did not understand the message were cut down without a second thought, their blood spilling on the dark marble floor.

The inside of the chamber was a large circular room with a grey marble floor. Four tall pillars, eerily similar to the doors in that they seemed to just be singular piece of black iron, reached far into the ceiling that could not be seen, the darkness lurking above the attendees. An enormous table made of smoothed granite circled the room’s edges in the shape of a horseshoe and a map depicting the whole world had been carved into the stone at the center of the chamber. High back chairs carved of onyx were placed around the table for the members to sit down on. There were not enough seats for all, not even third of the entirety of the members, but precious few dared to take a seat. It was a statement to sit down in that table. An assertion that you held the strength to keep it and deserved all the attention that the place around this table brought with it from some of the most dangerous individuals in all of Noxus.

Grand General sat at the center of the arch, his position naturally allowing him to survey the entirety of the room and everyone in it. Unsurprisingly Darius sat just few paces to his right, yet the left remained empty. No one moved to take the free seat though, for while there was no official seating order, everyone knew this chair was favored by the Matron of the Black Rose. And she was an individual nobody wanted on their bad side. Standing up, Swain drew the attention of every single soul in the room, the silvery haired man speaking with low voice, yet each word carried effortlessly around the room. He commanded respect with confidence, directing the crowd’s attention with the ease of a practiced orator as he explained Noxus’ current state and their future plans.

Lillithe stood silently at the back, listening to grand general’s voice and dutifully following with her eyes each time he pointed at the map somewhere. The dark clad woman fought to resist nervousness, her fingers switching between toying with her rosary or brushing against the embroidery of the front of her dress. Every now and then, when the Grand General halted his speech to let someone else bring forth their case, she felt the tiniest spark of fear, her eyes scanning crowd and hoping nobody would ask of her opinion. The fact of the matter was that her position as the High Priestess mandated her participation, but she wanted nothing to do with what was being discussed. Wars, troop numbers, natural or magical catastrophes. All she could hear was the death and misery for men, women and children of Noxus, as well as the rest of the world. The idea of actively contributing to that ruin’s creation was appalling to the woman. But should they give the order, she’d follow suit and beg for forgiveness before, during and after. 

“And what of the Kindred’s hags? Couldn’t their matriarch just suck the enemy dry?” She blinked twice, her mind catching up on what had just been said. Turning to face the rude man, Lillithe saw a rough looking admiral, seated on the fringe of the table. There were marks of acidic burns marring his face and he might have been partially blinded judging from the milky white left eye. “Yes you, can’t you just drain ground itself if there is enough life in it?” The man motioned at the map, pointing the location. “And that place is just full of those freaks, the very soil and air feeding them. Why bother with mortars and such if we can just have her strut in there and turn the place into her own little garden of death? Reckon it’d go well with that garb”. While crudely worded and offensive, this proposal earned positive murmurs, Lilith feeling her legs start to tremble. It felt like she was standing on thin ice, her heels causing tiny fractures each passing second by simply being present. These people desired for her to fall into that icy death. No. They wanted her to become that icy death for others.

“I do not recall that location being on potential target list?” Swain’s silken voice cut through the crowd’s debate. Debate that had very quickly been moving towards unpleasant conclusion in the nun’s opinion. The admiral growled back at him boldly: “Yeah it isn’t. Nor was it when we went there the first time. The freaks kept supplying their troops through it anyhow and I had to go and try to deal with it while you were building your fancy trap and Duqual hunted some fishermen on the coast” the admiral said with bitterness and accusation in his voice. “And so you took some of lord Emystan’s zaunite weaponry and decided to try and bomb the village” Swain concluded, his voice dangerously soft, yet lacking any true venom for now. “Marines should fight on water” came the gruff voice of Darius. He’d not been present but knew enough of the situation. And the outcome of the operation could easily be read from admiral’s burn face. “You want revenge. And you wouldn’t even do it yourself” He concluded, the challenge evident in his voice.

But the admiral wasn’t about to let his chance go to waste and the earlier reactions of the crowd must had emboldened him. “This ain’t about revenge Darius! Tis’ bout the fact that this wench” The sailor stood up, pointing an accusing finger at Lillithe who frowned, listening with dread on what might come next. “Has can suck that place drier than a sand dune. We could massacre our enemies with barely any losses. But because she’s part of some damn cult worshiping a bow wielding pillowcase, we don’ do shit”. Everyone could see the Hand of Noxus draw breath, ready to reply in just as crude language, but a motion of hand from Swain cut his action. “I see… Lady Lillithe, would you please come closer?” He asked, the woman blinking few times before nodding. “Of course, general Swain”. For once she felt horrible about her choice of shoes, each click of the heels echoing in the otherwise silent chamber as the tall woman approached her liege, the man standing up from his seat to meet her.

Stopping in front of the man, Lillithe nervously clasped her hands together in front of her, staring straight at the general’s eyes, noting how bronze shade of his irises gave way for unnatural crimson. “I hope you pardon me for laying a hand on you, my lady” He apologized, bringing a hand up to cup the side of her face, the warm, rough fingers meeting with her smooth and cool skin. In almost intimate manner, the grand general moved his fingers to hold her chin, staring intently into her eyes. And then she felt him reach into her mind, soft but determined grip just like his hand’s, tapping into her mind. “Could admiral’s proposal theoretically be carried out?” Swain asked. “Could you drain the life out of the air and soil, as it is constantly being all connected through magic?” His voice was devoid of emotion, not giving away his opinion on the matter. With this prod, she considered the proposal and her mind suddenly took over, conjuring images of death. Nature, animals, the very earth itself dying as she took from it the life, the all connecting magic of the place dooming it to decay as the magic allowed her reach far beyond her normal capacity. Lillithe’s shoulders shook, her lip trembled as she witnessed the dreamlike image flashing in her eyes, her own personal nightmare. And then it was gone, the warm hand of the Grand General moving to cup her cheek again, his free hand wiping away her tears that she’d not even felt forming up. “I see. Thank you. And once more, apologies”. 

Swallowing down the clump in her throat, the nun shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive, Grand General. All is for Noxus”. Removing his hand, the man offered tiniest of smiles to her. “An admirable answer, my lady”. With that, he turned around, returning to his seat. Turning his attention to the awaiting admiral, Swain shook his head. “The plan is not feasible. There are too many risks and variables” He stated, a wave of relief washing over the Matriarch. “Nonsense Swain! There’s always risks in war. No pain, no gain! And what risk exactly is there? This witch” The man made an angry motion towards Lillithe. “Is fooling you and..”. “I have made my mind, admiral. And you’ve thrown enough filth around for now” Swain interrupted, his voice velvet smooth but eyes as cold as Freljold’s winds. “What a load of bull! What are you afraid of? That me and my men can’t keep our hands of the pious sister here? Hah!” The Admiral shouted, anger evident in his face at the prospect of not getting his way. “Don’t worry. I promise me and my men don’t touch the witch, we’ll walk this corset clad hag into the valley and let her drain those freaks drier than her whole congregation after mass!”. 

Those were the last words the admiral ever said, as a an arcing crimson bolt of lightning struck him the following second, frying the man alive in an instant. The smoking corpse fell against the table, collapsing sideways onto the floor. The high backed chair made of onyx-like material showed no signs of damage though, the seat as if it had been vacant all along. “Enough” Swain ordered to the now deceased, lowering his left hand back on the table, pulling on a long leather glove to cover the crimson appendage. “The target is not a priority. We can not be sure the ability would work as suggested and sending the Matriarch of the Holy Order of Kindred to an active warzone that we do not control is asking for riots across the empire”. The Grand General let his eyes scan the High Command’s members, daring someone else to challenge him. As no such fool presented themselves, he turned back to look at the map. “Now then…”.

[mechawheatthin]

Campaign Diary #2

So instead of writing an important paper I must complete to graduate I'm going to write this. The second session of my long running d&d game.

So I decided to do a time jump and say that many months had passed and the party all have arrived at a large town called Lansi.

Lansi is built upon an island that splits a wide river. Lansi and Dabbersfoot (the town from last session) all are in the kingdom of Felden, a frozen nation mostly consisting of Human peasants and Wood Elven lords. Dwarves also make up a large minority and make up the skilled workers. Of course this is d&d so you can find any other race you would find in the phb.

With no real goal they decide to explore the town. They headed to the shop district where they found an open blacksmith. Two Dwarves and a Human are furiously pounding iron. The two Dwarves are dismissive but the Human is receptive. He explains that they are crushed for time because they only have a month to finish Baron Aewen's Drake armor. He is willing to sell anything they have lying around but don't have time to craft anything. He also mentions that the smelter hasn't come with new iron and if they got the shipment he would give the party half off on anything here. He says that they are simply too busy to leave their work. Riktaris the Minotaur bard particularly had his sight on a very nice set of half plate (+2). They obviously agree and immediately headed to the smelter.

The smelter was only a couple of blocks away. Upon entering they see that the man who ran the smelter was dead, blood was spattered against wall as he was slumped up against it. Someone casted detect magic and a magical aura was revealed that came from one of the many ore piles in the room. Upon coming closer to it, it animated into a vaguely humanoid shape. A glowing red crystal was buried in the center of it's chest. The creature resisted most of their attacks. Riktaris decided to cast identity on it. It was revealed to be a Galeb Duhr.

At this time the newest member of the team arrived on scene. Previously rolling in a gutter, he decided to join the battle. Sadly I can't recall his name but he was a Kobold bard of satire. Upon bursting into the room he casted heat metal on the creature. The iron ore that made up it's body glowed red hot. The Galeb Duhr was completely unphased by this. It then continued to pommel one of the party members and burn them.

After another round of unsuccessful attacks. The Kobold decided to cast command. The Galeb Duhr failed it's save and was pacified and at the Kobold’s mercy.

(I now remember why I couldn't remember the Kobold's name, it didn't have one. The player forgot to write it down and simply didn't respond to any inquiry of his name. Simply staring blankly at them if they asked.)

The Kobold commanded the Galeb Duhr to walk to the blacksmith. The populous was understandably scared of the creature but the party convinced the people that it was harmless. The blacksmith was amazed that the party not only was able to bring him the metal he needed by animating it, but that they managed to pre-heat the metal. The blacksmith gave the half plate to Riktaris for free and gave the rest of the party 75% off anything they wanted.

Also yes I am aware the spell only lasts eight hours.

The party than mossied about the town some more. Galadran the dwarf cleric stirred up some trouble at a local gnome church before being thrown out. Riktaris, and Saline went to a local book store called the Honest Tomb. And Drake, the human fighter and the Kobold went to acquire a room.

At the Honest Tomb they met the struggling business owner Beegsly. The shop was packed full of untouched scrolls and books. Riktaris came across an ancient scroll tucked away in a box. It was written in an old dialect of elvish that Saline could not recognize. Beegsly sold the scroll to him for a bargain price because he just needed the money and didn't know anything about magic. Riktaris than became interested in Beegsly's business. Why it was struggling? What kind of books did he usually sell? Where did he get these books? ( All things I wasn't prepared for.) I gave convincing answers for all and this made Riktaris, the Minotaur bard, to want to partner with him. Riktaris would promote his business through music and offered the idea of a subscription service. This all made Beegsly excited but also incredibly nervous. In the end he was convinced.

Drake and the Kobold had decided to check out the Simple Potato Inn. It was a converted manor turned tavern. The Kobold went up to the inn keeper and (I honestly don’t remember) said pretty weird and creepy things. The Inn keeper who was a tall High Elf was understandably freaked out by the creature. A hulking mercenary type with acne scaring caring a battleaxe walked up to intervene. The Man quickly got heated and opted to just cleave the Kobold in half. After a few rounds of combat (which drake was not getting involved with) the Kobold once again casted heat metal on the man. The man wearing heavy half plate armor instantly let out a blood curdling scream as his armor glowed red and caught his gabison on fire. He ran out of the tavern along with everyone else. Both the Kobold and Drake fearing that guards would soon come snuck out the back window and into the street undetected.

The party all reunited and decided it would be best to sleep at another tavern. They went to the Expensive Dragon. The Expensive Dragon was a fine establishment full of interesting characters. One being a Dark Elf wielding a spear in the corner. A stranger in these parts, the Kobold went to investigate this man. The E;f exclaimed that the Kobold could see him and that he has been searching for someone that could. The Kobold was understandably confused but played along. The Dark Elf explained that his name was Lord Solodin of space and that he needed someone to help him revenge the death of his son. He than tapped his spear on the ground and the Kobold collapsed on the ground in epileptic shock and slowly phased out of existence unbeknownst to the patrons or anyone else. Seconds later the Kobold phased back into existance and Lord Solodin was gone. Nothing had changed but he felt the unnerving sense that something was wrong.

Drake than went to the barkeep demanding their most potent alcohol. The Dwarf denied his request as no living mortal could withstand it and he didn’t want to see anymore young lives go to waist because of it. Drake being an abusive alcoholic was angry. He pulled his sword and demanded the drink. A Tiefling burst from the kitchen with lightning at her finger tips. The Dwarf broke down eventually and gave Drake the drink. He explained that it was used to sanitize drake blisters and had radioactive and explosive qualities. Drake ignored these warning and immediately drake from the keg. Drake survived.

At this time, a Half-Orc dressed in a finely made suit introduced him self to the party as Jacob. He explained that their future benefactor would like to meet with them. They promptly followed him to a vip room on the top floor. There they met a white and black striped tiger man. Upon a successful arcana check they figured he was a Rakshasah. He explained that he was impressed that they were able to defeat a Rehmoraz. He also proposed a job for them. Retrieve an item called the Red Chalice. It is located somewhere in the desert of Ruhane. Upon it’s recovery they would receive riches beyond their dreams. Being the greed driven murder hobos that they are they immediately accepted. More details were traded and the party signed a binding contract.

Pretty excited about their job the group headed down stairs to celebrate. At this time the the Kobold told them of the experience with the Dark Elf. The party was very confused with the situation. Than they immediately realized the Dark Elf was back. He had been sitting in the corner for quite sometime it seemed. They got up and went over to investigate. The Dark Elf than explained again how he has been searching for people that could see him. He then again tapped his spear on the floor and the party all dropped unconscious in epileptic shock. And than again they slowly phased out of existence for a few seconds unbeknownst to the patrons. However when they came back, having no memory of what just conspired, things had changed. Riktaris had become a woman. The Kobold was a gold fish. Drake realized he could not read anymore (although he wasn’t sure if that was the alcohol or what just transpired). A sword burst from Salin’s mouth that glowed orange as if it had been freshly forged. And Galadran wasn’t there (his player left before hand).

This was probably one of my all time favorite sessions I had DMd. A lot of crazy fun things happened. I do admit that the Kobold character was a little out of hand. And no I did not purposely turn him into a gold fish to get rid of him. I rolled on tables for all that. And he was lucky to get the one result that did nothing the first time he journeyed with Lord Solodin.

[novarainart]

Made for Each Other (Chapter 2)

“That’s disgusting, Tony.”

Tony gave Steve his arched brow of judgment. Steve, to his credit, seemed genuinely and mildly appalled.

“Hilarious,” Tony’s tone suggested he found it anything but, “it’s an acronym for Binarily Augmented Retro Framing. Still way in its infancy, but I’ve got the prototype for the prototype.”

Steve peered around Tony’s shoulder as the shorter man opened a metal safe the size of a refrigerator. He could see the insides lined with a plush looking material customized to fit snuggly around different pieces of equipment. Tony began emptying the contents: an awkward looking helmet with an exaggerated visor, a large amp-like machine fitted with a touch screen panel, four projectors with detachable tripods, coils of wire of varying lengths and thicknesses, and an assortment of hand sized attachments.

Wasting no time, Tony started assembling the tech right there on the floor, all the while rambling an explanation at Steve.  

“This stunning bit of innovation is going to help me help you.” Steve couldn’t help but stare at Tony’s deftly moving hands, making something so complicated look laughably easy. “Basically, the headset will access your hippocampus, stimulate memories, and display those memories through these projectors. I’ll get to see what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, while this,” Tony patted the amp-like machine, “is going to feed me audio so I can better flesh out an algorithm for his personality.”

Moments like this reminded Steve how much he appreciated Tony. Ever since their helicarrier debacle, the genius made a point to translate his usual techno-babble into laymen’s terms for Steve’s benefit. The gesture reflected a kindness that Tony liked to pretend he didn’t have. A gesture laden with poetic meaning: the futurist welcoming the man out of time.

“What was it like making your first one?” Steve asked, meandering around the workshop, knowing he could do little to help Tony as he worked.

Technology was not his forte.

“First what? AI?” Tony barely spared a glance at Steve, who nodded once in confirmation, then shrugged. “Took longer than it really should have, but that’s because I was mostly drunk.”

Steve had made his way to the well stocked kitchenette, deciding on making coffee, when he paused to look at the other incredulously. “You created artificial intelligence while you were drunk?”

“Mostly drunk,” Tony corrected, gesturing at one of the two single armed robots. “The end result was DUM-E: a cautionary tale to future geniuses everywhere.”

DUM-E somehow expressed curiosity with a high-pitched whistle upon hearing its name. The robot swivelled on its axis in search of something, grabbing the nearest tool with rubber padded claws, and trundled its way to Tony. DUM-E’s wheels barely made a sound on the polished floor, eagerly approaching Tony with its prize, like a toddler wanting to help daddy with his work. Tony turned to look at the offered tool, frowning in irritation.  

“How’s a level supposed to help me with this?” Tony’s words were biting. “You’re useless, you know that right?”

Steve smirked as he witnessed the exchange because he wasn’t fooled in the slightest. Tony proved Steve’s instincts correct when he took the level from DUM-E with a put upon sigh, trying to give a surreptitious pat to the robot’s claws at the same time.  

“I think he’s fantastic,” said Steve, his tone playfully goading.

“Quit it, you’ll fill his circuits with undeserved self-worth.”

DUM-E whirred excitedly at Steve’s praise, completely oblivious to (or purposely ignoring) the verbal abuse from its own creator. Perhaps the robot was used to it or, like Steve, learned not to take Tony’s insults at face value. Satisfied, the robot rolled its way back to its brother, U, possibly bragging about its accomplishments as it whirred and clicked, chattering happily.

Steve chuckled at the robot’s innocent antics, busying himself with making coffee for Tony. It was the least he could do while the other labored to gift him with the impossible.

***

When Tony offered to make Steve an AI, he was already proficient in the craft with multiple programs under his belt. Tony was truly a leader in the field, so much so that he managed to whittle down the process of designing, creating, and executing to about two months. This time, however, the process almost doubled, taking about four and a half months to complete.

Tony was ready for it. He adjusted his calculations from the start, accounting for several variables, especially the factor of relying on Steve’s memories for data.

Steve, however, was not ready for it. Despite Tony’s dream for BARF to become a treatment option for trauma survivors, it offered little comfort when used outside of its intended purpose. Needing to review and relive years of memories, each more harrowing than the last, was both teasing and tortuous for Steve. Even with a past mired in warfare, it was no easy feat for the super-soldier to stay afloat amongst so much roiling, sometimes all consuming emotions.   

While Steve watched Tony input the last lines of code, surrounded by holographic schematics and who knew what else (Steve certainly didn’t), his thoughts were far away. Looking back on the last several months, Steve could admit he underestimated the exact toll the process would take. Mental exhaustion was almost a constant after every session of data collection. It was naive for him to have assumed anything, but he thought he could simply show Tony what Bucky was like and let it be that.

How foolish.

But, soon, worth it.  

Seeing Tony push away from the desk monitors, Steve stepped back to give the shorter man a wider berth, knowing the other liked to move around when he worked. Steve hadn’t been hovering, exactly, but he was standing nearby. His nerves felt like a live wire, too active to sit still on the couch and sketch like he normally did.  

“Bring up the biometrics will you, J?” Tony snapped his fingers, immediately summoning several holo-screens, their free floating images bathing him in white-blue light.   

“Of course, sir,” replied JARVIS, the AI’s disembodied voice posh as ever.

Steve had a millisecond to appreciate JARVIS’s manners before finding himself in awe. Multiple holograms blossomed around Tony, painting him in an array of colors that made Steve’s hand itch with the desire to paint, to preserve the moment. Tony was the eye of a storm comprised of living data, his movements conducting a whirlwind of energy, a symphony of kinetic power.

He was in his element.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Tony muttered distractedly, causing some graphs to fluctuate when he flicked his wrist as if spinning a dial.

What happened next wasn’t an “all of a sudden” sort of thing, more like a gradual awakening.

A spherical blue shape phased into existence mere feet in front of Tony at waist level. It looked like an atom but the size of a baseball, spinning lazily in midair. Unable to help himself, Steve drew closer again to stand behind Tony, doing his best to avoid disturbing the other. Steve’s eyes were transfixed onto the little sphere.

“All right, J,” Tony tapped a few more commands on the floating holo-screens, “sync up the algorithm.”

“Syncing now.”

Tony dismissed the holo-screens to give them an uninterrupted view of the little sphere. Steve observed how the syncing caused the sphere to almost shiver, thrumming with an awareness of what was happening. Not a minute passed before the shivering stopped and the sphere faded out. Steve was about to panic over the experiment failing, but his nerves were eased by JARVIS.

“Syncing complete.” Steve mentally sighed in relief. “The algorithm has been accepted. Shall I proceed with post-sync activation, sir?”

“Actually,” Tony turned halfway to grin at Steve, “why don’t we let the good Captain have the honors?”

“Yeah?” Steve couldn’t hide his excitement, but it quickly evaporated into uncertainty. “What am I supposed to do?”

The insecure part of Steve half expected Tony to become annoyed, at worst accuse him of being ungrateful. Instead, Tony softened his grin, encouraging Steve with a reassuring smile.  

“Greet him like you would your friend.”  

Clearing the nervous lump from his throat, Steve spoke hesitantly, trying to mentally prepare himself for the unexpected.

“Hey, Buck--um, it’s been a while.”

Turns out, preparing for the unexpected was impossible.

Steve was met with neither a disembodied voice nor the little blue sphere. What materialized was the hologram of a man in his late 20’s or early 30’s, standing at an even 6’0 with a moderate build. He was dressed in a plain collared shirt with casual slacks. He had short, almost wavy hair combed neatly to the side, leaving his face open, friendly. He had a square jaw and striking eyes that elevated his boyish cuteness to roguishly handsome.

It was a hologram completely identical to the late James Buchanan Barnes.

The hologram smiled a smile Steve had seen so many times, but it was the voice that made it real--made Steve feel like he was being teleported back in time, back before the ice.

“Did you miss me, punk?”   

[biofunmy]

Suiting Up for the Impeachment Battle

The fourth presidential impeachment hearings in the history of the United States, whose public phase came to an end on Thursday afternoon in the columned environs of the House Ways and Means Committee hearing room, may have hewed to decorum, but they were a battlefield nonetheless.

It was clear in the language, between those who used words like “bombshells” and “smoking guns” and “explosive” and those who used words like “boring” and “flop”; and clear in the spin, as Democrats and Republicans sparred over demands to keep the whistle-blower’s identity secret.

And it was clear in the optics of many of the witnesses, who dressed as if girding themselves for the thinly disguised war that their testimony would likely spur.

They may not have been wearing actual armor, but the references were impossible to miss.

Does it matter?

It has escaped no one that while the purpose of public hearings is transparency, the side effect is theater. (Devin Nunes, the ranking Republican on the House Intelligence Committee, did keep calling them “a show trial,” after all.) And the audience was not simply the reality-television star whose administration is in the dock, or the body politic of the moment, but the body politic of the future. The images, and the words they frame, will also become part of history.

The actors in this drama are playing their parts and costuming themselves not just for the social media age, but also for posterity. How we present when we say something — our decoration, our camouflage — helps shape the way it is received.

There is a reason that both the bow tie of George P. Kent, the State Department official and witness, and the jacket of Representative Jim Jordan, ended up with their own Twitter accounts. (The bow tie actually has two.)

There is a reason that everyone became fixated on the seeming twinkle in Ambassador Gordon D. Sondland’s eye, the smile that seemed to play around his lips. They undermined the card-carrying-member-of-the-establishment messaging of his dark suit and subtly patterned Republican red tie, just as his testimony undermined the no-quid-pro-quo White House story line.

And of all the images, after the hours of questions and answers, grandstanding, interpreting and debating, it is not the many dark suits with red or blue ties and the little Congressional lapel pins that are the de facto Hill uniform that remain seared into memory. (Though they were consistently, consciously, modeled by Adam Schiff, the Intelligence Committee chairman, and Mr. Nunes, as well as by David Holmes, the political counselor in the American embassy in Kyiv, and David Hale, the under secretary of state for political affairs.)

It was, rather, an actual uniform: one that was formal in its rigor, unmistakable in its messaging, and representative of a different kind of national institution.

In many ways, Lt. Col. Alexander S. Vindman’s decision to appear in his Army dress uniform, medals arrayed on his breast, buttons agleam, was simply the most obvious statement of an implicit position, one shared by most witnesses, albeit expressed in various individual ways.

It was one that stood aside from partisan politics, that prized country above self, that understood testifying as a duty — but also understood the rules of combat.

Colonel Vindman said as much to Representative Chris Stewart, Republican of Utah, who first put the uniform on the table as a topic of conversation (followed quickly by President Trump, who told reporters, “I understand now he wears his uniform when he goes in.”).

In response to a not-so-subtle attempt by Mr. Stewart to portray the choice as a ploy, Colonel Vindman said, “I’m in uniform wearing my military rank” because “the attacks that I’ve had in the press and Twitter have marginalized me as a military officer.”

It was a symbol, just as Mr. Jordan’s decision to shrug off his suit jacket was a symbol of his willingness to be the Republican Party’s attack dog.

After all, as he said in the “House Freedom Caucus” podcast in March, apropos of his tendency to tote his jacket over an arm instead of wearing it: “You get in these hearings, and if I think the witness isn’t being square with me and it’s going to get kind of heated, I mean maybe it’s just me, I just don’t feel right with the jacket on.”

The imagery taps into the cinematography of stripping down before you get in the ring; of every boxing or schoolyard tussle movie ever made. Even when he wasn’t ceded the floor, Mr. Jordan was telegraphing readiness to rumble.

Not that Colonel Vindman and Mr. Jordan were the only participants dressing for a fight. They were simply the most obvious.

While Mr. Kent’s bow tie got most of the viewing attention during his appearance, his three-piece suit was equally notable. All five buttons of the vest were tightly buttoned, even though men’s wear rules tend to dictate that the bottom button be left undone, as it is in a suit jacket.

The vest formed a kind of extra protective layer for the witness, just as the silk scarf guarding the neck of Marie L. Yovanovitch, the former ambassador to Ukraine, demanded a closer look. Reportedly a traditional design from Hermès known as the Grand Uniforme, created in 1955, it featured a pattern of gold helmets and what looked surprisingly like swords.

Elaborate, almost Napoleonic hilts, with tassels and ropes and other elements of martial pageantry. As if there were any doubt that a woman who started her testimony paying homage to her fellow diplomats in “hardship” positions, a woman of calm, carefully considered answers, did not anticipate what weapons may be deployed.

There was more: Jennifer Williams chose to appear in a hunter green coatdress with a black belt cinching the waist, almost military in line, and Fiona Hill, the former top Russia expert on the National Security Council, wore a gold chain around her neck, with a matching gold chain around one wrist. It was visible as she raised her left hand to gesture while she crisply handled questions about who knew what in the chain of command.

Coincidence? It’s possible.

But given the attention paid to the moment, now and forevermore, given how much care and preparation each witness put into his or her testimony, given the way the whole case may turn on the telling detail, it seems unlikely these details, no matter how minor they seem, would be overlooked. They tell their own part of the story.

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