#SoW Lore | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nihilityuniverse · 2 months

Text

𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

Do NOT Repost

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐔𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Long ago, in the timeless realm of Liyue, there was a story of love and envy, a tale that has been passed down through the ages. It speaks of Morax, our Geo Archon; Guizhong, the gentle and wise goddess; and a woman of unparalleled beauty and mystery, known to all as the Unknown Beautiful Lady.

The Beautiful Lady was a vision of grace and charm, her presence as enchanting as a moonlit night. Her beauty and elegance captivated even the gods. Morax, our protector, and Guizhong, the embodiment of wisdom, both adored her deeply. Their love formed a harmonious bond, unbreakable and pure.

Yet, this divine trio's tranquility was threatened by Osial, the formidable sea lord. Osial, consumed by envy, coveted the love and devotion that Morax received from his two beloveds. His heart twisted by jealousy, he sought to disrupt their happiness and claim their affections for himself.

Osial's envy grew into a dark cloud of deceit. He whispered malicious lies, hoping to fracture the trust and love between Morax, Guizhong, and the Beautiful Lady. But their bond was resilient, withstanding his insidious attempts to sow discord.

Frustrated by his failure, Osial confronted Morax directly. The confrontation was a cataclysmic clash of divine forces, their battle shaking the very heavens and earth. Osial, driven by his green-eyed fury, accused Morax of hoarding the love of the Unknown Lady and Guizhong, proclaiming that such affection should belong to him.

Morax, steadfast and noble, stood his ground. He fought not only with the strength of a god but with the fierce love he held for the Beautiful Lady and Guizhong. The battle raged on, a testament to the destructive power of jealousy and the indomitable strength of true love. Ultimately, Morax sealed Osial away, imprisoning him in the depths of the ocean to safeguard Liyue and his cherished ones.

And so, dear listeners, this legend became a poignant reminder of the enduring power of love and the perils of envy. The Beautiful Lady's ethereal beauty and mystery, Guizhong's enduring loyalty and wisdom, and Morax's unwavering strength and love form the heart of this timeless tale.

As we gather here tonight, let us remember the lessons of this story. Love is a powerful force, capable of withstanding the darkest storms, while envy and deceit can lead to ruin and despair."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Striking amber-colored eyes with yellow, diamond-shaped pupils intently listened to the old tale spun by the Storyteller. Despite the early morning rain, the hustle and bustle were nothing extraordinary for the residents of Liyue.

The storyteller's corner was fully packed, with people eager to hear the old legend. His smooth lips touched the rim of a heated cup, and as he took a sip, the flavorful liquid danced on his tongue. A relaxed hum escaped his lips, expressing his delight at the tea's rich taste.

"Woah, the story was awesome!" Paimon exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement. "What did you think, Aether?"

Aether nodded thoughtfully, "Interesting, at least," he said, taking a sip from his own cup. He then turned his gaze to the handsome gentleman known as Zhongli. "But did it really happen, or is it just a tale?" Aether asked.

Zhongli only smiled and continued to drink his tea peacefully, the steam rising in delicate tendrils around his face.

"Hmpf, Zhongli! Please tell us!" Paimon demanded, her feet kicking the air in impatience. "At least the name of the beautiful woman!" She flew closer to Zhongli and whispered eagerly.

"Oh, are you truly so eager to hear?" Zhongli responded with a smile. "I thought you might find the old tale boring, considering you both seemed to daze off from time to time."

The rain continued to patter softly against the cobblestones, mingling with the distant sounds of morning vendors setting up their stalls. The air was thick with the scent of rain and the subtle aroma of tea leaves.

Paimon pouted, "We were just... uhh... absorbing the atmosphere!"

Zhongli chuckled softly. "Very well. The tale, as with many old stories, contains elements of truth and myth. The beautiful woman in the story... well, she was indeed real."

"Can you tell us more about her?" Paimon asked, her curiosity beaming.

Zhongli's gaze wandered to the rain, and a genuine yet bittersweet smile appeared on his lips. "She liked the rain a lot. Her voice, soft yet light as silk, would always say..."

- "As the raindrops tumble, their pitter-patter on my umbrella whispers gently to me. I somehow find brief serenity in these moments." -

He recalled her standing in the rain, holding her crimson red paper umbrella.

The raindrops danced on its surface as she extended her hand towards the falling droplets. She slightly turned around to face Zhongli, her peachy lips painted the same color as her umbrella. Her face was half obscured by the umbrella, yet her words resonated clearly.

The memory of her was vivid in his mind, a moment untouched by the erosion that slowly devoured his old memories.

"Y/N... That is her name," Zhongli mumbled, rolling her name off his tongue as his gaze remained fixed on the rain and the passing people.

Paimon and Aether exchanged glances, their faces reflecting a shared sadness as they saw their friend's distant expression.

The early morning rain continued to fall, creating a soft, soothing melody against the cobblestones. Lanterns hanging from shop eaves and street corners swayed gently in the breeze, casting warm, golden light that danced with the raindrops.

The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the subtle fragrance of tea leaves from the nearby stalls. The crowd had thinned, yet the lingering presence of Zhongli's story created a bubble of quiet reflection.

Aether took a sip of his tea, savoring the warmth that contrasted with the cool, damp air. "She sounds like she was very special to you," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of understanding.

"She was," Zhongli replied, his voice tinged with both reverence and sorrow. "Her presence brought a sense of tranquility that I have rarely found elsewhere. Even now, the rain reminds me of her."

Paimon hovered closer, her usually energetic demeanor softened by the weight of the moment. "Do you think we might ever meet her?" she asked, her voice hopeful yet gentle.

Zhongli's smile returned, though it was tinged with melancholy. "Perhaps. The world is vast, and fate has a curious way of weaving our paths together. Until then, let us cherish the memories and stories that keep her spirit alive."

The rain began to lighten, a delicate mist rising from the ground as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds.

In this serene moment, a crimson red paper umbrella appeared amidst the bustling crowd. Its vibrant red hue pierced through the throng of people, a color deeply etched in Zhongli's memories.

His eyes widened in disbelief, and his cup slipped from his hand, shattering into tiny pieces on the cobblestones. Yet, the sound was lost to him. Everything became muted, his vision blurring as he saw that unmistakable red on her lips, her face.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.

Was he hallucinating? Was the after-rain playing tricks on his mind? Was he daydreaming?

As the red paper umbrella grew smaller in the distance, Zhongli's heart pounded in his chest. Suddenly, he sprang to his feet, the wooden table toppling over in his haste. He didn't care. He moved forward, pushing through the crowd, chasing the umbrella as if his life depended on it.

The streets were alive with activity, the early morning hustle blending with the gentle patter of lingering raindrops. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting soft, golden hues on the wet cobblestones. The scent of rain mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed tea and street food, creating an intoxicating atmosphere. Yet, all of this was lost to Zhongli. His entire being focused solely on the crimson umbrella, a beacon in the sea of moving figures.

People turned, startled by his sudden urgency, but he paid them no mind. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps, his vision narrowing on the retreating figure. The vibrant red color seemed to taunt him, slipping further away with every passing second. His heart raced, a mixture of hope and desperation driving him forward.

Was it really her? Could it be? The questions swirled in his mind, but he had no time for answers. He needed to see her, to confirm what his heart yearned for. The crowd thickened, but he pushed on, weaving through the throng with a determination that bordered on madness.

Finally, as he reached the edge of the crowd, he saw the umbrella come to a stop. The figure holding it turned, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, their eyes met.

The world around him seemed to freeze, the sounds fading into a distant murmur. It was her. The woman from his memories, the one he thought he had lost forever.

Tears welled in his eyes, and his breath hitched. He had found her. Or perhaps, she had found him. Either way, in that magical moment under the after-rain sky, surrounded by the vibrant life of the city, Zhongli felt a spark of hope reignite within him.

He had been given a second chance, and he wasn't going to let it slip away.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You turned around to find out who was following you, and your eyes landed on a tall man with brown hair and striking amber-colored eyes. He seemed out of breath, as if he had been chasing you through the crowded streets.

You waited for a response from the stranger, but he kept staring at you, his gaze intense and unyielding. The crowd continued to pass by, casting curious glances in your direction.

"I'd be embarrassed too, getting stared at like that," you said, your voice breaking the trance he seemed to be in. Somehow, your words pulled him back to reality.

He skipped a beat as he heard your voice and stepped forward as if he were dreaming. "Y/N..." he muttered your name, and your eyes widened in shock.

Instinctively, you stepped back, your right hand drifting closer to your sheathed Divine Key.

"How do you know my name?" you demanded, narrowing your eyes.

A strange feeling gnawed at you, a sense that something bad had happened between you and this man. Yet, your memories of this place were fragmented, coming and going in a chaotic, disjointed order that left you feeling more confused and hurt rather than providing any answers.

You could feel in your bones that this man had inflicted great pain on you. There was something about him that screamed betrayal, something tied to Osial.

This man... this man... You gripped your scabbard tighter, ready to draw your weapon if necessary.

The air around you felt charged with tension. The gentle murmur of the crowd faded into the background, the world around you shrinking to just the two of you. The man took another hesitant step forward, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing and regret.

"Please," he began, his voice soft and laden with emotion. "It's me, Mo-"

"Step back," you commanded, your voice icy and cold. Zhongli halted, a shocked expression taking over his face. Different, hazy memories sprang into your mind wildly, flickering like a faulty lantern. The pieces of your past were still too fragmented, too muddled to make sense of.

"Zhongli!" A shrill voice called from behind, snapping you both out of the tense moment.

The tiny figure of Paimon floated closer, her curiosity evident. "Why were you running..." she trailed off as she felt the murderous and cold aura radiating from you. Aether, sensing the dangerous presence, quickly stepped in front of Paimon and Zhongli, his expression wary. Yet, you noticed how his legs were shaking with fear.

Neither you nor the group in front of you moved or made a sound. The bustling crowd around you seemed oblivious to the tension, continuing their day as if nothing were amiss.

You focused on Zhongli, the man whose name triggered such a whirlwind of emotions and memories within you. Your right hand still rested on your sheathed Divine Key, ready to strike at any moment.

"Zhongli," you repeated, tasting the name on your lips. "Why did you call me by that name?"

Zhongli took a cautious step forward, his gaze steady despite the coldness in your eyes. "Because that is your name, Y/N. We shared many moments together... drank tea with Guizhong... why can't you remember?"

Aether, still shielding Paimon, looked between you and Zhongli, clearly unsure of what to do. "Maybe we should all take a step back and talk this out," he suggested, his voice gentle but firm.

'Guizhong?' you questioned in your mind. The name felt familiar yet strange, as did Zhongli's face. It was as though you recognized him from a dream you could no longer fully remember.

The confusion was palpable, and your hand trembled slightly on the hilt of your sheathed Divine Key.

"I suggest you leave me be," you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying an undeniable force. Without waiting for an answer, you turned and walked away.

Zhongli watched you go, his expression a mixture of sorrow and determination. He took a step forward, but Aether halted him, shaking his head. "Give her some space," Aether advised softly. "She needs time to sort through this."

Zhongli nodded reluctantly, his eyes never leaving your retreating figure.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Many papers lay scattered across the metallic table. Dottore leaned over, his crimson eyes scanning document after document, his hand pressed to his forehead in deep concentration.

This was unexplainable.

It didn't make sense.

Yet, he was certain his eyes and mind weren't deceiving him about what he had witnessed after the funeral.

He quickly fetched another sheet of paper and a pen, determined to capture every detail of his experience once more.

The moment Innamorati turned toward the frozen church, the falling snow had stopped, as if time itself had halted. Could she possess the ability to stop time? But why would she use it then? For what purpose? He recalled her muttering, 'Meaningless...'

Then, he heard the sound of shattering glass, and he perceived everything and nothing simultaneously. In that instant, he felt worthless, reduced to nothingness.

...

Dottore threw the pen away in frustration.

In that moment, he had felt a presence. A divine and pure presence, untouched by filth, yet sorrowful and sad. It was unmistakably the presence of the Divine Creator. Dottore was certain of it.

The Divine Creator had finally arrived.

His crimson eyes rested on a metallic black box, sealed with a highly complex mechanism. Only he knew of its existence; neither Pierro nor Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, were aware of it.

Innamorati, the 0th Harbinger. She was the Divine Creator, Dottore was convinced. Nothing else could explain that unexplainable moment.

He walked towards the box and unlocked it. Inside, a glass tube filled with golden liquid sparkled under the lab lights.

This was the only solution to confirm his theory. One way or another, Dottore would get his answers. He could hardly wait for Innamorati to arrive at his lab.

As he gazed at the golden liquid, he felt a mixture of anticipation and reverence. This discovery could change everything. The Divine Creator, hidden in plain sight as the 0th Harbinger, was a revelation of immense proportions.

Dottore's mind raced with possibilities. If his theory was correct, the implications were staggering. Not only for the Fatui but for the entire world of Teyvat. The thought of unraveling such a profound mystery filled him with a thrill he hadn't felt in a long time.

He carefully placed the glass tube back in its secure position and sealed the box once more. His heart pounded with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The arrival of Innamorati would either confirm his greatest hypothesis or shatter it entirely.

Either way, he was ready. Dottore's eyes gleamed with determination. He would uncover the truth, no matter the cost. The Divine Creator was within his grasp, and he would not let this opportunity slip away.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Reblog if you like this story

231 notes · View notes

gojuo · 2 months

Note

Ryan condom forgot that after rhaenyras death we sre supposed to follow aegon if he wants to continue after nyras death so he can put at the end of the series the crown on aegon III, so he eather tries to make people view aegon possitively or have the series end with nyras death and the crown on aegon’s head and people will riot like they did with the mad queen end of got, either way he deserves the hate he is going to get at the end of hotd. But now that i tnik of it the series starts with rhaenyra doing a voice over telling her story so i wonder if he will change the end of the story and all the lore just to have finally a targ kween sit at the iron throne

i've been saying this since forever but making rhaenyra the unequivocal protagonist of the story + writing this show with a protagonist-centered morality framework + shoving 30 years of court drama and political intrigue building up to the actual war in a measly 10 episodes is a huge fucking mistake because

1. the portion of the dance in f&b starts with alicent reading to king jaehaerys as he lays dying, and the dance eventually ends when alicent herself dies. this is thematically important

2. daemon is the unequivocal villain of everyone's story in the dance, including rhaenyra's, and him staying that way is just better and (i'm loath to say it) cooler for his character & arc

3. like asoiaf/got, they should have had multiple protagonists povs spanning different locations for viewers to follow. the teams debate + emotional investment, stakes and satisfaction would have been far more balanced that way

4. rhaenyra dies long before the war ends anyway. like please think ahead when you're writing a show like this dawg

5. aegon just has a better character arc than rhaenyra does (especially if he kills himself). bias aside, it's just factual 🤷‍♀️

6. season 2's issue is the glacial pacing of character arcs (and some are... straight up just stagnant) while the plot moves its merry way along. we went from blood and cheese to harrenhal exile to rook's rest to regency era to now the sowing but the character work isn't there (and continues to not be there since the set ups and pay offs are almost all offscreened or nonsensical) because condal & co have structured the story in a way that skips 30 years worth of character work and arcs and relationships in favor of getting to the action immediately. they're suffering from that decision now in season 2 rightfully so

#hotd #anti hotd #hotd critical #aegon ii #alicent #rhaenyra #anonymous #answered

97 notes · View notes

asksythe · 1 year

Note

Is there any cultural significance or reasoning for Xiao Xingchen giving both his eyes to Song Lan, instead of just one?

I can certainly see there being plot and/or thematic reasons for it (like it makes a better parallel with Wei Wuxian who couldn’t give just half his golden core; it’s necessary for Xiao Xingchen to be completely blind for the Yi city tragedy to play out as it did; etc.) but I’m wondering if there is more to it then that.

Your insights on other bits of MDZS lore have been really interesting!

That’s a tough question. The short answer is: yes. It’s a cultural thing.

The longer answer is that I’m not sure I can adequately answer your question... because I feel that I'm not qualified. It goes deep. This is reaching the DNA of Chinese culture and the value system itself. I would say it’s probably better if you read more Chinese classics or immerse yourself in the culture. This is one of those things that are immensely difficult to put into words. The best way is to experience it.

But since you asked me, I’m going to at least give it a try.

The reason that Xiao Xingchen gave both eyes to Song Lan and the true root of the Yi City tragedy includes three different cultural concepts: Jishi 济世 (the Chinese ideal of saving the world), Enyuan Yinguo 恩怨因果 (Karma and Karmic Debts), and the quest to find Dao 道 (truth).

1/ Jishi 济世

济世 Jishi is a Chinese term denoting a philosophical ideal pursued by certain classes or castes of people since ancient times in China. It means to sacrifice and save the world. It’s self-sacrificial heroism in the most ideal and purest sense of the concept, similar to our modern-day Doctors without Borders.

This is Xiao Xingchen’s higher calling, his chosen purpose. Xiao Xingchen came down from Baoshan Sanren’s mountain at 17 years old with one purpose: to make the world a better place. He rejected no one who needed his help. He went out of his way to reject the invitations from the cultivator Houses to join their ranks and enjoy the wealth and privilege it might bring because he didn’t want to be distracted from a higher calling.

Using modern Western vernacular, Xiao Xingchen is a hero. That’s his religion and identity. That’s on top of a personality that already holds high self-responsibility. So is there any wonder he feels he’s responsible for Song Lan’s loss and must give Song Lan both eyes?

2/ Enyuan Yinguo 恩怨因果

恩怨 En Yuan. Yuan is resentment, spite, hatred, grudge. But En is a lot harder to nail down in English. It’s commonly translated as favor, but ‘favor’ has none of the cultural weight and encoded social obligation of En. The pure meaning of En is ‘a good deed done from the heart.’ A kindness. A mercy. A gift.

For example, Jiang Fengmian taking Wei Ying into Jiangshi is En. Wen Ning saving Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying is En. Wen Ning reclaiming Jiang Fengmian and Yu Furen’s corpses and artifacts is En. Big En, comparable rebirthing an entire household. Wen Ruohan teaching Zhao Zhuli (later on known as Wen Zhuliu) and granting him a chance to prove himself is also En. Nie Mingjue doing the same to Jin Guangyao is the same level of En (granting critical knowledge and opportunity to completely change one’s life). Jin Guangyao taking in Lan Xichen and hiding him from Wen pursuers before the Sunshot campaign is En.

因果 Yinquo = Karmic Bonds, the fruits that bloom from the seeds one sow. It’s also understood as a link between people’s life. Our lives collide, intertwine, and diverge like threads on a tapestry. We are each bound to each other by the threads of Karma and our debt to each other. This is yinguo.

There is a deep-seated belief in China that a person’s life is a ledger. To live is to constantly add to and take away from the ledger. When other people perform En for you, that means you take from their ledger and add to yours. When someone takes from your ledger, a yuan/grudge is born. From the moment you were born, you were granted the greatest of En, the gift of life from your parents.

In Chinese culture, it’s believed that one must try one’s best to square the ledger. One must repay En and reclaim Yuan. Entangled Enyuan eventually leads to tangled Yinguo, and that’s just a big headache nobody wants because it directly impacts your afterlife, your next life, your descendants, and sometimes even your ancestors that are already dead.

To strive your best to repay En is seen as a virtue. Of course, not everyone is capable or even wants to reach this ideal. Like when we say it’s good to be honest, but being truly and completely honest in daily life is… a task, shall we say. Sometimes, it’s very hard to truly repay what you owe. And sometimes, your Enyuan with a person or with a House is so entangled that it’s either hard to really say who owes who, or hard to admit to the fact that you are the one in the reds.

You are seeing parallels between Xiao Xingchen and Wei Wuxian because they both embody this ideal to the extreme. Both would take it upon themselves to repay. Xiao Xingchen paid with his eyes. Wei Wuxian repaid Jiang Fengmian’s En by giving Jiang Cheng his jindan, helped Jiang Cheng rebuild Jiang Shi using Guidao (Path of the Dead), gave up all his war achievements for the rebuilding of Jiangshi and left Jiangshi without a penny to his name despite being a major contributor to victory, and then… repaid Wen Ning, Wen Qing’s En to Jiang Cheng and Jiangshi in Jiang Cheng’s place when the other didn’t.

In some ways, you can say that both Xiao Xingchen and Wei Wuxian are flawed in that they underestimate their own value and well-being and overestimate what other people do for them. You can even say that they are foolish because they pay for En that isn’t theirs to pay, and that eventually leads to their suffering and death. But this is just the kind of people they are. They are true idealists who genuinely believe in a Truth greater than mortal squabbles. They are pure, uncorrupted Daoists, the kind that holds the founding precepts of Daoism in their heart.

In the novel, there are many examples of different people and how they see Enyuan Yinguo and how much value they put in them.

We have Su Se, who was saved by Wei Wuxian twice but didn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he saw that as a Yuan because he probably hated the fact that it showed how weak and insignificant he was. Yet Jin Guangyao merely remembered his name and gave him some support to create his House, and he was willing to be Jin Guangyao’s attack dog, going so far as to abandon his own House members in Fuma Cave when Jin Guangyao’s plan failed and using his life to buy time for Jin Guangyao in Guanyin temple.

We also have Jiang Cheng, who was well aware that he owed Wen Ning and Wen Qing, but didn’t want to acknowledge it because he was poisoned with trauma and hatred at the hands of Wen Chao and felt that because of his relationship with Wei Ying, he was entitled to Wen Ning’s En. And yet he is rational enough to understand that admitting to owing this ginormous En and not repaying it is a huge stigma on House Jiang, and so even when he answered Nie Mingjue, confirming that the Wen remnants did have En with him, he answered in such a way that downplayed the enormity of En. Answering truthfully would have exonerated Wei Wuxian and the Wen remnants because the laws regarding Enyuan are so foundational that no one could have blamed the Jiang for saving the Wen remnants. But answering truthfully would have been admitting to his owing the Wen, setting House Jiang against House Jin, and turning House Jiang into a target of ridicule for other Houses because such an En should have been paid long before Wei Wuxian had to take drastic measures and jailbroke the Wen remnants from Quiongqi Path.

We also have Lan Xichen, who effectively compromised his entire House and compromised his own judgment because he saw Jin Guangyao as having granted him a huge En (which is not wrong, per se).

And then we have Jin Guanyao, who killed both people who bestowed En on him (Wen Ruohan and Nie Mingjue both gave Jin Guangyao critical knowledge, opportunities, and elevated him above his station. And yet when it came to Lan Xichen, despite his effectively pushing the Lan to death in the second Burial Mound Siege, Jin Guangyao still acted like Lan Xichen was in the wrong for not paying Jin Guangyao’s En even more than he already had.

Then finally, look at these Enyuan and consider the way it binds the various characters in both good and bad ways.

So it’s a deeply embedded and very nuanced concept that manifests differently in different characters.

3/ The Quest for Truth 道 Dao:

Dao/Tao 道: the truth, the path, the knowledge, the faith, the ideal, the natural order of the universe, that from which everything comes and that from which everything returns.

What does Dao have to do with Xiao Xingchen?

Well, because Xiao Xingchen is a Daoist. Remember when he reminded A-Quing to address him as Daozhang? That.

He’s not the only Daoist in MDZS, either. The man who created Dao as a philosophy and spirituality, Laozi, is also the man who created the concept of cultivation in the first place. So every single cultivator in MDZS, indeed every single cultivator in xianxia genre, treads in Laozi’s footsteps, takes from his wisdom, and stands on his shoulders in their quest for heavens.

The first sentence in Laozi’s definitive work on Dao, the Tao Te Ching, says:

‘Dao that can be told is not Dao. Truth that can be named is not truth. Path that can be walked is not the right Path.’

The Tao Te Ching is a foundational Chinese Classic. It is the shortest but also the most complex and hard to understand.

This first verse of the Tao Te Ching means: truth is not something that is fixed. Truth is nuanced. Knowledge is not something that can be given to you by words only. You must find this knowledge by yourself. Path is not something that anyone else can tell you. Your path must be walked by your own feet. Faith is not something that can given to you by someone else. You must find faith in yourself.

So then, apply this sentence to Xiao Xingchen’s journey. Do you see it? Xiao Xingchen choosing Jishi is his journey to find and prove his Dao. Jishi is Xiao Xingchen’s Dao.

Yi City is not a tragedy. Yi City is Xiao Xingchen’s tribulation and the unavoidable consequences of choosing to remain pure to the founding precepts of Dao while the rest of the cultivator Houses, including Nie and Lan, have long betrayed their origin.

Even if, by some miracle, Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen never entangled with each other, there will always be a Xi City or a Zi City for Xiao Xingchen. Because it is a consequence and a price to pay to find the truth that he desires. And he did find that truth. Song Lan, who he had left in a decisive gesture of severing their Karmic Bond, returned and would likely spend decades if not centuries walking Xiao Xingchen’s path, waiting for the day Xiao Xingchen awoke. And A-Qing never left Xiao Xingchen, never gave up on him either.

Ugghh, such a heavy topic. I usually don't like to write too much on such topics because... it's hard to write and it's hard to read, and most people don't really have the patience to read. But it is a question. So I tried. In any case, have this fanart I commissioned from Nguyen Linh.

#ask sythe #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #xiao xingchen #song zichen #song lan

676 notes · View notes

itsbaku · 2 years

Text

Every Single Thing in Souls of War with Meaning

Because I'm insane and this is basically a love letter to everyone who wants to learn more about my lore

(Quick thank you to @git-it for being so invested in my lore to the point where it makes me motivated to work on this stuff. Thank you man, I don't know why you love it so much, but it means a lot 💗💗💗)

Btw this has a ton of spoilers for the books, but let's be honest here. This is free lore and if you wanna know about the Souls of War franchise, read this.

First the characters(Who mainly represent aspects of being a teenager)-

Baku- Represents mental illness and issues with mentality. They are shown to struggle with themself and deals with a lot of trauma.

Camazotz- Represents being optimistic and always seeing the good in life. Managing how to live life even though it is filled with bad, and still accepting those bads.

Mischief- Represents the refusal or fear of growing up and maturing. He is an adult in SoW:EoG but still acts like his normal child-like self with a sprinkle of teenager.

Muerto- Represents body issues, disability, or anything relating to hating or disliking your own body. He can be interpreted in many ways, but I intended him on being hating your body because of puberty. He feels as if he is no longer himself because he lost something that made him him, and is now someone else. But he is up for more interpretation, like hating your disability due to your new self or hating your body because you are trans. Interpret him how you will.

Talon- Represents imaginary friends in youth and growing up. He was created to be a friend to a lonely soul, like how kids make imaginary friends when they simply want friends. He is shown to always say what The Supreme God wants to hear, which is what we do with our imaginary friends since they are our creations and do what we want. However, he is told that he should leave to live with Baku. This is because as we grow up, we tend to want or just leave things behind as we grow.

The Supreme God- Represents...well, a lot. The Supreme God can be very versatile with interpretation. They can be seen as a being that is selfish and is forced to learn how to be human, they can be seen as a soul forced into a position they could never properly learn of, there's a lot. But here's my original pitch...a creator. The Supreme God represents someone who feels unappreciated after basically creating everything. They eventually try to gift someone who helped them, but doesn't understand why they refused their gift. Basically someone who wants to feel appreciated but is confused when people don't want their appreciation, if that makes sense. Maybe, idk.

Anyways, if you had different interpretations of the characters, let me know! I love hearing y'all's thoughts on my content!

Now, non-character things. Some of this might sound like trivia but most of it is important, so apologies if it all feels quick.

Souls of War-

Camazotz and most Aztec Gods speak Spanish on occasion. Now, why is this important? Well, the Aztecs and most ancient civilizations had their native tongue erased by the Europeans. Because of this, the Aztec Gods struggled to continue to preach and speak. They had to speak Spanish to still work with their worshippers. However they speak English for a majority of the book because of the obvious, but also to be comprehensive. They also say a lot of swear words in Spanish lol.

I made many cultural references in the first book. My favorite being La Catrina. La Catrina is a symbol in Mexican culture of being usually represented as a singer made of bones. She is very beautiful and drawn a lot with beautiful clothing and markings on her skull.

I'm pretty sure I made a 13 heavens reference in it. Anyways, The Thirteen Heavens is a set of heavens in Aztec mythology where the gods reside in a level type of structure. I kinda made more of a "For gods sake!" type of thing because y'know, it works.

Camazotz dies in the end. For a long of reasons, but mainly as a backstory that turned into a main story.

Souls of War: Eyes of Chaos-

The prologue starts with summarized backstory of Baku. That's pretty good. We get an idea of how sick someone can get of second chances.

Camazotz has a birb girlfriend, which you can exclusively learn from my Tumblr and Twitter.

We get more with Camazotz, which is good because we always need more with the og bat.

Also in this book we get perspective chapters, because I know we need to know how these two feel about each other.

Baku is a rather fickle character in this book, but there's good reason for it. Baku is so tired of just letting things happen, feeling like they can barely do anything to change anything. So, they change. Baku becomes rather malicious and cruel in this book. Baku finally shows their true colors, which is good because they finally get to start confronting their issues.

Baku eats some conchas. This is more just because I love conchas and I wanted to make a "Baku doesn't know what certain things are" joke. They make a comment on how they thought conchas were shells(conches 🐚).

So idk how relevant this is, but Baku first attacks Camazotz in the face first. Baku prefers to attack the face, mostly the eyes. Why? Because Baku believes that no one else can see the truth, so they are unworthy of their own eyes.

Baku also thinks a lot, a lot more than they speak at times. Souls of War Harbingers of Magic has the record of how much Baku has spoken.

So even though Camazotz and Baku do reconcile in the end, they still have a somewhat rocky relationship. They have a "I don't hate you, I wouldn't say love, but I'd die, kill, and spare for you" type of thing I guess.

Camazotz heavily idolizes Baku in a way. She thinks of them a lot, and usually does in casual and kind ways. I think it's nice.

Souls of War: Harbingers of Magic-

Ok we get Muerto's backstory right in the prologue. I need everyone to know...that Muerto basically hates himself. Look man, when you lose the most important thing to yourself, and feel forced to take on a new identity, and then forced to soon deal with trauma, I think you'd hate your life a little.

So Mischief gets a spotlight here a little, because he is a important character. In a way, he is a redeemer. His purpose is to help those who kinda had hardships in life.

Anyways the whole thing of them being Harbingers of Magic is glossed over rather quickly. But it's important because of the next book.

So Muerto actually manages to confront a hidden issue he had. In the book, he wanted to sacrifice himself to kill Soulix, the antagonist. However, Mischief did not want him to, hoping that Camazotz and Baku would kill Soulix. When Muerto accidentally hurts Mischief, instead of proceeding with his actions, he stops and acknowledges what he did. Because he did what he promised to never do. He wanted to stop problems, instead of confronting them. But in the end, he learned how to try and handle a problem.

Muerto also learns to accept how he looks. Sure, that might clash with his character, but it's for good reason. He realized that if his friends were willing to do so much for him, that he never wanted them to care about...why did he need to change? Why must he do something that they never take notice of? They didn't care that he didn't have wings, they loved him for who he was. He decided that he wasn't going to "fix" himself, but embrace who he is now.

Baku and Camazotz have a small argument over alcohol. This is mainly to show they still sorta just talk over anything, even if it is pure nonsense.

Souls of War: End of Godhood-

The title is extremely misleading but it works in the end.

So The Supreme God is the main antagonist, with Talon being their partner in crime. But Talon gets his redemption earlier than they do.

So Talon is a character...a character most like me. You'd expect me to say that about The Supreme God, but no. Talon is by far the most character. He learns how to be himself, how to live without orders, and how to see others as equals. But, before that, we can see someone who can act a type of normal. He acts the normal has always been trained to act. Of course, he can act normal, as he is capable of being friendly. But he is usually trained to obey orders until it is resting time. Anyways getting off track but he is a very interesting character.

We get to see some fun God interaction, until it ain't fun anymore. We learn that again, gods can be unreasonable stupid and do the bad things. Yes, I am very fond of the ideas of gods not being very godly.

Camazotz gets some bonding time with the boys, and Muerto is so intolerant of her at times. He only really accepts childishness from Mischief, not a god.

So Talon gets adopted into the family, and he has an extremely hard time trying to adjust. But he is very grateful to be invited to be somewhere to live. Plus he can still see The Supreme God, so win win.

So to answer a question, Talon was never designed to be a weapon. He was a companion, but due to The Supreme God's curiosity, they gave him power and trained him to be a certain way. Talon doesn't know what he wants, he doesn't even really know who he is either. He is more of a occasionally used shank.

In the beginning of SoW EoG, there's a lot of flower talk. The flowers have meaning actually, but I can't remember each one right now. What I can remember is that Marigolds, lilac, and hydrangeas are all mentioned. Look up their meanings and maybe you can piece it together on why.

Ok so that's a bunch of stuff. Thanks for reading. I hope you somewhat enjoyed it? I love talking about the lore.

Til we meet again my friends.

#Souls of War #SoW #Baku Lore #my lore #SoW Lore #man i really don't wanna type every tag #so I'm not gonna #Baku #Camazotz #Talon #Mischief #Muerto #The Supreme God #TSG #my stories

4 notes · View notes

cowboygenesis · 1 month

Text

1: spice rolls and dew jam | din djarin x reader

part 1 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist.

pairing: din djarin x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 5.7k

series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible.

notes: this fic is set a while after the corvus arc in season 2, after din sets to find a teacher for grogu. there's tons of flavor-lore here, some of it canon, some of it completely made up (by me). smut happens late because im a slave to slow burn. but enjoy the mutual pining!

You have known this your entire life.

The air smells like fresh earth and wildflowers when you open your kitchen window that morning. The fog clings low to the ground as a cool breeze seeps into your home, making you swaddle yourself tighter within your knitted sweater.

Your cold-numbed fingers wrap tightly around the ceramic mug cupped in your hands, periodically bringing it to your lips for a languid sip. The caf scalds your tongue, but you persevere. Outside, the sun rises above the horizon, peeking over the tall treeline and illuminating the town with a subtle, golden glow.

Across your makeshift garden stands a small stripe of farmland, glistening with freshly sowed soil and soft patches of stray grass. You spot your elderly neighbor strolling about with a blanket-covered basket and wave her hello when she smiles at you. Her breath comes out in a thin cloud of condensation which you see as it mends with the dewy air.

You exhale. It’s unremarkable, peaceful. Predictable. The way it’s been for as long as you can remember.

You have known this your entire life. But today, the air feels thicker. Your hands slip against the polished wood when you reach for your hairbrush, and the Shiir fruit you have for breakfast tastes soured as you bite into the soft, dotted flesh.

It all started three days ago, when a small craft landed in the nearby woods. It was the dead of night, silent besides the howling of sifflings and a distant cricket song filling the empty void.

You didn't see it happen, nor did your neighbors, as the first whispers came from the children: wide-eyed and brimming with interest, they gossiped quietly of a strange craft that emerged just before dawn, sleek and noiseless, nestled beneath the canopy of trees that surround your little village. No one emerged from it, they chimed. The forest swallowed it whole as if it had always been hidden in the cloud of greenery.

At first, it was just another embellished story—a tale spun from boredom or fantasies, something for the local folk to entertain themselves with during the quieter nights at the cantina.

But as the hours turned into days, the usual vibrancy of your community turned subdued with the whispered rumors. And sure, people started talking, but nobody dared to see the ship for themselves. Such was their Maker-fearing nature.

You, like many others, grew quite curious as the stories spread. When you walked down the stone-laid path to the town’s square every morning, your eyes followed along the treeline, glimpsing between the foliage in a silent hope of catching something inexplicable: a metallic wing, a flailing cape, or even a hint of movement. But nothing ever came.

You finish your drink and place the cup in the sink, the clink of ceramic echoing in your quiet kitchen as you let the residual warmth of the caf envelop you. You make a mental note to stock up on the good stuff as soon as the Mon Gazza traders come through your town next time.

You lean against the wall in your chair, glancing over at the basket you'd prepared last night. It sits by the door, neatly packed with fresh bread, a few vegetables from your garden, and jars of homemade preserves. You’ve made it a habit to bring these goods to the village market as a small way to keep yourself busy and prevent the excess produce from spoiling. Cooking for one is no easy feat.

As you turn to the window again, you notice the sun has fully crested over the trees, casting long shadows down the strip of farmland in front of your home.

You stand up and stretch with a grunt, grabbing your cloak from the green-padded loveseat and tying the ribbon around your neck. You grab the basket, tie your boots neatly, and step out into the crisp morning air with a deep inhale. The bells hooked on your doorway jingle as you lock it behind you.

Lazure Prime’s climate is temperate, yet the mornings are notably chillier at this point of the solar cycle. It’s a good omen for the upcoming harvest, the farmers had always said; something about the condensation that makes the tartness decline. You’ve never been big on food science, but living in an agriculture-based town has illuminated many aspects of the topic over the years.

The walk to the village is unremarkable. Trees sway softly in the wind, their leaves dancing in the early daylight. You pass by familiar faces— fyrion melon farmers prepping the land for sowing and children making their daily hike to school. Each one of them flashes you a bright smile as you walk past, some calling out your name cheerfully.

Your eyes hover over the treeline again, watching the bark weave in and out of the lush greenery but… no metal. No ship. It’s the same as it’s always been. A part of you expects the visitor to be long gone, perhaps in a moment where nobody caught it.

As you near the market square, you catch the distant chatter of townsfolk. They weave in and out of the stalls, exchanging greetings and produce as a weekly ritual.

You skim through the stalls with your eyes and select one of the empty ones. You place your basket on top with a grunt, stunned at how robustly you managed to pack it this time around.

Your hands work quickly, unraveling the protective rag covering the inside and reaching for your produce. Four loaves of oat cakes, amber squash, a few bunches of carrots, and half a dozen jars of dew jam— a family recipe. Because it peddled so fast last time, you made sure to amp up the production this week to at least double the amount.

You hear your name be called, paired with a gentle touch on your arm. You turn around on your heel, gaze dropping to be met with the curious look of a young girl.

“Good morning Nissa,” you smile, giving the child a small wave. She beams at you, exposing a row of milk teeth, two of them missing. “Is your mom around?”

She shrugs half-heartedly, quick to dismiss your concern. “She’s here. Probably getting the stuff we need for dinner tonight— we’re making yak stew. You know yak stew, right?” she explains, eyes suddenly widening, “Oh, you have to come! I’ll tell mom about it, I— We’d love to have you over!”

You chuckle warmly at her excitement, reaching a hand behind you to grab a round, cloth-enveloped parcel and hiding it behind your back as you crouch down to meet the girl at eye level.

“Yeah, I know it. Yak stew sounds lovely. I’ll have to ask your mom if that’s alright with her, though,” you reply with an apologetic look, toying with the package behind your back. “You know how she feels about surprise visits.”

Nissa rolls her eyes, arms crossed. “Whatever, she’ll have to say yes!” she insists, extending her hands as if to make a point, “You have to come, okay? You promised to show me how to shoot a bow last time, you promised!”

“Nini, I said I’ll show you how it works,” you grimace slightly at your own mistake of giving a child the idea to learn of a weapon in the first place. What can you say, you got overly excited as usual and spoke too much, too soon. “I don’t think your mom would like us toying around with a weapon in her home. And yes, I asked her already. It’s not gonna happen.”

She blows a raspberry at your reprimanding, followed by a loud huff. And then there’s that stare, the kind that you’re sure makes her mother scowl at how effective it is. “We don’t need to be in the house. We can go to the garden, right? It’s not technically the house anymore.”

“Technically? Who taught you that?” you chuckle, praying it’s enough to distract her hyperactive mind from the bow-shooting idea.

“Um— you did? Mom says I spend too much time with you, by the way. She doesn’t like that I pick up on the things you say, because now I can _actually_ talk to her with adult words. But I like it. You should teach me more words like that,” She replies, going on a tangent. Works like clockwork.

You sigh, taking the parcel out from behind you and cupping it in front of the girl. “Hey, it’s not a good thing. We don’t want to upset her, right?” you reprimand gently, “Here. You told me you liked the oat cakes I made last week.”

Her mouth widens in profound excitement as she quickly grabs ahold of the wrapped gift. “No way, you baked an extra one just for me?”

“Yes— Hey, it’s for your family, alright? Make sure to share it with your brother, at least,” you wag your finger at her with a smile, your heart slowly warming at the raw reaction.

She nods, but you can tell she doesn’t catch a word you say. Her little fingers reach for the knot, ready to untie the morsel, but she’s stopped in her tracks at her name being called.

You peek behind her shoulder to see a woman striding towards you two with a hurried bounce in her step, a woven basket on her hip, and a young boy trailing behind her. She says your name as she approaches, and you can tell from the way her thick eyebrows stitch that Nissa is not supposed to be here alone.

“Morning!” she calls out, her voice carrying a pleasant, melodic lilt when she addresses you. “Ni, I told you to wait up. Help me out with this, will you?” she adds sternly, motioning to her basket with a tilt of her head.

The girl rolls her eyes but does as asked. She strains a little as her mother passes the basket over, a little grunt emitted from her mouth.

“I’m so sorry, she’s been talking about you all of breakfast,” the woman speaks, breath still heavy from prancing around the market. “Didn’t cause you any trouble, I hope?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. You hope the bow idea doesn’t get a mention. “Not at all, Val. We had a nice little chat about your dinner plans tonight.”

Valerie smiles warmly, though there’s a hint of jest in her dark eyes. “Ah, yes, dinner. Kids this age eat for two, it feels like. Half of this moon’s pay went directly to grocery costs, can you believe it? This one’s got the stomach of a bantha,” she motions to her daughter, and you catch Nissa rolling her eyes again. You chuckle, and the woman shakes her head. “I’d love to have you over, but only if you’re free. It’d be nice to catch up, I feel like it’s been a century since we got to sit down over a meal and a nice spotchka.”

You stand up, stretching a little as you lean against your stall. “I’m free. And I’d love to join if it’s not a problem for you all,” you smile politely, “I’ll make sure to bring some dessert, too,” you add with a wink at Nissa who beams at your generous suggestion.

“That’s too kind of you, as usual. You know the kids love your baking, and so do I,” she says, placing a hand against her son’s back and gently pushing her forward. “Right, Ki?”

The boy tucks a stray brunette lock behind his ear, glancing up at you with a coy nod. You smile, giving him a little wave of encouragement.

“Of course. I’ll whip up something good for you guys,” you respond, turning around to start organizing your produce on the wooden boards. “Thank you for the invite, by the way. I’ve been home-stuck for way too long, and I feel like it’s finally getting to my head,” you add, turning around to flash your friend a cheeky smile. She responds with a similar one, a hand now stroking down her daughter’s plaits.

Nissa tugs on her mother’s sleeve, eyebrows knitted. “Mom, we were supposed to get spice rolls today. You promised Kivan you’d buy them for us,” she complains, and Valerie chuckles warmly.

“Right, I guess I did make that promise at some point,” she shrugs, giving a knowing smile that you return absentmindedly. “Excuse us, but priorities call. On this note, you should really try Mrs. Veska’s spice rolls, I hear it’s an original family recipe from Batuu. Which, by the way, did you even know she’s from Batuu? Maker, the things I still find out after living here my whole life.”

You laugh at her small rant, taking a step forward to place an affirming hand on her shoulder. “This town is a gift that keeps on giving, huh? I trust you have plenty of stories to share with me over that drink you suggested.”

“More than I care to admit,” she huffs, straightening out and adjusting the large messenger bag on her hip. “Anyway, I think we better scavenge this market before all the good stuff is wiped out. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“I’ll see you. Bye, kids!” you lean down, waving enthusiastically. Kivan gives you a coy nod, while Nissa waves back with a wide grin, the wrapped oat cake now sitting safely within the basket she’s carrying.

As you watch Valerie and the kids disappear into the bustling crowd, you exhale a small sigh of contentment. Dinner and some spotchka are exactly what you need after a long, lonesome week.

Your fingers resume their work, carefully arranging the last of your produce on the stall’s wooden boards. You lean back when you’re done, watching the colorful array with your hands on your hips and a satisfied smile painted across your face.

That’s when you feel it— an odd sense of stillness settling over the market as your back faces the crowd.

You wait a beat, breathing in the thick air. It’s as if the week-long tension had finally culminated in a moment of eternal stillness, hovering in the atmosphere like a prayer about to be spoken.

You turn around on your heel, the empty basket still clutched tightly in your hands. That’s when you spot it.

You watch a sleek figure cut through the bustling market crowd, tall frame draped in armor shining brilliantly under the rising daylight. You catch it immediately, something about him—it sends a surge of hushed attention through the townsfolk gathered around. The loud chatter slowly dampens, havoc turning into muted whispers as the figure strides through. People step aside as if instinctively, letting him pass through uninterrupted as Maker forbid a guy of his caliber gets interrupted.

Your fingers wrap still against the edge of the wooden stall, watching the stranger approach. But it’s the air of him that catches your attention—the way he moves, unbothered, like he’s always on the move yet leveled in some unstated purpose. A droid? No, he’s humanoid. A trooper?

He strides with intent, but not hurriedly by any means. A small, rounded pod floats beside him, gently humming as it hovers by his right hip.

Whoever this man is, he’s unlike any visitor your village had taken in before. There’s an unsettling sense of quiet power that seems to follow him as he struts along the stalls, his visor moving subtly, yet perceptibly, as he assumingly scans for what he’s looking for.

You catch glimpses of villagers giving him a wide berth, murmuring amongst themselves, uncertain whether to approach or keep their distance.

He draws nearer, and for a brief moment, his helmet—polished but tattered—turns in your direction. Your breath hitches. You meet the opaque visor, your reflection staring back at you, but you can’t spot the eyes beneath it, even as you try to squint.

There’s no nod, no words exchanged, just a brief moment where your gaze meets his; you can feel it boring into you even through the slim visor, the air around you stilling with his absurdly authoritative presence. Oddly, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking as he stares into you.

The moment passes instantly as his helmet finally tilts away from you. He continues on, stout boots thudding lightly against the packed dirt of the village square. You blink twice, his gaze lingering on your silhouette for a second longer than it should. Your jaw unclenches, though you don’t remember tightening it in the first place. He seems… familiar.

You dig into the depths of your brain, clawing at the grey matter. Something about his armor, or perhaps the blaster tucked at his side, threatens to awaken a hidden memory within your half-awaken mind.

You don’t exactly know why you decide to take a step forward when you do.

Be it primal curiosity or the quiet tension that clings to him like a fleeting shadow; regardless of the reason, you feel compelled to approach him, basket in hand, steadily nearing the armored stranger.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself as you step forward and drop your emptied basket near the soil by your booth.

When you look up again, you see the armored figure ahead of you finally stop at one of the stalls. He stands silent and still, visor fixed on the selection of produce laid out before him. The stall owner, an older man with wiry hair and sun-weathered skin, toys nervously with the corner of his apron.

Suddenly, a familiar silhouette emerges out of the cantina’s wooden doorway. His broad shoulders sway rhythmically, eyes piercing and focused as he trots down the soil. His weathered hand rests firmly atop his hip, cradling the only blaster the town has ever owned. It’s not something you had ever caught before, but the weapon paired with a tattered chest plate makes him stand out from the rest of the townsfolk. He looks modern, metropolitan, like a big-town sheriff rather than a community-voted overseer.

“Morning, traveler,” he calls out in a deep, gravelly voice, coming to a stop a few paces from the armored figure. “First time seeing you around here. What brings you to Terrine?”

There’s a pause that lingers for a second too long. The stranger doesn’t respond right away, and you can feel the anticipation surging through the air as the marshal takes another step forward.

The marshal steps from foot to foot, the blaster on his hip gleaming in the sunlight as if purposefully making its presence known. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Fine,”

The armored figure finally turns his head, the reflective visor of his helmet catching the morning sun. He doesn’t flinch or bristle at the marshal’s words—just stands there, towering and still. You feel unease mixing in your gut when you catch a glimpse of the stranger’s blaster resting in the holster on his hip, stagnantly, as his hand hovers nowhere near it.

“Bounty hunters and other scoundrels of your kind aren’t appreciated in these parts. I can see that weapon on your hip, don’t you find me foolish,” he motions to his blaster with a nod of his head, “What’s your business here?”

The question hangs in the air, the marketplace unnervingly still. You sense eyes from the nearby stalls watching the scene, everyone holding their breath as tension swells between the two men.

“You deaf under that helmet?” the marshal sneers, his tone sharp as he steps forward, shoving a hand against the stranger’s shoulder. The impact is solid as you can tell from the dull sound it makes, yet the figure barely flinches. “Huh?”

The crowd seems to hold its breath as the stranger pivots his stance ever so slightly, body shifting just enough to fully face the marshal. His hand moves slowly, almost deliberately, hovering near his blaster—just enough to be caught yet not enough to draw it— yet.

“You don’t want this,” he says, voice low, gravelly, and calm as ever, carrying a weight that cuts through your tense body. It’s heavily modulated, yet it’s soft bass draws a shiver down your spine.

The marshal pauses, his chest rising and falling rapidly, momentarily frozen in place as the air hangs heavy between them. You feel the tension peak, a bead of sweat forming on the marshal’s brow despite the cool morning breeze pouring into the market.

“I’m sick of you metal-clad fuckers causing mayhem where you don’t belong,” he suddenly hisses, sizing the stranger up as his hand slowly catches the handle of his blaster, “I’ve heard enough of your excuses for—” he draws it, and your heart drops.

A wave of adrenaline propels you forward, legs carrying you silently between the two men in a mindless, perhaps foolish, moment of clarity.

“Raan—” you call out desperately, cringing the way your voice shakes. “—Marshal.”

Both men turn their attention to you, but despite being shrouded by two deadly weapons, it’s the stranger’s unseen gaze that makes your stomach twist at that moment.

“Let’s not have this escalate,” you say, gaze soft yet determined as it connects with the marshal’s. Here we go. “We all know you’re just trying to maintain order and peace, but this man has done no harm.”

The marshal’s eyes lock onto yours, his expression a mix of frustration and reluctant acknowledgment. His grip tightens on his blaster, knuckles white, but you can see the battle waging behind his eyes.

“Peace?” the marshal spits, his voice rough. “It’s people like him that _disrupt_ the peace,”

The stranger remains eerily still, his helmet angled slightly towards you as if measuring your sincerity. The tension between the three of you feels almost tangible, and you can feel dozens of eyes boring into you expectantly. Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Valerie, her kids shielded behind the fabric of her dress.

“You know what kind of risk these types bring,” the marshal continues, voice rising slightly. “They come in, stir up trouble, then disappear without a trace. Worst damn case, they tell their little bounty-hunting friends about us so we can be plundered all over again. We don’t need that here, and you should know that better than anyone.”

Your eyes shoot wide open at his statement. The marshal's words sting with a quiet truth, yet you take a deep breath, steeling yourself against the personal attacks. You’re too deep to withdraw now, and somehow, the little voice in your head you call intuition tells you the armor-clad figure is no ordinary plunderer.

Your eyes flicker to his visor, and for the briefest moment, you swear you catch something mild in the way his helmet tilts in your direction. Call it stress-induced delusion, but if he didn’t appreciate your interference, why didn’t he try to stop you yet?

“Marshal, I understand your concerns,” you start again, voice steady but firm. “But we can’t jump to conclusions based on fear alone. Not everyone who wears armor or carries a blaster is out to cause trouble, and you should know that better than anyone.” you bite back subtly, a self-satisfied smirk threatening to emerge at the way his eyebrows furrow at your targeted remark.

His hands drop from his holster, snaking around to rest firmly against his belt. He exhales sharply, giving the stranger a once-over before returning to you with a seemingly dampened mood.

“Fine,” he states firmly, taking a step back. His shoulders relax just a fraction, though the tension still simmers in his eyes. “But I’m keeping an eye on this one. If anything goes awry, we’ll deal with it one way or another.”

The stranger remains silent, his posture relaxed but you catch his visor fixed on the marshal as he withdraws.

The man huffs, and for a brief moment, it seems like he’s about to get a last word in but finally decides against it. He murmurs something under his breath, turning on his heel and making his way back into the quiet cantina.

The silence following the encounter lingers for a beat, before murmurs from the surrounding villagers slowly start up again, the crowd beginning to disperse as the scene deescalates. When you breathe deeply to recalibrate, you can feel the weight of their stares, some curious, most wary.

When you finally turn to face the armored man, you catch his visor pinning you in place.

Your breath hitches, your neck craning to appease his height as your eyes flicker for a moment in search of his. You don’t spot them through the darkness, but it doesn’t stop you from imagining them through the metal, like placing two pins on a map.

You step forward, your voice steady but carrying a note of concern. “I’m sorry about him. We truly don’t get many visitors around here.”

The man doesn’t immediately respond. His visor remains locked on you, the helmet’s reflective surface making it impossible to gauge his opinion of your actions thus far.

“Thank you,” he finally says, and the flatness of his tone makes it hard to gauge at first but he seems… earnest. From what you can tell.

You give him a polite smile, feeling gratified by his small praise. “Keep browsing, if you like. We only hold this market once a week, so it’s a bit of a celebration every time.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering your offer, but keeps silent. After a brief pause, he turns his attention back to the stalls, visor scanning down a selection of sweet pastries from Mrs. Veska. Your eyes flicker over pastry labeled ‘spice rolls’, and make a quick mental note to swing by later, once the crowd clears up a bit.

As you turn to walk back to your stall, you feel a quick, firm grasp on your forearm. “Wait,” the modulated voice calls out, making your gaze flicker to his helmet.

You give him that same smile again, his lingering grip making your gaze flicker to his gloved hand. It wraps around your arm effortlessly, the pressure treading dangerously between comfortable and tight. As if on cue, he withdraws, hands resting at his sides when he addresses you. “Is there lodging here?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the question, your gaze flickering to the humming orb behind him. You catch a slit running along its length, and reason it must be some sort of… strangely extravagant basket.

“Lodging? You mean… rooms to spare?” you question back, and his shoulders seem to imperceptibly relax at that.

“Yes. Available housing,” he clarifies, and you hum in thought. You’re about to ask him about his ship but realize it might be a little personal, especially after the feud feels fresh in your mind.

“It’s hard for me to say at this moment. Like you’ve heard before, we don’t get many visitors or tourists here, so most homes are permanently occupied by native residents,” you explain, searching your mind for a solution. “You’d have to…”

You hesitate, realizing that the key to his problems might just blow up in his face if he tries it.

His helmet tilts slightly, as if urging you to continue despite your hesitation. You meet the inscrutable visor with your gaze, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy.

“You’d have to ask Marshal Raan about it. If there’s anything available, he’d be the one keeping track of such information,” you finally explain, gaze growing apologetic as he takes in the announcement.

The armored man nods, his posture remaining quiet and ordered. “Okay,” he replies, the flatness of his tone giving you little to go off.

“Listen, I… I know he came off pretty unfriendly back there, but he’s a good man. If you explain your situation to him, I’m sure he’ll oblige,” you say, yet your eyebrows furrow. You suddenly realize that you don’t know this stranger’s situation yourself, and you’re not exactly in the position to ask, either.

The man’s helmet tilts slightly as if considering your words. “Thank you for your help,” he says, voice steady and unyielding. You nod at him with a sympathetic smile.

Suddenly, you feel like you want to say something more; ask him a question, tell him about the town, anything to keep the conversation going despite it being long over. Then you realize.

You don’t even know his name.

Your lips hang slightly ajar as he nods at you in goodbye, turning to walk away. You can’t bring yourself to speak. His heavy boots make soft thuds against the packed dirt as you catch him mumbling something to one of the vendors.

You sigh, gaze lingering on him as you slowly withdraw towards your stall, the glint of armor disappearing between the crowd once you reach your produce.

You give them a once-over, a wave of tiredness washing over you out of nowhere. Your mind rushes to the stranger before you can tell it ‘no’, eyes glassy as you play over the feud over and over in your head… his figure clear when you picture it.

A full suit of armor, pristinely crafted to suit his body— one of his pauldrons harbored a strange symbol, the head of a horned animal you had never seen before.

You remember his low, stern voice addressing you with an indiscernible tone, something you can only compare to an unusual kindness. Perhaps it’s the dangerous nature of his supposed profession or the fact he stands out so drastically amongst simple townsfolk like you, but the truth is that your breath quickens as you think of his eyes on you through the slim, dark visor.

“Hey,” you hear, but the words seem muddled through your woolgathering.

You blink, the world around you snapping back into focus. The armored figure is standing right in front of your stall now, his imposing presence suddenly filling your bubble. You meet his gaze through the dim visor, the helmet almost intimate in its closeness.

“Hey,” he repeats, his voice modulated but softer now, gently waking you from your haze. “I need a favor.”

His request catches you off guard, your eyes widening slightly as you finally come fully to your senses. Your mind races, trying to moderate the intimidating figure.

“Favor?” you echo, frowning slightly. “Don’t tell me. He turned you down. Just… just come with me, I’ll try to talk some sense—”

“We didn’t talk,” he cuts you off, the initial softness disappearing from his voice. He shifts his weight slightly, arms crossed over his chest. “I… think I’ll manage without the lodging for a while.”

You give him a raised eyebrow but quickly muster up a sympathetic smile when he refuses to elaborate.

“Okay. What brings you to me, then?” you probe gently, watching him pull a pouch out of his messenger bag. It clinks softly as it rolls over his fingers.

“I need supplies,” he explains, tossing you the sack with a flick of his wrist. You yelp, straining to catch it mid-air. Once you feel the weight of it, you realize it’s a lot more than you bargained for. Your lip twitches.

“This is a small fortune,” you frown, withdrawing a singular coin from within. You pass it between your fingers, rubbing gently against the New Republic sigil engraved into the sleek metal. “I don’t have enough supplies to trade you for this large an amount.”

“I’ll take all you have,” he hums, helmet dropping slightly to glance at your small selection of produce. “And you can keep whatever coin is left.”

“What? No— I can’t,” you chuckle nervously, extending your palms with the coin pouch inside. “Why… why won’t you try the other vendors? Market’s open til noon, you’re granted some good cuts of meat and proper bread at least,”

He looks at you. As always, you can’t tell for certain, but you feel his gaze on yours, boring into your very being as he shifts from one leg to another.

“My presence sparks fear in your people,” he says quietly. “They refuse to do business with me.”

Your heart twists a bit at his words. ‘None of them?’ you want to ask, but the silence between you speaks louder than any words ever could. You nod slowly, understanding dawning on you as your arms withdraw under your cloak, the small pouch with them.

“Alright,” you say softly, taking a deep breath. “Alright… let me pack this up for you,”

He nods in acknowledgment, stepping away as you walk around your stall. You feel his presence by your side as your hands work at the jars, placing them gently within a patterned cloth. Next come the oat cakes, then the vegetables.

He watches you in silence, helmet tilted as you skillfully tie the parcel into a knot. You turn to him slowly, straining a bit at the weight in your hands as you present it to him with an encouraging smile.

“Thanks for single-handedly putting me out of business,” you muse, chuckling half-heartedly at your nervous attempt at a joke. The helmet peers at you, but keeps silent. ‘Tough crowd,’ you think.

His gloved fingers move to cup the parcel, your thumbs grazing as you pass it to him. You jerk on instinct and pray to Maker he doesn’t notice.

“Thanks,” he nods, turning to briefly gaze at the humming orb behind him. “Keep the rest—”

“Come with me,” you intercept, louder than planned. He turns to you, helmet tilting in question. You swallow thickly, hands at your hips as you elaborate. “…Come with me. I can’t let you give away all this coin, and I have nothing more to give you from this stall, so… I’m inviting you to my home. Let me cook for you, so we may call it even.”

Your body ripples with anxiety as the words leave your mouth. Part of you wants to retract your invite on the spot when you watch him take a step towards you, unnervingly silently, and— Maker, why does he have to be so damn silent?!

“Okay,” he speaks, voice stern yet laced with something unrecognizable. You glance up at him with wide eyes, visor pointed at you with a silent purpose.

You take a step back as the ghost of a smile crawls onto your shock-stricken face, your words echoing his. “Okay.”

94 notes · View notes