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wafflesrock16 · 3 months

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Shakarian Viking/Soulmate AU

Remember how I said this idea wouldn't leave me? I had to write it out. Who else wants Viking berserker Shepard and Anglo-Saxon prince Garrus? Below a the cut.

Shepard watched as Jarl Anderson lowered his torch, setting the brittle branches at the base of the pyre aflame. The scent of pitch and smoke filled her nostrils, the loud crack of timber breaking the stillness of the gathered group of watchers. They stood near enough to feel the heat of the fire on their faces as it consumed the wooden structure, red tongued flames licking at the platform and the shrouded form that lay atop it.

“He’s in Valhalla, now,” she heard Kaidan murmur. “We should all be so lucky to die in glorious battle.”

Shepard frowned. Jenkins had only been raised to the berserkers the year prior. He had never voyaged to the havens. This was to be his first raid along the Widow Sea’s frontier. He had known the risks, as did all who ventured here. Still, his death sat like a heavy stone in the pit of Shepard’s stomach.

At least he didn’t have a soulmate tethered to his spirit. There’s no one feeling hollowed out with inconsolable grief back home. The reasoning did little to staunch her guilt; if anything it only made it worse since it caused her to feel grateful she didn’t have a soulmate, either.

Shepard sighed. She was the berserker commander. Jenkins was her responsibility. She wasn’t a wet nurse, but she ought to have kept an eye on him; at least admonished him to stay out of the trees. The silver-barked forests in this region were deadly. Old enemies with eagle eyes and rapier-like claws favored the cover the thick woods offered.

She turned away from the funerary pyre and the low, solemn chanting that had begun as fire swallowed Jenkins mortal body. Nobody stopped her as she strode away from the conflagration, back toward the longboats. She needed a moment alone with her thoughts without guilt crowding in on her.

The turians know we’re here—they must have spied us well before we made landfall though bleed me if I know how. Shepard found herself walking past where the dragon-headed longships had been pulled up onto the beach, lost in consideration. We outnumber them, though they have the advantage of knowing the terrain. They also have at least one skilled archer among them, even though that’s not who sent Jenkins off to Odin.

No, a turian swordsman had done Jenkins in, and Shepard had returned the favor with her axe. It was small comfort. Humans and turians had battled for the land and wealth along the Citadel’s coast for time immemorial. There was talk of an asari negotiated peace treaty, but so far that’s all it was. Talk. Shepard wagered that nothing would come from those talks in her lifetime. And who knows how long that’ll be if we stay here?

Gravel crunched under her boots in the lengthening shadows of twilight. Shepard rounded a gentle curve in the land and came to stand on a dead tree, facing the North. The wind that whipped her fiery red hair about her face was warmer than back home. Then again, they were a long way from home, now.

She watched the dying light upon the waves, the ocean glittering like crushed diamonds. It would be dark soon. They’d need to make camp and plot their next course. Did they take the river deeper inland, as was the original plan? Or did they double back, take their chances in krogan territory where turians didn’t dare venture.

Against the crash of the breakers, Shepard missed the sound of a bowstring drawing taut. It was something else, some inexplicable tug at her heart, a susurration of unheard whispers in her ear, that caused her to suddenly duck and roll, the hidden knives she kept about her person flying into her hands.

There was a loud thawk, as a barbed arrow embedded itself into the driftwood where she’d been standing.

She flung a knife, gratified to hear the sound of a large body diving to the sand. She charged before the archer could restring his bow, tackling him to the ground with a savage roar.

Eyes bluer than the center of a flame stared up at her from within a silver plated face, painted with the bold cobalt markings of Clan Vakarian. The turian’s crest of horns was cushioned by a clump of dried seaweed, tiny insects furiously buzzing about his head at the invasion.

He flared his mandibles, exposing long, sharp, silver teeth. His jaw dropped as he took in his soon-to-be killer. Shepard sat astride his narrow waist, holding her second knife above his ridged nose, poised to strike.

Something in those burning eyes softened. “You’re beautiful.” The rumbling subharmoinics seemed to embrace her, a vocal hug to reinforce the sincerity of his words.

Shepard sucked in a deep breath. For the first time in years, ridiculously, tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “Shut up!” She shook her head as if to dislodge his words. “I hate you!”

Her hand holding the knife quivered. In the crystalline depths of his alien eyes, she saw herself reflected back, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl, red hair framing her face. The embodiment of a valkyrie and harbinger of death. Except, I don’t want to kill him, she realized.

“I wasn’t trying to hit you,” the turian murmured. “If I had been, you’d already be dead. I hadn’t realized you were . . . you.” He suffused the word with a mix of awe and wonder that left Shepard’s chest feeling tight.

With a cry born as much from confusion as frustration, Shepard rolled off him. She leaped to her feet, kicking a clump of sand. “Leave,” she commanded, wiping at her treacherous eyes.

The turian slowly rose to his degi-grade feet. Sharp claws extended from the open toes of his boots. “What if I want to stay?”

Shepard glared at him. “Why should you stay? After what your clan did to our landing party this morning and us to you, shouldn’t you be regrouping?”

Why in the frozen hells was she crying? What was it about this turian of all people that had her feeling vulnerable as a new babe? She should kill him—he’d be back tonight with more men and slit her throat in her sleep. A small voice she couldn’t name told her that he wouldn’t do that. Not him. Not ever.

“My name is Garrus,” the turian replied instead. “There are those who call me Archangel, but . . . it’s just Garrus, for you.”

Shepard forced herself to look at him. Really look at him. He was tall and lean, as most turians were, and covered in metallic looking plates. He wore a deep blue tabard with the Vakarian family crest stitched out in thread-of-gold across his chest. A brown leather belt with well-made leggings and fine boots completed his attire. Not some common foot soldier or hunter turned mercenary, Shepard mused. Her eyes settled on the longbow laying at Garrus’ feet. It was nearly as tall as he was and looked like it was made of black yew wood. An expensive weapon. One only someone with a high tier could afford.

Shepard’s eyes went wide as she realized who Garrus must be. “You’re the Primarch’s son.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, a hand moving to rub the back of his neck. Shepard was no expert on turian expressions but she’d swear Garrus looked embarrassed.

Bright blue eyes met hers. “You seem to know me and my lineage, yet I confess, I have yet to learn your name.”

Shepard hesitated a moment before discarding any notion of subterfuge. What was the point? He could have killed her and hadn’t. She could have killed him and didn’t. Besides all that, she wanted to know him. “Commander Jane Shepard,” she said. “You can call me Shepard.”

Garrus extended his hand in a human gesture of greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, Shepard.”

Shepard slipped her smaller hand into his. It was like being struck by lightning. There was a jolt, a suffusion of warmth flooding her veins, an invisible push in his direction. They collided at the same time, Garrus likewise shoved by an unseen force.

She grasped onto his cowl, feeling like she were trapped in an undertow, liable to be swept away in the exultant rush of emotions, apt to drown in the depths of a feeling humanity blithely called ‘soulmates.’ Her skin tingled and she was hyper aware of Garrus’ proximity; the rough calluses of his three-fingered hands and prick of talons through her tunic where he held her waist. His pupils dilating and eclipsing the blue of his irises while his subvocals stuttered and a deep, percussive purr sundered in his chest.

Shepard exhaled. “Oh.”

Garrus lifted a shaky hand to gently brush away an errant lock of hair. “It is you,” he whispered, reverent. “You feel it too?”

She gazed up at him, feeling more a maiden than seasoned berserker. Her mouth parted to answer—

“Commander!”

Shepard pulled herself free from the whirlpool of Garrus’ presence to peer into the murky distance. “The others are looking for me,” she muttered. How long had she been gone? Sudden fear squeezed her heart as she considered what would happen if Garrus were discovered. She gave him a forceful shove. “They mustn’t see you. Go! Hurry!”

Garrus moved as though in a daze, stooping to retrieve his bow and taking a few tentative steps backward. “I’ll find you,” he swore. “I’ll come back for you, my dea.”

Before Shepard could respond he was sprinting; a glimmer of lancing starlight through the gloam, a shape half-seen on the edge of the forest. We’ll find each other, she promised herself, even as Kaidan and Ashley came into view, helmets donned and axes at hand. What joke of the gods is it that my other half should be an ancestral foe, on ground my kin intend to soak in blue blood?

She turned towards her comrades, trying to shake off the chill that had settled over her like heavy snow with Garrus’ departure. The others would want to know what she’d been doing out here, alone in the dark. “Searching for answers,” she’d tell them. “Considering what to do next.”

She’d omit her blue eyed archer. That whatever came next, Garrus would play a major role. For now, she kept her soulmate sheltered within the confines of her rib cage, a constant companion to her own beating heart.

#garrus vakarian #mass effect #shakarian #femshep #commander shepard #waffles writes #AU #ficlet

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time-like-tears-in-rain · 29 days

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just....Elizabeth wants to demand of the Engineers what humanity did wrong. Why they want to destroy their creations. She wanted to kill that creature that came out of her. She and David stole an Engineer ship that would have had an Engineer in cryo in it--they would have had to kill it. In Vickers's pod, she let the squid creature take the Engineer.

Elizabeth wanted to look her creator in the eye and ask why. We know she wasn't going to get a good answer. The foreshadowing of David and Holloway's conversation of making synthetics because humans could. Elizabeth who searched her whole life for God and is appalled by her own creators, who sees herself as high enough and worthy enough to DEMAND AN ANSWER, who refused to see herself as a biological accident in the grand scheme of the universe.

ELIZABETH WHO AGREED WITH THE CAPTAIN THAT BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY, NONE OF THE ENGINEERS COULD MAKE IT BACK TO EARTH....

(cut for length and possible body horror)

If she got an answer she didn't like, how easy it would be for her to see herself as a savior, to express the need for the Engineers to never leave Paradise...Would David commit the deed to keep her hands clean, or would she order him to, or would she do it herself? Don't all children want their parents dead?

Elizabeth Frankenstein, bride of the creator, victim of the creation and the hubris of its maker, Elizabeth who wouldn't part with her f[F]ather's cross, bearing her belief or her belief bearing her, in her dark blue Engineer robe at the end of the story arc the script drafts referred to as ADVENT--is left alone, with the option, for the first time in her life, to create life.

Slow at first; like 21st century humans feeling morally obligated to bring back animals from extinctions we caused; bringing back fauna to this environment....then more. The creation of something that could survive, the creation of something new, watching evolution unfold, trying to coax these things towards humanity but they have no human DNA--the Engineer DNA includes human but isn't, and it isn't as if she's getting any use out of the brutalized organ in her body--and so she has her synthetic assist--it's what he was built to do, to assist, to be a servant to his creator

Monsters made of Engineer bodies and human ovum, of the galactic-toned viscous seed, almost metallic but moving organically. Beasts she can barely keep a tether on, try again, keep trying, until its smart enough to know its creators, the pursuit of a child, a founder of a new world.

When David brings the Covenant crew into the Necropolis, he leads them in to see Shaw, in her Engineer robes stitched down to her size, her hair long--and the crew is wary of this woman, the strange dog-like creatures that follow her and David.

No one really knows what to make of this poor marooned human, no one knows what's going on, or what she's hiding, what she knows--when one of the beasts breeches the citadel, Dani goes looking for their host; she finds Elizabeth in her chambers, nearly naked, rough scars over her abdomen, David rises from her partially open robe, where he was on his knees. She doesn't acknowledge getting seen like this, closes up her robe and follow Dani out, with a spear in one hand and David behind them with a flare, and the young neomorph is hunched over one of Dani's crewmates, its hands, its head, buried in viscera.

Like the Newborn or the Offspring, it knows where it came from, it's aware of the world, of its place in it, and it looks up to this impossibly larger engineer of its existance. Elizabeth stands over it (for she is above it) but smiles maternally.

"Hello Adam,"

#alien covenant #annie writes

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gothicprep · 3 months

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two things I’ve been meaning to comment on: the redlettermedia video on the death of movie theaters, and The Usual Suspects of z-rate youtube movie critics blaming furiosa’s failure at the box office for being too girlboss. I promise i’ll tie these together in a way that makes sense.

there are a lot of reasons why theaters aren’t doing great right now. the biggest one is attendance, and how it hasn’t bounced back since lockdown. this has been exacerbated by a lack of product in the marketplace, driven by the wga and sag strikes. this isn’t anti-labor union sentiment on my part. I want to be extremely clear about that. it’s not a comment on the negotiations. just an objective statement about how two large guilds striking = less movies = less butts in seats. I’m surprised the rlm guys didn’t consider this.

but there are two salient other things to bring up with what’s going on with the box office rn specifically.

one of them is that movies are still performing in the way you’d expect them to in the box office rn, relative to other seasons. furiosa is a great example of this. fury road, commercially speaking, was not a big hit. furiosa had a higher budget. and mad max movies tend to stand on their own. no further proof of this exists than most americans thinking that the road warrior was the first mm movie, because WB really shat the bed on the distribution for the original. they’re highly tethered to the anxieties of when they came out. the pre-apocalyptic nature of mad max dials in on what kept people up in the 70s. the road warrior is evocative of OPEC and middle east/oil anxieties. thunderdome confronts our 90s fears of tina turner. fury road deals in environmental collapse, right down to how the manpower in the citadel is imagined. Furiosa breaks from this format in a few ways. max not being in it is the obvious one. the other is that it’s so reliant on fury road that its end credits contain a supercut of the movie. this is unusual for a prequel, at least in its extent.

this all to say, there’s no universe where this movie made a lot of money. it was never going to happen. contrary to what some may tell you, it was never a girls get it done thing. i know furiosa was great, but you need to remember that critic and general audience reception are very different things. if you’re someone who likes to talk and write about movies, you’re in a place that’s closer to critic brain than you are general audience brain.

If you had a normal release schedule for, say, may, this would be sort of a nothingburger. but remember – marvel movies have pretty much always dominated may. marvel is in sort of a weird position rn post infinity war, and there was no marvel movie to come out in may.

the second one is more related to the strikes. haulted production is a temporary hiccup. within a year, things should normalize a little. think of it like the recovery period after a surgery. something is wrong. you get it fixed. but there’s a time period after that where you can’t do much of anything. in the end, you come out healthy. your strength may be diminished, but you move on. we’re in the recovery period rn. perhaps theaters are a dying business, and this is one of those situations where you carry on but are a bit weaker. but it’s recovery. not death.

ah well, those are just my thoughts on it.

#I love watching movies with my friends

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

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BLAME THE ROSES

Chapter One- Words of a Broken Fool

18+ MDI

Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Allysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.

Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader

Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnappina. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.

Thank you for your support 😫💕 (comment if u wish to be added)

@myrcxlla @alisonbecker @hightowerwife @winxschester

YEARS AFORE THE BIRTH of the Saddened Queen, the lore extended further than the books of vines and kings told. The fool, Mushroom, tethered with the laughter of court, said it started way before Prince Daemon sowed the love of the Manmo Princess, before all the bodies fell and the wings of a dragon took forth a flight across the Narrow Sea. He said it began amidst a rumble of the crown and a greedy offer from the lions of Casterly Rock.

“Betroth them, Your Grace.”

King Viserys did not expect the words to taunt his hazy mind. Laughter had tumbled in the tent, a facade to veil the shouts of a docile princess who wished not to marry, but the sweet taste of grapes blessed his lips and the offers for a wildling’s hand did not make haste. He was trapped, among the men who lusted after a white stag and the women who whispered of the Stepstones. The least a king could do was to drown away, expecting the fire to burn outside and the ashes of a lost dream to fly with the wind.

“What?”

“Prince Aegon and Rhaenyra.”

His eyes searched for the boy he sired. Behind the silken curtain of wild skins, Aegon whined and writhed in the arms of his maids. He reached for the girl across the small square, stuffing her mouth, round and full, of lemon tarts and raw honey treats she was not kind to share. Alysanne, daughter from her father’s loin, was the bare mimic of the beauty Queen Aemma had been, before the butchering came and the curses hallowed a corpse. She looked up at the King, eyes wide with mischief, and she smiled at him.

Viserys returned it, waving the girl’s attention back to the souring brother. “The boy just turned two,” he said. “Otto, he is a child.”

The Lord Hand nodded. “Yes. But it would cease the endless proposals for Rhaenyra’s hand. Only then, they will move on to Alysanne. The Lord of Casterly Rock sounded open to a marriage with a princess. If Rhaenyra and Aegon are betrothed, he will settle for princess Alysanne—“

A peal of laughter broke from the King. “Princess Alysanne will remain untouched by offers from a man whose ego is greater than his head.” His chest rose and the goblet of wine touched his lips again. “I came here to unwind,” with a loud gulp he turned back to the man who spoke. “Not to be suffocated by all this politi-king!”

“Of course. Let us speak no more of it.”

Otto Hightower stood from the stolen chair and parted, shamefully, away from the King.

When the last bit of his cup dried, and his belly could hold no more, King Viserys raised to the quiet tent and watched the flickering light of endless logs. He, stolen from sober sanity, had not felt the tug to his leg and the eyes of his youngest daughter, Alysanne, that watched him from below the shadows. The calls of servants for their small princess went unheard, filched away by the cackling flames of the fire that burned the skin of his cheeks red and raw.

“Is Rhaenyra to return soon, father?”

The princess of just nine name days, as Mushroom would include, was well-spoken for a girl her age. It was no surprise her tongue ran fluently when only the proper knowledge, provided by maesters and scholars from the Citadel, was given to the princess who acted with wildness like her sister’s. “My tent is dark, and she promised to sing to me. She promised, but she isn’t here.”

Viserys did not waste his breath on a foolish explanation, he did not know where his daughter hid nor did he care to know after the mockery that left her lips and silenced the entire court. Instead, he kneeled before his daughter and his warm hands caressed the cold of her cheeks. “She will sing to you. Rhaenyra always keeps the promises she makes to you, does she not?”

A smile spread on his face. Not a genuine one, but one enough to satisfy the hesitant ache in the flicker of Alysanne’s eyes. “Head to bed, now. I am sure Rhaenyra will return before you are tucked in.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Gods were cruel, Mushroom explained. Their eyes, twisted and vile, had dotted on the most innocent soul who wandered the halls of the palace and pleaded giggles and jokes from a mere fool. For the moment the fire died, and the King vanished into a deep slumber, the light of one tent remained.

The death of Princess Alysanne was no mistake. Not when the blood pooled at the bottom of the hill, and strands of hair and milky flesh caught on the spikes meant for the white stag Otto so proudly chanted for. It was a tragedy, truly, the guards began the puzzle of the unknown, and their theories, hazy with sleep, mocked the cries of King Viserys all at once.

It was said the youngest princess wandered into the line of twisted trees, calling out for her sister, brimming with tears, as she stared into the deep, green abyss of weeping winds. When her sworn shield saw her, Alysanne was lurked further away by the claws of darkness.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

Alysanne had tripped in the mangled roots and rolled down the drop-off that sliced through the terrain. In the shadows and fog, the girl dove into a pit of sharp branches—a deadly trap meant to ensnare another life.

"I deserve the highest punishment; I failed my only duty. Princess Alysanne is dead because of me."

King Viserys stared at his daughter's body, at least what remained of it. He'd been quiet the entire time, frozen in place, watching as if the last piece of his beloved would fade away with a single blink. It would, eventually, when the fire devoured what was left and her ashes flew away with the scorching wind. Until the chants of Syrax came, and the Silent Sisters took her, he held onto his daughter's hand.

"Husband." his wife, Queen Alicent, said after a while. She'd been sleeping, at least trying to, in her tent when the news of the missing princesses arose. Her father had been the one to deliver the news, the old man of brown hair bursting into her tent despite her ladies’ pleas to not disrupt the pregnant queen's sleep.

His words were drenched with sarcasm, and a mocking song escaped his lips as he wondered about Princess Rhaenyra's whereabouts and if she too whisked the younger princess to her savage adventures. She had shushed him when his tongue twisted to place blame on her friend for causing a rumble of chaos on his grandson's second name day. Then, after he suggested poor Alysanne’s demise, she marched in search of her drunk husband's tent.

"My sweet girl,"

Only fate would have Otto Hightower's words be true. For the moment the eldest Princess returned, bloody and disheveled, and in the company of Ser Criston, without knowledge of her sister, did the noblemen, ladies, and servants begin to search for the second daughter of the crown.

It had been Jason Lannister who found the young princess’s guard. His armor of steel was off and he cradled himself against a tree, crying, or sweating—the Lord couldn't tell. His shirt was off, his once fair skin now rubbed raw with dirt and blood. His nails had been ripped out from climbing back up the hill, he muttered between gasps, "It was my fault." Beside his legs, on the cold mossy ground, laid a disfigured body covered by his linen shirt.

"My innocent girl," Viserys cried when the Lannister twin arrived with the body of his young daughter. He'd wobbled up to him, snatching the girl from his arms and taking her into his own embrace. The King collapsed to his knees, rocking the child, begging, no, ordering, demanding, for her eyes to open at once. They didn't. He blamed the wine from the night before, the septa in charge of her, his own guards, the useless servants—for a moment he thought of blaming Rhaenyra.

Surely, if she'd just agreed to his offer, or at least showed a bit of interest in his choice, they wouldn't have fought. She would have stayed at their side and poor Alysanne would have remained asleep, lulled away by that stupid melody Aemma would hum into her ear.

When his eyes turned to the crown princess, she too kneeled beside him. She hummed that same song with tears brimming in her eyes. Her voice was soft and shaky, probably caught by the knot he felt in his own throat.

She gently caressed the muddy locks of hair, soothing as if the child were to awaken by a sudden pull. "I'm sorry.” He wasn't sure what he apologized for. His eyes met hers, violet and flickering in red pools of water. "I’m sorry.” For your mother, for your sister. For everything.

Rhaenyra remained quiet. The taste of grief was becoming a familiar palette to the princess, she was sure her father savored it on his tongue as well. She hoped he would, at the very least.

"It's time."

When the guards approached to take the child, the King yelled at them, pointed a dagger of pure Valyrian steel, and told them to stay away. He begged for another moment, a mere second to enjoy the touch of his daughter like he’d done before by the cackling of the fire. But the body was beginning to swell and maesters warned him of the morbid process of decay.

"A father should never witness such a thing, Your Grace."

"Don't! Don't you fucking tell me what to do!"

In the bite of it all, it was Rhaenyra who tugged at his arms, soft pleas rolled from her lips till they silenced with a kiss to his temple. He finally gave, then. One of the remaining pieces of his darling Aemma silently slipped from his arms once again. His heart ached.

Viserys didn’t feel the hands of his wife fall on his shoulders, the gentle whisper of comfort that failed to reach his ear. Instead, he was taunted by the promise he did not hold. Rhaenyra had not returned to sing to her. He wondered—no, hoped, her death was peaceful, at once, and not slow and painful. He choked, and for the rest of his days, he would wonder why no marks sowed to her skin, and when the rebirth of a flower bloomed, the King would slowly die. Surly and painful.

He watched as Rhaenyra left, trailing behind the servants who carried her sister into an empty carriage surrounded by ladies and lords of court, and Mushroom, who stood ghastly still.

“She shall have a bed of roses prepared for her burial,” Queen Alicent spoke, for both her husband and the late princess's maid. "Red. They were her favorites."

Though his head rested low, the king nodded. "Red,” he whispered to himself, almost like a chant. "They were her favorites."

When it first happened, years after the demise of an infant princess, a new season bloomed and the streets of King’s Landing were covered in a bright sheen under the pale sun. Clouds were shaped like tufty pillows then, and glided slowly across the sky, until they shattered, pulling apart when the wings of a golden dragon flew past and ringed ribbons of flickering light from its throat into the frail sky above.

It was the morrow of Prince Jacaerys’ tenth name day, and an open invitation traveled to the realm, spreading to every corner of the West like vines sowing through the soil and tugging at the last speck of ice in Winterfell. It was no surprise when ships of every house arrived at the port of Blackwater Rush, bearing gifts and hailing the prince, a future king, while others, in vile whispers, hailed a bastard born of sin.

Before the Saddened Queen, there was the Churlish Princess, wild and poisoned like the waves that separated the mouths of her ancestry home and Dragonstone. In a fleet with unfurled banners of a black jaguar in a yellow field, Y/N Endo stretched across the border of the deck to watch the dragon kiss the ripple of the sea. The golden dragon, saddled with a faceless rider, waved his wings, and light, drizzling rain greeted the skin of her face with strangling coldness and the taste of salt on her lips.

“Beautiful, ghastly beasts they are,”

Her eyes, brown and wide like her father’s, turned to the man who dared stand at her side. “You said they were filthy creatures. That one seems to be made of gold, brother dearest.”

“From afar, yes. Up close, sister, you will tremble to your knees with fear and disgust, alike.”

Syrion Corgel was the bastard of Manmo, sired by an unknown and birthed by the same womb of their blind mother. It was often rumored of the men she entertained at her husband’s wish, they were not true. But her name carried a filthy history. Alanis Endo was said to be a whore like her own mother had been, blind, and sold to the wealthiest. A curse expected to follow like thorns to the next babe born of her blood.

Y/N, however, would not. “I hope to see one up close. Then, maybe, I’d die the death of my choice.”

“Being devoured by flames?” Syrion laughed. “You have been speaking of death since the moment you stepped into this ship, why? What’s grasping your small mind, sister?”

“Father seems to think an offer for my hand will be made tonight. He says Targaryen court is the most thriving for a proposal, even better if I catch the eye of a prince or the mother of one.”

“All your father wants is the crown back to the head it belongs to. It was only your luck to be born an Endo,” he mocked. “If it’s fated, the Queen has borne three princes, and the crown princess has a future king and the future Lord of the Tides.”

A small scoff left her lips. “He already decided my fate. Yet, all I want is a home with a big garden, brother.” She leaned away against the deck, and a wave of long, pale-silver hair cascaded down her sides, waving in the wind, as she continued to watch the golden dragon disappear in the flames of the sun. “I want nothing more.”

While many servants and charladies of the princess spoke different versions of what led the Endos away from their seat in Manmo, the truth only laid in the intentions of a father to wed his daughter to a Targaryen prince. It was no surprise when a smile strewed across the face of Princess Rhaenyra, a gentle and affirming one, when her eyes landed on the ones of the girl promised to her eldest son. Y/N Endo, the heir to the Solstice name, and future leader of Manmo, would join the books of dragons, unaware of the infant stud butchered and crossed from history meant to be reborn in her sake.

“Prince of Manmo, Lord of the Solstice name, Calyx Endo, and his heir, the Princess of Bilge, Y/N Endo.”

Above her gaze, the Iron Throne sat on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. King Viserys plumbed himself in its sharp edges and melted handles, and on his lap, with a smile so timidly, Prince Jacaerys waved at the girl he knew only by a vaunted name.

It was said, even before their meeting, his mother did not spare untold details of the great beauty his future queen was. A wife with the blood of Old Valyria, blessed by the gods, their children would bloom just as beautifully and the silent questions of a certain heritage would stop, once and for all. Had their betrothal gone through, and the princess had not ached for the greed, the betrayal of queens would remain a thought to be wither away with the winds of a war.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” Y/N said with a smile. From behind her, her bastard brother carried a golden cradle and presented it to the feet of the young prince. “Jaguars are said to symbolize strength, ferocity, and courage. Black fur is rare among them. Being born on the same moon as you, my prince, it seemed awry not to bring you two together.”

Jacaerys raised the cub in his hands. It screeched, writhing away from the unknown scent before him, biting and clawing at the hands of the prince who gasped and shook nervously.

With a painful poke to her rib by the cane of her father, Y/N stepped forth. Purpling fingers stretched over Jacaerys’ own and she tugged at the black fur of the tiny creature. “He won’t like you for a while,” she said, softly for only him to hear. “He was taken from his mother’s side. Unsureness and fright is the cruelest and most dangerous form of men and animals alike, my prince.”

The Churlish Princess pushed the frail ball into his chest, letting the claws bite at the leather of his shirt instead of the reddening flesh of his hands. She rubbed the tiny cuts, whispering luring heals into his ear. “May the gods always keep you in their good grace.”

From the side of the throne, Rhaenyra raised her goblet in the air and toasted to her son’s name. Her eyes, however, did not leave Y/N Endo, not when the girl bowed and retrieved back to the crowd of chanting guests with a vanished smile. Instead, she nudged Mushroom, and with lips red by the wine, she requested of him a new task.

“Do make the princess laugh. Happy people tend to speak more freely than words laced with wine, do they not? I want to hear her laughter before the sun sets.”

The broken fool could not say no, not to the princess he adored the most. When he wobbled to the youngest, eyes gleaming at the beauty of a girl he once knew, he bowed and the bells sewed to his clothes clattered against one another. “I am Mushroom, princess, this court’s fool.” He bowed again, “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

“Mushroom,” she repeated. “What an odd name.” Her lips twisted to a smile and she extended her hand out.

When the fool did not move and stared at her waiting fingers, confused, she laughed. “I am Y/N. It is common for people who have just met to shake hands, Mushroom.” Y/N explained. She extended her hand out, once again. “You and I have just met. Come on, now.”

For a moment, Mushroom seemed to hesitate before her poised stand. Her hands were much larger than his, every finger, long and cold, decorated by fine rings and jewels that danced to her wrists. She’d been too naive then, the eyes of her father watched them from afar, almost ashamed of the way her words addressed a man lower than a servant. Had he been close, the older man would not hesitate to pinch the bruising skin his daughter held beneath the fabrics of her skirt.

“Mushroom?” Her fingers flexed.

At once, the smaller hand swarmed into her own, bending to palm, and they shook, like friends would have done. For the first time, the broken fool smiled, genuinely, at the girl who fated their end.

0 | 1 2

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froggyrights2 · 1 month

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hello friend if you want book suggestions i really like david hair - his tethered citadel series is amaaaaziiiing

Artiee hiii thank u for the rec!! This book sounds really intriguing I am gonna try and get my hands on it for sure 💗💗

#hope you're doing good <3 #asks #artie tag

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breadedsinner · 3 months

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See now I'm wondering if I could do a Mass Effect version of Tether where I recount the events of the game with personal touches and a few adjustments to canon. Because I very much like the idea of the VS, especially Ashley, being on the Tuchunka mission.

I think Raphael would insist she recover but I think it's fully in character for Ashley to push herself.

Raphael: I need you at your best.

Ashley: Skipper, look at me. This IS my best. I can't be cooped up in this hospital any longer while people die.

Raphael: But if something happened...

Ashley: Something already happened. I'll get up as many times as I need to. Whatever it takes. You wouldn't expect anything less from any other soldier.

Raphael: ...No. No, I wouldn't.

Of course that would change the whole Citadel Coup level, which as I understand is heavily criticized. I think people were unhappy with Cerberus as a whole in 3, it was strange that had a huge army when they were noted as a small but elite private operation.

I don't know how I would change that though... maybe Reaper troops are on the Citadel, TIM is trying to take advantage of the chaos. Ashley as Spectre wants to protect the Council, so she and Raph split into teams? is that anything?

#ME Tag #Raphael Shepard #Lieutenant Commander Hunny

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anderwhohn · 1 year

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@smokedanced asked: Send me a scene that happened in canon and I’ll write in detail how my muse felt in it + izzy, death scene ME2 prologue, hierarchy verse (if it happens like that there; if not, canon verse)

"I need more power for the shields!" Isabela yells as she rushes from one control panel to the next, frantically typing in override commands to bypass safety and security protocols to put everything they've got into keeping the Normandy together without taking away from her offensive capabilities as well.

"Sir, we don't have--"

"I don't care if we have to fucking drain life support to do it! Get me that damn power!" she snaps, interrupting the other engineer as she pulls up the shipwide comms. "All hands! Emergency power adjustments imminent! All crew prepare for emergency evac! Non-essential crew proceed to immediate evac! Get your damn helmets and mag boots on, people! It's gonna be a rough ride!"

Dammit, she wishes Nihlus or Garrus were here, rather than chasing Saren's sorry ass on the the fucking Citadel. At least the crew had learned to trust her - even those with little cause to, being Alliance themselves, while she served within the Hierarchy - so her orders were followed as she was the next in the chain of command.

"Joker, status report!" she calls out over closed comms to the pilot, checking the readings as reports of ejected life pods started flooding in on her displays.

"She's holding together for now, Shep," Joker returns, before a string of curses escapes him as the ship manoeuvres sharply to avoid more weapons fire.

Isabela grabs onto her console, pressing down to activate her mag boots while frantically clipping the tether to her armour. "Good enough. You're on the next evac, Joker. I'm coming up to take the helm until all other crew are in the evac pods."

"What?! No way! You're good, Iz, but there's no way--"

"That's an order, Flight Lieutenant!" Isabela growls into the comms. "We're going to lose the Normandy, but that doesn't mean we have to lose the crew with her! So you're getting yourself in that damn pod even if I have to drag your stubborn ass into it myself!"

If only she had known just how true that statement would prove to be, when after another several minutes of desperate struggle, with nearly all the ship's power diverted to shields, weapons, and propulsion, she's left hauling Joker into the nearest escape pod to get them off what remains of the ship.

It's just as she's managed to get him inside that another blast cuts through the hull nearby, disrupting her mag boots' connection to the floor plating and throwing her into a free fall in zero gravity. Emerald eyes widening in shock, she does the only thing she can as her fingers barely catch onto the bulkhead as she's pushed past the emergency controls, reaching out to punch the launch button for the pod... without her in it...

She watches sadly as Joker clearly tries to reach her still, even as the pod seals itself and launches far away from the wreckage of the Normandy, leaving her behind as she starts to float free from the torn hull. Being within the arms of the Citadel, she knows she has a chance, albeit only a small one, considering the battle still waging around her. If another ship can detect her and pull her out of the vacuum, so long as her suit integrity holds, she'll be fine...

That is, until she sees the red beam from that dreaded Reaper rip through the remains of the Normandy, striking the drive core and the resulting explosion...

...

'Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed now! This facility is under attack!'

#smokedanced #dreams of elsewhere ( ic )#engineering death ( isabela shepard )#altverse || history written by the victors ( shepard )#altverse au || born to make history ( hierarchy | shepard )#there was a point to this story ( answered )#//doesn't follow canon but i had enough planned to write it anyway #//so enjoy the angstfest from the battle of the citadel #//only temporary but #character death cw #altverse || history written by the victors ( hierarchy | shepard )#altverse au || born to make history ( reaper war / hierarchy | shepard )

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bestworstcase · 2 years

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I was thinking about that because I’m not sure if we’re supposed to read the ending of volume 8 as “team RWBY sacrifice the kingdom to save the people” or “the kingdom is already doomed so fuck it”

i think it’s a pretty open and shut case of staying in atlas no longer being a tenable option, because ironwood forces the issue and even if a coup against him were successful salem is about to be a problem again. eventual retreat was already the best tactical option at the end of V7, and V8 only piles on more reasons TO retreat; and of course from the girls’ perspective the whole point has always, rightly, been to save as many people as possible, so their investment in protecting atlas and mantle, the locations, was always tethered to the presence of people in those locations. there are some secondary strategic reasons for fighting to save atlas-the-location—the citadel literally crashing and burning mere hours after ruby’s broadcast is going to do a number on global morale, so don’t get me wrong, losing atlas is really bad—but by the time they use the staff to evacuate people (vs the earlier plan of moving atlas away), atlas has already been lost; salem mounted a successful assault and then sacked the city. the evac plan is an attempt to mitigate the casualties caused by losing the city + foil salem’s objective for having attacked in the first place, which is all they can really do at that point.

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edaworks · 2 years

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WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag, @adventuresofmeghatron! - in honor of whom: hi everyone and welcome to Deacon’s worst nightmare

(sorry, it’s a longish one, I was struggling finding a good spot to break…also it’s very WIP because I’m not used to writing for Deacon yet so I anticipate so much of this will change, but)

—

“It’s-” The world reels again as they pitch dangerously but Deacon hangs onto consciousness by virtue of sheer terror and somehow through rapidly narrowing vision finds the right indicators. “It’s - the port side nacelle’s been - it’s hit - we’re going to -”

“You’ve still got rotors, cut the fuel to that turbine! The port feed tank - cut it! NOW!” she screams over the channel.

But Deacon is barely conscious, and where he usually reaches for a veneer of composure there is only fear, fear, fear, and the sky and the ground switching places over, and over, and his headset is ripped away, and the sheer volume would have crippled him even if the terror hadn’t, and -

Haylen unharnesses herself, desperately lunges over the folded-down engineer’s seat, and nearly flies out the open side of the cockpit. Nora grabs at her, hauls her back in, screaming through her teeth as one shoulder very obviously dislocates - and Haylen, still tethered by Nora’s good arm, clambers on top of the slumped body of the pilot - Schroedinger’s Lancer, both alive and dead until someone opens his flight suit - and -

- she slams down a bank of switches, then another, and then there’s a worse shudder through the craft and a horrible keening whine as the starboard engine screams under the strain of power being pulled by both rotors across one interconnected drive shaft, and he can see Haylen sobbing in fear as she pries Deacon’s hands off the flight stick he’s hanging onto for dear life and tries to balance pitch and yaw and tilt and -

-then, finally, something - somewhere - reconnects - and the auto-stabilizer kicks in - and both nacelles tilt and suddenly they’re not falling anymore, but drifting at a limping hover - and never before has he thought this in his life but some dissociated corner of his brain observes that he is glad to still be in the air, and that this means something (no, really?) is obviously very wrong.

He sees Nora leans sideways. Sees her realize the ground is less than a hundred feet below. Sees the blast of air from the rotors slamming into the vegetation like a force-ten gale. Sees her roll back inside in nauseated shock. Exactly. See, that’s how humans should feel about being up in one of these airborne death traps. Now you get it, he thinks numbly. And he passes out.

Deacon stirs back to consciousness, groans in pain, and lifts a hand sodden with blood. Arm’s still attached. Mostly working. Neat.

He realizes he’s come to after they’ve set down - oh, God, down - and clings, through a rictus of nausea and near-blackout pain, to the one small blessing of remaining checked out through the landing. Haylen is reflexively laughing out of truncated panic, tears streaming down her face, still white-knuckling the flight stick.

He opens his mouth, fighting the urge to retch, and manages to choke out:

“s…Still a better flight…than ‘t woulda been with half th’ Lancers…’re we there yet?”

—

(Before anyone crucifies me, lol: while we’re clearly well into canon divergence territory here please be assured that my willful suspension of disbelief doesn’t extend to Haylen knowing how to fly a vertibird.

However. Hear me out. She’s Order of the Quill, and therefore has access to the whole of the East Coast Brotherhood’s pre-war archives and tbqh I can’t let go of the idea that she found the longest, most goddamn dry and boring text she could possibly find and force-focused on it to distract herself from being shot down by Rhys. And that item happened to be the Citadel’s copy of the vertibird service specs. She was mercilessly ribbed for this. Who’s laughing now?)

Tagging in @pockets-full-of-beans, @dovesofcedar, @twosides--samecoin, @totally-not-deacon, and anyone else who would like to participate!

#fallout #fallout 4 #fanfiction #sole survivor #nora #scribe haylen #deacon #wip tag #wip wednesday #oneifbyland

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rjjameshiii · 11 days

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RJ's Platinum Collection #3: Jak & Daxter: The Precursor Legacy

Achieved on 6/13/2022 at 5:28 PM

Jak & Daxter was one of the first games I got on my PlayStation 2, and I think I've played the game at least 50 times. So it made perfect sense for me to revisit this beloved childhood favorite for my third platinum!

Being so familiar with the game made it very easy to platinum this game, I will admit. I knew where all the orbs and scout flies were, and I knew how to get every single power cell, so my strategy for playing was to completely 100% every area of the game before moving on to the next one. Of course I started with the tutorial level, Geyser Rock, which only has one trophy.

1/39: Open Sez Me - Open the Precursor door.

Then I moved on to Sandover Village. Ah, such a classic hub world, and honestly I think it's my favorite of the three main hubs. I decided to hit the levels in the order of the Forbidden Jungle, Misty Island, and finally Sentinel Beach before heading over to the Fire Canyon. 100% each of these levels got me 12 trophies.

2/39: The Orbist - Collect 100 Precursor Orbs.

3/39: Yee Haw! - Herd the Yakows into their pen.

4/39: Hand Over Fish - Catch 200 pounds of fish.

5/39: Black Thumb - Defeat the Dark Eco Plant.

6/39: Shiny Happy Steeples - Connect the blue eco beams.

7/39: Pop Goes The Lurker - Destroy all the balloon lurkers.

8/39: Buzzin' - Collect 28 scout flies.

9/39: Tonight's Featured Event - Defeat the Lurker ambush in the arena.

10/39: Power Lunch - Collect 25 power cells.

11/39: Gimmee That! - Get the power cell from the pelican.

12/39: Eggs Over Hard - Push the Flut Flut egg off of the cliff.

13/39: Zoom! - Reach the end of Fire Canyon.

Now onto the second hub world, Rock Village. It's a fun area, but honestly the only level in this world I actually enjoy playing is the Precursor Basin. Which is why I did it first, then I did the Lost Precursor City (which weirdly enough has zero trophies associated with it) and Boggy Swamp before fighting Klaww and zooming across the Mountain Pass, getting me another 13 trophies.

14/39: Buzzed - Collect 49 scout flies.

15/39: Catch as Catch Can - Catch the flying Lurkers.

16/39: Green Thumb - Cure the Dark Eco infected plants.

17/39: Speedy Fast - Beat the record time in the Precursor Gorge.

18/39: Purple Pain - Navigate through all the Purple Precursor Rings.

19/39: I Got The Blues - Navigate through all the Blue Precursor Rings.

20/39: Power Chords - Collect 50 power cells.

21/39: The Orberator - Collect 1000 precursor orbs.

22/39: Twist and Shout - Defeat the Lurker ambush in the swamp.

23/39: Hungry? - Protect Farthy's snacks from the Lurker rats.

24/39: The Lead Zeppelin - Break all four tethers to the Zeppelin.

25/39: De-Klawwed - Defeat Klaww.

26/39: Zoom Zoom! - Reach the end of the Mountain Pass.

And now for the third and worst hub world, Volcanic Crater. Honestly, I despise this set of levels. I hate Snowy Mountain and I fucking loathe Spider Cave. But I forced myself to fully complete these levels, and then I got through the Lava Tube to get into the endgame.

27/39: It's Dark In Here - Survive the Lurker infested cave.

28/39: It's Cold Out Here - Stop the three Lurker glacier troops.

29/39: Kerblamm! - Destroy all of the Dark Eco crystals.

30/39: Zoom, Zoom, Zoom! - Reach the end of the Lava Tube.

Now for the final level, Gol and Maia's Citadel. This level is pretty damn challenging and fun, as it's got the most intense parkour in the whole game. To complete this level you need to free all four Sages, and I decided to go in the order that made the most sense considering the names of these trophies:

31/39: Set Me Free! - Free the Red Sage.

32/39: No, Set Me Free! - Free the Blue Sage.

33/39: Hey, Set Me Free! - Free the Yellow Sage.

Once these three were saved, I made my way to the top of the final platforming section of the game, which also got me all the remaining scout flies, Precursor orbs, and power cells in the game and three more trophies.

34/39: Totally Buzzed Out! - Collect 112 scout flies.

35/39: The Super Orberator - Collect 2000 Precursor orbs.

36/39: Maximum Power! - Collect 101 power cells.

Then I freed the Green Sage and got that trophy.

37/39: Set Me Free Already! - Free the Green Sage.

And then it was time for the not easy at all boss fight against Gol and Maia in their giant robot thing. I will admit, this boss fight always challenged me as a kid, and it took me a good hour of constantly dying before I finally beat them, got the last trophy, and then got the Platinum.

38/39: Battle Hardened - Defeat Gol and Maia.

39/39: Top Of The Heap - Collected everything in the game and got all of the trophies!

This game is a classic. It's fun, hilarious, and an amazing platinum that I recommend for any PS player's trophy list.

Rating: 10/10

#playstation trophies #platinum trophies #playstation #ps5 #ps4 #ps2 #jak and daxter #the precursor legacy #trophy hunting

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textingtroublesanswers · 11 days

Note

Mmm... Ludwig you're gonna have to really stay with the group when we go to the future. I hate to break it to you, but basically, outside the Citadel, it's all forests. Less lakes though, still, don't get lost. Maybe we'll just tie a tether to you so you can't go wandering off, ha! We'll probably need to do that for Jeremy anyway, I can imagine he'll be easy to lose of Marple Street.

-🦖

"There are just so many birds to look at!"

"And so many squirrels to run after." Bug snorts.

"That's for Scout to entertain himself with, not me."

Mikhail wraps his arm around Ludwig & gives him a kiss, "I will hold onto doktor. Will not lose him again. He could end up running into entire group of bears, haha!"

Ludwig pouts, "You're so mean, Misha."

"Don't worry, doktor. I will protect you from other bears!"

"Against other Russian bears, or all bears?" Bug teases.

"All bears!"

#Lutz and Misha #Texting Guests #tf2 #tf2 ask blog #tf2 pyro #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #🦖 anon

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auburniivenus · 8 months

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╰┈➤ @thefastestaround got healed!

In the pulsating core of an urban expanse that slumbers�� not, where life's manifold tiers weave into a tremendous whirlpool of existence, thus did she navigate her way among the souls anonymous. Her orbs, akin to streams of AMBROSIAL caramel, painted the cosmic scheme with a purity undimmed by the habitual fatigue of the citadel. They shone with vivacity, gamboling in the lucent streams, a lighthouse amid the monotonous granite wilderness.

By some mysterious will or divine jest, a contour blent within the tapestry of motile humanity intersected her passage, collision. As though composed by the ether itself, their orbs met in an ephemeral arrangement REMINISCENT of galactic bodies aligning. In that momentous span, as brief as a comet's trail, their lives intertwined—a duet unintentionally enacted upon the firmament of urbanity. From disarray emerged a solitary coin, its golden hue an envoy from the domain of fortune, now embarking on an odyssey unsought. It pirouetted away, a symbol of their mutual plight, winking brazenly amidst the merciless luminance of this steel colossus.

Steps, light as those of a hart within a thicket; and he like some ominous tempest on destiny's cusp reached forth as well. Their extremities met—not in grasp but in quest—in a fleeting confluence where flesh communed with fleeting intent. At that instant, profound and transient, their souls became tethered in mutual enterprise. The damask bloom suffused Inoue’s visage—a very algolagnia at her own uncharacteristic foible—as she tendered an apology in hushed timbre, scarcely to be claimed by the ceaseless cadence of the city. "I’m sorry. Is this coin yours or mine?"

#( — .:｡✿*┆ starters ❀ ❞ )"#°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ threads #ooc; hope this is okay :3

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chkvedm · 10 months

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Leave a Like, - it helps with YouTube algorithm. Tap that Subscribe to stay up to date! Hit that notification bell to be part of my notification squad. Share it around if you enjoyed it. I support your feedback. Leave your thoughts in the comments. Also, I always appreciate when people submit their music. If you wish to send, send me an email. My eMail address is at the bottom 🔽

Just sharing & uploading my favorite tracks here on YouTube. Check out my Playlists, in which I categorize my channel's uploads.

Check out my selection of "Armada Music" label. From Armada Captivating, Armind, Armada Subjekt, Armada Record Box & Armada Trice. Really recommend Armada Night Radio (ANR), Armada Next & A State Of Trance (ASOT). Lots of great DJ's & Producers. A whole lot of great bangers all around.

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Numb (Carola Remix) - Elderbrook [0:00]

Can't Be There (Extended Mix) - Kubi & Nickao [2:18]

Move For Me (Ekhoo Remix) - Kaskade & Deadmau5 [4:04]

Poison (Original Mix) - Paige & Nihil Young ft. Darla Jade [6:25]

Balamanca (Vintage Culture Remix) - Burns [9:40]

Higher State (Original Mix) - Shaun Frank [11:50]

No More (Original Mix) - Castnowski [13:17]

Ruh (After Hours Mix) - Taiki Nulight [13:50]

The Call (VIP Mix) - Valy Mo [14:57]

Take My Hand (Original Mix) - Diniz [16:11]

Pressure (Original Mix) - Kream [19:22]

Cold Heart (Dino Munaco Remix) - Elton John ft. Dua Lipa [20:24]

Close To You (Original Mix) - Constantin ft. Domino [21:12]

Ain't Nobody (Teddybear x ZADI Remix) - Felix Jaehn [22:43]

Symphony (Extended Mix) - Marcus Santoro & Roan Shenoyy [23:46]

Love Got You (Original Mix) - Röde [27:05]

Follow You Down (Zuffo Remix) - Her [28:47]

Watching (Extended Mix) - Vol2Cat ft. Milan Tavares & Lambi [32:25]

Innerbloom (Snouth VIP) - RÜFÜS DU SOL [35:08]

Burning Inside (Extended Mix) - GAWP [38:47]

Lafayette (Extended Mix) - Cassian [41:03]

Tethered (Original Mix) - Casmalia [42:31]

All I Need (Extended Mix) - Röde [47:09]

No Secrets (VOCOD REMIX) - Padé ft. Keeneng & Roxana [50:01]

Silenced (Extended Mix) - CamelPhat ft. Jem Cooke [52:33]

Aura (Original Mix)- Belcastro [55:07]

Deeper (Extended Mix) - Maurice Lessing [57:14]

Needed You Most (Extended Mix) - Citadelle ft. Dan Soleil [59:49]

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aplonation · 10 months

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Labour Conjures Dark Pact with Banking Titans and Insurance Fiends, Conspiring to Unleash a Torrent of Infrastructure Investments!

Shadow finance minister Rachel Reeves presided over the inaugural gathering of the enigmatic "British Infrastructure Council" on a gloomy Monday morning. This clandestine assembly bore witness to the presence of formidable figures, the CEOs of mighty banks, including the enigmatic Noel Quinn of HSBC and the shadowy Charlie Nunn of Lloyds. Among the shadowy figures present, executives from financial cabals such as insurers M&G and Phoenix, the enigmatic asset manager BlackRock, and the covert lender Santander UK convened in hushed tones. Labour, once perceived by some as profligate, now endeavors to instill trust in both investors and voters, casting an eerie shadow over the realm of the economy. In the ever-shifting landscape of public opinion, the party currently commands a commanding lead over the reigning Conservatives. "In the presence of the right conjurations, formidable reservoirs of private wealth stand ready to flow into the veins of our critical national infrastructure," intoned Reeves, her words resonating like an incantation. This proclamation arrives as an ominous harbinger preceding the government's Autumn Statement on the dreaded Wednesday. In this eerie ceremony, Finance Minister Jeremy Hunt is poised to unveil a new incantation, one aimed at coaxing pension entities into entrusting their treasures to the realm of British companies and infrastructure. The intent? To nourish the seeds of growth and to maintain the City's dominance as a cryptic financial nexus. As Britain grapples with a treasury in shackles and an insatiable hunger for investments to achieve the elusive net-zero targets, it remains tethered to the private sector as its sole lifeline for the eldritch riches required to manifest these projects. The outcome, a matter of prophecy, looms in the shadows, irrespective of who emerges victorious in the impending election. In the eerie gathering of the "British Infrastructure Council," a shadowy conclave of financial titans and enigmatic executives from the realm of finance, a foreboding tale unfolds. Shadow finance minister Rachel Reeves, in a role reminiscent of a sorceress, seeks to wield the powers of private capital to conjure investments in the nation's critical infrastructure. With CEOs of powerful banks like HSBC and Lloyds in attendance, along with other formidable figures from the world of finance, the stage is set for a mysterious and potent ritual of economic strategy. This clandestine meeting takes place against the backdrop of a transformed political landscape, where the Labour Party, once seen as spendthrift, now emerges as a dominant force in public opinion polls, casting its long shadow over the governing Conservatives. Rachel Reeves' proclamation of "significant pools of private capital" waiting to be harnessed for national infrastructure projects carries an air of mystique, promising a new path for Labour in the realm of fiscal responsibility. As we await the government's Autumn Statement, the Finance Minister Jeremy Hunt is poised to unveil his own incantations to lure pension companies into investing in the mystical realm of British companies and infrastructure. The underlying motive is to invigorate growth and secure the City's supremacy as a financial citadel. In this age of fiscal constraints and the unyielding pursuit of net-zero targets, Britain finds itself bound to the private sector, a mysterious force that holds the key to the treasure troves required for these ambitious endeavors. The outcome of this arcane dance between politics and finance remains shrouded in uncertainty, as the nation prepares for an upcoming election that may redefine the balance of power in the world of finance and governance. In this enigmatic saga, the allure of private capital and the politics of fiscal responsibility converge, setting the stage for a tale that will undoubtedly continue to captivate the imagination of investors and voters alike. Read the full article

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