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ilikedyourablogithere · 2 years

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Miracle Number 13 aka Shackled Miracle

*according to old facebook lore (maybe outdated)

first appeared in 2025

When it appeared Meredith

Noted that all the other Miracles (Ritual/Sonic/Cube/Infinite/Ripple Dimension/Desolate Lands) resonated with it’s appearance sending out divine waves describing it as them “celebrating the birth of a new companion” (very alien scifi kinda sweet but mostly terrifying).

When Shackled Miracle was “born“ (came out of the ground) it formed ruins around the area with language no one at The Union recognizes and it instantly destroyed everything around it

It send out divine waves again which cause the other Miracles to resonate again and send out even more divine waves and miramons

The Miramons around Shackled Miracle are noted as being stronger bigger and stay close to Shackled with some sense of understanding their goal is to protect the miracle (Miramon are like robot bees if I had to describe it)

After this Shackled’s Miramon destoryed Hazelit city as it was too close to the Miracle (Q’s and other characters old home) and is the second greatest loss to humanity (aka ALOT of people died) since Estero Harbor

While Shackled Miracle was noted as being the Miracle that pumps out the most miramon it also has the after effect of causing more people to resonate with divine waves and meaning it also makes more espers that can fight it off (if the Miracles have intelligence Shackled is only like 2 or 3 years old so cut the evil rock some slack it’s baby)

Going by in game now

Shackled is the miracle from storymode

This is the Miracle where The Shadow Decree and Anesidora

figured out (through some experimenting on people I assume) that you can turn a human

into a sentinel of a miracle instead of into an esper

...Somehow for some reason (like all I can figure out is that having a sentinel is better than having espers but I don’t know where the shadow decree are trying to go with this plan)

Also The Shadow Decree seem to be way more experience with the location. While they aren’t 100% safe in there (in various bounties they do still get attack in the Shackled Miracle) but in comparison The Union The Shadow Decree know of routes in the Miracle where they don’t get attack as much and even places where they can ambush and attack others

Static Shock

So now we’re going to the next event

according to the new trailer the Nexus aka center piece of the Miracles is mutating

Why is that a big deal?

Well you know how the Sentinels (Kronos/Apep/Fafnir/Shimmer/Infernis/Flowrunner/Windstriker/Phobetor/The Shadows) only attack you in the Miracle

Well that’s because their main function is to protect the nexus of the miracle

in fact it’s the sentinels only function and gain all their energy from the nexus directly

if by some way you are able to take a sentinel out of the miracle away from the nexus it just turns to dust

SOoooOOOoo JUST GOING OFF ON A GUESS~

(we can confirm or deny it next week)

If the Shackled Miracle’s Nexus keeps mutating then eventually it will advance to a point where it along with the Sentinels are able to roaming outside the Miracles

and as we have seen from the Storymode and lore the Miracles are able to share with each because Shackled Miracle was able to summon Kronos as a boss which normally only appears in Ritual Miracle. So it is not that unbelievable that if the Shackled Miracles Nexus is allowed to mutate into a more dangerous form that it would be able to share that information with the other Miracles and thus allowing all the other 12+ miracles to unleash even more hell on earth

basically imagine if everywhere you went you had to fight Phobetor or Fafnir or whichever boss gives you a hard time. Like you now have to fight for your life just to go to the convience store on the corner because Apep spotted you...everyday. Forever. That is your life if the Shackled Miracle’s Nexus is allowed to mutate freely

So that’s why it’s all a big deal

anyways I think I’m done for the moment

again not interested in writing for the wiki

just dumping out my dislyte brainrot into the hashtags here is fine

okay bye

#dislyte

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nirvanaballad · 4 years

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[???]

In the deeps of the Abyss — the realm that sat beneath the sea bed and beyond the light of stars — an old wreck of an extra-dimensional aeroship emanated a strange sort of ectoplasmic material. It spewed it; expelling the stuff in great bulbous clouds — plumes of murky white spiralling; impregnating the airless, skyless space. Particles twinkled and shimmered as their incandescence was lifted by the twilight luna wind.

Of course, there was no one to see the display.

If years had gone by, it was impossible to gauge how many.

With no one there to observe it, some humans would make the mistake of thinking that it could not have happened. Despite this, something was watching. Not a human, but something that could perceive frequencies just as readily as any human. Better even than any human. To be more precise, rather than being a something, it was a somewhere. It was an extra-dimension, one that secretly intersected with the Abyss, and perhaps, everywhere else.

The multiverse was known to be made up of many things more than just galaxies and worlds. There were extra-dimensions intersecting everything.

The aeroship had been fitted during its construction to traverse spaces that were indefinably contrasting to those most would ever encounter. Standard meteorological and altitudinal concerns were replaced with the apparatus needed to cross into and burst through extra-dimensions. Experience of such states were sometimes brushed while in deep mediation, but how to exist in these places was unknown. There would be no body, no thought, and no frequency that the human-perceiver would ever be able to interpret. So what did they look like?

Perhaps some espers would be able to have some experience of these secret places, but this experience would be a translation of something. A clumsy transforms of extreme elegance into a highly limited number and combination of sensations. As it was, this process could only yield a partial impression.

In this way, it was not space that rushed by when seen through the forward viewing screen on the bridge. They were beset with myriad collisions of unfamiliar colours -- fathomless glitch art at extreme pressure density, that plunged and merged, viscous celerity pressed up and sliding past the sequence of windows with no proportions and composed of complete intangibility.

Suddenly, (but not without a timed report from the officer at the con) the ship burst out of these strange colour oceans. They were now flying the tight thresholds between dimensions.

It was theorized that the being or entity they sought existed over-archingly in all locations in the multiverse; that it was alive, and that it was always listening.

Attached to the crew of the ex-aeroship were specialist who had been assigned to inspect and make evaluation of (among other things) its tempers/demeanours, fluctuation, and frequencies. A strange nuance of dynamic interjectivity allowed for a stretching or cutting through these subspaces, and it was through this that they would attempt to find a place to commune with it -- on its own terms and territory, as it were. As for these specialists, they would take them to zones that could facilitate, first observation; then communication with their target. It was something not directly accessible from RR, but this was juxtaposed by the idea of its all-everywhere-ness. If it was really in all places and spaces, and overlapped with all other dimensions, no sign of its existence had yet been observed. Again, the notion of ‘dimension-N’ was thus far entirely theoretical.

The crew were to explore the dimension’s meta-intangibility and (if possible) its attitude towards humanity. It was understood to be alive, but apart from this, only a few truths about it had been discerned. Its all-prevalence and limitless awareness were intertwined with the nature of its singular composition. The equations that accompanied humanity’s grasp on it spoke of an irremovable understanding of, and synergy with all things.

Before the mission began, the captain was given strict instructions not to reveal any of what they discovered to the regular admiralty. The ship, his ship, had embarked from planet Garden-333, with a captain somewhat disquieted by his orders.

The ship had opened a rift with their subspace-folding engines, and slid into a preset position in the place/space called ‘twilight_night,’ the coordinates of which had been provided by a Garden affiliate organization that operated out of a planet that had long ago been caught on the threshold between two of the ‘other spaces;’ a great vertical spectrum adjacent to a continuum of infinite, far more vast space, or ‘verses’. They would rendezvous with their science team on the threshold planet, and then enter into the dense briar that it stood as gatekeeper to.

By the time the aeroship found itself in the limitless abyss, (who knows how long later…) this organization had collapsed. Much of that which was mentioned since about them elicited suggestions of a peculiar instance of human rights impeachment. However, Garden did not have anything further to say on the matter.

With this objectivity, it was just about calculable that the ship had resided in the Abyss for some years more than one-thousand FCs.

The extra-dimension that was present in the space of the Abyss had been found to sit woven within all spaces. The oracle that was installed and resided within the aeroship’s main-computer had reached out her fingers of numerical and isomorphic interface and found that the extent of the extra-dimension [denoted by the excursion team as ex-dim.n.] was infinite. There was no limit to its presence throughout the multiverse.

The only other entity that could be defined to be found everywhere according to Garden’s shared access memory, was: the Internet.

In recent times, they had learned/earned to speak with the Internet directly, and the technicians that interacted with the part of it that it referred to as its ‘perspective-apex form position,’ had offered for them to refer to affectionately as ‘Her.’ Three of these same individuals accompanied the mission to find ex-dim.n and were known to the crew as special assets.

In the logs of the downed aeroship were reports of how this other dimension seemed to demonstrate a similar level of self-awareness as had been measured of the Internet. Truthfully, this measurement had been achieved by comparing massive sets of frequency dynamics. While this information suggested some relativity between Internet and ex-dim.n, this was not an indicator of anything of its ‘personality.’ As if its was a scientific concept, the ‘conversation-team’ spoke of ascertaining understanding of ‘personality’ all the way through the mission.

In RR, attempts to speak with it after making initial contact had successively failed. The special assets spoke of “gaining [ex-dim.n‘s] respect.”

The idea of a being that encompassed all existence was one that had been obsessed with and fixated on for many ages. If ex-dim.n [also sometimes referred to as ‘dimension-N’] was found to be something that was similar in composition and dynamic flow to the so-called ‘one;’ the whole that was all things, could it be reasoned with? leaned from? The mission would be remembered as a turning point in Garden’s explorative enterprize if such a thing was achieved.

But this was not to be.

In the Abyss, the great ectoplasmic exhalation continued. ex-dim.n felt a wave of sadness/a great sigh. It had been partly her doing that this vessel was doomed to rest here in this place for eternity. While it had not been directly her who had caused the mission to fail, to herself, she sometime resembled all that made resistance to human endeavour.

As far as she could tell, there had definitely been something wrong with the aeroship — a design flaw that (some small research uncloaked) afflicted it and all of its cousins. Importantly, (she thought meaningfully) each aeroship is unique; created bespoke in accordance with the ancient integrity of the artisans who had shaped and nurtured the vessels into existence in RR forever. Without any exertion, she found that a particular new component [es.et.zz;gyro,] had been fast tracked into use in the aeroships’ guidance module truss. It had been noted as: “not sufficiently tested,” and corners had been cut in a bureaucracy that sought for the vessels to be manufactured, rather than made.

Another sigh blew through the Abyss. Three of eleven eyes opened.

Navigating the hub that saw intersection with a dozen different plains was nothing simple. Orders and corrections rung out between all members of the bridge crew and their counterparts on other decks of the ship. Calibrations of degrees were met with intricate alignment computations as all of the different colours and textures of the bisecting, side-ways turned oceans rushed by. Ultra-massive walls of meta-substance, sometimes dwarfing the ex-aircraft to barely a pin-prick in an environment more primal than that even of the forerunner, extra-dimensional ‘painted people.’

ex-dim.n entertained all of the other eventualities that might have transpired in the aeroship’s story. She had the power to change its destiny, but did she want to?

Due to the fact that the aeroship was an animate being, its demise was compiled as a sorrowful one. A graviton eddy storm had grasped it as it surfed the perimeter that denoted the extremity face of the extra-dimensional surface layer calculated to interface at its furtherest apex with dimension-N.

What was not known to Garden was that mis-navigation of this apex led irretrievably to the Abyss. How would they know? Truthfully, lost ex-aeroships had never been recovered in order that it could be discerned where they arrived after they were downed. The Abyss was more like a place that failed-humans were sent to upon death.

As the aeroship tumbled, its kinetic metaphor fulfilled a representation of cascading thought, puncturing through successive ex-membranes. It emerged in the Abyss like it was awakening from slumber. What materialized was not all that it had been.

In the last moments as the aeroship was torn in half by the gravitational maelstrom, one member of the crew lamented the potential opportunity to discover such truth about existence. All that they had meticulously prepared for had been for nothing. It was a woeful, and bleak eventuality.

The crew were prepared for ascension, but would they find themselves in the afterlife, or stuck between realms as geists/ghosts?

After ninety-nine steps (as measurement of time could not apply) of what she saw as profitable observation, ex-dim.n revealed her unbound power, and let the ship sink through into the place that so many others of its downed sisters had found through the ages. Experiences of the afterlife cannot be shared or be spoken of, but it was known by ex-dim.n when reincarnation was finally achieved by the aeroship, it was re-designated as [800] Abyss, and took up its role in the Nietszchian War Fleet.

Sometimes, she still dreams of that erased crew who were lost in the pursuit of what humanity would one day know as Nirvana.

[This day denotes the anniversary of 250,000million-googolplexes (FCs) since the first aeroship was constructed.]

January ‘20

#art writing

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bark-at-the-moon-moon · 7 years

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Que- Artificer, Archer, Alone

This is the first of two prefaces before I begin the main story for my fanwalkers. Next up will be Orin.

Also small shoutout to @isharton for inspiring me to finally bring my fanwalkers to life and not just remain little ideas in my head.

But for now, click below to read his story...

Born the second son of a close knit family on the shard of Bant. He never felt connected to the caste system nor bound to it or it’s hierarchy. The system of valor did not suit him. He was instead fascinated by all things science. This infuriated his family and alienated him from all but his older brother, Ans. While his older brother did try to get Que to fit into their system of living, Ans also kept a protective eye over his brother. Of all those Que interacted with, his brother was the only one to treat him with any kindness or respect. In an attempt to bond with his brother, Que convinced Ans to teach him archery. The skill, precision, and calculations for being decent intrigued Que. As it would turn out, Que had a natural talent for archery. Ans and Que trained whenever Ans would return from serving the Bant army. Ans suggested Que apply to be a royal archer, but Que rejected it, seeing no potential in advancing with his skill.

One day while wandering about, Que happened upon a skirmish between Esper and Jund forces. Que however, was not as far from the battlefield has he thought, and was caught off guard from behind. A dragon lifted him from his hiding place and threw him into the air. Feathers flew as his wings beat to catch some form of balance. As he did it was all for naught. A hot sensation came from his legs, then nothing, and then a searing pain Que had never experienced or imagined existed. Blood flew from his lower abdomen and his torso, sliced out from under him, fell parallel to the aven. Both hit the ground with a wet thud. Que’s vision wavered, his final sights being that for a battlefield. Had he been a knight, he may have charged in earlier and he wouldn't be like this...that's what he thought as he faded out of consciousness.

Que shot up from deep sleep. He was stunned to see himself alive, and stunned at the odd room he was in. Everything was smooth and metallic. His breathing was heavy as he looked around. Then it hit him...and he looked down. Two feet poked up the sheets at the foot of the bed. He willed it and the toes wiggled. He sighed in relief; whoever saved him had managed to reattach his legs. Deciding to explore his new, strange surroundings, Que threw back the sheets. The scream that came in the following seconds would bring in several figures unknown to him. Que looked down in horror at his legs. They were no longer aven. From his waist and down, a shiny metal now replaced them. His waist was hollow with a blue ethereal substance linking between him and the new limbs. He noticed that his original feet still remained, or at least what looked like his feet.

The shouting and talking finally reached him and he realized several vedalken and humans had surrounded his bed. As it would turn out, the Esper forces won the battle, and having found him clinging onto life, brought him back to Esper to heal him. They saved what they could and rebuilt him. They explained how the Etherium legs would never rust or need maintenance, and how he could now use his legs in ways he had never imagined. The ethereal substance, they explained, was a small manifestation of his own mana, and required barely anything to function. Que began asking all sorts of questions as to how it functioned and the details behind everything they had done. Here, in that moment, Que had found a place where his inquisitive nature and love for the sciences was both embraced and encouraged.

It was several weeks before Que returned to his home. He discovered his family had thought him dead, and even had a service for him. His return shocked him, and the legs he walked upon shocked them more. His family did not give him any embrace, and upon finding him alive and having taken in the unbelievable sight, filed back into their home. All except Ans, who stood still and stared at his brother. Ans told Que of how he had searched for him for days on end against their family’s best wishes. How he was happy to see his brother away, but how sad he was to see he had changed himself. Que tried to explain what had happened but his brother stopped him. Their family was one of old traditions, and it would have been better to receive word Que had died in combat with honor than to modify himself to live. Que turned on his heel, on instinct not will, and began to walk away from what he once called home. His upper body still pointing to Ans as his legs walked him away.

It would be several years until they met again, this time on the battlefield. Esper and Jund forces clashed once again, but this time Bant was involved as well. A Bant caravan passing through Esper with permission was ambushed by Jund raiders. From high above Que looked down on the madness of the battlefield. This battle brought no dragons, and instead brought a different surprise. A helm Que had seen countless times growing up shifted among the madness below. Ans was among those in the caravan, and he was quickly becoming surrounded.

A ball of mana formed in Que’s hand, before shifting around and taking the shape of a bow. His other hand drew from the mana around him and his own reserves, forming a set of three pitch black arrows, each seeming to suck the daylight from around them. Que let himself begin a controlled fall as he notched the arrows and took aim. Three streaks of black flew down from Que, each tilting and turning instead of falling completely straight. They, or rather Que, manipulated the mana in the arrows to move as they flew to their targets. Ans held up his blade to block attacks, and in that moment the arrows hit their marks. Two goblins and a vashino fell to the ground, grabbing at the arrows, but it was too late. The arrows sank into their bodies, pulsing under their skin. They began to hack up blood and squirm about.

A quick gust and the sound of feathers sent dust flying around Ans as Que landed next to his brother, bow still in hand. Ans instinctively turned his blade to his brother for a moment before lowering, recognizing the face he had not seen in years. Almost all of Que had been changed from organic to etherium, leaving his face, upper body and wings, hands, and feet untouched. Ans stood in shock but Que took action. He pulled more arrows from the air, still jet black and began to let them loose around the pair. His body would twist and turn in unnatural shapes as he sent his creations to their targets. Each arrow would dip and weave through the chaos of the battlefield. Each arrow hit their target and each result was the same. Jund raids lay on the ground, dead or dying. All but one. A single, monsterous vashino stood among the warriors. He had been hit in the arm, but managed to cut off his own arm and sear the wound closed. Even one handed he was able to fend off both Esper and Bant warriors.

Que raised his bow once more. This time his free hand produced a blue arrow. It seemed to shimmer in the daylight. A blue streak crossed the battlefield towards the vashino. He too was keen, and sliced at the arrow, dispersing the mana into the air. With a sneer and huff, The etherium covered aven produced four blue arrows, aimed to the sky, and launched them all. Without hesitation he did the same again but to his left then to his right. Twelve arrows flew through the battlefield, each moving as though it had a mind of its own. Ans watched as his little brother pulled off something even the Royal Bant archers would be envious of.

The vashino shifted between keeping his eyes on the arrows and attacking those around him. The first four came from all side of the vashino. He was able to swat away two of them into the ground where they sank in, and threw a large leonin between himself and the other two, shattering those two. Four more approached him from the front. His sword met them again and knocked them to the ground, where they too sank in. The final four swirled around him, just outside of his reach. The warriors of both sides had taken notice now of the arrows and had back away. The vashino now had his full concentration on the arrows surrounding him.

Six long blue chains shot out from the ground at blinding speed. The vashino had no time to react as two hit each leg and two hit his tail, wrapping around and pulling him down. His concentration split for a moment and the four remaining arrows moved in. Two hit his free hand and two hit his neck. They formed a set of cuffs and pulled his arm to where the blue bindings hand linked to his leg. Chains formed between the remaining cuffs, restraining the vashino.

Que smiled while Ans had left his beak a gap. A soft pat on the shoulder brought Ans back as he followed his brother up towards the bound vashino. The other brother who normally led, now walked behind his little brother. There were no words the two could exchange at this point. It had been so long that the wounds they had created had become unsightly scars. Ans still burned to say something, anything to his brother. Que stopped short of the vashino, Ans stopping next to him. The vashino struggled under the bindings, gurgling to voice something. Suddenly a deafening roar crashed around them, and the brothers turned upon feeling the earthquake of a massive dragon landing behind them. Que flinched and felt a primal fear he had not felt in many years.

The brothers looked from the landing dragon back to the vashino. The reptilian eyes glowed with fury, and his muscles grew. Que began to raise his bow and Ans drew his sword, but it was too late. Que watched in what seemed like slow motion as the bonds he put on the vashino shattered. A large set of jaws opened as the vashino lunged forward. Que saw from the corner of his eyes as his brother’s head vanished into the maw of the reptile. In a single motion the vashino raised Ans into the air. As the aven lifted into the air, que saw the large vashino blade swing towards him. In that instant, his body tightened and he fell. Not down, but backwards, and away from the vashino, from the battlefield, and from Alara.

Que stumbled backwards, his talons clicking on solid metal. A single tear rolled down his face in shock of his brother’s fate. There was hope somewhere inside of him, but he knew deep down the fate his brother suffered. He fell to his knees with a clank. His hands braced himself on the hard surface and he screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And then four large, blue arms wrapped around him, one covering his mouth. He saw in the reflection of the metal under him the familiar shape of the blue people who had saved him so long ago, but only a single person with him.

Que was taken in and given sanctuary by the vedalken. A place where so many rested under one roof. A place where vedalken apparently had four arms instead of two. He spent the next few days recovering, trying to put together what had happened. The vedalkens around him shared their knowledge with him. Others cursed him and regarding him as a threat. The vedalkens reassured them Que was safe, as he was not sinew nor did Que have any oils coming from him.

The vedalken who saved him was named Nori. He was once a metal crafter and worked with what he called myr. Nori explained to Que that he had probably done something called planeswalking, and that he was now on Mirrodin. The texts Nori gave Que detailed as much of the plane's history, going back to a being called Memnarch and a figure named Karn. It seems that this Karn was also a planeswalker. However, the records Nori had said that any planeswalkers who came to Mirrodin either abandoned the plane or died. Death was common these days thanks to what Mirrodin called Phyrexia. It seemed to spread like a contagion.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Que never felt at home on Mirrodin, but seemed stuck. He was relieved to have a friend in Nori, but he knew even Nori, like Ans, was not completely there for him. He would always remark at how it seemed like they had such easy at doing things with so many hands. His mind drifted to thoughts again of Ans...their home. Ans’ home. Que thought of his own home in Esper. The roost he had made his own, working with etherium and studying new discoveries each day. His current bed was comfy, but his bed in Esper HIS bed, was home. Que drifted into what felt like sleep when it happened again. He felt like he was sinking into the bed, pulling away from Mirrodin. There was an inch drop, but when everything came back into focus, he was in his own bed. He was back on Esper. He figured it out then. He need only imagine the place, and he can travel anywhere.

ANS!

Que shot up from his bed and rushed from his room.

Dead.

No survivors.

Que knew it was the fate of those there that day, but he had hope...he wanted a different outcome.

In the following years, Que began touring various planes. Each time he would seek out their artificers and learn from them. He would bring his notes and knowledge, and occasionally trinkets, back to Esper with him. He had found one a plane a way to replace his heart with an artificial one that would absorb, store, and process mana from the plane. It effectively kept his immortal, save for his flesh parts. A different plane gave him secrets of keeping the flesh and bone parts of him young and resistant to the harsh elements, and a way to clone his hands. Time gave way to him replacing his wings with a second set of arms, using his cloned hands to finish the look. Flight had become something he rarely used, especially when his body did not tire and trekking allowed him to embrace the intricacies of the planes. He never did return to Mirrodin. Some nights he would wonder about Nori’s fate. Had she persevered, or did she end up a victim of the contagion? What happened to the planeswalkers who left that plane? Had they seen the contagion?

Que put the finishing touches on an automaton. It was shaped like an owl, as were most of his life crafts. Some were falcons, others rare birds from planes he visited. He built them to let loose in the planes he visited. They had a beacon in them. Should they ever find a planeswalker in their travels, the birds would pingback the location to Que. He felt a soft for those who walked without the knowledge of that they were doing...yet felt so alone. He knew of no other planeswalker. Until a beacon comes, he tires away making his life crafts and studying the artifacts of the planes he travels to.

#fanwalker #origin story #MtG #magic the gathering

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dustingrayves · 7 years

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clean slate (6/?)

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Pairing: (eventual) addcest [LPDE] & elsain [LKATh] WC this chapter: 2400 Rating: T+ TWs: (past) abuse AU: modern/single parent Lusa (with his tiny son Arc) + runaway Esper Notes: lyrics to a song a have on repeat but has nothing to do with this

ao3

He should probably feel a little more guilty at the fact that Lusa has to take days off (‘It’s fine,’ he’d said, ‘I got someone to stand in for me.’), but in reality Esper’s just grateful.

The polyclinic smells just like the last time they’d been there, sterile and almost burning his sinuses, but Esper isn’t that rigid this time. Nor in nearly as much pain.

He even manages a small ‘hello’ to the receptionist. She seems surprised, but no less bright. Lusa leads them upstairs, the elevator’s dings loud in the relative silence of the building. Thankfully there’s no one waiting at Arme’s office and Knight opens the door pretty much at the second knock. He seems tired after a day’s work, but he still welcomes them with a smile.

“Hey, come in,” he says, ushering them in and closing the door as they do. Arme seems just as tired, slumping in his chair with a pen about to fall from his lax fingers. He perks up when he notices Lusa and Esper, though.

“Oh, I see Arc did his magical healing drawings,” Knight comments, looking over the colorful doodles covering the cast.

Esper smiles, rubbing his other calf against the cast almost nostalgically. “It helped.”

“Ready to get rid of this thing?” Arme asks as if the answer wasn’t obvious. Still, Esper nods eagerly.

He can’t wait to get it off.

He can’t wait to be useful again. It was probably only because he had it and because Lusa had felt guilty that he’d been nice to Esper. He already has an idea for the dinner and a speech of apology prepared in his head. Not that he’ll be able to get it out the way he wants, he knows himself too well to even hope for such a thing.

Arme gets a pair of scissors that seem almost unreasonable in their shape and begins cutting at the cast with only a curt warning to stay put for his own safety. Slowly, the cast is cut in two and carefully removed, even though it sticks to his leg.

“Everything seems to be alright,” he comments offhandedly, looking the ankle over. “You could’ve taken the cast off yourselves, but it’s better this way so I could’ve checked it. But it looks to be healed properly, so you don’t need anything on it anymore. Just make sure to only wash the leg gently, with not too hot water, alright?”

Esper nods numbly, testing his leg by swinging it back forth, twisting his ankle this way and that way to see if it still hurts. Thankfully, it doesn’t.

“Any pain?” Knight asks, pulling up the papers. He’s by the other table, starting to file out them out with Lusa’s help.

“No,” Esper answers when he realizes Knight isn’t looking at him and can’t see him shaking his head.

“Good,” Arme pipes up instead, “You’re to come here if anything acts up, got it? No matter how small. Anything small can turn into something big sooner than you can imagine.”

Esper nods along, storing the order away in his head. Arme seems happy enough with that and moves back to his desk, checking the papers as Knight hands them over. He writes down a few details and stamps the whole paper, closing the folder.

“Guess that’s all for now,” the doctor mutters, putting the folder away into a cabinet, under the G label.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, though, right?” Knight says cheerily, patting his scrubs down. He’d chosen a soft shade of red today; they suit him.

“Yeah, Arc’s been looking forward to it again,” Lusa grins, ushering Esper up and checking if he’s not limping. He turns to repay Esper’s confused gaze with a softer smile now. “Arme and Knight are bringing Shea and Anpa over to our place. It’s a tradition to do this every few weeks.”

Lusa’s brows furrow.

“But if you’d rather not, we don’t have to.”

Esper looks back at Knight, catching his gaze. “Yeah, we can reschedule it, if you’d like. Or take it to our place instead— you don’t have to come if you don’t feel like it.”

Esper is sure he would have a breakdown if he could breathe right now. He finds his lips tugging up into a soft smile. “I think it sounds like a nice idea, if Shea and Anpa are as great as Arc.”

Lusa’s eyes shimmer with something Esper can’t place and he doubles over, bursting into a laugh. “Oh, you don’t even know.”

For some weird, but very welcome, way, Lusa knows exactly what to do to get him a new ID. He even pays the fee and smiles encouragingly while Esper gets his photo taken.

Esper can't help smiling back, and when he gets the tiny plastic card, he sees the photo of himself, smiling more genuinely than he'd ever seen himself smile. Warmth floods his chest and he grips the card tightly, and doesn't let the tiny evidence of his freedom and happiness go the whole car ride. If Lusa notices, he doesn't say anything.

Esper also can't stop looking at the new address written on the plastic card. Lusa had said it's just temporary, of course (how does he keep doing that?; making Esper feel like he isn't a prisoner even while doing things that would've otherwise ticked off at least ten red flags), but Esper has to admit -- not out loud, though -- that he kind of likes it. It's a solid evidence that he has nothing to do with his old home -- he shakes his head.

Lusa said home is a feeling. That had only been a house.

He runs his fingers over the smooth plastic, over and over. He must look silly, but there are no comments from Lusa, even though he'd caught the other looking at him instead of the calm streets ahead.

"How about we stop at McDonald's?" Lusa asks.

They stop at a red light and Lusa turns his head to him in inquiry.

Another weird thing of his. He'll announce what he wants to do and phases it like a question, and then only proceeds if Esper nods at him. Esper is still not used to it. Doesn't understand why Lusa does it.

He gives a nod and Lusa replies with a smile. For some reason he's always pleased whenever Esper goes along with his choice of fast food instead of offering to cook. Not that Esper minds the fast food, don't get mistaken. In fact, he loves it. He'd never had the luxury of fatty burgers and oversalted fries and stretchy, gooey pizza. It's almost like living in a completely different world.

He likes it.

A lot.

Lusa pulls up in the drive-thru, giving Esper's leg a sidelong glance. The cast had come off earlier, and it doesn't even hurt anymore, and yet Lusa keeps treating him like something fragile. It doesn't feel like he thinks Esper would break — because he wouldn't. He doubts anything could break him at this point. It feels more like Lusa just wants to keep him away from any kind of pain, like he's something to be protected or cherished. The mere thought is enough to make Esper chuckle while Lusa orders menus for them.

And only when they're back on the road, with paper bags full of food sitting in Esper's lap, does it hit Esper. It feels like a full-on collision with another car, and Esper doubles over with a gasp, whitened fingers gripping at the paper.

He stares ahead, eyes wide and almost unseeing. Tears roll down his cheeks in rivulets, fat and salty.

Immediately, Lusa is pulling over to the side, looking at him with a startled, concerned gaze.

"Esper?" he calls out, hand hovering in midair as if he's hesitating to touch him. Seeing that only makes Esper cry harder, wail after wail tearing from his throat. It almost doesn't sound like his own voice, at least to his own ears. "Esper, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

Esper shakes his head side to side, bangs flying left and right. The tears don't stop coming even as he clutches the bags of food to his chest. They'll probably end up cold because of him.

He cries louder, choking on it halfway. It sounds pathetic and no doubt irritating, but Lusa shows no sign of anger. If anything, he just looks more scared.

"Sorry- Sorry, I-" Esper chokes out, voice giving out as he goes back to noiseless sobs and tears.

“Take your time,” Lusa tells him softly. Esper’s chest aches, like it’s devoid of every organ, at the gentle tone, the lack of yelling, tugging or punches.

Still, Esper can’t help the broken apologies tumbling from his bitten lips.

A dream. That’s what all of this feels like.

With great effort, Esper manages to open his eyes (which he doesn’t even remember closing) and look at Lusa through the sheen of tears. His brows are furrowed and he still looks like he wants to touch Esper, but refrains.

Esper wants to explain himself — it’s the least Lusa deserves — but he can’t find the right words. So instead he just opens his mouth to scream again. “It—” he hiccups when the scream dies out, his throat like sandpaper with each inhale. “It doesn’t… feel right. Ri—Real— I’m— this is…”

Lusa lets him blabber until he can’t anymore and then he falls slack, shoulders slumping heavily. Lusa holds up a hand again.

“Can I touch you?” he asks. Esper stares at him in silence, torn between the need to be alone, to run as far as possible and hide in a ditch and forget he’d ever been this vulnerable, and the surprisingly overwhelming urge to let Lusa do as he pleases.

There’s two outcomes to his; either he’ll get hurt, or he won’t. He doesn’t know one he wants.

Finally, he nods. It must’ve take a while, but still Lusa doesn’t say anything. Instead he softly places the hand onto Esper’s, not squeezing in any way. Just a comforting weight.

“Real?” he asks, prompting Esper to actually think.

The touch is nice. He nods.

Lusa smiles at him, his eyes narrowed softly with the gesture. “Take your time.”

“Too good…” Esper gasps, going rigid as Lusa moves his hand to his back and rubs small circles there.

The other man fixes him with a — somehow — knowing look. “It’s fine,” he says, leveling his voice to a quiet stability even though Esper’s is hiccuping up and down. “It’s not really… well, too good. It’s the right amount of good.”

Esper stares at him through the tears in his eyes, incredulous. He’s biting down at his bottom lip, clearly mulling it over in his mind.

Lusa doesn’t pressure him into replying. “Maybe one day you’ll expect the right amount of good instead of waiting for too little,” he mutters, still rubbing his back while the floodgates of Esper’s tears open yet again. “Take it at your own pace. There’s no bad way in this.”

Lusa waits patiently while Esper finally calms down enough to keep going. He has to force more tears down the whole way, however.

It just feels unreal to have someone this nice, even though he can reach out and touch Lusa at any time to make sure.

And he does.

Lusa just gives him an encouraging smile when his fingertips brush Lusa’s shoulder, softly, like he’s afraid Lusa would disintegrate into smoke.

He doesn’t.

“It’s cold!” Arc complains as he bites into one of the chicken nuggets, hands already fully coated in the barbecue sauce, somehow.

Lusa stretches a hand to ruffle his hair. “Sorry, champ, we had to stop somewhere on the way. It was important.”

“Esper’s papers, right?” Arc asks, mouth twisting as he chew the meat.

Lusa nods, casting Esper a look. The man looks ready to fling himself out of the window, but at least he’s not crying anymore, so Lusa chalks it up as ‘getting better’. “Yeah, he got ‘em. If you ask him nice, he might show you— He got a really nice photo taken. Aaaand if you ask me nicely, I’ll reheat the nuggets for you.”

Arc’s eyes light up and he holds the paper box out. “Please, pretty, pretty please?”

Lusa laughs, taking the box out of Arc’s greasy fingers and kissing his forehead. He hands the boy a napkin from one of the paper bags. “Comin’ right up!”

While he disappears into the kitchen to grab a plate for the food as well, Arc clambers onto Esper’s lap, staring up at him through his disheveled fringe. Those doe eyes could probably make icebergs melt if Arc wanted them to.

“Show me,” the boy begs, “show me, show me, pleease!”

Esper places a hand onto Arc’s back so the boy doesn’t fall as he leans over and grabs the plastic card from the table. Arc snatches it out of his hand and scrutinizes the holographic elements with great interest.

“You look pretty here!” he exclaims finally, seemingly pleased with the small picture. “But you’re even prettier here!” The boy jabs a finger at Esper’s chest, smearing the leftover sauce on his shirt.

A smile stretches on Esper’s lips and he’s powerless to stop it. “Thank you,” he says, surprised that his voice doesn’t break midway. He’d never been called pretty. And Arc’s genuinity is all that much endearing.

Lusa reappears with the food, now arranged on a real plate, and that is also snatched as Arc makes himself comfortable on the couch, ID already forgotten as he flicks through the channels, looking for a particular cartoon, probably.

Lusa’s and Esper’s eyes meet; for once, the smile adorning Esper’s face doesn’t drop. Lusa gives a similar one back.

Esper seats himself by Arc and Lusa takes the boy’s other side, and by then, Arc had already found the correct channel. He shoves a nugget completely covered in sauce into his mouth.

Exaggerated laughs and high-pitched voices fill the air, all of them finally getting to their food. The fries are a little gummy as Esper chews them, but then he’s once again reminded that it’s his fault. And really, if it’s a choice between warm fries and a burger or the entirely encompassing feeling of safety and belonging, well…

It’s not a choice at all.

#elsword #addcest #lpde #elsain #eso's fics #clean slate fic #this is like the most realistic breakdown ive ever written #mine

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minusram · 7 years

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1/? at night i see the twinkling

[AU; series here]

Teru’s seen him a few times, the boy with all the sugar daddies. At least he’s quiet about it, the building doesn’t need cops everywhere just because some kid can’t keep a lid on his compensated dating. Teru wonders how he’s managing to pull so many people with such a plain face. Some of the men and women that Teru’s seen him with are even kind of cute, for adults. Though they all dress so boring, just suit after suit after plain black suit. Maybe that’s his neighbour’s taste, Teru smirks as he snaps the wrinkles out of his sheet.

About a month ago, Teru’s new neighbour moved into the empty apartment down the hall. He’s a kid, a middle schooler Teru’s age; Teru first learned about it from listening to 2B and 2C, two chatty women who gossip loudly enough on their adjacent balconies during chores that he can use them as a building newsletter.

They’re out again now and so is he, listening while he hangs his laundry out to dry.

The kid lives alone, like Teru, and now that school’s started 2B knows that he goes to Salt Middle School. She shares this, along with a complaint about how her brother acts so superior, just because he happens to live in a district that lets him choose between two schools for his daughter. The information is good, what’s there, but Teru has to sort through a lot of aural chaff to get anything useful from their conversations. And this is out of date; term started a couple weeks ago, for both Salt Mid and Black Vinegar.

The name of the school is familiar, and in retrospect so is the uniform; he had to take care of a budding gang war from there in the spring. And, of course, that’s where Kageyama goes.

Kageyama. The only other esper of any note he’s ever met. A natural, and yet barely more than a commoner; he folded like wet cardboard when Teru showed him his place. Still, he remains a potential threat, and that’s interesting.

Actually, enkou kid kind of reminds him of Kageyama, if only visually. Maybe it’s just the uniform; he’s never seen either of them wearing anything else. But then, he only saw Kageyama the once.

Their paths haven’t crossed since Teru taught him a lesson a few months ago. Maybe it’s time for a refresher course. It might be fun to cultivate an antagonist, someone stronger than ordinary people but exponentially weaker than himself. It’s not like anything else in his life has ever posed a challenge. Psychic powers truly are convenient.

He goes back inside to make dinner, and thinks about paying a visit.

In the mornings, he sees his neighbour leave for school on foot, half an hour at least before Teru even considers heading out.

The timing implies he walks to school, which is odd, but maybe he likes the fresh air. Teru watches him disappear into the city sometimes while he eats breakfast, when the news gets intolerably boring. It’s slightly less interesting than watching a fish, but at least it isn’t the hundredth ‘urgent news bulletin’ about those five students that disappeared. They’re either dead by now or they don’t want to be found; either way, Teru is sick of hearing the same handful of voice clips from their Tragically Grief-stricken Families.

Teru never sees the boy in the afternoons. Enkou kid always gets home late; stepping out of the same black car but driven by a rotation of strangers.

It must pay pretty well, if he can afford an apartment. Teru’s place is paid for by his parents, who live across the city. His mother calls him every so often to invite him for dinner; once in a while he’ll even go, but it’s better if he stays away, for everyone’s sake.

Teru checks the time and gets up. It’s time for him to go; he has a date this afternoon, to see a movie he’s not particularly interested in with a third-year girl he doesn’t particularly like. He’ll probably have a not-particularly-tragic breakup in a few days, before moving on to another one of his fans.

Still, appearances must be kept. He doesn’t bother with the keys as he leaves, locking the door behind him with a flick of his finger as he walks down the hall.

Maybe it’s time he talks to Kageyama. His life’s gotten pretty routine lately, it could use some shaking up.

A few days later, Teru is loitering outside Salt Middle, waiting for his target and attracting the attention of the local students as he leans against the wall, artistically dappled by the sunlight shading through a tree. They admire him, as they should, and form a suitable backdrop for the coming confrontation. Teru’s been plotting how the conversation will go as he waits, and he’s excited to get started.

“Ah, Kageyama,” he says, when he sees a flash of black hair from the corner of his eye, turning to stand in front of the other boy.

Enkou kid stares at him blankly.

“My mistake, I thought you were someone else,” Teru says, with a winning smile, “I don’t mean to trouble you. Go right ahead.”

“You’re… from the apartment,” the kid says, hands straight at his sides.

“Yes, I am. I’m not surprised you noticed, I’m pretty distinctive,” Teru says, with a wink.

“Hm. You are,” the kid says, and walks away, to the car idling in front of the school.

He gets his clients to pick him up at school? That’s so brazen, Teru is starting to like this kid.

Enkou kid pauses, and turns back to him.

“Kageyama-kun has student council. He won’t be out until 4:30,” he says, and then he’s in the car and gone.

At 4:25, Teru finishes off his cafe au lait and walks the block back to Salt Middle School to find Kageyama.

He sees the rest of what must be the student council as they disperse off-campus from their cluster around their unhealthy looking president, but not the member he’s looking for. There’s something weird about the president, like a haze that hangs around him, but Teru doesn’t concern himself with that; he’s here for his foil, not some incompetent, nameless nobody who trails enmity like a smokestack.

Everyone else is gone by the time Kageyama emerges, but Teru’s grown to appreciate the abandoned schoolyard. Absent of anyone but the two of them, it might even be eerie, if it weren’t so sunny. Clouds would be better, thick stormclouds that would blot out the sun and add an electric current to the air. Dramatic effect; this is the kind of thing that looks better in the dark.

No students means no audience, but it also means no witnesses. Instead of a battle of words, like he planned, maybe they’ll just battle. It won’t last very long, but at least it’ll be something.

Any psychic confrontation between them won’t be much of a fight. There’s too great a difference between them; in power, in skill, in hierarchy. Teru’s simply better—even if Kageyama’s been training full throttle, it’s impossible for him to catch up.

Kageyama’s reached the approximate centre of the schoolyard, halfway between the building and the exit. It’s good staging; Teru steps away from the gatepost and into view, to stand squarely across from Kageyama in the opening, backlit by the afternoon sun. A dark shadow stretches on the ground in front of him, reaching toward Kageyama where he’s frozen in his steps.

Kageyama clutches the strap of his bag hanging from his shoulder. He stares, and his powers rise around him, coalescing into the visible spectrum.

The pecking order’s been firmly established, but Kageyama’s stronger than he was the last time they met; the power hanging around his shoulders is more practiced, and Kageyama manipulates his aura confidently, forming it into defensive spikes.

If Teru were an amateur, he might skewer himself flash stepping over there, but as it stands they really serve no purpose but warning him of Kageyama’s hostile intent. He returns the message, letting sparks play across his fingers and lift his hair. The sun washes out the colour of his powers, robbing the display of some of its effect. Next time, they’re definitely going to meet at night.

“Ah, Kageyama,” he says.

“Hanazawa,” Kageyama says guardedly, staring grimly, his spare hand in a fist at his side, “Why are you here.”

Ah, he’s perfect. Teru smirks, and cocks his hip, planting a fist there as he tilts his head playfully.

“What, aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks, opening up the field. It’s exciting, improvising. He throws out the rest of his old script, calculated for a social climate that no longer exists now it’s just the two of them. Kageyama raises a resentful eyebrow.

“You have to ask?” he says. His spikes writhe into faint corkscrews, their ends splitting into forks with his agitation. Clearly, he hasn’t yet figured out how to keep his powers from betraying his emotions, an advantage Teru is happy to take.

“I thought I’d check in on you, see how you’ve been doing. It’s been a few months, you know. How’s school?”

“Oh, perfect, except I’m being stalked by a blond peacock,” Kageyama says with a smile, brittle and insincere. “Have you just been waiting here since school let out?”

“Someone helped me out,”—an NPC—“A boy, with a bowlcut, maybe you know him? He let me know you’d be a bit delayed.”

Kageyama's manifestations shimmer for a moment, then snap back to solidity as jagged, branching spires of hoarfrost, a crystalline thicket of animosity that wreathes his body with razor fractals.

“Of course…” Kageyama muses, and then spits, “That makes sense, Hanazawa. Like calls to like.”

Teru has found a nerve. He’ll think about it later, why Kageyama feels so strongly about dating for money that he thinks Teru will be insulted by the baseless implication that he does it too, but now he rolls with the opening, keeping the momentum of their conversation.

“Bitter, hm? What’s the story there, someone you liked didn’t like you back? Don’t worry about them, Kageyama. They’re the background characters, the unimportant people. From now on, you can just focus on me.” And with that, he attacks.

Teru surges toward Kageyama, pulls up inches away when his startled opponent swings the bag at his face. Teru bats it away with his forearm, snapping the strap as it rockets away to skid across the ground and thrusting his palm out to send Kageyama flying in the other direction.

Kageyama skips; once, twice, before recovering, rolling with the inertia to his feet and reaching out a clawed hand that clenches into a fist.

Wood cracks and Teru zips back five feet in an instant to watch the tree branch spear through the ground where he was standing. He tucks in his toes and throws his arms out in front of him; a wave of powers hurls the branch’s quivering leaves at Kageyama, a maelstrom stiff and sharp as knives.

Kageyama fields most of them, arms wheeling around his head, but a few get through, opening paper-thin cuts that weep bleed from his face and hands. Ooh, that pissed him off. Kageyama glares, swipes at his face with the heel of his hand, smearing red across his cheek as he pants, then slaps the first two fingers of each hand together, ripping chunks out of the asphalt that whizz at Teru’s head.

Teru lets them hit his barrier, bouncing them off with a spray of gravel and minimum effort as he zigzags in flash-step spurts to where Kageyama’s fetched up next to the school. Kageyama’s looking the wrong way when Teru appears in front of him, and the knuckle-punch to the solar plexus blindsides him, propelling him back the scant distance to slam against the wall of the building.

Kageyama’s impact craters the masonry, and Teru follows up with another stone-cracking punch to the gut which Kageyama spins away from against the wall, whipping up his hand in arc that sends a sharp crescent of power slicing at Teru’s neck. Teru tilts his head and it scythes harmlessly past his face, except for where it’s caught some of his hair.

Teru telekinetically flattens Kageyama against the wall with an outstretched hand as he reaches up to inspect his slightly shorter bangs, then flicks the hair out of his eyes. The shorn pieces float away on the wind.

Kageyama’s aura swells, stabbing out at Teru though his body is pinned, breaking Teru’s concentration so he can move. He hurtles forward, fighting with his hands and feet, jerking a knee up that Teru deflects, throwing out a haphazard haymaker that Teru ducks back from before stepping in and hitting Kageyama with an elbow to the chin that knocks him back for Teru to slam his palm against his chest, pressing him to the wall again and pumping him full of electricity.

Kageyama’s mouth opens but no sound comes out as Teru’s power jolts through him. He twists, muscles tense until Teru cuts it off and lifts his hand to let him slide down the wall.

Kageyama isn’t out, but it’s close. He flops his head back to stare up at Teru spitefully where he sits on the ground. There’s still blood on his face.

Teru drops easily into a crouch so his antagonist doesn’t have to look up as far. He’s considerate that way.

“Nice job. That branch thing was pretty good, but the sound gave it away,” he says, helpfully.

Kageyama flips him off with a finger that still twitches with aftershocks, venomous.

Teru grins. This is gonna be great.

At night I see the twinkling stars And a great big smiling moon. My mother tucks me into bed And sings a good-night tune.

enkou = compensated dating

#mp100 fanfiction #dmtasd #at night i see the twinkling #teru #mp100 #ritsu #fic #the good stuff

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filosofablogger · 7 years

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It was getting late last night and I was hard at work following a story a friend had tipped me to, when suddenly around 11:30 it hit me … IT’S SATURDAY!!! I can’t fool around with this … I have less than four hours to write my Saturday Surprise post!!! I thought about saying that since you got a Saturday Surprise on Thursday … but no, that would be a cop out, so I saved and closed the file I was working on for later today, and turned my attention to that blank page that had only “Saturday Surprise 28 October 2017” at the top. And I remembered the fun I had back in September when I dug up some cool places for us to visit. And so, dear friends … let’s take a trip to some really interesting places, shall we?

Where do old school buses go to die? Why, the school bus graveyard, of course! In the tiny town of Alto, Georgia, some retired buses begin new lives as quirky pieces of art. Each year, artists transform the buses signature yellow exteriors and give the vehicles a makeover. Old buses, trucks, and RVs become a canvas for murals that come alive with bright colors and whimsical designs.

The property is owned by Alonzo Wade, who runs an auto parts shop. After people began stealing scraps and material in the early 2000s, neighbors suggested he use his array of salvaged buses and trucks to form a fence. Not only did the wall help deter thieves, it also acted like a beacon for local creatives searching for an unconventional canvas. A team of artists known as Crispy Printz began painting the buses in 2012. They invite other artists to come repaint them every year, so the designs are constantly changing.

My personal favourite

Pamukkale, meaning “cotton castle” in Turkish, is a natural site in Denizli Province in southwestern Turkey. The area is famous for its hot springs and enormous white terraces of travertine, a carbonate mineral left by the flowing water.

The Turkish name refers to the surface of the shimmering, snow-white limestone, shaped over millennia by calcium-rich springs. Dripping slowly down the vast mountainside, mineral-rich waters foam and collect in terraces, spilling over cascades of stalactites into milky pools below. Legend has it that the formations are solidified cotton (the area’s principal crop) that giants left out to dry.

In the midst of hopping about the globe looking for fun things to share, I came across a pink lake! It is a salt lake outside of Torrevieja, Spain. Halobacterium (also known as “salt bacterium”) thrive in salty places, as does a micro-algae called Dunaliella salina. These are the two magic ingredients that concoct the lake’s bizarre hue. Despite its funky color, the water is perfectly fine, though it can get a bit smelly.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

But wait … turns out that isn’t the only pink lake in the world! Lake Hillier is also a salt lake on the edge of Middle Island, the largest of the islands and islets that make up the Recherche Archipelago in the Goldfields-Esperance region, off the south coast of Western Australia.

I am not a fan of pink, but I have to admit these lakes are pretty cool!

In Alaska, the have igloos, and in Harran, Turkey, they have beehive houses.

What really stands out in the modern village of Harran are the clusters of primitive “beehive houses.” This is an architectural tradition that is at least 3,000 years old. Made entirely of mud or clay bricks, these buildings are designed to fence off searing heat and retain cool air. The dome-like structure topped with an opening is also functional, as hot air collects in the upper part of these houses and escapes through the aperture.

The beehive shape of these abodes allows them to withstand earthquakes, violent wind storms, and seasonal heavy rains, which explains why they are still in use these days, thousands of years later. What’s more, it is relatively easy to expand the size of a beehive house by simply erecting another hive next to it and knocking an archway through.

I enjoy a bit of ‘armchair’ travel … I can afford it, don’t have to put on makeup and get dressed up, and I can bounce all over the world in a matter of minutes! Rather fun, don’t you think? So, until next Saturday, my dear friends … Have a great weekend and keep safe! Hugs ‘n love from Filosofa!

Saturday Surprise – Cool Places 2 It was getting late last night and I was hard at work following a story a friend had tipped me to, when suddenly around 11:30 it hit me … IT’S SATURDAY!!!

#armchair traveler #beehive houses #Harran Turkey #Lake Hillier Australia #Pamukkale Turkey #pink lakes #school bus art #Torrevieja Spain

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planar-echoes · 7 years

Text

The Day a Vedalken Exploded (Alara) By Doug Beyer (6/6/09)

The vedalken Keimon frowned into the etherium gears and arms of the wind orrery and tried to remain calm. Of Esper's twenty-three winds, nine had gone badly wrong. To his stormcaller's eye, the wind dynamics looked like angry, glowing snakes inside the artifact, airforms writhing and snapping at one another. The intrusion of alien mana was warping gust patterns all over Esper.

And then there were the behemoths.

Outside his master's sanctum, the huge Naya beasts' footfalls sounded like thunder—except that thunder didn't rend metal and etherium as if they were cobwebs. In only moments, they would shear open the sanctum walls and bring crushing death to Keimon and his master, the vedalken archmage.

"I'll die here if you tell me to, Master Drathus," said Keimon. "But please—don't tell me to."

Archmage Drathus finished a brutally long chant and snapped closed a spell capsule.

"Done," he said, a look of dry certainty on his blue vedalken features. "Let's go." The archmage tucked the capsule inside his etherium ribs.

Keimon dashed for the sanctum's doorway, but an enormous claw tore a new exit in the side of the mages' sanctum, the metal screaming. Wind-models and delicate filigree instruments smashed against the floor, and Keimon heard the building itself groan. Archmage Drathus and his apprentices had spent thousands of hours researching reality in this sanctum, and in seconds Keimon saw it rent to scrap.

Keimon saw the face of the first Naya behemoth: a roar sculpted in muscle and teeth. Its bulk loomed over the hole it had opened, such that Keimon could barely see the second behemoth behind it. They were cut off—the only way out was through the beasts.

*****

Mana is the most generative force in the Multiverse. It is raw potential in its most primal form, the fuel that runs the entire multiverse. It is the clay that mages shape into spells, which they use in turn to shape existence itself.

But mana can also be destructive. The dragon Nicol Bolas seeks to gather the mana resources of the combined shards of Alara into a single tremendous source—the Maelstrom, a savage storm of raw mana. The Maelstrom lies at the center of Alara, where lands from all five of the shards overlap. Since the shards reconverged, the Maelstrom has grown from a tiny seed to a raging tempest of potential, feeding on the violent clashes of the Alaran war.

The Maelstrom has become more and more dangerous as it grows. At this point, standing at the center of the Maelstrom would destroy most beings; the reality-twisting forces are so chaotic that they would tear a person apart like a planetoid split by gravitational forces. But while the Maelstrom is dangerous, it is still a powerful source of mana—and it can fuel potent magic for mages with a flair for the unpredictable.

"Master, the capsule—use it on the behemoths!" shouted Keimon.

"No, not here!" hissed Drathus. "We'd take half of Palandius with us. We must get it to its destination."

Keimon had only seconds to bring a storm. The stormcaller didn't relish such impromptu magic, but the circumstances clicked in his mind like the gears of his orrery. Winds swirled around him, and through the hole in the building he could see the grid-chopped clouds swirl into vortex after vortex. He could feel the currents, the ionic friction of the clouds whirling against each other, the gathering energy. In moments there would be deadly lightning at Keimon's command.

But the spell wasn't coming together fast enough. The first behemoth heaved its claw into the building, slamming Archmage Drathus and throwing the vedalken across the room like a doll. The elder vedalken clutched his chest as he skidded to a halt and crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Keimon shouted unintelligibly as the lightning blossomed out of him.

As it surges and grows, the Maelstrom arcs off strange magics, lashing the surrounding lands with bizarre effects. These arcs can be dangerous, shredding living tissue or disrupting magics. But it can also be a strongly generative force. Spells cast in the vicinity of the Maelstrom have special properties, spinning off secondary aftershocks that can take bizarre forms. The cascade mechanic represents this kind of Maelstrom magic: they're traditional effects like life gain, direct damage, or creature summoning that have a random secondary effect. Sometimes there's even more than one aftershock, the raw potential of the Maelstrom providing fertile magical fuel.

*****

As day faded into night, Keimon helped his wounded master trudge across Esper's landscape, the lights of Palandius receding behind them. The first marauding behemoth had fallen to Keimon's sapphire electricity, but his magic hadn't affected the second beast at all, even in the hugest, fiercest blasts he could muster. Perhaps it was a new adaptation—a hide resistant to magic—or a preexisting species they simply hadn't seen yet. Either way ,it was a bad sign for Esper.

They had escaped by taking to the air—an unpleasant ride. The winds were wild and gnashing, hissing in a language Keimon could no longer understand. Keimon held his master as delicately as he could as he rode the winds, streaking over the heads of the behemoths for as long as he dared. From the air, he could see the devastation in the gargantuans' wake; they were only the vanguards, and other creatures followed in their footsteps. Snickering viashino threw fire magic at scurrying homunculi. Keimon saw at least one sphinx, downed and helpless, being devoured by some crowd of wretches.

"Naya," wheezed Drathus, now slumped over Keimon's shoulder as they made their way across the glassdust desert. "We must deliver the capsule deep within Naya."

Smoke covered the stars on the gridded sky, making it hard for Keimon to navigate; he simply tried to keep the incursion zones on either side of him, and travel within Esper as long as he could. But ahead of him, he saw a kind of beacon—a flickering glow on the horizon, strangely cheerful against the gathering night.

*****

Although it's crucial to his plans, Nicol Bolas has set up no guardians of the Maelstrom. The mana storm has become dangerous enough that it simply destroys the most intrepid (read: foolish) would-be interlopers automatically, and the rest are generally scared off by the bizarre, fierce creatures that have formed from its energies. The swirl of planar crust at the junction of the five shards has formed a kind of valley, in the bowl of which the mana storm grows, surrounded by the strange sights and sounds of its metaphysical offgassing.

*****

Keimon had no words. They had reached the rim of a wide basin where the land was torn raw and spiraled in on itself, like a tornado molded in earth. Cradled in the gorge was a raging squall of light and energy—like nothing he had ever seen in his career as a stormcaller. Its prismatic mana flickered in Keimon's eyes and danced along his etherium filigree. The wind here was deafening, but Keimon felt he heard voices deep within its chaotic rhythms, hints of secrets he could barely comprehend. It was intoxicating.

When the elemental attacked, Keimon could barely hear his feeble master's warning.

The creature looked like it was made from the combined landforms of five different biomes, but walking upright like a vedalken. It lunged at Keimon and Drathus with limbs like tower spires, knocking them apart and grabbing Drathus in one great hand. It clutched him and roared at the sky, backlit by the glow of the mana storm.

Keimon had no idea what he was yelling, but he got the creature's attention. It turned toward him and dropped his master—who fell in two pieces, his etherium bent in ugly ways. Keimon's fists balled. He felt the crackle of mana and the exhilaration of rage.

*****

Alarans are just now discovering the Maelstrom; not even a planeswalker (other than Bolas) knows of its existence yet. Even if one knew about it, it's unclear what could be done about it. If it grows unchecked, it may overflow its central valley and crash into the surrounding shards, but any attempt to tap into its power may be equally disastrous. Its future is simply not known at this time.

*****

Keimon called on mana bonds he knew, but felt the force of the maelstrom feeding his spell, like tendrils reaching into his soul. In the air above him grew a sphere of gray cloud, roiling and whistling with internal motion—and in it, he heard voices again, like the susurant syllables of a thousand whispers. There was no time to ponder—the elemental strode toward him.

He had never called anything but a storm before, but instead of lightning and wind, a great sphinx burst forth from his summoning-sphere, spreading its wings like a newborn drake. The sphinx's bearing was wise and mighty, and it gave the chaotic elemental pause.

Keimon's next thought was to rush to his master—but he failed to move. The mana storm pulsed through him, pushing its tendrils deeper into his mind. His hands moved involuntarily, carving strange signs on the air—and he found himself casting again.

The air shimmered, and an enormous, snakelike monster tumbled out of the aether, screeching. Before Keimon could comprehend the meaning of this, the mana surged through him again, and he lashed the fusion elemental with a pulse of strange, ætheric energy. The massive creature vanished before his eyes, twirling into a lick of smoke and evaporating into the maelstrom.

Keimon couldn't stop the flood of spells. The mana swirled through him in fierce waves, tearing the magic directly out of his soul. He was casting spells he had never seen before, uncontrollably, in convulsions.

He stumbled over to Drathus's body, hearing the whispers grow in his mind. He managed to wrench free the capsule from inside his master's chest-chamber. This would stop. All of this would stop—now.

He continued to cast wildly, the voices reaching fever pitch, the magics sweeping out of him in a nonstop deluge. He summoned some kind of surprised-looking, dreadlocked elf. He felt a momentary balm of light. In desperation, he reached for the spell-capsule's detonator—

And then there was nothing, as Keimon terminated himself.

#magic the gathering #vorthos #alara #vedalken #keimon #multiverse #mana #maelstrom

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