#and he seems more in tuned with Chaos Energy then even Doom or Death

[ultlien]

once he gets older and learns how to manipulate the Chaos Energy inside him, he won't be so sensitive to the cold.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tedious Joys - Chapter 3 -

- Ao3 link -

“Truly, Lao Nie, you are blessed to have such a talented son,” Wen Ruohan said, and if it were anyone else it might have even been a compliment, sincerely meant.

But Wen Ruohan was an ancient monster, two generations older than Lan Qiren – though you couldn’t tell by looking at his smooth young-seeming face, and only his eyes told the truth of it – and possessed of both a longstanding grudge against the Nie sect and the apparent sense that all good things in the world ought to belong to him and him alone.

He had only two living sons at present, the younger one only a little older than A-Zhan, now called Lan Wangji, and neither of them had yet displayed any particularly fine qualities – understandable for little Wen Chao, who was little more than a spoiled princeling, but the tone in Wen Ruohan’s voice boded no one any good.

“It is, no doubt, a credit to Sect Leader Lan’s excellent teaching,” Wen Ruohan added before Lao Nie could respond, and he raised his cup to toast Lan Qiren. Etiquette required that Lan Qiren acknowledge the toast, which he did with a stiff nod, but he disliked this line of conversation more and more.

“Starting to regret not sending your own boy there, are you, Hanhan?” Lao Nie laughed, and Lan Qiren devoutly wished that his friend would leave him out of whatever strange ongoing thing he had developed with Wen Ruohan, half rivalry and half challenge, hatred and affection both. Who in their right mind would call the fearsome Sect Leader Wen such intimate things like “A-Han” or “Hanhan”?

Lao Nie, that was who.

Wen Ruohan bared his teeth at Lao Nie in something that might be mistaken for a smile. Lan Qiren averted his eyes from the whole debacle, thinking to himself that he would need to advise Lao Nie that he could either invite their fellow sect leader into his bed or have Lan Qiren as a friend but not both. Lan Qiren’s entire life had been thrown into chaos by other people’s choices in that regard and he was not inclined to endure any more of the same if he could help it.

The jade pendant he had taken to wearing on his belt for easy access was warm against his leg, as it often was when he was thinking ungracious thoughts – he’d had something of a breakthrough with Jiwei shortly his affirmation of friendship with Lao Nie, achieving perfect resonance between blade and pendant, and he was very pleased even if he didn’t actually have any evidence that it was helping. He’d tuned a similar pendant with Baxia for Nie Mingjue, who wore it around his neck to help seep off Baxia’s rage, and though there were no dramatic effects, Lan Qiren thought that he seemed steadier for it. Though that might also just be how Nie Mingjue was starting to grow into himself, both in terms of becoming a teenager (Lan Qiren’s best estimate was around thirteen) and in terms of his ever-increasing height.

Children at that age were especially tricky to convince to listen, so Lan Qiren had allowed Lan Xichen to select the pendant and act as messenger to hand over the gift, thinking to himself that their mutual friendship would do more to convince Nie Mingjue to wear the thing than any esoteric explanation relating to cultivation. He had been proven right, and the fact that Lan Xichen smiled brightly every time he saw his friend wearing it was an unexpected but welcome bonus.

Sadly, Lao Nie was not so easily convinced, but again then he was an adult, with his habits set in stone, harder to change. His style had always been simple and stringently austere; he hated having any sort of weight on him but for his saber, his guan and his braids, and not even the threat of his pending eventual death would change his mind about that. As a result it was Lan Qiren who wore the pendant for him, meditating with or playing for Jiwei whenever he could and doing all he could to strengthen the resonance between the two items even at a distance.

It was Lan Qiren that wore the jade, even though it hung heavy and swollen with Lao Nie’s spiritual energy, and Wen Ruohan that glared each time he saw it, and really, if Lao Nie could just stop whatever dangerous game he was playing, Wen Ruohan could go back to disregarding Lan Qiren as the mediocre replacement for the far more dangerous Qingheng-jun.

Instead of…well, whatever wrong idea Wen Ruohan had gotten into his head about him.

About them, perhaps.

Some people thought everything was about sex, he thought disdainfully, and then had to suppress a flinch at the abrupt stab of pain – He Kexin had died earlier that year, fading away suddenly and unexpectedly, and for all that Lan Qiren had not liked her it was still a shock to think that she was gone.

He had been the one to find her, which he supposed was lucky in comparison to the alternative. It had been during one of his visits, coming as he always did to report to her at the midpoint between her children’s monthly visits, and even now, months later, he found himself starting to walk towards her house on those evenings, found himself mentally making a note of things his nephews did as if he were still preparing the reports that he would have given to her if she had still been there.

His brother had never cared for such reports.

His brother…

Lan Qiren had had to tell him that the wife he had sacrificed everything for was gone, talking through the door in the hope that he would be listened to and heard, and perhaps the only benefit of his brother’s cold and endless seclusion was that he didn’t have to hear his brother’s response to such news.

(Sometimes he wondered if his brother was already dead and rotting away in there, only to scold himself for such inauspicious thoughts. In the end, despite everything, it was still his brother, and surely they had been close, once, the way Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji were, even if Lan Qiren could not remember it.)

He had hoped that Cangse Sanren would somehow hear the news and come to find him, to commiserate – even more than Lao Nie, she could put a smile on anyone’s face – but she did not come to the Cloud Recesses. Lan Qiren hoped it was only that she was busy, or else perhaps had not had reason to hear such gossip as a traveling rogue cultivator, but he feared the worst. The last time they had met she had reminded him, as she did every time, that she had a doom hanging above her head which could not be escaped, and as always they made sure to part on good terms as if that time would be the last. And yet, despite that, he still hoped desperately that he had not lost her, too.

“– such a talented niece,” Jin Guangshan was saying ingratiatingly to Wen Ruohan, who looked pleased – they must be discussing Wen Qing, who was around Nie Mingjue’s age, perhaps a little older, and who already showed all signs of being an extremely talented doctor. She was not Wen Ruohan’s direct niece, being a child of the Dafan Wen branch family, distant cousins at best, but Wen Ruohan had claimed her as his ward and therefore, technically, her skills were his merit, no matter that she had developed them before her abrupt relocation to the Nightless City to accompany the main family line. “Perhaps you might consider sending her to Sect Leader Lan’s lectures next summer, instead.”

“There are separate lectures for women,” Lan Qiren demurred, going for the easy excuse of his sect’s customs. “I believe she has a younger brother? You are welcome to send him once he is old enough, if you like.”

Wen Qing was not at all to Lan Qiren’s taste, as much as he was loath to say such a thing about a girl little older than a child. She had inherited the arrogance of the Wen sect in full: proud and unwavering, convinced of her own viewpoint regardless of any evidence to the contrary, and unwilling to compromise or listen, determined to have her own way. While in her case the traits shaded closer to virtue, such as with her absolutist refusal to use her sword to engage in any of Wen Ruohan’s skirmishes with small neighboring sects, Lan Qiren could see a future in which that very same arrogance would bring her nothing but problems.

If there was one thing that he’d learned from Jiwei, it was that it was not good to be too rigid, too set in your path, or else you would ignore any other solution in favor of walking step-by-step down the path you’d created to your own destruction. It was something he himself was constantly trying to correct in himself, with his love of the rules and very particular habits, and perhaps that was why he could recognize it in others.

Still, she was young, and there was time yet for her to learn better. Maybe he should recommend her for some classes…

“I will consider it,” Wen Ruohan said with a not-smile on his lips. “Perhaps there’s something that the boy can learn from Sect Leader Lan’s…wealth of experience.”

Lan Qiren did not flinch at the jibe, clearly aimed to remind him that he had never left the Lan sect to gain experience the way so many young men did – Wen Ruohan had discovered that particular sore spot years ago, and however skilled he was at picking at old wounds, they would eventually toughen into a scar – but he was somewhat gratified to see Lao Nie’s frown deepen when he heard it.

Still, since Lan Qiren didn’t actually want to get in the middle of the other sect leaders’ personal business, he interjected, “There is still time before we need to think of such things. The children will be grown sooner than we like; we should cherish the time when they’re still young.”

Wen Ruohan rolled his eyes at the platitude, but the conversation moved on to other matters. There was always business to discuss at these discussion conferences, even in the parts that were nominally meant as social events, and of course some of the social discussions were also in their own way business. The birth of a son for Tingshan He clan, yet another daughter for the prodigious Yingchuan Wang clan with all their concubines…

The pendant on Lan Qiren’s thigh burned hotter than ever, and he slid a hand out of his sleeve to press down on it, wondering at the cause. He glanced over at Lao Nie, at Jiwei, and found him scowling in a way that seemed more intense than the usual, his eyes on Wen Ruohan – had he truly just noticed the other man’s disdain of Lan Qiren? Surely not.

Perhaps he was simply responding to Jiwei’s own response, but why the saber would be upset at Wen Ruohan, Lan Qiren truly did not know. There was only so much he could understand without the lived experience of cultivating saber spirit himself, which for all his effort he did not and could not have.

Lan Qiren sent his own spiritual energy to the pendant, trying to press the feeling of calm there in the hopes that the resonance would also help calm Jiwei, and thus in turn Lao Nie, but he had no idea if it was having that effect. Perhaps he would try to play for Lao Nie himself as well as for Jiwei tonight.

Assuming of course that Lao Nie was not otherwise preoccupied…

A loud noise came from the arena below – a giant wave of cheering – and Lan Qiren turned his attention there: it appeared that, as Wen Ruohan must have foreseen, Nie Mingjue had just defeated someone one and a half times his own age in a clean sweep. He was practically glowing with joy and youthful enthusiasm and, yes, sheer overwhelming spiritual energy - had he managed to advance his own cultivation during a performance spar?

Of course he had. Geniuses.

And of course, just as predictably, Lan Xichen was the first one by his side when he left the field, the two of them talking avidly and enthusiastically – perhaps a little too much so for Lan Xichen, just edging outside of the Lan sect rules, but Lan Qiren could forgive the small misstep under the circumstances. Normally he tried to be as strict as possible when teaching his nephews, erring wherever possible in favor of orthodoxy out of his fear that they would end up indifferent to their sect or blinded by passion the way their father was or too mercurial and easily deceived the way He Kexin had been. Still, Lan Xichen had only just become old enough to attend the events and it was only another year before he could participate, albeit only in the most junior capacity; some enthusiasm was understandable.

Truly, he thought as he watched them, it had not been a mere platitude to say that a child’s youth needed to be cherished before it disappeared forever, and all the more so when it was your child. With their mother’s death, his nephews were now wholly in his custody and care, and he thought that he could not have loved them any more if they had been children of his own body.

Unexpectedly, he felt someone’s gaze on him and turned his head to catch Wen Ruohan studying him thoughtfully. When their gazes met, Wen Ruohan did not look away, but only smiled and raised his cup – the second time now he had tried to catch Lan Qiren in a toast. He would probably try to force them all into drinking later. Lan Qiren would refuse, as always, and take his leave early so that he could sleep, and Lao Nie would stay and probably get himself into trouble.

Perhaps Wen Ruohan had some sort of scheme to force the issue. That had happened a few times, although the move was more typical of Jin Guangshan, who liked to set important business meetings in the evening and then insist that they might as well have the conversation at a ‘tea house’ or ‘wine shop’ that barely bothered hiding the fact that it was brothel. On a few instances, he had steered the conversation in such a way that left Lan Qiren no choice but to either drink, lose face, or give Jin Guangshan no face, and of those three options the most palatable was clearly the first. Lan Qiren would therefore drink and, true to his bloodline, almost immediately become extremely dizzy and confused, losing all his senses.

Presumably that had been Jin Guangshan’s goal the first time around, except unfortunately for him Lan Qiren, when drunk, did not become easier to manipulate. Instead, it appeared that he simply lost all control of his ability to moderate his interest in the Lan sect rules or obscure musical theory and would therefore proceed to talk about those subjects at monotonous and excruciating length to anyone who would listen, and several who would really rather not. Lao Nie had told him about it after one such incident, claiming that he had nearly burst a rib laughing at Wen Ruohan’s worsening expression as Lan Qiren earnestly hung off his arm all evening, refusing to be shaken off, and dictating to him the entire history, development, and applicable exceptions of just one of the rules regarding the use of the Lan sect forehead ribbon.

With quotes.

(In his embarrassment, Lan Qiren had responded by muttering something about the importance of citing appropriate authority, causing Lao Nie to nearly burst another rib.)

He wasn’t sure why Wen Ruohan would bother inviting that sort of behavior again, especially when he had already requested in advance that should such circumstances ever occur again, Lao Nie was to have pity on him and drag him back to his bed before he went on too long. And yet – reviewing the day’s proposed schedule in his mind – it seemed likely that Wen Ruohan did have such intentions.

For some reason, it made Lan Qiren worry.

[how-about-you-rogal-dont]

Wrote a thing, felt like sharing

some background:

I'm an aspiring writer, and I have a collection of CSM, CU, and general Chaos OCs do not steal blah blah blah (feel free to steal). I decided to write a bit about how their most recent addition joined the crew! Specifically, a Sororitas Meleficarum of the Order of the Verdant Chalice called Zethra. This bit of writing is a bit long, so I'll put it under a read more. TW for: violence, nurgle shit, space marines. Enjoy, feedback appreciated.

The inner halls of the Seventh Hell were a maze of lush gardens and fetid swamps, overtaken by the crawling filth that marched with Norvegicus’ every step. This ship had been under his sway for a very long time. Hives of unknowable daemonic parasites honeycombed the walls, squeaking rodents scuttled underfoot, and the buzzing of flies threatened to drown out any spoken communication. I could feel disgust rising in my throat with every step we took further into this despicably lush realm. It was difficult to read the other’s faces, sealed as they were beneath layers of steel and ceramite. None of us dared to bare an inch of skin in this place.

I looked over my shoulder, Cataphractii plate growling with killing instinct as my eyes fell upon Zethra. Despite her desertion from Norvegicus’ host, my skin still crawled at the thought of having my back watched by a member of the Plague God’s chosen. How much further? I did not bother holding my disgust away from the sending.

There was a slight click as Zethra tuned in over the vox. “Two hundred meters ahead, then we’ll be in the welcoming hall.” If she noticed my contempt, she did not care to remark on it.

“What manner of warship requires a welcoming hall?” Came Kalus’ voice a moment later. The duelist-marksman was walking with a casual gait, baroque bolt rifle slung over one shoulder. His helmet, like his armor, was the deep amethyst of his birth legion, with an obscenely loud crest of white feathers running down the middle. In all things, ostentation. Kalus never changed.

Djehouti spoke next. “This vessel was not always solely an implement of destruction. During the great crusade, when it still bore its original name, it would be host to all manner of dignitaries. Visitors from other legions, surrendering leaders of target systems, the like. Though I am surprised they have kept it for its original purpose.” Djehouti walked briskly, clearly struggling to keep up with the lumbering gait of my terminator plate. A brush against his mind revealed a certain distance in his thoughts, as though he were not entirely paying attention to the situation. I closed my mind off from the others, sending my thoughts to him and him alone.

Are you well, brother dearest?

Zandros. Yes, all is well. Forgive my absence. This ship brings back memories. Of course it did. It reminded him of our time aboard the Endurance during Horus’ rebellion. It stank of the same decay.

You are remembering our time as Ahriman’s emissaries to the Fourteenth. It was not a question. With my brother’s memory fading more with every day as the Wych’s toxins worked through his mind, any memory he could manage to grasp was worth ruminating on.

Djehouti’s response came slowly, tinged with more emotions than I could name. Yes.

We were younger then.

Young. Foolish. Power-hungry. A nostalgic smirk tinged his thoughts.

We might not have changed as much as we would like to think.

At this, he gave a single, forceful exhalation. After a moment of silence between us, with only the trudging squash of our armor against the filthy deck to break the monotony, he sent again: Zandros, should we survive this excursion, I have something to ask of you.

Anything, brother. What would you wish of me?

Djehouti smiled beneath his helm, coloring his thoughts with a whistful sadness. It can wait. I nodded.

“We’re here.” Zethra’s voice came abruptly, with a fuzz of static. I returned my gaze to the corridor ahead of us. It open up as we stepped forward, widening in size from a hive street to a grand causeway large enough to admit a Warhound Titan. It was here that Norvegicus’ touch was most evident. The ‘welcoming hall’ did not resemble the gilded splendor of an Imperial-built spacecraft. Instead, it was covered, every inch, in growths of flora both natural and empyrean. The room was lined with twisted, pale mangrove trees, drinking greedily from shallow pools of green scum that spread beneath their shade. A thick coating of mud covered the floor, with mushrooms of every color and shape sprouting from beneath the diseased soil. The walls were covered completely in snaking alien vines, bulbous pustules of ichor pulsing at irregular intervals. The ceiling was hung with lichen, smothering the lumiglobes almost completely. Cackling Nurglings stalked and butchered each other for sport in a twisted mockery of children at play. All in all, the room was so overgrown as to leave only a single foot path traveling down the center clear of the grove’s touch. But the centerpiece of the room was undoubtably the warrior standing sentinel at the far edge.

He was an astartes, and massive even for one of the XIV. Like I, he was clad in Cataphractii plate. That was where the similarities ended. His armor was a rich green, the trim a burnished bronze. He carried no visible firearm, instead leaning on a massive two-handed chainscythe. What singled him out amongst his brethren of the death guard was the total lack of decay visible on his armor. Not a single fleck of rust could be seen, not a single dribble of pus or twisting bone growth. Indeed, to the naked eye, he seemed completely devoid of Nurgle’s taint. But beneath that clean exterior, there was a certainty. A fear. Where other champions of the Seventh exemplified to terror of rotting flesh, the pungent smell of blight, this man seethed from within with the hushed fear of infection. Held breaths, averted eyes, a populace knowing there was disease among them, but not knowing when or from who it would come. He was the knowledge that every breath you take could doom you, that shaking your neighbor’s hand would have you dead within a week, the simple truth that you were not safe and that the threat could not possibly be fought against. His helm swiveled to meet our gaze, red lenses glinting in the sickly light.

“Miscreants. You walk the halls of hallowed ground. Your unholy sanitation is an affront to the beauty of these luscious halls.” His voice was deep and harsh, with the barest hint of a Barbarusii accent. The vox-grille of his helm rendering it a predator’s growl.

Mizi’s mind connected with mine in an instant. I’ve got a shot. The sending came with a series of images: Crosshairs held steady over a green helm, the kick of a rifle thumping against a shoulder, the red smear of a head bursting.

I stepped forward, my external vox opening with a barely-audible click. “I am Zandros Lucarian, and I speak for the Ashen Hunters. State your name, that I might know whose death I command.”

A series of sharp barks escaped the warrior’s helm. After a moment, I realized he was laughing at me. “You speak for a mongrel warband of bastards and thin-bloods. But you shall know my name. I am Holgius, seventy-seventh scythe of the Deathshroud.”

The minds of those at my side sharpened instantly. Before us stood a member of the Deathshroud, the chosen blades of the lord of the Seventh Legion. This was no petty champion, no pit brawler elevated above his brothers by savagery alone. His deeds had been enough to draw the attention of the Rotten King himself. To face him would be to invite ruin in a thousand different forms.

And so, of course, it was Kalus who stepped forward, twinned cutlasses slithering from their sheaths with a crackle of energy. “I’ve always wanted to kill a Deathshroud,” he purred. “Never thought that one would volunteer.”

Holgius did not turn his gaze from me. “Does this wailing peacock speak for you, Zandros Lucarian?”

A poorly-contained snicker distracted me as Mizi’s aura smeared with mirth.

“In as many words.” The challenge had been issued. Kalus knew this dance. Like the Samar-Hai of ancient terra, warbands were fond of sending champions forth to duel to the death before the commencement of a slaughter. It was clear that the rotting creatures that served as crew aboard the Seventh Hell understood the significance of Kalus’ headstrong challenge, too. Obese nurglings crowded the fetid canopy above us, clamoring for a better look at the contest. Through my sixth sense, I felt other, more ethereal eyes lock on to our plight.

The Gods were watching.

Holgius stepped forward, revving his chainscythe in a squall of tortured metal. Kalus did likewise, his blades twirling in lazy, lethal arcs. The Deathshroud regarded him for a moment, then rolled his shoulders into a hunched combat stance. My champion crossed his blades over his sternum, lowering himself into a catlike stance. “You seem confident.”

Holgius’ response was a husky, rasping laugh like a knife scraping the rust from ancient metal. “When set against such a meager creature as you? I see no reason why I should not be.” He had begun to pace their arena now, his boots trudging puddles in the floor.

Kalus raised his blades to compensate for his foe’s movement. “Now you seem overconfident.”

The first blow was struck faster than the eye could follow. With a snarl of servos, Holgius swept his weapon towards Kalus. Kalus was already ducking below, spinning into a strike that was both parry and riposte. The scythe roared harmlessly over his head, guided further upwards by a flick of his left blade. His right was already lashing out like a silver viper to bite into his opponent’s knee. There was a flash as the strike connected, but the armor held. Kalus danced out of engagement range, and I did not need my psychic gifts to see the wry smile spreading below his faceplate.

Holgius was already spinning, keeping the momentum from his first missed stroke into a crushing downward blow. I watched frantic realization bloom in Kalus’ mind as he realized that the warrior had guessed his plan, and was already striking towards where he stood crouched. Even he could not evade in time, and so he crossed his blades over his head, braced to take the strike. It impacted with a scream of micro-engines. Pain flooded Kalus’ aura as greenstick fractures began to spread down his arms. He was holding the blade, mere inches from his marble helm, but the clash of weapons was straining his swords’ power fields to their limit. Thousands of miniscule impacts from the teeth of the chainscythe built until the haze around the blades began to flicker and dull.

Kalus spun aside, letting the natural weight of his opponent’s weapon buy him precious nanoseconds as its tip ground against the muck. Two more flashing strikes thudded into Holgius’ side, opening deep gashes in the ceramite. Holgius lashed out with a hand, thudding a fist against Kalus’ helm. Kalus soared through the air, landing with a splat against a pale, warp-touched tree.

Holgius did not pursue his quarry, instead looking down at his dented armor. The gashes opened by Kalus’ strikes had not penetrated his plate. Neither had my champion angled his strikes for the weaker joints in his opponent’s hide. Holgius raised his gaze to Kalus, now standing with defiance in his eyes. “You are mocking me.” The barely-controlled rage beneath his voice shone like a beacon to my sight.

Kalus was rising from where he had fallen against the fetid flora. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His breathing was ragged and labored; the pain that smeared his aura evident of a punctured lung. Still he stood, mischief painted across his stance as it was his face.

Holgius gestured to the rents in his armor. “Three strikes against me,” he said accusingly, “All of them botched. Every one could have been fatal. You are mocking me.” The grating fury in his voice had been restrained to a dull seething just below his skin.

Kalus shrugged. “Well…” He struck again, faster than we could see. Holgius swept his blade upwards, but too slow. Like lancing a boil, the blade in Kalus’ right hand plunged into Holgius’ forehead with terrifying ease. As his opponent wavered, not yet realizing he was dead, Kalus met his eye, their faceplates inches apart. “…Maybe a little.”

What happened next is difficult to describe. Not in terms of the physicality of the matter, for what took place was simple, if incredible. Holgius went slack, held aloft by misfiring nerves, hands twitching in the final throes of a death rightfully earned. And then… he bloomed. His armor split apart, ceramite shearing away and peeling back like the petals of a diseased lotus. In its place, bloated, pestilent flesh swelled and bulged outwards, throwing Kalus’ sword free. Knots of warped bone split forth from his shoulders, piercing skywards with the promise of infection. Row upon row of greenish fangs crowded his human teeth. While all of this happened, he was growing. We watched on in horror as he swelled from a giant of a man to a corpulent, heaving mass of filth. The Daemon within him, so well camoflauged until now, had been forced into the open by its host’s death.

What my sixth sense saw was altogether more complicated. In his human form, Holgius had been choked thick with the warp-spun false memories of a population terrified of the plague in their midst. Now, with his possessor revealed, those emotions took on a whole new context. Before me stood a daemon born of realization. For so long, the fear it gorged itself on had been limited to the sight of one’s neighbors covering their face, the scent of decay on the air, the primal certainty that something was terribly wrong. But here was the terror of a society advanced enough to look within, and realize that it was dying. The full extent of the infection revealed, and there was nothing to do but watch.

The thing that had been Holgius was on Kalus before my champion could react. Bloated, sore-pocked fists pummeled into Kalus with preternatural strength. A horrific shriek of tearing metal shuddered through us as Kalus’ breastplate split, caving inward under the force of the daemonic assault. Holgius grasped the broken pieces and hauled the cavity open even wider, exposing pale flesh to the diseased air of the Seventh Hell. A weak gurgle escaped from Kalus, carried to us over the vox. Holgius raised his fists to finish the job.

I commanded his death with a single word, spoken clearly and calmly over our group’s Vox.

“Mizi.”

The cracking report of a las-fusil accompanied the split-second in which the entire chamber was washed with red light. When the momentary blindness had cleared, Holgius stood slack-jawed over Kalus. Mizi’s shot had scorched a deep, blackened pit into his misshapen head. Steam curled from the crater as his dying mind struggled to comprehend what was going on. The daemon riding within his veins howled in rage as its handhold on reality began to slip away. As his spirit began to fade, Holgius met my eyes.

“C-co… ward…”

An insult that had long since lost its bite. I informed the Deathshroud as such, before tossing his limp corpse aside with a whim of telekinesis. I pulsed my orders throughout the chamber, calling my bound to follow.

Forward.

I was nearing the far end of the chamber when Kalus spoke. He was a ruin, his helm torn off to allow him to breath through a mangled face, his torso a bloody ruin, bone protruding near his pectorals. Still, he stood, swaying back and forth as he forced words out.

“I… would have… had him…” I smirked at that. A rudimentary scan of his mind revealed he truly believed it, too. He began to waver, and his legs would have given out if Mizi had not arrived at his side, steadying him. “I would have had him.” He repeated, firmly this time. Mizi shot me a look. I didn’t need my second sight to register the exasperation in her thoughts.

I am sure you would have, cousin. I extended a hand, willing his riven flesh to reknit itself. Kalus winced as the psychic impulses began to do their work. I am not so naïve to believe I can be rid of you that easily.

[herelaymythoughts]

Preface

Artemis: It’s ok to care a lot. To care too much. I think it’s really sweet that you care so deeply about everyone in your life. I don’t find it silly at all. I don’t think you’re a stupid girl. I don’t think you’re weak and I don’t think you should change this about yourself. Make a million playlists for a million different heartbreaks because at the end of your life, wouldn’t you rather have those memories to hold on to? Remember them? Know that you allowed yourself to feel such depth? The Fowl: Janus tells me that I’m looking for love in the wrong places, and I feel like I’m wasting my emotions, time, energy, and grief. Artemis: So what? So what if you are? Even if it comes from a misguided place those feelings and emotions are still real. If you’re looking for the Osaka Castle in Kyoto you won’t find what you’re looking for but you may stumble upon the Fushimi Inari Taisha, something equally fascinating and deserving of exploration. Are you going to wallow because you didn’t find what you were looking for? Do you throw your hands up and go home or do you climb it and appreciate the things you find along the way? The Fowl: That’s a good one. I’m mad at how good that metaphor is. But I still feel that they’re just a bunch of misguided steps that could have been avoided. Shiva tells me that I seek discomfort and stress because it’s the only condition I actually feel comfortable in. Artemis: So that’s something you work on not something you should invalidate or feel bad about. It’s not your fault that you are like this. It’s not your fault. The Fowl: But I am so self-destructive. And other-destructive. I feel like a tornado who can’t stop hurting everyone and everything in her path including herself. Artemis: A tornado forms due to the build-up of the pressure of a million gusts of wind. A tornado doesn’t wish to form herself. It’s not the tornado’s fault. It’s not your fault. The Fowl: I feel like I’m too old to be listening to Lorde. Artemis: You’re never too old to listen to Lorde. The Fowl: Really? Artemis: Really. The Fowl: I feel fat. I am fat. Artemis: You’re not fat. How is it even possible that you feel fat? The Fowl: I don’t know. I felt the most beautiful when I was underweight. I like the anorexic look. Artemis: But anorexia is a disease; why would you want to look diseased? You look and you are so healthy right now. Full of life and power and energy. The Fowl: But I was more beautiful then. Artemis: *gives up* The Fowl: I’m addicted to heartbreak. Artemis: Yes, yes you are. And you go to great lengths to find and manufacture it in your head baby. You use it to self-soothe. But it’s alright. It’s not your fault. It’s the only way in which you existed in your childhood: heartbroken. All you experienced was heartbreak, all you knew was heartbreak. You don't know anything else. The only things you knew were fear, guilt, and shame. You have no idea how sincerely happy you have the opportunity, the right to be. But you’ll get there one day. The Fowl: A stable relationship could never fulfill me the way a situationship doomed from the start could. Artemis: And that’s why you go after all these unavailable men. Physically, emotionally, worse when it’s both. Because you already know how it ends and there’s nothing you crave more than the heartbreak. And that’s why you’re so scared of commitment because you know that it’ll be the complete opposite of what you know and you’re afraid of being out of your comfort zone, afraid of letting yourself find happiness. Afraid of breaking the chains that have held you since before you were born. You’re not gonna wake up one day and decide that today’s the day you’re ready to commit. That it’s been 3-5 years since you said that maybe you’ll be ready in 3-5 years. Oh baby you have so much to learn and so much room to grow. You always have and you always will. The Fowl: Do you think that people who were loved properly as children can be artists? Artemis: I don't know. I mean they sure can be and maybe I'm just romanticizing trauma but I feel that having no trauma limits the degrees of intensity to which you can feel. Thus, those who’ve experienced the lowest lows can too depict the highest of highs. Are all those who are traumatized artists? No. Does it hurt? Definitely not. The Fowl: Wow. That makes sense actually. But then again you’re just a figment of my imagination, so I have no idea if that actually has any merit. Artemis: You can’t discount us like that. You love having conversations with me. The Fowl: I know I do. Higher highs, lower lows, but it’s only fun for a while before you realize that all you want eventually is stability right? Artemis: Yeah, but you’re not there yet. You’re getting there but admit it Lucia you love this feeling. You love this self-induced, subconsciously orchestrated heartbreak. You fucking love it. Lucia: I really do. The Fowl: Do you think that people want to read what I have to write? Artemis: They absolutely do. You know this. They’ve told you. The Fowl: I know but I feel so silly. Artemis: We’ve been over this. How many people do you think exist who are like you? The Fowl: Probably tons. Artemis: Probably. And the way you are able to articulate exactly as all those people feel? Think about how many people feel alone. How many people don’t have the incredible friends that you have who help you through this? Think of how much your writing could help them. Your writing has so much value. “Flaws, Chaos, Wreckage and All” That’s what you wanted to call it right? Plus you're hot. It doesn’t even need to be that good. The Fowl: Ok, insulting. Artemis: I’m your favourite person to talk to, aren’t I? The Fowl: Yeah, probably. Do you really think that people want to hear what I have to say? Artemis: Remember when we realized that we need to live as if we’re rich white men? Do you think that a rich white man ever doubts whether people want to hear what he has to say? A white man you know is writing a TREATISE. That white man thinks that what he has to say has enough value to be considered a TREATISE, darling. Darling me oh my. Do you know why all philosophers are rich white men? It’s because they’re the only ones with enough confidence to publish what they write, baby. Human greatness rests on humanity’s willingness and ability to communicate it. The Fowl: Wow, Jesus you’re convincing. Ok well. I already proclaimed it and Dionysus has already promised to buy at least 10 copies when I publish it so. Artemis: You already spoke it into the world baby. Self publish like Rumi, Su Shi, Rupi Kaur, and all the other greats. *The author would like to make a note that the above phrase is meant to be read sarcastically* *The author would also like to note that this is, in fact, an homage to Hofstadter* The Fowl: Ok, so what’s the first step? Should I wait until I have enough good things to say? Artemis: No, you’ve already outgrown some of the stuff you’ve written in the past. Why do you think that there will come a point when you have gathered enough experiences worth reading about and that’s when you’re going to be ready to publish? You should only feel that way on your death bed. Your life is going to keep happening and boy, I know yours is a damn interesting one. Filled with so much drama and chaos and love and loss. Remember what you’ve been told: “You are loved from all corners of the world.” The Fowl: Ok, so I just do it then? It’s not... Artemis: Why do you even have doubts? The Fowl: Because I don’t believe in myself. Artemis: I believe in you. And I’m literally the goddess of wisdom. The Fowl: And I’m just a chick. And a fool.  Artemis: That was funny. The Fowl: Why can’t you just laugh? Why announce it? Artemis: There are levels to this shit ok? The Fowl: Wait hold on Athena is the goddess of wisdom.

Artemis: Wait fuck you’re right how did I fuck that up? Rick Riordan would be so disappointed. 

The Fowl: Whatever. Back to the thing. We’re calling it “Flaws, Chaos, Wreckage and All” right?

Artemis. I’m not writing this book, you are. Is that what you want to call–” The Fowl: Yes! That is exactly what I want to call my anthology. Artemis: Darling you’re misusing that term. The Fowl: Then what do we call it? A book of poetry or prose or writing doesn’t quite cover it. Artemis: Call it a treatise. A treatise on emotion. The Fowl: Holy fuck I fucking love it. “Flaws, Chaos, Wreckage and All: A Treatise on Emotion” by Y. H. Zhang. FUCK I LOVE IT HOLY FUCK. Artemis: I’m glad you like it, dear. 🥺 I’m very proud of you, dear. You’re one of the smartest people I know. One of the smartest, most self-aware, most conscientious, most courageous, most loving, most thoughtful, most beautiful, most righteous people that I know. You really really don’t give yourself enough credit. The Fowl: That’s a lot coming from you, Artemis. Artemis: And I mean it. I mean every bit. See how I didn’t include some things like “selfless” or “kind”? Because we’re still working on that. But the ones I said I mean with full sincerity. The Fowl: I don’t know how to handle all this praise. Artemis: Accept it, dear it’s yours. Anyone who knows you could not be clearer of this. The Fowl: Hehe yeah, I think you’re right. My friends do praise me a lot. But I think I tune it out because I don’t love myself. Artemis: We all do. It’s a process. The Fowl: This conversation seems drawn out. Artemis: Does it? Or are you simply uncomfortable being praised? The Fowl: ummmmmhhMmm Artemis: Because I’ve just started. I can go on and on for days about how magnificent of a person you are. I mean I can also go on and on for days about the mistakes you’ve made and the people you’ve hurt too. But that’s the beauty of it. If you’re not making mistakes you’re not learning. You’re not going out of your comfort zone. You’re capping the level of your opponent, Life, at only 30 exp. If you’re always winning at life you’re not advancing in it. I once read an article that said that you should be failing at least half of the goals you set. Because if all your goals are within reason and achievable, then you’re not setting them high enough. You’re selling yourself short. So become a poet, and a musician, and a choreographer and dancer, and get a Norwegian green card and a regular green card and have four kids and get married and stay married. And have your own flower shop, publish and write and read to your heart’s content, be an equestrian, surf and dive and break the world record for women’s freediving. Speak nineteen languages and fall in love and stay in love and remain in love. And be buried under a tree that your great-grandkids can play under. And raise kind, loving children and cook vegan food for all your friends and have Lucia’s Club be a thing and love so much. And love so much. And love so much. The Fowl: That was really really intimate. It makes me want to publish even more. Artemis: It should! The Fowl: Wow, you really are just as insightful and knowledgeable about life as any of the men I’ve put on pedestals. Artemis: I am literally a statue placed on top of a pedestal. The Fowl: I think I need to apologize to you. Artemis: I’m listening. The Fowl: I’m sorry that I don’t believe in you enough. I’m sorry that I don’t love you enough. I’m sorry that I treat you in any way other than with kindness and love and compassion. I’m sorry that you’re the last person I’m apologizing to. I’m sorry that I’m going to keep hurting you despite knowing all this. But I want you to know that I’m trying, every day, to love you more. Trying, I promise you. Sometimes it’s easier and sometimes it’s oh so difficult but I’m sorry and I promise you, despite how scary it is to make that commitment, to keep loving you more and more every day. To console you, to trust you, to believe in you, to nurture you, to nourish you, to give you everything you need to succeed, even though I’m not even sure what that means. I promise to take care of you. Mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, intellectually. I promise to not let you get carried away with your playtime, to get involved with things that are bad for you, and to cultivate the things that are good for you. Because you really are yourself such a treasure. You yourself are as brilliant and incredible, and beautiful, and deserving of love, deserving of care, as any of the men you cherish. I am so sorry that I’ve been bad to you. Artemis: Thank you. It’s not your fault. It’s all written in the stars or in a book somewhere. I’m really glad that you can acknowledge this. I’m also really proud of you. You’re young to have realized this. Many people go their entire lives without ever even meeting their Artemis. The Fowl: I know, I’m so, so lucky to have you. Artemis: I’m lucky to have you.

[valdomarx]

maybe in another life

Steve/Tony, MCU, post-Infinity War, major angst. Warnings for character death and mental illness.

When Steve thought back to that day, he memories felt unreal, as if he were watching a movie about someone else’s life.

He’d seen Thanos grab Tony by the neck. He heard the tortured wrenching of the armor even over the sounds of the battle. Thanos had looked down at Tony with a distasteful grimace and tossed him aside with no more consideration than if he were swatting a fly.

Steve had seen Tony flying through the air, impacting a concrete wall hard enough to smash it, heard the sickening screech as rubble and debris rained down on top of him.

He vaguely remembered sprinting towards the pile, throwing chunks of concrete and metal aside, digging until his knuckles bled and stuck to the inside of his gloves.

But mostly he remembered that when he found Tony, his armor was split by deep, ugly gashes and the ground beneath his body was stained crimson.

The arc reactor had sputtered and gone dim, and when he ripped the faceplate off the suit, Tony’s eyes were blank and vacant, staring at nothing. He wasn’t breathing.

He’d heard someone yelling, then realized it was him. The sounds of battle faded into the background as he stared in horror at the crushed shell of Tony’s armor lying in a pool of blood.

It might have been hours later that he felt a hand on his shoulder. The streets around them were quiet and it was dark. “Steve,” Natasha said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “He’s gone, Steve.”

No, Steve decided. No, he would not accept this. Not when they had finally managed to mend the rift between them, to start trusting each other and working together again. Not when they had only just found their way back to each other.

He was going to save Tony. He was Captain America, and saving people was what he did.

  Since then, he’d dreamed of Tony every night. Sometimes he was watching Tony fall, reaching out to catch him but feeling the suit’s metal fingers slip through his own. But most nights he dreamed of ordinary days in the tower. The two of them cooking dinner or watching a movie. Steve standing in Tony’s workshop and admiring the creative chaos.

In his dreams, Tony would smile and rag him for being so concerned. “I’m doing just fine,” he’d say with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t worry about me. And don’t worry about you either. You won’t be alone for long.”

“Tell me what to do,” Steve begged. “I’ll do anything. Please. Just tell me how to bring you back.”

Tony shrugged one shoulder. “Wish I knew, Cap.”

There had been a memorial service. Some big event in New York, where most of the superheroes on the planet had turned out to pay their respects to Tony.

Rhodes had given a speech. It had probably been very moving.

Steve didn’t go. What was the point in memorializing Tony? He’d be back soon. As if the minor issue of death could ever keep a man like Tony Stark down.

Tony was coming back, Steve knew. He wasn’t going to mourn him.

Steve had heard it first. The team had been fighting off an army of Doombots who were marching on Central Park for god only knew what reason.

Thor was in the air, firing down lightning strikes which ignited the robots while Sam circled below him and picked off any stragglers.

Nat and Clint were making their way to Doom’s underground bunker to take him out at the source. Steve and Bucky were on the ground, protecting civilians and herding the Doombots into the range of Thor’s attacks.

A stray blast flew past his ear, and suddenly pained blossomed in his shoulder as an energy beam clipped him. He staggered, pain whiting out his vision for a second.

“Steve!” He could hear Bucky yelling. But there was something else too, just on the verge of his hearing: the high pitched whine of repulsors.

Steve smiled to himself as he dropped to his knees. That sound was so familiar, it felt like he had been waiting for it to be back in his life. Everything was going to be okay.

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t see a streak of red and gold armor, didn’t hear a teasing voice over the comms. There was only Bucky, running towards him and grabbing up the shield to cover him from the Doombots.

There was no sign of Tony, but Steve had heard him. He knew what that meant. It meant that Tony was alive, and that he was coming back.

The next time had been late at night. Steve had been working through a thick stack of reports, trying to finish them before the team meeting tomorrow. The team needed him to lead. They needed him to be strong. He had to protect them now.

His left eye was twitching again, like it always did when he was tired. The words of the report he was reading swum and dissolved into incomprehensible scribbles.

He stared at the paper, wondering why it seemed so far away. Why everything felt liquid and illusory, like the edges of the room were dissolving around him.

Suddenly, he felt a presence behind him. Someone ran a hand soothingly across his shoulders.

“Hey, Cap,” a familiar voice said warmly. “Miss me?”

“It’s called dissociation,” Sam had told him. “It’s a coping mechanism for trauma. You’re not bad or weak for experiencing this.”

Steve nodded along. He wanted to humor Sam, even though Sam clearly didn’t understand.

“But Steve, this isn’t healthy. To do what you do, you need to be able to distinguish fantasy from reality. You need professional help.”

“I can still do my job,” Steve snapped.

“I don’t care about your job, I care about you. If you don’t deal with this, you could hurt someone.” Sam looked grave, but his words were meaningless. The people around Steve always ended up hurt in any case. There was nothing he could do about that.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Sam said, worry etched around his eyes.

Good, thought Steve. At least that way he could see Tony again.

Another day, another mission, each one blending into the next in an endless parade of drab violence. Identify the target, take down the target, rinse, repeat.

It was like walking underwater. Everything was distant and unimportant.

They were fighting off a gang of demons summoned from some hell dimension or other, filthy creatures which spat flames and had sharp, venomous claws. Steve kicked one away from him, bringing his shield down hard onto the head of another.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw a warm blue glow reflected off bright shiny red metal. Steve’s heart raced as he scanned the area and saw Tony pinned down by a group of demons.

The beasts were converging on him fast, piling atop one another to get to him. Steve didn’t stop to think, throwing himself out of cover and towards the center of the fighting.

“Steve!” Natasha’s voice carried sharply across the battlefield. “Steve, get back here! It’s not safe!”

He ignored her. He had to get to Tony. Why couldn’t she see that Tony needed their help?

As he raced toward the pile of demons, slinging his shield ahead of him, he glanced round and caught sight of Natasha. She didn’t look angry anymore. Now she just looked sad.

Steve needed to know more. He needed to know how to help Tony; whether he should be building a portal to transport him or casting a spell to guide him or merely waiting for him to find his way home. He had to see Stephen Strange.

His trip to the New York Sanctum took longer than he would have liked. Being poked and prodded by Strange and being run through a battery of tests reminded him unpleasantly of being a lab rat. It was odd that Strange spent more time scanning him with medical equipment than he did testing him with magical implements.

“You must listen to me,” Strange said in a firm tone once the testing was done. “These visions are not mystical in nature. They are psychological.”

“Did your magic tell you that?” Steve asked sarcastically, the disdain showing clearly in his voice. As if he needed a sorcerer to explain the world to him. He should have know that Strange wouldn’t understand.

“No, Captain, this is not magic, this is neurobiology. You have aberrant activity in your primary visual cortex. It is causing you to see things that are not there. These hallucinations lead you to believe that Tony is alive and with you, but he is not. You need to accept this.”

That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? Steve didn’t believe that Tony was alive. The evidence against it was overwhelming. But when he saw Tony, he knew that he was here with him. This knowledge was more certain that anything else in his life. How could he ignore it? How could he abandon Tony again?

It had been a long day, and it felt good to unwind. They’d trained hard this morning; they had earned a break.

Tony was telling a silly anecdote about the time he’d been chased from a fancy hotel by a pack of tabloid reporters who thought he was romancing the Chilean president’s wife. Steve laughed as Tony described hiding out in a cleaning closet and trying to make his escape.

Tony always had such good stories. Steve loved the way he told them, so energetic and self-effacing and full of life.

Steve was still giggling when he heard the door open behind him. He tried to hide his annoyance at the interruption and turned to see who it was.

Bucky walked in, his face pinched. “Steve,” he said very gently. “Steve, you’re doing it again.”

Steve woke up feeling, for once, warm. No dreams of the ice or of falling, at least none that he remembered. The bed was snug and comfortable.

He rolled over to see Tony, his hair mussed and his eyes still half asleep. “Morning, Cap,” he mumbled with a soft smile.

Something nagged at the back of Steve’s mind. There had been something that he was supposed to do today.

“Morning, Tony,” he said and reached over to brush the hair from Tony’s forehead. Tony turned his face and nuzzled against Steve’s hand.

Ah well. Whatever he was supposed to do probably wasn’t important. He would stay here, with Tony, where it was safe and cosy.

Someone was hammering on his door. Steve tuned it out. It was probably just Fury come to lecture him some more. Or one of his teammates, trying to smile but failing to hide their pity when they looked at him.

Steve didn’t need anyone’s pity.

What time was it? The blinds were drawn, but a dull, sickly light leaked into the room.

Eventually, the banging on the door stopped and Steve let out a breath.

He turned to look at Tony. “They don’t understand,” he said flatly.

Tony sighed and took Steve’s face in his hand, running a thumb across his cheek. “They don’t,” he agreed.

“It’s not fair,” Steve said, and it wasn’t like him to be petulant but he was so sick of losing everything. “We deserve to be happy. When do we get to be happy?”

Sadness flickered across Tony’s face for a second before it was hidden behind a too-casual shrug. “Maybe in the next life,” he said.

[discogs]

bringing life to the should-be-alive: the best covers of classic songs - a list

 in some's musical careers, an artists first and sometimes only hit will be a cover. for the dexys midnight runners, one of their first hits was a magnificent cover of van morrison's 1972 track 'jackie wilson said (i'm in heaven when you smile),' for others they don't get such a fantastic rep (see alien ant farm's dismal cover of michael jackson's 1987 hit 'smooth criminal').  a cover version should be a new take, a different take on a classic or lesser known track. it should revive what it's covering and bring to the table what the song had initially lacked. the main key to a good cover is revival and creativity, something that a lot of artists fall short on. 

 below is a short list of covers that do exactly this, therefore making them not only unique to the artist but also giving the songs a new kind of life.

1. robyn hitchcock: the ghost in you (2014) the psychedelic furs: the ghost in you (1984)

 robyn hitchcock, the eclectic uplifting ex-frontman of the legendary proto-punk band 'the soft boys' has often left followers of his floored by his innovative music and bursts of uniqueness. as one of the most distinguished vocalists of his time (standing along side the likes of jonathan richman and tom verlaine within his genre), he has brought more than enough to the table than we could have ever asked for.  however, in his recent 2014 record 'the man upstairs,' hitchcock opted for an all-cover, all-acoustic album. this record has many brilliant covers on it including a slightly more erotic version of roxy music's 'to turn you on,' and a lighter version of the doors' 'the crystal ship.'   yet the most outstanding track on this album is the opening track, a soft, careful cover of the psychedelic furs' 1984 single 'the ghost in you.' while the original is riddled with a quaint main synth riff and choir-like backing vocals in the chorus, is it contrasted heavily by richard butler's almost monotonous bowie-esque vocals. it's a beautiful sweeping song of love and confusion that is very much of it time. but at many times it seems as though it comes on too strong for such a sad topic. some times contrasts like that can be good, but in this song - despite its undeniable genius - it almost feels as though the sentiment is lost in the power of the execution.   in hitchcock's version, the gentle guitar immediately strikes a sense of concern. it plays almost idle, as though the notes themselves are twiddling their thumbs. not soon after the initial impression we are kindly met by robyn's iconic voice gently brushing over iconic lyrics such as 'falling over you is the news of the day,' 'stars come down in you,' 'ain't it just like rain?' and potentially the most impactful his loving delivery of the repetition of the word 'love' in the latter half of the second verse. robyn's voice suits the cotton-soft emotion of the lyrics and gives them the life they deserve. his version is very much like the first chirping of birds in the morning, like sunshine warming your face after a long winter, which is exactly what the song needed - some love.

2. bauhaus: ziggy stardust (1982) david bowie: ziggy stardust (1972)

  i have no need to tell you of the grand impact of david bowie's 1972 record 'rise and fall of ziggy stardust and the spiders from mars.' if you're reading this, you know. in the context of the conceptual album, the song sings sadly. it is a tale of a being who lost his head in the midst of fame and fortune with allusions to abandonment by friends, very similar to the exile and death of rolling stone's founder brian jones. it chronicles the career of well endowed superstar from mars, who falls victim to the human ego he had been trying to dismantle by starting a musical career to begin with.   perhaps its due to the deficiency of proper effects for the time that the song lacks a certain passion that you swear oughta be there. the genius guitar of mick ronson has all the indications of a grand performance, however it stays trapped in mono. even bowie's vocals feel muted, where's the hype? where's the chaos of ziggy's career? has the beer light gone out?   it wasn't until bowie devotee peter murphy came along in 1982 with his ground breaking band of bauhaus that the song was given the life it deserved. murphy has a knack for impersonating bowie, but in his time to completely replicate bowie, he instead displays his own personally unique voice. daniel ash's constant stream of guitar is relentless, we are never released from the excitement of this track. even the verses, which were originally quiet, have the same electric energy in them. every beginning of a chorus is kicked off with kevin haskin's quick and powerful drumming, and murphy's vocals split through the revolutionary song of demise like a knife.   the beer light has been switched on, the triumph of a hero has been brought to life. the cover gives the original all that bowie had been aiming for - excitement, energy, chaos, rile, all of it. it transforms the song into the true anthem it was meant to be, filled with spinning turmoil and a constant 'in your face' attitude, the song ends with the last cry of '... ziggy played guitar' as a drum roll and screeching guitar leaves us breathless in the midst of it's product.

3. marching church: dark end of the street (2015) percy sledge: dark end of the street (1967)

  percy sledge's 'dark end of the street' is the exact kind of forbidden love song you can imagine your high school sweetheart and you dancing to haphazardly with faces flushed red with love. it echoes of 'earth angel,' in many ways, making the aspect of the love the two shared being wrong even more powerful. throughout the entire track, the wedding-like backing vocals and instrumentation remind us that this is a doomed romance. and though sledge's voice conveys a level of longing that is necessary for the subject, the darkness of the street the two lovers meet on is lost on the track.  the mentioned darkness that hides their wrongs is not expressed in the sorrow filled song, a love that is described as a sin seems too sweet still. in a way, the impending end is polished over by sentimentality.   danish lead singer of well known bands such as iceage and vår, however, does not let the grim fate of this love affair slip from his grips. book ending a triumphant debut record, elias rønnenfelt whispers the lyrics once belted as though speaking directly to his lover through a vinyl record. the version is quiet, the depth of the blackness of shadows conveys through a bass line that is every present in the song. the background samples of cars passing, faint doors closing, subtle drums, percussion that reminds one of footsteps from a rickety second story. the covers conveys all the forbidden mischief of two unfortunately lovestruck individuals. you can picture yourself at the end of the street, whimpering cries of adoration to your lover in secret.   rønnenfelt sounds pained, worried, paranoid, even, about the potential to be caught. and the hum of the saxaphone through the rain near the end of the song brings about a flood of remorse for two lovers caught in an inescapable situation. all the once glossed over despair is on full, withering display here, for all the ear to heard.

4. rowland s. howard + lydia lunch: some velvet morning (1982) lee hazelwood + nancy sinatra: some velvet morning (1969)

 perhaps one of the most renowned lyricists of all time, lee hazelwood meets one of the most iconic faces and voices of all time - nancy sinatra. in a violin ridden song he sings of phaedra, a love, perhaps a vice. the music itself strings together the twos contrasting vocals like velvet, the song is smooth in its polarities.  while sinatra sings her part with a voice like a fairy, hazelwood delivers his end with a heavy western-like atmosphere similar to many of his previous works. a thick, heavy bass follows him, while the chiming of bells trails behind sinatra like a long wedding dress.   the song shifts from one side to the other wise ease, missing a mark that should have been met with the spontaneity of the shifts in vocals. though it does swing you from side to side, it does so with the casualness of a rocking chair outside on your front porch. at times, you wonder if these voices are too sophisticated for this task. there is a pleasant glaze over the song which diminishes the contrast. and much like david bowie's 'ziggy stardust,' we don't properly experience the chaos that is meant to be depicted.   now, when this track is tossed over to life-long hazelwood lover and notorious wielder of uncontrollable guitar rowland s. howard and new york city's own queen of no wave and dismantlement lydia lunch - we get a very, very different take. instead of a rocking chair being moved by the wind, we get a madly swinging pendulumn unsure of which fate is to come. though we are introduced with similar heavy bass, the speed immediately picks up and howard's snarling vocals tear into the song with a sense of sarcasm - very different from the original sense of genuineness. lunch's end is met with the sound of an out of tune music box, with a voice that compliments the unconventionality of the music.   as howard drawls on his verses, he delivers the name of 'phaedra' with a sense of animosity for the pain she causes him. and though lunch maintains the innocent sound, the underlying trickery is evident in her voice. here, all is revealed. there are no closed doors.   the shift from one end to the other is abrupt, startling, and begins to feel like a direct argument unfolding before your eyes. the aladdin sane like piano near the end of the track takes us into a rabbit hole of confusion and emotional turmoil; a logical conclusion to a disagreement we had the misfortune of stumbling upon. the conflict between the two narrators is very evident in this version, as to where in the original it seemed much more like an innocent misunderstanding, here we see the raw bones of it. this wasn't a simple mistake, this was a downright shoot-em-up, and who better to depict this but two musicians with the same rawness and ferocity of a blood and guts western?

- LM