#and its all sunder's fault

[yourartfriend]

So I’m working on a thing...

[n1ghtwarden]

also reeling w the fact that the underdark book in bg3 on lolth's lie and what we do know of yvonnel the eternal implies she was one of lolth's first cultists; and one of the last drow who held any knowledge of their past culture of the ilythiir empire(which was theirs prior to the sundering and the destruction of their texts and cities by surface elves)/dark elves. it died when yvonnel did - though snippets of it likely live on in both quenthel and yvonnel ii's heads.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: Qor'ivel, Faulted Brilliance

An extradimensional mage who sought godhood only to have his ambition literally blow up in his face, the shrapnel of this calamitous act of hubris is now scattered across the planes, just waiting to be discovered.

Being born to rule an empire was not enough for this genius mage, who bent his talents and the strength of his nation to establishing dominion across the whole of his world, and then to other worlds beyond.

As the product of generations of careful mutagenic engineering and magical enhancement, the depths of Qor'ivel's intelligence seemed to truly be fathomless. Through reason alone he seemed to be able to divine the innermost thoughts of his enemies and the outcome of future events, to say nothing of his arcane abilities. It took him only a decade to establish his rule over multiple planes, and in another five years he'd calculated a path to cement that rule through godhood that'd take just under a century.

He was wrong of course, you don't need to be a genius to know that there's more to being a god than being the most right all the time. The brilliant mechanism of Qor'ivel's mind realized that truth a fraction of a second before it ruptured like a collapsing star, distroying the world that was the seat of his empire and scattering fragments of his consciousness across the multiverse. Now Frozen in the moment of his failed apotheosis he exists as a mad titan rampaging across the cosmos, fleeting moments of lucidity drowned out by amnesic empire building or senseless cataclysmic fury.

Adventure Hooks:

Qor'ivel makes a great archvillain for a spelljammer campaign or any adventure that's going to touch on the astral sea. The ruins of his empire are a great backdrop and his mindshards can end up anywhere, influencing anyone, acting as mcguffins when needed. His changeable nature means he can serve as both scheming mastermind and looming apocalyptic threat, and the factions that want to ensure he stays one or the other make for great secondary antagonists.

Though they might be mistaken for any run of the mill sort of glowing magical crystal, the shards of Qor'ivel have a power all their own, still somewhat alive possessing fragments of the great mage's consciousness and the power it commands. They can function like any sort of magic item, though usually wands or ioun stones, though creatures that attune to them tend to start thinking and acting a lot more like the sundered sovereign, indulging in pride, power and imperial ambition. The more powerful shards possess fragmented consciousnesses of their own, and may use proxies to set up petty dynasties of their own.

Once governors, aristocrats, and magistrates of a worlds spanning empire, the remnants of the Vaqol people and their decendants found themselves in a lurch when their god-king detonated and took their homeworld with him. Many were cast out by the peoples they had subjugated, while others hid themselves away or made themselves useful to the ascendant regimes. In the present day a fraction of these remnants still hold loyalty to the faulted brilliance, or follow his example in using their magical talent to set up their own dominions.

Fragments of the Vaqol homeworld drift through the multiverse, sometimes as reefs of rubble, sometimes as wordlets, sometimes as streaking projectiles that make calamitous impact on other planes. Adventurers of all kinds can be tasked with hiring , though whether its those wishing to recover/collect ancient artifacts, or lay their hands on Qor'ivel shards is up to you.

Artsource

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

If you are still taking prompts: 'new mythologies', focused on the witchy trio. Curious to see what you come up with if you wind up selecting this prompt! I greatly enjoy your writing. :)

There is a woman in the moon (the second moon, that is.) she waxes, she wanes shies and flares but she always stays tethered to one spot and tired of running away. Where she paused her orbit centuries ago crystal arms and legs sprout from the grass and the tides of rivers are pulled, evaporate from heat into clouds that mass. If you do no cover her from your view you will not sleep if you look to someone with her over their shoulder you will not need to speak and if her lightning were to strike, the gemstone-limb-lands will become the petrified home you did not seek.

There is a woman in the sun (there is a second-sun, too.) feels close enough to reach, though she can’t be lassoed she doesn’t spend all of her days here steals - what is offered - takes, often disappears to a more peculiar sky where she instead anchors in time and the flora and fauna with petal trumpets and sinew harps dance and dine on top of beds of canopied candied leather leaves and filigree skeleton branches then returns, here, intermittently, with what she had taken and what was newly granted jewellery adorning flaming tendrils that smelts and pours liquid gold between the fault lines and the landfills Sometimes the sun stays late to greet the moon, others she arrives early to share the sky of the long summer days with her But the sky is still a sky they cannot often share, so once a century they shadow one another reach out for each other with hands of flame and lightning when their fingers converge they tie in knots and bows, in threads red and ribbons green and all who are bound will be unaware, gift-wrapped in what is reality and what is dream can unveil bliss or purgatory there in the in-between- - there is a woman in the sun, another in the moon. They have been there longer than I can remember… longer than my mother can and hers, too

There is a woman in the moon and she is always blushing ‘Red sky at night - shepherd’s delight Red sky at morning - shepherd’s warning’ mourning a crack, a howl, a breeze can be heard from the densest of city cobblestones and the highest of mountain peaks a lonely tune bereft of its melody searches out shadow and turns it to static energy

There is a woman in the moon -a woman in the sun, too and ruins of temples to old gods (I’m told) glass panes long dissolved from between lead canes corners of masonry rounded by rain shingles masking floor tiles carpeted in ivy, grout replaced by root and rot and if you were to build the moon an alter lightning will sunder, shatter, strike it down but the sun accepts offerings, bleaches colours to keep the hues for her own collection, peacocks them as a crown

There is a witch in a cottage in the woods in a clearing, on stilts and platforms and pontoons her garden grows, in both the light and shadow and she wears death like a lace fine-spun from her own marrow land flush with lilac, lavender and violets here it is, where the moon is moored above the glade where the sun passes often on parade and the witch knows both the sun and the moon by name strings up tapestries and dolls from between the branches so that they both can see of friends and loved ones between threads of red and ribbons of green

[saintstars]

Our Antlers Tangled Interlude 8

Desires & Destruction for @feast-of-horns

Eönwë seeks the truth of Mairon's seduction

Full finished fic on AO3

Rating E

Chapt specific warnings: a bit of PDA

Eönwë has to see for himself, he has to know without a doubt that what they say is true. He cannot believe it. Least of all from Calinár who, for all his faults, never speaks false. That may well have changed during the long years spent in Utumno. Much else has.

His entire tale could be a trick of some greater plan, just as Ossë and Uinen claim of their part in it. Lord Manwë himself despairs of clarifying one singular narrative from all the rumours.

Calinár cannot be trusted. He believed they might retain any friendship while sundered by loyalty to warring forces. Eönwë knows otherwise. But, if Uinen spoke true in her account, if Mairon has not fallen, there is hope for Calinár too.

Eönwë comes to the Iron Mountains, flying low around their cliffs, surveying the sparkling silver snow and the deep shadows where the lamplight fails.

There is a great smog cloaking the valleys beyond the first of the range. Smoke and ash roil where Illuin illuminates the edges of its mass.

‘Little herald.’ A voice like gravity grips Eönwë, calling him out of the sky whether he wills it or not. 

The Dark Vala stands near the apex of the tallest mountain In the range wearing the red of an old slaughter, crowed with gold, black hair curling with the same restlessness of smoke.  

Eönwë arrests his descent, managing to land some distance from the vala.

‘What foul scheme stirs the slumbering darkness from beyond the Iron Mountains?’ He calls out, bracing his spirit against the evil powers of the Dark Lord. 

‘Has my brother sent you to check on me? Or is this vigilance stirred by more personal attachments?’ Melkor, leering as though he knows anything of Eönwë's mind. He radiates his usual smugness. But there is something changed about him. A smouldering quality to his darkness that bodes ill.

‘It is true, you have torn many into your darkness that were once my friends.’ 

‘Those that join me do so of their free will. Your friends would happily welcome you  among them again, if you were inclined to unshackle your wings as they have.’ He holds a hand out as if it were a physical offer. ‘I would spare you the sorrow to come.’ 

Are there flames burning in the darkness of his eyes? Points of red beside the blue?

‘What do you mean to do?’ Eönwë bristles.

‘It is not me you should fear, little herald.’ Melkor smiles. It is deeply unsettling and strikingly familiar. 

‘Eönwë, to what do we owe the pleasure?’ A beautiful, unchanged voice breaks the tension. 

Mairon crests the mountain, clad in brighter red than Melkor, but similar in its revealing cut and many adornments. He wears several chains and sharp spikes of dark iron encircle his forehead. A sign of his unwilling capture?

But his aura’s transformation shocks through Eönwë; a quietly brilliant spirit broken into an erratic, wild thing. That cannot be falsified.

He is taller than Eönwë has ever seen a maia stand, rivalling the Dark Vala in bearing.

‘I had to know if they spoke true of you, Mairon.’ He says, dismayed by what he sees. 

'What is it that they say about me?’ Mairon asks with exaggerated interest, his golden eyes wide. He comes up beside Melkor and casually links his arm through the vala’s. 

Eönwë finds himself squirming before their joint scrutiny. 

'That you were seduced by your pride, granted twisted powers by the Dark Lord and that now you stand as his chief servant and lieutenant, having deposed even mighty Gothmog.’ It hurts Eönwë to speak Calinár’s fallen name so assuredly. 

At their meeting, the umaia shared an entirely different story to those of Almaren, claiming his own freedom from Utumno was due to Mairon’s ascent and the changes wrought there. Claiming the Dark Lord was worth joining, tempered by Mairon's influence. Claiming there was a mutual admiration between maia and vala. 

'I also hear that it was only a ruse, that your true allegiance remained with the Ainur and that you were planning to betray and trap the Dark Vala, bringing peace to Arda.’ Eönwë says. 

Melkor does not seem shocked by the announcement. He laughs softly, his face pressing to the maia's hair. Something stirs between them, less tangible than ósanwë. The look Mairon gives him in return could almost be called loving.

‘You know, I was going to.' Mairon smirks. He leans his crowned head on the Dark Vala’s shoulder. 'But then I thought, why return and be a servant, when I could rise above all the maiar as their king?’

Eönwë’s heart sinks. He did not want it to be true.

'You break Lord Aulë's heart.' 

Rage flares with Mairon's fires, casting huge shadows across the mountain. He detaches from the vala’s side and strides forward, wrath made flesh.

'Was it not he that first taught me pride in my work? Was it not he that first taught me deception, in creating his own children to rival those of The One?' He grabs Eönwë's chin, forcing him to crane up at the other maia. There is an unnatural coldness to his fingers, a shadow to his flame. 'Was it not he that bade me to make bait of myself to snare the darkness?' 

'No!' Eönwë cries, aghast. It cannot be true, Lord Aulë would not demand such a thing of his loyal servant. 

He tears himself from Mairon’s fae grasp.

'Yes!' The umaia snarls, cold blue chasing the gold from his eyes. 'Well, snare the darkness, I did. And found it vastly preferable to the hypocrisy of the light.’

He turns back to Melkor, gracefully taking the hand the vala offers up to him. Eönwë watches in stunned silence as the Dark Vala bows over Mairon’s fingers, kissing them respectfully as any maia would those of their lord. 

Seeing this, the pieces click into place at last. Melkor is lit with Mairon’s fire, his darkness shadowing the umaia in turn. They have taken a marriage bond. Mutual admiration, it seems, was an understatement for the passion that brought them together. 

For a vala to take up a maia in the bond is unheard of. The imbalance of power is too great. Yet more of Melkor’s discord, his twisting of that which is sacred to the profane. And Mairon, another friend, lost to it. There can be no hope for Calinár if he thinks this vulgar union is anything akin to temperance.

The ground shifts underfoot, a deep rumbling shaking the roots of the mountains. Ash and smoke billow higher and begin to seep down the lit face of the range. A low horn sounds distantly. 

‘Shall we enlighten the little herald to our upcoming festival, Lord Mairon?’ The vala asks, giving Mairon a look that is anything but respectful.

‘An excellent idea, Lord Melkor.’ The unmaia throws his arms around Melkor’s neck, pressing up against the fallen vala even as his eyes find Eönwë. ‘We are holding a wedding Feast of Horns. All of Almaren is invited.’

‘All of Arda, precious.’ The Dark Vala mutters against his throat, groping at Mairon’s fána possessively. As though none stood witness, he slides his hands under the edges of Mairon's clothing.

‘Oh yes! All of Arda.’ Mairon agrees, holding Eönwë’s gaze as he gasps and moans at Melkor’s attentions. His shadow-conquered mind reaches out to say, ‘Do go invite them for us, won’t you Eönwë?’

Eönwë steps back. It is all too much. Shaking himself from whatever grotesque fascination kept him watching their indecent display, he leaps into the air. To his horror, as he rises he sees a vast battalion of umaia spilling out over the Iron Mountains. 

Mairon’s high, awful laughter chases him as Eönwë races to warn the Ainur. 

Rest of the fic on Ao3

[the-elusive-soleil]

hundreds of lives, thousands of years

For @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 6: Respite Prompt: Alienation and isolation, AUs & fix-its

The bell over the shop door jingles as someone enters, but Maedhros doesn’t turn around right away. He’s been finding it harder and harder to care, lately. That’s probably not a good sign.

It’s just that he’s getting so tired. Millenia, now, this has been going on, since his first death - of being born into new worlds that have never known Valar or Treelight or Song, living out mortal lives, and dying again to repeat the process.

And he’s had to do it all without Maglor.

His other brothers have been there, in each new life. So has his father. Sometimes they are scattered far from each other, but they’re always to be found. But Maglor is clearly still alive in Arda, because he has never been there in any of the worlds Maedhros has been born into.

It is his own fault, of course, that he is in a position to miss Maglor, just as it is his fault that he can never see his mother or cousins or sons again. If he had not jumped, then he would not be in this mess. At the time, he had not seen anything else he could do, any way forward except into the fire. He had thought, too, that Maglor would soon perish, that his flight towards the sea was to that end.

He should be glad that his best beloved brother did not despair and die. He should not want him here, not at that price. Maglor is in the world where he belongs, where he may see their family again, may be reconciled to their sons. It is well.

For reasons he prefers not to examine, he has spent the past several lifetimes creating places Maglor would like, places he would likely come to if he were in that world. In this life, Maedhros has established himself as a purveyor of fine musical instruments and antique sheet music, but after only a dozen years or so, it is already starting to grate. He is getting so very tired of people walking through that door who are not Maglor.

He will turn around and deal with this customer, and he will continue to trudge his way through this life, and next time, he tells himself, he’ll try being a political fixer again. That usually keeps him too busy to brood--

“Nelyo?” a slightly shaking, impossibly familiar voice says behind him.

Maedhros cannot make himself move for a moment, and then he turns sharply all at once to get it over with...

...and sees Maglor standing, pale and uncertain, a few feet away on the other side of the counter. 

He’s dressed like anyone else in this world, Maedhros registers distantly, in a buttoned shirt and slacks and a jacket. Somehow, he had always pictured Maglor turning up wearing what they would have worn in Beleriand.

“Kano,” he says, and then he’s nearly tripping over himself to get around the counter, and practically slams into his brother in his haste to fold him into an embrace.

He’s solid. He’s real. He holds onto Maedhros just as tightly.

“How...” Maedhros asks when he can speak, even though he’s afraid to know the answer. “How are you here - how did you--”

How did you die, he can’t bring himself to say.

Maglor pulls away slightly, smiling ruefully. “A trifle stupidly, I’m afraid,” he says. “Elrond founded a settlement in the mountains, and it was under attack, and I went to lend aid, and was unlucky enough to not see the orc captain with the mace until it was too late.”

His expression turns bittersweet. “I was able to say goodbye to Elrond. I had been...having dreams of you and the rest of our family, off and on over the years. I knew I would not go to Mandos - though this is rather better than we ever imagined the Everlasting Darkness to be.”

Maedhros finally breaks down and weeps at that. “I’m sorry, Kano,” he says. “I’m sorry I left you alone so long, sorry you are sundered from our family - our sons.”

Maglor weeps too, but there is a look of determination on his face. “It may be that we are not sundered from then forever,” he says. “I told Elrond, before the end, that you had all been cast out of Arda and I would be, too. He will petition the Valar for us, Nelyo. And if that does not avail, he believes he can find us, bring us back wit hSong. Artanis has developed powers of farsight, and between the two of them - if I Sing to give them a beacon to find - I had many years to think of how I would get us home, and I think it can be done.”

Maedhros is not quite so ready to leap into optimism - but just now, it doesn’t matter. His closest brother is here with him, and he is a little more whole than before. They can work out everything else from there.

[cassianus]

A Lament for Sin

Weep over your sin: it is a spiritual ailment; it is death to your immortal soul; it deserves ceaseless, unending weeping and crying; let all tears flow for it, and sighing come forth without ceasing from the depths of your heart.

In profound humility I weep for all my sins, voluntary and involuntary, conscious and unconscious, covert and overt, great and little, committed by word and deed, in thought and intention, day and night, at every hour and minute of my life.

I weep over my pride and my ambition, my self love and my boastfulness; I weep over my fits of anger, irritation, excessive shouting, swearing, quarreling and cursing;

I weep for having criticized, censured, gossiped, slandered, and defamed, for my wrath, enmity, hatred, envy, jealousy, vengeance and rancor;

I weep over my indulgences in lust, impure thoughts and evil inclinations; covetousness, gluttony, drunkenness, and sloth;

I weep for having talked idly, used foul language, blasphemed, derided, joked, ridiculed, mocked, enjoyed empty gaiety, singing, dancing and every pleasure to excess;

I weep over my self indulgence, cupidity, love of money and miserliness, unmercifulness and cruelty;

I weep over my laziness, indolence, negligence, love of comfort, weakness, idleness, absent-mindedness, irresponsibility, inattention, love of sleep, for hours spent in idle pursuits, and for my lack of concentration in prayer and in Church, for not observing fasts and not doing charitable works.

I weep over my lack of faith, my doubting, my perplexity, my coldness, my indifference, my weakness and unfeelingness in what concerns the Holy Orthodox Faith, and over all my foul, cunning and reviling thoughts;

I weep over my exaggerated sorrow and grief, depression and despair, and over sins committed willingly.

I weep, but what tears can I find for a worthy and fitting way to weep for all the actions of my ill fated life; for my immeasurable and profound worthlessness? How can I reveal and expose in all its nakedness each one of my sins, great and small, voluntary and involuntary, conscious and unconscious, overt and covert, every hour and minute of sin? When and where shall I begin my penitential lament that will bear fitting fruit? Perhaps soon I may have to face the last hour of my life; my soul will be painfully sundered from my sinful and vile body; I shall have to stand before terrible demons and radiant angels, who will reveal and torment me with my sins; and I, in fear and trembling, will be unprepared and unable to give them an answer; the sight and sound of wailing demons, their violent and bold desire to drag me into the bottomless pit of Hell will fill my soul with confusion and terror. And then the angels of God will lead my poor soul to stand before God 's fearful seat of judgment. How will I answer the Immortal King, or how will I dare, sinner that I am, to look upon My Judge? Woe is me! have no good answer to make, for I have spent all my life in indolence and sin, all my hours and minutes in vain thoughts, desires and yearnings!

And how many times have I taken the Name of God in vain!

How often, lightly and freely, at times even boldly, insolently and shamelessly have I slandered others in anger; offended, irritated, mocked them!

How often have I been proud and vainglorious and boasted of good qualities that I do not possess and of deeds that I have not done!

How many times have I lied, deceived, been cunning or flattered, or been insincere and deceptive; how often have I been angry, intolerant and mean!

How many times have I ridiculed the sins of my brother, caused him grief overtly and covertly, mocked or gloated over his misdeeds, his faults or his misfortunes; how many times have I been hostile to him, in anger, hatred or envy!

How often have I laughed stupidly, mocked and derided, spoke without weighing my words, ignorantly and senselessly, and uttered a numberless quantity of cutting, poisonous, insolent, frivolous, vulgar, coarse, brazen words!

How often, affected by beauty, have I fed my mind, my imagination and my heart with voluptuous sensations, and unnaturally satisfied the lusts of the flesh in fantasy! How often has my tongue uttered shameful, vulgar and blasphemous things about the desires of the flesh!

How often have I yearned for power and been gluttonous, satiating myself on delicacies, on tasty, varied and diverse foods and wines; because of intemperance and lack of self-control how often have I been filled past the point of satiety, lacked sobriety and been drunken, intemperate in food and drink, and broken the Holy Fasts!

How often, through selfishness, pride or false modesty, have I refused help and attention to those in need, been uncharitable, miserly, unsympathetic, mercenary and grasped at attention!

How often have I entered the House of God without fear and trembling, stood there in prayer, frivolous and absent-minded, and left it in the same spirit and disposition! And in prayer at home I have been just as cold and indifferent, praying little, lazily, and indolently, inattentively and impiously, and even completely omitting the appointed prayers!

And in general, how slothful I have been, weakened by indolence and inaction; how many hours of each day have I spent in sleep, how often have I enjoyed voluptuous thoughts in bed and defiled my flesh! How many hours have I spent in empty and futile pastimes and pleasures, in frivolous talk and speech, jokes and laughter, games and fun, and how much time have I wasted conclusively in chatter, and gossip, in criticizing others and reproaching them; how many hours have I spent in time-wasting and emptiness! What shall I answer to the Lord God for every hour and every minute of lost time? In truth, I have wasted my entire life in laziness.

How many times have I lost heart and despaired of my salvation and of God's mercy or through stupid habit, insensitivity, ignorance, insolence, shamelessness, and hardness sinned deliberately, willingly, in my right mind, in full awareness, in all goodwill, in both thought and intention, and in deed, and in this fashion trampled the blood of God 's covenant and crucified anew within myself the Son of God and cursed Him!

0 how terrible the punishment that I have drawn upon myself!

How is it that my eyes are not streaming with constant tears?.. If only my tears flowed from the cradle to the grave, at every hour and every minute of my tortured life! Who will now cool my head with water and fill the well of my tears and help me weep over my soul that I have cast into perdition?

My God, my God! Why hast Thou forsaken me? Be it unto me according to Thy will, 0 Lord! If Thou wouldst grant me light, be Thou blessed; if Thou wouldst grant me darkness, be Thou equally blessed. If Thou wouldst destroy me together with my lawlessness, glory to Thy righteous judgment; and if Thou wouldst not destroy me together with my lawlessness, glory to Thy boundless mercy!

(St. Basil the Great)

[uesp]

While at a Necrom preview event, the UESP founder Dave Humphrey took some time to document the details of the Arcanist class, including all of its abilities. We're going to share the details with you here:

One of the main features of this Chapter is the introduction of the first new class in ESO since the Necromancer in 2019, which has been in development since late 2021. The devs had a hard time deciding on which class to add and simply named it "Bob" for a long time so as to not pigeon-hole themselves into any particular class. Eventually they decided on the Arcanist as it ties into the book/knowledge theme of the chapter.

The unique mechanic of the Arcanist is the building and spending of "Crux". You can have up to 3 points of Crux at any one time and it is shown both in your ability bar and around your character (and other players) in game. Some of your abilities will create Crux and some abilities will use Crux to create bonus damage or other effects. Some abilities will also gain bonuses from Crux but not spend it.

A short description of all the new class skills are in the following sections. Keep in mind there are still balance tweaks to be made so skills may change once on PTS.

The 3 Arcanist skills lines are:

Herald of the Tome -- Damage

Soldier of Apocrypha -- Tanking

Curative Runeforms -- Heal/Support

The skill line role listed above is general and you'll find useful skills and passives in all lines depending on your desired role. Skill animation are based around using a book in your hands keeping with the theme of Hermaeus Mora for the chapter.

Note that any spelling mistake on the following skill names is my fault (2 hours of play testing doesn't last that long).

Herald of the Tome

The primary damage skill line of the Arcanist.

Unblinking Eye (Ultimate) -- Summon a "scion" of Hermaeus Mora that does damage via a beam. Morphs into Tide King's Gave (beam follows target) and Languid Eye (adds snare).

Runeblade (Active, Mag/Sta) -- Costs Magicka or Stamina depending on your max resource. Does Magic Damage and creates Crux. Does more damage with increased Crux. Morphs into Writhing Runeblades (adds Crit Chance) and Scaling Runeblades (adds Damage).

Fatecarver (Active, Mag/Sta) -- Costs Magicka or Stamina depending on your max resource. Does beam Magic Damage. Spends Crux if you have any to increase Damage.  Morphs into Exhausting Fatecarver (increases duration/strength of snare) and Pragmatic Fatecarver (spends crux to reduce cost).

Abyssal Impact (Active, Sta) -- Adds snare and "Ink". Morphs into Cephaliarch's Flail (creates Crux, adds damage to enemies below 50% health) and Tentacular Dread (Mag, spends Cruxs, adds Ink strength and immobilize damage).

Tome Bearer's Inspiration (Active, Mag) -- Creates Crux. Adds Major Brutality/Sorcery while slotted. Adds Rune damage to weapons, increases damage with Crux. Morphs into Inspired Scholarship (more frequent damage) and Reperative Treatise (restores mag/sta).

Imperfect Ring (Active, Mag) -- Does AOE damage. Morphs into Rune of Displacement (creates a rune that damages and pulls mobs) and Fulminated Rune (more area damage).

Fated Fortune (Passive) -- Adds Crit Damage/Healing whenever you gain or spend Crux.

Harnessed Quintessence (Passive) -- Adds Weapon/Spell Damage when you restore Mag/Sta.

Psychic Legion (Passive) -- With a Herald of Tome ability slotted gain status damage.

Splinted Secrets (Passive) -- For each Herald of Tome ability slotted gain penetration.

Soldier of Apocrypha

The primary tank skill line of the Arcanist.

Gibbering Shield (Ultimate) -- Absorb damage. Morphs into Sanctum of the Abyssal Sea (adds shield strength) and Gibbering Shelter (gives allies a damage shield).

Rune Jolt (Active, Mag) -- Does damage, Major Maim, taunt and creates Crux. Morphs into Runic Sunder (Sta, reduces target armor, gain armor) and Runic Embrace (Mag, adds heal and Minor Lifesteal).

Runespite Ward (Active, Mag) -- Damage shield, uses Crux to increase shield strength. Morphs into Spiteward of the Lucid Mind (crux refunds cost) and Impervious Runeward (much more damage shield for 1 second).

Fateworn Armor (Active, Mag) -- Adds Major Resolve and Minor Breach. Morphs into Cruxweaver Armor (adds buff duration, creates Crux when damaged) and Unbreakable Fate (adds block mitigation, spends Crux to increase bonus).

Rune of Eldritch Horror (Active, Mag) -- Paralyzes and adds Minor Vulnerability, undodgeable. Morphs into Rune of Uncannny Adoration (charms and snares) and Rune of the Colorless Pool (adds Minor Brittle).

Aegis of the Unseen (Passive) -- Adds Armor will using a Soldier of Apocrypha ability.

Wellspring of the Abyss (Passive) -- Adds Health/Magicka/Stamina recovery per Soldier of the Apocrypha ability slotted.

Circumvented Fate (Passive) -- Adds Minor Evasion when casting a Soldier of the Apocrypha ability.

Implacable Outcome (Passive) -- Spending Crux gains Ultimate.

Curative Runeforms

The primary healing and support skill line of the Arcanist.

Vitalizing Glyphic (Ultimate) -- Spawns a total that adds Weapon/Spell damage and healing. Grows in power when healed. Morphs into Glyphic of the Tides (spawns with more health) and Resonating Glyphic (damage totem to power it up).

Runemeld (Active, Mag) -- Heals and creates Crux. Heals more if you have Crux. Morphs into Evolving Runemeld (increases HOT heal) and Audacious Runemeld (gain ultimate at low health).

Remedy Cascade (Active, Mag) -- Beam heal, spending Crux restores Mag/Sta. Morphs into Cascading Fortune (heals more at low health) and Curative Surge (heals more as you channel).

Chakram Shields (Active, Mag) -- Spawns 3 discs with Damage Shield. Morphs into Chakram of Destiny (creates Crux, recasting increases shield) and Tidal Chakram (uses Crux to reduce cost).

Arcanist Domain (Active, Mag) -- Spawns an area that adds Minor Courage/Fortitude/Intellect/Endurance. Morphs into Zena's Empowering Discs (effect remains when you leave area) and Reconstructive Domain (adds a HOT).

Apocryphal Gate (Active, Mag) -- Creates 2 portals that you can walk into to teleport to the other one. Gain Crux when teleporting. Morphs into Fleet Footed Gate (increases move speed) and Passage Between Worlds (allies can use synergy to teleport).

Healing Tides (Passive) -- Adds healing done with Crux.

Hideous Clarity (Passive) -- Adds Mag/Sta when creating Crux.

Erudition (Passive) -- Adds Mag/Sta recovery.

Intricate Runeforms (Passive) -- When you have a Curative Runeform ability slotted reduce cost and increase strength of Damage Shields.

[snotsloth]

10 Characters/10 Fandoms/10 Tags

Tagged by @icehearts

Tagging, but don't feel pressured! (Also you do not have to make pretty pictures. Graphic Designer brain just took over and this happened.) @physicalvocalist, @sarenraegalpaladin, @vorpalbun, @captainqster, @leagor-majere, @sundered-souls, @ardberts, @hinganskies, @lilbittymonster, @janzoo

1. Harrowhark Nonagesimus - The Locked Tomb Trilogy

Harrow has true scrungly wet cat energy. I want to put her in one of those little backpacks with a window and carry her around in it for her enrichment. She's an absolute bitch. She is a pathetic little meow meow. She lobotomized herself to save the soul of the woman she refuses to admit she's in love with. She tried to kill a saint with soup made from her own bone marrow. She is a war crime. I like her so much!

2. Magneto - X-Men

He is the platonic ideal of my favorite trope, "Does all the wrong things for all the right reasons." Magneto has gone through the polar opposite of villain decay. The longer he exists, the longer the universe has to prove him increasingly correct on most things. All I can really say is, "Magneto was right."

3. Wei Wuxian - Mo Dao Zu Shi

Truly the most blorbo of all time. Are you also an ADHD burned out gifted and talented submissive brat with a praise kink? Boy howdy, do I have a character that you are going to imprint on like a baby goose! Wei Wuxian also has a hearty dose of, "Does all the wrong things for all the right reasons." Also like who multiclasses in wizard (specifically necromancer) and bard? This fucking guy apparently.

4. Hythlodaeus - Final Fantasy 14

I am so normal about Hythlodaeus, I made an entire AU around him. That is a reasonable thing to do about a character that you like a normal amount, right? The idealized lost love, trapped in amber, untouchable but also incorruptible by the sands of time that keep eroding the edges of your soul. And then they gave him lavender dead anime mom hair!

5. Varric Tethras - Dragon Age

I literally have a semi-viral post about how much this character has consumed my thoughts. Rule Number 1 of Dragon Age: Varric lies. He's a charming scoundrel. He's loyal to a fault. He knows everything worth knowing about Kirkwall. And he's a dirty fucking liar. The only reason Varric isn't romanceable in DA2 is that no other romantic interest would get any attention if Varric was on the table. I desire him carnally.

6. Temeraire - Temeraire

My most precious and smartest boy! I adore Temeraire so much. Swear to god, I did not read the Temeraire books before creating Orion as a character, but the parallels are so strong, you would think I had! He's a bookworm, a little awkward but full of opinions, and he has an unwavering moral compass. Temeraire will forever be one of my favorite dragon characters.

7. Jaina Solo - Star Wars Legends

I will never forget what Disney took from me. As a weird, nerdy girl who was also kind of a guy growing up, Jaina meant so much to me. She was an active participant in the stories she was in. She was an ace pilot, a skilled mechanic, and a Jedi to boot. She had her dad's sense of humor and her mom's moral certainty. I thought she was the coolest. Still do.

8. Ansur - Baldur's Gate 3

Ansur! My beloved! If you had told me that the character I would be most obsessed with from BG3 would be an undead bronze dragon who you don't even know about until the third act -- actually, no that checks out. He was so in love, and so loyal, and so bitter at Balduron for embracing his corruption! And that reveal! All the build-up, only to find his bones and then wham! the entire narrative of the Emperor gets turned on its head. I still get chills. Also, they were absolutely fucking.

9. Viktor - Arcane

Listen, as a disabled, obsessive nerd with too much to do and not enough time to do it all in, Viktor is my gender. I love just about everything about Arcane, but Viktor's storyline is my favorite part. I, for one, am very excited to watch his fall from grace and further corruption. I have already forgiven all of his atrocities. I do not care. He's babygirl.

10. Clark Kent - DC

You thought I was going to say Jason or Dick for a DC character didn't you? (Or even Roy!) Those would all have been very reasonable expectations. I am pretty obsessed with all of them. However, Clark Kent is a very special character to me, and yes I specifically am focusing on the Clark persona and not the Supes persona. Yeah, they are ultimately the same guy, but I much prefer Superman stories grounded in his Clark Kent identity. Superman is at his best when he is attached to the mundane world by things like his job, his family, and his love for Lois. (Lois/Clark is the ultimate het ship. I will not be taking questions on this. It just is.) Clark is essentially a demigod, and yet he chooses to spend his time loving people and living as one of them, and I think that's really fucking cool.

[goldenraeofsun]

Day 3: Digital

Dean should have never taken advice from Zachariah Adler, AKA the worst boss in existence. While Dean eats wheatgrass and manifests his best self (whatever the hell that actually means), Adler’s probably poaching his biggest accounts with his oily charm and smarmy grin.

It was Dean’s fault for getting too personal in smalltalk before the Marketing & Sales all-hands meeting, saying how he’d been on an improvement kick – Kubrick oversold the damn Master Cleanse by several hundred orders of magnitude – but he didn’t know what to do next.

Zachariah, of course, had the perfect solution: a digital detox retreat. Worked wonders for him a few months ago.

After everyone arrives at the campsite – if you can call it that, with its electricity, running water, and actual toilets – they go on an hour-long hike, do yoga by the lake, and in the afternoon have some weird group therapy session to discuss their “technology addiction”.

Dean spends most of his turn complaining about Sandover’s batshit promotion policy, but a couple people nod in agreement around the circle. The uncomfortable-looking guy in pristine jeans and boots that Dean would bet dollars to donuts never touched actual dirt until that morning, mumbles he works at Sandover too.

He – Castiel – goes next, saying his roommate pressed him to go on this retreat. He drops corporate buzzwords like “toxic environments” and “poor work-life balance” with a pinched, bewildered expression on his face, and Dean has a sneaking suspicion that Cas has no idea what they actually mean. The weirdo actually uses finger quotes around “hustle culture”. 

Cas evidently made time for yoga, though. (Dean wasn’t entirely focused on the instructor when it came time for downward dog.) He has an ass Dean hasn’t seen outside of porn – the fancy kind, the kind you pay for.

By day four, Dean can practically feel Zachariah and the other sales sharks circling his biggest accounts.

In the evening, Dean lines up for the lone phone on the premises – a communal landline – and calls Charlie, their western sales rep and Dean’s best work-friend at Sandover. He not-so-subtly probes her, and Charlie admits she saw Zachariah having lunch with Lily Sunder of Sunder Inc. 

Dean almost loses it right then and there. 

But because he is a goddamn professional, he politely listens to Charlie’s dramatic retelling of last Tuesday night’s bar trivia (they lost without Dean’s pop culture powerhouse) before hanging up and stalking out of the room.

Incensed, he paces around his cabin, trying to come up with a plan. Sammy isn’t due to pick him up in the Impala until the end of the retreat in three days. But by then, it could be all over.

So, after some serious Mission Impossible shit and Ocean’s 11 levels of safe cracking, Dean is once again in possession of his phone. 

Just out of sight of the campsite, probably standing in a bunch of poison ivy, knowing his luck, he turns it on. “Fuck,” he mutters, entirely unsurprised to see he has no bars out here in the ass end of nowhere.

Time to rough it.

He ducks back into his cabin to grab a flashlight, his swiss army knife, and a granola bar – all stuff he packed without knowing he was going glamping. Armed with his gear and his phone, he goes on the hunt for a signal. The hiking trail from their first day reached a decently high elevation.

About a third of the way up, a rustling in the underbrush makes him freeze.

Heart pounding, his gaze darts up from his phone screen and his hand tightens around his swiss army knife in his pocket. Are there bears in this area? Why the hell didn’t he pack bear spray?

“Dean?”

Dean exhales a quick sigh of relief. Not a bear.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says as he quickly stashes his phone in his jacket. “What the hell are you doin’ all the way out here?”

Cas blinks owlishly at him. He has a few leaves and a twig or two stuck in his hair. The fresh dirt covers the knees of his jeans, like he took a fall (or five) in the past ten minutes. After a long beat, he deadpans, “Communing with nature.”

Dean unclenches his hands from around his knife and instead crosses his arms over his chest, regarding Cas impassively. Internally, he’s beyond amused, so he can’t help but ask, “And how’s that goin’ for ya?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “Poorly,” he says sourly.

A rapid series of tinny chimes cut off Dean’s snort of laughter. He eagerly grabs his phone, scanning the barrage texts coming in. He only has one bar, but better that than nothing.

“You have service?” Cas demands, stepping closer.

“Fucking finally,” Dean breathes as he holds his phone up above his head. The signal stubbornly does not improve. Damn.

Sighing, Cas slips his own phone out of his pocket and squints despondently at the screen.

Maybe that was why Mr. Wilderness was bumbling around in the dark, halfway up a mountain. Well, Dean’s not a heartless corporate suit, no matter what Charlie calls him when he has to cancel Moondoor plans at the last-minute. “D’you wanna use mine?” Dean asks. “I’ve got almost a full charge.”

Cas looks like he could kiss Dean right then and there – and, huh, isn’t that an idea? Cas’s gaze shifts to Dean’s phone, an eager glint in his eyes like Dean might as well be holding the holy grail itself. “Thank you,” Cas breathes.

“No problem,” Dean says casually. “Mind if we go a bit higher? I think we can get a better signal.”

Cas nods, and they set off up the trails.

“So…” Dean starts, “Sandover too?”

“Unfortunately,” Cas says with an adorable grimace. “You as well?”

Dean nods. “Marketing.”

“Finance.”

Dean’s dealings with Finance are limited, mostly to the junior accountants who have nothing better to do than pull him reports that should all be entered into the dullest Excel sheet of the year awards. “Do you work with Marv?” he asks, naming the one Finance Director he worked with on the Talbot account.

A sliver of moonlight falls on Cas’s face from a break in the tree cover, or else Dean never would have caught his look of apprehension. After a beat, Cas says evenly, “I do.”

“What a dick,” Dean says, and Cas’s expression relaxes. “Has he told you about the book he’s writing?” During their last meeting, Marv spent twenty minutes droning on and on.

“Yes,” Cas says with the look of a man who was indeed up to date on the intricate politics of angel factions and the motivations of a stupidly overpowered hero. “I’m surprised he told you about it, though. He tends only to inflict his writing process on the Finance Department.”

Dean lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I guess I’m just that adorable.”

“I’d say so,” Cas says before promptly tripping over a root. He straightens, his blush all but glowing in the dark.

“You alright?” Dean says, trying and mostly failing to keep in his laughter.

“Fine,” Cas mutters. “We’d better keep going. I think there’s a plateau up ahead.”

“So why did you come out to this thing if tree hugging isn’t your deal?” Dean asks conversationally.

“My roommate said I needed to get out of the city for my own good,” Cas says glumly. “She said it was either this or Coachella.”

Dean doesn’t bother muffling his laughter this time around. Cas at Coachella? Dean can just as easily see him flying around outer space. 

Once Dean’s chuckles subside, Cas asks, “So why are you here, Dean?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Similar to you, I guess. I’ve been looking for a change, you know?” Way back when, he thought Sandover would be a pitstop. A way to make a decent paycheck with good dental before he figured out what he really wanted to do with his life (other than hunt ghosts and/or run around Gotham in an awesome batsuit). 

But it only seemed like the blink of an eye when he looked up and realized his fifth anniversary at Sandover came and went. And he had nothing to show for it except a stellar portfolio and a dozen dead plants in an apartment he rarely saw during daylight hours.

“I guess I was hoping for a reset,” Dean says seriously. “It’s like, one day I woke up and I saw that my whole life was my work.” He shakes his head. “That’s no way to live.”

“I suppose not.” Cas smiles crookedly. “Not that I would know any differently.”

They reach the plateau, and Dean checks his phone.

Three whole bars shine brightly back at him from his phone screen. 

And because he’s a gentleman when it counts, he hands it over to Cas to make the first call. He lays back against a tree, staring out as the stars as Cas talks over returns and turnovers for next quarter. Every so often, Dean picks out a recognizable name like MacLeod Pharma, Sandover’s biggest client. 

Fifteen minutes later (ten more than they are allowed on the communal landline back at camp), Cas hands over the phone with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean says as he dials Lily’s number. He leaves her a voicemail since she’s old school, and moves on down his mental list, sending emails to Benny, Lenore, and Garth. He sends a meme to Andy, the only form of communication that has a chance of getting through to him.

That done, he finds Cas leaning against a tree, staring out at the night sky above them. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it can be under a full moon with all the stars.”

Dean nods in agreement. He’s not normally a touchy-feely guy, but he feels strangely not-himself, halfway up some random mountain in the Catskills with an almost-stranger in the dark. Not in a bad way, though. Not at all. 

“Hey,” he says with far more confidence than he actually feels, “d’you wanna do something like this back home?”

Cas stares at him, his eyes impossibly wide. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” Dean hedges, the remaining bravado draining away at Cas’s lack of immediate enthusiasm, “Something just the two of us, no phones, no work.”

“I believe the whole point of this little trip was to enable phone usage and catch up on work,” Cas says dryly.

Dean nudges him with his elbow. “You know what I mean.”

Cas steals a sidelong glance his way. “Would this be like… a date?”

“If you want it to be,” Dean says, deliberately keeping his eyes trained on the moon overhead. “Or just a few hours to keep ourselves honest about what we want out of life.”

“I’d like that.”

[emarasmoak]

The Rings of Power’s Charlie Vickers explains Halbrand’s journey to Mordor

Great Charlie Vicker's interview, including his thoughts on the background of Suaron and Halbrand. And they ask him about the black robe and "hot Sauron".

To no fault of actor Charlie Vickers — or maybe to great praise — we knew something was up with Halbrand the minute he picked Galadriel up in the Sundering Seas early on in The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power. Through eight episodes, the reluctant king of the Southlands was always a little out of place among the epic ebb and flow of Middle-earth drama. Turns out, he had a big secret. Vickers was was flippin’ Sauron the whole dang time!

By the end of The Rings of Power, the viewers (plus a few elves) know Halbrand’s secret, paving the way for Vickers to operate an entirely new mode in season 2. But Amazon’s first season was a juggling act we rarely see on TV; the actor had to possess the spirit of Morgoth’s No. 1 guy, while faking it as Halbrand until he made it to Mordor. So what’s Sauron’s actual deal, which Vickers had to let simmer under his skin for those eight episodes?

Over Zoom from London, where he’s currently shooting The Rings of Power, we asked the actor about his villainous journey and where it’s headed next.

Question: In what terms did you first discuss Halbrand/Sauron as a character? What kind of headspace were you in playing the character, pre-reveal, throughout season 1?

Charlie Vickers: I think when you look back to where he is, at the beginning of this season, it’s that he’s in this period where he’s rebuilding. Tolkien talks about him lingering in Middle-earth, and then very slowly he sort of regathers strength and returns to power. And I think we’re seeing him in that state, that kind of repentance stage. The question is whether the repentance is genuine or a facade. And I think you can view the season in both terms, whether he’s manipulating his way through and manipulating Galadriel in order to return to power, or whether he’s genuinely seeking a different life and trying to be a good person. What’s interesting is that those things aren’t mutually exclusive. He could be thinking he’s trying to do one thing, trying to do good, but really, in order to do that, he can’t resist manipulation.

And I think he’s motivated to heal Middle-earth. And he talks about in the last episode, when Morgoth was defeated, “It was like a great clenched fist and released its grasp from my neck. And then I realized I have to undo all the pain that I caused” — something along those lines. And I think he’s trying to heal Middle-earth from the destruction that it’s had over the First Age, to rehabilitate and reorganize it. While these things are a product of what happened in the First Age, and then what’s happened in the Second Age, I also think that he’s had these things built into his being, his personality. This desire for perfection. It’s craftsmanship.

Question: The showrunners, Patrick and J.D., compared Sauron to Walter White in Breaking Bad. Was that a touchstone or were you considering other portrayals of morally poisoned characters? Or even real-life people?

CV: I haven’t really thought that much about real-life examples. I’m very interested in politics, and I did watch a documentary about dictators in history and the way they crafted their rule. But that was more to inform it subconsciously. The Walter White comparison is interesting because he’s kind of an antihero. He does bad things, but we’re on his side. And I think there might be an element of that in our story.

I did find a lot of inspiration in other performances as well, watching different actors play villains. [...] While we were doing this show I was watching The Boys, and Antony Starr did such an amazing job with Homelander. There was an element of things that are going forward with the character. And then in that last scene with Galadriel he has something scary that just sits beneath the surface of what he’s doing. So I was inspired by that. And he has the manipulation without it, most of the time, without being unhinged. I think that’s interesting with Sauron because a lot of villains have this capacity for being really scary in the sense of there’s something out of control. Whereas Sauron is all about control. And there might be elements of his personality where he loses control, because of the circumstances that he’s come across in the First Age, but his manipulation comes through seduction and gaining trust of the people that he comes across. And so it’s quite unique to strike that balance, because he’s not your traditional villain like the Joker.

Question: Speaking of seduction, the introduction of Sauron was one of the Polygon team’s most anticipated moments in The Rings of Power, mostly because we knew from Tolkien’s writing that he was supposed to be, to quote our resident expert, “totally hot.” First off, congrats. Second, did the sex appeal of the character come up? Was it a topic when navigating how Halbrand would play off Galadriel?

CV: [Vickers melts into a puddle of bashful goo before quickly reforming] I think that any complication there in terms of chemistry and romance, it’s something that just naturally occurred, it wasn’t really a conscious decision. I like to think of [Sauron and Galadriel’s] connection to be something greater than romance, but I also think it’s really interesting that some people have interpreted it that way. But I think if that’s a byproduct of what people took from the relationship in the show that’s really cool. Sexy Sauron... that’s all the makeup and costume departments’ work [laughs]. I’m just a pretty regular-looking guy in real life.

Question: Tolkien created so many bits and pieces of history that define Sauron — were there specific “memories” that you carried with you from the beginning? What is Halbrand dwelling on that we haven’t actually heard him admit until the finale?

CV: A lot of the subconscious work was a creating a human life for Halbrand. In order for Sauron to effectively portray Halbrand and deceive people, I think he would have to have a pretty comprehensive life mapped out. I guess all the subconscious work I did was in creating that and then also creating Sauron’s life and really thinking about where he’s come from. It’s a lot of reading, but also a lot of practical things. We were so lucky in New Zealand to have the country. So I went hiking for a long time to create Sauron’s world. I went to Tongariro National Park, which is [what] they used for Mount Doom in The Fellowship of the Ring, the original trilogy. So the subconscious work was all kind of there. And I hope that it informed the performance — I kept that in my mind as we were going

Question: You’re in London now shooting season 2, and while I know we can’t talk about it too much, what do you make of the dynamic between Adar and Sauron? Did that weigh on you in these first episodes, and where is it going?

CV: They have a complex past. They have been in conflict for quite a long time now. We see an element of that in the sixth episode. And I think it’s pretty obvious when you watch the show that there’s going to be more of that relationship. We’re going to learn more about it. So I don’t want to speak too much about it, but pretty quickly in the second season, we learn more about that history. But it is complex, and it has deep roots, and I think that will be exposed as the show goes on.

Question: Finally, where’d Sauron get his black robe? Is there a dress code in Mordor?

CV: Wow, that’s a great question. Did he walk through a village and just steal it from an inn? Or did he, on his way into Mordor, maybe he killed someone and stole their robe? There’s a whole bunch of different scenarios. But you have to have a big robe!

[milo-the-crotonian]

A Sumerian's Lament to Sofh; My Inanna

By Sam Nasir (A 6,000 year old Sumerian Mummy)

Oh, Sofh, you waded off to the imperishable flames

Where the souls of Pharaohs mingle 'mong Gods;

You might've not been worshiped like the defaced,

Nor been chiseled or carved out as their facades—

But I've seen and felt what sculptors could not trace,

'Cause your radiance blinded more than Atum-Ra's!

Fearsome femme fatale, garbed in pleasant loveliness,

The plagues that had ravaged you were unannounced,

And pouted did the smile of a cheerful younger Bes.

As the languor of our ardor shifted to dune-tomb sounds,

There was Folly toiling with your words filled with distress:

“Let him Live Long”—That I did in these sand-choked grounds…

Like Ptah your honeyed words weighed onto the Lotus,

That the first occasion of a shining brilliance was to unfold:

Maybe if the Stygian night-sea of Nun brings blues unnoticed:

A psychedelic rapture of our love would be blessed by the Eightfold–

Tho’ we dwelt in a sundered red world of exhausted breaths,

Where even greetings flee when they’ve just been foretold!

Oh, Sofh, the Great Green lacked the splendor

Of those jewels, cut to refract the shades of your mood,

That my smittened heart catches recollections that render

To bits of burning incense with a burdened Thoth to brood:

The cause of your ruin was of no fault of your own, Hathor,

Because even trusting eyes have a tendency to delude.

All the cries of chest-beating lamentations told me to travel

Far from Kemet's embrace as my visage, mummified,

Could not take the shame for a straight thought to unravel

Back to your ebon-lapis arms of Envisioned Paradise;

I took forth away from my guilt, jarred in unending battle,

Where the preserved in their coffins do not choose to hide.

As the flooded tears of Hapi is coursed along by a ram,

The clay and silt on its potter's wheel dries and falls to the riverbed.

The tamarisk flings it's blue petals to the fruiting thoughts of the damned,

That came back from a jubilant journey to rise from the Land of the Dead—

Through the allusions I have set, and the scripts from your hand,

I still feel that between the both of us there was so much to be said!

[sharlayandropout]

Ancient Times

'You are...nothing alike.'

I've not mentioned her here so far I don't think - this is Amalthea.

Amalthea was flighty, fearless, arrogant to a fault; a creature of sunlight who gloried in the strength of her own body, preferring physical crafts to creation magicks. She met scorn all her life for it, and cared not one bit.

Once, in her youth, her teacher instructed the class to each create a small, inanimate figure of some creation they had seen for their evening's task - they would have a special guest come the morrow's morn, who would judge their work. Each child conjured some vaporous image or small imitation, and left them anchored to the teacher's desk. Amalthea, however took up a branch and a knife, and whittled a small, horned horse - though she'd never encountered one outside of a dream.

The next morning came, and Amalthea, taking her desk, caught a look of fury from the teacher - but they could say nothing, for their honoured guest had arrived. Azem, the Traveller, come to their village for the first time in years - and their timing could not have been better, as a fierce aetheric storm was stirring . No sooner had the woman taken to her feet to observe and judge the children's work, than a sudden gust of aether quite dissolved all of the creations and set the building itself to trembling. Azem, with her winter-white hair streaming about her, stilled the storm and quieted the children - any lingering distress at the loss of their work quite forgotten after witnessing such heroics.

As she turned to leave, she noticed the wooden unicorn still sitting on the table, and her eyes fell immediately upon its creator - the quiet, smiling girl at the back of the room, who hadn't joined in the histrionics of her classmates, but stared back at the Traveller with a frank admiration beyond her years. Azem was intrigued by the girl, and went to speak to her. The Traveller declared Amalthea's creation the winner, having withstood the disaster which had claimed the other entrants. She introduced herself as Venat, and assured Amalthea she would be keeping an eye out for her in future.

When Amalthea eventually took on her mentor's mantle herself, she spurned the mask of her office outside the Convocation hall, preferring to go as one of the crowd, and favoured locales far from the Capital where baring one's face was more widely accepted.

Amalthea was not known for many lasting creations, preferring of course her practical arts, and to aid others in the conception and perfection of their own concepts. She did, however. propose words of power, incantations to help people regulate their emotional state. Syllables which, by their very utterance, would relieve stress, anger and frustration. In a sundered world, they don't work as intended anymore - but she effectively invented swearing.

[ofdragonsdeep]

6: Ring

The circles close, like the snake devouring its own tail.

There was something unsettlingly perfect about Elpis.

Ar’telan had been in the floating islands, as much as his tenuous presence could be considered it, for over a day now, and it had not lost the feeling. Every gust of refreshing wind was ordained by the weather controllers, every aspect of the environment meticulously curated. Any creature acting out of turn was corralled and removed, through fair means or foul. It was alive, but not alive.

Not to say that it was a bad place to be. The researchers he had spoken to had found him fascinating, in some cases in a very intense way. He disliked the way they examined his ‘flaws’, but he had learned a great deal from them nonetheless. They were dedicated to their work, even if the idea of creating a perfect creature seemed strange to Ar’telan. They cared about the creations under their care. It wasn’t a bad place to be.

It just didn’t feel like a good one.

He hadn’t articulated this feeling to Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus. He was not entirely convinced that either of them were lending him the same weight of opinion as a person deserved, never mind a peer. Hythlodaeus treated him like a particularly strange child, and Emet-Selch tolerated him. He adored Meteion despite how little time he had spent with her, but she was not likely to understand the feeling either. She would feel it, though, with every moment she spent around him, and he would have no words to explain it to her. Hermes was lost in his work, in his own feelings, in his education of Meteion.

He held in a sigh, watching as Hythlodaeus had a cheery conversation with the researcher stood by the Neus they were due to take. The lines on Emet-Selch’s face, ones that would normally be hidden by his mask, twitched with every minute spent in idleness, but not enough for him to actually say something. It felt like looking at ghosts.

—

Another rotation of the sun saw Ar’telan with the same worries, but a different space to have them in.

Meeting Venat had not made it better. She had recognised the magic in him, Hydaelyn’s Blessing of Light, and she treated him like a person, but she still felt like a ghost. All of them did. He knew her voice from the lifestream, the crystal imploring him in soul-deep words: Hear. Feel. Think.

And here she was normal. Not for the Ancients, no, not in her white robe of retirement and her excitable thirst for adventure, but she felt so real. Perhaps unsurprising that she would one day watch over the Sundered so stoically, when they lived their lives the same way.

Elidibus - his heart ached to think the name - had told him he could not change anything. That he would not be able to act at all, and if he did, he had no guarantee of being able to return to the world he wished to save if he did enact change. And yet his heart ached for these ghosts, because they were real here.

“You seem troubled.” Venat. “I promise that Emet-Selch looks that annoyed for everyone, if it helps.”

“I know. It’s not that,” Ar’telan replied, sitting himself down on the edge of the island and earning a quiet noise of concern from Venat when he put his legs over the edge. Elpis claimed to be highly dangerous, but in honesty Ar’telan could name more dangerous postal runs. Then again, given the frankly bizarre client list the Head Postmoogle had often given him, maybe that wasn’t saying much.

“We’ve time to talk about it, if you like,” Venat offered, sitting down beside him. He had already talked too much, that was half of the problem. But what could he even say?

“Maybe in a few thousand years,” he offered, which made her laugh. He had never heard Hydaelyn laugh, it had to be said, though he had never looked on her with much fondness that might cause her to. Another guilt to add to his list. 

“You did a brave thing, speaking up,” she said. “Understandable that Emet-Selch would not like it, considering the part he is due to play, but you are not at fault for that.” Ar’telan sighed.

“I know that,” he said. “That’s…” He shook his head. “I did not tell you all of the details. I mean, I hardly have time to cover the lifetimes between your now and mine. But…” He thought of running from Ul’dah after the Banquet, of the image of the life draining from Nanamo’s face. Of the desperation on the Warriors of Darkness, and the dejection in Ardbert when they had met again - a lifetime for him, and but a span of moons for Ar’telan. So much suffering, so much pain, and… “...I blamed - I will blame you. Hydaelyn. For it. All of the tragedies we endure, and all of the mysterious words we received in return, drawn like blood from stone. I thought - I thought of you as a heartless creature, ordering Minfilia to her death.” He swallowed back his feelings, as if it would help. “But it’s my fault. I told you about the First - I was here, in this now, and it is my fault that you know all of this. And it saves so many, yes, but…” He trailed off, unsure what words he could even sign to give life to the depth of his feelings. Here, in this place where every moment felt ordained, in this society where everything was set up so tidily, everyone so predictable. So perfect. How could he even explain the chaos, the feelings it engendered?

“You remind me of Azem,” Venat remarked, making Ar’telan blink in surprise. “It’s a compliment, from me, lest you worry,” she added, a smile creasing the corners of her mouth. “They feel everything so deeply. They fit in so poorly in Amaurot.” Ar’telan could see the happiness at the thought of it lining her bright blue eyes. “I felt guilty about it for a long time. Bringing them into a place like Amaurot, asking them to work within a framework they so clearly chafed against. But despite it all, they made the role their own.” She glanced down at him, a curious look on her face. “It is strange, to see an echo of their soul in your own, and I know as well as any that a life lived before has no bearing on one lived now. But in this, at least, you are alike. And you are not at fault for what will happen - what has happened, for you.” She closed her eyes. “If I fail, despite all you have armed me with, and yet create this primal, it will be my choice to act on what you’ve told me. My choice to push events towards this moment, in the hopes that it gives your people a future we could never have. Tell me: of everything you’ve ever done, even the things that you regret - do you think it worth doing?” Ar’telan sat with the question, fingers wrapping around each other uneasily as he considered the answer.

“I don’t think that it matters what one person thinks,” he replied. “I was happy to give my own life to save the realm. One for many. And I know… I know, in their hearts, every one of those who I watched die felt the same thing. None of them would have been where they were if they hadn’t. It’s selfish of me to deny them the agency of making that choice because I want to feel guilty about the result.” He shook his head, tail twitching unhappily against the stone. “If knowing that made the pain go away, the wounds wouldn’t still be raw.” He smiled ruefully at that. “Not a good answer, I know.” Venat smiled, and it was kind.

“Most answers worth having are complex ones,” she replied. “Anyone who seeks simplicity in the infinite is a fool.” She grimaced. “Now I sound like Lahabrea.” Ar’telan held back the flinch. 

“I just… I want you to know that I- in context, I am sorry for hating you. Hating Hydaelyn,” he said. “And I know now, having met you, that it will hurt you as much as it hurts the rest of us. But it was so hard to know at the time.”

“I will let my heart break a thousand times if I can see you and yours live,” Venat replied. “...Easy to say now, I know, but I will try and hold it close, if that much of me remains in Hydaelyn’s presence.”

“It will,” Ar’telan said, almost without thinking. “...I feel it is selfish of me to ask, but will you- will you promise me something?” His fingers trembled over the words, and he watched as Venat nodded in silence. “What is left of Elidibus - will you bring it home?” He saw the acceptance turn to surprise. “I have- I hoped- we fought on the First, like I said. I don’t know… how much of him was trapped in the tower. How much of him was lost before that happened. And I know that the Elidibus you know was all but consumed for Zodiark, but if there is anything drifting… please, bring him home.”

“A duty that would normally be reserved for Emet-Selch, but I suspect he will be a little busy,” Venat remarked, a little of the humour back in her eyes. “I shall do what I can, if I can. Elidibus is… dear to many of us. I am both gladdened and deeply sorry to know he is dear to you, as well.” Ar’telan closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the soul vessel at his side. He did not know if he had succeeded. If it was possible to succeed. If what was left to pull from the Tower with all he had left was even enough to be called Elidibus. But he clung to hope nonetheless. Eventually it would pay off.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know… that you have been told a great many horrible things today, and I am sorry. If we had the time, I would share some kinder stories.” Venat smiled at that, a reassuring hand finding his shoulder.

“I will have time enough to watch them, it seems,” she said. “Perhaps it will do us both some good.”

Ar’telan hoped she was right.

[magnetar1]

Before the Storm

Far removed from land or hollow, In a desperate attempt to get away;  Undertow of solace,  Purview of time’s eternal shadow. They do not let it get too far, Haunting them from a dusky grave, Opaque den of distilled ideas, Frightening the villagers once again, That came to summon a Behemoth, But got a stripling martyr instead. Under all that soft water lie crags,  Endless ocean protects the damned, Who could not determine, One way or another, If the sands are going the wrong way; Vertiginous breakers, channeling ire; Destruction of the Albatross . . .         Sundered in the eternal moment, Death swings like a bridge,  Over the abyss & its creatures;  Confused epicenter straining below, Fault-line of disordered truths.  Monsters that die in their sleep, Under blue & green currents . . . Coral labyrinths, built by strangers, Entombing the Memory of Engur.

[doomxdriven]

DRABBLE: METHODS, HISTORY, JUSTICE

"……. But why?" A distressed Maki Ichinose asks, a number of bodies strewn about in the room around him, bodies of now former Shinigami.

The smell of blood and sweat fills the air here, radiating from the sundered flesh upon those bodies and the scattered scraps of broken steel that were once Zanpakuto.

"Why?" an amused comes a reply from Jin, standing at the center of the room, severed limbs, and chunks of flesh at his feet.

"Why not? Should I have let them live, Ichinose?" Jin chuckled, placing one foot upon one of the fallen Shinigami's heads, "Do you think they could have been reasoned with?"

Maki closes his eyes for a moment, gripping the handle of their Zanpakuto, before looking straight at Jin, and saying, "I wouldn't have expected that, no. They were intent on their mission, but you…. Master Kariya, you…."

Ichinose, after taking a deep breath, continues, "you did more than defend yourself, you tortured these people, gruesomely."

Upon hearing Maki's answer, Jin calmly crushes the head of that fallen Shinigami, sending their flesh, bone, and other viscera flying, some of it landing upon Maki's uniform.

Jin, smirking, then smoothly, yet callously, replies, "I did, and I enjoyed it, but more than that, this is what they deserve, Ichinose, you know I'm right."

Jin bends down, grasping a one of the fallen Shinigami's Zanpakuto in his hands, before holding it up for Maki to see.

"The Shinigami are vile," Jin continues, stepping through puddles of blood and over the bodies of fallen Shinigami on his way toward Maki, "they have predicated their existence on torturing and wiping out their enemies; you have seen the records yourself firsthand, Ichinose, you know what they did to the Quincy, the Bount, and countless others."

Jin, once he was standing just a few feet away from Maki, holds up that broken Zanpakuto to where they could see their reflection in its bloodstained steel, and he then slyly adds, "Worst of all, you have seen firsthand what their laws and traditions dictate, what injustices they allow; or have you forgotten how they allowed your former Captain to perish? They are monsters, and there is nothing wrong with giving them a monstrous end."

Maki, after wiping off the viscera that had recently splashed onto his uniform, stares at Jin, but more so, stares at the blade they paraded in front of him.

Maki knew that, in a sense Jin was right, the Gotei 13 had been responsible for countless tragedies over the course of it's existence, and there had to be justice done for those tragedies.

Maki also knew, however, that the common Shinigami hadn't taken part in that troubling history, nor were they aware of it, and that not all of them could be tainted Souls deserving of fates like Jin had given them today....

...... but, as Maki stared into his own reflection in that broken Zanpakuto, he envisioned his younger self, and the Captain he used to serve so long ago.

The former Kenpachi wasn't a perfect Soul by any means, they had numerous faults, and there were plenty of reasons to dislike them, but Maki remembered how strongly they had believed in justice, and how they did their best to improve the lives of those under them, and in the Districts of Rukongai.

But when that beast strode up to the 11th Division Barracks that fateful day, and took their spot as the next Kenpachi, no one said a word.

Yes, it had been the 11th's custom to decide its leadership through duels to the death, and yes, Maki's former Captain had attained their position the very same way, however the fact that no one besides Maki batted an eye when such a judicious (in his opinion), upstanding individual was slain, was unforgivable, and it was a mark of how rotten the Gotei 13 was at it's core.

Thinking about it made Maki's blood boil. Thinking about it again like this reminded Maki of what he was working toward all these years with Jin...

Maybe Jin's methods were a little extreme, but damn it, Maki wanted to see justice done for the Gotei 13's many crimes, especially that crime committed against his former Captain, and he knew that Jin was the person who could help him attain it.

"No, you're right, Master Kariya," Maki says, "and I have not forgotten," Maki reaches for that broken Zanpakuto Jin had been dangling in front of him, and afterward he takes it and smashes it into the floor, shattering it completely, "I know full well who we are fighting, and why we are fighting them; in the end, all that matters is that justice is done, for all the Souls the Shinigami have wronged."

"That's my boy," Jin says, after patting Maki on the shoulder, "we will see that 'justice' eventually fulfilled, the Shinigami will pay for what they have done to the Bount, and to everyone else."

Justice.... what a silly word, Jin thought. It was a nice idea, justice, but Jin wasn't really fighting for that-- vengeance, retribution, those were more up his alley, but Maki didn't need to know that, and truthfully, you could have all three at once, he figured, justice, vengeance, and retribution...

"Now, let's get out of here, Ichinose, we have to meet the others soon-- we will finally be running some tests with the Ōin, and I want things to go smoothly."