#and to rent asunder in the process

[random-xpressions]

We ascribe ourselves to a religion that taught us the sacredness of waiting. To wait for the prayer, is a prayer in itself...

Random Xpressions

[sexhaver]

say, for the sake of argument, someone invents a teleporter/transporter a la Star Trek. you step in one end, your body is physically destroyed/reduced to atoms, perfect information about those atoms and how they're assembled is instantly transferred to a receiving teleporter, and that teleporter reconstructs you atom by atom using these instructions like a lego set. assume that the receiving teleporter does not use the exact same atoms you started with (i.e. only data about your body is transferred, not the specific atoms making up your body). also assume that this process works so well that the person stepping out the "destination" end of the teleporter has the exact same personality and memories as the person who stepped into the "sending" end right up until stepping into the teleporter and being rent asunder. from their perspective (and everyone else's), the teleporter worked exactly as advertised: they blinked and were suddenly miles/light-years away.

[topaz-mutiny]

So, regarding Aeor Movie Night and Ludinus' plans, there's one thing I don't think anyone has really mentioned yet among the many, many Roasts Of Ludinus:

Part of Ludinus' plan is to get a mortal vessel (ideally Imogen, but storebought is fine) and essentially use a process to inject the God-Eater into the mortal vessel. This is so Predathos can bypass its cage, which is corroborrated by not just Vox Machina's ending arc where they pass through the Divine Gate themselves, but now also Downfall where the Gods use mortal vessels to bypass the protections set up by Aeor.

Technically, it works, but Downfall also showed why this is a bad, bad idea:

For the mortal, a loss of self. The memories and personalities of the diety subsume those of the mortal, unless the deity chooses not to fully eradicate the mortal's mind (like Ayden and Pelor).

Unless Predathos' vessel wears more limiters than a DBZ character, the vessel is prone to being, in the words of BLeeM, "rent asunder" by the sheer power contained by even a fraction of a diety, essentially making the vessel a water balloon swollen to burst at the slightest provocation.

The gods incarnated with just a fraction of their divinity inside their mortal vessels; Ludinus wants to shove an entire God-Eater into a flesh suit.

Honestly, I think this is meant to be one of the takeaways from Downfall, because it shows exactly how flimsy Ludinus' vessel plan is and how it's based entirely on the hypothetical restraint of an extremely hungry entity beyond mortal ken.

[eeboshmeebo]

🤜 Malleable Mochi 🍡

Tried out writing a fierce but domestic reader character... don't know how well I did. No beta, like always.

It was nearing December already, despite it feeling like September had just passed. How time flies, huh?

You pondered over it as you nibbled on your snack, scrolling through HeroTube videos mindlessly until you saw a video with a thumbnail that featured a cute porcelain rabbit, a wooden pedestal with wax paper and ornamental decorations on it, and most importantly...

Mochi. In a small corner of the thumbnail, there was even a mochi cut in half to display the dark adzuki bean paste filling and the gentle yellow chestnut, which was supposed to look like a full moon at night.

Maybe it was too late for the harvest moon festival, but who cared. It looked tasty, easy, and, well, when Monoma came back, you could make it with him after measuring out all the ingredients.

That sounded good, and besides, there's been enough of fall spices and peppermint going around. Time for a change of taste!

================================================

Monoma sighed after closing the door behind him and putting his casual jacket on the clothes hangar, finally back home after a long day of hero work and paperwork. Both were tedious and enjoyable (more the hero work than the paperwork), but he did need something comforting...

"Sweetheart, I'm hooooooome~!" He yelled, hearing his voice echo in the house's walls before he heard your response.

"Honey-buns! Come to the kitchen, I got something I want'cha to help with!"

"Alright, I'll be there in a second!" he replied to you, smiling wistfully to himself as he palmed the small ichigo* daifuku he bought on the way back. A small treat for you, but judging by the smell in the house, it'd be in the fridge for a little while.

He took off his shoes and walked to the kitchen, to be greeted with...

You, who had portioned out the ingredients already and were in the process of cooking them, were mashing the adzuki beans you had just boiled (evident by the pot in the sink that was slightly steaming somewhat) with some sugar using the potato masher that, honestly, had gone forgotten for weeks until now. You didn't seem to notice him yet.

Seeing this, Monoma crept up behind you slowly and every so silently, internally anticipating your reaction as he inched closer and closer...

"I can hear your watches jingle on your belt, honey-buns."

"Tch..."

Oh well, he'd get you next time. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, resting his head on the crook of your neck as he admired the view.

"So, what're you making? It smells better than I expected."

"Mochi! I saw a video online, and watch your mouth. I only burned that popcorn once because I hadn't made it for a while!"

He cried out in mock-pain as you bit onto his cheek gently, leaving pinkish shallow marks on his face that'd fade away in minutes.

"Ah, my darling, you disfigure me! How will I show myself on the streets now that my face has been rent asunder?" He put a hand on his forehead, leaning backwards and away from you with 'despair' on his face.

He slipped.

You scrambled to put the bowl on the counter to catch him right before he hit the ground, his heart racing from the surprise scare. Your heart was evidently racing, too, from how you were dry-laughing from stress and from the scare he had just gave you.

"..."

"..."

"...I'm sorry..?"

"You better be, dumbass..."

Then, you kissed him fiercely, allowing his stress to melt away along with his fear that just spiked for a few moments before you pulled away.

"You're so lucky you have a kissable face, or I'd have punched you already."

"...pfft- hahahahaha! Oh, don't worry, Kendo does all of the physical lecturing for you so you don't hurt your pretty hands on my head."

He then threw the most lovesick, puppy-eyed look he could muster. Monoma loved how your blush rose onto your skin despite the fact that you were still mildly angry, and how easy it was for you to give in.

Eventually, after five or so seconds, you sighed and placed the half-mashed bowl of bean paste into his hands.

"I'll deal with the mochi. Don't slip again, okay?"

Your tone was rough, but your eyes gave away the worry and the mild annoyance you felt as you stormed to the stove and took out the freshly-steamed mochi from the steamer in the pot, hissing from the heat as you hurriedly placed it on a large cutting board caked with rice flour.

Monoma grinned as he stood up, mashing the beans as he looked over.

He saw you punching and folding the mochi dough quickly, as if you did this multiple times before. Or maybe you punched and slapped a training dummy so many times it translated into mochi-making skills.

Either way, his eyes sparkled with every punch you delivered and every blow you landed, even if you stopped sometimes to cool your hands down, that he eventually finished mashing his own beans but was still doing so even if they were already done.

"I love you, sweetheart."

"Love you too, honey-buns! Now, help me make some mochi, eh?"

================================================

You sat on the couch, nibbling on some slightly lumpy mochi as your head laid in Monoma's lap while you watched TV with him. The show on was something about a pink-haired guy and a white-haired guy with a blindfold and they were supposed to be very important, but right now, your focus was locked on Monoma.

Who was dozing off right now, and there were a few more marks on his skin. You had bitten a bit too hard earlier after you both were done making mochi, but it was fine.

This was the life, nibbling on slightly warm mochi and savoring the sweetness of affection and sweet treats. And a good kiss on the cheek every few minutes.

[*Ichigo is Japanese for Strawberry]

[Apparently this rabbit's name is Daifuku, or something close to it. It's cute so I kept the GIF.]

[eldritch-spouse]

GIMMIE THE ANGST IT FEELS TO WARM AND FUZZY AROUND HERE

 (I -I really like like your characters Pinnie)

When Adrul takes full control of Perdition that means most, if not all, of the Ring’s inhabitants respect and fear him. As his partner nobody would dare to harm us -we’re mostly safe, but not completely. 

There has to be some radical group somewhere that believes a half human demigod doesn’t deserve to rule. 

So what would happen if, on a day Adrul had some important business with his parents at the clergy, his beloved was attacked and succumbed to her wounds before Adrul could return? Despite all the protection placed around them and the highest medical care, they still died. Adrul wasn’t quick enough. He wasn’t prepared. He miscalculated. He wasn’t as in control as he thought he was -and that cost him his heart.

What are Belo, Admin, Miara, and Krulu’s thoughts about this?

What does Adelo think of him now that he’s finally failed at something?

How much of Krulu’s callous apathy did Adrul inherit?

[Hellow and thenk you!- I'll humor the scenario, but know that it is out of character, Adrul is far too cautious to leave you, supervised or not, in any part of Hell while he's in the surface.]

TW: Death; Gore; Torture; Suicidal ideation.

For as much as his Lord-Father wishes he take command of Hell, sometimes Adrul has to agree with his celestial father. Demons are the scum of this planet. They're the lowest of the low, the most disgusting lifeforms to ever enter the planes of existence. Made out of spite, made to spite-

Belo had always been right. Perdition doesn't need to be ruled over, it needs to be decimated. Torn asunder, rent to a crisp. And its verminous inhabitants should be hunted down to the very last curly-tailed imp...

But alas, orders are orders, and Adrul's fate had been spun long before his mother birthed him. So Hell still stands, mocking the universe.

Sometimes, now more than ever, Adrul feels that he's a clown. A fool made to lord himself over degenerates. It's a sinking feeling that curls in his gut like poison, and now, he has no means of escaping it.

See, demons, in their endlessly abundant mental stunting, fail to grasp that Adrul is not some half-human nitwit. He's less than a tenth human, if he had to guess... Father weaved his power into both his and Adelo's development during pregnancy, there is absolutely no way he would have allowed a half-lesser child. They both know this, and truthfully, are also grateful for such.

But again, demons are just brainless. They're hardly even people, in Adrul's eyes. So it's no wonder they can't put two and two together, it's no shock groups of overconfident scumfucks gather to plot against the King of Perdition on a daily basis.

Adrul simply... Underestimated them.

It's something harrowingly painful to admit.

Because it implies he's getting out of touch, he's lowering his guard too much, getting tired maybe. It means he's succumbing to something, that his thought process is deteriorating, that he's not as competent as his parents trained him to be, that he's a let-down, useless- He makes mistakes because he is a mistake, they're all extensions of him.

And his biggest mistake, was letting his heart die.

Carelessly tossing you to a brutal end, the details of which gruesome enough that Adrul can't bare to recall lest he fly into another soul-shattering meltdown. His most selfish action, marking the day he lost everything.

Adrul's reaction to your death was stone cold.

He's never been good with displaying emotion. Never been very facially expressive, strayed from hysteric tones, hardly laughed and hardly cried. Though, in that moment, he felt that he didn't react because he simply couldn't. Reacting would have killed him. It would have broken his mind beyond saving.

The servants didn't know what to do, rushing back and forth, too afraid to direct any words at him, everyone hovering around the scene of the crime, trying not to touch what's left of your body or the mess that spattered the rest of the area.

Adrul collected your butchered remains silently, slowly following the trail of blood leading to other divisions, indicating you had put up a valiant fight. The constant dripping off your torn body echoed through the walls, reminding him that it was over. That you were gone, that he would never get to hold you again, or hear your voice, feel your touch. He would never love again. He would never want again, he would never live again.

Hell burns. But Adrul is cold.

You were handed over to people he knew could never betray him, ordering them to fix your form as perfectly as they could- Because their lives depended on it. And while that happened, the prince crowned King went hunting for the animals that did this, the insects who couldn't even fathom the horrors they'd face.

It wasn't hard. Adrul knows how to manipulate crowds. Turn them against each other. All he had to do was identify the culprits, offer compensation, and allow the entirety of demonkind to turn against each other, a slaughter the likes of which not even Kalymir could dream of. The Icons themselves are involved in this search, which means whatever rebellious sect initiated this had less than days to get their shit kicked in.

Most of them were brought to him captured, alive. Others dragged in dead. Some stragglers who made it to the surface in hopes of escaping were severely wounded but there nonetheless. Adrul kept the leaders to himself.

And then, he loaded the rest into a transportation device, preparing to visit the surface, and bring the news to his family...

Adrul hadn't shed a tear yet.

Admin was devastated. She could not imagine a fate more disturbing for the human Adrul favored, for the one her, Belo and Krulu approved of. A lesser truly worthy of uniting with her son... She was the first to offer Adrul solace and comfort, and the first to see him react minimally, face twitching erratically, silent tears flowing down his face. She understood Adrul is just like his Father, that he doesn't show what he's really feeling most of the time, that she shouldn't expect him to bear his heart to her in this time- But she wouldn't be a good mom if she didn't make it very clear that Adrul needs to process things and mourn you properly. Easier said than done. She couldn't imagine the grief it would cause if either one of her partners died, if she died.

Adelo, for once, took something seriously. Adrul had spared him a venomous look upon first sight, as if expecting the angel hybrid to crack a tasteless joke, and it genuinely wounded him to know his brother thought that little of Adelo. He's always been bad with wording things, so the older brother merely offered his condolences and volunteered any sort of necessary help. He could tell Adrul was dead inside the moment he glanced upon his brother, having learned to read the monster quite well. It was hard to witness, and he figured he ought to keep his distance for a while.

Belo was equally stunned. That's always been the problem with lessers, hasn't it? They're endlessly fragile, they need constant surveillance, constant protection- A herculean task. Like Admin, he cried for his son, he joined in her comforting efforts, using his properties as a celestial to offer calm, and did his best to guide poor Adrul into calm mindsets. Belo knows what it's like to want to drown one's sorrow in work, productivity is oftentimes a coping mechanism, so he urged his son to work and help around as he visited, keeping him safe from his thoughts, gentle silence shared.

Krulu's gaze is hard. Adrul did fail, he said to his own son's face. That was failure, there's no escaping it. And before Adrul's soul could shatter deeper, the siadar proclaimed that Adrul didn't have the luxury of following you. Adrul is bigger than you and he serves a purpose that precedes your involvement in his life. You were a marvelous lesser, and he recognizes his son loved you more than anything- For his eyes blazed with the same intensity around you as his do towards Admin. Although it may have felt that way, Krulu reminds his inwardly grieving, breaking son that not all was lost. That he couldn't let himself fail further.

Miara deflated like a balloon at the news. She was looking forward to seeing you and him become a big, happy family. Adrul was hastily invited into her main lands, and after some bickering with both Krulu and Belo, Miara convinced the stubborn bulls that their son needed rest, distraction, care. Not pain, not being around people who remind him of his responsibilities. Adrul needed healing of the highest degree, he seemed to attract misery and those who covet it like moths to a flame. To see wraiths hover around his vicinity like vultures was infuriating and extremely disappointing. She had wisdom to impart on the demi-siadar, and more than enough nurture to spare, as well as guidance for Admin in how to care for her wounded son.

The rebellious demons who had been transported to the surface were handed to none other than his Lord-Father.

Adrul knew that, no matter how creative he got, Krulu would always be able to unleash torture the likes of which he can't even conceive of. Seeing the mind-shattering terror on the demons' faces as they got swept into the bowels of The Clergy's Eye, taken into the depths of it by his Father, it was something truly marvelous.

Krulu used these demons for just about everything, spending most of his free time delighting in their meticulous torture. For once, his chosen and his dove were invited to see the process, to aid in it. Not Adrul, Adrul was still too shattered to glimpse into those instances and Krulu knew that. Although, his son does get a couple of "finished pieces" sent back to his residence in Perdition, with a message from the higher suggesting that he should display them where all could see. Beautiful omens born out of pointless lives. Adrul did like them, enough to show them to the mangled leaders of the resistance.

They don't get to die, naturally.

After all, Adrul didn't get to die either. To this day, he's not afforded that luxury. He has to drag himself onwards with his many legs, pretending to feel any sort of drive for anything, pretending he doesn't just want to loiter around the garden the two of you made, now a burial ground of unimaginable beauty, and curl up next to your headstone for the rest of time.

Adrul was merciless and blind to morals when he hunted down the families of those leading demons. He forced them to stay by his side, bound and gagged and screaming, because they knew exactly what was going to happen when the King ordered his most loyal warriors to bludgeon and massacre and do anything they wanted to those innocent lives. Wives, parents, sons and daughters- Adrul smiled, grinned, it was the first time he laughed ever since you were taken from him.

The demi-siadar almost wished he was a wraith, just so he could savor the pain his prisoners felt as they froze, or erupted into hysterical babbling, screaming at the top of their lungs until their throats tore.

Adelo and Adrul are sons of Protector Saudramar, of Plaguemaster, of Lord-Master Krulu.

Sure, they may also be born of Admin and Belo, elements that keep them minimally grounded, bearable. Still, it would be foolish to assume they couldn't choose their Father's path when poked just right.

The King of Hell became something uncontrollably evil.

Adrul is now consumed by a rage not too distant from that of Krulu's. Having his most important element in life mauled to an untimely end, then forced to rule over the cretins that did it, forced to think in their best interests and keep them safe, keep the comfortable.

As if they fucking deserve the bare minimum consideration.

He can't take it.

He can't fucking take it anymore.

That's why Adrul seizes any opportunity he has to slaughter hundreds for the smallest of misdeeds. A trail of bodies follows Adrul wherever he ventures in his own domain, the streets cleared for him. If he could, he'd wipe out the entire population of all rings. Even if he knows it wouldn't fix him. It would be just.

It would be fair.

Sometimes, he comes back home showered in blood, letting droplets taint the flowers of your garden as he lays on the ground and speaks to you.

Begs you to take him with you.

To forgive him.

He failed you. He failed the person who was there for him through thick and thin, through his anxieties of wanting to live up to his role and getting caught up in tornados of endless conflict. He conquered Hell for you, in the end, because of you.

And now... It means nothing to him. Everything Adrul spent his youth training for, attaining, means absolutely fucking nothing to him.

He just wishes he could die, anything would be better than this joke of an existence.

And maybe, it's that desire to shed his husk and his life, that brings Dorem to Hell.

Granted, the ruler of Limbo isn't there for small talk or a pat on the back. No words are spoken between Adrul and the soulkeeper when Dorem produces an intricate container of what appears to be (but definitely isn't) glass. Inside it dances an extremely bright light, molding into all shapes and states as if agitated.

Then, once passed onto his dark hands, it calms immediately. The entity flattens against the glass, drawn to him, emitting a comforting warmth he could never mistake.

Dorem fades with the shadows.

It's you.

It's the essence of you.

Adrul sobs so hard he chokes on his own screams.

[howlingday]

Clash of the Gods

**********************************************

Oscar: (Sits on his bed, Yawns) Let's get to bed. Hopefully things will be a lot better tomorrow.

There was hope in the young man's voice. The events of the day had taken their toll on the four of them. Learning the status of the Relic of Knowledge was disheartening, and yet despite Adrian finding only one piece, was the most hopeful to find the rest. This lead to a heated disagreement between him and his uncle, leaving the party exhausted.

Adrian: (Sits on his bed) Good night, Uncle. (Lays down) Good night, Oscar. Oz.

Oscar: Good night. (Shifts) Good night.

Jaune: Good night. (Lays down, Shuts eyes)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Adrian: WHAT WAS THAT?!

Jaune: Grab your weapon!

The world shook around them as wind and rain battered the walls of their shared home. Thunder crackled as the ground was rent asunder by lightning. Jaune threw open the door, sword in hand, and found a massive figure standing a distance from the entrance.

Jaune: WHO ARE YOU?!

Lightning flashed behind his towering frame, casting an intimidating shadow over the doorway. The figure pushed aside his coat, revealing two silver and black handguns. He spoke softly, but his voice carried over the winds.

Ironwood: Can I come in? (Reaches behind, Pulls out a flask) I brought wine.

Jaune: I'm not exactly fit for visitors!

Ironwood: Are you sure? You have a table and cups, don't you?

At the lack of response, the winds died down. The mountain of a man moved closer, but Jaune didn't step aside. It wasn't until the man shut his coat that Jaune let him pass. As the storm died down, Jaune nodded to Adrian, who hurried to set the table. As the men stared at one another, they set their weapons on the table, Jaune with his sword and the stranger with his guns.

The man's eyes were dark and tired, long sullen from ages past of sleepless night. His beard was long with strands of white, like fresh coal crumbled into ashes. Atop his brow rested a metal plate, a wound earned from a battle long forgotten by all but two survivors, both of whom located in this building.

Ironwood: (Looks around, Sits down) Charming place.

Adrian set the cups on the table, then stepped away as the guest set the flask down. "Pop!" The cap was removed and heavy red liquid filled each cup to near the rim. With a grunt, the cap was reseated and the giant reached across the table for the cup in front of Jaune.

Jaune: (Grabs cup, Huffs)

Ironwood: ...You could've told me before I poured.

Jaune: Why are you here?

The stranger lifted his cup and wafted a hand over the rim. A smile graced his lips for a moment before returning to it's stoic origins.

Ironwood: I'm being neighborly.

Before Jaune could reply, a stray wind blew from a torn open wall to the shut door. Adrian shivered, but straightened when Jaune glanced to him. There was a sudden movement, but it was nonhostile. The titan rotated his hand for emphasis as he spoke.

Ironwood: You seem like a reasonable person. Very calm. (Leans closer) Are you reasonable and calm?

Jaune: If I need to be.

Ironwood: (Glances to Due Process, Huffs) Good. You should be.

There was a knock, and Jaune and Adrian became still. The stranger simply sipped from his cup, totally unperturbed by the sudden noise. With a nod from his uncle, Adrian opened the door. The wind picked up as flurries whirled outside the doorstep, and a man formed as the ice and snow came together. Without asking, he entered.

Cloaked in heavy furs, the small gentleman glanced around with fast-moving eyes. Atop his lips sat a bushel of white hair, which matched his slicked-back hair. Under his cloak was a fancy robe, sown not from ilk, but from dust.

Jacques: Do you know who I am?

The man swiftly made his way to the empty chair and placed it beside the largest man in the room. He picked it up, moved it, placed it, and sat in it. All while he spoke with an air of superiority. Like he were speaking to a child.

Jacques: Not long ago, before this cold settled in, mistakes were made. Unfortunate and regrettable, to be sure, but I think we all know who's who around here, right?

Jacques: Now, what you did to my children... was understandable. Self-defense. They both attacked you, and you did what you had to. After all, despite our immense power, we are all still mortal. (Looks to Ironwood) And let's be honest; those two were worthless. They wouldn't have been any use to us. (Looks to Jaune) But Winter was different. She was the Maiden. She had value as both our superpower and my best huntress. Yes, she was driven insane by her power, but she was useful, and now she's gone because you killed her. Do you understand?

The smaller man reached over and took the cup from the much, much larger man and drank it to the last. He set the now empty container to the table. "Clack!"

Jacques: You. Owe. Me. (Looks to Ironwood) And you're no fun to be around.

Jaune: What do you want?

The man took Jaune's cup and did the same as before. Jaune didn't react. If anything, this worked in his favor as the most sober of the three men. Another cup empty by the hands of this stranger. "Clack!"

Jacques: Peace. (Stands up) Does peace hold any interest to you, oh great and mighty Valian god of war? Hm? That we ceasefire and return to our normal lives? You stay here, lay down, don't start anything with me, and I promise not to start anything with you.

Suddenly, cold blue eyes fell on Adrian, who stiffened under his gaze. A bony finger raised to single him out. On instinct, Adrian stepped closer to a support beam. Jaune placed his eyes on him as well.

Jacques: And you need to stop looking for the relics.

Jaune's eyes widened, fury suddenly ablaze in his glare. But this was less of his old form of fury, which was ignited and fueled by his rage, and more tempered by concern for the boy's well-being.

Ironwood: Yes. We know what you've been up to. Now stop it.

Jacques: The war between Salem and Ozma is dead. Salem is dead. (Steps closer) Understand?

Jaune stood up. The man turned to him and stepped away from Adrian, hands in the air. Adrian looked between the two. The huge man still seated at the table placed the rest of the bottle of wine to his lips.

Jacques: And that's it. We're even. In fact, I'll sweeten the deal and let your little refugee walk away, completely pardoned! Yeah, I know you're in there, you lying, little bastard!

He looked to the closet, where a dim flash of light flared. Adrian stepped closer to keep it shut, but was too slow as the door came swinging open. Adrian rushed in to hold back the older boy from making a grave mistake by striking the dangerous gentleman with his cane.

Oscar: Why should we believe anything you have to say?! When was the last time you ever kept your promise?!

Jacques: Ozpin. A pleasure, as always.

Ironwood: He looks younger. (Hiccups)

Oscar: If he tells you snow is white, he's lying!

Jacques: What? You do riddles now? And I thought the great and powerful Oz would be wise enough to see past his own ego.

His gaze returned to Jaune, who continued to stand at the table. The foreign man stayed his hand from his sword, but darted his gaze between the larger man and this deceptively more powerful one. Ozpin was a lot of things, and a lot of times, he hid the truth. But he never lied, especially about Jacques Schnee.

Jacques: Okay, here's my final offer. Stop your search for the relics, and I'll smooth things out between you and my ex. You'll never see Willow again, and I will ensure your safety when you walk through her garden. Keep your... nephew... safe. (Smiles) Isn't that what all we could ever ask for with family? So what do you say? Do we have a deal?

Jaune thought on the conditions. Willow, mad in her grief for her children, grew bolder in her attacks. Adrian's curiosity drew him closer and deeper into her territory, which put his life in danger. Jaune couldn't protect him forever, and Adrian was not yet ready to be on his own.

Which meant he still had to protect him from men like Jacques Schnee.

Jaune: No.

Jacques didn't react much to the answer. No raising of his brow or open gape of his mouth in surprise. He simply walked by his wide shouldered ally and whispered in his ear. In response, the massive man sighed as he stood.

Ironwood: Finally.

Before Jaune could blink, thunder rocked his core as he was launched through his wall, his home growing smaller and smaller in seconds. As his velocity slowed and blurs regained shape, his gargantuan foe was upon him once more, pistols in both hands. He holstered them and took hold of Jaune's neck.

Ironwood: I've been waiting for this! You Valians always were slow on how things worked in Atlas. Here, we have something called "a cold debt". (Squeezes, Jaune hacks) It means you took something from me, and now I take something from you. Don't worry, though; you'll pick it up!

Jaune smashed his fist against his colossal opponent's face, but earned little response beyond a chuckle. With a kick to his chest, Jaune became free from the iron grip. Instead of retreating, he smashed his forehead into the bearded giant's nose. Reeling from his pain, he tossed Jaune aside.

Ironwood: (Rotates shoulder) That was for Winter. Now show me this God-Slayer I've heard so much about!

Jaune reached out, but only felt empty air in return. Something was stopping his blade from returning to his hand. The tall man stalked forward, cracking his knuckles. One set of knuckles sounded more metallic in his koints popping.

Ironwood: Can't fight without your sword? Coward!

He lunged for Jaune, who managed to duck away. An arm swiped for him, but was deftly blocked by Jaune's shield, and a counter was delivered into the giant's side. This did little more than annoy the titan.

Jaune: I didn't want to fight Winter!

Ironwood: I don't care!

An iron fist struck Jaune in the face, sending him spiraling into a wall. A follow-up punch missed and struck the wall instead. As debris and dust fell away from the crater made, Jaune used this to his advantage and weaved to behind his opponent, striking his massive backside. Unfortunately, this also didn't hurt him.

Ironwood: You insult me holding back like this!

A bloodied fist whirled round, narrowly missing Jaune, who held up his shield. Steel-hard fingers dug into his defense and tossed it away, earning a massive boot into Jaune's torso. Jaune rolled backwards to his feet, bracing for another attack.

Ironwood: How were YOU ever a god of war?! (Charges at Jaune, Misses and grabs pillar) You're fucking hopeless! (Whirls round pillar) You spit on my children's memories! I can't believe they lost to you!

Jaune ducked low and drove his shield into the gargantuan, deep into his gut. As he reeled from his pain, Jaune wailed blow after blow into him, staggering him. Reeling back, he swung his shield towards his stony face. The titan grabbed the sides, but was pushed back by Jaune's strength. He was now pinned under the god of war.

Jaune: You know who I was?

Ironwood: The Rusted Knight? Yeah, I do!

Jaune: Then you know what I can do!

Ironwood: Then show me!

Jaune held his sword hand out, hoping to reclaim his blade once more. Captializing on relieving his arm, the towering figured shoved Jaune away. The blade whirled into Jaune's hand, and bit deep into his foe as he swung. With a shove, Jaune cut deeper into his opponent, but this still didn't slow him down. Not even as red spurted from his mortal wound.

Ironwood: Now this is a fight!

As Jaune rushed in, a boot was raised high before stomping into the solid ground. The earth shook as a shockwave rippled the air around source. Jaune was launched far back into a wall. The same where his foe first bled. Jaune looked ahead and saw the man was fully-healed, with no scars to show his wounds.

Jaune: (Thinking) Damn it! How many times does it take?! When will the gods finally leave me be?!.

Ironwood: What's this? Now we're talking!

Jaune, consumed by his rage, rushed for the tall bastard and lept onto him. Fists bounced and bounced hard into the stone face, bruising iron skin and breaking bleeding bone as he pummeled into the laughing god's face. His arms were tightly held before he was thrown off. Jaune lept again, but missed and sent his own shockwave that barely pushed the mountainous son of a bitch. Jaune panted as cold air bit his skin.

Ironwood: Is that all? I thought you were finally showing me something! Come on! Show me the monster inside! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE BETTER THAN THIS!

Jaune: I AM!

Jaune charged forward and swung his sword from on high, only to be blocked by twin pistols catching from their slides. Jaune was pushed to the backfoot once more and was shot twice in the chest, sending him flying far and away once more. He smashed through something metal. As he regained himself, he caught the god in his follow-up, but was helpless as he was tossed through the metal and his face driven into the cold pavement below.

Ironwood: That was for Weiss! (Walks away) Sorry about your little statue, Pyrrha, you soft-hearted crybaby.

Jaune gripped a piece of bronze from Pyrrha's statue- her arm, maybe- and drove it deep into the god's backside. As Jaune readied his blade, the massive foe grabbed the shard from his front and tore it out. After a roar and a pant, he turned to Jaune and laughed.

Ironwood: If you're not fighting dirty, you're not fighting, right?

Jaune rushed to his foe with renewed vigor, those his body still ached. The battle was wearing hard on his body. Blade scraped against pistol as the giant swung his firearms like clubs. What didn't connect to his sword clashed against his shield, ringing Jaune's ears with a thunderous force.

Jaune: Your children attacked US first!

Ironwood: Good! Just like I trained them!

Jaune sheathed his sword and took another of Pyrrha's statue to strike his hardy foe. Said foe reeled from the pain, but only seemed to be reinvigorated by the attack. Lining up his shot, a fireball launched with hellish fury, singing a deafening song. Jaune clenched his teeth under such force. As he lowered his shield, a massive hand reached for Jaune, grabbing and slamming him into the pavement.

Ironwood: Was it luck?! Did my children lose and die to blind, fucking luck?!

Jaune felt heavy blow after blow cascade upon him like rain. Everything was growing softer, silenced by the deafening ring in his ears. Hands gripped around Jaune's throat as he struggled against his mighty foe.

Ironwood: You think you can burn a kingdom, come here, be a daddy, and get a clean, fucking slate?! That's not how the world works! You're a killer, a destroyer, just like me!

Jaune was finally able to breathe until the final, heavy blow was made against him. Everything had grown dark. Quiet. He knew this feeling before, for he's felt it so many times. Death.

And he never got to say good-bye to Adrian. Never the chance to tell him he's-

Ironwood: Oho no! I say when we're done.

Fire burned over Jaune's chest, his body alive with pain as his fingers curled in spasmatic rhythm. His heart thundered in pain as cold air filled Jaune's throat and lungs. As his body calmed, Jaune moved to his feet. The giant gestured with an open palm lazily.

Ironwood: Get up! I'm not leaving until I see the real you. Now!

With shaky legs, Jaune approached the god. His body still ached, but he could also feel it healing. His divine status returning, Jaune felt a rage boil within him, but he pressed it down once more. Rage would not win this fight.

The two came to blows once more, but Jaune was noticably slower than before, and so was the mountain before him. Judging by the rolling of his eyes, this was not for the same reason Jaune held. Flaring his nostrils, he barked at Jaune ashe swung.

Ironwood: Stop holding back!

Jaune's speed increased, as did his enemy's. Blade cut as bullets pierced, with only body and shield to catch each other. Jaune caught another boot to his torso, sending him sliding back into a wall.

Ironwood: There's no way my children lost to you! (Catches sword in metal palm, Snarls) Are you afraid to get your hands dirty?

Jaune tore himself free and distanced himself. He missed a swing for his head, but kept his shield up to defend himself. He noticed storm clouds continued to build around the forgotten city, and the building snow and hail grew and grew in size and intensity. Yet the titanic marksman leveled his pistol with certainty.

Ironwood: This is the god who destroyed an entire kingdom because a woman hurt his feelings?

Jaune sheathed his sword and held his shield up. A bullet careened from his shield, but he continued in his blind charge. Once he saw those big boots, Jaune reached high and seized his prize, his foe's throat. Squeezing it tightly, he struck him hard in the face. As he reeled to strike again, the giant ducked low and took hold of Jaune in a bear hug.

Kicking from his legs, the two soared into the sky. Thunder rumbled and roared around them as lightning flashed and blinded them. Even as Jaune freed himself and threw punch after punch into the god's face, he continued to laugh in a rumble that seemed to echo the thunder. Again, the fist was caught and Jaune was thrown to the ground. Jaune landed with a roll, and readied his sword.

Ironwood: THIS IS FOR WHITLEY!

As Jaune threw his sword forward, it clashed against the pistols, an electric charge sparking from their weapons grinding against each other.

Jaune: You always put him last! Even when he died!

Ironwood: What the fuck did you just say?!

Jaune: Whitley came after us because he was afraid of you! We didn't kill him! You beat him and he died from the wounds you gave him!

Ironwood: Oh, and like you're such a model father?!

They came apart and struck again. Lightning crashed and blasted the two far from each other. In their place stood a massive glass tower, brimming with electric energy. They circled each other around it.

Ironwood: This seems familiar.

Jaune: What?

Ironwood: Doesn't matter.

Jaune felt the earth crackle and rolled away. A thunderbolt scorched the earth where Jaune stood. As lightning crashes increased, Jaune charged to his foe once more and struck him with his blade once again.

Ironwood: I don't fucking care about what a good father you are! I want to see Vale's god of war!

Jaune: You started this! (Grabbed again, Kicks knee) I WILL END IT!

Jaune felt the god's leg give, but it did little to help him. What jubilance his foe held now died and was replaced by this towering rage before him. Rage, hatred, disgust. All of it targeted at this god of war.

Ironwood: This is the foreign god who murdered Winter?

Another heavy boot came crashing down, but Jaune caught his shoulder with his blade. Once more, divine blood spilled. However, it didn't seem to heal as fast as it did before. As Jaune was shoved away, it still bled. The god continued to bleed, which meant he could still be beaten. However, this distraction costed him.

Ironwood: (Grabs Jaune, Slams him down) This is the man who bested Cinder, the woman who murdered Ozpin?!

Jaune rolled away, only to be caught again by his enemy. His sword fell away as he was thrown into another wall, driven deeper by an iron fist. Jaune launched his own punches and two slugged one another until Jaune was tossed away again. Grabbing his sword, he swung the blade into a structure behind his opponent. Metal creaked as it fell.

Ironwood: Clever! (Raises pistol, Fires, Shatters iron beam) But clever won't beat me!

The two continued their battle, but even Jaune noticed his slowing down again. He doubted he'd be offered another chance by the godly titan before him. His foe also slowed, but much less so than him.

Ironwood: Where's your love of the fight?! Show me the god of war! Let me see him!

Jaune held up his shield as the massive pistols clubbed and sparked into it. Metal creaked and bent as lightning burned and melted against it's shape. Suddenly, it shattered, and twin barrels were placed to his eyes. Between them, Jaune saw the god's eyes ablaze in rage.

Ironwood: I see why my children fell to you. Even if it's this... weaker version of you. (Leans in) But I am not my children!

Ironwood: But your son? Don't worry! Jacques Schnee and I will take good care of him. He has plans for him.

Jaune reached out and gripped the bastard's arms tightly. Reeling back, he slammed his face through the pistols and cracked the asshole's fucking nose. As blood dribbled into his beard, Jaune roared as his fist crashed and cracked into the son of a bitch's smug face.

Jaune felt his blood boil. Spill over. He felt a rage he hadn't felt in ages. Something in his very being that told him to kill the man. Beat this god. Maim this dog until he begged for a quick and merciful death.

Ironwood: There he is.

The man chuckled and popped his jaw back in place. Reaching inside, he swiftly yanked out and tossed a tooth free.

Ironwood: There's the god of war.

The winds died down, and the snow and hailed ceased as the thunder quieted around them. The god reseated his pistols and dusted himself off. He took a deep breath and calmly spoke.

Ironwood: Consider your "cold debt" repaid. (Turns away) I'll be seeing you.

As Jaune attempted to give chase, lightning flashed and the mountain of a man was gone without a trace. Left confused in the cold, he remembered. Adrian was stuck in the house. Alone!

Stones shifted nearby and Jaune found his friends Ruby and Yang waving to him.

Yang: I told you he'd make it! Ol' Vomit God is just fine!

Jaune: (Falls over)

Ruby: Jaune! (Runs over, Helps Jaune up) Remember me? It's Ruby! And Yang is here, too!

Yang: You goo-

Jaune: Home! Now! Jacques Schnee is with Adrian!

Ruby: I'll get a gateway ready!

Yang: (Carries Jaune) Come on, big guy! Don't worry, nobody is around to see you get picked up by a girl.

Jaune: Who... Who was that?

Yang: That was Ironwood, Atlesian god of storms, strength, and being a general pain in everyone's ass.

Ruby: I still can't believe Crocea Mors stood up to Due Process! (Squeals) Uh, not that I enjoy watching my babies fight.

Jaune: Gn...

Yang: Uh, Ruby? The gateway?

Ruby: Oh! Right!

[leapard100]

A broken friendship that is mended through forgiveness is akin to a phoenix rising from its own ashes, for in the crucible of forgiveness, the bonds that were once fractured are not merely repaired, but fortified. This remarkable transformation gives birth to a connection that transcends its previous state, emerging even more robust and resilient than it once was.

Imagine, if you will, a once-tattered tapestry of trust and camaraderie, rent asunder by the weight of misunderstandings, hurtful words, or betrayals. In the aftermath of such rupture, the potential for reconciliation may appear remote, and yet, forgiveness holds the power to orchestrate a miraculous reassembly.

Forgiveness is not merely an act of pardoning the past; it is the art of healing wounds and reconstructing bridges. It requires the courage to confront pain, the wisdom to let go of resentment, and the generosity to grant a second chance. When both parties in a fractured friendship embark on this journey of forgiveness, they embark on a profound process of renewal.

As they navigate the depths of forgiveness, they rediscover the humanity within themselves and each other. The process demands empathy, self-reflection, and a willingness to understand the complexities of the human experience. In this shared voyage of self-discovery and empathy, the broken shards of trust and affection are fused together with newfound understanding, empathy, and maturity.

The result is a friendship that emerges not only restored but transformed. It is a friendship that bears the scars of its past, a testament to the trials it endured, yet it stands taller and stronger, fortified by the lessons learned and the bonds of forgiveness. This renewed friendship possesses a resilience born of its capacity to confront adversity and emerge unbroken. It is a testament to the enduring power of forgiveness, capable of creating something beautiful and enduring from the fragments of the past.

In this way, a broken friendship, when mended through forgiveness, evolves into a masterpiece of resilience, where scars become badges of honor and forgiveness becomes the cornerstone of an even stronger, more profound connection.

[dragon-hoard]

going in knowing vague spoilers is once again super funny

oooh no the sharlayans are acting all secretive and suddenly pushing for research into teleporting using unattuned either points

yall are gonna eventually blast my ass to the literal god prison of a moon so I can talk to some automaton rabbits called [blank]ingway and then fight godmom after going back to the past and having my feelings being rent asunder

also knowing enough that an ancient dragon is cosplaying as a kid to avoid processing his trauma

[so-true-overdue]

Vaccines: The Unyielding Bulwark Against Epidemics

Vaccines, those miraculous concoctions of scientific ingenuity, have long been the unsung heroes in humanity's perennial struggle against the pernicious onslaught of infectious diseases. It is, indeed, a travesty of the highest order that we must even justify their efficacy and necessity in this enlightened age. However, here we are, besieged by misinformation and the ignoble rise of vaccine hesitancy.

The incontrovertible evidence supporting the efficacy of vaccines is nothing short of overwhelming. Consider the staggering statistic that vaccines have prevented approximately 2-3 million deaths annually. Diseases such as smallpox, once a scourge of mankind, have been eradicated through relentless vaccination efforts. Polio, which once paralyzed thousands, teeters on the brink of oblivion, thanks to the relentless application of vaccine science.

The meticulous process of vaccine development is a testament to human perseverance and intellectual prowess. Vaccines undergo rigorous clinical trials involving tens of thousands of participants before they are deemed safe for public use. The statistical probabilities of severe adverse reactions are infinitesimal in comparison to the monumental benefits conferred. For instance, the risk of a severe allergic reaction to a vaccine is approximately 1 in a million—a minuscule speck in the grand tapestry of public health.

Yet, despite this unequivocal evidence, there persists a faction that clings to the antiquated notion that vaccines are a greater threat than the diseases they prevent. This fallacious belief is not only scientifically untenable but also perilously irresponsible. The juxtaposition of vaccine-preventable diseases' morbidity and mortality rates against the negligible incidence of adverse reactions lays bare the absurdity of such claims.

Consider the unwieldy reality of a world devoid of vaccines. The resurgence of measles, mumps, rubella, and other once-controlled diseases would wreak havoc upon public health infrastructures. Hospitals would overflow with the afflicted, mortality rates would soar, and the societal fabric would be rent asunder by the needless suffering of millions. This dystopian vision starkly contrasts with the harmonious existence we enjoy, largely unburdened by the ravages of infectious diseases, thanks to vaccines.

In conclusion, vaccines are the epitome of scientific triumph, a bulwark against the insidious encroachment of disease. The statistical and empirical evidence in their favor is irrefutable. To eschew vaccination is to spurn reason, science, and the collective well-being of humanity. Thus, let us laud the indefatigable efforts of the scientific community and steadfastly advocate for the widespread acceptance of vaccines, for in their embrace lies the promise of a healthier, more resilient future.

[randomambles]

Immigration across the Net

As some of you may know, Reddit dot com, the informational continent of my mind home on the internet, is preparing to sink into the cycling seas of corporatism, bots, generative AI, and crypto derivatives shills. I'm confident that the many communities that have formed there will be rent asunder by this process and that, really, pretty much everyone will agree, by then, that everything sucks. I am equally confident that there is nothing I am remotely prepared to do about that except somberly pack up my links, and set out for somewhere better.

And so I've come here. Tumblr. I've often admired the culture from afar. Tumblr subreddits were favorites of mine. I like the humor, the people, the whimsical queerness and sexually positive nature. Pleasantly eccentric, shockingly literate, fun: the way an internet should be.

Yet...

Arriving here off the boat, in my topcoat and fedora, scraggly neck hair spriging slightly in the dock breeze coming off the ocean strait that separates our lands, with a brown packed suitcase bulging with essay-length takes on neiche, even esoteric topics, I feel it...

The sense of being adrift

Of reaching out to grab expected structures that-

Just aren't there anymore

Is powerful

As I explore these new shores, questions fill my mind:

"But tware are the subreddits?" I think, over and over again in different forms. "Where am I? And where are the posts?" and "What are *tags?*"

I mean, it's just a different social media site...

But still.

[writer59january13]

Grim reaper forever guaranteed eternal plentiful harvest

the following written for no particular rhyme nor reason quite aware the exit (stage door left) allows, enables, to provide every season with a bumper crop of dead souls.

many mortals beseechingly lift up their hands in supplication and inquire omnipotent omniscient force

and ask why

since the dawn of civilization

humans dream up schemes to try

and sidestep unavoidable death, whereby each person in the macroscopic scheme of things lives infinitesimal time – say the lifecycle of a mayfly as compared/contrasted with birth of the universe, yet noone can defy

unstoppable process of senescence and reincarnation into other matter.

no rival can outwit death the latest craze constituting immortality cryogenics will be tried for the rich and famous unlike one garden variety married man a common joker biden his time mortality of all will level

ever since origin of species Homo sapiens took self pride whence began the march of time

human beings sought futile efforts to sell their soul

to the devil who never lied

for lame excuse being brought into this tangled webbed wide world with invisible twine

impossible to outwit death

no matter how far one tries to run and hide

wrenched to underworld of Hades forced across river Styx foul breath

from decomposition per billions of homo sapiens that died.

intrepid souls stymied with infinite jest

by devising laughable escape regarding these lovely bones and flesh to divest from nada one knotted loophole

tied by supreme hands and very best

no nonsense, but to acquire every singular soul

financially straightened budget necessitates yours truly without undo extravagance fussed on me, a pragmatist

to stockpile skull and cross bones, which eventually turn to dust

enriching cadre from those who trod across boulevard of broken dream

capitalizing on those blessed with booming fortune before going bust

joining rank and file of countless anonymous graveyards silently scream

the massed voices who felt the fate of uninvited curse

once living in the green day of glory

before their existence rent asunder taken under by driverless hearse

and subsequent devilish quarry

further contributing to the complex edifice seen only by the dead

patrolled by Lucifer for those who believe

against atheism and diet of worms extremely well fed

those lives lost and once whose kin did grieve

from sorrowful plight departing with sweet sorrows rife with natural fear of corporeal cessation whether prematurely or at some ripe old age

pitting impatient burgomaster stealer of life

whereby surviving kith pay homage on specific date of calendar page

aware that netherland awaits without bugles nor fife.

[r3loaded]

Sanzo lets his words hang in the silence, continuing his steady pace through the grounds of Keiun temple. He's perfectly aware of what it reveals in himself to say such a thing, and he isn't ignorant to the fact that the man beside him is likely to take a jab at it.

The consolation of still having a life on the other side of loss is shit, at first-- he knows that well. By what happens to him when it rains, he knows it. By the subtle scar still etched into the skin of his temple, scorched in deep by the hot barrel of his own freshly fired revolver and hidden behind the fall of overgrown golden hair-- he knows it.

Which is why Sanzo doesn't mean for it to console.

The other man could turn and scream at him-- strike him, even-- and Sanzo would be ready. He would've done the same-- would have needed to. When your world falls apart, you need something to bare your teeth at-- and Sanzo suspects that his decision to vouch for him has rent this person's peace asunder all over again. Whatever peace he had made with the idea of punishment, anyway.

He remembers how he once reacted to similar words-- and he remembers their eventual vitality in sparking himself back to life.

When Cho Hakkai finally breaks his silence to respond, Sanzo has already built walls far higher than his new acquaintance ends up shooting.

"You call that 'very rude'?" Sanzo doesn't mean to find amusement in it, really, but that doesn't stop him. To apologize like that, as if that question of his was some kind of vicious lashing-- it leaves Sanzo nothing short of incredulous. They only met after this man had spilled as much blood singlehandedly as an army and he thinks this is worth apologizing for? "No shit I'm speaking from experience. It takes a different kind of bastard than I am to run his mouth about something he doesn't know anything about."

Sanzo pauses in his tracks, turning his face towards the setting sun. His eyes close in a slow, lazy blink-- like an overgrown cat, bathing himself in the molten gold light streaming through the blossoming branches of sacred peach trees. With a practiced hand, he taps a cigarette free from his half-smoked pack and brings it to rest between his lips. His lighter follows, as always, and only after his first inhale and exhale does he move again.

Not to continue upon their path, but to turn back and face the man whose life he had taken into his own hands.

"I'm aware of your impression." He replies matter-of-factly, recalling the look the Sanbutsushin had fixed him with at the time. Cho Gonou hadn't been the only one to hold that expectation, but, as always, the only standards Sanzo cared to adhere to were his own. "But since that isn't how things played out-- yeah, you're gonna have to adjust to it. Gonna have to spend the rest of your life getting used to it, actually."

But that's just life, isn't it? That constant change, the process of moving forward. That's truly what separates the living and the dead.

"The only way to learn how to live is by doing it, and it's not like that's easy-- if it's time you need, take it. Figure out your way of living and stand by it. That's good enough for me."

@r3loaded said → " when you can't make sense of someone leaving, you try to make sense of what they left behind. " ( src. / accepting. )

Gonou doesn't dignify that with a response right away.

No, that isn't right—he's Hakkai now, newly forged with a name that feels like it mocks him as much as it promises to cleanse. Most people would say something like that as a consolation, a sentiment shared for relatability, but Hakkai can't make sense of the Sanzo priest that has put himself through so much to absolve him of crimes that should have never been met with absolution. Even his marriage had been sick and perverted through the lens of common moral standard. The bloodshed should have been the final straw holding his life afloat, and then some.

Truthfully, he hadn't thought much about what would become of him after the temple, because the idea of going back to existing without Kanan had seemed like a more cruel fate than death.

"Are you speaking from experience?" Hakkai asks, because he doesn't want to confront the question when it's faced towards himself. "You don't really seem the type to offer empty consolation—that's all."

It's a dirty trick. Hakkai has been able to see it in Sanzo's eyes ever since his own had cleared up enough to see much of anything; he's most likely too guarded to say anything substantial about himself, and there's a good chance he rebukes the subject of grief and loss entirely rather than try and push it on Hakkai again. The wound there is still too raw, no matter how much the sutra he recited echoes in Hakkai's mind.

Who was Cho Gonou, anyway?

The question posits itself, against Hakkai's wishes, though he knows the answer to that one. Cho Gonou was an obsessive murderer who didn't care much for the world until he was given a reason to care about someone else. Cho Gonou was problematic to a fault and sought to disprove the teachings of the nuns who had kindly raised him, because they had the capacity for faith where he didn't. He was envious of everyone who seemed happy, and so clung to love and happiness like a lifeline as it related to the only person in his life who had made him feel that.

Cho Gonou had not returned to apathy after Kanan had died. He'd allowed Gojyo to take care of him—had spoken to Gojyo about things he'd never told anyone else outside of Kanan—and though he had always intended to leave, he had thought about Gojyo even as he made his way back towards where Kanan's remains would have been.

So then, who is Cho Hakkai? 

"... I'm sorry. That was very rude of me." Turning back on his rather mild form of lashing out, Hakkai smiles apologetically. "To be honest, I'm still adjusting to the idea of continuing to live at all, let alone how I plan to do so or through what lens I should view my own life. I'm sure you're aware, but I really was under the impression that I at least had lifelong imprisonment in my cards. Haha."

He allows his eyes to slip closed as he draws in a deep, contemplative breath. Then he tries to imagine what this person named Cho Hakkai, whose shape has been so irreversibly molded around his own love, might want for himself. 

"I think," he says, "I need some time to figure out what exactly there is to make sense of."

[juggling-responsibilities]

Act 1, Part 5 - As the World Falls Down

The Shield Maze, as previously discussed, is a part of the ruins beneath Kenabres that connects to the surface. Neather legend states that when the maze falls, the children of the first crusaders will be able to rise to join the rest of Mendev to join the final assault on the Worldwound.

At least, that's what we've been led to believe. When Wenduag takes us there in the dead of night, it's... not exactly what I was expecting. The way they described it, it's crumbling ruins and deserted buildings.

Well, they did say it was a maze...

Turns out this is a whole-ass temple to the demons. And spoiler warning: I think this might have something to do with how Deskari was able to attack the city.

The Shield Maze, as it turns out, is a temple to Baphomet, the Lord of the Labyrinth. Or rather, it appears to have originally been a temple to Iomedae that was abandoned and taken over by the cultists of Baphomet. It's a bit hard to tell - the demonic iconography is still being built, or rather was being built up until extremely recently, when the fucking ground was rent asunder by a mountain-sized scythe. The lower levels were under construction, and we come across the recently-killed bodies of the miners and masons who were still in the process of building and expanding. There is also flooding in the lower levels, but that looks to be aqueducts from Kenabres up above being shattered and emptying out into the caverns below.

What I'm saying is that these ruins don't really look all that ruinous. I mean, they do now, but they wouldn't have if we came here, say, a week ago.

The earthquakes have also brought up some angry elementals, which we manage to pacify. Well, by pacify, I mean "beat the shit out of until they stop being angry". We don't have a stoned transporter chief to teleport Gorignak into the peaceful void of space, after all, so Mendevian girls make do.

Of course, it's not just irritated elementals and Baphomet cultists that are in here.

There are mongrels in here, and a lot more than the ones Wenduag said got lost. Like, a lot more.

🕷: "Some unlucky fools who thought the Shield Maze was a good place to go for a stroll. The Maze drove them insane. If they weren't insane to begin with, that is. But this isn't the first time I've been attacked by people I know in here. Lost friends of mine would sometimes reappear... like that. They didn't recognize anyone anymore. Trying to talk to them was a waste of time. Ending their suffering was the only option." She snorts derisively, but it seems forced. "Weaklings. Serves them right." 🪓: "You never told me this Maze of yours was crawling with cultists." 🕷: "I didn't because there weren't any. Looks like they got here the same way you did - the fell from the surface."

If we want to take a quick dip into an alternate universe for a moment, one where we didn't call Lann a liar in front of his village elder and leader, we can get a different response to that question.

Where Wenduag is dismissive, Lann is sorrowful. She calls them weaklings for losing their path, both literally and figuratively. Meanwhile, Lann mourns his lost friends, and takes his indignation not in the fact that they fell, but that they were in this position in the first place.

But we're not in that universe. Let's go back to Quintessa and her spiderkitten who thinks of nothing but murder all day.

A... well, it's not a passive Perception check since there actually was a roll involved, but passive in gameplay terms. Because I know TTRPG terms are sometimes at odds with terminology from the videoed games, I will default to the gameplay terms when necessary.

So: A successful passive Perception check gives me another dialogue option at this point.

🪓: "The Maze doesn't look like the mysterious place you've made it out to be. Looks more like a cultists' den to me, and a well-established one at that."

So, in essence, we've learned two important things about Wenduag here.

She's lying to us. Flat-out, bald-faced lying. I'd be more offended if I wasn't so interested in why.

She's touchy.

There's one more main difference in this section between Wenduag and Lann, of course. While Lann gives you more insight into the actual motivations of the mongrels and the tragedy of them losing themselves in the Maze, Wenduag's interactions are a bit more practical. By which I mean she can bypass a particularly difficult locked door in the basement, one that you can maybe make the roll on with Camellia, but a failure jams the lock and renders the treasure behind it unreachable. Wenduag, in her many excursions through the Maze, stole the key and just unlocks it for you.

The majority of this dungeon is fairly standard tutorial dungeon fare - notes on a few cultists hint at how to unlock secret rooms (you have to look for torches you can interact with), there are a few tougher fights with some higher level elementals that are a little bit of a player skill check - they're made completely trivial if you're not just autoattacking and actually using your spells or abilities, depending on your class features, but otherwise can completely wreck an unprepared party. Throughout there is just a masterful amount of environmental storytelling, which serves three purposes in one:

It sets the mood of the game absolutely wonderfully - this is a tutorial dungeon and it's just absolutely filled with corpses, fountains of blood, and the incomplete masonry of workers interrupted in their duties of expanding their base and making it more demonic.

It teaches you mechanics, as well as how this game differs mechanically from their previous one, Kingmaker. For example, the very first trap you come across has a lootable pile of charred bones in front of it, indicating that someone else has run afoul of the trap, and urging you to take a closer look at how the trap has a separate trigger panel needed to disarm it, instead of disarming it at the base of the trap itself.

It also just encourages you to slow down and just look at the details, read the notes. The notes that tell you where secret rooms, are, for example, but also the ones that give you more indication of the story. Specifically, that Wenduag has been lying to you even more - these cultists have been here for a while, not just recently.

Also importantly for a tutorial dungeon, the Shield Maze also has some more fun surprises for us. Hidden away behind a color puzzle, we find a lost relic of the first crusade.

Which basically tells us that the Tower of Estrod, whatever that is, is also compromised. Considering there's this whole-ass cultist base directly under Kenabres, that does seem to be the theme here.

Whatever Deskari was able to do, it wasn't the first strike. This was planned, and it was done from inside the city.

...I'm feeling really good about leaving the circus for this, y'all.

In any case, Camellia is a lot less impressed by a rusted sword, and Seelah, instead of getting defensive about it, just wonders at the same thing I am - how did it get here from the Tower?

🪓: "What's so special about it?" 🛡: "Now... nothing, I guess. But this sword was legendary in its day! People say that when Yaniel held it, the blade would glow, striking demons left and right. Soldiers would see Radiance's light from afar and take heart, rushing into the fray and winning. But I don't know what's wrong with it now, or how to restore its power. All I can sense is that they made a mockery of it." 🩸: "You're empathizing with an object? Extraordinary. Are all paladins so tender-hearted and sensitive?"

Seelah goes on to explain who Yaniel was, how important she was to the crusade, and how she died covering the escape from Drezen. The sword means a lot to Seelah not only as a relic, but as a reminder of why she does what she does.

🛡: "I have this weird feeling, like I'm rescuing a fellow warrior from a dungeon. We can't just abandon it, even if it's no use to us. It's no use to anyone down here. But what if it could be repaired?"

Even without the quest marker popping up in my journal, I would have known this was important. Not only are we going to find a way to restore this sword, we're going to find out more about what happened to Yaniel. Narrative flags don't lie, and these are more like narrative anvils.

It's actually an upgrade for Seelah, anyway. Replacing her normal longsword with this, a Cold Iron longsword. I know some popular builds give Seelah other weapons, and I'm sure paladins could make use of a lot of different ones, but not only does this mean a lot to her, she's also a follower of Iomedae, whose favored weapon is a longsword. No, this thing is staying with Seelah, and we'll make sure she keeps using it.

The rest of the dungeon goes about how you'd expect.

Eventually we reach stairs up to a new, rather ornate chamber, where several mongrels are huddled behind a crusader, potentially another one who fell from the Day of the City up above. They're being confronted by a cultist and a rather large demon.

These are the missing youths from Neathholm, as it turns out. The cultist, Hosilla, has rounded them up to either kill or convert them, and she doesn't particularly care which. She demonstrates as one of the mongrels protests, declaring that they are children of the crusaders - which she ignores as she calmly walks over and kills them.

The other mongrels, who clearly don't want to die, rush over to the fallen crusader and start eating, glowing with demonic power as they do so.

Oh, yes. This is the tone this game is setting.

But then...

That's when the narration kicks in.

Inside me are two warring instincts. I have a demon of rage, urging me to kill - and I have an angel, ushering me to defy this instinct and rise above it.

That. That doesn't seem normal. But I am too swept up in the emotions to care. Kill the interloper, or show them the light of justice?

I tamp down the demon, but the narration tells me that this is a supreme act of self-control.

The mysterious wound, the one the silver dragon Terendelev could not heal, the one that I sustained just prior to the events of the game...

To use a technical term for it, it's fuckin' weird as shit.

Something caused this wound, and it's reacting to massive emotions and enormous power, and it allows me to choose how I direct it. I could, in the narration's terms, succumb to the rage and wield monstrous demonic power, or control it with the light of the gods.

Savamelekh doesn't much like it, at least. He screeches in pain and nopes out, leaving us to fight Hosilla on her own - or, on her own plus some lesser demons who stuck around.

🕷: "I no longer serve you, you bitch! Not you, or your flying monkey! I always fight with the strongest side."

Implications of this are concerning, but we don't really have time to process that just yet. It's a rough fight, but we're also not alone - Lann has followed us and joins in.

Thanks, Lann. You're so awesome, Lann.

Boss fight: Hosilla

She's tough, but not impossible to take down, especially once Lann joins in.

Although Lann's not terribly happy with us, either.

This is not going to be pleasant.

[pikepile]

Hello friends! I recently was thinking about the inevitable and heavily hinted at death of the player character in Destiny 2, and I think I figured it out! There will be no datamined content or spoilers in this post; I will simply be using content in the game that has already been officially released by bungie. However, I will still be tagging this with the spoilers tag, because people might not want to have this spoiled.

Spoilers for Destiny 2 (season of the Lost) below this text! If you're not comfortable with spoilers, please just scroll past this post.

I believe that we (in reference to the player character) will be taken by Xivu Arath towards the end of the season of the Lost, when Mara Sov performs the ritual to de-worm Savathûn. My reasoning and evidence consists of a couple main points that I will list, along with provided context for those who need it.

Evidence chunk 1: Why I think that we'll be Taken, out of all possible ways to 'die'.

('Die' is in quotes because being Taken is reversible, and doesn't actually kill you.)

During some of the Expunge missions from season of the Splicer, there was dialogue below the radar, seemingly from either Quria (a vex mind made for processing massive amounts of data to better understand the nature of paracausality) or Savathûn (the hive god of trickery and lies, commonly referred to as the 'Witch Queen').

The dialogue:

I see you.

Crawling around my domain like insects.

This realm answers to only one master.

You are nothing.

You know nothing of power.

Thrashing around like a wounded animal.

Unaware that you are already dead.

Your failure is written in time.

I have seen your grave.

I see you.

Rent asunder...

Broken...

Taken.

There was some extra stuff that I didn't include because it wasn't relevant, but this is the main part. We can assume that whoever is saying this probably has access to vex networks that are in some way connected to the infinite forest (an incredibly powerful vex simulation engine designed to help the vex decide which timelines to pursue for their own goals), because during the season of Dawn, we are actually shown our grave during an exotic quest (which leads me into my next chunk of reasoning!).

Chunk 2: Saint-14

During the season of Dawn when we're shown our grave, we hear Saint-14 giving our eulogy during our funeral in the background. Ghost is dead and is embedded in the grave, and is completely intact, leading me to believe that he was killed by something that suppressed/drained his light- which is part of why I think we might have been taken- but back to the topic of Saint. Why is Saint-14, of all the possible people, giving our eulogy? Why not any of the other characters that people might even be more familiar with?

Because we're going to be fighting the Xivu Arath's Taken alongside him, when we're defending Mara Sov and her techeuns while she de-worms Savathûn. In one part of the eulogy, Saint says something along the lines of "And if you're still out there; come back to us, and we'll kill what killed you. Or die trying." (I'm trying to quote this from memory, so it's probably not exact)

Anyways, that's my take on the guardian's death. I encourage people to correct me on anything lore-wise that I got wrong, and any typos my sleep deprived self has made. Also, feel free to ask me for clarification on different things I touched on if need be. Any and all criticism is welcome, as long as you aren't attacking me.

[wiildcardd]

Thought I'd do a little writing on Zoya and how the rest of the Syndicate Gangs feel about the powerhouse group known as the West District Legion.

While it's well known that she represents and leads the gang known colloquially as 'The Legion', this warmongering rag tag group of anarchists hellbent on violent retribution hold no love for the city they reside in, nor do they share any affiliation whatsoever with the multitude of gangs that conducts their nefarious schemes and Mania trafficking. It's for this very reason why many within the Syndicate's large umbrella believe Zoya as the biggest threat to an empire that has for some time now, been unchallenged.

Not only due to the sheer size of 'The Legion' itself, large enough to pose quite a danger for their operations thanks to their use of Guerrilla tactics, but their leader herself. Within her lies a power that could tear down the establishment and forge a new order within the city, the power of Mania fuelling her like a nuclear reactor. Many fear her, she even fears herself at times.

When enraged, she loses control and often harms herself in the process tapping into her devastating power. While many see her as cold, tact, and brutish, this exterior is there to protect the people around her. She respects and treats everyone in 'The Legion' as well as those outside of it who are deemed as harmless or no threat, for the MBCC she can be a little on the fence at times. On one hand, they've helped her in achieving some of her own goals, but on the other they hinder the progress of her group and for that, and when a member of The Legion is captured, she will stop at nothing to bring them back into the fold. She will kill for her people, for those who chose to put their faith in her and she will not let them down.

Zoya won't stop, nor will she rest until the city is cleansed whether that be through shrewd diplomacy or force. But knowing her, the former was never an option in the first place. If the city must burn so that she can finally find her peace, then the city will be rent asunder with her clawed fist raising burned soot and ash in victory.

[and just a little tidbit I write Zoya as bisexual based on her interactions with the MC of PtN (who is both M/F) as well as the official artwork involving Bai Yi]

[rayshippouuchiha]

ok so now that i understand what department i'm going to

what does hr even do ?

Henchling Resources (HR) is responsible for a wide variety of tasks within REPO up to and including interviewing, recruiting, and processing new staff, {REDACTED}, certain and select blood rituals, {REDACTED}, overall department management, other terrible and haunting things that if spoken aloud would surely tear the very fabric of the universes asunder sending us all wailing into the deep darkness of eternity never to be seen again as our souls are rent apart at the very seams dooming us to only be remembered by the screams of agony that we leave behind, and maintaining a safe working environment.