#cod nomad

[writer-of-various]

Prophet: Whose turn is it to give the pep-talk?

Crash: *sighing* Nomad.

Nomad: Fuck shit up out there, but don’t die.

Ruin: *wiping away a tear* So inspirational.

[sargeantsarmy]

Some Call of Doodle-Dump (hehe I’m so funny) featuring trans Crash, short Ruin, and gay people

[mortal-kombattore-115]

Graves and Nomad

[darlin-collins]

if I had a dollar everytime I simped for someone with an Irish accent I'd have about 4.5 dollars which is very weird

[erroraceart]

[cod-dump]

I had seen some other posts about a Cyberpunk 2077 and CoD crossover awhile ago and now I’m randomly thinking about it so-

———

Ghost works for Arasaka, he’s one of their experimental soldiers.

Price served in the war and now he runs with a small Nomad clan he calls 141.

Gaz and Soap is a small time merc running the streets trying to make a name for themselves.

Graves runs a private security company, Shadow Company, and works closely with Arasaka.

Laswell ex-military now fixer, she works with Price often and always asks him first if she needs something done.

Nik is a fixer who isn’t afraid to do his own dirty work, he works closely with Laswell and Price.

Alejandro and Rudy are ex-Valentinos who left and started their own gang, Los Vaqueros.

Valeria is also ex-Valentino and disappeared after a job went south, everyone assumes she died.

This could run the same course as Cyberpunk and ends with a botched job and Gaz and Soap going across Night City trying to find a way to save Soap, Soap being in V’s role and Gaz being in Jackie’s but he doesn’t die.

Ghost could be the engram but still had worked with Arasaka. They wanted to used him later “when the need arises” so they downloaded his personality.

[ode2shay]

Cod x Dnd Price

I personally think Price is a Half-orc battle master fighter, synergistically it's a killer combo within Dnd, but I love a good Orc. Dnd has tried to fix their past transgression on how they’ve made orcs almost predisposed to aggression and violence, but truly they need to do more (I blame Tolkien and racism). In my own personal games of Dnd Orcs and Half-orcs are much gentler creatures, their harder nature coming from a more nomadic culture within tougher environments. Orc posting aside, Price as a Half-orc allows for exploration of his character to subvert expectation. Price is not a good man, but he can be a good person. Half-orcs have an innate advantage on intimidation being within a militia or crown’s guard, this would be very handy, but intimidation tactics could very easily lead to a reputation. Price is a top soldier within CoD, his work is good and his reputation precedes him, and most of all, Price will do what he thinks is best to get the job done. Most fantasy settings are not going to have a military system as complex as any modern military, but I imagine they are big enough for men to know of their superiors' work and reputations without knowing them personally. This very easily leads itself to Price being known as this big scary man within the military, a boogeyman if you will. Any of the men that actually serve under him know what he is actually like, a big softie that treats his men like family. I imagine Price prefers being on the road even if he is just by himself, it reminds him of traveling with his own family. During more peaceful times there's less of a need for soldiers to travel and be away from the capital unless diplomatic visits are occurring but investigating reports that could threaten that peace is still very necessary and it's a role Price is more than willing to fill with or without a squad of men by his side. It’s how he finds himself in their largest city on the border when the attacks begin, pressed back to back with a paladin from an order he half remembers working with, defending and protecting civilians. He’ll complain later about being too old for this. ( I love a chance to talk about orcs :)) and I think tusks would look good with his beard)

[fanficsforheartandsoul]

You’re Somebody Else | Ghost x Fem!Reader | Part I

Note: This is not a new part - haha I’m currently in my exam phase sooo yeahh, but I decided to split the prologue into two parts because I personally believes it flows better.

This fic has religious undertones at least in this part, I hope I don’t make anyone uncomfortable with this. I grew up Christian (tho I’m an atheist now) and I thought a bit about how I would react if I was suddenly in a parallel universe where I and several other people are supposed to be dead.

Warnings: Death, Mentions of Gore, Angst, COD Typical Violence, Mentions of Original Characters, Mention of Religion and Hell, Inaccurate Depiction of Medical Stuff, Injuries and prolly Military, Transmigration (lol)

Summary:  You watched him die and yet he’s somehow still alive. You’re certain that you’ve died too and yet you’re still kicking. Is this a message from the universe? A second chance to make things right? To confess? You want to believe it but you quickly realize that he’s not the same man you knew and loved. Yet your heart is fluttering when he touches you. Can you love this new version of him?

Word Count: 3,8k

Taglist: -

If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name! Or comment on the fic :)

Masterlist

Prologue, Part II, Part III, ...

When you open your eyes again the world is on fire and you’re looking at the ceiling of a helicopter.

Someone moves in your field of vision, but you can barely make out their features as the lights of the helicopter don’t seem to work. Your ears are ringing, and you can’t understand what the man is saying but based on his expression something bad is happening.

He’s a marine you realize belatedly when your eyes adjust to the dark environment and for a moment you wonder if you must continue to fight even after your death.

Is this hell?

You don’t actually believe in hell or heaven anymore but based on the fact that you woke up again this has to be some sort of afterlife.

The unknown soldier shakes you and yells something and the ringing finally stops, and you hear him call you by your callsign.

“Nomad! Fuck, can you hear me?! Jesus, for a second I thought you were a goner!”

You nod automatically and he grabs you by your plated vest, dragging you into an upright position.

“Your head is bleeding like crazy”, he curses and speaks into his mic to inform someone about your injury.

You haven’t even noticed it but when you touch your left temple you feel the edge of a helmet and your gloved fingers turn red. It doesn’t hurt.

While the marine speaks, he looks behind him and you follow his line of sight out of the helicopter. The heli apparently crashed.

Shots whizz past the window and the man ducks to avoid getting hit.

“I know you’re injured but AQ is reigning hellfire on us! I’ll take care of your wound in a second!”

The unknown marine faces you again and in his hand, he holds a M14 EBR. Automatically you know it’s yours.

“Keep holding on, Bravo Team will be here soon!”

You take the weapon with your right hand and the marine helps you on your feet.

“They’re shooting at us from the house!” He points in the general direction, “Keep your head low and don’t waste your bullets!”

“Okay”, you mumble. Okay you think.

You’re dead but you still have to fight. Makes sense.

Leaning against the wall you quickly scan the inside of the helicopter, then the immediate surroundings of it through one of the windows. The area is illuminated by small fires and corpses litter the dusty ground. Marines, all dead. Maybe this is hell.

It would make sense, all the lives you’ve taken on countless operations... Is this retribution?

The realization that you aren’t in the Caucasus Mountains anymore only trickles in slowly.

You turn to watch through the window beside you and spot the house which the marine mentioned in the distance, and you immediately make note of the smoke coming from the second floor.

“RPG!” someone yells and years of active combat situations make you instinctively drop low when you hear the familiar whoosh. The metal of the heli protests.

Shouts and gunfire echo in your ears and your world is turning but you stand up again, prepping yourself against the wall to have free line of sight towards the house.

Smoke is still coming from the second floor, and you watch through your scope for any movement. You see a shoulder and want to pull the trigger, but someone kills the hostile before you can react.

Bravo Team you think, does that mean I’m part of Alpha? You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Your radio crackles.

“RPG is taken care of.”

You blink. That voice is familiar.

But before you can think about it more, the marine comes up to you again. You realize he’s a Captain.

“Sarge, we should wrap your head.”

Now? Now’s not a good fucking time.

“I know but you’re bleeding a lot. Don’t want to take you back home in a body bag.”

You didn’t realize you said those words out loud but the concern in his eyes ends up convincing you and you take off your helmet.

“Do it quick”, you mutter and sink below the window, pointing your gun at the entrance of the helicopter, while the strap of your helmet is cutting into your elbow and the night goggles on it dig into your thigh.

“Jesus, it looks really bad”, the captain mutters as he grabs some gauze from his med kit and wraps it around your head with quick and efficient movements. It gets soaked almost immediately.

You don’t really care though; you can’t feel the pain. In fact, you can’t really feel anything. Your body doesn’t feel like your own, you’re practically floating. Maybe it’s because you’re dead.

He finishes and you put your helmet back on.

“Tell me if you’re starting to feel light-headed, okay?”

You nod but don’t plan on actually doing it. Even bandaging your head feels useless.

You can’t exactly die twice, right?

If this is the afterlife it might be likely that he doesn’t know that yet. That he doesn’t know he’s dead, a corpse like you.

For a second you wonder what killed him. You look at the man. He really is a stranger.

You feel bad for not knowing his name but asking would be kind of strange as he addresses you in such a familiar way, so you don’t.

The area doesn’t provide enough light for you to check his name tag on his cammies either, so you just have to go on without knowing. But that’s okay. You probably have a lot of time to get to know him – if this is hell.

Your inner child is starting to whisper, and you have to repress your childhood memories about church, the priest in your hometown and your father’s bible.

You breathe in and out.

The smell that surrounds you reminds you of countless operations you’ve been part of. It reminds you of your team, your friends, him.

Something in your chest hurts.

Your radio crackles, you hear a familiar cockney accent and suddenly you see two bodies burning in the flames outside of the helicopter.

“Alpha 0-2, Bravo 0-7. Building two secure. We’re coming to you.”

The captain responds but you don’t hear his words, just see his lips moving, while you lean against the metal, your fingers gripping your rifle so hard that your knuckles turn white under your gloves.

There’s a ringing in your ears growing louder and louder.

A moment later a shadow towers over you and you look up reflexively, coming face to face with a masked soldier. Two eyes glance at you from behind a skull mask and all you can do is stare back.

His eyes quickly focus on the marine next to you, then he checks the windows, focused as always, a perfect soldier to the bone.

The captain readies his gun and the man next to him follows his lead, pointing his rifle at the tree line on the opposite side of the heli.

You don’t move.

He realizes. And he turns around, staring at you from behind that mask.

“Nomad, get your arse up and help, they’re coming”, he barks.

Slowly you blink. Something stirs in your head.

“Yessir”, you mutter, breathless, and rise to your feet.

You feel like a puppet master, pulling strings to move your body, all of you is slow and heavy, your muscles like lead. But you manage to stand and point your gun towards the tree line.

The next 15 minutes are a blur, a mix of shooting and reloading, killing, the feeling of your finger on the trigger so familiar, your body moves on its own like a well-oiled machine.

All the while your heart is screaming his name and your head replays the last few minutes in the Caucasus Mountains.

Tears well up in your eyes and you blink them away.

He’s dead you think. You both are. You fucking died. You watched him get killed. Helplessly.

The roaring in your head gets louder, accompanying the spray fire of Kilo 0-1 who mows down the troops of the enemy vehicles.  And when the last enemy falls you remain there standing motionless, your grip tight on your rifle, while the others discuss their next movements.

Someone taps your shoulder and points at your head. You lower your night googles and your vision takes a moment to adjust.

A second later, Bravo Team begins to move, and you follow him and the others in a daze, one foot before the other.

Together you move a couple hundred meters, the name “Hassan” falls from several lips, but you have no clue who that man is.

Prey your head helpfully provides.

Before you can think about this sudden thought, you hear a whistle and the man left of you drops like a sack.

SniperGetDown rings in your ears and you dive low, your heartbeat suddenly going 200 per minute.

He’s right there.

A few meters beside you, you can practically feel him and his heart. In this moment, whether it was real or not, whether this was the afterlife or purgatory and you but just a corpse- in this very moment, his heart is beating, alive and strong.

Your finger is on the trigger before you know it, this time you’re ready- your target is right there, you spotted the laser of his rifle and your rifle is in position- this time your bullet will hit- and it does.

Before he can finish his sentence:

“...rest of you stay lo-“

“Sniper down”, you interrupt, your voice foreign to your ears, too weak, too raw.

“Nomad- what are-“

Another shot rings out and yet another soldier in your line falls.

You don’t waste a second, your finger is trigger happy, it’s too important to keep him save, to keep him breathing. If you have to watch him die again…

Someone joins you as you provide cover fire and together, you’re taking out the enemies on the balcony and the roof, bullets whizz past you, even some RPG rockets but you’re too focused on your task to be bothered by it.

A few seconds later Kilo 0-1 sends a spray of gun fire into the property and the building is shaken by explosions – yet it still remains standing, the most of it anyway.

Next thing you know, the soldiers around you are up and running to the building, someone grabs you by the back of your vest and hauls you on your feet, dragging you a bit before you begin to walk on your own.

The skull mask is watching you, the eyes behind it are dark and, in your head, you know exactly how badly he wants to beat your ass right now.

But he lets you go and returns his attention back to the mission.

Lock down the building and find this Hassan- whoever he is, dead or alive.

You follow him, reloading your rifle absent-mindedly while watching his back.

He somehow appears taller.

It’s different a voice in your head whispers, he is- you almost trip on the stairs and the soldier behind you saves you from your fall.

“Watch it, Nomad”, a Scottish voice says and another one rings in your head.

Soap get down!

You blink and grunt in response and the sergeant lets you go. He passes you and readies his rifle to make entry.

Every cell in your body screams to not let him do it but you suddenly feel drowsy and when you finally shake off the feeling, you’re inside the building on first deck, Bravo Team soldiers in front of you while the corpses of the enemy soldiers lay in the rubble around you.

Something’s wrong.

You gun down another hostile and when he and Soap push to the second floor, you follow them, still floating above the ground. But when you walk up the stairs your limbs feel heavy, and your breath is going to fast.

He halts at the door to the side, for a moment his eyes search for you, but in the next, he takes out the man who pushes out the room.

Two shots.

He lets the soldier drop to the ground and then enters the room; gun raised. Soap follows him and you walk up the rest of the stairs.

At the top you have to lean on the wall for a bit. A weight is pressing on your chest, and it hinders your lungs from getting enough air.

“You okay?” a Bravo Team soldier asks. You hum.

Yeah, you’re doing fine. If only the world would stop spinning for a goddamn second.

You blink. The night googles make you woozy, but you don’t take them off, knowing that your eyes would take too long to adjust to the darkness.

You stare out of the entry way to the balcony. You know that there are enemy soldiers left in the building, so you get your shit together.

As soon as you find Hassan it’ll be over. You can hang on a little longer. You’re a soldier, part of taskforce 141, an expert in your field. You went through a lot before, this is nothing. If this is supposed to be hell, it’s a fucking joke.

He walks out of the room and you stand tall again in case he checks on you like he usually would – he doesn’t.

He positions himself before you, letting Soap pass him to walk through the door frame. He guns down the hostile who peeks out of one of the entry ways on the balcony.

Then the Scot goes to the right room, and you move forward, ready to go straight down the balcony but he blocks your path with his hand.

“What do you think you’re doing, rookie?”

That word makes you freeze.

He hasn’t called you that in years and him doing it now, hurts you.

“Why-“ you begin, ready to argue why the fuck he’s acting this way, when Soap emerges from the door way where the enemy had peaked before and gunshots ring out.

“Shit- heads up lads, sneaky little gits are everywhere!”, the Scot curses and sends a spray of bullets down a small hole the wall. You grunt. He almost got shot in the leg. He has to be more careful.

“Move”, you squeeze out between your teeth, and the masked man turns to face you. He peers down at you, his eyes scrutinizing your form.

“You’re following my orders, sergeant. I’m not here to babysit you. So, stand down and don’t pull a move like that again. You’re injured, stay back and don’t hinder us.”

His tone is cold when he references your earlier action of saving his life. You stare at him, trying to find out if you heard correctly. The dark eyes behind the mask stare back with a hard gaze.

You open your mouth, a curse ready to be spilt – since when does he talk to you like that? – but before you can voice your thoughts he walks past you, gun raised, following Soap’s footsteps. You breathe out shakily.

Something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong.

The ringing in your ears returns but you ignore it when the soldier who asked you for your well-being before, waits for you to follow him. Determined you get moving, following the soldier, rifle raised in front of you.

The house is in horrible condition, the onslaught of Kilo 0-1’s gun fire and the explosions destroyed the ceiling, walls and the furniture and, in some corners, the remains of it burn.

The marine pushes up to the door on the left, while he kneels to cover Soap just in case. You bite your lip.

Usually, you would do the clearing with Soap, but this situation is different. There’s a power imbalance somehow and you don’t understand why.

So instead, you follow the soldier and stand behind him, your back against the wall, staring straight at him.

Was it the mask? It was different yes, but his voice and his demeanour- You know it’s him. It has to be him.

Soap passes by you and enters the room, firing his gun, just a millisecond later.

“Threat eliminated”, he announces and guns down the other hostile who peeks through the damaged window.

These words make him move and he walks up to the door frame as well. You remain standing at the wall while the marine makes space for him.

“Poke around, Soap.”

Closing your eyes, you grip your rifle tighter. You’re standing on your feet but the whole world is turning and it’s making you feel nauseous.

The ringing is more intense than ever, and you don’t hear why Bravo Team is moving again but you weakly push yourself off the wall and follow, not realizing that Soap is watching you with worried eyes.

You walk down the stairs, trying to calm your breathing that has turned ragged.

The soldier before you has already left the building when you arrive at the bottom of the stairs and you groan inwardly. Keep up, you shout inwardly.

You experienced worse before, the things you have gone through felt like hell, this in comparison is nothing.

So you push through to the warehouse, jogging to some crates in front of it, your rifle raised, ready for whatever is to come.

Your hands are shaking though, and it costs you immense willpower to keep the gun raised and somewhat steady.

You focus on your breathing and follow him and the others when they begin to move.

You enter the building and a second later- get blinded by the flood lights.

Shots ring out – you can’t see – and Soap shouts something that you can’t understand due to the explosion of a grenade close to you. Groping blindly, you move your night goggles and squint your eyes to adjust to the brightness, but you stumble forward, the sudden loss of your vision is affecting your balance.

It feels like years when you are finally able to make out shapes again, and you rush left behind a crate or whatever it is, holding your rifle up, finger now resting on the trigger.

Another few seconds pass and you’re still partially blinded, red dots dancing over your field of vision. You fall on your ass, leaning against the cold concrete wall to steady yourself.

You’re on a roller coaster, stuck on the looping, the world is turning endlessly. The sounds of fighting accompany your nausea inducing trip and your heartbeat underlines it like a war drum.

It dawns on you now that you really must be in hell – the instances before when you thought about it, you were joking, forming a wall out of sarcasm to protect you from the rising panic and bane of your catholic upbringing.

Your body hurts, your head, your heart – you do have a wound on the side of your head, you are bleeding real blood and the blood loss, and a possible concussion is affecting you.

You take your left hand off your rifle, letting it rest on your thighs, your right hand still holding it, keeping a finger close to the trigger, while you try to open the clasp of your helmet.

You’re shaking too much, and the vertigo makes you miss several times.

When you finally grasp the band, you can barely squeeze your fingers together to open the clasp. Pushing your mic out of the way, you lean forward and shove your helmet off your head.

The bandaged wound on your temple stings and you squeeze your eyes shut, a whimper escaping your mouth.

Why does it feel so real? Is this how you’re tortured? Hurting your body and showing you your loved ones alive and well?

They aren’t real a voice whispers in your head. It’s not them.

You grab your head with both hands. No, it’s not true. It can’t be.

Where’s Roach? You suddenly ask yourself. And Lynx?

Anna is was your best friend in the force, she meant so much to you- she should be here.

Your head hurts so much and the ringing in your ears is so loud that you don’t hear that the fighting has already ceased. Someone grabs your shoulder, the grip is strong but it doesn’t hurt.

“…me? ..omad? ost, Nomad is inju…”

Your head is so heavy.

Fingers apply pressure on your head injury and the touch sends a painful jolt through your body, making you open your eyes.

You blink, trying to stop the blurriness and when you do, you see him.

He stands far back in the shadow of a metal shelf, Soap is closer to you, just behind the marine who’s kneeling in front of you.

The white of his eyes in contrast with the dark makeup around it. The skull peers down at you, his gaze hard, distant, as if he’s looking at a stranger.

Instantly, you realize he’s not your Simon.

He’s a demon, crafted to torture you for eternity, reminding you that you were unable to save him.

Your eyes water.

He’sgonehe’sdeadIlosthim.

You keel forward, alarming the marine and Soap.

“…ey, hey! Stay …wake, don…out!”

Tears spill from your eyes, mixing with the half dried blood on your cheek.

“…’m sorry”, you whimper, gasping for air that isn’t entering your lungs.

You heave like a fish on dry land, You can’t breathe, your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen. You’re dying. Again. Only this time it’s so much worse.

“…anic attack…”, someone grunts, and hands grab you, clinging to you, making your body heavy.

They drag you through the ground into darkness and his name is on your lips when they take you.  

-

Ghost stares at your limp body.

Something is different about you.

Years of combat experience which sharpened his senses and instinct tell him there is something off.

Your reaction before was strange and yes one might say it’s due to your injuries, but he just knows there’s more to it. Somehow, you appear foreign and yet familiar at the same time.

The way you carried yourself was different.

He might be wrong but for him it seemed as if you had lost the jump in your movements, the gait of a rookie.

Hours ago, you had fidgeted with your watch when General Shepherd explained your mission, glancing excitedly and perhaps a bit anxiously at the other task members. Soap had smiled at your demeanour.

Earlier it was different.

The way you handled your rifle, efficient movements, no unnecessary grasp there, no groping for ammunition, just fluid motion, smooth like clockwork. As if you’d done the same for a decade or so. But that’s not true.

And that’s what strange.

But what puzzles him even more was the fact that you called his name- his real name, not his call sign- when you passed out.

What the hell is going on?

[writer-of-various]

Nomad: Dinosaurs aren't extinct. I mean, Crash is walking in this room.

Torque: *wheeze*

[sargeantsarmy]

Domestic NoFire for pretty much just me

[mortal-kombattore-115]

More Irina things

[kieranwritess]

COD MWII x Cyberpunk 2077 AU Brainrot

Fandom: Call of Duty

Characters: 141, LV, Graves, Laswell

Notes: cw for graves /lh, perhaps a bit of implied soapghost, bisexual soap, bisexual johnny silverhand, probably ooc but i do what i want ❤️

a/n: inspired by @yeyinde and my midnight-fueled obsession :) I'll probably make a part two to this because it's now my baby. knowledge of Cyberpunk 2077 is recommended because I reference in-universe characters. yes it's very niche, no I don't care.

- set in 2077

- they would all hate Johnny Silverhand. no exceptions.

- Soap's a little sad he shares a name with that fellow bi disaster bastard tho

- in a similar vein, they'd probably not be too fond of River; Price would envy him for his naivety and Gaz sees himself in River

- fanon Rogue and Price would 100% bond over being mother hens to a ragtag group of idiots

- Graves but Meredith Stout

- no questions asked

- the bitch would work for Militech or some other arms corp

- probably Militech because it is very American™ and he's a little yeeyee boy

- i might have Rudy's characterization wrong, but I feel like he'd have started in the NCPD like River

- poor boys only wanted to make the world better but instead Rudy became jaded and is sort of resigned to his job like Han

- Alejandro would be his buddy from Heywood who was always trying to get him to quit the force

- Ghost is probably the most like V in terms of skills and attitude

- but he's not some gonk kid who wants to make it big, he's made it big

- fixers either love him or they hate him

- one of those "going down in a blaze of glory" dudes

- would never work with Dex, though, and is especially relieved he never did after he hears about the Arasaka heist

- Price: veteran, but in a Mitch way and not a 6th street way. I feel like he had the potential to be a fixer, but wanted to try to have a quiet life after the war (Price bbg, there is no such thing as a quiet life in NC)

- is kind of like Takemura in the sense he'd love to run off and join a nomad clan (because fuck this place, honestly)

- but NC is all he knows and he has people he cares about there (read as: poor dude is attached to the 141 boys)

- Johnny (Silverhand) respects him, even if Price wants to rip him a new one every second they're around each other

- he could definitely become a mentor figure to V and would consider joining up with them if they take The Star ending

- honestly, i can still see Laswell working for the NUSA government

- but I'm not sure how we'd get a connection between her and the 141

- fuck logic, Price and Kate are still besties

- Soap and Panam get on like a house on fire

- a propensity for a little rule breaking and an affection harbored for an authority figure (i'll let you decide in what sense) brings them together

- I probably hc Gaz as younger than he actually is, but he gives off baby solo vibes

- brb thinking back to Jackie and V at the food stall outside of H10 and crying about it

- anyways

- Gaz would probably be the most like streetkid V

- bro knows his way around local fixers

- hc that Ghost and Gaz met on a job before Ghost made it big time

- and Ghost is all "I work alone >:(" but they discover that they work well together

- again thinking back to the streetkid intro, albeit Ghost is nowhere near the same as Jackie personality wise

- they probably grew apart after Ghost becomes a solo

- but Ghost is the first one to suggest Gaz when asked to put together a team for a big job (i.e. the heist but it doesn't go sideways)

- and yeah imo that's how c77!141 is put together

- Ghost knows Gaz, Gaz grew up around Price, and Price knows of Soap through the grapevine

- I guess to "convert" each of them into ttrpg factions, Soap is a techie, Ghost is a solo, Price is prolly a fixer, and Gaz might fall under lawman (as a PI or something)

- i am making less and less sense so I'm gonna stop here for now

[clverse-apau]

Ancient Smurf Groups/Tribes

As we talk about this AU there will be several times where we bring up different groups/tribes of ancient smurfs that the current two villages we see today are descendants of.

As of now, there are 17 different groups planned out. Each are unique and have different traits depending on the biome they live in. But they all have a single common ancestor, that being Mother Nature who made the first three original groups out of a rare clay.

There were originally only three groups of smurfs, each having a population of about 100 before their population kinda exploded as they split into different groups. These three groups were the Pangea, Mountain and Giant Smurfs!

Here we will give you the basic rundown on each of those groups as best we can.

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Pangea Smurfs:

This Ancient group was the first Smurf civilization in existence. The first generation of which started out with a population of 100, all made with clay by Mother Nature and existed when the Supercontinent Pangea was still a land mass and was just starting to break up.

These smurfs were found to have named themselves after colours.

These smurfs were also seen to have been travelling on all fours, only standing to make themselves look bigger to scare off predators.

They were also known to have sharper teeth and claws than today's smurfs. Preferring to use their teeth and claws to hunt or scavenge for food.

Pangea Smurfs were known to be nomadic, only settling down in separated groups when the continent really started splitting up. Most of the smurf groups we talk about are descended from this group. So just assume they split off from the Pangea Smurfs unless specified otherwise. 

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Cave Smurfs (Aka Mountain Smurfs):

This group's signature Animal is a cat.

Started out living on a mountain but migrated to the caves underneath.

These smurfs have fur and tend to be very fluffy due to living in a cold climate.

Are typically named after rocks/stones/gems or anything that can be found on a mountain or underground.

When trying to be formal/polite, these smurfs address each other with their jobs/positions before their name. (Example: Observationalist Granite. Researcher Jasper, Smurf Leader Malachite ect)

These smurfs typically build their houses in the walls of the cave (think smurfy underground hobbit holes)

These smurfs were also known for their worship of cats and the ancient cat goddess Bastet, believing them to be bringers of great luck and believing themselves to be descended from cats. They built several temples and statues made of different materials in honour of cats and were known to have a few roaming around the caverns.

They were also known to love cod but mainly fed them to their cats, rarely eating it themselves. Whenever fishers caught cod, most of it would be left in beautifully decorated food bowls to keep the cats constantly fed.

These smurfs also cultivated a group of rare glow worms that produced rare purple silk, which was mainly traded to the Nocturnal Smurfs, since they really love the colour purple.

These smurfs are also known to be very small, caused by an accident while Mother Nature was making the first generation of Pangea Smurfs. A few were accidentally made very small and were released on a mountain hoping that they would grow bigger as generations went on, this did not happen in fact they only got smaller. (The Wyrms)

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Giant Smurfs

This group's signature Animal is a Mole. 

These smurfs are exactly as their name suggests. Giant. These smurfs are huge compared to the rest of the groups. (Example: Giant oc Rose is about the size of Azrael on all fours) This is because Mother Nature accidentally made a few too big while she was working on the first generation of Pangea Smurfs. She released them in a forest, thinking they’d get smaller as generations went on. They did not, in fact they got slightly bigger.

These smurfs are known to be nomadic but have been known to settle with other groups.

They are also known for having very long hair and don't really like to cut it. They also like putting plants and other things in their hair for decoration. They also do not like their hair touched by others, it is a great show of trust if a Giant smurf lets you brush or style their hair.

Giant smurfs love to sing as they travel, it is very common to hear them singing as one big group. And much like the howl from Zootopia, if one starts singing, the rest will quickly join in.

Some of these smurfs have been known to have hooves, not all of them but some.

[theblackbookofarkera]

Agur’graz

Agur’graz, a land of stark contrasts and untamed beauty, stretches vast and wild, with only fragments falling under the semblance of governance. The Agur people, bound to the sea’s bounty, seldom venture far from the comforting whispers of the waves. Their lives are intricately woven with the rhythms of the tides, and the ocean provides sustenance for their communities clinging to the rugged coastline.

The realm is presided over by the Fishspine King, a title not inherited but earned. Upon the demise of a monarch, the tribal chieftains convene in a conclave of power and strategy to elect one among them to ascend the throne. The crown of Agur’graz is a precarious honor, for kings rarely meet a peaceful end. Their reigns are often cut short by the steel of usurpers, as the throne is a prize claimed in blood and valor.

Beyond the coastal reaches, the interior of Agur’graz is a domain of relentless terrain, where nomadic tribes roam free, unbound by the decrees of the Fishspine King. These wanderers of the inland deserts and steppes hold fast to their ancient ways, recognizing no sovereign but the endless sky above and the earth beneath their feet.

Yet, amidst this untamed expanse lie the prosperous veins of gold, salt, and iron—riches that have given rise to the Yellow Court’s influence. This enigmatic assembly oversees the lucrative mines, their wealth a source of envy and desire. The mines are guarded by mercenaries, fierce and loyal only to the gleam of gold, providing a formidable barrier to any who would covet the treasures of Agur’graz or challenge the Fishspine King’s tenuous rule.

Thus stands Agur’graz, a land divided by tradition and ambition, where the sea’s call answers the silent challenge of the vast hinterlands, and where power is a fleeting dance upon the sands of time.

“In the unforgiving lands of Agu’graz, survival is often a testament to one’s primal instincts rather than the comforts of civilization. I recall a chilling scene where a native, driven by an inscrutable preference for the sea’s offerings, chose a putrid cod over the solace of fresh bread. His body, unaccustomed to such spoil, succumbed swiftly to sickness, and he perished. 'Tis perhaps a mercy, for a man devoid of the basic instinct for self-preservation would scarcely serve well under the yoke of bondage. Such is the cruel calculus of life in these parts, where the value of a man is measured not in his wisdom or spirit, but in his utility in chains.”

- Ranst Goph, a merchant of flesh and sorrow.

[ilexdiapason]

I do think after Martyn and Sausage has gotten Scott to their base, Sausage wants to make a nice, hot bath for Scott but Martyn has to convince him to use cold water instead and at first, Scott isn't too hyped about the idea

but as Sausage helps into the bath, he gets the overwhelming surge of diving into the water. so he dunks his head under the water a brief moment and just lets the coldness wash over him, it feels like a nice, deep breath of fresh air. and then he gets to enjoy Sausage massaging his scalp and being pampered.

meanwhile Martyn tries to formulate a plan to convince Scott to come into the water with him, but he don't want to force him...

(figured that I might just as well not click the button anymore alskbjdaksjd)

Look - this plan's been a century in the making.

Martyn has spent decades in the water, floating, nomadic and alone. He's taken this weird aquatic state that the Coral Isles left him and he's tried to make the most of it - tried to forget about the lover that left him behind.

Everyone else? The friends whose corpses he'd dragged out of the shallow rivers where they'd fallen and into the forest before setting the whole damn thing ablaze, mansion and all… They're in the past.

And Scott left - walked away, somehow. Took one look at the narrative, at their tragic end, and decided that he was better off stepping out of it, and then did. The border let him leave, when for the last few hours (was that really all it had been? Twenty-four hours? That felt wrong, but it was true) they'd all been trapped in there fighting for their lives.

Martyn sat down, feet in the water, and waited to die.

But the clock hit zero, and he just… didn't. Like the Watchers had gotten bored without their Romeo and Juliet to watch as they pulled each other apart in desperation and hunger and love. Like the narrator had been locked behind a door, and Scott had vanished with the key in his pocket. Like he was left, alone, in a universe made for his story, without anybody to direct it.

So he surrendered to the waves, and hoped to drown that way - hoped to go out cold and numb, and maybe surrounded by filtering rays of sun from the surface, by something beautiful.

He didn't die like that, either. He took a breath, and another, and it wasn't from his lungs.

Once he'd transformed, it got a little easier to forget the past he'd been forged by. Friends and alliances and enemies and lovers - they were all surface stuff. Underwater all Martyn had to worry about was his next meal, and watching his fingers and toes gradually web over days and weeks and months, and avoiding sharks or whales or whatever else lurked in the depths that were his new home.

There was always something missing, though. Some other half, some bigger whole of him that felt just out of reach. The Coral Isles hadn't claimed just one victim, after all, had they?

He didn't even die like this. The thrashers never caught him, and his food supplies never dwindled quite enough to starve him out, and Martyn had a feeling that even if they did he'd be alright. Years passed.

And then, quite suddenly, something else hit the water, and Martyn knew him already.

That should have been impossible. Scott, if he wasn't dead, was clearly dead set on never touching the sea, if this was what it led to. But Martyn knew that feeling, knew every curved lip and quirked eyebrow of his lover, knew the space between them intimately.

This was that space - just a little further than usual.

But Martyn knew exactly how to close it.

He surfaced just off a dock, and was promptly scammed out of the only property he owned - two raw cod - by someone who looked a little too familiar for comfort. There was chatter about factions and glory and money and family and legacy, and Martyn let it all wash past him, because he'd felt Scott here for the briefest of moments, and he wasn't about to let that go now in the name of some buccaneering fantasy. He kept haunting the various taverns of the isle, always blasé when people asked him if he'd chosen a faction, but always staying on their side.

By the end of the evening, he'd found exactly what he was looking for. It took another few weeks to get this new Scott alone with him. Not very long after that, he was being invited out with Scott and another guy, which didn't exactly hurt his self esteem, but wasn't super helpful towards the goal.

It was kind of weird - it wasn't the same Scott he'd watched as he left, but it wasn't not him either. They had the same voice, the same smile, the same beautiful eyes, and he was even complaining of "grey hairs" that Martyn clocked immediately as shades of blue coming in like new buds after frost. He wasn't what Martyn was used to, but he sure was getting there.

The only thing really keeping them apart was the fact that Scott was very touchy about the subject of the sea.

Eventually, after much plying, and many rounds on Martyn (who knew pirates left so much treasure lying around at the bottom of the sea?), and a few particularly forward promises, Scott gave up the truth. He'd never been allowed to swim as a child - yes, never! - and had tried recently, and it hadn't gone well. He did want to try again, but he was just a little scared that he might fare even worse if he did.

In that moment, Martyn resolved that Scott would never need to worry about the ocean again. Sure, yeah, he was pretty sure that what had happened to Martyn all those decades ago was maybe like three months max away from happening to Scott, but that wasn't something he needed to worry about, not if Martyn could help it.

Smash cut to now - he's played it a little too slowly, taken a little too much interest in Scott's comfort now over his projected comfort in the future, and it's too late. The guy's started having breathless moments in the street because he doesn't have the sense to stay at home when he's feeling faint and dizzy. Thank the sun god Martyn had heard him complaining earlier and headed down to the docks to grab some emergency seawater.

Scott sits semi-conscious on the toilet seat lid, and Sausage is trying to argue that he should get a warm bath of all things. Martyn kind of wants to bite his head off right now (oh, hello, creature-of-the-deep instincts, we thought you were left at the shore), but he's so nice about it instead, and just gently insists that the cold water will help better after the… heat exhaustion… Scott's just undergone.

Sure enough, his lover - more blue streaked with red now than red streaked with blue - settles luxuriously into the cool of the bath. Martyn can almost see his gills fluttering, but of course those aren't quite ready to pop yet. It's been a long, long time since Scott or his blood came close to the magic that turned him. This process, too, is long and gradual.

The captain smiles, worry still written plain on his face, and helps Scott's head back up and out of the water. Scott confirms that he does, in fact, feel better already, and he would love to have a little rose oil if Sausage has any going spare. Of course, "Anything for my treasure," Sausage replies, and he pops out of the room to go and grab the fragrance from his vanity.

Scott drops back under the water, maybe not even realising that he's doing it, and smiles, content. Martyn leaves him to soak. He's on his way; everything will be fine.

Martyn just needs to get a little more serious about convincing Scott to try swimming again when it's not a matter of life or death.

[mygainyear2024]

Day 54 Porto to Douro Valley

Another game of tetris with the suitcases, but I get to leave most of my stuff at the next accommodation in another part of Porto, so I can travel more lightly to Douro for the weekend. Eva (Upwork) thought about this option and instead of carrying it all or paying luggage storage, I think it's inclusive, and it's so close to the train station I'll be able to "easily" get the train to Lisbon on Monday, however I do have the cobblestones to contend with.

The train is over 2 hours and I was prepared to make sure I sat on the right hand side to get the best view. The train was packed, standing room only! At least I got the window view behind the luggage storage area and a nice option to prop up the iphone on someone's pram, to watch the first episode of Bridgerton season 3.

I organised, ahead of time, lunch at The Bridge 1870, not sure where all the other tourists were but I was the only one of two diners. Not feeling particularly hungry I asked for wine first, a lovely glass of rosé from Quinta das Carvalhas, where I'm going on Sunday for a tasting.

A taxi is then required to make it to my accommodation in Valença do Douro, a fabulous B&B, Quinta Da Casa Cimeira. Eva found this gem and I highly recommend it to anyone coming this way. The taxi cost €15. Sandro, a guest, is in the carpark, takes my case and shows me the way. Miguel meets me outside and asks “are you staying?” God I hope so! I remind him about Eva, nope! I say I wrote to confirm. It’s ok. He rushes to sort my room and offers me a port while I wait.

The setting is fabulous, and dinner is served around a large table, so I got to meet the gorgeous looking Alex from Dublin (now living in Bath with his partner he left behind to unpack in their first home!). Alex is an avid motor bike rider/tourer and wine taster and works for a wine company, can't recall what his role is, but it's not tasting and touring. He kept saying the trip wasn't a work one, or a tax deduction, but I couldn't quite understand how he gets to do so much travel and still "work", even as a digital nomad. There was Sandro from São Paulo, the only other solo traveller, I think 3 younger guys travelling (biking together) and a couple from California, Canada, Germany and I forget where else. The meal was incredible, cooked by Miguel the owner. We started with a lightly sparkling rosé (I expect from the Vinho Verde region because of the very tiny bubbles) in one room, then moved to the darkened dining area and sat around a large heavy wooden rectangle table. We had a vegetable soup starter, a huge piece of cod on delicious baked potatoes, a passionfruit dessert and bread with olives and their own olive oil and as much red wine as we wanted to consume. Miguel describes every course. We then moved back to the first room and Miguel pours port from his own vineyard, I honestly can't remember what year. I think it was more than a 10 year old "Tony" (this is how I am hearing "Tawny" and at first I was wondering "who the hell is Tony!!) but I have one sip and I'm out. I could have finished it if I hadn't had so much already during the day!

In between lunch and dinner I booked a wine tour and tasting at Sandeman. This is a stand out name in the region. One of the oldest I think, now owned by Canadians, and they are located in a few countries, New Zealand rated a mention. In earlier correspondence between Eva and Miguel, it was supposed to be within walking distance. Miguel says it's too hot to walk so in 5 minutes I need to be ready and he would take me. I skull the port. Well we screamed down those windy streets in his car, narrow roads, braking, my motion sickness is reignited! He says if you want to walk back "we are in that village up there, ask here and they will tell you the path or ring". I do arrive in one piece obviously. I meet a lovely couple from Holland who walked up from the train station, one hour. Note to self, I could walk back down on Saturday, get some exercise in and get amongst the vines. We have a brief tour and then the tasting. I wasn't sure what I'd booked, but it was 5 tastings, starting with a 3 year old white, then onto another 3 year old, and then up to 10 years. They are all easily drinkable and sound even more delicious with the food pairing ideas given. The couple from Holland find me on the other side of the room, as they only had 3 tastings. They leave and so do I. The first exit was a failure as I was in a back corridor and tried to use a lift which went to three other floors and they were deserted. I go back downstairs and find the correct exit. I ask the tour guide about the path up to Casa Cimeira and he says there isn't one. I insist Miguel told me there was. So he says "I guess if you find a path you take it!" With stupid confidence I go up, up, up and then the path runs out. I load maps.me, there is supposed to be a path. I have 15% phone battery left and Sandeman closes at 6.30pm and it's around 5.45pm. I can see the next path but have no clue how to get to it. I decide to abort and turn around and then wonder what is the path back! I can see the building but I end up in thick weeds and know this is not the right path. If all else fails I'll need to commando under the vines to get down the hill. I had decided to wear a dress and ditch the walking clothes and backpack for the weekend, this could be interesting. Breathe!! After the third attempt I get on a path that takes me back and declare "you were right!" to the tour guide. He calls me a taxi, it's also €15 even though I'm a fair way from Pinhão, where I was earlier in the day. That's enough of an adventure for one day.

The Valley is stunning and unique.