#command and conquer legions

[sleepdeprivedartboi]

Watching the new Command and Conquer legions trailer fills me with such insufferable rage .

Please just stop beating a dead horse. You've already killed it with Cnc4, and then with that shitty mobile game and now you're doing it again.

[ulvespill]

GC23: Command & Conquer gjør nok en gang en lansering på mobil

Level Infinite har fått låne EAs Command & Conquer lisens Command & Conquer Legions er et nytt mobilstrategispill basert i Command & Conquer (C&C)-universet. Spillet inneholder ikoniske helter og skurker, fraksjoner og et stort utvalg enheter fra hele Command & Conquer-spillene. Den gjenskapte historien og en ny tilnærming til strategispilling åpner uendelige strategiske muligheter. Spillet vil…

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Army of the Dead

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

From the journal of Nendreg Tamyal, High Authority of the 7th Legion

“Out of my entire century of service to the Pental Crown I have fought countless enemies. Many of them I came to know and despise in their own ways; but the one I remember most of all were the humans. Might be calling themselves “Terrans” again; honestly hard to tell what they call themselves these day.

They just……don’t die when they should.

There was this moment I still can recall as clear as day even though it must be some sixty years ago.

It was during the siege of one of their outer colony worlds, New Bangkok.

My war staff had presented me with several different means of conquering the world, yet they all gave horrendous casualty figures.

The humans had been well aware of our coming attack and had spent over a month turning every settlement and city on the world into a fortress. Rows of razor wire and minefields surrounded them like lethal forests of death while every city street and park hand been turned into a killing field.

Best estimates predicted that I would lose a full third of my forces before the planet fell, and a further third would be required to hold the planet against insurgent resistance.

It was my naval attaché that informed me that several ships in our fleet were carrying Stellar Cannons capable of crippling capital ships. My response was rather flippant for someone of my station as I openly questioned what good were ship-to-ship based weapons for a ground invasion. They suggested that we should rotate the ships and use the weapons for an orbital bombardment.

Now, there is a substantial difference between ship-to-ship weaponry and orbital bombardment weaponry. The former was far more destructive as they were designed to pierce through multiple layers of energy shielding and reinforced armor, which coupled with the fact that most fleet battles were waged in the vast emptiness of space allowed for exceedingly powerful armaments to be used more freely.

Orbital bombardment weapons by contrast, while powerful in their own right, were limited in destructive power as to not contaminate the planet they were used upon. The thermal heat that radiates off a single Stellar Cannon firing could flash boil any nearby water source, and the radiation that followed after would kill even microscopic life.

To use such weapons on planetside targets had been outlawed in the Galactic Accords which dictated rules for warfare. My aide pressed the matter though and positioned themselves amongst the party that the Accords were more suggestions than hard rules.

Faced with the hard casualty projections of an unsupported landing, and the near absolute support of my entire command staff, I finally relented and gave permission for the Stellar Cannons to be used; though I did limit their usage to only a few select targets on the planet as to not cause irreversible harm.

Military bases, defensive emplacements, governmental institutions and places that could house command and control facilities, etc.

The first barrage met with some resistance from the humans. Ground based weapons lashed out from the surface, damaging several of our ships before our barrage opened up in earnest.

Lances of pure blue energy descended to the planet like the fingers of an angry god. Their impact silenced the majority of the human defense batteries.

The second barrage took place some twenty six hours later as the fleet waited in orbit for the targets to align once more. This silenced the remaining defense batteries securing the fleet from any danger from the surface.

The third and final barrage struck several of the largest cities to cripple the enemy morale.

By the time I ordered our forces to commence landing ground forces trails of smoke from the impact sites were circling the entire planet, covering it in a layer of ash and dust.

Our primary focus was the capital city that was struck in the final barrage. The show of force coupled with the fall of their capital was intended to break the will of the remaining opposition. Our ground forces were occupying the city for perhaps two hours before they issued orders for a full retreat.

From the rubble and wreckage of their city the humans came and attacked our ground forces. Their clothes burnt and scorched, flesh melted away revealing raw brittle bone, gas masks fussed to their faces from the heat of the Stellar Cannons.

By all laws of the universe none of them should have been alive let alone charging across the ruins of their city, yet on the came from every corner and crevasse. Like shadowy ghouls they opened fire on our soldiers as they entered the shattered city before vanishing into the husks of their skyscrapers only to attack from another avenue all together. Those with vehicles were swarmed on the streets by shambling mobs that flung themselves headlong into enemy tanks.

From the bridge of the flagship I watched video feeds of these humans taking three rounds to the chest only to be mildly delayed from driving a rusty piece of metal into the chest of their assailant. Some even went so far as to use the protruding bones of their bodies as makeshift knives and plunge them into the nearest soldier.

While initially believing these humans to be monsters I saw some of my soldiers put enough plasma rounds into one or two of them to make them stay down for good. With how much pain they must have been feeling from the flash burn and radiation of the Stellar Cannons a few rounds of plasma would have hardly been as incapacitating as normally would.

Panic turned to terror as our forces were ambushed across all fronts; some even being attacked the moment their dropship landing ramps lowered. The fear of fighting these horrific humans spread like wildfire and before long any notion of an organized advance gave way to a complete and utterly chaotic route.

Of the fifty dropships that were dispatched to occupy the capital only three made it back. The rest were left behind as the humans overran them and killed the soldiers and crew alike before they could take off.

Video feeds of the failed attack were restricted and the survivors were isolated from the rest of the fleet. Officially the loss was the result of unstable ground giving way as a result of the Stellar strikes and swallowing up the landing forces. The cover story held for a day before those caring for the survivors began discussing what they had been told and within another day it was common knowledge amongst the entire fleet.

The idea of fighting humans who were for all purposes the living dead demoralized the entire invasion force. Cities and facilities that had been struck by the Stellar Cannons were labeled off limits while the rest of the forces began attacking the untouched human resistance locations. Some needing to be marshaled at gunpoint to get them on to the dropships and I quickly realized that the entire invasion was on the brink of collapse and mutiny.

We eventually did win the ground war, but with casualties nearly triple what had been initially projected. Even then we never were able to capture the quarantined cities and they remained a constant source of resistance for the planet. No one really tried though; too afraid of what nightmares were waiting within the b ruins to even try."

[cosmicaura7]

THREADS OF FATE

Pairings : pedro pascal (marcus acacius) x megara!reader

Genre : (AU where Ancient Greece and Rome existed at the same time, Hercules/Herakles is the general of Greece, use of Y/N L/N for reader and is the princess of Greece, inspired by Megara, described to have long hair, angst, mentions of death and war, sexual tension?, enemies to lovers trope, Marcus is an asshole at first)

Synopsis : In which the general of Rome captures the princess of Greece.

Word Count : 8.7k

Taglist : @orcasoul

Moodboard :

-----

“FOR THE GLORY OF ROME!” 

The general of Rome proudly shouts in victory as his entire army of soldiers and warriors rejoices that Rome has once again won another war.

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the clamor of soldiers as the Roman legions paraded through the conquered lands of Greece. The earth trembled beneath the weight of their triumph, Rome's banner now draped over the fallen city. The battle had been brutal, the resistance fierce, but in the end, the might of Rome had crushed it all.

Marcus Acacius, victorious and undefeated, rode at the head of his men, his armor gleaming in the dying light of the day. His eyes were sharp, his mind calculating. The campaign had been long and taxing, but Greece was finally subdued. The banners of Rome now flew high across the lands, marking the fall of one of the greatest civilizations to ever rise. And Marcus, he had earned his place as a general in the annals of Roman history.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery red glow over the battlefield, Marcus’s steely gaze fell upon something that made him pull his horse to a halt. It was not the bodies of fallen soldiers, nor the smoldering ruins of a once-great city that caught his attention, it was the figure of a woman, kneeling amidst the wreckage of what had once been a proud Greek encampment.

Her hair cascaded around her face, her lavender dress stained with dirt and blood. Her posture was one of deep grief, as if the weight of the world had fallen upon her slender shoulders. Her eyes, swollen from crying, stared mournfully at the lifeless body cradled in her arms. The man she held was the very same Greek general who had fought against Marcus, whom he had killed in the final battle.

Her lover.

General Herakles.

For a moment, Marcus’s heart twisted in an unfamiliar way. It was a fleeting emotion, one he could barely comprehend, but it was there. The sight of her, clutching the body of the man who had once been her world, made something within him shift. He had never been a man to pity, but there was something about the raw anguish in her eyes that unsettled him.

The soldiers around him were unaware of the emotional stirrings of their commander, too busy with the spoils of war to notice the woman. But Marcus's mind was far from the victory feast awaiting them back in Rome. He dismounted from his horse with a swift motion, his cloak swirling around him. The rest of his men watched curiously, but none dared to question his actions.

“General.” One of his soldiers ventured cautiously, “We’ve taken the city.”

“I see that.” Marcus interrupted, his voice cold and sharp. He didn’t need the reminders of their conquest. His eyes remained fixed on the once princess of Greece.

Without a word, he began to walk toward her, his footsteps soft but steady on the charred earth. She did not notice him at first, too lost in her sorrow, her fingers gently caressing the dead general’s face, her lips whispering words of mourning. Her eyes were glazed over, lost in the final moment of what she had loved.

It was only when Marcus’s shadow fell over her that she lifted her gaze, her eyes locking onto his with a mixture of disbelief and fury. She recognized him immediately. The man who had taken everything from her, the man whose sword had ended the life of the only man she had ever truly loved. The same man who brought her home into ruins.

Her breath hitched, and the tears that had not yet dried began to spill once more. This time, however, they were no longer the tears of a woman mourning a lover, they were the tears of a princess wronged. Her grief hardened into something darker, more dangerous. The last thing she wanted was to face this man again. She had wished that she would never have to look upon his face again after what he has done.

But here he was.

“What are you still doing here, you monster? I thought you would be long gone by now.” Y/N spat, her voice trembling with a mixture of hate and sorrow. “Your precious Rome has betrayed us. You made sure to rob him of the chance to defend himself, to defend our lands.”

Marcus’s jaw clenched as she spoke. Her words were like daggers, each one striking a place inside of him he didn’t know was vulnerable. The way she spoke, with such raw venom, reminded him of why he had fought in the first place. To keep the world in order. To bend it to Rome’s will.

But the sight of her now, holding her dead lover, pierced through that certainty.

Her words struck deeper than the blade he had buried in her lover’s chest.

“Get up.” He ordered, his voice low and commanding. “We are leaving.”

The soldiers who followed Marcus approached slowly, unsure of what to make of the scene unfolding before them. One of them moved toward Y/N to drag her away, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even acknowledge the soldiers at first.

She simply stared at Marcus, her eyes cold, narrowing with every passing second.

“I won’t go with you.” She said firmly, her voice stronger now. “You have already taken everything from me. Do you truly think I would ever willingly follow you?”

Marcus’s gaze hardened. “You will follow me because I command it. You are coming back to Rome as a symbol of the victory of Rome. The world will know that even Greece has fallen to the might of the empire.”

Y/N shook her head, tears streaking down her face once more, but there was no defeat in her eyes. There was only the fire of defiance. “I have no place in your empire, Roman. I am a prisoner of my own sorrow, not yours. Do you think you can break me by forcing me into chains? You have already taken my life from me. I will not allow you to strip me of my dignity.”

The tension between them was palpable, but Marcus’s face remained stoic, unreadable. He had commanded the deaths of many, and had crushed countless opponents beneath his heel. He had brought entire cities to their knees, and this woman, this Greek woman, was no different.

“Chain her.” Marcus ordered coldly. “And bring her to the camp.”

Y/N resisted as they moved to restrain her, but the soldiers were swift and strong. She fought back with every ounce of her strength, but the pain in her chest was too overwhelming, and the soldiers’ iron grip proved stronger than her fury.

She was dragged away, her head held high despite the pain that coursed through her, her thoughts a storm of hatred and grief. Her world had been taken from her once, and now, once again, she would find herself under Roman control.

As the soldiers escorted the princess of Greece toward the Roman camp, Marcus Acacius rode silently beside them, his mind a tangled web of thoughts. He had won his victory, but in the depths of his heart, something unsettled him. Something about her, the way she had defied him, the strength in her sorrow, made him wonder if this war had truly been won.

The road to Rome was long, but the battle within Marcus had only just begun.

-----

The clinking of iron shackles echoed through the entire camp, the rusted irons grills of her cell and the undeniable scent of blood filled her senses. Y/N L/N, her form cast in shadows, paced back and forth in her cell, her mind sharp despite her exhaustion. The faint smell of blood and sweat filled her nostrils, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness that had settled in her chest. The memories of her life before captivity seemed like distant echoes, a cruel reminder of what had been lost.

She thinks back to the abandoned corpse of her husband, General Herakles, a man who had fought valiantly for their people. The now rotting corpses of her soldiers, her people and everyone who she had no choice but to leave behind, abandoning them to the desolate lands that were once the majestic grounds of Greece, her beloved home. But that was before Marcus Acacius had entered the battlefield, before he had torn her world asunder. He had slain her beloved husband in cold blood, a man she had adored and cherished. The very same man whom she was promised to and has shared dreams and promises of creating a brighter future together for Greece. Marcus's name had haunted her every waking moment since, a reminder of the power that men held and the devastation they could leave in their wake.

Her captors, the Roman soldiers, had treated her with the same cruel indifference they afforded to any prisoners of war. They all know who she was. The royal blood running through her veins and the crown she holds high upon her head. But they didn’t give a damn. To them, she was just another woman to be paraded in the gladiator pits, another piece of property in a city overflowing with ambition and lust for power. A reminder of their victory and glory for another war won. A proof of their never ending greed to expand their dynasty like it was the damn plague.

Her hair, tied into a high ponytail, swayed as she moved, the curls at the tips bouncing with each step. The lavender dress she wore clung to her form, accentuating her curves, but it was a mere symbol of her past life, a time before she had been reduced to a mere shadow of herself. The golden strap of her dress dug into her skin, reminding her of the chains that still bound her, metaphorically and physically. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, yet betrayed a deep sorrow that had no end.

Y/N had learned to keep her thoughts to herself. She knew better than to speak freely in this land of men who valued conquest above compassion. But despite her cold exterior, she dreamed of escape, of vengeance, of a world where men like Marcus Acacius did not get to dictate the fates of those they saw as lesser.

The fates had a cruel sense of humor, for now Marcus found himself standing before her. The same woman, who was once the princess of Greece. The same defiance that he has seen in countless prisoners that Rome has taken. And now she is no longer the dignified princess of Greece and was nothing more than a slave, bound to a life that had no dignity.

-----

The grand city of Rome was a sight to behold in the wake of its victory over Greece. The streets buzzed with triumphant energy as the Roman people poured out from their homes, eager to witness the return of their victorious general. Banners flew proudly from every corner, the golden eagle of Rome soaring high above, a symbol of power that now stretched across the lands of Greece. The people roared in approval, their chants rising up in a cacophony of celebration.

Marcus Acacius rode at the head of his soldiers, his armored figure a symbol of Rome’s invincibility. The cheers from the masses grew louder with each step he took. They hailed his name, shouting, "Marcus! Marcus!" The streets seemed to pulse with the energy of the people’s adoration, their voices like a thunderous storm that seemed to echo through the very foundations of the city.

But amidst the jubilation, Marcus’s gaze remained focused, his expression as stoic as ever. Though he basked in the glory of Rome’s triumph, there was something that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The sight of Y/N walking beside him, her chains that he was holding in his very hands, was a stark reminder of the weight of what he had done.

Y/N L/N, the Greek woman who had once held the heart of her fallen general, now stood at the center of Roman pride. Her eyes burned with defiance, her head held high, her posture regal even in the face of captivity. She did not beg for mercy. She did not weep like the many others had when brought to Rome as prisoners. No, she stood as a noblewoman would, unyielding, proud, and fierce in her own sorrow.

Her chains clinked with every step, the iron biting into the skin of her wrists, but she didn’t flinch. To the Roman people, she was but a symbol, an object of conquest, a mere prisoner to be paraded before their eyes. Yet, the princess of Greece was not so easily broken.

Her lavender dress, though now stained and torn from the journey, still held an air of dignity. The golden straps, now dulled from the harsh journey, glinted faintly as the sunlight caught them. Her hair, once immaculately styled, now fell in, tangled waves, but it didn’t matter. She was still beautiful, still a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes, though filled with the remnants of grief, held an unshakable strength that no Roman could take from her.

Marcus’s fingers curled around the chains that connected them, the weight of them in his hand a constant reminder of his authority, but even as he gripped them, he found his attention drawn to the woman beside him. There was something about the way she carried herself, as though she were not a prisoner at all. The crowds around them may have been celebrating Rome’s triumph, but Y/N’s quiet defiance was a challenge, one that lingered in the air like a slow-burning flame.

The people of Rome could see nothing but a prisoner at Marcus’s side, a broken woman who had lost everything. But Y/N knew better. She knew her worth, and she would not let these people forget that she was not just a casualty of war. She had been a figure of nobility, a woman with a past that was far more complicated than they could ever know. And in her heart, she would continue to hold herself as such, no matter the chains that bound her.

“Do they think you’ll beg for mercy, Greek?” Marcus’s voice cut through the sounds of the celebration. His gaze was still forward, but his words were pointed, as though testing her resolve. “You may be a woman of Greece, but here, you are nothing but a prisoner.”

Y/N didn’t turn to him, her steps steady as she walked beside him, feeling the weight of the eyes upon her. She had no intention of letting her spirit be crushed by this Roman parade. Her eyes scanned the crowd, the faces of the people who watched her as though she were an exhibit, a trophy to be admired.

“I will not beg for mercy.” Y/N replied, her voice low but firm. She met his gaze with a quiet intensity, her eyes never wavering from his. “And you will not break me. You may have conquered Greece, but you will never conquer me.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened at her words, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The people around them cheered louder, a deafening roar rising up from the masses as they reached the grand stairs leading to the Imperial Palace. There, a large crowd had crowded for Marcus’s triumphant return, where he would receive the accolades of Rome’s Emperors, senate and the people alike. The princess of Greece, however, was not to be treated as a guest. She was led to a smaller, less ceremonious area, far from the glory that awaited her captor.

The grandeur of the Imperial Palace was like no other in the empire. Marble columns stretched high into the sky, their surfaces gleaming with the brilliance of Rome’s wealth and power. Statues of past emperors lined the hallways, their stern faces gazing down on all who dared to enter. The palace buzzed with the preparations for the grand assembly where Marcus Acacius, the hero of Rome, would present his proof of conquest, Y/N L/N, the last of Greece’s nobility, captured and soon brought before the Emperor Brothers as the symbol of Rome’s undeniable triumph.

Marcus stood at the entrance of the lavish hall, his gaze focused on the grand throne of the imperial seat. The twin brothers, Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla, sat upon their thrones, their regal figures imposing in their splendor. Their eyes shifted to Marcus as he entered, the rumble of murmurs from the attendants around them quieting instantly at the sight of the victorious general. But their attention soon shifted toward the figure standing at his side.

Y/N stood tall and unwavering, her chains still hanging at her wrists, her head held high with defiance as ever. Her eyes, burning with an indignant fire, glanced across the room, meeting the Emperor’s gaze with unwavering poise. She did not flinch, not for a moment, under the weight of the attention that fell upon her. Her lavender dress, now even more torn and sullied from the journey, clung to her lithe figure. The golden spiral pendant on her hips glinted faintly, despite the dirt that had stained her skin. Even now, she is still beautiful. 

Radiantly, stubbornly beautiful.

The Emperor brothers exchanged a look, their gazes moving from Marcus to Y/N. It was Geta, older of the two, who broke the silence first, his eyes widening as he took in her appearance. He had seen many prisoners in his time, but none quite like this woman. Her beauty was undeniable, and it sent an unexpected thrill through him.

“Ah, General Acacius.” Emperor Geta said, his voice smooth, though his eyes lingered a moment too long on Y/N. “You have indeed brought us a most... captivating prize. This one…” He motioned towards the princess with a nod of his head, his tone shifting into something more indulgent, “...is truly the epitome of Greek beauty, is she not?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed with a barely contained contempt, her lips twisting into a thin smile that was anything but friendly. The chains clinked with every slight movement of her hands, but she ignored them as she met Geta’s eyes directly.

“Compliments from a man such as you mean nothing.” The princess replied coldly, her voice laced with acid. “Your words may flatter, but they do not change the fact that you are a man who needs a woman's beauty only to satisfy your own insatiable ego.”

Geta blinked, momentarily taken aback by her harshness. But he refused to let her words strike him down. He leaned forward, attempting to regain his composure.

“Such a sharp tongue.” He smirked, clearly undeterred. “I admire it, Greek. You should be honored by the attention I offer you.”

Y/N recoiled, the disgust clear in her eyes. She took a step back, a deliberate action that sent a subtle but distinct message. The chains that bound her wrists clinked loudly, marking her defiance.

“I am no toy for your amusement.” She shot back, her voice unwavering. ��I will not sit idly by and be paraded as some mere decoration for you to ogle. I am a woman of Greece, a noblewoman, a princess and I will not allow you or your Roman bastards to treat me as something less.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick and palpable as her words hung in the air. Marcus, who had been standing off to the side, watching the exchange, remained unmoved. He had anticipated her defiance, expected it even, but there was something in the way she spoke that made the situation feel more personal.

Caracalla, the younger brother, shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he observed the scene. He was more outgoing than Geta, but now he was deadly serious for some reason, his face impassive, his posture rigid. There was something cold in his gaze as he appraised Y/N.

“Enough, brother.” Caracalla spoke, his voice low and firm. He turned his attention to Marcus, the weight of his authority suddenly felt throughout the room. “You’ve brought us the woman as a symbol of Greece’s fall. Let her beauty be the final tribute to their defeat. But do not forget her place.”

Geta bristled at his brother’s intervention, but he quickly quelled any sign of irritation. He turned to Y/N, who had yet to take her eyes off him, her defiance burning like an unquenchable fire.

“You are lucky to stand here.” Geta said, his tone now tinged with frustration. “You may be a prisoner, but your beauty alone might grant you some measure of respect. Do not make the mistake of forgetting where you are.”

Y/N’s lips curled in a bitter laugh, her gaze never wavering from Geta’s. “Respect?” She scoffed. “You think I would ever accept respect from the likes of you, a man who hides behind the power of an empire to get what he wants? You are nothing but a coward, wearing a crown that is built on the suffering of others.”

The words struck like a slap, and for the first time, Geta’s expression faltered. His lips parted, as though ready to retort, but no words came. He was taken aback, not by her beauty this time, but by her sheer audacity. Y/N L/N was not like any prisoner he had encountered.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice firm, interrupting the tense silence that followed Y/N’s insult. “Enough.” He commanded, his eyes narrowing as he addressed both emperors and the princess of Greece. “She may be a prisoner, but I will not tolerate her disrespect toward you, Emperor Geta.”

But Geta raised a hand, signaling Marcus to silence himself. “It is not her disrespect I care for, General.” He said slowly, his gaze still focused on Y/N. “It is her spirit that intrigues me. She may not be a toy, but she certainly is a challenge.”

Caracalla leaned forward then, his eyes narrowing with cold calculation. “Perhaps it is that very spirit that will make her valuable to us, Marcus. Not only as a symbol, but as a reminder to Greece of the cost of defiance.”

Marcus nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Y/N had defied not just the Roman soldiers who had captured her, but the very authority of the Emperors themselves. The fire within her, that unyielding strength, was both admirable and troubling. He could not deny that it intrigued him, and perhaps even unsettled him in ways he had not expected.

“We will see if she can be tamed.” Marcus said under his breath, his gaze lingering on Y/N, who stood before the Emperors with her head held high, still refusing to bow to any of them.

The crowds around them continued their celebration, oblivious to her defiance, to the fire that still burned in her heart. They cheered for Marcus Acacius, the man who had brought them victory, the man who had crushed Greece beneath Rome’s boot. But as he took his place at the center of the stage for the Emperors to reward him for his victory, his eyes flickered briefly back toward Y/N. In the midst of the grandeur and adoration, something within him stirred. She was different from the other prisoners he had taken. She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t like the others who had begged and cried for mercy. There was a strength in her—a fire—that he had not expected.

As the evening wore on and the celebrations continued, Marcus could not shake the thought of her. He had conquered Greece, but in Y/N L/N, he had found a challenge unlike any other, a challenge that could not be measured in battles or bloodshed.

For in the end, it wasn’t Greece that had fallen. It was something far more elusive. Something he would need to reckon with in the days to come.

And Y/N, even in chains, had left her mark on him.

-----

The grand marble halls of Marcus Acacius’s home were starkly different from the humble yet regal surroundings Y/N L/N had once known in Greece. Here, everything gleamed with the opulence of the Roman Empire, gilded statues of past emperors staring down from every corner, while the walls were adorned with intricate mosaics depicting Roman conquests and celebrations. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and the ever-present undertone of wealth.

It was within this imposing estate that Y/N found herself, though not as a guest, not as a noblewoman of Greece, but as a lowly servant—reduced to the status of a mere scullery maid.

The irony was not lost on her.

Once, she had stood proudly by the side of a general whose name echoed through the halls of Greece. She had been a woman of power, of influence. Now, her wrists were bound by the very chains she once wore as a prisoner, yet now they were metaphorical as well as literal. The chains of servitude were a constant reminder that she had fallen far from grace.

Y/N was led through the grand halls, the whispers of Roman servants and soldiers falling silent at the sight of her, the once proud and beautiful woman now relegated to the task of cleaning, scrubbing, and serving the very man who had stripped her of everything she held dear. She walked with her head held high, though the weight of it all bore down on her. Her eyes never once flinched from the ground, for she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her beaten down.

“Clean the kitchens. Prepare the meal.” The steward ordered coldly, handing her a wooden bucket and a scrubbing brush. Y/N didn’t respond, her expression unreadable, her thoughts a turbulent storm inside her mind. The very thought of serving Marcus Acacius, the man who had caused the death of her lover and conquered her homeland, was a bitter pill she could hardly swallow.

But she would not show them weakness. Not here, not in Rome.

With measured steps, she moved to the kitchens, the servants parting before her as though she were some shadow from the past, lingering just outside their world. The clang of pots and the simmer of the fires seemed distant, muffled by the thoughts clouding her mind.

As the princess of Greece set to work, scrubbing the floor with practiced precision, her thoughts wandered back to the day she had been captured. She had been clutching her husband’s lifeless body in her arms, her grief as palpable as the air she breathed. And then, the soldiers had come for her. They hadn’t allowed her the dignity of mourning. They had ripped her away from the battlefield, from her husband’s side, and dragged her to this cold, heartless city, forcing her to exist as nothing more than a trophy of war.

She had been nothing but a prize.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. Y/N’s heart quickened for a moment, but she steeled herself, returning to her task. She would not look up.

“Still working, I see.” Marcus Acacius’s voice rang out from the entrance, smooth and commanding.

Y/N’s body tensed. She recognized his tone, the authority in his voice. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lookup, so she kept her gaze fixed on the floor as she continued to scrub.

“You know, Greek, I could have chosen any number of positions for you.” Marcus continued, his voice tinged with something unreadable, his footsteps approaching closer. “But I thought this would be the most... fitting.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat for a brief moment before she exhaled sharply through her nose, still not looking at him. “Fitting?” She repeated, her voice low but sharp, laced with disgust. “You think it fitting to reduce me, a Greek royalty, to the level of your servants? To have me crawl on the floors, cleaning after the very man who has destroyed everything I once knew?”

Marcus chuckled, a sound that did not reach his eyes. He moved to stand just behind her, watching her work. “It is nothing personal, Greek. It is simply the way of things. Rome is the victor, and the spoils of war are always claimed by those who have the strength to take them.”

Y/N paused for a moment, the brush still in her hand as her mind raced. She wanted to lash out, to throw every insult she had ever known in his face. But she knew better. She was not yet broken, not yet defeated.

Without turning to him, she replied, her voice steady, though tinged with defiance. “And I suppose you believe this will make me accept my place here. As your slave. As your property.”

Marcus did not respond at first. The silence between them stretched long, almost painfully, until Y/N felt his presence move, his hand grabbing a hold of her face as if to force her to turn and look at him.

She froze, but only for a moment.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet him, her eyes locking onto his with a piercing intensity that could cut through any pretense of control he might have. His expression was unreadable, but there was a glint in his eyes that was unmistakable, a recognition of the strength he still held over her.

“You are my property, Greek.” Marcus said, his voice quiet, yet it carried the weight of something deeper. Something more complex than he had let on. “But you are here because I choose to keep you. You will remain under my roof, in my service, and you will learn your place in Rome, as all those who come here must.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, the words slicing through her like a dagger.

“You may have conquered my homeland, Marcus Acacius.” She said, her voice soft but firm. “But you will never conquer me. I will not bow to you. Not ever.”

For a moment, Marcus stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing in the quiet room.

Y/N, left alone in the kitchen, let out the breath she had been holding. Her heart raced, and her fingers gripped the scrub brush so tightly that her knuckles turned white. But there was no break in her posture, no crack in the armor she had carefully crafted. She would never be a slave, not in spirit, not in heart. Not while there was breath in her body.

She would bide her time.

Rome may have won the battle, but Y/N had not yet given in. She was still the proud woman of Greece, and that, above all, was something they could never take from her.

-----

The following days blurred together, each one melding into the next like the rhythmic motion of a pendulum. Y/N L/N, now a permanent fixture in Marcus Acacius’s home, continued her duties as a maid, a servant, words that burned her tongue each time she was forced to acknowledge them. The once proud princess of Greece had been reduced to the very thing she had despised most, and yet she did not break. Her heart remained unyielding, a shield against the constant reminder of her fall from grace.

Marcus Acacius, ever the commander, never let her forget what she had lost.

He would pass her in the hallways, his eyes sharp as they raked over her form, and often, his gaze lingered just a little too long, as if he were savoring the power he wielded over her. His presence was a constant shadow over her existence, a reminder of the world she had once been a part of and the one she now lived in. He would sometimes stand by her as she worked, arms crossed over his chest, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“Do you miss it, Greek?” He would ask, his tone tinged with something like amusement. “Your home, your people, the life you once had?”

She would not look up at him, nor would she allow her hands to tremble. She would continue to clean, to cook, to serve as though the weight of his words didn’t crush her heart. But deep inside, they did. They always did.

“I miss nothing.” She would say, her voice as cold and steady as the marble floors she scrubbed. 

“Nothing but my dignity, which you’ve stolen.”

He would laugh at her response, the sound rich and full of mirth, as though her defiance was something to be enjoyed. It was never the same with him. With every word, every glance, Marcus reminded her that she had been conquered. That she was nothing more than a prisoner of war.

Yet Y/N never let him see how much it hurt. She couldn’t. If she did, it would be the last victory he would have over her.

Her life in his home was a series of monotonous tasks: cleaning, preparing meals, ensuring the needs of his household were met. There were moments when she thought she might slip into despair, moments when the weight of it all threatened to drag her under, but she would not allow it.

Instead, she found solace in the little rebellions, the small moments where she could still maintain some semblance of her former self. She refused to let her appearance suffer. Each day, she would pull her hair into the same high ponytail, the curls at the tips still framing her face with defiance. She kept her eyes sharp, and though they were often filled with the storm of emotions she refused to acknowledge, they never betrayed her.

Her lavender dress, the fabric faded and worn, still clung to her form in the same graceful way it always had. She did not let her clothing become as tarnished as her soul had been made to feel. Even in this prison, she was still Y/N L/N, and she would not let the Romans take that from her.

As for the other servants, they treated her with a mixture of pity and fear. Some avoided making eye contact with her, while others whispered behind her back, no doubt curious about the woman who had once been a princess in Greece and now slaved away in the kitchens of the man who had brought her to this state. Yet Y/N paid them no mind. They were as much a part of the system that had enslaved her as Marcus himself.

There were times when the bitter taste of loss would surge within her, when she would remember her husband, her beloved general, his body cold in her arms, the blood of her people staining her hands, and the sight of the Roman soldiers advancing, led by Marcus Acacius, ready to tear apart everything she had known. In those moments, the anger within her would rise like a firestorm, and she would clutch the scrub brush in her hands, tightening her grip until her knuckles ached.

One day, after Marcus had casually reminded her of the “grace” he had shown in taking her as a servant rather than disposing of her like the many other prisoners of war, Y/N could no longer hold her tongue.

“I hope you are satisfied.” She spat, her voice dripping with venom. “The great Roman general who has everything, and yet still takes pleasure in tormenting those beneath him. Have you no shame, Marcus?”

He stood there, arms folded, watching her with an unreadable expression. “Shame?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I should feel shame for winning a war? For doing what was necessary for Rome’s future?”

Y/N’s lips curled into a sneer. “You have won your war, Marcus. But you will never win what truly matters.”

He stepped closer to her, the tension between them crackling in the air. “And what is that, Greek? What could you possibly think I could still lose?”

She met his gaze with defiance, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. “You may have taken my land, my home, my husband, my people.” She said, her voice firm despite the tightness in her chest. “But you will never break me. Not like you think.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick with the weight of their unspoken words. And then, as if sensing that this was a battle he could not win, Marcus gave a low laugh.

“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. But stubbornness won’t save you, Greek. Not here.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a small bitter smile as she turned away to continue her work. “Maybe not.” She said, “But it will make it harder for you to enjoy your victory.”

Marcus didn’t respond, but the silence between them held a tension that was almost palpable. He may have conquered her body, her lands, her people but he had yet to break her spirit.

And as long as that spirit remained unbroken, Y/N L/N would continue to hold her head high, even in the face of defeat. The proud princess of Greece would not be erased, not by the man who had taken everything from her.

The battle was not over. Not yet.

-----

The air in Marcus Acacius's chamber felt heavier than usual that evening. He stood before the polished bronze mirror, adjusting his armor with careful precision. A meeting with the Emperor Brothers, Geta and Caracalla, awaited him in the Imperial Palace, and this time, the stakes felt higher than they ever had before. The whispers of Rome’s power growing ever more insatiable echoed in the back of his mind. He had been to countless meetings before, each one a seamless blend of politics and strategy, but something gnawed at him now.

Something unsettled him.

He adjusted his golden breastplate, the eagle of Rome etched onto the surface gleaming in the dim light. His soldiers, his trusted men, awaited him just beyond the door, ready to follow him to the heart of power. He took one last look in the mirror, making sure every part of his uniform was immaculate, before he turned sharply and left, his boots echoing in the corridor.

The Imperial Palace loomed ahead, its towering columns and marble statues a testament to the glory of Rome. He entered the grand hall where the generals and high-ranking soldiers stood in quiet anticipation, all waiting for the Emperor Twins to make their appearance. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a mixture of respect and trepidation filling the space.

When Geta and Caracalla finally entered, the room fell silent. The emperors were imposing figures, their presence commanding attention without the need for words. The men in the room straightened in their positions, and Marcus instinctively joined them, standing tall as he awaited their instructions.

Emperor Geta, always the more vocal of the two, stepped forward and addressed the gathering. “Today, we discuss the future of Rome.” He began, his voice carrying through the hall like the roll of thunder. “Our recent victory over Greece was a success. The fools didn’t see through our plans during our times of alliance with them. And because of that, we had our perfect opportunity to devise our revenge against them. And now, we have come out victorious thanks to our beloved General Acacius.”

Marcus, though silent, could feel the weight of the words settle in the pit of his stomach. An alliance with Greece? He had been a part of that conquest, had witnessed the fall of the Greek resistance, but something didn’t feel right upon knowing that Rome and Greece once had an alliance before he led the war against them. Why wasn’t he made aware of this?

Just as he opened his mouth to voice his concerns, Geta raised his hand, signaling for silence. His voice was quiet, almost soothing compared to his brother’s.

“The alliance was, indeed, a symbol of strength and prosperity for Rome.” Geta said, “But there were... complications we must address. It seems that Greece, despite the appearance of peace, still harbors those who wish to undermine our authority. The idea of a peaceful future with them was... flawed. So we decided what needs to be done.”

The room tensed at his words, but it was not the words themselves that caused Marcus to freeze in place. It was the shift in the air, the realization that the peace spoken of was nothing more than a deception..

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to the gathered officers, and his voice grew colder, more commanding. “Rome will never be a weak empire. We will not allow Greece to escape the consequences of their actions. We have made a pact with them, until the time for peace is over.” He smiled darkly. “We have declared war on them. Not because we must, but because we can.”

The words were like a thunderclap in Marcus's mind. He felt the ground beneath him shift, as though the earth itself had split in two. The shock that followed left him numb. Betrayal. It was not the Greeks who had broken their word, it was Rome.

“I am not sure I understand, my Emperor.” Marcus said, his voice betraying the confusion that churned within him. “We were allies with Greece. The alliance was forged to ensure peace, was it not? Surely…”

“Surely?” Caracalla interrupted, his smile twisting. “Do you not understand, Marcus? Power is not to be shared. We, Rome, cannot allow another empire to rise higher and shine brighter than ours. The Greeks were weak and blind, but they are proud, and that pride makes them dangerous.”

Marcus’s mind reeled. He had been the instrument of their destruction, the force that crushed their armies, and now he understood. It was never about peace. It was about control. The so-called alliance of peace was simply a tool to lure Greece into a false sense of security, so that they could strike. It was never about honor. It was about dominance.

“Are you telling me that all of this was a lie?” Marcus asked, the weight of the truth settling over him like a suffocating blanket. “That the alliance was nothing more than a ploy to deceive Greece into lowering their guard?”

Geta’s eyes narrowed. “It was a necessary deception.” He replied. “Your task was simple, Marcus, to win the war for Rome. The rest is beyond your concern. We finished what was started, and Rome will remain supreme.”

Marcus stood still, his chest tightening with the unbearable truth. He had been the one to end the war, the one to force Greece to its knees, and now he saw it for what it was: a grand scheme. They had never intended to honor their word. It was always a game, a twisted game where the lives of thousands were simply pawns on a board.

But in that moment, something deep within Marcus shifted. A cold, simmering fury began to rise within him, tempered by a gnawing sense of guilt. He had been used, but worse, he had participated in the destruction of a people who had done nothing to deserve this.

In the midst of the Emperors’ plotting and the conversation that followed, Marcus’s mind wandered back to Y/N. Her defiant eyes, her proud posture despite her circumstances, it was as if she knew, deep down, that the war had been a lie all along. That the Romans had never come to liberate, but to conquer. And in that, perhaps she had seen through the facade long before he had.

As the meeting drew to a close, Marcus left with a growing sense of disillusionment. The promise of Rome’s strength and prosperity felt hollow in his chest. The empire he had sworn to serve was no different than the villains he had fought against.

It was a painful realization, one that twisted the very foundation of his beliefs. The man who had fought for peace now found himself tangled in a web of lies.

And as the Emperor Twins reveled in their power, Marcus Acacius stood on the precipice of his own understanding, he was no longer certain where his loyalty lay.

-----

The days in Marcus Acacius’ villa were slow, stretching like the long shadows of a fading sun. Y/N had grown used to the monotonous rhythm of servitude, the quiet indignities, the whispered snickers of other servants, the weight of a life reduced to menial tasks. She had expected cruelty from her Roman captor, expected to be treated as nothing more than a disposable relic and reminder of the people the general had conquered.

But what she had not expected… was kindness.

It started subtly.

The harsh orders ceased. No longer was she forced to scrub floors until her fingers bled or serve the Roman general in humiliating silence. Her tasks became lighter, her burdens lessened.

Then came the offerings.

A warm cloak placed over her shoulders on a particularly cold morning. A fresh loaf of bread left on the table when he knew she hadn’t eaten. A goblet of wine pushed toward her at supper, his dark eyes watching, waiting.

Y/N ignored it all. She refused to accept his feigned kindness, refused to acknowledge whatever twisted sense of guilt had taken root in his mind.

She was no damsel in distress.

And she certainly did not need Marcus Acacius, her enemy, her captor, to start playing the role of her reluctant savior.

On the fourth day of his strange, unspoken shift in behavior, Y/N had finally had enough.

She stormed into the atrium of the villa, where Marcus stood in quiet contemplation, staring out into the courtyard. His dark hair was disheveled, his tunic unadorned, the regal formality of Rome momentarily shed. He did not turn when she approached, though he undoubtedly heard her.

Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, her lavender dress swaying as she came to a halt beside him. “You need to stop.”

Only then did Marcus shift his gaze to her. His brow furrowed slightly. “Stop what?”

“This.” She gestured between them, frustration flaring in her eyes. “The kindness. The leniency. The…” She exhaled sharply. “...the pity.”

His expression remained unreadable. “You mistake my actions for pity.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’ve treated me like an insignificant speck of dust ever since you dragged me to Rome. And now, suddenly, you’re giving me warm cloaks and extra food? What am I supposed to think?”

Marcus studied her for a long moment.

Finally, he spoke. “Perhaps I was wrong to treat you as nothing.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, just barely, just for a second. But she quickly masked it with another scoff. “A little late for that realization, don’t you think?”

Marcus turned to fully face her now. “I will not ask for your forgiveness, nor will I insult you again by pretending that you deserve it.” He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “But I will not treat you as if you are less than what you are anymore.”

She hated the way his words stirred something unfamiliar in her chest, something she quickly smothered beneath her fury.

“I do not need your guilt, Marcus Acacius.” She said, voice sharp as a blade. “I do not need your atonement. I am not some tragic, delicate flower you must tend to.”

His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smirk. “No.” He agreed. “You are not.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his easy agreement. She had expected him to refute her, to insist upon his newfound chivalry. But no, Marcus Acacius was not a man prone to embellishment.

“I am simply attempting to make amends.” The general said.

She let out a humorless laugh. “Amends?” Her eyes gleamed with something fierce, something unbroken. “You cannot undo what has been done. You cannot undo Greece’s fall. You cannot undo…” Her voice faltered, for just a breath. “...what you took from me.”

The air between them grew heavy. Marcus did not look away.

“I know.” He murmured.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Y/N let out a sharp exhale, stepping back. “Just stop it.” She muttered, turning away from him. “I don’t need your kindness. It’s wasted on me.”

As she walked away, Marcus watched her retreating figure, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Because, despite her words…

He wasn’t so sure if he'd ever stop.

The days that followed their confrontation were strange, to say the least.

Y/N had expected Marcus Acacius to return to his usual self, stoic, commanding, the ever-dutiful general of Rome. But instead, he had become… irritatingly attentive.

He had not lessened her work, she was still a slave in his household after all but there was a shift in his demeanor, a softness in his approach that made her wary. He no longer barked orders at her like some barbarian. Instead, he asked if she was well. He offered her food from his own table instead of letting her eat with the other servants. He even, gods forbid, tried to make decent conversation.

Y/N, of course, was having none of it.

"Oh, so now you suddenly care about my well-being?" She remarked one evening, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorway of the grand dining hall.

Marcus, seated at his table, merely sighed. "I have always cared for your well-being, Y/N."

She scoffed. "Oh, yes, I can see that. How thoughtful of you to drag me from my home, chain me like an animal, and make me scrub the floors of your villa. Truly, a paragon of kindness, General."

He set down his goblet, leveling her with an exasperated stare. "I did not know the truth then."

"And now that you do, what? You think offering me grapes and wine will undo what you've done?" She sauntered closer, plucking a grape from his untouched plate and popping it into her mouth. "Hate to break it to you, General, but I am not so easily won over."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "No, I suppose not."

Y/N expected him to snap, to command her back to work. Instead, he just watched her, as if memorizing every quirk of her expression, every flicker of defiance in her eyes. It was unnerving.

And yet… she found herself playing into it.

If he was going to act the part of a repentant soldier, she would make him work for it.

The next morning, Marcus found himself on the receiving end of Y/N’s pettiness.

His prized war cloak, the one gifted to him by Emperor Caracalla himself, was now mysteriously missing. In its place, draped over his chair, was a ratty, threadbare shawl from the servants’ quarters.

"Where is my cloak?" He demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Y/N, passing by with a tray of fresh fruits, barely batted an eye. "Oh, you mean that garish red thing? Looked awfully dirty, so I threw it in the trash."

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to believe you suddenly care about the cleanliness of my wardrobe?"

She offered him a saccharine smile. "Of course, Dominus. It is my duty to serve, after all."

He exhaled sharply. "Y/N…"

But she was already walking away, humming a Greek melody under her breath.

Later that evening, as Marcus settled into his chambers, he discovered yet another one of Y/N’s little games.

His usual goblet of wine? Replaced with water.

His ceremonial sandals? Mysteriously swapped with a pair that were two sizes too small.

His bedding? Missing entirely.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples, as the realization dawned upon him, this was not a battle he could win with brute force.

Y/N L/N was a force unto herself, stubborn as a mule and twice as cunning. If he truly wished to atone, to earn her trust… he would have to fight a different kind of war.

A war of patience.

And gods help him, he had never fought a war this maddening.

[peachyjinx]

LYHOM: Ch 1: The Menace

Summary: Now that summer is coming to an end, Loki returns to campus in preparation for the new school year. Charlotte meets Professor Laufeyson for the first time. W/C 6k

Warnings: TW for anyone who's been in the weeds working in a restaurant 😂

Masterlist

Five Years Ago.

Loki stared out of the window of Stark tower as rain pelted and dripped down the sides of the glass building. Not twenty four hours ago, his silhouette had dominated the skyline, a commander before his chitauri legion, every muscle coiled with purpose and determination. Determination to make Thor suffer. Determination to conquer and rule. This planet was to be his kingdom. Now it would be his prison.

Yes, his fate could’ve been worse, but that didn’t stop the dread inside. The resentment that had simmered about Thor, that unshakable conviction of superiority over the mortals of Earth, now seemed like the remnants of a dream. His mind drifted in a haze of internal conflict, the sharp edges dulled by shame and the sting of powerlessness. The magic that had been an extension of his very essence was now gone; it left him exposed, raw in a way that pained him more than his physical wounds.

Loki could feel the cold emanating from Thor’s posture in the chair across from him. His brother’s presence was like a statue- immovable, severe- a stark contrast to the warmth that usually radiated from the God of Thunder. Not that it wasn’t warranted– Loki had just yesterday killed a dear friend of Thor’s and the Avengers, plus countless other civilians. 

“The Avengers and SHIELD want you to stay on the Eastern seaboard, so that they can easily keep an eye on you,” Thor’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and cool.

“Great, I’m homeless on this godforsaken planet and I will be under surveillance by those who could never understand our ways,” Loki muttered to himself in a bitter tone, sighing as his eyes focused on nothing in the grey skies out the window. 

“You know that Father was lenient. It’s only because of Mother that you were given this sentence, and not death,” he said, his tone more patronizing than Loki had ever heard it.

“And what of Thanos? Odin said nothing to the truths I laid out for him!,” Loki spat.

“Father will do what needs to be done. But you cannot deny your place in this scheme. What you have done. The lives you have taken in vain!,” Thor’s voice raised, echoing in the modern room. 

Loki didn’t respond, he was done discussing this again with his family. Instead, he sat with the weight of the situation he had found himself in. That he had put himself in. He could almost taste the tang of his own pride as it fought against this imposed humility.

Thor shifted in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his large build. He remained silent, the lines of his face taut with unresolved tension. The space between them was filled with the weight of yesterday’s tragedy, the lives lost lingering like specters in the air.

“Now we just have to find out what kind of Earth job suits you, and that Father would approve of,” he began, his voice echoing Odin’s edicts. “‘You must put in the work, help the Midgardians. And prove to them that we are not savages who have no regard for life on other realms.’”

The words hung between them, a gauntlet thrown at Loki’s feet. To labor among these mortals, to be judged by their standards and confined within their borders– this was his penance. 

“How could you make amends to the people of Midgard? Through the arts? Hmm…an actor? You are dramatic and love to lie. You could probably make a fortune doing that if you wanted,” his voice dripped with irritation as his eyes bore into Loki.

Loki let out an almost inaudible snort and rolled his eyes while he continued to try to ignore Thor’s anger. He had thought the lowest point in his life was his falling from the rainbow bridge. But this was more public– a loss for all of Earth to witness. The humans saw him as a monster, a being woven from darkness and chaos here to destroy their world- just as the Frost Giants of his bedtime stories. Maybe the accusations of his heritage were right. 

And yet, Thor was still helping him. A small pang of guilt surfaced– remorse for the lives lost, dreams shattered. Yes, they were mere mortals, but he had seen their courage, their capacity for love and sacrifice. In his heart, he knew what he had done was wrong. Even if there had been coercion, and magical forces, he had still committed atrocities. 

“Perhaps there is some way to channel this penchant for knowledge you possess. You do love to read books…what about a librarian?,” Thor suggested to Loki, his annoyance growing at Loki’s refusal to participate. 

Loki’s gaze snapped back to Thor, a flicker of irritation crossing his features, agitating the cuts on his face that mirrored his injured ego. “A librarian?,” he echoed, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. “You suggest I spend my days shuffling parchments and hushing children?”.

“An annoyance, I know,” Thor replied, the corners of his mouth threatening to curl into a smile. “But it would be an environment suited to your talents. And it may serve as penance of sorts.”

 “And how exactly will that ‘improve our relations with the people of Earth’?” he drawled, the imitation of Odin so spot-on it bordered on mockery.

Thor’s patience, hanging by a thread, finally snapped. He stood abruptly, the chair beneath him screeching in protest against the polished floor. Loki felt himself jump slightly, surprised at Thor’s sudden movement.

“Loki, you best try harder,” Thor barked, his tone sharp. “As I’m doing all of the work and I am sick of the sight of you. You need to help me find the answer so we can end this.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths and the shadow of deeds that could not be undone. Loki felt the sting of Thor’s words deeper than he cared to admit. He truly was in a dark place, and his brother was ready to be rid of him. The pang hit unexpectedly, a sharp twinge that resonated somewhere deep within him– a place he rarely dared to explore. It was more than the sting of humiliation; it was a profound sense of loss.

“Thor,” he began, voice softer than he intended, “I know my actions have caused you pain.” The admission cost him, his pride chafing against the humility of the words.

Thor’s eyes snapped to him, searching, perhaps for a glimmer of the brother he once knew. Loki held that gaze, offering a silent pledge to try– he couldn’t erase all he’d done, but he could do this for him– help Thor with this decision. 

“Let us consider this... fate,” Loki replied sullenly.

“Very well. A healer? Or a Doctor, as they’re called on Earth,” Thor suggested, his voice infused with a forced optimism that clashed with the tension that gripped the room.

“What, and work with humans when they are their most disgusting? No thank you,” Loki replied, folding his arms over his chest. Thor ignored Loki’s response, and walked over to a bookcase, running his thick fingers over the binds.

“I’ve got it! A teacher!,” he exclaimed, the words tumbling out like a revelation as he turned around to look at Loki, a proud smile starting to form on his lips. 

Loki’s eyes met Thor’s in a glare, “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, you’d be perfect! You could teach humans about Asgard!” His voice carried a note of excitement.

“And since you won’t have your magic, you’ll be relatively…harmless,” Thor’s brow furrowed as he drifted off in thought for a moment, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. 

“I do not think I am the person to be teaching children,” Loki commented dryly. 

“No, not children– they study as adults here, as well. Think about it– you’re fulfilling Father’s order to give back. And you’re so knowledgeable. Plus you could hold court and be the center of the room’s attention– you’d love that!,” a sad smile pulled at the corner of his mouth wistfully. 

With a heavy sigh, Loki turned his gaze back to the window, where droplets of rain raced each other down the pane. Loki thought about this proposal, it was the best idea Thor had had. Loki couldn’t be bothered thinking about taking a Midgardian job– they all seemed terrible. But maybe this was the best option. He didn’t want to spend an extra minute here in this tower, in this city. He needed out. 

“Great,” Loki muttered under his breath, “a pedagogue to these Midgardians.” He could already picture their puzzled faces as he unraveled the threads of ancient lore. Despite his frustration with his brother’s suggestion, a part of Loki couldn’t help but appreciate the poetic irony of it all. 

Thor, however, seemed deflated, the lines of frustration etched upon his brow as he slumped back onto his chair, “Well, brother, I have tried. I don’t know what else to do, other than having SHIELD pick a job for you. And you probably would not like whatever that would entail.”

“Okay,” Loki said quietly with resignation as he felt the metaphorical door click on his new jail cell. His voice carried the faintest trace of defeat- or was it acceptance?- as his reality narrowed to the confines of this Midgardian existence.

Loki didn’t need to turn to know Thor’s eyes were upon him, searching for signs of sincerity or perhaps the glimmer of rebellion. “Thank you,” Loki murmured, almost too soft to hear over the drumming rain. “For your... persistence.” His admission hung between them like a delicate truce.

“Of course,” Thor responded, his tone carrying a hint of surprise. “You are my brother.”

Loki nodded, wrestling with the discomfort of his own vulnerability as he continued to look into the rain clouds outside of the window. 

Now.

The slight breeze pulled the recently fallen leaves across the dark pavement of the parking lot with a skitter. It was a cool day for August– a promise of what was to come in the New England fall. Charlotte sighed contentedly as she looked at the apron thrown in a haphazard pile in her passenger seat. 

Today marked her third shift at The Mudd Puddle, the quaint coffee shop that had quickly taken a spot in her routine. Nestled near the heart of the university, it was a sanctuary for over-caffeinated students and sleep-deprived professors alike. 

Charlotte had arrived early for her shift and lingered in the sanctuary of her car. With the windows down, she let the sounds of distant chatter and the rustling of trees fill the space around her, a white noise backdrop to her wandering thoughts. For a few moments, her mind drifted to the recent months that had led up to her sitting in this car, in this parking lot, far away from home. All of the studying, all of the hard work– it brought her here, to this moment.

While she could’ve taken a gap year after she graduated with her bachelor’s, or entered the workplace, she had decided to start her masters program immediately. She’d be the youngest in the program, a fact that filled her with a mix of pride and trepidation. But this was her dream, crystallizing into reality at this very university. This anthropology program was one of the best in the country, and there was also an added bonus: Asgardian History and Culture with Professor Laufeyson.

In fact, his class was the reason she was here. Her mind danced through a montage of moments spent hunched over her laptop, replaying the few interviews Loki Laufeyson had given. His voice, filtered through speakers, had been a siren call to her hunger for knowledge. 

Before she had arrived, Charlotte had envisioned the upcoming lectures– the gateways to worlds very few humans knew about. Loki Laufeyson, the handsome former God of Mischief turned professor, would be her guide through the tapestries of alien traditions and ancient stories. The very thought sent shivers down her spine.

Everything she had idealized for the former god as her teacher had come crashing down when her new boss, Kate, told her about how he really was. The reality being: Professor Laufeyson was a dick. And he was a repeat customer at the place she had coincidentally gotten a job at. 

“So, you know “Professor” Laufeyson, right? The asshole who invaded New York and the Avengers had to stop?,”  Kate had asked on Charlotte’s first day at The Mudd Puddle. Charlotte nodded, recalling how her heart skipped a beat at the mention of the name that had been echoing through her mind for months.

“Macchiatos are his thing, but he’s super particular,” Kate had continued, her brows knitting together in annoyance. “We called him the ‘macchiato menace’, and now he’s just the ‘menace’. He made one barista quit when he went off on her a couple of years ago.”

Charlotte remembered the shock that had bolted through her— the juxtaposition of her excitement over the lectures she yearned to attend and this unexpected revelation of his cruel nature.

“Really?” she had managed to say, trying to keep her voice light despite the unease coiling in her stomach. 

“Yeah, but don’t worry too much. Just...be precise with his drinks, okay?,” Kate nodded reassuringly. 

“Got it,” Charlotte had replied, more to herself than to Kate, not ready to tell her she would be in his class in a few weeks.

Now, sitting alone with the echo of that conversation playing in her mind, she refused to get worried over something that hadn’t happened yet. Who knows, maybe he would be nice to her? 

Charlotte was thankful that at the very least she had decent people to work with.  Her co-workers had been mostly friendly, and she had been enjoying the training with the owner of the shop, Kate. Kate was an amazing barista, and had even competed and won awards in her field. She was also a great boss, who was reasonable and level headed– something you didn’t always get in the restaurant industry. 

An alarm went off on her phone, signaling to her it was time to head into the coffee shop. With a smile on her face, Charlotte pulled her chestnut colored hair into a ponytail and grabbed her apron, making her way inside. As she entered the small cafe, she was surprised to see how busy it was as she pushed past the crowd. Kate greeted her with a relieved face, “Boy am I glad to see you! Che called off, so it’s just you and me until relief comes at noon!”.

“Alright, let’s do this!,” Charlotte replied, her tone cheerful and determined despite the rush. She tied her apron strings with nimble fingers and joined Kate, ready to tackle the wave of customers.

This shift had been particularly difficult, and nothing like her first weeks here. While Charlotte tackled the register, the crowd got busier and ruder. It was back to school season, and the bustling crowd had become impatient this morning. A forced smile had quickly plastered on her face as she treated each customer like they were her favorite just as Kate had taught her. An hour flew by in what felt like minutes. 

Charlotte’s fingers danced across the register keys with a deftness while the coffee shop buzzed, each customer’s voice stacking atop another in a cacophony of demands. The queue snaked out the door, a relentless stream feeding people into the cramped space. Yet, somewhere amidst the bustle, Charlotte managed a smile and found solace in the rhythm; take an order, give a muffin, smile, repeat.

“Hey, Char, can you grab another box of chai tea bags from the back?,” Kate’s voice cut through the commotion, her tattooed arms flexing as she steamed milk with precision. 

“Got it, Kate,” Charlotte replied, darting to the storage room and back with a nimbleness that surprised even her. She was learning, adapting, and the curveballs thrown by the crowd were no longer daunting.

“Thank you! Have a great day!,” she chimed to another satisfied customer. Today’s shift would not defeat her.

The atmosphere subtly shifted, like the hush that falls over an audience before the curtains rise. A tall figure materialized at the back of the line, his presence alone a silent command for attention. Whispers began to weave through the throng of people. Younger students craned their necks, some daring to giggle and point as they turned on their heels to catch a glimpse of the newcomer.

Charlotte’s breath caught as he began to move, the crowd parting with reluctant awe. He strode forward with an air of entitlement and grace, bypassing the waiting patrons. She felt herself stiffen, the surprise etching itself across her expressive features as  Professor Laufeyson approached, cutting through the line to stand before her.

“Excuse me! There’s a line!” someone called out, their protest feeble against his confident advance. The professor ignored it.

Charlotte found herself tempering her expectations about Professor Laufeyson as he stepped up towards the counter, towering over her in a finely tailored black suit and a placid look on his face. Should she tell him she’ll be seeing him next week? That she couldn’t wait to start his class? No, that’d be a weird thing to do. It’d be better to act like she doesn’t know who he is.

She couldn’t believe how handsome he was in real life. Like, stunningly so. She was not prepared for that. Sunlight from the window caught the angles of his face, casting light and shadow over the high plains of his cheekbones. His hair, the color of a raven’s wing, was pulled behind his ears; shorter than she’d seen it before. It suited him. The sexy curls of his hair framed his jawline, and danced above the lapel of his suit, which hugged his form with the precision only bespoke tailoring could afford. His appearance in the humdrum coffee shop seemed out of place. 

“Good morning,” her cheerful voice clung to the professionalism that had served her well throughout the morning rush.

Keep it together, she mentally chastised herself for the nervous flutter in her stomach. Her fingers betrayed her composure with a slight tremble, an involuntary reaction to the man who now demanded her attention.

“Good morning,” Professor Laufeyson gently smiled, his blue eyes nearly sparkling. 

“What can I get you?,” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“I’d like a macchiato, please,” he calmly requested, his eyes holding hers for a fraction longer than necessary.

She replied, “Sure thing!,” and put in his order, trying to focus on acting like this was no big deal. He paid in silence, his attention turning towards the crowd behind him with a smile. With the transaction complete, Professor Laufeyson acknowledged Charlotte with a nod and then turned and strolled towards the serving area where his order would soon appear.

That wasn’t so bad. He seemed to be in a good mood. 

Charlotte watched him go, admiring the confident set of his shoulders, the effortless way he navigated the bustling space. As he disappeared from her line of sight, Charlotte exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her pulse still raced, but she found solace in the small victory of having handled their interaction with outward poise. 

“Excuse me, hello?,” a voice jolted her back to the present, and she turned to face the new wave of customers.

“Good morning!,” Her self assuredness returned in full force as she greeted the fresh-faced group before her– a gaggle of freshmen flanked by their equally eager parents. They crowded around the counter, bright-eyed and buzzing.The order was very complicated, and she struggled to take everything right. Double shots, extra shots, no foams, the ticket for the 6 drinks was ridiculous. 

Charlotte’s hands hovered over the register, her fingers fumbling as she tried to focus on the screen in front of her. Her concentration was tested by the crowd’s discussion of Professor Laufeyson, who stood casually at the pickup counter,  reading his phone. 

“Isn’t that Thor’s brother?,” someone murmured, a ripple of excitement passing through the crowd.

“Looks way younger than I thought,” another voice joined in, edged with a mix of surprise and admiration.

“I can’t believe the school lets a terrorist teach a class,” an older man gruffly commented.

“Well, if the Avengers approved it, I’m sure it’s fine. He’s been teaching here for years, and nothing’s happened,” a father in the group contributed with self assured authority. 

Charlotte hit the wrong button, then another, and with a sigh, deleted the drink from the order for the third time. She could feel her cheeks flush warmly with a blend of embarrassment and frustration.

“Sorry,” she mumbled more to herself more than anyone else, re-entering the details yet again. She could feel the impatience growing in the line as she nodded thanks, looking towards the next in line.

The next order was also a group– more complicated requests, and it took Charlotte three tries to ring them up correctly. Doesn’t anyone just order regular coffee anymore??, she thought to herself. 

Kate, usually easy going, was now a portrait of strained patience, her arms moving in a blur as she crafted drinks as quickly as possible. “Damn it,” Kate exhaled, the sound barely audible over the grind of coffee beans and the hiss of steam wands. Charlotte glanced at the clock: thirty minutes before help was to arrive. 

They were officially in the weeds, and Charlotte was still new, so she didn’t know how to help Kate make the orders she had just taken. 

Three teenagers walked up, one of them with Instagram open and a picture of a coffee drink. She knew they were about to order some random concoction that had become viral. Just what she and Kate needed. 

Panic started to creep in, as the front door bell went off again, and Charlotte saw the line now going out the front door. She felt her chest tighten as she tried to concentrate on the customers, and ignore the eyerolls in the back of the line. 

“Can you add an extra shot to that latte?,” asked an annoyed man in a crumpled suit, phone wedged between shoulder and ear.

CRASH. Charlotte jumped as her head turned towards the sound of the calamity, and saw Kate had dropped a mug on the floor, sending porcelain shattering everywhere. The crowd quieted for a moment. Charlotte told the next couple in line to hold on a moment as she checked on the mess.

She took the brief moment to take a deep breath as she walked over to Kate. “Is there anything I can help you with?,” she asked hopefully, while Kate pulled blonde strands of hair behind her ear and reached for the broom and began to sweep up her mess. 

“Keep the line moving, Char. I’ve got this,” she reassured her. 

“Ummm excuse me- I ordered oat milk- this tastes like regular milk,” a young teenage boy no older than thirteen claimed with a condescending tone to Kate from the pick up counter.

Charlotte wanted to reach over the counter and smack him– she knew Kate wouldn’t have made a mistake like that. This morning was getting more intense by the minute, and the last thing she wanted to deal with was assholes. As the boy tapped his foot impatiently, a surge of protectiveness washed over Charlotte. Her cheerful facade wavered, the edges of her smile hardening into something less inviting.

“Oh, it’s oat milk,” Kate replied with a sickeningly sweet tone as she bent over and picked up the big shards on the floor, not looking at him.

“Shit!,” she muttered under her breath as she stood up to look at Charlotte. 

Charlotte saw the red seeping out of Kate’s finger, a cut from a piece of porcelain. Kate dumped the last of the mess into the trash, and shot Charlotte a “Can you fucking believe this??” look. She wrapped her cut finger in a paper towel.

“Can you just redo it? It tastes funny,” the teen replied to anyone who would listen, rolling his eyes. 

“Of course, dear, I just need to go clean myself up first,” Kate walked up to Charlotte, lowering her voice. 

“I’m going to tell the people at the register it’s going to be a few minutes, and try to calm them down before they start flipping their shit. Can you make that little asshole’s cappuccino? Oat milk,” she sarcastically saluted Charlotte. 

“Uh– yea, I can try,” Charlotte nodded, heading to the cappuccino machine.

Out of her periphery, she saw Professor Laufeyson walk up to the counter, standing next to the teenage boy. She shook her head, dreading what could possibly happen next. 

Charlotte completed the drink and delivered the coffee to the teen, “OAT. MILK.,” she enunciated, forcing a smile as much as she could, but she was sure appeared more like a sneer.

Then came the voice, deep and unamused, slicing through the coffee shop chatter like a blade, “This macchiato is not up to acceptable standards.”

Charlotte looked to her new teacher and saw a look of disapproval on his perfect face and tried to bring herself to smile at him, but she wasn’t sure if she was pulling it off. 

“Yea we’ll get to it in a minute, the line’s backed up, and–”, Charlotte tried to placate him while internally she felt like she might snap. This shift had been too much, and dealing with “The Menace” was the last thing she wanted. Her fascination with him from his arrival quickly vanished, and annoyance began to set in. 

“I do not have time. You will remake mine now, as I was here first.” His tone grew more stern, and his brows furrowed.

“Yes, sir, I get it, but we’re understaffed and I’m new. We’re trying.” She tried to hide her irritated tone unsuccessfully as she looked around at the chaos unfolding in the entryway. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, the frustration and embarrassment of not being able to do her job getting to her. She hated feeling like this. 

“Trying? Well that’s not good enough, is it?,” he shot back at her, setting his cup down on the counter with emphasis. 

If there was one thing that really bothered her, it was treating service workers like shit. Charlotte’s heart pounded a furious rhythm. His words were a slap to her pride, a dismissal of her efforts. She felt herself snap.

“Look- I don’t know how to make one,” she could feel her blood pressure rise with anger as her voice raised and she met his steely blue eyes with a glare, the professor’s haughty attitude getting under her skin. 

“Hey- are we going to get some help down here??,” a man at the register yelled down to Charlotte. She looked back over to see the line of customers looking mad, some throwing their arms up in the air.  

“You’re just going to have to wait, like everyone else,” Charlotte said to her professor, venom appearing in her tone more than she had planned as she gestured to the situation unraveling around them. 

“Excuse me?? Do you know who I am?,” Loki’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at the small woman, stepping closer. 

“Yes I do, and like I said, I literally don’t know how to make your damn drink, so you’re just going to have to wait!!,” her raised voice cutting through the air, sharp and reckless, as her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, a battle drum urging her on.

Professor Laufeyson’s face was a canvas of barely restrained fury, his eyes darkening like storm clouds over an ocean. His stature loomed, a tower of indignation. Charlotte could feel every eye upon them, and her chest tightened with a cocktail of rage and mortification as she tried to ignore it.

The look in his eyes grew meaner. “You’re incredibly disrespectful for someone who can’t even make a simple coffee at her coffee shop job!” Professor Laufeyson snapped, his voice now threatening. 

Is this the part where I'm supposed to cower? Fuck that!

The corners of her mind whispered defiance, but aloud, nothing came– only the sound of her own breath, ragged and quick.

“Heeyyyy….,” Kate’s melodious voice interrupted the tension between them as she quickly sidled up to Charlotte.

“Finally, someone competent. You will re-make my macchiato, and this time, you will be less heavy handed with the milk,” he demanded, his focus shifting to Kate. 

“Absolutely, Professor. I’ll get on that right now,” Kate’s hand gently pressed against Charlotte’s back, pushing her away from impending disaster.

“Girl, what are you doing? He’s not the one to mess with,” she whispered as she ushered Charlotte away from Laufeyson. 

Charlotte turned quickly, plastering on a sweet smile again for the irritated man at the register. She could feel her hand shaking as she rang him up, her mind racing about what had just transpired. Even though this customer was also an asshole, he only annoyed her. Professor Laufeyson’s attitude and entitlement genuinely made her want to fight. 

As her Professor, finally satisfied, left the cafe without a look in her direction, Charlotte knew one thing for certain: she was not looking forward to class with him next week. 

Loki, irritated about the incident at the coffee shop, loudly slammed the door to his office. The insolence. He shook his head as he thought about the young woman who dared to give him attitude. He couldn’t believe the audacity of such a simple human brashly arguing with him like that in the coffee shop he had been frequenting since he’d moved here. Loki huffed, trying to push her out of his mind as he sank into the large brown chesterfield couch in his office. 

He sat quietly for a moment, refocusing his attention on his surroundings. Naturally, he had been able to get himself the best office on campus. After thousands of years, humans were still easily manipulated into giving him what he wanted. His office was tucked away in the library building, where it was quiet. It was also huge, with large windows overlooking the south quad. Loki hated to admit that the view was gorgeous, and that he had started to get attached to this space. This had become his sanctuary when he was on campus. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as his head rested on the back of the couch. 

Five years down. They had been the longest in his life. And he still had no idea how much longer he’d be here. Twenty years? Fifty years? While the time should go quickly for the former god, the days were feeling longer, and a sense of restlessness had taken hold of him. 

He would’ve preferred jail to this. He could just sit and read. Instead, he was made to get a job. Like a peasant. Odin knew exactly what he was doing when he delivered this punishment.

On top of the mundane life that Loki now led, he felt bound up not being able to use his magic. It was as if someone had tied his arms behind his back– the feeling of the phantoms of magic tingling his fingertips, never to truly form. Yes, he still knew his spells. He still had the innate knowledge of a divine magic user– but Odin had stripped him of the ability to use it. It was as useless to him as it was to mortals. 

A new fear had begun to creep into the back of his mind over the past few months– that he would never have his magic returned. That he may remain mortal forever. That fear was the worst that plagued Loki, and he pushed it away to the farthest reaches of his mind, locked tight in a box he tried to ignore. 

His dreams of late had taken him to previous battles, or chaotic cosmic events where he was able to truly be himself. But the reality of his life now was that there was no excitement, no thrills that satisfied him. 

He had tried to fill this void when he first arrived by partying and fucking nearly half the city. Debauchery had been a great distraction, but that enthusiasm waned over time. Then he started joining dojos and trying to get accepted into local weapons clubs. He was quickly kicked out of all of them– mortal men do not like being shown up by a 1200 year old former god. And Loki wasn’t challenged, it was just too easy. He briefly missed Thor– he was a formidable opponent to spar with. 

Whenever Thor was on Earth, he would text Loki, reaching out to check in. Loki ignored those texts. It was bad enough that the Avengers would sometimes send someone to check in on him, showing up nonchalantly and disrupting his class. It was a reminder that he was in prison, and they were his jailors. Loki sneered a look of disgust thinking about their patronizing attitude. Everyone– Thor, the Avengers, SHIELD– was waiting to see him fuck up. Make one mistake, then he’s done. Odin would have no qualms with bringing Loki’s life to an unceremonious end. 

But Loki had stayed here this long, and one day, he’ll be out of here. He just needed to ignore this new, clawing feeling of agitation that had begun to grow in the last couple of months. 

Loki had also changed a small amount since he had been banished here, and he knew it. Softened. He had even begun to enjoy some of the student’s conversations last year. So maybe the growing feeling of unease was because he knew he was changing? Or was it the mischief– calling to him, urging him to cause disruption again? He had walked the straight and narrow for years…it was exhausting fighting against his own nature constantly. And boring. 

He hummed thoughtfully to himself as he relaxed in the warm yellow glow of the room, picking up the class roster and reviewing the list of names. Twenty five students, full class again. At least half of them would be gone by the end of the semester. They normally started off the year excited, asking him a bunch of inane questions in the beginning (this year he was going to start the first class with an FAQ to get those out of the way). 

But once they saw how rigorous the class was, and learned about Loki’s high standards, most dropped the class. Last year he was lucky to have a few very enthusiastic students who seemed genuinely interested in Asgard. It was often a mix of students who just wanted to brag about being there, those who were trying to fuck him (or trying to fuck Thor somehow), or lazy students who were taking the class because their parents made them. 

Loki stood and walked over to his record player, pulling out a favorite recording of Caprices of Paginini, and put it on, sighing. He stepped over to his large mahogany desk and opened his laptop for the first time since school had let out in May. 

He had spent the summer as he did every year on Midgard– exploring the far reaches of the planet. He figured that if he was stuck here, he may as well approach this realm with scholarly zeal. The planet had pleasantly surprised him in its range of biomes, cultures, sights, and foods. Somewhere along the line, Loki began to appreciate parts of living on Earth. He wouldn’t dare say it out loud, but there were some things he truly enjoyed that humans had produced. 

He spent a few minutes reviewing his emails, nothing of much importance that he had to respond to. They wanted him to do another speaker night, of course. That was a big donor night. And the librarian, Ms. Warren, who had a very obvious crush on him, informed him of the new literature they had stocked for the year. Nothing interesting there.

Loki unceremoniously closed the computer, bored with its contents. His thoughts drifted again to the young woman in the coffee shop, spitting attitude and disrespect towards him. He felt his irritation building back in his chest. She was a nobody, and she dared to speak to him like that. Why did it bother him so much?

Chapter 2

LYHOM Masterlist

LYHOM Playlists

Buy me a coffee 💚

[talonabraxas]

☩ Michael - Archangel of the First Ray ☩

Michael is the Archangel of the First Ray - the Ray of Protection, Faith and the Will of God. He is the Prince of the Archangels and the Angelic Hosts, the Defender of the Faith, the Angel of Deliverance.

Archangel Michael is head of the “Lord of Hosts” and fights with any manifestation of corrupt and negative energy.

He serves the interests of the Lord in this universe and does His work in the manner commanded by His honor.

His name means “ Nobody like God.” Archangel Michael is so transparent that He lets the Divine Light come through us, through which we discover God.

The divine complement of Michael - Archea Faith.

Archangel Michael is considered the greatest and most revered Angel in Jewish, Christian and Islamic traditions and Scriptures.

He comes to Earth when the intervention of the power of the Lord is required.

For over a thousand of years He is the keeper of the Russian lands. Orthodox people recognize in Him their protector from the dark forces. Many times Archangel Michael saved our Fatherland from the encroachment of the enemy. For example, the case mentioned in the "Volokolamsk Paterikon", when in 1239 the Tatar Khan Batu wanted to seize Veliky Novgorod. The Archangel forbade the Khan to attack the city. From that time on, on the military banners of the Russian soldiers could be found images of the Archangel of God's army. When in the city of Kiev, Batu had a chance to see a mural depicting Michael, the Khan noted that it was Him who forbade him to touch Novgorod.

In the spirit of the Holy Scriptures, some Church Fathers see Archangel Michael as a participant in other important events in the life of the people of God, where He is not called by name. For example, He is identified with the mysterious pillar of fire that marched in front of the Israelites during their escape from Egypt and destroyed the military hordes of Pharaoh at sea. He is also credited with defeating a huge Assyrian army, who besieged Jerusalem under the prophet Isaiah (see: Exod. 33, 9, 14, 26-28; 4 Kings. 19, 35).

Archangel Michael helps Joshua (one of Moses chief assistants and his successor) when the Israelites conquered the Promised Land (Josh. 5: 13-15).

Archangel Michael and His legions, dressed in powerful Blue Armor, with shields and swords of the Blue Flame, descend daily into the astral plan. There They cut free those who have passed from the screen of life and who are unable to rise to higher octaves of service and the Retreats of the Masters. Michael and His Angels of deliverance work twenty-four hours a day on these levels rescuing souls from the accumulation of their own human creations over the centuries. They have served there for many ages, and Michael says that He is determined to never give up until the last of the children of Light on this planet have risen to the God Source in the ritual of Ascension.

To assist in cutting the light bearers free from astral entanglements, Archangel Michael has a Sword of Blue Flame that has been fashioned from pure light substance. This Sword is God’s Sword. It has come from the Great Central Sun, a gift from the very Heart of God Himself, and has been passed to Him from the mighty Elohim Hercules. When this sword of Blue Flame blazes into a negative manifestation, nothing can stand against it.

Archangel Michael is a very special Angel to us. He, with His Legions of Light, has dedicated himself for thousands and thousands of years to the safety, security, protection and perfection of our souls; caring for us, sponsoring us, rebuking us, teaching us the way of God’s Holy Will, helping us to understand that there is a Divine plan for each of us.

God loves us so dearly that He lets us know about it in a very personal way - by sending His Angels.

In the 21st century, Beloved Archangel Michael came to humankind on Earth seven times through the Messenger of the Great White Brotherhood, Tatyana Nicholaevna Mickushina. He brought His Teaching on the feeling of selfless Faith and all-consuming Love!

In His first Message, “Your Love and Faith are the only things you need to implement your Divine plan “. Beloved Archangel Michael gave His Teaching, His guidance on how we can move towards God and fulfill our Divine plan. He explained that this is the first step in our progress on the Path to God:

“ I AM Michael, Archangel of the First Ray, which is the Ray of Faith. And I must tell you that your Faith is a pledge of your first step forward on your Path. You will not be given help from the heavens and you will not be able to make a step on your Path to God without your Faith.

Without your Faith in God, none of your actions in the physical plane will be able to succeed, they will be like a house built on sand.

It is your Faith that is your guiding star, and it will show you the way through the storms of life you will face while in the physical plane “.

Then Archangel Michael told us what the next step will be if our Faith is strong, and He came to confirm our Faith!

“… the success of your next step depends on the depth of your Faith.

If you trust in God and your Faith is unshakeable, you can ask for God’s guidance in your life. You will receive such guidance but its level will correspond to the strength of your Faith.

I AM Michael, Archangel! I have come to affirm your Faith and your devotion to God ”

He also indicated what needs to be done in order to get signs and confirmation of the correct choice.

“You ask for signs and guidance for you on your Path. You will be sent signs and guidance but not until you demonstrate your Faith and devotion to God and the Ascended Hosts.

You have to give up your human ego and show your obedience to the Will of God, and only after that will you be sent signs and confirmation of the correctness of your choice.

This is a Law, and neither you nor I can change it.

That is why all of you who are in embodiment now need Faith. Only if you have your Faith, will you be sent hope and guidance “.

Next, Saint Michael the Archangel explains what the manifestation of our Faith is:

“ ... In the physical plane your Faith will be manifested through Love. It is impossible to make a mere step in the right direction without Love, which penetrates through you and inspires you to act in the physical plane.

Initially, you begin to trust and soon you start feeling all-consuming Love, and this Love becomes the guide of your life and leads you through all your trials and tests.

Your Love and Faith are the only things you need to implement your Divine plan”

Archangel Michael warns against mistakes on the way:

“…If you need something else to realize your Divine plan, you should scrutinize your wishes and aspirations attentively. As a rule, these will be the very things you should get rid of initially.

If you need money, power, or any other things of the illusory world and believe that without them you will not be able to serve God, you are on the wrong path.

You will always have everything necessary to implement your Divine plan and to serve God and people, if Faith, Hope, and Love become your constant companions in life.

But Wisdom, the Divine Wisdom, will be the very attribute you acquire when you trust and love wholeheartedly.

God endows you with His Wisdom, and not only with it but with other gifts of the Holy Spirit that descend on you in response to your asking and even when you do not ask for them.

In your wholehearted service to God, your heart is enriched by qualities that in their turn draw to our world everything necessary to make your service more effective.

If you are on the right Path, the further you follow it, the more Divine features and perfection you will be endowed with ”.

At the conclusion of this Message, Archangel Michael assured us:

“... all the light-bearers, even if they are in the minority now, are protected unfailingly!

The odds are always in favor of those who are with God. And it has always been so.

Those changes on Earth that were to take place in due time in accordance with the plan of God were made not by numbers but by faith and devotion.

Therefore, do not be confused by this temporary predominance of the forces in the physical plane that you have become used to calling the forces of darkness. In reality their time has expired. No matter how violently they behave at the end of the day their power is nearing the end.

I and my legions are fully at your disposal. And if you appeal to us, we are ready to give you all the help that can be given according to your Faith… ”

In His Message of January 5, 2007, Saint Michael the Archangel gave the most important Teaching on replacing fear with Divine Love. He has come to put end to our fears!

“A large number of people feel fear. Fears are actually a scourge of your time. Fear exists where there is lack of Divine Love. And there is lack of Love everywhere in your world.

You cannot fight with your fears. The energy you will direct to that fight will only strengthen your fears. But you can dissolve your fears with a universal solvent, which is the Love of your hearts. Therefore, all that you need to do in the nearest future is to open your hearts to Love, Divine Love. And as your world is filled up with Divine Love, your fears will vanish like the mist clears away with the beginning of a new day ”.

Here, Archangel Michael says that the fear of death is the prevailing fear in our world. He explains:

“You are afraid of something that does not exist in nature. You are afraid of something you created by your imperfect consciousness. You are afraid of death, but death does not exist. Death exists only in your consciousness. There is only eternal life and eternal bliss in the Divine World. Death is, in fact, only the transition of your soul from one life form to another “.

Archangel Michael assures us: "... death does not exist ... all your fears are generated by your consciousness. When you let Love in your consciousness, it will dissolve all your fears including the fear of death ”.

In the Message “On protection against the lowest levels of the subtle plane ”, Saint Michael the Archangel speaks of the approach, and, therefore, of the influence of the astral layers on the inhabitants of Earth:

“I have come with my Legions of the Blue Flame of Protection. I have come to tell you that despite the whole complexity and unpredictability of the situation formed on Earth, we carry on our service and bear the responsibility for guarding everyone who turns to us for help and protection.

The Higher planes have cleared the unusual penetrations, and all of those who are unfriendly toward Earth’s evolution and do not want to cooperate with us, the Ascended Masters, are pressed close to Earth’s physical plane. Therefore, the influence of not the best layers of the subtle world on the inhabitants of Earth is increasing at this time ”.

Archangel Michael further explains:

“This stage of evolution is natural, and you will have to learn to live under conditions when the astral plane and the lowest layers of the mental plane are approaching.

While you are keeping your consciousness concentrated on the Divine world and experiencing a sense of invincibility, you have nothing to fear. Most inhabitants of the astral plane tremble at the fieriness of your chakras. You are a source of danger to them, and indeed, those of you who let the fire into your physical world can clear the astral plane with the fire of Kundalini or with the sword of Kundalini. An unconscious ascension of Kundalini energies neutralizes hordes of inhabitants of the astral plane ”.

He warns us:

“ You are invincible to the astral plane. However, if you allow imperfect states such as sadness, melancholy, fear, hatred, or hostility to enter your consciousness, then your vibrations get lower and you become vulnerable to the astral plane. Therefore, we come again and again and ask you to pay attention to the hygiene of your consciousness and to cleanse it from everything low-vibrational and everything incompatible with the Divine world.

Each of you is responsible for the state of your own consciousness ”.

Beloved Archangel Michael reminds us that when we seek help, we need to make Calls:

“ My Angels and I are always at your service, particularly at difficult moments of your life when you lose control over yourself and become vulnerable to the dark forces. You can always turn to us for help. Whole legions of my guardian angels are ready to give you help and protection 24 hours a day. Do not hesitate to ask us for help; it is our duty and obligation to help people. We cannot start fulfilling our duties until you call us; however, your call makes us respond and come to you to help in a difficult situation “.

The Message of Archangel Michael “ I am calling you into the future!” is a warning. It is a fiery Call, a guide to action, so that we can climb to the next level of consciousness, and, together with the Ascended Hosts, take responsibility for everything happening on our beloved planet :

“ Now and for the coming days, the time has come when we must focus our efforts on helping the planet. And this is my Message and my warning to you.

... you have reached the time when you have to share the responsibility for everything that happens on the planet along with the Ascended Hosts.

And this is the next level of consciousness to which you should rise.

... The time is coming when you should follow the direction that you get from your hearts.

... if you are honest with yourself, if you enter your heart and feel the vibrations of a more subtle plane, then you will undoubtedly hear the disturbing alarm that is ringing on planet Earth. And this alarm is a danger signal. It is an indicator of the trouble of the planet.

Much is at stake at this moment. Most human individuals are not ready for a change of consciousness. And volunteers are needed to demonstrate a new level of consciousness, the consciousness that is not tied to the physical or astral plane but is ready to cooperate with the Higher Worlds.

You all are interconnected in more subtle planes of being. And there is a necessity for a higher frequency of consciousness to resonate like a tuning fork in space, so that the souls of those people who are stuck in the illusion rise again and cast their glances toward Heaven.

I envy those of who are incarnated at this very difficult time because the future of the planet and of millions of souls who are caught in the illusion and do not see that daylight depends on your ability to keep your consciousness pure, Heavenward, and in accordance with the Higher Worlds.

Lead by example! Be brave, be enduring, and be inventive. Invent the ways that will carry millions of people to a new level of consciousness. Do sound on the top note. Do set the pattern!

I am calling you into the future!

I AM Archangel Michael! ”

Temple of Faith and Protection -

Retreat of the Archangel Michael and Faith

The Temple of Faith and Protection located in the etheric realm over Banff and Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies in Alberta, Canada.

Archangel Michael and Faith are the Hierarchs of this Retreat, the Home of Legions of Blue- Lightning Angels who come from all ends of the Universe to serve the planet Earth in its travail. Bands of Angels serving under the Archangels of the other six rays also gather here, where great conclaves of the angelic hosts are held under the sponsorship of Michael, the Prince of the Archangels.

The Temple is round, inlaid with gold, diamonds and sapphires. There are four entrances marking the twelve, three, six and nine o’clock lines of the focus, forming a square platform beneath the Temple.

Each entrance has a forty-foot golden door, approached by forty-nine steps. Blue sapphires adorn the golden doors and the golden dome in a radial pattern. Beautiful gardens, fountains and white marble benches surround the Temple.

The pyramid-shaped altar is made of white and blue diamonds; the color of the flame ranges from a deep sapphire blue to a pastel, almost white hue. The seats that surround the altar in concentric rings accommodate thousands of Angels. Two large balconies form circular rings inside the Temple. The flame in the center rises toward the golden dome, which is studded with blue sapphires on the outside and blue diamonds on the inside.

After the coming of the First Root Race to the planet, when the Archangels acted as Lords of the Rays until the time when they were appointed from among mankind, a Retreat was hewn out of the mountain, a physical focus to which all might come to renew their energies, their Faith in the Divine Plan for their lifestreams and their enthusiasm to serve the Will of God. After the descent of mankind’s consciousness into duality, the physical temple was destroyed, but the etheric focus lived on, as tangible as a physical temple ever was to those who travel there in their finer bodies.

When men departed from their original state of innocence and perfection, they lost their own innate protection.

Archangel Michael and Archea Faith invite unascended lifestreams to come to Their Retreat during their night sleep to strengthen their Faith and grasp of the power of God's Will.

Archangel Michael charges us with Faith so that we can fulfill our inner vows, our Divine mission. Each of us, before coming to incarnation, stood before the Karmic Board and promised to carry out his ministry.

The keynote of Archangel Michael is - “The Navy Hymn” by John Bacchus Dykes. The music of the “Bridal Chorus” from the opera” Lohengrin “- by Richard Wagner magnifies the radiation of the Archangels and the angelic hosts. Archangel Michael is the sponsor of police departments and other law enforcement agencies around the world.

[felassan]

I think these items are new recently from Sanshee :) [source]

Leliana plush

Leliana pin

The Iron Bull plush

The Iron Bull pin

Legion plush

Legion pin

Varren plush

Varren pins

Accompanying blurbs under cut due to length.

Leliana blurbs:

"Chantry Sister, Orlesian Bard, Inquisition Spymaster. Leliana has worn many hats (and even more hoods) over the years, and none deny her talent or charm, or would dare to. Now you can bring her home to guard your secrets with our official Dragon Age Leliana Collector’s Plush. Unless, of course, you have nugs hanging around, in which case she’ll probably spend all her time with them." --- "Effortlessly charming and ethereally graceful... Leliana is as much at home in a ball gown as she is her armor, and is a master at accessorizing both. Now she can help accessorize all your different fits, from the battlefield to the runway, with our official Dragon Age Leliana Collector’s Pin."

Iron Bull blurbs:

"“Also, it's 'THE Iron Bull.' I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I'm not even a person, just a mindless weapon, an implement of destruction... That really works for me.” The time has come! Everyone’s favorite eye-patch wearing, dragon-slaying, butt-kicking beefcake is here at last. Our official Dragon Age The Iron Bull Collector’s Plush is raring to come back to your place. There’s no better comrade to have at your back, in good times or bad, and now he’s travel-sized for your cuddling convenience. Grab a handful of those horns, hang on tight, and get ready for the ride of your life. And if you’d rather he hitch a ride on you, he also comes in pin form. - Dragon tooth not included." --- "So, you played Dragon Age: Inquisition and loved it, but you’re depressed, because all you really want is to get pinned by The Iron Bull. Believe us, we understand. Well, now you can turn that frown upside-down, because we’re delighted to present our official Dragon Age The Iron Bull Collector’s Pin. Never be without your one-eyed muscle mountain ever again. And if you’re looking for a bull with a softer touch, he also comes in a cute and cuddly plush form. Wait, what do you mean that’s not the kind of pinning you were thinking about? - Travel-sized"

Legion blurbs:

"Shepard-Commander, it has come to our attention that some of the crew find this platform, and Geth Units in general, to be intimidating Shepard-Commander. It has come to our attention that some of the crew find this platform, and Geth Units in general, to be intimidating. While all sentients must conquer their fears and preconceived notions on their own, assisting in overcoming their apprehension will improve team cohesion. We sought ideas from various crewmembers, and noted that Yeoman-Chambers has a collection of small, stuffed creatures that she claims help her when she is feeling anxious. After reaching consensus, we decided to fabricate a stuffed version of this platform to ease those who find us off-putting. We showed it to Yeoman-Chambers, who declared that it was “so cute” and “totally adorable” and that she would want a dozen more. We took this as confirmation of success and have begun production. We thought you would appreciate this one, and will bring more to the crew lounge for distribution once they are complete." --- The Geth value consensus. And one thing we agree with them on is fostering Geth-Organic cooperation. Now you can show your support for your favorite inorganic squadmate with our official Mass Effect Legion Collector’s Pin! - Flashlight"

Varren blurbs:

"A lovable varren to call your own. Ever since we met Urz (or as we prefer to think of him, Prince Grimrender of Gembat) on Tuchanka, we’ve wanted a lovable varren to call our own. Of course, most Krogan will tell you that most varren are better suited for target practice than snuggling. We refused to accept that, but so far, attempts to breed docile varren have proven… difficult. Until we’re able to unkink that particular knot, we’re delighted to introduce our Official Mass Effect Varren Plush. Now you can have all the snuggly goodness of your very own fishdog, without the crazy meat budget, or having to worry about chewed furniture or, you know, femurs.  - Scale itch not included" --- There are two things that anything from Tuchanka loves to do:  Fight and eat. That’s every bit as true about Varren as it is about Krogan. Luckily, our Official Mass Effect Fishdog Feast Pin Set comes complete with its own juicy steak, so no need to worry about them chewing on your lapels!  - Feed the dog"

[megsdoodletag]

@cardinalcanis YES HELLO THANK U strap in, ur getting both of them (they are a Pair, Not Sold Separately, Etc.)

Their names are Mercurius and Medea, and they're based on famous mothers! and i am putting this under a readmore for your own protection sorry in advance

We'll start with Medea since he's a straightforward adaptation of Euripides Emps probably should have seen coming. For those unfamiliar with one of my favorite plays, Medea is the wife of Jason of Argonaut fame, and they have two children. After Medea does a bunch of stuff for him (like helping him with that pesky golden fleece business) Jason leaves her to marry a princess, stating that the boys will have a better life if they come with him to be named his heirs, that Medea's wedding vows don't count as she is a foreigner, and also by the way she's being chased out of the city. Medea is so insulted, disrespected, and left without recourse she, even with the entire ensemble cast of the play attempting to talk her out of it, murders Jason's new princess and then also her own sons. She kills the boys with her own hands and then refuses to let Jason see the bodies, stating that, seeing as how Jason is so preoccupied with heirs and having a legacy, this was the only way she could hurt him in kind. It's an act she knows is terrible and she herself wrestles with her love for the children as she makes her decision, but the fact that, as a woman, she has no way of truly harming Jason's reputation in the way he's harmed her drives her to it. What makes Medea interesting to me, personally, is that, while unquestionably condemned by every mortal present on stage including herself, the boys' murder is framed as justified by the gods, because she gets to ride off in a golden chariot at the end of the play. Olympian gods play eye-for-an-eye rules and Medea has dealt herself in.

anyway. I'm sure you understand where this is going. Medea the primarch is one of the boys who does Not appreciate getting dragged into this Imperium of Man mess, but he is not one who hates his sons. He asks for certain concessions, largely regarding the rearing of his legion and cultural practices on compliance worlds, which are initially granted. The legion is perhaps literally the Emperor's Finest. They are efficient combatants but pride themselves largely on politics. Medea leaves marines on worlds he conquers, and they integrate into the populous as vaunted heroes and benevolent guardians, solidifying the compliance into permanency. Many of the higher-ranking marines are known by name by serfs and citizens, appearing as individuals in pop cultural creations and imperial propaganda alike, and many of those left on world have families and extensive communal networks. Medea's legion quickly receives new recruits to fill the absences after every compliance. His is a stable geneseed, and his rate of compliance never falters. Eventually, his is unquestionably the largest legion, rivaling even the eventual height of the Ultramarines, though it never appears this way because most of the vets are scattered, happily guarding their new home planets. Except to one who is paying attention to all the numbers. The Emperor orders Medea's legion to rendezvous with him. The entire legion. Any stationed marines are to take leave of their posts and return to Medea's command, just...for the time being. Ostensibly this is for a moment of recognition, a ceremony of honor to commemorate their incredible service. So incredible a service, it involves, in part, the Emperor joining them to personally direct the next leg of their crusade.

Realizing the emperor intends to command over him, use his precision tool as a sledgehammer, and otherwise does not intend to uphold the concessions initially granted to the legion in the process, Medea is left backed into a corner. Feeling as though something terrible will happen if he does not comply, he summons his scattered marines, and the massive fleet makes the trek to the rendezvous planet. The Emperor boards the flagship and finds the entire legion carefully, methodically executed, any geneseed and trainee of any level destroyed, and Medea alone, having single-handedly dismantled the pride of the Imperium over the course of the trip. Even if they spun it as an incident of primarch-gone-crazy, the total loss of what are essentially the early Imperium's posterboys is a bad look for Emps. Worse, he hesitates to destroy Medea and the primarch gets away, slipping into the warp. It's an embarrassment, and one best forgotten. Many of Medea's planets have to be re-conquered, as even with their minds wiped they fracture from the Imperium without the guidance of their beloved marines; not even the nicest legions seems to be able to fit themselves into the gaps Medea's veterans have left behind, to say nothing of those that draw unlucky and are met with unforgiving new overlords.

So. Mercurius is based on Hermione, from The Winter's Tale not [redacted], who's name is taken from Hermes/Mercury. Hermione is a queen whose jealous husband accuses her of infidelity, causing the death of her eldest son, the abandonment of her new (supposedly bastard) daughter, and her own death by broken heart. Despite all the drama, The Winter's Tale is, technically speaking, a comedy, (it's the one with the 'Exit. Pursued by bear' stage direction), and at the end of the story it's revealed that Hermione is not dead, but has been living in seclusion nearby, which she exits when the remorseful king has found and accepted his rejected daughter as his own.

Mercurius is a jovial fellow who likes to give gifts and make jokes. He grew up on a planet that had. well. absolutely nothing wrong with it actually. It's fine. He lived in a city called New^2 York and had access to the internet and regular therapy sessions. His mom sends him birthday cakes every year. Every conversation with his brothers feels like the 'that's rough buddy' exchange, but he's got a dual degree in liberal arts and psych so he generally makes it out ok. His geneseed isn't UNstable, but there's certainly something weird about it. Nobody can quite figure out what it is though, so they leave it alone; it certainly isn't smarts. His marines aren't exactly the sharpest crayons in the box. Instead, they mostly find work as communicators and messengers, running between legions.

Mercurius and Medea were close confidants, paired in an attempt to facilitate better standards in Mercurius' marines via proximity with Medea's perfect darlings, and when Medea's thing goes down, Mercurius has a hard time of it. He slept through his alarm that day and walks into the confrontation between E and Medea like

and is distracting enough that Medea gets out. He is accused of having known about Medea's intentions beforehand, though he insists if he had known he would have stopped his brother (true). Still seething, the emperor doesn't believe him and orders him stripped of his title. Mercurius' legions are separated and disseminated among the others, largely the Ultramarines, while his own presence is redacted from the records and memories of all in the imperium. Mercurius is sent out with a small remainder of his faction in a kind of deathwatch penance and, according to records destroyed as soon as Emps memorized their contents, he died during a warp-related incident, before the heresy.

My Totally 100% Ultramarine Successor Chapter They're Totally Blueberries I Promise, the Imperial Lares, have a high concentration of Merc's geneseed in circulation (they are not aware of this). They're terribly lucky, have mostly spent their time as a chapter chilling in a suspiciously quiet part of Ultima sector, and are generally just kind of. well. my friend started calling them The Emperor's Silliest for a reason. That's a whole nother discussion though please ask me about the Lares.

anyway that is the very long serious narrative version. Real talk, mercurius and medea are the comedy/tragedy twins. like in a narrative, genre-defining sense.

Medea, as Tragedy, basically cursed the imperium in its entirety but also mostly his dad, and is probably some kind of chaos god in his own right at this point. probably absolutely responsible for whatever kind of luck the lamenters have going on.

Mercurius is the fridged mom, the Comedy that's only allowed to shine because the Tragedy goes Too Far. he’s still not a great fighter, but he is good at saying what a down-on-his-luck space marine needs to hear. He appears as a blackshield deathwatch marine and is a sort of saint figure; things just end up ok if he’s around, in a kind of indirect way. Your reinforcements will make it on time. The cultist trips on a rock trying to shoot you. The guardsmen you’re camping with share their seasoned meat. things that are too small to be properly documented. nobody really knows where a lone blackshield marine goes when their missions are over. Nobody asks.

further notes:

-A lot of people think Medea is using warp equivalent jedi mind tricks to do the compliances the way he does. while he is most certainly a wytch, his strange ability to waltz into a place and declare imperial law without getting shot to hell is actually largely due to a quirk of his geneseed that involves the production of specific human-affecting pheremones. Whatever the opposite of transhuman dread is, that's what Medea's legion has. This is a part of why he leaves a few on every planet, and why those planets fall back into chaos so quickly after they leave

-Medea's legion was so good at peaceful compliance the marines had a culture of being proud of de-escalation, often boasted about limited combative deployments, and it was considered a status symbol to keep 'virgin' weapons - bolters that had never been fired, swords that had never seen blood, etc. They can definitely fight, don't misunderstand, they just pride themselves on not having to.

-Medea's thing going down the way it does provides the overarching plot for Juno's story; her returned uncles (largely Horus and Konrad) are now free of the spell that forces their minds not to think about their lost brothers and they immediately start digging. From their perspective, something just Went Wrong out there and Merc and Medea were never heard from again and dad immediately came home and handed off the reigns so he could retire. hello.

-like merc, medea is never directly responsible for any misfortune suffered by his proximity, it's mostly an aoe on such a narrative scale it usually can't be traced back directly to him, but he's also tucked a lot deeper into the warp than merc is and way more fucked up about things so. he probably could be directly responsible for things. if he wanted to be.

-medea and merc's situation is part of why horus is made warmaster (as opposed to emps continuing to handle things himself as a commander). He figured at least having the appearance of giving the boys autonomy would be better received.

-the psykic backlash from medea's sons' murder is responsible for an amount of warp entities, many of which go on to attach themselves to word bearers (it's very important to me that medea is not the cause of the heresy, because imperialistically inclined nation imploding badly under it's own weight is perfectly satisfying as is, but he's certainly not Not involved. the wb would have found other daemons to pact with but there is something about a selection of them being basically they're cousins. not that any of them are aware of this of course)

-merc is fully blind due to an accident during the scattering (the amount of ‘never saw it coming’ jokes is. not few.)

-merc is the one who taught tarik the bear joke.

-merc's faceclaim is Jared Padaleki but SPECIFICALLY season 1 sam winchester. bc that's exactly the vibe i want from him. ur estranged brother shows up and tells you u have to drop everything and jump in his junker of a car to go fight demons and ghosts and shit with shotguns full of salt and he's like we have to do this. we have to go live out of motels and stab people in alleys. to save the world. and ur like. dude i'm trying to get a 4 year degree. from like. college. like in real life. ????

-merc looks kind of intimidating in blackshield armor bc. well. it’s deathwatch blackshield armor. and he’s small for a primarch but that’s not saying a lot. and then he takes the helmet off and it’s like oh! friendly :))

-i think originally merc's deathwatch mission was to find and kill medea himself, but he decided he wasn't really feeling it tripped through a warp portal and got a little distracted. He wasn't lying, he would have tried to talk medea out of killing his own kids, but he isn't exactly a loyalist either. I think now he'd like to go find his brother and bring him back around, but again, he's not particularly competent and he keeps ending up involved in Various B-Plot Shenanigans so. that might take a bit.

-if they had ever fought, medea would not have killed mercurius. Like he wouldn’t have tried i mean. I’m not sure you can kill merc at all tbh, my man’s basically a loony toon, but i digress. medea held no ill will towards anyone except emps when he did his murder spree, and he definitely has no interest in trying to kill merc.

-following that: medea left all of the mortals (techpriests, serfs, guardsmen, etc.) alone when he killed his legion. His personal remembrancer actually followed him into the warp when he escaped, which is how there's unfinished art and shit of the event floating around on abandoned ghost ships for juno and pals to discover later

-are the Lares lucky because they're merc's, or because medea's grimdark shroud avoids them out of courtesy to his brother? who knows.

-ahriman is going to finally get into the good part of the black library and he's going to find merc reading calvin and hobbes strips with his feet on the coffee table and he's going to be so upset about it. (cegorach does get a kick out of the two of them, medea for giving emps what he deserved (he might have been involved with helping medea disappear after the incident, now that i think about it) and merc for just kind of existing as he is. merc thinks cegorach is a little mean, but because merc's kindness doesn't come from a place of pride, he generally isn't the target of whatever cegorach is pulling)

-recognizing either entity will drive the viewer insane because the spell (which is not a memory wipe per say, it's more like a blocker that won't let you linger on it, even if you are directly presented with knowledge of them) will try to erase the knowledge as fast as it appears. this is why neither of them have made a true reappearance. other than the fact that medea is sulking harder than anyone has sulked before, and merc is in Genre Containment for Plot Reasons.

-juno would not go insane if she saw either of them bc the spell malcador cast did not account for xenos primarch hybrids, so she’s fine, actually.

if u made it down this far ty!! hope u enjoy my guys, feel free to ask more about them. or juno's verse in general. I Just Think They're Neat etc. also if anything contradicts canon directly somewhere. it's my canon now it's literally fine. james workshop said so himself.

[orion-nottson]

tfa megatron: he will return glory to the decepticons. for too long his people have been oppressed and silenced by the autobot authority. the great war was a travesty against him, his ancestors, and decepticons far and wide. he will command a great and powerful army, will carry on his legacy for generations to follow. things were better in the old days, when those autobots were kept tempered and contained. their beliefs were a threat to the sanctity of cybertron and look what's followed in their wake: strife, turbulence, unrest, war. this would not have happened when absolute power and control reigned supreme. not under the decepticon lords of old. he will graciously be that authority. he will command with divine humility and righteous fortitude. it is his bloodright. his destiny. he is legion. this is his sword. bow.

tfp megatron: he was a gladiator THIS IS YOUR MAKING PRIME some pawn trapped in violent entertainment by those who mocked and paid for him to fight more LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME no agency, no autonomy, no self-determination LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE not anymore. not ever again LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE he rose up and took his power back from them LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE he took more too, took what he deserved, carved out from the downtrodden an army I WAS NOT NOT MADE TO BE THIS WAY he is a leader YOU DID THIS TO ME he is a lord ALL THIS RAGE IS MINE ALL THIS HATE IS MINE his downfall began without his knowledge, snuck up on him before he was created I AM ALL ENDINGS ALL BEGINNINGS ETERNAL FIRE CONSUME DESTROY CONQUER the dark energon was a mistake.

bayverse megatron: he's already reconciled with the idea of destroying yet another world, so he knows he's cruel. he is unapologetic. he isn't bothered by playing the role of monster anymore. knows he's a tyrant. knows he's a warlord. will play those roles too. earth is the unmaker's form incarnate, and all the pitiful organic life upon it is the spawn of the dark god, manifestations of unicron's infection and evil. he is doing the universe a favor. why should he feel remorse? it isn't true life he's taking, only eliminating a cancer. prime won't see this. prime is blinded by weakness and naïveté. his brother has always been this way. he isn't. he's seen the truth. he'll do it gladly. no one will stand in his way. not the humans, not the autobots, not even optimus... oh. seems prime is finally opening his optics.

[howtofightwrite]

So happy you're back after all this time! I have a question, do you happen to know how people fought in ancient rome? Particularly gladiators and soldiers? Sorry if this isn't the blog for this question tho!

I think we've covered both of these questions independently over the years.

Gladiators were a performance sport. It was more about glorifying the Roman Empire and its victories, than a conventional fight. As a result, most Gladiators were armed with specific variant, “loadouts,” designed to cosplay as various enemies that The Empire had conquered, and they only fought against specific countering variants. Specifically, the variants would be matched in such a way that it would be difficult for either combatant to have a decisive advantage over the other, with an eye towards creating situations that would result in a lot of visible injuries, without serious harm to either participant.

In case it needs to be said, gladiators were a significant financial investment, and they weren't casually killed in the arena. The point was for visible injuries, and a bloody spectacle, not a slaughter. Sometimes someone would die, but having them die on the field wasn't the intention, and they generated a lot of money, and on the rare cases when they were killed, it was meant to be a climactic moment, not someone taking a blade to the gut and collapsing mid-fight.

Obviously, I'm barely scratching the surface here, because it gets a lot deeper, but the simple answer is that in the vast majority of cases, gladiators were armed with weapons that were designed to make seriously harming their foe difficult to impossible. Also, the gladiators were something that evolved and became more complicated over time. When they first started in the Republic, it was a much more stripped down structure with prisoners of war being given a sword and shield and forced to face off against one another.

As for the Roman Legions. I'm not sure I've ever seen a comprehensive description of their training techniques. The Testudo, (or Tortoise) is one of the more famous examples of their specific combat style. Legionaries would create a shield wall, and the soldiers behind the front line would raise their shields to cover the formation against attacks from above (usually arrow fire, or thrown spears.) While being able to strike with javelins. In practice, the formation had issues, including being vulnerable to siege fire, and mounted archers were able to easily flank the formation. It's a neat story, but the formation had serious limitations.

One thing we haven't talked about before (I think) was the Roman's use of biological warfare. During sieges, they would load (locally sourced, I assume) corpses onto catapults, and then launch them into the besieged city.

Beyond, the major thing about the Legions was the extremely disciplined and orderly combat formations, with a lot of attention paid to managing battlefield movement. It wasn't so much about exceptional individual performance, so much as their ability to operate as a unit. This isn't a particularly mind blowing concept today, but in an era when professional soldiers were the exception, or limited to the elite forces, it had slightly more impact.

Regarding the details of their training, I've never seen any of that come up. Now, granted, I've really tried to research that degree of Roman history. So, if you're asking, “how, exactly, did they swing the gladius?” I don't know, and I don't remember ever seeing anyone credibly claim they had that insight. As far as I know, the only surviving Roman training manual was De Re Militari, (there's around 200 surviving Latin copies) which is far more concerned with overall strategic planning and command. If you're trying to write Roman era military fiction, it's probably worth reading. So, I'm not sure this is exactly what you were looking for, but I do hope it helps.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

[belit0]

A King’s Frustration

Indra had commanded legions, conquered realms, bent the most formidable of creatures to his will with a whisper. Mortals? They were nothing—fleeting, fragile, forgettable. Yet here he stood, watching her, watching (Y/N), and she was none of those things.

She was resistant.

She was defiant.

She was unmoved.

The grandiosity of his realm, the intoxicating allure of power, the promise of pleasures beyond human comprehension—she had rejected it all. His patience, endless as it was, coiled tight within him, restrained but dangerous, its fraying edges betraying the rarest of emotions: frustration.

So be it. If the shadows and wonders of his dominion would not sway her, if the whispers in her dreams failed to seep into her soul, then he would descend. He would adapt.

And so he did.

The evening was warm, the air thick with the scent of summer rain, distant thunder rumbling in the heavens. (Y/N) walked the dimly lit streets, seeking solitude, an escape from the weight pressing against her chest. The contract. The demons. The constant, suffocating sensation of being watched.

She turned a corner, and there he was.

Indra.

Not the spectral vision that haunted her dreams. Not the omnipotent ruler of the underworld cloaked in fire and shadow. No—tonight, he was simply a man.

Dressed in black, the silk of his shirt catching the low glow of the streetlights, the collar undone just enough to hint at the sharp lines of his collarbones. His long, brown hair, usually flowing with the weight of some unseen ethereal force, was now tousled, carelessly perfect. He looked—human. Deceptively so.

(Y/N) stopped. Her fingers curled into her palms. This was different.

-Indra.- She spoke his name carefully, testing, searching.

His lips curved—not into his usual knowing smirk, but something subtler, smoother. He stepped closer, the space between them thinning with agonizing ease.

-(Y/N).- His voice was a velvet murmur, deep and unwavering.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

He did not need to try. That was the cruelest part of it all—Indra did not need to lower himself to something so mundane. But he had, and he was good at it. Too good.

-You’ve been avoiding me,- he said.

-I wonder why- she shot back.

His grin widened, slow and deliberate, like a predator indulging in the thrill of the hunt.

-You wound me- he said, placing a hand over his heart in mock despair, though his red eyes gleamed with something far more wicked.

(Y/N) exhaled sharply, turning away. She didn’t have the patience for his games.

But she barely managed a step before his fingers grazed her wrist—soft, fleeting, a ghost of a touch.

She froze.

Not because of the contact itself—no, it was the restraint.

Indra, the King of the Underworld, whose very presence commanded submission, whose power could crumble mountains and shatter minds, had just touched her like a lover would. Not a king. Not a god. Not a force beyond comprehension.

Just a man.

A calculated move. A different approach. A tactic.

She turned, pulling her wrist from his grip, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes.

-This won’t work,- she said.

-Won’t it?- His voice was silk, confident, utterly unshaken.

And damn it—he had a point. Because she had not walked away.

Indra took another step closer, his presence seeping into her space like the creeping tide, inescapable, inevitable.

-I tire of theatrics, (Y/N),- he murmured, his tone carrying the weight of something ancient, something dangerous. -If you will not be swayed by power, nor gifts, nor the wonders of eternity… then tell me—

His hand lifted, knuckles barely grazing her cheek.

-What will move you?-

His touch was not rough, nor cold. It was precise. Every motion, every word, meticulously crafted, tailored to her reactions. This was a game of patience, of strategy. He had conquered empires—he could conquer her.

And yet—she saw it.

The faintest flicker in his gaze. The almost imperceptible tension in his jaw. The realization that, despite his boundless power, despite all his knowledge, he did not know the answer.

She had done something no one else had.

She had left him wanting.

And that—that was power.

(Y/N)’s lips parted, a breath escaping, but she refused to be the one to break the silence.

Indra exhaled through his nose, a quiet, knowing sound. A silent acknowledgment.

Then, as effortlessly as he had appeared, he stepped back.

The air between them felt heavier, charged with something neither of them spoke of, something simmering, unresolved.

-I will find it,- he finally said. -The answer.-

His voice, still smooth, still measured, carried something beneath its silk exterior—determination.

He turned, walking away into the night, vanishing into the shadows.

[snapmite1998]

So, in terms of video games, Destiny and Destiny 2 have been a huge part of my life and something I’ve looked forward to playing after school, work, or to escape reality. With the current season, Hersey Act I in books, I wanted to write a quick one shot inspired by the lore of the seasonal grenade launcher which introduces a Cabal character of the Skyburners. So I decided to write a quick one shot about this character.

The Last Skyburner

The campaign was a suicide mission from the start.

Olgurn knew this. His friends knew this. The entire legion knew this. But the word of a Primus is law. Therefore, when the late Primus Ta‘aun ordered that the Dantalion Exodus VI crash into the Hive Dreadnaught so that the Skyburners could conduct a campaign against Oryx, there would be no objections, arguments, nor desertion.

The campaign had ended in catastrophe.

Primus Ta'aun had been taken, the Bond Brother Valus' Mau'ual and Tlu'urn, and Tau'ugh had been killed by the Guardians. After their commanders were killed, the legion had suffered from loss of attrition: troop numbers, munitions, rations, and anything to help them to continue their doomed campaign.

Olgurn, now the last Skyburner, finds himself in a chamber he has secured calls his home. At the entrance is the standard of the Skyburners. There are Hive corpses at the entrance of his chamber, the severed heads of Knights and Wizards mounted on pikes.

Finding a brief moment of respite, Olgurn knows that he doesn't have the luxury of giving up. He's a Skyburner, he swore an oath, and he will uphold it to his last breath. As he feasts on Hive worms after roasting them over a makeshift fire, Olgurn knows that the Dreadnaught is his responsibility.

There will be no reinforcements to aid him.

He wonders what has become of the Cabal homeworld and his people as a whole. Do they continue to expand their conquests? Or have they been conquered themselves?

These are questions Olgurn wishes to know, but will most likely die before he can find out.

Either way, he will not die in cowardice. He will die as a warrior, on his feet, for the glory of the Cabal Empire.

And despite the dire odds he finds himself in, he will fulfill his duty and keep his oath until the end.

[farsight-the-char]

++ ALAMUT ++

Art by Artem Demura

"They call him Shaykh-al-Hashishim. He is their Elder, and upon his command all of the men of the mountain come out or go in ... they are believers of the word of their elder and everyone everywhere fears them, because they even kill kings."

Alamut, the unconquered, also known as Eagle's Nest, is the chief stronghold of the Nizari Isma'ili sect, who still hold sway over their ancient lands near Baḥr Khazar, the body of water the Franks call the Caspian Sea as it has for over 800 years. This mountain fortress houses the dreaded Order of Assassins. No deadlier killers walk this world, raised from childhood in the lethal and esoteric arts that bend time and space in service of their mystic and lethal craft.

Many learned scholars of the Iron Sultanate’s ulema claim that Alamut was left outside of the Great Iron Wall as a mark of Allah’s disfavour for their heretical views on religion. The mystics of the Assassins sneer at this suggestion, and maintain that the Ever-Preserving knew his children at Alamut would need no such protection. Their own bravery would suffice.

Though largely closed to outsiders, there are times when the Old Man of the Mountain requires the services of outsiders or wishes to seek counsel from a sage of great wisdom in person. Such individuals awaken to find summons placed by their bedside delivered by unseen hands as they slumber. Summoned to the Capital of Daylam (as the Assassins call Alamut), few dare to refuse such an invitation. At the mouth of the valley, they are met by servants of the Order who blindfold them to ensure they cannot learn the hidden paths to the Home of the Eagles.

Such visitors tell of heavenly gardens, libraries that rival those of the House of Wisdom, and laboratories where philosophers, scientists, theologians, and sages of the Dervish Ismaili order debate a multitude of matters. Very few will speak of their audience with the Master of the Knives himself, the Old Man of the Mountain, for fear of insulting their dread host. Of those brave enough to reveal details of their encounter, some describe being greeted by a youth full of vigour, an athlete and warrior at the prime of his life wearing a shining white cloak. Others however describe an ancient man with a long silver beard, stern and whip-lean, dressed in black khilat adorned with tiraz in the colour of blood. Whether a result of a clever disguise or the mystic arts of the Ḥashshāshīyīn, no two descriptions of the countenance of the Lord of Alamut match each other. All accounts agree on one detail. A simple ring, bearing a seal engraved with the symbol of the holy king whom the Franks call Solomon the Wise, rests upon a chain around the neck of the Lord of Alamut. Rumours abound that this is the first and true seal given by Allah to the mighty king, Sulaimān ibn Dāwūd, giving him the power to command spirits such as shayati and djinn. It is speculated it is the power of the Seal that has kept Alamut safe all these years despite Hell’s forces holding the land surrounding Alamut and its hinterlands.

Whatever the truth of the matter, no Warband of the Court of the Seven-Headed Serpent has ever approached the citadel of Alamut. Beelzebub’s unclean Order of the Fly recoils from the Assassins’ hinterlands, and no outbreak of the Black Grail has ever been reported within their domain. It seems that Hell’s otherworldly powers are held at bay by some kind of protection capable of countering their Goetic magic.

Thus the mission to conquer Alamut has fallen upon the mortal followers of Jahannam. Abaddon, the great Prince of Wrath has promised a reward of eternal youth to any Heretic Warlord who captures the Eagle’s Nest. Despite the overwhelming numbers of the forces of the Heretic Legions, all who have attempted to take the fortress thus far have failed. Many attempts to invade are thwarted in their earliest moments as great Heretic lords die in their tents to Assassin’s daggers, or through poison in their meals. Others disappear without a trace, their painstakingly built alliances falling apart like chaff in the wind.

Scarcely a decade passes without Alamut being assaulted, for there is no lack of ambitious Heretic Warlords. But the Forces of Shaytan that have laid siege to its onyx walls have discovered that the fortress is all but invincible. The Alamut valley, known as the Shirkuh, is bordered to the East by the Alamkuh mountain range, The Throne of Solomon, and its entrance is a narrow one, shielded by cliffs and guarded by mystic standing stones. For much of the year, the raging waters of the river, Alamut, make this entrance inaccessible.

Flanked by the Iron Wall to the east and west, any forces approaching come under a barrage of long-range artillery from its garrison, who gleefully exact a heavy toll on any would-be invaders. In the skies above, the airspace is protected and patrolled by the Sultan’s flying ships of war, making aerial assaults impossible. Though no official document or declaration exists, the strategists of New Antioch widely believe that the Sultanate’s indirect protection of the Alamut is granted in exchange for the services of the Assassins.

Alamut’s natural and military defences are not its only safeguard. Heretic long-range artillery finds its shells striking the surrounding mountains, never the fortress itself, no matter how carefully the distances are measured or what dark prayers are offered to patron demons. Assault forces lose their way, even when guided by infernal compasses and maps. Time itself flows in strange fashion here, and invaders find that each step robs their youth and vitality, causing them to succumb to the infirmity of old age long before reaching the walls of Alamut. Their spent and withered bodies fall to join other unsuccessful invaders scattered across the lands of the Assassins as their souls succumb to their doom in flames. Even to behold the fortress is a trial, its stones vanishing against the sky, eluding the eye and confounding the mind.

Those who have tried to assault Alamut and have lived to tell the tale recall a powerful aura of forbidding menace surrounding the Home of the Eagles. Even the most devout and bloodthirsty Heretic general sworn to serve the Serpent Head of Wrath may think twice before challenging the Assassins.

And so Alamut endures, unconquered and unbowed.

[ttrpg-smash-pass-vs]

I don’t know much of anything about D&D lore, what are your issues with the MPMM hobgoblin description? Feel free to take this as an invitation to rant

It's basically just an erasure of what they've been for like 50 years for no apparent reason.

Hobgoblins have been in the game like 50 years, and while they've changed a bit here and there they've always been what they were originally designed as- War-loving leaders and commanders of goblinoid warbands. They've lived in a strict hyper-militaristic society, whipping rowdy groups of goblins into a legitimately terrifying threat. Everything about thier society was war, they're obsessed with order, and worked well when others were around because of constant military drills. In 5e they could even gain bonuses on rolls just from refusal to show weakness to anyone!

“They break before our shields, They fall beneath our blades;

Their home is ours to conquer, Their children our slaves.

Acheron! Acheron! Victory is ours!”

And the new lore is that they were super generous happy-go-lucky theater kids? And sure there are some that've been basically kidnapped or driven out and turned into warriors, but even then they're all about reciprocity and do well with others because they form deep ties with others. Like it still mentions that FR and Ebberon have legions, but that thier strength comes from that generosity still lingering and forming strong bonds of unity among thier ranks. Which is just...not how this has gone. They were always like this from sadism, taking glee in others' suffering. They were notoriously hot tempered and specifically found it DIFFICULT to be altruistic. And now thier defining trait is being about gift giving?

Like the goblin and Hobgoblin lore changes just added onto their established lore, just explained how and why they have thier quirks. But for some reason the hobgoblin got changed super hard. I've not got an issue with this backstory, there was just no reason to slap it onto the hobgoblin of all things. If they fled the fey realm because the "god of war and rulership" killed most of thier gods...but thier chief diety (who was spared) was already a god of "war and authority"...how did that change anything? How exactly were they already supposedly like this with a "war and authority" god at the helm?

[siamesephoenixrandomideatank]

Villain Archivists OCs Idea, inspired from Warhammer Chaos Gods (Pt.2)

Sequel of this, featuring 'The Big 4': https://www.tumblr.com/siamesephoenixrandomideatank/755359426730409984/villain-archivists-ocs-idea-inspired-from?source=share

Be'lakor Aligned: The Crowned Elder

I have enough observing and recording. Now, I am the creator, the ruler, and everything to these spawns of baryonic elements. They see me as their Goddess, for that's what I am to them, giving them birth as the species meant to conquer all known planes I studied, then the rest.

She is the oldest among the eight 'corrupted Archivists' and is the only one who has settled in a dimension as her permanent divine domain. It's a universe without suns, but illuminating nebulas barely giving faint light on nearby planets and a few remaining blackholes are dying. For her, those blackholes are gates to other realms those she can take her legions of dark matter. These creatures, Umbrums, take her as Goddess and their ascensions are depend on their application in conquering the remaining corners of the cosmos and other planes.

Vashtorr Aligned: Vice Arkifane

Prime Student of Vasshtor, I am.

Perfector of flawed datas and systems, I am.

Errors in cosmos coding, You are.

99.78% chance to debug your planet, There is.

If the Collector was about fun and games, work and perfection Vice Arkifane is. He abandoned his old name and sibling, taking only records and blueprints to correct or remake errors have become his obsession. He is not trapped in engine, he sacrifice his former body into an engine and his soul calculates the path to 'Anti-Flaws Equation'.

Horned Rat Aligned: Blightbuilder

I have recorded-written tales-stories of hundred civilizations and all are the same-same; decayed, starved, and rotten inside, when despair shone-shout the brightest. You're telling me-me my little sibling Collector knows-knows a mortal-flesh named Blight? Interesting-Noteworthy!

Blightbuilder was young yet stoic and calculative for their 'young age'(for Archivists' standards), only a few centuries older than the Collector. However, the Collector was childish for their age, and Blightbuilder was curious and scheming, which made them look mature. He once explored where supposed to be the Horned Rat's Domain(or Mallus, at Skavenblight) and influences of warpstone grows on them, literally and figuratively.

Hashut Aligned: The Soulsbinder

What's the use of wisdom without exploitation? What's the use of mastery without domination? What's the use of power without being feared? What's the use of might without subjugation?

Some believed the original Archivist body was no longer there inside the mountain-sized mecha goliath of fire, steel, marks, and daemonic essence. It does not see itself attached to gender, beauty, respect, or anything but being feared and its command obeyed. All shall be its slaves and serves it further, that's its whole deepest desire(as most know).

[phoeniciandoodles]

The Fragmentation of the Laer Chapter 2

The Phoenician sobbed truly lying awake his best attempts at comfort failed truly realizing how deep of a hole he’s actually in, getting more than a earful for his failure…how miserable the sight must be for any to see him so low.

Why couldn’t he convince Ferrus, where did he go wrong surely Ferrus could change his mind…no Ferrus wouldn’t he knew that apart of him clung to the idea how perfect they could be, if only that head strong Gorgon could see.

Fulgrim gulped down lacking any of the grace he usually had, it was a rare vintage from Terra he usually looked to see what it was flavour and year it was from but…it only served as a remind him of father. Sending a chill down his spine, if anyone’s wrath he feared more than Ferrus’s, it was their father. He got caught up in his thoughts he barely pulled back the curtain on what Horus asked of him to purge the loyalist elements of his legion.

He just wasn’t at all wanting to do it, the more he thought on it the more repulsed by considering he could…he shouldn’t he couldn’t …but what could he do, turn around and beg for forgiveness..not likely resulting in anything good.Fulgrim felt restricted turning himself in would be possibly and be spared the choice and not have his legion suffer for his shortcomings.

Why did he even do this !? It pricked and prodded at his mind, what made him think this was a logical decision or even a sensible one, to think they had a chance against father let alone purge his sons it’s…it simply must be stopped , before it happens…if he can’t go back and seek forgiveness in some shape perhaps let his sons live even if he’s gone for his actions.

The Phoenician had always preferred love to fear, it may sway and fade but it’s never truly gone, despite his fears now they would have to be conquer when he got there, for the love of his sons, his father , his brothers and the Gorgon. If the love of him is truly gone by many close to him he hopes from what he knows can at least prevent something horrible.

He pulled himself from his bed, he didn’t know how long had he been in this room ignoring most check in’s on him from Eidolon and Lucius after drinking quite a lot drinking after a meeting with Horus. His biology should hopefully have him steady, he’s seen Russ drink to levels he couldn’t even think to stomach, so vomiting should be avoided the constant headache not so much.

Picking up his data slate from his bedside table, just going to a very ornate mirror looking upon himself, his hair for the first time in a long time was a mess with him pulling at, what makeup he did wear to his meeting trickled down his face hours ago from his constant tears, for a moment Fulgrim looked directly at his reflection, he felt disgusted, he began to slowly comb his hair with a fine brush.

At first rather rough but overtime through just through the mumbles and mutters he did slower and softer. He had his hair back to perfection in no time, going to his own personal washroom to wipe and wash his face clean from the staining makeup. Quickly reapplying it once more, when he was finished …he smiled in the mirror a smile not genuine, he could barely feel a reason not to release his true emotions once more.

He couldn’t stand looking at his reflection shattering the washroom mirror, he utterly couldn’t stand himself truly…he was right he felt weak, Horus convinced him into thi-no he couldn’t blame Horus he made his choice, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t try to make it better despite it.

Fulgrim sighed the stress more palpable than ever, he would give his orders before leaving, but it would be safer if he solved his own problems by himself. Giving commands to avoid all other legions and especially not receive any calls of any kind from the sons of Horus to his inner circle. He had to talk to Ferrus before things go down, his sons might be spared of what was to come on istvaan lll but some of his brothers loyalist sons would not.