#icy fractal

[jetsandflowers]

context: I think he got hit too hard and it swapped his faces

[voidcallinghome]

[deepspacenova]

when winter meets spring

➻➻ ABOUT: zayne x gn!reader | 900 words

I needed some whimsy in my life so here's a little drabble in which Zayne is a winter sprite who falls for a springtime faerie. Inspired by the Spring and Flowers event and @mythblossoms who planted this idea into my head xx

The first time he saw you, the snow was melting. Clinging to the edges of the awakening soil, exhaling its final whisper of frost across roots and buds that were ready to bloom.

He was behind the trunk of a beech tree, half-veiled by the smattering of unfurling leaves as Winter took His final breath and Spring exhaled Her first. He wove some final threads of hoarfrost into the bark as his power dwindled with the change of the season.

There was nothing particularly noticeable about your form when he caught the flutter of your movement. Like any Spring faerie, the snow hissed where the warmth of your bare feet touched the earth, retreating in small rivulets of water. Undoing the work of his people with each step.

That is, until you caught the sun's eye too.

He could almost see the icy blues and greys of winter washing away as the rays painted your skin with deep pinks and reflective golds and soft greens.

And your movement. It was nothing like the frantic faerie buzz he'd previously caught glimpses of. Instead, you moved with a soft reverence, taking the time to listen to the soil's murmurings. Gently coaxing it back from slumber.

Zayne went still as the last of his magic threaded through the bark beneath him. The frost glimmered and faded almost instantly, surrendering to the sound of your voice with him as the air shifted and filled with the scent of damp earth and flower petals.

It was the first time in his existence that he breathed that scent in without fear.

That's when he should have vanished, retreated to the wind-scoured peaks where his people went each year. Winter Folk were not meant to see Spring Folk. It was an unspoken rule, reinforced by the divine and etched into the fractals of each snowflake.

But you were something bright. Something alive. Something warm. Everything he was not.

And you were staring back at him.

Your curious gaze caught his. And.. there was no trace of fear. Only curiosity. Perhaps you, too, weren’t meant to see him?

Still, neither of you looked away. And then, you smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time someone smiled at him without shivering.

“You’re still here.”

He didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. His throat, used for the howling of winter winds and the hush of snowfall, tightened against the unfamiliar warmth. Then, with a voice hoarse from disuse, he rasped, “I shouldn’t be.”

You stepped forward, and the world softened. Flowers opened behind you in your wake. Wildflowers, shy and colourful, bloomed where your skirt brushed the ground. "Who are you?"

He hesitated. Names were sacred to Astra. Identities, even more so. But he unfurled his palm, where a dusting of ice flecks still danced, and let them rise into the space between you. The frost shimmered until it morphed into a shape. A jasmine bloom, delicate and symmetrical. It hovered for a moment, glowing faintly. Then , he let it drift into your palm.

You stared at it with a mixture of wonder and understanding.

“I see,” you said softly.

In the second it took for your hand to close and re-open, the jasmine was brought to life, a flower with veins and petals. It started floating again and, before he realized what was happening, tucked itself into his hair without re-freezing.

And that's when he felt it: the pull, the beckon of the mountains. Winter's thaw was complete.

“I have to go,” he said, backing away a step. Hoping each word conveyed the depth of his regret. Already, the frost in his veins began to retreat.

His time was over.

Your expression faltered slightly, but changed to determination just as quickly when you extended an open palm toward his clenched one.

“Will I see you again?” you asked.

He wanted to say yes. But a sprite cannot lie, and an elusive promise was cruel.

Zayne stared at your outstretched hand, fingers painted in morning light and the hues of things he could never hold without destroying them.

“I don't know," he said quietly. "When I fade, I don’t remember."

Your brow furrowed, eyes scanning his face as it continued to disappear before you. “I’ll remind you,” you said simply.

The words struck something deep in him, something buried in permafrost and forgotten lifetimes. He reached out then, cold fingers grazing your palm. You didn’t recoil at the shock of cold. Instead, your hand folded gently around his.

When Zayne disappeared into the ether of winter, the jasmine in his hair was still alive.

And so it begins.

Every year, he waits for the last frost, silent and watchful. Every year, you arrive before the thaw, humming to the soil.

He never asks why you come early. You never ask why he lingers.

Because you both know what you have isn't meant to exist.

He is cold and silence and endings. You are warmth and laughter and beginnings.

But in that sliver of time each year between the melt and the bloom, the changing of seasons hesitates.

[divinit3a]

show me your teeth! -> (ao3 link)

reader x yeti!moon ❄️ word count: 1,312 You never were much of a survivalist sort. Without the help of the 'ice devil' before you, you'd long since be a popsicle left forgotten in the mountains. Vanessa was right; you never should've left town without her. But luck had it you found a different tour guide. Not without ample struggle first.

"Could you do that again?" You ask, watching as the yeti slowly and methodically maneuvers around. Each step he takes is calculated well before his metal paws touch the icy surface of the terrain.

Moon's back is turned to you. Wearing a long, draping cap that ombres from a pastel lilac to a mosaic of stars. A light gust of frigid wind rustles the pristine white fur of his coat wrappings.

A slight twitch of his glacial horns, readjusting in their slots on his faceplate, indicates that the lumbering giant is listening to you, despite his choice to stay silent. He bends at his knee joints, squatting to start pulling a fishing line out from the chunks of ice. Hunting for the hooks, the gleams of silver that could catch upon the wildlife in this area.

Further out, where the mouth of the cavern yawns open, is a watercolor splash sunset. The beginning signs that night is approaching. Floes break off the solid chunks of glacial ice, drifting out to the inky void of the ocean.

You observe Moon for a moment longer, and then, encouraged by the vague gesture of interest, you continue, "Y'know, smile," resting your chin on both your palms, your elbows upon your knees as you lean forward. Whenever you speak, mist curls out from the corners of your mouth. The swirls betray your mischief to the robot a couple yards away.

"no," Moon responds. You fight the urge to instantly react in turn, letting the sloth-like robot take his time as he winds up a fishing wire, "takes too much energy."

A sigh escapes you as you fall back into the powdery snow that dusts the stone outcrops. The darkness of the cavern is split into fractals by the ice draping down from the ceiling in curtains, looking like thousands of tiny crystals. A drained thermos of hot cocoa sits to your left.

According to Moon, you were still a few days out from making it back to town on foot. It didn't help speed matters up that your "guide" only traveled at night, when the temperatures were easily sub-zero. The only other option was to weave through frosty caves, the nightlight glow of Moon all you can follow.

You stretch out your fingers, closing your digits into a fist beneath the dense layers of gloves and mittens. Eyeing a particular icicle that looks like a glittering gemstone. Out of reach.

You turn your head, and look to Moon. The circlet of icicles around his head - six horns, you count — shimmer in the light. The tips of his horns are weathered, a devil only in name and name alone. Frost curls up and down the cold surface of his metalwork frame.

During the day, boredom plagues you as restlessly as the hunger gnawing at your stomach. It was almost time for dinner. Another evening spent relying on your generous guide for a meal. Last night, you hovered by the yeti's side, drooling as he carefully pared off layers of fish scales to expose the juicy meat beneath, nestled between pockets of thin bone. 

You nearly burnt your tongue once you dug into the meal, starved and enthusiastic. That was the moment you first saw Moon smile, as he laughed so quietly into the back of his hand, that you almost missed the rumble of his subdued joy.

You never were much of a survivalist sort. Without the help of the 'ice devil' before you, you'd long since be a popsicle left forgotten in the mountains. Vanessa was right; you never should've left town without her.

But luck had it you found a different tour guide. Not without ample struggle first.

As the quiet settles in, you mull over your options to pass the time. You could help Moon with tidying up—Or! You could continue to badger him. Badgering sounds more tantalizing than cleaning, and so, you press the issue further.

Hopping back up onto your boots, your arms wobble out in a struggle for balance, sliding forward on the ice. Moon stiffens, then resumes his task of winding up the fishing cord.

You pull the puffer jacket you wear tighter around your frame. The jacket has been carefully mended with Moon's help, since Sun's claws nearly tore it to shreds. He was surprisingly good at embroidery, having decorated the jacket where he patched it with a plethora of stars and diamonds, returning it to you with an apology. You hadn't minded being swaddled up in the furs he wears for the time being, actually.

You circle around Moon, expecting the mountain of snowy fluff to respond to your presence. There’s no indication he sees your circling, either playing into the cards or genuinely unaware of your approach.

Feeling playful, you pounce at the robot, arms outstretched to encircle its shockingly lithe framework.

The smile on your face wipes away the instant you feel claws wrap around your wrist to effortlessly lift you into the air. You stand at the tips of your boots, the muscle fibers in your arm stretching and feeling as if they might snap apart thread by thread.

You are pulled up to be eye-level with the hulking, spindly devil, donned with blindingly white furs. Your field of vision is consumed by their face. Your stare widens as the sharp point of their tusks nearly jabs your eyes out.

Steam puffs from the corners of Moon's mouth, briefly fogging up the cold metal on his faceplate with each faux breath. The eye on your left is alive and alert, a vivid LED screen with an acute, digital pupil. The eye on your right — and the side you made the mistake of approaching the yeti on — is a darkened void, metal torn into with deep gashes and corroded with rust.

The warmth of his synthesized 'breath' brushes off your face with a huff of air. Like being sat up right against a furnace, boiling and burning. You watch as silicone shifts, inner mechanisms inside the thin layer of their mask moving to open up the hinge of their jaw. The jaw hinges open at the circle divets at the corners of his mouth; silicone pulled taut to bring out a large, predatory grin. Lined with sharp, jagged, metal teeth that look deadlier than a bear trap.

"happy?" Moon asks. His expression is cast in shadow as the sun sets behind him, leaving only the bright glare of his remaining pupil the source of light you cling onto.

"Y, yes, well, I guess so—" you find your voice enough to stammer. Fear rushes through your body as the muscles in your arm scream, the soles of your boot losing their grip on the ice and causing you to freely dangle from the yeti's iron grip.

All at once, Moon lets go. Dropping you quickly and abruptly down, the decision jarring and sudden. The yeti backs away a few paces, crystalline horns retracting into their face plate as his pupil thins out.

Moon fumbles, caretaking protocols gnashing against his reactive response, quickly sorting through—didn't mean to, reflexes are— before deciding saying nothing at all was better than a half-baked apology seasoned with nonsense excuses. Utterly flavorless.

You are not a threat to him— you couldn't have known that being approached in his blind spot puts him on edge— but humans have not always been kind to what they perceive as nothing more than an eternal beast.

"i'll go check the nets," Moon mutters with a duck of his head away and out of sight, lumbering away with more speed than you've seen him exert in awhile.

You sit there in the snow, and miserably untangle the scarf you wear off your neck, tossing it aside.

The cheerily bright colors of the fabric mock you, waving like a flag in the infinite expanse of the arctic.

[mireyarowan]

Soap knew two things to be true. One: Shepard was a fuckin’ bastard traitor. And two: Siberia was a frozen wasteland. Soap wasn’t entirely sure which he hated more. Betraying his team, his allies, his whole goddamn country was so antithetical to his very soul that even looking at Shepard made him want to start swinging. But the cold. He had always despised the cold, even as a kid. Why would he be outside freezin’ his bleedin’ limbs off, making snowmen or sledding or whatever, when he could be inside by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate? Well, coffee nowadays, but the sentiment remained. So, Soap was pissed and he was stewing, thoughts circling leaving tracks of red hot anger in their wake.

Until. Until until until he caught Ghost’s eye. Well, not quite. Ghost was staring at his mouth. And Soap knew, dammit, that he was probably jutting his lip out, pouting. Or making his angry-pouty face as Gaz had teased in the past. As soon as his LT felt his gaze though, his eyes snapped up to meet Soap’s. Soap felt his heart swoop in his chest and all his anger and racing thoughts halt, nearly disappearing completely. Simon had fucking frost across his eyelashes, and for some reason it was the prettiest fucking thing Johnny had seen in his life. He couldn’t look away. Seconds ticked by, maybe it was longer? Shorter? But either way, he felt his cheeks start to warm, even though he hadn’t even been the one to start the starin’ in the first place.

Now, Johnny’s thoughts were racing for an entirely different reason. The frost was already starting to melt. Starting to drip down to Simon’s cheeks, only made worse at the slow blink the man gave him. The icy fractals melting at the contact with Simon’s warm skin. Johnny desperately wanted to brush that water and ice away, to feel the softness of those blonde lashes against his thumb. Against his lips as he pressed delicate kisses to Simon’s eyelids.

Fuck, he was so gone. Having horny thoughts for his tall, strong, steamin’ bonnie lieutenant was one thing. Feeling this- this fondness, this care was something else entirely. He didn’t even realize he was still, still staring until Simon softly tilted his head. Just by a few degrees. But something in that little acknowledgment had Johnny settling, like Simon saw him, knew how frustrated he was about the cold, about Shepard. And Johnny knew Simon had his six no matter what.

Steaming Jesus, he was in love, wasn’t he?

[rememberwhouare]

"My power flurries through the air into the ground. My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around. And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast. I'm never going back, the past is in the past."

FROZEN (2013) dir. Jennifer Lee & Chris Buck

[alynnia]

Astra's Champion 3

LaDs men if they were boss fights |Part 3 Zayne|

《This is written from the perspective of playing an action game boss fight in the realm of Bayonetta, Devil May Cry, No More Heroes, etc with “cutscenes” at the start and during transitions of the fight. I’ve left most of the abilities and weapons the reader has open so it can be up to you on how you’d want your character to fight specifically. This will be incorporating their myths, creative liberties taken for the sake of cool and things get really over the top in their 3rd phases because I’m a sucker for the cinematics. Good luck. 》

Cw: NonMC Reader, annoying combat mechanics

Premise of the game: You play as a being created by Astra tasked with taking out the MC for reasons unknown, but you're going to have to get through her love interests first. They know you are after her and will do everything within their power to stop you. Everything. But something about you unnerves them. You resemble her. Be it physically or an aura you have, the men can sense her within you somehow. Perhaps Astra did this to get them to let their guard down or there is more to your connection with her that you're unaware of. Upon winning each match Astra will bestow a blessing on you and the love interests will drop loot. 

Using your own Evol, special set of skills, and an outfit embedded with protocores you've collected on your journey, you might stand a chance against them. You may fight them in any order but Zayne will always be last. *Special note! This was written before the main story update but I did change the dialogue parts after. I'm also saving the ??? fight for it's own post because I don't like that it's holding up Zayne's. It's...a lot.

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Zayne Boss Fight

•Take A Look, It’s In a Book

A bit different from the others...You start off in the Fractal Library of all places. A seemingly endless building of bookshelves stacked with what your brain tells you are books but you sense something is not quite right with that name. Your footsteps and their echoes are all that accompany you until you reach a stopping point. At the end of the hall, the figure shrouded in blue and silver is your final obstacle. Instead of Zayne, the one that hovers in front of his shelf is the Foreseer. " Your coming was foretold, servant of Astra. " He holds a staff in one hand and a book in the other, snapping it close before sliding it back onto the shelf behind him. You sense something familiar about him. Yes, you know who he is but there is a distinct connection between the two of you you can’t place your finger on. He seems unshaken by your presence and if we're close enough to see it, holds a hint of melancholy in his eyes. The Forseerer is aware he is the last one on your journey. “ Let us begin. “ 

Massively tall shelves shoot up from below your feet, raising you high enough to hit not a ceiling, but another bookshelf that is mirrored above. Dodge in time for it not to crush you and hop onto another rising and shifting bookshelf. The walls around you warps and wraps around into a rotating circle (Think the library scene in Wicked on a larger scale with protruding shelves). Gravity would be an issue if you didn’t gain that blessing from a previous fight so instead you’re able to leap from shelf to self, hurrying your way toward him down the hall of books. It is highly recommended a ranged weapon in this fight is used because getting close enough is going to be a trial of its own. He's summoning icy black vines to strike in your direction that you'll need to jump over and under to avoid taking damage. The shelves will continue to swivel and spin until they're on the ceiling or on the wall, messing with your navigation and jumping in the most annoying way possible. When you finally reach him, you can attack. He takes hits much easier when he's close like this but after a few strikes he side steps and plucks a book from the shelf behind him and flips it’s pages creating a familiar sense…

•Book 15

The pages blink across your own vision until your world changes. Once it stops, you’re in a bamboo forest. A gentle breeze caresses your skin and hair and leaves drift aimlessly from their branches around you. It’s a peaceful and serene scene…until one of the leaves glides briskly across your skin and slices your skin. So does the next. It’s then you realize the foliage is sharp as blades. You’ll need to nimbly move to avoid taking damage from the leaves and although it’s minor ticks against your HP, it can add up if you’re not careful. Further ahead you can see a massive tree growing several white blossoms underneath in a cloudy scenery that makes you wonder if you’ve reached the heavens. Among these flowers, you catch the scent of one single Jasmine. 

“ So that’s his plan… “ A quick time event activates as an icy gust of wind cuts through your vision. Block or dodge. “ …Another variable to cancel out the other.” The Master of Fate stands in front of the tree with one hand behind his back and the other quickly writing in the air with his fingers and launching another powerful gale knocking you back. All of his moves are variations of keeping you at a distance so ranged or gap closers are going to be your bread and butter. You’ll notice the scent of Jasmine again, an alert going off in your mind’s eye that reaching it is important. Your attacks on Master of Fate don’t seem to be causing any damage so your own knock back moves will help keep him away from blocking your goal. Once you find the Jasmine among the cloud of blooms, strike it immediately. Doing so will cause him to drop to his knees and you hear the slamming of a book.

In a blink, you’re back in the library and the book dissolves in his hand. His brows furrowed as his vines launched you back at the far end of the spinning library on the next floor up meaning you’ll have to repeat the process of getting to him again. 

•Book 32

Once you do reach him and land hits, another book is picked up and the pages flip again. You're in a world that looks like it’s at its end. The city around you is crumbling and desolate. Shadows lurk in the dark alleys, hunched over and watching you. In the limited blinking light from a fallen sign, you can see black crystals growing out of their forms. You start to feel it, the effects of this world is putting a strain on you as the black crystals begin to crystallize on parts of your face and hands. This didn’t happen in the others so there must be something about this place in particular that wants to consume you as well. Just ahead stands the grim reaper, dressed in night from head to toe making no attempt to come after you. Behind him, a faint glow of white. The Jasmine somehow grows within the concrete of this blackened earth. “ Have you asked yourself why you resemble her? “ 

Why should you? You are a tool of Astra, nothing more. You make your move and Dawnbreaker, colder than his other incarnations, is striking you with black ice from afar. Avoid the missiles as you make your way to him and watch out for obstacles like cars and fallen street lights in this runner-like ordeal. Wanderers will also leap out from the shadows to attack, you’ll need to fend them off. They’re not difficult at all but the number of them increases the closer you get. When you finally reach Dawnbreaker, fight him off with knock-back attacks just enough so you can destroy the flower. On doing so the world dissolves away and the sound of a book slamming shut thunders in your head as you blink and are back at the Library. Repeat the first Phase in the Fractal Library on the next floor up.

•Book 22 

The pages flip once more. The scenery now is within Linkon, atop the Akso hospital while it’s snowing. A snowman sits off to the side with the doctor crouched near it, giving it a pat on the head before standing up and turning to face you. “ What will he do with you once your job is complete? “ That is not for you to decide. You see where his hand had touched the snowman, and a Jasmine sprouted from its head. Target locked. You charge toward it but Dr. Zayne slings ice bolts your way that causes the usual damage but you dodge it, it has the added effect of freezing the ground causing it to be slippery and making you slide across the map should you walk/run on it. The frozen areas will remain on the field for a set amount of time before they melt away. If you block the ice bolts instead, the ground will not freeze over but be wary since he sends them out at a fast rate. Dr. Zayne is aiming where you are standing so it is possible to control where the frozen areas land so that you can plan out where you’ll be able to move.

Another of his attacks will be summoning up an ice bow unleashing a rapid fire of ice arrows turning this phase of the fight into a bullet hell while trying to avoid frozen ground. A skilled fighter could use this to their advantage and slip closer toward the snowman but most will have a Bad Time. Once the Jasmine is struck you’re back in the Library on a higher level. 

•Tale as Old as Time

At the canopy of this jungle of literature, pages upon pages twist up and around the Foreseer,  “ You are the same, plucked from another book with your pages torn to better suit him. “ His expression is strained but composed. At his feet you can see the man beginning to become cased in ice, “ Your expression…did you think you would be the one to end me? “ His other limbs begin to freeze over as his breathing becomes ragged, “ Astra does not let his tools become broken so easily. “ Just as you’re about to test that fact and summon up an ultimate, your power sputters and fizzles out. The Foreseer’s gaze remains locked onto you as the rest of his body freezes up to his neck.

“ You must not…her…” His last words are swallowed up by the frost and vines but just before he is completely consumed, a light escapes from him and flies up to somewhere unknown. Did you win...?

✨Astra’s Blessing✨

Grounded. Terrain manipulation no longer has an effect on you.  

🎁Items Gained🎁

Old Popsicle. Eating it gives you a permanent boost to your HP

Seal made of snow that never melts

❤Affection Bonus?❤

His affection bonus is triggered by achieving the bonus from the others. His line of dialogue changes before he’s frozen “ You must not… “ and the point of view flips to his, the center of your chest showing a faint Jasmine with one petal left, “ …let her story end…”

Next Up: ???

----------------

I added combat music to this one because I wanted to share what I feel when picturing this fight. Should I go back and add themes to the others as well? As for the ??? fight, it's become bigger than I anticipated and my willpower is struggling. All the new banners and story update plus just enjoying playing around the LaDs fandom on tumblr and writing theories keeps stealing my attention from sitting my ass down and actually writing lol. So instead of continuing to hold Zayne hostage, I just decided to free him by himself than with the last fight.

Ugh, I also have the urge to make smaller fights with NPCs. Luke and Kieren fight? The Boy? Damn that sounds fun but I need to finish what I'm already doing first. Someone send Thomas my way to bully me...

Oh and, if you find anything weird or off with the writing (like did I type the same sentence twice) go ahead and give me a poke so I can correct it. ❤️ ALSO, ALSO I don't mind if anyone wants to play with the ideas here or make their own versions of fights. Just tag/message/yell at me because I wanna seeeee! TTPRPG LaDs when? Mugen LaDs mod when? 👀 Does anyone still play with Mugen anymore? Melty Blood?

[piplupfluffwritingstuff2]

Hero Darling- Part 4

Hero Darling Masterlist

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? Haha, I guess life and other wips got away from me, but Hero Darling is here now! I hope you enjoy it!

While Hero may have been drugged up for a good portion of their stay with Supervillain, they weren’t so far gone that they had failed to notice the master criminal’s security system. Specifically, all the cameras rigged with alarms that would go off on Supervillain’s phone and throughout the mansion. A random number of them had been programmed to go off at the sight of Hero unaccompanied. Hero had learned this the hard way. However, Hero also learned that they wouldn’t go off if they couldn’t visibly detect any illicit movement.

Any attempts to destroy the cameras would also trigger the alarms, so the safest way to get out of here was a more subtle method of sabotage. Hero stood in the doorway of the study, letting frosty mist emanate out from their hands and all down the hallways. They watched as the camera lenses above them frosted over in cold fractals.

Hero crept back into their bedroom where their suit was kept. After disabling that room’s camera, they pulled on their outfit. Every zip and buckle was cathartic. They finished by slipping on their mask. They had missed it.

Hero rushed down the hall, stopping at the top of the stairs. They sent a gentle wisp of ice at the camera overlooking the staircase and the foyer. The lens frosted over just as the others had.

Hero got to the front door and turned the knob. Locked. They hadn’t really expected much different, but still…

Hero produced an icicle and started picking the lock. They kept the icicle firm and unbreakable by channeling their power into it continuously. In a moment, there was a satisfying click. Hero pushed the front door open and cheered.

Their hands flew over their mouth as the cheer echoed throughout the grand foyer. They breathed a sigh of relief, then rushed out into freedom. They formed rough, icy skates under their boots and pushed out a path of ice with their powers. They went down the path of Supervillain’s driveway to the city below. The mansion might have been secluded, but at least it wasn’t completely cut off from civilization. In less than an hour they’d never have to deal with their obsessive captor again.

…

Supervillain knew something was wrong the moment they came up the driveway. There was a path of frozen-solid ice going up to the front door, which was open a crack.

They already knew Hero wouldn’t be there, but they rushed into their study all the same. The cameras were all frosted over, some starting to melt, others still quite opaque.

They sighed, shaking their head. They gazed through the frosted study window at the buildings below. They’d get Hero back by whatever means necessary. Besides, it had been far too long since the city had burned.

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Tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @electrons2006 @just-a-space-rabbit @telltaletoad @bacillusinfection @noseyowes @whump-till-ya-jump @writinglittlepains @m4iloblu3

Series Tags: @bluesoulpeace

[mistfallengw2]

Slowly losing my mind as I finally try to figure out the timeline of Aurelia's hairstyles, and cursing myself for giving her braids in the first place.

Few notes to expand old ones and older ones:

- In the Legions, efficiency beat style, so she kept her mane short outside of the year and a half that she spent recovering from a mission, being pregnant and then nursing Adamas (they weren't in battles anyway, due to Ardea needing that long to fully recover). Little braid was first made by baby Adamas, and it stuck for sentimental reasons. - She stays 4 years in the Mists (Tyria time, she has no way to know how much time passed for her) and her mane grows out while she's in the Fractal, having a grand ol' time with the corruption from [redacted]. Back in Tyria she shaves the whole matted mess off, but keeps the braid. - Keeps it short in the Vigil, but attempts at hair-care are few and far between as Pact Commander in Orr, so it grows. She wanted to cut it after their victory, but eh, might as well keep it since Adamas and Ellara insist it's a good look on the Commander. - Starting s2 she begins to braid it/others do so for her (think mane styling for horses) as it keeps growing. Usually simple styles she can quickly do on her own or last long enough, mainly ones that keep her mane compact and out of places where it can get stuck/dirty, though on big occasions she is convinced to (let someone else) do something more elaborated or even decorated. - As it grows longer and downtime lessens due to s3 events, she starts braiding it in less and bigger braids, till it becomes a big one by early PoF. - Balthazar is a shitty hairdresser, but most of her mane is saved. The little braid is severely damaged, but it gets salvaged using a lock out of Adamas's mane as extensions. She asks for it to be tied back (around her horn and into the rest of the mane) for safety, since she will have to fight Balthazar again and doesn't want a repeat. - Aurene getting stronger boosts her powers, which includes her already prodigious regeneration... and a boost to her mane's growth (horns can't regrow, but they get replaced with crystals). By IBS she has the fullest healthiest mane she ever had, it even shines like never before! - She was not in the mood of dealing with haircuts and was told it'd be good for her image at the Rally, then it was comfy while dealing with the icy weather. After becoming finally official with Ellara, she actually asks her to take care of her mane for her (instead of waiting for her to offer help with it), and the volume gets regularly reduced to a manageable level. Sometimes she even lets Ellara braid it all fancy for no particular reason. - Not pictured, but when the little braid is long enough, she can easily tuck it behind her side horn to keep it out of the way.

[sandsorghum]

3 days late for Valentine's but oh well. I don't know if this is really a proper or full fic, take it as an experimental, extended romantic ramble about Higuruma I suppose(?) I'm insanely smitten with this man >_>

Higuruma's perfectly suited as the protagonist of a whirlwind romance; from his looks, demeanour, proclivities - right down to those carefully ill-disguised vices of his.

Waltzes into a room like so much inclement weather unfurling over the horizon, equally unstoppable, a storm cloud's charisma. A presence which shifts barometric pressures, all that brooding mystique, more the signature of a cyclone or lightning trapped in a bottle.

Nature's favourite paradox - Something rhythmically electric about him, phenomena so familiar its commanding effect is a little eclipsed, the same way we don't really wonder at thunder, or notice a typhoon during the monsoon season.

Overcast irises, analytical scudding. The sort of whiplash wit the most seasoned screenwriters would gnash their teeth over, penetrating candour even without the liquor. They don't know how much whiskey he took to first convince himself he could pull off being "debonair" - or some version of it, whatever that means for him. The devil may care, after all, if he's the one insistent on being its advocate.

Dark and handsome, every woman's type (if that woman was at a bar at 3am on a Tuesday night). Disheveled chic, on a decent evening. Or he'll compel them to romanticize the rumpled effect, on a worse one.

And in those rooms where shadows circle each other and silences tango, with his steadfast irises brandishing a brandy-ripened gleam, they find themselves ever so tempted to pull his lips into a matching shape, to feel his teeth cut into their own mouths like flint.

It's those obsidian orbs, darkness crackling, midnight splintering with forked tongues of lightning, aching for those eyes to peel over them in lacerations and a licking down their throat, swallowing fire and scrying crystalline spheres in tumblers glittering topaz with bourbon drops, to entice the future which blurs into merlot smeared collars and burgundy seared skin.

The ozone thickens, they're coaxed to breathe his smoke. Lungs tarred with his incendiary stare, ventricles paved with ash and asphalt. A speed demon's dalliance, careening too quick to care what's coming around the bend, not when this is how the devil worships her curves; one night and his presence clings to mind, body, soul - Stubborn as blood's claim upon bitumen.

And those without the wisdom to make an earlier exodus will have to drag themselves from the wreck.

Once, someone mumbled against his cheek, "You're nothing so trite as an enigma, Higuruma."

It seemed like a compliment. Perhaps he would have remembered it that way, if it wasn't the final thing they told him.

He could interpret it as true, or true enough - if only as an explanation for the icy spots on his sheets some nights.

Years later, "some nights" turned into nights, and the cold grew past its spot, expanded through the floors and walls of his apartment, then shrunk small enough to make a crevice in his chest. A barely perceptible fissure in a window, a split sill leaking warmth, heat, hunger. Desire diluting into inconvenience, unnecessary pursuits he can't be bothered with. Needs waning into mere wants, or idle fancies. Higuruma gives up first on imagination, then on memory. Fractal tendrils spreading, making rhizomatic ribbons of his heart, hewn with scar tissue crisscrossing thickly calloused roads, his pulse buried beneath a network of welts he can't navigate through. North and South look much the same, the compass twiddles between East and West, whirring on mechanically.

He's noticed the crack now, and everything that spills through it but then, it's always been there, hasn't it? Perhaps he was born with it. Innate as his intellect, his drive, his pragmatism. He's meant to live with it.

"So. No more distractions for you then," you say - and it's an observation, not a challenge, nor even an inquiry. You make it sound so factual, it's almost flattering. But that's not your intention. Higuruma knows that much about you, after all these months of sharing cigarettes, and the odd anecdote.

But then, it's the lilt of your lips, not your tone, that rather suddenly makes him question this auditory trick; why would he equate a logical statement from you about him with praise?

It's an accident, Higuruma is quick to figure; you're always this relaxed around him, your mouth is always this soft with him - he means, always at such ease to part him with soft smiles, as a ray of summer straying unencumbered through the trees, unfoiled by foliage, those dimples of yours dappling against your cheek.

As for the softness of your mouth in a textural context, that doesn't occur to him; You don't seek the clarification, but he makes the correction for himself, in private.

There's a few other things Higuruma doesn't quite notice when he's with you, things that simply seem to slip away; lurid colours, noise, after hours in the office. A few other mysterious disappearances, remarkable for how rapidly they vanish around you, include: his allergies to small talk (previously bordering on neurosis), fifth cups of coffee, his migraines.

It's not as if he's making a conscientious effort to forget the clamouring in his skull, or the leaden rankling weight at the base of his spine accumulating throughout his week; Surly defendants, sullen witnesses, wailing wrathful parents, passive-aggressive prosecutors.

They're all there, proliferating hydras and leviathan problems which leech onto his brain and screech for his attention - but it's strange, how they all shrivel up like slugs on a sidewalk on a summer's day, husks burnt under the brunt of the smirk you flash him, whisking past him in the pantry to sneak a sandwich in his pocket, or an espresso in his hand already automatically stretching towards another alibi.

There are always fresh fires for him to put out (or to be put out by) but somehow, in your presence, all of them burn low, every boiling roiling convolution shoved onto the back of a stove, during the two minute smoke breaks he savours with you.

Matchsticks held up to the magnitude of the sun, there is no comparison. Incandescence rendered invisible, amidst the glow of the cosmos and an orbital burning, bright as the colour of air itself.

Perhaps that is why Higuruma doesn't recognise what's happening.

He's confounded when he realises. Too stunned to be mortified that he wasn't aware of it before. As if it were a piece of fundamental knowledge he should have picked up years earlier - like how there aren't penguins in the Arctic, or that there are eight planets in our solar system.

This should have been equally obvious; Higuruma is in love with you.

For him, it's like noticing that there are two moons in the sky, somehow for the first time. Were they always there? Why didn't he know? What's he supposed to do with this new information?

It's monumental.

No - it doesn't matter.

Not in the minutiae of his day to day, in routines augmenting this warped reality. There's an endless mill of hearings, cross-examinations, plea deals to slog through.

So what if he wakes up in a world askew on its axis, Monday spins into Tuesday spins into Wednesday spins into another mundane month of manslaughter suspects, juvenile delinquents, supercilious plaintiffs, crotchety judges.

You stride by him in the corridors of court buildings, your genial smile flickering in a passing greeting.

There are two moons in the sky.

On a late night commute, serendipity leads his steps to the same subway carriage as you. He doesn't make his way over. You do.

There are two moons in the sky.

Everything has changed, but nothing is different.

(The entire ride, he fidgets with his tie.)

You send him a selfie in the new udon shop he mentioned wanting to visit. The bowl of noodles in frame billowing plumes of steam does nothing to obscure the smugness nestled in the crook of your mouth.

There are two moons in the sky.

Distant satellites, far off in space. They don't affect him. Higuruma's eyes drift shut, phone screen clutched across his chest.

You squeeze into a packed elevator with him one morning, close enough for him to see the dew glistening across your temple while you fuss with your fringe to hide it, and close enough for him to hear you muttering something incriminating about your landlady's cat.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he murmurs. "Not within my earshot at least."

"That's disappointing," you huff, "I didn't think I'd have to censor thoughts of my wicked impulses around you of all people, Higuruma."

And just like that, the gravity of those two moons slams into him.

He thought it'd been a benign lull all this time, that it could continue to be, that errant tug at the tide every so often, the salt tickle at his ribs. But now he's drowning in this brackish burning and churning in his lungs, waves towering over him with the immediacy of his idiocy that he's only just now realising with alarming alacrity.

He can't fight this.

A whirlpool surging through his chest, salt flaying sinew, buffeted by the twin satellites and their gravitational force, oceans ragged with waves dragged away from the very seafloor, an entire planet stripped down to polished ivory and bleached corals.

He never stood a chance.

He looks at you check your watch and adjust your cuffs, before smoothing a palm over the lapels of your blazer tapering primly over your bosom, then tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Higuruma's eyes flick to the digital panel indicating the ascent of lift, floor numbers ticking up up up.

Two moons in the sky, they had never been an abstract fact of his universe, simply because he'd been ignorant, or been ignoring them. Considered them insignificant, dismissing the tremors that were aftershocks in truth, ripples that belied the riptide crashing through him with your every gentle glance, the grace of your gaze.

Two moons in the sky, and he'd believed the heavens were irrelevant, deliberate and obstinate with his irreverence. As if sheer will or blind optimism could make a difference to his emotional reality, an epiphany cratering in on Higuruma with a comet's terminal velocity.

Pretending not to notice how he paid attention to every minor detail about you, those mosaics constituting his own mood; like how he found himself seeking refuge in the crinkling corners of your eyes, counterintuitive in his desperation, trying to catch his breath there before you snatched it away again with your laugh, somehow both a zephyr's theft and gift to lift his spirits.

Deceits he can no longer dismiss, conceits which only compounded the consequences, it was both lunacy and reality. A curious blend of bristling scorn at his own folly and humility bubbles up in his chest, and Higuruma barks, a short and sharp burst of sound puncturing the air.

The fellow elevator passengers purse their lips, even as they're shuffling off onto their floors, leaving just the two of you together.

You level a quizzical glance at Higuruma, you didn't think your comment was that clever; An unwarranted reaction, possibly hyperbole, given the standards of repartee you've grown accustomed to around each other.

Higuruma shakes his head, something glimmering in his gaze. It's nothing you haven't seen before, but this time, when the dazzle of the fin darts back beneath the surface, his eyes seem focused, intent.

"Did you like that udon place you beat me to?"

"Oh, yes. The rave reviews got it right for once. Their service is efficient too," you reply, a little caught off-guard by his apparent non-sequitur.

Higuruma nods once, economical with the movement. It's that same singular, deft jut of his jaw which you've observed he's partial to when he's made a key decision, on something he won't ever back away from. Regardless of how it plays out.

"Then I'd like to take you there this Sunday afternoon."

"This Sunday?" you echo, trying to sound like you're not reeling from hearing Higuruma Hiromi has a concept of weekends which goes beyond staying in to huddle over his latest trial transcripts.

"Yes. It's not ideal but I have to meet a client on Saturday."

"Right." There was the version of the workaholic you knew.

"So Sunday's the earliest available date. 1230pm?"

If nothing else, something about Higuruma's unwavering gaze and his forthright manner is familiar enough to you. And it was just a meal. You've had meals with Higuruma before, albeit in front of vending machines, which was stretching the definition a little thin. Here was an opportunity to revise that then.

You respond, "12pm. We should try to avoid the lunch crowd. One of the regulars told me the average time in line is about 20 minutes though."

"It'll be worth it," he states, looking directly into your eyes, and then Higuruma Hiromi smiles at you.

And you can feel it now, with blinding abrupt clarity, that fresh heat blistering your cheeks, heralding the rising radiance of two new suns, splintering your horizon with a permanent glow.

Thanks for reading!

[exitwound]

i woke up late for work and found eternity in the frost on my windshield

i seriosuly love when this happens when i go out to my car with the same 30 seconds i usually give myself to get in and start it and pull out of the parking spot to get to work and find that those seconds have been turned into long, terrible minutes scrambling for the snow brush and the ice scraper the freezing air mixing with the exhaust billowing out as i idle the engine blasting heat trying to make my metal beast thaw out............. did you find eternity in the frost itself, fractal-led, intricate, tiny, infinite, or did you find it in the lumen of your car where you sat staring at a windshield rendered by weather and physics and ice, impenetrable to light; your portal to the rest of the world opacified, & all that existed then was the polymerized leather cave making itself your shelter, the strange slickness of the seatbelt and the plastic moulding of the dashboard waterfalling into the indicator lights, cupholders, spare change and gum-wrappers in hidden compartments, vestigial cigarette lighter tongueing its phone-charger proboscis, the mundane realism of these hyper-engineered surfaces distorted with the cold shock of your stiff fingers, until even the pressure of the shift you're late for fades as your whole future grinds to a halt with the impossibly of driving down the icy hill ahead of you, and the hours, which awoke with you and lined-up with hot anticipation--and make up the day you might have had--cease hurtling into you like neutrons, coming, instead, to a slow roll at the bottom of this pit of stillness, where all momentum is sapped from them, and time is the petrified woodchip on the beach of the universe in which your car has been fossilized.Yes i understand because this happened to me once as well

[eccentricgrace]

juice jam || IronDad

summary: peter and tony go out for smoothies, they get interrupted by some annoying paps.

tags: fluff, protective tony stark, banter, paparazzi, tony stark acting as peter parker's father figure

wc: 2,563

cross-posted to wattpad under the same name!

"Your pick is fine, I'm not saying it's not!" Peter argued back quickly, his eyes wide. On his own tongue, the cold icy fractals of his far more delicious Pink Starburst smoothie. "I'm just saying it's not the best one on the entire menu, that's all."

Tony held the foam cup of his Chocolate Moo'd in a protective vice grip— which is basically blended chocolate frozen yogurt —and screwed up his face. He lowered his shades with an inelegant poise and a good serving of disgruntlement. "Pete, you're drinking a smoothie that is literally called 'candy in a cup'. I think I'll take my own advice and hold off from the type two diabetes diagnosis for a few more years."

"Okay," Peter said. "Okay. Okay. But you haven't even tried it. I bet you'll admit mine is better if you try it. Ned did. He didn't believe me at first either, he refused to say anything was as good as the strawberry banana one."

"I'm inclined to agree with him just to tick you off."

Peter huffed and put the half-guzzled cup on the table. He pushed it towards Tony. "Just try it. You're so grumpy, Mr. Stark. For no reason."

"'No reason,' he says," Tony mumbled, reaching for the bright pink smoothie. "As if you didn't come into my smoothie haven, my church of juice, and begin spewing— spewing blasphemy."

Peter hid back his smile.

Tony had picked him up from school today. Plans were to have sitcom-takeout night with May, but as they were getting into the car, Peter had gotten a message about her having to work late. With their plans changed, and both of them damp with the autumnal rain that was nasty and cold the way New York rain usually was: of course the best way to waste time and beat the cold was even colder smoothies.

They were at the Jamba Juice at Rockefeller Plaza, which in itself was a feat considering the company he was in. Tony was wearing his "disguise", which really only consisted of his shades, a hat, jeans, and a hoodie pulled over his head. Nobody had noticed them yet.

Peter couldn't help but wonder what people saw when they looked at them in the corner of the store. The way they bantered sometimes, the ease of which they moved in each other's company— they'd been referred to as "father and son" more than once by cashiers and waiters alike. It was a nice compliment, to be seen that close to someone he looked up to. He could keep it tucked very secretly under his sleeve, for no other purpose than to keep him warm.

(And maybe sometimes he wondered how Tony felt whenever someone said something like that. The casual "I'll get a table for you and your son" or "you and your son look so alike!")

Tony took a sip of the pink smoothie, staring blankly ahead of him. Peter watched expectantly for something dramatic— his eyes to light up, his brows to raise, his hands to be thrown in the air with the angry astonishment of being proven dead wrong.

Instead, Tony sighed, put the cup down. Indignantly went to his own drink, furiously sipping at the straw. Peter's smile grew.

Then, finally:

"Fine."

"Yes!" Peter burst with victorious laughter, reaching over the table and taking his smoothie back. "I told you! I told you so. I would never lie about this. It's too important."

"Oh, so this is too important for you to lie, but when you had that little injury the other day, it wasn't?" Tony asked, a dry smile plastered on his face. "Is that what you're saying to me right now? Your poor old man?"

Peter's grin turned guilty, and he quickly went back to finishing the second half of his smoothie.

"Geez," Tony commented with amusement. "Ease up on that straw, you're gonna go into one of your spider-hibernation things. The middle of a Jamba Juice is not the time or place, kid."

"I think it's the perfect time and place, actually. Really truly. I can feel myself getting sleepy just thinking about it."

"Har har. What a comedian you are," Tony said, sliding out of the booth. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "You ready to go?"

"Yep!"

Peter wiped his hands of the sticky, watered-down juice that had dribbled down the side of the cup, and stood.

As he did so, the back of his spine began to buzz. He heard a series of shuddering clicks, and he narrowed his eyes to look around the small space.

"What's going on?" Tony asked casually, but there was an undertone of something distinctive in its quality for fixing things. He had clearly taken notice of whatever changed in Peter's face, because this was the voice he only used when they were dealing with Spidey extracurriculars.

Peter forced his shoulders to relax. He scratched at his face, half-covering his mouth, and lowered his voice to say: "Dunno. Someone's watching us."

Tony hummed impassively, but Peter saw his eyes sharpen, he saw the way the heads-up display of his glasses lit up faintly from behind the dark lense. He subtly scanned over the joint, like Peter did, and finally landed on something outside the window.

"Paparazzi," Tony said simply. He sighed deeply and began to shuck off his hoodie and hat. "Alright, kid. Pop quiz, listening? Trade."

"Uh," Peter helplessly let the trash in his hands be taken, and instead grabbed hold of the hoodie that was tossed into his hands. "I guess?"

"Put those on." Tony walked over and threw both of their cups and napkins in the trash. He walked back and smoothed over the wrinkles on his dress shirt. "Do you smile at the camera people?"

"Yes?" Peter guessed, his voice muffling through the fabric of the thick hoodie he was wrestling over his head. (Funnily enough, Tony's old clothes were all slowly becoming his size. It's crazy what a growth spurt and benching the equivalent of like, forty trains on a daily basis can do to a physique.)

"Wrong. Never smile at the paps," Tony shoved the hat over Peter's head, a baseball cap of the Yankees, which he as a proud Queens born-and-raised local would pretend not to be personally offended by. "They're gonna ask you a bunch of questions, are you gonna answer them?"

"No," Peter said, more sure of his answer this time.

"Good job." Tony reached over and fit the hood snuggly down on his head, drawing the strings in a little. "Are you gonna look at them?"

"No—" Peter squirmed as Tony started to mess with the hat to further cover his head. "Mr. Stark, is all this really necessary? I mean, they already got a picture of my face earlier!"

"Believe me, they're not gonna have that picture by the end of the day, and I don't intend to give them anymore." Tony patted him on the shoulder. "Alright, you're all set. Listen, this part is important: stay close to me, don't get lost in the crowd, and absolutely don't listen to anything they say. They're gonna try to provoke a reaction from you. Don't buy into it."

"Okay," Peter gave a smile, while a weak, uncomfortable laugh bubbled out from his chest. "I think I got it. I still don't get why you think they'd care about who I am, though. I'm not the celebrity, you are. They're not gonna care about some—"

"Spider-baby-asking-questions time is over," Tony said, raising his eyebrows. "The more we stand here, the more cameras there's gonna be when we finally get out on the street. Time to go."

"I—" Peter blubbered for a second, and then followed Tony quickly as he turned to the door. Stay close.

Peter learned quickly that Tony walked very fast when paparazzi were involved. He also learned quickly that paparazzi were the closest human equivalent to mosquitos in the summer heat. They swarmed, an entire bloodthirsty group that materialized out of seemingly nowhere, and they were so loud, all buzzy and everything.

He clumsily dodged through bright flashes of the most cameras he'd ever seen, never less than two feet from Tony at all times. If he wanted to, he could count maybe seven different people shouting questions at him, even more shouting at Tony.

"Kid! Look here! Hey! Hey, over here— Hey! Give me a smile! Can you smile for us? Hey, Tony!"

"Mr. Stark! Few questions for the record? What are you doing with a kid?"

"Hey, look over here! I've got a few questions for— Can you spare a minute of your time?"

Tony was valiant as he weaved through the mob, only glancing back every few seconds to make sure Peter was behind him and in sight. The occasional sarcastic comment that brought Peter back to watching YouTube interview compilations way before all of this.

Anyways, he made it look so easy, all of it practiced and seamless, which made sense after Peter remembered that his mentor practically grew up in all of... this. He wondered if Tony would tell him any horror stories of dodging this when he was a kid— he wondered if he even wanted to know.

"Tony, just a second! What happened with the Accords? Have you heard from Captain America?"

"Look over here! Here! Mr. Stark, who is that?"

"Kid, what's your name? Look here for us! Hey!"

He and Tony had almost made it to the car, and Peter was following all the rules. It was harder to not smile than he thought, solely because this whole thing had rapidly become increasingly intolerable, and Peter had a habit of smiling when he was nervous, but he was doing well so far.

In fact, it helped a lot to focus on how miserable it all was, really. When he felt a nervous smile coming on, he just redirected his attention to the cacophony of camera shudders that were assaulting his very sensitive eardrums, or the people yelling over each other, or even the general sound of several shoe pairs scraping over asphalt and concrete. Sensory hell. Don't even get him started on the flashing lights.

"Hey kid, get his attention for us!"

Peter's whole body buzzed loudly, and then he was yanked back by the wrist.

He was fine. Obviously he was fine. Maybe shaken, maybe even the tiniest bit impressed by the audacity, but he was Spider-Man, and he was capable of simply jerking his arm back— which he did.

The facts above apparently didn't matter in the slightest to Tony, because when Peter met his gaze again in the crowd, there was something in it so angry that his lungs went tight with alarm.

"Did you just grab him?" Tony said dangerously, staring at the offender with a blazing fury in his eyes. "Did you fucking grab him? You do that again you're getting amputated by the fucking limb, you hear me?"

He pushed back through the crowd and took hold of Peter's sleeve. Cameras flashed. Peter's face was a bright, embarrassed, cherry red. Tony was breaking his own rule, mortifyingly, just because of him. Oops.

"I'm sorry," came the voice of a man who absolutely didn't sound sorry. "I apologize sir, I just wanted a few lines for an article—"

"Oh, yeah, you wanted a few lines? I'll give you a few lines, buddy. What's your name? What company do you work for? Huh?"

Tony was yelling. Yelling like Peter had never seen him yell before, and the cameras continued to rattle and blind his peripheral vision. He tried tugging at his arm down to get Tony's attention, because the grip Tony had on his sleeve was firm enough to make his knuckles white and he'd surely notice the slightest movement.

"Mr. Stark, we gotta go," Peter tried. "C'mon."

Tony, his face still snarled up like the protective thorn of a blackberry bush, hesitated then. He schooled his expression into something tight-lipped and lock-jawed, and then steamrolled forward to the car.

As soon as they got in, Tony quickly locked their doors, and Peter let out the breath he'd been holding. He reached up and pulled the hood off, then tossed the hat to the backseat.

"Wow. That was—"

"Are you okay?" Tony asked, the stiffness never leaving his posture.

His eyes were darting all over Peter for any other signs of injury or distress. They lingering especially on his wrist for a moment, then Tony reached for his arm gently and scanned over the area with stressed meticulousness. His eyebrows furrowed, his trembling thumb trailing lightly over the skin.

"I'm all good," Peter promised, his eyes wide. "Really, I'm totally okay, no bruises, no breaks."

Tony looked... bad.

His eyes shot back up to Peter's, and there was a lot of guilt in the way they narrowed. If he didn't know any better, he'd say Tony even looked misty. Admittedly, that was horrifying; like it always was watching a trusted adult break down a little.

He always hated it when May cried, but she did cry— after a bad shift, or a sad movie, or one of those pet commercials on television, Peter always heard the tell-tale sniffle at his side, and the way she always would look up as if it would stop the tears. (It never did.)

But that was May, and Tony was not May. This just was different. Tony Stark didn't cry. Tony Stark was Iron Man, he was invincible, surely he wouldn't shed a tear just because some stranger grabbed his wrist a bit too tight.

Peter frowned. "Mr—"

Tony let go of his arm, then turned the key into the engine. He sniffed once, and didn't look back at Peter. "FRIDAY, I want all those articles and photos deleted as soon as they hit the web. Kid, seatbelt on."

"Yes, sir."

The car went silent, except for the anxious drumming of Tony's hands against the steering wheel. After a few long moments, even that had subsided. Tony seemed calm enough now that Peter's curiosity sparked up again.

"You looked at them," Peter spoke up. He looked at Tony through the corner of his eye. "You, uh... talked back to them too. Kinda broke your own rules."

"Yeah." Tony shrugged. "Well, rules kind of mean jack to me if I think you're in danger. Part of the job."

"The job?"

"Taking care of you. Making sure you're safe, protected, happy, healthy, learned, and whatever," Tony said, one hand coming off the wheel to make aimless gestures as he spoke. "You know, the job."

Peter's definitely heard of all of those responsibilities. The thing is, he heard them in some health class lesson, listed as the job description for a parent.

"The job," Peter repeated quietly.

Tony shrugged again. He turned at an intersection. "Yeah. Whatever, I read mentoring books. I'm a good student."

"Right."

"You sure you're okay?" Tony asked again, glancing over, giving him a quick scan. "Adrenaline should be worn off by now, huh? Still nothing hurts?"

"No," Peter said, feeling like he was in some kind of accidental-pseudo-father-acquisition daze. He blinked a few times at the sudden alarm in Tony's expression. "I mean—No, nothing hurts. I'm all good."

The relief again, palpable in the air as Tony relaxed in his seat. He nodded quickly and finally turned onto the Queensborough bridge. "Good. That's good. Alright. Great. This was fun, kid, huh? You had fun?"

"Yeah, definitely," Peter agreed easily. He let himself smile. He felt light. "It was a lot of fun."

"Good," Tony returned his smile. "Let's get you home to Aunt May, then."

"Yeah," Peter sat back in his seat. He turned the radio on and smiled comfortably. "Okay."

[blackjackkent]

Our next step on the route to "unchain the bell" leads us through a room called "The Path of Sighs" which is probably not at all ominous, especially not due to the giant skull pillar in the center:

There are a lot of pathways blocked off by forcefields here, but we press on with the current goal of finding Emmrich's "consultant," and I will laugh a lot if it turns out to be Manfred.

More banter on the way:

Bellara: "I hope we can help here, Professor." Emmrich: "You already have, Bellara. And it's just Emmrich, please." Bellara: "Right, Professor!" Emmrich: "I assume your visit has to do with recent upheavals we've sensed in the Fade?" Bellara: "Oh, just a little!"

Both Bellara and Helena have no idea what to do with themselves at the moment and I'm so amused about it.

More undead battles as we work our way deeper into the crypt. Helena has the opportunity to smash open quite a lot of rather valuable-looking urns and other such things, which luckily Emmrich doesn't seem to take any kind of offense to. XD

Eventually we reach a very dramatic-looking corridor lined with enormous skeletal statues and flooded with strange, swirling gas surrounding small, spasming balls of light.

Bellara shifts uneasily. "This...magic," she mutters, her usual enthusiasm abruptly dampened. "It drains everything around it..."

"Echoes of the despair spirits," Emmrich murmurs. His tone is still mild, but his forehead creases with regreat. "Misery devouring itself. We should keep our distance. If provoked, these manifestations will shatter."

Helena doesn't know exactly what that implies, but she knows it's not good. She's no mage, but even she can feel the icy chill at the heart that is evoked by even being near these things, and for once she's deeply grateful for her small stature and light gait. She creeps along the hallway with Emmrich and Bellara in tow, watching warily as they move past each of the throbbing lights, fully expecting one of them to blow up in her face at any moment.

This becomes more complicated upon reaching the exit, which is locked and in need of more wisps. Emmrich summons some - but they're at the far ends of the room, so Helena has to sneak back out, and then back in again multiple times to bring them all into position. It's a process that involves a lot of parkour and climbing around awkwardly on things on a time limit, and she is incredibly tense the whole time.

(This is giving me flashbacks to the goddamn Swampland fractal in GW2. IYKYK. And I've gotten very invested in doing the whole thing without waking any of the demons, so this took me a bit.)

During this process, Emmrich also comments idly about a door being in a place that it shouldn't be, and then explains that "the Necropolis rearranges itself every so often." So that's... also unsettling. :P

Success!

"Well done!" Emmrich says, pleased. "Past these chambers, we'll find some assistance with reaching the bell." His expression is pensive as he strides along through the dark corridor ahead. "Despair is far more pervasive than I'd thought. We must stop whoever's drawing these spirits here, Rook."

"You think a person's behind all the despair demons?" Helena asks curiously.

"Oh, yes," Emmrich says gravely. "Mortals are their prime attraction."

-----

More undead battles. More wandering through deeply unsettling crypts that seem as if they haven't been touched by mortal hands in centuries.

Emmrich continues to be perfectly pleasant and unbothered by the horrible things happening around them.

Emmrich: "Tell me, Rook. Where are you from?" Helena: "I grew up in Tevinter." Emmrich: "Our cousins in magecraft to the north! You must tell me about your journeys once we're above ground."

Helena hopes he isn't too bothered that a lot of her journeys involved beating up and/or killing those cousins in magecraft.

Also this does seem to indicate that this is indeed a giant catacomb area with a ceiling too far away to see, which is wild. It's big enough that the wind has started howling around them as they climb through the various corridors and rocky outcroppings.

And eventually they reach the most ominous room yet, the "Spectral Court," high-ceilinged and dark and lined with green flame.

"Here we are," Emmrich says brightly. "This is where we'll learn who summoned these despair spirits."

[manor-tea-time]

PART 2 - GHOSTLY ADVICE

꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊❅.☃︎⋆⁺₊❅.⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆⋆꙳

After his long day of work, Wayne went home to his large house, where he lived very much alone. He sat by his fire with tea and brandy, a good book in his lap that he wasn’t bothering to read. 

“Christmas…” he muttered. “Enough of that…”

And the room fell cold. The old man looked over to his fire to see it still roaring, yet now wreathed in frost. He rubbed his eyes in confusion and when he opened them again, the ice was gone. 

“I must have had too much brandy,” he said as he stood up slowly to tend to the fire. His old bones shivered as he walked. The fire seemed to offer no warmth as he grabbed the poker and leaned over it. 

⋆⁺₊❅.☃︎⋆⁺₊❅.

Suddenly, the flames grew immensely. 

They engulfed the entirety of the fireplace, licking the sides of the wall. Wayne stumbled backwards and fell onto his back as he tried to scramble away. The flames only grew higher and the sound of rattling chains filled the room. 

“Wayne,” a ghostly voice called, “Wayne Strickland.”

“Who is there?!” He looked around the room, which was now freezing cold despite the raging fire. 

The sound of metal upon metal grew louder. “Wayne. Wayne Strickland.”

“Please! Leave me alone! I have done nothing!” He got to his knees to beg at whatever force was calling to him. 

And despite the fire's presence the corners of the room began to be engulfed in frost. The chandelier. The door. His cup of brandy. They all had fractals of ice covering them like lace.

And from the flames, a face emerged. Bright gold eyes like coins stared at Wayne with malice and regret. Connected to the face was a neck and then shoulders and then arms that were clawing out onto the floor.

And the figure was terribly familiar. 

“Allen,” Wayne whispered, “Oh god. You’re dead. You are supposed to be dead.”

“I am!” the ghost cried out. “Oh, great death did come for me with shadowed eyes and cold hands! I am long dead! Long dead!” The chains scraped against the floor as Allen swung his arms outwards.

Death had made the man no less dramatic. 

Wayne cried out, “I must be dreaming!”

“Do not be a fool, Strickland! I have risen out of my cold suffering with the blessing of the beyond to warn you, old friend! Your heart is cold and shriveled and weak! It is chained like I am now!” The ghost pulled on the chains around him but they did not budge. 

“Please, spirit! Allen Crowell! My friend! Leave me be! I have done no wrong!”

“You lie! Oh! How you lie!” The spirit flung himself towards Wayne as he groaned. “You have grown greedy and cruel and forgotten the true spirit of Christmas!”

Wayne paused before a moment as he stared up at the deathly visage of his long dead friend. “Ah… I must be dreaming! That’s what it is. The brandy must have given me the strangest of dreams…”

“You fool!” Allen cried out. “I have come from the cold embrace of death to help you, so that you might have a chance and I may be freed of just a few of these horrible chains! Oh these chains! Each weigh as much as my sins in life! They are so terribly heavy, Wayne!”

But, Wayne, despite being terribly frightened, had already decided that it was all just a nightmare.  He stood up and began to walk away, but was quickly wrapped up in icy metal. 

Allen floated closer so that he may loom over the old man. His gold eyes like two furious and wicked suns beating down upon the weary. “Tonight, dear friend. You will be visited by three spectres. The ghosts of Christmas past, present, and yet to come will arrive in all their glory and show you the truth! Your truth! And should you not see the error of your ways before the light of Christmas Day, beware! You will end up in the cold grip of iron in death, just as I did.”

And a great flurry filled the room and Wayne cried out in fear. 

“The first ghost,” Allen continued, “Will appear to you upon the first stroke of midnight… Be ready, old friend…”

꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊❅.☃︎⋆⁺₊❅.⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆⋆꙳

[Character Unlocked!]

[creatorbiaze]

A Fallen Star in Amist Memoriam

aka how Light Song and Vizerxa met.

Vivere = Vizerxa, Enigma = Videns

Lucidi was 18, Vizerxa was 15, Videns was 11.

Vivere walks down the long street, glancing at the buildings around her, trailing after Lucidi and Enigma, the first and third born Royals. She kept a book held tightly against her chest, her broken wings folded and pressed as close to herself as she could. She hated these outings that Lucidi dragged her into, but knew the eldest just wanted to spend time with their siblings when they weren't stuck learning their future responsibilities.

Lucidi walks with the confident flair they always do, waving to the Draconics they see with a smile. Enigma skips along, waving with bright eyes and a childish grin. They were both much more suited for this life than Vivere was, and she knew it.

Vivere notices a flash of white in an off-branching alleyway, and pauses to see if the other two siblings saw it. They seem to have not, as they keep walking. After a moment of hesitation, Vivere decides to investigate, slipping away to the alley.

Vivere looks around, scanning the path, until she freezes in fear. There, in front of her, was the unmistakable form of the Fallen Tyrant leaning against the wall, electric blue eyes that glowed menacingly and unnaturally lazily watching the walls.

It just.. didn't make sense for the Goddess to be there.. She'd declared war on Amist Memoriam less than a year ago, it'd be idiotic of her to go in alone! Vivere tries to back away, but the action catches the white haired Draconic's attention, unnerving gaze snapping onto her.

"Hello there. Vivere, correct? Fractal's second daughter?" Solis tilts her head, raising an eyebrow. Her voice was smooth and cool, icy and calculated. Vivere stood straighter by instinct.

".. What do you want?" Vivere asks cautiously while looking around for a way out. She could run back the way she came, but the Goddess would probably kill her before she could tell anyone.

The Ancient Draconic chuckles, talons clicking against the stone as she pushes herself off the wall to stand up straight. "Well, I've come to make a deal. You're smart, you can probably figure out the right choice easily," She says, extending a hand. Her movements were fluid and calm, nothing like the stiff, strict, and easy to anger tyrant that Vivere read about so many times.

"..No, I'm not falling for that," Vivere shakes her head, taking a step back. She wouldn't trust the Fallen Deity, she knew much better than that.

"Are you sure? I'll give you power and strength, the ability to be meaningful and remembered... Living as you are, I doubt you'll even have an afterlife.. No one will remember you for long. I'll even ensure protection over your family and the royal court, does that sound good?" Solis tilts her head, smiling just enough for her teeth to be visible. It was more threatening than kind, though.

Vivere pauses, thinking about the offer. ..She couldn't accept. The Corruption God always has fine print she doesn't mention. "..No," Vivere answers firmly, retreating backwards while keeping her eyes on the unimpressed Deity.

"Are you certain about that, young one?" Solis steps forward, head tilted, keeping Vivere and herself the same distance away as before. Every step back makes her step forward.

"Absolutely," Vivere replies coldly, eyes narrowed. She wouldn't be surprised if she mysteriously dies today, but death would be better than betraying her kingdom for Solis.

Solis puts a hand on Vivere's shoulder and seems about to say something again, but both Draconics can hear Enigma calling for Vivere, having noticed her absence. Vivere almost looks over her shoulder on instinct, but keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the tyrant.

"You may go, I suppose, I'd rather not be found," Solis sighs, rolling her eyes, "but if you tell anyone about our meeting.. I'll make sure to burn this kingdom to the ground and make you watch, and I'll save your family for the last to die while I torture you, painful and slow," Solis grins, gripping Vivere's shoulder. Vivere hurriedly nods, and Solis lets her go, allowing Vivere to speed walk back to their wandering siblings.

"Sorry, I just saw a cat. I wanted to pet it," Vivere lies, shrugging. Lucidi and Enigma seem to accept this lie, already excitedly talking about a cafe they wanted to bring the other sibling to. Vivere lets herself get dragged along once again, chuckling softly, though she couldn't get the image of the weird, electric blue eyes out of her head...

[le-fugitif]

Les Chroniques d'Elyas Drarven - Deuxième partie

Chapitre 7 : Le Chant des Brèches

La lumière pâle de la Lune Quantique baignait les ruines d’Aetherys, cité spectrale ancrée hors du flux principal du temps. Là, entre les reflets inversés des constellations perdues, s’ouvrait une faille que seul un œil initié pouvait déceler : un battement de cœur dans le tissu de l’Histoire.

Elyas Draeven observait la brèche, silencieux, tandis que Mila ajustait les réglages d’un astrolabe modifié par l’Ordre. Depuis son ancrage, elle avait changé. Plus concentrée, plus présente… mais des éclats de ses anciennes versions subsistaient parfois dans ses gestes ou ses silences.

« Elle est instable », murmura-t-elle.

« Cette faille chante. Comme si elle voulait qu’on l’ouvre.»

« Ou qu’on l’empêche de se refermer », répondit Elyas.

Car au-delà de cette déchirure temporelle, se trouvait l’Éon Obscur, un domaine légendaire où les Chronomanciens déchus de l’Ordre Noir avaient fui, emportant avec eux les schémas d’un second artefact : le Cœur de Paradoxie. Conçu pour répondre au Verre Fendu, mais dont l'existence même menaçait le fragile équilibre restaurer.

Et dans l’ombre de cette convergence, le nom de Théron Valek revenait comme une note dissonante.

« Il a disparu depuis le jugement… » nota Mila.

« Non. Il a quitté le Conseil pour rejoindre l’autre camp. Il croit qu’il faut dominer le Temps. Et maintenant, il a un fragment du Cœur », confirma Elyas, montrant le cristal noir gravé de symboles inversés.

Une onde parcourut la faille. Elle s’écarta comme une paupière de lumière.

Mila s’avança. Elyas l’arrêta.

« Si on y entre, il n’y aura pas de retour. »

Elle se tourna vers lui, déterminée.

« Le Verre Fendu a été réparé. Mais le Cœur de Paradoxie est encore entier. Il faut choisir, Elyas : contrôler le flux, ou libérer la trame. »

Un silence.

Puis il hocha la tête. Et ensemble, ils franchirent la faille.

Et derrière eux, le temps frémit.

Chapitre 8 : L’Éon Obscur

Le passage à travers la faille fut un arrachement silencieux. Ni vent, ni lumière, ni douleur. Juste un étirement de l’âme.

Puis ils furent là.

Devant eux s’étendait l’Éon Obscur : un monde figé dans une demi-nuit violette, où les paysages semblaient faits de souvenirs oubliés et de pensées non formulées. Des tours flottaient dans le vide, inversées, leurs fondations suspendues au ciel. Des horloges brisées pendaient entre des arches fractales. Tout ici était… hors du temps.

« C’est une trame parasite », murmura Mila. « Un monde issu d’une erreur, maintenu en vie par volonté seule. »

Un murmure les entourait. Des voix anciennes. Des versions d’eux-mêmes ? Des échos de lignes effacées ?

Elyas serra le manche de son bâton-temporel. Il en reconnut certains mots.

Des fragments de leur enfance.

Des regrets.

Des choix non faits.

Soudain, au sommet d’une pyramide inversée, une silhouette apparut. Vêtu d’un manteau d’ombre tissé de chiffres mouvants, le regard fixé sur eux, Théron Valek les attendait.

« Vous êtes venus. Je savais que le Verre vous trahirait. »

Sa voix vibra dans les airs, modulée par une résonance temporelle qui faisait trembler les pierres elles-mêmes.

« Ce n’est pas le Verre qui trahit, Valek. C’est toi qui as quitté le chemin. »

« Le temps n’a pas de chemin, Elyas. Juste des chaînes. Et moi, je les brise. »

Il leva un objet sombre : le Cœur de Paradoxie, battant lentement comme un cœur humain… sauf qu’il pulsait à l’envers.

Mila fit un pas en avant.

« Ce Cœur… il est vivant. Tu ne contrôles rien. Tu crois le maîtriser, mais il te façonne. »

Un rire.

Puis, des silhouettes émergèrent derrière Théron : d’anciens Gardiens, corrompus, fragmentés, réassemblés par la logique tordue de l’Éon Obscur.

Les Rémanents.

« Vous voulez la guerre des temporalités?» dit Théron.

« Alors voici votre premier champ de bataille. »

Et il planta le Cœur dans la pierre.

Le sol explosa.

Des failles jaillirent dans toutes les directions, ouvrant des portails vers des époques entremêlées: Myrrhande en flammes, Voldemar figée dans le gel, le désert des derniers jours…

Elyas brandit son artefact. Mila ferma les yeux. Ensemble, ils déployèrent un bouclier temporel.

Mais la guerre venait de commencer.

Et aucune époque ne serait épargnée.

Chapitre 9 : Le Shogun des Boucles

Un éclair écarlate fendit le ciel.

Lorsque le monde se stabilisa, Elyas et Mila étaient à genoux sur une terre couverte de cendres. Des cerisiers figés dans une floraison éternelle bordaient un champ de bataille gelé. Des soldats samouraïs restaient immobiles, mi-action, pris dans une boucle impossible. Certains levaient leurs lames ; d’autres tombaient, sans jamais toucher le sol.

Au loin, un château shogunal lévitait par-dessus un cratère inversé, tenu en équilibre par des chaînes d’or pulsant au rythme du Cœur de Paradoxie.

« Où sommes-nous ? » demanda Mila.

Elyas consulta son astrolabe. Les aiguilles tournaient à reculons, puis s’arrêtèrent sur une inscription en kanji ancien.

« L’An de la Lame Silencieuse. C’est une époque qui n’a jamais existé. Un nexus alternatif… verrouillé dans une boucle. »

Un bruissement. Une silhouette les observait depuis une falaise surplombant la vallée.

Un homme vêtu d’une armure noire incrustée de sabliers. Son kabuto portait une crête en forme d’horloge fracturée.

Le Shogun des Boucles.

Il descendit sans bruit, les pieds effleurant le sol.

« Gardien. Messagère. Vous marchez dans un rêve d’acier. Pourquoi êtes-vous ici ? »

Mila s’avança. « Nous sommes venus refermer cette faille. Le Cœur de Paradoxie alimente ce monde. Il faut l’éteindre. »

Le Shogun hocha la tête.

« Vous ne pouvez l’éteindre. Pas ici. Car ici, je suis le Verrou. Chaque jour, la bataille recommence. Chaque nuit, elle s’efface. J’ai choisi cette boucle pour garder le Cœur éloigné des autres. »

Elyas fronça les sourcils.

« Tu es… un Rémanent ? »

Le Shogun retira son masque. Son visage était marqué de cicatrices temporelles.

« J’étais un Gardien. Le premier à défier Théron Valek. Il m’a laissé ce monde en prison. J’ai transformé cette malédiction en rempart. Mais à présent… il l’a trouvé. Il envoie ses agents. »

Une flèche de lumière fendit l’air.

L’un des Limiers de Paradoxe, soldats d’élite de Valek, traversa le portail en hurlant. Elyas brandit son arme. Mila activa son gant de stabilisation. Le Shogun dégaina sa lame. Le métal vibra dans l’air, produisant un son pur, ancien.

« Alors battez-vous, Draeven. Ici, chaque mort compte. Même celles qu’on revit cent fois. »

La bataille commença.

Des gardiens contre des Limiers.

Des samouraïs figés se mirent à bouger.

Le temps reprenait. Pour mieux se briser.

Chapitre 10 : Le Masque du Futur

Les tambours du néant résonnaient dans la boucle instable.

Le champ de bataille vrombissait de distorsions. Les Limiers de Paradoxe, armés de lames polychromiques, affrontaient Elyas, Mila, et le Shogun des Boucles dans une chorégraphie où chaque mouvement semblait avoir déjà eu lieu… et pourtant être nouveau.

Mila repoussait l’un des Limiers, sa paume irradiante de glyphes temporels.

« Ils apprennent à chaque boucle… » dit-elle en haletant. « Ils adaptent leur stratégie, même dans un monde figé. »

Elyas trancha l’air avec son bâton-chronos, bloquant une attaque venue d’une autre faille. « Alors il faut faire ce qu’ils ne peuvent prévoir. »

Le Shogun fit tournoyer sa lame dans un cercle parfait. « Un acte hors du rythme. Un désaccord dans la mélodie. »

Puis tout s’arrêta.

Littéralement.

Le champ de bataille gela.

Les lames, les cris, les vents, les battements.

Et du ciel se déchira un filament d’argent.

Une silhouette tomba lentement au centre de la plaine.

C’était Mila. Mais différente. Plus grande, plus fine, bardée d’artefacts futuristes. Ses yeux n’étaient plus bleus, mais dorés, parcourus de lignes de données.

Elle portait un masque de verre brisé.

Elyas recula. « Non… Mila ? »

La Mila à ses côtés haleta, se tenant le crâne. « Je… je ressens tout. Elle… c’est moi. Une projection future. Une version que j’ai évité de devenir. »

La nouvelle venue parla d’une voix douce, métallique.

« Je suis Mila. L’aboutissement. L’unique survivante de la Guerre des Temporalités… dans une ligne où Elyas meurt, et où l’Ordre tombe. »

Un frisson parcourut le champ de stase.

« Je viens vous avertir. Vous n’avez pas assez vu. Pas assez compris. Le Cœur n’est pas un artefact. C’est une germe. Il plante des réalités. Il pousse dans le chaos. Et Théron Valek… n’est que le jardinier. »

Elle tendit un disque d’obsidienne à la Mila actuelle.

« Ceci est un Noyau de Résonance. Syntonise-le avec ton Ancre Identitaire, et tu verras ce qui vient. Tu verras ce que j’ai vu. »

Elyas voulut l’en empêcher.

Mais Mila le fixa.

« Tu ne pourras pas la protéger éternellement. Il faut qu’elle choisisse. »

Un battement. Le temps redémarra.

La Mila actuelle inséra le disque dans son gant.

Son regard devint vide un instant.

Puis elle hurla.

Un cri de mille morts. Mille époques. Mille soi.

Elle s’écroula.

Le Shogun bondit en arrière, l’épée en garde.

Elyas tomba à genoux, serrant sa sœur.

Et dans le ciel, un sablier géant apparut. Son sable montait à l’envers. Il ne restait que peu de grains.

La voix de Mila s’évanouit dans les vents temporels.« Quand le dernier grain tombera… la Purge Temporelle commencera. Choisissez ce que vous êtes. Avant qu’on vous l’impose. »

Chapitre 11 : Le Fil de l’Éveil

La boucle tremblait. Les arbres inversaient leur floraison, les lames tombaient à l’envers, les cris devenaient des soupirs.

Elyas portait Mila dans ses bras, son corps secoué de spasmes. Le Noyau de Résonance encore actif pulsait contre sa paume, diffusant des visions qu’aucune conscience ne pouvait absorber seule.

Le Shogun des Boucles s’agenouilla, posant sa lame en signe de paix.

« Si elle reste ici, elle sera brisée. Le Noyau veut être déchiffré, mais cette époque est trop instable. »

Elyas leva les yeux vers le sablier géant suspendu dans le ciel.

« Alors on doit fuir. »

Un choc. Une faille s’ouvrit brusquement dans l’air. D’autres Limiers apparaissaient déjà, plus nombreux, armés de filets de stagnation et de projecteurs d’effacement.

« Par ici ! » cria le Shogun, déchirant un pan de sa cape pour révéler une petite sphère d’ambre.

Il la lança au sol. Un portail d’émergence s’ouvrit. Mais ce n’était pas un voyage vers une époque connue. C’était une échappée dans l’Entre-Trames - un espace situé entre les lignes temporelles, hors du contrôle de Valek et du Cœur.

« C’est instable ! » hurla Elyas.

« Mais c’est le seul endroit où elle pourra survivre. »

Mila, ou son écho, les observait encore depuis une fissure du ciel. Elle murmura, comme un lointain écho :

« Trouvez le Fil Originel… la première boucle. Là où tout a commencé. »

Elyas sauta dans le portail avec Mila. Le Shogun les suivit.

Et le monde s’effondra derrière eu

Entre-Trames – Hors-Chronos

Un monde sans formes. Un vide vivant. Des fils d’argent couraient dans l’espace, suspendus comme des toiles de mémoire. Ici, les pensées devenaient lumière. Les souvenirs, des passerelles. Et les regrets, des armes.

Elyas déposa sa sœur au creux d’une sphère protectrice. Mila dormait, mais dans son esprit, des voix murmuraient encore.

Le Shogun observait.

« Elle est à la frontière. Si elle accepte la totalité du Noyau, elle verra ce que tu n’as jamais osé voir, Elyas. Le passé que même les Gardiens ont effacé. »

« Le Fil Originel… » murmura Elyas. « Tu sais où il se trouve ? »

Le Shogun acquiesça lentement.

« Oui. Mais c’est un lieu interdit. Un point d’origine. Là où les premiers voyageurs ont percé le Voile. Et scellé… un pacte. »

« Avec qui ? »

Le Shogun ferma les yeux.

« Avec le Temps lui-même. »

Dans la sphère, Mila ouvrit les yeux.

Et une seule phrase s’échappa de ses lèvres, calme, mais glaciale.

« Je sais où aller. Je l’ai vu. Le Pacte du Commencement. »

Elle regarda Elyas.

« Et il porte ton nom. »

Chapitre 12 : Le Pacte du Commencement

Ils franchirent le seuil.

Pas un portail. Pas une faille. Un lieu.

Le Fil Originel.

C’était un espace sans horizon, tissé d’une lumière douce et pulsée, comme si le monde respirait. Sous leurs pas, des dalles transparentes renvoyaient leurs reflets — non pas tels qu’ils étaient, mais tels qu’ils auraient pu être.

Mila s’arrêta. Elle se tenait droite, calme. Le Noyau de Résonance avait trouvé son centre en elle.

« Ce lieu… il ne répond à aucune époque. Il est l’Époque. »

Le Shogun baissa la tête. Il ne pouvait avancer plus loin.

« Je m’arrête ici. Mon existence est un résidu. Le Fil ne supporte pas les anomalies. »

Elyas et Mila poursuivirent.

Devant eux, une porte. Aucune serrure. Aucune poignée. Seulement une inscription, gravée en alphabet Draeven archaïque.

“Tu fus. Tu es. Tu seras. Et tu ne seras plus.”

Elyas tendit la main. La porte s’ouvrit. À l’intérieur, un cercle. Des silhouettes, figées dans le cristal. Des Gardiens. Le tout premier Conseil.

Et au centre, un pupitre. Sur lequel reposait un artefact ancien.

Le Pacte.

Un rouleau d’or pur, vivant. Il pulsait au rythme de l’univers.

Mila s’en approcha.

Elle lut les mots, à voix haute.

« En ce jour, nous, Gardiens du Premier Fil, forgeons un serment.

Nous limiterons le temps, pour éviter sa ruine.

Mais si un jour, un cœur pur et fracturé arrive ici, porteur du Verre et du Cœur…

Alors le choix lui appartiendra.

Celui de libérer le flux… ou de tout recommencer. »

Un silence.

Elyas serra les poings. « C’est donc cela. Tout ce que nous avons fait. Tout ce que nous avons protégé… n’était qu’une attente. »

Mila se tourna vers lui.

« Non. C’était un chemin. Et maintenant, il faut choisir. »

Elle posa sur le pupitre l’Ancre UNUM, le fragment du Verre Fendu, et le Noyau de Résonance.

Trois artefacts.

Trois volontés.

Le Pacte s’ouvrit.

Deux symboles brillèrent.

L’Ouverture : Le relâchement du flux temporel, la libération de toutes les lignes, pour que le temps vive par lui-même.

Le Scellement : maintenir le contrôle, préserver l’équilibre, au prix de tout. Mila ferma les yeux. Puis les ouvrit. Et posa sa main sur le symbole de l’Ouverture.

Conclusion :

Un Temps Nouveau

Le monde bascula. Mais ne se brisa pas. Les époques se réorganisèrent. Le passé ne fut pas effacé, mais rendu accessible.

Le futur cessa d’être un point fixe. Il devint… vivant.

Les Gardiens perdirent leur monopole.

Le temps devint conscience partagée.

Elyas Draeven reposa son bâton. Dans l’Entre-Trames, il errait désormais comme le Tisseur Libre, un guide pour les voyageurs du flux.

Mila, elle, fonda l’Académie des Lignes Mobiles, une école où l’on apprenait à vivre avec le temps, pas à le contraindre.

Théron Valek disparut. Ou peut-être fut-il réabsorbé par le Cœur qu’il avait tant convoité.

Quant au Shogun… on dit que, parfois, dans des boucles anciennes, on l’aperçoit encore. Gardant les mémoires oubliées.

Et dans la crypte du Verre, scellée à jamais, une voix résonne doucement, comme un battement d’horloge.« Le temps n’est plus à réparer. Il est à rêver. »