#she is sharp and she is violent and she matches his ambition and she is not disappointed in him

[violetsarepurple-fuckyou]

Me: look, Colindeli probably isn’t going to happen and I gotta brace for that and not expect the most dramatic and romantic scenes with them in the future...

Lou Wilson in the Adventuring Party: I THOUGHT ABOUT SAYING THAT AFTER LEAVING THE BOAT THAT COLIN SET UP FOR THEM BEFORE THEIR BREAKUP, DELI CARVED A SCAR INTO HIS CHEST WITH COLIN’S KNIFE AS A REMINDER NOT TO LET ANYONE GET THAT CLOSE AGAIN! MAKE AN ANIMATION OF DELI SITTING IN A DARK ROOM CLUTCHING THE DAGGER TO HIS HEART WHILE LINCOLN PARK MUSIC PLAYS! FIVE YEARS LATER AFTER REPLACING COLIN WITH KARNA AS HIS SKALD, BEING ABSOLUTELY BRUTAL IN WAR EXACTLY THE WAY COLIN COULDN’T STAY FOR, AND NOW FINALLY ARRIVING AT THE CULMINATION OF HIS AMBITION, DELI STILL HAS THE FUCKING KNIFE!!!

What the fUUUCK?!?!! (read the tags)

[senatushq]

"You are wrong. The Gods abandoned you a long time ago. There's no way you can win." - Fenrir

The Six were back. At least, that’s what some people thought. Aegnor caught a glimpse of Titania in her prime, cheering amidst the crowd as vines of shadow wrapped around a competitor and strung them upside down. Rhiannon heard Ezekiel’s voice whooping from the stands as her blade of mage’s bane cut through a witch’s spell. Hakan caught a glimpse of his progeny and Rowan asked his flavor of the week what they wanted to drink and heard Gabriel’s voice: “Liquid courage,” when Rowan turned towards it, he saw Gabriel's face, but once he blinked, the dhampir was gone.

Lucas was feeding some stray cats as he prayed to the Gods for good fortune in the fights to come. Muttering under his breath, Marisol asked if he was talking to himself again, but when he looked up he only caught a glimpse of her smile before the reaper was gone. Uriel was waiting for Logon to come back with something warm when Adatiel sat down beside him; she asked, “Who’s up next?” But when Uriel turned to look at his sister Death, no one was there but Logon approaching with mulled wine. Sat alone in the beer tent, Efigenia enjoyed a quiet glass of red alone; naturally, she’d conjured it from home because she would not be drinking the lycan swill or the milkbone-enriched variant from Old Frascati. Her glass, nearly empty, a hand moved and refilled it for her. Efigenia noted signature cufflinks and the suit that went along with them. She didn’t look, but when she mumbled her gratitude, she heard Kaan’s voice. “You’re welcome.” 

Echoes. Memories of the departed lingered about the event. The Six were gone but refused to be forgotten. Family, friends, and strangers alike caught glimpses of them over the days; they heard their voices, felt their hands at the back, or felt the warmth of their presence, but only for a moment.

ooc info:

Everyone with connections to The Six (and those without) would have at least caught a glimpse of them at some point; we love pain.

Post on the 23rd will tie off the smaller events from Day 3

Post on the evening of the 24th will announce the finalists in the Alpha Gauntlet

Post on the morning of the 25th will announce the next Alpha of Lupercal.

See below the winners of the All-Fighter Tournament, The Singles Gauntlet, and the First Round of the Alpha Tournament.

Open Lycan Gauntlet

*Bragging rights and Free Drinks for 1 year at All Fours

Jovial, fun, and good-natured fun among lycans. The gauntlet opened exclusively to lycans, and saw them balance on wooden beams hammered into the ground. This was Alek's idea because he thought it'd be funny if someone fell and cracked their head; he also forgot that he'd signed up for the fight.

Napoleon tackled Carmine early on, and the two fell, making out when they hit the ground. Connor claimed to have better balance than Anders, but with one sharp shove, down he went. Regina and Flora seemed to be the only two people taking it seriously until Tripp threw a stick, and Regina lost her balance when she had to duck it. Lucas's shoes came untied, and Damian was still weak in the knees from the events surrounding Lupercalia. Lain was still recovering from the day before and ended up keeling over as soon as the gauntlet began.

One by one, they fell like dominoes until only Flora was left standing.

Alpha Gauntlet (Round 1)

Enriched by the emissaries' powers and the Lupo pack's joint ambitions, those competing for Alpha were compelled to put their all into it. Violent, brutal, and relentless, the person who would ultimately win the Alpha Tournament would be someone destined and deserving for the position chosen by the Fates themselves.

All eyes were on Lain to see if he would pull something out like he had in the preliminary round, instead he got the shit kicked out of him by Serkan. As slicked up as Kayce was in olive oil, he was no match for Adamo who seemed suspiciously good at wrangling greased-up men. The unexpected arrival of Anders from the Tana Pack made him an instant crowd favourite, while some people didn't understand what they saw in those vacant eyes it wasn't his face that they were looking at. After beating Flora he quickly lost the crowd's favour.

Eric was ready to give Alpha the old college try but was dragged up and down the ring before they were tossed into the stands. Davhy had something to prove, Sehanine's chosen lythari, first blessed in an age; he dedicated the fight to Moonbow and while the crowd grumbled and rolled their eyes they looked on with some amazement as the lythari transformed and then beat the shit out of The Noble.

Remus wasn't a lycan unless he wanted to be, people didn't really know what would happen if he won Alpha but it didn't seem fair. He transformed into a dragon, tossed Nidhogg a wink, and then flung The Rancor comically far. Max thought that he'd have it easy fighting Aurea, but he was wrong, and the fight was over before he even had a chance to shift - his arm broken as a clear reminder. Jerry (an omega who'd been kicked out of his pack for being weird) fought Nash and it didn't really go well; the draegloth transformed, tore the lycan in two with his four arms, ate his heart, and then pissed on the body in front of everyone. Nash whistled as he did before he shook a leg and walked off. Smell ya later.

All Fighter Gauntlet

*winner receives bragging rights and free waffles for 1 year at the Waffle House

Once again, Remus strode into the arena, ready to lay waste to yet another competition. The fighters that had stepped forward were all some of the strongest and the best of the best. The fairgrounds could not contain the altercation that spilled forward as any laws that might have bound the fighters outside of Lupercalia held no bearing now. Lycans battled against dragons and fought against archfiends, demigods, aspects, fallen aasimar, and drow alike. Sorcerers were embedded and enriched with magic, fortified by changelings, and outside forces. There were no restrictions; the last person still standing would be declared the victor.

Remus was a seasoned veteran of one of the most significant wars the mortal realm had ever seen, an heir of Mars reborn through Abyssal magic. Horus, the son of Lathander the Morninglord, the greatest warrior of the Seldarine, and a force that had not been seen for thousands of years. In the end, they were the only two left standing; Remus prepared himself to copy the other's power to add Horus's ability to the aspect's long list of abilities he had gathered today. Fenrir. Sathanas. Morgana. Nidhogg. Abaddon. The list went on and on.

Horus's wings spread wide as authority manifested over the God, and Remus burned. Scorched through by divine fire and incapacitated as the crowd roared Horus's name.

Gladiator Tournament (Singles)

*All inclusive spa package for one at the local bathhouse, complete with a happy ending

Disaster. Absolute disaster. The tournament was meant to be contained exclusively to the fairgrounds, however, things quickly got out of hand. Akephaloi, aeternae, demogorgons, eidolons, hellhounds, kelpies, golems, stymphalian, and wyverns ran wild went they broke out of their enclosures. As it turned out, the lycans of Lupercalia knew absolutely nothing about the storage and care of supernatural creatures.

Fair was fair though, so only those competing in the singles tournament were allowed to hunt down the creatures and either slay them or incapacitate them. New rules were hastily rewritten so the person with the most kills or captures would win.

For an hour, chaos ran wild as the hunters went to work; in the end, there was a tie between Nidhogg, Sathanas, and Octavian; a three-way fight was held, and with his flames, the archdruid stood as the victor.

[oldfacesnewdawnoffical]

Whats Laurelstorm’s family situation like? (Sorry if this has already been asked)

Note: Although many families in OFND have some degree of drama, the ThistleSnow situation is not to be read as though I am glorifying their relationship. I loathe canon Thistleclaw, and although I have revamped his character entirely, he is still not a good person and shouldn’t be read as such; what he and Snowstorm had was not healthy, and should she have lived past the honeymoon phase of their relationship, I’m sure that Snowstorm would have eventually collected her senses and left him… but that’s a hypothetical for another day.

Born within a moon of each other, Thistleclaw and Snowstorm led drastically different lives - their similarities ended at their upbringings, both born into broke families that ultimately ended up fueling similar ambitions.

For Snowstorm, she was raised primarily by her kind, soft, infinitely loving mother, detached from her father’s influence in every sense but by name and blood alone. Due to their drastically different personalities, Snow and Rain (both named in light of their sire, Blizzardtail) often bickered and butted heads; Rainfall, even as a very young kit, was seemingly unable to do anything but follow her head, be analytical and sharp to a fault, whereas Snowstorm was the exact opposite, brash and bold with a tendency towards leaping before she looked. In the wake of Dovecloud’s death, both sisters sank even deeper into their own respective mindsets, and further away from each other, as Rainfall lashed out at Blizzardtail, and Snowstorm found comfort in her peers and in honing her skills - especially with Thistleclaw.

Thistleclaw’s dame died giving birth to him and his littermates, resulting in the trio being raised primarily by the sovereign of the time. While growing up with no solid parental figures impacted each differently, as Nettlewhisper was firmly not part of their life and Dappledfur wanted nothing to do with them, Thistleclaw was the runt of the litter, and it showed in his personality. Withdrawn, unsociable, and with a tendency towards horrific mood swings, Thistleclaw felt out of place compared to his littermates, so, rather than try to follow their examples of being bright and eager to please, he hung in their shadows. Always padding after them, he considered himself to be incredibly close with his littermates - though the sentiment wasn’t always echoed back at him in turn. On the cusp of receiving their full names, famine struck, claiming the life of Pear and shocking Thistle into a state of horrified, manic near-obsession with his remaining sibling, doing his best to stay close and bat back anyone that might threaten Maple.

It was only then that Snowstorm stepped in, partially because she was concerned for the friend she had gained in Maple, and partially because she felt empathy for Thistle, who had had someone so close to him ripped away so violently. She knew what it felt like. The two didn’t become close right away; Thistleclaw actively avoided Snowstorm, but she was clever and had come up with creative ways to coax him out of his patched-up shell. And with the added effort between them bloomed a friendship, and within that friendship bloomed codependence. Snowstorm could soothe Thistleclaw’s anxieties in a way that no one else seemed to be able to, and Thistleclaw kept Snowstorm’s temper in check and matched her energy effortlessly, but what they had bordered blatant obsession with one another. It wasn’t healthy, but in their eyes, even if they acknowledged that as a fact, did it even truly matter all that much?

They mutually wanted children, to have a family together, forged from them and not their past. And thus, Laurelstorm was born - a lone-born runt. The two adored their child, adored their little family, and in this time, Thistleclaw was overjoyed. He showed his kit off to his sister at every chance he could, would always make a beeline for the nursery after every patrol, and shamelessly pestered Featherwhisker for her advice and input should anyone near the nursery so much as sneeze. He took Snowstorm’s place in the nursery once their kit was weaned, as he knew the restless energy thrumming through her, and doted on their child even more, telling her stories of her brave and powerful mother to pass the time until she returned. But of course, this couldn’t last forever, and one evening during a patrol, Snowstorm didn’t return until much later, dragged back to camp by her sister, with her leg having been sliced open chasing a Fenlander off their territory, already visibly blackened and infected with the darkpathpad illness. For days, Snowstorm fought her injury, fought for life, with Thistleclaw never leaving her side, leaving the care of their kit to Mapletail. But alas, Snowstorm withered away over the rapid course of days and eventually succumbed to her infection, and Thistleclaw snapped.

He was consumed by his grief. He became an angry, bitter, horrible shell of his former self. He didn’t listen to orders from his higher ups, snapped at anyone who tried to approach him, and stopped caring for himself. He refused help, and simply melted away into his grieving. It was only moons later that he showed any signs of “recovery” - his mind seemed clearer, but his underlying aggression and grief still remained. He watched Laurelstorm grow up from afar, and did nothing to help soothe her when her beloved mentor, Rhema Pineheart, was labeled a traitor and banished. In an effort to pull him out from his slump further, Songfall gave him Spottedpaw as a ward, in the hopes that her gentle, cheery disposition might do well for them both, but he couldn’t care less. He was impatient, irritable, and outright cruel, issuing unusual punishments to a young cat who knew no better. He didn’t even bat an eye when she showed signs of magic and was whisked away into the position of augur, simply glaring after her wake from the shadows with baleful eyes. He retired after that, properly, to the depths of the historian’s den.

While he seemed to gain clarity in the short moon that marked the end of his life, reaching out in a desperate attempt to mend his relationships, Laurelstorm rejected him. She had grown up alone, her life one tragedy after another, pushing away the soft, hazy memories of her earliest days when her family was a family, and she didn’t intend on continuing on any differently just because the twisted cat who sired her decided he wanted to do “better” far too late.

Too young to attend Snowstorm’s funeral, Laurelstorm made an active decision not to attend Thistleclaw’s.

[sassooda]

Worlds Away JJK AU / Chapter 37 - Destined for Greatness

w/c - 7,731

               Suguru has been lying in bed for hours now as his mind wanders through his past and imagines different scenarios for the future. He sighs as he tosses and turns for the thousandth time, facing away from his door while his gaze takes to his new quarters that are viewable from this angle. This is by far the cheeriest room he has ever called his own. The walls are a warm yellow, the floors of solid hardened red clay and all of the matching furniture a light wood. His eyes take to the closed curtains with long thick white drapes, ‘This is so fucking annoying…’, he mumbles knowing there’s not even a window behind it, there’s no way for there to be when you’re underground. Sitting up now with aggravation, he reaches over to the bedside table and places the bowl of water he was using the night before, back into his lap. He wants to check in on Elska’s surroundings although he knows other Titers are tasked with the enemy’s usual surveillance. Before activating his technique though, he hesitates due to anxiety, ‘What the fuck am I going to do when we take her? What the fuck will she do?’. He hears footsteps approaching his door and knows Genghis must have already finished with most of the arrangements.

               “Little one! Time to wake up!”. Genghis calls out in an eager voice. He stops and smiles when he sees that Getou is already awake and asks, “Aren’t you excited about today?”. He looks over the worrisome Suguru who’s vexation is transparent. The golden sheets drape along his body and slide from his bare skin whenever he moves under them.

               Getou grumbles and turns his head, “I don’t think what I’m feeling is excitement…”. He keeps looking at the curtains that hide lies while wondering if he’s much different. ‘Will I have to subdue her when she lashes out? Am I going to have to hurt her when she resists?’. He’s had no qualms with doing so in the past but feels an incredible amount of pressure regarding it now. ‘Could we…like each other?’.

               Genghis chuckles and ignores Suguru’s reluctant attitude while looking around the room, “This is definitely much more suitable! Did you really put in a request for a giant tub though?” He’s poking fun at his pupil but he was also puzzled by that. Genghis thinks the brighter room will serve them both well psychologically. ‘Not too shabby for being done at the last minute.’.

               Embarrassed by the question, Getou submerges deeper into his bad mood and bed before retorting, “It’s for me. I’m tall.”. He was certainly not about to admit that it was for Elska, thinking she really must love them judging by how insane Naoya acted about it when the Zenin originally designed the first room where she was held. Suguru is aware that her reaction may be hostile overall and is dreading these coming days because of it so he hopes having one may ease her nerves. He doesn’t know that tub is Naoya’s thing.

               Genghis isn’t really satisfied with that answer but continues on, “I’ve gathered the most adept offensive fighters we have to offer.” Knowing the Titer’s abilities are incredible but lack in the area of traditional combat, selecting the most capable available would be crucial. “I believe you’ll quite enjoy my plan…”. His teeth show in this smile now, he’s more than willing to share his enthusiasm.

               Suguru finally turns to his mentor, interested. “Do tell me what you’ve concocted.”.

               Genghis lights up, “So as we were discussing, we need to restrict their actions. We will make our move in a public setting but you’ll still be able to have your fun...we will have to harm innocents but I assume that’s not what troubles you.” He grins maniacally, “Mr. Satoru Gojo’s presence will be requested before the Elders here in a few and his curiosity will assure he attends.”. Genghis sighs, “I was worried Gojo might want to kill all of them but I brought in two special people to mediate our fictitious ambitions.”. He chuckles, “The silver shaman has no idea what’s in store for him.”.

               Getou smirks at the thought of Gojo having the rug pulled from beneath him, “So we’re planning on having to deal with Toji, Zenin and Choso…aside from her today?” Genghis nods to his question but a heaviness forms in Suguru’s chest when he thinks about having to kill Choso. He’s still not on board with that completely and figures he’ll try his best to protect the hybrid in the midst of confusion. ‘Not him too.”. Getou wishes to find a way to bring the hybrid back to his side.

               Genghis claps his hands, causing his yellow robes to flutter, “You better get up and get ready! I’m about to meet with our team. I believe your first sweetheart will be amongst them.”, he chuckles for the drama but honestly loathes that woman.

               “Lidia?”, Getou stiffens immediately as that did not help his motivation. “She’s fucking crazy Master Genghis, I don’t want to be anywhere near her!”. Suguru takes his head to his hands as a few memories of her dependency and inhumane behavior flood him. ‘Psychotic bitch.’. Lidia always chased after Suguru when they were younger and at some point this wore on him as before he knew it, she was claiming them to be betrothed. She was obsessed with his destiny, his calling for the clan and would worship him in the most toxic ways due to it. Her need to be the only one in Getou’s life caused her to mutilate young women amongst Suguru’s outer circle out of spite and jealousy. Their time together did not last long as it quickly became a violent pairing, ending with him crushing her ribs under his usual technique. Suguru sighs, “She’s is not going to help me obtain another woman…”. He shudders recalling how after healing, she was back to throwing herself at him as if nothing happened. ‘Fucking…crazy…’.

               Genghis hides his sneer, knowing full and well the history of the two. “On the contrary, she requested this assignment.”. He notices Suguru’s growing frustration and wishes he could explain exactly why he’s doing what he’s doing but instead says, “I’ve seen many outcomes for this and although they may have varied, I can assure you Lidia will serve a great purpose here.”. Little does Getou know, Lidia will be the proof offered to show Elska she will be cared for while in the Titer compound.

               Suguru is skeptical to believe this and shows it through his expression as he rises from the bed and says, “Women are the bane of my existence…”. He stretches in his black briefs and cracks his neck while thinking something foreboding was eating at him. ‘I’m probably going to have to expose my other techniques now.’.

               “You’re about to receive the most powerful wife in the world…and yet, you complain.”, Genghis teases as he’d probably be nervous too if the roles were reversed. He watches Suguru don a black robe, clearly showing signs of stress so he walks up to him and puts his jokes aside, “This is going to work out, little one, one way or another.”, and pulls Getou’s head down to plant a fatherly kiss to the top of it. After sharing the rare moment, he bows and leaves Suguru to his morning routine.

               Getou watches him quietly walk out of the room with conflicting emotions. Genghis is the only man he’s ever looked up to, the only other human that ever offered genuine affection. Ever since Suguru was reunited with his mentor though, something has felt off or perhaps he’s just seems more purposeful. He’s not sure if this odd feeling is because of his own unstable emotions that threatened to derail his purpose of revenge or if there’s another reason but he can’t ignore it either way. He trusts that his mentor is still worthy of his respect and recognition though and finds his returning welcomed regardless. ‘All of those years…’, he wonders where Genghis spent his time and exactly why. ‘Did they really keep him away to simply foster my hatred for Gojo?’. He knows that doesn’t really make sense.

               Genghis is turning a hall leading to stairs to take him upward. He sees two of the recruited Titers waiting for him outside of the designated meeting area at the top, smiles and nears them. The first one he shakes hands with is Sain Khun. The 32-year-old Titer was a remarkable martial artists and hunter. His rare eyes are more grey than blue and stand in contrast to his long black hair that he wears down. Sain is one of the handful of Titers that learned to channel their metaphysical natured abilities into to combative techniques but usually stays out of the political fray of the clan. ‘A fine young man.”. Before he’s able to address the handsome Titer, the second of the pairing cuts in.

               “Master Genghis, I have more questions about this woman.”. Lidia shamelessly exudes her opinion of the situation and demands attention. She receives a sharp look from the clan’s head that only fuels her suspicions. “Are we certain she’s the best pairing for Master Getou?”.

               “Miss Lidia, you look lovely today…”, Genghis takes her hand and kisses it, ignoring her inquires. He continues to smile until she speaks up again. ‘She never ceases.’.

               “Can we trust that her intentions for Master Getou are ones we can stand by?”. Lidia shakes her long curly red hair that dances down her arms. Her green eyes narrowed still, she waits for an answer. “She’s not even human. What if she uses her powers to manipulate his biology as well?”. Her foot taps impatiently against the now softer ground, ‘I’ll fucking kill that bitch if she even looks at him wrong!’.

               Genghis has already grown tired of catering to Lidia’s neediness in the short time they’ve come to know each other but understands she’s vital. “And what of your own intentions?”, he confidently questions her as he doesn’t need an answer. He already knows and is glad to see her heart hasn’t wavered from its possessive ways.

               Sain feels forced as this greet was supposed to be simple. He cares not of Lidia’s unhealthy interest for Suguru and even with his instincts crying against Genghis, feels badly for the man. He decides to enter the conversation in hopes to shut it down. “Lusting Lidia, it’s time to get on with the meeting.”, and grabs her arm, leading her through the door where the rest of the selected wait.

               Genghis takes a moment to center himself, ‘I understand your resentment little one…’. This quick exchange between them wasn’t the worst he’s suffered from the woman but he still cannot stand to be around her. He chuckles and whispers to himself, “But if she were any less obsessed, this wouldn’t work.”, and then enters the room with the rest as they lay out their plans.

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               Elska is looking around at the busy street as they occasionally bump into passing people. “My prince, are you sure it’s around here?” She’s never been to this part of the city before and is feeling anxious by the crowd. The sun is out but a chilling breeze catches them every so often. Her mind is heavy and plagued with questions but doesn’t want to dampen Naoya’s mission for the day.

               Naoya stops near the edge of the wide sidewalk and pulls out his phone, “I’m positive!”, while checking the map to make sure he could stand by those words. ‘Where is it?’. His brow creases as he studies the screen.

               Toji huffs, “We’ve been walking forever.” He’s abnormally agitated but also hates crowds and is pinning the fault on being dragged out into one. He looks at Elska who’s eyes happen to meet his and feels his tension release ever so slightly as the wind blows her black V-cut dress along her knees. All of them are dressed up more than usual since Naoya begged for them to eat at one of his favorite restaurants. He sees Elska eyeing him in a way that foretells she finds his black pants and squeezing button up suiting and it makes him feel like he could deal with the clothed restriction for a while longer.

               “It says we’re close!”, Naoya points to the map on his phone pridefully. It’s been a few years since he was on this side of the city and a lot has changed. He’s becoming frustrated with not knowing how much time they’ll have before Gojo returns, wanting to enjoy some normalcy. ‘I just want to treat her to nice meal!’ He turns to Elska and takes her hand, “Baby, I promise it will be worth it. I’m talking…food fit for a princess.”, when she giggles, he does too, being happy to see that she isn’t wanting to turn around. He looks to Toji now, “Want me to find you a walker?”, and snickers as the giant narrows his eyes before continuing ahead.

               Elska feels Naoya’s finger lace into hers as they resume walking, with Toji on her left. She’s trying to be cheerful today, wanting to appreciate the time she’s spending with them but her mind keeps leading her into thought. The night before, Toji stopped her from feeding and although she was aware of why and understood the risks Satoru spoke about, she tried to proceed anyway. There were a weird few minutes where she could only focus on drinking from her beloved and flailed wildly as he restrained her. ‘Why did it feel like I wanted the Titer energy too?’. She thinks to hold Toji’s hand as well in this moment but stops herself as she doesn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to the three of them. ‘He looked so concerned all while I couldn’t even stop…”. The ancestral voice advised her to feed. Her heart aches as she knows this was out of character and extremely selfish when they didn’t know how it could affect her. The one thing keeping her afloat in this matter is how Toji held her after she snapped out it, how he seemed to understand without saying that she didn’t mean to.

               Toji lets Naoya and Elska get a step ahead of him so he can keep his eyes on her. After their last outing, he’s remaining highly aware of their surroundings and is watching for anything suspicious. He sees Naoya in his dark grey slacks and black dress shirt, leaning down to talk to her as they maneuver through the groups of families and friends, keeping her close. ‘Is she really, ok?’. Toji recalls how she struggled against him the night before. Gojo tried to rush to the bed after seeing her reaction but Toji was also wanting to shield her from him. Her eyes changed, showing the dashes of his green while she clawed at his arms and flashed her fangs with a glare. Toji knew that wasn’t his Elska but didn’t want to make her apprehensive, so he hid her the best he could from Satoru until they reverted. He heard something from within while this was all occurring, a voice that he swears communicated for him to feed his master. ‘Is that even possible? What the fuck was that?’. He rubs his bicep after feeling a sharp pain run through his arm.

               Naoya leads them to a building that has loud club music playing inside, the base being noticeable from where they stand. He looks up and scrunches his face, “What the fuck is this?”. He checks his watch that bares 1:39 and is further confused by the daytime club scene. ‘I’ve failed.’. Toji can be heard groaning so he orients himself to face them both, “It was right here!!”. He takes in Elska’s kind smile as she’s clearly not going to make him feel bad for being wrong. Not knowing what to do to save their lunch adventure he stands there awkwardly to think but hears Elska say, “Well let’s enjoy a drink while we look up somewhere else nearby!”. He smiles at her ability to always find a silver lining and follows behind her up the ramp that leads inside.

               As they walk through the room on the first floor, Toji feels this intense wave wash over him. Music is drowning out most other sounds but the way the bass pulses through him allows him to feel alive. The stench of cigarettes, sweat and alcohol sting his senses while they find a seat at the bar. Once sitting, he can smell Elska’s perfume when she whips her hair behind her shoulders, exposing her neck to which causes him to stir in the stool. Naoya hands out drink menus from them all but Toji doesn’t even look at it, knowing his order already and wanting it immediately. He feels ready to pounce but is cautiously calming himself as he knows this is not the place, ‘I am NOT Gojo…’. When she crosses her legs he feels the sting in his arm again, bringing his mood back to a wavering position.

               “I’m thinking a red…’, Elska states loud enough to be heard while looking over the wine menu. Naoya smiles to her words as he announces his choice of Mojito. “That’s why you’re so sweet!”, she jokes vaguely in regards to his actual taste. She places a hand on Toji’s right knee before turning to him and feels him jump. Her voice now concerned, “Did I scare you!?”. She giggles until she sees the intensity in his eyes, wondering why he’s exuding so much right then. Her breath was held in her throat as she waited for his eyes to glow, knowing that would not be good for where they are. They never do though and she eventually resumes respiration as he places his own large hand over hers. ‘What was that?’. She now swivels her head around the large room, taking in all of the day drinkers on the dance floor and seated randomly about.

               The bartender takes their orders with a smile and begins to serve them up right there. He recommended a red for Elska that he swears was his personal favorite and proudly waited for the approving sip. When she stated its palatability, he then left to attend other customers while Toji stared him down menacingly. ‘That’s a brave man to be flirting right in front of us.’.

               Naoya sips his drink while eyeing Toji chug his whiskey on the rocks. “Slow down old man, we still have to go somewhere to eat!”, he laughs at the eyeroll he receives and notices Elska drinking pretty quickly as well. “Baby, what’s on your mind?”, he knows something is bothering her and wonders if they’re both just nervous after the last Titer attack. ‘Maybe I can convince her to dance it away!’, he thinks as he imagines himself twirling her under the disco ball. He just wants her to have a good day.

               After finshing her glass already, she sets it down and tells Naoya, “I’m fine, I promise! I just really have to pee!”. He chuckles and adjusts himself so she has more room to slide off the stool. She announces that she’ll be right back before searching the walls for signs indicating the direction she should take. A drunken man bumps into her shortly after leaving the bar and can feel Toji increase his presence so she turns around to show that she’s fine. The whole room was lively except for Toji’s motionless staring. ‘I better be fast before he loses his shit.’.

               “She shouldn’t be alone.” Toji followed her with his eyes as she turned a corner down a hall. He’s worried about her and has this familiar unyielding need to be in her vicinity. It’s almost as if he knows something is about to happen. “I’m going to wait for her, watch the drinks.”. He hears Naoya protest with grief but faces him and says, “Boy, why don’t you find us a place to eat since we’re out here because of you.”, and places a hand on Naoya’s shoulder as he goes to walk past to counter the aggression in his voice. “Order another round too will ya?”.

               Elska stands up in the stall and flushes but doesn’t leave. She’s feeling like Toji’s eyes were trying to tell her something minutes ago but she can’t figure it out. All she knows is that it was sexy. She opens the latched door to wash and dry her hands but takes in her reflection in the mirror and thinks, ‘Life is so much crazier now…’, but smiles to herself knowing she had fantastic support from everyone. The door pushes open abruptly behind her and she gasps in startlement before realizing that it was Toji himself. “TOJI! What if there are others in here?!”. She can tell by his focus though that it didn’t matter anyway.

               “Doll…” he mutters as he locks the door behind him. He sees that she was caught off guard when she asks what he was doing in there but he just walks closer until he’s inches away. “I need…”, he lifts her up so she can wrap her legs around his waist and supports her weight with his right arm. “I need you.”, he whispers while dragging the tip of his nose along her collar bone, watching her skin change pigment from his glowing eyes. Her hands are roaming through his hair and he moans to the sensation of her nails against his scalp. “Right now.”. He nearly growls as he sinks her into his groin from above.

               “Toji…”, she was right about his prior intensity but can’t find it in her heart to stop him as he begins kissing the crook of her neck. The music can be heard through the walls along with idle chatter and it all serves as a reminder for where they’re at. She thinks of her pheromones and instantly pulls herself out of their beautiful trance. She whispers, “We shouldn’t do this here, my beloved.”, and frowns as he lifts his head to meet eyes. “I can’t release them here, it’ll be a disaster…”.

               He agrees that they shouldn’t have sex and nods with a grunt but that’s not truly what brought him in lady’s room to begin with. Feeling his fangs form he shows them to her and happily takes in her reaction as she smiles and moves her hair while saying, “Oh! ok…but we have to be quick!”. He squeezes her cheek with his right hand that supporting her rear and drags his teeth across the skin of her neck. “I just need to taste you.”, he wantonly groans before biting down. She gasps to his intrusion and grips his hair as he begins to suckle. His own whimpers could be heard between his gulps, loving every drop he’s being given as he deciphers her soul and feelings. Her flavor, now that he’s not as overloaded by the information, is reminiscent of the aroma born from a field of flowers. Each time he swallows more of her blood, his overall restlessness fades while her squirming increases.

               Elska cradles his head into her while melting in the master’s ecstasy flowing through her. Her eyes are closed as she bites her lip and attempts to muffle her sounds. “My beloved…”, she whimpers to him while her fingers stroke through his hair. His hypertonicity dwindles as she feels his left hand travel up her back, resting a grip on the nape of her neck. “I love you, my beloved Toji…”, and gasps in desperation as she can sense his own, wanting to assure him of his importance. Those same fingers now dance along her clavicle as he brings them over the wounds to close them while panting into her neck. He leaves his face buried there, adorning the area with his lips slowly as he she can tell he’s gathering himself. “Do you feel better?” She caresses his temple and cheek hoping that he did, feeling terrible that she didn’t recognize or even sense his disposition sooner. When he lifts his head to look at her again, she feels the need to lock her lips to his as they both exhale in a gratified union. She moves the hair out of his eyes and kisses his forehead before he gently puts her back down, him looking refreshed with a bashful grin.

               He grabs a paper towel from the dispenser and wets it. In the mirror he can see Elska’s loving eyes watching him and the scar on the corner of his lips bends pleasantly. While wiping away any evidence, he shyly adds, “I love you too, doll.”, the words still seeming unreal. After discarding the bloodied paper towel, he takes up her hands in his own, “I’m sorry for following you in here, I just…I really needed to do that.”. He’s still uneasy by how compelling the desire was. “I felt like I wouldn’t get another chance.”. He sees the concern on her face and doesn’t want to worry her, “It was just time for me to feed doll, everything is ok.”. Her hand sails upwards to hold his cheek and leans into it. ‘I have to keep her safe.’.

               Naoya is watching the condensation accumulate on his glass and is now feeling nervous as he checks his watch again. ‘Where are they?!’, he swings around in the stool to check the room and feels an incredible wave of relief as he finds Toji and Elska making their way back to the bar. After they sit he asks, “Did you guys go to the bathroom at the dorms or what?”, but picks up on the weird laughs he receives from them. ‘He wouldn’t have tried something sly, would he?’, and squints his eyes at Toji. ‘He looks way better though.’, and decides to let it go as he’s sure even a quickie couldn’t be that quick. “Baby…”, Naoya slides his phone over in front of them as he finishes his second Mojito, “I’ve only been here once but they have beautiful seating along the water!”. He cackles, “…and it’s only about half a mile away by foot…”.

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

               Gojo is quickly walking through the whited-out halls with Choso following. He speaks without looking, “Choso, when we get in there…I have to warn you, you’re not expected.”. Gojo heard Choso stop in place so he turns around to see him. “You’re with me though so it’s fine! If they say anything to you, just ignore them. I will do the talking.”, and waves for the being to hurry.

               “I…I don’t understand why I’m here with you and not everyone else…”. Choso is familiar with the Elders but can’t ignore the fact that he used to work for them where as he’s now on the opposing side. ‘Is this a good idea?’. He was expecting Gojo to sulk and whine to being called in today and is puzzled by how thrilled he seems.

               Gojo jumps up to click his heels to the side before saying, “I don’t trust these cunts and I’m almost positive this is a trap of some sort…”. He notices Choso’s eyes widen with confusion so he continues, “If they’re trying to distract me from Elska, they fail if you’re there using your technique to watch her for me!”, his smug grin appears, “This way I’ll know the moment something happens.”. He’s sure the Elders have called him away in order to create an opportunity but has a mind to flip their plans upside down with this small act of rebellion. “I can never remember where to go! This shit all looks the same…it’s creepy.”.

               Choso sighs but tries to keep up with Gojo’s quickened pace. The bright lighting overhead is blinding and causing him discomfort as he prefers darker places. He doesn’t know what to make of Gojo’s explanation but figures he’s along for the ride at this point anyways. “Do you think they’d even admit to what they’re doing?”. Choso understands the amount of secrecy the surrounds the Elder’s goals and is sure that he’s not even fully aware of their intentions.

               “Yes. I will make sure they do.”, Satoru’s words are eerie but his expression is still delighted. “These fuckers have messed with us for long enough. They’re cowards, Choso and the things they want to do to my love are unacceptable.”.  Gojo is certain that none of the others would have condoned what he’s thinking he’ll have to do which is why he said nothing before leaving. “They need to leave her alone and how can I call myself the strongest if I can’t protect her from these witless skin bags?”. Satoru at least wanted to inform Nanami of his meeting but hasn’t been able to reach the fellow shaman yet. ‘Did they get to him too?’. Gojo is certain that something happened with Shoko but was waiting to see how things played out. ‘As long as she’s fine, I know she can handle it.’, but worries about Nanami’s reaction if he’s already discovered this too.

               ‘What is he going to do?’, Choso feels like something big is about to happen, something that cannot be taken back. The unnerving pressure in his gut hints that whatever it is, it’s not good. “Itadori and the others are still on standby but isn’t it odd that they haven’t been given any missions?”. They pass more rooms before Satoru finally stops. Choso watches the silver shaman’s expression change to lethally cold one before straightening himself with resolve, and knows he should do the same. ‘I guess I have to just trust him…’, the thought not sitting comfortably at all.

               Gojo quietly speaks, “Remember, don’t mind them, they’re not worth the stress. You do not serve them any longer.”, and places a reassuring hand on the hybrids shoulder. He’s impressed when he looks over the being, seeing that his previous nervousness has been cast away and replaced by a collected ensemble. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m right about him.’, and feels poised in the dark nature that lurks beneath Choso’s kindness. Turning back to the door, Gojo kicks it open fiercely before entering. “WHAT’S UP FUCKERS?!”.

               Three people sit along one side of a long white table, seeming prepared aside from the sudden commotion. The first is a representative of the Kamo clan, a new middle-aged face Satoru has never seen draped in dark red robes. The second is a Zenin, the bought errand man known better as “Peaches” for a less known reason. Gojo knew him rather well from his childhood and all of the clan events he was forced to attend. The third, however, catches Satoru by complete surprise and angers him. The woman sitting as a representative for his own clan is none other than his mother.

               Gojo seethes with white knuckled fists, “What the fuck are you doing here?”, as old anguish resurfaces between the two. Satoru hasn’t been home in years and purposefully. He was sure if he stayed any longer, he’d annihilate his own family.

               The Kamo rep scoffs, “Yes… well hello to you too Satoru Gojo. We could ask you the same.” He points to Choso, “Isn’t that Kamo property?”. The hybrid and Gojo fail to give him the time of day, causing tension.

               Gojo never takes his eyes off of his mother while waiting in silence as Choso dutifully ignores them. His eyes darken, “I asked you a fucking question you miserable old whore.”. He feels the urge to gather a technique but calms himself with his better judgement.

               His mother speaks, “That is no way to talk to the woman who raised you!”, she laughs in a haughty way but brings her dramatics to a close, “Why else would I be here? You can’t be left to just do whatever you please…”. She tilts her nose up and displays her notion that she is untouchable.

               Peaches shifts in his chair, “You have something that needs to be returned to the Zenin’s. Master Naoya was promised her hand.”. He’s honestly terrified of Gojo but would never allow this to show. Satoru darts stormy eyes in his direction and he feels a chill race down his spine.

               “Let’s just be frank about it. You want Elska.”. Gojo voice is calm, almost lighthearted. He brings his gaze back to his mother, feeling a little better about the situation knowing he’s going to handle more business than he expected today. “Choso, please start now.”. Gojo doesn’t have to look since he can feel Choso’s energy gathering to form the window. He watches the representatives lean to figure out what the hybrid is up to and laughs out loud. “My friend here”, He scowls at the Kamo man, “is going to observe Elska while we meet.”. He winks to Peaches, “She’s with Naoya right now for your information…Toji too.”.

               Gojo’s mother bursts into hyaena laughter, threatening to rupture the unsuspecting eardrums of the others. “You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? Such a pitiful child.”. Her long white hair waves in the air as she jerks her head to see Peaches’s perplexed expression. “Don’t believe him just because he speaks it…trust me…”, and folds her arms while thinking of how many more beatings her son should have to experience when younger.

               Peaches clears his throat and tries to save face, “Surely this is some kind of joke. Master Naoya loathes your very existence Satoru.”. He’s now chuckling to himself having felt it was a test of some sort, “Are we not on better terms than that of your games?”. He’s now sure it was a lie.

               Gojo regrets that Peaches is here today but is unable to overlook the fact that the old goat is in cahoots with this situation. ‘It can’t be helped!’. He turns to Choso now for the first time since they walked into the room and is reassured that nothing bad is happening. Now facing Peaches again, “You know… Zenin and I got off on the wrong foot.” He grins, “But now we have threesomes!”, loving the shock that plasters everyone’s face. The Kamo man choked on his own saliva to the mention. Gojo looks at his mother, “Don’t be upset just because no one wants to fuck you. It can’t be helped when your cunt leaks venom.”.

               Choso sits motionlessly as he listens to the meeting unfold, completely flabbergasted by Satoru’s way of speaking. ‘What did his mother do to him to make him hate her so much?’, he hesitates to explore the options in his mind as he can only imagine. Aside from that though, Choso has never witnessed such a display of blatant disrespect to the higher ups and is completely unnerved by the silver shamans ever changing composure. ‘What is he planning to do?’, the ominous feelings he’s experiencing from this are only growing at this point.

               Peaches is red with embarrassment, “HE WOULD NEVER DO THAT!”, and allows his anger on the matter to spill over. The representative huffs relentlessly to the accusations and feels disgraced for his ears being exposed to such vile talk. When expecting to see an angry Gojo, he’s further confused by the smile that meets him instead.

               Gojo runs his finger along the table as he casually saunters in front of each of them. “If you three decide to get rowdy…I’ll have to kill you.”. He basks in the glares and especially enjoys his mother’s fear as she knew he was not playing around. Once they become settled he says to her, “You being here makes you my enemy, mommy. How long have you been involved?”. She starts to swat his question away with a scoff but everyone leaps out of their skin when Satoru yells, “HOW FUCKING LONG?!”. He increases his presence tenfold and watches the representatives writhe in distress before him.

               She says nothing.

               The Kamo rep is sweating bullets as he’s only heard the tales of horrors committed at the hand of Gojo. ‘Genghis said nothing about this hostility.”, he thinks to himself as he comprehends that he’s bitten off more than he could chew. He’s afraid to peel his eyes away from the powerful shaman making inquiring demands but also wants to flee the room. ‘This guy is even crazier in person!’.

               Gojo takes a deep breath and exhales dramatically, “Well…this is going nowhere…”, and summons energy into his hand as he aims it at the Kamo representative. The nameless man cries out in fear and studders in his breathing. Gojo notices Choso jump to his feet but the being doesn’t say anything. Only when the defeated female voice utters, “3 years.”, does he quell his attack. He thinks about that answer for a moment before acknowledging her again. ‘That’s strange.’. Looming across from her he now asks, “I’d already had my love for some time before that, why did you join them to conspire against me at that point? Don’t make me blow this poor guy’s skull open…”, he warns of his lack of patience.

               His mother sulks in her seat having her hands tied about the questioning, “I thought she was a passing infatuation at first, like all of the others but you completely neglected your responsibilities of being an heir because of that wretch.” She’s met with unforgiving eyes and wishes she was able to smack the audacity out of him but has learned the hard way about his response to abuse. “She is not yours Satoru and you jeopardize the entire balance of the clans with your actions of keeping her.”.  Out of the corner of her eye she sees Peaches nod in support and feels reaffirmed by it.

               Gojo slips a wild laugh and slaps the table, “She is mine though. I voyaged worlds away to find her. I went to incredible lengths to bring her back…”, he sighs while resting his hands on his hips. “You do know, mom, these Titers that have you in their pocket…they were going to use her to assassinate me.”. The atmosphere of the room deteriorates at the mention of the Titer clan. Its obvious that they were left unaware to Gojo having knowledge of the group’s silent partner.

               His mother jumps from her seat and screams, “AND THEY SHOULD HAVE SUCCEEDED!”. All of the hatred she’s ever felt for her son sears the air around them, her chest feeling lighter for the honesty but heavier for the fear. “You were destined for greatness but even with your gifts, something is wrong with you! How you ever came out of me? I will never know…”. She feels she must stand her ground or else the structure they’ve served their entire lives will crumble. “You’re evil. You always have been.”.

               Choso is still watching Naoya, Toji and Elska but can’t help but be distracted by the darkness exuding Gojo. ‘What is going on here?’, he doesn’t understand how this is official business and even finds himself feeling defensive over Satoru. ‘That woman is appalling.���, he thinks as he considers Gojo’s upbringing and decides there’s more to the man than he ever considered. He looks back to the window after surmising that none of the representatives would attack. Choso becomes rattled when the window shows Toji drinking from Elska in a cramped bathroom, ‘I can’t believe the lighting permits this, it must be dim.’, He temporarily becomes fixated with Toji’s fangs anchored into her as she quietly moans. He’s not seen anyone but her feed before. ‘So, his bite feels good to her as well?’. He brushes his lap as if to tell it, “Knock it off”, but his attention is soon stolen by Peaches’s mention of Elska.

               “If you don’t return Elska Oda then this will be seen as an act of aggression Satoru, please…don’t do thi-…” Peaches can no longer speak as Gojo grips hit throat and is thrown into a fit of fright.

               “I kind of liked you…I was use to you at least…but if you ask me that one more time, I will break your fucking neck.” Gojo feels his face twitch as he squeezes the old man’s beard into his throat, “You guys are fucking with me today and I don’t appreciate it.”. Never letting go, he turns to his mother but also glances at the petrified Kamo rep, “I do not give a single flying fuck about the clans, I couldn’t care less of your archaic ways and I am never going to surrender my Elska.”. As Peaches reaches a critical point of needing air, Gojo clamps his fingers deeper, “I left my love’s side today to be here because of your guys’ little fucking Titer friends. That is what we will discuss.”.

               Gojo’s mother rushes to pull her son’s hand away but right as she’s reaching out, Satoru releases Peaches. She watches the old man heave and choke uncontrollably and shoots hateful eyes. “How dare you lay a hand on him? Do you fear nothing?”, she thinks to threaten with her husband but knows that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree so it’s likely useless.

               Satoru smirks while studying Peaches inability to regain his breath, “I crushed his trachea a bit, he’s going to need medical attention soon.”. He watches the Kamo man stand up in disbelief and warns, “My mother is right about one thing, I do not fear you or your influence.”, and smiles approvingly as the man takes his seat again hesitantly.

               “You psychotic little freak!”, his mother cries out in disgust, “We need to get him to a doctor!”. She feels herself fill with anxiety as she was not expecting him to go this far. “Let us take him!”.

               Satoru hisses quietly, “If you guys weren’t so dead set in dicking me around then this wouldn’t have happened. No one leaves until I get some answers.”. He strolls around the table, loving how terrified the Kamo representative became when he was close. He yanks up the suffocating Peaches and throws him back into his chair, “Have some fucking dignity…I thought better of you.”. When Peaches makes eye contact, he can see the dread wash over the man, knowing their dynamic has changed forever.

               The Kamo man speaks up sheepishly, “Wh…What is it that you want to know?”. He’s all for handing over the required information as he clearly cares about his life more than the others. Satoru’s expression softens as the other two representatives hang their mouths open, not expecting him to fold so easily. Gojo states, “Everything.”, which causes the rep to tense up as he doesn’t know where to begin. He hastily blurts out, “Suguru Getou inherited ancient techniques as well. The Titers are planning on taking the girl for themselves to ensure their supremacy.” He inhales sharply, “The head of their clan met his end by the hands of your company, they want to repay by being rid of you as you are their final target. You’re still too strong because of your infinity, so the girl’s fate was determined the moment you were born.”.

               “You… weak imbecile…”, Gojo’s mother retaliates to the sensitive information by pushing Peaches backwards causing him to fall to the ground and thrash violently. Without so much as a second thought, she gathers energy into her hand and expels it at the Kamo man’s mouth. The representative dons his own matching blood as his brain matter exits the back of his head, decorating the white surroundings behind him. Only a cavernous jagged hole remains where the words escaped him only seconds prior. His body slumps over the table as he leaks his remaining essence into a pool that shortly forms a dripping pattern to the white tiled floor.  

               Choso defensively stands as the black tattoo on his faces begins to wave. “Satoru…”, is all he says while watching Gojo’s mother now strain to lift the blue tinted and gasping Peaches back upright his seat. ‘His mother is just as rash…’. Choso waits for a few moments longer but is eager to gauge Gojo when their eyes finally meet. ‘Why does he look so satisfied?’, he questions himself as he’s met with that smug smile. The Zenin man’s eyes look like they may pop out of his head but Choso can still make out the man’s reaction to his own presence. He hears Gojo say, “Everything is alright Choso, don’t worry. Just watch them.”, but the being is unable to simply sit with ease at this time. ‘How is this alright?’.

               “And you wonder where I get it from?”, Gojo is irritated that the only man that was willing to talk is now dead but he’s also able to take the information to heart because of how his mother reacted. ‘So all of this really is because of me…’, he thinks of Elska with a heavy heart knowing all that she’s been through, even before he got his hands on her was his fault. ‘My love…I will make this right.’.

               Gojo’s mother now sits back down, wondering if she went too far and gave away their hand. Peaches struggles to speak next to her but she can make out that he’s trying to question the fidelity of the Kamo’s last words. She sighs, “Look Peaches, I like you but I’m siding with Genghis.”. Peaches gurgles himself into a purple hue as he still cannot breathe or talk properly. She understands that Peaches was completely ignorant to the Titer’s planned betrayal to the Zenins and calm says, “They’re not wanting to eliminate other clans, they’re just going to help guide us to this proposed peace, don’t worry so much.”.

               Peaches can only think of Master Naoya who he feels is in grave danger after hearing this information. ‘I…he has to know…Master Na…he needs to be made aware!’. He thinks to grab his phone but he wouldn’t be able to relay the information, nor is he fast enough to text it. Peaches chokes in his stress and can tell his body is slowly shutting down after being deprived oxygen and feels completely hopeless about his predicament. When his heavy eyes meet Gojo’s he freezes in apprehension while listening intently.

               Satoru sighs dramatically with growing anticipation, “Now…where were we?”.

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[succulentsunrise]

My Father Told Me - Nozel

Part Ⅰ | Previous | All | Next

Nozel is the heir of House Silva. He tried to understand his mother's will and his father's lessons.

Chapter 3 - Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

Warning: Child emotional abuse, children in danger

Word count: 2854

-❖-

Nozel has always been protective of his siblings. Part of it was in his nature, and a part has been carved into his being. When he was but twelve years old, he had already learnt that he was responsible for his siblings. If they misbehaved, it reflected badly also upon him. Solid was only a year old and as such, incapable of any dire misbehaviour. Nebra was the real problem. His younger sister had remained playful, but there was sharpness to it now. She had an opinion about everything and she pretended like she knew everything, making debates with her frustrating. Nozel would’ve rather hung out with Fuegoleon. The youngest of House Vermillion was still one of his closest friends, though they had long since noticed that their opinions didn’t always match. Still, their ambitions did, and it fueled their competitiveness. More than that, it was easy to complain about things with Fuegoleon. The older boy would whine about his older sister’s violent temper and slacking, and Nozel would tell stories of the latest pranks Nebra had pulled. However, father had made it abundantly clear that Nozel was to look after his siblings. His mother might be called to duty at short notice, and father was busy with his own work. Servants couldn’t be trusted. They were but insects. His father had made Nozel promise that he would take care of his siblings. He had felt a small amount of pride back then. After all, it meant father trusted him! Now, however, that trust felt more like a trap, and Nozel was stuck in it. A part of him wanted to go against it, to not care and to tell father in clear words that he would not. Yet the bigger part of him - the obedient, attention-starved son - wanted father to like him. To trust him.

Perhaps it was this recent rebelliousness and unwillingness that made Nozel argue with Nebra more often. In his opinion, she sought out those opportunities. She liked to frustrate him and only got angry if he truly got angry. He found her childish and would easily lose his temper. He would try not to show it, like father had taught, and to keep a straight face. Nebra, however, was exceptionally talented at prying that cold mask off of his face. She knew just where to prod and poke to infuriate him. At those times, Nozel wished he could’ve had a vacation from his little sister. This tense relationship came to its spearhead on a rainy evening. Mother had been called to a mission and father was away in a meeting. The children were alone, though not unsupervised: servants came occasionally to check up on them. Nozel and Nebra were in Solid’s nursery room, watching him happily moving toys around and occasionally biting them. Nozel had played with him for a while, decidedly ignoring his sister. It had been one of those days that they had bickered back and forth, and he was fed up with it. Nebra was in a further away corner playing with dolls. He had noticed bitterly that she had stolen one of his dolls - who cared if he didn’t play with it anymore? It was his, not hers! When he had confronted her about it, she had said that mother gave it to her, and that was that. With an annoyed sigh, Nozel pushed the tiny xylophone closer to Solid.

“Do you want to play music?” he asked, taking into his hand the wooden mallet. “Here, I can teach you a tune.”

Father had made sure he knew how to play at least something. His instruments were a bit more advanced than this, though. Nozel hit the wooden bars in a rhythm that seemed simple enough. Solid looked at him with wonder. While Nebra had had an angelic face as a toddler, Solid had kind of a plump cuteness to him. He was interested in everything, but didn’t really like to move. He liked when things were brought to him or when someone performed for him. So, when Nozel offered the mallet towards Solid, the young toddler stared at it intensely.

“Take it,” Nozel encouraged.

Solid hesitated, and then took the mallet. He inspected it thoroughly and turned it in his hands. Then, he imitated Nozel’s motion, hitting the wooden bars. A sharp, melodic sound echoed for a moment. Solid tried another one, then again another one in quick succession. He smiled proudly. Nozel shook his head a bit.

“No, you gotta hit this, then this, and then here,” he instructed.

Solid ignored him and continued to play the xylophone in random order. Nozel sighed. Maybe he should have expected it. Solid was too young to learn anything. Suddenly, he heard his name being said. Nozel turned to look where Nebra was playing with the dolls. She was talking with a slightly louder voice.

“--oh, Beatrice, you are so cuuute!”

Nebra was holding two dolls very close to each other, as if they were talking to each other. Nozel wondered what she was doing. Beatrice - was she talking about Beatrice Halle? She was the oldest daughter of a noble family that visited them occasionally. She was the same age as Nozel, so the two of them often walked around together, though obviously they had to drag Nebra along with them. Had Nebra merely borrowed the name for the doll? Her next words, however, dispelled this belief instantly.

“Oh Nozel, you are soooo dignified. Kiss me!” Nebra said with a higher voice than necessary.

Then she pushed the dolls closer to each other and pressed their faces against each other, making kissing noises. Nozel glared at her, irritated. She was making fun of him again.

“Stop that!” Nozel said angrily.

Nebra gave him the cheekiest smile a seven-year-old could. She did not stop.

“Ooo, Beatrice, I want to walk with you forever and marry you and have little babies with you!”

Nozel’s got up and walked up to Nebra. His face was red with anger.

“I didn’t say that! You are making it up!” he shouted.

“That’s what playing with dolls is for,” Nebra laughed at him.

There was a slightly mean twinkle in her eye. Nozel knew she was doing this on purpose. The bottled anger rose its head. He tried to keep a calm face and control himself.

“Play something else,” he demanded.

“I don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’m going to take the dolls away from you!”

Nozel reached for the doll that had represented him, but Nebra didn’t let go. She latched onto it further, her brow furrowing as her fun was being ruined.

“You can’t!” Nebra shouted. “You are just mean because it’s true!”

“It’s not true! I don’t even like her!”

“You can’t take it from me!”

They were both holding onto the doll, knuckles white and faces crunched in effort. Nozel tried to pull it away, but Nebra was surprisingly strong. He didn’t dare to pull too strongly in fear of breaking the doll.

“You’re going to rip it!” he accused her. “Let go!”

“No, I want to play with it! You’re stupid!”

Somewhere behind them, Solid had stopped playing the xylophone. Nebra pulled a little harder on the doll, almost tearing it from Nozel’s hands. He answered in kind, his fingers grasping the doll harder, hoping to pull it from her hands. Instead, the arm that he was holding onto ripped off. For a moment, both of them were quiet. They looked at each other in horror - in horror that quickly turned to anger.

“I hate you!” Nebra shrieked and threw the doll at him.

“I hate you! I don’t want to see you ever again! I wish you were gone!” Nozel shouted back at her, tears in his eyes.

Nebra froze for a moment, her small eyes widening. The angelic face looked for a moment hurt, and then the anger returned. She ran past him and into the corridor, her stomping footprints and crying echoing from the walls. Another cry joined it: Solid had begun to scream as well. Nozel threw the doll and the broken arm onto the floor and dried the tears streaming down from his cheeks. He hated Nebra! She was so irritating! So was Solid, with his screaming!

“Stop crying!” Nozel shouted at Solid.

The crying just intensified. A servant rushed into the room, summoned by the noise. The look on her face was worried. Nozel told her he was going to his room and stomped off, making sure he wasn’t going to run into Nebra. As soon as he reached it, slammed the door behind him, climbed up to his bed, and crossed his arms. It was unfair. His doll had been broken because of Nebra. She was stupid! Everything was ruined! He burrowed further into the bed, steaming in his anger.

Nozel didn’t know how long he sat there, angry and brooding. Eventually, there was a knock on the door.

“Young Master Nozel?” a quiet voice asked.

The door opened, and the head of a servant peeked in.

“May I ask if you have seen young Miss Nebra?”

“No!” Nozel shouted. “And I don’t want to!”

“Ah, yes, Master Nozel. It’s just that we cannot find her,” the servant said apologetically. “Perhaps you would know where she could be hiding?”

Nozel got up enough to look at the servant. What did he care where she was? The servants were just scared they’d get in trouble with father. What should he care if they did? Yet - how could they not have found her? He quickly went through several hiding places he knew Nebra had: the cabinet on the second floor, the drawer of the large dresser in the east wing, the garden. Despite his anger, he recounted all of them to the servant and told them to leave him alone. The servant left obediently, and Nozel was left in the silence again. Stupid Nebra had probably hidden somewhere to cause trouble. His parents would blame him for it, which would be just what she’d like. Nozel got up and went back to the door. The corridors were rather busy. It seemed multiple servants were running about, likely searching as well. Nozel began walking uncertainly along the corridor. He had a bad feeling about this, suddenly. Had Nebra taken his words too literally? Had she disappeared? Mother and father would blame him. Had he actually hurt her feelings? He recalled her face at the moment he shouted at her, pale and teary. Nozel felt a bit guilty. He hadn’t actually meant it like that. He had just gotten angry. Maybe this was why father never shouted at anyone. He didn’t become angry, so he could never hurt someone with words. Stupid Nebra. Nozel walked to her room and entered without knocking. The room seemed cold even when the fireplace had been lit.

“Hey, Nebra?” Nozel called out.

Silence ensued. There was no answer. The crackle of thunder outside lit up the room for a moment, scaring him. Nebra’s room was part of a tower structure in the estate. He knew it had at least one hidden entrance to stairs that led up to a walled-up segment. Mother had told a story about some superstitions back in the day: they had closed off that secret entrance so devils couldn’t sneak into the castle through that. It hadn’t ever been opened, since it wasn’t necessary. The stairs also led to the walls - battlements, father had called them - that surrounded the main house. Nozel walked towards that hidden section. He could see it was slightly ajar, causing a draft. Of course. Nebra was hiding in the secret stairs. He opened the door and closed it behind him to prevent more cold coming in. He had to make Nebra see sense. This kind of behaviour was stupid.

“Nebra?” he called again, rising up the stairs.

They circled upwards, and he had to almost climb them on all fours, as he had not brought a light with him. The sound of the rain hitting the walls became louder and louder. He was about to reach the door to the battlements. It was clear that it was also open, kept so by the wind. Nozel peeked into the darkness. The ground here was completely wet from the onslaught of the rain. He’d have to be careful not to slip. What if Nebra had slipped? The fear made tears almost appear in his eyes, and he quickly closed the door behind him. He had to find her, quickly. He’d apologize for everything he said, he’d tell her he didn’t mean it. Not quite daring to run, Nozel relied on the thunder and the little light coming from windows to light up his way. He kept screaming Nebra’s name, hoping she would respond. The battlements were large. Surely she wouldn’t have stayed here? Maybe she had found another door.

“Nozel?” a shout suddenly echoed in answer.

Nebra’s voice. She sounded miserable and scared. Nozel started running.

“Where are you, Nebra?”

“Help! Please help me!”

The voice was closer than he had thought. He went closer to the edge of the battlements, where the wall had square openings.

“Here! Please! Nozel!” Nebra screamed, her voice breaking.

Then Nozel saw her, hanging onto the wall with all her might with her arms and one leg lodged into the stones for support. She was wet all over, and her grasp was slipping. That little stone that was below her foot was likely the only thing keeping her from falling. Nozel went on all fours immediately, giving her his hand.

“Take my hand, I’ll pull you up!” he shouted, panicking.

Nebra gulped, shivering from the cold and fear. For a moment, Nozel thought she might not dare to take his hand. She hesitated only for a while, before quickly grasping onto him. All around them, the rain beat hard and the thunder rumbled, masking the beatings of their hearts. Nozel tried to pull her up, but the rain made his hold on her too slippery. He clambered closer, trying to reach for her clothes to get a better hold. Nebra was crying. He was distinctly aware of crying as well. Nozel managed to get a hold of her dress with one hand, but his other was holding her hand, and he could feel his balance tipping towards falling.

“Help me,” Nebra begged, trying to get up herself.

Nozel leaned backwards with effort, pulling on Nebra’s clothes. It didn’t feel right, but she seemed to be moving. His legs were against the wall. This was the scariest part: Nebra’s foot left its safe place, and she fully dangled in the air. Nozel pulled again, seeing now Nebra’s face already come over the battlements. One more pull and her upper body would be over as well, and it’d be considerably easier. The only problem was that his strength was fading. Nebra wasn’t heavy by any means, but he wasn’t strong either. Father had said that training was for commoners. He wished he had trained even a little. Nozel’s hands were shaking. He was tense all over, hoping he wouldn’t let go.

“Try to pull yourself up!” he shouted, looking back to the darkness where he had come from.

While Nebra struggled to get up, Nozel started shouting for help as well. He could barely hear himself. He pulled again, ignoring Nebra’s pained cry and dragging her across the wet stones. She was finally back on the battlements. The two of them embraced each other immediately, shaking and grasping onto each other. They tried apologizing, thanking, anything, but all they could do was cry and hold on. The cold and the fear were still seeped deep within them. It was difficult to summon the strength to get up, to let go. Eventually, however, they had to make their way back inside, having to carefully find their way in the dark. They made their way to the first servant they could find and let them take care of them. The servants prepared warm baths for them and made sure they drank something warm. Nozel didn’t go to his bed that night. He stayed by Nebra’s side, falling asleep next to her.

The next morning, Nebra had contracted a cold. She was sick and feverish, and Nozel saw mother and servants buzz in and out of her room. He stood with father, feeling his judging eyes on him. They hadn’t told anyone where they had been, other than outside. Still, somehow, Nozel felt like father knew.

“You are the eldest, Nozel,” his father said finally. “It is your duty to protect them.”

With that, he turned his back to Nozel again and left. Nozel was left standing there alone, looking into the floor in shame. Even if father didn’t know, he still was disappointed. It was then that Nozel resolved to not get angry at Nebra anymore. He would protect her, no matter how annoying she’d be. He would never raise his voice again. He would keep it all to himself, just like father. He’d be calm and cold.

[metanoiamorii]

❛Maybe we are not meant to be, not yet. Maybe we’re stars, waiting to collide in another life.❜

♧ Title: Be Still My Foolish Heart [BSMFH]

♧ Status: Brainstorming & Drafting

♧ Point of View: Third

♧ Genre: Fantasy, Action, Drama, Romance

♧ Warnings: Violence, War, Death of major and minor characters, nudity, past abuse, generational trauma, generational healing, racism, transphobia, homophobia, character corruption arcs, ethics vs morals, star crossed lovers, tragic endings, codependent and complicated relationships.

♧ Featuring: Diverse LGBTQ+ characters, enemies to friends to allies to lovers slowburn, complex and complicated characters, fantasy religions, plenty of symbolism, complex world building, ethics vs morals, a whole lot of moral grey can be fit into this bad boy, character redemption and corruption arcs, some found family, learning to separate one from their family's trouble and taking control of their life, soulmate trope, setting the groundwork for future generations.

♧ Setting: An Ancient Chinese inspired, fantasy setting

♧ Synopsis:

In Oidien there has always been a defined split against the Heavens and Ghost City. No one can remember what sparked the feud between them, it's possible after all these years of the fighting and endless war... they don't even remember themselves. They know it's tradition to keep fighting, to ensure the cycle of violence continues. So that is what they do; they keep fighting.

In recent years, the King of Ghost City has drawn back from the fields off battles and distants himself from politics. He leaves the affairs in his eldest children: Lianhauzi holds the crown, Lutaizi knows his way around the court, Suming’qiu is gifted with the army, and Taixuan is there to ensure everyone takes a break, to take care of her family.

A fight against children is how the Heavens view it... To their surprise, these children are more than gifted than their father. This isn't a game to them, it's a livelihood. They know how to secure a victory within minimum casualties, and they know how to balance one another's weakness.

The Heavens cannot take another loss. No matter how many battles they have lost, they have always managed to win this war. Each time. But on this account? They're afraid to admit they've been beat. So they come to a resolution: they have to take out one of the links. Take out one and the rest should crumble.

It's...

Not as easy as one would imagine. Or so their spies in court relay. The four know to keep their distance in public, and if they meet in private no one knows. They handpick their servants carefully, and they ensure each servant knows their tasks and do not overstep. They've taken every precaution necessary.

Even when it works, when one of their spies is welcomed inside that well guarded, hidden court... no one expects the game of cat and mouse to transpire. Their spy is humored until she's willing to change her allegiance and eventually is brought into the family by marriage... In the very least, she offers the weakest link to exploit to destroy the family.

♧ Tease

Of all I have done,

Forgettable they to none;

Has it now begun?

No, not forgiveness.

That I would never ask for, love.

I wish, regret comes.

You know as I do,

Games I once played, have turned you,

A pretty face blue.

I made no mistake,

You know as I do, the stakes

Required; played.

Once, for you, my rule

To survive, I broke, for you;

That forsaken dual.

My conscious it haunts;

My sleep, in dreams it will taunts

And it brings your scorn.

Pour me a wine glass,

For my sanity to last

And my wrath? To trap.

For me, preform; dance

Distract me with your nice laugh

Until I collapse.

And leave, in silence,

See to it, quiet your lips

Of the truth won't slip.

Allow me my sleep,

Don't be cruel, do not slight, cheat

You ugly she-beast.

A single night, peace,

That is all I ask for, please...

Better, just leave.

I have discovered,

Regret? No, I now confessed

Not for you, coward.

♧ Excerpt:

Her booted feet pattered against the puddles of rain droplets as she hugged the umbrella close to her shoulder, protecting herself from the storm. In a hurry she rounded the corner, following after the image of a soaked cat that had caught her attention and ran before she could approach it properly. It had been the first time in awhile since she had taken to sprinting, to follow the cat. Around the corner Xihuli came, brought to an abrupt halt when she turned into another person, as insane as she was to be out in the midst of a storm.

Her umbrella clattered to the floor, dropped as she staggered back a pace. The bright red silk was out of place, spinning upon the rain soaked ground. She gained her footing, no longer staggering to place distance between them. Her head threw back, an angry look quick to find purchase upon her features. Having yet to reach for her umbrella, the rain begun to soak the bright red and white silks she wore, drenched and sticking to her figure. "Watch—"

Her protests are so abruptly cut off. She watches the man tilt back his own umbrella, dark as the stormy sky with red spider lilies imprinted upon the fabric; the hanging tassels brush against his form, parting to expose his face. A youthful face that should have been smiling, with those eyes— so red to match the spider lilies upon his umbrella— staring at her as if she were a lesser being. The umbrella sits back upon his shoulder, head tilted forward with his chin forward, a sign he was in fact superior to her.

"Don't you know better, Zhuque?" The tone he speaks in, it's unlike that rambunctious voice he's known for, full of laughter that becomes too obnoxious for the ears. How serious it is, no jest spoken, no room for his games. He stares her down, staring through the dangling tassels of his umbrella. And how unkind that look is, a look that's no better than a wolf staring at a lamb. "You should never be out so late."

The two men, another prince and his own dog. Wine and lilac gives him away, wearing the golden lotus crown in his hair. Face unfriendly, a natural scowl he had been born with. He stands beneath the umbrella held above his head, keeping him dry from the rain. Held by that fucking bastard, smug and vain, with the bones acting as hair pins. He's uncaring if he gets wet, of course he is. When he controls the ocean why would he care about a little storm?

Lianhauzi pulls back his hood as he now stands blocking the last exit, Lutaizi and An Huli keeping the woman pinned in. He takes a step forward, Xieyuan moves with him, holding the umbrella in place. When he steps forward they all watch Xihuli push herself back, struggling to press her back into the wall, able to stare in each direction where one was coming from. "The fear in your eyes betray you... You know why we are here."

♧ Characters:

Love Interests

Shenguai Suming’qiu; Heizhao-jun

Amab • Agender • He/Him • Asexual • Reciproromantic

The Fourth Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of Black Sinister Claws. Said to be cursed from birth, as he has come to age and stepped into the politics and warfare, he has come to be their lucky charm. A conniving young man with a sharp intellect, and a shaper wit. For his family, he has taken up the role as master of intelligence and handles all correspondence, planning, and diplomacy. As a front, he appears an apathetic man, detached and void of all emotions, only hellbent on his work; only his siblings and a selected handful are able to see another side of him.

Yi Xianzi; Courtesy Name Ke’ai

Afab • Genderfluid • She/They • Pansexual • Demiromantic

The Young Mistress of the Yi Manor is a woman with high and strong morals, and lives to maintain peace for the Heavens, and secure a future for the younger generations. She bears conflicted emotions of supporting her mistress’ less than moral ambition, but often does not speak of them and turns a blind eye instead; she tries to justify these actions for the greater good, despite knowing better. Often at times, she is torn between her loyalty to her household, and her own sense of justice and morality.

━━━━━━━━━━

Phantom Paradise

Shenguai Bixie’e; Guiwang

Amab • Nonbinary • He/They • Pansexual • Apothiromantic

The King of Ghost City. Despite years and generations of war with the Heavens, he remains undefeated and stays alive. Defying the odds, many believe he is unkillable, and quite well, untouchable. He has retired, for the most part, from the battlefield, and remains within the Phantom Palace, allowing his children to helm the war. He spends his time with his concubines, or with his council. Few see his face, fewer are able to gain an audience with him.

Shenguai Lutaizi; Heige-jun

Transmasc • Genderfluid • He/They • Omnisexual • Demi-Homoromantic

The unorthodox First Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Lord of the Black Song. First in line to the throne, he has conceded his right to it, and would concede his own royalty if not for his siblings. Despite being a Prince of Ghost City, he is nothing like his father. Carefree and reckless, he would prefer to spend his days drinking, goofing off, and living life to the fullest, uncaring of a familia grudge that makes little sense to him.

Shenguai Taixuan; Duandaojian-jun

Transfem • Nonbinary • She/They • Demisexual • Panromantic

The Second Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Princess With A Broken Blade. She takes greatly after her elder brother, and refuses to partake in a war that has not personally done her wrong. Despite her heritage, she is a woman with a strong sense of justice, morals, and honour. She protects her family from harm, and she will not turn away someone in need, no matter their origins. Opposed to being a sister and a daughter in her family, she fills the role of mother and acts as the woman of the household.

Shenguai Lianhauzi; Baoli’jífeng-jun

Amab • Agender • He/They • Asexual • Akioromantic

The Third Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Violent Tempest. Pressed by his elder siblings, he has taken up as their father’s heir to the throne; the Crowned Prince. He is known for his bad temper and strict nature. At heart, he has good intentions, he lacks the best judgement to execute his intentions.

Shenguai Kuangre Ai Du De; Dubo'mogui-jun

Amab • Genderfluid • They/He/She • Pansexual • Cupioromantic

The Sixth Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the title of the Gambling Demon. He is a man unaffected by grudges, politics, responsibilities. He prefers to take a page from his brother, Lutaizi’s, book and spend his time enjoying life to its fullest. He is very much a hedonist, and a compulsive gambler. Everyone he meets, he is obligated to gamble with them, at least once. The catch? He’s capricious, he’s erratic, and he will always change the game and stakes with every person.

Shenguai Jiaxiu; Mei-jun

Amab • Genderfluid • He/She/They • Pansexual • Frayromantic

The Seventh Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Beauty Lord. Arrogant and narcissistic, he is a very conceited man. He enjoys simple flattery and having others fawn over him, being the center of attention. Out of admiration he has taken after his brother, Suming’qiu’s, footsteps and assists him with his tasks. Himself, he carries out the more… darker duties called for, and gathering information; assassinations and spying tends to be his expertise.

━━━━━━━━━━

The Four Calamities

An Huli; Chui Feihong

Transfem • Agender • She/They • Homosexual • Homoromantic

Little Fox, as she’s called, is the favored of Prince Lutaizi, and the oldest of the Great Calamities. She is a woman who knows what she desires, what she is determined to do, and she refuses to allow anything or anyone to stand in her way. She comes off to be blunt, spiteful, angry; a she-devil, some claim in kinder terms than a bitch. Ahead of her time, she refuses to hide herself behind a mask, to be perceived as a gentle woman when, in truth, she is a walking storm, and for that, many frown upon her.

He Ruxie; Hei Xieyuan

Amab • Agender • He/They • Demisexual • Gyneromantic

Lord Black Water, as he is called, is the favored of Prince Lianhauzi, and the second of the Great Calamities. Formally a scholar in his past life, he experienced a string of bad luck, costing him his family, his wife, his daughter, his livelihood, his freedom, and soon his sanity. When he perished in his mortal life, he returned as a malicious spirit, and soon came into the service of the Shenguai family and serves loyally and viciously

Da Chen; Nitu Guiguai

Transfem • Nonbinary • They/She • Asexual • Demiromantic

The Enlighted One, as they are called, are the favored of Princess Taixuan, and is the third of the Great Calamities. In their previous life, they lived the life of an honest priest, surrounded by corruption and sin. When they met their end, their resentment for their peers remained and thus they rose to power to root out the corruption and seek retribution. Of the four, they are the amicable. They often forgo emotions and act only in rationality. Their mind is never clouded, and each act they make are in good conscious. Good will is shown to those that live an honest life, no matter their origins; ruin is shown to those are decide to live a dishonest life.

Wusi Linghun; Bai Wulian

Closeted Transmasc • Agender • He/They • Akiosexual • Demi-Akioromantic

The White Devil, as he is called, is the favored of Prince Suming’qiu, and the youngest of the Great Calamities. Formally a young lord in the Heavens, he turned his back on a betrothed he held no affection for. Openly, he cast aside his previous life, to serve the Shenguai family, and became a quick aid to the Fourth Prince. He is said to be two-faced, in some encounters being ruthless and apathetic, and other times he is genuine and compassionate; a toss up upon which side someone will see when their paths cross with him.

━━━━━━━━━━

The Heavenly Host

Meng Zhang; Courtesy Name Amnizha

Transfem • She/Her • Demisexual • Demiromantic

The First Master of Dongbu, and the acting Qinglong. Kindness is the one rule she lives by: kindness to her family, kindness to her allies, kindness to a stranger, kindness to her foes. She sees no reason to rule with fear and hatred, and actively will not promote negative emotions. She is a stern and serious woman, she takes pride in her knowledge, her power, and securing the truth. Behind closed doors, she opposes Xihuli and the Emperor, knowing both have secrets they would prefer to keep buried, in public she maintains an appearance of being a close ally.

Ling Guang; Courtesy Name Xihuli

Cis-female • She/Her • Demisexual • Apothiromantic

The First Master of Nanfang, and the acting Zhuque. Openly, she is perceived as a compassionate woman, who puts the needs of her people before herself, and acts selfless; in truth, she is surprisingly violent and vulgar. She continues to fuel the war, slandering and starting rumors of false deeds to rile the public, and gain the support of her supposed allies. There is nothing she is not willing to do to gain fame, support, and what she desires.

Jian Bing; Courtesy Name Cixia

Afab • Genderfluid • She/They • Asexual • Demiromantic

The First Master of Xibian, and the acting Baihu. She is known for being a compassionate woman, she wears her heart upon her sleeves, and acts out of the goodness of her heart. She openly encourages peace, to cease endless war and bloodshed; to make amends. For which, she is seen as an enemy to Xihuli, but is a close friend to Amnizha. Her only downfall are her chronic illnesses that have left her sickly since birth.

Zhi Ming; Courtesy Name Lu'yongshi

Amab • Agender • He/They • Closeted Homosexual • Homoromantic

The First Master of Beifang, and the acting Xuanxu. He has a reputation that precedes him as an honorable gentleman. He is a man of his word, he acts in accordance to justice and honor, and rarely strays from it. At heart, he is a warrior, and lacks the delicacies for social greetings; he comes off as blunt, uninterested, distant, and often lacking a heart to care.

Zhi Shi; Courtesy Name Yansbi

Cis-female • She/Her • Asexual • Aromantic

The younger sister of Lu'yongshi, the Second Master of Beifang, and acting Xuanshe. She happens to be her brother’s polar opposite. She is less than honest, she lacks honour, she craves power, she will use blackmail to get what she desires. As, she is not above blackmailing and guilting her own brother to act in accordance to her own agenda. She is also a close associate to Xihuli.

Long Jianhong; Courtesy Name Canren

Cis-male • He/Him • Bisexual • Apothiromantic

The current Emperor of Zhongxin, and the acting Honglong. A prideful man that cares more of his own person than his own people. Often, he turns a blind eye to all suffering, and allows Xihuli to do as she pleases. He is a womanizer, with various concubines’ , and elicit affairs with others. He was loveless to his wife, as there are rumors he was behind her untimely death. Whether these rumors are true or not are unproven, and few challenge them out of fear.

Long Shisan; Courtesy Name Li Busengren

Amab • Genderfluid • He/She • Quoisexual • Quioromantic

The Fourteenth Prince of Zhongxin. With twelve siblings in line of succession to the throne, Li Busengren acknowledges the chances for him to be the heir are little to none; this is added by the factor of being, from birth, his father’s least favorite child. With a will to prove his father wrong, and desperate for his father’s approval, he’s ready to do anything for an ounce of recognition.

Taglist

BSMFH: @writings-of-a-narwhal, @kittensartswriting, @inkflight, @qelizhus,

General: @endlesshourglass, @writerray, @poore-choice-of-words, @alexwritesfiction, @primusesgiantmetalballbearings

Both: @cecilsstorycorner, @little-boats-writes, @hazard-writes, @egg-shark

[everdreamart]

How I Gravitate Towards You

Rating: Teen and up

Relationship: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widowgast

The Mighty Nein return The Blooming Grove. Essek takes time to think about the events that happened and has a talk with Caleb. Things slowly escalate from there ;)

~~~~~~~~~~

The grove was beautiful. Vines intertwined and tangled with the colorful blooms dotting the landscape. You would almost forget that this was, infact, a graveyard with the amount of life around it. Essek took a second to breathe in the nature around him. A very welcome change of environment compared to Cognoza.

Sighs and cheers of relief and triumph echoed around him as the Mighty Nein bathed in their newfound victory. The sight warmed his chest. His friends. Now there were actually nine of them.

How ironic. Essek thought to himself with a smile.

The Clays burst out of the moss covered temple and started to bombard the group with hugs. Caduceus was practically beaming with joy to see his family again. Jester rambled on about their adventure as the Clays eagerly rushed them inside. They gave curious glances to the two new members, but decided not to say anything about it at the moment.

Within moments food and tea were being prepared. Fjord asked to help with the cooking but was promptly shut down by Cornelius.

"Look at you all! It looks as if you have been through hell and back! Rest. We will take care of it," he said.

The food was delicious. Reminiscent of Caduceus' cooking from that one night in the Xhorhous. He smiled fondly at the memory. Essek's eyes drifted to each member of the Mighty Nein. How did this even happen?

His thoughts spiraled into an assortment of memories. Cold and alone in his study. Ambition gnawing at him as he struggles to progress in his research. Greed and selfish desire as he traded away his country's livelihood for knowledge. Fear as a bloodied human holds up one of the beacons he stole. Rage at the thought that his so very carefully planned espionage would be ruined by a bunch of sell-swords.

When had this ragtag group worn down his walls? Was it Jester's hugs? Or her consistently chaotic messages? Was it Yasha in her soft silence, or was it Beau in her harsh way of loving? Maybe Caduceus, with his gentle reassuring gestures. Or Veth, with her tough but kind way of showing care. Maybe it was Caleb. A mind that matches so perfectly to his own it was almost unsettling. Intellect sharp and piercing, with a gaze so intense he could melt under its warmth.

Essek found his eyes laid on Caleb. The strands of copper red hair falling partially over his eyes. A small part of him resists the urge to reach across the table and push the strands away. He studied his features, as if he hadn't already memorized them. The sharp curve of his jawline, his slightly tussled beard. Eyes so blue it almost felt like looking into the daytime sky. His mouth curved into a soft smile as he talked to Beauregard next to him. Essek lingered on that sight. The stress of these past weeks washed away as he focused on Caleb's smile. Then Caleb's eyes met his. Electricity jolted through him as the spark of whatever it was between them burned. Essek quickly looked away, a slight warmth building in his cheeks. He thanked the Luxon for drow skin coloration.

After food was had, the group gushed over their old (new..?) Friend. Poor man was probably so overwhelmed by the attention. Mollymauk - as Jester had told him - didn't say much at all in response to the Mighty Nein's questions.

"Empty… empty…" he trailed off.

As happy as they all were, exhaustion took over their senses. They were due for a much needed rest. Caleb did not have enough energy left to create the tower (Essek had quite a bit of thoughts he still needed to unpack about that place), so the group decided to sleep in the grove. Yasha lay with Beau snuggled up against her. They hugged and muttered sweet nothings to each other in low whispers. Molly was not too far from Yasha, and was quickly taken by peaceful sleep. Jester lay partially on Fjord's chest, talking about some new prank she wanted to try on her newly reunited parents. Caduceus lay back against the wall and was already passed out - his snore a rather loud one. Caleb lay next to veth, who was already out cold.

There wasn't really a need to be so close - they weren't in the confinements of the dome. And yet, they choose to drift near each other. Comfortable in the proximity. Essek felt very out of place. In the nights prior he could always stay a fair distance away from the cuddle pile, for the sake of keeping watch. But now, with the group all clumped together in the mass of life that was the blooming grove, Essek didn't know quite where to go. He fidgeted in his space as he debated where to trance. He can't go too far, but he definitely can't intrude on this intimate bond they all share. Eventually, Essek sits down a few feet from Caleb. He always seemed to gravitate towards him. Perhaps it was the similarities between them that made Essek feel safer in his presence.

Essek starts to begin his trance, and it is only then that the weight of the day's events crash onto him. The horrors of Cognoza will never truly leave his mind, but it is nothing compared to the absolute terror he felt when they were in that final fight.

The watch of one of the Somnovem caught him early on. The guilt of his actions surged into him tenfold. The lives he took, the families he'd broken, all for the sake of his selfish thirst for knowledge. It was all his fault.

He didn't catch sight of the tower hurled at him until it was too late. Caleb grunted as the weight of the rock (..flesh? It was very confusing) trapped him beneath it. Essek felt a surge of fear as he pictured the worst. He quickly scrambled over to where Caleb laid and desperately tried to pull him out. To no avail, it would seem. Those of his craft were not quite suited for these feats. Essek summoned the bead of possibility he had placed in himself beforehand. With a surprising surge of strength, he got Caleb to his feet.

In a rush of adrenalin,Caleb pulled him close and touched their foreheads together. If this was a different circumstance, Essek would be soaring. A small part of him completely forgot about the raging battle around them. That part focused on the presence of the man next to him. The wood burning autumn scent now mixed with the iron-y tinge of blood. That part of him noticed how close they were. Faces mere inches apart. Essek felt his heart jump into his throat. Then Caleb pulls back, the moment ending as quick as it began.

The ferver gained from this interaction was short-lived as Jester fell. Her bloody and broken corse strewn to the side carelessly. It was then that things started to go so very wrong. Jester was back thanks to Caduceus, mere seconds after she fell, but Esseks attention immediately went elsewhere. Caleb clutched at his torso with a grunt of pain as he fell, unconsciousness taking his form. Essek didn't even know he was capable of the rage that followed. He screamed and tore the very fabric of gravity itself around Lucien.

Then the battle field changed. It was no longer the fleshy horror of a city, but now a calming forest surrounding him. He looked forward to see the Mighty Nein - happy and smiling - with a hand outstretched towards him. It was Caleb. Caleb was calling him over to join them. Excitement burbled into him as he rushed towards the sight. It was only when he reached his destination he realized he had made a grave mistake.

The image of Caleb's torn and sundered body is one that will never leave Essek's mind. The sound it made as his lifeless corpse fell to the ground. The look he gave as the light left his eyes. It haunts him. The amount of terror, rage, pain and guilt he felt in that moment was immesruable. The world faded around him. Only being able to see the bloody shell of what once burned so bright. He fell to his knees, not hearing the final cries of battle around him. Essek's hands shook with emotion as he reached out to grab one of Caleb's. Those bright blue eyes he once knew were replaced by the vacuous expanse of emptiness and cold. He didnt hear the clerics rushing over and saying their prayers. He didn't hear the rest of the group trying to stifle their tears. He only stared into those eyes. Essek didn't breathe until Caleb inhaled once more.

Thoughts swirled around his head like an ocean of violent emotion. He can't trance like this. Essek stood up - trying his best to not wake his sleeping friends - and walked outside.

The calming reverie of the grove helped clear his mind a bit from these nightmares. He wandered around the exapanse, his hand tracing the occasional gravestone as he went. Eventually he came to the edge of the perimeter. Tall crystalline tree-like growths sprouted forth infront of him. Glowing ever so faintly. It was beautiful, the garden around him. So Essek sat and let himself soak up the tranquility of the nature around him.

It wasn't until he heard the rustle of footsteps that he opened his eyes.

"Its a bit late to be wandering the grove by yourself," Caleb noted, taking a seat next to Essek.

"Just… needed to clear my mind a bit." He replied.

"Ja, I get it. That was… a lot." Caleb laughed softly, a small smile playing on his lips. Essek found himself enraptured in the sound.

Caleb looked down, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as if deep in thought. He turned to look at Essek with a burning intensity. "Thank you, Essek."

Essek was taken aback by this. "For what?"

"You didn't have to come with us. You didn't have to risk your life just because I asked. And yet, you came anyway. Thank you." Caleb spoke softly. Appreciative.

Essek's mind whirred with thoughts. He didn't know how to respond. "I…" he trailed off. "Of course I.." Of course I had to come. You asked me to. I would do anything you asked. He didn't say. Instead, settling upon, "Of course I came. I care for you all more than any Dynasty or Empire. And I owe you this much."

Caleb shifted a bit at that. His hands fidgeted for a moment as he looked away. He moved his hand to touch Essek's. The touch was minimal. Almost unoticable to anyone but himself. Essek nearly jumped at the contact. A familiar tingling setting into his stomach.

Caleb's hand slowly grabbed Essek's, calloused fingers meeting smooth ones. Essek tried to map every detail. Every little feeling of the other man's hand in his. Entirely focused on the heat covering his skin.

"What do you plan to do after this?" Caleb inquired.

That startled Essek out of his reverie. "I.. I honestly do not know." He mumbled out. He couldn't go back to the dynasty, not with his situation like this. Could he go back to the outpost? Would that be safer? He was still responsible for people up there. He hadn't noticed himself squeezing Caleb's hand. At least, until Caleb squeezed back.

"What about you?" Essek asked, trying to shift the focus. "What do you plan on doing now?"

Caleb pondered for a moment, before responding with "There is still a few issues I need to take care of. I still have to help fix my home. Remove a cancer before it can spread."

Then, silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, per say, but something hung in the air. After a few moment in this quiet, Caleb turned and placed Essek under the intensity of his gaze. Those blue eyes bore into him with such a warmth. And Essek craved it. He craved to feel those eyes wash over him. He needed to see those eyes, alive and burning with a fiery passion.

The immense gravity of what he almost lost crushes him. The man sitting next to him, tenitivly holding his hand, died. If things hadn't worked out so well, if something different happened, he wouldnt have Caleb here next to him. That thought broke him. His eyes dropped down to look at the ground. Apperently he wasnt doing a very good job at hiding his emotions at the moment, because Caleb's face fell. He frowned and scooted closer to cup Essek's cheek.

"What's wrong, Shaltz?" Caleb asks tenderly. His thumb rubbing Essek's Cheekbone.

Essek looked up at him, and put his other hand on Caleb's as if to confirm that he was really here. "You… died Caleb… you died and I couldn't do anything. What if Caduceus and Jester didn't get there so quickly? What if something went wrong? What if-"

"I'm here. I'm ok. Everything is ok." Caleb cut him off. His voice gentle and soothing.

It was only then that Essek met his gaze. Caleb smiled softly, and Essek realized how close they were. Caleb's breath ghosting over Essek's lips. Essek forgot how to breathe. He could only focus on the feeling of Caleb so close to him. So close and yet not close enough. If he could just close the few inches… It took every ounce of self control that Essek had to steady himself. His pounding heart, the swarm of butterflies in his stomach. He knew he was staring. How could he not? Small freckles speckled across Caleb's face, framed by vibrant red hair.

The hand placed on Essek's cheek moved to the back of his neck, and Essek froze. Caleb painstakingly leaned in. So slow, so excruciatingly slow. As if to give Essek time to back away. To leave. But he didn't. And their lips met. The kiss was so soft, almost featherlight, and Essek's mind went blank. He could only focus on the sensation of Caleb's lips on his, how they were chapped and warm and perfect.

Caleb pulled back, a breaths distance between them. In all of his study of time, all Essek wanted to do now was stop it on that moment. It was over far too soon. Just the smallest brush of lips. He wanted it to last longer. He wanted more.

Essek leaned back in, crashing their lips together. This time the kiss was more desperate. As if scared that the other would pull away. Essek relished in the feeling. The heat of the man so close to him spreading to every inch of his body. Their lips fit together perfectly. Moving together and pressing into eachother. Essek moved his hand to Caleb's head. His fingers combing through the strands of coppery red. It was perfect. He wanted to remember every little sensation. He wanted to chart every little movement. His heart was beating so hard in his chest. He wants this to last forever.

They separate after what feels like a lifetime to catch their breath. Caleb's mouth is still parted as he gasps for breath. Essek savors the taste of Caleb on his lips as his breathing begins to steady. Part of him wants to reach out. To take Caleb's mouth once more. But Caleb speaks before this is possible.

"That was…."

He doesn't need to complete the sentence. Essek already knew.

And they gravitated towards each-other once more.

[korkrunchcereal]

Lohn’goron

                                     Death has been broken

                                  In the struggles of the self

                                          To fight is to live  

Once more Gargaron Khral found himself upon his familiar rise over the Barrens. So often he had sat upon its crest that the dry grass and crumbling dirt had become indented, his meditation imprinted upon the land he called home. A welcome breeze helped to cool his skin from the unrelenting warmth of the sun, and the soft cry of a bird sounded in the distance.

Beyond the hills of the Barrens, the peaks of Stonetalon Mountain were visible, jutting forth from the earth like gnarled and mangled fangs. From up high Gargaron watched the land, curiosity glimmering from his eyes. A pack of zhevra that so far below were but splotches of black and white grazed with little fear, for instinct and familiarity had made the grasslands comfortable. They thought themselves safe. From above, Gargaron knew otherwise.

He saw metal catching the sun’s rays, the reflection gleaming across sharpened steel and into his eyes. Gargaron blinked, shaking his head to clear his vision. Another orc stalked the zhevra, a spear in hand. The wind blew against the hunter, masking their scent from the herd. Each step closer seemed like hours upon the sun’s fall, Gargaron’s muscles strangely tense with the anticipation of the hunt; of the kill to come.

“He will not kill them, you know.” A woman’s voice called behind Gargaron, familiar enough to draw his attention away. He craned his neck, looking upon an orc woman. He had seen her before, and his brows furrowed in annoyance.

“You.” It was neither name or title for Gargaron did not know them, and so it would serve as both greeting and warning.

“Khral.” She answered, giving a short nod of her head.

“Why are you here? Come to trick me again?” He turned to look back down upon the hunt, puzzled that he could not find either hunter or zhevra that had been there moments before.

“Trick? You are mistaken, warlord.”

“I told you, I am no longer warlord!” He snapped his teeth in irritation, waving his hand dismissively. Some time ago the woman had sought Gargaron’s help to investigate the ruins of a Kor’kron barracks. Instead he had found the one-time Warlord Skullcrusha, rotting away in his shell of hatred. The two had argued, leaving Gargaron brewing with resentment of both Skullcrusha and himself. When he had left the barracks the woman was nowhere to be found.

“So you have proclaimed. Thrice now.” The woman moved to sit beside Gargaron, seemingly oblivious to his simmering rage…or simply ignoring it. The grass did not stir at her approach nor as she sat. “As I was saying, I did not trick you.”

“You led me to him.”

“Yes.”

“You knew he was there, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She repeated, her eyes watching something in the grass below that Gargaron could not find.

“Why?”

“To begin your journey.”

“Journey?” Gargaron turned to look at her in confusion, blinking in shock when he saw she was gone. He shot up to his feet, eyes narrowing as he looked around. Already the sun had dropped low, being caught upon the teeth of Stonetalon. His nose twitched, the scent of something sweet filling his senses.

“Yes, journey. You have languished too long in this place; your spirit atrophies from your doubts. Your fears. Your nightmares.”

“Bah!” Gargaron whirled around, trying to find the woman. The cliff he had been standing on shrunk, as did the northern mountains. His toes curled in grass wet with dew, and he looked to find he no longer stood in the Barrens. Confusion and doubt filled his senses, and he reached instinctively for a weapon that had long been buried.

“hmm.” The short sound was laced in amusement. “This is where your doubts began…do you remember this place?”

“I…” Gargaron’s hands clenched, the orc eyeing the surrounding landscape. He had been here before, though not as it became. “Nagrand. This is Draenor.”

“Yes. The false world made reality. The wrongness here…it weeps like an open wound. But what did you find here, Gargaron Khral?”

“Disappointment.” Was his answer. “Disappointment…and failure.” The orc collapsed into the grass, feeling a great weight pull him down. A part of him was distrustful at what he said, for he spoke freely of his burdens to an unfamiliar entity. Yet it felt right, a feeling he barely remembered.

“Yes. The chains of your doubt hold you here, in this memory.” Thick fingers pressed against his back, kneading into the taunt muscles and causing him to tense. “It’s alright. Relax…”. He groaned, instinctively leaning back into the touch. He felt her face and two small tusks press against the back of his neck, their tips piercing skin and drawing blood. his eyes glancing out of the corner to see curls of red hair fall across his shoulder.

“I-“

“Shhh…” the voice interrupted, a soft whisper against his ear. “Her hair is like a bellowing fire, and her skin like the deepest ocean. She is wild, her passion dancing like a roaring flame. A promise, made under foreign moons. A regret, carried until the end of the world.”

“The weight of it all; leadership, the Horde…it was too much. I let her go so that I could focus on survival, on the Kor’kron and���” he sighed, disappointment lacing his words. “And I still believe I made the wrong choice.”

“She is not your only failure on this world though, is she? Look, Gargaron.”

Gargaron looked and felt a surge of panic fill his being, nearly causing him to flee. Two orcs charged at one another, weapons drawn and war cries loosened. One wore plates of blackened steel forged with the crude blows of a tyrant’s will. The other wore plates of crimson to match the figure’s hair, with a face so much like Gargaron’s own. Younger, but the weight of sin had begun to etch itself into his features. Gargaron watched his doppelganger strike down the black plated warrior, before falling to its knees.

“How many orcs did you kill?”

“I don’t know. A hundred? A thousand? More than I ever wished.”

“Yes…the sins of your people are marked upon every inch of your body. You had heard of the orcs; how their proud legacy had been twisted by ambition and cruelty. The great lie of nobility. Then you learned the truth, didn’t you?”

“The orcs,” Gargaron began, trying to find the words. “They…we are a violent race of monsters. I had been naïve enough to believe the stories. To believe our history was one of survival, and strength born of noble purpose. I believed…” he paused, letting his head fall into one of his hands with eyes closed. “I believed we were better than what we became…could be better.”

“But you feel that is mistaken?”

“I know it is!” He barked, raising his head once more to look upon his reflection. He had known then the great lie or had at least begun to suspect it. “All it took was a tyrant’s words to sway my people! An orc, who had no gift for speechcraft convinced an entire race to commit wanton violence and horrendous atrocities and for what purpose? What grand and ‘noble purpose’ was there?! We are a race drowning in the sea of our own bloodlust! In a thousand years…no a hundred years what will remain of the orcs? There will be no great ruins of our civilization or recording of our culture. All we will leave is the scars we have placed upon the universe.”

He received no response, feeling the soothing touch upon his back fade. Something harsh drags across his muscles now, and he winces in pain. He stands, finding himself upon the shores of a shattered island. There are bodies everywhere, both Horde and Alliance and the acrid stench of sulphur and blood overwhelms him. He turns, vomiting into the sand. His eyes water, breaths laborious as he recovers.

“This is where the Horde died…and in many ways you did as well, Gargaron.” Gargaron wearily glanced around to find the voice, before looking down. The woman lay in the sand before him, several purple fletched arrows buried in her chest and neck. They were not of Alliance make, for their barbed tips betrayed their owner.

“The dead; they’re up to my knees here.” Gargaron stated, spitting out the after taste of his vomit in disgust. “Look at them left to die! Sylvanas did not care! The horde did not care!”

“But you did. The chains of Draenor bound you, slowed you but did not keep you. You fought still.”

“Of course I fought!” he took a step forward, the bodies of man, orc and elf replaced with that of demons. There is no island here. There is but a dead world, twisted by foul purpose. Something charges at Gargaron, and he instinctively swings up. His sword makes contact and-

-his sword. The weight is almost unfamiliar in his hands. The Sword of Khral, both Gargaron’s namesake and the lineage he aspired to. The blade, so sharp as to sever muscle, sinew, and bone as if hot butter sliced through his attacker with ease.

“Yes. You fought…and fought. And fought. And fought for that was the law of Argus.” Argus. A name Gargaron had learned to hate and fear in equal measure. “And how long did you fight?”

“I do not know.” He answered. He spoke the truth; the Twisting Nether was a strange realm of chaos and entropy, and Argus sat within its churning madness. For all Gargaron knew he had fought for countless millennia, in a never-ending tide of slaughter and carnage. The demon’s had given him a name, spoken in hushed whispers among their misbegotten kind. He was ruin, an omen of catastrophe given rage at the end of a blood slick sword.

Even now, Gargaron felt sick from it all.

“It fills you with disgust. I can feel it. Why?”

“It reminds me that despite all my best efforts…despite everything I have done to be more than my bloody heritage, that I will always be slave to my base nature. How can I strive to show my people are more than our weapons and our hatred, when I succumb to the same mindless bloodlust. And..and it reminds me of him.” A nameless title for a beast given the mockery of orcish form.

““Skullcrusha.”

“Yes. Is that to be the eventual fate of our people? Monsters driven by bestial wrath, with reason replaced by animalistic fury?” Each word spoken gave form to the nightmare, the tyrant he had dreamed so often of now stood before Gargaron. He was goliath in size, looming over Gargaron and casting his dark shadow.

“You fear him because you fear this is what you may become. Take a look upon him Gargaron…you may find pity.”

“Pity!?” Gargaron guffawed, waving his hand in outrage. “Pity for this monster?! I-“ he paused, seeing the bands around Skullcrusha. He saw the chains, clasped around wrist, ankle and throat. He saw the strings, tugging at arms and legs like a puppeteer.

“Pity, because he has never known freedom. In all the long years he has existed, he has been slave to another. His purpose in life is only to serve…and I find that quite sad. But it is not the only legacy you loath, is it?” Her words faded in the wind as did Argus, bringing now the stench of burning meat and ash, and he finds his eyes begin to sting as smoke swirls around him. He coughs, his lungs filled with the acrid taste of a roaring fire. He flicks his hand, trying in vain to wave away the smoke.

The wasteland had disappeared, and in its stead was water. A vast ocean lay before him, yet that paled in comparison to the monolithic tree that was Darnassus…and Darnassus was burning. Gargaron had not watched its fall, though heard from his infrequent visits to civilization. There was only one word for the destruction of the Kal’dorei home. Genocide. By the ancestors, he could hear them scream. Gargaron fell to his knees, covering his ears in vain. He glanced up, seeing the orc woman staring at him with curiosity.

“Gah! Make it stop! Their screams are deafening!”

“This is where you died, Gargaron. Though you did not step foot upon the coast of Darkshore, nor witness Darnassus’ fall this is where Gargaron Khral was buried. Why?”

“Why!?” Gargaron roared in anger, waving his hands to the destruction. “Look at it! This is all the Horde has ever been! One bloody massacre after another.” As he raged, Darnassus began to fade, the titanic tree twisting and turning until wood became stone, and branches became walls. Yet still it burned, and upon banners blue and lions gold the fire still raged.

“Mmm…You were a child for this, weren’t you? Too young to remember…but you cannot forget the bright roar of the flames, so blinding for your small eyes or the screams of murder so loud that you cried.”

“The echoes of our history.” Gargaron muttered, finally pulling himself to his feet to watch the city’s destruction. “This is all the orcs are…all the Horde is.” His voice is soft, defeated and he feels tears welling up. “This is all I am.”

“No.” A single word, the conviction of it shaking Gargaron. He turns to look at her, confusion evident on his face.

“No? All I have seen is that I am doomed to failure; that my people are and will always be nothing more than monsters and the Horde little more than the prop of a mad warchief desperate for power. That I…” he paused for a moment, collecting himself. “That I am nothing more than a fool pretending to be a noble warrior.”

“No.” She repeated. “You shoulder the burden of a people, and expect not to collapse beneath its weight?” A barking laughter was given as answer to her own question. “No one is that strong Gargaron. Not even you.”

“Then what am I?”

“A warrior. A blademaster. A warlord…A Khral. You are all of these things and so much more, Gargaron. Come, look once more upon your nightmare.” She waved a hand to her left, Gargaron’s gaze following the motion to once more stare at Skullcrusha, still enchained and enthralled. “Did you know he was once a pale orc?” She smiled at the look of shock Gargaron gave her. “Yes, those wretched things you met on Draenor. His mind was already plaything to darker powers…It was only natural the leash was passed from one tyrant’s hands to another. But not you, Gargaron. Though you were raised in the Internment Camps, you have known real freedom. Love. Passion. Family. Yes, even disappointment, defeat, and sorrow. You have felt life in all its purest forms.”

“Defeat…is life?”

“Of course. How can we grow stronger if we are not challenged…if we are not defeated? How can we be more than what we are if we do not fail?” She paused for a moment, before sighing. “You will always carry the burden of your people. Of your legacy. That cannot be changed, and for that I hope you can forgive yourself…and me.”

Gargaron turned to face her, only to find himself once more upon his cliff overlooking the Barrens, the mountains of Stonetalon catching the sun’s light far to the north. He blinked, looking around in confusion before shaking his head. Idly he scratched his beard, looking down over the cliff side. He felt hands upon his shoulders once more, though did not tense up this time. His eyes closed, and he saw the ocean’s skin and hair of fire.

“You have fought to erase your failure’s for so long, Gargaron. You have fought for Warchiefs, Warlords and conquerors…it’s time to fight for something else.”

“What is there to fight for?” He asked aloud. Her image faded, replaced with that of Garrosh. A single word entered his mind. Power. Another image, that of Skullcrusha and another word. Servitude. Third came an image of Varok Saurfang, an orc Gargaron had not thought of for some time though learned had recently passed. To die.

“Indeed, what is there to fight for? Why do we fight?”

“You sound like one of the Pandaren…” Gargaron muttered.

“There is wisdom in the question. Why do we fight, Gargaron? Sometimes, the answer is simply because we must. Because to not fight is to allow darkness to take hold; to allow tyrants and monsters a foot in the door. Sometimes we must fight to live.” It was not images or words that filled him then, but passions. He felt the warmth of a campfire and of a woman’s touch. He felt the heartbeat of a wolf, pounding against his skin. He felt joy and wonder and…and…

And life.

He felt it all for but a moment, before it was carried away by a chill wind. Gargaron’s eyes opened as he realized he was now alone. He looked down upon dead grass and barren soil. It was dark now, and cold as if it was to rain but there was no cloud in sight. He felt uneasy, realizing then he could not hear a single sound. He was not deaf, but rather there simply was no life anywhere. Not the sound of animals, nor the howl of the wind.

“A darkness is coming, Gargaron.” Her voice echoed in his mind, booming like thunder in the silence. “To the far north upon frozen shores, the veil has been breached. Fight to stop it. Fight for the right to live. Fight, because if you do not then all of creation is at risk. Close your eyes Gargaron…and awaken.”

Gargaron shot up from his bed, sweat pouring off of his brow. He looked around, wide eyed. The fire in his home had long since turned to embers, and from what he could see beneath the flap of his hut it was nearing sunset. He groaned, pushing himself up to sit on the bed’s edge. How long had he been asleep, and had he been dreaming? He must have been, though it did little to ease his unrest. Absentmindedly he rubbed the back of his neck, pausing as he felt something wet. Slowly he brought his hand forward and even in the dim light he could see fresh blood.

“What the…” his eyes went wide, remembering his dream. Outside he heard his wolf howl, giving a long mournful wail. “Rosha!” he shouted for her, already pulling himself out of the bed. Her cry sent a chill running up his spine and as he pulled away the hut’s flap he gasped. Dark clouds were approaching from the Stonetalon mountains, so vast as to swallow both the sun and sky.

His wolf stepped beside him, whining as she nuzzled his leg. Gargaron glanced down and knelt, hands gently playing at her mane. “Something is wrong girl. I know you can feel it. I can too.” He looked back to the rapidly approaching clouds, feeling uneasy. A cold wind blew across his chest, causing him to shiver.

“The veil has been breached…” he muttered, repeating the words in his dream. “An ill omen from the same mysterious woman met with a sky that flees the northern winds...Perhaps...” He stood up, sighing. He had fled from this moment for too long now. He turned around, moving back into the hut to kneel in front of the fire. Rosha quietly approached beside him, sitting to watch. His hands dug through the embers, causing him to wince in pain. He continued to dig through the ashes and into the ground, pulling out handfuls of dirt. “Well?! Help me out!” Rosha yapped, before digging her paws beside him.

They dug for several minutes, the floor slowly crumbling away until he was near a foot below. The dirt gave way to a steel box, and Gargaron brushed at it. With a grunt he pulled, the length of it as tall as he was. It had been years since he first opened the box, and slowly almost in reverence he unlatched the clasps. The steel creaked with the motion and with a gentle touch he grasped the hilt of his weapon. Orcish runes glowed faintly as he pulled forth his blade, and for a moment the very air stilled as if in tense. The Sword of Khral felt as familiar to him as the last time he carried it, as if an extension of his own arm. It felt good. Right. He had run from his failures; of her, and of his people and the Horde. It was time to stop running.

 “I have hidden from my regrets for too long, Rosha. I’ll never be rid of this malaise; of that I am sure of. But…I can fight it. To live. Now come! We leave for Ratchet. With luck we will find passage to Northrend, for that must be where I am called to fight. Ancestors know what evil that wretched place has spawned now.”

[reynesofcastamere]

Broken Shards[β]

(A/N: This fic is for @awryen, who I also asked for prompts/requests and was given the option of a slightly more dark/cynical Ahsoka working with Maul, or him helping her deal with her nightmares. Once again, having no self-control-and a lot of free time-, I chose both. Also, smut was not requested but it wound up in here anyway! XD. Mention of previous Ahsoka/Barriss. Warnings for disturbing imagery, violence, death, depression/intrusive thoughts, blood and possible dub-con.(Potentially triggering sections will be marked with ****) Absolutely Not Safe For Work and unbeta’d as usual.) 

****

How could you do it?

The Temple burns, and the Jedi with it. But they do not fall. They stand, mouths gaping open in silent screams, empty eye sockets weeping blood in half a hundred colours. Her Master cuts them to pieces, again and again. He is not alone. Barriss stands beside him, eyes filled with grim conviction, the clone troopers flanking this tableau of horror and carnage like mindless automatons. Ahsoka can only watch, helpless and immobilized as the people she loves are burnt, broken and mutilated by their own comrades. Even the younglings...Her stomach churns.

There is only one body, one face that remains undefiled in all of this. Senator Amidala smiles, serene and welcoming. But she is just as dead as all the rest. Did you kill her too? The woman you loved, the one you trusted with your life: Did you even care, in the end? Anakin Skywalker stops to look back at her, eyes corrupted, turned to sickly, acidic yellow rimmed in old blood. ‘You weren’t here, Ahsoka.’ He pronounces with utter certainty, that her leaving was the one thing that sent him toppling into the Dark. ‘But it’s not too late.’ Black segments crawl, beetle-like, over him and Barriss, transforming them into her waking nightmares. Vader and the Seventh Sister. ‘Join us. And seize your destiny.’

NO!

****

“Ahsoka.” Her lids snap open, breathing stuttered and rapid, heartbeat going into overdrive as she sees another pair of awful, venomous eyes looming over her in the semi-darkness. She lashes out blindly, determined not to go down without a fight. The hands that catch her wrists are bare and callused. Strong. She needs to fight harder, to get out, get away- “Naak, cabur. Gar racin kyr’adiise munit dar. [Peace, guardian. Your pale corpses (are) long gone].” Her eyes well up with unbidden moisture, suddenly overwhelmed. Ahsoka is relieved at hearing a ruthless killer speak Mando’a to her in a hushed, hypnotic tone. Because it is better than the hiss and wheeze of the machines powering the...abomination that her Master has become. She can feel Maul’s hands move to cup her face, the pads of his thumbs brushing the tears that managed to escape. He seems more curious than anything else, head tilted slightly as he examines her. “Have you never seen anyone cry before?” Her voice is weak, despite the attempt at humour. “Not this close. I lost the ability some time ago.” He replies, calm and completely untroubled. As if it were normal, and she is somehow the strange one for not being able to control her body’s response to the terrors plaguing her sleep.  Perhaps she is. Her Master has willingly chained himself to a monster that devours galaxies to satiate his hunger for absolute power. Most of her friends and comrades-in-arms are either dead or missing, a fellow Padawan and former lover is hunting down Force-sensitive children for slaughter or brainwashing; Her current lover-enemy-ally is a former Sith assassin at the head of a criminal empire. And Ahsoka....Ahsoka lies, steals, and kills while she bargains with slavers and worse for anything that will help keep the Rebel Alliance alive and undetected just one day longer. What is the point?  Even control of the Force eludes her because she cannot find peace. The closest she comes to it these days is the brief oblivion of climax or a few hours of dreamless slumber. The rest is bitterness and pain wrapped in a dull grey haze.Which is why she is here. Maul at least makes her feel something. The sharp bite of anger, the rush of drive and ambition, the raw red strength of clinging to life and refusing to let go. She pulls away then, turning over and presenting herself to him. “Are you certain?” “I’m not in the mood to beg. Now-aaaaaAAAaaah-” Before she can issue an order, he has grasped her hips and is entering her roughly. She is not quite ready. Every shift and thrust hurts, but this is what she wants. To be used hard enough that she aches for days afterwards, just to hold on to some sliver of what keeps him burning so fiercely. Maul presses her down, forcing her to turn her head to avoid being smothered by the pillow, the peaks of her breasts rubbing against the sheets as she is made to lift her backside higher. The change in angle is enough to provoke another long, mangled stream of vowels. “Touch yourself.” He hisses, and oh, it feels as if he could pierce right through her and keep going.Every sharp plunge impacts her cervix, the sound of their bodies meeting only becoming more and more crude as her arousal builds. Ahsoka pants and reaches for herself in a half-dazed state as he growls and fucks her harder. The base of him slides against her fingertips a few times before she finds her nub, circling it with her middle finger as her other digits spread her folds open. “Now. You will tell me what is wrong.” Her stomach sinks even as he makes her moan. “W-what are you talking about?” “Your presence in the Force is practically non-existant, despite the ghosts that cling to your shoulders.” Maul snarls. “You are lost, listless, submissive...Before, you would have made me struggle for the privilege of having you like this.” She is trapped, something he emphasizes by leaning over, lips brushing against her jaw with each word. “You were glorious, Ahsoka Tano. And now you are a ruin, waiting to crumble.” He still hasn’t let up his pace, as if to discipline her for these ‘defects’. Her lips tighten as she buries her face in the pillow. It is none of his damned business why she is different, now. Besides, why should he care? Ahsoka expects him to keep going, and is mildly shocked when he stops, withdrawing from her core with a speed that borders on violent as he turns her over and yanks her upright. “Look at me.” A demand which she blatantly ignores until he manipulates the Dark Side to hold her chin in place, his hands gripping tightly to her upper arms.

There is anger in his sunburst gaze and in the power that roils and snaps around him, but beneath that...Oh. He is afraid...For her? The revelation hits with the force of a sudden blow to the chest, and only grows more solid as their foreheads come to rest together, his stare softening by slow degrees. “I-” Ahsoka swallows a choked sob. “You were right. Anakin- he-he was Sidious’s apprentice all along. I didn’t want to believe it, but Vader-” She can’t bring herself to say the words. “I failed him. If I hadn’t left-” “No.” Maul’s snarl cuts into her self-recrimination. “Your Master failed. And continues to fail every day that he allows Sidious to live.” He releases his grip to trace the outline of her lekku, then up her throat and along her jaw. “They think themselves untouchable, but they forget...The dark is generous, and it is patient, and soon, very soon, their stars will burn out.” His words are silk and poison on the air, and she wants- “Join me.”

“What, no offer to rule the galaxy this time?” She retorts dryly, trying to cover up the fact that she is wavering, kept on the edge of a steep cliff by the barest sliver of rock.

“You have rejected power, revenge, and almost every other shade of temptation placed before you. I can only offer myself.” There is some scrap of cautious hope in his gaze as he answers, the words devastatingly simple. Yet for someone like him, secrets and vulnerabilities so carefully safeguarded, it means everything. If she accepts, if she falls, her life will change irreversibly. There is no guarantee that she will be able to hold onto herself once she takes that final step. Maul has never been a moderating influence. And Rex...She’s not certain what he or anyone else she still calls ‘friend’ would think of this.  Perhaps...it is not impossible to find a middle ground. “Show me?” Ahsoka asks, breathless and uncertain, but willing to extend some degree of trust. “Breathe.” His hands sweep downwards to rest lightly at her sides, ribcage expanding and contracting under his fingertips. “Focus on your passions, your fury...And let them out.” Her eyes close as she matches his pattern of breathing, positioning herself on his lap and bracing her hands on his chest. She takes him inside her again. Gradually, gently as the Dark Side seeps in. It is cold at first, almost numbingly so. But after the first adjustment...Ahsoka can feel Maul much more intensely; The difference of being on the same wavelength as opposed to different signals. There is even a dizzying moment where she sees herself through him, sees her eyes open, burning gold with a ring of blue flickering around the pupil like a candle-flame. The surge of wonder-possession-desire-protection from her lover threatens to sweep her away for a moment. “Is...Is this what you feel all the time?” When he’s with her, at least. Considering his default state is prickly at best and downright murderous at worst.

“The intensity is the same, yes.” His head lowers to let his mouth pay homage to her breasts as they move together. This feels...right. A slow build-up of pleasure as emotions, thoughts, and sensations twist and weave together. There are words lurking within his head that have her dragging her nails over his torso. He really...Wants that, with her? Strangely, the idea isn’t repulsive. At the very least, it means that he desires an equal partner, not a subordinate. "Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde. [We are one when together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors.]" Their voices merge in ancient oath, parting only when something else speaks through them.

“There is no Light-” “-without the Dark.” “Through passion, I gain focus.” “Through knowledge, I gain power.”

“Through serenity, I gain strength.”

“Through victory, I gain harmony.”

“There is only the Force.”

There are no words to describe what is happening to them right now. No defined point where she ends and he begins. Their awareness is scattered across galaxies, caught in the endless cycles of birth, death, and renewal before everything is once again narrowed to a single point and they cannot handle it... It feels as though years have passed when Ahsoka opens her eyes again.The Light practically hums without her even needing to reach for it, but the Dark is there too, vibrating in harmony. She is not...free from her burdens or her ghosts, but she has another purpose, now. And perhaps more than that. “I can feel your ambition, my Lady.” Maul’s voice is a teasing rumble next to one of her montrails. “Whatever are you planning?” “To lure Vader into a trap. He can either fall in line...Or get out of the way.” If she cannot persuade her former Master to topple Sidious, she will have to kill him. There is no other option. Of course, she will need to plan carefully to have any hope of success. But if the risk pays off...She kisses him one last time, brief but passionately, his grin full of visceral pleasure as they part. “I may have some...suggestions to that effect.” “Mm, I’m not surprised. But first, my Lord, I think we’re due another round of celebrating.” (A/N: Whoo! Okay, so going in order. Barriss Offee is the Seventh Sister in this fic and her and Ahsoka were previously involved because I’m a sucker for tragedy. The ‘dark is patient’ line is taken and bastardized from Matthew Stover. Yes, Ahsoka and Maul are married by Mandalorian custom in this fic and they’re speaking the version of the Gray Jedi code that I like best because it flows well. *insert ‘That’s not how the Force works!’ joke here* Also Ahsoka’s eye colour is back to normal after they ‘finish’;). Hopefully this works as a suitable compromise between the tropes that I wanted to incorporate. Cheers!)

[giclianas]

( orsini 004 ) ☩ per te è la gloria. giuliana orsini has arrived in florence from rome, resembling matilda lutz. i have heard talk she is astute & compassionate, so long as you overlook that she is also opportunistic & secretive. they’re a member of the orsini family, but, in this unholy city, is blood truly thicker than water? one day they might realize their ambition to gain a position in delphine of valois’ household, but only time will tell… e il regno. ☩ as written by di; est, she/her, 21+.

name: giuliana orsini

age / d.o.b.: 27, august 12 1452

birth order: second eldest.

house: orsini.

place of origin: rome.

sexuality: bisexual.

horoscope: leo.

physique / height: voluptuous, 5'7.

faceclaim: matilda lutz.

virtues: headstrong, intrepid, charismatic.

vices: selfish, conceited, vain, opportunistic.

relationship status: unmarried.

children: n/a.

religion: roman catholic.

born in the countryside of rome, a splendorous and noble city flourishing with skillful men and distinguished women in may of 1452, church bells rang from the palazzo orsini for the occasion of her birth across a peninsula relishing in the spring. rome, the seat and majesty of religion, had never before experienced such prosperity, nor witnessed such tranquility: at the heart of its recent achievements stood giuliana’s own father, signore orsini, his shrewd and astute nature enriched by the nobly beguiling wife at his side. her mother, bona orsini, a member of the imminent d’este family, her father the head of the illustrious orsini family, giuliana’s birth had effectively combined the bloodlines of two dynasties, consolidating their power into one imposing household, and she would not live to forget the monumental feat her birth had achieved. adored since the moment her cries trumpeted as resoundingly as the bells celebrating her birth, giuliana made swift work of establishing herself as a presumptuous favorite –– able to charm the skin off a snake, or sulk her way into satisfaction, she proved as enchanting as she was duplicitous, seldom denied that which she pined for and very rarely chided for her overbold reach.

but if her immediate family rejoiced upon the occasion of her christening, then rival dynasties would despair; at the time of her birth, the orsini family was firmly locked into an ancient, legendary grudge with competing roman families such as the colonnas, and, more recently, the upstart borgias. their rivals would vie with prepossessing, precocious daughters of their own, and it became paramount that giuliana was reared with the best education her family’s extensive wealth could buy, adorned with striking fashions and transfixed with a reputation of both piety and grace so that she would have an opportunity to have her first pick among the bachelors of europe.

as she grew into her own, it became imminently clear that giuliana was content to play in her family’s games, even if discouraged, as an innately competitive and motivated individual. she longed not only to prove her lineage’s worth, as the orsinis already proved their weight in gold, but her own: so she turned her eye to marriage, seeking to secure the best arrangement her father could possibly muster, the brokering of nuptials both a civic and personal duty to the orsini family. aided by her mother’s sharp eye for social advancement, the orsinis attained a match with the della rovere family, betrothing giuliana to their eldest scion: francesco, lord of montecchio. her husband proved decidedly unambitious; an ambiguous individual, with nothing to distinguish himself from other men except for his listlessness, whose days were consumed with religious devotion.

his nondescript facade crumbled when, three years into the marriage, giuliana hastened upon a room occupied by francesco and his male lover––an artist, only nineteen, whom the family had acted as patron to for a number of months. the marriage became violent following this revelation; poisoned by threats from both parties, physical and mental ferocity, creating a storm of disillusionment and dejection in which giuliana seemed to have lost the ignition to her ambition and drive. consumed by rage, humiliation, but never sorrow, giuliana turned to the single individual who could rescue her from this plight: her mother. they secured a modest position in the papal army for francesco’s young lover, and for her husband, the wages of sin would be death. giuliana returned to her family’s estate at bassanello the morning before francesco’s death, and would never return to the villa that nurtured her marriage except to weep over her husband’s body––cold and lifeless, no different from its living form––who’d passed away in a fit of coughs over the night. (as her mother’s bane seeped into his lungs.) she did not mourn for francesco; she mourned for the virgin bride he’d blackened.

[obeymematches]

Hi, can I get a matchup? Thank you in advanced and I hope you're doing well despite the current state of the world ❤

(Edit: almost an hour later and I've finally finished writing this. Let's just say this did not turn out the way I expected AT ALL and I'm so sorry in advanced. But at least I got a new story idea)

Introduction (Innocence): At first, I'm extremely shy, timid, and quiet. I have a hard time opening my mouth and starting conversations. It doesn't always bother me since I like keeping to myself because it keeps me motivated and stay focused on my goals. However, if someone approaches me, I try to be as polite, passive, and friendly as possible. The only way to move out of this stage is to constantly interact with me until I feel comfortable.

Chapter 1 (Reality): Now that I'm comfortable, the snark and attitude starts to come through. At first, it will be a few light-hearted teasing that surprise people. Slowly, the jabs grow harsher and my voice grows louder. The dynamic of the conversation changes as I begin to dominate. My voice rises as my hands do all the talking. Sarcasm and eye rolls are regular parts of conversation. A thick cloud of chaos and self-deprecation arises, leading to a storm of endless rangs about my dramatic woes. In the midst of this confusion, you can't help but wonder: what happened to that soft-spoken girl?

Chapter 2 (Chaos): It has become my personal mission to make your life as miserable as possible. My sinister laughter rings through the air, bringing headaches to those around me. Despite all their attempts, no one stop me writing monologues that parody your towards your crush or stealing your phone until you give me your chips. My ego has devoured my self-deprecation; my word is law. My beauty, my hardwork, my intelligence-- me. You absolutely hate it, but you can't leave. The quick-wit, the variety of humor, and the soft crinkle around my eyes when I smile. The smart-assery is almost endearing. You can't help but wonder, what is she doing to do next? It's a game of cat and mouse, but I am always victorious.

Chapter 3 (Darkness): Beneath the madness, lies a small girl fighting against the shackles against her feet. She will not accept any help, she must escape on her own. Doubt constantly lingers in her mind, a consequence of previous endeavors that failed due to pride. She does not care for those who jeer at her as she struggles, holding her head high. There's only one thing in her mind: she will do anything to escape. It will be methodical, calculating, and nothing less than perfection. And when she does, she vows to do everything in her power to take her rightful spot on the throne.

Chapter 4 (Light): And so she escapes and sets on her path to become queen. Along her path, she befriends villagers who aid her quest. Although she becomes the voice of harsh reason, they heed her wisdom. Her companions know that despite her sharp tongue, she is simply looking out for them. Although she dislikes any form of affection, the cracks of her stone heart shine through her actions. It is here that she finds balance. Innocence, reality, chaos, darkness, and light meld into one.

Conclusion: Unfortunately, the journey is not over. However, the journey itself can teach one a lot about themselves. Thus far, the little girl has learned for her love of novels, often with her head in clouds to escape reality. She's also taken a liking to storytelling, finding solace in writing and storytelling to express the emotions she cannot communicate otherwise. She likes to bathe in her vanity by indugling in fashion and makeup, spending hours to create the perfect look. Despite this newfound sense of self, only time will tell whether she can succeed in her quest.

Adding a summary below because as a fellow matchup writer, I can see how this description would drive you insane. I'm so sorry for the story lol

Summary: At first I'm super shy, but I'm actually a sarcastic smartass that has a large ego and annoys everyone. My only redeemable quality is that I'm funny. Deep down, I'm ambitious, stubborn, and paranoid. With friends I'm the unaffectionate voice of reason that shows love through actions. My hobbies are makeup, reading, writing, and public speaking (aka storytelling).

----------

Hello! 💎

Thank you for sending in a request, I hope you like the result ! I’m doing fine, everybody at home is still healthy! 🙏

So I really enjoy how you elaborated on your layered and complex personality, because when I do matches I take people’s negative traits into consideration and they boy’s as well. Let’s face it, nobody’s perfect, and I like how the characters have their own flaws. I always look at how everybody could develop. (although it is not complete redemption cuz i’m not sure if that is possible for demons. like in paradise lost that is impossible but at this point it is not known how far obey me will go with that 🤷 but anyway regardless of canon i like to think that the MC has a positive effect on each character because i prefer healthy relationships) 

So I think your shy first impression would actually draw all of them in. I mean like yeah, they all have their prefered types, but they are also very curious demons (not exactly genuine but curious nevertheless) and would compete to figure out your actual personality. (I mean..Belphie probably not that much but deep down he is interested too)

I think by the time you’d show your deeper layers and vica versa you’d have a strong bond with Mammon (he is supposed to be with you a lot so really; it is hard to avoid opening up to him first but it is up to your imagination how far that goes), Satan would appreciate your shared hobbies and intellect, but it is up to you how much you trust him. Asmo obviously because of makeup, you have a shared interest and he can show you some tricks regarding that. I think both Satan and Asmo could influence your writing also. (Satan knows some lit Devildom stories that the human world lacks, and Asmo probably knows so much gossip nobody is prepared for)     

Now obviously, Asmo is not the ideal partner because he would definitely prefer someone affectionate. 

I’m deciding between Lucifer and Satan..but I am unsure what kinf of improvement you and Lucifer would result in, despite the connection that might form between you two. (I mean I don’t think it is a good idea to pair a kind of arrogant character with a deep-down paranoid person.)

But I think you and Satan could work out. 

I already mentioned the hobbies/shared interests and source of inspiration, but there is more than that to it!

He definitely needs some guidance in his life and no way he would ever let Lucifer play that role. 

It’s not that he is not independent, but he should  reconcile with his birth as much as he can  -  you being a dominant voice of reason under the surface is something he can respect.

Yeah he can be pretty dominant and that might result in arguments from time to time, but you are somebody he needs so he will do his best to apologize if he snaps for some reason. 

You both are witty and sarcastic and I think you would kind of point out the other’s flaws like that. No offense taken on either side.

So his aggressive tendencies the others warned you about might cause paranoia in you but I don’t think he would actually be violent towards the MC so if you bring it up to him in a conversation he would reassure you that you really shouldn’t worry about that. (and then he beats up whoever made you think that, behind your back) 

You see, on the surface he is also calm and collected but on a deeper layer he is also insecure and oh boy he has so much flaws that should be fixed.

Again, you being rational, wise, voice of reason proves to be much needed. 

As I elaborated before, in his case I don’t think there is space for complete redemption but he would go a long way with your aid!

He also adores your ambitions and your goals in life. 

He would read all the work you decide to share with him! He would disappear into the night reading your story and the next time you see him he has a copy of your story in his hand; little notes everywhere, underlined parts, several bookmarks, tons of insanely detailed questions, sharing his interpretations... you better be ready because it will be a long conversation. 

This way he also learns so much about you and the way you express your feelings! He would fall sooo hard, especially when he supposes you like him because of some line on page 73′s third paragraph  

He wouldn’t be sure though. (Again, he can be kind of insecure.)

Not until one of you actually makes a move. I think when that time comes, he would absolutely make a reference to one of your stories one way or another. Even if you don’t write romance. He’s smart, he will find a way.

 I think he would also help you “stay on Earth” considering your fears and tendency of stubborn and prideful behaviour. 

You would never have to ask him for help, as he will be the one suggesting it all the time. He is good at observing people, he will know if/when you need help. He refuses to be rejected by a human so really you have no chance here. 

He also has his own sense of humour so time spent together would involve joking around sometimes. I mean despite his facade, he can be a little brat sometimes. 

Like a cat he likes his independence so really he is not going to force any affection that you would not welcome. Maybe sometimes he enjoys it, but definitely not early in a relationship. 

He would love to participate in your storytelling activities. Not one occassion he would miss. 

[theparanormalperiodical]

The Real Story Behind The Babadook (2014), And 17 Weirdest Bogeymen From Around The World That Might Be Hiding Under Your Bed Right Now

Strange times we live in.

It’s a Saturday night, and I’m hauled up at home eating a vegetarian lasagne whilst my mother asks me for the 37th time why I’ve decided to give up meat, when really, if there was no global pandemic, I’d be hauled up at home eating a vegetarian lasagne whilst my mother asks me for the 37th time why I’ve decided to give up meat.

It really is a strange time we live in.

But, in my attempt to protect the vulnerable groups in society and halt the spread of the latest Twitter hashtag in its tracks, I decided to catch up on the horror films hadn’t found the time to press play on just yet.

So, a bucket of popcorn and some mild trauma later, I could finally join in the conversation about The Babadook.

6 years too late.

Nevertheless! Once I’d emotionally recovered, I finally had my Sex And The City moment. No, not the ones with feminism that would make Emilline Pankhurst perform the equivalent of a Viennese Waltz in her grave - the one where Carrie sits in her NYC apartment and thinks about men at her computer.

“I couldn’t help but wonder: could the Babadook be based on a true story? ”

Unfortunately, I discovered that the Babadook is based on the concept of the boogeyman, an urban legend that has a greater global reach than Covid-19. 

So, to distract you from the global pandemic with the threat of a creature lurking under your bed and waiting to snatch an ankle, I thought I’d let you in on the reality behind this queer icon.

First, let’s talk ‘bout The Babadook.

It was one of the biggest hits of the 2010s, combining the classic trope of creepy children with the classic colour palette of depression. Our story follows a single mother and her son who begins to be visited by an imaginary creature fresh from the pages of a children’s book.

With spiky talon-like hands, a cloaked figure, a jaw crammed full of teeth, a face paler than that time you bought that foundation on a whim in TK Maxx - all crowned with a dusty hat - the Babadook the child was seeing certainly had a sense of style.

The child, Sam, begins to create intricate traps and weapons designed to stop the Babadook, all the while the book predicts the mother’s rather dark future. It becomes clear that the Bababook is preying on the mother and essentially possessing her, a diagnosis that is confirmed when the mother attempts to kill Sam.

She then regurgitates a black inky substance evocative of ectoplasm, and is released from its grip. 

The film ends on the happy family feeding the Babadook as it lives in their basement.

This indie horror - once it had finished polishing the 5 awards on it’s mantelpiece - might have woven a intricate plot deviating from the simple basis of international man of mystery James Bond The Boogeyman, but the basis still sticks out more than that wardrobe in the corner of your bedroom you’re now highly conscious of.

Simply put, the Babadook matches the basic concept of the boogeyman:

There’s some weird, dark creature that knicks kids and eats ‘em if they wander alone or don’t go to bed or misbehave. Just like Krampus, the bogeyman is a legend propagated by parents to convince kids to stay in line.

That being said, the mythical creature isn’t the only inspo behind this cinema-hit.

Specifically, the brains behind the film, Jennifer Kent, claimed it was about a deep-rooted fear we all have: that of going mad. On top of this, it seeks to show parenting from a real perspective.

The film focuses on a single mother as she faces one of the most difficult challenges in life: she loses her husband whilst going to give birth to her son, and then has to raise him alone. But that is not all.

Kent also spoke of a real encounter with the bogeyman. 

Basics, her bestie’s son was being plagued by an imaginary monster, so she pretended to talk to it to calm his concerns. Sure, this tale might not have kickstarted the real terror engaged with in this movie, but it invited us into the reality behind the bogeyman.

But beyond this, the movie also detracts from the Babadook, and instead looks for the primal instincts in the mother - it looks for the bogeyman within us all.

That’s right - the real horror that was inside us all along.

Yawn.

But the thing is, it also brings up hell of a lot of paranormal activity that is remarkably accurate to theories of the supernatural.

      Let’s start with the introduction of the Babadook.

He arrives in the form of a creepy children’s book no one’s seen or heard of. Armed with a chilling nursery rhyme and an aesthetic last seen in 2007, the Babadook follows the basic principles of a basic haunting: ghost does spooky stuff, ghost spooks humans, humans invite it in following the consent laws of the universe by interacting with it, ghost spooky powers intensify.

This begins with the book itself. Although the film doesn’t consider if he is a paranormal being aligning with the concept of demons and spirits (etc.), this book follows the concept of haunted objects.

By opening the book and reading it - or, interacting with it - they invite in the Babadook. And when she tries to destroy it, it crops up again, fully intact and conveniently lying on her doorstep.

No ‘sorry we missed you card’ needed.

This closely follows the theory of the haunted object, something more on-trend than tutting at empty shelves in the grocery store. Haunted objects have a habit of failing to be destroyed, and by engaging with them, such as not asking permission for taking a picture of a haunted doll, you enter communication with them.

From there, you’ve basically consented to a full possession. The object is a vessel for a spirit or a demon until a new, better, breathing vessel can be found.

You can find out more about this here.

I can’t find anything about haunted books specifically online, but as a variety of haunted objects exist, from bunk beds to boxes, I’m sure there’s potential for it.

     Next is the eventual possession of the mother.

One of the most dramatic moments we witness is when the mother coughs up this black bile which represents the removal of the Babadook. This bears a striking resemblance to ectoplasm, a white liquid often released by those experiencing intense paranormal activity.

When mediums experience a trance-like state, they supposedly release a fabric-like or thick substance that darkens as physic energy is intensified. It allows those in the supernatural realm to interact with the physical realm, and for spirits to represent themselves to the audience of a seance.

This film was one of the first to explore the potential paranormal explanations behind the bogeyman, and give some basis to a beast that has haunted communities since the beginning of time.

Speaking of the beast…

Who is the bogeyman?

It’s sometime in the 1500s.

We are in the middle of a small country called England, struggling to make ends meet between the near constant famine, the anxiety of being cursed by a witch, or some war with [insert european nation that may or may not exist anymore].

Either way, when we aren’t trying to spell everything with an ‘e’ at the end, we are being taunted by hobgoblins.

These pesky beasts made their name in tormenting Englishmen, playing pranks on them or simply just being foul.

Hobgoblins are the OG bogeymen, or are the first we can trace back to recorded sources. But they were no means the last. And they were by no means the only ones in the world.

As a simple definition, the bogeyman is a mythical creature that makes sure kids are staying in line, and was made up by parents. The thing is, the bogeyman features in every culture that has ever been created.

And given the realm of the paranormal explored so far on this blog, perhaps your local Babadook isn’t so out of the question.

The bogeyman has always claimed a rather vague existence, representing a non-specific terror that has even extended to just ‘being the devil’ in some cases. The origins of the name are no different: ‘bogge’ comes from middle english, meaning ‘something frightening’ or ‘scarecrow’.

It has even been interpreted to mean ‘goat’ which can be traced to relations to the devil.

Appearance wise, the bogeyman has several broad features that stretch across cultures. Standard features include sharp teeth, talon or claw-like hands, hooves for feet, and even bug-like features. The Babadook might have shared in a few of these #basic-bogeyman traits, but it’s not all about looks.

How does his personality fair?

The bogeyman can pick between three personality types: something that punishes misbehaving children; one that is just violent for the hell of it which includes stealing kids, and eating them and/or taking them back to hell; or one that protects the innocent.

“So what you’re saying is, this is a vague looking creature with a vague personality with vague ambitions that is made up by parents who are tired of their kids interrupting their vague post-marital sex?”

Okay, fine, the bogeyman bears little resemblance to the basic concept of the bogeyman. But this is what makes him the international man of mystery. It’s the regional divergences between each nation’s own Babadook that makes this creature quite so peculiar.

You see, I assumed the bogeyman would be a universal concept draped in more black clothes than a kid that was in the throes of that scene where Edward leaves Bella. 

Turns out that there’s actually a band of bogeymen which can be specified by their not-so-casual racism and genitalia.

But as the 195 countries dotted across the globe have fostered their own child-eating monster, I thought I’d cut to the chase and fill you in on the world’s weirdest bogeymen.

*Rolls up sleeves of Team Edward hoodie*

     The Sack Man

Making his cinematic debut in The Nightmare Before Christmas, the Sack Man is the international symbol for the bogeyman. Whether he himself is draped in sack-like materials, or is lugging one around with him, Hombre Del Saco uses his luggage to capture and carry naughty children away to, uh, somewhere.

Most popular in Latin countries and Eastern Europe, the Sack Man is the most well travelled bogeyman on this list.

     Babaroga

The original inspiration behind the Babadook - note the similar name - Babaroga is a resident of Serbia and its neighbouring countries. However, the mood board for the Babadook’s inspiration stopped there.

Babaroga literally translates to “old woman with horns”.

And this pensioner spends her time finding children, putting them in a sack (how original), bringing them to her cave, and eating them. Or, to shake things up, she pulls childrens through small holes in the ceiling.

     El Coco

When he’s not featuring in lovable Disney hits, El Coco is snatching kids that don’t get to sleep when they should. With nursery rhymes detailing the legend - a chilling similarity to the Babadook - spanish-language countries across the globe are versed in reportedly seeing a coconut-like face hiding under their beds.

With a brown hairy face and body, and glowing red eyes to match, this famous humanoid might be closer than you think.

“Que viene el Coco y te comerá” 

 - A line from the traditional Spanish nursery rhyme.

     The Mamma

Pakistan gets its fair share of attention on the news cycle, but aside from the war going on, no one has ever noted the rather peculiar beast haunting the nation’s young women.

The Mamma isn’t the mothering being the name suggests, but is a large ape that lives in the mountains and only comes to the civilised world when in need of a young girl. Once he’s kidnapped ‘em and taken ‘em back to his cave, he licks their hands and feet so they can’t escape.

I have a strong feeling that what happens next to these innocent women isn’t as silly as someone licking your feet.

     La Tulievieja

Bringing together the award-winning aesthetic of The Ring and the naseau-inducing aesthetic of Cats, La Tulievieja is Panama’s warning for naughty children. Legend has it she is a spirit cursed by God for drowning her child.

The thing is, God’s curse was, uh, confused. Her monstrous form consists of acne scarring, long hair, claws for hands, a cat’s body and a farmyard animal’s hooved feet. On top of that, she also looks like the child she drowned.

Yep, confused.

     The Jersey Devil

Most countries suffer from multiple bogeymen - here in the UK, for example, we have 12 varieties - and America is no different. The Jersey Devil is actually one of 4 variants, and, like La Tulievieja, is also confused.

Fresh from the jaws of New Jersey, this beast has a horse’s head, bat wings, hooves, and a snake’s tail. First spotted in the 18th century and then again in 1909, it is believed that this legend was actually manufactured as a real estate hoax to coax residents into lowering their selling prices.

You might be able to deny the existence of this beast, but the Cipelahq (a large owl), the Long Black Being that makes a habit of slithering round like a snake, and Bloody Bones (a dancing skeleton and a separate skull) have yet to be disproven.

     The Copperpenis Owl

Hungary has 3 different bogeyman, and most fit the description of the international beast: there’s one with a sack, there’s one which is just a-bit-beasty, and then there’s the giant owl with a penis made of copper.

I personally feel a Babadook with rose gold genitalia circa 2013 might have detracted from the overall feel of the film.

     Ijiraq and the Qalupalik

Iniut communities also follow beliefs in the bogeyman, and probably focus on them more than others because if you wander off in the Arctic you will either get mauled by a bear and die, or freeze.

And then you’ll die.

They actually have 2 resident bogeymen. There’s the Ijiraq, a shapeshifter that kidnaps kids. You know, pretty basic bitch stuff. And then there’s the Qalupalik who is slightly more spooky.

This is a mermaid laden with green skin, long fingernails, and ratty hair that carry babies away in amauti (pouches or sacks for carrying kids) and bring them to live in their underwater world.

     Butzemann

Remember when I mentioned that thing about casual racism? It’s a bit of grey area, ironically.

Germany’s very own bogeyman is known as The Black Man.

(You can see my point.)

That being said, this probably doesn’t actually refer to the colour of his skin as most Germans during the Middle Ages hadn’t actually seen anyone from the African continent. Instead, his outdated nickname was actually down to his preference for dark corners.

The closet, under the bed, in forests during the early hours... If it’s spooky, you’ll find him here.

     Babau

Germany isn’t the only country with politically incorrect bogeyman. Italy has its very own Black Man, a mysterious figure which often features as a black man (gasp) or a black ghost. Only this entity has no legs.

The Marabbecca on the other hand is specific to Sicily, and mirrors the mythology of the Inuits.

Don’t play too close to the water, kids, or a Marabbecca will swim up and drag you to your watery grave!

     The Kropeman

Our final iconic bogeyman isn’t like the other girls, even if his fellow Luxembourgian monsters are. There’s yet another Black Man, and there’s something about an uncle, but it's the Kropeman which has me sleeping with the lights on.

Under the streets of this small country roams a man with a long hook.

When he’s not busy dodging rats in the sewers, he’s grabbing kids by their nose via the hook, and dragging ‘em down into the storm drains.

So - which one is hiding in your closet?

(Aside from the queerness your inner 14 year old hasn’t fully unleashed yet like a big bisexual dragon spewing flames of gender-neutralness.)

(Don’t worry, I’m fine.)

Are you a whore for horror? Passionate about the paranormal? Do you want to see a new real ghost story every day? Then you have to follow this blog.

Read this post next!

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted Mid-Year Exchange, Part 2: Positive No to Yves Tumour

Six Organs got a lot of mid-year love this time

Welcome back to part two of the Dusted Mid-Year Exchange, in which we tackle the second half of the alphabet. If you missed part one, with its lengthy description of what we’re doing here, you can read it here. Or just muddle through. Cheers.  

Positive No — Kyanite (Little Black Cloud)

Kyanite by Positive No

Who recommended it? Tobias Carroll

Did we review it? No.

Tim Clarke’s take:

Positive No braid tight bursts of guitars, bass and drums into upbeat yet agitated shapes. There’s a touch of Blonde Redhead’s Kazu Makino in Tracy Wilson’s vocal delivery, or My Bloody Valentine’s Belinda Butcher, especially on expansive opener “Elevator Up.” At just under half an hour, the urgent economy of Kyanite’s songwriting makes all the more sense when you learn that it’s the band’s final album, released on Valentine’s Day this year. As their parting gesture, nothing is wasted, everything invested. As one of the song titles says, “Get In, Get Out. Don’t Linger. Go On.”

 Raspberry Bulbs — Before the Age of Mirrors

Before The Age Of Mirrors by Raspberry Bulbs

Who picked it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes, Jonathan said, “Even in its heaviest metal moments, on ‘Reclaimed Church’ and excellent closing track ‘Given Over to History,’ the record’s punk vibe cuts and grins. It insists on a deadly aesthetic seriousness, and at the same time, it’s tugging the rug out from under its own feet.”

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Raspberry Bulbs splices punk’s antic venom with metal’s storm and roar, shifting from one mode to the other inside individual tracks, sometimes measure to measure. Consider “Doggerel” which kicks off in a pogo-ing furor, rattling violently over rapid oi band rhythms, everything clipped and percussive, even the vocals, though hoarse and splintered. Midway through, a sirening guitar riff intercedes and the singing turns ominous and measured; all the sudden it’s metal. “Midnight Line” pulls the opposite trick, beginning in clanging, feedback-morphing guitar and larynx shredding howl, then introducing a punk rock palm-muted chug and anthemry. It’s a volatile mix, at times nearly playful, at others agonizingly heavy, at still others (the “Intervals” mostly) surprisingly lyrical.  I lean towards the punk-er tracks—"They’re After Me” and “Doggerel”— metal fans may feel otherwise.

 Stephen Riley — Friday the 13th (Steeplechase)

Who recommended it? Derek Taylor

Did we review it? Yes. Derek said, “Knuffke and Riley are a directly collaborative pairing now and their partnership politely demands many more dates like this one.”

Justin Cober-Lake's take:

Saxophonist Stephen Riley has put together a quartet with a singular idea of playing these classic tunes on Friday the 13th in relatively straightforward and spacious renditions. Their take on Eddie Vinson's “Four” has Riley and cornetist Kirk Knuffke trading long solos. The rhythm section does its job, but it's a horn players' record. The album comes alive most when Knuffke and Riley interact more immediately. On Oliver Nelson's “Hoe Down,” they reveal how great a partnership they have, initially matching each other on the main melody before spiraling off. “Round Midnight” could have been too obvious a choice, but the combo's personalized take on the standard works out. Everyone sounds at ease enough within the song that they take a few more risks, and the horn players supplement each other nicely with more harmonic considerations. The album ends with a trio of spirited numbers, and in each case Riley and Knuffke play off each other's solos with a sharpness that by now makes sense. Riley's listening to Monk and playing like Rollins (hence the title track) as he and his group find ways to make old bop sound new.

  Gil Scott-Heron and Makaya McCraven—We’re New Again, A Reimagining (XL Recordings)

Who recommended it? Jenny Kelly.

Did we review it? Yes. Arthur Krumins notes, “McCraven lays down a lush musical backdrop that allows Scott-Heron’s words to have emotional impact.”

Jonathan Shaw’s take:

The word “reimagine” has a sexy resonance, and for that reason, it’s often too casually used. But in the case of We’re New Again, the word is warranted. Drummer and producer Makaya McCraven doesn’t just remix Gil Scott-Heron’s final record, I’m New Here (2010); McCraven shuffles the track list, adds some relevant recordings of Scott-Heron’s voice, and creates entirely new arrangements, moods, and musical accompaniment for the earlier album’s songs. It’s ballsy — I’m New Here is justly recognized as a masterpiece, and it’s marked by a stylistic austerity. On that record, Scott-Heron sang and spoke and recited his poetry over minimalist beats, a strummed guitar, or his own piano playing. McCraven attentively reimagines the tunes, working with polyphonic, post-Bop ensembles; busy hip-hop soundscapes; gospel and funk quotations. Remarkably, none of the richness of Scott-Heron’s vocals and none of the complexity of his poetry get obscured. More often, McCraven inventively intensifies the impact of Scott-Heron’s songs. And the reordering and recontextualizing of the tracks reveals a different narrative, grounded in the resilience and the suffering of Scott-Heron’s upbringing and too-short life. You listen and you feel it. It’s a terrific record.

Six Organs of Admittance — Companion Rises (Drag City)

Companion Rises by Six Organs of Admittance

Who recommended it? Jennifer Kelly

Did we review it? Yes. Jenny said it’s “straight-down-the-middle Six Organs, not as loud and abrasive as the first Hexadic disc, not as reticently wisp-y as the older folk-derived records.”

Patrick Masterson’s take:

Back when Dusted was still a dot-com, we talked about making a site-specific canon for our 10th anniversary, a kind of “Dusted 500” field guide. There was a shared spreadsheet and talk of a benefit show and a mixtape comp and so on that never amounted to anything for myriad reasons, but I can promise you Ben Chasny would’ve figured into it somehow — and nearly a decade on from that, my promise stands. The latest (30th? Let’s call it 30th) Six Organs of Admittance record is a beautiful slow burner that shows why, all astral spirits and slow-rolling starlight guitar plucks that is, as Jenny rightly notes, a Six Organs line drive. My belief after numerous spins since early February — mostly in the mornings, for which this music also seems suitable accompaniment — is that, like the rest of Chasny’s oeuvre, it will appeal to anyone who likes guitars or reads this. On the off chance you stumbled in here or haven’t heard this record yet: Welcome. It’s always been this way.

Patrick Masterson

 Spanish Love Songs — Brave Faces Everyone (Pure Noise)

Brave Faces Everyone by Spanish Love Songs

Who recommended it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes. Ian said, “it’s more a record of solidarity and mutual support than it is anything more prescriptive.”

Patrick Masterson’s take:

L.A. quintet Spanish Love Songs occupy a very specific point on what I like to think of as the Bar Band Spectrum, where one end is a bottom-rung covers-only collective found in just about any weeknight dive pre-COVID playing for beer money out of boredom and modest ambition… and the other end is Bruce Springsteen. This band isn’t as ramshackle as, say, Ladyhawk, nor have they yet hit a glass ceiling à la the Constantines; they sound to me more like Beach Fossils or Single Mothers, where everything from their songwriting to their slightly glossy production suggests they’re as ready as they’ll ever be for arena life. And what a record to make the case, too: Brave Faces Everyone is the sound of Run for Covers Records growing up or early onset Gen Z realizing a glass of wine after everything is, in fact, a coping mechanism for adulthood in a profoundly uncaring world. It’s got a big, young heart to match its big, old sound. It says, loudly, that in the increasingly untethered reality of 2020, we are all losers forever — but there’s still a “best of it” to be made if you wanna and the bravest face is an optimistic one. I’ll rock with that (from the quarantined confines of home and the other side of another lousy livestream, of course).

Patrick Masterson

Squirrel Flower — I Was Born Swimming (Polyvinyl)

I Was Born Swimming by Squirrel Flower

Who picked it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? Nope.

Arthur Krumins’ take:

Making the most of a dour mood, Squirrel Flower squeezes disaffection from her vocal delivery. The instrumentation is reminiscent of a less noisy Built to Spill, or maybe Julie Doiron, and is effectively now a retro indie rock sound originally from the late 90s or early 2000s. The jamminess of some of the drawn out riffs feel both pretty and sad, and could be a good soundtrack to a rainy drive. The heaviness is well developed without being bogged down. The lyrics catch your attention with their plainspoken narration of conflict (“You slap me, I’ll slap you right back” she repeats in “Slapback”). A fitting album for looking your troubles head on while still being totally surrounded by them.

 Waterless Hills — The Great Mountain (Cardinal Fuzz)

Waterless Hills - 'The Great Mountain' by Waterless Hills

Who picked it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? No.

Arthur Krumins’ take:

A dissonant flow that steadily increases in intensity starts this record, which is a live recorded improvisation. The combination of aching, modal violin by dbh with slightly overdriven cascading electric guitar by C Joynes makes for a feel reminiscent of “Venus in Furs” by the Velvet Underground. The percussion by Andrew Cheetham, a drum kit plug some extras like a hung Chinese gong, creates texture and mood. Sometimes there’s just a steady counting of time in the background, at other moments waves of cymbals crash and make a cacophonous emphasis as the music rises and falls. The overall effect of the jams is hypnotic, like getting absorbed in a swirling light show. The players’ sensitivity to the musical interplay of their instruments, combined with a masterful looseness, makes it a trip worth taking.

Well Yells — We Mirror the Dead (Self-released)

Who recommended it? Ian Mathers.

Did we review it? Yes. Ian Mathers notes, “tipping towards the slightly industrial/EBM side of the genre, We Mirror the Dead gains a kind of gloomy propulsion without losing any of the atmosphere or intensity of [the band’s] prior work.”

Jonathan Shaw’s take:

The Gothic is not famous for stylistic restraint, and neither are the various contemporary subgenres that have inherited goth music’s romance of dark interiors, painfully fraught feeling and highly stylized self-fashioning. A few recent acts have cut against the grain of those established maximalist textures: see the grim industrial rancor of Street Sects, and the more experimental, sample-based austerities of Wreck and Reference. Well Yells’ music feels similarly stripped down to a pulsing electronic essence. But the record is more interested in the strobing spaces of Clubland than in decrepit factory ruins, and the darkwave gloss of We Mirror the Dead presents a more conventional relation to goth’s sensations. At its best—as on album opener “Kill the King”—the music of Patrick Holbrook, sole member of Well Yells, snaps and glimmers with compelling dread and arch sophistication. Holbrook’s breathy tenor is a useful counterpoint; his vocals are vaguely reminiscent of the best of those other habitués of Clubland, the British New Romantics (remember Bronski Beat?). It’s good stuff, somehow simultaneously polished and dirty.

  Lucinda Williams—Good Souls Better Angels (Thirty Tigers/Highway 20 Records)

Who recommended it? Justin Cober-Lake

Did we review it? No.

Bill Meyer’s take: I haven’t listened much to Lucinda Williams; the one record I have by her, Sweet Old World, is 28 years old. The first thing that hit me when I listened to Good Souls Better Angels is what’s changed. Williams’ voice is much rougher, and she’s adjusted the music correspondingly, adding Hendrixian guitar flourishes to “Bone of Contention” and coarsening the domestic violence scenario “Wakin’ Up” with bad-trip electronics. The next is how pissed she sounds. Violent boyfriends are bad enough, but having a charmless sociopath for president is even worse. Fortunately, bile hasn’t overwhelmed her writing chops. Big-sounding roots rock isn’t really my thing these days, but if I feel the need to change that, Good Souls Better Angels is a good place to start.  

  Wire — Mind Hive (Pink Flag)

Who picked it? Andrew Forell

Did we review it? Yes, Andrew said, “Mind Hive is concise yet full of restless intelligence, musical ideas and willingness to push boundaries.”  

Derek Taylor’s take:

I tapped Wire late and left early. That truncated exposure lends a narrow vocabulary in describing their music contextually, pre- and post-reunions. This latest missive sounds alternately like what I remember and at least several zip codes removed with a heavy lean into synths. “Be Like Them” and “Primed and Ready” fall in the former category, while “Off the Beach” trades gangly ennui and menace for what almost resembles instrumental optimism until the lyrics stack dutifully into another ode to the disaffected and disconnected. “Oklahoma” feels inscrutably weird. “Hung” drops as the album’s extended, incremental, post-industrial dirge. There’s additional insulation sheathing this Wire, an inevitable adjunct of ascendancy to elder status, but the current foursome is still dependably conducting current.

 Yves Tumour — Heaven to a Tortured Mind (Warp)

Who recommend it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? No.

Ian Mathers’ take:

Listen to music for long enough and you might realize that most of the time when you hope any artist goes in any particular direction with their work, you’re bound to be disappointed. But every so often, maybe after a promising album that you just didn’t fully click with, an artist does exactly what you were hoping for and fully manifests all the potential promise you thought you glimpsed. Yves Tumor’s 2018 album Safe in the Hands of Love was admirable in many ways, but it was really only on crucial single “Noid” that all the combustible elements were really brought together into something that properly bangs. Well, Heaven to a Tortured Mind might not have as many showcases for the ambient/noise chops that Tumor definitely has, but it does consistently bang for 36 minutes of should-be alternate universe pop hits, from the brassy “Gospel for a New Century” to the floaty duet “Kerosene!” For anyone who loved “Noid” and then found more to respect than the viscerally love on Tumor’s last record, this is the record you were waiting for, and it is magnificent and ferocious.

[insanityclause]

Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

A Director Making His Mark in More Ways Than One

LONDON — The director Jamie Lloyd was giving me a tour of his tattoos. Not the Pegasus on his chest or the skeleton astronaut floating on his back, though he gamely described those, but the onyx-inked adornments that cover his arms and hands, that wreathe his neck, that wrap around his shaved head.

When I asked about the dragon at his throat, he told me it had been “one of the ones that hurt the least,” then pointed to the flame-licked skulls on either side of his neck: his “covert way,” he said, of representing drama’s traditional emblems for comedy and tragedy.

“I thought maybe it’d be a little bit tacky to have theater masks on my neck,” he added, a laugh bubbling up, and it’s true: His dragon would have eaten them for lunch.

It was early December, and we were in a lounge beneath the Playhouse Theater, where Lloyd’s West End production of “Cyrano de Bergerac,” starring James McAvoy in a skintight puffer jacket and his own regular-size nose, would soon open to packed houses and critical praise.

Running through Feb. 29, and arriving on cinema screens Feb. 20 in a National Theater Live broadcast, “Cyrano” — newly adapted by Martin Crimp, and positing its hero as a scrappy spoken-word wonder — capped a year that saw Lloyd celebrated on both sides of the Atlantic.

In London last summer, his outdoor hit “Evita” traded conventional glamour for sexy grit, while his radical reinterpretation of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” starring Tom Hiddleston, was hailed first in the West End, then on Broadway. Ben Brantley, reviewing “Betrayal” in The New York Times, called it “one of those rare shows I seem destined to think about forever.”

When Time Out London ranked the best theater of 2019, it gave the top spot jointly to all three Lloyd productions, saying that he “has had a year that some of his peers might trade their entire careers for.”

Lloyd, who is 39, did not spring from the same mold as many of those peers. There was for him, he says, no youthful aha moment of watching Derek Jacobi onstage and divining that directing was his path. Epiphanies like that belonged to other kids, the ones who could afford the tickets.

If there is a standard background for a London theater director — and Lloyd would argue that certainly there used to be — that isn’t where he came from, growing up working class on the south coast of England, in Margaret Thatcher’s Britain.

The first time I laid eyes on him, chatting in the Playhouse lobby after a preview of “Cyrano,” he was the picture of working-class flair — the gold pirate hoops, the pink and black T-shirt, the belt cinching high-waisted pants.

He looks nothing like your typical West End director. Which of course is precisely the point.

What’s underneath

“It’s quite often said of him,” McAvoy observed by phone, once the reviews were in, “that he strips things away or he tries to take classical works and turn them on their head. I think he’s always just trying to tell the story in the clearest and most exhilarating way possible.”

The “X-Men” star, who put the number of times he’s worked with Lloyd in the past decade at a “gazillion,” calls theirs “probably one of the most defining relationships that I’ve had in my career.”

Yet Lloyd himself is on board with the notion that his assertively contemporary stagings pare back stifling layers of performance history to lay bare what’s underneath.

Like the tiger and dragons that he had emblazoned on his head just last May, though, the unembellished nature of his shows — as minimalist in their way as his tattoos are the opposite — is a relatively recent development.

Lloyd’s first “Cyrano de Bergerac,” starring Douglas Hodge in 2012, was also his Broadway debut. It was, he said, “absolutely the ‘Cyrano’ that you would expect,” with the fake nose, the hat, the plume, the sword-fighting.

There is, granted, sword-fighting in the new one — but the audience has to imagine the swords.

Lloyd’s productions, including a lauded revival of Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s “Passion” in 2010, long marked him as a hot young director on the rise. But he sees in some of his previous work a noisy tendency toward idea overload.

The pivot point came in 2018, with a season that the Jamie Lloyd Company — which he formed seven years ago with the commercial producing powerhouse Ambassador Theater Group — devoted to the short works of Harold Pinter. The playwright’s distillation of language forced Lloyd to match it with his staging.

That immersion led to what the director Michael Grandage — one of Lloyd’s early champions, who tapped him at 27 to be his associate director at the Donmar Warehouse — called Lloyd’s “absolute masterpiece.”

“I had quite a lot of ambition to do a production of ‘Betrayal’ in my life,” Grandage said. “And then when I saw Jamie’s, I thought, ‘Right, that’s it. I don’t ever, ever want to direct this play.’ Because that’s, for me, the perfect production.”

Playing dress-up

Charm is a ready currency in the theater, but Lloyd’s is disarming; he seems simply to be being himself, without veneer. Like when I fact-checked something I’d read by asking whether he was a vegan.

“Lapsed vegan,” he confessed immediately, with a tinge of guilt about eating eggs again.

Pay no attention to any tough-guy vibe in photos of him; do not be alarmed by the sharp-toothed cat on the back of his head. In conversation, Lloyd comes across as thoughtful and unassuming, with an animated humor that makes him fun company. If he speaks at the speed of someone with no time to waste, he balances that with focused attentiveness.

His father, Ray, was a truck driver. His mother, Joy (whose name is tattooed on his right forearm, near the elbow), cleaned houses, took in ironing and ran a costume-rental shop, where young Jamie would sneak in to dress up as the children’s cartoon character Rainbow Brite.

“It’s very embarrassing,” he said, squelching a laugh.

Seeing professional theater wasn’t an option then for Lloyd, whose grown-up passion for expanding audience access — one of the things he has made himself known for in the West End — grew out of that exclusion. His company has set aside 15,000 free and 15,000 £15 tickets for its current, characteristically starry three-show season, which will also include Emilia Clarke in “The Seagull” and Jessica Chastain in “A Doll’s House.” At the 786-seat Playhouse, that adds up to just over 38 full houses.

Lloyd, who was studying acting at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts when he decided he wanted to direct, found his way to theater as a child by acting in school shows and local amateur productions. Twice he was cast as a monkey; in “The Wizard of Oz,” thrillingly, he got to fly.

The details of his early days have always been colorful — like having a clown as his first stepfather, who performed at children’s parties under the stage name Uncle Funny. But Lloyd is quick to acknowledge the darkness lurking there.

“It sounds a little bit like some dodgy film, because he was actually a really violent man,” he said. “And there were times where he was very physically abusive to my mum. There was a sort of atmosphere of violence in that house that was really uneasy. And yet masked with this literal makeup, but also this sense of trying to entertain people whilst enacting terrible brutality behind the scenes.”

This is where he locates his own connection to Pinter’s work.

“A lot of that is that the violence is beneath the surface,” he said. “And on the top there is this sort of, what I call a kind of topspin, a layer of cover-up.”

Long relationships

Lloyd was still at drama school when he staged a production of Lapine and William Finn’s “Falsettoland” that won a prize: assistant directing a show at the Bush Theater in London. Based on that, Trevor Nunn hired him, at 22, to be his assistant director on “Anything Goes” in the West End — a job he did so well that Grandage got word of it and hired him to assist on “Guys and Dolls.” While Lloyd was doing that, he also began directing in his own right.

The costume and set designer Soutra Gilmour, who has been a constant with Lloyd since he cold-called her for his first professional production, Pinter’s “The Caretaker,” said theirs is an easy relationship, with a “symbiotic transference of ideas.” Even their creative aesthetics have evolved in sync.

“We’ve actually never fallen out in 13 years,” she said over mint tea on a trip to New York last month, just before “Betrayal” closed. “Never! I don’t even know how we would fall out.”

Of course, the one time she tried to decline a Lloyd project five years ago, because its tech rehearsals coincided with the due date for her son’s birth, he told her there was no one else he wanted to work with. So she did the show, warning that at some point she would have to leave. Now, she says, he understands that she won’t sit through endless evening previews, because she needs to go home to her child.

Lloyd and his wife, the actress Suzie Toase (whose name is tattooed on one of his arms), home-school their own three boys (whose names are tattooed on the other). Their eldest, 13-year-old Lewin, is an actor who recently played one of the principal characters, the heroine’s irresistible best friend, on the HBO and BBC One series “His Dark Materials,” whose cast boasts McAvoy as well.

Enter the child

Lloyd’s interpretation of “Betrayal,” a 1978 play that recounts a seven-year affair, imbued it with a distinctly non-’70s awareness of the fragility of family — the notion that children are the bystanders harmed when a marriage is tossed away.

Its gasp-inducing moment came with the entrance of a character Pinter wrote to be mentioned but not seen: the small daughter of the couple whose relationship is imperiled. In putting her onstage, Lloyd didn’t touch the text; it was a simple, wordless role. With it, he altered the resonance of the play.

To me, it seemed logical that Lloyd’s production would have been informed by his experience as a husband and father — and maybe also as a child in a splintering family. How old had he been, anyway, when his parents split up?

“Five,” Lloyd said. “The same age as the character would be.” He paused. “Oh God, yeah, fascinating. I’d not thought about that. Exactly the same age.”

If that fact was of more than intellectual interest to him, he didn’t let on. He volunteered a memory, though — of being a little one “amongst these kind of big giants, and I guess what we can now see as the mess of their lives.”

Blazer-free

Doing “Betrayal” in New York, Lloyd was struck by how eager Americans were to chat about his tattoos. Still, he told me after I texted him a follow-up question about them, he hadn’t expected his appearance to be such a talking point in this story.

It’s not just idle curiosity. It’s about what the tattoos signify in a field where, in Britain as in the United States, the top directors tend to have grown up very comfortably. It’s about who is welcome in a particular space, and who gets to be themselves there.

For a long time after Lloyd started working in the theater, he wore a blazer every day: a conscious attempt to conform in an industry where he felt a nagging sense of difference.

“Every other director at the time was from an Oxbridge background,” he said, “and looked and sounded a particular way. I spent a long time pretending to be like them.”

It was a performance of sorts, with a costume he donned for the role.

It was only about seven or eight years ago — around the time he left the Donmar and started putting together his own company — that he stopped worrying about what people might think if he looked the way he wanted.

“My dad had tattoos” was the first thing he said when I asked him about his own.

“I guess it’s partly getting older,” he mused, “but it’s just sort of going, ‘You can’t pretend to be someone. You’ve got to be who you really are, in every way.’”

The tattoos that have gradually transformed him are from a different aesthetic universe than his recent work onstage. Yet the impulse, somehow, is the same.

In shedding the blazer, in inking his skin, Lloyd has peeled back layers of imposed convention to show who’s underneath.

And should you spot him at the theater, where he is hard to miss, you’ll notice that he looks just like himself.

[robsdoodlebook]

^ to reiterate my image tag: DON’T USE THESE PLEASE AND THANK. I just wanted to share!

Okay so this is a big ol post of the princes of hell from my story i’ve been calling the ‘Tippyverse’ (basically the universe tippy exists in) about toon heaven/hell where it displays shenanigans about toons coming to life and where they go when they die for real! They’re all called ‘princes’ but it’s an honorific- they’re actually all gender neautral and sexless and go by varying pronouns (which you can see under my readmore with info)

I wanted to make my own versions of Dante’s circles mixed with the 7 sins into the princes of hell who each reign over a layer based on what kind of crimes a sinner committed. there are 9 circles, but due to story spoiler stuff one of them (Heresy) went missing- as for the rest of them, they’re all a bunch of weirdo friends/co workers who live together with satan and have their own personalities/powers/perks. I’m hoping to actually make/publish a half comic half story type work with them for people to read!

needless to say, there’s a LOT about each of them so i’m just gonna put short-ish basic descriptions under a read more (and hopefully nobody will try to use these... that’s my biggest concern lmao)

TW: mention of sexual assault/assault/abuse and related under readmore

The layers are organized so that the least worst are near the top and the worst are at the bottom; each layer is endless in horizontal directions but end vertically at the next one after a large enough distance. While each layer is punishing in itself, the prince of each layer is able to further torment any within their domain- though they can punish any sinner, they’re not allowed to torture innocent souls.

First Layer: Limbo/Purgatory (Both he/him pronouns only) - endless loneliness and suffering, expecting to go to heaven; those sentenced to purgatory come from heaven but must repent before being let in, others are endlessly trapped when sentenced to limbo from hell - Tippy (Limbo) and Skippy (Purgatory) are twin brothers that represent judgement, where tippy is endless hunger for justice and skippy is the all seeing eye who witnesses. They’re both rambunctious tricksters, but tippy is more bratty while skippy likes to help

Second Layer: Fraud (he/him or they/them) - tormented/taunted endlessly by demons; those who falsify themselves and what they offer to deceive and use others in harmful ways end up here (worse than a simple lie basically) - Fraud adores casinos and gambling, and is quite cheery/charismatic usually, but you don’t want to get on his bad side. his floating rotating head has 3 main expressions that sometimes mix and match to show his mood (his mouth and eyes don’t move otherwise even when speaking). Often wanting to show off and have a good time, he’s quite good at mimicking other’s voices and faces, able to steal identities of thieves. Third Layer: Gluttony/Sloth (she/her, they/them) - constant rain, hail and black snow. This version of gluttony and sloth doesn’t punish normal consumption and laziness but instead punishes intentional over use and hoarding of resources when others need it, as well as inaction in the face of injustice and needed help. - Moby is perhaps one of the largest princes, but also softest and slowest; she loves filter feeding through the souls she tortures, napping, and being slept on. she’s fairly content not moving for a while and doesn’t usually get angry at anything. Her mouth can extend endlessly to swallow anything. Fourth Layer: Greed (mainly he/him but uses any pronouns, will take yours!) - smelting pit of gold, souls suffer and get pushed back in when trying to escape. Those who take what they want when they don’t need it and hurt others by doing so belong here. - Grasping at everything, Greed is slippery and very excitable over anything; so long as it’s something someone else wants. he’ll steal anything that has value to someone else, regardless of what it is, if tangibly take-able. His biggest desire is to have a living thing in his collection but it’s against the rules. Though he has a base of 6 arms, he can grow infinite arms and infinite pockets. Fifth Layer: Treachery (they/them or he/him) - repeatedly freeze and unfreeze in ice, slipping into sharp surfaces; those who break promises and betray others/break trust are brought here. - Usually cloaked and hiding behind a mask, treachery looks friendly and will offer you their flower, but it’s a test. if the flower grows thorns and pricks the receiver, they’re guilty of treachery and immediately in trouble. They hide their true trickery self, only dropping the facade once they betray the betrayers trust; then they punish greatly. Sometimes, if lucky enough, souls will see the shadow that shows treachery’s true self and intentions that follows strictly behind them regardless of lighting. Sixth Layer: Heresy (he/him or they/them)(erased by an antagonist) - locked in burning tombs, those who blindly lead others astray into cults and harmful/misleading followings are punished. - A charming showman like fellow, he’s quick to try and get you to follow his lead to your doom. he’ll deceive you into following his ‘group’ to your own punishment, and love taunting you every step of the way. Very show-boaty, standoffish, and full of himself, his biggest desire is to replace god- an ambition that resulted in his unfortunate accident. His crown acts as his mouth and moves for him to speak, and will clamp down painfully if he gets in over his head with ambition. He’s a rule breaker, often visiting the mortal plane to the point people mistook him for the devil himself.

Seventh Layer: Anger (She/her, they/them) - sinners fight on the surface of styx, while the sulky/gloomy angry type sink to bottom; those who use anger to control and hurt others end up here - Though easily angered with a fiery temper, she actually prefers calmness and de-stressing activities. using anger management techniques, she tries to keep her calm, but when sinners deserve punishment she has no qualms turning up the heat. She’ll lovingly guide those with help they need to calm down and de-stress, and protect the innocent from those who seek to use their rage to harm others and excuse malice. She wears a muzzle intentionally to try and hold back her own bite and allow others to feel safer around her, only unleashing it on those who deserve it. Eighth Layer: Lust (they/them only; neutral to respect all victims) - wind contorts and twists people while they hit rocks, painfully abusing their bodies; those who commit sexual abuse/assault wing up here, the worst of the worst being specially tortured by Lust - A silent and solemn being, Lust never speaks but instead gestures with head bobs on their long neck. their hair always obscures their face unless they wish to show it, or to the worst sinners who see their victim’s pain in their stitches face. The center stitch is a mouth that can split and scream blood curdling cries of pain. Genderless, they represent the pain of their victims and torment with their sharp long nails and eerie constant inducing fear, silently stalking unable to speak. Usually only in their Layer, they occasionally wander out where they’re quiet but calm and openly warm to humor and love from others that is genuine. Ninth Layer: Wrath/Violence (He/him, they/them) - boiling blood swamps mixed with flaming deserts, sinners often suffer violence they inflicted; those who actively violent attack, hurt, and otherwise assault others physically directly or near directly wind up here - Like anger, Wrath does not enjoy violence; instead, he prefers calm quiet meditation and peace. Violence causes him great pain and anger, making him often become blind so that he does not hold back his wrath upon those who committed it. Carrying a sword made of pure violent energy, only he can wield it with the gauntlet of wrath as it can grow to massive size and weight only he can bear. If struck with the sword, a sinner feels the immeasurable pain of all the summarized violence and cannot recover from it. When not trekking these planes to punish souls, Wrath often meditates in Hell’s gardens for so long plants grow over him and he’s mistaken for a statue.

[brinazzle]

! >>

My colleague Phil tripped down his basement steps and landed hard on his head. For a few moments as he lay on the floor, his arms and shoulders tingling, he thought he was paralyzed. Too wobbly to stand up, he sat against a wall and assessed the damage. The tingling in his limbs meant he still retained feeling (a good thing). His head and neck were throbbing. He could feel blood trickling down his back from a lacerated scalp. He knew that he needed to go to an ER so they could clean up the wound and check for broken bones and internal bleeding. He also knew he was in no shape to drive himself. It was a Saturday morning. Phil’s wife and grown sons were not home. He was alone in his quiet suburban house. He pulled his cell phone out to call for help. As he scrolled through names he realized he didn’t have a single friend nearby whom he felt comfortable calling in an emergency. He’d never made the effort to know his neighbors. Reluctant to call 911 since he wasn’t gushing blood or having a heart attack, Phil tracked down the home number of a middle-aged couple a few houses away and dialed. A woman named Kay answered, someone he acknowledged on the street but had rarely spoken to. He explained his situation and Kay rushed over, entering Phil’s home through an unlocked back door. She found Phil in the basement, helped him to his feet, and drove him to the local hospital, staying with him during the five hours he was examined. Yes, he’d suffered a concussion, the doctors said, and he’d be in pain for a few weeks, but nothing was broken and he’d recover. Kay drove him back to his house. Resting in his dark house later that day, Phil thought about how close he had come to disaster. He recalled the moment when his head hit the floor, the bright brittle sound at impact, like a hammer coming down on a marble counter and shattering the stone into tiny pieces. He remembered the electrical charge coursing through his limbs and the terror he felt at the prospect of never walking again. He thought about how lucky he was. But Phil’s fall triggered more than gratitude for not being crippled. He also reflected on the remarkable kindness of his neighbor Kay, and how she had selflessly given up her day for him. For the first time in years, he thought about how he was living his life. Phil told himself, “I need to get better at making friends.” Not because he might need people like Kay to save him in the future, but because he wanted to become more like Kay. Not all of us require a violent life-threatening knock on the head to change our behavior. It only seems that way.   This is a book about adult behavioral change. Why are we so bad at it? How do we get better at it? How do we choose what to change? How do we make others appreciate that we’ve changed? How can we strengthen our resolve to wrestle with the timeless, omnipresent challenge any successful person must stare down—becoming the person we want to be? To answer these questions, I’ll begin by focusing on the triggers in our environment. Their impact is profound. A trigger is any stimulus that reshapes our thoughts and actions. In every waking hour we are being triggered by people, events, and circumstances that have the potential to change us. These triggers appear suddenly and unexpectedly. They can be major moments, like Phil’s concussion, or as minor as a paper cut. They can be pleasant, like a teacher’s praise that elevates our discipline and ambition—and turns our life around 180 degrees. Or they can be counterproductive, like an ice cream cone that tempts us off our diet or peer pressure that confuses us into doing something we know is wrong. They can stir our competitive instincts, from the common workplace carrot of a bigger paycheck to the annoying sight of a rival outdistancing us. They can drain us, like the news that a loved one is seriously ill or that our company is up for sale. They can be as elemental as the sound of rain triggering a sweet memory. Triggers are practically infinite in number. Where do they come from? Why do they make us behave against our interests?Why are we oblivious to them? How do we pinpoint the triggering moments that anger us, or throw us off course, or make us feel that all is right in the world—so we can avoid the bad ones, repeat the good ones? How do we make triggers work for us? Our environment is the most potent triggering mechanism in our lives—and not always for our benefit. We make plans, set goals, and stake our happiness on achieving these goals. But our environment constantly intervenes. The smell of bacon wafts up from the kitchen, and we forget our doctor’s advice about lowering our cholesterol. Our colleagues work late every night, so we feel obliged to match their commitment, and miss one of our kid’s baseball games, then another, then another. Our phone chirps, and we glance at the glowing screen instead of looking into the eyes of the person we love. This is how our environment triggers undesirable behavior. Because our environmental factors are so often outside of our control, we may think there is not much we can do about them. We feel like victims of circumstance. Puppets of fate. I don’t accept that. Fate is the hand of cards we’ve been dealt. Choice is how we play the hand. Despite a hard knock on the head, Phil didn’t bend to circumstance. His fate was to fall, hit his head, and recover. His choice was to become a better neighbor.   There’s an emotion we’re all familiar with hovering over these pages rather than coursing through them. It’s not explicit. But that doesn’t mean it’s less real. It’s the feeling of regret. It’s implied every time we ask ourselves why we haven’t become the person we want to be. A big part of my research for this book involved asking people the simple question, “What’s the biggest behavioral change you’ve ever made?” The answers run the gamut, but the most poignant ones—guaranteed to raise the emotional temperature in the room—come from people recalling the behavior they should have changed but didn’t. They’re reflecting on their failure to become the person they wanted to be. And it often overwhelms them with desolate feelings of regret. We are not like Jane Austen’s overbearing Lady Catherine de Bourgh (from Pride and Prejudice), who boasts of her natural taste in music, then without a sixteenth note of irony, says, “If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.” Unlike Lady Catherine, we feel regret’s sharp sting when we reflect on the opportunities squandered, the choices deferred, the efforts not made, the talents never developed in our lives. Usually when it’s too late to do much about it. Regret was definitely in the air when I interviewed Tim, a once-powerful executive producer of a network sports division. Tim’s network career ended prematurely when he was in his mid-forties because he didn’t get along with his superiors. A decade later, in his mid-fifties, Tim was getting by with consulting jobs. He still had an expertise that companies needed. But he would never find the stable executive position he once had. He has a reputation: doesn’t play well with others. Tim has had years to confront the reasons for this reputation. But he never articulated them until the day his daughter asked for fatherly advice before she started her first TV job. “I told her the greatest virtue is patience,” Tim said. “You’re operating in a business where everyone’s looking at the clock. A show starts and ends precisely at a given time. The control booth screens display everything in hundredths of a second. And it never stops. There’s always another show to do. The clock is always ticking. This creates an incredible sense of urgency in everyone. But if you’re in charge, it also tests your patience. You want everything done now, or even sooner. You become very demanding, and when you don’t get what you want, you can get frustrated and angry. You start treating people as the enemy. They’re not only disappointing you but making you look bad. And then you get angry.” That was a triggering moment for Tim. Until he said it he hadn’t realized how much his professional impatience was influenced by a savage network TV environment—and how it had seeped into other parts of his life. He explained: “I saw that I’m the kind of guy who emails a friend and gets mad if I don’t hear back within the hour. Then I start harassing that friend for ignoring me. Basically, I’m treating my friends the way I used to treat production assistants. It’s how I face the world. That’s no way to live.” Tim needed an intimate father-daughter encounter to trigger an insight that fed the powerful feeling of regret. “If I could change anything about my life,” he concluded, “I’d be more patient.” Regret is the emotion we experience when we assess our present circumstances and reconsider how we got here. Wereplay what we actually did against what we should have done—and find ourselves wanting in some way. Regret can hurt. For such a penetrating and wounding emotion, regret doesn’t get much respect. We treat it as a benign factor, something to deny or rationalize away. We tell ourselves, “I’ve made stupid choices but they’ve made me who I am today. Lamenting the past is a waste of time. I learned my lesson. Let’s move on.” That’s one way of looking at regret—if only as a form of self-protection from the pain of knowing we missed out. We’re comforted by the fact that no one is immune to regret (we’re not alone) and that time heals all wounds (the only thing worse than experiencing pain is not knowing if and when the pain will go away). I want to suggest a different attitude, namely embracing regret (although not too tightly or for too long). The pain that comes with regret should be mandatory, not something to be shooed away like an annoying pet. When we make bad choices and fail ourselves or hurt the people we love, we should feel pain. That pain can be motivating and in the best sense, triggering—a reminder that maybe we messed up but we can do better. It’s one of the most powerful feelings guiding us to change. If I do my job properly here and you do your part, two things will happen: 1) you will move closer to becoming the person you want to be and 2) you’ll have less regret. Shall we get started?