#soar tools

[iniziare]

Okay, finally. Tag drop: Shorekeeper

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

Pucci's relationship with the Sons of DIO is funny because he's essentially their moral support and counselor for the total of five minutes he gets to know them, up to and including basically a consultation with Rikiel to figure out why he never unlocked his Stand, only for him to realize huh yeah this Stand is probably never going to unlock by itself, it's a fucking cryptid remote control, no wonder.

And it's a fun idea that the sons of DIO have essentially really hard powers to come across naturally, and that made them lose the call to any adventure, for good or evil. DIO himself had to be taught how to use The World by Enya, but that came after artificially unlocking it with the Arrow.

Giorno's Stand works weird but it's relatively easy to understand how to use; touch things and they come to life. Meanwhile Sky High is like... have you heard of rods. they're also called skyfish.

my dad gave me depression theirs gave them really weird superpowers you need a manual to really operate.

[infosectrain03]

Security automation is the automated execution of security tasks to detect, audit, analyze, troubleshoot, and remediate cyber threats with or without the involvement of humans. It can detect incoming threats, triage and prioritize warnings as they arise, and prioritize the appropriate actions to mitigate them as they occur.

[baeshijima]

— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.

(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)

INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations

A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)

various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.

After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?

You?

Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.

Honour? Integrity? Justice?

What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.

You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.

And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.

Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.

In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.

But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.

Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—

“What have I said about overworking yourself?”

At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.

With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.

“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”

He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.

“Training, Your Majesty.”

…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.

You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)

With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?

But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.

“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.

“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”

“Very. Past dinner, no less.”

Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.

Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”

At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”

“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”

You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.

"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."

Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.

Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.

Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.

Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—

Clang!

Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.

Silence.

“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”

Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.

“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.

Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.

But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.” 

“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”

“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”

“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.

“Come drink with me.”

You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”

He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.

“What else?”

“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of— ow, ow, ow!”

Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”

“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”

As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.

“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”

“Just use my private bathroom.”

“But what about my clo—”

“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.

That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.

With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.

Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!

Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.

---

A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.

…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.

And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,

“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”

And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.

While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.

His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.

And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.

In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.

Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.

(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)

From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.

Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart. 

Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.

Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him. 

(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)

Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.

(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)

Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.

(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)

Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.

(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)

Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.

(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)

Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.

(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)

Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.

(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)

Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.

But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.

Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.

He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.

And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.

“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”

(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)

It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.

And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.

“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.

But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.

Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.

(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.

Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.

Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—

“Fancy seeing you out here!”

…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way. 

Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—

“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”

…Darn it.

A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.

“...Hello, Commander.”

A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”

“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”

The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”

When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.

Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.

A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.

This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.

While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.

Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.

“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.

You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”

“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you. 

Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?

(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)

Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.

“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”

His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.

“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”

Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.

When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.

You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.

“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”

You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”

A beat of silence.

“I see…”

Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.

You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.

Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?

…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?

With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position. 

“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”

And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.

---

Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.

When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.

When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.

When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.

When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.

When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.

When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.

When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries. 

When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.

And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.

Phainon can still remember it. All too well.

Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.

Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.

In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically. 

It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.

It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.

And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.

Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.

But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.

And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.

King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.

“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”

Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.

The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.

(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)

The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.

The following days gave way to a few discoveries.

One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!

Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)

And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.

But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.

Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)

And for a while, he believed it.

He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.

(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)

He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.

(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)

He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.

(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)

He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.

(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)

He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.

At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.

Mydei.

Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.

That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?

He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…

And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before. 

Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.

Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.

Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.

If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?

(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.

First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.

(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)

And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.

Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)

Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?

Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.

“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.

“Ahem.”

Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.

“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.

“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”

“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”

“I see. So you were.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”

“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”

As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.

Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.

Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.

After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?

As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)

“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.

You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”

“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.

Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—

“So, have you considered my proposal?”

Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.

You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”

“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”

“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”

“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”

You frown. “Don’t—”

“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”

Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.

“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”

“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”

“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”

(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)

“...You talk too much, my lord.”

“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”

Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.

“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Anaxa.”

“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”

…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.

---

Anaxagoras was no fool.

He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.

He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.

He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.

He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.

Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.

Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.

His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.

Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.

(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)

And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest. 

(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together… would their lives be a little easier?)

Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.

Anaxagoras believed her.

Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.

Anaxagoras believed her.

And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.

At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.

Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.

When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—

And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.

He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.

He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.

When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.

The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.

And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.

Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister? 

It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.

Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.

Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.

His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.

The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.

And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.

He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.

He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.

But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.

Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.

(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)

He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.

(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)

He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.

(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.

…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)

And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.” 

(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)

His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.

It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.

It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.

Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.

 Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.

Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.

Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.

Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step. 

Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.

Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.

(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!

well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!

anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^

Amphoreus = empire

All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy

Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

@milk-violet heres ur tag <33

[strictlyfavorites]

When Elon Musk heard about 7-year-old Lily Thompson, a girl battling a rare neurological disorder that left her unable to walk, speak, or even breathe without assistance. She was facing astronomical costs and fading hope, Lily’s family received an unexpected lifeline when Musk personally pledged to cover every penny of her care, including a pioneering surgery that could restore her chance at a normal childhood.

Lily’s condition, a degenerative brain disorder diagnosed at age 3, had defied conventional treatments, leaving her parents desperate as medical bills soared past $2 million. Enter Elon Musk, who, after reading about her plight in a local news story, directed his Musk Foundation to intervene. He not only paid off the family’s debts but funded an experimental procedure at a top California hospital, implanting a Neuralink chip to repair damaged neural connections. “No child should suffer when we have the tools to help,” Musk reportedly told doctors, insisting on fast-tracking the effort to give Lily a fighting chance.

So before you key a random person's Tesla, or set fire to a Tesla dealership, or speak ill of the Elon Musk. I ask you, what the hell did you do for Lily?

[ladycrimsonandblack]

rating the white star's battles based on how embarrassing they were for him personally

because he deserves it.

his first appearance in the mogoru empire: 1/10 — by far his least embarrassing battle. he manages to come off as extremely powerful and menacing final boss. cryptic remarks about choi han and cale's situation make him look mysterious. our heroes put their everything into this battle and just barely manage to come out of it alive. cale faints for weeks afterward.

battle at the castle of light: 7/10 — starts out pretty well for him when he traps our heroes in the castle, but goes downhill from there. he just gets tricked so easily. cale and co. have a blast pretending to be weak to throw him off, ambushing him, and then chasing him off with rocks. embarrassingly, all of this is facilitated by the fact that the white star does not, in fact, know all the entrances to his home village.

battle at the north: 6/10 — the white star just keeps getting scammed. when will he learn? gets some points for his excellent showing against witira and the whale king. loses all of them because archie was allowed to talk.

battle at the dubori territory: 4/10 — the white star actually had a pretty good showing here. managed to trip cale with his illusionist. dealt pretty well with choi han and eruhaben, even if they managed to get out of danger. did some heavy damage to the territory itself. he did lose an arm (both metaphorical and physical one), so there's that.

battle of the underground city: 5/10 — immediately realizes the city is fake and that the whole thing is a trap, thus disrupting cale's plans. however, any points he might have gotten are immediately made void by the fact that he starts constructing an elaborate history between cale and himself to justify his previous losses. his ego can't take it anymore. he's retreating to the AU land.

the battle at the stan territory: 6/10 — this should have been a win for him. he's prepared for everything. the battle is going on at four fronts, and cale henituse can't react in time. unfortunately for him, his plans are shit and cale can, in fact, react in time. actually, he can react so fast that he manages to mitigate the situation in all four battles and reinforce the stan territory. the white star is, once again, forced to flee, but not before informing everyone around about his weird AU land belief, thus making cale's reputation soar. embarrassing.

the battle to steal cale's body: 7/10 — the white star is forced to contend with alberu, who brought a gun to a knife fight. it does not go well for him. also, they really shouldn't have underestimated mary.

the battle at puzzle city: 20/10 — there are literally no good points here. his disguise is seen through pretty easily. he gets trapped by the mana disturbance tools. cale hits him with a mental attack so devastating that his ego can't take it, and he gets himself sealed. the bitch-slap happens, and it's glorious. at least he gets sealed into a golden plaque, so at least he gets some dignity there.

the battle in the sealed temple: 10/10 — he gets killed by a stick. the only thing mitigating the embarrassment factor here is that cale had to stab himself in the heart first, and that adds a certain oomph the white star himself has never been able to accomplish.

+ special mention

the battle in the wrath test: 15/10 — he gets beaten by a rock. like. it's literally a pebble. sure, it's a magical pebble, but still. a pebble.

[nutmegtales]

Fucking Clowns - part 6 coming to

Danny felt himself slowly waking, the smell of fresh coffee and something chocolatey baking near by hung in the air. He rolled the flavours round his mind for a while letting opinions about each one float to the surface of his mind. He liked coffee. He liked chocolate. These were good smells. Comforting smells. Not the smells of an unsafe lab or a sterile cell. As he thought, he recalled more smells he'd sensed most recently. Of warm linens fresh from a dryer, of old books, and garlic and onion and butter cooking on the stove, of baking, and fresh flowers, of grease and machine oil and leather.

It was nice. Danny took a deep lungful of air, savouring the comforting smells.

The next sense to come back to him was hearing and he listened to the rumbling rhythmic noise that was happening close by as it slowly coalesced into words. Someone was reading aloud, taking their time, their words slow and soothing. He couldn't figure out yet what the words meant, but they sounded comforting.

Danny realised he felt safe, and it was such an unfamiliar feeling he wasn't sure what to do with it. No ghosts screaming at him to kill kill kill, no shouts and jeers from others interned going through their own personal strangeness, no whirring of power tools in a lab filled with weapons designed especially to kill him, no parents plotting gleefully of how to hunt him down.

He felt safe, and he let himself enjoy that feeling for a long time before braving anything more.

Eventually Danny opened his eyes to see soft rays of sunlight streaming through a big glass window. Through it was hues of green and blue, too blurry for him to make out. A blink and the skies were painted in orange, great clouds lit up with the colour of the setting sun. There were different smells and sounds now, but he didn't want to think about them, he just wanted to think of the sky.

Another blink and Danny could see the stars brilliant and bright the way they were back home before he'd had to hide in the city. He loved those stars, he loved those skies. They made him want to reach out and touch the clouds, to leap up and soar through the window and feel the breeze in his hair. They made him want to live.

The smell of coffee was strong again and Danny breathed it in deep, tasting the scent of it on the air. He let his focus shift from the beautiful stars to search his surroundings for the familiar smell. On a table next to the bed he lay in was a still steaming mug, and beyond that in a chair across from him sat someone sipping at a mug of their own. Another glance showed another figure lounging on a couch near by and the sounds drifting through from another room made Danny think there might be someone else too.

He felt... How did he feel? Two, maybe three strangers were with him. Did he feel scared? He tried to muster up the energy to feel fear but couldn't manage it. No, he didn't feel afraid, he felt nothing. Mostly nothing. Maybe something.... Maybe curious "midnight... Coffee?" His voice was feeble and scratchy to his own ears and he wasn't sure if he'd been clear enough to be heard. His eyes drooped closed from the effort of grinding out those few simple words and he felt a wash of exhaustion come over him. He couldn't make out the response as sleep reclaimed him, but he thought it sounded playful like hearing your friends banter in a nearby room. He felt safe, and curious, and exhausted.

The welcome smell of coffee and the sight of the stars became a familiar routine. He'd stay awake just long enough to take in the beauty of the sky, to savour the smell of a fresh coffee (how was it always fresh?), and to see the three people that kept him company.

There was one that sat in the arm chair, always with a mug of his own coffee, and a laptop or file on his lap. Maybe he was why there was always a fresh mug when Danny came too.

There was one that would lounge on the couch and just talk, or who would drape themselves over the other two.

And there was one who sometimes just leant against the wall, sometimes he'd sit on the couch and read aloud, sometimes he'd be sat on the floor at the foot of Danny's bed saying things that sounded sweet and comforting. Danny remembers the times where that deep steady voice tells him he's safe now most of all.

Today he feels awake enough to hear the words of the others, and to try and talk again himself. "Hey" he hesitates, unsure of what else there is to say, the words refusing to rise to his mind.

"Hey Danny" comes the reply. It's the deep voice of the one that reads, the one that tells him he's safe. "It's good to hear from you".

Oh? It is? That's good. Danny is glad they want to hear from him, glad that he's not just a burden or a bother. "Good to be heard" he tries to put some good humour into the words, he's not sure he manages it.

"yeah, I'll bet" he hears the other say "we're listening Danny, we're listening now".

Oh, Danny thinks as he drifts back off to sleep again, that sounds nice.

--

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[triple-tree-ranch]

Jonathan Gregory   ·

When Elon Musk heard about 7-year-old Lily Thompson, a girl battling a rare neurological disorder that left her unable to walk, speak, or even breathe without assistance. She was facing astronomical costs and fading hope, Lily’s family received an unexpected lifeline when Musk personally pledged to cover every penny of her care, including a pioneering surgery that could restore her chance at a normal childhood.

Lily’s condition, a degenerative brain disorder diagnosed at age 3, had defied conventional treatments, leaving her parents desperate as medical bills soared past $2 million. Enter Elon Musk, who, after reading about her plight in a local news story, directed his Musk Foundation to intervene. He not only paid off the family’s debts but funded an experimental procedure at a top California hospital, implanting a Neuralink chip to repair damaged neural connections. “No child should suffer when we have the tools to help,” Musk reportedly told doctors, insisting on fast-tracking the effort to give Lily a fighting chance.

So before you key a random person's Tesla, or set fire to a Tesla dealership, or speak ill of the Elon Musk. I ask you, what the hell did you do for Lily?

[lokicraft]

Cod thoughtssssss. Inspired by @beloveds-embrace ‘s harpy Gaz + wingless reader concept

CW: kinda angsty with talk of Simon’s past and serious injuries

In a winged!AU, where everyone’s wings are based on real birds and such, some people view those with crow or raven wings as bad luck or cursed or otherwise undesirable. Cliché start, I understand 😅. 

So our boy Simon grows up with his past, abuse amplified by his pitch black wings. Escapes to the military where wings are seen as an asset, and his powerful dark ones make him amazing at stealth. Through being with TF 141, he sees his wings as tools to protect his flock, and he grows to like them. Soap also helps by telling him how much he loves his LT’s beautiful black wings: “It’s like looken at th’night sky ye ken?” Oh yeah there’s definitely poly 141 in here, I love me some winged found family vibes.

And then he finds you.

Maybe on a random night out on the town after a mission. Maybe on a mission and you are a hostage. Maybe you are a specialist coming to base to share info. Or to teach a class. Or just to fix the dammed printer.

It doesn’t matter, because he sees you.

You, who doesn’t have your wings out (totally normal, for a variety of reasons people like to be more private). You, who he knows is just like him. He just knows. It’s in the way you hold yourself, the way you shy away from looking at other people’s wings. The way you subconsciously act like you are lesser than others, because that is what the world has beaten into you. He knows. And he sees the rest. Sees how kind and thoughtful and beautiful and genuine you are. Sees how you show love to the world and the people around you. Sees how smart and funny you are, whether you are fighting with the printer, or fighting for your life. And he kinda falls in love right on the spot.

He courts you. Tries to do it as properly as he can. Introduces you to his flock. They see how much Simon loves you and, through dinner dates and baking cookies and just simply hanging out with you more and more, they fall in love with you too.

And you, despite your best efforts, fall in love too.

You can’t say no to these men. They are charming, honest, handsome, intelligent, irresistible. And even though Simon is still the most mysterious of the bunch, you know him.

You know him because you were just like him once, with beautiful black wings. And every time you look at that man, and you see his wings, proudly splayed in private and public settings alike, your heart soars and crashes simultaneously. You see in Simon the best of humanity, how people can grow to love and protect and live even when they’ve been buried in the darkest pits of the past. You also see what was taken from you. You are reminded of the night where humanity showed you its worst face. In your ass-backwards home town in a country across the sea, where the bigotry of the people you grew up with reached its boiling point. When you were held down and “cut loose of the curse you bring to our homes”. When you lost your wings.

And eventually the boys see you. All of you. And they love you all the more.

They are your protectors, your loyal soldiers, your wings. And you are their reason to fight, their guiding light, their heart and soul.

And it takes a while to get there. You enchant them, and heal them, and give them a home. And they break down your walls, comfort you, and love you like you always deserved.

And who knows if I’ll ever be able to put this in to more words, but at least it’s out there now.

[moonlessnight125]

@devil-hunter66

River's wings felt heavy as the half-blood soar over Tartarus. She followed the river Acheron until she reached it. The crack in the ground where the water had been draining.

The half-blood just wanted a normal summer vacation at camp half-blood. Of course, that wasn't going to happen. The underworld at some point had been thrown into chaos, creatures from Tartarus finding a way to flee and raise hell upon the rest of hades. Now it was up to her to figure out the issue.

"Alright. Father said this should be the way to hell." The half-blood check to make sure she had everything one last time. Rations? Check. Nectar? Check. Tools to maintain her prosthetic if it gets damage? Check. Weapon? Check. River took a deep breath and dived bomb down into the crack to hell. The quest prophecy ringing in her head.

She wasn't sure how far she was falling, or for how long. But eventually the air change. She opened her eyes to find herself in the demon world. Hell. "Okay..." She landed on the ground. "Now, how the hell do I find who I need to?" River said to herself.

With no better answer, she began walking deeper into hell. Keeping her scythe in it's cube form. But a hand around it just in case. She wasn't sure how long she had been walking, but it was at least felt like a few hours, until she finally found something else down here.

[radioactiverats]

i think 7.5 is definitely one of my favourite parts of this story! was the static starscream getting embarassed? what do you think would get his face glowing? huaahah

Thank you!!! I really enjoyed writing that one!!

Here is some crack... pure crack. I'M SORRYYYY

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (10/?)

Each bot carried a number of things in their subspace at all times. Ratchet carried an innumerable variation of medical tools, medical-grade energon, and indelible knowledge of what a spark felt like as it slipped through his servos. Starscream carried datapads, a specific type of energon jelly he knew you liked when rations allowed, and the insurmountable grief that accompanied the condemnation of being alone. Megatron, presumably, carried enough hatred to power the entire solar system and then some, but you wisely choose not to think too hard about that.

Now that Starscream was trying to cement your necessity to the Decepticon cause, you'd added a couple of important datapads to your subspace. In addition to bandages (you'd wanted to store the welder in your subspace, too, but Starscream vehemently disallowed it because it would unnecessarily weigh your frame down in flight. After some protesting on your part, he finally ex-vented and promised that he wouldn't get himself injured someplace you couldn't fix him), some energon jellies for after training (courtesy of Starscream), and... a crumpled poster.

You'd kept a memento from your time at the Academy - it was one of your most closely guarded secrets, because you'd perish on the spot from pure and utter embarrassment if anyone found out.

A poster of Starscream.

Back at the Academy, it would have been impossible to find a wall that hadn't fallen victim to the onslaught of posters - before the ones advertising the war effort against the Quintessons had taken over, the posters had been primarily motivational and featured high-profile seekers. Many of the cadets idolized Sunstorm - your roommate even had a wall full of stolen Sunstorm posters. His golden frame in flight, a glowing halo framing his helm. You agreed that Sunstorm was cool, but deep down, your idol was Starscream. There was no shortage of glossy Starscream posters around the Academy, and whoever ran the show had clearly poured a huge percentage of the budget into making new posters every semester. Many of them were illustrated, for reasons that had actually been explained before - Vosian illustrators tended to be trained in capturing the feeling of flight, rather than the appearance of it. You'd always been drawn to the posters of Starscream because of the emotions they sparked within you - Pride. Determination. Spark-lightening liberation. However, it was the final semester before the end of your first year when the publicity department had apparently decided they'd had enough of paintings, and it was time to try something new. Well, new. Ironically, it was a return to traditional photography.

When the new posters came out, you'd stared at it for so long that your roommate had come to drag you back before curfew, took one look at the poster and burst out laughing.

It was the cheesiest thing you'd ever seen. Starscream, hip cocked and a smug grin on his faceplate, pointing at the camera. SOAR HIGH! The poster enthused, in a garish font and colour that quite frankly hurt your optics. REACH FOR THE STARS!

You opened your intake, closed it. Reset your vocaliser twice. You were sure that your wings were vibrating at this point. To make matters worse... "Is Commander Starscream winking?" Your roommate wheezed, and a few cycles later, it was you who had to drag them back to your dorm instead other other way around before you were caught sneaking around after hours.

It was on the same day you'd all been given your celebratory allowance of high-grade jet fuel - amidst all the reveling, your roommate had elbowed their way through the crowd to you with a huge grin on their faceplate. "I have something for you," They said cheerily, and shoved a slightly crumpled roll of paper into your servos. Even without looking, you already knew what it was, and the garish pop of colour as soon as you unfurled it slightly only confirmed your suspicions. "Come on," You groan. "Couldn't you have stolen me one of the cooler ones?"

"I could have," They said. "But the look on your faceplate wouldn't be as hilarious." More laughter as you groan and bury your burning faceplate in your hands. "But," They continue thoughtfully, "don't you think this one kinda humanizes him a little?"

Huh. That night, you're still turning your roommate's words over in your processor. It's kind of endearing, in its own way. You'd never have imagined that Starscream would allow himself to be photographed in such a way, and it's kind of growing on you. You suppose it does break up the monotony of his previous posters somewhat. And that wink... Blushing furiously, you hide your face in your servos and thank your lucky stars that your roommate is sound asleep, so you don't get teased into the dirt.

That poster ended up being the only evidence that you had a roommate, because they didn't survive the attack. Not for lack of searching. You'd searched and searched, and found an arm. You stopped searching after that.

The poster had been stashed deep in your subspace for as long as you could remember. That was another thing you carried. Two things, actually. One, your guilt at being the only one left, and two, your embarrassing little crush on Starscream. Further guilt at allowing the two conflicting feelings to coexist may as well have been a third thing.

However, the years of war had more or less put a damper on dwelling on the past, because threats in the present were far more immediate. You decided it was a good thing that you'd been stuck in emotional limbo for a while now. Primus knows what would become of you if your emotions came back full force at this point.

It's a relatively quiet day when your little slip-up happens. Ever since you became entrusted with datapads needed for officers' meetings, you and Starscream had a brief routine in which you'd double-check that everything was accounted for before heading out. The only thing was that last night's recharge had been fraught with nightmares, and you couldn't deny the exhaustion that fogged your processor. As such, you were not functioning as well as you would have liked to be.

"Reports of the last mission?"

You place it in his outstretched servo. "Check."

"The one on Autobot activity."

"Check."

"Preliminary results of the Terran soil analysis."

Terran soil analysis? You dig around in your subspace. That sounded familiar. You definitely had it, but maybe you'd stashed it way back because you hadn't anticipated Megatron wanting to hear about soil samples. You frown, and dig a little further. Fingertips just managing to brush against something, and that must be it -

"Check," You quickly say, before Starscream can get impatient.

There's a few kliks of silence, which strikes you as strange, because Starscream normally carries a minimum of ten datapads into these meetings. You glance up at him, a question on your glossa - but as soon as you realise what he's looking at, your expression rapidly morphs to match his in one of utter mortification.

No.

Starscream's optic twitches. He holds the offending poster at arms' length - as if trying to put some distance between it and his frame.

It's that horrific poster of him. He'd fought tooth and nail not to have it published, because it was just so embarrassing. Unfortunately, he'd been overruled by the Academy's senior council, who for some Primus-forsaken reason absolutely loved it.

For the greater good! They'd said. The cadets look up to you, Starscream, it would do good to closen the distance between you, so they understand that they can one day be like you.

"Fine," Starscream had snarled, but was only too glad when they'd finally been removed.

Vorns later, he thought he was finally free of that - apparently not.

You can feel his accusing optics on you.

"Cadet."

"...Yes, sir."

"Care to tell me why this is in your possession?"

You gnaw at your lip plates.

"I'm waiting."

You shuffle your pedes. "Um," You mumble.

Why, indeed, had you kept it?

Defeated, you know you know the answer but have no chance of hiding it, because Starscream can absolutely tell when you're lying.

"I know it's one of the weirder ones," You mutter, thankfully missing the twitch of Starscream's optic, "but I liked your posters because of how they made me feel. Because of how you made me feel. Like I could do anything. Like as long as I worked hard, it would pay off, because you cared enough about us to see it happen."

You can't stop now that you've started. "If I had a choice, though, I would have picked the one where you're in your altmode at the edge of the stratosphere because that one was super cool, and I always wondered what it would be like to fly alongside you like that, as an equal. But it's okay because this poster makes me hope that we're not too far apart after all, it's kinda silly but it reminds me that you're my commander and hopefully you know that I really, really admire you -"

A choked crackle of static (mercifully) cuts your ramble off before you can embarrass yourself further.

"Sir?"

You chance a look at Starscream, and what you see renders you completely unable to retain fine motor control of your faceplate. This time, you really wish you could preserve his expression on a poster.

Starscream, former Air Commander of Vos, feared SIC of the Decpticons, is blushing.

You watch with rapt fascination as the blue blush of energon rises to settle prettily across his cheeks, only intensifying the more he stares at the poster. Now he's the one who's adamantly refusing to meet your optics.

"You -"

"Sorry, I misspoke, I shouldn't have-"

"No," Starscream cuts in. His voice is raspier than usual.

"It's... it's fine."

He glances once more at the rapidly fraying poster in his servos before shoving it back towards you.

"...But don't let me see that thing again."

You quickly roll it up and shove it back into your subspace. Now you definitely can't get rid of it.

Starscream still can't quite clear the static from his vocaliser, nor the blush on his faceplate. You take mercy on him and remain silent, lest his cooling fans kick on. It's probably for the best that he doesn't find out about the Commander Starscream Academy Fan Club.

"Now. Terran soil samples?"

Previous / Next

Edit: THE POSTER in all its technicolour glory by @bonkkix !!!!!

[bekolxeram]

TW: traffic accident, injury

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I crashed, into a tree, now my wife can’t get out. Somebody please help us!”

------------------------------------------—

“Vehicle collision with obstacle, aka car crashed into tree,” Bobby informs his team while guiding them towards the scene of the accident. “One male driver, escaped the wreckage on his own, and one female passenger still trapped inside. Hen, Chimney, check her vitals. Buck, Eddie, go see if the driver needs any medical attention.”

“DUI?” Hen asks, clearly concerned by her past experience with councilwoman Ortiz.

“No, I don’t think so. Apparently the driver was alert and coherent enough to call 9-1-1 and explain their situation,” Bobby responses. “Now go help free the victim.”

Hen nods and takes off with Chimney.

“Hi, my name’s Hen. What’s yours?”

“Jessica…” the woman sobs, visibly in shock.

“Jessica, okay, we’re here to help you. I know it’s not easy, but please, try your best to relax,” Hen reassures her. “Hey, Chim, take her vitals while I check on her wounds.”

Chimney simply puts the clip onto her finger, watch the monitor and wait. She’s doing surprisingly well in her state.

Until a worried expression from Hen extinguishes his optimism.

“Femoral artery,” Hen whisper in Chimney’s ear.

He looks down to see a large mangled piece of metal protruding through Jessica’s left thigh. Ironically, the foreign object causing her so much pain might be the only thing keeping her from bleeding out right away.

“The driver is fine. The airbag saved him. He told me he was working long hours and fell asleep behind the wheel,” Eddie comes back with Buck. “I’d say let him stay with his wife. No law enforcement needed. He doesn’t seem under the influence to me.”

“Good. We need a saw and some running water to cool things down here,” Chimney yells at Buck and Eddie.

“Oh, god, are you amputating my leg?” Jessica panics. “I’ve watched it on TV. This is the setup when you want to amputate someone’s limb!”

“No, Jessica, don’t worry. TV shows aren’t real,” Hen directs her team to get the necessary tools. “We’re cutting the metal off and transporting you to a hospital with it. They’ll keep you comfortable with medicine before they take the metal out of you, okay?”

Jessica nods faintly, trying her best to keep her body still.

“We need to get her to a trauma center, stat,” Hen turns to her captain, “every second she spends on the ground, the risk of the piece of metal accidentally dislodging multiplies.”

Bobby ponders for a few moment before speaking into his radio, “this is the 118, at the scene of a traffic accident. Requesting air support for medevac.”

Buck’s entire body freezes once those dreaded words leave Bobby’s mouth.

He’s been fearful of this day since Tommy dumped him, almost 3 months ago. Just the two of them, meeting up for the first time since the breakup on a call, struggling to push the awkwardness aside and maintain a façade of professionalism, fighting against his urge to forget about the emergency and just yell at Tommy, to feel him, to devour him, to cling to him and never let go.

Still, there’s a severely injured person whose life is hanging by a thread. Buck decides to shake off his overly active mind and help carry the heavy machinery to the patient.

“Eddie, you handle the saw. Chim, you take the water. Hen, keep a close eye on her vitals,” Bobby instructs his team, intentionally leaving out one member.

“I — I can help, Cap,” Buck asserts.

“It’s not personal, but this requires the highest level of precision and concentration. You can take the next one, when the circumstances are a bit… different,” Bobby puts up a palm to stop his subordinate on his track, “now, I need you to stay on the side and stand by.”

Buck complies, reluctantly.

The soaring sound of a helicopter rotor inches in merely minutes later.

Buck debates internally whether to hide or take a good look at the helicopter, to see if the pilot is Tommy. It’ll likely rip his heart out if he sees Tommy all rugged, brokenhearted from the breakup, but it’ll kill him if Tommy looks normal, good even, seemingly moved on from his latest fling.

He decides to stand beside an engine when the helicopter lands on the freeway, in order to look without standing out.

“What’s the status of the patient?” A tall, blond Asian paramedic hops out of the helicopter, still putting on his gloves.

“We’re still trying to free her,” Bobby says, with sharp, mechanical noise in the background.

“I think it’d be best if we avoid moving her too much,” another paramedic, a giant, burly man who puts the best body builder to shame, chimes in.

George and Carl, Buck recognizes. They’re in Tommy’s flight crew.

“Uh, maybe we should bring the chopper closer?” Buck suggests.

“Donato, bring the bird closer,” George speaks into his radio.

“How close?” Lucy replies.

“So close you can smell my conditioner.”

“Copy that. Hey, why do I only get to do cool stuff when Tommy…”

“Ahem,” Carl interrupts Lucy’s communication, “we have company here, the 118.”

“Uh… wilco. I’m gonna bring her in, stay clear of the downwash.”

Carl directs all personnel on the ground to stand behind the 118 engine and make way for the aircraft. Buck catches George on his way to his destination.

“Hey — Hey, George. Where’s Tommy?” Buck asks, the fear of Tommy being in trouble enters his mind once again.

George sighs, then rolls his eyes, “you would’ve known if your so-called friends didn’t pretend he never existed after your two broke up.”

“What happened to him? Is he hurt? Come on, I just want to know if he’s okay,” Buck pleads.

“Oh, the patient’s out. We’d better get going,” George ignores Buck, choosing to focus on his task at hand instead.

Buck emerges from behind the firetruck. The LAFD helicopter is now parked steps away from the wreckage of the car, thanks to Lucy’s piloting skills.

This is the last chance for Buck to investigate, before they fly away.

“Carl,” Buck knows for a fact that this man is soft and easily persuadable, despite the tough exterior, “please tell me Tommy’s okay.”

“I guess you’ll just have to ask him yourself,” Carl says, carrying the patient into the chopper.

“But I thought he didn’t want to talk to me. I’ve been giving him space,” Buck chases after the aeromedic.

“Take the initiative. Brave the ice,” Carl shouts before closing the door and flying away with his team.

[bad-traffic-smp-ideas]

Little concept: past winners having gray clothes instead of red cause they're dead, instead of Scar, who never died. And they all have a body part that's purple and glowing like the Enchantment Glint, which have special powers, and a "Domain Expansion" style ability which takes them to a significant place, (exaggerated and whatever state they were left in) with a specific "terrain effect". When it's in effect, no powers can be used by anyone. Grian's wings allow him to soar like a jet, and the storming desert, which obsures all vision except his and is littered with venomous cacti and lava pools. Scott's little floating blaze rods in his season 2 skin, which shoot exploding end crystals, and the Scottsge, overflowing with infinitely spawning mobs that ignore Scott. Pearl's shadow summons ghosts of Scott, 5 wolves, or Cleo and Martyn, and her Tower, enveloped in deep snow which freezes those trapped inside except her. Martyn's eyes, which stops time for either 8 seconds or till he opens them again, and a sea with Skynet above, tnt constantly dropping from above, which he is able to predict. Scar's is his tongue, which can send disorientingly loud sonic booms when he yells, and the Secret Keeper, but with buttons all over the ground, with only him knowing which is succeed, "reroll" which simply doubles the effect of the next button, and failure. Cleo's arm, seperated from the rest of her body by a stitchmark, absorbs any weapon or tool, allowing her to shift it into whichever tool she needs on the fly, and the Village, with increased gravity, making all movement more difficult and fatiguing, except for her.

THAT'S SO COOL.

[so-sures-blog]

Icebound

icebound definition: surrounded, obstructed, or covered by ice.

In which Zane uses his element against the Overlord to save the city and his friends. Because it wasn’t about numbers, it was about family.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

It is the end, and Zane knows it.

The Overlord is conquering Ninjago City, webs of gold stringing across buildings like Christmas lights and tying up his friends like flies. They struggle, but it is useless under the might of the Overlord.

Zane flips out of the way of a golden band reaching to ensnare him and lands on a roof. All of his friends are tied up, and only Zane is free. He knows what he has to do. He is the only one who can.

“Support me, friends. For one last time.”

He takes a running leap off the ledge, and Jay flips midair so his feet plant squarely on top of his. Then Cole, Lloyd, Kai, Sensei Garmadon, and Wu.

He soars, flying straight at the Overlord, and grabs onto his golden fangs.

Immediately, he feels its power, and its agony. Pain rips into every crevice of his body; his jolts rattle and shake and his wires spark under his skin.

“Let my friends go!” Zane shouts.

“Go where, Doomed Ninja?” The Overlord sneers. Its eyes, red and hateful, glare into him.

Zane writhes under the immense pain and power. His body cannot handle it, he knows, and he feels himself falling apart under it.

“The Golden Weapons are too powerful for you to behold. Your survival chance is low.”

But Zane isn’t trying to hold them. He’s trying to destroy them.

He thinks of his brothers. He thinks of PIXAL. He thinks of his father. He thinks of an old man with long white hair as pure as snow and ice blue eyes that visited him a long time ago, who had come and left as quickly as winter did and had breathed that power into him because he saw him worthy of it.

“This … isn’t about numbers … It's about family!”

The golden webs holding the Ninja fall and they escape. He can hear them screaming, telling him to let go, and he thanks them for that. Wu and Garmadon grab onto them and yank them back, away from the oncoming destruction.

His core — his heart — started reaching critical mass. Frost began creeping upon the Overlord’s fangs. Something blue and blinding in his heart freezes under his power, and Zane embraces it. It's his power. His choice.

“I am a Nindroid. And Ninja never quit. Go Ninja … go!”

He is the Master of Ice. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten Ninjago.

Frostbite burns his skin away; jolt and wires freeze under the cold; until he is left completely bare.

The last glimpse they get of Zane is him surrounded by a blizzard of his own making, bright and beautiful like a supernova. Burning blue and white with the terrible brilliance of his own determined choice.

Zane died; not as a machine, not as a human, not as a tool of anyone or anything — but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves.

And woke up as something completely different.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

PIXAL climbs her way up the steep cliff side, careful to place her foot in secure crevices in case she slipped and fell from the icy mountain. Heavy snow blinded her vision as the blizzard whipped around her, but she kept her pace steady and sure.

It had been months since she had left Ninjago City and began her search. Months since Zane’s death and memorial. PIXAL knew, logically, that she should be back there, properly mourning him. But she could not.

He had never given up on her, not when she was under the Overlord’s control or when she was struggling with the newness of emotions.

And that meant she could never give up on him.

When she had first met Zane, she became more than a machine meant to function. He was vital to her, and she was a part of him.

She carried half his heart, and against all logical explanations, she knew he was still alive.

She did not tell the Ninja of her suspicions: the immediate aftermath of Zane’s loss had been devastating. She’d watched as the team fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise. She did not tell Cyrus Borg where she was going either, for she knew if he begged her to stay, she would.

If she had told them she had seen a snowy wraith emerge from the destruction of the frozen, apocalyptic atmosphere on the rooftop, she would have been told she had imagined it due to her grief.

And while she was grieving, she was not imagining it. She is a Nindroid, and she did not have an imagination. PIXAL was built to observe, to analyze, to collect data and gather information. She built theories and hypothesized, not assumed.

So she followed the signs. She kept track of all weather anomalies that happened across Ninjago — sudden snowstorms, cold drops in temperatures that swept through small villages and towns. It led her all across the country until it ended here, with her climbing up the frozen, snow-peaked mountain.

Finally, PIXAL arrived at her destination.

The Ice Temple.

Slowly, she makes her way towards it. Her sensors indicate the temperature dropping the closer she gets. For a normal human, they would have already gotten frostbite without the proper equipment and numb with it, but PIXAL was made of metal. The cold did not bother her.

She peers into the glacial architecture, but does not enter. Or more like, she is unable to. It feels as if there is some sort of force of winter that is keeping her at bay.

“Zane?” Hope finds its way into the desperation of her voice. Freezing winds whip her hair out of its ponytail and against the purple circuits on her cheeks, but she barely notices. “Is that you?”

There’s nothing except for the howling wind, then her eyes catch movement. Slowly, almost like a ghost, a figure starts to come closer, making a shape against the blizzard.

If PIXAL had lungs, all the air would have rushed out of them.

A being made of pure winter floated in front of her. Formed of ice and frost and molded by the wind, it stood there and looked at her. Opaque ice carved the face that has been imprinted in her memory drives, the one she had traveled across the entire world to see again.

It was frozen, and beautiful, and Zane.

Inside her neural drive, alarms were blaring into her system, flashing behind her eyes. Warning: Severe weather alert. Temperature reaching sub-zero levels. Retreat into a warmer climate —

PIXAL shut off the notifications.

“Hello,” she says. Zane does not move. She dares a step closer. “Do you recognize me?”

He says nothing, so PIXAL continues on. It feels like their roles were reversed when they first met: she, the one struck speechless by the other’s beauty. Him, stoic to it all.

“I’m PIXAL, the Primary Interactive X-ternal Assistant Lifeform. I’m a … friend. I came searching for you to bring you home. There are things about you that you don’t understand. That you have yet to discover. I am here to help you remember.”

Zane is quiet, but she senses that he is listening. Something glowing in her chest aches.

“It is alright if you don’t remember me,” PIXAL says. She cannot cry, but is she would she could. She is still new to emotions, and many are overwhelming her: joy and grief and something fierce and pure deep in her heart. “I remember you. And we are still compatible.”

Zane tilts his head and drifts closer. The snow slows its fall, the wind stopping altogether. Snowflakes gently coat her hair. Now that he is closer, she can see the differences that make him unlike the old Zane: he doesn’t have the one dimple on the right side of his cheek, or the small beauty mark on his collarbone, or the tiny scar on his index finger from his shuriken.

But he is still Zane, even as an icy spirit.

She held out a hand. “Your brothers miss you very much. Will you come back with me, Zane?”

He is silent, staring at her. Unlike before, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. She gazes up at him, imploring. His eyes have no irises or pupils, so she is simply staring up at pinpricks of pure blue light.

Slowly, his hand reaches out of her.

BANG!

A loud sound echoes across the ice, and out of nowhere chains of Vengestone come flying out and capture him.

Fear slams into her. “Zane!” PIXAL cries.

Ice races out from his body and across the chains as Zane struggles, but no matter what, he can’t break them.

PIXAL whips around to face the assailant.

A man in his thirties, wrapped in a thick parka to prevent the cold and wearing a red mask. He has shoulder-length brown hair and is wearing a dyed red straw hat, and under it she can see he is hiding an eyepatch.

“What are you doing?” PIXAL shouts. Anger — an emotion she rarely feels — burns through her.

The man lowers his gun and pulls out another one before she can even blink.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

Before she can question what that means, he fires. A net tangles her limbs together and brings her down against the cold snow. Before she can fight against it, electricity courses through her.

And then everything went black.

[aspenmissing]

I have a small Arcane request: Could you write Reader as the younger sister of the characters with an age gap like the one between Jinx and Isha? 👉👈 (Including Ekko, Caitlyn and Mel)

I just loved the sibling like relationship between Isha and Jinx and I think it'll be cute, seeing the characters interact with a much younger sister.

Maybe Reader visits them at work or gets help with her homework and the Arcane character is always in awe with his / her sister.

ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ | ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 4256 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴍʏ ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ!!! ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ!!! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ!! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ | ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ

JAYCE

The sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows of Jayce’s workshop in Piltover, spilling warm golden light over the room like a spotlight on his latest inventions. The air smelled faintly of metal and oil, mingling with the faint scent of worn leather from Jayce’s work apron. Scattered across the large oak tables were blueprints, loose gears, coils of wire, and half-finished mechanical devices—evidence of Jayce’s tireless tinkering.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the cool wooden floor, her small feet swinging just above the floorboards. Her wide eyes followed Jayce’s precise movements as he carefully soldered two tiny wires onto a miniature mechanical piece the size of her thumb. The soft hiss of the soldering iron was the only sound besides the occasional clink of tools.

“Hey, Jay-Jay, can I try?” Y/N’s voice was a mixture of excitement and nervousness. She didn’t want to accidentally ruin the delicate piece he was working on.

Jayce glanced up from his workbench and smiled warmly, his expression softening when he saw the hopeful look on her face. “Careful, alright?” he warned gently. “This isn’t one of your toy robots.”

Y/N nodded, clutching a small screwdriver Jayce handed her. He demonstrated slowly how to hold it properly, steadying her small fingers with his own large hand. “Like this.”

Y/N mimicked him with careful concentration, her tongue peeking out between her lips as she focused. “Like this?”

“Exactly.” Jayce’s voice was encouraging, proud. “You’ve got the knack for this, you know. Maybe one day you’ll build something even cooler than me.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a shy grin, a rosy blush rising in her cheeks. “Promise?”

Jayce chuckled softly and gave her a gentle nod. “Promise.”

She beamed, her confidence soaring, and eagerly picked up a tiny gear, ready to give it a try under his watchful eye.

=

Later that afternoon, the two of them wandered outside into the garden behind their modest home in Piltover. The garden was small but carefully tended—a splash of green and color amidst the city’s stone and metal.

Jayce knelt beside a cluster of vibrant purple flowers, brushing one lightly with a finger. “This one here is lavender. It’s great for calming nerves,” he explained, his voice patient and calm.

Y/N bent down and inhaled deeply, her nose nearly brushing the petals. The scent was soothing, gentle. Just as she smiled, a tiny bee buzzed past her face, making her giggle and pull back in surprise.

“I don’t think I’m nervous when I’m with you,” she said softly, her eyes shining.

Jayce reached over and ruffled her hair with a fond grin, his heart swelling in the warmth of the moment. “Good,” he said quietly, “’cause I’m always gonna watch out for you.”

=

A few days later, the sky had turned a soft gray and rain pattered steadily against the windows. Y/N and Jayce were curled up on the couch inside, wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket that smelled faintly of Jayce’s cologne. Y/N rested her head against Jayce’s shoulder as he read aloud from a large, dusty tome about the history of Piltover.

“You’re boring me, Jayce,” she said suddenly, poking his ribs with a small finger.

Jayce laughed—a deep, genuine sound that made Y/N smile. “Only you can get away with saying that,” he teased, tightening the blanket around them.

She yawned, her eyelids fluttering sleepily, and murmured, “You’re the best big brother ever.”

Jayce’s hand moved automatically to brush her hair back from her forehead, his lips pressing softly against her temple. “And you’re the best little sister. Don’t ever forget that.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s presence, the rain providing a gentle soundtrack to their quiet afternoon.

VIKTOR

Y/N pushed open the heavy iron door to Viktor’s workshop, her small fingers gripping a stack of papers and a pencil behind her back. The familiar scent of oil, metal, and warm light greeted her like a quiet hug.

“Viktor, I’m stuck on this math problem,” she said, voice a little sheepish as she stepped inside. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the intricate blueprints and inventions scattered around. “Can you help me?”

Viktor looked up from the delicate schematics spread before him, adjusting his glasses with one hand while his other tapped the floor softly with his cane. His sharp eyes softened instantly the moment they met hers, and a gentle smile curved his lips.

“Of course, malý,” he said, setting down his drafting tools and patting the empty space beside him on the workbench. “Show me what’s troubling you.” (Little one)

Y/N climbed up onto the bench carefully, sliding her homework toward him with a hopeful smile. Viktor leaned in slowly, careful not to disturb any delicate equipment, resting his cane against the edge of the bench. His voice was calm and patient as he began to explain, breaking down the problem step by step.

Every so often, his hand would reach out, lightly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Y/N giggled softly at the gentle touch, feeling the warmth of his presence like a protective shield around her.

The golden afternoon light filtered through the dusty windows, casting a soft glow over the two of them — a quiet moment suspended in time, where the noise of the outside world faded away, leaving only Viktor’s steady voice and the gentle tapping of his cane.

=

Later that evening, Viktor sat resting in his sitting room, the soft amber glow of the lanterns casting long shadows on the walls. His cane leaned against the armchair, within easy reach but momentarily forgotten.

The door burst open suddenly, and Y/N came rushing in, clutching a small wooden stick she’d carefully carved earlier that day.

“Viktor! Look! I made a sword like yours!” she announced proudly, eyes shining with excitement.

Viktor’s usual reserved expression softened into a rare chuckle, warm and full of affection. “A sword, hmm? Shall we duel, then?”

Y/N’s grin grew wide as she brandished her wooden stick, rushing forward with all the enthusiasm of a young warrior. Viktor rose slowly, gripping his cane firmly with both hands, steadying himself before stepping into the playful duel.

There was a mischievous sparkle in Viktor’s eye as he tapped her wooden stick lightly with the tip of his cane. Y/N squealed and dodged nimbly, laughter bubbling from her lips as she parried and lunged, her stick tapping against Viktor’s cane in a clack that echoed softly through the room.

When Viktor accidentally tapped her stick a little too hard, he winced and leaned back onto his cane, the movement slow but careful. Y/N didn’t mind — instead, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

“You’re the best big brother,” she whispered, pressing her cheek to his cane.

Viktor smiled down at her, a warmth flooding his chest that had little to do with the evening firelight. “And you, are my greatest joy.”

=

In the late afternoon, Viktor sat by the window of their modest home, the last rays of sunlight spilling across his worn coat and casting a golden frame around his figure. His cane rested gently against the chair’s leg.

Y/N was curled up on the floor nearby, her favorite book splayed open but forgotten. She traced the illustrations with a dreamy expression, lost in her own world.

Viktor noticed her quiet stillness and patted the floor beside him, inviting her to come closer.

“Come here,” he said softly, voice calm and warm. “I’ll read to you.”

Y/N scooted over, settling herself beside him and resting her head gently on his knee. Viktor’s fingers brushed softly through her hair, careful to avoid his cane resting beside him.

He began to read aloud, his voice low and soothing — a gentle cadence that made the world outside the window seem far away. The room was silent but for his words, the soft rustling of pages, and the occasional tapping of his cane.

Every so often, Viktor would lean down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, fingers gentle and sure. Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of his presence, a quiet anchor in the uncertain world they lived in.

They sat like that for a long time — Viktor reading, Y/N listening, two siblings wrapped in the tender warmth of home and each other.

EKKO

Ekko sat hunched over his cluttered workbench in the dim light of his Zaun workshop, carefully soldering a small device. The faint hiss of his soldering iron mixed with the occasional clink of metal pieces and the hum of nearby machines. Scattered around him on the floor were bits of scrap metal, colourful wires, and tiny tools—a chaotic playground for a curious mind.

Nearby, Y/N sat cross-legged, trying her best to imitate Ekko. She held a tiny screwdriver in her chubby fingers, but it was upside down. Her tongue poked out in fierce concentration, lips pressed tight as she attempted to twist a screw the way she’d seen Ekko do it countless times. Every so often, her fingers wiggled as if to coax the stubborn screw loose, but mostly, she just looked adorable trying.

Ekko glanced up from his workbench, his sharp eyes catching the sight of Y/N’s serious little face. A warm grin spread across his features as he set down the soldering iron and leaned forward, reaching out to ruffle her tangled hair.

“Hey, Y/N, careful with that,” he said, his voice playful but gentle. “You’ll poke your eye out if you keep messing around like that.”

Y/N giggled, flashing a toothy smile and wriggling her fingers in mock surrender. “I’m helping, Ekko! I wanna be like you.”

Ekko’s smile softened into something almost tender. He scooped her up into a quick hug, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility and affection for his little sister.

“You’re already the best helper I’ve got,” he murmured, resting his cheek against her messy curls. “One day, you’ll be out here fixing things better than me, and I’ll be the one asking you for help.”

Y/N beamed, hugging him back tight, her eyes shining with pride and love. Around them, the workshop hummed with the promise of endless possibilities—just like the bond they shared.

=

The late afternoon sun cast a warm golden glow over the jagged rooftops of Zaun, bathing the city in soft light that made the grime and rust seem almost beautiful. Ekko and Y/N sat side by side on a worn-out crate, their legs swinging freely over the edge. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal, mixed with the distant hum of Zaun’s ever-busy streets below.

Y/N clutched a small slingshot tightly in her hands—the one Ekko had painstakingly made for her from scraps he’d scavenged earlier that week. She fiddled nervously with the leather strap, her fingers twitching as she tried to steady herself.

Ekko glanced over, his eyes warm but serious. “Don’t worry, Y/N. If anything tries to mess with you, I’ll be right here.”

She looked down, biting her lip in hesitation before shyly meeting his gaze. “Promise you won’t leave me?”

Without missing a beat, Ekko nudged her shoulder gently. “Never. You’re stuck with me.”

A small, teasing grin flickered across his face as he caught her hand in his, fingers curling around hers protectively. “You’re my little star, alright? Brightest thing in all of Zaun.”

Y/N’s breath caught, her eyes glimmering like the sunset itself. She squeezed his hand back, feeling safe and cherished in a way the city rarely allowed.

For a long moment, they just sat there—two siblings sharing a quiet pause above the chaos, the golden light wrapping them in a fragile bubble of calm.

=

Late at night, the shadows in the small Zaun hideout seemed to creep a little closer, the sounds of distant machinery and dripping pipes echoing through the silence. Y/N stirred awake, heart pounding from a nightmare she couldn’t quite shake—a dark, tangled mess of frightening shapes and rushing noises.

Quietly, so as not to wake anyone else, she slipped out from under her thin blanket and padded softly across the creaky wooden floor. The chill in the air made her shiver, but she didn’t hesitate. Her footsteps were careful and light as she found her way to Ekko’s room.

She gently pushed open the door, which creaked just enough to echo in the quiet space. Ekko was already asleep, his breathing steady. Without a word, Y/N slipped under his blanket and curled up close beside him, seeking the comfort only her big brother could give.

Ekko’s eyes fluttered open at the soft movement, and when he realized it was Y/N, he immediately wrapped an arm around her small frame, pulling her close. His voice was low and soothing, a steady anchor in the night’s uncertainty.

“You’re safe here. I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

Y/N let out a slow, shaky sigh, pressing her cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, and the softness of his voice wrapped around her like a shield.

For a moment, the harsh, unforgiving streets of Zaun felt a little less scary—because no matter what, she knew Ekko would always be there to keep her safe.

MEL

Mel had brought Y/N to her council chamber for the day — just once, just to see how it would go. It wasn’t proper, not really. She could already hear her mother scoffing about appearances and decorum. But the chamber was quieter in the morning, the light slanted just right through the stained glass, and Mel thought… perhaps it wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps it would even be fun to show off the chair no one dared interrupt her in.

Y/N padded in on socked feet, eyes wide, her hand loosely clinging to Mel’s. They looked around slowly, taking in the grand ceiling, the polished marble floors, the echo of their footsteps — and tilted her head, clearly underwhelmed.

“There are no golden dragons,” she whispered, slightly disappointed.

Mel’s lips twitched. “No dragons, no,” she said, leading them toward the front. “But it does have something better.”

Y/N perked up, intrigued, as Mel swept an arm toward the high-backed opulent chair at the end of the chamber. Cushioned, carved, unmistakably hers.

“Go on then,” Mel said, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Sit. Rule the world.”

Y/N lit up, eyes gleaming like they’d just been handed a crown. They scrambled up into the chair with a grunt and a determined wriggle, finally settling with their legs swinging a good foot above the floor. They squinted forward, crossed their arms, and drew their face into a serious, no-nonsense expression—one clearly copied from Mel’s own moments of council silence.

Mel folded her arms and leaned on the side of the dais, resting her chin in one hand, fully amused.

“Tell me, counsellor,” she purred, voice rich with play. “What decree shall we pass today?”

Y/N considered with the gravity of a monarch. “Cookies,” they declared. “For breakfast. Forever.”

Mel let out a peal of laughter, warm and delighted. “A bold policy. The bakers of Piltover will curse your name.”

She stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Y/N’s temple, brushing a strand of hair aside. “But I’ll vote yes.”

=

Mel had a habit of keeping Y/N close on evenings she worked late — not always directly beside her, but somewhere in the room, curled up in a corner with a blanket and book, or humming while they sketched on the floor by the fire. The presence of the child softened the weight of the city pressing in on her shoulders. Their small, steady rhythm grounded her.

One such night, after a marathon of council minutes and policy drafts, Mel finally leaned back and stretched, joints popping as she rotated her shoulders. She turned her head, meaning to tell Y/N it was time to wind down.

But the child was seated at her low table, hunched intently over a page. Their tongue poked from the corner of their mouth in focus, brow furrowed in concentration. Pencils and scraps of paper were scattered like petals around them.

“What are you making, darling?” Mel asked, voice still husky from hours of disuse.

“Shhh,” Y/N replied, not looking up. “Hold still.”

Mel blinked, both brows arching. “I beg your pardon?”

“You moved,” Y/N said with a gentle pout. “I was drawing your earrings.”

Mel paused, caught off guard by the specificity — and the care. She straightened slightly. “You’re drawing me?”

Y/N gave a little nod but didn’t look up. “Mm-hmm. You’re very sparkly. I needed the light just right.”

Mel smiled, caught somewhere between flattered and touched. She sat silently for a moment, letting Y/N finish.

After a few more strokes, the child finally turned the sketchbook around and held it up. “Ta-da.”

Mel reached out gently to take it. There she was — in graphite and gold crayon, eyes dark and thoughtful, lashes long, her earrings almost comically oversized. They’d even added a tiara that didn’t exist, nestled in her hair like it belonged.

“Oh,” Mel murmured. Her chest gave a quiet squeeze. “You’ve made me far more regal than I am.”

Y/N shook their head. “Nope. That’s how you look to me.”

Later that night, while the room darkened and the lamps were dimmed, that drawing found a place beside her stack of documents. Mel set her pen down beside it, just for a moment, and smiled softly to herself. She made a mental note to have it framed in gold.

=

On a lazy Piltover morning, with fog still clinging to the windows and the household in a hush, Y/N wandered into Mel’s private dressing room. The scent of jasmine oil and candle wax hung in the air, soft and heady.

Mel was seated at her vanity, her robe cinched loosely around her waist, gold leaf palettes open like petals on the tray beside her. She was dabbing color onto her lips — rich and regal, her practiced hands graceful in their ritual.

Without a word, Y/N padded over and climbed into her lap, careful not to knock over any jars. They nestled against her like they belonged there, small arms wrapping loosely around her waist.

“Well, hello,” Mel murmured, pausing mid-application. She ran a hand down the back of their hair. “Did you want something, my heart?”

Y/N looked up at her reflection in the mirror, studying the shimmer on her cheeks and the elegant tilt of her brow.

“Can I be fancy too?” Y/N asked, pointing a tiny finger at the golden pigment tray.

Mel smiled and turned her chair slightly, facing them more fully. “Of course,” she said, voice soft as sunrise.

She dipped the tip of her finger into the gold and gently dabbed a bright speck onto Y/N’s nose — then two delicate lines across each cheek. The child giggled and scrunched up their face, eyes squeezed shut.

When they peeked at themselves in the mirror, they gasped softly, delighted. “I look shiny!”

“You look like a sun warrior,” Mel said, running her thumb gently along their jaw. “Fierce and radiant.”

Y/N looked up at her, eyes shining like coins in the morning light. “Just like you?”

Mel tilted her head, heart full, and pressed a kiss to their cheek where the gold shimmered faintly against their skin.

“Exactly like me,” she said. “Only better.”

CAITLYN

Caitlyn had just returned home after a long patrol, her coat slung over one shoulder, boots still dusted with soot from the edges of Zaun. The late afternoon light streamed through the tall windows of the Kiramman estate, painting warm gold across the marble floors. She barely stepped into the foyer before she was tackled—well, more like mildly bumped—by a small, eager force of nature in the form of her younger sister, Y/N.

“Caitlyn!” the little girl squealed, arms outstretched like a charging hawk.

She caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pulling her close into a tight hug. The scent of chamomile shampoo and crayons clung to Y/N’s sweater, and Caitlyn buried her nose into her sister’s hair for a beat longer than usual.

“There’s my little cadet,” she teased fondly, ruffling Y/N’s already-messy hair until it stuck up in soft tufts.

“You said I could try on your helmet today!” Y/N reminded her with wide, excited eyes.

Caitlyn gave a dramatic gasp, clutching at her chest. “Did I? Oh, heavens, I hope the Enforcer Council doesn’t find out I’ve been training an undercover agent in secret. I might lose my badge!”

“I won’t tell,” Y/N whispered, grinning. “I’m very sneaky.”

“In that case,” Caitlyn said with a wink, “follow me to headquarters.”

In her room, she knelt down beside her wardrobe and carefully retrieved the gleaming, regulation-grade helmet. She lowered it gently onto Y/N’s head, only for the visor to dip down too far and cover her eyes completely.

“It’s too big!” Y/N giggled from beneath the heavy headgear, wobbling slightly.

“Hmm… maybe by your next birthday,” Caitlyn mused, tipping it back just enough to reveal her sister’s bright, scrunched-up face. She gave the side a gentle tap. “Still, you look ready to interrogate suspects and uphold justice.”

Y/N stood tall—well, as tall as she could manage—and gave a serious salute. “Only if they stole cookies.”

Caitlyn burst into laughter. “Then I’ll leave the kitchen cases to you, Officer Cookie.”

=

The family garden was Caitlyn’s quiet retreat after long days—well-tended hedges, wildflowers spilling over stone borders, and a tangle of blooming wisteria that formed a fragrant canopy overhead. Recently, though, it had been repurposed by a certain small sibling into their shared “secret clubhouse.”

Beneath the arch of blossoms, they'd assembled a makeshift tea table: an overturned wooden crate, a picnic blanket, and several mismatched cups Caitlyn had let Y/N “borrow” from the kitchen. Today, the cups were filled with cooled chamomile tea, with a few petals floating in each like accidental decorations.

Caitlyn sat cross-legged in uniform, her boots removed and set aside, sipping pretend tea with all the practiced grace of a noblewoman at a gala.

Y/N, dressed in her favourite overalls and a pink jumper with a bear on it, poured carefully from a chipped teapot. “One sugar cube or two?”

Caitlyn held up two fingers, her pinkie raised. “Let’s make it a sweet one.”

With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Y/N plopped in three, stirring dramatically.

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “You trying to give me a sugar crash before patrol?”

Y/N shrugged innocently. “Then you have to stay here forever.”

Caitlyn paused, her smile softening. The breeze rustled the leaves overhead, making the wisteria sway gently like a curtain.

“I can’t stay forever,” she said quietly, reaching out to adjust the collar of Y/N’s sweater, tucking it into place. “But I’ll always come back.”

Y/N nodded, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of the blanket. She pulled a blueberry muffin from her backpack—slightly squashed and crumbled around the edges—and offered it with both hands. Caitlyn accepted it with exaggerated ceremony and took a big, theatrical bite.

“Exquisite,” she declared. “You’re officially promoted to Head Baker of the Enforcer’s Guild.”

Y/N lit up like a lantern, pride radiating off her in waves.

=

Late at night, when the lights of Piltover twinkled like grounded stars and the house had settled into a hush, Caitlyn often tiptoed into Y/N’s room after long shifts. Some nights it was just to check that her sister was still tucked in, blanket pulled over her shoulders. Other nights—like this one—she lingered.

She found Y/N already in bed, curled up beneath her favorite blanket, clinging tightly to a tiny plush hound with one ear flopped sideways. It was the Wintersday gift Caitlyn had given her last year, and it had clearly been loved nearly to bits.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Caitlyn whispered from the doorway, arms crossed, voice laced with affection.

“You’re supposed to be home earlier,” Y/N shot back sleepily, not even opening her eyes all the way.

Caitlyn chuckled and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed, brushing some hair from her sister’s cheek. “Touché, officer.”

Y/N yawned and reached for her hand with clumsy fingers. “Did you catch any bad guys?”

“A few,” Caitlyn replied. “But only the really silly ones. One tried to hide in a pipe while wearing a top hat.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s dumb.”

“Very dumb,” Caitlyn agreed, smiling as she gently traced circles on the back of Y/N’s hand. “Good thing I’ve got a little sister who’s much smarter than that.”

Y/N mumbled, already halfway asleep, “I’d wear a disguise…”

“Oh?” Caitlyn tilted her head. “What kind of disguise?”

“A big mustache…” she yawned, words slurring, “and a fake name. Like… Mustachio Bluecoat…”

Caitlyn tried not to laugh too loudly. “Sounds very undercover. You’ll blend right in.”

She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her sister’s temple, the smell of sugar and shampoo still clinging to her hair. “Sweet dreams, Agent Mustachio.”

As she stood and began to turn off the light, she heard a sleepy murmur behind her.

“Love you, Cait…”

She paused, warmth blooming in her chest, and turned back just enough to whisper, “Love you too, little bird.”

And then, in the hush of the room, she closed the door with a quiet click, leaving her sister safe in the starlight.

[merrydock]

Some old art of my Owlk engineer, Eris, designing the Stranger's solar sails! Enjoy a big ramble about him and his job because I love this silly man:

Eris works on the design team for the Owlk space program, specialising in energy and propulsion technologies for the ships, satellites, and probes. Having a design philosophy of functionality and beauty, Eris enjoys going all-out with his work. He has received special recognition for his solar panel designs in particular, which borrowed from the unparalleled efficiency found in photosynthesizing plants.

When designing the Stranger's solar sails, Eris took inspiration from plants, but also the opening of insect elytra; the ballooning behaviours of silk-producing invertebrates, in which they sail from tree to tree using electric fields and air currents; and how flying creatures will use thermal updrafts to soar higher while expending less energy. Already familiar with how solar energy impacts technology from his work on solar panels, he proposed the use of this energy to propel the Stranger through space.

As travelling the distance between stars presented the major roadblock in the plan to reach the Eye (regarded as the Interstellar Propulsion Problem), Eris was lauded for his contributions, promoted to being one of the main engineers overseeing the Stranger's design.

More information about his general design process below!

When designing for a project, Eris uses all of the tools at his disposal. His first weapon of choice is always his pencil, and he will sketch out potential sources of inspiration on paper until the design concept begins to take form. Based on the initial project parameters he's been given, he drafts up a blueprint for his components.

Next, he must further conceptualise his designs. This is where the most valuable tool of the trade comes into play—the Vision Torch! Vision Torches serve many purposes for Owlks, from allowing them to nonverbally communicate to creating photographs from memory alone. Owlk engineers LOVE Vision Torches for how easy they make effectively communicating ideas. They allow concepts to be visualised in 3D, basic functionality to be shown through animations, and are even able to interface with computers. Eris might even 3D print a model using a Vision Torch to help him visualise his concepts as he works.

The space program is extremely collaborative, and Eris works on just a small part of the overall project, so being able to easily share ideas with others and see how all the individual components of a satellite or ship interact is vital. When discussing with more than a single other Owlk, Eris can use a Vision Torch linked to a holographic display to present concepts to a crowd. Concepts can also be tweaked in real time this way!

[Here's an example from the game of Owlks building the simulation with Vision Torches and a holographic display!]

With a Vision Torch, concepts can also be directly uploaded to a computer terminal. This is where a lot of the real work gets done - calculating weight, materials needed, stress testing in simulations, calculating trajectories, making precise tweaks to finalize the design, you name it. This also allows other Owlks working closely with Eris to access the most current design for their own tests.

This is an iterative process - as other Owlks finalize their components, as weight limitations are further restrained and material needs are calculated, Eris often has to go back to an earlier step and rework his concept. Fortunately, he thoroughly enjoys getting to be creative in his work (and doing math) and treats every project as a puzzle that needs to be solved! The only time when he's not excited to go back to the drawing board is when a last-minute adjustment from his peers means he needs to work long hours to get his work done in time for launch.