#steel bulwark

[itsnothingofinterest]

Kinda unrelated to the big plot of the mutant discrimination, but in the crowd we see a wild Steel Bulwark...a mutant who Aizawa yeeted back in Season 1 XD! With him and Hanzo Suiden (Water-guy from USJ) making cameo returns, it just make me wonder about their reaction to seeing their old boss again and signing back up with him? We'll never see it, but I'd imagine it'd be a shock to see your former leader not only break you out of prison, but also go from a multi-hand wearing psycho to...pretty much a demigod serving another physical God XD. The whiplash those thugs must be feeling must be immense. Probs thinking they made the 'correct' choice in the end XD

Oh yeah. Always fun to see some Proto-League members showing up again.

And yeah, it's interesting to ponder the thoughts going on in these Proto-league members; especially since Steel Bulwark's cameo is actually being concerned for Spinner when Shoji hits him with Octo Blow. Combined with the only recruitment shown being the handful of Tartarus inmates AFO pulled, and the ~15,000 people Spinner's movement; and evidence points to them actually being here for Spinner like everyone else in the mob, rather than just returning for Shigaraki.

Side note, we also saw those 2 guys dressed as Spinner that Deku encountered fighting Rock Lock

[in-search-of-a-fallen-star]

that magic touch; hajime umemiya/reader

content warnings: descriptions of fantasy violence, injury, and blood. nothing too graphic but read ahead with caution.

fantasy au, cleric!reader and fighter!umemiya, established relationship. probably ooc but i couldn't get the idea out of my head.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

The fight had erupted out of nowhere. One moment, your party was walking down a wooded path, the next, you were beset on all sides by a group of bandits.

When the bandits had first struck, Umemiya had unceremoniously shoved you behind a tree, with an order to stay safe and a serious look in his blue eyes before he had pulled his helmet on and charged into the fray.

Steel clashed, the ringing of swords on swords filling the once quiet clearing. You watched from your position, hidden just beyond the treeline, as your party engaged the bandits. You're outnumbered at least two to one, but your friends are holding their own; you see Sakura flying through the enemy, a whirlwind of kicks and punches. Hiragi stands tall, his shield a bulwark that the enemies break against like waves.

At the front, his armor shining silver in the light, you see Umemiya, sword held high as he rallies your party to him. You glance behind him to see a shadow lurking, knife held poised to stab into the gaps of Umemiya's armor.

You curse, leaping out of your cover with a spell sparking to life in your hand. You should have been watching his back; you know Umemiya is too trusting, he always leaves his flank open, trusting that one of his friends will cover it for him.

Most of the time, he's right, but in this circumstance the rest of your party is battling their own opponents and Umemiya is about to pay for it.

You charge out of the treeline and hurl a crackling ball of radiant flames at the assassin behind Umemiya. The spell is a bit weak and a little off target; offensive magic isn't your forte but it does its job. The assassin lets out a howl of pain and reels back, giving Umemiya time to whirl around and cut down the attacker with a flash of his sword.

Several of the bandits break off from the group and run towards you- you've made yourself a target. Bracing for the incoming attack, you go through the motions of a spell, fire flickering at your fingertips as you summon a wave of flames between you and the enemy.

One of them lashes out through the fire with his sword, the tip of it catching the sleeve of your robes and cutting into the flesh of your arm beneath. You can't hold back the yell of pain, and retaliate with another ball of radiant fire. Your attacker stumbles back, and you see Hiragi slam them to the ground with his shield.

Hiragi looks at you, his eyes following the blood dripping from your fingertips and the way your arm hangs limply at your side. You wave him off, the glow of healing magic already forming around your uninjured hand. He nods and heads back into the fray; you run your healing magic along your wound, breathing a sigh of relief as the comforting warmth knits your torn skin back together.

The fighting slowly comes to a stop, the enemy's plan thwarted when you stopped their assassination of your leader. The survivors are left kneeling on the ground, heads bowed and hands tied behind their backs while they await judgement.

You make your way to each of your party members, healing magic sparkling at your fingertips as you heal their injuries. You can't help the laugh that escapes you at the way Sakura blushes when you take his chin in your hand to heal a cut bisecting his cheek.

He swats your hands away as soon as the spell finishes, stomping over to the prisoners with a shout about figuring out why they attacked you.

You look around and notice one missing. Hiragi meets your eyes and points in the direction of the river. You thank him and stow your staff before heading towards the sound of running water.

You see Umemiya sitting on a rock, the dappled sunlight shining on his armor and his helmet resting on the forest loam at his side. He straightens up at your approach, wide blue eyes uncharacteristically serious.

"I told you to stay behind," he says, pulling you towards him with a gentle hand behind your knee.

"And I did," you retort, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You ran out from cover and got hurt in the process."

"It wasn't that bad. I healed it already." You roll up your sleeve, showing just a stripe of pink, newly healed skin across your arm.

Umemiya takes your hand and presses a kiss to the healed mark on the back of it. "Just because you can heal yourself doesn't mean you should be endangering yourself recklessly," he murmurs quietly, lips brushing against your skin.

"I'm no more reckless than the rest of you," you sniff, rolling down your sleeve. "You always tell us that you trust us to watch your back, so you can't get mad when I do what you ask me to do."

He laughs, placing your hand against the warm skin of his cheek. He nuzzles into your palm and places a kiss against your skin. "You have a point," he admits. "I'm lucky to have you watching my back, especially today."

"You are lucky to have me," you smile, cupping his face with your other hand and leaning down to kiss the furrow in his brow. He wraps his arms around the tops of your thighs and buries his face in your stomach. "You know I'd do anything for you, Hajime."

"I do, that's what worries me," he groans, voice muffled in your robes. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

"Well, I don't want to see you get hurt either, so you understand how I feel," you say, stroking his hair back from his brow. "But we both have jobs to do that come with a certain amount of risk. I trust that you'll protect me, and you'll have to trust that I'll look out for you. If I can keep you from getting hurt I will, but I'll also do what I can to make sure that I stay in one piece so that I can patch you up when you do get hurt."

"So wise," he laughs, pulling his face out of your robes. "I can't argue with that." He stands up, looking down at you with a fond smile. "Let's get back to camp. I'll make us a good meal, I'm sure everyone's hungry after that fight."

You stop him with a palm against his chest. He looks down at you questioningly, and you lean up to capture his lips in a kiss. He immediately pulls you close, careful not to get his gauntlets caught in your hair.

"I wanted to get at least one kiss before tonight," you say when you pull away. "I'm pretty sure Sakura would combust if he saw us do that in camp."

[thegnomelord]

speaking of a cod apocalypse (i think actually idk i just skimmed over my tl) thoughts on the boys becoming some sort of fucked up mutated creatures?

like they're soldiers, right? and assuming the government sends them out to deal with whatever apocalyptic shit there is, surely one of them makes a stupid mistake that'll cost them their lives. fast forward to them succumbing to whatever radioactive shit decided to live in their bodies, and they're dead but alive? and like... just grotesque things. they're still them, just more brutal and monstrous. maybe their skin is melting off, maybe they're growing another limb or two, maybe they have teeth growing on their head.

anyways, thoughts on this kind of genre???? :))))

(i think itd be cool if like.... some of them merged together, just a mass of limbs and skin :33)

Okay, consider: Horizon zero dawn world, full of killer machines and tribes n shit, combined with the virus from the Prototype (that and darksiders are my fav games of all time tbh) also body horror, specifically the blend of machine and flesh bh, is my favorite shit :Dd this is a rough idea

So like as killer machines were sweeping across the planet, devouring everything in sight and replicating, a disease was created that, it was hoped, would be able to infect and eat away at the metal. But it fails, the virus ends up infecting the soldiers that are fighting against the machines and just, combining the human and machine.

The world eventually goes so far to shit that everything on the planet dies. The war machines become deactivated and some of the machine/human mutants are sealed away in bunkers to be used as experiments.

And just like, the 141 becoming a blend of steel and flesh in the grotesque approximation of what they used to be, able to strip away parts of other machines and graft them to their own forms.

Gaz was the first, fighting on the front lines back when he had foolishly believed the killer robots could be defeated. He had gotten separated when he got infected, the fear secondary only to the pain as his flesh literally melted into the corruptors, bone and muscle becoming tangled in gears and wires until all he could feel were his numerous stilt like legs now scrambled to gain purchase on the blood soaked ground . Turned into some weird metal scorpion bellow the waist, weaponry weighing on his back and coolant full wires snaking across his body, Kyle had passed out from the pain, his body further changing in his slumber to grow skin and eyes over the raw metal.

He woke up deep underground in a bunker, turned into a science experiment.

Price was next. He was a soldier turned scientist, working on a subfunction of the teraforming AI that would work to clear the world of the virus that had unleashed. He was the soft voice of comfort Kyle would listen to when they pricked and prodded him, the person Kyle spilled his heart out time and time again.

It came as little surprise when Price became infected. He had started to feel lethargic and sick for the few days, all of it going unnoticed as no one knew how the virus affected humans. That was until he came in contact with a Plowhorn, that changed him into a bulwark of flesh and metal, a living tank with a heavy crest of horns sitting on his head and thick metal plates to protect him.

Price and Kyle kept each other from going insane, figuring out the worst part of the virus — they had become immortal like the machines, but still felt pain like people, pain muddling their brains when pistons and gears would grind against flesh again and again until it regrew in a different way.

They were finally freed when the people experimenting on them died and the AI released the locks of the doors. They emerged hell knows how many years later, taking the first steps into a reborn world that was still crying in it's cradle.

Soap was amongst the first humans to emerge from the mechanical cradle, thrust into a wild and untamed world full of strange machines, with no tools but his hands. While out trying to scavange some of the metal from downed glinthawks he was attacked by Scrappers, ending up infected with the virus that had been slumbering in the earth. Soap became like the sphinx, glinthawk wings attaching to his back with wires, talons merging with skin and pushing out bone, the body of the scraper combining with his own until he was unable to stand on two legs, forced to crawl on all fours and screech in pain through distorted vocal chords until Price and Gaz found him. They took care of him until he was used to his body enough to soar through the air about as well as he could run across the earth.

Simon was the last, born to a tribe that valued strength and worshipped the machines above all. And Simon is the only one who's convergence to steel has any semblence of thought or preparation. He had spent years hunting Fireclaws, tearing off the intact pieces and pistons after every hunt until the shamans of his tribe deemed him ready to become one of the metal gods. The change was slow and painful, bones melting and hardening around new metal, body getting bigger and flesh stretching to fit the new frame, heavy claws weighing on his muscular arms until Simon had become Ghost.

It wasn't what he expected. What he had done in an attempt to fit in amongst his kin served to further push him away as his tribe worshipped him as one of the machine gods, erasing his name as Simon. It was a relief when he met the others, finding comfort in their disfigured and grotesque bodies that looked so similar like his own.

And then you meet them.

Maybe you're a foolish mercenary that stumbled too far into the wild, maybe you're one of the subfunctions of the original teraforming AI that gained sentience. Either way, you didn't fear them, you tried to talk to them, to get to know them even when every societal law of your tribe deemed them as monsters and demons.

And on one random evening, when they had all settled into a rough cuddle pile, scarred flesh over sharp metal creating enough of a cushion for you to sleep in the middle of them all — safe and warm... It occured to them: you are nice, you are kind, and they want to to stay by their side.

[stirringwinds]

i know people talk a lot about the us and UK special relationship but it kind of fell after the Suez and France kind of sneakily stole it didn't he? I mean did the same before the wars

thanks for the ask! ngl, as a londoner, i've always personally felt the representation of the "Special Relationship" as this mega-close and affectionate dynamic is kind of...an un-holistic understanding of the UK or England, as well as of the United States. don't get me wrong, it's one of their most important relationships and there's a lot of deep history there—my issue is mostly with rose-tinted interpretations underpinning it and what biases they showcase. these were heavily biased by Churchill's (imperialist) gaze of envisioning Anglo-American affinity and leadership on the world stage. this interpretation quite significantly downplayed the rivalry, power struggles, conflicts and differences that historians existed between the US and the British Empire, or how US presidents tended to see it in far less majestic terms. like, Churchill rather downplays FDR's vehement disagreements with him over the issue of Indian independence lol or decolonisation (because the US was eyeing the world as a chessboard, re: new markets and also whether or not support for the old colonial power would be a bulwark against or risk soviet or other communist influence).

so, while you're right that Suez was a pretty low moment in US-Britain relations due to the US being pissed at Britain and France jeopardising its ostensible goal of swaying Egypt away from the Soviet sphere of influence (sidenote: Egypt itself was trying to navigate the mess of the Cold War rivalry to secure its interests), i don't really see it as "falling" after Suez or stolen by France simply because that dynamic Churchill painted a picture of never really existed in that way. plus, Europe (France included) and the ex-colonies of the British Empire (like the dominions and India) weighed heavily on British foreign policy/its national outlook too; i tend to find an overemphasis on a rose-tinted view of the "Special Relationship" leads to a lot of US-centrism that shuts out this understanding. to me, Arthur and Alfred's relationship is most interesting when we situate them properly amidst all these other imperial and geopolitical cross-currents. of which Francis is an important one, from the time he helped Alfred during the Revolutionary War, to the Entente Cordial, WWI and the post-WWII world of NATO, the EU and so on.

in hetalia-verse, it's one of the reasons I personally headcanon Arthur and Alfred as father and son. their bond is lasting, forged by the blood, steel and saltwater of empire, and all the familial, deep and troubling implications that implies. they are "stuck" with each other in some ways, because post 1945, it's a familial dynamic of the old king and the young, ambitious crown prince who thinks his father is out of time—and out of line. francis never really "steals" anything because he and arthur's relationship is on a very different axes: francis is the neighbour who has been by arthur's side as his enemy, friend, lover, rival in imperial douchebaggery, ally (for better and also for worse, like in suez...)—and everything in between. whereas arthur and alfred have some real patricidal/regicidal, titanomachy-level father-son power struggles going on, mixed in with this dysfunctional level of understanding and them also colluding together shadily (you are different from him in many ways, there are many things he'll never understand about you—but you are your father's son, alfred; to be powerful is to be tainted).

so in conclusion, i see alfred-arthur and arthur-francis as both very important foundational dynamics crucial to arthur's character, but conceptualised differently from that understanding of the "special relationship" because they're two different kinds of relationships, even if there is the overlapping dynamic of power, rivalry and empire. ✌🏼

[elekinetic]

happy cleradin day. here are the party's classes:

straight from the handbook. my credentials: i love dnd and im right. hope this helps.

mike: paladin of devotion

a character who acts with honor in pursuit of justice and the greater good. someone who believes wholeheartedly in honesty, courage, compassion, honor, and duty. a knight in shining armor with the ability to protect from evil and compel others to tell the truth.

will: light domain cleric (multiclass: fiend pact warlock)

a character infused with radiance in service of rebirth and renewal, truth, vigilance, and beauty. someone who understands that art is a vehicle for the soul’s improvement. an enlightened soul, charged with chasing away lies and burning away darkness.

(Someone who holds pact with a fiend from the lower planes of existence, a being whose aims are evil, even if they strive against those aims. grants access to spells like fireball and an unnatural connection with a hellish plane.)

el: sorcerer, abberant mind origin

a character who can touch other minds with psionic power and alter the world around them, whose power may as a hopeful beacon to others or as a source of terror to those who feel the stab of their mind and witness the strange manifestations of their might. someone who can form telepathic connections with others, with the ability to inflict psychic damage with ease.

lucas: ranger, hunter subclass

a character who accepts their place as a bulwark between the people they protect and the terrors of the wilderness. someone who's tenacity can wear down the most potent enemies, with a steel will and uncanny ability to dodge and escape foes.

dustin: bard, college of eloquence (multiclass: artillerist artificer)

a character who can wield a blend of logic and theatrical wordplay to win over skeptics and detractors with logical arguments while plucking at heartstrings to appeal to the emotions of audiences. a master of charisma who can spin words that inspire success or failure.

(someone who can create inventions and magic items of peace and war, whose ingenious creations can brighten and save lives, or end them.)

max: way of long death monk

a character with the ability to unsettle or terrify those around them, as their soul has been touched by the shadow of death. someone who can use their familiarity with death to escape its grasp. their lack of armor may make them seem indefensible, but their handiness with a staff (nailbat) and quick speed make them a force to be reckoned with.

portions of text borrowed from here. dividers by @firefly-graphics.

[reddest-flower]

In 1917, the Soviets revealed the secret treaties of the imperialist powers. When he released these documents, Leon Trotsky – the People’s Commissar of Foreign Affairs – noted, ‘Secret diplomacy is a necessary weapon in the hands of the propertied minority which is compelled to deceive the majority in order to make the latter serve its interests. Imperialism, with its worldwide plans of annexation, its rapacious alliances and machinations, has developed the system of secret diplomacy to the highest degree’. The Soviet record against colonialism was clear, even as the Comintern struggled to produce a firm line in this or that country. There was no instance where the Soviets considered colonial rule to be worthwhile. The same with fascism, which the Soviets saw as anathema to humankind. Soviet aid to Republican Spain was one test and the other was the immense sacrifice of the USSR in the fight against fascism in World War II.

In 1931, the Spanish Left won the elections and inaugurated the Second Spanish Republic. An even more radical Popular Front government came to power in 1936. Only two countries, Mexico and the USSR – the two peasant republics that had been formed by revolutions – backed the Spanish Republic. Progressive policies to undercut landlords, the aristocrats and the capitalists set the Republic against the ruling bloc. That bloc would rapidly find solace in the fascist movement as well as in the army of General Francisco Franco that left Spanish colonized Morocco for the mainland. From North Africa, the fascists came into the Iberian Peninsula with the intent of overthrowing the Republic by force. A war ensued, which was – with the fascist Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1935 – an early frontline of the fascist assault. The Soviets backed the Republic, as did Communist parties from around the world. Communists came to the aid of the Republic from the United States to the Philippines, from India to Ireland. The International Brigades, supported by the USSR, provided a bulwark against the onrush of the fascist armies, which were backed not only by the fascist powers (Italy and Germany) but also by the imperialist bloc (Britain and France). Fissures between the anarchists and the communists fractured the unities necessary in the fight against fascism, surely, but there it is undeniable that without logistical help – Operation X – from the Soviets the Republic would have been crushed immediately and not lasted until 1939.

When the Republic fell in March 1939, the imperialist and fascist blocs seemed fused. When Franco marched into Madrid, the British Ambassador went to greet him. When Nehru, who had been to the Republican front-lines and was fully behind the Republic, heard of this, he shuddered. This imperialist and fascist alliance was against humanity. Franco would remain in power until his death in 1975. He remained heralded by the ‘democratic’ countries of Europe.

The USSR, through the summer of 1939, faced the imminent threat of invasion by the fascist and imperialist powers. Such an invasion had taken place right after 1917. In the war in Spain, it became clear that Soviet armaments that went there through Operation X were not of the same quality as those produced by the Germans and the Italians. The Soviets sent 772 airmen in heavy Tupolev SB bombers, which turned out to be far slower and more vulnerable than the German Messerschmitt Bf 109. The Soviet army staff feared that an invasion by the Nazis and the imperialist bloc, after the fall of Spain, would be catastrophic for the USSR. The Nazis had already seized Austria in the Anschluss of 1938 and had threatened Lithuania with conquest in March 1939. The Italians had seized Albania in April 1939 and the two fascist powers – Italy and Germany – signed a decisive Pact of Steel in May 1939. Britain’s appeasement of the fascist bloc at the Munich meeting in 1938 suggested collusion between the imperialist and the fascist bloc. This was the context of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of August 1939, where the Soviets hoped to get some time to build up their capacity before an inevitable Nazi attack. Surely there should have been no compromise with fascism. But this was in the realm of realpolitik – a way to salvage time before the war that was to come. Indeed, in September 1939, the USSR opened nine factories to build aircraft and seven factories to build aircraft engines. The Red Army grew from 1 million (Spring of 1938) to 5 million (June 1941).

But Stalin had other ideas as well. On March 10, 1939, when the Spanish Republic was ready to fall, he said that the USSR should allow the ‘warmongers to sink deeply into the mire of warfare, to quietly urge them on’. If Germany and Britain went to war, then it would ‘weaken and exhaust’ both allowing the USSR ‘with fresh forces’ to enter the fray eventually ‘in the interest of peace to dictate terms to the weakened belligerents’. This would not happen. France was easily defeated by the Nazis and Britain could not find the way to bring troops to the European mainland. The war came to the USSR without the imperialists being weakened. The Nazis attacked the USSR as expected. The Soviets fought valiantly against the Nazis, losing over 26 million Soviet citizens in the long war that eventually destroyed the Nazi war machine.

It was the Soviet Union that saved the world from Nazism. It was Soviet armies that liberated most of the Nazi concentration camps, and it was the Soviet armies that entered Berlin and ended the war. General Dwight Eisenhower, the leading American soldier in the European sector, recalled his journey into the Eastern front after the end of the war, ‘When we flew into Russia in 1945, I did not see a house standing between the western borders of the country and the area around Moscow. Through this overrun region, Marshal Zhukov told me, so many numbers of women, children and old men and been killed that the Russian Government would never be able to estimate the total.’

Red Star Over the Third World, Vijay Prashad, 2019

[studiomythka-blog]

🔸 Bulwark 🔸

Type: Fighting/Steel

Smaugust Dragon Commisson For: NovaThyme

[dartagnantt]

Path of Iron | Learn why they're too afraid to let the barbarian were full plate

PDFs of this and more can be found over on at my Patreon here! I release everything for free, so your support makes this possible. I'm working on a new class for 5e! Follow the Kickstarter here!

Armoured Fury

The basic premise of the subclass: the barbarian can use heavy armor and things that specifically call out heavy armour can be safely ignored.

Storming Juggernaut

Stop me if you've heard this before but what if you could run through people and trample them. There is an asterisk attached to this, because I know this game is crazy but it was nice and even and I wanted to pull all of the scaling from size hit dice stuff or something. Also I know that someone is going to do it, I just pray to god it's not possible at 3rd level. I actually know for a fact that you could stack this with last week's subclass but at that point you're level 18, and I don't care that you dipped 15 levels into another class to maximise this.

Impenetrable Bulwark

This feature is a weird combo of the path of the zealot feature, and the Indomitable Strength feature. Probably broken, but it scales with how good your armor is, which assuming the DM isn't crazy should be fine.

Steel Hide

Have the path of the totem warrior 3rd level wolf totem feature at a more reasonable level, and this time, it stops everything, because I guess your helmet is made of tin foil to keep the psychics out. It is incredibly conductive.

The Best Offense…

I feel kind of bad that I use this joke twice in here, but this idea was just too cool to pass up.

And now to plug my stuff. I release homebrews weekly over on my Patreon. Anyone who pledges $1 or more per post don't have to wait a month to see them, and also help fund my being alive habit.

At the moment, they have exclusive access to the following:

Stranger than Fiction

Trickery Domain: Revised

School of Illusion: Revised

Oath of Discord

I also have three classes, and a splatbook over on DriveThrueRPG to check out:

The Rift Binder. A class specialising in summoning monsters and controlling the battlefield.

The Witch Knight. A class that combines swords and sorcery in the most literal way.

The Werebeast. A class that turns you into a half beast to destroy your foes.

d'Artagnan's Adventurer Almanac. A compendium of races, subclasses, feats, spells, monsters and more!

[greybackpack]

Kotallo leans on his remaining arm as he considers the battle map projected on the metal table. He'd planned to map out both Zenith and Regalla's activities in order to gain insight in their next move. Normally, Kotallo loves the stretch of strategy, the way clues fall together so that he may prime his attack to kill.

Not today.

His mind does not seem to want to cooperate with his plans for the day. Instead, it wanders onto the subject of his commander. Commanders. Both commanders.

He’d been at Chief Hekarro’s side since almost the beginning of the Chief's glory. Out of the current Marshals, he had the most seniority. Even before the ambush, Kotallo was the one who knew Hekarro-the-Chief best. From the first Kulrut until now, Kotallo’s learned many things about his role as a Marshal… and about his commanding officer’s role as a leader.

Kotallo admired the man, then and now, both for his gift for combat and his goal of peace despite of the glory he could have had. Or, perhaps his goal of peace is because he knows what combat and conflict brings. Glory... and suffering.

Though, Kotallo supposes the position of Chief and Guardian of the Grove is glorious enough.

What Kotallo truly admires, however, is the way his commander handled the weight of leadership.

Far from prying eyes, Kotallo watched as Hekarro allowed himself to bend under the weight of handling the clans. Kotallo does not judge. If it was him handling Tekotteh, let alone the rest of the clans and the Carja, the clans would most likely have been decimated. Yet, Hekarro leads with both strength and patience, yielding and standing firm when necessary. Then, in his private moments, with or without his Marshals, he allows himself a small moment of weakness, of rest. Of bending beneath the weight of responsibility.

But Hekarro did not- does not- allow it to break him. He bends. He hangs his head, heavy and aching from his crown, and slumps against the plant covered walls of the Grove. And then he gets back up.

When Hekarro has had his time to process, Kotallo watched him pull back his shoulders and settle back into the mantle of leader. Kotallo watched as Hekarro lined his spine once more of machine metal and rouse strength to his posture in order to keep going. To keep moving, to stand up when all is weighing you down is true strength. To deny the temptation of rest in order to protect and fight is something everyone struggles with. It is a hard lesson, to learn with grace. Kotallo has learned and learned well. It is a strength that Chief Hekarro possesses. It is the kind of true strength that the Ten were known for.

And that is the driving force of Kotallo's loyalty. Yes, Hekarro took him in when his clan casted him out- exile hidden behind a veneer of honor- and that had netted Kotallo's service. Yet it is the kindness, the solid sight of the back of his chief as he protected the clans from enemies and themselves, and the steel that lines his spine as he cuts enemies down is what secures Kotallo's unwavering loyalty. It is what secures his return, it is why he allowed himself once more to be a spear to be pointed.

Aloy, too, has the same grit and sheer will behind her every move. The same ability to bend the world to her commands, to her beliefs. Her battle seems never ending. Kotallo respects that. She fights like she's been taught nothing else in her life. She, as Erend would say, kicks ass. She kicks everyone's ass, the enemy's, his own, machine ass. She even, Kotallo thinks as he tips his head upwards to hide his smirk, kicks her own ass.

But... She fights like Tenakth. Something he did not expect to find in the reclusive Nora. Soft, he had thought those from the east.

Aloy had proved him, and everyone else who had ever doubted her, wrong. She proved a whole clan wrong, when she tore the Bulwark down with the ease of someone who's pulled off the impossible so many times that 'impossible' only means 'harder'. Hair like fire, heart like hearth, fight like a blaze. Firestorm. Aloy, who is easy-going (not that he can say much, Kotallo knows he's anti-social even amongst other Tenakth) until she isn't. Calm, unsuspecting, until she isn't. People tend to underestimate her. They see the colors of the Nora, the soft, deer-like pelts she wears, and think that is everything she is and will ever be. Until she slits their throat with a skilled hand and a sharp blade. Until she destroys the wall his clan had believed unbreachable for centuries and essentially slapped Tekkoteh's face with... a boulder. Multiple boulders. Aloy spat in the face of doubt and took out its knees with her spear.

His new commander has a penchant for the impossible.

Then again, people had said uniting the Tenakth was impossible and Hekarro pulled that off too.

Kotallo glances away from the map, eyes still adjusting to the focus hub of information. He looks at the schematics for an arm, a strange mixture reluctance and hope swirling at the pit of his gut.

Perhaps Aloy would be amenable to performing another minor miracle...?

[sculptorofcrimson]

You speak of the joy of combat, the blood of the scars and the crimson of gore. How foolish. You carrying your master’s banner high in the air, of dying for retribution, for vengeance, for justice, for treachery, for power, for immortality. How naive.

How sweet of you to think your story will matter. How endearing of you to reach for the stars. How foolish, how tempting, how painful for you to dream of oblivion, of avengeance.

How foolish of you to try.

You will die, little lamb, you will die torn apart by our artillery, scorched to the earth beneath our thunder.

Hear me now, you bloodstained filth of the earth, little more than savage hounds thrown upon blades to die. We have come to kill you, and you have come to die. We will herd you into slaughterhouses and butcher you like cattle, and there shall be nothing glorious about your death. There will be only the humiliation of oblivion, of thunder and shells as His glory brings the very sky crashing down upon you. 

We will drown you in lead, and trap you in steel. We will build walls a thousand times higher until you break yourselves upon our bulwark, we will rain death from above as you shall learn of despair.

Children of the dancing pale, abandon your hopes. Shatter your mirrors, and tear your last paintings of age-old glory to dust. You cannot dance forever, and your song has winded down to an end. We will sing you a dirge, a mournful dirge, of springtime lost and wintertime eternal as His machines grind your bones to dust and scatter you beneath their treads. Your artworks will be razed as your empire was razed, your precious stones lost as you have been lost.

Children of the dreaded night, abandon your dreams. Your empire has fallen, your siblings all alone. When you hunger, when you starve, when you waste away into a death you’ve staved off through the blood of our brethren, we will be there. When you crawl back to us to feed, with hungry eyes and hollow skin, we will be there. We will avenge our mothers you ravaged, our fathers you ravished, our sisters you snatched from their beds and our brothers you carved and butchered. We will avenge our soldiers, and the blaze of our storm will be the last thing your monstrous eyes will ever see upon this fetid earth. We are the tide, and we are unending. No matter how gracefully you dance, how horrific your song, we will drown you beneath our screams and the blaze of our guns. The song of our bullets will be the last you ever see, and we can die, happy, knowing we have been avenged. 

Children of the metallic blue, abandon your guns. Shed your mockery of compassion. Blast your boastful taunts to ash. There will be no range you can hide from, no greater good for your lesser evil. We will find you, and we will paint the earth blue with your blood. We will hunt you down, and drag you to death a thousand times over beneath the fingers of ten thousand gloved hands. 

Children of the blackened oblivion, abandon your slumber. You will scream as we have screamed when we crush your bones to oblivion, when we bury you once more in the tombs you have forsaken. Your dynasty will crumble like sands before our unending charge, your dead kings will die thrice more by our infinite hands. And when you gasp your last, the Emperor will gaze upon your broken bones, and smile. 

Children of the bleeding crimson, abandon your axes. Lay down your armor, cast down your stakes and dream of death, eternal and unforgiving. The endless Emperor is with us and we are immortal. Your charges will break upon the bulwark that is humanity. Your blades will shatter upon the armor of our endless regiments, upon the wrath that is His divine fist. You can not win. Our soldiers will cull you from above. Our shells will rend your armor to paper. You will die not like a god, nor like a man, you will die like a rabid beast, screaming in the fires of His wrath. You will die beneath the storm of our guns and the hail of our soldiers. Tonight, there will be no honor in your death, no glory for your false lord. There will only be oblivion. Pray for us, crimson ones, pray for oblivion, pray that your end is swift, and merciful. For we are unbreakable, and our march is unending.

Children of the liar’s blue, abandon your spells. Your tongues are tied, your plots have faltered. We will march resolute, and we will bring you down. Even a treacherous worm like you must kneel before reality itself. Our soldiers’ blood will clog your feathers, their dying grasps will clutch at your wings and talons until bones shatter and you are one of us now, crawling upon the earth, mortal, weak, so incredibly weak, but without our armor of faith, without the eye of the Emperor. Our soldiers’ death grip will tear out your feathers one by one. Our guns will speak the final truth you will ever know as you die like the traitor you are, squirming, helpless, and mortal.

Children of the rotting green, abandon your anguish. Your pain is nothing compared to what we have endured. We have marched through hell, we have died in hell, and we have soldiered on. We are the Astra Militarum, and there is no limit to our wrath. Our barracks will run rampant with the corpses of your infestation, and your poxes will be crushed beneath the bulk of our endless tide, for we are humanity, and we are unending. The Emperor’s light will sear you crimson and pale, His vengeful glare will scald you from that which was and that which shall be. Death will reclaim you, as death has claimed us all, yet we will endure where you will not. 

Children of the fervent purple, abandon your revels. It is we who shall revel in your death throes. You will find no satisfaction here, in the hollowed servants of His light. You will find only death, and the artisans of His wrath. You will be annihilated, your joy tampered by His rage, your dances cut short by incendiaries and blades. There will be nothing tantalizing in your death. There will only be humiliation, as the artillery annihilates your kind and our guns transform your bones to paste. You will be eradicated, completely and utterly obliterated from the face of His light, for that is the death from which no soul can recover. You will die, your song strangled, your dance interrupted, in a symphony of smoke and screaming shrapnel. 

Children of the golden light, embrace your honor. Even in death, we still yet endure. We are humanity, we are the Astra Militarium, we have held the line for eons and we will hold the line for eternity more. We were those who stayed behind, cut to the last, shredded, flayed, burned, we are those who glared down the eyes of gods with men. We are mortals, so weak, so small, yet Chaos has yet to bring us down. The Eldar have yet to break our ranks, the Necrons yet to drain the life from our corpses. We were mortals, weak in flesh and bone, so fragile, so expendable, yet we held the line.

We are mortal, and tonight, we endure. 

[revalentine2]

The Part Where I Fight My Dad - Team Objective plays Pokemon Emerald

Hello, loyal viewers! Last time we caught a new super special friend! However...

As lovely as this Baltoy is, I'd rather bring my current team along to handle our next objective. The next battle is no place for new blood...

Petalburg city. My dad is the leader here, now. I've been away from family for such a long time, but then I moved back in with mom, only to immediately leave to pursue my ideals...the ideals of promoting OBJECT POKEMON, that is!

...Anyway. I'm just not sure how to feel about this..

...Dad is waiting at the back of the gym. Time to head in. Let's steel ourselves...

PETALBURG GYM, I'VE COME TO...Wait, dad, what are you doing out front. What? My badges? Wait-

Oh

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Fiddlesticks.

Uhhhhhh.

we're goin' back to Dewford

Brawny or whatever your name is, let's make this quick. Family emergency.

OK Thnx bye

back to Petalburg-

Ugh. Stinky, hairy creatures. I never understood everyone's obsession with these guys, especially not my dad's. I never was much into them in the first place, but after I discovered my love of Object Pokemon, he and I became more distant. It had to be because he didn't agree with my tastes.

It must have.

Let's do this, old man! I'll teach you a lesson! About OBJECT POKEMON!

Stop being so happy!

Bulwark, you've been my lead into every gym battle (that mattered) before, and that's not going to change now!

Teeter Dance, yikes. Hit through, Bulwark! Come on!

We hit ourselves once, but now we finally get off the Mud-slap! Lower its accuracy!

It's missed a couple moves by now! Big damage, Metal Claw into Iron Tail! Take it out!

Spinda's done! Nice job, B-oh come on dad, Really? You're switching into your ace immediately?

...Hm. Maybe this isn't a bad thing after all...

Bulwark! Just like before! You know what to do...and Slaking has half the turns to fight back from this!

Dad had just been spamming counter, but now that Slaking's low it's going for Faint Attack...doesn't do much, but that messes with our plans a little. Still, we persevere!

Slow it down with some Rock Tombs, Bulwark!

Now, Goo Goo! Come in and give it some Screeches!

Goo Goo took some hits, but now it's time for my own ace to hit the field! StepStone, come in and defense curl! That now boosts the power...

...of ROLLOUT! Faint Attack did a lot, but with minimum defense even this first should be enough to KO from here...

And it is! StepStone, Rollout into his next sloth thing, too!

Rolling! Rolling! Rolling! You can't stop the rolling!

His final pokemon! Take this last Slash hit, StepStone...

Yes! 5 HP! Now, land the Rollout!

YES! We DID it! My team conquers yours, Dad, with less pokemon used from my side! What do you have to say to that, huh!?

...What? You're just...proud of me? Happy and a little sad-Dad, what are you saying?

You...wanted to understand my interests and you...didn't know how? And I never reached out, so...it just went quiet, between us?

...Maybe I do need therapy.

I don't know what to think of anything right now. Except-my team. I'm proud of them all so, so much. They've really come into their own in battle. They're all beautiful and wonderful Object pokemon. I love them. I know that much.

I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing. Maybe I just need to consider how I do it.

And Dad...I'm sure there's an object pokemon out there for you, too. Do they have Porygon here?

Team: StepStone the Graveler (F) Bulwark the Aron (M) Skybomb the Koffing (F) Goo Goo the Grimer (F) Patricia the Nosepass (F) Sungaze the Solrock

[punemy-spotted]

Iris - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

Pairing: SoftDark!Devil!Helmut Zemo x Sky-Captain!Reader

Warnings: Cosmic Horror; Dubious Consent; Dubious Morality; Estranged Relationship; Zemo and Reader are not in the Good Place; THIS IS A HORROR FIC; Soul Stealing; Incredibly Loose Relationship with Physics; This is a Fallen London x Marvel Crossover Moment; There are Space Bees; And Giant Lovestruck Space Crabs; Violence; Murder; Death; Poison; At Least One Reference to a Garrote; Estranged Relationship; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: Sokovia rose, then fell, and then rose again. And now the stars will never be the same.

Notes: Hi, welcome, I really wanted to write an MCU crossover with the Fallen London 'verse so here we are. Imagine House of M except Wanda Maximoff became an actual factual God and it actually wasn't that bad after all. And now imagine all of that is background noise in favor of one unhinged Devil and one overly hinged Epistolarian. An Intrepid Epistolarian.

Oh also Wanda's waging war against Queen Victoria. It's fine.

For those of you who have read my other Zemo fics, finished and unfinished, if you notice similarities between this fic and the other ones... yes. I am Frankenstein trying to raise this fanfiction monster and put scenes, passages, and themes to better use than languishing in my Ao3/Tumblr cupboard. (Also if you've read my other fics, hi, hello, I love you.)

I crave feedback, so tell me what you think!

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

The First taught Restraint, and the Second Betrayed. The Third taught us Hunger and the Fourth we Remade. The Fifth will live on in the Heart of the Sun but the Sixth did quickly Fade. The Seventh City will never Fall, never ending the Deal we made.

She kept some of the old names when she took this place, you know. Built onto it, even when her Renewed Empress had to bend the knee to the Scarlet One, sealed away in her undying mausoleum.

The Proclaimers of the Cult of the Sanctified, still seated at the Avid Horizon’s High Gate and whispering Truths to their counterparts on the other side, were right — the Seventh City would never fall; the Bazaar would never be compelled to deliver that fatal missive to that Beacon of Bright Betrayal it loved so much; there would be no opportunity to argue that Seven Cities worth of love is proof enough of Her Worthy Love.

If there is one thing you know about opportunities, it is that they are also opportunities to fail.

The long tradition of the Duchy of Sokovia — that Bulwark which once stood the test of time against even the Tsars of Russia — is not what it once was. There is, in fact, no such thing as Sokovia now, not the way you would think. There are Sokovian people, clinging to an identity lest it be lost in the abyss below, but all that remains of the Earthly land which remembered the Duchy’s history with the joint Empires of Austria and Hungary is now nothing more than a chasm of stone and steel.

A monument to violent delights in want of violent ends.

Cast your eyes not to the ruins of her past but to the gleaming future written in the stars ab—

The sound of a train whistle drowns out what remains of the tinned announcement, an earsplitting shriek you endure for what feels like forever, but is in fact — if the clock before you is accurate — no more than two minutes. Which — as it turns out — is plenty of time to interrupt the announcement’s conclusion and leave ringing silence in its wake.

Good. You were rather tired of hearing your own voice drone on any longer.

You turn your head away from the train schedule you had previously been pretending to occupy your mind with, watching the rails with mild impatience and fidgeting with your gloves.

He is late.

It’s not abnormal, really, for the more independent locomotives — those not on the Scarlet Empress’s own payroll, that is — to run on their own definition of time, but you’ve never known your contact to be anything more than a man of his word.

When you’ve properly interpreted his words, that is.

No matter. You have the luxury of time. Collecting your luggage takes little effort — a rather bulging handbag and a briefcase is not so terrible compared to the crates of fuel, souls, and hours you see being carted around you — as you step briskly towards the more busting central parts of port. The station itself has seen better days, almost empty save for a handful of dock-workers and the occasional Employee making sure the schedule runs on time, but as you pass through an open archway into the city proper, they seem eager to resume whatever activity they might otherwise have abandoned for your intrusive presence.

NORTH.

How did it happen? Was it prophecy — or maybe some mad interpretation of the scream-whispers of Distant Polythreme, a vision of the Garden — that led the Proclaimers to make their rhyme, completing the riddle and speaking for the Masters themselves?

Something must have rung true to the Masters, for them to solve the riddle.

Novi Grad rose, then fell. Fell until it could fall no further, until there was nothing left of decades of history but ash and blood for the ghosts of her denizens to wander through. Until there was nothing for the Masters and their bats to drag to cavernous depths.

So she, in her infinite tragedy and infinite pain, became the solution.

Your tea, madame. You look up from your scribbling absently, glancing briefly up at the server and then feeling your polite smile immediately fade off your face.

Must you always play games?

Helmut Zemo stands before you with a perfectly placid smile on his cruelly handsome face, So lovely to see you again, sweetling, and you’re quite welcome for the tea.

You narrowly avoid the temptation to roll your eyes, closing your journal and placing the cap on your pen, its nib glimmering venomously in the candlelight, You are late. A casual accusation, one he dismisses with an easy wave of his hand, just before seating himself before you and stealing a biscuit from your place.

And you are impatient. Surely this must mean you have missed me, little bird. If he notices the way you flinch at the sweetname, struggling to compose yourself before you manage to settle on sternness, he does not say.

You have faced worse things than Helmut Zemo, you know. Worse than the ache that slices through your heart when you look at him and his easy smile, the one you might have fallen in love with once again, if you forgot yourself.

You will not.

Instead, you breathe, letting the heavy air in your lungs out slowly as you tug the fingers of your glove until the whole thing is loose enough to be removed entirely.

You always hated getting biscuit crumbs on your whisper-satin fineries.

You asked me to meet you here, Helmut, a fact which he seems to dismiss with another too-sharp smile, eyes flickering over you.

It burns. Licking over the neckline of your dress before moving down to the delicate pearl buttons that hold shut your bodice, heat rising over the thin lace collar wrapped around your throat, and you wonder idly how often he fines pleasure in watching people struggle to breathe and die.

I’m told you have been busy, he tells you flatly, practiced hand snapping his biscuit in half before dipping one perfect semi-circle into the cup of tea he’d placed in front of you, Too busy, it seems, to inform your husband of your whereabouts.

The knifeblade edge of his voice is enough, slipping past the plates of armor you always try to wrap around yourself every time you agree to meet him, his joyless smile the barbs he leaves in your heart, ensuring it will bleed for him for a few months more after your eventual parting.

The first time he’d touched your cheek in the shadow of a clockwork sun while you wept, his lips ghosting  your skin, you nearly fell to your knees at his feet.

That should have been the last time you would ever see him, as he whispered sweet nothings and sweeter promises in a language you did not speak, burning intention into your skin and leaving you forever bound, words falling from his lips like a waterfall.

The third time you met Helmut Zemo, you cried. And the fourth. And the fifth.

You refuse to meet his eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles in your gown with trembling hands, Is this what you came to remind me?

He does not stop smiling, even as you make note of the uneasy tension sitting on his shoulders, the vicious gleam in his eyes as he continues his visual examination of your countenance, tea soaked biscuit melting idly on his tongue.

Yes, it is.

You should be grateful for his honesty — Devils rarely are, after all.

He continues before you have a chance to consider it, How much farther do you plan to run from this place, sweetling, before time returns you back to me?

You wish he wouldn’t call you sweetling.

You haven’t been sweet in a thousand years.

But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? He already knows that, anyway.

Though you suppose that maybe you ought to tell him about something he doesn’t know.

Why did you call me here, Helmut?

Why does any man call his wife back to the port where they parted last? I missed you.

You swallow thickly, avoiding the unyielding blade of his sharp-eyed gaze and even sharper smile, refusing to let your heart leap out to him as it aches to do, You are lying, Helmut, you accuse, pretending to busy yourself with the biscuits he brought to your table.

As always, as you should have expected, he only grins at you — a cruel, twisted grimace that makes your stomach twist not-wholly-unpleasantly — before reaching out and brushing his knuckles over your cheek, Would you let me lie, little bird?

I certainly hope you don’t expect an honest answer to that question.

His laugh is as sharp as his smile, a huff of bemusement you recall bringing you happiness before, a long time ago.

Now it reminds you of the taste of poison, of bile curling in the back of your throat, of blood and metal and the screaming agony of time stretched to its very limit.

The silence too, stretches between you, taut as the wires you would wrap around your palms to cut through cheese and impertinent throats, waiting for you to finally surrender and rise to your feet, gather your things and bid him as formal a goodbye as you’ll allow yourself — always just out of reach, I have no intention of playing games, Helmut, you challenge with the same tone of voice you might use to scold the Empress’s misbehaving sons, If you refuse to do me the courtesy of your honest, then do me the gift of your absence.

He watches you, eyes glimmering amber with insult, but does not dishonor you enough to reach out, There was a time, little bird, when you loved me without such reservation.

The words burn across your skin like living fire, your vows and his molded together in a single remembered sigil, a bond forced with the very language of Judgment, unbidden agony scorching your composure as you make a desperate, futile attempt to push away the memory; his voice soft, the low timbre of his accent sliding over your ears like honey in your mouth, gentle lips on yours as he sealed your fate with a kiss, I have memorized you like a prayer.

You could almost have forgotten he was a liar, standing lost in your memories as you are, forgotten the price of promise and the weight of truth.

Almost.

The tears burn at the backs of your eyes, but you blink them back, let bone grind against bone before, More fool I, then, for thinking you did the same.

You turn to walk towards the door, four sovereigns in hand to pay for your meal — interrupted though it has been — making a concentrated effort to not look back, even as you hear his voice cutting through the otherwise silent room, When everything goes wrong, it is a terrible burden to bear alone, don’t you think?

You cannot help yourself, can you? Shoulders slumping as you declare a reluctant defeat and turn to face him, swearing your heart has lit aflame.

You cannot ignore His Law forever, little bird.

You know nothing of responsibility, Helmut, your voice is cold as the icy expanse beyond the warm walls of Novi Grad station, still aching to leave and frustrated by your uncooperative feet.

There’s a twitch at the corner of his lips, amusement sparking in his own eyes, And what of you, little bird, what have you learned of responsibility since your escape from Perdurance?

You visibly flinch, the name sparking an endless array of horror and memories within you, just as his expression falls into uncharacteristic regret.

Nothing, clearly, you reply hollowly, words bitter on the back of your teeth, Much to your pleasure, I think.

That wounds him, to your surprise, hurt painting his face before he controls his features and buries both regret and rage beneath a placid mask, Infinite freedom is as tight a prison as an opulent cage, on occasion.

[balladofthewhitehorse]

Old Memories

It was a shock of a blue sky, and the wind carried the promise of a sharp frost and sharper winds. With it, England knew that a cold winter was coming soon and cold winters brought famine, a familiar ache in the pit of his belly even though it had not known hunger in a terribly long time. ‘’Chilly, isn’t it?’’ He spoke in a plaintive voice, mundanity pricking the corners of his mouth into a smile that it just about remembered how to do. Scarf drawn tight, England glanced sheepishly at Wales (muttering something about remembering to pack a hat next time they went up to Scotland’s place - and gloves too), his cheeks flush with embarrassment. ‘’Don’t you ever get tired of it, Scotty?’’ Heavens knew that England would - he practically lived beside his radiator these days, and the cold that closed around him was edged with steel; Something wicked this way came, and his heart thudded in his ears. They were in the middle of a valley, cradled on-all sides by hills that seemed - to England - insurmountable, fringed with grey clouds that suddenly felt like bulwarks that bore down upon the three of them with silent prejudice. It was…unfriendly.

Scotland grunted, shrugging as he held up a pair of binoculars to his chest. A bird was flying overhead - a silhouette that belied the promise of being a raptor of some kind, majestic all the way up so high. ‘’There’s no such thing as bad weather though,’’ He jabbed a finger pointedly towards England, heavy brows furrowed as he stared ruefully at his brother’s shabby coat. ‘’Just bad clothing.’’ He scolded, though Scotland’s voice remained light (fraternal even, in-spite of the growing distance between himself and his brother, England). ‘’What on Earth is this-?’’ Polyester; A dreadful material, in Scotland’s opinion, and he turned up his nose in thinly-veiled disgust. ‘’It’s so thin…no wonder the wind’s fucking cutting through you.’’ Scotland scoffed, the corner of his lips twitching into a vague smirk (He certainly wasn’t cold - having dressed appropriately for it). ‘’We’re cold because it is fucking cold.’’ Chimed in Wales, rolling her eyes as she buried her red-knuckled hands into her pockets; Nothing could be felt anymore, not her ears, nose or toes. It was as though piece by piece, the frost was consuming her slowly. ‘’Aren’t you?’’ She asked incredulously, brows knitting in disbelief. Beside her, England shivered and drew his coat tight around himself - thin-lipped with the cold, Wales casting a sympathetic glance at her youngest brother. ‘’Oh come off it, you’re just bragging.’’ She hissed, head snapping back to Scotland as she prodded him in the side. ‘’Give me your hands-!’’ A grasp, pulling at his gloves. ‘’-You used to get really cold when you were little! Don’t give me that look, Scot-!’’ A scuffle - distracted at the moment, Wales and Scotland scarcely noticed England slowly drifting off to the side. His eyes turned upward to the horizon, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end; The air crackled with a strange energy (Figures could come pouring down the hillsides; Thick rivers of steel and men, this was a perfect spot for an ambush) and England felt something heavy bearing down upon him. ‘’Guys…’’ Whispered a strained voice, his tongue as thick as lead (as thick as blood, pouring into the grass in ropes - from a gash on near the top of his thigh; He couldn’t run as fast now, couldn’t hope to manoeuvre in-time to avoid the axeblow that was coming soon). ‘’I-’’ England’s eyes snapped to the grass in confusion. ‘’I’m not bleeding, am I?’’ 

‘’Eh?’’ Scotland gently pushed Wales’ hands away, peering at England bemusedly. Something ragged lingered in his brother’s expression (torn banners, torn hands - Scotland recognised the sight well, and his jawline tensed in patient anticipation for a snap; Teeth bared, defensive - a dog prepared to bite the hand that fed). ‘’No, no…not at all, Eng.’’ He sighed softly, frowning slightly. ‘’You’re fine, lad.’’ He hummed lightly, clearing his throat sheepishly. ‘’There’s nothing there…’’ A twinkle crept into his eyes, Scotland lifting his chin with a wry smirk on his lips. ‘’You’re not weaselling out of this walk so easily, England.’’ The wind howled across the hill-peaks with a playful roar, tousling hair and tugging at hats with an insistence that made Scotland’s eyes shine. Binoculars swinging from side to side, Scotland shoved his hands into his pockets and raised his chin proudly, marching onwards without much regard for whether his family would be able to keep up. ‘’The view will be worth it all,’’ He boasted. ‘’Shift your arse.’’ ‘’I’m not trying to-’’ England started furiously, trailing off into a soft growl. ‘’Fuck off, I walk plenty.’’ No-longer did the wind howl ill, but tugged at his scarf and hat with a playful insistence. It sang of levity, a weight risen from England’s weary shoulders as he stomped after Scotland, snarling that he’d reach the top of the crest (and from high up, there was a good vantage-point; They would not be ambushed; They would not be swallowed up by the very Earth itself). He scowled quietly to himself, huffing and puffing and scoffing that he was perfectly fine with the pace he was managing and that the view couldn’t really be all that grand, the way Scotland was going on and on about it. ‘’You’ve dragged us all the way out here, in the middle of bumfuck no-’’ 

A sudden pang of dread swallowed his tongue. England swallowed anxiously. They were alone. 

Quietly, Wales padded after him - a shadow at his shoulder, England casting an anxious glance towards her (as if begging her to keep quiet, a phone conversation that she wasn’t meant to hear in the first place; A secret that England thought embarrassing, shameful). ‘’You’ll be fine,’’ She breathed softly, patting him on the back lightly, a rare gesture from England’s childhood - back when the trees used to sprawl across the sky. Before she had tasted steel across her throat. Before she watched England, as she lay dying beneath the trees that sprawled across the sky. ‘’As you say, you’ve walked plenty of times.’’ A conspiratorial smile crept across her lips, across her cheeks as Wales crossed her arms behind her back with a playful hum. ‘’From your armchair to the kitchen.’’ Scotland let out a bark of laughter, as the three of them reached the hill’s summit. Around them, sprawled the scenery - and just as England was winding up a sharp comment of his own, he lifted his binoculars to his eyes. ‘’Guys, belt it-!’’ A silhouette glided effortlessly across the sky, wings cutting a stark shadow against the white clouds. ‘’-It’s an eagle.’’ A rare sight, Scotland couldn’t help feeling mesmerised by it - breathing in slowly and deeply, as if he couldn’t quite appreciate it enough. England’s sharp voice (indignant, defensive; A bristling thing, like a brambleberry bush - anger flashing like shiny berries in the autumn sun) faded away, petering into an equal appreciative silence. ‘’Doesn’t it look majestic?’’ Scotland sighed, feeling warm. Wales stood beside her brother, looking up towards the sky - eyes squinting in the sun. ‘’It is.’’

Slowly - sulkily, glaring at Wales’ back as she joined Scotland - England joined the two of them at last. He looked slowly around, eyes panning over the vast horizon. It sprawled out before him in a patchwork quilt of fields and forests and rolling hills, jagged mountains rising up in the distance; England was not a man who appreciated nature - or at least, he wasn’t before. There were no enemies hiding on the hills, silvery swords rallying in the howling wind, and England exhaled slowly and lengthily. ‘’I suppose it’s alright.’’ He grunted softly, crossing his arms across his chest as he tried to suppress a chill that crept through him (only the cold this time, only the cold). England leaned back towards the open sky, trembling as he slowly closed his eyes against the warmth of the wintry sun. ‘’...Peaceful out there. No trouble, yeah?’’ England mumbled, as if trying to convince himself that there was nothing out there, not anymore. Just him, and his siblings surrounded by miles, upon miles of hills - and they were all getting along.

Just like the old times.

[dandelion-bride]

Sorrel for durgetash? 👉👈

From this ask list (I like, I want more prompts.)

========

The Son of Bhaal is halfway through his first and only glass, but ah, it is a strong one tonight. Enver picked it himself from the walls of a devil's throne room, an unnecessary but fruitful side path on their expedition. Visiting the House of Hope was a proof of concept; the real prize, the Banite insists, was in Mephistopheles' vaults.

Leave it to the son of a cobbler to find a set of armor and steal only the boots from it. A small, spiteful cut. The first of a thousand that Dirge will one day visit on the Cambion, he thinks. Revenge for his mentor as well as a exotic offering to his Father.

The younger man reaches for the bottle, curious of the details of what his ally has poured him.

"Exeltis Ice Wine," Enver pronounces. He is closer, and he pushes the bottle towards open hands. There is dust on the shoulders of the bottle, and the Banite's lip curls in amusement. "I see he's lacking good help."

"We'll kill him after," Dirge assures him. He reaches out to lead the bottle towards him. Their fingers touch briefly, curved around unyielding glass. Warm, and soft, and only for a moment - only an accident. If only the butterflies in the killer's stomach understood the same.

After they take the Crown, the bhaalspawn promises himself. He's almost sure. Enver doesn't pull back, even when they brush against each other without meaning to. His ally trusts him, and he will trust his ally with the truth, then.

========

Water makes the walls creak.

"You told me I should build this," Enver says, stepping along the edge of the room. His hand touches the bulwark at times, as if his sensitive fingers can perceive any flaw or failure in the steel holding the Chionthar's depths from consuming them.

Fennec looks up from the sharpening stone. "Did I tell you why?" He thinks he would have.

"To spite the failure in your ranks?" The shine of pale light on teeth gives those butterflies a shake. "Oh yes. 'Sarevok be damned, make something glorious out of his ruins,' were your words."

It pleases Fennec. He glances down at his work again. The blade has been polished to a shine, the edge thin and sharp enough to cut off a finger before feeling a hint of pain.

"You did," he acknowledges. He stands, and closes the gap. He offers the cruelly shaped instrument's handle to his betrothed. "Keep doing it."

Enver takes the blade, and his thumb presses against the back of Fennec's hand. There is no flutter in his belly, but a warm sensation that melts up his arm and into his heart.

He has been, Fennec admits silently with a smile. From the ruins of their plans, something glorious rises. And this time, nothing - not once-Father, not jealous sister, not any God or Devil in the Realms - will stop them.

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"When you are powerless / To sand-bag this Atlantic bulwark, faced / By the earth-shaker, green, unwearied, chaste / In his steel scales: ask for no Orphean lute / To pluck life back. The guns of the steeled fleet / Recoil and then repeat / The hoarse salute."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[blackjackkent]

Well. Hector feels fucking awful now, but you know what will make him feel better? Beating the hell out of the area boss.

"Wait. Elevated gyroscopes. Triple-set quadropecs. No... it can't be..."

Karlach got this conversation because it was an autotrigger as we got close to the door; normally this annoys me a smidge but it kind of makes sense here since Hector is still super rattled by the events of the previous post.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I hear it through the floor. Powerful. Indestructible. The ultimate Watcher - the Titan."

"The Watcher tightens what? Whatever it be, Minsc will knock it loose!"

I love Minsc. XD

"It shames me to admit this, but you must face this beast of Gondian folly alone. I would be crushed in an instant. When it raises its shields, strike it with every scrap of magic and might you possess... and pray to Gond that it does not fire upon you. Good luck, my friend."

...uh oh.

-----

There are three things in the next room, all labeled "Hellfire Watcher." I'm not sure if these are what Toobin was talking about.

The room is also lined with a great deal of the same pulsating flesh material that marked the oubliette at Moonrise.

In the back of the room is a large steel sphere that I suspect is our target, as its lined with both mechanical cabling and fleshy nerve lines, and is connected to something labeled "Neural Switchboard". I'm guessing this is the control mechanism for all of the Watchers in the city.

Quite scared of this fight but there's no way out but through. XD

Aaaaaand as soon as the fight started, the platform in the center of the area lifted up and revealed...

Selune's moonlit ass, THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE HP? Fuck me, you know what, I give up, let the Absolute have me.

Kidding, of course. (Mostly.)

Combat log number whatever the hell:

My opening strategy was the brute force that Team Juggernaut is very good at, and our team are such forces of nature at this point that we got the titan below half health before it was able to get a shot off.

I also opened with putting having Jaheira toss both Freedom of Movement and Shield of Faith on Hector before going owlbear, since the most scary thing about the Watchers is not actually their damage but their crowd control and Hector is the squishiest of the group.

At this point the fight's Exciting Gimmicks kicked in:

OK, that all seems... fine. O.O;

Investigating the various status effects, we learn that Hellfire Curse has given everyone disadvantage on STR/DEX/CON saves, and Defensive Protocol: Bulwark makes the Titan "Unyielding" (ignores attacks under 15 damage) and gives it access to "Repair Matrix" (a self-heal), "Repelling Protocol" (a damaging knockback), and "Hellfire Missiles", which it just used, which is an AOE attack that does...

...ahem...

96-576 DAMAGE.

OK, let's get everyone out of that fucking red circle RIGHT NOW. The bright side here is that while bulwarked it doesn't seem to take opportunity attacks, meaning we can all scatter like the terrified rabbits that we are.

I had Jaheira summon a dryad to get some more bodies on the field and it was IMMEDIATELY, like literally instantly, completely obliterated by one of the Hellfire Watchers. So that's a fourth level spell slot wasted.

Interestingly, the hellfire missiles never actually went off; I had Hector do a full round of attacks on it with the intention of booking it after he was out of actions/bonus actions - but it just stopped and came out of Bulwark during his last hit. I'm actually not at all clear what happened here, even looking at the combat log; it seems like Hector might have staggered it, but also maybe it just dropped it after taking a certain amount of damage? Unclear.

Regardless, it meant that Minsc was able to finish it off before it could make another attack! Jaheira (whose background is Soldier! I hadn't realized!) got an inspiration for this:

This is hardly the first one we've destroyed so I'm not sure why she only got this now. :P

It didn't explode when it died, either, which was a nice change.

It's carrying, for some reason, a legendary level bow which looks dope as shit:

That's actually fucking wild. This one goes to Jaheira.

The fight unfortunately did not stop being scary at this point because there were still three Steel Watchers on the field. But we're starting to get fairly practiced at dealing with them and are also bolstered by the fact that these are probably the last ones we'll have to fight, thank the gods. Tossed Jaheira into owlbear form and let her smack the shit out of one of them which was very satisfying.

In the end, I managed to time it out so all three were in detonation phase at the same time and went off one right after the other. Let's fucking goooooooo!