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inevitablerecursion · 3 years

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Earthworms to Freedom

I always enjoy running and walking after it rains, especially early in the morning. Those treks are prolonged by me moving every snail and earthworm off the paths. Some, I know, will venture right back out onto the cement after being moved. Some are likely frustrated at being returned to the origin that they are venturing from. And there are so many others that I will never encounter in the city that will be eaten by birds, crushed under foot, or bike treads, or dry out in the sun. But I still take the time. Not because I have any chance or hope to assist all of the worms, or that my actions in any cosmic sense matter, I actively kill billions upon billions of other organisms on a daily basis in the name of hygiene when I brush my teeth and shower each morning. I just like the concept of worms. I like what they do for the environment. And with almost no effort, I can show that individual worm on that individual path a moment of gratitude that we are in this planet, in this life dance together.

I think this intros into a bigger element of my philosophical outlook - complexity preservation. Moving an earthworm to the side of the road is a selfish act, or at least a self-centered one, in a way. I enjoy systems that have evolved over billions of years, complex food webs, amazing biogeochemical cycles, and enzymatic pathways that make the best engineers weep for their efficiency and accuracy. Those are complex because they have had time to develop, have had many pressures exerted on them, and intricate systems survived. I appreciate the complexity, but there is no universal imperative, no greybeard in the sky, no grand design to any of this. It just is. Nothing in the universe except a thinking blob of goo like me would even care that the earthworm is gone. Caring even of itself is just a electrochemical manifestation of a neurobiological response selected into humans likely to engender social ties and more efficient hunting/gathering tendencies (gets to the economy of scales).

At the core, on this evening, what I guess the summation is that nothing truly matters to the universe. But not in a nihilistic way. The universe is the universe, the closest approximation to God that religions tried to describe. But that is always when we are trying to get external justification. We need to throw that right out. Our soft machines interpret the universe, so we must grasp that prism. Approaching the individual, everything gravely matters, everyone has a viewpoint. So we bounce towards existentialism. But at the heart of that, there is the lie of universal freedom.

This position of universal freedom, at least in the traditional sense of free agency/will or what have you, must be scrapped because from the viewpoint of the universe, there is no such thing. Everything is calculated, response-stimuli, bouncing about. But from that individual agent, there is. Only by having an observer within the system does freedom from absolute knowledge exist. The system is the system, but there is no way for the system, or anything in the system, to know the totality. There is no such thing as universal freedom, but there is universal uncertainty, thank you Heisenberg, which means we are free from ever having the burden of knowing. You can never know the precise momentum and position simultaneously. This does not imply that an object does not have a precise momentum and position, it does. It is just unknowable, which is freedom for the individual agent. Although all the equations are running and dictating the universe, we will never comprehend reality fully and bias it when we try to. Therefore, this central freedom, the freedom from knowing, the freedom on uncertainty, reconstructs a different freedom, the freedom OF agency. Because there is a bind, to know the system is to be the system but the system cannot self evaluate (it simply is a sum, a set), so the system has no agency. Therefore, to be an agent means to relinquish the definition of the sum, and become an agent, a member of the set.

But what does this get you? Why bother picking up an earthworm? Everything is pre-determined anyway and there is no ghost judge in the sky or a scoreboard to keep track of those naughty and nice! So i should get mine, and enjoy the pleasures of this flesh vessel. Go head on into egoism or epicureanism or hedonism! This was a logical bind and uncomfortable spot for me for a decade or so. I would get to this point, have the wound up watch, and hear that the gears started to complain and then the whole time piece would fall apart. But this is where complexity and universal agency step in. You don’t have to answer to God or to the universe, but you sure as hell have to answer to who you are. You cannot escape the flesh-machine of humanity (at this stage), and to be human, there are rules, both coded in DNA and coded in social behavior (not necessarily society). (As an aside, this in no-way should be viewed as a constraint on or accusation to any currently experiencing Social repression or a drive for anatomical transition during self-body expression. When DNA produces new expressions of love, compassion, mutual pleasure, these can challenge social constructs, but they drive more complexity into the system. For example, the influence of DNA is not limited to the XY chromosomal arrangement, but also for the chemicals and electrochemical pathways that settle into deciding what is the accurate individual self-body expression or experience within society. One section of the code does not dictate the full expression of the blueprint. By evolving the social constructs, then more of the complexity of the blueprint, and the forms of love, justice, equity, etc., evolve).

So, to be fully human, you have to participate in the conversation of justice, equity, kindness, and love, and work to evolve those concepts. Why? Because humans strive to those, that is who we are. If we were a tree, we would have different objectives, but we are humans. But why not the negative? Why not become the biggest brute? Because if we are all the biggest brute, we would simply die out as a species and then revisit the universal indifference. To satisfy the underpinnings of what the definition of life has, really simply (1) metabolism (2) reproduction and (3) evolution (motility and cell-differentiation can be added to this list, but there are exceptions to those two), our species needs the higher concepts because of how much energy it takes to first raise our young and now to operate with such a high population. And because of how complex we are, reproduction and evolution is not limited to the biological transfer of materials. We have all of our ideas that are passed on. Justice now is not anything like what justice was 200, 2000, or 20000 years ago. Same with kindness. Same with love. I mean, look how much the concept of a telephone has shifted over the past 20 years. Why do we expect these other human experiences to remain the same? You do not love like previous generations loved.

In summary, I pick up earthworms because I like to pick up earthworms. But that like originates from expanding the concept of kindness, stepping along a long tradition of our bound but universally free agency to satisfy the imperatives of both social and biological influences.

Just thinking out loud.

#the hero myth must finally fade away #just be kind #it's that simple #it's that hard

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vanishedangels · 2 years

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My Dinluke Masterlist

Interview with the Sith - Darth Zoon, former Jedi and rebellion hero Luke Skywalker, spends his days at his Emperor's service and struggling to cope with his new Sith's life. His struggle aggravates after capturing Din Djarin, a mysterious Mandalorian who represents the only obstacle between the Galactic Empire and a little force-sensitive creature.

Explicit, Dark Content, Dubious Consent. 7 Chapters. Ao3

Stand by me - Din Djarin, a young introvert Mandalorian, meets the golden boy Luke Skywalker on Naboo the last year of high school. He's about to learn that love's not easy when you are not willing to embrace your feelings. Or 5 times Din comforts Luke after a break up, and 1 time Din shows him that he's a keeper.

Explicit, Slow Burn, Angst, 5+1 Things. 6 Chapters. Ao3

The Red Thread of Fate - Luke Skywalker, Prince of Tatooine, helps Prince Din Djarin of Mandalore to kill the Greater Krayt Dragon and escape the labyrinth in exchange for a ride to Yavin 4 in order to reunite with his sweetheart. But a red thread will lead him to his true love. Loosely based on The Myth of Ariadne and Theseus and Ariadne's Story.

Mature, Fluff, Soulmate AU. 4 Chapters. Ao3

Clan of Warriors - While rebuilding Mandalore, Mand'alor Din Djarin is questioned by his people because of his beliefs and origins. In the dawn of a civil war, the council resolves that The Mand'alor must join in marriage with someone close to Bo-Katan Kryze. He's forced to marry Koska Reeves and accept a loveless union. In the meantime, Din is having a secret relationship with his son's Master, Jedi Luke Skywalker, his dream of having his own clan of warriors is about to fade away.

Explicit, Canon Compliant, Slow Burn. 39/? Chapters. Ao3

Dressed in black - After leaving Tatooine, Din Djarin searches for Luke Skywalker convinced that the Jedi Master is waiting for Grogu to return to The Jedi Temple. Eventually, he finds him but something is different, this Jedi has golden eyes.

Explicit. Dark Content. Luke vs His Clone. 9 Chapters.

I think you'll understand - It's 1985, Luke Skywalker is eighteen, the summer is near and he and his classmate, Din Djarin, bond over The Beatles music. Loosely based on Heartstopper season one.

Teen and up audiences. Coming of age. 3 chapters. Ao3

Wonderwall series - Blame it on the storm | Castles on the sand | As the stars are shining - After blowing up the Death Star Nineteen-year-old Luke Skywalker is dealing with his new popularity as he became the target of his squad mates' advances. Tired of that situation he asks Din Djarin, a bounty hunter he has just met, to pretend they're in a relationship.

Mature. Post-A New Hope. Fake dating. 9 chapters. Ao3

Blunda - In a Galaxy where the Jedi are almost forgotten, Din Djarin, a young mandalorian, is currently in his final year at Galactic Republic College. At the beginning of his last semester he meets the enigmatic Luke Skywalker, his best friend's estranged twin brother, and he grows obsessed with him almost immediately. He would do anything to win his heart, even when Luke treats him with utter disdain.

Explicit. Not actually unrequited love. 4/? chapters. Ao3

My Fanfic Masterlist

#dinluke #skydalorian

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evolutionsvoid · 3 years

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There was a time that we feared it, when our little town spent every day wondering when the terror would strike again. It seemed to attack without warning, and no matter how hard we fought or how securely we locked ourselves away, it would always take our lives and limbs. We bought hunters, begged heroes, but none ever succeeded in killing it. It was creature that rivaled the gods, where wounds healed within minutes, and every lopped off part grew back stronger than before. By the time we realized its power and the futility of our actions, it had a dozen heads, each capable of unstoppable death and destruction. At that point, the heroes stopped coming to our aid, and even the mercenaries would turn down our coin. It was a beast that couldn't be killed, so we were forced to suffer for all time. Or so we thought... The day we spotted that wretched slithering thing in the valley, we thought that the gods had finally decided to finish us off. Bad enough we had to live under the cruel fangs of the multi-headed terror, but now another monstrosity was coming to feed on our souls. Weapons were taken up, barricades were erected, but the attack never came. Instead, our watchers spoke of this foul slithering creature heading towards the lair of our destructor. Was this abomination a partner or ally to our foe? Or perhaps it was a beast that sought to claim our town as its own. We did not know, and all we could do was watch. Everyone saw it vanish into the dark cavern, and soon the sound of violence and battle shook the land. The noises were terrifying, and we fled to our homes to cower in fear. But it wasn't long after that the cacophony died down, and the world returned to silence. The battle must have ended, and one side was now dead. We couldn't tell who had won the day, but we knew the answer would soon become apparent. If our original terror won, it would soon make a visit to feed on our livestock and townsfolk. If the other won, no doubt it would come to survey its new domain, and probably grab a bite to eat. So we waited...but that day never came. Much to our surprise and confusion, no monstrosity came to ravage us. Weeks passed by without incident, and yet we all shivered with the thought that this calm would have to end. Weeks turned to months, and at last we gained the courage to see what had happened. A band of reluctant warriors at last delved into the lair of the beast, to see what had become of the terror. People worried that this would only result in death, that it would awaken the monster and shatter the peace we had finally gained. However, we could not rest easy until we knew the answer, so we risked it. It didn't take long to find it, as the warriors discovered that our monstrosity was still alive. The first assumption was that it won its battle with the odd slithering intruder, but this was soon found to be false. The bizarre beast still lived, but it was faring far better than our many-headed destructor. A long tail covered in foul hooks bound our reptilian terror, constricted so tightly that it ate through the skin and left weeping raw wounds. Claws sunk themselves into the hide, and barbed spines ensured the slithering creature would never be dislodged. The many heads that once snapped and spat like vipers sprawled pathetically on the stony floor, their necks and skulls wrapped in hungering tendrils. These horrid appendages burrowed deep into the flesh, siphoning blood and digested meat from its prisoner. The many heads were dull and emaciated, save for a few that looked fresh and whole. The answer to why these few remained healthy became apparent when one tendril released its imprisoned head. This freed viper was sickly and withered, like a dead plant shriveling in the hot sun. It seemed its juices had run dry, and the tendril had nothing more to gain. It was then one of the scissor-like claws lashed out and decapitated the pathetic thing in one snip. The crumbling head rolled free, and the newly made stump on the body boiled with activity. Within seconds, another head burst from the wound, one that was healthy and full. The moment it emerged, the tendril whipped back into place and secured its new prisoner. It seemed the regeneration that made this beast immortal also made it the perfect fountain for a hungering leech. Its abilities kept it alive, but perhaps this was now a curse. The parasite kept it weak and emaciated, unable to fight back or free itself. Yet its powers would never let it fall to the mercy of death, and perhaps the parasite knew how to keep it this way. It now had unlimited food, and it would not let this bounty dry up. With this horrid sight beheld, the warriors fled and left the two beasts to their fate. To this day, no terror has come to our homes, and our town now knows peace. So much time has passed, that the monstrosity that once haunted us feels like a memory, one that is quickly fading. But there are always the time we glance back at that dark cavern, and think about what suffers in there. Do we feel pity for the creature that tortured us for so long? Perhaps, but a part of us thinks more of the beast that imprisons it. Why did it come to our land at such a time? How did it find us? Will there be a day when its feast finally ends? And if so, what will it eat next? ------------------------------------------------------ It has been a good long time since I first introduced this concept, but after all of that I finally made another Anti-Myth Monster. The idea behind this beast, and others of its like, is that these organisms are specialized counters to specific mythical creatures. The more alien and ridiculous looking, the better! As been mentioned before, this fella is meant to parasitize hydras, finding an infinite food supply in a beast that can regenerate at lightning speeds.

#monster #creature #leech #parasite #worm #art #drawing #hydra

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apothecarinomicon · 3 years

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Spring week 4, part 2

We found the guy staggering down the creek. We heard him before we saw him—he was wading through knee-deep water, half hunched over and groaning in pain. As he got closer, I was able to make out that he wasn’t human but crocodilian, and dressed for fishing. His pants had torn away below the knees, and I could make out bright green vines with vermillion buds snaking up his legs. He was bleeding where they burrowed into his hide. He looked up at us with glassy eyes and weakly called for help, reaching out with both hands.

Automatically I moved to support him but Calder held me back. He told me he recognized the vines as marshbloom, a particularly nasty plant native to Blastfire Bog. An opportunistic parasite, it latched onto any skin that came into contact with it and fed on its host, growing until they were entirely overtaken and drained of their minerals. Once the marshbloom had fed all it could, the buds would open and spread their spores to find new hosts.

This guy already looked to have been wandering for a couple of days; we didn’t have much time—probably only about another 24 hours. I told Calder to watch after him and make sure he didn’t wander off. Since Calder didn’t technically have skin, we agreed he might be able to physically restrain the afflicted man as a last resort. Meanwhile, I raced back to the cottage to scour my predecessor’s notes.

I found that her overall knowledge of the bog and its flora were spotty at best, but she did have an entry on the marshbloom. Her notes said that it should be treated like any other virulent parasite, but with extra focus on healing the skin. With the entry wounds closed, she noted, the portions of the plant inside the host’s body would be unable to photosynthesize and would simply die, and the portions outside would lose the necessary minerals and fall away.

With a little more research, I knew what I had to get. I dumped out the remaining breadcrumbs from my pack, had Ailean hop up on my shoulder, and set out for Hero’s Hollow.

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I told the guards at the entrance that I was foraging and expected to be inside for less than an hour. Then I headed in, map in hand, to find some liquid fire.

It’s not quite lava, this substance (lava is molten rock and this is more akin to superheated magic), but it is quite hot. You need special gloves to handle it. It won’t burn you, but it will certainly feel as if it had. It’s great for clearing parasites if you can get it down—like a flash fire fever. I found it fairly easily, flowing right out of the wall (turns out Hero’s Hollow has a lot of natural deposits), and collected it with little issue. It was as I was headed back out, however, that I heard heavy, clanking footsteps sprinting towards me accompanied by a “what ho!”

I turned and looked to find a suit of armor approaching me fast. The visor was flipped up, showing that the helmet was clearly empty. “I, the Baron, challenge you to a duel, brigand!” The voice sounded more like a jester’s than a knight’s—or a baron’s, for that matter. I backed away and tried to tell this Baron that I really didn’t have the time (or the equipment or the skill) for a fight, but as I said so my back bumped up against the wall. The suit of armor ignored what I’d said, unsheathed its sword (the thin kind with a point, rather than the kind with two sharp sides), took on a cartoonish stance, and cried “en garde!”

I stayed very still for a good long while, and so did the armor. Every few seconds it shouted something like “you shan’t best me, scoundrel!” or “your scourge ends here!” Its accent was all rolled ‘r’s and rapidly fluctuating pitch. After about three minutes of this I finally went to try and just walk away, and the suit of armor immediately lunged forward and skewered my thigh.

I cried out, more out of shock than anything. It was a relatively shallow wound (I wrote “skewered” but it was more like “scraped”), but the sudden movement and prick of pain surprised me. The Baron, for its part, seemed delighted. It immediately turned and began to skip away, occasionally clicking its heels in the air and crying “tee-ha! Tee-hee! I, the Baron, have bested thee!” It disappeared around a bend in the corridor, but I could still hear it for a long while after as I bandaged my wound.

What a blighting nuisance. I supposed though, as I limped out of the dungeon, that it could easily have been a lot worse.

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I headed back to Glimmerwood Grove next, to look for wild roses. The hip seeds promote skin health, and I thought they theoretically should be fairly abundant. But, as is my luck, they proved to be frustratingly elusive. I was already pretty annoyed when I ran into Kendre.

Kendre was a satyr, and (as they volunteered immediately upon seeing me) a druid who lived in the forest. Their arms were wiry, the rest of their human torso obscured by what appeared to be a grass-stained burlap sack with arm and neck holes cut out. The fur on their goat legs matched their russet hair. They wore complex jewelry, with earrings and necklaces and adornments to their curled horns all connected by small chains to form one large piece.

I asked how long they’d been living in Glimmerwood and they said just about their entire adult life. They mentioned a shack deep in the heart of the grove where they lived and gardened and kept to themselves. They said they didn’t normally forage this close to town but they were looking for something elusive.

I asked them if they had seen wild roses around and they thought for a moment before saying that roses had been an unusually rare sight this year. They apologized, and offered instead the location of a different plant: the coffee cap. Though unrelated to the bean (it’s actually a mushroom), it does contain about the same amount of caffeine and releases it into the body quicker when consumed. When added to a potion, its only real effect is to sharpen the patient’s senses—not useful for the task at hand. Still, I thanked them and followed their directions to find some—it’s always better to have more and more varied reagents on hand, just in case.

Kendre was the second denizen of Glimmerwood Grove I’d met who seemed to have no connection to the human society in Greenmoor or High Rannoc at large. As I plucked a mushroom and put it in my bag, I wondered if there were any more.

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I didn’t have to wonder for long. After retrieving the coffee cap I headed back towards the path. I took a right that should have led me straight back onto it, but instead I found myself in a beautiful (if dilapidated) courtyard. I must have been caught in some kind of dimensional fold, as I surely would have noticed the high, ornate walls that now surrounded me had they been present before.

The walls themselves were ornate but clearly weathered, dotted with tall thin windows and covered with hanging moss and climbing vines. The floor was made of smooth bricks that must have once been an intense shade of lapis or ultramarine, but that had faded to a (still gorgeous) azure. They were cut and laid in a pattern that was symmetrical but irregular. It took a good bit of staring for me to realize it depicted the phases of the moon, running from right to left across the space’s center. At the corners of the courtyard were raised plant beds that may have once been carefully maintained, but now grew wild. Each had a great tree at the center. Three of them had a least one side that had cracked or buckled, allowing dirt to spill out and their tree’s great roots to spread less impeded. The fourth one, the one in the far left corner, held a smaller tree, mostly obscured by—to my surprise and delight—wild rose bushes!

I began to hurry towards them before the sound of a clearing throat stopped me. I had completely overlooked what was clearly meant to be the courtyard’s central feature: along the far wall was a great, ornate throne. It gleamed golden in the light, its high back intricately molded with dozens of humanoid figures in myriad combinations and contexts—probably recounting the plot of some long-forgotten myth. Seated on the throne, still regal and imposing despite being dwarfed by it, was a man. As I approached him I realized he was much taller than me, or for that matter any human. His skin was extremely pale, his form rake thin, his hair a nearly-white blond. He was dressed in a garb unfamiliar to me, though the dense ornamental fur of his cloak and the rich purple of his tunic and pants communicated his status anyway. He regarded me cooly with orange eyes as I took in the sight. Finally, I noticed his long, pointed ears and it clicked: this prince was an elf.

Belatedly I dropped to one knee and bowed my head. I hoped that was the correct gesture of respect for elven royalty; it had been many years since I took politesse classes in primary school, and I’d never had much use for what I learned from them before.

He chuckled and told me to rise. His voice, though a fairly high tenor, had a commanding sense of depth. He told me it had been far too long since he’d had a visitor, and I should feel welcome to stay as long as I like. I asked for his name, and he raised an eyebrow before telling me I could not have it, but that I could refer to him as His Majesty, the Crown Prince of Sovereign Go’ed-Wigg. I quickly apologized for my careless wording, and told him he could call me ‘F.’ Given the Crown Prince’s care with his own name I figured care of my own was in order. I decided to let it be ambiguous whether this was an initial, a random pseudonymous letter, or if I had chosen “Eff” as a name.

I asked the Crown Prince (as I decided to think of him because that full title was simply too much) if I might have one of his roses, so that I could heal a patient. He thought for a moment then said I could on two conditions: I had to give him a gift in return, and I had to listen to a story. I told him that my patient’s time was limited, but that so long as the story was of a reasonable length (I believe I specified no more than fifteen minutes), and so long as I myself got to choose my gift to him I would be happy to agree to those terms. His expression was unreadable enough that I couldn’t determine whether I’d wiggled my way out of some trick or not, but he conceded my conditions.

As the gift, I gave him the coffee cap I’d just obtained, and explained its uses. He told me he had heard of coffee caps before, but seemed satisfied with the gift anyway. He said with my limitation we wouldn’t have time for the full story, but he’d tell me the first part anyway. I can’t recount the Crown Prince’s exact wording—he spoke for a long time—but I’ll summarize as best I can.

Once (he told me), there were three queens. A queen of spades, who ruled over those things on the earth, a queen of diamonds, who ruled over those things below it, and a queen of clubs, who ruled over those things above. The queen of spades and diamonds neither one had a king, but each had one knight. The queen of clubs had no knight, though she did have a king—but he was perpetually absent.

The realm of the queen of spades was verdant and teeming with life, both plant and animal. The queen of clubs’ domain was bright and open and free, always fresh and always changing. The queen of diamonds, on the other hand, ruled a territory rich with minerals, precious metals, and gems, which all things that lived would eventually join as they decomposed and returned to their base materials.

The queen of diamonds, though, was uncaring of these gifts. She surveyed her realm and saw rot, slimy worms and scuttling insects, and tons and tons of dirt piled so much upon itself that there was barely room for plants or animals at all. She looked over the queendom of spades and the queendom of clubs, and all the light and life and variety and air they had, and she grew jealous. She resolved to take the other queens’ territories for herself.

The queen of diamonds knew that going to war immediately would be foolish. Her two rivals (the queen of spades especially) had dozens of subjects in fighting shape, and she had next to none. So, she worked on expanding her population. She promoted immigration, emphasizing the riches to be found in her domain. With her (previously unmentioned) magical powers, she engineered those denizens she already had over the course of generations into stronger, smarter, better fighters. She was raising an army.

What the queen of diamonds didn’t know was that her knight and the knight of spades were in love. They kept their affair hidden from their respective queens for obvious reasons, but met in secret regularly. Wishing to limit the chance that they might have to meet in battle personally, the knight of diamonds told the knight of spades what the queen was doing.

The knight of spades took this information to his own queen, who thankfully didn’t probe too deeply into how he’d learned it. Instead, she immediately set about raising an army of her own, and passed the information on to the queen of clubs personally.

The queen of clubs, then, faced a rather pressing issue: like the queen of diamonds, she did not have enough subjects in fighting shape to raise an army. Unlike her counterpart, however, she did not have several generations’ notice with which to rectify that weakness—nor did she even have a knight of her own.

So, after obtaining permission from her new ally, she searched far and wide in the domain of the queen of spades to find a champion, one who could inspire their peers to fight their hardest, with the knowledge to select the generals and lieutenants and foot soldiers who would be able to defend her queendom.

And find one she did. The champion was such an effective leader, so adept at rallying people to follow her with true deep-seated conviction for the cause, that she would come to be known as the queen of hearts.

It was at this point that the Crown Prince stopped and gestured to the rose bush. I realized that I’d become so thoroughly engrossed in his story that I’d lost track of time, and I was thankful I’d thought to set a time limit. He sensed this too, and as I went to pluck a rose hip he asked if I was enjoying the story. I asked him in turn where he’d learned it. He said that he was the only one in the world who knew it. I asked if he meant he’d made it up, and he didn’t respond.

Instead, he said I’d have to come back later to hear more of it. I told him I didn’t even know how I’d gotten here in the first place, much less how I’d return, but he insisted that I’d find my way. As I left the courtyard, he turned his attention back to the mushroom I’d given him, turning it over and over in his hands.

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I was just about set to head back to Calder’s stream when I realized something all of a sudden: I couldn’t touch my patient, which meant I wouldn’t be able to force him to swallow the potion—he’d have to do it voluntarily, without spitting it out or spilling any. Liquid fire, one of my major ingredients, was notoriously both very hot and very spicy, making it difficult to stomach. I would need something to cover the taste. I remembered that I had the candy rock back at the cottage, but I was honestly closer to Moonbreaker Mountain. So, I decided to just run over and find some on my own.

I took a path I hadn’t been on before. About halfway up the mountain, I came across Mòrag McKinney, knelt at a shrine. It took her a long time to notice me, but when she did she smiled and bade me sit down next to her. She told me this was a shrine to Cernunnos, the antlered god of nature, hunters, druidry, fertility, and warriors. She said those going on journeys often placed offerings at it hoping for his favor. I asked if she was going on a journey and she said no, she’d just started coming here recently. Something about it called her.

She traced little circles in the dirt with her finger as she told me about Cernunnos, his ability to call animals to him, how wild-growing plants were considered his bounty. I had heard of Cernunnos before, even if I hadn’t studied him closely, but I let her speak. When she was finished, I apologized and told her I was on a deadline. I asked her where I might find the candy rocks. She seemed disappointed to see me go, but directed me a little ways up the path. I hurried off and found a large cluster easily. The rocks (crystals, really) were extremely brittle—I could break off a good-sized chunk with my hand. Once I’d done so, I hurried back to Calder’s river.

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Here is how I made the potion:

First, I crushed the rose hip seeds with my travel mortar and pestle.

Then, I collected some water (Calder was kind enough to let me borrow a bit of his)

Then, I combined it with the seed powder, liquid fire, and candy rock.

Finally, I shook it until it was all combined.

I decided to call the potion Bog’s Bane—a fitting enough name, as it ended up looking like orange mud. My crocodilian patient was staring vaguely off into the distance, so I gave the potion to Calder so he could help get it down. Once he’d finished it, the patient gasped and his eyes unclouded. Already the visible vines crawling up his legs were withering, their yellow buds falling off. I told him he ought to go see Dr. Ardor-Knox in town, and to tell them that he was seriously drained of vitamins and likely anemic. I didn’t know if the doctor had the requisite knowledge of crocodilian physiology to treat him, but I figured sending patients their way might help smooth things over with them. The crocodilian was still a bit out of it but seemed to understand well enough. He paid me for the potion and stumbled off in the direction of Greenmoor.

When he was gone, I turned to Calder to apologize that my work had cut our picnic short. He said to think nothing of it—the man would have stumbled into his creek anyway, so it was good that someone who knew how to treat him was present when he did. Nevertheless, I asked if we could have a do-over soon, and he said he’d like that.

It was far too late by that point for anything further to happen (though if it’s not wishful thinking there was certainly some tension), so I resigned myself to trudging back home. Now that I’ve recounted the day's events, I’m going straight to bed. Here’s hoping that tomorrow isn’t quite so hectic.

⇦●〇●⇨

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girlactionfigure · 3 years

Photo

In "Long Walk to Freedom", Nelson Mandela said:

"No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite."

~~~~~

His tombstone has no name.

He was called "a man of a great many ethics, and very intense about his human rights beliefs, causes he could never put down."

Before his journey, however, he did and said things he would later regret.

He was born in 1943, two days after July 4th.

Growing up in a conservative environment on military bases in Georgia and South Carolina, he admitted he was a "white racist" and a homophobic.

“I spent most of my life putting others down,” he said.

He was part of the crowd shouting, "2 - 4 - 6 - 8, we don't want to integrate."

He said he "idolized the Confederate flag . . . [it was] a symbol of the past and the way things were and they should still be. Not necessarily slavery, but the white of white—the right of white oppression.”

He also subscribed to the myth that “to be gay it meant that I had to wear a woman’s dress, I had to molest little children, and I had to go in bathrooms and watch people.”

“I had a low self-image of myself. So if I could have someone who was lower than I was, the Black American… even . . . Jewish people in general . . . as long as I could put someone else down, then I wasn’t the lowest person on the totem pole. So I spent most of my life putting others down.”

“I’d use the word queer and fag*ot and put gays down,” he admitted.

~~~~~

"He followed his father’s footsteps into the Air Force in 1963 at the age of 19 and served three tours in Vietnam," according to writer David Roza in June 2021's Task and Purpose military news.

Despite the beliefs he grew up with, he became a hero.

He earned a Bronze Star for killing two Viet Cong soldiers attacking his post while he was on sentry duty, according to the Washington Post. He later earned a Purple Heart for being wounded after stepping on a Viet Cong land mine.

At that time, he still was wary of anyone different than him and still believed in the stereotypes he grew up with.

In the military, outside in the world, however, he started questioning his previous beliefs and those stereotypes.

He became friends with a Vietnamese interpreter and learned about other cultures.

He then became friends with a Black colleague.

After getting to know his Black friend, he told himself, “‘he’s different, he’s not like the rest.’ And then I met another Black who was different, not like the rest, and then another one who was different, not like the rest. Until I began to look around and see so many different individuals.”

He also started learning about himself.

"Over time, his bias against homosexuals began to fade, along with his bias against African-Americans, who he found himself serving alongside and taking orders from during his time in the Air Force," wrote Roza.

“One stereotype after another stereotype started to crumble,” he told The New York Times.

Learning about others led him to learn more about himself.

He realized he went to Vietnam to prove he was masculine, he said, but instead he became something more.

He found the courage to be himself.

He said he always knew, but had continued to deny it.

“In September 1975, a stunning issue of TIME magazine hit the newsstands,” according to writer Kay Tobin Lahusen. “On the cover was the photo of a young man wearing his Air Force uniform."

“I am a homosexual” read the title in bold under the airman’s uniformed portrait.

"His name tag said 'Matlovich'."

Leonard Matlovich.

The Peace Page has previously shared stories of Leonard Matlovich, but this story includes some rare insights, including words from Matlovich himself.

~~~~~

When Matlovich appeared in Time, “It marked the first time the young gay movement had made the cover of a major newsweekly,” according to author Randy Shilts in his 1993 book "Conduct Unbecoming", about discrimination against lesbians and gays in the military. “To a movement still struggling for legitimacy, the event was a major turning point.”

“Even the most hardened homophobe had to take pause when he reviewed Matlovich’s record,” Shilts wrote. “Credentials such as a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and twelve years of outstanding service meant something that civilians could barely imagine.”

Matlovich's media appearances had a big effect on America,” according to David Addlestone, a lawyer with the American Civil Liberties Union. "He was a patriotic, conservative middle-class war hero. He destroyed the popular myth of homosexuality."

Matlovich, the LGBTQ rights pioneer, was the first gay service member to purposely out himself to the military to fight their ban on gays, and perhaps the best-known openly gay man in the United States of America in the 1970s next to Harvey Milk.

He was “inspired and guided by gay rights pioneer Frank Kameny, who had been looking for a test court case to challenge the military’s ban on homosexuals," according to Making Gay History.

“He … was the epitome of a perfect soldier, one of those people that stuck his neck out, and he was proud to be the person to challenge that law,” Jeff Dupre, a longtime friend of Matlovich, told NPR in 2015.

He “was the kind of serviceman the air force prided itself on,” according to writer Naveena Kottoor.

When he finally came out, at the age of 30, he was warned that he would be throwing “away 13 years of military service and a pension", according to Addlestone.

When “an Air Force attorney asked him if he would sign a document pledging to ‘never practice homosexuality again’ in exchange for being allowed to remain in the Air Force,” he refused.

He replied that “he couldn't live a lie" any longer.

In October of 1975 - despite his exemplary military record, tours of duty in Vietnam, and high performance evaluations - Leonard Matlovich was ruled unfit for service and discharged, according to Back 2 Stonewall.

“In 1980 he finally won reinstatement, which he declined; the Air Force upgraded him to an honorable discharge,” according to "Gay Alternatives".

~~~~~

“Throughout American history, LGBTQ+ citizens have fought to defend our rights and freedoms -- from the Founding of our nation to the Civil War, from the trenches of two World Wars to Korea and Vietnam, and from Afghanistan to Iraq,” said Secretary of Defense Lloyd J. Austin III in the Opening Remarks at DOD Pride Month Event, June 9, 2021.

“They fought for our country even when our country wouldn’t fight for them . . . Even as some were forced to hide who they were… or to hang up their uniforms.”

~~~~~

Matlovich’s case inspired other enlisted gay and lesbian people to fight for their right to serve, including Navy officer Vernon E. “Copy” Berg, according to Making Gay History.

“Matlovich’s LGBTQ activism did not end with his court case. He lent his voice and influence to several battles against homophobia: Anita Bryant’s anti-gay crusade; California Proposition 6, which sought to ban gay and lesbian teachers from public schools.”

In June 1987, Matlovich was one of 64 demonstrators arrested protesting the White House’s AIDS policies,” according to the Washington Post.

“He also contributed to the founding of Affirmation, an affinity group for LGBTQ Mormons, and forced Northwest Airlines to end its discriminatory policy regarding passengers with AIDS.”

“Matlovich [is also] lovingly memorialized on the AIDS Quilt."

In June 2019, Matlovich was one of the inaugural 50 American “pioneers, trailblazers, and heroes” inducted on the National LGBTQ Wall of Honor within the Stonewall National Monument (SNM) in New York City’s Stonewall Inn, the first U.S. national monument dedicated to LGBTQ rights and history, and the wall’s unveiling was timed to take place during the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall riots.

~~~~~

Matlovich said that his fight was inspired by Dr, Martin Luther King, Jr. whose portrait he had in his home.

"He explicitly gave credit to the black Civil Rights Movement, and Martin Luther King Jr. specifically, for giving him more courage to understand that gays were a minority group and they had not just the right, but the obligation to fight for their own rights," said Michael Bedwell, Matlovich's best friend and estate executor.

Dr. Martin Luther King said, "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere", which his widow Coretta Scott King reminded everyone of, when she spoke out for gay rights.

In an interview with Studs Terkel, Matlovich said, "the debt I owe to Black Americans, and probably the debt that America owes to Black Americans, probably will never be repaid. Because they have shown us that through perseverance and determination, the laws can be changed, and attitudes can be changed.”

It inspired him to be a race relations counselor, easing racial tensions in the service.

"He was brilliant at it," said Bedwell. "At his discharge hearing, one of his supervisors that was African-American testified he was one of best race relations instructors they had."

Some of his strongest supporters were Black.

"Out of the 20-some witnesses that came on my behalf, there were three white witnesses and about 19 Black," Matlovich said. "And it seemed—to me, it was a little shameful to me that, I remember back in my white racist days, that the very individuals who I put down came to my aid when I needed it the most. I guess people can forgive and forget, and people can change . . . You’re never too old to change and to become enlightened and to change."

~~~~~

Matlovich said the most difficult part of his journey was having to tell his parents, especially his father.

“He cried when he first heard about it. It’s, it’s hard to have a child that’s gay in America today because they are so discriminated against.”

But, in the end, he supported his son, saying, “If he can take it. I can.”

The picture attached to this story from Making Gay History is 19-year-old Leonard Matlovich, center, at his Air Force induction, May 1963. At right is his father, Air Force veteran Leonard C. Matlovich. Credit: Courtesy of the Matlovich Family.

~~~~~

“Just to love and be loved, I think is very, very beautiful,” Matlovich said. “And that parents growing up today will give our little children guns, and we are very proud of them when they play Cowboys and Indians and run around. But when they show emotions and, and love. . . people get uptight, and they’re so afraid that their child may, may love. It’s very sad.”

Growing up and realizing he was gay, he said in an interview with the New York Times in 1975:

"I cried. I wept, hoping it would change. I believed absolutely that homosexuality was terrible and degrading."

In the interview with Terkel, he said:

“Jesus said that you shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free. And I believe that truth is who you are and what you are. And once you know those things, you are set free. And once you can accept who you are and what you are, then you can love others. You can’t love others until you love yourself, and as long as you hate yourself you’re gonna hate others.”

In his last public speech before he died, Matlovich tearfully said, “I want you to look at the flag, our rainbow flag, and I want you to look at it with pride in your heart, because we too have a dream. And what is our dream? Ours is more than an American dream. It's a universal dream. Because in South Africa, we're black and white, and in Northern Ireland, we're Protestant and Catholic, and in Israel we're Jew and Muslim. And our mission is to reach out and teach people to love, and not to hate. "

~~~~~

Matlovich said, “I knew, for example, that when Americans went to the Vietnam Memorial to remember and honor those who gave their lives fighting that horrible war, it never occurred to them that some of those who were the strongest, bravest and most heroic were also gay.”

He was buried with full military honors at the Congressional Cemetery in Washington, D.C. The inscription on his tombstone, which he wrote himself and is meant to be a memorial to all gay veterans, has no name.

It simply reads:

"A Gay Vietnam Veteran"

and the words . . .

"When I was in the military, they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one."

~~~~~

“It’s a crazy mixed up world we live in," he said, "when we’re rewarded for killing and hating, and punished for loving."

~ jsr

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

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cordoniantrash · 4 years

Text

the seas within me

Hello one and all! There’s my day 4 submission for the Choices 12 Days of Fictmas (It’s my 2nd year doing this! Can you believe?!) . Huge thanks to @leelee10898 and @emichelle for hosting this year and to @grenadineandsunshine for betaing this one (along with all my works here tbh)!

Title from Notos by The Oh Hellos. Here’s some angst I guess?

Book: Distant Shores

Pairings: Oliver x f!MC

Rating: G

Warning: none

Words: 2770

It was snowing when they arrived. The rising sun at their back had splashed colour on the white piles of freshly fallen snow at their feet while the distant sea breeze froze them in place. Claire felt something tug at her heart. There was something about this place, an almost indescribable tingle, a feeling of a feeling, which reminded her of him. She felt like she could close her eyes and find him there. It was absurd. They haven’t even had the chance to spend a winter together. All her memories of him, of them, are tethered to the waves, the ever present salt in the air and the unrelenting heat of the sun. So why can she almost hear his voice in this cold, snow-covered place?

“Huh. Expected something fancier.”

Claire felt the corners of her lips turn into a frown. It was becoming a steady companion in this hare-brained scheme. Her frown deepened when that indistinct tugging faded at the sound of his voice. It took some effort to unclench her jaw and her fist. To bite back the venom in her retort. It wouldn’t do to annoy him out of helping me. And so, stealing herself, Claire took a deep breath and repeated the mantra that began the moment she agreed to this plan.

Just until I get back.

Just until I find them again.

Find him again.

“What time’s that tour supposed to start again?” she asked instead. Robert, ignoring the too long stretch of silence between them, stepped into her line of sight. Claire carefully wiped her face clean of emotion. Uneasy allies they might be, but she’ll be damned if she let him glimpse a crack, however small. Being betrayed once was enough for her.

If only the compass worked like last time! Suppressing a sigh, she turned back to the estate. She’d been optimistic when they reached out to touch the compass. After all, all it took for her to travel that first time was a simple touch. The devastation when nothing happened nearly sent her to her knees in the middle of the museum. It was only a slight consolation to find out that Robert had expected the same thing.

A breeze ruffled past them, the air fresh and bitingly cold. Claire rubbed her numb nose, her frown forgotten. At the corner of her eye, she saw Robert trying to hide his shivering. Claire suppressed a smirk.

Silence once again stretched between them. A bus full of students pulled up near their rented car. Claire couldn’t help but smile at the little faces peering from the windows, all of them bundled up despite the light snow. The adults with them did not seem to mind the cold as much. Tightening her hold on her hand warmer, Claire tried not to feel jealous.

Maybe we got used to the Caribbean. Too used. Man, I really want to go back.

“Well,” Robert sighed as a staff member opened the door of the estate. “Here’s to hoping, I guess.”

“D’you think this’ll work?”

Robert glanced at her. Claire took it as her queue to walk.

“His family had the compass before some descendant of his thought it’ll be a good idea to donate it to the museum. If there’s anything that can explain why it’s not working now, it’s probably here.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Robert paused, letting the last of the children run past them. “All those records of you as a captain must mean we got back.”

Claire frowned, “And what about you?”

Robert’s profile seemed to blend with the snow clouds ahead.

“That’s what we’re here to figure out, isn’t it?”

Vice-Admiral Sir Oliver Francis Cochrane KCB (born c. 1722-24, Durham, England—died unknown) was an English naval officer most known for his short but successful maritime career where he had earned the moniker of “The Pirate Hunter” and his much speculated and scandalous personal life. Decades after his last known sighting, he had become a well-recognized literary romantic icon.

Despite his early moniker of “The Pirate Hunter”, Cochrane had occasionally worked with pirates, particularly with the crews of Captain Edward Mortimer and the much disputed Captain Claire Velis. Whereas association with pirates is enough grounds of treason, Cochrane retained his position and rose through the ranks of the navy for his work in exposing the crimes and treason of other naval officers, most notably, his own father Francis, often with the help of Mortimer, Velis and their pirate crew.

Excerpt from High Seas and Piracy: A History of English Maritime Advances

The compass was silent.

Claire turned it over, as she had done again and again since she entered her hotel room. Robert had mumbled something about rum and a free bar before awkwardly hightailing out of the lobby. Claire felt too rung out to even think of a quip about pirates and alcohol.

The golden finish of the compass seemed to glow in the dark room, mocking her with the faint possibility of a return. Outside, the Christmas decorations glitter amidst the darkness and the sea breeze.

The tour hadn’t gone exactly as planned. For them, at least.

Not for the first time, doubt crashed and tumbled in her mind. Apparently there was a reason poets after his time found Oliver so fascinating. As someone who knew him, loved him, stayed and fought at his side, whose hands were stained with his blood—

Claire closed the compass with a snap.

Her heart felt heavy, an anchor dragging her down further into despair.

Charlie had made a name for herself, doing what she loves in freedom.

Charlie, who while being wily and nimble, ultimately could not outrun an empire.

Edward, doing more good and ascending into hero hood, depending whose side you ask.

Edward, who despite his strength and loyalty, was betrayed and handed over to the British.

Oliver, the successful navy officer. Loving father of two.

Oliver, who never got to rise to the ranks he deserved, who became a widower, ultimately becoming a figure of tragic romance, his final fate unknown.

All of them were shining brightly.

All of them doused before their time.

If I go back could I change things? Can I lift them up, move them forward? Or will they run aground because of me?

The edges of the compass dug into her hands, forming indents where hands softened by inactivity pressed into the compass’ sides.

Or will I just make things worse?

To return would mean chaos, but to stay where she was supposed to belong felt hollow.

Should she even go? Either way, it will turn her world inside out. She’d cause them all grief one way or another, the family she had in this present and the family she found back in time.

The tour guide’s words echoed in her mind:

“He left England a hero and an eligible bachelor to boot. Almost a decade later he returned a father of two small foreign looking children and claimed himself a widower. His ever loyal crew refused to shed light on what happened during those years at sea.”

Claire blinked. Tasting salt on her lips, she hastily wiped away the tears that splashed onto the compass.

Outside, the fairy lights continued to twinkle. Their rhythmic pulsing at odds with the raging sea within her.

What happened after I left?

Oliver Cochrane was a creature of contradiction. Of chaos, one might even say. On one side, he was an exceptional officer, a step away from becoming an Admiral before he mysteriously disappeared. On the other side, he was an excellent example of British hypocrisy.

Throughout his career, Cochrane toed the line between audacity and treason.

He had exposed numerous corrupt navy officials, while he also worked with pirates. What’s more, he had a rather well-known love affair with a pirate captain.

Records at that time proclaimed the affair short-lived, painting Captain Claire Velis in a rather unflattering light but contemporary evidence now opposes that idea and posits that the identity of his deceased wife (whom historians have precious few documents about) was none other than Captain Velis herself. Common consensus among society (and among historians) was that the mysterious mother of Cochrane’s children was the pirate captain herself. Further cementing Cochrane’s strange status in both 18th century Britain and in history.

This personal life aside, his apparent friendships with Captain Edward Mortemer and Captain Charlotte “Charlie” Smith was so prominent that one of the most salient theories to ultimate fate after his disappearance was that he himself became a pirate when he last left England’s shores, a contradiction to one so hailed for his honour and morals.

Excerpt from Cochrane: Behind the Myth

***

“Oh, hello dear.”

Claire turned and almost collided with a smaller figure. The tour guide from yesterday was standing in front of her. A glance at the pin on her blazer identified the older woman as Tina. In smaller letters under the name was the word CURATOR. Claire hastily stepped back.

The curator smiled.

“Aren’t you one of the people on the tour yesterday? The names Tina,” she said as she offered her hand. Claire found herself smiling as they shook hands.

“Uh, Claire Velis. Nice to meet you,” as soon as the words left her mouth, Claire felt herself freeze. Damn it! The hell was I thinking!

Tina’s eyes seemed to sparkle, “Claire Velis, you say? My, what a coincidence!”

Claire blushed.

“My parents were fans,” she mumbled.

“I’ll say!”

“Uh… yeah.”

“You must have loved the mention of your namesake then?”

Claire arranged her face into a smile.

“Right. Yeah. It was very interesting.”

“You know, I’ve always wanted to meet Captain Claire,” at Claire’s wide eyes, Tina let out a tinkling laugh. “Of course, I never thought it’ll be a namesake, but here we are. In fact, you look quite a lot like her drawings.”

Claire swallowed, “Is that so?”

Tina nodded, “Oh, would you like a cuppa? I noticed you were very interested in the tour yesterday. Besides, it’s almost the holidays,” she leaned in, smile growing. “We’ll have some tea and some mince pies as well! What do you say?”

“Oh! I wouldn’t want to impose –“

“Oh, pish posh! It’s no imposition at all, dear. It isn’t often we get tourists here, you know what I mean? Usually it’s always field trips and the like. Sometimes academics, if we’re lucky. Besides, tea is just the thing when it’s this cold out. ”

Claire followed the curator inside the building, bewilderment and relief making her mind buzz.

As they passed by an open doorway, Claire felt something tug at her.

A familiar tug.

Claire stopped in her tracks.

The room looked similar to the public exhibitions, with glass boxes in pedestals displaying some artefact or another. The feeling, however, was leagues away from the public rooms.

It was tugging me here.

“Oh, what a lucky find!”

Claire jumped. Tina smiled as she leaned toward the doorway.

“It’s a special display, see? We’re going to show it to the public soon.”

“W-what’s in this one?”

Tina glanced at her, eyes twinkling again. “It’s a collection of Oliver Cochrane’s personal effects. Or what’s left of them. Would you like a peak?”

“I—are you sure?”

“Of course, dear,” Tina’s eyes seemed to droop. “Captain Claire may not have had the chance to see it. At least a namesake can. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Throat suddenly dry, Claire offered a nod.

“Let’s go then!” Tina exclaimed as she entered the room.

Claire stepped forward.

The world seemed to blink.

“Claire? You alright? Hang on, I’ll call the nurse –“

“Wha—no, no, please. It’s fine.”

Tina’s eyebrows furrowed. Claire straightened, pointedly ignoring the twinge in her temples. The headache had taken her by surprise.

So different from the first time I travelled.

“—here, just sit down here for a moment.”

“I’m really fine—“

“Of course,” Tina smoothly interjected. The curator seemed to regain some composure. “But better safe than sorry, yes? I’ll get the nurse, dear. Be back in a jiffy.”

Claire sighed as Tina left the room, exchanging a couple of words with the security guard before waving back at Claire and rounding a corner.

Claire shook her head and looked around the room.

She froze.

There was a necklace inside the display in front of her (not the one she was currently wearing. The one that belonged to her grandmother). No, this necklace was obviously old and weathered besides. The shine of the silver peeking behind dark spots. The label under it calls it a Cochrane family heirloom.

And it was the same exact copy of the one hanging on her neck.

Except she wasn’t wearing this necklace when she travelled for the first time.

Outside, the waves crashed and crested. The snow kept falling.

Going forward will mean turbulent waters and uncertain winds.

But a ship cannot sail in becalmed waters.

Inside her, hope surged.

1752

“Will that work?”

“Well, we haven’t been twiddling our thumbs while you were off smooching with high society.”

“Charlie.” One word contained an entire conversation’s worth of chastisement. Charlie shrugged but fell silent.

Edward sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. But it seemed like the compass is lacking a catalyst of some sort.”

“A spark if you will.”

“That’s not a guarantee.”

“No. We’re groping in the dark here. But there has to be something that can work on this side.”

Oliver sighed. “I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

Charlie smiled, “That’s the spirit. We’ll get her back here yet.”

Oliver’s lips curled into a shadow of a smile.

The compass was humming.

Claire and Robert stand amidst a partially shattered exhibition room. Security alarms had just started blaring while some artifacts seemed to pulse with light. Beside her, Robert looked tense. But Claire felt calm. There seemed to be some form of energy in the room for the compass to actually come to life.

“Well. Here we are. Just in time for Christmas too.”

“Yeah. Whodathunk?”

“Certainly not me, Velis.” A particularly loud alarm blared. They both winced. “You ready?”

Claire took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

“… do it then.”

There was a flash of white light.

A moment later, the doors burst open. The staff looked around in shock and bewilderment. The room was in chaos, that much was clear.

But there was no one inside.

When I was younger, I used to pretend my mother was a mermaid. My older brother had indulged my fantasies and our imaginary mermaid mother would become a fixture in my make believe plays. On the days, months and years that bordered the beginnings of our fleeting visits and even shorter holidays, I, an imaginative child prone to wild fancies, would sometimes believe my own story.

Before I understood what really was going on, I used to ask Father of her fate. He would humour me, a twinkle in his eye as he told me she was lost at sea, a romantic fate that contrasts with the pitying looks thrown our way when Father wasn’t looking.

Perhaps it was one of his favourite sayings that stuck this particular fancy within me. After all, he always told Eddie and me that the sea was in our blood. My older brother, ever the man of reason, took that quite literally and followed in our Father’s footsteps, becoming a sailor as soon as he could. Experiencing adventures that our parents surely had. Whereas I was content enough to experience adventure through the page, whether through my brother’s letters or my own pen.

But sometimes, when I look out to the sea, I can’t help but wonder if there was any truth to my childhood fancies. But that probably is just sentiment talking. Father had always remarked that my stories should set foot on a stage of some kind, something that Aunt Adelia and Uncle Axton would heartily agree with.

Over the years, I had often wondered at the irony of a navy officer’s daughter having pirates as aunts and uncles. An unforeseen consequence of being the Pirate Queen’s progeny, I’d imagine.

Perhaps Mother was a mermaid masquerading as a pirate. Or perhaps it’s the other way around.

All I know is that being lost at sea, for all its romance, does not quite fit my parent’s fate.

I hope—no. I know—they must have found each other.

The sea is in our blood, after all.

- Excerpt from the diary of Marcelline Somerset née Cochrane, Viscountess of Ashbourne

A/N: This surprisingly had a lot of number wrangling that didn’t make the text (rip my last braincell - don’t get me started on the research and the excepts). Also had a bit of a crossover with The Unexpected Heiress (haven’t played it yet). Anyways, lemme know what you guys think!

My Taglist: @grenadineandsunshine @captain-kingliamsqueen @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @gardeningourmet @lilaccatholic @kingliam2019 @killianoconnells @teenytinytanya08 @mirandatwodots @princesskennarys @princess-geek @loveellamae-blog @dcbbw @los-cafeteros @whovianwriter @vaticanwaltz @typicalweirdbookworm @wildchildchey @mkatschoicesblog @flutistbyday2020 @cmestrella, @lovablegranny @maxi-ride

Contributors: @texaskitten30 @leelee10898 @emichelle @zaffrenotes @alj4890 @burnsoslow @kat-tia801 @darley1101 @msjr0119 @annekebbphotography @god-save-the-keen @plumeriavibes @ofpixelsandscribbles @camillemontespan @ao719 @cocomaxley @cordoniansgonewild @twinkleallnight @the-soot-sprite @axwalker @innerpostmentality @lucy-268 @janezillow @katedrakeohd

Readers: @mom2000aggie @sfb123 @bbrandy2002 @debramcg1106 @desireepow-1986 @speedyoperarascalparty @hopefulmoonobject

#choices 12 days of fictmas #12 days of fictmas 2020 #emgee tries to write #Distant Shores #choices distant shores #choices ds #oliver cochrane #oliver x mc #playchoices #choices: stories you play

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etlunainmorte · 4 years

Text

DMC MECHA VERSE: Part 2

( Because, yes! ❤❤❤😍😍😍 )

This is my Christmas gift to my dear friend, @dreaming-gamer . And the part 2 of my DMC Mecha Opera, err,... Alternate Universe! I hope you like this as much as I enjoyed writing this!😍😍😍❤❤❤

***

Previously,...

Without strength, you can't protect anything!

Nero took Credo out to visit Dante, the best Mecha Pilot Rubrum has ever seen, to prove to him that he’s worthy to be accepted as a student in the planet's most prestigious Mecha school, The Tyger University. But, on his way towards the legendary Pilot's residence, he saw a group of unknown Mecha chasing after the man, himself! And behind the Red Justice Rebellion's back was a mysterious metal case - containing Tigris Dominus' most lethal of all lethal secrets!

If you truly are righteous, you should not be running away from these men! You should face them as a man of justice should!

At first, our hero doubted Dante's intentions. Why was he running away? Why were these men chasing him? What,... was he hiding?!

Luckily for Dante, Nero listened to his heart and chose to protect him. He fought with Nico's underdeveloped Mecha, Credo, but ended up failing when he activated the not – so perfected laser beam!

All seemed lost, Nero and Dante were going to die!

I'm taking my,... time!

That was, until the mysterious thing that was concealed inside the metal case behind Rebellion's back showed itself. It was a man,... WHO TRANSFORMED INTO A MECHA!

A human,... who can turn into a machine?! What an unbelievable sight! And what a powerful being it was! With a single laser beam attack, he annihilated the enemies!

What is Dante's connection to this mysterious man? Why is he running away with him like a convicted man?

And most importantly, what would happen to Nero now that he is involved with the most destructive secret in the face of planet Rubrum?!

***

"Are you sure we would be safe here?" The Legendary Mecha Pilot, Dante, asked for the fourth time that evening as Nero led him, and the mysterious dark - haired man, who transformed into that powerful, mystical Mecha, into Nico's spacious secret facility.

"I told you! We're gonna be safe here. Trust me." And as much as Nero wanted to be more patient towards the Pilot and his strange behaviors, he could not shake off the foreboding feeling that began plaguing his head.

Especially when he gazed at that unconscious man in Dante's arms.

A man,... who could transform into a Mecha. And Dante being pursued by those Pilots who seemed to be working for Mundus, all because the famous Pilot took this man away,...

As soon as the men, and their slightly malfunctioning Mechas, were settled inside the dark facility, Nero made his way towards the corner of the room to look for the light switch. He was so itching to interrogate Dante about all this, and interrogate him, he shall.

"Now, as much as I admire you as the greatest Mecha Pilot in the Universe," The youth began. " ... you must tell me why - "

However, as soon as Nero opened the lights, he was shocked! Beyond surprise!

For, right before them stood Nico, and none other than Nero's mother, Queenie, herself. And what's more, right behind the ladies was a table full of Nero's favorite home cooked meals, and a large poster on the wall that says, "CONGRATULATIONS, ON YOUR PROMOTION, NERO!"

They were supposed to surprise him! And they were speechless! It looked like they were waiting for him to return for hours! But, they didn't only see Nero, they saw Dante, his Rebellion, the steaming Credo, and the unconscious mysterious man, as well!

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOIN' ON HERE?!" Eyes as wide as saucers, Nico questioned, the unused party popper still in her hands.

"Nero, sweetie, are you alright?" Queenie asked worriedly as her eyes bounced from Nero to Dante to the man in his arms, then back to her son.

It took Nero and Dante almost an hour to explain everything that went on earlier that day, how Nero was going to visit Dante, how he found the Rebellion being chased, and how this enigmatic man, now lying on the couch, still unconscious, saved them from certain death.

And by the time Nero finished explaining, Queenie got even more worried, and Nico started fuming even more in sheer anger.

"So, you're saying," Nico began, her voice getting dangerously low that it honestly scared both Nero and Dante. " ... YOU TOOK CREDO OUT,... JUST TO SHOW OFF IN FRONT OF DANTE?!"

"Well, I - " Nero tried to explain but, he was interrupted as Nico's cigar - stained, tattooed finger almost punctured his left shoulder.

"AND YOU'RE SAYING CREDO, MY GRANDMOTHER NELL'S MOST PRIZED CREATION, IS NOW DAMAGED BEYOND REPAIR BECAUSE YOU USED HIS UNDERDEVELOPED LASER BLAST?!"

"It's not what you think - !"

"AND YOU BROKE YOUR PROMISE TO NOT TAKE CREDO OUT! HOW. DARE. YOU! PSYCHO!"

"To be perfectly frank here," Nero thanked the Heaven's that Dante decided to intervene. Ignoring the youth's dagger gazes at him that clearly to ask for rescue, he went on. " ... Credo,... ahh, did I get the name right?"

"Damn straight ye did!" Nico huffed indignantly, crossing her arms and looking down at Dante with such ferocity.

"Ah, yes, Credo." Dante calmly went on, and with a smile and a single wink at Nero, he said, "You see, Credo is not Nell Goldstein's most prized work."

"Huh?" Nico muttered, raising her eyebrows.

And with this, Dante smirked and pointed at the Rebellion behind him with his thumb. "The Red Sword Of Justice, Rebellion. That's one of Nell Goldstein's Mecha masterpieces. You could say, that's made just for me."

"You're kidding." Nico blabbered without a single blink of an eye, unable to believe Dante's words. "H - how is that Nell's work? I thought Mundus and his scientists developed Rebellion?"

Dante sighed. "Well, you don't know a lot of things about Nell and Mundus! They go way back, you know?"

"Yeah, granny used to say that." Nico's walls were finally breached at the famous Pilot's words. And with a growing curiosity and fascination towards the Red Mecha, she now politely asked, "Hey, uhh, can I go s - see the Rebellion?"

"Ehh, sure! Whatever." Dante tiredly answered as he collapsed on the sofa right next to the dark - haired mystery man. Throwing the Rebellion's key at Nico, he added, "You'd even see Nell's original programming in it. One of Mundus' mad scientists tinkered with it and replaced it with one of his. Kinda made to synchronize with the other Mechs. You know? For tracing. But, don't worry! I put it back the way it is just before I threw my own ass out of Tigris. Spent the whole night working on it.”

With a huge smile on her face, and the golden key on her hands, Nico said, running towards the red Mecha, "This is a brand new discovery! I'm gonna take note of all of this!"

"Yeah, yeah." Dante muttered as the smile slowly faded away from his face. Looking at Nero, he asked in a whisper, "She’s really Nell's grandkid?"

Nero nodded. "Yeah, she is."

"Well, kinda hard to say! They don't exactly, ahh, look similar."

"You're not the first one. She gets that a lot."

"Hmm."

Nero sat at the chair opposite Dante, and with such curiosity burning at the back of his mind, he began asking. "Nell and Mundus went their separate ways. You left him. Nell tried to develop machines to match Mundus', you ran away with," Nero's eyes wandered towards the peaceful face of the dark - haired man sleeping on the sofa, then back at the renowned Pilot's eyes. " ... that." Nero ended with the word, unsure how to call the man - creature who saved his skin from danger. "Why are you, guys, plotting against Mundus? I mean, why are you,... hey!"

Nero's eyebrows furrowed when Dante began laughing quite hysterically. And this unnerved the youth, and scared the living hell out of his mother, who remained silent all throughout their conversation.

"Me and Nell? Plotting against Mundus?!" Dante mocked through his fits of uncontrolled laughter. Then, all of a sudden, all traces of amusement vanished from the Pilot's face, to be replaced with something that was truly menacing. "No, we're not plotting against Mundus. Mundus,... is plotting against the whole Universe."

"What?!" Nero was beyond shocked of what he just heard. It's truly unbelievable! "Y - you must be joking! You - "

"Mundus, for all his goody - two shoes farce of a leader, wanted nothing more than to dominate all the planets in existence." Dante began, his voice only being slightly interrupted by Nico's excited remarks on the Rebellion a few feet away from them. "And for that to happen, he wanted this kind of power that would give unlimited energy to his Mechas. He has been searching, for twenty goddamn years, for this source of power.

"And guess what? He found it! Right on a certain far - flung crimson planet on the neighborhood galaxy! The one planet we knew only as a myth! You know Operation Red Grave?"

"Y - yeah." Nero nervously answered, feeling his sweat and blood running colder and colder at the Pilot's relentless revelations. Giving a sad look to his mother right next to him, he said, "My father, who worked for Mundus, went along with that operation. He never returned, we never found out why."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear about that, kid, but, what do you remember about Operation Red Grave?" Dante went on, seemingly becoming more and more impatient.

Racking his brain for answers, Nero set aside his feelings towards the parent who abandoned him and his mother for a while and tried to recall the events that took place twenty years ago. "It's, ahh,... Operation Red Grave was launched by Mundus to repel the Rubrum rebels who fled into this neighbor planet and take into custody the innocent civilians they kidnapped and tried to murder."

"Don't you find it strange? If there are rebels, Mundus would not let them flee into another planet in the first place!"

"So you're saying it's all a farce?"

"Exactly! It's a huge, goddamn cover up! To kidnap the innocent civilians of the mythical crimson planet! And why?" Dante leaned a bit closer towards Nero as his eyes travelled to the man who was lying right next to him. Nero followed the direction of his eyes and realized,... everything.

It doesn't take genius brain cells to figure out what's truly going on.

Nero,... finally realized.

"This man," Nero said, feeling his voice shaking in fear. " ... he lived on that crimson planet, didn't he? Mundus,... is going to use him to power up his Mechas, isn't he?"

"Yes." Dante answered with a nod, his eyes as furious as they can be. "The pain he and his men went through. The torture they endured. It was a horrible, horrible nightmare! Mundus' mad scientists drained his fellowmen of all their power in many ways you would never dream of. They did it for power and still failed.

"And this man. He is the only one left. And he is very strong, as you have witnessed. That power you just saw? That's just the tip of the iceberg! This man tried to help what remained of his fellowmen to escape and nearly annihilated Tigris Dominus all by himself!"

"Wait! Is that," Nero interrupted as the pieces of the puzzle started coming together. " ... last year's Mecha facility malfunction that killed thousands of men? That was caused by this man?! It's another huge cover up?!"

"A FREAKIN' TRIPLE LASER BLAST AT THREE TIMES THE AVERAGE SPEED?!" Nico's voice from inside the Rebellion echoed all over the place all of a sudden. "HOOEE! THAT'S GENIUS MECHA ENGINEERIN' RIGHT THERE!"

"Got that damn straight, kid." Dante confirmed.

"What happened?" Nero asked, starting to feel pity towards this man he never even personally knew.

Dante shook his head with a pained look in his face. "Mundus ordered us to massacre those few remaining captives right before this poor guy's eyes. Sent him into panic mode. Got neutralized even before he got a chance to retaliate. Hold up a second right there. I disobeyed Mundus on the massacre part. That's why I was - "

"Sent to a military probation camp for a month, I know." Nero finished for Dante. "The media pretty much bloated it up, you know?"

"Punished for running away with nobleman Morrison's ward?!" The Pilot added. "That's bullshit! I don't even have the hots for Lady Patty Lowell! If you ask me, I'd rather go out with Lady Mary or Lady Tr - "

"Mundus surely values you as a Pilot." Nero cut him off mid - sentence. "Would have killed you for insubordination right then and there, you know?"

"Sure, he does! He raised us, yeah? We're the most talented men on the face of Rubrum, after all!"

Wait, us? "What do you mean by - ?"

"Anyway, we can't let Mundus get a hold of poetry guy right here. If he does, that marks the start of the apocalypse, as we know it."

"So,... that's," Nero said, slowly nodding in agreement. " ... what you mean before when you said he must not fall into the wrong hands, or something."

Dante held up a finger. "Close enough!" Then, rubbing his hands together, he added, "Do you have pizza right there? I'm starving!"

"I'm not sure about pizza but, yeah, go help yourself." Nero said as he watched the renowned Pilot, now wanted man, waltz towards the table to help himself with some chicken legs that Queenie herself cooked.

And Queenie?

"Hey, mom?" Nero was not surprised to see his mother so upset. After all, who could handle those facts that Dante just revealed and still remain calm?

However, this changed when the youth faced Queenie and convinced her to speak up.

"You okay there, mom?" Nero gently asked, his hand on her frail and bony shoulder.

Queenie faced her son and right then and there, Nero saw the tears in her kind blue eyes. And this broke the youth's heart. "I can't allow you to be involved with this, Nero."

"But, why? We can't just sit by and let Mundus do as he wants! Don't you understand? The whole Universe counts on us!"

"No! I won't let you fight this war! I lost your father, I won't ever lose you!"

That man,... Nero thought. She mentioned that man again. She must be really, really hurt.

"Mom, father left us, plain and simple! He was not fighting any war, nor protecting innocent, mythical beings like - "

"He did!" Everyone, even Nico, who heard Queenie's voice all the way towards Rebellion's cockpit, went silent when she raised her voice. "This,... Operation Red Grave. This mythical crimson planet. This,... abominable creature,… who turns into a deadly machine,...

"Your father,... tried to stop Mundus' plans! He tried to save each and every one of these creatures! All for the sake of mankind and the Universe! He,... single handedly fought Tigris Dominus, and Mundus, all by himself!

"And he was mercilessly killed! All because of Mundus' selfish needs! All because he went ahead and pretended to be the hero! But, the truth is – he was not!”

Nero felt a huge lump blocking his throat the moment he saw Queenie bursting into tears. The room was still silent, and he couldn't do anything else but watch as she quietly wept.

And, above all, he was speechless at what he just found out.

"You,... knew about Mundus' plans? Right from the very start?"

"Y - yes!" Queenie cried. “He,… told me everything,… before he left.”

"And you knew what really happened to dad but, you didn't tell me. Why?"

"You have to understand, Nero! I'm only trying to protect you - "

"Why did you hide all this?!" Nero stood, helpless, feeling his emotions getting the better of him. "I thought dad just left us. I mean, you knew all this time, and you didn't tell me?! Why did you lie to me, mom?! Answer me!”

"Nero, please - !"

"Erm, excuse me." Dante, who was still holding a chicken leg, now bitten on some parts, interrupted, getting between her and Nero and feeling really, really awkward. Facing the mother, he cautiously asked, "Ahh, your sweetheart who got killed by Mundus and his men. What's his name?"

"Vergil." Both mother and son answered.

And to this, the legendary Pilot's eyes widened in shock. Dropping the chicken leg onto the floor, he breathlessly mumbled, "O - oh, s - shit - !"

"What's wrong, Dante?" Nero asked, getting confused and impatient with the older man.

"W - well," Dante began. " ... y - you see, h - he's - "

"Ahh, Dante?" Nico nervously called from the Rebellion. "I see red dots on your monitor getting closer and closer to our location. Is that supposed to mean something important?"

"SHIT! THE TRACER!” Dante cursed. “I WASN’T ABLE TO OVERRIDE THAT PART OF THE CODE! MUNDUS FOUND US!"

The moment those words came out of Dante's lips, all of them heard an awful and deafening noise seemingly made by something mechanical, followed by a huge explosion that wrecked the wall of the once protected facility. The impact almost threw them away but, they were all protected by Credo, who was standing just between the wrecked wall and them.

And now, Nell Goldstein's prototype, The Creed 001, or simply known as Credo, lay in multiple pieces they couldn't even count.

"CREDO!" Nico, who was still inside Rebellion clinging for dear life, wailed. Her cries were followed by a voice that made their blood run cold. It seemed to come from a Mecha's speaker, its volume turned up to maximum.

"I know you're there, Dante, my son." That sinister voice said. It was, indeed, none other than Mundus, himself.

"Still as persistent as ever, are we, dad?!" Dante mocked, emphasizing the word, dad.

"Oh, you know the drill, my son." The voice that seemed to ring all over the place went on. "Surrender the Vitalis now, and none of your friends would be harmed."

"Oh, yeah?" Dante threatened, all the while signaling Nero and the others to carry the still unconscious man away from the place and escape. "And when was the last time you fulfilled a promise, huh?"

"Hahaha! Your foolishness would not get you anywhere, Dante! And it seems that you are still unwilling to accept my mercy even after I’ve done all acts of kindness towards you.”

"Mercy? Kindness?" Dante spout, giving Nero the angry look when he realized that they wouldn't leave without him. "Do you have,... any idea,... how much I've heard that exact same line from you?! You're a liar! And the Vitalis is not going anywhere! You,… WILL NEVER HAVE V!”

Dante's words were followed by a deathly silence that filled the room. And it was followed by a voice so horrific, it frightened the living hell out of them.

"And so be it."

What happened next went by in a blur. Dante angrily shouting at them to take cover, Nero protecting his mother and the said Vitalis with his own body, and Nico ducking inside the Rebellion as multiple laser beams assaulted them with the full intention of killing all of them.

However, the laser blasts didn't even reach their bodies. In fact, the multiple blasts of blinding light stopped suspended in mid air. As if time, itself, stopped. And when Nero looked beneath him, his eyes went wide with shock. He found his mother safe and sound but, the Vitalis was nowhere to be found. The youth looked up and saw the mysterious dark - haired man, himself, now wide awake, standing between him and the laser blasts that could've ended their lives. He seemed to be projecting, with his strangely marked hands, a force field that protected them like a very strong shield.

A few seconds later, Nero heard the Vitalis muttering something under his breath, and the multiple blasts of light slowly started moving towards them once more. At the blink of an eye, the blasts of light sped up towards them at their normal pace once more, and the Vitalis countered this by making another gesture that projected a seemingly electrical kind of force field that enveloped them like a pair of bright blue wings. The blasts of light flew towards the shield of wings and got instantly annihilated as they made contact with it.

"What,... the hell - ?" Dante muttered as he witnessed everything that's happening.

And even before Mundus could make another move, the Vitalis snapped his fingers.

The last things Nero saw that night was the Vitalis' hair turning from jet - black to white, and the whole room being engulfed in blinding light. As if he's died and gone to Heaven.

***

TO BE CONTINUED!

***

#Vitale #DMC5 #Devil May Cry 5 #dmc5 dante #dmc5 nero #dmc5 nico #DMC MECHA VERSE #Part 2

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loz-and-lu-fan-blog · 5 years

Text

Tiny Time ch. 1- The Old Cave

*Tagging people who comment on my original post or other people I want to bug @aceofspadeswiththedragoneggs @wildpuppa @pinkittwice @eleventhspy @jjpony @sillus ....:enjoy*

Ever hero has secrets and the heroes of hyrule are no exception. Every adventures brings pain in some form or another, it’s something that is bound to happen. Adventures bring a sense of freedom and wonder of what you can find; however sometimes it’s better if you never found anything.

All the Links had their fair share of adventures and trauma that came with said adventures. Some were better off then other, Wind life was pretty much able to go back to normal while Twilight lost someone he loved. It became an unspoken rule not to push the other Links into talking about something they didn’t want. Everyone has secrets after all.

However that never stopped people from telling small things about their adventures and putting two and two together. Legend mention his uncle from early in his life but never brought him up again when talking about his adventures; everyone assumed the older family member had passed so no one brought it up. Sky hated the word demon and demise; no one knew why but they just didn’t bother to bring it up again. Four didn’t like talking about shadow links, everyone assume it must had been from one of his battles. Everyone had learned small thing about the other heroes, what to avoid and how their life is effected by their adventures.

Then their is Time.

Time was the nickname given to the oldest Link, both physically and mentally way older then all the others. He had many adventures however for some reason he never spoke of them. Time like to mess with the little group of heroes, always telling them outlandish stories. However the problem came from the group not knowing if Time was telling the truth or not when it came to his adventures; I mean he claimed to fought the moon. It didn’t stopped Time from being part of the group, he was a valuable member of them team. However one problem came from it.

The knew nothing about his past.

With how he spoke they never knew if what he said was fake or not. Some had idea of his adventures because he knew who ganon was unlike sky. Wind was convinced that he was the hero of myth that was told throughout the island and why he had to wear that horrible inch green tunic when he turn 12. Twilight was convinced he was the lost hero shade that helped him in the wood; the armor and his voice only confirming his suspicions. Legend was convinced he was the hero who lost to ganon. Mentally he argue with himself over that, as he knew the hero was only a child and died but their was just something off about Time. Legend never like thinking about the idea that their strong and fearless leader would lose his life to the hands of that beast ganon. Of course none of them went and talk to Time or the other about their theories; they knew they wouldn’t get a straight answer. The only thing they know for sure about Time was that he is married to Malon and that’s it.

It’s still pretty good. The group got along (mostly) without having to know every detail of their past and Time was still their amazing leader. Nothing was wrong.

No one was suffering.

Right?

They had been in Wild’s hyrule some some time now, which was odd honestly, while switches would happen at random they seemed to follow an idea of the heroes could only spend so many day in one hyrule. However that wasn’t the case for this right now as they had been in Wild’a hyrule for about two week; however none of them really complain happy for the stability for once in their chaotic lives. Then Wild and Hyrule offer something.

“We found a cave. Want to go exploring?” Wild offer the group.

The group went along with the idea. While it normal for Wild and Hyrule to do the dungeon crawls having everyone came seemed like a way to break up the boring feeling that was brought on from being in one hyrule for so long. So they grabbed their supplies as they all headed off into the direction.

Wild begins telling the group about the cave he had found. He doesn’t remember it being their at all, even after he got his memories back. Nearly his house to the west had always been baron, nothing interesting was ever that way. He just happens to stumble apond it with Hyrule and while they were itching to explore something was off about the cave. It wasn’t there before but figured something or someone must had made it appear.

So the group of Links finally found the cave and were about to head inside. However Hyrule pulled Time aside in a panic.

“Their is something off with that cave...I can feel it” Hyrule said in a panic before silence fell over the two. Mentally Hyrule was screaming, his magic was an off limits topic, what will Time said? Will he doubt him?

“What’s wrong with the cave? Is it dark magic?” Time asked and Hyrule breath a sign of relief. Time voice held a concerned tone to it.

“No it’s not dark magic. It not li-“ Hyrule’s words disappeared in his throat. He’s never told anyone beside Legend that he sense the magic around them; he’s never told anyone about Time. A dark and powerful magic clung to the leader, definitely weaker then what they faced but that fact was still that it was still there. “It’s not like Ganon’s or any shadow Links. It’s not dark, but off” he said.

The silence was deafening as Hyrule watch Time process the information. Finally Time let out a sigh.

“I have a feeling if we don’t go into the cave Wild will explore it alone and with what you said I don’t want him going alone” Time explained while Hyrule nodded in agreement. If they even mention dark magic to Wild he would definitely want to explore then. “Keep you defense up and stay by me”.

Hyrule didn’t think that would work seeing as he would likely be focus on the power that sticks to Time but didn’t bother to say anything. He didn’t need to give the group a reason to be worried.

So they silently went into the cave. Soon their lanterns weren’t of use and the cave was filled with a ery blue glow. As they wonder further they began to see writing on the walls.

“Does anyone know what this language is?” Wild asked to the group. Many shakes their heads saying ‘no’.

Time kept quiet, he could hear a tiny voice in the back of his head whispering that he knew the language. But how could he? He’s never been to Wild’s hyrule before, he shouldn’t know any language that was written here.

Finally they enter a big room, torches with blue flames lined the ways illuminated the room in that ery blue glow. The same symbols repeated in the same language. The was a statue in the middle of the room, it looks to be of a male spirit of some sort. It easily took up a lot of area. Why was it so familiar to Time.

‘.....spirit of families’

Who said that? Time looked around to see all the Link investigating something different. All except for Hyrule who has clung onto his sleeve the whole time they were in the cave. A strange sound filled the air, and the Links began looking around.

“Alright who touched what?” Legend asked slightly annoyed as the sound got louder and louder. No one had an answer as the voice got louder and louder; realizing it was coming from the statue the Links moved away from it.

Time and Hyrule were in the back, close to the exit, when finally the statue you screamed. No one could understand it, well everyone except for Time.

‘Your chose to keep your suffer in silence! So I cursed you to the point of thy weakest!’ The voice screamed out. It shot out what look like blue lightning and Time did what came naturally.

Time shoved Hyrule aside making sure the blue wouldn’t hit the clinging hero. The lighting sent the older hero flying back.

“Time/Pops!!” Several voices called out at once.

Thankfully Wild has been observant, noticing the blue gem on top of the statue and shooting it. When it shattered the blue glow was lost and the room faded into darkness. Thankfully the other lit up the area with torches before turning to their fallen leader.

“Time!”

“Pops!!”

“Are you ok?!”

Several voice screamed at Time at once. Time brought himself back up to a sitting position.

“I’m fine” Time said shooing the others away as he stood up.

“You’re not fine. You just got zapped by a statue” Twilight said going over to grab the older hero.

“I don’t feel any different” Time states before his eyes land on Hyrule “Hyrule, magic wise did it do anything to me”

Hyrule was quiet for a second, his eyes seemed to narrow as if he was looking for something.

“No, I don’t see anything strange” Hyrule said but Time could tell their was uneasiness in his voice; as if he wasn’t 100% sure himself.

“Well let’s get out of this cave” Legend said.

“I for once 100% agree” Warrior pipped up.

With that being said the Link maybe their way out of the cave and started to head back. Wild made the comment of looking for answers as what the writing was and other stuff. However all agreed that they shouldn’t go back into the cave alone.

Time however wasn’t paying attention, the only thing that really had Time focus was how sleepy he was. He hasn’t felt this sleepy sense he was finally able to help save Termina; the day of repeating time and such finally hitting him. Time let out a yawn.

“Wow Pops, to much excitement for your old bones?” Warrior said earning himself a smack from Twilight.

“I’m tired” was all Time said his mind still in a daze.

As they finally enter Wild’s house they group went back to relaxing, but Time was so tired.

Wild offered up his room as if was further away allowing the older hero to get so sleep that was so desperately needed.

Time went upstairs with his bags and shut the door, taking off his amor and finally hitting the bed to fall into a dreamless sleep.

The other stayed downstairs. Wild has started a meal of Fried Wild green, Time favorite and a slight apology for dragging him into this mess. Sky has taken to caving something while Wind and Four watched. Legend and Hyrule talked together in another language and Twilight and Warrior were expecting their gear for the next battle. Most had gotten lost into what they were doing before realizing it was 12, lunch time.

“Hey twil can you go wake up Pops?” Wild asked as Twilight got up from his seated and headed into the direction of the room.

“Gah I hate that Pops eats like a rabbit. Like I understand it but why do we have to eat like one?” Warriors comments.

“Because Time got zapped so of course I’m going to make his favorite food” Wild argued back.

Warrior looked like he was about to say something when they heard a crash from upstairs before Twilight made his way down the stairs in a panic.

“He’s gone!”

—-

30 minutes earlier....

A pair of blue eyes open to the world with confusion.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #linkeduniverse au #linked universe au #the legend of zelda #link #legend of zelda #hero of time #hero of legend #hero of the wind #hero of the sky #hero of the wild #hero of the four sword #hero of warriors #hero of hyrule #hero of twilight #Tiny time au #Tiny time fic

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aethernoise · 5 years

Text

mortal instants

Brief our moments, Brazen and bright.

(emet-selch/ambiguous female wol. a bad ending AU. big angst. wc ~1800)

When she comes to his door she is alone, and barely herself. Her human form is unchanged, but her gait in shambles, her posture defeated and weary--bright but drooping like a wilted rose. Her footfalls echo softly as her feet move with an unrecognizable hesitation, her head turning about as if looking for things unseen. She appears faded at the edges, somehow, as if her flesh is caught in-between states, but what Emet-Selch can see clearly now is her eyes: snow-white, tainted.

She must be all but blind by now, he thinks.

“You’re late, hero,” his voice echoes but she looks directly to its source. He expects a frown or at least a furrowed brow, but her pale face remains unchanged.

“I’m early,” she rebukes, “I still have my wits, don’t I?”

Emet-Selch chuckles darkly. “Your wits and your fire,” he agrees, “Is there a fight yet left in you, I wonder?”

A mirthless smile passes over her face. He wonders if she has come with the intent to kill him: to face him on her own and end it all without the help of her precious friends. Such a plan is utterly foolish, of course, but he cannot help but appreciate such an exquisite example of mortal confidence.

What a waste.

She’s opened her mouth to reply but there are no words before she convulses into a cough she tries to muffle with a shaking hand. Her knees buckle and light breaks from her skin; doubled over she claws at the polished marble floor with a choked sob of pain.

Poor thing.

He crosses the foyer to meet her with a peculiar but genuine pity, something bothersome and longing and far too old. He labours his tired form to one knee before her while she seethes in bright agony--shining white blood falls from her lips and bitter, mortal tears from her eyes. This is a fight she cannot win.

“The worst has yet to come, I’m afraid,” he tells her in a sigh, “I understand the change is quite painful.”

It’s true and it’s cruel and for some illogical reason he regrets saying it aloud. He watches her suffer knowing she will only suffer more, and the thought brings him no pleasure.

It makes him sick to his pathetic vessel’s stomach. Such a disappointment. She could have been so much more. What she was meant to be.

She tries to sit up and instead falls forward. Her shaking hands grab desperately at his robes. He takes hold of her wrists to pull her away, to recoil, but is stunned to inaction by her voice:

“Help me,” she says brokenly.

When she looks up--struggling to make eye contact--the sight inspires both a sort of scientific curiosity and a vexing, broiling weight in his chest. Her eyes search for his, and in her too-pale face he searches in kind. Ironic, some part of him thinks, with her appearance altered by the light she looks more familiar. Here before him in her failure she appears somehow closer to the perfection of his memory. He wants to laugh, but cannot.

“Why did you come, if not for knowing this was the end?” Emet-Selch asks her. “There is naught even I can do for you now.”

Her hands are fists in the furs of his collar, shaking him when her body is wracked by another spasm of light.

“No,” she gasps as if drowning. He wonders if she is. “Help me remember.”

Of course, he thinks, She was ever the curious one. Meddling. Prodding him for information at every turn. Exhausting.

And yet now she begs of him the one thing he would tell her, the knowledge he would give her without hesitation. Her pitiful, fumbling ignorance has led her back to him, finally--after millennia of waiting, millennia of searching, all crystallizes into this moment in which all he can do is refuse.

"It is too late now," he hates the weakness in his voice.

It’s too late. She will be dead or abomination in no time at all, what could possibly come from revealing the truth to her now? He wonders if she would remember at all, or if it would it be as another myth, another story painted on a stone wall, no more than a shadow.

"Please," a plea through clenched teeth. The word hurts. "I want to know. While I’m still me.”

Emet-Selch softens the grip on her wrists when her head droops again. Her warmth is overwhelming and strange when she slumps against his chest. It is he who remembers now, in painful bursts of clarity, remembers what he has always known and longed for her to know.

Time itself holds its breath while the light calms again and for a while, the silence deafens.

"Very well, my dear," he finally concedes. The epithet escapes from somewhere ancient and unpracticed, his voice thick with an old, forgotten gentleness.

Not forgotten after all, here at the end.

He sighs, and smiles ruefully. "Where to begin?"

Silence and stillness gather, and Emet-Selch wonders if the Warrior is asleep. He scoffs.

“Honestly, after all of that begging, you could at least try to stay awake,” he says, “I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“I’m listening,” she murmurs. “I’ve heard every word.”

“And? Have you nothing to say?”

Her eyes are closed, but he cannot read her expression in the dim light. She stirs against him and he’s startled by the sudden reminder of her weight, her physical presence: the body tearing itself apart from the inside with white, immaculate claws.

He tells himself he only abides by holding her this way out of convenience-- besides, it would be most unbecoming to allow his guest to lie in a smear of her own tainted blood in his foyer. It was enough of an effort for his aching limbs merely getting her off of the floor, but now at least they could both be somewhat comfortable.

Familiarly comfortable, if he dared admit.

“I always wondered what it was you saw in me,” she rasps, and he swears she is almost smiling.

She is different, of course. She is extraordinary.

"and maybe… what I saw in you."

Smirking.

“I guess now I know.”

Light flickers in her skin and her face contorts in pain but she does not cry out. The flesh rebels, valiantly, but he can feel her fading. He wonders what sort of shape she will take.

"Now you know,” he says, “Though I doubt you remember.”

“You loved her,” she says after a long silence, and that word, that damnable word sticks in his own throat like a jagged stone. She shakes and crumples in on herself like paper in a flame, the particles of her being threatening to pull apart into sparkling embers.

Her words come out more quietly when she presses further: "Didn't you?"

Yes.

But why must she ask, of all things?

"That is long in the past now,” he lies.

“Bullshite,” the dying Warrior snaps weakly, “Isn’t that what all of this is for? Isn’t that why you invited me here?”

So you could be with her one last time?

Emet-Selch says nothing. He casts his gaze out into the starry expanse of Amaurot’s countless windows--windows he could actually report the number of, if pressed--while emptiness expands within him beyond measure.

Her fervor causes more of her frail restraints to snap and the sickness takes advantage. Bright lances of light pierce and explode and she whimpers and gasps and clings to him. Her skin is breaking; he watches cracks forming in a perfect mortal surface to create one anew.

She is strong. She will survive this, whatever is left of her--whatever the pain of her transformation does not extinguish. She will be resplendent and terrifying and suffer every second she lives.

She is full of fear and agony, but still that fire and that insatiable, infuriating questioning--

“Hades,” she says, and he stops breathing, for he had never told her his name--“Do you love me?”

His breath returns in force. How dare she disarm him so. The nerve --the naked mortal audacity. Brazen and bright even in her weakest moment, vexing him into madness even on the very edge of her own existence. That this is how she would spend her final breaths! His fingers grip her shoulder like a vice, and he is exhausted by the violence with which he resists replying “How could I not?”

“Oh, come now,” he manages to say instead, “Now is hardly the time for such foolish questions.”

He is almost blinded by her; when her head falls back over his arm something compels him to cradle it with his other hand.

“I know,” her voice is jagged, “I remember.”

Her mask and cowl have fallen away and for a torturous instant he can see her clearly again: he can hear her voice and remember, remember, to the point it consumes him. Something weak and ancient in him breaks and he falls into the desperate madness of memory. By impulse, by instinct, he crushes her in his arms while the light burns them both.

Help me, she begs him again.

Her flesh is breaking. She screams, muffled by his collar but reverberating through his bones. Seconds drag in an eternity as eternity dies, again--as the one constant fades into what will only rise again as a twisted horror.

Emet-Selch is not a man without mercy, nor is he one to forsake his cause. The hero deserves a hero’s death, but the hero cannot be suffered to live.

Nor can the one he loves live only to suffer.

Light burns behind his eyelids and shadowy fingers grasp at a panicked, racing pulse of life--he holds tightly and the weight is overwhelming, it hurts. It’s a pulse he knows as well as his own and it’s beating in a body far too fragile. Vibrations of strings play familiar music from the wrong instrument.

He cannot take it any longer: shadows squeeze and sever, and his disappointment over the Warrior’s lack of will to fight back is eclipsed by the agonizing, crushing relief of granting his friend the peace she deserves. He silences her cries of pain and tastes the white, shining blood in her mouth; he calls her by her name and tastes nothing when she vanishes into glittering oblivion.

How transient, how insignificant, how utterly aggravating: mortality has failed him yet again. It has failed both of them. Emet-Selch is alone in his city once more, a wandering shadow in the held breath of its final days. The moments pass imperceptibly, the weight of millennia hang upon his tired shoulders, but he has no time to mourn.

When it is all over, he opens his eyes in the dark to regard his empty hands, and sighs.

What a disappointment.

this was uncharted territory for me in many ways (this character, this ship, a truly ambiguous WoL that wasn’t just Alyx without ever saying her name, actual on-screen death, etc) but I think it was another piece I just had to get out of my system! I’m a sucker for the whole “friends/lovers in a past life” trope and all of the Amourantine!WoL stuff people have been coming up with so JAZZ HANDS moving on

#peeks out from between fingers #ffxiv writing #ffxiv fanfiction #emet selch #emet selch/wol #ambiguous wol #shadowbringers #shadowbringers spoilers #stay away if you haven't finished msq #x posted to ao3 #my writing #emmerwrites #cw: death #cw: pain #nobody's having a good time #this is probably one of the darkest things i've written?#in terms of content

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downinmybeastheart · 4 years

Text

Candle Cove Headcanons: Episodes, Disturbing Moments, and Other Details

Some more about the show itself!

Plot and Setting

Due to a lack of budget and the fact the audience is young kids, there isn’t much of a complex background to this show. Still, there’s a good deal of detail.

Candle Cove itself refers to, well, a cove, but also the neighboring coastal town. The cove gets its name from a myth about its past.

Horrific beasts once plagued the waters, and at night they would crawl up onto the beach and wreak havoc on land. At this point there wasn’t much of a town yet, more of a humble little settlement, so the creatures caused a good deal of damage. One night, a girl was awoken by a strange noise in her house, and when she went to find the source, it turned out one of the smaller creatures had gotten into her house! However, the candle she held scared it off. She chased it out, and in the morning she told others what had happened.

The people were skeptical, but they needed the monsters to go away, so that night everyone lit candles. They put them in the windowsills, right on their doorsteps, some even stuck theirs in the sand of the beach. Sure enough, the monsters did not come.

While it is treated more like a fairy tale now, the town still has a tradition of lighting candles during certain holidays and tough times. The cove itself also has a few big candles that burn during the night, to act as a lighthouse of sorts and to ward of the “monsters”, whether real or not.

As for the plot: the first episode has Janice arrive in Candle Cove. From here, she meets Percy, the Laughingstock, and Horace (Skin-Taker is introduced after a few episodes). From there on out, the episodes usually have a very similar format: Percy and Janice are looking for treasure/exploring/helping out/etc, a one-shot character for that episode asks for help or otherwise interferes with something, Horace gets involved, and Janice and Percy save the day after some antics. Overall that’s the plot, but the episodes are fairly good at mixing up the concept and keeping it interesting.

The show’s plot also seems linear, with previous characters showing up and changes remaining permanent like half the time.

Some Notable Episodes

(Names are TBA, suggestions welcome!)

Janice and Percy meet a mermaid with a beautiful singing voice. Horace also finds out about her and tries to kidnap her. Not only must the two heroes save her, but they must find a keepsake she lost.

While out exploring, Percy is pricked by an incredibly poisonous’s plants thorn. He falls ill, and Janice finds out there is only one person who can help them now... the Skin-Taker. This episode takes place mid-series.

The Laughingstock is injured during a storm, and the group find themselves stranded on a tropical island. Here, the meet a pirate who was missing for years. Now, he has dubbed himself the Banana King, and rules over a kingdom of small banana-loving humanoids. Percy and Janice get him to help, and antics ensue. This is an early episode, and the Banana King shows up a few other times.

Another later episode involves a volcano on the Banana King’s island about to erupt, and a sacrifice must be made!! Human? No, bananas! A race to save the island begins as Janice, Percy, the Banana King, and the civilians pull a cart full of bananas to the top of the volcano. Things go awry when the Skin-Taker and Horace show up with plans to disrupt the procedure.

Janice gets a new pet!... a weak baby bird(?) she found washed ashore. Percy thinks of what to do while Janice tries bonding with her new “friend”.

Janice sneaks into the Skin-Taker’s base to find something, and learns more about her adversary along the way.

Poppy, a semi-famous pirate, visits Candle Cove! He brags to Janice and the townsfolk about all his adventures, all while teasing Percy for his wimpiness. He even claims to have defeated the Skin-Taker, even being the reason why he’s only bones! However, this and many of his other tales are lies, and when word gets around to Skin-Taker, well... things go south.

Disturbing episodes and moments

Overall, the show feels rather...off. Whether it’s intentional or due to the poor budget, the show has a lonely and foreboding atmosphere. The show’s sets and soundtrack were minimalistic and empty. The cheap puppets and props didn’t help, especially because some like Pirate Percy and the Skin-Taker definitely fall into the uncanny valley. Many plot lines were also morbid.

While some episodes were fine besides the aforementioned weirdness, the others are all disturbing. Some have dark plots, others have frightening imagery, and some are just surreal and baffling. Some are also rather sad.

To be more specific

In one of the above episodes, where Janice takes in a somewhat mangled baby bird, the puppet for said bird is rather creepy. It’s rubbery with fades colors, and made with a bit too much effort. The gimmick for that episode was, Janice would do something with the bird, and whenever she introduced it to someone or talked to it, it would cut to a shot zoomed in on the bird lying motionless, all music suddenly silent. Then, she would go about like it answered her or whatever. Perhaps it was meant to be funny, but it’s rather jarring and the bird is hard to look at.

Also, the episode in which Percy is poisoned is distressing because of Janice’s horrified and incredibly genuine reaction to her friend’s condition. Near the end, when it seems Percy has died, she is sobbing very hard, and continues to cry when he is saved, hugging the pirate tightly. This is upsetting to both kids and people who wouldn’t expect such an extreme reaction. Even the Skin-Taker of all people becomes serious and solemn, as if his actor/puppeteer was at a loss for words himself.

The Skin-Taker and the episodes with him are all rather frightening. He is very clearly dangerous and malevolent, and has caused tragedy and peril onscreen. He’s even killed some characters, and can be very cruel to both Horace and the protagonists.

For an occasional gag, many of the characters will react wildly to a bad or shocking thing, with the camera zooming in on them as they shout and gesture in a very exaggerated way. This is probably supposed to be comical, but it’s just awkward and out of place. After Skin-Taker’s infamous “to grind your skin” line, the camera cuts to Janice’s reaction, a rather silly wide eyed scream as she runs to hide behind Percy in an obviously acted out manner. Once again, not all that disturbing but it can be seen as uncomfortable.

Janice’s actress sometimes appears uncomfortable or even upset for a moment, even when it’s not prompted. Some of her reactions to the perilous situations are acted out while other times she is genuinely panicked. Probably expected from a low budget show with a child actress, but jarring nonetheless. One would think they’d have another take, unless the budget or time was really that nonexistent.

Throughout the series, especially in the later episodes, Horace’s change in personality is certainly one of the more morbid aspects of the series. Initially introduced as a fairly intimidating pirate, the Skin-Taker’s introduction makes Horace out to be not that bad in comparison. While already somewhat comically before, from there on he’s seen as a fairly comical villain. However, as the Skin-Taker appears more and more, Horace finds himself in more high stakes. His character becomes somewhat more evil even as he is treated less seriously than the Skin-Taker. Despite the writers trying to portray Horace in a humorous way, his reactions to failure become more angry every time, and he becomes more neurotic.

This reaches a turning point in the volcano episode, where his mustache is singed off. He freezes up and faints, only showing up right at the end of the episode, appearing to have given up for good. The last shot of the episode is a rather restless and defeated Horace storming off into the night. He does not show up for an episode or two, and the episodes he does appear in from there are at least one of the three final episodes.

The first episode after this doesn’t acknowledge what happened, but the episode after that has everyone notice he has been gone longer than usual. The episode has a very foreboding tone, and while the three final episodes cannot be found, a handful viewers remember something bad happened to Horace.

Reception, Reputation, and other notes

Candle Cove’s existence is very obscure, but those who’ve watched it or heard of it have a good deal of interest in it.

Its viewers agree the show was odd and creepy, but while some dislike it or were scared of it, others still manage to look back on it fondly.

Both old and new “fans” often try to find any information about the show, and go about uncovering what little of it was saved.

There are many theories about the show, especially the “Screaming” episode, and the three-part finale, as well as the nature of the show.

After one forum user’s mother recalled that the show was just static, different reasons as to why surfaced. Some are more plausible than others.

There’s a handful of people who haven’t seen the show, but have taken an interest in its concept and started their own little fandom.

As for the Screaming Episode, not much is known about it, but those who saw it and/or the final three episodes seem to agree that unless it is the true finale, it didn’t really fit into the plot anywhere. It just aired and was never brought up again. There are many theories, but nothing can be confirmed or debunked.

#kidnapping mention tw #candle cove creepypasta #candle cove headcanons #candle cove #headcanons #horace horrible #janice candle cove #janice #pirate percy #pirate percy candle cove #skin taker #the skin taker #creepypasta #kris straub #long post cw #long post

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inkedmyths · 5 years

Text

Monstrous roars and mistakes

Wow, another update within only a couple days? Wow Myth, you crazy.

Almost as crazy as this update.

Also, special thanks to @thehufflepuffleboi and @spacemalarkey for inspiring some of the events in this chapter

Also @theonlytrashpanda you said you wanted a ping when I posted it

---

"What are we hiding from?"

They were crouching down behind a crumbling stone wall, one of the few pieces of cover in the nearby area. Most of the surroundings at this point were hills and grasses, the trees having dwindled behind them. They'd ducked suddenly at Wild's insistence, though Twilight was still unsure as to why.

"Shut up, Frog Foot!"

"Excuse me?" Twilight blinked incredulously at Feral, who grinned while he put a finger to his lips.

"You heard me. Now be quiet!"

Twilight had to bite down to keep from snapping back. Just like Feral to give him a ridiculous nickname over that incident.

Wild gestured at them both. Be quiet, he signed. Then he paused, glancing at Twilight as though a thought occurred to him.

You're good, go on, Twilight signed back.

Relief flickered in Wild's eyes. Didn't think to ask if you knew sign. Sorry.

Twilight waved him off. It's fine. What are we doing?

Plotting, Feral replied.

What for?

You never approach a - Twilight wasn't sure what that sign was, he'd never seen it before - unprepared.

A what? I didn't catch that.

L - Y - N - E - L. Wild signed each individual letter, then repeated the sign Feral had used. Must be a sign specific to their Hyrule, he guessed.

What's that?

Wild paused before moving quietly to the edge of the rock. Peeking around the corner, he waited a moment before gesturing to Twilight to come over. He followed the example set and was careful to steady himself silently as he peered over the top of the younger hero's head. What he saw made him suddenly understand the need for stealth.

It was definitely a monster, no question about it, but it was no monster he'd ever seen. Even from far away he could tell it was huge, likely more than twice his height. It had the lower body of a powerful horse, but where the head would normally be was the meaty torso of a humanoid. Thick arms no doubt capable of delivering a blow like a rock slide held some sorts of objects (weapons, he guessed by the sunlight glinting now and again). A mane that blazed like fire burst from the head of the beast, that turned this way and that as it plodded slowly through the grasses.

He slipped back behind the rock. Yikes, he signed, grimacing. Looks nasty.

It is, Wild signed back.

I was wondering why we ducked out of the way so suddenly.

Sorry. There isn't one here, usually. Wild frowned as he signed this.

Since the fall of the Calamity, they no longer seem to be bound to one place, Feral commented.

Yeah, true. But I'm fairly sure there were none even close to this area!

Maybe it's on vacation.

Okay, Twilight signed, gesturing to get their attention before they got to preoccupied with monster vacations. Regardless of why, it's here for now. What's the plan?

I'm surprised you're not making one, Feral signed, raising an eyebrow in what Twilight was quickly associating as his signature expression.

Your Hyrule, your monster. You two have experience with this kind of monster. I don't.

Wild tapped his chin thoughtfully. Well, in theory we could just go around it. The issue there is the possibility it will notice us as we try and sneak by.

I say we do operation Y - A - H - A - H - A.

Yahaha? Twilight was lost. Operation what now?

Wild, on the other hand, was grinning. Sure, why not? Sounds like fun.

Fun? Uh oh. Considering the appearance of the 'lynel', as they called it, fun was the last thing he thought of. That could only mean bad things. Hang on-

But Feral had already disappeared. Literally. He dissolved into the shadow of the wall, and within seconds it was as if he was never there. Vaguely, Twilight registered this ability was important information, but he was a bit preoccupied by his other thoughts. Namely the ones that said this was probably going to go very badly in a moment.

Wild had scooted out from behind the wall, and was slowly making his way around the lynel, inching closer with each step. Twilight saw that he'd pulled out a bow and some arrows.

The beast paused. It's great head sniffed the air, searching. It slowly turned, ears pricked as it's path changed to a direct course for Wild. The closer it got, the more tense it seemed, the more positive it seemed of a presence. Twilight wanted to yell at Wild to move, to retreat, but he knew that wouldn't help anything. He saw the hero draw back his bow, arrow readied. The beast grew closer, pulling its weapons up in ready position-

"YAHAHA!"

Feral leaped out of the shadows near the beast's feet, startling it to its hind legs. At the same moment, Wild fired off the arrow, which exploded on impact on the creature. Bomb arrows? Feral launched himself up and grabbed on the creature's mane, whooping in a decidedly too excited manner. Twilight thought he could hear him say "You found me!" over the lynel's enraged roars.

Dear Hylia help him. Twilight sighed, gathered his thoughts, and drew his sword. Unknown monster or no, he was a hero. He'd improvised plenty of times, and lived to tell the tale. Better that he learn how to deal with this monster first hand then just watch. Dashing out from behind the rock, he joined Wild as the lynel rampaged, trying to shake the shadowy nuisance off.

"A bomb arrow? That was your plan?!"

Wild shrugged. "Does a lot of damage from the get go. These things can take awhile to take down." He traded out the bow for the Master Sword and ran forward. Pivoting to avoid a hoof as it kicked out, he slashed at the lynel's side as it raged by.

Feral, meanwhile was cackling madly on top of the furious monster. He'd drawn his own sword and was slashing repeatedly at its arms and head. This only seemed to make the beast angrier, and it increased its vehement bucking. One arm reached back to grab the shadow, but he dodged, using the mane as a hold to swing himself out of the way. With one last slash across the lynel's chest, he dropped and rolled out of the way.

Incensed, the beast roared it's fury, brandishing its weapons in preparation to counter the pesky lifeforms that dared challenge it. Wild was once again next to Twilight.

"The trick is to not get hit by it."

"That's the trick with every monster!" Twilight hissed.

He stared up at the fearsome beast, sizing it up. It was truly a sight to behold, and not one he relished in. Muscles rippled under thick, red skin. A sword and shield that looked able to tear and break in unison were brandished by unyielding arms. Eyes a sickly, brilliant yellow glared them down, malice emanating from its gaze. He also noted a bow and a quiver of arrows on its back, making it capable of still attacking at long range.

Twilight had never seen a lynel in his life. Never even heard of one until now. Yet, looking at the looming beast, he couldn't help but feel something was off with it. He couldn't be sure what, but his instincts were blaring alarm bells all over the place. Was it just the beast being unfamiliar with his experiences? He glanced at Wild, who was brandishing the Master Sword in preparation for another go, which dripped with the lynel's blood from his attack-

His veins turned to ice.

Twilight put his hand out to try and tell him to stop, to hold on, wait a moment, but it was too late. Wild charged forward, swinging the blade upwards to knock the beast's swing off its course. He slashed at it's feet as he ran by. A roar of rage answered. The huge blade of the monster followed Wild, but he rolled to the side as it carved out a divet in the soil where his feet had been. Feral took advantage of the switch in focus, slashing at one of the front legs of the beast before flipping away.

They had to stop. This was really bad. "Feral, Wild! Hold on a minute!"

But his yells fell on deaf ears. Possibly literally, he thought, as the enraged monster gave another earsplitting roar. The two of them slashed and hacked at the lynel, neither seeming to notice what Twilight had. It was clear they wouldn't listen to him. He had to do something...

Then the beast stopped, inhaled. And when it exhaled, a blast of fire seared past him, singeing the edges of his cloak. At that point, instinct took over.

He sprinted forward to where Wild was. Without pause, he picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. Wild yelped in confusion. "No time to explain." Twilight could feel something hot and slick drip on his arm, and knew the younger hero had gotten injured. Worry about that later. Keep running.

He streaked past Feral, who protested as he scooped him up in his free arm. No time to talk, no time to deal with this. Keep running.

The lynel's thunderous roars boomed behind them as it realized they were getting away. Twilight recalled the bow and quiver on its back, and resolved to run faster. Then, he heard a distant snap. Keep running.

"Shock arrows!" Wild yelled. Twilight changed course immediately, and he felt the electricity crackle at his heels as the arrows barely missed.

He ended up dodging three volleys of shock arrows before finally the roars faded behind them. After a moment he slowed his pace, but only a little. He didn't want to take any risks.

"What's the big idea? We were doing fine!" Feral grumbled. He kicked out, but Twilight ignored it.

"I'm sure he had a good reason, Feral."

"Really? Well I'd sure like to hear it."

"Just wait a second!"

"I want to know now- are you bleeding?"

"Uh..."

"You're bleeding."

"Only a little! That last swing nicked my arm."

"'Nicked'? Dude, you're bleeding all over Twi's arm."

" 's not that bad."

"I bet that's why he grabbed us."

Twilight spotted the ruins of a building up ahead. It wasn't completely destroyed, and he knew they needed to stop at some point. The sun was getting low in the sky. He slowed, and walked onto the ruined threshold.

"Finally! I'm tired of being carried like a sack of potatoes." Feral complained. "Put me down!"

Twilight dropped him.

While Feral complained about that being rude and that the ground was cold, he was more careful in setting Wild down. He held out his hand expectantly. Wild, somewhat reluctantly, held out his arm. Twilight examined the injury. While it was definitely more than a minor scratch, it wasn't as bad as he'd initially thought. The cut was several centimeters long, but seemed to be relatively shallow. The important thing would be making sure it didn't get infected. Rummaging through his bag produced several first aid supplies, and he immediately set about tending the wound. A little health potion and a bandage later, the wound was wrapped and taken care of. "There, that should do it."

Wild examined the bandage. "Thanks."

"Alright, now that Wild is no longer getting blood everywhere, I want answers!" Feral crossed his arms, making a face somewhere between a scowl and a pout. "Other than Wild's arm, everything was fine! We've taken down plenty of those things in the past."

Twilight sighed. "I'm sure you have, but there was something wrong with that one."

"How do you know? You didn't even know what it was until today!"

"Feral, don't be rude!" Wild looked somewhat nervously between his shadow and the older hero.

Twilight shook his head. "No, it's a valid point. However, I say that because I've seen it in other monsters."

"What do you mean? Seen what?" Feral still looked skeptical, but that was becoming overpowering by curiosity.

"Wild, the sword."

Wild looked confused, but pulled out the Master Sword onto his lap. Twilight looked it over, humming and nodding.

"Unless I am mistaken, that's not a normal thing for blood to do, even a monster's."

Wild and Feral looked at the sword, and for the first time noticed something was happening. The blood from the Lynel was hissing. Faint tendrils of darkness streamed away like smoke in the wind. Much of it was gone by this point, evaporated into nothingness. What was left was dark, too dark.

"What the-" Feral started, then paused, squinting at the vanishing stains.

Wild was wide-eyed. "No, it doesn't - it shouldn't - I, I haven't..." He swallowed, then, quieter: "This isn't normal, no."

Twilight nodded. "That's what I thought. The lynel was unnaturally empowered. It was too risky to stick around and try and fight it off when it wasn't really necessary."

Wild nodded slowly. "Okay that makes sense. See, I told you there was a reason Feral." A moment's silence, and Wild looked up. "Feral?"

The shadow was fixated on the remnants of the blood as it spiraled away on the wind. Twilight hadn't seen Feral so quiet and still. It was unnerving. Slowly, he reached out a hand to the sword, waving it through the wisps trailing off of it. His gaze was unreadable.

"Feral?" Wild asked again, looking worried. "Is everything alright?"

"I didn't notice."

"What?"

"I didn't notice. How didn't I notice? It should have been obvious- !" His brow furrowed in frustration, and he clenched his outstretched hand.

Wild reached out a hand in an attempt to calm him. "Hey, Feral it's okay! We were too busy fighting to notice-"

"No!" Feral jumped to his feet, too fast for a normal person. "I should have noticed! I should have sensed it!" Twilight had to resist the urge to reach for a weapon. He knew by now Feral wasn't a threat to him or Wild, but it was hard to fight instinct. Especially given the fact that Feral seemed to be upset enough that his hold on his form was slipping. Edges of his clothes blurred, darkness curling around his hands and hair as he paced.

"Feral..." Wild seemed at a loss, but stood up. "Hey." He crossed the broken stone floor to his shadow, gently placing his hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. Everything is okay. We're okay."

Feral stiffened, but after a moment seemed to calm down slightly. His form re-solidified, and the shadows dissipated. "Right. Okay."

"Yeah. It's okay." Wild patted his shoulder. "Why are you so upset about not sensing that there was something wrong?"

Feral looked as though he might get agitated again, but bit his lip. "I just... I should have noticed the darkness before. I can't believe I didn't notice until Twilight pointed it out. It should have been glaringly obvious."

"Why's that?"

Feral was silent for a moment. "You remember how we've talked about how light and dark each come in many different forms?"

"Right. Like how the type of light manifested in the Sword is related but different from the light in the Bow?" Twilight didn't quite follow the comparison, but Feral seemed to.

"Yeah."

"So you're saying the darkness in the lynel should have been more-" Wild paused. "That you think you should have noticed it sooner?"

"Exactly."

"Why?"

Feral stared at the sword. "For one thing, it's very different from the Malice of monsters. It's only as related as far as all darkness is related. For another, it's... unique."

"Unique? Have you seen it before?"

"I have, plenty, but... I've only seen it come from one source, and this definitely didn't come from that."

Suddenly, Feral's reaction made sense to Twilight. Of course. No wonder he was so agitated about it. He was a fool for not considering the possibility of him reacting to it earlier.

Wild furrowed his brow. "How do you know it isn't from that source?"

"Because that source is me."

144 notes · View notes

bravadoseries · 4 years

Note

tell us about your braudrey wasteland baby analysis

this ended up being long and angsty i am sorry . if u want i can analyze songs from his other album in a happier way to even it out lol

“nfwmb”:

“when i first saw you / the end was soon” - audrey and bruce met on the helicarrier and i think when they fought in new york they both knew they might not come out of it. audrey was inexperienced and way out of her depth, bruce was really against turning back into the hulk again.

“Give your heart and soul to charity / ‘Cause the rest of you, the best of you / Honey, belongs to me” - they both give parts of themselves away for the greater good and feel most human with each other

“Nothing fucks with my baby / Nothing can get a look in on my baby / Nothing fucks with my baby / Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing” - when hozier wrote this song everyone thought it was about how nothing fucks with his baby because he protects her but he said actually nobody fucks with her because she’s extraordinarily powerful and scary. i think both of these apply to braudrey—nobody fucks with bruce because audrey protects him, and nobody fucks with the hulk because he’s giant and terrifying

“moment’s silence (common tongue)”

“When stunted hand earns place with man by mere monstrosity / Alarms are struck and shore is shook by sheer atrocity / A cure I know that soothes the soul, does so impossibly” - this is related to an upcoming ~chapter~ lol but basically audrey and bruce go on a retreat upstate that’s supposed to give him the opportunity to hulk out and like scare some squirrels in the woods but while they’re there, audrey and the hulk become good friends ? and so that’s why she’s able to reason with bruce when he turns

“almost (sweet music)”

i would place this one as post aou when audrey thinks bruce is dead.

“i’m almost me again, she’s almost you” - after a bit, she starts dating again but she’s still very much grieving and hung up on him

“i wouldn’t know where to start / sweet music playin’ in the dark / be still my foolish heart / don’t ruin this on me” - audrey becomes good friends with wanda and pietro after age of ultron and they haven’t been around long but they ask her to talk about it because she sits in her room playing the same song every day and crying and they’re like … ?

“I got some colour back, she thinks so, too / I laugh like me again, she laughs like you” - i think this is just audrey letting herself be close to people again. it’s not the same but it’s not so lonely

“movement”

“I still watch you when you're groovin’” so this song i think is about like someone dancing and being really seductive and sexy but this reminds me of bruce watching audrey dancing really terribly w tony at every avengers function. audrey literally cannot dance for shit and it’s endearing to bruce

“When you move / I can recall somethin' that's gone from me / When you move / Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free” - i think bruce gets kind of fixated on watching audrey spar and fight; like partially because it’s hot but also because he sees her as very powerful and finds it magnetizing

“no plan”

i’m gonna go ahead and place this as ragnarok/infinity war

“for starts / what a waste to say the heart could feel apart / or feel complete, baby” - audrey and bruce reunite on sakaar and it’s a very emotional scene; it’s a waste to say the heart could feel apart because she knows she’s not less without him but there’s this understanding, this thing that’s been off that’s finally righted when they’re back together

“My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand / That's how I know now that you understand” - this applies to a very specific moment in ragnarok before they go to fight hela where audrey puts her hand over bruce’s and he looks at her and she’s unable to tell him that if they die right now she loves him but he knows anyway

“There's no plan / There's no race to be run / The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun / There's no plan / There's no kingdom to come / I’ll be your man if you got love to get done / Sit in and watch the sunlight fade / Honey, enjoy, it's gettin' late / There's no plan / There's no hand on the rein / As Mack explained, there will be darkness again” - so this is all very apocalyptic and not to flex but i was at a concert and hozier talked about this line and how the whole song was written about the doomsday clock and a time when it was closer to zero than ever; it’s a song about throwing caution into the wind at the end of the world and i think that’s fitting. there’s a period where audrey realizes that they’re not gonna beat thanos, and that the snap is gonna happen, and she takes a breath and notices everything around her and just thinks about how she’s lucky to have had it at all.

“nobody”

“You know when it's twelve o'clock in Soho, baby / It's gin o'clock where I'll wake up, I don't know / And I think about you though everywhere I go / And I've done everything and I've been everywhere, you know” - this just reminds me of when audrey is away on missions and bruce is still at the base; she’s been everywhere in the world because she’s been alive for so long and she’s been around for a lot; the one thing she’s most grateful for her lifetime to have coincided with though is bruce

“i’ve had no love like your love / from nobody” - this is just them lol they understand each other on another level

“I'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint / I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave” - this is audrey 2 bruce … she would be appalled if he ever tried to get rid of the hulk for good; i think that it’s such a significant part of how they see and understand each other

“If I had the choice between hearing either noise: The excitement of a thousand or the soothing of your voice / At first chance, I'd take the bed warmed by the body” - they just choose each other. they choose to be with each other. this reminds me of the “give your heart and soul to charity” line in nfwmb because it’s like if they had to be heroes without each other they wouldn’t be happy

“as it was”

there’s a conversation bruce and audrey have at the safehouse in age of ultron where bruce is saying he doesn’t feel the same since wanda fucked with his head bc of the vision he had, and he’s worried abt whether or not audrey can continue to care for him when the chaos the hulk created wasn’t for any good or if she’s changed her mind and she has to assure him that she hasn’t; there are a lot of lines from this song that remind me of that

-“whatever’s here that’s left of me / is yours just as it was”

-“Just as it was, baby / Before the otherness came / And I knew its name / The drug, the dark, / The light, the flame”

-“its holds had the fight of my baby / and the lights were s bright as my baby / but your love was unmoved”

-“the sights were as stark as my baby / and the cold cut as sharp as my baby / and the nights were as dark as my baby / half as beautiful, too” (unrelated sidenote but this line gives me chills always)

then the second verse of this reminds me of audrey and bruce in ragnarok:

“Tell me if somehow Some of it remains How long you would wait for me How long I've been away The shape that I'm in now Your shape in the doorway Make your good love known to me Or just tell me about your day”

“shrike”

so audrey has a really really hard time saying i love you after bruce leaves at the end of aou, to anyone—she says it to steve maybe once, but she can’t say it besides that one time, and it’s part of why she’s so torn up about peggy dying because she didn’t tell her she loved her enough in the months leading up to her death.

but also, when bruce comes back, audrey still can’t muster up the ability to say them out loud, and so at the end of infinity war, she’s left without telling any of the people she loves that she loves them. when she comes back in endgame, she’s able to overcome that to tell them. this song reminds me of that

“I couldn't utter my love when it counted / Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now” - this is when she comes back

“The words hung above / But never would form / Like a cry at the final breath that is drawn / Remember me love when I'm reborn / As the shrike to your sharp / And glorious thorn” - this is both; she couldn’t say it, but she’s “reborn” during endgame and she realizes that the worst has already happened countless times; there’s nothing else to be afraid of that she hasn’t survived

“Then when I met you, my virtues uncounted / All of my goodness is going with you now” - this is just audrey when bruce leaves

“talk”

ok this entire song is just both audrey and bruce when they like each other but don’t wanna say anything about it.

I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus When her body was found Hey yeah I'd be the choiceless hope in grief That drove him underground Hey yeah I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee That made him turn around Hey yeah And I'd be the immediate forgiveness In Eurydice Imagine being loved by me

I won't deny I've got in my mind now (Hey, yeah) All the things I would do So I try to talk refined For fear that you find out (Hey, yeah) How I'm imagining you

I'd be the last shred of truth In the lost myth of true love Hey yeah I'd be the sweet feeling of release Mankind now dreams of Hey yeah That's found in the last witness before the wave hits Marvelling at God Hey yeah Before he feels alone one final time And marries the sea Imagine being loved by me

“dinner & diatribes”

i think…..this doesn’t match up exactly but the new year’s eve chapter…..Yeah

“Let there be damage ensued and tabloid news / And that kind of love / That's the kinda love / I’ve been dreaming of”

“would that i”

okay buckle up this one is a lot

“True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me / That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree / Must be felled for to fight the cold / I fretted fire but that was long ago” ok this i think is bruce’s perspective; love in withdrawal was the weeping of me = the isolation he put himself in following becoming the hulk was a very bad spot for him even though it was safest. the sound of the saw must be known by the tree = gotta risk it for the biscuit! must be felled for to fight the cold / i fretted fire but that was long ago = i used to be afraid but now i’m not; it’s worth the risk

“Oh, but you're good to me / Oh, you're good to me / Oh, but you're good to me, baby” bruce is just continually confused and surprised by the fact that audrey isn’t scared of him

“With each love I cut loose I was never the same / Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame / I was fixed on your hand of gold / Laying waste to my loving long ago”

-with each love i cut loose i was never the same = bruce has cut off everyone he’s been close to since the hulk happened and he’s not the same when he’s alone; he thinks he can make it by himself and he probably can but he doesn’t have to

-i was fixed on your hand of gold / laying waste to my loving long ago = this is actually nice bc the gold imagery specifically matches up with what audrey’s powers are, and so there’s that connection to be made

“And it's not tonight / Where I'm set alight / And I blink in sight / Your blinding light” this also just matches up really nicely w audrey’s powers lol

“sunlight”

“I had been lost to you, sunlight / And flew like a moth to you, sunlight / Oh your love is sunlight” i think this would be bruce after age of ultron ? he’s been lost to audrey, but when he sees her he gravitates back toward her immediately; he sees her love as sunlight

“the tale is the same / told before and told again / soul that's born in cold and rain / knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight” - bruce is the soul that’s born in cold and rain and audrey is sunlight

“Each day you rise with me / Know that I would gladly be / The Icarus to your certainty” - i think he’s just devoted to her

“wasteland, baby”

okay going line by line for this one lol buckle up!

“All the fear and fire of the end of the world / Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl” - when they’re fighting thanos audrey is actually reminded of bruce; how losing him felt like the world ending, now it’s for real

“Happens great, happens sweet / Happily, I'm unfazed here, too” - when audrey goes at the end of infinity war, she goes smiling

“Wasteland, baby / I’m in love, I'm in love with you” - they just love each other

“All the things yet to come are the things that have passed / Like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass / Like the bonfire that burns / That all words in the fight fell to” - everything that has happened has led them to this moment; loki, ultron, hydra, etc. without that they wouldn’t have each other, but they also probably wouldn’t be dealing with this mess. it’s not good or bad, it’s just the way things went.

“Wasteland, baby / I’m in love, I'm in love with you”

“And I love too, that love soon might end / Be known in its aching / Shown in the shaking / Lately of my wasteland, baby” - they know it’s over before it’s over; they can tell what’s going to happen before it happens, and they’re just paralyzed in that moment

“Be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking / Though quaking, though crazy / That's just wasteland, baby” - when audrey goes bruce pleads with her to stay

“And that day that we'll watch the death of the sun / To the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on / And you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city roofs” - in the years after the snap, bruce has the most vivid dream almost every night where audrey’s . like . ghost comes to him and takes him to the top of a hill and they watch the world end around them. it’s terrible and every time he wakes up he misses it.

“When the stench of the sea and the absence of green” - ok lol this just reminds me of how the hulk wouldn’t come fight at the end of infinity war

“Are the death of all things that are seen and unseen / Are an end but the start of all things that are left to do” - the world ends; half of everything is dead; but they’re still left. bruce and steve and everyone have to go on living still.

“Wasteland, baby / I'm in love, I'm in love with you / (That's it)” - this abruptness just reminds me a lot of the snap; that’s it. there’s no going back.

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ld9-the-draft · 5 years

Text

Are They Our Enemy?

Hella late, yet again, but at least I’m posting something for @alexprompts again. (I’ve got others, too, that are even more late. Ssshhhh.) This is for the Stamp out the Rebellion prompt. Loosely inspired by The Hanging Tree song from The Hunger Games series, I wanted to explore something new to me and write a story about the generational fading of a culture due to colonization and imperialism. Probably a little heavy handed at spots and I apologize if it’s not done well. This isn’t a topic I have any personal experience with whatsoever. Critiques are welcome and encouraged, as always.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He pulled the little girl close as the Nivarri soldiers stomped by, all gleaming silver and blazoned red stars. He kept his head down, but watched them closely from the corner of his eye.

“Papa?” The little girl tugged on his sleeve.

The man paused counting the soldiers to glance down at her. He must have looked grim, because she hesitated when she normally would not. Quickly, he spread a loving grin over his features and bent to touch her nose with a finger, a reassuring gesture. “Yes, little one?”

She shook her head at his touch, but smiled, then pointed a tiny finger. “Papa, why is that tree in the middle?”

The tree in question was the only tree of its kind in the city. Others once dotted the countryside surrounding it—before they were ignorantly cut down—but this was the first, from which all the others had been taken. It soared high and broad, powerful boughs swathed with green. Its thick trunk, at least as wide as two men, emerged like an extension of the dark earth in which it grew. The open courtyard, on the edge of which they stood while the troop of soldiers pressed by, was arranged to draw attention to the magnificent tree.

“That is Hotuatha, the lasting tree. Our ancestors planted it to claim this place and to grow blessings for our people.” He waved a hand toward the verdant foliage. “Each leaf represents one of us. When we die, our bodies are returned to the soil and we feed the world, while our spirit returns here and becomes a leaf on Hotuatha.”

A passing Nivarri officer overheard and stepped nearer. The man’s smile faltered, but he forced it to remain. “That’s the hanging tree, girly,” the Nivarri said. He stared down at her from beneath his helm. He pretended to be friendly, but he did not kneel as the man did. He did not speak on level terms with her, but towered over her like the Nivarri always do. “That’s for those nasty renegades. Not cute things like you.” A wink and a flash of teeth and the officer marched off again.

A few ropes still hung limp from the tree’s branches. A reminder.

She holds her son’s hand and pulls him across the courtyard, circumventing the great Nivarri star that has dominated its center since the storm split and burned Hotuatha. She misses the comforting shade the great tree provided in these hot summer months. She misses the fall and the voices of the dead in the crunching leaves.

“Mama, how come we never walk over the star like everyone else?” The boy’s question reminds her of when she is. She looks down to see he is still scanning the half-crowded courtyard. Not for the first time, she wonders what or who he is looking for.

“The dead lie beneath it, remember?” she says, kneeling down beside him. “It is rude to walk where the dead sleep.”

Her son nods absently. “Oh. Yes.” He frowns and looks at her. “But they taught us in school the dead sleep outside the city, where the stones are.”

Before she can answer, another voice cuts in. “Aye, your mother means her great tree, young lad.” An elderly Nivarri woman ambles over, her cane more a gesture than a necessity, a swinging basket beneath her arm. “Used to be a giant of a tree right where that star is now, long before you were born. Your momma’s people thought it had a soul.” The old woman smiles sweetly and gazes at the star. “Shame it burned, but it’s nice to see the king still thinks of us all the way out here,” the old woman says with a nod towards the star. The Nivarri pulls a candy from the basket and offers it to the boy. “Here you go, lad.”

The boy hesitates. She wonders if he is afraid or simply shy, but lets him make his own decision. For herself, she wants—needs—so deeply to hate this elderly woman, her kind gesture, her vicious ignorance, her genuine politeness, her subtle violence.

Are the Nivarri our enemy?

Yes.

These words hide behind each of hers every time she speaks with the invaders. But she is tempered by her father’s wisdom. She knows this Nivarri does not, cannot, carry the weight of that responsibility. But she hates the woman all the same.

Her son takes the candy and thanks the old woman who smiles again and shuffles on her way. “Can I eat it now, Mama?” he asks.

She watches the elder a moment, then gives him one of her father’s smiles and lightly taps his nose with a finger. “Yes, my son.”

—–

Each night, before he would step onto the shadowed city streets cloaked in wool and worry, he would sing to her. He taught her his favorites first. Then, he sang hers. Later, in his final days, she sang his. He sang myths of the sleeping spirits who guided dreams and cared for the dead and of Ouranan, the child who played with spirits and taught them to see wonder in their own world while they taught her respect and love for nature. He sang tales of her ancestors, warriors and scholars, priests and artists, thieves and kings. As he did, taught her how to curl her tongue and hold her lips around the sounds. He taught her the truth in her voice to protect her from the false Nivarri noise.

“Who are they?” she asked sometimes. He knew she did not need to ask, but he enjoyed telling her.

The man paused in the doorway each time she asked and a wry smile would peek from the corners of his mouth. “Who is who?” He knew, but this was how they said it.

The girl stared at him from her pillow, wide dark eyes missing nothing as her face revealed nothing. “The ones you sing about,” she said every time.

His answer was always the same: “They are me and your mother. They are the smiths and the priests and the warriors. They are our past, what makes us who we are. They are you.” He leaned over and kissed her head and touched her nose. “And you are them, because now you will carry their stories, too. Sleep well, little one.”

She does, her mind filled with dreams of great spirits and mighty heroes and silent prayers to keep her father safe.

—–

She does not remember what life was like without the Nivarri, but she has her father’s stories. She tells them as best she can. She sings, using all the true words for things she can recall, and acts out fantastical plays with her son’s toys that leave him enraptured. She tells him of Hotuatha and Ouranan and all the spirits she can remember. Most of all, she tells him about his grandfather and his marks and the ancestors long passed.

“I know why you tell me these stories, Mama,” he announces with the biggest self-satisfied grin.

“Oh?” she asks, smiling back. Most of the time, she sees her father in him, but sometimes she sees a bit of herself. She wonders if this will be one of those times.

“Yes. It’s so we can keep grandpa and the spirits and everyone and everything else alive!” He throws out his arms, a dramatic gesture encompassing the world. “So we can keep them in us,” he adds, placing one hand over her heart and the other over his own.

A curious feeling erupts in her. A jagged and bloody longing entwined with a hot and golden pride immersed in purest love. She struggles to hold the tears back, but cannot contain her laughter. She throws her head back and lets the sound of her joy, her pride, her love fill the room and wrap around her son. They hug each other so tightly and giggle together.

She kisses his head and tangles her fingers in his hair so he will not feel her tears fall. Her son wriggles around and sits with his back against her. They both look at the meager sapling on the window sill.

“Do you remember what that is?” she asks.

“That’s…part of Hotuatha, right?” he answers.

“That’s right,” she says. The tears flow freely now, but she leans away from her son enough they fall on her tunic. “Each of those leaves is the spirit of someone who has died. They were forced to scatter when Hotuatha burned, but as it grows, they will return. One day they will all return.”

She sleeps holding him close, afraid that if she does not, he will be gone, too.

—–

There was blood on the table. He sat with his arms laid across it. A hiss escaped his gritted teeth as his wife poured a clear alcohol over the gash in his right arm. His second brother smirked and shook his head while he steadily needled ink into the man’s left.

“What happened, Papa?” the little girl asked.

The adults startled. “You should be sleeping,” said the man’s wife as she returned her attention to the injury. The little girl peered through a cracked door, barely visible in the wavering light of two candles. Heavy curtains were drawn to keep from disturbing the moonless night.

The man’s second brother made to rise, but the man shook his head. “Did we wake you, little one? I’m sorry.” A concerned glance from his wife, but she said nothing.

The girl watched from the door a few seconds, then stepped out and sat across from her father. Her eyes flicked from his wife’s hands to his second brother’s. “What happened?” she repeated. Her voice was soft as the starlight outside.

“Your father earned his marks,” said the man’s second brother proudly. This earned a disapproving glare from the man’s wife. The man ignored them and smiled at the little girl.

“We tried to take back what is ours.” He looked down at his wounded arm. “Though, it did not go as well as we hoped.”

His second brother paused to look him in the eye. “Well enough to earn you three marks. They’ll remember that next time.” The man made a noncommittal sound.

“Marks?” the girl asked.

The man turned his gaze back to her, searching her face, as he often, did for some sign, some indication she was ready for the whole truth. He never found it. “A warrior’s marks,” he said finally. “A warrior receives a mark for each of his enemies he has defeated.”

She absorbed this information and watched in silence as his family worked. The man focused on keeping his breath steady and watched her. Finally, she asked, “Are the Nivarri our enemy?”

The adults stopped and stared at her. The man opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again. Then his second brother said, “Yes.” An exchange of looks took place among them, but no other answer was offered. The little girl watched them a while longer, then returned to bed.

—–

Blood drips on the floor. The water in the basin is rusty with it. There is more than she would have expected when her son arrived with a broken nose and scrapes and bruises. She had nearly struck the boy who followed him through the door, the pallor of his skin and the shape of his eyes screaming Nivarri, before her son had knowingly grabbed her arm and shook his head.

“The other boys said he couldn’t talk to the Nivarri girls,” the Nivarri boy says once the bleeding is under control.

She refuses to look at him and insists he sit at the table and not move. She gingerly and efficiently cleans her son’s injuries—each one minor, to her great relief, except the broken nose, but it will heal—and applies bandages the way her mother taught her. “Is that why they hit you?”

Her son gives a gentle shake of his head. She spares his face a glance and sees the shame in his eyes that will not meet hers. “Then why?”

Silence first. She gives him time. In this moment, he is like her and she knows pressing will only make things worse. Eventually, he mumbles, “I wanted to be friends with one of the girls.”

She stops applying the last bandage, less than a second, then presses it onto his skin and ties it off. “Friends?” She returns her things to the satchel and places it on the table. “That is why they hit you?”

“No,” her son answers. Another strained silence. She fills it with the sound of clinking dishes as she begins preparing food.

Finally, the Nivarri boy starts, “He—” But she cuts him off with a hiss and a swipe her hand.

Her son leaps to his feet. “Stop being mean to him!” She spins, startled at the ferocity in his voice. She sees it now, the defiance in his eyes, the will to fight.

Your father earned his marks.

“He has always been kind to me and helps me learn to be like the other boys and he is the only one who will be my friend!” Then, he sees what he has done and drops his gaze to the floor. His shoulders droop, but his fists stay clenched.

The Nivarri boy speaks again. “He stood up for me,” he says, low and cautious. “I tried to tell the other boys to leave him alone. They called me dog-lover and shoved me. He fought them for it.”

For the first time since he entered the house, she looks at the Nivarri boy. His clothes are ruffled and he is sporting a couple of bruises of his own. Only now does she see the worry on his face, the childish obviousness of his concern for her son, for his…

Are the Nivarri our enemy?

The boy rises and crosses the room to put a hand on her son’s shoulder. Her son meets his eyes and they share a sad smile. Her son finally releases the rage in his fists and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as well.

Yes.

—–

Once the crowd was gathered, the executioner began his lecture. The man stood side by side with his fellow warriors. The rope was heavy and bit into his neck. “Dissenters,” the executioner called them. Savages. Animals. Vicious and malcontent. Rabid dogs biting their generous master’s hand. They had heard the words before. It changed little from one execution to the next. Always it was a reminder of the Nivarri’s harsh benevolence, that the Nivarri brought enlightenment and civilization to their backwards people, that the executions were a public lesson against such insolence.

The executioner marched back and forth in front of them, staring hard into the crowd as he made his speech, as though daring someone to object. The man knew no one would. Not after he had lost his first brother to such foolishness.

Finally, the executioner moved with imperial steps before the first to die. “You, dog, stand accused of stealing food from Nivarri defenders that they would starve. Your crime is punishable by death. Have you any final words?”

The warrior tried to spit in the executioner’s face, but missed. “We will—” he started, but the executioner kicked the stool from beneath his legs before he could finish.

The rope pulled taut. The warrior choked and struggled. His hands were bound, so he lashed out at the executioner with a kick, but a Nivarri soldier intervened with the edge of his axe, slicing the warrior’s leg clean off. Blood splashed on the warrior next to him. The first warrior tried to scream, but the noose would not let him. The executioner was already recounting the next warrior’s crimes and asking his final words. When he said nothing, the executioner kicked the stool from beneath his feet.

And so it went, each warrior informed of his crimes, asked his final words then, murdered.

The executioner stood before the man. “You, dog, stand accused of murdering three Nivarri defenders. Your crime is punishable by death. Have you any final words?”

The man would not look at the executioner. A man should always honor his enemy by looking them in the eye when one of them dies, but this Nivarri invader deserved no such honor. He was content to die silent and defiant.

Then, he saw her. The flash of blue flowers her mother always put in her hair gave her away. The little girl stood just behind the man’s wife and his second brother. Her wide dark eyes were locked on his face. He knew his final words.

“I do not die today. My body will feed the earth and nourish my people. My spirit will return and bless them. I will live on in them.” He looked into her eyes. “For they are me and I am them.”

The executioner kicked the stool from beneath his feet.

—–

Once the crowd is gathered, the priest begins the recitation. She stands alone behind her son. The rope is heavy and bites into her neck. The priest speaks of love and eternal bonds. Words like devotion, loyalty, and death are used. He speaks a grandiose image of prosperity and longevity. The crowd beams and weeps. Across from her, behind the Nivarri boy who followed her son home one day, are the boy’s siblings, as is Nivarri custom. Her son has no siblings, so an exception is made for her, so he will not feel alone. Draped over their shoulders are multicolored ropes, strands of gold and blue and red and green and black woven into thick cords. As the priest nears the completion of the rites, these are wrapped around the couple’s clasped hands and laid over their shoulders. Another Nivarri custom.

She does not want to bind her son in rope, and told him as much weeks before, but he insisted, insists in the subtle plea in his eyes as she approaches. “I want this,” he said, “Do this for me, please.” She puts a rope around her son’s neck. The glee and excitement radiating off of him is almost too much.

Your father earned his marks.

She gives him another of her father’s smiles. When the priest is finished, her son and the boy—a man now, the Nivarri say, though she does not agree—kiss.

Then, the celebration begins. There is much feasting and congratulating and dancing. The Nivarri boy’s family make speeches and wish blessings and good fortune on the newlyweds. She makes a speech of her own, asking her son to remember to visit once in a while. Her son insists they dance a traditional dance and it is the best part of the night, sharing this piece of who they truly are with her son.

The rest of the dances are Nivarri, as are the food and the dress and the music and the words. A part of her is genuinely content with her son’s vibrant joy this day. But it is impossible for her to ignore the absence of her culture, his culture.

“Thank you, Mama,” he says at the end of the night. He kisses her cheek and squeezes her to his chest. “I can’t explain how much this means to me.”

She squeezes him back. She believes him, and it hurts. He is happy. He is in love. She remembers her mother would have said he is stronger now, bolstered by the spirit of his love. “I am glad,” she says and she means it, but it still hurts.

She doubts the legitimacy of his love, wonders in some quiet angry part of her mind if it is another lie he has been taught, another stolen opportunity to love someone proper. He did not marry the proper way, with offerings to the spirits and vows spoken in true words. She is happy for him, but cannot stop thinking it is a farce, that he is being stolen from her.

“Now that I’m Nivarri, I can try to get you moved into a better part of the city,” he says. The words cut through her, an invisible razor line she cannot heal. Married only a few hours and already one of them.

She can only offer another of her father’s smiles as he begins discussing plans to improve their lives with his citizenship.

Are the Nivarri our enemy?

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ahitworldshift · 5 years

Text

“Your service is no longer required.”

Chapter 2, Part 9: As Hell Freezes Over...

All the clues fell into place after what seemed like weeks within the city; The missing citizens, mysterious deaths of actors, the cold silence between the couple, and now, the ghostly aura leading her down the long hallway. Gella knew something was bound to be brewing when she first arrived here, but to now see that the main director of these studios was searching for souls to eat this entire time, and putting his ‘love’ in the spotlight so they would be distracted? Cruel. Absolutely cruel.

As the thoughts of hatred and anger run through her head, the mustached hero continued to run down the hall, footsteps echoing behind her and the air seemingly getting more thick. Just how long was this hallway, and why would anyone need a basement this long? Should she be concerned by how all of this felt? She tried to yell out to get his attention, seeing a mere speck of color at the end of the hall, given away by a light shining on him.

“...Such a curious child.” It was Samuel, wasn’t it? No, no, she couldn’t listen to him, there was surely no way- “What would bring you all the way down here? Do you have a death wish?” Don’t listen to him, that’s obviously- “Or perhaps... You want to be turned into a m e a l . . . ?”

“SHUT UP!” She managed to yell out, soon falling onto her knees and placing a hand against her own throat, breathing heavily as she tried to catch her breath. Why did it feel as if she was choking? Why did everything seem so dark, and... Was he drawing closer? He was able to get close to her with a few simple steps, almost as if he teleported!

Questions flooded her mind as she felt his cold hand lift her chin up, her orange eyes staring into those that were brown at first, fading into a glowing yellow as his mouth forms into a wicked grin. “It looks as if that wench had pretty much told you everything you wanted to know, and I won’t let that get into a public ear. You see, I crawled my way back into stardom with her ‘help’, and I won’t let you be the one to take it all away.”

“...B-back...?” Back? With her help? What did he mean?

“It’s a story that you surely would want to hear, huh? Well, it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to focus enough to remember a single thing! That’s soooo sad...!” He laughed after those words were spoken out, all lights within the hallway fading away and soon being replaced by spires of purple and yellow lights. Looking below her, they were now on some sort of stage, and up above were what looked to be the hanging corpses of employees who had gotten their soul eaten up by this monster. “You won’t even be able to fight in your current condition! But I’ll give you pity-” He teleports to the center of the stage, leaving her at the edge as she slowly got herself up. “Let’s see if you can even leave a scratch on me! Go on! Use one of your bombs!”

“Why y-you... Of course I can hhhhit you with these bombs...!” She gained confidence for a moment, barely standing up on her two legs as she soon lit the fuse of an icy bomb, throwing it at the center of the stage and aiming it at The Director. While she thought it would hurt him in some way, her eyes soon widen at the sight of ice spires piercing through him as if he wasn’t there, his ‘colors’ melting away into shades of purple and his eyes showing fake dismay.

“Oh nooo, whatever shall I do, you’ve stabbed me with your ice... HAH! You don’t even know my weakness, and I guess that makes me invincible, huh? That’s too baaad~!” Another loud laugh left him as he raises his hands up in the air, multiple of his minions jumping onto the stage and rushing around in a circle. Gella was quick enough to jump over them, but her head began to feel light from her situation; Deep underground, no way of damaging him, and the sight of others’ bodies right above her. She needed help. Any kind of help. She was scared. She was powerless. She was going to d i e .

How relationships tend to fail. How it all falls apart at even a single word, depending on who you are with. A mysterious figure loomed over the town, standing on the highest point and looking down to the studio building. It was now shrouded in a dark type of mist, with multiple bystanders looking closely within sheer curiosity. They remained silent, though, watching it all go down.

One of the ones who were up close to the building was the fox that told the girl about the myth, her tail swaying back and forth as her hand tries to push through. It was somehow solid like a wall, but she swore she could hear the laughter of someone from behind it. “...That guy is such a weirdo,” she shrugs, looking over to one of the bystanding Fire Spirits. “But if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t really have a place to live in this city. Doesn’t mean this is good for him to do, though.”

“He’ll burn, he’ll buuuuurn~!” The Fire Spirit sung out in joy, hands against their chest as they spun around in a circle. “A punishment, soon arriving, a young hero, now surviving~!”

“Yeah yeah whatever just HELP ME OUT.” She bashed her shoulder against the smoke, growling and motioning for others to join in. The first to join was the Fire Spirit that was nearby, followed by fellow spirits. Then came the minions, all stacking onto each other to reach their heights. And finally, the dwellers, phasing into large, mysterious fruit that grew red over time. With a mighty throw, the fruit would soon explode, supposedly damaging the wall.

“COME ON EVERYONE, WE GOTTA GET THEM THE HELL OUT OF THERE BEFORE HE TURNS HER INTO A SNACK!”

“AYE!” “Yes, yeeees~!” “This is more fun than when I got to throw tomatoes at some weird looking penguin!”

The figure on top of the tower merely smiled, soon fading into thin air as the full moon is what kept the city lit up within the darkest hours.

“Come on, is that all you’ve got? I could of sworn you had more spunk in you, kid~” The spirit leisurely remained in the center of the stage, watching as the young hero dangled by her leg from a rope, her eyes widened as she swayed her body to avoid thrown objects, such as knives and broken equipment. Seriously, this is ridiculous!

“...L-let... Me... Go...!” She wheezed out, barely missing what looked to be a ‘rubber’ knife that went by her hair, grazing it and letting a few loose locks fall to the ground. She needed a hair cut anyways, this is fine!

“Face it- No one is around to help you, no one cares about you, and no one will even think about entering this place! Your soul now belongs to ME!”

“. . .” He was right, wasn’t he? There wasn’t really any help down here, and she could feel herself getting more weak as time would pass on, especially with her struggling. Her body limped within the rope’s hold, eyes half-lidded and her soul aching from the mysterious curse this place had. She couldn’t scream if she wanted, even as the ghost of the studios began to stray forward, grin growing wider than ever, hands reaching out to tear her body apart and claim the soul inside.

“Say goodbye to that little body of yours!” Her eyes closed shut as she saw his hands get closer, her heart beating as if she was in a horror movie, and all signs of hope escaping her as the air around her got cold...

* S H I N G ! *

“...!”

“Leave the child a l o n e !” Wait a minute. That voice. Wasn’t that...

“VANESSA?!”

When Gella opened her eyes, she was met with the sight of The Director’s hands being incased within a mysterious, blue ice. It surely wasn’t any color she had seen before but- Hey, wait. If he was a ghost, how was he now stuck in this ice? Was it a special ice she had summoned? Before she could ask any questions, a shard of ice soon cuts through the rope holding her by her leg, giving her the chance to land on the ground and pick herself up as the antagonist of this scene struggled to get out. “Wha... Why are you hhhelping... I thought...”

“There is no time to explain, please, just do what you must, and leave as soon as you can!” Her voice sounded desperate, her body trembling as Samuel was soon able to cause cracks within the ice. And as much as she wanted the girl to leave, the only response gotten was of Gella throwing an ice bomb at him, a flash of red going over him for a mere second as the ice managed to damage him.

“YOU BITCH! You know she can damage me if I’m covered in blue, or by this stupid ice of yours! That does it...”His eyes closed for a few seconds as he clenched his fists, soon thrusting his arms up and breaking the ice that encased it. Now looming over the two ladies, he had let out a loud cry of rage, hands reaching out to them as three simple words escaped his lips;

“TIME TO D I E ! !”

The female actress managed to pull Gella out of the way, a worried look on her face as she looked down into her eyes. “Why are you not running...? Is it not dangerous to stay here...?”

“...You freeze them, I throw them...” That was all she had to say as she handed her one of her regular bombs, a weak yet cocky smirk building on her face. This left the woman confused, but instead of questioning it, she soon grabbed the bomb, encasing it within a thick sheet of blue ice before giving it back to the hero.

“...Please, be careful...” “Careful isn’t exactly my game, hah...!”

And with those simple words, the battle for the fate of Subcon Studios has finally begun!

#ahit #A Hat In Time #a hat in time au #ahit au #Once Upon A Broken Time Rift ⌛STORY⌛

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diveronarpg · 5 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with HARRIET D’ANGELO, who is THIRTY-FIVE years old. She is often called HERMIONE and is NEUTRAL. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

TW: DEATH

When a PRINCESS is born, we all know how the story goes. She grows up in a castle that reaches up to the peaks of Heaven, with all that she desires at the tip of a bejeweled finger and the entirety of the world posed outside a gold-plated window; conquered and left for the taking. The princess embraces it all as she leads a happy, star-streaked childhood – but then she flourishes into cynical adulthood, and happiness becomes nothing more than a myth. Her castle in the skies turns into a prison buried within the depths of the earth, and the world outside her window becomes nothing more than an unattainable dream. And then the rest of her journey fades into a haze of rebellion and rage – because it can’t possibly end any other way, could it? Stories like these are abound in cities like Verona. You can almost see their scripts written over blood-soaked cobblestones and drawn across dusty, boarded up windows. And so, it’s only natural for one to FORESEE this story and claim to know how it unfolds without even sparing its text a glance. But there could be no greater mistake when it comes to the story of Harriet D’Angelo for it is not one that speaks of princesses and dragons and noble heroes. It simply speaks of a girl who loved and lost and LIVED to tell her own tale.

Harriet wasn’t born a princess, and she didn’t grow up in a castle – but she certainly came close. The D’Angelo family was not in the ruling class towards which the likes of the Du Ponts and the Vernons belonged, but it was esteemed in its own right. And so, Harriet received the BLISSFUL upbringing that could be expected for any child born onto the glamorous, gleaming pedestal of aristocracy. She received the greatest education, dressed in the finest silks, and hovered within the brightest social circles. However, while some would fill themselves up with such blessings until they reached the pinnacle of gluttony, Harriet merely took what was enough and looked no further. She possessed an uncanny sense of HUMILITY, despite being born to a mother who hungered for influence and a father who thrived on the opinions of others. Her eyes never sharpened with disdain as she looked up at her superiors, and her nose never wrinkled with disgust as she looked down at her lessers, either. Her sights were limited to what was before her; her heart tethered to the bright, sunlit slice of the world she found with her family – because for all their faults and flaws, they loved each other, and to Harriet, that was more than enough.

Even when that love was tested beyond its bearings, it was still ENOUGH for her, although it took her a tremendous amount of time and patience to reconcile with that belief. After all, no amount of faith could prepare anyone for the prospect of being shackled by the very people through which they sought freedom and safety – and that was exactly what happened on the dreary day when her parents made her an unprecedented, unwanted, offer of betrothal. It was from an established young man who, in her mother’s words, had hymns sung to his name around every corner of the city – but not even that description was quite as appalling as the story he spun. A chance encounter had apparently set him on Harriet’s unwitting path, and indeed, just like that, he wished for her be his. It was at that point that Harriet decidedly shut her ears to the rest of her mother’s honeyed words, eyes brimming with enraged tears and lips clamping shut against the protests that struggled to break free. But then her mother began to speak of how impactful such a marriage would be for their family name, holding Harriet’s hand in a feather-light grip as her lips curved with a smile that sparked stars into her eyes and dug the tenuous doubt into Harriet’s mind that perhaps this was indeed a venture worthy of her SACRIFICE. Her mother would have moved on to ensure her that she was under no obligation to do this – but before her tongue could even roll around the words, Harriet said yes. Even then, she would have still said yes. Even if asked to jump off a precipice and give her life away for her family’s sake, she would have still said yes. LOYALTY was as rigid and firm in her blood as a pillar of steel, and if anything stood true to Harriet, it was that.

Her marriage only lasted a handful of months, and when it finally sputtered away, it left behind a waning, war-torn GHOST of who Harriet had once been. The man she had gifted herself to turned out to be nothing more than a cruel, conniving monster who took away her life and then dared to take away the one thing that would have brought it back; feeding her lies of redemption and change upon the adoption of their child, only to walk away and leave her in the dust mere months later. Her son was the breath of life her heart had starved for, and it was in the wake of his blessed arrival into her life that Harriet found the will and the strength to gather her ashes and RISE from them. Years passed in blessed peace that she and her son joyously shared – right before it was ripped from them; right before he was ripped from her. The twist of fate couldn’t have been more random, or more cruel. Another vicious link had erupted in the chain of war harnessed by undeserving Capulet and Montague hands, and her son fell victim to it. A casualty was the exact wording in the tabloids, but there was no describing the loss or the AGONY that it brought forth. Once again, she crumbled; only this time, Harriet had to learn how to pick herself up. This time, she let herself soak up in the ashes in the hopes they would leave the scar on her heart even a little bit faded by the time she was back on her feet. This time, she taught herself how to stand alone, and how to seize that loneliness and turn it into strength. Now, she has risen, and rather than wait and pray, she has stolen a slice of peace and made it hers. And even with her heart torn in two, even with her happiness incomplete and unfulfilled, she was determined to protect what little of it she’s managed to earn. In Verona, the cost of PEACE is bloody and heavy, but make no mistake; she is willing to PAY it.

ODIN BELLO & MATTHIAS WARREN: Demons. Othello and Malcolm. Two accursed names that have haunted and tormented her from the moment they poked out of the retelling of her son’s death like twin blades. Out of the drawling, monotone slew of the police officer’s words and straight into the core of her gnashing heart. Harriet doesn’t wish to find them, but she knows that her path will inevitably collide with theirs. After all, no two strings of fate ever went untangled when pulled by the hands of tragedy – especially in a city like Verona. But just as her story is not one that centers around a princess-turned-queen, it is not one that is driven by a force of vengeance, either. She doesn’t seek to harm them or punish them—but that doesn’t mean she isn’t seeking to condemn them with every untarnished inch of her heart.

DELILAH BELLO: Reflection. She’s heard the scathing whispers tacked onto Delilah Bello’s name, and the dreary tale that follows in its wake. It’s one that undeniably parallels her own, with the only difference being that Harriet was leashed by the chain of devotion while Delilah was caught in the snare of love. But in the end, is there truly that much of a difference between the two? Harriet isn’t too keen on figuring that out, but she is intrigued by Delilah’s story and the struggle she must find in her ceaseless attempts to regain control of its narrative. Perhaps it will help Harriet regain control of hers. Perhaps it will help her learn that such is a goal that she should have aspired for many years and losses ago.

SANTINO GALLO: Lost soul. The vision of the man struck her heart the moment she laid eyes on him, although at the beginning, it was merely due to the pitiful state in which she found him. Huddled up in a dark alleyway, one hand pressed against his stomach and the other gnarling against the grimy pavement as he retched. Her immediate impression was that he was a drunken fool who wasn’t worth the waste of her time, but despite the thought, something kept Harriet’s feet rooted to the ground. Perhaps it was mistaken judgement or perhaps it was something far more intrinsic than that, but she decided to help him. Took him home, laid him on his couch, brushed his sweat-slicked hair from his forehead with a gentle hand, then bid him farewell with a glass of water and one last wondering glance. Somehow, Santino was able to track her down later on and demanded that she let him repay her for what she did—and strangely enough, she let him. Something about Santino tinges her tongue with the bitter taste of loss; sears her mind with the weighted question of whether or not her son would have wound up on a similar path of condemnation had his life not been cruelly ripped away. She seeks only an answer from Santino, but she might be in for a lot more than she bargained for.

MONA CHEN: Kindred spirit. Mona Chen is the last person she would have expected to befriend in the years following her son’s death. Before then, yes, Harriet would have been compelled to unravel the mysteries enshrouding the renowned Lady of Whispers—but now, the fire of her curiosity has been doused by the icy blades of mourning, and thus she should have avoided Mona at all costs. After all, her son’s precious life was ripped away at the hands of ruling figures such as Mona. But as much as it sometimes feels like a betrayal to that crucial missing piece of her heart, the sentiment only lessens with each day that she spends in Mona’s company. She’s a woman who keeps her cards close to her chest, but in turn, Harriet has no cards of her own—and perhaps that is why Mona’s let her in as much as she has. There is a lot that eludes her about the infamous woman, no matter how close they’ve grown over the years, but that speck of distance, while it may be significant to others, is of no consequence to Harriet. She shares a kinship with Mona that she hasn’t found with anyone else, and that’s all that matters to her.

Harriet is portrayed by JENNA TALACKOVA and was written by JEN. She is currently TAKEN by EMMA K.

#lsrpg #mob rp #crime rp #literate rp #established rp #neu #harriet d'angelo #w #tw #t

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