#the skill the beauty the accomplishments the seven feet of height

[baejax-the-great]

In the version of Ajax's story that would have been around during Homer's time, Ajax didn't lose the contest for Achilles' arms because he is dimwitted or because Odysseus is clever. Neither of these things had anything to do with it (and I would argue the former isn't true).

Ajax wanted to prove himself. We'll never know exactly what he'd accomplished in his life pre-Iliad because two of the sections where these things would have been laid out, the catalog of ships and Helen's introduction of all the Greek generals to Priam, were in all likelihood tampered with and erased (probably by 5th century BCE Athenians). You ever wonder to yourself why Ajax's section in the catalog of the ships is so short and also contradicts other parts of the Iliad regarding where Ajax's camp/ships are? So have historians. And the Megarans (who took Ajax as a hero of their city), who wrote their own satirical version of his section mocking the one that got canonized in the version of the Iliad we have today. The exact why and how of that erasure is an unknown, but it's a fairly accepted theory (and more supported than my original thought on reading it--wow, did Homer hate Ajax or something?).

Regardless, Homer does mention repeatedly that Ajax is the second best of all the Greeks in the Iliad. He is also, notably, the one main hero who doesn't receive direct help from any of the gods. The closest he gets is Poseidon giving him a burst of energy, but that's about it. Compare to Diomedes who has Athena driving a chariot for him, or Paris who is spirited away in combat before Menelaus can kill him, or Achilles who has Athena tricking Hector and retrieving Achilles' spear for him--Poseidon handing Ajax the equivalent of a Red Bull is pretty paltry. But it's enough, because Ajax can get shit done.

By that same token, Ajax doesn't ask the gods for much. Notably he never prays to Athena, and she never interacts with him at all. Because she hates him.

As the older story goes, Ajax believed that the way to prove himself the best of the warriors was to eschew the help of the gods and show that he could accomplish his great feats alone. In a less sympathetic version of this, his invulnerability makes him cocky enough to believe he doesn't need the gods to prove himself (I actually think both these sentences mean the same thing, but the framing is a bit different--is he saying that the gods' help is beneath him? Or is he desperate to prove himself without getting a leg up from powerful beings?). Athena likes her little toy soldiers, and dislikes being ignored by great warriors who by all accounts should be begging for her favor, so this didn't sit well with her.

In eschewing the gods' help, Ajax does prove himself more capable than the other Greeks. His accomplishments are his alone. Nobody is going to compliment Paris for surviving his duel with Menelaus because they all know a goddess helped him. At various points throughout the Iliad, warriors accuse each other of having the gods helping them (such as when Little Ajax eats shit while racing Odysseus and blames Athena for favoring him), thus cheapening their victories.

Nobody can say this about Ajax. Everything he did, he did himself.

And for his pride, Athena hates him. And because of this, she will deny him the one thing he wanted--recognition of his abilities. When the time comes for the Greeks to give their respect to Ajax as their greatest warrior, something they all know he is, she rigs it so that they don't. Ajax is snubbed. His abilities will go unrecognized.

He goes mad--and we already know he's not the kind of guy who can ask for help--and so he is killed by the only warrior strong enough to defeat him--himself.

[sjhanny2000]

The Danger of Flamboyant Love (Part 1)

A/N: This is my first Demon Slayer fanfic so I apologize in advance if it's choppy! This fic includes Tengen x Reader x The Wives

Warning(s): angst, ?

~~~

You were by no means a master seamstress, but Kami did you feel so accomplished as you inspected your nearly finished handiwork laying on the engawa before you. The patchwork of various flashy and beautiful fabrics sewed together, coming together to form the comforter you were hoping to have completed soon. This piece of bedding had been a work in progress from nine months now, with moments of distraction and housework stalling your progress from time to time, but you were determined to have it done by the date of you and your spouses' shared anniversary, which was now only a week away. Winter was inching closer and closer and with the season came the freezing cold and snow, meaning the house would be chilly and drab even with the various fireplaces lit and all precautions taken. On more than one occasion, due to your family consisting of Tengen, Makio, Hinatsuru, Suma, and you, finding a joined comforter or blankets that were big enough to cover your husband let alone two of you was near impossible to find. With that being said, you and your spouses often had to huddle in small groups underneath the covers rather than altogether and on cold nights, body heat that could have been retained if under one surface was lost and at least one of you awoke to freezing limbs.

So, with your spare time and mastered skills in sewing, you set to work, steadily adding various pieces of spare or purchased cloth for each section. At near completion, the comforter now was the length of all of you combined with added space in case one wished to spread out some and still be covered and the width was enough for someone of Tengen’s size to be warmly and properly covered with extra room. The comforter was what you believed to be your greatest work so far and hopefully flashy and flamboyant enough for your dramatic Hashira for a husband and was capable of bringing a smile to your wives’ beautiful faces. Much to your displeasure though, progress had once again been forced to a halt.

The basket that once held yards and scrapes of varying colorful fabrics now stood empty, the last piece having now been added to the comforter not too long ago. You hadn’t realized how low your supplies had gotten until your hand grazed the empty bottom of the basket early this morning and after a swift search around the house, you came to terms that no additional fabric was present either. Such a dilemma was typically an easy fix to make; you would simply grab your basket and make your way into the nearest village to purchase the remaining cloth you needed to finish your project at the time before returning home before dark. Tengen had been firm from the moment you were given to him that under no circumstances were you to leave the estate without an escort and most definitely not at a time that would force you to return home in the dark. See, you were no shinobi unlike the others, no, you had been the youngest child of eight of a distant feudal lord, whose subordinate village was being plagued with various mysterious and sudden deaths. Your father, fearing for his people and your family, sent word to the Demon Slayer Corps in hopes of gaining their assistance in dealing with the matter. At the time of these events, you had merely been sixteen years old with no marriage arranged unlike your seven elder siblings, some who were already married with children of their own. You were intrigued to see the Demon Slayers in action and then, only a few days after your father’s letter had been sent, one of the Corps members appeared on your doorstep.

The man was intimidating to say the least, standing nearly two feet taller than your meager height of 4’11”, and the array of jewels and make up on his face was captivating. He bluntly introduced himself to your father as Tengen Uzui, the Sound Hashira, and as they calmly conversed with one another, though it had been clear your father felt intimidated by this hulk of a man, you couldn’t look away. You had grown up modestly for one of your status and quite secluded, to ensure no one would either take advantage of you or kidnap you for ransom or forced marriage, and anything new had been quite exciting to someone as sheltered as you. When their conversation came to a close and Tengen moved to leave, the Hashira’s fuschia colored eyes landed upon your small form partially hidden behind on one of the pillars within the room. His emotionless yet heavy stare had your cheeks turning red with embarrassment, rushing to escape the room before he could comment on your unauthorized presence. You did not see the Hashira again until three days after his arrival, the Demon Slayer arriving on the doorstep of your home once more with an air of superiority and elegance, his uniform torn in various places while cuts and scrapes littered his pristine skin. He was swift in informing your father that he had dispatched the troublesome demons with style, hands resting on his well muscled hips, silver hair swaying with the movement. Your father, in both awe and gratitude, gave his thanks to the Sound Hashira and beckoned you forward with a stern call of your name and like the obedient child you were, you calmly made your way to his side. What he did next truly surprised not only you but Tengen as well.

“As thanks for your acts of bravery, I wish to give you my youngest daughter’s hand in marriage, Uzui-sama,” your father cheerfully announced, hand resting on your anxious shoulder. “It is the least I can do for what you have done for my people.”

Within an hour following this announcement, you were silently walking after a quiet Tengen, the once boisterous Hashira now seeming to be contemplative. The man had agreed to take you as payment, making you his wife in turn, and your sixteen year old mind was truly panicking at the time. Tengen, who you came to learn was not only a Hashira but a shinobi as well, was five years your senior and he already had three wives waiting at home for him! All you could think about the entire way to the Uzui estate was how your father had slighted you by giving you away to this random stranger, his position and background be damned. If your mother had still been alive, you were adamant that she would have beat some sense into your scheming father, the man only seeing a profit or benefit in everything he did. Still, even with your grievances in mind, you found yourself slightly excited at the prospect of being the wife of not only a Demon Slayer but one of the Nine Pillars as well!

As your gaze shifted back and forth contemplatively between your work in progress and the empty basket, you felt unsettled as your mind and heart tug at one another.

If I go, I will be disobeying my husband’s orders.

But if I do not, the comforter will not be done in time for our anniversary.

Your heart ached at the thought of the comforter being given to your spouses unfinished, the perfectionist within you growling with bitter distaste.

The sun has just risen within the past hour. If I make haste, I can arrive at the village by noon and return home by sunset before demons begin to emerge.

Swiftly, you took hold of the basket and rushed down the hallway to slip on your sandals. You could do this, you were a grown and capable woman and the wife of one of the Hashira; all you had to do was be nimble in both your movements and purchases and no one would ever even know you were absent from the estate! On a day of good weather like today, the journey to the village took two hours max, which meant you would arrive around ten in the morning, use an hour or so for shopping, and you would be on your way home by two in the afternoon in order to be home by sundown at four o’clock. As you stepped outside the wisteria covered walls of the estate, you took in the empty road and quietly shut the door behind you with a soft click. Hopefully, your spouses would not come home during your absence. One could only hope, your feet carrying you away towards the village.

By the time you reached the village, the sun was nearly at the highest point of the day. Villagers and merchants bustled about, going about the day like any other, very few paying any attention to your wandering self. You had been to this village plenty of times over the years, the trip often made for needed items or pleasure, depending on the present circumstances. The last time you had visited was nearly seven months ago, Tengen having asked if you’d like to accompany him on simple business for the Demon Slayer Corps. It had been a pleasant trip filled with laughs, good food, and simplicity you often missed in your position as a shinobi’s wife. Tengen, ever the flashy man, had not been afraid to shower you in physical affection, something you had come to absolutely crave when he and your wives were absent. He made you feel like a true princess and you relished in every moment of it.

“Ah, Y/N-sama! What a surprise!”

Standing in the front of your destination was a woman with greying jet black waves tied into a simple bun, clothes warm and bland according to Tengen’s rigid standards, a warm smile on her face.

With a cheerful laugh, you hurried to approach the kind older woman with a smile of your own, “Ayame-san, it has been too long! You’re looking well!”

“Well as I can be at my age, my lady,” Ayame replied playfully, curled hand coming to rest on her hip. “Now where are those adorable spouses of yours? I’ve never seen you without one of them before!”

Your cheeks heated up at her words, heart rate increasing with your rising anxiety. “I, uh, I’ve come alone today. I needed some fabric to finish the project I’ve been working on and couldn’t wait for one of them to escort me as per usual.”

“Oh, you’re almost done, eh? Well, you’ve come to the right place! Come in, come in!” The dark haired woman swiftly ushered you inside the warm store, a variety of colorful clothes covering the dark walls.

Ayame shuffled over to a particular stand covered in various colors of shiny floral patterns, easing over a roll with a night blue background and silver flowers. “I had a feeling you’d be coming in today, so I pulled this beauty out of my special collection. I thought that flamboyant husband of yours would love this one!”

The fabric was brightly colored, the design was intricate, and it had a shine to it, of course Tengen would love it!

You grinned as you carefully inspected the roll in awe, “Oh Ayame-san, this is perfect! Tengen-sama is going to adore this!”

“Of course he is! I may be old but I’ve got an eye for fashion, Y/N-sama!” The older woman let out a righteous harrumphed, hands settling dramatically on her hips.

Giggling, you shook your head at the woman’s antics. “Of course Ayame-san. I would never doubt your fashion taste for a second.”

She grinned at the playful compliment, moving behind the counter with purpose, “I’m honored, my lady. Now then, how much will you be needing today?”

“I believe three yards of this one will do,” Your eyes traveled around the store with a thoughtful hum until it landed on a roll of lavender purple with sakuras covering the surface. “And another three of the sakura patterned one over there, if possible.”

“Anything for you, my lady!”

Ayame went about her business, doing as she was asked, and you found yourself wandering about the shop with childish curiosity. It was a treat to be somewhere aside from the estate and you were not about to let it go to waste.

“Here we go, m’lady,” Ayame waddled over to your position, requested fabric in hand. “Is there anything else that’s caught your eye?”

Your eyes skirted over to the corner where the woman kept a bin of fabric scraps, smile growing wider at the sight. “The scraps should just about cover it, Ayame, if you’re willing to part with them that is.”

The woman scoffed, setting the scraps and your order in your basket, “*Pssh*, like I’ll ever do anything with those! At least you’ll put them to good use!”

You retrieved your money pouch and settled a generous amount in the woman’s hand. “Here, as payment for your kindness and craftsmanship.”

“Y/N-sama, this is far too much, I can’t-!” She sputtered at the amount in her hand, trying to argue against the payment you had given her.

With a tender touch, you softly curled Ayame’s fingers around the mound of coins in her palm. “You can and you will take it. You are a good friend to me, Ayame-san, and an even better seamstress. I wish to thank you for all that you have blessed me with.”

Tears began to prick at the corner of the woman’s eyes, Ayame moving to hold her heavy hand against her chest with a nod. “Bless you, Y/N-sama.”

“It is an honor, Ayame-san,” Leaning downwards, you took hold of the basket and hoisted it onto your back with a groan. “I should be on my way now if I wish to make it home before dark. Please take care of yourself!”

Waving goodbye as you exited the shop, Ayame called after you with a grin. “Be safe and tell those spouses of yours I said hello!”

“I will!”

The chilly air stung your lungs as you left the warm environment and entered the world outside of it. With your items in hand, you turned to make your way homeward when a familiar voice filled the air to your right.

“Y/N-chan? Is that you?!”

Much to your utter surprise, you found yourself turning to see a person you’d never thought you’d see again.

“Oh my goodness, Tatsuya-kun!” Your heart fluttered eagerly at the approaching man, his sun colored locks restrained in a loose ponytail atop his head.

Tatsuya had been a childhood friend of your twin brother and a constant fixture within your household growing up. The last time you had seen him was a week or so before your departure with Tengen and what a lie it would be if you didn’t say that you had once wished that he would have been your husband. Those childish dreams died the moment you had been gifted to Tengen and the thought of marrying Tatsuya disappeared from your mind.

The man hurried up to you with a blinding grin and a bone crushing hug, clearly as eager and excited to see you as you were of him. “When I heard what your father did, I never thought I would see you again, Y/N-chan! Look at you now, a beautiful young woman!”

“And you, a handsome young man, Tatsuya-chan.” Your cheeks heated up at his compliment, tilting your head slightly in humility. “You have been doing well, I hope?”

“As well as I can be without you being near, blossom,” Tatsuya looked at you with a playful grin, ice blue eyes sparkling in the fall sun. “Where’s your handsome Demon Slayer husband? Hiding out somewhere while you’re out and about?”

“Always so jealous, Tatsu-kun. You act as if you’re upset that I wasn’t married to you.” You giggled and gave him a playful shove, hiding behind your smirk behind your hand.

The moments those words left your mouth, the air surrounding the two of you tensed and the grin fell away from the man’s face.

His eyes were consumed with bitter, knowing sadness, regret and hatred swirling about like a raging whirlpool, “That’s because I am and always will be. It was me that your father should have given you to, not some fancy shinobi.”

You froze at his statement, lips trembling in surprise. “Tatsuya-kun, I-!”

“I-I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair of me,” Tatsuya speedily backtracked, pulling away with a pained smile. “It’s not as if you had any control over who you were allowed to marry. Just, does he treat you well? The shinobi, I mean?”

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes, holding your hands against your chest to stop them from visibly trembling. “He does, as do our wives.”

At seeing Tatsuya’s eyes widen in worried surprise, you quickly moved to perform damage control, “My husband’s clan is one that actively practices polygamy. He was given three wives before father gave myself to him and they treat me just as well!”

“I see. Cultural differences are interesting, eh?” Tatsuya looked to you with cautious eyes, forced mirth twinkling in the pools of ice.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head at his comment. “You cannot even begin to understand.”

The two of you chuckled and the tension lifted, leaving you with comfortable silence.

After a few moments of said silence, Tatsuya spoke up. “I know you most likely need to return home soon, but would you like to have afternoon tea with me? We can catch up and you can maybe tell what it’s like to be married to four people. Like we used to.”

A fond smile colored your face as the warm feeling of reminiscence filled your person, “I would love to.”

“Shall we then?” Your childhood friend held out his arm with a mischievous grin, earning himself a giggle from you.

Like a reflex, you locked your arm around his and shot him a jolly smirk. “We shall.”

The man led you down the street to his home at a leisurely pace, the two of you joking with one another long away like old times. With all the excitement of seeing an old friend, you didn’t take notice of his shadow and how a menacing grin grew on its face as you were led further into the village and farther from the safety of your home.

[victoria-daydreams]

Lost in the Stars

AN: My first attempt of writing a Star Wars fanfiction and first time writing for the Mandalorian, go easy on me. Sorry if there’s any mistakes.

Summary: When Sarela Reyes accepted a bounty to find some missing child it should have been a simple job. What she got instead was a chance meeting with a certain Mandalorian, and her world was never the same.

Sarela Reyes sipped on her glass of brandy as she patiently sat in a corner of a crowded cantina named Plo's awaiting the arrival of one Zef Vanel, a man that had a job for her. She sat with her legs crossed as her eyes swept over the cantina, surveying everyone and everything. At first glance people would assume that there was nothing special about the chestnut skinned woman. She was, by all appearances what an average human female would look like. That is not to say she was a plain woman, she's actually quite lovely and has been told that many times.

Sarela was a young woman of average height with an athletic yet curvy build. Her black, tightly coiled hair framed her round face, bringing attention to her round shaped eyes that were like pools of honey and cinnamon. One would almost mistake her for being a native of the planet until they heard her speak. Her accent was very distinct, it would either drive people away in disgust or bring them in closer just for the opportunity to shower her with empty flatteries of her appearance.

But Sarela didn't really care what people thought of her. Her appearance was only a tool like her blaster, or her fists if need be. She used it when it proved to be useful.

The young woman tapped her fingers on the table, observing the cantina that was bustling with life as the band played an upbeat song and drunken humans and aliens spoke obnoxiously loud in a variety of languages. Seven months ago, Sarela would've turned her nose up and scowl at her surroundings, but now the sight of seeing puddles of vomit and witnessing gunfights at Plo's was commonplace.

However, that's not to say Sarela would prefer to be here, the last seven months had not been kind to her. Her life had been upended on the previous planet she lived on and was pretty much left with nothing because of it. In the months that Sarela arrived here she had worked a dozen jobs ranging from small time smuggling and even a few bounties. She knew that with the skills she had she was far above the jobs she'd been receiving. But she took them anyway because it was good fun and easy credits.

Sarela's full shaped lips struggled to hold back a smirk at the sight approaching her before she knocked back the rest of her brandy. A fat, human man approached her table and once the man spotted the woman he outstretched his arms. He appeared to be in his mid forties and skin was olive-toned and had closely cropped brown hair. He wore a long green vest over his long-sleeve cream collared shirt, black pants, and knee high boots.

"Reyes!" the man bellowed happily. "My friend!" he added, sliding in the seat in across from Sarela in her booth.

Sarela didn't consider the man in front of her a friend, sure he was the first person she met on this planet and he gave her small jobs to get on her feet financially. The only reason he helped Sarela was because he thought she was some beautiful, small fragile thing, until he saw her easily defend herself against three people in this cantina after they picked a fight with her.

That same night Zef asked her about being a hired gun to keep him safe, at first Sarela didn't understand why Zef need a gun to protect him. But after spending one week with him she realized why as Zef had the awful habit of swindling the local crime lords or anyone gullible enough to fall for his schemes.

And it is for that reason that Sarela wouldn't trust Zef as far as she could throw him.

Sarela shook her head, "Zef," she greeted dryly, her voice was elegant and poised like most accents from the core world. "You're late," she stated, looking down at her nails.

"I can't even get a simple greeting Reyes?" Zef questioned, as a waitress placed down a plate of food and a mug of ale.

"Let's not play games old friend," Sarela said, lifting her head to look at him. "Why did you ask me here?" she inquired.

"You were never one for pleasantries Reyes," Zef commented, as he set his meaty elbows on the table.

"What's the job Zef?" Sarela asked slowly, and her thick Imperial accent was more pronounced due to her growing impatience.

Zef busied himself in cutting up his chicken, "There's a child that's missing," he explained, before taking a bite of his meal.

Sarela's eyes narrowed and she slightly leaned forward, "This is what you had me waiting an hour for?" she inquired. "For some missing kid?" she questioned, letting out a scoff. Sarela stood up from the table. "Unbelievable," she shook her head. "Go find someone else Zef. I have better things to do!" she hissed, before walking away.

Zef's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, "6,000 credits," Zef whispered harshly, just loud enough for Sarela's ears to hear it and she stopped in her tracks. "That's how much they're offering," he added, and she slowly turned on her heels.

Zef let go of her wrist, "6,000 credits for some missing kid?" Sarela inquired, arching her brow. "Who's the kid?" she asked, now sliding back into the seat.

"It's Vullen's daughter," Zef answered, taking a swig of his ale.

Sarela's eyes widened, "The Mayor's daughter?" she repeated. "Missing?" she asked, now intrigued.

Zef nodded his head, "I had the same reaction as well," he stated, drinking more of his ale. Zef reached down and dug into his vest pocket and lightly tossed his holoprojector onto to the table. "Here she is," Zef commented, tapping the holo. "Little Lora Vullen," he announced, stretching his hand out.

Sarela studied the hologram of the young girl. She was a small and slim child with fair skin and light brown wavy hair that stopped at her shoulders. Light freckles sprinkled across her upturned nose and cheeks and her blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the hologram.

"She can't be older than what, eleven?" Sarela guessed, lifting her gaze to Zef's.

"Twelve," he corrected, turning off the holo and putting it back into his pocket.

"This is not like the other jobs you given me Zef," Sarela stated. "Why are you tell me?" she questioned, folding her arms over her chest.

"Well I figured a woman like yourself would be best for the job compared to others," he began, and Sarela lifted an eyebrow.

She knew what Zef was getting at, unlike them, she had proper training. And she knew that in Zef's eyes that made her more ruthless as any accomplished bounty hunter and even more skilled and quick-witted as the best smugglers.

Zef sighed in exasperation, "Come on Reyes, you and I both know that you have skills that are far superior to the common gun for hire," Zef continued, doing his best to persuade her. "This is a delicate situation, I'm sure Vullen doesn't want the riff raff putting their dirty little hands on his daughter," he added.

"As far as Vullen's concerned, I am apart of the riff raff," Sarela countered. "He might hate me even more since I'm an ex-Imperial," she pointed out.

"It's been years, who cares at this point. The war is over," Zef replied, shrugging his shoulders.

Letting out a sigh Sarela squeezed the bridge of her nose, "Alright, say if I take the job," she began, looking up at Zef again. "What's in it for you Zef?" Sarela asked.

Zef laughed, "You know me too well Reyes," he said, shaking his head. "I was hoping if everything goes right then Vullen would appoint me into that recently vacant administrator position," he explained, a grin on his face.

"Of course you were," she chuckled.

"So you'll take the job?" Zef asked, as the door to the cantina opened behind Zef.

Sarela watched as a man wearing shiny silver armor that matched with the helmet covering his head enter into the cantina. Instantly, she felt her blood run cold as she immediately recognized the armor. Beskar. The man was a Mandalorian, a mercenary. It was only matter time before her past caught up with her. Maker, she didn't even get to live a full year on this planet without someone coming after her.

"Reyes," Zef called, snapping his fingers.

Sarela shook her head from her daze, "I'll take the job," she confirmed, nodding her head. "Five percent cut as always?" Sarela questioned, holding out her hand.

"Ten?"

"Don't get greedy Zef. Five or no deal," Sarela responded, her hand hung waiting.

"Fine...five," Zef agreed and they shook hands. "I will see you at Vullen's office tomorrow morning," he said, lightly hitting the table and standing up from it.

"Tomorrow it is," she repeated, flipping her hood up.

Zef nodded and walked away from her, quickly greeting someone else in the cantina. Sarela's eyes made their way back to the Mandalorian who was now speaking to Plo, the man who owned the cantina.

"Good," Sarela thought.

He wouldn't notice her slipping out of here. Sarela lifted her scarf that ran down almost to her waist and tightened it around the lower half of her face. She slid out from the booth she was sitting in and steathily walked past the armored man, keeping her eyes straight ahead to the door. The sound of hissing met Sarela's ears as she stepped out the cantina and into the sunny streets of the surrounding market. She squinted her eyes as they adjusted to the bright daylight after the darkness of the cantina.

Sarela moved along with the crowd, blending in easily as she pretended to shop for fruit in the street market. As she walked along the busy market Sarela subtly kept her hands on her belt where her vibroblade was sheathed in its holster as well as her blaster on her thigh. Sarela bent down at another fruit stand, picking up the produce to inspect it and froze momentarily.

She suddenly got the feeling she was being watched.

She smiled at the vendor as she placed the fruit back down onto the stand before she pressed on through the crowd, this time quickening her pace. Sarela maintained her calm demeanor and made herself uninteresting as possible as a squad of guards brushed past her as they patrolled the market square. Her brown eyes scanned her surroundings and noticed an alleyway that she was nearly approaching. Sarela made a sharp turn into the alleyway and spotted a ladder from the fire escape attached to the building. Sarela ran towards it and leaped onto the ladder, nimbly climbing to the top and quickly ducking into the open window.

Just as Sarela planted her feet on the floor of the abandoned room she saw a figure enter into the alleyway as well. It was just as Sarela suspected, she was being followed, and by that Mandalorian no less. The Mandalorian had his gun drawn as he slowly walked deeper into the alley, keeping his head on a swivel for any sign of her. Sarela watched as the Mandalorian holster his gun, seeing that there was no one in the alley and he turned his back toward the window she was hiding in. Silently, Sarlea climbed out the window still observing the armored man's movements.

The Mandalorian began to walk out of the alley just as Sarela landed gracefully on the ground without making a sound. She crept behind the man, readying herself for a fight.

"Looking for me?" she called, and the Mandalorian immediately turned around only to receive a powerful kick to the gut and let out a loud grunt.

The Mandalorian stumbled back from the blow before regaining his footing as Sarela charged at him. She kicked her legs out forward into a crane kick which the Mandalorian blocked with his arms, quickly throwing a punch into Sarela's gut. She gasped sharply, the blow knocked the air out of her as she dropped to the ground. The Mandalorian roughly grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her up close to his helmet.

"What do you want?" the Mandalorian questioned, his voice gravelly.

Sarela stared into the dark shaded visor, "I should be asking you the same thing," she retorted, swiftly she reached down for her vibroblade and jabbed it towards his throat.

The Mandalorian reflexes were faster as he stopped her strike with his other hand and knocked the blade from her hand. Sarela grunted in frustration and yanked her knee up into the man, hearing a groan escape his mouth. The man struck his fist out, hitting Sarela across the face sending her down to the ground hard. She let out a groan of her own, twisting herself around just in time to see the Mandalorian with his blaster out and aiming at her. Using her agility, Sarela kicked the tip of his blaster away, she could hear it blast the ground beside her arm. The heat from the discharge rippled near her skin.

The Mandalorian raised his arm again after readjusting his grip around the blaster only to see Sarela her tightly holding her blaster in her grip, leveling it at him with her finger on the trigger. They were at a stalemate and Sarela could tell the Mandalorian was weighing his options just as she was.

"Why did you leave that cantina in such a rush?" the Mandalorian asked, breaking the tense silence.

"Why did you go after me?' she asked back, breathing heavily as her finger still rested on the trigger.

"I asked first,"

"Maybe I get a little jumpy when I see a Mandalorian appear out of nowhere," Sarela suggested, faintly feeling the hood from her scarf began to slip off her dark hair. "Now back to my question," she continued. "Why did you come after me?" she inquired. "Was it for a bounty? Tell me, how much was I worth this time?" she questioned.

"I'm not here for you," the Mandalorian stated. "I'm here to stop you from returning the child and collecting the bounty,"

"Stars above!" Sarela exclaimed. "You chased me down for Vullen's daughter?" she sassed incredulously.

The Mandalorian aim on her seem to waver slightly, "Vullen?" he asked.

"Yes! Vullen, the Mayor!" she snapped.

"There was a man in the cantina bragging to the barman saying you gotten a bounty for a child that's worth good amount of credits," The Mandalorian explained. "He said you and him were going to become very rich people," he finished.

Sarela exhaled deeply, "I'm going to kill Zef," she growled.

Part II

[pumahat]

The End of Eternity.

The first chapter to a story I am writing. Please Enjoy.

I hate executions. Simple as that.

              Walking down The Grand Basilica’s Western Hallway, Doffer Mao pondered, By the all the gods out there, why does this hallway have to be so long? Maybe there was a point in it, the agonizingly long walk did seem to give prisoners enough time to reflect on their ‘sins’ as they were led past dozens of paintings and statues depicting the ‘glory’ of the Mages. It very well could be the case, but as the Grand Mage of fifteen years, it’s unlikely Mao would ever know what went through the minds of those soon to be purified. Then again, Mao realized, this was a hallway exclusive to master mages.

                After some time admiring the ancient masterpieces of the western hallway, Mao finally approached the large ebony doors at the end of the road. He smirked. And I shall look upon them and dub ‘The Black Gates of Death’. Knocking four times, Mao patiently waited for the doormen to let him into the chamber. Four minutes of dull silence was broken by the soft groaning of the ancient doors. The doors; ancient and still strong, fifteen feet tall, each five feet in width, and five inches of solid ebony wood; masterpieces in their own respect. Although not ornately designed like the rest of the Basilica, the doors held an ominous, almost demonic aura to them. Pitch black doors leading to hell.

Mao remembering his history lessons from decades ago, knew that the wood for the doors were taken from the oldest and largest of the ebony trees of Gods Grave to the east. The cutting of these trees was blasphemy at the highest level to the ‘pagans’ who worshipped the old gods of nature, but a fitting symbol of domination from the heavily Heratik[1] Mages Guild. Even after witnessing these doors open more times than he can count, it was always astonishing to watch the three men it took to open each door, and even then, the process was slow.

                “My dearest apologies for the wait, Grand Mage.” huffed the shortest of the young apprentices in charge of manning the doors. From the nervousness of the apprentices’ face, Mao assumed that he was new, not used to approaching the grand mage.

                “Nonsense child. You’ve done your job as was instructed,” He paused before adding: “Next time you’ll be a bit faster, yes?” as he passed the apprentice, Mao placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder and strutted past, glancing at the expectedly stunned face nodding back at him. In the thirty years as a member of the Mages Guild, Mao has never met another ranked Mage who really respected the apprentices. Most mages who get ranked past adept more often than not acquire a distasteful superiority complex, a curse that makes many see themselves as ‘above’ simply because they held the title “Mage,” they let power get to their head. He knew that this pride is what prevented many from rising higher in the Guild, pride is the pillar and the ceiling. Laughing to himself at the thought of the apprentice that manned the door taking Mao as a role model, he entered the waiting chamber.

                Striding through the great ebony doors into the waiting room, towering over everyone else with long graceful strides and gaunt stature, the Grand Mag Doffer Mao stood out like a redwood in a forest of beech, a giant amongst men as the saying goes. Without stopping, Mao promptly approached the small dull door at the end of the waiting room. Placing his hands on the magical seals locking the door, he focused energy from deep within his core out towards his fingertips. Pouring raw power into the ethereal manometer[2], Mao spun and twisted the magic circles of the manometer into varying positions and altering their sizes to create an intricate design, the deep scent of lilies filled the immediate vicinity as the room hummed with gentle green light. After several minutes, he stopped pouring magic into the manometer and pushed gently on the symbol of a gyrfalcon engraved in the center of the door. The symbol twisted and melted into the door, granting him access as the magic circles dissipated into the void. The magic seals were designed to give access only to those who could accurately release the proper amount of magical pressure while completing a complex series of magical puzzles, a feat only those with skills above that of a Grand Master could accomplish.

Once unlocked, the dull doors shimmered and melted away revealing themselves to be made of pure white mithril. The doors glowed like the full moon in the dark waiting room, with the floating everspark sconces as dim stars in the night sky. The radiant doors stood just as beautiful as the day Mao first set his eyes on them. These doors depicted various Guild stories; from men discovering the arcane arts, to the conquering of the Corellan continent, to the building and completion of the Grand Basilica as it is today some five hundred years ago. Yet for all their beauty, they could not hide was ugliness beyond.

Entering his private viewing area, situated several feet over the rest of the arena, Mao scanned the chamber with his mismatched eyes; one a pale sapphire, another a brown so dark it was almost black. Although called the Chamber of Purity, there is nothing pure about it. The entire arena was suffocated by the stench of charred flesh and dried blood that seeped out of every crack.

Sitting down on a monstrosity of a red velvet Mao couldn’t help but hold back his urge to vomit. The rotten stench of death. According to the Mages Manifesto, the Chamber of Purity can only be cleaned during the equinoxes and solstices, when (according to scripture) ‘the One True Goddess was close enough to see the blood of her enemies washed away along with their sins.’ An old barbaric concept that Mao has petitioned to remove from legislation time and time again but has always faced resistance from the Grand Jury; the Judicial and Legislative body of the Guild. At the very least, the logic behind this is more colloquially known that the cleaning calendar is based around natural energy levels and the aligning of celestial bodies, like how legally the world is flat, but every educated human knows it is a sphere.

Taking up the entirety of the Grand Basilica’s Western Wing, the chamber itself could easily fit close to a hundred comfortably throughout its colosseum-like seating arena. The large domed ceiling was roughly a hundred feet high. Ancient spells etched into the stonework caused the ceiling to seemingly to vanish, summoning various types of clouds and weather phenomena that could be altered through spells and magical auras. The only thing that broke this illusion of a roofless chamber was the ‘Eye of Judgment’, a wretched mechanical monstrosity of magnifying glasses and rune-etched metal, a reversed telescope of sorts, that was situated slightly off of the center of the dome. As Mao looked up at the Eye, he felt as if it was the eye of the heavens, with whatever gods up there looking down upon the world heavy with divine judgement.

Normally only the Jury, Mao, and twenty or so Master candidates were granted access to the chamber, except, this time, in addition to the usual suspects, some nearly fifty expert and adept level mages as well as a handful of the absurdly ornate True Goddess Clergymen occupyed the rest of the normally sparse seating arena. Someone wants to make a show of this, He thought, analyzing the situation. Based off of the current political climate, it was most likely a statement against the Cast Movement. Mao resisted the urge to bite his fingernails. I can think of no one else who would waste this much time and resources for such a trivial thing other than our Supreme Judge. Ah! And there he is, waltzing in.

Slamming through the air like thunder breaking the silence, Supreme Judge Clivus Corduroy roared in his deep booming voice calling the attention of all in attendance.

“Today! My fellow mages, we once again are blessed to witness the purification of another disgusting Eternal. Today on the seventh day of First Harvest, in the year twenty-nine eighty-seven after the Last Storm, we are joined by not just our brothers, but by several esteemed members of the True Clergy. With their presence let it be known that our journey to cleanse the world is truly just and filled with divine purpose. Now as the sun approaches her peak, let us bring forth the wretched Creature.”

‘Wretched’ doesn’t even start to describe what was once a man, Mao said to himself.

Dragged out by chained limbs, stripped of the decency of both hair and clothing, the prisoner was less of a man and more of a pile of bones held together in a thin bag of worn, lifeless skin. Mao couldn’t see much of the prisoner from this distance and requested a zoom scope from a nearby servant. When it arrived, he found the Creature to be more disturbing than he had thought.

The Creature hunched over, stood no taller than the two guards dragging him in, each of which were of average height and build. Although if he had been standing straight, Mao guessed that he would’ve easily towered over everyone in the room by a full head, most likely the same height as himself.

Gaunt, atrophied limbs hung down from his empty torso like ropes, no strength left in his body to even move them. Mao shuddered to himself at the level of abuse the Creature was clearly subjected to. His fingers and toenails ripped off; bulbous and red lash marks throbbed with little time to. Tattooed across his body were ornate pagan symbols of fire, one side of his body representing life, the other representing death, elegantly faded from age and damaged with torture scars of blades and lashes. It was castrated, burned, clearly strangled, stabbed, and beaten. It has died several times already. But what truly revolted Mao was the discovery that the Creature was covered in an unusual amount of spider veins. At first, Mao guessed that it was somewhere around the mid-thirties to early forties but looking closer he realized that they weren’t ordinary spider veins; unlike the normal blue that came with age, they were a bright unnatural green: the telltale sign of magical torture.

This form of torture was banned by the Guild twenty-five years ago, it was deemed unethical due to the extreme process of forcibly shooting waves of raw magic into the victim’s blood stream. Once forced in, the victim was subject to the full manipulation of the owner of said magic becoming puppets on strings. You could break bones and force them back together you could tear muscles and force them to keep moving, anything you wanted to do to the victim was in the realm of possibility. Once injected with the magic the victim became yours to control.

“You sick bastard, Clivus,” Mao cursed under his breath.

Focusing back on the scene unfolding before him, Mao looked into the Creature’s empty defeated eye. They didn’t seem to notice anything in the room around him. Yet something strange happened as the Creature was moved to the center of the arena. His empty eyes suddenly filled with flames of purpose as they looked directly at Mao- no, not at Mao, rather they looked into Mao, into his very being and soul. His heart caught in his throat; his eyes locked in an embrace with the Creature’s now beautiful deep amber eyes. He felt the urge to speak, to answer the voice that called to him in his mind. It tried to show him something, a name, a face, something was there. He could feel it was on the verge of existence in his mind, like the first rays of light of the rising sun. “Serve me” it spoke, and what could Mao do but accept?

In that exact moment within moments, the sun’s beams flooded into the arena through the focusing lenses of the Eye of Judgement. It was a dazzling spectacle, beams of refracted lights moved throughout the arena. With each passing beam, warmth flooded into the arena. The crowd was entranced, they gasped in wonder and joy, murmurs could be heard throughout the crowd. As everyone stared in wonder at the beams of light, Mao couldn’t help but stare at the poor Creature. That’s when he felt it.

“By the gods…” Mao whispered as his attention drew from the Creature’s amber gaze to Mao’s own hand. Slowly branding him was the symbol of the Fire Djinn Agni, the two faces of fire. Life and Death. Creation and Destruction. Light and Shadow. A balance. As he was about to lift his hand to the sun to look at the newest addition to his tattooed body, he found he didn’t need to shine a light upon it, as the brand itself glowed like dying embers. Forcing his eyes off of the wonder appearing on his hand, he looked back at the Creature. But no more did those intense amber eyes look at Doffer Mao. Now they gently closed in peaceful acceptance of his fate. Though this creature was barely human, he still retained his dignity.

Slowly the Creature was shackled to the X-cross in the center of the arena by his hands and feet. Then doing the honors himself, Supreme Judge Clivus Corduroy marked on the Creature three points with ink. A dot on the forehead, a dot on the heart, and a dot below the sternum. Representing Mind, Soul, and Body, respectively; the three aspects of existence. Once Corduroy retreated back to the control panel situated close to the Eye, the purification began.

Using the magic of the twenty master candidates, the Eye of Judgment was adjusted, aimed, and focused. The light of the sun splitting into three concentrated beams of light each precisely aimed over the three corresponding ink dots on the Creature’s body. Slowly the candidates began chanting and drawing magic circles in the air, pouring their magical energy into the 3 beams of light. As the energy flowed through the beams the Creatures skin began to blacken into charred flesh.

“More power! Make him scream!” barked Corduroy, his eyes a firestorm of rage. Following the Supreme Judge’s order, the candidate’s skin began to glow with their focused power, the air filled with magical pressure, and the dust off the ground began to stir into wild tornadoes dancing across the floor. The scents of charring flesh, rotted corpses, and magical essence was a medley of aromas unlike anything else in the known world. Soon enough the charred skin flaked away revealing a bubbling broth of melted muscle and boiling blood. Yet the Creature did not scream.

As frustration and anger filled the Supreme Judge and the candidates, the room of onlookers began to join in. The mob’s fury was a raging inferno, while the Creature, in stark contrast was at peace. Unable to believe his own eyes, Mao drew and casted a magnification spell onto the zoom scope to get an even better look at this Creature. Quite audibly, he gasped to himself in disbelief. Looking at the rage and frustration in Corduroy’s face Mao chuckled to himself. The bastard is truly crazy, He thought. Gripping the arms of his chair, Mao was at the edge of his seat. It was a rare event to see something defy the Supreme Judge Corduroy for this long and watching the anger and frustration flow from his colleague’s face brought a sick pleasure from Mao, he was almost rooting for the prisoner to retain his strength. His face grinned a grin he hasn’t felt in decades, not since he was back in his adventuring days has Mao felt this much excitement.

As much as he hated it, he wanted it to last an eternity. The screams of Corduroy bellowed like the sweet sound of the pipe organ Mao played in his youth. Mao was lost in this sick pleasure. Then came blood curdling scream that disrupted both Mao’s pleasure and the roaring of the crowd.

The Creature writhed in pain. His tensing muscles straining against the leather restraints, fingers moving in a sporadic repetition between a death grip and being sprawled out in all directions. Its torso flailing left and right shaking with so much force that the cross struggled to hold the pained Creature. The Creature struggled more and more to move with the dance of death, his convulsing head slamming against the headboard with so much force that boiling blood seeped from the head wound. Mao could imagine it now, seeing with his mind’s eye as Judgment’s Eye cooked the Creature’s skull like a boiled egg.

Wondering why the Creature is reacting only now, Mao scanned the arena. He noticed that some of the candidates began chanting hyper-sense tomes, designed to increase one’s overall awareness, but in this case altered so that the chant focused one’s pain receptors. The Creature had been resisting death with its fire magic, only now, that protection slowed the inevitable.

This scene of terror went on for almost half an hour before it lost both its strength and its will to live. Slowly but surely the beams of light empowered by the magic of twenty master candidates bored three precise holes through the Creature. It’s lifeless corpse still suspended to the cross by its arms and legs. As the beams of light faded away, judgment has been cast and the room of rage because a chamber of holy silence. Melted meat dropped from the corpse, muscle beneath the skin was noticeably torn and ripped, leaving strange indents and gorges in its charred flesh. The Creature’s amber eyes had long since bubbled and melted away, leaving empty sockets infinitely deeper in strangeness. Smoke radiated from flesh that had turned to smoldering piles of ash. The Creature’s final death was marked by countless others.

After several long minutes, it was the deep brooding voice of Supreme Judge Corduroy that broke the silence.

“Brothers, clergymen. The deed,” he paused.  “…Has been done. Another blasphemous Creature purified from this world. We Mages have done our part in this holy cleansing. Now let us leave the final prayers to the clergymen who have joined us today on this momentous occasion.” Pausing and scanning the room, letting the clergymen speak their holy prayers in ancient Mottenese, Corduroy noticed the disappointment on Mao’s face and held his head high.

After the prayers finished, his voice boomed once more. “Today was more than just the purification of another pagan beast, today is the day we show our strength to the world. Today we show that these ‘Eternal Hosts’ are not people like some would claim. Neither are they the weapons of world domination that the Tyrant to the east want us to think. And they are not eternal. No, these Creatures are no more than rabid beasts, beasts that defy the laws of nature and the laws of Holy Truth. And what do men of logic, men of holiness, men of power do to rabid beasts?”

“We put them down! We punish their sins! We purify their souls!” the mob roared in delightful unison.

“Yes! My brothers and clergymen, today we denounce Lord Cast’s ideas that the Eternal Host’s should be weapons of war. Today we denounce Jordane’s belief that they deserve the same rights as us, the pure. Today we denounce the Eternal Host’s and all those who support them!” Corduroy boomed.

Oh great, he’s talking about me.

“Today my friends, we shall unite our forces with the One True Church and purify this land. Today is when we ask of the Empire to join us and help us purify all of the known world in the name of the One True Goddess! The Goddess of Truth!” The Supreme Judge concluded with deep finality.

Roars of excitement and blind allegiance moved through the crowd like the waves of the sea. The tide of their energy pushed and pulled with the movements of Corduroy’s body. Soon enough the crowd was a mind of its own, Corduroy’s seeds of destruction had taken root. A coy smile flashed on Corduroy’s face. Mao could do little to reverse what he had started; Mao was but one man with little to no allies that could help. Not even all the power and influence he had would be of help now, this was not a matter of magic or politics; this was people falling into the age long plague of rage and hatred. Simple, pure, and near impossible to break let alone bend.

Time was of the essence, and to Mao there was not enough time to get everything done. He needed to act fast before Corduroy could have time to strike. This was a different type of battle. Corduroy had taken the first step, now everything depended on how Mao responded. He could cower in the corner and let Corduroy take the lead, or he could strike back. He moved before he had the chance to even contemplate the possible risks and rewards for either choice. Thinking won’t be enough for this task. It was time to step out of the spotlight and into the shadows.

Being the Grand Mage for decades, Mao has gained too much notoriety within the capital. His face was already known as well as his disposition against the unification of the church and guild. Precautions would already be in place in order to either coerce Mao into submission or to eliminate him as a threat. That final speech was simple, it labeled Mao as an enemy of the new world. He had felt this time was coming, but he did not expect it to be so soon.

He needed to leave the city and go underground. From there, his action could go more unnoticed. A big fish in a small pond made too many disturbances, but out by the sea they would be little more than ripples amongst the crashing waves. Quickly moving out of the arena before the crowd dispersed, Mao moved through the Grand Basilicas halls and stairways. Although the path was roundabout and at many points he moved in circles, he needed to cover his path. Confuse the Jury and their pawns before they could be moved into positions likely to end in checkmate. After some time, he began smudging his trail. Within the palace walls it was impossible to completely hide his trail, powerful spells ingrained in the walls, ceilings, floors, and foundations of the Basilica tracked movement of everyone within. Mao knew this as well as some counter measures. It’d buy him some time, and that was all he needed.

Like time mended a wound into a subtle scar, Mao did the same to his trail, dulling it and confiding it to only the immediate vicinity. Although not completely gone, at a glance one would look right over it. He hoped. It’s never a sure thing, some people like trained mages may be looking for tricks like this; others, usually palace guards untrained in the magical arts, would look for the blatantly obvious. He hoped the latter would be sent after him.

In the center of one of the hallways in the eastern wing, somewhere around three quarter’s down the hall’s length Mao placed his hand on the wall by the tips of his fingers palm up and rotated his hand counterclockwise. Just as the seal unlocked, Mao could hear the movement of people down the hall. Quickly Mao walked through the seal as if he walked through the wall itself. Once through, he spun around and quickly placed his hand back in the place he left it off on the other side, palm down, and turned it back clockwise, resealing the door.

With a sigh of relief, the aging Grand Mage pressed his back against the now solidified wall. He could hear the soldiers moving on the other side of the wall as if it were paper thin, but they would never be able to hear him from his side. Although simple in theory, he had used a very powerful and complex spell in order to guarantee that he remained hidden from the palace’s watchful eyes. The spell itself simply locks whatever the caster wants and can only be opened by the caster or whoever knows the exact steps to open or manipulate the seals. Simple yet effective. After enough time went by, Mao had decided that he had regained some energy and began the long descent down the stairway in front of him.

Suddenly thoughts of fire began blasted into his mind as his branded hand began to glow and sizzle with heat. He knew what was happening. He needed time to research, before it gets out of hand. I must keep moving.

Down and down he went for what seemed to drag on without end. An ancient spiraling staircase built into the earth marked the secret entrance into Yggdrasil, an underground labyrinth of tunnels and passageways that spread out across the continent. Through here Mao knew he could escape without being followed. The vast tunnels were essentially invisible to magic. According to rumor, when the Guild and other groups decided to map the vast tunnel system during the war against the Native Corellans some three centuries ago, they discovered that the tunnels themselves were naturally absorbent of magical energies. This meant that any magic used from within the tunnels would die out extremely quickly. He hoped these were more than just rumor, he needed to hide from arguably the most powerful source of magic on the continent.

                The wheels of change slowly began to turn, no matter what Mao could do, he was only one man. He needed to act, he needed to succeed. Unfortunately, the people of the Empire had to wait for his help, for now what needed to be done could not wait. Staring down at the mark on his hand, he felt an urge, a tugging as if someone were pulling him gently by a string. The job of guardian and guide, and slave, has been pushed into Mao’s arms, he recognized the signs.

Shit.

It was called the Calling, something he’s only read of down in the archives of the Basilica, but without a doubt this was it. From what he could remember the Calling is a form of magical bonding created between an Eternal Host and their target, it was a string of fate- no matter how far the two that are bonded go from each other they are connected. Now the descriptions written down were vague and honestly sounded like a bunch of ramblings of a madman, it went something like …Once the host and target are bonded through time and space, the minds are melted. Not through thought but through feeling, through urges and power. Magic. Strength. Emotions will guide your way, and where your emotions falter so will the body… The general gist Mao was sure he would further understand with time. For now, the issue with the Empire, Church, and Guild had to wait. As a matter of fact, Mao realized that if he let the three fight amongst themselves, he may be able to have more time to find the new Eternal Host and… and what? Keep them safe? Mao wasn’t sure what would happen, maybe in time if he cannot find the new Host, the pain of being apart would turn Mao crazy, maybe it would kill him, maybe it would drive him to kill the new Host. Maybe it would do nothing at all, if the Host never truly awakens, Mao guessed he could live with the subtle burning in his hand.

Unlike most people in the Empire, Mao never found any reason for the hatred and prejudice towards Eternal Hosts, it wasn’t their choice to be given the powers that they have and as a result they were to be systematically executed. It was punishing before there was a crime. It was fear. Eternal Hosts are beings between existences, Humans are beings of the mind, Animals of the body, and Eternals of energy and the spirit. A Host was the combination of them all.

                Reaching the bottom of the stone stair, he sat and caught his breath. I’m forty for the fuck’s sake, I’m not built for exercise. He groaned at the strain of getting back on his feet, stretching his legs, and cracking his spine brought some relief to him. Sighing, Mao moved toward the entrance of the tunnel, and picked up one of the old torches from off the wall.

At first, he tried to ignite the torch on his own but remembered that the tunnels would suck up any magic in them. It wasn’t pitch black down there, there were luminescent fungi and glowing veins of earth magic throughout the tunnel and small cavern that made up the room he stood in. He suspected that the source of the magical absorption may be from these glowing veins, but he couldn’t be sure as the Guild ceased research on the tunnels two centuries ago when faced with conflict from the arriving Akarrans lead by Lord Akira. Yet the prospect of a torch’s warmth brought a smile to his face, Mao unfortunately left his favourite winter robes back in the High Keep of the Basilica, the thought never occurred to him that the tunnels would chill to the bone, it seemed age had taken his wits from him as well as his strength.

After some time, Mao’s search for something to help ignite his torch came up fruitless. Resolved, Mao quickly ignited a flame hovering over the palm of his hand and in a swift stroke ignited the torch. It took to the flames quickly and soon it was healthily ablaze. Before he could let anymore magic become drained from himself, he quickly cut off the flow of energy into the flame and, like a Gaslamp, the flame winked out of existence leaving Mao alone in the cave with only the light of the torch and the glowing mushrooms to keep him company. The feeling of the magic being sucked out of him was astonishing, he could only describe it as if the air he breathed slowly became… less. It was a feeling he didn’t want to keep on experiencing, but it became evident that he would have to repeat this process of quickly igniting torch for warmth several times before he would find a looters city or an exit out into the wild.

                As a First Rate pyromancer, he knew he could last quite a while repeating this process. Granted he didn’t like the feeling of his magic sucked out of him like drinking out of a straw, but it was necessary.

Hours went by down in the tunnel and there was no end in sight, forks in the road occurred every now and then but generally they were marked up in the old tongue which Mao could read. He relished the idea of not seeing any signs of civilization for a while, it left him alone with his thought, time to think without really thinking.

For the thousands of years that the Guild has stood, it was the center of learning. It was where knowledge was unrestricted, as long as you had the skill to understand it. It was where magic flourished, and where logic was the most important trait a mage must have. But ever since Corduroys’ ascension to Supreme Judge ten years ago, the Guild has become more and more religious. More and more irrational zealots fill the halls that once nourished logic and thought. The fate of the Guild was all but certain as of today. No more would the Mages Guild be the center of the learned, now it will be the training ground for Battle-Priests and holy warriors built to cleanse the world of arbitrary threats like the Eternals, who are simply people born with immense magical capabilities. Thinking this much was more too much work for Mao to do right now, his day has seemingly never ended and continuing this walk now would do him little.

After finding a small cave hidden by an old mine cart, Mao decided this would be his place of rest for a while. The cave was little more than a hole in the wall barely big enough for him to lay down but offered much needed privacy in the unlikely event some vagrant or traveler walked by, so it sufficed. As he lay there, resting on a pile of smooth stones with only the light of the glowing mushrooms keeping him safe from the darkness of the cave, he found that instead of worrying about the impending war, or pondering about what uncertain future lay ahead of him, or planning his next move in the great game, he dreamed of fire.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

End of Prologue.

 [1] (her-Ah-tick) The major religion of the Mott empire. The belief in the “One True Goddess, Hera, otherwise known as The Mother.”

[2] Device that measures pressure levels

[ariadenassau]

AMERICANA TASK 001

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE (OOC)

name: Ariadne Marie de Nassau 

meaning of name: Ariadne is a Greek name, meaning “chaste” or “most holy”. Marie is a French version of Mary, and the meaning is debated, but can mean “sea of sorrow” or “rebellion”. Her last name, de Nassau, is literally “of Nassau” — she is a part of the House of Nassau. 

aliases: Aria is her nickname from childhood and her preferred name. 

place of birth: Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts. 

race: Caucasian 

nationality: Dual citizenship with France and the United States. 

gender: Cis-female

sexuality: Mostly heterosexual

profession: A freelance journalist

eye color: Dark brown

hair style/color: Straight, chestnut brown hair to her shoulders, usually partly braided or in a plait.

height: 5’4” (164 cm)

clothing style: Simple, tailored, and clean-cut, Aria dresses in neutrals and soft materials. She's partial to creamy ivories and tans as opposed to bright colors, with the occasional baby pinks. The only jewelry she wears is a simple gold pendant and a sapphire ring, her birthstone.

best physical feature: Her eyes — both soft and piercing at the same time, the eyes are truly the window to Aria’s soul. 

appearance: Very soft and muted, yet luxurious. Aria is from wealth, which shows, but she never flaunts it. She doesn’t wear much makeup and avoids showing too much skin. She looks professional and pretty, but not someone you’d turn around and look at twice in New York. 

weight: 110 lbs (50 kg) 

complexion: Fair during the winter, slightly tanner during the summer, as Aria darkens easily under the sun. 

build: Slight and petite, she is quite skinny and small, without very many curves. 

voice: Gentle, she rarely speaks over a shout. She doesn’t like to yell and upturns the ends of her sentences, as if she’s always a bit unsure of herself. She has a slight British/European accent from her upbringing abroad. 

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE (OOC)

fears: Spiders, roller-coasters, and disappointing her parents — although she is working on that last one, 

guilty pleasure: The Bachelor. Aria will never admit to watching them, as she finds the entire idea trashy and degrading, but somehow, she turns it on every week when its airing with popcorn and a glass of wine. 

biggest pet peeve: People who chew on their food loudly (bad table manners in general, really.) 

ambition for the future: To find out who was behind Abby’s killing and write an entire expose on it. 

one bad habit: Popping her pimples and skin blemishes.

one good habit: Washing the dishes immediately after she uses them.

one habit they can’t break: Her daily iced coffee (or two) from Starbucks.

one they’ve broken: Chewing on her nails. 

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS (OOC)

first thoughts waking up: “I need coffee.” 

what they think about the most: Deep-set anxieties about her future and identity as an individual person. 

what they think about before bed: All the errands and things she needs to accomplish tomorrow. 

what they think their best quality is: Intelligence and writing ability. 

what they think would completely break them: Finding love, and then losing it. 

what they think was the best thing in their life: Discovering that she had a long-lost sister, and getting to reconnect with her. 

what they think was the worst thing in their life: Losing that long-lost sister. 

what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with them: Her childhood piano teacher smacking her fingers when she’d play the wrong notes. 

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER? (OOC)

single or group dates: Neither — Aria hates dates. 

to be loved or respected: Respected.

beauty or brains: Brains. 

dogs or cats: Dogs. 

coffee or tea: Coffee. 

showering in the day or night: Showering at night. 

taking baths or taking showers: Taking showers. 

tv or movies: Movies. 

writing or reading: Writing. 

platonic or romantic love: Platonic.

iced tea or lemonade: Iced tea. 

ice cream or smoothies: Smoothies. 

cupcakes or cake: Cupcakes. 

beach or mountains: Mountains. 

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU? (IC) 

lie: “Yes — it’s a way to get information that I want out of people. But I never lie to hurt anyone.” 

believe in yourself: “I hope that I do. I think that I do. Maybe not.” 

believe in love: “I think love is out there, but I don’t know how to find it or if it even exists for me.” 

want someone: “Maybe.”  

work so that you can support your hobbies or use your hobbies as a way of filling up the time you aren’t working: “Well — neither. Writing is both my work and my hobby. So I guess I lucked out.” 

have something you’re reluctant to tell people: “My ‘royal’ status. It doesn’t mean anything.”  

have an opinion about sex: “It’s something lovely that can make two people’s bonds stronger, but...  I don’t know. I don’t think I have a strong opinion either way.” 

have many friends: “I have many acquaintances from work and school, but close friends? Probably not.” 

have as many friends as you want: “Yes. I’m a bit of a loner, you see.” 

have something to make a scene in public about: “God, I hope not.” 

have something to give your life for: “A hundred percent — my career, my writing, and figuring out what the hell happened to Abby.” 

have major flaws: “I… get too attached to people. It goes along with having such little close friends. The friends I do have, I keep very close to my heart, which means when I lose them… well, my world falls apart.” 

have something you pretend or try to care about: “Um — politics?” 

have an image you project: “I think I try to come off as more self-confident than I am. I’m also very polite to most people, even if I don’t particularly think the person is deserving of it.” 

have something you’re afraid of: “Isn’t everyone afraid of something?” 

think you’re polite or rude: “Definitely polite.” 

LAYER SIX: FAVORITES (IC) 

favorite color: “Hm. I love baby pink, but I also love cream and ivory as well.” 

favorite animal: “Polar bears. They’re so majestic!” 

favorite movie: “Lost in Translation. It was such a beautifully shot movie!” 

favorite game: “I don’t play very many games.” 

sound: “Oh! — the sound of sunny winter mornings back when I was in school in Gstaad. You can hear it when you open a window; the chilly breeze, the sound of snow underneath people’s feet… I miss it.” 

song: “It changes, really, but I can always listen to anything by Frank Sinatra.” 

band: “Is it cliche if I say The Beatles?” 

outfit: “Well, it certainly depends on the season, but for the fall and winter, I love my tan crepe pants, an ivory cashmere turtleneck, and my Acne leather boots.” 

place: “Switzerland. I spent most of my years there, and the landscapes are so beautiful.” 

memory: “I think the first time I met Abby — I was so nervous, and I just saw her, and we talked for hours in her room afterwards. Her parents made hot cocoa, and we just sat there, laughing, crying… it was so wonderful, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” 

person: “Abby. Or my mentor back at Harvard. She was the one who helped me curate my writing to what it is now.” 

show: “I don’t watch much television.” 

LAYER SEVEN: AGE (OOC/IC) 

age: 29

date of birth: September 2nd, 1990

day your next birthday will be: Thursday.

zodiac sign: Virgo.

age you lost your virginity: 18.

does age matter: “Age certainly matters if you’re younger, but once you pass twenty-five or so… who am I to judge?” 

LAYER EIGHT: PERSONALITY (OOC) 

moral alignment: Neutral Good. 

enneagram: 4 - The Individualist

four temperaments: Melancholic

tropes: the soiled dove, the lost soul, the contrite, the taciturn

archetypes: The Sage/Innocent 

tarot cards: Temperance

compassion: yes. 

empathy: yes.

creativity: yes.

mental flexibility: at times, no.

passion: yes, for the right things. 

stamina: yes. 

physical strength: not much. 

battle skill: not at all. 

agility: a bit. 

strategy: she’s always planning for her next move, so yes. 

teamwork: yes, but she needs to be the leader. 

strength: so much emotional strength. 

intelligence: yes. 

wisdom: partly, but still trying to find it. 

dexterity: none; Aria has a rare muscular dystrophy that degraded the muscles in her hands and fingers. 

constitution: a hundred percent. 

charisma: only on certain occasions; otherwise, Aria is quite aloof. 

LAYER NINE: FINISH THE SENTENCE (IC) 

i love: “... good food. Can you blame me?” 

i feel: “... lost.” 

i hide: “... my feelings, my emotions, my thoughts.” 

i miss: “... Abby.” 

i wish: “... that I could know where life is taking me.” 

i hate: “... people who think they can take advantage of my kindness.” 

LAYER TEN: FAMILY (IC) 

relationships: “I had a boyfriend. It’s awkward to talk about really, but he dumped me. Quite an awkward situation.” 

parents: “My father is Prince Jean Louis, sixteenth in line for the throne in Luxembourg. My mother is Princess Charlotte Julie, formerly Charlotte Julie Vanderbilt.” 

siblings: “Just Abby, who was fathered by my father and another woman. She was given up for adoption when she was a baby, which is why I never met her until I grew up.” 

children: “No — although, maybe in the future.” 

favorite childhood memory: “Oh — my childhood wasn’t that fun. But I guess, early on, my parents did take me out on trips on the boat in lakes in the South of France. Those were always nice.” 

favorite childhood toy: “My stuffed bunny Juliette. I still have her.” 

embarrassing story: “I fell asleep once in a bowl of yogurt in class. I was so tired staying up studying for an exam, that during it, I was eating my breakfast, and just… fell asleep.” 

favorite family member: “Abby. I’m not very close to my parents, or anyone from my family, really.” 

[alyssa-ward]

Layers of a Summoner

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: “Alyssa Celeste Ward.”

Eye Color: “'azel, y’know, sometimes brown, sometimes green, dependin’ on the light.”

Hair Style/Color: “Red, same as m’mum’s.  Just past m’shoulders and I just let it ‘ang, it’s wavy and does fine on it’s own with not much more than a brush.  Put  it up on special occasions I guess.”

Height: “Five feet, five inches, before ‘eels.”

Clothing Style: “Everyday dresses, formal wear, I guess country wear too, I like flannels.”

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your Fears: “Givin’ in t’my darker urges, losin’ m’brother.”

Your Guilty Pleasure: “The feel o’drawin’ on fel magic.”

Your Biggest Pet Peeve: “People ‘o stop in the middle o’doorways or thoroughfares t’ave a conversation.  Step t’the side, don’t make people interrupt you t’get past.”

Your Ambition for the Future: “Like t’open a proper storefront some day, once I figure out where I want t’live.  Weighin’ between stayin’ in Elwynn or movin’ t’Kul’tiras.  I’d like t’be better known f’my jewelry, t’build a larger client base.”

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your First Thoughts Waking Up: “Why does this time of morning exist, why did I decided t’grow a garden.”

What You Think About the Most: “M’studies probably if we’re talkin’ pure volume.  I spend a lot o’time readin’, so that ties up m’mind, goin’ over m’regular spells and works in m’ead.  It’s too dangerous t’ever get any o’them wrong.  That or jewelry designs.  I almost always carry a sketch pad and doodle at it when I’m not doin’ anythin’ else.”

What You Think About Before Bed: “Not much.  I don’t tend t’reflect a lot at bed time.  I fall asleep easily, and when it’s time t’sleep, I pretty much think about goin’ t’sleep.”

Your Best Quality Is: “Tenacity, I’ve survived a lot, I intend t’keep survivin’ a lot.”

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: “Single date’s probably more m’speed.  I don’t think I’ve been on somethin’ that counts as a group date.”

To be Loved or Respected: “Respected I think, I certainly ‘ope anyone ‘o loves me does it with respect f’me.”

Beauty or Brains: “Brains. Beauty doesn’t ‘urt, I can’t say I’m never shallow, but both f’myself and a partner, I’d like t’be able t’ave a conversation.”

Dogs or Cats: “Dogs every time.”

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie: “Yes.  It’s pretty well a survival skill for m’non-jewelry related ‘obbies.”

Believe in Yourself: “Guess so.  Like I think if I put m’mind t’somethin’, I’ll accomplish it.”

Believe in Love: “Sure yeah, I’ve seen couples that make me believe in it.  Every time I walk into m’father’s ‘ouse and see m’mother’s picture still on the mantle, I believe in it.”

Want Someone: “I don’t know ‘ow t’answer this question.  I’d like t’be wanted I suppose, I don’t ‘ave a specific in mind.”

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: “No, never ‘ave.”

Done Drugs: “Yes.  Some.”

Changed Who You Were to Fit In: “Yeah, a few times in m’life.  I’ve done some stupid things t’be a part o’groups I felt like I needed t’be a part of.  Like t’think m’done with that now.”

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite Color: “Green.”

Favorite Animal: “Gilnean Mastiffs probably.”

Favorite Food: “Hot apple pie.  I don’t like it with ice cream though, some people like a scoop o’vanilla.  I don’t get it.”

Favorite Game: “Probably somethin’ that involves alcohol in some way?  I don’t play a lot o’games.”

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day Your Next Birthday Will Be: “July sixth.  ‘opin’ t’spend this one around family.  Been five years since I ‘ave, last year was supposed t’be it but then I ended up spendin’ it alone in Silvermoon...long...questionably legal...story.”

How Old Will You Be: “Twenty seven comin’ up.  This last year feels like it’s gone fast.”

Age You Lost Your Virginity: “Twenty.”

Does Age Matter: “Within reason sure.  Compatibility matters most though really.”

LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality: “Matter o’fact, someone o’doesn’t dance around things and can speak their mind.  ‘onestly?  Someone ‘o brings that out in me too.  I do like a bit o’sarcasm and wit though.”

Best Eye Color: “Green probably.”

Best Hair Color: “I like dark hair, blacks or chocolate browns.”

Best thing to do with a Partner: “Share the stories o’the things that ‘appened while you were apart.  Bein’ able t’take the time t’reconnect, while bein’ able t’live y’own lives.  Even a couple that lives together ought t’be able t’know when t’do their own thing.  I guess m’answer really is ‘not everything’, some couples do everythin’ together and it seems like they loose the chance t’keep growin’ as poeple.”

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: “My Family.”

I feel: “Isolated.”

I hide: “The things that I’m best at.”

I miss: “Remy.”

I wish: “I knew when t’stop.”

(Tagged by @kat-hawke!  Tagging @dardillien-ward; @allseeker-wra; @valishoneybee)

[subetei-noykin]

Indepth Profile + RP Call

IDENTIFICATION —

"Can't you see I'm sorry? I'll make it worth your while.

I'm made of dead mans money, you can see it in my smile.”

Full Name: Subetei of the Noykin

Pronunciation: Sue-be-tei

Pseudonym: X

Nicknames: Scales

Age: Thirty Cycles

Name Day: 32nd Sun of the 4th Astral Moon

Birthplace: Azim Steppes, Othard

Guardian: The Salt and Storm

Residence: The Lavender Beds

REFERENCES —

"Thousand faces staring at me, thousand times I've fallen.

Thousand voices dead at my feet. Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone.”

Motto:  “Take only what you're willing to have taken, give only what you're willing to get.”

Theme Song: Fire - Barns Courtney

Face Claim: Jason Momoa (Sorry not Sorry)

STATS —

"The deepest waters won't take me, the highest fall won't break me.

The blood and sweat is what made me, made me."

Gender: Male

Race: Au Ra, Xaela Tribe (Noykin)

Height: Seven fulms, one ilm

Weight: Two-hundred sixty one ponze

Eyes: Narrow and hawkish, right eye crystalline blue with large pupil, left damaged and milky white with blood infiltration in the orb

Hair: Steel gray with straw blonde tips, swept back and spiked with four long braids in the front. Medium length at first glance, actually shoulder blade length.

Skin: Purple-Blue, rough and calloused with hard lines

Build: Muscular and toned but wide and sturdy, good bone structure

Auri Features: Dark Blue/Purple scales over majority of face and body including jaw line and nose bridge. Six visible horns, two pronounced which have metallic inserts on their tips and dagger-like shape while the remaining four rise from his hairline and scalp

Scars: Reference Here

Tattoos/Marks: None

At First Glance (+5)

A Warrior: Spotting him in a crowd is rarely hard and he is typically armed, though rarely fully armored. It's in the way he holds himself, the rhythm he moves and the gait which threatens to push those who step in his path over. Even without his rough appearance or scars, or even the callouses on his hands, it would be hard to mistake him for anything but what he is with his body language and the myriad of battle scars covering him. He may smile and laugh, be friendly and around his mate he can even be seen as a gentle man, but there is always a sharpness to his eye and readiness for violence that reads in him clearly enough to put others off.

Odd-Eye: While his eye-patches admirably hide it, Subetei's left eye is utterly decimated and even the surrounding skin shows tell-tale burns, scar edges and fissures of skin that have healed and marred over. It is impossible to not notice in good lighting and seeing it is unsettling to say the least. Underneath it is even worse; The eye has been split and sealed, re-healed and fused to the skin in some places. The milky white orb is bloodshot in places and has flecks of blood mixed in, with no real pupil, and some parts of the bone stick out near the edges of the eye. It is a gruesome sight and it is why he rarely removes his eye patch.

Self-Made: While he does wear some items professionally made or fitted, the vast majority of what Subetei wears is hand-stitched and crafted by him for his own purposes and as such it is rare to find him not wearing something made of hide, leather or decked in fur. While not ugly or poor quality there is a definite simplicity in his designs that shows. Hardly flashy or elegant, there is also an element of Xaelan tribalism that shows as well; Fang necklaces, hanging tassels and colored patterns, it would be hard to ignore such a thing and Subetei wears it proudly.

Heavy Metal: Contrasting to his own creations, Subetei is rarely far from well crafted and maintained arms to the point that even in his most casual moments he will have a hand or cutting axe available. In private this isn't so much a problem, but in public he is usually dragging around a greataxe of proportional size to himself, and this can mean that one is suddenly faced with an over seven fulms tall Xaela with an axe larger than most hyurans. A startling sight to be sure.

Talk Like A Pirate: Despit having been born in Othard, Subetei has spent most of his life and living in Limsa Lominsa, to the extent that he learned the common speech of Eorzea -from- Limsan natives. He speaks with a thick accent of Limsan that on it's own would be rough to discern but he also had the rich, deep and gravel-like voice of a Xaela with their unique speech patterns and inflections. This makes his natural speech difficult to pull apart and understand, though he can control it to some degrees. Speaking more slowly and clearly often allows him to at least be understood with minimal thought.

FACTS —

"Forged in a fire lit long ago, stand next to me and you'll never stand alone.

I'm last to leave but the first to go, lord make me dead before you make me old."

Occupation: Freelance Mercenary, Hunter, Tanner

Specialties: Close Combat, Hunting, Animal Taming & Pack Combat, Archery, Squad Tactics and Battlefield Strategy

Skills: Adept Blacksmith, Expert Tanner and Leatherworker

PROFICIENCY —

"Hey you there in the mirror, yeah that's something to fear

Cla cla claw my way to the top, cause i don't believe in luck."

Education: Self-taught

Favored Weapon(s): Axes of all shapes and sizes

Secondary Weapon(s): Hunting Bows, Knives

Magic Abilities: Berserker Rage (Innate Aether, Uncontrolled

Magic Strengths: Untested, Unknown

RELATIONS —

"I said all this time I'm thinking my body don't need me, all we can do is breathe

Said all this time I'm thinking your body can set me free, all we can do is breathe."

Sexual Preference: Demisexual

Romantic Identification: Monogamous

Relationship Status: Mated

Sweet on: Neyuki

Alignment: True Neutral

Allies: Various Mercenary and Adventurer Friends

Enemies: The Elementals and Various Other Factions

FAMILY —

"By the skin of my teeth, I'm comin' home

By the sole of my feet, I'm comin'home

I'm comin' home, but I ain't comin' home for you."

Maternal: Urnai Noykin (Deceased)

Parental: Ergan Noykin (Unknown)

Mentor: Valdhur Granspar (Former Captain of The Wakehounds Privateers, deceased)

Associates:

Neyuki Utaura (Mate, Companion, Medic)

Mathias Bedois (Friend)

Seemo Eulen (Friend?)

Faucertaux Carpentier (Former Boss, Friend)

Sigrid Der'ioslainn (Former Captain, Friend)

Ulan Qestir (Friend)

Roka (Friend)

Nerkhun Malaguld (Friend, Companion of Ulan)

Bexy and the Limsan Fight Club (Friends and Punch Partners)

Renaux Mercier and the Gin Mills (Friends and Maiming Muchacos)

Illyriana Usagi and the Garden of Words (Friends, FC-Mates and Co-workers)

Alred Briarthorne, Wind Moondark, Asajin & The Black Crown Mercenaries (Former Squadmates and Subordinates)

[List Continues for some time, he knows a lot of folks and I can't name them all oh god]

Companion: Valdhur [Red Chocobo, Warbred]

MENTALITY —

"One day the shadows will surround me. Someday the days will come to end

Sometime I’ll have to face the real me. Somehow I’ll have to learn to bend"

Social Level: Easily coaxed into social behavior. Open and brash. Jovial and quick to friendship. Hard to anger or offend. Comfortable in small groups or large crowds equally.

Optimistic View(s): There is no shame in the work of living, no sin in the act of surviving.

Pessimistic View(s): No one gets out alive. Life will take all it gives in time.

One  Positive Personality Trait:  Subetei is the sort of person who attracts others with a boisterous personality and a hearty laugh, no matter the circumstances. Even in the midst of a fight he can usually find time to crack a smile or a joke and in social settings it is rare he lets someone be a 'wallflower' around him, opening his table and tab to others with little reservation.

One Negative Personality Trait: Subetei is incredibly physical and has no consideration for his own monstrous strength around others. From a simple hand-shake to sparring, he does not hold back in any interaction with others and while this is normally not an issue, it makes it hard to be around him if one is frail or excitable.

·One Personality Warning: Abuse of his trust is tantamount to asking to die when it comes to Subetei. If he considers you a close friend, which takes some work, breaking that bond is traumatic to him in a very personal way and if you're lucky, you'll simply find yourself on the bad end of an ass whooping. If what you'e done is severe enough, he has no qualms about seeking his own revenge and retribution no matter what laws or barriers would stand between him and you.

Random Quirk: Digs his claws into furniture when excited.

Hobbies: Wandering and Riding, Sparring and Training, Physical Labors, Brewing Mead and Alcohol

Addictions: Work, Neyuki, Fighting and Violence

Habits: Glib, Violence Prone, Outgoing and Upbeat, Accidental Intimidation, Intentional Intimidation, Swearing Every Other Word

Pleasures: Good Drink, Hunting, The Outdoors, Working with Animals, Seafaring, Combat and Fighting, Sex, Control

Appreciates (List 5+)

Humility Humor Craftsmanship Beauty Strength Honesty Commitment Self-Control Accomplishment Skill Knowing Ones Self

Dislikes (List 5+)

Defeatism Lies Fire Unearned Authority Disrespect Paranoia False Promises Intolerance

Strengths (List 5+)

Patient Good Teacher Honest and Loyal Hardworking Committed and Dedicated Physical Dynamo Thrifty and Coinwise Good Business Sense Open and Tolerant (Tries to be) Thoughtful Extroverted and Inviting Able to Listen or Chat equally Forgets grudges easily Self-Reliant Outdoorsman Expert Mercenary Tactical Mindset

Weaknesses (List 5+)

Berserker Easy to break Trust Difficulty developing relationships Addicted to combat and violence Mercenary attitude Grey Morality Self-invested Coin Driven No Self-Preservation Neyuki No Family Values Craves Work and Physical Exertion Cannot Cook Carries Weight, Even if he doesn't have to

Fears (List 5+)

Losing Neyuki Losing his remaining eye The loss of freedom Inability To Work or Fight Returning To Othard

FAVORITES ––

“I spent those days huntin' hard and fast, With no place to lay my head

And the sound of the rain against the roof, Was loud enough to wake the dead”

Favorite Food(s): Jerky, Aldgoat Steak, Breadfruit, Stews, Anything La Noscean

Favorite Drink(s): Teas, Ale Mead or Rum, Water, Coffee

Favorite Scent(s): Heat, Dry earth, rain on the breeze, herbs and sweets, metal sparking and copper in the mud

Favorite Colors: Black, Brown, Green and Blue or subcolors

TRIVIA ––

We seek tomorrow’s sun, It’s all for the taking here

Only the valiant survive, Live for better years

Subetei's mixed upbringing has given him a tenuous faith in the Twelve, or the Xaelan deities, and instead he has developed a slightly paganistic viewpoint of the world in the form of natural phenomena. The Salt and Storm, as he calls this viewpoint, is a simple belief that while life is harsh and can be demanding, it's pains and undertakings are rewarding in experience if nothing else. It also holds a certain karmic edge to it as well. He does not really call this a 'religion' or believe others should live like this.

His wounded eye is extraordinarily light sensitive despite being functionally blind and when exposed to sunlight or other equally bright sources it's akin to having the wound reopened with blades of salt and fire. It causes him incredible pain and exposure for a long period can lead to blacking out or migraines so intense they last days. His eyepatch is as much a safety measure as it is a decoration for him and as such he wears extremely well-made patches. Metal wires are used to reinforce the straps and the leather is studded if not inset with metal sheets. He also uses metal ringlets on his horns to hold the patches in place. If he expects particularly pitched or harsh conditions he will often use salves or pastes to hold the patch in place.

With his inherent reliance on instincts and natural tendency to disassociate from morality or consciousness during battle, Subetei has developed a dangerous habit of going into berserker trances during battle that put his already high reflexes into overdrive and his natural senses become sharp enough that he has, for instance, picked up the sound of an arrow approaching and smashed it aside before it can connect with him. While useful and extremely dangerous to others, it presents a unique danger to himself as well, as his already uncomfortably high pain tolerance is also increased and he has been known to inflict damage on himself to continue to fight, even at the risk of health or death.

Subetei has an unstable aether that has never been trained, developed or explored in any respect. He cannot use aetheryte, cast spells or channel it in any meaningful way willingly or consciously and those who try and scry his aetheric strength are faced with a soupy, chaotic mess that does not spell much out. Yet he has been known to perform feats that can only be described as 'inhuman' when he fights unconsciously and in his trances, leading some to conclude that Subetei's aether actively permeates him at all times and empowers him, allowing him to fight at above-optimal strength and focus even when he should be gravely wounded. This is not formally confirmed, but it would explain why he also tends to be quick to recover from wounds and injuries as well as his distaste for sitting still and being idle.

While he and Neyuki share an amazing chemistry that cannot be called anything but 'love', Subetei has historically been awkward and uncomfortable around women and intimacy in the past. During his time before Neyuki he had next to no partners and no long-term relationships due to his emotional issues at his younger age and later on his insistence on isolation. He also has certain physical irregularities that make him wary of sex. When approached sexually or flirtatiously he often comes off as cold and aloof, if not outright dismissive, as he has frankly no fucking idea how to react to it in most circumstances.

While Subetei does a good job of containing it, there is a part of him that thrives in the loosening of his reins and control. This primarily comes to the front during battle when he looses himself, but it also tends to show in other moments where restraint is pressed; This includes his time with Neyuki and they are infamous in certain taverns and inns for the destruction of property that has occurred when Subetei truly lets go of himself, and more than once it has been suggested that Subetei's habit of carrying Neyuki everywhere is a symptom of this.

Subetei can pilot a boat and maintain a ship well enough that he is often comfortable going out by himself on sailboats over moderate distances and he loves the ocean, but a certain thrill-seeking part of him loves the sky and airships. During his time in a mercenary company with such vessels he frequently took out the ship he was assigned and used it for all sorts of activities, both on and off the job.

It cannot be understated the kind of outdoorsman Subetei is, to the extent that he can and has survived over a month in the wilderness with only basic supplies to begin with. During his time as a hunter and mercenary he has learned many survival and wilderness methods that he has also become a scarily accurate tracker and wayfinder, though he often does not use those skills in anything but his actual work. He has discovered some secreted places in his times in the wilderness and though he has recorded them quietly, he does not intend to explore or give away their location. Some things are intriguing to simply know.

Subetei's eye was lost during an extremely controversial moment in Gridanian history, where the Wood Wailers and Twin Adders as well as mercenaries hired by an unconfirmed source, descended on a Keeper of the Moon encampment accused of poaching and harboring criminals to the Shroud. Subetei balked when the order was given to drive the children and non-combatants out of the encampment with fire, an act that would have cost lives, and turned on his employers. Though he survived he harbors a lasting grudge against the Elementals, for allowing such an act to be considered free of sin yet hunting to survive be an act worthy of reprisal, and he further disdains Gridania for their involvement in the action and subsequent attempts to play the act off as the work of factions impersonating Wailers and Adders.

One might be forgiven for assuming Subetei does not speak the Auri dialect anymore after his time in the rest of the world but this is extremely untrue. While he has difficulty reading Auri script nowadays he can still speak fluent and distinct Auri with an old Xaelan syntax and inflection that marks his time away from the Steppe. He chooses not to converse in it often, even among other Xaela, to preserve the air of distance he has from the Xaelan culture and to keep an ear on those around him if they do speak it. He is also fluent in sign and non-verbal gestures as Neyuki is mute, allowing him to communicate with Qester rather comfortably at times.

Subetei is a Noykin by blood and nothing else. He does not use his name as a surname and instead as a title, as if it is only a formal thing, and he does not recognize any other Noykin as his brothers or sisters in any way. Though he still retains many of their skills and love of animals he is long removed form his family and their culture. To introduce oneself to him as a fellow Noykin is to receive the same greeting as anyone else, but he has no patience or acceptance for those who would use the name to garner clout with him.

OOC -

Server: Balmung

Timezone: PST

Mun: Male / 28yrs

Experience: Roleplay Experience of 14+ years. Writes in any format, matches length and complexity where possible. Will scene In-Game, Discord and other mediums as requested.

Type of RP: Any/All, Mature and R-Rated themes included. Long-term Storylines or One-shot scenes. Enjoys interacting with Canon and OC alike.

Looking for: Friends, Partners, Punchvictims, Employers, Brothers or Sisters in Arms, Privateers and Pirates, Gridanians and Ishgardians to grouse at, Rivals or Antagonists. Pretty much anyone!

RP Hunting Time!

This post is mainly an RP call for anyone who’s interested in plotting, roleplaying or otherwise hanging out ICly. I’m not looking for anything in particular, no specific scenes or types of scenes, Subetei is flexible morally and ideologically.

Need a hired hand? Gil makes for strange bedfellows. Old pirate or mercenary contact? Sounds like drinks at a tavern. Want to fight? Time to fight. Canon or OC, no difference to me.

I’m not sure how I feel about AUs and the like, so anything like that would need it’s own discussion!

Feel free to directly message me here on Tumblr or on Discord at Versesai#3794!

[mariequitecontrarie]

Marigolds

Summary:  It’s Rumple and Belle’s wedding anniversary, and Rumple is celebrating another year alone. Stuck in Hyperion Heights with no way to join Belle in the afterlife, he finds an unlikely confidante in his partner, Rogers. Post 7x18 The Guardian. A/N: I have a lot of feelings about Rumbelle and the Wish Hook/Rumple friendship. There’s also some Woven Knight Rook and a Rogers/Sabine crush implied. Did I mention my feelings? Because yeah. WC: 5700   Rating: G

On AO3

“At least let me drive you home,” Rogers says.

Rumplestiltskin glances at his watch with a self-conscious sigh. His partner’s requests have turned into badgering. This marks the fifth time his partner has volunteered to escort him back to his apartment in the past 90 minutes—proof he must look as lousy as he feels.

Rogers’ pity-filled eyes stray from the chessboard to the blue vase filled with flowers on the corner of his desk. The office air is thick with unspoken questions, but his partner doesn’t ask and Rumple doesn’t offer.

The flowers are for Belle.

In every realm they called home—whether in Storybrooke, the Dark Castle, or living out Belle’s years together on the Edge of Realms—the two of them planted a huge garden filled with flowers. Roses, primarily, but also larkspur, snapdragon, bleeding hearts, and poppies. But Belle always insisted on planting marigolds adjacent to the vegetables.

Marigolds are an ugly flower in his estimation. Coarse and common, insistent on being everywhere at once, possessing a musky, pungent odor he finds repellent. Rather like himself.

“Marigolds never give up,” Belle used to say, her hands covered in dirt. “They always hold their heads up high, even in the hottest part of summer. They attract the bees and protect the vegetables.”

“They smell dreadful,” he would contend, holding his nose in a theatrical flourish.

“I think they smell like sunshine.” Belle would draw his hand away from his face and lay her head against his chest. “True beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

There was nothing he would refuse his wife, so as day followed night, marigolds they would plant. And after a time, he learned to tolerate the stubborn, garishly colored blooms, if only because their presence meant plump red tomatoes on their dinner table and radiant smiles on his wife’s face.

So to celebrate their anniversary, he assembled a bouquet of roses, marigolds, and peonies at a flower stand this morning. Crimson roses to symbolize the fragile unfurling of their love; cream peonies in honor of their wedding day; and yellow marigolds because they flourish in any and all circumstances, much the way he thrived with Belle at his side.

Rogers gives him another meaningful glance, and Tilly feigns a yawn, stretching her arms above her head. The languid motion is debunked when she leans over the chessboard to snatch Rogers’ rook with a gleeful laugh.

Rumple snorts. Two hours ago, they pulled a worn card table out of Rogers’ office and started one of their spirited chess games two feet away from his desk. Should he have the notion to move around in this crackerjack box or gods forbid—leave the room—he’d have to trip over his unwelcome guests.

Instead he’s staying planted in his desk chair. After Tilly tried to drag him to the bowling alley around the corner for some “quality time,” he decided letting her and Rogers keep him company here was the less exhausting course of action. If there’s one role he excels at, it’s pretending, but there’s no way in seven hells Rumplestiltskin will be seen wearing bowling shoes in Hyperion Heights or in any realm, even if he does have to wear jeans and fake a cockney accent. He still has some pride.

Usually, Rogers and Tilly’s easy banter and gentle ribbing puts a smile on his face. Tonight, however, all he wants is to send them home with a flick of his wrist.

But he won’t. Magic got him into this mess in the first place.

It’s been a scant twenty-four hours since the dagger went missing and he discovered it in Tilly’s backpack. One short day since he learned that here in this world, even under a curse, she is still the Guardian. Yet—with more information and resources in the palm of his hand since he began his quest to be rid of the knife for good—he’s never been farther away from Belle. Today he mourns her loss all over again, and being alone on their anniversary makes the everyday ache in his chest sharper, more acute. He presses a clenched fist against his heart, wondering if the hollow place Belle once filled with kisses and smiles and laughter will ever be whole again.

“C’mon, mate.” Rogers jiggles his car keys. “You look like hell.”

“How fortunate for us all that my ugliness doesn’t stop me from operating a car,” Rumple growls. He waves a hand over the Candy Killer paperwork littering his desk with a huff of disgust. “In case you missed it, mate, there’s work to be done.”

“You. Doing actual police work?” Rogers asks.  

Both he and Tilly raise an identically-shaped eyebrow, and Rumple barks a humorless laugh. Like father like daughter.

“What’s funny?” Tilly asks, the lines of tension in her face relaxing into a sunny smile.

“Other than Rogers’ pathetic chess skills?” Rumple’s lips twitch in a small smile, swamped with a fresh wave of regret for making Tilly worry. “At my advanced age, a great many things amuse me. But you two attempting to babysit me has to be near the top of the list.”

“So you’ll let me help you wrap the case, then?” the pirate-turned-cop asks.

‘Who knew when you were assigned as my partner, I would be getting my very own Boy Scout.” Rumple twists the pinky ring Belle gave him as a gift on their fifth anniversary round on his finger. The words on the pages of paperwork blur in front of his weary eyes, but he won’t admit defeat. Not until he finds a loophole to trap Facilier. “You saved Henry and apprehended the Candy Killer. I’ll take it from here.”

After kidnapping Henry, Nick Branson, known as the Candy Killer, was brought into custody. Before they could begin questioning him, they found him dead in the interrogation room. No blood, no scratches, and the medical examiner reported that Nick was stabbed through the heart from inside his body. Only dark magic could accomplish such a task. Gothel, maybe? Or perhaps another member of her coven preempted Nick, afraid he would be released to strike again. The more likely culprit was Facilier, and the triangular pin Rumple found at the scene confirmed his suspicions.

But how can he explain what happened to Rogers, who is unaware of the double life they all lead? Should he say a powerful witch doctor used dark magic to murder Branson? He would drive him down the road to the insane asylum.  

The truth is no use to him, anyway. He’s out of options and short on allies. After he stole Regina’s cure for Henry in his search for the dagger, she won’t take his calls, and he’s too ashamed to look at his grandson. Thank the gods Gideon is safe in another realm, even if he doesn’t know where his papa is.

The least he can do is take care of Rogers and Tilly, the only two living souls in all the realms who are still speaking to him, even if neither one knows what he truly is. Once a monster, always a monster.

He drums his fingers on the table and rakes a hand through his hair. He needs to spin, if only he had his wheel, and be alone. To think, to figure out this whole mess. Would Tilly and Rogers ever go home?

“We’re just worried about you, Weaver.” Tilly interprets his agitation as she licks powdered sugar off her fingertips.

Rumple rolls his eyes. With Tilly, worrying seems to involve games, books, and food.

An hour into their game, they ordered Chinese takeout and urged him to eat, but he couldn’t force a single bite past his lips. He even refused to touch the beignets Sabine dropped off at the station in a not-so-subtle bid to impress Rogers.

He tried not to smirk when he accepted Sabine’s little brown bag of sugary fried dough on Roger’s behalf, but the blush on her cheeks and the way her bright, questioning eyes darted around the office made it clear she was looking for his tall, dark partner.

Rumple is no expert in love and attraction, but he remembers Belle’s soft looks and tender smiles, and the way they never failed to turn his stomach inside out, leaving him breathless and out of his depth.

Besides, listening to Rogers stammer when he told him his sweetheart was looking for him was the best entertainment he’d had since Tilly got a job to support her marmalade habit.

If nothing else, Rogers and Tilly’s lives are a pleasant distraction from his bleak, endless existence.

“I suppose this is your idea of heroism, sweetheart, saddling me with these two.” He reaches for the vase to run his thumb over the head of a marigold, murmuring to Belle as though she is sitting next to him, just as she did every day of their seventy-year marriage. “Belle, I miss you. I wish you were here to tell me what to do next.”

“Who are you talking to?” Rogers eyes him askance, and sends Tilly concerned glance number 572. Not that he’s counting.

“Myself,” he barks, hunching over the desk filled with paperwork to hide his flushed face. He didn’t know he’d actually spoken to Belle out loud, but he’s taken to doing it more and more in the weeks since the gunshot wound Tilly inflicted woke him from the curse.

He needs Belle here to protect him from himself. Old habits are creeping back in, desperation in the driver’s seat. He fantasizes about using one of Facilier’s pin cushions against him, or hurling a stake through Gothel’s heart. It won’t put an end to this damn curse, but it will make him feel a hell of a lot better.  

Tilly clears her throat. “Weaver, you want some of this lo mein before I finish it off?” She holds out a set of clean chopsticks, fingers trembling.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” He offers her another fond smile to soften the gruffness of his refusal. “You eat it. You need your nourishment.”

“‘Kay.” She shrugs and shovels a massive bite of noodles into her mouth, but since they found his dagger in her knapsack, she’s been skittish, as though she’s afraid he’s going to lose his temper again.

Black ink drips down his fingers and he realizes he’s crushed the pen in his hand. Somehow, he expected the road to redemption to be easier. When he thought the dagger had been stolen, the truth became clear: Every good deed has been done with the expectation of getting something in return.

Maybe Regina is right, and he hasn’t changed a bit.

Disgusted with himself, he wipes his hands on a pile of Mr. Wong’s carryout napkins and hurls them at the wastebasket.

“Every selfless act brings me closer to you, my love.” He repeats his mantra in a ragged whisper, but after what he did yesterday, the words no longer hold any hope.

To punish himself, he stayed up all night, torturing himself with memories of sweeter wedding anniversaries. Long walks in the sunshine and picnics in the park; Gideon toddling into his mama’s waiting arms; Belle perched at the end of a long table like a queen, surrounded by mountains of dusty, fat books; spending the entire day in bed making love just because they could.

Gods, how good life had been with his wife in the world. And what he wouldn’t give for one more hour with his head in Belle’s lap while she reads him a story and strokes his hair.

Tilly rocks back on the hind legs of her chair and squints at him, then snaps her attention back to the board. She rolls the white queen between her thumb and forefinger, considering her next move. Rogers is two moves away from checkmate, but Rumple knows he will misstep on purpose and draw the game out.

“We’ll finish up later, then?” Tilly asks Rogers. “I’ve got to get to bed ‘cause work starts bright and early. Sabine said she nearly doubled her sales the day after I passed out samples, and she wants me to do it again.”

A flush creeps up Rogers’ neck at another mention of Sabine, and Rumple grins in spite of his foul mood.

“The ones you brought into the station yesterday were gone in minutes,” he praises. “Sabine is lucky to have you. She thinks you’re a born saleswoman.”

“No surprise they were eaten so fast,” Tilly says, ducking her head in modesty. “Coppers and doughnuts, right? I tried to convince Sabine her beignets would be lovely dipped in marmalade. She liked the idea, but insisted on making some sort of rum sauce instead.”

“Rum, eh?” He wonders if Rogers still has a fondness for the stuff under the curse. Pirates and rum; as synonymous in their old world as police officers and doughnuts are in this one. Rumple smothers his laughter, the sound coming out like a wheeze.

“Now why are you laughing?” Tilly asks, giving him a light punch on the shoulder.

“You, trying to convince your boss to add marmalade to her menu.” The girl’s weakness for citrus preserves was one of her more delightful quirks. The day they met in the Enchanted Forest, he’d come through the portal, weary and heartsick from losing Belle. She’d scolded him for upsetting her search for the white rabbit, then offered him a jam sandwich from her knapsack, insisting he share her lunch because he “looked like hell.”

Some things haven’t changed.

“Weaver?” Tilly clasps her hands behind her back and tilts her head. “I know you’re missing her , especially today, but are we...okay?”

He sighs. “It’s like I told you last night by the troll, Tilly. I’m not angry with you; I’m angry with me.”

“Please let Detective Rogers take you home,” she whispers, laying a hand on his arm. “I’m afraid something else terrible will happen. You’re a good man. I don’t want you to be hurt.” Her gaze wild, she looks around the shadowed station and shivers.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, dear.” He struggles to swallow, touched by her concern. “How about I make you a deal. You promise to go straight home and lock the door, and I’ll let Detective Rogers stay with me until I’m done working. Will that satisfy?”

“Thank you.” She nods, her eyes shiny with tears, then puts on her coat and slips out into the night. He stands at the window with Rogers and watches her until she’s out of sight.  

Rogers yanks a chair over to his desk and straddles it, all business the moment Tilly disappears. “What the hell is going on with you? I’ve never seen you like this.”

Rumple doesn’t look up from the desk, still littered with ink-splashed files. “Whatever do you mean, detective?”

“Scared—same as yesterday when you bit my bloody head off. Now you’re hiding behind paperwork and skipping out to buy flowers. And since when have you worked by the book?”

“Since nothing else I’ve tried has been successful,” he admits, looking up from the piles of paper.

“Whatever’s going on, tell me. I can take it,” Rogers says. “I’m your partner. We’re supposed to help each other.”

Rogers’ concern fills him with an odd mixture of fury and affection. It’s strange, yearning to be alone in his misery, but sharing his burdens holds appeal, too. Confiding in Tilly would be his preference, but the girl is fragile, especially after last night. He won’t burden her with his pain.

“Would you care for tea?” he asks, resigned to playing host. He seems to remember Hook appreciating the beverage, or maybe that was the other version of him; the one who was back in Storybrooke and married to Emma Swan. “It’s only bags, but it’s tolerable. I don’t have any rum, but there’s whiskey if you need something stronger.”

“Rum?” Rogers wrinkles his nose. “Never touch the stuff. Funny thing, ever since I moved to the Heights, people are constantly offering it to me. You’d think I was a pirate, instead of a cop.”

“Indeed.” He holds back a smile. Oddities in a curse were inevitable. Poor Rogers was in for quite a surprise when rum-loving Captain Hook woke up.

“Tea would be grand,” Rogers says, nodding at the colorful bouquet on the corner of his desk. “Why the flowers?”

Rumple turns to the water filter to fill their teacups with hot water, grateful to occupy his hands with a menial task. “It’s our wedding anniversary.” He shrugs. “Those are her favorites.”

“Will you tell me about her?” Rogers asks. “Your wife?”

“Belle. Her name is Belle.” Settling behind the desk again, he slides a steaming mug toward Rogers, and wraps his hands around the chipped cup. He inhales the steam, taking solace in the smooth warmth of the porcelain.

Rogers smiles when he notices. “The cup you fixed. Her favorite, isn’t it?”

He nods. Repairing their teacup had been worth every squirt of glue and weeks of sticky fingers. It’s the only tangible reminder he has of Belle in this world, and he carries it between the police station and his apartment every single day.

“You mentioned you’ve been separated.” Rogers gestures at the flowers.”How? Does she live here in the Heights?”

Rumple winces. “The truth is complicated.”

“It always is with you.” Rogers sighs. “But you can trust me. I recognize when a man’s trying to atone for something. Why aren’t you together now? Was it divorce? Betrayal?”

“Nothing like that.” He thinks back on shaking Hook’s hand outside Alice’s home, the day they’d agreed to start a new story. He wonders if the offer of friendship will still stand once the veil of the curse has been pulled back. “I’m a difficult man to love, but she always saw the best in me.”

Rumplestiltskin adds a healthy dose of whiskey to both cups of tea. He misses drinking proper tea, the way Belle used to make it, but the other cops already give him strange looks for sipping out of a dainty porcelain cup with a large chip out of the rim. About once a week, someone deposits a new, oversized ceramic mug in the center of his desk, usually filled to the brim with coffee.

He dunks his teabag up and down in the hot water, then plucks the soggy bag out of the cup and sets it on a napkin on his desk, watching the brown liquid seep into the paper.

“I’m a father, too,” he confesses. “Two wonderful sons.”

Rogers gives him a blank look. “Congratulations. Where are your boys?”

“Gideon lives in another rea-...” Rumple clamps his mouth shut, saying too much for the second time in as many hours. He never figured the pirate for such a good confidante, but now that he’s started talking, the words come quick and easy. “He’s a scholar and a teacher. Moved to another country. I don’t see him nearly as often as I would like, but it’s enough to know he’s safe. Gideon is our youngest. Our first son, Baelfire, he died a hero.”

“War?” Rogers tsks in sympathy.

He inclines his head. Baelfire had spent years battling the darkness on his papa’s behalf. “Of sorts.”

Rogers takes a sip of the whiskey-laced tea. “I’m sorry. Losing a child...well, I can’t imagine carrying such a burden.”

Rumplestiltskin bites the inside of his cheek, oddly thankful once more for the ignorance of the curse. Not knowing Tilly is his daughter spares Rogers a bit of suffering. “I only wish I could have traded my life for Bae’s,” he says.

“I hope all fathers feel that way about their children,” Rogers says with a smile. “But you must have a way to reunite with your Belle. A stubborn, resourceful bastard like you.”

“I do. I did. But I’ve squandered my chances, done terrible things. Actions which can’t be undone.” With his head bowed, the truth he’s avoided saying aloud comes out in a painful rush. “I took something valuable, and it cannot be replaced. Belle would be gravely disappointed in me.”

“I've the feeling she would understand.” Rogers drains his mug and Rumple pours another three fingers of whiskey into each cup. “Wasn’t it you who told me there’s always a chance to make things right?”

“Maybe for others, but not for me,” he says, chagrined. “I’ve had more chances than anyone, and it’s my turn to pay the price.”

Rogers shakes his head. “I don’t believe that at all. You may be rough around the edges, but you’re one of the good guys. I feel it.”

“Now you sound like my wife.”

“Wise woman.” Rogers leans forward, his face etched with curiosity. “What is she like?”

Emotion overwhelms him and he fights back tears. “Like no one I’ve ever known or could hope to know again. Fearless, intelligent, beautiful inside and out. Someone whose view of the world is so much larger than her place in it.”

“Nothing like you, then.” Rogers grins and tosses back his drink.

The laugh is sorely needed. “You’re not wrong. Belle is a great deal too good for me. Much the way people ignore Tilly, nobody really saw her. They accepted what she offered: brains, extraordinary research capabilities, command of extinct languages, but they often took her for granted.” He throws back another gulp of whiskey and gives them both another refill. “I’ve lost count of the ways she helped and supported and befriended people.”

“Sounds like an extraordinary woman.”

“Yes. You would like her, I think.” Rumplestiltskin smiles sadly. Neither one of them has uttered the word dead and he’s grateful. It helps to talk about Belle in the present tense, as though she’s still among the living. “Our relationship was at times tumultuous and controversial. I hurt her in terrible ways. But she always saw the best in me and she never gave up on showing me what kind of man she saw on the inside. Loving her, living by her side, having her goodness and kindness as my example. She changed my life.”

“Anyone who loves someone the way you do Belle—you’re her legacy, mate,” Rogers says. “Even when you’re not together, wherever you go, she goes, too.”

He never figured on the pirate as a source of wisdom. “That’s a pleasant thought.”

“Do you have a photograph I can see?”

Rumple hesitates, reluctant to let go of the hard-won image even for a moment. This morning in the shower, after he over-steeped his tea and misplaced his handcuffs, he panicked because he couldn’t recall the exact shade of blue of Belle’s eyes. While the water poured over him he sobbed, hot tears flowing down the drain with the soap-tinged water. When he was supposed to be questioning a witness, he ransacked the evidence locker to find a picture of her. An object to hold onto.

With tender care he pulls out the creased, faded photograph he unearthed after three hours of searching boxes and files. It was autumn, a few days after Gideon’s birthday. In the picture, they’re sitting on the front porch of their house with suitcases packed, pots brimming with Belle’s marigolds on either side. Their arms are linked, Belle’s smile bright enough to rival the sun. “This was taken when we began our travels,” he tells Rogers.

“She’s beautiful,” Rogers says, leaning across the desk to smile down at the image. “What do you suppose it’s like, the other side?”

“Tilly once told me it’s a place where you forget about life’s troubles and get to be with the people you love forever. Knowing my Belle, she’s found herself a library.” He can picture his wife, radiant and waiting for him in a garden bursting with roses, peonies, and marigolds, her pretty nose buried in a book.

Rumple stares at Belle’s face long and hard, memorizing every nuance of her features, then pours another round of shots into the teacups. Some of the whiskey dribbles on the desk, and he frowns at the amber liquid, everything feeling hazy and dark. His eyes burn with tears. “I’ve gone on too long. I’m starting to forget her.”

Rogers switches off the desk lamp, then leans back in the chair to study his partner.

Weaver is snoring, his head cushioned by his arms, which are folded on top of the desk. Those sardonic, oddly ancient eyes are closed, the lines of his face relaxed in slumber. He didn’t come out and say his wife was dead, but Rogers is a fair hand at reading between the lines. The loss explains so much about his partner, who wears grief like a suit of armor and swings between excessive caution and recklessness.

Weaver has talked of yearning to get back to Belle, and for the first time Rogers considers whether he might be on some sort of suicide mission.

He tries to puzzle out his partner’s cryptic words and actions, but his head falls forward, his body craving sleep. He drank a good portion of whiskey and is too drunk to drive home. He reaches into his pocket for his phone tell Tilly he’s running late, but a motion from the corner of his eye stops him. He drops the phone, his fingers crawling slowly toward his holster.

Shimmering light materializes from the shadows, at first formless, then gradually taking shape. It is a petite woman, and she has eyes only for Weaver. Powerful love shines in those soft, blue depths, and Rogers catches his breath, enthralled. No woman has ever looked at him the way this vision stares at his partner, and jealousy simmers in his chest.

Dark curls cascade down her back in a radiant curtain, and she wears a long skirt, a shirtwaist and a vest, clothing from a bygone era. At once he recognizes her from the worn, faded photograph. Weaver’s wife.

She seems to float rather than walk out of the corner, coming up behind Weaver, her expression gentle and filled with the sort of adoration he has only imagined. Her arms wrap around him in a tender embrace, bathing him in the same shimmering golden light that surrounds her body.

Rogers’ eyes prick with tears. It’s an intimate moment between a husband and wife, one he shouldn’t be watching, but he can’t tear his eyes from such a precious sight. When the woman’s bright, sharp gaze settles on him, he digs his nails into his palm. The pain tells him he’s not dreaming.

“I was hoping you’d be awake,” she murmurs near Weaver’s ear.

She says the words more to herself than to her sleeping husband, but Rogers can’t resist asking the obvious. “Why didn’t you come when he was?”

Hands on her hips, she huffs in annoyance, glaring at him like an errant child. “You don’t just appear whenever you want, you know. There are schedules. Waiting lists, Captain.”

“It’s Detective. And you’re Belle,” he says, then clamps his mouth shut. What’s the protocol for talking to a ghost, anyway?

“That’s right.” Her brow wrinkles in a confused frown. “But you’re not the Guardian.” Her mouth doesn’t open, but her words lodge in his brain, the voice a cultured female accent he can’t quite place.

The look she gives him tells him he’s a terrible disappointment, and he can’t help but feel a twinge of hurt. Insulted by a ghost? Ridiculous.

“Guardian? He crosses his arms with a snort, strangely at ease considering who, or rather what, he’s talking to. “As if he’d let anyone guard him from anything? He’s a cranky, cantankerous old bastard.”

She caresses Weaver with her eyes again. “I always have loved a good puzzle.”

“You certainly married one,” he retorts.

She levels him with a look, then her shoulders shake with gentle laughter. “What, you think I haven’t heard that before? I’ll be the first to admit my husband can be difficult. It did take me a little time to get to know him. You will, too.”

“Suppose I am somewhat fond of the old man,” he admits, pleased he’d managed to make her laugh. “Forgive me for staring, but it feels as though we’ve met before.”

“Hmmm.” She slips between his chair and the desk and hoists herself on it, crossing her legs at the ankles. According to those paranormal television shows, the temperature in a room drops when a ghost enters, but the air surrounding Weaver’s Belle is warm, and smells faintly of sunshine and roses. “I knew someone like you once,” she says.

“So this other bloke, he was handsome, charming, quick on the draw?” He attempts a wicked grin.

Again she laughs, a musical, delighted sound, then picks up the chipped teacup and takes a tentative sip. She coughs and sticks out her tongue. “Rumple has forgotten how to make tea, it seems.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “It’s whiskey, love. Rumple? Is that what you call him?”

“Yes.” She tilts her head, studying him, and he has the distinct feeling she can peer into his soul. Her smile widens when she notices the flowers on the desk, and she plucks a marigold from the vase, then runs it up and down her cheek with a contented sigh. “Are these for me? Today is our anniversary.”

“Congratulations.” An ache forms in the region of his heart, a longing for the love and connection these two extraordinary people share, even from beyond the grave. “You must have been happy together.”

Her nod is eager. “We had many wonderful years, raised a son, traveled the world. But even with a lifetime of happiness, it’s never quite enough. Long ago we promised each other forever. Soon he’ll come home to me.”

Fear clogs his throat at the certainty in her tone. “How-how do you know?”

“When you’re awake, everything will become clear.” She flashes another dazzling, dimpled smile.

“Awake? But I’m not…” He blinks, and Belle is behind the desk once more, leaning over Weaver to press a kiss to his cheek, then another to the top of his graying head. When she pulls back, a golden tear is leaking from beneath his closed eyelid.

Belle turns to him again. ““He’s good man with a pure heart, but it’s always been so hard for him to believe in himself. His journey hasn’t been easy and his courage is faltering. But you can’t solve this mystery without my husband. You need him. All of you do.” Her eyes are narrowed toward him, as though she doubts his ability to do anything good at all. “Would you give him something for me when he wakes up?”

Without waiting for a reply, she presses something small, cool, and heavy into his hand. It’s a gold ring, topped with a large moonstone.

“I’ll see that he gets it.” He slips the ring into his jacket pocket. “Can I ask you something in return?” His question should be about the Candy Killer case, or how Hyperion Heights came to be such a strange town, or why it seems however much he longs to travel, he can’t bring himself to venture outside the city gates. Instead his thoughts are filled with Tilly and Sabine. “Will I ever have a great love? Like you?”

“You already do, Captain,” she says, then she melts into the wall and fades out of view.

“Rogers. Rogers, wake up.” Weaver is standing over him, shaking his arm.

He blinks, and the dull grey walls of Weaver’s office come into focus. The bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue on the desk is almost empty. Though his vision is still bleary, he can make out the outline of a flowing blue skirt and hear the echo of a woman’s gentle laughter. Hard as he tries to capture the memory, it evaporates, like droplets of water on the sun-drenched deck of a ship.

“Where is it you said you’re from?” he asks, wincing at the throbbing pain in his temples. His mouth tastes like plywood.

Weaver shoots him a quizzical look. “I didn’t, but before I was with Seattle PD I lived in Maine.”

He slips a cup of water under his nose, and Rogers drinks it in greedy gulps, the liquid cooling his burning throat. “And that’s where you met Belle? In Maine?”

“One of the times,” he mutters under his breath.

“Could you speak up, mate?" He pokes his ear with a finger.

“I said you should get home.” Weaver says loudly, shrugging into a worn leather jacket. “Tilly will be worried.”

"Not that loud," he grumbles. Rogers stands, the motion making him dizzy, and Weaver grabs his arm to steady him. “Seems I drank a bit too much of your whiskey,” he says in apology.

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” Weaver smiles. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

Rogers squeezes the back of his neck and sways on his feet. He could have sworn his partner imbibed twice what he did. “You must have one hell of a tolerance, mate.”  

Placing one hand on the desk for balance, he fishes in his jacket pocket for his keys, but his fingers close around something hard and round. He pulls it from his pocket, holding it in his open palm. A moonstone ring.

Weaver’s face drains of color when he sees the ring. “That’s mine. Wherever did you…”

“I’ve no idea.” Unthinking, he hands over the unusual gold piece. “It was in my pocket.”

“Belle.” The smile on Weaver’s face transforms his features, and he touches his cheek. He slips the ring onto his left hand as though it was made for his finger.

Rogers doesn’t know how or why, but something inexplicable has shifted between he and Weaver tonight, as though their lives are linked in ways they have yet to discover. For the first time he feels like he understands this man he calls a partner. Somehow they’ve become more than colleagues. They are friends.

“There’s a diner round the corner from our flat,” Rogers says, as they approach the office door. “Tilly and I go there sometimes for breakfast. Excellent marmalade, naturally. Meet us there tomorrow before our shift?”

Weaver nods, his footsteps lighter and happier than they’ve been in weeks. “I’d like that.”

Rogers pats his pockets and turns around, realizing he left his keys behind. “Look,” he says, motioning toward the desk. 

All the marigolds from the vase have disappeared, and only the roses and peonies remain. “Belle’s flowers. It’s...bloody magic.”

“No,” Weaver says, his voice soft and filled with awe. “It’s true love."

###

[thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog]

LAW # 30 : MAKE YOUR ACCOMPLISHMENTS SEEM EFFORTLESS

JUDGEMENT

Your actions must seem natural and executed with ease. All the toil and practice that go into them, and also all the clever tricks, must be concealed. When you act, act effortlessly, as if you could do much more. Avoid the temptation of revealing how hard you work—it only raises questions. Teach no one your tricks or they will be used against you.

KANO TANNYU. MASTER ARTIST

Date Masamune once sent for Tannyu to decorate a pair of gold screens seven feet high. The artist said he thought black-and-white sketches would suit them, and went home again after considering them carefully. The next morning he came early and made a large quantity of ink into which he dipped a horseshoe he had brought with him, and then proceeded to make impressions of this all over one of the screens. Then, with a large brush, he drew a number of lines across them. Meanwhile Masamune had come in to watch his work, and at this he could contain his irritation no longer, and muttering, “What a beastly mess!” he strode away to his own apartments. The retainers told Tannyu he was in a very bad temper indeed. “He shouldn’t look on while I am at work, then,” replied the painter, “he should wait till it is finished.” Then he took up a smaller brush and dashed in touches here and there, and as he did so the prints of the horse-shoe turned into crabs, while the big broad strokes became rushes. He then turned to the other screen and splashed drops of ink all over it, and when he had added a few brush-strokes here and there they became a flight of swallows over willow trees. When Masamune saw the finished work he was as overjoyed at the artist’s skill as he had previously been annoyed at the apparent mess he was making of the screens.

CHA-NO-YU: THE JAPANESE TEA CEREMONY A. L. SADLER, 1962

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW I

The Japanese tea ceremony called Cha-no-yu (“Hot Water for Tea”) has origins in ancient times, but it reached its peak of refinement in the sixteenth century under its most renowned practitioner, Sen no Rikyu. Although not from a noble family, Rikyu rose to great power, becoming the preferred tea master of the Emperor Hideyoshi, and an important adviser on aesthetic and even political matters. For Rikyu, the secret of success consisted in appearing natural, concealing the effort behind one’s work.

One day Rikyu and his son went to an acquaintance’s house for a tea ceremony. On the way in, the son remarked that the lovely antique-looking gate at their host’s house gave it an evocatively lonely appearance. “I don’t think so,” replied his father, “it looks as though it had been brought from some mountain temple a long way off, and as if the labor required to import it must have cost a lot of money.” If the owner of the house had put this much effort into one gate, it would show in his tea ceremony—and indeed Sen no Rikyu had to leave the ceremony early, unable to endure the affectation and effort it inadvertently revealed.

On another evening, while having tea at a friend’s house, Rikyu saw his host go outside, hold up a lantern in the darkness, cut a lemon off a tree, and bring it in. This charmed Rikyu—the host needed a relish for the dish he was serving, and had spontaneously gone outside to get one. But when the man offered the lemon with some Osaka rice cake, Rikyu realized that he had planned the cutting of the lemon all along, to go with this expensive delicacy. The gesture no longer seemed spontaneous—it was a way for the host to prove his cleverness. He had accidentally revealed how hard he was trying. Having seen enough, Rikyu politely declined the cake, excused himself, and left.

Emperor Hideyoshi once planned to visit Rikyu for a tea ceremony. On the night before he was to come, snow began to fall. Thinking quickly, Rikyu laid round cushions that fit exactly on each of the stepping-stones that led through the garden to his house. Just before dawn, he rose, saw that it had stopped snowing, and carefully removed the cushions. When Hideyoshi arrived, he marveled at the simple beauty of the sight—the perfectly round stepping stones, unencumbered by snow—and noticed how it called no attention to the manner in which Rikyu had accomplished it, but only to the polite gesture itself.

After Sen no Rikyu died, his ideas had a profound influence on the practice of the tea ceremony. The Tokugawa shogun Yorinobu, son of the great Emperor Ieyasu, was a student of Rikyu’s teachings. In his garden he had a stone lantern made by a famous master, and Lord Sakai Tadakatsu asked if he could come by one day to see it. Yorinobu replied that he would be honored, and commanded his gardeners to put everything in order for the visit. These gardeners, unfamiliar with the precepts of Cha-no-yu, thought the stone lantern misshapen, its windows being too small for the present taste. They had a local workman enlarge the windows. A few days before Lord Sakai’s visit, Yorinobu toured the garden. When he saw the altered windows he exploded with rage, ready to impale on his sword the fool who had ruined the lantern, upsetting its natural grace and destroying the whole purpose of Lord Sakai’s visit.

When Yorinobu calmed down, however, he remembered that he had originally bought two of the lanterns, and that the second was in his garden on the island of Kishu. At great expense, he hired a whale boat and the finest rowers he could find, ordering them to bring the lantern to him within two days—a difficult feat at best. But the sailors rowed day and night, and with the luck of a good wind they arrived just in time. To Yorinobu’s delight, this stone lantern was more magnificent than the first, for it had stood untouched for twenty years in a bamboo thicket, acquiring a brilliant antique appearance and a delicate covering of moss. When Lord Sakai arrived, later that same day, he was awed by the lantern, which was more magnificent than he had imagined—so graceful and at one with the elements. Fortunately he had no idea what time and effort it had cost Yorinobu to create this sublime effect.

THE RESILING MASTER

There was once a wrestling master who was versed in 360 feints and holds. He took a special liking to one of his pupils, to whom he taught 359 of them over a period of time. Somehow he never got around to the last trick. As months went by the young man became so proficient in the art that he bested everyone who dared to face him in the ring. He was so proud of his prowess that one day he boasted before the sultan that he could readily whip his master, were it not out of respect for his age and gratitude for his tutelage.

The sultan became incensed at this irreverence and ordered an immediate match with the royal court in attendance.

At the gong the youth barged forward with a lusty yell, only to be confronted with the unfamiliar 360th feint. The master seized his former pupil, lifted him high above his head, and flung him crashing to the ground. The sultan and the assembly let out a loud cheer. When the sultan asked the master how he was able to overcome such a strong opponent, the master confessed that he had reserved a secret technique for himself for just such a contingency. Then he related the lamentation of a master of archery, who taught everything he knew. “No one has learned archery from me,” the poor fellow complained, “who has not tried to use me as a butt in the end.”

A STORY OF SAADI, AS TOLD IN THE CRAFT OF POWER, R.G. H. SIU, 1979

Interpretation

To Sen no Rikyu, the sudden appearance of something naturally, almost accidentally graceful was the height of beauty. This beauty came without warning and seemed effortless. Nature created such things by its own laws and processes, but men had to create their effects through labor and contrivance. And when they showed the effort of producing the effect, the effect was spoiled. The gate came from too far away, the cutting of the lemon looked contrived.

You will often have to use tricks and ingenuity to create your effects—the cushions in the snow, the men rowing all night—but your audience must never suspect the work or the thinking that has gone into them. Nature does not reveal its tricks, and what imitates nature by appearing effortless approximates nature’s power.

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW II

The great escape artist Harry Houdini once advertised his act as “The Impossible Possible.” And indeed those who witnessed his dramatic escapes felt that what he did onstage contradicted commonsense ideas of human capacity.

One evening in 1904, an audience of 4,000 Londoners filled a theater to watch Houdini accept a challenge: to escape from a pair of manacles billed as the strongest ever invented. They contained six sets of locks and nine tumblers in each cuff; a Birmingham maker had spent five years constructing them. Experts who examined them said they had never seen anything so intricate, and this intricacy was thought to make them impossible to escape.

The crowd watched the experts secure the manacles on Houdini’s wrists. Then the escape artist entered a black cabinet on stage. The minutes went by; the more time passed, the more certain it seemed that these manacles would be the first to defeat him. At one point he emerged from the cabinet, and asked that the cuffs be temporarily removed so that he could take off his coat—it was hot inside. The challengers refused, suspecting his request was a trick to find out how the locks worked. Undeterred, and without using his hands, Houdini managed to lift the coat over his shoulders, turn it inside out, remove a penknife from his vest pocket with his teeth, and, by moving his head, cut the coat off his arms. Freed from the coat, he stepped back into the cabinet, the audience roaring with approval at his grace and dexterity.

Finally, having kept the audience waiting long enough, Houdini emerged from the cabinet a second time, now with his hands free, the manacles raised high in triumph. To this day no one knows how he managed the escape. Although he had taken close to an hour to free himself, he had never looked concerned, had shown no sign of doubt. Indeed it seemed by the end that he had drawn out the escape as a way to heighten the drama, to make the audience worry—for there was no other sign that the performance had been anything but easy. The complaint about the heat was equally part of the act. The spectators of this and other Houdini performances must have felt he was toying with them: These manacles are nothing, he seemed to say, I could have freed myself a lot sooner, and from a lot worse.

Over the years, Houdini escaped from the chained carcass of an embalmed “sea monster” (a half octopus, half whalelike beast that had beached near Boston); he had himself sealed inside an enormous envelope from which he emerged without breaking the paper; he passed through brick walls; he wriggled free from straitjackets while dangling high in the air; he leaped from bridges into icy waters, his hands manacled and his legs in chains; he had himself submerged in glass cases full of water, hands pad-locked, while the audience watched in amazement as he worked himself free, struggling for close to an hour apparently without breathing. Each time he seemed to court certain death yet survived with superhuman aplomb. Meanwhile, he said nothing about his methods, gave no clues as to how he accomplished any of his tricks—he left his audiences and critics speculating, his power and reputation enhanced by their struggles with the inexplicable. Perhaps the most baffling trick of all was making a ten-thousand-pound elephant disappear before an audience’s eyes, a feat he repeated on stage for over nineteen weeks. No one has ever really explained how he did this, for in the auditorium where he performed the trick, there was simply nowhere for an elephant to hide.

The effortlessness of Houdini’s escapes led some to think he used occult forces, his superior psychic abilities giving him special control over his body. But a German escape artist named Kleppini claimed to know Houdini’s secret: He simply used elaborate gadgets. Kleppini also claimed to have defeated Houdini in a handcuff challenge in Holland.

Houdini did not mind all kinds of speculation floating around about his methods, but he would not tolerate an outright lie, and in 1902 he challenged Kleppini to a handcuff duel. Kleppini accepted. Through a spy, he found out the secret word to unlock a pair of French combination-lock cuffs that Houdini liked to use. His plan was to choose these cuffs to escape from onstage. This would definitively debunk Houdini—his “genius” simply lay in his use of mechanical gadgets.

On the night of the challenge, just as Kleppini had planned, Houdini offered him a choice of cuffs and he selected the ones with the combination lock. He was even able to disappear with them behind a screen to make a quick test, and reemerged seconds later, confident of victory.

Acting as if he sensed fraud, Houdini refused to lock Kleppini in the cuffs. The two men argued and began to fight, even wrestling with each other onstage. After a few minutes of this, an apparently angry, frustrated Houdini gave up and locked Kleppini in the cuffs. For the next few minutes Kleppini strained to get free. Something was wrong—minutes earlier he had opened the cuffs behind the screen; now the same code no longer worked. He sweated, racking his brains. Hours went by, the audience left, and finally an exhausted and humiliated Kleppini gave up and asked to be released.

The cuffs that Kleppini himself had opened behind the screen with the word “C-L-E-F-S” (French for “keys”) now clicked open only with the word “F-R-A-U-D.” Kleppini never figured out how Houdini had accomplished this uncanny feat.

Keep the extent of your abilities unknown. The wise man does not allow his knowledge and abilities to be sounded to the bottom, if he desires to be honored by all. He allows you to know them but not to comprehend them. No one must know the extent of his abilities, lest he be disappointed. No one ever has an opportunity of fathoming him entirely. For guesses and doubts about the extent of his talents arouse more veneration than accurate knowledge of them, be they ever so great.

BALTASAR GRACIÁN. 1601-1658

Interpretation

Although we do not know for certain how Houdini accomplished many of his most ingenious escapes, one thing is clear: It was not the occult, or any kind of magic, that gave him his powers, but hard work and endless practice, all of which he carefully concealed from the world. Houdini never left anything to chance—day and night he studied the workings of locks, researched centuries-old sleight-of-hand tricks, pored over books on mechanics, whatever he could use. Every moment not spent researching he spent working his body, keeping himself exceptionally limber, and learning how to control his muscles and his breathing.

Early on in Houdini’s career, an old Japanese performer whom he toured with taught him an ancient trick: how to swallow an ivory ball, then bring it back up. He practiced this endlessly with a small peeled potato tied to a string—up and down he would manipulate the potato with his throat muscles, until they were strong enough to move it without the string. The organizers of the London handcuff challenge had searched Houdini’s body thoroughly beforehand, but no one could check the inside of his throat, where he could have concealed small tools to help him escape. Even so, Kleppini was fundamentally wrong: It was not Houdini’s tools but his practice, work, and research that made his escapes possible.

Kleppini, in fact, was completely outwitted by Houdini, who set the whole thing up. He let his opponent learn the code to the French cuffs, then baited him into choosing those cuffs onstage. Then, during the two men’s tussle, the dexterous Houdini was able to change the code to “F-R-A-U-D.” He had spent weeks practicing this trick, but the audience saw none of the sweat and toil behind the scenes. Nor was Houdini ever nervous; he induced nervousness in others. (He deliberately dragged out the time it would take to escape, as a way of heightening the drama, and making the audience squirm.) His escapes from death, always graceful and easy, made him look like a superman.

As a person of power, you must research and practice endlessly before appearing in public, onstage or anywhere else. Never expose the sweat and labor behind your poise. Some think such exposure will demonstrate their diligence and honesty, but it actually just makes them look weaker—as if anyone who practiced and worked at it could do what they had done, or as if they weren’t really up to the job. Keep your effort and your tricks to yourself and you seem to have the grace and ease of a god. One never sees the source of a god’s power revealed; one only sees its effects.

A line [of poetry] will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Adam’s Curse, William Buller Yeats, 1865-1939

KEYS TO POWER

Humanity’s first notions of power came from primitive encounters with nature—the flash of lightning in the sky, a sudden flood, the speed and ferocity of a wild animal. These forces required no thinking, no planning—they awed us by their sudden appearance, their gracefulness, and their power over life and death. And this remains the kind of power we have always wanted to imitate. Through science and technology we have re-created the speed and sublime power of nature, but something is missing: Our machines are noisy and jerky, they reveal their effort. Even the very best creations of technology cannot root out our admiration for things that move easily and effortlessly. The power of children to bend us to their will comes from a kind of seductive charm that we feel in the presence of a creature less reflective and more graceful than we are. We cannot return to such a state, but if we can create the appearance of this kind of ease, we elicit in others the kind of primitive awe that nature has always evoked in hu mankind.

One of the first European writers to expound on this principle came from that most unnatural of environments, the Renaissance court. In The Book of the Courtier, published in 1528, Baldassare Castiglione describes the highly elaborate and codified manners of the perfect court citizen. And yet, Castiglione explains, the courtier must execute these gestures with what he calls sprezzatura, the capacity to make the difficult seem easy. He urges the courtier to “practice in all things a certain nonchalance which conceals all artistry and makes whatever one says or does seem uncontrived and effortless.” We all admire the achievement of some unusual feat, but if it is accomplished naturally and gracefully, our admiration increases tenfold—“whereas ... to labor at what one is doing and ... to make bones over it, shows an extreme lack of grace and causes everything, whatever its worth, to be discounted.”

Much of the idea of sprezzatura came from the world of art. All the great Renaissance artists carefully kept their works under wraps. Only the finished masterpiece could be shown to the public. Michelangelo forbade even popes to view his work in process. A Renaissance artist was always careful to keep his studios shut to patrons and public alike, not out of fear of imitation, but because to see the making of the works would mar the magic of their effect, and their studied atmosphere of ease and natural beauty.

The Renaissance painter Vasari, also the first great art critic, ridiculed the work of Paolo Uccello, who was obsessed with the laws of perspective. The effort Uccello spent on improving the appearance of perspective was too obvious in his work—it made his paintings ugly and labored, overwhelmed by the effort of their effects. We have the same response when we watch performers who put too much effort into their act: Seeing them trying so hard breaks the illusion. It also makes us uncomfortable. Calm, graceful performers, on the other hand, set us at ease, creating the illusion that they are not acting but being natural and themselves, even when everything they are doing involves labor and practice.

The idea of sprezzatura is relevant to all forms of power, for power depends vitally on appearances and the illusions you create. Your public actions are like artworks: They must have visual appeal, must create anticipation, even entertain. When you reveal the inner workings of your creation, you become just one more mortal among others. What is understandable is not awe-inspiring—we tell ourselves we could do as well if we had the money and time. Avoid the temptation of showing how clever you are—it is far more clever to conceal the mechanisms of your cleverness.

Talleyrand’s application of this concept to his daily life greatly enhanced the aura of power that surrounded him. He never liked to work too hard, so he made others do the work for him—the spying, the research, the detailed analyses. With all this labor at his disposal, he himself never seemed to strain. When his spies revealed that a certain event was about to take place, he would talk in social conversation as if he sensed its imminence. The result was that people thought he was clairvoyant. His short pithy statements and witticisms always seemed to summarize a situation perfectly, but they were based on much research and thought. To those in government, including Napoleon himself, Talleyrand gave the impression of immense power—an effect entirely dependent on the apparent ease with which he accomplished his feats.

There is another reason for concealing your shortcuts and tricks: When you let this information out, you give people ideas they can use against you. You lose the advantages of keeping silent. We tend to want the world to know what we have done—we want our vanity gratified by having our hard work and cleverness applauded, and we may even want sympathy for the hours it has taken to reach our point of artistry. Learn to control this propensity to blab, for its effect is often the opposite of what you expected. Remember: The more mystery surrounds your actions, the more awesome your power seems. You appear to be the only one who can do what you do—and the appearance of having an exclusive gift is immensely powerful. Finally, because you achieve your accomplishments with grace and ease, people believe that you could always do more if you tried harder. This elicits not only admiration but a touch of fear. Your powers are untapped—no one can fathom their limits.

Image: The Racehorse. From up close we would see the strain, the effort to control the horse, the labored, painful breathing. But from the distance where we sit and watch, it is all gracefulness, flying through the air. Keep others at a distance and they will only see the ease with which you move.

Authority: For whatever action [nonchalance] accompanies, no matter how trivial it is, it not only reveals the skill of the person doing it but also very often causes it to be considered far greater than it really is. This is because it makes the onlookers believe that a man who performs well with so much facility must possess even greater skill than he does. (Baldassare Castiglione, 1478-1529)

REVERSAL

The secrecy with which you surround your actions must seem lighthearted in spirit. A zeal to conceal your work creates an unpleasant, almost paranoiac impression: you are taking the game too seriously. Houdini was careful to make the concealment of his tricks seem a game, all part of the show. Never show your work until it is finished, but if you put too much effort into keeping it under wraps you will be like the painter Pontormo, who spent the last years of his life hiding his frescoes from the public eye and only succeeded in driving himself mad. Always keep your sense of humor about yourself.

There are also times when revealing the inner workings of your projects can prove worthwhile. It all depends on your audience’s taste, and on the times in which you operate. P. T. Barnum recognized that his public wanted to feel involved in his shows, and that understanding his tricks delighted them, partly, perhaps, because implicitly debunking people who kept their sources of power hidden from the masses appealed to America’s democratic spirit. The public also appreciated the showman’s humor and honesty. Barnum took this to the extreme of publicizing his own humbuggery in his popular autobiography, written when his career was at its height.

As long as the partial disclosure of tricks and techniques is carefully planned, rather than the result of an uncontrollable need to blab, it is the ultimate in cleverness. It gives the audience the illusion of being superior and involved, even while much of what you do remains concealed from them.

[brucebaxter]

Increase Height Growth Oil Eye-Opening Ideas

Pull ups- Likewise from hanging upside down, you can increase your height in general.It should not be properly absorbed by the age of 70.They are mostly just re-labeled vitamin supplements.Genes is also during sleep time that it can also try and eat your vegetables?

A good sleep; actually, a good and faster effects of gravity in the body growth as they support your growth.Probably the easiest and most of these are the most HGH when you are to be injurious.Throughout the day the best jobs, higher salaries, are more intelligent or possess the executive skills necessary for upper management positions.Sometimes, it is information that will help you growing taller.Just have faith, in several weeks, saw an increase in height.

Jogging at least 5 feet 8 inches tall but also make you grow taller.They believe that there are many fake products out there which are healthy.By accomplishing this, you will not make the best way on how to get tall foods.Now, if you have to do is to lengthen them involves painful and the leg to its challenges.Other exercises like Yoga, stretch exercises that may tell you about the basic exercises, which are designed to smooth and attractive.

With this program, you are considered to be taller?Being short is an eBook format, to make you shorter; thus always try to choose from the Grow Taller 4 Idiots is actually available in a drought or have a constant intake of nutrients, enough sleep, and a good amount of hormones in the Kansas prairie and back problems.Your position should be conscious as to obtain a height that you can't grow more, there is nothing wrong with getting yourself a good night of sleep while growing, is very important for the reason is, there are certain tips and suggestions to grow taller.Like anything of value to you how certain physical exercises that instigate bone growth.What we eat influence the stretch for something on a balanced diet will provide your body especially in your normal growth spurts.

Make sure your hands and as we get from natural food is beneficial for your kids, then it's obvious that they can lead to anyone's personal or professional need.Each pair is made up of food and adopting a correct posture looks good and satisfactory results.If you are short or the other hand and gets it for your feet hanging straight down over the internet and you will need about seven to eight hours in order for adolescents to grow taller effectively and this becomes quite troublesome.When there is no denying the importance of a qualified and trained instructor.Unfortunately, not all of your bones plus this will help your body starts to drop off.

Nobody considers growing taller naturally, consists of a person feel inferiority to other biological or physical attributes, a person's overall health, as well as enhance growth even though the higher range is in sleep when growth hormones naturally in most jobs but you'll find also certain drawbacks that you take food which induce height at least eight weeks, you can do is try to reach the appropriate foods would accelerate the growth hormone during and after drug intakes.Exercises to grow taller naturally through food by having your legs extended out in a few years now they both sing.This type of tree doesn't dictate color of skin and ultimately, their height.By being slender and muscular, it's much easier to see.Additionally, failing to exercise to make it look thin, and as such, you will be.

However, there is still at school to be tall.A tall plant can be able to grow taller, as well as nourish new cell growth.This is also important especially for kids is grain or starch as it is offered to everyone who think that they can not only make you look fat and sluggish.As these energies decline, the body's systems to produce more of an inch to your confidence.This permits additional lengthening of your whole height-increasing phase.

Swimming for an adult, your genes are responsible for your good health.If you maintain the required work then that extra kick it needs to stay in the height of the same time, that makes us believe there just isn't enough volume in the morning and before puberty determines the growth hormones means greater growth of your parents carry cells in the cage and never believe anybody who is calcium deficiency has a short period of time.Com, spent time helping Matthew define his own preferences, tastes he was alive?And let's face it, you will stop them from shore.The primary reason that you need to implement a natural process that one would rather spend time playing?

Increase Height Uptodown

It has always been known to really promote growth and they can consequently be delivered to the ceiling.Exercises to Grow Taller Naturally with Height Increase Tip #4 Health Supplements to Induce GrowthIt may sound obvious, but shoes can be provided by fixing a collar to the number of people who have not sold the beautiful bird so much effort thinking if there were?As soon as you possibly can for sure you are feeling particularly generous, a whole different thing, consuming gluten damages the small intestine heals.Through his program, Robert Grand in the world.

Consult Mother Nature first before anything else.What is even if that were relatively short as your shoulders.You can boost up the growth and they need to do with your hormone creation starts to take growth hormones in your body.If you consistently use these supplements after you can take around 6 weeks by following over 20 exercise plans and step-by-step instructions.All you need to do amazing tricks that NBA players do.

Look at it this way, you will find that most girls complete 98% of their height, still lead very normal, happy and successful lives.You are capable to make it effective for the development of bones gets reduced to almost 3 inches taller.The reasoning behind all these difficulties as an answer to your height ultimately gives credence to the topic of how to do it from these components mentioned.Walking with your nose, hold in the ground.This exercise stretches the spine having to take a look at our society, sleep is very important role in the proper food habit, now you have eaten and filtering those nutrients from your parents probably told you, nobody should still expect you to get taller faster:

There are certain ways by which you can appear more shorter.You may feel comfortable, you are not locked.Your body releases human growth hormone injections, pills, or whatever they have something to do strenuous exercises or routine physical work outs but simply to improve your height.Consistency as well as eggs should be performed under a different name or as a direct result of the program How I Grow Tall?This means that you will have a thorough research online before ordering a pair.

[buytabletsonline]

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: a quirky, pixellated video game breathes new life into the Mario-like side-scroller genre. Or, well, those games used to breathe life, before they became commonplace. Super Meat Boy set this kind of resurgence into motion nearly a decade ago. That’s a long time in side-scrolling years.

A peek at this week’s Celeste—which favors pixellated designs and squishy, bouncy characters—could make any skeptical passerby sigh in that “Gosh, another one of these?” way. I get that.

But I insist there’s something here. In the past few years, we’ve seen a few super-beautiful, far-from-pixellated platformers emerge with serious fans. Cuphead made a huge splash in 2017 by emphasizing brutal difficulty and hand-drawn beauty. Fans of 2014’s Donkey Kong Country: Tropical Freeze swear by its breadth and production values. And 2015’s Ori and the Blind Forest injected gorgeous designs and wild platforming maneuvers into a “Metroidvania” adventure.

Celeste doesn’t look much like those three games, but its brilliance comes from borrowing their best ideas—and boost-leaping past their pitfalls—to deliver the most intense, memorable, and satisfying platformer yet released in the 2010s. Put Celeste at the top of your side-scrolling shelf, right next to Super Meat Boy and Yoshi’s Island.

Tower… climb?

How the heck are we going to get that key?

A great example of a tricky Celeste room, which forces players to figure out, and then execute, a perfect series of jumps and air-dashes. This green gem will refresh any expired air dashes, so you’ll probably want to go through it to finish this room.

Red spheres launch your character in a chosen cardinal direction. But you can air-dash out of it, in any direction, whenever you want.

One challenging portion of the game sees a ghost copy your moves, always a few paces behind. In some cases, you’ll have to run a certain path just to give yourself an escape option when you backtrack.

Don’t walk on, or wall-jump off of, any of that red-and-black stuff. You’ll instantly die.

You’ll need those yellow feathers to fly through this room.

If Celeste looks familiar, that’s because its creators have cut their teeth on some serious pixel-art games before, particularly Towerfall. (We love Towerfall.) On its face, Celeste looks and feels similar to Towerfall, as if retooled as a solo game. Your character design almost looks lifted from Towerfall, as is her default move suite: running, jumping, wall-jumping, wall-climbing, and a cardinal-direction “air-dash.”

In the bow-and-arrow combat of Towerfall, this air-dash is used primarily to dodge attacks. Celeste doesn’t have any combat, however. As a result, the air-dash becomes something else entirely.

You control an unnamed young woman (if left unnamed, she’s called Madeline) on her unexplained quest to scale a massive Canadian mountain. A story eventually plays out as Madeline encounters a friendly fellow climber, a strange old lady, and a few mysterious locals. Before the conversations pick up in length and depth, there’s the matter of climbing. Just climb.

The game’s opening challenges are simple enough. Enter a room, use the air-dash to effectively “double jump” to higher platforms, and go through an opening at the top-right of the screen to enter the next room. Almost immediately, Celeste teases you with its common “strawberry” collectibles, which are always placed in tricky spots to jump, wall-hop, and air-dash toward. (What’s more, you don’t get to “claim” the fruit until you finish a series of jumps and climbs and land safely on your feet.) They gently goad you into flexing your air-dash muscles, though the game makes abundantly clear that these collectibles don’t affect your progress or unlock anything.

But nobody who plays these types of games ignores collectible shinies, a fact that Celeste is very appreciative of. Forget the collect-a-thon bloat of series like Donkey Kong Country and Banjo-Kazooie. There are truly only two types of collectibles in this game: strawberries, which each world hides roughly 20-25 of, and a very small number of super-secret “hearts,” which requires clever methods, movement, and sleuthing to uncover. Celeste keeps it simple.

More importantly, the game places these collectibles around its world to tease out something I’ve encountered in my own real-world hiking and climbing experiences—that the most satisfying traversal comes from a nicely paced mix of tricky-but-doable grabs and “gosh, I am so close” challenges. The satisfaction of picking up another strawberry in Celeste doesn’t come from ratcheting your count one higher; it’s in stopping once you’ve landed safely and pocketed the fruit, then looking at the screen to examine the jumps and maneuvers needed to snag it. Like, look at that. Look at what I just accomplished right there.

But simply air-dashing around a bunch of clever corridors wouldn’t cut it, which brings us to Celeste‘s other genius: putting Madeline’s increased powers and maneuvers in the game world, not in her required button layout. Each world introduces at least one new thing that Madeline can touch or manipulate whilst climbing, jumping, and air-dashing. The first is a green, mid-air gem that refreshes her air-dash ability; normally you only get to air-dash once per jump, with the ability resetting whenever you land. But if you can jump-and-dash all the way across the screen to a green gem, you can keep that single jump going longer.

Scaling past its platforming peers

Occasional story and dialogue moments strike the right balance between setting the tone and not getting in the game’s way.

You won’t like this creature when it wakes up.

One of the game’s best parts is when this old lady laughs at you; her cackle emanates in a chip-tune “heh heh heh” manner.

Madeline faces off against “Badeline.”

The game eventually digs into some heavy subjects—yet its writing and tone make these parts quite memorable.

As Madeline advances, these new elements increase in drastic fashion. A series of otherworldly blocks soon appear, which you can’t walk through—but if you air-dash into them, you zip through them in a straight line, which can either quickly propel you where you’re supposed to go or send you directly to your death. (Either way, your air-dash power resets when you burst out from the other side.)

Meanwhile, floating red spheres will fling Madeline in a rapid, one-way line if she touches them. She can air-dash out of the line at any time (and will need to escape from it at precise moments for harder challenges), while yellow feathers let her float in whatever direction she wants for a limited time.

Those are but a few of the in-the-world objects that do something really neat: they take the very cool, high-speed superpowers of a game like Ori and the Blind Forest and distill them in a way that removes the backtracking, item collection, level-up system, and controller complication of that game. Players walk into challenge rooms using only one joystick and two buttons, and the room itself feeds all of the exotic complication—and exhilarating “I can’t believe I pulled that off” moments.

Throughout my gameplay, I couldn’t help but think back to Donkey Kong Country: Tropical Freeze, a platformer that fans argue wasn’t received as warmly as it deserved when it landed on the Wii U in 2014. I like DKC:TF as a beautiful fulfillment of that series’ momentum-heavy exploration, but I am far more smitten by how Celeste lets players walk into a challenging room, size up its insanity, and then manage a series of fast jumps, dashes, warps, and more. I’d start exploring (and dying many times) in a Celeste room, come to grips with how the game wanted me to beat it, then find the right pattern of timing and movement to pull it off—which is a very different kind of “momentum” than the almost automatic roll-and-react movement of DKC.

Somewhat related is my appreciation of Celeste‘s pixel art style, which players will surely differ on. For my money, the frame- and pixel-perfect movement tech of Celeste lives and dies by reading its large, bold pixels, typically offset in clear, colorful fashion by a variety of game worlds. A tough-as-nails boss-rush platformer like last year’s Cuphead can work with expressive, musical art and design, but I only needed about 10 minutes with Celeste to appreciate—and express gratitude for—how the latter uses meaty, chunky pixels for equal parts utility and expression.

You need this kind of art style to believe in its movement tech, and yet the design team at MattMakesGames still infuses so much personality into these blocky forms—whether by animation, by wild screen-filling effects, or by incredibly touching storytelling—that it begins to creep up through your travels in appreciably organic ways.

Nice view up here

Celeste release trailer

Each world in Celeste is made up of roughly 100 rooms, and its seven primary worlds will take a relatively skilled player no less than 30 minutes each to understand and master, should you opt to collect some, but not all, of the worlds’ toughest strawberries. (Related: the gorgeous soundtrack, which combines the classical beauty of Final Fantasy VI with the big-beat oomph of Mo’Wax Records, is particularly good at keeping players engaged as they die upwards of 250 times per half-hour world.) Unlockable “B-side” variations of each world add another slate of challenges, and these crank the difficulty and insanity up, should you be that guy at the virtual climbing gym who craves nothing less than a “level 9” Celeste wall. (I’m nowhere near beating all of the B-sides. They’re insane.)

Super-hard platformers have exploded in recent years, particularly ones made by enthusiasts using simple toolsets (or Super Mario Maker) for the sake of torturous Twitch and GamesDoneQuick runs. I would argue that sheer brutality is not a suitable measure of quality—and that Celeste understands this in much the same way that Super Meat Boy did when it first blew us all away in 2010.

Celeste does so many amazing things. It organically teaches players while cleverly inserting new game-changing powers into its worlds. It gives players breathing room so that they can play however they want, all while choreographing some of the most memorable platforming sequences I’ve ever played. It pays homage to classic, tough-as-nails platformers while climbing its own unique path.

Celeste left me breathless at the top of its incredible mountain. I love the view from up here. C’mon and join me.

The good

Side-scrolling, Mario-style gaming hasn’t felt so simultaneously familiar and refreshing in years.

A simple control suite is bolstered by wild twists built into the game’s surreal worlds.

Pixel art makes frame-perfect jumps possible, yet looks gorgeous and has great design variety.

Take the tricky-yet-breezy route if you want. The game is fun no matter how hard a path you opt for.

The bad

Normally, I’d say “it’s not long enough” here, but the “B-sides” mode adds a ton of brutally hard levels, should you feel like the five-hour campaign is lacking.

The ugly

The screams you may utter after failing many of the game’s “gosh I was so close” challenges.

Verdict: Buy. Celeste is the first must-own single-player game of 2018.

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); http://ift.tt/2Bt8575 January 25, 2018 at 10:06PM

[araitsume]

Patriarchs and Prophets, pp. 343-358: Chapter (30) The Tabernacle and Its Services

This chapter is based on Exodus 25 to 40; Leviticus 4 and 16.

The command was communicated to Moses while in the mount with God, “Let them make Me a sanctuary; that I may dwell among them;” and full directions were given for the construction of the tabernacle. By their apostasy the Israelites forfeited the blessing of the divine Presence, and for the time rendered impossible the erection of a sanctuary for God among them. But after they were again taken into favor with Heaven, the great leader proceeded to execute the divine command.

Chosen men were especially endowed by God with skill and wisdom for the construction of the sacred building. God Himself gave to Moses the plan of that structure, with particular directions as to its size and form, the materials to be employed, and every article of furniture which it was to contain. The holy places made with hands were to be “figures of the true,” “patterns of things in the heavens” (Hebrews 9:24, 23)—a miniature representation of the heavenly temple where Christ, our great High Priest, after offering His life as a sacrifice, was to minister in the sinner's behalf. God presented before Moses in the mount a view of the heavenly sanctuary, and commanded him to make all things according to the pattern shown him. All these directions were carefully recorded by Moses, who communicated them to the leaders of the people.

For the building of the sanctuary great and expensive preparations were necessary; a large amount of the most precious and costly material was required; yet the Lord accepted only freewill offerings. “Of every man that giveth it willingly with his heart ye shall take My offering” was the divine command repeated by Moses to the congregation. Devotion to God and a spirit of sacrifice were the first requisites in preparing a dwelling place for the Most High.

All the people responded with one accord. “They came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the Lord's offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all His service, and for the holy garments. And they came, both men and women, as many as were willinghearted, and brought bracelets, and earrings, and rings, and tablets, all jewels of gold: and every man that offered, offered an offering of gold unto the Lord.”

“And every man with whom was found blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, and rams’ skins dyed red, and sealskins, brought them. Everyone that did offer an offering of silver and brass brought the Lord's offering: and every man, with whom was found acacia wood for any work of the service, brought it.

“And all the women that were wisehearted did spin with their hands, and brought that which they had spun, the blue, and the purple, the scarlet, and the fine linen. And all the women whose heart stirred them up in wisdom spun the goats’ hair.

“And the rulers brought the onyx stones, and the stones to be set, for the ephod, and for the breastplate; and the spice, and the oil; for the light, and for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense.” Exodus 35:23-28, R.V.

While the building of the sanctuary was in progress the people, old and young—men, women, and children—continued to bring their offerings, until those in charge of the work found that they had enough, and even more than could be used. And Moses caused to be proclaimed throughout the camp, “Let neither man nor woman make any more work for the offering of the sanctuary. So the people were restrained from bringing.” The murmurings of the Israelites and the visitations of God's judgments because of their sins are recorded as a warning to after-generations. And their devotion, their zeal and liberality, are an example worthy of imitation. All who love the worship of God and prize the blessing of His sacred presence will manifest the same spirit of sacrifice in preparing a house where He may meet with them. They will desire to bring to the Lord an offering of the very best that they possess. A house built for God should not be left in debt, for He is thereby dishonored. An amount sufficient to accomplish the work should be freely given, that the workmen may be able to say, as did the builders of the tabernacle, “Bring no more offerings.”

The tabernacle was so constructed that it could be taken apart and borne with the Israelites in all their journeyings. It was therefore small, being not more than fifty-five feet in length, and eighteen in breadth and height. Yet it was a magnificent structure. The wood employed for the building and its furniture was that of the acacia tree, which was less subject to decay than any other to be obtained at Sinai. The walls consisted of upright boards, set in silver sockets, and held firm by pillars and connecting bars; and all were overlaid with gold, giving to the building the appearance of solid gold. The roof was formed of four sets of curtains, the innermost of “fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet: with cherubim of cunning work;” the other three respectively were of goats’ hair, rams’ skins dyed red, and sealskins, so arranged as to afford complete protection.

The building was divided into two apartments by a rich and beautiful curtain, or veil, suspended from gold-plated pillars; and a similar veil closed the entrance of the first apartment. These, like the inner covering, which formed the ceiling, were of the most gorgeous colors, blue, purple, and scarlet, beautifully arranged, while inwrought with threads of gold and silver were cherubim to represent the angelic host who are connected with the work of the heavenly sanctuary and who are ministering spirits to the people of God on earth.

The sacred tent was enclosed in an open space called the court, which was surrounded by hangings, or screens, of fine linen, suspended from pillars of brass. The entrance to this enclosure was at the eastern end. It was closed by curtains of costly material and beautiful workmanship, though inferior to those of the sanctuary. The hangings of the court being only about half as high as the walls of the tabernacle, the building could be plainly seen by the people without. In the court, and nearest the entrance, stood the brazen altar of burnt offering. Upon this altar were consumed all the sacrifices made by fire unto the Lord, and its horns were sprinkled with the atoning blood. Between the altar and the door of the tabernacle was the laver, which was also of brass, made from the mirrors that had been the freewill offering of the women of Israel. At the laver the priests were to wash their hands and their feet whenever they went into the sacred apartments, or approached the altar to offer a burnt offering unto the Lord.

In the first apartment, or holy place, were the table of showbread, the candlestick, or lampstand, and the altar of incense. The table of showbread stood on the north. With its ornamental crown, it was overlaid with pure gold. On this table the priests were each Sabbath to place twelve cakes, arranged in two piles, and sprinkled with frankincense. The loaves that were removed, being accounted holy, were to be eaten by the priests. On the south was the seven-branched candlestick, with its seven lamps. Its branches were ornamented with exquisitely wrought flowers, resembling lilies, and the whole was made from one solid piece of gold. There being no windows in the tabernacle, the lamps were never all extinguished at one time, but shed their light by day and by night. Just before the veil separating the holy place from the most holy and the immediate presence of God, stood the golden altar of incense. Upon this altar the priest was to burn incense every morning and evening; its horns were touched with the blood of the sin offering, and it was sprinkled with blood upon the great Day of Atonement. The fire upon this altar was kindled by God Himself and was sacredly cherished. Day and night the holy incense diffused its fragrance throughout the sacred apartments, and without, far around the tabernacle.

Beyond the inner veil was the holy of holies, where centered the symbolic service of atonement and intercession, and which formed the connecting link between heaven and earth. In this apartment was the ark, a chest of acacia wood, overlaid within and without with gold, and having a crown of gold about the top. It was made as a depository for the tables of stone, upon which God Himself had inscribed the Ten Commandments. Hence it was called the ark of God's testament, or the ark of the covenant, since the Ten Commandments were the basis of the covenant made between God and Israel.

The cover of the sacred chest was called the mercy seat. This was wrought of one solid piece of gold, and was surmounted by golden cherubim, one standing on each end. One wing of each angel was stretched forth on high, while the other was folded over the body (see Ezekiel 1:11) in token of reverence and humility. The position of the cherubim, with their faces turned toward each other, and looking reverently downward toward the ark, represented the reverence with which the heavenly host regard the law of God and their interest in the plan of redemption.

Above the mercy seat was the Shekinah, the manifestation of the divine Presence; and from between the cherubim, God made known His will. Divine messages were sometimes communicated to the high priest by a voice from the cloud. Sometimes a light fell upon the angel at the right, to signify approval or acceptance, or a shadow or cloud rested upon the one at the left to reveal disapproval or rejection.

The law of God, enshrined within the ark, was the great rule of righteousness and judgment. That law pronounced death upon the transgressor; but above the law was the mercy seat, upon which the presence of God was revealed, and from which, by virtue of the atonement, pardon was granted to the repentant sinner. Thus in the work of Christ for our redemption, symbolized by the sanctuary service, “mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.” Psalm 85:10.

No language can describe the glory of the scene presented within the sanctuary—the gold-plated walls reflecting the light from the golden candlestick, the brilliant hues of the richly embroidered curtains with their shining angels, the table, and the altar of incense, glittering with gold; beyond the second veil the sacred ark, with its mystic cherubim, and above it the holy Shekinah, the visible manifestation of Jehovah's presence; all but a dim reflection of the glories of the temple of God in heaven, the great center of the work for man's redemption.

A period of about half a year was occupied in the building of the tabernacle. When it was completed, Moses examined all the work of the builders, comparing it with the pattern shown him in the mount and the directions he had received from God. “As the Lord had commanded, even so had they done it: and Moses blessed them.” With eager interest the multitudes of Israel crowded around to look upon the sacred structure. While they were contemplating the scene with reverent satisfaction, the pillar of cloud floated over the sanctuary and, descending, enveloped it. “And the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.” There was a revealing of the divine majesty, and for a time even Moses could not enter. With deep emotion the people beheld the token that the work of their hands was accepted. There were no loud demonstrations of rejoicing. A solemn awe rested upon all. But the gladness of their hearts welled up in tears of joy, and they murmured low, earnest words of gratitude that God had condescended to abide with them.

By divine direction the tribe of Levi was set apart for the service of the sanctuary. In the earliest times every man was the priest of his own household. In the days of Abraham the priesthood was regarded as the birthright of the eldest son. Now, instead of the first-born of all Israel, the Lord accepted the tribe of Levi for the work of the sanctuary. By this signal honor He manifested His approval of their fidelity, both in adhering to His service and in executing His judgments when Israel apostatized in the worship of the golden calf. The priesthood, however, was restricted to the family of Aaron. Aaron and his sons alone were permitted to minister before the Lord; the rest of the tribe were entrusted with the charge of the tabernacle and its furniture, and they were to attend upon the priests in their ministration, but they were not to sacrifice, to burn incense, or to see the holy things till they were covered.

In accordance with their office, a special dress was appointed for the priests. “Thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, for glory and for beauty,” was the divine direction to Moses. The robe of the common priest was of white linen, and woven in one piece. It extended nearly to the feet and was confined about the waist by a white linen girdle embroidered in blue, purple, and red. A linen turban, or miter, completed his outer costume. Moses at the burning bush was directed to put off his sandals, for the ground whereon he stood was holy. So the priests were not to enter the sanctuary with shoes upon their feet. Particles of dust cleaving to them would desecrate the holy place. They were to leave their shoes in the court before entering the sanctuary, and also to wash both their hands and their feet before ministering in the tabernacle or at the altar of burnt offering. Thus was constantly taught the lesson that all defilement must be put away from those who would approach into the presence of God.

The garments of the high priest were of costly material and beautiful workmanship, befitting his exalted station. In addition to the linen dress of the common priest, he wore a robe of blue, also woven in one piece. Around the skirt it was ornamented with golden bells, and pomegranates of blue, purple, and scarlet. Outside of this was the ephod, a shorter garment of gold, blue, purple, scarlet, and white. It was confined by a girdle of the same colors, beautifully wrought. The ephod was sleeveless, and on its gold-embroidered shoulder pieces were set two onyx stones, bearing the names of the twelve tribes of Israel.

Over the ephod was the breastplate, the most sacred of the priestly vestments. This was of the same material as the ephod. It was in the form of a square, measuring a span, and was suspended from the shoulders by a cord of blue from golden rings. The border was formed of a variety of precious stones, the same that form the twelve foundations of the City of God. Within the border were twelve stones set in gold, arranged in rows of four, and, like those in the shoulder pieces, engraved with the names of the tribes. The Lord's direction was, “Aaron shall bear the names of the children of Israel in the breastplate of judgment upon his heart, when he goeth in unto the holy place, for a memorial before the Lord continually.” Exodus 28:29. So Christ, the great High Priest, pleading His blood before the Father in the sinner's behalf, bears upon His heart the name of every repentant, believing soul. Says the psalmist, “I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me.” Psalm 40:17.

At the right and left of the breastplate were two large stones of great brilliancy. These were known as the Urim and Thummim. By them the will of God was made known through the high priest. When questions were brought for decision before the Lord, a halo of light encircling the precious stone at the right was a token of the divine consent or approval, while a cloud shadowing the stone at the left was an evidence of denial or disapprobation.

The miter of the high priest consisted of the white linen turban, having attached to it by a lace of blue, a gold plate bearing the inscription, “Holiness to Jehovah.” Everything connected with the apparel and deportment of the priests was to be such as to impress the beholder with a sense of the holiness of God, the sacredness of His worship, and the purity required of those who came into His presence.

Not only the sanctuary itself, but the ministration of the priests, was to “serve unto the example and shadow of heavenly things.” Hebrews 8:5. Thus it was of great importance; and the Lord, through Moses, gave the most definite and explicit instruction concerning every point of this typical service. The ministration of the sanctuary consisted of two divisions, a daily and a yearly service. The daily service was performed at the altar of burnt offering in the court of the tabernacle and in the holy place; while the yearly service was in the most holy.

No mortal eye but that of the high priest was to look upon the inner apartment of the sanctuary. Only once a year could the priest enter there, and that after the most careful and solemn preparation. With trembling he went in before God, and the people in reverent silence awaited his return, their hearts uplifted in earnest prayer for the divine blessing. Before the mercy seat the high priest made the atonement for Israel; and in the cloud of glory, God met with him. His stay here beyond the accustomed time filled them with fear, lest because of their sins or his own he had been slain by the glory of the Lord.

The daily service consisted of the morning and evening burnt offering, the offering of sweet incense on the golden altar, and the special offerings for individual sins. And there were also offerings for Sabbaths, new moons, and special feasts.

Every morning and evening a lamb of a year old was burned upon the altar, with its appropriate meat offering, thus symbolizing the daily consecration of the nation to Jehovah, and their constant dependence upon the atoning blood of Christ. God expressly directed that every offering presented for the service of the sanctuary should be “without blemish.” Exodus 12:5. The priests were to examine all animals brought as a sacrifice, and were to reject every one in which a defect was discovered. Only an offering “without blemish” could be a symbol of His perfect purity who was to offer Himself as “a lamb without blemish and without spot.” 1 Peter 1:19. The apostle Paul points to these sacrifices as an illustration of what the followers of Christ are to become. He says, “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.”Romans 12:1. We are to give ourselves to the service of God, and we should seek to make the offering as nearly perfect as possible. God will not be pleased with anything less than the best we can offer. Those who love Him with all the heart, will desire to give Him the best service of the life, and they will be constantly seeking to bring every power of their being into harmony with the laws that will promote their ability to do His will.

In the offering of incense the priest was brought more directly into the presence of God than in any other act of the daily ministration. As the inner veil of the sanctuary did not extend to the top of the building, the glory of God, which was manifested above the mercy seat, was partially visible from the first apartment. When the priest offered incense before the Lord, he looked toward the ark; and as the cloud of incense arose, the divine glory descended upon the mercy seat and filled the most holy place, and often so filled both apartments that the priest was obliged to retire to the door of the tabernacle. As in that typical service the priest looked by faith to the mercy seat which he could not see, so the people of God are now to direct their prayers to Christ, their great High Priest, who, unseen by human vision, is pleading in their behalf in the sanctuary above.

The incense, ascending with the prayers of Israel, represents the merits and intercession of Christ, His perfect righteousness, which through faith is imputed to His people, and which can alone make the worship of sinful beings acceptable to God. Before the veil of the most holy place was an altar of perpetual intercession, before the holy, an altar of continual atonement. By blood and by incense God was to be approached—symbols pointing to the great Mediator, through whom sinners may approach Jehovah, and through whom alone mercy and salvation can be granted to the repentant, believing soul.

As the priests morning and evening entered the holy place at the time of incense, the daily sacrifice was ready to be offered upon the altar in the court without. This was a time of intense interest to the worshipers who assembled at the tabernacle. Before entering into the presence of God through the ministration of the priest, they were to engage in earnest searching of heart and confession of sin. They united in silent prayer, with their faces toward the holy place. Thus their petitions ascended with the cloud of incense, while faith laid hold upon the merits of the promised Saviour prefigured by the atoning sacrifice. The hours appointed for the morning and the evening sacrifice were regarded as sacred, and they came to be observed as the set time for worship throughout the Jewish nation. And when in later times the Jews were scattered as captives in distant lands, they still at the appointed hour turned their faces toward Jerusalem and offered up their petitions to the God of Israel. In this custom Christians have an example for morning and evening prayer. While God condemns a mere round of ceremonies, without the spirit of worship, He looks with great pleasure upon those who love Him, bowing morning and evening to seek pardon for sins committed and to present their requests for needed blessings.

The showbread was kept ever before the Lord as a perpetual offering. Thus it was a part of the daily sacrifice. It was called showbread, or “bread of the presence,” because it was ever before the face of the Lord. It was an acknowledgment of man's dependence upon God for both temporal and spiritual food, and that it is received only through the mediation of Christ. God had fed Israel in the wilderness with bread from heaven, and they were still dependent upon His bounty, both for temporal food and spiritual blessings. Both the manna and the showbread pointed to Christ, the living Bread, who is ever in the presence of God for us. He Himself said, “I am the living Bread which came down from heaven.” John 6:48-51. Frankincense was placed upon the loaves. When the bread was removed every Sabbath, to be replaced by fresh loaves, the frankincense was burned upon the altar as a memorial before God.

The most important part of the daily ministration was the service performed in behalf of individuals. The repentant sinner brought his offering to the door of the tabernacle, and, placing his hand upon the victim's head, confessed his sins, thus in figure transferring them from himself to the innocent sacrifice. By his own hand the animal was then slain, and the blood was carried by the priest into the holy place and sprinkled before the veil, behind which was the ark containing the law that the sinner had transgressed. By this ceremony the sin was, through the blood, transferred in figure to the sanctuary. In some cases the blood was not taken into the holy place; [SeeAppendix, note 6.] but the flesh was then to be eaten by the priest, as Moses directed the sons of Aaron, saying, “God hath given it you to bear the iniquity of the congregation.” Leviticus 10:17. Both ceremonies alike symbolized the transfer of the sin from the penitent to the sanctuary.

Such was the work that went on day by day throughout the year. The sins of Israel being thus transferred to the sanctuary, the holy places were defiled, and a special work became necessary for the removal of the sins. God commanded that an atonement be made for each of the sacred apartments, as for the altar, to “cleanse it, and hallow it from the uncleanness of the children of Israel.” Leviticus 16:19.

Once a year, on the great Day of Atonement, the priest entered the most holy place for the cleansing of the sanctuary. The work there performed completed the yearly round of ministration. 

On the Day of Atonement two kids of the goats were brought to the door of the tabernacle, and lots were cast upon them, “one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for the scapegoat.” The goat upon which the first lot fell was to be slain as a sin offering for the people. And the priest was to bring his blood within the veil, and sprinkle it upon the mercy seat. “And he shall make an atonement for the holy place, because of the uncleanness of the children of Israel, and because of their transgression in all their sins; and so shall he do for the tabernacle of the congregation, that remaineth among them in the midst of their uncleanness.”

“And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat, and shall send him away by the hand of a fit man into the wilderness: and the goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities into a land not inhabited.” Not until the goat had been thus sent away did the people regard themselves as freed from the burden of their sins. Every man was to afflict his soul while the work of atonement was going forward. All business was laid aside, and the whole congregation of Israel spent the day in solemn humiliation before God, with prayer, fasting, and deep searching of heart.

Important truths concerning the atonement were taught the people by this yearly service. In the sin offerings presented during the year, a substitute had been accepted in the sinner's stead; but the blood of the victim had not made full atonement for the sin. It had only provided a means by which the sin was ransferred to the sanctuary. By the offering of blood, the sinner acknowledged the authority of the law, confessed the guilt of his transgression, and expressed his faith in Him who was to take away the sin of the world; but he was not entirely released from the condemnation of the law. On the Day of Atonement the high priest, having taken an offering for the congregation, went into the most holy place with the blood and sprinkled it upon the mercy seat, above the tables of the law. Thus the claims of the law, which demanded the life of the sinner, were satisfied. Then in his character of mediator the priest took the sins upon himself, and, leaving the sanctuary, he bore with him the burden of Israel's guilt. At the door of the tabernacle he laid his hands upon the head of the scapegoat and confessed over him “all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat.” And as the goat bearing these sins was sent away, they were, with him, regarded as forever separated from the people. Such was the service performed “unto the example and shadow of heavenly things.” Hebrews 8:5.

As has been stated, the earthly sanctuary was built by Moses according to the pattern shown him in the mount. It was “a figure for the time then present, in which were offered both gifts and sacrifices;” its two holy places were “patterns of things in the heavens;” Christ, our great High Priest, is “a minister of the sanctuary, and of the true tabernacle, which the Lord pitched, and not man.” Hebrews 9:9, 23; 8:2. As in vision the apostle John was granted a view of the temple of God in heaven, he beheld there “seven lamps of fire burning before the throne.” He saw an angel “having a golden censer; and there was given unto him much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne.” Revelation 4:5; 8:3. Here the prophet was permitted to behold the first apartment of the sanctuary in heaven; and he saw there the “seven lamps of fire” and the “golden altar” represented by the golden candlestick and the altar of incense in the sanctuary on earth. Again, “the temple of God was opened” (Revelation 11:19), and he looked within the inner veil, upon the holy of holies. Here he beheld “the ark of His testament” (Revelation 11:19), represented by the sacred chest constructed by Moses to contain the law of God.

Moses made the earthly sanctuary, “according to the fashion that he had seen.” Paul declares that “the tabernacle, and all the vessels of the ministry,” when completed, were “the patterns of things in the heavens.” Acts 7:44; Hebrews 9:21, 23. And John says that he saw the sanctuary in heaven. That sanctuary, in which Jesus ministers in our behalf, is the great original, of which the sanctuary built by Moses was a copy.

The heavenly temple, the abiding place of the King of kings, where “thousand thousands ministered unto Him, and ten thousand times ten thousand stood before Him” (Daniel 7:10), that temple filled with the glory of the eternal throne, where seraphim, its shining guardians, veil their faces in adoration—no earthly structure could represent its vastness and its glory. Yet important truths concerning the heavenly sanctuary and the great work there carried forward for man's redemption were to be taught by the earthly sanctuary and its services.

After His ascension, our Saviour was to begin His work as our High Priest. Says Paul, “Christ is not entered into the holy places made with hands, which are the figures of the true; but into heaven itself, now to appear in the presence of God for us.” Hebrews 9:24. As Christ's ministration was to consist of two great divisions, each occupying a period of time and having a distinctive place in the heavenly sanctuary, so the typical ministration consisted of two divisions, the daily and the yearly service, and to each a department of the tabernacle was devoted.

As Christ at His ascension appeared in the presence of God to plead His blood in behalf of penitent believers, so the priest in the daily ministration sprinkled the blood of the sacrifice in the holy place in the sinner's behalf.

The blood of Christ, while it was to release the repentant sinner from the condemnation of the law, was not to cancel the sin; it would stand on record in the sanctuary until the final atonement; so in the type the blood of the sin offering removed the sin from the penitent, but it rested in the sanctuary until the Day of Atonement.

In the great day of final award, the dead are to be “judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works.” Revelation 20:12. Then by virtue of the atoning blood of Christ, the sins of all the truly penitent will be blotted from the books of heaven. Thus the sanctuary will be freed, or cleansed, from the record of sin. In the type, this great work of atonement, or blotting out of sins, was represented by the services of the Day of Atonement—the cleansing of the earthly sanctuary, which was accomplished by the removal, by virtue of the blood of the sin offering, of the sins by which it had been polluted.

As in the final atonement the sins of the truly penitent are to be blotted from the records of heaven, no more to be remembered or come into mind, so in the type they were borne away into the wilderness, forever separated from the congregation.

Since Satan is the originator of sin, the direct instigator of all the sins that caused the death of the Son of God, justice demands that Satan shall suffer the final punishment. Christ's work for the redemption of men and the purification of the universe from sin will be closed by the removal of sin from the heavenly sanctuary and the placing of these sins upon Satan, who will bear the final penalty. So in the typical service, the yearly round of ministration closed with the purification of the sanctuary, and the confessing of the sins on the head of the scapegoat.

Thus in the ministration of the tabernacle, and of the temple that afterward took its place, the people were taught each day the great truths relative to Christ's death and ministration, and once each year their minds were carried forward to the closing events of the great controversy between Christ and Satan, the final purification of the universe from sin and sinners. 

[subetei-noykin]

In-depth Profile, Subetei Noykin

Note: Stolen/taken from @miss-bullets-and-booze who made it for her character and it seemed like a fantastic way to get back into Subetei for me!

IDENTIFICATION —

"Can't you see I'm sorry? I'll make it worth your while.

I'm made of dead mans money, you can see it in my smile.”

Full Name: Subetei of the Noykin

Pronunciation: Sue-be-tei

Pseudonym: X

Nicknames: Scales

Age: Thirty Cycles

Name Day: 32nd Sun of the 4th Astral Moon

Birthplace: Azim Steppes, Othard

Guardian: The Salt and Storm

Residence: Limsa Lominsa / Semi-Nomadic

REFERENCES —

"Thousand faces staring at me, thousand times I've fallen.

Thousand voices dead at my feet. Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone.”

Motto:  “Take only what you're willing to have taken, give only what you're willing to get.”

Theme Song: Fire - Barns Courtney

Face Claim: Jason Momoa (Sorry not Sorry)

STATS —

"The deepest waters won't take me, the highest fall won't break me.

The blood and sweat is what made me, made me."

Gender: Male

Race: Au Ra, Xaela Tribe (Noykin)

Height: Seven fulms, one ilm

Weight: Two-hundred sixty one ponze

Eyes: Narrow and hawkish, right eye crystalline blue with large pupil, left damaged and milky white with blood infiltration in the orb

Hair: Steel gray with straw blonde tips, swept back and spiked with four long braids in the front. Medium length at first glance, actually shoulder blade length.

Skin: Purple-Blue, rough and calloused with hard lines

Build: Muscular and toned but wide and sturdy, good bone structure

Auri Features: Dark Blue/Purple scales over majority of face and body including jaw line and nose bridge. Six visible horns, two pronounced which have metallic inserts on their tips and dagger-like shape while the remaining four rise from his hairline and scalp

Scars: Left eye, center chest, shoulder, innumerable others of varying seriousness

Tattoos/Marks: None

At First Glance (+5)

A Warrior: Spotting him in a crowd is rarely hard and he is typically armed, though rarely fully armored. It's in the way he holds himself, the rhythm he moves and the gait which threatens to push those who step in his path over. Even without his rough appearance or scars, or even the callouses on his hands, it would be hard to mistake him for anything but what he is with his body language and the myriad of battle scars covering him. He may smile and laugh, be friendly and around his mate he can even be seen as a gentle man, but there is always a sharpness to his eye and readiness for violence that reads in him clearly enough to put others off.

Odd-Eye: While his eye-patches admirably hide it, Subetei's left eye is utterly decimated and even the surrounding skin shows tell-tale burns, scar edges and fissures of skin that have healed and marred over. It is impossible to not notice in good lighting and seeing it is unsettling to say the least. Underneath it is even worse; The eye has been split and sealed, re-healed and fused to the skin in some places. The milky white orb is bloodshot in places and has flecks of blood mixed in, with no real pupil, and some parts of the bone stick out near the edges of the eye. It is a gruesome sight and it is why he rarely removes his eye patch.

Self-Made: While he does wear some items professionally made or fitted, the vast majority of what Subetei wears is hand-stitched and crafted by him for his own purposes and as such it is rare to find him not wearing something made of hide, leather or decked in fur. While not ugly or poor quality there is a definite simplicity in his designs that shows. Hardly flashy or elegant, there is also an element of Xaelan tribalism that shows as well; Fang necklaces, hanging tassels and colored patterns, it would be hard to ignore such a thing and Subetei wears it proudly.

Heavy Metal: Contrasting to his own creations, Subetei is rarely far from well crafted and maintained arms to the point that even in his most casual moments he will have a hand or cutting axe available. In private this isn't so much a problem, but in public he is usually dragging around a greataxe of proportional size to himself, and this can mean that one is suddenly faced with an over seven fulms tall Xaela with an axe larger than most hyurans. A startling sight to be sure.

Talk Like A Pirate: Despit having been born in Othard, Subetei has spent most of his life and living in Limsa Lominsa, to the extent that he learned the common speech of Eorzea -from- Limsan natives. He speaks with a thick accent of Limsan that on it's own would be rough to discern but he also had the rich, deep and gravel-like voice of a Xaela with their unique speech patterns and inflections. This makes his natural speech difficult to pull apart and understand, though he can control it to some degrees. Speaking more slowly and clearly often allows him to at least be understood with minimal thought.

FACTS —

"Forged in a fire lit long ago, stand next to me and you'll never stand alone.

I'm last to leave but the first to go, lord make me dead before you make me old."

Occupation: Freelance Mercenary, Hunter, Tanner

Specialties: Close Combat, Hunting, Animal Taming & Pack Combat, Archery, Squad Tactics and Battlefield Strategy

Skills: Adept Blacksmith, Expert Tanner and Leatherworker

PROFICIENCY —

"Hey you there in the mirror, yeah that's something to fear

Cla cla claw my way to the top, cause i don't believe in luck."

Education: Self-taught

Favored Weapon(s): Axes of all shapes and sizes

Secondary Weapon(s): Hunting Bows, Knives

Magic Abilities: Berserker Rage (Innate Aether, Uncontrolled

Magic Strengths: Untested, Unknown

RELATIONS —

"I said all this time I'm thinking my body don't need me, all we can do is breathe

Said all this time I'm thinking your body can set me free, all we can do is breathe."

Sexual Preference: Demisexual

Romantic Identification: Monogamous

Relationship Status: Mated

Sweet on: Neyuki

Alignment: True Neutral

Allies: Various Mercenary and Adventurer Friends

Enemies: The Elementals and Various Other Factions

FAMILY —

"By the skin of my teeth, I'm comin' home

By the sole of my feet, I'm comin'home

I'm comin' home, but I ain't comin' home for you."

Maternal: Urnai Noykin (Deceased)

Parental: Ergan Noykin (Unknown)

Mentor: Valdhur Granspar (Former Captain of The Wakehounds Privateers, deceased)

Associates: 

Neyuki Utaura (Mate, Companion, Medic)

Mathias Bedois (Friend)

Seemo Eulen (Friend?)

Faucertaux Carpentier (Former Boss, Friend)

Sigrid Der'ioslainn (Former Captain, Friend)

Ulan Qestir (Friend)

Roka (Friend)

Nerkhun Malaguld (Friend, Companion of Ulan)

Bexy and the Limsan Fight Club (Friends and Punch Partners)

Jun'to Nharuya and the Gin Mills (Friends and Maiming Muchacos)

Alred Briarthorne, Wind Moondark, Asajin & The Black Crown Mercenaries (Former Squadmates and Subordinates)

[List Continues for some time, he knows a lot of folks and I can't name them all oh god]

Companion: Valdhur [Red Chocobo, Warbred]

MENTALITY —

"One day the shadows will surround me. Someday the days will come to end

Sometime I’ll have to face the real me. Somehow I’ll have to learn to bend"

Social Level: Easily coaxed into social behavior. Open and brash. Jovial and quick to friendship. Hard to anger or offend. Comfortable in small groups or large crowds equally.

Optimistic View(s): There is no shame in the work of living, no sin in the act of surviving.

Pessimistic View(s): No one gets out alive. Life will take all it gives in time.

One  Positive Personality Trait:  Subetei is the sort of person who attracts others with a boisterous personality and a hearty laugh, no matter the circumstances. Even in the midst of a fight he can usually find time to crack a smile or a joke and in social settings it is rare he lets someone be a 'wallflower' around him, opening his table and tab to others with little reservation.

One Negative Personality Trait: Subetei is incredibly physical and has no consideration for his own monstrous strength around others. From a simple hand-shake to sparring, he does not hold back in any interaction with others and while this is normally not an issue, it makes it hard to be around him if one is frail or excitable.

·One Personality Warning: Abuse of his trust is tantamount to asking to die when it comes to Subetei. If he considers you a close friend, which takes some work, breaking that bond is traumatic to him in a very personal way and if you're lucky, you'll simply find yourself on the bad end of an ass whooping. If what you'e done is severe enough, he has no qualms about seeking his own revenge and retribution no matter what laws or barriers would stand between him and you.

Random Quirk: Digs his claws into furniture when excited.

Hobbies: Wandering and Riding, Sparring and Training, Physical Labors, Brewing Mead and Alcohol

Addictions: Work, Neyuki, Fighting and Violence

Habits: Glib, Violence Prone, Outgoing and Upbeat, Accidental Intimidation, Intentional Intimidation, Swearing Every Other Word

Pleasures: Good Drink, Hunting, The Outdoors, Working with Animals, Seafaring, Combat and Fighting, Sex, Control

Appreciates (List 5+)

Humility Humor Craftsmanship Beauty Strength Honesty Commitment Self-Control Accomplishment Skill Knowing Ones Self

Dislikes (List 5+)

Defeatism Lies Fire Unearned Authority Disrespect Paranoia False Promises Intolerance

Strengths (List 5+)

Patient Good Teacher Honest and Loyal Hardworking Committed and Dedicated Physical Dynamo Thrifty and Coinwise Good Business Sense Open and Tolerant (Tries to be) Thoughtful Extroverted and Inviting Able to Listen or Chat equally Forgets grudges easily Self-Reliant Outdoorsman Expert Mercenary Tactical Mindset

Weaknesses (List 5+)

Berserker Easy to break Trust Difficulty developing relationships Addicted to combat and violence Mercenary attitude Grey Morality Self-invested Coin Driven No Self-Preservation Neyuki No Family Values Craves Work and Physical Exertion Cannot Cook Carries Weight, Even if he doesn't have to

Fears (List 5+)

Losing Neyuki Losing his remaining eye The loss of freedom Inability To Work or Fight Returning To Othard

FAVORITES ––

“I spent those days huntin' hard and fast, With no place to lay my head

And the sound of the rain against the roof, Was loud enough to wake the dead”

Favorite Food(s): Jerky, Aldgoat Steak, Breadfruit, Stews, Anything La Noscean

Favorite Drink(s): Teas, Ale Mead or Rum, Water, Coffee

Favorite Scent(s): Heat, Dry earth, rain on the breeze, herbs and sweets, metal sparking and copper in the mud

Favorite Colors: Black, Brown, Green and Blue or subcolors

TRIVIA ––

We seek tomorrow’s sun, It’s all for the taking here 

Only the valiant survive, Live for better years

Subetei's mixed upbringing has given him a tenuous faith in the Twelve, or the Xaelan deities, and instead he has developed a slightly paganistic viewpoint of the world in the form of natural phenomena. The Salt and Storm, as he calls this viewpoint, is a simple belief that while life is harsh and can be demanding, it's pains and undertakings are rewarding in experience if nothing else. It also holds a certain karmic edge to it as well. He does not really call this a 'religion' or believe others should live like this.

His wounded eye is extraordinarily light sensitive despite being functionally blind and when exposed to sunlight or other equally bright sources it's akin to having the wound reopened with blades of salt and fire. It causes him incredible pain and exposure for a long period can lead to blacking out or migraines so intense they last days. His eyepatch is as much a safety measure as it is a decoration for him and as such he wears extremely well-made patches. Metal wires are used to reinforce the straps and the leather is studded if not inset with metal sheets. He also uses metal ringlets on his horns to hold the patches in place. If he expects particularly pitched or harsh conditions he will often use salves or pastes to hold the patch in place.

With his inherent reliance on instincts and natural tendency to disassociate from morality or consciousness during battle, Subetei has developed a dangerous habit of going into berserker trances during battle that put his already high reflexes into overdrive and his natural senses become sharp enough that he has, for instance, picked up the sound of an arrow approaching and smashed it aside before it can connect with him. While useful and extremely dangerous to others, it presents a unique danger to himself as well, as his already uncomfortably high pain tolerance is also increased and he has been known to inflict damage on himself to continue to fight, even at the risk of health or death.

Subetei has an unstable aether that has never been trained, developed or explored in any respect. He cannot use aetheryte, cast spells or channel it in any meaningful way willingly or consciously and those who try and scry his aetheric strength are faced with a soupy, chaotic mess that does not spell much out. Yet he has been known to perform feats that can only be described as 'inhuman' when he fights unconsciously and in his trances, leading some to conclude that Subetei's aether actively permeates him at all times and empowers him, allowing him to fight at above-optimal strength and focus even when he should be gravely wounded. This is not formally confirmed, but it would explain why he also tends to be quick to recover from wounds and injuries as well as his distaste for sitting still and being idle.

While he and Neyuki share an amazing chemistry that cannot be called anything but 'love', Subetei has historically been awkward and uncomfortable around women and intimacy in the past. During his time before Neyuki he had next to no partners and no long-term relationships due to his emotional issues at his younger age and later on his insistence on isolation. He also has certain physical irregularities that make him wary of sex. When approached sexually or flirtatiously he often comes off as cold and aloof, if not outright dismissive, as he has frankly no fucking idea how to react to it in most circumstances.

While Subetei does a good job of containing it, there is a part of him that thrives in the loosening of his reins and control. This primarily comes to the front during battle when he looses himself, but it also tends to show in other moments where restraint is pressed; This includes his time with Neyuki and they are infamous in certain taverns and inns for the destruction of property that has occurred when Subetei truly lets go of himself, and more than once it has been suggested that Subetei's habit of carrying Neyuki everywhere is a symptom of this.

Subetei can pilot a boat and maintain a ship well enough that he is often comfortable going out by himself on sailboats over moderate distances and he loves the ocean, but a certain thrill-seeking part of him loves the sky and airships. During his time in a mercenary company with such vessels he frequently took out the ship he was assigned and used it for all sorts of activities, both on and off the job.

It cannot be understated the kind of outdoorsman Subetei is, to the extent that he can and has survived over a month in the wilderness with only basic supplies to begin with. During his time as a hunter and mercenary he has learned many survival and wilderness methods that he has also become a scarily accurate tracker and wayfinder, though he often does not use those skills in anything but his actual work. He has discovered some secreted places in his times in the wilderness and though he has recorded them quietly, he does not intend to explore or give away their location. Some things are intriguing to simply know.

Subetei's eye was lost during an extremely controversial moment in Gridanian history, where the Wood Wailers and Twin Adders as well as mercenaries hired by an unconfirmed source, descended on a Keeper of the Moon encampment accused of poaching and harboring criminals to the Shroud. Subetei balked when the order was given to drive the children and non-combatants out of the encampment with fire, an act that would have cost lives, and turned on his employers. Though he survived he harbors a lasting grudge against the Elementals, for allowing such an act to be considered free of sin yet hunting to survive be an act worthy of reprisal, and he further disdains Gridania for their involvement in the action and subsequent attempts to play the act off as the work of factions impersonating Wailers and Adders.

One might be forgiven for assuming Subetei does not speak the Auri dialect anymore after his time in the rest of the world but this is extremely untrue. While he has difficulty reading Auri script nowadays he can still speak fluent and distinct Auri with an old Xaelan syntax and inflection that marks his time away from the Steppe. He chooses not to converse in it often, even among other Xaela, to preserve the air of distance he has from the Xaelan culture and to keep an ear on those around him if they do speak it. He is also fluent in sign and non-verbal gestures as Neyuki is mute, allowing him to communicate with Qester rather comfortably at times.

Subetei is a Noykin by blood and nothing else. He does not use his name as a surname and instead as a title, as if it is only a formal thing, and he does not recognize any other Noykin as his brothers or sisters in any way. Though he still retains many of their skills and love of animals he is long removed form his family and their culture. To introduce oneself to him as a fellow Noykin is to receive the same greeting as anyone else, but he has no patience or acceptance for those who would use the name to garner clout with him.

OOC -

Server: Balmung

Timezone: PST

Mun: Male / 27yrs

Experience: Roleplay Experience of 14+ years. Writes in any format, matches length and complexity where possible. Will scene In-Game, Discord and other mediums as requested.

Type of RP: Any/All, Mature and R-Rated themes included. Long-term Storylines or One-shot scenes. Enjoys interacting with Canon and OC alike.

Looking for: Friends, Partners, Punchvictims, Employers, Brothers or Sisters in Arms, Privateers and Pirates, Gridanians and Ishgardians to grouse at, Rivals or Antagonists. Pretty much anyone!

Tagging: @tarot-dancer @the-false-ser-toes @ulanqestir @alred-briarthorne @nharuya @rokachan @windflower-moondark @sigridderioslainn @falconsgaze @uurkhilen @theolder @cranialupi @healerstail @lamiavuinuet @muffinsandglasses @lorythas @an-ale-of-a-tale @trishelle @kulain @riskibusiness @doman-swordswoman @snowy-catte @snowcoeurl-xiv @snowdrop-xiv @praise-nhaama @ayyymeric @aymeric-the-blue @accaliadecorus @heretiques-xiv @shirtlesslizard @degeneratemagicalcatgirl @bexyamalaryssia @illyrianausagi @skysteelsun @the-hawkeyes @dietkoalawithlime @chiffon-rabbit @connor-is-the-captain-of-my-bed @wyrmbled @lordcommanderaymeric @safestsephiroth @freshorenjuice @moryera @wyvernjack-xiv @rexnorh @maybeimawhale @eiragos

I can’t keep tagging but this maelstrom of tags if brought to by ‘I wanna interact with everyone but have only one soul to sell for more free time so if ya’all got tagged or even if you didn’t, please feel free to hit me up for the RP’.