#what kind of weave is plot armor

[theetherealbloom]

TAKE ME DOWN TO LIFT ME HIGH

Summary: In the grand city of Rome, you, a senator's daughter, are entangled in a world far removed from your aristocratic upbringing. Your chance encounter with General Marcus Acacius, a renowned gladiator and war hero, changes your life forever.

Paring: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, AU, PWP, Some Plot and more smut, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Fingering, PIV, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, Canon Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism (it’s ancient rome, babe), Sneaking Around, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, Boobs,

Word Count: 6k

A/N: The amount of research I had to do for this was insane. I was more obsessed with Greek Mythology than Roman so I needed a refresher. Hehe, there’s not a lotttt of drama, but it leans more into the smut side and just cheesy over all plot lol and a little fun ceremony in the end. Everyone say thank you to @wheresarizona for listening to me go feral over Marcus. Go send her some love cause she deserves it :>

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

Song: Selene by NIKI

| Main Masterlist |

The return of General Marcus Acacius was an event of grand opulence. The streets of Rome were alive with screams and celebrations as he rode his golden chariot, smiling and waving at the throngs of admirers. It was as if the bloodshed and death that marked his victory were distant echoes, easily forgotten by the jubilant crowd.

"Long live General Marcus!" someone shouted.

"A true hero of Rome!" another voice rang out.

You weren't supposed to be in the crowd. Your place was at home, learning household chores such as cooking, cleaning, and weaving—the essential skills expected of a Roman matron. Yet, here you were, hidden beneath a hood, blending with the common folk as you watched the celebrated general parade down the street.

As the parade came to an end, you discreetly followed behind the procession, your eyes fixed on General Marcus Acacius. He was dressed in white and glittering gold, a stark contrast to his usual attire of blood-stained armor and weapons. Even though he was smiling and waving at the crowds, you could see the disdain in his eyes for such a grandiose display.

You had heard stories about him, rumors whispered amongst the noble families of Rome. They spoke of his ruthless acts on the battlefield, of his unwavering loyalty to Rome, and of his preferences. Yet here he was, parading through the streets in all his glory, hailed as a hero by everyone.

You couldn't help but feel drawn to him despite everything you had heard. There was something about him that intrigued you, something that made your heart race and your cheeks flush.

Your mind was filled with thoughts of General Marcus Acacius, wondering what kind of man he truly was beyond his reputation as a war hero.

As you stood there, trying to remain inconspicuous, your eyes met his. The connection was electric, almost as if the gods themselves had intervened. Marcus’s gaze was so intense that it seemed to pierce through the crowd and find you alone. He noted every feature of your face, his expression betraying a hint of fascination.

You felt your cheeks flush with heat and quickly looked away, breaking the eye contact. Your heart pounded in your chest as you turned and began to scurry home, the thrill of the encounter leaving you breathless.

Your pulse raced as you made your way through the bustling streets of Rome, trying to push aside the image of General Marcus Acacius's piercing gaze. You couldn't understand why you were so affected by a man you barely knew, but there was something about him that drew you in.

You managed to sneak back into your room, just barely slipping past the household guards. Being the daughter of a senator afforded you certain privileges, including an education that many girls your age could only dream of. Your studies typically included reading, writing, and arithmetic, equipping you with the skills necessary to manage a household and participate in society. You were also taught music, dancing, and literature, for understanding and appreciating poetry was considered a virtue for a Roman woman.

As you settled in your room, the memory of Marcus’s gaze lingered in your mind. The image of his rugged face, scarred from countless battles, and his piercing eyes was etched into your thoughts. There was something about him that was both terrifying and captivating.

A soft knock on your door interrupted your reverie. It was your handmaid, Lydia, her expression curious.

"Where have you been?" she asked, her voice low but firm.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I went to see the procession."

Lydia’s eyes widened. "The general’s return? You could have been caught!"

"I know," you admitted, "but I had to see him."

"Why? What could be so important?"

You bit your lip, unsure how to explain the inexplicable pull you felt towards the gladiator general. "I don't know, Lydia. It's just... when our eyes met, it felt like something changed."

Lydia shook her head, her expression a mix of worry and understanding. "You must be careful. The world outside is not as forgiving as the walls of this villa."

The days following the procession were filled with a whirlwind of emotions. You couldn't shake the image of Marcus from your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his intense gaze, felt the inexplicable connection that had sparked between you.

The grand villa of your father was abuzz with preparations for the evening’s banquet. Slaves hurried to and fro, setting tables with fine silverware and arranging elaborate floral displays. The scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of flowers.

Tonight, your father, a respected senator, was hosting a dinner in honor of General Marcus Acacius. The entire house was a flurry of activity, with guests arriving in their finest attire, their laughter and chatter filling the atrium. You stood near the entrance, feeling the weight of your responsibilities as the senator’s daughter.

Your mother approached, adjusting the drape of your stola with a critical eye. “Remember, you must be on your best behavior tonight. This banquet is crucial for your father’s alliances.”

You nodded, though your mind was elsewhere. Ever since you had seen Marcus in the parade, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The memory of his piercing gaze had haunted you, and now he was here, in your home.

"Come," your father said, his hand on your back guiding you through the crowd. "I want you to meet someone."

You followed, your heart pounding in anticipation. As you approached, you saw him standing there, taller and more imposing than anyone else in the room. Marcus Acacius, the hero of Rome, the man who had invaded your thoughts and dreams.

"General Acacius," your father began, his voice carrying the weight of his status, "allow me to introduce my daughter."

Marcus turned, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. He bowed slightly, a gesture of respect, but his gaze remained unwavering. "My lady," he said, his voice like velvet, "it is an honor."

General Marcus was the most strikingly handsome man you had ever seen. His chiseled features were framed by dark brown eyes beneath thick, black eyebrows. His long, aquiline nose and firm mouth, accentuated by a sensuously full lower lip, completed the picture of rugged masculinity. He stood tall, towering over most men, with a lean, muscular body and broad, powerful shoulders.

His hair, a captivating mix of salt and pepper, was cut short and fell in loose curls around his head, with distinguished grey patches in his beard that added to his allure.

"The honor is mine, General," you replied, your voice trembling despite your efforts to stay composed.

"Please, call me Marcus," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "We are, after all, in more intimate surroundings."

Your father chuckled, clearly pleased with Marcus's easy charm. "I will leave you two to get acquainted," he said, patting Marcus on the shoulder before moving away to mingle with other guests.

The moment your father left, the air between you and Marcus seemed to crackle with electricity. He took a step closer, the heat of his body radiating towards you. "I must confess," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, "I have been looking forward to this moment."

You swallowed hard, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks. "As have I," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

Marcus's eyes darkened with desire, and he reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against your arm. The contact sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your knees weaken. "You are even more captivating up close," he said, his voice husky. "I find myself drawn to you, like a moth to a flame."

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as his hand slid up your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you feel it too?" he whispered.

You nodded, unable to form a coherent response. The intensity of his presence was overwhelming, his scent, his warmth, the sheer power of his focus on you.

As Marcus's hand continued to caress your arm, you felt your heart race with a mixture of excitement and nerves. You had never been this close to him before, and the realization that he was interested in you sent a wave of exhilaration through your body.

His lips brushed against your earlobe, making you shiver. "I want to know everything about you," he murmured, his voice sending sparks down your spine. "Your hopes, your dreams, what makes you laugh and what makes you cry out for mercy."

You turned towards him, meeting his intense gaze. "I want to know about you too," you said, feeling bold in his presence.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned closer. "There is not much to tell," he said modestly, though the way his eyes roamed over your face suggested otherwise. "Just a soldier who has dedicated his life to serving Rome."

But there was something more behind those words, something hidden beneath the mask of duty and honor. You could sense it in the way he held himself, in the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't believe that," you said firmly. "There is so much more to a person than their profession."

Marcus's smile widened into a grin as he took another step closer to you. "You are wise beyond your years," he said appreciatively.

The room around you seemed to fade away as you became lost in each other's gaze. It was as if there was no one else in the world but the two of you.

Suddenly, a loud noise broke through the moment – someone had knocked over a vase nearby. The sound jolted both of you back to reality and Marcus stepped back slightly.

"I should go check on that," he said regretfully.

Marcus's lips lingered on your skin for a moment longer before pulling away to look into your eyes. "I promise, we will continue this conversation another time," he said softly.

You nodded, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. You couldn't wait to spend more time with him and get to know him better.

As Marcus turned to leave, you couldn't help but watch him walk away, his confident stride and broad shoulders filling you with a sense of admiration. You sighed dreamily and turned back to the feast, only to be greeted by your handmaids with teasing grins.

"What was that all about?" one of them asked, wiggling their eyebrows suggestively.

You feel your cheeks heat up, trying to hide your excitement. "Nothing," you said coyly. "Just a conversation."

As the guests were seated in the triclinium, the air was filled with the sounds of conversation and the clinking of goblets. You found yourself seated across from Marcus, who looked imposing in his formal attire. His presence commanded the room, yet his eyes frequently strayed to you, a subtle intensity in his gaze.

The evening progressed with toasts to Marcus’s victories and speeches praising his valor. You tried to focus on the conversations around you, but your mind kept drifting to the man across the table. Finally, you could bear it no longer. Under the pretense of needing fresh air, you excused yourself and slipped out into the garden.

The cool night air was a welcome relief as you wandered through the manicured paths, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating your way. The garden was a haven of tranquility compared to the lively banquet inside. You found a secluded bench and sat down, letting out a sigh of relief. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hum of voices from the villa created a serene backdrop as you tried to gather your thoughts.

As you sat there, the faint sound of a conversation caught your attention. You turned your head slightly, realizing that a group of senators had gathered nearby, their voices low but urgent. You recognized the voices of some of the most influential men in Rome, including your father.

"I hear that Emperor Caracalla is eager to stage a grand spectacle," one senator said, his tone conspiratorial. "He wants to solidify his power and win the favor of the masses."

"Indeed," another replied. "I heard he plans to pit some of the finest gladiators against each other. And there are whispers that General Marcus Acacius himself might be forced to take part in the games."

You felt a pang of concern at the mention of Marcus's name. The thought of him in the Colosseum, fighting for his life, was almost too much to bear.

"Emperor Geta is not pleased with this idea," a third senator interjected. "He sees it as a waste of a valuable military asset. But Caracalla is determined. He believes a victory in the arena will elevate Marcus to legendary status, securing loyalty from the soldiers and the people alike."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you processed their words. The political machinations of Rome were ruthless, and it seemed that Marcus was caught in the middle of it all.

As the senators continued their discussion elsewhere, their voices drifting away back into the villa, you felt a presence behind you. You turned to see Marcus emerging from the shadows, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He moved silently, his powerful form cutting through the darkness like a predator stalking its prey.

"My lady," he said softly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "It seems we both seek refuge in the quiet of the garden."

"Marcus," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. "I overheard the senators. They plan to have you fight in the Colosseum."

His expression darkened, and he closed the distance between you in a few swift strides. "I know," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "The emperors play their games, and I am but a pawn. But tonight, I do not wish to think of such things."

He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, the warmth of his touch igniting a fire within you. "Tonight, I only want to think of you."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a tantalizing softness. The kiss deepened, his hands roaming over your body, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His touch was both possessive and gentle, his need for you evident in every caress.

"Marcus," you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair. "This is madness. If we are caught..."

"Let them find us," he murmured against your lips. "I would rather face the lions in the arena than be without you."

His words sent a thrill through you, and you responded with a fervor that matched his own. Your bodies pressed together, the heat of your passion driving away the cool night air. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other.

"Promise me," you whispered, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. "Promise me you will come back to me, no matter what happens."

"I swear it," he said, his voice filled with determination. "No matter what the emperors or the gods throw at me, I will return to you."

With those words, he captured your lips again, sealing his promise with a kiss that left you breathless. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as he reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

His voice, a velvety whisper, sent a wave of desire flooding through you as he murmured, "I want you. Here. Now."

The moon was high in the sky, casting a soft glow over the garden, as Marcus pressed you against the wall. His hands roamed over your body, igniting fires with each touch. You could feel his desire for you, and it only fueled your own.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted you up and pressed you against the garden walls. His body hovering over yours as he trailed kisses down your neck and along your collarbone. Every nerve in your body was on fire, and you couldn't contain the moan that escaped from your lips.

With a growl of need, Marcus captured your lips once again while his hands began to explore under your dress. The feeling of his warm skin against yours sent shivers down your spine as he traced patterns along your thighs.

"Marcus," you gasped between kisses. "We shouldn't-"

"Shhh," he whispered, gently sliding your white cotton robe off your shoulders. "I can't resist you any longer.”

Marcus unexpectedly reached out his large, rough hands and cupped each one of your breasts, weighing them in his palms. Your body jolted at the sudden touch, your skin tingling under his warm heat. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, hardened from years of wielding swords and other battle weapons, leaving tiny marks on your delicate skin like a trail of fire.

As he squeezed and rotated your breasts gently, desire surged through you, igniting a deep longing within. You wanted to surrender yourself completely to him, to offer up not just your body but your very being to his every whim. The sensation was so overwhelming that you yearned to throw your head back in abandonment and give in to the all-consuming pleasure he evoked.

The protests that had escaped your lips now transformed into guttural moans of pleasure as his skilled fingers worked their magic on your most sensitive spot. Every touch sent electric shocks through your body, making you shiver and writhe against the wall. As Marcus trailed his fingertips over every inch of your slick flesh, you felt yourself becoming more and more lost in the overwhelming waves of pleasure coursing through you. With each stroke, your body arched further off the wall, desperate for more of his touch. It was like a symphony of sensations, building and crescendoing until you were completely consumed by the intensity of it all.

He slid a finger between your legs and pushed it deep inside you. Pleasure shot through your body, causing you to arch and writhe as he expertly stroked your tight passage.

"My lady, you have an incredibly tight cunt," he grunted out, his voice strained and revealing his own growing arousal. His features twisted in pleasure and his eyes glinted with a primal lust.

He firmly grasped your aroused nub and slid another finger into your tight, welcoming entrance. "We have to be quiet or we'll risk getting caught," he whispered in your ear.

You nodded eagerly, pleading, "Yes, anything. Please."

As his skilled fingers gently rotated over your sensitive clit and his other digit pumped inside your wet, pulsing core, you couldn't help but surrender to the pleasure he was bestowing upon you. From the moment his eyes locked on yours, you knew you were his to be used however he pleased, your body a vessel for his insatiable desires. With each expert movement of his fingers, you felt yourself spiraling into a dizzying state of pure ecstasy, completely at his mercy. Your flesh responded eagerly to his touch, begging for more as he claimed you as his own.

The General's gentle touch on your skin was electrifying, bringing a growing pleasure to your body that felt almost overwhelming. You could feel yourself getting too hot, too tense, and you were afraid of releasing the intense climax that was building inside you with just a single touch. 

"Oh Goddess," you gasped, tilting your head back against his shoulder and shutting your eyes as your desire became sharper and more urgent.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as his long finger penetrated you, rotating and rubbing inside your core while his other fingers worked relentlessly on your sensitive clitoris. Your body squirmed against the intense pleasure, your hands grasping at his muscular arms to anchor yourself amidst the overwhelming sensations. He chuckled softly as you began to move your hips in a circular motion, still continuing to bring you pleasure with his skilled touch for several minutes. Just as you were about to reach the edge of climax, he eased off slightly, keeping his movements quick and light.

But eventually, your body tensed up and convulsed, your movements erratic and desperate, your breaths coming in short gasps. As the tension in your loins grew tighter and tighter, you let out a high-pitched wail and reached the peak of ecstasy. Your walls pulsated around his probing finger, which was now coated in even more of your warm juices.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Marcus gently turned you to face him again. His white robe and short toga were cast aside, leaving him naked in front of you. He stood tall and proud, his lean and muscular frame on full display. But it was his erect penis that took your breath away. It was massive, thick and much longer than average, standing rigid and red above a nest of dark pubic hair.

His impressive and exposed physique took your breath away as you gazed upon it. "Oh, my Goddess!" you exclaimed, feeling overwhelmed by his sheer size.

Without hesitation, Marcus reached out and grasped your thighs, pulling you closer to him. He leaned over your body, closed his fist around his member, and guided the tip towards your still-dripping entrance.

He managed to get the thick bulbous tip of his penis through your opening. You immediately felt stretched and full. You gave him a pouting look, your hips wriggling in an effort to accommodate him. “You big brute, you’re tearing me apart.”

He clenched his teeth, sweat starting to matt his silver and grey hair at his forehead. The pleasure of being inside such a tight flesh was almost dizzying, and he had to pull in all of his control to prevent himself from plunging completely inside of you. 

That would come later, he promised, once you had been well oiled by him. He pushed again and managed another inch, and slowly continued to advance his penis inside your channel. 

“You’re so tight,” his voice was harsh and strained, as if in pain. It wasn't too far from the truth; she felt tight around him, almost like a vice grip. But despite the discomfort, she was so warm and smooth inside.

With a groan, he slid the thick bulbous tip of his penis into your opening. A sharp pang of fullness shot through you as your body stretched to accommodate him. You gave him a pouting look, your hips wriggling and contorting in an effort to ease the pressure. "You big oaf," you playfully scolded, though there was a hint of pleasure in your voice.

He clenched his teeth, beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead as he fought for control. The sensation of being inside such tight, warm flesh was almost overwhelming, and he had to take deep breaths to calm himself. He promised himself that he would give in completely once you were well-oiled by him.

He pushed with all his strength, feeling the resistance of your body as he slid deeper and deeper inside. The walls of your channel were smooth and slick, clenching around him like a vice. He couldn't hold back the grunt that escaped his clenched teeth, a mix of intense sensation coursing through his body. It was a pleasurable pain, like being held in a fierce embrace by someone who loved you too much - an exquisite torture that he never wanted to end. But with each slow and deliberate thrust, he knew that the pleasure would only intensify, building to a climax that would leave them both breathless.

Slowly but surely, Marcus eased his penis deeper into your body. With each inch of progress, you both felt the intensity of your connection grow stronger. Your entire body trembled with each thrust he made. When he was halfway inside you, Marcus used his fingers to stimulate your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your core throbbed with ecstasy as Marcus took advantage of your relaxed muscles and thrust deeply inside you until he was fully engulfed.

You and Marcus both groan at the same time. He quickly covers your mouth with his hand, gently hushing you. "Shh, my Carissima... I know it feels good, but we must be quiet. We can't risk your father catching us in this compromising position." The General continues to stimulate your sensitive spot, using his fingers to tease and moisten it further.

Your hips continued to rock and push against his manhood, your desire growing with each movement. You leaned back and moaned as General Marcus Acacius took full control of your body. He held onto your hips tightly as he thrust deep inside you, the pleasure intensifying for both of you. It was clear that neither of you was far from reaching the peak of ecstasy.

You let out moans and contorted your body as the large, broad, man moved back and forth between your legs. As your face twisted in pleasure and your head thrashed about, you experienced this unfamiliar sensation called sexual pleasure. Your climax came quickly and intensely, feeling like it lasted for several minutes. You threw your head back and let out a scream as the intense pleasure broke through between your thighs. A hot wave of pleasure spread throughout your body, causing your hips to writhe against Marcus'.

As your body trembled and released into an intense orgasm, you felt Marcus' muscles tighten beneath you. A deep, primal roar escaped his lips as he too reached the peak of his climax. The sound echoed through the gardens blending with the rhythmic pounding of your heart and breath. It was a moment of pure, raw passion that left you both gasping for air and tangled in each other's embrace.

As the intense pleasure slowly subsided, you became aware of the small droplets of blood trickling down your thighs and onto the grass. It was a sign that your virginity had been taken, marking the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

General Marcus Acacius carefully pulled out of you and helped you to sit up. You could see his concern in his eyes as he looked at the blood staining his robe on the ground and your thighs.

"Are you hurt, Carissima? I didn't mean to be so rough..." he asked, his voice filled with worry.

You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. "No… I'm fine," you managed to say.

He let out a sigh of relief and gently wiped away the blood with a nearby cloth. You winced slightly at the slight soreness between your legs but it was nothing compared to the intense pleasure you had just experienced.

Marcus held you close, his strong arms wrapped around you protectively. "You were amazing, my love," he whispered in your ear.

A flood of emotions washed over you as you realized what had just happened between the two of you. You had shared an intimate moment with General Marcus Acacius, someone who was forbidden to you because of your status as a daughter of such nobility. And yet, in that moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the overwhelming feeling of love and desire that consumed both of you.

Your mind was spinning, knowing all too well what would happen if anyone found out about your relationship with the General. Your father would surely punish both of you severely and possibly even sell one or both of you off.

Even with the knowledge of what had just happened, and what could, it was difficult for you to feel remorse or embarrassment. Instead, you felt a sense of contentment and fulfillment that you had never experienced before.

Marcus chuckled warmly and gave you a soft kiss on your lips. "You are truly something special, Carissima," he said with adoration in his eyes.

You blushed at his words, feeling a surge of happiness wash over you. Despite the risks and consequences, being with Marcus felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But as the reality of your situation sank in, a sense of worry crept into your mind. How would you continue this relationship without anyone finding out? How could you possibly be with Marcus when your father would never allow it? Or worse, your father having you marry someone else?

Marcus brushed his fingers against your cheek, and it felt like he could read your mind. "We will find a solution, my love. I promise I will marry you and make you my wife," he whispered to soothe your fears.

The weight of Marcus' words settled heavily in your heart. The thought of being married to the man you loved filled you with joy and hope, yet the reality of it all seemed impossible.

"How could we possibly make that happen?" you asked, your voice laced with worry.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of doubt. How could someone as powerful and respected as General Marcus Acacius be able to marry someone like you? You were just a daughter of a nobleman, while he was one of the most influential men in the kingdom.

Marcus spoke with unwavering assurance, his gaze locked onto yours. As you looked back into his eyes, all your doubts and fears dissipated. You were certain that he would do anything to keep you safe and by his side. "We will find a way, my love. I will do whatever it takes to make you my wife."

"I believe in you," you said softly, placing a hand on his chest.

Marcus smiled and leaned in to kiss you again, his lips gentle and loving against yours. In that moment, everything else seemed to fade away except for the two of you.

"But we must be careful," Marcus reminded you, his tone serious once again. "We cannot let anyone find out about us until the time is right."

You nodded in agreement, understanding the risks that came with your relationship.

"We must also gain your father's approval," Marcus continued. "It won't be easy, but I am determined to prove myself worthy of you and your family."

You couldn't help but admire Marcus' determination and love for you. Despite the challenges ahead, he was willing to do anything to be with you.

As the sun began to rise, you woke up in your room with a smile on your face. Today was the day that Marcus would finally meet with your father and ask for your hand in marriage. You could hardly believe the moment had arrived, the day you had dreamt of for so long.

Ever since he had first confessed his love for you, the two of you had been meeting in secret, stealing moments together whenever possible. The clandestine nature of your meetings had made your bond even stronger. The thought of being with Marcus made every challenge worth it.

You dressed carefully, choosing your finest gown, and adorned yourself with simple yet elegant jewelry. Your heart raced with anticipation as you made your way to the garden where the betrothal ceremony would take place. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, and the gentle rustle of leaves created a serene atmosphere.

In the garden, your father stood with Marcus, deep in conversation. The sight of them together filled you with a sense of pride and hope. Marcus, in his formal attire, looked every bit the honorable and powerful man that he was—a general respected by all of Rome.

Your father turned to you, his expression warm. "My dear daughter," he began, "today is a momentous day as the gods have blessed us. General Marcus Acacius has proven himself to be a man of honor and valor. It would be a great honor for our family to be united with his."

Marcus stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. "It is my greatest wish to make you my wife," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I promise to honor and protect you for all the days of my life."

The betrothal ceremony commenced, a formal ritual between your two families. Your father and Marcus exchanged respectful bows, symbolizing the joining of your households. Gifts were presented, and the dowry was discussed and agreed upon. A scribe stood by, ready to document the agreement in a written contract.

Marcus then produced a small, ornate box and opened it to reveal a beautiful finger ring. "This ring," he said, "is a symbol of my commitment to you, a tradition that stretches back through the ages."

He took your hand gently and slid the ring onto your finger, his touch sending a thrill through you. The ring was exquisite, a delicate band adorned with intricate engravings that spoke of ancient craftsmanship. 

"You honor me with this gift, Marcus," you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion.

Marcus smiled, his eyes full of warmth. "The honor is mine, my love."

With the ring in place, you turned to the scribe, who handed you both the written agreement. You signed your name carefully, your hand steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within you. Marcus signed next, his signature bold and confident.

Finally, the moment came to seal the betrothal with a kiss. Marcus stepped closer, his gaze locked onto yours. He cupped your face in his hands and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, sweet kiss. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in that perfect moment.

As you pulled away, you saw the approval in your father's eyes and felt a rush of joy and relief. You were now betrothed to Marcus, the man you loved, and your future together was set.

"Let this day be the beginning of a lifetime of happiness," your father declared, his voice filled with emotion.

Marcus took your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Together, we will face whatever the future holds," he promised.

And with that, your hearts intertwined, you knew that your love would endure, growing stronger with each passing day. The journey ahead was full of promise, and with Marcus by your side, you felt ready to embrace it all.

[bodegadulac]

What did you think of the first phase of the WCU?

Hmmm, you know what. I'm reviewing it.

First of all Dragon from 2008, the movie that started it all.

I liked:

●Seeing her origin, how newfoundland fell and her sheer sense of powerlessness before triggering.

●The evolution from her first crude suit to a more regined dragon armor.

●I liked RDJ as Collin, i was very happed they picked up his stinger for the sequel.

●Teacher was a pretty good villain, hapoy they didn't kill him off.

What i didn't like:

●Gwynnet Paltrow's character was unnecesary, why would dragon need a secretary???

●It doesn't get how to make you feel stakes when the protag is an IA

●Terrence Howard as Rennick is just there, and how they changed the actor in the next film left a sour taste.

7/10

Then you have Lung: Dragon of Kyushu.

What can i say that hasn't been said yet? I was skeptic for them reimagining Lung as a hero but it just works.

I like how it set up Leviathan as the overarching villain of the phase, i like how it has that runaway vibe with Kenta running from the Yangban.

The CGI of his fight against Seven was pasable, and the post credit scene with Zero planning to hunt him down went nowhere. But idc, it was overall pretty good. 9/10

I would have killed for another Lung movie.

The ugly duckling of Phase 1, Dragon 2.

I honestly liked it more than the first one, Saint and the dragon slayers are an actual threat that works.

Dragons own issues with her nature are explored in a neat way.

I liked the teacher plot twist at the end, that he had been manipulating saint.

And please tell me the scene of Dragon and Armsmaster killing the Dragonslayers didn't fuck.

8/10, fun watch.

Theo my beloved. Golem fucked so much man.

A coming of age story about a young man leaving his nazi family behind.

It kind of gets completely interrumpted by the Slaughterhouse nine tbh.

Like i get you are building up a cinematic universe but having some guy show up, say "i will come back on a couple years and kill everybody and thats on you" and fuck off wasn't terribly great.

But the final fight against Hookwolf as a middlepoint between the nazi family subplot and the slaughterhouse 9 subplot worked.

6/10

I don't like flashback movies in big cinematic universes. Sometimes they feel like they don't mean a thing on the long term because most characters are dead so they won't affect that comes later.

Miss Millitia: the first ward shutted me up.

Hanah is a fucking great protagonist, all of the first wards are great.

I loved her bromance with mouse protector, i cried when she died.

What the fuck is Hugo Weaving playing Allfather????

Overall i feel like this is the best out of the Phase.

10/10

It all came to it. Protectorate from 2012.

Leviathan was pretty built up from Lung and Dragon so it felt like it worked. Jack felt pretty tacked on tbh.

I like how it sets up Scion as this cameo total force of good that can't affect the plot. Wonder what they will do with him.

I didn't like that Collin set a fucking nuke towards new york. I hope there are consecuences for this in the future.

Liked how director Armstrong got to assemble the tram through the movies.

I don't know how to feel about Blue Flechette, apparently her first costume in the comics was like that? Idk.

Scarlett Johansen as Queen aka Emily Piggot from the PRT was cool.

Honestly that what Protectorate is. Cool.

Even if that bastard Jack escaped at the end of the movie.

8/10

[only-by-the-stars]

Fic Promo: Song of a Champion

Now that @spacelemon has put up that amazing promo vid of the Mipha's Grace mod, it feels like a good time to do a little self-promo of my own, for something that I promise is related (otherwise I wouldn't be mentioning the vid; I am doing so in hopes of helping to get more eyeballs on it): a fic I've been writing since 2022, that is both inspired by and based on the mod. I've been lucky enough to have been allowed to play early versions of it, and was inspired to write a fic that retells BOTW with Mipha as the lead, taking cues from many plot points and armor redesigns present in the mod. If that's not enough to entice you, then please read on for my list of things that you might enjoy about this fic!

It's about Mipha Judging by the results of my poll, a lot of you like reading about Mipha! I've written a LOT about her over the past few years, but this is my most in-depth exploration of her yet. It's entirely centered on her, delving deep into her thoughts and feelings and exploring the myriad aspects of her personality as we follow her journey. Instead of Link waking up on the Great Plateau without his memories and being handed the responsibility of saving Hyrule, it's Mipha who must walk this path; unlike in the base game, she's not a fridged love interest for Link to be sad about, she's an active heroine in her own right with a monumental task ahead of her from the moment she wakes up, not to mention a lot of questions. How did she get there? Can she do this? What--and who--has she forgotten in her century-long slumber? How will she find her way in this strange new world she awakens to? What kind of bonds will she forge with the people she meets along her way? All these and more are tackled in great depth as she goes on her adventure, setting out with, initially, little more than her own courage, determination, and compassion. I've been told by many people that I write their favorite Mipha, and though this isn't my first time giving her a starring role, I fully believe this is my best character work for her so far. I've given her so much to do and act on and react to, exploring her rich inner life and personality and character FAR beyond just shipping stuff, and developed a lot of really fun friendships for her and gone heavy on her familial relationships as well. There is miphlink, but it's only one aspect, and Mipha herself is the shining star at the heart of everything.

2. It takes inspiration from Wind Waker Mainly, the concept of a character who is not the chosen one stepping up and proving themselves worthy and going on to save Hyrule. If you, like me, enjoyed that aspect of Wind Waker, then you'll like this story!

3. It plays with the lore in fun ways Do you like the older bits of lore from pre-Skyward Sword games? Like the Golden Goddesses and other deities? Then you'll like the bits of it I've weaved in!

4. It treats the NPCs with care, love, and nuance One of the things I'm proudest of about this story, that I've gotten praise from others for, is how the various NPCs are written. I've treated them all like people in their own right, who all have their own rich inner lives, schedules, interests, priorities, and feelings that don't revolve around the protagonist. Mipha befriends most of them, yes, but that's because she treats them with compassion and kindness too. Nobody is shallow here, I've gone to great pains to illustrate a world filled with people all living their own lives that intersect with Mipha's journey in various ways, and allowed people to just be human and make mistakes and have doubts but ultimately just be people. There's a lot of emphasis on Mipha's relationships with her family, and I've certainly won praise for my depiction of these dynamics, but also a ton of friendships being formed and explored, and people have told me that I made certain characters interesting and likable to them where the game failed to do so.

5. It has awesome fight scenes BOTW is a game with a lot of combat, so anyone novelizing it better be good at writing that kind of scene. Fortunately, I am! This is an action-packed story, not just for its own sake, but to show the dangerous world Mipha is traveling through and the challenges she has to face as she ventures into each Divine Beast and cleanses them of their respective Blights. I write really fast-paced action that also shows the characters' mindsets while fighting, and strikes a balance between showing off their strengths and that they're up to the challenge, while also respecting their opponents and demonstrating why the Champions of a hundred years ago fell to these things, why NPCs fear certain monsters. And speaking of respecting opponents, I've taken stuff from Age of Calamity as well as some of my own inventions, to beef up the boss fights, a certain area, and make every Divine Beast threatening (we all know how scary Medoh wasn't in-game).

6. It has beautiful prose/descriptions But you don't have to just take my word for it! Here's a sample from the rough draft of chapter 42!

Shards of light drifted across her floor, leaves caught in the current of clouds flowing over the moon. Mipha took a moment to watch them before closing the door behind herself. The water in her sleeping pool murmured a melody of rest and relaxation after a long day, calling her to it, but she ignored it for now. She’d done all her preparations for tomorrow, downed a warm elixir crafted from a few hearty lizards, and now only one thing remained to do before going to bed. It wasn’t a need, as the other tasks had been, but a want. Nothing wrong with that. She crossed the room to the old chest that lay tucked beneath her window, opening the lid with a whining creak from the aged hinges. A folded length of fabric the color of spilt starlight lay atop the item she sought; Mipha moved it aside. Her breath catching, she withdrew the armor beneath and held it up to the softly swaying illumination of the moon outside and the luminous stone lamps within.

All in all, I think this fic is some of my best work, and shouldn't be missed if you're a Mipha fan like I am (she is my favorite Zora, so if it's okay I'd like to use this as a belated submission for that Zora May prompt). She truly is the star of the show, with so much to offer as a lead character, moving through a world treated with depth and care. If you're in the market for a BOTW retelling that does something different, something no other retelling has done, and does it really well, then give it a chance! You can read it here on AO3. :3

[nobroth]

plotted starter for @aestuum

It seems like good things always ever come with the bad.

Ten years. It's been nearly ten damn years that he's been locked in the belly of Weisshaupt. He came here to report on the status of the Southern Grey Wardens after Adamant. He came here to help.

And Jowin - the First Warden - had locked him up down here. Accused him of inciting some kind of coup, spouting off about ancient magisters, blood magic, and Wardens surviving the slaying of an Archdemon. All he'd tried to do was tell the truth. Get the Order to listen, to respond in some meaningful way! It seemed everyone he thought should act a certain way was determined to act another. Seemed very few of his fellow Grey Wardens ever behaved as he thought they should. As Duncan would have thought they should.

Alistair doesn't know what's happening, exactly, but he knows that it's bad. The whole world seems to be shuddering, and he can hear a voice in his mind. Taunting him.

Is it an Archdemon? He remembers the murmurs, the flashes from the Final Battle in Denerim. The haunting feeling that he'd die, the whispers in his brain telling him he was doomed. But this is...

Clearer.

Worse.

But it brings opportunity when the horrible, angry tendrils of Blight that wind through the cells make the guards panic. They start letting everyone out. Shouting to get a weapon and get to the walls. Everyone. No matter what they're locked up for. They need bodies.

And a body, Alistair certainly is. He follows the panicked masses to the armory, and straps on what armor will fit in a hurry. It's been some time since the weight of more than his tunic has graced his body, and he knows that this will bruise. He takes a sword and a shield.

The fight awaiting them outside is worse than anything he's ever seen. The Blight is huge - angry, grasping. The darkspawn are new and strange, throbbing. Bursting with sick Blight. There's a face in the sky, telling them they're all going to die. And it's not even a dragon.

But there is a dragon. No -- an Archdemon.

The rest is a blur. Everyone dies. Well, nearly everyone. Some of them make it to the library, following shouts that the last stand will be there. He stumbles half-dazed through the maze that is the compound, following scraps of trails from the other Wardens who know the place better as they run. He finds the Joining Chalice from Ostagar on a pedestal.

He laughs a bitter laugh. It's on a pedestal, of course it is. And he's meant to be in the gutter, in the cells. He takes it, stuffs it in a bag over his shoulder.

It seems impossible. Making it to the library. But he does it. The Archdemon lands, and is snared by a dragon trap as he climbs and weaves his way through broken stone and shattered walls.

He watches from one of the towers as the dragon falls, as the First Warden falls, and the dragon rises again. There is - something. Not someone. Raising it. Over and over again.

And then it's over -- no. Worse! The ground rumbles, the Blight swells. Alistair searches for escape, and sees only one. A cluster of bodies, diving into a mirror. A mirror, like the one Morrigan once appeared to him through.

He doesn't have time to think. Would it help if he did? Unlikely. He dives into the mirror, too.

Anything, to survive.

[c6jpg]

dainsleif quest

the lore drops. fucking impeccable. but also i feel edged the fuck on. like we learned a liiiiiiiitle but also get 10 thousand unanswered questions as well

that's pretty standard for dainsleif quests though ig

the quest itself. can we even call that a quest it was so anticlimatic ajkdfladjsf like just content-wise i think that genuinely might have been our worst dainsleif quest the lore was CARRYING this shit and all we got was more questions and it felt SO short

as an aside its also criminal how long apart these quests are bc i honestly already kinda forgot what happened in the previous one (caribert) and i had to like. really use my brain to remember the lore we got then

DAINSLEIF BROTHER????????????

just in general like. my mind was exploding when we were talking about the five sinners of khaenri'ah. i want to learn more about them so bad

"i'll tell you all you want to know" YOU'RE NOT TELLING US ENOUGH DAINSLEIF ELABORATE

WE DESERVED A PROPER DAINSLEIF VS ABYSS TWIN ANIMATED FIGHT CUTSCENE. HOW DARE YOU JUST FADE TO BLACK ARE YOU KIDDINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

ngl when we first saw caribert i actually thought this might be dainsleif's brother and i was like NOOOOOOOOOO THEY CAN'T NPC DAIN'S BRO

i just KNOWWW his brother is gonna be so sexy whenever they reveal him. sorry i had to say it. anyways.

caribert man... his whole deal honestly felt like a sidequest within the quest but that was sad :(

not to be a #scarastan but i was just thinking so hard about the parallels between caribert and scara, implanting vs removing oneself from the memories of the world. both doing it to bring comfort to others, even if futile. i'm not smart enough to expand on this but i'm sure yall know what i mean

anyways okay. so the loom of fate can weave ley lines, that name makes sense now. now can literally anybody please explain what the fuck yall want to do with it

honestly the twin reunion scene felt kinda. idk. flat? like i was more hyped about the abyss twin vs dainsleif part kadjlsflds (speaking of which the way dain clenched his fist lmaooooooo i was just thinking of that one arthur meme)

i do love the detail that the twins call each other by their canon names though

was kind of 🙄 when we got hit with the "yeah btw you won't remember any of this once we're out of here." okay plot convenience

actually is it even plot convenience? like literally what harm would there have been of the traveler remembering???? what are they gonna do???? the only actionable thing of substance we learned was that the loom of fate was completed which dainsleif should have figured out anyways since he got the eye taken from him????????

actually i think it was great that dainsleif got bamboozled though. dude has been carried by plot armor for too long

sea of flowers mention interesting (i have no thoughts on this just interesting esp since i'm pretty sure that's the place shown in the teyvat trailer)

so basically confirmed the heavenly principles are asleep/inactive for some reason. idr if it was explicitly mentioned before. i actually DID wonder why we didn't get some celestia nail action smiting after all the shit that happened in fontaine, a lot of people thought that was gonna happen too with the whole celestia is floating right over fontaine

and then we wake up and the quest just ends??? LET ME TALK TO DAIN HELLO

also like. why did dain want to confront the abyss twin again??? maybe it was mentioned in an earlier quest and if so i forgot but either way i don't understand wtf dain was up to by luring the abyss twin out

no literally that felt like half a quest

objectively i think that quest kinda sucked but i will forgive it solely because of the lore drops no matter how tiny they were and bc i did really like caribert's story

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Hi Lindir! I’m such a big fan of Glorfindel and I heard that you know him. In fact I noticed you talk about him a LOT. You must be good friends! (Or maybe you’re a big fan like me? ☺️) So I thought you’d be a good person to ask what I’ve always wondered: are the rumors about him and Erestor true? 🤔🤔

Good friends??? 😱✨ YOU DARE ASK IF WE’RE GOOD FRIENDS?? 😱

I— oh, where do I even begin? That despicable glorious golden mess of a sunshine elf who has somehow managed to convince everyone that he’s some kind of heroic figure? 🤦‍♂️ Let me tell you, dearest friend, if only you knew.

I have known Glorfindel for ages, and I can confirm, without a doubt, that he is a constant source of unwanted drama, unneeded enthusiasm, and—quite frankly—unbearable levels of brightness.

Yes, brightness. (And no, not in the metaphorical or intellectual sense, I mean that his hair can blind you on a sunny day. It is distracting.) 🙄💫🌞

Now, the rumors about him and Erestor, oh my stars—don't get me started. 😤 I do not know who started these heinous whispers, but I for one, would never indulge in such foolishness. Erestor and Glorfindel, eh? Let’s just say their "friendship" is like a never-ending, dramatic, overly-verbose play with no real plot—and I have been unwillingly dragged into more rehearsals than I care to admit. 🤦‍♂️����

And the physical, my dear friend, the physical. 😤 Have you ever been in the same room as Glorfindel when he isn't glowing? Because I swear, when he's around, my very being feels like it’s being suffocated by the sheer volume of radiance coming from him. Can someone please tell me how one elf can possibly manage to be this extra? The hair, the armor, the smiling, the breezy attitude, like he’s some kind of celestial deity—it’s enough to drive anyone to exhaustion. 😩✨

Do not let this "fame" fool you. Do not let the mysterious allure and dramatic entrances distract you. If you want to know the truth about Glorfindel—well, let’s just say, no one looks that perfect without a significant amount of work. 🤫 You think it’s all natural? Trust me, it is not. No elf could possibly be this... shiny. 🙄

I mean, let’s be honest—I bet it’s a weave. 🤔 You can’t just naturally shine like that. I’ve seen the way his hair catches the light—it’s suspicious. No way that's just sun-kissed elven magic, nope. I’m calling it: high-end elven extensions with a touch of radiant glamour magic. 💇‍♂️✨

I am, unfortunately, acquainted with the walking beacon of eternal brightness, the golden drama king himself, Glorfindel. Yes. But let me be perfectly clear, my dear friend: good friends we are not. 😒

I am, however, well-versed in enduring his incessant golden glow and over-the-top heroics (all of which, I must stress, are mostly exaggerated). His hair never stops shining—seriously, it’s like he bathes in sunlight and uses it as a conditioner. Is this natural? I ask myself daily.

Is it possible to have that much radiance without some sort of magical contract? 💫✨ (Maybe The Lady of Light herself is behind it???)

Let’s talk about his "charming" personality, shall we? The ‘Blondest of Elves,’ as I call him, has a way of speaking in grandiose terms, like he’s too important to be in the same room as the rest of us mere mortals. 🙄 Oh, you’re a “war hero” and a “savior”? You must tell me about it for the millionth time, Glorfindel. Don’t worry, I have nothing else to do but listen to your tales of glory… and suppress the urge to roll my eyes every time you mention your "glorious" battles. 🏅 Brilliant. Truly.

And let us not forget his fashion sense—oh yes, the golden armor that screams, “Look at me! I’m the hero!” as if anyone could possibly miss him in the middle of a battle. No, really, Glorfindel, you’re so subtle. I’m sure Morgoth’s forces quivered in terror at the thought of your glittering presence on the battlefield 🙄✨.

He gets enough praise as it is—he does not need more! In fact, I’m pretty sure if he had one more compliment, his hair would spontaneously combust in an inferno of radiant self-satisfaction. 🔥🌞

Am I a fan, you ask? Of course not. Glorfindel is the last elf I would ever want to be a fan of, and let me be clear—if he ever catches wind of this post—I’m absolutely certain he’ll show up at Rivendell with his unfortunate hair and his tales of heroism in full force to “teach me a lesson” in some grandiose display of “goodness”. I’m sure I’ll be thrilled. 😑

Anyway, as for Erestor? He deserves better. Much better. But—well, it’s not my place to say. But let’s just say that if these rumors were true, Glorfindel would have me kicking him to the curb in a heartbeat. That’s the friendship I could have. True friends, with no glowing distractions.

[the-celluloid-correspondent]

Fallout Season One: Starts Off With an Explosive Bang.

In a future, post-apocalyptic Los Angeles brought about by nuclear decimation, citizens must live in underground bunkers to protect themselves from radiation, mutants, and bandits.

“Flash, bam, alakazam. Out of an orange colored sky” are the opening words to Nat King Cole's song “Orange Colored Sky”, which describes his feeling of falling in love. But Prime Video’s adaptation of the beloved game franchise, Fallout, it takes a much more sinister and literal meaning as that Orange Colored Sky marks the beginning of the thermonuclear apocalypse and the ends of the world.

I have not played the Fallout games, but I am familiar with the franchise as I have watched some gameplay and lore videos regarding Fallout. The games don’t really have a story structure as they are an open-world RPG, where the player can do whatever they want in a nuclear wasteland. It is filled with unique worldbuilding as the aesthetics are a mix of what the 1950s thought the future would be and a thermonuclear apocalypse. Furthermore, the series' iconic dark humor and brutal violence add to the fun nature of the games. So adapting this franchise into a television series was going to be very interesting as Amazon’s history with adaptations have either been massive hits like The Boys and Invincible, or massive clusterfucks like The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power and The Wheel of Time. Thankfully, Fallout is a masterful adaptation of the video game franchise that sticks true to the games while also being accessible and fun to those unfamiliar with the franchise. 

Fallout flawlessly captures the essence and look of the franchise right down to the last bottlecap. The costume and production design swiftly transports viewers into a world of stark contrasts. From the pristine, utopian 1950s aesthetics of the vaults to the radioactive Wild West of the surface is meticulously rendered. Furthermore, it nails the game's twisted and dark humor as well as the horrors of thermonuclear warfare. Now some lore changes will make some purists unhappy, but Fallout is a faithful adaptation of the game. 

The series' narrative simplicity proves to be both its strength and its weakness. Centered around three characters vying for a MacGuffin, with two intertwining subplots—one set in the vaults and the other as a prelude to the nuclear devastation—the storyline is straightforward yet interconnected. Each subplot offers vital insights into the others, weaving a compelling narrative without resorting to misleading twists. However, despite its apparent simplicity, the storyline occasionally feels contrived and lacks consistent internal logic. It's unexpected for such a straightforward plot to stumble over basic storytelling elements. However, this flaw can be readily forgiven given the impeccably crafted characters. 

Our trio of main characters is exquisitely portrayed, with performances worthy of acclaim, possibly even Emmy-worthy. Ella Purnell's portrayal of Lucy is particularly remarkable; she brings depth to a character archetype that might have easily fallen flat in less capable hands. As the moral compass of the show, Lucy is portrayed with a blend of bubbly naivety and genuine kindness that never veers into caricature thanks to Purnell's natural charisma. Witnessing her gradual transformation into a hardened survivor as he learns from her mistakes and takes advice from others without compromising her core values is both riveting and emotionally resonant.

Aaron Clifton Moten, a veteran of the industry for nearly two decades, delivers a breakthrough performance in Fallout as he embodies every gamer's fantasy by donning the Armor of The Brotherhood of Steel. His portrayal of a sheltered man-child who is trying to do the right thing when he realizes the religious military cult he grew up in views him as expendable. To see him try to break away from the cult while also battling his inner designer for power is a fascinating character development. As he navigates his character's journey alongside Lucy, offering guidance on the harsh realities of the wasteland, Moten's performance is both poignant and subtly humorous, showcasing his impeccable comedic timing.

However, the biggest standout performance of the series is Walton Goggins as Copper Howard and The Ghoul. These two characters are on opposite sides of the moral spectrum. When he is Cooper in the past, he is a morally righteous character who slowly realizes that he might have sold his soul to the devil by promoting Vault-tec. To watch his slow realization of the evils of not only the company he has associated with, but the woman he has married is a powerful moral reckoning. Then his transformation into the hardened, badass, Ghoul with no moral code has a tragic undertone. To see a man become the very thing he hates is tragic. Yet watching him slowly regain his moral code while interacting with Lucy is powerful. This is a layered performance from Goggins that is centered entirely on moral conflict. If he does not receive an Emmy, I am going to riot. 

To watch these three characters learn and grow from one another is a testament to the power of writing excellent characters with fully realized arcs. I can’t wait to see where these characters go into their future seasons. Will they keep to their ways or will they realize they have a common enemy? 

In conclusion, Fallout emerges as a compelling adaptation of the successful game franchise. It understands and respects not only the source material but also the fanbase as the series is clearly made for them. I can’t wait to see what lies in the next season, but I know that I am excited to see New Vegas. 

My Rating: B+

[crossroadsdimension]

Reply from @metalmewtwo-kxb on this post Sincere question because I've never played FF games before, but is the gameplay that fun to do? Is it more item grindy, or is it like... more quests and story? Solely grinding for continued gameplay is what turned me off of recent pokemon games, so I'm actually sorta looking for other things that might be better 😅

Good questions! And I'd say that FF14 is very fun, since I've been playing it for the last two and a half years or so.

I'm going to preface the rest of this by saying Final Fantasy 14 specifically is an MMORPG, which means that occasional grinding is a given with this game. NOT for the main story (or "MSQ" for short), since that gives you enough experience to carry you through from start to finish. Some additional content requires grinding (the areas Eureka and Bozja, mainly, as well as grinding levels for additional jobs), but that additional content is not required.

FF14 as a whole is quest heavy, story heavy, and dialogue heavy, but there is a fair amount of combat. There are dungeons and boss fights you have to run for the sake of the story, but generally you only have to run them once for the sake of the plot. They can be run repeatedly for additional bonuses, like gear upgrades, music to be used in certain places, and later, little minion pets (they don't do anything, just look cute) and mounts. But again, that's all optional.

Now, the gameplay itself....I'm gonna have to put the rest of this under the cut because this is getting long.

FF14 has you start with one chosen job at the beginning of the game. You build up your number of skills over the course of leveling up, giving you the time needed to get used to each of your new skills. Like other MMOs, you have a choice between tank jobs, healer jobs, and damage-dealing jobs. The neat thing is that you can pick up all the jobs available on one character. The game is designed with this in mind, so if you don't like the job you start with, you can pick something different later.

For example, I went with Thaumaturge, which advances into Black Mage, and I've stuck with that because exploding things with fireballs is just far too much fun. Playing a job that wants to stay still while casting spells is a little difficult when boss fights require you to move frequently, but I've made it work! Maybe not to the level of efficiency as other players, but I don't really care about that too much.

The combat works this way: there are skills that are "on global cooldown" (meaning you have to wait 2.5 seconds before you can use it again,) and "off-global cooldown" (that have longer wait times). When you start the game, you don't have a lot of skills, so it feels slow when you fight, but the more you level up and the more skills you get, the more complicated fighting can become. I and other players have learned how to "weave" these two kinds of skills together in order to keep damage and/or healing moving, depending on the job type. It took me a bit to get used to, since I'm used to turn-based styles, but I think I've got a good handle on it!

Combat isn't the only type of job available, either -- there are crafting and gathering jobs as well, to make gear and other items that players might want. Like, say, housing items. Or more of those cute minions. Or glamour items to make your armor look stylish. And there's a mini-game attached to these which is also pretty fun!

The "grinding" aspect of FF14 comes about when you want to level multiple jobs. And there are multiple options for that, since the MSQ only has enough XP for one job. The FATE system that I was talking about grinding, for example, is optional side content that is constantly available. Easy XP when you're waiting for queue to pop for dungeon roulette runs...or the PvP system, which has its own set of combat skills separate from the rest of the game.

There's a repeatable quest system too, called "leves," but those are mostly used for crafting/gathering nowadays instead of the combat jobs.

If you want to give the game a try, I can promise that the game's story and music is all fantastic, and there's a free trial that's available on PS4/5, PC, and most recently Xbox. Play up to Level 70 out of 100, get access to the base game and two following expansions (A Realm Reborn, Heavensward, and Stormblood). If you don't want to play it, there's plenty of people who have recorded playthroughs online. Playframe is an easy one to find on YouTube, for example!

I'll be honest, I'm keeping any storyline stuff to a minimum because as much as I want to get more people into the game, if I gush too long I'll give spoilers and there are some surprises that just. Need to be experienced. But needless to say, the story is fantastic and intricate and can make you think some very deep thoughts the further into the game you go. The plot starts very simple -- almost deceptively so -- with your character becoming the Warrior of Light through deeds done and big boss battles fought. And everything progresses from there....

If you don't want to play an MMO, but do want to play an FF game and don't want to worry too much about level-grinding, I've been playing through the Pixel Remasters of FF1-6. The settings for these turn-based RPGs allows you to boost your XP and gold (or gil) gain, completely cutting out any need to grind. I've played FF1-4 so far, and I've started FF5, and I've enjoyed the experience! Especially since FF14, the game that I started with, has references from every single other FF game in the series. So I'm getting the references in reverse!

If you want something more recent that has a Devil May Cry-esque play style, FF16 could be right up your alley. The game also has difficulty settings to make it easier if you're not prepared to handle that kind of play style. The experience given in that game is enough to get you to where you need to for the sake of the plot, too, so I wouldn't have to worry about grinding in FF16.

As for the other games...well, I don't have much experience in the Final Fantasy anthology as a whole, sad to say. I'd love to get more experience, but that's going to take a while.

[kiwibirdlafayette]

Aitheaca: About Flash’s clothes, are they reflective? Is it made to look like gold (with gold embellishments) or is his jacket like actually gold (assuming it’s something similar to gold leaf but for fabric and lightweight)?

If his clothes are reflective, I think combat with him could be really fun, because he just causes blindness on the battlefield on sunny days. It’d also be fun with someone on the crew didn’t realize who they were talking to upon first meeting him because looking directly at him is hard. So, they don’t know the danger they’re in until it’s too late.

Also! What’s crew dynamic looking like? I saw you mentioned Spark was on the crew a while back, but just to confirm, who’s officially on the crew?

Out of all the Aitheaca designs, who’s your favorite?

Thank you so much for the questions!! I appreciate it a ton, it means an absolute lot that you're interested in my sillies :D

With Flash's jacket, hell yeah! I wasn't specifically going for a reflective surface, but I did want his jacket to appear as if it was weaved out of fibered gold (that Im assumin would be like gold leaf in texture), that is yes lightweight man's gotta be able to move fast... like a flash of light haHA-

When light reflects off it in certain ways it could absolutely be used like a flashbang to blind enemies during battle, I'm imagining AND YESSS the crew would have zero idea, like in the plot I have in my head so far, Tom, Sonja and Spark are the first ones to encounter Flash, they just see a shape of a man in the sunbeam ahead, too bright to tell who exactly it was. Initially they think it could be Jordan, but its actually Flash, who was tipped off to their location based on Tom's Mecha-Dianite quintessence (that still puts off a pretty strong signature despite the cloaking sigils Wag had given him). Like you mentioned, he's really hard to look at, because while he's standing in the sun he's not creating a shadow, he's reflecting it. And its in this time they don't notice him pull out his weapons and BANG

Mer and co. end up having to come in to come in to help them out-because they don't exactly have experience fighting someone who is wearing basically a mirror for a jacket in direct sunlight- wearing wearing some kine specialized obsidian sunglasses because yknow this is isn't their first rodeo with this yellow dipshit (Merina's not as affected as Will and Cass but she's gonna wear em anyway for the bit)

I think of the designs, probably either Merina, Cass and Ianite are my favorite! Ia because I just had a lot of fun designing her armor and coming up with a darker color palette costume design that wasn't just dark purple, and working with different armor styles to get the specific celestial warlord look I wanted her to have :D Cass was just a fun design to do overall because his aesthetics have been something I dont get to work with much, a very patchwork vintage kind of thing, which is supposed to be a callback to Inter Amorem et Timorem , a short screenplay I wrote for school where- aside from it being a Tom reference- he was named Cassell because his emotions were spoken through cassette tapes C: But Merina's design might just be my favorite, I am a sucker for nautical designs and trying to figure out what a coraldragon hybrid might look like compared to a typical merling was a ton of fun :D Also trying to work in the color palettes of the Watchers was how I landed on the blueish purple scheme, because initially she was going to be teal and orange to call back a little to Sonja across the multiverse

(I promise I also love William equally but too much of his design was me making jokes about Joel/Pix/Bdubs)

And the crew! Currently as I have it, the peeps that end up in Aitheaca are Jordan, Tom, Capsize, Sonja, Martha, Spark (Tucker I was thinking about including, but I'm not sure how to work him back in, but basically they would find him in a different SMP prior to this; where the reconciliation between him and Sonja starts) Its very interesting to have 3 different Sparklez variants in the same timeline, surely nothing could go wrong /hj, but the dynamic can best be defined as "a group of people who desperately just need to figure their shit out because damn they have not really had a proper chance to rest and feel safe doing so"

While Tom and Jordan had their reconciliation arc during Isles (source: just trust me m8), Capsize, while having gotten a hang on being undead is carrying a lot of resentment and unresolved issues she's not sure about because she can't clearly remember the entirety of (specifically towards Jordan) and Sonja kind of holding a little resentment towards Tom, but more importantly her decision to choose to stay Mianite's champion despite her post-S2 not being sure and owning that choice. no longer even after Tucker he drifts away (and then how that comes into play when Tucker rejoins them, basically the stuff I allude to in the mini animatic) its essentially Embersduo and Zombiecaptains but they have trouble getting along, not because they're sick of each other, but more like damn We all Went Through a Ton of Shit and we're not good at talking about it or working through it together,but goddammit we're still gonna try to get along. That being said I do think they have moments where they can be their silly shenanigan selves :D

Martha's her own ballgame, in the sense that she's very endgoal oriented in trying to problem solve, and her reaction to Aitheaca!Ianite is very drastic as well, it just must be really weird to see a basically evil version of your mother. She and Sonj aren't great friends, but her and Capsize have caught on pretty well, and she doesn't mind Jordan (Tom's iffy, but at least they can connect over being new gods in a way) Spark's just along for the ride, he was supposed to get back home to help out Dia, Mot and the Wizards but the portal fucked up lowkey :] He's not exactly overjoyed to be parading about the multiverse but he's fine with Martha, Sonj and Capsize so he mostly hangs around them. It'll be interesting that's for sure, but this is the main chunk of the post-series stuff I want to do so yeeeee

[untangling-thoughts]

book no. 16 | part 2

'Hannibal'

Thomas Harris

General remarks

Emotional whimsy?

I've noticed in 2 previous books as well, but it especially burned my eyes in 3rd. Thomas Harris seemed to write his books by mixing methaphors and whimsical vibing into grounded stories. It is hard to put into words, but there are loads of examples where spirituality gets involved. I find it an interesting touch to the story. While my preference is realism and believable story-telling, I don't dislike this weaved-in 'feelings' stuff. Yet my opinion on it is quite uncertain. On the one hand, it's refreshing, and on the other… reading a letter from Hannibal where he asked Clarice to look into a frying pan and see her mother's in it was kind of comical.

Can't properly explain this because you have to read it yourself to properly understand what I mean. But there is this vibe of 'feeling objects/situations' that is unique to Thomas's writing.

The very first situation in 'Hannibal' where such vibe was shown is when Starling sat at home, trying to find so-called guidance in her dreadful situation. Her career was falling apart and she started looking for what? An example from ancestors? And then reminisced about the story of her roots? Not to disregard author's work, but when the story is more heavy on the facts, psychology, and keeping things natural, it felt way too deep. I don't think any average person thinks that far back into their story line. It all usually ends on grandparents. While yes, people are different, and Clarice's way of thinking might differ and be unique… The issue I have is that such sophisticated emotional attunement is a default for all of the main characters. It's in Will Graham (Red Dragon book), Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling. What a coincidence, right?

I find it very hard to relate to such intuitive, emotion-heavy way of perceiving things. Hense it only strengthens my feeling of alienation.

Unrealistic elements

In 'Part II - Florence', some symbolism was added through Gypsies. When Romula grabbed Lecter to rob him, she withdrew because Hannibal was like a Satan himself and had evil eyes. That was so obviously theatrical that I couldn't even take it seriously. But it's okay. I recognise the artistical efforts.

Another fantastical event was in 'Part V - A Pound of Flesh'. The fact that pigs haven't eaten Hannibal because 'they smelled no fear' was WILD. Because throughout the story it is shown that you didn't have to bleed to be devoured. Pigs ate chicken and other meat that wasn't soaked in blood. There was also a part that talked about one of pig supervisors barely surviving after being in a pigpen. He was trying to take back a piece of clothing that was left from a mannequin. That was a clear sign that while hungry, those animals would tear you apart. Yet Hannibal survived? Just by standing in there, around pigs, all chill? Absolutely NOT possible. But fine. Plot armor. I'll let it slide.

Inappropriate stuff

My genuine question is: why are there some sexually-related phrases thrown in very randomly? They are usually one-sentenced. Often appear without a proper reason and never get addressed afterwards. Like some kind of extra ingredient in a product - unnecessary yet still there who knows why. "Might contain raisins". IT'S LITERALLY RICE.

Undirect quotes I vaguely remember:

'Clarice looked at the woman that walked in and wondered whether she used plaster on her [private parts]'

Girl? Are we okay? Why did you just think that? No explanation. The thought was so random I had to do a double take.

'Pazzi was imagining what he'd have after selling Lecter to Mason. Wealth. Doing some charity with his wife, giving coins to the poor. Shore that reminded him of a wonderful vacation. His wife's hand around his [private part]'

Okay, I know why it's related. He was thinking about joys of life. But the last sentence was NOT connected to the money. But it was absolutely not needed. And his horny thought just gets totally ignored afterwards. As if it was never mentioned and you hallucinated it.

'Pazzi died [insert description of death and gore]. His [private part] was hard after death'

What kind of literature Tourette's syndrome is this.

And don't get me wrong, I don't mind vulgarity or descriptiveness. Described things are natural, and this is an adult book about murder and people that are sick in the head. Violence and explicit language are normal. Instead, I am bothered by sheer dysregulation in the way such things are added into the plot. They are just as extra as an additional body part nobody asked for (Lecter would know).

Over-italianized

The amount of Italian words used in 'Part II - Florence' is SICKENING. I know! They are in Italy! But the book is written IN ENGLISH. And pages are literally blooming with all of the motoro, pompieri etc. You could've just used normal English words. Because their meaning would be EQUIVALENT to those Italian nouns. I'd understand using some language-specific words, like katana for Japan, because yes, it can be translated as a 'sword', but katana usually implies Japanese-specific kind of sword. But in this book all Italian words were simple. Was the author trying to flex his Italian vocabulary at the cost of reader's eyes? Like okay, pal, you made those people use Italian words. What about the other 95% of their speech? Why isn't it in Italian too? Or were you implying that they all talk in English and only know a few words from Italian vocabulary? (Yes, I am annoyed)

Lecter's speech about Dante and hanging people

I have to say it. That lection was… oddly dumb-worded.

From the very first time when Hannibal mentioned corruption and hanging you already know where it's going. The whole lection was directed at Pazzi. It was a very ironic and symbolic way to marinate him. Pazzi's reaction was not described, but I suspect he became very nervous. It's a bright and subtle way to do threats. And I liked it!

But be for real. I understand that the whole lecture was probably shortened to not add another 10 pages into the book. Yet the execution confused me. Have you fully read that lecture? Hannibal repeated the same shallow stuff again and again.

Author could have used first phrases to let readers know what's happening, and let Pazzi join (as it was in a book) and watch photos on hanged people with other guests with some simple commentary. It would have been enough for Pazzi to clock it. The rest of the lecture could've been wrapped up as 'Lecter kept talking about corruption and greed in a calm and somewhat enthusiastic manner [add a few more sentences]'.

Instead we get 5 paragraphs of same words in different order. The idiocy of the text made ME feel like an idiot too. No idea how that shallow research deserved clapping from listeners.

Margot Verger and her under-lesbianism

A refreshing touch - queer character emerged. Added variety to the story, which is appreciated. But as much as Margot was portrayed as a lesbian, there were several extremely questionable moments.

For once, she showered in one room with Barny. It can be excused, sure. Author never specified whether Margot was simply trying to be masculine or wanted to be a man (I lean towards the former). But nevertheless, I would've expected her to be keenly aware that being in one shower room with a man, fully naked, is a truly bad idea. Especially if we take into a consideration that Mason used to SA her as a kid and she was still perceived as a woman.

Barny was a dumbass too. He KNEW Margot had a wife. Barny KNEW she was a lesbian. It was implied that she haven't had any proper friendships with men (probably because they kept hitting on her or being sexist). And still, when he got physically excited, Barny decided to stand naked in front of Margot and go for a kiss! Honestly, he should have gotten punched harder.

Later, when they were making up and trying to be friends, Margot told Barny that if she liked men, than it'd be HIM ONLY? I'm sorry, what? First of all, you can't know for sure, right? You're just speaking about it because he's your good friend, right?

It's also understandable why Margot offered Barny to sleep with her. It was a deal. Just so Barny would help her murder Mason. Despair made her offer things she wouldn't have done normally. But the main thing that bothered me was a kiss. When they met for the last time, Margot kissed Barny on the lips. WHY? Brother, this is not platonic at all. And felt absolutely wrong. I wanted to rip my hair out.

[anim-ttrpgs]

Yeah many people just plain do not know that an adventure module can be something other than a completely linear script you follow.

Here’s a very old, very classic adventure module for classic D&D from my dad’s attic.

It has a map of the dungeon (as you will see, it is not a linear series of fights, it’s a complex location the party explores. That line drawn in pencil tracks the way the party happened to go when this was played, not the way they’re “supposed to go.”)

And it has a full fleshed out description of the rooms and different interesting and interactable things within the rooms. It has pre-statted monsters, traps, etc.. The party explores it and tries to get out alive with as much treasure as they can carry. You can also weave this into an ongoing campaign or a “story” - it’s “modular,” that’s the point of a "module." When I ran this for my group’s rotating-DM AD&D campaign, the party was hired to rescue three children who were kidnapped by goblins. The goblins had one, but the other two escaped and got lost in the not-goblin-controlled parts of the dungeon, requiring the party to explore every inch of it to find them.

Of course, this kind of module cannot be used for a “plotted” D&D campaign, because it is designed to quickly kill unwary characters. But if you’re wanting your PCs to have plot armor, you really should not be playing any edition of D&D. It’s not designed for plotted stories, it’s designed to be a game where shit happens that you then tell stories about later.

The party in our group did suffer some pretty severely bad injuries, but no deaths, because they’re a group of competent, capable, and careful mercenaries.

“But that’s a dungeon crawler, modules like that don’t work for non-dungeon-crawler games!”

Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, an extremely non-dungeon-crawler game, has modules very much like this. In Eureka, the party doesn’t delve into dungeons, they talk to people, look for clues, and solve mysteries.

So, Eureka modules provide a “Truth” for the GM’s eyes only which lists exactly what happened that resulted in there being a mystery to solve, a “hook” for why the PCs would have gotten involved in trying to solve the mystery, and a set of relevant locations, often with maps. (The locations may be connected on a larger city/town/area maps but usually travel between the important locations is abstracted.)

The locations are given full descriptions, various points of interest that might be relevant to the investigation, info for the GM about what the PCs will find if they inspect those things properly, etc. They also include NPCs with visual and personality descriptions, lists of what information the NPC knows about the mystery, and how they might react to certain actions from the PCs.

Silk & Dagger: A Sensible Drow RPG is even less comparable to a dungeon-crawler than Eureka. It’s a interpersonal politics sitcom-y comedy game where a Drow Mistress and her pathetic minions try to keep up appearances in a cutthroat society where the social expectations are arcane, byzantine, and very high stakes. Reputation is everything.

Something will go wrong in the palace, and the party will have to hide that it is going wrong and act like everything is fine while impressing the neighbors.

A module for Silk & Dagger comes with a particular problem that’s going to happen in the palace and when and where in the palace it will happen, as well as a guest arriving and/or some other social obligation. It includes visual and personality descriptions for the NPCs, and how they will react to certain actions by the PCs.

These are games which are about three very very different kinds of characters and situations, and yet they all benefit from having adventure modules.

The more I think on it, and I know this greatly differs from what people have come to expect in recent years, but to me a TTRPG with no adventure modules is like booting up a video game and finding out the devs didn’t make any levels. Like I wanted to play this but I guess we’ll have to wait until someone in the group, who may have never played the game before, spends a not-insignificant amount of their free time in the level-editor throwing something together for us to play.

[watchnrant]

Magic Meets Raw Humanity: Glow of the Everflame

In “Glow of the Everflame,” the second installment of the Kindred Curse Saga, Penn Cole crafts a masterpiece that transcends the typical boundaries of fantasy romance. This isn’t just another story about magic and destiny – it’s a profound exploration of identity, grief, and the complicated bonds that both strengthen and burden us.

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Writing that Burns Bright

Cole’s writing style is nothing short of mesmerizing. She possesses a rare talent for weaving together the grand scope of epic fantasy with intimately human moments that leave you breathless. The prose shifts seamlessly between elegant formality for world-building and raw emotional authenticity for personal scenes. Her metaphors aren’t just beautiful – they’re devastating in their accuracy. When she describes armor as “both shield and cage, keeping the arrows out while trapping the monster in,” it captures perfectly how we sometimes imprison ourselves in our own defenses.

Character Depth that Resonates

At the heart of the story is Diem Bellator, a protagonist whose journey feels achingly real despite its fantastical setting. Her struggle with identity – caught between mortal and Descended worlds – serves as a powerful metaphor for anyone who’s ever felt caught between two worlds or versions of themselves. What makes her compelling isn’t just her strength or her magic, but her very human flaws: her impulsiveness, her struggle with vulnerability, and her complicated relationship with power.

The supporting cast is equally well-crafted. Luther, with his complex mix of duty and buried humanity, makes for a fascinating foil to Diem. Their slow-burn romance crackles with tension, built on a foundation of mutual distrust that gradually evolves into something deeper. Teller, Diem’s brother, provides some of the most powerful emotional moments in the book, especially in scenes where he cuts through her self-doubt with the kind of brutal honesty only siblings can deliver.

Emotional Impact that Leaves Marks

Where this book truly excels is in its handling of grief and family bonds. The scene where Diem discovers her father’s death is gut-wrenching not just in its immediate impact, but in how it forces her to confront the regret of their last interaction. Cole doesn’t shy away from the messiness of loss – instead, she leans into it, showing how grief can be both a weight that drowns us and a force that shapes us.

The family dynamics are particularly well-rendered. The relationship between Diem and Teller feels authentically sibling-like, complete with the ability to oscillate between exasperation and unconditional support. The flashbacks of their father, who “never saw me as weak because I was a girl, who taught me to embrace it as my strength,” add layers of depth to both the character relationships and the themes of identity and power.

World-building with Purpose

While the fantasy elements are rich and well-developed, they never overshadow the human element of the story. The conflict between mortals and the Descended elite serves as more than just plot fodder – it’s a vehicle for exploring prejudice, power, and the possibility of change. The magic system, particularly Diem’s growing powers, works as both literal plot device and metaphor for personal growth and responsibility.

A Few Shadows in the Light

The complexity of the political dynamics and large cast of characters can occasionally feel overwhelming, and some readers might find Diem’s impulsive decisions frustrating. However, these elements ultimately serve to make the world and characters feel more authentic rather than detracting from the story.

Verdict

“Glow of the Everflame” is a rare achievement – a fantasy romance that delivers not just on the promise of magic and romance, but on deeper themes of identity, family, and the price of power. Cole has created something special here: a story that entertains while it moves you, that builds a fantastic world while never losing sight of the very human heart beating at its center.

This is a book for readers who want their fantasy with depth, their romance with complexity, and their characters with real, messy humanity. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt caught between worlds, struggled with their identity, or grappled with the weight of expectations versus personal desire.

A solid 5/5 stars – this is the kind of book that stays with you long after you turn the last page, leaving you both satisfied and eager for the next installment.

Content Warning: The book contains themes of death (including parental death), violence, grief, and complex family dynamics.

[veilxstars]

PROMPT 03: 11/06/1990: Marisol lifted her gaze from the newspaper, her eyes skimming over the headline with the kind of detached curiosity one might afford a piece of gossip. We know what you’re hiding. A message aimed to unsettle, to chip at her resolve. But as her fingers traced the edge of the page, her expression remained unchanged, her pulse steady.

There was no trembling in her hands, no wary glances around the quiet room. She was alone, or so she assumed; the closed curtains held back the evening's fading light, leaving the room steeped in dim shadows that seemed to stretch and loom around her. Perhaps she should have felt unnerved, exposed. But Marisol took the bait with measured restraint, her lips curving in a faint, inscrutable smile that concealed any flicker of doubt.

The room was silent, save for the ticking of an old mantel clock—a gift from Lorraine's second husband, whose patience had rarely outlasted her silences. She glanced at it, almost absentmindedly, as if measuring her next move against time itself. No, she was alone. She had no allies, no confidants in this town; she relied only on herself, her wit, and the instincts honed over years of quiet, deliberate work. She had a woman to protect - small children to shield. To anyone watching, she might appear serene, an enigma wrapped in a crimson dress, her face unreadable beneath her perfectly composed expression.

Her thoughts wandered, tracing the name Rivers like a fingertip over a scar, the edges of memory tugging. Avalon Rivers—a woman whose name carried influence, whose polished reputation masked something far darker, Marisol suspected. There was something in Rivers’s demeanor, a faint edge to her refinement, the gleam of hidden knowledge beneath the surface. But Marisol had no proof, only intuition and the whispered rumors that trailed after Avalon like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

Outside, the evening streets were growing quiet as the town settled into the rhythm of dusk. Marisol moved to the window, her steps soundless on the worn carpet. She eased the curtain aside, just a sliver, and peered out into the fading light. The street below lay still, a stage cleared of its actors, the props rearranged for the next scene. Was there someone waiting there, lurking unseen, or was it simply her own mind turning against her?

She felt, rather than saw, the brush of unease at her back, a prickling awareness that someone might be watching. She’d learned to carry on in such moments, to ignore the feeling, to feign indifference even when the hairs on the back of her neck rose. If someone was watching, they’d find no evidence of fear. She straightened, let the curtain fall, and turned back into the shadows of the room, where secrets lingered like dust.

But beneath her calm, a ripple of tension stirred. This message, this pointed little barb in the newspaper, was something she couldn’t ignore. She hadn’t expected to be noticed, not so openly. She was careful, always, a ghost in the background, a whisper behind closed doors. Marisol had no spies, no web of informants to warn her of lurking danger. She had only herself, her cunning and her patience, and she was loath to admit that, for the first time in years, she might be slipping.

She brushed a hand down her sleeve, as if to steady herself. She had learned harsh lessons -- and she carried those scars. This was no time for weakness. She thought of Avalon Rivers, of the glittering gatherings she attended, the polished façade she wore like armor. Perhaps Avalon was behind the message; perhaps not. But something about this felt personal. Too pointed, too precise. Marisol wondered if she was playing a part in someone else’s scheme—if she, in her solitude, had become the center of some unseen plot.

The clock’s ticking grew louder in the silence, each second trailing into the next, echoing in the quiet. She stood there, feeling the weight of it, wondering who might be out there, weaving shadows around her, and what they might want. There was no comfort in mystery now—only a creeping sense that, perhaps, she was not as hidden as she’d once thought. The thought settled cold in her chest, a hint of dread that lingered long after she’d let the curtain fall back into place.

[no-i-know-her]

I've recently started running pre-written campaigns again, currently with Paizo's Triumph of the Tusk for Pathfinder 2e, so potential minor spoilers below. But not being able to integrate their backstories into the prep in a really deep way has left me kind of doing the opposite. Working with the players to make what's already written feel like personal plot hooks, often without them realizing it. 'Oh, you want to be wearing some kind of animal scale armor to reflect your background as a monster hunter to protect your hold? Why not Wyverns, they live in Belkzen, and are weak enough'. Cue many sessions later when the Wyvern Riders personally hate that PC, and they feel personally invested in the story as already written, since they need to protect their people from the Wyverns. But if you leave, they're still causing the problems as written in the campaign, your allies need them gone as much as you do, it's just less personal. 'Oh, you've reincarnated after 1,500 years and are just revisiting the lands you lived in back then for the first time? Well here's some holds who have likely been around that long.' Cue many sessions later when that PC is grappling with the fact this clan is very different to how they remember, with a leader who represents the worst of those changes. Now they're personally invested in overthrowing them to install a new leader (they actually ended up becoming chief themselves). But if they left before, that leader still needed dealing with, it was just a matter of survival not ideology for the rest of the party. Starting with writing a campaign around detailed and varied backstories the players write without you is a recipe for disaster. My approach has always been to some extent to write a story they'll engage with, that gives them room for agency and then add smaller elements to weave their characters to that story more specifically. But if your players are playing characters who can be tied to the story and world, and are willing to work with you, you don't need to start with a story that is about them, they can just become a natural feeling part of the story.

While I rail against the idea of GM prep being like "preparing a nice story for your players that their characters can be slotted into and also as a GM it's your duty to integrate the characters' backstories into your prep or else you're a bad GM" because it often results in linear narratives with very little room for player agency but also it's an unhealthy dynamic to expect a GM to weave together a coherent narrative out of the ideas provided by multiple people who might have completely different ideas about what the game should even look like. But there's also more to the practical angle than "it's hard to prep:"

If a player whose character is deeply integrated into the narrative of the campaign suddenly needs to leave the campaign you've left yourself with a narrative void and unlike in Hollywood you can't just go recasting that shit. No one's gonna buy into this new Goblin Steve, his new player can't even do his voice properly.

By prepping games like this you're really setting your whole campaign up for failure in most cases. How about: the story isn't something the players write for homework before the campaign, right? The NPCs that matter are not authored connections your players gave you as assigned reading before the game even started. The story is whatever happens during sessions and the connections that matter are those that characters build during play.

There is of course some nuance to this but like: we see so much talk about GMs being expected to integrate player character backstories into their prep (and then their players not being engaged anyway because they felt the GM did it "wrong") and about how GMs are burning out and it's a thankless job and like. Could there perhaps be a solution?

[has-the-high-ground]

How does it feel to have plot armor?

I am wearing standard republic issue armor along with my jedi robes, I am unfamiliar with this model of armor.

[revrover]

The Stranger - Pt. 2

Part One: The Stranger

Part Three

Pairing: Namor x Reader

Word Count: 8k (lol whoops)

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Language, PLOT

Summary: Namor isn’t the only one who has been searching for his general. Thanks to you, Namora’s life was saved -- but when your connection to the two strangers brings you face to face with a hostile group of government agents, you find yourself in the crossfire of a much bigger conflict.

A/N: OMG first and foremost thank you for being here, thank your for coming back, and thank you for reading. This has taken me a bit longer to post because I’ve been pouring over it every day for a month, trying to get it just right. Comments, feedback and reblogs mean THE WORLD to me, so feel free to show some love and as always please be kind!

***I do not give permission to copy, plagiarize, or repost my work as your own in any form!

There is a growing unrest inside you.

Days have passed since your encounter with Namor after saving the life of his general, Namora. Two mysterious strangers who have left your mind reeling with questions, unrelenting and unquenchable as a flame that dares to spread like wildfire, consuming your thoughts entirely.

You repeatedly play the memory over in your head with no rational way to explain what you witnessed; her blue skin, his superhuman strength; the curious metal that outfitted both of their armor; how they disappeared into the vast open ocean.

"Something on your mind?" A fruit vendor asks, snapping you back to reality. You stand in the middle of the bustling village marketplace, doing your best to orient yourself quickly.

“Your head is — how you say…? — in the clouds, yes?” The vendor asks in her best English, smiling politely at you as she stands next to her cart, eager for you to buy something.

"Is it that obvious?" You joke with a tired laugh. "Two, please."

You scoop up a pair of fresh mangos and hand the woman some change from your pocket. She kindly accepts it with a nod of appreciation. Carefully sliding the fruit into your bag, you return a nod of your own.

You continue to walk through the market, the damp air carrying an aroma of local cuisine and sweat fills your lungs. Weaving your way in and out of aisles created by vendor carts, you feel a sense of calm as you watch the locals interacting with one another. There's beauty to be found in their sense of community.

Typically, you would gather your needed food and supplies and then be on your way back home, but today as your mind wanders, so do your feet.

Meandering down another aisle, your thoughts drift back to Namor, specifically the morning you found him on your front porch. You can practically feel the warmth of that sunrise as you imagine its light illuminating his dark eyes. You picture the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth when you asked him if he would come back, a moment you hold onto tightly. The memory gives you optimism that you will see him again someday and hopefully have the opportunity to ask him more questions.

Lost in thought, you hardly notice a small crate sticking out a few inches further than other accompanying carts in the aisle. Tripping your foot as you walk by, it nearly tumbles you to the ground. You manage to catch your balance and your breath before face-planting into the dirt. Immediately turning to apologize, you find an elderly man seated behind the crate, his back leaning against the wagon behind him and his eyes shut.

The man is slender and his head bald, save for a few wisps of hair above his ears. Most of his body is covered by a knitted green poncho, well-worn and fraying along the hem. To both your relief and surprise, he seems completely undisturbed by your clumsy collision with his crate of goods. Unsure if he’s even awake, you reach down to help reset any items on the crate you may have displaced.

Your jaw drops slightly as you see the contents on display. Spread out on a velvet brown tablecloth sits a small assortment of beautiful books, scrolls, and other documents. Admiring them, you reach out and push back one of the scrolls, revealing a gorgeous hand-sketched portrait of the island.

“Did you draw this?” You ask, impressed by the skill of it.

“Mmm,” He hums, shaking his head, "But I made very good trade with the man who did.”

You find his answer odd, though slightly amusing, considering he never opened his eyes to see which piece you were referring to. As you browse the rest of the items, a particular book stands out to you. It’s different from the rest of the collection — small and bound in leather, although the leather itself is worn and brittle-looking. You pick it up and inspect it closer. The binding is loose, the pages aged and tattered.

“Careful with that one. Very old.” The elderly man says, his eyes remaining shut. “Nearly 400 years. Got it in a trade with a visiting merchant from our southeastern sister islands."

How does he even do that? You wonder as you start delicately flipping through the pages of the book. You make it about midway through when you open to a particular page that makes you freeze, your heart nearly jumping out of your throat. Your eyes widen as you bring the page closer to your face.

It’s a crude drawing — basic, two-dimensional, and very old like the man said, but the likeness is undeniable. Depicted is the figure of a man. He dawns a grand snake-like headpiece and is grasping a spear. His body is adorned with jade and other metals. Sharp ears. Winged ankles.

"Excuse me!” you ask the elderly man with an exasperated breath, practically jumping over the crate as you lean forward and shout, “These!" You flip the book around to show him the open page, pointing excessively at the picture and the glyphs below it. "What do these say?!"

Your voice is eager and desperate, emotions you hardly try to hide.

The man's left eye slowly squints open.

“Only few are still legible.” He says, shrugging.

“Okay, yes, but the ones you can read, what do they say?!” You plead.

He sighs, opening his other eye and leaning forward slightly to get a better look. After a moment, he leans back against the wagon and closes his eyes again.

"King. Serpent. God. Monster."

You hang on to each word he tells you. Turning the book back around, you bring it back up to your face for another closer inspection.

"How much?" You ask, ready to make a deal.

The elderly man cracks one eye open to look at you for a moment as he considers his price, then wordlessly points to your arm with a feeble finger. You follow his gaze down to the small beaded bracelet around your wrist — the last reminder of your life before coming to the island. You hold your arm up to him, making sure you understand correctly. He nods politely, and without hesitation, you untie the bracelet and toss it to him.

"Nice doing business!" He says with a wide grin as he holds up the bracelet. You are already nose-deep in the book as you turn on your heels, quickening your pace as you head home where you can study more carefully.

Maneuvering your way out of the market to the outskirts of the village, you hardly need your eyes to guide your feet home. You take advantage of the remaining daylight to examine the pages as you walk, turning page after page and scanning for any information about Namor and his people. There’s little there, the book seeming to be a very old, mingled account of island history and lore. Seeing as you are not a historian and certainly not a linguist, it’s difficult to decipher. Still, you do your best to piece together what you can from the pictures.

King. Serpent. God. Monster.

The sky begins to dim. You can hear the faint roar of waves as you near the coastline. It’s too dark to see much detail on the pages now, so you carefully tuck the book into your bag as you step over the trunks of palm trees. The path beneath your feet gradually turns from brush to sand, and soon you find yourself walking along the familiar stretch of beach that leads you home. You stare out into the darkness, listening to the rhythmic pattern of ocean waves and breathing in the salty evening air. The moon hovers above the water, burning brightly as countless stars paint the sky behind it.

You continue walking in the darkness, but there’s an uneasiness building in your gut the further you go. You should be nearing home by now, but no lanterns have come into view. You always light lanterns before heading into town. They burn for hours in your absence so, by the time you return, you have light to guide you. All you see now are shadows and silhouettes that dance against the tree line, and every sound and indiscernible movement has you on edge.

It’s not until you are nearly a stone's throw away that the bungalow materializes in the night. Your stomach twists as the wind blows by you, rustling your hair and causing the snuffed-out lanterns hanging from your porch to creak as they swing back and forth. You hear shuffling, and small beams of light sporadically shine through the cracks of lumber that make up the walls of your home.

There is someone inside.

An alarm goes off in your head, screaming at you to get out. As quietly as possible, you begin backing away. Eyes fixed on the bungalow, you take one step back. Then another. Then another. Then — thud.

Your stomach flips and your throat tightens. While you pray you’ve miscalculated and miraculously made it to the tree line in three short steps instead of thirty, you feel the unmistakable presence of a body directly behind you.

“Going somewhere?” A deep voice growls menacingly. It belongs to a man, his tone gruff, although you can’t quite make out his accent. You do, however, feel the blood drain from your face as you slowly turn your head, finding what is quite possibly the largest human being you have ever seen. Dressed in black military-grade tactical gear and armed with enough ammo and firepower to take on a small army, you know there is no fucking way you are getting away from this guy.

The man grabs your arm and forcefully drags you toward the bungalow. Once up the stairs, he pushes you inside and releases his grasp. You rub your arm and look up to find another man standing in your kitchen, his back turned away from you as he stands hunched over your table. He’s dressed in similar tactical gear and has a walkie-talkie hooked to his belt. A lantern burns next to him as he seems to be pouring over some sort of map.

“Sir,” the man behind you bellows.

The man at the table straightens his posture and turns around to face you both. His hair is buzzed and his face is stubbly, with a thick prominent mustache that stretches across his upper lip. He seems a bit older, and by the ‘sir’ formality, you are fairly confident he is in charge.

“Ah, we were wondering when you would be back.” He says in a sly tone, his accent American.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” You respond in anger to the unwelcome visitor.

The man takes a sweeping look around the place, then his eyes come back to you.

“I think we can agree that “house” is a bit of a loose term.” He responds with sarcasm, a knowing look on his face. You continue to stare him down, unresponsive to his quip. The man loosens his shoulders and smiles at you. “Where are my manners? Agent Barrett.” He reaches his hand out, offering to shake yours.

You don’t move a muscle.

There is an awkward moment of silence, then Agent Barrett’s hand retreats. He turns, beginning to pace around your tiny kitchen. The room is in rougher shape than usual, clearly ransacked by whatever search was conducted before your arrival. The agent picks up a small roll of gauze from off the counter and holds it up.

“Tell me,” he says, inspecting the bandage material closely, “have you had any visitors recently?” His gaze quickly flicks over to you, an eyebrow raised.

Your pulse quickens as your blood turns to ice. Your mind immediately flashes to Namora floating wounded in the water; to Namor breaking down your door; to the two of them disappearing into the night. You put on your best poker face and shake your head.

“There’s no one around here for miles,” you explain, trying to be as convincing as possible. “You should try more inland towards the village. Most tourists, if any, stick closer to town or retreat to the far side of the island where—“

“Oh, she’s no tourist.” Agent Barrett chuckles, cutting you off. It feels insulting as if your suggestion were so preposterous it was borderline humorous.

She. He is looking for Namora.

Setting the gauze down next to the sink, Agent Barrett turns and walks over to you.

“You’re certain you haven’t seen anybody unusual around here in the past few days?”

He’s standing much closer now. Something about him makes your skin crawl. You eye the gun strapped to his hip and doubt it is for self-defense. Again, you shake your head.

Barrett sighs and gives you a disappointed smile.

“Okay.” He says softly while nodding his head. He backs away from you as the room lingers in silence. You allow yourself to take a breath, but the relief is short-lived. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way.”

On Barrett’s cue, the large man behind you grabs your shoulder and kicks the back of your legs, dropping you hard to your knees. With his free hand, he yanks the bag off your other shoulder and tosses it to another man who emerges from the doorway to your bedroom. He catches the bag and immediately starts rummaging through it.

“Hey—HEY!” You shout, “What the hell are you—“

“A woman!” Barrett yells. “Pale blue skin. Very skilled swimmer. Four days ago, she single-handedly took down three UN-sanctioned vessels in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic! Three! Now where I’m from,” he crouches down to your level, aggressively getting in your face as he drops his voice lower, “that’s what we call an act of terrorism.”

Adrenaline overtakes your body as you feel your heart beat so intensely it threatens to break right out of your chest. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Barrett’s henchman searches your bag. He pulls out the mangos and tosses them on the floor. Then, he grabs the old leather-bound book. Turning it over in his hand, he looks at it for a moment and tucks it into his belt.

“She was wounded,” Barrett continues, calling your attention back to him, “and our intelligence indicates she washed up somewhere along this shoreline. That's where her trail goes cold. And as you said, there's no one around here for miles. No one, except you."

His implication is obvious.

“This woman, where is she?” He makes a last-ditch effort to convey a friendly tone, but you can hear his patience dwindling. "And please don't make me ask again."

You stare at him coldly, lips sealed together. You’re not telling this man a damn thing.

"Mmmm," is all he grunts, his eyes dropping to the ground. He heaves a heavy sigh as he pushes against his knees to stand up. Once on his feet, Agent Barrett stares at you for another moment before nodding his head to the agent behind you. The next thing you know, you are suddenly being pulled up by your hair, the man’s grip tight against the back of your neck as he turns and pushes you out the door.

Your hands clamor to his as you struggle against him to relieve the painful tension pulling on your scalp, attempting to release his grip on you. But the man is too strong and drags you down the stairs of your porch with ease. You make it a few meters down the shore when he shoves you down to your knees. Your legs make divots in the sand as your hands catch the rest of your body’s momentum. Hunched over, your knees and palms sting from the sand's friction.  

You immediately tense up as you feel a gun press against your head, the cool metal barrel hungry to fire. Hearing footsteps approaching behind, you quickly swallow your fear to maintain composure. Agent Barrett walks past, turning to position himself directly in front of you again — only this time, he doesn’t crouch down to your level.

“Look at me.” He demands as he towers over you. His body language makes it clear who is in control. In the only act of defiance you have left in your arsenal, you keep your gaze laser-focused on the water straight ahead of you, refusing to give in to his instruction. Growing impatient, Barrett roughly grabs your chin. He clasps it tightly as he yanks your jaw upward, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

“You’re going to tell me about your friend, and you’re going to tell me where she is, right now," he growls.

You stare at him, disdain in your eyes. You momentarily scan your surroundings and count nearly twenty other men on the beach now. It’s enough to make your gaze and your heart sink straight to the ground.

Even if you wanted to tell him, you don't have the answers Barrett is looking for. His face hardens as your lack of cooperation and unwillingness to talk becomes clearer and clearer. Loosening his grip and dropping your chin, Agent Barrett looks at the agent next to you.

“Do it,” he orders, leaving you without another word as he walks back up the beach toward the bungalow.

The gun presses even harder against your temple and you hear the irrefutable sound of it being cocked as a bullet rolls into the chamber. Your heart is heavy as your eyes begin to well with tears. You stare out at the ocean, the night swallowing the horizon save it for the piercing glow of the moon that cuts its way through the sky down to Earth. It’s a better view than most get in their final moments, you suppose. For that, you consider yourself lucky.

Time seems suspended as you feel the ocean breeze blow past you, pouring over your skin and filling your lungs as you deeply inhale these final moments. You savor the way the salty air envelops you like the comforting embrace of an old friend. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try fighting back the tears. Despite your best efforts, one single drop escapes, racing down your cheek as you accept your fate.

Zzzzziiinnng!

Where you expect to hear the split-second ring of a gun firing before getting your brain blasted out the side of your skull, you instead hear a high-pitched whistling through the air and the unmistakable slice of a blade penetrating flesh. The weight of the gun barrel against your head slides limply away, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground next to you.

Your eyes shoot open. You turn to see your executioner now lying dead on his back with a spear pelted through his chest. Your eyes widen in fear, then settle on the spear itself. A spear you recognize — because it’s the same one that was held to your throat only a few days earlier.

Namor.

He's here. Desperately your eyes search the ocean line, scouring the darkness for him.

"We're under attack!" Someone yells frantically from behind you. It is one of Barrett’s men.

"Open Fire! Open fire!" Another one shouts.

You immediately abandon your search for Namor, hitting the deck and covering your head as dueling bullets and spears fly over you. Hearing anguished cries from both sides, you peek out from over your arm and watch in horror as an agent a few meters away looks down at their dart-ridden chest. They drop to their knees, then fall forward onto their face.

Your head whirls around at the sound of another spear making contact with a body and dropping it to the ground. This agent is about ten meters away from you, and while your first instinct is to get the hell out of there — run as far as you can as fast as you can — you notice your little leather-bound book tucked into the belt of the lifeless body.

You tell yourself to leave it. You plead with yourself to leave it.

“Damn it,” you mutter in frustration to yourself. You are getting that book.

Before you can give it another thought, you are already army-crawling through the sand. The sound of gunfire rings in your ears as more weapons return their fire. You scramble to the body, staying low to the ground on your chest and abdomen. Once there, you reach out and grab the book, wrangling it free from the deceased man's belt. You shove it into your waistband when something behind you explodes, causing you to duck your head and shield yourself with your arms.

The battle is deafening and disorienting. The mix of adrenaline and shock threatens to override your entire system as you try to maintain your focus.

Keep moving, you tell yourself.

You lift your head, ready to run, but your breath catches and you freeze. Mere inches from your face, you find yourself staring at someone’s feet and feel the presence of their body hovering over you. You brush the stinging sand out of your eyes, pleading in your mind that this is not the end. Not now. As your vision sharpens, you feel a surge of hope. There in front of you are two winged ankles.

Your eyes shoot up. Standing above you, illuminated by the light of the moon and the rapid sparks of machine guns firing, is Namor.

He looks down at you, his stare intense as his nostrils flare and his chest rises and falls with each breath. Gripping the hilt of the spear, he effortlessly removes it from the body next to you with one pull, his eyes never leaving yours. The ongoing battle on the beach doesn’t deter his attention from you in the slightest. From behind him, a handful of armed warriors with pale blue skin come storming out of the ocean.

“Namora!” He calls, and one warrior immediately splits off from the group. While the others continue to push the team of agents to the far side of the beach, the general comes to Namor’s side and your eyes widen as you take her in. Almost unrecognizable from when you first met her, Namora is a sight to behold. Instead of weak and wounded, she now stands strong and commanding, fully outfitted in her armor of woven jade and metal. Dazzling lionfish spines adorn her head and neck, and she wears the same mesh apparatus over her nose and mouth as before. You are astounded when you squint and barely see a seam remaining where you had stitched her up.

“K'uk'ulkan.” She answers, standing at attention.

Namor’s eyes are still fixed on you. He hands the retrieved spear to Namora and then nods in your direction.

You become nervous, suddenly uncertain if the pair of them have come to you as friend or foe, watching as Namora tightens her grip around the weapon.

“Go.” Namor urges, and a wave of relief washes over you. Friend.

“Where are my goddamn reinforcements?!!” You hear someone shout into a walkie-talkie. You recognize the voice as Agent Barrett's.

“Go NOW,” Namor commands, his eyes flicking up in Barrett’s direction. The expression on his face becomes menacing as he strides past you, his muscles rigid and his pace purposeful. He pulls his own spear out of the larger agent who nearly executed you as he walks past the body, arming himself.

Without hesitation, Namora strides forward and links her arm under your shoulder, pulling you up to your feet and yanking you quickly toward the trees. Before you can reach them, however, more men dressed in black combat gear come pouring out of the thick foliage, ready to attack.

Three surround you as the others rush to provide relief further down the beach. Instead of guns, these agents come armed with batons and other blunt weapons. Namora whips you back behind her, placing herself between you and the approaching enemy. She walks toward the agents, rotating her spear in her hand. You’re surprised by how relaxed her posture is as she waits for the men, each one at least twice her size, to make the first move.

The agent to her right makes the first advance, lunging forward at Namora. She meets him with speed and ferocity, quickly sidestepping him only to grab hold of his shoulders. She uses them as an anchor to whirl herself around him, gracefully landing and her feet and then lodging her spear into his back. The man cries out in pain, but Namora quickly delivers the final blow as she twists the spear in deeper and shoves it upward toward his lungs.

No sooner does his body hit the ground when the two other men charge at her. Like a beautifully choreographed dance, Namora drops to her knees, sliding across the sand between them to duck under their attacks. As she does so, she nimbly summersaults back onto her feet and turns one hundred and eighty degrees. Back on the attack, she runs hard at them. You watch as Namora delivers a combination of charged punches to one agent, then springs back to avoid the swing of the baton from the other. To counter the move, she kicks the man above the kneecap with so much power it sends his whole leg backward and brings him to his knees. She grabs the sides of his head with both of her hands, thrusting it down hard against her knee. You feel the grisly sound of blunt broken bone deep in your core as his skull makes contact.

As the man’s head reels backward, blood pouring from his face, Namora seamlessly transitions between her two opponents, avoiding another attack from the third agent she had previously deflected with punches. Her attention back on him, she trades blows as they fight in more hand-to-hand combat. Between kicks, punches, and counter-punches, Namora strategically inches herself backward until she’s practically standing on top of the first body she dropped. Baiting her current opponent forward, she taunts him with the tilt of her head, exaggerated by her headpiece. It works like a charm. He charges at her, and swooping under him, she wraps around his chest and pulls him over the top of her, flipping him onto his back. In one calculated motion, she pulls her spear from the body of the first agent which is now easily within reaching distance, and drives it into the second.

It all plays out in front of you so quickly when the third agent with the broken nose — well, broken face, really — groans as he gets himself up, ready to have another go at Namora. She engages, but as she moves towards him you see a fourth man emerge from the trees, raising a gun to shoot.

“LOOK OUT!” You yell to warn her, but pure instinct has your feet sprinting forward to stop him.

You don’t process any thought or consider any tactic, you just hurl yourself at him. The two of you collide, crashing to the ground with all the power and momentum you can muster. You scramble for his gun and manage to knock it away, but he barrels you over him and slams your back against the ground. The impact forces the air out of your lungs, temporarily paralyzing you as you struggle for breath. The agent straddles your body, putting more pressure on your chest as he pulls a knife from his hip. With all your strength, you fight to hold his arm back. He breaks through your grasp and takes a swipe at you, but reflexively you deflect it away with your hand. The knife slices open your palm and you cry out as you try to continue pushing his arms back.

When he raises his blade again, a blur of orange lionfish spines come streaking across as Namora flies over the back of the agent and yanks him off of you. They tumble across the sand, but she quickly gains the upper hand by entangling him in a headlock. Clutching your injured hand and still struggling for oxygen, you look on as she tightens her grip around the man’s neck and then abruptly cracks it to the side.  

The sound makes you sick to your stomach, but you also feel a sense of relief. And gratitude. Your chest heaves as you finally start to catch your breath, your entire body buzzing. You turn to see the dead agents Namora has so quickly disposed of, their bodies dispersed across the sand. She unwraps herself from her most recent kill and makes her way to you with haste.

As she reaches you, you hear the chaos and fighting continue further down the beach. Then, the faint sound of a helicopter approaching. Barrett’s reinforcements.

“There are too many of them,” you say in distress as you witness more agents pour out onto the sand to fight Namor’s warriors. Even if each one had Namora’s four-to-one kill ratio, they are still outnumbered. As the chopper blades get louder, Namora looks at you intensely, reaching out her hand.

“Come,” she insists.

She’s gotten you this far. You grasp her hand without hesitation and she pulls you to your feet. You edge closer to the tree line where you hope safety and concealment await you, but as you reach the lush landscape something pricks your ears. It’s not gunfire. It’s not the chopper.

Namora tugs your arm as she tries to usher you into the trees, but your focus is elsewhere. A faint, melodic breeze moves past you like a ghost, causing your mind to become hazy. As the sound grows louder, an indescribable melody rings in your ears that is both euphoric and dreadful. You don’t even notice the tension of Namora’s grip on your hand increase as your feet redirect you toward the water, compelled by its call.

“No!” Namora yells at you as she yanks your arm. The force of it snaps your attention back for a moment, and you watch as the agents who line the beach suddenly cease fighting and instead walk undeterred paths straight into the water. Terror fills you as they wade further and further out, the water coming up to their knees, then their hips, then their chests, until they are completely submerged underneath.

You shoot a glance to Namora, petrified and confused. Whatever is happening, she seems unaffected. Your thoughts and vision begin to cloud again, and you feel like someone else is controlling your body as the ocean summons you along with the others. Every part of you feels entranced by the chorus of voices in the air as their notes overwhelm your senses and leave you disoriented. Namora grabs you, practically throwing you over her shoulder as she runs into the trees. You become hard to carry, so she pulls you both into the cove of a sheltered root system at the edge of the foliage. Huddling next to you, Namora tightly wraps her arms around your head to cover your ears with her hands.

Pupils dilated, you desperately try to hold onto any shred of active consciousness before giving in entirely to the song. Your mind becomes infiltrated by it and begins to process what you see in pieces; men in the water, drowning themselves; gunfire raining down from the night sky; Namor, spear in hand, leaping into the air, taking impossible strides toward a chopper; the chopper spinning out of control.

You feel the heat against your face as the chopper crashes to the ground, exploding on impact. The last thing you remember seeing is Namor in the distance, standing on the sand. Illuminated by the raging inferno that burns behind him from the destroyed chopper, he is fierce, incredible, and terrifying.

A god. A monster.

The haunting chorus melody continues to consume your mind. Even with Namora’s help, you feel your body shift as it involuntarily attempts to get up. Namora squeezes her palms over your ears with even more strength and restrains your movements.

"No." She whispers fiercely.

You squeeze your eyes shut, covering your hands over Namora's as tightly as possible. Blood pours from your hand down hers, trickling onto your shoulder. The noise is too much, and as you feel yourself begin to scream, everything goes black.

——

Your feet drag through the cool sand.

That’s the first thing you see when you finally become conscious again. Your head hangs low in front of you, pounding as it bobs up and down. It’s still dark out, but you find your home lit up by more lanterns as you approach the pathway to your porch.

You glance to your right and left,  discovering you are being assisted by two people on either side of you — Namora on your right and a much taller blue-skinned man on your left. His shoulders are wide and his head is outfitted with an armored hammerhead skull. Arms slung around both of their necks, your body is in a state of pure exhaustion as they get you up the stairs to the door.

As you start to step with your own feet, they are alerted by your recovered consciousness. Quickly, the man unhooks your arm from around him, steadying you against Namora. He retreats as you find yourself gaining feeling back in your body. Namora patiently waits for you to get your bearings, and when you do she opens the front door for you, ushering you to go inside. You follow her instruction, and there waiting for you in the bungalow is Namor.

Namor stands against your kitchen counter, the same place you stood when he first came crashing into your home. His arms are folded across his broad chest. Although his head is down, his eyes are flicked upward toward you, watching your every move. The flame of a lantern on the table glints off his irises, illuminating the dark stare that hovers just below his furrowed brow.

“Please, sit.” He says with a stern voice, his open palm gesturing toward a chair at the table.

As you sit down, you hear the front door close behind you.

Silence.

"Those men," he finally says, pushing himself away from the counter as he stands up straighter, “they were seeking information?"

You only nod, afraid to say too much.

“It’s safe to speak here. I’ve made sure of it.” He promises, sensing your reluctance to engage in conversation.

“They wanted to know about Namora." You answer cautiously.

Namor's expression grows even more serious. He subtly shifts his weight from side to side before settling back into the center of his powerful stance.

"And even with your life on the line, you said nothing."

You are unsure if he is making a statement or a question.

"Why?" He asks through a clenched jaw.

"Why?" You repeat back to him, caught off guard by the question. "Does it matter why?"

"Yes,” Namor says directly, raising his eyebrows. “Because I need to know if I put my spear through the right person.”

The seriousness of his statement hits you like a brick. Your mind flashes back to the beach, you on your knees with a gun to your head as Namor’s spear plows its way through the man next to you. How easily, you wonder, could he have changed his aim by just a few degrees if you had decided to open your mouth and spill what little information you did know to those men?

As you think about it, you also begin to ask yourself why. Why did you keep your mouth shut? Why did you help Namor and his people?

You take a deep breath as you consider your reasons, then lift your gaze to him.

“You barged into my home, broke down my door, and threatened my life. But even then, the motives behind your actions were clear — the love and concern for your people. These men,” your eyes trail away as you feel a wave of anger build up inside, "these men were driven by self-interest and self-preservation. It wasn’t hard to choose a side.”

His face is stoic as he listens to your answer.

“Plus,” you add, “I promised you I wouldn’t say anything. Twice.”

Namor looks at you the same way he did the night you met him. The look that tells you he is debating whether or not you are telling the truth. You are a witness testifying on the stand, and Namor is your judge and jury.

“Well, that is twice now you have saved my people. Again you have my gratitude." He says with a sigh, his expression softening.

You give a small smile, but it disappears when an unrelenting ache pounds inside your head, pulling you out of the moment. You reach up to rub your temple and suddenly feel a surge of pain coming from your hand, instantly reminding you of the injury you sustained from your face off against one of the agents on the beach.

“Shit,” You exclaim, pulling your cut, bloodied palm away from your face and looking at it.

"Here," Namor says, grabbing the roll of gauze off your kitchen counter as he moves in your direction. Pulling up a chair, he sits down directly in front of you so your knees are practically touching. He gestures for your hand. “May I?"

You consider his offer as you stare at the thick veins protruding from his forearm, binding themselves to his defined muscles like vines around a tree. Eyes darting back up to his, you cautiously nod your head to accept his help while simultaneously extending your arm to him.

Namor takes your injured hand gently in his own, cradling it as if it could shatter into a million pieces. Amazed by how his hand dwarfs yours, you feel a surge of energy in your chest when his thumb begins to rub along your wrist. He takes the roll of gauze and begins carefully wrapping it around your palm.

Calmly maneuvering each layer of the bandage, Namor's brow furrows ever so slightly as he slips deeper into a state of concentration. His grasp is firm but gentle, rotating your hand in tandem with the bandage and you take comfort in his touch.

Studying his face, you admire each feature and detail closely. You see the traces of salt against the rich tones of his skin, and soon your willpower gives way to a desire slowly being coaxed inside you as you allow your eyes to trail from his face to his broad shoulders, down his muscular biceps, and finally to his strong hands as they work to take care of you.

Namor begins humming softly as he continues wrapping your hand. There's a warm timbre in his voice that resonates in your ears, drawing your gaze back up to his face.

"That song..." your voice trails off as you grow more entranced by it, unable to find the words to describe its intoxicating melody. But a surge of fear runs through you as you recall another tune, the one from the beach, its haunting cadence prickling the back of your mind.

"My people have many songs," Namor says in a tone equally rich to his humming, calming you instantly. "Each one with a meaning and purpose."

"What is the purpose of that one?" You ask quietly.

Namor’s hands stop as his eyes wander up to yours.

"It's a lullaby, meant to bring the soul peace." His eyes flutter back down as he resumes wrapping the bandage around your hand. "My mother would sing it to me when I was a child."

"It's beautiful." You say reverently.

A smile spreads across Namor's face, but there's a hint of sadness in it. He leans down to your hand and you can feel your heart beat faster as his mouth hovers mere inches above your skin. The warmth of his breath rushes against your wrist, sending shivers through you. With great care, he tears the gauze with his teeth before tucking the loose end into a fold of the bandage.

"It is," he agrees, staring down at your hand which he now holds carefully between his own. "Especially in a world where peace is scarcely found."

His voice is gentle, but there is a bitterness brewing beneath the statement.

"I have spent my life ensuring peace for my people. Protecting it. Preserving it."

Namor looks back up at you, letting go of your hand as he sits up straighter in his chair. The room is quiet as his words sink in and you drop your gaze to think. As you do so, your good free hand migrates to the leather book still tucked in your waistband, your fingers fiddling with the binding.

“What is it?” Namor asks, snapping your eyes back up to his. You swallow nervously, unsure if you should share what is on your mind. Then again, you may not get another opportunity.

Slowly, you pull the book out from against your side, opening it to its marked page before pushing it across the table to him.

“You say you’ve spent your entire life protecting your people.” You preface, hesitating a moment before asking your question. “Is that... you?"

Namor stares at the book in front of him, tracing the outline of his likeness delicately on the open page with his fingertips.

"A version of me." He answers.

"How...." you rub your temple as you do the unnecessary math in your head, already knowing the hundreds of years difference between the book and the man in front of you doesn't add up. "How is that even possible? That book is centuries old, I mean," you are at a loss trying to wrap your head around it all, coming up short with any logical explanation, “who are you?"

Namor looks up at you, then his gaze descends back onto the open book. He gives a sad smirk.

“You are one of very few to ever ask who I am instead of what I am." He strokes his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. "The answer to neither of which will be found in your book." He says, shutting it and sliding it back toward you. You reach for it, only he doesn’t take his hand off the leather cover right away.

"You must always be weary of your authors.” He warns. “The preservation of one's opinion over time does not make it fact, no matter how long ago it was written."

He relinquishes his hold, you finish sliding the book back to your side of the table. Namor searches your face as his eyebrows pull closer together, a rare look of vulnerability in his eyes.

"I wear the mantle of king and am the protector of my people.” He begins. “They are my responsibility by birthright, a charge I’ve dedicated my entire life to upholding.”

Namor proceeds to tell you the story of his people — how they were driven from their home by Spanish conquistadors, and how their gods provided a remedy for a foreign disease that led them to seek sanctuary in the ocean itself. He explains that his mother was among them, pregnant with Namor at the time, and how the remedy herb altered his very being in the womb. Mutant is the word he uses, the reason for his strength and abilities, as well as his slow aging. He then describes the horrors he had seen upon returning his mother’s body to the surface world after her death, and the vow he took to keep outsiders away from his people and his beloved city he calls Talokan.

"So you see," he says leaning forward as he places his forearms on his knees, his face even closer to yours now, "I am no god. Nor am I a man. What I am is a leader who loves his people. If that makes me a monster, so be it. I will see the world burn before I subject my people to its sins and savagery.”

It’s a lot to take in. You study Namor’s expression as his stare now lingers away from you, his mind somewhere in the past. You can’t even begin to comprehend all that he has seen or experienced, but you do feel a clearer understanding of why he is the way he is. Filled with compassion for him, you cautiously reach up and cradle his face with your non-bandaged hand.

"You're not a monster." You reassure him gently.

This brings Namor’s attention back to you immediately, his dark eyes searching your face earnestly as he takes a deep breath through his nose. The bristles of his scruff are rough against your palm, creating a warm friction when he leans into your touch. Namor closes his eyes and lets out a sigh so deep it's as if he's releasing a weight from his shoulders, one that he has been carrying for far too long. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing it deeper against his cheek.

“K’uk’ulkan,” a voice calls from behind you. You drop your hand back down to your lap as Namor glances over your shoulder. The man with the metal hammerhead skull stands at attention in the front doorway, his body so large it consumes the space entirely. Namor nods at him, then looks back at you.

"It's time," he says, pushing himself up to his feet. “More men will be coming. Namora is outside — collect what you need quickly, she will take you to a safe place.”

The realization sets in, and your heart sinks. Your home is no longer safe and you can’t stay here.

Namor offers you his hand, helping you out of your chair and onto your feet. In doing so, he pulls you into him and tucks his hand delicately under your chin. He’s impossibly close as he tilts your face upward toward his own.

"I am sorry." He whispers, a soft and apologetic tone in his voice. He gives you a remorseful look, but all you can think about is how little space currently exists between his lips and yours. Namor’s gaze flutters down from your eyes to your mouth, but the moment is fleeting as he drops his hand from your chin and takes a step back.

“Go.” He says, encouraging you to get your things. It’s his last word before walking past you and exiting out the front door.

Left alone in the empty bungalow, you make your way over to your bag still on the floor from earlier that evening. You take it and march into your room, grabbing some clothes, your toothbrush, and other small essentials. You don't have much in terms of possessions in the first place, so it doesn’t take long for you to collect what you need.

As you exit your bedroom, you get ready to leave when you look over at the small book on your table. Namor insisted it held no answers for you, but you go to retrieve it anyway, stuffing it in your bag along with the rest of your belongings.

You take one last look around your home, once an unfamiliar broken place that over time became your haven and sanctuary. It breaks your heart to leave, but you know you must.

“Thank you,” you quietly whisper to the room, hoping in some way its energy or spirit or anything can hear you. You make your final exit, walking out to the front porch just as the dawn is starting to break over the horizon. Warm hues cast shadows of orange and red across the island, and you breathe in the early morning air. As you look out across the beach, you are surprised by what little evidence remains of the night’s events. No bodies. No fires. Just large divots in the sand and some smoke along the tree line from a few singed palms.

Namora is standing at the edge of the pathway leading to your porch, waiting for you. Descending the stairs, nerves prompt you to tighten your grip on the shoulder strap of your bag as you brace yourself for the unknown.

“I’m ready,” you say when you reach her.

Namora looks at you seriously, then nods her head. Reaching up to her face, she carefully removes the apparatus from over her nose and mouth. It is the first time you have seen her whole face, unobstructed by the peculiar covering. She’s just as striking without it, and you notice a beautiful jade ring pierced through her septum, echoing Namor’s. She turns the mask in her hand and guides it onto your face, sealing it against your skin.

“Come,” she tells you, turning toward the ocean.

You take one last look back at your home, then fall into stride behind Namora as the two of you walk into the water.

-- -- -- 

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