#white base yol

[vesperknight]

Jackel Backstory

He had arrived at the circus and seen that the lights were on so he decided to head inside, he was ready to face whatever happened to be waiting for him inside...

Once inside he noticed that there wasn't anyone here, that is till he looked around a bit more and that's when he noticed them...

He wasn't sure how they had gotten up that high or what they were doing, but what he did know is that for some reason he felt like he belonged here, like actually belonged.

As they ran through their performance he was awestruck the whole time and the first thing he did once it was all said and done was run up to the ringleader and ask him if her could join. The ringleader frowned at him, looked to the employee behind him who just laughed before looking back at him and he smiled the brightest smile before turning around with a flourish and walking off to backstage, waving for him to follow.

It would be a few years later but he finally had his own act by himself and he was finally in the spotlight it felt like nothing could ever go wrong...

[meet-the-far]

Prompt 1: Envoy

Strong and wide were the wings of the mighty yol that sat upon the altar, its image carved into marble and adorned with ornaments of polished stone, twisted brass and macrame string. Incense burned thickly from the nearby braziers, filling the cavern with plumes of sweetened earth that coiled and billowed through the air before escaping between cracks in the limestone walls. Below, upon the dais, the familiar black stumps of the Kagon’s candles burned with steady flame inside a wooden basin – a light unto the path of those lost souls who sought guidance from the wise bird.

Kaito stood at the base of its pedestal, a string of wooden beads clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes were transfixed on that viciously intricate visage, carved with such skill and craftsmanship that he almost swore it was real. The beak curved into a fine, razor-sharp edge that looked capable of goring through even the toughest of scales and turning the soft flesh underneath into minced meat. A pair of rubies sat deep inside each hollowed socket, the torchlight reflecting off its prismatic surface giving way to the illusion of a blazing fire smoldering within. This appearance was further accentuated by each and every feather on its body masterfully sculpted into roaring waves as if to convey the very essence of a living, breathing flame, and as he gazed upon its full glory, he thought he could even feel the intensity of its heat.

Is this what I looked like? He wondered to himself, his knuckles burning white around the wooden beads as they creaked against one another. Is this what they saw?

Though many a fortnight had passed since that fateful day, what flashes of memory he could still recall had seared themselves into his mind’s eye. The fear on her face. The taste of blood and ash on his tongue. The scorching walls of blackened fire. The wet tearing of meat and sinew giving way beneath his fingers and the blood-curdling shriek that followed when he took that woman’s arm…

A surge of sickness bubbled up in his stomach at that last thought. His throat clammed shut, his saliva suddenly thick, and it took every conscious effort not to let himself heave his last meal onto the floor. Although he later learned of the woman’s survival thanks to the combined efforts of the Dotharl and the Kagon, the very idea that he was capable of such a thing left him nauseated and dizzy. How could he, a man devoted to a life of purity, do something so unbelievably cruel? And even if it wasn’t exactly him at the time, it didn’t change the fact that it was his flesh that had done it. He was still responsible. After all, hadn’t he been the one to unleash Her in the first place?

Kaito swallowed. He was the reason for the iloh’s destruction. The reason so many lives were lost, and those who remained were left to pick up the pieces and start anew. They blamed him for it. He could see it in the wary glances of the tribesfolk that passed him by, though few voiced it out loud. And they were right. In his eagerness to do a good thing, he mingled with powers he did not understand and instead brought about their condemnation. Now, they were the ones paying the price.

Was he even allowed to call himself pure anymore?

If he hadn’t gone to that mountain… If he hadn’t been so foolish as to follow those children… If he had listened to the cries of the earth reaching out to him… if he had only done something different…

Lost in his thoughts for as long as he was, Kaito failed to notice the creeping sensation that prickled down his spine like icy fingers until it was already too late, tendrils of malice plunging deep into his flesh until it squeezed forth a sharp gasp from his lungs. His eyes flew wide, the scales along the back of his neck and upper arms lifting at the sudden chill that rushed through him, freezing his blood where he stood. And then he heard it, a dark and drawling voice that teetered between malevolence and amusement:

“How curious… a palescale, here of all places…”

Spurred into motion by this new and unfamiliar voice, Kaito spun on his heel to face the perpetrator. He didn’t know what to expect – another Dotharl perhaps, or maybe even a close relative of that strange spider-like Buduga. What he saw instead was a hooded man, unassuming in appearance and dressed head to toe in black fabrics and ornaments of bone akin to the Kagon. He was slightly hunched over and clutched a gnarled staff in his right hand. Even his pale, ashen skin was like unto those belonging to the nocturnal tribe, but something was somehow… off.

It was his eyes.

One moment they were a striking blue, and the next they would shimmer into a bleeding red, but then he would blink, and before he knew it, they had turned back into that cold, icy hue. Kaito would’ve assumed it was merely a trick of the torchlight, but there was a certain heaviness about this man that pressed against his shoulders, beckoning him to fall on his knees.

He refused.

He knew this sensation – had felt it many times back in the temple when an object inhabited by a shikigami was brought in for the monks to purify. The beads around his wrist felt numb as he began to run his thumb over each one, counting them in his head, and he murmured a prayer. Whoever, or whatever this man was, he did not belong in the natural world.

“Are you frightened?” the man spoke with a slight tilt of his head, and the corners of his lips curled into a smile that showed far too many teeth.

Kaito frowned, wanting to deny him, but the halt in his throat gave him reason for pause. “…No,” he croaked at last, but he knew it wasn’t entirely the truth.

Suddenly the man leaned forward upon his staff, the red orb nestled against its shaft glinting softly in the low light. Down those silvery eyes went, and then back as though he were sizing up a delectable meal. “Liar,” he teased, his deep chuckle reverberating against the cavern walls, the sound amplified as though there were many giggling voices all around them. “I can see the way you tremble on your own two feet.” He paused and swiveled his head again, this time to the other side and his smile somewhat fell. Now, he let forth a delighted hum. “Curious… how curious indeed…”

“What is it you want?” Kaito snapped, though he immediately regretted it. He knew he ought to hold his tongue especially towards a man with such a threatening aura, but between the prodding of his scale color and his treatment by the Xaela in recent days, his patience had long been stretched thin.

But the man simply laughed. Mockingly. Aggravatingly. Kaito imagined himself punching this man in his damned mouth, though the thought had been fleeting one. “My, aren’t you a testy one? Surely, you’ll have earned your scales with that attitude of yours,” he said with a wry grin.

Kaito ground his teeth and said nothing. The man was making jest of him, as many of the Xaela often did, but he refused to react. And why should he? He didn’t know this man, had nothing to prove nor allegiance to show him. All he wanted was for him to get to the damned point, and preferably far away from him.

In his hand, a finger twitched against the wooden beads.

Eventually the man continued, taking Kaito’s silence in stride with a leisurely wave of his hand. “That is why you are here, no? To prove yourself amongst your tribesmen despite being so… tainted.” He sneered wickedly at that word.

Again, Kaito didn’t respond to his goading, but his words had pricked a dagger deep inside his heart. That’s what he was, wasn’t he? Tainted – in both body and soul. Did this man know? About his association with the Red Bird? He swallowed at the thought, suddenly aware of the sweat rolling down the back of his neck.

Soon the man realized that Kaito had no intention of budging from his stance until he gave answer to his question, and the man heaved an exasperated sigh. “Bah, spoil sport... I thought you might at least make my visit interesting. I suppose such entertainment is too much to ask.” He paused as he pulled back on his staff and settled its base near his side. Strings of sheep bone rattled off the top of it. “Very well… I am looking for someone. The Ezen of this… quaint little abode. My condolences to the former one, by the by. Dreadful news, that was. We were…” he rolled his hand at the wrist as if he could waft the correct term into being, “partners, of a sort. It is only proper that I seek out the new one, hmm?”

The Ezen? Exactly what kind of partnership did he have with this man? Surely nothing good, if this stifling aura had anything to say about it. And while he didn’t much care for the wellbeing of the new man in charge, he had little reason to believe anything good could come out of the two meeting one another. So, he thought to buy them some time. “Sorry,” he shrugged weakly, careful with his next words. He had to be convincing, lest the man see right through them. “I… think they’re still deciding who should hold that title.”

The coldness in those eyes were almost palpable as they glowered down at Kaito and bore through his soul, an unspoken promise written into them. Did he know he was lying? The lump in his throat was back, pressed painfully up against his windpipe like someone had suddenly clamped their fingers around it. Kaito held his breath for as long as he could, fighting his every urge to push it back down.

And then, to Kaito’s relief, the man turned away. Disappointment was etched all over his face, his lips pursed into a flat line. “That so?” He stood straighter now, evidently not needing the support of his staff as he held his head high. “…Unfortunate. One would think they had someone ready in hand to take the mantle.”

He believed him? Kaito was almost certain the man knew better, and even took a cautious exhale through his nose so as to not draw attention. But the stranger seemed to have taken an immediate disinterest in him once he was proven to be of no use, so much that he didn’t so much as cast his eyes back in his direction. It was relieving, and yet a bit unsettling at the same time. Kaito had never been a particularly good liar. What if all this came back to get him? Already he was on a continuous streak of bad luck… Did he somehow just make it worse?

Suddenly the man raised a knuckle to his chin, his head tilted with a look of thought. He was considering something, and Kaito dreaded to hear what it was. “Hmm… yes. In that case, it would be most practical if I tarried long enough to hear the announcement.” He twisted around again, flashing rows of those wicked teeth. When he spoke again, there was a playful lilt in his tone as though he knew. “I do believe you will be seeing me around.”

Kaito felt his heart drop. He was not looking forward to it.

[kettlequills]

Chapter 1: waking dreams: master of fate

Miraak is victorious against the Last Dragonborn at the Summit of Apocrypha, and reclaims his rightful place as ruler of Solstheim. However, the world he wakes to is not the one he left behind thousands of years ago. When the certainty Miraak once relied on is questioned, will he be able to adapt to this new world and the people within in time to prevent the destruction of all he has worked for? On A03 here.

Tags and tws: Blood and graphic violence, major death, mind control, Apocrypha, Mora.

“And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended.” Miraak’s words rang out bold and proud over the inky seas that surrounded his lonely tower.

He stood, gleaming and glowing, every inch the Dragon Priest he had been, unchanged and preserved in time like a moth behind glass, since Hermaeus Mora’s theft of him from his rightful place at the helm of Tamriel. He kept his back straight and his shoulders tall, let his voice thunder with echoes, and he looked down upon the Last Dragonborn fearsomely-masked, staff in hand. His show, his pride, his excitement, was for his benefit, and theirs, and the dragons that watched them, silent and monumental in this battle of the ages.

Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel. His companions, his servants, through his torment – and now, the witnesses of his triumph.

As they would all witness!

“The hour of my freedom from this place and its fickle master draws near!” Miraak cried exultantly, fought to remind himself it was for moments more premature, “and soon I will be master of my own fate, once again. My time in Apocrypha is over. And soon, so will be yours.”

Hermaeus Mora’s thousand-fold eyes were unseen in the sickly green sky, but Miraak knew he was there. If he peered over the sheer edge to that liquid darkness, he knew he’d see Seekers clustered like crows, with their ragged cloaks like tattered wings tugged by no current save that of Fate and Mora’s will in airless Apocrypha. In the waters themselves, he would see Lurkers bleeding oil with steady pulses that sat upon the ink in fiery shimmers. Even the constant muttering of rustling pages hissed and whispered amongst themselves, as if placing bets. He heard the riotous wet slap of the ink against the base of the tower, the tentacles beneath squirming like blind worms to the light, and Miraak knew the whole of Apocrypha was watching.

In the tautness of the near-silence, his dragon- and man-heart stuttered in its restless anticipation, cried with each pounding beat the hope of a thousand years’ work swift-coming culmination: soon, soon.

Steady and sure, the Last Dragonborn that returned his gaze. Even now, on the eve of his victory, he drank in the sight; how he had craved the presence of another as the years worn on in his lonely imprisonment.

The air seemed easier to breathe scented by the freshness of Nirn they carried in their lungs, and their arms, their armour, were richly coloured, the most vibrant thing in this world of nightmare and books. No pallid greens or inkblushed blues for them, this Dragonborn wore handsome red and burnished steel. They were solid, made strong by the grain and meat of Skyrim, by the grape and grass of their sun-dazzled, Aedric-blessed life outside this cursed realm. Even now, their form was faint to his eyes, anchored to their real body on Nirn. As he soon would be real, and subject to the pressures of the wind and the rain, the sun and sky, once more.

They were no simple Seeker of Mora’s knowledge, this Dragonborn, with their well-worn sword held sure in their grip and their scratched shield in the other, no, they came to Miraak in the armaments of a warrior, the trappings of an empire Miraak had seen in illustrations. Their skin was browned by sun, their dark eyes watchful and shadowed beneath the owl-face of their wood mask.

Such cheap imitation though their mask was, he scoffed internally, of the mighty artefact they would have been gifted had they walked in Miraak’s time – but no, the men of this new age were weak and stumbling, and remembered not what they ought. No matter, though, he thought, and felt his lips twist to bare his teeth unseen, Miraak would teach them.

“You will die here, by my hand,” Miraak continued, promised, “And with the power of your soul, I will enact my glorious return to Solstheim.”

Unaffected, or perhaps he dared to hope, sparked by this threat, the Last Dragonborn rolled their shoulders with a metallic grinding and extended one gauntlet. They beckoned to him insouciantly, and their feet slid apart to a fighting stance, ready to leap in any direction.

“No words for me, Dragonborn?” Miraak taunted, too eager to let this fated confrontation end without a moment to savour its richness upon his tongue, and the Last Dragonborn growled.

“You waste your breath,” they said, in their raw, untrained Voice of thunder, “Better to beg the name of the one who will be victorious: I am LAAT-AAZ-IN!”

“A strong name,” Miraak allowed, grinning savagely under his mask as their Shout rocked the tower beneath them, shivers of that power in the soles of his boots, “You could have been mighty, if fate had decreed otherwise, Slayer of Alduin.”

“Might is unnecessary to win against a man who only talks.” Laataazin nettled at his pride, but though their weapon was held ready they waited for him to speak first, as the elder of the two of them. The note of respect for Miraak was beyond what he had expected – the Greybeards it seemed had bothered to teach their rare pupil some things. Miraak burned to know what else.

“Is that so?” Miraak murmured, and he could not hold back anymore, mortal words were soft as snow in his mouth and he needed fire. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

It was a mighty greeting, and Laataazin’s wide eyes vanished behind their shield. The plume of fire was brilliant and blinding-bright, and through it, Laataazin charged fearlessly at him. Blinking smoke from his eyes and too slow to leap aside, Miraak swept his staff across his chest. Their shield, glowing white-hot at the edges, smashed into him like a battering ram. The staff clanged hollowly at the brute impact.

They wrestled there at the summit. It was hot work. The thinner parts of Laataazin’s armour were molten and spark-bright, the flames that licked at the fabrics of their tabard smoking relentlessly. Miraak drove his heels into the soft leathery floor, refusing to back down even as he felt his staff begin to creak ominously and his muscles scream. Kruziikrel snarled – Miraak heard the snap of jaws, one of the other dragons harrying it. Sahrotaar? Laataazin had flown it to the summit. Their eyes burned in the firelight through the mask, behind the shield, glimpses of brown shimmering orange. Miraak met those fire-bright eyes, and saw in them a soul that mirrored his own.

Inexorably, Laataazin pushed him back.

Miraak gritted his teeth as he was forced back one step, then another. He had the height advantage, towering clear, he could see their skin bubbling and scalding under their armour at the intense heat, but Laataazin was strong. Cracks raced like fault-lines up his staff, and he had moments – moments, before it shattered in his grip.

They would disarm him? So be it!

He gave a giant shove, and Laataazin’s shield dipped as they staggered. He seized the opportunity and at once Miraak discharged all the magic in the staff. It exploded with a thunderous boom and crack of searing white light.

Miraak was blown clear, rolling quickly to his feet with visions of Laataazin planting their sword in his spine. He squinted around his arms protecting his head from the shrapnel flying everywhere, and hissed.

Laataazin had gone to one knee, but as he stared, they shrugged off the explosion and rose to their feet. Their mask had shattered on their face, and they swiped their metal-clad arm over the wreckage. Fresh blood splattered free from the splinters driven into the flesh of their face, but Laataazin did not pause a moment before raising their head to look for Miraak. Threateningly, their shoulders rolled back, their neck arched, and Miraak had just enough presence of mind to throw up a ward before Laataazin Shouted.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

His ward was battered by the strength of their fire, but held. Over the roar of the dragon-fire, Miraak could hear his actual dragons thrumming warmly in approval. Miraak’s fierce joy welled like a song in his heart. Laataazin’s Thu’um was strong, nearly his match. How long it had been, since he had had conversation with one of the Dov – true conversation, of magnificent fire and fury!

Miraak would not dishonour his opponent by holding back an inch. As Laataazin’s dragon-fire dimmed, Miraak shot a bolt of lightning into its heart. Laataazin cursed in a rumbling voice – either he’d surprised them or hit them. He followed it up immediately with a torrent of ice-storm. The cold was revitalising after the heat of their grappling, and even better, he heard the brittle snap of Laataazin’s armour. Thick mist descended, the hiss of his summoned snow spitting when it touched their searing hot armour, the tower.

Miraak drew his sword and spun it idly in one hand.

“Hiding is beneath you, Dragonborn,” he called smugly. Casting Muffle in one hand, he prowled around the column of mist and strained his eyes for any movement in the shadows inside. There – a flicker!

Miraak’s Cyclone Shout bolstered the speed of his limbs, until he was like a surging tempest. He rained down blows on Laataazin, their shield, their armoured shoulders, but Laataazin bore the vicious attacks like a fortress of stone. His oily weapon, the gleam of Mora’s eye dark against his wrist, spawned writhing tentacles that yanked and pulled at the ties of their armour. One strap frayed and snapped under his onslaught, and Laataazin leapt back as if they had just realised what he was about.

“Serpent!” they hissed at him, and Miraak smirked.

He turned his eyes to the crumbling pillars where the dragons snapped and snarled at each other. Relonikiv was tenting its wings, posturing at a growling Sahrotaar, whose finned tail lashed restlessly. Its eyes were dull and distressed.

“Weak that you are,” Miraak called up to it, “You may serve me again to redeem yourself.”

He summoned in a great breath to Shout, but Laataazin’s rung out first, with a crack like sundering worlds. All three dragons froze, the leash of Bend Will dropping over them like a lead blanket.

“Go!” Laataazin shouted hoarsely. They had pushed themselves to Shout sooner than they should have, Miraak could hear the cracks in their throat. No master indeed the Greybeards had raised.

Relonikiv was first, shooting up like an arrow from a bow, then Sahrotaar with a howl of “Thuri!” that sounded almost mournful. Kruziikrel fought, digging its talons into the pillars, but Relonikiv swooped down again to bite at its head until, roaring, Kruziikrel lumbered into the sky. Sahrotaar circled them in swooping lines, like a carrion bird over an army.

“Using my own Shout against me?” Miraak snarled, “They cannot help you up there!”

Miraak did not wait for them to recover but rushed to close the gap. He needed that shield gone if he wanted to close this fight and secure his freedom. Distracted by the dragons, Laataazin didn’t have time to raise their shield before he was on them.

“MUL QAH DIIV!” Miraak’s Dragon Aspect emblazoned him like a god, strengthened his attacks. He went for power this time, two hands clutching over the grip of his sword, blinding Laataazin with sweeps of his great spectral wings. They firmed beneath their onslaught, but their fierce eyes were looking at his face – and so therefore missed his tail lashing around to crack against their knee.

Laataazin stumbled, and Miraak wedged his sword under the shield and sent it flying. A well-placed lightning bolt had it soaring clear over the edge of the tower, and he retreated out of the range of their retribution. With how strong they were, he did not want to risk being caught beneath their blade. He imagined they must strike with the strength of a giant.

Facing him, Laataazin’s expression, marred by old scars and freshly-cut by the splinters of their mask, was a ferocious scowl. Their only reply was a wracking cough. They held their weaponless hand cocked protectively over their midriff, where the loosened strap had left their chestplate to sag on one side.

Relonikiv screamed anxiously.

They met with a furious clash. Evenly armed, though Miraak noted Laataazin had not once used magic, their struggle was one of bodies and clanging weapons. They drove notches into his sword with the force of their swings, jarred his arms all the way up to his shoulder. The fight was long, brutal, and messy. Thrice they cut him and once they just fisted a hand around his belt and headbutted him so hard his skull rang inside his mask.

The summit quickly became scarred with their tumultuous battle, smoking pits of dragon-fire and magical ice still crackling with the aftermath of lightning. The leathery spines of the books that made up this particular tower became waterlogged and swampy under their feet, making Miraak’s boots slide and slip when they bulled against him.

It was an intricate dance, and Miraak’s partner knew the steps well. Better, perhaps, than he, after all this time in Apocrypha with none but Seekers and Lurkers with whom to practice his skills. He praised their skill, and reassured them of the inevitability of his triumph. He could not lose. Miraak’s destiny was freedom.

Through it all, the ink swirled and sucked against the base of the tower, and the dragons circled far above it, their agitated roaring backdrop to the clashing of their blades, Miraak’s grunts when they pushed him back. Laataazin was quiet, but he heard the raspiness of their breathing, saw the sweat that dripped down their forehead and mingled with the blood on their face. He couldn’t stop himself from inhaling when they came together again, close as lovers with their breath misting the front of his mask. Their sweat was pure and human, untainted by daedra.

When they were so close he could feel the trembling of their muscles as they fought him not through their blade but through their brace against his chest, Miraak met their eyes. They were brown as earth, he noticed, narrowed in determination. Bloodshot, as if they hadn’t been sleeping well. He bared his teeth at them. How long had they spent, toiling at his stones? Were their bloody eyes his alone?

The tentacles of his sword oozing wetly down the guard of their own, Miraak leant all his weight on their arms. He bore down on them with all his height advantage, crowding the smaller Last Dragonborn until he could see the strain gritting their teeth.

“Getting tired, Dragonborn?” Miraak purred, ignoring the fatigue in his own muscles.

They flicked their gaze up to the dragons circling far overhead. Their arm shook. Miraak pushed harder, sensing an opportunity, and all at once their body trembled at the force of him and gave in. His sword punched into the gap in their armour and slid in to the hilt. Reflexively, Miraak tried to yank it free – but it had notched into bone, and all he achieved was making blood gush wet and warm from the wound.

Laataazin gasped.

For a brief moment, the both of them only blinked at the sword that speared from Laataazin’s chest, the blood that spurted steadily over Miraak’s gloves, but then suddenly, their weapon fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

“NO!” Mora howled, “This cannot be!”

Laataazin fell, and Miraak caught them without knowing why. They were warm and real, heavy, in his arms. He sank to his knees to bear their weight, arrested by the sheer redness of their shocking-bright blood over their steely armour, his robes, his buckle. Exposed, Laataazin stared up at him, their ruined face mortal and small. This close, he noticed details about them he had not before; the grey hairs that stood among the close-cropped brown of their hair – older than Miraak looked, but centuries younger – the wrinkles around their eyes and mouth that told him they had loved to laugh, once. Laataazin did not laugh now. They coughed, a wet, rattling gurgle, and blood splattered over the scarred lips. They were trying to speak, he could see their lips fumbling, but only blood came out.

“This is the only way, Dragonborn,” Miraak hissed at them, “The only way I can be free.”

Their hand, weakly, curled into the front of his robes.

“This is not my design!” Mora shrieked, and Miraak was dimly aware of his tentacles racing over the floor towards them.

Laataazin’s wide eyes stared up at Miraak. Tears of pain glittered on their cheek. Their breath was shallow and rattling around the sword. They were going to suffocate on their own blood; Miraak had perforated their lung. But there was no time for Laataazin to die slowly in Miraak’s arms. Mora was coming.

Miraak gripped the Last Dragonborn’s jaw, and closed his eyes, his bloody gloved hand spreading red stains over Laataazin’s neck as he sought the softness of their temples, then the back of their head. He pulled on his magicka, that deep and verdant pool inside of him. And then as Mora reached them, Miraak cast the strongest lightning spell he knew.

A snap of burning flesh and Mora’s scream. Laataazin’s body convulsed in his arms, and Miraak roared in pain as the electricity shot through his own body, but they were dead before their stunned hand could untwist from their robes.

Mora’s tentacles wrapped around Laataazin’s chest and yanked. Miraak clung to their body doggedly.

“No,” he shouted, “NO! You won’t-“

A bolt of green magic struck his shoulder and Miraak cried out. Seekers – waves of them, coming up the side of the tower-

Laataazin’s flesh was beginning to glow, Miraak maintaining a death grip on them as the embers of their soul roared to life and surged into him. He felt their flesh dissolving against his fingers, felt the hungry jaws inside his dragon-soul rear its jaw wide, ready to rend and tear Laataazin’s soul into nothing but power for Miraak.

Another blast of magic rocked him, then three more in quick succession. It blew him onto his back and Miraak stared through eyes blurred with pain as the three dragons in the sky tucked their wings and dove. Fire blasted from Sahrotaar, immolating a wave of Seekers before they could fire on Miraak again.

Mora’s tentacles thickened like snake coils and with a mighty heave, the Prince yanked Laataazin’s body from his grasp. Miraak clung to the shred of the Last Dragonborn’s soul even as their body was ripped away from him. With effort, Miraak plunged his magic into the centre of Laataazin’s soul, and followed that tiny, tugging thread, back to Laataazin’s real body.

The air rent wide with a horrible Daedric scream. An unholy rictus of green light shredded open and Miraak saw through, warm darkness, firelight, Nirn. Mora was howling with rage, his thick tentacles wrapping around Miraak’s neck, his body, his limbs, trying to slow him down. The dragons protected him from the Seekers, rode flaming passes over Mora’s tentacles so they withered and popped with the thick reek of smoking oil, but Miraak felt himself being dragged back, slowly, into Mora’s embrace.

“No, no, no,” he gasped, desperation searing as tears in his eyes.

For a moment, Miraak felt a surge of something, as if some dying ember of the Last Dragonborn had heard his cry as he ate their soul, and then the glorious streams of gold and blue and green became fire, dragonfire, infused with all the colours of Keizaal’s auroras and hotter than its sun.  A rancid smell boiled up as Mora’s tentacles bubbled and burnt in the fire of Laataazin’s soul infusing into Miraak, their flesh into his, their will becoming his own.

Miraak forced his foot through the portal, then his shoulder. He struggled there like a fly caught in a web as the portal began to narrow and waver, his body wrenched between planes by Mora’s tentacles.

“Niid,” Miraak roared, “MUL QAH DIIV!”

His Dragon Aspect formed spears of spines that drove into Mora’s tentacles, causing the Daedric Prince to snarl. The tentacle hold loosed, just barely, just slightly, and Miraak stumbled forward, out, out, out, into Nirn.

Miraak collapsed to his knees onto Laataazin’s fleshless body, hearing their bones rattle within the casings of their armour at the force of the collision. With his last shred of strength, he reached back and hooked his hand into the portal, feeling Apocrypha’s fury shred into the bone and muscle of his hand. It was agony, agony, but first Sahrotaar’s blue snout wrested its way out, Relonikiv, slim and quick, and Kruziikrel, shouldering through with a deep bass roar at the tightening shred of Mora’s thorns.

The portal snapped closed with a resounding boom. Miraak felt Mora’s presence die, a last imprint of futile, terrible rage.

One of the dragons was howling, and droplets of dragonblood were stinging acidic on Miraak’s shoulders, his bowed head. His hand was a wreck, bloody ink gushing from the wounds, and Miraak was laughing, laughing.

He gripped Laat Dovahkiin’s empty chestplate until his gloves creaked. Their mask rattled free of their fleshless skull, blank white wood yet unbroken here, with no eyes, no enemy, no soul. Miraak gasped for breath around horrible laughter that wrenched at his chest as if it were possessing him, hot tears in his eyes.

Miraak was free.

(tags: @sumsaltysorceress @argisthebulwark)

[fistsoflightning]

unending character meme // zaya qestir

RULES: repost, don’t reblog! tag, and good luck!

TAGGED BY: tagged in spirit by @to-the-voiceless

TAGGING: any and all who want to do it but haven’t actually been tagged by anyone!

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Zaya Qestir

NICKNAME: none, really.

AGE: 29 by the end of Stormblood. 30-ish by the end of SHB? Haven’t figured out the time distortion thing.

BIRTHDAY: 17th of the 4th Umbral Moon (8/17)

ETHNIC GROUP: Au’ra; Xaelan

NATIONALITY: Nomad? From the Azim Steppe’s Reunion, if that helps.

LANGUAGE / S: Eorzean Sign Language, Xaelan (crude/unpracticed); understands most languages through use of the Echo

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Demiromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: dating Thancred Waters??? unsure of status during post-SHB but getting there.

HOME  TOWN /AREA: Reunion, Azim Steppe

CURRENT HOME: A shared room in the Rising Stones or a shared house in the Mist; depends on where they are at the time of night.

PROFESSION: jeweler, weaver, gladiator of the coliseum, bard teacher (appointed reluctantly by Sanson after many a problem with Guydelot’s schedule), adventurer and warrior of light

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Straight and somewhat below shoulder length. Most of their hair is black, but slowly changes to blue and white at the tips.

EYES: Dark blue; navy color? Light blue limbal rings that glow in the dark, too.

FACE: Sharp jawline accented by their scales, often covered with some royal blue facepaint similar to Arenvald’s own.

LIPS: Often chapped, but otherwise normal.

COMPLEXION: Ashen brown? Hard to describe bc of weird lighting everywhere they go.

BLEMISHES: None

SCARS: There’s a lot, and I might make a scar map at some point??? Major ones happen to be their legs and their left arm; the legs from Ifrit and the arm from Elidibus in Zenos’s body in 4.5

TATTOOS: None, no matter how much people think the facepaint is one.

HEIGHT: Taller than the average Au’ra, about 5’4

WEIGHT: about 135 pounds

BUILD: Muscular, especially due to their main fighting style requiring muscle literally everywhere. Fistfighting for money is no small feat.

FEATURES: Their scales are an odd color (think black and blue borealis dice, but as scales), and their horns definitely look a bit… ragged. Watching them fight will give the odd realization that lightning sparks in cobalt blue come off of them sometimes.

ALLERGIES: Some undetermined fish allergy. Higiri fed them some assorted sushi once and never did again, so the Scions (and themselves) have no clue what fish they need to avoid.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Tied into a loose ponytail at the back. Sanson often comments how they share a hairstyle, but it’s simply from need of clear vision when moving around for monk skills and attacks.

USUAL  FACE  LOOK: Stoic as all hell. Not used to making full-on facial expressions outside of conversation, so normally looks bored.

USUAL  CLOTHING: Tabards, cyclas, or generally something with flowy fabric that doesn’t restrain movement all that much. Metal boots and gauntlets/knuckles are also common, but not always.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S: being the last one standing, change, losing their younger siblings/younger friends, spiders, breaking a promise with their mother.

ASPIRATION / S:  To have a proper adventure, and to inspire others to live their fullest lives.

POSITIVE  TRAITS: Devoted, comforting, slightly protective, carefree

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Easily angered, impulsive, emotional, stubborn

MBTI: ISFP-T (Adventurer)

ZODIAC: Leo, apparently? Sort of fits, if you look at it closely.

TEMPERAMENT: Some crazy blend between phlegmatic and choleric? Generally carefree and easygoing with friends and willing to spend a lot of patience on them, but unrelenting and downright frightening in serious situations, especially when involving Garlemald.

SOUL  TYPE / S: Server/Caregiver

ANIMALS: Birds and dogs.

VICE HABIT / S: Drinking, although the Echo does prevent it from having any effect whatsoever, so its more of a taste thing? Tends to sleep a lot when stressed, and often spends their leftover money on gemstones for their shared collection.

FAITH: Polytheistic; the Twelve and Nhaama are gods they generally believe in.

GHOSTS?: Yes, mainly because they’ve seen one.

AFTERLIFE?: Yes.

REINCARNATION?: Probably, with how they’re sure they’ve seen someone who was supposed to be dead before

ALIENS?: before becoming Warrior of Light, it would be no, but with the revelation of Elidibus on the moon and Midgardsormr and OMEGA‌‌ (ALIEN‌ ROBOT????) they aren’t so sure anymore.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Does not care enough even though they are staunch friends with Nanamo. Didn’t care enough to try and challenge Oktai for the seat of Qestiri Khatun, certainly doesn’t care enough to take a political stance in Eorzea.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Barely any; just enough to read letters written in Eorzean and faintly Ishgardian (courtesy of Alphinaud and Haurchefant).

FAMILY.

FATHER: there was one, once, but he’d rather he be forgotten in pursuit of a happier future. Zaya remembers him as Baatar, but they don’t remember if that was actually his name.

MOTHERS: Erhi, Odgerel.

SIBLINGS: Oktai (older brother), Taban (older sister), Sarnai (sister), Delger and Tuya (fraternal twins)

EXTENDED FAMILY: any of the Scions (former or current) or their fellow Warriors of Light, if we’re talking found family. House Fortemps, Aymeric, Estinien, Sanson, Guydelot, Sidurgu, Rielle, and all of the Qestiri tribe are up there too, but you know, that’s kind of a lot of gifts to be sending around during Starlight. (zaya totally sends them all gifts anyways.)

NAME MEANING /S: Zaya means fate in Mongolian, which all of the other Xaelan names seem to be based on. Their previous name, Dzoldzaya, meant light of fate.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: Recorded history on the Azim Steppe is easily lost, but if asking around the different tribes, one could learn about a rather prominent Qestiri warrior whose image is painted in some of the caverns nearby where much of important, unforgettable Xaelan history is recorded by the Gharl, swathed in blue cloth. In the days of Amaurot, there was one standout Amaurotine who shared a love for lightning and birds…

FAVORITES.

BOOK: They don’t know enough Eorzean to read a full book, not even a children’s book. The Echo doesn’t help with reading. Urianger has read a book of myths and legends that turned out to be true to them, however, and that has been their favorite for a while. They’ve been considering asking him to read more for them, but that’s been placed on hold after the events of the First and following Mt. Gulg.

DEITY: Nhaama, or Rhalgr, if talking to someone who thinks ‘what’s a Nhaama’ when they mention her.

HOLIDAY: Starlight Celebration. Something about the festive mood always makes them happy.

MONTH: August (4th Umbral Moon)

SEASON: Summer

PLACE: On the Source, Reunion in the Azim Steppe just because interacting with other tribes is rather fun. On the First, Il Mheg all the way!

WEATHER: Clear nights where they can trace the constellations, but it isn’t too cold to need a blanket.

SOUND / S: Excited chatter, harp, singing, small hammers clinking against metal.

SCENT /S: Rain, fresh wood, the air in Gridania, light perfume, Syhrwyda’s food.

TASTE /S: Snurbleberry, honey, most Doman seafood, buuz.

FEEL /S: Soft and smooth fabrics, cold metal, the grip of someone’s hand around theirs, wind blowing through their hair on a warm day.

ANIMAL /S: Yol, chocobo (birds!).

NUMBER: 17, for their nameday and the first year they spent in Eorzea

COLORS: Cobalt blue and indigo, pale gold, soot black.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Extremely good when working with cloth or metal; even more so when tinkering little trinkets. Interestingly enough, very good at playing flute and harp without much practice. Expert at pulling a person’s true emotions out with simply body language.

BAD AT: Sneaking around/stealth. Do not, under any circumstance, give them a job involving secrecy or stealth unless you want it to fail. Speaking/reading is also pretty horrible, due to how they were raised. Also bad at taking change or lies well.

TURN-ONS: Loyalty, bravery despite all odds, kindness and love even when it would be easier to be otherwise, being able to understand other beliefs, and a love of freedom or new experiences

TURN OFFS: Lying to their face knowingly, extreme greed, lack of self-worth, anger for no good reason

HOBBIES: making music with Guydelot and Sanson, attempting to keep a journal, idle tinkering, dancing, gardening

TROPES: Good is Not Soft, Hope Bringer, Magnetic Hero, Omniglot, The Power of Friendship, The Quiet One, Silent Snarker, Dark is Not Evil, Five Stages of Grief, Horrifying Hero, Magic Music, Warrior Poet, Dance Battler, Warrior Monk, Determinator, Pintsized Powerhouse, Pragmatic Hero (don’t let me stay on TV‌tropes pls)

QUOTES: have a snippet of some writing?

Scrawled onto a piece of paper underneath his arm in Thancred’s handwriting and marked with Zaya’s name reads, “Your words, no matter how I react, do not change how I love you all.”

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1: If you could write your character your way in their own movie,  what would it be called,  what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?          

A1: Honestly, I think there would be two movies that could include Zaya; some comedy musical revolving around Zaya’s bard lifestyle while placing their active lifestyle in the background (called “A Bard Knock Life” bc i think puns are cool) or an action drama framed around Zaya and the Scions living some sort of high fantasy/DND type adventure bc I love that stuff called “The Unbroken Thread”. (THAT‌ QUEST‌ NAME STILL GETS‌ ME)

Q2: What would their soundtrack/score sound like?          

A2: Something featuring a flute, probably. I got attached to Zaya playing the flute being a former flute player myself. (I only wish the oboe performance sound bank clicked with me a little more…)

Q3: Why did you start writing this character?          

A3: Originally, Zaya wasn’t meant to exist. I was literally planning on just creating A’dewah, Syhrwyda, and maybe Lumelle and Elwin in different roles. Then the Au’ra came out; I‌ used my free Fantasia from the sub rewards just to be an Au’ra (I was a miqo’te before; shh, i was still babu who liked cats) and suddenly Zaya started being formed as Menphina Jewel. Before I knew it, that Menphina Jewel grew a whole backstory and a new name and new friends (Azim Steppe arc of Stormblood MSQ? Final nail in the coffin.) that slowly took over the previous two Warriors as the focus of my attention. I wasn’t even supposed to keep playing FFXIV‌ past HW, dude. I had like a million other things to be doing at the time, but here I am, lying in my grave 3 years later still attached.

Q4: What first attracted you to this character?          

A4: They’re (mostly) mute. I really wanted to explore what it’s like to not be able to talk and only converse in body language, but then I discovered that might be a problem, so my interest in sign language collided with Zaya’s backstory. It also helps me work out a personality without them sounding/looking too much like what I think is Basic Story ProtagTM like I tend to do on accident (see A’dewah and Valdis’s dialogue sometimes.)

Q5: Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5: They can’t really speak. Funny how the thing I like most is also the thing I hate most. It’s very frustrating when I want them to convey something and then they can’t without using actual words and a voice because I haven’t got a clue on how to convey that through body language. How in the world do you convey ‘I feel like I’m doing arcanist calculations when you speak’ in nonverbal language??? I have no damn idea and every attempt looks like I meant something else.

Q6: What do you have in common with your muse?          

A6: The snark, man. I have friends constantly commenting on how I’ve made a burn without me realizing I’ve done so, and it’s hilarious. The love for music also carried over big time, especially after discovering how fun the bard NPCs were to write and how they’d fit into Zaya’s relationship web. (they’re totally the more comedic side, but I love Guydelot and Sanson anyways.)

Q7: How does your muse feel about you?          

A7: No clue, dude. Maybe thinks I’m boring? I don’t tend to want to drastically change things or look for new adventures; the biggest leap I’ve taken in two years is probably changing to a reed instrument from flute, and even then I don’t have to change key when‌ I read music, so it’s not that big a deal.

Q8: What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?        

A8: Urianger and Lyse, maybe? I like the exploration of repairing relationships after something that might have ended another, weaker bond. It’s also kinda fun trying to see how Zaya would react; they’re a lot more rash than I am in real life, and that’s honestly saying something. Alisaie and Alphinaud, however, are the most fun just because I know what I’m doing when I write them, and it’s funny to see how Zaya reacts (or has a lack of reaction) to their dynamic. Guydelot and Sanson fall into another category of ‘dear god I simultaneously love and hate these two’, while Thancred, Y’shtola, Urianger, Syhrwyda, Duscha, and Ryne fall into some sort of strong found family vibes that just get me everytime I think about it

Q9: What gives you inspiration to write your muse?        

A9:…Doing job quests or side story quests or even MSQ I haven’t caught up on yet. Watch as I slowly rewrite as many MSQ‌ and job quest scenes as I can in any of my Warrior of Light’s viewpoints. (currently chiseling away at some backstory/before they were Warriors stories after reading too deep into the race/subrace text and lore keep an eye out LOL-)

Q10: How long did this take you to complete?          

A10: A day or two; don’t remember when I began. It was probably when I was procrastinating on homework, though. I didn’t post it until a week later whoops.

[shamans-of-reeds]

Overgrowth and Dust: Part 1 [RP]

(( Rating: PG-13 ))

(( Genre: Suspense, Mystery ))

(( Cast: @infiniteleftdoesffxiv , @gaillaffxiv , @ritsykitty / @moonlit-nightingale , @the-firetouched and others who don’t have a tumblr or I cannot find it. ))

The Dawn Throne's pennants flutter overhead, the wind tugging them in a rhythmic thwup-thwup-thwup. Overhead a great bird soars, white dusted with a dusky mauve; its screech is something halfway between a chocobo's wark and a dragon's roar. It ignites Dione’s heart.

"Yol," one of their group explains, pointing up and nodding. She looks up too late to see it; a shadow, passing over the pennants, might have been it, though she can't be entirely sure. But the memory of its cry stays with her.

"The tamin' a' th' yol," she murmurs to no one in particular. "In Bardam's Mettle. Why do they want y' t' tame a bird?"

"Proof of fierce of heart." Vachirsukh spoke up in his broken Eorzean. He never had to speak it thus his skill with the words wasn't the best. "Weak hearts can't earn respect." The large Oroniri man was still on babysitting duty for the group but at least they'd returned home.

Home for him at least. He'd taken a few moments to visit his dwelling, his forge, and visit his daughter that had been left in a friend's care. Altani had been sure to stick her stuffed yol plushie into his arms and now he was forced to carry it around, tucked into the sash of his gold fabrics. He didn't have the heart to say no to the young girl.

Vivisha pointedly stays back just enough from the edge of the Throne  and yet she feels drawn to look down and down and over and far, far into the Steppe's sky. What a wondrous place, this Steppe -- full of frights never before felt, but feelings never truly explored.

After a time, she rejoins the group. She clutches her thaumaturge's staff to her chest as if it could keep her from flying away or being picked up by one of the yonder Yols.

"It must be a very tough challenge indeed," she comments quietly. Her usual vivacity is subdued. She is surrounded by unknowns, and is struggling to keep up.

"Only the worthy pass the challenge and proved as warriors of the Steppe." Vachirsukh crossed his arms as he watched the yols soar over the highest levels of the great structure. Their roost was tended up there, as high as could be atop the Throne. It was well-deserved for the fearsome skykin to be as close to the sun as they could!

“<And some are never granted the chance>.” The smooth voice of the Buduga star reader rang out as he approached the group.

Khenbish’s green robes covered far more than any of his brothers. From neck to ankles there was scarcely an inch exposed. His attention moved over the points of life across the landscape of the throne before falling to the edge of the throne.

The blind Buduga strides towards it and stops at the very edge. Pure black eyes gaze over the range he can not see. Aetheric flows were noted and added character to the black landscape he saw, but that was it.

The Oronir's tail simply flicked at those words as he lingered on the edge of the group.

"But why a yol?" Dione pipes up again when next they move, her voice pitched to that exact tone of plaintive inquisitiveness well known to parents and elder siblings alike. "I mean, there are lotsa things you could battle or tame. I were wonderin' if there were a meanin' to it."

"It is said that it was the steed of choice for the great Bardam, as depicted in ancient murals." The voice of a Moks-Noykin accent sounded as Sali trailed along with the group, his little sister Ilakha at his heels, cradling her floral staff. <"Friends, I am happy you've come,"> she voiced, then repeating the line in Common.

Himaa Iloh - or what it was - sat eerily quiet on the horizon before them. The sky was clear but the day was frigidly cool, the air incredibly dry. There wasn't even any footsteps or trails to be seen on the hard ground around the former camp. The grass was sparse but tall.

"Sister Dione," Ilakha began gently as she came over to the individual with a smile. "If only you can have meeted him on better grounds... this is my big brother, Sali." The short male gave a nod, his neck-length hair toyed with by the stiff breeze.

"What we're looking for here may or may not be an easy find, given how worn the place is to the elements," Sali declared, then in Auri. "General artifacts. Weapons, armor, traits on any bodies spotted. Ilakha and I will scout the area for any bandits or signs we've been followed. We'll keep in touch over linkpearls."

As Sali got right to business, Ilakha sullenly glanced to group again. "This site is kind of old. Is grounds the Noykin would go to stop raiders from the base of the Tail Mountains. We not knowed anything 'bout them. Just that they is not from here. What we gather, we can take to Bargujin Khatun of the Noykin." The words were also repeated in Auri to the Oronir and the Buduga.

But Khabataaq would be nowhere near that place. There were far to many people waiting for him there. So he waits out in the Steppes some distance he considers far enough from that Dawn Throne, some safe distance, waiting for the time they were set to meet or some announcement over linkpearl. He watches the Throne as if he could see the dots of people in the distance leaving it, an impossible task from this distance but still he watches, locked in some persistent shiver that doesn't seem willing to leave him. It could be dismissed easily as cold, but Khabataaq knows better. It's nerves, it's worry, it's apprehension about their destination and the things they'll find there. It's odd... and wrong, maybe, that his first contact with his old tribe after all these years would be with those long dead. But after he was told what would be happening today, he knew he didn't have much choice, did he?

Dione is about to ask more questions, but instead her attention is fully consumed by the sight of the distant camp. Though she knows that her people are both nomadic and prone to conflict, and that they're investigating a raid, somewhere inside she'd still expected to see... a living iloh, a thriving community. What they approach now is naught but overgrowth and dust.

So caught up is she in her thoughts that she almost doesn't notice her name being called, jerking suddenly as if from sleep. Turning to the short-- but to her, still impressively tall-- male, she nods in return. "A pleasure," she says with a struggling smile, before falling quiet as she listens to his words, her heart only growing more chilled at each one.

Are we looking for bodies of your people, or mine? she fears to ask, and won't. Instead, she plants her feet in the dirt and takes a breath. This too is the Steppe, she repeats to herself instead.

"The feeling is mutual," Sali replied to Dione. "However, it'd be more so if we weren't to traverse a site of the deceased." His weight shifted between his feet, hands migrating to his hips. "About twenty summers ago this was a camping ground for the Himaa. That is, until the Jhungid tribe passed through this area and absorbed those that lived here. Since the Kharlu met with the Jhungid for war south of here an epoch ago, the site has only been used as grazing land for the Noykin. They'd used to camp here in the late bells of summer. Northwest of here are common sites for laying bodies for the bearded vultures and seedkin. For religious reasons, the rest of the iloh was never ransacked."

Ilakha's expression was sullen all through Sali's explanation of the history. Her grip on her staff twisted slightly as she looked about the group. "We doing this to help the living, though," she declared. "Is important we get our finds to Bargujin Khatun as proof the attackers comed from somewhere 'round here like the Tsubegen said is possible, not the Oroq valley."

Dione nods upon that mention of religion, glad at least that that much respect had been offered the fallen. Whatever else we Xaela are, she thinks, we have our honour. "So d' ya want me to take a look around th' northwest?" she asks, growing bolder. "Or investigate th' iloh, if it's untouched?"

Ilakha opted to raise her own linkpearl, pausing at Dione's question. A weary smile was offered. "There is no need, Sister. You just need to look 'bout the iloh today. Is large... er, was large, so am glad there are a few of you here." Just then, she spoke into the linkpearl; contacting Khabataaq. "Brother... we finded Himaa Iloh. I will pin our coordinates to you. Linkpearl will alert you when you getting close." Sali bowed his head to Ilakha before looking to the group, expression stern but gently so. "Does this make sense to everyone?"

Khabataaq jumps at the sound of the sudden chime of the linkpearl. He scowls crossly to himself. Settle down. Calm down. Stop being so jumpy. "<Y-Yes, yeah, I'm... I'm on my way.>" He pushes himself off the ground, gathering the few items he'd taken out of his bag and stowing them away, before trotting off in the vague direction of the Iloh.

She nods again, looking towards the iloh. "Weapons, armor, artifacts. Signs a' who th'... bodies might be, if there are any." Her hand goes to her hip; beneath the voluminous folds of her Dotharli-blue robe twin daggers lie sheathed, should she need them. In an uncharacteristic moment of pacifism, she finds herself hoping she won't.

Vivisha has followed atop her trusty steed, Lalana -- a small 'bo, but one with enough spirit that it eyes any would be predators of himself or his master with sharp, angry eyes. The lalafell, however, is unusually quiet. While her base magickal training is indeed in that of thaumaturgy -- a practice synonymous with death -- she rarely ever had to come face to face with it like this. It's distasteful to come face to face with so much truth, some dark part of her thinks. This is why the high houses employ their own tutors and servants and bo handlers and all the like.

It's prettier that way.

But then, this is the core of the work of diplomacy: Digging in, finding the realness of it. She reminds herself of that as she slides off her 'bo, and puts her sharp ears to work on finding some hint of what has happened. She reaches out to sense the aether of the place, too, to see if there were any recent disturbances.

Sechen glanced over the group already there. Cautiously, she raised a hand. "Haven't missed much, have we?"

Following in quiet tandem with his daughter, Sechen, came another Xaela to the herd. Arav Shono'tsag, tall, muted plum skin, sharp silver eyes and dark blue hair, graying by his temples with feathered locks covering the most of his face. His robes were not tribal, and creased brows hinted at discomfort- Or maybe it was just his face. A wooden staff thudded to the ground as he followed Sechen over. Soon on their way, though, a shrill shriek of a bird would startle him enough to leave his jaw clenched. "Hells take me." He muttered under his breath, trying to relax. The only one chancing to hear this might be Sechen. As they came closer, he glanced around, scanning the group of strangers and taking in a breathe. "<Hello.>" He said, when close enough, at nobody. An extra nod of greeting was sent to Sali and Ilakha, were they to pay attention. He also eyes the lalafellin. Perhaps he is not the most out of place?...

It would take Khabataaq some time to join with the group, and he drops from his brisk pace as he catches sight of the others gathering. More than he thought there would be. And faces he doesn't recognize. Though he supposes that should be expected. He spots the small, recognizable silhouette of Ilakha in the group, and there's a bit of relief then. A few familiar faces then, at least. He feels another pang of guilt, wondering if he should have told Sari after all. But... this was probably for the best. Probably.

He would be wearing simple traveling clothes, something made to be covered in dust and dirt, heavy enough to endure the Steppe's winds but provide little protection to anything other than the elements. No tribe colors. There's a weight to the ex-Buduga's shoulders as he falls in with the rest of the group, hovering just at the edge of the pack, a few fulms away. It's more than just worry, or skittishness, but dread. He tears his gaze away from the ruins to survey those around him, his gaze stalling as it falls upon a familiar Xaela woman. ...Dione? He doesn't realize he's staring, eyebrows arched in surprise.

Dione blinks back at him, eyes widening. "Kha... Khabataaq?" she stammers. "What are you doing here," she's about to say; and yet it's obvious what he's doing here. He, too, is Himaa. --All Himaa, instead of half-Himaa like her. And half a Himaa is no Himaa at all......

The droop in mood isn't missed; perhaps because this isn't like the Dione he remembers meeting all those months ago? This stark contrast to the enthusiastic and fiery girl, suddenly somber and quiet, it makes Khabataaq even more apprehensive. That heavy smile returns - he hasn't worn that in a while... hasn't he? - as he crosses over to stand a bit closer to Dione. He wonders where Rev is, but... some part of him is suddenly nervous to ask. An unnecessary caution, maybe, but it's enough to silence the question. "It's good to see you again," he says instead, tail waving cautiously behind him.

Sali turned abruptly, looking towards his relatives as Ilakha followed the motion as well. "Cousin! Uncle!" Ilakha darted towards them with open arms. Sali would have offered a smile, but the circumstances were a bit serious. "So, you finally come... am sorry is under these conditions. But I telled you what will happen at home. You 'member, right? You guys okay if me and Sali go to scout? Himaa Iloh is empty. Should be okay."

Meanwhile, Sali spoke to the others. "You all know where you are going. Take your time to prepare and head out. I know this isn't easy for a lot of you."

Sechen pulled Ilakha into a hug, patting her on the back, after deciding to ignore Arav's muttered curse. "I think that's a shared feeling, but... We're here to help!" She spared another glance around, her tiny smile faltering. "I think we'll be fine, Ilakha, if, um, you think that's what you should do."

"Well, considering who's here, I'd say we'll have just about any situation handled." A calm voice sounded out from behind the group. Approaching the group with her blade Kioku at her side and a spear across her back, the Malaguld Xaela approached. She nodded to the others who were already around, then turned her gaze to Ilakha. "Though, we will still have to be careful. One misstep could mean larger problems." Akuro stated matter-of-factly.

"Beasts, hunters, warriors from the more aggressive tribes," Akuro counted off on her fingers, "along with anything unexpected happening."

"Oh, that's not a very long list," Vivisha pipes up with unusual, bubbly sarcasm. She looks around, as if shocked she said that out loud. "Ah...don't mind me..."

Warriors from the more aggressive tribes. A concern that Khabataaq could agree on, that much was for certain. His gaze never stayed with the group for long, darting about the horizon as he kept an eye open for silhouettes or watchful hunters.

A backwards glance is given to the approaching Malaguld, just before Arav is given his own hug by Ilakha. "So, the usual." He says the unfamiliars, as he pats his niece affectionately on the head. Then he looks to her. "It's good to see you're well, Ilakha. Is there divided parties already, or are we grouping together on our own terms?" His hand finds its way to Sechen's head, just to make sure she knows he's there. Or to make sure he knows she's there. Either or.

Dione glances up to Khabi, trying to catch his attention with her eyes. If he studies her, he'll see that she's not devoid of fire; merely subdued, in this moment, confronted with her first glimpse in memory of what could have been her home only to find it a ghost town... or possibly a graveyard.

Twenty summers. She's twenty-two. She finds herself wondering about Khabi's age; whether this might have been home for him too.

"Wanna go together?" she asks him, recalling he's no fighter. "I'm armed if it should come to it."

Ilakha glanced up between Arav and her brother warily. "You can pick your partner for investigating. People can also go alone if they wish, but you think is best to stay 'round Sechen, right?"

Briefly, the wind picked up. Metal chimes from somewhere at the edge of the iloh tinkled gently, almost like beckoning. The wind hummed through the holes of the chimes like deeply pitched flutes, not unlike the pillars on the grounds of Ceol Aen.

And it definitely was a concern the other Himaa shared, a same worry that hung between them unspoken. He didn't know where his parents were. But there was a definite fear, a burden that seemed to drag down on his shoulders, that they could have been caught in this skirmish. And even if proof to confirm or deny was a slim chanced thing, didn't he need to try?

A smile at Dione's offer, some of that weight seeming to lift. "Sure, I like that idea. As... As long as you don't mind." A silly question maybe, given the offer came from her, but Khabataaq knew he would be a burden. He may be able to take care of himself a bit better since last they met.... But he has no doubts that Dione was the stronger.

He pauses then, before cautiously asking, "You're here with the Kotodama? You're here to help with their investigation?" Or are you here for yourself, was the unasked question.

Vivisha, for her part, stands close to the many tall individuals near her, afraid of being forgotten in the vast lands. But she turns pointedly to the chiming sound, staring in that direction... Creepy...

"I could use th' second pair a' eyes," Dione states, perfectly honestly, as she makes her way towards the sound of those chimes. "...An' th' company." No, Khabataaq probably won't keep either of them from being wounded; but his presence could be a bulwark, all the same.

She picks her way forward over a land slowly transitioning from green to brown, from the vibrant rustling of winds in grasses to the haunted silence of bare earth. Even the wind seems to die as they approach, and she thinks that, despite all those gathered here today, this is the quietest she's heard the Steppe fall.

"Not with 'em as such, no. But 'ere t' 'elp." She doesn't look back over her shoulder, assuming that he'll follow. "I'm journeyin' around th' Steppe. Lookin' for 'ome, I s'pose-- but not 'ome like this, I..." She waves her hand briefly towards the iloh. "Where I belong, I s'pose. Who I am." A pause. "Why're you 'ere?"

Akuro walked over in the direction of the chimes, deciding to take a look on her own. One hand rested on the hilt of her blade as she approached, not letting down her guard an ilm. If anything tried to go for her, whoever or whatever made the attempt would quickly regret it.

And follow he does. "The same as you, to help the Kotodama," Khabataaq says with a half smile. But that smile fades a bit, because that's not quite true, is it? And he's trying to be better about that.

"Ahm... and... just to be sure. That no one was here." A bit of a blush then, as he looked down towards the ground in search. But his eyes don't see anything just yet, and the search is more of a formality. He's far too distracted.

"My parents, I mean. ...I don't know if they were here when... this... happened. But I know they traveled a lot. ...I know it seems a bit foolish to be looking. Odds are I won't find anything. But... I wasn't sure... if I could not ... you know?"

Dione, however, neither scoffs nor flinches from his words.; only nods, as her eyes likewise scrutinise the ground. "'ow old are you?" she asks bluntly as she continues to walk.

Arav nodded agreement with Ilakha's statement. He was here specifically for Sechen's sake, to begin with. "She is my priority." He said, just to make sure that much was clear. Then his horns were graced with the sound of distant chimes, calling his eyes to their position. There is one person headed in their direction. He decides to remain with his family, but he is watching Akuro investigate, in case anything should go wrong.

A small frown at Dione's question, but it's a thoughtful one, not a stern one. ...Oh dear. That was a question he'd lost the answer to years ago, he thinks. Twenty.... ....twenty.... "Tw... twenty... three? ...Twenty two?" Just like when Sari had asked him his name day, it was information that had become so unimportant overtime, he'd just... lost it.

Khabataq realizes something then, that frown relaxing in sudden worry as his eyes find Dione again. "...You?"

"...Twenty-two," she says softly, with a nod of acknowledgement.  Not a whole lot more need be said.

Ilakha bowed her head to her head to her uncle and cousin, repeating the motion for her brother before going to his side. "Then we'll watch to make sure nobody's followed our trail," Sali replied firmly, but not sternly. "Best of luck, everyone." With that, he and Ilakha turned to set off, the girl scuttling to match her brother's longer strides.

Another breeze crept through the plains as they made their approach, the atmosphere far from welcoming. There was a rustling in the dry grass before a couple of songbirds scattered into the air at the sight and sound of the group. Everything else looked relatively untouched. The backs of faded ghers that were once brilliantly decorated faced the group, two in specific being closest from the left and right. The right one had the door halfway broken off, the splintered remains dangling while the rest was jutted out at an angle. The spiderweb that made up the gap in the door frame was an indication of a lack of recent activity nonetheless. The gher on the left's door - once a vibrant orange - remained shut, its contents within on apparent. All the ghers others faced the same direction as the one of the left; there were at least six in total. On the crowd a long cloth rolled over lamely in the wind, as if to greet the explorers. It was tattered, but carried distinctive colors...

[0bsidian5ire]

Prompt # 11: Bloodsands

Prompt: Snuff from @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast's #ffxivwrite2019

Canon-typical violance under cut

High above the Nhaama, Kharagal and her fellow warriors rode the thermals on their yol. The Meirqid were on the move and they were currently in the stretch between supply caches when they were at their most vulnerable. Kharagal and the other warriors had ridden far in advance of the main group and were scouting ahead.

Just in case anyone was trying to ambush the supply cache, they had swung far to the east, overshot the cache and then turned back up north to aproach it from the south. Hopefully, anyone who might be at the cache would have been watching the north where the main group of Meirqid was coming from and wouldn't notice them until it was too late. Better yet, no one would be at the cache at all.

"You see anything?!" Shar yelled above the wind. She was older then Kharagal was and had long been famous for knowing exactly where to punch people.

"No, nothing but sand!" From up in the air it was hard to see anything small against the blazing sand of the Nhaama. "Maybe--"

"I see them!" It was Baavgai, their archer. "There among those rocks to the north-west. It's those rouge Torgud!"

Kharagal squinted at the rock formation and then saw them. Tucked around the base of the rocks were the familiar gold, black and white patterned shapes of grounded desert yol. Perched up on the rocks where the white forms of painted naked Xaela. Given the angle the rocks were at, the Torgud would be next to impossible to see from the north.

"Well, they certainly aren't being friendly," called out Shar. "Should we pay them a visit? Maybe teach them about why armor exists?"

"Obviously," thundered out Aruktai. "There's six of them and four of us." He cackled. "But they're all grounded."

"Think they've got any back-up bro?" Kharagal asked.

"No!" Baavgai shouted back. "We're far enough south we should have run into them by now. This is too close to our cache not to be anything but the main ambush."

"We're doing the usual then?" Kharagal could hear the grin in Shar's voice.

"Yes!" Aruktai turned around to look at them. "On my mark."

He and Shar began to drop in altitude, while Kharagal and Baavgai stayed at a higher altitude. Fortunately, it was mid-morning and any shadows they cast would be to the west. Before they were on top of the Torgud, Aruktai's yol dived, Shar's right behind him. They were aiming for the Torgud.

Kharagal and Baavgai swooped down behind them. Kharagal quickly formed the geometries of Bio and Miasma. Instead of casting them on the Torgud, she cast them on the yol. She felt the fever hit them and their lungs began filling with phlegm. Beside her, Baavgai was maiming them with arrows. So long as they could keep the Torgud grounded and Bavgain and Kharagal in the skies, they would most likely win.

There was a roar from Aruktai and Kharagal looked up to see her brother hold up a freshly severed horn in one hand while his other hand swung his giant war-axe in a swath around him. His eyes glowed with the familiar wrath of Karash. A ways away from him, Shar danced around two other Torgud, planting her fists and heels into them wherever she could find room.

Convinced the yol would stay down now, Kharagal began flinging Ruin spells towards the fight Aruktai was involved in. Baavgai flew higher to keep a lookout and make sure they weren't ambushed and to keep a lookout for the main group of Meirqid.

Eventually, the yol started dying and Kharagal could stop keeping the Bio and Miasma spells on them. She switched to keeping them on the Torgund instead. One of Sharl's foes had finally died, most likely due to the massive dent in the back of his skull. Aruktai had killed another one of his opponents and one of the two still fighting him was missing an arm above the elbow. On the floor was a body nearly torn in two from what Kharagal recognized as her brother bitting people from the back of a yol at full diving speed.

Kharagal put her attention onto the Torgud that had somehow managed not to get maimed by her brother, and began tracing out one of the more complicated spells in her mind. It caused the sicknesses mimicked by Bio and Miasma to flare up all at once and caused the woman to keel over and start hacking for breath. Aruktai was quick to take advantage of the situation and now the rest of the Torgud were nearly dead. It didn't take much longer before Shar and Aruktai finished them off.

Once they were all dead, Khargal and Baavgai landed. "You can see the rest of the Meirqid on the horizon," Baavgai told them. "They'll be here in a few hours; we might as well just stay here."

Aruktai popped his neck and looked at the south sky. His eyes were clear now. "We'll keep one of us in the air at all times. Just in case they send someone back."

Kharagal looked at the Torgud. Their white paint was cracked and in the process of flaking off. No Torgal that was welcome in the tribe would have let their paint get to that state. "You think these were guys Khatun Caalun warned us of?"

"Looks like it," said Shar. "Don't kill the guys who opposed you grabbing power in the tribe, but do kick them out and do warn their enemies about them," she singsonged. "Typical."

Khargal shrugged. It was typical. "I guess I'll watch from the air fist, then." Arkutai and Shar needed to clean up and Baavgai had spent most of the fight watching out for them.

Aruktai nodded at that and Khargal took to the air. As she looked towards the north, she could see the Meriqid herds spilling out over the horizon with more yol flying overhead. Her people were almost home.

Author's Notes: This is inspired by a lot of WWII air strategy. Because I cannot see anyone slinging magic spells or shooting arrows from a flying yol and not think of half a dozen types of fighter planes. Or the various types of ordinance they all can have. And then Lore Book 2 revealed that the Xaela had been taming Yol for at least four thousand years...

[darkfae-xiv]

Rai is ready for the Fairy Tale Ball tonight.

Using a face paint for a mask so I can still have the circlet. >.>

EDIT: This was based off the White Swan in Swan Lake, however I renamed it to Temdegnerr Nerrug - the closest thing I could get in Mongolian to White Yol. I’d re-written the story in my head around Xaela tribal tales, however no one approached me at the event, so this all went unused.

[secretradiobrooklyn]

SECRET RADIO | Sept.5.20

“Crosscountry Rabbithole” curated in the van on a drive between Brooklyn and the countryside of Illinois on Labor Day Weekend 2020 (Hear it here.)

As there’s still very much a pandemic going on, we really didn't want to stop overnight if we didn’t have to on our drive from New York to Illinois, so after we exhausted the fantastic Saturday NPR lineup we figured a great way to stay awake was compiling the second issue of WBFF. You’ll hear a lot of the African and tropical vibe from last week, plus more French yé-yé and Europe in general. Here’s the track list, and of course, detailed notes below: 

WBFF, édition 2,  5.SEP.20

1. Michel Polnareff - La lezione del capellone

Le Beatnik is one of Paige’s all-time favorite songs — the guitar is just such a rad riff, and it was a real debate on which version to put on, the French version of the Italian, and we figured we didn’t have much Italian yet… plus check out how he rolls his Rs! That’s one thing about the major hitters of French pop in the ‘60s — they all sing in different languages. (Keep an ear out for France Gall later!)

2. Antoine Dougbé - Honton Soukpo Gnos

Dougbé just hit us like a ton of bricks — these arrangements are completely perfect to our ears. So detailed, and with super funk and super Velvet Underground tones at the same time (check out the freakin guitar solo, and guitar outro), plus of course a Beninese pulse that is just unstoppable. This one was produced, uncredited, by Melomé Clement, and Dougbé isn’t the singer, he’s the composer.

3. The Velvet Underground - Cool It Down

The guitar tones here come so naturally out of the T.P. Orchestre sound. There’s plenty of stuff he’s saying that I don’t understand, and he’s saying it in English.  

4.  Ranil - Ranil y Su Conjunto Tropical - Licenciado

This is another Analog Africa release, with a fantastic album cover. Paige dove into it and soon found that she was checking every day to see if the vinyl was out, cos it was under 300 copies and falling. It’s got a parrot on the cover that looks like the Greenwood parakeets. This song is how she learned that she loves cumbia music.

5. T.P. Orchestre Poly Rythmo - Trop Parler C’est Maladie

The guitar launches into these endless patterns that wind around an unknown number of percussionists. Everyone feels so fluid together. “Trop parler c’est maladie”: “Too much talking is bad,” literally, which Paige imagines as essentially meaning, “Let’s stop talking and make out.” But we don’t really know.

    The way the voices layer together when they’re singing, and then the guitar rises into the spaces between them, twisting and winding and droning and melodizing, is just completely mesmerizing. This incredible guitarist is Papillon, and he died in 1982. What a huge loss — he plays so eloquently and so conversationally.

6. Janka Nabay & the Bubu Gang - Somebody

I learned about Janka Nabay by hearing that he had just died. Listening to KDHX, the DJ (Caron House?) said she was sorry to hear about his passing and put on this song and I had to stop driving so I could just listen to all of the patterns crossing. I sure would have loved to see this band perform live — I feel like this is a specific reason we want to be in NYC, to meet people with capabilities I hadn’t previously known existed and work together.

7. Anna Karina - Roller Girl

Our friends Phil and Archie are an intercontinental love affair. When Phil tries to express an American accent, it’s always dripping with RRRRRs. This song feels like that, a French singer dramatically unrolling her Rs like she’s messing with her English teacher.

8. Wells Fargo - Watch Out

We believe we first heard about Wells Fargo from a Snap Judgment episode. It’s really great, starting with how they picked the name from the side of a stagecoach in a Western movie as a completely random phrase.

9. Patrick Coutin - J’aime regarder les filles

This song — this pretty freakin radical recording — became a huge hit in France in 1981 and apparently served as the soundtrack of that period. It was his big hit.

That main phrase he keeps repeating translates to “I like to watch girls on the beach,” which gets weirder and sometimes creepier with each pass.

10. Jacques Dutronc - Les cactus

Credit to Pandora for bringing us Jacques Dutronc! He sounds like Bob Dylan on a lot of songs, but he doesn’t seem to be the Dylan of France — that would be more like Serge Gainsbourg. But we could be wrong about that too. He’s also longtime partners with Francoise Hardy, which made them two of the hottest and hippest and most talented musicians of the ’60s.  

Clip from Diablo Menthe 

This is the clip of the schoolkids that we told you about, singing the Sylvie Vartan song from last week.

11. El Rego - Zon Dede

One of our main appreciations now is how deeply and broadly and internationally James Brown hit the ’60s and ’70s. People seemed to be struck by him and his approach planetwide, and it shows up like a shockwave through the whole era. This is Benin’s El Rego (thanks to Analog Africa once more for pointing him out), and his whole character seems to be in conversation with James Brown, shouting at each other from opposite sides of the world.

12. T.P. Poly-Rythmo, Bentho Gustave - Iya Me Dji Ki Bi Ni

The level of simultaneous groove and drone happening here is just unstoppable. This song has a sound I feel like I’ve always been looking for, not to play but just to dance and freak out to. Bentho Gustave is T.P. Poly-Rythmo’s bassist. We just got his headlining album on vinyl, so amazing!

13. Cambodian Rocks 1 - Yol Aularong - Jeas Cyclo (Ride Cyclo)

It’s amazing to think about how many sudden collisions of American and Cambodian experiences there were in the ’60s — so many disastrous ones, but also whatever combination of factors lead to the existence of this music. It’s so incredibly skilled and smooth, and I want to know more about who made this and how.

14. Adriano Celentano - Prisencolinensinainciusol

Don’t miss the videotape version of the live TV version via YouTube. Celentano is an Italian singer, but this is him tweaking Americans with a songful of non-English English.

15. France Gall - Der Computer Nr. 3

Another example of French pop multilingualism. One of Paige’s favorite voices, just throwing herself into the melodies all casual and easy breezy. We found out about this song because Paige was listening to a bunch of Quebecois radio, and they were talking about her, and they were playing a bunch of clips of her performing, including this one. It turned out that she had just passed on. We had to find it find this track.

16. Saigon Rock and Soul - Thành Mái - Tóc Mai Sợi Vắn Sợi Dài (Long, Uneven Hair)

What a vocal performance! Everything about the tones and melody of this recording — voice, organ, guitar — make it feel like a dream of hardcore hippie rock, minus even one shred of San Francisco. Every time I hear this song hit its crescendo I am completely in its thrall.

17. Ofege - It’s Not Easy

So these guys are from Lagos, Nigeria, and were in high school when they recorded this. Which is just freakin perfect. It sounds like enthusiasm and bad gear and good voices and that singular feeling of being sixteen and having a stone blast.

18. Avolonto Honore et l’Orchestre Poly-Rythmo de Cotonou - Sètché Wêda

It took some time for us to find this song. This version is from an album we found online, but it also exists on an Analog Africa album. The hand drums locked in with the guitar lick for the verse get so deep when the other voices come in. And the cascading guitar riff creates a sudden electric waterfall, while the horns point straight over to jazz and western rock and soul.

19. Ranil y su Conjunto Tropical - Marlenita

Paige became completely smitten with this album, which we found after getting caught up in an album promising Peruvian chichidelica.

20. National Wake - Everybody Loves Freedom

When I started looking for African punk, I found this set of videos of National Wake and pretty much all of them are this good. They’re a Black and white band (the first?) from South Africa in apartheid ’70s and the rock and punk that they make overflows with feeling. There’s a documentary called Punk in Africa that clearly needs watching.

21. English Beat - Mirror in the Bathroom

The live version of this song really amps up the energy from the studio version I’m used to. This song always makes me think of my friend Audrey, who made me a mixtape when I was just a wee twig, and this was one of the songs that broke through and made a lasting impression. I think of her every time.

22. Fela Kuti - Roforofo Fight

“Translation from the original English hrm hrm hrm”

This song structure is so very cool, where he’s kind of playing around, setting the stage, warming up his story, and then the horns crash in with a shocker part, which gives away to this cartoonish, endlessly repeating horn phrase, like a piece of early Disney footage on repeat. Also like loop-based recordings that were still more than a decade in the future. This is one of my favorite versions of Fela, where he’s exploding with a new self and a new mode of music.

23. Fela Ransome Kuti and His Koola Lobitos - Ololufe

Now some time travel - this is from a collection of earliest Fela Kuti, when he’s in a completely different mode, more in the high life and samba form. He and his band are playing in a crowd-pleasing style, and it’s really very beautiful, with gorgeous vocals and horn passages. But this is also all prelude to Fela Anikulapo Kuti, a character we haven’t even glimpsed yet when this song was recorded.

24. William Onyeabor - Atomic Bomb

We really don’t know much about this song except that it seems to always show up at just the right time — or maybe its presence just makes the time right.

25. Assa Cica - Tinma Sa Le

We were down a different rabbithole when we saw this video appear that we couldn’t pass up. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rpI09vbq_Q) It’s a long and winding song that was one of Assa Cica’s most notable hits in Benin.

I love the three slapped notes in the middle of the song that never come back — that’s the way to slap. The bass throughout this song, but especially in the choruses, is exceptional, telling its own separate story but staying in relation with the vocals. And Paige’s favorite part of the melody is the bridge.

We just learned that Assa Cica died on May 22 of this year. It feels so strange to fall hard for a person’s music just as they leave the stage for good. (See also Janka Nabay.) It also feels good to realize you’ve already become part of a musician’s music living and giving beyond their own lives.

——

…And now we are safely arrived in the woods of Illinois. Time for a whole bunch of screenprinting and music listening!

[mrsrcbinscn]

BDRPWriMo Task #16: TV Soundtrack -- Music In Just Trust Me

So, I was gonna do ten songs but I ran out of interest so here’s just two. I’m gonna re-do this task as just a part two of last years, where The Robinsons were a tv show lmao.

But I wanted to post this bc I did work hard lmao

so here’s 2 songs in the fake tv show Just Trust Me

-----

 Just Trust Me is an American TV show produced by Netflix. Franny is one of the show’s co-producers, along with fellow Seoul Hanoi’d band member Mary Xiong, and several other Southeast Asian Americans connected to entertainment. 

Just Trust Me is loosely based on the lives of Franny Sor Robinson, Mary Xiong, and Lydia Manivong, a Lao-American director and screenwriter who grew up in the same small Georgia town as Franny Robinson.

The show is set in the current day though, not the 90s, which is when Franny was growing up.

The five main characters are:

Zoey Vongvilay - a Lao-American girl whose mother immigrated from Laos and whose father is the first-generation son of Lao refugees; the character is played by a Canadian actress who is mixed Lao-Chinese-Vietnamese. Lydia Manivong’s life provided a lot of inspiration for the character.

Serey Sim/Nielson - a Cambodian-American girl whose biological parents both immigrated from Cambodia, but they divorced and her biological father isn’t in her life. The character has a white American step-father (whose last name she legally takes in season 3 when she surprises her family with the name change on a visit home from college) and step-brother, and a biracial little sister. She is played by a Cambodian-Burmese-American actress. This character is based heavily on Franny, with some key differences

Franny is biracial, her biological father is white

Franny’s real life step-father, who adopted her and IS her father as far as she is concerned, IS white but he is from Switzerland, not the US

Franny has two step-brothers, not just one, and has no younger half-siblings

Her mother didn’t immigrate by choice, she was a refugee resettled to America in the 70s, but since the show takes place in the 2010s-2020s, that had to be updated so it would make sense for the mother to have a teenage daughter

Song Bee - A Hmong-American girl whose parents immigrated to the US, her mother as a child, her father in his 20s. She is played by an actress of mixed Hmong-Thai-Indonesian-Pakistani-white background. Parts of her are inspired by Mary Xiong

TaShana “Shayna” Brewer-Pham - A girl with a Jamaican immigrant father and first-gen Vietnamese-American mother. Franny was insistent that one of the main characters be biracial. Originally, it was going to be Serey’s character (her original name was Serey Nielson, a nod to Franny’s husband’s first name being Cornelius), but when the Japanese-black actress auditioned for what was supposed to be a recurring character with no specified ethnicity named “Julie”, the writers, one of whom was black-Vietnamese herself, wrote TaShana for her.

George ”Fitzy” Fitzpatrick VI - A boy who is fifth generation Japanese-American on his mother’s side, and even more Irish-American on his father’s side. He was a recurring character in the first season and was moved to main in the second. He’s played by a biracial Japanese-white actor.

Setting: Originally, a small town in Texas, then, in season three, when the main five move on to university, largely in Austin with scenes in their hometown as well.

Premise: Just Trust Me is a comedy-drama about five young Texans of diverse backgrounds as they struggle with identity, expectations, stereotypes, school, part-time jobs, romance, and social lives. There are subplots involving many other characters, but the main 5 are in every episode.

Franny’s character in the show: Ary Meas/Aunty Ary, Serey’s aunt, is played by Franny Sor Robinson. She is a recurring character (usually in 3-5 episodes every fourteen-seventeen episode season) and is usually there to bail Serey out of trouble with her mother (Ary’s sister), or who Serey tests out sharing major news with. Ary is eccentric and a bit of a disaster, but a disaster who loves her niece. She always has a new suitor, and has been married and divorced since the series began.

Theme song: Geraldine by Avett Brothers

  1: Episode 1x01: San Rafael

  Song: Jeas Cyclo by Yol Aularong

  The scene opens with Serey pedaling furiously on her bicycle, at an ungodly speed with her backpack on. She almost hits an armadillo but shrieks and swerves out of the way and not long after she’s back on course, she hears a car engine rev and laughter. She looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes and groans because coming up behind her are the biggest assholes in school. They drive recklessly and speed through a muddy puddle, splashing mud all over her, and startling her off her bicycle and into a ditch. She looks up into the camera and spits out ditch water and dirt. 

  Serey flicks some mud off of her and hops back on the bicycle. 

  Cut to school and Serey beelines for the girls’ bathroom. As the song fades out, another student appears from out of frame with some clothing folded up in her hands. 

  “Brought your real clothes!” She chirps. 

  “Thanks, Zoey.” Serey sighs, drying her hands, then she begins stripping right there in the main part of the bathroom and changing outfits. 

  The true Franny story: [from an interview given at an event premiering the first episode] “We lived pretty close to my high school, so even if we could afford cars for my brothers and I, I probably would have bikes before it got to be winter anyway. But some people really hated me, like really hated me, so I’d been run into ditches like Serey, yeah. It got to the point where I’d keep my real nice clothes at Daniel’s — Daniel Maitland, my partner in Dara & Danny — at his house, and call him every night and tell him what outfit pack for tomorrow. That went on for a school year, until those kids graduated.”

  Why Franny chose this song for this scene: “I wanted the first song the viewer heard to grab them and let them know what kind of show this was, like who it was a show about. It’s about Southeast-Asian-Americans living in the South. They are influenced equally by pop music they listen to with their friends, the indie music they discover on Spotify alone in their rooms, the country music playin’ at restaurants in their towns, and the music their parents and grandparents brought with them from Asia. So I wanted the Asian influence to smack everyone’s ears in the face. 

  2: Episode 3x05: George Not Straight

  Song: The Cowboy Rides Away by George Strait

This is the episode where George “Fitzy” Fitzpatrick comes out as ga to his conservative Catholic parents. He’s at a Mexican restaurant on karaoke night in their hometown during fall break with his parents and the rest of the Core 5, and the actor that plays Fitzy actually sings this song. In the scene, Fitzy sings his karaoke song but he keeps looking between his parents, his friends, and the Latino man who is a recurring character (Jose Ruiz) and was Fitzy’s ex boyfriend. 

  Jose broke up with Fitzy in season two after Fitzy refused to come out to his conservative family. Jose respected his decision but also asked that his decision to not want to be a secret be respected as well, and ended the relationship. 

  Before he can finish the song, Fitzy just trails off and sighs and stands there on stage, frozen. He looks dead at his parents as the karaoke track continues on and says into the mic. “Mom...dad…”

  Serey gasps, TaShana mutters ‘he isn’t…’, and Song goes ‘he is!’

  “I’m gay. I love men.” And drops the mic and calmly walks off stage, into the throng of tables, and his four best friends scurry out of the restaurant behind him. 

  The original song plays while they’re running to the pond in their favorite spot in the woods, and they jump in the water in their clothes and splash each other, they’re having fun!! But Fitzy’s expression flits between joy and anxiety as he plays with his friends like they’re kids again

  Franny, on this episode: I’m queer. I came out as bisexual before I even knew that there was a word for what I was. I told my family “I feel about girls the same way I feel about men.” They accepted me, but they were worried about me. We were from a conservative, rural area, and was already a woman of color you know? But I knew kids at my high school - White kids, black kids, Asian kids, Hispanic kids, whose parents were ultra conservative. And some of those parents loved their kids more than their wrong opinions, but others were like Fitzy’s. Like, I had a black male classmate that was kicked out of his home for being gay sleeping in my bed with me for two weeks until he moved on to the next friend’s house, becasue he had nowhere else to go. Queerness is not exclusive to white people and neither is homophobia. Serey’s character has always been openly bisexual, like I was by her age when the show started, and for our families it wasn’t a big deal. But we wanted to represent multiple queer narratives, not just one. 

[vesperknight]

Oh I also forgot to post the raffle designs from this year

[albertocarstense-blog]

Desserts As Well As Snacks

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[dailynynews-blog]

Southern Slang Dictionary

New Post has been published on https://www.usatelegraph.com/2018/southern-slang-dictionary/

Southern Slang Dictionary

The Southern Slang Dictionary will help you avoid confusion if you are planning to visit the South. These are some of them most common (and not so common) Southern slang terms heard in Arkansas. After you’re done, brush up on some Southern manners and learn how to pronounce these commonly mispronounced Arkansas names.

Ain’t

Pronunciation: ‘Ant Etymology: contraction of are not Date: 1778 1: am not : are not : is not 2: have not : has not 3: do not : does not : did not (used in some varieties of Black English)

Air-Up

Function: Verb To pressurize or inflate. Example: “Air-up your car tires before you go on a long trip.”

A larking

Function: Verbal phrase Originates from the word “lark” which means to engage in harmless fun or mischief. To go a larking means to play a prank or joke on someone.

All y’all

Etymology: Intensive form of y’all This usage states “you all” more emphatically. For example, saying “I know y’all,” would mean that one knows a group of people; saying, “I know all y’all” would mean that one knows the members of the group individually.

Arkansas toothpick

Function: Noun A large knife.

Arkansawyer, Arkansan, Arkie

Function: Adjective or noun 1: A resident or native of Arkansas. 2: Referring to a resident or native of Arkansas.  Residents who refer to themselves as Arkansawyers commonly proclaim, “There is no Kansas in Arkansas.” when you call them Arkansans.

Bowed Up

Function: Colloquialism Marked by impatience or ill humor.

Refers to the way a snake bows up his head before he strikes.

Bread Basket

Function: Colloquialism Stomach.

Cattywampus

Function: Adjective Askew. Example: The storm knocked the boat cattywampus and it started to take on water.

Chief Cook and Bottle Washer

Function: Colloquialism A person capable of doing many things.

Darn tootin’

Function: Colloquialism For sure. Correct. “You’re darn tootin’, that is oil.”

Egg on

Function: Verbal phrase To urge to do something. Example: “He only did it because the crowd egged him on.”

Figure

Function: Verb To calculate, consider, conclude or decide. Example: “He hadn’t figured on winning the lottery.”

Fit As A Fiddle

Function: Colloquialism In good shape, healthy.

Fit to be tied

Function: Colloquialism Angry.

Fixin’

Function: Verb To get set: be on the verge Example: We’re fixin’ to leave soon. Function: Noun Customary accompaniments. Example: We had a turkey dinner with all the fixins.

Frog Gig

Function: Noun A pole used to spear frogs for cooking. Function: Verb The act of hunting frogs for meat. Often called “frog gigging.”

Goobers

Function: Noun Peanuts.

Grab A Root

Function: Colloquialism Have dinner. “Root” refers to potatoes.

Grits (Hominy Grits)

Function: Noun Hominy or plain corn that’s been ground until it has the consistency of coarse sand. It’s used as a side dish, a breakfast cereal, or as an ingredient in baked goods.

Hankering

Etymology: probably from Flemish hankeren, frequentative of hangen to hang; akin to Old English hangian Function: Noun A strong or persistent desire or yearning often used with for or after.

 Example: I have a hankering for fried okra. I’ve really been craving it.”

Heap

Function: Noun A large quantity. Example: Billy got into a heap of trouble when he stole his dad’s car.

Hear tell

Function: Verbal phrase A form of “hear it told.” Often conveys that the information was passed second hand. Example: “I hear tell that the new mini-mall is going up next month.”

Hoecake

Pronunciation: ‘hO-“kAk Function: Noun Date: 1745 A small cake made of cornmeal.

Hominy

Pronunciation: ‘hä-m&-nE Function: Noun Etymology: Virginia Algonquian -homen, literally, that treated (in the way specified) Date: 1629 Kernels of corn that have been soaked in a caustic solution (as of lye) and then washed to remove the hulls.

Horse sense

Function: Colloquialism Smart. Example: She has horse sense. She’ll make it in business.

Howdy

Pronunciation: ‘hau-dE Function: Interjection Etymology: alteration of how do ye Date: 1712 Used to express greeting.

Hush puppies

Function: Noun A Southern food made with cornmeal. They are small, round balls of cornbread and spices that are deep fried and often served with fish. These were originally fed to dogs to quiet their begging at the table.

Hunkey Dorey

Function: Adjective Everything is great.

June bug

Function: Noun Date: 1829 Any of numerous rather large leaf-eating scarab beetles (subfamily Melolonthinae) that fly chiefly in late spring and have larvae that are white grubs which live in soil and feed chiefly on the roots of grasses and other plants. Also called june beetles.

Laying out [all night]

Function: Verbal phrase Staying out all night, often drinking of doing something illicit. Example: “I was laying out at the bar last night so I had a hangover.”

Lazy man’s load

Function: Colloquialism A lazy man’s load is an unmanageably large load carried to avoid making more than one trip. This colloquial phrase is often used to indicate that someone is too lazy to think properly. Example: ‘Sam took a lazy man’s load of groceries out of the car and ended up spilling them all over the sidewalk.”

Lickety split

Function: Colloquialism Very quick.

Like to

Function: Adverbial phrase Almost. Example: “I like to pee my pants when that car hit me.”

Nearabout

Function: Adverb Almost. Example: “I nearabout ran over that squirrel in the road.”

No ‘count

Function: Contraction Of no account; good for nothing.

Nuss

Function: Verb To nurse. Example: “She nussed the sick dog to bring it back to health.”

Okie or Sooner

Function: Noun A resident or native of Oklahoma.

Okra

Function: Noun A green, cylindrical vegetable that is often fried in the South.

Ornery

Pronunciation: ‘or-n&-rE, ‘är-; ‘orn-rE, ‘ärn- Function: Adjective Inflected Form(s): or·neri·er; -est Etymology: alteration of ordinary Date: 1816 Having an irritable disposition.

Out of kilter

Function: Colloquialism Not right. Out of sorts. Example: John was out of kilter for a while when he was relocated to New York.”

Pack or Tote

Function: Verb To carry.

Particular

Function: Adjective Concerned over or attentive to details: meticulous.

People

Function: Noun Relatives, kinfolk. Example: “Shelly went to see her people on vacation.”

Piddlin’

Function: Adjective Small or inferior. Example: “His work only gave him a piddlin’ 1% raise. Function: Adverb Poorly. Example: “She felt piddlin’ so she didn’t go to school.” Function: Verb To waste time. Example: He spent all his time piddlin’ and never got anything done.”

Poke, Pokeweed, Poke Salad

Function: Noun A type of salad often eaten in the South. Pokeweed can be toxic if not chosen and prepared properly.

Possum Pie

Function: Noun A meat pie made from possum. This is not actually eaten in Arkansas!

Purdy

Function: Adjective Pretty.

Rag-baby

Function: Noun A doll.

Reckon

Function: Verb Etymology: Middle English rekenen, from Old English -recenian (as in gerecenian to narrate, akin to Old English reccan Date: 13th century 1: Count Example: To reckon the days till Christmas 2: to regard or think of as : Consider 3: Think, suppose Example: “I reckon I’ve outlived my time — Ellen Glasgow”

Redneck Caviar

Function: Noun Potted meat.

Right

Function: Adjective Very. Example: “You’re right near the street you want to be on.”

Rile

Function: Transitive verb Inflected Form(s): riled; ril·ing Etymology: var. of roil Date: 1825 To make agitated and angry : Upset

Ruther

Function: Verb Form of rather.

Scarce As Hen’s Teeth

Function: Colloquialism Rare or scarce.

Sho ‘Nuff

Function: Contraction Sure enough.

Show

Function: Noun A movie.

Shuck

Function: Verb To remove the outer covering of a nut, corn or shellfish.

Skedaddle

Function: Verb Run, scatter.

Slap your pappy

Function: Colloquialism To pat your stomach.

Snug As A Bug

Function: Colloquialism Comfortable, cozy.

Tarnation

Function: Noun Etymology: alteration of darnation, euphemism for damnation Date: 1790 Used to indicate surprise, shock, displeasure, or censure.

Tarred and Feathered

Refers to the practice of tarring and feathering people who committed small crimes such as distilling in colonial America (and in England). Today, it is often used to denote great suprise. Example: “I’ll be tarred and feathered, that dog just flew!”

That dog won’t hunt

Function: Colloquialism The idea or argument won’t work.

Tore up

Function: Adjectival phrase 1: Broken. 2: Upset. Example: He was tore about wrecking his new Corvette. Tote Pronunciation: ‘tOt Function: Transitive verb Inflected Form(s): tot·ed; tot·ing Etymology: perhaps from an English-based creole; akin to Gullah & Krio tot to carry Date: 1677 To carry by hand : bear on the person

Trotline

Function: Noun A long line on which short lines are attached, each with a hook, for catching catfish. Some times mispronounced as trout line.

Tump

Function: Verb Etymology: perhaps akin to British dialect tumpoke to fall head over heels Date: 1967 To tip or turn over especially accidentally.

Uppity

Function: Adjective Conceited.

Varmint

Function: Noun Etymology: alteration of vermin Date: 1539 An animal considered a pest; specifically : one classed as vermin and unprotected by game law.

Walking on a slant

Function: Colloquialism Drunk.

War between the States; War for Southern Independence; War of Northern Aggression

Function: Noun The Civil War

Washateria

Variant(s): also wash·e·te·ria /wä-sh&-‘tir-E-&, wo- Function: Noun Etymology: wash + -ateria or -eteria (as in cafeteria) Date: 1937 chiefly Southern : a self-service laundry

Whup or whoop

Pronunciation: ‘hüp, ‘hup, ‘hwüp, ‘hwup, ‘wüp, ‘wup Function: Verb Variant of “to whip”. To hit or spank.

Y’all

Pronunciation: ‘yol Function: Contraction Ye all or you all.

Yaller dog

Function: Colloquialism A coward.

Yankee

Function: Noun Someone from the North.

Yeens

Function: Contraction Ye ones. Example: “Yeens better go before you’re late.”

Yonder

Function: adverb Etymology: Middle English, from yond + -er (as in hither) Date: 14th century At or in that indicated more or less distant place usually within sight.

Your druthers is my ruthers

Function: Colloquialism “Your preferences are mine,” “We agree.”

[vesperknight]

Also have some traditional art to

Names in order: Jasper, Rockstar, King, Jackel, Renwick, Matteo, Prasiolite and Cupid

[vesperknight]

"it's been 34 years" no but seriously it's been awhile so have some art ref art for Isalatonde and Jin

[vesperknight]

Time to unload some art

I know i never shared these on here, these characters both belong to @chelry-v

I got Arachni in trade for them

This is also an art I did in trade for a character, Queen

I also have done a few more icons as well!

[vesperknight]

Been working on doing icons for all of my characters in the MTT group because I thought it might be fun for them all to all having matching ones without me having to slave away at the refs of those that don't have one.

Ill do the refs eventually but it won't be for awhile....

Anyways, this first two are part of the Pasta family mafia, Isalatonde being married in to Paglia, an official family member, and Spighe being their daughter. Doily is a sweet shop owner where she makes her own sweets named Fresh Snow after her raffle name, she also has a side business making doilies, also she dies part of her hair to match her SO Tinsel.

Expect more of these when I get around to them