#:: carrying the legacy. || future verse. ::

[fctedivided]

I found some amazing art for my muse Mare!

(Source)

[fctedivided]

@frznkingdom

★ 【おおね】 「 版権ごった 」 ☆ ⊳ asuna // sword art online ✔ republished w/permission ⊳ ⊳ follow me on twitter

[captaincrusher]

A thought on a queer Star Trek timeline

Watching Star Trek from the original series to modern times is to fast forward through the evolution of queer rights through the 20th and early 21st century.

In the original series queerness must be imagined in the close relationship between Kirk and Spock. We can only see ourselves in what we hope and dream about for the future. We get Amok Time.

In the 80's queer people start to materialize in the background. TNG takes tentative steps towards telling our stories, still cloaked in the allegory. We get Outcast.

In the 90's Ds9 gives us Rejoined. Still cloaked in allegory, but the lines get sharper, the mist starts to lift. A character has a monologue about how two people that love each other should be able to be together. Hidden winks has turned into words.

Voyager, while a good show in other respects, does not give us a single crumb of queerness. Aside from the relationships we ourselves imagine.

In the 2000's we are on the cusp of actually having queer people on screen. Enterprise tries to tell stories of gender (Cogenitor) and the AIDS crisis (Stigma), two episodes that are still filtered through a limited understanding of both. When Enterprise ends in 2005 and this Star Trek era ends with it, queer representation in film and tv is still scarce.

The AOS era instead is where queer people, for the first time, stepped out of subtext. Sulu is married to a man - a nod to George Takei, the original series actor. Star Trek Beyond comes out in 2016, the year after same sex marriage is legalized in the US.

It isn't until 2017 that a Star Trek show officially, without subtext or allegory, gets queer characters, when Paul Stamets and Hugh Culber are married on Discovery. Discovery also adds further queer characters down the line, finally saying that yes - queer humans do exist in the future.

I know you all will have opinions on what is queer or not. But when tracking the evolution of queer representation it's important to separate subtext from text and to separate when something is allegoric verses not.

I interpret Jadzia Dax as queer - but she is not human. She is an alien wrapped inside a gender non confirming shroud of gray areas. That is the strength of her character - that it allows the writers to explore themes that otherwise would have been taboo. But the fact that they could only pursue queer storylines with non human characters tells you something about the times.

it really feels like Star Trek was late to the party with queer representation. I think there's multiple reasons for that. One is that when Enterprise was created, it still carried the legacy of shows created in the 80's and 90's. Enterprise itself is also literally a prequel - there seemed to be little desire to be bold and innovative.

Timing is I think the main reason why Star Trek trailed behind. Between Enterprise ending in 2005 and Star Trek Discovery starting in 2017 there's a whole era of representation. If Enterprise had dared make an actual queer character, like Malcolm Reed, it would have been just ahead of the wave of representation that started popping up in the late 00's - but instead it closed on a similar note as DS9 did 10 years earlier.

Feel free to add your favorite queer episodes. There are some "official" queer episodes - but there's a bunch more that meant a lot for us as queer people, for one reason or another.

[erinwantstowrite]

i rewatched the spider-verse movies so im thinking about miles atm but you have a couple posts about him and LoF so i was just wondering what would the bats opinions be on him ??

oh, they're gonna love him. peter has quite a few pupils in the future, but miles is his legacy. carrying on that spider-man name and making it his own? miles is practically his little brother in the future, his pride and joy. the Bats are older too around this time so they each have different dynamics with miles. bruce is leaning towards fully retired by the time peter is in his mid twenties (i think bruce is like 53 when peter is 25?). by the time miles comes around they're used to having students and a bunch of family so he is welcomed with open arms

[sylussys]

TIMELESS.

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA x gn. reader. reincarnation au (sorta). inspired by timeless - taylor swift. wc: 3.1k

SUMMARY. across every lifetime you’ve existed to capture his intrigue, yet you slip between his fingers just as easily—and he prays just once, to share a fleeting moment more before all is lost to time again.

His first memory of you was etched on paper. 

As among those flowing words of poetry and music, did the hands of fate weave such verses, brush meeting paper to bring forth a flurry of colour and imagery, astute eyes narrowing in concentration at the text in front of them, raising their hand to add one, then two more strokes. 

A fine conclusion, they had smiled, to a story of nameless souls whose paths were fated to cross, unfolding across chapters of various lives — borne of tragedy, yet strung along with the faint glimmer of hope leading to the promise of a distant future.  

Of which two sets of paper planes would soar through the sky, fashioned from the pages of old testaments carried through the wind, amidst childish laughter that resonated from below. Discarded books littered the sidewalk beside the two, innocence sparkling between two pairs of eyes, one in bright shades of crimson, and the other glimmering like opalescent jewels. 

Papers rustled among them, flipping from page to page in meticulous folds, of which emerged a heart and star. Each stood on its own, before being carried away by the breeze away from their creators who reached up in an attempt to grab them back, yet restricted in their childish stature, reaching for the impossible. 

They returned to those books eventually, losing themselves in childish dreams and wishful imaginations, unaware of the shadows of their legacy looming inevitably over them. Yet they had noted nothing but the faint chirping of birds overhead and the rustling of leaves in the wind, followed by the turning of a page.

“What’s this?” Artful hands would slip a bookmark from the worn texts moments later, embroidered in threads of silver that hung suspended beneath the light of the afternoon sun. It would be that those threads would reweave fate once more, bringing back what one had thought they had lost once, together again, yet could be easily severed all the same. 

Two pairs of eyes would look upon the carved words, unable to discern such characters yet it was beautiful nonetheless. One could only wonder who had left it in there, watching as you turned it over, inspecting the other side. He only recognised one word, love. 

But such an ironic notion was only debated among those who did not know yet of the truth of this reality. 

That the tranquil atmosphere shrouding the world was but false pleasantry that could be shattered anytime, as said book would be snatched from him in an instant, meeting the eyes of disapproval that would further sink into that of indescribable anger upon noting the attention — and confused gaze of your own figure who had previously clung to his side. 

Both were too young to realise, nor remember what had sparked one’s animosity like so, inevitably dragged away amidst their protests. 

Yet in that moment, he could only look after you and your sad smile, and he had wanted to apologise. But your figure had disappeared from view, the grip upon his own wrist unrelenting, as the crowd swallowed him up once more. 

The only things that remained clutched in his own hands was the silver bookmark, and that of a singular excerpt of text — soon to be lost to a thousand winds. 

---

In his childish resolution, he swore he’d find you again. 

But by then, he had lost you, his last memory ensconced in the crimson shade of your blood that stained his hands forever, at the revelation of such a truth. 

---

Papers that had once wrought words of epic poetry now lay on the ground to be crushed underfoot — fading, as its inked letters had bled into nothingness. The frail peace that had once been etched on similar material had been torn apart, left to burn in the flames of conflict, one house against another in the shadows of a prosperous city. 

The scattered leaves of a fading autumn too were forgotten in the midst of what would be painted as yet another tale of clashing blades, as one cannot stray from such histories rooted deep within them. Swords would always be drawn, as they were now, following the cutting words of those that shared looks of resentment. 

But it was not against one another, as you stood back to back, to face the very markings of your legacy. Perhaps one day they would speak of the two who had wished to challenge their history, their fates, grasping at the bare fragments of peaceful resolution in their final stand, against all deluded belief and ceaseless war that had plagued this world. 

For they had done everything to divert your paths — yet it had done nothing but ignite a spark that had glistened with hope since those bright days of childhood and bygone reminiscence, straining against your confinements to return to those moments, your last memory of freedom among elegies of long-forgotten authors. 

Had you known, he had felt the same, reaching for those wishes hanging from distant stars, with nothing but the soaring swell of tempestuous emotions held within his heart. It’s grown into the raging fire that has run unchecked beneath a placated demeanour forged with weariness over time, waiting to meet together, to consume the thing that feeds their fury. 

You burn so effervescently now — as if that brightness had never left you, reanimated in fiery light, himself but a faintly flickering flame against you. 

“So be it then. Us against the world.” You had proclaimed, eyes now blazing with such determination, as you held your sword in front of you in invitation. For is it not now that you must fight for your freedom from this vicious cycle more than ever before? 

He wonders what the world has done to you in all this time. 

There’s unspoken history behind those same eyes, weighed with a shared heaviness you both bear. Perhaps in another life, you would never have had to pick up a sword, to stray far from those distant dreamlike longings you had once held in your heart. Alas, your hands had bid action, and now you’re left to forge your own path with hardened resolution.

But he’ll follow you until the end, raising his own blade. 

Even when you’ve long fallen, the fires of your determination faded among the crimson red pooling at his feet, your sword remained clenched tightly in your hand, as if raised to make one more blow, one more victory among the mountains of warriors you’ve felled in the name of defying their beliefs. 

There’s none left to bear witness but him, amid all his calamitous love and insurmountable grief, as torrents of rain descended from the skies, as if made to wash away all memory, to drown out the final remnants of your existence that had once burned so brightly. 

---

But you’ve persisted, across every lifetime.

You exist, to turn his head even among crowds, in those brief encounters that he holds as dreams — reaching for you across time itself in his own persistence of memory. 

---

He dreams of these legendary tales of the sword, the stories of mythic heroes illustrated across the story clutched tightly within his hand, as he raises his head to look upon his surroundings. Maple leaves flutter from branch to branch in the trees above, the flamboyant colours of summer fading to that of muted browns and yellow in resplendent hues of warmth. 

There’s a silent blanket of tranquillity that hangs over this world, through the portrait of life that passes by in slow movements, as if waiting for a moment to spur it into action. Because time does not truly stop — it only flies by, easily missed, as people jostle past him, swept up in their own lives. 

And if he blinked, he would’ve missed you completely, having brushed past him without a noise, leaving nothing but the faint scent of cherry blossoms in your wake — the only indicator of your existence, as he had turned to look after your figure. 

You’re chasing something, your steps light and swift, breezing along the cobbled path like a ghostly wraith, a vision of bright purple crackling with such power at your waist. A true blessing from the gods themselves, silver gleaming in the light of such, a blade elegantly carved emerging from beneath resplendent silks, cutting through the air in a silent whisper of wind. 

It’s wielded as a bringer of justice, in honourable integrity, displayed among a blend of precision and fluidity, striking as true as your heart. Each slash is filled with purpose, a trail of sparks and determination in resonance of some greater, kindled resolve that burns behind your gaze. 

There’s something familiar amidst it all — awestruck, he wishes to see it in its entirety, pausing in witness to this dance of lone blades, your opponent falling before such an act. For they’re nothing but a lowly thief in your almost regal presence, coins clinking against the ground as you sweep them from their hands among words uttered in bare whispers. 

And then you stood, the figure of elegance unwavering, the soft glows of the sun playing upon expensive fabric, shimmering with every movement against the canvas of orange and brown that leaves him fully entranced. 

As from this exact moment among the fading lights of summer, when leaves of gold danced in the breeze — did he remember, in its delicate montage before the cold onset of winter. 

The murmurings of the crowd seemed to fade into the background the moment you had turned your head, as if your very presence were a singularity that existed outside it. It’s a moment captured in detachment to the surrounding world, as piercing eyes fixate upon his own, rendering him frozen to the same spot in equal wonder. 

You stand so close, yet so far from one another, never to stride the same path in this life, apart from this momentary collision of chance. He had imagined himself reaching out a hand, he had opened his mouth as if to say something, yet no words had come out, his voice failing him. 

Truly, what could he even say to you, beneath your inscrutable gaze? 

No matter what he is to think, in that you may be the only divine thing he’s believed in, an incarnation of the virtue and blessings of the seven, he pales in comparison nonetheless. To you, he must appear as nothing more than a faceless wanderer, a nameless soul in this crowd. 

You may see thousands of him across your long lived journey, but to him, among the sea of faces he drowns in, he only sees you, in all your brilliance. Even as the surrounding world continues its movement past you, slowly pulling you from his reach, sweeping you up among the pressing crowds — he remains stuck in the moment, watching, committing you to memory. 

As along with the bright colours of the seasons that would fade into a cold winter, as did you into the distance of his ever-reaching dream.

---

He’ll never see you again, not in this life.

But you’ll continue to live on in his memory, spilling forth onto paper, hanging onto every word — every piece of prose that paints this picture of you. 

---

For he whose dreams are wrought in similar fashion to the fantasies in the books he holds dear, in that they’re unattainable to the likes of him, yet held in an unforgettable light — they’re still left to make a mark upon the world in the eyes of the beholder. 

He watches the world go by, flakes of snow giving way to the iridescent blooms of spring and rays of sunlight, resting his head against the trunk of a newly blossoming tree, heaving a soft sigh as he stares down at the papers in his hands. 

The words swim before his vision, forming a story within his mind — one he raises his pen to continue. There’s no words to be spoken in his silent exaltation, nothing but the sound of a cold breeze blowing through the air and the occasional rustle of paper, followed by the scratching of a pen. 

Ink blooms across the canvas of white, curling into elegant letters with the flick of a quill. Each is formed with a meticulous hand, as words fill one page, then the next, and then the next, seemingly with no end, these pages of overt description and exaggerations derived from a mere passing existence, with you having become his muse. 

The pen stops occasionally, to picture your movements, hovering over the paper, a drop of ink falling, frozen in time as its holder is struck with a thought once more, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. Even now you still dance across his mind, your presence reanimated. 

You remain out of his reach, something he can only dream about in this life, and continues to do so. 

He wonders where you are now, where your journey has led you beyond that brief moment of your crossed paths. Did you leave in pursuit of greater purpose, or even set down the sword, to live a life in peaceful recluse after all these years? 

He’ll never know for sure. 

A stranger’s fate shouldn’t hold such importance to him, but you’ve left him thinking of you, wondering about what could’ve been, wrapped in an enigma that is your being — one he has spent countless years pondering. For what is it that had made you so captivating, drawing him to you as if tied by some invisible string? 

And even now there’s more to add, to every ballad, every poem written from the depths of his heart that is reticent of you and that singular moment touched upon by your presence. He could go on for eternity about the colour of your eyes, to the cadence of your voice, letting it all flow freely onto a page.

For he’ll never see the true ending, but he can dream, writing his own as if you’d find a way back to him. There’s another you — one that exists among these pages, that lives the life he had wished to live in this lifetime. And there is him, a lovesick fool, that pours his heart out among the same pages, to be heard in another life. 

He reflects upon the beautiful vestiges of innocence, two children running through the streets, chasing the paper planes they had released from their hands, soaring toward unreachable heights as peals of laughter had rung through the air in twinkling chimes, the exalted feeling of freedom swelling in their chests. Perhaps it is you by his side. 

They fly and fly, drawing too close to the sun in all their brightness, left only to crash down to earth in the flames of their own making. Because is such a story complete without tragedy? One that arises from such fires, romance torn apart by its destructive vehemence — his own woes respun. 

Still, a flicker of his hope remains, echoed in the weary character of a young samurai sitting by the lake’s edge, watching a lone maple leaf drift across the clear surface of water, the product of his persistence in search of a resolute conclusion. 

The past lingers, of all who had been left and lost, yet he remains waiting, for another to rouse him from this dream. 

---

His story had come to a close there. 

You’ll read the same words meant for you in a different lifetime, and fall in love with them as he had with the image of you, fate bringing your existences together once more. 

---

As in the quiet corners of your mind, tracing the inked words on a page, you wonder, what must it be like to grow up that beautiful? To have every part of you turned into folklore, in an unsung tale of what it would be like to love you — to have one who would brave that storm time and time again, in search of that blessed existence spun from dreams and wishful imaginations. 

And the part of your mind still swept up in your reverie, too began to chase those missing pages blown astray in the wind, soaring through the air, dancing out of your grasp after having clung so tightly to such words inked onto a page. 

For where do they now exist? Is this gentle lively being lost forever? It’s almost inconceivable, to imagine a form so divinely wrought and beaming with beauty, to have decayed. Has this mind so replete with ideas, both fanciful and magnificent, the one that has formed such a story — has this mind perished too? 

But among skies clouded in overcast grey, you run down the cobbled streets of the present day, the wind whipping against your frame, your eyes remaining fixated upon the streak of quicksilver suspended in the air before you — continuing your pursuit for its answer. 

Leaves and pebbles skitter across the pavement, picked up by the gale, and your loose papers which had flown free from their bindings, now lie scattered around, among the muted hues of brown and grey, blown along in the breeze like everything else. 

Another gust, and it would disappear halfway down the street, further and further from your reach. 

Yet he grows closer, crossing your view. 

It sends you down another alley, around several corners, before you find yourself atop the crest of a grassy hill, breathless, as you lean against the trunk of a weathered tree for support. 

Past it, the landscape is quietly serene against the rough winds you had endured in your brief traversal, watching as the singular passage you had been chasing float idly through the air, caught in the hands of a lone figure sitting by the lake's edge, his back turned to you. 

You take a step closer, slowly approaching him — wincing as the crunch of leaves beneath your feet betray your presence. Somehow, he remains oblivious as you draw closer, his own mind seemingly elsewhere, eyes scrunched in focus at the page now held delicately in their hands, absorbed by such a fragment of story almost wholly. 

You wonder what he sees among those words. Does he see the same worlds as you do? The art wrought within such prose? 

His response is slow, almost dazed — as if you had just shaken him awake from a dream, amid your cautiously uttered greeting. 

Yet when he turns his head, his hair like starlight and wintry boughs swirling together in a white-spun sun, blowing gently in the breeze, a pair of crimson eyed hues fixing upon you in equal curiosity — they’re strangely reanimated, as if by your presence alone. 

You think him quite beautiful, as if he himself could’ve been written among these pages. 

[fctedivided]

@gravity-wall

Day 278.

2024-01-03.

Character - Grea.

Series - Shingeki no Bahamut.

Artist - Mumu Vosp

[fctedivided]

Faceclaims of Alice:

Currently, present verse;

Recovery phase, after forced transformation;

Future verse, Dragonborn;

Alternative verse, corrupted;

[mdevlxmen]

the eldest son of the house of draknor, belario is a descendant from a line of greats. he carries the weight of the future of his house, the glory of the future or so they say.

raised to be, before and above all, a lord and a ruler, he has been taught about how his duty comes first and it must be his priority. he has been taught on how to guide a family and the people, how to be kind and firm, at the same time. he has been given all of the tools to be the lord of draknor.

he has, however, secretly, been gifted with magic. secretly, because he hid it from his father as much as he could, because he knew how that would upset the old man. (personally, he thinks that this is where his health takes a turn for the worse — others would point out that a life of excess takes its toll and he shouldn't think about it too much).

he takes over the house of draknor while his father is still alive. old, sick and unable to rule, it's up to him now to carry the legacy of the house. he promises to never leave draknor to pursue a career in magic; this is not the future him or their descendants deserve.

but the dark powers are tricky and enticing. and he's only a man.

name: belario draknor nickname: rio (family only) title: lord of draknorage: forty gender: cis male pronouns: he/him species: sorcerer kingdom, house: vissai, draknor religion: the winged beast

face claim: santiago cabrera height: 6'1" (1.82m) body build: athletic-ish — clearly someone who has grown up being very active but has since taken up drinking and political scheming as a sport of choice. notable physical traits: a nice mustache

weapons: pen and paper powers: tba

significant other: tba (wc coming up soon) parents: hareo draknor (68) + myna draknor (60) siblings: tba sexuality: bisexual sexual position: verse, leaning top

[tasmiq]

Jumu'ah Sohbet: 13 September 2024

This Sohbet will take you on a proverbial flying carpet through the past, present, and future. With Allah, we go, Bismillah!

#1. We are living such turbulent times in our modern era!:

However, intellectuals Mehdi Hassan and Rob Delayney advised those of us deflated by man's state of affairs: "Don't be pessimistic about the future because this is your moment to relive history." Implying that at some point in our history, this sense of apocalyptic demise has been experienced before. Look, despite COVID, Climate change and War, they are continuing to make my accident old news 😅

Spiritually, Hazrat Jalaluddeen Rumi (RA) says: "Lovers find secret places inside this violent world where they make transactions with beauty." I couldn't agree more because what keeps us grounded, apart from the maddening crowds, is our spiritual connection through our Tariqa (spiritual school) that keeps us conscious of the truth and reality of La ilaha illalah (There is no god but God / Allah)! We are therefore programmed to see the positivity and beauty of Allah, no matter how much human ugliness is projected around us. Shukran Ya Allah (Divine gratitude)!

#2. We just passed the 6th of Rabi ul-Awwal which marks the Wisaal (Divine meeting) or Urs (Divine wedding) of the spirtual monarch of our country, Hazrat Shaykh Sayed Ahmed Badsha Peer (RA). His resting place was round the corner from where I worked pre-accident, and at a particularly sad time in my life, his spiritual solace carried me through it! In the middle of Durban's humble inner-city within a multiracial cemetry during a racist passage of South African history itself. Subhana'Allah (Divine glory)!:

Hazrat Badsha Peer (RA) arrived in Durban from South India as an indentured labourer in 1860 and was recognised by the British authorities as a spiritual personality and discharged of his duties. I remember telling visitors that his legacy as an indentured labourer was that his plot of sugarcane was always harvested at the end of the work day, without him having to sweat, were some of his mystical abilities. He passed away in 1894 in the precinct of the Grey Street Juma Masjid and buried in the Brook Street Muslim Cemetery. He was from amongst the Majzoob category of Sufis, who are totally drowned in the love of Allah, making them unaware of their own physical conditions. Due to this, people never recognised his spiritual position! It was in 1895 upon the arrival of Hazrat Soofie Saheb (RA) that in pure Sufi ethic, he first went to pay homage to the great Awliya (Friend of Allah) of this country. And, in doing so, located the grave of Hazrat Badsha Peer (RA), making it known for the first time that here lies "BADSHA PEER" (A King amongst Spirtual Guides)! [Chishty Sabiree Jahangiri Khanqa and Research Centre]

This was at a time when I was not even a Sufi murid (follower). As the Sufi adage goes, when the student is ready, the teacher appears. Shukran Ya Allah that he did, in the form of Shaykh Taner Ansari of Allahistan! It is also where your Mimi's Ummi is laid to rest with Allah in this world. Allah blessed your Mama and me with Mimi's blessed presence in our lives where she sought me out at the nearby offices and spiritually enlivened my consciousness of the blessing round my corner. Allah, if Hazrat Badsha Peer (RA) was involved in the spiritual mechanics of keeping me alive after a 2-month coma as it was while I still worked there, please convey Your love and eternal gratitude on my behalf:

Ya Shakur Ya Wadud!

#3. Anne (our spiritual mother) asked us to contemplate on the English translated version of Sura 89 of the Chronological Edition of the Qur'an as renewed by our Tariqa, Al-e Imran (The Family of Imran). I couldn't stop the outpouring of insights and awe within me towards Allah's words in those 200 verses. For example, I will just share 3:

- V4: Allah as the mighty establisher of consequences. (Yes, us human beings with free will must be made to feel the consequences of our choices!)

- V7: Some messages of the Qur'an are clear, but others are allegorical. Allegorical means containing a moral or hidden meaning. (As a past Qur'anic Arabic student herself, I had felt that the Qur'an is either too simplistic or too deep which drove me to keep trying to connect to it or altogether evade it! Until, unexpectedly and gloriously, did our Tariqa delve into it as richly as it did, where at virtually every other verse I am compelled to contemplate!)

- V86: The community of disbelievers who reject truth after it has come to them! (Like extremist Jews and extremist Christians that firmly hold onto their forefathers' practices! But, Islam was the most recent of Abrahamic religions, which affirmed their paths and with reasoned caveats. Another reason the community of the middle path [ummatan wasatan] makes more sense, if you ask me):

In conclusion, we enter Yuwm un-Nabi, which is an annual celebration of the birth of Rahmatul lil 'Alameen (Mercy of the worlds), our beloved Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)! Insha'Allah, it is a well-executed success as planned, which unites us deeper:

Ya Ghalib Ya Azim (Yearning Allah's ability to succeed)

Ya Wadud Ya Salaam Ya Jami Ya Nafi (and Allah's love, peace and unity in goodness)

[fctedivided]

She had a point. What was normal nowadays, since everyone had different perspectives and views about these meanings, so it hardly mattered in the end.

"I suppose you're right. I can't really judge what supposed to be right or wrong for the humans, nor for the other kinds, even my own. Not that I really care for that matter." The fallen angel looked away, staring in the distance where the moon and the stars were illuminating the night sky.

"Even I said my goodbyes towards my parents and brother, wanting to leave my sins and burdens in the past, am I truly free?" She questioned, but also to herself.

While Neo couldn't blame Lux for the questioning, the mute has been living for so LONG as an undead, that it was just the 'normal' for her. It didn't help that only a few years of her life were as a human, but even then, her parents were vampires that raised her for the day in which she was ready to be turned into one.

'I'm happy because I can do whatever I want. I'm free...and superior to those lowly human beings when gifted with these powers.' Giving the fallen angel a toothy grin, Neo chuckled softly to herself before humming softly.

'Humans also have restrictions, anyway. Almost every being does. They also have to eat and drink if they want to live, so is this any different?...the sun is a pain, more like an allergy, but no problem when we are the most active at night anyway. I was raised to be used to these, so I don't know what it's like to be 'normal'.' After making a pause, she laughed some more and stared at Lux from the corner of her eyes. 'What's really normal in this world, eh? Vampires have been controlling human society for the longest time, and yet...they think they are the ones in control. And most of the time live ignorant of the kind of creatures they walk among.'

[kwon91]

ANZU, NEVER GIVE UP

[Verse] Anzu the kunoichi flies through the night Uchiha blood keeps her fists tight Battles for honor with every strike Family's pride riding on her fight

[Verse 2] Her eyes blaze like the moon so bright Silent steps in the darkest night Enemies shiver at her might Wolf spirit takes its flight

[Chorus] Anzu never gives up never backs down Fighting for her fam her ultimate crown Honing her skills round after round Winning the battle's the sweetest sound

[Verse 3] In shadows she whispers a fierce vow Heart like fire gotta take 'em down Clan's legacy a sacred noun This fierce warrior they can't disallow

[Bridge] Anzu's moves swift can't be parried Determination like a sword barely carried Past and future on her shoulders buried In her eyes glows a mission unvaried

[Verse 4] Her resolve cuts deeper than a blade In the battle's dance she will never fade Uchiha spirit neither bought nor paid For her family honor dreams are made

[pyrokineticwarrior]

Main Verse

Name: Devendra "Dev" Yug Age: appears 36 (Oct.24th) FC: Ray.mond Abl.ack Gender: Male Species: Human Features" dark brown hair, bright amber eyes, dark olive tanned complexion Sexuality: Bisexual, leans towards women

About

Devendra "Dev" was born into the warrior clan of the Indus River, a lineage steeped in tales of valor and protection. His early days were shrouded in the legends of his ancestors who had fought against asuras, monsters, and spirits that threatened their people. Dev's mother, a spirited traveling entertainer, found a temporary home in the town of Chanderi when she discovered she was carrying Dev. It was in this town that Dev took his first breath, amidst the bustling streets and the whispers of ancient spirits.

Growing up, Dev was a beacon of light in Chanderi, known for his open heart and unwavering courage. People gravitated towards him, drawn by his bravado and inspired by his constant encouragement to be their best selves. Despite the unnerving mysteries that loomed over the town, Dev remained a pillar of strength and hope, his infectious energy touching the lives of all who crossed his path.

One of Dev's greatest loves was his affinity for dogs; their loyalty and companionship mirrored the values he held dear. Another passion of his was dancing with fire, a skill he honed in the quiet hours of the night, the flames flickering in time with the beat of his heart.

Fate smiled upon Dev when he stumbled upon a hidden gold mine deep within the dark caves of Chanderi. The wealth he unearthed not only secured his future but also provided for his mother, Agni Devi, whose mind was slowly slipping into the clutches of madness. Dev devoted himself to caring for her, his love for her shining brighter than any treasure he had found.

Despite the abundance of positivity that surrounded him, Dev was acutely aware of the encroaching darkness that lurked at the edges of the town. He often pondered the mysteries that haunted Chanderi, questioning why the creatures of the night seemed to be drawn to him specifically.

Driven by a sense of duty and a desire to protect his home, Dev began training others in the art of defense, imparting his skills and knowledge to those willing to learn. As his students grew in prowess, Dev knew it was time to embark on a journey beyond Chanderi, to seek answers to the questions that weighed heavy on his heart.

A warrior's departure was met with both reluctance and blessings from his mother, who, despite her ailing mind, understood the importance of his mission. As Dev set out into the unknown, his spirit ablaze with determination, he carried with him the legacy of his warrior clan and the hope of uncovering the hidden truths.

[fctedivided]

"You are willingly to teach me, Kefla?" The fallen angel gave it some thought before speaking up once again. "I'm not sure magic and the energy in my realm can be considered the same like ki, but I would like to try. Perhaps that way, I can also rely a bit more on myself."

@fctedivided

[— Any chance you are interested in learning how to utilize ki, Lux? You have seen what I can do with it, so if you're interested. I can teach you.]

[solowalkers]

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[phantomato]

Thank you so much for the lovely Voldemort/Thoros answer! (to my q a while ago, totally commiserate w not having much time to engage with fandom, alas!) delighted you're down to talk about the verses, i have many qs as i've read them all multiple times! i'll start w my most recent re-read, one of my favs! In Holiday what do you see in their future? does Tom try to get the locket? does Thor help? does Tom do his decade abroad? guessing he eventually shares about horcruxes but does he keep them?

Aw, thanks for the ask! ❤️ It’s nice to hear from you again.

Thinking back to Holiday, I’d say that falls into my takes on Tom Riddle re-assessing his horcrux plans long before he becomes Voldemort. I have described my AUs as a search for off-ramps, a way to divert him at various points along the path set out for him by canon, and Holiday takes an off-ramp around his late twenties which precedes his third major crisis point: killing Hepzibah and stealing the locket and cup.

So, normally, I think that Tom would have hunted down the diadem during his 10 years outside of Britain. It would have taken him a while to find it, and would be an especially challenging goal to achieve thanks to travel restrictions between Eastern and Western Europe during those decades. Holiday came about because of the thought that, if Tom were acquainted with the wealthy pureblood families of his generation, they would be precisely the types of British men to bribe their way past the usual set of travel restrictions. I wanted to play with the stereotypes of holidayers and convey the personalities, as I see them of that generation of characters based on their behavior abroad. The upshot was that Tom could tag along and get into Albania relatively legally, without what I imagine was the more harrowing and dangerous process of his canon intrusion into the country.

But being there on a holiday and with the company of so many peers really changes the journey and discovery for him. He’s forced to take in the country more broadly, and to focus on things beyond his hunt for the lost artifact, and what he experiences is then the beauty of Albania and through it, the tragedy of and empathy for Helena Ravenclaw’s journey there a millennium earlier. When he finally gets the diadem in Holiday, it has ceased to be a personal symbol of power for him—he has come to care too much for Helena’s story, for the land that she sought refuge in, and for his own experience there as he grew to trust Thoros. His new turn is in recognizing that he no longer wants to put part of his soul in the diadem; it will be more satisfying to get to return it to Helena someday, whole and unburdened, and mend a rift that started when Hogwarts was being founded. That is the style of legacy he wants, now.

I think he would take some years to undo his horcruxes. He’s able to give up the possibility of a future one more easily than he will be able to reckon with the much more personal traumas of his heritage, and he would need to do that in order to heal the diary and the ring. But I see him as making that choice, in the long run, as he creates a different future for himself in England.

One of the things that I enjoy about writing Tom Riddle is that he commits his first murder so early, and therefore nearly every version of him will be a murderer. I don’t think he cares over-much about that—for example, I haven’t ever written him as grieving or regretting Myrtle’s death (the accident and circumstance of it, sometimes, but that is inherently selfish of him). Whenever he takes one of these AU off-ramps to a future without Voldemort, or conquest, or murder, he still carries the past murders with him. And that is often not significant enough to him to make it onto the page of my stories, but it is inherently involved in the construction of his values and mindset, and for me looking back, there is always some friction in seeing him choose a ‘better’ future without materially atoning for the crimes in his past. Holiday is a very happy universe for him, filled with love and hopeful future directions, but it is nonetheless Tom Riddle who gets to have those, and he is a man who will continue to process the events of his life selfishly. It is a personal connection which makes him reconsider his outcomes, and it will be a personal regret which ultimately lets him undo his horcruxes.

[fctedivided]

It was been years that he saw her last, and even though the lesser demon didn't look much different. The ability to smile once again while having a new replacement of his missing horn's tip would tell otherwise.

"I've been good! I'm happy to see you, Peach, I missed you so much!" Zio then wrapped his arms around her shoulders, giving her a soft embrace.

@fctedivided

"Hey Zio~" Peach hummed as she knelt down to be more at the small demon's height. "How have things been for you lately?"