#^your sword and your shield | manuel

[inkparagon]

[ local teenager doesnt bother to cut his stupid fringe, more at 10 ]

[sokkas-first-fangirl]

Prompt: 16 years old Bruno is trying to hide from a teenager boy who keeping asking him on a date and won't leave him alone until Felix and Agustin protect him along with telling him he has to deal with Papa first.

A very good friendship between Bruno, Felix, and Agustin when they were younger.

Technically covered this in my A/B/O ‘verse! But we can never have enough Fab Trio shenanigans 💕

More Omega ‘verse!

Manuel Sanchez was a dick. Bruno wasn’t normally one for swearing but God above, Manuel was such a fucking dick.

For once, Bruno didn’t even feel anxious. Let Manuel brag about being an Alpha- what did Bruno care? Manuel could make all the gross suggestions he wanted, it wouldn’t change Bruno’s mind.

Relationships just didn’t interest Bruno. Romance sounded nice in theory (it made for good stories!) but it just wasn’t for him.

Granted, it wasn’t romance that Manuel had in mind.

“C’mon,” Manuel said, his hand on Bruno’s hip. “No need to be shy, your sister isn’t around.”

Manuel should be thanking his lucky stars that Pepa wasn’t here, or she’d surely zap him again. Bruno should have been quicker to leave school when the bell rang, but he’d stayed behind to ask about an art assignment and now he was cornered.

Stupid Alphas.

“Get off me,” Bruno said quietly, firmly. He held his books to his chest like a shield, trying to push past Manuel.

“Oh, lighten up!” Manuel’s grip tightened as he tried to push Bruno towards the trees. Okay, shit, maybe it was time for Bruno to start screaming. “We can-”

“SANCHEZ, GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HIM!”

Bruno’s jaw dropped as Félix came sprinting. He’d never, ever, heard Félix sound so angry. Agustín was right behind him, waving a big stick like a sword, screaming a rather high-pitched battle cry.

Manuel let go of Bruno at last, but he didn’t get far: Félix grabbed him by the shirt collar and knocked him into the wall of the school house. He even grabbed Agustín’s stick and hit Manuel with it.

Between the legs.

You get the picture.

Agustín, fifteen and gangly, pushed Bruno behind him, arms outstretched and a grimly determined look on his face, like he was on a battle field.

Félix, on the other hand, kneeled down to be eye level with Manuel as the other Alpha doubled over in pain.

“Remember how Pepa zapped you?” Félix asked pleasantly. “That wasn’t fun, right? Well, you come near my friend again and I’ll make sure you’re nice and soaked from the river when Pepa zaps you. That won’t be nice, will it? You don’t want that?”

Manuel shook his head, red-faced. Bruno could only stare at Félix in shock. Where had Mr Class Clown gone? He’d never seen Félix threaten someone like this.

“Then piss off,” Félix told Manuel. Staggering slightly, Manuel began to hobble off.

“Uptight bitch,” he muttered, glaring at Bruno.

Félix picked up the stick again.

Manuel did the smart thing and ran.

“Are you okay?” Agustín asked. He had Bruno by the shoulders, looking very closely at his face.

Despite everything, Bruno smiled. “I’m fine, Gus,” he said.

If anything, this just confirmed his sisters would never let these boys go. He’d be sure to tell them.

And…Well, it was nice to know he had friends watching out for him. It made a big difference.

“No one messes with my brothers and gets away with it,” Félix said firmly. “Now let’s get out of here, Pepa and Julieta have been looking for you, bro.”

[thepotentialof2007]

I was courageous, a hero on the track and off it I was not I watched my countrymen sent off to their deaths and I never said a word instead I used my celebrity and my fame and I hid behind my name as a shield a fucking shield when it should have been a sword

Beat Your Halfshafts Into Swords (The Radicalization And Redemption Of Juan Manuel Fangio)

The real-life Fangio died in 1995, long retired from racing. On the track he’d been known as El Maestro—the teacher—and a legendary bad-ass. Off it, he was El Chueco—most commonly translated as “bandy-legs”—short, squeaky-voiced, the very essence of good-natured humility and universally beloved for it. The Fangio of my imagination is slightly different. He’s still alive for one thing—though by what Borgesian mechanism it’s never made clear—and so haunted by his own refusal to speak out against the atrocities of Argentina’s Dirty War that he’s gone underground as a sort of international rogue agent, beholden to nobody and determined to clear his conscience by evening the score. . . This album should be properly read as one part DC comics, one part Tom Clancy novel, and one part Marxist revolutionary tract.

- Fangio by Peter Peter Hughes

[melodyofthevoid]

Since your answering asks on random stuff, weapon of choice for whatever characters/OC’s.

Ok for my royal kiddos I was thinking about this a while back

Felix: better at up-close fighting, knifes and whatnot.

Alexander: Ranged, bow and arrow mostly

Diana: Sword all the way

(All three of the above can sword fight but Diana is unquestionably the best at it)

Arran: Sword, closer to a rapier though

Manuel: Broadsword, but would prefer to shield others rather than fight

Catalina: Hand to hand. Will beat your ass in a fight.

[officialdcshepard]

The Marble Emperor

**DISCLAIMER: This short story was originally written back in 2014 for a college writing class.**

*May 28th, 1453*

Byzantine Emperor Constantine XI Dragaš Palaiologos knelt on the cold marble floor of the Hagia Sophia, the church at the center of Constantinople, with his head bowed and his eyes closed in prayer.

“To surrender the city to you is beyond my authority or anyone else's who lives in it, for all of us, after taking the mutual decision, shall die out of free will without sparing our lives,” he had growled as he threw the Turkish delegation out.

His father Manuel II, his mother Helena, and his older brother John VIII had prepared Constantine his entire life for the possibility that the Ottomans would one day try to destroy the Empire. (If they were here, they would know what to do, he thought solemnly.) Their stories of the centuries of Muslim atrocities against Christians horrified him as a child. And he suffered a bitter military loss when the Turks drove his armies from an attempted conquest of Athens back to Corinth in 1446. Therefore, from the moment he took the throne in 1449, he undertook to strengthen the city and spill their blood fighting for it. But now those very words of defiance came back to bite him like vipers that now hissed with the accusation, What empire is there left to destroy? What empire indeed? The Byzantines were the eastern, Greek speaking descendants of the Roman Empire, which once had uncontested dominion from Britain to Persia. After ten centuries of weathering attacks from barbarians, Muslims, and Christians alike, however, the Byzantines now only ruled a small portion of the southernmost part of Greece called the Despotate of the Morea (astride what used to be Sparta), a handful of Aegean islands, and the immediate environs of Constantinople.

And yet, Constantine reflected, he was not truly alone in this fight. Kneeling in prayer beside him was Giovanni Gustiniani. Constantine had joked to Giovanni during a rare break in the siege that he was the only good man to ever come out of Genoa. But it was true. The Italian had sailed to Constantinople’s aid with seven hundred Genoese mercenaries. But far more importantly, he quickly became Constantine’s protostrator (or second in command) and made sure the ragtag Byzantine, Genoese, and Venetian soldiers remained unified and could effectively defend the walls. Without his help, the city would not have held out for as long as it had so far.

Right now, though, Giovanni looked worried as he turned to Constantine. Constantine did his best to not show the fear that this look caused to spread through his whole body. If Giovanni was nervous, then surely something must be wrong. But Constantine dared not show his trepidation. He certainly could not afford to appear weak in front of the throng of thousands of civilian refugees who had been praying with them. They now took shelter in the center of this cathedral that remained strong for them and that housed the priests who fed them with meager stores of bread, even as paint from the mosaics peeled off and critical masonry in the walls started to show cracks and strain. It seemed to the Emperor that his subjects were also barely holding themselves together, especially recently.

On the night of May 22nd, when the Moon rose, it was partially eclipsed by the Earth's shadow and its light glowed red like blood. This already caused enough panic for Constantine and what remained of his government in a city that had been besieged for a month to have to deal with. To make things worse, rumors flew around that there was a prophecy that the city would fall after a blood moon. Then four days later, the entire city was blanketed by a large, thick, and choking cloud of black fog. When the fog lifted, there appeared around the dome of the Hagia Sophia a strange multicolored light, which some hoped came from the fires of foreign armies come to relieve the city. Most, however, despaired, wailing throughout the crumbling streets that the Holy Spirit had abandoned the capital to the heathens.

Under these circumstances, Constantine could not blame anyone for panicking. He almost envied that they were able to scream.

"Is there something that troubles you, my friend?" he asked calmly, placing a large, weary hand on the Italian captain's shoulder.

"I don't know quite how to say this, my lord..."

"Please. We have known each other long enough, Giovanni. It is Constantine."

"Alright- Constantine," Giovanni stammered quietly, hoping that he wasn't disturbing the Latin and Greek churchmen and the Imperial nobility who sat immediately behind him as the service continued. "I am afraid I must beg leave to attend to the walls. It appears that the Turks are concentrating their cannon fire on the Blachernae." These were the most weakened walls, and were situated in the northwest of the city.

“I will excuse you and ask for God's forgiveness on your behalf if He should be offended by this," Constantine nodded.

As Giovanni attempted to slink towards the exit without arousing the panic of the commoners or the offended huffs of the churchmen, Constantine wished that he could leave. He was, of course, a very devout Christian, and it was important that the Emperor remain implacably, solemnly beseeching of God's mercy at a time like this. But now he could very well feel the weight of the sword on his right hip and the shield leaning on his left arm, and he knew they would soon be needed.

*****

*Rumeli Hisari, Ottoman Fortress Just North of Constantinople*

"Are you sure that it will not break this time?" Sultan Mehmed shouted at Orban the Dacian, his Hungarian gunsmith. He did this not out of any anger towards the other man, but simply in order for his words to be heard over the constant gunfire.

"Yes, my lord," Orban bowed. "I have made several small but important improvements to the design since the last time we fired it."

"Excellent, my friend," Mehmed replied.

However, the Sultan made a careful mental note to keep an eye on Orban. He had initially offered to work for the Byzantines. It was only because his asking price was too high and because the Byzantines did not have the resources necessary for what he was asking to create them that he had changed sides, and that would pose a problem.

“When will it be ready?"

Orban's blond mustache trembled before he said, "I- I have the full team of sixty oxen and four hundred men rolling it into position in front of the fort even as we speak."

"Good," Mehmed smiled, something which Orban had rarely seen.

Orban then enthusiastically cried, "I will go down there and personally make sure that it is aimed and fired properly. Where would you like me to aim it?"

"See how the other cannons are concentrating their fire at the northwest corner?" Mehmed asked and then pointed.

Orban nodded and immediately rushed down and made preparations to fire upon the Blachernae. At whatever price his loyalty may have been bought to start with, with that gesture Mehmed was now confident that Orban would remain on his side.

When he came to the throne two years earlier after the death of his father, Sultan Murad II, no one would have ever thought that Mehmed, then only nineteen, would ever inspire any kind of loyalty or do anything great. Even Mehmed himself had not been confident in himself when he took the throne.

He had done it before, ruling for a short time when his father abdicated in 1444. But he was only twelve at the time. Frustrated when his teachers assumed he could not do anything competently, took power out from under him, and then nearly ran the entire nation into the ground, Mehmed had had to supplicate his father to return to the throne and resented being lectured by the old fool afterwards. Thereafter father and son bitterly resented each other.

Mehmed had not wanted to have to go through it all again, and almost cursed Allah for taking his father away and making him do this.

But as his father lay dying in 1451, he had summoned young Mehmed into his chambers and had him sit beside him on the bed and read from one of the hadiths, a report of the deeds and sayings of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him). In it he said, "Verily you shall conquer Constantinople. What a wonderful leader will he be, and what a wonderful army will that army be!"

"I know that you can do what I could not, my son," Sultan Murad coughed, and then closed his eyes and drifted into Paradise.

His teacher Ak Şemseddin had drilled into him from the moment he could read that it was his Islamic duty to capture Constantinople. And now, as he wept for the loss of his father, Mehmed was reminded of that. He knew what his first act in office must be, and knew that the Christian and Muslim enemies that surrounded him would never take him seriously unless he did this. Therefore, from the moment he had taken the throne, Mehmed prepared his armies to crush Constantinople. In doing so, he would succeed where Muslim armies had failed since 678. In the process he would eliminate a small but annoying foe in the middle of his country, establish for it a natural capital, and turn his Sultanate into an heir to the glory of Rome herself.

Of course, since he was a reasonable man, he had first offered a way for Byzantine "Emperor" Constantine to step down without bloodshed. He didn’t expect Constantine would *agree*, but all this blood was now on the Greek.

"Fire!" the Sultan cried once Orban had positioned the cannon correctly. It was now midnight on the morning of May 29th, and the Sultan now prayed that this would mark the final assault that would deliver the city to himself, his people, and to Allah.

No sooner had the fuse been lit then the hiss and pop of the fire dancing on the edges of the rope that fed itself into the monstrous bronze beast echoed within its cavernous belly. To some who were on the ground, it was almost was as if this cannon, which was heavier than several ships put together, was an unholy djinn taking a deep inhalation before breathing out terrible fire upon its enemies. And when it belched its black smoke, wheels taller than two men standing on top of one another nearly buckled from the recoil as the ball sailed across the Golden Horn, the small inlet that formed the northern boundary of Constantinople.

Several soldiers immediately noticed another loud bang emerge from the metal dragon. But none of them remembered loading and firing it at all, which seemed odd. One went to take a closer look. By the time he heard another angry shout emerging from the cracks, however, an enraged fireball devoured him and spat out only ash in its wake. The frightened rabbits ran for their lives but it was already too late. Mehmed could not bear to watch the carnage below him. When the bloated weapon finally shuddered and died, he despaired to learn that was left of Orban had been incinerated in the blast and crushed by falling pieces of bronze as well.

Struggling to keep away tears so as not to panic those men who still lived and were dealing with the horror of seeing their mangled comrades, the Sultan's eyes followed the cannonball for a moment before he knelt on the fortress's walls and made this solemn prayer.

"Allah, if it be your will, bring Orban into Paradise and let his death not have been in vain. Bless our endeavor this night and deliver Constantinople unto us."

"What will you have me do, my lord?" the Commander of the Janissaries, the Empire's brave, elite soldiers, asked the Sultan.

"Assemble every man you have and prepare to attack!"

*****

"All of you, get away from the walls and take cover!" Giovanni cried. He was at the front of the line, waving with his sword and banging his shield to get the attention of those who were still manning the Blachernae guard posts at that moment.

Most saw his message and tried to escape by leaping away from the towers and onto piles of hay below. This did not work at all, but fortunately, when compared to those who were caught on the walls when the cannonball slammed into them, their deaths were swift and painless.

Giovanni squinted as his entire body and his suit of armor was coated in a thin layer of powdered limestone from the hole that had been punched through the city's defenses. And worse, mere moments seemed to pass before a horde of howling Turks streamed through the walls, seemingly endless. And not just any Turks.

Janissaries.

Brutal, merciless, and born only to kill and maim, these monstrous, gnarled mercenaries drove fear into the hearts of the defenders.

"Stand your ground!" Giovanni yelled. "For we will fight and die honorably and on our feet, as our Roman forefathers did before us!"

He did not get to say much more before a river of Turkish shields slammed against his own. The Italian leaned his shoulder into his shield to push back against them and stabbed his foes through whatever hole in their guard he could find, coating the cobblestones generously with their blood.

Just as Giovanni was about to say something further to rally the defenders to push the Turks back towards the breach in the wall, a crossbow bolt lodged itself in his throat and stifled the Emperor's friend forever. And as word of Giovanni's death spread around the ranks, the Byzantines and their foreign allies broke ranks and retreated now that the man who had single-handedly kept the Empire together was gone.

“Why are they retreating?" Emperor Constantine asked to himself with his hands folded behind his long purple robes, even though he already knew what the answer was.

"I do not know, my lord," one of the churchmen said.

"The Turks are pouring into the city like a river!" a man who used to be a merchant yelled. "We're doomed!"

"I just saw two priests disappear into the cathedral walls! God is punishing us up for our sins," a woman sobbed.

But then, even though Constantine was coming apart at the moment he knew the city was lost, the Emperor walked calmly through the teeming masses and said, "My friends, fellow Romans! Do not despair. For whatever happens this night, trust in our Lord and Savior, for he has said to us, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven'."

With that, Constantine commanded the guards still inside to bolt the doors to the Hagia Sophia, quickly picked up his sword and shield, and ran through the city in full armor, fueled by adrenaline to meet with his men before they could completely retreat.

His robes were long and cumbersome and the trappings of what little of his Imperial office he had left now only served to slow him down. With that, he cried at the top of his lungs, "The city is fallen and I am still alive," tore them off so as to no longer distinguish himself from his soldiers, and charged into the fray with them. After that, no one saw Constantine again.

Some say even to this day that just at the moment of his death, an angel flew in and carried the beloved last Emperor of Rome away. Others say he left the battle, stood atop a platform overlooking the carnage, and wept before hanging himself.

From that moment on, he became the Marble Emperor, turned to stone and entombed underneath the city until he would awaken again in its hour of need. Simultaneously, legends grew that the two priests who disappeared into the walls of Hagia Sofia would reemerge when the city would be retaken by the soldiers of Christ.

*****

The great oak doors to the Hagia Sophia now leaned slackly against the rotting pillars of stone as the Sultan entered the passageway. It had only been three days since the Ottomans captured Constantinople and already his workers were busy painting over the mosaics of Mary with child with beautiful white Arabic lettering on top of a simple black background, as well as placing minarets at the tops of the towers. Within a month, his planners told him, the mosque would be renovated enough to allow for Friday prayers to be read.

Mehmed's soldiers had also been hard at work looting over the past three days, an enterprise that personally disgusted the young ruler. But this had to be allowed, if only for this limited amount of time, for soldiers on any side of a war these days were often a fickle bunch, prone to deserting if every little demand of theirs was not met. For instance, he had had to build Rumeli Hisari in the shape of the Arabic letters for Muhammad in order to keep morale up, and that had only lasted a week. (It hadn't hurt, however, that his name was styled the same way.)

The results of the three day looting period were almost too much for him to gaze upon. Elderly men who just days earlier had been praying for deliverance from the prophet Isa, who they called Jesus, were now stacked on wagons and preparing to be dumped into the Bosporus. Children were in shackles, about to be sold to slave markets as far as the Songhai in the heart of Africa. And women and young girls were weeping, their clothes in tatters.

He could do nothing about those whose freedom had already been lost, but now his voice boomed through the mosque,

"Henceforth, those who are still in hiding will not be harmed."

Hopefully, he thought, this would be the first step in beginning to rebuild the city to its former glory. Soon, he reasoned, it would become the glorious, shimmering golden crown of an Empire without end. It would welcome commerce from all over the world, shelter Muslim, Christian, and Jew, and become the greatest power the world had ever known. "The spider weaves the curtains in the palace of the Caesars and the owl calls the watches in the towers of Afrasiab," Mehmed had proclaimed when he first stepped into the city. Hopefully, that would not be the case for much longer.

[minervacasterly]

~I'm Woman, Hear me Roar! Knowledge is Power and Worth the Risk~ “Respondame hermano, que es mas importante, llenar su cabeza con conocimiento o salvar su alma?” ~Juana Ines, Netflix mini series, 2016. Whenever I hear the song "I am woman, hear me roar" I think of Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz. At a time when it was dangerous for a woman, especially one in her position and with her background, to speak up, she did and in subtle ways to avoid getting caught and yet ... she still landed herself in the spotlight but as Tyrion said about Sansa in Game of Thrones, Juana's words and letters were her shield and her sword.

Better known as Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz once she became a nun, she was among the most illustrious women of her day. Sir Isaac Newton himself was impressed when he met her. She was just a teenager at the time but she was not afraid to speak her mind and make inquiries regarding the nature of the universe, theology, or other 'controversial' subjects. And before she knew it, she became controversial despite having the assurance that she was protected by the church. Juana Ines de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana was the illegitimate daughter of Pedro Manuel de Asbaje, a Spanish Captain and a criolla woman, Isabel Ramírez. Due to her baseborn status, Juana grew up with her maternal grandfather in his hacienda outside of Mexico City.

She never made any excuses for her station, and at age 3, sneaking from her grandparent and mother, she would read as many books as she could after she received some basic education. At that age she could write and read better than most. Later, she could read and write Latin and in other languages. At five, she learned and mastered most of known math. At 8, she was writing religious poetry and translating from the gospels of the New Testament. At 12, she begged her mom to send her to Mexico city where instead of going to the Viceroy court to serve his wife, she could disguise herself as a boy and enroll in a university. Her grandfather thought it was scandalous and her mother put an end to her dreams ... for a time. There, she found many minds thirsty for knowledge as she was and before long, she decided that if she ever was going to make something of herself that didn't involve surrendering her freedom to a husband, she had to sacrifice the idea of forming a family. So she convinced her mother and grandfather to let her join a convent which they did. At 16, she enrolled in one and became a nun. She was not without controversy. Hard as she tried to stay clear out of the mouths of everyone, she couldn't help it when everyone was already fascinated by her. Isaac Newton had been impressed by her curiosity and how she challenged him and pushed him forward towards his scientific goal.

The Catholic Church and the Spanish crown were the supreme authority and the Inquisition was their tool to suppress any inquiry regarding god or the nature of the universe. Juana didn't let this stop her and continued to write until she came under their radar. In the end, she got away by using her intellect and her mastery of rhetoric; but the remainder of her life was far from easy. In her own way, she decried some of these norms. The best example of this can be found in her famous poem "Letras de Hombres necios que Acusias" (Letters of Lousy men who Accuse) where it goes as follows: "Hombres necios que acusáis a la mujer sin razón, sin ver que sois la ocasión de lo mismo que culpáis: si con ansia sin igual solicitáis su desdén, ¿por qué queréis que obren bien si las incitáis al mal? Combatís su resistencia, y luego con gravedad decís que fue liviandad lo que hizo la diligencia. Queréis con presunción necia hallar a la que buscáis, para pretendida, Tais, y en la posesión, Lucrecia. ¿Qué humor puede ser más raro que el que falta de consejo, él mismo empaña el espejo y siente que no esté claro? Con el favor y el desdén tenéis condición igual, quejándoos, si os tratan mal, burlándoos, si os quieren bien. Opinión ninguna gana, pues la que más se recata, si no os admite, es ingrata y si os admite, es liviana. Siempre tan necios andáis que con desigual nivel a una culpáis por cruel y a otra por fácil culpáis. ¿Pues cómo ha de estar templada la que vuestro amor pretende, si la que es ingrata ofende y la que es fácil enfada? Mas entre el enfado y pena que vuestro gusto refiere, bien haya la que no os quiere y quejaos enhorabuena. Dan vuestras amantes penas a sus libertades alas, y después de hacerlas malas las queréis hallar muy buenas. ¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido en una pasión errada, la que cae de rogada o el que ruega de caído? ¿O cuál es más de culpar, aunque cualquiera mal haga: la que peca por la paga o el que paga por pecar? Pues ¿para qué os espantáis de la culpa que tenéis? Queredlas cual las hacéis o hacedlas cual las buscáis. Dejad de solicitar y después con más razón acusaréis la afición de la que os fuere a rogar. Bien con muchas armas fundo que lidia vuestra arrogancia, pues en promesa e instancia juntáis diablo, carne y mundo." Which translates to: you guys suck, you accuse women for no reason and you invite the devil yourselves with your lust for power and desire for the flesh. Pretty straightforward, isn't it? Granted, it was the Baroque period, but still, people have this misconception that everything after the middle ages was liberating for women when in fact, the opposite was true in most cases. It depended on your status, your birth, and where you live, that you could afford certain privileges that other women could not have. And let's not forget, that many of these women, even if they were against conventional norms, they still thought that there was a natural order that governed the universe and that everybody should abide by it.

Juana died at the age of 43 on the 17th of April 1695 as a result of the plague that had stricken most of her sisters she had tended to. To this day, she is considered one of the most notable figures of Colonial-American, Baroque, and Mexican history with her works being taught to almost every school children in the latter. There have been many adaptations that illustrate her life and times. Some of them are better than others; this series falls into the first category. The actress they chose to play her embodied the best and worst aspects of her, illustrating her self-doubts and frustrations with having to deal with the same obstacles that most women of her generations, even those from within the church, had to face. Image: Statue of Sor Juna in Chapultepec, Mexico.

[enokvirkow]

fatedsands​:

Manuel raised his brows. Oh, but he was being serious. He leaned to better look the young man over… he must have been but a teenager, when he faced being exiled. Barely of age to be in Godfrey’s forces, but a member never-the-less. Had he also left behind his family, his home to this stagnation?

“Truly.” he answered. “It would do well for you to cast your mind back. Marika exiled Godfrey and all his forces. That didn’t solely include fighters, tell me, were there not scouts, gatherers, cooks among the army driven from the Lands Between?”

For when Marika passed down her judgement, not one person was spared. Every soul that had been under Godfrey’s command, whether it be servant or scholar, had been forced to march.

“I am a prophet, as you are aware. I was among the learned voices that once swayed opinion in Godfrey’s war plans. Where some offered knowledge of the lands, fighting styles and so on, I would glimpse the future to reveal a piece of what was to come.” Then, he offered a shrug that was almost sympathetic. “I’m afraid I speak the truth. Never have I fought before.”

The little scold Manuel gave him, had Enok's grin vanishing and his shoulders sinking a bit. He hadn't meant to be ignorant and rude - but had just proven to be exactly that. Manuel's explanation made sense and Enok had known these people had also been in Godfrey's forces, though he had not really met any of them recently... maybe that was why he had forgotten about them.

And the longer he thought about it, the more sense it made. If you weren't trained in fighting it was better to stay in the shadows and hidden away from the brutes and mindless among the Tarnished...

"I apologize.", Enok said then. He was genuine in that, rubbing the side of his neck and trying a careful smile again.

"What I said was foolish... I... it sometimes feels I have been fighting for so long, I forget other things still exist... thanks for reminding me."

That was a scary thought. Dreadful, really. And Enok had the doubt that this mindset was what made Tarnished lose the sight of Grace. At least some of them. But who knew with all of what was happening... well. Maybe people like Manuel knew. After all, the future was readable to them.

Letting his fingers draw over the medallion again, Enok almost huffed a little laugh.

"Fine then. If we do this... you will be my eyes and my lead. And I will be your sword and shield. I was not able to enter the Forth on my own - maybe your talents are exactly what I lacked... if you dare to come with me, that is?"

[comiccrusaders]

Prepare for one of the funniest retro RPGs ever created

Listen! The end is nigh!! Hear my words and prepare! An ancient cult has set foot in our lands! They call themselves -The Sons of Dawn- and pray to some dark elder god. They have started recruiting people for their cause all over the country. I fear that they want to try to awaken something which should be left sleeping. Something dangerous and sinister! Something that might destroy us all. Spend your last of days wisely…

Enter the world of Pixel Heroes and prepare yourself for a thrilling RPG/Roguelike experience like you have never seen before! Explore a randomized world full of hilarious events, deadly dungeons and the weirdest NPCs you will ever meet in a game! Choose three heroes for your party and take them on a journey that will be completely different each time you start a new game. Bath in a pool of procedurally generated loot and defeat the evil forces that threaten the township of Pixton!

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FEATURES

Thirty unique hero classes to unlock, each with individual skills and attributes.

More procedurally generated axes, spears, maces, swords, shields, bows, crossbows, spells and prayers than a llama has hair on its body.

Thirteen mystic and beautifully cruel dungeons to explore. Epic bossfights waiting!

Three campaigns to unlock, each with its own final dungeon and boss.

Permadeath! You know you want it.

A detailed graveyard where you can mourn your dead heroes, compare their statistics and see which of their choices led to their tragic death.

Completely crazy NPCs, each one of them with a significant storyline that you can follow to unlock cool stuff!

Tons of random events that you will encounter on your way, expecting you to make important choices. Will you yell at the cat like a crazy idiot?

Many achievements and unlockables, try to get them all and become the most badass Pixel Hero in the world!

The time has come to revisit these wonderful memories with the upcoming release of ​Pixel Heroes: Byte & Magic, one of the funniest retro RPG ever created. The thrilling RPG/Roguelike can now be pre-ordered at the Xbox One Store for a price of $9.99 / €9,99 / £7.99. The release date will be March the 3rd.

About Headup Games

Headup Games is a hybrid games publishing and development company providing players worldwide with the best content in the independent gaming sector. Active on all major platforms such as consoles, mobile devices and PC, the company has released over 100 titles since its establishment in 2009. With over 50 million customers served on mobile and further several million players on the PC and consoles, Headup Games is always looking to raise awareness and commercial success for developers thinking outside the box. More information can be found at www.headupgames.com

About The Bitfather

The Bitfather is a small indie game development team from Germany founded in 2014. It consists of lead designer Tom Hirsch, programmer Christian Schulz and composer Manuel Krusy.

Back to the 80’s with Pixel Heroes: Byte & Magic Prepare for one of the funniest retro RPGs ever created Listen! The end is nigh!! Hear my words and prepare!

[psychicmedium14]

There’s a feeling of nationwide – and worldwide – hopelessness after a senseless tragedy like the one that took place Sunday night in Las Vegas. It’s tempting to stay glued to our screens as the story unfolds, as we wonder, again, why, why, why? That’s why it’s important for us to remember every day how valuable our lives are, and how important it is to take care of ourselves. Taking care of yourself might look like taking care of others. It might look like sending that extra “I love you” text, or giving an extra tight hug. If you need extra support, you can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “HOME” to 741-741. Call 1-866-535-5654 if you’re missing a loved one and need more information. I want you to know that whatever you need to do right now is OK. If you feel helpless, there are things you can do, even if that thing is taking care of yourself. As Lin-Manuel Miranda tweeted yesterday morning: “You can also put down your phone or close your computer and take a walk. That’s what I just did. We need you for the long haul. We need you.” My aunt said to my grandfather yesterday morning, "You're scared to go anywhere" which is a sad reality, a truth she'd never admit before. The 59 people who were killed and 515 others who are in critical condition at a hospital were on my mind all day and still are. I am astounded that a sixty-something-year-old man with no criminal record would go to a hotel in Las Vegas, request a room on the 32nd floor, and begin shooting after country singer Jason Aldean sang five songs at his concert before Stephen Paddock took his own life rather than surrender to police. Come to find out, Stephen's father robbed a bank. The ongoing controversy about our history and so on, violence included, literally sickens me. President Donald Trump called the deadliest shooting in modern history an act of pure evil. Do I agree with him? You can bet that the answer is yes. Where is the love? When we did we become so divided, full of hate, despair, and violence? We all bleed the same. We may be of a different race and speak in different tongues but our hearts beat as one. The bonds of friendship are more important than ever in these dark and trying times. It is our choices that show who we really are, far more than our abilities. We are as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. But even in the darkest of times, happiness can found, if one remembers to turn on the light. Where is the light? It is my belief that what Dumbledore is hinting at is this: The light is found within us, begging to be lit. Go within and find the light no one can take away from you. Meditate on what I have said and see how you feel afterward. No matter how many times the forces of evil try to penetrate your protective shield, a shield created with love with help from the angels you call upon to assist you. St. Michael will be more than happy to come to your aid but only if you ask. Seconds before I was released from the grip of a demon, before I realized what had happened, I had a vision of St. Michael coming in, sword of light in hand, to save me. I thank him each and every day for coming to my rescue. He knew as soon as he was called that I needed him. Every minute, every hour, this very moment, perhaps, the darkness seeks to ruin what it hates most. I feel Satan or Lucifer is doing his best to destroy what we hold dear by using deranged folks like Stephen Paddock and countless others to do his bidding until the Second Coming. Am I right or wrong? Who's to say? In any case as long as you have God and His angels beside you, you are the greatest weapon He can use to defeat him. How is that food for thought? I will admit: I question the Bible more than I used to but this is just something to think about.

[inkparagon]

Make a Loaf Cat of your muse!

[inkparagon]

nerusuzo replied to your post: “Can telephones even wear clothes?”

Yes, technically. However, I am more digital than a telephone.

“That’s... not really helping your case.”

[inkparagon]

rubs hands together i have been wanting to write about manuels shadow (even tho i have no current plans for it rn dhdhsj) so-

His Palace manifests itself as a huge nightclub. the public floors are packed, but all the ordinary people are like low poly npcs in an old video game- they lack any faces or defining features, and they seem to even be repeating ‘models’ so to speak. There’s a handful of cognitions that do stand out- the squid sisters and off the hook provide music and entertainment on the biggest but lowest floor of the club, the capn generally floats around the bar. A cognitive Shiba can occasionally be seen moving between the employee backrooms, and getting lost in the crowd themselves. Kouki is generally seen hanging out on an empty quiet balcony. His metro friends stalk the darker corridors of the utmost floors, and his kids and little brother are safe and sound in his treasure room.

Shadow Manuel- who refers to himself as Sango mostly, is the dj of the highest public floor, putting himself on a pedestal slightly higher than everyone else due to his status as Agent 3. The most notable thing about this shadow is the big noise cancelling headphones he wears, as well as the complete apathy to well- anything really. theres no motivation or energy in his actions or speech, and he doesnt listen to anyone but his cognitions of noticeable people

his palace is born from his repressed thoughts that life and existence is meaningless- his life especially so. he views everyone outside his own social circle as faceless masses, and if they all disappeared, he wouldn’t give a damn. he has no real desire to do anything with his life- which in and of itself is a distorted desire. to the outside world, sango is very go with the flow, and can adapt to any situation, which internally stems with having no goal in life. the music he plays in the club reflects that, swinging violently from preppy upbeat pop, to something more sinister sounding with no real rhyme or rhythm. the aggresive shadows that lurk here appear in the form of party goers with paper masks and the occasional bouncer

the upper private floors get a lot darker than the excitement on the public floors, reflecting a lot of his younger teenage years and time spent in the metro. theres a l o t of self hate and destruction seen there, and its also where most of his agent 3 mementos and gear are kept, given they served as an outlet for his feelings at the time. the fact theyre all high up and away also mirrors how that side of him is kept completely under wraps and distant from the way he acts irl. another form of shadow appears here, represented by kamabo co workers

his treasure room is, surprisingly, completely different from the rest of the palace. it’s not even part of the club, instead, its his kitchen at home, full of love and life, and even serving as a safe room because the cognition isnt actually that strong. drag manuels shadow up there and youll see his protectiveness of the things dear to him also stems for his own meaningless. he will gladly sacrifice his everything for the people he loves without a second thought, because he doesnt care about his own life.

his treasure is a vinyl disc playing music close to his heart, which, in the real world, turns out to be a photo album of the people he cares about.

[inkparagon]

📺 sango, are you worried about how the world perceives you?

Shadow Self | Accepting

“Nope. Why should I be? The ‘world’ is a faceless, mindless crowd- who cares what they think? It’s just pointless noise, after all. Let them dance, it’s not like any of our lives have any real meaning anyway.”

[inkparagon]

the rampaging octowhirl

Agent 3 was a lot of things. Feisty and rambunctious, she lacked the skill and experience of Agents 1 and 2, but she was tenacious, precision traded for pure instinct. In her campaign, she had easily bested the Octostomp and the Octonozzle, a feat which she, really, had never dreamed of doing.

And we see her now, super jumping to metal and brick arena. Her prize, a golden zapfish, encased in glass, floats for just a moment, above what she could only describe as a large and mechanical clam, before it’s claimed by the signature octarian tentacle. The Octowhirl, a rampaging remnant of a war long past, roars to life, and Agent 3 draws her weapon, smile sharp as she begins what she thinks will be another easy fight.

And it is, at first. We see her now, taunting the weapon towards her again, and she’s laughing, the adrenaline of it all exciting her. Machines see, without an operator, follow the same pattern over, and over, and the Octowhirl is no different, spinning towards her in a flurry of spikes, where a pool of ink lays across it’s path, waiting to ensnare it’s target once again.

Except it doesn’t, spikes just barely pulling the massive machine out it’s would-be trap, and for a precious moment, we see Agent 3 try to dodge it, but it’s just not enough. One of her long tentacles, currently yellow-green and left loose, is caught in a spike and shes dragged along the cold, hard floor, as her other tentacle, too, is impaled. The camera pans up as we see a small ghost of a squid rise where, just a minute before, Agent 3 had stood,truly enjoying what had turned so quickly into a personal nightmare.

And she respawns, and only then is the true nature of the damage to her done revealed. Her tentacles, ripped and torn, drip with a thick ink that coagulates on her clothing and hands, and it hurts, a painful ache that only worsens with every movement she makes. But she grits her teeth, and jumps straight back in, ignoring the Cap’n’s pleas to retreats as her radio turns to static.

And we jump now to her victorious return to the Splatoon HQ, light headed, and leaving a trail of what we could, supposedly, call blood in her wake. And yet, as she enters the cabin, there’s no fussing about her appearance, no praise about her valiant effort to reclaim the zapfish curled up asleep in her arms. The cabin is empty and cold, a cup of cold tea and a plate of the Cap’n’s favourite biscuits sit untouched on the desk. 

Agent 3 nearly collapses, not quite succumbing to the pain of being, essentially, mauled alive. In her haze, only being able to reach for a pair of sharp scissors, she makes the decision that chopping off her destroyed tentacles was the best option, parents’ opinions long forgotten. And she slides down the wall, not allowing herself to cry, and we see her radio light up pink and green as two familiar yet not too familiar voices reach out to her.

[inkparagon]

✒︎✒︎✒︎

Random Trivia | Accepting

Manuel and Shiba actually met long before Shiba joined the agency- they ran into each other during the Callie vs Marie splatfest (Shiba’s first), at the voting box. It was a very brief interaction, which basically accumulated to Manuel just picking Shiba’s team for them, as they hadn’t chosen in about 10 minutes (Team Marie, as opposed to Manuel’s Team Callie). Shiba doesn’t actually know it was Manuel (just that the scary girl he heard rumours about forced him to choose a team), but Manuel does.

Kouki’s room is really neat and tidy, but his wardrobe is a fucking disaster. Aside from clothes, it’s where he stores all his gear for matches and grizzco, snacks, and a lot of other random shit.

Manuel can pick the other two up at the same time, and does often whenever they look like they’re about to get into another fist fight. Kouki and Shiba hate it.

[inkparagon]

✒︎✒︎✒︎✒︎ for All Of Them :)

Random Trivia | Accepting

He used to main the Wasabi Splattershot, before the specials ban, and he had a reputation for being pretty brutal with it. Since it’s been changed, he just sticks to a regular splattershot, or the kensa pro on occasion

He actually really enjoyed his time in the metro, and half considered moving there for a while, and might have if it wasn’t for all the really fucked up shit going on

He might look like he has his life at seem somewhat together but honestly he doesnt know whats going on most of the time, and much of the advice he gives out tends to be made up on the fly

His fashion sense isnt actually that bad, he just has no shame, and also likes to embarrass his kids (plus Shiba and Kouki) by wearing tacky clothes

Gives really good hugs on the rare occasion they give one out. They’re quite squishy and small- it’s almost like hugging a plushie,

They can fall asleep just about anywhere, if they allow themselves- once they even did it while walking

Actually finds wearing proper shoes really uncomfortable- they will if they have to (agent stuff, school, etc), but will either go barefooted, or wear sandals whenever they can

Their grades are pretty middle of the road, enough to be at higher level, but not outstanding- except when it comes to Inkling class.They had a very high reading standard as a kid, so they were given much harder work to do, to the point it comes quite naturally to them now.

His favourite food is Curry Bread. It’s very nostalgic to him, which he guesses is from his childhood growing up in a bakery. He usually makes it himself if he has the time.

He kinda hates it, but hes a profreshional part timer at Grizzco; his team leader thinks its good training, so he makes do. At the very least, another member of his team is a rare full time pro, so they get some special perks when it comes to weapon choice and what not.

Finds it really hard to stay awake when taking the train, if he manages to grab a seat- during his time at kamabo, the trains would be his default sleeping spot, so even now his instinct is just to fall asleep when he’s on one.

He updates his phone home screen with a new photo weekly, usually of something he did during the week, a selfie with his friends, or a food picture.