#◈ event : ( fantasia pt. 2 )

[crossfists]

He was no stranger to the world ending. Nor the difficulties that came with 'banding together'. Still, he had been doing what he could for his own part, with his own professional standing on the island, currently. It had...Somewhat worked. He did not find he was the best at recruiting people to a cause, even if those, once recruited, would have no issues following his lead.

And after days of recruitment, he allowed himself to worry after Steven once more. A message was sent while his back was turned:

[text] I will meet you shortly.

Before he continued on his way. It was already dusk, and Steven shouldn't have left just yet while still giving the man more freedom shortly. Moving into an alleyway, the encroaching darkness obfuscates the purple haze coming off the person walking toward him, but it can hardly obfuscate the familiar silhouette approaching-

...

...

The fight that occurred is at minimum, bloody. The damage to the buildings nearby was not destructive, but indicated combat in a closed space between two strong figures.

Only a single hulking figure remains at the end, drenched in red. The smell would be enough to entice any Unholy with a penchant or appetite for blood would be drawn for miles.

And yet the man in holy garb does not move further from the spot, standing still.

@scarrfaze

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; The garden is quiet.

It's getting later in the evening, anyway, the general sounds of footsteps on the nearby road fading as the throngs that traipsed its newly-softened surface thin into a slow trickle, the sun giving dominion to its counterpart. It's easier on Vash's eyes this way, still hidden behind tinted glass, so much more sensitive now than they had been. It's not the smartest of judgements, being out reds and oranges fade to deep purple in the sky-- not with the frightened whispers he'd been picking up from passerby, nor with the eerie flames hovering off in the distance.

Lantern sitting off to the side, Vash sits cross-legged in the grass, nose buried in the tome on his lap. Much trial and error had been had when creating the ward around the house, the gentle dotting of mushrooms giving it a wide circumference far more challenging to conjure than he'd thought they would be-- more than a few of his eyebrow hairs having payed the price for his hubris.

The ward's not strong enough now though. At least, not compared to what Vash wants for it. For now, it serves as more of a one-way mirror than anything; sound and light fail to escape it, leaving any curious eyes that didn't already know what they were looking for with nothing but another grove of trees to grace their sights. It needs to be stronger, if it's going to keep anyone else safe. Despite his own ignoring of fearful whispering, he's bound and determined to figure out a way to keep more people safe within his hand-crafted borders. There's got to be a way to fortify things somewhere in here, surely.

Soft footfalls of boots against grass, the complete absence of light in their wake, don't register above the sound of leaves rustling in the evening wind, above the intensity of his focus. Not until it's in range, at least; until wild blue eyes whip around to meet their mirror. The tome lies forgotten on the ground, and the sound of bodies crashing into flower bushes remains muffled behind invisible curtains.

@punishercross

[paimonial-rage]

My most interacted with fics:

Cocky Bastard Vibes (Zhongli)

Tipsy Tales (Anemo boys)

Why He Rejected You (pt 1)

Telling Them Off (Ayato, Venti, Xiao)

A Sight to Behold (Yae Miko)

Obvious (Neuvillette)

Simple (Alhaitham)

What Destiny Has Brought (Fischl)

Why He Rejected You (pt 2)

Blasphemous Assumptions (Zhongli)

[underteika]

"Look, all I'm saying is that if you see a 'me' walking around menacingly or whatever, just, uh. Either destroy that me or go another direction entirely, okay?"

For someone with all the current speed, strength, and raw intimidation of a restless ghost, Anda's fantastical form sure did look stressed! As if to accentuate, there are small rocks kicking up all around them, and the empath switches radically between being corporeal and not.

"It's freaky, okay!? First there's a bunch of fighting and now we have other copies of us running around? I don't like to fight anyway, maybe defeating the shadow Anda will be super easy."

...If it's that easy, why stress about it.

[starryserenade]

Faith & Trust Pt. 2/3

Fic Description: In light of the events of The Sorcerer's Apprentice, Yen Sid finds his once eager and curious apprentice to be overcome by a crippling fear. To reinvigorate his student's fire, he takes him to a world whose very lifeblood is the imagination of a certain "boy who never grows up." But things have changed since the sorcerer's last visit, and the place meant to prove the joys of imagination, might be the thing to reveal its darkest possibilities.

Commentary: A very different story than the one I've been working on. This tale is a bit of a Disney crossover between Fantasia and Peter Pan, and serves as a bridge between the timelines of the Disney Fairies movies to that of Gail Carson Levine's Never Fairies trilogy. Feel free to check out the wiki link below to get a glimpse at the world this story is based on.

Vocabulary

-Clumsies: Humans -"Fly with you!": Nice to meet you! -Queen Ree = Queen Clarion

Links:

AO3

Part 1

Finale Coming Soon

Fairy Dust and the Quest for the Egg (wiki page)

~~~

The thing about worlds built on imagination is that they tend to follow the imaginer. The whim and ideas that flood a dreamer’s mind are what these places are built on. This is all well and good while their dreams are filled with wonder and magic, when curiosity fills them with hope, and when ‘happily ever after’ falls just in line with what they believed it would be. However, one cruel curse poses the greatest threat to the world of the dreamer. 

Reality.

It is possible to fall so deeply into a dream that one forgets their world does not define another. So when the story deviates, when another player steps outside their role and whispers the unthinkable “no”, the dreamer’s world is shaken to its core. Oftentimes, it begins to crumble.

Peter Pan was never one to believe in other worlds outside his own. This was his dream, after all. His laugh alone could turn night to day, or steer a hurricane from its course. His frown could bring thunder rolling into the sky, or send a pirate reeling into the depths of the sea. When he spoke, no one could disagree. If his words fell outside possibility, possibility would hike up its skirt and move. For as long as he could remember, this had been the way of the world. 

It took one girl to change all that. 

He had been drawn to Wendy Darling in the most peculiar of ways. She’d seemed like most other souls at first. When he smiled, she crumpled. When he invited her towards adventure, she couldn’t say no. She was another wonderful addition to his story and, to be sure, Peter was certain he’d been the one to write her in. 

The problem with Wendy Darling was that she began to change. This was new to Peter. Pirates were pirates, and always would be.  Lost boys were lost boys, and were certain to never grow up. But Wendy? Wendy could do whatever she pleased. When a certain pixie, too caught up in Peter’s spell to control herself, tried to rid Wendy from the world to keep him for her own, Wendy Darling chose to be kind.  When Peter took his attention from Wendy to another, certain she’d be too wonderstruck to care, the girl saw through his childish games and refused to play along. When he’d most wanted her to stay…

She had chosen to leave.  

And slowly, little by little, the rest of Peter’s world became tainted with this idea that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all his to command. Pirates became more cunning, and Peter found he could no longer predict their every move. The lost boys got smarter, and it seemed to Peter that Slightly was becoming a bit too big for his britches.  

Then there was Tink. If anyone had been most changed by Wendy’s coming and going, it was, ironically, the one who’d most wished she’d never come. Tinker Bell had been bound to Peter since the moment they met, drawn to him with such force that it never even occurred to her that she could exist again without him. Then that Wendy-Bird came along, and Tink learned quite quickly that Peter was perhaps not so drawn to herself as she’d been led to believe. That didn’t matter. The enchantment of his presence, his laughter, and his smile still bound her and she knew if he called for her again, she would come. She had to. After all, no one could say no to Peter Pan.

No one but Wendy, apparently, which had put quite a bit of a new perspective on things for Tink. So when the girl left and suddenly, Tinker Bell had Peter Pan all to herself all over again, she found she wasn’t quite sure she wanted him anymore. Of course she still loved him–she couldn’t help that–-but she realized then and there that she was, perhaps, something of a great fairy even without him. So Tink had left too, and Peter felt something he had not ever felt before. He felt lonely.  

And with that, the magic of Neverland began to slip. 

Yen Sid had not known this when he stepped inside the world, the young Mickey clinging to his robe as he trailed behind him. But such is the way of magic. For though, he thought, it had led him here to solve a problem of his own–the fading hope of his once-curious apprentice–it had also found the perfect opportunity to bring a bit of aid to the world itself. Whether the little mouse was up to the task, however, was another situation entirely. But the magic was unconcerned with that. Its job was to grant opportunity–what the individual chose to do with that was up to them.

When Mickey took his first step on Neverland, the island shuddered. For all his fear and uncertainty, the child still possessed a great deal of imagination, and this was a power the world had begun to desperately crave. In Pixie Hollow, Tinker Bell suddenly found herself overcome with a glowing new idea for an invention, and raced off in search of Lost Things to build it with. The Second Star glowed twice as bright and, seeing this, Peter thought that maybe he could manage to pick himself off the floor of the hideout to search for some treasure. Maybe. But deep in the heart of Neverland’s lone volcano, a different sort of creature stirred.  For in the shadow of Peter’s melancholy heartbreak, something dark and treacherous had formed. Mickey’s presence gave it the power it needed to wake.

Imagination goes both ways, after all. 

Mickey followed behind his teacher with tentative steps and a wide-eyed wonder.  He felt as Yen Sid tensed, and knew at once that something wasn’t quite right. 

“Stay close, Mickey,” the sorcerer commanded, with a voice Mickey recognized as one meant to scare him, but not Scare him. His curiosity only grew, but he dared not race off to satiate it. Not after what happened last time. So he settled with looking about him, wondering how any world could have ever become so endlessly green. 

Meanwhile, Yen Sid trudged along with a wary eye. The world seemed its usual self to anyone not well versed in the art of magics. But the sorcerer could sense the mischievous nature of the island was in a frenzy, and it clustered around the mouse with which he traveled. With his usual frown, he silently urged it to depart from them—he wanted to reinspire his apprentice, not frighten him all over again.  By heavens, where was that Peter Pan?

“Stay here,” he urged the mouse at last as they encountered a particularly thick patch of jungle.  While the ferns and foliage parted seamlessly around the sorcerer as he walked through them, Mickey was not nearly so fortunate, and his robe was becoming tangled in all manner of vines and twigs. So silently, the child obliged, and found a place atop a fallen log where he sat swinging his legs as his teacher continued on through the wood in search of someone Mickey didn’t know.

There was quite a lot to take in, even in this little patch of the world. The insects alone were more vibrant than any Mickey had seen, and he wondered as he saw a butterfly passing by if it was here that Yen Sid had found inspiration for some of his most colorful spells. He shuddered a bit as he thought of that, and the memory of his watery escapade flooded his mind all over again. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. No more magic. No more imagination. He’d proven he wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing. 

Still, it was hard not to entertain a little bit of creative thought as he sat staring about him. The sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden streams, and Mickey thought it fun to imagine these to be little rivers of pixie dust, carrying with them dancing fairies (which were, really, little bugs and falling leaves) in a winding parade to the forest floor. Yen Sid had mentioned fairies before, hadn’t he? There was one Mickey had always thought particularly interesting, but he couldn’t seem to remember their nam-

No sooner had he begun to think this than something raced by him, too quick to clearly see. With it came the sound of light jingling, and the leaves about Mickey were swept up in such a way that he couldn’t help but sneeze as they brushed across his nose. He swiveled his head to follow the sound, and watched as thousands of sparkling lights settled on the forest floor before swiftly fading away. 

His fur stood up and his tail straightened, the very curiosity he’d tried so hard to resist tingling across his entire being.  Yen Sid’s instructions still hung over his head, but they were quickly losing their hold.  He slid off the log and peered into the shadows, a tentative grin making its way onto his face. It wasn’t really mischief if he only went a little ways away, right? He’d be back before the sorcerer ever knew the better. 

Before he knew it, his feet were carrying him through the foliage towards where he’d seen the creature fly. Mickey couldn’t help himself. His excitement had gotten the better of him and for the first time in weeks, it was enough to drown out the fear.

The jungle foliage soon grew sparse, dirt and leaves replaced instead by soft sand beneath his slippers.  Mickey kicked off his shoes when it became too difficult to walk on the shore, and laughed as the sand dusted his fur. The ocean rolled in gentle waves, brushing up the shoreline, and its sound nearly disguised the jingling that came from nearby. Nearly. 

Mickey drew in a breath when the sound tickled his ears and grinned widely, turning to face it. A faint glow emanated from a small clump of reeds. He tiptoed towards it and gently parted the grass, but the being within was too focused on their own task to notice the comparatively giant creature peering its way.

To be fair, Tinker Bell had a lot to occupy her. There was a pair of Clumsy spectacles lodged deep in the sand that she was having a grand, ol’ time trying to dig out. She hadn’t quite decided what she was going to use them for yet, but she figured the glass might be good for conducting sunlight, and she was sure Fira or Iridessa would be happy for some help. The frames she would keep–she’d gotten a neat little idea out of the blue this morning, and though she wasn’t quite sure how or why she was going to execute it, something told her these would come in handy. 

If she could get them out, that was. She’d been yanking on one of the bars for quite some time already, and it refused to budge. Face red with both effort and frustration, she gave it a little kick before grabbing hold with an even tighter grip and yanking with all her might.  Something moved this time, only it wasn’t the spectacles. Tink went flying backwards in a flurry of pixie dust, landing straight in a soft bunch of scarlet something or other.

She sat up and shook her head dizzily, wondering just what had broken her fall. Something like crushed velvet surrounded her, and she tilted her head curiously. If there had been another Lost Thing so close to the spectacles, she was certain she would have noticed it. So what…?

No, not what. Who.

She jumped up in a burst of pixie dust, and flew as fast as she could to the other side of the reeds. It wasn’t Peter, and certainly not one of the lost boys–none of them would touch the color red aside from a feather or two (red was a Pirate color, they had long since decided). But if it was a pirate, she had an inkling she’d have been a bit too late to escape their clutches.  

Cautiously, she peeked out from one of the reeds to see if she could spot the culprit.  She could spot him, all right, considering he wasn’t exactly hiding now, but she’d never seen anyone quite like him before. He was about Tootles’ height, if not a bit smaller, and Tink briefly wondered if maybe he was a Lost Boy after all, judging by the ears atop his head. But no, no…those were his.  As was the little tail that wound behind him. She supposed he was a mouse of sorts, though he looked like none Tink could recall, and there was an air of the Clumsies about him too.

When he caught her looking his way he froze, then gave a shy little wave. Tinker Bell wasn’t sure what to think about that. So she reacted as she usually did when someone had minorly inconvenienced her plans for the day, and flew right up to him with a cherry-red face and a load full of colorful tinkling that gave Mickey quite a few new choice words to ask Yen Sid about later on. 

That was the strange part, really. Because Tink noticed after a few minutes of ranting that the mouse did seem ashamed, which would have only made sense if he actually understood what she was saying (about how he had interrupted her very important work, and nearly scared her half to blinking out).  Tink stopped her rambling and, slowly, her fiery cheeks cooled. Now she was Curious. And if she was Curious, there was hardly room for being Angry. 

With a flutter of her wings, she alighted onto the intruder’s nose and peered at him with scrutinizing eyes. Queen Ree had mentioned “The Gift” before–a phenomenon in which a Clumsy could understand the fairies’ distinct tinkling voices–but few of Neverland’s visitors possessed its talent. Peter was one of those few, of course, as was Hook (unfortunately). But just who was this strange newcomer who seemed to wield it, too?

She started when he spoke, and just barely caught enough to actually hear his name. Mickey, apparently. She didn’t know why, but the sound of it made her want to smile. Her wings flitted ever so slightly as she dipped in a tiny curtsy and introduced herself. 

Tinker Bell. Er…Tink! Fly with you!

Mickey’s eyes sparkled, and he couldn’t keep from laughing at the sheer excitement running through his veins. A real life fairy! How lucky was he?

Tinker Bell laughed a bit too, having simmered down from her tirade. This new friend of hers was really something. But, as with most tinkers, it was difficult to keep her mind in one place for very long. Before she knew it, she found herself drawn back to the Lost Thing she’d been so unsuccessful in retrieving. 

Mickey watched as Tinker Bell fluttered off his muzzle and darted instead to the rusty pair of glasses still buried in the sand. She looked lost in thought, and he realized she was still trying to figure out a way to retrieve the item. He couldn’t imagine why she’d want such a dirty, broken old thing, but figured he might as well help. 

It took Mickey considerably less effort to pull the spectacles out of the sand and, when he did, Tinker Bell twirled around with such excitement that pixie dust landed all about his fur and robe. He let out a little yelp, scrambling for something to grip onto as he felt himself lifted off the ground. Tink, on the other hand, seemed less than concerned. She had been a bit distracted while inspecting the spectacles but upon seeing Mickey’s skybound state, she smiled widely and flew up beside him. After all, it had been a while since she’d had a partner to search for Lost Things with–it would be fun to teach someone else how to fly alongside her. Someone who wasn’t Peter Pan.

Meanwhile, the boy in question was having his own sort of adventure, though it wasn’t nearly as easygoing as usual. You see, when Tink had gone back to Pixie Hollow, her pixie dust had, clearly, gone with her. So Peter was left to journey about as anyone else might have, and now was faced with an arduous climb up Torth Mountain in search of treasure. It was the first real adventure he’d embarked on since Wendy had left, and the work might have done him some good had his mind not been set on such sour thoughts.

Who did that Wendy think she was, anyway, leaving adventures and fun behind to…ergh…grow up? Why, Neverland was ten times better than the world outside the Second Star. If she wanted to leave and become a boring, ol’ grown up then fine. His world was better off without her. 

Of course, Peter didn’t really think that. But he was so unaccustomed to having someone he cared about do something he didn’t like, that he wasn’t actually sure what to think. It was much easier to assume that Wendy herself was the problem, rather than to admit that maybe his perfect world wasn’t so perfect to everyone. 

At long last, Peter reached a ledge near the mountain’s peak and hauled himself over the last bit of rock to climb up on it. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and frowned. Flying would have been a whole lot easier but Tink was still being temperamental for some weird reason, and he wasn’t going to be the one to apologize. He’d done nothing wrong, after all. 

Besides, here he was all by himself at the top of the mountain. The mouth of an enormous cave loomed before him and he cracked a mischievous smile. There was treasure in there for sure, and he didn’t need anyone else to help him find it. With a haughty sniff, Peter strolled inside the cavern. 

Torth mountain was an interesting part of Neverland. It was one of the few places that never seemed to have much, if any, color, and this cave was no exception. Peter was not one to think things through but even he had to wonder why he’d never noticed the cavern before when he had explored Neverland countless times over. As the darkness surrounded him, a feeling of unease that he wasn’t used to settled in his stomach, and he found himself wishing very much that Tink was there to light the way. 

All that vanished when, just ahead, a distinct orange glow came into view. 

Treasure. Only not the kind Peter had thought.  

The disappearance of all Peter’s qualms, and the rising temptation to approach this strange glow, was anything but chance. A deep, dark magic was at work, pulsating from the object to which Peter now made his way. Light fell across his face in an eerie streak as he studied it, and a strange grin crept across his lips. The object’s shape was like that of an egg, though dark and slick as obsidian. Fiery cracks made their way out from the surface it rested on, the source of its glow. Strangest of all, the closer Peter got, the bitterer his thoughts became. 

If Wendy had been there, she would have certainly been the one to talk sense into him. But she was not, and that alone was enough to drive Peter’s selfish ignorance to dangerous levels.

With a thought of deliberate defiance, he reached out and grabbed the egg. 

Outside, in the space just outside the Lost Boys’ hideout, Yen Sid stood straight up. He felt the change before anyone in Neverland noticed anything at all, but he knew at once that something terrible was about to happen. Slightly, Nibs, and Tootles, all of who seemed clueless as to Peter’s whereabouts, were arguing about something inconsequential when the sorcerer lifted his hands in a rush of magic to silence them. They looked at him with both frustration and confusion, wondering why they were suddenly unable to produce any sound. But in the wake of their own quiet, a distinct silence fell over all of Neverland. 

Mickey had been clumsily making his way through Tink's flight lesson when a deafening noise thundered across the island. It was enough to frighten away all his happy thoughts, if only momentarily, and he plummeted to the sand with a yelp. Tink remained hovering in the air, hardly moving as she stared up at one distinct part of the island where a plume of smoke and fire exploded into the air.

Torth Mountain was on fire.

[phantommirrored]

@deceivior

The song of healing still rung through his head.  The faint echos reminding him of what it took for him to get to this point.  Shadow was past moping about it, but the thoughts still lingered in the back of his mind: the want to heal.  He forgot how long he’d been sitting in this tree, or if anyone else had joined him on the forest floor.  Shadow didn’t care to check.

As the night drew on, the omen looming over this continent was a constant reminder to the city’s residence their mission.  Shadow wouldn’t forget.  Not again.  The Unholy yawned softly, he figured he had wandered off on his own for long enough.  Maybe he should rejoin his friend, or even get some shuteye.

Shadow pushed himself off of the trunk, oh so gracefully landing gently in the grass.  His feet making a soft: tup!  When they touched the ground.  He was about to start walking but he felt someone watching him.  If this were an enemy, this would be easy, he thought.

Ready to draw his sword, Shadow turned himself around.  His smug expression turned into a more confused one when the moonbeams gave him a hint of who might be in front of him.

“Vio...?”  His voice rang quietly after a long moment of silence from both parties.  Shadow wasn’t sure if this was some trick, by goddesses, he hoped it was.  He wasn’t ready for this.  The different emotions had already started to well up in his gut, whether the person in front of him was really Vio or not.  Just the very thought that the other was in front of him was beginning to overwhelm him, to say the least.

[edibledragons]

@hunting-apricity for part 2

When was this place not trying to end? Mika could barely keep up with current events already without things already changing on him. He wasn’t even used to the change his body had made! By night and wandering back to where he and Kite called home while in this state of Spirale, did Mika come face to face with someone who looked like... Him. This wasn’t as surreal as it should have been, having already met with a double in the past but this one looked as if really no one was home.

“Is this what Cujo meant by me looking like a dope?” Mika asked no one in particular, the question more so to himself than anything else. Without this new double looking particularly violent, he didn’t find any reason to back off when it approached. His peaceful nature got the better of him when the mist reaper grabbed the front of his shawl and yanked him close. 

What happened next, Mika couldn’t say as all prior memory felt like it was yanked out of his skull by something with cruel hands and as the mist faded, leaving now only one of the Faeken, he just stared skyward briefly. His wings fluttered briefly, as if he wanted to fly by really, he was already home and the day was near it’s end. Nowhere important to be.

“What was I doing?”

[malevolute]

@ombraventi

Finally, Octavo thought, an arsenal of magical instruments was at his disposal.  With all of the strife going on, he looked crazy just plucking at strings.  But, as his song began, it was enough to put any surrounding enemies in a trance and confuse them.

He took a step back to pull his baton from his cummerbund, but bumped into someone.  Last he’d checked, no one had been behind him.  Octavo glanced, and what the conductor found was a now irate wind mage.

“If you’re going to just stand there and shoot the breeze.  May I suggest you go somewhere else?”  He wanted to mess with the mage, but ultimately knew that would get this no where.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a show to put on.  My audience is captivated.”

[crimetimefox]

A f(riend)ox in need!

@lackofoxxygen

Oh! He’s missed father’s day!

Gregg’s father was one of two sacks of garbage in the parental line. A shame. The fox sadly doesn’t have time to curse his parents out or he’d spend an hour doing so under his breath... or at the top of his lungs. Who’d stop him, really? Not a damn person, that’s who, he hardly know’s where he is! The forest bordering Xalphina, probably... he saw some flashy magical stuff earlier. That’s enough to convince him of his whereabouts for now, at least. He’s been searching the forests for dry leaves he can bundle up into sacks he totally got legally.

These past few days have gone well! He’s been ignoring the voice that sounds all too close to Angus for his liking. Chances are obtaining the lamp oil is going to be... twice as hard though. He doesn’t have the dust for it and that leads to only ONE suggestion.

Gregg is gonna fucking steal it obviously he still hasn’t gotten word back on whether or not the weed he took to the queen was good. He’s definitely not going to resort to just stabbing the hand this time, that wasn’t good enough for protection - it felt small and ineffective. Fire, though... fire is always painful. The question is from who? Where? Which kingdom could have the most? How much is eno--

A rustle of leaves. A few twigs snap.

A fucking knife directly in his back.

He knows the blade, sharp - but still dull... it’s fucking wooden! The pain forces Gregg to reflex and slam his elbow directly into his assailants face. He turns to see just who the fucker is when he comes face to face... with his face. Made of purple mist and not a lot of details, but it’s impossible to miss the fact that he just got stabbed by himself. He’s got the knife in his back still, and now’s a good time as any to fucking hoof it. Adrenaline pumping and confusion dawning on him, he’s not taking anymore time to question anything; the fox knows he’s gotta get a fucking move on. Xalphina may have an issue with his kingdom but he doesn’t have a choice in this moment, all he can do is run for the nearest bit of civilization and hope to god anyone can help.

Here’s hoping that leather he’s got on didn’t let the blade slip in too deeply. Bleeding is already one worry, he can’t spare the time to think about what else might happen. If this is a show of what’s to come, he’ll get the oil immediately after this has blown over -- if he survives.

[encoeurs]

@betteroffdumb

      “Izanagi--!”            Light follows the call, lightning twisting and striking almost like a living thing all around the shape of someone he’d seen being surrounded. Thunder chases his heels as he slides to a stop as a handful of the creatures dissipate, though more immediately take their place. Izanagi tenses, inexplicably, then snaps attention back to their enemies. Joker rolls to his feet, peering back at the man he’s landed beside, knife in hand as he moves forward. 

          “If you can run, then run. If not, then wait-- I’ll be done soon.”

[kyngearthur]

                  ✣ @shutur-eli-sharri​

       THE WORLD WOULD BE HIS PLAYGROUND if not for the shackles that even he is bound by. A portion of her questions his allegiance to Xalphina, as a man of his construct would never find the rulers agreeable, but truthfully, few are capable of creating something from nothing. ( Something he seems to believe he's exempt from, considering his choice of attire, or lack thereof, but she digresses. ) These circumstances were thrust upon them just mere weeks ago, after all.

        “Have you merely been lounging about, King of Heroes?” The Faeken nears him, behaving as if the possibility of his assimilation is nonexistent. It doesn’t occur to her until after she’s approached that he very well may have chosen to be absorbed. 

         “...It is you with whom I am speaking, correct? You have not forsaken yourself to this realm?” 

[antheiin]

@hellslight

The inability to speak beyond a whisper dampens even the best attempts at making a point. Miriam is a bit stuck here, troubled by a persistent individual who seems well misinformed on her own ability. The bandaging and her scratching voice have to do with a good deal of it, and she finds herself growing more and more frustrated as her hushed argument continues with someone she does not know. 

“Damn it!” At her wits end, Miriam’s voice grows a touch louder, a squeak the most she can do as her hand slams against her leg. “Don’t you fucking get it. I am a god. Not a plant. So you can bug right off with all of that before I show you how god-like I can be. Leave your bullshit out of it.” 

Her powers flash, a semi-intentional effort to prove her point. Spines and flowers, and the haze of neurotoxin that her flowers seem to generate at times. The stranger does no more than cough and sputter, Miriam on her toes to try and pull herself taller, despite being a near foot shorter. Thankfully, they skitter off, and she’s left with both the oleanders, and these new flowers, yellow and with no form found in a book. Something new.

“Does anyone else want to have this argument?” She rasps that bit out, a hand on her hip and the other waving away poison. A less than human stranger gets a raised brow. “Or are we done with that?” 

[amoirsetpacis]

fantasia war info!! ( .... 2!!)

art under the cut!

'roo didn't you already make this post' yeah im changing it 'we're several weeks into the event' shhh. shuh.

anyway reworking vash into being faekin, specifically he looks kinda like a moth! he's pretty benevolent for a fae-- he'll only sometimes pull a few light hearted pranks ... !! however, he still very much lives in what is currently yela alora, so there are often mean/questioning looks being thrown his way-- though it's nothing he's not used to already! he cans till very much be found sticking his nose where it doesn't belong in other people's business in some attempt at being helpful, but it's even more up in the air than usual if they'll actually accept any of his help.

as usual, vash continues to be stressed about other folks fighting all the time and will most likely constantly be sticking his nose in places where it most certainly doesn’t belong in an attempt to quell any sort of nastiness. even though he lives in what is now yela alora, you’ll most definitely catch him snooping in other kingdoms, regardless of the lack of warm welcome he might receive [it’s not like he’s not used to it anyway…!!]

he still has his guns– both the Colt and the one in his prosthetic arm, but as a fae is largely going to rely on magic.

although all magic currently listed is available, i think he’ll be more capable using it in a more support class role and primarily using his usual fare for more dps. things like awaken, paralysis, sleep, charm, and levitate [ this would be flight but. well. his wing. ] are more his style, though i think he would also be particularly adept at blessing as an offense. others are possible, but he’s not very good at them. [although i do have some ideas for healing spell usage. hehe.]

as usual, vash continues to be stressed about other folks fighting all the time and will most likely constantly be sticking his nose in places where it most certainly doesn’t belong in an attempt to quell any sort of nastiness. even though he lives in what is now yela alora, you’ll most definitely catch him snooping in other kingdoms, regardless of the lack of warm welcome he might receive [it’s not like he’s not used to it anyway…!!]

[leafslash]

@existentialismee    ——  planned thread !

Unfiltered adrenaline spurs them on, courses fiercely through the veins of their unholy body while the battle continues to rage. The demonic dragons thrive, at home in combat and triumphant from the power again bestowed to them, for no longer are they useless, stripped wrongfully of their natural prowess. Such strength is befitting to them — THEY, the twin beasts whom humanity and monstrosity alike feared — and together they thrum with renewed energy, feeling closer to their prime since what has been far too long. It would not be wrong to name what fuels them as arrogance, but as they see it... where is any harm in that? A little fun is necessary every once in awhile, is it not? And if they can blow off some steam by assisting a dire cause, then truly can they be blamed? Of course not. Certainly Ashton, the one from which they borrow this form, won’t fault them for that. Right? Right. No problem. So with abandon they take down reaper after reaper, comfortable in being left to their own devices. But chance is an extraordinary thing indeed, and as fate would have it, the two encounter a familiar face in the chaos. They know this human — sufficiently well, in fact — though a meeting of this circumstance, for lack of a better term, is a first. He stands a short distance to their left, seemingly unaware of their presence, while onto him one of those wicked creatures advances. It is uncertain which of the two entities reacts first, but instinct sends them leaping forward, and then —— Shwing! Duel blades catch its imminent strike by the claw, consequent to pushing it back. The fiend staggers in momentary confusion, and this familiar silhouette, the body that bears wyvern's curse on his shoulders, takes battle stance between them. “ You. The human called ‘Watanuki.’ ”    Crimson and cobalt eyes glance over shoulder to look upon him, aglow in a way that is unmistakably supernatural. The face that belongs not to them grins, flashing a set of razor sharp canines that would be otherwise absent.   “ Shall we handle this together? ”

[suplex51]

And I repeat: Why did things keep going to shit immediately after Travis made a leap in his character development? Sure, both the man in question and yours truly knew that it was almost 100% mere meta-coincidence (and a hilarious one, in my opinion). The mods couldn’t be doing this on purpose, right? But at the same time, Travis couldn’t shake the feeling of being downright cursed. Not like it would be the first time writers conspired against him... 

Eh, whatever. What happened happened, and things were definitely happening. 

A familiar, otherworldly voice warning him (and everyone else from Spirale) to band together for the rematch with the Beast (or, as it was now called, the Demon Lord). An army of shadowy copies - “Mist Walkers/Reapers,” the NPCs called them. Mindless, merciless mirrors of the roleplay cast, intent on merging with the originals, wiping their memories and souls, and assimilating them into this Fantasia-land proper. 

Oh, and killing anyone else who tried to get in the Reaper’s way. 

Travis knew everything would turn out alright. Of course, it would. This time, anyways. But even so, this was serious business. Very serious. Rosa had needed to step out of the medieval apartment - “To get supplies,” she’d said, but they both knew it was to find a remote place to smoke, to pretend that things were normal for even a second. And Travis couldn’t blame her for the anxiety. He, himself, couldn’t find it in himself to lower his guard; Even for a moment, even as the draconic assassin lounged in an antique armchair, petting Jeane, rambling about nothing to no one. 

He had this. But- 

It all took a minute. 

The front door flew off its hinges, drop-kicked through the air by a purple-trailing manifestation of Travis Touchdown, circa No More Heroes 2. Without mercy, without a moment of hesitation, the Mist Walker then springboarded directly towards our hero, Rose Nasty already ignited - already swinging. In desperate response, after a nanosecond of shock, our Travis threw Jeane off his lap (she’d be fine), leaned back, unleashed his own beam katanas to block. 

The clash, if it’d been caught on film, would’ve lasted a single frame. In less than an instant, Travis was hitting the floor rolling (both in reflex and pain), the back of his neck was spewing blood from an attempted decapitation, and the Mist Walker was already rushing through the destroyed armchair for a follow-up stab. 

The results of a Dark Step, at their finest. The potential of Travis Touchdown, when nothing held him back from the will to kill. Not even the thrill of a fight. In hindsight, this silent Reaper was nothing more than a player-controlled avatar. A fitting challenge for a man who’d just realized he didn’t have to be the protagonist, anymore, wouldn’t you say? 

Travis wouldn’t say. He couldn’t say; Couldn’t speak. Too busy fighting for his life and soul. 

It was truly a dance of death, imperceptible to even the most well-trained eye. With every strike, a deflection. With every deflection, a counterstrike. Rinse. Repeat. Throw in a crushing hand-to-hand blow, every now and then. Use Dark steps sparingly, as they were limited in number. 

The very setting was indirectly being sliced apart and set ablaze by the speed/power of the combatants, by the heat of their beam katanas. (Jeane was still fine.) It should have been a battle of equals, in every way. Same stats, same skills, same primary weaponry. But our Travis had a different body; Wings and a tail that he still didn’t fully know how to control - or, rather, how to protect. And once both Rose Nasty sets happened to simultaneously ran out of battery? Once Travis was dropping his pair, reaching for the Nightmare Knight’s gifted scabbard, swinging forward, thinking he had this in the bag? 

He soon discovered the Mist Walker had the more reliable sword in reserve.  

The Blood Berry. 

Travis didn’t succumb to a moment of sentimental weakness (out of remembrance for his iconic weapon), or anything like that. The scabbard, the Nightshade, was simply too slow in materializing its fog, in forming a full blade. If it’d been faster, maybe it could’ve caught the Mist Walker’s head before “he” ducked under and around, swung upwards.

But that’s not how the story went. 

Half of a dragon’s wing flew through the air. Pain seized control of Travis Touchdown, just long enough for his copy to transition into a two-handed chop. The beam of light came down like a guillotine… and a left hand was promptly dismembered. Blood everywhere - pain everywhere. Travis could barely perceive his clone winding up the finisher, as he himself fell to his knees. 

The fight was over, in the blink of an eye. 

The fight was over, in an open-mouthed scream. One that unleashed a thin, Godzilla-inspired blast of ice magic, precisely aimed at the Mist Walker’s hands. The impact lasted an instant. Light filled the room like a flashbang. And once it died back down? 

Travis knew he’d won. 

Allow me to explain, now that the action’s finally taken a pause. 

A final burst of heroic willpower (something Travis had that his adversary didn’t) had taken over. He’d just finally accepted who he was, and this motherfucker thought it could make him forget all of that? No way. No chance! 

But will alone wouldn’t have saved the day. Not with two powerless beam katanas by his feet, and an enchanted scabbard gripped by a disembodied hand. But that’s where the key advantage came in: the (temporary) magical prowess that this clone could have never seen coming. 

And even if it had one last Dark Step enabled, and was able to get it off? As long as the ice beam scored its mark, and the deep freeze took hold, it was checkmate. The burning heat of the beam katana (as well as the fire spreading around them) would wind up melting the ice, sure. 

But melted ice was water. 

And water made beam katanas short out. 

Back to the fight. 

Travis, shaking, gritting his teeth, still managed to stand to his feet, grab a Rose Nasty hilt off the floor. He still managed to turn to his Mist Walker, gripped in the paralysis of electrocution. And he still managed to charge his beam katana’s battery, charge its power to the max...

And swing. Again, and again, and again, and again- Yelling, screaming in wrath, pain, and triumph. 

It was over in a minute. 

The Mist Walker (and its copy of the Blood Berry) dissipated, hacked into un-bleeding pieces. And as for Travis Touchdown? He collapsed, curled up on the ruined floor, adrenaline giving out to shuddering and cursing. If he heard the concerned mewls of Jeane, or noticed the arrival/first-aid-attention of Rosa (“I leave you alone for five minutes-”)?

He gave no indication. 

Everything would turn out alright. But goddamn, if it wouldn’t suck, beforehand.

[landsharkbite]

Takes place at the same time as this!

Five goddamn minutes. That’s all you want. Five minutes to pretend that normalcy reigns and that death isn’t beelining for you with an iron fist and a one track mind. Five minutes and you can trudge back to fighting the good fight...

I fucking guess.

Your smokes are failing you. But you admit you weren’t expecting them to pull any weight. You already dropped this one before you could manage to light it, twice.

There’s only one thing that’s kept you centered up to this point in the latest wave of madness, and yet again, it’s Travis. Almost every time it’s Travis, to a degree that you start to feel the tiniest bit guilty when you stick your head too deep down the rabbit hole (a familiar and hated prison, yet one you can’t keep from revisiting despite all effort). You’d never think to complain, of course. Quite the opposite. It’s a job he’s held up with flying colors, and you still find it crazy that he didn’t realize it ‘til now.

No matter what he might say to the contrary, he’s been more than you feel you deserve. You could’ve told him anytime, if he’d thought to ask you— he was always good enough. All he’s ever had to do was exist, and for no one’s sake in particular.

It’s started to sink in for him— really sink in, and finally— and it’s gotten you thinking, too. You’ve heard it stressed over and over, but not to where you’ve tuned it out. The two of you aren’t so different. Right?

If Travis is good enough as he is... so should you be.

It’s a struggle that pertains to both of you, though you’ve approached it in wildly different ways perhaps and you’ve failed to find a way to put it into words— you’ve been seeking out permission to exist. It was a condition you were born into, one you hardly asked for. Who did you ever expect would give you the clearance to be? It finally clicks, and almost audibly.

You’re the only one with any goddamn right to sign that dotted line.

The only criteria you need to meet is your own, and it’s taken you far too long to look that truth in the eye and believe in it. So far it’s only been a means of preserving some strained sense of self in a world that refused to let you keep it— repeat a mantra long enough and you’ll come to think it true, after all— but now…

A pair of strangers in your peripheral vision whisper to each other, and enough of it filters through to inform you that you haven’t moved. You’re a statue neck deep in thought, staring into the middle distance for the past five-turned-twenty minutes and they’re wondering if something’s wrong with you.

Your cigarette soon meets the ground again.

You’re good enough. Your methods may be ugly, your emotions wild, your past bloody and your manners coarse, but they’re a part of you. They’re good enough. You’ll do what good you can with them. And in the event that they aren’t enough after all, you won’t have gone out blaming yourself for it. Anyone who can’t accept that doesn’t have to stay. Maybe they aren’t meant to.

Suddenly, you start to laugh. It’s an easy, mild laugh that isn’t weighed down by any damn thing but gravity. The couple nearby jumps when you do, watching as you turn on your heel start a slow walk toward the home front and to someone who loves you, leaving nothing but the sound of relief and gentle catharsis behind.