#As in. You can run if you want but his weapons are coated in blighted blood so you'll succumb sooner or later anyway. he'll catch up :)

[rivilu]

Fuckin. Fenris snake conversation spinning in my head again

[sunny-sings-sooth]

Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

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Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

[paint-lady]

for the tabletop ask meme, I guess I'm most interested in 5 and 15

5.) Which system did you grow up with?

Answered here, but no worries. I actually didn't play a ttrpg until I was in college: pathfinder 1e. I played pretend, I played with my siblings, I made up games and rules all through my childhood.

15.) Your most epic death.

I self sacrificed a one shot character and then also got petty revenge on all the other pcs that were rude to her.

It was the first game I played with my Exalted ST. And it was not exalted. We were playing Dread. John had pulled or crafted this one shot for a bunch of the other touring actors and technicians. When we started, there were 13 players. If you know anything about how to play dread- that number drops quick.

Dread is a game played with a Jenga tower. To preform skill checks, the Storyteller asks the players to pull blocks from the tower. The more pulls, the more difficult the task. As the tale goes on, the tower gets less and less stable. If the tower falls on your pull, your character dies. However, there is an interesting extra mechanic- and I'm not certain if this is Dread itself or if this is something he incorporated. If you knock over the tower on your turn on purpose, you will still die- but you succeed at the task in the best way possible in your moment of self sacrifice.

I was playing a Junkrat Pilot with a love for little space rodents (space hamster jokes here). I dont even remember her name. All I do remember is that our group had hired her to fly the ship to this base that had appeared. They wanted to investigate what it was. Normally, she would never have taken this job. But 30 million parcoins- up front... that feeds her and the rats and fuels the ship for a year.

Transit was rough. The passengers that paid her were often outright rude, sticking their noses into private quarters, and one definitely ate one of the space hamsters. She was angry. But- 30 million.

When we finally arrived, the scholar and historian recognized what this base was. It was a terrible weapon. A la the Death star, It possessed some sort of laser But when fired it does not just make the massive planet explode. It changes the molecular structures of the atmosphere and crust (if it has one). This utterly blights the land and suffocates living things that need to respirate. Once done, it can harvest the organic matter that had expired. And once that's done, can harvest the energy at the core of the planet (if any).

Most of the people that come on the trek decided that they had to figure out a way to destroy this awful thing.

Junkrat pilot was adamant about staying with the ship but our Blight Star superweapon had a security system- a microbial and macro one. The micro one initiated. The interior air lock gates slowly began to shut, and the crew dashed to safety. I barely made it out, barely sliding under the door, watching the Jenga tower wobble with each pull. We turned and watched as other crew members crumbled and molted from whatever was released.

Macrobiome security measures initiated.

There was a skittering. Something lurked in a room over. Upon entering, we could see the fine strings that coated everything in a sticky substance. Junkrat ran her finger along the threads, it easily sliced through her skin. The threads were razor wire. The skittering became a chitter, as an enormous spider with spindly glass-like legs approached us. A vibrant purplish venom salivated from its pincers, it was excited for new prey.

Run.

You can't.

Our shoes had become tangled in these sticky sharp threads. The party began to delicately try and pry themselves free.

The tower wobbled.

The scholar takes his feet from his shoes and daringly leaps back to the door. He almost crosses the threshold, just barely unable to jump the full distance. Wires tear at his skin. His feet now pour blood, leaving red stains where he walks.

The tower wobbled. The spider steps closer.

The mechanical engineer sacrifices a finger to pry her shoes free from the webs. The spider excitedly gobbles the clean cut appendage- hungry for more. While its distracted, the mechanical engineer looks to the soldier and the pilot. She could carry one to safety if they stepped out of their shoes.

The tower rocks as she pulls a block.

But... it steadies.

The Mechanical engineer apologizes and rescues the soldier, hoping the brawn could keep them alive for whatever other horrors lurk in the next room over.

There are two others needing to cross the threshold. I'm gazing at the listing tower, held steadfast by three blocks- knowing I'd have to pull one. I look at my storyteller. He is excitedly pretending to be a spider.

I steel my nerves. And knock over the tower. Pieces crumble and scatter. John is beaming with that storytellers evil grin.

Junkrat pilot tangles herself in webs and feels the wires dig deep into her as she purposefully squirms. The spider crawls towards her, jaw unhinging. The wires tighten, slicing through bone. The two others escape, and shut the door behind them.

My storyteller looks at me and asks, "do you have any last words?"

And I smile, a little choked up but relieved because for me- it was over. "I have the keys to the ship in my pocket. Good luck getting home, fuckers."

[lavenderboneswrites]

Pirate Shizaya headcannons. I preferably love the idea of Izaya being a coordinator that Shizuo has practically kidnapped because Shizuo held the damn map upside down and is know lost(he is the captain) also I love everything u do

Aaah okay I had to think long and hard about this because really I have TOO many ideas. I’ll preface this with saying that the Golden Age of Piracy actually coincides with the Edo period of Japan where the country was ruled by the Shogunate and was generally closed to outside politics, influences, etc. So with these two periods overlapping there is so much room to play with. I for one am losing my mind about samurai pirates.

Orihara Izaya, Captain of the Dragon Zombie Pirates.

Alright alright. So I think Izaya was probably born in a noble and well respected samurai family of Japan. However this boy craved adventure and to the see the world and to meet all that it had to offer. Not a fan of Japan’s anti-foreign involvement (open the country, stop having it be closed), he led a group of revolutionaries out of Japan to the seas.

During this time I can definitely see Izaya finding his way onto a pirate ship and manipulating everyone in sight until there’s a mutiny and he becomes the new captain, because of course that’s what our boy would do.

However despite this, and after proving his worth, his intelligence, his skill, I think his crew would be fiercely loyal to him. I can see him keeping a few of his original Japanese crew around too. I think Mikado would be his right hand man, Mikage and Ran his enforcers, Shinra the ships doctor, and his childhood friend who followed him out to see in search of ‘true love’. Simon I can see maybe as the quartermaster, I think he’d be good at rallying the crew. Overall I think there would be a mismatch of people from all over the world, because Izaya loves picking up strays.

Izaya is a cunning and intelligent captain. He uses wit and no small degree of charm to achieve his goals. He's fascinated by the occult, especially myths and legends. I feel like he'd love to hunt for the fountain of youth and see the kraken with his own eyes. He dreams of bigger prizes than just the usual gold.

Izaya is showy af and definitely has all the flashy pirate coats, not mention a penchant for ridiculous hats (Captain Barbossa’s hat anyone? And all the tricorns). I think he’d be an adequate warrior, trained with a samurai sword, but his weapons of choice are two daggers and close range where he can use speed, agility, and intelligence to outwit his opponents. (I imagine he fights like Anne Bonney, who I love, from Black Sails). I also kind of think he’d be a pirate like Calico Jack Rackham (also from Black Sails, look I love BS there’s gonna be a lot of BS references). Also our boy is talented as parkour and can parkour around a ship like a motherfucker (thank you Black Flag).

Heiwajima Shizuo, Monster of Caribbean, Captain of the Beast Pirates*.

Shizuo is a powerhouse in the pirate world. Where Izaya is all brains and cunning, Shizuo is brute strength. I actually like to head canon that his violent ways got him cast into indentured servitude and he was sold off across the seas and ended up in the Caribbean. Due to his strength he made a good labourer for the British but also fuck the redcoats. I think Shizuo would have led a revolt against the slavers and started his own pirate crew after that. He would’ve given his fellow slaves the option to go where they want or join his crew and a few probably did.

Tom’s of course his right hand man, they are brother’s in arms and have fought many battles together. I think Vorona would be a good enforcer and I definitely want Kadota to be his quartermaster (with the rest of the van gang on the crew as well - those four are a fierce raiding party). Though Shizuo is 100% hopeless at navigating so he's gonna need a good one on board.

Shizuo is definitely a brawler with his insane strength, and the thought of his weapon of choice being this fuck off massive Warhammer is just too good to pass up. I want Shizuo bare chested with high-waisted pants, pirate boots, half shaved head, long blonde hair in braids basically just looking like an absolute barbarian beefcake. ALL THE TATTOOS. He is the definition of a rough, fierce pirate.

He likes hunting prizes and spending his gold on drinking, gambling, and fucking, really any pleasure he’s for, but his favourite thing is a good old fashioned fight. I think he'd do very well in slave fighting pits and probably even had some experience with them in the past. Though he is adamantly against slavery and has been known to hunt slavers and free slaves (any pirate who engages in trading slaves is not considered a pirate to him but a blight to be obliterated from the map). Because of his past he absolutely despises the British and really any kind of authority. While not on Izaya’s level of intelligence he’s got great instincts and can almost seemingly sniff out a good prize.

* don't sue me Oda

Rival Captains

Izaya and Shizuo both meet in Nassau in the Caribbean. They are the definition of brains VS brawns. These two crews are always running into each other and fighting. While Shizuo is ferocious and terrifying, when in the same room as these two pirates one would consider Izaya more menacing. Shizuo's and Izaya's rivalry is well known throughout the seas and seeing them fight in person is the stuff of legends.

They're constantly going after the same prizes and then fighting over them. Though there are a few times they do team up for an alliance when it's a very delectable prize. Also they will unanimously team up against the British, the Spaniards, the French, the Dutch, etc, because as much as the loathe each other they hate anyone who would try and encroach on their freedoms.

Basically they are both stubborn as hell and don't like being told what to do.

For their ships I can see Izaya having a Brigard, something swift, that at Izaya's hand can outmanoeuvre and outwit any foe. Of course his ship has a dragon as the figurehead! I haven't thought much in the way of a Jolly Rodger, but maybe a dragon skull and instead of crossbones it is crossed samurai swords??

Shizuo on the other hand has a British Man-O-War that he no doubt won after he and Izaya teamed up to launch an attack on British settlement when both their crew-mates were captured and sentenced to death for piracy. Izaya lead an assault on land while Shizuo and his crew snuck onto the Man-O-War in the port and captured it, then turned it's guns on the settlement. For his jolly rodger I think it would be the usual skull and crossbones with maybe his infamous Warhammer running through the center line.

The sexual tension between the two captains is a painful to watch for their crews and each crew even has a betting pool going on when they will eventually get it on. The crews actually get on relatively well during alliances, and the parties and feasts they throw together after a successful hunt is wild. Though they'll easily go back to trying to kill one another one the alliances end.

Also a lil Shinra add-on. In Izaya's quest for the occult they find Celty and Shinra falls in love with her. I haven't thought more past pirate dullahan asgdfhdhjsjf.

And yeah that’s all I have so far. I also had an idea of Izaya being like the son of an important person (governer, prince? Prince Izaya is good) and being captured by Shizuo’s crew. And while they are pursued by multiple pirates, nations, etc, because Izaya is priceless, he learns to love life on a pirate ship and bonds with Shizuo and his crew. So eventually when it does come time for Shizuo to hand over his bounty he doesn’t want to let Izaya go. (He’s gonna, and then he and Izaya will turn around and rob the fuckers blind and sail off into the sunset together). Also Izaya memorising a treasure map and destroying it so he becomes the map and Shizuo has to put up with him. TOO MANY IDEAS.

[how-about-you-rogal-dont]

Wrote a thing, felt like sharing

some background:

I'm an aspiring writer, and I have a collection of CSM, CU, and general Chaos OCs do not steal blah blah blah (feel free to steal). I decided to write a bit about how their most recent addition joined the crew! Specifically, a Sororitas Meleficarum of the Order of the Verdant Chalice called Zethra. This bit of writing is a bit long, so I'll put it under a read more. TW for: violence, nurgle shit, space marines. Enjoy, feedback appreciated.

The inner halls of the Seventh Hell were a maze of lush gardens and fetid swamps, overtaken by the crawling filth that marched with Norvegicus’ every step. This ship had been under his sway for a very long time. Hives of unknowable daemonic parasites honeycombed the walls, squeaking rodents scuttled underfoot, and the buzzing of flies threatened to drown out any spoken communication. I could feel disgust rising in my throat with every step we took further into this despicably lush realm. It was difficult to read the other’s faces, sealed as they were beneath layers of steel and ceramite. None of us dared to bare an inch of skin in this place.

I looked over my shoulder, Cataphractii plate growling with killing instinct as my eyes fell upon Zethra. Despite her desertion from Norvegicus’ host, my skin still crawled at the thought of having my back watched by a member of the Plague God’s chosen. How much further? I did not bother holding my disgust away from the sending.

There was a slight click as Zethra tuned in over the vox. “Two hundred meters ahead, then we’ll be in the welcoming hall.” If she noticed my contempt, she did not care to remark on it.

“What manner of warship requires a welcoming hall?” Came Kalus’ voice a moment later. The duelist-marksman was walking with a casual gait, baroque bolt rifle slung over one shoulder. His helmet, like his armor, was the deep amethyst of his birth legion, with an obscenely loud crest of white feathers running down the middle. In all things, ostentation. Kalus never changed.

Djehouti spoke next. “This vessel was not always solely an implement of destruction. During the great crusade, when it still bore its original name, it would be host to all manner of dignitaries. Visitors from other legions, surrendering leaders of target systems, the like. Though I am surprised they have kept it for its original purpose.” Djehouti walked briskly, clearly struggling to keep up with the lumbering gait of my terminator plate. A brush against his mind revealed a certain distance in his thoughts, as though he were not entirely paying attention to the situation. I closed my mind off from the others, sending my thoughts to him and him alone.

Are you well, brother dearest?

Zandros. Yes, all is well. Forgive my absence. This ship brings back memories. Of course it did. It reminded him of our time aboard the Endurance during Horus’ rebellion. It stank of the same decay.

You are remembering our time as Ahriman’s emissaries to the Fourteenth. It was not a question. With my brother’s memory fading more with every day as the Wych’s toxins worked through his mind, any memory he could manage to grasp was worth ruminating on.

Djehouti’s response came slowly, tinged with more emotions than I could name. Yes.

We were younger then.

Young. Foolish. Power-hungry. A nostalgic smirk tinged his thoughts.

We might not have changed as much as we would like to think.

At this, he gave a single, forceful exhalation. After a moment of silence between us, with only the trudging squash of our armor against the filthy deck to break the monotony, he sent again: Zandros, should we survive this excursion, I have something to ask of you.

Anything, brother. What would you wish of me?

Djehouti smiled beneath his helm, coloring his thoughts with a whistful sadness. It can wait. I nodded.

“We’re here.” Zethra’s voice came abruptly, with a fuzz of static. I returned my gaze to the corridor ahead of us. It open up as we stepped forward, widening in size from a hive street to a grand causeway large enough to admit a Warhound Titan. It was here that Norvegicus’ touch was most evident. The ‘welcoming hall’ did not resemble the gilded splendor of an Imperial-built spacecraft. Instead, it was covered, every inch, in growths of flora both natural and empyrean. The room was lined with twisted, pale mangrove trees, drinking greedily from shallow pools of green scum that spread beneath their shade. A thick coating of mud covered the floor, with mushrooms of every color and shape sprouting from beneath the diseased soil. The walls were covered completely in snaking alien vines, bulbous pustules of ichor pulsing at irregular intervals. The ceiling was hung with lichen, smothering the lumiglobes almost completely. Cackling Nurglings stalked and butchered each other for sport in a twisted mockery of children at play. All in all, the room was so overgrown as to leave only a single foot path traveling down the center clear of the grove’s touch. But the centerpiece of the room was undoubtably the warrior standing sentinel at the far edge.

He was an astartes, and massive even for one of the XIV. Like I, he was clad in Cataphractii plate. That was where the similarities ended. His armor was a rich green, the trim a burnished bronze. He carried no visible firearm, instead leaning on a massive two-handed chainscythe. What singled him out amongst his brethren of the death guard was the total lack of decay visible on his armor. Not a single fleck of rust could be seen, not a single dribble of pus or twisting bone growth. Indeed, to the naked eye, he seemed completely devoid of Nurgle’s taint. But beneath that clean exterior, there was a certainty. A fear. Where other champions of the Seventh exemplified to terror of rotting flesh, the pungent smell of blight, this man seethed from within with the hushed fear of infection. Held breaths, averted eyes, a populace knowing there was disease among them, but not knowing when or from who it would come. He was the knowledge that every breath you take could doom you, that shaking your neighbor’s hand would have you dead within a week, the simple truth that you were not safe and that the threat could not possibly be fought against. His helm swiveled to meet our gaze, red lenses glinting in the sickly light.

“Miscreants. You walk the halls of hallowed ground. Your unholy sanitation is an affront to the beauty of these luscious halls.” His voice was deep and harsh, with the barest hint of a Barbarusii accent. The vox-grille of his helm rendering it a predator’s growl.

Mizi’s mind connected with mine in an instant. I’ve got a shot. The sending came with a series of images: Crosshairs held steady over a green helm, the kick of a rifle thumping against a shoulder, the red smear of a head bursting.

I stepped forward, my external vox opening with a barely-audible click. “I am Zandros Lucarian, and I speak for the Ashen Hunters. State your name, that I might know whose death I command.”

A series of sharp barks escaped the warrior’s helm. After a moment, I realized he was laughing at me. “You speak for a mongrel warband of bastards and thin-bloods. But you shall know my name. I am Holgius, seventy-seventh scythe of the Deathshroud.”

The minds of those at my side sharpened instantly. Before us stood a member of the Deathshroud, the chosen blades of the lord of the Seventh Legion. This was no petty champion, no pit brawler elevated above his brothers by savagery alone. His deeds had been enough to draw the attention of the Rotten King himself. To face him would be to invite ruin in a thousand different forms.

And so, of course, it was Kalus who stepped forward, twinned cutlasses slithering from their sheaths with a crackle of energy. “I’ve always wanted to kill a Deathshroud,” he purred. “Never thought that one would volunteer.”

Holgius did not turn his gaze from me. “Does this wailing peacock speak for you, Zandros Lucarian?”

A poorly-contained snicker distracted me as Mizi’s aura smeared with mirth.

“In as many words.” The challenge had been issued. Kalus knew this dance. Like the Samar-Hai of ancient terra, warbands were fond of sending champions forth to duel to the death before the commencement of a slaughter. It was clear that the rotting creatures that served as crew aboard the Seventh Hell understood the significance of Kalus’ headstrong challenge, too. Obese nurglings crowded the fetid canopy above us, clamoring for a better look at the contest. Through my sixth sense, I felt other, more ethereal eyes lock on to our plight.

The Gods were watching.

Holgius stepped forward, revving his chainscythe in a squall of tortured metal. Kalus did likewise, his blades twirling in lazy, lethal arcs. The Deathshroud regarded him for a moment, then rolled his shoulders into a hunched combat stance. My champion crossed his blades over his sternum, lowering himself into a catlike stance. “You seem confident.”

Holgius’ response was a husky, rasping laugh like a knife scraping the rust from ancient metal. “When set against such a meager creature as you? I see no reason why I should not be.” He had begun to pace their arena now, his boots trudging puddles in the floor.

Kalus raised his blades to compensate for his foe’s movement. “Now you seem overconfident.”

The first blow was struck faster than the eye could follow. With a snarl of servos, Holgius swept his weapon towards Kalus. Kalus was already ducking below, spinning into a strike that was both parry and riposte. The scythe roared harmlessly over his head, guided further upwards by a flick of his left blade. His right was already lashing out like a silver viper to bite into his opponent’s knee. There was a flash as the strike connected, but the armor held. Kalus danced out of engagement range, and I did not need my psychic gifts to see the wry smile spreading below his faceplate.

Holgius was already spinning, keeping the momentum from his first missed stroke into a crushing downward blow. I watched frantic realization bloom in Kalus’ mind as he realized that the warrior had guessed his plan, and was already striking towards where he stood crouched. Even he could not evade in time, and so he crossed his blades over his head, braced to take the strike. It impacted with a scream of micro-engines. Pain flooded Kalus’ aura as greenstick fractures began to spread down his arms. He was holding the blade, mere inches from his marble helm, but the clash of weapons was straining his swords’ power fields to their limit. Thousands of miniscule impacts from the teeth of the chainscythe built until the haze around the blades began to flicker and dull.

Kalus spun aside, letting the natural weight of his opponent’s weapon buy him precious nanoseconds as its tip ground against the muck. Two more flashing strikes thudded into Holgius’ side, opening deep gashes in the ceramite. Holgius lashed out with a hand, thudding a fist against Kalus’ helm. Kalus soared through the air, landing with a splat against a pale, warp-touched tree.

Holgius did not pursue his quarry, instead looking down at his dented armor. The gashes opened by Kalus’ strikes had not penetrated his plate. Neither had my champion angled his strikes for the weaker joints in his opponent’s hide. Holgius raised his gaze to Kalus, now standing with defiance in his eyes. “You are mocking me.” The barely-controlled rage beneath his voice shone like a beacon to my sight.

Kalus was rising from where he had fallen against the fetid flora. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His breathing was ragged and labored; the pain that smeared his aura evident of a punctured lung. Still he stood, mischief painted across his stance as it was his face.

Holgius gestured to the rents in his armor. “Three strikes against me,” he said accusingly, “All of them botched. Every one could have been fatal. You are mocking me.” The grating fury in his voice had been restrained to a dull seething just below his skin.

Kalus shrugged. “Well…” He struck again, faster than we could see. Holgius swept his blade upwards, but too slow. Like lancing a boil, the blade in Kalus’ right hand plunged into Holgius’ forehead with terrifying ease. As his opponent wavered, not yet realizing he was dead, Kalus met his eye, their faceplates inches apart. “…Maybe a little.”

What happened next is difficult to describe. Not in terms of the physicality of the matter, for what took place was simple, if incredible. Holgius went slack, held aloft by misfiring nerves, hands twitching in the final throes of a death rightfully earned. And then… he bloomed. His armor split apart, ceramite shearing away and peeling back like the petals of a diseased lotus. In its place, bloated, pestilent flesh swelled and bulged outwards, throwing Kalus’ sword free. Knots of warped bone split forth from his shoulders, piercing skywards with the promise of infection. Row upon row of greenish fangs crowded his human teeth. While all of this happened, he was growing. We watched on in horror as he swelled from a giant of a man to a corpulent, heaving mass of filth. The Daemon within him, so well camoflauged until now, had been forced into the open by its host’s death.

What my sixth sense saw was altogether more complicated. In his human form, Holgius had been choked thick with the warp-spun false memories of a population terrified of the plague in their midst. Now, with his possessor revealed, those emotions took on a whole new context. Before me stood a daemon born of realization. For so long, the fear it gorged itself on had been limited to the sight of one’s neighbors covering their face, the scent of decay on the air, the primal certainty that something was terribly wrong. But here was the terror of a society advanced enough to look within, and realize that it was dying. The full extent of the infection revealed, and there was nothing to do but watch.

The thing that had been Holgius was on Kalus before my champion could react. Bloated, sore-pocked fists pummeled into Kalus with preternatural strength. A horrific shriek of tearing metal shuddered through us as Kalus’ breastplate split, caving inward under the force of the daemonic assault. Holgius grasped the broken pieces and hauled the cavity open even wider, exposing pale flesh to the diseased air of the Seventh Hell. A weak gurgle escaped from Kalus, carried to us over the vox. Holgius raised his fists to finish the job.

I commanded his death with a single word, spoken clearly and calmly over our group’s Vox.

“Mizi.”

The cracking report of a las-fusil accompanied the split-second in which the entire chamber was washed with red light. When the momentary blindness had cleared, Holgius stood slack-jawed over Kalus. Mizi’s shot had scorched a deep, blackened pit into his misshapen head. Steam curled from the crater as his dying mind struggled to comprehend what was going on. The daemon riding within his veins howled in rage as its handhold on reality began to slip away. As his spirit began to fade, Holgius met my eyes.

“C-co… ward…”

An insult that had long since lost its bite. I informed the Deathshroud as such, before tossing his limp corpse aside with a whim of telekinesis. I pulsed my orders throughout the chamber, calling my bound to follow.

Forward.

I was nearing the far end of the chamber when Kalus spoke. He was a ruin, his helm torn off to allow him to breath through a mangled face, his torso a bloody ruin, bone protruding near his pectorals. Still, he stood, swaying back and forth as he forced words out.

“I… would have… had him…” I smirked at that. A rudimentary scan of his mind revealed he truly believed it, too. He began to waver, and his legs would have given out if Mizi had not arrived at his side, steadying him. “I would have had him.” He repeated, firmly this time. Mizi shot me a look. I didn’t need my second sight to register the exasperation in her thoughts.

I am sure you would have, cousin. I extended a hand, willing his riven flesh to reknit itself. Kalus winced as the psychic impulses began to do their work. I am not so naïve to believe I can be rid of you that easily.

[elizabethemerald]

Widogast’s Magnificent Mansion

Please Reblog and tell me what you think of this version of the Mansion!

Caleb stepped into the former meat locker and watched as his friend’s jaws dropped one by one as they followed him. When each had stepped into the foyer he closed the entrance with a wave, then turned to look at the room, a smile teasing his lips. 

The entrance foyer to the magical mansion had stained glass windows on every side. There were three large windows on the left and three on the right and one massive one straight in front of them. Each of the windows depicted one of the Nein in beautiful, ornate stained glass, finer than any glass cutter could make. 

On one wall, Yasha stood with both hands on the hilt of the Magician’s Judge, it’s point dug into the earth at her feet. Lightning crackled and arched around her white feathered wings. Next was Veth in her yellow dress, who wore a necklace of buttons, with her cross bow in one hand, while her other held a porcelain mask, just peaking out from behind her dress. Last on that wall, Beauregard stood in an easy fighting stance, resplendent in her Cobalt Blues, and with lightning blasting off her fists, a cocky smile on her lips. 

Across from Yasha, Caduceus stared serenely down at them his blight staff in his hands, surrounded by growing greenery and tangled vines, with a skull at his feet, flowers growing from its eyes. Behind and above him shone the radiant light of the Wildmother. Next to him, Fjord held the Star Razer in one hand, with green eldritch energy in the other. He stood on the deck of a ship, waves crashing over the rails, with divine light shining off the Wildmother’s symbol in the air above him. Finally there was Jester, her skirts bellowing out around her as if she had just finished spinning, in one hand she held her lollipop weapon, with it sitting over her shoulder, while in the other she offered a blueberry muffin. Standing behind her was a green cloaked figure, just a hint of a smirk visible underneath his hood. 

Finally on the wall opposite the entrance, standing above a pair of double doors was the entirety of the Mighty Nein. At first it was the grubby assholes who had met in Trostenwald. Caleb stood in the center of their group in his dirty coat, Nott, still a goblin near him, with the rest of the group around him. As they stepped forward the image changed to the group of capable adventures who now stood in the foyer. Veth, now a halfling, Caleb clean and well dressed, Yasha with her white wings, Fjord shining under the light of the Wildmother, Beau wearing her expositor uniform. And over their heads, a purple coat, that seemed to flap in an invisible breeze. 

“Lebby...This is-” Veth’s words died in her throat as she stared. 

Caleb turned to take in his friend’s awestruck looks. The smile that had been teasing at his lips now broke into a full on grin. 

“This! Is only the beginning.” He declared, than lead the way to and through the double doors. 

As the doors opened, without him touching them a warm chime could be hard echoing through the mansion. From the foyer the first room was a massive open living room filled with comfortable couches. There was a grand stair case that lead to a second floor and several rooms opened off the main room. Caleb spun slowly in place pointing out the rooms around them. 

“There’s a work out room there.” Beau nudged Fjord and smiled. “Next to it is a workshop, with all the tools you could dream of Veth. And there’s a studio, for art or music.” Jester was already excited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, but at that she cheered and threw her arms around Yasha. “The garden is behind the stairwell and there’s a dining room over there. The larder is through the kitchen, don’t worry Mr. Clay, it’s well stocked, we will not want for food.” Caduceus leaned on his staff, his whole face split into a wide grin. “And of course a library and study.”

The Nein were practically vibrating at this point. Beau had thrown herself  down on one of the couches, her legs over the arm, while Jester had started to jump from cushion to cushion around the room. Yasha had wandered over to the studio with a look of contentment on her face. Veth ran to the workshop to peak inside. Fjord patted Caleb on the shoulder. 

“Well done, Caleb.” He said warmly. 

Caleb took just another moment to appreciate his friends and how much they enjoyed the mansion, before he clapped his hands together. 

“Would you like to see your rooms?” 

He asked the question innocently enough but the way those who had moved away snapped back to his position filled his heart with joy. When they were again gathered he climbed the stairs, his friends at his heels. At the top of the stairs were seven rooms, each with a plain wooden door, and an engraved symbol at the top of the door frame. Caleb’s smile somehow widened as he saw each of them take hesitant steps toward the doors that had something special to them in the engraving. 

Caleb followed Beau to the room that bore an engraving of the three eyes of Ioun. She opened the door and stepped inside. The room within was reminiscent to her room with the Cobalt Soul. Few decorations or furnishings were in the room. A bed, dresser and desk taking up the bulk of the space. The desk was well lit with several magical lanterns, and had several piles of paper, as well as quills and inks. All across one wall was a board with tacks, coils of string and paper. The window showed an evening in Zadash from the Archive of the Cobalt Soul there. 

“The uh, conspiracy board was a comparatively recent addition.” Caleb smiled. 

Beau nodded absent mindedly. She picked up the one piece of decoration, a framed portrait that sat on her desk. Caleb knew it without looking. Beau in the center of a group hug with the Nein. Jester and Veth both physically clinging to her, all of them smiling and laughing. He knew that she would deny it if he brought it up, but he caught a glimpse of a tear sliding down her cheek as he stepped away. 

A voice coming from the next room drew his attention. He stepped to the door with the symbol of the Wildmother surrounded by vines to see Caduceus greeting his plants. His room was similar in color and lighting to what Caleb remembered of the Blooming Grove. Outside the window was a bright, verdant forest filled with all manner of beautiful trees and plants. The room itself was fairly austere, though not as severe as Beauregard’s room. However other than furniture the room was filled with plants. There were vines hanging from the ceiling and creeping up the walls. Plus multiple small planters filled with fungus. 

Caleb left Caduceus to introduce himself to his new plants to look at the next room. The door bore the mark of a crossbow bolt covered in electricity. Veth’s room matched her attire, ostentatious colors decorating the walls, and her furniture was an eclectic mix, more chosen for comfort over style. Every possible surface, from the walls to the desk and dresser were covered in pictures of Veth and her family. There were pictures of all three Brennattos, pictures with just Veth and Yeza, and dozens of pictures of Luc laughing and having fun. Including Caleb’s personal favorite, Luc sitting on Yasha’s shoulders from just this morning. 

When Veth saw him standing at her door she ran to him. Caleb knelt to meet her running hug. She pressed her face against his coat to hide the tears running down her face. 

“Thank you Caleb.” She whispered into his shoulder. 

“Of course, Liebling.” He replied, his voice tight. “And if Luc and Yeza visit I can rearrange things to give the three of you your own apartment, so they are always welcome here.”

Veth pressed herself tighter against him, pulling on his jacket for a minute before she let go. She took a deep shuddering breath then turned back into the room. Caleb stood to leave her to it, his smile growing wider as he heard her exclaim upon finding her closet. 

Next down the line was Yasha, the Stormlord’s symbol carved above her door. Caleb stuck his head in, but didn’t disturb her. The giant woman was standing, her fingers resting gently on the wall of her room. Caleb had copied the walls from her room in the Xhorhouse, so the wall was painted with Jester’s mural of wild flowers. Yasha turned from staring at the mural to kneel in front of the potted flower at her feet. She gently rain her fingers over the flower’s leaves, before glancing at the rain that battered the windows of her room. 

Caleb stepped away, leaving her to it and found himself outside Fjord’s room. The symbol above it was almost a perfect copy of the Wildmother’s holy symbol that Cad had made for him. The room had wood paneling and decorations that made it look like it was the captain’s cabin aboard a ship. The walls were decorated with naval charts and on the wide map table were copies of every map the Nein had collected. Fjord had summoned the Star Razer and placed it on a sword rack that hung over the desk while he looked at one of the maps more closely. Outside the wide bay windows a choppy sea could be seen, with the light of dawn filtering in between the clouds. 

He looked up as Caleb looked in and gave a warm smile, the tips of his tusks just poking out above his lips. He nodded to Caleb, appreciation in his eyes before he turned his attention back to chart in his hands. 

Caleb stepped back and looked at the last two rooms. Both doors were still closed. He turned his head as he heard Jester cheer from Veth’s room. He smiled and turned to watch her dash between rooms, her excited chatter filling the hall with noise, as she inspected each person’s room in turn, sharing in their delight at their new accommodations. 

Finally Jester finished talking excitedly with Beau about her room and ran down the hall to meet Caleb outside their two rooms. She immediately pulled him into a bone crushing hug in her excitement. Caleb wheezed as she released him, but his smile didn’t leave his face. How could it, when Jester’s own radiant smile was before him?

“You haven’t seen your own room yet?” He asked. 

Jester’s demeanor changed a little at his words. She lost none of her joy, but there was a hint of purple in her cheeks and her tail curled and uncurled around her ankle. 

“Well, I wanted to wait so you could show it to me.” She said.

Caleb’s smile grew crooked at the look of expectation on her face. Who was he to make her wait any longer? He gestured to the room with a Traveler's Gate above it, and the door opened for them. Jester immediately entered, practically dancing in joy as she did so. Caleb followed right behind her. 

Jester squealed in joy as she spun in place in the center of the room trying to take it all in. Caleb had copied elements of her room in the Lavish Chateau, with a few new personal touches. The walls were covered in paintings. The ones near the bottom, childish and simple, while those higher up grew in skill. Many of the paintings were exact copies of the ones from her room, but hidden among them were members of the Mighty Nein, and art of their greatest adventures. Of course among them were some friends of the Nein who didn’t travel with them. Calianna, Kiri, and Shakaste. 

Across the vanity and the desk top were sculptures of all kinds. Again, some of the ones she had made as a child, some of the Nein and some of their friends. There were piles of paints and brushes on the desk, along with a plate of bear claws and other pastries. Jester grabbed one, then jumped onto her bed, landing on her back. She had stars in her eyes as she stared up at the canopy, and the painting Caleb had put there. 

“This is the most amazing thing Cayleb.” She said. Tears beaded at the corners of her eyes. She took a bite of her bear claw and her face brightened immediately. She groaned as her tail curled on itself. “Mmmm. These have cinnamon on them!”

“Ja, of course.” Caleb’s face hurt from how much he was smiling. He glanced out her window at the Nicodranas skyline, soft moonlight falling through the curtains. 

Almost before he realized, Jester was back on her feet and pulling him into another hug. This one was less tight, but no less warm. 

“Thank you so much Cayleb.” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. For probably the first time, Caleb let himself hug her back. After a long hug, he pulled away. 

“Also,” Caleb took on her lilting accent as he said. “There are, like, sooo many dicks hidden on the walls.”

Jester cheered then spun away to begin examining the walls closely trying to find the hidden dicks. Caleb watched her for a moment, then quietly stepped back, leaving her to her search. He left her door open before turning to his own. An open book with a pair of cat eyes hovering over it marked the top of the door frame. He opened the door and walked in. 

His room was simple. Almost as spartan as Beau’s. There was a small bookshelf filled with books. A simple desk with one of his dancing lights floating above it. He knew the drawers were well stocked with paper and ink. The bed was plain but comfortable. One he hadn’t slept in since before he left for the Soltryce Academy. Frumpkin already sat on the bed, gently licking his paw. And on his desk, was a plate with a single Blueberry Cupcake.

[eljackinton]

So Here's how I'd pitch a new Star Wars

Star Wars isn't going anywhere. That much is fundamentally clear. When will the franchise grace the silver screen again? That is somewhat unclear. At least outside of stand-alone spin-off films anyway. While originally having plans to have a Star Wars film come out annually, the planned new 'trilogies' fell by the wayside, and a more sporadic schedule starts with Rogue Squadron in 2023

Disney originally figured that if people could eat up the multiple superhero epics served up on a regular basis, that they'd be just as eager for seconds with the galaxy far, far away. However, after the split opinion over The Last Jedi, muted enthusiasm for Solo and all round universal disappointment of Rise of Skywalker, such a proposition now seems little more than a pipe dream.

While the various spin-offs in the world of TV and Video Games seem to assure us that new content will continue to tick over, it's unclear if Star Wars' future will ever return to blazing a trail into new territory, new worlds, new ideas and concepts, or if it will only ever dip back into the well of familiar faces and settings in perpetuity.

Is it just going to be Mandalorians and Tie Fighters all the way down?

I can't see the future, but what I can do is ask "What would I do if it was my call?" So, I got to thinking about how, if given the opportunity, I would bring Star Wars back to the screen in a brand new adventure. This isn't a side story or shifted point of view. This isn't something dumped into the cracks between films. This would be, for all intents and purposes, new Star Wars in every way those words imply.

So with that overlong pre-amble over, let's begin.

First up, here's my statement of intent. My idea of what a new Star Wars should be and how it would aim to achieve that.

To me, a new Star Wars should need to meet the following criteria:

- This film should be as welcoming to new viewers as it is to existing fans.

- It should be as brand new a story as it can be. New characters, new conflicts, new worlds.

- It should still feel like a Star Wars film. No matter what, it should still be recognisably Star Wars.

- The story should feel significant. An important chapter in the setting's history, not a small secondary side story.

So with these three criteria I reasoned I should give myself several specific limitations:

- No returning characters. No cameos and as few explicit references to the wider setting as possible.

- No relying on old visual designs. This is a new setting. No Rebellion or Empire. No Stormtroopers, Tie Fighters or Death Stars.

- This is a story must be set after all previous Star Wars stories. This will not be a prequel.

- The first film must be as self-contained as possible. Room will be left for a trilogy but it shouldn't be riddled with mysteries and loose ends.

So, in conclusion, we want a film that feels fundamentally Star Wars without relying on the crutch of nostalgia. We want a film that can fill that gap that only Star Wars can, without feeling as though we're revisiting beats and concepts from earlier stories. We want a film that can live up to the title, in their big neon yellow, but also feel like new, untrodden ground.

No small task.

So, to introduce you to what I've come up with, cue fanfare, start opening scroll...

STAR WARS

THE KYBER CONFLICT

It is a time of unbroken peace. Overseen by the ruling ARISTOCRACY

miners in the system of Windar have discovered vast deposits of

valuable KYBER CRYSTALS buried within it's moon.

Long known as the power source for their ancient lightsabres

the JEDI ORDER dispatches two of it's

representatives to negotiate a trade.

However, in the wake of their discovery there is rumblings

of descent in the MINER'S UNION. Perused by agents from the the

INCOM CORPORATION, the workers have taken possession of

an override chip that they hope they can use to change their fortunes.

So, quickly we establish the state of the universe. We're a couple generations after the sequel trilogy. The Republic and the Jedi are back, though not unchanged. They could use the 'Order of Skywalker' moniker to leave the suggestion that Luke and Rey's legacy has passed into legend, but I'm easy on that. We're in a new, fresh part of the galaxy that is outside of the Republic's influence.

PROLOGUE

The film begins. The camera drops down onto two large bodies in space. A planet and it's moon, which appear to be linked via a massive, tube-like, space elevator. Whizzing along the exterior of the elevator from the planet to the moon are two ships. The smaller of the two is a bashed up, industrial ship, where the larger in pursuit is a sleek red interceptor that looks more like a yacht.

Cut to the interior of the industrial ship. Our film is beginning in much the same way A New Hope did. Jostled in the explosion are our first two characters. TIBBITS and BR-NDA. Tibbits is a short blue engineer probably played by Danny DeVito, and BR-NDA is a horse-sized Gonk droid. These two play as a sort of inverse C3-P0 / R2-D2 dynamic. Tibbits is a confident and often flippantly negligent engineer, where BR-NDA, through beeps and borps, constantly tries to disprove with how relaxed he is.

As Tibbits and BR-NDA talk, they debate how much longer the ship will hold up against the state-of-the-art firepower from their INCOM attackers. Incom did make the X-Wings, after all. Soon enough they are summoned by SORLOV, who is head of the MINER'S UNION, a Duros who is sort of a rugged hard nosed general type. Also, he wears a wig, and this goes unremarked upon. I just like the idea of hairless aliens wearing wigs as a fashion statement.

Through dialogue the stakes of the situation are established. The miners have recently stole something called an 'override chip' from Incom HQ, which has gotten them into trouble. They don't have much time, and need to make their escape.

Again mirroring A New Hope, miners armed with blasters run to repel borders. Sorlov however, chooses to fight with them, and tells Tibbits and BR-NDA to hit the escape pods. Stormtrooper-like, red-armoured Incom security troops board the ship, a fight ensues, forcing a bunch of them into retreat.

Just as Darth Vader did in A New Hope, a menacing figure now enters. This figure, however, wears a rugged-looking cream coloured trench coat, a tall collar covering his face and a cowboy-like hat. This is ROAKE, and he is essentially a union busting space-Pinkerton. The officers tell Roake that they got everyone, but Roake belittles them, knowing better.

Roake manages to find a hidden passage to the cargo bays, and caches Sorlov and his men trying to get to the escape pods. With duel pistols Roake quickly dispatches all but Sorlov, who he needs alive to find out where, 'the chip' is. Almost in a Mexican stand off the two reach for their guns, before BR-NDA deploys a smoke screen and facilitates their escape. Falling towards the moon, Tibbits laments that it's finally over, but Sorlov states "The change coming to Windar is only beginning."

ACT 1

Cut to another ship descending towards Windar's green and pleasant surface. Within are two Jedi Knights on a diplomatic mission, harking back to The Phantom Menace. The master, KARIS, and the apprentice RISTIN, both discuss their mission and essentially set the scene for the viewers.

Windar part of the DEMAR PROVINCES, a collection of planets overseen by the aristocratic DUKE WILHELM DEMAR and his two sons LOUIS and LUCIAN. Recently mining operations on Windar's moon discovered a mother-lode of KYBER CRYSTALS. This has drawn the attention of the UNITED REPUBLIC, who covet the scarce crystals to both facilitate the manufacture of Jedi lightsabres, but also to keep it out of the hands of those who would use them to build Death Star-scale planet destroying weapons.

KARIS and RISTIN have been sent to negotiate with the brothers DeMar for access to the moon's mines, and in return offer the provinces exclusive membership into the Union.

Cut to two lightsabres, one red, one gold, colliding with each other with a mighty crack. We pull back to see the two men wielding them. Two smartly dressed but foppish looking men. These are the brothers mentioned earlier. Louis is the older of the two, handsome but somewhat boyish. His younger brother Lucian is likewise dashing, but has a sinister look to him.

The brothers continue to fight with the lightsabres. They do not wield them like swords, or katanas, however, but fence with them. This fight is a gentleman's friendly. As they thrust their blades back and forth, they throw out the occasional jibe, and reiterate the situation from their perspective. Louis is pleased that they have the chance to join the wider galaxy in the Republic, but Lucian is less convinced, and doesn't want to consider the agreement until he knows "how much they'll pay," for the Kyber crystals. Both mention that undue pressure is upon them from their father.

As the fencing match concludes, the Jedi arrive, and are shocked and surprised to see the two men wielding lightsabres. The brothers explain that they were found on Windar's moon, amongst ruins of a possibly, pre-schism Jedi temple. The Jedi are somewhat miffed that the brothers are treating the relics as playthings, but don't want to cause unnecessary conflict. Louis offer to show the Jedi the mining operation on the moon, while Lucian covertly conceals the two sabres in his belt.

The two groups negotiate as they travel from Windar's palace, a beautiful Versailles-style building built upon green and verdant mountains. The space elevator which they travel to, is a blight on the landscape, and the first sign that all of not well with the mining that has been brought to Windar.

The conversation between the two groups continue as they enter the elevator and begin to ascend to the moon. Lucian boasts that it was built by the Incom corporation "You know, the people that built the X-Wings!" and that it's presence symbolises a new beginning for the DeMar provinces.

As they arrive on the moon, they board a mining transport and head out across the rocky landscape. As it moves, Louis looks down at a gaggle of miners, who glare back at him. Our perspective now shifts to the young miners SHANI and buff Twi'lek T'SALA. They talk about Sorlov's recent escapade, that they have 'the chip' and that a strike can begin any day now. T'sala is enthusiastic, but Shani is unsure they are ready. T'sala reassures her that "We have it in us to make this world anew."

Back with the brothers and the Jedi, Lucian has led them out above a deep cavern that is set out to be their next big mining operation, and massive veins of Kyber can be seen in the rocks below. He presses Master Karis to give him a definitive answer as to how much the Republic is going to pay them for the crystals.

As diplomatically as she can, Karis explains that their payment is membership into the Republic, and that no money is on the table. Once in the union they will be entitled to the privileges therein but are obligated to turn over the crystals gratis. Lucian flies into a fit of rage at this, pulling out his lightsabre and taking Ristin by surprise, killing the apprentice. Louis tries to stop him but gets an elbow to the face and falls back behind a rock.

Karis draws her own sabre and battles Lucian. Quickly it begins to show he is no match for her, but just as it looks like she has him almost disarmed, we see Roake slink onto an overhanging rock, aim a sniper rifle, and fire. Anticipating this, Karis turns, freezing the bolt in place, but in the seconds that she does, Lucian swings his blade into her side, and then cuts off her arm. Now having the upper hand, he makes ready to kill her.

However, having now righted himself, Louis pleads with his brother to stop. When he gets no response, Louis reaches for the other sabre in Lucian's belt, and through a miraculous use of the force, pulls it to his hand. He dives forward, blocking Lucian's blade and saving Karis' life, just as Roake throws down a thermal detonator. The blast knocks Louis and the Jedi master falling into the cavern, and soon darkness envelops the screen.

ACT 2

The darkness fades in to a blurry POV shot. We can see what looks like a rough medical clinic put together in a cavernous room. Sounds of frantic talking and muffled explosions can be heard. Louis is lying in a bed hooked up to a life support machine. Standing over him is Shani and T'sala, arguing. Shani is arguing that their attackers have almost broken through the door, and they don't have time to move Louis in his condition. T'sala argues that she doesn't like the idea of lugging Louis around either, but Sorlov has given them those orders.

The argument is resolved when Louis pulls himself out of bed, frantically demanding to know where he is. The two women can only explain that they have little time, however, as a nearby door is blown down, and Incom troopers enter the room blasting at them. Louis is shocked that Incom, the corporation that "built the X-Wings!" would be responsible for something like this.

Being sure to grab his coat and lightsabre on the way out, Louis follows the miners into a loading bay, where Tibbits and BR-NDA are working on the mechanics of a massive mine cart, attached to a track. Shani demands that they get it ready to go now, but Tibbits insists that it's in no fit state to run the whole route. As the troops start shooting, he concludes they'll have to figure it out on the way.

What follows is a frantic mine cart chase between the protagonists and groups of Incom troopers, led by Roake. As the chase progresses, Louis bickers with Shani and T'sala, who in turn bicker with Tibbit's and BR-NDA, who are constantly tinkering to keep the cart together in one piece.

Roake closes the distance and fires at a loose piece of rock ahead of them, causing it to fall towards our protagonists. Louis cowers, while Shani pulls the sabre from his belt and splits the rock in half, sending the pieces spinning away from them. Further parts of the cave collapse, finalising their escape from Roake.

We then cut to Lucian back in the palace, who is sitting on a fancy chair and trying to move an apple from a fruit bowl with the force. He can't do it. Suddenly, a palace guard enters the room and reports that Lucian has holo-calls from two people waiting. Incom CEO ARCADY LAURANT and his father Wilhelm DeMar.

Lucian talks to Arcady first, who wants to know why his delivery of Kyber crystals is taking so long. Lucian tries to pin the blame on the 'worker problem' but Arcady says that the troops he loaned Lucian and Roake should be more than enough to resolve the matter, and doesn't want to take things into his own hands. Lucian then switches to his father, who is furious that Lucian has installed himself as a de-facto dictator. Lucian tries to lie his way out of things, but his father insists that he will be travelling to Windar post haste to resolve the issue himself.

Lucian is then contacted by Roake, who has no good news for him, and confirms his brother is alive. Lucian then concludes that he is going to need to escalate things if he wants to succeed.

We then follow our protagonist's mine cart arriving at a roughshod headquarters built into what appears to be an old, underground Jedi temple. They lead Louis to Sorlov, who is happy to see him alive, but hardly cordial.

Sorlov fills in what Louis has missed. Lucian, unhappy with the offer from the Republic, has set himself up as de-facto leader of the planet and signed a contract with the Incom corporation "You know, the folks who built the X-Wings." Lucian planned to use the money he made to essentially outmanoeuvre his father, but things didn't go exactly to plan.

You see, quality of life for the miners had been pretty poor for years, and  as such a strike had been brewing for a long time. Sorlov had infiltrated Incom HQ and stole an override chip for the space elevator, which they planned to shut down until they had bargained for better worker protections. Louis is stunned by all of this, and naively thought that the workers were all well compensated.

When Lucian initiated his coup, however, things went from bad to worse, but with the organisation already in place for the strike, Sorlov and the workers initiated a full blown rebellion, and they've been fighting Lucian and Incom with repurposed mining equipment ever since. Louis, however, wants to know where he fits in.

Sorlov explains that they plan to ransom him back to Wilhelm in exchange for deposing Lucian and getting worker independence. Louis explains, however, that it won't work, and that Lucian is probably already planning moves against his father. Sorlov won't hear it, however, and plans to go through with the ransom anyway.

They are interrupted then by the crippled and weak Master Karis. She suggests a different plan. Louis learns the way of the force, returns to Windar and defeats his brother, takes his rightful place and heir to the house and brings an end to the conflict. Sorlov, rightfully, does not trust putting this in the hands of an aristocrat, but Karis insists that the force is strong with him.

Sorlov concedes on one condition. One of the miners themselves is to be trained in the ways of the Jedi too. Louis then offers that it should be Shani, as she distinguished herself with his sabre earlier. She is surprised that he thought so highly of her, but agrees. Karis then reveals she has little time left, as the wounds Lucian gave her were fatal. She will use the rest of what time she has to train them both.

We then proceed to have a training montage amongst the ruins of the old temple, where both characters are seen meditating, practising levitating objects and so forth. We see Shani assembling a lightsaber. Several days are implied to have taken place and through body language we can see Shani and Louis grow a respect for one another.

We then return to the palace, where a gleaming transport is setting down on a rainy landing pad. Out steps Wilhelm with a contingent of armed guards, and Lucian walks out to meet him with his own Incom troopers in tow. Wilhelm berates Lucian about what a disappointment he is, and in turn, Lucian ignites his lightsaber. Wilhelm laughs off the threat, pulling out a vibro-blade of his own, and stating "I taught you everything you know about fencing," The two ask their guards to stand aside, and battle each other one on one.

Wilhelm, despite being equipped with the weaker weapon, easily trounces Lucian and disarms him. He picks up the sabre, and states there will be "no more silliness." Lying in the water, a furious Lucian turns and reaches out his hand, shooting out force lightning and killing Wilhelm with a single blast. Back on his feet, Wilhelm's guards look to each other nervously, before one declares, 'All hail the new Duke!"

We return to the Jedi temple where Shani and Louis stand beside a dying Karis. She is lying in a makeshift bed, finally succumbing to the wounds she suffered fighting Lucian. She states that she had told them all they need to know, and from now on, life would be their teacher. As she fades away, Louis looks on, before being summoned to see Sorlov, who has news.

They arrive at his makeshift command centre and reveal Karis has passed away. Sorlov is shocked, and now apologetic, as he reveals to Louis more bad news, that his father is dead. Already reeling from Karis' death, he flies into a rage, knocking over equipment and smashing computer screens. Shani tries to calm him, but in response he pulls out his lightsaber, swinging it at her, and she she barely has enough time to block it with her own.

Realising what he has done, he puts the weapon away and apologises. Sorlov exclaims that they have no time to grieve, however, as they will need to act quickly. Lucian had no further obstacles, and will quickly consolidate his power. They need to get Louis back to the palace to declare himself legitimate heir and end the conflict.

Sorlov explains his plan. They still have the command chip for the space-elevator, which they can use to bypass it's security and take Louis all the way back to the surface of Windar. With that in mind, he proposes that he, Shani, Tibbits and BR-NDA travel to the moon side of the elevator while T'sala pilots The Morlock, a hybrid starcraft/mining vehicle that looks like a cross between the Millennium Falcon and the Mole from Thunderbirds.

They are to travel underground to the elevator, infiltrate it, and use the chip to bypass it's security. Once Louis is on Windar, they will stage an attack on the surface using repurposed mining ships, led by the Morlock, to give him time and cover to get where he needs to be.

With that the group decide to depart.

ACT 3

We have a short sequence where the group enjoys their downtime during the journey.  We have some goofing around as Tibbits and BR-NDA do some maintenance on the ship, and we get to see more of their 'almost like a married couple' routine. T'sala establishes her credentials as a pilot, being somewhat protective of the Morlock.

Louis and Shani discuss their respective upbringings, and we sort of establish each character's philosophical outlook. She believes that no establishment lasts forever and repeats "We have it in us to make this world anew." Louis, by contrast, can't see beyond his privilege, and clumsily insults her by saying she would make a good aristocrat. She walks off while he tries to fumble an apology, before heading to the helm to speak to T'sala. He and asks her if she had any desire to be trained in the ways of the Jedi. T'sala laughs off such an idea, saying "Jedi don't have a good track record with happy endings."

Tibbits runs in to alert them that they're coming to the end of their underground route, and they'll be exposed once they're out in the air. True enough, as the Morlock bursts through the side of a cliff face, they are immediately ambushed by Incom interceptors, which look similar to X-Wings.

What follows is a short dogfight in the vein of the Death Star escape in a New Hope or the battle through the ruins in Force Awakens. We get some good rapport between the characters, they prevail, and as the entrance to the space elevator comes into view, Roake is seen on a cliff edge watching the Morlock glide by.

He messages Lucian, saying that he has located Louis, and that they are headed for the space-elevator. Lucian confidently states that he is already two steps ahead, as the camera pans forward to show us a factory floor, with massive pieces of Kyber crystal being assembled into... something.

T'sala lands the Morlock not far from the entrance. She says her goodbyes, as she needs to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet to make ready for the attack. She takes Shani to one side, telling her she has a bad feeling about Louis, and not to trust him.

T'sala departs and the remaining group head towards the entrance. They ambush an Incom patrol to steal their armour. In disguise, they approach guards at the entrance, saying that they are escorting a maintenance droid as part of a routine safety inspection.

One of the guards states that he didn't know that Windar used droids since 'the emancipation act' and Tibbits responds that 'she's here of her own volition.' The guards ask "which unit are you from again?" and struggling for an answer Tibbits blows their cover. A battle starts, but Shani and Louis use their Jedi training to prevail. Louis then asks how they're going to get inside the elevator, while Tibbits answers "oh that's easy."

One of BR-NDA's panels drops to reveal a massive mining laser, and she blasts their way through the bulkhead door. The characters then fight their way past the elevator's garrison, on to the main platform. Tibbits and BR-NDA made for the control room and begin to hack the console, while Shani and Louis take cover from repeated blaster shots. More troopers arrive to attack, and they bicker with Tibbits to hurry up.

Eventually they trigger the elevator and begin to ascend. Shani sends a message to T'sala, to let the fleet know they are on their way. T'sala, still in the cockpit of the Morlock, confirms they are ready to go, and Sorlov, in his own fighter, rallies the fleet. A rag tag collection of mining ships and scout craft take off from a makeshift base out in the moon's canyons.

However, as the fleet takes flight, we see that Roake is also ascending in a smaller sub-elevator on the side of the shaft, and he signals Lucian to let him know the fleet is attacking. Back on Windar, Lucian confirms that he is already finalizing his plan. Windar's own fleet, backed by Incom fighters, take off, while a transport picks up what appears to be a massive bomb built from Kyber crystals, and starts to escort it to the elevator.

An awesome space battle begins, as the elevator reaches it's main security gate. This is the gate the override chip is needed to bypass. Tibbits enters the chip into the security system, but at first it doesn't seem to respond. "These things take time," he says. An explosion heard on the exterior proves they don't have much time. BR-NDA leans forward, and extends a small robotic arm, taking the chip out, turning it around and putting it back in. "Easy mistake," Tibbits says.

The gate opens and as they approach the surface of Windar they can see from the viewing port that the massive bomb is waiting for them. In turn, Lucian begins a broadcast to the forces and workers of Windar. Manically, he rants about how he could have been the best leader they ever had, but they were too ungrateful. All he wanted was to be paid a good price, but now if he can't get paid, nobody can. A countdown timer begins on the bomb.

The group signal Sorlov for advice, who states that if the bomb goes off it'll start a chain reaction through the elevator that will detonate the moon and take half of Windar with it. Whatever happens the bomb must be diffused. Tibbits and BR-NDA say they can handle it, but someone will need to cover them. Shani agrees to stay and defend them. Louis must face his brother alone.

Louis makes for the palace, but is met with overwhelming resistance. T'sala flies down in the Morlock to cover him, shooting down the troopers that bar his way. With a little finesse with his lightsabre, he manages to fight his way onto the grounds.

Meanwhile back at the bomb, Roake has now caught up, and faces off against Shani while Tibbits and BR-NDA struggle with the bomb. The two do battle, and while Shani is adept with her lightsaber, Roake is fast and nimble with his blasters. This fight should be very reminiscent of the one between Obi-Wan and Jango Fett in Attack of the Clones. All the while Roake is berating Shani and her fellow miners, saying that they should have been happy in servitude and 'known their place.'

At the palace, Louis finally faces off against Lucian in the very same room they were fencing at the beginning. Louis tries to talk him down, but Lucian is too far gone. He says that the force is compelling him. "The dark side?" Louis asks. Lucian says their are no sides, only one force. They continue to do battle, Lucian viscously swatting at him, no holding back.

At the bomb, Roake appears to have the upper hand, wounding Shani with a shot to the arm. She drops her sabre and falls to her hands and knees. No longer seeing her as a threat. Roake holsters one of his pistols and turns to Tibbits and BR-NDA. It is then that the ghost of Karis appears to Shani, encouraging her on. Fighting through the pain, Shani reaches out, using the force to pull Roake's pistol from his holster. He turns to fire back at her, but before he can, BR-NDA shoots a shock cable at him, electrocuting him, and causing him to fall to the floor, stunned.

Back at the palace, Louis and Lucian's duel has grown out of control. Furniture and decor is being smashed up. Louis kicks Lucian through a glass window out onto a balcony that overlooks a waterfall. They fight some more, but Louis ultimately prevails, disarming Lucian and knocking him to the ground. Lucian then tells Louis that he can't kill him, because he's signed a contract that upon his death Incom will take possession of all the DeMar Provinces. Louis says he has no intention of killing him, and like his father before him, turns his back to pick up Lucian's lightsaber.

Lucian reaches forward and fires a blast of force lightning at Louis, but his brother is too quick, and with both sabres ignited he blocks the lightning, deflecting it back at his brother, the power of which knocks him back over the balcony, causing him to fall to his death. Sorlov then calls in, and announces that the bomb has been diffused and Incom forces are routing, victory is in their hands. Louis, however, has a sombre look on his face as he looks down over where Lucian fell. Shani arrives, and gives him a hug to raise his spirits, telling him "We have it in us to make this world anew."

We then jump forward to Louis, standing outside a gleaming and repaired palace, addressing an assembled crowd of both miners and palace guards. He gives a rousing speech, about how he will be a responsible duke, and a leader to everyone equally. He also emphasises that the battle has not yet been won, and the Incom corporation's ownership over their territories still needs to be overcome, but a new age is upon them, and "We have it in us to make this world anew."

From the sidelines Shani give him a smile, but next to her T'sala looks on suspiciously.

The End

So there you have it. I wanted a relatively self-contained story, which has an opening for sequels, but with no cliffhangers, no stingers, no unresolved mysteries, and no dang mystery boxes. A definitive ending. If sequels were never made, the film would still need to be strong enough to stand on it's own, like the original Star Wars.

As for where the story goes from there, I have concrete ideas.

The second film would be a heist movie that involves the group trying to bankrupt Incom. It would be a more seedy, cyberpunk-type film, with CEO Arcady Laurant as the main villain. There would be stuff about the droid emancipation act, that Incom would be revealed to have ignored, T'sala would get a pole dancing girlfriend from Nar Shaddar and Roake would return in a massive Incom built exosuit.

Most critically of all, the second film would begin with the seeds of a relationship between Louis and Shani, only for this to go sour, as over the course of experiencing a more darker and corrupt version of the galaxy, Louis would conclude that the harsh class divide the aristocracy facilitates is a necessary part of THE galactic order. He'd kill Sorlov and double-cross the miners, setting himself up as the villain for film three.

The third film would have Louis ruling a harsh regime from his family home in the medieval-like planet of Gothrinstone. The plot would involve a full blown civic uprising, as Shani and company rise up the working class to do battle with the aristocracy's elite forces, who Louis has armed with lightsaber type polearms. Shani in turn would be training a new generation of Jedi to face them, and the final battle would be a massive siege against Louis' castle.

In the final battle, Shani would best Louis and ask him to stand down. Louis would try to pull the same trick against her as Lucian did with Karis, but T'sala manages to disarm the sniper first. Shani pleads for him to surrender, but Louis refuses to face the idea of giving up his privileged life, and throws himself from the battlements instead. The trilogy would end with Shani as the de-facto representative of the system, and the final scene would have her being met by a fresh delegation of Jedi, and an offer to join the republic, which she refuses, wanting to go her own way.

So that gives you an outline of the kind of thing I want to do. I hope my writing makes it clear that these films would be completely their own thing, and as such the story is free to go in its own direction. I think Star Wars can tell more stories than just rebels vs an evil empire, as well as not be so dependant on a 'light side/dark side binary.' So bringing in a more messy dynamic, between a ruling aristocracy, striking workers and a greedy corporation, is an interesting new scenario.

If you liked my ideas, or not, let me know what you think. I plan on following this up at some point with a more detailed outline on how I'd picture the rest of the trilogy going, and I might even write a script and upload it to AO3. Who knows.

In the meantime, may the force be with you or whatever.

[lesetoilesfous]

For the DADWC: “It’s really not that complicated.”

It took me SO long to decide what I wanted to do with this prompt but I think I figured it out so I hope you enjoy!!

(If you want me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: gen, FenHawke, pre-FenHanders

Characters: Varric Tethras, Anders, Fenris, Garrett Hawke, Isabela, Merrill

Tags: post-DA2, canon divergence, I haven’t played DAI yet I’m sorry y’all, my canon now I do what I want, what if Varric and Anders were still friends and Varric is doing what he does best, pro-Anders (including the chantry boom), anti-Sebastian (nothing against him I just needed a villain), mage rights

Rating: Teen and Up

“It’s really not that complicated.”

It wasn’t often that Varric Tethras allowed himself to look visibly impatient with anyone - and even less often than that when it came to Garrett Hawke. But he looks annoyed now. 

He also, Anders notes to a feeling a physical relief, has not moved from where he is standing between Anders and their former companions. Next to the door, Merrill looks like she’s about to start crying. Isabela and Fenris are differently unreadable. Isabela is wearing an expression of wry amusement that doesn’t reach her eyes, and Anders thinks all of them know her well enough to notice the way she has tilted her hips - prepared to fight if she needs to. Fenris is as poised and impassive as he ever is, elegant as some ancient Tevene statue,  though his countenance is far better suited to the imperial dignity of the magisters than the wracked suffering of the slaves. Anders doubts that he’d appreciate the comparison.

Hawke looks like he’s been slapped. His expression of shock, however, quickly darkens into thunder. Anders takes a step back without entirely meaning to, and sees Fenris catch the movement. A very slight frown appears on the elf’s brow, quick and brief as a breeze on still water. 

“It’s been two years, Varric!” Hawke is raising his voice now, and Anders feels the way Varric and Isabela’s weight shifts, poised for movement like puppets in a show. Next to his side, Hawke’s mabari watches them mildly. Anders resists the urge to pick up his staff. Hawke’s poker face was seemingly perfect. His dog’s was not. Anders tellls himself he has no reason to be afraid yet.

His heart does not seem interested in listening.

Even as he registers the rush of his own frantic heartbeat, Anders feels a wash of cool magic spread across his chest, soothing his body as Justice murmurs in the back of his mind. 

I will not let them hurt you.

Anders curls his fingers and tries to school his features into impassivity - a feat that’s harder to do when he notices Fenris staring at him again. There is no mabari to warn him of Fenris’ intentions, and Anders feels his heart jumping into the back of his throat despite Justice’s efforts as he tries to read anything in the elf’s face.

Then Hawke flings his hands into the air and Anders jumps as he begins to pace back and forth across the soft, scarred woon floor of the tavern in which they’re meeting. “I’d expect it of the rest of them, but you! Varric, I trusted you.” There’s a terrible fracture in Hawke’s voice then, and all of them flinch. Garrett hasn’t been this audibly upset - that Anders knows of - since the death of his mother. Varric’s shoulders relax as he begins to lower Bianca, and Anders tries not to let that scare him.

He will not betray you.

Justice’s voice is firm in his conviction. But Justice is a spirit, and knows little of such things. 

“Hawke...” Varric’s voice is soft, conciliatory.

Anders glances at the window - it’s boarded shut, a storm had come in not long after Hawke and the others had arrived. It’s hardly the best weather in which to make a quick getaway, but the rain will at least cover his tracks. And one of the benefits of spending eighteen months half starving is that he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to fit through it, once he gets the bolt open.

“We’re not here to hurt him.” All of them turn to stare at Fenris, whose eyes are stil fixed on Anders. Anders resists the urge to step back again, feeling the wooden bench behind him barely brushing his calves. Fenris meets his eyes, and he is as handsome as he was the blighted day he’d met him. “You. Anders. We’re not here to hurt you.” Fenris’ voice is soft, as if he’s speaking to some wounded halla. 

Anders bristles. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” He has his staff in his hand now - he’s not sure when he picked it up - but the weight of it is reassuring and the way it responds to his magic is better. He feels his panic ease as the detached kind of confidence he’d learned from war replaces it. He wouldn’t win a fight, not with all of them - but he’s sure he’d manage to stay alive long enough to get out the window. As quicky as he dares, Anders begins to slide his foot in the direction of the wall. Fenris’ frown deepens.

“What would you have me do? To prove it to you?”

Anders laughs, once, and it’s more of a reflex than humour. His hand tightens hard enough around his staff to hurt. “Put down the giant sword?”

Fenris reaches up and takes the greatsword off his back, laying it carefully on the table beside him and stepping back and away from it. 

At the same time, Hawke slips the daggers from his back with the same deadly, dextrous ease Anders has seen him use a thousand times. For one thick, painful heartbeat he half imagines he can feel his heart at the back of his mouth. He’s seen how quicky Hawke can kill people with those things. He knows how quickly he could kill him. He knows how close he’d come before.

(”You cannot let him live! After what he’s done!” Sebastian’s accent is thick with his anger and despite himself - despite everything - despite his certainty, and his desparation, and his fury and his grief and his resignation - a stupid, foolish, too loving part of Anders half expects Garrett to answer him immediately. To defend him, as he had so easily defended Isabela to the Arishok.

Garrett says nothing.

The last time Anders felt like this, Karl was begging him to kill him.

He waits to die.

When Hawke speaks, his voice is ragged. “Go.”

Anders doesn’t question it. He runs.)

Hawke meets Anders eyes, and lays his daggers carefully beside Fenris’ sword. Then he steps back and away from them.

Anders blinks, and the room blurs.

Merrill swings her staff off her back and places it beside the other weapons. She meets Anders’ eyes with a gentle smile. “Just for safety.”

Isabela looks at him. “Well, kitten?”

Anders takes a deep breath, and steps back and away from the window. Fenris and Garrett’s shoulders slump. Varric chuckles, and lowers Bianca. “Not that I don’t love a good old fashioned Antivan stand-off, but now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way - can I buy you a drink?”

He looks up at Hawke with a small smile and a hand raised. Hawke frowns. “Why? Why didn’t you trust me?”

Varric’s eyes narrow. “Not sure if you remember, Garrett, but your fingers were looking mighty twitchy the last time you saw Blondie.”

Outside, thunder crashes across the sky and shivers through the tavern’s thick walls. Anders jumps. When Fenris speaks, he does so softly. “Perhaps we should move away from the window?”

Anders grins at him, and it’s mostly just baring his teeth. “Why? Worried I’ll escape?”

Fenris’ eyes are green and lovely and unreadable. “Just worried, mage.”

Anders falters, and for a moment he could swear the elf...smiles at him. But he blinks, the fire in the torches on the walls flickers, and then the expression is gone. Hawke, meanwhile, continues to be focused on Varric. 

“ - you’re the one who wrote a book making him out to be a bloody Maferath! Or worse, Hessarian!”

Varric pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well I could hardly make him Andraste, now could I?”

Despite himself, Anders sniggers. Isabela smirks at him, Fenris only raises an eyebrow. For half a moment, with the distant music of the tavern’s minstrels starting up, and the smell of cheap ale rich and savoury in the air, Anders can almost imagine they’re back in The Hanged Man again, and the worst he has to fear from these people is whatever creative payment they’ll come up with in lieu of coin when he inevitably loses to them at cards.

But then Fenris moves towards him, and Anders’ body tenses, and the illusion shatters. Before Fenris can reach him, Hawke looks up, and with easy familiarity slips his arm around the elf’s waist. Fenris falters, dropping a kiss on Hawke’s head where he’s sitting now, on a bench beside Varric. Anders tries hard to ignore the way that twists a coil around his heart, even after all this time, even after everything. He still isn’t sure which of them he envies more.

He speaks without thinking. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. It’s not like any of you bothered to find me.” Anders notices Varric opening his mouth, and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder through the thick leather of his coat. “Except you, Varric.”

“Hey!” Isabela scowls and Anders grins at her, moving to press a kiss to her cheek that she accepts with a tilt of her head and a grin. “Thank you.”

Anders folds his arms across his chest when he looks at the rest of them. “Merrill I can understand.” He meets her eyes, then, “I know - well, I don’t know, but I can imagine how important Dalish culture is to you and...what I did.” Anders stops, and swallows, and tries to ignore the prickling ball of guilt tearing at his insides. “I can see how that would have made things more dangerous for everyone.”

“Would you do it again?” Again, despite the softness of his voice, Fenris’ question cuts through the general noise of the tavern like nothing else. Again, he meets Anders’ eyes, and Anders cannot read his expression. The firelight shimmers strangely against the lyrium in his skin.

Anders lifts his head, and tightens his fingers around his staff, feeling the magic pulling at him like a magnet. “I would.”

He expects Fenris to rage. He expects Hawke to say something. But Fenris only nods, once, and says nothing. Hawke looks down at his hands for a moment - still big and hairy and calloused as a Fereldan farmer’s - though far more scarred. Then he looks up and meets Anders’ eyes, and Maker help him it’s as difficult to look away now as it was nearly a decade ago, when he’d waltzed into his clinic with stolen armour and borrowed knives asking for a Grey Warden.

“We’ve been looking for you. We never stopped.” Hawke’s voice is quiet, and his hands curl into loose fists in his lap. “I...” He shuts his mouth, and swallows, and Fenris’ hand curls around his shoulder and squeezes it once. Hawke doesn’t look away from Anders. “I’m so sorry.”

Anders forgets how to breathe. “You’re...what?”

Fenris squeezes Hawke’s shoulder again before stepping away from him, and lifts his chin to meet Anders’ eyes. “We both are.”

Anders is seized by the vicious, sudden fear that he is dreaming - that this is some cruel trick of the Fade, and soon he’ll wake and be alone again, on the cold hard earth in some templar-infested wood. 

You are awake.

Justice’s voice is calm, but Anders knows him well enough by now to hear his curiosity. Neither of them had expected this.

Anders doesn’t know what to say.

On the other side of the tavern, a group of men break into a raucous chorus of cheering and laughter - some gamble won and lost, cards probably. Merrill turns in the direction of the noise, before looking back at the rest of them. “Remember when we used to play Wicked Grace? That was nice.”

Isabela smiles at her, and touches her tattooed cheek with the familiarity of a lover. “Of course, sheereen.”

Hawke looks at Varric. “I cannot believe you knew where he was this whole time and you didn’t tell me. I thought you hated him! Maker, I thought you were rallying Thedas to hate him, the way you wrote about him in that blighted book.”

“So that’s why you returned your copy.” Varric says, thoughtfully, stroking the thick gold stubble on his chin.

“He is right here, you know.” Anders says, a little waspishly, though he sits as he does so and, cautiously, sets his staff down beside him. It takes him a moment to peel his fingers away from the shaft and the safety it offers. When he does, Hawke is looking at him with an expression that Anders can only describe as sheepish.

“Sorry.” 

Anders tries, hard, not to smile, and finds the expression pulling at his lips anyway. “I mean, you’re not wrong.” He lowers his voice, “I would drown us all in blood to keep you safe.” He giggles, and slaps Varric on the back when he scowls. “Seriously, where do you come up with this stuff?”

For a moment, Hawke’s expression doesn’t change - then, slow and bright as a sunrise, he starts to grin. Anders’ heart clenches. Maker, he’d missed that smile. 

“Fenris still hasn’t forgiven him for the poopy line.”

Fenris rolls his eyes, but another smile is pulling at his lips, even as he folds his arms. “It is not the joke I take issue with. It is simply not how I speak.”

“In which language?” Anders finds himself asking, lullled into the old familiar rhythm of their conversations. Fenris raises both eyebrows at him. If Anders didn’t know him better, he’d swear the elf looked pleased.

“The trade tongue. Its..slang is nonsensical.”

Hawke laughs, and it’s a great booming thing. At his feet, his mabari lifts its head to lick his hand and he scratches it behind its sandy ears. Its tail thumps against the wooden floorboards. “Says the man who mastered Orlesian verlan.” Hawke looks at Anders, and there’s a bright humour in his eyes that Anders had only glimpsed, briefly, when he’d stepped into the tavern and seen him alive. But then Anders had stepped back, and Hawke’s face had fallen, and Varric had lifted Bianca...Anders blinks, and returns to the present as Hawke finishes. “You know it’s Orlesian backwards. I swear, that brain is wasted on a warrior.”

Fenris huffs, and he’s still smiling when he leans into Hawke’s side. “At least one of us needs to understand the principles of strategy.”

Hawke grins, and slings an arm around Fenris’ shoulders. To Anders’ surprise, Fenris lets him. Hawke looks at Varric and Anders then, and the firelight glitters over the raven-black silk of his hair. “Speaking of which. Where do we sign up to free the mages?”

Anders stares at him. “Sorry, what?”

Fenris shifts, then, leaning easily against Hawke’s side. “We did not come here to hurt you, Anders.”

Merrill grins, and sits forward, eyes bright and smile brighter. “We want to help!”

They do.

[jibberjibbsart]

OC Profile Meme

Thanks for @aeducanka for the tag!

Part of me almost chose Jyn, but that’s lame cause they’re basically me. So I’m picking Garrett! 

________________________________________________________________

PHYSICAL

Name: Garrett Hawke

Nickname: To most people in Kirkwall, he’s Hawke. When he asks Varric to give him a better nickname, he’s called Furball (Garrett is a very hairy man. It doesn’t help he only wears fur coats). 

When Garrett was about five he developed his magic. He was so excited about his new abilities that he told his older cousin Valerie (my grey warden) to call him Sir Magic Hands. The name stuck and now he hates it. 

Age: I’ll give you a little timeline of DA2.

17 When the Blight starts and Lothering is destroyed.

18 In his first year at Kirkwall. 

21 After defeating the Arishok. 

24 At the Chantry explosion. 

28 At the start of Inquisition.

Species: Human. 

Morality: Chaotic Good. Garrett is a bit of a trouble maker, but he has a strong sense of justice. He believes that in order to do the right thing, sometimes you have to break the law.

PERSONAL

Religion: Oof. 

Before the events of DA2, Garrett is 100% Andrastian. He prays to the Maker regularly and he would listen to Lothering’s Chantry Mothers preach. At the end of DA2, Garrett is angry with the Maker. His mother is dead, the Chantry is destroyed, Kirkwall is in ruins, and Garrett is running away as an apostate again. If the Maker was real... If Andraste cared... this wouldn’t have happened.

Sins: greed/gluttony/sloth/lust/pride/envy/wrath.

After Garrett gets his family’s estate back, he becomes a little lazy. His friends drag him out places so he’s not just sitting in bed reading Swords and Shields. He’s prideful when it comes to his abilities. This has gotten him in trouble countless times. Luckily Anders was able to patch him up every time. (Anders: “Maybe, if you didn’t sit around all day and you actually got up and trained, I wouldn’t have to keep saving you from dying!”) 

Virtues: chastity/ charity/ diligence/ humility/ kindness/ patience/ JUSTICE

Garrett is the kind of person to see someone in need and help them no questions asked (This has gotten him in trouble a few times). He’s given away lots of sovereigns to the parentless children in Kirkwall. There have been countless times where his friends had to stop him from adopting them. (”Garrett you can barely take care of yourself let alone a CHILD! Just take them to the Chantry!”) Garrett’s sense of justice is almost as aggressive as, well, Justice. He can and will break the law to make sure justice is served. 

Known languages: Common. He knows a tiny itty bit of Dalish from Merrill, but he always uses it incorrectly. Merrill swears he does it on purpose. 

Build: scrawny/bony/slender/fit/athletic/ curvy/ herculean/pudgy/plus size/average.

Since Garrett is a mage, he never thought that he had to work out. He just lets the magic do the work for him. As he got older, he realized that there’s more to fighting with magic then standing in a corner and waving his staff. He’s got a soft tummy, but his arms and legs are strong. 

Garrett doesn’t think he’s much to look at, but he’s not... bad to look at either? Homeboy has self-esteem issues. (I’m not projecting onto my ocs what) 

Height: 6′5″ 

He’s TOL

Scars/Birthmarks: He has a little scar on his cheek from when he was living in Highever with Valerie’s family. When a maid found him and Valerie using magic, Garrett panicked and let out a vicious ice blast that almost stabbed him in the eye. 

He has various scars from battles and medical procedures on his chest, back, and legs. 

Do I say that the red streak on his face is a birthmark or paint... Meh, I guess it’s a birthmark. This is a fantasy world I do what I want. 

Abilities/Powers:

1. Garrett specializes in Force and Ice magic.

2. Garrett was curious about Blood magic for a split second, but when Merrill gave him a crash course he almost passed out. 

3. He’s a great leader and strategizer under pressure. 

4. However, when he’s by himself fighting, he panics. 

5. His favorite ability is Fist of the Maker. 

6. He knows one healing spell and it only works on himself. He doesn’t know how to get it to work on others.

Restrictions:

1. Being a Ferelden refugee, a lot of the nobles in Kirkwall don’t take him seriously. This makes assisting or negotiating very difficult. Or killing very easy.

2. Despite his funny and sarcastic demeanor, he will cry if someone makes a joke about him. He’s very sensitive. 

3. He’s overly protective with his friends and family. He throws himself in the line of fire a lot. 

4. He’s childish. So childish. He blew a raspberry at Grand Cleric Elthina and Sebastian didn’t talk to him for a week. 

5. He blew a raspberry at Meredith too. He spent two days in a holding cell.

6. Terrible listener. He wants to be helpful, but he gets distracted easily. His friends have to repeat mission details about 5 times before he understands completely.  

7. He’s so stubborn. Not stubborn in a normal way, stubborn in the super frustrating way. It can take weeks for him to say he’s sorry. It can takes YEARS for him to forgive someone. 

8. He cheats in games and everyone always catches him, but he always denies. This frustrates everyone. 

9. If you handed him any weapon besides his staff, he won’t know what to do with it.

FAVOURITES:

Food: This man loves spicy food. The more it makes him sweat, the better. 

Pizza topping: (Modern AU) Hot sausage and bacon. 

Color: After the deep roads he really starts appreciating the color of the sky.   

Music genre: ... What music genres do they have in Thedas? I mean he’s usually in the Hanged Man so he’s a fan of Tavern music. In a modern AU I guess he’d be into alternative rock or anything that makes his head hurt.

Movie genre: (Modern AU) Comedy! He loves a good laugh. When he’s feeling a little sappy he’ll pull put a good RomCom. 

Curse words: He gets creative. He usually says a curse word with an unrelated word, or a phrase with some nasty words sprinkled in. (Example: “Fuck bucket” or “Oh Andraste’s bitch boots”) 

Scents: The smell of pine after a storm or a fire after it dies down. 

FUN STUFF:

Bottom or top: Garrett exudes top energy. He will tell people he’s a top, but one look at Fenris tells you that Garrett is 100% a bottom. (A brat bottom) 

Sings in the shower: Absolutely. And he SUCKS. 

Likes puns: He loves them! He wouldn’t be a good Purple Hawke if he didn’t like them! 

________________________________________________________________

WOW THIS TOOK FOREVER. I had a whole lot of fun with this! I hope you guys enjoy! 

Tagging: @zakuraboi​ @cutieink @mrdraws @cruxisma ! This took a long time to write so I will not blame you if you don’t wanna do it XD 

Tagging back is a-okay! 

[writing-ro]

Fictober 19-4: “I know you didn’t ask for this.”

@fictober-event //  Set in a Multi-fandom Fantasy AU where most if not all kinds of fantasy creatures exist alongside humans, though the two cultures stay fairly separate, with many humans being afraid or prejudice against creatures.

Rating: T Fandom: Star Wars, Characters: Ahsoka Tano, Arista Amara (OFC), Oren Revik (OMC),  Additional Tags: Magical blood powerups, Mentions of Merrill (Dragon Age), Sequel to Day 3, elf!Ahsoka, dragon!Oren, Oren is a bit of an ass, Ahsoka is a proto-tsundare, 

When Ahsoka woke, she saw a tent canopy above her head. One she knew well, after staring at it every night for the last two weeks. 

She tried to push herself up, but a soft hand on her chest stopped her. “Slowly,” Arista said. “You’ve been out for a whole day. Here.” She grabbed a bedroll and tucked it behind Ahsoka as she pushed herself into a half sitting position. Arista helped her sip a cup of water, and then about half a bowl of broth before she let Ahsoka push her arm away. 

“Merida and Tamlen, are they?...”

“Nearly die and your first question is about others.” Arista shook her head, first fondly, then sadly. “We’ve seen no trace of them. Merrill’s set wards around the mirror, so no one else can touch it. And she tuned it to their possessions, so if they show up, they should be able to get out without any more of those monsters following them.”

Ahsoka nodded. “Good.” She looked down at herself and saw she was in one of her training tunics, and she could see bandages wrapped around her chest through the opening of the collar. She remembered the arrow, and the horde on their heels, and then fire, then black. 

“How did we escape?”

Arista’s cheeks actually pinked a little. “First, you have to promise not to aggravate your injury by going after him.”

Ahsoka raised a brow. “Him?” She thought she remembered a man, but it could have been a hallucination, right?

“Promise first.” Arista raised a brow back, and adopted her “I am your healer and you will do what I say” face. Much like her “I really really really want to do this thing please” face, Ahsoka couldn’t go against it.

“Alright, I promise not to aggravate my injury. Who was it.”

Arista took a deep breath. “His name is Oren Revik. He was the dragon who spied on us a few months ago.”

Ahsoka blinked once, twice, then moved to toss the covers off her, only to be pressed back down by Arista. 

“No! You just promised you wouldn’t aggravate your injury.”

“I’m not going to. I’ll use my left hand to slap him in the face.”

“Oh really?” a man’s voice sounded from the tent flap and she looked past Arista to see the dragon standing there. He was wearing similar clothes to the night they had met, except his shirt was slightly scorched in some places, which told of the intensity of the flames he had to be in, since dragoncloth was renown for being nearly completely fireproof. “Is that anyway to treat the man who saved your life?”

“It’s the way to treat the man who spied on a private evening with me and my lover,” Ahsoka retorted. 

The dragon - Oren - scoffed. “Okay, but did you encounter an arachne pack on the way back to your village?”

Ahsoka’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Yes. It’s still not an excuse for being a pervert.”

Oren shrugged. “What can I say, I was bored, and you were providing such a lovely show.” He came in and knelt by Arista, his wings tucked as close to his back as possible. “Now, let me check your arm.” He reached for it, but Ahsoka snatched it away, biting her tongue to keep a hiss of pain from escaping. 

She looked down at it, and found a bandaged wrapped around it. She started to unwrap it, only for Arista’s hands to take over for her. On the underside of her arm was a long scar, from her wrist to halfway up her forearm. She did not recall getting injured there in the battle.

“How did this happen?”

“Well, you see, by the time I got to you-”

“Wait, how did you even know we were here in the first place?” Ahsoka asked. “Our clan hasn’t done trade with the dragons in centuries, and we certainly never contacted you.”

“Again, bored, so I decided to take a flight and see what I could find. Found you guys about five days ago and decided to hang around, see what you find. When I saw seven go in and three come out looking like they ran through a death course, I had to find out what happened. I gave your mages lyria potions and they managed to make a barrier strong enough to keep the ra’zac horde in and-”

“Ra’zac?”

“Merrill found an old reference,” Arista said. “They’re creatures of decay and blight, who were fought by the ancient elves of long ago. But she still can’t find out anything about the mirror. We don’t know if it was meant to trap them, or if they somehow corrupted it or what.”

“As I was saying,” Oren said with a slight drawl that he was getting irritated at the interruptions, “I hit them with firepower and burned all the ones in the room to ashes, then I saw them fleeing down the passageway you opened. I came up on their rear and burned as many as I could, though a lot disappeared down the side passages. When I reached you two, you had passed out in Arista’s arms, and were starting to turn grey. I carried you out and had your healer look you over.” He grimaced. 

Arista took over. “Turns out the Ra’zac coat their weapons in their own - not blood, but closest we can determine. It was thinning out your blood so it ran out faster, and then poisoning the rest as passed over. With how hard we were running, it was… bad. Possibly not even Marethari could have healed you and you’d be long dead before we got home to try.” 

“The only way to save you was to transfer blood compatible to your own that could burn out the poison.” Oren rolled up his sleeve and showed a similar cut on his own wrist, though the scar was much less obvious. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Ahsoka stared at the cut. “That can’t have worked. Dragonblood burns out almost everyone who tries to use it, even given freely.”

“Well you seem to fall in that gap between ‘almost’ and ‘everyone’,” Oren said. “It saved your life, and now you get a few little bonuses to go with it.”

Ahsoka clenched her fist. It was the reason a Dragonslayers’ Guild had existed a century ago, before the Dragon King destroyed their Hall and a Kings’ Conclave banned such a guild from forming again. For those few who could survive the ingestion of the blood, they were given special powers, based on the dragon who gave it. An old legend told of an elven sorceress who had been given the blood of the Dragon King and his Consort, and she became the most powerful sorceress in the world, with the ability to command very powerful fire and ice magics at the same time, and in some versions even sprout wings and fly. One version of the tale said she became the leader of a collation of clans and ruled as a Queen for years, until the Dragon King and his Consort asked her to marry them and took her to their mountain home. Another was that she grew corrupt on power, and attempted to subjugate the entire continent, only to lose in battle to the Demon King. The Dragon King and his Consort retrieved her body and took it to be laid to rest in some secret location, so none might try to use her body for evil. 

“So what effects am I likely to get?”

“Your body temperature is already starting to rise,” Oren said. “It will settle out in a few weeks to about halfway between your old standard and my own. Basically, you’ll constantly feel like you’re having a fever. On the plus side, you’ll never get those again, you’ll just burn the sickness out. But you’re also now susceptible to dragon sicknesses, though that’s no matter as long as you stay away from the mountains until you built up an immunity. You’ll have an affinity for fire magic now, so we’ll have to work with you on taming it. Advanced healing - well, advanced for your people. You can see in the dark much easier now, and possibly your vision spectrum will shift a bit. Maybe you’ll get physically stronger. That’s all I can think off the top of my head, I’ll write to Parthanax for a full list of possibilities. Of course, it’s gonna take a few weeks for these changes to happen, plenty of time to get me settled.”

“Settled?” Ahsoka’s brow went up again.

“Oh, right, we didn’t say it yet.” Oren grinned. “Since you need a teacher to help you handle your new dragon abilities, I’ll be going back with you.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “No. Absolutely not. I won’t be learning a thing from you.”

“Too late, already sent a message informing the King of my decision, and your mage sent a message to your clan leader last night.”

“Send another saying I refuse you and want another teacher, if I have to learn anything.” Her hands clenched the blankets. “I can get by, I always have.”

“Ahsoka!” Arista spoke for the first time in a while. She unwrapped Ahsoka’s hand from the blankets and and held it in hers. “I know you didn’t ask for this, but this is what happened. And even if Oren didn’t want to teach you, he’d have to. Dragon Law says that the dragon who caused the change has to train their charge for at least a half year before they can hand them off to anyone else.”

“Yup, helps teach us responsibility or something like that,” Oren said, then held up his hands in surrender when she shot her “Healer’s Look” at him. 

“So, please, don’t fight this.” She turned back to Ahsoka. “I know it’s not your first choice, but is it really that much of a price to pay?”

Ahsoka rolled it over in her head. Arista was right, Oren did save her and Arista’s lives, putting up with a pompous ass of a dragon would be adequate repayment of the debt. 

She shot Oren a glare. “If you spy on us again, I’m running you through, training or no training.”

Oren just smiled. “I’ve survived worse, fledgling.”

[neverwatchedonepiece]

517-519: "The Beginning of the New Chapter! The Straw Hats Reunited!", "An Explosive Situation! Luffy vs. Fake Luffy!" and "The Navy Has Set Out! The Straw Hats in Danger!"

The hat is back on!

I was excited about this. Was also oddly excited to click on the “Fishman Island” arc on CR, finally, after so long on Marineford.

These episodes were another curve ball for me. I thought the timeskip would go one of two ways: either they’d all meet straight away at Sabaody, group hug, then sail off into the New World, or we’d get a training montage for each Strawhat before the meeting.

Then I remembered you guys mentioned there would be a mini-arc and I cursed myself for being dense.

There’s not much plot to it. Some fake Strawhats are blighting the real ones’ good name and reputation. Unfortunately for them, 3D2Y is kicking off and the real Strawhats are gathering on Sabaody like the Avengers Assemble. Plus, pretending to be an infamous pirate crew isn’t a great idea when the Marines and World Government are after them.

I think I can see what’s coming. The fake Strawhats are light-hearted fodder, there only to show off their real counterparts’ training. And bring some lulz. No idea how it’ll unfold, though. That’s half the fun of watching One Piece, to be honest.

Luffy

It was good to see Oda hasn’t tinkered with Luffy’s design too much. (Saying that, I liked the Strong World outfit).  He still has those flip flops and cut offs, but now the red vest has sleeves and is open at the chest. (Gotta expose dat 8 pack and scars, right?) 

Of course, the iconic straw hat was picked up at the beginning of the episode. He was ready! Hancock and the Kuja pirates were there to see him off. Hancock packed Luffy half a year’s worth of supplies in a massive pack and gave him a handy-dandy Groucho Marx disguise in case any Marines spotted him prior to sailing out.

(Is it me, or does Luffy finally realise Hancock likes him? He kept saying, “I’m not getting married.” Though I did like the part when he refused to say goodbye because he wanted to see her again. That was nice of him. He acknowledges just how much Hancock helped him - and she helped A LOT. You could argue Luffy is as indebted to Hancock as to Rayleigh, Jimbei and Ivankov.)

Then, he set off! The next time we saw him, his massive backpack nudged Fake Luffy. There was an altercation. 

Of course, Luffy couldn’t retaliate. Drawing attention to himself and bringing the Marines down on his head before he reunited with his crew would be a Bad Idea.

He did get his own back. Just not in a way that would draw attention.

When Fake Luffy fired the gun, I cheered because Real Luffy gave us a teaser of his new power. Observational Haki! Armament Haki! Conqueror’s Haki! He deflected the bullet, dodged it, then floored the Fakers without lifting a finger.

Honestly, I cannot wait until Luffy’s next big fight. Sentomaru has returned with some Pacifistas. I hope the Strawhats get their rematch. Oooh, maybe the Pacifistas will be fodder now....

Nami and Usopp

Look at them.

Look at how beautiful Nami and Usopp are. 

It seems that over the course of two years, certain Strawhats have ended up with less clothes than they started with.

Nami has lost her t-shirt, but at least she has that bikini, right? Like Luffy, Usopp has buffed up and has a shirtless look to show off his gainz. They both have longer hair too - and it looks good on them.

Not sure about this comment from Usopp, "I don't belong to the weak trio with you and Chopper. I became a warrior who is not fazed by anything!" I guess (or I hope) it was acknowledged by all three that they were the weakest members of the crew, but it’s a bit much saying he’s graduated to a higher tier. Especially since he doesn’t know what Nami and Chopper have been doing. I like that Usopp has found some more confidence, but don’t find it at the expense of your friends.

Or, it’s classic Usopp overcompensating because he’s underconfident. Or he’s just joking. 

Nami must have quiet confidence in her fighting ability because she sat at that bar in Sabaody on her own and talked back to Fake Luffy who had just shot someone. She can control the weather and summon thunderclouds indoors. That is not someone you’d mess with.

Usopp has some new weapons in his arsenal too. He’s weaponised the plants from Bowin Island and I’ll bet he has much more than carnivorous plants up his sleeve. 

I love how casually they walked out of the bar, talking about their training, “Yeah, so I was studying new weather tech on a Sky Island...” while thunderclouds tore the bar apart in the background.

And Nami was driving a hard bargain for a discount. Never change, Nami. Never change...

Zoro and Sanji

Never realised how much I missed these guys and their bickering until I had a genuine laugh-out-loud moment (in 519, I think?)

I love Zoro’s new design. I think it’s my favourite out of the new outfits. The green robe looks great. It gives him more gravitas, as though he has now graduated from Sword Training School and is allowed to wear the academic gown. Not sure what kind of garment it is, but it’s definitely more traditional.

Sanji is still in a suit. I liked his previous style, so I’m kind of glad Oda didn’t mess with it too much. Sanji and suits are like Luffy and flip-flops, you know? He’s changed his shirt, has grown a goatee (which, of course Zoro noticed and roasted Sanji for it) and maybe his hair’s a bit longer?

Zoro arrived at Shakky’s bar first. This was a source of woe for poor Sanji, who arrived seventh after Franky, Nami, Usopp, Chopper and Brook. (Robin was eighth because she had to shake some CP goons off her tail.)

The fact that Zoro arrived first was nothing short of a miracle. I’m still not sure how he managed it. Maybe Perona dropped him off right at the door. When Sanji arrived, he was overcome with emotion at the sight of women to the point his enthusiasm freaked out a couple of innocent ladies. Then Sanji met Duval (I love how they’re friends now) checked out the kitchen and went food shopping.

On the way, he met Zoro.

Zoro wanted to go fishing. Rayleigh and Shakky shouldn’t have let him out of their sight. Instead of getting on a fishing boat, he boarded a pirate galleon and fell asleep. Sure enough, the ship set sail with him on it. “THAT IDIOT!” Sanji yelled. But it was okay. Of course Zoro would do something like that. At least the ship was headed for Fishman Island and they knew where Zoro would be.

I was annoyed for a half a second (rob Zoro of the big reunion? How dare you!) But then he showed off some of his new skills. Mihawk-esque skills. He sliced an entire pirate galleon in half. It was awesome. He still has great lines too. “I ruined your New World dream? No. It was your fault for allowing a plague on your ship.”

Has Zoro taken a Mihawk level in edginess? I think so.

Then they started arguing on the way back and I honestly laughed out loud at their shit-flinging contest. 

“Stay with me, or you’ll get lost!”

“Who’re you talking to, moustache eyebrow!”

“Shut up, lost moss!”

“How could number seven talk bossily to number one?”

“SHUT UP, I TRAINED MY LEGS IN HELL FOR TWO YEARS!”

“BRING IT ON, I’LL CUT YOU IN HALF!!”

They love to pretend they hate each other, don’t they?

Chopper

Aw, Chopper. He has definitely take an level in cuteness.  Chopper is a rare example of more clothes. He has acquired a cute, stripey shirt and red shorts. The hat is okay. It’s huge. Maybe to accommodate his massive brain (because he has absorbed the contents of all those medical books, right?) Must say I prefer his old hat. Mainly because Dr Hiluluk gave it to him and it’s a huge part of his identity. Parts of it are still there, but I guess it’s difficult to change Chopper a lot, so the hat is an obvious target.

Haven’t seen any of his new abilities yet, so Chopper hasn’t changed at all personality wise. He still loves cotton candy and, like Luffy, is still absolutely hopeless at seeing through lies and bad disguises. The part when Chopper was running after the Fake Strawhats and crying out at them to rescue Fake Robin was a bit daft. I mean Chopper did admit later on to Nami that the Fake Robin, “didn’t smell familiar.” But then, that’s the gag. It goes all the way back to Sogeking, so I’ll let it slide. :)

He really thought the Strawhats had changed so much, though. It was  interesting to see that he’d stick to his principles and go rescue Robin himself: a real marker of Chopper’s new determination and confidence in his own abilities!

After that stressful moment, it was nice to see how glad Nami and Usopp were to see him, hugging him and telling him how much softer his fur was, how much bigger he’d grown. And Chopper’s outrage once he realised there were impostors about: “WAIT, NOW I’M MAD!”

Even though he’s stronger, kind, innocent Chopper hasn’t changed that much.

Robin and Franky

Again, how good do these two look? Robin is the most drastic change out of all the Strawhats. Could you believe I actually didn’t recognise her at first? (Only the eyes and the voice acting finally gave it away.) The blunt bangs/fringe/whatever you call them were iconic to her look, so it’s a definite departure. She looks great, though. Similar to Boa Hancock.

I’m 100% being Franky’s new look. The colour scheme is the same (red/blue) and he has his loud fashion sense, but the chunky cybernetic enhancements, the sharp shades and the buzz really add an intimidating edge to Franky that he was missing pre-timeskip. And apparently, the Sunny has some new weapons as well as a Full Underwater Coating courtesy of Rayleigh. Can’t wait to see what nightmarish destroyers of ships Franky has constructed! >:D

Franky injected some tension into the narrative, which was cool, even though I am 99% certain it will turn out fine in the end. While losing the CP9 goons trailing her, Robin picked up a poster for Brook’s concert. Quite rightly, she WTF’d over it and asked Franky if he knew what was going on.

“Brook's quite the star now. From the lonely shadows to a place where everyone cheers for him. He might not come back to pirating again.”

Surely Brook would not be so ungrateful to abandon the friends who lifted him out of loneliness into the spotlight again?

Nah. Brook’s not like that. I’d bet money it.

Soul King?

Brook has now graduated from garage band Slash-wannabe to issuing health and well-being advice via the genre of soul and the medium of arena tours. 

He has acquired a manager. Before the gig, Brook had something to tell him and I’ll bet it was about quitting. 

I’m still wondering how Brook got away with becoming so famous. Wasn’t he identified at Sabaody when Kizaru kicked their asses two years ago? Hasn’t his bounty poster been updated since? Did not a single Marine think, “Hey, there was a talking skeleton in the Strawhats’ company at Sabaody. Here is another one on TV. Coincidence?”

Love that we got to hear most of the song, though. Brook hasn’t changed that much, either. He still loves those skeleton puns.

(I am very behind on replies, btw. I know. I will reply to every single one tomorrow. ^_^)

“Move, bitch. Get out the way. Get out the way, bitch. Get out the way!” - Ludacris