#Bardic Tales

[bardic-tales]

Day 8 | Day 10

31 days of FF 7 Headcanons: Day 9 - Favorite Weapon

Weapons are often reflections of those who wield them, and in the case of Bianca Moore, her blade is as enigmatic, haunting, and complex as the woman herself. In her Final Fantasy VII arc, Bianca forgoes her celestial greatsword, Solstice for the corrupted, sentient Tachi known as Noctemaris.

Born from suffering and bonded through blood, this weapon is more than steel and spellwork. It is a manifestation of her father's inner darkness, a record of his descent, and, now, a companion in her fury. Noctemaris is not merely a weapon of choice. It is the embodiment of Bianca’s transformation, an extension of her fury, pain, and unrelenting will to survive a world that sought to unmake her.

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abuse, blood, body horror, captivity, death of a loved one, demonic themes, dismemberment, graphic violence, loss of agency, manipulation, mental illness, mind control, murder, parental abuse, psychological trauma, religious trauma, ritualistic violence, self-harm, torture, trauma bonding, and weaponized possession.

Bianca’s weapon of choice in the Final Fantasy VII arc is the Tachi known as Noctemaris, a corrupted and sentient blade that resonates with the dark energies she now calls her own. Though she once wielded a celestial greatsword named Solstice. Solstice was her mother's greatsword. However, her mother Seraphine’s enchantment forbids her from drawing it while corrupted.

In contrast, Noctemaris is a blade forged from the very essence of the void between realms, and it not only accepts Bianca’s twisted soul but amplifies it. It has become more than a tool of war. It is a symbol of her severed past and the infernal path she’s chosen.

Bianca came into possession of Noctemaris not by choice, but through trauma. During a brutal confrontation with her father Asmodeus, she was impaled by the blade. its malevolent purpose meant to break her to his will and cut through any defiance she might have remaking Creation. However, in a desperate and selfless final act, Mordecai, her first husband, hurled both Bianca and the blade into a dimensional rift. This act saved her life but cursed her to carry the weapon of her tormentor.

Since then, the sword has bound itself to her aura. Its whispers are constant and maddening, tempting her to fall further from grace. Though it was meant as a chain, Bianca twisted its fate, claiming it as her own instrument of vengeance and ruin.

The sword’s construction is a macabre spectacle in itself, as it was once a celestial blade. Its obsidian and silver alloy blade, etched in a forbidden script that now glows crimson in light, seems to bleed the aura of its own mythos. Each marking is not merely decoration but a living record of darkness. The blade shimmers with stardust and the occasional trace of nebula, giving it the illusion of being plucked from the night sky or a tear in the fabric of space. It is beautiful and horrifying. This is the perfect extension of Bianca herself.

Noctemaris’ hilt is just as formidable in design. Twisted demonic motifs stretch across the guard, writhing with an uncanny, almost sentient awareness. Its grip is wrapped in ebony leather, scarred from both use and time, and it clings to Bianca’s hand as though refusing to be separated. The diamonds on the tsubi (hilt) are silver. The blade whispers to her in moments of silence, feeding on her doubt and pain, as it pushes her toward oblivion. It is not merely a weapon but a companion of her darker nature: one that understands the weight of her suffering and offers a savage outlet for it.

Despite its temptation, Bianca maintains a tenuous control over Noctemaris, channeling its power without fully succumbing to it. In the FF7 timeline, she uses this weapon exclusively, not only because Solstice refuses her, but because Noctemaris feels like a part of her soul. It is corrupt, broken, beautiful in its devastation. It is not the blade of a hero nor of a villain, but of something in-between: a creature made of shadow, love and loss, rage and ruin. Through it, Bianca carves her place in a world that now shuns her, daring anyone to challenge the storm she’s become.

@themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[salmonandfox]

Happy Blorbo Blursday! How jumpy is your character? Do they get upset when startled?

OOH: Ok you got me twice so I'm going to uh.... IDK. Wing it.

For this one: Let's go with Shavn from the Fox Eater:

He's not AS jumpy as he could be, but definitely suffers from some PTSD issues, particularly around open or unexpected fire thanks to events in the front half of the book. Definitely does not like being startled because of this and trying to figure out if the correct response to whatever spooked him is flight or fight when it might be -none of the above- isn't a great time.

[cecexwrites]

The Fandom Club Server's Secret Santa @bardic-tales

I'm obsessed with Bianca's aesthetic. (Also she's 100 percent right about Candy Corn)

[asirensrage]

Happy Tender Tuesday. This is for an OC of your choosing. Does your OC have any siblings? What is their dynamic like?

It's Saturday, but I'm answering it now lol

I think it'd be most fun to answer this for Takara. Mainly because of the two different lives she leads or has led.

In her role as Takara, she has a younger brother, Takemichi. He's the hero of his story, and when Takara meets him, she gains a deep affection for him and his story... especially as he tries to help her adjust. The two of them care about each other deeply and both are the type to sacrifice themselves for the other. Which causes problems.

In her old life, she had two older brothers. Her family was very sports and goal-oriented. They all loved each other, but things happen as the youngest in the family. Especially when you're the only girl. She learned how to rough house, but she has been held to a higher standard than her brothers. She's had to work twice as hard to get any of the same chances they did (like needing to do figure skating and gymnastics just to play hockey) and deal with the sexism of being a girl in male-dominated areas. Still, she was close with her brothers....as long as she remembered them...

[kckramer]

Happy STS! What’s your favorite genre to write, and why?

Day two of me catching up on months of missed questions.

I think, ultimately, it comes down to fantasy as my favorite. The ability to create and tell stories in an open sandbox is just so appealing to me. I’ve actually been running into this a lot with my dieselpunk space opera— it’s all so politically relevant and pertinent that it’s hard to find the joy. I don’t have that problem with fantasy, but even my fantasy stories are still pretty grim, but I think the wide open sandbox is a big part of it.

[mayarab]

Happy Blorbo Blursday from the Creators Club. Does your character have a good memory? What is their earliest memory? What do they think of this memory?

I hadn't really thought this far about Polly's memories. Guess no better time than right now.

I'd say she has good memories from childhood, before the aspecness of her identity started being more obvious and she could keep some friends. (I feel like I need to point out that she can't keep friendships after she identifies as aspec because she is the one that starts resenting her friends).

Her first paycheck from book sales that made it clear it was a viable career is also a very good memory this is not wish fullfilment shhh

Earliest memory though... No clue. I'm not sure she'd know either. It'd be a childhood memory from when her parents were both alive, before she went to live with her grandma. A happy one, playing with both of them. She thinks fondly of this time.

[poore-choice-of-words]

Happy STS! What inspired you to start writing your current story?

Happy STS! Thanks for the ask!

So, funny thing: I got an ask like this last week too, great minds think alike I guess! I got into a side project and the broad strokes of The Heroes' Guild.

So I'm gonna get into the the weeds of what inspired the two Heroes' Guild stories I'm working on right now.

So for The Arcana Club (the general series name Summer's Summer with Summer falls into) is my love of magical girls, but also Naoko Takeuchi's method of writing who you would want to be friends with. It's kind of a gift to my younger self, which is also why the MCs are all in the same homeschool group (inspired by my old homeschool group).

Rising Ark as a series was mostly just inspired by Firefly, then what a story like that would look like if it took place in the future of The Heroes' Guild universe.

[missriggie]

STOP SCROLLING!

You have been given Bardic Inspiration by the Half-Drow Morrjexia!

Reblog for +1d6 in your dice rolls today.

Please, continue...

[iloveyou-writers]

Happy birthday. I can't tell you how much reading your positive words have inspired and motivate me when I had writer's block.

I hope you have a wonderful day today!

🥹🥹

This made me so happy. Thank you. I adore running this blog. I'm glad the words I've been needing to hear also help you guys too. 🥰🥰

Have a terrific day! Thank you for the birthday wishes.

[bardic-tales]

Being Bianca’s friend means gaining a fiercely loyal and protective ally who will stop at nothing to safeguard those she considers hers. She possesses an intoxicating charisma that can make even the darkest moments feel thrilling and unforgettable. Her connections to both celestial and infernal realms grant her insight into the unseen, allowing her to provide guidance, knowledge, or even supernatural intervention when needed. Bianca’s chaotic energy ensures that life is never dull, whether through adventure, indulgence, or the sheer unpredictability of her actions. However, the greatest benefit of her friendship is her unwavering devotion. Once she considers someone a true friend, she will fight for them with the same ferocity with which she fights for Sephiroth.

What are some benefits of being friends with your OC?

[slashkeystudio]

Wings of the Phoenix - A Short Bardic Tale (with audiobook)

Chapter 1: The Phoenix Calls

Behold, good folk, and gather ‘round my firelit stage, To hear a tale of valor wrought in a darkling age. When whispers of the undead crept through a weary land, A squire named Aeron rose, with sword in youthful hand.

In Torin’s Bend he dwelt, his father a blacksmith grand, Whose hammer rang at dawn’s first light across the humble land. They heard the fearful rumors: purges set aflame, The Order of the Phoenix torn, dark powers staking claim.

One day, from out the marshy fog, a ragged band arrived, Their faces pale with grief and dread; they barely had survived. They told of ghouls and cruelty, a swirl of dread and strife, Of farmsteads scorched as “heretics,” of fear that choked all life.

No sooner had those refugees poured out their trembling woes, When shrill alarms upon the gate called watchers to their bows. A pack of slavering ghoul-thralls advanced across the plain, Their hunger rotted into bone, to necromancer chained.

Aeron snatched his father’s steel, ill-forged yet strong of will, He joined the village line of shields, though but a novice still. The ghouls assailed with gnashing jaws, with eyes of bloody red, The folk of Torin’s Bend held fast, though many quaked with dread.

Young Aeron felt his courage rise, as though a flame within, He parried claws and thrust his blade beneath a ghoul-thing’s chin. It staggered, shrieking, black blood spilled upon the trodden clay, Then slumped at last, a wretched husk, undone by mortal fray.

When all the beasts were driven off, the gate shut to the night, A hush of awe fell o’er the folk, “This lad had joined the fight.” Then came a priestess, cloaked in grey, crest of the Phoenix worn, “Sister Eliwen” she named herself, her beautiful face and voice forlorn, For tales of purging scarred her heart, the State’s corruption spread, And fractious groups within her Order sowed both fear and dread.

Yet in Aeron’s eyes she sensed a light, a courage unalloyed, A fire that might burn free of greed, and darkness be destroyed. She bid him come and train anew at the Holy Burning Tree, Where paladins of old were forged for truth and bravery.

Galrin, the blacksmith, paused in thought, then gave a weary nod: “If Phoenix calls, my son must go; let him serve truth, not fraud.” Thus Aeron left his village dear, uncertain yet resolved, Toward the seat of paladin might, where further plots evolved.

Chapter 2: Journey to the Cathedral

Eastward they went, in solemn step, the swamp-ways bleak and wild, A marsh of endless gloom that reeked, where living rot defiled. Along the path, they heard faint cries of spirits lost at sea, For rumors spoke of haunted coasts beyond the hill’s degree.

And lo, upon a stony shore, a fractured mast stood tall, A battered prow half-buried there, a remnant of a squall. Yet moaning winds revealed a shape: a ghost with sorrowed mien, Bound by guilt and tides of time to that forsaken scene.

“Why do you linger so?�� asked Aeron, pity in his tone. “I was a sailor once,” the shade intoned in whisper prone. “In storms I drowned, my final breath stolen by savage foam, My soul enshackled to these rocks, a castaway from home.”

A flicker sparked in Eliwen’s eye; she clasped her pendant tight: “The Phoenix stands for second chance, for hope beyond the night. If your spirit’s task remains undone, then join us on our quest, Perhaps in faith you’ll find release, your mortal burdens blessed.”

The ghost, at first, recoiled in woe, uncertain of this plea, But through the priestess’ gentle vow, the shade felt partly free. “I sense in you a righteous cause,” the phantom softly sighed, “If necromancers rise once more; such evils must be tried. Then yes, I’ll follow, see undone the dark that plagues your path, And maybe find my soul’s release at triumph over wrath.”

So parted they from haunted coast, with ghost in sorrow bound, Their mission weighed by necromancers rumored all around. They crossed the marsh, dispatched undead that festered ‘midst the reeds, Until the swirling mists gave way to farmland’s gentler meads.

Yet travelers along the roads all spoke of dread events: The State had labeled many vile in sacrilegious sense. Some Phoenix knights were turned astray by twisted power’s lure, And in the capital, it seemed, no innocence was sure.

Thus hearts grew tense when they arrived at last with weary stride, To see the Cathedral rising tall with pillars starry-eyed. Behind its walls, the Burning Tree’s bright braziers crowned the spires, A living symbol, flame unquenched, of all that faith inspires.

Chapter 3: At the Holy Burning Tree

A summons from the Knight Paladins soon called them forth in hall, Where hammered steel and whispered prayer lent echo to each wall. Young Aeron and the ghost, still bound, stood at Sister Eliwen’s side, Before the Order’s council stern, whose judgments could decide If these were times to open arms or cast out hearts in doubt, For politics had stained the Church with accusations stout.

Lord Theodric, clad in relic plate, surveyed them with a frown, Yet glimpsed in Aeron’s burning eyes a truth that weighed him down: “Young squire, we need pure souls like yours to stand against the tide, For undead swarm at borders wide, and trust in us has died.”

A wizened paladin, grey-haired, stood forth to speak anew: “But rumors swirl that some among us twist the Phoenix’s view. Are you prepared to face the truth: that foes may wear our crest, That you may stand ‘gainst those in power, if conscience deems it best?”

Aeron swallowed, soul aflame with righteous indignation. “My father taught me how to forge, but never abdication. If evil lurks behind these walls, or in the swamp’s dark thrall, I’ll fight for life, for Phoenix’ light, I heed the higher call.”

And Eliwen’s gaze lingered long upon the squire’s face, For when she first had seen the boy in Torin’s humble place, She’d felt the Burning, Phoenix-blessed — a fire within her soul, A fleeting spark of higher truth that whispered of his role.

Though words eluded mortal tongue, the insight still remained, That Aeron’s fate entwined with theirs, his purpose unexplained. “Perhaps the Phoenix chooses paths that mortals cannot see,” She mused, her heart both drawn to hope and veiled in mystery.

A hush fell on the gathered knights; Theodric gave a nod, “Then let the trainers train him well, but swiftly under God. For necromancers band together under a lich’s hand, And if the rumors prove but true, he seeks to rule the land. We’ll send you all, priestess, squire, and ghost that clings to hope, To root out tombs of blackest craft, that o’er the living lope.”

The ghost bowed low, ephemeral, yet resolute in quest, A glean of wonder in his eyes to think himself so blessed. He felt at last a purpose found, no longer bound by waves, But forging forward, heart made strong to seal accursed graves.

Chapter 4: Trials and Secrets

Amid the cloistered practice yards, Aeron tested might, With other novices, he learned to parry, block, and strike with light. The ghost stood silent at his side, intangible yet keen, And gleaned intelligence at night, among the Order’s scene. For walls could not impede the shade who drifted ‘tween the doors, He overheard the whispers low of secrets, feuds, and wars.

He learned how certain high-placed lords had pressed the Phoenix knights, Corrupting some to accuse the true n’ good of heresy and spite. He watched as Sister Eliwen prayed, her brow with worry lined, As worries of mistrust and lies left half the Order blind.

Meanwhile, Aeron sparred at dawn, a swirl of battered steel, Confronting older squires whose skill tested his nerve and zeal. At dusk he pored o’er ancient tomes of relic armor’s spark, And how the Phoenix’s blessing shone when hearts refused the dark.

Among the novices, he found a friend in Amelia, a priestess new, A quiet soul with healing gifts, her faith unshaken and true. Together they spoke softly of the ghost’s potential role, To slip through necromancers’ lairs and glean unholy toll. “There’s much we do not understand,” she mused with gentle grace, “But if the ghost can pass unseen, he might reveal their place.”

Yet shadows stretched beyond the crypts, to halls of gleaming stone, Where whispers claimed the necromancers did not act alone. Some hands that ruled from gilded thrones, or bore the State’s decree, Might weave their schemes with darker threads, by light of day unseen. The Order knew that such a path, if boldly they pursued, Could draw the ire of royalty, with vengeance swift and crude. To uncover ties of blood and coin to lich’s cursed domain, Might risk not just their mortal lives, but the very Order the Phoenix claims. So was the conundrum and dilemma our faithful heroes faced, Yet they resolved when shadows rise, so too must rise the brave.

Thus plans were hatched to track the lich and end his vile campaign, No matter if the State forbade an action so humane. In hushed conclaves, Theodric stood, forging a secret band, To sally forth and quell the threat that loomed upon the land.

Chapter 5: The Ghost Who Roams

When the moon shone silver on the spires, the ghost resolved to roam, With a sense that he should go far afield to where the king’s family called home. He drifted high through corridors, all wards he slipped past by, Collecting hints from errant speech that men let fall nearby. A mention of a hidden tomb, a swamp-lost temple’s spire, A necromancer’s crypt called to the wretched dead with stygian desire.

He brought these tidings back at dawn, his voice with purpose laced, “Upon the marsh’s farthest rim, a fortress stands defaced. I heard them speak of ritual, an army raised in gloom, And whispered of a lich-lord’s will: to usher living doom.”

Eliwen sighed, determined still, “Then we must strike at once. We’ll gather who remain unswayed by bribes or empty fronts.” The knights who pledged to join this cause stood forth with silent vow, In battered arms and tempered hearts, prepared for what must now Unfold in crypt or temple vile, where necromancers lied, Who proved to them again the truth that none in disgrace should die.

Aeron steeled himself that morn, glancing at Amelia in prayer, He felt the Phoenix flame inside, no space left for despair. The ghost observed with solemn grace: “I see your mortal drive, And find it stirs my own lost soul, remembrance that I strive To do what’s right, though drowned in storm, though hope once seemed undone. I shall not rest ’til I have unraveled the plans this wretched lich has spun.”

Chapter 6: Battle in the Depths

From farmland’s edge to marsh’s heart, their solemn march began, Through brambles thick and shadowed pools untouched by pure hand. The swamp stretched wide, a choking mire, where sunlight scarce could breach, Its trees like gnarled sentinels, their branches like longing hands did reach. Each step was met with sucking mud, the stench of death’s decay, Where reeds hissed soft in ghostly winds and led their path astray. Eliwen’s censer burned incense and herbs, its fragrant smoke a ward, Against gloom that sought to shroud their steps and lead them untoward.

The ghost drifted ahead unseen, his hollow voice their guide, For secrets lost to living eyes lay beyond the veil where spirits hide. “Ahead,” he murmured faintly soft, “a clearing lies, defiled, Its stones are carved with runes profane; the air itself feels vile.”

And lo, the path grew darker still as twilight dimmed to black, The party paused to mark the signs of foes that hid their track. A half-sunk spire, a shattered gate, a whiff of iron blood All spoke of necromantic craft polluting swamp and wood.

The paladins exchanged grim nods; their steel now bore the weight, Of knowing that this lair would hold the echoes of their fate.

At last, they reached the outer ring, where ruin choked the land, The swamp gave way to broken stone, defiled by necromancer’s hand. Graves upturned and shattered tombs lay scattered in the mire, Where ghastly forms in armor and rags marched grimly for their sire.

The ghost returned with whispered dread, “Their forces gather near, A tide of thralls, their numbers vast, their purpose sharp and clear.” Theodric raised his blade aloft, its relic fire ablaze, And shouted, “Strike with Phoenix flame; let light consume this haze!”

They charged into the waiting dark, a clash of steel and cries, The living braced ‘gainst rotted claws as sparks lit midnight skies. The swamp itself seemed keen to writhe, as shadows stretched and grew, Yet Aeron felt a burning strength upon which gracious bellows blew.

Steel clashed with bone as knights advanced, undead lines fell away, But each fresh wave renewed the horde, mocking the efforts of the brave. Eliwen’s prayers burned bright in gloom, banishing lesser thralls, Amelia’s healing soothed the knights who otherwise would fall. The ghost slipped through the warring lines, intangible, unseen, Undoing wards from behind shrines, erasing words obscene.

At last they reached the temple’s heart: a shrine of evil steeped in dread, Where swirling vapors coiled around the lich-lord’s loathsome head. His voice rose like a thousand woes, echoing tombstone calls: “Fools, you cannot halt my reign; this realm to me shall fall! I was once a priest of flame, betrayed by prideful kin, They cast me out; I turned to death, and now the dead shall win!”

The knights attacked with righteous zeal. The lich unleashed his might, And putrid green flames corroded steel in swirling vile delight. One knight collapsed as curses struck, bones splintered in a crash, The lich laughed deep with hollow eyes, fueling each sick spell’s lash. Aeron, compelled by Phoenix’s spark, lunged for the lich’s cloak, But vile magic roiled, sapping strength; he swayed as though he’d choke. Then came the ghost, with sorrowed cry: “I’ve known despair too well. No more shall hopeless gloom define my soul in this black shell!” He danced about the lich lord’s form, obscuring undead sight, Allowing Aeron space to strike with all his mortal fight.

Sword bit deep in lich’s side; the fiend howled in savage rage. Yet swirling dark consumed the floor, a twisted war they waged. At last the lich prepared a blow that seethed with baleful gloom, Destined to smite the meddling boy to an unholy tomb.

But Aeron summoned all his faith, felt Phoenix flames ignite, His armor glowing white-hot bright, devouring dead of night. He drove his blade beneath the rib of that decaying frame, His life’s breath nearly spent in turn, consumed by holy flame. The lich’s shriek tore through the hall, and cracks in runes ran deep, Unholy wards collapsed in ash, his hold refused to keep.

The temple shook, foul energies undone by Phoenix grace, And spectral lights drained from the thralls that swarmed the shattered place. In silent hush, the lich’s bones crumbled, a final wail undone, Yet Aeron lay pale, mortal wounds marking that he’d not won The right to live unscathed. Life slipped away from battered chest, Leaving Theodric, Eliwen, and Amelia, against sorrow’s grip to wrest.

Chapter 7: A Fire Yet Burns

Outside the swamp, a battered band limped back to holy halls, Bearing the fallen squire within those torchlit, hallowed walls. Amelia wept, for he was so young, and his sacrifice was great, She pleaded with the Phoenix flame to shift her friend’s grim fate. The ghost hovered by with mournful eyes, recalling watery grave, And how through Aeron’s kindness of heart, perhaps he might be saved.

A council of priestesses soon formed the Rite of Light, A circle drawn with runes of gold to resurrect from night. Incense rose in swirling plumes, each voice intoned in prayer, While time stood still for watchers hushed in candle-flickered air. At first no spark disturbed the gloom, nor breath in Aeron’s frame, Despair crept in. But as Amelia sang a hymn a gentle warmth soon came.

From lifeless form, a golden glow pulsed like a living heart, A single fluttered breath emerged, soft, but a brand-new start. He gasped awake, eyes wide with shock, restored by Phoenix grace, A wave of awe broke ‘cross the crowd that watched his wondrous face. Amelia broke into sobs of joy, Theodric bowed in awe, Eliwen touched a trembling hand, overwhelmed by what she saw.

And with that act, the ghost who’d roamed, undone by worldly tears, Found absolution in the act that quashed all of his heavy-hearted fears. His tether softened, gloom replaced with hope’s triumphant chord, Released from binding curses harsh, redeemed by this reward. “I thank you, squire, for blazing bright,” the spirit whispered light, “For you have shown me the kind of heart outshine eternal night.”

Aeron turned his head towards his friend, though he found his neck quite stiff, “Go in peace, my good and honorable uncle, though sorely you’ll be missed.” Thus unbound from the haunting coast and solemn duty, the ghost could rest in peace, His mission done, he vanished softly with a tender smile, a final, sweet release.

Epilogue: Knighted in Flame

Days later, in the courtyard broad, the faithful gathered near, To see the squire, once thought lost, stand tall without a fear. Relic armor, blessed by fire, shone bright upon his form, He knelt before the gathered knights, who signaled a new dawn. With Theodric’s blade upon his brow, they dubbed him “Paladin,” A youth reborn through sacrifice, a servant born to win Against the creeping dark, the lies that twisted faith to evil, Against the State’s corruption deep, whose purges threatened upheaval.

And so a hush of hope spread wide, the watchers gently cheered, For in his eyes they saw a flame that ne’er could be seared. Eliwen lifted a trembling hand, Amelia bowed her head, The crowd beheld the Paladin whose life back from the dead Embraced the Phoenix’s hallowed cause: to guard all mortal breath, To stand for mercy, honor, truth, and vanquish gloom and death.

No longer bound by shipwreck’s stone, the kindly ghost had flown, Redeemed to realms beyond the veil by grace so purely shown. And still the memory lingered on, a parallel so stark: What once was lost in watery grave or swamp’s unholy dark Could yet be saved by faith’s bright core, by forging righteous bonds, For as the Phoenix soared anew, so hope and life respond.

Thus ends the bard’s recounting here, yet echoes carry on, Of how a village boy rose high to face the dreadful dawn. His father’s forge, the distant marsh, the rescue of a shade, All woven in a tapestry the Phoenix’s will conveyed.

[bardic-tales]

Day 5 | Day 7

31 days of FF 7 Headcanons: Day 6 - Perspective on Sephiroth

Before his fall, Bianca perceived Sephiroth as a deeply misunderstood man. To her, Sephiroth was calm, distant, and observant. She noticed a grief beneath his stoic exterior and through their soulbond, as though he bore the weight of the world in silence. She saw in him a mirror of her own pain: someone who had been shaped by trauma and isolation. In those early days, she believed Sephiroth was someone who could be saved. What began as a tender connection soon transformed, evolving into a complex and twisted relationship forged in the flames of obsession.

This piece explores how Bianca’s perception of Sephiroth shifted after the Nibelheim Incident, and how their dynamic grew more entangled, from the dreamscape to reality, leading her into a deeper, unbreakable devotion and aiding in a fall from Grace.

Possible Trigger Warnings: abuse, body horror, captivity, control, corruption, death, depression, destruction, dominance, emotional manipulation, exploitation, graphic violence, grief, hallucinations, loss of identity, mental and emotional and psychological trauma, mental manipulation, self-destructive behavior, self-doubt, self-harm, sexual manipulation, suicidal thoughts, and psychological torment.

Before his descent into madness, Bianca perceived Sephiroth as a deeply misunderstood man. To her, Sephiroth was calm, distant, and observant. She noticed a grief beneath his stoic exterior and their soulbond, as though he bore the weight of the world in silence. Their relationship formed quickly, and she saw in him a mirror of her own pain: someone who had been shaped by trauma and isolation. In those early days, she believed Sephiroth was someone who could be saved (even if that meant taking him from Gaia).

Their time together in the study beneath the Shinra Mansion was intense and brief. Over seven days, Bianca came to see more of his inner torment. She listened as he questioned his origins and saw the way the Jenova files shook his sense of identity. She admired his strength, but feared the darkness gathering behind his eyes while her angelic aura offered him respites of sanity until they slept together, allowing Jenova to completely corrupt their Red String of Fate.

When he locked her away and burned Nibelheim, her perception of him shattered. The man she loved was still there, but something else had taken root. Still, she followed him through through the burning town, up the mountain, and into the Reactor. Unlike Cloud Strife or Zack Fair who wanted to stop him, Bianca wanted to save him. She still wanted to take him far away from Shinra and the world who betrayed him.

Her own descent into darkness began the day of the Nibelheim Incident. He chose Jenova over her. On the cable connecting Jenova's containment tank to the platform behind her, she begged him to stay with her. In the end, he gently cradled Jenova's head and stepped off the cable to the mako (and Lifestream) below. Her face and shrieks is the only thing that he remembers from his past life (aside from the rage he felt during the Incident and Cloud stabbing him in the back). The Lifestream cannot erase those memories from him.

After his descent from madness, Bianca’s opinion of Sephiroth changed, but not in the way one might expect. She did not see him as a monster. Instead, she viewed him as broken: an extension of the cruelty inflicted upon him by Shinra, by Hojo, and by fate itself. Her love did not disappear, but it twisted. She mourned who he had been and blamed the world for creating the man he became. Despite giving up on him, she couldn't let him go.

In the dreamscape, Sephiroth was not loving. He was relentless. He did not comfort her. Instead, he conquered. The world bent to his will, and within it, Bianca was both cherished and undone. Initially, Sephiroth did not meet her with warmth, but with an unsettling certainty, as though he knew who she should be and would stop at nothing to shape her into it.

Each encounter with him in the dreamscape was a deliberate unraveling deception that cloaked in understanding but steeped in control. The dream was not a haven, but a stage where his affection became a quiet form of domination. His control was absolute and insidious in how it erased resistance: her resistance. There, love was not a refuge. It was a tool to mold, to claim, and to possess.

Because of his pursuit, Bianca’s love began to evolve. While in the waking world, she was being ripped apart and infused with an abomination, the forceful nature of his affection grew to feel like her only anchor. As she finally yielded to him, she found herself not only surrendering to his will but embracing it.

Once a place of torment, the dreamscape morphed into something else. It became a realm where she understood that Sephiroth was not a conqueror but a creator. He was remaking her, not as a reflection of his desires, but as the woman she was meant to become: a dark queen in her own right who was molded by his will but unbreakable in her own strength. She became the dark Persephone to his Hades.

In time, Bianca came to view Sephiroth as destiny. He was not merely a man, but the other half of a prophecy: her prophecy. She understood that their bond transcended choice. Even knowing he had become a destroyer, she still loved him. With that knowledge, her love hardened into purpose. Her perception of Sephiroth evolved from admiration to obsession, from partner to messiah. She followed him not because he was good, but because he was hers. He was the reason she survived and came out of the experiments shaped as something that would never be controlled by man again. Sephiroth is the only one who truly saw her for what she was.

@themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[salmonandfox]

Happy STS from the Creators Club. Tell us a random piece of trivia about your story.

The one I'm currently working on has Dragons (thus the title Clarions dragons) but also creatures inspired by dinosaurs, though not -entirely- accurate dinosaurs because one of them was inspired by a debunked theory where Microraptors might have venom. The ones on the Island nation of Ostos DO.

They have a powerful numbing agent so after they bite their victim, they can just... keep going because it doesn't continue to cause distress and also they pack hunt. (But thankfully prefer solo targets.)

I gave them feather patterns inspired by barn owls because I thought it was pretty, but the inside of their mouth is -bright- blue because toxic display colors are also fun.

I also included these funky little guys I can't remember the name of? The illustrations make them look like Porg's with bat wings so I made the Ostos version like a cross between frogs and bats, they eat insects, glide, and also hang on the sides of buildings and trees and make a horny-ruckus.

IDK they're fun.

[asirensrage]

Trick or Treat, from the Creators Club.

from this post

TREAT!

What is your favourite part about writing Bianca's story?

[kckramer]

Happy STS from the Creators Club! How do you ensure that your themes resonate with your audience?

@bardic-tales

So, this is a great question, as I don’t do much deliberate work with themes. I take the perspective that themes are meant to emerge naturally and experientially as part of the story. Different people will find different sets of themes in stories as their own experience intersects with that within the narrative.

(And my bad for taking so long- I didn’t realize I could see the inbox on mobile)

[bardic-tales]

She doesn’t just believe in ghosts; she speaks to them. As a celestial hybrid with deep connections to the spirit realm, Bianca often communes with departed souls. To her, ghosts are less “hauntings” and more remnants of unresolved purpose. Sometimes they offer guidance. Other times they mock her, especially those she couldn't save before her fall from Grace. She’s haunted not only by spirits but also by memories and echoes of what could’ve been, making the boundary between the dead and the living a thin veil she often straddles.

Does your character believe in ghosts?