#Bare Metal Cloud Market

[doumadono]

I - A SUCKY ENCOUNTER

Summary: lost in one of the desolated Dregs, the ruins of Musutafu, you barely escape death at the Ash Market — only to be saved by a vampire with striking turquoise eyes, a creature who should have devoured you… yet chose not to

Warnings: mentions of blood, murder, vampirism, destroyed world, vampire AU, vampire Dabi

WCT: circa 2.3k

𖥸 SANGREAL - chapter II 𖥸 SANGREAL - playlist 𖥸 MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The Dregs of Musutafu stretched like a corpse long abandoned, bones of metal and stone jutting out against the sickly dark sky. The air was thick with the copper tang of old blood, choked with the remnants of a world that had burned long before you were born. Wind howled through the alleyways, stirring up clouds of dust that clung to the crumbling buildings, rattling loose metal, and whispering like voices of the forgotten. The city — if it could still be called that — was a graveyard of rust and ruin, its streets infested with things that should not have survived.

This place belonged to the lowest of the low. To the starving. To the cursed. To the monsters who had been abandoned even by their own kind.

You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself, the fabric little more than a barrier against the illusion of safety. Your body screamed for rest, weakened, sluggish, starving. It had been too long since you’d eaten properly — your stomach gnawed at itself, your limbs felt heavy, and the dull ache in your head had begun to blur your vision. You tried to shake it off, to keep moving, but every step through the ruined streets felt like dragging chains.

The Ash Market had been a mistake.

It was supposed to be a simple trip — barter, trade, disappear. The underground market, tucked into the skeleton of an old subway station, was where the desperate and the damned gathered to scrape out what little existence they could. Blackened lanterns flickered over stalls lined with stolen rations, half-rotten produce, scraps of old-world fabric, and — most coveted of all — vials of blood. The scent had made your stomach churn, hunger clawing at your ribs as you forced yourself to ignore the pangs gnawing inside you. 

And then the raid happened.

It hadn’t been Sangreal. If it had, there would be no survivors. No time to run. No bodies left intact. Whoever had stormed the market had been desperate, brutal in their methods but sloppy. Probably a group of rogue vampires decided to hunt. Screams had cut through the smoke, and you had barely escaped with your life. The market had been torn apart in an instant. Bodies hit the floor. Blood spilled. People ran. You ran.

Now, you lurked through the streets of the Dregs, your boots crunching over shattered glass and loose debris, each step heavier than the last. You were weak, too weak. Your breath came shallow, chest tight as you forced yourself to keep going. The last thing you could afford was collapsing here, alone, vulnerable, with nothing but the cold and the dead for company.

But the Dregs were never empty.

You heard them before you saw them. The stench of rot came next, curling through the air, creeping into your lungs. Then came the laughter. Low and  raspy.

Low-class vampires.

A gang of them — five, maybe six — lounging in the desolation like carrion birds picking through a corpse. Their bodies gaunt, their faces drawn with the unmistakable signs of blood deprivation.

You could see them now, lingering in the mouth of an alley, their bodies hunched and twitching, the dim glow of their feral, predatory eyes cutting through the dusk. Their clothes were tattered, soaked in filth and old blood. 

One of them turned, his head snapping toward you, nostrils flaring.

Shit.

You’d gotten too close.

The leader, if he could even be called that, stepped forward first. He was tall, but hunched, his bones jutting against his skin, his fingers far too long, sharp, pointy nails blackened with dried, old blood. His mouth twisted into something that barely resembled a grin, revealing teeth stained yellowish taint. “Look what we have here,” he rasped, voice like dry leaves scraping against pavement. 

The others shifted behind him, their shoulders jerking with unnatural movements. They weren’t just hungry. They were starving.

And they had just found a meal.

You.

Your stomach twisted. Run.

But your body betrayed you. You stepped back, your heart slamming against your ribs. Too weak. Too slow. You could fight one, maybe two — but you wouldn’t stand a chance against all of them, not like this.

You tried to move, but they were already on you.

The first one struck like a shadow, grabbing your wrist before you could twist away. His fingers were ice, skeletal claws digging into your skin. He yanked you forward, sending you stumbling. 

A second lunged from the side, knocking you off balance. Your back hit the crumbling wall of an abandoned building, your breath shoving from your lungs in a painful gasp.

“Where are you running to, girl?” One of them sneered, pressing in close. His breath was rank with spoiled meat, his fingers gripping your throat just tight enough to make a point.

Panic spiked through your veins. You fought, thrashing against them, but you were weak. 

They smelled it, felt it, fed off it. 

One of them laughed, a sick, wet sound, dragging his tongue over his lips. "Not even gonna fight back? How charming."

You did. You tried. You kicked, shoved, twisted, nails raking at exposed skin, but it only made them more eager. “Leave me alone!”

The first one leaned in, inhaling against your pulse, his body shuddering. “Fuck, she smells so delicious!” Sharp teeth neared your neck, breath rank with old blood. His fangs gleamed as he opened his mouth wide—

And then the world erupted in blue.

A blue explosion erupted into the alley, scorching the air with a howling roar. The heat lashed out, impossibly fast, impossibly precise.

The first vampire’s head snapped back, an inhuman shriek bursting from his throat as fire tore through him. His body ignited instantly, blue flames devouring flesh and bone. The remnants of flesh blackened, bubbled, peeled, his shrieks high and animalistic as the fire devoured him whole.

You hit the ground, your body jerked free as your attackers scattered. 

One of them bolted into the darkness, but another wasn’t fast enough. Another blast cut him down. The smell of burning flesh and searing bone filled the air. The flames roared too bright, too hot, too unnatural.

You gasped, shoving yourself up on weak arms, blinking through the haze of ash and embers.

And then — there was nothing but silence. The fire flickered, dying back to embers.

And then you saw him.

He stood just beyond the fire, its flickering glow licking at the edges of his figure. His silhouette was razor-sharp, lean and tense with a predator’s stillness. He was tall, wrapped in dark clothing that looked as battered as the Dregs themselves. The coat hanging from his shoulders was worn, stitched together from scraps of fabric and lined with soot.

His face was scarred. Jagged, uneven burns twisted over pale skin, climbing his jaw and sinking into the hollows of his cheeks. His bangs — white and unkempt — fell into glowing, ice-blue eyes that cut through the dimness like shards of glass.

He was watching you.

The last surviving vampire made the mistake of moving.

Your rescuer lifted a hand, and the air roared. The fire lashed out again, merciless and precise, swallowing the vampire in an instant. He barely had time to scream before he was nothing but cinders.

The fire receded, flickering into embers at his feet. The alley was silent, nothing left but the stench of charred bodies and the acrid tang of burning flesh.

You swallowed hard, staring at the man, your pulse pounding in your ears.

He didn’t speak. He just watched you, eyes flickering over your face, then lower — to where blood seeped from the gash on your shoulder, staining the thin fabric of your sleeve.

The change in him was immediate.

His breathing hitched. His shoulders went rigid. His body stiffened. His fingers twitched. His throat bobbed.

You could see it in his eyes, the way his pupils dilated, the way his jaw clenched so tightly you could hear the faint grind of teeth.

Your blood.

You realized it too late. Your wound had opened, and now he could smell it. He was a vampire, too.

His hand twitched, fingers curling into fists as if fighting some invisible war within himself. His throat bobbed with a swallowed breath. The heat in his gaze burned differently now — hunger, sharp and violent, carving its way into his expression.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

He sucked in another breath, then forced himself back. His hands shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders tense, stiff. He tilted his head slightly, a slow, assessing look that made your skin prickle. “You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across embers. “If I hadn’t been here…” His lips tugged into something between a smirk and a snarl, his voice laced with something dark. “Well. You wouldn’t be alive.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “Who…” Your voice cracked, but you pushed forward. “Who are you?”

He huffed a breath, shaking his head. “Nobody.”

A sharp breath left him, and then he moved. His boots scraped against the cracked ground as he stepped closer. His knees bent, his weight shifting with unnatural ease as he came level with you, just a breath away. A predator lowering itself to inspect its prey, you thought to yourself.

He wasn’t like the others. You had seen many vampires before — their madness, their hunger. But this one… His hunger was controlled. Measured. A beast was bound in chains.

You tried to roll away from him, but your limbs wouldn’t listen.

His head tilted, watching you like something he couldn’t quite figure out. Like something too fragile, too tempting, yet dangerous all at once. “… You’re such a mess.” His voice was low, rough, and darkly amused. “Didn’t think you’d still be breathing,” he murmured, tilting his head. His gaze flicked over you, taking in every injury, every weakness. “Guess you’re luckier than most.”

Your fingers twitched against the pavement, uselessly grasping for something that wasn’t there.

He noticed that too. “You’re not gonna try and fight me, are ya?” His smirk deepened, like he was enjoying the idea of it. “Hate to break it to you, doll, but you’d lose.”

A breath hissed through his teeth as he leaned in slightly, head tilting. His nostrils flared. Then he cursed under his breath.

You knew why. The scent of your blood filled the air between you.

You were sure he would go for your throat in the next second, that his fangs would sink into your flesh, piercing it easily.

But the turquoise-eyed didn’t.

His gaze didn’t leave you, but he made no move to close the distance. His lips parted, his tongue flicking briefly over his sharp, long fangs like he was tasting the scent of your wound. His jaw tightened.

You trembled. Your chin quivered. All the fear, the exhaustion, the pain, the desperation pressed against your ribs, begging to be released, but you swallowed it down. You couldn’t break. Not in front of a vampire. Not in front of him.

His hand lifted slowly, fingers long, nails pointy and sharp like claws. You barely had time to flinch before he caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head upward, forcing you to look at him.

You shuddered.

His grip was cold, firm, but not rough. The pad of his thumb barely brushed the edge of your jaw as he examined you, his turquoise-blue gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. 

Your lips parted, but you had no words. Your mind blurred, your thoughts scattering like the wind. Your body finally gave out. For a moment, you were acutely aware of everything — the rough press of cracked pavement against your back as you collapsed, the way your fingers twitched uselessly in the dirt, how your heartbeat hammered too fast before slowing as the darkness pulled you under. You tried to breathe, but your lungs refused to obey. You tried to move, but your body felt like it no longer belonged to you. And as the shadows crept in from the edges of your vision, an unbearable thought lodged itself into your mind like a splinter beneath skin.

Was this the end?

Would the last sights burned into your failing vision be the ruin of a world, the sky choked in ash, hanging like the veil of a dying god over the wreckage of Musutafu? Would your final memory be the embers of a fire that had saved you, yet left only corpses in its wake — a fleeting, merciless light that had momentarily spared you from a worse fate?

Or would it be him? A vampire with the coldest, most haunting eyes you had ever seen — so unnatural in their beauty?

But before any answer came, the inevitable darkness swallowed you whole.

And then — there was nothing but a  consuming void, vast and endless, where even sound dared not exist. The weight of your body, the cold of the night, the ache in your bones — all of it vanished into the abyss.

And somehow, in that infinite darkness, you felt free. Free from the hunger gnawing at your ribs, free from the constant fear of being hunted, free from the agony you had once dared to call life.

And as the last shred of your consciousness flickered like a dying ember, a fleeting thought surfaced — perhaps this was what people called mercy.

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[hawkinshorror94]

The Wager of Pleasure

Lucania DellamortexPlus!sized RookxSpite

“Smells like Peaches and metal. You are coward Lucanis” Spite hisses as he moves around Rook who is none the wiser to his presence so close to her. Spite’s purple eyes shot over to Lucanis who had his hands clenched in his lap. “I will take her if you are too afraid” 

“Meirda, can you not Spite” Lucanis grumbles at the demon as he tries to focus on Rook putting away her market haul. Since falling head over heels with their appointed leader Lucanis found it hard to ignore her. Her smile that was only meant for him, her small gestures of adoration, but Spite noticed the more physical things. How nice her ass looked in those tight little leather shorts she wore, or how the jewels of her tunic fell perfectly in the valley between her large breasts. On more than one occasion Spite had expressed wanting to feel what her plush belly felt like pinched between his rough fingers or her soft hips might feel with his fingers dug into them. 

“What is he saying?” She asked as she turned to Lucanis, a bottle of tequila in her hands, the last thing on her list. Lucanis shifted on the edge of his cot unsure of what to say, he didn’t think she’d want to hear that Spite wanted her to slam her against the wall and take her when Lucanis hadn’t even had the courage to kiss her. 

“You don’t want to know.” He murmurs pinching the bridge of his nose, she laughs handing him the bottle.

“That bad?” She asks as she watches him pull out the cork on the bottle with a well sharpened knife. Lucanis shakes his head and doesn’t answer, handing the bottle back to her. The tequila inside smells sharp and the first drink burns all the way down to her bare toes. 

“You want her. You won't take her.” Spite mumbles pouting with his arms crossed over his chest. Spite was almost tired of the way they looked longingly into one another’s eyes, almost. Except when they were focusing on one another Spite could touch her softly, like that of a butterfly, her cheek, her back. Just enough to send goosebumps down her arms, conditioning her to feel good feelings when she was around Lucanis. “Drink more, get drunk.” He whispers softly into Lucanis’s ear, all he needed was for him to slip up to let him out. 

“She feels so soft” Spite murmured as he watched Lucanis pin her to the cot, the empty bottle rolling away from open hand. Lucanis focused on how her skin felt, how warm and soft it was against his calloused hands. She smelled like Peaches, Coconuts and metal, like Spite had said. His lips were pressing to her warm skin, he wanted to taste her, the tequila clouding his judgement. Allowing him to feel what he wanted to feel, no thoughts just her and Spite of course.

“I want. My turn.” Spite snapped at Lucanis as he watched the man lick the soft skin of her belly. Lucanis grumbled at the demon who was kneeled by the cot watching, Lucanis could see the demon palming himself over his pants and it sent a tingle down to his own stiff cock. Lucanis tried to ignore Spite and focus on the absolute goddess before him; if he died today, he hoped he could worship her for the rest of eternity. His face buried between her plush thighs, tasting the sweet ichor that flowed there. He undid her fancy Lords bra, it clanked as it hit the stone floor of the pantry and he was back to looking at the two delicious tits he had uncovered. They felt so soft and warm in his calloused hands as he squeezed, watching as the puckered flesh of her nipples tensed. 

“Perfect. Taste them fool.” Spite murmured as he watched Lucanis squeeze the puckered nipples in between deft fingers. Spite watched her face, her lip caught between her bottom teeth and how her pupils were blown wide. Following Spite’s instructions he dips his head down to a nipple, taking it between his teeth and nipping at it gently, listening to the sweetest fucking whine leave her lips. He moved to the next nipple giving it the same treatment as the first, but he felt cool air blowing on his cheek. Spite was blowing lightly against the nipple not in Lucanis’s mouth, watching the nipple retighten and Rook whine louder this time.  Brown eyes met purple ones for a moment and an unspoken agreement was made. 

Lucanis moves back up to Rook’s neck, his hands pinning her wrists above her head, his brown eyes meeting hers for a moment before he pressed his lips back to hers. Their kiss is sloppy from the tequila and the pure desire coursing through them both. She moaned into his mouth as he let go of her wrists, but they stayed pinned above her head with cool invisible fingers. 

“Spite.” She murmured against Lucanis’s lips when he finally left her mouth for air. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of the man and the demon working alongside to pleasure her. Lucanis’s knee slots between her legs grinding into her little leather shorts, his lips ghosting the column of her throat feeling her pulse and low whines.

“She likes that. Her cunt smells delicious” Spite groans as he holds her wrists watching Lucanis take his sweet time down her body. Even her wrists were soft and Spite couldn’t help but press a cool kiss to the inside of them. When Spite looked up again Lucanis was working her out of those little shorts that cupped her fat ass so deliciously. Spite burned on the inside like fire, he let go of her wrist so he could move closer to her soaking cunt. Lucanis’s fingers were carding through the curl’s of her slickened cunt. 

“Stop teasing” Spite murmurs his large hand splayed out over her warm belly, it tenses under his cool fingers or it was because Lucanis had finally slipped his fingers into her soaked folds, collecting all the sweet juices there and bringing them to his mouth. She tasted like cream and he moaned around his own slickened fingers. 

“You taste divine.” He murmurs as he dips into her cunt with two long, lithe fingers, fingers hooking to hit that spongy little spot inside of her. She cries out his name and he leans down using his nose to rub against that little sensitive bud of nerves. Her fingers were dug into his dark hair pulling on it as she pulled him closer to her heat. When he hears her moans pitch up and octave, Lucanis sucks at her clit, his fingers moving with a quickened pace. Spite presses lightly on her lower belly and he can feel Lucanis’s fingers in her and it makes his cock throb with need. 

The sound of Lucanis’s name sounds like prayers as he drags an orgasm from her, his fingers and tongue working to quickly overstimulate her. She was begging, pleading for him to fuck her but all he could think about was how her soft thighs quivered around his head, how the lewd sounds of her soaked cunt were, how good she tasted on his tongue. 

“Please Lucanis, inside.” Her words were broken as she clawed him away from her cunt. He finally obliged, Spite finally slinking away into Lucanis so he can feel the relief he needs as well. Lucanis feels as though he might choke as he slips into her velvety walls. 

“So fucking good.” Spite sighs inside his head as he bottoms out in her, Lucanis focuses on her face. As he lifts one of her thighs and pulls it higher on her belly, pulling almost all the way out before slipping back in, a tortuous speed that has them teetering on the edge of ecstasy or insanity. 

“You’re so pretty like this.” He murmurs into her ear as his hips pick up pace and her fingers dig into her back. “Under me spread out like this.” Lucanis moans into her ear as he feels her clench around him. “Let go” He murmurs it once, twice before he hears her cry out, her legs tightening around him pulling him in deeper as he works her through it. 

He has his face nuzzled into her neck, losing himself as his hips begin to stutter in her, his cock spilling off into her already soaked cunt.  He closes his eyes for just a minute to calm his beating heart. He just drifts for a moment, a moment too long. As Rook’s eyes look up to meet what she thought would be the large brown eyes of Lucanis she is instead met by Spite’s purple ones.

“My Turn”

If you into freaky stuff come back for the second part. Because you know Spite is a fucking freak. Also if someone can think of a better name do tell because I could not think of one

[xyywrites]

hi! i need help with writing descriptions, no matter they always feel very boring and repetitive, especially if it’s a one character scene, when i try to describe emotions and such — it just all feels very tell no show?

Hey anon!

So I'll divide your question into 2 parts :

a) the general description and b) describing emotions

GENERAL DESCRIPTIONS:

1. Describe With Purpose, Not Just for Filler:

Every description should do something—set the mood, reveal character, or add tension. Ask yourself:

Does this description tell us something about the character?

Does it affect the scene's mood?

Would the scene feel different without it?

Example: Instead of listing details about a room, show how a character interacts with it.

The room was small, with a wooden desk, a single chair, and a bookshelf in the corner. (Factual but lifeless.)

The room barely fit the essentials. The bookshelf leaned slightly to one side, stuffed past its limit, and the desk was clean—too clean, like someone had wiped it down one too many times. (Gives a sense of personality.)

note: this is not to say that simple doesn't work. Simple does work too. In fact in descriptions I prefer not to overload the reader with too much info. Sometimes tell not show is exactly what you want.

2. Use Comparisons, But Make Them Interesting

Instead of just saying something is big, small, cold, warm—compare it to something vivid. But avoid clichés like "as cold as ice" or "as dark as night."

Example:

(The house was huge.)

The house loomed over the street like it had been dropped there by mistake, too grand for the tiny patch of land it stood on.

3. Vary Sentence Structure & Rhythm

If every description is the same length, it starts feeling robotic. Mix short and long sentences to create flow.

Example:

The sky was dark. The streetlights flickered. The pavement was wet from the rain. (Too stiff, repetitive.)

The sky hung heavy, a sheet of unbroken black. The streetlights flickered—weak, sputtering ghosts against the dark. Rain pooled in the cracks of the pavement, reflecting the city in distorted, shattered pieces. (More dynamic and immersive.)

4. Make Mundane Actions More Engaging

Common actions—walking, drinking, sitting—can feel repetitive. Instead of always describing how someone moves, describe what their movement says about them.

Example: (She sat down on the chair and drank her coffee.)

The coffee was bitter, but she didn’t add sugar. She was too tired to care, or maybe just used to the taste of things that didn’t quite go down easy.

5. Use the Five Senses

Relying only on sight makes descriptions feel flat. Bring in sound, touch, smell, and taste to create depth.

Example: (The market was busy and full of stalls.)

The market was a riot of noise—fishmongers shouting deals, the metallic clang of knives against chopping boards. The air smelled of salt, spices, and the sharp tang of citrus from a freshly cut lemon.

6. Avoid “List” Descriptions

Instead of dumping all details in one go, weave them into the action.

Example:

The car was old. The paint was peeling. The tires were worn out. The seats were cracked. (Feels like a checklist.)

She ran a hand over the car’s hood. The paint peeled away in thin, brittle flakes, catching on her fingertips. One of the tires sagged, low on air. Inside, the leather seats were cracked, their stuffing exposed like old battle wounds. (More immersive.)

7. Change the ‘Camera Angle’

If descriptions feel stale, shift perspective. Zoom in on small details or pull back for a bigger picture.

Example: (The sky was blue and the trees were tall.)

(Zoom in) The sky stretched unbroken, a shade of blue so deep it looked painted on. A single cloud drifted by, lazy and indifferent.

(Zoom out) The valley lay sprawled below, a patchwork of green and gold, rivers carving silver veins through the earth.

DESCRIBING EMOTIONS:

1. Ditch the Label, Focus on the Reaction

Instead of saying "She was nervous," think about how that nervousness manifests. Does she tap her fingers against the table? Does she try to swallow, only to realize her throat is dry? Does she force a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes?

(She was scared.)

Her grip tightened around the mug, the warmth failing to chase away the cold in her hands.

The doorknob rattled. She flinched so hard her knee slammed into the desk, sending a sharp jolt up her thigh.

2. Use the Environment as a Mirror

Solo scenes can feel isolating if it’s just a character thinking in a void. Use the surroundings to echo their mood. If they’re anxious, maybe the room feels too still, the clock ticking just a little too loud. If they’re sad, maybe the sky outside is stubbornly blue and bright, like the world refuses to match their mood.

Example: The cold wind pushed against her back, and for a second, it felt like someone was there. But when she turned, it was just the empty street behind her.

3. Sensory Details Are Your Best Friend

People experience emotions with their whole body. What does fear taste like? What does joy feel like against the skin? Even a simple emotion like anger can be described in different ways—burning hot like a wildfire, or cold and simmering like a blade pressed to the throat.

Example:

Her jaw ached from clenching so hard. The words pressed against her teeth, sharp and bitter, demanding to be let out.

His vision blurred at the edges, not from tears, but from the heat rising in his skull. He could hear his own pulse, a steady drumbeat against his eardrums.

4. Using body language:

Example:

He smiled, but it was tight—too tight. Like if he let go, he might crack right down the middle.

5. Break the Inner Monologue Habit

If your descriptions feel like a constant stream of thoughts (I feel sad, I feel angry, I feel lonely), try breaking it up with actions.

Example:

She stared at the email, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then she backspaced everything she had typed, closed the tab, and shut the laptop. She’d try again later. Maybe.

His fingers found the bracelet at his wrist, the one she had given him years ago. He traced the worn-out engravings with his thumb, the metal warm against his skin.

She set two plates on the table before remembering. Staring at the extra one, she let out a breath and put it back in the cabinet. Old habits.

At the end of the day, writing descriptions is like learning to see the world through your character’s eyes. The more you practice, the more natural it’ll feel.

Hope this helps! 💛

[inspector-m3]

Immortal souls ch1

CW: uhh...this shits kinda sad ngl, death, details of injuries and said death, swearing, dont think there's anything too bad but let me know if there is

The day was bright as you lay in the field, the grass swaying softly against your face, exhausted from the day spent running around, completing errands for the villagers and then proceeding to goof off with simon. Simon, who was currently beside you in the cool blades of grass, your pinkie fingers hooked together, too embarrassed to properly hold hands. You both speak soft promises into the sky above, the blues and pinks of the lowering yet still bright sun being covered by the patchy pattern of leaves from the tree that you and Simon had taken shelter under, being the witness to your words.

The two of you began your daily walk back, all laughs and jokes, smiles and subtle flirts.

"hah! you should have seen the fruit stall owner! the way he was chasing after me just for a simple apple."

Simon recounts his adventures of the day before you had met up for the afternoon. You sigh playfully at your thief of a friend.

"honestly, si....what am i going to do with you, hm?"

Simon smirks, loving the sound of your nickname for him on your tongue, the way you shortened his name sounded so much better than the harsh way that everyone else says it. He's about to make a crude comment most likely but you both get interrupted as you see flames and hear the distant yet deafening cries of the fellow villagers that echoes through the once peaceful afternoon.

The two of you run, as fast as you could, desperate to help, lungs burning as they frantically search for oxygen in the thick smokey air. You frantically search for your family, friends or anyone who could explain this sudden chaos.Y

Through the smoke of your burning village you and Simon come across a group of men holding torches, wearing odd metal masks, armed with blades, arrows and spears, things you'd hardly seen before in the shelter of your peaceful village. Though you both knew that it could be nothing good.

You pause, never having been in such a life threatening situation before, your instincts and common sense weren't quite up to par and why should they be when all you've known was peace, the only chaos was when Simon stole something from the market.

"um...escuse me gentlemen? Do you know-"

Your polite and timid words are abruptly cut short as they shoot an arrow, the metal tip barely missing your widened eyes and instead causing your cheek to bleed. You were frozen, you felt like crying, being sick and running away all at once. The overwhelming feeling of having danger so suddenly thrown in your face. Luckily for you, Simon managed to snap out of his own trance, grabbing you tightly and pulling you along.

"come on! we need to go!"

You run to the forrest in hopes of losing the men, weaving through the old and and sturdy trees, memories of the times you and Simon would spend hours up in the branches briefly flash in your mind before being promptly tugged again by Simon to the side, your eyes catch a glimpse of the spear that had just about missed your head.

The heavy breathing of you both echoes through the darkening forrest, your warm breath creating clouds of vapour in the air, your lungs sting with the sharpness of adrenaline and exercise.

The strange men clad in metal and weapons can be heard, their chasing relentless, voices yelling at each other to guide more of them towards you. It goes silent for a few minutes, the only noise in the seemingly empty forrest being you and Simon's heavy breathing which you both desperately tried to quiet.

You and Simon turn to each other, a smile of relief on both your faces. You were finally safe, you began to think of all the ways to save the villagers, maybe you could find a nearby lord? Or maybe they'd just leave on their own?

But it doesn't take long until everything around you seems to go dull, that relief you felt just moments ago going cold, as you watch the spear tear through Simon's chest, the cracking noise of sharpened metal breaking bones and flesh of the man you adored embedded in your memories forever. You fall to the ground with him, almost as if you had been wounded yourself. The strange men seemed to believe so anyways as they left, not even checking if you two were dead, almost like this whole thing was just for their own sick enjoyment, enjoying the pain of families watching each other die, their only relief being the hope of seeing everyone in the afterlife.

As you fell to the floor everything felt dark, dull, an empty feeling of loss covered you. The moss on the forest floor was cool against the heat of your living body. You could see the way his eyes were fading, that beautiful brown that made you think of nature and warmth, going a ghostly grey. Your hands grasp onto him.

"no...no,.no, no... si! Please dont, you have to stay with me. Im begging you! I cant be without you...si, please"

A tight feeling in your heart takes away the rest of your breath, you can't speak properly anymore, only managing garbled pleas as if that would save the dying man in your arms, as if that would get rid of the spear in his back that pierced through his chest. Through your begging you still couldn't manage to utter those three words that you'd both been hanging off the edge of your tongues, those three words that was so obvious between you yet because they were never spoken neither of you dared to go further than friends.

The trees suddenly felt like they were watching, mocking you for your feeble love, laughing at how easily he was dying. They loomed over you, the bark twisting into cruel smiles as you begged Simon to stay with you.

He tries to brave a smile, barely breathing as he gets out his final words.

"god....I love it when you call me that"

And with that you saw the playful light drain from his eyes, that oh so beautiful brown gone pale.

You cried, you don't know for how long but you remember seeing the sun disappear in the corner of your eye more than once. As you cried your grip on Simon's icy body only got tighter, as if you could transfer your warmth to him to bring him back.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Six

A phone is buzzing nearby. It isn’t my ringtone so I ignore it and keep my eyes shut, trying to go back to sleep, waiting through each agonising vibration on the wooden bedside table until it stops. Then it rings again. And again. I groan, opening my eyes just a sliver to be greeted by a chink of harsh white December sun glaring in through a gap in the curtains and causing a boring pain right in the centre of my forehead. The phone keeps ringing.

Marine eventually shifts in the bed beside me and fumbles for it. “Oh it’s my dad.” She says groggily, and then answers it. I bury my head under the duvet as she talks to him, her voice too loud, everything too bright, a surging anxiety consumes me as memories of last night begin to come back to me. God, I think I was really drunk. Really really drunk. 

“I stayed with a friend last night.” Marnie is saying to her father with an impertinent tone. “Well, yes… yes. No I didn’t-” She sighs and gets out of the bed to start pacing around the room whipping her discarded items off my floor. “Yes I remember that, obviously dad. No- okay well I know. What, right now? But- yeah, she lives in town, can’t you just come and get me? Why? Ugh. Well it’s going to take ages then.” I roll over and watch her with the phone balanced between her cheek and shoulder while she tries to strap one of her platform Mary Janes onto her foot. Her face is screwed up sourly. “Well, no need to take that tone. I realise that… The traffic actually isn’t bad on Saturdays, so that’s a total lie. Well, fine, okay. I’ll get there whenever I get there.” She hangs up the phone and shoves it into the pocket of her blue shag coat that she’s now slung over her shoulders. “Where’s my bag?” She demands so primly that her mouth could be stuffed with plums. 

I sit myself up slowly in the bed feeling like I’m a wounded patient and rub my aching eyes, my mouth feeling as though there were birds nesting inside it all night. “You left it at the party I think.” 

“Oh for fuck sake. Did you not get it from the bedroom before we left?” 

“I couldn’t have gotten it from the bedroom when I didn’t know it was in there.”

“No need to be smart with me.”

“I’m literally just saying that I didn’t know it was there.” 

She rolls her eyes dramatically, making it clear that she has no time for me today. “Well, you’ll need to loan me money for the bus then.”

“I don’t think I have money for the bus, I used it all up to pay for the taxi.”

She pauses so that I know how incredulous she is. “You don’t have five euro?”

“I don’t know. Maybe in like, change. Somewhere.”

She crosses her arms and says nothing, but the impatient tapping of her foot compels me to climb out of the covers and reach for my bag, in a heap at the bottom of the bed with yesterday’s clothes. It’s so cold outside of my warm cocoon of blankets that I shiver, goosebumps rising on my bare arms. I zip open the coin pocket of my purse and I can imagine a cartoon dust cloud puffing out of it. Aside from a few miserable coins, I really don’t have much. I count out two euros and thirty cents in my palm, an assortment of coppers, a couple of twenty cents and a rogue fifty cent piece. I offer the handful up to her pathetically and she regards it with such disdain that I feel like some mediaeval peasant haggling for a loaf of bread at the town market. 

“I’m sure I have more lying around.” I feel my cheeks burn up with embarrassment, and I start rifling through drawers looking for something, anything so that I won’t seem like the brokest girl on planet earth. I’ve truly used every last cent of my financial aid for the term. Thank God it’s almost Christmas. I feel her eyes on me the whole time but I can’t look at her in case I see pity in them. How have I ended up here? Scrounging for the fare of a meagre bus journey in front of a girl who has an actual jacuzzi in her house. 

Finally, at the bottom of a drawer I feel my fingers brush against flat metal. A two euro coin. I hold it up triumphantly.

“Thanks.” Marnie says flatly and plucks it from my fingers. “This will hopefully be enough.” She drops it into the pile of change in her palm with a clink and then tucks her hair, a little lank and greasy, behind her ear. She straightens up and looks at me, her eyes steely grey and a slight frown knitted on her brows. “Well, I probably won’t see you before Christmas. So have a good one.” She’s already leaving the room as I reply: “Yeah, happy Christmas. Will I see you on New Years?” but she’s already gone. After that I crawl back under the covers and hug my knees to my chest, my throbbing, hangover headache permeating through my entire skull so fiercely that I can hear it inside my ears. I wonder if I’m going to be sick this morning. It’s been a while since I threw up from drinking, but it’s been a while since I’ve felt this badly too, and when I begin to smell the aromas of Claire’s saturday morning breakfast fry-up, I’m certain that I’m about to come face to face with the contents of my stomach. I tumble out of bed in a flash and stumble into the bathroom across the hall, slamming the door behind me before I get reacquainted with the toilet bowl. 

Prev // Next

[venadad]

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[fromthe7thsidelines]

starter for @phantasiiae's Cloud , from Loz

"Looks like we've got an old contender in the ring tonight!" Despite being the new Don, Scotch insisted on still doing the introductions alone. "Did you know, my fine audience, our hero of Edge, Cloud Strife, once had an explosive win streak in Wall Market's Coliseum? How will he fare with our prize fighter?!"

Meanwhile —

Loz knew by now which chains he was supposed to break. Even if he wanted to break them all. Snap the metal from his neck, tear the leather from his face, crush the Don's throat with his bare heel. The sharp, twisting growl from his stomach reminded him not to.

From the bottom of the basement's upward ramp, he heard the cheering grow. He knew the Don liked to 'build hype', which just meant Loz had to tug on the chains loud enough to be heard, so people would cheer louder. Then he heard the reel in the ceiling start, threatening to drag him if he didn't follow.

So, otherwise wearing only a tied-together scrap of tarp and a tight muzzle over his mouth, he entered the warehouse's makeshift arena. "The Hound of Destruction!" Loz didn't like the Don's nickname for him, but he'd heard it enough times that he only glared. Doing what the Don wanted meant getting food. He obediently broke the extra chains from his arms and shoulders with a single pull and a growl.

Then, though, he saw his opponent. Blond hair, eyes a little bluer than his... he knew them, didn't he? Did he? Teal gaze widened and head tilted, while a small ache prickled through the 'birthmark' down his right arm.

[simplegenius042]

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

[finnpoerebelscum]

FALLOUT - Chapter 17

Chapters Posted: 17 of 18

Rating: T+

Warnings: Canon-typical violence & fighting/blood/gore/graphic descriptions of injury/angst/hurt/comfort/Multiple POVs/self-sacrifice

Characters/Pairings: Poe Dameron/Finn, Karé Kun, Iolo Arana, BB-8, OCs.

Summary: Still reeling in the aftermath of Crait, Poe Dameron and Finn are sent to a secret Resistance base tucked away on Lothal to serve as acting generals. Their numbers dwindled to barely a handful, and with General Organa’s order grounding all surviving Resistance personnel to heal and regroup, morale is at an all time low. Poe grapples with his inability to sit still; the First Order looms, an ever-encroaching threat to what remains of the Outer Rim’s free space; intimate feelings grow impossible to ignore and a shocking return promises devastating consequences not only for those stationed on Lothal, but for the Resistance and galaxy at large. 

A/N: An AU adventure, a side-quest of sorts, to account for some of the time between TLJ and ROS. Stormpilot centric. Canon up until the end of TLJ (but does not take into account Resistance Reborn or the Finn/Rose arc).

Thank you to anyone who has read, liked, and/or reblogged! I am so grateful for you and your time.

Masterlist

CHAPTER 17

Afforded a diversion by the sudden influx of X-wings dropping out of hyperspace, Poe safely maneuvered the G1-A to the ground. 

A hail of blaster fire smacked into the landing deck as it came down, sailing through the opening once it hit the ground. Blasters up, they all jumped and ducked every time a bolt zapped into the metal near their heads. All but Ira, who stood behind Finn, unperturbed, stoic as ever.

“Nothing, huh?!” Iolo shook his head; Ira only smiled.

“There’s only a handful of them!” Finn said over the barrage. 

“Hey! Hey you!” A muffled shout came from outside. 

The cacophony dropped to half the decibel count and the thumping of boots receded. Finn risked a glance around his cover. A bolt immediately zinged off the durasteel by his shoulder and he jumped back. “It’s just three of them left out there!”

Poe nodded to the group. “On me.” 

They burst from the ship, overtaking the three remaining troopers with ease. 

The rumble of the battle above shook the ground. A chunk of debris smacked into the earth, sending up a spray of dirt. A mangled piece of a solar array beam. One TIE down—a fleet to go. 

Another mass whistled through the air, smashing into a nearby building, raining a cloud of dust and rubble shards over them. 

With BB-8 bringing up the rear, the group pounded down the alleyway into town. The deeper they ventured, the more dead stormtroopers they found. A couple of Kothalites lay by the white plastoid-clad bodies, lives lost protecting their homes, or each other. 

A dull roar began to mount from the belly of Kothal, the further they pressed toward the city center. It had to be coming from the market square…

The mechanical hiss of a door sounded to their left and they whirled, blasters up. 

Dr. Noam Bexon, sandy hair and round face smudged with soot and grime, poked her head out of the opening. “This way.”

“Where did you come from?” Iolo gaped at her.

She ignored him. “They got into the tunnels.”

“How?”

“When the base collapsed, it broke through some of the tunnel walls and they found their way in. We could use some extra hands to push them back out of town.”

“Iolo, Karé, BB-8. Go with Dr. Bexon. We’ll press forward.”

* * *

The dusty streets were barren save for a few bodies propped up in doorways or strewn across intersections. Some were stormtroopers. More were Kothalites. The roar Poe had heard morphed the closer they got. It was made up of voices. Shouts; chants. The city’s perimeters were unguarded, but the more they neared the square, the more troopers they encountered.

Ira moved swiftly, imperceptibly fast, as if every movement was calculated to dispense the least amount of energy possible. Even Poe, experienced in combat as he was, marveled at the calm. Ira Nyx was serene. Impossibly so, even as a trio of stormtroopers got the drop on them as they rounded a corner. 

Poe and Finn threw themselves back around the building as laser bolts showered the ground all around them. Ira remained out in the open, utterly composed, deflecting blasts with his hands alone. The lasers flicked away and embedded themselves in their shooters, who dropped in unison. 

“You’ve gotta teach me that,” Finn said as Ira returned to where they stood.  A moment passed between them, Ira looked ready to say something when the chorus of boots stamping dust picked up again. Just shy of a dozen troopers spilled into the open intersection, filling in where those before had just fallen. 

Ira reached out and gave both Finn and Poe’s shoulders a warm squeeze. “May the Force be with you.” 

Poe’s heart sank as he met the abyssal, yellow eyes one last time. A silent goodbye. To the stranger turned friend who’d brought him back from death just hours ago. 

Ira stepped out into the open. 

“Ira, hey—” Finn staggered after him. “No!”

 Poe grabbed a fistful of Finn’s jacket and yanked him back, wrapping his arms around him tight as he struggled.

The army stood its ground. Ira advanced slowly into the middle of the intersection until he was staring down the barrels of dozens of blaster rifles. He closed his eyes. 

Some of the troopers exchanged glances. Then, they opened fire. 

When the dust cleared, the little army had been razed, laying in haphazard jumble across ground. Ira Nyx was gone. His empty robes lay in a heap where he had just stood. Finn stared, rooted to the spot. Poe, arms still wrapped around his shoulders, had to drag him away. He pressed his cheek to Finn’s. “Finn. Finn! He knew what he had to do. He made the choice a long time ago.” 

Finn sniffed and gave Poe’s forearm a squeeze. He released him.

Muffled shouting pierced the air. 

The two broke into a sprint, the market square coming into view down the alley ahead. Three stormtroopers clattered into the intersection between them and the market.

“Hey! I’m over here, you useless plastic trash baskets!”

One of Poe’s eyebrows shot up as he and Finn exchanged a glance. They’d recognize that voice anywhere. Kemi. 

They stole a glance into the intersection as the “trash baskets” launched into pursuit of their heckler and out of sight. By the time they vaulted around the corner, one trooper had Kemi by the throat with a gloved hand, the other arm pinning hers to the sides of her body. Poe and Finn darted forward, each blasting one of the other two flanking troopers to the ground. As they whirled on the lone trooper holding Kemi, she rammed a heel into an ill-placed gap of armor plates at the trooper’s groin. He crumpled to the ground. She brought the heel of her boot down on his visor with a final, loud crunch. 

“All right then,” Poe said. “Let’s keep moving.” 

“You took your sweet time coming back,” Kemi said, wiping a hand across her mouth. It came away bloody. “We were getting on fine without you.” It was said lightly, though her eyes didn’t mean it.

“I can see that.” Poe grabbed her shoulder as she started back for the square. “I’m sorry, Kemi.”

She nodded, eyes filling, but her voice was steady. “The base collapsed on a bunch of them after you left. Put a hole in one of the tunnels… they found their way in. Killed anyone who tried to fight back. So we laid low. Let them police us. Then, they started sending their numbers away, till only half was left. That’s when we attacked. There’re still a lot of them, but we’ve cornered them in the square.”

“You really didn’t need us after all.”

The reverberations of engines pulsed above them and Finn and Poe paused to look up at the sky. Eight trooper transports had pulled up off the ground and launched into the air, back up toward the staged Destroyers—Destroyer. Only one remained now. The battle raged on a few stratospheres below the flagship, but significantly less TIEs dotted the sky.

“What the hell are they doing?”

“They’re… They really are pulling out extra personnel,” Finn shook his head, wide-eyed. “They think they’ve already won.”

“Let them keep thinking that, then.”

They’d been caught off guard, and were paying the price. In the grand scheme of things, it could barely be considered a defeat. The First Order certainly wouldn’t think of it as one. More of an embarrassing, but inconsequential blip in their planet-killing record. 

But, for the Outer Rim, for the Resistance, this was a battle whose memory would shimmer. A symbol of the resilience of the light in the galaxy, stretching all the way to its furthest reaches. No matter how dim or how few still believed in it, it was there. Kothal had saved itself. 

* * *

“You’ve put so much dedication into your service to the First Order in these last few months—it would be cruel of me not to allow you to at least enjoy the show.”

Tallon swallowed hard at the bitterness rising in his throat, heart banging painfully against his ribs. He clenched his teeth against his ragged breathing and ground out, “What now?” 

“Your work with us has only begun. We can’t fault you for it, as you explained this could be a possibility, but General Organa was not present at any of the bases you gave up. Your work must continue. You will be giving us the location of the remaining bases. The Resistance must be wiped from the galaxy, and we must start with their beloved leader.”

“So that’s why I’m not dead.”

“Oh, Tallon. I do hope that hasn’t been keeping you up at night. We plan to keep you very much alive. You have done a great service to the First Order. You have a bright future here.”

Tallon watched numbly as another TIE fighter decimated an X-Wing, the pilot standing no chance of survival as the durasteel burst into a million little pieces. That could have been anyone. Any of the pilots he knew. Those he’d shared meals with, survived missions with, repaired vital equipment for. That pilot, whoever they had been, and the lives of all of those lost on Kothal Base and the others he had provided coordinates for—not only coordinates, but created, with his own hands, the weapon that would kill them all. And they were asking him to do it again. His eyes were pulled down to his boots. Smooth, black leather had replaced his weathered, brown lace-up Resistance issue boots. He was one of them now. 

Every ounce of tension melted away from his body. Feeling returned to his fingertips and toes. His breathing eased; the battering of his heart against his ribs slowed til it faded into the background.

“Thank you, sir.”

Admiral Gale finally peeled his eyes away from the carnage to look at him, an ugly smirk pulling up one corner of his thin, gray lips. “For?”

“Reminding me of my purpose. My mission.”

“The First Order has great plans for the galaxy. A noble cause of which to be a part. You simply needed to be shown the way—” 

Tallon Voxel allowed himself a few moments to savor the shock of realization on the admiral’s face, then closed his eyes and stepped off the edge.

* * *

A wisp of movement at the edges of Poe’s vision caught his attention. It stopped him in his tracks. Finn powered on, unaware, bounding several paces further ahead hot on Kemi’s heels. 

There it was again. 

Down the alley to his right. 

Jawline a singed and gory mess, the collar of his shirt dried into rusty splotches, Torin Baz stood in the middle of the alleyway, grinning.

[jooyas-oatmeal]

Project Emberwake Ch1 Debut

The sun rose over the quiet village of Steamwell, a little-known northern settlement tucked in the mountain ranges of Vale. Life here moved like clockwork: merchants opened their stalls in the reliable street market, doctors unlocked their clinics, and Huntsmen and Huntresses returned from their overnight patrols. It was quaint, almost too perfect. Maybe it was the way children never seemed to get into trouble, or how real conflict hadn’t touched the town in years. Beyond the eastern mountains, the first travelers of the day began to arrive: Faunus merchants, wagon teams, and the Illyris Roller, a massive, steam-powered tank engine, and perhaps the only thing in Steamwell loud or lively enough to break the town’s sleepy rhythm.

The Roller let out its customary arrival howl, shaking the town awake and signaling the dockworkers to earn their bread. For most in Steamwell, it was the loudest disruption the town ever saw, second only to the other source of chaos.

“Huh—?"

Soren Illyris jerked upright, blinking blearily at the scattered mess of notes across her workbench: Dust-infused bronze schematics, a reminder about her own birthday, a scribbled 'Peppermint restock order: pending.' Morning sun caught the smudges of graphite and grease streaked across her hands.

"Sprockets!"

She shoved herself upright, yanking the curtain closed with the speed of the Roller itself. Half-running across the room, she snatched up a bottle of bubblegum mouthwash, taking a heroic swig like it was cheap ale, while simultaneously wrangling herself into a rumpled off-white button-down and grease-stained overalls. The girl barreled down the stairs of the roomy, cluttered house, skidding into a half-packed guest room where open boxes still covered the bed. She tore through the chaos with wild determination until her hands landed on a thin, dusty box, no thicker than an old dictionary, buried at the very bottom.

With the box tucked under one arm, she bolted into the kitchen just as,

Ding!!

A bagel shot from a toaster that looked less like a kitchen appliance and more like a desperate science project. Wires and gears buzzed faintly inside the metal husk. Soren caught the bagel mid-air, tossing it onto the counter with a thud as she yanked open the fridge. The shelves were a disaster: condiments stacked next to half-eaten fruit, vegetables balanced over mystery leftovers sealed with hope. She snatched a jar of homemade honey butter, slathered it onto the blackened bagel, and shoved half of it into her mouth in one bite. With the box hugged tight against her chest, she stumbled into her work boots by the door, small, scuffed things shoved next to a pair of larger, dustier boots that hadn't moved in months. And just like that, she was off, out the door, into the noise of the waking world, leaving the half-unpacked house and all its unopened boxes behind her.

Soren tore down the dusty path into town, kicking up clouds behind her boots. The morning sun hammered against the hills, making everything shimmer, or maybe that was just the rush blurring her vision. Halfway down the main road, she swerved past a gnarled oak and plucked her tool-belt off a crooked branch where she’d left it the night before. Two short swords, gleaming, used only a few times, still smelling faintly of polish, that the smithy whipped up for her as a return for fixing his ignus furnace, jostled against her side, the box tucked awkwardly under her arm, nearly slipping free.

"Stupid cardboard," she muttered, hitching it back up as she skidded through the market square. The post office sat crooked between the grocer and a smithy. Soren burst through the door, setting the little bell above it shrieking. The old postmaster barely looked up.

"Postage for Illyris," he grunted, sliding a thin bundle of mail across the counter with a practiced, unimpressed flick. Soren snagged the bundle one-handed, juggling the box and her toolbelt awkwardly. Two letters were marked urgent: one from Forge Academy, her dream, her plan, her everything, and one from... “Haven Academy?”, she mumbled breathlessly.

She squinted. Thinking “I didn’t apply there.” Tucking both envelopes under her elbow, she turned and bolted, deciding she'd open them later, after getting on the Roller.

Outside, a chorus of jeering voices greeted her.

"Hey, Crater Face!" "Better tuck your wings this time, birdbrain!" "Maybe the train’ll wait if you crash hard enough!"

Soren ducked her head, grinning like she didn't hear them. The same old nicknames, the same old digs. She hit the platform at a dead sprint just as the train's whistle shrieked for final boarding.

The Illyris Roller began to pull away.

Soren surged forward, leaping from the end of the platform, the box jolted under her left arm, her tool belt whipped around her hips and her swords clattering against the rails that just barely caught with her right hand. For a second her feet dangled midair, kicking helplessly, the cardboard box slipping from her grasp and she pulled herself up. The Forge letter fluttered free, spiraling into the gap between the train and the platform.

"No no no—!"

Soren clung with one hand, lunged with the other, snatching the letter out of the air just as her grip on the railing faltered. She swung her legs up, scrambling gracelessly over the edge and collapsing in a breathless heap inside the cabin. The attendant waiting at the door sighed through his nose, unimpressed.

"Miss Illyris," he said sharply, hands behind his back. "Late again."

Soren flashed a tired, greasy smile as she stuffed the letters back under her arm. "What can I say?" She shrugged, standing and brushing soot off her overalls. "I'm my father's son."

The attendant grunted and walked off without another word. Soren dropped into the nearest seat, the box wedged between her knees, her heart still hammering from the sprint,  or maybe something else entirely. Soren flopped into the nearest seat, the box wedged between her knees, the bundle of letters crushed under one hand. She slouched against the window, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of her face.

"Yeah, be a dick to the birthday girl," she sighed under her breath, watching the dusty town pull away behind the train. "Not like she helped engineer half this hunk of scrap with her dad or anything.” She flipped the letters over, squinting at them against the sunlight pouring through the window. Forge's envelope was dense, official. She could almost feel the weight of it through the paper. Haven’s was thinner, almost casual. She frowned, tucking them back under her arm without opening them. Later. With dad.

The Roller shuddered up the mountain pass, wheels clanking rhythmically over uneven tracks. The view dropped away quickly, farmland giving over to rocky crags and Dust-scarred cliffs. A thin, high-pitched whine buzzed at the edge of Soren’s hearing. She twitched, grimacing. “Bearings need oil,” she thought absently. “Axle's fighting the incline.”

Fifteen minutes into the ride, the train gave a worrying lurch. There was a loud CLUNK, somewhere near the engine of the Roller. Soren stiffened immediately. She shot the attendant at the front of the car a “someone needs to fix that before this thing moves again” look as the train began to slow. The Roller hissed to a full stop on a battered platform half-swallowed by the cliffs. The old Dust mine and beyond it, the graveyard.

Soren stepped off into the thin, cool air, feeling the heavy looks from the handful of townsfolk loitering outside the entrance. Their eyes slid over her, the mess of her hair, the grease stains, and, of course, the gleam of metal stitched between her shoulder blades where wings anchored deep into her back. None of them said anything. They didn’t have to.

She adjusted the box under her arm and made her way downhill, toward the rows of weathered stones. The graveyard had no iron gates or marble paths. It was just dirt, and Dust, and uneven markers shaped from local stone. The villagers lived with Dust and when they died, they returned to it. It was a simple rule for the simple people.

Soren wandered past the familiar plots, trying not to look at anyone too long. Finally, she found it. A small headstone, tucked between two crumbling benches.

Orian Illyris Inventor. Father. Dreamer.

Above the words, someone had etched a set of unfinished mechanical wings, featherless and skeletal.

Soren dropped to a crouch in front of the grave, setting the box gently on the dirt beside her. She started cleaning thoughtlessly, brushing leaves off the stone, picking moss from the engravings, tugging at stubborn weeds.

"Hey, old man," she said, voice light. "Bet you thought I'd forget today, huh? Not a chance." She plopped onto the ground fully, legs crossed, the knees of her overalls grinding into the dust. "So, updates," she said, counting them off on her fingers. "They made me do the annual engine inspection last week. I know, I know, 'you're too young to calibrate a four-ton condenser system, Soren!' But turns out I’m not, because I tuned up the whole thing without setting anything on fire. Again."

She flexed her hands proudly, dusting them off on her pants. "And your Ferrum-Bronze alloy for the feather joints? Genius, obviously. I tweaked the layering a little, though. Improved lift by like, twenty percent. The wings—" Her fathers wings, mechanical, sharp, and part of her now unfurled slightly with a faint whirr as she shrugged. The plates gleamed under her shirt, seamless with the muscles of her back.

No straps anymore. No harness. It hasn't been like that for years at this point. "They're... better now," she finished simply. "You'd be proud." She laughed a little, a sharp, tired sound. "Oh! The mayor wanted to talk to me. Something about station repairs, and maybe... maybe taking your old job. Maybe something about my application…" She plucked a piece of grass from the ground, twisting it around her fingers. "I guess I'm finally filling your boots, huh? Starting to change the world…"

The thought made her chest ache in a way she refused to name. She leaned back on her hands, humming the first few notes of "Happy Birthday" under her breath, off-key, low, barely there.

"Man... eighteen years old," she whispered, tracing patterns into the dirt. "And you were only there for fifteen." She closed her eyes and bit her lip, trying to stifle any bit of emotion. "I miss you." She mouthed.

The breeze shifted, and she opened the box carefully, the cardboard soft from her frantic sprint earlier. Inside was a jacket. Not just any jacket, his jacket, but rebuilt for her. White and gold, trimmed in bright crimson. Heavier plating at the shoulders, open slits at the back perfectly fitted to the wings fused into her body. No alterations needed. He had known. Even back then, he had known.

Soren pressed the fabric to her chest for a second before carefully sliding it on. It fit like it was waiting for her. Finally, she unfolded the letters. The Forge Academy seal cracked under her thumb. She skimmed the first page, scoffing.

"So..." she muttered toward the stone. "Forge says I’m a mechanical genius. Built a glider out of junk. Big gold star." She flipped to the next line, her smile thinning. "But also not enough field time. Flew too high. Blew out half my nerves showing off." She snorted. "Classic me."

Her thumb traced the corner of the page, thinking. "They sent my file to Heaven instead. Said maybe I'd... survive better there." She leaned back, staring up at the open sky where Dust motes floated like ghosts. "Guess even geniuses gotta learn how to land, huh?"

She wiped her palms on her pants, the unopened Haven letter crumpled lightly in her hand. "Alright, old man," she sighed. "One more." The crisp Haven stationery smelled like machine oil and cheap optimism. Soren read aloud, affecting a bad narrator voice. "'Dear Ms. Illyris: After review of Forge’s redirection, Haven Academy welcomes your enrollment for the Fall term. We recognize your talents, your independence, and your legacy. Champions over soldiers. Trust in autonomy.'"

She squinted at the phrasing, her skin itching faintly under the wing grafts. Something about it felt... off. Like the words didn't want to stay still on the page. Still, she barked a short, humorless laugh. "You hear that, Dad? Forge didn’t want me. So Haven’s gonna try to fix me instead." She gave a low, mock bow to the grave, half-joke, half-prayer, then stood, brushing dirt from her knees.

The Roller was already whistling sharp, ready to pull out again. Soren jogged back toward the station platform, wings twitching slightly under her jacket. She was just about to hop on when her body froze, instinct more than thought. Something in the Roller’s engine groaned wrong. Too long, too sharp. Not the clunky wheeze of old parts. A pitch, a resonance she knew intimately.

A knot formed in her gut. She sprinted toward the engineer. "Hold it!" she barked, waving her arms. "Something’s off!" The engineer, already annoyed at her antics earlier, started to protest—but Soren was faster. She ducked under the engine carriage without permission, the world going dark and metallic. Her flashlight clicked on. Within seconds, she spotted it—a stress crack on the central torque axle, near a secondary Dust coolant line. If it failed mid-mountain climb, they’d be shoveling wreckage for days.

She popped her toolbelt open, grabbed a pocket knife, and sliced off the entire left shoulder strap of her overalls without hesitation. "Borrowing this," she muttered to herself, sliding under further and looping the tough canvas strap into a tight rig, cinching the cracked joint steady. Temporary fix. Cowboy maintenance. But it would hold until a proper replacement. Sliding back out, Soren waved her grease-streaked hand toward the engineer.

"Tell dispatch to mark your cart. Submit a maintenance request for a new torque spindle, thirty-mil, reinforced Dust-insulated steel. Oh, and I’ll draft a better chassis blueprint once I get home." The engineer just stared, speechless. Soren brushed past him, grinning, and said over her shoulder, "You're welcome." She didn't board the Roller after all.

Instead, she walked, boots crunching the gravel path that wound past the mines and up into the scraggly face of the mountain. The mines loomed in the distance, the old Ferrum caverns where miners sometimes said the rocks hummed back at you if you listened too long. Fulmen veins still sparked if you struck them right. Somewhere deeper still, they whispered, was a Lumen vein but nobody dared go that deep anymore without reason. Soren veered off the trail. Her breath was thin in the rising altitude, but she didn’t care.

She climbed to a familiar outcropping overlooking all of Steamwell, a battered metal weather vane twisted by decades of wind spun lazily overhead. She sat there for a moment, letting the crisp cold sting her lungs. Below her, she could just barely make out the Roller chugging forward again, carrying the rest of town toward market, errands, life. She shifted her shoulders.

The mechanical wings that were her inheritance unfurled at her back. Bronze and silver plating caught the rising sun. Feather-like panels clicked outward, gleaming where they had been lovingly polished and mended: the tips, the joints, the places she could reach herself. The base, near her spine and shoulders, remained rough, scarred, and burned—where no mirror, no tool, no amount of tinkering could truly erase the skin that had been fused into the frame. They still ached when she moved. They always would.

She pulled out a battered notebook, jotted quickly:

"18th birthday flight attempt – fair conditions. Full deploy."

She tucked the notebook away, pulled her goggles over her eyes, and without another thought, she stepped off the edge. The ground rushed up fast. For a terrifying second, Soren spun helplessly, her limbs flailing.

"C'mon, catch!" she grunted. "I know you work, I know you work-" Feathered panels attempted to locked into place with a whirring clack as it tried to create lift, pulling on the angry skin that fused the skin and metal together until Soren felt a hitch. The wings caught. Bronze feathers locked. The air bellowed under her makeshift glider, and suddenly she was gliding, truly flying,sailing down the mountainside like a bronze dart.

On her glide Soren zoned out, Between wind and breath, thought and silence. For once, she didn’t think about Dust ratios, or gear tolerances, or the stress curves on her back brace. She didn’t think about letters or expectations or the hundred half-finished projects cluttering her room. She didn’t think at all.

She just flew.

The wind howled in her ears. The copper taste of altitude hit her tongue. Her eyes watered behind her goggles as the mountain range swept beneath her, a rust-colored blur of cliff faces and frost-tipped trees. Below, the old ore tram line coiled like a sleeping serpent. In the distance, Steamwell was shrinking into a patchwork of chimneys and rooftops and lives she hadn’t quite outgrown yet.

Her glide held for nine minutes, forty-seven seconds. At minute ten, a gust caught her underside too sharp. The left wing stuttered, still not locking cleanly in high crosswinds. She hissed through her teeth and angled down. Not a crash. Not really. Just an aggressive landing.

She hit the ground in a sliding tumble, boots skidding over packed dirt, one arm shielding her face as the other dug into the gravel. The impact left her panting on all fours, eyes wide and hair half-wild in her face. “…Ow,” she muttered to no one, not even bothering to brush herself off.

Instead, she stood immediately, already rummaging into her coat for the letters. Her hands still trembled slightly, not from the fall, but the silence that followed. Her ten minutes of peace had ended. And if she stopped now, if she let herself breathe too long, she might start thinking again.

Couldn’t have that. Soren turned on her heel and started downhill.

Her strides lengthened with each step. The letters were jammed back under one arm, crinkled now. She didn’t check which was which. She’d read them again later. Or not. She wasn’t sure yet. She passed through the edge of town just as the Roller let out another shriek in the distance, already halfway toward its next stop.

The path to the mayor’s office cut through the central square, past the market stalls and down the old council lane. She ignored the whispers, the half-raised eyebrows, the kids who pointed at her wings and giggled behind their sleeves. Soren didn’t stop. Didn’t look up. Didn’t want to hear what they were saying. Or worse, what they weren’t.

The mayor's office was an old courthouse, half-converted into a civic hub. The paint still peeled around the edges. One window had a crack like a lightning bolt. Soren shoved the door open with her shoulder, her boots thudding heavy across the wooden floor.

Reception was empty. A fan buzzed lazily overhead.

She glanced toward the second floor. Then down at the crumpled Forge and Haven letters in her hands. “Right,” she muttered to herself, already climbing the stairs. “Mayor said something about station repairs… and... oh yeah.”

Her brow furrowed. She rubbed the side of her head with the back of her wrist, like the memory had dust on it. “Reminder,” she mumbled, voice trailing as she reached the landing. “Ask what the hell he knows about Haven…”. Then, like always, she knocked before she could second-guess it, always moving forward, because sharks don't float.

[govindhtech]

Introducing Gen 2 AWS Outpost Racks with Improved Speed

Outpost Racks

Amazon's latest edge computing innovation, second-generation Outpost racks, are now available. This new version supports the latest x86-powered Amazon Elastic Compute Cloud (Amazon EC2) instances and features faster networking instances for ultra-low latency and high throughput applications and simpler network scalability and deployment. These enhancements boost on-premises workloads including telecom 5G Core and financial services core trading platforms.

For on-premises workloads. The second-generation at outpost racks process data locally and has low latency for multiplayer online gaming servers, consumer transaction data, medical records, industrial and manufacturing control systems, telecom BSS, edge inference of diverse applications, and machine learning (ML) models. Customers may now choose from the latest processor generation and Outposts rack configurations with faster processing, more memory, and more network bandwidth.

The latest EC2 instances

In AWS racks are compute-optimized C7i, general-purpose M7i, and memory-optimized R7i x86 instances. Older Outpost Rack C5, M5, and R5 instances had 40% less performance and double vCPU, RAM, and Internet bandwidth. Larger databases, real-time analytics, memory-intensive apps, on-premises workloads, CPU-based edge inference with complicated machine learning models. benefit tremendously from 4th Gen Intel Xeon Scalable CPUs. Newer EC2 instances, including GPU-enabled ones, will be supported.

Easy network scalability and configuration

Amazon has overhauled networking for its latest Outposts generation, making it easier and more scalable. This update centres on its new Outposts network rack, which centralises compute and storage traffic.

The new design has three key benefits. First, you may now grow compute capacity separately from networking infrastructure as workloads rise, increasing flexibility and lowering costs. Second, it started with network resiliency to keep your systems running smoothly. Network racks handle device failures automatically. Third, connecting to on-premises and AWS Regions is simple. You may configure IP addresses, VLANs, and BGP using a revamped console interface or simple APIs.

Amazon EC2 instances with faster networking

Enhanced Amazon EC2 instances with faster networking are being launched on Outpost racks. These instances are designed for mission-critical on-premises throughput, computation, and latency. A supplemental physical network with network accelerator cards attached to top-of-rack (TOR) switches is added to the Outpost logical network for best performance.

Bmn-sf2e instances, designed for ultra-low latency and predictable performance, are the first. The new instances use Intel's latest Sapphire Rapids processors (4th Gen Xeon Scalable) and 8GB of RAM per CPU core to sustain 3.9 GHz across all cores. Bmn-sf2e instances feature AMD Solarflare X2522 network cards that link to top-of-rack switches.

These examples provide deterministic networking for financial services customers, notably capital market companies, employing equal cable lengths, native Layer 2 (L2) multicast, and precision time protocol. Customers may simply connect to their trading infrastructure to meet fair trading and equitable access regulations.

The second instance type, Bmn-cx2, has low latency and high throughput. This example's NVIDIA ConnectX-7 400G NICs are physically coupled to fast top-of-rack switches, giving 800 Gbps bare metal network bandwidth at near line rate. This instance supports hardware PTP and native Layer 2 (L2) multicast, making it ideal for high-throughput workloads including risk analytics, real-time market data dissemination, and telecom 5G core network applications.

Overall, the next Outpost racks generation improves performance, scalability, and resilience for on-premises applications, particularly mission-critical workloads with rigorous throughput and latency constraints. AWS Management Console lets you pick and buy. The new instances preserve regional deployment consistency by supporting the same APIs, AWS Management Console, automation, governance policies, and security controls on-premises and in the cloud. improving IT and developer productivity.

Know something

Second-generation Outpost racks may be parented to six AWS regions: Asia Pacific (Singapore), US West (Oregon), US East (N. Virginia, and Ohio), and EU West (London, France).Support for more nations, territories, and AWS regions is coming. At launch, second-generation Outpost racks support several AWS services from first-generation racks. Support for more AWS services and EC2 instance types is coming.

[hawkstack]

🚀 Why You Should Choose "Enterprise Kubernetes Storage with Red Hat OpenShift Data Foundation (DO370)" for Your Next Career Move

In today’s cloud-native world, Kubernetes is the gold standard for container orchestration. But when it comes to managing persistent storage for stateful applications, things get complex — fast. This is where Red Hat OpenShift Data Foundation (ODF) comes in, providing a unified and enterprise-ready solution to handle storage seamlessly in Kubernetes environments.

If you’re looking to sharpen your Kubernetes expertise and step into the future of cloud-native storage, the DO370 course – Enterprise Kubernetes Storage with Red Hat OpenShift Data Foundation is your gateway.

🎯 Why Take the DO370 Course?

Here’s what makes DO370 not just another certification, but a career-defining move:

1. Master Stateful Workloads in OpenShift

Stateless applications are easy to deploy, but real-world applications often need persistent storage — think databases, logging systems, and message queues. DO370 teaches you how to:

Deploy and manage OpenShift Data Foundation.

Use block, file, and object storage in a cloud-native way.

Handle backup, disaster recovery, and replication with confidence.

2. Hands-On Experience with Real-World Use Cases

This is a lab-heavy course. You won’t just learn theory — you'll work with scenarios like deploying storage for Jenkins, MongoDB, PostgreSQL, and more. You'll also learn how to scale and monitor ODF clusters for production-ready deployments.

3. Leverage the Power of Ceph and NooBaa

Red Hat OpenShift Data Foundation is built on Ceph and NooBaa. Understanding these technologies means you’re not only skilled in OpenShift storage but also in some of the most sought-after open-source storage technologies in the market.

💡 Career Growth and Opportunities

🔧 DevOps & SRE Engineers

This course bridges the gap between developers and infrastructure teams. As storage becomes software-defined and container-native, DevOps professionals need this skill set to stay ahead.

🧱 Kubernetes & Platform Engineers

Managing platform-level storage at scale is a high-value skill. DO370 gives you the confidence to run stateful applications in production-grade Kubernetes.

☁️ Cloud Architects

If you're designing hybrid or multi-cloud strategies, you’ll learn how ODF integrates across platforms — from bare metal to AWS, Azure, and beyond.

💼 Career Advancement

Red Hat certifications are globally recognized. Completing DO370:

Enhances your Red Hat Certified Architect (RHCA) portfolio.

Adds a high-impact specialization to your résumé.

Boosts your value in organizations adopting OpenShift at scale.

🚀 Future-Proof Your Skills

Organizations are moving fast to adopt cloud-native infrastructure. And with OpenShift being the enterprise Kubernetes leader, having deep knowledge in managing enterprise storage in OpenShift is a game-changer.

As applications evolve, storage will always be a critical component — and skilled professionals will always be in demand.

📘 Final Thoughts

If you're serious about growing your Kubernetes career — especially in enterprise environments — DO370 is a must-have course. It's not just about passing an exam. It's about:

✅ Becoming a cloud-native storage expert ✅ Understanding production-grade OpenShift environments ✅ Standing out in a competitive DevOps/Kubernetes job market

👉 Ready to dive in? Explore DO370 and take your skills — and your career — to the next level.

For more details www.hawkstack.com

[strategictech]

Hyperscale cloud: Expectations versus reality

With all the marketing around hyperscale cloud, you’d assume that adopting it would be easy and simple. And the irony is that it once was. When first brought to market, hyperscalers like AWS, Azure and GCP wanted to ensure their services were straightforward. But as time has gone on, these solutions have become much more complex – to the point that, often, specialist training is needed right from the start. 

In recent years, this increasing complexity has started to influence businesses to reconsider their hyperscale cloud usage in favour of alternative infrastructure solutions like colocation and bare metal hosting. In fact, 94% of large US organisations claim to have worked on some sort of cloud repatriation project in the last three years.

@tonyshan #techinnovation https://bit.ly/tonyshan https://bit.ly/tonyshan_X