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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Apple fucked us on right to repair (again)

Today (September 22), I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. Tonight, I'll be in person at LA's Book Soup for the launch of Justin C Key's "The World Wasn’t Ready for You." On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

Right to repair has no cannier, more dedicated adversary than Apple, a company whose most innovative work is dreaming up new ways to sneakily sabotage electronics repair while claiming to be a caring environmental steward, a lie that covers up the mountains of e-waste that Apple dooms our descendants to wade through.

Why does Apple hate repair so much? It's not that they want to poison our water and bodies with microplastics; it's not that they want to hasten the day our coastal cities drown; it's not that they relish the human misery that accompanies every gram of conflict mineral. They aren't sadists. They're merely sociopathically greedy.

Tim Cook laid it out for his investors: when people can repair their devices, they don't buy new ones. When people don't buy new devices, Apple doesn't sell them new devices. It's that's simple:

https://www.inverse.com/article/52189-tim-cook-says-apple-faces-2-key-problems-in-surprising-shareholder-letter

So Apple does everything it can to monopolize repair. Not just because this lets the company gouge you on routine service, but because it lets them decide when your phone is beyond repair, so they can offer you a trade-in, ensuring both that you buy a new device and that the device you buy is another Apple.

There are so many tactics Apple gets to use to sabotage repair. For example, Apple engraves microscopic Apple logos on the subassemblies in its devices. This allows the company to enlist US Customs to seize and destroy refurbished parts that are harvested from dead phones by workers in the Pacific Rim:

https://repair.eu/news/apple-uses-trademark-law-to-strengthen-its-monopoly-on-repair/

Of course, the easiest way to prevent harvested components from entering the parts stream is to destroy as many old devices as possible. That's why Apple's so-called "recycling" program shreds any devices you turn over to them. When you trade in your old iPhone at an Apple Store, it is converted into immortal e-waste (no other major recycling program does this). The logic is straightforward: no parts, no repairs:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/yp73jw/apple-recycling-iphones-macbooks

Shredding parts and cooking up bogus trademark claims is just for starters, though. For Apple, the true anti-repair innovation comes from the most pernicious US tech law: Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA).

DMCA 1201 is an "anti-circumvention" law. It bans the distribution of any tool that bypasses "an effective means of access control." That's all very abstract, but here's what it means: if a manufacturer sticks some Digital Rights Management (DRM) in its device, then anything you want to do that involves removing that DRM is now illegal – even if the thing itself is perfectly legal.

When Congress passed this stupid law in 1998, it had a very limited blast radius. Computers were still pretty expensive and DRM use was limited to a few narrow categories. In 1998, DMCA 1201 was mostly used to prevent you from de-regionalizing your DVD player to watch discs that had been released overseas but not in your own country.

But as we warned back then, computers were only going to get smaller and cheaper, and eventually, it would only cost manufacturers pennies to wrap their products – or even subassemblies in their products – in DRM. Congress was putting a gun on the mantelpiece in Act I, and it was bound to go off in Act III.

Welcome to Act III.

Today, it costs about a quarter to add a system-on-a-chip to even the tiniest parts. These SOCs can run DRM. Here's how that DRM works: when you put a new part in a device, the SOC and the device's main controller communicate with one another. They perform a cryptographic protocol: the part says, "Here's my serial number," and then the main controller prompts the user to enter a manufacturer-supplied secret code, and the master controller sends a signed version of this to the part, and the part and the system then recognize each other.

This process has many names, but because it was first used in the automotive sector, it's widely known as VIN-Locking (VIN stands for "vehicle identification number," the unique number given to every car by its manufacturer). VIN-locking is used by automakers to block independent mechanics from repairing your car; even if they use the manufacturer's own parts, the parts and the engine will refuse to work together until the manufacturer's rep keys in the unlock code:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

VIN locking is everywhere. It's how John Deere stops farmers from fixing their own tractors – something farmers have done literally since tractors were invented:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

It's in ventilators. Like mobile phones, ventilators are a grotesquely monopolized sector, controlled by a single company Medtronic, whose biggest claim to fame is effecting the world's largest tax inversion in order to manufacture the appearance that it is an Irish company and therefore largely untaxable. Medtronic used the resulting windfall to gobble up most of its competitors.

During lockdown, as hospitals scrambled to keep their desperately needed supply of ventilators running, Medtronic's VIN-locking became a lethal impediment. Med-techs who used donor parts from one ventilator to keep another running – say, transplanting a screen – couldn't get the device to recognize the part because all the world's civilian aircraft were grounded, meaning Medtronic's technicians couldn't swan into their hospitals to type in the unlock code and charge them hundreds of dollars.

The saving grace was an anonymous, former Medtronic repair tech, who built pirate boxes to generate unlock codes, using any housing they could lay hands on to use as a case: guitar pedals, clock radios, etc. This tech shipped these gadgets around the world, observing strict anonymity, because Article 6 of the EUCD also bans circumvention:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#medtronic-again

Of course, Apple is a huge fan of VIN-locking. In phones, VIN-locking is usually called "serializing" or "parts-pairing," but it's the same thing: a tiny subassembly gets its own microcontroller whose sole purpose is to prevent independent repair technicians from fixing your gadget. Parts-pairing lets Apple block repairs even when the technician uses new, Apple parts – but it also lets Apple block refurb parts and third party parts.

For many years, Apple was the senior partner and leading voice in blocking state Right to Repair bills, which it killed by the dozen, leading a coalition of monopolists, from Wahl (who boobytrap their hair-clippers with springs that cause their heads irreversibly decompose if you try to sharpen them at home) to John Deere (who reinvented tenant farming by making farmers tenants of their tractors, rather than their land).

But Apple's opposition to repair eventually became a problem for the company. It's bad optics, and both Apple customers and Apple employees are volubly displeased with the company's ecocidal conduct. But of course, Apple's management and shareholders hate repair and want to block it as much as possible.

But Apple knows how to Think Differently. It came up with a way to eat its cake and have it, too. The company embarked on a program of visibly support right to repair, while working behind the scenes to sabotage it.

Last year, Apple announced a repair program. It was hilarious. If you wanted to swap your phone's battery, all you had to do was let Apple put a $1200 hold on your credit card, and then wait while the company shipped you 80 pounds' worth of specialized tools, packed in two special Pelican cases:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/22/apples-cement-overshoes/

Then, you swapped your battery, but you weren't done! After your battery was installed, you had to conference in an authorized Apple tech who would tell you what code to type into a laptop you tethered to the phone in order to pair it with your phone. Then all you had to do was lug those two 40-pound Pelican cases to a shipping depot and wait for Apple to take the hold off your card (less the $120 in parts and fees).

By contrast, independent repair outfits like iFixit will sell you all the tools you need to do your own battery swap – including the battery! for $32. The whole kit fits in a padded envelope:

https://www.ifixit.com/products/iphone-x-replacement-battery

But while Apple was able to make a showy announcement of its repair program and then hide the malicious compliance inside those giant Pelican cases, sabotaging right to repair legislation is a lot harder.

Not that they didn't try. When New York State passed the first general electronics right-to-repair bill in the country, someone convinced New York Governor Kathy Hochul to neuter it with last-minute modifications:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2022/12/weakened-right-to-repair-bill-is-signed-into-law-by-new-yorks-governor/

But that kind of trick only works once. When California's right to repair bill was introduced, it was clear that it was gonna pass. Rather than get run over by that train, Apple got on board, supporting the legislation, which passed unanimously:

https://www.ifixit.com/News/79902/apples-u-turn-tech-giant-finally-backs-repair-in-california

But Apple got the last laugh. Because while California's bill contains many useful clauses for the independent repair shops that keep your gadgets out of a landfill, it's a state law, and DMCA 1201 is federal. A state law can't simply legalize the conduct federal law prohibits. California's right to repair bill is a banger, but it has a weak spot: parts-pairing, the scourge of repair techs:

https://www.ifixit.com/News/69320/how-parts-pairing-kills-independent-repair

Every generation of Apple devices does more parts-pairing than the previous one, and the current models are so infested with paired parts as to be effectively unrepairable, except by Apple. It's so bad that iFixit has dropped its repairability score for the iPhone 14 from a 7 ("recommend") to a 4 (do not recommend):

https://www.ifixit.com/News/82493/we-are-retroactively-dropping-the-iphones-repairability-score-en

Parts-pairing is bullshit, and Apple are scum for using it, but they're hardly unique. Parts-pairing is at the core of the fuckery of inkjet printer companies, who use it to fence out third-party ink, so they can charge $9,600/gallon for ink that pennies to make:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Parts-pairing is also rampant in powered wheelchairs, a heavily monopolized sector whose predatory conduct is jaw-droppingly depraved:

https://uspirgedfund.org/reports/usp/stranded

But if turning phones into e-waste to eke out another billion-dollar stock buyback is indefensible, stranding people with disabilities for months at a time while they await repairs is so obviously wicked that the conscience recoils. That's why it was so great when Colorado passed the nation's first wheelchair right to repair bill last year:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/06/when-drm-comes-your-wheelchair

California actually just passed two right to repair bills; the other one was SB-271, which mirrors Colorado's HB22-1031:

https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billNavClient.xhtml?bill_id=202320240SB271

This is big! It's momentum! It's a start!

But it can't be the end. When Bill Clinton signed DMCA 1201 into law 25 years ago, he loaded a gun and put it on the nation's mantlepiece and now it's Act III and we're all getting sprayed with bullets. Everything from ovens to insulin pumps, thermostats to lightbulbs, has used DMCA 1201 to limit repair, modification and improvement.

Congress needs to rid us of this scourge, to let us bring back all the benefits of interoperability. I explain how this all came to be – and what we should do about it – in my new Verso Books title, The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation.

https://www.versobooks.com/products/3035-the-internet-con

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

Image: Mitch Barrie (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Daytona_Skeleton_AR-15_completed_rifle_%2817551907724%29.jpg

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

kambanji (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/kambanji/4135216486/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

Rawpixel (modified) https://www.rawpixel.com/image/12438797/png-white-background

#pluralistic #vin locking #apple #right to repair #california #ifixit #iphones #sb244 #parts pairing #serialization #dmca 1201 #felony contempt of business model #ewaste #repairwashing #fuckery

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mrs-elsie-barnes · 9 days ago

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The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 26

The Question | Loki x Reader

The clean up of Tønsbergbegins and you settle back into life with Loki at your side. But there's still some questions still left to answer.

Warnings: 18+ A bit of angst, language, sexism & mysogyny antagonist character death and discussions of prisoner death. But also...FLUFF, suggestion of sex.

A/N: This is the penultimate full chapter! We have Chapter 27 and then a short post-credit sequence epilogue. Thank you to everyone still reading!

Divider by @reveriesources and @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

There was only so long the cloak could keep you covered with so many others at risk. You were sure another may have been able to hang onto its protection for longer, but the soldiers, beaten back as they were, were becoming desperate. Those still in the village had begun smashing windows, hammering on doors and climbing the walls where the stones allowed, searching for ways into the strongholds of the villagers. The very homes of the Asgardian people were at risk and, despite the blood still seeping from your side, you knew that they were far more vulnerable than you or Loki could ever be.

Before you could make the decision consciously air rushed around you, the lights were brighter and the sound louder. The bubble you’d been protected in with Loki was gone but, so was a large portion of the village.

Bres and the Vanir Prince rounded on you immediately, savage grins on their faces and blood dripping from their swords.

“There you are,” the Prince growled. As quickly as you could you pushed up from the ground, supported by growing vines and leaves, to your feet. Your spear glowed blue, spitting fire at the approaching attacker.

Beside you, Loki rose too. His leg, still at a strange angle, seemed to be healing slowly. Despite his odd weight distribution he revealed his daggers and flipped them both, eyeing Bres’ approach.

“My lady said no, Bres, it’s time to retreat.”

You could feel the well of magic around you, Loki’s sedir gathering at full force. Your own magic, currently burning through its energy, knocking soldiers out of the way to return to you, flared a rich blue leaving burnt land and then flowers in its wake.

Loki couldn’t take anymore of the desecration of his home, the disrespect shown to his family. He grabbed your hand and at once you felt your magic gather, a vacuum in it’s place and then. Loki.

Together, my Goddess

Together

A blast of green and blue magic shot from your joined hands, hitting Bres full in the chest and throwing him backwards. The Vanir Prince rallied his own, meagre, power but it was no match for your shared strength, he went flying, careening into Thor and Jane who held him down with Mjolnir.

He maintained the assault with his left hand, magic flowing through him and out onto the battlefield, his right he wrapped around your waist, pressing on the flow of blood and supporting you to stand.

“We win this together, my darling, I want you by my side.”

You lifted your own palm, allowing the ebb and flow of your magic to dance inside of you, the hollow feeling before the blast becoming more and more familiar as it grew, crashing onto the enemy before you.

Bres fell further and further back, his men now fleeing left and right until he lay on the harbour cobbles, sprawled at your feet.

Loki stared down at him in disgust.

“I ought to kill you for this. This was war, Bres, and you know it, this is not the way of things in the Nine Realms any longer-” Loki’s jaw ticked in anger.

“Nine Realms?” Bres scoffed, still attempting bravado. His only back up was now being dragged to the centre of the village by Thor, Stormbreaker balanced on his shoulder. “I believe your homeland was destroyed, Loki, Prince of nothing and no one.”

The Prince cowered at Loki’s feet though, looking up with pleading eyes.

“He knows not what he says, Prince Loki, please show mercy upon us.”

Loki stared back, then turned to you.

“My darling, this is your kill. Last time I performed the deed for you, now you are strong enough to do this for yourself.”

Silence fell, Thor and Jane stood behind the prisoners, Brunnhilde watched from the wharf, making sure no one climbed back up. Korg was helping villagers from their homes, righting people, doors and flower pots with equal care.

“I have never taken a life.” You whispered, looking at Loki, searching for the right path.

“If you do not wish to start, you could grant them clemency, we have a prison here.” The Vanir nodded in agreement, eyes wet with tears. But Bres looked cold.

“I knew you were a coward, Loki. And you’ve made her cowardly too. Think of all she could have achieved with the Vanir, all the battles she would have ended if you had simply stepped aside like the second son you are. This is no place for you.”

“Bres,” the Vanir Price sobbed, “stop!” He pleaded, crying fully now. “I thought it was the right thing. I did. I wanted a new world, a new realm and I was greedy and foolish. Please show mercy, Princess Estrid.” He gripped your thigh in his muddy hands, tears making tracks in the blood that coated his face. You’d only really seen him on the battlefield but now, stripped of his helm, he was just a boy, young and lost, betrothed as you had been for reasons beyond his own desires.

“Thor?”

He looked at you, shocked, but waiting.

“Take him to the prison.” You declared, coldly. If you could put off this decision then you would, for now.

“Let’s go.” Thor took him roughly by the arm and dragged him to his feet, but he went willingly, calmly. “I’ll come back for that one.” He pointed at Bres, but you shook your head.

“I’ve not decided about him yet.”

Bres spat at your feet while you spoke, but you burnt the filth away before it could even land.

“Why would you want them to make a new world, when this one is so beautiful?” The question came out as a whisper, your confused evident.

His sneer returned, teeth blackened by drying blood. “He’s a boy, that one, a welp the same as you, I would never have let either of you keep that land. But I did very much enjoy Ragnarok. Your boyfriend took care of that for me, thoughI knew you could do it again.” He eyed the charred grass where you’d been fighting. “You would have burnt the world to the ground and then it would have been mine.”

There was another hand on your back now, Brunnhilde’s.

“Put him in prison, decide later.” She suggested gently.

“Okay,” you rubbed a hand over your eyes, smearing blood from your fingers.

“You look a true warrior now,” Thor laughed, returning from the prison, “a true warrior, I will escort our friend here -” before Thor could finish his thought Bres had moved, sliding a broad sword from his seemingly empty scabbard, he lurched towards Loki. Daggers flashed catching the sword, then it slipped, falling to the cobbles in a shower of ashes.

Everyone turned to look at you, your spear out, the tip touching where Bres had once stood, his own ashes blowing in the wind.

In the aftermath you found yourself under Loki’s cloak, the deep velvet so intoxicatingly him that you felt safe and warm despite the wound in your side and the scars on your heart.

Brunnhilde, with the surprisingly organised help of Korg, managed to set up a triage and refuge in the Long Hall. Before long the smell of stew was permeating out from the kitchens and the usual cacophony of chatter was filling the space.

Despite Jane explaining that she “wasn’t that kind of Doctor, Thor.” With a roll of her eyes, she still helped the local doctor and nurse bandaging up any wounds and sending more serious cases off to the hospital.

Thor had tackled the swarm of journalists at the edge of the village as best he could, trying to distract them with little effect and eventually sending them away with the promise of a full interview with the entire court as soon as they had the village in order.

Yet all you saw was Loki, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight, romantic despite its necessity since the powerlines had come down. And all you knew was that you loved him and he loved you in return.

“Do you think we could just…go?” You whispered, tugging on Loki’s hand, “I’m so tired, I already got stitched up. Or do you think we need to stay, as a sign of strength or something?”

“My darling, after how you defended our people today, I don’t think anyone could be upset with you needing to rest.” He cupped your cheek again, wiping away what was left of the mud after you’d washed your face in the bathroom.

Loki didn’t comment on the house, the smell of burning that still lingered from your uncontrolled rage. He didn’t comment on the way the bedroom was a mess, your clothes everywhere and the sheets still rumpled from your restless sleep.

He didn’t have time to comment because his lips were distracted kissing every inch of skin he could find, his hands carefully guiding you backwards onto the bed, propping himself over you on an elbow so he could continue to pepper kisses down your neck and collar without hurting you.

His cloak lay beneath you, his presence hovering above and you closed your eyes in bliss. He was home, safe, apart from some battle wounds that were already well on the way to being healed. And although he would take time to move past the mental weight of being trapped, the pain of his sedir being restricted, you were at least together and together you could weather any storm.

By the morning the village looked better, most of the debris had been cleared away and everyone was in fine spirits, organising for a feast in celebration of your victory. Loki had been clear that you weren’t to lift a finger while he tidied the house, the magical way, of course, and had settled you in an armchair wrapped in only the bedsheets with a huge mug of coffee and as many pastries as the bakery could muster.

Today was going to be a special day, he’d decided.

He’d woken before you, running out of the house and returning with everything he needed before you could stir. Thankfully you’d slept late after taking your pain medication, giving him lots of time to plan.

After your coffee he ushered you into the bathroom where a full bathtub steamed, complete with healing herbs and extracts would help you sooth away your pains and help the wound in your side heal. Asgardian healing was incredibly advanced, the stitches growing new skin and sinew as well as holding the wound together, so Loki had no doubt you’d be fighting fit in no time. With you in the bathroom he could make some calls.

That afternoon Loki coaxed you out from the warmth of the cottage to take a brisk walk through the village.

“We were supposed to do this, do you remember? I promised you a walk on the cliffs.” He said, his normally long stride was tempered so you could keep up and enjoy the view together. One of your hands was tucked into the crook of his elbow for warmth, the other touched the budding plants that had covered the battlefield in just a single day. Although Loki had been hurt too, he’d healed quickly and now there was no way to tell that there had ever been anything wrong with his strong, lean body. Not unless you peeled back the layers of his sweater and wax cotton jacket to find the scars beneath.

One the other side of the cliff the land swooped down towards a second beach, less hospitable to the boats and so more widely used in the hot summer for bathing. Now, with the winter still nipping at your noses, it was deserted except for a single green blanket, folded on a dry rock.

“Loki…” You gave him a sideways look, clocking his mischievous smile. His eyes though, there was something else in them you couldn’t quite place.

“Yes, my darling?”

With a flourish he opened the blanket, letting it float through the air before landing on the soft wet sand. Inside magic shimmered - a picnic basket, cushions and a large umbrella to protect against the wind appeared, artfully arranged on the green wool.

“Loki! This is gorgeous! Did you do this for me?” You dropped his arm, running forwards to touch the delicate tassels on the umbrella. “How did you even do this kind of magic, it’s amazing.”

Lost in your excitement you didn’t notice the movement of the sand behind you, or Loki kneeling down on the blanket.

“Can we - oh!”

You turned and there he was, right behind you, on bended knee. “What are you doing? Loki…”

He merely smiled up at you, “Asynja, my darling, my goddess. I should have asked you this question all those years ago on Asgard, I should never have left any doubt between us how I felt.” He held his hand out, taking yours gently and kissing your knuckles. “You are the most wondrous person I have ever met and I would be a fool not to want to spend the rest of my life, however long it may be, worshipping you as you deserve.”

“Oh, Loki!” Tears sprang into your eyes, he turned your hand over, kissing your wrist where your pulse beat wildly in anticipation.

“My darling, will you marry me?” He slid his palm across yours, leaving behind a gold ring, the band was engraved with a tangle of flowers and vines, so fine and delicate you could barely see them, they led to a flower of gemstones with diamond petals. The central stone appeared to be a light blue sapphire, but as you turned it in the light it flashed emerald green.

“Of course I will, Loki, I love you so much there’s no one else I could ever want to be with!”

Grinning, he slid the ring onto your finger and swept you backwards onto the picnic rug, kissing your cheeks and nose as you laughed with pure happiness.

Thor could only hold his excitement in for so long, rushing to the Long Hall and throwing the doors open as soon as you told him.

“My baby brother is to be wed!” He boomed, startling the Knit & Natter group that had the hall booked for the afternoon. “Where’s the King?!” He bounded into the room, hugging each member of the group around the shoulders before rushing to the back office and throwing open the door.

You’d both told Thor over tea and cakes in your little cottage, the afternoon had spread out before you like the picnic blanket, giving you both time to enjoy your new excitements and dreams, as well as reminiscing on your old memories and love.

Loki had requested that Thor visit as soon as you’d made it back to the cottage, thrilled to share the news with his overexcited older brother.

Brunnhilde’s momentary shock was soon replaced with similar excitement as she followed Thor from the office and back out into the Long Hall where she found you both smiling and being fawned over by the knitting group, when Madam Gina would let them get close enough. The ancient lady, the grandmother in chief of all the village elders, had your cheeks cupped between her wrinkled hands, squeezing tightly and whispering to you with tears in her eyes.

Thor and Brunnhilde gathered round too, patting you on the shoulder and back and mixing their congratulations with the voices of the others.

“We must have a party!” Thor announced, lifting his hands, “a large party with ale and mead and feasting, oh and music. There must be music and dancing!”

Loki watched him indulgently, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders and pulling you tight against his side. You looked up at him, his sharp jaw relaxed for a change, a twinkle in his eye and a healthy flush covering his cheeks and nose from your swift walk over.

“Your highness, there must be a ceremony first.” Madam Gina interjected, tapping her papery hand on Thor’s forearm.

“Well we shall have an engagement party, then the wedding ceremony of course and then an even bigger party after. We can’t have too many celebrations can we, not when my little brother is marrying such a fine woman.” He grabbed you both, kissing Loki on the forehead before bending to kiss you on the cheek.

“Thor!” Madam Gina wrapped him on the knuckles with the end of her knitting needles, making the prince flinch and step back.

“Please, Madam, tell us about the ceremony.” Brunnhilde offered, pulling her chair back out for her.

“Well -” she coughed, “as you know Bres took you, my dear, to ascend and then be married.” She nodded, her eyes milky as her memories cast back through the centuries.

“Yes, but I was never married.” Your heart was sinking, is there where she announced you had, in fact, been wed at some point. How did Asgardian’s get divorced, could gods get divorced? Your thoughts spiralled. Loki, sensing your anxiety building, lay a calming hand on your thigh, squeezing gently.

“No, dear, you weren’t. Lugh took you and hid you and protected you from all that nonsense. But -” her cough was worse today, Loki noted with a frown. “You didn’t ascend either, you never joined Bres’ court as a named goddess.”

“But, I joined the Asgardians, I’m a member of this court aren’t I?”

“Of course!” Brunnhilde lept to agree, “we made you a warrior of the court, you are Loki’s betrothed now too, a Princess.”

Loki squeezed you tighter at the word Princess. He’d whispered it to you countless times, mostly while he was buried deep inside of you, and now it had an almost pavlovian response.

“A warrior, yes, a court member, of course.” She patted your hand again. “But she has no role as a Goddess, no responsibility as Loki and Thor do.”

“Could I ascend? Do we know how to make that happen?”

Madam Gina looked at you and then narrowed her eyes, “of course I can dear, what do you take me for!”

<< Chapter 25

Chapter 27>>

#Loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki/reader #Loki x Reader #Loki fanfic #Loki series #loki marvel #Loki x you #Loki/You #loki fanfiction #The Old Gods and the New #loki fic #loki god of mischief #loki laufesyon x reader #loki of asgard #loki of jotunheim

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agentoli · 2 months ago

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Agent Donut (Flipflop AU)

(+bonus art, pfl info, and eta!!)

Thanks to @arrowsarchive for the donut req!!

Team Charlie's fun-loving leader who enjoys team building excersizes, positive reinforcement, and interior design, Franklin D. Donut! (Codename: Delano)

First OG Blood Gulch crew post for the au, so happy it's donut!! Also, realizing this is my first time drawing Donut!! :0

<-Fun facts/info under the cut!!!->

PFL's resident bomb tech! All things explosive are overseen, distributed, and even developed by Agent Donut. He was the one who gifted a rocket launcher to Doc following his mission with Team Alpha that left the medic unarmed and alone. Rest assured, Church and the rest of Team Alpha received a stern lecture from Donut afterward.

Received face scarring in a firefight back when he was in UNSC, where he was blasted by a grenade. It's actually what led the Director to recruit him in the first place.

Team Charlie is composed of Agents Donut, DuFresne "Doc", Lopez 2.0, and Kaikaina. They are support oriented, and are usually deployed on larger missions or tasks where Alpha and/or Bravo will encounter large firefights.

He and Kaikaina love to gossip about Alpha and Bravo agents.

He is paired up with the AI Eta, who loves creating visual effects for Donut

No, he did not dye his hair pink. It's lightish RED.

Theater kid. Anytime he has the aux, it's showtunes.

Always tanned somehow. PFL's current theory is that he has a tanning bed in his room. All attempts to confirm or dispell this theory have proven fruitless.

His staple meta bit is correctly guessing whatever outlandish scenario the cast has gotten into/are experiencing, but is always ignored. His catch phrase might as well be, "I told you so."

PFL info

Ff!Project Freelancer is still run by the Director, but it isn't Leonard Church. PFL is sectioned into three teams rather than a leaderboard, those being Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Each team has a different focus, but Alpha and Bravo are able to function on their own.

Alpha: Church, Tucker, and Caboose

Bravo: Sarge, Simmons, Grif, Lopez

Traditionally, Charlie Agents don't function as an entirely separate squad, more as a pool of soldiers Alpha and Bravo can take from depending on the mission. When they aren't supporting the other two teams, Charlie Agents help the Director with clerical work or help assign missions.

(I'm trying to keep the AU plot kinda vague bc I want to turn this into a fic)

Bonus Art + Eta

(I really need to learn how to draw halo helmets/armor...)

#rvb #red vs blue #project freelancer #rvb doc #rvb donut #rvb eta #flipflop au #franklin delano donut #kaikaina grif

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black-metal-artists · 2 months ago

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🔥 Legions of Malphas - "The Blood of Kings" 🔥 ⚔️ Hailing from Atlanta, Georgia, Legions of Malphas emerges from the depths of the U.S. Black Metal scene, delivering a blistering assault with their debut full-length album, "The Blood of Kings". Released on August 9th, 2024, via Blood Blast Distribution, this project marks the arrival of a powerful new force in the genre.

With an atmosphere of unrelenting darkness and aggression, Legions of Malphas forges their sound through a blend of raw energy and traditional Black Metal elements. Their music stands as a tribute to the raw intensity and spirit of rebellion that defines the genre.

Prepare yourself for a journey into the infernal realms with "The Blood of Kings", where the band carves their name into the annals of modern Black Metal. Bandcamp: https://legionsofmalphas.bandcamp.com/ Deezer: https://www.deezer.com/us/artist/260928771 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/legionsofmalphas Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/legionsofmalphas/ Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/1mIx7aZg6WU64Pvr1ljpVk YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCFHTpRSqa1StloUkfJV1VPQ 🔗 Contact: [email protected] 💀 Available on all major streaming platforms!

#LegionsOfMalphas#BlackMetal#TheBloodOfKings#AtlantaBlackMetal#BlackMetal2024#BloodBlastDistribution#USBlackMetal#ExtremeMusic#UndergroundMetal

#metal #burzum #heavymetal #metalmusic #black metal #true norwegian black metal #mayhem #satanic #blackmetal #youtube

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troutberryspoon · 7 months ago

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Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 2 'Gifts'

Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

Second chapter - After a fruitless first meeting, Gortash bombards the temple with gifts

Word count - 2483

Full fic here on AO3

___

Two groups of acolytes faced each other in a large, dark side-chamber of the undercity temple. Torch flames flickered on the stone walls. The air was rent by the sounds of laboured breathing. Next to Villi, Brother Owain spat out a mouthful of blood.

The end of the battle was close. Villi was certain that the handful of faithful servants who stood by his side had enough left in them to make this a decisive victory. He narrowed his eyes, fixed his stance, and awaited the signal for the final attack.

FWEEEEP!

Archstrangler McDavis blew a short blast on a whistle made from carved bone. Villi lunged forwards, deftly kicking the ball at his feet right between Sister Emberstar’s legs. Brother Owain sprinted ahead to receive the pass, then tapped the ball forwards, towards a pair of great grinning orc skulls that denoted the other team’s goal.

A loud cry went up as the ball crossed the line. Villi’s team had won, seven goals to two.

Villi went around the chamber and clapped the shoulders of his team, complimenting them on a game well-played. He found Brother Owain on his hands and knees, searching for his missing front tooth in a dusty forgotten corner. It had been knocked out during a particularly spirited tackle.

‘Any luck?’ Villi asked.

‘Unfortunately not, my Lord,’ Owain said, rising quickly. ‘I fear the ancestors have claimed it. Not to worry, I’m sure the infirmary has spares. Perhaps I’ll be able to replace it with a gold crown.’

Villi hummed in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, despite knowing full well that Sceleritas now scoured all the corpses that entered the temple in order to claim every last scrap of gold for their dwindling coffers.

The chatter started to die down as the acolytes filed out. Villi walked over to the ball and rolled it under his boot. With a quick little flick he had it balanced on the top of his foot. He wobbled there for a moment, standing on one leg, countering the ball’s desire to fall back to the floor with small, careful movements. The ball had been fashioned out of a discarded elf’s bladder. Villi had sewn it up himself.

There was an inter-planar ‘pop’, and Sceleritas stood at his side in a haze of sulphur.

The fiend sniffed.

‘I see you’ve been sweating with the acolytes again, mi’lord,’ Sceleritas said.

‘You disapprove.’ Villi didn’t look at his Butler. He was too busy concentrating on keeping the ball balanced.

‘It’s most unbecoming. You shouldn’t make yourself so available to them. They should whisper your name in the corridors, quake at your very presence. Not… play games with you.’

‘You’re just jealous I didn’t ask you to play,’ Villi said. ‘And it’s not a game, it’s Goatball. Wars have been fought over Goatball, you know.’

‘I know,’ Sceleritas said drily. ‘You have mentioned it once or twice.’

Villi finally let the ball roll off his foot. ‘Did you want something?’

‘We have received another gift.’

‘Him again?’

By ‘him’, Villi meant Enver Gortash. Somehow the man had discovered the identities of the small number of Zhentarim traders that were allowed to travel in relative safety to the ancient Bhaalist temple under the city, and he had paid them handsomely to transport several large boxes over the course of the last tenday. He must have deep connections.

Sceleritas called them gifts. Villi dismissed them as mere bribes. Bribes he still ordered to be opened and distributed, all the same. He had to be pragmatic in these trying times. One of the boxes contained finely crafted polished daggers, handles wrapped in butter-soft, black calfskin. Another box held a plethora of poisons and paralytics, their delicate glass bottles packed securely in straw. Yet another was filled with bottles upon bottles of topaz-hued white wine. Villi made Sceleritas swallow an entire cup before he tried it for himself, and then found to his annoyance that it was utterly delicious. He had hoped to hate it.

‘I was thinking…’ Sceleritas said.

‘No,’ Villi said.

‘Master, please consider–’

‘I said no.’

‘He is very wealthy,’ Sceleritas said quickly, wincing as if he expected the Son of Bhaal to kick him across the room like an overinflated bladder.

‘So, you disapprove of me getting too familiar with my own Father’s followers, yet expect me to consort with this– this politician?’ Villi spat out the word like it tasted of the bitterest gall.

‘Not consort! Never consort.’ Sceleritas raised his hands, twisting them in the air. ‘You should use him. Extort him. Wring out every last copper. Only let him think that he has your ear. Be clever and cunning. Take everything that he has, then take his wretched life.’

Villi growled, frustrated that he could see the merit in what his Butler suggested. They needed coin. Gortash had it in abundance. Gortash wanted his attention. Villi would have to make sure that it cost him dearly.

There was a rustle of parchment. Sceleritas held out a small bundle of paper. ‘These invitations were included in each box. I didn’t want to vex you any further at the time, so I took them all for safe-keeping. But I think now you might be willing to take a look?’

‘Let me see,’ Villi said, taking them from his Butler. The paper stock was thick, luxurious, smooth to the touch. Obviously expensive. Each invitation was written in a flowing, cursive hand, and addressed Villi directly:

The esteemed presence of Villiame Redvalok is humbly requested

At Baxendall House, Upper City

As the clock strikes the hour of Seven o’Clock in the evening, a private dinner meeting shall commence

An intimate gathering for two where discourse shall flow as freely as the wine, and the repast shall be as rich as the conversation

A seat of honour awaits you

Preparations shall be made to ensure an evening of unparalleled elegance and intellectual delight

Yours, in anticipation,

Sir Enver Gortash

Villi turned several of the invitations over to check both sides. ‘They’re all the same, no dates on any of them. Do you think he sits there every night after sending a delivery, on the off chance that I’ll make an appearance?’

It was an amusing image. One Sceleritas quickly dispelled; ‘I doubt it, mi’lord. A man of such means could easily have a fine dinner made and disposed of each night and suffer no hardship.’

‘Yes, yes. He’s very wealthy. You said.’ Villi sighed. ‘Fine, at least I know the wine will be of an acceptable quality. I’d better go wash up.’

‘Before you leave, please tell me that the acolytes at least let you win the game today through fear?’

‘Of course they did,’ Villi replied with a quick grin. ‘They always do.’

___

The hour of their meeting drew close. Villi strode through the Upper City towards Enver Gortash’s estate, looking every inch as if he belonged there amid the pale marble pillars and beautifully manicured gardens of the upscale neighbourhood. Gortash might be expecting to play host to a savage this evening; Villi was going to present to him a gentleman, instead.

Some of the wealthiest people - real blue blood, old money wealth - tended to wear surprisingly shabby clothes. The fabric and construction were of the highest possible quality of course, yet the items themselves were often well-worn and carefully repaired. Villi’s own inherited wardrobe bore the same characteristic faded glamour that marked out the members of some of the oldest families in town.

For tonight’s meeting he had chosen to wear an heirloom cloak over a black velvet doublet with slit sleeves that were laced up at strategic points to show glimpses of deepest burgundy from his shirt underneath. His trousers had been cut in the old Tethyrian fashion, and they clung to the swell of his calves. In his hand he carried an ebony cane topped with a darling little silver skull, its eyes inset with red rubies.

He was greeted at the iron gate of Baxendall House by a pair of well-armoured guards; one human, one teifling. He revealed only that he was an expected guest of the estate’s owner and he was respectfully shown inside. Neither guard made any mention of the dagger on his hip.

The entry hall was grand, spacious, softly lit by the glow from a crystal chandelier. The walls were adorned with gilded frames showcasing oil paintings of imposing castles and numerous portraits of Enver Gortash himself.

In an alcove sat a display case, filled with an assortment of curios and coloured gems. Villi fought to maintain an outward impression of cool disinterest as the goblin-raised impulse to grab all of the shiny things clamoured at the back of his mind. Years of etiquette training and study since taking his rightful place in Bhaal’s temple kept his scarred hands resting on the cane in front of him.

At least Gortash didn’t keep him waiting for long.

‘Ah! You made it. I am delighted to see you here at last,’ Gortash said as he descended the sweeping curve of the stairs. He was dressed less formally than Villi, wearing a black silk shirt laced loosely at the neck. It was new, freshly dyed, darker than a raven’s wing.

‘Few people would be happy to see me in their home. You’re… a rare sort.’ Villi meant it sincerely. Gortash had remained remarkably composed the first time they met even as Villi had sought to gut him like a fish. Villi wondered what his secret could be; a calming potion, an enchantment, a daily meditation practice? Whatever it was, he longed to strip the man of his easy self-confidence and see nothing but naked terror in his eyes.

‘My dear Villiame, I am one-of-a-kind,’ Gortash said, without a shred of modesty. ‘As are you, naturally. Together we could– ah, I’m getting ahead of myself. Please, follow me.’

Villi handed his cloak and his cane to a waiting servant, then did as Gortash bid, following him through the west wing of the house, past yet more paintings, sculptures, and luxurious furniture set on deep carpets.

A vulgar display of wealth. Villi kept his hands behind his back as he walked. He found some small degree of amusement in maintaining a more relaxed pace than Gortash’s quick, purposeful stride, which meant his host had to keep pausing and waiting for him to catch up.

‘Apologies for my haste in getting to dinner. I got lost in my work today and quite forgot to eat,’ Gortash said after he looked over his shoulder for the third time to find Villi trailing several feet behind him. ‘We’re here now, this room on the right.’

The dining room was compact, intimate. The kind of room where personal meals were taken. There was enough space for a round wooden table that would comfortably seat four, and a small sideboard decorated with vases of glowing white lilies. The table had been laid for two, set with fine ceramics, crystal glassware, and shining silver cutlery.

‘I thought we could speak more freely without being interrupted by the staff, but that means we’ll have to serve ourselves,’ Gortash said, opening a door of the sideboard to reveal a row of bottles. ‘I hope that’s acceptable. Can I pour you a glass of wine? I took delivery of several crates of an excellent red from Calisham yesterday.’

Villi chose one of the chairs and took a seat, then pushed the glass chalice from his place setting towards Gortash to accept the offer of wine. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of showing any kind of reluctance to eat or drink anything he was offered. If Gortash wanted to poison him, so be it.

But Gortash made a show of trust anyway. He filled Villi’s glass then took a sip from it himself before handing it back.

Villi eyed the moist patch left on the rim from the other man’s mouth. If he drank from that same spot, tasted his saliva, it would be the closest Villi had ever come - and may ever come - to a kiss. He surreptitiously turned the glass and drank from the opposite side.

‘What do you think?’ Gortash asked, sitting down in the other chair.

‘Smooth. Tastes like sour cherries. It’s good,’ Villi said, downplaying his enjoyment a little. It was excellent. He wanted ten crates.

‘So, what made you change your mind?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘About discussing our partnership.’

‘Who’s to say I have changed my mind? Maybe I was at a loose end this evening and thought that I’d pay you a visit, drink your wine, eat your bread, and then split open your chest and have your heart for dessert,’ Villi said, leaning back. ‘No archers watching you tonight, I take it?’

Gortash smiled, and Villi hated him for it. The man was far too comfortable in his presence. ‘No, not tonight. I am entirely at your mercy. But I rather hope to be worth more to you alive than dead.’

‘My father is the God of Murder; death is my currency. It’s my reason for being. What else could you offer?’

Ding. The muted chime came from inside one of the walls. Gortash bowed his head politely, and rose to open a concealed hatch. Their first course had arrived, delivered via dumb waiter.

‘Gold. Information. Power. That’s what I can offer. And with those three things, you will be unstoppable,’ Gortash said.

‘You assume I’m lacking in those regards?’ Villi scoffed.

‘Villiame, please. Let us talk plainly. I have eyes and ears throughout this city. I know you are.’

‘How dare you–’

Gortash put a dish in front of him. ‘I hope you like pigeon.’

‘First you insult me, then you serve me flying rat?’

‘Give it a try, it’s delicious,’ Gortash said with a wink.

Villi seethed.

And yet he made no move to attack the other man. He sat there and watched as Gortash retook his seat and sliced into the moist, pink flesh on his plate.

The first time Villi picked up a sword to train with a real warrior he had been left bloody and bruised. Despite the unholy destiny that was woven into his blood, despite already having three kills under his belt by the age of fourteen, when faced with a master he was left slashing at thin air. Now, many years later in Enver Gortash’s elegant dining room, he felt that same way again. Outclassed. Outmanoeuvred.

He had managed to beat the old warrior by taking a step back, swallowing his pride, and paying attention to what she had to teach him. Then he took her head.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up his fork and speared the pigeon breast, lifting it in one piece. ‘Very well. Let us speak plainly,’ he said, before taking a bite.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #durgetash #durge #bg3 durge #gortash #bg3 gortash #durge: Villi

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zutraeumen · 1 year ago

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Hollowed

This is a part of my one-shot book called: Even the Doll, should it please you... You can find the whole book on these platforms: FanFiction, AO3, Wattpad or Quotev. Bloodborne belongs to its respectful owner.

Hollowed

―︎

"Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it's just what hunters do! You'll get used to it..."

―︎

The following days, the days after Gilbert's death, were enormously difficult. Over the course of your long life, you accepted death as that part of life that was inevitable. Some deaths were easier to deal with, certain others, on the other hand, severely challenged your beliefs at times. But never to such an extent that you wouldn't come to terms with it at the end of the day.

But Gilbert's passing was nothing like the usual, and so your brain couldn't cope with it like it was used to at this point. Yharnam was a place that didn't adhere to the laws of nature, the Great Ones made sure of that. With the defeat of Rom the Vacuous Spider, it was as if a veil had been lifted off your eyes and for the first time, you saw this cursed city for what it truly was: a world without hope.

With the city of Yharnam being ravaged by the plague borne of ancient blood found in the catacombs below the city and distributed by its most powerful institution, the Healing Church, the people cowered in their homes while beasts who were once their neighbours roamed the streets. The Hunters who were in charge of slaying these beasts would inevitably give in to beasthood themselves, to be consumed by bloodlust. All the while great incomprehensible beings surrounded us, but could barely even be bothered to notice we were there, and those who ruled over this city were all either dead, dying, driven completely mad, or had become something else entirely.

An old (sadly deceased) friend of yours would tell you this in that rough voice of his: This place was going to hell! And were you back in your home, far away from Yharnam, you would have shared a good laugh about it but now... now...

It felt useless, YOU felt useless. Ever since waking up in that blasted clinic, you've tried your best to help others survive throughout. You jumped on the wave of Yharnam, acclimatized to its customs in record time while also trying to never stray far from your true self, but to what end?

Where was the end? When would it end? Was there even an end to the Hunt?

How many others would leave you alone in this hellhole?

At this point, it seemed impossible that anyone could be left alive and unaltered. We were all entangled within a web we couldn't even perceive. This place was not just horrible, it was horror, stitched into the very fabric of reality. A reality governed by its own distinctive laws where no matter what you did it would all accomplish nothing.

Despair began to take over your heart, and there was nothing that could help you get rid of it.

It had gotten so bad that even Gehrman forwent disappearing from the Dream for more extended periods of time in hopes his presence would soothe whatever that was bothering you. It was the Doll that came to him for help as she found herself at wit's end for once.

He was there, keeping you company in the back garden amongst white flowers that would never wilt.

Consumed by your thoughts, you didn't even feel the weight of his eyes and it concerned him greatly because he began to recognize himself in you. The way you would become a slave to your thoughts was something the old hunter knew very well. And only he knew the dangers of tumbling down that rabbit hole before it was too late, before you would make a habit of it.

An exchange of words would be the simplest remedy, but the mere thought of speaking to you turned his tongue into a lead and shooed away any sentences he could have conjured. His brows furrowed, and his lips set a downside line expressing his growing disappointment.

How could he struggle to ask you one question? Gehrman didn't remember being that shy around a lady! But you felt like a whole other deal, and after a lifetime of excruciating isolation where he at some point even forgot his OWN NAME, the simplest interactions felt daunting. Maybe furthermore because he didn't want to sound completely moronic. At his age, the hunter shouldn't be tumbling over his words like a newborn fawn like he so feared he would the moment his mouth opened.

With a sigh your keen ears surely picked out, the syllables steadily rolled off his trembling tongue, "What has your mind so unsettled Good Hunter?"

How to better start a conversation than with a question? The years spent in the Dream certainly did nothing to wear down Byrgenwerth off him. Several moments of silence followed. The type of silence that was as if he had disturbed a fragile peace. And now he kicked himself even more because who was he to think YOU would wish to divulge your worries to someone like HIM? Decrepit and crippled, and to top it all off, utterly pathetic. He shouldn't have-

"-I guess everything."

It took him a while to realize you have actually answered his question but he caught on eventually, too late to ask you to elaborate before you dove into a tale he would very much loathe interrupting.

About the distrustful citizens, about fellow Hunters who had lost their way, about the few survivors left in your care, about the slaying of mighty and frightening beasts alike. Even when you mentioned Byrgenwerth, he reigned in his curiosity so you could get it all out.

"... my friend Gilbert, he was also an outsider. He- he was struck by an illness, coughing more and more as time passed. I've brought him as much antidote as I could find, but it didn't help. The last time I came to visit him, he was delirious and couldn't even recognize my voice! So I went into the Forbidden Woods in search of answers. Imagine how much I've found? Nothing but new perversions to haunt my sleep! Yharnam changed upon my hasty return and I worried for my wards. But nothing could have prepared me when I moved to check up on my friend at Central Yharnam. He- he..."

You choked up, sobs wracking through your throat and never had the desire to hold you have been greater in him than now. He didn't go through with his impulsive thought, coward that he was, but relinquished one arm to rest it on your hunched shoulder. You tensed, then relaxed immediately after, welcoming the touch and something in Gerhman's stomach churned. He didn't know what it meant, but found himself wanting more nonetheless.

He gave you the time and space to collect yourself, it sounded hypocritical of himself but it was imperative that your emotions would flow through you freely. They were never meant to be cast aside or repressed, he had paid dearly for that lesson.

"He turned into a beast and I had to put him down! My best friend!"

The dam broke, and you buried your face into the palms of your hands. Gehrman regarded you with a sullen but empathetic gaze, somewhere finding it within his memory to remember what it was like to lose someone dear. He may not be able to put a name to the faces but it was enough. It was always the most compassionate hearts that suffered the most.

Considering your circumstance, words of hope and encouragement evaded him.

Should he offer his sympathy? Should he give you advice? Should he say nothing? Should he... should he... should he...

It was not the first time that he was convinced that a person such as you had no place in the Dream. In Yharnam. Being a Hunter.

Even though he was better off with you by his side. It would be incredibly selfish of him to keep you in an environment where nothing would ever thrive. Of infertile soil where all flowers would wither before they could blossom.

He should motivate you to search for your true purpose for being in this Dream, so he could, as he had done many times before, free you from it. With his Burial Blade.

The mere thought of hurting you brought him unimaginable pain. The mere thought of severing you from the Dream, never to see you again, felt soul-crushing. But he would do it, if only to spare you this.

It was the best he could offer at this moment.

"Oh, dear hunter, didn't I warn you not to think too hard about this? The moon is close. It will be a long hunt tonight. If the beasts loom large, and threaten to crush your spirits, seek the Holy Chalice. As every hunter before you has. A Holy Chalice will reveal the tomb of the god... where hunters partake in communion."

Your inquisitive eyes, so magnificently grey under the right ray of light they could be silver, turned to him, filled with such sadness and despair it pushed a stake through his stale heart. It was difficult to continue when you held him transfixed but he had somehow found his voice.

"Most of the Holy Chalices lie deep within the tomb of the gods. And the few that found their way to the surface... Were lost again in the hands of men. But if the old hunter tales remain true... ...one of the Holy Chalices is worshipped in the valley hamlet. Yet the town is in disarray... It was burned and abandoned, for fear of the scourge, home now only to beasts. The perfect place for a hunter, wouldn't you say?"

He worried immensely when you said nothing, continuing to stare into the grey fog beyond the gravestones where enormous pillars rose from endless nothingness. Time seemed to stretch on, and he resisted the urge to fidget with his cane. It was only until you rose and left for the lamp without a word that his fingers relaxed.

But in the exact moment, with a cry of a wounded animal, he struck the lumen flowers as hard as he could. Again, he had said the wrong thing, and those dearest to him always paid for it. Just as the Moon remained a permanent presence in the Hunter's Dream, he remained a fool.

―︎

You knew that Gehrman didn't imagine this when he gave you the tip.

But it was what you thought he meant.

Death and decay latched onto the very air. The Blood-Starved Beast lay rotting in a corner of the church, all gangly looking with its skin for a cape. Needles prickled your skin just remembering how its long claws tore your limbs apart more than Gascoigne ever could. Had you not discovered the Blood Cocktail's special properties by being thrown into a pillar, it was most likely you would never end up besting it. Throwing a torch at it also helped.

Accelerating, you did your best to sprint through the rest of the way to evade the lurking beasts. Much for their sake as for yours. Their beastly visages reminded you too much of Gilbert, the hurt of his passing prevailed still, yet you were sure that this was the right place to be.

It was the hunter atop the great tower that interested you, for he struck you as an odd fellow, in a good way. He hadn't introduced himself the first time you stumbled past the heavy gates and into Old Yharnam, but with a warning shot that had landed terrifying close to your boot, he made sure you remembered his words acutely:

"You there, Hunter! Didn't you see the warning? Turn back at once, Old Yharnam, burned and abandoned by men, is now home only to beasts. They are of no harm to those above. Turn back, or the hunter will face the hunt."

You narrowly side-stepped being pounced on by a werewolf. What convinced you again that this was a good idea?

Grief... it was grief.

At this point, you had to figure out the way to the top on your own because you never stepped foot near that place. Passing it by in favour of getting to prey that had to be slain. It was impossibly dark within the gothic structures, haunted by the mingling and moaning of a great number of beasts. Your heart beat louder than ever, you feared you would be discovered.

A scraping noise tore a gasp out of your open mouth, drawing in the residual soot, you swallowed down a cough and held your breath while tip-toeing into another room as gracefully as you could. You weren't allowed to fight so you decided to hide, but for fear of your own well-being, you kept your trusty Saw Cleaver at the ready.

After a moment of anxious silence, instead of the frantic patter of monsters, your ears picked up measured footsteps. Human footsteps. Oh shite-

In your haste, you absolutely forgot that the person you sought after wasn't the only one guarding the turned inhabitants of this old district. He had a companion chasing after you when you attempted to traverse through the streets with no direction in mind.

The very same companion whose footsteps now closed in on you, just around the corner. You hoped he would walk past but he was a skilled hunter, unlike you, and like a dog, once he caught a whiff of your scent, it was as good as over.

You closed your eyes once his dark silhouette came into vision, and resigned yourself to your fate. Any sort of aggression on your behalf, even in the act of defence, would undoubtedly put you out of favour of the hunter you sought. So what was left for you to do than offer yourself like a sheep for slaughter?

The only small hope you have left was that he would be merciful and make it swift. Decapitation, preferably. There was a short whirring of parts, a mechanism that would only find a home to ears that heard the sound before.

Clutching your Saw Cleaver in a death grip, the prospect flew right out the window the moment you heard that particular sound because it reminded you of another dreadful thing: there was no sharp edge for a clean cut with a saw, was there?

You began praying, even more when he came so close that you could hear his ragged breath. Stumbling backwards, you suppressed a shudder. You were a Hunter of beasts, not people. And by no means other Hunters. That was probably one of the biggest reasons you greatly respected that old crow.

It left you wondering where she disappeared to when the Blood Moon descended.

You imagined it took a vastly different level of skill to battle other hunters, with infinitely more years on their hands than your measly months. That was one of the reasons you feared antagonizing the woman whenever you talked, choosing to nod along instead of voicing your opinions.

Everything happened so fast and sort of slowly at the same time, how he approached you in quick strides. How his sudden speed scared you to death so much that you tripped in your haste to avoid it. Your surroundings were so dark that you couldn't even tell when you ended up down for the count.

Consciousness returned to you slowly, vision swimming. Groaning from the pain at the back of your head, you rolled to your side, finding the ground pleasantly soft - a cot?

"I am alive?" you said to yourself quietly, unprepared to have survived the chase.

"Be thankful for my companion," a roguish voice told you over the sounds of your elderly moaning, "I would have thrown you to the beasts were it up to me."

He followed up with something, but it was difficult for your old ears to hear. You shuffled a bit from side to side, as if it would shake your delirium. You must have looked like a drunken fool on the ground. Your head certainly felt like it.

"Do you hear me Hunter?! I will not repeat myself, what brings you to Old Yharnam?"

His booming voice rang like a bell inside your pounding head, echoing against the walls of your skull. The pain was grand, grand enough for you to abandon good sense and become angry.

"For God's sake will you tone it down a bit?!" you answered snappishly, fingers pawing at the short ends of your hair. Perhaps he will take offence and put you down for good, he would do you a favour now.

He snorted, but otherwise made no attempt to come forward to your request. Boots clung against the hard stone, away from you, and a held-in breath released itself from your asphyxiating lungs.

You worked yourself onto your feet once your vision cleared, bringing a hand up to help your eyes adjust, was the sky always so bright? A gentle breeze passed over your scalp, your hand followed inquisitively, now, where did you lose your hat?

"Aren't you a strange fellow?" he noted unkindly.

Patting down your clothes, you looked up from under your miraculously intact spectacles to meet his gaze, "[Y/N][L/N], worst Hunter you've ever met, pleased to make your acquaintance."

It at least drew a smirk from him, but not more. Not until you've answered his inquiry.

"Oh, fine!" you groaned dramatically, "I came for you."

He tensed immediately, like a deer in headlights, you should have worded that better.

"No! Not like that. I- ugh -I wanted to meet the man atop the tower. I take it that's you?"

Relaxing somewhat, he tipped his tricorn hat, left eye narrowing onto you suspiciously, "I've no interest in matters further up, neither do the beasts here in Old Yharnam. They do not venture above, and mean no harm to anyone."

"I mean no harm to them or you, I swear on my mother's grave."

"We noticed."

The man turned his back on you, whether it was because he believed you or didn't see you as a serious threat, well, realistically, it could be both. You were positive he could put you down like a pig for slaughter if he wanted, and it seemed he knew it too.

Admittedly, it would bruise your ego if you still were a young lad, but on your ancient bones, you were glad he chose to spare you. You were hoping to get to him, in fact, it was your only goal since you started your excursion. For he may have displayed a certain air of nonchalance, but you just knew he was attentive to your every movement, waiting for you to step out of line.

"Well? What are you waiting for, an open invitation? Come, join me."

You did as he told, stepping up to his rooftop perch. Some part of you thrummed with anxiety, did he spare his blade only to chuck you off the tower? It didn't help at all that the Gatling gun stood there ominously, striking even more fear into your heart without being aimed at you. This deadly machinery was jarring much like your pistol had been at the beginning. Imagine that, a hunter being scared of his own weapons!

As a simple woman of the common folk, coming from a village in the countryside far from any greater cities or fancy castles. Life had been hard, but fulfilling. Living in a house that had supposedly belonged to a witch once. It certainly didn't gain you any favours with the townsfolk, but as long as it promised a roof over your head you saw no harm in it, superstition be damned.

The people didn't like it, but you being the poor church mouse that you had been, could care less about the approval of others. Getting through the day was your main priority, and you never understood why people would look down upon you.

Didn't you have any right to fight for your life, insignificant as it was?

You did, you would, you have...

That was why you stuck around for so long, outliving even those who made life exceptionally difficult for you. You were never welcomed, that had always been an unfortunate reality for you, but you've earned the people's respect enough to be tolerated. Until... well...

"I've never seen anything quite like it."

He turned to you slowly, watching you looking at his massive gun with fearful respect, "Aye, isn't she beautiful? Crafted her myself."

You hummed, in awe of his obvious craftsmanship, but also in partial relief that he had decided to indulge you despite his suspicions, "It reminds me of Gehrman."

The man seemed to spring into life in a matter of seconds, "Blast me! YOU are the Hunter of the Dream?!"

"Ahem," offended, a scowl so foul rested on your face that it made you look like a true hag. It had less effect on him than it used to have on children. Quite possibly because he was also an older gentleman, "I've killed my fair share of beasts, thank you very much!"

He laughed. A positive sign. It eased your fear, but only at the expense of your pride, "Yes, certainly, with the blonde lad in tow for sure?"

...

Fine, maybe you had help most of the time, but that was hardly something anyone could hold against you! Much less this grandpa who had his own little helper down the ladder.

"That still counts!" you remarked, crossing your hands, but it didn't fool him.

Your humility earned you a hearty slap to the back, and while his impertinence to ridicule you aggravated you to no end. Alas, you dared not retaliate for the fear he would take it as an act of aggression. At least the tense atmosphere receded a bit, it was a good thing that you just so happen to have a great sense of humour!

"I no longer dream, but I was once a hunter too."

Your eyebrows rose as your voice took on a lighter tone, "You were?"

The seconds ticked by, his lips formed into a straight line and there appeared to be a swirl of memories behind his one healthy eye, "Forgive me, you don't have to tell me."

Your head tipped and anxiety reared its way back. The man stood like a statue and continued to stare at a point beyond your head. Almost as if your arm had a head of its own, it reached out, against your better judgement, and settled on his shoulder.

Fast as lightning, he trapped your hand with his own. Painfully, at first, until he realized you meant no harm and lessened his grip. Taking the leap, you rubbed it gently in hopes it would ground him to whatever distant place you have sent him to. You really wanted to be thrown off the tower, didn't you?

Fortunately, you seemed to have caught him so exemplary off guard that he did neither. Much to your disbelief, all tension faded from his cautious person so far he even put down his Stake Driver.

"There's nothing more horrible than a hunt. In case you fail to realize, the things you hunt - they're not beasts, they're people. One day you will see."

His manly hand, covered by thick gloves that didn't diminish their roughness, pushed something small into yours. A badge. You looked up at him, dumbfounded. Why would he give you that? Wait, why was he saying his goodbyes?

"Thank you...?" you said slowly, sincerely confused.

"The name's Djura, retired hunter."

The man has a name!

"Thank you, Djura," you tested out his name, "but why are you giving me this?"

"I have no use for it anyway."

You stubbornly wanted to stay, surely he understood that. Dismissive as he tried to be, you wouldn't budge on getting the reason out of him. At this point, for some weird reason, you trusted he had no intention of getting rid of you.

Djura didn't, however, have any further reason to indulge your company as of now.

"What is it? Surely I need not repeat myself. Go I say. You have the whole night to dream, make the best of it."

Taking the loss, you did as he asked, and begrudgingly made your way down the ladder, one foot at a time. You were so wrapped up in your head that you hadn't even noticed that somebody was following you until the person actually made himself known by pulling at your dirty coat. Turning rapidly, your first thought was to lash out in fear of danger, but a strong arm pushed something into your clothed chest.

Getting ahold of yourself, you realized you had been moments away from harming Djura's helper. Your blood pressure skyrocketed after the horrifying thought. After a tense moment and a slow look down, you realised why he had chased after you. He just wanted to give you back your lost Top Hat.

You swallowed thickly, "Thank you."

He nodded, and you expected nothing more than that until...

"You're not so bad."

You must have heard wrong, but by the time you turned around, he was already gone. Like a ghost. You shrugged, it didn't matter anyways, but the same couldn't be said about the pleasant feeling that settled in your stomach. It was curious, the many ways the human mind worked. By the time you were at the nearest lamp, you had not once thought about your friend's death at all.

Perhaps there were still some good things left in Yharnam after all.

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goodbysunball · 9 months ago

Text

Cement mixer blues

A couple more for your March, with Opening Day right around the corner. Four picks, all hits, and more waiting in the wings - but until then:

Thomas Bush, The Next 60 Years LP (Jolly Discs)

Album number three from Thomas Bush, one carving his own path through the history of quietly devastating British folk. That Bush has much to do with "folk" in general is debatable at this point, but there are fractured fragments within his damaged, precise compositions. On The Next 60 Years, he refines his vision further, not solely through reduction (though that, too) but with a bit of surprising bombast on the B-side. "Same Life Flowed" opens the album with plodding pop, the double-tracked vocals opening up just enough during the chorus to complement the harpsichord melody, and runs into the pensively dueling guitars on the accurately named "Pure Intention." As is Bush's wont, the album never keeps a straight course after this beautiful opening; some songs, like "Mulligan" or "Flood of Light," creak like floorboards in an empty house, whereas "Face In the Water" jumps out of the speakers from behind the curtain. I've never pieced together any influence of Talk Talk or Mark Hollis on Bush's sound, but now it's crystal on "Burn Clear," the patiently brushed cymbals and pattering drums pairing with slowly ringing chords, all directed by Bush's carefully delivered vocals. The samples on "Burn Clear" get turned inside-out on "Face In the Water," its booming synth chords leaving backwards bubbling loops in their wake, the distortion becoming ever more prominent as Bush's most clear, confident song unravels over its duration. The synth chords turn green midway through, and the garbled loops run rampant to cloud any pop ambitions with more unease. The album closes with the quietly devastating "Xtrails," a repeated descending progression of guitar notes and scattered synth chords, tying the album together neatly with only the necessary ingredients. In early listens, "Burn Clear" and "Face In the Water" were the highlights, but now tracks like "Thirsting" and "Xtrails" have become my favorites, the ones where Bush takes something recognizable and strips it to a skeleton and makes the bones vibrate with noise, creating a new story for the figure largely free from its past. Stunning, especially during my pre-dawn drives, but potent enough, and enveloping enough, to transport the listener from start to finish anytime. Sold out at the source, but I suspect copies will land stateside soon; if not, All Night Flight is handling the distribution - hop to it.

Contaminated, Celebratory Beheading LP (Blood Harvest)

Amidst a glut of ho-hum, self-referencing contemporary death metal, I wasn't really prepared for the complete onslaught that makes up Contaminated's second LP. I liked Final Man a lot, but things seem to have gotten a lot bleaker in the seven years since that came out, and Celebratory Beheading is the record that balls up collective agony into relentless, boneheaded death metal. It takes all of 15 seconds into opener "Suffer Minutiae" for the band to launch into a chugging breakdown riff, and even after multiple spins I feel as if I haven't captured the right words to describe music so single-mindedly brutish. There are no synths, electronics or really anything resembling a breather across the album. This new-look Contaminated feels like layers alternating between Carcass (pre-Heartwork) and Autopsy, with a dash of County Medical Examiners or other goregrind practitioner. Each song is made up of multiple movements, which is the stupid way my brain's been reduced to describing this record when it's on, but the very basic recipe is to pound with death metal crunch and follow it up with a grinding blast, before pulling back and taking another swing at your head. These parts are masterfully fused together without gaps or any recognizable structure, suffocatingly dense compositions coming one after another. Once your ears adjust, the pieces of the bulldozing sound can just barely be picked apart. The drummer's right up front with the vocals, and the two seem to goad each other on; the guitars, drenched in distortion and as beefy as I've heard (sans exterior electronic noise) in ages, churn out mercilessly hard or dizzyingly fast riffs. "Final Hours" is the point in the record where I finally catch my breath, and by "Apex C.H.U.D." (stands for Circular Headbanging Under Duress, pretty sure) you're stomping around like a sumo wrestler. Imagine running in a sewer tunnel away from a tidal wave of waste, each turn bringing no more distance or relief from the chase; at some point your legs and chest give out and you submit. I haven't looked at the included lyric sheet - the album and song titles are illustrative enough - but this seems to be the soundtrack to intentionally hammering a nail through your finger, pure visceral animal thrill, presented without concessions or interludes. My favorite record of the year so far.

Los Doroncos, Sun and Fireworks LP (An'archives)

There's nothing like the first whiff of springtime to bring me around to an album that made little sense during the dregs of the new year, and Los Doroncos' Sun and Fireworks is one for the ages. Seasoned vets with deep ties to the Japanese underground - members from Denudes, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Doronco Gumo - but what you get here is a dream dive bar band, playing music both intimately familiar and somehow buoyant, not bogged down with expectations or concerned with much else than playin' hits. If the band set out to make classic rock feel fresh again, they nailed it, taking the scoff right outta my throat and using it to hit another solo. The band rips on the two longer tracks, "A minor" (one of the young year's best tracks) and "Drum," but elsewhere things are downright breezy. Guitars are largely unadorned until solos call for distortion, vocals are charming, paper-thin but hopeful, and the drums do enough to keep everything together. For me, any cynicism is eradicated by the beautifully disarming guitar lines littered about in "LuLu 2," but just as often it's the solo pushing its way through the clean chords of "Tin Ear." I'm in the midst of fixing up my porch, and if I get my way, I will be having a few beers back there with Sun and Fireworks elevating my mundane accomplishment. Come through.

Peg, We Know Who You Are and Everyone Is On the Lookout CS (No Rent)

Meeting of the minds between Cube's Adam Keith and Jackie-O Motherfucker's Dave Easlick, both of whom previously teamed up in SPF. I can't remember SPF's music much, though it may be time to revisit given how much I've enjoyed Peg's debut cassette. The music on We Know Who You Are feels like dub recorded without or presented without permission, as if found on a thrift store cassette, and then given added rhythm by Easlick and Keith's drumming and programming. "Mutual Percussion" is a sterling example, drums fading in and out while viscous treated guitar bubbles and the sound of a breeze or footsteps periodically emerge to confusingly give the feel of a field recording. The album feels sometimes ominous, sometimes sarcastic; the intention feels pure but you're never quite convinced with a track like "Agenda Jazz," either. Beyond sifting through the tape for intention, there's deep enjoyment here, skewering and distorting sounds in a way not unlike Equipment Pointed Ankh, though Peg's got a decidedly more abstract, glowering, smirking result. Hard to pick favorites, but if forced: the slouched strut of "Athletic Posturing"; the disarming "Everyone," all glistening synthesizer and distant drums; and my favorite, "Bog Standard," Easlick letting loose on the kit while a bassy loop and high-pitched noise build towers in the shifting sands. Really feels like these two met each other head-on this round, keeping stakes low for themselves but understanding one another intuitively to create one of last year's best albums.

#Thomas Bush #Jolly Discs #Contaminated #Blood Harvest Records #Los Doroncos #An'archives #Peg #No Rent Records

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