#DA: those across the sea

[shizuu-chann]

Playing Veilguard a second time, I'm realizing how often the "Devouring Storm" is mentioned and I'm dying to know what's going to happen. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain mention (during one of the eavesdropping scenes in the Crossroads) that their dreams since escaping imprisonment have been grey and shadowed or something (I can't remember exactly what they say, but they're both perplexed and at least mildly concerned--at least until Elgar'nan waves his verbal hand and dismisses it while saying, "The future is intangible, only the past and present matter" or whatever).

Even Anaris wants to gain corporeal form again to escape the impending "storm" (not sure how that would have worked out for him, but again, whatever). Cyrian tells us Anaris is scared of something but he doesn't know what! Plus, learning more about what the qunari were running from before settling Par Vollen and the tablet mentioning said Devouring Storm. What did they want with the Inquisition last game with the War Table missions? Then there's the secret ending, of course, and I just really hope we actually get a game in the future that tells the story!

What about Those Across the Sea is powerful enough to force the kossith to splice some of their own with dragons to gain fire breath? What are they, that they had the Imperium scared a millennium ago when they still worshipped the Old Gods and were arguing during construction of the Archon's Palace whether or not it should be offensive or defensive? They made an entire floating fortress that shoots magic lasers to defend against Those Across the Sea.

What boggles my mind even more is everyone in Thedas just...forgot about them? I'm not completely sure about that, but I don't recall any mention of Those Across the Sea (in-game) prior to Inquisition. My guess would be that it was intentional on the part of TAtS. If it's true that they've had a hand in all these major events in Thedas, then it wouldn't surprise me they have the power/influence/reach to erase themselves from records and the like (likely with agents) to keep people from being aware of their existence or machinations. Was them causing these events in Thedas a way to keep Thedas distracted while they made plans for...whatever it is they're doing? Invasion, at least. Was it that calculated? Can they even be that calculated?

It could also just be that they want to destabilize the region for to enact their plan. They did a great a job, if that's the case. A Blight; a war between mages and Templars; Solas possibly being aware of this impending "storm" after waking and dreaming, like Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, and acting too rashly (as he is wont to do), giving his orb to Corypheus to expedite the process of regaining his powers, and tearing a massive hole in the sky that tore smaller holes that spit out angry spirits all over Southern Thedas; and now with Solas trying to tear down the Veil, perhaps, again, in reaction to this revelation that Something™ is coming, further destabilizing Thedas incidentally by releasing two power-mad ancient elven-spirit mages hell bent on blighting the world to reclaim their past glory.

Did TAtS anticipate that, too? Or were these two tyrants escaping unforeseen? Did they foresee someone stopping them, which is why they seemingly encourage Rook? Is foresight something they have? They seems to anticipate everything Rook does, at least in regard to the first two "circles" you find that unlock those cryptic codex entries. I just have so many questions and no answers.

I need to know who they are, what they are, and what they even want enough that they've had their suspicious little fingers(?) in, apparently, every major event in Thedas for the past several decades at least. And HOW have they had their fingers in them? Is their goal sinister? If so, do they KNOW it's sinister? I mean, the first circle-orb-thing you find, the voice says something like, "They interrupt. As predicted. As hoped. Learn. Adapt. Triumph." The second, "You return. We are content." and when you ask who they are, they reply, "Not now. Not yet. We will show you. Soon." Iirc, they seem surprised when you find the third, but I haven't found that one again yet so I can't remember off the top of my head. Their plans are a mystery, but seem sinister from what info is given to us, but then why do they want us to triumph? Unless the two Clowns escaping wasn't part of their plan and they want them dealt with, too, so their own goals won't be hampered. I DON'T KNOW UUUGGGHHH. I just love it~

[maybanksbaby]

warnings: none really

summary: jj really loves his new boat and shows it off to his girlfriend

a/n: he looked so cute in the comercial, i love him so much. please let him be happy this season 🙏🙏

⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

JJ Maybank was practically vibrating with excitement as he waited on the dock, a wide grin plastered across his face. His brand-new—well, new to him—boat was tied up right behind him, and he couldn’t wait to show it off to her. His pretty girlfriend and number one fan, the one who made everything in his life feel like it was coated in sugar and wrapped in a pink bow.

The sound of soft footsteps on the weathered wooden planks jolted him from his thoughts, and he whipped around to see his girlfriend, the absolute light of his life, making her way toward him. She looked as cute as ever, dressed in one of those sweet knitted tops she always wore, paired with a short skirt that twirled with each step. Her hair was bouncing with the sea breeze, and she had her usual pink gloss that smelled like strawberries, making him weak in the knees before she even said a word.

"J!" she called out, her voice making his already sky-high excitement bubble over.

Before she could even finish her next breath, JJ was already running toward her, grabbing her hand and practically dragging her down the dock. "You’re here, you’re here, you’re here! Okay, close your eyes!"

She blinked, giggling at his enthusiasm. "JJ, what are you—JJ!” she squealed, letting out an adorable little laugh when his hands covered her eyes from behind, her body relaxing into his. “What are you doing?”

“You trust me, right?”

“I do, yeah…”

“Then close your eyes,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, which instantly sent her into a new fit of giggles.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping down. “Can i at least get a hint of what it is?”

“Nope! Eyes closed, no peeking! This is a surprise!” He placed his other hand over her eyes too for extra insurance.

She let out a playful sigh but complied, trusting him as he eagerly led her down the last stretch of the dock. “Okay, okay! I’m closing them!”

JJ could barely contain himself as he guided her close to the boat, careful not to let her trip. “Alright… three… two… one—ta-da!” He whipped his hands away from her eyes and bounced on his heels as she finally saw it.

The messy panting, that if you narrowed your eyes read 'MAYBANK'S' on the right side, didn't let much to the imagination. Now, she understood.

Her eyes widened, and she let out a surprised gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh my gosh, JJ! Is–Woah. Is this… this boat is yours?"

“Yup!” he said, puffing out his chest and throwing his hands up proudly.

Her gaze swept over the boat—a charming, beat-up thing, but it was perfect for JJ. The paint was chipped, and the motor looked like it had seen better days, but it had a certain rugged charm, just like him. “JJ, it’s—”

“Beautiful? Amazing? The best thing you’ve ever seen?” He interrupted, unable to contain his excitement.

She giggles, nodding along. “Yeah! How did you even manage this? We're... literally broke right now.”

JJ let out a short awkward chuckle, scratching his wrinkled eyebrows, “Uh, well... that's not really important. What is important though, is that she's all mine–Ours! It's not really new but, with a couple of technical adjustments, a little more of my girl's style right here and—boom! Meet 'The Maybank!”

She stared at him for a moment, eyes twinkling, before bursting into giggles. “The Maybank?”

“Okay, okay, it’s a work in progress, name-wise” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “But who cares about the name? Check this out! Come on, come on!" He grabbed her hand again and practically sprinted to the back of the boat, pulling her along with him like an overexcited puppy.

“JJ!” she laughed, trying to keep up with his energy.

“Look at this beauty of a motor!” he exclaimed, leaning over to pat the engine like it was some prized race car. “She purrs like a kitten! Well, kinda more like a sick kitten, but once I fix her up—purring.”

She smiled warmly, her heart swelling at how proud and happy he looked. JJ had been through so much, more than most people could handle, and yet here he was, smiling like a little kid on Christmas morning, showing her the boat he’d worked so hard to get. “A sick kitten? Oh, it's... Yeah, probably fixable. Without any more costs...”

“Oh, it is, princess!” JJ said, completely missing the uneasy tone. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet! Come here!”

He tugged her to the front of the boat, showing off the seats with grand gestures, talking a mile a minute. “These seats? Top-tier comfort. I mean, okay, there’s a rip or two, but it’s vintage, y’know? Character! Like–Like you say. Aesthetic.... And this right here—” He pointed to the tiny built-in cooler. “Boom! Cooler for all our drinks. You, me, the Pogues? Ice-cold sodas, beers, whatever we want. Fancy, huh?”

“Very fancy,” she giggled, nodding along.

“And wait, wait, there’s more!” He led her to the very front of the boat, practically skipping at this point. “See this space? Perfect for you to lay out and tan while I drive. Like a little sunbathing queen. Plus, I can park us in all the secret spots around OBX.”

She couldn’t stop laughing at how eager he was, and her heart swelled as she watched him ramble on. “You’re really proud of this, huh?”

He stopped mid-gesture and turned to her, his grin softening for a moment. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not much, but it’s mine. I can finally take you out on adventures, like we always talked about.”

Her heart melted at his words, and she reached up, cupping his cheek with her hand. “JJ, it’s perfect. I love it. I’m so proud of you.”

He leaned into her touch, his heart thudding in his chest. But before the moment could get too soft, his energy snapped back, and he grabbed her hand again. “Come on, I haven’t shown you the captain’s seat yet!”

He practically dragged her over to the helm, hopping into the driver’s seat and patting the spot next to him like an excited puppy. “Check it out! You wanna drive? You totally gotta drive.”

She shook her head, laughing again, but took a seat next to him, watching as he fiddled with the controls like a seasoned pro. “I don’t think I’m ready to drive a boat just yet, JJ. Can't even drive the HMS Pogue”

“Pfft, you’ve got me! I’m a captain now, baby. I’ll teach you everything. Plus, there’s not much to it—steering, not hitting rocks, easy peasy. You got it.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe next time, Captain Maybank.”

“Next time, I’ll hold you to that,” he smirked, turning to plant a quick kiss on her forehead.

With one swift movement, JJ started up the boat, and they pulled away from the dock, the boat chugging forward at a steady pace. The wind whipped through her hair, and JJ was practically glowing beside her, his smile as wide as the ocean they were heading toward.

“See? Easy!” JJ exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear as they coasted along the water. “This is just the start. I’m gonna take you everywhere, baby—secret beaches, hidden coves, the works. We’ll go places no one else even knows about. And just then, we'll be traveling all over the world. Like pirates”

She watched him, her heart practically melting as he rambled on, his energy so infectious that it made her feel like they were the only two people in the world. His joy was her joy, and she couldn’t help but beam at how proud and excited he was. “JJ, this is… amazing.”

He shot her a playful smirk. “I'm telling you, just wait until I fix the motor. Then we’ll be flying across the water, like those fancy Kooky boats. But better.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as the boat slowed to a gentle stop in the middle of the water, the sound of the engine fading away to leave just the soft lapping of the waves. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in a beautiful mix of orange, pink, and purple. It was serene, and perfect.

As they glided over the water, JJ kept up his constant narration, pointing out every little thing about the boat, from the condition of the steering wheel to a small patch he’d made on the deck with duct tape. She soaked it all in, giggling at his over-the-top enthusiasm, and her heart swelled at how happy and free he seemed.

After a while, JJ slowed the boat to a stop in a quiet, serene spot with a perfect view of the setting sun. The water around them was calm, reflecting the orange and pink hues of the sky.

“And here we are,” JJ announced, throwing his arm over her shoulders as if he’d just revealed a million-dollar mansion. “Not bad for a first trip, huh?”

She snuggled into his side, her fingers tracing little patterns on his arm. “Not bad at all. I think I could get used to this.”

JJ grinned, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “You'll see, pretty girl. ”

She laughed, tipping her head up to kiss him on the cheek. “I can’t wait, Captain Maybank.”

JJ wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close as they watched the sunset together. His excitement from earlier had finally settled into a comfortable warmth, and for the first time in a while, he felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. He places his chin on his shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”

“Uh-oh,” she teased, gentely tilting her head go look at him. “That’s never good.”

“Hey!” he laughed, then shook his head. “Nah, but seriously. You, know, the name of the boat? ‘The Maybank's’?" The way he pronounced it, slowly and with a twich of his eyebrows, managed to get a giggle from her. "It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

"Mhm, yeah. Really... characterized"

His grin softened into something a little more serious but no less JJ—playful yet full of warmth. He stepped closer, the arms around her waist gentely tighting. “Well, I was thinking… It’s perfect for when we get married too, you know? You’re gonna be a Maybank one day. Well, if you want. You can keep your last name though, not sure how it all works up these days, but... I wouldn't mind to share, you know? Just saying”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt her cheeks flush as his words settled in. Instead of being flustered, she melted into him, her smile only growing wider, softer, and so full of love. “No–I... You really think so?” she whispered, gazing up at him with that sweet, adoring look she saved just for him.

Her breath caught, the realization washing over her in a wave of warmth. They both knew it, had known it for a while now. The thought of marrying JJ felt like the most natural thing in the world, like it was already written in the stars.

“Of course! You’re my girl,” he said, his voice steady, almost serious, as if he was laying down the law. “When we get married, it’s going to be you and me, officially. Just picture it: ‘Captain and Mrs. Maybank’—how cool is that?”

A dreamy smile spread across her face, and she bit her lip, feeling giddy at the thought. “Mhm, sounds amazing, Jayj. Like a dream.”

His eyes lit up, and he pulled her closer, their bodies practically melting into one another. “See? It’s meant to be. I’ll show you the ropes on this boat, and then we can plan our future adventures as a married couple. Our honeymoon even” He flashed that goofy grin that always made her heart race. “You’ll make the best wife ever.”

Her cheeks flushed at the sincerity in his words, and she felt her heart swell with love. “I would love to be your wife, Mr. Maybank,” she said earnestly, her voice a soft melody. “I can’t imagine anything better.”

“Mhm. You, me, and this boat—just sailing off into the sunset. It’s perfect.” He pointed to the sea vaguely, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And, hey, we can even practice the whole captain and first mate thing. We'll be the king and queen of these waters”

Her heart is about go explode in her chest, her eyes hurting from how much love they're holding while looking at him.

“Do you think we can take it out soon?” she asked, turning around in his arms to be face to face with him.

“Oh, absolutely. I already imagine us cruising around the island, just the two of us,” he said, a dreamy look crossing his face. “And then, in a few years, we’ll be out here with our kids, teaching them how to sail. It’ll be perfect.”

Her heart swelled at the thought, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. “I can’t wait for that, JJ. You make everything sound so fun and exciting.”

“Because it is! Especially with you!” He grinned down at her, and she could see the love and enthusiasm shining in his eyes. “You and me, forever, right?”

“Forever,” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, but filled with all the certainty in the world. As they stood there together, she knew without a doubt that one day, they’d be sailing through life as Mr. and Mrs. Maybank, and nothing could be more perfect than that.

With her by his side and the open water ahead of them, JJ Maybank couldn’t imagine life getting any better.

[hyperions-light]

The Poison Fruit Ripens

#defendingtheending here we go

First of all mega super ultra spoilers for the ending teaser that Steam says like… 6% ? Of players have seen? So you’ve been warned. No cuts baby, it’s Miyazaki style

Okay, so it’s the Executors, and they’re probably coming across the sea in the next game (if EA doesn’t nuke BW), from what I can gather. I mean, this is fine from a lore perspective. All we knew about those people before is that 1) they are mysterious 2) they are from over there, across the ocean

And now they’re maybe connected to the revealed Qunari lore, which I am ! So excited to have! We already knew that the Qunari fled across the ocean for unspecified reasons, and that going back there was Not A Thing. But now we know that they left because of the (probably metaphorical?) Devouring Storm, which could be connected to the Executors. What are the odds that there are two separate Huge Bad Things Over There that both want to destroy Thedas? Probably is just one big thing— also the title Executor implies they are doing the bidding of someone else, so whatever the Qunari were talking about could be it. (They also talked about being agents of someone else’s will in the Inquisition War Table quest).

So the cinematic shows a bunch of our prominent villains from the previous games being influenced in some way by the Executors. Which I think people are upset about, but I think it’s fine because:

- They did not really specify the manner of influence. I would be annoyed if they retconned Loghain’s decision to leave Cailan on the battlefield because it makes him interesting, but they didn’t say that. They just said they influenced his decisions. They could have done that by stoking his paranoia about Orlais, or by planting Arl Howe to influence him after the battle. He did a lot of OOC stuff while he was King Regent, and this could be a chance to explain what didn’t make sense for his previously established character and was just put in there to make him seem Very Evil.

- They also were around some people doing a blood magic ritual… there weren’t enough of them to be the Magisters, technically, but that is usually what it looks like when we see them in DA art so I’m going to assume that’s them for now. I mean that’s wild if that’s what it is bc that was such a long time ago? Thee guys have really been playing the long game I guess

- The other person they directly influenced seems to be Bartrand, which is really easy because who the fuck gave him that damn map? We NEVER found out who pointed Bartrand to the Thaig! Someone did it, and they probably did it on purpose! It may as well be these guys

- the rest of the villains don’t get guys whispering to them, so I have to assume they mean to imply that they just set up the circumstances that would lead to these people gaining power. I mean someone sent the Carta to the Vimmark mountains, right? And there was like some weird demon there, too.

-So basically they’re just implying that these people have been manipulating events to make sure that shit in Thedas is hitting the fan all at once, which does kind of explain the frankly improbable number of world-ending events that have happened during the Dragon Age. I mean, three Blights, two Magisters, two Evanuris, Antaam invasion, major mage rebellion, Templar schism, and the death of the Southern Divine? It’s only been like 50 years!!! Before the Dragon Age there had only been four Blights since the Ancient Age! Shit does not normally happen this fast in Thedas

I think the phrase itself is pretty direct (also giving Southern Reach vibes). All this chaos they helped sew is reaching its culmination, and now they’re getting ready to cash in the chips. They’re coming to Thedas at the moment that all the great powers are at their weakest, when there’s basically no one to oppose them. Tevinter? Fucked. Qunari? No military anymore. Antiva? Haha! lol, even. Fereldan? Basically gone. Orlais? In shambles. Free Marches? Decimated. Anderfels? There’s like 100 Wardens left in a swamp. Nevarra? I actually don’t know, maybe the lichlords can do something. Maybe Rivain could field some token resistance if they didn’t get hit by the Antaam too badly, but that’s kind of it IMO. This is THE time to come in and conquer(?) the land, or whatever they’re trying to do. Kill everybody?? Turn them into Darkspawn? Who knows!

Some speculation about what could be done to repel invasion:

- shit ton of blood magic

- fix titans, wake them up??? But idk if they’d be into it

- adaari, but idk if there are that many

- people with dragon blood, like the Theirins, are maybe super special and can do things?

- pirates, baby!!! Woooooo!

- I guess Mythal could know something? She can see the future a bit

- dragon army! Dragon army!!

[eyesxxyou]

𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖆 🏴‍☠️🐚

| i. one| pearly white eyes

🐚・・・pirate!Hobie x mute!siren!reader.

𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱: blood. death. decompostion. mentions of person being eaten. reader is caged. mention of selling reader.

↳ ❝ If only the sea would love him back. How unrequited his adoration was ��

𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

“Da ocean is no’cha friend, ‘Obie. It’ll chew ya up ‘n spit’cha ou’ ‘n there won’ be a trace of ya left.” His mother would grab his chin when he was young and gazed at the ocean for too long, hypnotized by the lapping waves at the shore, like it was coaxing him toward it. He’d stand there, body swaying with the sea back and forth back and forth, its song luring him closer. She’d try to hurry him along as they made their way to the market from their little home.

But Hobie would linger, feet bare against the ground, toes digging into the sand. The salt of the sea carried by the wind across his nose. He closed his eyes and listened—listened to the song of the sea. The crash of the waves against the rocks below, the seagulls cawing in the distance, the ripple of the salty wind against his face. He could taste it if he stuck his tongue out.

He knew that this was what it felt like to be completely at peace.

He let his eyes flutter open slowly and suddenly he was on the beach, taller, dressed in clothing that didn’t feel like his own. The sun had barely begun to set over the horizon, painting the sky in broad strokes of lilly pink and tangerine orange. The sea was calm, gentle waves washing up on shore. It was foamy and white, wetting his leather boots. Then it was pink, then the unmistakable brown-ish color of old blood. He looked out at the sea. Red, all red.

“‘Obie.” The calming voice of his mother. Low and thickly accented. Hobie looked back down at his feet and there she was, his poor mother, lying in the wet sand almost as if she had been washed up onto shore. The sea had spit her out. Half decomposed, half eaten, with blood coming from her ears. Her eyes were open, milky white, not a single spark of life to be found within them. But she spoke, her half exposed jaw opening. “‘Obie.”

“Mama?” He couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he help her? Why was he so useless? Why couldn’t he save her?

“I’s time t’wake up, ‘Obie.” She crooned so softly, almost singing to him. 

Hobie stared down at her, unable to look away as her body slowly withered away and turned to seafoam. Unable to do anything to stop it. “Mama, ‘m sorry I couldn’ save ya. ‘M sorry. Please forgive me.” He wanted her to hold him, even if she was decaying before his eyes. He wanted to know her kindness, her warmth, her forgiveness, just one last time.

But she just looked at him vacantly, with those dead eyes of hers. Just before her face melted away into nothingness, she spoke one last time.

“Wake up.”

Hobie shot up in bed, his eyes vigorously searching about his surroundings– wide and wild with panic. He was no longer on that beach he had known so well in his youth. He sat in his cabin, aboard his ship, The Mary Jane. His mother was nowhere to be found. She hasn’t been for years. He knew that already.

He was layered in a thin film of cold sweat, his chest rose and fell with the sway of the ship. His skin glistened under the golden rays of dawn stretching her fingers across the sky to mark a new day. It caressed him, told him it would all be okay. But it offered no comfort. He reached up and wiped away a stray tear from his cheek. Hobie figured there was no use in going back to sleep. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, didn’t want to run the risk of another recurring nightmare.

Hobie left his bed, disheveled and disgruntled. He grabbed his billowy, off-white tunic shirt from off the floor and slid it on over his head before grabbing his boots to shove onto his feet on his way out of his cabin. Tossing the door open, Hobie used his arm to cover his eyes from the rising sun. His face scrunched, grimacing at the abrupt brightness that overtook him. His lip curled with distaste. He was not a morning person.

“‘mornin’, Cap’n. How’d you sleep?”

Hobie looked up at the crow’s nest where one of his crew sat happily perched, looking down at him with a smile almost brighter than the early-morning sun. His skin was a deep caramel and his dark brown hair fell over his face, only tied back by a blue scarf. Pavitr had been placed on look out and by the looks of it, he'd been up there all night. He looked tired but was trying to hide it by being energetic.

Hobie only grunted and that was all the answer Pav needed to know that he had another nightmare. Everyone on the crew knew he had them but no one had the gull to bring it up to him or try to talk to him about it. He wasn’t the type to want to talk about and no one wanted to upset him. He had given them all a home aboard The Mary Jane and asks for nothing in return besides that they never talk to him about the things they’ve heard coming from his cabin.

“Get down from there ‘n get some rest, Pav.” Hobie motioned him down as he walked away.

The rest of his crew roamed about on the deck, either preparing their swords and guns or cleaning. There wasn’t much to do between raids besides prepare for the next one to float along their path. Most delegated chores amongst themselves simply out of sheer boredom. They all nodded their heads respectfully or greeted Hobie with a quiet, “‘mornin’, Cap’n”. They must have all known. Either he had been yelling again or they could tell just by the way he carried himself with a heaviness they could all feel, he cared not for which.

Hobie made his way up to the forecastle deck where he could feel the sea wind the best. He leaned against the railing and closed his eyes as he always had when he was a child and took in the beauty of the sea through the rest of his senses. The smell of salt and fish burned his nose and the breeze kissed his slender cheeks. He could feel the coolness of his rings against his knuckles and the layered chains around his neck almost restricting him. And he loved it all.

If only he could close his eyes and make it last forever. If only the sea would love him back. How unrequited his adoration was. He’s learned to despise the ocean and her children for everything it has done to him. And he’s vowed to conquer it. In a way, that's how he loved it.

“Cap’n.” Hobie didn’t open his eyes nor did he answer but he knew who stood beside him. She tried again. “Hobie.” He opened his eyes and glanced to his side where stood Gwen, a small blonde with brilliant blue eyes and a fierce attitude. She looked up at him sympathetically, the only one willing to take the risk to talk to him about his nightmares. “How were things last night? You were talking rather loudly in your sleep.” Her fingers twiddled with each other in front of her but she never stopped looking at him.

Hobie turned his head away, his jaw tightening with discomfort. “There’s nothin’ t’say. Y’all heard i’.” He dragged his tongue along the soft inner flesh of his cheek. “I don’ think i’s something’ we need t’talk ‘bout.” He retracted. It was easy to pull away from others. No one on deck knew him like Gwen did though, but even she had limited knowledge about Hobie’s life before he took up a life at sea.

“I won’t force you to talk, I never do. But I want you to know I’m always here if you need to talk. I’m your friend before anything else.” She placed her hand on Hobie’s shoulder only for him to shrug her away. “‘M fine. Where’s ya boyfriend, Gwendy. Go bother him.” He didn’t mean for his words to come off as harsh as they had but it didn’t seem to deter her.

She leaned against the wooden railing beside Hobie and sighed, looking out at the open sea before them. The sun was rising quickly, still red. The sea was as red as freshly spilled blood. She opened her mouth to speak but paused. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she looked out into the distance. “Is that a ship?”

Hobie perked up and squinted his eyes as well. It was indeed a British royal navy ship, the sails only half unraveled, just wading through the shallow waters entirely directionless. There seemed to be no one on the deck. There was something off about it. If he could see them with just his bare eyes then they could certainly see The Mary Jane, so why weren’t they attacking? They were certainly within range.

“Prepare the cannons but don’ fire jus’ yet. Ge’ ready to board.”

Gwen gave one firm nod and marched off to direct the rest of the crew who jumped up with enthusiasm and began scuttling about the deck in preparation. Finally, some excitement.

Hobie took his place at the helm of the ship, steering closer to the navy ship with an air of caution settling over the deck. “Fire a warning shot.” He commanded with authority that everyone respected. Within minutes there was a fire shot at the ship and before they knew it a white flag was being flown over the navy ship. They had given up without so much as a fight.

He was sure it must be a trap, a farce to get him to lower his guard. Hobie grabbed his sword and gun and rounded up some of his crew to board the navy ship with him while the others stayed behind to protect the Mary Jane from attack. He gathered Pav, Gwen, Miles, as well as a handful of others and took them with him.

Hobie boarded the navy ship with a heavy thump of his boots, his saber unsheathed in preparation for an attack. His eyes shifted back and forth, ringed fingers gripping the handle of his sword with a hold so tight his knuckles paled. He was soon followed by the rest of his crew, all equally as cautious.

“Search the ship, bring me everyone you can find.”

His crew split up and began to scour the ship for any people or loot they could find. Most of the crew were still asleep and were summarily caught with their pants down. Quite literally, as some were brought to Hobie in only their underwear. Including the captain or the ship who was tied up and brought before Hobie, shoved to his knees.

Hobie held the tip of his sword to the captain’s throat. He was an older, pale man with graying hair, round and fat with lack of work. He looked cowardly, afraid of the fate that lay before him. “We surrendered, take whatever you please. But leave us our dignity.” The man pleaded dramatically and Hobie found himself wanting nothing more than to slit the man’s throat and be done with it. He was not in the mood for being merciful after the night he’s had.

“Why did y’surrender so easily?”

The captain trembled. “We were raided by pirates just a day ago. We were in no position to fight. Most of our men were lost. Please, I beg.” He laced his fingers together only for Hobie to press his sword to his throat and draw the slightest bit of blood. “I wonder why I don’ believe ya.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Cap’n.” Miles came from the hold below the deck and motioned Hobie to come. “You’ll want to see this.” He shifted with distress and urgency. His golden, brown eyes shifted between Hobie and the lower deck where he, Gwen, and Pav all resided.

“Watch all of ‘em.” Hobie commanded the rest of his crew. “Don’ hesitate to kill anyone who ge’s outta line.” He looked back down to the white man before him before marching past him in firm strides towards the hold. Hobie followed Miles down, his sword still drawn.

It was dark in the hold and the smell of stale ale and old fish stung in his nose. The dim light of a lanturn offered just enough light to see exactly what Miles had beckoned him down for. He had seen you.

You were the most hauntingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. Pav and Gwen stood around the cage you were in; Miles joined them, all of them staring with something of wonder or horror, it was hard to tell which. Maybe it was a bit of both. Maybe they were one in the same.

You had eyes like the freshest milk he's ever seen, eyes like pearls, white and sparkling, all wide and framed with long lashes that stuck together with the tears that ran down your cheeks and over quivering lips that undoubtedly hid the horror of your fanged teeth. Shimmering scales like iridescent pearls showed up in small patches over your skin, on your shoulders, your forearms and your calves. You were akin to a human, minus the scales, your finned ears, and the fins that stuck out of the backs of your forearms and legs. You were covered in strings of pearls that hung around your neck and over your hips, shells, and coverings made of seaweed. 

You were something divine, something not of this world, something so terrifyingly gorgeous. Hobie knew exactly what you were.

“I’s a fuckin’ siren.” Hobie marched forward, his face stone-like with dispassion. He grinded his teeth almost to dust. His lip curled with disgust and his eyes lit up with fury. “Open the cage so I can kill the tin’.” They all looked at him with something of fear and worry. They had never seen him so furious about anything.

“Shouldn’t we think about this?” Pav stood between you and Hobie, his brows furrowed. “It’s hurt.” He looked back at you and saw the dried blood caked onto your skin originating from a large wound in your shoulder. “Shouldn’t we ask more questions? Why do they have a siren locked up in the first place? We should all be dead right now but we’re not.”

“Plus, sirens are useful. They cost a lot on the market.” Gwen piped up.

They were right. Hobie didn’t want to admit it but they were right. Siren's blood was highly valuable and was used to heal illnesses and injuries. Their scales were used to make jewelry as well. They were highly sought after and would make a good bounty but hunting them was incredibly dangerous. It’s rare that anyone actually captures one. They're known to bring entire ships to the bottom of the sea where they’d eat their victims.

Hobie sighed. He’d save himself a lot of trouble if he just killed you before you drowned the whole lot of them. “Keep them in the cage for now.” He turned on his booted heels and made his way back onto the upper deck. Everyone was just where they had been. He stood before the captain of the ship once more and glowered at him. “Wha’s with the siren? Y’should all be dead righ’ now.”

“I- We captured it for his majesty…he wants to make a zoo of the things, but it’s broken. Can’t sing. Figured…we jus’ might sell it on the market for parts. You– you can have it. Just leave us.” He smiled as he offered you to him, wearily and desperately. Something about the offer disgusted Hobie. The selling of flesh, even if it wasn’t that of a human, was morally reprehensible in his book.

With one swift motion of his sword, Hobie slit the captain’s throat and watched as he fell to the deck, choking and gurgling on his own blood. Blood splattered onto Hobie’s face at the initial spray and down the rest of his body as the captain collapsed.

He stepped on the captain’s body as he made his way back down to the hold to figure out if he should do just the same with you. Your kind killed hundreds in your lifetime, thousands even. Your kind lured people to their deaths by way of seducing them with everything they desired in life. There was something quite despicably sinister about it.

Hobie came back and stood before you, your frail, injured body. You looked up at him with those milky white eyes that almost made him flinch. He couldn’t bear to look at you, the way you wept, as if you were crying for your life. How could such a thing look so perfect while crying? He cursed his feelings, his empathy, his humanity. Would a being like you even understand something like that? Something as complex and beyond comprehension as human emotion? He barely understood it himself.

“Let it go.”

Gwen and Miles fiddled with the lock until they managed to break it open and let you free. You didn’t move for a bit, your eyes flicking from side to side at all of them to see what they would do. You trembled with fear, you sobbed in choking gasps. Hobie knew that sirens were meant to be alluring, that’s how they captured their victims, but he didn’t know one could look so pretty while crying.

After a while of stillness, you finally began to move. You crawled out of the small cage you had been locked in, wincing at the pressure put upon your injured shoulder until you stood up. You were a fragile thing, looking between the four of them as they all stood back and watched you. They were waiting for the moment you’d flip, the moment you’d sing your hypnotizing song and convince them to all jump ship.

“You’re free.” Hobie moved out of the way, sheathing his sword to show he meant no harm. He did it despite all signals in his mind telling him this was a terrible idea. “No one will kill ya, no one will sell ya. Yer probably gonna die from ya injuries anyway. Jus’ go.” If you remained in his presence any longer, he may just lose it. Your kind stole innocent people from their families. Monsters, the whole lot of you.

But you didn’t move, you just stared at him, blankly, blinking with those pretty lashes of yours. Your lips formed into the smallest pout.

Hobie sighed. “Don’cha understand me?” Sirens were meant to understand all languages.

You nodded, tears still streaking your pretty face.

“Then go, go now, before I change my min’.” He gritted his teeth and pointed towards the door, moving further out of the way to give you more room to leave. You hesitated just for a moment before beginning to walk on shaky legs and bare feet. You look at them all as you pass them but you stop in front of Hobie and stare– just stare for a long, drawn out moment. You stare even when he turns his face away from yours because he can’t bear to look into those eyes.

That’s when you begin to run. You scramble off up the stairs, soon followed by Hobie, Miles, Gwen, and Pav, and they all watch as you climb and stand on the edge of the boat. You look back one last time at Hobie before turning back towards the sea and diving overboard.

They all rush to watch you swim away. All except Hobie, who can’t stop thinking about those pearl white eyes.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Sergeant Riley can't settle so he goes for a walk. He follows the warm sound of a guitar right to Price's room. Inspired by that one loading screen and how it might have come to be.

CW: Simon Riley's life., Scousier Price than usual (because I fancied it, headcanon that he trained himself out of his accent as he got promoted, and, as a friend hypothesised, Price wouldn't codeswitch when it's just him and Simon).

Simon wasn't sure where he was going when he left his bunk and started walking. There were only so many times he could type out and delete the same fucking message, blue light illuminating his face in the darkness - are you using again? is he still out the house? are you eating? is she out of hospital yet? are you alive? - before he chewed his way out of his own fucking skin.

He didn't press send because he knew being left on read was worse than not sending the message at all. And yet, he still couldn't stop typing out those words.

As he prowled through the dark corridors, Simon remembered the words of some English teacher way back when; the definition of madness was doing the same shit over and over and expecting the same outcome. She'd said it in a clipped southern accent (and used a different word to 'shit') while handing him a referral note for internal exclusion, but her words had stuck more than the five hours staring at the wall.

Maybe he was mad. Any trooper or officer that found him lingering in the hallways, a hulking shadow with even darker circles beneath his eyes, would definitely fucking think so.

He wondered what that pretty young English teacher would say if she knew he punched people for queen and country rather than because they'd slagged off his mum now. She'd probably give him that same look they all had at the time. Pity.

Simon tapped each of his fingers to his thumb as he rounded the corner and stormed down the next corridor. It was 0300. A strange halfway point in the night when no one was awake, not the late workers who still had reports to finish or the early risers that liked to get a few fasted sets in at the gym before breakfast. It was just Simon, alone with the clutter banging around his skull and the itch beneath his skin.

By the time he reached the officer's corridor, he was worrying away at the already sore cuticles of his left hand, if only to stop grinding his teeth into a dull ache. Simon stopped at the far end and slumped against the wall, grey slab concrete cool through his sweat-soaked shirt. Then he heard it through the thrum of blood in his ears and the clutching tightness of his own shaking breaths: Johnny Cash.

At least he thought it was. Pretty certain. He followed the sound like a wrecking ship followed the beam of a lighthouse. Something to latch onto so he didn't drown in the winter sea of his own fucking head. He stopped outside the door, his shoulder against it, and closed his eyes.

It reminded him of peace and home. In the few moments of stability, his da always played Johnny Cash. Tommy was clean, no arguments, no alcohol, no violence. Just the summer sun beaming through the net curtains and the smell of cheap sausages on the BBQ in the garden as Simon thrashed Tommy on the PS1. As that husky voice played through their battered living room stereo, the Rileys could almost pass as normal.

"Are y'gonna stand out there all night, la?"

The music had stopped and Simon's eyes snapped open. He hesitated in the darkness, weighing up whether he could get away with sneaking off, but Price was the kind of man to follow up on weird shit. He was thorough like that. So Simon squared his shoulders and nudged the door open. "Lieutenant," he murmured, dipping his chin.

Price was sitting by his open window, the guitar slung across his lap. He examined Simon for a beat, his head tilted, shrewd blue eyes squinting. Once he'd seen what he was looking for, he looked away and moved the capo up the fretboard. "Struggling to get ya head down?"

"Yeah." Simon glanced around the room. If you looked closely, there were a few indications of character visible in the cracks in military perfection: the Liverpool FC scarf across the back of the desk chair, the football shoved under the bed, the fishing magazines sticking out the bin, and the ash tray on the windowsill. The bed was unmade, suggesting Price had made an effort to sleep and given up. "Could say the same for you, that."

Price hummed noncommittally. "Tomorrow's chocka, so I sacked it off for some time to meself." He glanced up and then followed Simon's eyeline down to the guitar again. "You play?"

"Naw," Simon shook his head. "Just recognised Johnny Cash. Me old man likes 'im." He glanced at the bed and the desk.

Price snorted and jutted his chin towards the bed. "Sit down, ya muppet."

Simon's arse hit the mattress like it was magnetised. Price had that effect on him. The moment Simon had learned Price was the best by every metric the SAS had, he'd got it in his head that he wanted to impress, to emulate. Every order and every shred of praise was eagerly consumed because it got Simon one step closer to filling the void of purpose in his chest.

"Yours too, huh?" Price strummed his fingertips over the strings, the note barely registering. "Strange, that."

"He teach ya?" The most his own da had taught him was to roll a decent spliff.

"Not a bloody chance," Price said, "Learned while I was at camp as a kid, like. It got me outta washin' my own dishes. Bit of Wonderwall... y'know."

"Not a lot's changed then."

"Watch it. Still got to approve the details for next week."

There was no heat to the threat. Price was shifting his fingers through the motions of what Simon assumed were chords without strumming. Something had flashed across Price's face at the mention of his da and the camp. Simon has got good at reading faces; if something was gonna turn violent, it was your first warning sign. He'd seen the flicker at the corner of Price's mouth, the flinch at the corner of his eye, and...

"Sommat on my face?"

"Just that bum fluff you're tryin' to grow inta beard, sir."

"Ahh, ya fuckin' git, s'not that bad." Price ran a hand over his jaw with a smirk. "Like to see you get close ta all this."

Despite himself, Simon grinned back. It was a small one; no flashing of teeth, more a flicker compared to a normal person. But it was there. Something dark, heavy and cold slithered out of his chest and he breathed a deep sigh.

"So, not a Cash fan, what're'ya inta? Moody bastard like you, mid-twenties, sommat like--" Simon recognised the tune after the first few chords from the playlists of one of Tommy's girlfriends. She'd been into that emo scene shit, with the side fringe and the mouth full of metal. "With bloodshot eyes, I watch you sleeping, the warmth I feel beside me is slowly fadi-- ah, nah?" Price grinned at the perplexed look on Simon's face.

"Dunno, never really had favourite music." He'd never really considered it. In the house, they listened to whatever his da wanted, and it wasn't like he could ever afford to own an iPod. "What did ya play at the camps?"

Price snorted. "Kumbaya."

"Bullshit."

"Nah. Camp coordinator were an arlarse. Nothin' too risque."

"But Wonderwall were fine."

"Eh, don't look at me, fella. They're one've yours."

Simon grimaced. Not one of Manchester's finest exports, but he wasn't gonna let that fly. "Hot shit comin' from a Scouser who ain't had a hit band since the Beatles."

"Oer, I'll give ya tha'." Price leaned back and strummed out a few chords of 'Hey Jude', and then changed. They sat in companionable silence as Price strummed through a mash up of familiar tunes. Simon watched his hands, the agile twitch of his fingers over the strings, and grew so focused he stopped covering the damage of his own.

"Ya know, if that gets infected on ops, could become a problem," Price said, indicating Simon's hands with a jut of his chin.

Simon clamped his fingers into his palms. "I'll get it looked at."

Price sat back, one arm folded across the top of the guitar, a finger tapping lightly against the wood. Simon would have given anything to know what he was thinking, if only to banish the Maelstrom of condemnation his own mind was conjuring to fill the gap. "Here, take this."

"What?" Before Simon could protest, the guitar had been thrust into his lap.

"It'll keep ya hands occupied, stop yet pickin' 'em to pieces."

"But I can't fuckin' play."

"Yet." Price shuffled his chair forward and took Simon's hand. "Loosen ya wrist, ya meff. There'yar. Right, gotta press a bit harder. Gonna teach you Smoke on Water. Be playin' Oasis' back catalogue before ya know."

So Simon sat there as Price patiently positioned his fingers and helped him strum through his first song. Every time he nailed a transition or struck a clear chord, he got praise and it made the itch beneath his skin turn into a buzz. He wasn't stupid. He knew this warm reaction wasn't love, or even a crush; it was the reaction of a kicked shelter dog being shown the tiniest morsel of kindness. It should make him feel sick, but he was too enraptured by the fact his hands were making fucking music. Not violence, not pain or death. Music.

They must have been sat there for over an hour, because there was light peaking over the windowsill when Price leaned back to grab his baccy and roll ups from under the desk. As he prepped his ciggy, Simon's eyes rolled up to the ceiling to the smoke detector, and he smirked when he noted the wires hanging out.

"Sommat ta say, sergeant?" Price asked as he set the roll up between his teeth and struck his lighter.

"Naw, sir. Just thinkin' how I wanna be like you when I grow up."

Price snorted. "You wanna be better than me, Simon." He chucked his lighter onto the desk. "And you will be. Just gotta get your head straight."

Simon placed the guitar on Price's bed. "How'd you do it? Get your head straight..."

"Practice," Price nodded towards the guitar as he tapped ash out his window, "and distractions."

Some things would always be there. Some things... never healed. That flicker in Price's face when he'd spoke about home didn't come from nought; it was like looking in a fucking mirror. "I can do that."

"I know ya can."

They watched the smoke of Price's cigarette curl out the window together, and Simon felt the cold, icy talons of last night recede, and then...

"Price, if Riley's done sucking your dick, get to the mess! And if you're fucking smoking, I'm gonna rip your balls off."

"Yessir, right away, sir." Price pinched the end of his ciggy and lobbed it out the window, flapping a hand to dispense the last of the smoke. The other dismissed Simon out the door with a jabbing thumb, removing him from the scene should their good captain decide to perform a snap inspection.

The guitar thing... yeah, Simon took that and ran. It wasn't long before he bought his own out of a Cancer Research charity shop and downloaded sheet music over the base WiFi. Every time shit became too loud, his head too full of clutter, he sat somewhere quiet and strummed until his fingers were sore.

Years later, after Roba, after Price wrenched Simon from a hurricane of self destruction, held him under the torrent of a cold shower as Simon had wailed into his chest, only to find Ghost glaring back when the dust had settled, Simon would return to the guitar again.

This time the songs were a little different, a little softer, because his motivation - the thing that drove him crazy, that filled his head - had a shitty fucking mohawk and blue eyes that bore right through him. Johnny loved it when he played. And if Johnny asked, Simon would play til the gates of hell opened up.

[felassan]

EA site update:

"The Dread Wolf Rises Dragon Age Day 2023 Happy DA Day to our friends across Thedas!"

"[Mark] Dragon Age has always been a franchise about characters. Characters to fall in love with or to learn to loath. Those characters need a place in which to live, to fight, and to love—a place that shapes them and the events they find themselves swept up in. Today we explore the place they call home that forms the stage for everything that you do: Thedas. Corinne and the Dragon Age: Dreadwolf team have created a game that celebrates the rich and varied past of the franchise while crafting new experiences and stories. It has been incredible to come back to BioWare and see all of the progress they’ve made, and I’m excited for some of that world to be shared with all of you today. [Corinne] Thank you, Mark! I fondly remember playing each entry in the Dragon Age franchise, being completely immersed and enamored in the world you all had built. It amazes me to be here now, working alongside you and the team, to bring new stories and characters (not to mention a few returning characters) to all of the fans of the franchise. Dragon Age: Dreadwolf is the product of hard work and love. We know how much this world means to all of you, how these experiences stay with you. We want to get it right, so we’ve taken our time. We're so excited to join in this celebration of all things Dragon Age and the incredible fandom that surrounds it. Within the dev team, we’ve been eagerly awaiting Dragon Age Day as the enthusiasm, stories, charity, and artwork you share motivates us to be our best and create new experiences for all of you. To celebrate DA Day, we’re sharing a look at a few of the in-game locations you’ll explore on this new adventure (and perhaps a little more for those who listen closely). The stage is set. The Dread Wolf is ready to make his move. Oh, and one last thing before I go… In summer 2024, we’ll be fully revealing Dragon Age: Dreadwolf to you! We honestly can’t wait. See you all in Thedas, — Corinne Busche, Game Director & Mark Darrah, Sr Production Advisor"

"You’ve visited the lands of Thedas thrice before in our games and many more times in comics, books, art, and short stories. This time, you’ll be venturing to places unseen and returning to places from long ago. To celebrate Dragon Age Day, we wanted to show you some of those sights. [link to new trailer] We stand on the precipice of change. This is a world brimming with stories and characters waiting to meet you. The fate of this world teeters on the edge of a knife. In past games, you only got to see a slice of the world. In Origins, it was Ferelden—a land ravaged by war and Dark Spawn. In II, it was Kirkwall and its locales—festering with corruption and a dark underworld. And in Inquisition, you ventured across much of Orlais—facing down political intrigue as often as combat."

"This time, however, much more of Thedas is yours to see. The desolate, beautiful badlands of the Anderfels with curtains of distant mountainous spires. The twisting canals and gleaming towers of Antiva, where Crows may lurk in any shadow. The turquoise seas of Rivain with its rushes of greenery and hardy sea-faring people. And of course, there’s more."

"We felt this was best for the tale we wanted to tell this time and we hope you enjoy it as much as we have! It’s allowed us to create many more locations than past games, including both some you’ve longed to go to…and some you’ve never heard of before!"

"To help capture the wonders of Thedas, we partnered with three wonderful artists from our exceptionally talented community and gave them an early look at what you’ve now seen. We’ve always been so fortunate to have such an incredibly skilled community of artists, and getting to work with these three was a true joy! We asked each of them to create a vista of one of the three regions in the video based on their interpretation of it in their own unique styles. Please enjoy their wonderful work, and be sure to send them some love when you check out their personal channels for more of their art!" [link to art]

"Turning our focus to your closest kitchen, if you’re looking for a fun gift this holiday season or want to try some Thedosian dishes yourself, we’ve got you covered with Dragon Age: The Official Cookbook: Tastes of Thedas from our partners, Insight Editions! This project was lovingly crafted by the author, Jessie Hasset, as well as members of our team who have an affinity for the kitchen and a love of cuisine."

"The cookbook features recipes suited to all skill levels, but we know that jumping in may be a daunting task for some. To help you out, we’ve partnered with MisoHungrie, a wonderful YouTuber who specializes in cooking, with a particular knack for video game and entertainment-related dishes. If you’re looking for a place to start on your culinary journey, check out his video and follow along. And be sure to let us know what you think of these Thedosian delights! In addition to this, there are two giveaways you should keep an eye out for! For the first, our friends over at Insight Editions are giving away five copies of the cookbook on their social channels, so be sure to check them out. And it doesn’t end there. For those of you who decide to try your hand at making a culinary delight from the book (including one of the ones we’ve released separately), be sure to follow our own Dragon Age social channels for the second giveaway. Keep an eye out for the opportunity to submit your creation for a chance to win a BioWare Gear Store package, including the brand-new Morrigan romance bundle! Details on that giveaway will be posted next week."

"As we mentioned earlier this year, we’ve partnered with Dark Horse to create a digital package of all their comics for Dragon Age and Mass Effect on Humble Bundle. Visit the Humble Bundle page to find out how our partners are working to support Child’s Play, an organization that seeks to make the lives of children in hospitals more comfortable through the enjoyment of games. There’s no better time than the holidays to bring a smile to someone’s face. BioWare is also supporting a few local charities this month that focus on helping the most vulnerable in our communities via food banks. This includes the Edmonton Food Bank, the Greater Vancouver Food Bank, Les Banques alimentaires au Québec, and the Central Texas Food Bank. All of them provide food to thousands of people each month and rely on kindhearted donations and volunteers. If you’re wanting to give back this holiday season, please consider supporting Child’s Play or donating to your local food banks. Many communities also accept non-monetary donations of canned, dried, and packaged goods, clothing, and other useful supplies. However you choose to support those in need, know that every bit helps and can make a big difference in someone’s life, whether they’re in your community or around the world."

"An insult that he took as a badge of pride. An insult to inspire hope in his friends and fear in his enemies. That is what Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, truly is. Not a man who sees himself as evil, but someone who believes he’s fighting for a good cause and is willing to get his hands dirty. This long-awaited chapter of Dragon Age is fast approaching—the time close at hand. We’ll see you next summer with answers to your questions, including ones you have yet to ask. With that will come our full reveal including new trailers, gameplay, and—of course—the long-awaited release date. The Dread Wolf will rise once more and we’ll have much more to share with you as we approach Summer 2024. Please keep an eye on our social channels for all the latest information on Dragon Age: Dreadwolf’s reveal and beyond. Know this, though: The Dread Wolf has not been idle these past years. His reach is far, and soon his plans will come to fruition—a cataclysmic rejoining of magic and realms hundreds of years in the making. Will you be able to stop him? We hope so. Always believing in you,             — The Dragon Age Team"

[source and full post]

[marigold-hills]

Oh I am so jumping in here.

Can you give us a dreamy summer wolfstar first kiss/get together, but put it in YOUR nostalgic summer. Like whatever that means for you. Where are they? What are they eating/drinking? What is the air like? The lighting? The smells and sounds?

I humbly bow before your altar take my compliments on your prose and pacing and metaphors as my offering 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

Hey! Loved this ask. It completely run away from me. Hope you enjoy it! (Also you said altar and offering and well. Those words clearly stayed with me.)

It’s wine and bread, a fancy cheese selection from Tesco’s. A little plastic pot of olives. No blanket, because they’re not tourists and don’t mind a bit of sand as seasoning.

The storm is coming in.

They can see it, across the vastness of water, darkening the horizon and stretching through the sky like spilled ink.

Recreating exactly how it was the first time, years ago:

Remus had said there’s a storm tonight. We should go and watch it.

On the beach? Sirius had asked, a bit bewildered. The wind was already picking up, and the logistics of sitting out in the open during a downpour didn’t enamour him.

Remus, undeterred, prepared a backpack. I know a place, he said, we’ll be hidden from the rain. Trust me?

And Sirius did: with his life, with his time. Followed him off the main promenade and across the dunes until they reached a hidden spot of sand: a bay, of sorts, with a railway bridge backed into the cliff side. The arches of its support beams only faced open towards the water, secluded otherwise by brick and clay.

“Used to come here with da, when I was a kid,” Remus told him: “there are fossils in the clay if you know where to look. Come out after heavy rain best, maybe we’ll find something tomorrow.”

They set up under one of the arches. Remus built a stone circle at the mouth of it, stacked it with sticks and driftwood he’d collected on their way. Set a crumpled wad of receipts from his pocket on fire and used it as kindling.

“Impressing me with your caveman skills here, Moony.” Sirius had known, of course, that wild streak within Remus, seen it shine through sometimes when he let his guard down, but this was something new. Large hands stoking the flame as it slowly engulfed the given wood, eyes alight with its reflection. Sirius felt a pull at his navel like a fishhook: handle me like this, the pull said.

He’d made a mistake, maybe, following Moony back to his parents’ house for the summer after their graduation. A miscalculation of how much he could stand watching him, in the summer heat, with sea breeze curling his hair.

Red wine, a couple paper cups. Sirius didn’t like it then yet: not like he pretended to, and it was a cheap bottle from the middle shelf. The aftertaste was sharp, it stayed on his tongue and the insides of his cheeks - dry, clinging.

Cheeses Remus had cut into cubes. Pungent Stilton with dark blue veins, Brie, white skin coating the creamy interior, fruity Wensleydale filled with cranberries.

They sat side by side by the fire as the storm hit. The rain a heavy curtain in front of them, the wind making their fire dance erratically. Sirius had never seen it like this, surprised by the intensity of the smell of salt in the air. Despite the cover, a thin mist of spray hit his face when the wind blew just right.

Remus had made him a canapé of sorts, spread a chutney on a finger-torn piece of sourdough and topped it with the Stilton. He ate it in one bite. Asked for another, just like it, the taste round and warming, somehow.

“It’s the chutney,” Remus said. “There’s chilli in it. Try an olive.”

A new thing, this, being presented with food like offerings. Remus watched each bite Sirius took with an intent, as if they were eating something rare and costly. Like this, with the storm above them and the fire in Moony’s eyes, Sirius felt each mouth full was something precious, something to be cherished. A worship, and he wasn’t sure if he was the god being praised or the offering on the altar.

They’d almost finished the bottle when Remus asked want to swim? With such wonderful abandon that Sirius didn’t even hesitate. Yes, he said, and they took off their trousers and shirts and walked hand in hand into the water.

The first crack of thunder rang out when they were knee deep. Remus laughed, free and loud like a curlew, head thrown back into the falling rain. The sky turned white with the lightning and Sirius thought it’s you, that needs to be worshipped.

Moments like this, though, something Sirius didn’t know: it’s too easy, for thoughts to be said aloud.

Remus turned to him like a trap closing. “Is that right?”

“You look like a god of the sea.”

(Another break of thunder, a wave sweeping into them, rough with the storm but soft like a touch.)

Remus took his hand, pulled him further into the water. There were raindrops caught in his eyelashes, and Sirius realised I’m close enough to touch them. He did, shaky fingers, as lighting lit them up. The water made Remus’ curls heavy and darker, sat on his skin in a fine sheen. “I want to lay you out onto the sand,” Sirius thought-said, “trace the path of every raindrop.”

“You’ll be at it for hours.”

“As long as you’ll let me.”

The first time they kissed, Remus tasted like salt.

NOTES:

I feel compelled to point out: everyone. Please don’t drink and swim! Don’t swim in the storm! Especially not in the sea.

I don’t know how I didn’t realise before you’re the person who wrote The Homecoming of Sirius Black??? I LOVED it. Honestly the fact that you enjoy my writing feels like such a massive compliment.

[sam-keeper]

The Visitor aka STRIDULUM (1979)

Ha ha yeah, wooo YEAH

da daaaaa dadadaDAA DAAA DAAAAAAA DADADAAAAA DADADADADA DA DAAAAA YEAH!!!!

This is the most prog rock movie I've ever seen in my life. This is spiritually being painted on the side of a van. Does it have a good plot that makes sense? I don't know, asshole, does Emerson Lake and Palmer's seminal classic Karn Evil 9 part 2 have a good plot that makes sense? I'm telling my kids The Visitor (1979) is Star Wars.

I noticed a pattern when looking at other reviews of this film: they fall back on comparisons, as a slight. Well, it's sort of The Omen, and it's sort of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and it's sort of Carrie, and a little Battlestar Galactica and maybe The Birds... which all sounds very derivative, I suppose, until you actually a movie smashing all those things together, and realize, wait a minute, that's bonkers. It feels like critics grasp for these comparisons while foundering in The Visitor's psychedelic sea, desperate for a point of stability. None of these references offer stable landmarks, though, if you hope to predict where the film will veer next in its crazy pursuit of cool ideas and weird setpieces.

Not that the comparisons are totally off base, mind. This IS the story of Katy Collins, a Wicked Little Kid in the vein of the Omen's Damien or Carrie's... Carrie. It's just that this generic convention of the Bad Seed gets set up at the beginning of the film with a bizarre cosmic encounter between an old space wizard and an apparition of the devilish little girl in what looks like a blizzard on mars, followed by a whole ass monologue by "A Jesus Figure" about cosmic psychic spirits of good and evil dueling it out across the planets, delivered to a bunch of bald, white robed children. Hell yeah. But! But. Katy Collins is otherwise a classic, average evil psychic kid who kills people with telekinesis. And uses it to rig professional basketball matches for her shitty step dad, possibly at the behest of the satanic businessmen he answers to who are REALLY giving some serious drone hive vibes what with the way they all turn their heads at the same time. Oh and she's got a pet hawk that murders people at her behest. No, trust me though, it's a really derivative movie. Not like the movies we have now like uhhhh

[sweating] uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Better touchstones than typical blockbuster fare might be the mind-expanding chaos of paperback epics--Clive Barker's Great and Secret Show, King's Dark Tower, Morrison's The Invisibles. Here's some other fun facts: it was directed by Giulio Paradisi (it's a heavily italian production) but he directed it under the brilliant name "Michael J Paradise". The italian title was "Stridulum", which I guess is latin for something like a harsh or shrill sound or shriek, which fits the whole repeating War Between Birds motif and the use of bird cries in the soundtrack. Oh, and one of the guys playing basketball in the first scene with Katy is Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, actual famous athlete. It's sort of a bizarre and improbable movie!

But I don't think I'd be nearly so dazzled by all the crazy shit this film throws at the audience if not for Katy herself, played brilliantly by a young child star Paige Conner. She's written and performed in a way that suggests malice, yes, but a childish malice, a bit of a put-on, a belligerent front that gets more and more petulant and uncontrolled as John Huston as the space mystic Jerzy (yes) Colsowicz (get it) confronts her with the limits of her own powers. There's this sequence where Jerzy and Katy play pong against each other. Jerzy, smiling, accuses her cheating by speeding up the game with her powers. Katy, giggling genuinely, gloatingly informs him that no, she sped up the game using a switch on the game console. Later in the film she tries to drop a fire escape on his head, of course. In that conversation, though, there's this charming chemistry between them, the chemistry of a smart young person and an older adult willing to treat her, not as a peer exactly, but as a thinking being, not just a Thing to be smacked into shape. This dynamic is crucial to the climax of the film and its ultimate conviction that no matter how ghastly Katy is, there's more than just evil to her, which might not be the most seasonally horror-forward message but is honestly pretty damn refreshing. Like I don't know if The Visitor is as good a film as The Omen (ok, I know that obviously it's not) but on balance it's probably got its heart more in the right place. Perhaps notably along those lines, one of the horror subplots of The Omen involves possibility of a woman getting an abortion, whereas The Visitor explores the possibility of a woman being impregnated against her will. While it may lose out on form, The Visitor might just win the long game on its politics.

Also some shitty teens get thrown through a plate glass window, and there's a whole sequence where a big truck's lights are treated exactly like an approaching spacecraft, and it's awesome, I don't know what to tell you, I love this shit.

Read more horror reviews like this all season on my Patreon

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Thirty-Four

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Gore!, Blood, Explicit Language, Torture.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~3.8k

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The marine wharf stretches out before you, an eerie skeleton of wood and steel under the cold moonlight. The salty tang of the sea mixes with the fresh scent of sawdust. Your footsteps echo against the unfinished planks, your heart a hammer in your chest.

Collins stumbles beside you, barely coherent, his weight a burden on your shoulders. He mumbles incoherently, eyes glazed and unfocused. You drag him toward two thick support columns that rise from the ground like ancient sentinels.

Every step sends a jolt of pain through your body, but the fire in your heart burns brighter. You have learned much from the Red-Haired Pirates—knots, navigation, resilience. Tonight, those lessons will serve you well.

With a grunt, you push Collins against one of the columns. He slumps down, his legs giving out beneath him. You quickly grab a coil of rope from your bag and begin to work, your fingers nimble and sure despite the tremor in your hands.

“Stay still,” you hiss through gritted teeth, more to yourself than to him.

Collins’ head lolls to the side as you loop the rope around his wrist and secure it tightly to the column. You pull hard on the knot, ensuring it holds fast. His other arm flops uselessly until you snatch it up and bind it to the opposite column.

You step back to assess your work. Collins is now suspended between the two columns, his body forming a grotesque parody of a anatomical drawing you had once seen, Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. A drawing you had been fascinated by before your mother had promptly confiscated it. The ropes cut into his wrists and ankles, ensuring he won’t escape easily. Shanks is an excellent teacher.

A surge of satisfaction mingles with your fury. This man who sought to own you like property now hangs helpless before you. Your breaths come in ragged gasps as you tighten each knot further, making sure there’s no slack.

His eyes flutter open briefly, confusion clouding his gaze. “Elara... what are you doing?”

Your anger flares white-hot but you manage to hold your tongue and stop yourself from lashing out, working to check each knot again, tugging harshly on the ropes to test their strength.

You turn away from the limp form of Collins, your heart pounding a fierce rhythm against your ribcage. Your anger fuels growing excitement. The cool night air whispers across your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Your breaths are sharp and clear, cutting through the silence that has fallen over the deserted wharf.

The package you retrieved from your bag feels heavy in your hands. It's more than just the physical weight of the rolled-up fabric and the steel within. It's the burden of your past, the weight of your pain, and the promise of your retribution.

You unfurl the package on a nearby table, the wood rough and unyielding beneath your touch. The knives gleam under the pale moonlight, their blades a collection of silver crescents that wink at you with deadly intent. Gab's voice echoes in your mind, a ghostly presence guiding your hand as you pick up the first knife, its handle fitting perfectly into your palm.

You work meticulously, sharpening each blade with a honing stone you had the foresight to bring along. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone is a lullaby to your vengeance, a prelude to the symphony of justice you are about to compose.

As the night wanes and the first hints of dawn paint the sky in hues of lavender and rose, you find yourself lost in thought. Each stroke of the stone against the blade conjures up images of what is to come.

You think about the ways you've been wronged, the pain he inflicted, the freedom he sought to strip away. The life he's taken. You imagine his face contorted in agony, the same expression he wore when he struck you across the face, the same look he had when he chased you down like an animal to be tamed.

The knives are not just tools of death; they are an extension of your will, your defiance, your unyielding spirit that refused to be caged by his tyranny.

You recall the lessons Gab imparted upon you, the way he taught you to hold a blade, to throw it with deadly precision, to wield it as an instrument of your liberation. How to move your wrist, how to flick and twist your fingers. The memory of his guidance fuels your determination, sharpening your focus as the dawn light dances across the honed edges of your arsenal.

You're lost in the rhythm of the stone against the blade when the first groan cuts through the stillness of the predawn air. Your heart skips a beat as Collins stirs, his movements tugging at the ropes that bind him. His eyes flutter, then open wide as realization dawns on him. He yanks at his restraints with a snarl that brings a smile to your lips.

"Who are you?" he spits, his voice laced with venom. "Release me at once, or you'll regret the day you were born!"

You pause, your finger hovering just above the edge of the blade that glints wickedly in the growing light. A smirk plays across your lips as you turn to face him, twirling the knife effortlessly in your hand. The black dress—a garment of silk and shadows—shimmers around you as you saunter toward him, each step a silent promise of retribution.

"Do you truly not recognize me?" you ask, your voice a husky whisper that slices through his threats. You trace the tip of your knife along the lapel of his uniform, the fabric parting with a soft sigh under the blade's caress. "Perhaps this will refresh your memory."

He sneers, his lip curling in disgust. "Why would I know a harlot like you?"

You laugh, a sound that cuts through the tension like a blade. "Oh, Commodore, such terrible manners! Is this how you speak to a lady?" You let the knife trace a path down his chest, slicing through the pristine fabric of his uniform with ease.

His eyes narrow, fury sparking in their depths. "You insolent—"

"Careful," you interrupt, the blade now hovering dangerously close to his throat. "Or I might think you're not enjoying our little reunion."

His frustration is palpable, radiating off him in waves. He tugs harder against the ropes, muscles straining, but the bindings hold firm. The sight of him, once so powerful and domineering, now reduced to this helpless state fills you with a dark satisfaction.

"You won't get away with this," he snarls, spittle flying from his lips.

You chuckle again, more deeply this time. "Oh, I think I will." You lean in closer, your breath warm against his ear. "You've always underestimated me, Collins."

You draw back and flick the knife with practiced ease. It slices cleanly through the fabric of his sleeve, exposing the skin beneath. A thin line of blood wells up where the blade kissed his flesh.

"Do you feel that?" you ask softly, your voice almost tender. "That's just the beginning."

His eyes widen in a mix of anger and fear. "You're mad," he hisses.

"Mad?" You tilt your head thoughtfully. "Oh no, Commodore. I'm motivated."

You move to his other side and repeat the process, your movements precise and controlled. Another slice, another thin line of blood.

"You see," you continue conversationally, "for someone who always prided himself on control and power, you're quite vulnerable right now." You run your fingers over one of the fresh cuts, smearing the blood between your fingers before wiping it on his cheek and promptly shoving his head back.

You straighten, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Do you really not recognize me?" The words drip with amusement as you tilt your head, studying his face.

Collins' eyes flare with anger, his body straining against the ropes. "Enough of these games!" he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. "Who the hell are you?"

You step back, enjoying the moment of revelation that’s about to unfold. Your hands reach up to the black wig, fingers deftly undoing the pins holding it in place. With a smooth motion, you remove the wig and shake out your lavender hair. The silken strands cascade around your shoulders, catching the light and shimmering like a river of moonlight.

His eyes widen in shock and recognition floods his features. "Linaria?" he breathes, disbelief warring with fury.

"Aria," you correct him softly, your voice steady and cold. "Linaria Bonn no longer exists."

His face twists into a mask of rage. "You little—"

Before he can finish his insult, you step closer again, brandishing the knife with renewed purpose. You trace the blade lightly along his jawline, feeling the tremor that runs through him at your touch.

"Is this how you imagined our reunion?" you whisper, leaning in so close that your breath mingles with his. "Did you think you'd find me cowering in fear? Broken by your threats?"

He glares at you, nostrils flaring with each labored breath. "I'll make you regret this," he spits out, venom lacing every word.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Regret? No, Commodore. I think you'll find regret is all yours tonight."

The knife's tip presses against his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. You watch it bead up and trail down his neck with a detached fascination. His anger radiates off him in waves but now it's laced with something else—fear.

"Do you remember," you ask quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper now, "how many times I begged for my freedom in my youth? How many times I pleaded for mercy?"

He doesn't answer, his jaw set in defiance. You pull back slightly, allowing him to see the resolve in your eyes.

"You never listened," you continue, voice steady and unwavering. "But tonight... tonight you'll hear every word."

The tension between you crackles like static electricity, the air thick with unspoken threats and promises of retribution. For once in your life, you hold all the power here and it feels intoxicating.

The fabric of his jacket parts beneath your blade like water, the sound of tearing material loud in the stillness of the morning. You peel away the layers of his uniform, each slice of the knife revealing another patch of skin. His chest heaves with anger, the muscles twitching as you trace the tip of the blade over his heart.

His shirt falls away in tatters, leaving his torso exposed to the cool morning air and your cold, calculated gaze. You carve intricate patterns into his flesh, lines of crimson that bloom against his skin like grotesque flowers. The pain brings a grimace to his face, but he does not cry out. He is too proud, too certain of his own superiority. For now…

You move lower, your knife slicing through the belt and buttons of his trousers with ease. They pool around his ankles, leaving him completely vulnerable before you. His briefs follow suit, the blade cutting through the fabric as if it were nothing more than a whisper of silk.

As you work, Collins speaks, his words a mixture of fury and disbelief. "You think you're a true pirate now?" he sneers, his voice echoing off the wooden planks of the wharf. "Just a spoiled brat playing at revenge."

You force yourself to remain calm, your breathing steady despite the turmoil raging within you. Each word he speaks fans the flames of your anger, fueling your determination to see this through.

"Why so thirsty for blood, Linaria?" he taunts, his eyes glinting with malice. "You were raised to be noble, to be soft. This isn't you."

You pause, your knife hovering just above his skin. "You're right," you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. "I was soft once. But you took something precious from me, Collins."

His brow furrows in confusion, but you see the flicker of unease in his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Your voice is steady, unwavering, as you tell him about the child you never knew you carried. The child that was lost before you ever had the chance to hold it in your arms. "You stole from me the future I could have had. A life of happiness born from love."

Collins snorts, a harsh, bitter sound. "A bastard child of a pirate? You're better off without it."

Rage boils within you, a tempest that cannot be contained and your control slips. With a swift movement, you plunge the knife into his lower abdomen. The blade sinks in up to the hilt, the impact making him gasp in pain. You twist the knife slightly, reveling in the way his face contorts, the way his body twitches against the ropes.

"That was for our child," you whisper, your lips just inches from his ear. "And this..." You pull the knife out slowly, watching as a fresh wave of blood spills from the wound. "This is for me."

You step back, your heart pounding in your chest as you watch Collins struggle against the pain, against the inevitable. His eyes meet yours, filled with hatred and disbelief. But beneath that, there is a flicker of fear. He finally realizes that he is not dealing with the naive, sheltered noble girl he once knew.

You are Aria now. And you will not be denied your vengeance.

Your wrist moves with calculated precision, each cut deliberate as you watch red bloom against his skin. The blade in your hand feels like an extension of your will, its edge parting flesh with an almost surgical precision. Death. The scent of copper mingles with the salty tang of the sea, filling your senses. Your dress, once a sleek black, now bears the marks of your retribution, each splatter of blood a testament to your resolve.

Collins' taunts are nothing more than background noise. You've learned to tune out his attempts at manipulation, focusing instead on the rhythm of your blade. He badmouths Shanks and your chosen family, but his words only fuel the fire of your determination. Each insult reminds you of the vast gulf between who he is and who you've become.

You lean in close, locking eyes with him as you carve another line across his chest. His sharp intake of breath and the tightening of his muscles feed into your sense of purpose. This close, you can see the fear lurking behind his bravado, the realization that he is powerless to stop you.

"Still think I'm just a spoiled brat?" you whisper, your voice cutting through his facade like a knife through flesh.

His glare holds no answer but defiance. "You think this changes anything?" he snarls through gritted teeth. "You're still nothing."

The knife slips beneath his skin, slicing through layers of muscle. You take your time exploring the topography of his torso with your blade, each new incision eliciting gasps and groans from Collins that spur you on.

"You talk too much," you murmur, almost to yourself as much as to him.

His face contorts through a gamut of emotions—anger, fear, disbelief—all shifting beneath the surface like shadows in murky water. His body convulses with each new cut, muscles contracting as if trying to escape the relentless onslaught.

The world around you fades into a blur of motion and sound, punctuated by the wet rhythm of the blade slicing through flesh. You're acutely aware of everything—the way his skin parts beneath the knife, the warmth of his blood spraying across your face and hands, the erratic pounding of his heart fighting to keep beating.

Even as he grows weaker and his insults turn frantic, you maintain your composure. You channel your rage into each precise movement, carving out your vengeance one agonizing cut at a time.

Finally, you step back to survey your work. Collins' body is a mosaic of pain and suffering you've inflicted upon him. His breaths come in shallow gasps; his skin is pale and clammy. There's a flicker of acceptance in his eyes as he realizes that his time is up.

Your fingers tighten around Collins' jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide with terror; arrogance replaced by dawning horror.

"Oh, no, no, no! You can't accept your fate yet," you whisper, voice chillingly calm despite the warmth of his blood coating your skin. "I haven't served dessert."

You release him with a shove, watching as his head lolls forward. Your attention turns to the array of knives laid out beside you. Each blade gleams in the dim light—a silent promise of pain yet to come.

Your hand hovers over the selection before closing around the hilt of the sharpest knife. The handle fits perfectly in your grip; its balance feels right. You turn back to Collins and let your gaze sweep over his mutilated body.

The cuts weep crimson against his pale skin. Your eyes drift lower to where he is most vulnerable—a place that once promised a lifetime of forced duty.

A slow smile curves your lips at the irony. He thought to own you for his desires but now lies exposed and vulnerable at your mercy. The power dynamic has shifted; satisfaction blooms knowing he will never wield his masculinity as oppression again. Men like him do not deserve such privilege.

With a swift motion, you bring the knife to bear on him again—tearing through muscle loudly in silence's stillness—and his screams echo off wooden planks beneath him: testament to inflicted agony by you.

You watch, almost dispassionately, as the severed parts of him fall to the ground. For a moment, they lie there, stark against the weathered wood, before a flock of seagulls descends upon them with ravenous intensity. The birds squawk and fight over their grisly prize, their beaks tearing and pulling at the flesh.

Collins' screams have turned to a wet, gurgling sound as he struggles to process the magnitude of his loss. His body convulses, blood pouring from the gaping wound between his legs. You watch, detached, as life drains from his eyes, the light within them flickering and dying like a candle caught in a gust of wind.

The knife slips from your fingers, landing on the wooden table with a dull thud. You turn away from him, your gaze drawn to the horizon where the first hints of dawn paint the sky in shades of pink and orange. The beauty of the sunrise stands in stark contrast to the horror that has just unfolded, a poignant reminder of the duality of existence.

Covered in his blood, you make your way to the edge of the dock. The salt air fills your lungs, a cool breeze tugging at the tendrils of your hair. You lift your face to the sky, allowing the first rays of the morning sun to warm your skin.

The sunrise is a riot of colors—pinks and oranges spilling across the sky like a painter’s masterpiece. Your dress, once beautiful and pristine, now clings to you in heavy, sodden folds, stained with the life that you took.

A faraway look settles in your eyes as you gaze at the horizon, your mind adrift in the aftermath of your actions. The knife lies abandoned behind you, a silent witness to the transformation you've undergone. You feel a sense of detachment, as if you're floating above it all, watching from a distance. but your heart feels so light now.

Footsteps approach from behind, growing louder and more frantic. You don't turn; you know who it is. Shanks and his crew have come for you. Their voices are a mix of concern and disbelief as they take in the scene—the mutilated body of Collins, the blood-soaked ground, and you standing amidst it all.

"Aria," Shanks calls out softly, his voice tinged with worry.

You blink, your trance broken by the sound of his voice. Slowly, you turn to face him. His eyes widen as he takes in your appearance—your beautiful dress now marred by gore, your hands still slick with blood.

"Now I am free," you whisper, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Shanks steps forward, taking your bloody hand in his. His grip is firm yet gentle, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if trying to reassure himself that you're real.

"Damn it," Yasopp grumbles from behind Shanks. "I spent all night carving Collins' name into a bullet."

The crew begins to argue amongst themselves over who was going to have the pleasure of killing Collins. Their voices blend into a cacophony of irritation and disappointment.

"Seriously, Yasopp?" Benn scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. "I had a whole plan involving some dynamite and a very inconvenient cliff."

Roux shakes his head, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. "I was gonna do it with my bare hands. Wanted to see the life drain from his eyes up close."

Shanks remains focused on you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. "Aria," he calls out again, more insistent this time.

You take a deep breath, letting the crisp morning air fill your lungs. Meeting Shanks' worried gaze, you speak with conviction. "I do not regret my actions."

Relief floods his features as he moves his hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing away a streak of blood. He sighs softly before pulling you against his chest, pulling you against his warm body. You feel his face press into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp.

"Next time you want revenge, how about you ask one of us to accompany you, you nearly gave me a heart attack, treasure." Shanks murmurs softly, his fingers pressing into the nape of your neck now.

"Would you have let me?"

You feel Shanks' hesitation, his silence speaking volumes. His hand, warm and reassuring on the back of your neck, remains steady, but he doesn't answer your question with words. The answer is a silent but obvious no.

Raising an eyebrow, you pull back slightly to look up at him. His face is a mix of relief and exasperation, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he's trying to suppress a smile despite the seriousness of the situation.

Shanks sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging a bit as he shakes his head. "Treasure," he begins, his voice soft but firm, "we need to get you back to the ship."

You tilt your head in confusion. "Why?"

His eyes sweep over you, taking in the blood-stained dress and your disheveled appearance. "Because as beautiful as you are," he says with a wry grin, "you need a bath."

The words are so unexpected that you can't help but laugh, a small sound that bubbles up from your throat. Your laughter catches them off guard. The sound is light, airy, a stark contrast to the weight of the morning’s events. Shanks looks down at you, his grin widening as you turn your sights ahead. Your brightness is back.

Date Published: 8/9/24

Last Edit: 8/8/24

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[shieldkeeper]

Writing Prompt: Steer Word Count: 765 ---> masterlist

Ahhh… blue seas, clear skies, and boundless possibilities!

Or so it should have been.

Garen’s crew had set off from Old Sharlayan once all crew was accounted for. Everyone had their own place, their own duty, and their hull full of supplies for the journey that would take a few days to cross the ocean proper. They were as ready as they’d ever be to make for the New World of Tural.

Joining him was Emrys, Totsuka, Kojin, Luin, Mogcan, Olyxio, Seiseito, and most of all his Da, Yavin. Each associating and serving as ambassador for a specific society tribe to foster friendly relations amongst their people. Tural was but another place on the docket to complete that mission, though it was also for the fact of… adventure! A land full of mystery and intrigue compared to those of Eorzea and Othard. Tale was that Tural was home to many communities and tribes that had managed to make friends with their neighbors and live amicably.

Something that intrigued Garen most in his desire to bridge that same gap back home.

Though that was neither here nor there given their… current situation.

Halfway into their journey across the western seas did they encounter a storm unlike other. Yavin had been the first to sniff it out before it so much as came into view and warned Garen that they were in for a rough one. Trusting in his Da’s knowledge and experience with the seas, as captain of his crew he called for all hands on deck. To prepare for the worst as he would steer the boat on course—for the clouds they approached spread far over their path.

Indeed, the waves grew choppy and seized round them as they entered the fray. The unexperienced of the crew holding on for dear life to their appointed spot as the vessel swayed unnaturally beneath their feet. Rain poured heavily and lightning struck hazardly all around them. One wrong move and they might very well go overboard. Worse yet if their ship ended up struck and sunken!

Through it all, Garen managed to carry them through the storm. His Da barking orders to the others much like he had in his heyday as a captain himself. Where some struggled, Yavin was right there telling them what to do. Any who appeared to have no clue what they were doing, he sent down into the ship to instead fortify their belongings and nothing of import broke—though it was mostly to get the useless hands out of the way so he himself could take over.

It was an all-out effort to be certain… and there were times Garen wondered if he might have lost a crew member amidst the struggle…

But ultimately they had escaped rather unscathed! 

Well, except for the majority who were sick as a dog from being tossed and turned all over the place.

Once they were free of the storm’s clutches completely and able to assess damages, Yavin took over the helm as Garen checked in on each member. Mogcan and Olyxio having been the most useless of the lot (and at times, made things worse) had remained below deck for the majority. Out of fear of the situation, they had unglamoured back into their original forms and were found huddled together beneath a blanket as sylph and moogle refused to come out. Not until they knew all was well again. It was Emrys who truly kept everything safe and restrained below decks in the grand scheme of things.

Kojin and Seiseito had held their own above decks just fine. Luin and Totsuka struggled but ultimately were able to assist in a meaningful way with Yavin’s direction—though they may have been a bit too sick for words after being tossed about so roughly. Garen thanked them all regardless for keeping their cool and relieved them of their duties to get some rest.

Through the rest of the journey, Yavin and Garen took turns manning the wheel and watching for any further rough waters that might take them for a turn. Though it had been a rough one, it had been the only thing standing in their way of Tural.

For the closer they got, the clearer the waters became. Seabirds ringing in their arrival as Tuliyollal came into sight. Their destination just beyond the coral reef.

At long last, the New World lay right before their very eyes. A new place to call home as they settled in for their next grand adventure. And a step closer to Garen achieving what he so wished back home.

[judyprincess]

Too Pink For me - Logan Howlett

01: The eyes of paradyse

Mutant.

It was the only word I remembered when I woke up on a hospital gurney. I was a girl of barely seven years old. The memory is as distant and blurry as a blind man without his glasses.

I couldn't even recall anything about my family or what had happened. How did I end up there? Who had said that word to me? All I saw was a man, his hand warm, his body wrapped in an expensive, elegant suit. The man who had chosen to save me from the wreckage-where the sea that drowned me was inside my own head, a storm of thoughts that made no sense, waves without memories.

"Ross"

That's what the man called me, addressing me by that name. But... was that really my name?

"Her mutation is strange. It deeply affects her body."

"It alters the melanin in her hair and eyes."

"Her eyes... they're the greenest I've ever seen."

"She's changing... her..."

Voices... the voices faded away. The white coats became nothing more than blotches dissolving into darkness as I closed my eyes once again.

_______________________________________

In a corner of Venice, the beautiful Italian city, the sun shone radiantly in the sky, signaling yet another warm day in ancient Europe.

In a small, colorful building facing the shoreline that encircled Venice, murals could be seen painted across its walls. Every house was vibrant, but this one in particular was painted white, adorned with intricate artwork that formed a cohesive mural, much like a tattoo on a person.

If you were a visitor, you might think the house belonged to an artist, or at the very least that an artist lived there-and you would be right. In this small Venetian town, there was an artist beloved by the local people. A girl who occasionally strolled through the village, and whenever she did, she was showered with compliments and kindness. Many spoke of her to visitors, as her house had become a sort of tourist attraction-a house filled with paintings reminiscent of the old art that once flourished during the reigns of kings and queens across Europe.

People came to see the house, took photos, and if they were lucky, they might even catch a glimpse of the artist herself, painting on her property. And in the whispers of the crowd, you could hear them say that this girl was as surreal and otherworldly as the very paintings she created-a vision plucked straight from fantasy.

And those were the words that Ororo and Jean-both women from the X-Men team-heard as they wandered through the lively town in search of the girl whom the locals seemed to know so well, yet not at all.

"Eh ciao..." Ororo attempted to speak a bit of Italian to get the attention of the flower stall vendor. "La casa della fantasia?"

Ororo cursed her foreign accent, hoping the man understood her, while Jean let out a small laugh at her attempt with the local language.

"Oh... Vuoi vedere la casa della Rosellina." The man smiled, realizing they were tourists eager to see the town's main attraction-the house of the artist. "Ah, la bella Rosellina. You need to follow this path and at the end, turn right."

The man gestured to Jean and Storm, his Italian accent thick but still understandable. Ororo thanked the man for his kindness in pointing them toward the artist's house.

"Grazie mille."

Jean expressed her gratitude as she and Ororo headed down the street.

Rosellina.

That's what the locals called the artist who lived in the house that resembled a living canvas. The name meant "Little Rose," a name that both mutants found intriguing-just as intriguing as the way the townspeople spoke of the girl with such affection, despite the rumors that she wasn't someone who roamed the town often.

When they reached the end of the street, they were greeted by the sight of the sea-though that wasn't difficult to find in Venice. The shore was adorned with beautiful flowers, a well-kept dock, and small canoes. Ororo thought to herself that she would love to live in a town like this, a place untouched by danger, where no one seemed to care about appearances-a place straight out of a fairy tale, where people came to escape from it all. Jean, on the other hand, couldn't imagine living anywhere other than the mansion with the rest of the team.

"The professor seems to have been right; this is a place far removed from everything. No one here seems to mind having her around. In fact, they adore her," Ororo remarked, taking a moment to appreciate the sea.

"Yes, I also found it curious how much affection they have when they speak of her. Mutants don't usually get that kind of reaction, whether you're in China or America," Jean responded, voicing her own curiosity.

What was it about this girl that made the townspeople cherish her as Rome was cherished for its magnificent ruins?

Following the vendor's directions, Ororo and Jean turned right and soon spotted, at the end of the short street, a white house decorated with beautiful hand-painted artwork. As if the house itself were a canvas, the paintings came together in perfect harmony, despite each one telling a different story. Somehow, they made sense together.

"I can see why tourists are amazed by this house," Ororo murmured, her eyes following each painting, captivated by what she saw. Was this the Casa della Fantasia?

It was a stunning sight, and for both women, it made perfect sense why so many people came to this little Venetian town just to see this enchanting house-an art piece not housed in a museum.

Rosellina must possess extraordinary talent. Could her mutation be connected to it? Ororo wondered. The fact that the house drew so many people and brought money to the town could be one of the reasons why the mutant was so beloved, but something told the silver-haired mutant that it went beyond that. The people adored her for something else.

But what was it?

"She's incredibly talented..." Jean commented with admiration, her eyes tracing the paintings that grew clearer as they approached the house.

As if the heavens wanted to answer Ororo's unspoken questions, a voice called out from the balcony.

"Do you like it?..."

A soft voice, like a melody. Ororo and Jean looked up, both surprised to see the girl standing on the balcony.

Now, Ororo could understand why the people adored this mutant, why she was the source of such admiration and the whispers of tourists who had caught a glimpse of her. Standing on the balcony was a young woman, certainly no older than 25, watching them. She had pastel pink hair, soft and delicate like silk, cascading down to her lower back. Her skin was pale as milk, her face beautifully doll-like, but what stood out the most-what fascinated both Ororo and Jean-were her eyes. They were large and the most stunning shade of green, brighter than any emerald Ororo had ever seen, glowing like the gem itself.

It was as if she were an illusion, not quite real. She looked as though she was part of the paintings themselves.

Was this the beloved Rosellina?

It took Ororo a moment, as it did for Jean, to break free from the spell of her gaze.

"My name is Ororo, and this is my colleague Jean," she introduced herself with a warm smile, looking at the girl. "Are you Rosellina?"

The girl smiled softly, kindly.

"That's right, signorina," she replied, nodding her head.

"We came to talk to you, if that's alright?" Jean stepped forward, getting to the point of their visit.

The girl observed them and laughed, as if she knew that Ororo and Jean weren't ordinary.

"Of course. Come in, the door is open," she gestured toward the door below.

The door was painted in such a way that it looked like the entrance to a forest, creating the illusion of stepping into a magical realm. What kind of mutant was this girl? Both women could only confirm more and more the words Charles had told them before their journey to Italy.

She is special.

Once inside the house, Ororo and Jean admired their surroundings. The interior had a farmhouse decor, adorned with plenty of plants and flowers. It was just as cozy and beautiful inside as it was outside. As they entered the living room where the girl was already waiting for them with cups of tea on the table, they noticed the stunning paintings in various well-known artistic styles. There was also an unfinished canvas on the open balcony, waiting to be completed. The scent of fresh oil paint mixed with a strawberry fragrance from one of the nearby tables, meant to keep the smell of the paint from overwhelming the space.

"I apologize for the smell of paint," Rosellina said with a small, embarrassed smile as she sat down on one of the sofas in her living room. "I hope you enjoy the tea-it's apple, a specialty of our little town."

Ororo and Jean thanked her for her hospitality. She was as gentle as her appearance suggested.

"Don't worry about it, and please excuse us for the intrusion," Jean said as she took a small sniff of the tea. The aroma was wonderful, and the taste did not disappoint its presentation.

"To what do I owe the honor? Are you looking for a painting?" Rosellina asked, taking a sip of her tea as she crossed her legs. Both women could see paint stains on her arms, evidence of the unfinished piece waiting for her on the balcony.

"No, well-let me say, you have extraordinary talent, hard to miss-but our visit actually concerns your mutation," Ororo quickly clarified their purpose.

Rosellina paused, lifting her gaze to look at them both.

"Mi scusi?" She raised an eyebrow in their direction, wondering if she had heard correctly.

"Your father, Mr. Wilson, is a friend of our mentor, Charles Xavier. Does that name sound familiar?" Jean joined in, gently guiding the conversation into sensitive territory.

"No, I didn't know... I'm not very aware of my father's friendships," she responded softly, with a smile.

Ororo didn't need Charles' or Jean's powers to know that behind that smile was a sea of melancholy, like the sea that embraced Venice itself.

"I believe you've noticed that neither of us are normal-we're mutants, like you," Ororo said, to which the girl nodded and smiled, as if pleased to have guessed it.

"Your father reached out to Charles. He told him about you," Ororo continued.

Rosellina looked more interested now, clearly surprised. Her father, Jackson Wilson, was a politician who worked for the Pentagon-the constant hotbed of mutant hunters.

"He mentioned that you were here alone in Venice and that he would like you to attend the school Charles runs, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," Jean added, noticing the girl's silence.

"A school?" Rosellina's emerald eyes gleamed at the mention of her father's message to his friend. "With other mutants?"

They both sensed the excitement in her voice, and Ororo, for what she thought was just her imagination, saw her eyes grow even more vibrant in color.

"Yes, that's right. There are other mutants-Jean and I are teachers at the school," Ororo responded. "Though, of course, you wouldn't be a typical student."

Rosellina tilted her head in confusion, like a lost kitten. Ororo couldn't help but chuckle at this girl who seemed plucked right out of a fantasy book. She had never met anyone like her.

"You're quite a bit older-you probably know most of the things we teach the younger students at our school. Our oldest students are around 18 at most, before they can join the X-Men team," Ororo explained further as she took a sip of her tea.

"Charles envisions you staying at the mansion, learning a few things and honing your abilities," Ororo concluded.

Rosellina felt a flutter in her heart. Could she really train her abilities and be surrounded by more people? Was she ready for that after so many years alone in her small home, isolated from everything?

"Recruit me as an X-Men?" was her response after processing all the information.

"Essentially. But we'd also like to see what your abilities are. Would you mind giving us a small demonstration?" Jean asked.

Rosellina smiled and gazed intently into both their eyes. They were both mesmerized by the brilliance of her green eyes.

"Do you enjoy the view?" she said.

Ororo and Jean were momentarily puzzled until suddenly, as if reality itself had warped, they found themselves surrounded by a beautiful forest. Ororo recognized the scene-it was the forest she had seen painted on the door before entering. They were inside the forest. But how? Jean looked around, hearing the clear sounds of the woods; everything seemed and felt so real.

"What...?" Ororo moved and her foot collided with something, causing her to wince slightly in pain. She knew what it was-the table that had been in front of her. Was this all an illusion? When had she created it, and how? The illusion was so realistic, she could even feel the sun's rays warming her dark skin.

"An illusion," Jean said.

The view around them shifted back to the living room of the house, as Rosellina watched them with a small smile, her eyes glowing faintly.

"Your eyes... it's your eyes that hold your power," Ororo realized. It had been when they had looked into Rosellina's eyes that they were transported to that forest.

Neither woman had ever seen anything like it-not on this level. But something told them this wasn't all the girl could do.

"That's right. My eyes are where the mutation is most present," she confirmed Ororo's observation.

"But you don't just create illusions, do you?" Jean asked cautiously.

That level of control over the mind required an incredible amount of power, which, if misused, could cause extreme mental damage to the person experiencing the hallucinations that Rosellina could create.

"No." She clarified, "My powers continue to evolve over time-or at least that's how I think it works."

She laughed softly, slightly embarrassed at not being able to give a clear explanation.

"My eyes give me excellent vision-sometimes I feel like I can see through walls, and other times I can't, probably because I'm not fully aware of my range. In general, I can see from quite a distance. Also, they're very quick-sometimes I can anticipate small actions before they happen. They allow me to read books quickly, and I have a photographic memory. I could say that if I see something I've never done but observe how it's done, I could replicate it."

Rosellina explained her powers in part, and Jean understood that this was because the mutant wasn't even fully aware of the extent of her abilities or what they could do. This made it more difficult to classify her, and what worried Jean even more was the potential danger she could pose.

Mutants with mental control abilities were always dangerous to some degree. And the fact that Rosellina herself said her powers were still developing only gave Jean more reason to believe she urgently needed to attend the school so that Charles could help her, as he had helped her.

Ororo, on the other hand, took on a more protective stance toward the girl. After hearing a bit of what she was capable of, she better understood certain things-like how her paintings seemed to be created by some renowned artist from another era. They were perfect. Furthermore, she was a girl living alone in this house for who knows how long, rarely leaving to visit the town, living isolated in her own home. In a world of her own fantasies.

Compassion. That's what Ororo felt.

Even her father, a man with resources and influence, didn't seem to visit her. Rosellina wasn't even aware of what her father did or didn't do, aside from what little she might catch in the news. Ororo thought that meeting new people, living among other mutants, and making friends would do her a world of good. Rosellina was so kind that she was sure people would adore her at the mansion just as much as the villagers did.

"Come with us to the school. You'll be able to learn more about your abilities and put them to good use. The Professor can help you," Ororo offered warmly.

Rosellina looked at Ororo-the dark-skinned woman was offering her the chance to learn more about herself and her abilities. Her heart pounded with such intensity, like a drum at a carnival.

Leaving her small town embraced by the sea, leaving Venice, leaving her home... Going with these two women who offered the cure to her loneliness and the mystery of her powers.

All those thoughts flooded Rosellina's mind.

"Really?"

There was nothing but excitement in her voice as she uttered those words, as if her very appearance became even more vibrant.

"Of course," Ororo said with a smile towards her, seeing the excitement in her eyes.

Rosellina rose from her seat, her face lighting up with a vibrant smile as she looked at them.

"I'll go get my things."

She announced before leaving them, almost running. She didn't ask questions or anything; she simply went to gather her things, thrilled at the thought of leaving with the two mutants.

Jean and Ororo glanced at each other before bursting into laughter at the young woman's enthusiasm.

"She's so adorable," Ororo let slip with a grin.

As they waited, Jean and Ororo strolled around the place, eager to explore before departing for America. Naturally, the girl needed some time to pack. Jean wandered to the balcony, where Rosellina's unfinished painting awaited her.

I guess Rosellina won't be able to finish you, Jean thought as she gazed at the painting, still half-done. Only a path could be seen-a trail through a forest, a path without a visible end.

Where did Rosellina intend for that path to lead?

It seemed they would never know, as Rosellina would leave with them, and that path would remain unfinished.

Ororo wandered past the walls, smiling with each painting she saw. The canvases were so beautiful-dancing muses, lively meals, places that seemed too incredible to exist. She was sure Charles would love it if Rosellina could contribute some of her works to the mansion. He was a man who appreciated art and history.

As Ororo turned, she noticed a slightly ajar door up a small staircase. Through the crack, she could see more paintings. An attic? Ororo thought. It felt improper to indulge her curiosity, but curiosity won over common sense.

Ororo climbed the stairs cautiously and pushed the door open a bit more, just enough for a small peek. A little look wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?

Her eyes widened at what she saw. She had expected old or unfinished paintings similar to those that adorned the house. But no. These paintings were... eerie. The magical, fairy-tale-like forests that seemed to be the hallmark of her work had turned into a living nightmare.

Creatures born of nightmares, people fleeing from visible horrors. Red, fire, terror, blackness.

In an instant, pink had shifted to black.

Ororo scanned the paintings quickly. Why were these paintings hidden away in the attic? The darkness hidden within the pink that decorated the rest of the house, an unseen shadow that seemed absent from Rosellina's bright eyes.

She felt slightly uncomfortable but impressed. The style reminded her of that romanticism movement, of how Charles had once shown her the paintings of the Spanish painter Goya, who lost his mind over the years. After the war, and with his hearing gone, his art had changed as he became exiled to France in the 19th century. That memory led Ororo to think that artists often had their hearts tied to their hands, painting what dwelled in their minds, letting those thoughts spill out.

Could this be a representation of Rosellina's loneliness?

She wasn't sure, unable to draw solid conclusions. Perhaps a visit to Goya's works had inspired her to create her own collection of dark art, copying them with her gifted eyes. Perhaps she had hidden these paintings for herself, knowing they were not the type of art most people would enjoy. But these paintings must have meant something. Still, Ororo decided not to ask Rosellina about them. It was private, after all, and she shouldn't be here. She wouldn't give the girl the bitter taste of knowing she had snooped into something she kept hidden.

But it was something small that she would definitely mention to Charles upon their return.

Once Rosellina had everything packed, the three women stood outside the house. Rosellina turned to look at her home one last time, her gaze lingering on the balcony where her unfinished canvas still rested. She closed her eyes as if saying goodbye to her sanctuary. She looked around at the sea that had always surrounded her, the same sea that sang lullabies to her during the night.

I'm ready.

She thought, smiling one last time at her beloved town. At least she knew that the house would remain, bringing happiness to tourists who visited. Her contribution would remain as a treasure to the town that cherished it. She would miss her golden Venice, though she knew she would return one day.

"Shall we?" Rosellina heard Jean's voice behind her.

She turned her back to her house and looked at both women, nodding confidently. Ready to take that path into the unknown.

"Yes."

______________________________________

Paradise was granted to the innocent soul, free from greed, sinless, endowed with wonders.

But when does the blessing turn into a curse?

When does the paradise shown become the depths of hell?

[himluv]

DA Review Series: Hard in Hightown

<<< Previous Review: DA2 Character Stories

It's been a minute, but I'm back to talk about more Dragon Age Media Tie-Ins!

Title: Hard in Hightown Author: Varric Tethras (with Mary Kirby) Year Published: 2019 In-World Year: 9:33 Dragon Verdict: I mean, it's Varric doing what he does best — telling stories. At only 72 pages, why wouldn't you read it??

Hard in Hightown is a noir murder mystery set in Kirkwall. It follows Donnen Bren— look, I'm going to be honest, I can't remember character names because they're all just DA2 characters with the serial numbers filed off. Varric populated his most popular serial with his friends and I absolutely love him for it.

The main character Donnen is obviously guardsman Donnic, but with some Varric flare thrown in. Carver is the rookie Donnen's been saddled with. Merrill, Fenris, Isabela, Aveline, and Hawke all make appearances.

As do The Executors. Which is the one thing that REALLY caught my attention beyond all this fun whodunnit nonsense. When do we first learn about Those Across the Sea? If I'm not mistaken, THIS book is the first time.

Of course, there are chapters of Hard in Hightown spread all over Inquisition, and the Executors are included in a war table mission, "Unmask Those Across the Sea" but... Why is the first time we learn of them in a work of fiction?

And how does Varric know about them?

Sure, they're dismissed as a sort of myth or legend, and aren't ACTUALLY in the story, but still. That's weird, right?

Anyway, other than the Executors, there isn't any lore here. It's just Varric writing "Friend fiction" as Bela would say. But what I loved most about it is that it FEELS like Varric. It SOUNDS like Varric. He even breaks the fourth wall and bungles his own 3rd person POV because he didn't want to research boats, which made me cackle (big mood, Varric).

So, hat's off to Mary Kirby. Her brilliance really shines through on this one when you stop to think about it. She's writing Varric writing Donnen and it's absolutely stunning work.

And it's just plain fun!

[hahaifolded]

The Siren, the Cook, and the Sister (11)

Sanij x PirateHunter!FemReader (Masterlist) Chapter 11: A Sister and a House (Previous) (Next) Summary: You're reunited with your sister. Sanji sees where you live. Warnings: Depictions of Illness, Poor living conditions

"Okay, so here's the plan, Robin, Chopper, (Y/N), and I are going to the hospital while the rest of you take the Sunny to the other side of the island," recounted Nami. Due to the nearby marine base, the Strawhats were forced to stop before reaching the island's main docks.

"And why the other side of the island?" asked Zoro through a yawn.

"Well if you weren't too busy sleeping your life away, you would have heard our beautiful (Y/N)'s plan," scolded the cook. He rolled his eyes and continued, "her home is on the other side of island, away from any Marine eyes, so we're going to hide out there while she does want she needs to do... moss head." Sanji whispered that last part.

"Thank you, Sanji," you quickly added, immediately standing in between the two. You didn't want anything to delay today's disembarkment. After months out in the sea, you were going to see your sister again and give her a new lease on life one way or another.

"Okay then, so we'll see you guys later. Please, don't do anything stupid while we're gone," pleaded Nami. She turned to you three, leaving the boys to fend themselves. Robin activated her devil fruit, and created a bridge of arms for you all to walk on. Grabbing your chest, you made your way across the arms.

The second you reached the mainland, you started to run to the hospital. Your three companions right behind you. If you weren't so excited, you would have walked but you have waited far too long for this. And thankfully, Robin, Nami and Chopper seemed to understand as they just laughed and ran alongside you.

In no time, you three reached the marine hospital. The Strawhats hid in a bush while you made your way inside and talked to the front desk. After making the full payment, they allowed you in, sending you up to the 5th floor of the building.

Knock, knock, knock!

"Come in," announced a feeble voice. You rushed in, throwing your mask off. The little girl that took up less than half of the bed immediately shot up, squealing your name in joy. You ran to the bed and pulled her in a full body hug.

"You're back," she said while in your arms. Of course, I'm back. I'll always come back for you, you thought as you affectionally rubbed her head with yours. After holding each other for a bit, you let go and grabbed your mask.

Once it was secured on your face, you made your way to the window. "And guess what I found along the way?" you announced. You popped the window open and waved your hand out of it. Before your sister had a chance to ask what, a giant hand holding three people appeared in front of the window.

Robin, Nami, and Chopper crawled through the opening. You quickly scanned to see if anyone saw, shutting it once the coast was clear. You turned back to see your sister's jaw touching the bed. Got her!

"Ta-da!" you cheered, waving your arms around the three Strawhats. They smiled and waved at your sister who just sat in shock. Your three companions took the room in, taking note of the wood nightstand which was littered with various small bottles, the IV bag that was connected in your sister's arm, and the various posters and newspaper clippings that adorned the room's walls.

Thankfully, Robin took the initiative and walked towards the little girl. "Long time no see, little one," she gently said, taking a seat on the side of her bed. Your sister immediately hugged her and asked you if it was really the woman who saved you all those years ago.

"In the flesh," you smiled, "I ran into Robin and her crew at my last stop and they were nice enough to give me a ride back." Nami glanced at you, grateful for your condensed story of what had transpired.

"Really nice to meet you! Your sister has told us so much about you. I'm Nami," said the navigator. She sat at the edge of the bed. Your sister, still holding Robin, looked at Nami and waved.

"And I'm Chopper!" added the young doctor who stood near the IV bag, inspecting it.

Out of joy, your sister let go of Robin and squealed, "Oh my god! You're so much cuter in person!"

"No, I'm not, you dumb girl," complained Chopper who did a little dance. Your sister laughed at the reindeer's antics. You felt tears at the corner of your eyes. It's been awhile since you've seen your sister smile so brightly.

Your sister moved her head back and forth, almost in search of something. "Where's the rest of them?" she asked.

You laughed. "Wow, is three not enough?" You sat next to Nami as your sister pouted. "They're back home, but don't worry. You'll get to seem them... once you're cleared after your surgery." Her eyes grew in size. "Yep, after tomorrow, you'll be cured," you assured her.

Before anyone could celebrate, your sister began to aggressively cough. The Strawhats pulled back as you rushed to your sister's side. You grabbed a glass of water on her nightstand and lifted it against her lips. After pushing her to take small lips, your sister's coughing eventually settled down. You ushered her to lay down as she slowly caught her breath.

"Shh, shh, shh, it's okay. Save your energy. After tomorrow, you can cheer, talk, play all you want. Just wait," you cooed. Your sister argued back as she wanted to still talk with Robin, Nami, and Chopper.

"And you will. Just sit back and let us tell you about our trip with your sister here," reasoned Robin who returned to her side. Nami and Chopper joined Robin on your sister's bed. That seemed to calm your sister as she settled in her bed, waiting for the the story to start. You looked at the sight before and felt extreme gratitude for everything in your life right now.

-- -- --

"Are we there yet?" whined Luffy. After docking the boat, the rest of the Strawhats slowly made their through the forest where your house sat.

"Almost... I think I see it straight ahead actually," announced Franky. With that, Luffy ran forward, excited to see the home of a real life robot.

"Oi, Luffy!" scolded Sanji. The rest of the Strawhats just shook their head in either amusement or disappointment at their captain's antics.

However, Sanji couldn't completely judge his captain as he too was excited to see your home. He imagined to see a cottage that exuded love and warmth, a home that he always wished for growing up. With the way you care for your sister, he assumed that your home would also emulate that same level of attention. As they got closer to your home, Sanji felt his heart beat faster in his chest. Just a few more steps and we'll be at lovely (Y/N)'s ho--.

"Is that it?" asked Zoro. Sanji looked up and saw a sad sight. Instead, of a glorious home, a barren, husk of a house stood in the middle of the clearing. The house slightly sagged to its side, windows shattered with plants slowly making their way through them. Luffy poked out of from the back, confusion written all over his face.

"It has to be. It's exactly where she said it would be," informed Jimbei, uncertainty laced in his voice. That being all the confirmation he needed, Luffy kicked the front door open.

"ROBOT HOUSE!" he squealed as he ran in. Sanji ran right behind him, but froze when he stepped inside. Inside the house sat a small bed in one corner, a rusty stove in the other, and absolutely nothing else. It seemed like there used to be more furniture at one point but all that was left of it was marks on the floor.

"It's bare bones in here... just like me, yo-ho-ho-ho." Brook, Jimbei, Franky, and Zoro followed the two inside and also stilled by the sight before them.

Jimbei spoke up, "I didn't expect to see the girl's home look so--"

"-Sad," finished Zoro. Everyone stood in silence, unsure on what to say or think really. Sanji felt so confused. Is this really where you live with your sister?

Suddenly the sound of a machine whirring broke everyone out of their trance. Sanji turned around to see Franky's hand replaced with a drill. "Well, don't just stand there. Let's do something about this," announced Franky. He immediately began to shout orders for some to get wood, others to tear down the walls, and the rest to buy supplies from the town.

Sanji immediately got to work. He was ready to give you and your sister the home that you both deserved.

Word Count: 1481

Previous - Masterlist - Next

Author's Notes: Hey y'all, sorry that this is a late chapter! Took me a bit longer to write out this chapter, but we did it!

Honest question, was the sister reunion long? I feel like it was a little long but I feel like it goes back to me not being such a big fan of OC. Like I think it was necessary here to see the reader (you) interact with this sister that you've been on about for awhile. But like was it interesting to read? Let me know!

Also should I name the sister? I can not name her but if it's easier for y'all or even you just want a name for the sister character, let me know! We're about to reach another plot point here so before it happens, would love to know know if she needs a name or not!

[walkingbomb]

DRAGON AGE TIMELINE:

This uses the Chantry calendar, which measures time in "Ages." Each age lasts one hundred years; the current age is the Dragon Age, the ninth since the founding of the Chantry, which marked the beginning of the Chantry calendar. Anything prior to 1:01 Divine is known as the Ancient Era and denoted using negative numbers, counted backwards: the year immediately preceding 1:01 Divine (the first year of the first named Age) is -1 Ancient, the year before that is -2 Ancient, and so on. The Chantry calendar doesn't have a year zero.

Many dates given in the Ancient Era are rough estimates taken from various DA sources, to be taken with a pinch of salt. Will likely be continually edited and updated.

This is a LONG post. You've been warned!

-7600 Ancient: Arlathan, fabled city of the elves, was founded. Elvhen cities existed before this, spread across Thedas and through the fade.

-4600 Ancient: Dwarves & Elves make first contact

-3100 Ancient: Arrival of humans to Thedas, settling in what would become known as Tevinter

-2800 Ancient: The Old Gods begin whispering to the humans, teaching them magic, faith in them becomes widespread

-1595 Ancient: Thalsian declares himself First Priest of Dumat, first blood mage and dreamer- he is given credit for further popularising worship of the Old Gods by establishing temples, and creating the mage ruling class of Tevinter.

-1200 Ancient: Humans and dwarves create first alliance between early Tevinter and Kal-Sharok

-1195 Ancient: Tevinter Imperium founded

-981 Ancient: Tevinter Imperium declares war on the elves, rallying their forces towards Arlathan

-975 Ancient: Tevinter Magisters supposedly used blood magic to sink Arlathan into the ground, ensuring their conquest of the elves. Surviving elves are enslaved.

-715 Ancient: Tevinter begins a campaign to subjugate Alamarri tribes in Ferelden

-620 Ancient: Tevinter establishes Emerius (now known as Kirkwall), across the sea from the Alamarri as a slave trade hub

-395 Ancient: A group of Tevinter magisters enter the Golden City. First Blight begins, led by Archdemon (and Old God) Dumat

-305 Ancient: The Grey Wardens are formed at Weisshaupt

-203 Ancient: Dumat is slain by Grey Wardens, first blight is conquered. Andraste is born.

-180 Ancient: Andraste declares war (the first Exalted March) against the Tevinter Imperium, unifying the barbarian tribes of the South

-171 Ancient: The Imperium's elven slaves, lead by Shartan, join Andraste's fight against Tevinter

-170 Ancient: Andraste dies- Maferath (Andraste's husband) betrays her, allowing her to be captured and put to death by the Tevinter Imperium

-165 Ancient: Maferath grants land (The Dales) to the elves that joined in the war against the Imperium. Those that make it in 'The Long Walk' from Tevinter, found the city of Halamshiral.

-160 Ancient: Hessarian (who had Andraste put to death by fire) converts to the Chant of Light and declares Tevinter an Andrastian nation

1:01 Divine Age: Justinia I made first Divine, Orelesian Chantry is officially established.

1:05 Divine: Second Blight begins, led by Archdemon Zazikel

1:95 Divine: Archdemon slain by Grey Wardens at Starkhaven, second blight ends.

2:10 Glory Age: Orlais declares war (the Exalted March of the Dales) on the elves after years of mounting tensions.

2:20 Glory: Orlais conquers Halamshiral in their Exalted March. Orlais claims the Dales and forbids the worship of elven gods, forcing elves to convert to the Maker and live in alienages within human cities. Those elves that refused and escaped became the nomadic Dalish elves.

3:10 Towers Age: Third Blight begins lead by Toth

3:25 Towers: Archdemon defeated by Grey Wardens at Hunter Fell, third Blight ends

3:87 Towers: Chantry Schism- After years of tension, Orelesian Chantry declares Tevinter as heretics as they refuse to amend the Chant of Light. Valhail I named first Imperial (Black) Divine of Tevinter

5:12 Exalted Age: Fourth Blight begins, lead by Archdemon Andoral

5:24 Exalted: Archdemon slain by Grey Wardens at Ayesleigh, fourth Blight ends

6:30 Steel Age: Qunari first arrive in Thedas in warships, landing in and conquering Par Vollen

6:32 Steel: Qunari ships land en masse in Seheron and northern Rivain, marking the beginning of the Qunari Wars. Seheron and a portions of the Imperium, Rivain and Antiva are conquered in the next 10 years, with efforts to begin attacks on the Free Marches too. Minrathous remains besieged but unconquered.

7:25 Storm Age: The New Exalted Marches are declared by both the Imperium and Orelesian Chantries to retake Seheron and Rivain from the Qunari- three Marches are declared over the next 60 years.

7:84 Storm: The third New Exalted March ends- envoys from all human lands (except Tevinter) and the Qunari meet to sign the Llomerryn Accord, hostilities cease and lands are redistributed. Tevinter refuses to sign, so hostilities between them and the Qunari persist.

8:24 Blessed Age: Orlais orders the Invasion of Ferelden, Denerim is conquered by 8:44 Blessed and Orlais occupies Ferelden until the Dragon Age.

9:00/2 Dragon Age: Ferelden is reclaimed by rebel forces lead by Prince Maric, Loghain Mac Tir and Rowan Guerrin

9:06/7 (?) Dragon: Hawke is born

9:30 Dragon: Fifth Blight begins, lead by Archdemon Urthemiel. The Battle of Ostagar (start of Origins) takes place. The Hawke family flees Lothering for Kirkwall after the battle is unsuccessful.

9:31 Dragon: Archdemon is slain at the Battle of Denerim by Grey Wardens, fifth Blight ends. Events of Awakening take place. Hawke finds the lyrium idol in a deep roads expedition to a pre-first Blight thaig.

9:32 Dragon: Events in Witch Hunt takes place- the Warden confronts Morrigan in front of the eluvian

9:34 Dragon: Hawke is declared Champion of Kirkwall by Knight-Commander Meredith Standard, for repelling a Qunari invasion

9:37 Dragon: Events of Legacy take place- Hawke inadvertently frees Corypheus from his prison. Anders destroys the Kirkwall chantry, sparking the Kirkwall rebellion, and further mage rebellions across Thedas. Hawke flees Kirkwall

9:40 Dragon: Orelesian civil war (AKA War of the Lions) breaks out. College of Enchanters votes to separate from the Chantry. Circles of Magi are dissolved. Solas awakens

9:41 Dragon: Conclave is called at the Temple of Sacred Ashes to bring an end to the Mage-Templar war, disrupted by Corypheus, resulting in the creation of the Breach and the death of the leaders at the conclave, including Divine Justinia (start of Inquisition). The Inquisitor/Herald of Andraste leads the newly reformed Inquisition against Corypheus to seal the Breach. Inquisitor resolves Orelesian civil war.

9:42 Dragon: Events of Jaws of Hakkon and The Descent take place. Inquisitor discovers a living Titan. The Inquisition defeats Corypheus at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and seals the Breach. Divine Victoria is elected.

9:44 Dragon: Events of Trespasser take place- Inquisitor attends the Exalted Council to decide the Inquisition's fate. A Qunari plot to destroy southern Thedas' nobility during the council meeting is foiled by the Inquisition and agents of Fen'harel. The anchor, along with the Inquisitor's left forearm is removed by Solas, who disappears through an eluvian. The Inquisition is disbanded.

9:52 Dragon: The events of Veilguard begin...

[mythalism]

True but there has always been this ‘deeper’ thing in the blight and they mention it all the time (even the Dalish origin in DAO). A deeper voice beyond the stone song. I think having everything be a super villain group is weird but I at least see the strings? To what point I have no dang clue but I also understand that narratively they’re probably like ‘well dang where do we go after having a god love story nearly destroy the world?’ Especially after how 2 was received. I would love another small game focused on a gang, but I don’t think we’ll get that. What would your ideal DA 5 be?

ooooh interesting.... though i wonder if that "deeper thing" was intended all the way back in origins to be a puppetmaster group of shadow ppl across the sea? which is basically exactly what you already said i am just agreeing. yeah i wonder if the answers are in this "black codex" mentioned in the artbook. again id actually die for david gaider's thoughts on this, and considering he loves to yap we might actually get them someday soon. i agree that they've gone so large scale that their only option is to dial it back down to a personal story like da2, but i also agree that they seem to shy away from that in favor of more typical high fantasy narratives... even when they cant do them justice....

my ideal da5 would definitely be a small scale, intimate story like da2. and.... honestly.... i would love a prequel. specifically an ancient prequel. i felt extremely unsatisfied by the lore given by veilguard about arlathan and the dwarves during the war. i would love something with dual protagonists, some poor, maybe enslaved (though im concerned about bioware's ability to handle that with care) elf just trying to stay alive in such a brutal, oppressive empire. i wouldnt want to see much of the evanuris or solas at all, just to feel the effects of their decisions on the little people at the very bottom. and maybe you switch back and forth between your elvhen protag and your dwarven protag and experience the war on both sides alongside them. we dont even know enough about ancient dwarves for me to even guess about what that would look like, but id want it to be a similar vibe of just following a normal person caught up in a war between their gods. and it would have to be like da2 where your power to truly affect the world is limited, the way hawke cannot truly save anyone, but it would be less about "your choices impact the world!" and a commentary on how that's not the reality for everyone. not everyone is the video game protagonist. not everyone has the power to make those choices, but many, many people have to deal with the repercussions of those choices. what do their lives look like? i think it would be a perfect companion to inquisition and veilguard. but they would literally never do this LMFAO

[ms-nesbit]

Sweet home chicago (jason todd x afab!reader)

chapter one

Rating: 18+

Warnings: eventual smut, swearing, father figure dick grayson, skater tim drake, sad jason todd :(

Summary: dick and tim trick jason into taking a vacation in chicago. There, he meets someone he hopes to never forget.

Note: im sorry for dipping, yall. I really had some important things to take care of.

ao3

Amber and rose peeked through the hedge between the array of buildings on Michigan Avenue. Jason blended himself with the sea of tourists and chic aristocrats. He didn’t necessarily stick out like a sore thumb, as there were a few Chicagoans dressed casually like him; even in the late-November evening, he sported his signature red hoodie and straight fit jeans, tattered and dirty near the hem. No matter what, he wanted to appear mildly stressed, only mildly, so as to not draw more attention to himself than his six-foot-four frame already did.

He wondered how he got here. Was it the phone call from Dick, or the two dozen from Tim? Could it have been neither, and he perhaps wanted to rush the plane during the busiest season, nudged in a lousy middle seat between an obnoxious preteen and a middle-aged woman watching poorly edited, extremist conservative media? To be fair, Jason treated himself to Portillo’s once he left the airport - a well-earned reward for not lashing out at the self-absorbed individuals beside him.

He stepped briskly, moving in sync with the less-anxious of the crowd toward the shopping district notoriously named Magnificent Mile. On his left ear, he heard the excitement in the tune of indistinguishable conversations and the season’s final water taxis boarding; in his right, a wireless earbud, softly playing his childhood favorite, Diana Ross and the Supremes.

Once he reached the other end of the bridge, he strolled to the sidewalk in front of Tribune Tower, pulling his phone out and indiscreetly sending a message of his coordinates to-

A call. “As much as I love the smell of fish, garbage, and the crooked CPD, why did you and Tim want me here?” Jason was more curious than upset, but he’d rather not disclose his true feelings to his brothers.

“C’mon, Jay, it’s the Windy City! You ever been to Chicago?” Dick asked. “Beautiful everything here. Tim’s at the Van store up the street, and I’m grabbing a slice of pizza across from ya. You wanna come over and get a slice, grumpy? You get a little hangry sometimes.”

Jason sighed, and his stomach grumbled in response to the offer. “Alright, but I’m not goin’ outside. I sat next to some wackjob on the flight who sounded like she needed to be in the looney bin, and I’m not lookin’ to make friends.” As he spoke, he quickly turned his head before dashing across the busy street, waving off a car blaring its horn at him. “What’do’ey have?”

“How about you see?” Dick approached Jason, smiling mischievously. Jason ended the call, moving his eyes to Dick’s hands behind his back. “Guess what I got?”

“Dick, I’m not in the mood for games-”

“Ta-da!” Dick shifted in his coat, revealing a white box with a drawn pizza and the name Lou Malnati’s on it. Jason pretended like his mouth didn’t water at the smell of grease and garlic. “I had ‘em make a classic cheese with those square slices. How about we sit down on the riverfront and talk?”

And talk. No matter the temptation, be it a buttery, gooey pizza right under Jason’s nose, he still believed it wasn’t worth the compromise of having to make more than small talk with others. “Listen, Dickie, as much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about-”

“Dude, this isn’t about Artemis, if that’s what you’re about to say.” Dick shrugged in his beige peacoat, a piece of his thick, navy, knitted cardigan spilling from his waist. “I just want to, y’know, see if you want to go to this thing tonight.”

Jason cocked a brow in his theatrical manner. “So you and Tim badgered me, had me fly all the way to goddamn Chicago, all to just talk over some overpriced pizza?” Around him, he felt the glare of customers, but he doubled down, giving them knowing looks. “I’ve been here. Want a real place? Go to the goddamn place off Clark and Dickens. You’ll thank me later.”

Dick rolled his eyes, already tired by Jason’s heels in the sand. “Always gotta be a drama queen. Just…come with me. I’ll explain once we’re out of earshot.” His voice was hushed, signaling Jason to follow suit. They walked together to the riverwalk, sitting on the cold high-risen edging. Dick delicately opened the lid of the box, revealing the savory American delicacy and motioning for Jason to take the first slice.

Once Jason reached for the slice, taking his first bite and stretching the rosemary-seasoned cheese from its bed atop the crust, Dick began. “Tim and I were thinking that the three of us could use a break.” Jason grumbled indistinctly into his pizza slice, swirling the string of cheese around his tongue in a tight noose. “Bruce has been a handful lately - I mean, he always is - and I think it would be a good lesson for him to finally be on his own instead of taking us for granted, y’know?”

Jason nodded, rearranging his food to one side of his mouth so he could speak with the other. “You do know that Bruce is probably better off without me, right? Since I-” he swallowed the food, kissing the excess sauce and garlic from his teeth, “leave a ‘pretty big mess’, as he says.”

“You also help. Gang-related crime decreased about 37 percent when Red Hood regularly patrolled, and the Gotham Gazette did a poll, based on before and after Red: thanks to Red Hood, 6 out of 10 female Gothamites feel safe walking home at night, compared to the 3 out of 10 prior to Red Hood’s introduction.”

The statistic surprised Jason. He was used to the smearing from Justice League’s best, so it was nice to hear a compliment for a change. “And Timmy’s on board with this?” He didn’t hesitate to take a second slice, while Dick left the pizza untouched.

“He was the one who coined it.” Dick looked out at the river, mildly put off by Jason’s shameless eating habits. “We were patrolling one night and he just said it out of the blue. I get it, though.” He pursed his lips, staring wistfully. “I couldn’t tell you before because then you wouldn’t agree to it.”

Dick was right: when he’d offer to take Jason in after they reconciled, Jason refused. Though not Bruce’s blood son, Jason was comparably stubborn, sometimes surpassing the Dark Knight. “And where are we gonna stay?”

“That’s the best part.” Dick finally reached for a slice, folding it in half and dipping a chunk into his mouth to cut from the slice. “Tim hacked into Bruce’s business travel account and used some of his points to book a stay at some fancy place called Waldalf…lemme check.” Dick reached into his peacoat pocket and pulled out his phone, checking the reservation. He continued to chew, as did Jason, and Dick leaned over to show Jason the reservation email. “Astoria. It’s a couple of blocks here, I think. Worst case, we can just use a taxi or Uber there or something.”

“I’m banned from using Uber.” Jason said nonchalantly, squinting at the details on Dick’s pristine phone screen before looking the name up for himself. “I can walk as long as I can have another slice.”

Dick blinked at Jason blankly before glancing at the remnants of the pizza. “Take the small one right there.” Removing a wrinkled, discolored restaurant napkin from his back pocket, Jason snatched the slice with an asymmetrical, genuine smile, now holding a slice in each hand. Dick bit his tongue in his mouth to keep himself from laughing. If he hadn’t held a slice in his, he would have snapped a photo to send to the family group chat. “We’re already checked in, so just bring whatever luggage you have with you.”

Jason looked up from his slices like a deer in the headlights. “Sorry, I didn’t think to bring anything other than the usual.” With a slice, he vaguely gestured to his dirty clothes.

“I was…expecting that.” Dick chuckled lightly. “I brought you some clothes so you could go out and enjoy yourself for a change.” He spotted Jason’s eye roll. “You’re in your twenties, for crying out loud. Enjoy yourself! Make a friend. Would it kill you to just live?”

As Jason shook his head, a few strands of grey fell from his messily combed back hair and onto his forehead. “What, is coming back from the dead and seeking vengeance to blood-thirsty psychopaths not living?”

“No, it’s not.” a voice came from the other side of the riverwalk, by the bustling street: a lanky-built male, wearing a beige Santa Cruz sweatshirt and dark jeans, strolled on his skateboard toward the brothers. “And by the way, Jason, you look no different than the bourgeoisie skimming the racks at Urban Outfitters over there.” Jason’s frown dropped at Tim, already bugged by him. “Me and Dick were basically wanting you to, y’know, socialize like a normal human being. I know you’re an introvert, I get that, but you’ve gotta, y’know…converse.”

 Jason stood from the platform, brushing the suggestion from his broad shoulders. “Jesus, and you wonder why I don’t want to hang out with you guys.” he made an excuse and walked back toward Michigan Ave, finishing his slices along the way.

“By the way, Dick.” Tim nudged Dick with his elbow, showing him a photo of zoomed-in Jason, a few minutes earlier, smiling goofily with his two slices of pizza pie.

Dick erupted into laughter, doubling over and nearly knocking over the box.

-

“You got the terrace suite?” Jason muttered in blustering shock. “Bruce is going to be so pissed.” His lips stretched into a wide smile.

He plopped onto the sleeper sofa, sprawling his limbs out to relax. Dick assigned Jason to the couch (“Finder’s keepers!”), while Dick and Tim each slept in their separate rooms. “We already received a warning about how you’re dressed, Jason, so if you could please promptly change into something more appropriate, I’m sure this stay would be more enjoyable for all of us.” Dick managed to remain calm while conveying, despite the fatherly-level of disappointment underneath his skin.

Heeding Dick’s advice, Jason made his way to Dick’s room, where he opened up the luggage Dick neatly packed for him: a pair of dress shoes, two pairs of socks and boxer briefs (all red, for continuity’s sake), along with a lightweight, tightly knitted sweater, t-shirt, long-sleeve undershirts, and two pairs of slacks (one beige, one black). Jason sighed halfheartedly, bummed by the array chosen for him. He knew, of course, it was his responsibility to select his own attire, but of course he’d forgotten it, lost in the chaos of his everyday life; Dick anticipated Jason’s reaction, and packed something nonetheless, and although grateful, Jason still hesitated to express it.

While Tim and Dick explored the depths of downtown, Jason immersed himself into the room, quietly exploring the channels that Astoria offered.

Knock, knock. “Housekeeping!”

Jason yelled back, “Come in.” while munching on a bag of corn chips on the couch, eyes lasered on the television screen.

The housekeeper, wearing a black and sky blue uniform, pushed his trolley in. “Are you enjoying your stay, Sir?”

Jason shrugged. “My ma was a housekeeper for a bit. Don’t worry about the ‘sir’ stuff, it’s all good.” The response was new to the employee, who stood for a moment before excusing himself to clean the bathroom and bedrooms.

“Sir,” the housekeeper returned, gripping the trolley behind him with a single hand. “Would you mind vacating the room while I clean, or should I return if you are…busy?”

Jason looked at the chip crumbs on his hoodie before looking back at the housekeeper. “I’ve no problem leaving. I’ve gotta change, so I’ll go the other room. Could you just lock the door when you leave?”

“Absolutely, Sir.” the housekeeper said before Jason shut the bathroom door, slacks and sweater in hand.

—

Stepping out from the courtyard of the hotel premises, Jason wandered down the corner, unable to prevent himself from making grotesque faces at the high-end stores nearby. The breeze chilled the skin on his face to the point where it eventually felt like he was kissed by needles, and he unlocked his phone to find a place to settle down and (hopefully) eat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an approaching blotch of yellow and blue, to which he immediately hailed down. A taxi parked along the curb, and Jason hopped in. “Could you please take me away from here? Some place with some good food?”

The driver gave Jason a look of uncertainty, pondering before nodding and starting the meter.

Jason sat back and relaxed as giant metallic letters standing proudly on top of clear, godliness glass storefronts began to disappear, one by one, until they were replaced with bulletins and signs, and tented storefronts matched with painted, worn down brickwork.

He exhaled in relief. Despite living with Bruce and his luxurious lifestyle, the unspoken language of wealth was still foreign to Jason. He didn’t understand why the affluent would whisper, and why evil would poison their tongue and burn away at their heart once their financial wealth accrued.

After slipping the taxi driver a couple of hundred dollar bills, Jason abruptly left the vehicle, reading the name of the restaurant to himself. “Like the song…?” he asked the driver, who nodded.

“Different spelling, different things.”

Jason inhaled nasily, chest rising. “Alrighty, thanks, man.”

The driver nodded once again before waving and merging back into traffic. Jason entered the restaurant and was instantly greeted with sweet and savory notes, causing Jason’s stomach to cramp in pain. He walked up to the counter, so clean that he could almost make his reflection out, and waited for an employee to serve him. While he waited, he studied the menu: sandwiches, soups, and more appetizers to choose from. He chewed on his bottom lip, distressed when deciding between pasteles (mix of plantain mix and meat, wrapped in a banana leaf) or mofongo (stuffed plantain).

“When you’re ready, I can take you.” A voice notified him as he stood like a bronze statue before the menu.

He didn’t take his eyes off the photos above the counter. “Sorry about this, I’m a first timer - what are your pasteles filled with?”

“Usually pork or chicken, but we make them with cheese now since there are some vegetarians.”

“Could I have just pasteles, one with cheese filling and one with chicken?” Jason asked.

The clerk pressed a button on the register, which was a tablet with a brightly lit screen. “Sure thing. Anything else?”

“Yeah, and…pastellitos de guayaba? Can I have that, too? And water.”

The clerk pressed the screen a few times, noting down Jason’s order. “Of course. For here or to go?”

Jason finally tore his eyes from the menu to look at the clerk, and his mouth fell open at the sight of the clerk: hair was tightly curled, coiled from their roots; lips plump and glossy, appearing much more enticing to Jason than the food he ogled at.

“Here.” he stuttered, feeling heat rise up to his neck. The clerk smiled at him, and they placed their hand on their wide hip, bringing Jason’s eye to it.

“It’ll be ready in a bit. We’ll bring it to your seat, yeah? Sientate.” They motioned with their nose at the dining area, a selection of polished wooden chairs and tables to choose from.

Before he could ask for their name, the clerk rushed to the kitchen of the restaurant, repeating his order to the rest of the staff. Jason watched them walk away, their bottom half swaying in the leggings they wore, before he realized his leering and chose an empty seat and table near the colorful mural.

Thoughts rushed to the tall man’s head, some impure ones welcoming themselves for the first time since he and Artemis parted. Their relationship was, in short, complicated, and neither of them were fully transparent toward another, leading to the inevitable diffusion of the once-kindled fire; it didn’t break Jason’s heart, but rather disappointed him, and he felt that his fate of inescapable loneliness was encapsulated.

The clerk reappeared from the kitchen, holding two plates of food. They walked past Jason, ignoring whatever eye contact he attempted to make at them, and attended to the table diagonally from his. “Y te quedas a tu mama, ok?” They spoke warmly but sternly to the couple, before leaving with a grin. “And you,” they pointed at Jason, “your pastellios should be ready in one to two minutes, okay?”

Jason nodded frantically, popping an optimistic grin. “Can’t wait.”

“I know.” they winked at Jason before turning back around and walking through the revolving door leading to the kitchen. Jason felt something distant in his stomach. Perhaps hunger?

In a few minutes, the mysterious clerk returned, holding what Jason hoped was his food. When they arrived at his table, settling the plates down delicately before handing him cutlery and a glass, he beamed first at the food, then at the beautiful clerk. He didn’t know which he was more excited for. “Thank you!”

“Not a problem.” they returned his smile, eyes glistening at him. “Our chef is working on something else for you to carry out, free of charge. Can’t let you starve out on us, right, big guy?” their eyes briefly scanned Jason’s figure, which caused Jason’s cheeks to flush a bright pink.

They’re hitting on me, the fuck. “Thanks! I was hoping maybe I can come back, get your name?”

“Oooh, I like the sound of that.” their voice dipped an octave, and Jason swore he felt his pants tighten under the table. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “How about I save you the trouble and tell ya now, that way next time you can take me out for dessert?”

Jason smirked at them, slowly checking their figure out before focusing his attention back on their eyes. “Sure.”

“It’s y/n.” they purred, reaching their hand to rest on Jason’s bicep. Their skin was soft, yet calloused. “And you are…?”

“Jason.” he grinned. “Sorry, I’m new at this.”

“Don’t worry.” they assured. “I’m here if you need anything. And if you decide to take me on that offer, my number is in the check right there.” they pointed to the black checkbook beside the plates of food. Jason’s skin was burning under their touch, and when y/n had to leave, Jason felt a twinge of sadness when they retracted their hand.

Unraveling his cutlery from the napkin, Jason made sure to make an important phone call before his vacation ended.