#Direct Selling Leader news

[directsellingnow]

Direct selling Industry में देश की पहली एकेडमी ''K Narayan Skill Academy'' का आगाज़

दिल्ली के तालकटोरा इंडोर स्टेडियम में भारत की पहली डायरेक्ट सेल्लिंग अकादमी ” ‘K Narayan Skill Academy” का उद्घाटन हुआ। इस दौरान श्री हेम पाण्ड्य ( Retd. IAS Ofiicer) बतौर चीफ गेस्ट मौजूद रहे। इसके अलावा इस कार्यक्रम में भारत के पहले डायरेक्ट सेल्लिंग पीएचडी होल्डर डॉ. कमलकांत विशिष्ठ, YTM के फाउंडर और सीईओ श्री कमल नारायण, प्रख्यात बिज़नेस कोच और मोटिवेशनल स्पीकर श्री राजेश अग्रवाल और श्री जितेश…

[delicatestones]

Every time I think about the Travelers I black out a little. Every angle you can approach them from reveals new fucked up Situations. The inherent dynamic of your 'team leader' being the actual team leader's probationary boyfriend who would sell every other member of the team to One Direction for a corn chip and a vague promise of Maybe Helping His Girlfriend and who has gotten increasingly less concerned about pretending that's not true to anyone's faces. Once he fucked up and called someone by the numerical rank of 'Value To Operation Saving Noelle' he's assigned them all in his head and then refused to tell anyone else what their number was and they all just had to live with that one. They have to let him keep making the worst decisions imaginable because none of them can bear the consequences of shouldering the responsibility themselves. He put a thirteen year old in a Wire Strangling-Slicing Murder Art Piece as a distraction. He makes everyone put on colour coordinated black and red outfits because it's 'intimidating'. He's the worst and bravest person they know. He's going to get everybody killed and he's the reason they're all still alive. He is wearing a top hat. They are all in hell.

[aphroditelovesu]

this is going to end badly, but... Can you do Yandere love letter where the boys found out Reader cheated on them?

The Yandere love letter from Alexander The Great, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, and Henry VIII pls

Alexander the Great

My Queen,

May your betrayal be your own curse. If you persist on this path, know that I am capable of things that not even the gods would dare to speak of. My wrath is relentless and uncontrollable when it comes to the woman I once loved.

As for this man you cheated on me with, know that he is playing with death itself. I, who faced entire armies, will pursue him to the end of the earth, and he will find no refuge. If he touches you again, not a stone will be left unturned in his city, and he will be remembered as a traitor until the end of time.

I swear I will destroy his city, put men to the sword and sell their women and children into slavery. And then I will deal with you.

You, (Y/N), have the power to avert this dark fate. Return to my arms, renounce this treachery, and perhaps I will consider showing leniency. If not, know that my vengeance is a storm no mortal can weather. Make no mistake though, because you will be punished and I guarantee you won't like your punishment, my love.

This is your last chance, my Queen. Return to me and hand over your wretched lover and perhaps I will show you mercy.

With fury and despair,

Alexander.

Julius Caesar

My love,

Today, darkness enveloped my heart. The news of her betrayal, my sweet wife, tears me apart in a way that not even the bloodiest battles have been able to do.

For you, I crossed oceans and crossed deserts, shed blood and brought down empires. However, I realize that the hardest battle I face is the one you fought on the sly with another man. I feel betrayed, but also consumed by a sick, and furious love that burns like the fire of Rome.

I will not allow him to breathe the same air as you, to touch your skin as I did, to steal your love from me. I will hunt him down, torture him, and kill him.

(Y/N), my wife, my life and my soul belong to you. If you continue with this traitor, I swear I will make an example of him, a warning for all to see. I'll make an example of you. You are my wife, my reason for living, and I won't let anything or anyone take you away from me.

Reflect on your actions, my beloved, for my passion is stronger than any army, hotter than any fire. I won't forgive you, but I'm willing to compromise.

With angry and love,

Julius Caesar.

Napoleon Bonaparte

My beloved wife,

I write these words with a heavy heart and a mind tormented by the thoughts that have invaded my soul. I found out that you, my beloved wife, betrayed the trust that we once placed in each other.y pain is indescribable, my mind troubled by terrible visions of your betrayal.

You know what I can do when faced with challenges when those I love are threatened. My reputation as a military leader is widely known, but what you may not know is that my love for you is just as fierce.

I know where you've been, who you've been with, and what you've done. Every detail is etched in my mind like a scar, a scar that burns like lava from a volcano. (Y/N), my love, I solemnly warn you that if you persist in this betrayal, the consequences will be dire. The fire that burns in my chest can be directed to protect or to destroy, and you must choose wisely.

Reflect on what we have together, on the lives we've built, and on the price that may be paid for your actions. My love for you runs deep, and I will not hesitate to use every means in my power to keep what's mine. You are mine and I will destroy anyone who gets in my way, especially that damn lover of yours. But don't worry, I've already dealt with it myself.

I pray that reason prevails in your heart, for my passion and my anger are a force that cannot be contained. I hope you make the right choice and maybe I'll be benevolent.

With love and so much jealousy,

Napoleon.

Henry VIII

My sweet wife,

I write these words with a rage that burns hotter than the sun. My trust in you has been unacceptably betrayed, and my rage is untamed. How dare you betray me, a woman who swore allegiance to me and our kingdom?

I, Henry VIII, a mighty and formidable king, will not tolerate such dishonor. You must be aware that by challenging my authority and my love, by violating our marriage, you are playing with your own destiny. With your life.

My spies have reported every detail of your heinous betrayals, (Y/N). There is no escape, no hiding place where you can hide. My anger is like an approaching storm, and the thunder of my vengeance will resound across England.

You, who shared my bed and my trust, now face the wrath of a disgraced monarch. Have no illusions my dear as my love for you has turned into a darkness that will swallow up everything in its path. And it's all your fault.

(Y/N), if you wish to avoid a dark and terrible fate, I suggest you change course immediately. Renounce your betrayals and be my loyal wife again, and I can show you mercy, but not your damned lover. No. He's already dead. Should you decide to disobey me once more, the sword will fall on your head, as it fell on others who dared to defy me.

With unabated fury,

Henry.

[youabandonedthem]

slick and crowbar's mental versions of reality if they were forced to lead each other's gangs - visual concepts

basic hypothesis: their mental states would progress in opposite directions. Slick at first would think of it as no big deal and that he can handle "a bunch of soddin retards," and would treat all of them similarly to the way he treats deuce, dispensing orders and hitting and hurting them as he feels necessary. however after a maximum of 3 weeks with a lack of access to sentient minds and as the repeated corporal punishments show diminishing returns he would begin to feel the ramifications of being surrounded by what he thinks of as 14 deuces. this would go along with the added stress of living in an environment that constitutes his personalised hell (clocks/frogs/green/snowman). the visceral disturbance within him gradually builds up and when someone taller than him tugs on his coat collar and asks him to tuck them in to bed his mind would snap. his violence against them despite being their leader would become gratuitous. when the solid colours use their abilities to prank him he would begin reacting disproportionately. he would be speedwalking through the halls holding his head and hallucinating slime while a felt member is following him begging for something to do. squeezing his eye closed saying "shut up shut up shut up" even when nobody is talking anymore. he would have broken most clocks in the mansion even the ones they try to replace but continues to hear them tick. unless the situation or environment changes he would continue to deteriorate.

meanwhile crowbar would be locked in psychological warfare with the crew who will never accept him as one of their own for biological and ideological reasons. The best metaphor for crowbar's usual environment compared to this new one is if he were a special needs summer camp counsellor now placed with 'troubled teens' who sit through him explaining various preplanned activities then stare at him with contempt and only do whatever they ideologically agree with doing. The first scene would involve this new arrangement sitting in the hideout around the table in silence and he tries to say one thing and smoke gets blown in his face. after a few seconds he starts saying something else and a low growling sound is heard and he shuts up completely. everyone would be conscious of the missing piece in the crew and the replacement that doesnt belong. everything he says would be scrutinised and he would feel the need to explain/justify most of his decisions especially to droog who he thinks of as intelligent and refined. (he fully buys into the image that droog sells). he does everything he can to rise up from the idiotic association of the felt even though he would defend his gang/species to the end of the earth if they were directly insulted. the only one who is nice to him (agreeing with all of his ideas, baking cookies in the shape of his face, consistently making a point of calling him "boss," etc) is clubs deuce which is so disconcerting compared to the treatment from the other two it leads him to believe deuce is the true mastermind in this situation, deliberately trying to earn his trust in order to weaken his defences. He would periodically go back and forth between this paranoia and phases where he is almost "fooled" by deuce's behaviour.

however after 6-12 months of this psychological warfare crowbar would eventually realise he has now adapted to the crew's individual ways and personalities. he ultimately learns how to act so that they will work with him even though he will never truly synergise or fully understand their ways of communication. and when he finally returns to the felt he'll somewhat MISS being with the crew but ultimately rejoin the gang he belongs to with a new outlook and wlil begin making more of an effort to encourage their independence and individual strengths. whereas slick would barely learn anything from this experience because it is pure mental torture for him. He would slither back up to his crew wordlessly and the only thing he would note is how much better it feels to be around them and little else. the scenario would serve no greater purpose either other than hypothetical psychological experimentation that only lats the duration it takes for them to both reach a plateau of torment

[yourjughead]

Attack Dog pt.2

Sweet Pea X Reader enemies to lovers

-------------------------------------

Hey wait up Brass Knuckles” Sweet Pea easily reached you in a light jog. You gritted your teeth to push down the pain of the spasm in your leg at the end of its contractions. You pulled your hood up before returning an arm to your thigh. 

“So I'm not even gonna get a thank you Princess?” You stopped dead, if even to just give your leg a break from your weight. 

“What do you want a fucking medal?” you shot. 

“Listen, from where I'm stood, you need me a lot than I need you right now, so you wanna maybe try another tone? Let me help you home” You just rolled your eyes at him and began to limp along again. Sweet Pea went to put an arm around you to support your weight only to be met with the palms of your hands into his chest pushing him away. 

“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” You snapped. 

“Okay fine, hobble along, maybe I should go back and tell them where you've gone to or who you are?” You stopped again, your leg sending a shot of warning pain down to your toes. You exhaled loudly before stretching out an arm allowing Sweet Pea to pass beneath it and support your weight with his shoulders. 

“What are you even doing out this far this late?” He didn't leave the silence between you stay that long. 

“Trying to sort through my thoughts”

“Yes I hear punching the leaders of gangs is very good for that” you glanced worriedly at him. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I said, or is that rain jacket cutting the blood flow to your ears” he threw your early words back at you. 

“I didn't know that's who he was, a weird man grabbed me, it was instinct”

“It's a real shame you hate Serpents so much, that was a very Serpent thing to do” you scoffed at him. 

“Why'd you even help me anyways?” 

“I was in between shifts selling drugs to children” he gave a small laugh and you fought away a smile. You both carried on along the road for awhile without speaking.

“This changes nothing”

“Whatever you say Princess”

“Stop calling me that” 

“Fine, I'll go back to attack dog, seems more fitting now anyways” you didn't care about the pain in your leg, you snatched your arm back from over him and tucked it into your side. Your surroundings started to become more familiar to you as you got closer to the Northside once again. Sweet Pea slowed behind you and you turned, surprised he didn't badger you about not letting him help.

“What?”

“Nothing I just… I just don't like being over there without my friends” Sweet Pea nodded in the direction of where you grew up and you couldn't help but laugh.

“Afraid of the little Northsiders? Very surprising” you teased but he didn't quip back. 

“If anyone asks, you weren't on the Southside alone, I wasn't on the Northside alone, everyone stayed where they're supposed to” you nodded in agreement, happy to forget this night. Your cadence evened as your leg finally relaxed after being electrified. 

“Well….I got it from here, thanks I guess”

“Wow who knew Northsiders had manners?”

“Who knew Serpents even knew the word manners?” He scoffed at you before gesturing for you to keep walking without him.

-

Sweet Pea POV 

Monday morning came around, the junior Serpents were alive with discussions of last Friday night.

“I heard a Ghoulie girl came up and clocked him”

“I heard it was a girl from New York”

“I heard it was his long lost daughter” I buried a smile at my friends and their theories. Thank god no one got a good look at her. Why do I even care? She's so nasty to us. It kept me awake all night. Why did I help her? Why am I still thinking about it? I looked out from my locker to ask Jughead a question to find him staring longingly at YN. I tried not to roll my eyes. Our friends lost in their theories.

“What's up Jones?” 

“Nothing”

“Nah, you're looking at your attack dog more like she's a cuddly Pomeranian” I closed the locker and leaned on it alongside him. 

“She's not like that normally, she just has a lot on her plate” 

“And do you also wanna be on that plate?” Couldn't help myself, he pushed me sideways along the locker smiling.

“Maybe I did once but the way she looks at me now….she hates me”

“No no, she looks at me like she hates me, she looks at you like she's trying to figure out her next move with you. Just give her the time and space to figure it out” his head shot in my direction.

“And you know this because why? You look at her a lot?” If I was being honest I did find my eyes on YN a lot, every class we shared, she was more interesting that whatever the teachers were droning on about. 

“No no, just an observation I made, part of my job to be….. observant” he looked at me like he didn't believe me. I didn't believe me. Lucky for me he didn't speak whatever he was thinking. I took a stolen glance at YN laughing down the hall with her friends. I wish I could make her laugh like that. 

“Right I've had enough, I'm gonna talk to her today, I can't keep going on pretending I don't miss her” 

“Careful Jones, that's not very Serpent of you”

“Yeah…but maybe I don't want to be a Ser-” I cut him off, my temper taking me as I caught his shirt.

“Don't finish that sentence unless you mean it. You're either with us or against us” our friends stopped gossiping and stared at us. I released my grip before pushing off the locker and heading down the hall. I don't like when people use me and my friends. Was he just using us until he got back to here? I met YNs eyes, she saw everything. Good job Sweet Pea I'm sure that'll help the situation. 

-

I sat on the end of bleachers of the football pitch during lunch, the only place I could have a cigarette without a teacher freaking out at me. 

“Yanno that'll kill you?” I turned to find YN sat a little distance from me. 

“Funny, Jones said the same thing about you to me” I hear her give a half-suppressed laugh at me. Not quite the hearty laugh I heard from her this morning but I'll take what I can get.

“What was that with Jughead this morning? Tell him what happened with us on Friday?” 

“Us? Oh no no Princess, you get all the credit for your right hook, all the blame too” I crushed the cigarette into the bleacher before chewing on some gum. 

“You know what I meant” she kept her gaze on the field of football players doing their lunch time training as she spoke. 

“Don't worry I didn't say anything. I was just giving him advice on what you need-”

“-And how the hell would you know what I need!”

“Well I think you need a good fuck cause that's the only thing I think that'll get you to stop being so up tight-” her head shot to me, no longer concerned with who saw us talking.

“-but I settled for the old reliable give her time and space” I watched her chest release the full capacity of air from her lungs before taking another deep breath. She shuffled slightly before zipping up her sweatshirt. Oh shit I was just staring at her chest.

“I didn't…I didn't mean that I want to be the one to….fuck you…I meant …” I didn't know what I meant so I shut myself up and waited for the bleachers to swallow me whole. She scoffed before returning her eyes to the field, watching Archie passing the ball around. 

“I'm not normally like this, I'm just finding it hard to find my feet back here again. So much change here and when I was out moving house every few months the only thing that kept me sane was knowing this place would stay my constant. Now that's changed too” her head dropped down slightly with her lowered tone. 

“I umm I don't know why I just told you that”

“The Serpents are my constant, I know you don't like us but they were the only ones to care about me growing up. I don't like when that's disrespected, that's what the thing with Jughead and I was about this morning” 

“Careful there snake brain, your human side is showing” I grinned at her comment. The lunch bell rang out across the school, sending YN and me our separate ways for the day, the whole interaction not leaving my thoughts for the rest of the week

Part 3

[slayfics]

Kai has you sale bullets.

Warnings: violence, blood, AFAB reader

1.3k words

The sound of the car hummed. A few heads turned to glance at the all-blacked-out car. A dark tint that was surely past legal.

You watched the buildings pass as the driver turned down an alleyway. You and Kai sat in the back, a briefcase between you both.

"You understand the plan?" Kai asked gold eyes sliding over to you.

You nodded, as the car came to a stop.

"Good tell me," He urged.

"You want me to sell the prototype bullets to these guys, make sure it's the correct amount of money, then come back," you answered, fidgeting in your seat re-adjusting your much too tightly fitting dress.

"Emphasis on the sell, make sure they understand the true potential of what we're offering them. These bunch aren't too savory, so you'll need to be stern," he added.

"If that's true, should I be going in alone?" You asked, feeling the unease kick in. It was your first official sale and you wanted to believe Kai wouldn't put you in a potentially dangerous situation, yet your hands still shake.

"If I hear any unnecessary ruckus I'll come in," he spoke attempting to soothe your nerves. "Besides, it makes a better statement if it's only you. Shows our buyers we pose no threat to them, and we are confident in our product." He concluded.

You nodded and took a deep breath. Uneasily grabbing the suitcase.

"I'll be right here," he reassured you once more.

You gave him a faint smile before leaving the comfort of the car. The alleyway door was cold and grimy. It didn't look like the base for some dangerous villains, but you figured that was the point.

The door opened to a long dark hallway with a dim light at the end. You strode down the hallway attempting to have your strides sound as confident as possible, the sound of your heels echoing loudly.

Following the dim light, the hallway opened up to a plain room. It became clear this wasn't the real base for this group. Just a safe meeting point they had decided upon. Information you noted to inform Kai about later.

The room had one large table that five men were sitting around, one dressed in a vest lazily on top of the table feet dangling as his eyes widened at the sight of you.

The man who sat at the head of the table let out an amused laugh, "I didn't know the Yakuza had any women working for them," he commented. You recognized this man to be the leader of this group.

"Damn you aren't bad looking either," The man in the vest said jumping off the table to move closer to you.

"As flattered as I am let's get down to business," you redirected the conversation.

"Alright then, exactly how much is this product?" The leader asked you.

"As my boss probably already explained, these bullets eliminate quirks. To date there hasn't been anything else that's-," You began your sales pitch before getting cut off.

"Save me the speech, just tell me the price sweetheart," the leader pressured.

"First time it's 5 million Yen a bullet," you spoke, opening the suitcase to display the bullets inside.

"Wow, no wonder he sent beautiful women to give that news." the leader mused.

"For that price do you come with them?" The man wearing the vest asked stalking closer to you.

You attempted to keep your stance firm, but you couldn't help the way your legs trembled. It was painfully obvious to you that you were outnumbered in this room. It wouldn't be unimaginable that the men would gang up on you.

Kai wouldn't let that happen though, right?

"If you can't afford our product, what makes you think you can afford me?" You hissed back at the man drawing closer to you.

The man's face flashed with anger as he reached out to grab your face in his hands, fingers pressed firmly into your cheeks he directed you to look him in the eyes, "Do you talk back to Overhaul like that?"

"Careful," his leader called out to him. "Overhaul has a distaste for germs, he's not going to like you touching his things."

"Thing about germs hu? No wonder you look so scared. Not used to being touched, are you?" The man taunted further squeezing your cheeks tighter. "That's a pity that he doesn't enjoy you to your fullest potential."

Reaching your limit, you struck the man across the face with the back of your hand. The man stumbled back hitting against the wall. Your slap and the man thudding against the wall echoed down the hallway.

Loud enough for Kai to hear in the quiet alleyway, you thought. Yet the man was looking up at you with venom in his eyes now and Kai wasn't coming. Your blood ran cold.

Were you just another disposable pawn to Kai?

"Fucking bitch doesn't he teach you how to behave," the man barked, heavy hand coming up to slam your head against the table.

The commotion was now undoubtedly audible from the alleyway, but no intervention from Kai came.

Head pressed against the table the man continued to spew insults at you. Making a quick decision you grabbed one of the bullets from the suitcase and jammed it into his hand. Enough pressure that the quirk-eliminating effect was activated.

"The hell!?" The man exclaimed, stepping backward and freeing you from his grasp. Pulling the bullet out of his hand he began to panic. "My quirk won't activate!" he yelled and looked at his leader.

His leader simply shrugged, "I told you not to touch Overhaul's things. We'll take five of those sweetheart," he said sliding another suitcase across the table to you. "And make sure to extend my apologies to Overhaul for your head." The leader said noting the blood that now dripped down your forehead.

You opened the suitcase ensuring the correct amount was inside before leaving five bullets on the table, and scoffed, "No need to apologize, my head is exceptional." Giving a wink you turned to stride back down the hallway.

Hand gripped so tight on the suitcase your knuckles were white. Just hold it together for a few more moments, you told yourself.

Entering back into the car, a flood of emotions rushed over you.

Kai took one glance at the blood dripping down your forehead and scooted away, "You look filthy," he commented.

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO COME FOR ME!" You yelled, the pent-up emotions flying out. The gravity of the situation you had just been put in crashed down on you.

"Stay on that side," he instructed, disgust on his face from your open wound.

But his comment was drowned out by your panic state, "I SCREAMED! DIDN'T YOU HEAR?!" You yelled at him. "I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT AGAIN KAI!" You cried, tears flowing down your face now.

"Quite down, and stay over there," he instructed once more.

"That man threatened me and what was I supposed to do- there were five of them!" you gulped.

Unmoved by your fear and the situation he had set you up to be in Kai removed the glove from his hand, swiftly pressing his hand over your mouth silencing you. You felt a pain that could only be described as every cell in your body being on fire.

"Do I need to remind you of your place?" he asked calmly.

Eyes widened, panic re-setting in, the reality of death set on your chest. You shook your head no, silent tears now running from your eyes trickled down Kai's hand.

You were just a pawn.

A pretty salesman.

In too deep to run away now.

sinners: @mintsbubbletea @lalachanya @unofficialmuilover @starieq @that-one-fangirl69

[gothhabiba]

What's going on in the Armenian Quarter of Jerusalem? a timeline

Background

700s-1920s: Armenian Christians immigrate to Palestine, at first due to the holy sites there and later (after 1915) fleeing the Armenian genocide. Most of them end up living in a section of Jerusalem known as the Armenian Quarter. An Armenian church / Patriarchate is established that has authority over Armenian Apostolic Christians everywhere.

1923-1947: Britain (who had been given the "mandate," aka direct governmental control, of Palestine by other European colonial powers), empowers Patriarchates in Jerusalem (church leadership) to do things like select their own leaders and sell land without oversight from their communities. This gives Britain more authority and prevents regular Palestinian people from knowing what's going on when it comes to church business including secret real estate deals.

2005-2019: Land in Jerusalem belonging to the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate is sliced up, sold, and developed despite attempts to fight it in Israeli courts.

July 2021: The Armenian Patriarchate makes a deal leasing 2.7 acres of land to real estate / development company Xana Gardens (based in Dubai and owned by Israeli businessman Danny Rothman) for between 49 and 98 years. The deal is made without proper oversight and approval, including from within the Patriarchate.

The land in question includes the historical Cows' Garden (Hadiqa al-Baqar / حديقة البقر), now a parking lot; part of a church school; a garden; and five family houses. It makes up about 1/4 of the total land in the Armenian Quarter. No one knows that more than just Cows' Garden is affected.

Xana Gardens wants to build a luxury hotel on some of this land, including Cow's Garden.

Events in 2023

May: Details of the nature of the real estate deal come out. The government of Jordan (I think? these news reports are written in the passive voice) and Armenian institutions try to contact the Patriarchate to express concern about the handling of historically significant sites. The Patriarch does not respond.

11 May: Jordan and Palestine suspend their recognition of Patriarch Nourhan Manougian.

26 October: The Patriarchate announces that it has contacted Xana Gardens to cancel the deal. Xana Gardens does not respond.

Later on 26 October (around 3pm): Israeli bulldozers arrive at Cows' Garden and start tearing up pavement and demolishing a wall. Armenians rush to stand in front of bulldozers and prevent further destruction.

5 November: Rothman and other representatives of Xana Gardens arrive with 15 settlers and tell local Armenians that the land is theirs and they need to leave. Some of the settlers have guns and leashed dogs. About 200 Armenian Palestinians arrive and force the settlers to stand down.

12 and 13 November: Xana Gardens sends bulldozers to Cows' Garden. They do not have necessary permits. Armenians set up constantly rotating vigils at the Gardens and make barricades with pieces of metal and their cars.

15 November, 4:30pm: Israeli settlers drive a convoy of cars into the Garden. Armenians gather around the barricades. The police back the settlers and arrest three Armenians, including one child.

28th December: 30+ settlers attack a group of Armenian bishops, priests, deacons, and seminary students (including Bishop Koryoun Baghdasaryan, the director of the Patriarchate's real estate department) with sticks and nerve agents / tear gas, injuring several.

28th December, later: The Patriarchate releases a statement attributing the attack to Xana Gardens. The development company does not want the Patriarchate to continue trying to reverse the deal through the court system.

[clairedaring]

Glass Heart, based on Wakagi Mio’s best-selling light novel, is coming to Netflix in 2025. Executively co-produced and starring Takeru Satoh, Glass Heart also stars Yu Miyazaki, Keita Machida, Jun Shison, and Masaki Suda. The drama is directed by Kakimoto Kensaku and will distributed worldwide on Netflix in 2025.

Plot

Akane Saijo, a college student and aspiring drummer finds herself suddenly kicked out of her band for arbitrary reasons. Things take a turn when Naoki Fujitani, a musical prodigy known as "Amadeus of Rock", stumbles upon her talent and invites her to join his newly formed band "Ten Blank".

Characters

Satoh Takeru as Naoki Fujitani, the leader, vocalist and bassist of Ten Blank

Miyazaki Yu as Akane Saijo, the determined drummer of Ten Blank

Machida Keita as Takashi Takaoka, the diligent guitarist of Ten Blank

Shison Jun as Kazushi Sakamoto, the introspective keyboardist and music geek of Ten Blank

Suda Masaki as Kiriya Masaki, the charismatic vocalist of the rival band to Ten Blank

Renowned directors Kensaku Kakimoto (Parasite in Love) and Kotaro Goto (The Naked Director) are at the helm of the series. Mari Okada, the acclaimed scriptwriter behind popular titles such as Anohana: The Flower We Saw That Day and The Anthem of the Heart, takes charge of writing the story alongside a talented team of emerging female scriptwriters.

Glass Heart sets a new benchmark in Japanese drama with its massive filming scale, including scenes featuring tens of thousands of extras for music performances. The actors also went through intensive training to master their instruments so they can play authentically. Prepare to be swept off your feet by the passion, music, and drama when Glass Heart premieres in 2025.

Read more at Netflix Press Release

------------------------------

Netflix Series 'Glass Heart'

Cast: Takeru Satoh, Yu Miyazaki, Keita Machida, Jun Shison, Masaki Suda

Based on the novel: 'Glass Heart' by Mio Wakagi 

Directors: Kensaku Kakimoto, Kotaro Goto 

Screenplay: Mari Okada, Tomoko Akutsu, Shiho Kosaka, Anna Kawahara 

Co-executive Producer: Takeru Satoh

Producer: Go Abe 

Line Producer: Hirofumi Sakurai

Production: ROBOT 

Produced by: Netflix

[rosanna-writer]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (3/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

We're back with our favorite Santa Fae <3 HUGE thank you to @itsthedoodle for continuing to beta my gift for @the-lonelybarricade!

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent. | Ch. 3 Guts and Glory

You can read the third chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

That night turned out to be the longest of Feyre's life. There was barely time for a few hours of fitful sleep; instead, she was rousing newsies and mobilizing them to get the word out about the price increase before morning.

She started with Lucien. Then Bron and Hart and Alis and Les and Davey, newsies who she'd befriended and who'd listen to her. Once they learned that the marching orders came from the High Lady herself, the rest of the newsies of the Rainbow agreed to the strike readily.

And to Feyre's surprise, they also agreed to fan out across the city, spread the news, and cajole the rest of the city's newsies into striking alongside them. They looked to her for direction, and Feyre found herself dividing up the territory among them—Bone and Salt, Thread and Jewels, Hoof and Leaf.

But no one wanted to take the south side of the Sidra. That was Nesta's turf.

Given the choice, Feyre would rather fight a Middengard Wyrm than cross the Sidra for her sister's help. Any other newsie would probably feel the same; the south side fae were big and unflinchingly loyal to Nesta, who ran her side of the city like a well-oiled machine.

Nothing got past Nesta, though. Before Feyre even had the chance to summon up the courage to go see her sister, a note appeared out of thin air and fluttered down into Feyre's hands.

Waiting on proof that you won't fold at the first sign of trouble — N

That wasn't an outright insult, so Feyre supposed that was the best she could have hoped for. Even if it stung. For all her faults, though, Nesta was true to her word. Feyre pocketed the note and didn't bother with a reply; in the morning, she'd prove to her sister that the newsies of the Rainbow weren't backing down.

But it was more than just Nesta who doubted them. The responses came in one by one from the rest of the city, and they were all the same: they'd back up the Rainbow newsies…but only if Nesta did it first.

This would be a test. Feyre was sure of it, all the way down her bones, as the sky lightened in the east and stacks of papers were readied for distribution. For now, the newsies of the Rainbow would be standing alone.

Though on some level she'd expected it, Feyre's heart still sank at the sight of scabs lining up to buy papers to sell that morning. She wasn't the only one—a fight had nearly broken out immediately. Tensions might have boiled over if Feyre hadn't put an arm out to stop a newsie from charging right at them.

"Listen," she said, gentle but firm enough that the unionized newsies quieted as she spoke to the scabs, "I'm sure you were paid handsomely for this. But it isn't right. You've heard how they speak to us—if you ask Pulitzer, we're all gutter rats willing to stab each other in the back. There's no shame in being poor or lesser fae. We all deserve a fair deal. Every single one of us. So, please, I beg you…throw your papers down and join the strike."

By the time she finished speaking, even the fae passing by and going about their business stopped to listen to her. Feyre hoped the churning in her stomach didn't show on her face. For a few long moments, a heavy silence hung over the square.

One by one, the scabs dropped their papers.

The rest of the stacks of papers at the distribution window sat untouched after that. There hadn't been time to make banners or signs, but it was clear enough that the newsies of the Rainbow fully intended to ensure that every single paper went unsold. After all—by the end of the day, they'd be too out of date to be of use, anyway.

By noon, Feyre supposed, the message was received. She was already thinking ahead to votes and negotiations, demands they could make beyond just lowering the price of papers back down to what it had been originally. The strike might actually succeed.

And then a group of High Fae in identical police uniforms rounded the corner, and Feyre's hopes sank all at once. But she didn't panic, just gritted her teeth—she'd vowed to prove to Nesta that they wouldn't fold at the first sign of trouble, and trouble had arrived.

So Feyre marched forward to meet them. Head held high, she returned their stares and didn't bother glancing back to make sure the newsies of the Rainbow followed her.

The cops might have already been reaching for their nightsticks, but Feyre decided to make one attempt at resolving this peaceably. "Good afternoon," she said evenly, letting her voice carry. "Is there—"

But the thwack of a nightstick colliding with a newsie's jaw cut that short.

Feyre's hands curled into fists, her arms moving up to protect her face on instinct. Around her, the square erupted into chaos—shouting and newsies running in all directions. Something struck her in the side. She cried out in pain, too stunned to make herself incorporeal.

She scrambled backwards, glancing around for a flash of Lucien's red hair. If Feyre had to run, she wouldn't leave without him. All around her, newsies were fleeing or being dragged and winnowed away by police.

A shadow fell over the square, cast by a massive wingspan. An Illyrian warrior—what in the bottomless depths of the Cauldron was he doing in Velaris?—landed with his back to her, unsheathing a sword strapped along his spine. His wings flared out as if to shield her.

A vicious growl escaped the Illyrian. "Touch her again and you die," he spat at the cop, and Feyre recognized the voice. Not just any Illyrian warrior— Rhysand.

With a single deft movement of his wrist, Rhys used his sword to knock the nightstick out of the closest policeman's hand. It clattered to the pavement and rolled towards Feyre.

"What are you doing here?" Feyre hissed, picking up the nightstick.

"I told you I'd publicly support a strike, didn't I?"

There was no time to demand an explanation, not when Lucien was still nowhere in sight. Feyre threw herself into the fray. Hands grabbed at her, but she knocked them away with the nightstick before anyone could winnow her.

If they caught her, she'd end up in the Prison. Once, Feyre had nearly found herself trapped on that barren island of rock on the western shore. She wouldn't let it happen today, either.

She called Lucien's name, searching for any sign of him. There was none, but perhaps he'd already gotten to safety…

No, there he was, all the way across the square. Feyre called his name as she launched herself towards him. A cop was charging at Lucien, ready to strike or winnow him away.

Feyre reached for Lucien. So did the cop. But Lucien didn't see—he'd turned his head at the sound of her voice, and the officer was on the side where his missing eye narrowed his field of vision.

And Feyre wasn't fast enough. Her fingers closed around empty air. Lucien was gone.

Not just gone—taken to the Prison, with no hope of escaping that island full of monsters. Feyre choked back a sob.

Something tugged in her chest, urgent and insistent, as Rhys's voice filled her mind. Get. Home. I'm holding them off for you.

Feyre didn't need to be told twice—if she stayed any longer, she'd end up in the Prison, too. She faded until she was little more than a ghost, slipping from shadow to shadow until she was back at her tenement.

The Rainbow's High Lady should have been assessing the damage, getting a count of how many newsies had been arrested, and making sure any injured newsies who'd escaped found a healer. But Feyre was tired.

At at the sight of Lucien's empty bed, she finally let out the sob that she'd held back before running away. She'd never felt like a bigger idiot; going up against Pulitzer had been massively stupid, and now her best friend was paying the price. Dreams of a better world were just that—dreams. Nothing more.

So Feyre lifted the floorboard and gathered what she'd saved of the money Rhysand had tipped her. It was long past time to buy that one-way ticket to the Continent.

***

The force of his father's power knocked through Rhys's mental shields like a battering ram. House of Wind. Now.

Rhys sheathed his sword, glancing around the rapidly-emptying square. Feyre had disappeared safely into the shadows, and his work here was done. But the feral instinct to protect his mate hadn't disappeared with her. Rhys shot into the sky, hoping to clear his head before he misted anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

As he flew, Rhys shifted himself out of his leathers and back into a tunic—whatever explanation he gave his father, it would be better received if he looked less Illyrian. Less like a threat, if he was being honest.

But really, the only thing that would quell his father's anger would be telling him that Feyre was his mate. Rhys refused to take that option; his behavior might be excused as protectiveness typical of a mated male, but that wasn't worth exposing Feyre to pressure to accept the bond. She'd resent him for eternity for that.

So Rhys just steeled himself for whatever punishment his father would mete out. He'd endure anything if it meant Feyre had a choice.

The High Lord was waiting on the balcony of the House of Wind, and even from the sky, Rhys could see darkness swirling around him in furious, pulsing waves. He schooled his expression into careful neutrality as he landed.

"Would you please explain," the High Lord said, the mild words no less an ice-cold threat, "what exactly you were doing attacking a police officer in the middle of Velaris just now?"

"Preventing a bloodbath," Rhys said, just as coolly.

For a moment, night rippled between the High Lord and his heir as they stared each other down. Then Rhys's father turned on his heel and strode back into the House of Wind, clearly expecting Rhys to follow.

He hadn't yielded—Rhys knew this tactic well. He matched his father's long strides and awaited the dressing down that was meant to be overheard,not behind closed doors in the High Lord's study.

"A bloodbath might have been just the thing we needed, but everyone saw you protecting their ringleader. Do you understand the chaos that could cause in Velaris? A direct challenge to my authority, from my own heir. I won't have you starting riots, Rhysand."

Servants and courtiers alike scurried out of the way as they walked. Rhys made sure to keep his head held high.

"What they were doing….it wasn't right, High Lord." His father's title tasted like ash on Rhys's tongue.

" Right doesn't matter, keeping the peace does, especially in Velaris. I have half a mind to send you to Illyria if you're so intent on seeing this city burn to the ground."

Rhys nearly stumbled in shock—sending him to Illyria was the closest his father could manage to banishing him. Perhaps though, he shouldn't have been surprised. If the laws of Prythian had allowed it, Rhys suspected his father would have killed him before Rhys had a chance to ever challenge him for the throne.

"Velaris is my home now."

"You aren't acting like it. Undermine me again and I'll order Devlon to strip you of your rank and put you on border duty in the coldest corner of the Steppes."

A warning was more generous than Rhys had any right to expect. Though in truth, he suspected it wasn't mercy so much as his father's desire to keep a close eye on him that was allowing him to stay in the city for now.

"Thank you, father," he said with a curt nod.

They reached the High Lord's study, and the door slamming in Rhys's face was dismissal enough. That was fine. Feyre was probably off somewhere marshaling the newsies that hadn't been arrested, and Rhys would give her time to handle that before checking to make sure she'd gotten some safely.

Gods, he wanted to see her though.

To pass the time instead, Rhys began making his way down to the library to brood. But the sound of Mor calling his name made him freeze. A faint note of panic in her voice nearly had him reaching for his sword.

"Thank the Mother you're still here. I was just at Ressina's," Mor said.

Rhys stilled. "The theater?"

"There was some artwork I bought from her. And you should go there now because I saw—" Mor cut herself off then glanced around, eyes going wide. Rhys understood; privacy wasn't always a given in the House of Wind. Dropping her voice lower, she added, " You know who is there, talking about leaving for the Continent tonight. Go get her."

Rhys didn't need to be told twice. He set off at a sprint toward the balcony, snapped his wings open, and took to the sky. Once he'd climbed above the wards, he winnowed straight to the theater.

Feyre was alone on stage, painting mountains on a backdrop and looking as peaceful as Rhys had ever seen her. The beauty of it stopped him in his tracks halfway down the center aisle. She'd captured the majesty of the craggy peaks in Illyria—but with a hazy, otherworldly quality as if she'd seen them in a dream.

"What do you want, Rhys?" she said without turning around.

"An explanation."

"Of what? Why the strike was a colossal failure?"

"Of why you're planning on running away."

At that, Feyre spun on her heel, holding the paintbrush as if it were a javelin to throw at him. Her blue-grey eyes flashed as Rhys climbed the stairs to the stage and got closer. "Mother's tits, my best friend got dragged to the Prison today . I'm not putting anyone else at risk."

"I didn't take you for a female who backs down from a challenge."

For a moment, Rhys was sure she was about to strike him. And he probably would have deserved it. Feyre just sighed and went back to her painting.

"I tried sending a note to Lucien," she said quietly, "but he was too beat up to even send an answer back. If he doesn't make it…"

Rhys's eyes drifted to a crumpled piece of paper at her feet. "Then what's that?"

"A message from Nesta, saying next time we can count on the south side newsies. Easy for her to say when there won't be a next time."

It had been a while since Rhys had seen anyone with this sort of bitterness in their voice and defeated slump in their shoulders. He recognized it all the same—from his time in war-camps after lost battles. The drinking and partying that the gossip columns loved to write about so much had been his way of getting sights like that out of his head, to chase away thoughts of what might have happened to soldiers captured by Hybern.

He'd never expected Feyre to look broken that way.. But Rhys had commanded a legion; he knew what to do.

"Get your head on straight, Archeron," he said, a note of command creeping into his voice. Feyre stiffened for a moment, but kept painting. He pressed on. "You're winning, and don't be stupid enough to throw it away now. Pulitzer called on my father for support because you had him scared. And after what happened in the square, all of Velaris knows it. So keep moving forward."

For a long moment, Feyre said nothing, just kept adjusting the shading on one of the mountains. Rhys began to wonder if she was determined to ignore him until he left—she was certainly stubborn enough.

"Why do you care? You're a prince. I don't see why this matters so much to you," she said eventually.

Rhys couldn't tell her that the thought of an ocean between them was already ripping his heart in two. But he didn't have to lie, either.

"Because I'm Illyrian. I spent seven years breaking the news to families that they'd lost a loved one because High Fae bastards like my father think of my mother's people as cannon fodder and nothing more. Most of the newsies are lesser fae, and you can't tell me Pulitzer doesn't see you the same way. There are enough camp-lords who hate my father enough that they'll lend their support if you ask for it, and with Nesta on board, that's a powerful coalition."

Again, Feyre said nothing. But he watched as she dipped a new brush into silvery paint and slowly added three stars atop the mountain in the center of the backdrop. That was answer enough.

She turned and studied him, and Rhys had never felt more exposed than he did under the weight of her gaze. Feyre had a way of seeing right to the center of him, and when she'd drawn his portrait, it was as if she'd reproduced it on newsprint for the whole world to see.

"Does that mean you're in this with me? All the way to the end?"

Not for the first time, Rhys wondered if she knew what they were to each other. There were times—like now—that he felt the bond so acutely that every breath seemed to pull on a cord tied to his ribs. If he were a worse male, he would have slid past her shields to see if her question meant what he suspected.

But that wouldn't change his answer. "You have me. Everything I can give, for as long as you need, Feyre."

She set the paintbrush down. "Then let's get back to work."

[chubbycelebs]

The Weight of Fame (part 1)

It was 2016. The biggest band in the world was everywhere, 1 Direction. This was until the boys decided to go on a break, all now pursuing a solo career. But the one the fans were most excited for was the band's pretty boy, Harry Styles.Harry had been dubbed the leader of the band, with his insane vocal range and amazing good looks. The fans were obsessed with him and they couldn't wait to see what he brings when he releases his solo music.

Once the band were on their break, Harry began to realise the amount of pressure that was on him to create music that the fans would love but also what they wouldn't expect. Days began to pass and Harry struggled with even stepping foot in the music room at his house. He had developed such anxiety around starting his own solo music. He decided to call up his manager and explain. Thankfully his manager was very understanding of the amount of pressure he was under and said for Harry to take some time off an enjoy his life now that he was out of the band with no responsibility.

Hearing those words relaxed Harry instantly. After that he would walk around his huge mansion in his underwear, eating ice cream for breakfast, watching hours and hours of TV that he never had the time for before. He loved relaxing so much, he forgot what it was like. The boys in the band were always kept on a tight routine. They always had to be up 6am to work out as if the boys weren't in fit shape at all times for the fans then they would lose that sex appeal when selling songs. After that it would be tour rehearsals or recording studios, followed by performances and shows, it was never ending. They would be lucky to even get 6 hours of sleep a night. So now getting to sleep in till 1pm, eat what he wants and just lay down relaxing, this was all that Harry wanted.

As the weeks went by, Harry had still not been struck with inspiration for any new music. He would be feeling anxious about this but to be honest he was not worried at all. His manager said he could have up to a year off if he felt like it so Harry was in no rush to get off his ass and record. Whilst his lifestyle for the past few weeks hadn't changed, his body sure had. Harry had gone from a 2 hour work out a day to not even stepping foot in a gym once. And to add to it, he hadn't been eating the best either. Filling his days with eating sweet treats and fast food, his body didn't resemble the pop mega star that he was just a few weeks ago.

One morning Harry got out of bed and walked over to the mirror. As he looked at him self he was surprised by the Harry that was looking back at him.

Harry noticed how his tank top clung tightly to his protruding belly. His belly poked out far and his love handles rounded out his silhouette. Harry rubbed his hand over his softer frame, feeling the warm fat that was covering his once rippling abs. Harry had expected to feel disgusted in his self that he had let him self go to become this chubby lazy slob, however he kind of enjoyed the softness of his body. The jiggle that ran through his gut as he walked, the soft warm pillow that was always on him, he even enjoyed how tight his vest top clung to his skin. He grabbed his phone and snapped a photo of his body. He was happy with these changes, they almost resembled how free he was now. Before the regiment of keeping fit felt like he was a prisoner but now with his soft expanded frame, it was like he was breaking free of those expectations.

Now that he had realised the toll his new lifestyle had taken on him, this inspired Harry to carry on relaxing. He has never in his life had this freedom to eat what he wants, do what he likes, not worry about public opinion. He wanted to take advantage of this new found freedom and carry on with this slobbish lifestyle.

As Harry stuffed him self full of greasy foods, he began to wonder how much weight he had gained. He decided to try on a shirt that he loved to wear when he was fit. He wanted to see how he filled it out now with his round soft gut. As he put it on, his arms felt squeezed into the tight arm holes. As he tugged it over his shoulders, he realised just how difficult it would be to button up. He grabbed both sides of his shirt and sucked in and tried to button them up. As he did up the bottom 4 buttons, he couldn't hold hid breath for any longer, releasing his jelly belly.

His gut filled the shirt to its max, pushing threateningly against the buttons and pulling hard at the seams. Harry looked at his body, and couldn't be more excited. Just as he did with his tank top, he loved the feeling of his big body pressed against his tight, too small clothes. He pushed his belly out further and one of the buttons popped off flying across the room. Harry couldn't help but crack a smile. He thought what it might be like to grow too big for his clothes. What if one day he puts on a shirt and his belly is hanging out, or his jeans pop open due to the amount of fat he has added to his frame. This idea got the singer so excited, he needed to know what it was like.

The next week or so were filled with fast food, pints of ice cream, thick cream, soda, and pastries. Harry was determined now to grow out of his clothes. He thought about what his band mates would think of him growing fat like this. Would they be disappointed with him, disgusted with his piggy ways, or would they be proud of him for letting go, finding comfort and relaxing for the first time?

One night after a long day of eating, Harry had become very bloated, his belly hard with how stuffed he was. He decided to try on another shirt he really liked when he was skinny. When he picked up this shirt he looked at it and then down at his bloated gut, he knew there was no chance it would fit. When he was in shape this shirt was always a little tighter especially around his chest but now his gut stuck out way further than his chest did. He took the shirt and squeezed it over his head, he pushed his thickened arms through the tight arm holes and then attempted to pull the shirt down over his big belly.

The shirt couldn't even reach his jeans, a sliver of his hairy gut was exposed and this was when he had stretched it over his belly. His love handles slightly spilled out of the top but it wasn't till he lifted his arms that his whole gut was exposed. The tight shirt rolled up instantly exposing his whole belly, his love handles popping out with a little jiggle. The top resembled more of a crop top now only covering up his soft chest. Harry rubbed his belly and was so pleased with it. This shirt was unwearable now, he had grown too relaxed and soft to even get away with it. He was proud of his growth on his time off but he couldn't help but think, what if he got bigger?

New story detailing Harry Styles break from music and what he discovers about himself. I know this story may seem similar to another story I did but I plan on going into much more detail and exploring a different ending so I hope you enjoy!

[directsellingnow]

विराट महिला उद्यमी सम्मेलन: Direct Selling से जुड़ी महिलाओं के लिए बड़ा ऐलान!

8 मार्च को अंतरराष्ट्रीय महिला दिवस के अवसर पर, नई दिल्ली का इंदिरा गांधी इंडोर स्टेडियम ”विराट लखपति दीदी महिला उद्यमी महासम्मेलन” का साक्षी बना। डायरेक्ट सेलिंग (Direct Selling) इंडस्ट्री के मद्देनज़र आयोजित इस समारोह में केंद्रीय महिला एवं बाल विकास मंत्री श्रीमती स्मृति जुबिन ईरानी और केंद्रीय वाणिज्य एवं उद्योग, उपभोक्ता मामले, खाद्य एवं सार्वजनिक वितरण और कपड़ा मंत्री श्री पीयूष गोयल शामिल…

[barkingbonzo]

THUNDERBIRDS Christmas

Thunderbirds is a British science fiction television series created by Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, filmed by their production company AP Films (APF) and distributed by ITC Entertainment. It was made between 1964 and 1966 using a form of electronic marionette puppetry (dubbed "Supermarionation") combined with scale model special effects sequences. Two series, totalling thirty-two 50-minute episodes, were filmed; production ended with the completion of the sixth episode of the second series after Lew Grade, the Andersons' financial backer, failed in his bid to sell the programme to American network television.

Set in the 2060s, Thunderbirds is a follow-up to the earlier Supermarionation productions Four Feather Falls, Supercar, Fireball XL5 and Stingray. It follows the exploits of International Rescue, a life-saving organisation equipped with technologically advanced land, sea, air and space rescue craft; these are headed by a fleet of five vehicles named the Thunderbirds and launched from the organisation's secret base of operations in the Pacific Ocean. The main characters are ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy, leader of International Rescue, and his five adult sons, who pilot the Thunderbird machines.

Thunderbirds debuted in September 1965 on the ITV network. The series was exported to around 30 countries during the 1960s. Alongside tie-in merchandise, the series was followed by two feature films– Thunderbirds Are Go and Thunderbird 6. Widely regarded as the Andersons' most popular and commercially successful series, Thunderbirds has been praised for its special effects (directed by Derek Meddings) and musical score (composed by Barry Gray). It is also remembered for its title sequence, which begins with an oft-quoted countdown by Jeff Tracy voice actor Peter Dyneley: "5, 4, 3, 2, 1: Thunderbirds Are Go!" Periodically repeated, it was adapted for radio in the 1990s and has influenced many TV programmes and other media. It was followed by an anime adaptation, a mime theatre show, a live-action film and a computer-animated remake series; additionally, three new episodes, based on tie-in audio plays and made using the same techniques as the original series, were created.

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Seventeen

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 17 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] Part Seventeen [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

“My lady,” you hear Grandfather say from somewhere behind you. Bracing yourself, you resist the urge to turn around and instead prepare for another uncomfortable conversation.

Grandfather has managed to invite—or find those already invited—anyone who has the remotest affiliation with the study of the Depths or herblore or spiritual matters and promptly introduced you. He then pays particularly close attention throughout the conversation to you and them. You think he’s hoping someone more versed in such things might be able to sense or notice something about you or Dale that will prove his theory about some sort of demonic influence affecting you correct. 

Luckily, none have acted odd so far—that you could tell. Instead it just makes for sudden, very nerve-wracking conversations where you feel more than ever like you are on a stage, performing. You dislike galas and balls and such already—these new examinations are not helping, except that occasionally after one, the rest of the event feels far less tense than before in comparison. At least Grandfather doesn’t seem to be preparing these individuals ahead of time with his suspicions.

Also, to be fair, Grandfather seems to have pulled back with his other methods of detection. There have been no more overly spiced meals or suspicious flower arrangements—baring the first ball in Connton which had been covered in white roses. Dale thankfully continues to give no signal he knows either of you are being tested, but he’d managed to smoothly tuck a flower in your hair. Your blush at such an obvious display just to show the flowers lack of effect had hopefully helped sell it. Dale even pricked himself on a thorn to show it had no poisonous effects to himself and demonstrate his blood is still red. You think you’re the only one to notice that his bandage is removed only three days later—and that it was on the wrong finger for the last day.

You’ve gotten this far though. One more conversation won’t be the end of it all, you try to remind yourself. You turn with a polite smile on your face to see Grandfather walking towards you with a sanctif at his side. You hope your face doesn’t give away your sudden apprehension at being confronted with an actual spiritual leader. The white and red robes mark him as likely the High Sanctif for all of Connton. Also, he’s older than Grandfather, which doesn’t bode particularly well either.

While the spiritual colleges in the north in recent years have moved in a more scientific direction—away from philosophy—the more older and southern sanctifs are far more likely to preach anything associated with the Depths as inherently dangerous, rather than something to be understood. 

Which is probably why Grandfather is helping this sanctif into the seat next to you.

“His Illuminance, Ellon of Connton has found the time to join us for the next course,” Grandfather says as he sits down opposite you. This particular feast has many courses, with seating on various tiered daisies each with five or so smaller tables, between which guests are encouraged to switch seats so that all may socialize—within their daisies, of course. You’ve ended up staying primarily where you are as there has been no shortage of companions, as had Dale.

However, as it is nearly time for the next course, it appears he’s staying down with the transportation officials—a pity because you had wished to talk to them as well and there is no longer enough room for all of them. Perhaps it is a good thing because you doubt this sanctif is going to have anything particularly good to say. At least Grandmother has also been pulled away by some magistrates or she would no doubt make matters worse.

You nod politely to the sanctif. “Greetings, your Illuminance. How are you doing this evening?”

“Greetings to you as well,” he replies, his voice is stronger and brisker than you expect given his age and the distracted way he has already begun searching for the wine jug. 

Once his eyes land on the jug, he reaches for it, but is at a bad angle for him to pick up well, so you stand up yourself. “Please, allow me to assist you.”

“My thanks, my thanks,” he says, sitting back as you pour him a glass of wine, then one for Grandfather, since he is also new to the table. A cousin of Dale’s to your left still has half a glass and so does one of his aunts. 

You start to relax when only polite small talk is made while everyone else begins to settle into their seats. You’re happy to discuss the weather and food as many times as you need to because at least you don’t feel like you’re going to say the wrong thing. 

It doesn’t last though.

“So, where do you hail from, my child?” Ellon asks as he butters a roll from the ever-refilling baskets on the table, the knife making a scraping sound against the butter dish which you try not to wince at.

Swallowing down your inappropriate offer to prepare it for him yourself just so the noise will stop, you tell him, “My family fief is Portsmith and with the bay of Glittany.” Glittany is what most have heard of when it comes to your family since it is the name of the bay and the major seaport city. Most barely are aware of the name of the fief it resides in.

Ellon seems to have heard of it, but, given the skeptical huff he lets out at the name, not positively. “Those that live on the seas court death, if you ask me.” You most assuredly had not, but you didn’t think he much cared if you had. “The Depths are most clearly expressed there, below those treacherous waves. Even close to the shore, it can steal the unwary away far too easily.”

You knew there was a certain amount of superstition about the deep waters among some, but while all those who worked on the seas had a healthy respect for the sea, none blamed the Depths. Biting your tongue so you didn’t mention that the places in the world where the border was thinnest were primarily above solid ground, you merely say, “I am certainly no sailor, though I admire the bravery of those who are.”

He wags his finger, looking over his thick spectacles at you. “Mark my words, even living for so long with that salt air is dangerous. Why the great scholar and sanctif, Malarby of Airs said that those along the shore twice as likely to be taken than those who do not.”

You again refrain from saying that the scholar he speaks of had numerous critics during his own time, let alone now. At least, Grandfather seems skeptical of this claim, but it's also obvious he’s watching for your response more than anything. “My understanding is that the Glittany sacred community has procedures and safeguards in place to limit any such influences, however, I admit that I did not grow up in the city. I was not often well as a child and so grew up on our country estate, which is more than a day’s ride inland.”

“Yes,” Ellon agrees loud enough you flinch at his volume. “It is truly heartening to hear that some physicians know the healing air that can only come away from the watery death that surrounds us. Country air is not as fortifying or pure as mountain air, but I am sure that it was the best for you.” He pats your hand in what you assume he believes is a comforting manner and resist the urge to pull away. “We must find balance between keeping our family, our connections, with us in times of struggle and finding a truly blessed location where we can heal—as far from the physical negative influences as possible.”

“I do believe it was a far calmer environment to be in and my physicians were all very skilled,” you reply, not wanting to touch on his spiritual opinions. Were they more than opinions if they were from a sanctif? Regardless, you know the Glittany santifs didn’t talk like this, probably because they actually live and work next to the sea. You would pay money if this man had ever even been on a boat—or that he had and had simply immediately gotten seasick. 

“I was not aware the sea was so treacherous beyond the literal dangers it presents,” Grandfather observes mildly, likely not wanting this topic to die when it is so close to where he likely wants it to go.

Unfortunately, that is all that Ellon needs as encouragement to continue in this vein. “Of course, anywhere the veil between the realms is a danger—whether man-made or natural. And while it is one folly to invite demons in yourself, it is another folly to go where they thrive. The chances of being taken in by such beings, of bringing home those who have stolen away, are far greater on the waters than on the land.”

Ellon is clearly enjoying the captive audience he has and you while you don’t believe any of this nonsense—you’d still rather he talk about the dangers of oceans than anything else related to the Depths. Without him asking, you refill his wine glass for him.

He nods his thanks with a smile and seems to really warm up to the topic, his voice growing a touch more theatrical as he says, “Beyond the threat of death from such supernatural dangers, there is the general threat of death from the natural. With that, there is the metaphysical danger which haunts these vessels. Many bodies are lost at sea, falling below those frigid waves—it is a far harder journey for the soul to ascend after death. Many no doubt, do not reach the light.”

Grandfather blinks at Ellon, clearly taken aback by this turn. “…I see.” From your observations, Grandfather does not have much interest or patience for the philosophical nor the spiritual, to your understanding, until recently. While spiritualists often warn against the Depths, Grandmother’s motivations and grudges seem to primarily come from a literal danger perspective, given the way demons and such influences have been used for violence—not hypothetical dangers to the soul. 

“Are you saying that after death the soul can be held down by water?” a polite but skeptical voice interjects. You turn to see that Francesca, one of Dale’s cousins, has decided to join your conversation.

Ellon looks surprised by her question, but rallies quickly enough. “It is not the material involved but the distance, the fact that one is already below.”

“Then would not miners be similarly endangered?” she asks, raising one eyebrow up quizzically.

You know she hasn’t specifically joined the conversation to help you out, but you can’t help but feel like she has and it warms you to her. You are an adequate debater when prepared and a hesitant one when unprepared.

Ellon frowns at her argument, pursing his lips. “A miner can be brought up by his fellow workers and still cremated.”

Francesca hums, leaning back in her chair consideringly. “Is cremation truly so necessary? I know it is best practice, but I thought it was primarily for those left behind.”

“No, no,” he says, his mouth a grim line. “It is for both, the living and the deceased. The soul can be trapped if the body is not taken care of properly.”

“I see,” she replied, for all it’s very clear to you she’s still skeptical. “I was unaware that the body could become such a cage to the soul after death. I thought it was taught that death itself is what releases the soul from the body.”

That causes the sanctif to bristle. He make a show of frowning thoughtfully and drinking some more wine before grudgingly admitting, “Well, yes, that is the primary mechanism. And if there were no Depths, cremation would likely be unnecessary. However, given that there are forces working to keep a soul from ascending, we must do all we can to aid the deceased on their journey.”

“Pardon me,” you turn to see Francesca’s husband leaning towards you as well. “Are you proposing that denizens of the Depths or perhaps even the realm of the Depths itself can reach out to consume the souls of those born here based on location or method of death alone?”

“Of course not,” Ellon blusters, cheeks turning a bit red, “but the effect such things have on the soul are undeniable, beyond ill deeds weighing a soul down.”

“Actually, a recent paper from the Rokea Institute has called that into question,” Francesca says. “According to the scholars—”

“You trust one scholar over thousands of years of spiritual practice?” Ellon asks, his tone a mix of condescension and offense. “Scholars these days think they can measure and categorize and label each phenomenon they encounter and the second something cannot be so neatly sorted they fit it in where it does not belong, ignoring contradictory evidence. Rokea is among the worst for encouraging this type of thinking. Even the thinkers out of the Ha are more reliable in these modern times.”

Before anyone else could interject, he continues, “They decry hundreds of years of carefully documented experience, only relying on what they and peers they deem worthy have personally seen. They waste time questioning fact and reinventing the parts of the past they personally approve of to claim that knowledge as their own new discovery. 

“Not to mention the poison seeping into the Vaomen universities.” That seems to be more what Grandfather, and you, were expecting rather than a spiritual debate about the nature of souls. “What used to be sole bastions of rational thought against their poor country’s perverse deal with the Depths has fallen to its influence rather than the reverse. They push aside safeguards and time-tested tools to allow demons full citizenship. How many times much a school, a city, a nation fall to those beasts and devils before this world learns its lessons?”

Francesca’s gaze darts to her Grandfather, likely fully aware of his and her grandmother’s opinions. As he does not look particularly upset, she cautiously says, “I’ve heard of no recent incidents at their colleges.”

Ellon scoffs. “Of course you haven’t. They are too arrogant, too proud to let such truths out into the world where they would be recriminated for their folly in front of all other accomplished and rational thinkers. They keep any word of failures and dangers to themselves unless they can be justified sufficiently. The deans of such institutions have fallen to their own pride and hubris—mark my words.”

The only good part of all this talk is that even Grandfather is beginning to look aggrieved, as though—perhaps—he might regret having sought out this specific sanctif, for all he’s certainly anti-demon. Grandfather is no believer in conspiracies, thank the light.

“I have always held that any interaction with the Depths is inherently dangerous to the soul even when my contemporaries disagreed,” Ellon puffs up as he says so, clearly proud of going against popular opinion in this and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “To see the world move so firmly in the wrong direction is disheartening, even with bastions of true spiritual stalwartness such as Northridge attempting to keep our country secure from incursions from Below.”

Both of Francesca’s eyebrows raise at that particular choice of words and she exchanges a suppressed but amused glance with her husband. 

“Certainly proper precautions must be taken,” you take the time to say, hoping to move the sanctif away from more vehement proclamations. It also can’t hurt Grandfather’s impression of you to say the things you do believe. Just because matters have worked out, does not mean that they could easily not have. “Those who remove safeguards are truly foolish and we can only hope their lapses do not endanger more than themselves.” 

The original Dale put his entire home in danger with whatever plans he had and you have no doubt he ignored safety measures as unnecessarily limiting, just given your assessment of his nature up to that point.

“Precisely,” Ellon nods with a smile for you. “Demonic influences are more common than anyone would like to admit and so one must be persistently wary and alert.” He punctuates this with raps on the table—luckily not nearly hard enough to knock anything over, though your hand automatically goes to your glass all the same. “The number of easy, necessary, precautions the everyman does not bother with is astounding. Of course, I must be even more careful, given my position as a person of faith and a lighthouse to others.

“Oh?” You don’t think he’ll need much more than that to continue. It's clear Francesca and her husband have lost true interest in what he has to say, writing him off as an eccentric. You can only hope their skepticism inspires Grandfather’s own. They’ve turned to talk to the companions on their other sides—unfortunately with two empty seats still on the sanctif’s and Grandfather’s other sides, there is no such easy diversion for you. 

You’ve never been more relieved to see plates of fish being brought out in your life. Unfortunately, that relief is quickly dwarfed by the nerves that spring up to see Dale making his way over to you with a lady—bound for the openings still at your table.

“Yes, yes,” Ellon says, snapping your attention back to him. “Take meals for instance. I shall demonstrate as it is easily one of the times people feel most comfortable and yet are at their most vulnerable.” He begins digging in his pockets while Dale gestures the woman with him to the seat next to Grandfather.

As Dale takes the seat next to Ellon, introductions fly around—the lady is some sort of minister for Connton—and the sanctif’s is primarily distracted, but still polite. Dale gives no hint of nervousness at being introduced to a sanctif which is a good sign and—Ellon gives no indication he knows he’s just been introduced to a demon possessing a lord, so that’s good as well.

“Sanctif Ellon,” Grandfather says to the two latecomers, “would like to show us a device for…what was it again? Detecting poison or demonic influences of some kind?”

“Yes, quite right—both,” he says without looking up from his search. Dale goes a bit still at Grandfather’s words, but you think it is only because you are paying attention that you even notice it. Unfortunately, Grandfather is paying attention too. Still he’s further away from Dale so perhaps he didn’t.

“Here we are,” Ellon finally pulls whatever he has been looking for out of his robes. He seems to be brandishing a small circular glass, not unlike a monocle or other magnifying device, although it looks rather cloudy—or perhaps dirty?

“It took me years to develop and find the right minded people to help me in our research,” he seems to be turning sections of the small handle and the glass gets more opaque. “It’s still a little temperamental, a bit slow, but as I tell young people,” he wags his finger at you in particular as the youngest person near him no doubt, “life is all about patience and the determination to see something through.”

“Now, in addition to showing poisons in food,” he points to the dish of fish now before him. All have you have been served, but those in seats adjacent to Ellon have refrained from eating—even Francesca and her husband on your other side seem to be intrigued with your conversation once more. Likely because the sanctif is no longer moralizing and is instead explaining something practical. “It can also show possession in humans.” 

He turns his head to look over all those around him and you feel your anticipation tighten. He ends up looking directly at you. “Pardon me, my lady, but would you mind helping me with this demonstration?”

While you are nervous at being the focus of some sort of demonstration, you realize it’s an infinitely better option than Dale. “Of course not,” you reply, your voice seemed steady enough, right?

“Now, for the resting state, the glass starts off as murky and gray,” Ellon gestures with the device, moving it around so everyone can see how gray and fogged over it is. Before he pushes some things aside and takes your hand in his free one, laying flat on the table. “But as I hold it over her hand,” he holds the glass steady over your hand. “It fades, leaving only a red-ish tinge over her hand.”

Indeed, before your eyes, the fog grows less and less thick, getting a faint red tint, like clouds lit up by a fading sunset. “This proves her to be human. The lack of color on the other objects in view shows them as non-living. Demonic influences would cause the smoke to darken from the original light gray or even blacken if held over a true demon.” 

Everyone murmurs as they take a look and you make a purposeful effort not to look at Grandfather and see his reaction. Maybe this was a good thing after all, some proof he might believe. After all you truly aren’t influenced by demonic anything—beyond new Dale’s personality, you suppose. 

After a moment when the effect seems to no longer intensify, he pulls away and you take your hand back, feeling more relieved than you have in days. “To reset it, you merely agitate the vapors once more.” He shakes the glass so it fills with fog again. You move to lean back in your seat, rather limp with your relief when he turns to his right, turns to Dale. All that tension is shoots right back up your spine, when he pulls the glass over Dale’s left hand, resting on the table. “After this quick refresh, it is ready to be used once more.”

Unfortunately, unlike with your hand, the fog does not lighten or dissipate. Instead it continues to swirl, perhaps from the sanctif’s motion, but also likely because of Dale himself. You can barely breathe, you refuse to look at Dale’s face, as the sanctif frowns. The fog gradually grows darker “Hm, sometimes it can get stuck so to speak. Nothing a good shake can’t fix.” 

He pulls the glass away and shakes it even more vigorously than before. Your eyes can’t help but dart to Dale, who appears to be staring at his hand, but almost unfocused—like he’s concentrating on something you can’t see. You hope he knows some way to deceive this little device because otherwise…

Ellon moves the glass back over Dale’s hand. This time, the vapors slowly stop spinning and then, over what feels like ages but must only be seconds, slowly start to dissipate. Lightening and turning a mild pink, they outline his hand in an effect similar to, if not much weaker than when it was used on your own hand. 

“Ah! There we are, see! On the slow side but ultimately works like a charm. The more use it sees, the weaker and slower it gets,” Ellon says with a triumphant smile before he pulls the glass away. “It needs a full day in sunlight to properly charge. So many courses means I’ve had to use it far more often this evening than usual. Forgive me for wanting to save its strength for the food yet to come.”

“Of course,” Dale replies, motioning with his right hand—not the one that was just examined. It stays where it is on the table, looking rather limp. “If you do not mind, I am rather hungry for this next course.”

“Yes, it looks delicious,” Ellon replies. “Please, please, do not let me delay our meal any longer with my sidetracks.”

“Nonsense,” Grandfather says and you finally risk a glance at him. He looks a bit shaken, but he also appears relieved. He smiles at the sanctif. “We greatly enjoyed your demonstration.”

“Good, good,” Ellon says with a proud smile as he begins to cut his fish. You shakily take up your own utensils. You hope no one notices Dale is only using his untested hand for his food.

You barely taste the food you put in your mouth, still coming down from the flash of fear from the moment Ellon turned that glass on Dale. You wonder if your heart will ever recover as it continues to spin through what might have happened if Dale hadn’t managed to subvert the device.

A cough from next to your stirs you from your thoughts. The sound loud and wracking enough that you glance over at him out of the corner of your eye. You frown, turning more fully when he drops his fork with a clatter. Ellon’s face is pinking and he starts to take deep breaths, though they don’t appear to be working if the way his breathing speeds up is any indication. 

“Is something wrong, your Illuminance?” Grandfather asks, brow furrowing as the sanctif gulps down some water before pushing his chair back from the table, as if to get more space. Dale tries to help, but he can’t seem to grip Ellon’s chair well with his left hand.

“Yes,” the man's voice is much thinner than it had been, rougher despite the drink. “Need a doctor.” He coughs and then makes an urgent gesture with his hand when everyone just stares. “Now!”

“Yes!”

“Right!”

Francesca and Charles get up at once and head in opposite directions in search of a physician, while the minister tries to flag down an attendant who might find one quicker.

You hastily refill Ellon’s water glass, at a loss for what else you can do for him. What could be happening to him? Abruptly, you realize in all his demonstrating, he never actually ran the detection glass over his own food. 

Grandfather puts the same facts together as you do, “Heights, have you been poisoned?”

Ellon shakes his head though, trying to look at the dish through eyes that are watering up. You don’t know what he sees, but some understanding dawns on him even as his breathing gets rougher. 

“All-” he coughs, trying unsuccessfully to clear his throat, but it appears as though his airway is closing, “Al-lergi-c,” he manages to pant out.

“Oh!,” you hastily rifle through your own pockets. You only carry a handful of tonics at all times, but with your own allergy to keep in mind—this is always one of them. You pull out a small bottle and work to get the cork off hastily and explain, “Tonic of soma?”

Recognition lights up in his watery eyes and Ellon reaches towards you desperately.  “Yes,” he croaks.

Once the cork is free you pass the little bottle over to him and he drinks it down as best he can, swallowing convulsively. Soma tonic is a medicine for allergic reactions, containing ephedra and other balancing herbs for opening up one’s airways. A temporary solution to be taken only when truly needed, it should buy the sanctif enough time for a doctor with proper treatments to arrive.

He drains the dose and drinks another full cup of water, before his breathing eases. “I’m sorry, I only have one dose. But it can be dangerous to take two as it is,” you find yourself saying. “It should be enough to help.” You hope that’s true as you refill his cup, your hand is shaking. You’ve never had to use the medicine more than once and that had been on yourself, not a prominent spiritual official. There’s no reason it won’t work and yet, you are scared that either it will somehow make things worse.

“Thank you,” Ellon manages to say between breaths but you don’t feel like being thanked is appropriate, not when he still seems in too fragile of a condition. Then two doctors descend on your table in a flurry of activity. You manage to communicate what you gave him, handing over the bottle with its neat label you had spent time months ago writing. The large bottle you get had been carefully dosed in several smaller ones so you could more easily have them in your pockets without weighing your skirts down oddly. 

You find yourself explaining this to Dale, who had walked around to your side without you realizing. The doctor you handed it over to doesn’t seem to listen, merely reading the label, which is probably for the best. Instead, he turns to you and asks only, “Can we keep this?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” you answer automatically. 

Two footmen help Ellon into a wheelchair, which they then bodily carry off the dais, with one of the doctors going with them. The other stays behind to say, “He’s going to be fine, truly. We’ll give him some proper medicine and then monitor him overnight. He has his own medication for such attacks—it appears that the sauce has some sort of nut he cannot eat in it.” Sighs of relief come from those around you and you feel your own heart finally start to slow back down.

The doctor talks with Grandfather, who also came around to your side of the table at some point. Before he leaves though, the doctor takes a moment to say to you, “Very pleased you had this on you, my lady. Do you have a similar condition?” You nod ‘yes’ and he nods in reply. “Smart thinking to carry some with you. You’ve made this a far less close call than it could have been. My gratitude.”

He leaves before you can think of a reply. Slowly, you all sit back down, trying to return to some semblance of normalcy. Your table is rather subdued and you keep getting interruptions from others who come to ask what all the fuss was about. When this course concludes, you stand up to leave the table for the first time in the night, wanting to move to another table in the hopes of regaining something of a typical mood.

When the minister Dale brought over, indicates the two of you should accompany her to her table, she asks Grandfather if he would like to come as well.

“No thank you, my lady,” he replies with a kind smile. “I’m certain my grandchildren would prefer some time with others. I have plenty more to catch up with.”

Dale laughs and so does the minister. As you walk away, trying to put your finger on what was different about Grandfather, you realize that for the first time since the hunt, he included you once more in his family.

[Part Eighteen]

[tyrantisterror]

No Small Feat Artwork Pt 3 - The Heartless Witch Arc

By request, I'm gonna show off some of the artwork for No Small Feat, a Midgaheim story my friends and I told through the TTRPG system Fabula Ultima. I drew a lot of characters and monsters for it, and my friends - in particular, @dragonzzilla, @scatha5, and @dinosaurana - helped line and color them so we'd have cute little sprites to use on our online battlemaps, which really helped sell the whole "we're playing an oldschool turn based RPG" vibe that Fabula Ultima's system is going for.

For this entry, we're going to talk about the characters and monsters I made for the first arc of the campaign.

Fabula Ultima's system has specific rules for Villains, i.e. antagonistic NPCs who are meant to be a significant and, if viable, recurring threat to our heroes. So when structuring this campaign, I designated one Villain per arc, in addition to a couple recurring ones who'd make their presence felt all throughout the story. Our starter villain was Sycoraxine the Heartless Witch. A spellcaster who lived close to the small farm town of Hansand, our heroes learned of Sycoraxine when the locals blamed her for the famine they were suffering. Our heroes of course went to confront her, only to find that she wasn't the source of the famine - though she did have the power to stop it. The hitch, of course, was that she had removed her heart, in both a literal and figurative way, to keep from feeling the pain of being ostracized by her neighbors for so many years. Our heroes recovered her heart and, in a tense and emotional standoff, convinced her to take it back, at which point she saved the town despite their past transgressions, and became beloved for it. A nice fairytale start to things in my opinion.

Finding Sycoraxine's heart was easier said than done, though, as she had her three familiars - i.e. arcane creatures she made a deal with to give her magic powers - hide them for her. Our heroes had to go to Hrumph the Troll, Preyain the griffin, and an incredibly foul-mouthed knucker dragon to find the heart in question, learning more about Sycoraxine's tragic past and connection with the wilderness around Hansand in the process.

There were encounters on the way to those three familiars. The bog home of Harumph was occupied by a Basilisk and a Swamp Kraken, and the beach the Knucker dwelled in had a young Sea Boar in distress as well as some man-eating kelpies. Finally, the mountain where Preeyain dwelled had a feral catoblepas whose oversized head was stuck in a ditch, as well as a VERY ornery phenex at the end of its lifespan who didn't want people messing with its nest.

And that was the first arc - a bit basic, but we were all learning the system and I wanted to give my players and myself the opportunity to experiment and figure it out. It also ended with the reveal of the campaign's big plot hook - Sycoraxine had in her possesion one of seven crown jewels, having found it on the body of a soldier who came to her for help when she was heartless and received none.

See, in Midgaheim, kings aren't just political leaders - they are magically bound to the kingdom they rule, and its health depends on them. Seven years before the start of the campaign, the king of Engelsex was killed in a failed coup, and the crown destroyed in the process. It can only be remade if the jewels are recovered, and in the meantime the kingdom will spiral into chaos as all the magic that would be flowing in the king is now going willy nilly and uncontrolled in all directions, like a river that burst through a damn. Only by reuniting all seven and crowning a new king could our heroes save the kingdom of Engelsex from falling into chaos and ruin, and so they set out with a new mission: find all seven crown jewels and, hopefully, a person who'd be worthy of the crown.

[the-possum-writes]

[Daily Routine]

❥Character: Scorcher (Adventure Time)

❥Tags: SFW, domestic fluff, established relationship, gender neutral reader

 ❥Synopsis: Scorcher's day to day life now that he has a partner to worry and run errands with.

 ❥Wordcount: 1008

❥A/N: While I fill out most of the Marshall Lee requests, I also wanted to write something for one of the mostly forgotten bad guys.

❥Taglist: @foxpearlwilder

With a bounty hunter as skilled as him, it's no wonder he'd knock out everyone in the room faster than you can say Mississippi. Gunshots ring out from every direction like an endless rain of projectiles, but it's never been an issue for Scorcher when he transforms into a cloud of ash that indiscriminately fazes through bullets and chokes a couple of his attackers in the process. Those who caught a glimpse of his entire body only saw bright eyes within dark red before going black. The mission at hand is similar to many others in that it involves collecting the bounty of a wanted individual, in this case a criminal leader who is fully armed and guarded, but it's nothing this veteran bounty hunter can't handle. Throughout this entire ordeal, a phone begins to ring from Scorcher's pocket; typically, he would ignore calls at work, but this is his personal phone, and he is unable of ignoring it because it only means one thing. "Hi honey, I'm at the supermarket and there are potatoes on sale; would you like them baked or fried for dinner?" a polite but indecisive voice on the phone asks.

Scorcher weighs his options even when a bodyguard comes charging at him with a knife, to which he twists the guy's hand behind his back, forcing the blade out of his grasp, eventually shoving the person out of the way as he answers. "Both." His tone is short but firm, unlike the person on the phone. "Alright! I'll see you later. Byeee." The other person on the line hangs up, leaving Scorcher to continue working.

With only confident strides, the bounty hunter entered the boss's office after the last bodyguard was withdrawn from service. He barely opened the door with a side step as a bullet hole bursts into the wooden door beside him, Scorcher unfazed despite his cowering target literally backed right into the corner as he continued shooting rounds at the unstoppable bounty hunter, the empty shotgun clicked pathetically with Scorcher right behind the crime boss with his dagger to his throat

"Please, I'll give you anything!" The boss begs for his life by offering all of his riches and valuables, but nothing is more valuable to Scorcher than a job well done. Well, aside from his other biggest treasure.

He readies his blade for the final strike, but it misses its mark when the phone in his pocket vibrates. Without averting his beady eyes from the mafia leader, Scorcher answers the phone with one hand while holding onto the blade with the other. "Hi honey! sorry to bother you again but can you come pick me up at the grocery store? it started raining and I didn't bring an umbrella with me." the caller asks apologetically. Scorcher doesn't verbally respond but the positive grunt was all the confirmation needed. "Be there in five." he adds before hanging up once more.

The last thing you hear before hanging up on him was a pained shout immediately cut short, you weren't new to your boyfriend's line of work so you shrugged it off as you contemplate the rain right outside the grocery store, shuffling your weight side to side as you wait.

The doorknob shuffles a bit as you nonchalantly discuss your day, he isn't the most talk active person but he's a great listener. "...And then I asked the cashier when would they start selling tangerines and she told me that they should be available by next month since that's when the season starts but if you ask me it should start way sooner with all the rain we've been getting. Either way enough about me, how was your day?" you turn your attention to your boyfriend carrying the groceries with a single arm, not only is he strong but also taller than the average person to the point he has to crouch down before entering your shared safe house. "Good," he states by placing the groceries on the kitchen table. His profession has made him plenty of enemies so he had this house specifically built for you. Scorcher didn't have his height taken into account because it was made just for you, but after you persuaded him that you would feel more safer with him around, he was unable to refuse your request to move in.

"That's always nice to hear." you place your own bag alongside the kitchen counter, mainly the stuff you need to make dinner. You're minding your own business by washing the potatoes your bought earlier but the tall presence behind you grabs hold of the vegetables next to you by the counter, you smile to yourself, placing your hand on his. "How sweet of you but I can imagine you're exhausted from work, let me take care of dinner while you lay down a bit okay?" you bring up in a soft tone that makes it impossible for him to decline, Scorcher leans down to place a kiss on your forehead before leaving you alone with the cooking ingredients.

As the cooking utensils and pots begin to clang from the kitchen, Scorcher takes the chance to take out the crystal-like device from his pocket and project a hologram that looks a lot like a laptop monitor. He then throws himself into the couch and calls his company to let them know about today's work. He also unwinds by browsing social media in general, keeping up with what his colleagues are up to and offering his services to possible employers. You carefully move to the side to get behind Scorcher, but there's no way to sneak up on this skilled man. Before you could react, he whirled around and drew you into an embrace, which made you burst out laughing. "I was gonna say that dinner is ready, do you wanna eat first or take a shower?"

Scorcher nuzzles into your neck, prompting you to laugh once more. He may not talk much but when he does it sends shivers down your spine. "Depends, are you for dessert?"

[coffeecatty]

Really wanted to share my DnD character, because I love them. This is Pip'let The Thri-Kreen. They're for a Spell Jammer campaign, and they've already eaten one (1) elf alive. It's ok, he was a slave trader trying to sell the party. Some Character Info if anyone's curious:

Their full name is Tik-Tiak-Pip-La'kt, mostly a bunch of ticking and popping sounds. (Goes by They/She :>)

They're still young and are about 4'9. But weighs about 219 pounds. (Adult thri-kreen can reach 10 feet and 600 pounds lol)

I gave them fluffy moth features. Because I can.

As a thri-kreen their carapace has chameleon properties, so they can shift their colors around however they like. This extends to their fuzz. Their fuzz also sticks like glitter and cat hair, it's never gone. They use it to mark 'allies'.

They're a Wildfire druid, which... They're not thrilled about.

They lost their hand to a beast attack, which instead of scaring them led to them being fascinated with wildlife and animals and studying them, which allowed them to help their pack avoid dangerous situations.

They know how to write, albeit only in Druid Script. They have to get a scribe to transcribe the writing for others.

They like books, and used to have a fairly large collections of miniature journals.

No one will let them pilot the ship for some reason. Backstory Stuff:

Their Original Pack was different than normal thri-kreen packs. Had many leaders that performed various leading roles, like Navigation, Trading, Hunting, etc. The Navigation Leader, called "Starseer" by the humanoids the pack interacted with, was a sort of de-facto leader of the whole pack - implied to be the founder of their Super Pack and who might have a history among the stars...

The Original Pack often escorted caravans or guarded settlements in exchange for goods and whatnot. This is how Pip'Let got their "name", as well as their journals and false hand - which was a direct gift after giving the locals some transcribed pages about local monsters.

The Original Pack also didn't have any wildfire druids, most of the younger members were mentored by the Leaders, who had different specializations. Pip'Let was originally slated to become a Star Circle Druid, aka a navigation expert like Starseer. (So basically Starseer was their dad)

The Original Pack would seek out Thri-Kreen nests and take in the newly hatched young Thri-Kreens, though sometimes later on members would break away into a new, smaller pack to go their own way. No conflict or tension, they would be allowed to go if they felt it was needed.

Their Original Pack was butchered and burned. Very few remained and scattered.

They're hunting down the ship they saw that day, in retaliation and to try and reclaim a lost magical item that belonged to Starseer. Some fun Thri-Kreen quirks:

Zero concept of what friends of family are. There is Pack and there is None-Pack.

Thri-Kreen can't speak. They speak telepathically, which means they can speak to anyone.

Had a long, in character discussion about what a pet is, and Pip'Let's take away was "A thing you can eat later or is useful."

I made their style of speaking very halting and put together almost like a command line structure. They say "whhhhy" and "mmmmmmm" a lot.

Always collect free food when available. They may or may not have an elf ribcage in their backpack for emergencies.

Has giant hidden mandibles (which I should draw sometime).

What the fuck is sleep. I have literally made an entire history for the backstory of this character and I love them. They would not hesitate to crush my head very if there was a need for it. They befriended a beholder by drawing them. I love them an unspeakable amount.