#Dirge: Prompts & Asks

[twodiamondhoes]

I AM HERE TO BE A PLAGUE

BUT

Golden Timeline, Tango and Etho sparring

OR

Red Dwarf AU Ace interacting with Grian vs Ace interacting with Scar (I have so much sekrit knowledge)

Ohohohoho you thought that you were going to trip me up and get me to post something spoilery, didn't you!

.... well you were right. BUT if you thought you were going to get Golden Timeline Tangtho silliness with this prompt, prepare to be disappointed! *Throws confetti* SURPRISE!! Bdubs introspection!!

(Context: Golden Timeline is our affectionate nickname for a "What If" style au if Etho had made one different decision in Dirges. It's surprising how much came down to one conversation, and Etho's inability to admit how scared he was, and how much Skizz meant to him.)

It was moments like this where he recognized Etho the most, Bdubs thought. Where he could see past the years—past Skizz, and Ren, and the Devil himself, past war and death and mud and blood at the base of a fallen tree to the man that he’d first fallen in love with. He heard the sound of Tango hitting the ground (again) and looked up.

“Are you going to keep tormenting him all day?��� he asked, in a language that only they spoke, anymore. Time had moved on without them, and taken the last vestiges of familiarity with them. It was part of why Bdubs had caved, at last, and let them go to America.

Tango was picking up on some phrases here and there, some intonations. Languages weren’t where his genius lay, but it was hard to be around them and not pick up a few things.

“He has to learn,” Etho said, his jaw tight in a way that Bdubs wished he didn’t remember.

If he tried, he was sure he could smell horses and the stink of hundreds of men. He was sure he could conjure up, word for word, the speech Beckett made at the mouth of the Garonne, so close was this one to the look that Etho had on his face that day.

He had always cared too much.

“Just don’t break him.” Bdubs said, and left, because he couldn’t stand there and watch with the memories of the screams of men whose names even they had forgotten in his ears.

As he left, he heard Tango behind him, climbing back out of the mud—no, Bdubs shook his head sharply.

There was no mud. It hadn’t rained in weeks. The closest was where Tango spat into the dirt, shaking his limbs out, a fire in his eyes that said he wasn't going to stop until Etho made him.

“Are we going again, or what?”

Bdubs rubbed at the skin over his heart, where he’d once held half of a Breton’s polearm close to his chest, and went to tend the horses.

Later, Tango would come and put a hand on his arm, let Bdubs lean into his shoulder for a moment, and then drag him back to the fireside and force the sounds of ancient memories out of his ears with raucous laughter.

He would wait until Tango was asleep and whisper apologies for his every failure into the air, and hope that at least the stars were listening, that perhaps a saint would be a sympathetic messenger. He would close his eyes and spend the rest of the night wishing that his crystal-clear memory would let him see Etho’s face once more, unscarred by Beckett’s mistakes, open and easy. If they had ever gotten to reach Heaven he would have seen it there, but those doors were closed to them both forever.

But, he thought, an eternity with Etho—and now Tango, as well—by his side was a close second.

[thelordofgifs]

For the prompt thing, number 24 on the Silmarils list; choked with weeds and slime? IDK seems like a line you could do something interesting with.

Another one I’m answering a year late, but have some War of Wrath-era Elros and Elrond growing slowly apart! Thank you for the prompt 💕

“Just a little further,” Elrond says confidently, raising his torch. It does very little to illuminate the dank forest path ahead of them, but he does not seem deterred. “We’ll know it when we feel it.”

“Elrond,” Elros says quietly, trailing after him. He is not used to this position – not used to being the one to doubt. For so much of their lives it has been the other way around, has Elrond followed Elros charging head-first into wherever his will led them.

“You remember,” Elrond insists. “Naneth told us that the air inside Melian’s Girdle was cleaner and purer than any she had ever breathed since.”

Elros inhales, takes in the stench of rot and decay that clogs the forest, and thinks with longing of the clean salt air of the Sea. “The Girdle was fallen almost before Naneth was born,” he says. “It is not here, Elrond.”

“The forest will remember it, even so,” Elrond says. “Doriath was once the most blessed realm in Beleriand – and we its last heirs! It will remember us.”

Too often these days, in Elros’ view, does Elrond’s talk turn towards the power of memory. It makes him uneasy: he does not like to feel the edges of a rift between them, to understand so little the drift of his brother’s thought. Perhaps it is the knowledge of burned Sirion, and all that was lost with it, that haunts Elrond now – or perhaps the long shadow of Amon Ereb, that mausoleum in which they came of age, where the sons of Fëanor mourned the lost days of their glory, and Maglor’s every lullaby was half a dirge.

Beleriand was splendid once, it is true – but the land is breaking now, and the interminable war drawing into its final act, and Elros is more concerned with building something from the ashes than weeping for what was burned. But he does not know how to say this to Elrond, who is still leading him towards the forest’s heart, where Menegroth once flourished.

“Do you even know how to enter the city?” he asks instead. The path, choked with weeds and slime, clings unpleasantly to his feet and makes a squelching sound with every step. “The hidden entrance may now be lost.”

“Not lost,” Elrond murmurs, his voice losing a little of its bravado. “Perhaps it has forgotten itself – but we can call it back.”

“And how long will that take?” Elros argues. “Elrond, my men are waiting for me. I have not the time for a fool’s errand.”

Elrond turns back to look at him for the first time. For a moment Elros is oddly glad of that, that he might still capture his brother’s attention with a sharp word: but the thought is almost immediately followed by a hot flash of shame, for hurt flickers briefly in Elrond’s eyes. It is the sort of thing Maedhros used to do, in his worst moods – goad and goad until at last Maglor gave him some reaction, often too imperceptible for the twins to see. Elros does not want to be like Maedhros. Does not want to think of Maedhros, wants to shake off all the clinging ghosts of his childhood and look now to the world ahead.

But: “It ought not take long,” is all Elrond says, mildly.

They walk in silence, Elros breathing through his nose. He thinks again of the Edain under his command, whom he left waiting at their new outpost a little south of the forest. It has been long enough since he and Elrond last went away on an adventure of their own, for Gil-galad cannot often spare his brother from his duties, and Elros too is a commander in his own right. Besides, he did not think his men would understand their object: most of them have grandparents too young to remember Doriath before its fall. Still he does not like to abandon them, does not want them to think him just another elvish princeling, a stranger to mortal troubles and mortal woes.

But nor could he have let Elrond set out on this quest alone.

In the silence Elrond begins to sing a canto of the Lay of Leithian, of Lúthien dancing in the forest glades to Daeron’s music. Elros joins him, for their voices yet ring stronger together than apart – but he can put little conviction behind the song. The forest that his foremother loved is dead now, and so is she – they cannot resurrect her with their poems and their songs, necromancy dressed up as memorials, she is fled where they cannot reach her. Elros wonders if she was glad to do it.

Elrond’s eyes keep flitting between the dark, foreboding tree-trunks, as though he cannot quite understand why they do not become green and fair again under the influence of his song. At last he stops singing, a little frustrated now. “I cannot find a way,” he says, “it is all dark and rotten.”

“Well, there have been all manner of foul creatures crawling through these forests since Doriath fell,” Elros says sensibly. “I would be surprised were it not polluted.” 

“Why will it not cleanse itself?” Elrond says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why will it not remember how it used to be?”

Every two years or so Elrond will come to Elros with a plan to reach out to Maglor and his brother, and bring them before Gil-galad to face justice and redemption. Each time Elros tries to make him understand how impossible the idea is – and it works, for a year or two. 

He is not accustomed to thinking of his brother as childish – not accustomed to feeling so very old as he does right now, seeing the stunned bewildered hurt on Elrond’s face.

“It is tired, Elrond,” he says. “Let it sleep.”

For a moment Elrond’s face crumples, and Elros thinks he must weep; then he says, quite calmly and cheerfully, “Well then, we had best be getting you back to your men,” and sets his course for the forest’s southern border.

The victory feels hollow, to Elros: but then, they all do. 

[majorasnightmare]

35. How would Dirge greet a player character if they were a companion at low, neutral, high, or romanced approval?

37. How would Dirge respond to a player character prompting them with, "Tell me about yourself"?

playing touys with mutuals on the internet 🎉🎉🎉🎉

35. Dirge Greetings (camp animation is looking up from a book hes reading to greet you, goes back to it when conversation is exited):

Low:

"Do you require something of me?"

"You need to ask something of me, specifically?"

"I'll spare a moment for you, but I'd prefer to keep this quick."

Neutral:

"Hm? Something I can help you with?"

"Oh? A question for me, perhaps?"

"Mm? Oh, you have need of me? Any time."

High:

"A pleasure to be graced by your presence."

"Oh, I was just thinking of you actually."

"I don't suppose your here for a quick moment, ah, to ourselves, are you?"

Romanced:

(if Minthara) "Alurlssrin, my second heart, tell me your wish and it is yours."

(if Karlach) "Ah my resident Firestarter. Do we need to burn another tent down?"

(if Astarion) "Mm, if your here for a nibble, either find us a closet or wait until nightfall, at the very least."

(if Gale) "Did you find another passage you need, ah, peer reviewed? You know I'm more than willing to show my work."

(if Tav/other Origin) "Ah my carotid artery, seeing you never fails to make me dizzy" [note: said with humor; making a pun. affectionately calling the player the artery that runs from the heart to supply oxygen to the brain; morbid joke that a visible artery would cause lightheadedness from bloodloss, double entendre because of his own fainting spells]

(if Tav/other Origin) "Say the word, my love, and together we will away to test exactly the limits of restraint on Evard's Black Tentacles"

(if Tav/other Origin) "Beloved dearest, a thrill to see you. Any mountains need moving?"

37. "Tell me about yourself."

[note: available after recruitment dialogue, where he reveals he has amnesia] "Ah, there-uh, isn't quite anything to say, I don't think? I, um. Can't seem to recall anything of note. Iiiiii think I enjoy books? Mm. And blood. But. That doesn't quite sound normal when I say it out loud, does it."

[luneandbarbecue]

How about pur beloved Genesis for the headcanon ask game?

(Tumblr mobile has an inconvenient copy-paste system so I just swapped the prompt titles to the appropriate headcanon)

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

The bougainvillea remains to this day his favourite flower. Even if Banora carries a lot of childhood baggage for him, he still remembers those flowers fondly, growing up amongst them along with the apple trees.

Post!Dirge, he feels an explicit sadness knowing he burned those climbing blooms when they had constantly watched over him. They were there when he’d read, cry, or play with Angeal. The bougainvillea were victims of his wrath, they were innocent…

He planted a cutting to the ground one day, on a day he had chosen specifically to mourn his friends annually. Genesis’ tears fell to the soil as his bare hands dug into the earth and covered the roots as he cried bitterly. For years it weaved itself on the stone and brick walls, its branches reaching for the sun like outstretched hands.

That bougainvillea tree stood till the end of time, perhaps outliving Genesis himself.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

(To be honest, I think it’s realistic)

He was in charge of training the soldiers to sing in a special Shinra event. He had his… methods.

Headcanon A: realistic.

(CW: emetophobia)

Genesis thought he’d lost his budding friendship with Angeal once when he was a kid. When eating together, Genesis playfully took Angeal’s grapes as he was chased by his friend and ate one of the berries. Being poor, Angeal is protective of his food, so he freaked out and pushed Genesis down. Genesis thought they were having fun, so he was startled seeing his new friend mad, crying and upset. Angeal ran away.

Genesis cried out to him to come back, but to no avail, so the young boy was a sobbing mess, thinking that he had lost his one, only true friend because he was a worthless bully destined to be alone forever. He was so scared that he grabbed a bunch of food from the pantry to give to Angeal.

Gillian was the one who opened the door for him and when he entered the Hewley’s house, that’s when Genesis began connecting the dots about his friend’s situation. As his guilt began to well, Gillian called Angeal inside the house, who was helping his dad out. There, Genesis apologised for yanking his food from him and brought food from his house to make it up to his friend.

“Can we… still be friends?”

Genesis was prepared to hear a no, but he feels Angeal pull him close in an embrace, saying that he forgives him and is happy he came to apologise. Angeal’s dad commends the boys for making amends, telling Genesis that he’s did the right thing. Genesis sobbed so hard, that the stress he accumulated from his terror had him vomit on the floor.

“I’ll… clean that up,” said Angeal’s dad, as his son rubbed his friend’s back and his wife wiped Genesis’ mouth.

The boys grew closer after this event and got to know each other’s boundaries. And in the manufacturing of Banora White juice, Genesis hopes that he has also alleviated the financial burden on the Hewley’s as well so that they could eat.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

In my Distant Kind Future AU, Sephiroth’s daughter (Wendy) has a friend named Jenina (who is coincidentally called Jenny or Jen) by everyone else. Jenny is also a theatre kid who loves LOVELESS and successfully won her audition for a role she wanted in the community theatre. However, she knows that the male lead is going to be played by a boy she absolutely HATES and wants him out of the way.

Jenny begs Genesis to audition for the role, because he’s amazing and more handsome and wants that TWAT out of her breathing space.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Are you saying that you want me to sacrifice half my own year to back your petty mission against one single boy you dislike?”

Guilty and ashamed, Jenny looks down and nods her head.

“Yeah… s-sorry, that was wrong of me. I need to be more mature.”

Genesis grins.

“Lift up your head child. You are to be commended for acknowledging competence. Let’s humble this brat.”

He absolutely kills that audition and outperforms the boy. His mother is outraged at him for taking her darling child’s place, but Genesis doesn’t care. He has an absolute blast singing and performing with his new little friend.

[ghostwise]

from the veilguard artefacts prompts! 5. Letters taken from the library in Weisshaupt, tied in a bundle

LOVED THIS ONEEE this one was so fun, thank you! Some notes: In my worldstate Alistair is Warden Commander, and Var'myathan, the Dalish land boon, thrives in the South.

“I washed my hands of Warden business long ago,” he says, and it hurts, though it shouldn’t.

That their shared brotherhood—their only commonality at this point—is so distasteful to him, so very worth forgetting, hurts. But then again, if there’s one thing Alistair knows about the Blight, it’s that people choose how they remember it.

For him, time has distilled those feelings and experiences into something potent, terrible, yet formative. Every instance of the man he has become is touched by it. No Blight, no Alistair. And there’s the rub.

For Hamal, his memories of the Blight are something to be discarded.

Both of these viewpoints are correct, or at least, no more reprehensible than the other.

Alistair smiles. He slides the letters across the table once again. Hamal fixes him with an uneasy stare.

“Is this an order, Warden Commander?” he asks, his glasses giving him a rather owlish appearance.

“Maker, no. It’s a gift,” Alistair replies. “Can’t you tell by how nicely I’ve wrapped them for you?”

Hamal doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth lift for a moment. He reaches for the papers.

“And what gift is so important you have made the trip all the way to Var’myathan to deliver it?”

“Letters,” Alistair says with a sheepish smile. “My letters.”

“Letters are traditionally mailed, Warden Commander.”

“Not when they contain controversial or suppressed knowledge,” Alistair says. “Knowledge about the Blight. Knowledge about the Taint. Such letters might be best hand-delivered.”

Hamal’s fingers are steady as he unwraps the parcel. There are stamps upon the envelopes, the sort that were used in the old days; simple cork and blue ink, and, in this instance, magical enchantments that light up against the touch of warm hands. The envelopes have been waiting to be opened, all this time, patient in their knowledge.

“I smuggled them out of Weisshaupt,” Alistair admits.

Hamal eyes him for a moment. “Why?”

“We’re not getting any younger, my friend.” Alistair reclines in his seat and for a moment remembers that he has, by now, outlived Duncan—but he refocuses sharply on the conversation at hand, scored as it is by an ever-present dirge. “In the years following the Blight, I encountered many strange things. Darkspawn that could speak and reason like men. Wardens that had extended their lifespan in unnatural and twisted ways… these field reports were buried, as so much of what we lived to this day has been buried… never to see the light of day. I speak of your own miraculous survival as well, you see.”

Hamal sets the letters down and watches him with an inscrutable expression.

Alistair smiles.

He’s mastered the knack of instilling a healthy dose of fear into his Warden recruits, while never betraying his friendly exterior. Now he’s convinced he has delivered his message adequately, and made his good friend squirm long enough.

“In any case,” he concludes, “It will do more good in your hands than in the First Warden. The Order is—well.” Alistair stands, his blue cloak fanning out with an elegant sweep of his arm. “I wouldn’t bore you with all that. It’s all things you already know, or things you are better off not knowing. Just understand that in keeping these… you would be doing me a favor. And in reading them, even more so. No orders. No obligations. Just… a favor, from an old friend.”

Hamal flips through the letters, occasionally pausing to squint at the writing on the envelopes. He finally groups them together again, tapping them against the table to line up their edges neatly. He doesn’t look up.

“Thank you for the audience,” Alistair says. “If you do ever read my ramblings, let me know what you make of them. Take care.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, sit down Alistair,” Hamal says. “Haven’t even given me a chance to find my reading glasses.”

[shinraholidayparty]

2023 Shinra Holiday Party Prompts

Shinra Holiday Party is an annual Final Fantasy VII event to celebrate the winter holidays with our favorite Shinra Personnel, be it Turks, SOLDIERs, or board members!  Here is this winter's prompt list.  Hopefully they inspire something fun!

✨ 🎁 ❄️ ✨ 💡 ✨ 🍪 🍷 ✨

Dec 15 || Day 1. Gift exchange, peaceful, decorate. Dec 16 || Day 2. Snowing in the tropics, freezing, moonlight. Dec 17 || Day 3. Snowed in, coming home, baking. Dec 18 || Day 4. Mistletoe, snowball, cider (or eggnog or mulled wine). Dec 19 || Day 5. Gloves, winter in Icicle, sparkling lights. Dec 20 || Day 6. Hogging the blankets, forgotten trinkets, traditions. Dec 21 || Day 7. Office party, solstice, confession.

✨ 🎁 ❄️ ✨ 💡 ✨ 🍪 🍷 ✨

Reminders: Any time frame is acceptable!  So, pre-canon, Ever Crisis, Before Crisis, Crisis Core, Original Game, Remake, Advent Children, Dirge of Cerberus, or post-canon fics are all welcome!

Prompts may be done in any order or combination.

Works must be tagged with the #2023shinraholidayparty tag (or @shinraholidayparty must be pinged) to be featured on the event blog.

[ Directory | Rules | FAQ | Ask | AO3 ]

[mercysought]

APPROVAL + the Dread Wolf prowling at the fringes of Dirthamen’s territory - a scorched earth campaign destroying shrines and any magic or wards within them that may give Dirthamen power. The high priests of each are slaughtered, their bodies splayed naked like meat in the rubble. The tongues of the secret keepers are torn from their mouths and placed in the bloody wreck of their throats, mauled open by a great beast. Only the flies and vermin tend to them now. It is both dirge and promise - look upon the zealots of your god; they are nought but men, and die like animals. Your so-called god has forsaken you.

approval + (prompt) // selectively accepting // @hoboblaidd

   "It is none of our business."

She says simply and it rings flatly behind her darkened helmet. She looks at the scene from a distance, keeping position and post the same way as the soldier beside her. Both hands folded behind her back, she waits patiently.

   "How is it not? Those were our priests."

   "And the champions are handling it."

The two figures in the distance had entered whatever remained of the crumbled temple. From where she stood, Ga'rajelan (the All-General) could tell that the job had been done by the Dread Wolf himself. She had heard reports of how those that had been found hiding within Rebel hideouts had been found. She had not pursued who had thought it wise. The signs shown ditacted that they had been pulled from Dirthamen's temples after their usefulness had come to an end. Were times different, she would have sought out the leak herself - however, this was a war and she was exceedingly too busy to do that.

Now one Champion of Falon'din and another of Dirthman parsed through the ruins, having called upon them to... what? Watch?

   "And they will be sure to find it to be the fault of our soldiers."

Turning her head to the side, her eyes push past the helmeted head of Dirthamen's Ga'rajelan (the All-General) who whispered with their eyes firmly on the two figures in the distance. Spirits of curiosity had been sharpened to a point and hang just behind the two. The two generals had been asked to stand back and wait.

   "And is it not true?" she finally says, turning once more to them and then back to the ruins "It doesn't seem far fetched to think that the latest rebel incident could be caused by one of Dirthamen's own."

She can hear them simmering. Their connection tightens and tenses and she feels a snap waiting just to happen. She doesn't flinch when it finally does come.

   "Whose soldiers are most prone to outbursts of displays of power, Nas'taron (twin soul)?"

That makes her turn to them. Her hands were still behind her back. Slowly, with one hand she removes her helmet and looks upon them with a darkening expression. For all of her faults, outright displays of hubris was not one of them. She knew that it wasn't the signature of the keeper of secrets either, but still. It was not out of the realm of possibility even that someone was simply mimicking them, throwing the deeper of bonds against each other.

It's what she would have done.

   "This is what he wants." she continues, watching them as they pull the helmet and allow long dark hair to fall on their shoulders. They don't look at her, choosing instead to look back at the temple while tearing at their lower lip "Us, arguing like petty children."

   "Were you not to behave like a petulant, proud child, there would be no need to argue." they say, glancing in her direction and starting to walk away towards the champions.

Her hand reaches out to them, wrapping themselves over darkened metal and holding their arm; preventing them from leaving. In the distance there is only the light chatter between the spirits of curiosity and the humming of blood magic that tore stone from stone, seeking paths and other trails that they might be able to follow.

   "The people who did this. And those that caused this to happen." she starts, slowly pausing "We'll find them. We'll take care of it."

They turn back. Their face still twisted, a deep breath slowly taking over. Their mind reaches out to her and she reaches right back. They nod; it is a promise and as all promises they had made to their Gods and each other, they would keep. Hand over hand, they hold her wrist too "I know."

the priestess greatly disapproves

[heyjude19-writing]

HP Rec Fest: Day 25

Today's prompt from @hprecfest: A fic rated T

Fic: ugly: in defense of pansy parkinson

Author: dirgewithoutmusic

Why I rec this: this is the first dirge fic i read and oh my god. this is THE fic i hold up when people ask for character analysis examples. it is perfectly done. i'm someone who rereads canon once a year and this story is one that sticks with me when i go back to the series and consider other characters' perspectives. beautifully done.

[hoboblaidd]

i've seen the way you look at the horizon . you're searching for something .

ask meme - fantasy prompts

The small detachment of the Inquisition had traveled with a vanguard of Wardens up to the Shrine of Dumat, but here they would part ways, with the Wardens continuing north to the Anderfels and the Inquisition searching for Samson. This was as far north as Solas had been since the Breach.

Solas rose with the dawn as he had done every morning since they’d passed over the Imperial Highway. He made his way up the nearest high point, today a small hill overlooking their camp, and looked out over the plains to the north. The Silent Plains were hundreds of miles away, and Arlathan Forest a greater distance even than from here back to Skyhold. But still, he looked.

He didn’t hear her approach, and though he did not startle, her words pulled him from his reverie, but could not pull his gaze from the horizon.

“What I search for isn’t there anymore,” he said softly. “Nothing is.”

And no one remained who could remember what was lost. Only him, doomed to endure in their shadows.

“There was a great library here, once,” he began. “Its halls were vast and floated effortlessly above even the tallest of trees. It contained not only books and scrolls, but the living knowledge of an entire People. Every city’s histories, poetry, and thoughts were recorded in memory that could be felt by any who visited. It must have been wonderful,” he added, in all but a whisper.

“Vir dirthara,” he said, more to himself than her. “Vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa’vunin.” He took a breath meant to steady, but ended a dirge. “Emma ir abelas.”

[writingutensilthief]

Femslash February 2024 - Dress

Fandom: Gravedale High Ship: Blanche/OC Summary: Strawna uses a school assignment as a reason to finally talk to her crush. Word count: 1,359 Author's Note: I decided to pick up this prompt challenge again instead of starting any new October challenges, so hopefully I'll get a couple more Canon/OC pieces done for it this month.

Strawna was feeling the fear with this latest school assignment - a group project with vague instructions.

She sat at one of the back cafeteria tables re-reading the directions. Pair up with a student from another class to create something, she read to herself. You and your partner will have a month to complete your project, and after that you will present it and an explanation about the creation process to the school.

On the back of the sheet was sketches she'd made of dresses she felt she could sew together within that timeframe, so that was not what was making her nervous. It was finding someone to partner with that was getting to her.

Strawna looked over longingly at one of the other tables. Sitting on the end was the girl who had caught her attention at one of Ms. Dirge's art shows weeks before with her gorgeous homemade dress.

Blanche. Beautiful Blanche. The girl who makes the all-black look work and who rises above the reputation of the rest of her classmates.

It would be lovely to have Blanche as a partner, Strawna mused to herself. Blanche's eye for fabric would give me ideas I've never considered before. Blanche's sewing skills could come in handy if my sewing starts to slip. Blanche could be the one to model the dress as it gets presented...

But then doubts began to creep in. Someone like Blanche must be working with someone already, Strawna thought. Or if not, there must be a line of people wanting to ask her.

"I'm not concerned about the project," Blanche stated to her friends. "Ladies don't chase."

"Yeah, but ladies do get assigned to loser jocks who make them do all the work if they don't pick someone by the deadline," Duzer argued back.

"It's really not that bad, Blanche," Cleo agreed. "If it comes down to it, you can always bully someone into working with you like Duzer did."

"You say that like it's a bad thing-."

Blanche dismissed both of her friends with a wave. "If you girls wish to embarrass yourselves you can. Someone will be along any minute to ask me."

If Strawna really was going to ask Blanche to partner with her it needed to be soon; the deadline for picking someone was the end of the day. Why am I hesitating, Strawna questioned herself, trying to get back into her earlier positive mindset. Working with Blanche would be a good thing!

The internal pep talk was enough to get her to stand up and take a step away from her table and towards Blanche's.

The next steps didn't come as easily. Strawna already walked slow, but the emotions she was feeling - the excitement about talking to Blanche, the nervousness about what might happen if she did, the concern about the project itself - only exasperated her usual pace. Getting one foot in front of the other was all she could do, and she hoped she wasn't drawing attention to herself.

Blanche spotted movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced towards it. She didn't recognize the student coming towards her nor was she sure how to take the stare she was getting.

She looked back at her friends to gauge their reactions. It was what she expected them to be, unease from Cleo and suspicion from Duzer.

Once again glancing at the student coming towards her, Blanche noted that she didn't really seem like a threat. She then noticed a familiar piece of paper in her hands and decided to take a third view of the situation, curiosity.

Strawna finally reached Blanche's table. She tilted her pupils down at Blanche so she knew she was there to see her specifically, but before she could say anything-

"Can I help you?" Blanche asked with her usual Southern charm.

The way she spoke was music to Strawna's ears. It would have stopped her in her tracks if she was moving and could have made her cry if there weren't so many other things on her mind. To hear such a familiar way of talking from anyone at this school was delightful enough, but from Blanche?

That, and the way Blanche was looking at her expectantly with those soft, dark eyes, got Strawna to tear open her mouth and say something.

"Do you wanna work with me on the assignment?"

Blanche crinkled her nose in mild disappointment. It's presumptuous to just ask, she thought, certainly someone who sounds like that would know.

Strawna noticed this reaction and fortunately already knew how to correct her mistake.

"Oh! My manners!" She held out her hand. "I'm Strawna. I'm in Mr. Tutnor's class."

That's better, Blanche thought as she relaxed her face and took Strawna's hand, not to shake it but to pull herself up so she could make proper eye contact. "Blanche. Pleasure."

"Pleasure indeed." Strawna tilted her pupils back up to match Blanche's eye line and let her hand linger under Blanche's for just a moment more. A wave of relief washed over her.

"I was thinkin'," she then continued, pulling her hand away from Blanche's and flipping over the instruction sheet to show her sketches on the back, "we could sew something together for the project?"

She let Blanche pluck the paper out of her hands to look over. "I remember seein' you during the art show, and that dress you made was real pretty." Strawna subconsciously ran a finger over one of her wrist stitches. "I can sew too, so maybe you an' I can make a dress together? You wouldn't even have to use your own materials if you don't wanna, I have some of my own-."

Blanche was too focused on the sketches to respond. From the way the drawings were laid out she could tell Strawna was telling the truth about knowing how to sew, so she likely wouldn't have to do all the work if she agreed to the partnership. But the designs were so basic, just some pleat dresses with plaids and polka dots for patterns.

She peered at Strawna to judge her reaction to the silence. She was still staring at her, but with no malice behind her eyes. It seemed to give off more than just a polite patience, too, something more friendly. Whatever it was, it perked Blanche's interest.

"These dresses aren't quite my style," she at last replied, handing the sheet back to Strawna, "so we would need to use one of my designs for the project."

Strawna was surprised Blanche agreed so quickly. She couldn't think of a reply, so she just nodded in agreement and started folding up the paper to hide away in her pocket. But her nerves suddenly returned and made her hands fumble, so she crumpled it into her pocket instead.

Blanche covered her mouth to hide her chuckle. That was kind of cute, she thought.

"I guess we can let our teachers know that we're workin' on the project together," Strawna said, composing herself again. "Do you wanna meet after school to pick a design?"

"No," Blanche disagreed, titling her head thoughtfully. "I'll have to get my sketchbooks first. I'll bring them to school tomorrow, and we can meet up in the afternoon."

"Okay, I can bring some of my fabric with me tomorrow too. I'll see you then."

With that Strawna turned to start her slow walk back to her own table, her mood and pace increased. Blanche agreed, she cheered internally. She's spending time with me, for a whole month! Her face felt hot from the excitement.

Blanche watched her leave for a few seconds, then sat back down and looked towards her friends, a slight grin on her face. "I told you someone would ask me first."

She got an annoyed "humph" from Duzer and a confused look from Cleo.

"Don't you keep a sketchbook in your locker?" Cleo asked. "You don't need to wait."

"Why, do you think I'm desperate?" Blanche asked back, placing her hand on her chest. "Desperation is beneath me. Ladies leaving them wanting more."

That, and she kept all her best designs at home.

[dandelion-bride]

Askin' you things, I'm askin' you things! Would you mind answering 1, 14, 24? 💙

from fic asks

favorite fic you wrote this year

You ask me to choose between my children.

I think polyphemus' feast is my answer. Gortash POV Foundry scene during an alternate Act 3 (and alternate scene of A Little Wicked.) I think the Foundry holds Gortash's crowning achievements even more than his fight in Wyrm's Rock does. I know other have done hand-feeding in their fics with Gortash, but I liked playing with it, experimentation both painful and banal, and forcing pain for every pleasure.

14. a fic you didn’t expect to write

bottled lightning. i got into this fandom because of transmasc durges writing gay doomed durgetash, but I always shy back from writing a full story about an OC because I can't imagine anyone cares, despite evidence to the contrary. (we're working on it. you know how it is.) the prompt was too perfect, and I was so pulled into it I got the art from @unkledeath which I love (commission him fr fr.) getting into Dirge's head more, after the brief glimpses we saw in A Little Wicked, hurt a lot and yet felt good. The story also set the direction, and made a promise: Orin will return. How? I'm still figuring out all the details 😅

24. favorite fic you read this year

it is still a work in progress, and there are so damn many, but I have to give it to This Place Is Not A Place Of Honour by @thenugking for

referencing the 1993 report from Sandia National Laboratories about how to warn people up to 10,000 years in the future about nuclear waste

Orin. Orin POV Orin poetic internal speech Orin being deranged and beautiful my lord. I love her.

Gortash getting off on doing a DIY abortion. I hate and love it.

HALFLING DURGE HALFLING DURGE HALFLING DURGE.

thank you 💜

[lullaebies]

Helaegon prompt: Helaena decides to visit Aegon after his Rook's Rest injury

I have been sitting on this one all day excited to write it!! hopefully this will work out well for the prompt <3 -

He returned burnt and broken, they say.

She has gotten used to the whispers, hearing them while the maids cleaned the room around her, coming and going between their duties, from the one dusting the choked room or the one who parted the nasty knots on her unkempt silver tresses. They know she no longer has quite the will to fight, and perhaps it’s because now she knows that no effort will give her back her strength.

The spiraling images in her mind are predetermined abstractness; the kind she knows not how to wield. Poppies bloomed by Aegon in her mind, their petals burying him whole; she told him as much, but that was years prior, and then she only knew how to annoy him, and even now, she doesn’t know how to explain.

How dare she have not known, how to warn her children? To warn her brother? She didn’t know. She doesn’t know how to.

It eats and eats and carves her whole. If she knew, she would have screamed and shouted until the blood in their family’s bodies would curdle in such a way it could never spill.

Her legs feel shaky as she leaves the bed. It feels as if it has been days since she stood upright. Perhaps it has been. She doesn’t know, once more; and perhaps what’s worse is that she is not sure if she wants to.  But while Jaehaerys’s remains have been burnt away from this world, her brother’s body burned and withstood.

It is a moment of contemplation, in front of her door. Aegon only slept and ate, ate and slept. Vegetative at best, she heard one of the guards say, but alive. Has he survived against the dreams, she asks herself; if there is only a chance he rebelled against them, that would be air to lungs. Please, rebel as you always did.

She sees plagues of swords and spikes and stampedes of men, but she casts them away as she steps out of her room.

Helaena walks like a ghost over to Aegon’s secured quarters; only in her shift, the kingsguard posted at the door cannot even look her way; she saves herself the pondering of if it’s due to respect, pity, or disgust. Ser Thorne speaks up before she reaches out to the handle. “The King is deep in his sleep, my Queen..”

Helaena doesn’t bother looking at him. “That is for the better.”

When she enters the room, she walks over to the bed in soundless steps, only the door shutting behind her making a noise. She only wished for proof of sight, but when the sight is apparent to her eyes, she only wishes to cry some more.

By the gods’ will, Aegon is breathing as he slept. He breathes raggedly and in pain, but breathes. But his whole left arm is of scorched flesh and some of the scarrings reached beyond his neck, hinting at his face. His shoulder almost infectious in looks, he reminds her of Father, rotting out on his bed.

She sits on the bed, the crickets’ dirge already being sung around her. Why must all rot around her this way? Why can she not find a way to wits and sense? If only she could understand the future’s will as much as she could see it, they would never live this nightmare. Her words of vague visions are curses; if she could sew her mouth shut, no one would ever be hurt, and no one would ask her to choose.

It’s when her tears fall against the bed, when the mattress creaks with deep, that she sees a twitch in his hands.

Looking at him, she sees open, violet eyes, hazy but watching. He blinks, and groans, and coughs, and his whole body writhes in pain. But his mouth cracks open, dry as it is. “Hel?” he rebels against his body, and pays the price, groaning even louder as pain washes over him.

Helaena bites her lips to not whimper. He still is here, despite it all. And if he goes against his body, if he goes against the stream as he always did, perhaps he could oppose the insistent Stranger, too.

And from the nightstand, Helaena takes a cup and pours in a swig of milk of poppy, before bringing it to his mouth. She knows she is a ghastly figure, no better than the Stranger himself, but if only the gods will hear her this once, and let him oppose his predetermined fate himself.

Only a king can open a way for them all to follow. Aegon drinks it down as if it is air.

Drink, rest, and return, she prays in her head, by her own volition for once. Perhaps if she’ll repeat it enough, that will be true, instead.

[majorasnightmare]

36 and 37 if theyve not been asked ALSO custom ask but how would dirge respond if the PC asked them about their urges?

picking dirge up from visiting like hi did you have fun did rhys get you anything new to play with. an ipad with the entire saw franchise on it? well make sure you said THANK YOU okay.

and then i put a brick on the gas pedal when i step out the car and it careens off a cliff. thankies for dialogue enablingggg 💜

36. What are some situational dialogues they would say when something happens to another companion or you talk to them while in a quest-specific location (such as commenting on Karlach's heart, Elminster visiting Gale, visiting Cazador's mansion, etc)?

GOD THERE ARE SO MANY OF THESEEE i'll just pick one and then do another one for repeats sjdjsjfjd. i think ill bully raphael today

[player has met Raphael and finished his introduction cutscene]

"Out of all the devils to take interest... Maybe it's just my pride, but I'd like to think we warrant more than just a cambion, don't you agree? Or at least one a little less fond of the sound of his own voice."

37. How would they respond to a player character prompting them with, "Tell me about yourself"?

I answered this one in the first round of doing these!! here you gooo MWAH ✨🎉

Custom: How would Dirge respond to a PC asking about their Urges?

[note: exclamation flag triggers after first combat encounter with humanoid enemies]

>"Are you... okay? You seem... Twitchy."

"I- hm. I think. Yes, I'm alright. Sorry."

"Listen, when you have a moment, I think there's something I should discuss with you."

>"You wanted to talk?"

"Yes, I-. I think it's important. Ever since the Nautiloid I've... I've had this. Sensation."

>"Sensation?"

"Mm. Yes. As if... as if I've been wandering. Lost in a mire of fog, that dragged me down by the ankles."

"I attributed it to my... condition. But now... Ever since... Ever since that fight. I- I don't know quite how to describe it."

"It's like I've. Come alive, again. Watching the life, leave those people's eyes, feeling the blood spatter across my hands... *longing sigh* The unspooling of gore from their carcasses..."

[Dirge shakes the images from his head snappily]

"I didn't want it to stop. No, more than that, I was... compelled to continue it. For a brief moment, our shared struggle meant nothing to me and I had this.... this Urge to- to kill. To kill and keep killing."

"Listen, I haven't the faintest clue what's going on, with our tadpoles or the Nautiloid, or any of this. But I'd be remiss in our comaraderie if I didn't forewarn you. Just... Just, um. Keep an eye out. And a dagger close, is all."

>"How are you feeling? Are your urges any better?"

"Ah, um. N-no. No they aren't. I'm-I'm keeping it together though. Nothing overwhelming, just yet. I've got it under control. I do."

[biff-adventurer]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Prompt #19: Taken

Despair hung over the camp. In the wake of a loss they were unable to prevent, the adventurers sat in brooding silence, staring into the fire. Ever was herself in the middle of accepting what had happened. It didn’t feel real. Everyone in the Waking Sands, dead. Bodies dragged to the caravan. People she had known, though only in passing, suddenly inanimate. The looks of fear and struggle frozen on their faces. She shuddered to think of it, and her heart hardened. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Eyrisunn idly poked a branch into the fire, prodding the wood at its base. Biff sat beside him, staring at his hands. Both their faces were hard. Beside her, Pudada was dabbing at her eyes, sobbing softly. She had been weeping the whole day. After what the sylph Noraxia had shown them, how could she not? S’dennmo, to Ever’s left, idly tuned her lyre.

“I close my eyes, tell us why must we suffer.” A song came rumbling low from Eyrisunn, who tossed his branch into the fire.

“Release your hands, for your will drags us under.” Biff joined his voice with the paladin’s, the two of them united in a solemn dirge.

Ever had heard the song once before, but she could not remember it. She glanced to S’dennmo, curious if the bard had anything to contribute, be it music or commentary, but S’dennmo paid no mind.

Our legs grow tired, tell us where must we wander? How can we carry on if redemption’s beyond us?

Pudada burst into tears once more. Ever could only pat the Lalafell’s back as gently as she could, hoping her feelings would come through. None of them were alone in this. And yet, she found nothing hopeful or helpful to say. Her mind was riddled with a dark confusion.

Now open your eyes while our plight is repeated. Still deaf to our cries, lost in hope we lie defeated.

S’dennmo set her lyre down and softly sighed. Then, she whispered to Ever, “It was written during the days Dalamud was sinking. Those times were hard. Someone wanted to capture the helplessness we were all feeling, and the song spread. But… Eventually, she answered.”

“Who?” asked Ever.

Our souls have been torn and our bodies forsaken. Bearing sins of the past, for our future is taken.

“There were people gathering to fight. Some of them said they could hear her. Though it was weak, her voice called out to them. People seem to have forgotten, like they’ve forgotten everything else. You remember, too, don’t you? What it was like during the Calamity?”

“Yes.” Ever sat up taller, looking at S’dennmo with fresh eyes. “It was dreadful. Everyone was living between hope and despair, love and grief.”

The Elezen glanced toward her melancholy companions. These individuals had been free back then, while she had been stuck in her metaphorical tower. They were confronted with the reality looming over them every single day. She remembered passing bards reciting the lyrics outside her window. Father had ordered all the curtains to be shut at all times, to block out the world. 

She wondered what the others had been doing back then. Pudada had not yet become an adventurer, but what about Eyrisunn? S’dennmo had placed herself and Biff at Carteneau, but the latter simply stated that she had been thinking of someone else. Ever suspected Biff’s memory had been playing tricks on him. But it was for that reason she marveled at his recollection of the song.

S’dennmo strummed her lyre, playing the accompaniment to the very tune sung by the men. Their voices died down, likely startled by the new addition to their cycling song of sorrow. Then came the bard’s golden voice, pouring into the night air, floating like campfire embers against a background of stars.

“To all of my children in whom Life flows abundant…” 

[flowers-of-io]

Tagged by @eri-223 several weeks ago, thank you!

list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics, and see if there's a pattern.

——

“That’s what you do when you’re not in the Oubliette whining about tithes?” — Notes on the Remembered

Light filters through the massive rosette window on the far wall of the ballroom as thin, shimmering beams. — Brilliance, Brilliance

Light flickered on garlands and beaded ribbons hanging from the many railings and rafters in the Hangar. — Field Research

Ir Yût haunts the back left flanking tower, her gown flapping madly about her form as she flies in restless circles and the dirge threatens to send blood spurting from her earholes. — as grief is large among the grieving

Assertion of Resplendence —

Carved in golden radiance to endure forever —

A declaration of freedom —

— Dark Mirror

Alemyr walks through the Black Garden. — a chorale, a double-stop

The first time Toland hears them, creeping up on him on a cracked rock overlooking the Hellmouth, he wishes he would mistake it for wind. — when do ghosts have nightmares

The light in Savathûn's throne world is strangely diffused, one of the four suns having already dipped below the horizon and other two inching their way downwards. — latest Sav/Eris prompt

Savathûn laughed. — the witnessed and the tricked

“Who were you?” Nasya asks him once, her voice lavender-pale and scented like the dark between stars. — Provenience

——

Apparently I like starting my fics by describing the play of light! I noticed it in some other works not listed here as well. There are only so many ways you can kick off a story, and I like starting with a visual snapshot to set the scene if I don’t have some cool dialogue in mind haha. I always have the “first sentence should hook the reader” rule in the forefront of my mind, but I’m not sure how well that comes across most of the time…

Tagging @xazz @wonderwafles @exhaling-dust @shalalalalaw and @imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese!

[destinyimage]

This Throne Room Encounter Reveals Your End-Times Assignment

Jesus waved His arm in the direction of a vast black hole in the place of the deep that was void of anything.

“These are the lost hopes and dreams of purposes unfulfilled,” Jesus said.

I intuitively knew that once lost, these moments of opportunities for all people who reject the Holy Spirit’s promptings—God’s direction—during their lifetime in the world, would remain in that black hole.

Yes, the Holy Spirit whispered, what you know is true.

But the dirge, Lord, is that for the lost souls who have rejected You like I did for so long, or are they for the lost hopes and dreams?

Both, answered the Holy Spirit, but the mourning sound is because I have grown weary from ages of crying for the lost. The mourning has faded into a soft lamentation for those who have no life in Me.

“The ones in hell?” I asked.

No answer followed, but I knew the answer just the same. Hope remained for those who lived in the world. No hope existed for those sealed in death apart from Christ.

“I desire that none shall perish,” Jesus said, “But I AM the only way here, none other.”

With that, He turned His head downward. In His eye I saw a tear swell, before falling onto the golden path. I felt strangely compelled to stoop to the ground and cup the soil containing Jesus’s tear. I did so and rubbed it between my palms, before touching it to my cheeks. I instantly felt the sorrow of my Lord to the depths of my soul. And I began to mourn in the same way I had heard the mourning cry of our Lord for the lost. It felt terrible beyond words.

“Feed My sheep,” Jesus said to me.

Did not Jesus say that to Peter in John 21:17? Now He was telling me this, even though I was in Heaven and I had no influence in the world at that time—or so I thought until the Holy Spirit corrected me. Suddenly I felt I should pray. I thought of Renee, Annie, and Ryan, and how confident I felt in my Lord’s ability to provide for them during the time I could not see them grow. Those thoughts did not sadden me, because I knew that God would give them all they needed. I was aware that my time in the world was the brief vapor that it seemed, and it gave them all God had required of me.

In life, I had prayed daily for my family and tried to model being a good father and husband. We had watched endless Christian videos together. I prayed for my children to receive Jesus as their Lord and Savior. We attended church and I taught them from the Bible. I prayed the so-called “Sinner’s Prayer” with both of my parents, so I knew they were destined for Heaven. I loved Renee and tried to provide the security she needed, and we had prayed such rich prayers together. I could do the same in Heaven. I knew in the span of the fullness of eternity in Heaven that I would see all of them in a few moments of time, from my eternal perspective.

God would assuredly heal Annie, and my children would have families of their own. I fell short too many times; but in Heaven, none of those shortcomings mattered. God filled in the blanks—He would do the same in the future. He always did. I could still pray for them and others in Heaven, and I knew that. God could catch me up on their lives, as well as their victories. I was confident of that, and I asked Jesus to send them messages every now and then as “postcards from Heaven,” as I later called them.

Fear was nonexistent in Heaven, because I finally and fully trusted Jesus. If only I had known these things in the world, how prosperous I could have been—but my fleshly brain would constantly remind me of my failures and my unworthiness.

“When you stop judging yourself, you will stop judging others,” Jesus said.

After those words, I could hear birds singing as I remembered them on a typical spring morning. I felt the wind blanket me with warmth and appreciated the revelation that I had judged myself on earth. I thought about how that truth would have served me well in world. Indeed, I had judged myself as a failure so often that self-condemnation fed off a need to judge others, as a demented form of psychological deflection.

But as a spirit now not judging myself, why would Jesus tell me this now?

“I’m here though, Jesus, so I’m not judging anyone, least of all me.”

“Not for long,” Jesus said, as He hugged me tightly and kissed me on the cheek.

“Not for long?”

“I am going to return you, beloved.”

“Oh Lord…” I hugged Him so tightly, never wanting to release.

I thought that if I held onto Jesus, He could not let me go. “I will never leave you,” He whispered into my ear.

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I knew that, but in the world it would be so hard to remember. “I know how hard it is in the world, beloved,” He said. “I lived there, but now you know, and what I am revealing to you will never leave you.”

Suddenly a butterfly rested upon my shoulder. It was bright blue, red, and yellow—colors that reflected with an iridescent glow. It shed sparkly gold dust from the underside of wings that were dotted with purple eyespots and that gently flapped. I immediately felt calm and confident. I also knew that everything and everyone in Heaven performed intentionally, so I understood that God intended something from the butterfly’s appearance.

“This butterfly represents My wisdom that will guide you in the world,” Jesus said.

As soon as Jesus explained the meaning of the butterfly, I instantly knew that I needed to remain still so the butterfly would not fly away.

And so it is with wisdom, said the Holy Spirit, be still and…

“Know that I am God,” said Jesus as He finished the Holy Spirit’s sentence. I remembered the Bible verse: “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth” (Psalm 46:10 NIV).

Knowing that Jesus would return me to the world, I wanted to know the God-decreed plans for my return—a blueprint of sorts. As always, Jesus knew my thoughts and responded accordingly:

“Moment by moment I will direct your steps,” said Jesus. “If I were to reveal your purpose in full, you would not remain dependent on Me.”

Thus, I had learned the lesson of the butterfly—to get still, listen to the voice of wisdom (the Holy Spirit) telling me what to do, and to look for the opportunities to serve my Lord in the moments of life rather than worry about the grandiose scheme of achievement. Just after my revelation, the butterfly gently flapped its wings and flew into the blue sky, leaving its beauty imprinted within my soul.

But what about the latter part of Psalm 46:10? God is indeed exalted among the nations, but few people acknowledge Him as such.

“The nations, Lord—You were exalted in the world, but so many thought that You were not God,” I said.

“I AM,” He responded.

Later, I would correlate what Jesus had said with this verse: “Jesus answered them: ‘I solely declare it: before Abraham came to be, I AM’” (see John 8:58). Indeed, that was the name God gave Himself when He first communicated with Moses (Exodus 3:14). Many people think of the Father as God and Jesus as the Son of God as an off-shoot of the Father. And many are confused about the Holy Spirit; but in Heaven, the Holy Spirit was and is as real and relatable as Jesus. As for the Father, I had not yet met the Father, or so I thought.

“I will take you there.” As usual, Jesus answered my thought. “But He has always been with Me and I with Him.”

And I with both, said the Holy Spirit.

In the world, this often presents a point of confusion, but with my spirit mind, I fully realized what Paul referred to as the mind of Christ, or the Christ mindset. I understood that the three Persons of God were not persons at all. Rather, they were facets of one another, with each being one side of a three-sided personhood. If that still seems confusing, then just remember that there is only one God (Deuteronomy 6:4).

Although we are made in His image, we are not of the same makeup as God. Like God, we are comprised of three parts: a spirit person (controlled by God), a physical person, and a soulful person who represents the sentient or feeling part of ourselves.

“In the world, you saw things in part,” said Jesus. “Now you see them in full. Now I will show you the Father.”

With that, Jesus and I flew high above the ground, with Jesus’s hand placed in the small of my back. I beheld what must have been billions of people, and a vastness greater than the sum of all galaxies. A “whoosh” sounded as we flew through orbs made of light. Angels flew through the second orb to what I presumed was the world below. A third orb beamed with the intensity of many suns, but it did not blind me because I could feel Jesus’s presence shielding my eyes. He did this not with His hands but with His omnipotent Glory. Then I realized that the near-blinding light of God was indeed His utmost Glory. Bedazzled by it all, I didn’t realize that we had settled upon a pavement of darkly glowing blue stones. Everything was blurred up to this point, except for where I now stood with Jesus.

I’m taking over from here, said the Holy Spirit.

I could still sense Jesus’s presence, but not His figure.

Look up, said the Holy Spirit.

I witnessed a crystalline waterfall through which I could faintly see an altar and a towering, curved structure that was made of ruby red and opaque brownish stones. A crystal blue table stood at the center of an elevated stage of grey stone with flecks of mica interlaced with intense blue layers. A rainbow served as a halo behind this altar and extended to what existed below.

Living waters poured like a waterfall from the light that engulfed Jesus, but those waters did not soak anything they touched. They had another effect that I could not understand, but I sensed them as the source of life. Jesus reached His arms outward to form a cross with His body while He stood behind the stone altar. It was then that I noticed that waters flowed from His hands, which ushered forth the waterfall that I saw.

Those waters “gelled together” as an incline that curved back and spread out to form a glass-like seat that surrounded what appeared to be a mountain-sized melding of clear emerald gems, against an airy blue background. Walls of multicolored stones with the heartbeat of life reached thousands of feet into the air—as far as I could see.

To me, it seemed as if a portal or an open window existed at the base of the massive formation. Sitting atop this structure was a giant figure the size of a four-story building. His white hair flowed through the wind that was breathed from the Holy Spirit. I felt I was part of that wind since the Holy Spirit blew that wind through me and everyone within this sacred place. The brilliance shining upon this figure prevented me from seeing His features, if He had features. His white, flowing hair could have been the tendrils of the blinding white light that was brighter than the sun, but they appeared as strands of flowing clouds. His eyes blazed with flames that erupted like a volcano.

The figure blended in appearance with Jesus, though Jesus’s eyes were constantly fixed on me. The larger and semi-distinct figure evoked an awe in me that bordered on fear as He declared words or sounds in a foreign tongue, with the utmost authority. In the strangest way, I considered Him to be THE WORD, the authoritative Word of all things. Until then, I had never in my life considered that the Word was a Person.

Within that instant, all of Heaven became beyond silent to an intense nothingness. A quiet that was thunderous. An absolute stillness of motion and sound settled after the Almighty’s declaration—the calm before the Storm. And all of Heaven waited.

My feelings changed from comfort to pure and absolute awe. Somehow, I understood that nothing would ever be the same again.

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