#Dragon of Earth || Clay

[multiandmany]

Kimiko the Kitsune and Clay the Centaur

More details tomorrow I is Chillin'

[phanthymn]

Clay wings of fire as a Little Pony! His cutie mark is representative of his care for his family!

[fangirlingpuggle]

Another very silly XS AU/fic prompt where the next level the Monks have to ascend to they need more control over their elements. Then Chase shows up at the temple and says he's going to be training Omi after all he's the most qualified.

The monks are of course confused (And Omi's case trying very hard to get exited) like WTF your heylin prince of darkness why would ever let you train Omi. Cue Chase giving them blank look and then very clearly controlling the fountain of water.

The monks jaws are on the floor (Omi has actual stars in his eyes) and Chase just realizes an eyebrow like 'Did no one tell you who the previous dragons were?' and then gives Dojo a pointed look.

Cue Rai, Kimiko and Clay descending on Dojo as they now have so many questions.

Master Fung can't deny that technically at this stage of their growth the monks can/ have previously been taught by previous dragons of their element so technically Chase can train Omi... he wants to say no but Omi now he's given permission to actual train with Chase is literally running in circles squealing with joy. (Master Fung thinks that they really should have revised the rules to say they can't be trained by them if said previous dragon is now on the heylin side)

Of course the other monks get the full story on who the previous Dragons of their element were which leads to Kimiko trying to track down Guan for training. Raimundo trying to get more stories about Dashi or find out more about him/ ask Dojo about how Dashi trained or if there are any talk to the dead Wu?

That leaves Clay, who ends up showing at Jack's lab awkwardly asking to talk to Wuya (She left Chase's palace because it's just him and Omi all the time now and she was getting a migraine listening to them calling out fighting moves or their weird mind game). Jack is very confused and even more so when he finds out she was the past dragon of earth. Wuya is just staring at them like 'My servants are giant stone golems... I wasn't exactly subtle' .

She refuses to help Clay, but Jack decides to help because 1)he wants to know how xaiolin magic works if he can reverse engineer it 2) Clay will him a favor and 3) It's gonna annoy/he can mess with Wuya. So Jack mind games/reverse psychologys her in rambling about her powers/the past.

Clay and Jack are just there mostly eating popcorn listening about earth powers and getting way to emotionally invested in her stories about her and Dashi (Wuya doesn't realize she's telling a tragic romance story but Jack and Clay do and they are invested)

Dojo and Rai come to pick Clay up walk into the lab to see Clay and Jack sobbing and Wuya just talking mostly to herself about something , Dojo and Rai exchange a look and slowly back away they don't want to know.

Eventually Wuya starts showing techniques and teaching Clay and Jack mostly because she sees Clay try and 'no that's not how toy do it idiot just watch'

(Wuya doesn't realize she's technically training 2 xiaolin dragons earth and metal are very close)

Jack does use his favor next showdown he gets the Wu is challenged by one of the other monks and Jack just goes 'Oh this showdowns going to 2 v 2' and asks Clay to help him, this ends up happening a lot mostly because once they do this Chase realize he can do this with Omi and suddenly Chase is going for all the Wu as a chance for him and Omi to fight together.

Clay and Jack actually fight really well together and have bonded a lot, Wuya it just watching these 2 slowly go into full crush mode over each other and eating her own popcorn.

[silentkimiya]

Before I continue with Vulpera's fluffy companions, I want to stop and show you my personal project.

These four have a long story. I started working on them a few years ago. For me, these were some of the first sculptures I made entirely out of air-dry clay. It was supposed to be a simple project both in style and in concept (four dragons representing the four elements). But… something went wrong.

The sculpting process went well; the painting was also successful. And then, according to my plan, there was the stage with epoxy resin… and this stage did not go as planned for two of the four dragons. Looking back now, I realize that the problem with the epoxy resin was easily solved. But I did not have the right tool, so sadly the dragons were put in a closet and locked there for a couple of years.

And then… I got the very tool that could save the situation. It took me a while to get the hang of it and gain confidence that I wouldn't make it worse with my corrections. And then I spent as much as two hours to correct that small mistake, which a couple of years ago seemed to me the final verdict for the sculptures.

And here we are. These dragons are finally ready to show themselves! You can't imagine how happy I am about this - and I can't wait to show you the final pics <3

[customcreatures]

I will never get tired of making these leafy beasts

[muses-of-the-memory]

Happy 21st Anniversary to Xiaolin Showdown

Today is the 21st anniversary of one of our childhood Cartoon Network shows,

Xiaolin Showdown!

It had been 21 years since we had seen our four Xiaolin Warriors,

Omi,

Raimundo Pedrosa,

Kimiko Tohomiko,

and Clay Bailey together fighting the forces of evil,

such as "evil genius", Jack Spicer,

Wuya, and so many more villains all to reclaim the Shen Gong Wu!

So today, I will be adding the four heroes of the show into my muse list.

Tagged by: @themultiverseheroines, @hoshi-neko-hikari, @bluemajingirl, @the-world-hopper, @spirits-of-nature16

[romerona]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Parts: 1-2-3-4

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max, PINNING CREGAN STARK, JEALOUS CREGAN STARK.

He should not have let his father drag him again to the south.

Everything was too warm, too perfumed, too full of unnecessary talk. The men dressed like peacocks, the wine was too sweet, and the courtiers never stopped smiling. Smiling when they didn’t mean it, smiling when they lied, smiling like their faces were carved from ivory and wax instead of blood and bone.

Cregan didn’t trust it, not any of it, never had.

Give him wind and stone, snow underfoot and steel that spoke plain. He had no need for this—this spectacle.

He shifted where he stood beneath the shadowed arches of Harrenhal’s gallery, arms crossed, gaze scanning the great hall like a wolf watching sheep. The lords drank, the ladies laughed, silk rustled, and gold gleamed and... and then his eyes found you.

Across the room, cast in the honeyed glow of candlelight and surrounded by laughter that always seemed too loud for the time of day, there you were.

Your gown was pale red again, soft and fine, a whisper of rose, like embroidered petals spun into silk. The gown flowed about your form like mist curling over morning frost, near translucent at the hem, and gods damned him, it suited you far too well. Your hair, silver, as any dragonlord’s, had been wound in coils and braids, small pearls glinting in the strands like stars scattered across snow.

And you were moving, as ever, never still, turning, leaning, laughing with that lilting, careless charm you wielded like a blade dulled just enough to disarm.

There were men about you. Mostly men. Young and old lords puffed up with pride, squireborn heirs from the Reach and the Riverlands, even a Tyrell or two—circling, vying for your eye like moths to a flame. Gods, the way they tripped over their own tongues just to hear you speak their name. Fools, the lot of them.

Cregan’s jaw ticked.

You played the court as one might a harp, every note carefully plucked. The touch of your hand on a forearm, the tilt of your head, the smile just wide enough to promise something you’d never give. And your laughter, it rang bright, a touch too bright, like you wanted the whole damned hall to hear it.

But your eyes… those lilac eyes ruined the act, because he knew the truth of them. Keen and cool, always watching, always weighing. A fox, or rather a dragon, in a den of pups, waiting to pounce.

He’d known it from the moment you first looked at him all those years ago, when you were still more shadow than flame yet still as bothersome as ever, way before the court had taught you how to smile with your teeth.

His thoughts dragged him back, against his will, to mornings past. A day when the rain had fallen heavily that night, and the earth was still thick with it, all muck and soft churned clay. He’d been riding toward the tiltyard when he saw you—standing close to that Dornish whelp, Prince Qyle, all honeyed words and idle hands. You’d been twirling a wilted flower between your fingers like it were nothing, just another prop in your never-ending play.

Cregan knew he ought to have taken the longer path around. Could have dismounted, even shown courtesy, as was expected in such company. But when the Dornish prince caught sight of him astride his black stallion, and bent to whisper something low against your ear, something that made your lips curl in a quiet chuckle as you cast your gaze his way—well, that was that.

He tightened the reins and nudged his stallion forward with the heel of his boot.

He let the stallion trot straight through the narrow lane, hooves striking hard against the wet cobbles. The animal tossed its head and snorted, restless from the morning chill, and just as it passed the pair of you, one deliberate step, one well-placed clatter, the horse kicked back.

A great splash of muck arced through the air, thick and heavy, and landed true. Brown water and black earth struck the lower half of your gown, marring the pale silk like spilled ink. The prince's robe caught the edge of it too—less so, but enough to draw a hiss between his teeth.

You gasped, he heard it loud and clear.

The Dornishman's hand froze mid-gesture, fingers still half-curled where they'd been tracing lazy shapes in the air, likely some tale meant to dazzle you.

Cregan pulled the reins, reining the stallion to a halt just a few strides ahead. The echo of hooves faded into the damp air, but he let the moment stretch, hanging between them like a drawn bowstring. Then, slow as ice melting on stone, he turned in the saddle, just enough to glance back over his shoulder.

Your eyes were fire, narrowed and unflinching, the sort of look meant to scorch. But he’d grown up in the cold, fire didn’t frighten him—it only drew him closer.

His face, though, betrayed nothing. No smirk, no spark of satisfaction. Just the still, stony countenance of a Stark—carved in the likeness of winter itself. “My deepest apologies, Princess, the horse is northern-bred. Skittish around snakes.”

And with that, he nudged the reins and rode on, leaving the silence behind him thick as snowclouds.

He should’ve known better than to think you’d let the insult lie. No, retaliation, for you, was as inevitable as winter, and perhaps more cunning. He knew that from experience.

So when the morning of the next tilting day dawned warm and light, with banners fluttering like lazy birds over the tourney grounds and the scent of trampled grass thick in the air, Cregan should have known.

Per his father’s request—always his father’s request—he made his way toward the benches set aside for those of noble blood not riding that round. A place to sit in half-bored judgment, to sip watered wine and pretend to enjoy the strutting of hedge knights and second sons in gilded armor. He scarcely offered a nod to the Lord of Raventree seated beside him, all sharp jaw and crow-black cloak, before easing down into the chair provided.

He should’ve known.

Should’ve noticed the way your gaze lingered when he passed by, half-lidded and amused, as if waiting for something to happen. The subtle curl of your lips, wicked and knowing, as you leaned close to whisper into the ear of that puffed-up Lady of Oldtown draped beside you in lace and perfume. Whatever you said made the woman titter behind her hand, though her eyes darted toward him with poorly-hidden glee.

It was all there, plain as the rising sun and yet, like some green boy fresh from the Wolfswood and too slow to read a room, he’d missed it.

So he sat, and at once, he knew something was amiss.

The chair was off, just the slightest wrongness to it, a barely-there wobble, as though one of its legs had been wedged into soft earth or poorly crafted from the start. It shifted beneath his weight, subtle as a breath, but enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

But before he could rise, before he could so much as glance beneath the carved wooden frame, or even shift his weight—

Crack.

The sound rang sharp through the tiltyard, clean and sudden as a snapped bowstring. In one humiliating instant, the leg beneath him gave out with a dry, splintering groan, aged wood shattering like a rotted branch in winter. The entire bench tilted, and there was no time to catch himself.

Cregan Stark—heir of Winterfell, son of the North, blood of the first man, six feet and more of hardened muscle and quiet menace, toppled backwards like a felled pine. His shoulders struck the packed earth with a deep thud, and a cloud of dust billowed up around him, startling the nearby horses and silencing the surrounding chatter for the briefest of beats.

It began with a single, stifled snort, likely from some hedge knight who thought himself clever and then others joined in, a ripple of laughter, low and rising, lords and ladies craning their necks to glimpse what had befallen the proud Stark. Highborn men with goblets halfway to their lips turned in their seats, and silk-clad maidens leaned forward for a better view, hands fluttering to their mouths with exaggerated gasps that barely masked their amusement.

Through it all, Cregan lay there, unmoving.

Dust clung to his shoulders, to the wool and leather of his tunic, but Cregan Stark did not move. He stared skyward, jaw clenched, fury simmering just beneath the surface, contained, but not tamed. The blood in his veins beat hot and heavy, each thrum a reminder that he'd been made a spectacle. A fool.

A young Stark knight, one of his father’s men, rushed toward him from the edge of the list, eyes wide with concern. Another followed, hand half-outstretched, stammering something about aid.

Cregan rose before they reached him.

In a single motion, fluid and unyielding, he pushed himself upright with the force of a man who would not be helped, not here, not like this. He stood tall amidst the cloud of settling dust, and with deliberate care, brushed the earth from his sleeves, his chest, the backs of his legs. He did not wince nor he glare. His face remained a mask of wintered stone.

Toward the noble pavilion, toward the place where you sat among your dragon-laced kin, posture flawless as ever, chin high like you hadn’t just orchestrated his fall.

Your hand covered your mouth, delicate as a snow-lily, your eyes wide and glistening with well-feigned concern.

But your shoulders… your shoulders were trembling—barely—with restrained laughter, the kind only a seasoned court player could mask so sweetly. Not so your brother, seated just beside you, who was guffawing without shame, shoulders shaking as he doubled over in mirth, utterly ignoring the sharp, chastening glance his mother—mother-the Queen-cast his way from beneath her veil.

Cregan knew you had done it.

Gods knew how, whether through coin, charm, or whispered command. Perhaps you hadn’t dirtied your hands at all—but the deed bore your touch. He could see it in your eyes, even now. That flicker of triumph behind the veil of false concern. That wicked gleam, hidden beneath a princess’s poise.

And his honor be damned, he would answer it.

By the fifth day of the tournament, the game was no longer a game, it was war, quiet and glittering and dressed in silk.

A war waged beneath the notice of every lord and lady at Harrenhal, veiled behind manners and pageantry, but no less brutal for its subtlety.

The morning of the archery competition, your prized mare, a gift from the king, your father, soft as snowdrift, white as fresh snow, and pampered beyond sense, was found soaked to the haunches in pond muck. Some stablehand, well-bribed and firmly warned to keep his tongue behind his teeth, had somehow forgotten to latch her stall. A mistake, of course. Entirely accidental.

The beast was unharmed, save for the humiliation, but your temper was another matter. You’d arrived to the mid-morning procession late, skirts lifted above your ankles, a flush to your cheeks and a pin half-loosened in your hair. And when your eyes met his across the feast table later that evening, you smiled, a slow, syrup-sweet thing that might’ve fooled any man unfamiliar with your ways.

Then, his boots were mysteriously gone, not misplaced. Gone.

He had searched everything thirce over, paced the floor, flung open trunks, snapped at his attending squire with ice in his tone—but they were nowhere to be found. And with the melee drawing near, he’d been left with no choice but to wear his soft riding shoes, the ones meant for long walks and diplomatic strolls, not blood and dirt.

He had looked ridiculous.

The soles slipped with every turn in the yard, his footing unreliable in the churned soil. Ser Vardis Egen observed with mild concern, offering the occasional half-hearted comment, while Ser Tyland Lannister sat nearby with a goblet in hand and a smile twitching beneath his beard. And Prince Qyle of Dorne, the absolute cunt, laughed outright, loud and unrestrained, his delight echoing across the yard like a challenge.

Cregan bore it in silence, jaw tight as drawn steel.

It wasn’t until dusk that he found them: his boots, stuffed full of lavender sachets and tucked neatly into the velvet cradle of the Queen’s favorite marble swan in the garden and the damn bird pecked him when he tried to retrieve them.

The next joust, he struck back.

Your parasol—delicate, dove-grey, and trimmed in Myrish lace—had been ever your shield against the sun. But that morning, it was just slightly off. Same color, same trim but not quite the same make, the ribs of the frame were looser, less tempered. Weakened just enough to give at the slightest strain.

One of his father’s men had arranged the exchange, quiet as snowfall, slipping it in place while your handmaid was fetching sugared wine.

You hadn’t noticed, not until the breeze picked up.

The first gust caught the parasol like a sail, turning it in your grip with a violent snap. It twisted, wild and graceless, tugging your braid loose and whipping across your cheek. The lace slapped Lady Blackwood full across the face with such force that it knocked her down, drawing a very unladylike yelp.

You smiled through your teeth, composed and controlled as you helped the lady, but he saw the embarrassment and fury in your eyes.

And across the field, seated beneath his House’s banner with the ease of a man entirely unbothered, Cregan lifted his cup of northern wine, took a slow sip, and did not look away from you.

Not once.

Days later, you struck again.

This time, it was the saddle soap or rather, the lack of it.

Cregan had only realized something was wrong once he’d mounted his stallion. The reins, polished and gleaming, looked well-kept—but they slid through his fingers like oiled silk. Too smooth, too slick and when the beast felt the uncertainty in his grip, it reared.

Not gently, not a simple jolt, a full buck, sharp and sudden.

He hit the hay with all the grace of a dropped shield, shoulder-first into the straw with a dull thud that knocked the breath from his lungs. His squire looked one breath away from coughing up a lung with laughter as he tried to help.

Cregan rose slow, straw clinging to his hair, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked. He did not speak, merely turned his head, just so and looked up.

From across the yard, shaded beneath a silken canopy with the kind of grace only royalty dared to wear like armor, you lifted one dainty hand and offered him a polite little wave.

A picture of composure and a portrait in mockery.

By now, it was no longer about besting one another—not truly. No winner would be named, no tally kept. The game had become something sharper.

It was about breaking first.

About who would falter beneath the weight of silence, who would let their smile slip just enough to reveal the strain beneath. Who would crack beneath the delicate tension they’d spun between them, thread by thread, day by day, until it stretched tight as a bowstring across the halls of Harrenhal.

Not a soul around them seemed to notice.

And the worst part, the part that made his hands curl at his sides, that gnawed at him even when sleep would not come, was that you enjoyed it, and gods help him, so did he.

More than he would ever be willing to admit. More than honour would allow. There was something addictive about it—the dance, the dares, the constant tilt of balance between them. The way you always smiled was like a secret you wouldn't tell him.

He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he craved it more than he loathed it.

His thoughts drifted back to that morning, the final day of the tourney.

The victor, Ser Gwayne Hightower, all polished silver and smug ceremony, had ridden like a man possessed. Every tilt he charged down like it were holy ground, unseating each and every challenger without hesitation, even that arrogant peacock Qyle of Dorne. The crowd had roared with delight, lords and ladies, hedge knights and handmaidens alike, caught up in the spectacle of it all. Songs would be written, no doubt. A hundred ballads for his damnable form and flawless seat.

And when the dust had settled, when the banners hung still and the crowd quieted in breathless anticipation, it came time to name his Queen of Love and Beauty.

Of course, he chose you.

He’d barely paused before riding to the center of the yard, lifting a circlet of woven wildflowers high above his head as if the gods themselves had guided his hand. And you stood tall amidst it all, in a pale violet silk that clung and fluttered like the wings. The sunlight caught in your hair, you looked every bit the royal prize, and yet untouched by it.

You had the audacity to look surprised.

To blink sweetly, mouth parted just so, before offering that graceful little dip of the head, accepting the woven crown as though you hadn’t seen it coming, as though you hadn’t known that every fool in Westeros would crawl through ash and blood to place it upon you.

The crowd had roared as Ser Gwayne Hightower placed the garland of summer roses upon your brow, each petal bright and soft and utterly unworthy of the thorns you kept hidden beneath. Cheers echoed like thunder across the tiltyard, lords and ladies rising to their feet, banners fluttering as minstrels struck up some syrupy tune fit for a tale told in silk.

Cregan clapped, yes—but only out of obligation, politeness, duty. The way one might bow before a king they did not serve.

Then, cease his clapping when Gwayne bowed low and pressed his lips to your hand, all chivalry and gleaming armour. He did not flinch when the crowd howled their approval in his ear, he tried not to roll his eyes when your silks caught the wind just so and half the court sighed like they'd seen a vision from the Seven themselves.

And he certainly did not move when your gaze swept the stands searching, perhaps, and passed him by without pause then back at the knight...

And why should you look at Cregan?

He had no place in such pageantry. No part in flower crowns and silken smiles, in knights who stank of rosewater and spoke in verse like singers on a stage. No taste for polished helms or banners stitched by noble ladies with trembling hands. Songs written before supper, hearts offered like coin—it was all foolishness. Southern folly dressed in gold.

He was a bloody Northman.

He wore wool, not lace; he fought to survive, not to win the favour of an annoying princess. All of this, this jousting, this crowning of beauties, this endless parade of flattery and farce, was stupid.

Silly.

Unnecessary.

Utterly idiotic.

Gods, he thought, jaw tight as he watched the crowd fawn over Gwayne and his silver-draped triumph, why does my father always insist on dragging us into this nonsense?

Later that day, just before dusk and the feast, he’d wandered along the riverside—quiet, shaded, far from the noise of feast tents and banners.

Cregan spotted you just past the bend in the river, with a glower on you face and alone, a rare thing.

At first, he thought it must be someone else—some servant girl or highborn cousin wandering off after the day’s madness. But then you turned your head just enough, and that braid of silver hair caught the fading light, and he knew.

The Queen of Love and Beauty, crowned just hours ago by that tool of Gwayne Hightower, now skirts hiked slightly in one hand, barefoot and skulking through river mud like a fisher’s daughter.

Cregan watched from the treeline, arms crossed, one brow ticking ever so slightly upward.

“Careful, Princess,” he drawled, stepping into view, voice low and iron-edged. “The river’s known to pull fools under.”

You flinched—barely, just a twitch in the shoulders, a pause in breath, but enough to satisfy something petty in him. Then you straightened, turning to face him with your chin high and your expression cool as shaded wine.

“Then perhaps it will take us both,” you said, voice light as if you were commenting on the weather. You lifted your silks a touch higher, water trailing from your toes as you stepped back onto the dry grass. “Though I do imagine you’d sink faster.”

Cregan’s mouth twitched, almost but not quite, into a smile. “Mayhaps, though I’ve heard northern blood runs thick. Takes longer to drown.”

You rolled your eyes, sharp as cut glass.

“What’s thick is your skull, Stark,” you said, brushing a strand of wind-tossed hair from your cheek with all the elegance of royalty and the ire of a dragon about to strike. “And if I weren’t presently engaged in something far more important, I’d be more than happy to test that theory.”

Cregan tilted his head, stepping down the bank toward you, boots sinking just slightly into the soft earth.

“Important, is it?” he asked, gaze narrowing. “Must be something dire, to bring the Queen of Love and Beauty sneaking barefoot through river muck like a common poacher."

You lifted your chin, refusing to cede even a sliver of ground. “Some things are worth muddy feet.”

Cregan huffed, low and amused, the sound almost a laugh. “Aye? And what would those be, Princess?”

You scoffed, turning away with a shake of your head, skirts swaying.

“None of your bloody business,” you muttered, bending to the damp earth to pick up a small stone, though it served no purpose but to be flung aside with force, more gesture than action.

He watched you in silence, then his eyes drifted downward.

Near your discarded slipper, half-buried in the soft earth, sat a small, smooth stone, different from the others, lighter, polished. He stepped forward without thinking, nudged it loose with the toe of his boot, then bent at the waist, fingers brushing the mud to lift it.

You saw it and lunged, skirts tangling at your ankles as your hand shot out. “Don’t you—!”

But it was too late. Cregan had already straightened, turning the stone over in his hand. It was smooth and flat, its edges worn gentle by time and water, pale in hue, and vaguely heart-shaped.

He looked at it, then at you, and snorted.

“This?” he said, voice laced with disbelief, the faintest edge of amusement curling beneath. “All this fuss for a pebble?”

Your glare could have withered crops, and lunged again, faster this time, a flash of silk and bare feet through the mud but he was quicker.

Cregan lifted the stone just above her reach, his arm high and out of range with practised ease. You made a sound, a frustrated, breathless huff and swiped at his wrist anyway, though it did little more than ruffle his sleeve.

“You oaf,” you hissed, eyes narrowed as you stepped closer, “give it back.”

He arched a brow, holding the little thing aloft as though weighing its worth.

“You mean this bit of river rock?” he said, voice low, deliberately slow, the stone turning between his fingers.

“It’s not just a rock,” you said, reaching for it again, when he didn’t give it back, you groan in exasperation and shoved him.

He staggered, more surprised than moved. “Gods, woman—”

This time, you were closer—close enough that he caught the scent of lilac and something wilder beneath it. Your hand brushed his forearm as you reached, and his pulse kicked, traitorous and unwanted.

Gods, but you were stubborn.

“It’s mine,” you added, voice quieter now, as if you hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Cregan looked at you then, really looked, the crown of wildflowers from earlier still rested crooked on your head, strands of wind-tangled silver caught in your lashes, mud on your feet, a fury in your eyes.

He should have let you have it... but he didn’t. “What makes it worth all this, then?”

"None of your business," You reached again suddenly, without warning and this time, you came too close.

Your fingers grazed his forearm, and your body leaned into his space, the silken brush of your skirts whispering against his boots, mud and river reeds forgotten entirely. You looked up at him, eyes bright with defiance and something else, something unspoken and sharper than your words had ever been. Cregan froze. The stone was still in his hand, but for a moment he couldn’t remember what it was or why they were even standing here, soaked and half-snarling in the shallows like fools.

The world stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Your brow was furrowed, lips parted slightly from the effort of keeping them still, and your breath fanned lightly against the hollow of his throat. He could feel the heat rising between them, his grip on the stone tightened slightly, the pulse in his wrist betraying the stillness of his face.

His gaze drifted, just slightly, just once, to your plump-looking lips and wonder how would they feel like…

Just for a heartbeat, just long enough to curse himself for thinking that and for glancing at your lips. It wasn’t intentional, but it happened all the same, and when he looked back up, he saw that you had noticed. Your gaze narrowed, your breath hitched just slightly, and something shifted between them, not enough to name, but enough to feel.

But before either of them could move, before anything could slip loose between pride and impulse, there came a sound—a rustle in the nearby brush, too heavy for wind. It was followed by the distant murmur of voices, perhaps a pair of squires or a drunken knight circling back toward the tourney fields. Whatever it was, it broke the moment like a snapped branch underfoot.

They both stepped back at once, as if the river itself had surged between them.

Your were the first to recover, of course. You folded your arms across your chest and lifted your chin high, wrapping yourself back in that princess’s poise as easily as donning a cloak. Your expression was unreadable again, the bare hint of vulnerability vanished like dew in daylight. If your hands trembled slightly at your sleeves, you made no sign of it.

Cregan said nothing, but an unwanted, newfound feeling in his chest had appeared before being squeezed down.

Without a word, and with something far gentler than mockery, he lowered the stone into your waiting palm.

You didn’t close your fingers around it at first. You just stared down at it, quiet and unmoving, the curve of your thumb running slowly across its pale surface, as if trying to memorize its shape by feel alone. The wind pulled at the ends of your hair, the water lapping faintly behind them, but you stood still, as though made of glass.

When you spoke, it was barely above a whisper—just enough for him to hear and no one else. “It was my mother’s.”

Your voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a thread of rawness he hadn’t heard before. It wasn't the stone that was yours, not truly. Not some keepsake passed down from hand to hand, tied with ribbon and laid in a velvet-lined box. But it was yours all the same.

“The Septa told me she would pocket smooth stones and line them up on the windowsill. This is the only one I’ve ever found,” you added after a pause, your gaze still fixed on the stone in your palm,

Cregan didn’t answer right away.

How could he? What was there to say to that? His teasing, the game, the smirks across feast tables—all of it seemed to fall away under the weight of that one truth. That this slip of river stone, smooth and pale and faintly shaped like a heart, was the closest thing you had to a woman you had never known, and would never be able to.

You lifted your chin then, defiant once more, but the fire behind your eyes had shifted—no longer anger, not entirely. “I know it’s foolish, but it’s mine.”

The feeling in his chest deepened—not from guilt, not exactly, but from something like understanding. Not pity, not really, he knew what it meant to carry a legacy one barely remembered, his own lady mother had died when he was young too but at least he had some memories, he knows what is like to hold tight to some sliver of a ghost and pretend it was enough to fill the hollow it left behind.

And looking at you now, barefoot in the mud, hair pulled loose, fingers curled around something that mattered more than anyone else could ever guess…. he felt like a brute.

“It’s not foolish,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

Something had shifted, just slightly but enough that he felt it.

You cleared your throat, a soft and subtle sound that might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but not him.

Then, without another glance, you bent to retrieve your shoes from the mud, slipping them on with practiced ease, one after the other, as if nothing at all had been said. As if you hadn’t nearly tripped into his arms, as if he hadn’t, for half a breath, felt like you were the only thing that still moved beneath the sun.

Your back to him now, chin lifted, voice light as summer wine—but with the bite of frost beneath it. “I hope you get eaten by a bear out here, Stark.”

Cregan exhaled through his nose, slow, steady.

He didn’t offer some sharp retort, didn’t rise to the bait you dangled so expertly with every word, he only stood there, boots planted firm in the riverbank mud, watching as you walked away—head held high, skirts damp, fingers still curled around that gods-damned river stone like it was a relic. A crown not worn on your head, but carried on your spine.

A part of him almost wished the bear would find him—if only to shake this feeling loose from his ribs and put something simpler in its place.

He continued to stare at you from across the great hall, jaw tight, arms folded, doing his best to feign interest in whatever dull accounting Lord Beesbury was droning into his cup. Something about tariffs or barley or Gods knew what else. Cregan hadn’t heard a word in several minutes.

His attention was elsewhere.

You, seated two long tables away, bathed in firelight and surrounded, as always, by eager company. Your laugh rang out again, bright and easy, tossed like a ribbon toward the bloody Prince of Dorne who was speaking with animated hands, eyes fixed on you.

You laughed at something the Dornishman said, tilting your head, fingers brushing your mouth, as if he’d said the cleverest thing ever spoken. The prince, all polished bronze and desert silk, leaned in closer as if your amusement were a prize to be won, as if he were the only man clever enough to earn it.

Cregan, for the life of him, could not fathom what was so godsdamned pleasant about the man.

He truly couldn’t.

The prince had attention wherever he went, nearly as much as you, though not quite. And why? What did he offer, truly? The man was hollow as a polished shell, pretty enough to look at, perhaps, but there was no weight to him. No spine. No depth. Just the glint of arrogance beneath all that cultivated charm, the soft pride of a man too used to being admired and never once questioned.

An empty fool wrapped in silk and ceremony.

And yet, there you stood, letting him speak to you like the two of you were written into some bard’s song, tilting your head, lashes low, smiling like you hadn’t already heard better from half the court.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t waver. He’d seen that smile before. He’d earned it, once or twice when you weren’t sharpening your wits on him like a blade on stone.

If Cregan didn’t know better—if he didn’t know you better—he might have thought the two of you were a match crafted by song and scroll. Both beautiful, both sharp, courtly fire and southern sun, dancing hand-in-hand for the poets to weep over.

But he did know you, or he liked to think so.

Cregan had known you for years now. Not well, perhaps, not in the way soft-tongued courtiers whispered in parlours or lovers spoke of in candlelit poems but long enough to notice things. The details others missed between the blooms of your gowns, the weight of your title, and your lilac eyes.

The way your fingers drummed softly against your goblet when you were bored out of your mind. The way you offered a smile with your lips but not your eyes when you were lying through your teeth. He knew that you bit the inside of your cheek when you were holding back words sharper than the court could bear. How you hated being underestimated, but loathed being fully known even more.

You carried your charm like a blade, sharp, balanced, and always within reach, but there were cracks in the steel. He’d seen them. Once or twice.

He remembered how you twisted your rings when you were restless, seen you braid your hair when you were angry, seen your silence grow colder than any wind north of the Neck when you’d been wounded, though you’d never admit it aloud.

And he wasn’t sure when he started noticing these things. Maybe it was at a feast three summers past, when you’d laughed at a jest just a moment too late or at someone's name day years before that, and Cregan, despite it all, had watched, not always willingly, but often enough.

And the prince, for all his polish and poetry, didn’t know it.

Would never know it.

He wouldn’t know what to do with you—not truly. Not when your temper burned hot as dragonflame, fierce and sudden and near-impossible to smother. Not when your silences stretched long and deep, the kind that could drown a man more thoroughly than any tide. Not when your words, always sweet, always measured, carried blades tucked neatly beneath the honey, sharper than most steel.

No, this—this performance was court-born. A game, a dance for the galleries and the ladies perched high above with lace fans and narrowed eyes. Cregan saw that plainly, saw you.

And he knew that the true heart of you was something rarer. Sharper, more complicated, a thing with teeth and grace and an obstinate will. Proud, yes, far too proud for your own good, but not cruel, not false. There was a goodness in you, buried somewhere beneath the silks and smirks and carefully arranged smiles.

And that part, the part the prince would never think to look for, would never sit neatly in the arms of a man like him. A prince of warm coasts and easy charm. You’d twist too sharp, you’d bend too little, you’d outpace him before the first frost.

The match was beautiful, there was no denying it, striking in the way painted things often were —lovely to behold, to admire, to sight at, but utterly hollow in the holding.

You needed someone who could match your fire, truly match it.

Not just bask in its warmth, not tame it or twist it into something quieter or fold beneath it in worship. Not a soft-mouthed poet who called it beautiful and stepped back when it roared too loud.

No, you needed someone who could burn with you and not falter. Someone who wouldn’t look away when the heat rose, who wouldn’t crumble when your pride flared sharp and your words came like knives, someone who wouldn’t mistake your fury for madness or your silence for softness.

You needed someone who could take the scorch and keep standing, someone who would not try to possess or tame or twist you into something smaller, prettier, easier to carry.

You would gnaw through those leashes before you ever bowed your head.

Not... that it was his place to think any of this. He reminded himself of that as he downed the last of his wine in one long pull, the taste sharp and heavy on his tongue. His gaze remained fixed across the hall, watching as your laughter curled around the prince’s shoulders like smoke.

He told himself it didn’t matter, that you would not be his to consider, not his to dwell upon, not his to study like some half-read book he couldn’t put down.

And the gods knew he’d tried.

Cregan Stark was not a man given to folly, he didn’t chase after courtly fancies or whisper dreams into goblets like the soft-mouthed knights from the Reach or the north. He kept his thoughts where they belonged—silent, steady, guarded.

But this one? You?

You had a way of turning everything he knew sideways. Always had. Gods, he hated it—how easily you unsettled things, how quickly you slipped beneath his skin. He hated how you made the world tilt ever so slightly, just enough to feel it.

And damn it all, he hated how easy it had become to see you, Even when he didn’t want to.... Especially when he didn’t mean to.

These thoughts refused to be kept. They did not listen to reason, or discipline, or the cold logic the North had bred into his bones. They pushed past all of it, quiet and insistent.

He would never speak them aloud, not to himself, not to anyone else, not even in prayer beneath the heart tree—where he had laid darker things before, heavier griefs, deeper oaths.

But still, the thought of you curled at the edges of his mind like smoke from a fire he couldn’t remember starting and with each breath, it burned a little deeper.

A/N:

Hellooooooooo!!!?????

How are you all doing? How is lifee? Hope all is well and happy!!

I just want to say that one of my favourite tropes in literature has been and will always be the ' they fell first and harder', honestly, I think this is the only way a relationship could work, either irl or fiction. The LI has to be a little obsessed with the reader since the start or like them more than the reader likes them, and I'm only human so...

They are getting to the age of marriage, so probably for the next part, it will be dedicated to that.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

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[whereserpentswalk]

Reblog so that the creature will come to you. Like to enhance their power.

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

This fandom is actually so horrible when it comes to the multiple abuse victims in the series, because most of them are viscerally hated by the fandom for really stupid shit.

Winter is constantly labeled as a toxic abuser and like. I can understand not liking how he treated Moon, or any of the jade winglet in early arc 2 for that matter. What I do not understand is people ignoring that he is actively bettering himself just so they can keep hating him, or even just ignoring why he's like that to begin with. He's not mean because he likes being a jackass, he's mean because he's been taught that showing any care for other dragons, ESPECIALLY dragons of other tribes, is considered weak. It's something he has been trying to fix, but people would rather just keep calling him an abuser than acknowledge he is changing

Peril gets called an insane psychopath who doesn't deserve love which, first of all that's GOTTA be some form of ableism. Second of all, no fucking shit she is the way she is, the dragon who raised her manipulated her to believe she's a monster who will never be loved by other dragons. No fucking shit she got attached to the one dragon her age that showed her kindness, she thought that wasn't possible!! Also another case of the fandom chooses to ignore her healing just so they have a reason to keep hating her. "She's toxic and obsessed with Clay!!" It literally says in the god damn book she's so used to having a dragon to control her, and she is actively trying to stamp that habit out, why do we keep ignoring this

Boa is by far the worst victim of this because the fandom treats like scum of the earth not because of who she is, but because of one fucking decision she made. A decision she made in a state of panic. A decision she made because fuck, why SHOULD dragons have such power that can be used for evil so easily? Boa's entire EXISTENCE is an example of a dragon misusing their magic, why are we surprised she thinks the world is better off without it? She's not a bitch who thinks she knows better than everyone else, she's a terrified abuse victim who genuinely believed animus magic would bring the destruction of dragonkind. And look. I get the decision to remove animus magic was a stupid one. But can we please just acknowledge Tui was the one who made that stupid decision instead of pretending Boa is this awful person and the worst character in the series. Because she isn't. She's not an asshole. She's not a bitch. She made one bad decision and the fandom acts like she's satan incarnate

Im sure there may be more examples, these are just the biggest that come to mind

.

[multiandmany]

Clay Bailey (Canon)

Fandom: Xiaolin Showdown

Name: Clay Bailey Age: 16 Species: Human Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Height: 6'1" Weight: ??? Abilities: Earth Manipulation*, First Aid Skills, Cooking/Baking Skills, High Food Tolerance*, Superhuman Strength, Martial art skills, Seismic Kick Earth, Elemental Combination (using the Fist of Tebigong), Dragon X-Kumei Formation (with the other dragons) *Comes with the elemental martial arts attacks as well as being able to use her element outside of that. (Basically covers the whole elemental powers outside of the named list.) *AKA Iron stomach, meaning he can eat things that would make others sick, this does have its limits

Clay's southern upbringing causes some confusion among the dragons and monks, but his actions clear things up well when it comes time for them. He's physically strong and uses his side to his advantage in battle. His strength comes in handy for every day tasks too. Raimundo keeps trying to swap chores with various degrees of success!

While at times taken as slow and dense, him being quiet is not a sign of weakness, its him thinking and working through what's going on. Him being of few words means he's for the most part keeping up with everything. There are times things confuse him when it comes to magic though, as where he comes from, magic is not common at all aside from the spare magic show put on for kids.

When it comes to reliable, its Clay you look to, if he says he'll do something he'll do it, if he doesn't then something really important got in the way or something happened to him. Or the world is ending and you should run for cover cause he's fighting for the planet.

Out of all of the dragons, he's the best cook and the best at first aid. Things he was taught at home have come in handy at the temple. He can also fix certain things mechanically but only if its heavy machinery. Leave the tiny tech to Kimiko.

Due to growing up on a ranch, he has some veterinary experience as well. He can handle and take care of multiple kinds of animals, both wild and domestic. He can ride horses and tack them. His lasso skills are second to none and he uses them all the time while in battle and other times too, like keeping Omi out of trouble.

His monk outfit is above.

His casual outfit is above.

——————————-

Mythic Showdown AU || (X)

The last of the dragons in training to find out what myth he is, Clay was surprised to find out that he was. You'd think he'd notice more signs coming from a cattle ranch but he didn't until right up at the turning point.

It takes him the longest out of them to get use to being a mythic because while the others are full creature myths, his myth is part human. It's a learning curb. It is also likely why it took him so long to notice. His ears shift out more than often, like when he's embarrassed.

He's 6'7" in this form. He still has freckles too!

[balek-noname]

Damien enter the DIY world(he will probably grow up to be a bobo)

Ok cutest thing, as we all know damian draw and read mangas ect. But I'll put you something better on the table.

I think the artsy teen that he is would enter in a DIY and tag phase (maybe not a phase after all i nevers left mine, its called growing poor).

In what i know of Ra's is that his attread of humanity come from it's destructive tendencies on earth, deforestation, mass extinction of spicies ect. And i do like to think that damian veganisme and love of animals started there but also it would be in that context logic for him to be ecologically conscious and that why he could maybe try DIY ,mending and stuff like that. From there he would grow an habit of mending/offering his friend and family stuff like pins,patches that he would had made himself or probably customize his family stuff .

List of what he would have done as an example:

-Make patches for Jason clothes, exemple when he made a hole in his favorite hoodie, damian gave him a patch with a kind of cartoony oldtimy bomb (you know the round one like in the looneytoons) drawn on it. I like to think he got the sewing part from him.

-For Alfred and Barbara he made pins with charms he found and gave them when he felt expecially thankful.

-Made patches of Jon’s favorite shows so he could put them on his backbag when Jon wasn’t looking.

-Dick made a stain (dont ask of what,probably ketchup)on his shirt one day and damian drew over it when the stain wouldn't leave(dick would know how to but he kind of wanted something made by his lil bro), probably a really stylise and majestic tiger with lotus flowers.

-Tim. He used glue to salvage the handle of his mug, but hey its glittery glue.

-He made a sticker for duke helmet when he made a dent on it during a outing on his motorcycle. Something like a sun with sunglasses and a helmet (because he apparently need a redo on driving safety ) or he painted a dragon over it (dont know why i just like it,maybe the merlin fan in me talking)

-On cass adoption anniversary he gifted her a necklace, a mix of pearls and jewel(that he may or may not have stolen from a old jewelry box in the manor attics ) each jewel being of different colors supposed to represent a member of the family and a charm of ballerina shoes.

-Steph would have asked him to customize her computer case for her ,which he firstly refuse to do because"i have better things to do" ,but it didn't stop said computer to disappear and be found on the kitchen counter the next morning covered with stickers, drawings and photos. She came back asking for him to do her phone case next.

-During patrol after finishing to report events to batwoman , he left a bracelet (probably leather band with spikes )behind him right were he was before sneaking off when she looked away(she let him do on purpose )

-Gifted Catwoman a cat keychain made of clay so she wouldn’t interfere during a mission. She took it.

-On the day of martha and thomas death, bruce woke up to find on his bed a big and bulky book ,when opened it reveal a family album scrapbook style.

I do think he would be shy about it as it is sometimes less polished and shabby compared to what they technically could have but he fell extremely proud when he see his family wearing or using what he made with joy until they brake once again.

(Sorry if there is misspelling or typos)

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

In the alternate timeline, do you think Omi still grew up thinking he was the only chosen dragon until Master Fung decided he was "ready" to be told the truth? Or did good Chase tell Omi sooner?

You know the story!

Good Chase seemed like he was pretty open with Omi in general, to the point where he was concerned about Omi not knowing about his past because Chase had told him freely already.

Please freshen up my memory!

After Hannibal Bean failed to deliver me to the Heylin side, he turned to Master Monk Guan...

And Chase is willing to retell Omi the stories any time Omi asks.

So Chase definitely kept fewer secrets over Omi's head than Master Fung does in the main timeline.

There were probably disagreements between Master Fung and Chase over the fact that Master Fung probably still wanted to let Omi grow up believing a misunderstanding.

But I am the chosen one.

You aren’t the only chosen one, Omi. Someday your new friends may become Dragons, as well. Kimiko, the Dragon of Fire. Clay, the Dragon of Earth. And Raimundo, the Dragon of the Wind.

Is this true, master?

Yes, but I didn’t want to tell you until you were ready.

Master Fung seemed adamant about refusing to tell Omi that other chosen dragons existed. Lying by omission to Omi for his early childhood and leaving Omi to feel even more isolated as "the chosen one" was an active choice Master Fung made. And Master Fung stood by that choice in the very first episode.

But good Chase probably just went behind Master Fung's back and told Omi anyway in the alternate timeline. That's probably how a lot of things went between the three of them.

Especially if Chase himself was a dragon alongside Dashi and Guan. Good Chase in the alternate timeline has told Omi a lot about his past and his old friendship with Guan and Dashi, so it would have come up as part of that.

[electronickingdomfox]

The Kobayashi Alternative (or the 1000 deaths of James T. Kirk)

Finished this game (a text adventure) recently, and oh God, what a glorious mess it was!

The frame story (which only appears in the manual, by the way) places you as a Starfleet Academy cadet, playing a simulation of one of Kirk's famous missions, as a sort of alternative to the infamous Kobayashi Maru test (hence the title). But the actual game revolves around Kirk's mission, trying to find Sulu, who has disappeared in the Trianguli sector. And you're given complete freedom to explore the area and planets in whatever order you choose, and to mess the game in whatever way you want.

And that's my main point of interest here. I've witnessed so, SO many deaths for poor Kirk, because of my ill-advised decisions... Falling into craters, being run over by lava from a (not-so-extinct) volcano, sinking in quicksand, being eaten by a dragon, falling into a moat (and then being eaten), beaming down to a planet with a temperature of -250° in just my uniform (because why not?), or the more gruesome version of beaming down to a no-atmosphere planet without a spacesuit. It's also possible to return to Earth without finishing the mission, just like that, which gets you court-martialed. Or beam down some unsuspecting redshirt to a dangerous area, and to his unavoidable death (which here causes a Game-Over, very much unlike the series). Want to swear at someone until the crew arrests you for bad conduct? Check. *For the record, these are the swear words I found to work: bitch, bastard, suck, c*ck, f*ck, ass (use them in any combination you see fit). There's also many crazy things to do, which don't necessarily lead to a game over. Leave poor Scotty stranded on a planet and depart without him (good luck when you need something from Engineering). Or make Spock mindmeld with clay. Or tell McCoy to enter Spock's quarters, and just leave him there for the rest of the game. There's a planet with aliens that are offended by clothes and will put you in jail for wearing them (well, this is inaccurate, because James Tits-Out Kirk would definitely beam down naked, if it would help the mission... and make sure to video-call Spock right before doing so).

Anyway, despite being a primitive game from 1985, I'm impressed by the sheer amount of possibilities and open-ended options in this game. The graphic adventures from the 90's (25th Anniversary, and specially Judgement Rites) are much, much better games overall. But I wanted to talk a bit about these, more obscure text adventures.

If anyone's interested in playing them, I've found the best way is through this custom installer here, which includes all three adventures: https://collectionchamber.blogspot.com/p/star-trek-first-contact.html It automatically runs the games through an emulator for modern systems, and has the last version of Kobayashi Alternative (which is very important, since previous versions were buggy as hell). First Contact uses the same engine of Kobayashi, but since it's a much linear and smaller game, it's obvious a lot of options go un-used. The Promethean Prophecy is a more traditional text adventure. It has some ingenious puzzles, but I found its typical plot of "go there and collect gems" less Trek-like.

[silentkimiya]

Just because I absolutely love the atmosphere of these shots <3

[thebrisingamen]

Xiaolin Showdown and Journey to the West

not sure if this was intentional but I noticed something upon a rewatch. It’s very clear to me that the main four male leads (Jack, Omi, Clay and Raimundo) are expy’s of the characters in Journey to the West (Sun Wukong, Tang Sanzang, Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing).

Jack Spicer as Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, Great Sage Equal To Heaven

-Jack’s preferred Shen Gong Wu is the Monkey Staff, which parallels Sun Wukong’s own Staff. At one point Jack becomes the leader of a group of Green Monkeys, paralleling the Monkey Kings own title for an episode

-Jack’s secondary most used Shen Gong Wu is the Changing Chopsticks to change his shape, which is another feat the Monkey king is known for

-Mirroring the Transformations in the form of the Chameleon Bot and making Duplicates of himself i the form of Robo-Jack.

-“childlike playfulness and often goofy impulsiveness is in contrast to his cunning mind.” Jack is often dismissed by others, including the Heylin, despite being incredibly disruptive to their plans when they cast him aside. Case in Point; if it wasn’t for Jack’s actions at end of Season 1, they wouldn’t have stopped Wuya. He even had a way to go back in time before the Sands of Time were revealed

-First Episode with Chameleon Bot; he uses it to replace Kimiko, knowing the others will dismiss her on the basis of her being a girl and takes nearly all their Shen Gong Wu while he’s at it

-Episode 12, we already see Jack compiling a spreadsheet to track the Shen Gong Wu that have awakened, and if Wuya hadn’t been so hellbent on the Heart of Jong, this could have had benefit to her. Also Wuya wouldn’t have been able to build Mala Mala Jong WITHOUT Jack having all the necessary Shen Gong Wu in the first place.

-Even when he becomes Good Jack, Jack’s solution in the Ying-Yang World is to split himself in two and use a double to distract the chi beast, which again, if he wasn’t good and hadn’t gone in there in the first place, wouldn’t have restored the Dragons’ Chi

-While he is goofy and clearly cares about his Robots, you’d think Wuya and Chase would realize Jack is an actual threat, but that ties back into the Monkey King story. The ‘Gods’ give him the lowliest position in heaven to ‘keep an eye on him’ and he resents this.

-While a less competent fighter in the show, it does take Omi having to create a time paradox to stop Jack from taking over the world.

Omi as Tang Sanzang

-Omi’s Element is Water, and Tang was found in a River

-While more competent in the show, Omi is also an orphan and shown to be the most devoted of the monks/dragons in training. He is also the one that most believes in redemption, especially for Jack Spicer

-He is also supposed to be the one spreading wisdom and helping his disciples, which he does with a majority of them

Clay as Sha Wujing AKA Sandy

-Clay’s element is earth, tying in with Sha Wujing’s element. -Clay is primarily a more peaceful character who is large, logical and polite, so this can make him a bit less interesting than the other three.

Raimundo as Zhu Bajie AKA Pigsy

-Ladies’ Man/Skirt Chaser; Raimundo is shown several times to be susceptible to attractive women.

-Lazy and often doesn’t want to do work; Raimundo’s main complaint has been the amount of work needed at the temple.

-While helpful, can be selfish—as shown near the end of the first season. He is ultimately good, but often gives in to his own personal desires until he grows as a person.

While I think Metal Dragon AU is fitting for Jack, I'm also accepting the headcanon that he might be a descendant of Sun Wukong lol.

Just a fun little thing I noticed

[talonabraxas]

"Though Zeus reigns over the Fourth Race, it is Poseidon who rules." ~The Secret Doctrine Neptune Talon Abraxas As Poseidon, Neptune was the spirit and titanic strength of the living race of Atlanteans. Plato tells of a division he made of Atlantis and of how, on one of the islands, he found a human couple made of clay (the first physical humans), through whom he begot Atlas. Like Vishnu Narayana or Idaspati of the Hindu myths, Poseidon crossed the horizon in three steps, giving his name to the third, which was the last island of Atlantis, and leaving behind him as Rama the mysterious legacy of Lanka. In his involvement with the world, he brought his trident with its "three teeth" from which the fangs of lightning exploded, connecting fire and water, heaven and earth. Like the caduceus, the trident bears down through the astral the serpentine waves of Divine Motion and then draws them up in its central rod, where the lightning virility of Mind spills over in its lower aspects into the liquid fertility of the sea. Thus, the astral deep over which Poseidon reigns is filled with nereids, tritons, oceanids and mermaids. Out of this brew Nature sculpted the human form and Poseidon sent the beautiful bull which the Minoan queen Pasiphae fell unnaturally in love with, to produce the Minotaur, a symbol of physical procreation, at the cost of the surrender of the spiritual powers of human intellection. The outer prongs of the trident resemble the bull's horns, the lunar ploughshares of ritual sacrifice. The central prong is the linga, the seed-bearing link between the creative forces of the divine and the human. When it rises from the astral sea, the seed of generation is transmuted into the creative powers of the becalmed mind. Knowledge of this vast potential enabled the Atlanteans not only to rule the earthly sea but also to control and direct many of the awesome powers inherent in its astral prototype. The horrendous abuse of these creative gifts resulted in the appalling karma passed down through successive generations of humanity from the Fourth to the Fifth Root Race.

The legacy of Poseidon is indeed shadowy, suggesting to the mind lurking, watery forms signifying the trials and errors of Nature and the progeny of the unnatural abuse of creative powers. In the popular myths of the classical Mediterranean world, he was most commonly known for his licentious escapades, his moody imperiousness and his unpredictably imposing strength. But he was also closely associated with the dolphin, who, as Makara the Dragon, hovers upon the ocean and is intimately involved in the birth of the spiritual microcosm. All the wavy serpentine paths of the astral light, the Milky Way, the path of the sun to the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, as well as the circles of the sidereal year, are woven by this dragon, who is both the vahan or vehicle of Poseidon and one with him esoterically.

The legacy of Poseidon is indeed shadowy, suggesting to the mind lurking, watery forms signifying the trials and errors of Nature and the progeny of the unnatural abuse of creative powers. In the popular myths of the classical Mediterranean world, he was most commonly known for his licentious escapades, his moody imperiousness and his unpredictably imposing strength. But he was also closely associated with the dolphin, who, as Makara the Dragon, hovers upon the ocean and is intimately involved in the birth of the spiritual microcosm. All the wavy serpentine paths of the astral light, the Milky Way, the path of the sun to the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, as well as the circles of the sidereal year, are woven by this dragon, who is both the vahan or vehicle of Poseidon and one with him esoterically.

Makara is identified with the five Kumaras, who are the fivefold Dhyan Chohans possessing the soul of the five elements in their natures, with water and etheric fire predominating. They plunge into the depths for their ecstatic devotions, remaining there while Poseidon or Krishna Avatar hovers above. Thus, the water over which he floats is a mirror of the mind, a Kumaric matrix in which the triune spark of spiritual consciousness takes birth. It is filled with potency, only waiting for the stroke of his magical trident to come to life in intelligent form. The world's oceans perfectly reflect this truth as they lie charged with extraterrestrial energy flowing into them from outer space, non-polluting, inexhaustible and free. The energy of the sun warms them, propels their waves, and works through the gravity field of the moon to create the tidal system, the weather, the seasons, and all the terrene cycles which permit continuous growth. They present to man on the physical plane a microcosm of a vaster cosmic ocean, wherein the energy of Fohat is stored and the potential for life-forms gathers in etheric shoals of archetypal possibility.

At this juncture one can see a distinct overlap with the symbols and functions ascribed to Uranus. Indeed, Varuna, whose name can be found transposed as Uranus, is said to have been the progenitor of the Poseidon/Neptune of earthly myth. By confining his children in the womb of primordial matter, Uranus personifies the unmanifest creative powers of, and in, Chaos. But in the Iliad it is the Ocean, the Illimitable Spirit in Chaos, which, together with primordial matter (his spouse Tethys), gave to all things, creatures and gods their very being. And it is out of his Immeasurable Space that Neptune arises with his trident bearing the Fohatic spark of Eros. One can see that, while Uranus signifies the ideal purity of the unmanifest, Neptune reaches beyond him from above, as it were, transmitting the Desire which first arose in It in a series of triadic lightning charges on descending levels of manifestation. A spiritual and psychological planetary progression which began with the outermost planet would then find Neptune to be, in one sense, closer to the One Source of Life and, in another sense, more deeply involved in its more differentiated levels of expression than Uranus. Much of the symbolism associated with Neptune connects him strongly to Vishnu Narayana and Krishna, but one sees in this a marked resemblance also to Mahashiva,* the Mahayogin who bears a trident and dips deeply into the world before rising out of it. This evocative allusion is enormously strengthened by the identification of Neptune with Makara and the birth of the spiritual 'microcosm'. For this birth entails a death or dissolution of the phenomenal universe as it passes into the noumenal realm of the spiritual.