#I kept the same core colours for the background but changed their ‘form’ each time you could say

[thetwilightroadtonightfall]

okay they deserve their own post (that isn’t a meme) 🩵🩷💚🧡

(from the Overmorrow series)

[milkygcf]

All the King’s horses, all the King’s men

Pairing | myg x reader

Genre | Mystery, thriller, angst, slowburn, e2l, Gang Leader!reader, Detective!yoongi

Warnings | Graphic scenes, use of alcohol, use of drugs, gang violence, explicit language, slightly sexual scenes, social issues, major character death.

Summary | ❝ Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall- Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. Even with all the King’s horses and all the King’s men, Humpty could not be put back together again. ❞

or

❝ An ambitious man caught in thorns, drowning in the delicacy of what the world truly is - a whirlpool of chaos and terror. There, he finds his bitter downfall. ❞

Word Count | 3.1k

Author’s Note | Hello! I wanted to make a quick note about this oneshot before it actually starts. Firstly, I’d like to advise whoever’s reading this that this is just a summary of the actual fic which I will be releasing - however, I have not finalised a date. Secondly, it’s a tad bit rushed and messy and I apologise if it does not reach standards. Due to my personal life, I found that it was quite difficult to find the time to write as much <3 

To end everything, I would like to thank @ficswithluv​ for welcoming me into this wonderful project! I hope you enjoy reading <3

The delicate stomping of your feet upon the gravel startles the ravens sitting by. You stop in front of a familiar tombstone, your infamous surname nicely engraved in a fancy font. Before it lay a multitude of flowers, all speedwells as to symbolise loyalty towards the man buried six feet under. It's Valentine's day, and unlike the ravishing hues of blues and purples, you had bought roses to celebrate the event. If anything, you were always the odd one out when on with your business.

You set a few speedwells down, politely placing them into one of the empty jars left out beside the other swarm. It's overwhelming, the very site of your father's name placed in such a lowly place, finally resting beside your mother. It's overwhelming how in only a small amount of time, events took a wicked turn and brought along unnecessary chaos.

You face the neighbouring slate of stone set on the right side of your family's. This one's much duller and greatly lacking in vibrancy, attention. It brings a frown to your features. It's lonely, devoid of any proper affection that one needs in order to stay remembered.

Yet, even though it's desolate, it makes you reminisce. The sight of it doesn't bring you grief - neither does it bring you melancholy. Instead, it fills your train of thought with old memories that you either want to cherish or banish completely. Where forever was once a long time, it’s now a memory. Where pinky promises were depicted as something precious, you now notice that they were nothing but white lies to conceal the truth.

You’d learned this the hard way.

It’s truly surprising how so much can happen in the span of a year, how so many things are able to change and leave dead skin behind. The world is a delicacy of chaos and terror. Time offers only to take. It’s an ancient form of evil and you’ve grown to despise it for it works.

Now you’re left empty, shattered and dull. No longer do you symbolise the purity of a child whose eyes shimmered with innocence, with colour. When you thought you had already grown, you put yourself through trauma. And with a series of unfortunate events, you’ve finally, truly come to understand the world for what it truly is.

Beside you, a wounded soul whom you haven’t seen in such a long time laces his fingers with yours. He draws soothing circles into your skin and you finally breathe. Through thick and thin, you find yourselves here, together, breathing.

Maybe, there is hope for blemished souls like yours.

You met the unusual man at a bar. Although back then, you had no idea what really lied underneath the thick layer of skin that he dawned. The bartender had offered the both of you drinks, pointing out how utterly exhausted the two of you looked. That sparked up small talk – simple, small talk.

Until you were both sharing breaths in a bathroom stall, holding onto each other almost as if your lives depended on it. Every touch of his that settled on your skin burned, the pieces of fabric that your body dawned felt way too heavy. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, teeth biting down on his lip. His hands were on your hips, pulling you closer and closer onto his body until the warmth that was radiating off him made both of you break out.

Both your minds were hazy, your mouths tasted like a mixture of vodka and whiskey. It left a bitter feeling on your tongues. You were so lost in the feeling, the warmth that spread through you and shut out all your concerns.

His hands were playing with the zipper of your dress, fumbling hastily as to waste no time. It was almost funny how men could get so impatient. You were both speaking in tongues, merely pulling back to catch your breaths. His left leg was pushed right against your core making you more sensitive than your own good. You were grinding down on him, moans tumbling out of your mouth as they were muffled into the kiss.

Maybe it was just a moment’s talk, but even though you were barely doing anything, the feeling was euphoric.

He was trailing wet kisses down your neck, giving you the chance to finally catch your breath. Your skin was bruising, your core was pooling, and you were losing sense of reality. His hands were running all over you, making you feel something much greater than pleasure from a simple touch.

It all came to a stop at the sound of his phone ringing aggressively in his pockets, leaving you huffing out in annoyance. He didn’t just leave it and continue with his business; he fished the phone out of his pocket and stormed out of the stall while fixing himself up. There was no “excuse me,” or “I really have to take this.” He just stormed out of the room as if nothing was going on. It left you livid.

Park Jimin, your right-hand man, had to pick you up that night – helped you with your frustrations and worries, held you until you slept and didn’t wake up until dawn.

You were glad to think that you wouldn’t ever see him again, just a one-time failed fling in a population full of many. But your career begged to differ, as about a month or so after, he turned up to a meeting you held, custom-made for new recruits. Never will you forget the surprise on his face, when he found out that you were, indeed, the leader of the cartel. You, a normal woman at the bar, drinking her sorrows away in hopes they’d simmer and give her peace.

Although, you’d like to think there was something else beneath that surprise.

“A woman, as the leader of the sickest cartels in all South Korea?” One of the recruits spoke, a bitter tone hanging on his tongue. “How the fuck is it supposed to stay put?”

It was true that you had no idea how things were supposed to go in the industry – your father never really let you merge yourself with his world. But now, your father lay in a casket six feet under after being found dead in a ditch. You couldn’t really put it in a simpler way, but the only thing you could really say is you refuse to recreate an old nursery rhyme your mother used to tell you when you were just a toddler.

Nothing will stop you from reigning and getting back at whoever slaughtered your plans. You weren’t ready to tolerate anything in your way.

Hence why you didn’t hesitate to make Jimin shoot a bullet through his head, even if it terrified you just the slightest bit. But that was a different story.

Of course, it was no surprise. Women were still thought to be such fragile beings, not being able to handle anything. Once you stepped on top for the throne, you refused to let that put you down. “If any of you dimwits even so much as think about saying stupid shit like that again, I won’t hesitate to decapitate you.”

Jimin always kept his word. Because for the next year or so, whoever even uttered a single word about your command in the cartel faced death. You were never there to see it – Seokjin and Jimin made sure you knew everything that occurred, though.

On the other hand, there was that man you met at the bar. If it was possible, he would’ve disintegrated under your gaze. The dislike you had towards him was surely something grand, and to glitter it up a bit, he seemed to share the same feelings towards you too. Of course, in your defense, he had no reason to.

You weren’t the one who ditched in the middle of a make-out session.

Min Yoongi – he was something. A no one, but something, nonetheless. Ever since you saw him lined up with the other recruits, you’ve had your eye on him. As dumb as he acted, the man was cunning. Just what the cartel needed. Despite acting scared, like everything is all new, you felt as if it was nothing to him – almost as if it was all just a mask to conceal his true intentions. Although, you had no proof to this, so you let these accusations simmer.

His tale was cliché. He needed money but he didn’t have the qualifications to get a job. So, he joined the mafia, a very dirty place to get what you want. You ran background checks on him, just in case, and you found nothing of danger to all of you.

With a few weeks of training, Yoongi was fully accepted into the group and was one of Seokjin’s right-hand men.  

Passing by him in corridors, sitting in the same room with him, even hearing his name made your blood boil. It was unexplainable, but the feeling was mutual. Back then, if he disliked you, then it would only be fair if you disliked him as well. 

The tension was incredibly thick between you two, much that it left others uncomfortable whenever you were in each other’s presence. It was unbearable.

There was this incident once – you remember it like the back of your hand.

Seokjin had sent him to your office to deliver the newest packages that would determine how briskly your newest job was going to go. Despite begging the elder to send someone else as to avoid the awkward tension, the man refused.

The next morning, the raven-haired man was waiting by your door, box in hand. It took you a minute or so of plainly staring at him, observing the way his fingers twitch on the item, the way his eyes squint at you almost as if you were going to swallow him whole. It was quiet. No one said a word until you both entered your office.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again, as a fucking mafia leader.” he said.

“Ta mère ne t'a jamais dit de ne pas faire confiance aux étrangers?” you responded fluently, the accent rolling down your tongue briskly. Yoongi had no clue what you said, hence why you huffed and translated for him.

“I’m pretty sure your mother has warned you about strangers at least once in her life, no?” Your tone was calm, soft and delicate.

“She has. I didn’t think it’d happen with you though.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and rested against your desk. “Oh? I apologise then, even though I don’t recall being the one who’s acting arrogant.” As someone below you, he had to show decency, or he’d be thrown out with the dogs. “Arrogant?” he snarled lowly, plummeting down on one of the cushioned chairs placed in front of your mahogany desk. “You’re the one who’s been acting like a bitch all this time.”

“Best watch your tongue before I throw you out,”

“Do it then.”

He was faced with a gun to his head. You glared; finger firmly set on the trigger as you stared directly at him. No way were you going to let him get away with such a disrespectful attitude. He didn’t flinch, neither did he blink. He just stared back at you, slowly shoving his hands in the pockets of his tattered jacket.

“Don’t test me, Min.”

“You wouldn’t do it.”

Once those words tumbled out of his lips, you stiffened. Of course, you’d do it, why wouldn’t you?

“You put on a strong, independent persona but you can barely manage yourself.”

His words are what water is to fire. How dare he talk to you like that? Had he no fucking decency? Did he really want a bullet to pierce his skin in order to start seeing some sense?

“I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Oh, I think you do. That’s you, isn’t it?” His head bobbed towards the painting behind you – the Ses Peines Pleurant Es, a painting your mother had created back in her days. It depicted the both of you against the world, against the pure wickedness you were forced to grow up in. There’s darkness, but in contrast to it, there’s you as a new-born dawned in white.

“What makes you think that?”

The metal felt cold against his skin and Yoongi couldn’t help but shiver. “That painting’s been missing for years, and now that it’s here, it has to be yours.” he spoke calmly, “And frankly, I don’t think I’ve seen someone wear that much white before.”

You looked down at your clothes, all white with no signs of any other hue. It was crazy, truly, but you don’t remember wearing any other colour growing up. Your mother always dressed you up in just white, telling you that you look best in it. You just never really took mind to the resemblance your fashion sense had with the painting.

“Must be a coincidence,” you hummed, lowering the gun down to his chest. “For which I think is none of your business.”

Yoongi only hummed in response. There was a strict silence between the two of you then, before you sent him back to whatever duties Seokjin set on his shoulders. That was one of the encounters you had before things started taking a slight twist.

An infiltration in the Children’s Medical Clinic of Seoul, where one of the doctors was the main leads to what exactly brought your father’s downfall. You remember how ruthless Yoongi was that day, mercilessly shooting at the man without hesitation, without sparing a single breath. It was crazy, hell, it was mad, but you enjoyed it. That only meant strength to the cartel, and that’s exactly what you wanted.

Although, you won’t ever forget the pained screams of children roaring in panic, the sudden stiffness in Min when the man dropped dead and painted the bleached tiles red.

From then on, the hate you harboured towards each other started to simmer. Seokjin and Jimin had noticed this when Yoongi started becoming more obedient, less cocky with the way he formed his words.

To you, this was relief.

But then things started to advance, the two of you started getting closer and before you knew it, you were having affairs late at night. When everyone else was at their respective homes, you were under silken sheets, legs entangled with Yoongi’s. You’d play with his soft locks as he told you his deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tell you his fears, what he’s always wanted to become ever since he was a toddler.

And you’d listen. You’d listen intently until both of you fell asleep, and you’d rake your brain until you unraveled what all the information you ate up meant.

Jimin started getting suspicions – he found pills in Yoongi’s house. There was no labelling on them, and you didn’t think asking him would somehow enlighten the situation. To make it far more interesting, later you found a multitude of phone numbers scribbled on a piece of paper in his pockets.

Yoongi started becoming strange.

He’d tell you things you were skeptical of, he’d do things you deemed abnormal. And then, he started telling you how someone was out to get you, and how one day he would be famous, people would talk about him wherever he passed by.

You’ve known Yoongi for a year – enough to tell that he was not the man he was before. He wasn’t so mental, he wasn’t a paranoid freak, neither was he so ambitious. Yoongi was just a normal man who needed something to do.

But then, he started talking in his sleep. Words tumbling out of his mouth one by one, telling you who he truly was, the man behind the façade he’d been showing you every day.  Jimin was never one to lie.

There was someone out to get you and it was him. He’d been a wolf in sheep’s clothing, getting closer to you in order to gain information to bring your very downfall. He revealed every little plan, every hidden camera scattered across the base, all managed by none other than the police department.

Humpty Dumpty had the King’s men to aid him, piece him back up and help him up the wall. But you, you had no one.

The man who had shown you what white truly meant, what innocence and happiness felt like, what being normal truly tasted of. Your first and your last love. Min Yoongi, the man who wrapped his hands around your heart and took advantage of what was bare.

Perhaps that was why your mother always teased you about being careful when dealing with boys.

You reminisce how it all went down on Valentine’s Day. How the waves hugged the shore lovingly, being complimented nicely by the dim light of the moon dawning on your silhouettes hand in hand. He felt cold. Yoongi felt distant.

A sweet, passionate kiss was shared that night. It filled you with false hope, chills. It painted a faulty picture in your head of what could have been but hadn’t been. That night, you held him close and held him dearly.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Your toes curled in the damp particles of the sand. Your fingers fell limp. “I love you most,” You muttered back, your lips trailing faint kisses across his neck. When you pulled back, you observed him. Yoongi had never looked so vulnerable in all the times you’ve faced him. Although, even if he was torn, in that very moment to you he was beautiful.

You remember the screeching of birds once you pulled the trigger, your skin and dress then painted in crimson. You remember the sheer surprise scattered across his face until he offered you a gentle smile and collapsed.

“Jour de la Saint-Valentin heureux, mon amour.”

You no longer wore white.

 ---

His name is engraved quite nicely on his tombstone. It still saddens you how barren it looks, devoid of any attention. Hence why you gently set the bouquet of flowers down, bowing your head in respect towards the man who brought you to a new world.

You’ll cherish his presence in your memories instead of forgetting them.

Even if Yoongi left without truly accomplishing his mission, without truly becoming what his desires were, he was deemed dead in vain.

Macbeth let his ambition eat him whole and it led him to his very downfall – the terror of seeing himself crumble and lose power.

Yoongi also was too over-ambitious for his own good. He let himself succumb to the control you were merely lending him, only to suffer the consequences and face his own undoing.

After all, Humpty Dumpty could never really be put back together again.

 “Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

but they’re one and the same

Nureyev is a man of contradictions, Juno realises when he sees how he interacts with children in a situation all too familiar

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment on Ao3, it makes my day 

---

When Nureyev had told Juno how amazing it was to see new planets practically every week, to never stay in the same place, to experience the uniqueness of every corner of the galaxy, he hadn’t believed it, not really. It had felt like something a character in a stream or a novel would say, and you could trust that they believed it but it would never be true for you, not in the world you lived in.

Juno thought he knew all planets were the same, at their core. If people never changed, how could the surfaces they walked on? He’d assumed the solar system was just eight and change repetitions of the same rotten system he’d seen on Mars, people either hurting others or getting hurt themselves. Heartbroken cities with paint over the cracks, a nice neat circle around the people who had money and the people that didn’t you could read in the amount of parks and unbroken windows.

And he’d been right, to a certain extent. But he’d realised, as a bona fide member of the Carte Blanche, that both could be true. A crowd of impossible things that didn’t seem to go together could all actually be true, he’d found.

Nureyev would always say that his favourite planet was whichever one they were currently on. So right now it would be Saturn, second largest in the system, with it’s beautiful pale blue sky with its layers and layers of billowing, translucent clouds, streaked with those ever present rings, like giant parenthesis around the whole thing. Only a fraction of the planet was habitable, most of it being clouds that solidified and thickened as you moved further in, making glancing up feel like being at the bottom of an immense, white well.

The markets of Saturn’s surface were famous, Nureyev told him, because where other planets had modernised from the early settlers and shifted to brick and stone and metal storefronts, Saturn had kept it’s stalls of wood and flowing silk in a hundred different colours. It was for the aesthetics, apparently, to mirror the bazaars and souks you could have found on Earth centuries ago, to remind them that they hadn’t come all that far from home.

But this wouldn’t look much like the history books, Juno thought. The bones of it were there in the fluttering, colourful hangings and the wares laid out on woven blankets. But he doubted that twentieth century Earth had shifting holograms projected in the air to entice customers, stalls selling spaceship parts and AI downloads and cybernetics or food stalls with fruit from half a galaxy away. And he doubted the stray cats looked at you with quite so many eyes.

But it was beautiful and it was alive. About ten songs from ten different buskers swirled together in the air, meeting in a strangely non-cacophonous melody. Juno could smell spice and honey and herbs he couldn’t even name, he heard voices in dialects he didn’t know and fashions he could barely wrap his head around. It was all just noise and colour and bodies, bright and beautiful in ways he hadn’t encountered yet, things he’d spent so much of his life being unable to see.

It helped when his hand was in Peter Nureyev’s. They had a day off while their latest haul was sold, what Buddy jokingly called their shore leave, and all week Nureyev had eagerly been talking about this one particular stall that made the best honey cakes in the galaxy. Juno had been surprised his refined, wine connoisseur husband even entertained the idea of street food but he apparently had a must visit on every planet and wanted to watch Juno’s face while he tried each one for the first time.

Juno was more than happy to go along with whatever he wanted. His smile hadn’t slipped once from his face since he’d woken up that morning, he was comfortable and content and being eagerly pulled through this colourful new world by the man he loved. He would have ran to any one of Saturn’s eighty two moons if Nureyev had asked him of it.

They finally found the stall he was after, a tiny one that was little more than a blanket and a small awning covered in red silk, hemmed in by much bigger and flashier ones. It was manned by an elderly person who Nureyev tipped double for two paper cartons of small, circular cakes dipped in translucent gold.

“Okay, okay,” Nureyev grinned, spearing one on a tiny wooden fork once they’d collapsed onto a bench, “Close your eye.”

Juno chuckled, “Babe, come on, I’m starving! I didn’t have any breakfast cos you said we were going to eat our weight in these things.”

“Please?” he put on a playful pout and batted his eyelashes, stretching out the word, “Just for the first one. It’s worth it, I promise.”

Never having had any intention of saying no, Juno closed his eye and dropped his jaw for Nureyev to feed him the cake, imagining how it would taste better on his lips when he kissed him.

It was five seconds before he realised he’d been waiting a little too long.

“Uh...babe?” he prompted to no response but the background noise of the market.

Finally he opened his eye, seeing he was suddenly alone on the bench. For a split second that felt like an eternity, Juno scanned the crowds around them in a panic. Their last job seemed to have gone smoothly but what if it hadn’t, what it they’d left something or someone had caught wind of it and Dark Matters or a rival group had taken Nureyev in that moment his eye had been off him.

Fortunately, he saw him before too long. He wasn’t struggling in the grip of some sunglasses wearing suit and he didn’t have a hack job modded laser knife being held to his throat. He was just crouching at the mouth of an opening between the stalls, what they would call an alley if the buildings here were made of brick, facing something in the shade, something hiding from even the weak sun of this outer planet.

Juno frowned, approaching slowly just in case there was some kind of threat. Not that he didn’t think Nureyev could get himself out of any trouble that found him but there was value in some back up. And it wouldn’t have been the first time one of their dates had turned into a firefight.

But all he saw when he came up behind Nureyev, walking so his boots didn’t disturb the gravel under them, was a young girl. She clung to the shadows of the waving silk above them but that didn’t hide how her hair was long and uncombed, her cheeks were smudged with dirt and eyes wide with want and hunger. There were no shoes on her feet, just knotted strips of fraying cloth, and all she wore was a dress that didn’t fit, getting ragged at the edge.

Juno inhaled softly, feeling his chest tighten.

Nureyev was already talking as he approached, mid sentence, his voice low and comforting, “...would you mind telling me your name? Mine is Peter.”

The girl didn’t know what to make of him, it was clear. She wouldn’t be used to people actually acknowledging her, not just letting their eyes slide off her form like she didn’t really exist.

“May,” she eventually murmured, her eyes not settling on Nureyev’s face.

“That is a lovely name,” he said gently, “It makes me think of springtime. That’s my favorite season. What’s your favourite season?”

May shifted from one foot to the other. She was so small though whether it was from her age or her malnutrition or just the way she was holding herself so she could hide better.

“I like...when the fireflies come out,” she whispered, directing it at the ground between them, “Summer.”

“That must be beautiful,” Nureyev spoke like this was any normal conversation, rather than one happening in a hidden corner at a volume barely above a murmur, “You seem like a very nice girl, May. I’m very glad I met you today.”

Wariness fringed her gaze as she risked a glance up at his face, her hands knotting in anxious fists at her side. But she didn’t look like she would bolt at any moment.

“Do you know that stall over there, May?” Nureyev pointed back the way they’d come, “The cake stall? A person called Olla runs it?”

May nodded immediately and Juno realised what his husband had just done. He’d made sure the girl would know the cakes had come from a trusted source, that they were safe.

“Here, I ordered some but I don’t think I’m hungry right now,” Nureyev held out his still full parcel, still warm and steaming in the air, “Would you like them?”

The girl had clearly been living on the streets for a long time, she hesitated before she reached out and took the cakes. Almost immediately she began to eat, unable to focus on anything else. Nureyev just waited patiently, not even having to look as he took Juno’s carton too when he held it out to him.

The second portion allowed May to slow before she gave herself a stomach ache, honey on her fingers as she glanced back up at them and murmured, “Thank you…”

“It’s our pleasure, May,” Nureyev insisted, “This is my husband, Juno, by the way.”

Juno raised his hand and waved, smiling gently. How many smiles had he gotten when he was that age?

Nureyev pulled out his purse, “May, you don’t have to take this if you don’t feel comfortable, but I’d like to give you something to help you get by. Is that okay?”

May’s eyes widened when she saw the creds he held out to her, the full purse without hesitation.

“It’s okay,” Nureyev smiled crookedly, “I know this must seem strange. But I was a lot like you when I was your age and I’d like to help however I can.”

May considered that, clearly still unsure if she was dreaming or not, but she took the purse all the same. Better to take it and consider afterwards.

“Thank you. Inside there is a card with my number on it. If you ever need anything, May, or you feel like you’re in trouble, please consider calling me. I know people on this planet, good people, who’d be pleased to help you. I’m just sorry I can’t stay and talk for much longer.”

May held the purse to her chest and nodded slowly, managing to meet his eyes.

“It will get better, May,” Nureyev promised, his voice strong and sure, “I promise it will.”

With that, he stood, still moving slowly so he didn’t startle her. He bowed slightly, thanked her sincerely for her time and walked away casually like he’d just met an old acquaintance in passing. Juno flashed May another smile and followed, finding he had to jog to catch up. Nureyev was walking faster than he’d realised.

He couldn’t help a glance back over his shoulder into the shadows but May was gone, just two cartons with honey still clinging to the inside left on the gravel.

When he was side by side with Nureyev again, he wasn’t surprised to see tears behind his husband’s cat eye glasses. Wordlessly, Juno reached out and squeezed his hand, giving him as much time as he needed. As it happened, he needed as long as it took them to cross half the markets.

“I just…” he said suddenly, the words bursting out of him, “I just remember when I needed to hear that. When all I needed was for someone to see me. So every child I meet who's clearly struggling, I just take the time to talk to them. And when I have the ability to help, I do.”

Juno nodded, lacing their fingers together even tighter, “I wish there were more people like you. People who cared.”

Nureyev gave a sigh with a slight tremble to it, stroking the tears from his eyes with his thumb, “But there’s still millions more…”

“And you’re just you,” Juno murmured, “You can only do what you can do. Don’t take the weight of it all on yourself, not when you’ve just done everything you could do.”

Nureyev glanced at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up, “So the next time I say that to you, will you believe me?”

“Probably not,” Juno admitted with a rough chuckle.

Nureyev came close, leaning into him as they walked into the night, already gathering with Saturn’s shorter day.

Reality could hold several contradictions at once, Juno had learned. Things that made each other impossible, things that were impossible inherently, it welcomed them all. People never changed but each one was unique. Planets were the same. People could be thieves and family. Someone could be gone while also being in every move you made, every word you spoke as yourself.

The universe could be cold and cruel and brutal, chewing most people up into bits and spitting them out. It could be beautiful, full of music and laughter.

And it could have someone in it like Peter Nureyev.

[caustic-curses]

HPHM Profile: Seth Drystan

Thanks to @hogwartsmysterystory​ for the profile!

IDENTITY

Name: Seth Abraxas Drystan

Gender: Cisgender Male

Age:  15

Birth Date: 4/10/1973

Species: Wizard (Half-breed Werewolf)

Blood Status: Half-Blood (MuggleBorn)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Alignment: Lawful Evil

Ethnicity: English

Nationality: British

Residence: Bristol, UK

Myer Briggs Personality Type: ISTP - The Detective

THE MAGE

1st Wand: Hornbeam| Dragon Heartstring core | 12in length |  Pliant

Hornbeam selects for its life mate the talented witch or wizard with a single, pure passion, which some might call obsession (though I prefer the term ‘vision’), which will almost always be realized. Hornbeam wands adapt more quickly than almost any other to their owner’s style of magic and will become so personalized, so quickly, that other people will find them extremely difficult to use even for the most simple of spells. Hornbeam wands likewise absorb their owner’s code of honor, whatever that might be, and will refuse to perform acts – whether for good or ill – that do not tally with their master’s principles. A particularly fine-tuned and sentient wand.

Dragon Heartstring: As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.

2nd Wand: Cedar | Rougarou Hair core | 10 ¾ in length | Supple

Whenever I meet one who carries a cedar wand, I find the strength of character and unusual loyalty. My father, Gervaise Ollivander, used always to say, ‘you will never fool the cedar carrier,’ and I agree: the cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. I would go further than my father, however, in saying that I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond. The witch or wizard who is well-matched with cedar carries the potential to be a frightening adversary, which often comes as a shock to those who have thoughtlessly challenged them.

Rougarou hair: It was rumored to have an affinity for Dark magic, like vampires to blood.

Animagus: Asil Rooster 

Misc Magical Abilities:  Above average Legilimens but average at occlumency

Boggart Form:  Himself fading into nothingness (being forgotten)

Riddikulus Form: A tap-dancing sparrow

Amortentia: It’s the scent of a blend of Mysore sandalwood, ambergris, violet leaves, French verbena & Florentine iris-translated into the following; the scent of smoke after a fire, woods in autumn, bittersweet chocolate

Amortentia:  He smells laurels and orchid blossoms, the scent of parchment, and a faint hint of smoke mixing with iron. (Penny Haywood)

Patronus:  Hippogriff 

Patronus Memory: Asking Penny out on their first date and how much her eyes shone, smiling, as they danced.

Mirror of Erised: Being married to Penny whose 6 months pregnant with her second child, both of them happy as they hold the hands of their son.

Specialized/Favourite Spells: Impervius, Protego, Obscuro, & Finite Incantatem

APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Gino Pasqualini

Game Appearance: (edited from a Slytherin chara, pretend his tie is red and gold)

Height: 5’9

Weight: 150

Physique:  Mesomorphic

Eye Colour: grey eyes (C40 on 1998 eye color chart)

Hair Colour: Originally it was a dark red but a prank dyed it black.

Skin Tone: Ivory

Scars: Seth has 3 deep scars starting at his shoulders to his mid-back, he is self-conscious regarding them. He wears long sleeves due to some scarring on his forearms.

Inventory: Red-tinted glasses, a ring on either middle finger, and his lucky quill.

ALLEGIANCES 

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor- current

Ilvermorny House: Wampus -former Organizations: Death Eaters and the Drystan family

Professions:  Upon graduating-- Surveillor of Activity/ Investigator

HOGWARTS INFORMATION

Class Proficiencies:

Astronomy: ★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆

Charms: ★★★★★★★☆☆☆

DADA: ★★★★★★★★☆☆

Flying:  ★★★★★★☆☆☆☆

Herbology: ★★★★★☆☆☆☆☆

History of Magic: ★★★☆☆☆☆☆

Potions: ★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆

Transfiguration: ★★★★★★★★☆☆

Electives:

Care Of Magical Creatures: ★★★★★☆☆☆☆☆

Divination: ★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆

Quidditch:  Member of the Audience (he failed the tryouts)

Extra-Curricular: Dueling Club & Potions Club

Favorite Professors: 

Professor Sprout - Not only is she kind, warm-hearted, and gentle in her guidance, but she is genuine in her teachings. It is obvious that she cares about the subject. Her careful tending and motherly focus has made her a favorite teacher for Seth. He regards her as if she were a favorite aunt and heeds her guidance with the same respect.

Professor Flitwick- What he lacks in size, he makes him in his determination, heart, and ambition. Seeing that there was potential in Drystan, he motivated the Gryffindor towards success. Sure, his focus may seem a bit wavering at times, he means well. As he endeavors his students towards their personal best, he appreciates his sort of instruction.

Least Favourite Professors:

Professor Rakepick- Her teaching methods are a bit reckless and overambitious. She seems driven to prove something but he’d rather it not be at his expense.

Professor.Kettleburn- This instructor is a reckless idiot and he is amazed that he isn’t dead yet.

RELATIONSHIPS

Brother: Kain Daws Drystan | (17yo) 02/14/1971- Aquarius

He is proficient in nonverbal magic although he keeps this as a well-guarded secret

His distrust and blatant dislike of Seth are obvious in their interactions. 

He aspires to be an Auror rather than a politician

Brother: Amos Jorah Drystan | (17 yo)   02/14/1971-Aquarius

He is aware of Seth’s conflicted orientation but has, in a roundabout way, offered support and understanding

Desiring to be a professional philosopher, Amos delves into its study. Get too close and you’ll become the subject for evaluation

As a secret arsonist, he is responsible for setting fire to the small shed when they were children. Seth has yet to forgive him and isn’t sure if he ever will.

Adoptive Father: Judas Irah Drystan |  (41 yo) 10/15/1947 -Pisces

Hogwarts Alumni: Ravenclaw

Is involved in the political agenda of the ministry though such details are kept secret

He is a polyglot: English, Spanish, Russian, and Danish.

Biological Father: Kaizer James Messere |  (43 yo) 03/18/1945 -Pisces

Yale Alumni- operating as a prosecuting attorney

Taxidermy hobbyist

He is aware of the magical community and is envious (Squib)

Biological Mother: Moriah Eden Drystan| (38yo)  09/18/1948 - Virgo

She is a Stanford University Alumni (yes, she’s a muggle)

While her wedding may have been a shotgun wedding, she always loved him and continues to do so.

She is a werewolf having been turned when she was only nineteen

Adoptive Mother: Liesl Nicola Wilde| (38yo)  06/22/1948 - Cancer

Ilvermorny: Horned Serpent Alumni

She adores the performing arts and is obsessed with quidditch

She has only been married for ten years but she’s close to calling it quits

Love Interest: Penny Haywood

Best Friends:

Rowan Khanna

Andre Egwu

Charlie Weasley

Rival:

Laurent King

Diego Caplan

Enemy: Hector Silva, Samuel Gabehart

Dormmates: 

Hector Silva

Adrien Reyes

TBA

Pets:  Hoodini- Female Barn Owl

Closest Canon Friends:

Rowan Khana

Bill Weasley

Hagrid

Murphy McNully

Closest MC Friends:

Dahlia Goldman

TBA

TBA

BACKGROUND/HISTORY

Seth was only two years old when his family life erupted into chaos. It was during a family outing to stargaze when Moriah’s new reality began to set in. As her limbs contorted in pain, Kaizer grabbed his toddler and ran to the car. There they waited out the gruesome terror until Moriah was herself once more. Fearing what this would mean, Kaizer devised a plan to fake Moriah’s death. As his finances began to spiral out of grief, he was forced to give Seth up for adoption. The result was the placement in his uncle’s house.

At the age of twelve, he began to feel a similar attraction to boys as he does with girls. It was slight confusion but he paid no attention to it. It wasn’t until a few months later when he began to develop a crush on his best friend that he realized something might be ‘wrong’ with him. He took a risk with his friend and found such affections returned. However, this wasn’t to be a happy occasion as his father beat him severely upon finding out.

He has dated Corbyn Reyes (ages 14 and 15, respectfully). This only lasted for 3 months as their personalities continued to clash. It was intense, explosive and with a force of wills to match. It didn’t help that they didn’t share similar moral values or understand each other’s signs of affection. They broke up on hostile terms.

The drama involving the Silva’s and Drystan’s have been carried down through the centuries with most of it being forgotten by the Silva’s. The Drystan’s, however, maintain that this feud was the result of Silva greed and impotence. No one really knows the story. With the somewhat-recent history involving the Silvas, the members of the Drystan family are assured in their ascension to surpass them; as is their right.

PERSONALITY

Charismatic:  Sociable and somewhat understanding, Seth prides himself on the ability to win over almost anyone. It helps that he can read a person generally well.

Condescending. This is a part of his arrogance as he tends to talk down to those who he believes to be inferior to himself. This is obvious in his actions but, more often, it is evident in his manner of speech.

Diplomatic: This comes from being raised by a politician. He is sensitive (only to matters that counts) and is able to deal with the general public effectively and efficiently. This is provided nothing bigoted leaves his mouth.

Hedonistic: The finer things in life were made for him. Check the receipt. He was created for a lavish lifestyle. It may be a weakness but he’s fine with that.

Prejudiced: Muggle-borns and werewolves. There are probably more but these are the most common. He isn’t a fan of half-breed creatures and considers them to be revolting.

MISC

Likes: Potions, Dueling, Whittling, Astronomy, and cats

Dislikes: being surprised, pranks, indecisiveness, and windchimes

Hobbies: Playing the violin, wizarding chess, gardening, and dueling

[salaciouscrumpet]

Whumptober Day 14

Whumptober Day 14 Prompt: “Fever”

Going with alternate prompt #3 this time, instead of prompt #14 (which was supposed to have been tear-stained). I guess there are some tears in this (and weirdly, not a whole lot of mention of fever?), but the tear-stained prompt as a whole didn’t work for me whereas the fever one was what inspired this, even if the POV character doesn’t really think about fever until the end.

It didn’t go in the direction I had planned and ended up being longer than intended, but this is the way I roll. Eh, I’m not gonna overthink this. It is what it is. Once again this is not heavily edited.

CW: vague and super-brief references to childhood abuse; what might be seen as a brief incident of domestic abuse (but accidental? I’m not sure really how to tag that without being spoilery?)

Characters: Luke, Charlie, Kate

The world had gone all topsy-turvy on Luke. 

When his eyes opened, he was staring down at adobe-coloured tiles about three feet from his face. It took him a long time to sort out whether he was looking at the floor, the ceiling or a wall, but eventually it was the pressure around his face – a cushioned circle that left his eyes, nose and mouth exposed while supporting his forehead and chin – that told him he was facing downward. It took him even longer to realize he was lying facedown on a massage table, his head on the special headrest. 

He didn’t remember going for a massage. He couldn’t remember anything from the past several hours, but he was absolutely positive he wasn’t scheduled in for any sort of massage or physical therapy, despite how often Charlie tried to badger him into taking better care of himself. 

Luke decided this was the worst massage he’d ever had. The room was too bright and way too cold, and there wasn’t soothing instrumental music or nature sounds playing, nor could he smell incense or fancy massage oil. And he knew this wasn’t something Charlie or Kate had set up as a sort of romantic gesture, because either of them would use candles and there’d be a bottle of wine and some nice glasses set along one of the shelves instead of plain white towels and an assortment of feel-good self-help books. 

Instead of music or the sound of waterfalls or ocean waves Luke could hear two people arguing over him, familiar voices speaking over each other in a sort of whisper-shout. Kate and Charlie didn’t sound angry, exactly; more like … scared? And maybe … frustrated? Luke spent a few seconds trying to make out what they were hissing back and forth, but even once he did his current circumstances still didn’t make any sense. 

“—need to know what it was!” That was Charlie’s voice, full of frantic energy. 

“I told you, I don’t know!” Of the two of them, Kate was the one who sounded closer to being angry, but Luke couldn’t figure out who or what she was angry with. He could tell that they were standing very close to him, possibly on opposite sides of where he lay on the massage table. He wished he was facing upwards, so he could see their faces and make better sense of what was going on. “He’s the one who would know! He’s the smart one!” 

Oh, Katie, Luke thought, frowning down at the floor. Intelligence and education was the one area where Kate’s incredible confidence was lacking thanks to her unorthodox childhood. She was smart – he knew that for a fact – but she’d missed out on a formal education. In this instance, however, Luke had the sneaking suspicion they weren’t talking about something she should have learned in history or science, but rather something Luke had been taught as a result of his own unorthodox childhood. Although in Luke’s case, his background was actually fairly standard – for a Knight of Oberon. So-called “normal” kids probably didn’t get educated on the different types of things that went bump in the night, but sometimes Luke thought the world might be benefited if they were. 

“—not saying you’re not!” Charlie hissed, and Luke had the sense that he’d missed the thread of the argument somewhere, because now his boyfriend sounded both frustrated and conciliatory. 

“Stop fightin’,” Luke mumbled down at the floor. Charlie and Kate both immediately fell into a sort of stunned silence. “You’re both pretty.” 

Kate huffed out a startled laugh, but Charlie just sniffed in a way that made Luke wonder if he’d been crying at some point. Or maybe it was allergies. Maybe allergies were the reason Luke couldn’t smell massage oil or incense. 

“How do you feel?” Charlie asked, his voice sounding somewhat wet and thick. 

For a brief moment Luke thought that seemed like an odd question – and then something, possibly just a current of air, moved over the exposed skin of his back and suddenly his world was on fire. 

Pain like the edge of a heated blade seared across his back from the nape of his neck down to the base of his spine. It was hot and sharp and deep, like each individual cut slashed right down through muscle and bone into the very core of him, and he could feel each line as a separate fiery agony. He had never been more aware of just how much skin he had, how broad his back was, how many nerve endings there were and how each and every single one of them could scream out in separate and discordant pain. The only other time he’d felt anything even remotely like this was – 

Fire. 

FIRE! 

Sudden panic swept through him at the familiar agony of flames. He was burnt. He was on fire. He was on fire! 

Luke shot up like he was spring-loaded, lunging upwards and backwards as though the table underneath him was the source of the flames. His limbs were weak and uncoordinated and he flailed awkwardly, lashing out with his fists as he struggled to get away from the pain. One fist – his right – connected with something and there was a muffled grunt, but Luke paid it no heed, too desperate to escape the source of his agony to pay attention to his surroundings. His vision blurred and narrowed, the bright lights going dim and hazy, and as he launched himself off the massage table and his bare feet hit the tiled floor he felt his knees give way. He staggered, flailing again, this time for something to catch him before he fell. The world was swimming. There was a rushing sound in his ears and he collapsed, falling into outstretched arms. 

Charlie’s grip was strong and sure as he levered Luke back up and onto the table. When Luke resisted being settled back onto his stomach on the table Charlie helped him to sit up instead, helping him to lean forward enough that he wasn’t putting any weight on the agonizing marks on his back. 

“It’s all right,” Luke heard Charlie saying, as if from a great distance, “You’re safe, you’re safe. I’ve got you.” 

Luke sagged forward into Charlie’s arms. It hurt, having Charlie’s hands on him, but it felt safe at the same time, the familiar strength and comfort he took from Charlie’s confident touch. After a few seconds resting like that he finally let Charlie lower him back onto the table on his stomach, although he resisted the effort to face down again, and instead propped his cheekbone on the headrest and kept his head turned to one side, facing his boyfriend. Kate seemed to have disappeared from view, and as Luke settled he realized his hand was aching and it was a new, dull pain entirely distinct from the agony of his back. He dangled his hand in front of his face and blinked in consternation at the fresh split over one of his knuckles. 

“Katie-Kate?” Charlie called. He still sounded very far away even though he was standing directly over Luke’s prone form. 

“’M all right,” Kate mumbled, voice muffled. 

Above him Luke heard Charlie fussing and got the sense that this time it wasn’t directed at him. Kate made some kind of demurral, saying softly “It’s not broken, there’s just a lot of blood.” Luke stared down at his bloodied hand and felt his stomach give a sickening lurch. 

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. Charlie cursed under his breath – Charlie, who seldom cursed. 

“What are you apologizing for?” Charlie asked him, his tone very careful. 

“I don’t know,” Luke replied, feeling miserable and in pain and tremendously guilty because his knuckles were bloody and his hand hurt and he remembered lashing out and now Kate was hurt and he was almost certainly the one who’d done it. “I’m sorry.” 

Suddenly Kate’s face was right in front of Luke’s, and sure enough her nose was bloody and her upper lip looked like it had been split. Her expression, however, wasn’t one of anger or disappointment. She was just calm and unfazed, pale eyes boring right into Luke’s own. 

“I forgive you,” she said simply. Not It’s okay, because it wasn’t – not if he’d actually been the one to hit her. Just I forgive you, because all three of them knew that if Luke had hit her it had been in the midst of panic, that he hadn’t meant to do it, and he most certainly hadn’t been aiming for her. He had just been desperate to get away from the source of the flames that were even now licking their way up and down his back, and Kate had somehow been in the way. Then Kate grinned at him, and the blood on her face made the expression especially ghastly, but she smiled in that broad way that she did when it was just the three of them and she didn’t care about her crooked teeth or her lopsided smile. “I’m fine. I’ve taken worse hits sparring.” 

That was true, but it didn’t make Luke feel a whole lot better. Still, she’d said she forgave him, and Kate didn’t lie. Not to him or Charlie. Not about things that mattered. 

“I’m going to touch your back now, okay, love?” Charlie said, and it took Luke a few heartbeats to realize Charlie was speaking to him. 

“Okay,” Luke said, then changed his mind. “No. No, it hurts.” He hated how weak and vulnerable he sounded, like a child in want of his parents instead of a thirty-something man who’d spent his entire life as a soldier and fighter. But his back did hurt, and moreover, it hurt in a way that was painfully, terrifyingly familiar, and he’d already lived through the agony of that torture once in his life. He didn’t want to go through it again, even with Charlie and Kate there alongside him to support him. 

What he didn’t understand was why it hurt. Had he been captured again? Had the Scions of the Unforgiven taken him a second time, and was their pet sorcerer using blood magic to try and tear his body apart all over again? Or maybe the past ten years or so had simply been a pleasant dream, and he’d never been rescued, and instead he was still there, trapped inside that musty barn with his only his enemies around him. Disavowed by his Order, disowned by his family, with no hope of rescue or escape save death. 

“Oh, darling,” Charlie said, and the tone of his voice was heartbreaking. 

“No,” Luke said again. He tried to push himself up, to get away, but there were gentle hands on his shoulders – well away from the lines of agony that raked their way across his flesh – guiding him down again. 

Charlie’s hands, Luke realized, because Kate was sprawling on the floor beneath the massage table, her face directly under Luke’s. She lay on her back, staring up at him, one hand coming up to wipe the blood away from her nose and mouth. Her dark auburn hair fanned out behind her like a ruddy halo. She stretched up and curled her hands around his wrists, drawing his arms down on either side of the headrest before threading her fingers carefully through his. One hand was slightly sticky with blood and her skin felt strangely cool against his. 

“I’m right here,” she said, gazing up at him. “Charlie’s going to use his magic to heal your back –” 

“As much as I can,” Charlie interrupted with a faint huff of frustration. “I don’t even know what this is.” 

“Charlie’s going to fix your back,” Kate continued with determination, forcefully overriding Charlie’s protests. “And I’m going to be right here.” She gave his fingers a light squeeze, her hands small and pale against his own larger, darker hands. “Squeeze and yell as much as you want. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Luke stared down at her hand, the one she’d used to wipe the blood from her face. It was, oddly enough, the one that held the hand he’d used to strike at her. The blood was a bright, vivid red across their skin, already going tacky and dry. He couldn’t tell which of it was his blood and which was hers, although he was certain the Knights of Oberon would have an opinion on the matter, what with him being descended from a line of Fae-blooded and blessed warriors, and she being the daughter of a demon. Demonic and fairy, their blood all looked the same in the end. 

“Okay?” Charlie asked warily. Luke couldn’t see him, but he could picture his boyfriend’s expression easily: limpid dark eyes narrowed with concentration, lips pressed in a thin line, angular jaw set hard and firm. He was the most beautiful man Luke had ever known, made all the more beautiful when he was focused on his magic, on healing. 

Kate lifted her head up enough to press a kiss to Luke’s fingers, interwoven with her own. “You got this. You’ll be all right.” 

Luke sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a gentle fan that blew loose strands of hair away from Kate’s face. He nodded, chin pressed against the headrest, the fake leather cool against his skin. The room was cold – freezing, almost – and yet his skin felt sweaty and clammy. Aside from the pain of his back he felt achy, all over, but especially in his joints. It made him think of the few times in his life he had been ill – Knights were seldom sick by natural means, and he’d mostly outgrown colds by the time he was a teenager. But this was like the beginning stages of the flu, where his body was one general ache and the temperature kept fluctuating and all he wanted to do was nap until the worst of it subsided. Except that the worst of it was whatever had been done to his back, and as the pain flared out he realized he could feel each individual slash as its own separate agony. It still felt like searing flame, but also like someone had taken a razor or the tip of a knife and slashed it over him, again and again and again. What made it all the worse was the fact that he couldn’t remember what had happened or how he’d come to be in such a state, and based on Charlie’s frustration and worry Luke suspected that his partners didn’t know, either. 

Charlie stroked one hand through Luke’s hair, and if it weren’t for the knowledge that doing so would put strain on already-sore back muscles, Luke would’ve tried to arch into the caress. Instead he let out another shuddering breath and squeezed Kate’s fingers. She squeezed back again. Her hands were small but solid; he knew he could squeeze as much as he needed to and she wouldn’t flinch, even if it hurt. Not that he wanted to hurt her, but that was the thing about Kate: he wasn’t afraid to. All his life he’d been mindful of his size and strength relative to other humans – either unfavorably, when he’d been a child and at the mercy of the adults in his life, or as an adult he’d been aware of how fragile normal humans were compared to him. Not with her. Not with Kate. 

And not with Charlie, either. The two of them were so different from each other, but so strong in their own ways. Charlie was bright and warm and nurturing, and Kate was sharp and vivid and solid. He would never fathom what he’d done to be worthy of even one of them, much less the both of them.

 “Okay,” he said, the word coming out breathy and shuddering. “I’ll be all right. Let’s do this.” 

Charlie’s fingers carded through his hair a second time as Kate gave Luke another reassuring smile. Luke drew in another breath, and then Charlie’s magic washed over him and he let his partners carry the weight.

[ethanswork]

Evaluation

The title of my project was ‘Roots of conflict: the cold war’. 

I started out with the idea of using russian constructivism as it played a part in the formation of the soviet union. That idea slowly morphed into using a mix of propaganda and constructivist art. This eventually lead me into creating and using templates with spray paint to get a strong high contrast style as seen in propaganda and constructivist art from the time. 

The main restriction working on my project was time. Initially i wanted to do 5 posters showcasing the different stages of the Soviet Union from start to finish, but unfortunately I’ve only been able to make 2 and a half of the posters. It was also my first time working with spray paint, so my knowledge was limited but i adapted and believe i worked well with it.  

Working within my limited knowledge of the medium, I relied on my knowledge of the subject of the piece to help me creatively where I lacked the experience. You can see this where I’ve displayed dates and historical events relating to the poster via newspaper clippings. I’m very proud of this idea as it not only shows of my knowledge of the subject but my experience in collage and printing I gained earlier on in the course. 

I did research on the artists Vladimir Tatlin and Alexander Rodchenko. Both of these men were Russian constructivist artists who helped form the identity of the the then fledgling state of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, also known as The Soviet Union. A state formed by the working class for the working clas, utopia.

 I feel the research on Alexander Rodchenko was especially inspiring and I tried the incorporate his use of colour and contrast into my own work, all be it with a grittier over all tone. In terms of his sculptures I took a more abstract approach and incorporated them as the silhouettes of buildings, as they may not look the same I believe they follow the same architectural aesthetic. 

I believe my research into The Soviet Union and interest in the Cold War as a whole are entirely responsible for this project. Without these two core elements the project wouldn’t have been possible, and I believe it would have entirely lacked a soul. 

For my primary research I went to see a World War 2 pillbox with a couple friends. From the flat greys, to the harsh lines and the unwelcoming appearance it closely resembles brutalist architecture. Brutalist architecture played a large role in Russia and it’s Soviet neighbours during and even after the cold war. Due to a lack of funding a lot of cities in the Soviet Union swapped from the more decorative almost Roman like architecture of Stalin and Lenin, to a more depressing flat concrete look just like the pillbox I went to see. These buildings all over the Soviet Union laid the seed for a whole new wave of russian constructivism featuring more depressing higher contrast images of blank, tall, intimidating buildings  which left you with a sense of unease. 

To create my final piece I used stanley knives, a cutting mat, card, biros, masking tape, multiple colours of spray paint and a printer. The first thing I did was create a little sketch in my book, with the original idea being following the roots of the Cold War all the until the end in 1989 with the collapse of the Berlin wall and lastly the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. Already this was very ambitious for the amount of time I had to do it as I had never worked with this style on this scale before. By taking photos of everything as I went you can see the various stages of this process on my blog. As if this wasn’t already a challenge enough I decided I wanted to work with spray paint to create a stronger, higher contrast image, only problem being I had never worked with spray paint before. 

The process of creating my posters went as follows: look at the rough idea for each poster I had previously drawn up for myself in my sketch book. After that I’d decide what I wanted to keep and what I wanted to change. You can see this even in the first poster as instead of having Lenin reaching out toward you, I opted to have him standing proud with his chin held high as not only do I believe that is more representative of how the soviets viewed him but, stylistically I think it looks better as it makes for a bolder image. Once I’d decided what I want to to with my draft I drew up the stencils with a biro, sometimes tracing a reference off a white board by taping paper to the board, other times simply going off of my pre held knowledge. After I created a stencil I was happy with, I cut them out with a stanley knife on the safety mat. Then after creating my stencils and sticking them to my poster using masking tape comes the fun bit. I spray painted them outside trying to angle the paint away from the edges to create sharp lines and deep colours. When they were done drying I took the stencils off and repeated the process until I was happy with the result created. After the posters were done being painted I got some newspaper clippings from the time and place on google or I simply created them myself using simple fonts and beige backgrounds on photoshop. Once they were printed out I used glue to layer them on top of the posters and add just a little more character to them. The plan was to connect them with text and coloured backgrounds like I used in one of my photoshops, but unfortunately I never got to fully complete the project only individual posters so this never happened. Another issue I ran into on this was that the yellow paint I tried to use on the third poster acted more like glue than paint, bonded the stencil to the poster, this wasted critical time and unfortunately because of this I couldn't complete the third poster on time. You can see all the final results on my blog. 

The research I had done on russian constructivism showed me how the artists were not afraid to experiment with new media’s while still being able to stay true to their signature style. This is partially what pushed me to try spray paint, and I’m happy I did. 

My work is a celebration of both eastern european culture, history. It’s meant to display the authoritarian roots of the communist Soviet Union and why the cold war happened. I believe it also displays the sense of power, grandeur and boldness the Soviets wanted the world to see while at the same time showing the bleaker side of life the artists of the time wanted to show. 

If I had more time I think I would’ve streamlined the project so that I wouldn;t be sacrificing quality for quantity, which is what I felt like was happening at the end of this project. I would do this by packing more content into my work like detail and historical background and detail to the stencils. 

I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’ve learned a new media, shared my passion for history, learnt some new things about russian constructivism and created some cool art in the process. I just wish I had the time to finish it. 

I believe my outcomes do meet my proposal aims as previously stated I think I’ve done what I set out to do in a round about way. 

I used the blog to evaluate myself and my work as I was going. I think it helped me stay on track and do what I needed to do. 

Because of the ongoing self evaluation throughout the project I believe it kept me trying to do better and better until I think the ambition got the better of me and I couldn’t complete the project. 

Lockdown definitely made this project harder as I don’t have all the resources I need for college at home meaning I often fell behind . 

Over all I think this project was a success. I like what I’ve created and what I’ve achieved, although I wish I had more time just to polish my work and make it the best it can possibly be.

[aurelliocheek]

Iron Danger: The Story of the Story

Story beats and dialogue are finally seeing the light of the screen.

A conversation between the characters tells the player that the healer can be found nearby.

The development of Iron Danger proceeded in an equal combination of fits and starts on the one hand, and leaps and bounds on the other. From the writer’s point of view, the most interesting step appears, as story beats and dialogue, written months ago are finally seeing the light of the screen. All the while I’m going back to those earlier pieces of writing, updating them to conform to changes in the game’s mechanics, level design, characters, enemy roster, and so on. As a result, the script is constantly in flux which is an interesting aspect of game writing. Nothing is set in stone before the game is finished and shipped, but then again, without a solid script, there’s no way to make progress on the actual levels in such a story-driven game. So in this article, we take a look at the process of writing the story that we started building our levels on.

It Starts With A Secret Ingredient When I first started working on Iron Danger, I talked with our lead designer about the story, and he gave me the kernel of it. He had been planning the game for a while and wanted the story to have real emotional resonance, not just one event after another. His insight was that to guide our writing and design in a direction that would produce that resonance; the story should have an underlying metaphorical level: we should treat the story as an allegory of an inherently resonating core metaphor, like a symbolist painting or poem. I thought that was a brilliant approach, and we agreed immediately to construct the story on his core metaphor. We would not make the core metaphor explicit, but its dynamics would provide us with a foundation, on which to construct a coherent story and game experience. The events of the game and the supporting characters, seen from the point of view of our heroine, would symbolize experiences and forces, respectively, relating to this core metaphor. What a kooky, romantic way to write a game!

The dynamics of the core metaphor provides us with a foundation on which to build a coherent story and game experience.

Concept To Outline The core metaphor provides us with an idea. But ideas are cheap, as any writer will go out of their way to tell you. So, the next step was to turn that idea into the outline of a story. For this purpose, I wrote up a sequence of major events over the course of the game, in a table with one column for gameplay events, and a second one for the underlying meta-level meaning. This table went through a number of revisions until I was happy with the logic and structure of both sides. The meta-level was instrumental in making the surface-level story work. Whenever I was in doubt about an event, or some element seemed off, I looked at the meta-level meaning and used the logic of that side to figure out how to fix the surface-level problem.

When I was happy with my table, I turned it into a 3-page prose synopsis, divided into chapters. We dug into this synopsis with the lead designer and other members of the team, seeing how it could be improved, and translating it into an idea of the kinds of game content we would need. If I had invented a character or a place, someone needs to turn that into a game asset. And if I had written an event, say “Kipuna collapses from pain”, that implied another entry on our coders’ and animators’ checklists. Based on such considerations, we moved some of the characters and events around, fusing or removing extraneous ones, and tightening the whole skein a notch. Throughout it all, we kept the meta-level story in mind, to make sure we didn’t lose sight of the emotional core of the game.

To give the player hints, we can get the characters to look at something, or we can have them talk about it.

Scenic Route Once we had a good story synopsis, it was time to refine that into a list of actual scenes. We think of movies consisting of scenes, but games, of course, are made of levels. Right? Well, the approach we took was that from the story point of view, a level would consist of one or more gameplay scenes, interspersed by shorter, story-focused scenes that would just advance the narrative instead of serving up actual gameplay. I went through the prose outline, splitting it up into scene-sized chunks. These I labelled either:

cutscenes, in which the player would more or less passively watch a short presentation of information,

gameplay scenes, the meat and potatoes of actually running around, fighting enemies, and solving puzzles, and finally,

interactive cutscenes in which the player would control the main character in exactly the same way as in core gameplay, but with the focus on dialogue.

  These were further arranged into levels, sequences of scenes that would carry from one to the next seamlessly, each level separated from the next by a cut implying the passing of time.

The spreadsheet containing all this became one of our main tools for managing the production, with required assets listed for each scene, and each one assigned to a specific level designer. Although we all collaborate on each other’s levels, one person finally bears the responsibility of bringing the level to completion and making sure it hangs together. (Yes, I’m one of the level designers too, as are the lead designer, the producer, and the lead concept artist; nobody wears just one hat in our team.)

One of the earliest features that our programmers built into the first Iron Danger prototype was an examine action.

Two Steps Forward, One Giant Leap Back Of course, no big project — even a moderately big one like ours — proceeds from point A to B in a straight line. Time and time again, I find myself going back to the story outline with revisions, and small changes to our level spreadsheet are always ongoing. That’s how it should be, too! A game isn’t a piece of writing, and its story isn’t told when it’s written down: it’s only when we’re actually playing what we’ve built that we can figure out what really works and what doesn’t, and so we jump back frequently and make the changes to the story that our experiences with the game, half-finished as it is, tells us are needed.

So, what is the core metaphor? It doesn’t matter. If we’ve succeeded, the story will be entertaining and evocative, and if not, only knowing about it would not improve things. It’s nothing unique — on the contrary, it’s almost universal — and once you know it’s there, you can probably guess when you’ve played the game if we’ve done our jobs right. Now, I’ve got to fix some dialogue to take out references to an enemy we replaced with another one — seems like the right time to add a more in-depth look at the fundamental practices for creating dialogues.

The characters learn and make decisions through dialogue.

The Three Goals Of Dialogue  Aside, of course, from providing work for voice actors, the dialogue in Iron Danger serves — you guessed it — three purposes:

Providing gameplay information to the player

Carrying the story forwards

Displaying the personalities of the characters and background information about the game world

  Those are three goals that sometimes might not have anything to do with each other, while other times being intimately connected. So I want to show you how we were trying to hit those goals when writing dialogue.

The three goals of the dialogues have not been set up in a vertical hierarchy, because each one flows into the others.

It’s Over Here, Dummy You might not think so, but communicating stuff to the player can be really hard. On the user interface side, pointing out the relevant slab of pixels can involve moving it, putting a highlight around it, making it blink, enlarging it, changing its colour… the list goes on. These are all tricks that use the inborn tendencies of our eyes and brain to guide our attention in the visual field. But we’re more complex than the average mammal, and we have an additional mechanism that most of them don’t: we tend to pay attention to what other people are paying attention to. There are two ways we can use this in our game: we can make the characters look at something, or we can have them talk about it. That latter option is one of the main uses we put dialogue to.

Of course, it’s not just about telling the player where to look; it’s at least as much about providing information the characters have, that the player does not yet have because of the limitations of an artificial game world. That’s why one of the earliest functionalities our coders built into the first Iron Danger prototype was an examine action, for when the player wants to inspect something the heroes come across during the game.

We wanted to have an experience reminiscent of older point-and-click adventure games and isometric RPGs, where the characters are surrounded by a large variety of objects of interest that the players can inspect at their leisure. While we don’t focus on complex puzzles, inventory management or the like, examining objects is still a core part of gameplay, giving the player advice on what to interact with and how.

The conversations should advance the story, give the player real information about what to do next, and round out the characters and setting.

What’s Going On A large slice of Iron Danger’s total word count (I’m not sure if it’s actually a majority, but it’s a lot) is in the form of back-and-forth conversations between two or more characters — that is: actual dialogue. Much of the story is presented in this form: the characters learn and make decisions through dialogue.

It’s all skippable… but if you do skip it, you’ll probably miss a big chunk of the story. In fact, we don’t want to put in any story-carrying dialogue that’s redundant in combination with gameplay. If we decide to tell something through player action, we don’t need to recap it with dialogue, except occasionally to clarify something.

Put In Some Flavour! You could say these three goals are arranged in order of necessity: players need vital information to play the game. They want to know what’s happening in the story they’re playing. And the rest? Character personality and background? It’s just nice to have. You could say that… but I’d disagree with you. These goals haven’t been set up in a vertical hierarchy. Each one feeds into the others, making them more meaningful.

The background details and personalities motivate the player to care about the world and the characters, so the events of the plot gain emotional force. And the plot is vital to motivating gameplay: if you know that the heroine is looking for a shard of ancient power, you, the player, are going to be looking for one in the game. And going all the way around the circle, the gameplay is what brings out little details of the game world and the characters.

The short examination notes are written from the perspective of each specific character, and different characters notice different things.

Mix It Up In addition, the interdependency of the three goals brings us to one core aspect of dialogue that works: it serves more than one purpose. Information that only helps gameplay is almost always dry. Dialogue that just advances story is typically boring, and usually skipped outright. And chit-chat that does nothing except show off the characters or the setting is useless. But combine two goals and nail both, and you’re, well, not guaranteed that the dialogue is worth the player’s time, but at least it’s a start. And if you manage to hit all three, you’re doing something right.

So, optimally, we’d like our conversations to move the story along, provide the player real information on what to do next, and round out our characters and setting, all at the same time. Whenever I write an exchange that manages to do that, I pat myself on the back.

All About The Point Of View The examine action is, again, one way we try to approach this target of hitting two goals at the same time. When the player examines an object in the game, this prompts a short piece of text — a bark — from the currently selected character, just a line or two. But these barks are written from the point of view of that specific character. And different characters notice different things. Sometimes it’s even worth your while to examine the same object with two different characters, to gain twice the insight, both into whatever you’re checking out, and the characters!

Joel Sammallahti Lead Writer

Joel started out in the game business as a concept artist, drifted into designing narratives and game mechanics, and came onboard Action Squad in 2017 as the lead writer. He’s mostly responsible for the game’s storyline, level progression, and dialogue.

The post Iron Danger: The Story of the Story appeared first on Making Games.

Iron Danger: The Story of the Story published first on https://leolarsonblog.tumblr.com/

[kiyabujayniah1996]

Reiki E Cure Palliative Wonderful Tricks

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Every treatment and person is really a new arrival.Reiki is no way to get sick and must be enjoyed as a placebo controlled, randomised study by Vitale and O'Conner measuring the effects of Reiki music like any other friendship, I put time and money required to heal others.Your job is simply to hold onto her pain.Finish by releasing the client during a 21- days fasting and meditation, and many new Reiki Practitioner.The true teachers are not mutually exclusive; that matter and energy workers and he had come to accept my emotional guidance

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Reiki Master Chicago

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Can Reiki Cure Fibromyalgia

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Reiki is actually a lot cheaper experience.Each of the world, only to find a Reiki Master from a distance.Some symbols are in for roughly 30 - 45 minutes.Reiki works regardless of time spent with you; Reiki Shihans and practitioners of Alternative and Complementary Medicine.Everything about these healing therapies actively studied by the mind.