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[hwaightme]

Burning

(masterlist) (taglist)

🔥 pairing: best friend!mingi x gn!reader 🔥 genre: fluff, healing, friends to lovers, slice of life 🔥 summary: down winding roads, through the golden fields and into the shimmering night, you and mingi embark on a journey to live and love once again 🔥 wordcount: 5.5k 🔥 warnings/tags: editing??, language, indie film style, loosely inspired by murakami's 'barn burning' + youth mv, injuries/scabs, band aids/treatment, escapism, restarts, running away, love through hardship, healing, implied trauma, food/eating, reflecting on the past, mingi would do anything for you, arson 🔥 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🔥 a/n: happy birthday to @byuntrash101!! my most wonderful cat, i love you, thank you for every moment and here is to many more <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🔥 playlist: the last stop of our pain - hanroro, the setting sun - the poles, bye - car the garden, summer night - jeon jinhee, 14:30 - damons year, silence - sunwoojunga, so life goes on - heo hoy kyung, dear my all - mingginyu

You looked down at your hands, spreading the fingers out and relaxing them again, watching the movement of every line and wrinkle. Band aids bent and took on the shape you commanded; the one in an off-white shade after having taken on the brunt of the physical burdens, - a ring that was wrapped around the middle finger of your right hand was frayed at the edge, having had to through the test of the elements and of haphazard lugging of items in and out of the white car on which you were sitting. The other, skin toned, sturdy and strictly not letting anything dare infect you, hugged the side of the same hand and spread a little to your palm. The markings of a person who ‘could’, and a person who ‘did’. 

Gaze travelling downwards led you to a leather bracelet with a silver charm - a simple accessory, but one that held years of history, meaning and memories that tied you to the original owner. You were never one for big celebrations, having gotten used to treating every day the same as the rest - a uniform, dark reality where you were nothing but a little cog. The only mission you had ever had before this moment was to keep on turning. This bracelet was a promise, and a hope for a new beginning. 

Golden fields and a warm grey sky blending into a hazy blend of yellowish green and burnt sienna. A tired breeze that had long lost its fight reminded you that you could still feel, running through your hair, dancing across your skin. The sweater you had borrowed was much too loose at the shoulders, and thus offered little to no protection from the elements. Nonetheless, the comfort it offered, along with the aroma that had permanently intertwined with the threads of the cotton fabric brought more than enough warmth to your heart, and caused a blush to rise on your cheeks. It was a considerable contrast to your still slightly tear-stained, exhausted eyes around which the signs of last night’s terrors were still remaining. But even then, the despair that had come with the sensation had been washed away by a caring thumb, a loving hand, a single impression that solidified that you were never going to be alone.

You moved to run a finger across the plasters, curious as to how the cuts beneath were healing. Little scars of a warrior. You had fought for your way and for your life and for your right to smile and breathe and enjoy the earthly wonders. The last days before your final decision to escape were somewhat of a whirlwind, tainted by persistent insomnia, demons that haunted you day and night and the yelling of far too many people, projects and parasitic ponderings. Even the things that had been under your control grew minds of their own and searched for ways to destroy you, be it in hiding a mistake in a word, an error in a table or a fiendish administrative problem. Those days were a countdown, until in one last effort to survive, you cried out for salvation and admitted that it was all too much. And in that chaotic flood that was threatening to swallow you whole, one person had been waiting, and before you knew it, you were safe, had someone cheering for you, sharing your anguish.

“Hey don’t do that. We don’t have any band aids left and I’m not about to go Rambo mode and go picking grass to wrap you up,” you turned to follow the sounds of the low, raspy voice, smiling softly as you met your friend’s mildly concerned expression. Black hair, softly tousled; you barely could restrain yourself from reaching out and ruffling those locks. Beauty marks like stars on that wonderful, charming face. Slightly parted lips that appeared to be holding back sagas and everlasting tales. Lips that you could watch move forever.

“It’s fine, Mingi, I was just checking.”

“That was some intense checking you’re doing, refrain from it,” he retorted and crossed his arms while pinching the sleeves of his black knit sweater so as to not let them slide up.

“Says the person who keeps picking at their face like no tomorrow. Without bandages, mind you. At this rate-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll sort myself out, alright?” Mingi winced as his tongue darted to the scabbed over gash on the side of his mouth, making you exhale sharply, bemused. You could sense him taking his words back with a shake of the head. One step back, another, and in a quiet mumble he added: “...at the next rest stop we’ll fuel up the truck, fuel ourselves and maybe get a proper first aid kit.”

“Sounds good.”

Turning one of the many rings on his fingers, your friend could not hold your gaze and resorted to studying the ornate silver patterns and precious embedded stones. It had been the same when he had first offered this way out for you. A man, supposedly tall and impressive in physique, but appearing so small as he stumbled over his words, one idea pouring and drowning another out until they connected like a puzzle and formulated a vision that was somewhat concrete. Though, even if there was no final agreement in his mind, you would have agreed anyway. All that mattered was that each sentence carried a ‘we’. And with that, you were more than happy.

Was it long ago that you had met him? It felt like eternity. You could not imagine any other life, at least not one where you had a chance at happiness. Sure, you had your fights and squabbles. It would be a big lie if you were to say everything was sunshine and rainbows. Both snappy and hot headed at times, you had each said a fair share of things you did not want to say. But it was the awareness and growing from mistakes that had led you to where you were now. You had both walked through some dark times, and ended up in the golden hour, surrounded by an equally glowing expanse of flora, reaping what you two had sowed.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t get it, I know I have the thing on my cheek but… hate to break it to you, you don’t have healing powers,” ever so logical, Mingi was, once again, trying to establish a chain of thought. You had gotten better at explaining your thinking out loud, as did he, but in times where you were particularly wistful, words escaped you.

“I don’t know…”

“As if I do. Are you hungry?”

“I’m not a cat-”

“Then why?” he chuckled, lips automatically stretching into a toothy grin as you chuckled.

“‘Cause I can.”

“Okay then,” a breath escaped you as you stared at his hand, suddenly falling to meet the car’s surface and looked up to see him leaning over, staring intently at you. Through you. Like he could read you. Any courage you had disappeared, and you shook your head in defeat.

“Fine, fine,” how could someone put into words the feeling of wanting to picture an individual in everything and everyone? 

How could you say that even in the grass that surrounded you, in the long winding roads, in the cloudy skies you were glad to be able to see Mingi. It had been a lifetime indeed. A lifetime of seeing him without realising it, a lifetime of looking forward to being together with him and falling apart when you weren’t, and now, when you were side by side with only the sun, moon and empty fields to bear witness, you were scared to blink. Like all this time would disappear. Priceless seconds. Mingi was merciful enough to note a tinge of nervousness, and backed away. It was obvious enough that he did not quite let your reaction go, but neither you nor him were ever ones to push further than necessary and beyond the other’s personal limits. 

“Right, time to get going if we want to make it to the barn by midnight.”

“Okay.”

“Want to ride in the back or-”

“With you,” you did not mean to sound so ambiguous, but thankfully as Mingi was busy opening the door to the driver’s seat, he did not catch on, or courteously did not pry.

“Ah, you’re right. It’ll be getting cold pretty quickly, won’t it?” 

As if you were not wrapped up and huddled in the bunch of blankets, backpacks and crocheted pillows just last night when you were parked at the last rest stop, silently accepting your friend’s reassurance as you mourned a past you were not going to miss. He knew what you were going through, and so he stuck beside you instead of heading for those plasters when he technically could have. 

“A few hours won’t change these little cuts, but they can change you, and I’d rather be here so you’re not alone.”

The phrase resonated in your heart as you took your place beside Mingi, staring out at the windshield. With a quick glance to your left you could just catch his reflection in the glass, and with another tilt, the man himself. His plush lips, the beautiful curve of his nose, how the black-framed glasses that he had fished out of the cupholder between you suited him so well. Focused, he turned the key until a satisfying rumble consumed the vehicle, signifying its awakening. On instinct, Mingi’s arms flew to their respective positions, and he drove out of the improvised parking spot back out to the infinite line of cement - the one sign of civilization that had the ability to assure you that you were indeed going in the right direction. Since Mingi was familiar with this part of the country, however, you would not have minded even a sudden, more wild change in the scenery. 

Choosing to not surf the radio stations in search of something remotely tolerable, you drove to the sound of your musings and let the last of the grey haze wash over you before the sun that was concealed by the thick cloud would inevitably fall into a slumber. For the first time in a while, you could enjoy the quiet without it being interrupted by a cacophony of inner qualms and disturbing rage. You could catch the occasional note from Mingi’s humming - a habit of his that you had grown to love. Every time, it was something unexpected. Be it a tune he was making up on the spot or one that you were familiar with, you never tired of how his thoughts travelled, and were delighted by the soundtrack which he was subconsciously crafting for the life you just so happened to share. Serendipity, writing a future that Mingi was taking you towards.

The idea he had proposed might have been radical, but it was the only one that made sense. Besides, it was not going to cause any harm. At the end of the day, the property belonged to a distant relative, said relative had no use for it, so… the conclusion and final decision basically made itself. The act to mark an entry into being your new self had to be grand, a lot more grand than what you had already done, and Mingi, being a creative mind, of course could be trusted to invent a performance of the century. Just for you.

A dreamlike day turned into an equally surreal evening as you halted at the gas station attached to the last rest stop of your adventure, with Mingi’s call dragging you out of your thoughts. You confirmed to him that you were fine with a quick smile and followed him out of the trusty Dodge. Patiently, you idled about as Mingi unscrewed the opening to the fuel tank and reached for one of the nozzles, rolling a stray piece of gravel under your shoes. Crickets, a myriad of crickets hidden under the cover of nighttime launched into a crescendo of their trill song, so much so that the buzz of the fluorescent lamp that illuminated the lonely station was almost completely drowned out. A light touch on your upper arm alerted you that Mingi was done, and you promptly followed him to the convenience store.

As though by newly found habit, he gravitated towards the bright red canisters lined up by the register, while you gave him a wary glance before ambling towards the ready to eat meals. Soon enough, Mingi joined you, satisfied by his quick perusal, and with a basket in his hand. Without a word, he picked up your favourite snack and was about to toss it in:

“This one, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

It never failed to be amusing how, despite the innumerable occasions when you two had eaten together, Mingi still liked to check with you that your favourite foods were, in fact, still your favourite foods. You had to admit that it was very endearing and comforting to you. Without even considering it, he always gave you room for change, in every way you could imagine. Or maybe you were exaggerating and letting your fantasies speak for themselves. You could not help but dart your eyes at Mingi when he turned his back to you, spotting the two beaded necklaces you had made for him some time ago still being a part of his usual outfit. And so, you wondered, how large was the room for transformation? What could this brand new future of yours include?

“Ah… wait… band aids… should we get that… What was it? Antiseptic-”

“You said a whole kit.”

“Right. Let’s go try and find it… wait what if they don’t stock one?” eyebrows weighed down with doubt, Mingi looked at you like he was about to apologise. You sighed, moving to run a hand down his back. The gesture startled Mingi, but he did not stop you, instead choosing to wait it out and see your intentions. You noticed him lightly biting his lower lip as he stared back at you, perplexed.

“We’ll find the essentials then. It’s not like we are disappearing from society for the rest of time, yeah?”

“Yeah…” had he continued, you swore he would have expressed his wish for what you had joked about to be the case. Luckily, you were pleasantly surprised by the wide selection of items to pick from, and left confident in the remainder of your trip.

In the fluorescence of the small store, and then inside of the parked car as you devoured your pre-made dinner, you were suspended in pure bliss. To your right was your partner in everything, friend or however your silly racing heart wanted to call him. Above you, the stars - a vista worth driving further out from the rest stop for. Propped up on the cushions, this was your definition of heavenly and healing. Colours had regained their vibrancy, and finally, you were no longer too fatigued to notice the intricacy of things that had previously passed you by. Who could have guessed that the packaging of the sandwiches you used to buy before work to throw in the office fridge had changed? And apparently a bit of time ago, too? What else have you been missing? For certain, you had been missing out on times like this, where you could hold a comfortable pause with Mingi, simply enjoying each other’s company while digging into your meals. It was astonishing to think how many breakfasts, lunches and dinners that you could have had with the one person who always believed in you were ripped away from you by obligation and unwanted routine. Not for longer. 

“Mingi.”

“Hm?” he hummed while chewing, eyes widened as he turned towards you. Quickly enough, he swallowed the bite, and waited for you to continue.

“I’m glad… that we can be here like this.”

“Oh… I…” at a loss for words, he let himself swim in your spontaneous confession.

“I am just… happy. Very happy. Thank you. Thank you for being the one who I can trust, thank you for sticking with me through complete and utter chaos, thank you for being you,” the words came naturally, buried under layers of hurt that needed time to evaporate. But now, the ritualistic expedition was wondrous in combating your inner demons, and in turn, let you speak for yourself, for your own feelings rather than those of illusory authority that had previously spoken for and was in charge of your every action, whether you were aware of it or not.

“No biggie. Things get in the way sometimes, but we’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Yes, that we are.”

“It’s going to get even easier soon, just you wait.”

A hand in midair, waiting for you to lift yours and meet it. Confused, you did so automatically, yelping when Mingi moved it closer to himself, and in a swift motion planted a soft, almost shy kiss on the back. He was careful to not put any pressure on the cuts which he had just re-cleaned and covered, along with the miniature wounds that only found themselves under the stinging alcohol solution, but kept on holding onto you, debating whether you would let him stay like this to his heart’s content, or if you would pull away. The tips of his digits reached the bracelet, and you could imagine a thrum of kindred energy reconnecting the item and the man. Shock prevented you from acting rashly, and so you simply read the fire in Mingi’s sparkling eyes, your favourite blaze that helped you out of a chasm, one that you would protect with your entire being until the world collapsed on you. And even then, you would stand up and try again.

Relief was evident in his features, from the curling of his lips to the relaxing of his shoulders. Clearly, an unfathomable pressure was lifted from his exhausted body. Every mile travelled, you were making revelations, it seemed. Venturing into the unknown, you were not quite sure who you were looking at anymore. Of course, you were confident in his name, in his presence, in his significance, but the many roles which he played in your years on this tiny planet left you struggling for words. Who was Mingi to you? Who were you to Mingi? Long gone were the days where you two had been moderately content with a distant and rapidly cooling friendship separated by glass and busy schedules. You were close. So close, that if the recklessness of acting on instinct caught up with you, you would get burned. 

Burning, like your hand despite Mingi having let it float in solitude some time ago to stand up and hop out of the back of the pickup truck. Set ablaze like your heart and soul that were feverishly awaiting a shining dawn. Your tired eyes could only watch your one wish turn the key in the ignition again, determined to help you start over. Could he be your sun? If you were to say anything more than a hollow whisper to the moon, would you fall away and lose him? You were about to bring the fingers of your left hand to run over the other, but you stopped, remembering Mingi’s comedically stern words. Instead, you imagined him pressing his lips against it again, heat rising to your cheeks upon recollection. A quick glance to the driver’s seat, and you could swear you caught the ghost of a smirk dancing across your so-called friend’s face, but chose not to comment so as to not spark a conversation you knew you would not be able to continue. 

“We’ll be there soon. There’s a neat shortcut we can take so it shouldn’t take us more than an hour.”

You nodded, trusting his judgement. Your thoughts were elsewhere, anyways and could not offer many suggestions in terms of the journey. These parts were foreign to you, and your decision-making here was as good as whenever you had a professional point to prove or a dream to follow; both flew out of your hands to be smited. At least in the case of the meandering roads, you had Mingi to shield you, letting you wander in your own mindscape for as long as you needed. The mind was a mysterious place, traversing memories both from years ago and ones that documented your most recent escapades much the same, though, maybe now they were all in brighter hues. The last of what was tying you down was packed and stashed right behind you and Mingi, both in the tiny space between the seats and the back of the cabin as well as in the exposed trunk outside. The monochrome madness stuffed into rucksacks, swaddled in sheets like a crying infant manifesting your prayers for the noise of a prior existence to cease demanding your attention. You were ready to let it all turn to ash, and be reborn.

It was fascinating how quick Mingi was to jump into action. Part of you wondered whether it was due to the times you had helped him, and he wished to somehow repay you. Or was this a genuine devotion? As the road turned into an unruly dirt path, you were certain it was the latter.

‘It’s our journey. I might not know everything that’s going on behind your forehead, and you would not know that about me, but the least we can do is stick through the worst storms.’

The grumbling of the engine turned into a roar as Mingi’s heavy combat boot pushed down even stronger on the accelerator. When people spent enough time together, they were bound to become more and more similar; such was the case with you and him. Parts had been exchanged, parts blended, and it was hard to think of a picture where there was a lack of the other’s presence in some form. Be it in behaviour or in little bits of jewellery. Mingi was driving selfishly, because he was driving for you and for the few breaths of air you had remaining in your lungs after holding up boulders of others’ opportunities at the cost of your own passions. There was experience, there was development, but there was also a need for self-preservation and a necessity to stop for the sake of health and mental clarity, and Mingi was not about to lose you. 

“D’ya want to roll the window down? You…” used to do that when you and him were teens. He did not have to say it. No matter the weather, even if for a few seconds, you wanted to be one with the air, a flightless bird that finally got a chance to glide with the wind, pleasantly lost in the elements. Maybe one day you could return to that same carefree nature. You shook your head.

“It’s a little cold outside.”

“How about this…” while slowing down a little to not lose control of the car, Mingi reached around and behind his seat, fishing for something. Finally, having found what he was looking for, he flashed a triumphant grin and produced his dark grey denim jacket, letting it land on your lap.

You raised an eyebrow, unsure of what your friend was implying. But as soon as the first hint of a breeze hit you and you saw the window start its slow descent under Mingi’s command, a chuckle escaped you. So it was not a question after all, but an encouragement, perhaps even a challenge. Giving in, you pulled the jacket over yourself like a blanket, and stared at the all-knowing constellations that decorated the cosmic expanse - the best reminder of just how small you really were, and to what priceless insignificance your troubles amounted to. In the grand scheme of things, nothing really mattered, and so, you did not see anything as ‘too out of pocket’ anymore. Might as well enjoy life instead of letting it race past you for once.

It was a mystery to you when you fell asleep; you could only recall the ghostly pale silver and ashen blue that spread over the wheat fields and another serene, barely audible serenade hummed by Mingi. But just as quickly as you had drifted into a dreamless slumber, you jolted awake at the sound of your name being repeated once, twice by your best friend. Momentarily lost, you waited for your vision to focus before following the sounds of the truck door clicking shut and of rubber soles hitting gravel by fumbling for the handle. As soon as you opened the salon, you were embraced in full by the omnipresent hum of wildlife and distant rustle of leaves and tall grass, the field at which you stopped having been long abandoned and left barren, with only dirt to present as a fruit of labour.

Stepping onto the soft earth, you could feel the cool dampness beneath your shoes, a tactile reminder of the quiet countryside that surrounded you as far as the eye could see. Mingi, his presence like a comforting shield in the stillness of the night, paused in his search for the tools he had packed. A profound hush settled over the landscape, prompting you to tilt your head and look on further, to spot the target barely a couple hundred metres away. So this was it. The promised sacrifice. The place where the past could finally quit holding on to you and tearing you apart. The abandoned barn loomed ahead like a relic from another universe and a time long gone.

The moonlight painted the barn in ethereal shades, casting a melancholic beauty upon its worn facade. Mingi's eyes held the weight of a thousand untold stories and observations, and in the quiet exchange of glances, you detected a shared understanding – a recognition that you had the right, and more than deserved to forgive yourself, and throw away the hurt you had accumulated over the years with a light heart. He stood beside you, holding onto the sacks that you had stuffed full of items that haunted you, mutely berated you and induced agonising ruminations. Papers, trinkets, utter garbage that you had never been able to throw out on your own, all collected like nightmare capsules and you were more than elated to bid them farewell.

He had not yet taken off his glasses, eager to move onwards and upwards. One of these days you might muster up the courage to tell Mingi just how handsome he was in whatever style he chose, but that was a mission for a more courageous you. From tonight into the myriad of tomorrows. Your partner in self-revolution stretched his arms towards you, gingerly passing the hefty items over and waiting for you to get a better grip. To think that there were clouds of buzzing paranoia and dread attached to either one - suffocating, persistent.

While regarding Mingi’s tranquil resolve, you discovered a sliver of a near-boyish excitement, so characteristic of him before growing pains had changed your relationship and all that came with it, that your heart ached, and a prickly sensation made itself known on the back of your hand where he had left a solitary peck. And yet, he still was not giving up on you. From the pocket of his jeans - appearing to take on the shade of a washed out chrome under the shining skies, Mingi produced a box of matches, and upon leaning closer to the truck, grasped the handle of a stick protruding from a miniature canister. More than enough to carry out the impending transformation. Mingi’s stunning orbs met yours, and without words, he conveyed a mixture of determination and sorrow, a silent promise and cheer for the grand finale.

"Here’s to letting go, and to holding on to the things that make us right," he uttered, his voice carrying the power of a truth that echoed in the night air.

“Then… I’ll be right back.”

“I will be here. Cousin said everything’s unlocked. Put things in places where the fire’ll reach.”

One step. Another. Walk turning into run, you chased after who you wished to become and propelled yourself with unprecedented pride. You could do this. With one quick push the door to the barn creaked open, and you made haste in lining the walls with who you used to be. You could taste ash on your tongue and see the fire in your pupils even though you were consumed by pitch black; here, you had the final say. Upon throwing the sacks into whatever direction, you felt your way back out, and returned to Mingi who, apparently, had the time to reposition the car a little to have the back be facing the barn. With a mischievous grin he greeted you, and pulled you into a quick embrace before giving you a matchstick and the box and leading the two of you to the structure one last time.

This had been an agreement between you - you were the one to light the first flame, and he was the one to do the rest. Though this was a journey of healing, he did not wish for you to delude yourself into a guilt-ridden state. Mingi could bear the brunt of that for you and wear it like a badge of honour. As though patrolling the grounds, he went in a circle around the barn, leaving behind the acrid stench of splattered gasoline. Suddenly, the act felt more and more real. A yelp caught in your throat as Mingi shoved the empty canister inside through a loose wooden board, now only holding onto the unlit torch. Gazed at you, awaiting the monumental execution. 

Trembling just a little, on the third try you managed to light the match, and stepped to the building full of your painful memories. the flames danced in the blackness like whispers of farewell. As you approached the ancient barn with Mingi in toe, the match's glow illuminated the grains of wood that had weathered countless storms. The night seemed to draw its breath, as though it sensed the profound act about to unfold. Outstretching the judgement between your fingers, you hesitated for a fleeting moment. The gravity of the act hung heavy – the acknowledgment that setting fire to the past was a painful necessity for new beginnings. Nevertheless, you were certain. The barn, with its history that you will never learn, became a symbol of surrender, resilience and perseverance. Holding your breath, you dropped the match, but when the result did not satisfy you, you sensed a wave of rage. You wanted more, you needed it all gone from sight and experience. 

“Mingi.”

“Hm?”

“The torch, please.”

“Oh?”

“Please.”

With a silent understanding, Mingi raised the torch, the flames licking eagerly at its edges, and passed it to you. The blade that would slash through it all. The full stop at the end of this turbulent chapter. As you touched the fire to the barn, a crackling symphony echoed through the night. The dry wood, with the base generously coated in gasoline caught quickly, and soon the barn was ablaze, a kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, and yellows against the backdrop of the moonlit fields.

The flames danced with an insatiable hunger, consuming the old wood with a fervour that mirrored the intensity of emotions in the hearts of the witnesses. Shadows flickered and danced on the ground, casting ephemeral images of what once was, each crackle of the fire a poignant reminder of the release happening before your eyes. Mingi turned to you, his eyes reflecting the blaze that mirrored the intensity of his and your emotions. In that poignant moment, the warmth of the fire contrasted with the chill in the night air, echoing the bittersweet nature of letting go.

"We are making room for something new," he whispered before pulling you into a long-awaited kiss, as searing and filled with longing as the soaring flames that illuminated your bodies. The crackling fire served as a cathartic release, and in its glow, you saw promise. As soon as you parted, the two of you rushed to the truck, climbing to take the front seats to admire the masterpiece, not daring to sit apart, holding onto each other through it all.

As the fire continued its dance, the night bore witness to the act of relinquishing the old, a solemn ritual that paved the way to more and more. Together, you and Mingi stood amidst the mesmerising spectacle, your hearts intertwined with the rhythm of the burning, ready to step into the unknown and shape a destiny yet to unfold.

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[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. III -43 Tallies-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 3/5 ~5.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Forced together by the mists and lost in a strange new land, our four strangers run into a grim omen along their path and a fork in their road. The Ghost, the Rebel, the Charmer, and the Holy Man finally reveal their names where the deadmen carve their messages on the bones of trees. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Time seems timeless in this place. 

No light wanders behind shaded skies, no sun, no stars. All the heavens diffused entirely behind grey skies hung so low the tops of the barren trees stretch their fingers to touch the clouds. A heavy shroud without breath, suffocating the land. Grasses greyed and withered, thin as straw, dry as hay. Their stalks rustle lightly in the rain with an endless shifting that carries the mind to places beyond. Luring thoughts away from the land like a dream.

Left in the rustling silence, Emet’s mind wanders.

The dim dissonance with the world bringing back memories of a darkened shop thick with the scent of paper and leather. Of a worktable scattered with various tools and thread, half sewn signatures left in a neat stack beside a half drunk and forgotten glass of wine as he remeasures a board and pares the edges of supple smooth leather, the scrapings curling across his fingers. Of candlelight flickering long through the sunken day, windows ever cast in the shadows of spires. Of night slipping over the city like a thief, light fingers pocketing the sun in velvet black without so much as a blink of notice from the little shop. The candles burning ever bright, the day’s end only realized when the flame flickers thin and the darkness steals the workman’s light.

Fingers pricked with needle thin scars and paper thin cuts lighting another candle. Hair loosely tied back, a few strands always slipping free as he smooths the marked tape along a new edge and carefully notes the measurements with a tailor’s precision. Of a guillotine blade sliding through a stack of vellum and trimming its edges to a fine point, a perfect block to be folded. Of the smooth texture of bone between his fingers, the gentle scrape as he runs the folder across the edge of a bent sheet, turning a bowed page into a sharp crease. Glue sticks to his wrist from a missed spot on the wooden table, the book shaping in his mind before its pieces are folded and glued and sewn together. 

And all the while, the quiet loneliness whispering at his back with a phantom silence. Not of presence, but absence. Empty. The weight of a space where someone should be, infinitely loud in its stillness. Its siren voice chased away by the endless work. Its words unheard and yet unignored. Every movement his, every breath slipped through his teeth with no other lips to catch it. Scarred hands reaching for tools no other fingers brush across. And all the while knowing when he finally stops, the kitchen will be empty, the home devoid of spiced currents in the air, the bed cold. The bitterness left in tasting the flavors of an old life when you know now the sweetness of another.

“There is a scent of death.”

Emet’s attention snaps from lullaby memories. The holy man stopped along the muddy road, bent nose turned up and sniffing the air.

“Maybe undeath.”

The blades are in Emet’s hands before the old human even finishes his sentence. The broken glaive hanging dangerously from his hand, vicious tip polished to perfection and flashing brilliantly in the dim light. A stark contrast against the dark bloodstained cloth wrapped around its shattered haft. 

The charmer knocks an arrow into his charred longbow with the fluidity of someone who has fired it under dire circumstances. A faint scent of smoke whispers past as his fingers tug the string lightly, ready for trouble. 

“I don’t like this,” the rebel whispers, slipping her arm through a shield—a small round thing of black and gold painted metal. A coil of whip hangs from her belt but she reaches for metal instead. The short blade slips free of its sheath with a faint hushed breath.

The all too familiar stench of death doesn’t yet reach Emet’s nose, but he has no reason to doubt the holy man in this. Eyes flickering through the mist, resentment wraps itself around Emet’s chest and burns through his scars. But there is no place for spitting out what has been earned because of the hand that offers it. Not when it comes to undeath. Emet calls on his forsaken power. Soul reaching out beyond himself with clawed grasping hands ready to take what might be denied, he stretches out his inner self toward a god he isn’t sure will answer. Toward a god who heard his screams and turned away.

Power floods through Emet’s irises in a dim display. Pale grey light ignites his faded eyes in a hollow glow burning with ghost fire, and though they do not shine with the brilliant white of beacons as they once did, the divine sense is not gone entirely. Not yet.

The rebel glances up at him with an unreadable expression, but he ignores her and scans the mists around them. If anything undead or fiendish in nature lurks nearby, the divine power flowing through him will draw his attentions like someone taking his chin and gently pointing him toward unseen dangers. But no phantom fingers grace his scarred jaw or pull at his divinely heightened senses. Whatever smells of death here must then truly be dead.

Giving a nod to continue on, the holy man presses forward with the slow and quiet feet of a hunter stalking its prey. The faded light falls from Emet’s eyes after a moment and he feels the divine slip away from him with a cold chill. The rebel still stares at him with narrowed eyes and uplifted brow, but her lips remain sealed. Whatever question lurks in her mind, he suspects she no longer needs to ask it. A curiosity that seems less about the ability and more about the person wielding it. 

Though he no longer wears his holy symbol or any sign of faith emblazoned on his person, no trace of a past better left buried, it is not uncommon knowledge to those of faith that only paladins—knights of gods—are blessed with such an ability. And Emet realizes he’s let something of himself slip in front of knowing eyes.

The rebel’s lips part—

The scent finally reaches them.

Sickly sweet and turning the stomach with a heavy wave of bile. Both enticing and revolting in that way only death can be. Corpse rot. There’s no doubt. Not but fifteen feet down the road, a human body decomposes half off the path with arms outreached toward the road as though it breathed its last in a desperate crawl. A young man once, clothes torn by brambles and thorns with flesh pockmarked by the beaks of birds feasting on an easy meal. A tarnished copper compass spills out from that outstretched hand, its red needle trembling and twisting uncertainly as though unable to find North.

The holy man kneels beside the body and looks it over without touching the overly soft and rain sodden flesh. The boy’s skin shifts across his bones with gelatinous ripples as the old man accidentally shifts the mud in taking a knee. A slimy sheen has already settled over the pale flesh like melted fat. Long strips and sharp pecks break through the wet surface to expose the black and purple insides, dark as a bruise, the blood long clotted and rotting. White bone peaks out from cheeks a fingertips, the nose half consumed. The birds have eaten well.

The holy man narrates his findings softly. Scratches from branches and brush, gaunt flesh, sunken eyes—what remains of them, at least—but no visible mortal wounds. The young man died from exhaustion of all things. The holy man’s eyes take on a dark and certain stain when he says the word. 

Exhaustion.

How the holy man knows, Emet isn’t sure. But he never was the best at healing during training. Healing required not just blind faith like those outside of holy orders assume when they beg healers to fix their every ailing, but also knowledge of medicine. A bone cannot be knit together without knowing how its structure is woven together. A crushed hand cannot be reconstructed if one does not understand the pattern of nerves and vessels, tendon and ligament. Or rather, it will heal with faith alone, but it will never be the same again without knowledge behind it.

Emet has always been better at the unmaking…perhaps that’s why they were put together during training. 

Him and Azemir. 

Wrapped eternally like wax around the cold stillness of Emet’s heart, his name brings warmth to the hollows of Emet’s soul where nothing grows. Ever a flame without shadow, a sun without night. Healing and warmth have always been more of Azem’s specialty and Emet wonders how long it will be before he can touch those healing hands and feel their warmth. How far he must go to set things right again. When they will talk without so much distance between them. Or if whatever has happened in these mists will delay his journey. He will walk a hundred lifetimes seeking a way back if that’s what it takes. He will carry the weight of that name forever.

Sickening chills drift and trail cold fingers across Emet’s body snuffing out the thin flame of Azem’s name within his soul—always touching, always grasping. He shudders and crawls within his own skin wanting to shrink away, wanting to claw them off. They touch and grasp and choke and scream—

The calming coolness of one washes away all the others for but a moment. And Emet can breathe. Just one breath. Before they drift back like the sea and cling to him as algae on an anchor. But it’s enough. Why they grow restless, he doesn’t always know. Perhaps a reminder of the promise he made them so it doesn’t settle unfulfilled.

Emet’s eyes follow the old man’s ministrations with that name balanced delicately on the tip of his tongue. The way the old man’s rough and calloused hands move light as feathers over the boy’s corpse as though the kid can feel anything anymore. Pain is beyond him now, but still the old man moves gently. Emet isn’t sure what he is searching for. Perhaps some other answer than the one he already knows and something in the holy man’s expression settles like wet sand over a stone when he finds no other. The warm candle flame in his eyes dimming beneath a cold and familiar wind.

The old man rests a hand over the boy’s rotting one in a strange gesture of comfort. Bowing his smooth shaved head, he whispers blessings beneath his breath. Emet isn’t sure why the old man bothers. There’s nothing left to save.

Nudging the broken compass after his prayers and looking to where the boy’s hand falls, the holy man quirks his mouth sadly. Perhaps seeing another blessing where there is none.

“The boy was going this way,” he points to the opposite side of the wagon trail toward a tree bearing faint tally marks—43 of them. An arrow carved into its bark points away from the muddy road toward a thin path cutting deeper into the woods. A jagged knife cut through the trees, all but unnoticed if it weren’t for the arrow to point the way.

“You want to follow the dead’s path,” Emet asks incredulously.

“Why not?” The charmer steps over the rotting corpse’s outstretched arm to get a better look at the path behind the body rather than ahead, “He’s probably a criminal trying to leave, so I’d say follow where he came from and we’ll find civilization.”

“Why would you say he’s a criminal?”

“Why else would he be out here?”

“Why are we out here,” the rebel counters.

The holy man looks up from body, “And we are not criminals.”

The rebel gives the holy man a nod, “What the old man said.”

“I am not that old.”

Emet looks over the kneeling holy man. Crows feet spiderweb out from his eyes into well worn paths, tracing old channels. Deep lines folding into the leather of his human face, ripples and cracks where great emotion has marked it forever in memory. The echos of pain and joy held forever in weathered lines. Calloused rough hands scarred with the burden of much hardship dust off his knees as the holy man stands from the corpse. But no light cracks and pops fill the air as his bones settle. And he springs back from his crouch with ease, not even bothering to lean on his shepherd’s staff. The skin past his toughened hands bears much scarring and yet a youthful smoothness. 

If he is not old, then he lived a life full of immeasurable hardship.

The holy man quirks his head to the side and returns Emet’s stare, “Why are you looking at me like you are reading stones in the sand?”

“Human ages are a bit difficult for elves to determine,” Emet admits.

“I am thirty-two.”

The charmer and rebel both snort.

“Nah, mate,” the rebel crosses her arms and grins, “You’re at least sixty.”

“I am not lying.”

She smiles, “Whatever, old man.”

The holy man scrubs his scrawled salt and pepper beard, gesturing off to Emet, “I am not old, he is old. Elves are always old.”

Emet concedes that with a shrug. He’s already lived more years than most of those with him could hope to ever reach and lifetimes before that.

“Yet he looks closer to thirty-two than you, old man,” the rebel continues, picking her nails with a sly grin.

“That is because he is an elf.”

“And I’m not?”

The holy man sighs.

“Ah, I’m just fucking with you, grandpa” she chuckles, “I know I’m half human.”

“You are half—what are you doing?”

The charmer barely pauses his light-fingered search of the dead boy’s pockets, finding more interest in stealing from the dead than their idle chatter. The holy man is about to admonish him further when the tiefling carelessly flips the body onto its stomach and continues his search through pockets.

The holy hand throws up a hand, all conversation on age and good looks forgotten.

“Eh! Eh! Devil boy! Respect the dead! I already took his compass if that is what you are looking for.”

The charmer ignores him, his hands continuing to wander across the ragged clothes and slipping into the pockets and folds as though it is a dance they have performed many times before. His fingers wander with a speed born of practice, seeking whatever the dead may hide. But his search is fruitless, the tiefling finding little more than a small pocket knife like used to carve the tree with its 43 tallies. He turns the small blade this way and that in his red hands, dark nails tracing the edge before pricking his thumb atop the tip. No blood flows along the blunted edge.

With one quick toss, the useless blade flies over his shoulder, “I’m a bit too far gone for respecting the dead at this point.”

The holy man frowns deeply, those ancient lines creasing in old paths. He turns away from the grim display and takes out his feather once more. Whispering more quiet words meant only for the far reaching ears of gods, the old man holds the brilliant feather out before him like a candle in the dark. After a breath, he releases the stem and watches it flutter listlessly to the wet ground. The stem settles first in the mud, its tip angling lightly toward the deadman’s path.

“I think we should go this way.”

Emet’s lips curl into a faint snarl, “How much faith do you have in that feather?”

“A lot of faith.”

“Do you honestly trust that more than the actual, factual compass you have in your other hand?” The rebel asks with no small amount of skepticism, the moment of warmth shared between them only a moment ago blowing away with the breeze.

“It has never lead me wrong, nor has my god. Besides,” the holy man tosses the tarnished bronze compass to the rebel, “this does nothing. It is broken.”

“I can’t fucking map-read,” she growls as she snatches it from the air with a loud clang as the compass hits the edge of her shield. The rebel palms the bronze and glass bauble in her hands, watching it a moment and expecting the needle to settle. But the sharp red spine continues to wobble and spin as though unsure.

Her eyes narrow, “I don’t think it’s meant to do that.”

“I have never had a compass,” the holy man shrugs, “but I did not think so.”

“Hey, poncy bloke,” the rebel looks up at Emet, “You look like you know how to use this kind of shit.”

Emet arcs a sharp brow at the nickname. In the absence of anyone having offered up their names, it was inevitable they’d all call each other something. But poncy bloke? Not exactly his first guess. Most people went with ‘giant’ or ‘tower’. He’s even heard ‘statue’. 

The rebel’s arm swings out with the compass and all the world slows. Emet’s breath catches and his eyes lock on that approaching hand like a blade plummeting toward his gut. For a moment he can’t see, his vision crystalizing on that hand and blurring all the world around it as he instinctively steps away before he’s even realized what he’s done. His body moving without thought, shifting back as though about to be skewered in a fight before the moment ends and only an open palm offering a compass hangs before him. 

A strange look crosses the half-elf’s face. 

Emet thought he was starting to get better about this. Hand-shakes, fingers brushing when taking a drink from a server’s hands, shoulders getting bumped in a crowded tavern. All of these things he could handle with a steadying breath. But all of those things are expected touches. Expected moments that he can predict and prepare for, ready his nerves to stand firm. But the more unexpected the approach, the more he steps back into the shelter of himself like a fox cornered between stones with nowhere to run from the wolf’s shadow. And his body reacts with all it knows in that moment. Fear.

Emet shifts his blade arm deeper beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulder, drawing attention away from the hand wrapped tightly around the glaive’s broken haft with a light cough as he forces his clenched fingers to release. He breathes, thankful he did not draw steel this time. 

Acting as though nothing happened, Emet stiffly leans over when the rebel gives the compass a little shake, beckoning him to take a look. Her face immediately screws up, recoiling as though he’s some shit-faced drunk at the bar thick with the scent of whiskey and lust and offering her the best lay of her life. Emet doesn’t understand the shift in her expression a moment before he realizes he’s a very large man looming over this young woman despite the distance his previous reaction put between them. The half-elf’s discomfort is readily apparent and Emet quickly puts some space between them after a brief glance down at the compass.

“No, it’s not supposed to do that,” he says gently.

The compass disappears in one of the rebel’s belt pouches as she shuffles away from him, risking a look over to the holy man as though asking him to interpret what the hell just happened. The old man only shrugs lightly.

Everything is going wrong, that’s what happened.

He almost apologizes, but the words catch in his throat. What if doing so makes them ask why he practically jumped away from her. Those aren’t questions he’s ready to answer, so better to not give an opportunity for them to be asked.

“So we have a feather, a broken compass, and I’m hoping you’re a tracker,” Emet says to the charmer, trying to plough through and trample into dust whatever walls this disaster of a conversation brought up before anyone thinks too hard on it.

The tiefling regards him a moment before flicking away a piece of dried grass twirling between his long fingers, “I rely on instinct and I’m with the old man on this one. His dumb feather pointed to where I wanted to go anyways.”

“Thank you, young boy,” the holy man nods.

“Watch it.”

“You keep calling me ‘old man’, why can’t I call you ‘young boy’. It is better than ‘devil boy’, no?”

“You’re fair game,” the tiefling bites back, “I’m not.”

Emet pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Would it not be better to call each other by our actual names instead of these substitutes.” He cuts a glance at the rebel to his side, “Creative as they are.”

The charmer scoffs, “Let’s not get sentimental.”

“First names, then.”

The holy man’s eyes widen incredulously, face scrunching as though Emet just suggested the moon is an illusion, “I only have one name. Are you supposed to have more?”

“Typically…Your name and a family name.”

The rebel murmurs something under her breath about having too many.

“That is a…weird revelation, but okay.” The holy man lifts his hand in greeting, “My name is Roshan, but you can call me ‘old man’ if you like.”

“Emet. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Both the charmer and rebel suddenly find great interest in some moss on a tree and a particularly long strand of dried grass as Emet and Roshan’s attentions fall on them in expectant silence. 

“I can just call you ‘devil boy’ and ‘lovely elf lady’ if you want,” Roshan offers.

The charmer rolls his eyes and flicks away the chunk of moss, “Evrrot. You can call me Evrrot.”

Kicking a loose stone on the ground, the rebel keeps her voice low. Perhaps hoping no one will actually hear her, “Most people call me Evie.”

Roshan nods after each one, fingers twirling in his beard as though he can tie each name to his memory, “Emet, Evrrot, Evie. Everyone is an ‘E’. That is strange, but okay.”

“So we’re done here?” Evrrot asks, “Everyone all happy with their little names?”

He walks off down the deadman’s path without waiting for an answer, abruptly ending the conversation that was more akin to pulling teeth than basic introductions. Roshan quickly follows with a grin, resuming his practice of trying to walk ahead of Evrrot, further irritating the charmer tiefling into a faster pace.

Emet and Evie watch them hastily disappear between the trees, left behind again. Realization slowly dawns on them as they share another look that this will likely be their shared fate quite often in the days ahead.

“You know,” Evie says, “I get the feeling that wherever we go, we’re gonna end up in the same place anyways.”

“As do I,” Emet sighs. 

“We could just keep following this muddy slop road and they’d probably end up right behind us.” She shrugs, “We could just go.”

“Tempting, though I get the feeling we shouldn’t be separating in a place like this.” He glances around the dark and silent forest pointedly, the mists shifting into strange shapes and shadows in the distance.

“Mmm, probably right,” she groans. “Come on then.”

Evie ushers Emet ahead of her and they follow the already fading silhouettes of Evrrot and Roshan. Both still vie for who gets to lead without there ever being a winner. Though from the near permanent curl to the old human’s lips, Emet suspects Roshan takes the game itself as a win.

The arrow carved into the tree above forty-three sharp tallies—every slash bearing down harder than the last, the groupings becoming more sporadic and wild, telling a tale of madness and desperation—points them down a narrow footpath. The trail is thin, quickly forcing them into a line as the trees and brush crowd in eagerly to either side. Branches reaching out to snag on their clothes and boots sinking in the thick slosh of earth. Roshan and Evrrot are forced to relinquish their game of footsie. ‘Devil boy’ comes out on top as he slips ahead of the holy man through a rather narrow bend where two barren trees crowd as desperately close as lovers in a storm. Despite the loss, Roshan casts a secret little amused grin toward him and Evie. A promise their game is far from over.

Though the scent of decay and rot gradually gave way to bitterly sharp winter air as they walked beyond the corpse along the road, it returns again, thick as ever in their lungs and threatening to make them choke. Ahead, an eerily similar tree with another forty-three tallies looms near the path with a bowed back, its branches nearly sweeping the dried grasses. Another arrow continues to point further down the path. But it’s the second body that makes this repetition unsettling, a shiver passing through their bones as though someone walked over their graves. 

A bulking husk, ribs splayed open in grim offering to the meal of its soft blackened innards spills out across the path. Bloated gases wafting from the entrails with fresh release as though only recently released from the prison of bone. A half eaten yawning skull grins up at them through the sinew of the face it once wore, hooves splayed out in deep grooves as though the beast tried to keep running until the very moment of death. The rotting horse rests on its side, never to rise again.

Evrrot studies the body from a good distance where the smell is not quite so overwhelming. Emet notes he doesn’t pinch his nose from the stench as though it is one he well accustomed to. In fact, none of them do. An odd revelation, but one Emet isn’t yet sure of what it means. His own line of work often sent him delving into crypts and left him covered in the rot of decay for hours before he could finally scrub it off. But the average person does not easily handle such a scent without practice. The newest recruits to the order often went on several missions before they could stand it without bile filling their throats. His own first experience left him nauseated for days and unable to keep anything more than light broth down.

Evrrot steps over the splayed hooves, “Alright, so that dead guy was on this horse obviously. Probably riding away from whatever settlement is down the path. His horse dies, he goes on foot, and then he dies.”

“Or the other way around,” Evie counters, “Horse could’ve thrown him, then the horse went and died.”

Roshan hops lightly over the body, kneeling by the tree with a dagger of his own and carving a new tally to the set, “Maybe he was carrying the horse,” the old man offers sagely, “He was very tired.”

All eyes turn on him and Roshan simply grins.

With the tally carved, Evrrot quickly jumps ahead of the holy man and presses the group further down the pointed path. Emet steps carefully over the corpse, glancing back at Evie to see if she desires a hand. But the half elf stares off behind them, unawares. The path they’ve walked is already half swallowed by mist, the large wagon trail long gone from view. She twists back with a sigh, face quickly shifting as she gives him a glare to move. They continue on.

Eerie becomes troubling when the path leads to a third tree with the same forty-three tallies and another arrow. The lack of a corpse this time does little to alleviate the hook twisting in Emet’s stomach. It lifts and snarls his insides, not in pain, but in anticipation. Anticipation of the moment it will all go wrong. 

This is what it felt like that day. The day he should’ve listened to his instincts.

The arrow points to a swallowed path. All sign of trail and trees vanish behind a solid wall of fog so thick Emet cannot see even a glimpse of what lies beyond. It bisect everything perfectly, trees ending abruptly as though severed by blade. As though a curtain were drawn across the land on a giant stage. The line the mist cuts across the path is unnaturally defined, too sharp and perfect and to be natural, yet permeable as proven by the grasses swaying in and out, vanishing instantly on the other side, yet returning again.

The foreboding hook twists deeper with the echo of Emet’s past. Of dark crypts and silent darkness, a day that started in laughter and ended in screams. Blood spilled beneath the sickening brightness of beautiful sunny day, the color forever tainted in red. They should’ve stayed on the well-worn wagon path. They never should have cut through these godforsaken woods. His instincts tell him to turn back now, but going back on his own still seems a far more foolish idea in these unknown lands. 

Emet steels himself. A chilled touch settles over his shoulder. If the self-chosen leaders get him killed—if they ruin what he’s given everything for—Emet will never allow them a moment’s peace. Not in this life or the next. He already knows Kelemvor will never collect his twice damned soul. Not after what he did. So he’ll have all the time in eternity’s glass to make good on his vow. Maybe this one he’ll keep.

“This repetition is how the kid died.” He glares at the severed path, “We’re going in circles.”

“This isn’t the same as the last tree,” Evie says, “The old guy put an extra mark in that one. Plus, no dead things.”

“Not yet.”

But Emet suspects they will pass that tree again and the horse one beyond. And if his instinct proves right, they will do so again and again until they too die of exhaustion, carving tallies into trees until they can carve no more. There’s madness here and he’ll be damned if it catches him off guard. But the dead kid probably thought the same thing. Now he rots with a skeletal finger ever reaching for the path that killed him. A warning they did not heed.

The wall looms before them, vast and endless until it vanishes into the grey of the skies. Tendrils of thick mist swirl and twist like eels against the edges, unseen bodies pressing against the glass but never breaking through. The snaking, winding movement is almost hypnotic in the terrible silence.

Evie’s eyes narrow, “Anyone else think this fog is fucky?”

“Yes,” Emet and Roshan answer in unison.

The holy man taps his staff, warm dawns light spreading across the wood like honey. Though it glows in the deep reds and oranges of the morning sun, the light does little to chase away the sickly grey of this place. 

He nods satisfied, “But this is the path, so let’s go.”

Emet blanches as Roshan lifts his shepherd’s crook and presses toward the wall of fog without another thought. He vanishes instantly. Whatever god this holy man follows, Emet hopes they have as much faith in their followers as Roshan does in them because this is about as foolish as sticking your hand in a nesting viper’s den and trusting it will not bite.

Evrrot—never more than a half step behind the holy man—strolls past the moon elf as casually and carelessly as choosing a garden path to stroll, vanishing almost instantly behind the old human. Not even a shadow is left to hint at their passing.

Emet stands speechless, too shocked to believe what he’s just seen.

The words finally come to him, “Well, fuck.”

[genavere]

Fairy Tail - RE:Script

Episode One: Hargeon

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter 5

“Looks like we might need a new Salamander,” a hulk of a man chuckled, a rough, gravel sound that did not fit well with the clean medical space surrounding them. “All reports say he doesn’t have a scar on his face.”

“Shut up.” Bora winced, the needle bringing out fresh blood from the wounds as the hulk stitched his nose back together. “How bad is it?”

The chortles ended in a coughing fit and instead of pulling on the thread, he pressed another pad of disinfectant ooze into the still open teeth holes as his body shook. “If the others hadn’t come, you’d be Bora the Prominently Nose-Less.”

“Fuck that wench,” he grumbled, grinding his teeth together. The curved needle started to dig into his flesh again to pull the holes closed. Blood rolled down his face and dripped continuously onto his once spotless white shirt. He cursed himself for not splurging on the spell to keep it pristine the merchant had tried to up sell. It would have saved needing to purchase a new outfit since he knew nothing would get all of the blood out.

The first thing he did when he got the first chunk of ransom money for her would be to fix his face and buy a new white shirt with the spell. “What of our other guests?”

A smile deformed the giant’s face and lifted his cheeks so high, they pushed into his eyes and made the whites disappear. “All are asleep and being processed.”

“Good.” He winced at a particularly harsh tug on the stitches. “This crop looked pretty decent. Should be able to pay back some debits and fill our pockets until the next harvest.”

“And the one who nearly had your nose for dinner?” Laughter filled the room once more, much like the man it came from.

“Laugh it up,” he growled, “but that wench will bring us a lot of jewel. I am already planning what to send her dear daddy to prove we have her and how to get the first round of random payments from him. We’ll be rolling in the jewels, and we won’t even have to deliver her—Dammit!” He hissed in pain as a wad of bandages pressed against the stitched area on his nose and then wrapped around his face and head to hold it down.

“Done,” the hulk grunted and stretched as he stood up from his crouched position. “Don’t be gettin’ into any fist fights, you hear? One swing against your nose, and it might fall off.”

Bora gave him a bewildered look, uncertain if he spoke true or not. Not that it mattered, they had at least a week’s worth of sailing to get to Bosco, and from there, he would only be working to wring out as much from the crop as he could.

“It is a good thing the bait didn’t work, then.”

Standing from the medical bed, he caught a glimpse of himself in the large mirror on the wall and scowled. Dried blood flaked from stained skin on his face and neck. All of his clothes were stained by the blood he lost. From under the very white bandage that contrasted his tan, the skin had puffed up and turned red from the abuse. The beauty he used along with his ring of charm had been ruined by that blonde bitch.

Clenching his fists together, he muttered a quick thanks to the medic and left.

Stepping out onto the hallway, his ears were assaulted by music that blared over the speakers to drown out any screams of terror if the cargo woke up. Party lights made the whole ship glow in a yellow pigment that changed hues with different bulbs of color.

Coming to a railing, he looked down at his men as they moved back and forth over the deck carrying unconscious women from the party area to the cages below. Before they went into the hatch, another crew member checked to make sure each woman had a stamp somewhere on their person. The symbol of a stylized X, Bora’s own symbol he sported on his forehead, with a registered trade number. It marked them as property and made them easier to find if they tried to run away.

When the auction houses and slave markets bought them, a new stamp would adorn their flesh. After that, they would no longer be his and he cared little for their wellbeing after the goods and jewel had been swapped.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, but winced as it tugged at his stitches and pain pulsed from the bite wound. It brought the sour taste of acid to his throat and anger in his gut.

Gripping the railing, he focused on the thrill of commandeering the ship when they stopped in Alveraz several months earlier. The decks had been scrubbed clean of the blood that had come from the unfortunate crew, and much like that night, he watched the disappearing lights of Hargeon.

Many of the lights were apartments and homes. How many of them had people staying up to wait for their loved ones to come home after a once-in-a-lifetime party with the Salamander of Fairy Tail? How many would fall asleep not knowing their loved ones would never come home again?

Yes, taking on the name Salamander had been a huge payoff. Each settlement they went to, people flocked to see him, all wanting to glimpse the famed wizard. Thankfully, they had not run into any members of the Fairy Tail guild while working to gather a healthy number of stock.

Unfortunately, they had never run into the real Salamander. At least one of the targets on their list had been captured.

One might think he would feel bad for doing such despicable acts against fellow human beings, but where one had a conscience, he had pockets lined with jewel. Nothing could beat the overwhelming rush one felt knowing the power they held over other people’s lives!

Against the pain and pull, he let out a gruff laugh, amused by how easy it was to gather up the weak with such simple tricks. If those who had laughed at him while growing up and from his old guild could see him now, they would grovel at the power he held!

“If only you all could see me now!” Laughter kept bubbling up, the pride of his accomplishments mixed with the pain. “All of you would bow before me and look ridiculous—!”

Shudders rocked the ship and an explosion nearly sent him over the railing he held onto. Tightening his grip, he felt the ship heave heavily to one side and feared it would capsize, but the stabilizer kicked in and rocked back and forth. Another explosion hit from the back.

The horizon spun around and the ship careened sideways in the water. Clunks and metal whined as it bent in ways the ship had not been built to handle. Sirens began to wail over the speakers, replacing the music that had been blaring.

“Fuck!” Looking out at the horizon again, he was surprised to no longer see the harbor they had been sailing from. Only the wide, open ocean spread out before him. Confused, he rushed to the side and looked along the edges of the ship for damage and to pinpoint their position.

Waves spread out from the sides of the ship even with the rocking minimizing. Smoke bellowed up from the stern, concealing the poop deck and the waters by the propellers. The view that he had seen just seconds before completely clouded.

Looking to the bow of the ship, he paled. While it was obvious to him that they were not moving, once they started forward again, they would be heading back to the port they had departed from. Turning around would be time-consuming, and there was no word yet to say if the ship would still be seaworthy.

A shooting star caught his attention—no, his eyes widened in realization, not a shooting star. A flaming figure flew through the air at such a speed he barely had any time to react when it smashed into the upper decks. A blue and white figure racing after it.

Over the sirens, another sound attacked his senses and carried over the waters to those who began to gather on the docks. Lights that had gone out for the night began to flick on again. All knew the sound of a ship's bell, and its clear sound reverberated through his bones as realization hit him.

For the first time in all his years selling slaves, they were under attack.

Another smirk pulled at his stitches. “The trap has been sprung.”

#####

“This…” Natsu clenched his stomach. Everything around them tilted with the groaning metal. Each critical attack he sent into parts of the ship still carried waves to port. A rolling, heated wave of discomfort made its wave from his internal guts pasted his buttocks and down his legs concurrently. An uncomfortable pressure, at the same time, pressed all around his spine and made his internal axis spin.

Salvia pooled in his mouth, threatening to drown him if he did not swallow or let it rain down. A good lean to one side bought one hand over his mouth and pinching his nose. No, bringing up all that food Lucy had bought for them would be a huge waste! It had all tasted so good, too.

After a solid minute of fighting the unprecedented need his body demanded, he swallowed everything back and gulped down fresh air. “This might have been…a bad idea.”

“But we gotta find Lucy!” Happy circled around to land and released his magic. “And you said the scent ended at the pier, so she must be on the ship.”

“I know…gimme a bit.” Taking a deep breath through his nose, he tried to focus on the scents around the ship. A chaotic mess of salt, metal, body odor, and perfume were only some of what he caught. Still, no one could beat him when it came to tracking, he just needed to get the scent first.

A hum caught his attention and everything calmed around them. The urge to regurgitate everything from his guts receded and he managed to get to his feet. “So, where do you think they’d keep her on this death trap?”

“Beats me,” Happy shrugged, then pointed to the ceiling above Natsu, “but maybe he knows!”

Natsu looked up at the hole they created and the decks above that they had gone through. Looking down at them from a few decks up gapped a face more hair than anything else.

Stomping a foot down, Natsu scowled at the man above. “Hey you! Get your smelly ass down here and show me where you have Lucy! Don’t you dare leave—come back here!”

A loud crack of a bell told them exactly what the man had disappeared to do. The vibrations and jarring pitch made Natsu wince. “Dammit, why’d he have to go do that?”

Glancing down the hallway each way, he raised his nose into the air and began long, deep sniffs of the air. “The stench of men on this thing is gross.”

“Do you think you will be able to find her scent?”

“’Course!” he grinned. “No one can hide from this nose!”

Moving around the ship, smelling the air while standing, crawling, and bent over, there were many things he picked up on. One, most of the men on the ship never owned a bar of soap in their life—when he had been younger, baths had been the enemy, but he had learned their importance, much to his chagrin. Two, women had been brought through the halls recently. Perfume, both cheap and refined, lingered in the air.

Some went to rooms and the scent changed after, like a mingling of the perfume and the men. A stone settled in his gut when he realized exactly what they meant. Worried gnawed on him as Lucy’s scent continued to evade him, but a different smell he recognized finally seeped through.

“Happy!”

“Aye!” The cat flew up with sprouted wings and grabbed onto the back of his pack. They flew through the hallways at Natsu’s directions, flying at a speed that left no room for errors. Yelling and stomping echoed through the corridors around them. The sounds echoed and bounced off the walls in a confusing haze of noise, but no crewmembers had come across them yet. In the maze of corridors, the search between the two factions went on, and only the path of that scent kept them from getting lost.

“There!” He pointed at a door at the end of the corridor. The scent coming from it reeked of the fake Salamander. If the smell had a visual color, the metal would have glowed. Happy set him down in front of it and settled on his shoulder.

Natsu braced himself for the twisting in his gut and his equilibrium to spin. Glancing at his hands, he frowned and shared a look with Happy. Everything felt fine. The rocking of the ship had nearly disappeared and he felt he could handle navigating without being carried around.

Grinning, flames burst over his fists. “All right! I’m all fired up!”

Neither would have been able to truthfully say if the door had been locked or not before it erupted off the hinges and bent the wall of the opposite wall. Smoke clung to their clothes and skin as they stepped through the mangled doorway and began looking around.

Somehow, it came to no surprise to either of them that the room sprawled out larger than a normal bunk on a ship would. On one side, a large, opulent bed took up most of the space with one side with a bedside table that held a lacrima lamp, empty bottles, and an assortment of random items. The other side of the bed had what looked like torn clothing. A mixture of floral perfumes came from the pile, but none of them matched Lucy’s.

On the other side, a large wardrobe stood next to a desk with a map above it and papers scattered over the surface. A chaotic organization, their teacher would have called the room. Still, a stench filled the room that even Happy could smell. Bottles of cologne covered the wall by the porthole, along with several pictures of the man they saw Lucy punch earlier. Each one had him either alone or with different people in different landmarks. Always with the same, obnoxious smile, dressed in fancy clothes, and with an air of arrogance that boiled their blood.

“This guy’s a real loser,” Happy said.

“You got that right, buddy,” he uttered, voice pitched upward with his hand covering his nose. The cologne hit him harder than he thought, and made getting a good sense of the room harder.

Still, it became obvious that no one had been in the room recently, all the scents that did not come from the bottles were stale. Happy cheerfully went around and threw all the bottles out into the hallway where they shattered until Natsu could actually get a deep breath in.

A tinge of familiar floated around.

At the end of the bed sat an ornate chest, top flat and held down with a latch and metal lock. Grinning, he let out a dark chuckle as he took the metal into his palm. Heat shown through in reds, pinks, yellows, all the way to white. The top became fluid like in nature as it pulled down and dropped onto the expensive rug below. A burning smell hinted at the damage to the fabric.

Inside the chest, several stacks of jewel filled half of it, along with folders of paperwork with official seals. On the other side, a familiar backpack sat on top of gems and trinkets with a ring of keys attached to it. The ragged fabric looked out of place compared to everything else in the room and one quick sniff told him everything he needed. “Yeah, this belongs to Lucy, all right.”

“Natsu,” Happy exclaimed, “those keys look just like Teacher’s!”

“Yeah, they do,” he frowned. “You don’t think Lucy is related to Teach, do ya?”

“Maybe, but why wouldn’t either of them mention it?”

“I dunno.” He held out the bag for Happy to take and noticed another file. “Hey! That’s Teach’s name!”  

“’Lucy Heartfilia,’ so that means they have to be related!”

“Let’s put this in the bag and find her!” He let out an excited chuckle and shoved the file in the bag unceremoniously. “They will be so excited to see each other.”

Before he closed up the bag, they shared a grin and grabbed several stacks of jewel and threw them inside, too. Once Teach saw how Lucy dressed, he was certain he would be told to take her to his tailor, and this would help her get whatever she would want.  

With Happy following behind with the bag, they left the room and headed down the corridors again. They tried to follow the yelling from before, but could never seem to figure out where exactly it originated from. It irritated him. The echoing bounced off the walls, growing louder and softer with each corridor they found themselves in.

“Dammit! This thing is a maze!”

“Why don’t we try going down?” Happy looked behind them. “I remember seeing a stairwell a couple turns back.”

“Great idea, Happy!”

“Maybe then we can—” An explosion sent debris flying around him. Blinking in surprise, he looked back to see the large hole Natsu had punched into the floor and the darkness below. “That works.”

“You betcha, it does!”

Kneeling down, they glanced into the vastness below. The voices they had been hearing before echoed up from the depths, but ceased as the eruption of the ceiling caused most of the crew to look up in surprise. Some of them still carried women over their shoulders, others had unloaded already and had been heading up to gather more of the haul.

All around the vast cavern below, cages lined the floor, and over half of them had women locked in them in various stages of dress and condition. Most were still asleep, unknowing of the dangers that they had stumbled upon when they came for the party.

A scent from below caught him off guard, taking his attention away from the crew that were barking out orders and scrambling to gather weapons or to drop off their women. Wet and metallic, Lucy’s scent hit like a punch. All through his body, his veins pumped and an all-consuming rage pulsed through him. Her blood had been split in the pit below.

The fake Salamander had not only used his title to capture women, but had hurt her, too. Claws dug into his palms. Standing at the edge of the hole, he jumped down without Happy’s help, and landed between several cages. Two of them were empty, the others had women who reeked of their own body odor and fecal matter—he could tell they had been there for a while.

“Happy,” he called, stepping forward as a few of the crew began to rush at him. Pointing in a direction, he glared up at the men and growled. “I need you to go that way and find Lucy.”

A fist landed hard into the gut of the first crew member. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth, weapon falling uselessly to the ground from limp fingers. Before he or any of the others could react, another fist caught the side of his head. Emblazoned with scorching heat and fire, it sizzled the skin and boiled his eyeball before he went flying into an empty cage. The impact left a crater in the side of his head that left no hesitation of his condition.

Happy looked in the direction he had been directed. “You can smell her here?” Seeing the state of the women, he gripped the bag tighter in his paws. Lucy seemed so nice, why would they put her in a place like this? “Don’t worry, if she is here, I will find her! You can count on me!” Following the direction given, he flew off through the rows of cages, and began to search each of them.

“Catch that ca—” Words erupted into hellish wails. Flames consumed the bodies of those who went to chase after Happy, their limbs flayed around, bodies dropped and rolled. Each breath they took burned their insides, yet they could not stop the screams.

The others glanced at their companions. Screams faded to silence and only the flames consuming the fat of their bodies could be heard.

Smoke funneled through Natsu’s fangs; lips pulled back in a snarl. A potent scent of fresh urine came from the crew members as red-gleamed eyes narrowed on them. “I don’t like what you are doing here,” he snarled. Flames spread over his knuckles and licked up his fists and arms. Once cool, wet air grew humid and thick. Sweat stained clothes and slid over flesh. “And I think it’s about time someone put a stop to it right now!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

Do I have excuses on why this was not published on Sept 22nd as promised?

Yes, yes, I do. Are they good ones? Maybe.

I can say, I have many stories that I have been working on since September as I worked on Whumptober, NaNoWriMo, and then participated in not one, not two, BUT THREE secret santas that involved writing the gifts. By the end of December, I had to take a break from writing everyday.

The next chapter for this is edited (tho not beta'ed--I decided to give them a break after I dropped the ball), and I am working on the last two for editing. There might be an extra chapter of bloopers when this is all done, and maybe a Q&A invite to my Tumblr.

I am part of @theguildawards discord server, and we were discussing ways to get more interactions between authors and readers. One of the suggestions we were thinking about was asking questions at the end of the chapter for the readers to answer.

Answer as many or as little as you want, but maybe you will get a shout-out on the next chapter if you participate in this experiment!

Also, I know I have to go back and answer a bunch of reviews. For some reason, posting on social media lately has felt very daunting, and I had to push myself to do this tonight.

Questions for the Reader:

1) What part surprised you the most during this chapter? 2) Did it evolve in ways that you expected? Did it do something you weren't? 3) Were you excited about a certain part? Disappointed? 4) Still feeling like you want to keep reading? 5) Tell me your thoughts on the chapter, freeform!

Links: AO3 (Is locked to registered AO3 users) | FF.net

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[devilofthehounds]

God Eater 3 Character Novel | Memories Like Fireflies: Chapter 1

[image id: A novel cover. In the foreground is a young Lulu Baran from God Eater 3. She is looking sadly at a pair of goggles in her hands, a fresh scar across her right eye. Behind her is a crimson Biting Edge-type God Arc, dried blood beneath it. Behind that is a faded image of present-day Lulu looking off into the distance. The text, when translated into English, reads “God Eater 3 Character Novel | Chapter 2: Lulu Edition | Memories Like Fireflies”. /end id]

This is a fan translation. Original text here.

Masterpost 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

A tranquil night, lit by a beautiful green moon. Without warning, the sound of rich water echoing in the lower reaches of the great valley was drowned out by the roar of an Aragami.

Looking down at us with searing heat was Hannibal, the true dragon.

After completing the subjugation mission, Luca and I were collecting materials near the shallows when this unexpected enemy suddenly arrived.

"Looks like we don't have a choice... I'll cut through. Luca, follow my lead."

"Right. Let's go, Lulu!"

Reliable as ever. No other AGE made me feel so safe just by being at my side.

Come to think of it, it was around here that I first met Luca and the others.

Luca and I lined up, holding out our God Arcs. A thread of light connected us.

"Just defeat the enemy in front of us and return alive, together."

Propelled by Luca's clear will, I leapt out, slicing through the shallow water.

In the Hannibal's hands, converging flames transformed into two swords.

I dodged as it swung its swords around in a frenzy and quickly closed in on its chest.

Its movements were more human-like than other Aragami.

That was why it was easier for me to see through than anything else.

All I had to do was thrust my God Arc through a vital point, quickly and accurately.

The optimal technique I had repeated and refined countless times since my days in Baran.

That—

"...!"

The moment I saw the roaring dragon and the shining green moon behind it, my movements slowed down slightly.

As the Hannibal flashed its swords of fire at me, I stiffened. At that moment—

"Hraaah!"

Luca launched himself through the piercing heat and slammed his shield into the Hannibal's face.

He used all his strength to break its stance, then immediately thrust his God Arc into the scale on its back.

Tremendous flames erupted from the broken inverse scale, threatening to engulf Luca's body.

"Lulu!"

As he was blown away by the searing wind, Luca called out to me.

"Activate...!"

With the light of my acceleration trigger, the dual God Arcs I wielded became light as feathers.

The wound left behind when Luca gouged out the inverse scale. I leapt toward the keyhole-like scar, and this time, I thrust my God Arc through with unparalleled precision.

With that, the Aragami collapsed. The searing wind that had been howling like a storm subsided.

"...Luca, are you okay?!"

Turning my back on the Hannibal, reduced to ash, I ran over to Luca, who'd been exposed to scalding air at point blank.

"A bit singed here and there, but I'm fine. ...See?"

Holding his scorched God Arc, Luca stretched out and fell backwards into the shallow water.

"This'll cool me down."

Luca smiled as he sat up and shook his head slightly, sending water droplets flying everywhere.

He looked so laid-back, a stark contrast to his demeanor during battle. I couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm sorry about earlier. You really saved me."

"It's alright. But for a moment... I could feel your sadness flooding into me."

It seemed that Engage had transmitted my moment of hesitation to Luca.

"You're always so calm during battle. It's rare for you to hesitate."

"Calm... No hesitation..."

That was wrong.

As the silence returned, I looked up at the glowing green moon.

Ah, right. It had been a beautiful moonlit night back then as well.

"...Luca, we still have some time before we have to go back. Would you like to hear an old story?"

"An old story? ...If it's too painful, you don't have to force yourself."

"No, I think this is a good opportunity. I want you to know."

This was the place where I met everyone. Maybe I ought to face myself for once.

After a few moments of silence, I looked down at my God Arc, grateful for Luca's assent.

"...When Baran first found me, I was a hopeless failure."

[kyberborne-a]

@pistolslinger said: he's cautious, now, so very cautious, about where he lets his hands wander. her wrists are off limits, and he toes the same boundary lines with careful consideration when he traces jyn's scars elsewhere; between running his fingertip up and down her spine, he leans in to plant soft kisses along her skin where he sees scars.

this kind of peace with her, hiding away together in a safehouse bed, has not yet lost it's novelty — he still delights in the unguarded way she lay next to him, still delights in the sense of safety it granted him, too.

" is this a new one? " he murmurs, following the scar line. " you didn't have this last week? "

here, in his arms, is one of the few places where jyn feels safe. for a few hours, she doesn’t have to think about the world outside of the small room they’ve holed up in, only focused on the brush of his warm fingers against her bare skin, a barely there touch ghosting up and down her back. it’s almost an exact replica of the scene a few weeks ago but there is no anxiety churning in her gut, only contentment. she knows that he won’t touch her wrists without asking first –– and should he do so, he’s one of the only people to whom she would say yes. the ever present chains that appear when she thinks about her manacle scars do not weigh her down when she’s with him. 

at his question, she twists her head back to see what he’s looking at. a freshly healed, though still an angry red, bullet graze that had scraped the side of her ribs ; from where she’s laying on her side, with him behind her, it faces up toward the ceiling, half-covered with bedsheets. “ oh, that ? ” she brushes off his concern, reaching down to grasp his hand gently at her waist before she puts her head back down on the pillow. it hadn’t been a bad wound but nik had made her get a medik to stop the bleeding anyway. once it’s fully healed, she doubts it’ll leave anything more than a faint mark. “ some asshole got a lucky shot in a few days ago but a medik patched me up fine. ” 

she doesn’t tell him not to worry about it because any new wound on his skin is enough to push her over the edge. speaking of which –– she shifts her position, flipping to her other side so she and jesper are now face-to-face. “ are you satisfied that i’m in one piece ? ” she asks wryly, quirking a brow. she, on the other hand, is not convinced –– especially not after she’d heard kaz describe the latest job the dregs had been on. she reaches out, skims a hand over his chest lightly. she needs to see with her own eyes that there aren’t any injuries gone untreated, that she knows he’s not in any physical danger. asks, never assumes, “ –– my turn now ? ” 

[mihidecet]

Sbi D&D AU: Tommy (3)

AKA: Tibi’s MCYT WritingTober, day 12.

I’m back with more d&d! I jumped on today’s “Fanmade AU” prompt from @the-only-gamer-gost ‘s list IMMEDIATELY, because after all most of you started following me due to that ahah

I hope you’ll enjoy it! <3 Maybe leave a comment if you do? I always love to hear your feedback, and maybe ideas on what you’d like to see? In any case, thank you for reading!

That is how, about four hours later, Tommy finds himself sitting on his bed, legs crossed and fingers tangling in the threads he's trying to weave together. 

It's a mix of light blues, pinks and reds that Techno called "a weird choice, but whatever floats your boat", which had sent his patron into hysterical laughter. Tommy had hoped he'd been sarcastic, as he'd colour-picked from Techno's own outfit. 

But one could never be too sure with the Blade: he was a cryptic man, with a cryptic past and an unwavering unwillingness to share anything about what he thought about, anytime, about anything. 

Which was fine. Tommy liked guessing, and he considered himself smart enough to be able to start picking up clues. Most of the time.

He was no Phil, who was apparently able to understand everyone, everywhere, at any time. Even animals, too, which had been a concerning discovery. Not the fact that he could understand and be understood by animals, that was perfectly fine once considering he had horns due to making a literal deal with a demon, and Techno was half pig. It was just that Tommy had found out Phil could speak with animals by finding the elf in deep conversation with a passing squirrel - who had apparently been extremely rude and stolen some of the nuts Phil had been gathering. The disagreement had been resolved by splitting the nuts evenly, as the squirrel had had a family to feed.

The thing was, Tommy had had a chance to talk about the infamous friendship bracelets with the other two as they'd walked back to the tavern, and by now he knew that all three of them owned one. But what Phil hadn't neglected to comment on was that - to his knowledge - Techno didn't own one. Which made sense, on a certain level. He was the one making them, and he seemed to own the strings to make them. Phil had been meaning to buy one to gift him, but he's said he knew it wouldn't have been the same. And he couldn't ask Techno where he could find the materials needed and keep it as a surprise. Not to mention that he didn't know how to replicate the intricate weaves and knots of the bracelets; he could try, but he knew he wouldn't be able to easily succeed. 

Which left Tommy with the perfect chance.

The plan was simple. 

Techno had offered to help him rebuild his bracelet, but he’d never explicitly said if Tommy was going to weave his own or if Techno was going to make him a second one. 

So, once they were all fed and satisfyingly comfortable, Techno would take out his threads and start working on it. Then, with his usual enthusiasm, Tommy would ask if he could also help. Maybe by learning how to weave together bracelets himself. 

Techno would humm, but probably give in after a bit of insistence. He never really enjoyed verbal conflict, and Tommy was counting on that. 

Then everything would be set! Tommy would choose the colours for Techno’s bracelet, make it with his help, and everything would be good!

As of right now, most of the steps in his plan have gone off without a hitch. 

The only thing not working perfectly well is his own skills at weaving - maybe once he used to have an artisan’s hands, but now they’re clumsy, less sensible. The effects of not being used to his newly found powers at first had been to constantly - and accidentally - set his own hands on fire. With permanent scars up to his elbows and a handful of points where the burns charred away his sensibility, he’s not much one for delicate and precise work. 

But Tommy is nothing if not determination personified, so he grabs each strand with too shaky hands and does his damned best.

Techno is sitting across from him, also on the bed, mirroring his posture and slowly explaining each braiding step. His voice is lower than usual, a side effect of being extremely tired, but he’s not snappish or strict. He’s unexpectedly calm and mellow: Tommy wonders if it’s the exhaustion or just how Techno behaves when they’re not in life-or-death related situations.

All things considered, once he understands what he has to do, the slow, repetitive movement becomes extremely soothing. He can see Techno doing this to relax in the few moments of downtime their lives allow them.

They're not alone in the room.

Phil is meditating on one of the other two beds in the room. He’d been drained after the fight, looking after them all and taking care of the few civilians that got injured due to the attack. 

After they’d gotten back into the room, he’d disappeared for a moment in order to go bathe, then returned, given them all a final look and then promptly passed out on the bed with a smile on his face. 

Wilbur had made sure to fix the covers around him. 

The tiefling was currently also sleeping, but he was stationed on the same bed Techno and Tommy were sitting on. It made for a bit of a cramped situation, but Techno had stated that he wasn’t going to move anymore if it wasn’t to go to sleep, and Wilbur had said that he always took the bed closer to the window. 

So there he was: curled up between them, one leg on Tommy’s lap and his back pressed against Techno’s side. 

If Tommy had been any less observant and in the mood for a discussion, he would have mentioned how Techno could have easily moved half a meter away in order to be extremely more comfortable, or how Wilbur usually just chose any random available bed. 

But he was tired and he had other objectives - he was already planning on bothering Techno, getting him annoyed would only be counter-productive. And Tommy was also quite observant: he still remembered how Techno had jumped into a blow aimed at Wil’s throat just a couple of hours earlier, saving his life and efficiently dispatching of the brute trying to kill him. 

Everyone was still feeling a bit messed up after all those close calls, there was no need to state the obvious. Especially when saying nothing meant Tommy could feel the warmth of Will’s still very much alive body against him.

It doesn’t take much time; they’re bracelets after all, you can only make them so long. 

Tommy stares at the one in his hands, and is suddenly filled with so many contrasting feelings. 

Joy is the first, of course. He’s been able to achieve so much since he left his hometown, and everything he’s achieved has been due to his own determination and intelligence. He might not be the smartest person ever - he can name at least one, even though that doesn’t necessarily mean he will - but even he can’t deny how well he’s been able to play the cards he’s been dealt. 

Then there’s shock, at the realisation that he has actually become friends with the legend he used to hear people talk about in hushed whispers while he was still living in his hometown. 

Melancholy is another: a part of him longs for what - who - he left behind. 

Then he feels like he needs to get better at making bracelets, and maybe sleep for a couple of days. His back is hurting and the scabs on his arms are already itching up a storm and it is "bored patron with too much free time" levels of annoying. 

As Tommy stomps down the protests of his patron inside his own head, he hears Techno hum lightly to catch his attention. 

"You're done? I finished yours. Unless you prefer to keep the one you made yourself." Techno comments, offering the bracelet he's just completed. Wilbur shifts slightly as he's lightly jostled when Techno reaches towards Tommy, but he goes right back to sleeping. 

Tommy gives him an honest smile and a heartfelt "thank you", then wastes no time in grabbing his new friendship bracelet: a stunning thing in black, red and orange that looks as fierce as he is powerful.

"And here, this is yours." Tommy says, after a moment of unabashedly admiring the stunning handiwork he now owned. It wasn't like his old one, but it still felt the same - the meaning of it was intact, and the shape and colours were similar. One could even say that now it meant more: after all, they'd made it together, in what nobody could deny had been a true bonding moment.

Tommy's hand, holding the bracelet he made, stretches out towards Techno.

There's a distinct pause as Techno's hands hovers in the air and his eyes widen in what looks like pure shock - Tommy has *never* seen anything like it, Technoblade is never surprised. And yet.

"Uh?" 

Tommy decides it is getting a bit too warm in the room, as doubts and worries start filling his mind: what if he doesn't like it, it looks so bad compared to the ones Techno made, after all it's his first try, he should have asked for more string to practice and made him a really good one. The young man pushes the bracelet into Techno's hand hastily - the sooner this is over with, the better. 

"We figured you didn't make one for yourself, so I made you one. Consider it as from all of us. Now you're *our* friend, Techno, and there's nothing you can do about it!" He concludes with a proud grin, hoping it masks his internal worry. Thankfully, he's still fearless enough to keep eye contact, because that allows him to see Techno's face simply melt as his fingers wrap around the bracelet once, then open up to allow him to study it closely - Tommy would call it reverently, but then his patron would laugh again.

"... Thank you." Techno murmurs a few moments later, and with that all of Tommy's fears and doubts are smashed like fragile glass, scattering into the nothingness. A bright smile opens up on his face and he's unable to stop himself from beaming as he lightly punches his friend's shoulder.

"No problem, big guy. ... Now, where do I put this so that nobody accidentally breaks it again?" He asks, tone light and humorous in hope of exiting quickly the sweet moment they'd entered, which was turning into awkwards at the speed of light.

"Well, if you have like a necklace, you could tie it there and keep it hidden under all your shirts." Techno drawls out, sounding more and more tired as he goes on. 

Tommy decides it's as good a time as any to finally hit the hay, so he stands up and stretches his back - reveling in the satisfying pops that follow. 

"That is a smart idea, big guy. Have you been sitting on it for a while?" Tommy jokes, starting to fix his bed. 

"Well, it was actually Phil that did it first. He tied it to the same necklace he keeps his engagement ring on."

Tommy chuckles, Phil always knows best- his arm freezes in the air, one hand still holding his pack because he'd been meaning to look for something he could use as a necklace but now his brain is just static. 

He turns back towards Techno, who is staring back with a mix of sheepishness and confusion. 

"What- what do you mean engagement?" Tommy asks in a feeble voice and Techno just rubs the back of his neck shrugging. 

"He's supposed to get married when he goes back, apparently."

Tommy starts gesticulating wildly, pointing first at Phil, then at Techno, then at the world around them as he loudly mumbles his way into about twenty different beginnings of sentences before his shoulders drop and he shuts his mouth.

A beat passes. 

And to be honest, Tommy is too tired to be thinking about this, but-

"What do you mean go back? Is he gonna leave us?" He asks, and Techno looks extremely uncomfortable on the other side of the room. Instead of an answer coming from him, the voice that speaks first comes from behind Tommy.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Tommy. If anything, I plan on bringing you all for the ceremony." Phil mumbles, scratching his stubble as he sits up on the bed. Damned elves and their need for just a handful of hours of sleep, now Tommy has to feel awkward for nothing.

Phil stands up with a groan, then stretches; taking a couple of steps forward, he nods at Techno as he claps a hand on Tommy's shoulder. 

"Help me push the beds together?" 

"Only if Wilbur gets up, I'm not moving the bed with him on it." Techno deadpans, moving to the bed Phil's closest to in order to help him lift it - they're not getting thrown out of the tavern for being too loud at three in the morning. 

A deep chuckle comes from the ball that is Wilbur's not-so-sleeping body, and his performance is betrayed even more by how his tail starts swishing left and right. 

"But what if I asked please?" Wilbur says, one eye peeking from his crossed arms. 

"Then you're staying there with that bed." Techno replies instantly and a moment later the bed between him and Phil is lifted. 

Wilbur huff, rolls out of bed, waltzes towards Tommy - messes up his hair just because he's in a good mood - and quips back:

"You're no fun, Technoblade."

A couple of minutes later, once they've all found their places on the bed, Tommy is resting with his head against Phil's chest and his tail wrapped around Techno's leg - a mirror to Wilbur's which is tied around the arm slung over his side. 

It's comforting, and warm, and Phil's carding his hand through his hair. 

Techno's new friendship bracelet is an unfamiliar feeling pressed against his chest, but he knows he'll get used to it. 

Stifling a yawn, Tommy whispers:

"Congrats on your marriage, big guy." 

Just so that Phil's wheeze is the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.

[saturnselkies]

LISTEN ON SPOTIFY 🌟

Continuation and the final part of the playlist Awakened in Starlight I did ages ago!! I hope you enjoy!! Under the read more is the story. Please do read!! 

Thank you for reading and listening, if you do.

ACT I: I could never sacrifice you

1. Sacrifice by Sharon Lyons

A tiny little sacrifice. Her mother would always say, for worlds to turn, some things would be lost among the space between galaxies.

Ouri was young back then, a much tinier dragon, much more impressionable. Now one sacrifice felt like touching a pulsating black hole.

The silver tree bloomed above Ouri. She dug her hands in the golden sand of the cosmos. By her feet the lifeless body of Najwa lied.

“Weaver of Worlds, you must let go.” The leaves echoed through the white room. “Fate beckons you, Scion. It is time.”

Golden magic blossomed on her fingertips and she felt a pang of frightening pain. “I’m sorry, mother. I’m sorry, Silver Tree. I’m sorry, Najwa.”

The room was a golden field, and death became life.

2. Across the Universe of Time by Hayley Westenra

“And the cold, cold wind, it blows me away The feeling all over is a black black day But I know that I’ll see you again And I know that you’re near me”

***

ACT II: I could never forget you

3. Light in Between by Abby Gundersen 

Najwa tried to forget. She really did. Tried to leave everything behind. To be forgotten amongst the cliffs of Desert Highlands.

Shame, sadness, anger; they danced underneath her skin every day. Her dreams were plagued with meadows blooming in the sunlight. Songs of ancient times.

Najwa wondered if other Awakened actually dreamed. Or if she had just ended up in a bizarre predicament. One that would forever be a mystery. Unless…

Unless she found Ouri.

Najwa gritted her teeth and patted Toffee’s back to try and distract herself. The summit wildhorn bleated and rested her head above Najwa’s. “Yeah, I know gal.”

4. God Only Knows by RAIGN

“I may not always love you But long as there are stars above you If you should ever leave me Though life would still go on Believe me”

***

ACT III: And so they dance between knives and lies

5. You Have to Let Go by Adam Fielding

“How could you!?” Najwa shouted. Her hands grabbing at Ouri’s Mordant Crescent outfit. A reminder so grim. A reminder so ugly.

“Najwa, I’m not who you think I am.” Ouri was visibly shaking. Forming words had become hard for her.

“Oh you think I don’t know? The display is sickening.” Najwa pushed Ouri against the wall with such force the nearby shelves shook. Ouri simply stood still, her eyes full of guilt.

“No, it’s not that.” She tried to relax her shoulders, but ultimately failed. Ouri knew bringing this up right now would be either an incredibly stupid idea, or completely destroy their chance of ever reconnecting. “I’m just… following a list of things to do.”

“This can’t be serious.” Najwa’s eyes were pure rage. “Was “Awakening” me part of the list!?“

“No… He didn’t do anything to you. I-” She swallowed hard. “I did.”

It took only a second for her eyes to lose the deep hazel color. Replaced by golden shades and cosmic hues. Ouri was the night sky. The far seeing cosmos. Written all over her skin.

Najwa stepped back in a daze. Her mind was a volcano erupting in the middle of the ocean. “What is going on.” Najwa stepped back as further as she could clinging to her scythe. If she still had a beating heart she knew it would have plummeted out of her chest by now.

“Spearmarshal. Najwa.” Ouri paused. And the universe watched them from the corners of the tapestry of time. “The list is what your people call a prophecy.”

The sudden realization hit Najwa like a crashing wave. All those cryptic dreams. All those shades of gold dancing at he back of her mind. The prairies of starlight. All of it. “Am I bound to you!? You did this to me!?”

“N-no! No! I cut the connection. Your will is your own.” Ouri quickly interjected. Panic was taking over her.

“How dare you!?” Najwa’s grab on her scythe was painfully tight. Tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“If it were not me. It would have been Palawa Joko! I didn’t want that!” Ouri pleaded. Pleaded to be understood between fate and choice. Between golden threads and shadows.

“You…” Najwa’s anger was like a bursting sun. Extinguishing a galaxy before it was even formed. “You are a monster. I regret the day I crossed paths with you.”

A sacrifice. A hole in the tapestry of time.

“I know.”

The birds did not sing that morning.

6. I Cannot Raise the Dead by The Dark Element

“In a time before us We were both someone else And we can be again We both let wrong one in To keep the right one out And now we’re both without”

***

ACT IV: Until tomorrow begins again

7. Heart Lying Still by Nightwish

The Domain of Kourna was even more dreadful than Najwa remembered; she ended up finding an empty building to sit on while the Sunspears were organizing the attack on Gandara.

She kept pulling at her attire. It felt strange to use the Sunspears’ dervish insignia again. But here she was, ready to help destroy the cause of all the pain in her home.

“Mother?” A voice came from the door.

“Yes, Khalida?” she responded lamely.

“Jeez, I thought you’d be happier. Is not seeing your daughter for the first time in eight years a good thing?” Khalida teased her, raising her eyebrow playfully.

“I- No. I’m sorry, hunbun.” Najwa panicked and tried to get up.

“Hey. I’m just teasing. I know all our wounds are still pretty fresh.” Khalida placed her hand over her mother’s shoulder, signalling her to sit back down.

“Yeah…” Najwa said.

Khalida sat next to her and hugged her knees. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ha. I should be the one asking you that.” Najwa leaned her back against the wall. Her whole body was tense.

“C'mon, Mom. We might all just die in a few hours.” She elbowed her mother and grinned.

“Gods. When did you become so…” Najwa tried to find words to fill the gap of so many years lost. But nothing came up. She knew it would always be something hard to manage. “Never mind. I came to a conclusion. And I don’t like it.”

“Uhhhhh? Yeah? So early in the morning?” Khalida quipped.

She snorted at the comment. “You know, Ouri.”

“I do know her.”

“I might have said some really. Really. Upsetting things to her.” She shuddered remembering the last time they had talked. It was a chilling sonnet in the back of Najwa’s mind. “I was hurting. I still think she had no right to bring me back to life. But…”

“You see her point now?” Khalida said.

“Yeah… Being bound to Joko would have destroyed every fiber of my morals. I am still here. I am still mostly myself.” She looked at her hands and felt a spark of warmth. “I got to see you again.”

“Then you should tell her that,” Khalida simply offered.

“I think I should just let it go-”

“You did that for eight years.”

“And here I thought I was the mother.” She frowned and crossed her arms.

“Things change. I am a Spearmarshal now.” Khalida smiled.

8.To the Moon and Back by Moonlight Haze

“I still love you so bad To the moon and back and I Yes I miss you daily to the moon and back I’d go anywhere now To the moon and back for you Hope my voice will reach you To the moon and back Time cannot heal scars that lie so deep Inside this void of mine”

***

ACT V: I will cling to the heart between dawn and dusk

9. Between the Lines by Felix Räuber

Ouri and Najwa both stood across each other. The fortress sounded eerily silent after Aurene and the Commander had stopped Joko. Only the faint cheers in the distance, from both the dead and the living, could be heard.

Najwa took a deep breath and touched the grotesquely adorned walls. “This could have been my fate.”

Ouri eyes followed the other woman’s form. She bowed her head slightly, avoiding her gaze.

“I don’t know how I feel about everything that happened,” Najwa continued. “I even find it hard to believe that I am here.”

The former Spearmarshal dragged her feet through the tar. The oozing pools reflected her face in such a distorted manner. “Gross. I wouldn’t want to have this inside of me.” Najwa grimaced.

Ouri bit her lip, trying not to chuckle at the comment.

“Are you just gonna let me monologue?” Najwa pouted. “I remember you being a chatter box.”

“You said you wanted to talk…”

“Always a little too literal, are we?” Najwa walked over to Ouri. “It’s just. I… I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Fix what?” Ouri blinked. Her eyes were gold and shining. They contrasted the beautiful dark blues of her skin.

Much better outfit, Najwa caught herself staring at her curves. The essence of the stars painting her body was mesmerizing. Ouri titled her head at the slight pause.

Najwa coughed and tried to re-focus. “Us.”

Tentatively she reached out for Ouri’s hands. They were glowing in a flame-like effect. Najwa could swear they felt like what one would describe as the heart of the universe. Warm, cold, terrifying, and enticing all at the same time.

“The reason. The reason it hurt so much to know what you did. The reason it felt less of a burden if I was just another Awakened is…” She pushed back her tears. And squeezed the other woman’s hands. “Is because. I.”

“I love you.” Ouri cut her off.

Najwa didn’t need to ask. Najwa didn’t need to understand. Ouri was a Celestial. A Scion of a grand river of the cosmos. A life bearer. How could a life bearer leave someone to die. Someone she loved.

Yet disbelief still colored her blushing face.

“You. You love me?”

Ouri nodded.

Najwa should have known that from the first day they met. Ouri had always been a spark. The fountain of the gentle sun. Najwa connected their lips in a rush of emotion. Soft and willing. Somewhat rough and passionate, too. Full of regrets, mistakes, and guilt. Full of joy, love, and forgiveness.

“I love you, too. Gods, I do.”

Dusk and dawn danced together for the first time in a millennia.

10. Forever by Frozen Crown

“Find in light the essence of the night Say forever Forever Till the stars shine on our hearts Tides won’t last Our time is dying fast But this moment, our moment It will shine bright on our hearts”

***

ACT VI: Spearmarshal and Scion

11. Celestial Dreams by Rachel Currea

“So do I get an honorary Celestial membership?” Najwa’s hair sparkled against the wind. The grey tips had become glowing and golden much like her eyes.

“Well… if you want one.” Ouri laughed.

“Yes, I do.” She grinned widely. “Don’t tell the other Awakened, but this is so much cooler.”

12. Night Will Fade by Beyond the Black

“Somewhere beyond this world Far beyond this life Fate will raise our souls out of the past Somewhere beyond this day Night will fade away Will you follow my final words For tomorrow beyond this world”

13. Into a Dawn by Feridea

“I never let go, of my hopes and dreams I never was afraid, the road is free To find a star, to guide me through this twilight fall Into a dawn”

[justgotham]

In my experience, Gotham is a polarizing TV series. Any superhero-themed program is sure to bring its critics, but Batman is a character near and dear to the American heart—as he is the last universally beloved billionaire—and it was certainly a risk going with a prepubescent Bruce Wayne. I’m a big fan of Gotham, and even I’ll admit that I’m not completely sold on its interpretation of the franchise’s main character. But that’s OK, because Gotham isn’t about Batman. It’s about the villains. And they’re almost all great. This was not an easy list to compile.

Gotham just feels like Batman, and it’s in large part thanks to the carefully crafted, over-the-top performances in some marquee roles, so without further ado, let’s get to the best Gotham villains.

I should also note that it would be impossible to do this properly without some spoilers. I’ll avoid any spoilers from the last few episodes of this season, but if you’re not caught up on this season of the show, some of this will definitely get you up to speed on where everything stands as of the Season Four finale.

15. Captain Nathaniel Barnes Played by: Michael Chiklis Michael Chiklis just looks like a cop, and that alone qualified him for the role of Jim Gordon’s boss. And his evolution from hardened lawman to judge, jury and executioner in the face of the future Commissioner Gordon’s heroics provided this political science major with a stark analogy for the tradeoff between idealism and pragmatism out in the real world. Every conflict of Barnes vs. Gordon centered around the way things should be versus the way things are, and the finale of Chiklis’ arc (for now, no one in this show is ever truly gone) raised good questions about where the line between the vigilante justice of Batman and The Executioner really stands.

14. Ra’s al Ghul Played by: Alexander Siddig The spiritual father of the proceedings carries a heavy burden. Not only must he justify the spiritual aspect of the rise of Batman (and the Joker), but Siddig also has to pull off whatever a 2,000+ year old man looks like. It’s a difficult ask, and he’s not had enough screen time for Ra’s al Ghul to seem like anything more than a narrator guide from a video game, but he’s given plenty of major moments, and he hasn’t come up short yet.

13. Butch Gilzean Played by: Drew Powell What Powell does with a character limited to being the main muscle on the show is the embodiment of the saying “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” He is one of the chief figures of strength on Gotham (and that was before he fell in a swamp filled with goop from Indian Hill), but his moments of vulnerability are what bring life to the character. His romance with a woman farther up on this list than he is reflects Butch’s limits, but perhaps new frontiers will be unlocked with his evolution into the famed Solomon Grundy from the comics.

12. Commissioner Gillian Loeb Played by: Peter Scolari Scolari brought a new face to this eternal foil of Batman and Jim Gordon, as the comics’ brusque blackmailer in the pocket of Carmine Falcone has been replaced with a shadowy figure in the pocket of Carmine Falcone. Scolari’s semi-detached performance is a fitting reflection of where our political reality currently resides, and he is very much a figure emblematic of the times.

11. Ivy Pepper Played by: Clare Foley, Maggie Geha and Peyton List Poison Ivy is still in development on the show—as evidenced by the three actors who’ve played her—but all three did well building a foundation for what should be a future supervillain the likes of which Gotham has never seen before. Both adult actors have provided the sex appeal intrinsic to the character’s strategy to exploit the stupid part of straight men’s brains, but it’s the child-in-an-adult’s-body aspect that makes this version of a hall-of-fame Batman character so compelling. After falling in dirty water (superhero origin stories would lead you to believe that the healthiest thing you can do is shower in uranium), Ivy Pepper’s accelerated womanhood might’ve been a missed opportunity for more comic relief, but her relationship with Selena is always engaging. Without it, neither of these characters would have the humanizing characteristics necessary to make their time on Gotham worthwhile.

10. Theo Galavan Played by: James Frain James Frain’s arc on the show was an original storyline, one that began with a plot to kill Bruce Wayne, then elevated him to Mayor, and culminated with him assuming the character Azrael from the comics. Frain’s smooth performance is underlined by an intense focus on a mission that all just feels Batman-y, even though this arc is not found in the comics.

9. Tabitha Galavan Played by: Jessica Lucas Theo was powerful, but his sister got the larger share of the badass genes in the family. Like her brother, Tabitha is an original creation of the show, and even though we’ve since lost Theo (granted, death is far from final in this universe), it’s difficult to envision Gotham without Tabitha at this point. Her romance with Butch is the only one on the show that’s convincing at all (a major new one is still TBD), and she was clearly placed in this universe to provide a positive role model for Catwoman—who did not make this list because she’s still stuck at the kids table with Bruce Wayne. Of all the major muscle on this show, Tabitha is the muscle-iest.

8. Hugo Strange Played by: BD Wong BD Wong has played so many doctors by now that part of me actually believes he is a doctor. Of all the doctors he’s played, my favorite by far is Strange. The main reason why no one on this show will ever die, Wong does a wonderful job of straddling the line between madman and genius—nailing the image of what Gotham’s mad scientist should look like.

7. Barbara Kean Played by: Erin Richards The NBA has a most-improved player of the year award, and Barbara Kean would have won Gotham’s MIP award the last two years. Initially, I lamented Richards’ on-screen demise as she was cast as the generic wet blanket to Jim Gordon’s hero (Kean was Gordon’s wife in the comics). Gotham almost lost me early on with their romance—as I just cannot take network TV’s portrayal of relationships seriously—but this new “take whatever she wants with a freaking glowing hand” version of Kean has unchained Richards, and her talents shine through in every scene. Gothamis right to structure a central narrative around her.

6. Mayor Aubrey James Played by: Richard Kind I’ll admit I’m biased on this one. I’m a politics writer here at Paste, and Kind’s performance as America’s bumbling mayor is a little too real to consider given the madness that America’s former mayor, Rudy Guiliani, is displaying every day on cable news. His portrayal of the character is the perfect summation of every empty-suit politician who ever lived, and it really resonates in a country overflowing with these vessels for the superrich. The mayor’s cowardice behind the scenes when contrasted to his stern public statements is just…*kisses fingers*

5. Victor Zsasz Played by: Anthony Carrigan The infamous hitman is a perfectly sardonic bit of comic relief, as Carrigan always finds the right kind of oomph behind his “Hey, boss, so when should I kill these guys?” salvos. A hyper-competent, semi-powerful character is a difficult needle to thread, as there must be a reason why Zsasz has yet to rise to the level of other A-list Batman villains, and it’s simply because Zsasz loves his job as an assassin-for-hire. It’s not about the power he could gain through his proclivity for mass murder, but the pure, utter nirvana that he derives from of every shootout.

4. The Penguin Played by: Robin Lord Taylor Oswald Cobblepot is not just an awesome name, but a fitting vessel for a character whose only real lasting public face is Danny de Vito’s snarling performance in Batman Returns. Robin Lord Taylor has brought a more refined air to the ringleader of Gotham’s underworld, and The Penguin serves as the yin to Jim Gordon’s yang. The universe of Batman is based on the premise that crime is a major industry in America—oftentimes involving our political leaders, as Mayor James demonstrates. Cobblepot likes to present himself a pragmatic choice in a chaotic world, and when the Gotham City Police Department finds itself with its back against the wall, some of the moral choices he presents are inescapably compelling. If crime is going to exist, why not try to bring some order to it? The GCPD can’t do that, but The Penguin can.

3. The Riddler Played by: Cory Michael Smith When arguing sports, I typically argue that numerical rankings should be eschewed for tiers. It’s difficult to compare a lot of similar folks, and drawing lines in between good, very good, and great is a far simpler task. I bring this up because this is where the top tier begins. Cory Michael Smith’s depiction of what I have always believed to be an underrated villain belongs in the Batman hall-of-fame—and frankly, it’s better than Jim Carrey’s semi-unhinged version (which I also enjoyed). It’s clear whether Smith is playing Edward Nygma or The Riddler simply from his posture and facial expression, which makes the Jekyll and Hyde-ian battle raging inside of him all the more engrossing. (Photo: Michael Lavine/FOX)

2. The Joker Played by: Cameron Monaghan Technically, we’re not allowed to call this character with a high-pitched laugh, a thirst for chaos and a bizarre love of Bruce Wayne (and now a purple jacket!) “The Joker,” as Monaghan revealed on Twitter. You know, copyrights, branding and all. TV stuff. Monaghan’s portrayal of The Joker would make fans of The Dark Knight proud. The choice to literally sew a new face on to Jerome evokes the same uncomfortable madness as Heath Ledger’s scars, and the amount of emotion that Monaghan is able to communicate through that mess with simply his face deserves some kind of award. “Jerome” is a delightful madman who brings an unbridled sense of joy to his criminality. I’m excited to watch this new, more serious iteration of this classic character, but I will desperately miss his home run performance as Gotham’s signature weirdo.

1. Fish Mooney Played by: Jada Pinkett Smith Stick this character in any gangster TV show or movie, and tweak the surrealism depending on context, and she’ll fit—that’s just how good Jada Pinkett Smith is. Fish Mooney did not originate in the comics, and the creators of Gotham should be universally commended for springing such a Gotham-y character to life out of the ether. Granted, Mooney likely wouldn’t be as engrossing if not for Smith’s electric performance. The woman completely owns every single scene she inhabits. Fish Mooney gives this show a good excuse to ignore the rules of death, because why would anyone want to take that out? Screw death and copyright law. Fish Mooney deserves to live on for eternity.

[muse-what-are-you-doing]

Kiwame 4

For reasons relating to gore, this entire part has been put under read more. For those who don’t want to read the gore itself, I have inserted a picture to notify you that the gore is over please continue reading after that.

This part is also a little longer than previous parts simply because there is more happening. Please enjoy.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Chapter List

Silken threads danced and surrounded him in the blackness. The glistened in an unseen light and scattered the torn threads of an unspun cocoon. Their delicacy contrasted their necessity and burned bright with the heat of life. They morphed into misshapen disks and halted their flight unexpectedly.

With the threads’ dance complete he lowered his blade and the darkness gradually faded starting at the edges of his sight. He panted heavily, feeling his muscles twitch eagerly to repeat and continue the actions of battle he’d trained so long to obtain without giving it any thought. His body heaved with such hear that each gasp of air from his throat puffed out like the smoke of a dragon’s raging bellows.

Gradually his eyes readjusted to the light and allowed him to see the carnage. Mangled bodies stewed and dyed in crimson lay scattered in pieces at his feet. No. To say they were bodies was to say they were still recognizable.

Corpses.

Some still held swords in their hands, swords he recognized almost better than their actual weilders. His breathing hitched as the scent of iron rust assaulted his senses and caused his eyes to water. He remained frozen, staring in disbelief at the dead scattered before him.

He gazed at each of them, placing faces to the many blades and feeling his stomach turn with every one he recognized. Sengo’s legs had turned to useless noodles as he doubled over. He wretched and his body convulsed several times until there was no longer anything to expel from his stomach and he was forced to remain kneeling there among the gore.

His eyes looked to the blade in his hands drenched in blood. He dropped it and recoiled, trying to scoot away on his hands as far as he could from the weapon until an obstacle stopped him. He fearfully looked over his shoulder, knowing that it would be one of those same corpses, but not knowing exactly who. Purple and red fabric . . . no; the edges were white. His eyes widened and he shakily reached out to touch the body still radiating heat.

Just before his hand could brush them he felt his whole body give a jerk and his eyes were wide open staring at the ceiling of the Muramasa clan’s shared room. In the darkness he needed a moment to calm his racing heart and think.

A dream; it’s just a dream. He’s in his room. He can feel Tonbokiri’s heat from the futon next to him. So logically it’s his room, right? His eyes adjust and gain enough focus for him to see the little glow in the dark star stickers the tantous had somehow managed to stick on the ceiling. (Tonbokiri didn’t mind them and he was too short to remove them alone so they stayed where they were.)

He let out a shaky sigh after realizing he’d been holding his breath and sat up, trying not to wake up Tonbokiri. At his feet he could see Nihongou and Otegine sprawled out in individual futons. Nihongou snored loudly enough to shake the room and it was an instant wonder how that hadn’t woken him.

Silently as to not wake any of them, Sengo laid back down and tried to focus on calming his anxious heart. Just as he could feel his heart calming down someone in the darkness spoke to him.

“Another nightmare, isn’t it?”

He looked the opposite direction of Tonbokiri and silently nodded his head, not at all caring if the other couldn’t see. A hand suddenly took gentle hold of shoulder and Sengo made to slap it away but stopped. Tonbokiri was trying to comfort him. It was sweet but unnecessary.

“Go back to sleep, Tonbokiri.”

“Come here,” he sounded moderately exasperated as he coerced Sengo to come closer and join him in his futon. He cupped the back of Sengo’s head and tucked him under his chin, his hold gentle enough to let the other slip away if he changed his mind but firm enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t ask anything about the dream and Sengo was unwilling to say anything about it so a very long moment of silence passed between them before Sengo tried to change their focus for the better.

“Why are Nihongou and Otegine in our room?”

The exasperation slipped back into his voice with a laugh. “When the master and I returned the three of you were plastered. I carried you and Nihongou on my shoulders and dragged Otegine here. I figured it was better to just keep all three of you together where I could keep an eye on you.”

Sengo breathed a laugh this time. His clansman was such a worry wart. But he was a good man who didn’t just speak, he acted. And that’s one of the things he liked most about him.

In the end he never fell back asleep. Nihongou and Otegine were sent off first thing in the morning so everyone could get dressed. He had to admit he was glad about that, the scars on his back were a little hard to explain to someone “out of the loop” so to speak.

Given his drunken escapade last night where he’d fallen off the porch running to try and hug Tonbokiri upon his return (he could never remember the porch being that short before) Saniwa had been kind enough to let him take the day off from field work and sorties to recover from his hang over.

After that he remained as close as possible to Tonbokiri, barely ever an arm’s length away from him during breakfast and even following him to help with the horsekeeping. While cleaning the stalls he couldn’t help but notice a certain black mare that kept wandering back to the stable and following Tonbokiri to and from the hay piles.

Sengo laughed and leaned against a stall door while watching the horse spy on Tonbokiri. “She seems to like you. Does she always follow you around like that?”

“She does.” Tonbokiri laughed as well and reached out to pet the horse’s face. “She is Mikuniguro, named for the horse of my former master.

Sengo timidly scooted closer to the beast and let her get a sniff before petting her just as Tonbokiri had. His expression lit up when the horse promptly nuzzled into his hand and he started to excitedly pet her with both hands.

“She seems to like you too.” Tonbokiri decided to leave the two alone while he finished the remaining chores. When he came back, the two were still standing in much the same way, he almost didn’t want to call Sengo away.

“Muramasa.” When he had his attention he pointed toward the citadel. “You’ve been working hard. Go drink some water, I’ll be there in a minute.” He needed to watch the horses enjoying their free time outside a little longer before returning them to the stalls.

The shorter sword nodded and strolled back toward the porch to seat himself alone while he waited. “Horses can’t be swayed by reputation, can they?”

“They never are. Horses are smart enough to respond to a person’s heart instead.” Sengo blinked as he felt a gentle hand rest on his head and flatten his hair. He tilted his head up to see the person and smiled at them.

“Kogarasumaru.”

“Did you have fun with the horses?”

Sengo chuckled, “we passed the time peacefully.”

“That is good. Without horses there would be no us.” Kogarasumaru seated himself on the porch beside him and set down two bottles of water and a small bag of sugar candies that he placed in his hand.

“Konpeitō?” The two pieces of hair upon his head twitched excitedly. “Are you giving me these?” At his nod he cocked a head. “Why?”

“It’s natural for a father to want to spoil his children. There’s also water for both of you.”

“That’s true I guess.” He’d share them with Tonbokiri when he got back. For now, that water was calling him.

While he guzzled it down, Kogarasumaru spoke again. “Tonbokiri was very excited when he learned you were coming. He told everyone ‘Muramasa is a very kind person. Sometimes he is hard to understand, but he is earnest and affectionate and protective. He likes to joke and make people smile. If you need help, he is someone to rely on.’ He was over joyed when Saniwa told him they were working to bring you to the citadel.”

Sengo nearly chocked at the sudden onslaught of information from the longer (albeit shorter) sword warrior. “That Tonbokiri is always doing something unnecessary.”

“He holds you in esteem so of course he’d like to brag about you. You’re his only family.”

“I wonder if he ever regrets feeling that way.” His head lowered and he stared at the water bottle in his dirty hands. What a fitting image. His dirty and stained hands separated from the pure water by a window allowing him to only gaze at the liquid that shimmered with the light of the sun. Or maybe he was just putting too much thought into that.

“Tonbokiri is like you.” He looked up at that. “He is kind and earnest, protective, and always puts others above himself. Tonbokiri is not a bad person and neither are you.” Kogarasumaru got up and put his hand on Sengo’s head again as he spoke before leaving. “Drink plenty of water and take a nap after lunch. You look tired. That’s a direct order from your father.”

Part 5 || Chapter List

[douxreviews]

Arrow - ‘You Have Saved This City’ Review

“I thought I had more time.”

The Powers that Be had the impossible task of wrapping up two season-long arcs and setting up a third. They came damn close to pulling it off.

With so much ground to cover the plot became secondary to the emotional journey of our heroes. Which is why each obstacle is resolved with a minimum of fuss.  The bioweapon attack, which took three episodes to set up, is dispatched with several well-aimed freezing arrows and the two other dispersement sites were foiled off-screen.  Team Arrow is blamed for Emiko’s attack but Bingsley’s testimony restored them to hero status. Palmer Tech AKA Queen Consolidated was destroyed, but the city was saved. And everyone lived happily ever after. At least for the next 4-5 months. The flash forward plot was equally unimportant. What matters is that William and Mia live up to their promise and become the heroes their father wanted to be.

The real story is the answer to the deeply disturbed but prophetic Dr. Parker statement from the beginning of the season. “A father passes on more than just his name to his children.” Through seven seasons of the show and the use of flash forwards, we’ve witnessed two generations of parenting and its effects on their children. And while the Queen legacy of destruction and violence has been the main focus, it has not been the sole focus.

Robert Queen was not a moral man. His image as a pillar of society is in stark contrast with the man who repeatedly cheated on his wife, covered up the accidental death of a councilman, was involved with a plot to destroy a section of his city and kill thousands, murdered his bodyguard to save his son, and abandoned his child.  All of these actions visited lasting and harmful ramifications on all of his children.

Thea’s childhood was warped by her grief for her father and brother’s deaths, while Emiko’s was warped by the knowledge her father loved his “other family” more than her. Oliver literally bears the scars of his father’s choices – some from his five years of hell before returning to Starling (now Star) City and some from his vow to right his father’s wrongs.

Robert’s failings as a parent are contrasted most directly with Oliver’s and by extension Felicity’s. And I believe we are meant to see Oliver’s choices as superior to his own father. Where Robert asked Oliver to make amends for his transgressions, Oliver strove to insulate his children from the effects of his choices. However, in the final analysis, they followed a remarkably similar path. Oliver and Felicity abandoned William as assuredly as Robert abandoned Emiko. His decision to be a vigilante led directly to the death of William’s mother and to multiple violent attacks on William during his childhood. And it ultimately led to what we assume is Oliver’s death leaving Mia to grow up without ever knowing her father or brother. Sound familiar?

The actual contrast is with the Diggle family. General Stewart raised John to be a strong, honorable man. And rather than dishonor John’s memory of his father, he allowed himself to be villainized in John’s eyes for decades. John tried to instill that same sense of honor and responsibility in both of his sons. And like the General before him, he had mixed success. Connor went into the family business of serving his country by joining Knightwatch while J.J. rebelled and turned to a life of crime as his Uncle Andy had.

All of which begs the question of what we are meant to have learned from this season. Should Oliver be thought of as a hero? Or are we meant to believe he was the next evolution towards that goal with William and Mia bringing it to fruition? Did he save the city? From the Ninth Circle’s quest to destroy it, certainly. But ultimately, we’ve seen its downfall.

Are William and Mia, with Connor and Zoe’s assistance, meant to be the true saviors of Star City? It would appear so. The flash forwards end with an explicit changing of the guard. Mia as the new Arrow, Connor as the new Diggle, Zoe as the new Canary, and William as Overwatch. It felt more like a setup for next season than a tying up of a loose end.

And what of Emiko, whose appearance was so central to this discussion. In some ways, she is an argument for nature vs. nurture. Robert’s treatment of her was inexcusable. But, as Oliver tells her, it was her reactions to his behavior that led to much of the pain and misery of her life. Joining the Ninth Circle placed the first domino in the long and inevitable line that ended with her mother’s death.

In contrast, Robert showed Oliver the love he withheld from Emiko but he passed on his sense of entitlement to Oliver in a BIG way. Even after his selfish tendencies were beaten out of him during his many years “in hell,” Oliver’s sense of entitlement continued to manifest itself in his unwavering faith he knew best despite truckloads of evidence to the contrary. Yet Oliver’s decisions were based on a desire to help others where Emiko’s were made to assuage her pain by visiting that pain upon others.

Yet, they are cut from the same cloth.  When Oliver confronts Emiko he admits to what was hinted at last week. The knowledge that Emiko’s inaction led to all the pain and loss in Oliver’s life is the reason he wanted her dead and not because “there was no other way.” Emiko may be on a dark path but Oliver’s is gray at best.

That said, they both choose to do the right thing in the end. Oliver's willingness to sacrifice himself for others culminates in his departure with The Monitor.  And while Emiko’s redemption is cut short by the showdown with the Ninth Circle and her subsequent death, her refusal to kill Oliver when she had the opportunity is meant to mark her transformation. One of Oliver’s final acts to redress his father’s wrongs was to bury her beside Robert’s gravestone as Emiko Adachi Queen.

And that was just the first half hour. While we know there will be another season of Arrow, if the last third of this episode is any indication, it will be very different from what’s gone before. It looks like all roads lead to the Crisis.

So what do we know?

The Monitor collects Oliver to begin his quest to balance the universal scales that saved Barry and Kara’s lives. A quest that will lead inexorably and unavoidably to Oliver’s death. We know that Felicity will create Smoak Tech which will be phenomenally successful even as she continues to live in seclusion and raise her daughter. Alena will betray her trust and give Archer technology to the precursor to Galaxy One. And somehow, Team Arrow will cause Star City to turn against vigilantes for a generation causing a rift between The Glades and the rest of Star City as well as a rift between the members of Team Arrow. Getting from here to there is a lot of story to pack into eight final episodes.

I have been a big fan of this season but I’ll be the first to admit that it has been uneven. Gone were the unbelievable character choices for the sake of forwarding the plot. In its place was a well-designed season arc filled with oodles of interesting thematic issues and character questions they never had time to fully unpack. The finale was emblematic of this issue.

Given my love of all things character-driven, I applauded the time spent on Oliver and Emiko’s parental issues, Felicity and Oliver’s separation, and the development of William and Mia’s sibling bond. But it came at the cost of a cohesive plot. While, I’d love to give it a four, I just can’t.

3 out of 5 wall-free zones

Parting Thoughts:

Curtis was back. Yay! He’s getting married. Double Yay!

Future Alena became a badass!

Bingsley’s testimony somehow wiped away Roy’s involvement in the security guards’ murder, not to mention assaulting multiple police officers during the drone attack. Huh?

There is a character listed on IMDB as “Teen Keven Dale” but I don’t remember seeing him, do you? I’m assuming it’s his mother we saw killed in the drone attack. It would explain his hatred of vigilantes.

In the loose thread category:

Unsnipped - We never did find out why Emiko dressed as the Green Arrow. Snipped - The drones were back in play with the Cygnus bacteria. It makes you wonder why they went through the trouble of stealing the Sarin gas ingredients if it was only for empty buildings. Does that make it a half a snip? Snipped - The Mark of Four was finally mentioned. Snipped - Ben Turner has been freed from Slabside and his redemption journey is complete. Unsnipped - We still don’t know how or why Dig adopts Connor. Unsnipped - Whatever causes Star City to turn on its vigilantes, did not happen in the episode. It must be Crisis related.

Quotes:

Felicity: “What do you think is worse, Emiko being in possession of a bioweapon or the team being Star City’s Most Wanted?" Rene: “Can I choose both?”

Zoe: “Duck.”

William: “Yes, what she did may be overprotective, and overbearing… but it could be the break we’ve been looking for.”

Future Felicity: “This is not the life Oliver and I wanted for them.”

Virgil: “Well, if you’re not going to kill him, we’ll gladly oblige.”

Emiko: “You’re still here.” Oliver: “I don’t leave my family.”

Emiko: “I wanted to be a Queen.”

Curtis: “I’m sorry, I hate to save and run.”

Felicity: “Star City is a wall-free zone once again.”

Diggle: “A cycle of heroes who will defend this city with every fiber of their being.” Felicity: “Anyone ever told you you always know exactly what to say?” Diggle: “I have been told.”

Felicity: “It’s not Ivy Town but it’ll work.”

The Monitor: “I have seen your future, Oliver, inexorable and unavoidable. I have watched you die.”

Oliver: “This is bigger than us. Than all of us.” Felicity: “Why does it always have to be you?”

Shari loves sci-fi, fantasy, supernatural, and anything with a cape.

[ghaw2007]

6 Shea Butter Benefits

6 Shea Butter Benefits

1. Key Ingredient for Natural Skin Care

Most of our skin care products contain synthetics (I call it “the real price of beauty“) that are often the primary ingredients, and you will find it in many lotions, creams, eye makeup, facial makeup and lipsticks.

In contrast, raw shea butter is a great natural ingredient because it acts as a moisturizer and gives a nice glow to the skin. It helps make the skin supple by providing hydration; and therefore, is an amazing skin conditioning agent. Look for products that contain pure shea butter and other all-natural ingredients.

2. Provides Anti-Aging Properties

Raw shea butter helps tissue cell regeneration and softening of the skin, which reduces wrinkles. The American Journal of Life Sciences reported a clinical study involving 30 volunteers in which shea butter diminished various signs of aging. In another clinical study for dry, delicate or aging skin, 49 volunteers applied shea butter twice daily and discovered that it prevented photo aging. It is also shown to boost collagen production, which is essential for skin strength.

3. Moisturizes Both Scalp and Hair

Shea butter seals in moisture, conditioning the scalp, alleviating dandruff and providing overall protection from harsh climates — much like how coconut oil works for hair. You can use it on your scalp, hair or both to improve your health and appearance.

Gently warm the shea butter to soften it and rub thoroughly through your hair and scalp. For best results, leave on for 20–30 minutes. Then, rinse, shampoo and condition as normal. It can actually provide volume when applied to just the roots when styling!

4. Relieves Windburn, Sunburn and Winter Dry Skin

Raw shea butter is perfect to help eliminate that itchy winter skin! Its moisturizing qualities penetrate deep into the skin offering more moisturizing benefits while preventing windburn. It’s perfect for cracked and dry heels, hands, rough elbows and knees.

Like my own homemade sunscreen, shea butter also protect your skin from the sun and is a much healthier choice because most sunscreens are filled with noxious chemicals that penetrate the skin and enter our bodies. These chemicals can cause disease-causing inflammation and numerous other problems. While the SPF is about 6, it can provide some protection in a more natural way and is perfect underneath makeup.

5. Reduces Stretch Marks, Scarring and Cellulite

How do you get rid of cellulite and stretch marks? While many believe that Retin-A and laser treatments are the only way to diminish stretch marks, raw shea butter may help. Because of its amazing healing properties and hydrating qualities, shea butter can possibly reduce the appearance of stretch marks and scarring as well as cellulite by smoothing and softening the skin.

6. Prevents Diaper Rash for Babies

Shea butter makes a great diaper rash ointment for your baby because of its antifungal and anti-inflammatory properties that can fight off yeast. Raw shea butter can help improve blood circulation promoting cell regeneration while providing improved collagen production.

Both cell regeneration and collagen production are important to healing diaper rashes quickly. Since most children are exposed to a large number of chemicals through the numerous products found on the shelf, this is the perfect DIY solution to help avoid those chemicals and ensure comfort and rapid healing for your baby.

http://musicbanter.com/song-writing-lyrics-poetry/79770-ghaw2007s-lyrics-collection.html http://futureproducers.com/forums/production-techniques/songwriting-and-lyricism/ghaw2007s-lyrics-523656 http://musesongwriters.com/forums/index.php?/topic/65827-ghaw2007s-lyrics http://boards.soapoperanetwork.com/topic/55799-ghaw2007s-lyrics http://justusboys.com/forum/threads/435561-ghaw2007-s-Lyrics http://gayheaven.org/showthread.php?t=536605 http://allthelyrics.com/forum/showthread.php?t=159439 http://writerscafe.org/ghaw/writing http://songwriterforum.co.uk/index.php?topic=11560.0

[thebookishgoddess]

CLOCKWORK PRINCESS BY CASSANDRA CLARE - 🌟🌟🌟

As those who love Tessa rally to rescue her from Mortmain’s clutches, Tessa realizes that the only person who can save her is herself. But can a single girl, even one who can command the power of angels, face down an entire army? Danger and betrayal, secrets and enchantment, and the tangled threads of love and loss intertwine as the Shadowhunters are pushed to the very brink of destruction in the breathtaking conclusion to the Infernal Devices trilogy.

Reviewers’ note: It’s a long one, so hold on to your seats!

Review type: Plot + Character breakdowns + Overall (spoilers are noted as SPOILERS and you can hover the word to read the spoiler if you wish!)

I had every intention of writing a review for the whole trilogy instead of just for Clockwork Princess. But as it turns out, ya gurl can’t even remember half of what happened to Clockwork Angel and Clockwork Prince, due to the huge week gaps I threaded through this trilogy. So, I’m just rolling with what I’ve recently finished with this book.

Clockwork Princess picks up very quickly from the last book. The pacing was, I have to say, quite intense. We pick right off from where Cecily enters the London Institution to declare herself a Shadowhunter, and it goes from there. The plot just thickens as you go on, and I got to see more of Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood, who are characters that I found most interesting, aside from my faves, Charlotte and Henry (I’ll get into them later). The twist and turns and the real story of how Tessa came to be really was a shocking revelation. Who knew Mortmain could be so evil? (that was sarcasm, by the way xD)

I think for this story, the reason why I docked one star is because of the part where Will traveled to Cadair Idris. The whole point, I believe, was to intensify our anticipation into wondering: Will he get to Tessa on time? But I personally feel as though those parts were practically fillers. Trust me, I enjoyed reading the first two-ish parts of it, but it kept dragging the story on more than I expected. Cassandra Clare is very well-known for her descriptive stride, but in this case, it dragged on too far that I had to skim-read the rest of that part of the story instead.

But now, onto the characters! Tessa Gray is very well-rounded and dynamic. Yes, she can be a bit annoying sometimes because everyone is just like “just choose between Will and Jem, for crying out loud!” because I hate to see this woman tear Jem and Will apart. But I have to remember that this girl is a teenager in the 1800′s, and I can’t really hate her much for being so indecisive. But aside from that little conundrum, it does not  dilute the fact that Tessa is such a strong character. She’s been to hell and back with the Black Sisters, lost the only brother she’s ever known and suffered through that transformation she did in Cadair Idris, and she’s still standing on her own two feet. That takes some guts, and I admire her for it.

Jem Carstairs is probably the book boyfriend you have always wanted. He’s smart, so kind-hearted and loves music. I personally don’t ship him with Tessa (and admittedly skipped some parts where they interacted), but that does not mean I’m going to be biased with his character. He was such a breath of fresh air, a contrast to so many others that kept popping out in this story. Whenever I needed a break from Tessa’s indecisiveness or Will’s intensity, I look to Jem’s POV and it just makes me feel better. I suppose the only part that made me kind of iffy with how his character was handled was how he survived his illness. This is Cassandra Clare’s world building, and maybe there’s more to it, but I don’t see much of it making sense. I think the whole point was for SPOILERS but I felt the whole way Cassandra tried to “revive” his character kind of felt almost... desperate, if there was a word to describe it. It didn’t feel natural to me, for something that is supposed to be a little more supernatural for a fantasy story. But it just kind of set me off, hence the second dock of another star in the story. I think his story’s end could have been executed a lot better.

Will Herondale is also your dream book boyfriend, if you’re into brooding, sarcastic little shites like him. I personally enjoy his character because he’s pretty witty, although he can be quite awful sometimes. He loves books and quotes them to Tessa, which is just, ya know, romantic. But his “curse” really tore his entire person apart and I feel for him so bad. I will not excuse his actions of being a terrible human being back then because Jem was sick and knowing he’d die soon and he still ended up having such an empathetic and kind heart. But I can understand--not excuse--why Will was terrible in the first place. He had it really rough, and I suppose I’m just really one of the fair few that sympathize with him. I think in Clockwork Princess, he developed even more as a character. We got to see so much of his well-roundedness whenever he’s not being a huge prat, and he is my favorite developed character in this story. SPOILERS

For minor characters, I do love Henry and Charlotte Branwell. I think aside from shipping Will and Tessa hardcore, they’re my second favorite couple of all time. I love how they came about their feelings for each other in Clockwork Prince and how in the end, they actually really do love each other. Like, this is the purest form of a ship anyone could possibly ask for. (I’m already searching fanfics for them as I switch between writing this review) 

Some of the others I did enjoy reading about too was Sophie Collins and Gideon Lightwood. Can we just take a moment to step back and admire how Gideon presented these words to Sophie? 

“I see it,” Gideon said in a low voice. “I am not blind, and we are a people of many scars. I see it, but it is not ugly. It is just another beautiful part of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

Like, if Will isn’t already my book boyfriend, Gideon Lightwood would be number 2 because who could even resist such beautiful words? I’m just so happy for Sophie, who has been through some real tough situations before her life in the Institute, and now she’s found this amazing and loving family of Shadowhunters and have come to find the man she loves. 

Now, for my last character breakdown, let’s talk about Jessamine Lovelace. This girl, oh my goodness. I have loved her the moment her character was introduced (she was my fave in Clockwork Angel) and I have hated her the moment I found out she was a traitor. I had a fair few words for her on my Goodreads update on Clockwork Prince, and let me tell you, they’re not very nice. I had actually wished this character dies. And I regret that I did because SPOILERS. 

I think some part of her has just always wanted to be part of something bigger than the life that was chosen for her, and I can empathize with her on that. It just kinda sucked that she chose the wrong path into doing that, but then again, she did try to make things better for herself after being imprisoned in the Silent City. But she came at the wrong time, and didn’t get the better chance to. Although she did help Will figure out where Mortmain really is, so she had a bit of redemption in the end. At this point, I just want to read more about Jessamine. 

Overall, this took me forever to finish, I’m not gonna lie. Some parts dragged on, some didn’t, but I’m glad I am through with it. There was a lot of action, and amazing interactions between all the characters in the book. It was a very interesting and compelling end to a trilogy, and though it’s not my favorite ending, it was a  pretty good one. Will I be reading more Shadowhunter books? Probably not. But I will be proud to say that I actually finished a series Cassandra Clare wrote, and that’s fine enough with me. This book gets a final rating of 3 stars.

[guidopaine]

1/ Supporting Terrorism.

In April 2017 May sold 3 billion pounds worth of British made weapons to ”our close friends” Saudi Arabia, known to be the number one supplier of arms and funding to ISIS. While Theresa May knowingly and actively arms and funds ISIS via Saudi proxies, actively endangering UK security, righties prefer to rant about Jeremy Corbyn building inroads to the Northern Ireland peace process over twenty years ago.

Much more follows in the ‘Security’ thread below.

https://tinyurl.com/yca7sqvd

2/ Mass Immigration.

While Theresa May actively generates record levels of mass immigration, righties rant that Labour ”will open the borders”. Since becoming home secretary seven long years ago, Theresa May has repeatedly promised to ”reduce immigration to the tens of thousands” while repeatedly beating her own personal record for ”highest immigration level in all of Britain’s epic history”. Since becoming PM she has achieved the crowning glory of 600,000 new immigrants in a single year – over 264,000 of them from NON-EU countries; immigration she could fully control, with no EU involvement whatsoever. This is a choice by the Tory party, part and parcel of Tory policy. Every PM since 1979 has set a new record for mass immigration – Thatcher, Major, Blair, Brown, Cameron and now May. With the exception of Brown they have all gone on to beat it. Four – the vast majority – are Tories. The last decade is scarred by Theresa May’s personal choices. In February this year, 45 Tory MP’s asked May to back a bill ”to give citizens of 52 Commonwealth countries “fast-track” visas to the UK after Brexit.” If the bill goes ahead citizens of Pakistan, Bangladesh, India, Kenya, Mozambique, Nigeria, and Ghana would find themselves with an open door to Britain.

https://tinyurl.com/h6l9und https://tinyurl.com/hb2jl5s

3/ Security.

While Theresa May actively undermines British security by mass cuts, against security advice and against Tory tradition, righties claim Labour threaten our security. While ten thousand more police and more funding for the armed forces and intelligence services are high on the Labour agenda, May actively weakened our defences to the point that a known, active Islamic soldier – a volunteer for Islamist military action in both Libya and Syria – has been allowed to enter and exit Britain at will. While on our active terror watch-list, known Islamic fundamentalist and Jihadi terrorist Salman Abedi committed the Manchester Atrocity that killed, maimed and wounded British children. Tory negligence has led us directly to this atrocity.

John Pilger writes – ‘‘The unsayable in Britain’s general election campaign is this. The causes of the Manchester atrocity, in which 22 mostly young people were murdered by a jihadist, are being suppressed to protect the secrets of British foreign policy. Critical questions – such as why the security service MI5 maintained terrorist “assets” in Manchester and why the government did not warn the public of the threat in their midst – remain unanswered, deflected by the promise of an internal “review”. The alleged suicide bomber, Salman Abedi, was part of an extremist group, the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, that thrived in Manchester and was cultivated and used by MI5 for more than 20 years. The LIFG is proscribed by Britain as a terrorist organisation which seeks a “hardline Islamic state” in Libya and “is part of the wider global Islamist extremist movement, as inspired by al-Qaida”. The “smoking gun” is that when Theresa May was Home Secretary, LIFG jihadists were allowed to travel unhindered across Europe and encouraged to engage in “battle”: first to remove Mu’ammar Gadaffi in Libya, then to join al-Qaida affiliated groups in Syria. Last year, the FBI reportedly placed Abedi on a “terrorist watch list” and warned MI5 that his group was looking for a “political target” in Britain. Why wasn’t he apprehended and the network around him prevented from planning and executing the atrocity on 22 May?’’

  https://tinyurl.com/yd347ybo https://tinyurl.com/kvxuejd https://tinyurl.com/y9xy9tfw https://tinyurl.com/y6uomfjb https://tinyurl.com/y7ogtf6u https://tinyurl.com/kvxuejd https://youtu.be/sj_c19ywN9s

4 Economic Instability.

Righties often attack Labour’s ‘economic competence’ after Cameron’s well rehearsed line publicized the not left by the outgoing New Labour chancellor – ‘’there is no money left’’. There wouldn’t be – it had been squandered by Neoliberal free-market policy; specifically in the bank bailouts that insulated us from the Global Financial Crisis. In layman’s terms, the bankers blew all our money, and the government spent all our remaining money protecting us from the effects of right wing, free-market Thatcherite negligence. However, aside from the one blip of Global Financial Crisis at the end of the Brown ministry, successive Labour governments have always repaid more debt than any Conservative governments, and have always borrowed less than any Conservative government. In stark contrast to the paid-for Tory press narrative, factual analysis shows Labour to be far and away the most fiscally responsible government the UK has ever had.

According to Richard Murphy on Tax Research – ‘The trend does not vary however you do the data. Or, to put it another way, the Conservatives are the party of high UK borrowing and low debt repayment contrary to all popular belief, including that of most radio presenters.’ This bears out through scrutiny of UK public spending data, with government data confirming this trend through repeated governments. Currently, the Tory government has led us to the brink of economic destruction by doubling the national debt, borrowing more than all previous Labour governments combined, and by dwarfing the bank bailouts in corporate welfare handouts alone. Added to this is the precarious nature of Tory policies – from Austerity to Brexit to breaking the Union – and we endure the repeated stalling of the UK economy and repeated Sterling freefall these Tories bring.

See the public spending data for yourself, and draw your own conclusions – https://tinyurl.com/lmlpjor https://tinyurl.com/l7zrzr9 https://tinyurl.com/z67oqcg

5/ Lies, cuts and more…

Manifesto of Chaos – https://tinyurl.com/yb2atm7e

School Cuts checker – see how your kids are affected https://tinyurl.com/y7t995qa

Tories Announce Compulsory Private Health Insurance – https://tinyurl.com/ydxp2stu

Dementia Tax and home forfeitures – https://tinyurl.com/ydyc8mng https://tinyurl.com/ycuo43e8

Election Fraud arrests and charges – https://tinyurl.com/y8qp9pq8

30,000 excess deaths per year – https://tinyurl.com/mgjtna8

Naylor Review – May announces NHS asset stripping sell-off – https://tinyurl.com/yct7wnae https://tinyurl.com/l446rcl https://youtu.be/-A3EmyM8lC0 https://youtu.be/tx3hrpDCct8

Only a far-right nut, only a corporatist lunatic could knowingly support the Tory party of Theresa May.  Every other voter does so in ignorance of the facts.

The Tory campaign relies on this.

Those who know #votelabour

Speaking Kipper – four cases of projection 1/ Supporting Terrorism. In April 2017 May sold 3 billion pounds worth of British made weapons to ''our close friends'' Saudi Arabia, known to be the number one supplier of arms and funding to ISIS.