#Illusionary world art

[thejestofit]

I've decided to draw (art dump!!)

It's just my silly guys😼 featuring Petunia and Kevin (Petunia by @lobotomize-d )

[kawkawsrii]

Do we vibe w/ knightbito and wizardkashi in a fantasy au? In my mind, they’re akin to joninbito au, albeit knight Obito has to practice a little more restraint. Will be drawing a diff fantasy idea w wizardbito sometime tho 😍😍😍

[cupidastrology]

ᥫ᭡ 𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓼 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽 𖤓 𝓐𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓲𝓭 𝓐𝓹𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓮 1388 𝓲𝓷 𝓟𝓲𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓼 🤍

Please do not repost or copy.

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Asteroid Aphrodite is currently moving through the illusionary Pisces ♓︎. Read below associated with your natal Asteroid Aphrodite 1388.

(if you do not know how to find your Asteroid Aphrodite, please message me!)

Pisces ♓︎ - the dreamer, the illusion, the intuition, the subconsciousness, manipulation, addiction, intoxication, on a high.

Asteroid Aphrodite - the seducer of romance, natural born seduction, the ability to persuade/manipulate to get what you want, love magick, natural forms of love.

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Aries ♈︎ - you may be mixed between a new way of loving, and an old way of romance. relationships in the love sector are confusing, all because a change in how you express/think/feel for love is coming together in a new awakening.

Taurus ♉︎ - you may be feeling a lot more indulgent or inspired than usual; this may through the actions of self care. you suddenly feel the need to be more opinionated, desirable, and needy towards yourself and what you want. it may seem these actions will entice your peers.

Gemini ♊︎ - your thoughts are muddle, but inspired strongly by stories of fantasy and what ifs. love and how you bring romance into your life is through observation, and it's important to practice boundaries with another in the love sector.

Cancer ♋︎ - you want to be held, and if love isn't coming quickly, your emotions come into play to put out the pointers that you wish to make romance happen. you're constantly reminded on what is most important, and that is letting go for a finer love.

Leo ♌︎ - the past and the potential future of new love is sitting right in front of you. there is a need to let go, but you can't help but feel that ego is at play just to make you want to be careless and into the club lights. to feel desirable is important right now, but who does that attract?

Virgo ♍︎ - you're feeling drawn to what is not real, and love blossoms in the world of art. the only way for someone to come is if they can touch the insides of you through poetry, but to find healing with new creation. you are thinking in new ways, but feeling that you can actually attain love in new methods of music, art, and dance.

Libra ♎︎ - there is inspiration hiding deep inside your heart, and it wants to be let out through creativity. to draw, or create a piece to adorn in public may be on your mind right now, but can be beneficial to entice a lover, crush, or an infatuation. do not be nervous to open up this side.

Scorpio ♏︎ - letting go is an important reminder at this time; romance is meeting an end in terms of old expectations and old ways of emotional expressions. focusing on what a new way of loving, especially towards yourself, may help you in the long run.

Sagittarius ♐︎ - You feel between worlds in the area of love and persuasion; it's important to know where your passion lies, and to not look back at old patterns of romance and self loving. if you wish to find the new horizon, look ahead of you, not the temptations of the past.

Capricorn ♑︎ - Allow this time to be sure of the choices you make in your commitments. There is something telling you to let go of a romantic affair, or seemingly an attraction that has long gone the past of interest. You find more beauty in restarting the way you seek romance from a person.

Aquarius ♒︎ - This is an incredible time to observe how you are thinking about yourself, and what you can utilize to your advantage towards new forms of romance. Reading on esoteric content and new forms of magic may help you to understand new forms of romance.

Pisces ♓︎ - You are seated in the realm of what love is all about; you may question what is worth your time, and what is bringing you the strongest of imagery in your head. To be inspired to create, to become another, is grown from the world of romance. Allow yourself to let go of what is not worth it in love, and birth a new form you create on your own terms.

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𖤓 Aphrodite Readings are currently open to book if you wish to know more about how Aphrodite can manifest in your life.

𖤓 My Kofi is now open on my pinned post if you wish to support my blog even further.

[goodwhump-temp]

Sword Art Online: Kirito Whump

===SAO Season 1=== 1x02 Beater - Sliced by boss, weak, low HP 1x03 Red Nosed Reindeer - Ambushed, watches friends die, traumatized, cries 1x06 Illusionary Avenger - Watches someone die 1x07 The Temperature of the Heart - Falls from great height twice, low HP 1x09 The Blue Eyed Demon - Intense boss battle, sliced multiple times, punched, sweating, extremely low HP, collapses, makes Asuna cry 1x10 Crimson Killing Intent - Duel, stabbed, talks about trauma, depressed/angry, paralyzed, stabbed multiple times, slowly impaled by psychopath, life flashes before his eyes, intense pain, extremely low HP, arm sliced off, collapses, emotional 1x12 Yui's Heart - Knocked down, unconscious, weak, angry 1x13 Edge of Hell's Abyss - Scared 1x14 The End of the World - Exhausted, intense confrontation, duel, sliced, sobbing, collapse, impaled, emotional, weak, depressed 1x15 Return - Nightmares, crying, depressed, difficulty adjusting, hit in the head, stumbles, shares PTSD with sister, sobs 1x16 Land of the Fairies - Logout PTSD 1x20 General of the Blazing Flame - Intense 1v1, sliced multiple times 1x22 Grand Quest - Outnumbered, died, emotional 1x23 Bonds - Intense battle 1x24 Gilded Hero - Emotional, paralyzed, straining, kicked around, impaled/tortured, pain absorber decreased, intense pain, emotional 1x25 The World Seed - Ambushed, stabbed irl, bleeding, falls, kicked multiple times

===SAO Season 2 (Gun Gale Online)=== 2x01 The World of Guns - Death gun/SAO PTSD 2x05 Guns and Swords - Grazed, exhausted, confrontation, PTSD 2x06 Showdown in the Wilderness - Intense laughing coffin battle, PTSD, panic attack, grazed multiple times 2x07 Crimson Memories - Guilt, emotional conversations about PTSD, sobs 2x12 Bullet of a Phantom - Death Gun confrentation, stabbed multiple times, heart racing/panic 2x13 Phantom Bullet - Risk of dehydration, faster heart rate (bp: 160), sliced multiple times, hug-grenade bomb, irl fight 2x14 One Little Step - Choked, punched multiple times irl, stabbed with poison syringe, panic, almost dies, bandaged 2x16 King of the Giants - Knocked down from blast, low HP, its a trap! or not? it is! help 2x17 Excalibur - Intense fight, punched to the ground 2x18 Forest House - Exhausted, died in a duel

===Sword Art Online: Alicization=== 3x01 Underworld - Shot in the chest, falls down, tackled 3x02 The Demon Tree - Amnesia, exhausted 3x04 Departure - Sliced, intense pain, kicked to the ground 3x05 Ocean Turtle - Attacked irl, injected with serum from GGO, unconscious, heart stopped, emergency surgery, possible brain damage 3x11 Central Cathedral - Imprisoned 3x15 The Relentless Knight - Literally back-stabbed, collapse, unconscious, dragged, thrown, 1v4, shot multiple times, falls, bleeding 3x16 The Osmanthus Knight - Bleeding, collapse, unconscious, falls down building 3x17 Truce - Hanging, pancaked 3x21 The 32nd Knight - Sliced multiple times, bleeding 3x22 Titan of the Sword - Intense fight, impaled, bleeding profusely, cries 3x23 Administrator - Emotional damage, collapse, emotionally paralyzed 3x24 My Hero - Sliced multiple times, arm cut off, bleeding, intense emotional heartbreak, crying, brain breakdown

===Sword Art Online: War of Underworld=== 4x01 In The Far North - Wheelchair, braindead, depressed, knocked unconscious (flashback), carried, bullied, falls out of wheelchair, panic 4x02 Raids - Panic, crawling/struggling, brain shortcircuted already damaged brain, therefore: deactivating brain/no self-concept (5head stuff) 4x05 The Night Before Battle - Willpower tested/dagger launched at him 4x07 Stigma of the Disqualified - Tries to protect friends 4x10 Stacia, the Goddess of Creation - Asuna reunion, twitches, tries to talk, cries 4x13 The War of Underworld - SAO friends reunion, tries to speak 4x16 Code 871 - Tense standoff 4x17 Prince of Hell - Bullied, kicked out of wheelchair, unconscious 4x18 Memories - Fighting mental blockage, faces trauma, intense emotional pain, mental breakdown, intense sobbing, tears open chest, self damage, becomes ultimate form GIGACHAD 4x19 Awakening - Sliced neck, bleeding, cries 4x20 The Night-Sky Blade - Sliced in half, impaled, intense fight, sobs in loneliness, trapped in the world 4x22 Alice - Awakens, weak, was alive the last 200 years, memories erased, obviously depressed, hospitalized, sobbing, PTSD, emotional damage, comforted by sister 4x23 New World - Headbutted, headache

[thedevillionaire]

masterlist, the new and improved version

💝 all my stuff is here 💝 alrighty, since that link is fine via browser but only works approx 50% of the time on the app, fics are also findable via the tag #cerbia

and in case of (insanely appreciated) interest, vanilla content lives here (my sideblog) ETA: I've now also included everything the above link is supposed to take you to under the cut. Hopefully the app will be happier about it. 🤞💕

supernatural soap opera fics, chronologically with most recent at the top (their chronology, that is, not the order I wrote the fics.) links that maybe the app won't be so moody about below.

Above and Beyond - A bunch of stuff that happened, a fair bit in the rain.

Held, Responsible - He’s better, but, uh, not really. Short, sweet, semantics.

Gifted - Just a soft little domestic moment

Where The Heart Is - A prompt! Wherein they’re sort of fighting, kinda

Something More Unusual - Cerberus working with Ice, Kia flirting with snzfuckery

Illusionary - Thunder is a cliche and Kia’s fashion choices are suspect

The Twentieth - Happy anniversary, sweetheart

It’s No Secret - Specialty cooking and an oncoming cold

Home Truths - A very brief but significant moment in time

Four Days, Mostly - Okay this one is mostly just horn

Consequences - A little hot and heavy, a lot cold and wet

Chosen - She’s been away. He’s been unwell.

Much Better - Not a good day in the Sorcery department

A Masterclass in Inconvenience -  He really doesn’t like having a cold

Unguarded Moments - Sick, drunk and medfucked, my beloved

Invasive Species - Demonics Office, allergy edition

Icestruck - Cerberus takes magickal damage, some aftermath

Surrender - Intro piece, sort of, and the risks that woodlands pose

What Goes Around - It’s mirror world! Featuring Cerberus in the caretaker role

Best Served Cold - Least relaxing sick day ever. (Also some softness though)

Exordium / Panacea - The first time he gets sick once they’re a couple

Discovery - Third date, first encounter with the dust allergy he doesn’t have

The Answer - Necromancy isn’t flirting

Ice Cold Emerald - Angst and well before Kia; he’s sick and betrayed

incognitos

come to me

and there will your heart be also

sensoria

love conquers all

fire and ice

needs must

understanding

sanctuary

eye of the beholder

better than you know yourself (Now with GORGEOUS art courtesy of the incredible just-a-nervous-bean)

snapshots

blessings in disguise

soft places

dust

poetry

bless you, sweetheart

heat

wordless

Green Fire (nb: not snz, though it is about Cerberus, so there’s that)

visuals

a soft couch moment

snuggling and stifling

morning hours sick and tired

intro bed moment

Cerberus in Artbreeder (my avatar) and also in vanilla here but by me this time

Kia in Artbreeder and Picrew

Absolute gorgeousness Cerberus art by the amazingly talented mimikusu

Raven and Cerberus Have Tea (and Plot to Kill Someone)  - a collaboration with the fabulous evilfloralfoolery

parts 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8

The Crimson Charisma (vanilla fics - link to sideblog)

Something Quite Unusual - Cerberus and Kia first meet

[fertabranche]

Trying to list off the r1999 references I can find.

I’m only doing the very beginning in this post so I think it’s a lot of things people already know, but if I don’t do this in order I will simply perish so here we go

Prologue : This is Tomorrow

Part One : Rock 'n' Roll Radio

• This Is Tomorrow

The prologue title is a reference to a contemporary art exhibition that took place in 1956. From what I understand, its purpose was to update the definition of art by challenging the prejudices of the institutions of the time, for instance by using pop culture symbols, this kind of stuff. It would later be regarded as the precursor of the British Pop Art movement, one of the main aesthetic movements of the 60s, which is therefore also relevant in the prologue.

I’ve already written a post about this, but I feel like this title choice is more than an artistic reference, it also makes sense thematically. Later on in the chapter, the Sixties are described as such:

Thanks to our 20/20 hindsight vision we know this is meant to be read in a tragic irony kind of way. The title reads the same to me: there will never be a tomorrow long enough for progress to take root in a world where the Storm is still raging, and in that sense the game began painting that picture here.

• Rock 'n' Roll Radio

This is the title of the prologue's first part. I think it’s named after the song "Do You Remember Rock 'n' Roll Radio?" (1980) by the Ramones. From what I understand, it’s as much of a love letter to rock music from the era Regulus was from as it is a warning about the threat nostalgia can pose to creativity.

Once again, it kind of reads as tragic irony given how it’s the second time they’ve been in the 60s. This is worse than nostalgia they’re literally stuck in the past lmao.

The Great Gatsby

Now that the titles are out of the way: the story opens up with the last lines from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The game does not include the first sentence of the quote, but I’ve chosen to use a slightly longer version here because that’s how it makes the most sense to me.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter-tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.... And one fine morning——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I have not read the book, so I’m not fully confident trying to analyze it, but from what I understand, the green light is a motif throughout the novel that symbolizes longing. (Or the American Dream, but I don’t think that line of interpretation is terribly relevant in the prologue.)

To be super brief and include as little spoilers as possible, the book tells the story of a man named Gatsby, who grew up in poverty and decided to reinvent himself as a rich man in hope of winning back over a woman he once loved. Though he is known to throw lavish parties, one of the key points of the novel is apparently when the narrator finds him outside of one, staring across the bay at a green light coming from the end of that woman’s deck. This obsession eventually ends in tragedy.

As highlighted in the end quote, this is the story of a man forever stuck in the present, between a past he can never forget nor escape, and an illusionary future he can never quite reach. Just like with the other two references, I think R1999 is quoting this half literally, since the characters share similar issues with the flow of time, but like, for real this time.

What I do find interesting here is that from what I could research, I don’t think the quote is meant to be read as a wholly nihilistic take on the purpose of the human condition? There’s also a little bit of an implied admiration for the resilience synonymous with such cyclicality.

And I do find that sense of neutrality kind of accurate to the vibe of the game? Life sucks, but they beat on quite beautifully, don’t they? :,)

Newton Street

Granted this one may be a reach, but I do find it a little too convenient that we meet Mr.Apple on Newton Street of all places. I could write an entire other post on the references to Isaac Newton in his profile, but since that aspect of his character has never been discussed in the main story, I don’t think it’s relevant here.

Regulus’ Record Collection

In the first part, we get two peeks into her record collection. I don’t think they are all meant to be real records, and it’s kind of way too pixelated to see anyway, but I’m pretty sure I see Please Please Me (1963) and perhaps Rubber Soul (1965) by the Beatles on the right side of her office, though I might just be losing it from staring at pixels for too long.

On the wall of the other picture, I think there’s Please Please Me again, My Generation (1965) by The Who, December’s Children (1965) by The Rolling Stones, and potentially an upside down Aladdin Sane by David Bowie even though it was only released in 1973?

If anyone has caught more, I’d be super interested to know :]

Sixties Fashion

Another area I’m definitely not an expert in, so take everything with a grain of salt but I unfortunately cannot shut my mouth.

Idk how much I should source this, but basically, Regulus’ clothes are super inspired by the fashion trends of the Sixties. For example, from what I’ve read, one of the most popular looks of the era for women was what was apparently called a mini dress with "go go boots" (low heeled mid calf white boots), which is pretty much what she’s wearing right? Similarly, the 60s were apparently the era where sunglasses truly became fashion accessories, as it’s when plastic became more mainstream to use than metal, which allowed a lot more freedom of design.

I also read a bunch of articles to try to see if her accessories had any historical significance: this article on chiffon scarves throughout history explains they were mainly used in the 60s to "coordinate with an outfit", but could have bold prints, just like hers does. This one on knee high socks in the 60s, says that they apparently became quite popular because of the mini dresses, in order to still provide coverage. This one was about the newsboy cap, which was apparently very trendy amongst young women back then. And finally, this one explains that backpacks became popular among young people in the sixties, as it’s around when they were modernized for day to day use by becoming smaller and lighter.

I did fail to identify what kind of jackets she is wearing though, it kind of looks like some kind of motorbike jacket on the left and perhaps a type of rain coat on the right? In which case, both were popular at the time as motorbikes were an integral part of the counter culture of the era, and raincoats were apparently a fashion trend for women back then.

Radio Pirate

I feel like this is a pretty well known fact by now but I’m including it in order to be thorough: there is a historical reason as to why Regulus is calling herself a pirate.

In the Sixties, the growing interest for pop and rock music was not catered to by the official radio stations just yet, so what we call "pirate radios" started broadcasting it from offshore ships. This was technically not illegal as they were in international waters, but was still kind of frowned upon because they didn’t observe copyrights law and stuff like that?

And that’s exactly what Regulus is doing when the Manus attacks her in the prologue.

Okay that’s it for this part. I’ll cover part 2 in another post if I have the energy, hope I didn’t make mistakes o777

[ancientgoddessofegypt]

"There's something so different about you, I cant put my finger on it..." Neptune Trine Ascendant and The Mysteries Beyond This Realm

Neptune trining the ascendant people have an attitude towards life that can be pretty optimistic when the inner child is allowed to wonder. These people have a knack for connecting with other realms in their imagination. Their inspiration can come from the mundane life so they tend to take what they see and make it better. Their beliefs are uncanny to some, interesting to many. Whimsical lovers of the universe, their is so much hidden in them that others try to discover. When an individual finds their way to their domain, they immediately aren't able to describe how it feels to be around a Neptune trine ascendant person, but it is mainly felt. This could cause confusion, considering since Neptune is the illusionary planet others may be prone to putting certain descriptions on them that doesnt truly reach the surface of who they are.

Having Neptune Trine the Ascendant means you either have Neptune in your 4th/5th, or 8th/9th house. Whichever house it is in is what shows up on the surface in your day to day.

Anything that seems to be of the imagination may be real.

ghost? fairies? unicorns? they may believe these to be true while others may tell them to put the fairytale books down.

Their inner child never stopped believing in the wonders of what could be. Because remember, believing it is to see it. Not the other way around ;)

Neptune trine ascendant individuals have an amazing, captivating aura. You CAN see it, however like I said before its not easy to grasp or describe, mainly felt. These people can be like aliens amongst the common folk. Its something different about them. People try to describe them so they could mimic em, but it never works.

Neptune trine ascendant holders are the stars that came down from the cosmos and are shining their mysteriously light into the world. They attract so many to them because its like looking into a dream. Their presence its able to put you in a daze, and in a blink of an eye. their gone!

These people are also good at shapeshifting! SHAPE. SHIFTERS. they can use art to transform their style and turn into a different being/person like no other. how do they do it? we'll never know. its in their blood.

magic runs in their vains, and they are good at attracting what they want because they understand frequencies/energy and Quantum psychics/reality shifting very well.

dont ask them how they do it, because the way they explain it may 'confuse' you.

did I mention their also tricksters? ;)

[adore-laur]

JOYRIDE

— corruption in tokyo brings two partners together again to seek retribution while also fulfilling their desires🚦

ハリー

Midnight in Tokyo. 

The city transforms into a neon jungle once the moon takes the stage. Illusionary indigo and hot pink advertisements scale the sides of skyscrapers, their vibrant pixels reflecting off the slick thoroughfares bestrewed with puddles. Cosmopolitan emporiums attract visitors like clusters of moths drawn to a flame, ranging from luxury retail stores to vintage boutiques that line the sidewalks. Many diverse eateries sit snugly in the passageways—the limited seating is where conversations are struck with writers and poets alike. Whimsical art sculptures placed in hidden spots showcase Japanese culture, and the expressive pieces greet tourists from around the world. 

It's an urban utopia straight out of a futuristic fantasy. 

Digging deeper into the complex metropolis, right in the heart of the infamous Kabukicho District, is where nightlife is most vivacious. Foreigners flock to clubs and bars for ritzy entertainment and exuberant thrills. Alleyways conceal doorways to more private establishments, their explicit thresholds exposed by flickering arrows that guide those who dare to enter. It's sinfully atmospheric, with the smell of smoke and sex lingering past the brick walls lit by dangling paper lanterns. 

The vicinity is two sides of the same coin. In the daytime, families wander through a maze of honorable restaurants and hotels, but at night, the devil comes out to play. Risqué signs lead to unlawful pleasure. Curtains cover hostess clubs of endless inebriation. Intimate shops are out in the open to pique the interest of innocents. 

However, on this rainy November night, Harry Styles seeks only one unholy cove. He doesn't need to be lured into it by silhouetted street hawkers. Ignoring them is easy when the red light just around the corner holds his true desire. 

As his polished dress shoes clack against the wet pavement, a black umbrella looming over his head, he fishes into his trouser pocket to snag a piece of chewing gum. He unwraps the aluminum, pops the green gum into his mouth, folds the rubbery substance using his tongue, stretches it between his two front teeth, and then bites down on it with his back molars. A refreshing burst of spearmint hits the back of his throat, crisp and cool. He begins whistling a catchy tune he heard on the metro subway the other day, the trill echoing off the narrow walls surrounding him. The new graffiti on them catches his attention. Considering the city strictly prohibits street art, it's a rare find, so he admires the esoteric visuals before they're removed by patrolling police. 

Taking a sharp left, the top of Harry's shadow reaches his destination before he does. He stops in his tracks and breathes in the hazy air. Smoke seeps under the rusted garage door, and the muffled bass coming from inside is a straight injection into his veins. The Japanese script, emboldened by neon red, spells out the name of the strip club. 

ジョイライド 

JOYRIDE 

Guarded by a towering man in a black suit and maroon tie, it's the only barrier left. Luckily, Harry is well-versed when it comes to sneaking into elite establishments. He shakes his umbrella out, the droplets creating ripples in the asphalt pools beneath his feet. A step under the hipped awning saves his expensive clothing from becoming soaked. His long, houndstooth blazer of a dreary gray color and a dotted scarf wrapped once around his neck make him blend in nicely with the darkness. 

Harry clears his throat and politely bows to the daunting watchman. "Kobanwa," he greets, hiding the gum under his tongue out of courtesy. (Good evening.) 

"Kon'nichiwa," says the man with a reciprocated bow. "Anata no mōshide wa nanidesu ka?" (Hello. What is your offer?) 

Opening the breast pocket of his blazer, Harry plucks out three bills. He unfolds the creased paper one by one, revealing the printed face of an esteemed writer and a five-digit number representing a hefty amount of yen. His desire is worth significantly more, but he'll undoubtedly be spending the rest of what's tucked in his wallet for reasons that will never be publicly disclosed. 

"Sakura," Harry says with unwavering eye contact. 

He only needs to say a single name for the man to stare back in challenge for three seconds. He then takes the yen and inspects it for possible counterfeits, his nimble fingers flipping the banknotes over with a particular procedure. After an anticipatory moment of crinkling sounds and drowned-out electronic music, he raps a rhythmic knock on the garage behind him. It instantly lifts with a grinding creak, the smoke releasing from underneath and crawling up Harry's legs like ivy on a brick wall. 

"Anata no norimono o tanoshinde kudasai." (Enjoy your ride.) 

Harry gives the man a fixed smile and then enters his paradise. Weeks of lousy business trips that required him to globetrot across continents have led to this. Tokyo always has something sensational in store for him. He comes back to the sleepless city time and time again for the unpredictability. 

Disappointment doesn't exist here—escapade does. 

The metal stairs leading to the underground club are grungy and steep, so Harry uses the shaft of his umbrella as a makeshift cane to traverse down the dilapidated steps. Every footfall ends in a squeak until he reaches the velvet carpet at the bottom. Thumping music loudens, the scent of cigarettes grows stronger, and the beat of his heart pounds faster in anticipation. 

Red curtains are suspended in front of him, and distant chatter that eclectically ranges from foreign to familiar dialect echoes from behind them. Harry sets his umbrella by the nearby coat rack, then takes his scarf and blazer off to hang them next to a pristine suit jacket. He takes a glimpse at his own suit. It's black cashmere with a contrasting white button-up underneath and a silk tie. He adjusts the collar, tugs on the lapels, and swiftly unclasps the single button. With a final ruffle of his flattened hair and a crack of his neck, he's ready for total immersion. 

Pushing the curtains aside, he crosses the threshold. There's no turning back now. 

The seductive ambiance immediately invades every one of his senses. There's red everywhere. The spacious room holds the key to subliminal distraction, from the ruby wallpaper to the vermillion leather booths. It's a sub-rosa room where players can have fun after dusk. Every soul that wanders in leaves with a newfangled perspective on the divine beauty of women. At least that's what Harry left with the first time he traipsed in as a fresh face from Europe, a wax-sealed invitation in his hesitant grasp. 

He wouldn't call himself a loyal customer, per se. He's not dependent on the half-empty glasses of Yamazaki malt whiskey presented to him on serving trays, only to be respectfully declined. Nor does he come for the puffed cigars and joints perched between persuasive fingertips and lips. 

No, it's the stage in his peripheral vision that he floats toward. It's where his desire lies. 

His Sakura. 

She's on the round stage amid her nightly performance, one leg hooked around a silver pole protruding from the middle of the platform. A red spotlight shines down on her contorted body, her limbs reaching out like the slender branches of a cherry blossom tree. Her long hair is snaked into six braids, four twisted up high and two tinier ones falling over her forehead. The audience of men, some standing close and some sitting in booths, piercingly whistle over the loud music while throwing wads of yen at her as she spins into an upside-down position with ease, gripping the pole using just her ankles. It gives everyone a full view of her leather bodysuit, the glossy black material with cutouts revealing peeks of smooth, brown skin. 

Harry stuffs a hand in his pocket and lingers at the back of the club, where no one can pester him with invasive questions about his intentions. They don't understand. He's not here to 'get some,' as they often assume. Sure, he'll leave the place feeling satisfied, but they don't know he gets to take home the woman they're currently fawning over. 

Her pole dancing performance nears its end, with a final layer of smoke hovering over the circular platform. The mystique she exudes as she slides into an effortless split is tantalizing. Harry swallows thickly as his hand curls into a fist, every fiber of his being practically itching to be alone with her. He never grows tired of watching her, yet he's utterly addicted to what happens in their designated private room. 

The red spotlight switches to a bright white, and his Sakura smiles dazzlingly while collecting the bills thrown her way. Harry smirks and applauds, then pushes off the wall to give her his own special offering. This part seems to always occur in slow motion for him. His eyes are locked on her as he waits until she catches his hypnotic gaze. He weaves through the crowd while chewing on his now flavorless gum, mumbling apologies when he bumps into people's drunken sways until he finally reaches the stage. Slightly opening his suit, he reaches into the interior breast pocket and pulls out a plucked cherry blossom. Technically speaking, he breaks the law every time he acquires the pink symbolism of human existence, but it's of little consequence to his morals. He has much worse crimes under his belt. 

Harry gently holds out the blossom amidst the flying yen, a pastel pink delicacy in a sea of brown riches. The following moments play out like a scene in a movie. Time seems to freeze as he homes in on the sound of her high heels clicking closer. He steadily looks up, taking in her tall legs and heaving chest. She tucks a few yen in the tight seam of her bodysuit, then provides him with her undivided attention. 

"For me?" she mouths over the deafening music. 

His lips break into a wide smile at the sound of her euphonic voice, which he so longingly missed. "Always for you."

Bending down, she takes the cherry blossom from him and brings it under her nose. Her eyes flutter as she smells the fragrant flower. It's flattering that no matter how often she's received one, she still sticks it behind her ear like she does now. 

The surrounding men marvel over her, but they'll be distracted soon enough. Two more poles emerge from the stage, and a group of stripper girls come out to continue the regularly scheduled show. Harry doesn't lose focus on his Sakura, simply backing away slowly and jerking his head toward the VIP rooms. It's a drill he aims to follow through with zero problems arising. Almost everyone here is a stranger, so that means they cannot be trusted in the slightest. It's why he doesn't speak to them. If any outsiders find out about the dirty business he deals with on the side, it's a downhill slope into deep trouble. 

Harry stops at the opposite side of the room and faces another security guard, but this time, it's one he knows quite well. "Ryōji," he says while bowing. "O-genki desu ka?" (How are you?) 

Ryōji bows and withdraws a small gold key from one of the ten hooks behind him. "Okaeri nasai," he responds. (Welcome back.) 

Welcome back, indeed. Harry quickly glances around and then places a heavy hand on Ryōji's shoulder, leaning in so no one else can hear him. In English, he murmurs, "We've got another one out back. Do you think you can get some men to handle it before sunrise? I'll have the money sent to you by next week." 

The deep inhalation Ryōji takes always makes him nervous. A dreadful silence passes before he says, "Yes, sir. Any special instructions?" 

Harry gives him a friendly pat on the arm and takes the key. "Just the usual. She already took care of the hard part." 

"As you wish." 

With that, Harry gratefully nods and then walks into the back area, where several red doors, some open and some closed, present themselves in a semi-circular fashion. Steering to the right, he throws his gum away and goes to the door with a black '七' on it. 

Lucky number seven for a joyride in heaven. 

The room is a perfect size, with curtains hanging over the walls for a more intimate experience. Two velvet couches are placed on either side, and a table with glasses and a bottle of an unknown alcoholic drink sits nearby. And, of course, a red light emits from the low ceiling. 

Harry gets comfortable, tugging on his pants legs and sitting on the plush couch. Precious time ticks by, the songs slowing into more sultry beats as he waits. He checks his diamond-encrusted wristwatch—it's half past midnight, yet he doesn't feel tired. Maybe it's the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Only the mysterious aura of Tokyo can give him an electric charge like no other. 

At last, Desiree struts into the room and daintily falls sideways into his lap. Her stripper name is Sakura, but her real name is used when she's alone with him. She jumps right in and holds his scruffy cheek, kissing all over his face as the red lipstick she wears stamps evidence on his flushed skin. 

"I've missed you," she whispers in his ear. 

Harry holds her waist and rolls his hips for some relief. "It's all my fault, isn't it? I've been so busy." 

Desiree takes the key from him and quickly locks the door. When she returns, she straddles him and says, "You came back to me, though." 

He nips her neck, short and tender. "I got your text message and flew straight here." 

She grips his chin. "That message wasn't about seeing me." 

Harry swallows thickly, his throat suddenly parched. "We don't need to talk about that right now," he murmurs. 

"But it will be dealt with?" she asks, her eyebrows dipping with concern. 

"Yes, my love." 

"Okay." She gently passes her thumb over his eyelashes like they're pages of a well-loved book. "That's all I need to hear." 

Harry distracts himself from the dangerous subject by twirling one of her braids around his pointer finger. "I like it when you wear your hair like this, Desi. So pretty."

"Yeah?" 

"Mm-hmm. I've gone far too long without you." 

She begins loosening his tie. "Tell me what you need." 

Sifting through his brain, Harry contemplates his options. The club doesn't allow actual intercourse inside its perimeters, so there are limited, albeit creative, methods that are used. Desiree once told him that the strippers are given a manual of all the diverse ways they can please a customer. There was a specific one he heard her briefly mention in passing. At the time, he was too shy to ask for more details, so he went home and researched the term. Needless to say, it sounded worthwhile. 

"Can I have the... red light special? Is that what it's called?" 

Desiree smirks and remarks, "That's new. You've never asked for that before." 

He blushes with a lackadaisical shrug. "Sorry. Being edged just sounds really fuckin' good right now." 

"Why are you apologizing?" She pushes lightly on his chest so he can comfortably lean against the couch. "Relax. Let me take care of you." 

Harry couldn't possibly argue, especially when she doesn't waste any time and starts with a green light. Gripping his shoulders, she smoothly rocks into his body with quick movements. His hands knead her ass, the bodysuit bestowing the perfect amount of skin for him to grab. The tension in his muscles eases as she applies pressure to his growing bulge, every perpetual grind making him harder by the minute. His eyes and neck roll back, and he forgets why he was ever stressed hours prior and instead succumbs to the satisfying ache she provides him. 

"Oh, my God," Harry moans, spreading his legs further apart. "Fuck, Desi, you feel so good. I'm all yours." 

She bites her bottom lip and moves her hips counterclockwise. The switch has Harry gritting his teeth. Shuddering, he opens his mouth and pathetically whimpers while running his hands up her clenched thighs. He feels hot—sweaty, sticky, and salaciously hot. He's burning in a blitz of fiery passion. 

The yellow light is when Desiree slows down, still grinding swivels over his pelvis. The throbbing of his cock ceases, and the buildup disappears momentarily. Her back arches as she uses her height over him to palm him with her hand. Leisurely, she squeezes where the head of his cock is through his pants, and a sensitive tingle rushes down his spine as he bites down on his knuckles to suppress his pleading noises. 

"Does that feel nice?" she asks, kissing his slack jaw. 

Harry's face crumbles in submission. "I need to come. I can't take it anymore." 

Red light. He knows he asked for it, but when she stops moving and stands before him, he reaches for her absent touch. "No, come back. C'mon, please. Stop playing around." 

She ignores him and kneels on the ground. With one finger, she trails it up his inner thigh until it reaches his covered cock. She fondles the length of it, erotically squeezing in all the right places while looking at him with eyes of a rich brown color. He often dreams of her mouth puckered around it, her wet lips and hollowed cheeks making him fall apart. 

Suddenly, his tie is removed, and Desiree holds it up. "Are you ready?" 

"I'm so close," Harry breathes out. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he adds, "You're so gorgeous; do you know that? Got me... shit, I'm absolutely aching for you." 

She stuffs the tie in his mouth and finally straddles him again, riding his thighs to bring him to his peak. His moans are muffled against the fabric as she gives him a lap dance, her body rolling to the R&B music from the distant speakers. 

It doesn't take long for Harry to come; a damp spot forms on his pants shortly after. Every part of his body feels light as he spits his tie out, breathing heavily. He really needed this. 

"Ready to leave this place?" he asks, touching himself until he's soft and able to walk.

Desiree kisses him, her tongue delving into his mouth, before nodding. "Are you taking me on another joyride?" 

Harry smirks and wipes off the lipstick stain she left on the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. "Full throttle, baby." 

——

デザレイ 

The first thing Desiree sees when rounding the corner of the alleyway is a parked Kawasaki motorcycle. 

The rain has let up; only a light drizzle is now falling from the starlit sky. People still pass by with umbrellas, minding their business. The lights outside are stimulating, with signs above casting fuchsia pink and Prussian blue hues over her and Harry's faces. The air reeks of gasoline and smoke, and vehicles are racing past to hop on the expressway. It's a city of nocturnal souls who get off on cheap thrills, and she couldn't help but get hooked on the appeal. Night crawling on a high-speed bike through the neon streets is the most thrilling adventure she can imagine. 

Harry rents out a different motorcycle every time he visits. When they first met, he told her he owned a marketing firm in London, so he had the money to afford such luxuries. The first time he walked into the club, she thought he would be like everyone else—a drunk and lonesome man needing attention. However, he was actually a man of innocence who stumbled upon an underground scene he wasn't expecting. She saw the intrigue in his eyes and taught him how her world worked. She let him choose what he desired without taking advantage of him. She trusted his intentions and let him see every side of her, saintly or sinful. 

Their journey leads to the eager way he's looking at her now, one gloved hand holding out a helmet and the other gripping the motorcycle's handlebar. 

"Ladies first," he says with a playful smile. 

Desiree tightens the belt on her blood-red leather coat and puts the helmet on. It rubs uncomfortably against her hair, but she's not one to place beauty above safety precautions. She then hikes a leg over the back seat, and Harry does the same motions while straddling the front seat and starting the engine. It rumbles to life when he squeezes the clutch, and he attractively revs the engine three times. 

"All good?" Harry calls out behind him, using the back of his shoe to kick up the kickstand. 

She wraps both arms around his waist and props her chin on his shoulder. "So good." 

Reaching back to squeeze her thigh, he speeds into the fast lane. For the next twenty minutes, the brisk wind blows in her ears, and the feeling of flying overtakes her entire body. She spreads her arms, and Tokyo comes alive just for her, blurry colors whooshing past as they accelerate through traffic on the winding expressway. They ride out of the district and towards Marunouchi, where the Shangri-La Hotel is located. With five stars and eleven floors of pure splendor, it's the best place to have a late-night rendezvous. 

When they eventually pull up to the hotel, a rectangular building made entirely of glass panes, Harry parks the motorcycle and kills the engine. Desiree carefully removes her helmet and fixes her hair the best she can. Her makeup feels tacky against her skin, but the cool air of an autumn night is refreshing. She looks over to see Harry do the same, his hair sticking up every which way. He sheepishly grins at her and rolls his eyes. 

"Hurry up," Desiree says through chattering teeth. She bounces on her heels, feeling the ache travel from her ankles to the tips of her toes. 

"All right, all right," Harry mumbles jokingly, holding his hand out. "I'll have a word with Raijin about the inadequate weather." 

"Studying Japanese deities, are we?" 

Interlocking her numb fingers with his, they head inside the lavish lobby and take the elevator to the seventh floor. The ride is quiet, and exhaustion finally catches up to them. After six beeps, a more prolonged one sounds, and the doors slide open. They walk down the narrow hallway to the back, where the suites are located. Harry swipes his key card and twists the door handle to go inside, Desiree following closely. 

The suite is as tidy and stylish as one would expect from a businessman staying there. Two designer-brand suitcases are stacked in the corner by the running air conditioner. A housekeeper must have cleaned and organized his belongings. Crisp white sheets on the king bed look quintessential for bundling up in. 

Desiree removes her heels and flops on the firm mattress. She blearily watches Harry open the mini fridge by the door, hearing the clink of beer bottles. Her assumption proves correct when one is thrown beside her, yet her body has no energy left to open the cap and drink the bitter liquid. 

Harry takes off his suit jacket and button-up, then sits against the headboard and spreads his legs on either side of her sprawled-out body. He takes a swig of beer, his jawline sharp and his throat bobbing. His bare torso, decorated with tattoos, looks like the perfect pillow, so Desiree shimmies upwards to lay her head on his abdomen. She listens to his subtle breathing.

"So, how'd you kill him?" 

Well, that's one way to initiate a conversation. Desiree snaps her eyes to his, staring at him a little funny due to her position. "Katana," she answers casually. "Quick and easy." 

He hums, sets his beer on the nightstand, and then delicately untangles her two front braids. "Made a mess, huh? Ryōji's men won't be too happy about that." 

She fidgets with one of her loose acrylic nails. "They've dealt with worse cleanups." 

She knew what she was getting into when she decided to work in Tokyo's Red Light District. There's no way to sugarcoat what goes down in the alleyways. It doesn't feel like a crime to her if she's getting rid of the bad guys. It's justified in her mind. 

Harry moves his hands to undo her bigger braids. "I know," he says softly, "but it's getting riskier. And more expensive on my end." 

Sighing, Desiree replies, "Asphyxiation is so boring, though. I like my swords." 

"Desi, I'm serious." He tilts her head to look at her straight on. "It worries me when you do those types of killings, and I'm not here to handle the outcome. What if something were to go wrong?" 

She frowns. "We're a team. You flew out to me without hesitation when I told you my plan." 

"Yes, but you act on impulse sometimes," he says, putting her elastic ponytail around his wrist. "I can't always do that with my job. You're lucky I was available." 

"So, you only came to help with the repercussions? Not to see me?" 

"You know that's not true. If it was, I'd be on a plane back to London right now instead of spending the night with you in Tokyo." 

"Just making sure," she says with a hidden undertone of insecurity. 

Once all six braids are out, her hair frizzy and free, Desiree sits up and takes her suffocating coat off. Underneath, she has a more comfortable outfit that she changed into before leaving the club. She internally debates whether she wants to go through the hassle of taking everything off, but before she can thoroughly weigh her options, Harry reaches over to open the nightstand drawer, pulling out something crinkly.

"I, uh, bought some makeup wipes," he explains while fidgeting with the package. "I didn't know what brand you use, but it's coconut, and I know you like coconut rum. There's no correlation, but it's the thought that counts, right?" 

Desiree is speechless for a moment. This is the first time he's done something like that. "Th-thanks. Can you help me take it off?" she says quietly. 

"'Course. Scoot over." 

She takes one side of the bed and sits cross-legged in front of Harry as he plucks a wipe. He folds it into a compact square four times and then hovers it over her face. His gaze wanders a bit before he starts gently swiping under her eyes. 

He speaks up again once the air conditioner clicks off. "Can I ask, pray tell, why you killed him?" 

Desiree breathes out a laugh. "Funny," she says as he scrubs the pigmented blush off her cheeks. "I remember when you couldn't even stomach asking me that question. Now you do all the dirty side work." 

Harry shrugs. "You're a bad influence." 

Sage advice from two people who dabble in reincarnating as a more sadistic Bonnie and Clyde: It's remarkably more fun to have a loyal partner in crime than to be a lone outlaw. 

"Let's see," she muses with a dramatic flair. "His name was... fuck if I know. All I was told was that he was a gang member who lured young girls in and brainwashed them into committing crimes around Shinjuku for money worth jack squat." 

"Jesus. What about the other gang members?" he asks, wiping her smeared lipstick off. 

"I'm not too worried about them. They would never suspect that a stripper at Joyride killed one of their own. They'll probably assume it was another gang's doing." 

"That's a relief." Harry yawns and tosses the dirtied makeup wipe into the nearby garbage. "All right, I've had enough killer talk. Shall we get some sleep?" 

Desiree grins tiredly and touches the smoothness of her bare face. "We shall. My body aches." 

Stripping takes a toll on her joints and muscles, especially since she incorporates performance art into her dancing. Untreated strains and torn ligaments have been left in the past due to years of training, but residual pain still lingers each night when she steps off the stage. 

Once they're comfortable under the sheets, Desiree curls into Harry's warm chest. "When do I have you until?" she asks reluctantly. 

He wraps an arm over her back and says, "Tomorrow night." 

She recounts all the times he's had to catch a red-eye flight immediately after they arrive at the hotel. Tonight, she's lucky she got him a little longer than usual. 

"It's better than nothing." 

Harry scrunches her hair and leaves a long kiss on her temple. "You can always come back to Europe with me," he murmurs. The scent of beer wafting through his breath is mouth-watering. 

Desiree shakes her head solemnly. "I can't. I belong here." 

"I understand." She feels him smile before kissing her head once more. "A cherry blossom should stay in Japan, right?" 

"Very clever." She closes her eyes. There's an elongated pause of internal reflection before she continues. "Listen, I don't want you to feel trapped. I don't want you to feel like I'm using you." 

Harry rubs the sore muscles around her shoulder blades. "I don't feel that way. I chose to get involved with how you live your life. If I'm being honest, I quite enjoy the danger of it." 

It's easy for him to say when he only has to deal with the business side of it. A pipeline of recruitment occurred where Shyla loosely hired Harry to hire men who would dispose of the dead bodies she threw in the dumpster behind the club. No one dares roam that haunted alleyway, which makes it the most adequate place to safely hide a killing. Then, he pays them handsomely in cash for successfully completing the treacherous deed. 

Desiree cups his cheek and whispers, "Please... just tell me if it ever gets too much and you want out. I'll find someone else." 

"It's never too much when your intentions are good." 

It's not enough. His safety is her top priority. 

"Tell me to stop, and I will," she says sternly. "Give me the red light, and I'll go to Europe with you. You can show me Buckingham Palace and that stupid clock—" 

"Desi," Harry interrupts with a thumb against her parted lips. "I will tell you if it gets to that point, okay?" 

She takes his large hand and holds onto it like it's the last time she'll ever touch his skin. "Promise me." 

"Yakusoku." (Promise.) 

His spoken oath doesn't mend the problem she has with herself. There's a constant battle whenever she thinks too deeply about what she participates in. She questions whether it was a mistake to get involved in cover-up assassinations and bring Harry into it. He used to be innocent. Someone who discovered the darker side of Tokyo is now stuck in the whirlwind of her immoral faults. Did she make him into a brand-new person? A monster? One that knows her crimes and prevents them from becoming exposed? 

Is it wrong that she fell for him in the process? 

She can never tell him. No, that would complicate things beyond the boundary lines she drew for herself long before she met him. There are too many risks when feelings are a factor—risks of turning on each other if there are relationship issues. Then there's the plain and straightforward risk of barely seeing each other in person. It's all too poisonous of a pool to dip her feet into. Her guard is up, and it's not coming down for anything or anyone. 

However, as Desiree drifts into a dreamland, she realizes her guard is lower whenever Harry is around. With his fingers soothingly scratching up and down her aching spine, she doesn't feel the uncertainty that always clouds her mind when he's not beside her. It clears when she awakes to the smell of brewing coffee and room service breakfast on a cart before she can even open her eyes. It gnaws at her boarded-up heart until the pieces chip away. What's left is a vulnerable girl who seeks refuge but can't leave a place of fortune and frisson. She's a moon in broad daylight. 

Does she want to be saved? Or does the red light call her name for a reason? 

——

[couldtransitionsaveher]

SHUN'EI from THE KING OF FIGHTERS

JUSTIFICATION:

"Shun'ei's the protagonist of the current KOF storyline (ongoing). He's a young Chinese teen (no specific age is given but can be inferred) with short green hair, white headphones, and a very diorganized fashion sense (in my opinion)

When he was a young child, he manifested immense and destructive powers (Amplified Specters: Illusionary manifestations of all possibilities and souls of the universe) that caused his birth parents to abandon him and have Tung Fu Rue - a wise martial arts master - raise him away from the rest of the world. Shun'ei's a kindhearted person, but tries to put distance between himself and others due to worrying that he can't control his powers and hurt others. His worries over his powers cause him to feel very anxious in large crowded areas, in part due to his powers being fueled by the intense emotions, and thus is very insecure about his capabilities as a person. I think that Shun'ei's feelings of worry and doubt over his capabilities to handle his powers - to me - feel akin to the worries of not conforming to societal gender structures and/or performance, with how this doubt causes him to shy away from others and bottle up his true self much like how many trans people do before/during/after they transition.

I feel like that Shun'ei's character arc will be to finally open himself to others and thus fully control his powers, and that arc would change him both positively and radically, and for me the best way for this arc to conclude would be to transition to a girl.

Plus, I feel like Shun'ei would be happier as a girl, with how his closest peers in his life are Meitenkun - childhood best friend/adopted brother who's incredibly supportive of him, aswell as very kind and sleepy - and Isla - she was antagonistic at first but she becomes friendlier at the end; she herself is very rebellious of the status quote and has similar Amplified Specter powers as him - would help him find his true self and even transition into a girl.

I.e. I feel like Shun'ei's an egg at this point." - @jkflay

Reminder: Submissions are always open! Submit here!

[thejestofit]

Cervus<3

(School drawings and doodles)

Once again, featuring Petunia :3

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Astarion tries to prove he's an asset via archery and needs healing. Thomasin and Wyll use their intimidation checks. Summary: Astarion insists on shooting from the rooftops of Moonhaven, later discovering there's an ambush of goblins. Thomasin decides to lean into acting like a raider drow to get through alive. She patches up the pale elf's bruises whilst they help Wyll search for Karlach. Warning/Content: A little more fluff, humor, and questionable archery. Mild sexual content/descriptions. Blighted Village gore, Act 1. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 3, 949 Ao3 Link

Self-preservation weaves itself through the synapses of a young developing brain. Its concept wakes one morning. Fully formed, robust, yet subtle in its transition. Paranoia becomes natural. A requisite with age. Childhood cautionary tales elucidate and transform. Heroics and foes are no longer mere life lessons. They’re stepping stones. Breeds hypervigilance. Biology launches you from the nest, though the world’s grassy gnolls sting. 

By age nineteen, Thomasin honed panic spellcasting. Every illusionary spell she could conjure bought time. But, warbling minds was mentally taxing. Impractical. Her travels became unplanned and scattered across the map in search of solace. Little did she know, solace was in people. Damsels of the soft trade and grizzled syndicates. 

Generations of open skirts dried Thomasin’s tears upon their bosom. Turncoins. Glimmersheaths. Willing-arms. The “names” of those who gifted a young half-elf tools of survival. They mentored on how to identify worrying social cues. What certain clientele preferred and the nuances of their sexual advances. How fluid the identity could be.

It was an art. 

Speech. De-escalation. Sycophantic coercion. Enchantments.

But, in an odd way, Thomasin also grew to appreciate her time in hostile environments. Harder trade. Syndication introduced her to hardened women. Swinging mauls was as much a power play as their word. Although these women spoke with no honeysuckle. Only thistle. Lethal like the black beady-eyed fruits of belladonna.

Yet, even under calluses, they recognized Thomasin’s place. She was one of few women in a den. Sure, she took part in the operation, but there was no denying the bright livelihood of a woman just newly blossomed.

It was as though her presence smoothened their coarse edges. Some innate desire for solidarity. She often watched in disbelief as women with murals of black ink tattoos sprawled across their bodies defended her. 

Thomasin’s authorities mocked her docile demeanor. Belittled her servility, despite their hierarchies fostering such behavior. But their contempt didn’t last long. It was silly to grant her bosses power when they struggled to form sentences through a bloodied broken jaw. From that day on, the young woman realized violence could be an answer.

-

In hindsight, being thrown into the wilderness wasn’t life-shattering. Unfortunate, but second nature.  Nature she wished wore comforts of the city. She welcomed the softened and hardened feminine, even if they clashed. Probably depended on them, as did Astarion, even if neither consciously realized it. They gave him space to exist, so he reluctantly did the same. 

Thomasin awoke early that morning to a vision of Astarion basking in the sun. Their day’s velvet illumination had barely crept in to warm the chapel’s deity. He leeched the statue’s warmth with a firm press of his back against stone.

Aside from rotating the kinks out of his shoulders, he seemed pleasant. Hopeful, perhaps. Although his tendency to blanket discomfort with criticism and jokes could make it hard to decipher at times. Thomasin didn’t mind. He voiced the petty little thoughts most suppressed. 

It made the idea of adventuring fathomable. Tolerable. Their belongings tucked back into bags, satchels, and belt loop hooks. Thomasin smeared golden pigment across her eyelids and wiped what was left to glitter down her collar bone. Although their outfits weren’t suited for battle, their leather hand-me-downs were appreciated. Pauldrons and leather-covered kneecaps were better than nothing.

Arriving back at the grove’s gate, Thomasin caught Astarion’s habit of objectification.

An approving coo flit from his lips. His shoulders loosened in the presence of Wyll, as though to contrast the young man’s broad build. To become milder than Wyll’s leathers clinking audibly with fortified metal rings. A blade sheathed atop a warlock’s back and the oil seeping into his locs from maintenance lent a faint shimmer. 

Thomasin nudged Astarion to behave. Wyll was too young for her taste, but she recognized the appeal. The fruits of charisma and drive. His probable leanings towards lawfulness did raise concern though. She hoped he was just naive. Easy to manipulate, if need be.

The young man handed over a handkerchief bundled with breakfast and dug out a map. Amatuer in design but guided them well toward the east. It was a collaboration amongst the tieflings using vine charcoal ground in parchment, sketching out a legend and branching routes. Drops of wine highlighted landmarks: Purple bridges, maroon rivers, and pink territories of goblin activity.

Starting their journey around sunrise lent blooms of pastels across the woodlands. The sky diffused into candied orange and dripped like the bread rolls Wyll brought. Three honey-soaked centers delightful enough to offset stale crumb, even if their stickiness made fingers hard to pry apart. Like giggling children, they found an icy stream to plunge their hands into.

Astarion took a bit of convincing to join. His breakfast was picked at before being tucked away. It wasn't a matter of being particularly upset by the meal. He was fine. Simply not hungry. A fact he insisted when Thomasin flicked droplets at his face. 

Wyll settled into the role of guide as they walked along, despite being dropped back into Faerun not long before them. When he wasn’t scouring the map, the young man recounted his mightiest foes slain in humble anecdotes and modest laughter. Whether the details were fact or fiction was irrelevant to Thomasin. A good story provided the essentials when straight from the valiant mouth. Beast slayers weren’t always grand storytellers but storytellers were always slayed grand beasts.

The quick responses. The picturesque memory of the most minute moments. It all made her wonder how often Wyll harkened back to scripts. Even when Astarion prodded about his moonstone eye or joked about the self-serious title of ‘Blade of Frontiers’, Wyll took it in stride. He saw the upside of their downturned fates. Existing within dichotomy meant there was always an infallible answer. Stories need to end with the townsfolk saved and a bounty of roasted fresh fish to celebrate. 

Nothing could bite through idealistic visions like the present, however.

As the morning sun settled high above, they encroached on a bridge near a midway point upon the map. Splotches of pink made them assume they’d fall upon a clan staking camp, but were met with a village. Its exterior was wrapped in high stone walls blemished with age. An arched entrance greeted the travelers, providing a window that shone the true abandoned intrells awaiting their visit. The same stagnation baked into the expressions of corpses outside the village’s perimeter. The scent of sanguine caked their flesh.

The trail was littered with bashed carts they made careful steps to avoid, but one thing was certain. This killing wasn’t part of forgotten history. There was still suppleness in a few of their cheeks. Smashed fruit hadn’t devolved into necrotic mush. Although their hallowing was already well underway.

One body propped against the archway upright, sustaining the position by support of stray twigs. It was an attempt at humor. Jokes as blackened as the dead nerves in their fingertips. Beside him was a sign made of dark wood whose bolts and nails were engulfed in thick orange rust. 

“‘Moonhaven’... Poor fools,” Thomasin said, letting her hands run over tactile etched letters.

Astarion looked up from his lifted foot. Decaying melon had the audacity of seeping onto a pair of embroidered boots. What a travesty.

“Augh. Don’t knock it, dear.  I hear death is the ultimate vacation. The final destination to–”

As much as the elf reveled in tasteless levity, his hand suddenly rose. It was a signal of silence. The points of his ears twitched. They’d picked up on a noise the others couldn’t register.

Wyll and Thomasin narrowed their focus, but birds simply chirped where bugs hissed. Until something familiar cut through. Cackles.

Astarion sprung into a predatory stance. His knees lowered his body to a crouch before venturing into neighboring brush in search of potential access points. Literal and figurative cracks in the wall’s foundation. Each step crossed over another. How one dissolved their mass as instantaneous as it was created was jarring, but an asset nonetheless.

“You wait here,” Astarion whispered.

Thomasin furrowed her brow. “You’re going alone?”

“You have qualms now ? Why waste a good shot? I go high, you go low.”

Wyll and Thomasin exchanged looks of uncertainty that couldn’t shake tenacious spirit. The elf’s bow had been lovingly patched and reinforced by tieflings. Tree bark chips were shaven, exposing light wood where blades made hasty cuts and created new planes. It bent with much more confidence and, in return, so did he. 

Astarion wasn’t to waste his spotlight. 

Some street musician and a glorified body guard needed him.

The elf used protruding boulders as stepping stones. His hands gripped onto interlocking vines, making the gradual ascent toward a fracture in the village wall, inch by inch. He slipped his way in, shifted his balance, and landed atop a roof on the other side. A fact only solidified by the sound of loose shingles falling where his feet disturbed.

His disappearance prompted Thomasin to peek inside. She moved with her skirt gripped and hoisted to hover the fabric over bodies, paying them respects even if they were avoided like mud puddles.

Through the archway, the town reeked of remnants. Traces of a past raid that left ghosts in its debris. Homes and meager businesses still stood as though expecting the common folks to continue their routines. They lingered, unwilling to acknowledge they were vestiges. Relics of their former selves. Rooftops no longer sheltered from rain. Windows were mere suggestions where walls collapsed in full.

“Is he a sharpshooter?” Wyll whispered. His eyes seeked reassurance from her body language, despite it remaining deathly still.

“Gods if I know, truly. He was quite capable yesterday, but…”

“Let us hope, for his sake, his balance isn’t overtaken by the sheer weight of ego.”

“May Eilistraee save him from his britches if they get too big.”

Two smiles grew, born of ambivalence.

With her body pressed up against the cold pitted archway, a goblin came into view. Multiple. Short, crass beings rifling through barrels and making conversation they couldn’t decide were jovial or argumentative. Those patrolling walked in lazy formations that left timing difficult to predict, so Thomasin began taking mental notes. Advantageous points. Ladders, trees, wide wooden pillars to hide behind.

But, sneaking into Moonhaven wouldn’t be that simple.

“Eh, surround ‘em! Found some lil’ chickens waitin’ for the slaughta’!” a voice, shrill and high-pitched, rang.

“Fuck,” Thomasin cursed.

The half-elf abided by the carrier and slowly eased a couple steps inside. Wyll muttered under his breath. Something of reassurance lost upon her rigid condition. The feeling of him right beside her provided relief, at least.

They turned their heads to the right, where a goblin guard berated them from the second floor of a derelict home. The guard’s body clinked with ill-fitting armor. Tarnished chainmail rustled. Her laughs, scornful, stretched a tender triangular brand seared into her neck. 

Once the village was alert, the guard drove a spike into a wooden bannister at her feet, using it to scale down to ground level. Heads of compatriot grunts peeked from hiding spots and looted crates. They existed as a grumbling hive mind and picked tough cuts of meat from their teeth. Readied for entertainment. Something eventful, finally. Something not weather-wrought. Someone breathing. 

“C’mon now. I’d like to think I’m more than sinewy chicken guts to you,” Thomasin said as the guard approached, although a crack in her voice betrayed any jest. One of her hands rose. Each fingertip, a lily of the valley. Gentle in their bend and asserting fragility. Whether those stems were poisonous was buried into her clutched skirt. “We do not wish for trouble. Simply passing through.”

“Yeah, yeah!  And we simply wishin’ t’--”

Cutting through the foible, a few feet behind Thomasin, was a solid thunk. One of heft. One that turned out to have impeccable timing as Astarion laid in a small cloud of dust. His shots had revealed his position and, not anticipating the sheer number lurking in the shadows, target practice commenced. Tears in his twilled quiver revealed he had been struck. Whilst not wounded, his roguish prowess was thrown off balance. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” Wyll uttered.

While the elf’s companions held their tongues, those in the vicinity erupted into laughter. Enough of an upheaval that spared Thomasin a few seconds to look over Astarion from afar. He was intact. Enough. Limbs attached. Hair disheveled. Fingers twitched ever so slightly. It was best to let him enjoy his slumber.

Wyll nudged Thomasin’s shoulder to return her attention to the guard, who was squinting at her. Studying her as though on the verge of recognizing an acquaintance.

“Yer’ kind’s operation’s up in the temple, yeah?”

The half-elf figured it was her silver tint. She’d grown up knowing drow fled their burrows when the Underdark couldn’t satisfy their desires. Textbook pillaging behavior. Untainted topsoil begged to be aerated by poisonous blades. Although sparing goblins in their expedition wasn’t usual, from her knowledge. 

For now, that was of no concern. These vague details could be dug into. They could create a facade as long as her bite sustained. Believing one's own false narrative long enough to let its canines clamp on the guards’ sense of authority. For now, she was confident. Competent. So competent, others refrained from asking further questions in fear their skulls would appear too thick.

“So you do own some common sense,” Thomasin taunted, her eye contact lingering for an uncomfortable length. “Yet you don’t know any common decency or respect. Imagine the repercussions. You being the reason for my absence. Making them wait hours for information, only to find out you’re responsible for my death?”

“Wha- No, no- Wait. Uh… that bloke yers?”

The guard realigned her bones, using every ounce of will to suppress tears of merriment. They sat along her lashes, frightened to fall and the repercussions that could follow. It was all light fun. Who didn’t appreciate an odd sacrifice here and there? For comradery? The last thing she anticipated was being blamed for ending powerful elven lineages. 

“What he lacks in grace, he makes up for in… other feats, do not take him lightly,” Wyll commented. It wasn’t long until he caught the sight of hands grabbing the unconscious man. Grunts poured in to collectively lift Astarion for all he was worth. “Or literally, for that matter! Drop him. Now.”

“I know this ain’t t’way I’m dyin’ today. I’m goin’ back to party, fuckin’ hell,” one grunt protested. They all let go at once, leaving him to hit the floor once more. 

Astarion groaned. Eyes flickering in disorientation, he felt Wyll scoop him up like an angelic savior. With an arm tucked under the crook of his knees, Astarion rested against his chest. No verbal jabs. Simply a cheek squished against the young man’s beating heart. 

“What plans we have out east are confidential to your leaders…” Wyll continued. “But it’s not our only task. We are on the hunt for a devil walking this plane and, let it be known, it’s pertinent you give us any information you know. If you’ve seen her. Skin as red as the unnatural flames of the hells that manifest from her body. A single horn curls from her head, the other broken from the ruthlessness of war.”

Such a poetic depiction charmed the guard, whose own prose were abrasive at best. “That who ran through here? Looked spicy, but thought she’d- uh… die before she hit water. The way she was steamin’.” She pursed her lips. “ Never knew a’ drow partnerin’ with devils. No wonder the temple’s been blazing hot these days… I oughta be takin’ notes from yer’ sort.” 

Wyll eyes lit up.

“Where? Where did you see her?”

“Ran through ‘ere like a bull on fire. Out the north exit o’town– Ahhh, wait. Drama ‘appening?”

“We’ll handle the beast. Nothing a bit of lambasting won’t fix, but this will be on our own terms. None of you will perish at the hands of your authorities as long as you stand down.”

Out of homes and tucked away corners, goblins let out guttural whines. Their weapons flew to the wayside. Participating in ghost town raids didn’t have the particular horrific flair the drow promised. Now they wouldn’t even get to see a devil slain. Life wasn’t fair. The only thing keeping them afloat was dreams of rotting fruits fermenting back at camp.

The guard’s mace smacked against the ground. 

“Fine. Jus’ tell Minthara that ol’ Bhelx helped y’find the runaway, will ya? Bhelx Tut. Sounds fancy if y’say it in full. She’ll like all that.”

“Bhelx Tut,” Thomasin said, ruminating on the syllables. Each given special care to suggest she, too, found the title profound. “A pleasure. I’ll keep you in mind, but do carry on. I don’t wish to witness all your failures today.”

Bhelx’s face dropped. No matter the effort, it seemed her alliship still left her stuck low on the totem. She grit her teeth and walked off, yelling obscenities at her underlings, as though she were struggling to keep her position in their hierarchy.

Now left alone, the three could take in a town once quaint. Stables and blacksmiths quarters sat as headstones of economy. The scent of herbs intermingled with flourishing weeds and wafted from an apothecary storefront. Children’s toys made depressions in the dirt, where rain softened earth and clung to its inhabitants. Lines of hopscotch fading into the suggestions of color, pale from constant sunshine.

Even in an unkempt state, Wyll noticed an anomaly amongst the grass. Patches of singed greenery and gravel. Marks left were too benign to consider them part of the “raid”. Too scattered, but still resembled footsteps smashing their weight under infernal iron boots.

As he followed their path, Wyll watched Thomasin tend to Astarion in his arms. She gently traced her fingers along his scalp until the elf’s head was nestled within her palm. Bands of rings peeked through his locks. They traversed his fussy curl pattern whose shade of white made her silver tarnish more pronounced. 

Gradually, Thomasin’s caress began to glow a pulsing shade of lavender that splashed against the point of his ears. As though the weave illuminated on an unheard beat, she caught its rhythm and began to hum. 

“Wha…” Astarion murmured. They watched his eyes dissect their silhouettes until he could identify the angels hovering over him. “How did I get the best seat in the house?”

Thomain snickered. “Good morning to you too. One of the goblins knocked you off the roof.”

“And you’ve already made quick work of them? I’d say I’m flattered… Impressed, even. The–”

Astarion lifted his head to discover the clan was still very much alive. It filled him with ennui that made him pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t say I had faith in being this outnumbered,” Wyll said, humored by him. “For now, at least.”

“Nonsense. And now they’re still mucking up the air. You saw what they did- I’m hurt. Emotionally. Might as well be physical- Put me down.”

The elf tapped Wyll’s arm and he obliged, lowering him to allow an airing of grievances. Astarion went to busy himself, twisting and stretching as though awoken from a grave slumber. He patted at his hips, his shirt, his sleeves, and then cuffed them smooth. Twirled hairs between pale knuckles in muscle memory swirls.

“We’ll be sure to destroy the next person that mistreats you,” Thomasin said, placing a hand on his back to keep their momentum forward. “The next person to look at you wrong….” She, then, proceeded to mimic slicing her neck with her thumb.

Astarion sighed and dragged his feet.

“Good. I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Up a slight incline, they passed by drunken bugbears with opaque green bottles in hand. Their birth and existence earned them a sneer from the elf. They were enemies by association. Swiping what little belongings they had set atop tables and pouches was necessary. Not even a choice.

Thomasin scouted the area. Local plants and weather patterns could provide mild answers, but it was all they had to figure out exactly where they were on the Sword Coast. How far the nautiloid carried them from the Gate. Native flora grew from the soil. Brightly speckled where flames had not eaten at its edges. She pointed toward a patch that followed another. An obvious pattern led the three north, up and around a barn.

Unlike the stillness plaguing Moonhaven, it seemed the building was alive and well. Thumps and subsequent bangs covered muffled voices in its own brand of staccato. But, it didn’t take a millennia of wisdom to figure out what was inside. She placed her ear against the barn’s siding and listened in.

Before she could mention anything, Astarion was already utilizing a peephole he discovered. 

“Gods, that’s disgusting!” he yelled with the tact of a crass teenage boy. The same jubilance a mother would try to dissuade. Without thought, Astarion grabbed Thomasin by the wrist, pulling her toward the peephole so she, too, could witness such debauchery. The irony wasn’t lost on her, either. Two weathered adults feeding into arrested development. Wyll was twenty-four and already understood how this crossed boundaries. He wasn’t enthused.

Thomasin caged those concerns for another day and peeked at the scene inside. An ogre damsel, surely five times the size of her bugbear partner, bucked wildly. No flair, but itchy hay and scattered flesh. The simple things in life needed only simple luxuries.

“This is the sort of romance novel folks in Baldur’s Gate would be pining for. Niche smut. Imagine the book clubs. Huh.”

“Get out your pad and ink. Lighting never strikes twice for a reason, darling. Unless you cast it yourself, of course,” he added with a giggle.

Thomasin snorted and let her mind wander. Not to sensual heartwarming ogre storylines, but seeing how the two navigated their size differences. In her line of work, she’d seen it all. Partners much larger than her. Much smaller. They required adjustments, communication, yet the two operated with a brutish grace. 

“Aye! Someone there? Gettin’ a free show?” the bugbear growled. “Leave us be or it’ll be your head!”

“Oh!” Thomasin yelped. “Tempting, but just wanted to compliment your form! Enjoy your head!”

Astarion had to be ripped from his selfish voyeurism with a shove. Although he didn’t mind. His body shook with indulgent chuckling. Grin was toothy. Wyll, already making some distance up the hill, had completely eluded him. 

“Did that make you feel better?” Thomasin asked.

“I-Only a little,” he replied, hesitant to admit it. His feet kept their shuffling forward. “Do give me the honors of reading the first draft of that book. You know my patience is thin.”

Despite their foolish bouts bandaging their hardships, the truth was hard to avoid. The further they left the village center, the closer they got to open trails, the more death they saw. The scent of blood hung like a sheet, heavy atop its clothesline. Overturned wagons, fully tossed, were left next to their misfortune drivers. Death was native to nature. Part of its cycle. But, that didn’t mean those remaining didn’t quiver at the reminder.

At a high point atop a hill, Wyll’s visage shined as his heroic title implied. A man of frontiers. It seemed he was peering down a cliffside, surveying exactly where a trail winding down to the water ended. Then, he turned to face them, hand hovered over his brow to shield from the sun. The volume in his voice lowered. 

“I think I see something. Her.”

[satohqbanana]

Festival of Magic: Creative OCs and Comparing Abilities in Arcanium

Hello; this is my official "I'm back" post after a particularly busy season... So here's a short worldbuilding and lore drop.

So prior to her mini hiatus this month, Naveena has left me homework to celebrate something for her book, which is to share something about my OCs doing something creative. But I just discovered I almost never write about my OCs indulging in creative stuff other than a couple liners and Lyarshu and Rena establishing their little promise to each other. I also just discovered that I've given like almost no significant OC or blorbo of mine any actual creative hobbies or interests.

Except, of course, for Lyarshu playing the flute as a pasttime, Erudan occasionally showing some talent for the harp, and Rena being an all-around performer: singer, songwriter, dancer, actor, and tambourine player. Aside from being godslayers, they are sometimes a traveling troupe. (OG art by NavsNAces.)

So, instead of coming up this empty-handed for my homework, here's my comments on some of the forms of magic that Naveena has for TOV - based on my understanding of it - and how those abilities exist in Arcanium:

TOV mensus and dancers using magic for their performances - In Orbis, performance magic is considered a derivative of illusionary magic and is often used by singers, dancers, theater actors, and so as an accessory or decoration for their performance arts. It is also often done by stage crew rather than the actual performer, as doing so many things at once requires much concentration. Rena who is born an omnimagus first and a spiteful overachiever second is a master of doing both at the same time. (Disclaimer: song magic refers to something else entirely.)

TOV mental magic - Anything that relates to hypnosis and mind control over others is never magic-related in Orbis. Everyone owns their minds and thoughts; not even the most cunning deities can do anything about it but manipulate and lie their way into making others do their bidding. And use illusionary magic to add effect to their manipulations. We need more badass normal and nerfs here.

TOV arcanics opening portals to other worlds - Teleportation is thought of as part of the light/dark magic ring of elements (according to the Theory of Force Segregation), but only so few mages can actually do it. It's why the portal service in each town are hugely popular for travelers, merchants, and tourists. There are certain abilities that can only be used if there is a non-living physical conduit, such as crystals or staves.

TOV artists and creation magic - The Orbits have alchemy for creating stuff using magic. They also have the basic rings of magic which definitely "creates" elements, light, and shadow where they shouldn't be, scientifically speaking. However, only true immortals (a.k.a. deities) are allowed to create with magic. (In fact, mortals using magic is a relatively new concept to the world of Orbis. But that's a story for another day.)

Arcanium Masterpost || Tag List: Feel free to ask to be tagged or removed from the tag!

@philosophika, @amaiguri, @thecomfywriter, @wyked-ao3, @kingragnarok-writes

@seastarblue

News:

Also here's a little announcement for you who made it to the end of the post. Arcanium's 3rd birthday is in a few weeks! (How do I know? Because its first official post is this art of the godslayer trio from January 2022!)

I would love to celebrate it with you by doing a big magic lore drop and a couple other fun stuff. 💗

[ramayantika]

The way gods love ~ as seen by a human

Flames, golden, passion, songs and dances.

Oh to be loved by a god is to be written in every page, every parchment and every tree bark, to be immortalised in every eon, every age. When they kiss, the sun glows brighter and when they get their own hearts broken, you shall experience the worst thunderstorm ever. Chalices filled with wine, rare silks and fabrics, shiny jewels and golden crowns; hands that desperately hold another's as they dance through the night sky with the stars lighting their airy pathway way.

Lips dance together, entwined hands, rich rare fabrics all discarden to the golden floor as they lay in merry with each other. When their eyes meet, a flower blooms somewhere on earth. When their hands touch, a river flows from a mountain, and when they make love under the glorious canopy of their heavenly garden of their abode, some say spring blooms on earth.

Hierarchy exists even there and the divine do indulge in politics. Boons and curses are thrown around. I would be banished to hell to reveal all of this but no the gods sometimes are full of wrath and utter foolishness.

And to be a god and also be foolish in love....

One conjures a illusionary pond and they choose to fall down and drench themselves in it only to make the other one smile and laugh hard. Now do you know why you felt golden warmth on your skin when you were alone in your bedroom gazing at the plain empty ceiling?

The day you read a god's poem for their beloved, you shall know that it is just the way we humans write. Proses entwined with yearning and deep passion seeps in through the parchment just as much as ours.

Gods and humans in love are alike.

Yes, there is love, too much of passion and deep divine love surrounding them that bleeds into nature and art. Now you know why some artists on earth become their vessel to depict how the gods love each other.

There is love amidst the gods even amidst rage, wars and power play. The healer god cries at not being able to save a living creature, and the god of death gently hugs them. Not a word. Silence.

You are a god but you can't win over the god of fate.

The god of Life and Death are lovers. The God of dance and the god of music are best friends. Soulmates. They hate being away from them and when one of them doesn't come to the evening show, the whole of heaven feels bored. The god of love and the god of mischief are the naughtiest pals, creating havoc in hearts whenever they feel like.

The gods indulge in art and love art the most. Art helps them to exist especially in the minds of their most beloved creation: Human. They paint excessively, sing the most beautiful melody that enters a musician's mind on earth, they dance and the dancers on earth see a grand vision in their dreams of a performance that is otherworldly. They write so much about their abode, about their godly friends and their godly children, in hopes that when the mortal writers come home, to them, they would read them out. And maybe when mortals visit them after death, they would feel like home. Just a different one though but home alike.

Gods and humans have always been alike.

The little gods in young bodies are an ethereal sight to look at. They are adorable and curious. They peer down from the sky from the laps of their parents and wonder what would it be like to be a child belonging from the mortal world, a question that is answered only when their souls are born in the mortal plane.

Souls.... nobody tells you that. The Godly soul is as human and the gods become wiser after attaining a human body and a human life on earth. To experience mortality is to also cherish near and dear ones, and that makes the gods fall in love with their families in heaven even more once they return back.

How do I know this?

I have been a God and a Human...

[dailycharacteroption]

Planar Tour Guide: The Plane of Shadow part 1

(art by Cim Yucesoy on Artstation)

Intro

We’re back with another look into an otherworldly plane of existence and this time we’re heading in the metaphorical opposite direction to our previous subject: the Ethereal Plane!

Beneath and behind the material world that we all know is the plane of shadow, a dark reflection of the material plane where distances are strangely warped and light is dim and seemingly sourceless, as if the dimension filters in traces of light from it’s sun-kissed counterpart.

The Shadow Plane exists as a buffer between the Material Plane and the incarnated entropic force of the Negative Energy Plane. As such, that shadowy place rest on the border of tangible reality and unreality. It is that quasi-illusionary nature that forms the basis of shadow illusion magic, which draws upon the quasi-real shadow matter to fuel it. It is also the reason why the signature shadow-themed transportation spell, Shadow Walk, is categorized as an illusion spell. As you might expect, such spells are even stronger on the plane of their origin.

The Plane of Shadow is also known in Pathfinder as the Netherworld, which 2nd edition is starting to embrace as the system and setting are distancing themselves from D&D.

Half-real and governed partially by thought and emotion in the same way as the Ethereal Plane, the majority of terrain in this realm is that of reflections of emotionally significant locations on the Material Plane. Cities are common, but places where great joy, or more commonly, great sorrow and tragedy also appear. However, these places are often a bit different than how they appear on the Material Plane. A tower where horrible tortures occurred might be considerably more sinister-looking in the Netherworld, or it might be inverted, being a pit in the ground lined with rooms of torture and pain. Meanwhile, a city might have more narrow and claustrophobic streets, and taller, more spikey towers.

Meanwhile, areas of less emotional significance do still exist, but they are… well, the best way to describe it is that they are skimmed over, much less space is dedicated to them than on the material, perhaps their lack of significance letting parts of them be vanished by the pull of the negative energy plane. Whatever the explanation, this leads to the greatest use that powerful mages have for the plane: the lack of space dedicated to “empty” places means that using magic to travel that uses the Netherworld as a shortcut can allow them to travel at a much greater speed, if somewhat inaccurately when they return to the material plane.

However, do not think that the utility of the plane means that it is safe. Far from it. The Shadow Plane is home to certain forms of undead, such as the appropriately named shadows and all manner of nightshades, those horrible former fiends turned into deathless horrors of destruction. Additionally, various villainous creatures have immigrated to the plane aeons ago, such as svartalfar fey and of course the sadomasochistic horrors known as velstracs.

However, there are also allies to be found as well (albeit mistrustful ones) such a fetchlings, wayangs, the insectile d’ziriaks and the masked shae, to name a few.

As we will see over the course of this week, there are many dangers, but also eerie beauty to this place. The wary and canny can survive, but the foolish may perish. As we progress we will come to understand the Netherworld as best as we can. Look forward to it!

[kyuusou]

I need art of Izumi, she's stuck on my brain, I need my pretty girl. Probably together with Zanka.

Zanka is an incredible friend to Izumi; she has helped her through her darkest hours, and continues to do so. She lost everything in both reality and the illusionary world. How much she loves her illusionary family and friends still. They're real to her, and it's hard. Zanka hates Itachi with every fiber of her being for having ruined Izumi's life. How her friend is able to forgive him is beyond her. It wasn't easy to forgive Itachi in reality, but Izumi recognizes that he was a pawn from the start. And the influence of his illusionary counterpart makes it just easier overall. She'll not get her mother and friends back. No. But to forgive Itachi means accepting and healing from it all. It's more of a selfish act in the end than being selfless. Izumi will always love Itachi, no matter what, but she's aware and understands that someone like her friend, Zanka, will never be able to forgive him. And she has the right to it. 

[thejadevampire]

Part 4

Once upon a time, in a world filled with magic and wonder, a young human reader found themselves in the midst of a magical adventure. The reader had always been fascinated by the arcane arts, and their curiosity led them to seek out the greatest wizards of their time - Olrox and Mizark.

As they embarked on their journey, the reader encountered Olrox and Mizark, the two most renowned wizards in the land. Olrox, with his calm and steady demeanor, and Mizark, with his mischievous grin and quick wit, welcomed the human reader into their fold. The two wizards saw great potential in the reader and took them under their wing, eager to share their knowledge and expertise.

Together, the trio embarked on a series of adventures, exploring the intricate workings of magic and the wonders of the world. They delved deep into the ancient tomes of magic, uncovering long-lost spells and incantations. They braved treacherous terrains and battled formidable foes, all the while honing their magical skills and learning from each other.

As their journey continued, the reader discovered that Olrox and Mizark were not just great wizards, but also kind and compassionate individuals. They taught the reader not only the technical aspects of magic, but also the importance of empathy and understanding. Their teachings emphasized the need for balance and harmony, both within oneself and with the world around them.

Olrox, with his profound understanding of elemental magic, taught the reader the delicate balance required to control the powers of fire, water, earth, and air. Mizark, with his mastery over illusionary magic, showed the reader how to bend reality to their will. Together, they taught the reader the true meaning of magic - not just as a means of power, but as a force for good in the world.

As their bond grew stronger, the reader found themselves torn between their affection for Olrox and Mizark. Olrox's calm and composed demeanor offered stability, while Mizark's quick wit and playful nature brought joy and laughter. But the reader soon realized that their love for the two wizards need not be a choice, for the three of them had formed an unbreakable bond of friendship and trust.

Together, they continued to explore the world, sharing their knowledge and magic with all who crossed their path. They became known as the greatest wizards of their time, their legacy living on long after they were gone. And in the annals of history, their tale was etched in gold, a reminder that magic was not just a tool, but a force of love, harmony, and unity.