#It dons demon skin garb

[hoaxghost]

They're both so insane for different reasons but it results in the same outcome

[somesaiyanarts]

Name: Mirai Higurashi

Age: 17

Race/Species: human with demon ancestry.

Physical Appearance: Mirai inherits Inuyasha's white. while her eyes are a mesmerizing blend of her mother's amber and her father's golden hue. Her attire is a mix of traditional Japanese garb with modern flair, often donning a crimson hakama skirt and a sleek black tank top that accentuates her toned physique. Her skin is a soft porcelain with a slight tan from her outdoor adventures.

Background: Born in the future, Mirai discovers her heritage as the descendant of the legendary Inuyasha and Kagome Higurashi. With a thirst for adventure and a spirit that echoes her ancestors', she finds herself drawn to the ancient world of feudal Japan. Armed with her family's sacred bow and arrows, she follows in their footsteps to uncover the secrets of her lineage and protect her home from malevolent forces.

Personality: Mirai is a vibrant blend of courage and curiosity. Her quick wit and adaptability allow her to navigate through time and combat with ease. Despite her fiery exterior, she harbors a gentle heart, often seeking to understand and empathize with those she encounters. Her unshakeable loyalty to friends and family is matched only by her stubbornness, a trait she proudly shares with her ancestor.

[yourlocalqreator]

Amara Khaldun

General

Name: Amara Khaldun

Face Claim: Gal Gadot

Date of Birth: June 15 45BCE

Date of Death: same day bayek died

Aliases: Jade Vixen, Jade, Mari

Gender: Female

Occupation: Hidden One / Assassin, Former Slave

Faction: Hidden Ones

Location: Siwa, Egypt

Physical Appearance:

Hair Color: Light brown

Eye Color: dark brown

Height: 5’4

Build: Muscular hourglass

Scars or distinguishing marks: no, just battle scars

Ethnicity: Half Egyptian Half Indian (SORRY IF I GOT THE SKIN COLOR WRONG)

Appearance:

Think about like Jade from Mortal Kombat, who possesses a striking and captivating appearance. Her features exude an air of elegance and strength, combining beauty with the intensity of a warrior.

Amara's eyes are a mesmerizing shade of emerald green, sparkling with determination and wisdom. They hold a glint of mischief, hinting at her playful nature beneath her serious exterior. Her eyebrows are elegantly arched, framing her expressive eyes with precision.

Her complexion is smooth and radiant, akin to a flawless porcelain doll. Sun-kissed hints of warmth grace her skin, evidence of her time spent under the Egyptian sun. A subtle dusting of freckles adorns her nose and cheeks, lending an endearing touch to her overall appearance.

Amara's hair falls in lustrous waves, flowing down her back like cascading ebony silk. It is usually styled in a loose braid or swept up in an intricate updo, allowing her to move freely during combat while still maintaining an air of grace.

With a strong, sculpted jawline and high cheekbones, Amara possesses an aura of regal beauty. Her lips are full and naturally tinted with a soft pink hue, capable of conveying both warmth and determination with a single smile.

Her physique reflects the years of training and combat experience she has accumulated. Lean yet muscular, Amara's body boasts a balance of agility and strength. She carries herself with confidence and poise, a testament to her warrior spirit.

In her combat attire, Amara dons a mixture of traditional Egyptian garb and the practicality of an assassin. Her outfit consists of form-fitting garments, allowing for fluid movement in battle. Shades of green and gold adorn her attire, paying homage to her connection with the Hidden Ones.

Overall, Amara possesses a captivating and commanding presence, her beauty enhanced by her fierce determination and unwavering spirit.

Personality Traits:

possessing resilience and pragmatism, combined with tenacity and adventurous spirit, she has a strong sense of justice and a desire to protect the innocent, much like the Assassins in the Assassin's Creed series.

She exhibits a rough exterior but harbors a deep sense of compassion and loyalty towards her comrades. She values the bonds of family and friendship, willing to go to great lengths to defend those she cares about.

Amara is skilled in various forms of combat, melee weapons, agility, and proficiency in stealth. She would be versatile in her approach to missions, adapting to different situations and using her surroundings to her advantage.

She possesses a sharp wit and a knack for strategy, able to think on her feet and make quick decisions. However, she would also carry the weight of her past experiences, understanding the consequences of net action and grappling with her inner demons.

Her Family

Mother: Anika Kaldun, An indian

Father: Amenhotep Kaldun, An Egyptian

Little Brother: Abrax Kaldun, Half

Friends

Aya of Amunet, Bayek of Siwa, The Hidden Ones, Cleopatra

Enemies

Cleopatra, Order of Ancents

Lover

Bayek of Siwa

Skills and Abilities:

Proficient in hand-to-hand combat and various weaponry, such as the Hidden Blade, bow, Spear, Daggers, and Many more

Mastery of stealth techniques, allowing her to move silently and remain unseen.

Proficient in gathering intelligence, reconnaissance, and planning missions.

Knowledgeable about ancient Egyptian history, culture, and artifacts.

Skilled in parkour and free-running, enabling her to traverse the environment with agility.

Flexibility

Martial Arts: Thatib, Kalaripayattu

Weapons

Hidden Blade

Bow and Arrow

Swords

Daggers

Motivations:

Amara is motivated by her deep-rooted desire to protect the people of Siwa and Egypt from the tyranny of the Order of the Ancients. She seeks to restore peace and justice to her land, fighting for the freedom of her fellow Hidden Ones and all those oppressed by the corrupt regime.

Background

Suffering from her memories, Amara Kaldum was a slave from an early age, taken away from her parents and her brother, who lived with each other in a small town in egypt.Her father calls her the jade vixen for fun before she got taken away which she kept that name forever. She endured years of physical Pain and Emotonial abuse by her cruel masters, and soon her memories left deep scars on her soul, also igniting a burning desire for freedom and justice.

For years and years later she encountered physical and emotional pain because of her captors, witnessed horrors inflicted upon her fellow slave friends,, and lived in fear. the trauma she experienced left deep scars, physically and mentally shaping her into a resident but wounding a deep individual.

then the dark tunnel started to open up as she escaped and took a leap of faith. after that crossing paths with the hidden ones, once she met bayek of siwa who she fell in love with and joining their ranks.

Under the guidance of her mentor, Aka Herself cause her father also learned to fight before she got taken away, Amara honed her skills in combat and stealth, channeling her pain and anger into a relentless pursuit of justice. She became a formidable assassin, using her knowledge of the slave trade to dismantle its networks and free as many victims as possible.

Despite her strength and resilience, Amara still carries the deep scars of her past. She is haunted by nightmares and suffers from anxiety and trust issues. However, she channels her pain into a fierce determination to protect others from the same fate she endured.

Amara's experiences have shaped her into a fiercely passionate advocate for the abolition of slavery. She is driven by a burning desire to dismantle the systems of oppression that perpetuate human suffering. Throughout her journey it was difficult, she found solace in the support of her fellow assassins and the hope that one day she could heal the wounds of her past.

[jafndaegur]

Noise of Rain | Chapter Six

Light the Fire Here to Find Your Answer

Sesskag

a/n: starting to get into the thick of things...

Kikyo's fingers skimmed over the plain of her belly…it was barely curved, hardly a swell. Yet despite the lack of visibility, she knew a creature grew inside of her, one that she hardly wanted or desired. But Inuyasha practically beamed with the idea of its existence—and it kept his focus diverted most days from the annoyance that called herself the Edo Matriarch. So she was grateful at least for her child's immediate usefulness. Once it was birthed, who knew.

“Are you sure you do not wish for me to attend as well?” Her voice was even and she realized there was hardly any concern in her tone. She knew that her lover required affection and often she tried to provide it. Falling short and yet not ever really caring.

Inuyasha kissed the top of her head. “Nah, it’s just going to be a boring old summit with a couple ol’ coots. But since they’re outlying shoguns, it might be a good idea to see what they have to say. Besides, weren’t ya going to check the village’s barrier today?”

“I was going to, however I do not wish for anything awry happening with your meeting. It’s unlike you to go out of your way for such things.”

“Keh,” he scratched his nose bashfully. “If I wanna stand equal with the village priestess, then I gotta step up my game.”

“Yes well, keep trying,” Kikyo muttered, donning outer garments to wear over her miko garb. Early winter loomed on the proverbial doorstep, ready to worsen itself on any moment. And despite the increasing weight on her body, the chill seemed to seep through her skin even more than usual. She let out a sigh and turned to look at Inuyasha.

The half-demon regarded her with a twisted gaze, something torn between a laugh and hurt. Rolling her eyes, she gave his suikan a light tug before gracing his cheek with an even lighter kiss. “Be careful then.” Kikyo hummed, before leaving their hut.

It wasn’t as if she disregarded him or held him in little regards. It was also never her intention to be straight out brusque with him. But something since she became human had clicked for her. For while she no longer desired (completely at least) to drag him to the pits of the underworld with her, something relished the sad little looks or the panged winces he would make whenever she was curt. And it was something she enjoyed seeing him chase after her to make up for each little sting. Because it meant that he was moving on and away from his friendship with Kagome. She knew that as long as the two of them were alive, one or the other would always be vying for the hanyou’s attention. While both types were in two different ways - Kagome seemed to be content in her companionship and Kikyo herself wanting to be the subject of Inyuasha’s obsession, she found it amusing that she wound the half-demon further and further around her little finger. Soon enough, with the birth of their child, there would not be enough room left for the little priestess who threw herself off the deep end. Another use for the babe that had yet to be. Perhaps before it was even born, it would have proven its worth.

 ---

Inuyasha waited with baited breath for Kikyo to leave his scent range. His chest heaved painfully and he tried to not focus on her small jab. Had it been Kagome, it might have been a playful joke followed by an elbow to his side. Nothing more than a quip. 

But the words from his lover always hurt in a way that he didn’t expect.

It didn’t matter. He’d lied about the meeting. But it was still time to go if he wanted to be back by nightfall.

Moving on and forcing himself not to dwell on it, Inuyasha took a tentative step before leaving the village. His feet ran over forest floor and grass and leaves and the world around him slipped by so easily and so quickly. Eagerness flooded his nerves and suddenly he wondered if he would get caught. Not that Kikyo followed him anywhere he went. But she always seemed to know what he was up to. Not that he cared. Again. He was his own damn person, and dammit he was going to go see his best friend regardless of whether or not Kikyo told him to stay away. 

It’d been months since he’d seen Kagome. Summer had just been dying away when she’d disappeared, and fall just born when she reappeared. After that he hadn’t seen her since she’d stormed from the restaurant, his half-brother in tow. 

His frown pulled tight and a growl formed in his chest. 

Every time he’d seen Kagome since her change, Sesshomaru had always seemed to follow in her footsteps like a ghost. The guy acting like a damn lost puppy or something like that. He’d hoped that it had stopped. Nothing good ever came of hanging out with a demon like his brother. 

The mountains where the Burial Mounds towered close now. Their stiff and pointed peaks were coated in snow and he gave an involuntary shiver. It hadn’t snowed yet on the normal earth, despite how cold it had gotten. He wondered if Kagome and the others were safe and warm. It was hard to find protection from the cold up that high. Not much foliage for kindling grew up that far into the terrain, and coming down to bargain for food made traveling difficult. With Miroku up there, he knew that there was a small chance that they were eating well and at least finding enough jobs to feed everyone. But rumor had it that Kagome had more than just her friends up there. Word was from all around demons and half-demons alike had found shelter within the small settlement at the peaks. Last thing he’d heard was there were some seventy to one hundred people up there under her protection. They’d called her the Edo Matriarch, saying how she’d founded her own clan reminiscent of the ones of old. 

He couldn’t imagine it. The gangly, squawky girl who rode her bike around the countryside for kicks seemed a far cry from the demonic and intimidating village matron that townspeople surmised her to be. Yet the last time he’d seen her...enraged eyes and lashing evil aura.

Inuyasha steeled himself. 

He would see her for sure and he would discover the truth behind whatever transformations she underwent. Unsure if he could bring the real Kagome back or not, he would try. Her happiness meant the world to him, and the image that kept repeating itself on loop in his mind was just how sunken and how exhausted she had seemed. Resorting to this “demonic cultivation” as she called it was doing more harm than good. He needed to know why she felt so inclined to keep practicing this dark art. She was a miko for fuck’s sake, was being a priestess not enough for her?

He approached the trail most traveled in the mountains. Right away he could detect everyone’s scents. Miroku and Sango’s, Shippo’s, Kaede’s...Kagome’s. 

A nostalgic twinge pulled through his chest and urged him to run faster. It felt as though he were coming home for the first time in a long time. His breath quickened and his eyes widened. He was scared and excited - would he be welcomed or would he be pushed away? 

Bursting out into the small valley before the village, his mood quickly darkened.

Sesshomaru lounged on one of the village huts, his arm draped over a propped up knee as he kept surveillance over Rin and Shippo playing with a few other demon children in the snow. Sango and Miroku were there too, chopping wood as they watched the children as well. They were the first to announce his arrival - he was sure his stupid brother was the first to detect him - and they did so with smiles and several waves.

Much to his relief, his brother continued to ignore him. And as much as he would like to whoop the older demon’s ass there and now, he was not the goal of his mission. His sole purpose was to visit -

“Inuyasha!”

Kagome.

Her voice bounced off of the snow and into the air like bells. She emerged from the hut Sesshomaru currently safeguarded, and waved. She pulled a heavy charcoal haori over her shoulders, shuffling quickly over to him with a wide grin. He wanted to cringe away, her scent reeked of his brother. But he noticed with a little touch of pain, that she looked healthier. Her skin wasn’t so jaundiced, and her cheeks and eyes were not so sunken. Her clothes weren’t so baggy on her small frame, and it looked like she’d finally figured out how to tie her robe properly…

His gaze went quickly from her to his brother and back. The daiyoukai continued to evade his observation, and merely laid back on the roof of the hovel and closed his eyes. How arrogant that stupid prick! 

Kagome rushed him in a barreling hug that forced all thoughts from his mind. Her scent flooded with happiness and her arms circled him tightly. All else was forgotten as he buried his face in the crown of her hair.

“Sorry I hadn’t come to visit ya yet,” he mumbled. 

“Miroku said you and Kikyo were heads of the village now,” she whispered back. “I imagine that’s pretty busy.”

“Formalities ain’t my strong suit,” he huffed. “Just keepin’ an eye on things while Kikyo does all the official priestess stuff.”

She didn’t answer to that, and he internally kicked himself for mentioning her. 

Recovering quickly, Kagome grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the little hut she’d come from. “Here, let’s go in. It’s cold! There’s some leftover soup that I have on the fire, you want some?”

“Sure Kags...that’d be great,” he hummed with a faint and fond smile. He allowed her to tug him along. Nothing else existed as he followed her wake into the hut. 

He sat down obediently by the fire, as she rummaged around what he presumed was a common eating hall. There were lots of tables with the fire pit at the center. It was such an odd idea, to have a place where everyone of this village could dine together - but with Kagome as the leader, all of that somehow suited her. It was homey. 

“It’s boar and lotus soup, I hope you don’t mind,” she chirped, serving him a bowl. “We have lotus to eat for centuries because of Sesshomaru, and the other day he and a few other demons caught a herd of boars that were roaming around -”

“Hold on,” Inuyasha didn’t mean to interrupt really. “My half-brother? The walking Ice Prick?”

“Don’t be rude.” She gently cuffed him on the back of the head. “He doesn’t stay long...but he helps out a lot whenever he comes. I guess this is his pitstop between his travels.” 

“A likely story,” he growled. “He’s using you for something.”

“Wow, you just got here and you’re already picking a fight,” rubbing her temples she let out a sigh. “Look can’t you accept he’s doing something nice for us? Even if he is using me for some bizarre reason - we’re getting food and protection out of it. So at worse it’s some symbiotic relationship, okay? We’re fine and he’s fine. Let’s leave it at that.”

“If you hadn’t left, you wouldn’t need to be relying on him to protect ya Kagome.”

He really didn’t mean to dive right into the problem either. His whole intention of this visit had to just be there with her. Nature really knew how to force its ugly head into his personality though - and his nature had always been brazen and confrontational.

“I had to leave.” Her voice lowered and her brows furrowed with anger. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You up and left in the middle of the night!” Inuyasha raised his voice before he could catch himself. “You didn’t even give us a chance to help you with whatever happened.”

“Did you ever think that I didn’t mean to leave?” She shouted back, her hand swiping through the air.

He pulled his soup out of the way so she wouldn’t knock it over. “Then why didn’t you come back? Three months! Three whole months you disappeared no matter how hard we looked. And when Kikyo came back human and whole - do you have any idea of what we thought?”

“I’m sure you were absolutely overjoyed,” she snarled, eyes flashing crimson. “You wanna judge me for the company I keep? Look who’s talking - she literally tried to drag your stupid butt to hell.” 

“This is not about her.” His stood, standing toe to toe with the angry girl. “Leave her outta this.”

“It’s always about her!” Kagome snapped. There was a flash of resentful energy and then suddenly she was fuming. Her hair whipped by the torrent of evil aura radiating from her while her eyes glowed that eerie vermillion color. Her hand flew to her chest and gripped her robe painfully as her breathing heaved. “It’s always about her. Who do I look like? Kikyo. Who do you always chase after? Kikyo!”

“That’s not fair, I’m right here now aren’t I?” He shook her shoulders, his pulse quickening. 

There was a thump on the roof.

“And even now,” there were tears in her eyes and the resentful energy lashed, throwing tables and dispelling the fire and knocking the pot of soup over. “When my priestess powers are gone and the core of which my reiki was stored all dismantled and transferred through our connection of souls to Kikyo just so my powers could protect itself from the resentful energy. It’s. All. Still. About. Her.”

Inuyasha stilled. Maybe he had misheard. “What?”

“Yeah funny thing,” she laughed now, her tears leaking into her mouth as her croaking giggles came out. “That thing were qi and reiki are stored? That connects all your meridians? I don’t have it anymore. Kikyo does.”

His throat ran dry. He didn’t understand. Powers beyond punching and slashing really ran over his head.

A strong grip grabbed him by the collar and flung him back. Sesshomaru now stood as a solid white wall between him and the growing torment that was Kagome. His brother’s fangs flashed and his eyes bled red. Leave.

Stumbling back, Inuyasha realized this visit had not gone how he’d wanted. As he fled, Kagome’s cries and Miroku’s and Sango’s startled yells echoed in his ears. His feet ran over mountain floor, and dirt road, and the earth underneath him sailed. Yet everything was pale and devoid of color. Time seemed sluggish and broken. 

He left everything behind him.

[virtualstarrr]

I stayed up at like 10 last night writing this Crona short story, it feels overly edgy and I only kinda like it but I'll post it here anyways:

Crona was painfully aware of each breath they took. It felt like someone had raked their fingers through Crona's ribcage, causing their ribs to splinter and crack. Crona shuddered.

 They could feel her over their shoulder, eyes peering beyond them. Her breath was icy against their cheek. Her hand reached gently to stroke Crona's face but they could feel how her fingers were rough and worn from use. 

 Another hand fell at Crona's side, grabbing their arm so tightly that they could feel her nails digging into their skin. Crona whimpered, "It hurts."

 Crona could hear the jingle of her bracelets as her hand clasped tighter to their arm. "Just do as I tell you," she hissed.

 Crona gulped and managed a nod. "What is it this time?"

 "Kill the girl." 

 Crona's expression hardened. They tightened their grip on their sword, staring darkly at the black blade. "Kill the girl?" 

"Yes, kill the girl, you know what I mean." 

 "I don-" 

 "Kill the meister!" A pointed finger aimed at the person before Crona, who they had tried so hard to ignore. Her face was twisted in a permanent agony, gaping at Crona.

 Crona felt glued to the ground, stuck watching Maka with a brooding stare. She seemed so helpless, so easy to kill. 

The woman was impatient. "Come on now Crona, I made it easy for you! What more do you want?" 

 Crona's hand reached for their heart and tugged at their black garb. They could feel their heart beating, pounding rapidly against their chest. They couldn't kill Maka? Could they?

 And yet they had come so close to it before.

 Crona glanced at their sword again. Ragnarok wore a contorted frown. Even he seemed impatient with them, spitting, "Hurry up!"

 As Medusa glared at them, Crona could feel the demons closing in on them. They circled them, snarling and gnashing their teeth in Crona's face. Crona's hands reached for their head, clinging desperately to their hair. Crona was trapped in a box and they couldn't escape.

"You want to make your mother proud, don't you?" Medusa's words cut through everything else, ringing clear in their mind.

 Crona's hands let go of their hair and grabbed at the hilt of their sword before raising it over their head. They stood, poised over Maka like an animal waiting to strike. They could feel their mother's eyes on them, her snake-like tongue flicking against their neck. Medusa's hands clutched Crona's shoulders as she leaned over them, whispering, "Do it."

 Crona would have loved to bend forward and stab the sword into their own stomach instead; watch the black blood ooze out. The pain would only be temporary, stinging for a while before their insides knitted themselves back together. That would've been better wouldn't it; then, who would they be hurting?

 But the pain Crona suffered was far worse as they dropped their sword and let Ragnarok clatter against the stone floor: the pain of Medusa's gleaming eyes and disappointed frown as she scoffed, "Pathetic."

[dawnshadowlegacies]

Demetrius Dawnshadow

Face Reference: Jon Snow, Dante from the Devil May Cry series, Tom ellis, and Kate Beckinsale Mix.

Name: Demetrius Dawnshadow

Race: Sin’dorei

Gender: Male

Age: Adult

Class: Demon Hunter/Rogue

Height: 6’0 

Weight: 175 lbs

Body Shape: Athletic

Occupation: Demon Hunter, Adventurer, Rogue, Lord, Captain, Spy (formally)

Nicknames: Deme, Dem, bastard, Tatsu Longwei, Pain in the Arse

Titles: Lord of House Dawnshadow, Slayer, Dragon of the Illidari, Captain of the Red Siren Count of Starhaven (fromaly)

Alignment:  Chaotic Good

Appearance: 

Demetrius is a toned athletic elf with long dark shoulder length hair and a pale complexion overall with a reddish demonic hue around his hands and lower arms.  He has a rugged roguish look to his facial features that some may consider charming especially when he dons his trademark grin showing the barest hint of his tiny fangs.  He has a black Dragon tattooed on his right shoulder, while on his left is an elvish sword that bears a resemblance to his own weapon.  His eye sockets are an almond shape with fel flame that can turn crimson when excited.  He keeps a well groomed goatee on his face further accenting his roguish charm.  He has various scars across his body from years of fighting, the most prominent being the scars under his eye sockets, a scar near his heart, and a burnt scar tracing up his lower right arm.  Clawed nails tip his fingers and from time to time his reddish wings are out and folded round him like a cloak.  While in his demon form his skin takes on a dark red color, his feet become cloven hooves, and horns grow from his head.

He wears dark black and red leather clothes with minor nether dragon scales on the sides and a coat made of the same materials with a sewed on black hood. An onyx etched dragon shaped pendant with ruby eyes hangs from his neck while his onyx and ruby shaped wedding ring that bears his house's emblem rests on his left ring finger.  He keeps his family heirloom dragon hilted sword Dragonkin at his side.  His belt holds his bag of holding as well his trinket to summon his fox friend Dexien. He wears the standard black Illidari blindfold as well.   From time to time he can be found wearing his coat tied around his waist and a set of warglaives on his back.

Personality:

Demetrius’ personality can be best described as outwardly as both brooding and fun loving as well as bold, creative, mischievous, and reckless.  Dem is devoted to his family and his friends doing what he can to safeguard and protect them.  He follows his own code of honor choosing to defend the innocent and avenge the dearly departed.  While he is known to brood and seem standoffish once he gets to know a person he tends to open up more and show that more playful side of his.  Dem tends to enjoy a good fight and will taunt and display a devil may care attitude to most foes unless the fight is deeply personal or what he would consider serious.  He is creative and will improvise new ways to attack enemies and look good doing so as well as create strategies on the fly.  He is reckless and impulsive to the point sometimes he will do something because it seems fun to him at the time.

Dem enjoys swordplay, riding on the back of a dragon, fox, or his mechano hog, adventuring, writing, reading fantasy novels, sailing, games, and playing his lute.  He hates monsters and people who would prey on the innocent, Blood Knights, demons, undead, and most void entities as well as all their former minions though he is not above giving them a chance to redeem themselves. 

Gear:

Dragonkin:  Dragonkin: A prismatic elementium, titansteel, and dragon bone runeblade crafted in a joint effort between the Kaldorei and the Black Dragonflight before the War of the Ancients in the arcane forge of the aspects in the elven style.  The curved blade is 27 inches long and was folded 16 times to pound out the impurities in the metal. The blade has a dull silver to blackish sheen to it after being polished. The Hilt is made of the fang of a dragon and coated in the same material as the blade and is 13 inches long.  The hilt is shaped in the head of a dragon with the tail wrapping along the groves of the hilt. The eyes of the dragon are made of hardened sapphires that depending on the mood of the wielder can turn blood red in an instant. The tsuba or hand guard is formed into the shape of a dragon claw plated in true silver and gold.

The curved blade is enchanted to drain the life of its wielder’s enemy if they are living.  It used to choose its owner binding itself to them until their true death.  It was gifted to the Starshadow family by a Black Dragon before their corruption and contains a fragment of his soul.  The blade would be passed down to the Dawnshadow family till Demetrius obtained it.  Recently it was broken during the first battle on the broken shore  and then reforged by the Netherwing Pyreaku and now is bound to Demetrius’ own soul for eternity and thus is able to deal shadowflame damage as well as appear in Dem’s hand with a thought.  If Dragonkin is broken or destroyed Dem can still call on it again after a period of time has passed.

Demetrius’ Clothes and Waistcoat (Grab of the Dragonfox): Demetrius normally wears a pair of black leather pants with netherwing scales swon between the leathers and inside the cloth of the pants.  His black boots are made of the same material with white fur lining on the top and elementium steel toes.  His shirt is a simple black shirt with an exposed neckline and sleeves that reach to his forearms.  His waistcoat is a sleeveless red and black leather piece with high collar and a black hood within it.  This ensemble is dubbed the Garb of the Dragonfox.  It is heavily enchanted to protect him in battle as well as repair itself should it become damaged as well as adjust its size when he transforms into his demon form.  The hood is enchanted to withstand mind based attacks and compulsion while the mask filters out poisons and diseases.  Despite the nature of his boots, when he clicks them together the sound from his footfalls is muffled to be near silent.  Minor slits in the back open up so that Deme’s demonic wings can push through when needed.  Due to the inherent properties of the outfit, Deme can summon it back to him through his bag of holding.

Jewelry:  Deme wears two rings, an amulet and a piece of eight.  His amulet is an onyx etched dragon shaped pendant hanging from a true silver chain.  His ring on his right hand is a true silver band and red dragon eye gem. On his left he wears an onyx and ruby shaped wedding ring that bears his house’s emblem.  It was given to him by his wife Gwenda'lyn Starshadow.  It is enchanted with fire resistance and a magical link private mind link between him and Gwen.  The Piece of Eight he wears is an enchanted Elunite Coin signafing his place on the Midnight Corsair’s council.  It is enchanted to defend him from time magics, and should the need arise hasten his movements for a limited time.

Miscellaneous Items:   Deme wears a black leather belt that has three pouches one of them being a bag of holding.  His bag of holding contains food, water, tent, bed roll, healing potions, first aid kit, a set of thieves' tools, a small portable alchemy station among other things.  The rest of his pouches contain various other tools.  He wears simple black gloves, a white wrapping on his upper right arm down to the top part of his lower arm.  From time to time he wears a black and white furred cloak.

Armaments and Trinkets: Besides his own physical and magical abilities as well as Dragonkin, Deme has a few other weapons at his disposal to help in his adventures and quests.  

Clipped with an elementium and netherscale wrapped chain is a white fox tail.  With it Deme can summon to his side the Fox Spirit Dexien from the Emerald Dream to fight beside him or mount for 24 hours.  If Dexien is knocked unconscious his essence will return to the tail and Deme must wait 24 hours for him to recover.  If lost or stolen Deme can concentrate to pull the tail back to him.

Abilities:

Besides his own physical and magical abilities as well as Dragonkin, Deme has a few other weapons at his disposal to help in his adventures and quests ranging from an array of swords, daggers, and his own set of warglaives.  

Demetrius is a Demon Hunter and thus has the physical abilities they all possess.  His strength is at the point he can stab a dagger into a bolder down to the hilt.  His speed, agility and dexterity has been boosted to be greater than mortal standards .  His body also heals faster due to his damned blood, healing most wounds in a manner of seconds and some of the greater wounds in minutes and the most severe in a matter of hours or days.  He can call upon his own wings to glide and fly around if needed and bite down on an enemy with his fanged canines.  His skin though not scaled is thick enough to ward off some cuts and slashes.  Thanks to his furthering demonic nature Deme can grow bone spikes or as he calls them hidden blades from his wrists and has claws for fingertips.

Due to his training and adventures as well as being hailed as a prodigy with the blade he has become a master swordsman, a competent assassin, a master of parkour and freerunning, as well as having knowledge in the Temple of the White Tiger style of unarmed combat, and an adapt marksman.  He has developed a keen sense of tracking, deductive reasoning, and a knowledge of anatomy.  He has also learned how to navigate and sail a ship as well as fight on his fox or wolf mounts.  He is also a Dragon Rider and has learned to use his glaives and felmagics when riding on Pyre’s back.  He is a decent writer though has terrible handwriting thanks to his claws.  He is also a master swordsmith and has begun to study more alchemical pursuits.

From a magical standpoint thanks to his blood he can control and bend shadows to the point of fading away, shadow stepping and dropping a field of shadow to conceal himself and others.  Like other demon hunters he is able to conjure green fel fire and the chaotic forces of the fel and has the ability to temporarily become a demon elf hybrid. He has begun to master combining his fel flame and shadow flame together due to his link with the darkness flame.  He can manipulate it to form the shape of a black and fel accented dragon to devour and burn away his enemies. He has begun to learn how to create barriers using his magical abilities or soul magic as well as create sigils with his fel, shadow, or own blood.

History:

Demetrius was born alongside his twin Ambrose into the Dawnshadow minor noble family.  Being born a bastard most of his life he was looked down upon by others his age for his heritage and not knowing who his father was.  He had few friends growing up.  Dem and Ambrose were raised by not only their mother Lana’thel, but also by their Grandparents Avadeth and Kayleen Dawnshadow.  While Ambrose took more to a studious education, Dem felt more at ease with the sword which helped him channel his intal childhood running along the walls' energy.  This didn’t mean he wasn’t educated in history, writing, reading, and his least favorite subject math.  Under his Grandfather's guidance Dem grew into something of a child prodigy with the sword.

In time Dem would spend time with the more criminal element of Silvermoon during his late late teens and early adulthood.  His tutelage from his Farstrider Grandfather paid off and he fell in naturally with the more roguish elements of the city and became something of a spy for one family or another as to make some coin while at school and away from home.  Eventually his mother and Grandparents found out thanks to Ambrose who since childhood never approved of Dem and his antics.  Dem was soon steered towards another more noble path, that of the Farstrider.  And thanks to his roguelike skills and swordsmanship Dem was made a scout in the order after another year of training.  Dem would excel in it and find his new role adventurous especially when it came to skirmishes with the Armani.  Eventually Dem would meet a young Priestess his own age named Gwen and became smitten with her.  After a humorous first meeting with him failing a backflip landing thanks to a log with mud on it he began to court Gwen and eventually marry her.

Over the years Dem would rise within the ranks of the Farstriders as a Captain and join Alleria Windrunner’s unit to fight in the second war.  After the War he and Gwen would finally have a child of their own named Melisande.  Minus skirmishes here and there Dem spent the rest of his time with his family in peace.  That was till Arthas came leading a tidal wave of death through Eversong with his Scourge army.  Dem witnessed a Dreadlord named Dagrim slay his Grandparents during the chaos of the time.  Ambrose and his mother also disappeared in the carnage.  Dem took up his family's Elven dragonforged runeblade Dragonkin and eventually chose to leave Gwen and Meli and venture forth with Prince Kael’thas’ forces eventually fighting up in Northrend and forced to retreat to Outland. 

Dem was chosen to undertake the trials in becoming Demon Hunters.  As part of Dem’s trial he was confronted by the Nathrezim Dagrim, the one who killed his Grandparents.  After a battle that nearly claimed him, Dem used Dragonkin to carve out the Demon’s heart and ate it as well as drank its blood.  After a long battle of wills and seeing the horror of the Legion and their involvement in creating the scourge, Dem pledged his life to the Illidari cause.  He was tasked with hunting demons and rogue Illidari who turned to the Legion.  Over time He along with other adventurers including his Great Great Grandfather of the same name as him; would free enslaved Netherwings and he would befriend the Onyx Netherwing Pyreaku.  For this Dem was sent on separate a mission as a form of semi exile from the rest of the Illidari.  This act saved Dem from being captured alongside his other Illidari by the Wardens.

Dem soon killed the demon he was sent after and learning of the Fall of the Black Temple he returned home and blended with Sin’dorei society as best as he could.  He would stay with Gwen and Meli as well his recently discovered Kaldorei ancestor.  Pyre would join him and together with Gwen he would answer the call to arms and head up to Northrend to take the fight to the Lich King once more.  Dem and his group would find themselves helping the Red Dragonflight in the Nexus war, Witness the calamity of the Wrathgate, fight near the Titan complex of Ulduar where Dem would discover the titan forged void corrupted sentient blade Blackrazor.  Eventually Dem would discover a horrible truth.  A Death Knight loyal to Arthas confronted him up near Icecrown.  The Death Knight was his long lost twin, Ambrose who had willingly submitted himself to the Scourge for more power and as he stated a more natural order.  The twins would fight before Ambrose stabbed Dem through the chest.  If not for his demonic healing factor and Ambrose just missing his heart he would have died.  Instead he was imprisoned within the Crimson Halls of the San’layn with the Darkfallen draining him of his demonic blood and attempting to figure out a way to convert him to their order in undeath.  Being bound to a Dreadlord which was for all intents and purposes a demonic vampire Dem did already show signs of vampiric tendencies.  Luckily Gwen came and saved him along with Pyre during the Siege of Icecrown Citadel.  Dem would heal up and immediately hunt down his brother and find him.  It was then that Dem learned Ambrose as part of a show of his allegiance had killed their mother.  The twins battled once more with Dem seemingly killing Ambrose with Dragonkin and Blackrazor.

The next couple of years were spent with Dem and his family, both Sin’dorei and Kaldorei aiding in the defense of MT Hyjal where Dem saved and bound the spirit fox named Dexien to an item to preserve his soul from death for all time.  All the while thanks to his time captured and the whispers of Blackrazor Dem would eventually begin to lose control of his inner demon before locking up Blackrazor after the defense of Wyrmrest Temple.  When Garrosh bombed Theramore and Dem’s cousin Darron’s died in the defence of the city, Dem planned and failed to hatch a plot to assassinate Garrosh Hellscream.  Recovering on a Bloodsail ship the Demon Hunter began to find it hard to control his inner demon once more.  It didn’t help that the captain of the ship was also a slaver.  Once recovered Dem killed the captain and took the ship for himself and released the slaves in Alliance lands before finding his wife and daughter.  Dem became a privateer assaulting Garrosh’s ships.  He also hatched an Onyx Cloud Serpent named Shen’long whom Pyre considered a little brother.  Dem would even sail to Zandalar after one of the Garrosh loyal ships where after a misunderstanding and a valiant escape, Dem found himself with a portal curse and wanted on Zandalar.  Dem, Gwen and others would soon join the Siege of Orgrimmar on the side of the Alliance the Vol’jin’s resistance.  There they would save a young enslaved Sin’dorei child named Seraphina.  The husband and wife would adopt her and even take in her menagerie of wolves.  

Instead of initially going to Draenor Dem sought out and received a pardon for his privateer actions against Horde ships.  He would also make new friends and along with Gwen’s sisters learned to control and merge his soul fully with his inner demon.  Yona provided him her expertise as a monk and trained him in their ways despite his lack of control of chi.  As for Gwen’s older sister Farei she would provide him a hood that would protect his mind from intrusions and the whispers of the void and other sources though it would cost her her life eventually.  During Dem’s training with Yona he would befriend the Orc named Zuggrum Skullspliter and the Matriarch of House Shadowfel Valanthriel.  Gwen would also take up the path of the Monk after Blackrazor resurfaced and nearly destroyed Dem, herself, and their friends.  With her last act as a Priestess she shattered the blade.  Dem would eventually discover his birth father named Antheleos who tried to bring forth the Legion but failed thanks to Dem bringing in friends and allies alike.  Part of that Alliance would fall apart after Dem broke a blood oath with the Lady Shadowfel and ultimately her potential control of him.

Eventually the Legion did return in full force.  Demetrius would clash with his father on the Broken Shore and once again was nearly killed with Dragonkin shattered.  Thanks to Pyre Dragonkin would be reforged and forever bound to Dem.  Afterwards he would rejoin the Illidari and learn of a special form of fel and shadow magic fused together as shadowflame.  Dem with the rest of the Dawnshadow clan would join forces with an Old Rival House known as House An’velas and their head of family a Blood Knight Knight Champion named Admmari An’velas.  Despite House An’velas’ pledge House Dawnshadow found itself alone till Dem found his Great Great Grandparents once more, Demetrius and Gwenda’lyn Starshadow.  The united family would help fight the Nightmare before heading to Suramar.  An’velas would soon show up.  Instead of helping the people of Suramar from the Legion, they would instead commit war Crimes something Dem stopped them from doing and planned to report to Silvermoon.  Before he could two major events happened.  Dem and his friends and family were greeted by Antheleos once more and after a long battle including a frostwyrm and a portal to the ruins of the original Dawnshadow estate, Dem was able to slay his father and trap his soul in a soul stone, but not before he revived Ambrose from the dead.  The other event was Dem and Gwen adopting the Shal’dorei orphans Aliden and Leysase.  An’velas took these events as a boon for themselves and framed House Dawnshadow for the warcrimes they themselves commited such as murder and pillaging of the people of Suramar.  Dem and his family were forced to abandon their home but luckily the Starshadow clan took them in.  Dem and Gwen would soon discover she was with twin children.

Despite it all Dem focused his attention on the Legion.  Soon he would hear rumors and along with others part of a group called the Raven’s Watch would discover Ambrose undergoing the ritual to become a demon hunter.  With the help of the Heridents, a group of traitorous Illidari Dem sent to the nether with the sole exception of their leader Sensi; Ambrose succeeded and became a hybrid of a Death Knight and a Demon Hunter. The Heridents along with Ambrose would head back to Argus. Dem along with the Raven’s Watch steal a legion ship dubbed the Millenium and would hunt each of them down.  Despite it all, Ambrose feigned seeking redemption and together, he and Dem would fight Sensi only for Ambrose to steal Antheleos’ soul stone and take all of the twin’s father’s power for himself.  Sensi was slain and Ambrose took his spot as leader of the remaining Heridents betraying Dem once more.

Dem knew he couldn’t defeat Ambrose at that moment and instead focused on his training.  Over time he would begin to control a variation of shadow flame called the darkness flame thanks in no small part to Pyre.  During his training Gwen would give birth to baby Darron and Anastasia.   The time had come at last and during the final battle on Antorus the twins battled once more and Dem with his new control over the Fel and Shadow used a special type of shadow flame called the Darkness Flame which in honor of both his bond to Dragonkin as well as with Pyre he molded into the shape of a dragon’s maw.  With his new technique in hand he would confront Ambrose during the final siege of Antorus.  The twins would battle nearly killing one another.  Despite being the better swordsman Dem was still at a disadvantage against Ambrose and his new powers.  When all seemed lost the Demon hunter would unleash the Darkness Flame having it consume Ambrose before falling into a coma.  

When he awoke from his coma, Dem discovered Meli his eldest daughter along with his Great Grandmother Darcynia had been consumed by the void and became Ren’dorei.  He also learned Meli had become engaged to her childhood friend Nihlis, a Sin’dorei paladin pledged to the Silver Hand.  Due to his mastering of the Darkness Flame and the shape it took along with his efforts against the Legion, Dem was bestowed with the titles of Slayer; the highest honor a Demon Hunter can achieve with only a few before him obtaining the honor and, Dragon of the Illidari by the rest of the remaining Illidari.   For a time Demetrius Starshadow had given Dem the title of Count of Starhaven and he looked over it before handing back the title both because he longed to restore his own House and also to spend more time with Gwen and the children.  Once Azerite was discovered some began to appear in the Starhaven mines which drew the attention of House An’velas.  Dem longing for revenge against this house found and fought Admmari and slew the man breaking his ancestral sword Kel’faloom.  Thanks to the notes and letters found on the ship Dem found the evidence he needed to prove his and his families innocence for the frame up as well as discovered Admmari was the last of his own line due to his wife dying before giving birth during the war with the Legion.  Before he could bring the evidence to the Magisters of Silvermoon the call to war was sounded once more.  And once again Dem was forced to watch and be on the losing side of another elven genocide as he along with family and friends tried to defend the Kaldorei people from Sylvanas’ Horde.  Dem fought as a Privateer for the Alliance and learned more about the Inquisitors of Drustvar and the Drust as well as deal in piratetics in Freehold.  

He would join the Kaldorei and Starhaven forces in their retaking of Darkshore thanks to a gambit created by Demetrius the older.  It was then that Dem discovered Ambrose survived Argus and was working with Sylvanas but for his own secret goals and mission.  Even in winning Darkshore Dem knew he would be forced to face Ambrose again in the future.  Before he could follow Ambrose’ trail he joined his Kaldorei kin in Nazjatar and after the fall of Azshara he provided the proof of the An’velas family and their cohorts framing the Dawnshadows.  Dem continued to aid both the Alliance, and Saurfang’s rebels where he could till the end of the fourth war.  Despite his Kaldorei kin still wanting vengeance against the Horde he was able to convince them to focus their efforts in hunting Sylvanas and their loyalists instead of blindly attacking the Horde for the time being at least.  With his family and himself acquitted of the war crimes they were framed for and the Alliance and Horde establishing a tentative peace, Dem for the first time since the start of the last war with the Legion returned to Silvermoon City openly as a Demon Hunter and also as a Grandfather.  Meli had married Nihlus and gave birth to a child of her own.  With his return Dem began to focus on three things, finding and reuniting with his old friends and allies such as Zuggrum, restore his house and finally embrace his role as Lord of House Dawnshadow, and find Ambrose and try to redeem him or put him down forever.  He would eventually discover his sister Ash and became close with her during an accidental trip through with the rest of his family save Ambrose and Meli.  During the time travel adventure Dem and Gwen would separate and upon their return divorce.

After his divorce Dem focused on the House and hunting down evil before the Shadowlans opened up.  He would go on an Odyssey leaving his twin children in his sister’s care.  During his odyssey he would discover the part of Ambrose that remained in the Shadowlands, a Foreworn version who nearly killed Dem and tossed him into Torghast.  Dem endured various tortures before escaping and ending the soul of Admmari An’velas once and for all.  He would find his way to the plane known as Revendreth and reunite with his mother.  After overcoming his open pride and envy and going through Venthyr training Dem fought the Foresworn Ambrose one last time and win.  He returned with that portion of Ambrose’s soul and began to focus more on his family leaving the heroics to others for a time.

@elvenwitches-things​

[moonscut-moved]

      &.  SUDDENLY   ,   HE  IS  MADE  OF  GLASS.  see  through   ,   reflective   ,   making  his  soul  visible  to  someone  who  very  clearly  wishes  to  peer  into  ichigo’s  depths   &.   laugh  at  the  ambition  igniting  his  soul  like  a  match  to  gasoline.  her  voice  is  haunting   ,   that  of  a  spirit  who  has  yet  to  find  peace   (   &.  when  the  world  is  this  unkind   ,   would  she  ever   ?   )  ,   crawling  up  the  length  of  kurosaki’s  spine  unlike  any  horror  or  arrancar  have  managed  before.  perhaps  that  is  why  he  feels  his  heart  trembling  behind  sanctum  of  ivory  ribs.  it  almost  makes  him  wretch   ,   seek  freedom  from  his  gigai   &.   wildly  draw  his  sword  against  an  enemy  unknown   ,   &.  he  refrains  despite.  in  spite  maybe.  he  doesn’t  want  to  give  her  that  beastly  reaction  she’s  so  desperately  trying  to  yank  from  him.  breathe  in   ,   breathe  out.  refuse  to  be  a  lamb  in  sacrificial  garb  for  the  sneering  wolf   ;   defy  her  mouth  of  sharpened  fangs  with  your  own   &.   snarl.  ichigo  clenches  his  fists   ,   grits  teeth  as  mocha  hue  grow  wide  in  their  sockets.  a  fatal  flaw  has  always  been  trying  to  harbour  sympathy  even  for  those  undeserving   ,   who  wear  the  title  of  ‘  evil  ‘  like  a  second  skin   ,   &.  to  deny  eto  knowing  such  a  thing  would  be  a  bold  faced  lie.  some  people  are  just  too  far  gone   ,   yet  it’s  so  hard  to  accept  such  cruel  facts.       ❝ shut your MOUTH   ! ❞  he  finally  snaps   ,   metaphorical  embers  sparking  off  silver  forged  tongue.  when  he  glares  then   ,   it’s  sharp   &.   dagger  -  esque   &.   he  has  to  refrain  from  donning  shinigami  garb  right  then   &.   there.   ❝ i’ve  lost  myself  before   ,   i  don’t  hide  behind  it  or  some  bullshit  mask  while  i  runnin’  my  mouth  ‘an  i’d  do  it  all  over  again  to  protect  the  people  i  care  about  the  most. ❞   ah   ,   how  could  he  ever  forget   ?   the  monstrous  screams  while  hollowfying  for  the  first  time   ,   before  conquering  that  inner  demon   &.   coming  to  terms  with  the  two  souls  merging   &.   becoming  something  vaguely  whole   ?   that’s  where  she’s  wrong   ;   ichigo  still  knows  who  he  fights  for   ,   his  purpose   ,   recognizes  his  reflection  in  the  mirror  every  day  despite  the  faint  flecks  of  neon  yellow  in  his  eyes  via  hollow  influence.  this  sacrifice   . . .  he’d  repeat  it  forever  if  he  had  to.  he  has  these  powers  for  a  reason  . . .  right   ?   to  protect.   to  fight.   &.  ichigo  doubts  the  owl  could  ever  relate  to  such  a  concept.       ❝ you’re  nothin’  i  haven’t  met  before   ,   ‘an  i’m  tired  of  hearing  you  run  that  damn  mouth  like  you  know  a  single  thing  about  me. ❞    &.   we  are  nothing  alike.

cont      ,      @chrysopis​.

[chalabrun]

contra mundum, ch. 2

Word count: 3,731 Pairings: Ignoct, Nyxnoct, Ignyxnoct Rating: PG Warnings: N/A Summary: An exploratory story into what Final Fantasy Versus XIII may have been like, this story follows Noctis and his friends on his journey to not wed Luna, but to bring the war to Niflheim's door. Driven to be far darker than the source material, this tale seeks to give a dark, twisted tale based on reality.

The beginning is set in motion. Before everything fell apart, they were once close together.

( READ ON AO3 )

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

In caverns weathered by time, in a place forgotten by all but one, is a boy.

The boy was completely and utterly alone.

The room he is in is as high as a cathedral with a great dome in its center with mosaics of chipped heroes, valiant, charge into an endless race around the mosaic ring in pursuit of a demon, lost to the ravages of time and sits dejectedly among piles of rubble. The walls once held beautiful crystal sconces of unimaginable color are now dark with encroaching mold, their light stolen from them in ages past, like a speechless man. A rift in the ceiling is held steady by creeping roots with massive proportions, streams of light filtering through.

There is a massive wall of rounded stone, slate, and its base is an abyss that was once a contained well but the embankments of stone were lost lone ago and sits at the bottom of the shimmering, almost florescent abyss. The gluttonous roots have grown sporadic down the wall, creating a foothold on which the boy desperately clings to, like a feline to a tree.

Particles of dust dance the beams of light that manage to seep through, around fluted columns that bloom like lilies into the stone ceiling, in the wide center, and in the path of the hero of valor. The gnarly roots placidly hold the boy as he assiduously works, hair matted by sweat and brows creased in determination. He is perhaps in his eighth year, nearing the end of his boyhood, not yet ready to embrace the future.

His hands clench a stone with the fervor of one driven mad, soft skin torn and bleeding, but he is unaware. His long hair gleams like strands of metallic thread, halo moving in time with his rocking movements. His eyes like blood dart back and forth, studying this and righting that. Why is he working with such desperation?

This symbol is the key to your survival; remember it so that when the time comes, you will know. It shall protect you and lead you to greatness, an omniscient voice murmurs in that dream, that dream like a prophecy. The voice of a goddess, like a mother.

In that dream, he saw so many disconcerting things; ruined buildings corrugated by steal, shards of glass littering the streets. A horizon of complete and utter ruination plagues this familiar place, a restive moon donning a nauseating, bloody glow sickens the survivors of the mass destruction. The contemporary city would be lost to tragedy if it would not be stopped. But there is more to the dream; faces he's never seen, places he's never been, and a person familiar to him gazing at him with such reluctant antagonism.

There is a woman as well, who is very precious to him, whom he knows now and she is poised to fight, sad reluctance holding her back. And yet that brandished gold rapier goads his Engine Blade to action and they stand off.

No matter what, this cannot be avoided.

The boy weeps. It has yet to pass and already he is overwhelmed by emotion. He thinks of his friends, people so dear to him, and of that blonde girl, so precious to him. Must they be lost to an inevitable future?

He shakes away those thoughts and continues working, his carving and scraping making a dissonance in the abysmal place. This place is one filled with memories, of happiness and anguish, and yet he can see them as vividly as if it were happening now.

People strangely garbed flow in and out of the walls, luminous specters of the past. A time reel continuously flows and the boy is overwhelmed.

This is but a taste of what you will come to possess, the voice soothes, trying to quell his fears with company. You will find the strength to resolve the future. Why doesn’t he believe her?

Throwing down the worn, white stone, skittering into a dark place, the boy jumps from his perch. He furiously wipes his eyes, set with resolve, and gazes upon the symbol he has drawn.

A gyro of a language unknown to him swirls around a faded, curled wing. Many other symbols can be seen, but even the boy is unsur. In the pale light it takes on a celestial, fluorescent blue glow, but natural light shouldn't be able to do that. He gulps, unsure of what he has just scrawled upon the ancient wall.

Did I not tell you what it was?

The boy shakes his head, trembling. Dropping the stone, courage plummeting, the boy dashes from this grand room, down a narrow hall, charging deeper into the darkness more welcoming than an ominous future.

*

Hours later, Luna Parvulus, the Dukedom of Caliga, Galahd

"Prince Noctis! Oh bless my heart, I worried terribly about you! Where have you been? Come, come, let's get you all cleaned up."

Noctis, the boy, was trembling despite the warmth of the upper world. He had desperately bandaged his hands with old cloth in order to hide the wounds, but his keen-eyed guardian, Rosarum, had immediately caught on. She knew this boy from birth and she knew him well. At her side, his oldest and dearest friend, Ignis, waited with a pensive and worried look in his green eyes.

She was dressed in what looked to be a nun's habit, white and tan, although it was by no means for religious purposes. Her face was kindred with age, but her emerald eyes always had an intelligent gleam. She was fiercely protective of Noctis, who had become something of a son to her, and as thus she saw to it that he never stepped out of line. Rosarum glanced down at Ignis, placing a hand on the older boy’s shoulder. “And you worried dear Ignis, my dear.”

Noctis took Ignis’ hand, small fingers curled around like a lost child. He kept his gaze to the floor, eyes darting between the shoes that flicked out from under her long dress whenever she took a step and his own stumbling feet. “…Sorry for disappearing like that, Iggy.”

“It’s okay. As long as you’re safe, Noct.” He sounded so gentle.

The halls they walked through were high and narrow, rich white marble paving the floor and columns that blossomed into high domes were avoided. Between the recesses the columns made were large portraits of the rulers of old, people Noctis was related to, as well as entryways into similar halls, each containing a plethora of rooms. Clear windows overhead let in an azure sky while massive crystal chandeliers spiraled downwards like Turritella shells. Natural light made them sparkle every conceivable color of the spectrum, casting orbs of color on the floor and walls like playful faeries.

Caliga always had been a beautiful place. The seat of House Izunia, the precursor to the Lucis Caelums, its capital of Luna Parvulus was like something out of a fairytale and built exactly in style of Tenebrae, especially its own Fenestala Manor. A place founded a sort of wedding present to the first Oracle, Gentiana Fleuret, from Somnus Lucis Caelum, it had been the ancestral place of peaceful conventions between House Caelum and House Fleuret for generations.

At least, that’s what his grandmother, Aellai Izunia, had told him years ago before she’d passed away. Grandpa Mors had never really cared for history, she’d joked, but Noctis knew she missed him greatly.

“Hey, Noct?”

“Yeah, Iggy?” Noctis replied when the trio took pause, both training gazes on the older boy.

“Um…I’ll wait until you’re done, okay? I think Rosie wanted me to lay out some clothes for you, while you bathe and stuff.”

Noctis smiled at his friend and reached out to poke Ignis’ cheek. “Okay, Iggy! I’ll get done really fast, then!” He couldn’t help it; they were inseparable, after all.

“Oh, we hope you get done in time, little prince! I know how much you enjoy the bubbles!” Ignis gave a small laugh and Noctis made a face, embarrassed, but feeling happy.

Shoes echoing resoundingly, Rosarum briskly walked into a set of open, lacquered wood doors inlaid with curling iron designs with Noctis and Ignis in tow. Opening a secondary set the three of them entered the young prince's bedroom.

The room was circular in shape, domed like many others, hewn from warm beige marble. A cathedral ring of columns arched gracefully to touch the sky. There were recesses between each wall bound column that held in their depressions statues of the Archaean deep in thought and Shiva clothed in flowing robes in delicate pose, something out of the Genesis painting. The four poster canopy bed stood at the center, black curtains bound to their posts. The extravagant silk sheets were of muted cream and spared no expense of the young prince's comfort.

Ignis detached from them and began digging through the dresser and wardrobe for the prince’s clothing, leaving Rosarum and Noctis to the task of bathing.

Rosarum skirted around a large desk and wardrobe and flung open another set of elegant doors into a bathroom as large as the bedroom.

It, too, was circular in shape. A rounded, inlaid bath more like a fountain pool lay in the center, steaming and embanked by warm stone. A light fixture hanged from the zenith of the dome, metal and orbs of light twisting beautifully together and casting a warm glow on cordial marble. A ring of stained glass above was in the forms of inky fishes and rippling water of frosty blue glass, the sunlight casting scales of blue light below.

The marble in here was of a dull burgundy veined by white that seemed to grow warmer in light. A large mirror sat in one corner while a large sink, too large for normal use, sat in another. All was made from stone or marble, a trait overly common in what was supposed to be a modern utopia.

"Alright, m' prince, why don't you take off these ruddy clothes and get yourself bathed? I'll take them to the laundry quarters. If you don't take a bath, I'll know," she said, kneeling down to look Noctis at eye level. “Don’t keep Iggy waiting too long, hm?”

Complying, Noctis walked over to a hidden changing room and closed the door before removing all of the soiled clothes. He pulled on a long bathrobe and girdled it tight, then stepped out with the bundle of soiled garments in his arms. Rosarum gladly took them, smiling warmly at Noctis.

"I'll be back in a jiffy, alright?" she said before turning around, robes swishing as she closed the door softly behind her.

Glaring at the water, Noctis timidly stepped to its edge, frowning and testing the heat with his toe. Recoiling at the spike in temperature, Noctis frowned and his glare deepened.

"Why do I have to take a bath?" Noctis groused softly, swirling the glass-smooth water with his finger. Remembering the taunts of his immaturity from a close friend, Noctis puffed his chest exaggeratingly. He sat and submerged his legs up to his calves; he gritted his teeth in resolve. Slipping off the edge into the fairly deep water, Noctis splashed resoundingly, flailing his arms until they rested on a submerged ledge. Gasping for breath, hair limp and blocking his eyes (which he quickly moved aside), he took deep breaths, trying to calm his fluttering heart.

Finally calm, Noctis removed the heavy and wet robe, having accidently dragged it in with him. The water cleansed his skin well enough as well as his hair, though he still went through the whole routine. Clean of all dirt, blood, and grime, Noctis heaved himself from the tub and toweled himself as dry as possible, hair still a little damp. He found another robe to wrap around himself and proceeded to the mirror.

Availing himself before it, he could see that his hair was still hopelessly spiky, springing back into place. It was a strange metallic blue, unusual from the browns and blondes of other people. His face wasn't sharp and angular like his friend, or more…developed like Ignis’; instead it was soft and still rounded, but was beginning to lose that trait.

"Oh, good, you're done, m' prince!" came Rosarum's jovial and warm voice. Noctis whirled around, a smile alighting his face. He ran to her and clamped on to her arm, face colliding with her shoulder.

"You've become very handsome; I can't believe you're not that sweet little baby anymore. Ah, you're such a treasure." Noctis looked up to his beloved nanny. “I’m certain little Ignis agrees, hm?”

"Please call me Noct, like you used to," Noct said, smiling warmly. “Like Iggy does!”

She burst into laughter. "Oh, you little rascal! I'll get in trouble if I do."

Noct looked thoughtful for a moment. "Prince Noct?" he reasoned. “Iggy does that sometimes, too!”

"Alright, I'll call you 'Prince Noct.'" Noctis let go of her arm, beaming.

"Oh! I almost forgot! Lord Ravus and Lady Stella are here. Aren't you excited? Come; let's get you all polished up."

Noct froze; Stella was here. His heart began thumping loudly at the thought of seeing his best friend who he recently began having a crush on. She was twelve to his eight and positively radiant. He adored her kind smile and lively personality. There was something else, like they had a deeper connection, but he couldn't reason why. Though he’d always been so close with Ignis, Stella was different. And he was going to see her, again!

Urging himself to calm down, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

Older Stella brandishing a gold rapier.

Noct shook his head, pushing away that awful thought.

"Prince Noct? Time to get dressed."

Noctis opened his eyes, and to his abject horror, Rosarum held a flowing, long emerald dress coat, stiff looking matching pants and a complicatedly designed shirt. He swallowed; he hated dressing formally almost as much as he hated taking bathes.

Ignis looked a little sheepish, having been the one to choose them in the first place. “Sorry, Noct, but your father wanted you to wear them.”

It was always his dad! Always so stuffy, even though he wore suits all the time! Why didn’t he have to wear the ceremonial robes?

Reluctantly taking the clothes into the changing area, closing the door, he removed the bathrobe and put on the appropriate undergarments before hauling up the suede pants, pulling over the long shirt and finally pulling on the ankle-length robe which wasn't supposed to be girdled. He tied on a pair of starchy black boots and laced them, toes being mashed together.

Exiting the room he groaned loudly, bemoaning the restrictive clothing.

Rosarum clapped her hands in delight and ushered Noct again to the mirror. The outfit made him look older, sure, but he wouldn't be able to do much. Ignis stood beside him and helped tug down this, tighten that, and brush away stray wisps of hair.

"You look even more handsome!" she squealed, soothing creases and invisible wrinkles with obsessive care.

Noct gave her a look of comic anguish, a shadow of despair hooding his eyes. Ignis looked paologetic, sincerely. Then again, he’d always had a superbly soft spot for his friend.

"You want to look nice for Stella, don't you?"

Noctis quickly changed his outlook, imagining Stella gushing over how cool he looks and immediately changed his outlook on the snazzy clothes. Well, almost immediately.

Rosarum laughed at his sudden change of heart, always seeming to know how to change Noctis's perspective on things. That, or the task fell on ignis. Barely keeping secrets from each other, Ignis almost always anticipated what was needed for Noctis. He was so, so reliable like that.

"Come along now; don't want to keep them waiting."

Noctis gladly acquiesced and flew from the room, Rosarum struggling to keep up.

“Oh, Noct?”

Noctis stopped dead in his tracks, skidding to a halt when his friend addressed him. He was always bound to listen where Ignis was involved. “Yeah, Iggy?”

“Uncle Jovian wanted to see me today. I’m sorry, but I can’t come with you to see Lord Ravus or Lady Stella.”

Ignis looked apologetic again, especially when he caught sight of the disappointment on his face.

“Oh, okay. I’ll tell them you said hi. It’s okay. Luna couldn’t come, either.”

Ignis looked grateful, if a little crestfallen. “Lady Lunafreya has her Oracle training to attend to. I’m pretty sure she’d love to be here with us, Noct.”

Rosarum smiled gently at the pair. “Don’t you either worry about anythin’. I’m certain today will lovely for all of you, regardless.”

“You’re right. Thank you, Rosie. And see you later, Iggy!”

*

The day was as beautiful as it looked through the windows.

The sky was a beautiful turquoise color, clouds floating aimlessly like leaves swept along a river. A massive lawn spanned before him, gardens of flowers of every variety planted and hedges trimmed with the utmost precision. Beyond the gardens was the border between lawn and forest, both kept immaculately in line. Cobblestone paths cut through the maze of flowers and small trees; the odd sculpture of some prominent figure of old standing in defiance to the sky.

The emerald leaves of the interminable number of trees chattered in the many warm breezes while dappled shadows rested on the forest floor below. The grand presence of the castle loomed before all, a sentinel of sentinels watching over wood and city. Luckily the sun's position in the heavens provided that the castle's shadow didn't overshadow the delightful gardens or the three young children who wished the gambol among the scenery.

Beyond even that, the Sea of Galahd scintillated on the horizon, reminding them they were still a ways from the Crown City of Insomnia.

Noctis descended the wide stone stairs, ignoring Rosarum's warnings to be safe. He practically ran down, eager to meet his friends below.

As soon as his foot touched green turf, the padding of feet over grass flew in his direction.

"NNNNoooooctiiiisssss!" came the stream of his name, sourcing from a pretty preteen girl, a mane of billowing gold in her wake as she ran. Launching herself to the young prince, Stella latched her arms around his neck, smiling childishly.

Noct, unable to speak coherently, gulped. He returned the embrace shyly.

"Oh, hey Stella,” he stuttered at last, patting Stella's back. Beaming, the older girl, already a bit taller, quickly released Noct so that he could regain his composure.

"I'm so glad to see you again, Prince Noctis! " she said, smiling genuinely. Her violet eyes caught the sunlight beautifully, entrancing the young prince for a moment. Today she wore an almost identical outfit to his, only it bore the colors of her kingdom, Tenebrae, and instead of pants she wore a skirt. “Luna says hello. She was sad she couldn’t be here, but she wishes you well.”

Aside from the fact that she was Luna’s fraternal twin sister, they looked almost exactly alike, save for her ash blonde hair and violet eyes that contrasted to Luna’s blonde hair and blue eyes.

Raucous laughter broke the silence, emanating from a a platinum blond youth. Ravus Nox Fleuret was prince from the kingdom of Tenebrae and Noctis's other best friend, and the girls’ older brother. His choppy, short hair was buzzed down, stormy grey eyes dancing in delight. He wore an outfit identical to Noctis's, again with the colors of his beloved forest kingdom.

He was the oldest of them at sixteen. Already his face was beginning to sharpen and become angular, voice not yet deep. He was a head taller than Noct and towered over Stella.

Yet that never deterred Stella from showing off her vivacious spirit.

"Ravus!" Stella cried, stamping her feet and crossing her arms. "Leave Noct alone!"

Noct waved his hands, as if trying to placate the fiery girl, only she proceeded to stomp over to Ravus and give him a piece of her mind.

"Sorry Stella, it's just that Noct—" he choked out between bouts of laughter "—he's really hilarious to me now for some reason!"

Stella scowled, hand reaching to grab a tuft of hair and yank it. Ravus yelped loudly, eyes locked with Stella's fierce ones.

"I'm sick of you bullying and teasing Noct! Go say you're sorry," she ordered, still clenching his short hair.

Awkwardly bent over, Ravus's grey eyes locked with Noctis's. "Stella, it's what friends do. We always—"A yank "—Okay! I'm sorry, Noct! You happy now?" his last words directed at Stella. She tossed him away, unsteadying Ravus, and smiled smugly.

Prancing over to Noct, she grabbed his hand. "Let's get away from him and this place," she whispered conspiratorially, glancing towards the forest.

"What are you doing?" Ravus.

"Now!"

Before Noctis could even blink, Stella was off him a shot, towing Noctis at breakneck speeds. They tore through the gardens and out to the border and into the darkening woods. Noctis could hear Ravus shouting after them to stop, but for once he was glad to be alone with Stella.

They ran quite a way until the castle receded and faded completely from view.

"Ah, alone at last." Stella ambled around a tree with great roots, humming delightfully to herself.

Noctis looked around nervously. The trees here were thick enough for several people to hug, hands touching. Long and wide branches thickened and split like a river delta, umbrage nearly blocking out the sun entirely. The canopy was thick with a ceiling of leaves that let in only fragments of sunlight, the rest of the ground cloaked in shadow. Massive roots spurt from the ground, interrupting the surface like coiling snakes, providing for unsteady walking ground. Noctis carefully picked his way around brambles and jutting roots, making way to Stella.

A deafening crunch suddenly filled the forest.

Stella clung to Noctis who put a hand to her back.

"I think we should leave, Stella." Her head pumped up and down in agreement.

A scuffling of weak roots heaved inwards, creating an abyssal drop. Noctis' arms flew around Stella and her's around him.

Both screamed with terrific might in the quiet forest as the ground gave away and they were swallowed by the black maw.

[njcklenjart]

something wild 2/6

Summary: The locals speak of a monster and Newt’s all too ready to investigate.

A/N: It’s on FF and AO3 if anyone prefers those sites.

Previous • Next 

“She’s a girl,” he argues.

He tries to make them understand, to explain that what they have wrongly classified as a beast- a monster, tainted by shadow and sin- is merely a child. They don’t seem to grasp it; he can see it through their gestures and their closed-off speech, adamant that death is the solution, but too afraid to wield the blade themselves.

He doesn’t know how to convince them of their misdeeds, or if he could, as they refuse to listen even as they prepare for some social gathering that’s unanimously been scheduled. His questions are ignored- about the girl and what they intend to do with her- and Newt’s left to follow like a kicked crup as they don on paint like wicked masks and colorful garbs and ready themselves.

“Where’s her mother?” he asks after frustration has driven him to be less than gentlemanly, unable to understand what’s happening. He’s only just come to this place and, if not for the girl, he’d have already left.

Newt’s met with a startling silence and, for a moment, the anger dissipates and he worries that there’s more than just neglect to this story. Only death could change an active village into one of statues in a matter of seconds.

But then a woman brazenly steps forward and, if he can look past the shadowed scarf, he can see bits and pieces of the girl. With the rest of her people at her back, the woman meets Newt’s inquiry and he thinks that not even Gods can perfect such a chilling stare- there’s no hint of love in her eyes, but rather a toxic mixture of anger and resolution. If he looks deeper he can see the deep roots of fear.

I am no mother of demons, she all but spits at him and Newt can only stare gobsmacked as the rest of the villagers gathered around gain fervor at her words. They convulse at the center of the village, where a massive fire comes alive, sprawling shadows reaching the border of the trees. They chant and plead and yell at the bright flames, screaming out to the heavens and whatever deity watching over them to protect them from the “demon” just beyond their village, and Newt shrinks away, unable to let himself be anywhere near this kind of discord. The voices are too high and the drums are too loud: harsh against the stark silence currently settled over the jungle.

The mother is the loudest of them all.

He finds it extremely difficult to meet their eyes. If he does, he’s worried he’ll do something he’ll regret like hex the lot of them. A lesser man wouldn’t have held back, but, sadly, he is not.

So he does the only thing he can do: he goes back to the girl.

The chanting and wailing is loud in his ears as he leaves the hellish glow of the fire with words trailing after him as he escapes to the abandoned hut. No one stops him, too busy with their prayers to notice his absence. Death, they plead to the flames, voices rising with the beat of the drums, death to the beast.

Like before, a scuttling sound precedes his entrance and Newt catches sight of a dark shape flying across a beam of moonlight shining through the small window away from the doorway. The girl crouches at her corner watching him with wide eyes like she’s been caught stealing. She must have been lingering at the entrance, Newt suspects, watching the happenings outside her hut, and, judging from her body language, she’s expecting a retaliation. I wonder if this is a common occurrence, Newt thinks and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck bristle in anger and annoyance.

The voices outside swell in volume at a particularly desperate plea and the girl’s expression crumples, and Newt knows she understands what they mean, if not what’s said exactly.

“I’m not like them,” he tells her softly, kneeling an acceptable distance away. “In fact, I’m like you- I’m a wizard.”

All he gets is a wary stare, but he’s undeterred. He lays a hand on his chest. “I’m here to help. My name is Newt- Newt Scamander. Can you say that? Newt?”

She’s small- too small: a tree twig, in contrast to the other village children, with knobby knees and sunken skin that mark her as not only underweight but malnourished. The sight of her body has Newt’s anger rising again- not for her, but for the people who’ve put her in this state and currently praying for her death- and redoubles his determination to help her.

Except little girls aren’t beasts.

She’s not one of his creatures no matter how misunderstood and mistreated and he can’t treat her like one. He reminds himself of this when he’s rejected, when she refused to answer him. It’s all so misleading when she makes a noise more fitting for a kneezle than a little girl or crawls and eats like desperate graphorn.

Still, he tries.

He carries this one-sided conversation long after the village has calmed and retreated to their huts, and the sounds of the wilderness are their only companions in the night. He talks soothing words, trying to tempt the girl to respond.

“Newt,” he says again, drawing out the word and looking at the girl meaningfully.

He expects it to go as well as his other tries, but is surprised when she mimics him, placing a hand where her heart lies. She doesn’t offer a name and Newt doesn’t force one out of her, but counts it as a success, if only a marginal one. At least she isn’t cowering at his presence, or, worse, refusing to even interact with him. If she’s willing to do this with him, then maybe hope isn’t lost.

What he needs to do is to show her that she has nothing to fear at least not from him.

Wordless magic requires more practice and wandless magic is only done by the more skilled wizards and those new and naive to their power. Newt is neither, but he can do something small. He makes to raise his hand, but stops when the girl shrinks back.

“No, no- it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” The villagers can mistreat her and label her magic as a curse, but that’s because they don’t understand. He wouldn’t do her any harm. Not now; not ever.

The girl stops, staring at him through her wild, tangled hair. Once he’s sure he has her attention, Newt furrows his brow in concentration. He twists his fingers just so and a daisy appears out of thin air.

His watcher makes a surprised sound, eyes wide and zeroed on the flower in his hand.

She reaches out only to stop.

“Go ahead,” he insists. “It’s for you.”

Their fingers brush momentarily when she takes the flower and she visibly jumps away from the contact. Newt remains motionless, face angled away, and waits. He feels her stare leave him and peeks out beneath his hair to watch her examine the flower. It looks bigger in her hand than his, pale and dainty, a bright spot against the dark backdrop of the dirty hut. She brings it closer and, oh so carefully, strokes a petal.

She smiles.

[punchfacefist]

Light Lost in Shadows Part II

           On all sides of Imara'el, the clamor of battle deafened his senses. Instincts pulled him to join the fray, rather than flee with the Undercity civilians. He counted each soldier in his squad as they passed him. watching as they dematerialized in front of the shimmer orb that depicted the iron spires of Orgrimmar. On the other side was safety.            "That's the last!" the towering Tauren rumbled as an Undead shambled past Ima. The two exchanged a glance at one another, Ima was certain he recognized her somewhere, and she him. The troll holding the portal let out a scream as a barrage of Night Elf arrows plunged through his robes. The portal wavered and collapsed.            "Damn!" the squad leader gripped his axe tightly. "We'll need to join another squad."            Ima searched the empty statue-strewn courtyard of the ruins of Lordaeron. An orc soldier unwittingly left behind a map detailing the evacuation portals. Imara'el's portal was situated in the courtyard, and a number of other portals in the outlying regions of the capital.            "There's a chance the western gardens portal is still up and evacuating civilians, Captain," Ima suggested. "We can join that squad." The squad leader looked from the map to the Blood Elf in thought.            "A good choice, boy," the Tauren agreed. "Let's not waste any time."            Right from the courtyard, down the promenade, down a long corridor, and right again into an open lane. The remains of a skirmish was strewn about here, Alliance and Horde fallen in death locked in combat.            "Earth Mother!" the Tauren exclaimed frightened by the grisly scene. Imara'el's breath caught in his throat.            This is inevitable. The voice stung in ima's head. It reveled in this carnage. He could sense its delight at the scene of death.            "We have to hurry," Ima urged the captain. One passage after another until the squad guarding the portal was well in sight. Undead still funneled through it. The Orc in charge of the squad regarded the two with a salute.            "Lok'tar, you two," he greeted the Tauren and Blood Elf. "Where is your squad?"            "On the other side in Orgrimmar," the Tauren explained the situation. A barrage of artillery whistled down against the wall behind the squad.            "We have to go now, Captain!" a grunt shouted, "The wall can't hold against another bombardment like that!"            "We're not finished here, damn it!" the orc shouted, "Get through to your squad, we'll hold the line! For the Horde!" The Tauren returned the declaration and looked one last time at Imara'el.            "Lightsong, we have to go now!" He wasn't paying attention to any of them. The wall was cracked. If it came down, none of them to get home safely.            None of you will return. There was a chance this was certain. The Alliance would be unrelenting. They would cut down all soldiers of the Horde in front of them. Perhaps, he thought, there was a chance he could buy just enough time. One Blood Elf against the legions of Stormwind? Nobody was possibly that foolhardy. Imara'el, of course, was nobody.            "Lightsong!" the Tauren repeated. "Let's go!" The Tauren spun Imara'el around to face him by the shoulder. Imara'el stared at the squad leader a moment.            "Get those civilians through the portal, already!" Imara'el ordered. The Tauren was taken aback. He turned and joined the squad to finish, and they all turned as the wall buckled. A glaive sang through the air, knocked out of its path as Imara'el blocked it with his body.            "Everyone's through!" the Orc captain shouted. "Lightsong! You get your Blood Elf ass through this portal now!" Imara'el was winded. He knew his armor would hold against the blow, but something cracked. He reached into his side pack; his hearthstone. Only enough for one more teleport, it seemed.            "Get out of here, already," Imara'el said. He squeezed the white stone in his hand, feeling it hum with energy. The Orc grabbed hold of him, and he pushed off, handing the hearthstone off as he did.            Nothing you do matters. Imara'el felt the emptiness of the area. There was no Horde here left. The stone wound gushed blood of blue and silver. The battalion of Stormwind struggled through the narrow space, and that was an advantage Imara'el would definitely use.            "By the Light, the Sun sets for you," Imara'el recited. He stared down the oncoming forces of the Alliance.  A back row of mages began to prepare spells; Imara'el threw his shield, and it bounced from one caster to another, crushing throats and striking heads, before it returned to his arm. A dwarf charged him first, axes raised for a sweeping cleave. Imara'el countered with his shield, lifting her off her feet and sprawling on her back. A pair of humans leveled their rifles and fired, one shot missed completely, Imara'el's sword split the other with a controlled swing. Demon Hunters flanked from either side. He deflected and parried, pushing his right foe off with his shield and kicking the left in the chest. Warlocks stepped forward summoning a large demon from the Nether, while a Draenei charged for their turn. Imara'el side-stepped, grabbing the Paladin by her horn and throwing her bodily into the demon's open maw. A Gnome attempted an airborne surprise attack, Imara'el swatted him out of the air with his shield to careen against the stone wall. A Night Elf took advantage of their comrade's diversion and lanced Imara'el with rapiers. Imara'el staggered a moment, the blades pierced through, one in his right leg, the other through his left arm. He severed the blades from their wielder.            There's so many of them, he thought, I can only hold for so long. But I'll won't let them-- The thought was interrupted as two polearms impaled through him.            Oh come on! I can not keep a good set of armor for more than a week, can I? The Alliance surrounded him on all sides, parting way for their commander to stride in. He was stoically built, donning armor for one barely looked to join battle at all. He was greying in the hair, and lines formed on his face.            "A lone Blood Elf on the line between the Alliance," the commander condescended. "I'm curious, boy. What did you hope to accomplish here? You're outmatched. You're outnumbered. You have no reinforcements coming, and yet you hold the line. Why do you still fight, then, when you clearly have no hope of succeeding?" Why, indeed. Imara'el knew he had no chance of survival here. His grip tightened on his sword. He leaned forward, remembering the small amount of Common he learned.            "Because," he whispered in the Commander's ear, "I can still hold a sword." His final act of defiance came in the motion of his sword severing the Commander's arm from his shoulder. His hand spasmed as a shaman's lightning arced over him. He concentrated, long enough, to clap his hands together, as if to pray, and issued a blast of blinding light. Alliance soldiers clawed at their eyes. The stench of undeath carried on a wind from the east. He sensed this would be his last act, to take as many Alliance with him possible.           Death is not glorious. His eyes watered, his lungs burned, his throat swelled, and his skin began to disintegrate. This was death. And he'd finally be rid of the damn voices once and for all... Imara'el gasped sharply as fresh, salty air entered his lungs. He shot up, forehead colliding with the low stone ceiling hard and he rolled and hit the cavern floor on his side. He writhed at the newfound and sudden pain, cursing to himself in Thalassian with such an intensity that would make most other Blood Elves faint.            "Hm, hm, hm," a stifled chuckle observed from the other side of the cavern brought Imara'el to look round for its source. He spotted the Elf seated against the cavern wall, garbed in bronze robes. His was an older face, but one Imara'el remembered and knew well enough.            "You are a piece of work, Imara'el Lightsong," Vana'diel declared, "I mean, that was courageously valiant, but also recklessly stupid."            "There was no other option," Imara'el replied.            "You had every chance to escape with the squad," Vana'diel pointed out, "but you decided to stay behind to face the Alliance and death." Imara'el paused to remember everything that happened. "I did it for the Horde." Vana'diel scoffed. "Please, we both know damn well you did it for her." Imara'el looked up as another presence entered his periphery. She stepped out of the shadows of the cavern. Her hair was red as the skies at dusk, piercing gold eyes studying him silently. She bore a scar crossed down her left eye, the only mark on her otherwise flawless tanned skin. The breath caught in Ima's chest at the sight of her, and she with him.            "Lariah," he gasped, "This is impossible... you died! I watched you die!"            "I could very well say the same of you, Half-Ear," she returned, "yet here we are." Ima turned a pointed glance at Vana'diel for an explanation.            "How is this possible?"            "Time is not strictly a direct progression of cause to effect, as one would believe," Vana'diel began, "It's more like a single river broken up by a lot of stones. The current can diverge and split, but in the end, it all ends up at the same destination. There are some points, though, where a river can create another path, as it were."            "He means I'm from a timeline where you died and I lived," Lariah simplified the explanation. A thought occurred to Ima. "Which timeline is the first original one, then?" Vana'diel sucked in a breath. "I'm not allowed to say," he answered hesitantly. "Nozdormu won't let us. Last time one of my siblings let it slip, he was reverted to an egg." Long silence filled the cavern as everyone slowly let everything settle. Ima had a lot to process.            They are not your friends. The voice still remained. Ima sighed, clutching his head fighting off their words.            "Their grasp on you is getting worse," Vana'diel observed. "There is a way to break free, but it's risky. I can't tell you how it goes down, but I can only ask you to trust me on this."            "Like with my sister," Ima responded. He had seen the kindness and power he was capable of, and knew without him, Ilirria would never have returned to him and Istaniel.            "What do I have to do?" Ima asked without another moment's hesitation. He protested internally that he had to do this alone; but he was at a point he wasn't sure if he could. He didn't even have a plan!            "You know that Undead you saw evacuating Lordaeron?"             imara'el bid his farewell to the Bronze Dragon and his love from another timeline. It was middle of the night, and the Cleft of Shadow was darker even now than usual. The huddled masses of the Undead unaccustomed to sunlight peered searchingly at the Blood Elf as he strode past them. She sat huddled in small hut tucked away in a dark corner, mumbling to herself and scribbling glyphs into parchment. She looked near feral, wearing tattered clothing that looked stripped from a lesser fortunate soul some years before. She worked busily, paying Ima's presence no mind, until her imp pat her on the head.           "Boss you got a visitor," the imp announced squeakily.            "Not now, Gobnik," she brushed her servant away with a bony hand, "Have no time. No time! Must prepare before Winter's Veil. Before! Yes. No distractions. Make them go away."            "Mirina," Imara'el said sternly. The Forsaken looked up from her parchment at him.            "I need your help.” To Be Continued...

[brianwarden]

Gad the Islamophobe

I recently listened to an episode of Sam Harris's excellent podcast "Waking Up" that featured as his guest Gad Saad, someone who's own podcast is another favorite of mine; I highly recommend both. Both Harris and Saad are academics/scientists/public figures who are highly critical of recent trends regarding free speech, postmodernism, tolerance, political correctness, and “regressive leftism”.

 That term, which I first heard used by Muslim reformer Maajid Nawaz, refers to those ostensibly on the left, that often engage in regressive tactics, principally anti free speech bullying. Regressives are in the vanguard of extreme political correctness, commonly complaining about "cultural appropriation", the wage gap, patriarchy, Islamophobia, etc. For instance, in many a college campus it has become common for regressive's to target visiting speakers, show up at the event, and attempt to silence said speaker. This is often done by blocking entrance to the event, harassing attendees, rushing the stage, and in more than one instance, pulling fire alarms.

 So I am a big fan of Harris and Saad, as well as their comrades in arms Christine Hoff Sommers, Dave Rubin, Joe Rogan, Bill Maher, Sarah Haider, Jon Haidt, and several others. I consider myself a liberal, but am embarrassed by what many of the same label are currently doing: silencing opposing views, demonizing all white men, creating safe spaces, trigger warnings, and micro aggressions; what I prefer to call the PC left. I guess I meet the definition of a classical liberal, of the John Stuart Mill mold, but the semantics of political labels have become very muddled lately.

 As hinted above, I'm not a fan of the term "Islamophobia". Not that I think it's a meaningless term, just that it's over used to the point of becoming virtually meaningless. Any criticism of Islam is characterized as Islamophobic by the regressive left, even the most obvious. E.g. criticisms of Islam's treatment of women or gays are labeled Islamophobia, even by feminists and gays within the regressive left. A legitimate usage of the term Islamophobia, in my view, would be towards someone who refers to “ragheads” or “sand n**gers” or wants to turn the entire Middle East in to glass or prohibit all immigration from countries with a Muslim majority; that's Islamophobia, no question. All I'm saying is that the term is thrown around a lot.

 As in the case of the term homophobia, the "phobia" part isn't precisely accurate. The definition of a phobia is "an extreme or irrational fear of, or aversion to something." Most homophobes aren't actually scared of gays, they just hate them. Same for Islamophobia, except with Islam there is an element of fear; terrorism is real, and its biggest practitioners presently are Muslim.

 Harris himself has often been (mis)labeled as an Islamophobe and even a bigot, but these charges are without merit. I've read all of his books and essays, listened to every podcast, watched countless videos, and have never yet heard a single comment that could be accurately described as bigoted. He's as harsh towards Christianity as he is towards Islam.

 Until I listened to his podcast entitled "The Frontiers of Political Correctness" I would've said the same of Saad. Saad's own personal story is very interesting and gives his views and opinions some weight. "I was born in Lebanon, I grew up in Lebanon, so my mother tongue is Arabic, we're Arabic in a multiplicity of ways...some of the music we listen to, and the foods, and if you saw us you wouldn’t know that we were anything but Arabic, the only asterisk is that we are Lebanese Jews" (40:55).

 He states he has over 100 Muslim friends. Later, he claims that in his neighborhood, if he encounters 20 women, 8 will be wearing Islamic garb. In Montreal. "I could walk out of my house, and of the first twenty women I see, eight are wearing Islamic garb" (1:21:30). (I call bullshit. 40% of the women he encounters in Montreal are Muslim?)

 But where he gets real bizarre, and makes Rush Limbaugh seem tolerant, is when he describes an incident that occurred while out with his family:

 "Close to my house, we tried to go to a children's park, and saw two women in full burka, my daughter got out, felt a bit scared, we got back in the car and left" (1:21:00).

 Covered faces are indeed to some extent frightening. Armed robbers in ski masks, clowns, ninjas, little old Korean ladies hiding their skin from UV, KKK hoods, soldiers lined up all in gas masks; all scary looking, no question. But flee the park in fear?

 Is there some right, some principle of liberty, that entitles one to gaze in to the face of all fellow citizens in order to better read them and their intentions? As Harris wisely responds, perhaps on private property one has such a right, say a 7-11 owner in reaction to someone in a ski mask. Absolutely, I agree completely. But out on the streets, in a public park? No way. No such right has ever existed in the West, nor do I know of anyone ever proposing such an idea.

 But Gad's daughters’ reaction at the playground leads me to wonder just what the fuck is Gad telling his kids at home? I mean, worse-case scenario, there is a Muslim male under the burka, right? What would be his families’ reaction if there were Muslim males there at the park, perhaps even taking prayer? Flee?

 It is not an overstatement, nor PC in the slightest, to state that Gad Saad and his family are literally Islamophobic, to the point that genuine fear, and flight, occurs when spotting Muslims. Never mind that he previously said, "Your chances of dying by murder in Canada is unbelievably small" (52:15). This is certainly true. In all of Canada, there were 19 violent acts towards Jews in 2014, the most current year for stats, resulting in zero deaths; yet, an average of 9.5 people die each year in Canada by lightning strikes.

 He also said several other things during the podcast that are troublesome to say the least. For example, he revisits this traumatic trip to the park, and expands on his theory of a “right to see [people’s faces]”:

 "If your position is that, no, let's not intrude on their right to quote choose, I actually think that my right to be able to read your facial features, since that's an evolved quality, in my communication system, supersedes your right to be in a tent, and if you want to be in a tent you don't belong here because I want to be, when I walk to that school yard, not school yard, but play park, and there were two, I'm guessing women but they could be anything right, I can't tell who they are, and they were in black and we all froze, and I come from that land [Lebanon] and my daughter got scared and we got back in the car, then my rights lost there. And therefore, no, I don't think we should allow that expression. No, I don't want that in my streets" [emphasis added] (1:42:05).

 Perhaps it’s good Gad resides in Canada. That viewpoint regarding religious expression won’t fly in the states. His right to read faces? Because the ability to read faces evolved in humans, it’s now a right? That’s not how we set out rights. Later, he seems to be claiming that he simply can’t prevent himself from stereotyping and acting on it:

 "No one probably knows more nice and decent Muslims, probably no one has more Muslim friends than I do by virtue of my background, so obviously at the individual level there's no discussion to be had, there are very nice Muslims, there are very bad Muslims, we're talking here about statistical regularity's, right, our brains have evolved to detect statistical regularity's [stereotypes], I mean that's a central feature in the architecture of the human mind” (51:29).

 Or check out this gem from the “Gadfather”:

 "There's a game that I satirize, but frankly the satire is very accurate, it's called 'Six Degrees of Kill the Jew' and the game works as follows: so basically, the way the game works is, Achmed comes to the room, I say hello to him, how many exchanges does it take before we converge - especially since I speak Arabic and therefore he certainly doesn't know I'm Jewish - before we both converge on 'let's go kill the Jews'. And the reality is, this is how it typically goes: 'Hi Achmed, how are you? Fine, let's kill the Jews’" (1:13:40).

 Then, a minute later, he admits the above stereotype is mythical: "Of the top 100 Muslims that I know, every single one of them is a lovely guy that doesn't fill the 'kill-the-Jews' stereotype, but that doesn't say anything about the greater issue" (1:15:00).

 He seems to have some issues. He is simultaneously claiming: the odds of being murdered in Canada are “unbelievably small”; that his family is not outwardly Jewish looking, “if you saw us you wouldn't know that we were anything but Arabic”; that he knows lots of Muslims and none of them are anti-Semitic; yet, if burkas are spotted, FLEE!

 In the novel Infinite Jest, there’s an organization called U.H.I.D., the Union of the Hideously and Improbably Deformed, an agnostic-style 12-step support-group deal for what it calls the “aesthetically challenged.” It’s a hilarious portion of the book, with a pretty absurd premise, and is milked for some great laughs*. But beyond this comedic “donning of the veil” is a more serious issue, albeit one most of us haven’t considered. Does one have a right to hide one’s face?

 Although it’s not enumerated in the Bill of Rights, I believe a person has the right to cover their face in public. For any reason whatsoever. I see little old ladies covering themselves out of fear of sunlight. I see germaphobic people wearing masks out of fear of germs. And, of course, religious people doing what their religion tells them, or what they interpret their religion to be telling them. Given the extreme importance the Founding Fathers put on religious liberty and expression, I think those values trump anyone’s desire to read faces.

 I tried to raise this subject with the man himself, via twitter, and was quickly attacked, by Gad as well as many of his followers. He used his stock insult on me, “naturally lobotomized castrati”, and mocked my curiosity on the matter. E.g. I wrote that I found his family’s reaction to seeing burkas “baffling”; he responds with: “It is ‘baffling’ why it would be jarring to see individuals wearing black tents in a play ground with hidden identities”. He goes on: “Clearly, only ‘racist bigots’ would be concerned about such an ostentatious display of openness and warmth.” Thou doth protest too much.

 In the wake of Charlottesville, I’m noticing something quite alarming: many of the folks that I considered to be basically liberals, but have a major problem with the PC left, are not liberal at all; they’re as conservative as Rush Limbaugh and just enjoy mocking and ridiculing campus snowflakes. The reaction to Harris’ tweet of August 13th, regarding white identity politics, exposed many of these folks. I don’t put Gad in the category of Limbaugh, but he’s got a dark side that’s for sure.

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  * “Well Mr. Gately what people don’t get about being hideously or improbably deformed is that the urge to hide is offset by a gigantic sense of shame about your urge to hide. You’re at a graduate wine-tasting party and improbably deformed and you’re the object of stares that the people try to conceal because they’re ashamed of wanting to stare, and you want nothing more than to hide from the covert stares, to erase your difference, to crawl under the tablecloth or put your face under your arm, or you pray for a power failure and for this kind of utter liberating equalizing darkness to descend so you can be reduced to nothing but a voice among other voices, invisible, equal, no different, hidden.

 But Don you’re still a human being, you still want to live, you crave connection and society, you know intellectually that you’re no less worthy of connection and society than anyone else simply because of how you appear, you know that hiding yourself away out of fear of gazes is really giving in to a shame that is not required and that will keep you from the kind of life you deserve as much as the next girl, you know that you can’t help how you look but that you are supposed to be able to help how much you care about how you look. You’re supposed to be strong enough to exert some control over how much you want to hide, and you’re so desperate to feel some kind of control that you settle for the appearance of control. What you do is you hide your deep need to hide, and you do this out of the need to appear to other people as if you have the strength not to care how you appear to others. You stick your hideous face right in there into the wine-tasting crowd’s visual meatgrinder, you smile so wide it hurts and put out your hand and are extra gregarious and outgoing and exert yourself to appear totally unaware of the facial struggles of people who are trying not to wince or stare or give away the fact that they can see that you’re hideously, improbably deformed. You feign acceptance of your deformity. You take your desire to hide and conceal it under a mask of acceptance. In other words you hide your hiding. And you do this out of shame: you’re ashamed of the fact that you want to hide from sight. You’re ashamed of your uncontrolled craving for shadow. U.H.I.D.’s First Step is admission of powerlessness over the need to hide. U.H.I.D. allows members to be open about their essential need for concealment. In other words we don the veil. We don the veil and wear the veil proudly and stand very straight and walk briskly wherever we wish, veiled and hidden, and but now completely up-front and unashamed about the fact that how we appear to others affects us deeply, about the fact that we want to be shielded from all sight. U.H.I.D. supports us in our decision to hide openly. But a lot of the forms of self-hatred there is no veil for. U.H.I.D.’s taught a lot of us to be grateful that there’s at least a veil for our form.”

 “So the veil’s a way to not hide it.?”

 “To hide openly, is more like it.”

 From Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

[NOTE: I fully realize there is a false equivalence between the people featured in the attached pic and two burka clad women at a playground; the point is, all the people in the pic are violating Gad’s imaginary right to read faces. (Btw, the woman in full burka is Janet Jackson and son.)]