#Mantra to Destroy Enemy

[howtoexloveback]

Mantra For Destroy Someone

In your life, you always want to get happiness and success with your hard work and dedication. However, it may not be easy for everyone to live such a happy and successful life. When you will work harder in your life to get success, there will be several people who will jealous of you. As you know, there are always people who will create obstacles in your way to success and they will be your…

[fromchaostocosmos]

Claims that Israel has been committing a genocide of Palestinians date to long before October 7. Yet the population of Gaza was estimated to be less than 400,000 when Israel captured the territory from Egypt in a war against multiple Arab countries in 1967. It’s now estimated at just over 2 million. Population growth of almost 600% would make it the most inept genocide in the history of the world.

Those repeating the word genocide over and over, turning it into a mantra that penetrates the public consciousness, smearing Israel and anyone who supports it, ignore the facts of this war. This is not an unprovoked war, like Russia’s against Ukraine. It’s not a civil war between rival militias, like the one raging in Sudan — which, by the way, is being ignored by almost everyone, even though the UN describes it as one of the “worst humanitarian crises in recent memory,” where a famine could kill 500,000 people. No, Israel was attacked. On October 7, Hamas launched a gruesome assault on Israeli civilians, killing some 1,200 — including many women and children — and dragging hundreds of them as hostages into Gaza. Today dozens — including many women and children — remain in captivity. Those who keep saying that Israel’s response is an act of revenge rather than the strategic, defensive war that most Israelis view as a fight for national survival against a determined enemy backed by a powerful country are deliberately distorting reality. In doing so, they are perversely evoking the same false blood lust and grotesqueness embedded in the blood libel archetype.

Indeed, Hamas’ actions, which precipitated this war, don’t seem to exist in the minds of ostensibly humanitarian-minded protesters. Nor even the fate of the hostages, still captive in Hamas tunnels. Although the campus protests vary in their message and actions from school to school, we never hear protesters chant that Hamas should release the hostages or accept a ceasefire. Quite the contrary. Accusations against Israel at times include praise for Hamas, one of whose aims — the end of the Jewish state — is shared by some key organizers of the student protests. As Secretary of State Antony Blinken recently said, “It remains astounding to me that the world is almost deafeningly silent when it comes to Hamas.” Accusing Israel of genocide and putting the entire onus for stopping the war, putting all the blame for the deaths, on the Jewish state is even more astounding because Hamas — designated a terrorist organization by the US, the European Union and many other countries — is a group whose explicit goal, according to its founding charter, is not just to destroy Israel, but to kill Jews. That is the definition of genocide.

Still, the death toll, even by the Hamas count, does not in any way suggest a genocidal campaign. The terror organization puts the total at about 35,000. The figure, disputed by The Washington Institute for Near East Policy among other think tanks and researchers, includes Hamas fighters. That means the number of civilians killed, whatever the total, is actually lower. Compare that to the death toll in Mosul, Iraq, where coalition forces uprooted ISIS from a city that had some 600,000 people at the time. Estimates of the exact number of deaths vary, ranging from 9,000 to 40,000 (the latter is the estimate of Kurdish intelligence). The lowest figure is on par with the rate of total deaths reported by Hamas authorities in Gaza that does not distinguish civilians from Hamas fighters, while the highest is four times greater. I don’t recall hearing the term genocide used there, or in any of the battles that led to more than half a million people being killed in Afghanistan and Iraq during America’s wars there. And yet, Israel has been repeatedly smeared with this damning accusation.

[talonabraxas]

Green Tara Matrix Talon Abraxas

Green Tara Prayer

21 Praises of Tara

The 21 Praises of Tara is a series of verses that honor the 21 manifestations of Tara, each with specific attributes and benefits. These praises celebrate Tara’s various aspects, from providing protection to granting wisdom and compassion.

Verse 1: Swift and Heroic Tara (Nyurma Pamo)

"Homage to you, Tara, swift heroine, Your eyes like a flash of lightning, Your water-born face arises from the blooming lotus Of Avalokitesvara, protector of the three worlds."

Verse 2: White Tara (Yangchen Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose face is like One hundred full moons in autumn, Radiant with the dazzling light Of a thousand stars."

Verse 3: Golden Tara (Sönam Tobche)

"Homage to you, Tara, born from a golden-blue lotus, Your hands adorned with lotus flowers, You who are the embodiment of giving, joy, effort, Calm, asceticism, patience, and meditation."

Verse 4: Tara Who Dispels All Fears (Dudsol Dakyi Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who crowns all Buddhas, Whose actions are endless, Who has attained every perfection, On whom the Bodhisattvas rely."

Verse 5: Tara Who Bestows Supreme Virtue (Jigten Sumle Gyälma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who fills the realms of desire, Form, and space with your splendor, You who have attained the pure essence Of the realm of non-attachment."

Verse 6: Tara Who Bestows Auspiciousness (Tashi Donje)

"Homage to you, Tara, adored by Indra, Agni, Brahma, Vayu, and Ishvara, And praised by the assembly of spirits, Raised corpses, and all yakshas."

Verse 7: Tara Who Dispels Darkness (Rabzhima)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose TRAT and PHAT Destroy entirely the magical wheels of others. With your right leg bent and left outstretched and pressing, You burn intensely within a whirl of fire."

Verse 8: Tara Who Brings Forth Light (Jigje Chenmo)

"Homage to you, Tara, the great fearful one, Whose letter TURE destroys the mighty demons completely, Who with a wrathful expression on your water-born face Slay all enemies without an exception."

Verse 9: Tara Who Accomplishes Goals (Tsugtor Namgyalma)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose fingers adorn your heart With the gesture of the sublime precious three; Adorned with a wheel striking all directions without exception With the totality of your own rays of light."

Verse 10: Tara Who Dispels Suffering (Sengdeng Nagchi Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose radiant crown ornament, Joyful and magnificent, extends a garland of light, And who, by your laughter of TUTTARA, Conquers all demons and gods of the world."

Verse 11: Tara Who Eliminates All Poison (Drolma Nyurma Pamo)

"Homage to you, Tara, who are able to invoke The entire assembly of local protectors, Whose wrathful expression fiercely shakes, Rescuing the impoverished through the letter HUNG."

Verse 12: Tara Who Provides Prosperity (Drolma Pagme Nyingje)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose crown is adorned With the crescent moon, wearing ornaments abundantly, You who have the potential to give The entire activity of the Buddha, with your two eyes."

Verse 13: Tara Who Averts War and Disputes (Drolma Magyalma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who dwells within a blazing garland That resembles the fire at the end of this world age; Surrounded by joy, you sit with your right leg extended And left withdrawn, completely destroying all the masses of enemies."

Verse 14: Tara Who Brings Rejoicing (Drolma Jigten Wangchugma)

"Homage to you, Tara, with your hand on the ground by your side, Pressing your heel and stamping your foot on the earth; With a wrathful glance from your eyes you subdue All seven levels through the syllable HUNG."

Verse 15: Tara Who Grants Long Life (Drolma Yullama)

"Homage to you, Tara, O happy, virtuous, and peaceful one, The very object of practice, passed beyond sorrow. You are perfectly endowed with SOHA and OM, Overcoming completely all the great evils."

Verse 16: Tara Who Removes All Obstructions (Drolma Jigten Sumle Gyalma)

"Homage to you, Tara, surrounded by the joyous ones, You completely subdue the bodies of all enemies; Your speech is adorned with the ten syllables, And you rescue all through the knowledge-letter HUNG."

Verse 17: Tara Who Protects From All Fears (Drolma Jigje Chempo)

"Homage to you, Tara, stamping your feet and proclaiming TURE. Your seed-syllable itself in the aspect of HUNG Causes Meru, Mandara, and the Vindhya mountains And all the three worlds to tremble and shake."

Verse 18: Tara Who Gives Joy and Strength (Drolma Sengdeng Nagchi Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who holds in your hand The hare-marked moon like the celestial ocean. By uttering TARA twice and the letter PHAT You dispel all poisons without an exception."

Verse 19: Tara Who Dispels All Sorrow (Drolma Jigje Chenmo)

"Homage to you, Tara, upon whom the kings of the assembled gods, The gods themselves, and all kinnaras rely; Whose magnificent armor gives joy to all, You who dispel all disputes and bad dreams."

Verse 20: Tara Who Brings Complete Victory (Drolma Yullama)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose two eyes are like The purest sun and full moon, You who by uttering HARA twice and TUTTARA Dispels all violent epidemic disease."

Verse 21: Tara Who Is Beyond Suffering (Drolma Jigje Chenmo)

"Homage to you, Tara, adorned by the three suchnesses, Perfectly endowed with the power of serenity, You who destroy the host of evil spirits, raised corpses, and yakshas, O TURE, most exalted and sublime!"

[askarsjustsoswedish]

GENERATION KILL - MILITARY TERMINOLOGY AND SLANG USED IN THE MINISERIES (Part 1, A-M)

// I've been reorganising my files I thought this may be useful for some GenKill fans. //

All rights HBO

For Immediate Release                                                          June 25, 2008

.50 Caliber:  the standard heavy, vehicle-mounted machine gun used by U.S. forces since World War Two; aka “Fifty cal,” “the Fifty,” “M-2” and “Ma Deuce.”

5.56 Machine Gun Rounds:  the diameter of bullets in millimeters used by US forces in all rifles and light machine guns; aka “NATO rounds.”  Distinguished from Iraq’s Soviet standard military, which uses 7.62mm rounds in their weapons.

507 Maintenance:  U.S. Army unit that took a wrong turn into Nasariyah and was ambushed.  Note: This is best known as the unit to which Jessica Lynch belonged, though the platoon will not learn of Lynch by name, or her status as the most famous U.S. prisoner of war, until Part 3.

Alpha Company:  Bravo’s sister company in First Recon Battalion, commanded by the highly popular and respected Captain Patterson, the polar opposite of Bravo’s commander “Encino Man.”

America’s Shock Troops:  a catchphrase invoking Donald Rumsfeld’s plans of a lean, stripped-down invasion force modeled after German forces of WWII.  This is a deliberate reference to the German Shock Troops, the SS, used to spearhead blitzkriegs across France and Poland.  Ferrando takes pride in knowing his battalion will be the premiere shock-troop unit of the entire Marine Corps.

Amtrac:  a loud, ungainly amphibious vehicle used to transport Marines on the ground in Iraq; also used as a mobile fighting platform.

A-O (Area of Operations):  an A-O can be as large as all of Iraq or as small as the area around a Marines encampment.

Ass:  Marine slang for any weapon system or unit that packs a lot of fire power.  “We’re rolling with a lot of ass today” means “We will be accompanied by tanks or attack helicopters today.”

Assassin:  radio call sign for First Recon’s Alpha Company.  “Assassin Actual” is Alpha’s Company Commander, Captain Patterson.

Assault Through:  primary Marine tactic when encountering a close ambush, linked to the mantra drilled into every Marine since day one of boot camp when every Marine must repeat, “I am a Marine, and every Marine is a rifleman and a rifleman’s duty is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy by fire...”  This is, in a nutshell, the doctrine of the entire U.S. Marine Corps.

AT4 Rocket:  the ubiquitous anti-tank rocket carried by Marine ground forces.  Fired from a self-contained plastic tube about a meter long and weighing just a few kilos, it can destroy a heavy tank.  During the Iraq invasion most AT4s are fired into Iraqi homes to clear out potential enemy forces.

Atropine injector:  atropine is a chemical that counteracts certain nerve agents.  Atropine injectors are issued to troops who expect to be preparing or receiving chemical attacks, and in this instance, Iraqis.

Attriting:  to wear down; verb version of “attrition,” peculiar to the military.

B.R.C. (Basic Reconnaissance Course):  the school a Marine must attend and graduate from to become a Recon Marine; the most sought-after training course in the Corps.  Only about one percent of all Marines qualify to enter B.R.C. and half of those who enter fail to complete it.

Battalion Commander:  Lt. Colonel Stephen Ferrando, commander of the 370-man strong First Recon Battalion, call sign “Godfather.”

Beanies:  black-knitted watch caps typically worn by sailors.  A powerful status symbol; only Recon Marines are allowed to wear them within the First Division.

Belt-fed:  excited; refers to linked rounds fed through a machine gun.  Can also be used an intensifier, as in, “That guy is a belt-fed son of a bitch,” i.e., a real son of a bitch.

Blouse his boots:  to tuck pants-legs into the tops of one’s boots and keep them in place by wrapping a metal spring around the fabric just below the boot-top; part of Ferrando’s hated Grooming Standard.  Not only are the springs used in the boot blousing uncomfortable, blousing one’s boot ensures that all the ambient sand will pour directly into the wearer’s boot.

Blue Force Tracking Antenna:  an antenna for the Blue Force Tracker, a new computerized mapping system that – when it occasionally works properly – identifies the locations of all “blue,” or friendly, forces and the locations of all known “red,” or enemy. forces.  Locations of such forces across the entire Middle East are updated every 30 seconds.  Sgt. Colbert possesses one of only a handful Blue Force Trackers in the entire battalion.

Boonie Cap:  a standard issue floppy field hat, like a camouflaged version of the hat worn by Gilligan on “Gilligan’s Island”;  aka soft cover.

Bound past:  “bounding” is a specific form of maneuver favored by the Marine Corps, employed by two-man fire teams or the entire division.

Buck Fever:  too quick to identify threats; a hunting term that comes from the expression to “put buck’s horns on a doe,” i.e., seeing a valid target when there is none.

Butterfly Trigger:  a safety trigger that requires two thumbs to actuate.

C.G. (Commanding General):  always means General Mattis, Commanding General of the First Marine Division, when these Marines use the phrase.

C.O. (Commanding Officer):  usually applied to the Battalion Commander (Maj. or Lt. Col.), or less frequently the Company Commander (Capt.), but never to a Platoon Commander (Lieut.).

C.O.I., freqs covered, freqs plain:  Encryption lingo necessary to operate radios.

“Captain America”:  derisive nickname for Capt. Dave McGraw, commander of Bravo’s Third Platoon, sister platoon to the heroes in Second Platoon.  Note:  Although Captain America is a rank above Lt. Fick, as commanders of respective sister platoons they are peers with one another.

Cas-evac:  casualty evacuation; similar to the older phrase med-evac.  Cas-evac technically means an evacuation in a combat zone of a patient who has not yet been stabilized, but it’s become the cool way to say any form of medical evacuation.

“Casey Kasem”:  a mocking nickname applied to Gunnery Sgt. Ray Griego, Encino Man’s aide de camp, based on the smarmy host of the Top 40 radio show and the voice of Shaggy in the original “Scooby Doo!” cartoon series.

Charms:  brand name of a hard candy provided to U.S. troops in the meal rations, but seldom consumed due to the belief that they produce bad luck.

Cleared hot:  given permission to fire your weapon by a superior.

Cobra Gunship:  armored helicopter used only by U.S. Marines,  unique because Cobras work in extremely close proximity to Marine ground forces.

Col. Joe Dowdy:  Commander of Regimental Combat Team One, popular among his troops for his reputation of caring about their welfare.  Later relieved of his command by General Mattis for not being aggressive enough and risking his troops to achieve battlefield goals.

Command Vehicle:  Lt. Fick’s Humvee, configured like a pick-up truck with a canvas covering.

Completely outside of what First Recon does:  this battalion is trained to swim or parachute behind enemy lines, not to drive into attacks in Humvees.  Their motto is “Swift Silent Deadly.”

Condition One:  a verb that means to put one’s weapon on red con one; rack a round into your chamber.

Contact:  a visual or physical encounter with enemy forces, said when you either see them or they start shooting at you.

Cyclone:  fierce swirls of dust common to Iraq, which dance across landscape and in some cases will collide with a person, tent or vehicle.  They range in height from a few meters to several hundred meters; aka dust devils.

D.C.U. (Desert Camouflage Uniform):  any field garment with desert camouflage.

DASC and DASC-A:  Direct Air Support Communications headquarters, with one based on the ground and one based in an AWACs plane.

Deck:  keeping with their nautical tradition, anything Marines stand on is the deck, be it on a ship, the desert or the floor of a tent.

Delta Company:  a company of reservist Recon Marines expected to be attached to First Recon Battalion.  Delta will prove to be a bunch of under-trained, overzealous, poorly equipped cops-on-leave and office guys who know nothing about war.

Deuce Gear:  a web of straps and hooks worn as an outer garment, to which one affixes extra gear such as ammo packs and canteens; aka Load Bearing Vest or L.B.V.

Devil Dog:  a Marine.

Dip:  smokeless tobacco used by American fighting forces; a dip is a quantity of tobacco placed between one’s lips and gums.  To dip is the habit of consuming smokeless tobacco.

Donkey Dicks:  venerable Marine Corps term for a variety of phallic-shaped implements from engine hoses, to gas can funnels, to cleaning brushes for large mortar tubes.

“Echo Four Lima”:  refers to Corporal Lilley, whose pay-grade is “E-4” and whose last name begins with “L.”  In radio code phonetics, he becomes “Echo Four Lima.”  Sergeant Colbert, whose pay grade is “E-5,” would become “Echo Five Charlie” over the radio.

“Encino Man”:  Captain Craig Schwetje, Commander of Bravo Company, Lt. Fick’s immediate superior officer; the nickname is a reference to the dim-witted Neanderthal hero of the film “Encino Man.”  This Encino Man is a former football star, none too bright, with an ape-like face:  he is also referred to in phonetic alphabet code, in which “Encino Man” is changed to “Echo Mike.”

Enlisted Tent: Area where privates through to sergeants sleep.  The senior non-commissioned officers such as Staff Sergeants, Gunnery Sergeants, Master Sergeants and the Sergeant Major are technically of the enlisted ranks, and occupy an elite position somewhere between sergeants and officers.

Ephedra:  over-the-counter diet pills, now banned by Marines as a speed-like stimulant.

E-tool:  a collapsible shovel carried by all Marines; short for “Excavation-tool.”

F.O.:  Forward Observer; anyone spotting targets for Iraqi or insurgent forces.

Fedayeen:  a Baathist paramilitary unit trained in guerrilla tactics and established by Saddam Hussein’s son in the 1990s to infiltrate and terrorize the Shia populace, but in the current conflict, arrayed against the American invasion, they are also referred to generically as “insurgents.”

Fiddies:  fifties, i.e., .50 cal. machine guns; former ghetto car repo man Espera uses the gangsta counting system in which “fiddie” equals 50, a “buck” or a “hundo” equals a hundred, a “deuce” equals either two or two-hundred, a “grand” equals a thousand, etc.

Flak jacket:  a heavy yet flexible shrapnel-resistant vest.

Foot-mobile:  a person on foot.

Forty Mike-Mike:  40 millimeter; refers to either an individual 40mm self-propelled grenade round or the weapon that launches them, such as the M-19.

Foshizzle…Hajizzle:  a goof on Snoop Dogg’s hip-hop lingo to mean “for sure” and “Haji.”

Free-balling:  not wearing underpants.

Fucking Sixta:  Sgt. Maj. John Sixta, Sergeant Major for this battalion;  aka “The Fucking Retard,” “Mister Potato Head,” “The Coward of Khafji.”  His role and actions both dictate that he is despised by enlisted men.

Get some:  to “get some” means to do any thing really cool like run a fast mile or kill someone.  [Mo here: I’ve removed one extremely graphic sentence here, which basically says that the term can also apply to sexual conquest.] [O]ften used as an exclamation or cheer.  Latino Marines use the Spanish “Chingaso” and whites have adopted it, so “Get some!” and “Chingaso!” are interchangeable.

Godfather:  call sign of Lt. Col. Ferrando, as well as his battalion.  Ferrando earned the call sign because his vocal chords were removed after a bout with cancer, causing him to speak like Marlon Brando in the noted film.  Note:  Godfather often speaks of himself in the third person:  instead of saying, “I think…,” he will say, “Godfather thinks…”

Grape Beverage Base:  grape juice powder; the name printed on the packaging in the military rations.  Used by Marines rather than the more familiar civilian term.

The Grooming Standard:  not to be confused with Marine Corps standard grooming regulations, the Grooming Standard is Battalion Commander Ferrando’s much more exacting dress and grooming code for those who serve under him.

 G-Shock Wristwatch:  the popular xtreme sports watch, as essential to Marine fashion as Oakley sunglasses.

H & S Company:  the Headquarters and Supply company.  More than half the 370 men in the battalion belong to H & S, responsible for supporting the “line companies” or combat units, made up of Alpha, Bravo and Charlie Companies.

Habudabi:  a nickname for Arabs.

Haji:   an Iraqi or Arab or Muslim of any ethnicity, from the Arabic “Haji,” which is the honorific term for anyone who has made the trip to Mecca, the Haj.  Most Americans who use the term Haji are probably not referring to that pilgrimage, but to the once-popular children’s cartoon show “Johnny Quest,” in which the white boy hero’s turban-wearing sidekick was named Haji.  Not necessarily a pejorative term, Haji may be used as an adjective to describe anything Middle Eastern, e.g., Iraq’s customary flat bread is referred to as “Haji bread” or “Haji tortillas.”

Hardball:  paved road, as opposed to unpaved.

Herringbone:  to halt a convoy of vehicles at a 45-degree angle to the axis of a highway, much like the pattern of fishbones.  Herringbone can be used as a noun or verb.

Hitman Two:  “Hitman” is the radio call sign for Bravo Company and “Two” refers to second platoon, one of three platoons in the company.  “Hitman” can refer to the actual company commander of Bravo or the company itself.  All units have call-signs, rather like official nicknames, which are used in radio communications.  For example, General Mattis, commander of all Marine ground forces in Iraq, is “Chaos.”

Hitman Two One Actual:  Bravo Company’s Second Platoon Team One Leader, Sergeant Colbert.  While “Hitman Two One” refers to the entire team, “Actual” means the actual commander.  “Hitman Two” refers to all of Bravo Second Platoon, but “Hitman Two Actual” is the platoon commander, Lt. Fick.  In addition, “The Actual,” or commander, is also referred to as “The Zero.”

“I glassed it:”  “I viewed the object through binoculars or a rifle scope.”

“I got your six”:  “I’ve got your back”; from the clock point in which the hour of six is at the bottom of the dial, if you were oriented toward the 12 hour.  “On your three” would indicate something or someone on your immediate right.  “On your four” would indicate something or something on your right and slightly behind you.

I.A. (Immediate Action):  whatever you train to do when the shit hits the fan.

Javelin Team:  two Marines who carry and operate a powerful anti-tank missile called a “Javelin.”

K-bar:  a knife carried by Marines.

Kevlar:  a helmet; while civilians know Kevlar as the brand-name of a bullet resistant material, Marines refer to their Kevlar helmets simply as Kevlars.  Note:  Even though flak jackets are also made of Kevlar, they are never referred to as such.

Kill Zone, Kill Box:  the area where the enemy hopes to direct, channel and trap you in order to kill you, or where you hope to do the same to him.

L.A.V.’s (Light Armored Vehicle):  used only by the Marine Corps;  amphibious, eight-wheeled machines that look like upside-down bathtubs painted black.

L.O.D. (Line of Departure):  the border between Kuwait and Iraq.

Leatherman:  the all-in-one pliers, screwdriver and knife tool carried by Marines.

The L.T.:  nickname for a Lieutenant.  Note:  A specific lieutenant or other commanding officer is often also referred to as “The Sir.”

M.R.E.:  Meal Ready to Eat; standard military fare, food manufactured a decade ago and served as a complete, self-heating meal in a plastic bag.

M.S.R. Eight:  Main Supply Route Eight; any paved road is typically referred to as an “M.S.R.”

M.S.R. Tampa:  Main Supply Route Tampa.  Not only are roads designated M.S.R.s,  but American military planners have also given them names that will be easier for U.S. troops to pronounce than Arabic ones.

M-19:  a heavy, vehicle-mounted machine gun that fires armor-penetrating grenades instead of bullets; AKA MK-19, Mark-19, and Forty Mike-Mike.

M-249 SAW:  hand-held or bipod-mountable machine gun common to U.S. forces.  “SAW” stands for Squad Automatic Weapon and fires at a rate of 750 rounds per minute.  Notoriously easy to discharge by accident, hence Marine folklore:  “The SAW’s got a mind of its own, it wants to kill a motherfucker.”

M-4:  rifle carried by most recon Marines; similar to the standard U.S.-military M-16, but with a shortened barrel and collapsible stock.  Note:  Officers and POGs carry M-16s.  (2-3)

M-40:  standard, bolt action Marine sniper rifle.

Mathilda:  Northern Kuwait camp where these Marines stayed, with about 5,000 others, in the weeks before the invasion.

MOPP:  a nuclear, biological chemical protection suit; stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture.  Can be an adjective, as in “we were MOPPED-up,” or “wearing our MOPP suits.”

Moto:  from motivational, anything that expresses the highly-motivated spirit of Marines.  Shouting “Get Some!” is a moto thing to do.  Moto films are the small movies and slide shows Marines make documenting the crazy things they see in this war.

Mud:  the white supremacist term for a non-white individual.

[bluerhapsodist]

As an experiment, I decided to come up with a rewrite of the Jedi Code. The change is structural, not thematic, and I hope this version provides others some insight into Jedi philosophy.

The Force speaks, and a Jedi listens. A Jedi seeks peace beyond attachments. A Jedi seeks knowledge beyond ignorance. A Jedi seeks compassion beyond fear. A Jedi seeks harmony beyond chaos. A Jedi seeks hope beyond destruction. The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force.

My line of thought is that, first and foremost, the power of any Jedi is rooted in finding the most clarity between themselves and the Force. By listening to the Force, they can find the peace and knowledge they need in order to act out of compassion, harmony, and hope.

Second, I also was never a huge fan of the line "There is no emotion; there is peace." I understand what it means (not letting emotions rule your decison-making), but I never like how easy it is to misinterpret (i.e., Jedi can't have feelings ever). But when it comes to losing ourselves in our emotions, we're losing ourselves in attachment. Anakin chooses his fear of losing Padme over seeing through Sidious's lies. Dooku chooses his need for power and despair of the Jedi's future over standing up for his brethren or honoring his fallen former Padawan Qui-Gon. Even Luke gives into his anger in his final duel with Vader, overwhelmed by his need to save his friends at all costs and terrified of what might happen to Leia if he fails.

Third, I changed the line about "passion" versus "serenity" to focus more on compassion versus fear. I see it as a key point to follow the need for knowledge over ignorance, as ignorance can fuel fear, whereas the effort to learn more about others (and about oneself) can foster compassion in a Jedi's choices. The original line in the Code always seemed to me to be about developing good judgment in any situation, and so the reminder here is that a Jedi cares for others, even when faced with danger and uncertainty.

Fourth, I changed the original final line of the Code to refer to hope and destruction over "death" and "the Force." The Jedi represent hope to countless beings across the galaxy in almost every age of history (especially in the reign of the Empire). I thought it would work as a reminder to a Jedi who follows the Code that their ultimate goal is about preserving and defending life, not destroying the enemy no matter the cost. Whereas the Sith define victory by who they crush and how evident their power over others is, the Jedi see victory in the lives they save and the peace they bring to those who suffer. The rise of the dark side's power during the Clone Wars prevents the Jedi from fulfilling that latter duty since there's seemingly no end to the suffering and chaos spreading across the galaxy, so all they can do is lead the clone army and try to save as many lives as they can.

Finally, I just really, really like the mantra of the Guardians of the Whills, and it seemed like an attitude that they and the Jedi Knights have in common whether they can use the Force or not.

tl;dr I took a stab at rewriting the Jedi Code for clarity and for my own personal tastes.

[saintsenara]

I submitted a short story for a contest at college and just now heard older colleagues and employees can also submit their own, so i feel like i put in that much effort just to be beaten by other people with way more experience than me.

Can i ask for a few words of comfort? I've been having a rough time with finals, so I would really appreciate it coming from you

anon, it sounds like you're having a shitter. i hate this for you, and i hope you've indulged in a bit of a wallow. you deserve it.

but, unless i've misread this, it doesn't look like any decisions have actually been made yet? people with more experience may very well have submitted stories to this contest. the outcome of their submissions is - as yet - not something you know.

which seems important.

"don't borrow grief from the future" is one of the few pithy pop psychology phrases which is genuinely good advice. trying to pre-guess how this contest will unfold is futile, pre-empting feeling miserable in the future just makes you miserable in the present.

but - i'll be honest - it's also a mantra which i've always found a bit... solemn. a bit sincere. a bit passive, even.

i've said before that my main piece of life advice is fortune favours the bold - that the best thing you can have in your arsenal is the audacity. my other main piece of life advice is similar, and is something i've always found useful in situations such as this:

but first they must catch you

this is not - to be clear - me telling you to commit crimes [although, let's be honest, you should have it in mind if you want to start...].

it's what the sun said to a rabbit named el-ahrairah.

All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.

el-ahrairah is being told here that rabbits will never be more powerful than foxes and weasels. you are at a stage in your life where you have less experience than other contestants who have also submitted stories. on paper, the fight can only ever have one outcome: the fox eats the rabbit; the professor with half a century of creative writing experience clobbers the undergraduate student into last place.

but there are going to be lots and lots of things in life which - on paper - you are almost guaranteed to fail or lose or be terrible at or embarrass yourself doing. you will find yourself in lots of situations in which the competition is bigger than you and stronger than you, and has more numbers or more resources or more experience than you.

and you have to be able to be clear-eyed about that - this is one of those times when delulu is not the solulu.

but what you also have to bear in mind is that any and every assessment of things on paper is meaningless. because it fails to take into account that there must be a catching first.

a fox will eat a rabbit. but first it must catch it.

a professor with half a century of creative writing experience expects their story to outperform an undergraduate's. but first it must catch it.

the other contestants may very well have much, much more experience than you. they might have more free time to spend writing. they might know famous authors who give them advice for free. and if the competition is a "quote your cv" or "name-drop your nepotism", sure, you might be fucked.

but if the competition is "is this story compelling?" the piece that wins won't self-importantly present a list of its credentials. it will slip through a gap, escape a dead end, play a prank, pull off a feat. it will be plucky and bold and sly. it will evade the clutches of the bigger and stronger stories by being full of cunning.

all of which is to say, i am a great proponent of living the life of a trickster god - or, to stick with the rabbit theme, bugs bunny. i have always believed that "who's going to stop me?" is a legitimate motivation for anything. i have always believed that "you and who's army?" is the only response to being told you don't have a chance. and i have always believed that it doesn't matter what it seems on paper that the outcome of something should be... because that outcome is only guaranteed if they catch you.

and they've only caught you when you're dead.

because - sure - your prediction of what's going to happen might be absolutely right - or maybe i did misread this, and what you feared would happen did indeed happen. you might get told that your story is an affront to language and you should never pick up a pen again. the same is true with your finals. yes, the worse case scenario you can imagine for yourself might indeed happen.

i bet your enemies would feel pretty pleased with themselves if that happened. they'd think that was final! that there was no way you could wiggle out of that one! that you were never going to dust yourself off, and get back to the drawing board, and - motivated by a healthy dose of audacity and spite - keep surviving, and writing, and thinking, and being curious, and practising, and getting ever more cunning with every word. ready to pop up later and say "yeah... you should have tried a bit harder to stop me, shouldn't you?"

have your night of sulking - an impeccably fun activity - but then send your self-defeating impulses hence.

you're not beaten yet, hen. first they must catch you.

[starlightshadowsworld]

Concept: What if Fukuzawa accepted Fukuchi’s offer? What if Fukuzawa went with him to war?

A body hit the ground.

Then another.

Then another.

Fukuzawa had lost track of the amount. There was blood so much it could’ve filled an ocean. Yet it didn’t so much as phase him.

The Silver Wolf’s eyes scanned the battlefield looking for the next target. The next kill to add to his seemingly endless roster.

Find. Kill. Find. Kill. It was a mantra in his mind and soul.

A familiar scream cut through his next swing. And in but a second Fukuzawa’s launched himself away. Running to the source of the suffering like hell itself was chasing him.

Relief flooded through him at the sight of a familiar haircut. But that relief was short lived as Fukuzawa took in the sight before him.

“Ah, Fukuzawa you’re just in time.”

In all the years Fukuzawa had known Fukuchi he had never seen such a look on his face. The happy go troublemaker from their youth now stood over bodies. Bodies that at only a glance you knew weren’t soldiers.

Fukuzawa felt ill.

His own bloodied hands made him want to vomit. For the first time since the battle begun he questioned: What are we doing?

There was only one certainty Fukuzawa could grasp onto in this moment. And that was, if this was peace then he didn’t want it.

Quicker than either of them could fully comprehend, Fukuchi’s sword was sent flying. He gasped at Fukuzawa in shock. “You have no right to interfere! I am your superior officer!”

‘When did that become more important to you than being my best friend?’ Thought Fukuzawa, he hadn’t noticed the change.

Maybe it always been there and Fukuzawa had been to naive to notice it.

But not anymore.

Fukuzawa took a stance. Shielding the civilians that cowered behind him. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The hopeful look the child gave him made his heart shatter.

And a new resolve spark within him.

To protect instead of destroy.

“Fukuzawa! Stand down! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“My dream. My dream is to have the strength to protect my comrades. It seems I’ve failed you….Allow me to fix my mistakes.”

Fukuchi grabbed his sword and regarded him coldly.

“If you stand in my way you are no comrade of mine.”

It cut more then any blade ever could

“Then I will treat you like the enemy if you wish to take the role up so badly.”

Fukuchi scoffed.

“You would do all of this, just to play hero?! Do the lives of the few mean so much to you?!”

And more than anything that told Fukuzawa all he needed to know. That the man before him had carved his own path.

“To my old friend, to save one life was to save all of humanity.”

And for once Fukuzawa couldn’t follow him.

“Your old friend is dead.”

“Then I will avenge him.”

Something something they were both reborn on the battlefield that day. For better and for worse.

[writeforfandoms]

Warrior Song 11

Find the series masterlist

We find out what's really going on, and go beyond canon. Plot dead ahead!

Warnings: Swearing, canon typical violence, post-canon.

Word count: 1.6k

Fernando had barely set the Pelican down, ramp lowering, when the Spartans walked briskly up and in. None of them looked injured, which was something of a relief. 

“What happened?” Fernando called back from the pilot seat. 

“We’ll tell you on the go,” Joy said as Chief walked past you to Fernando. “We need to move.” 

Fernando glanced at the little hologram but nodded, getting the Pelican up in the air again. 

“Atriox is alive.” Chief spoke first, flat and toneless. You stared at his back, eyes wide. “He released the Endless.”

“That’s bad,” Fernando muttered. “What do they want?”

“Unknown.” Fred answered that time, coming up behind you and putting a hand on your back to help steady you. 

“Sounded like Atriox is still on his warpath to destroy humanity,” Joy added, sounding a touch nervous. “But we don’t know for sure. The Endless took him with them.” 

This was all so bad. So very bad. “What’s the plan?” You couldn’t quite hide the nerves in your voice, but Fred standing next to you was oddly reassuring. 

“Follow them,” Chief answered briefly. “Stop them. Whatever it takes.”

That sent a cold chill down your spine. That… was very final. You just had to hope it didn’t become so dire. 

“I see them,” Fernando said, voice tight. “They’re still moving.” 

Chief nodded once, one hand on the back of Fernando’s seat. “Which direction?” 

“Not towards the Reverie, at least,” Fernando muttered. “They’re heading to one of the other entrances into the Halo. I think. One of the ones you haven’t blown up yet.” 

You frowned, trying to remember everything you and Joy had talked about. This Halo wasn’t operational because of the giant hole in it, and Chief had disabled the repair parts. (Probably, anyway.) The giant hole also likely prevented the Halo from moving. 

So why would they need to get to the interior of the Halo? They couldn’t use it as a weapon, at least not the way it was designed. 

You didn’t have a chance to ask, though. The Pelican swerved and Fernando swore. 

“Looks like they don’t like us following,” he said, attempting humor and falling a little short. 

You swallowed hard as the Pelican dipped, and Fred moved his grip to your shoulder, nudging you into a seat. Really, you envied the Spartans their ease in these situations - you felt like you might implode from the tension. 

“Blue Team,” Chief started, low and commanding, “let’s go.” The ramp opened as Chief turned, the sudden wind making you cling harder to the seat. Chief was the first one out, long strides sending him past you and out the back of the Pelican. Linda was next, then Kelly. Fred patted your shoulder one last time before he threw himself out after the others. 

As soon as the ramp was up and you were sure you weren’t going to just slide out the back of the Pelican, you scrambled up to the front, throwing yourself into the copilot seat. 

Blue Team had landed safely on the ground and were moving steadily towards the entrance, fighting through the swarm of Endless. 

“That’s a lot of enemies,” you murmured, hands tightening on the safety straps. 

Fernando didn’t respond, mouth tight and hands nearly white-knuckling the controls. “They’ll be fine,” he said, almost like a mantra. “We need to get out of here, we’re a liability otherwise.”

It hurt your heart to leave them, but you knew you couldn’t do anything to help. So you clenched your jaw tight, staying silent as Fernando piloted away from the fight. 

“We should warn base camp.” You were a bit surprised when your voice came out relatively normal, considering the way your pulse was thrumming in your throat. 

“Right.” Fernando took a deep breath. “Right. Hold on.” The Pelican sped up, moving fast. Long-range COMs were still out of commission, so you’d need to get within short-range to pass the message along.

Either that, or one of you would have to physically go into camp. 

You eyed Fernando. He was still weird around camp, practically refusing to be on his own. You had no idea what that was about, but… You could make things easier for him.

“Drop me off when we get close.”

“What?” He looked at you, wide-eyed.

“You need to be on call, so to speak, for Blue Team. I’ll walk to camp and update them.” 

“And if one of them needs a medic when I pick them up?” He was drumming his fingers against the controls though. 

“They all know how to use biofoam, and they’re all remarkably good at patching themselves and each other up.” Your smile was definitely a bit grim. “They’ll manage until you can fly them back to camp. But camp needs to be updated, and I’m currently the best candidate.” 

Fernando looked like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed. “Fine,” he agreed. “But if you get yourself hurt or killed…”

You huffed a little laugh. “I’ll be safer in camp than you will be flying around,” you pointed out, entirely reasonably. “I’ll be fine.” 

Fernando just nodded once. “I’ll drop you close by,” he said, glancing over at you and then down at your thigh meaningfully. 

“Appreciated.” You grimaced a little. Now was a really bad time to be hobbled. But there was nothing to be done about it. You’d just have to do the best you could. 

Hopefully that would be enough. 

The rest of the flight was quiet and tense, with Fernando pushing the Pelican and you holding tight to your seat. 

Finally, the Pelican set down outside of camp, the ramp lowering. 

“You take care of yourself,” you said firmly to Fernando as you stood. “Okay?”

“I will.” He looked up at you for a moment, something vulnerable in his eyes. 

You grabbed him, hugging him awkwardly across the seat. But he held on gratefully, muttering something in Spanish. 

“Be safe,” he murmured when you finally pulled back. 

You nodded to him and took a deep breath. Squaring your shoulders, you limped out of the Pelican, heading towards camp. You did not turn and look as you heard the Pelican lift off behind you, flying away again.

You both had jobs to do, now. And you’d be damned if you didn’t get yours done. 

It didn’t take long for your thigh to start throbbing, angry at the exercise. You gritted your teeth and kept on, ignoring everyone around you as you walked through camp. 

You were actively grimacing and sweating a little with pain by the time you limped into the makeshift command office. The CO did a double take when he saw you. 

“What happened?” he demanded, getting to his feet.

“Blue Team found the Endless,” you said, leaning against the nearest desk. Your leg fucking hurt now, and it was a bit hard to focus past that. “They’re currently in pursuit, but there are a lot of Endless. We don’t know their end goal.” 

He nodded, standing. “Anything else?”

You hesitated for a moment. This would be demoralizing, and you knew it, but they needed to know. “Atriox isn’t dead. He’s with the Endless. As far as we can tell, he’s the one that freed them.”

All the blood drained from the CO’s face and for a moment it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Then he swallowed and nodded, rallying. 

“Shepherd, I want everyone on alert. Double patrols.”

One man nodded, running out of the office. 

“Kalls, inform the medbay and armory, have them prepped for anything.”

Another underling ran out of the room. 

Finally, the CO looked at you. “Thank you. Get some rest - we may need you in medbay.”

“Yes, sir.” You limped back out of the room, unashamedly using the wall to help you along. Honestly, that had been easier than you expected. You’d thought he’d have more questions, but… preparations came first, apparently. 

Everyone in camp ignored you, which was just fine by you. As word spread, they got busier, rushing around. You, by contrast, were moving slower, trying to walk without putting weight on your leg if you could help it. Which you couldn’t, not really. So you just took it slow, making your way back to your quarters. 

It was only after you sank onto your bed with a sound of relief that you realized you’d left your datapad on the Pelican, leaving Fernando no way to contact you. You huffed. That was now a later problem. For now, you needed to make sure your thigh wasn’t injured any worse from all the activity. 

Fortunately, your thigh was not much worse off - you had definitely started bleeding again, but with some rest the scab would solidify again. Groaning softly, you lay back against the bed, closing your eyes. Healing was a pain in the ass - it left you tired. You made a mental note not to get shot again, and then ended up cackling at yourself.

Yeah. As if you’d have a choice. 

You intended to just close your eyes for a few minutes, just take a little break before you got up and got food, see if you could find a way to get in contact with Fernando–

But when you opened your eyes again, all was dark and quiet. 

You had a very bad feeling about this.

[huramuna]

selkie's song - chapter 2.

night's watch aemond x wildling shapeshifter ofc work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

this is wholly inspired by lonelymagpies depiction of Night's Watch Aemond. please go check out their beautiful work here!

a bit of worldbuilding in this chapter and descriptions of euna's tribe! i have no idea if any of the things i described would actually work but fuck it we ball

previous | next chapter

word count: 2.3k

content: smut (eventually, specifics will be under the cut of chapters with it), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, canon divergence, ofc is a menace to Aemond and he kind of likes it

enough for now - the fray • heartache - toby fox (undertale ost)

Preservation. Tradition. Perseverance. The mantra of Euna’s family. Her family had once been large— the ones related to her by blood, atleast. 

She remembered faint memories of her mother, her grandmother and grandfather and half a dozen cousins, aunts, uncles, laughing around a fire and eating roasted venison. Her mother’s father would tell stories of ghastly white creatures lurking in the mountains and caves, waiting for naughty children to be alone. Euna would cling to her cousin, half crying and screaming and giggling— she couldn’t even remember her cousin’s name anymore. 

She couldn’t remember their faces, none of them. When she really focused her mind, their visages were like streaky paintings, a collage of colors faded and damaged and the only thing that stuck were her mother’s blue eyes. Sometimes she would dream and see her family again, but they would all be withered and bones protruding, their eyes a sickly blue glow. Nothing like her mother’s— something dangerous. She usually awoke in a cold sweat and in need of a swim. 

Her papa, her father, was the only one left related to her by blood in her tribe. His hair, once deep brown, was now starkened white with age, his beard long and braided. He used a femur bone of an elk mended with a cedar branch as a cane, his left leg lame since the day they lost almost everyone. 

The earth had opened and swallowed them whole, shaking with deathly tremors. Their homes collapsed in on them, the ones who hadn’t fell into the crevices in the ground. Euna and her father had been away from camp that day, swimming near the lake miles away. They came back to destruction of everything they knew— and all traces of any of their family had been destroyed by the quake. It was as if they never existed, and their camp was long abandoned. The earth gives, as it takes away.

She was young then, mayhaps too young to even know what happened. Her mind did her a favor by stowing away those memories— they’re too painful to remember. 

She swam to quell the pain, ever aching and nipping at her heels. Tightening her seal fur cloak, her bare feet dipped into the water. The transformation was a swift feat for her now, as easy as changing one’s clothes, she slipped into the skin of her seal form, gliding through the water. She felt at home here, as if this was where she was meant to be. She swam past the schools of trout, chomping a few for a quick snack– rainbow trout were her favorite next to salmon and red fish. She was supposed to be on patrol, but patrol meant there was some leader, some sort of organization within their ranks. The Free Folk had no laws, no one to tell them what they should and shouldn’t do and the strongest were the ones that usually prevailed. 

They weren’t even meant to be patrolling for crows that day– they could care less about the kneelers beyond the wall, they could do as they liked. Euna’s tribe had been in a few skirmishes with the neighboring free folk that dwelled past the Haunted Woods. 

One of the crows screamed about an ambush– as if it was anything like that, they were just walking through, Euna swimming in the stream near the trail. Lifting her head from the water, she smelled the heady scent of the invading tribe. They had been aiming to shoot one of Euna’s companions– and landed on a crow instead.

Euna had held her knife to many throats, crow and free folk alike— but none interested her like this purple eyed fellow. She could feel his presence, smelling of ash and brimstone, underlying with musk and sandalwood. It reminded her of a smell she couldn’t quite place. The warmth that emanated off of him wasn’t normal and she wondered if he had a second layer of fat to keep warm like she did as a seal– upon second inspection, that couldn’t be true. He was a skinny waif of a man.

‘Aemond’. A silly name, with a proper way of speaking and a gemmed eye. Odd man indeed. 

She strung him along, “You don’t belong with those crows do you?” she asked, “You’re more fancy, primmed n’ proper.” 

He snorted, “I wouldn’t say I’m primmed and proper. But yes, I don’t truly belong to them.” 

“Where are you from then?” she asked as they meandered through the snow laden woods, their feet crunching aloft the frost.

“The South.”

“Everything beyond the wall is the south to us, crow. Be more specific.”

“King’s Landing.” he responded, his voice a bit clipped.

Euna shrugged her shoulders, “Never heard of it.”

This elicited something of a laughing snort from the crow, “You don’t know much, do you, wildling?”

“In terms of you kneeler’s way of life, I ‘spose not. I heard that you all think of women lesser and her value is measured by what old lord’s seed she spawned from, and which old lord she is wedded to. Seems all a bit barbaric to me.”

“Hm.” Aemond hummed.

“You don’t talk much? Seems you’re a bit upset you got bested by a wildling savage woman, huh?”

“No. Not so much that you’re a woman or a wildling. I think I’m more ‘upset’ as you say, that I got bested by a pipsqueak. I thought wildlings were supposed to be tall. You’re hardly taller than my child nephew and niece.”

Euna’s brow furrowed, “You aren’t a solid brick, neither, crow. You’ve got a waist like a svelte little ermine,” she giggled, tugging him along further, “Too tall for an ermine, maybe a marten or polecat.”

“Gods– the punishment doesn’t seem to cease, does it? I’ve gotten captured by the mouthiest wildling in the entirety of the North.”

“Haven’t met many, have you? If you think I’m mouthy, you’re in for a surprise once we get to my camp.”

They walked for the better part of a day, Euna prattling on about various things and Aemond being mostly silent– with a few well timed quips and jabs here and there.

The wind picked up, the smell of salt and brine wafting along with the breeze. They neared a valley hugged by two cliffsides, which bordered the sea. It was a bit icy beyond, shards of glaciers floating in crystal clear waters. Below the surface were expanses of kelp forests, wafting against the tide. The valley led through to a village with quite a few buildings– most were small, home-sized, and there was a large one in the center, lit with a few animal bone sconces. Coastal caves were lining the walls of the cliffs, some lit emitting from within them.

The village came alive with people– husbands and wives welcoming home their significant others, children gathering at the feet of the warriors, and oldened parents checking in on their kin. It was all a sign of warmth, of community. Something about it made Aemond feel homesick– almost.

“Ah, Euna!” an older man bellowed. He was tall and broad with a grizzled brown beard, speckled with white, “See you caught yourself a crow, huh? Something to add to your collection of shiny things?” he clapped her on the shoulder with the force that almost sent her toppling.

“Yup– ain’t no regular stinky crow, either. He’s surely one of those fancy lords– he doesn’t speak like other crows. Mine’s got some decorum– and an odd eye like me.”

The man came forward, scratching at his beard. He observed Aemond up and down– he was at least a head taller than the scorned prince. “What’s your name, crow?”

“Aemond.” he answered, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Chieftan Cailean,” the broad man responded, “You’d best listen to Euna, since you’re seemin’ apart of her horde now, eh? Small she may be, but you might wake up with your balls sliced off. Ain’t no exaggeration either, seen it happen.”

“All due respect to the small one, but I am no one’s possession.” Aemond responded quickly, his voice dripping with venom. His lip was curled in slight disgust at the insinuation. 

Cailean put his hands up, “I ain’t got no jurisdiction over what Euna does with her stockpile, that’s all her. But, when I hear you screamin’ and moanin’ about your lost nads, don’t say that Cailean didn’t warn you.”

Euna huffed, “Mouthy crow, don’t need you spewing stuff at my papa when we get there,” she cut a piece of leather from her tunic and wrapped it around his mouth, to which he looked absolutely livid about, “Too noisy.”

Cailean laughed– a deep, clamoring noise, “You’ve done it now, crow.”

Euna led them to a smaller hut near the shore, pushing in the driftwood door. The aroma of sea air was strong in this particular part of the village, mingling with the smell of burning sage and incense. “Papa?” she murmured, “I’m back.”

“Euna? Dear girl, c’mere,” an old voice called, “I’m at the sea door.” 

Walking further into the home, it was quite cozy– a small fire pit was in the center of the main room, filtering out through a hole in the ceiling, as well as some smaller horizontal filters on the siding of the roof. It was decorated with dozens of shells and some of the finest pearls that Aemond’s ever seen– not even anything from Driftmark rivaled the quality of the pearls strung up on the walls of the house. Dried seaweed hung in the windows, which were shrouded by nearly transparent stretched pieces of leather or pelt– likely from some livestock animal, a lamb or goat. Leading on further into the abode, they stopped at the round entrance to some sort of tunnel– Aemond remembered seeing this house pushed to the back of one of the cliff walls. 

An older man was standing there– he was balding, his once brown hair receding into a wispy white, his beard tied into a braid with a pearl inlaid cord. His left leg was crippled and twisted at a wrong angle, but the injury didn’t appear to be new– it was old, the skin set taut like forged steel. Against the wall was a gnarled cane, carved from cedar and a femur bone of an elk. There were images carved into the cedar, the red core of the wood eking out against the sullen brown– it was depictions of seals weaving and bobbing through a kelp forest. The man turned towards them both, raising his brow. One of his eyes was a milky white, a jagged scar going down it. 

Euna felt Aemond shift slightly as he looked at her father, his eye zeroing in on his scar– the old man stared back with the same intensity. “I caught a crow, papa,” she hummed, breaking the slight tension, “He’s got a fancy eye– or two, ‘spose.”

“You got a name, boy?” her father asked, stepping a bit closer and observing him further. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he grinned, “Ah, been too mouthy, then? Euna’s got you stopped up from talkin’. Should be feeling lucky that it’s just temporary and she ain’t taken your tongue. You can call me Atohi.”

Aemond grunted in response, glaring daggers at Euna, who reached up and took out the leather from his mouth. “Aemond. Your daughter is a little beast.”

“Heard that one many times before, you ain’t the first, nay be the last to tell me I got a creature for a child,” Atohi shrugged his shoulders, “Hungry there, Aemond? Got some fish cakes baking.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to feel like a guest rather than a prisoner, which he was. The friendliness of everyone was unnerving to him– their words didn’t seem to be laced with venom or ulterior motive, as far as he could tell. He wanted to refuse– but his stomach growled, and the last seven moons on gruel at Castle Black made it hard to. He clenched his jaw, “I suppose I could eat.”

“Ah, good man. Seems he’s smarter than other crows– it's rude to refuse food.” 

Euna turned to Aemond, cutting through the leather cord binding his hands together, “Let you stretch your wings a bit, you won’t run, will you?”

The scorned prince glared at the wildling woman, his nostrils flaring. He looked at the Catspaw dagger still on her hip– he should grab it and slaughter the both of them and leave– but where would he go? Castle Black was a hell on its own, and he’d likely be marked as craven for returning alive after his brothers had been slain. Lord Commander Fir has had it out for him ever since he arrived, the old bastard likely spinning the tale of the scorned Targaryen prince was a coward and ran away from battle.

Gritting his teeth, he nodded, “What sort of fish is in the cakes?”

Atohi clapped Aemond on the back, leading him towards the larger room once more, “That’d be some red fish, you ever have red fish, son?” he poked at the ashes in the fireplace, turning his cane and hooking a stone grate, revealing the fishcakes within. They were being baked below the surface of the fire in a subterranean oven.

Aemond shook his head, glancing around. Euna was nowhere to be found– she slipped away as soon as she’d cut his bindings. He didn’t hear her leave, the driftwood door in front of them hadn’t been opened.

“Euna is always popping in and out, hope you weren’t too keen on speaking to her soon. She’ll be back in a bit.”

“Hm,” he snorted, sitting down in front of the fire on a log carved chair, “I need a reprieve from that hellion.” 

“You’ll get used to it,” Atohi said, rolling up one of the lambskin window shades, letting the smoke ventilate further, “You kneelers seem to have a way of thinkin’ you can tame women– ain’t no tamin’ that one, you’ll die trying.” 

This particular window was facing the sea, the waves rolling and waning, splashing against the cliffside near them. A gray and white seal was dancing through the tide.

[the-writing-mobster]

Where I can read your fics? They seem pretty interesting!

Thank you for the ask, love! Fic links, anyone?

You can find all of my fics on Ao3! I need to make an actual like... Official link post, don't I? I used to have one pinned but other things take priority.

So I guess I'll sprinkle the links to my fics here for your immediate viewing pleasure instead of sending you on a wild goose chase ;)

IMPORTANT NOTE — A lot of my fics are locked so only people with confirmed AO3 accounts can read them. This is because of AI scraping, obvs. TMDG is the only one that I think is unlocked since it's fairly new. But it'll eventually get locked as well.

~

| The What Do You Want Duology | 🥀 💀 |

(YWIW, the sequel, still lies unfinished, unfortunately, but WDYW is completed and currently under revisions!)

Summary (for those still not in the know):

Frisk spent most of her life fighting to survive in a cruel world where her only upper hand was her soul's Determination and her feminine charms. After angering the most dangerous man in her life, she is thrown down into Hell to be ripped apart and destroyed by the demons said to inhabit it. With her soul refusing to give up, of course she survives.

However, when she is taken hostage by the infamous Gaster brothers, she finds herself trapped in the strange, abyssal gaze of Sans the Skeleton. With political and sexual tensions on the rise, can these two work through their differences? Or will they forever be asking each other, "What Do You Want?"

—

| Baby Face - UF Highschool AU | 💖 🤘🏻 |

Technically an au based off of my characterizations of the UF characters in wdyw. This one is tooth rottingly sweet and set in a surface Ebbott City in the 90s. Inspo was movies like Clueless & the documentary Kid 90. I actually loved this story so much I completely reworked it and turned it into an original novel.

Important to note that this fic isn't really a romance. It's more about platonic love and friendships than it is about Frans romance.

Summary:

Seniors should not date freshmen. No matter what. Not even if the freshman is hot. Not even if the freshman says it's ok. Not even if the freshman makes moves. That’s the mantra Sans lives by, and even though Frisk, one of the cutest girls according to all of his friends, catches a crush of epic proportions on him, he makes it a point to keep his distance. She’ll thank him later.

Or

Sans is in a rock band and Frisk has a big ole unrequited crush on him.

—

| The Most Dangerous Game | 💙 🔪 💔 |

The dreaded serial killer dead dove fic we've all been raving about recently!!!

It's important to note that this one isn't a romance. They are (albeit obsessive) enemies through and through.

Summary:

Frisk Starling should've been used to cases like these. After all, it was her duty to investigate. Give the victims their voice back, catch the sick freak who did it and give the broken families the justice she couldn’t have for herself.

That is until a string of murders throughout the tristate area begin to appear. Women used like toys, mutilated and disposed of for the cops and journalists to find with only the tiniest slivers of useless evidence and the glaring fact that all the women...

Every…

Single…

One…

Look almost exactly like her… Frisk begins to wonder if maybe… the monster she's hunting down has turned her into the hunted.

And God, does she make the most exhilarating, delicious prey yet…

—

Honorable mention One Shots:

| The Witch, The Judge & the 3 Card Gamble | ♠️♥️♣️ |

Probably my best prose ever. Genuinely.

Summary:

After suffering a gruesome bullet to the ribs, the vengeful Witch hovers over a dying fire, praying her campsite isn’t spotted by vagabonds who’d surely make her pay for existing…

But as a shadow blots out the stars if not for the two red pricks of light glaring her down, she fears her true nightmares have come to claim her after all; The Grim Reaper, the judge of her fate.

And she doesn’t like her odds.

—

| We'll See - Christmas Rom Com | 🎄 💕 |

I wrote this as a secret Santa present to @themsource. It is very cute and fucking funny if I do say so myself. It puts the comedy in Romantic Comedy.

Summary:

Sans has some inhibitions about Christmas, clouded with cynicism and bitterness. But if there's anyone to make him have a change of heart, it's Frisk; Ebbot City's own Little Miss Mother Teresa.

—

☣️ HONORABLE MENTION SMUT ONE SHOTS ☣️

| French Kisses | Smut | 🫧💓 |

Summary: Sans has landed a well-paying position as a senior accountant and Frisk has a few ideas on how to reward him — one of those ideas involves a French Maid dress.

| The Librarian's Assistant | Smut | 📚💓 |

This one was pretty steamy...

Summary: Frisk's days working as a librarian can get pretty quiet and repetitive... Until a new patron with an obvious infatuation with her starts becoming a regular visitor.

Eventually she can't help herself...

.

.

.

I hope you are satisfied with my thorough answer! If you do end up reading, I'd love to hear from you again on your thoughts! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

‼️ Also — join my discord for readily available updates and fun discussion! DM me for the invite since those invite links expire ‼️

[gingerlurk]

Lovers' Crest | Chapter 17: The Forged

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You've spent months believing your actions had made you a traitor, an enemy, never to be trusted again. But when you reveal yourself to the one who may as well have cast you out, you find an ambivalent and unlikely ally.

And you're gonna need it.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), post season 3, ANGST, I'm sorry, yearning, canon characters present.

A/N: Hey, you're awesome. X

--

The Armourer has always enjoyed the quiet of the work. It’s not the work that’s quiet, of course. A heavy hammer rises and sings down onto the metal, ringing the air over and over as she works. It’s the inner quiet that stills her mind and funnels her focus down into the piece before her.

She doesn’t feel hurried, or the need to check her surroundings. Even though it is a conflict of significance for which they prepare, she is deep in the mountainside of their established Covert. There is not a soul in the universe outside their clan that knows she is here.

But as she turns to quench the piece, tongs held nimbly aloft, there is a quiet figure seated at her table, and she does not know them.

She pauses for only a moment, then continues the work. They don’t move from where they sit, watchful.

As the Armourer shifts about her forge, she takes in small glances at her new arrival. It appears to be an Ubese hunter, the stretched and elongated features of the mask reminding her of certain mutated insects her people had unearthed on Mandalore.

Heavily armed with two rifles slung across the visitor’s back, and a cross-strap of munitions set to blow a small fortress, she does puzzle over how this presence came to be in her sanctum without her notice, or the notice of any of her comrades. Moreover, does this stranger know what they’ve come across? A Mandalorian Covert preparing for a war? 

The piece settled on its mould, she turns to study the figure at her table more closely. They haven’t spoken still, and the Armourer begins to sense something familiar.

‘You come with a purpose,’ she states. ‘A message?’

Her guest straightens just a little.

‘I do,’ a brittle, reverbed voice echoes around the forge chamber.

‘Tell me.’

Her sole company stands slowly, palms out and settled at their sides. No threat.

‘You know a war approaches. I saw your preparations on my way here. It is not enough.’

The Armourer tilts a condescending helm. ‘We have the forces to meet the Imperial threat,’ she says.

‘Do you know about their allies?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of them?’

A different tilt, more inviting.

‘Tell me.’

--

You take turns between leaning heavily on the wall and then pacing back and forth in the shadows out of sight of the gathering audience. Armoured and armed soldiers of varying height and age and gender steadily file into the chamber, forming a congregation ready to take in the beckoned proceedings.

The rough garments and stuffy helmet of your disguise do loads to allow your festering anxiety to foment into a near panic attack. Tamping it down with deep breaths and every calming mantra you can recall, you await your fate.   

Once the place is full and the Covert readies to hear what is in store, you force yourself to straighten and still.

From your vantage, you see the Armourer step into the centre of the dim lighting.

‘Gathered clan, loyal Covert,’ she says in a steely tone. ‘We are here on this moon to be the volleying party in an oncoming war. To know the enemy and beat back their advances.’

A unified beating of wrists fills the space. Everyone knows what they’re there for. They’re waiting on what else needs to be said.

‘But I have learned there is much we did not know. There are alliances and joining forces that would have taken us entirely by surprise if not for one, unforeseeable thing.’ The commanding presence of the woman speaking has everyone in the room hushed, still waiting.

Your heart is in your ears as you see her turn away from her congregation to you, raising a hand to invite you into view. You just have to tamp it down and move into the light. You step forward.

The din of protest and movement that follows as you emerge from the shadows, still clad as you are in heavy robes and mask, is deafening. The sensors built into the helmet you’re wearing catch the red, primed muzzles of every weapon in the place. Pointed at you.

It’s okay if you die, you think, just so long as they believe you.

The Armourer speaks over the unrest. 

‘This supposed stranger walked into the forge alone and undiscovered, addressing me in repose before I had even noted their presence.’ The room grows hushed again. She carries on. ‘They found us at this location at impossible odds.’

‘How?’ demands a huge man stationed near the front, long rifle aimed at your head. You’d fixed his speeder once.

‘Because they have known us. And because they share a deep connection with one of our very own,’ she scans the room. You see her helm pause in line of sight of the small green wandering face you had missed so much. Ears twitching and head bobbing in mild interest. It tugs hard on your thundering heart.

Your eyes flick to the dark stillness beside him, Din. 

‘This is the case, is it not?’ The Armourer turns to you and says your name.

Your augmented eyes, locked on Din, take in his infinitesimal flinch. But otherwise, nothing.

You sigh, reach up and lift your helmet, looking back to the Armourer with as much reverence as you can muster. Of course she knew it was you.

‘It is—’ you start but the room erupts in a roaring blaze of shouts and weapons cocking. You can’t stop your eyes flicking back to Din. He hasn’t moved an inch. Blaster still locked on you, still seated while everyone around him has leapt to their feet.

Grogu looks at you calmly, keen eyes bright. He knew you were coming. He showed the way.

The Armourer holds an arm out to the gathering, stepping carefully between you and the others. The cacophony fades quickly.

When all is quiet again. She continues.

‘We knew about the Crowning regiment and the Division allying with the Imperial forces we oppose. But now we have been brought the troubling news of more alliances being forged, cast, and bought.’

The Armourer relays the news you’d delivered. The Guild being hired and the doubtless other mercenaries brought to the cause for glory and riches. The room fills with a restless discontent. You decide now’s the time to speak up.

‘I can help!’ You raise your voice over the muttering. ‘I can help you win this war.’

You look to the Armourer. She gestures to continue.

‘Your targeting centre, for one,’ you ignore some outraged cries about how you could possibly know about that. ‘I can upgrade the iris ports, boost its range way, way farther. You’ll have the skies in hand.’

You spot a few blaster sights being lowered. Keep going.

‘And that imp camp on the chordal coast; you’ve reconned it, you know about the walker and the tie fighters. I can help you sabotage them, pre-set scrambles and vibrophase explosives.’

You think you’re getting through, less muttering, more still and focused figures.

You curse yourself for looking again, but you can’t stop cutting back to Din. You’re surprised to see he’s standing, though nothing else about his posture has changed.

‘And I can fight!’ You say, dropping your gaze from his steely helm. ‘I want to fight.’

You bully yourself to not cry, standing here as waves of distrust and suspicion radiate from the crowded gathering. Bursts of ‘why!’, ‘how can we trust her?’, ‘she’s a spy’ echo around the space.

The Armourer finally speaks again, easily heard over the discord. ‘She did not have to risk everything to come here,’ she says. 

You beg to differ, but you stay quiet and turn your gaze to hold steady on her. She in turn regards you for a moment, then turns back to her people.

‘We will accept her offer of help,’ she decrees. She doesn’t stop speaking as muttering and protest rumbles on, though it is fading into contemplation here and there. ‘We cannot afford to lose this war. And it is too great of a risk to refuse an alliance where it is offered. This is the Way.’

You let the echoing ‘This is the Way’ from the crowd wash over you. Then movement catches your eye and you look back to Din. He’s holstered his weapon and is moving along the row of his seated compatriots.

He turns and marches down the aisle, away from you, with not a single look back. Grogu glances at you sadly before hopping down to follow his father. You try to convey your best ‘It’s okay; thank you,’ to him before he goes. 

As they vanish around the doorway, the rest of the gathered assembly breaks. Some approach you and the Armourer, others head off in turn, back to duties, knowing their place.

The Armourer starts issuing instructions to those who had moved forward. You fight back the overwhelming urge to collapse to the ground and sob, focusing instead on deep breaths and looking ahead. Focus on what’s in front.

With a few repeated mantras, you collect yourself, fall into a tentative air of confidence. 

A member of your group turns to you, gestures at you up and down. ‘You will turn your weaponry and garb over to the inventory crew to be purposed for the battles ahead,’ she commands.

‘Oh,’ you look down at yourself. ‘You can have the threads and the rifles, no problem. But,’ you flip the headwear you’re holding up and show off the array of circuitry and switches blinking inside. You wink, ‘I need this for other things.’

You’re seated on the floor of the battle room, a mess of wire coiling and circuit boards scattered around you. To you, increasing the range on the multi-array scoping system is simply a matter of telling the right wires where to go. Parts from the cannibalised helmet that lies by your knee will help them along.

A slender, kind of gangly Mandalorian has crouched beside you, making no effort to hide his fascination with what you’re doing.

He speaks with the pitched, wavering tone of an adolescent. Through the modulated vocoder, it’s kind of adorable.

‘So you’re using that circuit to program the power flux?’ he asks.

You chuckle. ‘More or less. It’s not a smooth curve though, up, down, up.’ You make a wave motion with your free hand. ‘It has to be more loose, or you get seizure.’

The two of you continue like that, in companionable tinkering. It’s the first time you’ve felt calm and present since warping into the system. It doesn’t last long.

Your peace is shattered by the heavy, clinking footfalls of Din Djarin. You’d recognise them anywhere, but your stomach still flips when he enters the octagonal, vaulted space. You feel tiny and meek, hunched in your nest of wires, but he barely turns in your direction. Instead, he takes several long strides around you and your burgeoning apprentice to step flush with Ari Wren.

You’ve learned that Wren is the Armourer’s 2IC in this war room, relaying tasks and keeping things on track. She has a brash but candid demeanour. And she’s tolerated your presence well enough, so you figure you owe her respect.

Din murmurs to Wren, who’s listening intently. Helmets titled together. You strain to overhear but he’s barely above a whisper.

He’s standing so close to her… What could he be saying…

You shake and give yourself a mental slap. You have no fucking right to be jealous right now! What the fuck is wrong with you?  

Wren breaks away, gives him a nod, and they part. You focus back on what you were soldering, furious with yourself.

‘Um, m- miss? Sorry?’ Your head snaps to the kid. 

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I was asking if recreating this would be possible in future builds? Make a 2.0 or?’

You will your face to clear, giving the young man a warm smile while trying to ignore your ex-lover stepping around you again like you’re so much refuse.

‘Potentially, sure.’ You wink. ‘See how this one pans out.’ You haven’t even finished speaking before Din is gone.

After a few weeks of working quietly about their base, taking orders and following duties, your presence seems to have been accepted by most everyone there. You now only catch the occasional long stare or hostile posture. Most times you get a nod as you pass someone. A few times you’re even stopped in your path, asked questions about your latest project – installing thermal railguns on your commandeered T-Wing. 

Most everyone, of course. 

You don’t know how he does it, but since briefly intersecting in that war room, the one Mandalorian you ache to see has been absent. Even at mealtimes. You try not to do it, but you always check every helmet you can land eyes on as they file across the hearth one by one and take in their supper, each shifting off to find a secluded spot with communal unspoken understanding. You can never find a reason to linger long enough before you just have to take up a cup and move off.

His young apprentice seeks you out once. You’re toying with a construct module when a brush on your ankle has you looking down.

Grogu gazes up with a tiny ‘Mm, eh?’ and you crouch to him.

‘Hey baby,’ you reach out a hand and he scoots toward it, letting you give him a squeeze. You’re treated to a tiny grunt. ‘Gods, I missed you so much, you know?’

He ‘wehs’ at you and peers around, like he’s checking you’re alone. Then he lays a hand on yours, closes his eyes and coos softly. A long, tentative moment passes before his little claw grips you hard. Your senses are flooded. Ambushed. With emotions. With thoughts. It’s difficult to make it all out, but sadness and joy and anger and love all cascade within you. A cacophony of ‘where did you go?’, ‘where have you been?’, ‘you came back, you’re back, you’re back,’ roars away.

You will reassurance into your consciousness, and ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ It’s hard to do, the gale of emotion passing through you so furious and consuming. After what feels like an age, the swirling storm eases and you swim back into the present moment, eyes brimming with tears. They fall freely, dotting the ground between the two of you.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say aloud. Grogu just looks down, a little chagrined. Sensing further questions from him, you add, ‘If they let me stay, I will.’

He gives you a head tilt and a small ‘patu’ that’s borderline incredulous. You smile sadly.

‘Yeah, fair enough,’ you say.

‘You’re sensitive to the powers he possesses.’ The voice slices across your reverie with the child. You look up to see the Armourer a few steps away, watching intently. 

‘The Force,’ you say, wiping at the stinging tears.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Do you know what it means?’

You reply honestly, ‘Not a clue, actually.’ Despite having ample opportunity, you hadn’t sought any detail about the sorcery you could apparently tap into. That same strangling fear of being bound, locked down, tied to something beyond your volition had held you back from it.

She seems to infer exactly this as she stares at you and Grogu.

‘I understand,’ she says, gesturing at the child still holding onto your hand. ‘It is a mysterious gift, one the Jedi once guarded heavily. But this one forges his own path to walk. Just as you do.’

Gods, what is she even talking about… You suddenly feel tired, a fatigue down to your bones.

‘Much has changed here,’ she intones, ‘in the time since you left this foundling and his father.’ 

She says the words without malice, just matter-of-fact. You left this foundling and his father. But they cut across you like a sabre. You’d never thought mere words would have a chance at destroying you. Yet here you are, trembling like the mortally wounded.

The rest of what she says just manages to sink in though, so you focus in on that. Much has changed… What does that mean? 

You look up to ask but are startled to see her holding a familiar device – Din’s datapad. The scuff marks on the side unmistakable from when you’d dropped it off the side of the Crest’s starboard jet engine, where you had been using it to sketch some upgrade ideas. You remember he’d just sighed theatrically and tossed it back up to you.

She makes sure you see it, before tucking it away beneath her furs again.

‘If you do stay, you will soon understand the significance of these changes. And perhaps find the answers you seek.’

Answers? What answers? Is she being all vague and cryptic on purpose? You remember with a pang of resentment how confused you’ve been by her words before. In a time and place that feels like a lifetime ago, when she’d told Din it was time the two of you took a vow as if you were barely even present.

You find no words to say, so stay quiet and scrutinise the hem of your tunic instead. Apparently you have a lot to think about, you just have no clue where to start.

‘Come Grogu,’ the Armourer beckons. ‘Your father seeks your whereabouts.’

The child gives you a penetrating look before ambling toward her, falling in step and leaving you crouched on the cold, lonely floor.

--

Prev | Next

OK, so... I haven't watched Rebels, or much of the animated Star Wars stuff. And I wrote most of this chapter way before I first posted it. So it's either a wild coincidence that I pulled the surname 'Wren' out of thin air, or I unknowingly absorbed it through pop culture osmosis and my brain just presented it to me when I was casting about for name ideas. Either way, I would probably say no relation to Sabine? Very distant cousins perhaps? I dunno, sorry if it's confusing.

THANK YOU for reading. We're still in our feelings, but we're on our way out.

[imekitty]

Danny finds his clone in the Fenton Works lab.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22

-----

It couldn't be true—

It couldn't be true—

It couldn't it couldn't it couldn't be—

Danny denied it over and over like a mantra, a broken record stuck in a painful loop as he flew home as fast as he could.

Because he didn't want to believe any of it. Vlad had to be lying. His parents wouldn't do that to him. His mom wouldn't do that to him.

But all the clues, the scattered bits and pieces that were at first perplexing and nonsensical were now falling into place.

Don't you know what they've done to us? To you?

His ultimate enemy's words had no meaning for him before but now they all rushed back into his head making such terrifying sense.

And then a second ultimate enemy, a number tattooed on his upper arm just like all the dead clones in that graveyard.

I was created to be used and then destroyed. To live a short time before she killed me.

She. She.

He did not want to believe that she could be his mother.

It had to be a lie. He would go home and down into the lab and there would be no clone there. He was sure of it.

He wanted to be sure of it.

Danny phased through the walls of Fenton Works and maintained his ghost form as he searched for his parents. He found them upstairs in their room with the door shut, their voices muffled as they spoke about something. Danny stood outside a moment before floating away, past Jazz's door and down the stairs, down to the basement. Taking the long way instead of just phasing through the floor because he was stalling, afraid of what he might find once he reached the lab.

The lab was dark. Danny switched on a light and went down the stairs, one step at a time, slowly, slowly, holding his breath.

God, he didn't want to keep going. He wanted to go back up to his room and hide under his covers.

But he gripped the stair rail and continued his descent, down into whatever hell was waiting for him.

He froze when he saw what was belted to the main examination table.

No, not what. Who was on the table.

Unmoving. Sleeping. Or perhaps unconscious.

Danny approached the table to get a better look, but even from a distance, he recognized that thick dark hair, the point of that nose, the curve of that neck, the jut of those eyebrows.

He had seen them in photographs. In mirrors. Every day for over sixteen years.

"Oh, my God," he breathed out, not even realizing he had been holding his breath.

He braced himself against the table, leaning and hanging his head, on the edge of hyperventilating. Gathering courage, he looked up again and studied the clone. On his back with his arms down by his sides, dressed in a hospital gown, wrists and ankles strapped to the table with anti-ghost belts pulled tight. No cuts or incisions, no signs of trauma. It appeared the experimentation had not yet begun for this clone.

A flash of memory. The second incarnation of his ultimate enemy pulled down his sleeve, revealing a tattoo of the number 26.

Danny shakily lifted the right sleeve of the clone's hospital gown. The number 26 was tattooed in black on the clone's upper arm.

One day you will see me again. I won't look like this, but you'll know it's me when you see this number. And then you'll understand.

Yes. Danny understood now. The past version of his second dark enemy looked very different indeed.

A small metal side table stood nearby, holding tools and a clipboard. Danny picked up the clipboard and leafed through the sheets of paper clipped to it. Notes written in his mother's handwriting, details and instructions for what was to be done with Clone 26.

Flay the skin away from the arm in one piece if possible so it can be restitched on, will see how quickly and how well it is able to reattach and heal—

Danny dropped the clipboard, which clattered back onto the metal side table. He covered his mouth and turned back to look at the sleeping clone, so peaceful and unaware of the horrors planned for him. No white hair, no ghostly complexion. His skin was warm and pink with blood, his lashes dark on his closed eyes.

His mother was planning on destroying him knowing full well he was her son.

She wasn't even going to pretend he was just a ghost.

Danny stood there. Motionless. Staring. Hell stared back at him.

An involuntary shudder jarred the return of his senses. His parents were probably going to come down soon.

He made a decision in just a split second and knew he had to act quickly. No time to think or consider his options.

He loosened each belt holding the clone to the table and lifted him, one arm supporting his back, the other beneath his knees. The clone did not wake as Danny jumped into the air and phased through the ceiling, up and up to his bedroom. He laid the clone on his bed and pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of his dresser drawers. He removed the hospital gown and redressed the clone in his own clothes, stepping back when he was done, watching as the clone continued sleeping supine on his bed, on top of the covers.

God, the clone really did look exactly like him.

He heard shuffling noises from his parents' bedroom down the hall. Still holding the clone's hospital gown in his hands, he dropped through the floor, all the way back down into the basement lab. He changed into his human form and quickly stripped out of his clothes, phasing all of them off and tossing them out of sight. He then slipped on the hospital gown, shivering in the frigid, sterile lab air.

He imagined all of the clones that had been here. That had died here.

Such a frightening place to wake up in.

He climbed onto the lab table and placed the four belt restraints around his wrists and ankles, loose enough that he could easily slip out of them. He then lay back on the cold metal surface and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to control the erratic tremors seizing his whole body.

Then he waited. And listened.

His heart began racing when he heard the basement door open.

Part 24

[talonabraxas]

Green Tara Matrix Talon Abraxas

21 Praises of Tara

The 21 Praises of Tara is a series of verses that honor the 21 manifestations of Tara, each with specific attributes and benefits. These praises celebrate Tara’s various aspects, from providing protection to granting wisdom and compassion.

Verse 1: Swift and Heroic Tara (Nyurma Pamo)

"Homage to you, Tara, swift heroine, Your eyes like a flash of lightning, Your water-born face arises from the blooming lotus Of Avalokitesvara, protector of the three worlds."

Verse 2: White Tara (Yangchen Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose face is like One hundred full moons in autumn, Radiant with the dazzling light Of a thousand stars."

Verse 3: Golden Tara (Sönam Tobche)

"Homage to you, Tara, born from a golden-blue lotus, Your hands adorned with lotus flowers, You who are the embodiment of giving, joy, effort, Calm, asceticism, patience, and meditation."

Verse 4: Tara Who Dispels All Fears (Dudsol Dakyi Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who crowns all Buddhas, Whose actions are endless, Who has attained every perfection, On whom the Bodhisattvas rely."

Verse 5: Tara Who Bestows Supreme Virtue (Jigten Sumle Gyälma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who fills the realms of desire, Form, and space with your splendor, You who have attained the pure essence Of the realm of non-attachment."

Verse 6: Tara Who Bestows Auspiciousness (Tashi Donje)

"Homage to you, Tara, adored by Indra, Agni, Brahma, Vayu, and Ishvara, And praised by the assembly of spirits, Raised corpses, and all yakshas."

Verse 7: Tara Who Dispels Darkness (Rabzhima)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose TRAT and PHAT Destroy entirely the magical wheels of others. With your right leg bent and left outstretched and pressing, You burn intensely within a whirl of fire."

Verse 8: Tara Who Brings Forth Light (Jigje Chenmo)

"Homage to you, Tara, the great fearful one, Whose letter TURE destroys the mighty demons completely, Who with a wrathful expression on your water-born face Slay all enemies without an exception."

Verse 9: Tara Who Accomplishes Goals (Tsugtor Namgyalma)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose fingers adorn your heart With the gesture of the sublime precious three; Adorned with a wheel striking all directions without exception With the totality of your own rays of light."

Verse 10: Tara Who Dispels Suffering (Sengdeng Nagchi Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose radiant crown ornament, Joyful and magnificent, extends a garland of light, And who, by your laughter of TUTTARA, Conquers all demons and gods of the world."

Verse 11: Tara Who Eliminates All Poison (Drolma Nyurma Pamo)

"Homage to you, Tara, who are able to invoke The entire assembly of local protectors, Whose wrathful expression fiercely shakes, Rescuing the impoverished through the letter HUNG."

Verse 12: Tara Who Provides Prosperity (Drolma Pagme Nyingje)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose crown is adorned With the crescent moon, wearing ornaments abundantly, You who have the potential to give The entire activity of the Buddha, with your two eyes."

Verse 13: Tara Who Averts War and Disputes (Drolma Magyalma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who dwells within a blazing garland That resembles the fire at the end of this world age; Surrounded by joy, you sit with your right leg extended And left withdrawn, completely destroying all the masses of enemies."

Verse 14: Tara Who Brings Rejoicing (Drolma Jigten Wangchugma)

"Homage to you, Tara, with your hand on the ground by your side, Pressing your heel and stamping your foot on the earth; With a wrathful glance from your eyes you subdue All seven levels through the syllable HUNG."

Verse 15: Tara Who Grants Long Life (Drolma Yullama)

"Homage to you, Tara, O happy, virtuous, and peaceful one, The very object of practice, passed beyond sorrow. You are perfectly endowed with SOHA and OM, Overcoming completely all the great evils."

Verse 16: Tara Who Removes All Obstructions (Drolma Jigten Sumle Gyalma)

"Homage to you, Tara, surrounded by the joyous ones, You completely subdue the bodies of all enemies; Your speech is adorned with the ten syllables, And you rescue all through the knowledge-letter HUNG."

Verse 17: Tara Who Protects From All Fears (Drolma Jigje Chempo)

"Homage to you, Tara, stamping your feet and proclaiming TURE. Your seed-syllable itself in the aspect of HUNG Causes Meru, Mandara, and the Vindhya mountains And all the three worlds to tremble and shake."

Verse 18: Tara Who Gives Joy and Strength (Drolma Sengdeng Nagchi Drolma)

"Homage to you, Tara, who holds in your hand The hare-marked moon like the celestial ocean. By uttering TARA twice and the letter PHAT You dispel all poisons without an exception."

Verse 19: Tara Who Dispels All Sorrow (Drolma Jigje Chenmo)

"Homage to you, Tara, upon whom the kings of the assembled gods, The gods themselves, and all kinnaras rely; Whose magnificent armor gives joy to all, You who dispel all disputes and bad dreams."

Verse 20: Tara Who Brings Complete Victory (Drolma Yullama)

"Homage to you, Tara, whose two eyes are like The purest sun and full moon, You who by uttering HARA twice and TUTTARA Dispels all violent epidemic disease."

Verse 21: Tara Who Is Beyond Suffering (Drolma Jigje Chenmo)

"Homage to you, Tara, adorned by the three suchnesses, Perfectly endowed with the power of serenity, You who destroy the host of evil spirits, raised corpses, and yakshas, O TURE, most exalted and sublime!"

[altocat]

Alright, hope you are doing well and start getting some more pleasant interactions as time passes, my dear! Meanwhile, here are the final tidbits of Japanese insight I have garnered for EC chapter five!

Glenn seems to say “I’ll beat you up/beat you to a pulp” to Seph about the whistling instead of just “I’ll kick your ass!”

This is so aggressive but funny to me because of how effortlessly Glenn witnessed Seph destroy countless soldiers earlier, haha.

When Glenn mimics his younger self, Seph asks “Why the sudden apology?” and Glenn responds with “Growing up into an adult is complicated.”

I think he was definitely acting like his silly younger self, but also teasing Seph a bit or calling back to the little guy’s apology to lighten the mood. This is probably why it gets Seph giggling. He seems to feel more relaxed at that point. His team forgives him.

Alright, now for the heavier stuff:

The climax scene where Sephiroth explains his soldier philosophy is pretty interesting in the Japanese context.

For one, you guys should know that his injury seems to be a bullet wound.

He clarifies this in Japanese saying that, “One of the “kids,” as you called them, shot me. Their aim was precise/accurate, which tells me they were also trained soldiers.” (Callback to when he said “I am a kid on the battlefield too, aren’t I?”)

I am not sure what Seph’s healing abilities are, but I find it curious that he doesn’t make much fuss over a bullet wound in his arm. It doesn’t seem to affect him much.

Secondly, in the Japanese he says that the others, “were too quick to look down on those they “labeled” as kids or elderly.”

His specific statement implies that he knows people think lesser of and look down on kids and elders, and then he follows this up by saying that, “he is always fighting those looks/that look/those eyes.”

Basically, it is implied that people look at him that way too, that they look down on him for being a kid or “lesser” and he is fighting against those disapproving eyes. It comes off like he feels monitored and belittled and is trying to overcome that with his strength.

The English translation didn’t do horrible with this part and I think they got the message across, but the “People make assumptions about me too” was a little vague compared to the more clear statement Seph makes here. I can only imagine he felt Shinra’s watchful eyes on him at all times if this is how he thinks.

Next, Seph explicitly says that, “I am a soldier that was raised to stand on the battlefield. I learned that soldiers must be strong in body and mind.”

He seems to say this in a way that suggest soldiers are worthless if they don’t have strong bodies or hearts. This also the training dialogue, so it’s interesting that he says it more like he was literally raised to be on the battlefield. His training was his entire upbringing.

Another weird detail is how much it sounds like he is almost repeating a mantra to himself when he says the next bits about needing a strong heart. He goes on about “a heart/mind that does not shake, an unwavering heart/mind, a ruthless heart/mind.”

Honestly it sounds like his training is kicking in and he is listing off what he was taught about killing without hesitation. Furthermore, he says that soldiers led by their emotions are second-rate, or old-fashioned, and that such an existence is “pointless/meaningless.”

He believes that if he is not ruthless, there is no point in existing, because he will die, he will be lesser than what he was raised to be. He has no choice. It’s kill or be killed, either by his enemies or the people that trained him.

Finally, in the Japanese context, the cyborg scene really seems to imply that despite Seph’s monologue, he completely lets his guard down after Glenn consoles him and then confesses his real feelings.

“I am not an altered/hybrid human. I never wanted to be one,” drives home the sense that Sephiroth knows he is actually enhanced and different, but doesn’t want to be…and within the context of the scene, it gets across the message of “I really never wanted any of this.”

It’s not just that he didn’t want to be Shinra’s golden soldier, he didn’t want to be born into a position that allowed him to be that in the first place. He didn’t want to be different at all—just normal. He kills like he does because he has no choice, but that scene shows him honestly admitting, even after his entire speech, that he isn’t happy with any of what he has to face. It’s tearing him apart but there isn’t anything he can do.

And there’s some more free pain for you guys lol! I can’t wait for the next chapter.

Aghhhhhh my heart

These chapter updates are doing me a depression, I tell you hwat.

Thanks so much for these translations!! It's super neat to hear the context of certain scenes through a semi different lens! This new content is just absolutely heartbreaking.

[briggette-garabaldie]

The Heart of the Dawn

A Highguard Tome by Briggette Garabaldie

Many come seeking the light of the Dawn in times of desperation and distress. What they find is a brotherhood full of camaraderie and purpose. From the freshest Private to a seasoned Knight-Lord, the order is one of like minded individuals skilled in the ways of war.  The Dawn is a bulwark against the evils that seek to destroy and tear down what is good and righteous in our world. 

As a new recruit, one of the first lessons you learn is the mantra of the dawn, “we shall fear no evil, for evil shall fear us.”  It is the rallying cry to bolster the hearts and souls of all within the order. But it is also the standard to which every Dawnsman is held to, to be the defender of the weak and protector of the innocent against the evilest of foes. 

The path the Dawn treds is one of service. To Azeroth and its people, each and every Dawnsman swears an oath to be unbreakable in defense and stalwart in a fight where others are unable. To show mercy and compassion and believe the good everyone is capable of showing. 

The holy militant order of the Legion of the Dawn is led by the example of its Highlord and Highguard. Each pledged and bound to each other in a sacred pact to guide the forces of the Dawn in its mission. The various sects of the Dawn see that the order maintains knowledge and information across multiple fronts: the clergy handling healing and religious responsibilities, the tomekeepers maintaining all of the Dawns records, Oakwood breeds the finest horses and trains our calvary, the Rising Dawn working for peaceful resolutions and restorations after the battles with our monks and druids, the engineer corps maintaining our armory and sieges, and the Inquisition overseeing the laws and our oaths are held from the lowest to highest ranks. With this foundation, the Dawn can withstand the tests of time and conflict. 

The tenets of the Dawn are a guide to each member. A path to walk with valor, honor, and righteousness. In every encounter, a Dawnsman should be the example of what the rest of the order is, leaving a lasting impression of a group that serves the greater good. 

But more than this, more than the tenets we swear to uphold, the Legion of the Dawn is the realization of an ideal. A dream for a brighter future made manifest in each individual who swears the oaths. Each individual within our order may give a different answer to what the Dawn means to them but each will have a similar theme. One of brotherhood, of purpose, of duty, and of service to a higher calling. 

This is the heart of the Dawn, the core which carries its message through the actions of each and every member on a daily basis. We dedicate our lives to the Dawn, to its teachings, to the virtues of respect, tenacity and compassion so that we may always be the champions of good and enemy of evil. 

[somerunner]

Cradle Fanfic (Waybound spoilers)

Since this has spoilers I’m going to put it under a read-more. I posted this in the Discord a week or two ago, and have made a couple of minor edits since then.

Striding North of Cradle

—————————————

Northstrider looked inward. The memories he had received just moments before troubled him. He had known, of course, what his original goals were — and he had told Lindon his own mantra, days before the Silent King was killed and the current uneasy balance between Monarchs and Dreadgods started to collapse.

Look for a solution to the Dreadgods. Research, plot, calculate, simulate. Obtain the assistance of those who have power to solve the problem, or do it yourself. But do not cross them. They will take everything from you given the excuse.

Those weren't his exact words to the boy, but those were his guiding thoughts ever since he had reached Archlord. As a Sage, he only became more angry as he began to learn how powerful, and thus complacent, the Abidan were.

When he became a Monarch, he had somehow deluded himself into thinking he had not joined his enemy in complacency. His philosophy remained as it was, but he never admitted that he had become part of the problem. The Dreadgods were monsters, and Northstrider defended the people from them. All except his enemies, who would put a sword in his back given the chance.

Even when he had helped Tiberian Arelius, a trusted ally, he was stabbed in the back. Not by Tiberian, but alongside him, which was almost worse. When fighting the Weeping Dragon to protect the Arelius Monarch’s people, he left himself open to Reigan Shen, who initially assisted just long enough to gain a provisional measure of trust. Then, as the Dreadgod began to prepare its legendary dragon's breath, Shen used his mastery over space to maneuver both Tiberian and Northstrider into its range. Northstrider came to in the middle of the ocean, sensing a Monarch's Remnant getting packed away in a voidspace. Shen immediately left, and too weak to defend the continent, Northstrider floated and sensed the Dragon scour its surface.

He was right not to trust the other Monarchs. They were just as complacent as him in letting the Dreadgods destroy and feed, and did nothing to find a way to stop them. They took every chance to kill their enemies...just like he did himself.

With his old memories came a glimpse of his old mindset and perspective. That was what really made him look at himself, and he was disgusted by what he saw. Northstrider had truly ignored his own hunger and greed, and its effect on the populace. While he took care of the outcasts and supported the Beast King in doing so as well, he was a large reason behind those people losing their homes in the first place. One-fifth of the reason, if only hunger aura and the Dreadgods were considered.

It was time to ascend. People were dying every second that the Dreadgods fed. Of course, that meant it would be easy for even Heralds and Sages to take what they wanted, but that was only for the lucky one or two whose own lands were not under attack. Most were either defending allies or trying to recover from their own near-destruction in the wake of the Wandering Titan and the Bleeding Phoenix. Northstrider's own charges, kept away from the disasters in pocket worlds, would be well-equipped to take advantage of the situation. And he would be able to defend many of the reeling and vulnerable locations from attack by scavengers.

As he began to think about reasons he should stay on the planet, the Empty Ghost spoke. Northstrider was half-convinced to leave, half-threatened, and soon he found himself in the Way. He drifted in irritation and contemplation, but the currents of reality soon became too buffeting to ignore. This was not entirely surprising, as Fate had been exceptionally hard to read recently, but it was discouraging. It was hard to maintain any sort of course as the deep-blue surroundings pulled him in every direction.

Once he reached a less-turbulent fork in the Way, Northstrider clenched his fist. As much as he disliked Lindon, he knew he could trust the boy to take care of his researchers and other charges. But he would likely kill Reigan Shen without giving Northstrider the chance to do it himself. And with the world being so far from the Way right now, it was likely that billions would suffer from new threats almost equal to the Dreadgods in danger, back when they were as weak as individual Monarchs.

It was too late now. He had already left, and in doing so had taken a portion of the burden of hunger aura from the world. Even more, he was no longer burdened by ongoing responsibilities. He could find new monsters to fight, new sources of strength to draw from, and in his void space he had a Dream Well holding his prototype addition to the oracle codex.

In time, he would have his own Presence, without having to serve the Abidan. As much as he admitted to himself that he had been just as arrogant and dismissive as them, he did not want to be the servant who bowed again. He would reach to gain authority here in the Way, and at the first planet he dropped off at he would recoup his spiritual strength. And then...he would wander, he supposed. And look for opponents such as the dragons, who oppressed and killed at their convenience.

As he had this thought, the currents of the Way became turbulent again and spat him out into a starry area of stable space. Northstrider quickly scanned the area and noticed a planet nearby about the size of Cradle, but made of gas. There was no star close by, but several hundred spots on the planet glowed brightly.

They illuminated two orbiting rings, one made of several city-sized rocks, and the other of vast sheets of metal, a few miles thick and thousands of miles across. He sensed a few million people living nearby in these sheets of metal. These were in turn surrounded by small floating metal boxes, like fleas.

And now that he focused, he sensed a distress signal, clearly attempting to reach out to the Way but not getting through. It was being suppressed so it only sounded in this reality, and the turbulence in the Way’s currents likely meant the signal would be too distorted to parse anyway. It was going off at multiple points across the entire metal-composed ring, so it took Northstrider a few moments to sense its cause.

On the other side of the planet, a tyrant was slicing the city-sheets in half. Killing thousands as the innards of each city was exposed to space and the surrounding regions were shaken by each rupture, but not completely obliterating them. Taking it apart, piece by piece, savoring the destruction.

Like a dragon.

Northstrider rolled his neck. One of his regrets on Cradle was that with all his power, he could only kill weaker dragons and merely push back the true monsters such as Sesh, Shen, or the Dreadgods. He had never experienced a total victory over a challenging opponent since his advancement to Monarch. Here, sensing his new opponent, he could see they only had a little more than the power of a peak Herald. In his weakened state he could potentially deal with them without damaging the cities nearby. Best of all, because the Abidan couldn't hear this world, he didn't have to look over his shoulder while doing so.

Northstrider smiled as he kicked off of empty space. If it was so easy to find opponents such as this, that he could kill without worry or regret, he would enjoy his departure from Cradle.