#Marz Rising

[thepariahcontinuum]

MARZ Rising - Chapter 170: The End (Epilogue)

Okay, I've been holding off on getting emotional with my goodbye to this story and this extended AU but now's the time, so here it is:

I Started writing this story in March 2021, the fifth installment of a project which has been ongoing ever since I began posting The Downward Spiral in September of 2016…. Almost eight years of coming to a close here and I can only hope that I've done myself justice.

By coincidence it also transpired that I wrote this epilogue in the same week that the end of Rooster Teeth after twenty-one years was announced, something which made me want to work harder because this is now no longer just my send-off to the Spiral-Verse but also, as things stand to RWBY and Rooster Teeth as a whole. RWBY has been a big part of my life for these last eight years, it's the show that made me a writer and I can honestly say that my life would not look the same at all without it.

I also want to take a moment to thank every single reader who has enjoyed these stories, especially those who have left reviews and especially those few of you who have been here since the beginning.

There's also a very special thank you and goodbye I need to say here, it wouldn't feel right if I didn't: That is to the user @thesumosnipe who was the driving force to continue the Spiral-Verse beyond its' third installment, this story would literally not exist without him however he unfortunately passed away in 2022….Wish you could have been here for this.

This marks the end of an era, I'm at a point now where I want to move away from Fanfiction and begin posting my own original writing. Ideas are in place and will be taking shape in the near future.

I wish you all well now and in the future and as the late, great Monty Oum said "Keep moving forward"

FF Net

Ao3

[urlocalmagicalcat]

I only hate flight rising for the fact that I had a crippling addiction to the online dragon pet game when I was younger and it was very unhealthy.

[whumpyourdamnpears]

Fruit of the Wicked: Chapter Nine

Content Warning: lady whump, male whumper/female whumpee, POC whump (whumpee is a Black woman), age gap whump (whumper is an older man), religious whump (Christianity), captivity whump

A big thank you to Marz and Gen for beta reading this chapter!

Word Count: 706 Previous Next

The woman in Sarah’s home didn’t know she was watching her.

She tried to be subtle about it, hoping the woman wouldn’t see how often she watched her through the paned glass doors to her daddy’s study. She knew she wouldn’t take too kindly to being watched, if her previous reactions had been any indication.

Sarah knew when to stop. You stop looking before they notice you’ve been looking for too long. Especially with the woman in Sarah’s home. By the time she noticed you were looking, it had definitely been too long. And she’d let you know it, too.

The woman in Sarah’s home was scary when she was angry.

Sarah was grateful for the sound dampening the wooden walls provided. She couldn’t stand to hear the woman’s screams, whether they were angry or scared or because of Daddy. Sarah didn’t ask Daddy what he did once he entered that room. That wasn’t for her to know.

It was for the best that she didn’t know.

It was early morning now. The woman was still sleeping, and Daddy wasn’t awake yet, either. It was one of the only times Sarah could get away with watching the woman without her making a fuss about it, or Daddy gently scolding her for not minding her own. Sarah did her best to put the plates out quietly as she watched the woman’s curled up form on the other side of the doors. She didn’t have a blanket. Daddy said she hadn’t earned one yet.

She was pretty, Sarah couldn’t help but think to herself. She couldn’t make out much of her in the early light outside of the shroud of dark curls circling her head. The parts of her face that peeked out of her hair while she slept were softer than they usually were. Kinder. She wasn’t nearly as scary when she looked like that.

She made a mental note of all the features she’d been able to make out over the course of these past few days when the woman wasn’t looking. Her upturned nose, unscrunched. Her dark eyebrows, unfurrowed. The way the woman’s brown skin looked golden in the patches of sunlight when the sun would rise and set. Sarah liked the woman when she was like that. Not when she was on guard, scrunched up with her arms crossed over her body like a vice grip, pacing around the study talking to herself, and to them. She didn’t say very nice things when she talked to them, though. Daddy told Sarah she should try to tune the woman out when possible. Act like she wasn’t even there.

But how could she do that? The woman’s arrival had changed so much already. Daddy was home more often now, which was nice, but they hardly spent much time together. Most of his attention went to the woman, what his next step with her was, caring for her, etcetera. He’d even begun discussing what would happen when he let her roam the house, the precautions they’d have to put in place so she couldn’t hurt herself, or them. That’s what really scared Sarah about her. She’d already tried hurting Daddy, and God forbid she got her hands on something sharp.

This couldn’t end like last time. Sarah wouldn’t be able to take it.

The woman began to stir in her sleep, turning onto her other side. Sarah looked down at the plate she was still holding and gently placed it onto the table. She should really get started on breakfast, before Daddy woke up, too. She waited for the day he’d tell her she should make a third plate for the woman in the other room. She’d gone so long without a meal.

Before long, the woman’s hand had come up to scrub at her face and pull the curls stuck to her cheeks away. Sarah could very faintly hear her groan through the doors. She hurried into the kitchen before the woman could notice her standing there. She didn’t want to hear what the woman had to say once she noticed she was the only one awake.

Daddy will be up soon, Sarah told herself as she ran to the sink. He’ll take care of it.

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @generic-whumperz, @heartinthehospital, @deluxewhump, @another-whump-sideblog, @pigeonwhumps, @lektricwhump, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees, @sowhumpshaped, @vivulapom, @eatyourdamnpears

[rinovarka]

Starscream weighs in on the current state of Transformers comics (only real ones will understand this)

Skyfire nation rise up 🗣‼📢‼ Also how can we get Marz Jr to draw more of him?? And others??? For science 🙏

[stvolanis]

Pretty Stars

PT .1

PT .2???

PAIRINGS: Elvis Presley x Rival! Rockstar! OC

WARNINGS: EATING DISORDERS, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, EXPLOITATION, MENTIONS OF ABUSE, inaccurate time lines probably, this is more depressing than my other stories, age gap (OC is 19 and Elvis is 23), foul language, Elvis is an asshole but so is OC, typical rivalry things, enemies to lovers

NSFW WARNINGS: NONE, it will all be in part 2 if this does well :)

Don’t be shy, request something!!

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

Rosalee Marziel worked her ass off to get where she stood today, and she’d die before she let some stupid boy ruin it for her.

She’d lived in cities since she was a toddler, and growing up in such a hostile place causes you to realize that no one will help you but you. It took her losing her mother, her extended family, and a few boyfriends and flings to realize this. Once she had nothing, and was at rock bottom, of course she’d sign her life away. What more did she have to lose when everything was already lost?

The 1st amendment no longer felt like it applied to Rosalee. She was stripped bare of her former self, and instead embodied a new persona, Rose Marz. Rose Marz was confident, selfless, bold, and had no problems making a statement. She was a music, movie, and fashion icon all the way past France.

Truth was, she’d been groomed since she’d signed her life away when she was only 15. Groomed by the men around her who only wanted the greatest pleasures of life, and naive Rosalee Marziel was their ticket to that. ‘Wear less, and more of this’ they’d tell her as they held up skimpy playboy sets. She was 16. ‘More makeup, she’s aging.” They’d tell her makeup artists. She was 17. By the time she had reached 18, she’d corrected every little flaw they had pointed out. She spent hours covering acne scars, moles, and stretch marks.

She’d powder and cake herself in flawless natural makeup, which wasn’t so natural once you’d watch her apply a ton of it. She formed an eating disorder and lived off of eating Cesar salads with extra grilled chicken, and even then, she’d sometimes feel herself become sick. The smell, taste and feel of food made her vomit in her mouth. So, when she went to ball events, charity event, etc.; she’d stick to a glass of water and give tight lipped smiles when offered a plate of appetizers.

You’d think oranges were her favorite fruit, but she’d only eat them when she’d gain a pound or 2. Her stomach pains sometimes became unbearable, but beauty is pain, or at least that’s what her producers would tell her with money on their tongues. Sometimes she swore instead of feeling spit when they’d speak to her, she felt hard and cold coins. God forbid they found out she’d eaten that day, the comments would strike up.

The ones that formed her eating disorder in the first place. The ones that make her cry herself to sleep and curl into a ball. The ones that made her weep for her dead, junkie of a mother. The ones that made her throw up her insides till her stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself. And the ones that made her wanna not wake up the next day.

Roses first gig was a lousy bar her old manager booked for an hour. It’s one she’ll never forget, I mean, it’s what sparked her love for preforming in every sense of the word. On stage, she didn’t have to be the broken shell of a little girl, especially not when she heard people cheering her name. The rush of adrenaline shot into her veins was addicting and was a high she’d strive to chase any moment she could. In those first moments, she felt like her body was on fire, and the words slipping from her mouth held every ounce of raw emotion she would never normally say.

She had something other rising female preforms didn’t have, and that was a genuine love for music. They didn’t have the same spark in their eyes like she did. They weren’t passionate about the lyrics they wrote or sang. The only reason they were famous was because of their sex appeal.

Climbing the ranks in a male dominated industry wasn’t an easy task by any means, but Rose managed to do it. She sunk her perfectly manicured claws into their backs to rise herself to get to where she was today. Past Carl Perkins, past Johnny Cash, even past Jerry Lee Lewis. She was at the top of her game.

Showered in every luxury she could imagine. Queen worthy jewelry, the latest and hottest cars, 3 mansions and 10+ houses stationed all around America. Her favorite house was stationed all the way in Milan, Italy. She had an endless list of ‘friends’ and men throwing themselves at her feet for even a glance, but she wasn’t naive anymore. She could see right through them with the x-ray vision she swore to herself she had.

Hell, even the Kennedys loved her.

But none of it was ever enough. None of it made the throbbing pains in her head, chest, and stomach stop. It didn’t stop her from taking nearly lethal amounts of pills on her roughest days in hopes that just maybe she’ll find the courage to take a little more.

Rose was never satisfied with the life she had. And when they started throwing her in movies alongside people she didn’t care to know, she nearly lost herself. Rose? An actor? That couldn’t be right. She was a singer. But it’s what her fans wanted, which means it’s what her producers would make her do.

She was sure her fans adored her, and she was grateful that they did, but a small part of her detested them. A small part of her had wished she’d never became famous. If she knew this would be her at only 19 years old, she would’ve ran away from that man with a few papers and a pen all the way to across the globe. But she could never bring herself to hate the people who got her to where she is today.

They are the only reason she’s able to live the way she does, after all. Those little girls who look up to her, dreaming of being in her shoes and, wishing to be like her when they get older and cheering her on from crowds will always be the reason she continues to preform. But how badly she wanted to cradle them and tell them ‘careful what you wish for.’ Because she wishes someone had told her.

Though she was at the top of her game, there was still one large obstacle in the form of a southern man.

Elvis Presley.

No matter how many movies she starred in, or how many songs she made—no matter how many awards she won and was nominated for, he always somehow managed to beat her. Not to mention the constant comparison she was always faced with when I came to him. ‘Elvis does this better’ her manager would start. ‘So you need to do this’. He’d say.

I learned how to dance, and Elvis was the star of a dance musical called ‘Copacabana’ the next day. I mentioned i knew how to draw, and all the sudden Elvis’ art was plastered in museums. The list goes on and on of him trying to out-do her an coming out successful. Naturally, Rose wouldn’t care, but at the end of the day it was her having to hear her entire management team on her ass. One time her producer even phoned in about it.

It was a constant battle between the two and it seemed like an endless cat and mouse game. Not to mention Elvis throwing loads of shade at her when he was in the press a few weeks prior. Since then, anytime she’s been asked about their ongoing rivalry in the press, she’s said the upmost worst things about him. If it was any other A list celebrity, her manager would have her head, but it was the 2 most hottest people in America going head to head like bulls. Obviously it would make both parties become a more popular subject, and the more publicity, the better.

And now they want Elvis and Rose to preform together for a Valentines special? Hah, they must be crazy to think they wouldn’t claw each others throats out. Rose had never dared to protest against anything her producers and managers had planned for her—the last time she did she was beaten. But this—this is the one thing she wouldn’t go down without a fight for. After a good year and give or take a few months of going against each other, why would they now want them to make amends? The damage had already been done.

Rose was fortunate enough of never having to actually meet the man talking the upmost shit about her in person, till now.

As she sat in her dressing room, she could swear her makeup was sweating itself off, resulting in her panicking. Her eye makeup was dark and bold, and her lips were a faded cherry red. The dark mole above the corner of her lip just barely peeking through her pounds of foundation. Her hair was was naturally a brunette, but her main manager thought blonde would be a better look on her. So now she sat with her blonde hair teased and overly large, adorned in pink and red flowers to match the Valentines theme.

Rose felt her confidence begin to dwell as she thought of every possible terrible outcome this show could bring. Her brows furrowing as she applied setting powder aggressively while thinking of beating that stupid man, Elvis Presley, to a pulp if he tainted her imagine in any way, shape, or form.

A knock on her dressing room door brought her out of her thoughts. “Miss Rose, it’s almost time.” An annoying feminine voice said from behind the door. Rose huffed as she got up. “Alright, give me a moment.” She yelled back as she began to dress herself.

They’d chosen a white, tight fitted turtle neck long sleeved shirt for her to wear, paired with a short, light pink dress to go over it and a large white belt fit around her waist to seem more slim. The knee high white leather boots and different shades of pink and red heart earrings pulled the whole look together as she stared at herself in the long mirror in front of her.

She smoothed her hands down her dress as she took in a long breath of air before she finally found the courage to leave her dressing room.

When she stepped out, the narrow backstage hallways parted like the Red Sea at her entrance. Her manager, a short old man with the personality of a donkeys ass, stumbled his way over to her.

“Ah, Rose! There you are, come.” He said urgently as he tightly gripped her upper arm. Rose didn’t get a chance to respond, and instead winced as she was dragged along with him to wherever he was taking her. Their walk wasn’t long as they stopped at a tall man with his back turned to them.

“Mr. Presley.” Her manager coughed out, making his prescene known. Rose fought an eye roll. The man turned around and Rose swore her jaw could’ve dropped right then and there. The pictures and interviews did him no justice, as he was even more good looking in person, much to Roses dismay. Nonetheless, this god of a man was still her biggest rival and the only person stopped her from being deemed ‘queen of rock n roll’ on every cover of The Rolling Stone Magazine

Screw him and his charming smile. She hated his stupidly perfect hair—and she wanted to pull the little strand hanging out on the front out of his head. She wanted to punch him in his perfectly chiseled jaw, and same with his nose. She didn’t like the fact that he easily towered over her, even in heels, so she thought about kicking him in the back of his knees to bring him to the ground where she thought he belonged— below her.

Elvis on the other hand felt his breath get caught in his throat and her nearly dropped the cup of water held in his hand. There she stood, in all her terrorizing glory, was Rose Marz. But Elvis’ eyes couldn’t help but linger on the chubby fingers tightly wrapped around her arm, almost in a painful manner.

How could this little thing be his biggest competition? She was so small. So pretty. So- “fuck you.” So vulgar. That was the first thing she’d ever said to him, and he’d remember it for the rest of his life. He would’ve been offended if it wasn’t for the fact that she was so damn cute with her furrowed brows and pouty red lips.

Her managers face went pale as a ghost. “Aha!! She meant hello!” He nervously laughed as he glared at Rose through the corner of his eye. The small girl let out a huff. “Elvis.” She acknowledged, sizing him up with a quirked brow. He felt a chuckle rumble deep in his chest.

Rose turned her head downward to hide the blush creeping onto her cheeks at his intense gaze, even as he talked to her manager. “That’s quite alright, Mr.Smith. How ya doin, Rose?” He said in that southern draw that made all the girls’ head spin and panties drop. Now Rose understood why, but she would never admit it aloud.

“Terrible since I seen you.” She said with an eye roll. Elvis pursed his lips. “I’m real sorry ‘bout what I said in the press about ya.” He replied with a nervous chuckle. Roses head shot up at that. “Liar!” She called out with a pointer finger.

“Jesus, Rose! Can’t you act civilized for one damn moment?!” Her manager screamed in her face. Rose went beat red in embarrassment, her hands clenched into fists. The old fat man looked at her pointedly. “Excuse my behavior, Mr.Presley.” She said through clenched teeth and false smile.

Elvis pondered for a moment as he took in the situation before him, before coming to a conclusion. “Lemme take ya to dinner to make up for it, Rose.” He said. Something boyish was swirling in his eyes and a certain hope was in his small smile he sent her way. Rose opened her mouth to reject his offer, but it seemed her manager had other plans. “Yes, of course she’ll go!” He answered for her.

Elvis merely glanced down at the obnoxious fat man. “I’d like for her to answer.” He stated with a glare. Rose paused. No one had ever stood up for her like that. No one batted an eye when people would yell at her, grab her, or even beat her to a pulp. She didn’t know what to think—or even how to act.

Her mouth was hung agape as he awaited her answer. “I—uh, sure.” She responded—seemingly in a daze as she gazed up at the taller man. His eyes danced all across her face before stopping at the mole she tried so desperately to hide. “Tomorrow night.” He said before his eyes snapped up to meet hers again.

Rose, absent minded, merely nodded her head.

“You’re on in 5!” Someone shouted over the loud backstage ruckus. That caught Roses attention as she quickly smoothed herself out and took in a deep breath. Elvis reached his hand out towards her. “Shall we?” He asked with a smirk.

Rose rolled her eyes as she slapped his hand away. “Let’s just get this over with.” She replied as she turned quickly away from him.

But Elvis didn’t miss the blush on her cheeks.

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

this wasn’t proofread

[dawnslight-aegis]

1. steer

If someone had told Kaede even a few moons earlier that she would be standing on the deck of two ships, lashed together, with the express intent of drawing dread Leviathan up from the briny deep, she would have laughed in their face. No Llymlaen-fearing daughter of La Noscea would be so foolish as to court the attention of the master of the depths, and Kaede may not have had the cautionary tales against him as her cradle songs, but she had grown up among former pirates all the same. The first Spoken blood to ever coat her blade was sahagin. The first man she’d ever killed was a roegadyn with coral growing from his eye sockets, crying out to the Lord of the Whorl with his final, garbled breath.

And yet, here she stood, pelted by wind and rain, staring down Leviathan himself. Navigator preserve me, she thought with a sigh, and fair winds guide me back to shore. Not that the ship had sails to catch them, more a floating platform than something you could properly steer, now that the ship towing them had cut the lines. It ran counter to everything that Kaede had ever been taught about surviving Leviathan’s waves – speed and manuverability were the only things that kept you safe when the seas rose up against you, at least according to the Captain of the Sea Shriek, whose crew had become the mercenaries that raised her when piracy was outlawed. She hadn’t dared go visit before setting out, fearing the lecture from half a dozen salt-crusted old men almost as much as Leviathan himself.

A loose collection of adventurers that the Scions had cobbled together from the Echo-blessed of the realm clustered behind her, some well known to her, some not, while somewhere off to her right, far closer to the roiling waves than any person in their right mind should be, stood Marzanna Kimbatuul, spear in hand.

“Tell me again why we’re going to all this trouble? I’ve killed plenty of sea serpents, without resorting to all this nonsense. So what if this one’s really big? A spear in the right place and it dies like all the rest.” The xaela shifted her weight from foot to foot in anticipation, as if debating whether to fling herself directly into the water’s embrace.

Leave it to Marz to have only paid half-attention to her explanation of the plan, ready always to leap spear first into the fray without considering the wisdom of caution or discretion. Kaede rolled her eyes, but before she could respond with the admonishment that gathered on her tongue, a soft laugh drew her attention, and a woman stepped out of the nervous crowd of glory-seekers – a viera, and the only other proper Scion among them, recently come from Sharlayan to assist with the construction of the Rising Stones. “I do not doubt your familiarity with the seas, Mistress Kimbatuul, but it is one thing to slay a sea monster – even an enormous one – within its own domain, and another entirely to have the waters themselves as an enemy. Be at peace. The battle will be joined soon enough.”

The woman’s voice, tinged with a far more foreign accent that yet lingered under the Sharlayan lilt, calmed Marz’s anxious fidgeting much more quickly and completely than any sharp words that Kaede could have brought to bear. Hard indeed to argue with the woman whose conjury would be that which decided whether or not you lived to fight another day.

A momentary calm descended on the Whorleater, and Kaede drew in a sharp breath. It was always when the water grew still that heralded the greatest danger. And indeed, before she could exhale, the deck shook and the sea erupted, and then all thought was given over to the act of survival, as the Lord of the Whorl battered them with head and tail, sea and sahagin. Kaede’s role was the same it always was �� draw the beast’s ire, so that spear and spell and arrow could find their mark, and to pray that she survived longer than their foe. Several times she was thrown against the railing of the ship by waves that towered above her head, the wood splintering on impact, but just barely keeping her from being swept away.

In the end, Eynzahr’s mad plan was a sound one, and once again corrupted crystals were the weapon that allowed them to turn the tides against Leviathan, as they had granted them access to Garuda moons before. When the monster at last crumpled, its body bleeding from hundreds of wounds, and dissolved into aether and sea foam, Kaede dropped heavily onto the deck, shivering in the cold and the wet. The wood under her hands was slick with blood and salt water, fishback viscera mingling with red blood that it took her too long to realize was her own. A dull ache in her side slowly made itself known through the fever and fear of battle, and it was all Kaede could do not to retch as she realized that several shards of the railing, longer than her own hand, had embedded themselves in her flesh even as they’d saved her from the depths.

There is no fortune without misfortune, no blessing without a curse, whispered the voice of her mother in the back of her mind, and Kaede almost laughed. Wasn’t that the truth – she’d gained fame and glory, regard and renown, hailed as a hero the realm over, but that same status came at the cost of bleeding out on the deck of a ship in the rain, felled not by the god she’d dared raise a blade to, but by some pieces of bloody wood.

It was frankly embarrassing, and she almost welcomed the encroaching darkness as she dimly registered panicked voices calling for a healer, and hands on her shoulders, holding her upright against the weakness in her body, her whole world narrowing down to the pain in her side and the taste of salt and iron on her tongue, a woman’s hand on her cheek bidding her rest. Whether it was a healer, or her mother, or Hydaelyn Herself, Kaede knew not, but she obeyed all the same, falling fully into unconsciousness as gentle warmth overtook the pain, and the smell of seawater was replaced with that of wildflowers. She was left with only one, singular thought, shining starlike through the haze of unconsciousness:

“‘Til sea swallows all” my arse, you great bloody piece of shite snake.

[rlmartian]

So um yeah finally making one of these hello and welcome to hell. Have fun because we’re all gonna be burning together for the rest of time.

Some ground rules:

I do drawing request but I won't draw nsfw and If I dont want to draw something plz respect that 

Please do not argue about things on my posts

Please do try to keep as much nsfw out of my posts as possible

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Stuff abt me:

You can call me Marz or Mako 

Minor 

Demiromantic Asexual 

Any pronouns but preference towards he (its just the fastest to type lmao)

Chaotic neutral 

Does art and occasionally animation

Has the worst tagging you will ever see

No real posting schedule 

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Fandoms I’m currently being consumed by

Lego monkie kid (lmk), The Magnus archives (tma), Percy Jackson, Hatsune miku colorful stage, Rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles (ROTTMNT), Helluva boss and Hazbin hotel, Spider Verse, All things D&D, Mcu, Dc, Genshin impact, Voltron, And a bunch of manga, manhwa, and anime

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I like asks and don’t mind spam liking and rebloging 

Blog is LGBTQIA+ and Neurodivergent friendly and mostly family friendly 

Most of the content will probably be lmk 

My requests are open I mostly do character and outfit designs and I can draw oc’s and fanart

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search key:

all original posts will be tagged with #mako’s blog

all original art will be tagged with #mako’s art

[his-heart-hymns]

Koi Raat Mere Aashna Mujhe Yoon Bhi To Naseeb Ho

Na Khayal Ho Libas Ka Wo Itna Mere Qareeb Ho

Badan Ki Garam Aanch Se Meri Aarzu Ko Aag De

Mera Josh Bhi Bahek Uthe Mera Haal Bhi Ajeeb Ho

Tere Chashni Wajood Ka Main Saara Ras Nichod Loon

Phir Tu Hi Mera Marz Ho Phir Tu Hi Mera Tabeeb Ho.

May a night of companionship be fated for me where concerns of clothes do not create distance between us. With the warmth of your body, kindle my desires; let my passion rise high and let my state be extraordinary. Allow me to absorb the very essence of your existence then you alone be my affliction you alone be my remedy.

[sleepybunnymel]

Rise of beasts autobots in humanformer designs!

extra details on the designs under the cut

Marz 'mirage' gomez the current spy specialist of the team, former rich boy while a bit dense on things his heart is in the right places and cares for his new found family with the autobots, My mirage is mixed afro-puerto rican and white, with burn scars from his fight with scourge as well as losing a foot, Ci Ci 'arcee' elamin the main scientist of the team as well as a teachter and culture studies expert, she's friendly and gentle with those she caes for and ready to fight anyone who wants to hurt the people she loves, My arcee is blasian and muslim american, Jackie 'wheeljack' rivera, the teams mechanic and secondary scientists, wheeljack is that of a wise guy and isn't the best at first impressions but he's got your back nonetheless...just make sure to take cover when he's testing a new experiment, My wheeljack is indigenous peruvian, he's autistic and has vision problems, Sthephen 'stratosphere' haddington, the teams transportation, a former pilot and the oldest member of the group he's everyone's grandpa and makes to many jokes about his own bad heart, My stratosphere is jewish and scottish, he has a bad heart and uses an oxygen tank as well wheeljack made special for him, Bee 'bumblebee' pax, the teams scout and youngest member a head strong young adult with a strong sense to protect people who can't protect themselves, My bumblebee is afro-indigenous (chickasaw) and nonbinary, they use ASL and forearm crutches, Orion 'optimus prime' pax, the leader of the group, Oriong is gentle but rough due to the experiences he lived, he wants to insure safety for his family and loved ones, that goal blinds him at times, My optimus is native american from the chickasaw tribe, he's trans and bisexual, the scarring on his face is from his near death fight with megatron, its a mix of burns and close range contact with a weapon which caused the lost of the majority of his left ear as well

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

Okay buckle up I'm taking a break from weird anglo-saxon sewing to ramble about Old English terminology for a bit

@tansyuduri this is the term I had mentioned I wanted to tell you about re: nature spirits acting as intermediaries between realms

Lets talk about the word "Mearcstapa".

Its used once in Beowulf, in line 103, to describe the creature Grendel.

Grendel is, in brief, some kind of ambiguous creature and/or cursed human, descended from Cain, cursed by that descent to wander and "hold" (as in, treat as a stronghold) the wilderness forever. He has very little physical description except that he is very large and swordproof, and may have claws? Anyway, he isn't what I want to talk abt right now. For Once.

I'm going to take a stab at translating the OE text myself, VERY roughly, and provide some context for where the word appears.

"This grim ghost was called Grendel, famous mearc-stapa, he who holds the marshes, fen-as-fortress; the lands of monsters un-blessed he guarded for a while, since the Shaper* had him written in the race of Cain- whose torment was the Lord's vengeance, for he slew Abel."

(Beowulf lines 102-108, translation My Weird Gay Ass)

*a common OE term for God, meaning something between "shaper/maker" and "poet/singer"

(that is MESSY towards the end but I've never tried to translate Beowulf myself ok)

anyway it goes on about Cain for a bit after that, the usual stuff you can find in the bible, but what is a "Mearc-stapa"?

well, "-stapa" is really easy, its one of the words in Old English that changed relatively little into the modern day.

"-stapa" is "stepper". one who steps across, walks upon and generally treads over something.

ok cool. what's a "mearc"

WELL THIS IS WHERE THINGS GET REALLY REALLY WEIRD AND HARD TO TRANSLATE.

"Mearc" as a word and as a concept has not survived intact in modern English, at least not on its own. Its latest surviving incarnations are in the extremely-early-middle-english "March" or "Mark", so lets start there. I'm just gonna hit Wiki for this one:

In medieval Europe, a march or mark was, in broad terms, any kind of borderland,[1] as opposed to a state's "heartland". More specifically, a march was a border between realms or a neutral buffer zone under joint control of two states in which different laws might apply. In both of these senses, marches served a political purpose, such as providing warning of military incursions or regulating cross-border trade.

Marches gave rise to titles such as marquess (masculine) or marchioness (feminine) in England; marqués (masculine) and marquesa (feminine) in Spanish-speaking countries and the Catalan and Galician regions; marquês (masculine) and marquesa (feminine) in Portuguese-speaking countries; markesa (both masculine and feminine) in Basque; marquis (masculine) or marquise (feminine) in France and Scotland, margrave (German: Markgraf, lit. 'march count'; masculine) or margravine (German: Markgräfin, lit. 'march countess', feminine) in Germany, and corresponding titles in other European states.

Etymology[edit]

The word "march" derives ultimately from a Proto-Indo-European root *mereg-, meaning "edge, boundary". The root *mereg- produced Latin margo ("margin"), Old Irish mruig ("borderland"), Welsh bro ("region, border, valley") and Persian and Armenian marz ("borderland"). The Proto-Germanic *marko gave rise to the Old English word mearc and Frankish marka, as well as Old Norse mǫrk meaning "borderland, forest",[2] and derived from merki "boundary, sign",[2] denoting a borderland between two centres of power.

In Old English "mark" meant "boundary" or "sign of a boundary", and the meaning only later evolved to encompass "sign" in general, "impression" and "trace".

The Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia took its name from West Saxon mearc "marches", which in this instance referred explicitly to the territory's position on the Anglo-Saxon frontier with the Romano-British to the west.

...cool. that was a lot. anyway, that's what a "Mearc" is, in the most basic sense (Beowulf being in the West-Saxon dialect mentioned above, specifically having been recorded mainly in the Late-West-Saxon written dialect known academically as Winchester Standard for reasons to do with some bishop whose name I'm not going to bother trying to spell)

however, in the context its used in Beowulf, "Mearcstapa", or "Mark-walker", becomes a REALLY weird term. See, Grendel isnt wandering around the boundaries between two towns, or kingdoms, or countries. He's just kind of out in the woods, some of which happen to border one singular, somewhat sizeable town that Grendel then regularly attacks. So what is he walking the border between?

Well, academics love to talk abt that lmao. Some people say it refers to land- or politically-based borders much LARGER than a country, and that it denotes Grendel as a foreigner, from another land or part of the world entirely. Some people see "Mark" as conjuring an image of a swampy, be-fogged "no mans' land" where settling and agriculture would be impossible. A wasteland, for human habitation at least, and thus an "in-between-place" in relation to the boundaries of human civilization- somewhere you travel through or around in between human-settled areas, where no laws of God or man apply. Its "The Dark Forest", the "Past The Threshold" in the Hero's Journey.

However, there's another widely discussed thematic meaning here, and it relies on a bit of context. Beowulf was recorded by monks in a time when Christianity was still relatively new to Northern Europe, the last remnants of various pagan religions only having been definitively wiped out a few centuries prior (FUCK YOU CHARLEMAGNE), and that's the time of RECORDING- Beowulf, as a story, had almost definitely been composed and passed down orally within those same preceding few centuries, likely in the 800s a.d. but possibly as far back as the 600s a.d. . So, what this means is that Beowulf is a record (imperfect as it is, being written down later and by monks) of a culture mid-transition between paganism and Christianity, and this isn't clearer anywhere than in another passage rambling on about Cain:

(in which I attempt to sloppily translate Beowulf again)

(picking up where we left off) "...no joy did he get from that feud, but was driven far away, ill-fated for his evil, far away from mankind. From thence all monstrous births awoke, jotun and elves and orcs*, those same giants who fought with God over long seasons; this was the recompense given"

(Beowulf, lines 109-144, trans. Me and 24/7 my spn brianrot)

*lit: "evil spirits" but the word is "Orcneas", Tolkein stole it and so will I.

(again, is this right? eh. mostly. the end got rough again)

so okay, lots of the usual Cain stuff, and some mentions of giants that some scholars have interpreted as relating to the Nephelim (more context there but its not relevant to this post). However, what may seem GLARINGLY out of place to anyone reading this passage about the BIBLICAL CAIN is the mention of JOTUN, ELVES AND ORCS.

and you'd be right! that is weird! and Grendel is a part of that!

so, with this context, it can be understood that the "Mearc" of Grendel's "Mearcstapa" has multiple meanings, to us anyway. For the Anglo-Saxon people who composed and passed down the story of Beowulf, the lawless and dangerous wilderness just outside their villages would have been one and the same to the lawless, dangerous world of heathen gods and monstrous creatures that their culture had so recently left behind. Uncontrolled forces and places that didn't respect the rule of man or God, untamed, just barely dispelled and always lurking at the edges. That is the "Mearc", as it is used here.

Mearcstapa, Mark-Walkers, Cain, whatever, happy Deanmon 10th anniversary yall.

Oh, on that note- some scholars/translators HAVE tried to argue for "Mearcstapa" as "Marked Wanderer", re: the Mark of Cain. However, they are more or less soundly overruled by the prevailing academic understanding of the term...

which is that the "Mark" is a liminal space that, in addition to being the actual areas between towns/cities and the place where monsters live, is also the barrier keeping remaining scraps of paganism (ie, perhaps other gods?) out of Christianity. And the descendants of Cain were set to patrol it. And that's something someone said in, AT THE LATEST, 1000 a.d.

why am I burdened with this knowledge.

[thepariahcontinuum]

MARZ Rising - Chapter 168: Red Like Roses

The final battle of the story reaches its' conclusion in the penultimate chapter (Not including the epilogue which will serve as a send off to the entire five part series).

FF Net

Ao3

[doiegyu]

about . . .

basics . . . call me marz. fic writing and reading dump.. i have been writing for years just a new blog. gemini sun, cancer moon, virgo rising. huge multi-stan. i have a life and am not chronically online so expect periods of inactivity often.

likes . . . writing, dancing, raving, reading, music, my pets, politics (lol) and more.

dislikes . . . people who care too much about kpop (plzplzplz get a life), lumis/lucas, horror movies, etc.

writing for nct, txt and seventeen . . . for now. requests are open for now :)

[heavymetalmagazine]

This progression is really nice. I especially like the way the rising sun is handled. (Heavy Metal #315 2022 – Page 59 Swamp God by Marz, Armitano, Sanchez, and Peteri)

[hirokiyuu]

17, 18, 19?

17. talk about your writing and editing process

that of an insane person quite frankly. a pef chapter is the worst bc it ltierally goes like:

write the chapter while alm is making edits concurrently whenever i ask to make sure it obth a) makes sense w/whats been written adn b) Sounds Good also > finish writing it and start on my own personal edits > get alm to do their own last edits > fix up things > send to stella (hi) who does edits > do more edits > send to abble for proofreading > FIX THINGS....... and between each of htese three ppl im using doing my own edits as well. i have a disease

for the writing part specifically tho its usually like. write whatevers sexiest while jumping around and then fill in the rest w/as little as i can (this is not a joke) (if its not interesting to me why would it be interesting to the reader)

18. if you keep them, share a deleted sentence or paragraph from a published fic

He’d looked for her, just before he left. She’d been up on the walls for guard duty, the way she’d been every single Glow since the Helio landed, and when she saw him looking up at her she’d smiled. It’d hidden the bags under her eyes, the ones that had started to emerge after her birthday the year previous and never quite gone away, and as always the warmth of it had dizzied him. 

She’d leaned over the fence with a wave, mouth open as if to shout down, when one of the other guards -- someone from the Helio Dys hadn’t known the name of -- had said something, and she’d paused, sighed, and gave him another little wave instead before straightening back up. That night she’d sent him a message: Sorry abt earlier!!! Miss hanging out w/you but you know how glow is x___x Let’s catch up in quiet, ok? We can head out to the ridges and I can finally tell you abt the crazy thing Marz n I have been workin on for months lol

He’d stared at it a long time, his throat weird and tight. He could hear it in her voice, the lilting cadence of it, and he’d been wanting to talk to her for what felt like an eternity, but since Vertumnalia she’d been running all over the colony without a single break, looking more and more haggard every time he saw her. The only times he’d ever seen her relax had been when she’d been with her stupid boyfriend, who never flinched away when she tried to kiss him and in fact usually kissed her first, a smile on her face whenever he did.

A part of him had wanted to text her back. It would’ve been so easy, a quick little sure and then he could’ve gone back to his bunk, crawled into bed and lain there for days until the suns began to rise again, until he could walk once more by her side and listened, aching, to her laugh.

He hadn’t. Instead he’d set the bomb just like he’d promised, kneeling alone in the hiding hole the two of them had once passed their days together in. The place they’d once sat with their knees knocking, complaining about the colony and talking excitedly about aliens, the place that had once been their only escape from everyone else. The place he was going to turn to ash. The place he’d never see again.

some stuff from the dishsoap ridgefic confession id decided to axe in the end bc it didnt flow well enough but i did still like the concept wwww theres a LOT of cut stuff from this fic in general i wont lie

19. the most interesting topic you’ve researched for a fic

some of the shit ive been reading abt lately for the latest pef chapter has been. kinda out there. i cant actually say in words bc its technically spoielrs but part of it is solely to make sexier metaphors and part of it is goro being obnoxious on purpose

[dawnslight-aegis]

wolstinien week day 3: blood

Estinien cast an eye over the battlefield at Ghimlyt Dark, his vantage point atop the region’s tallest structure giving him an excellent view of the battle as it increased in intensity. For a moment, he thought to head to the eastern front, but spied two brilliant flashes of blue, working in tandem – and if Aymeric and Kaede held that line, then the other, to the north, would be the weaker defended.

As he considered where best to put his lance to use, the vestiges of Nidhogg stirred from where they lay sleeping within his soul, speaking more clearly than they had since the wyrm’s eyes had been part of his own flesh.

The other.

The dragoon knew instantly who he meant – there were precious few mortals that Nidhogg had ever bothered to refer to, even obliquely.

Go.

Gathering his lance, Estinien leapt down into the battlefield, allowing the almost imperceptible thread that still linked the remnants of Nidhogg embedded in his essence to that of Marzanna Kimbatuul, Azure Dragoon, to pull him northward. The wyrm’s urgency was concerning, and it mingled with his own until he could not tell if Nidhogg had subsided or if his own will had simply overridden it.

‘Twas easy enough to find her – a massive gap in the Garlean forces at first made him think that they were giving her a wide berth, but the truth revealed itself soon enough, in the hulking form of Zenos yae Galvus. A form that was rising from the ground, shrugging off a wound that, to any mortal man, should have been fatal.

In a moment he took in the cracked and mangled mess of her armor, the twin to the set he wore; the blood that streamed, unabated, from a deep gash in her abdomen; and the way the haft of her lance splintered and shattered as she blocked a blow that she was no longer fast enough to evade.

The concern that flashed through him as he gathered himself into a leap was nothing compared to the pure terror that lanced through him as Marz pressed a hand to her head, staggered back – and then collapsed, boneless and still, into a heap on the blood-soaked dirt. The wisp-thread that Estinien had followed to find Marz suddenly went unspeakably taut and then slack in his mind, like a rope that had been stretched past its breaking point, and the loss of something he hadn’t even been fully conscious of was almost physically painful.

Zenos uncharacteristically hesitated, as if confused, his blade hovering in the air above Marz’s prone form, but not striking the fatal blow. The moment was all Estinien needed, as he launched himself into a dragonshadow dive directly at Zenos, only to miss by ilms as the Garlean leapt backwards, knocked farther away by the crimson energy that radiated from his lance.

Rage pounded through Estinien’s veins, like the beat of wings and the roar of flame, a tide of red rising up to haze his vision as aether welled and pooled and spilled forth, visible, into the very air around him. And when Zenos’s blade came down again, it wasn’t Estinien’s lance that turned it away, but a bright flash of aether, slowly coalescing into a hazy, indistinct figure; one that was, unmistakeably, a dragoon.

Estinien did not spare a thought for the strangeness of the scene unfolding before him. Thinking was beyond him then, sublimated under the surge of fury that demanded he do whatever he must to protect the helpless, broken form of a woman behind him. The whispers that floated up from the depths of his soul – consort-Tioman-mate-sister-Ratatoskr – alarmed some rational corner of his mind that was still wholly Estinien, but the thought was unable to escape its confines, fluttering against the edges of Estinien’s awareness but dismissed as trivial in the face of the need to get Marz away from the terrifying force of nature that possessed the Garlean prince’s body.

Zenos sliced through the aetheric dragoon, face twisting in fury as he watched Estinien gather his prey into his arms and leap clear.

Pure instinct drove him to the eastern front, where he’d last seen Aymeric, rather than the Twin Adders and their conjurers. Rather than locked in battle, as he’d last seen him, the Lord Commander was deep inside his own lines, a crumpled heap of blue and gold pressed tightly against his armor. Kaede, for her part, seemed to be unharmed, but she stirred no more than Marz did.

As his boots met muddy earth, Aymeric looked up, in an instant taking in Estinien – still faintly glowing with draconic energy – and Marz, now nearly covered in her own blood. Dismay flashed into bright blue eyes, and then was shoved down under a layer of cold efficiency.

Raising his voice to be heard above the din of battle, Aymeric shouted, “We need to get them to safety, and the Alliance’s healers are spread too thin. Especially for a wound like that. We should return to Ishgard, immediately.”

Estinien half expected to be relieved of his burden, but instead, Aymeric clamped a hand around his forearm as aether coiled around them both, pulling insistently. For a moment, he thought to resist, to argue that he was of more use on the battlefield than in an infirmary, but the raw fear that lay beneath Aymeric’s carefully controlled expression gave him pause, as did the tightness of the grip on his arm. Closing his eyes in acquiescence, Estinien allowed himself to be dragged under and into the aetherial sea.

The cold air of Ishgard stole the air from his lungs as the teleport spell faded, and as both Warriors of Light were borne into the temple knight infirmary, Marz in particular under the close eye of the chirurgeons, Estinien could feel the rage and fear loosen its hold on his mind, only to be replaced with a feeling of standing on a precipice over a vast abyss.

The last time he had seen Marz, he had kissed her, and she had disappeared the next morning as if she’d never been. He had resolved himself to taking that as an answer to the question that had long hung, unasked, in the air between them – but the moment she was in danger, the most primal part of him had thought of her in terms that he’d never imagined himself capable of.

He could not blame it all on the remnants of Nidhogg, any more than he could truly consider them distinct from himself.

A great and terrible truth lay just beyond his grasp, and he could reach for it… or he could run from it.

With Aymeric’s protests falling on deaf ears, he strode from the Congregation and towards the aetheryte plaza, determined to return to the battlefield to make himself useful.

[marztheincredible]

Woah! Influx of new people! Guess it’s time for a new introduction!

Hey there! I’m Marz! Fanfic writer and lore enthusiast!

Currently, I’m writing an ambitious project and retelling of The Owl House called “Titan’s Blessing”

To keep this intro as short as possible, the gist of the fic covers these points:

1.) What if Luz turned into a Witch while she’s was on the Boiling Isles? Yes you read that right. And I don’t mean POOF! She grows a bile sac in a day. I mean a long and arduous forbidding change that starts small and grows exponentially. In this version of The Boiling Isles, The Titan still has presence, influencing life and watching his Children (Demons and Witches). Magic, the gift he gave them is bright and comforting. So when humans stumble onto the Isles, He notices, they’re empty, that won’t do.

So he judges them, if they’re worthy he changes them, adapts and gives a little push to human evolution. If not, well, you’ll stay a regular old human.

“Luz tastes the copper tang of blood on her tongue as she stares at the lone tooth embedded in the piece of meat she tried to take a bite out of. That’s…not supposed to happen, she has all her adult teeth! She’s been brushing and flossing every day since she’s been here! Why-?

“Huh, ah is that what’s freaking you out? Congrats kid! You lost your first baby fang! Make sure you eat it to get the extra calcium!” Eda cheerily states.

She’s lost what?!” —Titan’s Blessing

2.) Culture. In TB I do not shy away from the obvious evils the Coven System has implemented throughout the years of Belos’ rise to power and his reign. It is a fascist system, one where an eradication of culture is detrimental to a society that was once whole.

So we ask questions and break down the small tidbits of lore that are sinister underneath the surface. Just how serious is it to lock away the rest of your naturally born magic for the rest of your life?

What happens when you raise a generation who’ve forgotten the sacred bond The Titan gives them from the rooted trees that birth their Palisman?

The eradication of language is another one of these questions. The use of TOH runes is pivotal in this story and once YOU the reader learns them just as Luz had, the story becomes much more intricate…and frightening.

3.) Worldbuilding. With the help of @urbanbirdbud and their artistic talent every other chapter contains what we call Codex Entries. While most of them involve the reader decoding runes, many give more information about the world of The Boilings Isles. From letters between two Clawthorne sisters, to anatomical charts of a Witch’s anatomy, even Calendars, Titan’s Blessing is a fic of expanded and dissected lore!

You’ll also find here on this blog that many asks also delve into more details told beyond TB. So, don’t be afraid to leave a question! I’m more than happy to answer! (providing its not spoiler territory)

Eventually, there will be a World Anvil Page for TB!ToH!

Thank you all for following and joining us on this crazy adventure! Happy reading!