#Next day rebagel

[spaceshipsoutthepool]

At this rate this will be finished before Unshackled!

Chapter update:

"At three she had me learning how to be safe in the kitchen. and then dad if he was home would do the dishes so she could put her feet up."

"Can you teach me?" Barry asked.

“To wash up?” Atlanta teased.

“No! I know that already. I mean to change a tire. And fix things? And Cooking?” Barry said seriously "Proper cooking. The fancy things you do."

[alithographica]

Detail

Been a minute but I've still got it baby

Dire wolf skull, from specimen at AMNH. Charcoal on toned paper.

[masked-disciple]

Turnabout is fair play! What have you been working on of late? :D

All right, I survived posting however many cyworlds that was so now I get to answer an ask. :p

Right now, I'm not actually working on anything: I probably wrote 250-400k of words in the past year (likely higher, I'd have to sit down and total it all) and I realized right around mid-November that I was quickly reaching burnout: writing was getting difficult, even when I had ideas, and I just felt exhausted.

So I speedran the rest of NaNoWriMo, finished on day 23 (the year before, I kept writing and landed with 70k, which was insane, this year I just tapped out once I hit 50k), and I haven't actually written anything since.

But, that doesn't mean I'm done writing! I'm just putting it on the backburner atm. When I get back into the swing of it, I want to finish off (read: do the second half of) my NaNo from a couple months ago, Turnabout Runaways, which is mostly focused on the Ace Attorney side of Sagiverse except for where it isn't. (There's a good chunk of Aethelian stuff in there, and I do absolutely intend to write the Saint Seiya fic in there. Just... once I get there, because I have to adjust the plot of that one to account for Myncroft Walden, who was absolutely alive during it, and that'll shift the plot a bit.)

Like the other big fics I've done this past year, it's an anthology, so I've mostly been just compiling oneshots. The major theme is obviously that each fic is about running away (mostly literally). It's going to keep the anthology theme of having interludes / prologues to each fic, but it also has the fun addition of every fic being split into three 'scenes', and every fic opening with lyrics from a Sirinnkata song!

(The Sirinnkata are a fictional band in Sagiverse, as well-known as the Beatles and surrounded by the mystery of why the two frontmen vanished off the face of the planet four hundred years ago after both of them had a very public mental breakdown. I've genuinely enjoyed telling their story exclusively through their music, which is funny because I can't write music to save my life.)

This is the entirety of my notes, minus Sirinnkata lyrics, for what's left. (The crossed out part on the right are the fics that are done.) Runaways is shaping up to be a lot longer than the three previous anthologies, so it may have to be split into two volumes, but like... that's a problem for future Pale, when I get back into the swing of things.

In the meantime, I've been organizing files, so uh - if you're reading this, Wavy or someone else, the next hundred and fifty or so posts on your dash is just me being queueblocked from posting Cyworlds. Sorry. ^^; (It's either rebageling cyworlds or sorting my DGS fanart folder until I can do my Neopets dailies, and there's fourteen hundred files in that folder. I'm doing my best here. :p)

[thiscrimsonsoul]

{out of paprikash} So sorry, guys... work strikes again. I’ve been working for hours... and it’s now almost 5AM and I finally finished, but I’m too tired to write at this point. I got a couple things done, but there were so many other replies that I know people are waiting for and that I really wanted to get to. Next week I know I will not have any grading to do, so I will definitely have more time to be here and will try to make up for the lack of activity then!

I would say I would write more for Wanda tomorrow, but Tuesdays are no longer free days for me. I’ve decided to revive some Resident Evil muses! I’ve been writing them for about six years and have developed them far beyond their canon material, and I love them to bits. For the past year I’ve had them on hiatus due to lack of muse and scheduling issues, but now I’m bringing them back. Please give them a look if you’re interested. They are all OC, AU, and crossover friendly. I’ll rebagel their promos posts in a sec, but here are their blogs (caution ahead for strong horror themes!):

@freewillacquired (Matt Addision & Nemesis) @youmissedone (Carlos Oliveira)

If I don’t see you on their blogs tomorrow, then I’ll see you back here next Monday! =)

[southern-belle-outcasts]

I posted 3,257 times in 2022

629 posts created (19%)

2,628 posts reblogged (81%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@summerchick13

@tooattached2fictionalcharacters

@sphynxrpmemes

@southern-belle-outcasts

@hardwiredweird

I tagged 2,614 of my posts in 2022

Only 20% of my posts had no tags

#;sugah queue - 773 posts

#;out of the south - 544 posts

#;musings the belle - 209 posts

#;musings the canary - 198 posts

#;aesthetic the belle - 165 posts

#;musings the latina - 163 posts

#meme - 146 posts

#;aesthetic the canary - 146 posts

#specify the muse - 129 posts

#;musings the engineer - 127 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#like i purposely go back and read people’s oc info every now and then cuz godsdamn does it suck when you feel like you’re pissing away all

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I pause my work scramble to upload my new legal status as genderless cryptid. Happy early birthday to me.

8 notes - Posted February 24, 2022

#4

//clearly they are suffering because I’m sat down to write instead of continuing to pet them.

8 notes - Posted October 11, 2022

#3

//full hiatus because my jackass dad says my dogs have to go (meaning me too, he knows that what it entails but he can’t just openly be hateful about me being enby in front of the kids). Soooo yeah. Need to put my everything into getting a hotel and then across the country, all while having no car of my own in running conditions and dogs.

9 notes - Posted August 28, 2022

#2

//roll call! I have been away for months (😭). I don’t have the time to dig through mutuals to know who may or may not also be on hiatus, who may have come back from haitus, or have understandably unfollowed for my prolonged hiatus. I have no idea what is or isn’t current in my threadtracker (in my pinned post). If you can peep it when you get the chance, and let me know if things need to be dropped or found, let me know. I want to try to work on replies longhand this week and it would be most helpful to not put my energy into a reply for someone who has dropped said thread 😅

11 notes - Posted April 24, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Thank you to everyone patiently waiting for my shit to be fully got together (or at least enough so that I’m not constantly coming home at 2am). My truck should be getting fixed Tuesday. Rental car returned Thursday. After that due to the astronomical gas prices and iffy truck function beyond the transmission, not to mention not trying to cover the cost of the rental, I will be working MUCH, much less. Which means back to writing and arting and general creativity. If you have posted any kinds of updates on the dash, I literally haven’t seen them. I haven’t been on tumblr but for all of maybe a half hour total in the last three weeks. Feel free to link me to important shit. I will give this a few rebagels in the next few days.

11 notes - Posted February 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[melissagt]

Next day reblog because apparently I still haven't learned to not post in the middle of the night...

While working on this I kept getting massive amusement out of the fact that the "creepy book" glows pink rather than a more sinister color. Yay, pink!

(Then again, I do have friends who say that pink is the most sinister color of all...mwa-ha-ha-ha...)

Baldur's Gate 3 fanart of Astarion with the Necromancy of Thay.

Daz Studio 4.22 Blender Photoshop NO AI EVER

DeviantArt Instagram Twitter

[thiscrimsonsoul]

{out of paprikash} *flops* I. Am. Exhausted. XD Tomorrow is the last day I officially have to work, but today was the last marathon day, and I can breathe a sigh of relief. Also, I thought I had six weeks off, but I looked at the dates, and I actually have close to eight, so... that’s a huge woot right there. In the next few days, as I get some rest and recover mentally from these past two hell weeks, I will be on here with more regularity and will be able to write a lot more. =)

For now, I’m going to post a mun meme and then try to get to some replies if possible. We’ll see how it goes, heh. I’m not gonna lie, I’m really, really tired and my brain is mush right now, so don’t expect wonders from me on here tonight.

I do have another announcement: I’m bringing back one more muse from about a year long hiatus while I’m off from work and have more time to rp. If you’re a fan of The Mummy (1999) and The Mummy Returns (2001) movies, if you love ancient Egyptian lore/aesthetic/settings, or if you just want more opportunities for fandom crossovers, please go visit and bother Ardeth Bay over at @medjaichieftain. With the MCU’s multiversal shenanigans, there’s the potential for universe/time jumps and things that could be interesting in crossover threads. I’m going to schedule him for Sundays, but I’ll be keeping him open for a while to get him started before sticking to the ol’ rp schedule. I’ll rebagel his promo in a sec too. =)

[southern-belle-outcasts]

Alright so I have to try my damndest to get a massive amount of calls in the next ten days because I really, really cannot lose license or belongings. Most of my day is going to be revamping my PSO profiles to try and pull new clients, on top of trying to find other remote jobs I can work and apply to. I am gonna rebagel my commissions post, please boost if you can't commish cuz uh...yeah.

[phantoms-lair]

Tempo Trio Au

Now a unified post since the readmore’s are back

An info dump on what I have for my MSA, Marvel AU(mostly C&Ped from discord):

Okay, start 16 years prior to the story start with, of all people, Norman Osbourn. Norman is having a fling that's deepening into a serious relationship with a free spirited woman named Edie Ramone. His father disapproves on every level. She's not politically connected, she's a free spirit she's hispanic. Eventually it seems Osbourn senior has driven her off. Norman grieves the relationship and never starts one with Emily Lyman as in canon and remains single. Thirteen years later he learns the truth. Edie was pregnant and his father had found out and planned to abort the child so  Edie wouldn’t be able to tie herself to Norman that way. She fled to protect their unborn child. She died shortly after childbirth and their son, Lewis Harry Ramone was put into the system where he's adopted and becomes Lewis Harry Pepper.

And Norman is torn. There's a deep greedy instinct to reclaim his son. But....Lewis is happy. What if by reclaiming him Lewis resents him from taking him from where he was happy? What if Norman becomes his own father? He decides to leave Lewis happy with the Peppers, but watch over him. (Lewis totally coincidentally wins a lot of seemingly random giveaway with prizes he would like).

Lewis has two best friends. Arthur is a quiet inventive boy who lives with his Uncle following his parent’s messy divorce. Vivi is bright and energetic and loves to do things like climb trees and talk with squirrels. One day, when Lewis's class was touring an Oscorp facility an experimental spider escapes and bites Arthur. Norman, of course foots the medical bill as his best friend's father a responsible business owner. Soon afterwards Arthur begins to notices strange things. Super strength, inhuman agility, some kind of danger precognition. And he decides to tell no one.  Lance and Lewis would worry when there was nothing they could do and Vivi would be really excited and probably bad at keeping it a secret, especially from Lewis. So he just keeps a lid on it. Until the day Lance takes him to an exhibition match at the wrestling ring he won his belt in.

Arthur isn't like Peter. He doesn't want fame or money, he wants to keep  his head down. He's heading to the bathroom when he realizes there's a guy with a gun robbing the place. He may have super powers but the other guy's got a gun and Arthur's not about that life. He hides in a vent, texts Lance to tell him to keep low, and calls the police. He doesn't come out until he hears an all clear from the cops. At which point he sees Lance being loaded into an ambulance. He learns that Lance confronted the robber, who was trying to go after some other people. When Arthur bemoans "Why...?" he's told Lance said "All that's needed for evil to thrive was for good men to do nothing." And then he did something. This is going to be Arthur's 'Great power - great responsibility' analog

The hospital manages to save Lance's life  (waffling on whether Lance looses an arm and he gets the replacement), but he's not waking up. The doctors say he may never wake up. Arthur's father come down to set up Lance's long term medical care, then leave again. Everyone kind of assumes he or his ex wife stayed to look after their 17 year old son who's obviously traumatized, and Arthur lets them think that. Privacy works better for him anyway. He's never going to do nothing again.

Arthur’s first suit was made from left over wrestling things from his uncles collection, but later augments it with his own tech. He becomes the scourge of criminals all over the city. Including the secret criminal activities of Oscorp. Norman Osbourn (when not spying on his son) is trying to thwart the Spiderman that keep interfering with his schemes( and giving thanks to the small mercy that said schemes haven’t been traced back to him or his company). He managed to find some of Spiderman’s blood and decides to make a clone to kill and replace Spiderman. It seems to be going well until the clone matures and Oh fuck it’s Arthur

If I kill him, it’ll wreck Lewis

Craaaaaaap

So Norman goes to have a think on this new information. Unfortunately for him the clone is not exactly stable, mentally. (I think I’m gonna call him Mordred, bastard son of Arthur that he is). He despises being a clone. He hates Arthur for being real and Norman for making him. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a way to wound both of them at once.

Lewis

Pretending to be Arthur, Mordred lures Lewis to an imported statue of an angel in the park and proceeds to try and kill Lewis by smashing his head on the statue. Lewis is big and strong, but Mordred has Arthur’s spider strength. He overpowers Lewis and leaves him for dead. Only the statue isn’t an angel at all. It’s Nemesis, Greek Goddess of Retribution, and she’s willing to cut Lewis a deal.

Lewis gets to come back to life and take revenge on his killer, in return for acting as Nemesis’s agent in the mortal realm. He sees Arthur the next day and is filled with rage. He tries to use his new power on him from a distance but…nothing? It won’t work. Maybe he needs some practice? Just to top it off, Arthur has the unmitigated gall to smile and greet Lewis like nothing’s wrong. Not wanting to make Arthur look like the victim, since he has no proof, Lewis suppressed his hatred until he can figure this out. In order to practice his power he create an alternate persona, Ghost, which appears as a fiery skeleton, to act a a vigilante and practice turning the sins of evildoers upon themselves. He runs into Spiderman pretty early on, and he genuinely likes the guy. Here’s someone risking life and limb to help others and expecting nothing in return, not even gratitude. He’s so naive though, believing criminals deserve mercy. One day he was going to get betrayed, like Arthur betrayed him. What else could he do but watch over the guy?

Soon Lewis learns his power works just fine, on everyone but Arthur at least. He assumes Arthur must have some supernatural protection. He starts bringing some stuff up in conversation, magic talismans, some religious stuff. And while Vivi’s eager to theorize, Arthur gives up nothing. Lewis even tries some old fashioned traps to get him and Arthur keeps just skirting them (Norman is busy trying to find Mordred and realizes none of this)

Arthur, meanwhile, has a lot of concerns about a lot of things. In addition to this new vigilante who seems to have good motivations but is far too ruthless, Lewis is mad at him, and he doesn’t know why. Lewis won’t explain when asked and he’s angry and moody all the time. He’s also asking all these strange questions about magic and old gods and …oh fuck Lewis is in a cult.

So in addition to normal high school life and Spidermanning, Arthur is trying to locate this cult so he can free his friend. He considers asking Vivi or Ghost but once again decides not to. Lewis seems to get even more angry if he tries to get Vivi alone and Ghost might decide to mindscrew every member of the cult, including Lewis! He’s on his own.

This comes to a head when Mordred thinks it’s been just enough time that Arthur might be getting over Lewis’s death. He confronts him in a park, where he’s supposed to be meeting Lewis and Vivi, wearing a black Spiderman outfit.

Mordred: You seem less grief stricken than I expected

Arthur: Why would I be grieving?

Mordred: Dude, that’s cold even for me

At this point Arthur considers himself pretty good at fighting, but that’s mostly due to his enhanced abilities and spider sense. Suddenly against an opponent with the same stabilizes who doesn’t rigger his precog Arthur is vulnerable and terrified. He manages a  quick text to the group chat that there is a crazy fake Spiderman trying to kill him and not to come

Vivi: No one tries to kill my friend Lewis: NO ONE KILLS ARTHUR BUT ME

Lewis gets there first. And sees red. Not only is this guy trying to steal his revenge, but he’s dressed up like an emo version of someone Lewis really respects. He goes to help Arthur and the black Spiderman freezes, while results in Arthur accidentally pulling his mask off trying to get him in a headlock. And neither he nor Lewis know how to react to the fact that it’s Arthur’s face under there. And while they’re still trying to parse that, Mordred has a blue screen of his own. “But I killed you!” At which point some things become crystal clear to Lewis 1)There are two Arthurs 2) His friend was completely and totally innocent the whole time and 3)The guy who tried to kill him is right there

And suddenly Lewis is fire. Mordred doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows Lewis is still the weak spot of the two he hates the most and tries to attack him rather than Arthur. Lewis is going to take him head on but is suddenly pulled out of the way by Arthur…who’s using web slingers They simultaneous decide this conversation can wait. They gotta deal with Mordred. None of Arthur’s usual techniques work on him and he’s very good at dodging Lewis’s fire and not looking Lewis in the eyes for a Penance Stare.  

Suddenly the fight is interrupted by Vivi running to them and screaming ATTACK! Promptly followed by every squirrel in the park jumping Mordred at once.  Sensing danger and inhuman dodging ability doesn’t help when the danger is everywhere and there’s nowhere else to dodge to. So Mordred flees and Vivi is surrounded by squirrels, Arthur’s standing sideways on a tree branch, and Lewis’s heads on fire Vivi: I think we all have some explaining to do

Then a man with red and black hair wearing small yellow glasses “Yukino Viviane what in the nine realms were you thinki….” Then he notices Lewis “YOU!”

Vivi: (winces) And apparently not just to each other

So it turns out this guy, Mystery, is the Sorcerer Supreme of their world. Also Vivi’s magic bound godfather. He’s started a program helping supernatural beings blend in and live amongst normal humans (something as a kitsune he has a vested interest in). Vivi is one of those, she’s squirrel yokai (or half, still deciding). He does a pretty good job making sure there are no upsets between the arcane and mundane until someone showed up out of nowhere with his head on fire throwing around retribution spells.” He gives Arthur a gimlet eye, but Arthur just ‘Nope, I’m a mutant.“ He’s still watching him.

Lewis tentatively suggests they maybe do this somewhere less public, which Mystery eagerly agrees with. Arthur volunteers his house. Lewis: But what about your parents? When are they going to get home? Arthur: Not anytime soon

And while they’re on their way there, it really starts sinking in for Lewis that he has really been screwing the pooch. He’s spent all this time hating Arthur and trying to get his revenge on him, and Arthur was completely innocent the whole time. Hell, Arthur’s been using his spare time to help other people. (Also the realization of ‘if Arthur didn’t have superpowers, I would have murdered my best friend for no reason’ hits him like a punch in the gut)

It gets even worse when they get to the Kingsmen house and Vivi kinda pulls him aside. “Lewis…does it look like anyone else lives here to you?” Because no. No it doesn’t. “Arthur, when are your parents going to be here?” * shrugs* “Dunno, not anytime soon.” “Okay, let me rephrase. Arthur, when’s the last time either of your parents were here?” Arthur winced, then sighed. “The weekend after Uncle Lance got hurt.”

Months. Arthur had been living a double life alone in his house for months and they never knew.To be fair, he had ready made excuses built in. He never had them over, but it made sense because he famously did no get along with either of his parents. He wouldn’t spend any more time than absolutely necessary alone with them. Also why he would be out at odd hours with his superheroing. Mystery kinda explains the 'we’re trying to keep magic under wraps’. Lewis is “I didn’t know, and honestly everyone seems to think I’m a meta human’ and Vivi’s just 'BTW You’ve been fighting crime together without me how dare!’ 'We didn’t exactly know we were fighting crime with each other, Vi’ 'Oh Spirits you’re not going to get involved in this madness too?’ 'You bet I am’

So Vivi joins the team and Mystery decides to have an overseer role, trying to be strict, but the kids are growing on him. And this insane superhero thing seems to actually be a good idea. It’s a way that supernaturals have a way to act as their true selves and doesn’t even expose them as decades of comics means people don’t associate hidden worlds of magic with superheroes. It becomes a program he can institute on a wide scale. But his favorite place is with these three children. He’s known Vivi since she was a child and has helped her family ( a mix of squirrel youkai and yuki no onna) integrate with humans. And Lewis needs a lot of help suddenly going from normal human to magical. Arthur even comes with a certain relief of not needing to intercede on his behalf and he’s not technically  Mystery’s charge (Mystery tends to intercede on his behalf anyway)

And for a while it goes well. Then Mordred comes back

And it turns out his instability wasn’t just mental. His body has degraded. He’s become emaciated with green skin and eyes and black scelra. The mutation that gave him and Arthur their spider powers has also gotten a bit out of control. His limbs and digits have elongated and he’s grown extra eyes (and maybe limbs, still deciding, but if so I’m thinking an extra set of arms that split off from his and maybe some spindly spider legs coming out of his torso). There is no way he’s getting mistaken for Arthur anymore. He’s also ditched the black spider suit since it no longer fits. Between the squirrels and fire, Mordred has decided that Norman is the softer target and comes back for him. He attacks him and is interrupted by security. Mordred engages them until one declares Norman is dead, at which part he flees gleefully. This wasn’t true, but the guard realized Mordred was an assassin and figured he wouldn’t try to finish the job if he thought it was finished. Norman was taken to a secret location while they tried to save his life, while maintaining the fiction he’s dead. And that opens a can of worms no one was expecting. Because Norman’s will get’s executed and aside from some charitable donations he leaves everything to his only living relative. His son Lewis

So yeah. That’s how Lewis find out Norman is his father, after he’s been killed by a green goblin-like creature. (You see what i did there)

And Lewis has NO idea how to handle pretty much any of this.

Thankfully the lawyer executing the will is loyal to the Osborn family, and thus now to Lewis. Lewis recruits his parents and friends to try and work this out, and they finalize on an idea. They release the information that Norman had a secret son he left everything too, but as the child is still underage he’s going to remain unidentified until he’s old enough to take the helm, with the board running things until then and the lawyer acting as a proxy.There’s actually a trap in this for the board. First of all, by emphasizing Lewis as Norman’s 'child’  they imply he’s much younger than his 15 years and not going to appear for a long time. Meanwhile they’re watching the board, seeing who acts well and who’s trying to seize power.

Lewis is trying to get a crash course in business and all of them are helping him, until Norman recovers enough to be aware and finds out that his will was executed. So now Lewis knows and he has to face his son.

Lewis is MORE than relieved he no longer has to one day run Oscorp, but not sure how he feels about his bio dad who knew he existed but stayed away. Norman ends up being more honest than he liked, admitting his resentment towards his own father and being afraid he’s fall into those habits. "What could I give you? Material things. certainly. A level of luxury beyond your dreams. But could I give you a parent who was home for dinner every night? One who was available to help you with your homework? Could I be sure I would leave my ruthless behavior in the board room and never bring it home? Can I guarantee I’d never become my own father? You were loved. You were happy. You were better off.”

Of course it’s not that simple for Norman. Lewis may be uncertain, but Mr. and Mrs. Chef Pepper are clear in that Norman has to prove himself, and not in a  way that involves money at all. If he wants to be in Lewis’s life, he needs to put in time and get to know his son and let his son known him. Or else just stay away and leave Lewis alone.

In addition to spending time with Lewis, he starts working on creating a better image of himself for Lewis. It helps that he’s made his decision on what to do with his son’s being best friends with Spiderman. Namely it’s the realization that Spiderman is a strictly local hero and Oscorp is Global. Any illegal activity has been moved far away

Ironically Norman works so hard to seem like a better person so Lewis will like his he actually starting to become a better person, even slowly cutting out all activity not above board. He’s not sure how to take that

Random Things:

Vivi’s glasses are a magical trinket that make her look like a normal human and disassociates the her with the idea of being supernatural. She also has the single best information network in the city from every single squirrel being loyal to her. This makes her unparalleled at finding things. Her godfather is also teaching her spellcraft.

Mystery does the dissociation effect with Lewis’s locket, though thus far no one associated the kind and gentle Lewis with the ruthless Ghost. Lewis also discovers much later his powers can also heal if used on a good person.

The first gizmo Arthur added to the suit was a voice changer. He’s also built camera’s in the eyes so he can record things for evidence.

Arthur ends up helping Ironman at some point, including jury rigging part of the suit. Tony looks into him and Irondad commences.

Norman does NOT know Vivi and Lewis are Squirrel Girl and Ghost because of the disassociation trinkets.

If and when lance wakes up, it’s gonna take hi all of five minutes to figure out who Spiderman is.

Chloe is…well no one knows what Chloe is, but she’s a supernatural with a special gift for fabric. She ends up remaking all their costumes.

[azems-familiar]

AO3 link

"Can you just- for a minute, can you pretend that I mean something to you?'

this. uhhhhhh. got a LOT longer than i intended it to, and also had a lot less angst, though if you consider the other pov there is definitely so much more. and also with literally all the context. anyway. have 5.6k words of emetraha, because i have brainrot and the prompt worked so well for them i had to choose between multiple options.

The Exarch being away is the last thing Emet-Selch expects when he arrives at the Crystarium for their usual discussion and debate over tea. The man is bound to the Tower; while he can leave, it weakens him, and thus in all the time Emet-Selch has known him he has only left Lakeland’s borders on the rare occasion, usually to treat with Eulmore (prior to Vauthry’s birth, of course) or in the event of some emergency. According to the Captain of the Guard, however (who had seemed faintly amused when he asked as to the Exarch’s whereabouts), he left the Crystarium three days ago to make the trek to Rak’tika to meet with the Night’s Blessed. The matter of this meeting, she informs Emet-Selch, is something the Exarch himself can decide whether or not to disclose to a non-citizen, and he is not expected to return for another four days, but she can offer Emet-Selch the approximate location of his destination, should he so desire to bother their leader directly.

He does, in fact, so desire. The endless waiting is the most intolerable part of any Rejoining, and while the millennia have gotten him quite accustomed to patience, he is terribly bored, and there is only so much he can do. Should he push the shard too quickly, the Light could consume it entirely before the Source is prepared, leaving a hollow void as useless as the Thirteenth - and Emet-Selch has no intention of repeating Igeyorhm’s mistakes. Thus the necessity of filling his time with activity unrelated to his plotting - and the draw of his weekly meetings with the Exarch. It has been some time since he sparred with someone near his equal in intellect, after all.

Of all places near a Warden, Rak’tika is less burdensome than others; beneath the boughs the shadows are deep enough to provide some measure of relief from the omnipresent Light and its burn. Thus Emet-Selch does not particularly mind teleporting to a location just outside the Night’s Blessed’s fort and asking after the Exarch once again from their sentries. What he does mind is being informed that the Exarch is late and has yet to arrive, and that they’re considering sending scouts out to search for him if he does not arrive within another few hours.

Emet-Selch sighs. Their scouts are near-guaranteed to be ineffective fools, and he is admittedly curious as to what could delay the Exarch, which means the solution, while distasteful, is an obvious one. “No need,” he informs the sentry, a slight bite to the words. “I will find him myself.”

Truly, how frustrating. And all because he desired a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation.

With the star as shattered as it is, his sight is without equal, and though the presence of the Light somewhat hinders him it takes very little effort all the same to find a shadow to hide in and look into the aether, with a range that far outstrips his usual vision. There’s a glaring brilliance in the sky that reflects off the currents in the ground and air, fragmenting his sight and making it difficult to pick out specifics, but after a moment of squinting against it he catches a hint of the Exarch’s familiar aether, far away and fluctuating with some kind of stress. It could simply be the knowledge that he is late for his meeting, Emet-Selch allows, but there is something…a greater concentration of Light around him. Sin eaters, perhaps? It would be unfortunate indeed were the great Crystal Exarch to be so waylaid.

…Emet-Selch has yet to have an opportunity to see the man in combat. His skills as a mage are whispered about in the Crystarium, but much of what he has accomplished can easily be attributed to his command over the Tower - which, Emet-Selch has to admit, does make him a mage of some high caliber. The Exarch is capable of directing the Tower to perform feats Emet-Selch had not expected from a Sundered soul, and his attempts at turning Allag’s voidgate technology into a summoning spell speak to his grasp on the theoretical. Combat magic, however, is an entirely different beast, and Emet-Selch is curious. And perhaps any observations he might make could unlock some of those secrets the Exarch so furiously guards.

Thus decided, he spirits himself away through the shadows, off in the Exarch’s direction. It takes four attempts for him to actually reach the man; when he finally does, he steps out of the rift into the scene of a small massacre. An overturned wagon lays sprawled across the major path through the Greatwood, crates of supplies and possessions scattered about, some torn open. Several bodies, viis all, have been flung about, deep wounds across multiple of them, marked by claws and swords, no life left in them whatsoever, and scorch marks litter the ground, patches of grass smoldering still. Smoke is heavy in the air, smoke and the spark of fading Light aether and the metallic tang of blood, a rather unsavory pall, and without any wind there is nothing to disperse it.

Emet-Selch arrives just in time to watch the Exarch, standing in the middle of the carnage, gesture with his staff and send a bolt of flame through the last remaining sin eater.

For all that he makes a heroic figure, robes bright and staff gleaming, his body language is anything but. His shoulders are tense and hunched, his fingers too-tight around his staff, his skin pale where it is visible, his legs trembling slightly. And curled against his side, held there by his flesh-and-blood arm, is a tiny viis child with wavy grey hair and small ears pressed flat against the sides of her head, her fists clinging to the Exarch’s robe, an expression on her face that is the kind of fear that has passed through the event horizon of utter terror and morphed into stillness again. Blood streaks her cheek and one arm - a gash in her forehead, another on her bicep. From her size she cannot be any older than three or four years.

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch murmurs, sweeping his eyes over the bodies - yes, that one, with the similarly-pale hair, bears enough resemblance it could be her mother. “So it was sin eaters that delayed you. I wonder, did you involve yourself before or after you knew the child yet lived?”

He takes a few steps out from behind the tree he’d teleported up against, carefully skirting the edges of the Light dappling the ground, bringing him within two or three yalms of the Exarch, though he has to pick his way around the detritus of this family’s existence as he does. The girl’s eyes snap to him as he does, but she doesn’t move except to lean her cheek against the Exarch’s shoulder. There is a rather worrying glassiness in her gaze, if he were to concern himself with such things.

The Exarch’s breaths are coming in short, shallow pants, he notices absently. Pain? “...before,” and the man’s voice is tight, raspy. Emet-Selch knows him well enough by now to know when it is in fact pain that burdens him, and this- despite his lack of visible injury, he must have put himself in harm’s way. “I would not chance passing by if someone yet lived and abandon them to such a fate.” He breathes out, shakily, and returns his staff to his back, brushing his crystal hand gently over the girl’s hair. “...you’re safe for now, little one.”

The child does not respond.

“I believe she may have a head injury,” Emet-Selch informs the Exarch, though he has no particular reason to do so. Why should he care if a single Sundered child lives or dies? And yet…it would be too easy to recall the terrified children on the streets of Amaurot, fleeing the beasts they could not contain. “You may wish to tend to it, should you desire her survival. Considering your boundless compassion for these poor creatures you consider mankind, I assume you do.”

He paces a few more steps away and crouches down to absently rifle through one of the crates - dried fruits and meats, a sack of nuts, a small store of root vegetables, nothing particularly interesting. Behind him he can hear the Exarch murmuring a quiet thank you before the aether ripples with the telltale shimmer of a healing spell; Emet-Selch does not watch, just moves on to investigate the rest of the supplies, half out of curiosity and half because it gives him something to do while he waits. Perhaps the Exarch will be more inclined to conversation once the child has been seen to and calmed.

Perhaps, Emet-Selch considers, he ought to offer the Exarch healing for whatever injuries he bears - but he has never been much of a healer, and there is a difference between providing some oblique aid to his enemy that they may continue their game and directly intervening in affairs that could hinder the Rejoining. The Exarch may be the most intriguing and capable enemy he has had the chance to face in quite some time, but he still stands solidly against the Ardor, and he has never entertained the delusion that the Exarch would set aside their enmity to join with him, no matter that he would make such an excellent addition to their cause. No matter that Emet-Selch has of late found himself wondering more and more what the Exarch would be like, were he Unsundered, soul as bright as it should be. As clever as he is now, Emet-Selch can only imagine what sort of mind he would have were the star whole - enough intelligence to rival Azem and their greatest researchers, he would think.

…it is a futile thought, he knows. But he does not intend to forget the soft rose color of the Exarch’s soul, and should he chance to see it again, when he and his brethren have succeeded- well.

For a few moments, the only sounds are Emet-Selch’s footsteps and quiet rummaging and the Exarch’s breathing, still too harsh and short. With little left to investigate, he eventually stands and stretches absently, turning back to the Exarch - as he watches the man finishes casting another healing spell and the last of the wounds across the girl’s skin close and fade. Not something one with no healing training whatsoever could accomplish, and Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, musing. His power comes from the Tower, of course, but the knowledge of how to use it - perhaps it was found in the archives. The Exarch does seem to have few hobbies beyond studying and assisting his people.

Before he can question the Exarch, however, there’s a rustling of brush, the sound of wings on the air, and four middling-sized eaters wander out onto the path, drawn straight towards the Exarch and his living aether - and perhaps that would mean little at all, but one of the large winged eaters, bearing sword and shield and the ability to force a transformation, Light pulsing through its white-marble body in waves, descends from the sky, sword held in front of it and gilt wings spread to their fullest extent. The Exarch spits a curse, drawing his staff once again, and sets his feet, and the little girl whimpers and closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch leans against the overturned wagon and watches, untouched by the eaters. Their Light is antithetical to his Darkness, indeed, the brush of it burns like hot oil, but so too is his Darkness more than enough to quench their Light, and they have the intelligence to know his aether would not sate their hunger. He is of no danger as long as he does not come face-to-face with a Lightwarden.

The Exarch does not have that same assurance, and the tension in the corners of his mouth, his pursed lips, speak to his own knowledge of such. But Emet-Selch wishes to observe, and he would truly be a fool were he to intervene now, when this will give him an excellent view of how his enemy handles being pressed and when actively fighting back against the Light, within the Light, would exhaust him far more than he is willing to extend himself for a Sundered soul who would oppose the Ardor.

The Exarch takes three steps back, dodging clawed swipes from two of the lesser eaters, and casts a spell - ice that freezes one of the eaters in place, something far less intensive than the fire he had been calling moments ago. The trembling in his muscles is more pronounced now, as is the sweat beading on his plaster-pale skin, and Emet-Selch takes a step of his own forward despite himself, unease stirring low in his gut. The Exarch is meant to be his opponent in the long game, not to get himself killed by sin eaters over a mere child unlikely to survive to adulthood before the shard is lost-

The greater eater swings its sword in a wide, sweeping motion, and the Exarch grits his teeth and raises his staff, summoning a shimmering barrier into existence around him, a spell clearly adapted from the Allagan defense technology he uses to defend the Crystarium. An impressive display of skill - and though the lesser eaters throw themselves at it, it continues to hold, even as the Exarch shifts and begins to mutter a teleportation incantation under his breath, gathering his aether to spirit himself and the child away. A wise decision, in the face of this threat, Emet-Selch thinks, though it leaves the eaters free to advance on the nearby village. The Exarch’s vaunted compassion, it seems, does not extend to risking his own life.

The greater eater floats back a couple of fulms, raises its sword again, and with little fanfare slices the blade through the air again - and this time, a bright bolt of Light sears forward off it, sharp enough Emet-Selch is momentarily dazed, his sight vaguely scorched by the intensity. The Exarch’s barrier distorts, twists, and collapses in on itself in a rush of aether, the distraction enough to break his teleportation spell before he can execute it, and though the lesser eaters hiss in something that approximates joy, they do not move. Instead they leave it to their seeming commander to lunge forward with a blinding rush, sword held at the ready.

The girl screams, terror so all-consuming Emet-Selch can nearly feel it. Something cracks-

A sound claws itself free from the Exarch’s throat that sounds nearly inhuman. Emet-Selch blinks, then blinks again, and - the Exarch has thrown his crystal arm, claimed by the Tower, between the eater’s sword and the girl he carries, and the tip of the blade is embedded in the sapphire crystal, leaving fissures spreading up the arm from the point of impact and a deep gouge in the flat of his arm just above his wrist. Emet-Selch sucks in a breath despite himself, because the Exarch may be tied to the Tower but that does not mean he cannot feel pain, and the force it would take to shatter the parts of him he has given over-

“Emet-Selch.” The Exarch’s voice is hoarse to the point of near-unrecognizability, taut with pain and desperation, stumbling along the edge of begging. He has never, ever spoken such in Emet-Selch’s presence. “Can you just- for just one moment, will you please pretend that I mean something to you?”

For- for some reason, Emet-Selch feels the words like an impact hard enough to steal the air from his lungs, like a constriction around his throat, like the knife of his loneliness he has lived with for so long has not only driven between his ribs but twisted. The eater draws its sword back once again, raising it for the kill - or to attempt to turn both man and child, more like. He thinks of- afternoons spent deep in debate over the minutiae of the Tower’s function and the technology the Crystarium survives on, Allag’s history and the actions of Emet-Selch’s own order. Of the lounge they typically take their tea in and how it has been Umbrally-aligned for decades, despite the extra drain that would put on the Tower’s resources in this climate. Of how eager the Exarch is to present Emet-Selch with new volumes of theater, whenever one of his people manages to find or pen one. Of the indisputable fact that this enmity between them, this game they play, has caught and held his attention in a way nothing has since his son died and he once again gave up on the Sundered entirely.

…he is here, in this Light-suffused forest, is he not?

Pretend that I mean something to you.

That is truly not so difficult, in the grand scheme of things. The Exarch yet has secrets Emet-Selch has not divined, after all, and it would be a shame to strike him from the game board before they are revealed.

In the breath between heartbeats, Emet-Selch steps through the rift and puts himself neatly between the eaters and the Exarch. A simple twist of his will brings up an unwavering shield of translucent violet - the greater eater’s sword bounces harmlessly off it, the lesser eaters’ claws are a barely-noticeable scratching, and he could maintain this indefinitely, as long as no great amount of Light was brought to bear against it or him, but considering the sound of the Exarch’s ragged breathing and the quiet, poorly-stifled noises of pain, he doubts the man has the focus to teleport at the moment, and- well. Perhaps he finds himself annoyed, and the loss of five eaters will hardly matter as long as the Wardens remain. To truly fight back will drain him, yes, but it is difficult to care.

He musters his aether against the heavy, suffocating Light, lifts his hand, and snaps his fingers.

It’s an easy visualization. Large, dagger-shaped blades of shadow leap forth from him and slam into the eaters, then burst in a rush of Dark aether that instantly vaporizes the lesser eaters and sends their commander crumpling to the ground, sword and shield both falling from its hands and fading into the aether. Emet-Selch takes a step forward, extends his hand, and summons a bolt of Darkness to send directly at its chest, and that last pulse of aether is enough to dissipate it as well - for which he is grateful, because the moment he drops his hand and lets go of the shield he can feel the drain, can feel the Light on the back of his neck, as hot as the desert sun, burning his bones. 

Heavens. The things he does for-

Emet-Selch shakes his head, rubs at his temples, and breathes through the discomfort. Brushes invisible dust from his palms. Turns back to the Exarch and crosses the space between them to take the man’s crystal arm in his hands, shifting his vision to that second sight to peer at the aether currents within. They’re pale and distorted, entirely broken wherever the cracks have spread, and he grimaces at the sight, absently running one finger carefully over the edge of the gouge where the blade impacted.

“This will be difficult to mend, Exarch,” he murmurs, low. “You have done a great deal of damage to your aether.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the child.”

The girl is crying, tiny little hiccups muffled by the Exarch’s robe, but she doesn’t fight back when he hands her over, and Emet-Selch takes her carefully in his arms and settles her against his hip, the motion familiar. Relieved thusly of his burden, the Exarch seems to- shrink, almost, resignation and exhaustion and pain weighing him down until he is but a fraction of the man Emet-Selch knows. “...if you decide our enmity ends here-” he starts, his voice rough with emotion and agony, “at the least take her to the Crystarium, so she can live what life she has left.”

For a moment, Emet-Selch ignores him entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs to the girl instead, drawing on old memories of the mortal children he’s raised - both those he loved and those he did not - of children from long-ago Amaurot which he had on occasion been made to entertain. He had not minded, in truth; they had been discussing having children of their own, once. He lifts his free hand to gently stroke through her hair and over her ears, swaying her back and forth and humming snatches of an ancient lullaby until she quiets, the sniffles fading into shaky breaths. Only then does he carefully cast the lightest of sleep spells over her small frame - she seems unharmed, between the Exarch’s healing and protection, but distress will only keep her compliant for so long, and better to deliver her into the hands of her people docile than clinging to an injured man - or worse, him.

He does not- care about one lone child. He does not. The Exarch merely asked him to pretend, and thus he shall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he finally says, directed at the Exarch, and heaves a sigh, turning to look at the other man again. “Come, then. There is little I can do for your physical injuries - I leave the frailties of your mortal flesh in the hands of your fellow mortals - but I believe I can do something to mend your arm, if only in part. But make no mistake; you will owe me for this.”

The Exarch laughs, pained and cracked, wincing and curling forward over his ribs as he does, the breath wheezing out of him. “...I shall have to break out my stash of emergency plays from Voeburt, then,” he manages after a moment, and Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows.

“You have plays from Voeburt?” he asks, torn between impressed and irritated that the man has never mentioned this before - and then he shakes himself. This is hardly the time. “Never mind that, I am not so easily distracted by theater as you believe me to be. A favor, Exarch, though I will allow you this: as I did not endanger mine own people in this intervention, neither will I ask you to risk yours. Now come with me before you collapse. I have no desire to be the target of your head chirurgeon’s ire when your heroic, self-sacrificial bent is certainly no fault of mine.”

“...then it must be before the endgame, I would think…” the Exarch rasps out, leaning heavily against his staff and taking a few shaking steps. “I look forward to seeing what you will demand of me. And to watching the chirurgeons yell at you shortly.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting, though he would dearly like to. Instead he shifts the girl in his arms to free one hand, reaches out, and wraps his hand around the Exarch’s upper arm - his flesh-and-blood one - and unceremoniously yanks all three of them through a rather rough teleport, which he would feel slightly bad about were he not annoyed. The moment they appear in the Crystarium’s infirmary, the Exarch is staggering sideways into his chest, and it is a sign of his exhaustion more than anything else that he simply stays there, trembling and wan, leaning heavily with his face tucked against Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

Emet-Selch lets him, and does not think about why.

The head chirurgeon, as it turns out, does not yell at him, though only because of the sleeping child in his arms. Instead she scolds both of them in a furious but low voice before guiding them to one of the few private rooms and immediately fussing over the Exarch; another one of the infirmary’s staff comes to relieve Emet-Selch of the child, whose name, according to the Exarch, is Lyna. Emet-Selch accompanies them to put her to bed in another room where they can examine her, and he suggests with an idleness he doesn’t quite feel that they leave her in the care of the Exarch, once he is fit for it. She is a terrified child, after all, and she will want the familiar. Beyond that, she is likely to consider the man who saved her life as safe, a courtesy he doubts she will be so willing to give strangers.

The chirurgeons seem surprised, but they do not disagree, and he is quite satisfied with that. The girl thus dealt with, he returns to find the Exarch with some faint color returned to his cheeks, enduring a lecture from his healer about what sorts of movements and magical exertions he’s allowed while his ribs and aether reserves recover. It is not a lecture Emet-Selch has been on the receiving side of in quite some time, and for that he is quite grateful. Eventually, however, the Exarch is free, and Emet-Selch convinces him to return straight to the Tower rather than checking in on Lyna mostly by not giving him a choice in the matter, a quite useful and effective strategy. The Exarch is too exhausted, it seems, to truly argue back.

It is not until they are ensconced in the Umbrally-aligned lounge - which finally eases the strain of holding his essence together under the Light’s endless onslaught, given the energy he’d expended - and the Exarch is seated on the couch that Emet-Selch sighs. “Well, very well then, let us get this supremely unpleasant business over with. I do not ask you to trust me, merely that you do not intervene; if this does not work as I intend I will be the one most suited to undoing it, and should you distract me in the moment of casting I cannot predict what might occur. It takes only a passing thought to disrupt this magic.”

“...might I know what it is you’re doing?” the Exarch asks as he drops down to sit next to him on the couch. Even with the cowl hiding most of his face, he is clearly exhausted beyond belief and still in no small amount of pain. His voice is thin and strained, wavering. 

Emet-Selch takes his crystal arm into his lap, running his fingers over its surface, carefully tracing the bumps and textured surface, bringing to mind the complex web of aether currents the Exarch has over many years bored into the crystal. He thinks of patterns and fractals and facets, the structure of crystals, the wholeness of the arm itself, and he draws ever-so-slightly on the Lifestream itself, unwilling to pour his own Dark-aspected aether into this. “Weaving the fabric of reality,” he murmurs, only half-paying attention to the words, eyes falling closed. Creation without a set concept is a risk, especially without an encyclopedic knowledge of that which one wishes to create, but beyond the cool weight of the crystal in his lap right now there are things Emet-Selch knows that will make up for the lack.

He knows the way the Exarch moves - the way he writes, the way he gestures, the way his fingers curl around a mug of tea or a pen or an Allagan relic. He knows the gentleness this arm is capable of, as evidenced by how tenderly he’d healed Lyna; he knows, too, the strength in it, as unyielding as the stone it is made of. Near seven decades he has watched this Exarch, has seen the transformation progress as the Tower takes its due for the magicks he wields, and beyond all academic knowledge he knows the essence of the man in front of him. They are but two sides of the same coin, after all, bound by duty to be in opposition and yet terribly alike, he and the Crystal Exarch.

The power of the Lifestream is a bright, raging thing, a river even he, with his rare gift of control over its eddies, only skims the surface of unless he has no other choice. He lets the pulse of life itself swirl around him, pool beneath his hands, and he holds the fullness of his understanding of this broken limb in his mind and snaps his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, exhaling slowly to let the energies of the Lifestream fade away, the Exarch’s arm is whole and unbroken once more, only a faint cluster of hairline cracks remaining where the worst of the breakage had been. For a moment he pays them no mind - he had not expected the magic to entirely mend the arm, after all, considering he was treading the line between working from a concept and working from belief - instead focusing to once again study the aether. The Exarch’s exhaustion means the flow of aether through his arm is sluggish at best, not ideal for confirming the recreation worked correctly, and- well. Emet-Selch has done this once before, has he not?

He pours a small fraction of his own aether into the man’s arm, watching as it bolsters the flow - there are a few minor hiccups but with some time those will, he hopes, smooth out - and the Exarch lets out a heavy sigh of relief and slumps sideways, tension leaving his body in a rush as he drops his head to rest against Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Foolish of him, Emet-Selch thinks, to let his guard down so around an enemy, whether they have been playing this game for decades or no. He sweeps one thumb absently back and forth across the now-smooth crystal, shifting slightly to let the Exarch’s warm weight settle more comfortably against his side, and shakes his head, reaching one hand up to carefully adjust the Exarch’s cowl before it can slide too far back from his face.

Perhaps it is the state he is in, pushing him to think so little of being vulnerable. It would be unsporting to take advantage of it.

For a few moments there is silence. Emet-Selch lets his aether settle and taper when the Exarch finally stirs again - which is good, he had begun to worry if the man was falling asleep - and sighs once more. He does not straighten, but he does extend his arm and twist it carefully back and forth, testing. Most of the motion is smooth, but his wrist hitches when he rotates it, and Emet-Selch frowns.

Ah, of course. The remaining cracks will need to be filled in if they are to be kept from causing problems. He looks more closely at them, admittedly curious - it is strange, as much as he had not expected the magic to fully succeed, for it to work as cleanly as it had only to leave such a small blemish behind - only for a cold weight to settle low in his stomach as he does.

Because he recognizes the pattern. The lines of it are thin and simplistic, barely visible against the veining, but there all the same - a constellation cut into crystal with such perfect precision it cannot be anything but a mark.

A constellation. His constellation, the sign of his seat.

Perhaps his mind had wandered during the creation after all.

He exhales heavily through his nose, swallows, and does not say a word, and the Exarch must be too tired to notice, because he simply rubs his flesh hand over the constellation and stays tilted into Emet-Selch’s side. “...thank you for this kindness, Emet-Selch,” he says very softly, his voice still somewhat raw but much of the pained tension from earlier missing.

“It was not a kindness,” Emet-Selch reminds him pointedly. They are enemies; it would not do for the Exarch to forget such, not when they yet have all the endgame to play, and he remains deeply curious how the Exarch intends to thwart his plans. “I will expect you to repay the favor when I ask for it, Exarch. You have ever kept your promises. ‘Twould be a shame indeed for that to change now.”

“I do not intend to let my debts go unpaid, or any kindnesses go unanswered, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch answers in a similarly deliberate tone. “Regardless of which they were meant as. But this was a kindness even if you did not intend it to be such - I would have been in pain for the rest of my life without your intervention.” This, Emet-Selch knows to be true - there would have been no other way of healing or regenerating the crystal without creation magicks, and thus the wound would simply have remained, and while it would not have killed the Exarch it would have always been a hindrance. “So- thank you.”

…if the Exarch wishes to think of it as a kindness, then Emet-Selch supposes there is little harm in allowing him to. Perhaps he can leverage it for some kind of knowledge or further concession later on. When playing such a tense game against such a clever and focused foe, with the eighth Rejoining as the stakes, he would be a fool to discard any potential advantage.

(Even if he is only doing what the Exarch asked of him. Pretend that I mean something to you. How could he act any other way, in the face of such a plea? It does not mean anything - not for them, not for his purpose here, not for his duty.

Perhaps, if he reminds himself enough times, he will not risk forgetting that truth.)

His people, his city, and his star hang in the balance, after all.

But for the moment, he can allow the Exarch to remain leaning against his side, a warmth that eases the ever-present ache of grief and loneliness in his chest, and perhaps the Exarch is not the only one who would like to pretend.

[fatal-rewrites-warriors]

okay for every note on this post i'll write 100 words on the rewrite

your prize for adding notes to this post? i'll post occasional excerpts as i go

[dangerscully]

covid finally got me a couple of weeks back after two years of somehow successfully dodging it.

i had a pretty mild case (about 36 hours of a fever and body aches which were all kept at bay easily with ibuprofen, and i had a cough for about 5 days).

however, it’s been a week and a half since i tested negative and this week has been nothing but fatigue.

i’m waking up every morning feeling like i ran a marathon the previous day, even if all i did was go to the supermarket to do a weekly shop, or drive to see a friend, or do a non-physically demanding job. i feel like i’m constantly walking upstream in waist deep water with non-functional muscles. oh and also my limbs are made entirely of jelly.

it’s not fun.

[maryellencarter]

Look, at minimum, can y'all at least put some kind of blockable text or tag on your picture posts about the Queen dying? Some of us are still trying to curate our experience here

[wildstar25]

alt. shots!! very important hand holding <33

MiqoMarch Day 22 - Fav. Zone

"The sand's a bit different from that of my isle in the Southern Sea, as is the rock, and some of the grasses. Even still I catch myself feeling nostalgic for that place whenever I come to the Cieldalaes. It's a little strange considering I much prefer my life now to how it was back then. Shtola and Raha both have assured me it's for the best that I have this sanctuary. They believe I aught to have somewhere where being the warrior of light is of no consequence. Where those pressures I place on myself get washed away in the first waves to lap at my feet. They're probably right (they usually are) ... but I'd still wager they more so enjoy having a tropical location to escape to over the colder weekends in Old Sharlayan. I know I sure do."

[breadedsinner]

Two weeks

[thefandomcassandra]

Okay time for images lol. I've ommitted a couple duplicate frames (like the two shots of Ken's spear with more and more Shadow goop and the second shot of Ken against the moon and the one where Ken is blurred in the bg to draw attention to Aki and Shinji in the foreground) for posterity's sake more than anything.

Some director's cut stuff about these shots in particular:

choosing to adhere to a limited monochromatic pallet was fun because I was using off-white and off-black as my bases, which meant that if I used pure white and pure black (like for the Shadow goop or the firing of the Evoker) it was jarring.

drawing Tartarus was a five hour adventure and I don't regret it because LOOK AT IT. Looks amazing asf. I'm proud of me. It's the first of many really complex shots I tried.

Castor is intentionally just the horse because Ken says "a horse monster" when he's describing what happened to the cop in the Answer flashback scene.

Nemesis earned her name. Her design alone was I want to say seven lineart layers so I could move and adjust things like the buzzsaw or her arms independent of her torso. 0/10 will likely do something as complex as her again.

the shots with the moon in them are the only times I don't have solid backgrounds. To be fair, they're just rings of color blurred out and turned into hard light layers with the opacity turned down, but I wanted to get the feeling of the moonlight turning the sky green in the Dark Hour, yknow?

Nemesis is also the only time I use a low opacity shadow layer. Normally I used the black tone and did harsh shadows but for her design, I needed her to not blend into herself, ergo...

The colors I use are all picked from (and adjusted, in the case of the moon) the game's files. The orange is from Ken's menu art (which is also Nemesis' eye color, funnily enough lmao) while the moon is picked directly from art of the full moon during the Dark Hour.

Happy October 4th. I fucking love Persona 3 so so much (as one does).

(This was like a month of work and I think I won't be doing art again for a week minimum but I did the damn thing, fucked up a single frame, had to RE-RENDER THE VIDEO and then had to RE-UPLOAD IT so I'm feeling some kind of way.)