#Same with malefactor

[phantoms-lair]

ReDMC Snip

Dante did a pass through Devil May Cry. Claire and Sherry were fast asleep in the room Patty used when she stayed over. The Spy woman was pretending to sleep in his bed, but he knew she was awake and cataloguing everything she was seeing. The reporter was passed out on the couch, with the chair that had been set up with a blanket and pillows empty.

Yeah, Dante figured there would be one of the refugees who wasn't getting any sleep. And a lucky guess found him on the roof, staring at the stars in the sky.

"I've been there, you know." Dante offered, leaning against the small planters on the roof wall next to Leon. "I mean, I've always known i wasn't normal, but Dad wasn't in my life, and Mom died before telling me what we were."

"We?" Leon asked. "Had a brother, I mentioned him earlier." "Right. Identical twins, identical DNA. Sorry." Leon shook his head. "It's been a bad few days," Dante said gently. "I know I didn't take the revelation that I was part demon well. Much less finding out my father was a demon of legend." "Were those being you killed also demons?" It didn't take a detective to notice Leon was steering the conversation away from their shared heritage. Well, fine for now. Kid had a lot to redefine in his head, let him do it at his own pace.

"Nah, while the comparison could be made, Malefactors are different. They're basically incarnations of violent deaths. They only manifest in places of mass death and suffering and mindlessly act out the deaths they represent. The ones in the town were death by starvation, that's why they were drawn in by the constantly hungry zombies in Raccoon, and why they ate every living thing in that town. Then the bomb dropping created some Death By Radiation Malefactors, which is why they were moving outward to spread their radiation trail as far as the could. There's also ones based on burning, decapitation, hanging, heck I think I even saw a police brutality one the last time I was in Baltimore-" "But, the leader in the village wasn't mindless. He knew I was related to Sparda. He offered to pay me to take the Wasters." Leon's hand ghosted to the blue crystal dagger on his belt. "He was probably a hybrid." Dante sighed. "Like us?" Leon asked in a small voice. "Not like us," Dante insisted. "We're born what we are, and we choose what to do with it. Malefactors can't...procreate. All they can do is spread death. But sometime a human becomes so obsessed with a particular form of death that they can draw unmanifested Malefactors to them. And when they die their soul mergers with them to create a thinking Malefactor, albeit one who's still obsessed with causing a particular kind of death. Malefactor hybrids may have been human once, but you don't become one without killing a whole lot of people."

Leon was quiet, staring off the roof for a while, then -almost too softly for Dante to hear "Do you ever stop feeling like a monster?" Hoo boy. "It comes and it goes." Dante admitted. "There are times I feel like just another guy - listened to music, enjoying my favorite food at my favorite diner. There are time I'm happy and proud of what I am. My Dad, despite being a fully fledged demon, was a hero. And I can use this strength and power to protect others too. But yeah, there are bad times too. Times when I remember that no matter how much I identify with humans, I'm not one. That I'm a monster."

Leon shrunk in on himself.

"Crap." Dante ran his hand down his face. "I'm screwing this up, aren't I? I'm sorry, Leon. If I could-"

The door to the roof slammed open revealing a slender woman with long blonde hair wearing skintight black leather. "Where is my nibling, Dante‽"

"Christ, Trish. People are sleeping!"

"Don't care. Nibling now." Trish strode over to Leon and without hesitation picked him up under his arms like he was a small child. "Oh yeah, he's yours."

Dante facepalmed. "Leon, meet your Aunt Trish."

"Dante, why did I learn about my nibling from Patty and not you?" Trish demanded, still looking Leon over.

"Godammit Patty," Dante grumbled. "Because I knew you'd burst in here and people are trying to sleep." Dante reiterated. "They just survived Raccoon City and ran straight into a nest of Gorgers. They need some rest."

"The mercenary in your bedroom isn't sleeping," Trish pointed out.

"She doesn't feel safe enough to yet. She will." Dante sighed.

"Will he be staying here?" Trish asked.

"If he wants. He's old enough to decide for himself." Dante pointed out.

"For now yes. I need to understand more about what I am and what I can do." Leon allowed. "I don't know if I'll be staying permanently."

"That's fine. I don't stay here permanently either. But Lady and I will be staying in town for a bit to help with your training. It will be bonding time."

"He's mostly human." Dante reminded her. "You can't go as hard on him as you do one me."

"You're staying here?" A small voice came from the building.

"For now." Leon reiterated.

"Then I'm staying too!" Sherry insisted. "Me and Claire!"

"Claire can't stay." Leon explained gently. "She still needs to find her brother. And I'm staying because I'm not sure how safe it is for me to be around normal humans."

"It should be safe as long as your not fighting them." Trish stated.

"Not sure if that's true." Dante admitted. "Vergil and I caused a lot of damage to the house growing up till we learned some restraint."

"You know restraint?" Trish asked, causing Dante to roll his eyes.

"No!" Sherry insisted. "I just lost my parents! I don't want my new family to be torn apart."

"It's not tearing apart." Dante lowered himself next to her. "You know the room you're staying in? It belongs to a girl a little older than you named Patty Lowell. She was thought to be an orphan when I met her. Her father had died and her Mom was presumed dead. She stayed with me a bit, but eventually I found and rescued her Mom. Thought that would be the end of it. But her Mom? Well, she'd been through a lot as a prisoner and there were times when she knew she couldn't take the best care of her daughter. So she asked if Patty could stay here sometimes."

"So sometimes she lives here, and sometimes she lives with her Mom. But even when she's here, she and her Mom are still family and love each other very much. And if Claire has to find her brother, she's probably going somewhere dangerous. But I can see if Patty wouldn't mind a roommate sometimes, at least until Claire comes back." Dante winked.

"I can stay here with Leon?" Sherry asked excitedly. "And if you're Leon's Dad, does that make you my Grandpa?"

Dante sputtered and Trish cackled.

"I am not becoming a father and grandfather in the same day." Dante declared. He glanced and saw the frozen look on Leon's face. His son seemed a little panicky at the thought too. "Maybe Leon's more of a big brother?"

Sherry looked deep in thought. "I've never had a brother before."

"Well you have one now," Dante ruffled her hair.

[4vlad]

My master

—summary: Alucard, the Vampire who proclaimed himself your servant, drinks your blood for the first time

—warnings: sexual content, master/servant relationship, non-consensual touching, dirty talk, blood drinking, human/vampire relationship

words: 1.468.

The day could not have been more exhausting, you had to work late because your boss didn't have more staff, it left you exhausted, very tired but you were finally able to get out of that hell, the bad thing is that it is very dark and cold at night, the London streets are eerily silent tonight.

"Scared dear?" He says a loud voice to which you scream and turn around throwing your bag towards the person behind you, the man catches the bag quickly "is this for me?" He laughs. "Ah! Alucard! You scared me, don't do that again!" You approach him and take his bag from him, "my sincere apologies, my master" you shudder at the dominant alias, Alucard is a vampire who had proclaimed himself as your servant months ago, you think he is crazy and you have certainly realized that he is, you were not a dominant person, much less someone of authority, you honestly don't know why he says you are his Mistress and you haven't asked him anyway. From the little you know about him is that he is a very strong, self-centered and prankster Vampire, you have even seen him in action a couple of times.

Alucard laughs at your ramblings while you both head to your apartment, even though the walk was long neither of them spoke much, as always Alucard only followed you because according to him it is to "protect you from danger" that you appreciated but you also don't want to abuse his goodness.

You enter your apartment and Alucard follows you by closing the door behind him "I must say that your area is very cozy Mistress" he takes off his hat and glasses before sitting on the sofa that he himself has claimed as "his", you Without giving it much importance go to your room and changes your clothes into more comfortable ones, minutes later You returns with the vampire "...I'm going to cook chicken and French fries, do you want?" You ask the vampire "No, dear human, I'm not a big fan of fried food." You thought for a moment whether to offer him a salad since he was a vampire, but he didn't seem to hate human food either, after all, he's eaten with you a few times, well, when you cook for him. .

You got down to work while the vampire just watched you as always, at first you were afraid of this monster, his energy was and is a little sinister, but over time you began to appreciate his company, he saved you a few times from some malefactors even, their presence still bothers you a little but you put up with it, Alucard has made it clear to you many times that he has no intention of harming you, that he is your servant and is here to obey your orders, whatever you ask of him. He's weird, you think.

In your rambling you get distracted and accidentally cut the skin on your hand, a sharp pain runs through you, thick blood falls from your hand to your elbow, you quickly turn off the stove "Ugh!" You groan in pain as you head towards the dishwasher to wash your wound.

The vampire, with his developed sense of smell, perceived a sweet and tempting aroma in the air, a fragrance that was familiar and irresistible at the same time. It was your smell of blood, a signal to his thirsty nature. However, there was something different about this smell, a subtle but unmistakable touch of sweetness, as if he belonged to a human being with a unique and exquisite blood. Alucard quickly stopped you, he appeared in front of you with a smile from ear to ear "Let me help you with that My Dear Mistress, it will be a pleasure to clean and heal your wound" you got a little scared, you were dripping blood with an extremely violent vampire, danger!

Alucard sensed your fear and quickly calmed you down or at least he tried to. "I won't bite you, I promise, you don't have to be scared, sweet human, I won't hurt you unless you give me those orders," he says with a deep but soft voice at the same time. While the vampire convinces you, he takes you to the couch and sits you on top of his legs. You are embarrassed but you still give in. You raise your hand to let the blood drip into your Vampire's mouth. Alucard opens his mouth, big as a beast, his fangs sharp, each one pointed, he sticks out his long, fat tongue, he is eager, salivating even before you will agree to feed him.

A heavy drop of blood falls on the vampire's tongue, his pupils dilate and his gaze becomes intense, the beautiful beast grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, his tongue was cold, the sensation of the wet and heavy tongue of Alucard slightly relieves your pain, he tastes your entire hand and your fingers, from top to bottom from one side to the other, his tongue moves gently enjoying the taste of your blood, he simply knows that he has never tasted a taste as sweet as it. Yours, it's the first time he's tasted your blood, he knew you were as tasty as he imagined.

Shadow hands appear around you to caress you, his hands are everywhere! On your abdomen, legs and thighs! How disrespectful!

You get embarrassed and try to take his hand away but he is stronger, his grip is firm on his food.

Alucard's hands caress you gently, kneading your skin over your clothes, he wants to taste everything about you.

once he finishes his meal, his eyes are fixed on you, his irises a bright red color, he smiles at you softly but with a dominant expression, he lets out a deep laugh as he brings you even closer to him "my mistress... You are a virgin..." He says with a deep voice, you move your hands away and put it to your chest, your cheeks turn red because of Alucard's words, did he know it just by tasting your blood? What does it have to do with you being a virgin? What a dirty pervert!

"So what...?"

He just laughs, he knew you were shy but you were also sweet and kind, always gentle and ready for anything, he couldn't believe that a little thing as pretty as you was still a virgin, he couldn't believe that even though you was so beautiful, so tasty, no one has corrupted you, well...it's not like any human can properly teach you what carnal pleasures are.

He purred, the taste and your aroma were overwhelming, his Master is as tasty as she looks.

"Mmm...wouldn't you like to feel what sexual pleasure is like, little human?" He doesn't care if you were a virgin or not but now? Oh...he wanted to corrupt you in every way possible, the smell of your embarrassment and excitement from the dirty talk invaded the vampire's senses.

You felt your panties stick to your lips because of the humidity "..." You remained silent, is this how this creature addresses his master? Did you know that he was insolent, what good is he proclaiming himself your servant if he doesn't respect you as such? Your eyebrows knit together in an expression of anger and embarrassment. He laughs at your reaction.

"My master..." he says with a suggestive voice, almost like a whisper, "it's been a long time since I gave myself to a Human," you don't respond. "You know that I am all yours, your servant, I am here to please your needs, to please you my beloved master..." Again he begins to purr. Your heart beats hard as you feel the hardness in the Vampire's crotch.

He was a burlesque and a pervert but he knew how to seduce a woman, using dirty words but at the same time being a gentleman.

He has never given himself this way to a master, not even his previous masters, but you? How could you be so delicious? So cute? He was willing to please you if you wanted, he just waited for you to say the words.

"You...you are not my servant Alucard" you get up from the couch "And I don't want...I don't want to do that..."

Alucard sighs disappointed but accepts "even if you don't want to be my mistress, I want you to know that I am here if you need to satisfy your needs, dear," he smiles.

"Please forgive my insolence, no matter how much I want you, I have to earn your affection and I will do it appropriately" he rises to his height and bends down again to kiss your hand in an act of chivalry.

Sorry if there are spelling mistakes, English is not my first language, I hope you enjoyed! You are free to leave me ideas by the way. AO3: rosemary06 (click)

[kirby-manga-translated]

Kirby: Pupupu Hero - Volume 2, Chapter 10 English Translation

Kirby, Chilly, and Chef Kawasaki get into a calamari-filled calamity when an army of Squishies attack the beach! Can they fend off the molluscoid malefactors and save Kawasaki's business at the same time? Find out by reading the full chapter at the following links:

Imgur

Google Drive

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Undercurrents - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Dark dynamics, old resentments and shifting allegiances begin to cohere...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: mentions of child prostitution and unhealthy dynamics between mentor and student.

After, Sevika dragged her clothes back on. Her trousers were threadbare at the knees. Her vest was patched thrice-over. Her jacket was a cast-off of cracked leather and faded stripes. But with her baton holstered to her hip and her knife strapped to her calf, she was no less than a warrior-queen: aglow with anticipation at the blood-red sunset, and the battle-cry that'd call their city to arms. Transform it into something it had never been.

Something shining.

She grinned. The gleam cut him, deep.

"Ready to roll, Sil?"

He kissed her. Long, lingering, not a little possessive. He tasted sex, smoke, spirits, and underneath: a sweetness that was all her own. He wanted her again. He'd always want her, in one way or another: carnally, calculatedly, constantly. His flesh would cry out, even after it'd been pared down to the marrow.

Even after he'd been scarred past recognition, or resurrected into an altogether different shape, or rendered a ghost in his own story.

"It's time," he said.

She slipped from the backroom first, leaving the door open a crack, its glow beckoning. He lingered by the threshold, listening, not without fondness, as her solid footsteps faded. Smoked a quick one, relishing the smolder of tobacco at his throat. Then he extinguished his cigarillo, unfolded to his feet, and re-entered the fray.

In the corridor, he wasn't alone.

Nao, the young runner, was loitering in the hallway with a coy tilt to her head. A pitcher—midway to making its rounds upstairs between refills—was cradled in her arms.

Spotting Silco, she offered him a cool sluicing of water poured into a steel cup.

Silco accepted gratefully. Nao smiled, that hard, ingratiating smile he'd always deplored in scrappers. She'd been a teenager then, pretty in that soft unformed way that often invited roughing up from the wrong quarters.

Vander had, more often than not, wiped the floors with punters who'd gotten too handsy with the girl. Silco, typically, oversaw the aftermath: sending the malefactors packing with a smoldering cigarette stubbed out into their foreheads.

The two-punch combination was both a warning and a ritual. To discourage further transgression—and instill terror at its memory.

Lately, though, Silco had begun seeing more than fear in Nao's eyes. There was flint. Hunger, verging on bottomless, that spoke of some deep well within. He'd caught the girl, on more than one occasion, eyeing him intently as he passed.

The attention made his hackles rise, and he knew why.

She was a bit like him, Nao. Opportunistic, capable of great feats of cleverness. Already, she sensed that if tonight went as planned, Silco and Vander would take their place at the apex of Zaun's power structure. And Nao, budding gamester that she was, meant to capitalize on future gains. She couldn't ply her favors for coin just yet. Instead, she prostrated herself in smaller ways: topping up cups, offering cigarettes, dropping choice secrets.

She wanted Silco to see her. Recognize her worth. And, perhaps, reward it.

Ambition, Silco thinks in retrospect.

Is any monster more insidious?

"I iced it," Nao said in Va-Nox, as he tipped the glass back. "I knew you'd be thirsty."

"Because you were listening through the door." Silco made the accusation mildly in the same tongue. But his tone brooked no argument. He was fond of the girl, but she was just that: a girl. Too green, too rash. Too likely to find herself in the wrong pair of hands. "Don't do that again, Nao. It won't end well for you."

Her cheeks, darkly flushed, belied her nonchalant shrug. "I was curious, is all. Wanted to see what you two had going on."

"That's grown-up business. No affair of yours."

"How would you know?" The smile sat strangely on her features; it didn't suit. She was angling for bravado, but underneath, a rawboned woundedness bled through. "I've seen plenty. Endured plenty, too. My affairs would make yours blush."

"I don't doubt it."

"No?"

"But, doubt or no, you're a child." It was a flat summation of fact. "Your only affair ought to be your schooling. Are you still taking those classes? Math and reading?"

"A waste of time."

"On the contrary. Unless you'd like to be running these streets forever."

That earned him another look: sly, oddly calculating. "Who's to say I don't plan on it? Running these streets, I mean."

"Don't joke. The Lanes aren't a playground."

"No, they're a wolf-den." She sidled close, intimate in the narrow space. "And the only way out of a wolf-den is by kissing the one with the biggest teeth."

"You give Vander an earful of that, and he'll knock yours out."

"Not Vander." Her fingertip alighted on Silco's jugular notch. "You."

"Me?"

"I keep my ear to more than doors. I hear things. I know things." She tipped her face up: all smooth unblemished skin that, yet, stirred nothing but pity in Silco's gut. Her youth was precious, and she was ready to squander it for a penny's worth of promise. At her age, he'd done the same for less. "When Zaun is free, there will be a split. Right down the middle. One side: Vander's. The other side: yours. Which one, d'you think, will prove the winner's side?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Do you take me for a fool?" She tiptoed closer, pitcher resting on one shapely hip. The effect was spoiled by her gangling bones: too much child left to offset her burgeoning maturity. "Or are you the one who's fooling himself? There are whispers of what you did, to kickstart this fight. The Enforcers, dead in alleys, strung up in the rafters, floating in the river. They say you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. That you'll sacrifice anything to get what you want. That Vander leads the charge, but doesn't play the long game. Not the way you do."

"I'd put no stock in rumors," Silco warned. "They make fools of men and meat of little girls."

"I'm not a little girl." Her recalcitrant hand, approximating seduction through mimicry, veered south. "I can prove it."

He caught her wrist before it wandered off-course. Nao stilled.

She knew she was taking liberties where none were permitted. Yet she stood her ground. Defiant; hopeful. He saw, in her bold gaze, someone whose value system had been upended, and utterly shattered: like a porcelain vase smashed on the cobblestones.

He recognized the feeling. That broken-in emptiness. He'd lived it: a boy from the orphanages and mines, a lifetime's share of degradation buried in his young bones.

They deserved better, these children. Each and every one of them. Otherwise, the future mirrored in Nao's eyes—that warped amalgamation of ambition and avarice—would be Zaun's sole inheritance.

"I believe you," Silco told her, not unkindly. "You're growing up. Getting ideas about yourself. Nothing wrong with that. Same way there's nothing wrong with wanting more. But these games—they're not for you, Nao. Not yet. And if you're not careful, they'll lead you straight to an early grave."

Nao's lower-lip quivered; young pride, smote by rejection. But her spine held steady.

"Or lead me straight to you," she purred. "Isn't that the hand Sevika played?"

Anger cut cold through Silco's bones. His grip tightened fractionally; Nao flinched.

"Sevika," he said, "is a grown woman. You're a chit of a girl with ambitions beyond her scope. Learn your limits, before you break your neck stepping outside of them."

"But—"

He dropped her hand, done with her and every bit of this sordid business.

“Get back upstairs," he ordered. "If I catch you propositioning me, or any man again, I'll tell Vander. How d'you think he'll take to a scrap such as you peddling herself under his roof? Mark me, he'll thrash your backside raw. And, right after, I'll tell Sevika, and watch as she rips you a new one."

The threat, paired with the glint of permafrosted steel, did the trick.

Tears sprang to Nao’s eyes. She jerked away as if scalded.

"You're cruel!" she cried. "Heartless! I hate you!"

She fled back upstairs. In her hurry, she knocked over the pitcher: the steel clattering, water splashing everywhere. Bad luck, in the Fissures. A portent of disaster.

The echo, blending with Nao's receding footsteps, would linger: in the here-and-now, and in Silco's memory, for decades to come.

Irony, the bitch, was an inveterate houseguest.

On the stairwell, Silco scooped up the fallen pitcher. Rounding the landing, he encountered a presence blocking his path.

Vander.

The Hound's silhouette loomed darkly. A towering bulk encased in metal and leather. The gauntlets, hanging from his belt, caught the red lamplight, and turned to brimming cups of blood.

He must've spotted Nao fleeing upstairs. Spotted Silco, still radiating the postcoital languor from Sevika, on her heels. Whatever conclusions Vander drew in the interval stayed sequestered beneath his shadowed eye-sockets.

But, for a moment, he looked every inch the behemoth. Hardened. Brutal. Uncompromising.

A monster of mythological proportions.

"Trouble?" Vander rumbled quietly.

"Just a spill." Silco hefted the pitcher, tipping it upside down. The drips pattered in his footsteps. "Mind the puddle in the corridor."

"Tears? Or blood?"

Vander seemed mellow enough. His eyes told a different story.

When, Silco wondered, had it come to this? How and where had they fallen into this tarpit of mutual suspicion? Vander should be his staunchest ally; the most stalwart of his defenders. When had he become the man who'd imagine Silco would corner little chits in shadowy corridors, and coerce them into shameful acts?

Yet he could read between the lines.

Vander had always been primed for Silco's corruption. Always seeking evidence of the irredeemable. The boy with the outsized ambitions of outsized vengeance, flaunting his mockery at The Sprout to the miners' cheers. The young man with the barbed teeth and seething eyes, stalking Vander and Lika through the dancefloor of the Blue Lantern, as loneliness hung off him like miasma. The two-faced punisher prowling the tunnels at night, his blade slicing across Enforcers' throats, the cold scales of his ire encircling the heart of a city until it burst.

To Vander, Silco had become a subterranean spook, haunting every nook and crevice of portent.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

Until the monster had its fill.

And, it struck Silco then: a revelation far too late. Someday, a reckoning would come. Between himself and the monster inside Vander: the one that held apart, teeth bared, and meted out judgment on the transgressor who'd wandered too far beyond the pack. The beastly instinct that demanded honor as its due; obedience as recompense.

Someday, sooner or later, they'd both come to blows. Only one would survive. And it would be either him, or everything they'd built.

Tonight wasn't that night.

"Neither," Silco said, flatly. "Little brat fancies herself the lady of the manor. I set her straight."

"Did you?"

Silco ignored the pinch between his shoulderblades: a sharpness, reminiscent of a knife, sinking deep.

"Caught her skulking in the corridors," he elaborated, "while Sevika and I were occupied. Thought she'd pull a similar act, and I'd be enticed." He scoffed, shoulders rolling back. "As if anyone, least of all a half-pint still wet-behind-the-ears, has a snowball's chance in hell of warming my sheets while Sevika walks and breathes. Not to mention: she'd tear me limb from limb. Nail my cock above the door like a hunting trophy."

Vander's silence weighed. Then a tiny smirk cracked his stony demeanor.

"That," he conceded, "is good incentive for fidelity."

"Have a word with Nao, will you? She'll get herself hurt, at this rate."

"I will." The smirk dimmed, tempered by seriousness. "Look. Sorry, all right? Just, saw her hurrying away. Crying. Thought—"

"I know." Silco exhaled through his teeth. "It's my own damn fault. I keep things from you because I don't want us at odds. And because I do, you start jumping at shadows. Next you're suspecting me of every debauchery under the sun. You ask questions; I get defensive. And round and round we go."

"Not forever." Vander closed the space between them. The anger receded, replaced by quiet regret. "Look, Blut. I get it, yeah? Folks know you get shit done. That's why they come to you with their grievances. Why they ask things of you that they won't from me. But I've said it before. Ain't going to stop saying it till it sticks. These wildcards you keep close—they're bad news. Sevika's got more sense than most, but the rest're trouble. Reckless trouble. Small wonder whelps like Nao are followin' in their footsteps."

Wryly, Silco said, "There is a certain moral flexibility in our line of work."

"That 'moral flexibility' makes you a prime target." A big hand reached out, settling on Silco's nape. Like an ironclad collar. Or a stranglehold disguised as a caress. "Gives you a reputation you don't need. I don't want the Lanes rememberin' you as the chancer who made his own bed."

"No?" Silco drawled, half-jibe, half-challenge. "How do you want me remembered?"

Vander didn't let go. His palm rested in the jut of Silco's vertebra, where a pulse ticked.

Beneath the skin: a love burning restless.

"As the best man I know," Vander said simply. "Smartest, bravest, most loyal. A man who'd walk through fire, if it meant giving us a future without chains. Who'd do anything for those he calls family."

His thumb smoothed Silco's jugular. His gray eyes crinkled, almost in pain.

"A champion of Zaun."

Emotion seared the corners of Silco's eyes. Rarely did he cherish the handspan of inches that put Vander at an advantage. Yet he savored this vantagepoint: the width of Vander's shoulders against the doorway, and the sheer physicality of him attuned to Silco's shadow.

Right then, there was no world, not anymore, where Silco had any right to feel small.

"Always," Silco said hoarsely. "No matter what comes."

They stood there, rooted in place. Upstairs, the revelry raged on. A woman's laugh—husky-edged—rolled through the gloom.

"She's waiting for me," Silco asked quietly.

"Nao?"

"Sevika."

Vander nodded, and unslung his hand off Silco's shoulder. A concession, grudgingly bestowed. It made Silco realize, with no small sense of wonderment, that Vander hadn't fully let go of him. That, in his own way, he envied Silco this small bedrock of physical intimacy.

Sevika, a constant presence: guarding his flank, stoking his fire, warding off foes.

Silco had been that for Vander, once. Through thick and thin, against all odds. But that'd changed, somewhere along the line. Changed in ways boys could hash out with bareknuckled brawls or confessions slurred through liquor-fumes.

Not grown men. Not leaders-in-arms.

Them, they kept their grievances hidden. Tucked like blades beneath their sleeves.

"Can't believe," Vander gruffed, "that in all the years I've known you, I've never imagine asking. But... d'you love her?"

Irritation, fleeting, winged through Silco. Vander would be the kind of sap to throw the word around so easily. As though he owned its exclusive license.

Still, Silco answered. What else could he do?

"I think," he said, with a plainspoken pragmatism that, yet, hid a bedrock of rawness, "if she ever stopped looking at me with that fire in her eyes, I'd die."

"An' that's enough?"

"Should there be more?"

"You tell me."

Silco didn't prevaricate. There was no room left: not tonight.

Instead, swiveling, he stood to face the flecked hallway mirror, smoothing his shirt-collar and buttoning up his cuffs. His hair was slipping loose from its tie; deep waves spilling over his forehead.

He thought of Sevika's hand fisted there, her teeth sunk into his throat, those strong sweet thighs cinching down on him like destiny...

Silco smiled. The light cut half his face into a patchwork of shadows. For one fleeting instant, he saw something there—something other. A vision of himself years down the track, irrevocably altered, irremediably destroyed.

And, beneath that, something that could never be erased.

"No," he said softly. "It's not enough. But the rest, we'll seize. Build for ourselves. Make it whatever we need it to be."

"Happily ever after?"

"Choice." Silco turned, and met Vander squarely, chin to chest. "And whatever choice I make will be mine to answer to."

"An' mine."

"Already crowned yourself king, eh?"

"Please. Throne's just another name for a chopping block." Vander shook his head. "Only kingdom I want's this."

"This?"

"The Drop tonight. Where everyone has a full plate, an' a warm hearth, an' hope." His smile spread; tender despite the bitterness spreading its stains between them. "What more d'we need?"

The right answer—the only answer—was nothing.

Nothing, except the freedom to keep it forever.

In the shadows, they embraced. The way men who've loved each other their whole lives would, at the crossroads of Fate. Not knowing if their paths were diverging, or colliding, but understanding that no matter what came, they'd walk out changed to the marrow.

They had no inkling of how far the change would span. That they'd die and live again: reborn in shapes less than whole. That the cost of tomorrow would be the past itself.

Riven in two; never to be remade.

This, Silco knows now, was the last night they'd hold each other not as enemies, but as brothers-in-arms.

For when dawn broke, everything would fall apart.

[celestialholz]

Be still made, my beloved crossbow (or 'let's talk about Durge's other other weapon... and maybe a bit about Stillmaker too')

You've read this post, friends. You know it's true, I know it's true. (And it's bloody beautiful by the way, lovely job @darkurgediaries.)

But wait, there's more.

Let's have a quick chat about the Hellfire Engine Crossbow, because if Stillmaker is Durge's blade from Gortash, this is Durge's side-bitch from him... or it was meant to be, anyway. Man never quite got around to piecing it all together.

Okay, let's start with er... I mean look at it. It's white, has a phoenix head on it - a creature that symbolises resurrection, rebirth and immortality, how very Durge, and is also associated with sun gods when Gortash is this easy to turn into a Lathanderan and that guy brings light to each new day - and it's also embossed with Gortash and the Steel Watch's black and gold motif.

And then you take a mechanical look at it and... hang on.

What are you doing here, Lightning Arrow? The Steel Watch don't have Lightning Arrow, but you know who does have Lightning Arrow? Rangers - archery experts, usually - at level nine and up. And who can we consider that's on level nine and is really good at archery?

And who can we consider who might run out of lightning-basic magic in the heat of battle; who is white, and has a theme of rebirth either by rejecting Daddy Bhaal outright or embracing them anew, and knows a sun-coded Radiant guy, and may once have had business in the Foundry?

Well hello The Dark Urge Vanilla Edition, our old spicy friend. There's also the lovely addition of Reposition Malefactor - Lightning Arrow, grab, Stillmaker stab. Classic Baldurian efficiency.

You know what kills me about Gortash's Radiant coding and Durge's Lightning? The first thing you see of lightning is its flash, its brilliance, and the second thing you see is its destruction. The light isn't the part that hurts you, but it's inextricably linked to the thing itself, just as you can't have the destruction without the light. Symbiosis. Gortash could have been thunder-coded, but... no. Thunder isn't destructive, not usually. It doesn't happen at the same time in the storm.

It's not symbiotic... it's not equal.

... Yeah no, I'm fine, not emotional at all. No sir, could not be me. Despite being level nine too, Gortash doesn't have Lightning Arrow. Why would you need lightning, when your beloved has it in their veins, when you've made them a crossbow specifically for it? You just bring the 'light' part, don't you?

Symbiosis. Peace and love on planet Faerûn. Anyway...

If we must consider the application of Lightning Arrow as a helpful aid to the depleted Storm Sorceror, we should probably consider Stillmaker's equivalent.

Hold Person. Hold. Person. Which, yes - very useful bit of utility for our lovely Durge to have, 100% - but then you consider the fifteen separate dimensions of romantic overtones in Durgetash and you just can't help but feel: Hold Person. It's a bloody hug. It's support. He's made it easier for you to slaughter people, which at least used to be your favourite thing to do.

So Gortash has A. made your murdering life much more fun because you can savour the kill and B. made sure you can still kill from a distance if anyone else happens to be around and you're tired.

What a complete fucking simp. 🥺❤

On the subject of Stillmaker in fact, much as the Fabricated Arbalest to the Hellfire Engine, it's rather different to Durge's main dagger, Bloodthirst.

This is pure function. Made to please Papa in the most gruesome way possible, whichever hand you feel like using to wield it.

Whereas Stillmaker... it's got an attached hug. It's got a wavy blade, perfect for the task of slicing and dicing - one that's very difficult to forge, that must have taken time and care.

... Well. Must have taken a mortal time and care. Because lest we forget, it's not the only wavy blade Durge owns.

... Seriously, Larian. How are you going to make both of them wavy. I'm on your ceiling fans.

It's two separate dimensions to Durge's life, in two blades with the same nastiness to them - absolute utility, versus actual care.

This is literally more intricate than the thing presumably given by a god. That's going to tear like a bitch, truly. And it's even got Bhaal's delightful countenance up front and centre. What was that devnote, about convincing the child of a god that they're not a monster? Mm...

Oh, I don't know. It's almost like, for a while anyway, Durge's connection to Gortash was more important than the one to their father. Maybe they wrote something about that very thing, in fact. Imagine. 🥲

I'd like to take this opportunity to also note the very violent and Thunder-mentioning text attached to the Hellfire Engine...

... And the fact it's found in three parts, because y'know, Dead Three.

There's only one minor flaw in this whole thing, really. One teensy little tiny problematic detail.

Sorcerors, unlike Gortash, can't use Heavy Crossbows.

... But, then, they can't use shortswords either.

I'll let you be the judge, shall I?

[mariuspompom]

So @faintingheroine said that Javert is more of a class traitor than Ηeathcliff because at least Heathcliff directs his cruelty towards upper class people. I think that, technically speaking, Javert's class traitor traits are indeed worse. I mean his life purpose is literally to extinguish people that have a background similar to his, which is the very definition of a class traitor. The peak of his brutality and inhumanity is the way he targeted a famished, sick prostitute, the way he treated her like an animal, terrorized her, prevented her from finally getting her daughter back and gloated while tearing down her last anchor in life. This deliberate, senseless cruelty against a person as weak, as helpless, as innocuous as Fantine is truly something that technically exceeds even Heathcliff's evil deeds. Heathcliff too targeted people who were weaker than him (Isabella, the children) but at the very least these people belonged to the privileged upper class and he still deep down felt inferior to them, so you can at least give him that.

And yet I feel Heathcliff is more "morally reprehensible" than Javert. Heathcliff's motivations are purely individualistic, he's a very selfish human being and above all, he wants revenge. Javert may be a textbook class traitor but he does have his principles, bigoted principles but principles nonetheless. He has a specific mission and he does his duty, following a specific set of rules. When he fails at his duty and violates this set of rules, he immediately applies to himself the exact same cruelty he applied to others, and this happens twice. The first time, when he thought that he had accused an innocent man and questioned an authority (double vice), he immediately demands his removal from the police. The second time, when he realizes he fucked up, he kills himself. Hugo is particularly respectful of his blind devotion to duty, even in Javert's most hateful moments. Ironically that can also be used against him because it gives him this inhumane, robotic quality. Heathcliff being a classic, egotistical villain who's after revenge gives his evil deeds a much more "relatable" vibe. We can all relate to the desire for revenge, whereas Javert's sterilized, distorted view of the world is particularly eery. But in my opinion this is precisely why he's a level above Heathcliff. Or at the very least their brand of antagonist is quite different.

Receipts:

"I have often been severe in the course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well. Now, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have done would become injustice. Ought I to spare myself more than others? No! What! I should be good for nothing but to chastise others, and not myself! Why, I should be a blackguard! Those who say, ‘That blackguard of a Javert!’ would be in the right. [...] Mr. Mayor, I must treat myself as I would treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have proceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said to myself, ‘If you flinch, if I ever catch you in fault, you may rest at your ease!’ I have flinched, I have caught myself in a fault. So much the worse! Come, discharged, cashiered, expelled! [...] Mr. Mayor, the good of the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of Inspector Javert.” All this was uttered in a proud, humble, despairing, yet convinced tone, which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular, honest man.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does not offer his hand to a police spy.” He added between his teeth:— “A police spy, yes; from the moment when I have misused the police. I am no more than a police spy.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the sense of duty, are things which may become hideous when wrongly directed; but which, even when hideous, remain grand: their majesty, the majesty peculiar to the human conscience, clings to them in the midst of horror; they are virtues which have one vice,—error. The honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in the full flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radiance. Without himself suspecting the fact, Javert in his formidable happiness was to be pitied, as is every ignorant man who triumphs. Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face, wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the good.

He's still a piece of shit though, just to clarify.

[emblemxeno]

Chapter 13 of Fates Revelation is a writing highlight for me.

Corrin: What's going on? They're both blaming each other for this carnage.

Azura: Of course. Kingdoms at war will always twist things to benefit themselves.

Ryoma and Xander-representative of Hoshido and Nohr as a whole-uphold the conflict and status quo of the world they live in. Even if it makes no sense, they accept that they're enemies and an enemy must have done something awful to harm the peace.

Even parts of their battle quotes and end of chapter dialogue emphasize this.

Ryoma: It doesn't matter, Kagero. Anyone who doesn't side with Hoshido is the enemy. What will you be?

Xander: Trust her? Don't be a fool. I won't listen to any more of your lies. You've chosen your side—opposite me. Prepare yourself, Camilla.

-

Xander: This isn't over! We'll fight to the very last man!

Ryoma: You won't see Hoshido waver! We'll fight until there's no one left!

Xander: Whoever retreats now admits defeat! Nohr will never lose to Hoshido.

Ryoma: This war will continue until we take our last breath!

They are unable to see any part of a conflict as something with them or against them. Nuance and rationality don't sit well in minds stubbornly steeped in years of animosity. War, hatred, and reinforcing the way things are is something both of them are willing to do, because they see no other path or choice for themselves.

Corrin and Azura meanwhile, actively disrupt their world views.

Corrin: ...You may be my brothers, but I won't go easy on you if you try to stop me! Come, everyone! ... Ryoma! Xander! Please, you both have to listen to me! We've defeated the real enemy—you don't need to fight each other now!

Azura: Ryoma, Xander... It wasn't Nohr or Hoshido who destroyed this town. It was done by the invisible forces that we just defeated. Now that they are gone, I will not allow any more senseless violence. I will sing my song as many times as necessary to restore peace. Do you still insist on fighting?

And it's not empty words or cries that fall on deaf ears. Corrin is strong. Her will is iron-clad, and she will ensure her vision of peace is made a reality, no matter who she makes an enemy of. Azura is strong as well. What she lacks in directing a path on her own, she makes up for with raw resilience and no qualms about using her song-something that risks her life-to end things on her terms.

They force their stubborn older brothers to look at things in a different perspective; to stop trying to hack and slash their lives away and consider a bigger threat to what and who they care about.

While they aren't swayed immediately, they're undoubtedly shaken. After that, it takes personal introspection and uncomfortable truths for each of them to swallow their pride and admit their ways are wrong, and to follow Corrin to end a senseless war.

And I love this exchange at the end as well:

Scarlet: Ryoma's talked my ears off about what happened to you as a kid. You sound like an idealistic brat to me. You want to bring peace to the world? Ha!

Corrin: There's nothing idealistic about ending this horrible war.

REJECT 👏🏽THE 👏🏽 STATUS 👏🏽 QUO 👏🏽!

Accusing others of being naive or idealistic for things like this, in my opinion, shows cowardice, or even ignorance; a life that's been beaten down by other upholders of a terrible state of the world until they agree.

Why is it naive to trust people? Why is it idealistic to want something like endless warring to stop?

We're fed a lie as children: "Life's unfair, you can't do anything about it." Says who!? Why accept that life is cruel and unyielding, when there's so much capacity for good in the world? Is life actually unchangeably unfair in its nature, or is it simply malefactors taking advantage of innocent people in order to rise up to slake their own greed?

Once terrible people get in power, they beat down any forms of resistance and feed this very same lie to them. Worse still, they can even convince the masses to discriminate, fight, and kill each other all so they can swoop in during the aftermath and reap the benefits. And people, at their lowest point, take solace in any explanation-no matter how untrue and no matter who it's coming from-in order to have some semblance of control or direction. That forms their new view of the world.

It takes people who haven't been exposed or raised to believe such nonsense (Corrin) and people who are wise enough to recognize the true problems of the world (Azura), to push against this normalized destruction between two innocent groups of people and direct their ire towards the actual oppressor (Anankos).

It's succint, but scathing. The word choice-in both JP and localization-is too deliberate to consider it a coincidence, I genuinely think it's a good criticism of how our modern world works as well. From a philisophical standpoint it is basic, but Fates as a whole also tackles issues of ignorance/discrimination, xenophobia, the boundaries and meanings of family, who defines justice, the belief of many versus the will of the few, embracing consequences instead of running away, and exploring the concept of leadership in general.

For a game this big, IMO, it meets the mark more often than not when considering the points it wants its audience to hear.

[protemporescitor]

Finishing the last of FFVII Rebirth's VR challenges. Just wrapped up "To be a Hero" a couple of days ago. Taking another stab at "Bonds of Friendship" tonight. Anyway, I just had a revelation of sorts: Both fights involve Cloud plus an "assistant" character with Sephy and Zack, respectively. Both gauntlets end with Odin, who, with all due respect, is a bit of a see-you-next-Tuesday of a boss fight... BUT I am now fairly convinced that the Lord of Frenzy's position at the head of this hellish and interminable 10-round boss rush is NOT a coincidence.

Think about it. Cloud Strife's animal motif is that of Fenrisúlfur (Fenrir), the deiform wolf destined to slay Odin, the ruler of the gods, during the battle of Ragnarök at the end of all things in Norse mythology. I know that Square ran that boring-ass "chocobo hair" joke into the ground with Rebirth, to the point where newcomers to the series might actually be fooled into thinking that it's his real animal motif (and not just some tedious dad joke that has long since worn out its welcome), but prior to the new Remake series, the developers kept giving Cloud strangely villainous motifs, such as associating him with Fenrir, ostensibly one of Norse mythology's worst malefactors, or gifting him bat wings in Kingdom Hearts (unambiguously Satanic imagery).

More basic takes on this character usually involve some combination of the terms "emo", "loser", "boifailure", etc. Monosyllabic linguistic butchery aside, some of these descriptions may be partially true, but they often miss the real point: Whatever else he may be, Cloud Strife is anything but a harmless softie. If anything, post-canon, he is a psychological ticking time-bomb, one whose mental state depends largely on the company he keeps. With good friends keeping him on the straight and narrow, he'd undoubtedly be the gentlest soul. In the wrong company, however? He could easily end up becoming far more unhinged and dangerous than even his greatest nemesis could aspire to. Kitase once described him as having "a real dark side", one that presumably has less to do with Sephiroth's mind games than his own struggles against the world, ones that have rendered him a near-misanthrope, and which almost certainly would have if not for his ties with his friends and found family (Aerith, Tifa, Barret, Yuffie, etc…).

We catch glimpses of this side of Cloud's character every so often, such as when Yazoo and Loz shoot him in the back near the end of Advent Children. His reaction is telling. His face betrays not the dejection of someone ready to give up the fight, but the sheer vitriol of someone ready to tear apart anything and anyone foolish enough to get in his way. The same goes for his final confrontation with Sephiroth at the Northern Crater during the original story's ending. Sephiroth falls back on his usual intimidation tactics, not realizing that his hated enemy has long since cut his strings, and that his attempts at terrorizing and gaslighting the "nobody" who humbled him at Nibelheim are destined to fail. Cloud, though initially shocked, does not shrink away. He narrows his gaze. He knows the fight is over before it's even begun, and proceeds to deliver his foe an absolutely merciless beatdown.

Amidst the relentless meta pookie-posting and metaphorical cheek-pinching, people forget that there's a lot of hidden rage within this character. It is not a side of his personality that he is proud of, per se. But it is clearly there. More enlightened fans will understand this implicitly. One does have to wonder what missed opportunities Square had after AC/DoC for further character development in this regard. Sadly, as of the failure of Dirge of Cerberus to meaningfully advance FFVII's story, and Square's subsequent overreliance on contentious backstory additions instead, we may never know. Still, hope remains that the fandom could help fill in the blanks from time to time.

"The wild still lingered in him, and the wolf in him merely slept." —Jack London, White Fang

[cliozaur]

Oh, so this is the chapter with Javert’s leather stock askew! I had a false memory that it happened in his “punish me, Monsieur le Maire” episode and was surprised not to find it there. It means that he came to Monsieur le Maire’s office unshaken and balanced, Inspector at his best. However, the mere possibility that he could have nearly missed Jean Valjean profoundly stressed him.

In this chapter, Hugo attributes some of the most unforgettable characteristics to Javert. “Javert was a complete character, who never had a wrinkle in his duty or in his uniform; methodical with malefactors, rigid with the buttons of his coat.” And his belief system and all the things he is forever associated with are also here:

he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil. Behind him and around him, at an infinite distance, he had authority, reason, the case judged, the legal conscience, the public prosecution, all the stars; he was protecting order, he was causing the law to yield up its thunders, he was avenging society, he was lending a helping hand to the absolute, he was standing erect in the midst of a glory.

So, he is “avenging society” – the same society, most of us agree, is the main villain and culprit of “Les Misérables.” That’s very telling. Javert is triumphant, satisfied, “erect, haughty, brilliant,” but also very wrong.

I have just noticed that he is simultaneously likened to a demon and to the “monstrous Saint Michael” – while one is supposed to fight the other.

Javert is not the only intriguing figure in this chapter. How do you like the moment when the royalist court president was shocked to hear how Valjean said “the Emperor, not Bonaparte”? Valjean has pro-Napoleonic sympathies. That’s amusing, for it makes him akin to Marius in this respect.

My hero here is the counsel for the defence: this man really does his job well and effectively defends poor Champmathieu, despite the fact that the defendant is an obscure labourer. It seems to me that such counsels for the defence are the only positive aspects of the whole legal system of the early nineteenth century.

[byjove]

youre very anti american until someone from another country says something bad about america. you do realise how hypocritical you are? (coming from an american)

First of all, I’m anti-America not anti-American. This country is wicked from its foundation, on an institutional level. Which I do lot deny and speak about honestly.

I like Americans, I know, crazy. We’re a resilient people, fundamental good resides in most of us. I believe that about all of humanity but Americans are who I know. I love my neighbors. I love my community. The people I love live here, mainly. I wish the best for all of us. I think we deserve to live lives without constant fear of violence and political unrest, with access to resources without discrimination. We are all done a disservice by this country, not in equal measures, mind you. I want to make this country a better place. I do not consider myself a patriot, not a nationalist, I swear fealty to the people and landscape around me.

You’re right, it is hypocrisy to lash out at people who speak negatively about the establishment I despise. It isn’t productive. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. It is extremely frustrating to see people from other countries, mainly Europeans, some Canadians, mock American society for problems that permeate their own government and culture that they refuse to address. Because it is easier to condemn stupid Americans than it is to begin to acknowledge that their country is built on the same white supremacist ideals, that the picturesque stately homes that dot their countryside largely would not exist if not for colonization and slavery. It is easier to imply that Americans deserve to live in constant fear of gun violence and homelessness for their own stupidity than it is to have a deeper compassion for the American people, than to admit that what is happening to us could possibly happen to them. They are not in any meaningful way helping us, they are not helping themselves, not their countrymen.

Europeans, if you think that the people of your country are smarter than Americans, are more enlightened, less bigoted, less violent, more rational, I beg you to look around. I beg you to witness Italy and it’s current slide back into fascism, I beg you to look at the antisemitism rising in Germany once more. I beg you to address the xenophobia in your own country, to look at the transphobia, the malefactors sneaking into your government to roll back your rights and resources.

Also if this is in response to me commenting on British food looking yucky, I want you to know I’m not walking that back. I think I’m in my right to have a little fun poking cheeky fun at British food since British people post about how shocking American food is so much of the time. That was in good faith. Not that deep.

[745voiceofthepeople]

Mai: Ladies we will taking our places very shortly! I hope you’re all ready

Mai (to Kiyi) : I’m sorry that your sister could not be here for the procession, I’m afraid my husband will take it as an insult.

Kiyi: It isn’t meant as such

Mai: I know. I know how… fragile she is. But dear Zuko is just so touchy about these public events. Everything must be just so

Kiyi: He has faith in your judgement. I’m sure he’ll forgive her, if you’ll speak kindly of her

Mai: oh I will, I will

Mai (clapping to get the rooms attention): it is time, line up in order of precedence please.

Walking into the the room suddenly was the princess Azula

Azula (announcing herself): Hello ladies!

Azula then proceeds to walk up to the front of the line. After everyone’s attention had turned towards her.

Kiyi (smiling): Sister

Azula (sighing): Yes… here I am. Now let’s just get this charade over with, shall we?

Mai: Excuse me?

Azula: Yes?

Mai: Oh I don’t mind really, but it is I that should go first. You will find if you consult the Fire sages, the wife of the Fire lord takes precedence. Not a…disgraced princess.

Azula (narrowed eyes): I don’t give a fuck what the sages say. I will not let a treacherous little malefactor like you, walk ahead of me… I go first.

Mai (shaking her head pityingly ): … I take no offense of course, you are not yourself. Haven’t been since the Boiling Rock and your… “unfortunate” fall from grace, my friend.

Azula: I know who you are old “friend”, I can see you. You’re swearing now that someday, you’ll destroy me. Remember, far better women than you have sworn to do the same. Go and look for them now.

Kiyi (smirking): Didn’t Katara end up marrying you?

Azula (blushing): Shut up Kiyi

[sorinethemastermind]

Sorpeli Week 2025 | Prompt: Poetry/Practicality

 It turned out that once the world wasn’t about to end, you had a lot of free time. At least, it felt that way to Soren. Too much time, he might argue. Even with being Head Crownguard and taking part in council meetings, there was still just so much nothing time. 

 Soren had never much liked nothing time. It made him antsy. It made him think.

 He didn’t like to think. (If Claudia had been here, she would have made fun of him for that.)

 At first it had started as a way to fill the time, but then he’d actually gotten really into it. Poetry, that was. It seemed stuffy at first, not at all like he’d imagined it. Like the world had taken it’s most pretentious people and shoved them all into the same book to spew confusing nonsense. But the more he learned about it, the more he read it (actually read it; the meaning, not just the words), the more he came to enjoy it.

 It was like saying things without saying them. That was sort of his whole thing.

 He didn’t tell anyone about it, at first. Something about it felt private, like if he showed it to anyone else the bubble would burst and the words on the page would be reduced to confounding nonsense again. So Soren kept it to himself; reading verse, writing verse, thinking verse. One time he caught himself quoting a passage he’d really liked to Corvus, just by accident, and snapped his mouth shut real fast. 

 But Corvus had just raised an eyebrow, said he hadn’t taken him to be the poetry type, and not brought it up again. (Though there was that poetry book that Corvus got him for his birthday that year, but that probably didn't mean anything.)

 And then there was the time he’d accidentally told Opeli. Alright, told wasn’t quite the right word. She’d walked in on him practicing a piece of it out loud.

 “-and you’re the bad guy?”

 “Some late night reading?” Opeli had asked, and Soren had jumped, snapping his notebook shut and shoving it behind his back.

 “Uh, yeah. I couldn’t sleep.”

 “You seem to say that a lot.”

 “Nightshift,” Soren had explained. “Force of habit.”

 “Ah,” she’d raised an eyebrow, but not pressed the issue. Instead her gaze had flicked to his side and the partially concealed notebook. “Your own material?”

 “I, um,” he’d sighed, knowing the jig was up. “Yeah,” he’d let his hand fall to his side, though kept the book firmly shut. “It’s sort of… relaxing?”

 “I didn’t take you for the poetry type,” she’d admitted.

 “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Soren had pouted, and she’d laughed.

 “I believe you summarized your personal philosophy the other day as ‘punching and stuff’”

 “Yeah. So?” Soren had crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t a guy have layers?”

 “You do certainly have those,” Opeli had smiled and chuckled, and he’d found himself grinning in response. It was rare to get a real laugh out of her, and he savored it every time.

 Opeli had gone to the bookshelf, trailing her fingers along the spines until she found whichever one she’d been looking for. Some sort of religious text, by the looks of it.

 “But you know,” she’d said, glancing over at him, “‘bad guy’ doesn’t sound very poetic. Perhaps villain? Malefactor?”

 Soren had stuck his nose in the air all fake haughty, “I think ‘bad guy’ works just fine. I’m writing it for me, after all, not you.”

 “Good.”

 He’d cracked open an eye, a little surprised. He’d been joking. But Opeli was smiling at him like she hadn’t thought it was funny.

 “You should do some things for yourself now and again.”

 He’d been a little abashed, not really sure why his cheeks felt all warm. Maybe because Opeli still managed to see right through him, even after all these years, “Yeah, well, thanks.”

 “May I ask what it’s about?” 

 “Dragons.”

 She’d snorted, “Of course it is. Was Pyrrah your inspiration? That is her name, yes?”

 “Yeah. But no. I was thinking about… a different kind of dragon,” Soren had admitted.

 “Oh?” she’d quirked an eyebrow quizzically. 

 “The kinds of dragons we were taught about. As kids,” he'd explained. “The scary ones. Big, fire breathing monsters.”

 “I’m surprised you still believe in those,” Opeli had said, sounding a little disappointed.

 “No, not like that,” he'd sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I’m explaining it wrong just-” he’d held the notebook out to her, looking away. “Just read it.” 

 He’d felt her take it from his hand more than seen it, but couldn't help peeking at her out of the corner of his eye when the silence stretched long. Her brow furrowed when she read, he’d noticed, and she had a habit of biting her bottom lip in concentration. Soren had drummed his fingers nervously against his thigh, tapping one foot against the ground as he watched her. All he could think was what if she doesn’t like it?

 Finally, Opeli had looked up at him, offering the book back. He’d taken it, waiting for her to say something.

 “Well?” he’d prompted when she remained silent. 

 She’d considered for a moment before answering, “It’s a little crude-” his heart had sunk “-but I like it.”

 Soren had perked up, smiling at her. “Really?”

 “It feels honest,” Opeli had supplied, tapping her lower lip with a finger as she thought. “It could be refined, certainly. But I can see where you’re going with it. Everything starts with an idea. An emotion to be conveyed. And you have captured that well.”

 He’d blushed a little, hair falling in his face as he looked at the ground. “Thanks, Opeli.”

 The corner of her mouth had twitched up into a playful smile, “What happened to not caring what I thought? To writing it for yourself?”

 “I always care what you think,” Soren had told her, “even if I’m writing it for myself.” 

 Her expression had changed for a moment into something he didn’t quite understand and she’d glanced away, attention returning to the nearby shelves. She’d stood up on her tiptoes to reach a higher shelf, pulling a book down and holding it out to him.

 “Here, she’s one of my favorites. I think you’ll like her style.”

 “Thanks,” Soren had taken it, staring down at the deceptively simple cover.

 “Let me know what you think,” she’d said, turning to leave. “Maybe someday you’ll have a book in here, too."

 Soren had stared after her, surprised. He hadn’t even considered it. But a few weeks later he’d slipped a little sheet of paper under her door. A revised version of the poem, with a note.

Dear Opeli, thanks for the poetry recommendation. You're right, I did like her style (though she talks about flowers too much, don't you think?) Do you have any more? Also, here’s the poem from last time. I changed a few things around. You don’t have to read it, but if you do I’d love to know if it's more 'refined'. Oh, and I gave it a name.

Remembering Dragons

Heroes slay dragons. That’s what you said to me.  That saviors have blood on their hands  And ghosts in their past.  You used to pretend, down on your knees  You’d say “I am the dragon” and roar at me.  But I never believed you  I guess I knew you were a liar then, too. 

Now I’m the hero, and you’re still the dragon.  Now when you roar I can hear it  When you bite I feel teeth.  You told me dragons were monsters  That parents were protectors, caring and kind. So what does that make you  If the dragons saved us, and you’re the bad guy?

P.S. the ‘bad guy’ bit is there to stay. Any other feedback is welcome. 

Soren

[tobiasdrake]

I expected to be dead by now and that locked door is starting to make me curious. So I guess I'll just go jump on a timedrop.

Using made-up words for an openphrase is a pretty good idea, but I've been told it's best to include numbers and symbols too. Have you considered "stostorage roomoom five ampersand"?

See, that's why you should always change your openphrase away from the default. Now malefactors of unclear intent have complete access to this person's shed. I could be stealing their personal information to sell to the shoshop keepeeper right now and they'd have no idea.

But I'm not that wicked, so I'll just take whatever this is instead.

Length implies value. This seems more than valuable enough to burgle. I will take this and be on my way.

Let's see, what else do I want to do in town? Oh, right. The flower.

First time, I panicked, flung it at Mira for being a great team leader, and fled for my life.

Second time, I tried to use it to bury the hatchet with Bonnie and only succeeded in weirding them out and making things awkward.

This time. This time, I have a plan. I'm going to pry Isa's secret love confession out of him. Right in front of the Favor Tree. Where my Lemonfriend is stalking me. Hm.

...

CAUTION TO THE WIND!

Oh my god he's so goddamn precious

Yeah. I didn't spoil my appetite with pain du chocolat this time so I was ravenous and prepared!

Then I got up to refill my drink and suddenly I hear a sickening CRRRKKK and then the goddamn bread was broken in half. How!? How do you people always know that I'm watching for that!? Which one of you is temporally screwing with me!?

I feel like I'm losing my mind. This is literally worse than dying. I will find you, Breadripper.

But I gave you a pretty flower and everything. Come on, man. Find your nerve!

*sigh* I'm going back to sleep. Enjoy your face pillow.

Good night, Isa.

That feels like it's going to be important to remember for later. Typically, if trying to read it causes physical pain, it's probably some sort of horrifying eldritch text from beyond time and space. Which usually means it's definitely worth the effort to figure out how to read it! It might hold the secret to unlimited happiness.

It means a person of slim characterization and very limited expressiveness, designed to allow the audience to easily project themselves.

Our reality's principle form of violence is playing Rock-Paper-Scissors. What are you even supposed to do with a spear?

...I mean. I guess I have this knife I use to form Scissors. Mira's got a rapier for the same purpose. Isa gets Rock out of his punching gloves while Madame Odile's Tome makes Paper.

Not sure how Mirabelle's doing Paper attacks with a sword, though. That's kind of weird. Mira, where are you getting the Paper from? Do you have a motivational brochure for the Change religion as a sidearm?

Oh my god she uses a rapier.

Mira's weapon is a blade made from thin folded steel. That's where the Paper comes from. That's genius. Mira, you're a goddamn genius.

Okay. I get it now. I understand how weaponcraft in our world of Jankenpon Combat works. So yes, this spear would be a Scissors weapon. But since it's a spear, you could also use it as a bo staff. Would it then qualify as Scissors/Rock?

Hmm....

I appreciate your pragmatism. Contextually speaking, in times of crisis, it's not stealing. It's requisitioning.

Now let's requisition whatever isn't nailed down.

Oh shit, that's the traditional Rider-Waite Eight of Pentacles.

The Pentacles sign typically pertains to commerce, labor, and material affairs. This particular card usually symbolizes slow and steady skill progression at a menial craft. The man depicted is practicing his trade, carrying out the repetitive but necessary task of crafting his wares - and in so doing, developing his skill and becoming more capable in the production of his craft.

It's not hard to see the relationship between this card and the timey-wimey mission we're on right now.

There it is. We've found the key with diagnosed and well understood gender dysphoria.

Just because the egg has cracked, that doesn't mean this key is necessarily comfortable with announcing itself yet. Cracking the egg and coming out are very different experiences. If the key doesn't feel safe or ready to do the latter then it's fine for it to remain in the drawer for however long it needs.

...

Or it would be fine except we need to unlock a door. So. Uh. We'll just ignore that for the purposes of the metaphor.

Do not force people out of their closet even if the world is in danger.

[rukafais]

Nightal 11: Howldown

In honor of Malar, members of the City Guard leave the city in groups on this day to hunt down known threats to farmers and travelers, including brigands, wolves, owlbears, ogres, and trolls that haunt the roads and wilderness. These hunts typically last no longer than a tenday. During the same span of time, the City Watch engages in its own rigorous hunt for malefactors within the city walls. If you've any reason to doubt your standing in the eyes of the law, avoid Waterdeep for at least a tenday after Howldown.

With no real hunting to do of their own, the children of Waterdeep spend Howldown engaging in mock hunts of adults dressed up as monsters, and play at the killing of these predators.

Man, what's fucking wrong with Waterdeep. Why do you just have the fucking Reverse Purge going on as a holiday

[uncannychange]

At twenty-one years of age, Norman Aaron Goddard was what some would call a “poor little rich boy” born to privilege. He took what he wanted when he wanted it and did not ask for a please or thank you for being heard and was nasty rude about it at the same time.

He was particularly egregious in how he treated women; in fact, it was his behavior in that regard that had gotten him kicked out of five colleges.

His parents, having had all they could take, sent him off to a military academy that, owing to its name, Fort Discipline, would be just the place.

So in went Norman, and that was all the Goddards heard of him for a solid six months because, you know… discipline.

Then, just before Thanksgiving, he was allowed one call.

“Hey, Mom.” said Norman, then he fell silent, not knowing just how to break the news that Fort Discipline was not really a “military” school as they thought, but something new called a “Conciliatory School” which by hook or by crook, including hypnosis and a dozen other things, saw to it the malefactors made amends for their grievances by walking much more than a mile in the shoes of the ones they had harmed.

As such, Norman had been put into a rather fancy pointed pair of those shoes, along with some other more extreme changes.

“Home for Christmas?” Norman ended his call after not really saying all that much. " No, I think I’ll stay at the school. I’ve still got a lot of adjusting to deal with.” With that, he hung up, relieved he could drop his attempt at deepening his voice and instead return to the natural mezzo-soprano speaking voice he now had.

[walkwithgod07]

23 And the whole multitude of them arose, and led him unto Pilate.

2 And they began to accuse him, saying, We found this fellow perverting the nation, and forbidding to give tribute to Caesar, saying that he himself is Christ a King.

3 And Pilate asked him, saying, Art thou the King of the Jews? And he answered him and said, Thou sayest it.

4 Then said Pilate to the chief priests and to the people, I find no fault in this man.

5 And they were the more fierce, saying, He stirreth up the people, teaching throughout all Jewry, beginning from Galilee to this place.

6 When Pilate heard of Galilee, he asked whether the man were a Galilaean.

7 And as soon as he knew that he belonged unto Herod's jurisdiction, he sent him to Herod, who himself also was at Jerusalem at that time.

8 And when Herod saw Jesus, he was exceeding glad: for he was desirous to see him of a long season, because he had heard many things of him; and he hoped to have seen some miracle done by him.

9 Then he questioned with him in many words; but he answered him nothing.

10 And the chief priests and scribes stood and vehemently accused him.

11 And Herod with his men of war set him at nought, and mocked him, and arrayed him in a gorgeous robe, and sent him again to Pilate.

12 And the same day Pilate and Herod were made friends together: for before they were at enmity between themselves.

13 And Pilate, when he had called together the chief priests and the rulers and the people,

14 Said unto them, Ye have brought this man unto me, as one that perverteth the people: and, behold, I, having examined him before you, have found no fault in this man touching those things whereof ye accuse him:

15 No, nor yet Herod: for I sent you to him; and, lo, nothing worthy of death is done unto him.

16 I will therefore chastise him, and release him.

17 (For of necessity he must release one unto them at the feast.)

18 And they cried out all at once, saying, Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas:

19 (Who for a certain sedition made in the city, and for murder, was cast into prison.)

20 Pilate therefore, willing to release Jesus, spake again to them.

21 But they cried, saying, Crucify him, crucify him.

22 And he said unto them the third time, Why, what evil hath he done? I have found no cause of death in him: I will therefore chastise him, and let him go.

23 And they were instant with loud voices, requiring that he might be crucified. And the voices of them and of the chief priests prevailed.

24 And Pilate gave sentence that it should be as they required.

25 And he released unto them him that for sedition and murder was cast into prison, whom they had desired; but he delivered Jesus to their will.

26 And as they led him away, they laid hold upon one Simon, a Cyrenian, coming out of the country, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus.

27 And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him.

28 But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.

29 For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck.

30 Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the hills, Cover us.

31 For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?

32 And there were also two other, malefactors, led with him to be put to death.

33 And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left.

34 Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots.

35 And the people stood beholding. And the rulers also with them derided him, saying, He saved others; let him save himself, if he be Christ, the chosen of God.

36 And the soldiers also mocked him, coming to him, and offering him vinegar,

37 And saying, If thou be the king of the Jews, save thyself.

38 And a superscription also was written over him in letters of Greek, and Latin, and Hebrew, This Is The King Of The Jews.

39 And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.

40 But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation?

41 And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.

42 And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.

43 And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.

44 And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour.

45 And the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst.

46 And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost.

47 Now when the centurion saw what was done, he glorified God, saying, Certainly this was a righteous man.

48 And all the people that came together to that sight, beholding the things which were done, smote their breasts, and returned.

49 And all his acquaintance, and the women that followed him from Galilee, stood afar off, beholding these things.

50 And, behold, there was a man named Joseph, a counsellor; and he was a good man, and a just:

51 (The same had not consented to the counsel and deed of them;) he was of Arimathaea, a city of the Jews: who also himself waited for the kingdom of God.

52 This man went unto Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus.

53 And he took it down, and wrapped it in linen, and laid it in a sepulchre that was hewn in stone, wherein never man before was laid.

54 And that day was the preparation, and the sabbath drew on.

55 And the women also, which came with him from Galilee, followed after, and beheld the sepulchre, and how his body was laid.

56 And they returned, and prepared spices and ointments; and rested the sabbath day according to the commandment.