#Steele Shadows Mercenaries 2
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prestopresto07 · 3 months ago
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Never known peace | 2
MCD x Fem!reader | Angsty | This happens after ep 100 when shadow knights are more prevalent and Laurence is more emo. This is intended to be Lurence x reader but I'm thinking about doing multiple endings or something. I'm just seeing where this fanfic goes. Also sorry you're right-handed. Also, I'm dyslexic so if you see any spelling errors no you don't.
You were never a knight—just a mercenary, paid to escort someone into the Nether. But instead of protecting them, you were the one betrayed, left for dead in the depths of that hellish realm. And you did die… or at least, you think you did.
Now, you're something else. A Shadow Knight.
Transformed, confused, and afraid, you barely escape with the help of a stranger named Vlyad. But the world beyond the portal is no safer. You don’t know where you are, how you survived, or what you've become. All you know is that you're running—and the fear hasn’t left your bones.
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The sound of footsteps gets closer
and closer, panic sets in. Who are these people? Will they hurt you if they find you?
The voices stop just feet away, their attention fixed on the shattered remains of the portal. Jagged shards of obsidian glisten in the dim light, faint traces of violet energy flickering along their fractured edges.
"Is that-?" The woman spoke up.
"A nether portal." Said the deeper voice cutting off the woman.
You peer through the undergrowth, forcing yourself to stay still, to breathe quietly despite the searing pain crawling through your body. You can make out two figures—one clad in armor, the other marked by dark fabric with purple accents.
Then it hits you again.
Pain
It crashes through you, sharp and unrelenting. Blood seeps from your wounds, warm and thick against your skin. Your arm—useless, broken. Every inch of you aches, screaming for relief.
If only Irene had been merciful enough to let you die.
You keep your eyes locked on their feet.
Then, you see it.
Blood. A lot of it.
Dark stains seep into the grass beneath them, trailing in uneven smears—leading straight to you.
Your breath catches. They haven’t noticed yet. They’re too distracted by the shattered portal, too preoccupied with their own shock to realize what’s pooling beneath their boots.
Slowly, carefully, you begin to inch backward. Every movement is deliberate, every breath controlled. The thick undergrowth shields you, but your body is weak, unsteady. The pain threatens to break you, to make you slip, to give you away.
You just need to get far enough. Just out of sight. Just enough to—
SNAP
A twig cracks beneath your palm.
No time to think. No time to see their reactions.
Run—or it’s over.
You choose the former.
You push off the ground, ignoring the explosion of pain in your broken arm. There’s no room for hesitation. No room for weakness. You need to run.
And so you do.
Branches whip past as you push forward, each step heavier than the last. Your lungs burn, not just from exhaustion but from the fire still raging inside you—the same unnatural heat you felt in the Nether.
"Trust no one."
Vlyad’s words echo in your mind, a warning and a curse.
But right now, trust doesn’t matter.
Survival does.
You force yourself faster, faster, even as your legs threaten to give out. The world blurs at the edges. The pain is unbearable, but stopping isn’t an option.
Then—
Something yanks you back.
The impact is brutal, knocking the air from your lungs as you're sent sprawling across the ground. You barely register the pain before cold steel presses against your throat.
You freeze.
The man standing over you is clad in black, red bandana covering the top portion of his face. The metal of his purple broadsword was dull and unreflective, swallowing what little light filters through the trees.
He is silent. Unmoving.
Your breath is ragged, your pulse pounding against the edge of the blade. You force yourself to stay still, but every fiber of your body screams at you to move—to fight—to run.
The sound of pounding footsteps draws closer. The two voices—the armored figures from before. They're almost here.
Your captor doesn’t so much as glance in their direction. He keeps his weapon steady, his attention locked on you.
Once the other two arrive, swords drawn, you finally get a full look at them.
The shorter woman is clad in dark clothing accented with deep purple, the colors blending into her long raven hair, which nearly swallows her figure. Her amber eyes lock onto yours—sharp, calculating. She studies you just as intensely as you study her.
The man beside her is only a step behind, his stance guarded, an emerald-green claymore drawn and ready. The green cape draped over his armor complements the weapon in his hands. His dirty blond hair is tousled from the wind, and his pale, ghostly blue eyes flick between you and your captor, assessing the situation.
You're trapped.
A massive blade at your throat, the cold bite of steel keeping you frozen in place. The man holding it doesn’t waver. His voice is just as steady.
"Who are you?"
The question is simple, yet it carries weight—demanding, inescapable.
You swallow, throat dry, forcing down the sharp edge of panic.
"Answer."
"Survive."
You clear your throat, the sound rough, foreign. When you finally speak, your voice barely feels like your own.
"Y/n."
It comes out hoarse, fragile—nothing like the confident tone you once carried.
The sword at your throat doesn’t waver.
The man in black watches you, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet.
"Who sent you?" His voice is cold. Unshaken.
Your breath hitches. "What?"
His gaze sharpens. The pressure of the blade increases just slightly—a silent warning.
"Shadow Knights don’t just appear out of nowhere." He tilts his head slightly, calculating. "And they certainly don’t run out of shattered nether portals very often."
The accusation lands hard. You’re not even sure what you are anymore, but you can tell that whatever they think a Shadow Knight is supposed to be—you don’t fit.
"I—" The words catch in your throat. You don't even know what to say. You don't know how to explain what happened, because you barely understand it yourself.
The woman in purple folds her arms, studying you like she’s inspecting a trap for hidden blades. "They’re stalling." Her voice is quieter, but no less dangerous.
The man in green shifts slightly, his claymore still at the ready. "They’re bleeding out," he points out. "If they were sent here on purpose, they’re not doing a great job of it."
The man with the purple sword doesn’t take his eyes off you.
"Then we make them talk before they pass out."
Tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. The sound that escapes your throat is raw—closer to a wounded animal than a trained swordswoman.
"Please." The word trembles, barely above a whisper. "I don’t know what’s happening to me."
The man holding the blade to your throat doesn’t so much as flinch. His grip remains firm, unwavering.
But the other two hesitate.
The woman’s glare softens for just a fraction of a second. The man in green exhales sharply, shifting his stance. They don’t lower their weapons—but something in the air changes.
Even so, the man with the bandanna before you remains unmoved.
Finally, the man in green speaks, his ghostly blue eyes scanning your torn clothes and bloodied body.
"She’s no threat. Look at her."
There it is again.
Pity.
If you weren’t so terrified, you might have said something.
Survive.
That’s all you want to do. Just live to see tomorrow.
"We need to bring her somewhere to interrogate her properly," he continues, stepping closer. "She’s no use to us dead."
You barely hear him over the blood rushing through your ears.
Since when did lying down become so uncomfortable?
You shift, trying to ease the pain.
Cold steel presses closer to your neck.
"Aaron, stand down." The woman’s voice slices through the air—calm, but firm.
The man—Aaron—hesitates, his grip tightening around the hilt. But after a beat, he exhales sharply and withdraws the blade, sliding it back into place on his back.
Your head falls against the ground, body sagging with relief. The breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding rushes from your lungs.
For the first time since waking in this unfamiliar world, you take in a full breath.
Part 3
A/N: ahhhh I'm actually really liking this so far, this rarely happens. I hope you like it. I know everyone has a different image of each of the characters in MCD so I'm trying to keep them vague for now. Let me know if you like it :))))
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d-z20 · 2 months ago
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A Sword Called Regret
Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal
AO3 | Navigation | Masterlist
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Chapter 2: A Thorn in my Side
Agatha quickly found that Wyrdsted was a city of contradictions.
By daylight, it gleamed—a jewel of commerce, where carriages rattled over cobbled streets and merchants in fine silks haggled over prices with measured civility. Noble houses loomed above it all, pristine facades hiding the cutthroat ambitions within.
But by night, the illusion cracked. Shadows lengthened, deals were struck in dimly lit alleys, and the underbelly of the city came alive with whispered secrets and the glint of hidden steel.
Agatha preferred it at night.
She could have left after the tourney, taken her earnings and moved on to the next city, the next job, the next fight. But she didn’t. Wyrdsted had its hooks in her now, and not just because it was ripe with opportunity.
People knew her name.
Not just Agatha of Nowhere—the title she jokingly used to shit on the nobles during the tourney. But Agatha Harkness, her actual name. It was muttered in taverns, mentioned in passing by merchants, asked about in the training yards where squires swung their wooden swords and dreamed of glory.
She had gone into that tournament to make a name for herself. And now, it seemed, she had.
Some wanted to test themselves against the woman who had nearly bested their champion. Others wanted to hire her—contracts, bodyguard work, mercenary jobs that paid better than the meagre scraps she used to get. And Agatha? She didn’t hide. She let them look.
After all, she had fought to be seen.
And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t quite ready to leave behind the woman who had beaten her, either.
Agatha adjusted the cuffs of her coat as she strode through the noble district, the air thick with the scent of burning tallow and damp stone. The summons had been discreet, but the estate of Lord Corvin Mendax was anything but. It was a grand thing—too grand, in her opinion—with white stone, high walls, and the kind of heavy wrought-iron gate that said keep the filth out.
A footman greeted her, nose wrinkling ever so slightly at her worn leather boots and the sword slung over her back. He was too well-trained to comment, though, and simply gestured her inside.
She was led through a corridor lined with tapestries—expensive, gilded things that no doubt told some very important history Agatha neither knew nor cared about. Mendax, it seemed, was a man of taste.
And yet, when she entered his study, he was alone. No advisors. No guards. Nothing.
Interesting.
Mendax looked to be a man in his fifties, silver threading through his dark hair, dressed in finely tailored but subtly expensive garments. He sat at a mahogany desk, fingers steepled, and regarded her with a calculating look.
"Agatha Harkness," he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a piece of intrigue he was still weighing the value of.
She smirked and dropped lazily into the chair across from him, slinging one booted foot over her knee. “The one and only.”
Mendax exhaled through his nose, somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “You’ve made something of a name for yourself after the tourney.”
“Have I?” she mused, plucking a grape from the silver dish on his desk and popping it into her mouth. “And here I thought you were the important one.”
His lips twitched, just a fraction. “I require discretion.”
“Not exactly my specialty.”
“No,” he allowed. “But results are.”
Agatha leaned back, letting the silence stretch, watching him watch her. This was a test. Every interaction with a noble was.
Finally, Mendax reached into a drawer, pulled out a small leather pouch, and dropped it onto the desk between them. It landed with the distinct clink of gold. “Half now. Half when the job is done.”
She didn’t touch it. Not yet. “And the job is?”
Mendax exhaled, leaning forward. “There are whispers in the city. Unrest. Smuggling operations tied to nobles who should know better. Bribes exchanged in back rooms. And I have reason to believe it all leads to something far greater than mere corruption.” His gaze sharpened. “Something that threatens the crown itself.”
Agatha’s fingers drummed against the arm of her chair. Conspiracies, treason, high stakes.
Now that was interesting.
"So, you need someone who won’t ask too many questions," she said, tilting her head. "Or maybe someone who will ask all the wrong ones?"
Mendax’s smile was slow. “Whichever gets me the answers I need.”
Agatha glanced at the pouch again. The gold was good. But more than that—the job was good.
And she never could resist a good game.
She plucked up the pouch, weighing it in her palm. “Consider me intrigued.”
Across the city, Rio Vidal had already begun her own hunt.
She rode through the streets of Wyrdsted on a horse as disciplined as its rider, the royal crest gleaming against her armour in the flickering torchlight. Where Agatha dealt in whispers, Rio operated in the open, cutting through deception with the clean edge of steel.
Her orders were clear: find the source of the city’s unrest before it could escalate into anything more.
She had spent the better part of the evening in council with Wyrdsted’s city guard, questioning captains, inspecting patrol routes, ensuring that security was being maintained with her usual unwavering standard.
But it was never enough.
Rio swung down from her horse outside one of the guardhouses, her polished boots hitting the ground with a firm thud. The guards inside stiffened at her presence—not from fear exactly, she wasn’t high enough in rank for that, but from the knowledge that she was not the kind of knight to tolerate laziness or half-measures.
She removed her gloves as she stepped inside, her expression carved from stone. “Report.”
The captain—a grizzled man named Ruldan—cleared his throat. “There’s been movement near the docks. More smugglers than usual. Someone’s been stirring the pot, but we don’t know who.”
Rio crossed her arms, brow furrowing. “And you didn’t think to act?”
Ruldan shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that simple, Ser Vidal. We catch the small fish, but someone big is protecting them. We push too hard; we get orders from above to back off.” His expression soured. “It stinks of noble involvement.”
Of course it did.
Rio’s jaw tightened. She had no patience for corruption, for men who bowed to coin over duty. But she had seen it before, time and time again.
She exhaled sharply. “Double the patrols at the docks. And if you get orders to back off, bring them directly to me.”
Ruldan hesitated, then nodded. “Understood.”
But as Rio turned to leave, another thought gnawed at the edges of her mind.
Someone else was involving themselves in this. Someone besides the nobles.
She would find them, and she would stop them.
Because if there was one thing Rio Vidal did not tolerate, it was chaos.
That night, as Agatha disappeared into the depths of Wyrdsted’s underbelly and Rio tightened her hold on the city’s order, neither woman knew just how soon their paths would collide.
The underbelly of Wyrdsted was a place of shifting allegiances and whispered secrets, where coin spoke louder than blood, and loyalty was as fragile as the glass tankards clinking together in dimly lit taverns. It was here, in the smoke-choked gambling dens and backroom dice pits, that Agatha did her best work.
She navigated the darkened corners of the city with ease, slipping between conversations like a blade through soft flesh. A few well-placed coins loosened tongues; a threat, delivered with just the right amount of menace, did the rest. She pried information from trembling hands and drunken boasts, piecing together a network of bribes that stretched toward the noble houses like veins beneath rotting skin.
But it wasn’t enough.
The details remained elusive, frustratingly vague. Every thread she pulled unravelled before she could see where it truly led. Too many names were left unspoken, too many figures lurked in the shadows just beyond her reach. It was enough to keep her prowling through the city’s filth night after night, ears sharp and blade sharper.
And that was how she found herself in The Rising Sun, a tavern that smelled of cheap ale, unwashed bodies, and bad decisions. The kind of place where debts were settled with fists and the barman didn’t bother wiping the counter clean because it would only get filthy again within the hour.
Agatha lounged at the bar, boots propped against the rung of the stool, a tankard in one hand, the other resting casually on the worn hilt of her sword. The man she had been pressing for information, a greasy merchant with shifty eyes, had finally stopped talking horse shit, his excuses drying up under her unimpressed stare. She clicked her tongue, weighing her next move. Threats worked well enough, but there was something enjoyable about watching men squirm under nothing more than the weight of her silence.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle—hushed murmurs, a few stiffened backs, a shift in the way bodies angled toward the entrance. A sixth sense Agatha had honed over years of surviving in places like this prickled along her spine.
Trouble.
She turned her head slightly, half-expecting a group of city guards come to shake down the establishment. Instead, she saw her.
Rio Vidal stood in the doorway, framed by flickering torchlight, polished armour gleaming even in the dimness. She didn’t need to announce herself; her presence alone did the work for her. Conversations died mid-sentence. The usual bravado of thieves and smugglers faltered, eyes darting toward the exits, calculating if they had time to slip away unnoticed.
Agatha exhaled slowly through her nose, fighting back a smirk.
She took a deliberate sip of ale, watching as Rio stepped inside, every movement crisp and efficient. She carried herself with that infuriating self-assurance, a woman who knew she commanded the room whether they wanted her to or not. It was enough to make Agatha’s teeth itch.
The knight’s focus was elsewhere, fixed on a man hunched over a table near the back. A smuggler, Agatha presumed, watching Rio stalk toward him with unhurried precision. The idiot tried to shrink into his seat, as if he could disappear into the sticky wooden bench.
Rio stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. Waiting.
The whole tavern seemed to hold its breath and wait with her.
Agatha was content to simply watch—until, just as Rio was about to speak, the knight’s gaze flicked sideways. Their eyes met across the room.
And there it was. That crackle.
It was almost infuriating, how effortless Rio’s presence was. How she could simply exist in a space and demand attention without trying. Agatha had spent her whole life fighting to be seen, forcing her name into people’s mouths, carving out her own damn place in the world. And yet Rio—golden, perfect fucking Rio—belonged wherever she stood.
The tension stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.
Agatha, still lounging, tilted her tankard slightly in mock salute. “Didn’t take you for the type to drink on duty.”
Rio’s expression didn’t change. If she was irritated, she didn’t show it. “Didn’t take you for the type to involve yourself in city affairs,” she countered smoothly. “I thought mercenaries only cared for coin.”
Agatha let out a low chuckle, resting her chin on her palm. “Oh, darling, I thought we were past underestimating each other.”
That did it.
The barest twitch of Rio’s jaw. The smallest tell.
Agatha grinned.
She had expected some sharp reply, some pointed remark in return. But Rio, damn her, was disciplined. Focused. She merely exhaled through her nose, turning back to the smuggler as if Agatha were no more than an inconvenience, an irritating background noise to be ignored.
It shouldn’t have bothered her. But it did.
The conversation was brief. The smuggler, pale-faced and sweating, stammered out some excuse, but Rio wasn’t one for games. A few pointed words from her, and the man’s resolve cracked like thin ice. He muttered something under his breath, barely audible over the tavern’s murmurs, and Rio nodded, satisfied.
She turned to leave.
Agatha could have let her go. Should have let her go. But where was the fun in that?
“Careful, Vidal,” she called lazily, just loud enough for the room to hear. “If you keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, someone might cut it off.”
Rio paused.
The moment stretched, taut with unspoken meaning.
Then, without turning, she replied—voice calm, edged like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “Likewise.”
And then she was gone.
The tavern exhaled, tension easing the moment the door swung shut behind her. Conversations picked up again, albeit quieter. The smuggler slumped forward, looking as though he had aged a decade in mere minutes.
But Agatha barely noticed any of it.
She took another slow sip of her ale, swirling the dregs thoughtfully. The taste was bitter on her tongue, but her grin was sharp.
She hated Rio Vidal.
And she couldn’t fucking wait to see her again.
The information from the merchant had led her here, winding through half-truths and whispered secrets, through bribes slipped across sticky tavern tables and threats muttered in dark alleyways.
What had started as vague rumours—murmurs of missing coin, of bribes disguised as trade deals—had begun to take shape. Each step she took revealed another link in the chain: a merchant with too much wealth for his station, a dockworker paid handsomely to look the other way, a city watchman whose silence had been bought one too many times. The deeper Agatha dug, the more certain she became that this wasn’t just corruption—it was orchestration.
And every lead pointed her here.
To the noble estates that gleamed with opulence in the sun but became shadowed fortresses after dark, their grandeur guarded by wrought-iron gates and patrolling sentries. However, locks could be picked, guards could be distracted, and stone walls, no matter how thick, could never quite keep out someone determined enough to slip through the cracks.
Agatha Harkness was very good at finding cracks.
She moved like a whisper through the manor, bare fingers trailing over bookshelves and polished desks, keen eyes scanning for what she needed. The study was dimly lit by the dying embers of a fireplace, casting long, flickering shadows along the walls. A lesser thief might have rushed, might have fumbled in their hurry to grab what they came for and vanish before anyone noticed. But Agatha took her time.
Her target sat atop the heavy oak desk—an unassuming letter, sealed with a crimson wax seal. If what her informant had said was true, this single scrap of parchment could unravel a conspiracy buried beneath layers of gold and false smiles. She plucked it from the desk, slipping it into the inner pocket of her coat with a satisfied smirk. Easy.
Too easy.
A shift in the air. A presence behind her.
“Going somewhere?”
The voice was unmistakable.
Agatha turned slowly, already knowing what she would see. And yet, the sight still sent a ripple of irritation curling through her gut.
Rio Vidal stood at the entrance of the study, arms crossed over the gleaming breastplate she so stubbornly insisted on wearing at all hours. Even in the dim light, she looked every inch the knight she was trained to be—back straight, expression impassive, fingers drumming casually on her bicep as if she hadn’t just caught Agatha red-handed.
God, Agatha hated her.
“Why, Ser Vidal, fancy seeing you here,” she drawled, dipping into a mock bow. “I’d say you’re a little overdressed for a nighttime stroll, but then again, I suppose I did see you wear full armour to a tourney, so…”
Rio didn’t even blink.
“I suppose you have a good reason for being here. And by good I mean legal,” she said coolly, stepping into the room with slow, measured strides. She uncrossed her arms as she did so, one hand now warily resting on the hilt of her sword. “Then again, you’ve never been one for playing by the rules, have you?”
Agatha tsked, tilting her head. “Rules are for people who lack creativity.”
Rio exhaled sharply through her nose. “Hand over whatever you just stole.”
“Me? Steal?” Agatha pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “I’m wounded.”
Rio was not amused. Her fingers tightened around her sword.
Agatha sighed dramatically. “Oh, fine. If you must escort me out, at least be a gentleman about it.”
Rio’s jaw twitched. “I don’t have time for your games, Harkness.”
“Then perhaps you should leave before you lose.”
This time, Rio was the one who sighed. A long, slow exhale, as if she were wrestling with the urge to simply run Agatha through and be done with it. Instead, she did what knights always did, she took the honourable approach.
She drew her sword, the blade whispering free of its scabbard. “Hand it over or I’ll make you hand it over.”
Agatha’s fingers twitched at her sides.
She could fight. She wanted to fight. But she wouldn’t win cleanly. Not here, not like this. She could probably move faster than Rio given she wasn't burdened by armour, but the study was small, the walls lined with bookshelves and furniture that left little room to manoeuvre. The moment their swords clashed, the noise would bring more guards running, and she wasn’t about to risk the entire job—and a handsome payday—just to wipe that superior look off Rio’s face.
So, instead, she did what she did best.
She cheated.
In one fluid movement, she turned, catching the edge of a floor standing candelabra with the tip of her boot. It toppled, the tiny flames catching instantly on the thick velvet curtain beside the desk. Fire licked up the fabric in an eager rush, devouring the deep red material with alarming speed.
Rio cursed.
It was a split-second distraction, just long enough for an escape.
Agatha moved before Rio could stop her, darting past the knight with a grin sharp enough to cut. She was almost out the door when she hesitated, turning back just long enough to blow a mocking kiss.
“See you around, Vidal.”
Then she was gone, swallowed by the night, leaving nothing behind but the echo of her laughter and the glow of burning fabric.
On a different night, Agatha found herself crouched on the slanted rooftop of a crumbling tenement, the scent of damp wood and old smoke thick in the cold night air. Below her, a warehouse loomed—an old trading post turned into something more illicit, its wooden walls lined with the quiet hum of secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Agatha shifted, pulling her cloak tighter against the wind as she trained her eyes on the small group gathered outside. The men below spoke in hushed voices, their words indistinct but their body language telling—furtive glances, stiff shoulders, the way one of them clutched at his mantle like it was hiding something precious. Smugglers, most likely. Or couriers for something bigger.
She was just starting to catch fragments of their conversation when she heard it.
That unmistakable sound of heavy armoured boots. Walking with a purpose and a certain righteousness.
Agatha muttered a curse, already knowing what she would see before she looked.
Sure enough, down on the street, a familiar figure strode toward the warehouse entrance, flanked by a handful of other knights. Torchlight flickered over polished steel, illuminating the resolute set of Rio Vidal’s face as she approached the gathering with all the ease of someone who knew she belonged there.
Agatha huffed a bunch more curse words at the knight before she flattened herself against the rooftop, watching as the smugglers stiffened at the sight of the knights. One turned, already making a move to flee, but Rio’s voice cut through the night like a blade.
“Stay where you are.”
And just like that, the group froze.
Agatha bit back a growl of frustration. She had just started making progress, was this close to figuring out what the hell was going on in Wyrdsted’s backstreets, and now Vidal had to come marching in, shining like a fucking beacon of righteousness, ruining everything.
It soon became a pattern.
Wherever Agatha’s investigation led, Rio was either one step ahead or frustratingly close behind.
Their next clash came in broad daylight.
Agatha was having an excellent afternoon, all things considered. The corrupt city watchman she had cornered outside the market district was already sweating, his nervous fingers twitching as she flipped a silver coin between her fingers.
“Come on, now,” she purred, letting the metal glint in the sunlight. “All I’m asking for is a little information. You tell me what I need to know, and I’ll walk away. You get a nice bonus, I get what I came for, and no one has to know.”
The man hesitated, eyes darting to the coin like a starving dog eyeing fresh meat. Agatha could practically see the battle waging in his head.
And then—
“Step aside, Harkness.”
Shit.
Agatha closed her eyes briefly before turning, shoving the coin into her pocket, to find Rio standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable but with just enough smugness to make Agatha want to break something.
“I’ll handle this,” Rio said.
Agatha scoffed. “By what? Asking nicely? Maybe writing a strongly worded letter?” She took a step forward, lowering her voice just enough that the words curled sharp between them. “Men like him don’t talk without incentive.”
Rio didn’t so much as blink. “And men like him only stay corrupt if people keep feeding their greed.”
The city watchman, caught between them, looked like he’d rather throw himself into the nearest river with his pockets full of rocks.
Agatha clicked her tongue. “You really think you’re going to get the truth by glaring at him?”
“I think,” Rio said, voice infuriatingly calm, “that the truth isn’t worth much if you have to buy it.”
“Oh, spare me the lesson on morality.”
“Spare me the theatrics.”
They stood there, locked in silent battle, neither willing to yield.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge. The watchman, shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flickered from Agatha’s smirk to Rio’s unwavering stare, sweat beading at his temple.
Agatha sighed, exaggerated and theatrical. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”
She reached into her coat and on instinct Rio stiffened, hand hovering near her sword, but instead of a dagger, Agatha pulled free a single gold coin.
“Let’s make this easy,” she turned back to the man, voice smooth as silk. “Tell me what I want to know, and this little beauty is yours. Otherwise that one,” she jerked her head back towards Rio, "will be a little more forceful, I've heard she doesn't take kindly to those who break their oath to protect the city."
The watchman swallowed. His loyalty wasn’t worth much—just a price that needed negotiating.
“You can’t bribe him,” Rio cut in, her voice edged with warning.
The man hesitated, flicking a nervous glance in her direction.
Agatha raised an eyebrow. “I’m not bribing him; I’m paying him for his knowledge. Big difference.”
Rio exhaled sharply through her nose, the closest she ever got to expressing true exasperation. But she didn’t stop Agatha.
The watchman wavered. Then, finally, he caved. “Fine,” he muttered. “There’s been movement—money changing hands in ways that don’t make sense. Bribes disguised as trade deals, payments disappearing like they were never made. Some noble going by The Raven is involved, but no one’s saying names. Just that whoever’s pulling the strings isn’t someone to cross.”
Agatha smiled. “See, that wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”
But before she could press further, Rio grabbed the watchman by the arm and yanked it behind his back with a practiced efficiency. He let out a strangled yelp as she twisted him into a hold, binding his wrists with the shackles from her belt.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Agatha snapped.
“He’s a corrupt officer,” Rio said evenly. “Taking bribes, withholding information. That makes him a criminal.”
Agatha scoffed. “Please. If you arrested every corrupt watchman in Wyrdsted, you’d be at it for years.”
Rio ignored her, steering the man toward the street.
The man thrashed. “Come on, Ser Vidal, let’s be reasonable—”
Rio tightened her grip. “You should’ve thought about that before you started selling your honour for pocket change.”
Agatha watched them go, tapping her fingers against the hilt of her sword. The bastard had barely told her anything, and now Rio was dragging him away before she could get more.
Typical.
As if sensing her thoughts, Rio glanced back over her shoulder. “Try not to start any more trouble tonight, Harkness.”
Agatha gave her a mocking little salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ser Vidal.”
She exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes as Rio led the watchman away. The household knights would interrogate him, shake him down for whatever else he knew, and then—if Agatha had to guess—pat themselves on the back for uncovering a lead she had handed them on a silver platter.
Fucking brilliant.
She lingered a moment longer, watching Rio disappear into the crowd, jaw tight with irritation. Every time she got close to something, there was Rio Vidal, standing in her way like a well-armoured obstacle. It was a wonder she got anything done at all.
Agatha had to admit that Rio was good. Frustratingly good. And despite everything, despite how much Rio hated her, she knew Agatha was good too. Infuriatingly good.
But neither of them would ever admit it.
The tunnels beneath Wyrdsted smelt of damp earth and rot, a lingering staleness that clung to the air like the ghost of something long dead. Agatha moved carefully through the underground passage, boots barely making a sound against the slick stone. The only light came from the dim glow of her lantern, flickering against the cavernous walls.
She had followed the lead here—whispers of a clandestine meeting between smugglers and their noble benefactors. But something felt off.
It was too quiet, too still.
Before she could react, they came at her.
The first man lunged from the shadows. Agatha twisted, narrowly avoiding the dagger meant for her ribs. She slammed her elbow into his throat, sending him staggering back, but more were coming—two, three, four of them, their weapons catching the weak glow of her lantern.
Shit.
The fight was brutal.
Agatha was fast, vicious. She cut one man down with a precise strike, knocked another’s weapon from his hands and buried her knee into his gut. Blood slicked the floor. Her arm burned where a knife had found flesh, but she ignored the pain, moving on instinct.
But there were too many.
A pair of hands caught her from behind, forcing her forward. She jerked, but a cold blade pressed against her throat, halting her struggle.
“Well, fuck,” she muttered, breath ragged.
The man holding her chuckled, tightening his grip. “That’s what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
And then—
A flash of shining metal.
A blur of movement.
The man’s body jolted, a choked gurgle escaping his lips before he crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around him.
Agatha staggered back, free from the man clutching her, heart pounding. She turned to see who had saved her, and that’s when she saw her again.
Rio Vidal stood at the tunnel’s entrance, blade drawn and bloody, her armour catching the dim light again like a goddamn beacon.
She didn’t hesitate.
The remaining men turned to fight, but it was over in moments. Rio cut through them like she was the blade—swift, merciless, as if battle was simply another language she spoke fluently. One man tried to flee but she ran him through before he could take another step.
When the last body hit the ground, silence fell.
Agatha exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she turned to Rio. “Didn’t take you for the dramatic rescue type.”
Rio’s eyes flickered to her, unreadable. “I didn’t rescue you.”
Agatha snorted. “Oh, really? So, you just happened to show up right when I needed saving?”
Rio clenched her jaw. “I don’t trust you. But you’re the only one who seems to be as interested as me about what’s really going on in this city. And until I figure out whether you’re a part of the problem, I’m not letting you die.”
Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Touching. Really.” Rio didn’t reply.
They stood there, both bloodied, both breathless. The fight was over, but the tension wasn’t.
Rio wiped her blade on the cloak of a fallen man before sheathing it.
Agatha tilted her head, studying her. “You know, for someone who plays by the rules, you sure did kill a lot of people just now.”
Rio’s expression didn’t waver. “Where do you think the nickname Lady Death came from?” She glanced at the bodies, impassive. “And besides, they were criminals.”
Agatha hummed. “Still. Grey areas, Vidal.”
Rio exhaled sharply, turning to leave. “Don’t push your luck.” She stepped over a lifeless body without so much as a glance. 
Agatha grinned, trailing behind her. “Oh, never.” She stretched her neck, rolling out the tension. “Well, this has been fun.”
Rio didn’t bother replying, she just adjusted the strap of her gauntlet, then fixed Agatha with a look over her shoulder. It wasn’t the glare of a knight condemning a criminal, nor the scowl of a woman forced to tolerate someone she despised. No, this was something else.
Something Agatha couldn’t quite name.
Rio tilted her chin up ever so slightly before murmuring, “Te veo.”
Then, without another word, she turned left out of the tunnel and strode into the night.
Agatha remained where she was, watching the flicker of torchlight catch the edges of Rio’s armour before she disappeared completely. The tunnel felt quieter in her absence, the only sounds now the distant drip of water and Agatha’s own breathing.
Te veo.
I see you.
Agatha let out a slow breath, shaking her head to herself. She wasn’t sure what irritated her more—the fact that Rio had helped her, or the fact that, just for a second, she hadn’t minded. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, casting one last glance down the empty passage. “Fucking knights,” she grumbled. Then, grinning despite herself, she slipped into the shadows and made her own way out of the tunnels grateful to still be breathing. 
-----
okayyyyyyy we're starting to see a plot start to form now...
I should say that this fic is broken up into Acts with their own story Arc for each and anyone wanting a happy ending should stop reading after Act III because..... well there's going to be character deaths but thats still a ways off so buckle in folks
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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark
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genshingorlsrevengeance · 3 months ago
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(FE3H Fanfic) House Isekai Primer
Premise: After using a reality distorting magic in order to save someone's life, mercenary Byleth Eisner and his mysterious companion Sothis accidentally create a devastating side effect. They have now brought groups from other dimensions, and must guide them through the lands of Fodlan, and a world that wants them all gone.
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Crossovers: Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Persona 3/4/5, The Legend of Heroes: Trails of Cold Steel, Konosuba, Gakkou Gurashi
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Content: A mixture of crack, slice of life at the Monastery with the new members, serious story events, and a mixture of Three Houses/Three Hopes story.
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Characters included: Persona 3: Makoto Yuki, Yukari Takeba, Junpei Iori, Aigis Persona 4: Yu Narukami, Yosuke Hanamura, Chie Satonaka, Yukiko Amagi, Teddie Persona 5: Ren Amamiya, Ryuji Sakamoto, Ann Takamaki, Morgana Trails of Cold Steel: Rean Schwarzer, Elliot Craig, Alisa Reinford, Laura S. Arseid, Towa Herschel, Sara Valestein, Sharon Kreuger Konosuba: Satou Kazuma, Aqua, Darkness, Megumin Gakkou Gurashi: Megumi Sakura
A/N: This is actually round 2 of me doing a FE3H Crossover fanfic but the cast being added to the original one was 72. Needless to say that made actually making a story where the heroes didn't just curbstomp everything in their path was a bit contrived. This time, it's only going to be 25, which is FAR more manageable. For those who are just following Genshingorls, this was actually my first major fanfic project, and holds a special place in my heart. Though admittedly, I don't like how the original turned out since I HEAVILY rushed it, but this time I'll take my time, and I hope that it's an enjoyable read for everyone who'll take the time to give it a look! For my longtime followers: Kept you waiting, huh?
Extended character info below the cut!
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Persona 3
Date transported from: September 18th, 2009
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Makoto Yuki (Age: 16) - Aigis (Age:???)
Yukari Takeba (Age: 16) - Junpei Iori (Age: 16)
Originally waiting out the storm that was passing over Iwatodai dorm, Makoto, Aigis, Yukari, and Junpei find themselves transported into a strange land by even stranger circumstances. Cut off from the rest of their friends and forced to contend with both Shadows and their new environment, Makoto leads the members of S.E.E.S to protect his newfound allies at Garreg Mach.
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Konosuba
Date transported from: No one was looking at the calendar before they left the tavern.
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Satou Kazuma (Age: 17) - Aqua (Aqua)
Dustiness Ford "Darkness" Lalatina (Age: 19) - Megumin (Age: 14)
Originally the four were doing a quest that involved a magical artifact, one Kazuma was dead set on selling for a fat load of cash. Unfortunately for him, Aqua decided to mess with it, thinking it could be used until it horribly malfunctioned, shooting the four into a completely new world. Absolutely pissed but having no time to yell at Aqua and deal with whatever crap lied ahead of them, Kazuma had no choice but to ally himself with the weird emotionless mercenary and the floating green thing with him.
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Persona 4
Date transported from: August 2012
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Yu Narukami (Age: 16) - Yosuke Hanamura (Age:16) - Teddie (Age: ???)
Chie Satonaka (Age: 16) - Yukiko Amagi (Age: 16)
Originally visiting for Summer Vacation, Yu found something strange happening with the TV's in Junes, despite the fact the Midnight Channel had long disappeared. Calling who was available, Yu, Yosuke, Chie, Yukiko, and Teddie went inside to investigate, only to find themselves ending up in a completely unfamiliar land, with seemingly no way to return. Finding familiar faces in the form of younger versions of the members of S.E.E.S, Yu and friends decide to stay in order to find a way home together.
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Gakkou Gurashi
Date transported from: July 2012
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Megumi Sakura "Megu-nee" (Age: Early 20's)
After saving her last remaining three students from the infected, Megumi accepted her fate, her world going dark with a searing pain on her right arm that was only growing by the second. Instead of the end like she expected to face, she suddenly awoke again being saved by unfamiliar faces. With nowhere to go, she decides to stay with her saviors, and start teaching again to the best of her ability with the second chance she was given.
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Persona 5
Date transported from: July 2017
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Ren Amamiya (Age: 18) - Ryuji Sakamoto (Age: 18)
Ann Takamaki (Age: 17) - Morgana (A Cat)
Originally heading out on a camping trip with the rest of their friends, Ren, Ryuji, Ann, and Morgana are caught in a Palace that manifested itself, drawing them into it. To their shock, the unstable nature of the Palace had quickly collapsed, trapping them in another world. After meeting other Wild Card Persona Users, Ren can only deduce that this was meant to happen, and fights with his friends to guide them home, and bring justice to the wicked in this new land.
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The Legend of Heroes: Trails of Cold Steel
Date transported from: October 24th, S.1204
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Rean Schwarzer (Age: 17) - Elliot Craig (Age: 16)
Alisa Reinford (Age: 17) - Laura S. Arseid (Age: 17)
Towa Herschel (Age: 18) - Sara Valestein (Age: 25) - Sharon Kreuger (Age: 23)
Moments after discovering an Ashen bipedal Machine inside the Old Schoolhouse, a blinding light envelops the members of Class VII as they tried to investigate it. Quickly finding themselves in a land not too dissimilar from their own, Rean and Sara immediately take point to find a safe haven for Class VII, finding it alongside fellow outsiders, led by a mercenary. Though the machine, their Orbal Weapons and ARCUS units are still with them, they are far from safe in this strange new world.
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Notable Deviations from the original FE3H timeline for this Crossover:
Byleth has seen Sothis from birth and the two have become steadfast friends, all the way to present time.
Shez and Arval is also present, though the two do not meet before meeting the Three Lords.
Ashen Wolves are present, including their DLC story.
Jeralt will have a stronger presence, teaching alongside Byleth and interacting with the Garreg Mach students and Crossover characters.
Sothis will have a stronger presence, due to being seen by certain Crossover characters.
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By the time this post goes live, I'll be working on the prologue chapter, it's SO good to be writing these characters again in this medium.
See ya soon, and thanks for reading this far!
- Chris
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hutahuta · 1 year ago
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I SAW PAVIA AND STARTED SPRINTING, THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE
Maybe some headcannons about a protective Pavia? I mean, being a mercenary probably has gotten him some (read as a lot) of enemies, especially considering he’s good at his job! So it wouldn’t be a surprise if his partner got targeted as a way of getting to him. Obviously, Pavia’s not gonna let that happen, not by a long shot. Maybe hurt/comfort in a way? And gender neutral if it’s okay!
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P.AGE OO.2 — 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐔𝐌 & NOBILITY : 交 ✦ ⏱
thank you for requesting, i hope you like this <333 ( •̀∀•́ )ラ✧ !
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Unfortunately for him, Pavia bore the scars of a life that was etched by loss and fleeting connections. No human ever got as close as you did with him, so it was important to protect such things. Yes?
His heart encased in solid steel and armour, found solace in the comfort of your arms. Yes, this man was laid back most of the time, but under that thick smile of purity and hearty laughs, he wanted to keep you forever as his own.
Embellished in jewels and tied and restrained for himself. Guarded by his sole bonds of his canine family, he couldn't possibly think of letting you be exposed to the outside danger out there.
Every beat of his heart echoed with the lingering memories of his past separations. His bond broken with his family and his scarred nature of a relationship broken down with his aunt. He doesn't know how to handle such things, he wasn't taught proper coping mechanisms.
You, vulnerable to attacks, not necessarily naive but still innocent as a feather; are more susceptible to violence catered by Pavia's enemies surrounding him on a day-to-day basis..
And—,, the thought maliciously stabs him every single time. To see you lying in your own warm, pool of blood. He hated the sight, and vowed to always keep you with him, safe and sound even if it meant his own skin will be torn apart. Pavia, originally, had nothing left to lose. He had nothing to go down with. His legacy was scarred with the torment of his past. His family had no connections with him whatsoever, and he planned to keep it that way.
This fear, an indelible mark left by the merciless hands of fate, propelled Pavia to assume the role of a vigilant guardian. He shielded his beloved with unwavering determination, an impassable fortress erected to defy the encroaching shadows of abandonment.
Skeletal hands trace the outline of your jawline towards the base of your neck, leaving lingering touches that'll never fade away for months to come. You'll always remember how he told you.
` Non allontanarti troppo dal mio cammino.. Amore. `
Which meant, ' Don't stray too far from my path, love. ' His hands firmly gripped your waist, leaving soft kisses that marked the vow of his undying love for you.
He shudders to think of your figure being manhandled by someone who would bruise such tender skin of yours, to discard your love and treat you like nothing but a used rug. You're nothing of the sort, to him.
Precious diamonds and jewels like you need to be treasured, kept under someone's eyes like Pavia's. Right?
It's conflicting, to say the least. You'd wonder why he's so protective when it's mixed with such a lazed stare. A laid-back figure who offers you juice and drinks at parties and festivals. But he isn't stupid enough to let you wander too far. Just think what could happen-
Someone kidnaps you, holds you for ransom? Knowing Pavia, he's smart enough to go along with such plans then storm into the area himself and take you back. Leaving only the echoes of men screaming, bodies thudding against the floor as they get a bullet launched into their skulls.
That won't happen though, right? He's not stupid enough to let you go like that..
Pavia struggles to keep himself from being too overprotective to the point you feel suffocated, to being too laid-back that it makes him seem uncaring and unloving. He wants to let you go do your own thing, after all.. that's why he loves you, right? That's why he fell in love with you.
But it pains him to think that now you've officially established something deep with him, he could be at fault for your uneasy, incoming death. You're at heavy risk if you step too close to the edge of his outside perimeter.. That's why-
You stay with him. Right beside him.
Excuse him when he pulls you closer by his waist when near enormous crowds and traffic during festivities.
Don't mind his behaviour as he trails a hand down your thigh to subtly mark to others that you have not one, not two, not even three, but a whole family of dogs watching over your guard.
You have eyes on you 24/7. Don't forget that. Now you're with him, it's important you try to manage your way through this skilfully with the intent to have the best possible outcome with your protective little man.
Safe to say, he won't let anything bad happen as I stated previously. Just as long as you follow the rules he gave. It's his way of trying to tell you that he has boundaries and he wants you to stick with him almost every time both of you are out.
His protective stance wasn’t fueled by dominance but rather by a desperation to defy the cruel whims of destiny, to safeguard the one person who illuminated the shadows of his tumultuous existence. In their presence, Pavia found a fragile haven, one he fiercely guarded against the specter of loss that loomed ominously over his turbulent life.
As you know, despite Pavia’s instinctive urge to shield you, he wrestled with the awareness that his protective demeanor might eventually suffocate the relationship. To counterbalance his guarded nature, Pavia embarked on a path of intentional vulnerability, striving to open up the vault of his emotions..
He tends to be honest with you then and there, but often finds himself leading the conversation into something else more uplifting. All in his worries that you might see him as him trying to justify his actions, which is possibly why he cannot exactly open up fully. That, and he just can't help but talk about other stuff mid-sentence. Learning more about you, your boundaries, your silly interests is just.. more of a reason to keep you safe.
He doesn't know communication skills all that well. But he takes it on after you, so guide him properly and heal those scars that may linger for a life time.
But if you stick around, he's sure to let go of the tension on his shoulders a few times and enjoy quality time with you without the doubt you'd potentially get harmed in the process of your relationship. <3
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Text
Two chapters in less than twenty-four hours. I literally haven't done this in a decade. Send help. Wheezing. May have thrown my back out. In need of life support.
Anyways here we gooooooo
Hearing Problems
LA!Mihawk x AFAB!OC
Previous Chapter Link
Next Chapter Link
Chapter 2: A Battle of Wits
Tags: Slow-burn, Enemies to Lovers, eventually NSFW, uh, if I think of more I'll add them or something
Trigger Warnings: None for this chapter
Wordcount: 2.2k
Summary:
After having her sloop sunk by the Buggy Pirates and losing most of her worldly possessions in the process, the normally solitary mercenary Karimi Lionne finds herself teaming up with the rag-tag little crew that is the Strawhat Pirates to defeat them. She bonds with them far more quickly than she bargained for, and that quickly turns into a problem for the Kiku Kiku no Mi devil fruit user when she learns of Nami's plans to leave them high and dry, and Zoro issues a challenge at Baratie that he very likely won't live long enough to regret.
Karimi did her best to steel her resolve despite the blood rushing in her ears as she lay there.
Lay there on the docks outside the seafaring restaurant, her strength zapped by the salt water, completely defenseless as Dracule Mihawk towered over her, his arms crossed, observing her with an unreadable expression and indecipherable tone to his question that still echoed in her ears.
Devil fruit, then, is it?
It wasn't too big of a surpise that he had figured it out that quickly. No, the surprise was his very presence there on the docks. That he had bothered to seek her out and ask her.
She finally expelled the breath trapped within her lungs in a slow sigh, closing her eyes again, feigning an aloof facade as well as she could.
"No idea what you're referring to," she said, as levelly as she could. She could hear a slight edge in her tone, but that was fine. That was to be expected. At least she had found the will to speak.
"There's really no use playing coy, dear. Though I am curious..." he said slowly, "what might lead a devil fruit user to intentionally dampen their own power."
"I don't think that's really any of your business," she said, mimicking his drawling lilt. "I am trying to drink myself into a stupor before morning and your presence is not helping the endeavor. So, if you would..." She lifted a hand and made a shooing motion. "Kindly fuck off."
Mihawk quirked an eyebrow, wondering whether every member of the strawhat's crew were insolent fools. Roronoa Zoro's challenge had been one thing—now this girl, this child, was mocking him to his face, attempting to shoo him off like a stray dog begging for scraps.
For a moment, he was completely speechless, feeling oddly as if he had taken a brief step out of reality.
Then he stepped slowly forward, stopping a few inches behind the crown of her tattered brown hat, and crouched down, casting a shadow across her much smaller form.
"You know who I am." It wasn't a question—apart from her abilities, which she still had yet to confirm or deny, he had seen the flicker of recognition in her eyes back on the deck of the restaurant. "Do you have a death wish, little one?"
She cracked open her eyes, meeting his gaze.
"If I say yes will you make it quick and painless?" Then she rolled them and shut them again. "Forgive me if I don't have much respect for glorified political puppets."
She was either too brave for her own good, out of her mind, or legitimately suicidal—and yet there was something intriguing about her complete lack of concern for the fact that he could easily push her right off the edge of the dock with the heel of his boot and watch her devil fruit abilities sink her like a brick to the bottom of the East Blue. There was a clear edge to her voice that told him she was well aware of that fact, and yet she carried on with her contemptuous sarcasm as if she didn't have a care in the world.
It was almost entertaining—a game of wit and intimidation that no one had played so readily or boldly against the warlord in years. He lowered a hand a flicked a few strands of her dark green hair away from her forehead, noting how she briefly tensed at his touch, very briefly; how her breath caught in her throat for a fleeting moment before returning to normal.
"You are in a rather...precarious position," he said lightly, "to be behaving with such impudence, little bird." She shivered when his knuckles brushed lightly down her neck. "As I said, I'm merely curious about the ability you demonstrated earlier. I can't say I'm particularly accustomed to having my mind invaded."
He watched her grit her teeth and abruptly sit up straight on the dock, swiping up the unmarked wine bottle sitting next to her and taking a swig.
"Oh, avast, sir!" she said in a particularly dramatic tone, "—and allow me a moment to wave a sad goodbye to the last fuck I had left to give as it drifts away on yonder tides."
His eyebrows furrowed as she lifted a hand and waved out at the vast expanse of the darkened sea. "Also." She tilted her head back, her eyes locking onto his.
"Call me little bird again and I will find where you sleep, cut off your balls, and feed them to you."
And with her threat hanging in the air between them, her voice slightly slurred, she tilted the bottle back again and took a couple large gulps. His eyes shifted briefly to the pair of daggers hanging at either side of her belt, passing over their ornate, slightly yellowed ivory handles, either antiques or impressive replicas.
Oh, but this was growing more entertaining by the second. Half-drunk and spouting off honest to god threats now—he honestly wasn't sure what to do with her. Mihawk straightened back out, circling slowly around the green-haired enigma, like a predator sizing up his prey.
"If you answer my questions, I will leave you be to drink yourself into an early grave, little bird." He watched as she heaved a sigh, rolling her eyes and glaring out toward the horizon, lit dimly by the crescent moon hanging in the sky overhead.
"Counter-offer," she said flatly.
Everyone else aboard the Going Merry seemed have completely lost every iota of intelligence they might have once possessed—Karimi figured she might as well join the questionable decisions club.
"Let the idiot swordsman live, and I'll work for you. Free of charge. For a year."
For a moment he was silent. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, his eyes scanning over her as she sat there at the docks with her feet in the water, her head swimming more and more with every gulp of wine she downed and her face flushed beneath her freckles from the alcohol. Weighing her offer.
"And what would I want with a little bird flitting around after me for an entire year?"
The smug amusement was perfectly clear in his tone, and Karimi had expected it. Standing at five foot two, weighing in at perhaps eight or nine stone soaking wet, the twenty-four year old knew she didn't come across as much of a threat—but she shared the same stature with her grandmother, who had racked up a bounty of over two billion Berries in her heyday.
"Six years experience in covert mercenary work," she said, holding up one finger. She held up another. "An underling to send off on World Government errands that aren't worth your time." She held up a third finger, picking her head up and rolling her eyes up to meet his. It was fairly clear that he wasn't going to kill her on the spot—between that knowledge, the buzz from the cheap wine and expensive rum she had consumed earlier, and her utter exhaustion and present physical weakness from prolonged contact with ocean water, she was quickly growing less concerned. "I can literally hear the thoughts of everyone within a fifty foot radius at all times. Well..." She gestured toward her feet in the water, lifting her wine. "Not now, but usually."
She took a swig, set the bottle down, and laid back on the cool, damp wood of the dock again, closing her eyes and tucking a hand behind her neck.
"Play with your swords all you want, there's no weapon more dangerous than information."
"You're rather quick to leave your crew behind," he said said slowly. "That speaks very little to any loyalty you could offer."
"We're not even really a crew," she sighed. Karimi raised a hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes and shaking her head. "Zoro would tell you that just as quickly as Luffy would tell you that he's his first mate. So would Nami, but she'll be gone just after sunrise if she has any say. That's going to be enough of a blow. But Zoro *dies*, that's going to shatter Luffy." Another swig of wine, another sigh. "Poor kid's got rocks for brains but he's got a good heart. Just wants the whole world to drop everything and follow their dreams."
"An idealistic idiot and a suicidal swordsman."
Karimi gave a snort of laughter—that hit the nail on the head. "And a pathological liar that can't even tell himself the truth, and a girl so desperate to save her home that she distances herself and steals from the only people who have shown her genuine compassion in over a decade."
"It sounds like they're already falling apart from within." Karimi shrugged a shoulder. "So why, then," he said, clear skepticism dawning in his tone, "would a Marine Vice Admiral call me out here to take care of it?"
A Marine Vice Admiral.
Karimi didn't even bother trying to contain her smirk—even with her devil fruit abilities supressed, she knew exactly what that meant. She knew it alone from the attack that Garp had led on the Going Merry, and didn't even bother opening her eyes as she responded in a mocking tone.
"Well, I except Garp the Fist didn't want to see his grandbaby grow up to be a filthy pirate." No—she did crack one eye, to watch the subtle shift in the pirate warlord's expression. The slow lowering of his brows. The miniscule twitch in a muscle between the corner of his lips and his nose.
Registering that he had been sent out of his way to deal with a petty family dispute.
"My offer stands." She lifted her bottle as if in toast. "You let Roronoa Zoro live, you'll have one year free from dealing with this sort of bullshit, courtesy of yours truly."
Agreeing to her offer felt like it would be an admission of defeat. Whether the battle was one of blades or wits, it was rare—if ever—that Mihawk conceded defeat. The entertainment, the fun of this exchange had drained the moment she laid her claim that Garp was using him as a mediator to capture and deliver his grandson to him.
Once more he crouched down, at the girl's side this time, his eyes glued to hers.
"And for what reason should I believe you?" he said quietly, searching her eyes for any sign of deceit, of treachery.
Yet all he found in their emerald green depths was amusement. That paired with the noncommittal shrug of her shoulders served only to infuriate him more.
"You have no reason to believe me," she said, her tone just as smug as her smirk. "But I wouldn't want to work for anyone that would trust the word of a Marine over a fellow pirate, anyway."
Her eyes slipped shut again, as if the deal was already done, in a manner that suggested it was already set in stone.
In a way that made his blood boil.
The girl drew in a sharp breath when his hand wrapped around her chin, her eyes snapping open to meet his gaze as the pads of his fingers pressed into her wine-flushed cheeks, her breath catching for more than just a brief moment this time. She didn't breathe at all as he leaned down, his face barely an inch from hers, her eyes wide as saucers.
So she did fear death. That was something.
"I will consider your offer, little bird," he said lightly.
Karimi swallowed, watching his eyes flicker away from hers for a moment, toward her slightly parted lips.
"And you will have your answer after my duel with your swordsman friend."
He loosened his grip the slightest bit.
Shifted his hand, his thumb brushing across her bottom lip.
"Whether it be in the form of his continued heartbeat or his bloodied corpse."
And with that he released her and straightened himself out to stand over her. With one last sharp glance down toward her, he strode away down the docks.
Karimi didn't turn her head to watch his departure, simply staring straight up at the stars dotting the inky black expanse over her head as she drew in a slow, shaky breath. Normally silence was a comfort to her, but right now, with nothing but her own troubled thoughts slowly cresting from a murmur to a chaotic jumble of inane chatter somewhere between her ears, it wasn't.
And when she closed her eyes to sigh, to try to calm herself, all she could see plastered to the back of ger eyelids were his own sharp, yellow irises.
Next Chapter Link again for your convenience
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starlightarchery · 1 month ago
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injury prompts (pt. 2)
for @tiravi - 22
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Sparks jump as his dagger meets resistance, scraping down the length of blade currently trying its best to find flesh until Ruskin can shove it away - push enough distance between him and the mercenary to find stronger footing. He feints left, twists right in just enough time to miss the strike aimed for his side, and swipes steel across the back of the neck.
It's over in seconds. The body crumples with a crack at his feet and Ruskin takes the moment of stillness to look across the field. Varric is walking the length of their battleground, crossbow sight browsing the treeline for any stragglers or hidden threats. When it seems the coast is clear, he throws a thumbs up Ruskin's way.
His own blade replaced into its holster, Ruskin makes to rejoin so they can start heading on.
His vision tilts.
"What the fu..." Words breathed more than spoken when he can't get any louder, wavering when he feels his joints wobble at the shift of his legs trying to compensate for failing equilibrium. One hand reaches for something to balance himself, finds nothing, and then he feels his knees hit gravel.
He looks down.
"Shit... shit, tha's a lot of blood..."
The fabric of his shirt is sliced open, a serrated gash carved just above the hip bone steadily oozing blood into the fabric below; a dark stain blooms over his thigh. He presses a hand to it - he needs the other one to keep from faceplanting - fingers squishing through warm, red ichor to try and stanch the leak.
When the fuzzy edges of his sight briefly clear enough to look around, it lands on the body he'd dropped just moments ago. Their blade glints triumphantly at him from the dirt, sharp and red.
"Oh, you fucker..."
Shadow dips over him as Varric slides up, already moving to cover Ruskin's hand with his own.
"Geez kid. You don't do anything half-assed, do you?" His other hand is fishing around in his pack as he speaks, though that's quickly ended by a swear. "Shit, we're outta vials."
Ruskin just wheezes out a scoff, sharp and fast, because of course they are. Varric, on the other hand, is glancing down one end of the path to the next; whatever he sees - or doesn't - makes him groan.
"We're too far from the next city..." He says it more contemplatively than anything, like it's for no one's benefit but himself, and Ruskin can practically hear his mind racing even through the blood pounding in his ears. "Damnit. C'mon kid, you gotta have something left in the tank. That trick of yours is supposed to be good for healing, yeah? That's what you said."
"I can't just... pull it outta nothing. S' gotta be someone t' take it from."
"What about in the tombs? You didn't have anyone then."
He expends just enough energy to give a single shake of the head; any more than that and he can kiss his consciousness goodbye. "Different. Fade was open then." Numbness is starting to creep across his skin. That's probably not a good sign.
"Okay... okay. Well. You don't need a lot right? Just enough to close it up?"
Even in a daze, he's pretty sure he sees where this is going.
"No."
"Rook, we don't have time to—"
"No," he repeats a little louder. "Can barely control it... when 'm not... this ..." His hand wiggles under Varric's, indicating the gash. "... 'n' you wanna put y'self in front of it?"
"Hell no, it scares the crap outta me."
Ruskin blinks in surprise.
"But I'm pretty sure if we don't, you're gonna bleed out right here, and I don't like my odds against your scary hooded friend if they find out I let you croak out here!"
Realistically, he knows the old man's right. He can feel it with every beat that gets slower as his blood pools beneath his knees, like it's being forced out. But he can't add Varric's eyes to the ones that already follow him into his dreams; he wouldn't survive that either. Dimly he realizes Varric is trying to speak to him still, and Ruskin lifts the hand keeping him upright to grab a fistful of Varric's jacket near the shoulder.
"Swear t' me, right now—" A brisk coughing fit interrupts him; he doesn't let Varric try and get his argument in before he's even heard the condition. "If I can't stop... y'have t' shoot me. Swear, right now, or I'm letting Vorgoth haunt y'r ass."
Varric groans. "Fine, fine, I swear, now hurry up before one of us changes our mind."
Scrunching his nose in concentration, Ruskin pushes past the fear - past the anxiety, and pain, and racing heart, and haunting memories - and finds that small thread waiting at the center of him. He tugs, as softly as he can; maybe too softly. Nothing seems to happen, and he panics at the idea that he could be completely tapped out. This could be it.
He concentrates on the pressure of Varric's hand against his wound. The weight of the other one on his shoulder. The way the pace of his breathing slows to match Ruskin's own.
He tugs again. This time he feels it.
It's like a barbed feather being dragged across his skin - all at once a faint tickle and a stinging pain being poked over and over across the laceration; he's not sure if that's how it's meant to feel, or if he's just really that numb.
The thread's unraveling. He feels Varric's hand tightening on his shoulder.
Shit. Shit shit shit— His breathing turns to gasps, with all the fervor of a suffocating man, alarm right on its heels. He has to clip it, has to tie it off, he has to do something—
"Enough!!"
The shout echoes into sudden silence. And then Ruskin's tossed back several feet by a burst of green that rips him and Varric apart, as the ambient sounds around them return. For a second all he can do is lay there and moan, the ache in his side replaced by an ache in his back from where he'd crash-landed.
Wait. His side.
Ruskin sits up abruptly, pulling up the hem of his shirt. It's still sore and red, but the bleeding's stopped. It worked. He lifts his head and almost immediately, finds Varric's prone form a couple yards away. "No. No no no, please no...." Pleas that spill out without target or end as he scrambles over to what he's convinced will be another body on his conscious. "Fuck, come on, please don't be—"
An unintelligible grumble interrupts him, and Ruskin's stops; wide stare waiting to see Varric actually push himself upright, all furrowed brow and disgruntled voice. "Ugh. It's like a hangover without any of the fun of drinking," he complains, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.
Ruskin's still staring. A beat passes. Then another, and another.
Then he punches Varric in the shoulder.
"Ow! What the hell was that for?"
The only answer he can give is to fall back from leaning on his heels to sit on the ground properly, legs stuck out in front of him, and laugh. He doesn't even know why. He feels crazy for it. But the good kind of crazy. So he lets it go — just raises his knees, buries his face in his hands, and laughs until there are tears in his eyes and his stomach aches.
"Don't scare me like that, you asshole," he finally spits out between exhales. Then, when he's caught his breath, he reaches over and wraps himself tight around Varric's shoulders. There's a brief hesitation — mostly surprise, he thinks; it's not as if he's been very touchy so far — but he feels Varric lift an arm to pat him on the back and hears the grin in his voice when he speaks.
"Eh, I knew you could do it, Rook."
Ruskin smiles. It feels like the first genuine one in years.
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freyasilverbough · 9 months ago
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The Cave Bear and the White Wolf - First Meeting
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Notes: I kinda wrote myself into a corner lmao so I’m going back to Act 1 in my wip. I also restarted Freya’s run because I wanted more Act 2 screens and the other one is honor. Also I realized that I started this story at a weird spot in the game so I just wanted to fix that. Will write more as this playthrough progresses, and as always feedback and suggestions are more than welcome.
Cw for blood, canon typical violence, mention of a severed head.
Halsin dodged as yet another stone came flying at his face. He’d been locked in this cage for days, with no food, trapped in his ursine form lest the goblins learned just who they had taken prisoner. The Archdruid of the Emerald Grove would make a fine trophy for these savages and their leaders.
He came to this place in pursuit of whispers that these “Absolute” cultists had found a way to navigate his life’s greatest regret. The shadow curse that had gripped the region surrounding Reithwin in Shar’s wicked talons for over a century. The curse that had taken his oldest friend captive.
Perhaps he’d been too hasty, joining with the human Aradin and his band. They had turned tail and abandoned him the second things went awry. He supposed an Archdruid should have known better than to trust a mercenary. Halsin had always done his best to see the good in others, no matter how many times it stabbed him in the back - sometimes literally. In all his long life, such an outlook had only truly benefitted him a handful of times, and yet his foolish optimism prevailed each time.
He hardly registered the group of strangers that marched straight up to the goblins throwing stones at him. A tiefling woman, blazing like the sun, her flaming sword strapped across her back. A smaller man with mousy brown hair, his earring marking him as one of Mystra’s wizards. A pale elf of equal stature to the other man, confidence and amusement radiating off of him, daggers sheathed at his sides and a bow slung over his shoulder. They were led by a woman with silver braids and a commanding aura, even with her relaxed swagger. She wore a circlet across her forehead that marked her as a follower of Selûne, with piercings lining her pointed ears to match, but the designation ended there. Her armor was granite-hued steel, not like the other Selûnites he’d come across over the centuries. They typically preferred to reflect their goddess with hues of blue, silver, and white, and rarely did they don a full suit of armor. Few of them were warriors, but he had seen a few paladins among the druids and Harpers he fought with a hundred years before. Rare, but not unheard of.
The woman crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a hip. She assessed the situation there with a discerning glare before her eyes landed on him, still in bear form, and he noticed that her eyes were the purest sapphire blue. Her gaze bore right through his fur, as if she could see into his very soul.
“What in all the sweet hells do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her tone commanding respect and authority. Odd, that she would take the time to aid a bear in a cage. Most soldiers found the creatures of nature to be beneath them, or simply unworthy of their time.
“We’re juicin’ him up,” the goblin encouraging his assault by the children said. “Boss is thinkin’ of servin’ him to the worgs.” She chuckled, as if it was all a joke to her. Knowing the ways of goblins, it likely was a joke to her.
The silver-haired woman glared at her, before flicking her ocean eyes to the bear once more. “Enough. You’re done here.” The other two men at her back shifted nervously, as if wanting to avoid a brawl, while the tiefling woman seemed to flare brighter in anticipation.
“We don’t have time for this,” the male elf whispered to the warrior. “We shouldn’t even be here.”
“Then leave,” the woman whirled to him with a glare that Halsin had no doubt could cut glass. “See what the fuck I care.” She turned her piercing glower back to the goblins. “Let him go,” she demanded.
Convinced that he now had at least one ally against the mob of goblins that held him captive, Halsin lowered his hackles and growled. A low, menacing sound deep from his chest, one that made the goblins cower in fear. The silver-haired woman only seemed to stand taller while her companions eyed him warily. He slammed into the bars of his cage, knocking the gate down with such force it crushed the goblin female that joked about his impending demise. The woman leading the adventurers drew the longsword she previously kept sheathed across her back, but rather than striking him down, she turned on his foes.
She slammed the pommel into the heads of the goblin children as they ran past her to alert the rest of the camp, knocking them unconscious, while the male elf fired arrows at the goblins that had moved against them across the room. Each arrowhead struck true. The wizard lobbed balls of fire while the flaming tiefling woman sprinted to those leftover with an insane cackle. The silver haired woman calmly strode to the other cage, where the worgs were kept. She pulled the lever to open the door and began her battle with the beasts while her friends fought the goblins in the room. Every swipe of their claws was dodged or blocked with practiced skill, and Halsin ran to her as she battled two against one. He reached her left flank as one of the worgs bit at her while she was occupied with the other. Halsin let out a loud roar as his own maw closed around the worg’s throat.
The warrior woman shoved her sword through her enemy’s throat as the others finished with the goblins, and Halsin shed his wildshape for the first time in days. He stumbled just a bit as he adjusted to standing on two legs. The armored woman before him quirked an amused eyebrow as her companions rejoined them and started at the bear-turned-elf.
“Pardon the viscera,” he chuckled. “One should cherish all of nature’s bounty, but goblin guts are quite far down the list. You aided a bear without knowing if it would savage you? A true friend of nature, or perhaps a lunatic.”
“Who’s to say I’m not both?” The soldier said, amusement lacing her tone.
“Either way, I owe thanks. I am the druid Halsin.”
“Pleasure. I’m called Freya,” the woman said. Freya. A strong name, not one he often heard in this region. Apt, he thought, as he stared down at her. In this form, she was eye level with his chest. The shortest of her companions, but she somehow stood the tallest of them all. Something about her seemed familiar, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He knew he’d remember someone like her if they met before, her hair alone was a distinguishing feature, but he couldn’t place her.
“I’ve been to your grove,” Freya continued, disrupting his thoughts. “You should know your second in command was planning to undertake the Rite of Thorns and force the refugees out. I’m told you would disapprove of such extremes.” She eyed him carefully, as if determining whether what she’d heard about him was true. Indeed, he should have known Kagha would do something like this the instant she was handed the power of a First Druid. He silently cursed himself once more as the implications of his absence settled over him.
“Kagha…I will deal with her when I can.” Something flashed behind Freya’s eye as he spoke, something unnatural, something he’d only seen recently, when walking with Nettie…”I sense, Freya, that you have a problem you need my help with.”
“What problem?” Freya crossed her arms over her chest again and widened her stance, but Halsin meant her no harm. She had just saved him from certain death, after all.
He held up his palm, golden light pouring out of him. Halsin called upon the Oak Father as he reached into her mind with his magic. Freya stiffened, and Halsin confirmed his suspicions as he felt the presence he was looking for. He jerked his hand back as something in her mind bit him.
“That problem. Oak Father preserve you, child, you’re infected aren’t you?” His concern leaked into his tone, and his features. He was never adept at concealing his emotions, and he truly did feel sorry for the woman. She was doomed to ceremorphosis, yet she showed no signs of turning. Something was different, she didn’t bow to this “Absolute” like the other so-called True Souls did. Indeed, he sensed she didn’t bow to much of anything at all.
“I don’t need your pity, druid. Only a cure,” she snapped.
“I studied these parasites up close. I’m sorry to say, I can’t cure you, but I have the next best thing. I know where these tadpoles originate. I overheard the cultists say that they’re sending the infected to Moonrise Towers, and I’ll bet that’s where you’ll find your cure.”
“No.” Her refusal came as swift and hard as a hammer on an anvil as her fury darkened her features.
“It’s either Moonrise, or certain ceremorphosis. I’m sure of it,” Halsin kept his tone level. He had his own reasons for wanting to return to that land, but he couldn’t go alone. For the time being, their goals aligned. These adventurers needed to reach Moonrise to cure their parasites, and he needed to restore the balance there. He was so close, and yet frustratingly far.
“We’ll find another way,” she stated plainly, steel determination radiating from her like its own aura. She turned to leave, but the wizard caught her arm. A brave man, Halsin mused, for Freya looked at him like she’d run him through for daring to touch her.
“It’s worth hearing the druid out,” the human murmured to her. “What if there is no other way? We’ve come this far already, let’s not abandon the one lead we have so quickly.”
“I, personally, don’t find the idea of transforming into a tentacled monster very appetizing, my dear. To each their own, of course, but I’ll have to take the druid’s side.” The white haired elf placed a relaxed hand on his hip as he spoke.
“We face certain death if we travel there,” Freya growled. She knew of the curse, then.
“We face certain death if we don’t,” the elf shot back.
She shook the wizard off of her bicep and turned back to face Halsin. He raised his eyebrows at her and held his breath in anticipation of her verdict.
“You know what awaits us in that place, I assume?” She leveled the question at the druid with no shortage of malice.
“I do,” Halsin kept his tone flat, deciding that it was not the time to reveal his intentions with regards to the curse. “I’ve long sought to return to Moonrise, but I cannot leave here until I put everything right. I’ve no right to ask more of you, but these butchers threatened my grove. If I could ask your aid once more, I’d be free to join you on your journey to Moonrise.”
“What would you have me do?”
“There are three leaders here, eliminate them and nature will restore itself. I need you to kill the drow Minthara, the hobgoblin Dror Ragzlin, and that perversion of a priestess Gut.” Freya relaxed at his deliverance of her new mission. He gathered she held no qualms about killing, he only hoped that her violence focused on the malevolent.
“Leave it to me.”
—-----
Freya returned to him in record time, bloodied and bruised and almost singing with after-battle adrenaline. She carried the head of the hobgoblin by the hair in one hand, blood soaked sword in the other. The warrior tossed the severed head at Halsin’s feet as she approached and wiped the blade of her sword on her elbow.
“The camp is clear. You’re free to go.” Her tone was flat and dismissive as Halsin realized she meant she had cleansed this place of all its inhabitants. He raised his eyebrows at her once more in question, waiting for further explanation.
“The beasts desecrated a temple of Selûne. I purged the rot,” she remarked with a shrug.
“Who managed to hit you?” He blurted, noticing the splotch of purple that bloomed on her cheekbone under all the blood.
“Drow.” She turned on her heel as the wizard started murmuring an incantation, violet light swirling around his arms. A portal opened before the party, and she stepped through it without a care in the world. The fiery tiefling simply laughed before she followed, then the other elf. The wizard looked over his shoulder with an apologetic look.
“I’ll meet you there,” Halsin told him. The human nodded, then bounded through his portal as it closed.
Leaving Halsin to wonder about the strange warrior woman that had just catapulted into his life.
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toggle1-mrfipp · 1 year ago
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Opera Omnia Burst Theme 4/?
In the first three posts I covered all the songs that were used for characters tht were able to receive their respective BTs, as well as put up my own suggestions for ones that had not gotten them. The rest of these posts will be more or less self-indulgence on my part as I list characters that could have gotten into the game, as well as songs that might have been used for them.
Final Fantasy I Matoya: Matoya's Cave
Final Fantasy II Gordon: Dungeon Josef: Escape! Ricard Highwind: Ancient Castle
Final Fantasy III Sara Altney: Jinn, the Fire Cid Haze: Sailing Enterprise Aria Bennet: Aria, Maiden of the Water Doga: Let Me Know the Truth Unnei: Let Me Know the Truth (Remake) Luneth: Boss 2 (Remake) Arc: Dungeon (Remake) Refia: Battle 1 (Remake) Ingus: Forbidden Land Eureka
Final Fantasy IV Tellah: Tower of Zot Cid Pollendina: Hey, Cid! Zemus: Final Battle (Pixel Remaster) Scarmiglione: Battle with the Four Fiends (Pixel Remaster) Cagnazzo: Battle with the Four Fiends (Dissidia) Barbariccia: Battle with the Four Fiends (FFXIV) Luca: Dancing Calcabrina Harley: Edward's Harp Gekkou: Battle 1 (Pixel Remaster) Izayoi: Mount Ordeals Tsukinowa: Into the Darkness (Pixel Remaster) Zangetsu: Battle 2 (Pixel Remaster) Maenad: The Eidolons Shackled
Final Fantasy V Ghido: Library of the Ancients Boko: Go, Boko Go! Enuo: The Decisive Battle Final Fantasy VI Umaro: Umaro's Theme Gogo: Gogo's Theme Banon: The Returners Ultros: Grand Finale Ghost: Phantom Train
Final Fantasy VII Red XIII: Red XIII's Theme Tseng: Shinra's Full Scale Assault Elena: Hurry Up! Hojo: J-E-N-O-V-A Loz: Beyond the Wasteland Yazoo: Battle in the Forgotten City Genesis Rhapsody: The SOLDIER Way Nero the Sable: Fight Tune: Messenger of the Dark Rosso the Crimson: Fight Tune: Crimson Impact Azul the Cerulean: Fight Tune: Killing One Another Elfe: Theme of Elfe Roche: Ignition Flame
Final Fantasy VIII Ward Zabac: Silence and Motion Kiros Seagill: Ride On Edea Kramer: FITHOS LUSEC WECOS VINOSEC Adel: Lunatic Pandora
Final Fantasy IX: Blank: Vamo'alla Flamenco Marcus: Sword of Fury Lani: Battle 1 Mikoto: Bran Bal, The Soulless Village Black Waltz No 3: Battle 2 Thorn and Zorn: Jesters of the Moon Garland: Master of Time
Final Fantasy X Rikku: Start or YRP, Fight No. 1 depending how her kit is built Gunner Yuna: YRP, Fight No. 3 Yunalesca: Challenge Leblanc: Let Me Blow You A Kiss Logos: Infiltration! Leblanc's Hideout! Ormi: Anything Goes For Leblanc! Baralai: New Yevon Gippal: Machima Faction Nooj: Youth League Lenne: 1000 Words (FFX2 Mix) Shuyin: Their Resting Place
Final Fantasy XI Zeid: Fury Volker: Battle Theme Star Sibyl: Heaven's Tower Semih Lafihna: Battle 2 Ajido-Marujido: Battle in the Dungeon 2 Trion I d'Oraguille: Battle in the Dungeon Curilla V Mercu: Ronfaure Maat: Tough Battle Shadow Lord: Awakening Aldo: Battle 3 Gilgamesh: Battle in the Dungeon 3 Ulmia: Onslaught Tenzen: Isle of the Gods Naja Salaheem: Mercenaries' Delight Luzaf: Black Coffin Razfhad: Hellriders Cait Sith: On This Blade Lady Lilith: Goddess Divine Larzos: Kindred Cry Morimor: Steel Sings, Blades Dance Teodor: Monstrosity Balamor: Clouds Over Ulbuka
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cinebration · 2 years ago
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Demonic Shadow (Geralt of Rivia x Reader) [Request]
Sorry in advance if you don't accept requests.
But… Here is my request. It is addressed to Geralt of Rivia with an Umbra Witch. I don't know if you know the Bayonetta games or some concept (a few days ago I found out that many people don't know the games).
Back in context, the newly trained Umbra Witch and her demons at her service are sent to the world of The Witcher, thanks to her training she gets a mercenary job and due to her height (Umbra witches are 2 meters and a little more) people don't mess with her on top of her reputation for controlling beasts.
And she meets Geralt when he accidentally mistakes one of her demons and thinks he wanted to attack her.
If possible, it is better that she does not have a flirtatious personality, since Umbra witches are actually very traditional, and only those who are already experienced and who have been away from their domains for a long time are the daring ones. This is more like a little data.
Thank you very much for reading and goodbye.—Requested by anon
Warnings: blood, violence
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Gif Source: lamberts
Geralt froze, the sudden silence in the forest a louder cry of alarm than even the shriek of a human in peril. Roach slowed to a stop, chuffing uneasily as Geralt stilled in the saddle, sharp Witcher senses attuned to any disturbance. In the chill winter air, both his and the horse’s breath plumed in white clouds before them.
SNAP!
Geralt slipped off Roach and shooed her away, steel sword sliding free of its sheath. On near-silent footsteps through the snow, he took cover behind a tree, turning east toward the direction of the snapped branch.
The forest waited with bated breath.
SNAP!
Followed by the soft crunch of snow underfoot, not twenty paces off to Geralt’s left.
The wolf-head pendant vibrated against his chest.
Magic.
The Witcher’s mind raced. The presence of magic meant a much harder fight than he was prepared to have. The injuries he had sustained a few days before while fighting the drowned dead were only mostly healed, and he was embarrassingly fatigued after two days of hard travel. Roach had already moved off, distancing herself from Geralt—and taking his elixirs with her.
Teeth grinding in dismay, Geralt peered around the rough bark of the tree, trying to glimpse the source of magic.
A figure moved briefly through the trees.
Stilling once more, Geralt shifted his stance, muscles coiling for an attack. Edging around the tree, he strained to glimpse the figure once more.
The winter sun sliced sharply through the loose canopy of trees. A shadow slinked toward another tree, extending outrageously tall against the disturbed snow behind it. Geralt managed to keep his heartbeat calm.
The shadow looked like a demon.
Geralt sped through his options. Demons were from other planes of existence, meaning they often followed their own rules in Geralt’s world. The shadow was nothing like Geralt had ever seen. Without specific knowledge of the beast, the Witcher was working in the dark as to how to banish it back to its realm.
To his right, Roach whinnied in alarm and pranced away, the whites of her eyes flashing against her bay skin.
Fuck, Geralt thought, and he slid around the tree, sprinting toward the shadow as Roach cried out again in distress, shying away from whatever approached her.
The shadow’s twisted jaw opened in a soundless snarl.
Geralt flew past the tree blocking his view of the creature, snow kicking up in his wake, sword angled for a strong strike.
A towering woman in strange, tight-fitting garb, your face obscured but for bright, sharp eyes, spun to meet him, strange devices wielded in both hands.
Geralt hesitated.
BOOM!
Pain slammed into Geralt’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.
BOOM!
The impact sent him onto his back, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Molten fire poured through his chest, muddying his senses. The hilt of his sword still weighed heavy in his rough palm, but he struggled to grasp it.
He gasped for air.
You slid into his field of vision. You stood above him like one of the trees, taller even than the Witcher. The object in one of your hands issued a thin wisp of smoke.
“I see this place is filled with savages,” you murmured, a hint of disappointment coloring your voice. “I had expected more of a challenge.”
An inhuman voice answered you in a language of gravelly, distorted sounds.
“Yes, I know. It’s early yet.”
Sighing, you peered down at Geralt’s pain-contorted features. Lips peeling back from his teeth in a snarl, he growled, “What are you?”
You hesitated, eyes narrowing a fraction, before answering, “A witch.”
“You are…no witch.”
The inhuman voice grated against Geralt’s ears.
Nodding, you replied to the Witcher, “Your opinion means nothing to me.”
You strode over him, disappearing from his view. Geralt craned his head, forced himself to roll onto one shoulder to watch you. Pain poured fresh fire through him.
Roach galloped away, her fear palpable, the smell of her sweat tangible on the chill air.
Geralt’s blood spilled onto the white snow.
You headed for the horizon. Your demonic shadow followed.
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iphoenixrising · 4 years ago
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DickTim Week 2021: Day 5 Winged!Talon Tim au
So. another dual prompt and I really regret nothing about this one tbh. I took tomorrow’s Talon and today’s Wings and made a Winged!Talon!Tim fic. Of course, I talked to the wonderful babes on Capes & Coffee about a what if combination and this just, whew. Careful, it might break your heart a little, but damn if it isn’t an interesting idea.
Not beta read, so don't be a hater :D
Previous Talon!Tim universe posts: The initial idea, Babe and I talking it out, Talon Training Ask, Ra’s vs the Court, Talon and Ra’s, Talon and Ra’s take 2, Talon and Shiva short.
**
Watching B take on the new and improved Talon is really the entertainment of the year.
Once upon a time it had taken all of them plus more to take down as much of the Court of Owls as humanly possible. Of course, like rats, the Bats knew there would be no way to get the entire Court or all the Talons, not when the upper echelons of Gotham had spent the better part of 200 years creating, storing, training, and obtaining more.
Politicians were investigated, corrupt cops removed, and criminals burrowed underground once word of what the capes did to save the day got passed around.
For the first time in years, crime in Gotham was at an all time low.
But, as the coin flip dictates, nothing good lasts forever. Trouble is always brewing below the surface to eventually rise to the top and try to take over.
Case in point:
The Bats of Gotham have come up against a new threat wearing the signature Talon armor, and the call goes out to all available capes for help taking on the undead mercenary before another crime family ends up in the Obituaries rather than Blackgate.
The fact the Court is still up and running after the Batfamily took them down in a fiery blaze that ended with all their Talons gone, Sensei exposed, and most the ruling families imprisoned or poisoned by Lincoln March, is like a kick to the abdomen after they closed that particular book. Worse, with a new Talon soldier is sighted running around Gotham, another circus kid has been kidnapped and turned into the right hand of the Court of Owls. Dick, with his absolute survivors guilt, is the one to make going after the Talon and whoever is still behind the scenes a top priority.
Which is how they find themselves in the middle of Knight’s Stadium facing down a Talon that is too short to be March. Red Hood, Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat pretty much got their asses handed to them in the first twelve minutes. Pretty hard to understand until you take into account the new and improved Talon facing them now is terrifying in a completely different way than most undead assassins are.
He knows them.
He knows them in ways that lets him fight fast and furious with vicious accuracy, striking at weaknesses few of the vigilantes of Gotham realized they even had.
He isn't as big as Lincoln or even Cobb, not nearly as old. He hasn't been kept in cryostasis waiting for the next generation to need his skills. He doesn't have creaks in his joints from being put on deep freeze too many times.
This one is silent and efficient, obviously trained in multiple types of martial arts, is highly proficient with or without the standard Talon knives, is a master tactician, counters the majority of their moves with alarming consistency–
and the fucking Talon has wings.
Honest-to-God wings.
Everyone had assumed the metal monstrosities on his back were weapons of some kind, but the glint of steel in the streetlight flash a warning before the lumps moved in an arch, extending far out past his shoulder blades, slicing into Red Hood’s body suit with a razor-sharp edge, shredding the armor like paper.
It’s not enough he’s got weapons obviously made specifically for his skill set, it’s not enough he’s an assassin and doesn’t hold to the same standards of non-lethal combat, it’s not enough that he can use his wings to fly or to fight like he’s using another limb to kick the shit out of them, and it’s not enough that he effortlessly counters so many of their attacks that he has to have some kind of inside information on all of them and their fighting styles.
The knives are definitely a thing when the Talon can throw them hard enough to penetrate parts of their suits in between armored plating, which further drives the theory that this is a person they’ve dealt with before. Intimately. Few people in the world know how their suits are made. Even more, few people know particulars enough when their suits are constantly reconstructed.
The only thing on their side that tipped the scales in their favor–
–the Batman.
The wings threw him off his game, obviously, but not enough to stop B from holding his own with swift and merciless force.
It's like watching a dance of fast and furious fists, blades in Talon's hands glinting deadly in the night, finding B's suit over and over and over until he's made it to blood and bone. He takes every hit the Batman can dish out, head snapping back, left, and right with the volley of jaw-breaking blows and bone-shattering kicks.
None of it gives the Talon pause. When a move makes him drop a blade, another is already in hand, cutting into their body suits, wings flipping out to defend or distract, sweeping moves and well coordinated attacks.
The unnatural appendages are like another arm, another leg, an extension working on the same central nervous system, regardless as to how the Court managed to make it happen.
A jump kick off a trash can is a lucky shot as a wing catches B in the ribs hard enough to knock him into the wall of Mike's Famous Hotdogs. The only thing saving the Dark Knight from a concussion or permanent brain damage is the plating in his cowl.
It gives the Talon enough time to make a final bid for a battered Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin struggling to their feet again, eyes for their fallen mentor.
Before he can lunge forward to start the attack yet again, the Talon just stops, pauses like he’s stuck or something, and in the span of a breath, both wings extend fully, flap powerfully once to propel him up into the Gotham night.
O tries her best to track his flight through the city, but no one’s arms are working well enough to toss a tracker on him.
She loses him over Cape Carmine, slams her palms against her system in frustration, makes sure she gets as much footage from the confrontation as possible.
After some sleep and a whole lot of bandages and ice packs, the Bat family meets in the Cave to watch the footage, breakdown the Talon’s fighting style, his weaponry, and make theories on his identity.
O helps out with readings she has of electronic pulses she managed to capture coming from the armor over his wings. She thinks she might be able to use it to track him if they can get close enough for her equipment to ping the signal again.
B makes a trip to Arkham since Freeze apparently hasn’t stopped producing the formula used to put Talons in cryostasis.
It’s not until Gotham’s power grid has a massive surge that O and the Bats can pinpoint a possible location, all of them invested in one hell of a fight to get the last rats still scurrying in the underground.
The plan of attack comes together smoothly once they’ve scoped out the location, seen the shady activity, and together, they make one hell of a plan.
**
And because, you know, Gotham, it is completely normal for the Court of Owl's headquarters to have a skylight.
Natch.
For this one, they've got Batgirl and Black Bat, Red Hood and Robin, Nightwing and B, a real family affair.
O's quiet voice over comms leading them through the maze of traps and empty rooms, abandoned libraries and spooky ball rooms. The laboratory isn't the most horrific they've all ever seen (because the Joker's summer place is literally the stuff of nightmares), but a few of them do gag on the smell alone.
The plan, however, goes horribly awry when the clear sounds of tormented screaming echoes from right under their reinforced bootheels.
Black Bat's fists clench hard, her breathing wheezes out when the tone, the utter agony goes right through her.
A shudder slides up Robin's spine as all of them turn toward the noise.
Without a flicker or a word, the Batman moves, strafing in the shadows toward the sound. He can't assume it's an innocent civilian with something the Court wants, but he's betting on the fact that scream will lead them to whoever is running the show.
The medieval room has bars and reinforced locks, implements hanging on the wall. The cement brick is stained rust colored with old blood, the vestiges of training, and the awful realization they've found another hidden niche in the city that always existed right under their noses is punctuated with the abrupt drop in temperature, with the sudden charge in the air, with the zzzzcrack snapping beyond the door, replaced with a muted buzzing Robin can feel in his back teeth.
B is already on his way to the roof, Batgirl down through the floor vent while Nightwing picks the locks with fast precision, knocking the tumblers around.
Robin and Red Hood stay close to the reinforced door, balancing on the balls of their feet, katana and .45s at the ready.
Black Bat takes the high road, ceiling tiles giving way under her Bat-a-rang. She gives a sharp nod before she's up and gone.
"All right. Ready?" Nightwing stands, cracks his neck, flips his escrimas in both hands, works his shoulders to prepare for the strain of each blow he plans to give.
"Ya betcha ass," Hood murmurs low, a cut figure with both guns at his sides, gloved fingers on the trigger guard.
"Don't disappoint," Robin snarls, "either of you."
"Nice pep talk, squirt," Nightwing snickers.
"Tt, back up your mouth with action."
"Better shuddap, Demon. Golden Boy ain't fuckin' 'round. Neither is the Bat. We get one more chance a' this asshole. We ain't gonna blow it again, ya feel me?"
"Finally, something we agree on, Hood."
"Other than N's shitty mullet?"
Nightwing swiftly glares at them both over his shoulder, unconsciously putting himself front and center of the trio, ready to be the first in once they get the signal.
– which is the sound of the glass raining down from the heavens.
Three booted feet kick the door hard enough to take it off the hinges, lying against the faded stains like a fallen body.
First step in the room is the complete opposite to what they'd all been expecting.
The two Owl masks aren't the usual, but a perversion of the originals, crudely drawn yawning mouths complete with fangs dripping blood.
But.
The boy on his knees, arms in a binder holding the appendages hostage at a painful angle, is dripping the real thing. Rivulets down his chest and where his back is partially visible. Some from the base of the wings going into the back of his shoulder blades where the skin is torn and raw.
The bar gag shoved in his mouth doesn't take away from the splatters on his chin, the bruising on his face, the swollen eye. But it's his wings that makes the Bats falter from the initial rushing attack.
His wings are without the armor, are bound straight up above his restrained body with hooks grotesquely puncturing through the downy softness, desecrating the beauty with blood and gore. The angle makes the pull to his back where the wings are part of him just another agony on top of atrocity.
"Fuck," from the first Owl mask, and a swift move frees the Talon's bound arms, the appendages flopping uselessly to the floor, only his trapped, tortured wings keeping him up on his knees.
The second Owl shoves the first back, "let him take care of them. Let's get out of here!"
The first Owl snarls out something low and foreign, the phrases rolling off his tongue.
The words lock into place, and the Talon's head snaps up, snarling around the gag in his mouth.
When his face is finally, finally visible, the protectors of Gotham are frozen in their tracks.
Familiar violet-blue eyes, too-long blue-black hair, cut jawline and pointed nose. Tiny scar on his right cheek from the time he caught Ra's al Ghul's ring across the face.
"Jesus Fucking Christ," is barely heard through the Red Hood's synths and in no way fully expresses his utter horror at what these dirty motherfuckers have done.
Robin wretches, bile burning the back of his throat once those eyes swing up to the masked parody of the Owls and his bare upper body is visible through the blood and sweat on his chest, when the scars peeking through on his collar bones form a half-visible Y-incision, when the coloring of the bared wings now makes sense (robin's wings, Damian Wayne thinks with his heart beating pitter patter fast, and his stomach in knots, they put robin's wings on him...).
And the hurt, agonized noise coming out of Nightwing's chest is the only noise he can make when those dimmed, dazed eyes swing from the Owls back to the vigilantes frozen in their spots, when there's no spark of joy or fondness or stubbornness he's so used to seeing staring him down.
The errant thought, the first instinct, is the only humane way to deal with this new Talon is to put him down for good wars with the man behind the mask that only wants to reach out, wants to pull the Talon into his body and curve over, to scream at the injustice of it all, to rail at himself for not even suspecting.
Another switch flipped and the hooks release his wings, blood splattering on top the old stains.
"Get them! Don't fuck it up this time or you won't get another chance," the second Owl shoves the Talon's injured shoulder in the direction of the horrified vigilantes.
They don't even bother to take the gag out of his mouth before setting him on his target.
A flap of wings, and the Talon is on his feet again, swaying only slightly. He's in the boots and pants from earlier, the rest of his uniform tossed carelessly behind him by his tormentors. A sweep of his feet and the knives glint in bare palms, a whisper of a sound.
The curved, clawed blade glints in the overhead light when the Talon raises it and cuts the strap of the bar gag in his bloody mouth, turns his head to spit it out without looking away from the vigilantes.
The Batman, grim and stoic in the face of this surprising turn of events, gives the barest nod. From her hiding spot behind the complex machinery, Black Bat takes off after the running Owl members, leaving the rest of the family to deal with their former third Robin.
The wings flinchingly flare out and their former bird hunches over, ready for the attack.
“Wait! Wait, wait, wait,” the Red Hood removes the helmet, leaves the domino underneath. He keeps one hand out in peace, slowly dipping down to put his helmet on the ground. “Is us, Tim. Timmy. Baby Bird. Is us. Yer family. Gotta lookit us, yeah?”
For the first time, the Talon speaks, “who’s Tim?”
And then he lunges.
**
The fight happens very differently this time.
The former power behind the punches is obviously dulled with the Talon’s identity reveal. He doesn’t hold back, is utterly ruthless with his attacks. He takes out B’s right knee, puts Hood down on the stained floor, knocks Robin into the wall with crushing force, and slams Batgirl’s head off the operating table.
He stands over Nightwing, wicked blade in hand and robin’s wings spread wide. He takes a knee, the sharp edge right above N’s adam’s apple, staring down impassively into the whiteouts.
“Timmy,” N spits blood, grunting when one knee pins his arm down. “Timmy, please. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I love you and I’m sorry they did this to you.”
Those eyes don’t change in the slightest. “You should not have tried to oppose the Owls.”
“We beat them once,” Nightwing gasps, “and you helped us, Baby Bird. You were with us then, don’t you remember.”
“I was nothing before the Court perfected me,” the Talon replies emotionlessly.
“You were perfect before they ever touched you.”
“No,” and the Talon leans down, puts them a breath away. “The only thing you and those others do is put the criminals back in prison, back in Arkham for them to escape again, for them to kill and destroy over and over again. Like this, I can stop them permanently.”
“Oh Timmy,” and behind the whiteouts, Nightwing’s eyes spill over, his vision wavery. “Timmy–”
“Don’t call me that. Stop calling me that.”
“You know me, you know us. You have to remember–”
“Lies. All of it lies!”
Nightwing’s chest stutters, his fist clenching, “it’s not. None of it is. Not even this–”
And he’s fast enough to grab the back of the Talon’s neck, to lean up enough against the blade pressed against his throat, can bring their mouths together, can kiss him like he’s dying and the Talon is the only thing that can save him.
It’s sloppy and awkward because the Talon doesn’t know what’s happening, gasps against the vigilante’s mouth. The tongue sliding over his, the muffled moan in his mouth sparks something in the back of his brain where the Court of Owls could never touch.
When Nightwing pulls back, stares up at wide violet-blue eyes, when the blade falls away to clatter against the block, when the Talon’s mouth trembles and tears fill his eyes, when his wings flutter and falter, fold in on them both, when his voice goes hoarse with, “D-Dick?” Nightwing throws both arms around his waist and holds on.
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loominggaia · 3 years ago
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Can you give a list of links to all of drifters hollows resides origin storys?
Itchy has a full origin story (plus 2 sequels!). They are: Dirty Animal, Sugar and Shine, and Coins for Clowns.
Tomato's origin story is included in Dirty Animal linked above, while Cinnamon's origin story is in Sugar and Shine.
Dr. Che's origin is briefly explored in the beginning of Love Poison.
Lilian's origin story is Ghoul Beneath the Guise. Her story is continued over the course of Monster by Moonlight, Good Job, Eat Your Heart Out, and Pig Bait.
The rest of the non-mercenary villagers don't have full origin stories yet, but I would like to write them at some point in the future. These aren't exactly origin stories, but here are some villager arcs:
Philippa first appears in Unbreakable and her story is continued in For Good Health and Love Poison.
Connor is first introduced in Lost and Found. His story continues in Blue Boy and Hereditary.
Tojum makes her first appearance in Body-Hopping and her story is continued in small bits throughout the whole series, most notably Fungicide, For Good Health, and Love Poison.
Morbus first appears in Coins for Clowns and her story continues throughout the whole series, most notably Fungicide, Supply and Demand, and Love Poison.
Zacry first appears in As Nature Intended.
As for the Freelance Good Guys...
Evan: Monster by Moonlight + Bellyaching
Lukas: The Perfect Shot
Glenvar: Flopper and the Whopper
Alaine: Chains of Melody
Jeimos: The Shadow Sector + Call Me Jeimos
Isaac: Either Lost Scriptures or Trial of Titans, both are valid.
Linde: Steel Knuckle Squad: The Student
Balthazaar: Steel Knuckle Squad: The Felon
Skel: Steel Knuckle Squad: The Slave + Blue Dress
Javaan: Steel Knuckle Squad: The Urchin
Elska: To Fight the Fog
Mr. Ocean: Ocean Returns to the Sea + Clutchmates
Zeffer: He doesn't have a full origin story, but he makes his first appearance in Monster by Moonlight, then his saga continues in The Aldfog Mystery, Eat Your Heart Out, and Pig Bait.
Hope that helps!
*
Questions/Comments?
Lore Masterpost
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buildmeafairytale · 5 years ago
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Female reader x Male Drider
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Finished my request from @acreepqueen​, let me know if you guys like it, I have some ideas for a (possibly NSFW) part 2.  Constructive feedback is always welcome :)  
Edit: Part 2 - NSFW
When father gave you news of your new guard, you were initially thrilled. While you were not his first born, you were still anxious as royal kidnappings had been becoming all the more common. Your father figured a full time guard would be a good solution for you, as well as your sisters. He was also increasing his ranks a bit, keeping a few more guards full time. 
“Oh, I hope mine’s handsome,” you admitted, giggling to your older sisters. The eldest huffed at you, fondly, and informed you that the guards weren’t being paid to be eye candy.
“Do you never think of romance Priscilla? Let our sister fantasize about her guard, Vivie isn’t hurting anyone,” your other sister chimed in, Anna always one to come to your defense. 
Truthfully, you had been rather sheltered when it came to boys. Everyone seems to think princesses would be overrun with suitors but that has never been the case with you. Being the youngest of three girls, you held the least amount of political power and were less sought after due to this. Your eldest sister didn’t care much for the suitors at her feet however, more content to learn how she was to run the kingdom in the future.
You spent the days leading up to your guard’s arrival picturing all different ideas of what he would look like. Maybe he would be an orc, with arms that could be mistaken for tree trunks and a voice like gravel, or maybe a minotaur with soft fur that you would be tempted to run your hands through. You knew whoever he was, he would be large and strong, and more than likely something much more powerful than human. You sigh, succumbing to your romantic daydreams.
You are sitting on the window sill in your bedroom attempting - and failing -  to knit a blanket when you spot the caravan approaching. With rapt attention you try to make out the shapes and guess what one of them will be your guard. You see a few strong looking humans among the ranks, a female dark elf dressed handsomely in military garb, a few orcs who look to be mercenaries, and a rather daunting looking minotaur leading the way. 
Before you could analyze the rest of the crowd, though, a spider dropped down from the top of the window into your lap. A shrill sound left you lips and you shot out of your seat, heartbeat racing, and batted the spider away. Spiders always scared you, and while you wouldn’t kill the poor thing, you certainly didn’t want it anywhere near you. Still shaking, you made your way down the tower your bedroom was in, looking to find one of the staff members to remove the spider. Not an unusual occurrence for you, and as soon as one of the butlers spotted you coming towards him distressed, he simply grabbed a dustpan and followed you back up to your room.
The staff were quite used to your arachnophobia and most were very kind and accommodating about it. Seeing as most had been here since you were a baby, they felt mostly like extended family. Almost everyone in the castle knew your fear, except for your father. You were his youngest, and he still tended to treat you like a little girl; you knew letting him know about this fear would not aid in your endeavor to be treated your age. 
Suffice to say, this backfired greatly: said backfiring manifesting itself in the guard your father personally appointed to you. 
You come down into the dining hall dressed nicely and your hair tied back; you want to make a good impression on whoever will be your guardian. You had a tendency to wander about, and with the lack of responsibilities you had politically you found yourself often roaming the grounds around the castle. If you wanted to keep these freedoms you would have to learn to be sneaky - not much of a strong suit of yours - or get your guard to like you and tolerate your exploration. 
When you make it to the dining hall, you spot your sisters already seated with who must be their new guards. Priscilla is sitting with the pretty dark elf, and Anna with the minotaur. The other presence in the room makes you stop in your tracks. 
A drider. They are built much like centaurs, with their upper bodies being mostly human looking and their bottom half being that of something else. In the case of a drider, that something else is a spider. This particular drider is incredibly tall, with what look to be small pointed pincers on the side of his mouth. His skin in a grayish blue, his body nothing but hard corded muscle. He looks at you with two large eyes that are entirely black with silver speckles, reminiscent of stars in the night sky. He also has several smaller eyes under and over the larger ones. The lower half of his body sends chills down your spine. Right before his body changes, he has an extra set of arms. Underneath that are his many legs, smooth and sharply bent black that remind you of the scariest spiders that haunt your nightmares. This is your guard. 
Your breath hitches and your hands start to sweat. You do your best to turn your grimace into a polite smile. 
This is a person, not a spider. He is a person who is here to protect me, and you will not let him know how scary you find him. 
You try to calm your nerves and convince yourself to relax as much as possible, trying to avoid offending your guard. Your sisters are eyeing you, trying to gauge your reaction. With pitying looks directed your way, they know how hard this will be for you. 
“Hello, I’m Vivie. You must be my guard?” Your voice comes out higher than normal, and cracks. You hold your shaking hand out for him, but he does not reach for it. With a friendly smile he responds, bowing his head.
“Yes, Princess. My name is Rhavor and I will be guarding you. It is a pleasure to meet you, your highness.” His voice is like velvet, helping to calm your nerves a bit. Your hand lowers and you give a nervous smile.
“Likewise, Rhavor.”
Saving you from what is turning into a bit of an awkward silence, your father comes in and everyone is seated, Rhavor across from you. He does not use a chair, only tucks his long legs under himself and settles in, a sight that you found equally adorable and stomach churning.
Adorable? When have I ever thought anything a spider did was less than horrifying?
Your father is ecstatic with his guard choices, and seems to feel safer and more at ease with more men loyal to him milling about. Conversation flows easily for the rest of the table; your sisters help keep your mind off of your guard and help you avoid embarrassing yourself. Sitting down you do a bit better at speaking to Rhavor since his bottom half is obscured by the table. 
Your father briefs everyone about what is expected, the dark elf going on about rotations and such. One of the rooms below yours in the tower is being converted into a bedroom for Rhavor, so he can be close when you sleep. A twenty four hour guard is worth nothing if he is not able to rest as well, you suppose.
There is no time to slowly adjust to Rhavor’s presence, as the first thing you are met with in the morning is him standing outside his door in the tower awaiting your arrival. Still bleary eyed from sleep, the start you give at his presence was unrestrained. With red cheeks you tell him good morning, and the two of you start your day. 
After a breakfast that was quite nerve racking for you, Rhavor asks about your schedule and things you like to do. You are thankful for him leading the conversation, and glad he does not seem deterred by your short answers. 
“I hope you do not feel as though you will need to change your schedule because of my presence, I assure you I will be of no disturbance to you, princess.” He seems so kind, it really is a pity he makes you so nervous. 
“In that case, I think I will be headed to the gardens, then.” You stop yourself before inviting him to tag along, knowing that he will anyway. You float around the gardens, stopping to chat with some of the staff tending to things. You make your way to your favorite spot in the garden, a gazebo your father had made for you after you read of one in one of your romance novels. It is covered in pink, gauzy drapes and holds flowers and cushions all over the floor. It is your favorite hide away, a place you always feel most comfortable. It is here, with Rhavor facing away from you standing at the entrance, eyes trained ahead, that you let yourself take a good look at him. 
You start with his legs, all eight of them long and powerful. They’re all sharp angles, and connect to his thick thorax, peppered with thin hairs. The black of it transitions into the blue-grey of his skin. His torso is covered in elegant steel armor with black stones near the neck, and his weapon stands next to him, a long scythe with a black blade. His face is angular, his larger eyes are framed by some of the most beautiful eyelashes you have ever seen, and a long black braid flows down his back. You shake your head, clearing those thoughts away. You avert your eyes and go back to your reading. 
The days go by and you continue to make small talk with Rhavor, your constant shadow. You become less scared of him as well, the nerves you feel in his presence feeling more like butterflies in your stomach rather than a pit in it. You even start to make him tea and insist he sits with you more, instead of just always standing guard at the door of whatever room you are in. You include him in more of your daily activities, and he starts to feel like more of an over-armored companion that a guard.
Sitting in the gazebo, you are once again trying to knit yourself a blanket. While you could just ask your father for another, you want to know how to do things for yourself. Being a princess is no excuse to not have any skills, and there is something so satisfying about making something. However, it’s the third time you’ve had to start over and it just looks like a pile of knots is sitting in your lap. You hear Rhavor stifling in his laughter, and your head shoots up, a playful glare on your face.
“You think you could do much better then?” you tease at him, not expecting his response. 
“Well, yes,” he lets out a huff of laughter, “I’m a drider, I could make you a blanket with my eyes closed. It’s as natural as spinning a web for me,” He scuttles closer, and sits down across from you on the nest of blankets and cushions. “Would you like me to show you, princess?” The teasing inflection in his voice causes your face to heat up, and you nod to avoid your voice cracking. 
You hand him the knotted yarn and he works in silence, deftly rolling it all back up into a ball for you. The sight of your large, imposing drider guard rolling up pink yarn for you makes your heart skip a beat, and you wonder how you were so scared of him. 
“Okay, watch me and you follow.” He passes you back the yarn, your hands brushing his.
“What are you going to use though?” You had only brought one ball of yarn, after all.
“Uh-my silk. Hopefully that doesn’t bother you, princess?” 
“Oh, no, not at all.” It was a very spidery thing for him to do, so you hoped it wouldn’t bother you. That being said, when he lifted his two smaller front legs and a bit of silk came out of an opening located where a human navel was, you found it rather cute. He spun the thin string into a thicker consistency, and told you to follow his lead.
“Um, it’s a bit hard to follow like this, I’m going to sit next to you.” You sat down closer so you could follow his actions, so close you brushed against one of his legs. Your heart sped up, but you concentrated at the task at hand. He was truthful about his level of skill, and he was also a great teacher. Soon enough you had the hang of it, and were almost a quarter way done with your blanket. 
“Thank you!” you beamed up at him, excited to show your sisters. 
“Oh, of course your highness. You are a quick learner, it made my job very easy.” He smiled down, polite as always. 
“I have to admit, your silk is quite lovely,” you compliment, running your hands over his finished work. He sputters at your compliment, his cheeks turning a darker purple. Was your compliment inappropriate, you wonder?
You bring your blanket to dinner to show everyone. Your father, sisters, and yourself sit at a smaller table slightly elevated, while long tables with benches are aligned in rows for the staff and guard. When your father took the throne he made this change, stating that anyone who was living under the same roof and worked so hard for the kingdom should eat together as well. You gush about the blanket and how Rhavor taught you, and you see Anna smirking at you. 
“What?” you ask, confused about this look.
“Nothing, just seems someone is growing fond of their guard after all.” she speaks into your ear, delighted in the wide eyed look you give back to her. You seek out Rhavor in the crowd, afraid he heard her but knowing that is in no way possible. When you spot him, he is already looking at you. You smile at him, and turn back to Anna.
“So what if I am?”  you turn back to your dinner, permanent smile gracing your features. 
The following days are filled with storms, and you have been spending the majority of your time going back and forth from the library to your bedroom. You also managed to make it to the market before the storms, and found yourself with more yarn. It’s astonishing how much more you can bring home when you have a four handed drider to help you carry things. You decided to make blankets as gifts for your family and friends before winter. As you are planning the colors for your father's blanket and Rhavor is reading in a chair by the fire, a spider falls down and lands on your hand. It crawls along your wrist and you scream, frantically shaking it off of you. Rhavor is next to you before you can blink, focused on any threat.
“What is it? Princess what is wrong?” His voice is deeper and more serious than you are used to, and when you point to the spider that had fallen on the blanket with a trembling hand, Rhavor’s brow furrows. He looks back at you and your panicked form, and picks the spider up and brings it out of your room, promptly returning. 
“Well that rather explains things then, doesn’t it? No wonder I make you so nervous, bit of an arachnophobe are you?” 
You nod at Rhavor, eyes downcast and shame coloring your cheeks. 
“No need to be shy about it princess, I understand that my looks can be rather horrific, especially to one as sweet as yourself. I’m sure you're much more used to pretty noble boys coming around than those who look like me,” he teased lightly, but you could sense the underlying insecurity in his voice.
“That isn’t it at all! Rhavor, you are my friend and I very much enjoy having you around, please don’t doubt that, really. And you aren’t horrific, I think you’re quite the opposite. I’ve just always been scared of spiders and well,” you motion to his lower body. “I’m just nervous but I’m getting better about it, and it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my silly phobia.” You plead with him, your eyes starting to get teary. 
You felt horrible. He is your friend and you made him feel ugy, which wasn’t the case at all. Anyone with eyes could see how beautiful he was, drider or not. Over the past few weeks spent with him, the nerves you experienced in his presence seemed less about the fact that he was a drider and more about the feelings you felt growing for him. 
“And it’s Vivie, not princess. Even dad wonders why you call me that still.” you scoff at him, turning away so he can no longer see your tear rimmed eyes. He spoke softly now, weary of your feelings.
“I did not wish to upset you Vivie, that is the last thing I ever want to do. I am your guard and -” you abruptly cut him off, spinning on your feet.
“You are my friend.” 
“Are all of your friends employees of your father?” he inquired, trying to make a point he was beneath you. This is not how you took this statement, however. 
You inhaled sharply, and the tears finally spilled over. His words cut deeply, many implying over the years that people only befriend you since your father is a king. This also proved to be true on many occasions, making you weary of people and their intentions. 
“I didn’t realize you were only doing the job my father paid you for. I’m sorry I mistook that for your friendship. As you’ve probably realized, I don’t have very many.”  Your lower lip was quivering and you were sniffling, unable to stop yourselves. You have always worn your heart on your sleeve, and hiding your emotions didn’t come easily. 
Seeing your face and hearing how you took his statement, Rhavor felt all the air leave his body at once. He started towards you, and took a step back, wringing his lower pair of hands. 
“Vivie, that is not what I meant, please. I am only trying to point out that you are a princess and I am the man who is in charge of keeping you safe. I am not worthy of your friendship or kindness, but it amazes me that you give it so freely.” These words softly left his lips, and he finally came a bit closer. 
“You have my friendship, princess, do not doubt that. You have my friendship, my loyalty, and so much more of me than I ever intended to give,” he spoke softly, his hand coming up as if to rest on your face, but he does not touch you. You lean your cheek into his palm, closing the distance. 
“What else do I have of yours, then?” you inquire softly, gazing up at his starry eyes. 
“My heart, Vivie, should you ever require such a silly thing” His thumb runs over your cheek, wiping away your tears. 
“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” you whisper back.  
“No?” he asks
“No,” you reply, your breaths mingling now. 
You lean up, closing the final gap between you two. Your lips brush against his, the kiss wet from your tears. Your cheeks brush against his pointed mouthparts, now making you shiver not in fear but delight. He releases a deep, wounded sound, and pulls you in closer to him. Being able to pull those noises from a creature like himself makes you feel powerful, and a thrill surges through you. Your hands run down his muscular shoulders, landing on his biceps. You feel them tighten beneath your touch, and a mewl escapes your mouth. His hands caress your face, and his lower hands are around your waist, pressing you against the length of him. 
He pulls away, his breath coming out heavy. A smile graces his features, matching the grin on yours. Your fear of spiders may not be gone, and may never go away completely, but your fear of this drider is a different story. 
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grigori77 · 4 years ago
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Summer 2021′s Movies - My Top Ten Favourite Films (Part 2)
The Top Ten:
10.  WEREWOLVES WITHIN – definitely one of the year’s biggest cinematic surprises so far, this darkly comic supernatural murder mystery from indie horror director Josh Ruben (Scare Me) is based on a video game, but you’d never know it – this bears so little resemblance to the original Ubisoft title that it’s a wonder anyone even bothered to make the connection, but even so, this is now notable for officially being the highest rated video game adaptation in Rotten Tomatoes history, with a Certified Fresh rating of 86%. Certainly it deserves that distinction, but there’s so much more to the film – this is an absolute blood-splattered joy, the title telling you everything you need to know about the story but belying the film’s pure, quirky genius.  Veep’s Sam Richardson is forest ranger Finn Wheeler, a gentle and socially awkward soul who arrives at his new post in the remote small town of Beaverton to discover the few, uniformly weird residents are divided over the oil pipeline proposition of forceful and abrasive businessman Sam Parker (The Hunt’s Wayne Duvall).  As he tries to fit in and find his feet, investigating the disappearance of a local dog while bonding with local mail carrier Cecily Moore (Other Space and This Is Us’ Milana Vayntrub), the discovery of a horribly mutilated human body leads to a standoff between the townsfolk and an enforced lockdown in the town’s ramshackle hotel as they try to work out who amongst them is the “werewolf” they suspect is responsible.  This is frequently hilarious, the offbeat script from appropriately named Mishna Wolff (I’m Down) dropping some absolutely zingers and crafting some enjoyably weird encounters and unexpected twists, while the uniformly excellent cast do much of the heavy-lifting to bring their rich, thoroughly oddball characters to vivid life – Richardson is thoroughly cuddly throughout, while Duvall is pleasingly loathsome, Casual’s Michaela Watkins is pleasingly grating as Trisha, flaky housewife to unrepentant local horn-dog Pete Anderton (Orange is the New Black’s Michael Chernus), and Cheyenne Jackson (American Horror Story) and Harry Guillen (best known, OF COURSE, as Guillermo in the TV version of What We Do In the Shadows) make an enjoyably spiky double-act as liberal gay couple Devon and Joaquim Wolfson; in the end, though, the film is roundly stolen by Vayntrub, who invests Cecily with a bubbly sweetness and snarky sass that makes it absolutely impossible to not fall completely in love with her (gods know I did).  This is a deeply funny film, packed with proper belly-laughs from start to finish, but like all the best horror comedies it takes its horror elements seriously, delivering some enjoyably effective scares and juicy gore, while the werewolf itself, when finally revealed, is realised through some top-notch prosthetics.  Altogether this was a most welcome under-the-radar surprise for the summer, and SO MUCH MORE than just an unusually great video game adaptation …
9.  THE TOMORROW WAR – although cinemas finally reopened in the UK in early summer, the bite of the COVID lockdown backlog was still very much in effect this blockbuster season, with several studios preferring to hedge their bets and wait for later release dates. Others turned to streaming services, including Paramount, who happily lined up a few heavyweight titles to open on major platforms in lieu of the big screen.  One of the biggest was this intended sci-fi action horror tentpole, meant to give Chris Pratt another potential franchise on top of Guardians of the Galaxy and Jurassic World, which instead dropped in early July on Amazon Prime.  So, was it worth staying in on a Saturday night instead of heading out for something on the BIG screen?  Mostly yes, although it’s mainly a trashy, guilty pleasure big budget B-picture charm that makes this such a worthwhile experience – the film’s biggest influences are clearly Independence Day and Starship Troopers, two admirably clunky blockbusters that DEFINED prioritising big spectacle and overblown theatrics over intelligent writing and realistic storytelling.  It doesn’t help that the premise is pure bunk – in 2022, a wormhole opens from thirty years in the future, and a plea for help is sent back with a bunch of very young future soldiers.  Seems Earth will become overrun by an unstoppable swarm of nasty alien critters called Whitespikes in 25 years, and the desperate human counteroffensive have no choice but to bring soldiers from our present into the future to help them fight back and save the humanity from imminent extinction.  Less than a year later, the world’s standing armies have been decimated and a worldwide draft has been implemented, with normal everyday adults being sent through for a seven day tour from which very few return.  Pratt plays biology teacher and former Green Beret Dan Forrester, one of the latest batch of draftees to be sent into the future along with a selection of chefs, soccer moms and other average joes – his own training and experience serves him better than most when the shit hits the fan, but it soon becomes clear that he’s just as out of his depth as everyone else as the sheer enormity of the threat is revealed.  But when he becomes entangled with a desperate research outfit led by Muri (Chuck’s Yvonne Strahovski) who seem to be on the verge of a potential world-changing scientific breakthrough, Dan realises there just might be a slender hope for humanity after all … this is every bit as over-the-top gung-ho bonkers as it sounds, and just as much fun.  Director Chris McKay may still be pretty fresh (with only The Lego Batman Movie under his belt to date), but he shows a lot of talent and potential for big budget blockbuster filmmaking here, delivering with guts and bravado on some major action sequences (a fraught ticking-clock SAR operation through a war-torn Miami is the film’s undeniable highlight, but a desperate battle to escape a blazing oil rig also really impresses), as well as handling some impressively complex visual effects work and wrangling some quality performances from his cast (altogether it bodes well for his future, which includes Nightwing and Johnny Quest as future projects).  Chris Pratt can do this kind of stuff in his sleep – Dan is his classic fallible and self-deprecating but ultimately solid and kind-hearted action hero fare, effortlessly likeable and easy to root for – and his supporting cast are equally solid, Strahovsky going toe-to-toe with him in the action sequences while also creating a rewardingly complex smart-woman/badass combo in Muri, while the other real standouts include Sam Richardson (Veep, Werewolves Within) and Edwin Hodge (The Purge movies) as fellow draftees Charlie and Dorian, the former a scared-out-of-his-mind tech geek while the latter is a seriously hardcore veteran serving his THIRD TOUR, and the ever brilliant J.K. Simmonds as Dan’s emotionally scarred estranged Vietnam-vet father, Jim.  Sure, it’s derivative as hell and thoroughly predictable (with more than one big twist you can see coming a mile away), but the pace is brisk, the atmosphere pregnant with a palpable doomed urgency, and the creatures themselves are a genuinely convincing world-ending threat, the design team and visual effects wizards creating genuine nightmare fuel in the feral and unrelenting Whitespikes.  Altogether this WAS an ideal way to spend a comfy Saturday night in, but I think it could have been JUST AS GOOD for a Saturday night OUT at the Pictures …
8.  ARMY OF THE DEAD – another high profile release that went straight to streaming was this genuine monster hit for Netflix from one of this century’s undeniable heavyweight action cinema masters, the indomitable Zack Snyder, who kicked off his career with an audience-dividing (but, as far as I’m concerned, ultimately MASSIVELY successful) remake of George Romero’s immortal Dawn of the Dead, and has finally returned to zombie horror after close to two decades away.  The end result is, undeniably, the biggest cinematic guilty pleasure of the entire summer, a bona fide outbreak horror EPIC in spite of its tightly focused story – Dave Bautista plays mercenary Scott Ward, leader a badass squad of soldiers of fortune who were among the few to escape a deadly outbreak of a zombie virus in the city of Las Vegas, enlisted to break into the vault of one of the Strip’s casinos by owner Bly Tanaka (a fantastically game turn from Hiroyuki Sanada) and rescue $200 million still locked away inside.  So what’s the catch?  Vegas remains ground zero for the outbreak, walled off from the outside world but still heavily infested within, and in less than three days the US military intends to sterilise the site with a tactical nuke.  Simple premise, down and dirty, trashy flick, right?  Wrong – Snyder has never believed in doing things small, having brought us unapologetically BIG cinema with the likes of 300, Watchmen, Man of Steel and, most notably, his version of Justice League, so this is another MASSIVE undertaking, every scene shot for maximum thrills or emotional impact, each set-piece executed with his characteristic militaristic precision and explosive predilection (a harrowing fight for survival against a freshly-awakened zombie horde in tightly packed casino corridors is the film’s undeniable highlight), and the gauzy, dreamlike cinematography gives even simple scenes an intriguing and evocative edge that really does make you feel like you’re watching something BIG.  The characters all feel larger-than-life too – Bautista can seem somewhat cartoonish at times, and this role definitely plays that as a strength, making Scott a rock-hard alpha male in the classic Hollywood mould, but he’s such a great actor that of course he’s able to invest the character with real rewarding complexity beneath the surface; Ana de la Reguera (Eastbound & Down) and Nora Arnezeder (Zoo, Mozart in the Jungle), meanwhile, both bring a healthy dose of oestrogen-fuelled badassery to proceedings as, respectively, Scott’s regular second-in-command, Maria Cruz, and Lilly the Coyote, Power’s Omari Hardwick and Matthias Schweighofer (You Are Wanted) make for a fun odd-couple double act as circular-saw-wielding merc Vanderohe and Dieter, the nervous, nerdy German safecracker brought in to crack the vault, and Fear the Walking Dead’s Garrett Dillahunt channels spectacular scumbag energy as Tanaka’s sleazy former casino boss Martin, while latecomer Tig Notaro (Star Trek Discovery) effortlessly rises above her last-minute-casting controversy to deliver brilliantly as sassy and acerbic chopper pilot Peters.  I think it goes without saying that Snyder can do this in his sleep, but he definitely wasn’t napping here – he pulled out all the stops on this one, delivering a thrilling, darkly comic and endearingly CRACKERS zombie flick that not only compares favourably to his own Dawn but is, undeniably, his best film for AGES.  Netflix certainly seem to be pleased with the results – a spinoff prequel, Army of Thieves, starring Dieter in another heist thriller, is set to drop in October, with an animated series following in the Spring, and there’s already rumours of a sequel in development.  I’m certainly up for more …
7.  BLACK WIDOW – no major blockbuster property was hit harder by COVID than the MCU, which saw its ENTIRE SLATE for 2020 delayed for over a year in the face of Marvel Studios bowing to the inevitability of the Pandemic and unwilling to sacrifice those all-important box-office receipts by just sending their films straight to streaming.  The most frustrating part for hardcore fans of the series was the delay of a standalone film that was already criminally overdue – the solo headlining vehicle of founding Avenger and bona fide female superhero ICON Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow.  Equally frustratingly, then, this film seems set to be overshadowed by real life controversy as star and producer Scarlett Johansson goes head-to-head with Disney in civil court over their breach-of-contract after they hedged their bets by releasing the film simultaneously in cinemas and on their own streaming platform, which has led to poor box office as many of the film’s potential audience chose to watch it at home instead of risk movie theatres with the virus still very much remaining a threat (and Disney have clearly reacted AGAIN, now backtracking on their release policy by instigating a new 45-day cinematic exclusivity window on all their big releases for the immediate future). But what of the film itself?  Well Black Widow is an interesting piece of work, director Cate Shortland (Berlin Syndrome) and screenwriter Eric Pearson (Thor: Ragnarok) delivering a decidedly stripped-back, lean and intellectual beast that bears greater resemblance to the more cerebral work of the Russo Brothers on their Captain America films than the more classically bombastic likes of Iron Man, Thor or the Avengers flicks, concentrating on story and characters over action and spectacle as we wind back the clock to before the events of Infinity War and Endgame, when Romanoff was on the run after Civil War, hunted by the government-appointed forces of US Secretary of State “Thunderbolt” Ross (William Hurt) after violating the Sokovia Accords.  Then a mysterious delivery throws her back into the fray as she finds herself targeted by a mysterious assassin, forcing her to team up with her estranged “sister” Yelena Belova (Midsommar’s Florence Pugh), another Black Widow who’s just gone rogue from the same Red Room Natasha escaped years ago, armed with a McGuffin capable of foiling a dastardly plot for world domination.  The reluctant duo need help in this endeavour though, enlisting the aid of their former “parents”, veteran Widow and scientist Melina Vostokoff (Rachel Weisz) and Alexie Shostakov (Stranger Things’ David Harbour), aka the Red Guardian, a Russian super-soldier intended to be their counterpart to Captain America, who’s been languishing in a Siberian gulag for the last twenty years. After the Earth-shaking, universe-changing events of recent MCU events, this film certainly feels like a much more self-contained, modest affair, playing for much smaller stakes, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less worthy of our attention – this is as precision-crafted as anything we’ve seen from Marvel so far, but it also feels like a refreshing change of pace after all those enormous cosmic shenanigans, while the script is as tight as a drum, propelling a taut, suspense-filled thriller that certainly doesn’t scrimp on the action front.  Sure, the set-pieces are very much in service of the story here, but they’re still the pre-requisite MCU rollercoaster rides, a selection of breathless chases and bone-crunching fights that really do play to the strengths of one of our favourite Avengers, but this is definitely one of those films where the real fireworks come when the film focuses on the characters – Johansson is so comfortable with her character she’s basically BECOME Natasha Romanoff, kickass and ruthless and complex and sassy and still just desperate for a family (though she hides it well throughout the film), while Weisz delivers one of her best performances in years as a peerless professional who keeps her emotions tightly reigned in but slowly comes to realise that she was never more happy than when she was pretending to be a simple mother, and Ray Winstone does a genuinely fantastic job of taking a character who could have been one of the MCU’s most disappointingly bland villains, General Dreykov, master of the Red Room, and investing him with enough oily charisma and intense presence to craft something truly memorable (frustratingly, the same cannot be said for the film’s supposed main physical threat, Taskmaster, who performs well in their frustratingly brief appearances but ultimately gets Darth Maul levels of short service).  The true scene-stealers in the film, however, are Alexie and Yelena – Harbour’s clearly having the time of his life hamming it up as a self-important, puffed-up peacock of a superhero who never got his shot and is clearly (rightly) decidedly bitter about it, preferring to relive the life he SHOULD have had instead of remembering the good in the one he got; Pugh, meanwhile, is THE BEST THING IN THE WHOLE MOVIE, easily matching Johanssen scene-for-scene in the action stakes but frequently out-performing her when it comes to acting, investing Yelena with a sweet naivety and innocence and a certain amount of quirky geekiness that makes for one of the year’s most endearing female protagonists (certainly one who, if the character goes the way I think she will, is thoroughly capable of carrying the torch for the foreseeable future).  In the end this is definitely one of the LEAST typical, by-the-numbers MCU films to date, and by delivering something a little different I think they’ve given us just the kind of leftfield swerve the series needs right now.  It’s certainly one of their most fascinating and rewarding films so far, and since it seems to be Johansson’s final tour of duty as the Black Widow, it’s also a most fitting farewell indeed.
6.  WRATH OF MAN – Guy Ritchie’s latest (regarded by many as a triumphant return to form, which I consider unfair since I don’t think he ever went away, especially after 2020’s spectacular The Gentlemen) is BY FAR his darkest film – let’s get this clear from the start.  Anyone who knows his work knows that Ritchie consistently maintains a near flawless balance and humour and seriousness in his films that gives them a welcome quirkiness that is one of his most distinctive trademarks, so for him to suddenly deliver a film which takes itself SO SERIOUSLY is one hell of a departure.  This is a film which almost REVELS in its darkness – Ritchie’s always loved bathing in man’s baser instincts, but Wrath of Man almost makes a kind of twisted VIRTUE out of wallowing in the genuine evils that men are capable of inflicting on each other.  The film certainly kicks off as it means to go on – In a tour-de-force single-shot opening, we watch a daring armoured car robbery on the streets of Los Angeles that goes horrifically wrong, an event which will have devastating consequences in the future.  Five months later, Fortico Security hires taciturn Brit Patrick Hill (Jason Statham) to work as a guard in one of their trucks, and on his first run he single-handedly foils another attempted robbery with genuinely uncanny combat skills. The company is thrilled, amazed by the sheer ability of their new hire, but Hill’s new colleagues are more concerned, wondering exactly what they’ve let themselves in for.  After a second foiled robbery, it becomes clear that Hill’s reputation has grown, but fellow guard Haiden (Holt McCallany), aka “Bullet”, begins to suspect there might be something darker going on … Ritchie is firing on all cylinders here, delivering a PERFECT slow-burn suspense thriller which plays its cards close to its chest and cranks up its piano wire tension with artful skill as it builds to a devastating, knuckle-whitening explosive heist that acts as a cathartic release for everything that’s built up over the past hour and a half.  In typical Ritchie style the narrative is non-linear, the story unfolding in four distinct parts told from clearly differentiated points of view, allowing the clues to be revealed at a trickle that effortlessly draws the viewer in as they fall deeper down the rabbit hole, leading to a harrowing but strangely poignant denouement which is perfectly in tune with everything that’s come before. It’s an immense pleasure finally getting to see Statham working with Ritchie again, and I don’t think he’s ever been better than he is here – he's always been a brilliantly understated actor, but there’s SO MUCH going on under Hill’s supposedly impenetrable calm that every little peek beneath the armour is a REVELATION; McCallany, meanwhile, has landed his best role since his short but VERY sweet supporting turn in Fight Club, seemingly likeable and fallible as the kind of easy-going co-worker anyone in the service industry would be THRILLED to have, but giving Bullet far more going on under the surface, while there are uniformly excellent performances from a top-shelf ensemble supporting cast which includes Josh Hartnett, Jeffrey Donovan (Burn Notice, Sicario), Andy Garcia, Laz Alonso (The Boys), Eddie Marsan, Niamh Algar (Raised By Wolves) and Darrell D’Silva (Informer, Domina), and a particularly edgy and intense turn from Scott Eastwood.  This is one of THE BEST thrillers of the year, by far, a masterpiece of mood, pace and plot that ensnares the viewer from its gripping opening and hooks them right up to the close, a triumph of the genre and EASILY Guy Ritchie’s best film since Snatch.  Regardless of whether or not it’s a RETURN to form, we can only hope he continues to deliver fare THIS GOOD in the future …
5.  FEAR STREET (PARTS 1-3) – Netflix have gotten increasingly ambitious with their original filmmaking over the years, and some of this years’ offerings have reached new heights of epic intention.  Their most exciting release of the summer was this adaptation of popular children’s horror author R.L. Stine’s popular book series, a truly gargantuan undertaking as the filmmakers set out to create an entire TRILOGY of films which were then released over three consecutive weekends.  Interestingly, these films are most definitely NOT for kids – this is proper, no-holds-barred supernatural slasher horror, delivering highly calibrated shocks and precision jump scares, a pervading atmosphere of insidious dread and a series of inventively gruesome kills.  The story revolves around two neighbouring small towns which have had vastly different fortunes over more than three centuries of existence – while the residents of Sunnyvale are unusually successful, living idyllic lives in peace and prosperity, luck has always been against the people of Shadyside, who languish in impoverishment, crime and misfortune, while the town has become known as the Murder Capital of the USA due to frequent spree killings.  Some attribute this to the supposed curse of a local urban legend, Sarah Fier, who became known as the Fier Witch after her execution for witchcraft in 1668, but others dismiss this as simple superstition.  Part 1 is set in 1994, as the latest outbreak of serial mayhem begins in Shadyside, dragging a small group of local teens – Deena Johnson (She Never Died’s Kiana Madeira) and Samantha Fraser (Olivia Scott Welch), a young lesbian couple going through a difficult breakup, Deena’s little brother Josh (The Haunted Hathaways’ Benjamin Flores Jr.), a nerdy history geek who spends most of his time playing video games or frequenting violent crime-buff online chatrooms, and their delinquent friends Simon (Eight Grade’s Fred Hechinger) and Kate (Julia Rehwald) – into the age-old ghostly conspiracy as they find themselves besieged by indestructible undead serial killers from the town’s past, reasoning that the only way they can escape with their lives is to solve the mystery and bring the Fier Witch some much needed closure.  Part 2, meanwhile, flashes back to a previous outbreak in 1977, in which local sisters Ziggy (Stranger Things’ Sadie Sink) and Cindy Berman (Emily Rudd), together with future Sunnyvale sheriff Nick Goode (Ted Sutherland) were among the kids hunted by said killers during a summer camp “colour war”.  As for Part 3, that goes all the way back to 1668 to tell the story of what REALLY happened to Sarah Fier, before wrapping up events in 1994, culminating in a terrifying, adrenaline-fuelled showdown in the Shadyside Mall.  Throughout, the youthful cast are EXCEPTIONAL, Madeira, Welch, Flores Jr., Sink and Rudd particularly impressing, while there are equally strong turns from Ashley Zuckerman (The Code, Designated Survivor) and Community’s Gillian Jacobs as the grown-up versions of two key ’77 kids, and a fun cameo from Maya Hawke in Part 1.  This is most definitely retro horror in the Stranger Things mould, perfectly executed period detail bringing fun nostalgic flavour to all three of the timelines while the peerless direction from Leigh Janiak (Honeymoon) and wire-tight, sharp-witted screenplays from Janiak, Kyle Killen (Lone Star, The Beaver), Phil Graziadel, Zak Olkewicz and Kate Trefry strike a perfect balance between knowing dark humour and knife-edged terror, as well as weaving an intriguingly complex narrative web that pulls the viewer in but never loses them to overcomplication.  The design, meanwhile, is evocative, the cinematography (from Stanger Things’ Caleb Heymann) is daring and magnificently moody, and the killers and other supernatural elements of the film are handled with skill through largely physical effects.  This is definitely not a standard, by-the-numbers slasher property, paying strong homage to the sub-genre’s rules but frequently subverting them with expert skill, and it’s as much fun as it is frightening.  Give us some more like this please, Netflix!
4.  THE SPARKS BROTHERS – those who’ve been following my reviews for a while will known that while I do sometimes shout about documentary films, they tend to show up in my runners-up lists – it’s a great rarity for one to land in one of my top tens.  This lovingly crafted deep-dive homage to cult band Sparks, from self-confessed rabid fanboy Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Scott Pilgrim), is something VERY SPECIAL INDEED, then … there’s a vague possibility some of you may have heard the name before, and many of you will know at least one or two of their biggest hits without knowing it was them (their greatest hit of all time, This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us, immediately springs to mind), but unless you’re REALLY serious about music it’s quite likely you have no idea who they are, namely two brothers from California, Russell and Ronald Mael, who formed a very sophisticated pop-rock band in the late 60s and then never really went away, having moments of fame but mostly working away in the background and influencing some of the greatest bands and musical artists that followed them, even if many never even knew where that influence originally came from. Wright’s film is an engrossing joy from start to finish (despite clocking in at two hours and twenty minutes), following their eclectic career from obscure inception as Halfnelson, through their first real big break with third album Kimono My Place, subsequent success and then fall from popularity in the mid-70s, through several subsequent revitalisations, all the way up to the present day with their long-awaited cinematic breakthrough, revolutionary musical feature Annette – throughout Wright keeps the tone light and the pace breezy, allowing a strong and endearing sense of irreverence to rule the day as fans, friends and the brothers themselves offer up fun anecdotes and wax lyrical about what is frequently a larger-than-life tragicomic soap opera, utilising fun, crappy animation and idiosyncratic stock footage inserts alongside talking-head interviews that were made with a decidedly tongue-in-cheek style – Mike Myers good-naturedly rants about how we can see his “damned mole” while 80s New Romantic icons Nick Rhodes and John Taylor, while shot together, are each individually labelled as “Duran”.  Ron and Russ themselves, meanwhile, are clearly having huge fun, gently ribbing each other and dropping some fun deadpan zingers throughout proceedings, easily playing to the band’s strong, idiosyncratic sense of hyper-intelligent humour, while the aforementioned celebrity talking-heads are just three amongst a whole wealth of famous faces that may surprise you – there’s even an appearance by Neil Gaiman, guys!  Altogether this is 2+ hours of bright and breezy fun chock full of great music and fascinating information, and even hardcore Sparks fans are likely to learn more than a little over the course of the film, while for those who have never heard of Sparks before it’s a FANTASTIC introduction to one of the greatest ever bands that you’ve never heard of.  With luck there might even be more than a few new fans before the year is out …
3.  GUNPOWDER MILKSHAKE – Netflix’ BEST offering of the summer was this surprise hit from Israeli writer-director Navot Papushado (Rabies, Big Bad Wolves), a heavily stylised black comedy action thriller that passes the Bechdel Test with FLYING COLOURS.  Playing like a female-centric John Wick, it follows ice-cold, on-top-of-her-game assassin Sam (Karen Gillan) as her latest assignment has some unfortunate side effects, leading her to take on a reparation job to retrieve some missing cash for the local branch of the Irish Mob.  The only catch is that a group of thugs have kidnapped the original thief’s little girl, 12 year-old Emily (My Spy’s Chloe Coleman), and Sam, in an uncharacteristic moment of sympathy, decides to intervene, only for the money to be accidentally destroyed in the process.  Now she’s got the Mob and her own employers coming after her, and she not only has to save her own skin but also Emily’s, leading her to seek help from the one person she thought she might never see again – her mother, Scarlet (Lena Headey), a master assassin in her own right who’s been hiding from the Mob herself for years.  The plot may be simple but at times also a little over-the-top, but the film is never anything less than a pure, unadulterated pleasure, populated with fascinating, living and breathing characters of real complexity and nuance, while the script (co-written by relative newcomer Ehud Lavski) is tightly-reined and bursting with zingers.  Most importantly, though, Papushado really delivers on the action front – these are some of the best set-pieces I’ve seen this year, Gillan, her co-stars and the various stunt-performers acquitting themselves admirably in a series of spectacular fights, gun battles and a particularly imaginative car chase that would be the envy of many larger, more expensive productions.  Gillan and Coleman have a sweet, awkward chemistry, the MCU star particularly impressing in a subtly nuanced performance that also plays beautifully against Headey’s own tightly controlled turn, while there is awesome support from Angela Bassett, Michelle Yeoh and Carla Gugino as Sam’s adoptive aunts Anna May, Florence and Madeleine, a trio of “librarians” who run a fine side-line in illicit weaponry and are capable of unleashing some spectacular violence of their own; the film’s antagonists, on the other hand, are exclusively masculine – the mighty Ralph Inneson is quietly ruthless as Irish boss Jim McAlester, while The Terror’s Adam Nagaitis is considerably more mercurial as his mad dog nephew Virgil, and Paul Giamatti is the stately calm at the centre of the storm as Sam’s employer Nathan, the closest thing she has to a father.  There’s so much to enjoy in this movie, not just the wonderful characters and amazing action but also the singularly engrossing and idiosyncratic style, deeply affecting themes of the bonds of found family and the healing power of forgiveness, and a rewarding through-line of strong women triumphing against the brutalities of toxic masculinity.  I love this film, and I invite you to try it out, cuz I’m sure you will too.
2.  THE SUICIDE SQUAD – the most fun I’ve had at the cinema so far this year is the long-awaited (thanks a bunch, COVID) redress of another frustrating imbalance from the decidedly hit and miss DCEU superhero franchise, in which Guardians of the Galaxy writer-director James Gunn has finally delivered a PROPER Suicide Squad movie after David Ayer’s painfully compromised first stab at the property back in 2016.  That movie was enjoyable enough and had some great moments, but ultimately it was a clunky mess, and while some of the characters were done (quite) well, others were painfully botched, even ruined entirely.  Thankfully Warner Bros. clearly learned their lesson, giving Gunn free reign to do whatever he wanted, and the end result is about as close to perfect as the DCEU has come to date.  Once again the peerless Viola Davis plays US government official Amanda Waller, head of ARGUS and the undisputable most evil bitch in all the DC Universe, who presides over the metahuman prisoners of the notorious supermax Belle Reve Prison, cherry-picking inmates for her pet project Taskforce X, the titular Suicide Squad sent out to handle the kind of jobs nobody else wants, in exchange for years off their sentences but controlled by explosive implants injected into the base of their skulls.  Their latest mission sees another motley crew of D-bags dispatched to the fictional South African island nation of Corto Maltese to infiltrate Jotunheim, a former Nazi facility in which a dangerous extra-terrestrial entity that’s being developed into a fearful bioweapon, with orders to destroy the project in order to keep it out of the hands of a hostile anti-American regime which has taken control of the island through a violent coup.  Where the first Squad felt like a clumsily-arranged selection of stereotypes with a few genuinely promising characters unsuccessfully moulded into a decidedly forced found family, this new batch are convincingly organic – they may be dysfunctional and they’re all almost universally definitely BAD GUYS, but they WORK, the relationship dynamics that form between them feeling genuinely earned.  Gunn has already proven himself a master of putting a bunch of A-holes together and forging them into band of “heroes”, and he’s certainly pulled the job off again here, dredging the bottom of the DC Rogues Gallery for its most ridiculous Z-listers and somehow managing to make them compelling.  Sure, returning Squad-member Harley Quinn (the incomparable Margot Robbie, magnificent as ever) has already become a fully-realised character thanks to Birds of Prey, so there wasn’t much heavy-lifting to be done here, but Gunn genuinely seems to GET the character, so our favourite pixie-esque Agent of Chaos is an unbridled and thoroughly unpredictable joy here, while fellow veteran Colonel Rick Flagg (a particularly muscular and thoroughly game Joel Kinnaman) has this time received a much needed makeover, Gunn promoting him from being the first film’s sketchily-drawn “Captain Exposition” and turning him into a fully-ledged, well-thought-out human being with all the requisite baggage, including a newfound sense of humour; the newcomers, meanwhile, are a thoroughly fascinating bunch – reluctant “leader” Bloodsport/Robert DuBois (a typically robust and playful Idris Elba), unapologetic douchebag Peacemaker/Christopher Smith (probably the best performance I’ve EVER seen John Cena deliver), and socially awkward and seriously hard-done-by nerd (and by far the most idiotic DC villain of all time) the Polka-Dot Man/Abner Krill (a genuinely heart-breaking hangdog performance from Ant-Man’s David Dastmalchian); meanwhile there’s a fine trio of villainous turns from the film’s resident Big Bads, with Juan Diego Botta (Good Behaviour) and Joaquin Cosio (Quantum of Solace, Narcos: Mexico) making strong impressions as newly-installed dictator Silvio Luna and his corrupt right hand-man General Suarez, although both are EASILY eclipsed by the typically brilliant Peter Capaldi as louche and quietly deranged supervillain The Thinker/Gaius Greives (although the film’s ULTIMATE threat turns out to be something a whole lot bigger and more exotic). The film is ROUNDLY STOLEN, however, by a truly adorable double act (or TRIPLE act, if you want to get technical) – Daniella Melchior makes her breakthrough here in fine style as sweet, principled and kind-hearted narcoleptic second-generation supervillain Ratcatcher II/Cleo Cazo, who has the weird ability to control rats (and who has a pet rat named Sebastian who frequently steals scenes all on his own), while a particular fan-favourite B-lister makes his big screen debut here in the form of King Shark/Nanaue, a barely sentient anthropomorphic Great White “shark god” with an insatiable appetite for flesh and a naturally quizzical nature who was brilliantly mo-capped by Steve Agee (The Sarah Silverman Project, who also plays Waller’s hyperactive assistant John Economos) but then artfully completed with an ingenious vocal turn from Sylvester Stallone. James Gunn has crafted an absolute MASTERPIECE here, EASILY the best film he’s made to date, a riotous cavalcade of exquisitely observed and perfectly delivered dark humour and expertly wrangled narrative chaos that has great fun playing with the narrative flow, injects countless spot-on in-jokes and irreverent but utterly essential throwaway sight-gags, and totally endears us to this glorious gang of utter morons right from the start (in which Gunn delivers what has to be one of the most skilful deep-fakes in cinematic history).  Sure, there’s also plenty of action, and it’s executed with the kind of consummate skill we’ve now come to expect from Gunn (the absolute highlight is a wonderfully bonkers sequence in which Harley expertly rescues herself from captivity), but like everything else it’s predominantly played for laughs, and there’s no getting away from the fact that this film is an absolute RIOT.  By far the funniest thing I’ve seen so far this year, and if I’m honest this is the best of the DCEU offerings to date, too (for me, only the exceptional Birds of Prey can compare) – if Warner Bros. have any sense they’ll give Gunn more to do VERY SOON …
1.  A QUIET PLACE, PART II – while UK cinemas finally reopened in early May, I was determined that my first trip back to the Big Screen for 2021 was gonna be something SPECIAL, and indeed I already knew what that was going to be. Thankfully I was not disappointed by my choice – 2018’s A Quiet Place was MY VERY FAVOURITE horror movie of the 2010s, an undeniable masterclass in suspense and sustained screen terror wrapped around a refreshingly original killer concept, and I was among the many fans hoping we’d see more in the future, especially after the film’s teasingly open ending.  Against the odds (or perhaps not), writer-director/co-star John Krasinski has pulled off the seemingly impossible task of not only following up that high-wire act, but genuinely EQUALLING it in levels of quality – picking up RIGHT where the first film left off (at least after an AMAZING scene-setting opening in which we’re treated to the events of Day 1 of the downfall of humanity), rejoining the remnants of the Abbott family as they’re forced by circumstances to up-sticks from their idyllic farmhouse home and strike out into the outside world once more, painfully aware at all times that they must maintain perfect silence to avoid the ravenous attentions of the lethal blind alien beasties that now sit at the top of the food chain.  Circumstances quickly become dire, however, and embattled mother Evelyn (Emily Blunt) is forced to ally herself with estranged family friend Emmett (Cillian Murphy), now a haunted, desperate vagrant eking out a perilous existence in an abandoned factory, in order to safeguard the future of her children Regan (Millicent Simmonds), Marcus (Noah Jupe) and their newborn baby brother.  Regan, however, discovers evidence of more survivors, and with her newfound weapon against the aliens she recklessly decides to set off on her own in the hopes of aiding them before it’s too late … it may only be his second major blockbuster as a director, but Krasinski has once again proven he’s a true heavyweight talent, effortlessly carving out fresh ground in this already magnificently well-realised dystopian universe while also playing magnificently to the established strengths of what came before, delivering another peerless thrill-ride of unbearable tension and knuckle-whitening terror.  The central principle of utilising sound at a very strict premium is once again strictly adhered to here, available sources of dialogue once again exploited with consummate skill while sound design and score (another moody triumph from Marco Beltrami) again become THE MOST IMPORTANT aspects of the whole production. The ruined world is once again realised beautifully throughout, most notably in the nightmarish environment of a wrecked commuter train, and Krasinski cranks up the tension before unleashing it in merciless explosions in a selection of harrowing encounters which guaranteed to leave viewers in a puddle of sweat.  The director mostly stays behind the camera this time round, but he does (obviously) put in an appearance in the opening flashback as the late Lee Abbott, making a potent impression which leaves a haunting absence that’s keenly felt throughout the remainder of the film, while Blunt continues to display mother lion ferocity as she fights to keep her children safe and Jupe plays crippling fear magnificently but is now starting to show a hidden spine of steel as Marcus finally starts to find his courage; the film once again belongs, however, to Simmonds, the young deaf actress once and for all proving she’s a genuine star in the making as she invests Regan with fierce wilfulness and stubborn determination that remains unshakeable even in the face of unspeakable horrors, and the relationship she develops with Emmett, reluctant as it may be, provides a strong new emotional focus for the story, Murphy bringing an attractive wounded humanity to his role as a man who’s lost anything and is being forced to learn to care for something again.  This is another triumph of the genre AND the artform in general, a masterpiece of atmosphere, performance and storytelling which builds magnificently on the skilful foundations laid by the first film, as well as setting things up perfectly for a third instalment which is all but certain to follow.  I definitely can’t wait.
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g0dspeeed · 4 years ago
Text
Unconditional Positive Regard, 2
Adam Smasher is very used to getting his way.
Until he doesn’t.
=========================================
De-escalation
 Adam Smasher is very used to getting his way.
Does he always get his way?
Majority of the time, yes, and primarily through intimidation. Intimidation was almost like a personality trait to Adam, the line blurring from who he was authentically and the stone-cold bravado he put out for the rest of the world to see. He utilized tried and true premeditated tactics such as calculated threats, blackmail, ransom, disrupting personal space, ignoring the spoken and unspoken rules of modern society, and frankly not giving a shit about what other people thought. Then again, said tactics occurred unconsciously, too. His physical presence alone made for a great argument. The man stands well over six feet tall, perhaps leaning more towards the seven-foot range, with broad shoulders and a deadly gaze to boot. Adam’s copper red eyes could give a look so menacing that other Arasaka operatives submitted to his authority without question.
And he loved this. He truly enjoyed wielding such power, to walk into a room and have an air of dominance over every stranger that stood before him. Made things simple. Never there to make friends, to play nice, to compromise. The only thing he sought out to do in these god-awful meetings that Arasaka forced him to attend was comply with the given, short-term objectives to a tee. Going the extra mile was only an option to Adam if it benefitted him. Or if it made the job easier, but that stopped if it meant kissing any asses that didn’t have a direct link to his eddie account.
Intimidation was effective on mostly everyone that Adam Smasher worked with or unfortunately encountered in his line of work.
Then there were the others. The ones that didn’t get the message or simply chose to make regrettable decisions. To get in the way. To make Adam’s job harder. Those were the people that required more intention on Adam’s part.
And Adam was every bit intentional with those who refused to submit.
The city appeared calm on the morning of his meeting. Wellsprings was the destination and Adam arranged the AV so he would arrive onsite early. The ride in the AV was short, but allotted Adam time to observe the Night City skyline as sun beams cut through its shadow like knives, gold and sharp and warming the streets below. Like his hometown, Night City had no concept of sleep, its population below teeming towards their next meal, deal, job in a sort of lively frenzy.
Adam himself felt tired. He still required sleep like any functioning being, experiencing a downtime where his senses and sensors went offline, and his brain, his still very organic brain, unwound and processed all that he experienced that day. Unfortunately for him, his brain didn’t want to unwind the night before, too excited about the job, too curious at what Arasaka needed an outside opinion on, and having too many questions unanswered.
What made this job so special?
Why would Arasaka seek out the opinion of someone in Night City rather than in Japan?
What made this third party so important?
Who were they?
Why them?
Why did their opinion have so much weight?
Most of all Adam wondered why he even bothered to care. The image and reputation that Adam had worked so hard to cultivate this past century should have emboldened him with steel-clad confidence in himself and his abilities. Should have. Why the anxiety? True, Arasaka was being oddly theatrical in their deliverance, but if Adam were honest with himself, he would acknowledge that he allowed a dangerous feeling to creep inside, a feeling that’s lethality pushed him to put his life at risk more than anything else: hope.
“Approaching LZ, sir.”
The flat voice of the AV’s pilot pulled Adam out of his mental reverie.
Surveying the area, he felt his suspicion rise. The AV was lowering at the top of a multi-leveled parking garage that connected to a moderately large, white building. The glass windows were polarized with a shade of gold, giving no indication as to what occurred behind them. Adam also noticed a lack of sign or company name, save for a white emblem that looked like the image of a lighted torch. Clean and shimmering, the emblem rested on the building’s corner, as if it were a true, living flame.
As the AV pulled away, Adam headed near the large elevator that sat on the opposite side of his landing zone. Gravel crunched beneath him, the annoying sound adding to his already agitated mood. Just as he approached the control panel, the elevator doors opened with a faint hiss.
Out stepped a fit, middle-aged man with dark, neatly combed hair, navy slacks, and a trim, button-up shirt. The man was occupied with rolling up the shirt’s sleeves, revealing a variety of tattoos on each bicep. Adam noticed a large NUSA script standing out amongst the rest. The man’s face illuminated with a white smile when their eyes met.
“Good morning, Mr. Smasher,” he greeted, his voice deep and rich. “I apologize for any waiting that we might have caused you.”
Adam grunted as he sidestepped the man to enter the elevator. He didn’t have to duck his head, an odd experience for him.
The stranger seemed unaffected by Adam’s response, maintaining a polite smile and joining him in the elevator. As the doors closed, he stepped forward and pressed one of the buttons.
“When we arrive to the office, we request that you place all weapons-”
“No.”
A pause.
The man resumed.
“-in our reservoir and deactivate any and all combat cyberware.”
“Out of the question.”
Adam turned to face him. The smile had faded, but much to Adam’s chagrin there was a hint of amusement in the man’s hazel eyes.
“I know that our policy opposes your own,” he stated. “But it is a requirement of this office.”
The elevator slowed.
“Are you the third party in the contract?” Adam asked lowly.
“I am not,” answered the man.
The doors opened as they arrived to their floor.
“Then you are of no use to me,” said Adam.
Walking into the space, his brows furrowed. He had arrived at an open lobby that was full of soft chairs and with tall windows aligning the walls. There was a gentle scent in the air, something floral that added to the relaxing ambiance of the floor. Some art was on the walls as well, but what distracted Adam was the sight of a single set of large, double doors.
No one was there other than Adam and the man who continued to speak to him.
“Welcome to Torch. This is our Services floor.”
Again, the man received a cold reply as Adam ignored him and approached the large doors. Giving the doors a firm tug, they didn’t budge from the frame. He tried again, this time with more effort, and became agitated when they failed to give.
“This building prohibits the presence of any and all firearms, as well as combat cyberware,” stated the man, his tone informative and light.
Turning to glower at the man, Adam saw that he was gesturing to a unit in the wall.
“We have reservoirs on each floor, calibrated with genetic security software to guarantee that only you can have access to them. We do not sell or use any of the collected data. It is strictly for security. Not even our own staff can touch your things without your consent, Mr. Smasher.”
Adam stalked towards the man with heavy, deliberate steps.
“Open the door,” he commanded.
“I cannot-”
A hard, mechanical hand reached out to grip the man’s throat.
“Open the door,” repeated Adam. The man’s struggling body was lifted from the tiled floor with ease. “Or I will break you,” added the merc in a whisper.
The stranger struggled in his grasp, attempting and failing to loosen Adam’s hold with his own cybernetic fingers.
“Open the fucking door,” Adam commanded again, his anger growing with each passing moment.
“I-It won’t open,” gasped the man. “Not until I see you put your weapons in the reservoir.”
The lump in his throat bobbed against Adam’s palm.
“Think I give a damn about your policies and protocol?” he rumbled. “I can just pop off your fucking head clean off your shoulders, then I’ll rip open those doors myself-”
“A-And she still won’t see you.”
Adam blinked in confusion. The man had no fear in his voice. No, the opposite. Bold. Certain. His whole demeanor was solid, his eyes never breaking away from that of the mercenary.
“She won’t see you,” repeated the man. “She’s not one for intimidation. N-Never will be.”
With a new blaze of anger, Adam lifted the man higher. The man gasped heavily as the grip became tighter on his air way, his face reddening into a deep scarlet.
Behind them, the doors burst open.
“Mr. Smasher!” yelled a voice. A woman’s voice. “Put him down!”
His head turned in the direction of the sound, his anger near the tipping point of rage.
Standing in the doorway was a woman. She stood before a group of other women, all afraid, their eyes wide and trembling fingers touching lips. One of the fearful women looked to be attempting to pull the other back, but with no luck. She stood firm in a white, form-fitting dress, the garment hiding most of her olive skin and hugging her curves beautifully. Her hair was dark and fell in waves at her shoulders and down her back. Oddly enough she was barefoot, revealing a blood red polish on her toes that matched her fingernails. Simple gold jewelry complimented her complexion.
The woman’s face, though attractive, wore a look of pure admonishment.
“Are you the one hired by Arasaka?” called back the mercenary, his voice still strained.
“Put him down,” repeated the woman. “Now.”
“Answer my question-”
“Not until you put down Dr. Estrada.”
Their eyes locked. Gold like her jewelry, they burned intensely with a heat that Adam could practically feel. His own resolve faltered at her ultimatum, mostly because he wasn’t used to anyone, let alone a woman, making one.
The man’s body dropped loudly to the tile.
To Adam’s surprise, the woman immediately relaxed. Gone was the fire in her eyes and features. Posture eased. She then entered the lobby. The women behind her silently panicked, their mouths agape at seeing her walk past Adam, bare feet padding across the tile, to attend to the fallen man. The man had recovered after a brief coughing fit and was sitting up with a grin. He accepted her offered hand.
“So all of this,” she said calmly, directing the man to the doorway. “Is because of our weapons policy?”
“Are you the one hired by Arasaka?”
His tone was more level, matching hers. The anger was long forgotten.
“I am,” she replied.  “Will you be able to make our appointment or should we reschedule?”
Adam frowned at the question.
Without saying a word, he began walking towards the doors. Her frame stiffened. In a stride she stood between Adam and the opening.
“You want to keep our appointment,” she acknowledged. “Please put your weapons in our reservoir and deactivate any and all combat cyberware.”
And like a switch, his fury returned ten-fold.
“I’m not going to go by your bullshit policies!” he yelled. “We’re meeting today! Stop wasting my fucking time and let’s get this shit over with!”
Pulse raced in his body, so strongly that he swore they could hear it. The doctor stood behind the woman, eyes shifting between her and Adam nervously. He saw how the man’s hands tightened into fists, as if ready to intervene at any moment. The other women were frozen in fear.
What did these fucking people not understand?
Adam was here to do a job.
He didn’t have to abide by whatever policies they were giving him.
It wasn’t going to happen.
All appeared terrified and concerned.
All except for her.
That woman with the dark hair and powerful, golden eyes remained by her place at the doorway, her focus on Adam and staring directly at him as if he hadn’t just yelled at her. If she was afraid of Adam, she sure didn’t show it.
A moment passed before he got a response.
Her voice was touched with a new softness, her face gentle.
“I hear you,” she said. “You are strongly against what we’re asking of you, Adam, and we’re asking a lot. This is our policy. It is important that our clients feel safe here. If depositing your weapons and turning off your cyberware is not acceptable to you, that’s fine, but it is our expectation. You can do what we ask and retrieve your things when our meeting is over or we can reschedule when you’re ready.”
Dark eyes blinked in confusion. No doubt his anger remained, but at hearing her words, the calmness in her voice, he found it oddly abated. Only slightly, but abated nonetheless.
He swallowed.
“Out of the question,” Adam answered lowly.
As if expecting his response, the woman simply nodded.
“Okay,” she said, that damn smile once more spreading across her full lips. “That’s your choice. The elevator can take you to the floor that Dr. Estrada met you at. Please reach out to our office so we can reschedule.”
Before he could muster up a response, the woman quietly closed the doors.
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shih-coulda-had-it · 4 years ago
Note
2 and 27 nanakikoooooo
2 (Royal AU) & 27 (Sick/Injured) | Nanahiko
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Different fantasy AU than the one where Toshinori is the One who Would be King, but definitely still fantasy AU. The Dread God Usurper is just a hoity-toity title for AFO. And for the reader’s information, Sorahiko and Nana are in an arranged marriage, yet had never met before this night.
//
Their flight from the castle was only successful because no one had expected the heiress to co-opt an escape with the visiting mercenary. Of course, it was also likely because the guardsmen were distracted by the undead, surfacing from the earth, under the thrall of the Dread God Usurper.
Somehow, this was not Shimura Nana’s top priority.
“Hey,” she said sharply, jostling the mercenary’s head from where it had dipped onto her shoulder. Nana had commandeered the man’s horse, so she had the reins, but as she couldn’t just leave him, he had sat behind her and (presumably) guarded their backs. Nevertheless, Nana wasn’t about to show gratitude like that.
He murmured something in return, groggy. Nana discerned the words ‘arrow’ and ‘hurts.’
“I’m sorry, you’ve been shot by an arrow?”
“Hn,” he answered, and Nana felt his weight suddenly shift sideways. She hastily reached backwards in an attempt to prop him up; chancing a glance backwards, Nana saw a broken arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder.
She shrieked.
“Quiet,” said the man. Fortunately for him, the garbled plea was comprehensible enough that Nana managed to put a lid on it and prevent them from being thrown.
“How long has that been there?” Nana demanded, and turned her attention to scouring their surroundings for any safe haven.
The castle was the center of the capital, a sprawling city that boasted zero walls, a rigorously-maintained waterworks and sewage system, and more roads than the city patrol knew how to deal with. The Shimuras’ lax approach to securing the heart of their kingdom was a character flaw, only balanced by the fact that Shimuras were rarely holding court, instead choosing to personally tend to the borders.
One positive consequence of a roaming royal-in-disguise: every innkeeper did their utmost to present their businesses well, and at a bargain price, in the hopes that they would have the repeat honor of hosting royalty.
Another positive consequence: there were many, many inns.
Some of which would not be averse to bloodied men. Or women in bloodied dresses.
“Milady,” the man slurred, and Nana startled at how close the rumble was to her ear. “Wha’s happenin’?”
“Did you forget the past hour?” she asked, incredulous. She spotted several men, still merry (because who, who could have fled from the castle yet and alert the capital that it had fallen besides her and her companion?) and drunk, slipping out of a door spilling warm yellow light.
Nana nudged the horse over to the establishment’s small set of stables, wrinkling her nose at the smell. By the grace of the gods, she thought in relief, seeing several vacancies.
“Okay, down we go,” she said, and she watched the man sluggishly brace himself against her and slide off his horse. Once both of his feet were planted on the ground, Nana followed suit.
“Don’t run off with my horse.”
“I have absolutely no plans to do that,” Nana lied, and coaxed the man to release his grip on the saddle. He made a wounded noise when pushed away, but did nothing to stop Nana from stabling the horse.
Did nothing but stare, Nana corrected herself, freezing in the act of pulling out her coin-purse from between her breasts.
“What,” she said defensively.
“What?”
And then he tipped forward. Nana caught him, grunted at the weight, and resigned herself to lugging him inside. Though the innkeeper was cleaning up the messes of his previous customers, she was swift to pass the chore off to a maid and speak with Nana.
“Do you need a healer, m’lady?” she asked, wiping her hands on a rag.
“A room first,” Nana decided. She readjusted the arm slung over her shoulders and winced at the pitiful whimper. “Hot water and clean rags too, please. Anything you can spare for bandages. I’ll pay for the expenses.”
“Alright.” Blissfully, no questions were asked. After giving additional instructions to the maid, she fetched an oil lamp and said, “Follow me.”
Nana dragged her companion up a flight of stairs, until the innkeeper opened the first door to their left, holding it open and allowing them to step over the threshold. It was a cramped space, minimally furnished. Nana nearly tripped upon seeing the single bed.
“Need two?” asked the innkeeper.
“Ah,” said Nana. She plunged past her hesitation; the Usurper was infamous for his Hunts, and anything Nana could do to cover her tracks would be beneficial. Leaning in conspiratorially, Nana whispered, “The single is fine. It’s just that, he’s a rather large man, isn’t he?”
That earned her a grin. “A large man’s a large target.”
“As we unfortunately learned,” she agreed. The innkeeper waited for Nana to deposit the man onto the bed, face-first, and then exchanged a handful of coin for the key and light. “I’ll take a plate of dinner as well, please.”
“Any for him?”
“If he wants to eat, he’ll have to wake up first.”
Nana saw the woman out, and finally turned her attention to the man. He was tall, sturdily-built, with awfully soft-looking silver hair and a prominently-curved nose. And he was blearily awake, watching her through half-lidded eyes, the pale irises barely catching the yellow light.
“Did you want something to eat?” she asked, approaching the bed and surveying the damage.
“Something to drink,” he said hoarsely. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad.”
He laughed into the pillow, and it was humorless and despairing. It eventually petered out into a low curse, then an unsteady statement. “This… was not how I wanted to be meeting you for the first time.”
Nana blinked. “I didn’t realize I was expecting you.”
“Oh. That’s a comfort.”
“You can’t stop there,” she said, poking his uninjured shoulder. “Who are you to me, mercenary?”
“‘Mercenary’?” the man echoed in disbelief. “No, I’m - ” His breath hitched. There was a shadow at the door; Nana leapt up to retrieve the basin of hot water and rags (and an unasked for knife), and ushered the girl away. She didn’t want an audience for this next part.
“You’re…?” Nana encouraged. She set the supplies on the floor.
“Sorahiko. Sorahiko from the Yamanashi Kingdom. I was here because - because - ”
“Prince Sorahiko,” she corrected, reeling just a little bit. Nana recognized the name, even if she couldn’t quite place the degree of importance. Was he a valuable trading partner? An ally? “You’re the Torino scion!”
“Soon to be deceased,” he muttered.
“Aw, don’t be like that.”
“I have an arrow sticking out of my shoulder, and I don’t think even a warrior-queen is trained in the healing arts,” Sorahiko snarked. The burst of sarcasm faltered. “Did you really not recognize me?”
Nana, though feeling guilty about the earlier plan to rob him of his horse and supplies, was not about to be guilt-tripped by a sad small voice. “I hadn’t paired faces to names yet,” she said, defensive. “That’s usually a thing that happens after the coronation.”
“It really isn’t,” he told her.
“Well, I guess we’ll never know, considering what’s happened.” Nana exhaled sharply, then steeled herself. “That was the Usurper back there, did you notice?”
“Hard not to.” Sorahiko stirred, winced, and dug his face into the pillow. His words came out muffled: “He’s supposed to be a folktale boogeyman for bullies. What’s he doing, coming for your throne?”
“I’m glad you asked. Can you keep a secret?”
They breathed in silence for several seconds, the tension thick. Then, Sorahiko snorted and turned his head; Nana saw his profile outlined against the pillow, the wry curve of his smile.
“Dead men tell no tales. That’s how the adage goes.”
“You’re not dead yet,” she said, exasperated, and tapped into the power of One for All for strength (to hold Sorahiko down), for grace (to remove the arrow with as little damage possible), and for mercy (to heal the wound). Sorahiko cried out, one hand clawing at the sheets by his face, the other flailing backwards in an attempt to dissuade her.
Nana held on. The affair took less than a minute, and by the end of it, Sorahiko’s entire frame trembled with the aftershocks, and Nana’s skin felt tingly, charged with static electricity. She tossed the arrow shaft aside and picked up the knife.
Perhaps it had been meant for surgery.
She used it to slice his shirt in half. Mutely, Nana waited for Sorahiko to process what the hell just happened, and wiped away the crusted blood. She pressed hard against healed flesh, distantly registering his warmth.
“Oh,” Sorahiko breathed into the bed.
Nana eased up on the pressure. “I don’t know why the Usurper wants my power,” she admitted. “But he’s not supposed to have it.”
Slowly, he sat up. Trying to look regal, Nana assumed, although that was difficult with his shirt in pieces and that - that awestruck expression.
“So?” she asked nervously.
“Let me help you,” said Sorahiko. “He can’t have known we’ve made contact. Come to Yamanashi with me, and let me help you figure out what you need to do.”
She stared at him. “What if - what if it takes forever?”
“Then it takes forever.” A new kind of determination surfaced on his face, and Nana was taken aback at the fluttery feeling in her stomach. “Even if Yamanashi proves unsafe, and you need to run from kingdom to kingdom, just let me go with you. Whatever your task is, it’ll be easier with two.”
“You’ll have to rough it.”
Sorahiko snorted. “I’m not some spoiled whelp, drowning in ruffles and lace. Queen Shimura - ”
“Call me Nana,” she replied, faint, and extended her hand. He mirrored her; they clasped each other’s forearms instinctively, and Nana’s mouth curved into a slight smile that he returned. “I hope you’re not shy, Prince Torino.”
“Call me Sorahiko,” he shot back.
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no1canbreakyou · 4 years ago
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Shadow's role in a Pirate verse entirely depends on who's running the Navy.
If it's something like the GUN, then he's an officer who hunts bloodthirsty pirates.
If the Navy is controlled by Eggman or some other similar minded individual, then Shadow is either a privateer or a straight up pirate, except his course isn't bloodthirsty. He sails the seas to help people, especially shipwreck survivors.
In both cases, he had been a shipwreck survivor himself, and it had been an absolutely terrifying experience. He lost his sister in the incident, and swore that he'd avenge her.
Case 1) he becomes a commodore in the navy and he hunts down pirates of all kinds, hanging them at the gallows or straight up steel slaughter.
He eventually begins grappling with this identity when he meets pirates who don't suck, one of them being Sonic, who might be enjoying all the freedom and rum and adventure, but he's also not ruthless and is always there to lend a hand. He bests Shadow in combat, and the Commodore rethinks his goals.
He has two choices, which both have different ends:
1) remain in the service of the Navy and continue to hunt pirates, but also work with honest sailors when necessary.
2) become a pirate himself, but with nobler goals in mind.
There's also the privateer option, a navy funded mercenary. It's up to him what he decides.
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