#Steeple of Fading Memories

[precioushybrid]

Ok finally, everything from my tower humanization is posted

Now i should post other things i made

[ms3ox]

w i f & e

In which, Alastor has his ego beaten into the ground, and still can't find a good reason to hate you.

Part I/???

Tags: Slow Burn, Really Petty Enemies to Lovers, Unintentional Marriage (soon)

Notes: I have a good ~40 pages of this already written. Lmk if you guys want more.

______________________________________________________________

At one point in time, Alastor could definitively say that he didn’t care what happened to his wife. 

You were… auxiliary at best and a nuisance at worst. A mess of naivety, youth, and a bumbling sense of goodness. Its truly a marvel how someone so seemingly innocent made her way down to the Pride Ring. But perhaps that was it. Pride. At least, that was his working hypothesis. He couldn’t say for certain what landed you eternal damnation, and perhaps it was none of his business anyway what with the way you kept it strictly under wraps. In another life, perhaps, Alastor would be curious, but time is wasted on flights of folly such as deducing the nature of his benefactor’s death. You had spiraling horns etched into your skull, so you were, in one way or another, just like the rest of them. 

It isn’t until he feels that tug that he realizes what he feels is nothing short of care. The phantom tugs at his chest, at his heart, a pitiful plea for help, but one that smells so familiarly sweet that he knows who it is and where its coming from.

And despite the way this growing humanity makes his fingers strain and curl, he dissolves into shadow and slithers toward your pull. 

---

Boredom is the worst part of Hell. 

Killing and eating can only be so much fun. After disposing of his… hmm, how many now? After disposing of his thousandth body, he finds that the appetite following the kill is nigh on nonexistent. He’s just… restless and bored. There are no turf wars around, no drama within the collective of Overlords, Hell, even Vox has been a doldrum of content lately- a stream of useless garbage that seems even more mind-numbing than the demon’s usual flare for juicy gossip and electric presentation. 

Deal-making is the same as it always has been, too. Alastor finds himself putting in all the work, all the fanciful and dandyish flare to impress his prey before ripping their autonomy right out of them with a handshake. And they’re all the same. Scared, hopeless, down on their luck. Reluctantly trustful of a smile before regretting it for eternity. When one owns thousands of souls… none of it feels… fulfilling anymore. The blood-red skies of Hell seem to fade to a miserable, dried brown- the same sky he’s been staring up at for the past century. 

God, he is so bored. 

This is the real torture. The real damnation. 

Rosie must see the apathy in his eyes and dullness in his smile because her face quickly contorts into something concerned the moment he enters her emporium.

“Alastor?” She would whisper with that soft concern the ladies in his life harbor for him. Even that has become dull to him. “You look all outta sorts, mister. What’s goin’ on, hah?”

And just like many of the concerned ladies in his life, Rosie is quick to offer a solution. He sits with his fingers steepled and his gaze far, far away as Rosie explains another deal opportunity to him. For once, Alastor doesn’t feel like being theatrical. Boredom has sucked the life out of this radio broadcast. Newcomer… Naive… Struggling in Hell, yada yada. 

“...I’ll consider it.” Is Alastor’s simple and placating reply. 

—

The first thing Alastor notices is that you know your way around a knife. Not necessarily how to fight, but you seem to have a keen eye for all the mortal points on a demon’s body- and when executed correctly…

“Impressive, my dear!”

The dandyish facade and wide smile return again like muscle memory- perhaps that’s what it is after decades of tricking demons into eternal bondage. Your eyes narrow suspiciously as the tall, creepy man in the red coat takes measured, clacking steps toward you. Soon enough, Alastor finds himself on the sharper end of your bloodied little pocket knife. Come to think of it, Rosie had said something about the demon being somewhat adept with a weapon… He’s sure there’s more information that his boredom has glossed over and tucked into his memory, never to be found.

“Alastor,” He says without so much as a flinch, taking the other end of the knife and shaking it as if it were your hand. “Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure.”

He pays no mind to the way his blood seeps around it. He’ll visit the tailor for new gloves later. And… perhaps a dry cleaning, what with the violent spray of demon blood that the little demoness incurred with your paltry knife skills and scarily surgical precision. But you seem to pick up on the fact that no amount of ferality and intent to kill can bridge the sloping gap in power between you. Your eyes narrow.

“Do you want something?”

Alastor hums, tapping a finger to his chin. His polished shoes clack with every circling step he takes around you, you and your tattered rags you call clothes.

“Want is a strong word, my dear.” He taps your head with his microphone, then points to the disgustingly garish Embassy as another day drops from its count. “Our annual cull is coming soon. You won’t want to be a street urchin when God’s little pests arrive.”

The mention of God seems to set you off in some way. Your shoulders square, your eyes widen, and there’s some kind of hunger in your black irises that catches him off-guard for a moment.

Interesting…

“I believe it would be in your best interests to seek protection… Shelter…” He circles you once more before arriving at your front. Alastor extends his hand, bending down to meet the sprightly thing eye to eye. Your scleras are pure, white… untainted. Something he hopes to rectify.

“Let’s make a deal.”

A blade narrowly misses the underside of his rib, and he only realizes that when he sees one of his blackened, eldtrich tendrils squeezing at your wrist, keeping it firmly steady while it hovers just before his coat. Alastor clicks his tongue, straightening his posture. He could kill you…  but that feels like a waste of resources.

“Calm yourself, dear, I haven’t even outlined the terms!”

The girl’s eyes narrow even more, if possible, your thin brows furrowing in a way that casts angry shadows over your features. This was going to be a hard sell. But… Alastor’s been known to play with words. His hand finds your straining wrist, replacing the hardness of his power with a gentle touch.

“Pledge yourself to me and I-.”

“No.”

Alastor can’t help the sharp feedback his microphone makes at your sudden dismissal. You will just not let him get a word in edgewise, hm? His jaw hangs open in shock before he quickly rectifies himself, smoothing down his suit. Okay. He can work with no. He’s walked this path many times before. They always come crawling back, one way or another. 

“Hm. I hope you keep this conversation in mind then.”

He hums a jaunty tune as he leaves the stubborn girl to the shadows.

---

[boom-fanfic-a-latta]

I would like to hear about shadows of the past! The tags have intrigued me

Okay so the basic premise of the AU is as follows:

In TTYD Chapter 4, things start going awry once Mario has his identity stolen. After the fake-out ending (and in a scenario that's now BEEN MADE POSSIBLE IN THE REMAKE) Mario ends up losing his first post-theft encounter with the thief/imposter.

Due to being...a nameless shadow, he's fading away due to nobody knowing he actually exists (aside from the thief but that feels like an acceptable exception due to THEM BEING THE IDENTITY THIEF).

However, luckily for Mario, Vivian ends up finding him before he can completely fade away--but he's faded away ENOUGH that he's basically got amnesia.

Thus, now unaware that he's been identity thefted, things go off the rails. Especially because our thief ASSUMES that Mario's faded away completely, thus has no reason to stick around in town.

So Vivian decides to help out the "amnesiac" Mario, as well as a pair of adventurers that the two run into in Twilight Town proper--two OCs of mine, Toadara the Treasure Tracking Toad (based on the Purple Captain Toad co-op pallet swap), and Logan the sentient Tattle Log.

And so while the identity thief is playing out TTYD...fairly normally? In the background, our squad is going around trying to figure out how to help "Shade" remember who he used to be, uncovering a couple random bits of info along the way--like a name they don't know what to use for, overheard from a parrot in Creepy Steeple.

But so, after [insert undefined shenanigans here], they end up in the game's finale, which...might not be going the way it's supposed to.

TLDR: TTYD Chapter 4 but Mario gets Memory Loss after being Identity Thefted, and ends up teaming up with Vivian to try and find out who he is. The two also end up recruiting a pair of Captain Toad OCs of mine. This causes the rest of the game to go a little off the rails.

[necro-man-sir]

A window closed, a door opened

You're killing yourself.

That's preposterous. She was too clever for that, no less than a genius. One of the more learned scholars one could find. If she didn't already know, she could find the answer. She was reliable. She was competent. She was able.

She was...

Lost.

Matoya was right. Aethersight was killing her. It had been weeks of near constant use - months, really - since a scare in her dreams.

Over the years, they had become a haze of aether as well. Her memories of her friends, of their faces - their physical faces - were fading. She couldn't rightly describe them anymore. In her waking hours she couldn't place their features. Did Thancred have a hooked nose? Which side did the twins hair part, again? How much taller than her was...

Her brows steeple in the dark of her inn room where she stood. She didn't know where she was. Citystate, yes, but the room was unfamiliar. She was exhausted, her body was withering around her and her aether was spent.

She couldn't see, now. It was just... Darkness, no flickering of the aether that made up what was around her.

She was too proud to exit the room and ask her friends for help in finding what she had dropped. It had clattered off ahead of her, but...

Her ears pin back, the end of her tail flicking in sharp, snapping movements, hands balled into tight fists. She bit down at the corners of her lips, jaw tense. And she weeps.

She lowers herself to the floor, gloved hands lifting to her face to hide the shame of her tears. Any sobs were left quiet, choked back and pitiful, her breath strained as she fights to get it together.

They had crossed the universe, she was capable of that, but unable to find a simple ink pen she dropped when she near tripped over a chair that was left in the middle of the room. It wasn't an important pen, why did it pain her so much to have lost it?

Her friends would be more than willing - happy, even - to help her. They wouldn't even blink at it, no side glances, no questioning, nothing. All she would receive was kindness and still she wept over the need to ask.

She had a cane at the door. What good was it, though, when she was too stubborn to practice?

Her breathing staggers inward, rubbing her hands into her cheeks, smearing make up that had run down from her eyes. Slumping there, she wills the tears to stop, failing at that, too.

"That was -- ing! You think -- did?" an enthusiastic voice sounded beyond her door, her ears snapping back to listen as she froze in place. She didn't breathe, fearing a sob would escape, her eyes wide. The conversation and footsteps continue, and then backtrack again, growing closer, quicker.

A knock at the door sounded out, rapping rapidly and startling her heart.

She takes in a short breath through her nose, pushes herself up from the floor, and quickly clears her face with her hands. She reaches into her bag to retrieve a small mirror, and on the first glance into it, her expression twists once more.

Right.

"Just a moment," she calls in the selfsame steady tone she wore, her hand extended out in front of her, unsteady, unsure steps, a scraping of wood as that "Damned-able chair!" dared to be in her way, again.

She hears a murmur beyond the door, and she stills, listening, setting the little mirror down on the chairs seat. At least the door was easy enough to find, the faintest light through the crack between the frame and wood. She makes her way over with a degree of care, her knuckles bumping into the frame, sliding down. Which side was the knob on, again?

It twists, and she pulls open the door, standing with her head high, her gaze forward, falling somewhere between the two who were there to greet her.

"Y'shtola, 'tis good to see--" the faintest hint of concern tinged her name, but, Urianger continues without missing a beat. "Pray, doest thou have a moment? I will not impose my company upon thee, but I had hoped that I might spend some time with thee, if thou art amicable."

She feels the slightest tinge of her hackles rising, and she makes a direct point to relax her ears and lower her shoulder. "I did not have plans for the evening. I had been going to bed," she had been, but she wasn't telling him no.

He doesn't let himself in, from there, standing patiently, and the time ticks by. "..."

She could hear him smile, his breath caught a certain way when his lips pulled. Her eyes narrow in the slightest.

There is a shifting of fabric, but there was no indication on what that movement was. More, still. Was he removing his jacket?

He really meant to stay, didn't he?

"Wouldst thou let me in, Y'shtola? There is a table to thy right that I cannot circumvent." His voice was so steady, so sure. She expecting him to be mocking, a chuckle at her being in the way. "... Apologies, come in," she says, turning her head to look at that table - or the best approximation she could manage, and she steps aside, holding the door open. He bids someone farewell, and she blinks. Who...?

Familiar, sure footsteps make their way off, their friend, leaving the both of them with what she was sure was nothing but their good graces and a light wave.

Surely they had some things to wrap up for the evening, it had been a long day.

Urianger makes his way in, speaking to her about somesuch as he hangs up his coat and sets something down on that little entrance table.

"I shall move this chair to the bed and seat myself. Dost thou require mine aid? Might I keep this light on, or wouldst thou prefer it dimmed?"

She stood there, stunned, her hand remaining on the doorknob, half closed but frozen. She hadn't even thought about the lights. "Go ahead." The chair lifts with a soft clunk, and then again after a few steps as it was set down in front of the nightstand. She hadn't realised her bed was all the way over there.

She couldn't ask -

"I brought with me a book, and I would read a passage to thee, if thou wouldst allow it. It moved me greatly in summers past, and I thought that thou might find the humor therein."

There was a smile, the slightest upturn of her lips. "Urianger. There is no need for that," she half refuses, stepping forward with a tad too much confidence, and she was fine for the first few steps, but, something rounded and long pressed into the ball of her foot, and she slides with the object scraping under her weight.

A yelp was let out, a clatter of the chair, and she hits the ground before he could catch her. She wasn't hurt, not physically, but she was horribly embarrassed.

... At least she knew where that damned pen had gone.

She pushes herself up without help, no awareness he had reached his hand out to her. He stands there with his hand aloft, his fingers curling, arm slowly falling as she straightens her clothing.

Y'shtola makes no comment on that fall, and she steps forward again, her shoulder knocking into Urianger's, and she simply sits down onto the bed as soon as her knee hits the edge of the mattress.

It's quiet for a moment as he picks up the chair and sits down again. She doesn't realise he's staring at her, not until that silence between them stretches on too long to be comfortable.

"...What is it?"

"A thought occurs to me… Pray don't take offense, as that is the last thing which I would wish to inflict upon thee, but hast thou considered a walking cane? Thy stubbornness is admirable, but perhaps thou couldst entertain it with more ease with its aid."

Her brows furrow.

"It would bring me naught but the greatest satisfaction to aid thee in thy practice."

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, making a point to give him a look, but she was a little off. "That isn't necessary, Urianger," she first refuses, but, her curiosity does spike. She decides to ask, albeit somewhat skeptical. "This book of yours isn't to convince me, is it? I doubt you know how to use this walking cane first hand."

He didn't exactly need one, nor did she.

Urianger only smiles, that same, calm tone laced with a fair amount of quiet passion he usually spoke. "On the contrary, my friend. I had ample time with which to practice when I lived amongst the fae in Il Mheg. My hosts did, on occasion, 'trick' me by stealing away my sense of sight. They did so at my behest-- that is to say, I tricked them into stealing it, for I wished to glean more of how thou seest, or perhaps feelst, the world, that I might learn to aid you in navigating it with greater confidence."

He was being genuine.

Her shoulders do relax again, she couldn't believe, too, how patient he was.

She couldn't remember a time he lost that patience, and by all accounts, he would... be an excellent teacher, wouldn't he?

A quiet moment passes as she actually does consider that, paying no mind to the turning of pages while he searches the passage he wanted to share with her. Her hands fall to her lap, her gaze falling now somewhere onto the floor ahead of her.

"May I ask you a question?" She didn't need to specify that she wanted a genuine, true answer out of him. That was a given. At least in these cases.

"Thou mayst."

"Is it unnerving when I look at people?" Oh, that felt odd. She immediately wanted to retract the question, it felt a little too vulnerable. A little too late. Was it silly, now, to ask something so unimportant?

He doesn't let that beat skip at all, his answer spoken with confidence, and... She could tell he was teasing her.

"No, thy gaze is intimidating, as fierce in both its passion and its intelligence as it ever was. Even without sight its keenness can be felt as a knife, and any creature of mortal ken or beyond would be wise to cower under the weight of thine intense and palpable displeasure."

Had she been the type to roll her eyes, she probably would have, but she does look more pointedly at him, as if in demonstration of his assessment.

He smiles, a laugh tailing the expression.

"Very comforting," she scolds, but, it was. She was glad he could take humour in her and not make this feel so... Sad. He wasn't holding her like she was shattered glass in bare palms.

He doesn't comment on that further, the seed planted, and he simply starts to read from the book he had brought to her.

It was a story of a couple of friends with grand plans to see every corner of the star, he explained. This passage, he continues, was the moment they - both terrified - stood atop a large waterfall, looking downward over the edge into the deep water below.

Too scared to decide who would jump first, they take each others hands, and they count down from three, no, ten, no, three!

And they jump together, screaming the whole way down, plunging into the water, and as they resurface, they laugh and hug, proud of themselves for their show of bravery together.

She asks him to continue reading to her.

The next morning comes, Urianger waking in the chair, his legs stiff, back aching.

They get breakfast.

And then they go outside of the city where no one would see them, and he holds her elbow to let her lead him down the path, both of their free hands holding long hollow canes. He stops each time the ends hit a stone or some such, stating what it was, and he leads her around it.

They make it all the way to a little settlement, where they're met with congratulations of many familiar voices of the Scions.

She weeps; this time, with pride and ire both.

[ask-zerotrio]

Passcode 1 entry: #229

Passcode 2 entry: #765

[PASSWORD ENTRY SUCCESSFUL]

It had made sense then, when he had found out Sada and Turo had had the gall to instruct not just Arven, but his friends too, to come into Area Zero. There was no way he’d allow the children into such a dangerous place. Penny had been oddly relieved to be grounded.

Clavell had been caught up in his anger, and admittedly been hasty with his decision to have a word with the two professors himself.

Years of bitter silence since he left, cold exchanges in the few times they resurfaced to interact with Arven briefly…

But endangering Arven like this?

Clavell was incensed.

So he dropped everything and journeyed into the crater he left behind all that time ago.

Labs 1 to 3 were as he remembered, if coated in a thick layer of dust. He read their journals, their notes.

“We need more people. More time. That man walked out not long afterthe boy was born.”

Walked out… Clavell gritted his teeth. It was them, who abandoned Arven, who abandoned him.

“Leave then!” Turo’s words still haunted Clavell some nights, even if he shuttered the emotion away for Arven’s sake. 

As he set foot in Lab 4 however, Clavell gasped. The robotic voices that chimed from the ceiling did not help. 

“Please leave as I’ve advised, Clavell.” Turo had not sounded like Turo at all. 

And then there were the strange Jigglypuff… the strange metallic Delibird… Paradox Pokemon? Clavell had dealt with them accordingly, before finally making his way to the place that carried bittersweet memories. He had lived here once, afterall.

With them.

The news Not-Sada and Not-Turo deliver guts him, in a way he thought impossible now. They had ignored his pleas to live a life beyond the crater, had made him leave with Arven, and yet… He still reserved their labs in his office, in case they ever decided to come home. 

But now they were dead, with copies of themselves guarding their life’s work.

The time machine idea actually worked. 

Clavell’s laugh is almost hysterical, bitter and steepled in grief. It was foolish to battle the AIs on his own, but there was no Sada and Turo left to scream at.

His pokemon had pulled through against the Paradox pokemon just barely, but he never expected Sada and Turo’s paranoia of others to result in locking his Pokeballs. He should have stopped having expectations of them at all, what with their track record of crushing his heart.

Then the Paradise Protection Protocol had kicked in, and Clavell watched in horror as the AIs pleaded for him to run.



“̶̡̧̝̥͈͎̟͉̼͍̯̱͇͔͂Y̶̛̘̬̘̾̃̚O̵̬͙͛̓̋͘͜U̸̧̨̡̙̹̠̘͙̱̠̲͇̺͛̽̎̅̎͗̇̈́̐̋͆̃��͠’̷̧͓͎͙̘͇̙͖̳̪̪̯̇͊͆̓̔͛̒̈́̓͂́͆̽̒͜͜Ŗ̴̺͙̪͎̔͐̽͒̿́̀̚E̸̜̿̂̒̏ ̶̧̡̠͚̦͚̺̠͈̥̞͗̆͝Ņ̸̟̐̅͑̈́͒̽͒́̚̚O̸̳͒̍̏Ṫ̸̥̭̤̱͖̹͙͍͙̜̟̊̉͐͒͂̀̀̄͜͝ͅ ̵̮̖̝̥̳̮͇̕G̴̹̺̩͛̋͗Ȇ̶̪̜̙͓͚͛̋̑͝T̷̡̢̢͕̻̭̰̼̠̻̓̿̾͌́̅͘͜T̸̺̓́̀̀̀̏̿̀̒̽̚͘Ī̸̢̨̻͓͍̱̮͙̱͉̫̄̿̔̐͒̚̕͝N̶̮͙̆̽̆̆́͗́͊͐̉̔̒̅͘Ģ̵͉̥̝̱̯̹̮̜͙̿̎̋͐̈̔̚͜͜ͅ ̵̠̬̣̘̼͛͜͝I̸̛͇̝̦̮̩̟̭̙̎͌̇͋̍̀͆̑́̈͐͘͝ͅǸ̶͖̱͆̅͒̏͘ ̵̧̧̢̡͙͔̮͓̭̟͎̤̠͕̜͂̈̀͂̾̊̀͐̌̿̈̆́O̸̻̦͎̘̥̗͉̥̐͗Ư̷̡̡͚̹͉͎̟̮̜͉͎̬͉͙̗̽͋͆̉̈́̆͆̈͆͝R̷̢̩͍̗̓̅̓̊̈́̈́͂̋̂́̔ ̶̰̦͂̃̂͒͐̌͐̃̐͌̾͌͠͝͝W̵̡̧͇̝̟͍̤̪̫̼͒̿́̈́̔́̀͐͘͠A̴̢̧̧̬̝̳̪͔̣̲̪̤̘̾̓̆Y̷̧̛̲̤͙͒̍̾̓̇̉̋̇̿͊̆̈!̷͙͎͔͙͎̤͙̞͇̤̝͚̱̈́̌̈͌̉̾̎̈̍͘͝͝”̵̩̜̳̭̻͗̂̄̂̍́͜͠



Clavell flinched, the tone’s familiarity reopening old wounds anew. 

As Koraidon and Miraidon roared to charge at him, Clavell wished…

…

“A-another life…” Clavell sobbed. 

A life he could have had with them, had things been different.

He had gotten his wish, even as it faded with his waning strength and morphed into this living nightmare.

His torso stung, warm blood coating his clothes. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, with the head wound making it worse.

Distantly, he heard the reptilian chitter of Koraidon and Miraidon, the slow thud of the obsidian pillars withdrawing into the ground, and the twinkle of crystal as two figures approached his prone body.

Sada? and Turo?’s farewell kisses had felt real, and as he faced the versions of them with barely a crease above their brow, his heart tore in two from morbid wonder, laden with grief for reality that was not his.

He loved them, whatever form it took, in every universe.

Once upon a time, he had thought he had found his treasure in them, and him as theirs.

So why?

"... who w-was I to you, in the end? Sada... Turo..."

[VIDEO 4&5 LOADING...]

[sunshine-gumdrop]

Whispers of the Forgotten World

Disclaimer: I disregard the events in the far cry 5 ending.

In the hush of dawn, where the remnants of the old world whispered secrets to the new, Jacob Seed and the silent Judge, known as Deputy beneath her wooden mask, wandered through the remnants of Hope County. The land was a patchwork of what was and what might be, a testament to nature's indifferent claim over the follies of mankind.

The morning mist clung to the ground as they traversed the fields, the dew mirroring the world in each droplet. Jacob's boots crushed the grass beneath, a steady rhythm in the quiet. Beside him, the Judge moved with a ghost's grace, her presence an echo of the past they both shared but never spoke of.

They reached the remains of an old church, its steeple a skeleton against the sky. Here, they paused, the air heavy with unvoiced memories. The judge's hand brushed against the weathered wood, her touch a benediction for the lost.

***********************************************

At noon, they found shelter beneath the skeletal remains of an old oak, its branches a testament to resilience. Jacob unpacked a meager meal while the judge surveyed the perimeter, her bow at the ready. They ate in silence, an understanding passed between them in glances and the soft clink of their scavenged cans.

When a rustle in the underbrush caught their attention, the judge's mask turned to Jacob. Her eyes, the only part of her face he'd ever seen, were calm. It was a deer, moving on as they would.

***********************************************

As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the land, the judge's fingers danced in the fading light. Jacob watched, a student of her silent language. She pointed to the sky, where the first stars dared to shine, and then to the ground, where the shadow of the world lay.

"We're like that, aren't we?" Jacob mused. "Part of the dark, part of the light. Walking in between."

Judge's gloved hand reached out, touching his arm, her gesture a wordless agreement.

***********************************************

By the campfire's glow, Jacob spoke of his fears and hopes, a confession to the silent sentinel beside him. The judge's mask watched, impassive, but her hand found a stick, and she drew in the earth—a circle, a cross, a question.

Jacob nodded, understanding her inquiry. "Yes," he said, "I think tomorrow is worth the fight."

***********************************************

In the gray light of predawn, they stood side by side, the Judge and the Seed, guardians of a new day. The judge's mask faced the east, awaiting the sun. Jacob's eyes were on the path ahead, clear for the first time in years.

They stepped forward together, leaving footprints in the dewy earth—a silent pact to carry the memories of the fallen world into the promise of the new. In the chorus of the waking birds, in the rustle of the leaves, their story continued—a tale of redemption found not in words, but in the shared silence of two souls bound by the hope of what comes after the end.

[rabioli]

Faith.

In the heart of an ancient woodland's reach, Stands an abandoned vessel, a solemn breach, Its steeple reaching for the boundless skies, But in its timeworn frame, the spirit dies.

Once hymns and prayers in hallowed echoes rang, Now silence reigns, where congregations sang, The pews, like sentinels, in rows remain, Their parishioners long gone, their voices wane.

Through fractured stained glass, shards of colors gleam, Like memories of faith in a fading dream, The altar, bathed in shadows, stands alone, A sanctum where devotion once was known.

The vines, like mourners, grasp the side, In creeping tendrils, nature does confide, Its tale of time's inexorable claim, As nature reclaims this sacred, silent frame.

Yet in the quietude of this forsaken place, A sense of presence lingers, a sacred trace, The spirit of the faithful, still it dwells, Amidst the ruined walls, their stories tell.

In this abandoned church, a testament, To human faith and nature's recompense, The interplay of time, the choices made, A sacred space where memories won't fade.

[unexpectederawhilesubmitting]

poem because i'm sad trans and formerly religious

because my wings don't beat the air

vans of scuffed wax melted checkerboard memories

names written between black and white

blue ink bic pens etch lettered truths

will you tell me who i am

sing my sins in wrath

write the rising tide of crimson blood in fire in song

erase connected letters on a worn out sole

will you tell me who i am

undo rewind forget

i found myself in a clamshell case

half price rental under flickering florescent light

will you tell me who i am

only know that i'm known by being seen

only seen by knowing that they're watching

shut up and watch, it's starting

gunshot microwaves and movie theater butter in an old tin bowl

this could be you

he's hurting in your voice

he's bleeding in your favorite shade of black and white

this could be who you become

go ahead and let it happen

watch your colors fade away

i found myself in a molded pew

rotting faith through broken palms

wear his steeple on your body

the bride you're unbecoming

will you tell me who i am in the mirror

reflect inside your twisted halls

chase yourself down forgotten corridors

end the child you never were

and forget the youth in you

thank the lord for the blessings he takes away

praise their fire for refining her

burned her under your skin

rage but don't show it

you can't hate

you do

you really do

hate yourself to nothing

blaze and shrink and smoulder

she'd never make for a lovely bride

there's christian soldiers marching onwards

ready for the fight

and though they might be girls inside

she'll never see the light

burned out shell shattered gunpowder frames

shock me harder dad

do you ever think you'll be this again

troy-launched ships burst ready for war

over a face you're not finished growing

are there any nerves left to expose?

are there any of you left to sacrifice?

what more am I supposed to give?

erase my name from the writing on your vans

me and some fffriends are going to see

would you even shake my hand now?

me and some ffrriends are

will you tell your children my name?

there's a concert this weeeeakened

will you tell them who i am?

iii was thinking if you're not busyyyyy

is that even me in those memories?

my dad's driving us it should beeee

i miss you.

my church is having a lock-in

please don't leave me

you can come stay the night

and find god

it's gonna be so much fun

i can't wait

we play all sorts of games

for you to figure out

and the doors are locked

that the doors are locked

i'd love to see you there

i'd love to see you

you'll be tired by the end

but I know that you can't leave

it's okay because they're so much fun

it's okay. I'll always love you.

excellent, I'll see you tonight!

[aquadestinyswriting]

Filled with Clarity

Summary: Archlecor Kargun Vanskleig is in contemplation to work out how best to help the youngest member of his clergy.

Words: 609

Tags: @druidx, @asher-orion-writes, @homesteadchronicles, @warriorbookworm, @mariahwritesstuff, @writeblrsupport, @ashirisu, @flashfictionfridayofficial, @blind-the-winds

Warnings: None.

Notes: This is set just before the council session in part seven of A Circle None Can Break and so is technically a part of it, but it's also part of the whole The Trouble with Meredith series, so I'm placing it there.

Kargun Vanskleig was not a man that was easily perturbed. However, when the High Priest came to him seeking guidance regarding an issue with one of his church’s youngest clerics, he had to admit that what he had been told was incredibly distressing.

The Archlector of Moradin steepled his fingers as he gazed into the molten metal bubbling away in the scrying pool of the contemplation chamber. He was almost nine centuries old and had seen many promising young clerics pass through the trials that Moradin sent to them. Most were relatively mundane; little things like the occasional crisis of faith, or to venture out far into the wider world to do His work elsewhere. He’d only ever seen two dwarves that had been clearly Marked for a much greater purpose in the time he’d spent working for his God- both when he was a much younger and fitter man- and now he needed to try to guide a third at the end of his twilight years. 

Vanskleig huffed a sigh, his old bones creaking as he shifted his position to make himself more comfortable and opened his mind and heart to the presence of his God. He smiled as he felt the comforting touch of Moradin on his shoulder,

“Some idea of what the lass has to face would be appreciated, ye ken.” he said, seemingly to thin air. “I can’t help out very much if I’ve no idea what’s coming.” The old dwarf felt the presence around him consider his words. Vanskleig knew very well that the Gods were rarely forthright about such requests, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get. He could work out what anything he was sent meant later. The Archlector felt his attention being drawn to the scrying pool, where the molten metal was now swirling and an image was taking shape in the centre of the whirlpool. Vanskleig’s eyes went wide as he took in the vision Moradin was granting him, his old heart breaking at the sight of it. 

“I’d rather been hoping ye’d be a bit gentler with this one.” he sighed, shaking his head as the vision ended and the pool returned to its resting state. He felt a pinch of regret near his heart,

I know, I’m sorry.

Vanskleig closed his eyes and tilted his head back, trying to shove the ancient memories that flashed into his head back into the recesses of his mind. There was no point in dwelling on his own past, not any more. Once the memories faded, he opened his eyes again and looked to the largest statue of Moradin, set against the far end of the scrying pool,

“I suppose I’d better go knock a bunch of heads together at this council session then.” he groused, “Ye ken, I’d been hoping that ye’d at least grant me a degree o’ peace in the few years I’ve got left.” he sniped, only half-glaring at the statue. 

I’ve been trying. This one isn’t me.

Vanskleig frowned,

“Who, then?” he asked. Vanskleig grumbled when he didn’t receive an answer, “Fine. I suppose I’ll find out eventually.” The ancient dwarf groaned as he pulled himself upright, leaning heavily on his staff to do so. Once he was up, Vanskleig bowed his head to the statue and shuffled to the entrance to the chamber. There was much work to be done if he hoped to give at least what little help he could to expedite matters, and precious little time in which to do it. At least now he had a clearer idea of what was coming and could put some contingencies in place if required.

[valorums]

LIST 3-5 THINGS FOR EACH CATEGORY THAT YOUR CHARACTER CAN BE IDENTIFIED BY.

01. EMOTIONS / FEELINGS.

✥ ⠀the frenzied LONGING of a chronic daydreamer that yearns to live a fairytale, SORROW for innocent souls who suffer needlessly, marrow-deep EXHAUSTION amidst war, CHILDLIKE AWE toward the galaxy’s countless wonders, and the naïve HOPE that tomorrow will be better.

02. COLORS.

✥ ⠀various shades of PASTEL PINK, SILVER, SEA GREEN, PERIWINKLE, and CERULEAN.

03. SCENTS.

✥ ⠀ROSES delivered backstage to her dressing room after a triumphant performance, EVENING PRIMROSE from the Jedi Temple gardens, and OLD BOOKS AND MANUSCRIPTS that are housed in Chancellor Palpatine’s extensive collection.

04. FASHION.

✥ ⠀ballerina TUTUS, extravagant BALLGOWNS that are the epitome of elegance, RIBBONS woven intricately throughout sunshine curls, and SILKEN PAJAMAS.

05. OBJECTS.

✥ ⠀the THROWING KNIVES given to her as a tenth birthday present by Palpatine, her late mother’s GOLDEN LOCKET, a white steel and silver CROWN crafted to resemble a shining star in the night sky, and the FAMILY RING denoting her status as House Valorum’s current head.

06. BODY LANGUAGE.

✥ ⠀HEAD TILTING to express curiosity, lips curling upward into a PLAYFUL SMIRK, fingers DRUMMING against a hard surface, TEETH CLENCHING during an irksome discussion, SQUARED SHOULDERS, and STEEPLED FINGERS.

07. AESTHETICS.

✥ ⠀always looking over your shoulder amidst an impending sense of doom, memories of dreams which fade as the day progresses, the works of william shakespeare, being forced to play a game of chess that never ends, and the meticulously coordinated conversation of a well-rehearsed orchestra.

✥ ⠀TAGGED BY @frxncaise (thank you so much!)

✥ ⠀TAGGING @vendettavalor (Aurelia), @divinehr (Priscilla), @faithfulmaiden (Rabè), @alootus (Padmè), @mayxthexforce (Kycina), @mvndrvke (Seril), @jedimessiah (Anakin), and you.

[twig-gy]

am i steeple of fading memories because i . forgor

[alistairsprayerwarrior]

I Would Have Followed You

With the increasing song raging in his head, Alistair attempts to subdue it by reminiscing on Sereda; alas, that includes sour memories, especially of their 'discussion' that led to her being gone for him for three years now, and counting, which has left him brooding in Crestwood, far from the group that he once called 'family'.

WIP of a longer piece I want to work on of the bitter fight Alistair and Sereda have about her wanting to seek a cure for the Taint. Also just really wanted to write some angy Alistair because it gets me going~ 🥵🥵

Recommend listening to Mud by Delaney Bailey for maximum feels.

Part I | F!Cousland x Alistair | Pre-Inquisition, I'm bad with timelines...

The memory flooded back to him, filling his mind with a montage of moments. It was their shared dinner in the Weisshaupt mess hall when she'd first broached the subject. The savory aroma of roast boar and vegetable stew wafting through the air was forever imprinted on his mind, now tinged with bittersweet nostalgia.

The clattering of dishes and the din of chatter from the other Wardens had faded into the background as Sereda had leaned in, her eyes earnest and her voice barely above a whisper.

"There's something I need to tell you, Alistair."

He had frowned, sensing the seriousness in her tone. His jest about her not liking the gravy was cut off as she began to explain her plan, her voice steady, but her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her plate, avoiding his hard gaze.

He froze, his spoon hanging mid-air the more he listened. He stared at her, trying to find a trace of jest in her features, but found none. His spoon clattered back into the bowl, the loud sound echoing in the suddenly stifling silence.

"You're going alone into potentially hostile territory, chasing after a rumor?" His voice echoed his disbelief, his fear. "You can't be serious, Sereda."

Her response was as somber as a death knell. "About as serious as the Blight."

"So, let me get this straight," he began, his tone dripping with sarcasm, steepling his fingers against his face. "You're planning to traipse off into the sunset, chasing after a rumor that's about as reliable as Oghren's sobriety vows… Without asking me first?"

"Of course I was going to ask you," Sereda said, her voice steady but her eyes betrayed her anxiety with a half-smile. "…That's what I'm doing now."

His eyes, usually filled with laughter and warmth, hardened at her casual response. His smile was more of a grimace now, his usual humor replaced with biting sarcasm. "Well, thank goodness for small mercies. I guess we'll just schedule our next discussion about my possible career switch to nug herding over tomorrow's dinner?"

Sereda made a move to touch his arm with a half-hearted chuckle, but he retracted it quickly. "Alistair, don't be-"

"Ridiculous?" he interrupted, his voice rising with each syllable, earning a few sidelong glances from their comrades. "Sereda, I find your plan equally ridiculous!"

She shot him a look, her eyes flashing with irritation. "It's not like I'm going in blind, Alistair. I've done my research, cross-referenced accounts…"

"Oh, yes, accounts! Those wonderful troves of wisdom," he snorted, his voice laden with derision that rivaled the roll of his eyes. "Those never-ending fountains of wisdom. Because they have a sterling record of reliability. Almost as reliable as when we decided to poke the dragon. Literally. The dragon. Flemeth’s dragon form, right in the middle of a bloody Blight. Good times."

"This is not a joke, Alistair! This could be our chance at a cure, at a normal life," she argued back, frustration in her voice.

"Well, color me excited!" He threw up his hands. "Let's risk everything on a glimmer of hope. It's not like we've got anything else to lose."

"Alistair--" she began, but he didn’t let her finish.

"No, Sereda. You’re right," he cut her off, his voice dripping with bitterness, turning his face from hers with the taut fold of his arms over his chest. "We're Grey Wardens. We live in the shadow of death. But that doesn't mean we need to chase after it."

"Right. We're Grey Wardens, Alistair. Danger is part of the job description."

He rose then, pushing back his chair with such force that it scraped loudly against the stone floor.

"Well, I didn't sign up for... for this," He gestured between them, his face a mask of exasperation and worry. "I didn't sign up to be in love with a woman for seven years, to survive the fucking Blight, only for her to throw herself into danger because of some rumors she wants to humor herself with."

Without another word, Alistair turned his back on her and stormed out of the mess hall. The heavy oak doors slamming shut behind him punctuated his anger, leaving Sereda alone amidst a sea of murmurs and curious glances with the remnants of their meal growing cold, the taste of it now sour in her mouth.

[jack-inaboxx]

Pick one of these lyric sets! Each one represents one of my STO characters. Send me a number/a set of lyrics and I'll write a short bit for the character :)

-

"It's your reflection looking back to pull you down/So are you gonna die today or make it out alive?"

2. "I heard you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave/and the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name"

3. "I'm waking up at the start of the end of the world/But it's feeling just like every other morning before"

4. "Once upon a younger year/when all our shadows disappeared/the animals inside came out to play/Went face to face with all our fears/learned our lessons through the tears/made memories we knew would never fade"

5. "Long live the pioneers/rebels and mutineers/Go forth and have no fear/come close and lend an ear"

6. "They said this day wouldn't come, we refused to run/We've only just begun"

7. "They never see the story/only wrong from right/It's just like you told me/oh, I still remember the night"

8. "We're falling apart, still we hold together/We've passed the end, so we chase forever"

9. "Trapped in a wire, bringing me back to life/Get ready to fight, we ignite like the fourth of July"

10. "He's never gonna make it, all the/poor people he's forsaken, karma/is always gonna chase him for his lies/It's just a game of waiting, from the/church steeple down to Satan, karma/there's really no escape until he dies"

11. "There's a million reasons you should run away/But you look like a fighter"

12. "There is nothing left to hide/Through the flames you're by my side"

13. "I'm a rebel just for kicks now, I been feeling it since 1966, now"

14. "There was never grey in black and white/There was never wrong 'til there was right"

15. "Cause your soul is on fire/a shot in the dark/What did they aim for when they missed your heart?"

16. "I owned every second that this world could give/I saw so many places/the things that I did"

[imamwolf]

Turpentine as Holy Water

Sterile. Empty. Bleach doused white tile. So strong it curls and burns your nose hairs.

April-Jacqueline sat squat on a lacquered pew, donated that past spring from the church to the hospital. It was long. And it was empty.

Expect for the one little ol’ Apple, trying to fill up the space as best she could.

Big Mac was still off down the hall, apologizing to nearly half the hospital staff after Granny damn near yelled their ears off.

Normally AJ would have been the one to apologize, or at least support her brother from behind. But like the change in the weather there was an ache inside her, a tightly wound knot that didn’t fit into ridged notches of her momma’s kitchen table.

Granny was in the room that cradled her mother’s life. Just one hallway over, just some plaster and lights.

April could see the room perfectly in her mind; the buttercups just outside her window that grow wild out here, the books of French with unsent letters bookmarked at the end on her side table, the thick quilts they normally use for winter piled high on the sunken hospital bed.

AJ’s hair was done up in pigtails, still drip-drying in the feeling of her momma’s fingers. Steepled into a comb pulled back in a cough wracked lullaby. Sweat-slick baby hairs splayed free and stuck to her face, clutching like wispy nightmares.

She was still in daddy’s shirt, tucked down to her knees into her hand-me down patch-work jeans.

It hung off her in the only way his heavy church fannel’s could, the kind that lulled her to sleep in the backseat of his sputtering truck, a kind of weight that kept her warm in the belly of the pews before winter fully dried into spring.

The shirt was stale with his memory. Present, but only if you looked for it.

The faded ash stains of bonfires spitting in his face, old dough caught under fingernail thin hemlines, with a hatch pattern that matched his shadow-puppet soft calloused hands.

A joint-knotted hand gently grabbed her shoulder, making April jump before seeing the crow feet laugh lines of her Granny.

Her wrinkled dog-eared skin from many years of love was soft, but still tinged with the warmth of spice and vinegar. In her arms was a pink blanket she had been knitting just for this very reason.

“This is your little sister Aj,” Granny’s dishrag wrung hand’s shook. “Her name is Abagail. You have to protect her now, okay?”

April-Jacqueline didn’t respond, the curly tuffs of her daddy’s hair not fitting a pudgy rosy baby face.

A little sterling silver bracelet on her chunky baby wrist glittered in the hospital light, the beautiful loopy letters that dated and labeled every jar of jam and every late night wax letter read; Abagail Applegate.

Little Abagail gurgled and wriggled in Aj’s too weak arms, her little hands peeling out from her pale pink blanket and reaching up to grab at her big sister’s face.

Despite her being so small, so new, so unaware, her touch was familiar, in the way a casket carries you home like a father; fleeting and yearning to be stuck in that moment forever.

Swallowing the jagged teeth of nails stuck in her throat, April-Jacqueline put on her mother’s hands. Her father’s hands, her brother's hands and then her Granny's hands. Took them off and put them back on again.

The apple-skin thin of her lips with big bite’s of blue bruises ache with every push against her teeth. But she was strong. She had to be.

“Hey, there sugarcube.”

Orphans.

[theeblackthorne]

INFORMATION & STATISTICS FOR AZLEE BLACKTHORNE

"She was powerful, not because she wasn’t scared but because she went on so strongly, despite the fear." — Atticus

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Full Name: Azlee Feven Blackthorne

Nickname(s)/Alias(es): Az

Date of Birth: October 31st, 741

Age: 1,283 (Appears 39)

Gender + Pronouns: Female, She/Her

Place of birth: 8th century England

Parents: Ivar (†) & Helga (†)

Siblings: Lucianus, Unnamed sibling, Elsie, Erik, Nova & Aida (Ghost, †)

Children: Audrey Gibson (Stepdaughter)

Relationship with family (close? estranged?): They were pretty estranged and distant for a while but has since developed a closer sibling bond; Very close with her daughter

Pets: An orange tabby named Dracula

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5′ 8″ (173 cm)

Build: Slim and Graceful

Species: Original Vampire

Distinguishing Facial Features: Has a well-defined jawline that adds to her striking facial structure; her eyes are large and expressive; has naturally full lips

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Usual Hair Style: Shoulder-length, embracing its natural texture with a slight wave or curl

Eye Color: Hazel

Complexion (freckles, acne, skin tone, birthmarks, scars): Fair, porcelain complexion with a smooth, radiant quality; cheeks have a natural blush

Disabilities (physical or mental, including mental illnesses): Has a little bit of Survivor's Guilt

What do they consider their best feature?: Her eyes; They hold centuries of wisdom, power, and mystery, often described as being deep, intense, and capable of commanding attention with just a glance. They have a unique glow or flicker, especially in the dark, making them even more captivating and reflective of her inner strength

Worst they’ve ever been injured (what, how did it happen)?: Centuries ago when she was attacked by a hunter and called on her siblings for help; that's when they came together to create Northknot

APPEARANCE:

Favorite outfit: A long, flowing black dress made of luxurious fabric like silk or velvet, with subtle red or white accents, has lace details at the cuffs and collar, giving it a gothic yet timeless vibe paired with knee-high black leather boots, a black velvet choker with a small ruby pendant, and her signature accessory; a black rose tucked into her hair or pinned to her dress

Glasses? Contacts?: No

Personal Hygiene: Meticulous, elegant, and understatedly refined

Tattoos? Piercings?: Has ear piercings, no tattoos

What does their voice sound like?: Soft but commanding, with a smooth, slightly husky tone that draws people in. When she wants to, she can make her voice almost hypnotic, with a melodic quality that can be soothing or intimidating depending on the situation

Accent?: None but can do many due to her travels

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: Azlee often touches or adjusts the black rose she carries, almost as if it’s a grounding object for her. When she’s deep in thought or listening intently, she steeples her fingers, a habit that highlights her contemplative nature. She tends to observe silently, with an intense gaze that can make others feel like she’s seeing through them. When she does speak, it’s after careful consideration. Azlee might give a slight, almost imperceptible smile when something amuses her, but it’s a rare and subtle expression that fades quickly

Left handed or right?: Ambidextrous

Do they work out/exercise?: Not really

BELIEFS & INTELLECT:

Known Languages: She can write, understand and speak most languages

Zodiac: Scorpio

Gifts/talents: Azlee possesses an extraordinary memory, able to recall events, conversations, and details with perfect clarity, no matter how much time has passed. she has an extensive knowledge of plants and their uses, especially those with medicinal or mystical properties. Azlee has a hidden talent for playing the piano, using music as a means to express emotions she otherwise keeps hidden. Azlee has a natural gift for persuasion, able to influence and guide others with her words, often leading them to make decisions they might not have considered otherwise

Religious stance: Believes in the Old Gods

Pet peeves: Azlee is irritated by loud or sudden noises that disrupt her peace and quiet. Excessive, forced cheerfulness or optimism annoys her, as she prefers more genuine, subdued interactions. She values history and tradition, so people who dismiss or disrespect the past irritate her. She dislikes clutter and disorganization, preferring her surroundings to be neat and orderly

Optimist or pessimist: A realist with a slightly pessimistic leaning

Extrovert or introvert: Introvert

INTIMACY & RELATIONSHIPS:

Relationship status: Single

Sexual orientation: Pansexual, Demiromantic

Ideal mate/qualities they look for in a mate: Someone who can engage her in deep, thoughtful conversation and challenge her intellectually. She values loyalty above all else, needing a partner who she can trust completely. A person who understands her need for solitude and can patiently wait for her to open up emotionally. Azlee is drawn more to someone with a bit of mystery, someone who, like her, has layers that take time to uncover

Ever been in love?: She thought so

What’s their love language?: Acts of Service, Quality Time

Most important person in their life?: Her siblings and her daughter, Audrey

VOCATION:

Level of education: She has a few degrees

Profession: Councilman

Past occupations: Healer, Seer, Alchemist, Court Advisor, Privateer, Librarian, Spy, Monastic Scribe, Architivist

Passions: Azlee is passionate about history, especially the history she’s witnessed firsthand. She collects ancient artifacts. She has a passion for music; plays the piano, finding solace in the melodies. She enjoys botany; has a secret garden behind her manor filled with rare and unusual plants

Which is more important – money or doing something they love?: Doing something she loves

SECRETS:

Phobias: Azlee fears stagnation, the idea of becoming stuck in a place or mindset without growth or change, and being confined in a small space triggers anxiety for her, as she values her freedom and independence

Life goals: Azlee wants to ensure that her life’s work and experiences are remembered long after she’s gone, perhaps through writing, i.e. the book she's working on. After centuries of existence, she seeks true inner peace, something that has eluded her for most of her life. Despite her solitary nature, she deeply cares for a select few, and one of her goals is to protect them at all costs

Greatest fears: Azlee’s greatest fear is being forgotten, both by the people she cares about and by history itself. She might dread the idea of her existence being erased or meaningless in the grand scheme of things

Most embarrassing thing ever to happen to him/her: Azlee once accidentally revealed a vulnerability in front of someone she respects. During a particularly intense discussion about emotions, she became overwhelmed and let a tear slip, something she never allows herself to do in public. The moment was brief, but it was enough for her to excuse herself from the conversation and retreat to her sanctuary, mortified that she had let her guard down. This incident made her more cautious about showing any weakness, even to those she trusts

Something they’ve never told anyone: Azlee once fell deeply in love with a mortal centuries ago, but she left him without explanation when she realized he would age and die while she remained the same. She has never spoken of him since, but she still carries a locket with his picture hidden within her belongings

PREFERENCES:

Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Painting, Collecting

Favorite color: Black

Favorite smell: The rich, deep aroma of red wine, a scent she associates with quiet evenings and deep thoughts

Favorite food: Dark Chocolate or Steak cooked rare; hard toss-up

Favorite book: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Favorite movie: Interview with the Vampire

Favorite song: Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven

Coffee or tea?: Tea; a dark, rich blend

Favorite type of weather: A cloudy, misty evening

Most used word or phrase?: "Indeed" or "Time Reveals All"

EXTRAS:

MBTI: INTJ (The Architect) - INTJs are strategic, determined, and often seen as confident and somewhat intimidating. Azlee’s ability to orchestrate her family’s survival, navigate complex historical events, and her reserved, commanding presence align with this type. INTJs are also independent thinkers who rely on their intellect and intuition, which matches Azlee's resourceful and calculated nature

Alignment: True Neutral - True Neutral characters often do what they believe is best for themselves and those they care about without adhering strictly to good or evil. Azlee has done both good and questionable things, from helping shape history to dealing with her abusive father, suggesting she operates based on circumstance rather than a strict moral code

Enneagram: Type 8 (The Challenger) - Type 8s are strong, assertive, and protective. They can be confrontational when necessary and have a fear of being controlled or harmed, which fits Azlee’s background with her abusive father and husband. They value independence and can become domineering, but they also have a deep desire to protect and care for others, like her family

Celtic Tree: Blackthorn - The Blackthorn is associated with protection, resilience, and strength during dark times, all of which resonate with Azlee's experiences and personality. The Blackthorn’s symbolism of facing challenges and emerging stronger aligns with Azlee’s life story

Temperament: Melancholic-Choleric - The melancholic side of Azlee reflects her introspective, serious, and somewhat reserved nature, as well as her struggles with past trauma. The choleric side represents her assertiveness, determination, and the way she takes charge in difficult situations, like leading her siblings or leaving her abusive husband

Hogwarts House: Slytherin - Slytherins are ambitious, resourceful, and determined, often misunderstood due to their reputation. Azlee’s strategic mind, desire for self-preservation, and complex moral compass align with the traits of a Slytherin. Her ability to influence powerful people and navigate tricky situations also suggests Slytherin qualities

Element: Fire - Fire represents passion, energy, and transformation, all of which are central to Azlee’s character. Her life is marked by significant changes and the fiery determination to survive and thrive despite adversity. Fire also aligns with her occasional temper and the fierce protection she offers those she loves

[kylewalker-peters]

Will we ever see the Brighton half ever again??? I barely remember what steeple’s awful hair cut looks like. My memory of Brighton’s defenders fades as every moment passes. Already Pape’s equaliser feels as though it happened 2 seasons ago